He likes her thighs and he fears being vertical, but it must be done. With some great effort he sits up, his head immediately spinning. He has the wherewithal to cover his mouth with the crook of his elbow as he falls into another coughing fit.
Terrible as it is, Jill is thoroughly enjoying this helpless Clive. How often does she truly get to take care of him without him fighting it tooth and nail, or trying to turn it into him taking care of her instead?
"Let's get you situated before I go." She pulls back the covers so he can lay on cool sheets, and goes so far as to flip his pillow over to the cool side. "Do you have any other requests while I'm out?"
It’s so tempting to lay back down when she offers, and so he does, crawling into place clumsily. His head hits the pillow and he closes his eyes immediately.
She's going to get him those colorful drinks Nero gave Joshua.
"Anything for you, my love," she says, and leans down to give his mop of hair a kiss before heading out. She's gone for the better part of an hour, not really used to nursing the sick, especially here, especially Clive, but she returns with a plastic bag of supplies and a paper bag containing a burger. And fries.
Quietly, she creeps back into the bedroom, hoping Clive is asleep.
Clive is, regretfully, not in bed, but fortunately he also has not made his way downstairs to do the gardening.
He is in the bathroom, sitting on the floor with his back against the wall opposite the toilet. Unspeakable things have happened to that toilet, and flushing it has not spared the splatters off the side. Unsurprisingly, the whole room smells of vomit. He is damp with sweat.
Oh, no. The smell hits her before she sees Clive, and she's glad she'd dropped the bags on the nightstand before checking for Clive in the bathroom. It's been some time since she's smelled anything so ripe.
"Clive," she says, a little worried by now. She kneels beside him to push back his damp hair, and... wipe his chin with her thumb. "My sweetheart, I don't think you're fine."
Maybe he feels a little better after emptying his guts. She hopes.
He's surprised she touches him at all when he's in a state like this, and he turns his head away from her sluggishly, like that might be enough to avoid sullying her. He puts a hand out, groping to hold her off or... steady himself, it turns out, finding only the floor to keep himself from sagging over sideways.
"If I'm not, then I don't want you to see me like this," he says, trying to find his feet to get up, but he somehow only ends up slouched a little worse against the wall.
"You're silly. This is when you need me most," she murmurs patiently, and gets up onto to grab a washcloth from beside the sink and wet it before returning to his side. She reaches for his face, to wipe him down.
"I'd like to know what you'd expect me to do while the man I love is ill and on the floor. Go downstairs and watch a movie? Visit a friend?"
Just like that, her heart breaks for him. It's been some time since he's looked so miserable. He must feel worse.
"I'm here to take care of you. This won't be forever," she reminds him, wiping his neck. "You needn't worry about a thing. I'm very sorry you feel so awful, my love."
He sighs at her touch, wishing he could be touched like that forever.
“I just don’t want to be like some sick dog that has to slink away to die,” he mutters, looking at her dead in the eyes. Why the fuck is he crying? “To spare you, if it grows worse.”
“If I could be so fortunate,” he says forlornly, sure that he’s leaving a river of sweat where his shoulders touch the wall. If there’s anything to be glad about beyond her presence, it’s that there’s nothing more to vomit. “I need you or I’ll surely perish.”
She wipes his hands, and when she reaches up to brush her fingers across his forehead, they're too cool for it to be anything but a touch of her magic bringing down the temperature.
"I'm happy to be here to take care of you, for all the times you've looked after me. For all the times you've had no one to look after you," she murmurs. Joshua was always the sick one, the weak one. There was no room for Clive.
He reeks, but she pets him, hoping to cool him down.
"As much as I'm sure you'd wish I'd do that to you now, I need you just as much as you need me," she tells him. "Once you feel strong enough, we'll get you back into bed."
"Don't push yourself. We can sit here for a little while." There's no shame in it, despite the smell. She's glad he made it here rather than vomit in their bedroom.
And they can't have that. Jill rests her hand atop his.
"Very well. I'll help you up."
She gets to her feet and offers him both hands. Usually, such an act is done in jest. A playful thing he humors her with, because he weighs that much more than her. But surely she can help a little.
Clive sits forward with some effort, getting his feet under him so he can try to stand. He’s surely not going to be lifted right from the ground, not by her.
He sure does need more help than he hopes, though, because when he gets up, his weight immediately sinks against her.
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“Alright,” he croaks.
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"Let's get you situated before I go." She pulls back the covers so he can lay on cool sheets, and goes so far as to flip his pillow over to the cool side. "Do you have any other requests while I'm out?"
She already plans to find him medicine.
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“A beer,” he mutters.
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"Anything for you, my love," she says, and leans down to give his mop of hair a kiss before heading out. She's gone for the better part of an hour, not really used to nursing the sick, especially here, especially Clive, but she returns with a plastic bag of supplies and a paper bag containing a burger. And fries.
Quietly, she creeps back into the bedroom, hoping Clive is asleep.
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He is in the bathroom, sitting on the floor with his back against the wall opposite the toilet. Unspeakable things have happened to that toilet, and flushing it has not spared the splatters off the side. Unsurprisingly, the whole room smells of vomit. He is damp with sweat.
"I'm fine," he says, embarrassed.
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"Clive," she says, a little worried by now. She kneels beside him to push back his damp hair, and... wipe his chin with her thumb. "My sweetheart, I don't think you're fine."
Maybe he feels a little better after emptying his guts. She hopes.
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"If I'm not, then I don't want you to see me like this," he says, trying to find his feet to get up, but he somehow only ends up slouched a little worse against the wall.
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"I'd like to know what you'd expect me to do while the man I love is ill and on the floor. Go downstairs and watch a movie? Visit a friend?"
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“You could,” he says. “I wouldn’t hold it against you.”
He’s tearing up.
“I don’t want to be weak like this.”
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"I'm here to take care of you. This won't be forever," she reminds him, wiping his neck. "You needn't worry about a thing. I'm very sorry you feel so awful, my love."
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“I just don’t want to be like some sick dog that has to slink away to die,” he mutters, looking at her dead in the eyes. Why the fuck is he crying? “To spare you, if it grows worse.”
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Every time she does, he gets worse.
"This... that," she says, glancing to the toilet, "Was likely the worst of it."
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"Oh, that's nothing new," she teases lightly.
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“I’m glad to have made it 34 years without falling ill before you…
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"I'm happy to be here to take care of you, for all the times you've looked after me. For all the times you've had no one to look after you," she murmurs. Joshua was always the sick one, the weak one. There was no room for Clive.
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"As much as I'm sure you'd wish I'd do that to you now, I need you just as much as you need me," she tells him. "Once you feel strong enough, we'll get you back into bed."
With a bucket, perhaps.
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“I can try to get up,” he says. “For you.”
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"Very well. I'll help you up."
She gets to her feet and offers him both hands. Usually, such an act is done in jest. A playful thing he humors her with, because he weighs that much more than her. But surely she can help a little.
"Slow and steady, Clive."
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He sure does need more help than he hopes, though, because when he gets up, his weight immediately sinks against her.
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He's against her, heavy and moist. Jill doesn't enjoy it, but this is what being a good partner is, she supposes.
"To bed we go."
Baby steps.
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