The man does not move. Instead he makes eyebrows—oh, eyebrows: Jack remembers those; they're the things on your face with hair—at Jack and babbles something about daytime television.
Jack has no idea what daytime television has to do with his spot, or the man sittng in it, or the man moving from his spot, which Jack can't help but notice he's not doing. He stares for a moment, in case more words are intending to come out of the man's mouth, but they've seem to have run dry for the time being.
Half a corridor, the man said, which means nothing to Jack. Or no; right. It means something. Means something because this is a hospital and hospital are notorious for never putting things in clear English. Everything's a code. And Jack's met his type before: that sallow, haggard look every patient in the world has but not from chemo. Too much hair for that. Surgery, then; must be.
"Sure they'd give you a pass for five steps."
The chairs the man indicates aren't much farther than that—five, six, nine steps. It wouldn't be too much to walk, not in the man got here from his room in one piece and hasn't started in on the zombie drugs like the rest of them. It's a b-flick horror film in the making in here: all of them looking like corpses, the walking dead, shuffling along. At least them with giant blue tubes stuffed up their groins, like Jack.
"Might even sneak it by the nurses. Have one over of them. They'll never know." He gives the man something like a smirk, cajoling.
Sneaking something past the nurses is about the only fun to be had around here, for those up to it. Like being kids again in school, knocking off, rebelling just for the sake of rebelling. The nurses treat everyone here like they're fourteen anyway; might as well act like it.
"Besides." Jack points with a finger. "There is a view of the Thames. From that spot. What you're sitting in. There—" he flicks his fingers to the line of chairs the man appointed "—is a view of, mmm, cars parking at the leisure centre across the way and that block of flats." He blinks at the man like his argument is flawless, obvious, gorgeous. For the closing, he tries to put a bit more verve in his voice, some of his old sales technique, charming and sharply friendly; it's exhausting. "You've the best seat in the house, mate."
no subject
Jack has no idea what daytime television has to do with his spot, or the man sittng in it, or the man moving from his spot, which Jack can't help but notice he's not doing. He stares for a moment, in case more words are intending to come out of the man's mouth, but they've seem to have run dry for the time being.
Half a corridor, the man said, which means nothing to Jack. Or no; right. It means something. Means something because this is a hospital and hospital are notorious for never putting things in clear English. Everything's a code. And Jack's met his type before: that sallow, haggard look every patient in the world has but not from chemo. Too much hair for that. Surgery, then; must be.
"Sure they'd give you a pass for five steps."
The chairs the man indicates aren't much farther than that—five, six, nine steps. It wouldn't be too much to walk, not in the man got here from his room in one piece and hasn't started in on the zombie drugs like the rest of them. It's a b-flick horror film in the making in here: all of them looking like corpses, the walking dead, shuffling along. At least them with giant blue tubes stuffed up their groins, like Jack.
"Might even sneak it by the nurses. Have one over of them. They'll never know." He gives the man something like a smirk, cajoling.
Sneaking something past the nurses is about the only fun to be had around here, for those up to it. Like being kids again in school, knocking off, rebelling just for the sake of rebelling. The nurses treat everyone here like they're fourteen anyway; might as well act like it.
"Besides." Jack points with a finger. "There is a view of the Thames. From that spot. What you're sitting in. There—" he flicks his fingers to the line of chairs the man appointed "—is a view of, mmm, cars parking at the leisure centre across the way and that block of flats." He blinks at the man like his argument is flawless, obvious, gorgeous. For the closing, he tries to put a bit more verve in his voice, some of his old sales technique, charming and sharply friendly; it's exhausting. "You've the best seat in the house, mate."