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thanksrainmanPreviously.
“I told you, I can’t,” he says flatly, rubbing his face with the back of his hand.
“Come on, you almost have it,” the next in a long line of specialists and therapists says, determined to make him get it right.
Instead, Gus angrily kicks off his shoes and sort of fails at crossing his arms over his chest, very much giving the impression of a stroppy eight-year-old.
“Fine, then,” the woman says coldly. “We’ll put these on, then. No laces.”
She pulls a pair of plain black Vans from a box and shows them to Gus.
“Out of the goddamn question,” he says sternly.
The woman sighs heavily as she shoves the shoes back into the box, and Gus wonders if she’s new. Certainly a new record for lost patience, by any means.
“Well, you have to wear something,” she says, getting up to her feet.
Gus, of course, is only too happy to press the matter as far as it can go. “Why?”
“Because we’re going home.”
Gus’ attention shoots to the source of the new voice by the door, where a vaguely familiar woman is standing. He feels like he might know her from somewhere, but he gets that feeling a lot these days.
He very nearly asks her just who the hell she is, but something in her eyes when she looks at him says, “Shut the fuck up.”
Not saying anything at the moment seems to be the best course of action. He watches as she bends down to pick up his shoes and help him into them.
“I’ve tried to get in touch with your mom and dad, but I think they’re still in Mexico. I’m sorry.”
Who the hell is this woman? He begins to suspect that he’s forgotten a lot more than he’d realised.
“Mexico?” Gus asks as this mystery woman ties his shoes for him.
She smiles up at him sympathetically before turning to the therapist. “That’s normal, isn’t it?” she asks.
“Yeah,” the therapist says as she makes her way toward the door. “He’s lucky he even woke up at all.” She ignores Gus sneering at her. “Can you handle him, then?”
The apparent “friend” of Gus just smiles as she gets back to her feet. “Of course.”
Before leaving, the therapist pushes a wheelchair in from the hall, nodding one last time at Gus’ visitor. As soon as the therapist is gone, the smile completely vanishes from the other woman’s face.
“Who are you?” Gus demands quietly, his gaze quickly darting to the door and back again.
“Detective Penelope Wood,” she says just as quietly. She seems to get some form of satisfaction from watching all of the colour drain from Gus’ face.
“I—I told that other guy last week that I don’t remember anything,” he insists. And it’s partly true. “I’m not much help in this, really.”
“Can you walk?” she asks flatly, ignoring him.
“Not very good, but yeah.” It all makes sense, now. Of course they wouldn’t arrest him until he’s ready to be discharged.
“Good.” She pushes the wheelchair close to where Gus is currently seated. “Get in.”
He’s not exactly sure which part of it is “good,” per se, but he does as he’s told anyway, shakily getting to his feet and getting situated in the wheelchair.
“Have you got all your things?” she asks, more as a formality than anything.
He waves vaguely at a small bedside table. More specifically, at the stack of papers on the table, and the aluminium cane resting against it. Quickly, Penelope snatches up everything and all but throws it at Gus.
As she begins to push him toward the door, she leans down to his level, her chin almost resting on his shoulder.
“It would be best for both of us if you didn’t say anything until we’re outside.”
Gus sighs. "I need to get my prescriptions filled," he points out.
"And they can do that for you here."
“I told you, I can’t,” he says flatly, rubbing his face with the back of his hand.
“Come on, you almost have it,” the next in a long line of specialists and therapists says, determined to make him get it right.
Instead, Gus angrily kicks off his shoes and sort of fails at crossing his arms over his chest, very much giving the impression of a stroppy eight-year-old.
“Fine, then,” the woman says coldly. “We’ll put these on, then. No laces.”
She pulls a pair of plain black Vans from a box and shows them to Gus.
“Out of the goddamn question,” he says sternly.
The woman sighs heavily as she shoves the shoes back into the box, and Gus wonders if she’s new. Certainly a new record for lost patience, by any means.
“Well, you have to wear something,” she says, getting up to her feet.
Gus, of course, is only too happy to press the matter as far as it can go. “Why?”
“Because we’re going home.”
Gus’ attention shoots to the source of the new voice by the door, where a vaguely familiar woman is standing. He feels like he might know her from somewhere, but he gets that feeling a lot these days.
He very nearly asks her just who the hell she is, but something in her eyes when she looks at him says, “Shut the fuck up.”
Not saying anything at the moment seems to be the best course of action. He watches as she bends down to pick up his shoes and help him into them.
“I’ve tried to get in touch with your mom and dad, but I think they’re still in Mexico. I’m sorry.”
Who the hell is this woman? He begins to suspect that he’s forgotten a lot more than he’d realised.
“Mexico?” Gus asks as this mystery woman ties his shoes for him.
She smiles up at him sympathetically before turning to the therapist. “That’s normal, isn’t it?” she asks.
“Yeah,” the therapist says as she makes her way toward the door. “He’s lucky he even woke up at all.” She ignores Gus sneering at her. “Can you handle him, then?”
The apparent “friend” of Gus just smiles as she gets back to her feet. “Of course.”
Before leaving, the therapist pushes a wheelchair in from the hall, nodding one last time at Gus’ visitor. As soon as the therapist is gone, the smile completely vanishes from the other woman’s face.
“Who are you?” Gus demands quietly, his gaze quickly darting to the door and back again.
“Detective Penelope Wood,” she says just as quietly. She seems to get some form of satisfaction from watching all of the colour drain from Gus’ face.
“I—I told that other guy last week that I don’t remember anything,” he insists. And it’s partly true. “I’m not much help in this, really.”
“Can you walk?” she asks flatly, ignoring him.
“Not very good, but yeah.” It all makes sense, now. Of course they wouldn’t arrest him until he’s ready to be discharged.
“Good.” She pushes the wheelchair close to where Gus is currently seated. “Get in.”
He’s not exactly sure which part of it is “good,” per se, but he does as he’s told anyway, shakily getting to his feet and getting situated in the wheelchair.
“Have you got all your things?” she asks, more as a formality than anything.
He waves vaguely at a small bedside table. More specifically, at the stack of papers on the table, and the aluminium cane resting against it. Quickly, Penelope snatches up everything and all but throws it at Gus.
As she begins to push him toward the door, she leans down to his level, her chin almost resting on his shoulder.
“It would be best for both of us if you didn’t say anything until we’re outside.”
Gus sighs. "I need to get my prescriptions filled," he points out.
"And they can do that for you here."
