"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.
“Alright,” he breathes, through his mouth, since there isn’t a single gasp of air getting through his nose. He barely keeps upright, his sweaty side against hers, and the second they’re in reach of the bed, he sinks into it.
(His armpit drags against her shoulder obviously.)
Her own clothing feels damp. She's slogged through worse than her love's sick sweat, but it's still not great.
"Here," she says, going to the bag and pulling out a bottle with red liquid in it, condensation on it from the cooler in the store. She twists off the cap. "Drink this. It's sweet."
“What is it?” he asks, struggling to prop himself up against the headboard again. But he’s going to drink it anyway, and he takes an immediate swig of it.
"A different color of that drink Joshua had," Jill says. She got a few other bottles in different colors. The yellow one is alarming, but she was curious. "I have medicine, too."
The bag rattles as she pulls out a bottle of capsules, turning it over in her hands to read it.
"You claim you are dying, and yet you don't need medicine," Jill hums, opening the bottle. She fiddles with the foil seal before popping it open, pulling out the cotton within, and tapping out a few pills onto her palm. "Just take these, Clive. Please."
He is dying and thus he does not want to spend the last bit of his life choking down whatever chemicals and foul-smelling concoctions they’ve hidden in those pills. Clive just gives them a suspicious eye.
She can't pronounce some of the listed ingredients on the bottle.
"I've seen you eat things in the kitchen I set aside to toss. Take these," she says firmly, putting them in his hand. "Now isn't the time to be delicate."
“That’s food,” he grumbles, taking them and giving them an unfocused look. He’s going to die miserable. He pops them in his mouth and chews before swallowing, and it’s bitter and nasty before before he follows it with the red swill.
Oh, well. Too late. Next time, she'll tell him not to chew. There's only so much this man can process right now.
"I got your burger. Doubt you have the stomach for it, hmm?" She asks, reaching out to feel his forehead. "We'll save it for later, once you feel better."
“I should eat,” he says, suddenly worried for the state of it. Will Jill throw it out if she deems it inedible by time he’s up for it? He could not be less hungry with his mouth this vile, but he’ll endure.
"Are you sure? Don't force yourself. Your body may not be ready for solids just yet, and I'd hate for you to hurt yourself," she says, fingers finding their way back into his hair.
Clive, slouched against the headboard on one elbow, shirtless and absolutely glistening with sweat, eyes sad and hair sweaty, can only weakly insist: “I want the burger.”
"Sit up," she says. Eating in the bed is Not Allowed but she's going to have to wash the bedding anyway with all the sweat. "And you're going to eat slowly."
The bite he takes is small only by his own standards, and it is certainly not spaced out well. The only way to escape the bile in his mouth intermingling with the sweetness in the sauce is to keep eating, so he commences scarfing it down.
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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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(His armpit drags against her shoulder obviously.)
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"Here," she says, going to the bag and pulling out a bottle with red liquid in it, condensation on it from the cooler in the store. She twists off the cap. "Drink this. It's sweet."
Fruit punch, or whatever.
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The bag rattles as she pulls out a bottle of capsules, turning it over in her hands to read it.
"For fever, headache, congestion, sore throat..."
Sounds like him.
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“I don’t need medicine,” he coughs.
It’s guaranteed to taste even worse.
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She prays he can keep them down.
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“What’s in them? Would Tarja trust them?”
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"I've seen you eat things in the kitchen I set aside to toss. Take these," she says firmly, putting them in his hand. "Now isn't the time to be delicate."
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Oh, well. Too late. Next time, she'll tell him not to chew. There's only so much this man can process right now.
"I got your burger. Doubt you have the stomach for it, hmm?" She asks, reaching out to feel his forehead. "We'll save it for later, once you feel better."
Optimism.
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"Are you sure? Don't force yourself. Your body may not be ready for solids just yet, and I'd hate for you to hurt yourself," she says, fingers finding their way back into his hair.
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"Sit up," she says. Eating in the bed is Not Allowed but she's going to have to wash the bedding anyway with all the sweat. "And you're going to eat slowly."
And not the whole thing.
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“I will,” he promises.
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"Small bites."
Smaller chunks to come up.
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"Love," she says patiently, hand on his arm. "It's not going anywhere."
Except back up if he upsets his stomach.
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“I’m fine,” he insists.
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"Drink," she instructs.
And she grabs a fry from the bag to pop into her mouth despite the smell from the bathroom lingering in her nostrils.
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