#also. smh... don't gotcha me... gayboy...

[saltedearths]

"It's more neutral than anything," he says, trying not to let his blood pressure rise as Max seems to want to push more buttons than most of his other patients. So he doesn't exactly think that his brand of fuckery would think of taking an itemized list off accounting, but apparently, punk really isn't dead, and has managed to find a way out of their shoddy little healthcare system in general. But he's not going to admit that. Now, anyway.

The snide comment makes him roll his eyes and try to fight back a smile, only barely winning with an upturned corner of his lip as he shakes his head. "Sure," he says, lying even more just to belabor the point, which he manages to lose along the way. Dante's a mix of exhausted, exasperated, amused and ready to throw his ass out the hospital with a kick for good measure—he doesn't know how, but that's practically a feat. "Just be nicer and bring me triple-strength coffee from, I don't know, Nicaragua? Somewhere nice. That should do it."

"why do you say that like you're surprised?" it's obvious that dante underestimates his intelligence. he's a nuisance, a gnat to swat at and not a serpent in the grass. that's fine—the more people that dismiss him as some punk, the more work he can actually get done. imagine that, there are some brain cells kicking away inside after all... but if that's between him and hell, so be it. max doesn't fight the flu shot, either. it seems like malice on dante's part to put them both in separate arms, but he doesn't question him outright. that's reserved for something truly ridiculous, like the thought that he had ever displayed any level of courtesy in his life. sure, neither had he. that isn't the point. "you'd have better bedside manners? i'll believe it when i see it.