2019-08-10 - Hospital Gowns

Rough concrete rubs against Blake's cheek as he lifts his head, blinking his eyes open. Blinding pain shoots through his arm and through his shoulder. A thin rivulet of blood trickles down from a gash on the side of his head. He squints and maneuvers himself into a seated position. He looks around. Stairs, his backpack, gone. He gropes for his phone. His wallet is still there. Huh. "Fuck." The screen is busted, cracks spraying outward from the corner. He works the phone with his offhand, finger shaking.

Blake ignores the subsequent buzzes from his phone, shoving it back into his back pocket and then sucking on his thumb a little from the cuts it causes. Then he pushes up, grunting. Once he's up though, he can hold his limp arm up a little more and starts walking.

It's a bit of a walk, and on the way he has to ask where the hospital is. There's at least one offer to take him, even in this shitty part of town, but Blake refuses and ends up walking the rest of the way there himself, walking right into the ER. Due to his head wound and generally looking like he might have gotten bumped by a car or something, he gets prioritized a little, but the wait is still abysmal. It doesn't take a doctor long to figure out the guy has dislocated his shoulder and sets it back in with the old oooone-done trick. Given Blake's odd answers, "I fell," and his usually odd behavior, the doc announces, "I'm going to get a neuro consult okay?" after checking his eyes and asking a lot of weird question...so Blake figures that's code for pscyh, especially since Blake hasn't heard anything about getting an MRI or CT. He nods and waits in the room the doctor has left him in, his arm now in a black sling. Blake waits about 2 minutes and then starts opportunistically making his way through the corridors.

NURSE INCOMING! Blake ends up ducking into a patient's room and walks in to take a seat in the chair in the corner of the room, under the shitty tv.

Goddamn hospital rooms with no locks on the doors. The occupant of said room looks up from the book he's making his way through (because shitty tv is shitty) and stares at the young man who waltzes right in and has a seat. There's a silence of about a minute, minute and a half before he speaks flatly, "Who the fuck are you?" If Blake chances a look at him, he's older, middle aged and bulkily built. Dark hair and a little foreign looking; that, paired with the accent suggests Mexican. His chest is bandaged up pretty tight, as well as his right hand, and he's sporting two full sleeves of ink at a minimum. Could be more out of sight. Might be an escaped convict, you never know.

Blake is just some pasty wiry white guy who looks like he's...young. He wears dark attire, but there's no goth or emo vibes. Just simple, no frills style. For how boyish he looks, his voice is probably lower than expected. "Blake. Who are you?" Clear blue eyes flit to the door and back, bags underneath. From appearances, he sports no ink. There's a strange sense from his soft-focus that he's constantly mulling on other things...or he's on drugs. Fuck. He forgot to wait for the painkillers. He bites his lower lip to distract himself.

The question was probably a rhetorical one, because no matter the answer, it's probably not going to actually explain Blake's presence here. The guy in the bed eyes him skeptically, but doesn't move to put his book down yet. "Are you high on something, or hiding from the nurses?" His manner is slightly gruff, and he rather looks like he's not in a mood for anyone's shit. Could be all the injuries he's sporting, or it could be the shitty hospital food getting to him.

"Fuck. Wish I was," Blake mumbles aloud, not realizing it. His gaze keeps flitting to a spot over near Ruiz's bed. It's not in the direction of the door either. It's noticeable if one pays attention, merely because it's not something people really do. Blake isn't really all that smooth himself, but he came in with his evasive behavior from the get go. He shifts in his seat, eyes squinting sharply. "Left before they gave me any meds. But yeah...dodging the doc, the nurses, all that shit." He stares at the man longer than necessary before asking, "Who fucked you up?"

That, at least, gets a small smile out of the older man. Bit of a chuckle, too. "Did you hit your head, or something?" Because he's acting mighty strange, that's why. His spot in the book is marked, and it's left on his lap while he observes Blake with a steady, assessing gaze. "And any particular reason you're dodging medical staff?" As to who fucked him up, Ruiz grimaces briefly. "Long story."

The cut is cleaned up and there's a big bandaid there on the side of Blake's head, but it's obscured by some hair and distance. "Yeah." Bled like a mother fucker...well, at least, according to a coder-hermit's standards. Blake glances at the book cover and then back to Ruiz. "Do I have something on my face?" He asks before answering the question. "Yeah. Kinda think they might be getting psych. Not really looking for someone to rob me blind for a bad vacation. " Plus, he has no insurance, but that's not mentioned, conveniently.

Ruiz observes the industrial-sized bandaid for a moment, then starts to turn back to his book when he's asked the question about whether the younger man has something on his face. A pause, and a look back up accompanied by a questioning brow. "You know, you're the one hiding out from the fucking nurses in my room." The implication being, he doesn't have room to complain. "So you're avoiding them because they want to run a psych consult on you." He snorts softly, and reaches up to scratch his nose. "I am guessing that means you know what they'll find."

"Huh?" Blake tilts his head slightly, forehead knitting and pulling at the band aid. He reaches up to mess with the edge of it a little. "I am," he draws out the last word a little, squinting. "What did I do?" He looks to the door and then back to the older man and shrugs. "I'm already seeing a shrink. I don't need to see another one. She doesn't even tell me anything, so...not really, no." He slouches back in the chair and stares at the ceiling tiles. Does Blake tell Ruiz that they'll find some things when they take his blood? Absolutely not. "You said who fucked you up is a long story. I think you got time."

"Not happening," Ruiz answers flatly, as to his long story. He doesn't seem like the chatty type, though. And being shot full of holes probably isn't improving his disposition. Neither is the shifty-looking guy hanging out in his room. He studies Blake a few moments more, then retrieves his book and starts reading again like he isn't even sitting there. His look is one of faint irritation.

"Okay." Although Ruiz could have told him anything. Blake leans back and closes his eyes till someone tells him to get the fuck out. He's just going to take a little nap.