dated — november 16th, 2:07AM located — garfield conservatory with — @danaxramone status — closed
It's late, or early, when Eoin finally pulls Dana aside. He sat — or stood, rather — quiet throughout Granger's explanation about how he had to do what he had to, getting their hands dirty, et cetera, not a wince or a grunt despite the deep cuts in his body — one from the potted plant that was flung his way by Epimetheus, then the shard of glass he blocked with his body from hitting Lenox. Whatever his reasoning behind that was.
He's starting to get woozy from blood loss, and Eoin suspects that if he forces himself to find Felix, fairly sure he won't find him at his office after what's happened, he might bleed out in the process. No, his only option right now is Dana, the citric smell of the sweat heavy on his alarmingly pale brow mixing with the acrid smell of his acidic blood. He's tired. He wants to sleep. God, he just wants to lie down and never wake up again.
But he forces himself to keep his eyes open, to feign some form of alertness, functioning out of sheer stubbornness at this point; and he has a lot of that. "Enceladus," he grunts when he sees the doctor's face, finally allowing himself a wince as he takes a few more steps towards her.
Without another word, Eoin pulls at what's left of the white button-down shirt, much of it eaten away by his blood, and it goes easy. Along one bicep, underneath all the pale pink of his blood, is a long and deep gash from where a shard of the shattered pot lodged itself and promptly dissolved; on the other side, more pink blood leaks down his back, sizzling into the waist of his trousers; there, a cut from the glass, not as long as the one on his arm, but significantly deeper, and bleeding all the heavier for it.
Eoin just looks at her with exhausted eyes, his arm trembling where he's leaning his entire weight on it, hand flat on a table. He feels lightheaded… and not in the way he likes either.