It was easier to say that Lesley hated all negative emotion than it was to pinpoint the cause of his irritable mood. He was nervous, which he hated feeling, which caused him to also become frustrated, more with himself than with the situation at hand. Those two feelings compounded brought with it exhaustion, which in turn made him even more touchy and suspicious. When the receptionist had asked to help him, he had taken it as an accusation, and when he was led back to a waiting room, he became impatient. Too proud to confess his internal turmoil, but too charismatic to sit in silence, he had attempted to distract himself by chatting up the person waiting beside him. The small talk and interaction had calmed him down a little, but when his name was called, a man in some official-looking uniform standing aside to guide him off, he found his anxiety welling up once more.<br/><br/>He had been recommended for the study by a client with whom he had built a friendly repertoire with, a middle-aged woman who he saw biweekly. She was a doctor, though not in a prosthesis-focused field; she had foregone family in favor of career and enjoyed Les' company even beyond the physical. After being informed by an old colleague about the study, she had recommended Les for participation, insisted on it as a sort of gift, thanks for his companionship. Though he felt obligated to remind her that she was paying him, he had still accepted. The chance of regaining some semblance of what he was lost was too tempting-- his cosmetic prosthesis kept him pretty, but was effectively useless, while his adaptive one was cheap and unreliable and freaked out many of his clients.<br/><br/>As he was led through the halls, sparkling white with the pervading scent of antiseptic, Les distracted himself from his anxieties by imagining the person he would be meeting. He had a name, but no face to it, no indication of their demeanor or temperament. Would they be sharp and witty? Reserved and intellectual? Confident and domineering? He understood the basics of his participation-- it would be long-term, they would likely have to alter or reshape his remaining forearm, he would probably be forced to miss work or obligations on occasion. Like the last bit mattered- the benefit of selling his companionship and body was that it allowed for flexibility. Would he spend all of his days during the trial with this person, or would they be bouncing him around, moving him from doctor to doctor?<br/><br/>That had been the thing Les hated most about the hospital, years ago, when he had lost his hand. Being shuffled around. Moved from room to room in a haze, nurses rubbing their hands on him and observing him and giving him pills to swallow. He hoped things would be different, less fuzzy, less painful and confusing. Even though his memories from that time were vague, aside from the recollection of unending nightmares sprinkled with dumb relationship drama, he still felt the shadow of his disorientation, his desolation. He was already made panicky by the knowledge that his handless arm would become such a heavy focus in the coming months-- he couldn't handle the prospect of bringing back all those other icky feelings, too.<br/><br/>When they finally reached the door, almost identical to all the others they had passed, Lesley's guide stepped aside and nodded him forward. He hesitated with a curled fist at the door, considering knocking and deciding not to, instead grasping the handle with a tenuous grip. His fake right hand hung limply at his side as though his whole arm was paralyzed, plastic fingers poking out of a loose denim jacket. Rather than open it, Les leaned into the doorway, taking a peek inside. He gulped away his nervousness, peering at the man before him as he picked up his clipboard.<br/><br/>Les stepped away from the door before pulling it open, resetting his shoulders and puffing out his chest. If he couldn't feel entirely confident, anxiety shooting through him like the worst drug on earth, he would fake it until it was real. He gave the man a sharp nod and tilted his head slightly to the right, brushing his hair back behind an ear. "That's my name," he responded with a flirtatious smile, feeling like he was reigning in some sort of beast as he spoke. At least he was a decent actor. "And I can call you Doctor...?" He strode toward the man's desk, searching for some sort of nameplate to no avail. He met the other man's eyes and searched in his gaze, trying to decide which of his earlier archetypes this guy fit into. God, he hoped the dumb feeling in the pit of his stomach would go away soon.