Matthew lay sleeping a great deal of the time, when he wasn't making an effort to eat (many times he simply could not stay awake long enough to finish his meal, and so he stayed on an IV drip) or attempting what stood as a conversation for him. They were short, generally a brief period of answering Matthew's handful of questions and then helping him slip back into bed properly without jarring his cast or his IV drip. But the sheer unpredictability of his head injury meant that Matthew could occasionally appear to be incredibly lucid.
Nighttime was approaching and France sat quietly in the chair set next to the hospital bed. He was reading a book very quietly, trying to lose himself in the world this new author was creating. He couldn't pay attention to the words, though, and placed the book on his lap, neatly closed. Matthew's eyes were open.
"Papa," he said in his raspy, unused voice. "Do you love me?"
France started at the question. The harshness of Matthew's voice, combined with the rough and ancient accent in his French, left the question difficult to decipher. He replied shakily, "Of course I love you. You are my son and all papas love their sons."
"But you leave me at night," Matthew murmured. There was a childish, harmless quality to his words that kept France from being alarmed by the accidental innuendo presented.
"I must keep Alfred and Arthur and Mme. Katya healthy, and that means taking them home to sleep," France answered. He reached for Matthew and brushed away some of his unkempt hair.
"But you said that night-time is for sharing with people you love," Matthew answered.
"Ah," France murmured. "But what about people who need to be loved and looked after? Your family and friends are looking after you because we love you, but who is looking after them?"
"So you leave me because other people need to be looked after?"
"Yes, but that does not mean I don't love you," France answered. "Just that other people need to be loved, too. I might need to go so and give my love to other people far away from here, too. Is that all right?"
"Oh, alright. After all, Papa loves sharing love with everyone." Matthew yawned and his eyes drooped and when France looked at his watch he knew it was time to find Ukraine and convince her to take a rest. But he paused and kissed Matthew's sticky forehead and wished him the sweetest dreams he could before he left the room.
Notes: So why not this chapter? I wanted to add it, I sincerely did. The problem was that it suspended my belief way too much. Regardless of temporary bouts of lucidity (a real thing in recovering TBI patients, but not to this extent), the chances of Matthew having a conversation this complex, with moments of recalling childhood words thrown in, didn't work. If I saw it in someone else's story I would've told them to pull the other one, so it got snipped from mine. By the time Matthew was capable of having conversations like this, he was doing physical therapy and France was long gone.