(Untitled)

[population_ctrl]

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.

Comments

[unreadability]

When the nurse enters, Mireille tears herself away - without great difficulty, from an article too saturated with adjectives to be considered journalism. Fiction, rather. Its foundation in reality sparse; to a degree where even the photo selections, all of the pictures portraying altogether recognisable scenarios, seem effected by the poor quality. And affected, as a result. Jean Louis’ voice is still thick in the aftermath of his coma in combination with the medication administered to him every second hour, mainly in the form of analgesics. Over the past days, he’s been tube fed, but the anaesthetic-induced nausea should diminish gradually. Rendering him capable of eating solid foods without his system necessarily refusing the nutrition or causing him to be physically sick, at this point

[population_ctrl]

The rustling of pages alert him to her movements and he looks sideways in time to see her put her magazines away. Carefully controlled movements, natural grace in the lines of her hands and wrists. Following her with his eyes, he feels how his vision slips slightly, gaze growing distant before he forces it back into clarity with a blink. He doesn’t know whether it’s the medication or the coma that makes his vision turn blurry from time to time - but it’s incredibly annoying. Then again, so is everything else in this hospital

[unreadability]

Allowing him to rant, she lets her eyes run over his features in a compliant, but wholly temporary silence - his skin still exhibiting the slightest hint of paleness, especially around his lips. If nothing else, it’s a relief simply hearing him speak in a relatively fluent manner… After the silence of the first 24 hours of waiting and the unintelligible mumbling which was all he’d managed following his wake-up. She doesn’t cling to it, of course, the feeling of fear so much as the acknowledgement of the risk which caused it. That he might not have awoken at all. That had he gotten himself killed, he would have left her without. With nothing. -- That they’ve both resigned themselves to the continuous circle leading them back to their monthly conflicts, again and again. And with it, the realisation that seeing him like this is something she doesn’t wish to repeat, regardless of the compromises it’ll involve. For now

[population_ctrl]

And of course, she goes directly to teacher-mode. He doesn’t mind in this case, though - that she is, essentially, stepping out of line. He’d rather have her doing so, than deal with Hirsch or his idiotic nurses, all of them seemingly intent on making his present existence as difficult as possible. As she holds out the glass for him again, he lets her stand there for a moment, eyes searching her features languidly. If she were the type to retreat, she probably would at this point - God knows he’s met enough weak-willed people who’d rather crawl away than run the risk of breaking something while standing their ground. His mind immediately, oh-so-helpfully adds that she takes her damage, too, as a consequence. With pitiful regularity. Expression hardening from that thought alone, he reaches out and snatches the glass from her hand, patience suddenly, abruptly, diminishing