(no subject)
It was eight in the morning on a Saturday, but the bed was already made and the steam on the mirror and the damp shower floor bore testament to someone being up and about. As it happened, Zechs had in fact slept in; years of military training left him still prone to awakening at early hours. He was now seated in the elegant dining room, separate from the spacious kitchen of his luxurious apartment, musing over the morning paper and sipping at a cup of freshly brewed coffee. He'd made it particularly strong this morning, strong enough that he rinsed the mug before putting it in the dishwasher so that it wouldn't stain.
Breakfast attended to, Zechs made his way into the living room where a pair of finches twittered happily in a large flight cage. The former pilot smiled as he fed them and gave them fresh water. He had acquired them shortly after returning to Sanc, and they were a comfort for someone who didn't get out much. After all, his face was not precisely unrecognisable, and a media circus was the last thing that Zechs wanted. He gave himself enough grief, or so the doctors had said, without journalists and reporters asking agitating questions. After all, he'd come here to keep an eye on Relena and the political situation of his homeland, but more importantly to relax and try to forget the past three years or so. There were, of course, rumours that he had returned, but so far no pictures had been published and no one had knocked at his door, which meant that his location was still mere speculation.
His feet took him automatically back into the dining room. The routine helped, he admitted, as he opened the orange bottles and poured his morning doses of medications into a small bowl. Prior to coming up with some sort of regular process, he'd frequently forgotten to take the cocktail of pills and discovered that as unpleasant as some of the side effects were, not being on them was far worse. He drew a glass of water from the tap in the kitchen and downed the pills, then put the bottles back in their rightful places.
Zechs collected the paper and curled comfortably on the sofa in the living room, letting the pleasant aroma of the roses in the bowl on the coffee table relax him. He'd pulled back the curtains long since, letting the cold morning light serve instead of lamps. Soft classical music came from the sleek stereo system perched upon an equally stylish shelf, and Zechs drummed his fingers unconsciously against the arm of the couch as he continued his reading.
Breakfast attended to, Zechs made his way into the living room where a pair of finches twittered happily in a large flight cage. The former pilot smiled as he fed them and gave them fresh water. He had acquired them shortly after returning to Sanc, and they were a comfort for someone who didn't get out much. After all, his face was not precisely unrecognisable, and a media circus was the last thing that Zechs wanted. He gave himself enough grief, or so the doctors had said, without journalists and reporters asking agitating questions. After all, he'd come here to keep an eye on Relena and the political situation of his homeland, but more importantly to relax and try to forget the past three years or so. There were, of course, rumours that he had returned, but so far no pictures had been published and no one had knocked at his door, which meant that his location was still mere speculation.
His feet took him automatically back into the dining room. The routine helped, he admitted, as he opened the orange bottles and poured his morning doses of medications into a small bowl. Prior to coming up with some sort of regular process, he'd frequently forgotten to take the cocktail of pills and discovered that as unpleasant as some of the side effects were, not being on them was far worse. He drew a glass of water from the tap in the kitchen and downed the pills, then put the bottles back in their rightful places.
Zechs collected the paper and curled comfortably on the sofa in the living room, letting the pleasant aroma of the roses in the bowl on the coffee table relax him. He'd pulled back the curtains long since, letting the cold morning light serve instead of lamps. Soft classical music came from the sleek stereo system perched upon an equally stylish shelf, and Zechs drummed his fingers unconsciously against the arm of the couch as he continued his reading.