(Untitled)

[population_ctrl]

Title: Level of Service Quality: N/A
Setting: Modern AU.
Date: 13th of June, 2012.
Summary: The food is horrendous and the situation itself riddled with boundaries and limitations. That is, until Mireille takes over, once more servering the larger picture into something less boundless and impossible.

Comments

[unreadability]

When the nurse enters, Mireille tears herself away - without great difficulty, from an article too saturated with adjectives to be considered journalism. Fiction, rather. Its foundation in reality sparse; to a degree where even the photo selections, all of the pictures portraying altogether recognisable scenarios, seem effected by the poor quality. And affected, as a result. Jean Louis’ voice is still thick in the aftermath of his coma in combination with the medication administered to him every second hour, mainly in the form of analgesics. Over the past days, he’s been tube fed, but the anaesthetic-induced nausea should diminish gradually. Rendering him capable of eating solid foods without his system necessarily refusing the nutrition or causing him to be physically sick, at this point

[population_ctrl]

The rustling of pages alert him to her movements and he looks sideways in time to see her put her magazines away. Carefully controlled movements, natural grace in the lines of her hands and wrists. Following her with his eyes, he feels how his vision slips slightly, gaze growing distant before he forces it back into clarity with a blink. He doesn’t know whether it’s the medication or the coma that makes his vision turn blurry from time to time - but it’s incredibly annoying. Then again, so is everything else in this hospital

[unreadability]

Allowing him to rant, she lets her eyes run over his features in a compliant, but wholly temporary silence - his skin still exhibiting the slightest hint of paleness, especially around his lips. If nothing else, it’s a relief simply hearing him speak in a relatively fluent manner… After the silence of the first 24 hours of waiting and the unintelligible mumbling which was all he’d managed following his wake-up. She doesn’t cling to it, of course, the feeling of fear so much as the acknowledgement of the risk which caused it. That he might not have awoken at all. That had he gotten himself killed, he would have left her without. With nothing. -- That they’ve both resigned themselves to the continuous circle leading them back to their monthly conflicts, again and again. And with it, the realisation that seeing him like this is something she doesn’t wish to repeat, regardless of the compromises it’ll involve. For now

[population_ctrl]

And of course, she goes directly to teacher-mode. He doesn’t mind in this case, though - that she is, essentially, stepping out of line. He’d rather have her doing so, than deal with Hirsch or his idiotic nurses, all of them seemingly intent on making his present existence as difficult as possible. As she holds out the glass for him again, he lets her stand there for a moment, eyes searching her features languidly. If she were the type to retreat, she probably would at this point - God knows he’s met enough weak-willed people who’d rather crawl away than run the risk of breaking something while standing their ground. His mind immediately, oh-so-helpfully adds that she takes her damage, too, as a consequence. With pitiful regularity. Expression hardening from that thought alone, he reaches out and snatches the glass from her hand, patience suddenly, abruptly, diminishing

[unreadability]

He looks at her first, not scrutinising - but with a distance of careful study that they both employ in situations of hesitation, although he will certainly label it in disagreeing terms. Appearances aside; he may be rash in entirely unbeneficial ways, but he is never thoughtless. Without thought, which must be considered the most basic meaning of the word. Proven, now, when he drowns the contents of his glass in one go. And as expected, his stomach cannot withstand the sudden imbalance. It isn’t a sight that she ascribes any lack of appeal or implications of limitation beyond the physical, when he has to lean out over the bedside. Coughing more than vomiting up the liquid into the basin put at his disposal for the very same reason. She takes his order and his glass with it, heading for the bathroom that has, logically, been placed within a relatively short distance. One must expect that his IV pole shall have to accompany him for a large percentage of the impending future

[population_ctrl]

Her hand is refreshingly cool and he relaxes back a bit, her spoken words only registering very peripherally. Currently, all inputs from his surroundings undergo a process in his mind best described as trial or error - sometimes, it goes through the haziness clear enough, and other times it’s a hit and miss. As such, it takes him at least a minute to notice that she’s holding out the glass again, its contents looking much better this time. Reacting quickly, instinctually, to this somewhat abrupt realisation, he makes to reach for it - and finds himself doing approximately nothing at all. Since, apparently, his right arm might as well be nonexistent. He scowls; the most he manages is his fingers rising a few inches from the mattress and his muscles screaming from the effort

[unreadability]

He pulls at her; doesn’t pull her closer, the strength he usually possesses in his expressions of physicality temporarily exhausted. Not very unlike how she feels, herself. Compliantly, she moves to the side, inch by inch - until she is all but leaning up against him. His skin emits an overwhelming heat, noticeable even through the thick flannel fabric. If not because of it. Her bed has been placed on his left, to avoid any accidental strain on his wounded shoulder, yet she hasn’t initiated intimacy beyond shifting onto her side during the night, to face him. Wary but regardless of bed cracks and cool metal digging into her hip. It isn’t an observation of loss either, of course. Sex certainly isn’t the sole foundation of their relationship and truthfully, they have made it habit to postpone it for days at a time. Celibate from weekend to weekend while they pursue other goals. Not worthier ones, simply of greater relevance to their surrounding world, isn’t that so? This, however - surely, is much more relevant to them alone

[population_ctrl]

He manages a thin smile at her comment. Usually, she tends to be too subtle for him in terms of both expressions and actions. The time elapsed between his comment and her answer, however, seems bridged by hesitancy. Distance. And feelings of weakness or inadequacy are always visible to him, even when she’s the subject in question. He watches her carefully, ignoring the squeaking sound of the trolley as the nurse enters the ward. It’s odd to him, that this situation appears to have thrown her; not just a little bit, but enough to leave a noticeable dent in her exterior. If anything, currently she’s... much better off than he is. Practically, as well as in most other areas. But that’s the thing with Mireille, though, isn’t it? She doesn’t actually want the upper-hand and this time, she certainly didn’t ask for it either

