Aidan Turner (whisperisashout) wrote in genome_project, @ 2010-03-15 00:06:00 |
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Current mood: | nervous |
Entry tags: | march 2010 |
Who: Aidan and Dr Laura Jones
What: A four day headache requires a doctors visit... probably.
Where: Dr Jones’ surgery.
When: Mid-morning
Rating: TBD - probably PG
Aidan was perched on one of the chairs in the small waiting room as he watched the hands of the clock on the wall ticking over and over. It was monotonous and each tick tick tick of the second hand moving was thunderously loud in the tiny room. He rubbed his hand over his eyes.
His glasses were in his messenger bag which was sat at his feet. His elbows rested on his knees and he raked a hand through his hair as he waited, staring at the floor and rubbing at his eyes whenever he felt them stinging a little.
Thankfully the waiting room was empty, but the receptionist’s perfume was overpowering and Aidan had coughed a little when he’d walked past the desk and now the stuff was stuck in his nostrils or something because the smell had been just as overpowering since he sat down as when he checked in.
Someone had gone in before him, and he was hoping more than anything that he was next. He hated waiting. He tapped a text message out to Ethan whilst he was waiting, announcing how bored he was in the waiting room of the doctors and then realised, once he’d pressed send, that he hadn’t actually told him he’d be at the doctors, so it was quickly followed by another ‘I’m okay’ text message, just in case.
Tapping his toes against the floor, he put his phone away and glanced up at the door that would beckon him to certain doom. Or something. He wasn’t even sure what he was going to tell Dr Jones when he saw her. How could he explain what he was going through without sounding like a total nutcase? He couldn’t.
“Bah.”
He was nervous, but then being at the doctors always did make him uncomfortable. Like the dentist and the optician. The idea of not needing his glasses anymore was one he wasn’t so sure he liked. He’d hated wearing them when he was younger, but now he loved the security the lenses held. It was nice being able to hide behind them. He cracked his knuckles and looked at the clock again.
“Bah,” he repeated, like that would stop his nerves. “At least you don’t have a brain tumour,” he told himself, once again glad he was alone in the waiting room. “The internet isn’t good for self-diagnosis.”