we're always running scared but holding knives
"You are many things, Remi, but never a dull boy," Isla says with a wry smile, rolling up the sleeve of his boiler suit as he holds out his arm. He might like to hide behind a curtain of curls, but Isla has preliminary checks to do, and whilst her inspections - blood pressure, pulse, the reactions of his pupils as well as a blood sample - are as gentle as possible (and positively affectionate compared to Suuuuuuusan - she still doesn't take no for an answer.
"Well that is certainly good to hear," she murmurs, though she does give him a stern raise of her eyebrows at his use of language. "You know how I feel about that term," she says, rolling his sleeve back down when she's done (and there's a boring beige bandaid in the crook of his arm, but Isla has coloured a tiny smiley face on it with a marker).
"You are not a monster," she continues, writing down a few more notes before opening a few containers and putting together his evening cocktail of medication. "Monsters do not have a sense of humour, for a start."
"Well that is certainly good to hear," she murmurs, though she does give him a stern raise of her eyebrows at his use of language. "You know how I feel about that term," she says, rolling his sleeve back down when she's done (and there's a boring beige bandaid in the crook of his arm, but Isla has coloured a tiny smiley face on it with a marker).
"You are not a monster," she continues, writing down a few more notes before opening a few containers and putting together his evening cocktail of medication. "Monsters do not have a sense of humour, for a start."
Isla
