(no subject)
Title: Level of Service Quality: N/A
Setting: Modern AU.
Date: 13th of June, 2012.
Summary: The food is horrendous and the situation itself riddled with boundaries and limitations. That is, until Mireille takes over, once more servering the larger picture into something less boundless and impossible.
‘Get better’. Spoken with more than a hundred different-sized, multicoloured flower bouquets, reluctantly scattered around the hospital ward. It’s verging on over-crowded, really, but he can’t rightly ask the staff to throw them out. Someone might get offended. And if there’s one thing he doesn’t want to deal with currently, it’s self-righteously angry, self-professed good Samaritans. It’s enough, he thinks, that his right arm won’t move when he wants it to and that his face currently feels like someone stuffed a metal-rod down his nose. Which, of course, they more or less did. The NG-tube was removed only this afternoon. About time, too, even if it wasn’t the most splendid experience he’s ever had.
He glances sideways. Watches as Mireille turns another page in her gossip magazine, her eyes skimming the articles only at sporadic intervals. Usually, she wouldn’t go near that sort of journalistic garbage, but the hospital doesn’t exactly offer a very varied source of academic literature. And she’s been here since he woke up, hasn’t she? Surely, she’ll go back to her daily life soon enough (though he rather thinks she shouldn’t because she can’t take care of herself, can’t keep herself safe and how’s he supposed to do that from here if she leaves...) but until then... He thinks he might need to get her something better - when someone brings him his phone. Actually, come to think of it. Shifting, he reaches out with his free arm (the one not currently hidden away in layers of gaze) and pushes the service button. His shoulder aches in response to the sudden movement of his upper body and he scowls, leaning back somewhat gingerly.
The nurse enters seconds after. He raises an eyebrow at her - while this is a private hospital, such a fast reaction is a bit of a surprise. Especially considering some of the people who work here. He only notices moments later that she’s carrying two glasses, her steps hurried and stressed. “Monsieur Duroc, I’m sorry. We’re working as fast as we can, I promise you and the food will be here in a -“
“I want my phone. Go get it for me.”
She pauses. Doesn’t look at him, her face flushing a very slight pink. Then, she sets down the two glasses on a nearby table, out of reach before turning toward the door. “You must speak to Doctor Hirsch about that, Monsieur.” And with that, she literally rushes out, avoiding his reaction only because it’s delayed. The pain killers make him too drowsy for quick bursts of temper, which probably explains why nothing ever gets done around here. No one pushes people enough to hit any level of acceptable efficiency. Certainly not Aldrik Hirsch who, in less than a day, has become one of Jean Louis’ least favourite people. He sighs out loud, slapping his good hand back against the bed with exaggerated sloppiness. His motor control isn’t stellar at the moment, either.
“Idiots.” Spoken in a low tone as he glares death at the two glasses on the table, the red liquid looking too sugary to pass for proper nutrition.