MEMORY SHARE
Jan. 31st, 2015 12:35 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
khajidontMilagro sits on the couch in a tiny ball wrapped in a blanket, a perfect picture of misery with her red nose and bleary eyes, hair bands long since yanked out, and hair framing a messy halo around her head. She stares up at Jaime, and seems to endeavor to sniffle as loudly and as long as possible. Jaime leans over the back of the couch, resting his chin on his forearms, and notes, “You’re disgusting.”
“Am not,” she mutters in return, but Jaime just shakes his head.
“Yeah, you are. Go on, blow your nose instead. I’m gonna make you some soup, ‘kay?” He reaches over to push some of her mussed hair away from her forehead, feeling for her temperature, before pushing off the couch and wandering his way over to the kitchen, but not before he hollers behind him: “Drink! That water bottle better be empty by the time Mom comes home!”
Making soup just winds up being Jaime emptying a can into a pot and heating it over the stove, but it’s a good sight better than what Milagro could do, particularly on the account that when she’s sick, she manages to look approximately two years younger, twenty pounds tinier, and ten times more pitiful than the little monster she usually is. He drops a couple ice cubes into the broth as he carries it over to her and as he places it on the coffee table in front of her, he grabs the television remote. Milagro looks like she’s about to protest, but wordlessly, Jaime flicks the channel, and she relaxes as My Little Pony starts playing.
They’re technicolour, and shrill, and in Jaime’s opinion, honestly kind of horrible. “I get to choose what to watch next time I’m sick,” he points out.
“All your shows suck,” she says right back, which means she must be feeling better, but not that great, because the minute she finishes her soup, she’s back on the couch, and leaning flat against Jaime’s side. It honestly doesn’t take her too long to fall asleep after that, but the only problem there is that she’s crushing his arm, and he can’t quite manage to reach the remote after that. He reaches desperately for it with his free arm a little, but once he jostles Milagro too much, she stirs, and he gives up. My Little Pony, it is. This is his life now. His bright, exceptionally high-pitched life.
Once he hears the door open, he shushes whoever it is that’s coming in, and lo and behold, it’s his mother tip toe-ing in, still in her scrubs, hair pulled out of her face. “New favourite show?” She teases as she reaches past him to rest one hand on Milagro’s forehead. Jaime rolls his eyes. He’s not sure she saw it, so he waits for her to look at him again, and rolls them again, which earns him a swat across his head.
"When's Dad coming home?"
"Soon," she says, mouth twisting into a frown. "Luis skipped his shift again. Your father's covering it." She raises one hand, stopping him from voicing the discontent on his breath (just fire him, already, he's about to say, and his mouth is open to say it) and says, "I know. Not now, mijo."
He may not be entirely happy about it, but he obeys. Instead, he contemplates the fact that his arm is rapidly getting awfully damp.
“This is really gross,” he whispers to her, looking pointedly at where Milagro is showing off the talent of being really snotty and really drooly all at the same time, all over his arm. It’s a testament to true love that he’s not squealing and pushing her off him right now.
“Ye-es,” his mom agrees, and when she starts to walk away and into the kitchen to get some food for Milagro that didn’t make its way sludging slowly out of a can, he tilts his head back as far as he can, eyes wide with alarm.
“Mom!” He hisses as loudly as he dares. “Mom! Pass me the remote! Mom, I know you can hear me!”
She can. He swears he hears her laughing.
“Am not,” she mutters in return, but Jaime just shakes his head.
“Yeah, you are. Go on, blow your nose instead. I’m gonna make you some soup, ‘kay?” He reaches over to push some of her mussed hair away from her forehead, feeling for her temperature, before pushing off the couch and wandering his way over to the kitchen, but not before he hollers behind him: “Drink! That water bottle better be empty by the time Mom comes home!”
Making soup just winds up being Jaime emptying a can into a pot and heating it over the stove, but it’s a good sight better than what Milagro could do, particularly on the account that when she’s sick, she manages to look approximately two years younger, twenty pounds tinier, and ten times more pitiful than the little monster she usually is. He drops a couple ice cubes into the broth as he carries it over to her and as he places it on the coffee table in front of her, he grabs the television remote. Milagro looks like she’s about to protest, but wordlessly, Jaime flicks the channel, and she relaxes as My Little Pony starts playing.
They’re technicolour, and shrill, and in Jaime’s opinion, honestly kind of horrible. “I get to choose what to watch next time I’m sick,” he points out.
“All your shows suck,” she says right back, which means she must be feeling better, but not that great, because the minute she finishes her soup, she’s back on the couch, and leaning flat against Jaime’s side. It honestly doesn’t take her too long to fall asleep after that, but the only problem there is that she’s crushing his arm, and he can’t quite manage to reach the remote after that. He reaches desperately for it with his free arm a little, but once he jostles Milagro too much, she stirs, and he gives up. My Little Pony, it is. This is his life now. His bright, exceptionally high-pitched life.
Once he hears the door open, he shushes whoever it is that’s coming in, and lo and behold, it’s his mother tip toe-ing in, still in her scrubs, hair pulled out of her face. “New favourite show?” She teases as she reaches past him to rest one hand on Milagro’s forehead. Jaime rolls his eyes. He’s not sure she saw it, so he waits for her to look at him again, and rolls them again, which earns him a swat across his head.
"When's Dad coming home?"
"Soon," she says, mouth twisting into a frown. "Luis skipped his shift again. Your father's covering it." She raises one hand, stopping him from voicing the discontent on his breath (just fire him, already, he's about to say, and his mouth is open to say it) and says, "I know. Not now, mijo."
He may not be entirely happy about it, but he obeys. Instead, he contemplates the fact that his arm is rapidly getting awfully damp.
“This is really gross,” he whispers to her, looking pointedly at where Milagro is showing off the talent of being really snotty and really drooly all at the same time, all over his arm. It’s a testament to true love that he’s not squealing and pushing her off him right now.
“Ye-es,” his mom agrees, and when she starts to walk away and into the kitchen to get some food for Milagro that didn’t make its way sludging slowly out of a can, he tilts his head back as far as he can, eyes wide with alarm.
“Mom!” He hisses as loudly as he dares. “Mom! Pass me the remote! Mom, I know you can hear me!”
She can. He swears he hears her laughing.