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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"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.