A/N: The chapter ended up so long I split it into two, mostly because I was less satisfied with the second half than the first. Expect that half whenever I'm happy with it, which should be in a few days.
He rests with his head in her lap, one hand laying idly on his stomach, the other entwined with hers. She rests her own free hand against his throat, the blood rushing through his veins just beneath her fingertips. It is a comfort, a relief to simply exist in the same space like this. She can focus on it and have not troubled thoughts of calamity befall her mind, not when she knows how perfectly safe he is.
And she can plan. Very definitely plan. Planning and consideration are essential if she wishes to see her husband undressed, and she wishes that very much, though the planning hasn't had much success yet, largely because she has yet to formulate an idea that doesn't worry her over making him close himself off even more.
His voice is a soft hum in the background, soothing and swirling around her as he composes poetry to her eyes and her lips and her fingers and the freckle above her collarbone…Her heart stirs for all of his careful observation, the study he has made of her, intricate and in-depth, the smile gracing his lips even now a gentle one.
No wonder he has sketched a map of her. He sketches her a second one now, with his words.
And, oh, but how she would draw him in turn, if drawing were a skill of hers, and if she could truly see him. She would paint him with all of the love he has shown her, and put this same gentle smile on his lips…
She could ask him. Just outright ask him to let her see him, let her take his clothes off piece by piece and run her hands over him and learn him, all of him. It would only take a few simple words. It would not be difficult.
(It might drive him off, would certainly upset him. No. She needs something with a little more finesse and artistry. He certainly appreciates those things well enough, and if she utilised them in a plan, it might improve her chances.)
His hand soft against her cheek stirs her from her thoughts. "My darling, your mind was wandering," he murmurs, eyes twinkling up at her and she smiles back down at him.
"No, Erik, dear. You were being very poetic about how golden my hair is and how it must surely be woven from sunbeams." And she presses the hand she's holding to her lips, kissing his knuckles ever so gently.
The grin lights up his face, and he slowly draws her head down, raising himself for their lips to meet. "It's one of the truest things your dear Erik has ever spoken or believed." His breath is warm against her lips as he slips his tongue slowly between them, mouth opening to admit hers and she moans into him, breasts tingling for his touch. As if he can read her mind, he slips a hand inside of her bodice, cupping her breast and squeezing it gently. A thrill shoots right down to her stomach and he pulls her closer, deepening the kiss so that she's gasping for breath.
She draws herself back, planting a row of soft kisses down his cheek as she catches her breath, a moan slipping from his throat. Maybe, just maybe she can take a chance. There is no time like the present, after all, and if she chooses her words carefully then maybe he might acquiesce. It seems such a cheap trick to pull, to put the proposition to him when he is already so busy with his hands, but it might be her best chance of success in the absence of a proper plan. "Perhaps this time, darling," she murmurs against his cheek, "we might do things a little differently."
His hand slips to her nape, fingers warm and heavy on her skin. "What do you mean by that, my dear?"
"I want," she presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth and another to the lobe of his ear and one to his throat, her lips lingering and maybe taking his own approach is best, "to map you."
He stills beneath her, hand falling from her neck, a shaking breath slipping from his lips. "Christine-"
She raises her head, and presses a finger to his lips, soft yet firm. The glow of the firelight flickers across his face, and she can see the fear burning in his eyes though he tries to hide it. "I love you, Erik, I do. And I want to know you as you know me. To touch you and kiss you and love you. I know there are scars, and likely…other distortions. But I don't care about that. I don't care about any of that. I only care about you."
He whimpers, low in his throat, mouth twisting and fingers trembling. "Er-"
"Ssshh. I know you're afraid, darling. I know. But it will be all right, I promise. I love you, you know that. And if I can stay knowing – knowing all of the things you've done, then I know that I can look upon you as the wonderful, beautiful man you are. I love you so very much." She's pushing now, she knows. But she knows well what her husband is like and she knows she needs to push, at least a little, so that he'll see things her way and understand the depth of her words.
