(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.

He’s requested the use of his Mac and iPhone multiple times already. Today. Yesterday, and the day before that. It isn’t a new discovery, how dependent he is on his familiar means of communication. Although it may manifest itself in a stubborn insistence on his usual workaholism, she is well aware that it’s merely his main method of regaining control. The only one that he’s intimately acquainted with and knows how to employ. This refusal, at least, he doesn’t question beyond a demonstrative sigh and an ensuing exaggeration of movement, but Hirsch has debated the subject to exhaustion repeatedly. With him. Because a degradation from leading politician to hospital patient appears to have taken Jean Louis by surprise, in regards to the limits of his autonomy.

She stands up, slowly, once the nurse has left them with two glasses of berry-extract squash. Puts the magazine away in the neat stack she’s managed to collect throughout the day, arranged chronologically and by title. It’s been placed out of his reach, their drinks - the general business of the staff leading to errors of this nature constantly, as she’s realised. There is no one entity to blame, of course and truthfully, she doesn’t mind how the personnel has entrusted her with the most basic responsibilities; tasks that require no medical training. Amongst them, certain routines that she even prefers maintaining in relative privacy. Like dressing him, in the morning.

“Idiocy would be to serve you water, Jean Louis.” Coming to a halt next to the bed, she holds out the glass for him to take. Careful not to disturb the orderly installation of wires. Tubes in array.

[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.

At her comment, he gives her a look. Shrugs, the movement mostly painless. Morphine is a godly invention, really. “They’re idiots in all other areas, so what does it matter.” It’s obviously not a question. He spares another look at the glass before he takes it from her hand, mostly to free her from having to stand there and hold it. Looks at its contents critically, his nose wrinkling at the sweet scent of berries and… sugar. Basically. Disgusting.

“They can’t be serious.” He puts it away on the table next to the bed, uncaring about the tubes and wires and managing only by incredible luck not to drop any liquid on them. “If I wanted candy, I’d order it.” Besides, the smell alone is enough to make him nauseous. He’s fairly certain that throwing up would be highly uncomfortable and he’s not about to risk it for a glass of… children’s fruit drink.

[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.

Hers to make, as well; because he’ll undoubtedly return to a reality that has only changed minimally, beneath the gunshots and the sudden attention of the public in its entirety. But at least such a regressive development demands of him to be alive, doesn’t it? In the first place.

When he puts the glass away, in another demonstration of juvenile spitefulness, his movements stripped of his usual caution, she reclaims it. Holds it out again, for him to take. “Between the two,” she tells him, voice level, “you’ll find this preferable. Considering how your blood glucose levels require the supplement.” Pause. Then, an addition, since she shan’t imply that chocolate presents a possible alternative. “In the form of fructose, not artificial additives.” There’s no underlying patronisation. He may be reduced to a metaphorical state of infancy, but she has never adopted any maternal role in their relationship. They don’t have children and he certainly doesn’t need a mother now any more than he ever has. His occasional immaturity aside - surely an integral part of his masculinity, he’s a grown man. If he doesn’t behave accordingly, he will have to be reminded.

[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.

He’s had the thought several times. Countless times. That next time she won’t be generous enough, needy enough or whatever else it is that compels her to accept his offerings afterwards. But, he thinks, looking into the glass with obvious distaste, she’s here even now. When, by her own principles, the time should have been more than ripe for taking action. Exposing the assassination attempt for what it really was; a reaction, not a message. Leaving parliament to fall apart at seams already heavily challenged by his abrupt exclusion from the system and, well, letting the truth shape whatever would rise from the ashes. It wouldn’t be better, naturally, but he’s a realist and he’s long since learned that Mireille, interestingly, doesn’t possess enough cynicism to mirror him in that particular area.

Either way. She’s here. She’s still with him. And so is his country, evidently. Surely, he can do her that small, dubious favour of complying with her wishes now, even if this drink looks about as inviting to him currently as a roasted spider. Wordlessly, he chucks it down in one go. Which is a big mistake. For a few seconds, he has to force himself not to simply spit the contents right back into her face, on the verge of heaving at the sweetness of it. Instead, he turns to the side quickly and coughs out the drink into the basin on the floor, his stomach turning at the taste. He winces, taking a long moment to get his breathing back in control, feeling dangerously close to vomiting all over the floor.

“Water,” he manages between breaths, voice raspy. Waves his hand with the empty glass in her general reaction, turned away from her still as that basin might still come in handy. Sweet, sugared berry extract. Never again.

[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.

Waiting for the tap water to turn sufficiently cold, she watches herself in the mirror - her drawn features, underlined by the shadows of black beneath her eyes. She hasn’t slept very well, the past nights. Despite how the staff has arranged for her bed to be assembled with his, clams muted but the crack noticeable still, if only psychologically. The glass fills quickly; inaudibly and she returns to the ward. He’s fallen silent once more, the sound of his breathing eased back into its natural rhythm, though his movements are sluggish. Rather than careful. When he returns to his declining position, back against the headboard, pillow popped up behind him... for comfort, she seats herself next to him. On the edge of the bed, before shifting the glass from one hand to the other, her fingers moist from condensation. “Do refrain from drinking it all at once, this time.” Spoken with slow, precise movements, as she leans in first; to run her fingertips over his forehead. A transfer of temperature, not a caress. Neither of them indulges in cuddling, intimacy being something wholly different. Between them.

