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Title: Traditionalists.
Setting: Modern AU.
Date: 3rd of July, 2012.
Summary: He’s been saving up his morphine pills all day because he wants to have sex with Mireille and he’d really rather like Lucretia to leave by her own accord so he doesn’t have to tell her.

Comments

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The notion of home is not a precise one; a conclusion even Katie Melua has reached. On her latest album, a hit in part and total that plays on the radio without pause. Currently. While Jean Louis has transferred a life in common from one setting to the next, and Mireille with him. The house near the valley is still theirs, although Father’s originally. Of course. CNL is still Mireille’s own, despite the young intern who’d forgotten to bring his earphones - humbly inquiring whether it would be acceptable for him to play music, while he finished his research. Now when... Seeing that... There’s just the two of us, Professor Duroc. If only because the number he’d put on repeat was “Feels Like Home”, she’d accepted. It.

Another scenario that she must accept, it seems - when she pushes open the door to the ward with one hand, the other preoccupied rummaging through her bag to locate the limited selection of French evening papers that she’d purchased on her way... here, home - is presented to her in archetypes. The display of breasts

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The conversation has already been halted - by the notion of half-dressed distraction, useless at length but present nonetheless. When Mireille enters the room, however, the atmosphere drops as well and becomes decidedly cold. Freezing. She doesn’t greet them and Lucretia doesn’t bother to correct her negligence. Jean Louis, meanwhile, tries his best not to simply close his eyes and fall asleep, if nothing else then to signal exactly how unnecessary Lucretia is in their current context. Instead, he accepts the pills she’s offering him, noting peripherally how Mireille leaves the room again, silently, the door closing behind her. With a bit of an audible implication.

He sighs. Glances at Lucretia as he swallows the pills dry, more or less in a handful. She’s still smiling, though there’s a hardness to her expression now. Visible anger, despite her attempts to conceal it. “Your French girl is so scary,” she says, leaning back a bit and brushing some invisible folds out of her skirt. “She hates me, Jean Louis. It’s adorableHe stares at

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While the conversation carries on in the other room, all but inaudible through the hospital and her own walls, Mireille arranges… everything else. Puts her bag away amongst the multitude of others that she’s brought with her; the collection wide enough that the nurses think her improvised shelves an exhibition and yet so limited that her walk-in closet isn’t necessary. Nor sorely missed. She hasn’t resigned herself to the move, has she? - Here. With him. Unlike the situation that has prompted her to, which she’s had to accept in stages, day by day. In certain contexts, she’s adopted the role of onlooker, by proximity. Logically, some of the sights she’ll see won’t be to her personal liking. Of course. Like the one she’s just abandoned

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He looks up when she enters the room, not only by habit. Her expression is blank to him, her stance communicating careful neutrality. As is the norm when he’s angered her - that much, at least, he understands. He’s long since given up with regards to reading her more coherently; conflicts solve themselves, don’t they. One way or another. His expression darkens just a fraction at the thought and he leans back, enjoying how his shoulder has gone more or less completely numb. His little arrangement with the nurse has paid off, it seems. All the better, considering Mireille’s current... mood

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They find themselves in a state of reflection, in its most physical expression - contrasts, right being left and motion immobility. He gets out of bed, walks across the floor to the door which he closes, next. Without sound, without commotion. Contrary to her, who has come to a halt. Caught in the middle of too sharp an attitude. One could easily have expected it of her; to tell him that he’s straining his shoulder, once again, but she refrains. Refuses. Because silence seems to have fallen, in a temporarily permanent state. In the wake of her return, from both her offices

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With Mireille, signals are often return to sender. She’s not a blank surface, taking and reflecting without absorbing - he knows as much because he’s seen her without make-up on the bad days too, even if he’d rather not think about it. So that’s not it - rather, she receives with an empty sort of transmission and if he were the type to be uncertain around others, he’d never want to go near her. For fear of making the wrong move, of having no reference to support his conclusions. But Jean Louis likes the challenge, driving blindly with full capacity for failure; and when he joins her in bed, sitting down next to her and waiting for her to seat herself fully beside him, all he feels is anticipation

