This conversation was going off the rails; Don Juan had been expecting disappointment, concern — the same things he'd gotten last time, in other words. Dean was angry, he could tell. He could feel it in the air, how the room seemed to crackle. He could see it in the veins on his arms. Not irritated, not annoyed, not frustrated, but actually angry — if this had been anyone else, anywhere else, Don Juan might have squared up to defend himself from an incoming blow. He recognized the emotion roiling off of Hudson, but he didn't know how to diffuse it — or at least, he couldn't think how right now.

"You're being melodramatic," he said, in response to the remark about being made to look foolish, because if that applied to either of them wasn't it Don Juan? He'd dragged himself over here, in no fit state to do much of anything, ready to submit to being berated if need be. Hudson had passed a quite night at home without him; maybe he was put out, but it wasn't like he'd been embarrassed. It couldn't have hurt his pride, not the same way that being here right now hurt Don Juan's.

"Look, I wanted to see you," he continued — his (rather lame) attempt at an olive branch. "I just — got carried away. It was a mistake."

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