"Erik thinks your standards may be a little skewed." And his lips are sad as they curve into a smile against her finger.
"Maybe so, she smiles, but I'm not going to leave you for how you look. You know that. Don't be afraid, there's no need. Just let me do this. I promise I'm not going to run away." She kisses his forehead gently. "I swear it. I won't hurt you."
He hesitates a moment longer, tinged-yellow eyes so terribly worried and her heart aches for him, then he nods slowly, resignedly.
"All right, if you're certain. But don't say that Erik did not warn you."
She kisses him, gently, carefully, and he sighs into her, his heart not in his kiss the way it was before. Slowly, she unbuttons his dress coat. She does not look, keeps her eyes closed as her fingers slip to his waistcoat, his ornate black waistcoat with the golden braiding that brings out his eyes. They find their way almost instinctively, popping each button free. She breaks the kiss and opens her eyes to find him looking away from her, eyes focussed on the dancing flames in the fireplace. Shifting, she softly kisses his cheek and strokes back his thin hair, then bowing her head, she presses soft kisses to his throat, slowly mouthing her way down his neck. He shudders beneath her touch, and not only from arousal.
When she reaches his collarbone, she leans back, removing her mouth from his skin and carefully opening each button of his shirt. She takes a moment to savour the contrast of the white shirt with the soft glow of his skin from the fire. In his own way, he is so very beautiful, and she is the only one privileged enough to see him wholly. It almost causes a lump in her throat.
This is it. This is the moment she's waited so long for, and though her heart is pounding hard in her chest and his eyes are closed now, she feels terribly calm. (If only he could believe the depth of her love, but he will.) Slowly, she spreads his shirt wide, and takes in the body before her.
He is dangerously thin. She always knew that, could feel it through his clothes, could see it. Yet seeing him now, shirt open, it registers differently, and the lump in her throat grows, aching. Her dear Erik. She should take better care of him. His ribs are so prominent not only can she count each of them, she can see the slight bump in his skin where one must have once cracked and healed, a raised jagged thin line that she runs her fingertips over. His stomach is a concave hollow for all that he eats, and she must make sure that he eats more, and doesn't run himself so ragged, though he has been better later. But, oh he is still so terrifyingly thin. (And she vows, as the tears prick her eyes, to make him eat more and take things slower. He is not a young man, and she will have anything happen to him if she can help it.)
A long, thin scar catches her eye, running from the edge of his bottom right rib to (she presumes) his left hip. (It disappears below the waistband of his trousers, so she cannot be certain of its path.) She traces it with her finger, stopping when she reaches the black fabric of his trousers, a sob threatening to break free. Who did this to him? Who hurt him so? Surely it must have bled a great deal. How did he survive it?
"How did it happen?" she whispers, voice hoarse and almost unrecognisable.
He swallows convulsively, eyes still firmly shut. "A knife fight, in Persia. He was killed. The Daroga…the Daroga treated it." He keeps himself out of it, and her heart aches. How painful must it have been for him, being torn open like that? She knows he was probably the one to kill his attacker, with his lasso, but she wishes she could have been there, so that it might never have happened in the first place.
She bows her head, and kisses the scar softly, again, and again, and again. A line of soft kisses pressed along the ridge of scar tissue. He shudders beneath her touch, a half-choked sob keening in his throat. "Christine-"
"I'd kill them," she whispers against his skin. "I'd kill anyone who ever hurt you so". A tear slips from her eye and runs hot down her cheek, landing on his belly. If she had been there she would have nursed him, protected him. The image drifts before her, her poor Erik with his knife wound weeping and skin burning with fever, eyes bright and delirious. It would have been so easy for him to slip away then, to let go and die, but instead he fought and lived and he's lying here now with her loving him, and it's that thought that she needs to cling to and not the other, that assurance that yes, he is here and yes, he is alive, and yes, he is well, now.
She raises her head and kisses him, full on the lips, and now he kisses her back, his own tears mingling with hers.
"Oh, Christine. I never dared to dream."