#i think dante neeeds a hit of weed.

[saltedearths]

Jesus Christ and all his goddamned saints—can he never catch a fucking break? It's his own fault for doing his diligent duty, having to check on his residents and his interns in a way that left him here longer than he should have been. No, he understood what he was usually supposed to do. Get in. Heal. Get out. Or else, Jen or whoever this one was comes to his doorstep and turns what is supposed to be a night off into a Q and A.

"I do mind." He's blunt and to the point—niceties are a luxury that he has not afforded this man yet, and the vein in his forehead threatens to angrily grow. But still, some half-decent part of him relents, making him clench his jaw to relieve some of the tension in his body. "But you've come all this way, so come on," he says, leading him to the parking lot. "I'm not doing this on an empty fucking stomach."

Luke glances up at Dante as he answers, starting to approach but stopping first to thank the receptionist for the help. His movements are unplanned, jerking, starting and stopping as if he has a lot on his mind (he does) and is unsure how to proceed (he is), but as he steps toward the doctor his expression is creased with determination.

"Dr. Hernandez, hi," Luke begins, crumpling the Post-It Note with Dante's name scribbled on it in his fist and stuffing it into his pocket. "I know I should've called, but I hear you did some consulting on the... the murder cases." He mutters 'murder' as if it were a cuss word, careful not to alarm anyone in their vicinity. "I won't take too much of your time, I just, uh... mind if I ask you some questions?"