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Jake had -- ever so kindly -- carted him to the infirmary. Never mind that he probably didn't need to get carried, Leslie really hadn't had a choice in the matter. Deposited in front of the place, Leslie looked into his normal place of employ with the ultimate lemonface.

He staggered in, zeroing in on the nearest ******** in scrubs. Christ, it was that weird from the mall, because of course it was.

"Hey, bearded wonder. I need to check in and s**t, put me down for getting looked at."

Leslie's lemonface just got worse and worse.

"Leslie Miller," he said reluctantly, and thumbed his finger in the direction of the file cabinets. "I'll save you some time, because you look stupid-- and kind of are, if my memory serves me ******** right-- second from the left, third drawer, towards the back. That's where my file is."

A bad day was correct: Leslie always had a way of looking like a drowned chihuahua when down on his luck, and today was no exception. A grand five foot two and covered in grass stains from head to toe, a slight limp in his step, a wheeze in his chest, and a clutched wrist that had a purple bruise forming.

He repeated as much to Isaac, squinting at the guy all the while.

Leslie stared out to the stormy sea, if the stormy sea was a blank and somewhat peeling infirmary wall. Jesus christ.

"I do not," Leslie said, very slowly, as if Isaac were the brain damaged one because he honestly wasn't convinced that the bearded wonder had all his marbles together, not even half of his marbles, maybe if he was being both kind and generous, Isaac had about a third of the marbles any one normal person should have, "have a concussion. I can walk."

He might stumble and fall, but Leslie would rather kick a dog than accept more help from Isaac than what was strictly necessary.

Jesus ******** christ on a goddamned stick, Leslie hated this guy, and he barely knew him. That in and of itself wasn't that unusual; Leslie hated things and people and just about everything.

"Meat," Leslie answered without thinking, and took a seat on the too-tall bed, lemonface getting worse as he realized his legs weren't long enough to touch the ground while he was seated on it. He hunched over, slouching something awful as Isaac wrote slower than paint dried. ******** class="quote">

"Can you ******** quit that," Leslie snapped, irritable to the bone. It was a wonder that Leslie's blood pressure wasn't through the roof at any given hour of the day.

Reluctantly, he held out his bruised wrist, closing his eyes and exhaling long and slow and irritated as Isaac decided to lecture him. "Thanks," Leslie said, "because I've never ******** heard that before. Really. You're too ******** kind."

Leslie screeched like a dying rabbit, yanking his wrist back hard enough that it smacked against his chest and made him yelp a second time. God only knew that he was a half-step away from summoning his weapon on the ******** hipster.

He bared his teeth like a cornered animal, wound up like a spring, teeth gritted tight. "Yes."

The next time he saw this guy on the training fields, he'd be sure to get him in a spar. It'd be good to hit him in the face and get away with it, scot free.

"Ankle," he explained, and offered his leg to Isaac. He rolled up the cuff himself, pulling down the sock. Swollen, bruised a little, but again: not the end of the world. "Ribs are the worst off. Hit the ground hard. Cracked, probably." His breathing was wheezy enough, at any rate. And they stunk like a b***h.

Polite words, but wound up tone. Leslie smiled at Isaac, and imagined spikes colliding with his stupid ******** beard.

He bit down on his cheek in advance this time, stifling the sound so that it died in his throat. Leslie did, though, "accidentally" kicked Isaac in the gut on "reflex", but that really only hurt the both of them. His ankle stung something fierce, and the hiss from the kick that Leslie emitted was low and wounded.

With a strained sound and a swimming head (pain was a gift, pain was inevitable, pain was--), Leslie nodded. "Yes."

He didn't bother to apologize, and instead lifted up his shirt to reveal a purpled side on a chest scarred in a number of places-- some old, some older, and some fairly recent. At least one of them was notably a cigarette burn.