Michelle: To be honest, he was having trouble sleeping beyond his fantastical jetlag. Though he understood that, at least in comparison to the streets or arcadia, that the clinic was a place of safety, his surroundings evoked an old discomfort in him that he couldn’t quite place the origin of.
He just… knew he had done this before, somehow. He had sat in uncomfortable chairs like what now served as his bed, feeling insecure and directionless. The knot the emotions formed almost made him want to get sick.
Not that being ill would help his situation any. He didn’t need that on top of the stress of his escape, his company, and his feelings. Not to mention, being reintroduced to the concept of clothing as an element of modesty and not as a prop for one’s identity was still a strange sensation for him.
The material of the scrubs weren’t that uncomfortable, but what it stood for was foreign enough to make him pinch, tug, and fiddle at the garment. But it at least gave him something to preoccupy his mind with.
Zazozaliad: [Braque, despite previous complaints of having to get up in the middle of the night to track down a few wayward Lost, apparently hadn’t turned in yet. This was evident in the distant clicks of his shoes on the clinic’s surprisingly immaculate tile. And occasionally, like now, he’d show up at the front desk to peer in at the odd assortment of people strewn across the waiting room. Ostensibly it was to make sure they didn’t wreck it. ]
Michelle: The sound of footsteps had become a background noise to him, so he actually did a double take as he spotted the stitched face doctor at the fount desk. –And probably jumped a little more than he should have. Yeesh, with the dim lighting that was definitely a small bit of nightmare fuel, there. Not that his sleeping company in the waiting room had much more going for them. Well, most of them, anyway.
Looking away, he rubbed at his mouth and where his nose would be a bit in embarrassment, before glancing back over.
“…Shouldn’t you be asleep?” Hi, kettle, meet pot.
Zazozaliad: [“Sure, I should. Doesn’t mean I am. Though I think, as your doctor, I should be the one advising you on your sleep schedule, eh?” Braque grinned, the stitches at the edges of his mouth stretching to accommodate the unnatural size of the expression.
..the grin quickly faded, proving it was less than comfortable for his face to contort that way, even if it very well could.]
Michelle: “My doctor?” He echoed, showing slight bemusement at the claimed professional relationship. “You’re not going to bill us once you get tired of us taking up your waiting seats, are you?”
It takes a bit of shuffling around in his seat before he settles enough to give a more direct response. “I can’t sleep.” He realizes right after that such a claim could be taken a bit too literally. “-I mean… I /can/, but…” Ah, whatever. Like he had to explain himself, anyway.
Zazozaliad: [“Look there.” Braque points to a small symbol inscribed over the door. It appears to have been carved into the wall, and rather crudely. “That right there’s Yourami’s sanctuary symbol. Means I can’t throw you all out on your ears for at least a few weeks. And it means I can’t bill you for clogging up my waiting room, either.”
At the confession of sleeplessness, Braque shrugs. “I can barely believe your pals there are sleeping so soundly myself. ..Course, if you’re asking for a sedative, I’m gonna have to refuse on account of preserving my resources.”]
Michelle: “Why not? It’s just a picture, isn’t it? And not exactly done by a skilled whittler, neither.” It was nice to know that his hunch at the clinic being a safe spot wasn’t wrong, if he wasn’t mistaken on what the definition of “sanctuary” meant.
He soured a little at the idea of sedatives. “No thanks, anyway.” Shaking his head, he took a long look-over at his sleeping company. “…You’d be surprised. Two of them slept through half of the hedge.” He didn’t even bother trying to obscure the fact that he was looking right at the book-man and rotting child as he claimed such.
Zazozaliad: [“Just a picture. Whoo.” He shakes his head, exasperated. “It’s a picture, sure. But it’s a picture backed up by a promise.”
He stops, possibly in disgust at the sheer corniness of the line he just spouted, before shaking it off.]
Michelle: The corner of his mouth tugs a little in amusement for just a second. Both at the campy line and at the doctor’s reaction towards his own words. It did make the faceless insomniac wonder, though, and after a little bit of pretending that the hard, tiled floor beneath them was fascinating, he asked, “Why? … Why are you going out of your way to help?” Catching that such a question wasn’t void of offensiveness, he quickly waves a hand reassuringly. “Not that I make it a hobby to look a gift-horse in the mouth, or anything. I just don’t understand.”
Zazozaliad: [Braque’s lack-of-eyebrows raise at the question, and he chuckles. It’s not a pleasant sound. “We-eeeell. Consider that your good pal Braque COULD just be a genuinely nice guy.”
..yeah, that’s definitely not the real story.]
Michelle: “…” He felt around his makeshift bed a little before retrieving the aviator shades he had salvaged during the escape from the hedge, putting them on, despite it being night. “So you’re doing this just because you’re an idiot, Doc? Last I checked, sticking your neck out for people just got it chopped off.” Or in a more literal way, got one dragged into the hedge. “But what do I know, right?”
Zazozaliad: [..Braque is not amused by your bravado, pal. This is apparent in the fact that his casual leaning against the counter has turned tense, and that he’s now scowling. Guess who’s got a flat 1 in composure. “What indeed. Promises, ken doll. You’ll find everyone’s got a few they have to honor.”
…dammit, he’s left scratches in the wood of the counter gripping it. He just got it refurbished a few months ago, too.]
Michelle: With a hand he shifted the pair of shades downwards so that, if he had the proper features, he would be peering out from under the glasses. For a bit, he merely watched Doctor Braque’s reaction, before taking the glasses off fully-only to change his mind and quickly slid them back on, laying his head onto the back of his seat as he held them in place.
“Whatever, Doc. Just don’t get yourself splinters you can’t pull out.”
Zazozaliad: [“Tch.” And with that, the good doctor takes his leave at a furiously brisk pace, flicking off the only light as he goes.]