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Title: Traditionalists.
Setting: Modern AU.
Date: 3rd of July, 2012.
Summary: He’s been saving up his morphine pills all day because he wants to have sex with Mireille and he’d really rather like Lucretia to leave by her own accord so he doesn’t have to tell her.

Comments

[unreadability]

The notion of home is not a precise one; a conclusion even Katie Melua has reached. On her latest album, a hit in part and total that plays on the radio without pause. Currently. While Jean Louis has transferred a life in common from one setting to the next, and Mireille with him. The house near the valley is still theirs, although Father’s originally. Of course. CNL is still Mireille’s own, despite the young intern who’d forgotten to bring his earphones - humbly inquiring whether it would be acceptable for him to play music, while he finished his research. Now when... Seeing that... There’s just the two of us, Professor Duroc. If only because the number he’d put on repeat was “Feels Like Home”, she’d accepted. It.

Another scenario that she must accept, it seems - when she pushes open the door to the ward with one hand, the other preoccupied rummaging through her bag to locate the limited selection of French evening papers that she’d purchased on her way... here, home - is presented to her in archetypes. The display of breasts

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The conversation has already been halted - by the notion of half-dressed distraction, useless at length but present nonetheless. When Mireille enters the room, however, the atmosphere drops as well and becomes decidedly cold. Freezing. She doesn’t greet them and Lucretia doesn’t bother to correct her negligence. Jean Louis, meanwhile, tries his best not to simply close his eyes and fall asleep, if nothing else then to signal exactly how unnecessary Lucretia is in their current context. Instead, he accepts the pills she’s offering him, noting peripherally how Mireille leaves the room again, silently, the door closing behind her. With a bit of an audible implication.

He sighs. Glances at Lucretia as he swallows the pills dry, more or less in a handful. She’s still smiling, though there’s a hardness to her expression now. Visible anger, despite her attempts to conceal it. “Your French girl is so scary,” she says, leaning back a bit and brushing some invisible folds out of her skirt. “She hates me, Jean Louis. It’s adorableHe stares at

[unreadability]

While the conversation carries on in the other room, all but inaudible through the hospital and her own walls, Mireille arranges… everything else. Puts her bag away amongst the multitude of others that she’s brought with her; the collection wide enough that the nurses think her improvised shelves an exhibition and yet so limited that her walk-in closet isn’t necessary. Nor sorely missed. She hasn’t resigned herself to the move, has she? - Here. With him. Unlike the situation that has prompted her to, which she’s had to accept in stages, day by day. In certain contexts, she’s adopted the role of onlooker, by proximity. Logically, some of the sights she’ll see won’t be to her personal liking. Of course. Like the one she’s just abandoned

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He looks up when she enters the room, not only by habit. Her expression is blank to him, her stance communicating careful neutrality. As is the norm when he’s angered her - that much, at least, he understands. He’s long since given up with regards to reading her more coherently; conflicts solve themselves, don’t they. One way or another. His expression darkens just a fraction at the thought and he leans back, enjoying how his shoulder has gone more or less completely numb. His little arrangement with the nurse has paid off, it seems. All the better, considering Mireille’s current... mood