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He takes his place next to her, which is currently with a full view of her back. She continues combing her hair with her fingers, if only to reserve the time as her own. It isn’t that she’s jealous of Lucretia - Madame Dual who obviously harbours a great desire to exchange two letters of her family name with three of Mireille’s. Jean Louis’. Jean Louis has left behind a trail of women, undoubtedly and Mireille hasn’t inquired as to their… names. Surely they’re forgettable, if he has found no reason to bring them up. Whereas Sicily fuels quite the attraction, quite the train of association. With his frequent private trips and his many unofficial visits. To and by her. Yet, it isn’t jealousy as much as it’s recognition. Mireille has watched them, often enough. Together. The similarities are striking; from complexion to posture. Attitude. Even the Italians have a tendency to confuse Jean Louis with one of their own. Because in certain aspects, he is. Isn’t that so? To a fault

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Until she covers herself, all he pays attention to is the bared skin of her legs and thighs, pale contrasting with artificial pink. Eyes roaming over her back, the pristine brown reflexes of her hair and the lines of her body. Even beneath the duvet, the shape of her silhouette is blatantly obvious; round hips, a narrow waist and the soft curves of her shoulders. Settling down on his side, he stays silent for some time, letting her observation (somewhat unnecessary) fade into nothing between them. Feels the familiar sense of arousal, even if his body doesn’t respond to it as readily as it should. Well, either way. He won’t need it for this anyway

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The distance between them decreases by the second, as he wraps himself around her with his usual assertiveness. Strings of movement; every signal implying that he wants to have sex. With her. It’s a confirmation rather than a statement, isn’t it? Seeing how he’s already been watching her with an expression that told her so much. A few minutes ago, before she turned her back on him. Now he’s pushing up against her, pushing her onwards - although the hand closer to her mons than her stomach is holding her in place, in contrast. Firmly. His signals aren’t contradictory, of course. The process of transfer simply translates them into ambiguity. Because of her place in the middle. The liaison. Much like the one they engaged in, when she was still 18 and Father had no reason… to voice concerns

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For a second, he thinks she’s moving away from him. Denying him by physical distance as well as her turned back. Instead, she looks at him and verbalises her reservations, the words hanging in the air between them uselessly. His hand freezing against her abdomen for a few seconds as he tries his best to ignore that feeling of embarrassment that his current limitations have introduced. Insecurity of any kind is very uncharacteristic of him and consequently, he does his best to pretend that it doesn’t exist. Swallows down a snappish reply and pushes her backwards, forcing her over onto her back the rest of the way

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Her words are disproven less by his answer in its simplicity than by his actions in response. Of course she doesn’t refuse him as he pushes her onto her back, the 90 degrees of movement without importance out of context. The context he creates, however - the one she’s given to which she must apply her analyses, is undeniable. So she doesn’t deny him either, when he adds these elements of their usual physicality. His hand cupping her breast an argument in itself. Her body responds instinctively and she… lets it. Lets him. Her back arching slightly, into the right amount of pressure, the right angle and the right shape. Of them both

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It’s not so much about taste now as it’s about sensations; the feel of her tongue sliding against his, the heat of her mouth. The wetness. It’s a prelude, of course - he doesn’t usually plan ahead when it comes to intercourse, but tonight things are a little different. Necessarily so. And he knows exactly where he wants her, though getting her there might... take a little work. He’s not lazy, happily. Nor is he afraid of a challenge

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He restores his arm to a state of normalcy - undoubtedly by conscious effort and an amount of morphine that she should wonder as to the hows about; his fingers brushing over the contours of her sex, spreading out until it’s increased into a sensation of palm against labia. Motion that pulls an exhalation from her lungs, long and shaky in adherence to her body’s immediate response. It is how Jean Louis approaches his world, of course; one that she’s part of, by proximity and by choice. He paints in the form of circles, doesn’t he? Draws them around himself, around them. Efforts on which his shoulder has no impact, because he knows his priorities perfectly. It is what renders him capable of joggling his various positions so successfully and it’s what makes her willing to overlook the resultant problematics, in favour of everything else. Everything that must matter more. Like this; his breathing heavy in her ear and his lips sliding over skin. Hers. Today he’s chosen his role as… And she’ll accept it, yet again. Gladly. In order to keep

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For the next, long moment, everything feels familiar - from the way she’s arching up against him to the slight dampness of her panties against his fingertips. It’s not completion; nothing so sentimental or impossible. Rather, it’s simply a return to normalcy. To how things are supposed to be between them, all other variables pushed into the background. But of course, reality returns quickly enough as his body makes him aware of the one, big problem associated with this situation; while he can force his arm into rudimentary compliance, finer motor skills are different. Naturally. So while he can’t actually -feel- most of his arm, getting her off in his position won’t be possible. Even if he wants to… even if it should, logically, be quite easy to just