The slow approach doesn't do the man any favors. He doesn't like anyone in his space that he hasn't invited there, and the inching forward feels like an attempted incursion. Not that he does anything about it--he hates to be a bother, he might make the man angry, he knows it's irrational--but it doesn't make him any happier. He plucks nervously at the sleeve of his scrubs--he's not really dressed for the weather, the cold not deep enough to bother him when the fever's making it hard to tell one moment to the next what the temperature is, the fog warming to shimmery little beads of water on his hair and beard and making everything sort of soothingly clammy.

Having to find his own words (being polite is important if you don't want to upset people) increases the surge of nerves. One hand moves from his sleeve to his ragged hair, the ponytail already pulled halfway around by this same habit, his worrying fingers making even more of a mess of it.

Eddard. He's bad at names. Not as bad as at faces (the face itself isn't especially threatening, nor the voice, which in Bodhi's current state just fails to scare him more, rather than calming him), but he hopes he doesn't lose it immediately. Right, his own comes next. It's a script. He can talk if he knows the steps. He's fine when he knows. Why can't he settle into the way this conversation works? "Bodhi Rook." It's just as soft and shaky, and his eyes dart to the ground.