I said I'm fine.

( the nurses had rushed in nearly the moment he'd regained consciousness, taking vitals, shining lights in his eyes that irritated the already irritating headache that had blossomed behind them. but he's not fine, is he, with all of those bruises and scrapes and healing abrasions that hadn't been there before he'd been knocked out?

nope.

he remembers the crash, or at least he thinks he does, the sound of screeching tires and crunching metal, of approaching sirens. the smell of burning rubber, gasoline, acrid to the point of stinging eyes and nose and making it difficult to breathe. there had been voices, distantly at least, and while he tries to remember what they'd sounded like, the harder he tries, the more they sift back into a nebulous mess of background noise that does more harm than good.

it makes his headache worse. pair a building bit of restless energy with the fact that he can't recall much of anything beyond his name upon waking and you've pretty much got a prime recipe for impending disaster, but it doesn't really look like he's going to be able to do anything about it. not … right away, anyway.

they don't keep him when he tries to leave — hell, he really would have liked to see anyone try to keep him — and once he's retrieved his belongings from the station ( phone, a book that looks like it might have seen better days, a shield nearly half his size and half a pack of gum ), there's really nothing left to do but check things out.

right? right. )

( if he gets a few looks while wandering through the pines, it might be because of this thing known as an allergy to shirts. bare-chested, jacket hanging open with not even a shred of modesty painting his expression, he walks the whole stretch of distance between himself and his. home. ( but he's used to walking, or at least it feels like it. his mind's still a bit fuzzy, and it might have been something they'd dosed him with back at the hospital. easy enough to blame it on that, or the accident itself. )

there's beer in the fridge when he opens it. he cracks one open, meanders back into the living room, sips it as he kicks his boots off into one corner and leaves them there. makes his way through the rest of the house. it feels familiar, looks and smells familiar. comfortable. like home should. but something still feels a bit off, and again, easily attributed to any lingering effects from a head injury. that damned headache just won't go away.

might as well get settled in, then. )

( it isn't the delectable scent of noodles that lures him out of the house, but of something much sweeter, and while he's never considered himself much of a sweets guy, there is no denying that there is some seriously tasty things going on outside. it gives him reason enough to get out, wander around even more — maybe bump into some people he hasn't seen in a few days.

or get his hands on a brownie that he seriously doesn't need, but is inevitably worth it. so worth it. )

( ooc; wanna hash out fake memories, or request a starter, whatever, hit me up over at boldly )