[unreadability]

Silence falls between them, until the nurse fills it with her presence and her appurtenant monologue. Standing up, Mireille makes her own arrangements while the nurse finishes hers; the sound of porcelain and metal against a faux wood tabletop. Moves her chair closer to the bed, then the small coffee table that Doctor Hirsch has allowed her to borrow from the common room a few floors down. As accompaniment. The nurse is left to wait half a minute, holding out the plate intended for her before Mireille turns around. Finally. Accepting it. She really is little else but blonde and breasts, underlined by her wide smile and a bon appétit spoken with a much more distinct accent than her Luxembourgish. From Sweden, perhaps - or Finland. Further determination would require an examination of her German, wouldn’t it? It’s without relevance to her, however. And Marcel certainly won’t care

[population_ctrl]

The nurse leaves as Mireille arranges herself by the small table she’s borrowed from downstairs. He watches as she fills his glass, his face somewhat expressionless. At her comment, he smirks. At the implications, if nothing else. He wouldn’t assume that she’s here out of pity or charity - neither of which they direct towards each other. At best, it would be wholly unnecessary, at worst a complete insult. No, that’s not it - it’s not her place in this context that he doesn’t like, even if he doesn’t quite understand it. On the contrary, the thought of her leaving... well. Enough. The problem here isn’t her - it’s him, plain and simple. His smirk quickly vanishes as he returns his attention to the schnitzel, staring at it with something close to disgust

[unreadability]

She has already acknowledged the obvious problem that he will encounter, in connection with eating the provided dish; recognised it as soon as she’d been presented with the lump of meat. The potatoes and small pile of boiled vegetables - undoubtedly frozen originally, directly out of the bag, won’t present a challenge, confined to the use of a fork only, but the meat is not tender enough to be cut up by a blunt edge. Especially not considering the crust of deep fat in which it has been fried. Allowing him a moment to reach this conclusion himself, she eats a few forkful of the carrot-broccoli-pea mix. It would have been a natural question to ask, why the nurse had not foreseen this particular difficulty in regards to a patient with no current use of his right arm, but the brief encounter surely served as explanation enough in itself. And his unusual quietness is quite the indicator, too. That he isn’t wondering the same. Cursing its consequences rather

[population_ctrl]

She takes his plate before he can react - and really, if he’d wanted to do anything, what exactly would he accomplish aside from flailing his one, functional arm at her? Watching as she cuts up the meat into smaller pieces, he realises something very essential, something that makes his temper burn out within seconds. Or rather, two specific things. One: the next weeks - months, potentially - are going to try his dignity in ways he’s never wanted to imagine. And two; if she leaves, if she packs up her things and goes away (or even just home), he and the hospital personnel will be walking a very, very thin line indeed between basic functionality and complete disaster

[unreadability]

There follows the scraping of his fork against the porcelain, when he finally begins eating and she doesn’t continue watching him, once the noises of normalcy settles. Between them. While he shall have to accept his shortcomings in stages, she has accepted their full course already. Accepts it unquestioningly, because he is breathing on his own, isn’t he? Most of the machines surrounding him now being entirely soundless. Nevertheless, she notes how piece after piece disappears from his plate, at a slow pace - but without any indication of his system rejecting the nutrition. He has always had sensitive taste buds, within the palette of sweetness. Refrains from eating cake and chocolate. Preferring dry wines. And the food they’ve been provided with, if nothing else, is entirely tasteless. Won’t require the same willpower to swallow. It’s a mental response, of course; thorough because Jean Louis is never stripped of his force of will

[population_ctrl]

He watches her. Waits for her to add something to that sentence, something to prove her stated intentions to be of a temporary nature; to indicate that no, she will not in fact leave when he’s just realised exactly how much he needs her around. But nothing happens. Of course, she could easily go home. He’s already admitted to not understanding why she’d do anything else. Doesn’t change the fact that his appetite just disappeared entirely, the fork in his hand feeling suddenly a lot heavier. Putting it down roughly enough to send a few bits of carrot tumbling onto the tray, he sighs

[unreadability]

At that, she adopts a stare to match his. Usually she is painstakingly aware of the messages she conveys; how they are presented, pronounced and understood. Ambiguity has no place in communication. She doesn’t endorse it in poetry and neither in her own wording. Least of all. In herself. Even so, he is responding as if her intention was to leave him behind, here - at the hospital. Let the doctors and nurses follow him through, without acknowledging… accepting… Without wanting the responsibility of staying loyal to the last name she bears, in place of Father’s. Despite everything. Despite knowing; she is still his wife by choice alone and disposing of him now, merely because it would not entail yet another fight... It would be a greater weakness than the one he is currently confined to, physically. Than the mistakes he occasionally succumbs to

[population_ctrl]

The effect of her words is almost immediate - how his body relaxes noticeably, breathing resuming at a less uneven pace. So, she isn’t planning on leaving any time soon. At least only temporarily... He pauses. Pushes the plate to the side, having lost all interest in its contents. Instead, he looks at her for a moment, thoughtfully. The way things are, he can’t justify letting her stay for more than another week at the most; even if she brings a suitcase of clean clothes from home, she’ll have little choice but to keep him company 24/7. And while he wants - and needs - her around, there’s no way they can manage something like that without... well. Without losing patience with one another, whatever that would mean in the present context. He doesn’t want to know. In fact, he doesn’t even want to consider it