[ They walk down the hallway, past the living room and the kitchen. The bathroom is right opposite the bedroom and Jean Louis pushes the door open unceremoniously. He can't make out what's what on the other man, whether he's got a broken nose or a thousand dislocations and he needs to know whether to ship him off to the ER. He doesn't particularly want to and for himself, he wouldn't have considered it - but Marcel needs to be functional, going forwards. He needs his body, his legs, his feet, his hands.

Can't be Superman without your fucking legs, can you.

Stepping inside, he slams down the toilet lid with his foot and turns towards the other man. He nods at the toilet. ]

Sit. [ Pause. Eyes narrowing slightly. ] And take all that shit off.

[ He knows they have a first aid kit somewhere in the apartment, probably under the bed but they'll deal with that later, once he figures out whether the man actually needs that kind of attention in the first place. Right now, he needs a different sort. He looks at Marcel who was talking about weeding out the weak seconds ago, like he'd ever truly place his father in that category, no matter what the old fool subjects him to. It's just that Marcel's loyal, the type you can count on if he's yours and sadly, Monsieur Verlinden's had a claim to him since his wife died in childbirth. It's that old, peculiar human condition - family, blood ties - and they both know how that goes, don't they, even if Jean Louis hasn't seen his parents for over a decade. As an adult, you can choose to own your children. Your children, on the other hand, are born to helplessness and dependency.

It's never been a fair battle, no matter what sort of family you end up with. ]