Gyre might say it's fine, but it's probably not. The wild elf had to abscond from a party, so skulking in the shadows of grimy, industrialized vans is probably less than optimal. But, uh, this can only wait for so long. That said, Garrot's posture has sort of stiffened, and he looks positively meek. It's hard for them to be on the same wavelength as Gyre most of the time, and this would be the worst time for tension or a miscommunication.

"I, uh..." He trails off, a clawed finger reaching up to tug at the collar of his shirt. "I just wanted to ask you some questions. Face-to-face. Alone." Garrot knows Gyre hates crowds, and these are the sorts of things he'd expect the elf to discuss openly. So he's remarkably hushed, barely above a whisper. "Mostly about yesterday." There's a beat, and the doctor tenses up further as he swallows, hard, and-

"And about how you're dead." His eyes go wide like dinner plates as he spits the words out, torn between walking on eggshells and being direct as he puts his hands up in a placating gesture and continues, Gyre's probably-reflexive protests be damned. "I just mean, uh, if you do get hurt, is there anything I can do to help? W-would scalpels or gauze even matter?" Now that the first big question is out through Garrot's own social inelegance, he looks even more fraught, but the anxiety has been overridden by full-on concerned heartbreak. The how is obviously fascinating, but none of that matters if Gyre dies.