A/N—This is a one-shot short piece, unconnected to any of my other writing. I've not forgotten Second Chance…the updates are just taking time.
The Usual Disclaimer—These characters are not mine, belonging as they do to the heirs of M. Leroux, to Sir A. L. Webber and the RUG, and to Susan Kay. I thank them for the privilege of their use. All errors are unfortunately mine, and for that, I do apologize.
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A Strange Bliss
Copyright 2016 by Riene
This was bliss, to be lying here with his head pillowed in her lap, her gentle fingers caressing his hair, his face, pressing lightly against his shoulder…or it would be bliss if his head were not aching so. He sighed and pressed the right side of his face against her, blocking the light from his bad eye, hiding his ghastly countenance from her tender, worried gaze.
The attack had come on suddenly, as they always did, a stabbing, blinding pain spiking through the damaged right side of his head. Within minutes he was shaking with chills, stumbling toward the basin, retching from the waves of nausea. She had found him there, slumped on the floor, clutching his skull, the mask discarded, fighting to stay conscious through the waves of agony.
She had knelt beside him, his angel of mercy, gentle hands folding him into her embrace, asking no questions. It was not the first time she'd found him thus. She'd cleaned his face and hands with a soft wet cloth, and mixed the bitter medicine the Persian had brought him, then, like a small child, brought him to bed—her bed!—and tucked the blankets around him. The warmth calmed his shaking, but it was Christine who slid carefully into bed beside him and eased his terrible head onto her lap, who had soothed his pain.
Normally the thought of lying with her in bed would have been unfathomable. After all, she was in her nightdress, a pale pink garment of soft ruffles and ribbons, and he wore nothing more than the old worn Persian robe to hide his disfigured body, his elegant formal evening wear discarded for the night. Yet here they were, so close he could feel her warmth, smell the tea-rose sweetness of her skin…what bliss it would be if only each heartbeat did not bring a stabbing agony through his skull.
He felt the flutter of her fingers as they absently smoothed the lines from his face and ran softly through his thinning hair. She turned the page, her golden voice continuing to read to him quietly that he might have some distraction from the pain. Gradually the tension left his shoulders and his breathing evened out as Erik slipped into sleep.
Her poor, tortured angel. Christine laid the book aside to blow out the candle. What bliss it would be just to hold him safely against her. Carefully she eased her way down the linen sheets, pulling him close, and slept.
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