Then, she offers him the glass. Again.

[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.

Right. Moving on. Accepting the glass from her with his left hand, he takes a sip, the water as cold as her fingers. It goes down much easier this time so he stops paying attention to it and returns his gaze to her, seated as she is on the edge of the bed. Searches her face, her familiar, borderline blankness a pleasantly normal point of focus. Except she looks… worn. Bordering on exhausted. That’s a rare occurrence, isn’t it? Usually, Mireille’s mask is too flawless for such cracks or discolouration. Usually, even when… Even. But not today.

“You look tired.” Stating a fact that won’t surprise her, of course. She’s just been in the bathroom; they’re both too conscious of their mirror images to ignore what’s reflected back at them. He shifts sideways, the water sloshing about dangerously for a few seconds before he sets down the half-empty glass. Reaches out his left arm and slips it around her waist, giving a sharp tug to make her move. Closer. There’s room enough, surely, and he rather likes knowing where she is, both on a mental and a purely physical level. Especially now when the two don't seem to work together much at all.

[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.

His comment hangs between them for a long moment as she arranges her hands in her lap, looks out the window at the grand expanses of nothing which is visible at this height; sky and little else. She isn’t so reliant on her make-up that she cannot bear the thought of chemical nudity, not within the borders of their privacy, but she dislikes the thought of putting it on display. Her shortcomings. When they are so visible. “Unlike you, I am in no position to demand sedatives,” she says, finally. Turning her head, in order to glance up at him. Everything considered, the alternative to accept insomnia is to eventually wake up too late. For --

Behind them, a nurse enters. A different one; blonde and blue-eyed, thoroughly Scandinavian in appearance. Undoubtedly one of the nurses on whom Marcel took out his sexual aggressions, during their six-hour wait. Judging from the size of her breasts. And equal lack in regards to natural inhibitions - watching them overtly as she brings her trolley to a halt near the foot of the bed.

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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.

His grip tightens a bit around her. There’s a fine line between protectiveness and the exertion of ownership - and he won’t pretend to know what’s up and down in that balance between them. It doesn’t matter anyway. Instead, he simply goes with the flow of it; that right now, he’d like to make it more comfortable for her because it’s true, isn’t it? As opposed to her, he’s chemically numb from head to toe. Mentally too, by nature; he’s focusing on the next step and refusing to be tripped up by what’s behind them.

The nurse rolls his table into place, a plate of steaming meat and vegetables placed on the tray. She leans in over him to fix the cutlery and for a moment, all he sees are blonde cascades of hair and her massive breasts. This one, apparently, has no respect for your private sphere which really is an unfortunate character trait in a nurse. She draws back, favouring him with a wide smile. “Right there for you, Monsieur State Minister,” she quips, looking ridiculously sunny and ignoring (or failing to properly read) his expression of annoyance. Then, with a quick glance at Mireille, “Oh, and Madame Duroc - can’t have you starving, right? Caretaking is hard work.” And she whips out another tray, stepping quickly around the bed and holding it out, waiting for Mireille to take it.

Jean Louis, meanwhile, is too busy stalling at the word “caretaking” to do much besides stare at the food in question. Which is lucky for the nurse, seeing as most of the words currently clogging up inside his head are distinctly devoid of benevolence.

[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.

“Ehm,” the nurse says. To no one in particular, since both herself and Jean Louis have retreated into wordlessness.

Mireille seats herself, the fabric of her skirt rustling slightly around her legs, her heels muted motion over the floor. After a few seconds, adopting the same pattern, the sound of the squeaking trolley disappears around the corner, down the hallway. This time, everything has been placed within his reach, she notices. Otherwise she would have ensured that it was, of course. She isn’t blind to how it must undoubtedly wound his masculinity, the outcome of his physical wounds - that are, by themselves, a classic test of manhood, but she doesn’t consider herself his caretaker in the current situation, neither in any context of the past. Because, naturally, her approach is less dependent on him. Than on herself. After all, he is not the sole reason that she can’t sleep at night. That she cannot imagine herself and will not consider leaving the hospital, while he is still here…

Thus, she refills his glass before her own, when she leans in to take the carafe of water on his table. Proceeding to place it to the side on the coffee table where it shan’t be in the way for either of them. “I’m being entirely selfish - in this regard,” she tells him, voice low. Level. Eyes running over the contents of her plate, the meat mostly undeterminable. Pork, of some kind. Likely a schnitzel.

She could have made a joke of it; reminded him that he isn’t the centre of the universe, yet she doesn’t. Reality is plural and in hers, he may very well be.

[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.

For at least a good, solid minute, his mind compiles a short list of possible solutions to this... sudden problem. None of which are even remotely useful, perhaps except the last one which involves flinging the schnitzel at Hirsch’s head the moment he shows his ugly face in the ward again. There is no way he can cut that thing up with one hand; and he’s not about to try, either, because the thought alone wears him out. So he’s stuck, actually, just watching this stupid piece of meat laughing at him from this idiotically plain hospital plate and he mostly just wants to throw it out of the nearby window. Except that would take effort, wouldn’t it. Dear God - he’d probably have to sleep for a few hours to manage it!

