[By the time that Sunday comes along, Lefou is a lot more like his old self again. His face is less swollen (although the bruise across his nose has spread to ring both of his eyes and he looks kind of like a big, sad raccoon), and he no longer sounds like he's talking with a severe head cold.
Also, while probably not the best idea when he's recovering from a concussion, he's managed to severely tame his downright scruffy-looking chin back down to his regular sideburns and a normal amount of stubble. Four weeks was too long. We're not making it five.
And now that he doesn't have to hold onto the wall for support, he's in a surprisingly good mood. He's had to scrub his shirt clean (again. why is it always BLOOD on his shirt and not normal stains), but because he was too out of it to scrub it before it had the chance to set the collar is stained a little brown. But he has no desire to navigate a whole tuxedo's worth of buttons first thing in the morning so he's just running around in his usual garb, two-inch heels and all.
He doesn't make anything for breakfast (though he makes sure that the mint tea is set out on the counter for anyone who's having a Hard Morning), but come dinnertime he's in the kitchen making soup again. Something hearty and warm and with plenty of flavorful broth for anyone who's still feeling a little under the weather.
Come night time, he sneaks across the hall to room 116, pillow in hand, and knocks quietly on the door.]
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Also, while probably not the best idea when he's recovering from a concussion, he's managed to severely tame his downright scruffy-looking chin back down to his regular sideburns and a normal amount of stubble. Four weeks was too long. We're not making it five.
And now that he doesn't have to hold onto the wall for support, he's in a surprisingly good mood. He's had to scrub his shirt clean (again. why is it always BLOOD on his shirt and not normal stains), but because he was too out of it to scrub it before it had the chance to set the collar is stained a little brown. But he has no desire to navigate a whole tuxedo's worth of buttons first thing in the morning so he's just running around in his usual garb, two-inch heels and all.
He doesn't make anything for breakfast (though he makes sure that the mint tea is set out on the counter for anyone who's having a Hard Morning), but come dinnertime he's in the kitchen making soup again. Something hearty and warm and with plenty of flavorful broth for anyone who's still feeling a little under the weather.
Come night time, he sneaks across the hall to room 116, pillow in hand, and knocks quietly on the door.]