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.
He takes it obediently and chokes it down in great, gasping gulps, red punch dribbling out the corners of his mouth, dripping on his chest. He feels like he’s going to be sick again already.
"It can be saved for later," she reminds him. Look, there's a cap for the bottle and everything. Carefully, she takes it back to set on the nightstand so she can cup his cheek.
"There's absolutely nothing you need to worry about right now."
"I know, my darling. I wish you felt better. But the only way you will is if you allow yourself to rest. Trust me to take care of you and whatever else until you're able."
He's always has a difficult time sitting still. It seems worse when it's necessary.
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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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This is what having a child must be like. In this moment she's not sure she can even fathom conceiving one with this man, in this state.
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“I don’t want it to go to waste,” he mutters.
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"There's absolutely nothing you need to worry about right now."
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“That just isn’t in my nature.”
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He's always has a difficult time sitting still. It seems worse when it's necessary.
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“Is rest even possible?” he mourns. “I would if I could, just for you…”
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"Perhaps in my arms or on my lap again, hmm?"
Anything. She'll be his pillow for days with those puppydog eyes.