Picking up the fork with his left hand, he looks from it to the schnitzel and back again, wondering if maybe he should just go ahead and stab the thing. Eat it one bite at a time. Wouldn’t that be a sight - but it’s food and he’d rather like some. And now he's wasted at least five minutes, wondering how to make it happen. Fantastic.

[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.

Another moment, before she looks up at him, his expression dark and turning increasingly darker while his eyes draw a line between the schnitzel and his fork. Back and forth, repeatedly. He’s wholly unaccustomed to the experience of facing an issue that he can’t resolve singlehandedly, can’t order into compliance or fix via status alone, isn’t that so? The meat certainly won’t obey, even if informed of its subordination to the State Minister of Luxembourg.

Wordlessly, she gets to her feet, leaning in to pick up his plate. Balance it on her lap, once she’s sat down again. The schnitzel proves surprisingly unproblematic to cut into pieces when subjected to a knife, if nothing else then a tribute to the efficiency of a proper frying pan. The process is carried out in less than thirty seconds, after which she holds the plate out to him. Fully expecting him to take it himself. Back. Her face neutral without any great, conscious effort.

[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.

It’s not that he can’t handle leaving things to others. If he couldn’t delegate, leading others would wear him out. But in terms of cutting up his food or getting dressed in the morning, there is absolutely no way he can deal with anyone else but her taking over; after all, there is a noticeable difference between pushing people around like puppets - and getting someone else to sort out your own, mixed-up strings. Who’d you want that to be, really, apart from the one person you know you’ve played more or less to perfection? So when she holds out the plate for him, he takes it back quietly, no hesitation, his mood having reached a kind of status quo. Balanced out by her calm approach to the situation and by his own admission that yes, he’s going to have to deal with this. And he will, because of her.

“Appreciated,” he says after a long moment - because it is, if it can’t be any different. Starts eating, slower than normally, even such a dry, uninspiring schnitzel almost too much taste to get down. He’s fairly certain he’s going to leave half the plate uneaten, but surely that’s for him to decide and for them to accept. Most things still are, really, if he thinks about it. The rest is unimportant at length.

[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.

They will both have to establish their everyday life within this setting, isn’t that so? Despite the momentary halt to which the nation was brought and one interpretation of the world with it, in the wake of the assassination attempt... Their surroundings won’t remain suspended in mid-air, simply because their own context has been restricted to the squares of a clinical ward. White walls, disinfectant and medicine on the hour. The glass is cool between her fingers as she picks it up, the enforced silence of drinking brief. “Since I plan to go home tomorrow,” she tells him. Making the familiar sound of ingestion cease immediately. She looks up, only to find him staring at her. The pause extends further, until she realises that he will most likely need the continuation of the statement to appreciate it. “I will have Doctor Hirsch return your Mac.”

She’s been needing fresh clothes for days. Her books, as well. Currently, he's a natural element of the hospital. But she will have to adapt. In every way possible.

[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.

“You’ll wait at least two days,” he says, voice even and face mostly devoid of expression. “The security system must be updated before you can stay there overnight.” Leaning back, he resists the urge to run his hand through his hair, aware that he’d be pulling the IV tube enough to make the movement uncomfortable with the current arrangement. Instead, he reaches for his glass and takes a sip, the water cool in his mouth. Cool, but stale.

If she wants to leave, again, he can’t stop her. But even the thought of Hirsch returning his Mac doesn’t level out the feeling of frustration and helplessness - that if she leaves, he’ll be stuck fighting off incompetence on his own with next to no means of success. And that’s a seriously unpleasant thought, the effect of will power not withstanding.

[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.

However, it doesn’t translate to her voice, does it? When she speaks, to the both of them. She doesn’t allow it to, beyond the persistence in the words themselves. “It shan’t require an overnight stay, for me to gather a large enough wardrobe --” Resting her hands in her lap, she leans back as well. Mirroring him once again, isn’t that so? As they have grown so accustomed to. “To not wear the same clothes two days in a row. The nurses might leak it to the press, after all.” There is no real smile to detect, accompanying the conclusion, but the line of her mouth softens. A lightness to her features in general. Tangible, like the sense of relief. At repeating her wedding vows in a setting not put on public display. Intended for him. Even if not for him solely.

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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.

“You’ll need some private office space,” he says, finally, pushing at the hospital table and sending it rolling to the side, leaving the bed feeling less constricted. “If you’re staying.”

The last thing he wants to do is to appear hesitant or insecure; when every physical fact about him, currently, spells ‘weakness’. But all the same, that last bit is a question without a marker. Something they’re both used to, even if he seldom deploys it towards her. In most cases, he’ll always choose to be direct. This particular question, however, he doesn’t want to ask. Doesn’t want to consider its implications, consequences, the possibility of a ‘no’. It must be posed regardless, but his chosen approach clearly shows exactly how uncomfortable it makes him feel.