A/N: Hi everybody! Thanks so much for reading this story so far. :) All you lurkers out there, I'd love it if you would leave a review! Like I've mentioned earlier, this story is unlike anything I have ever done, so constructive criticism or suggestions are always lovely. :) I hope you enjoy - this particular vignette is one of my favorites!
One night, he comes home with blood on his sleeve.
She looks at him, frightened, before disappearing quickly, leaving him to slump against the oversize chair by the fireplace with a crease in his brow. He adjusts his crooked mask to hide his hurt expression and rips the left sleeve off his ivory working shirt in one fluid motion. He groans when the odor of blood fills his nose. But by the time the sound fades to a dull, angry hum, she has reemerged with a tiny jar in her right hand and a pail of water in her left, a washcloth slung over one perfect shoulder.
Already his pain is subsiding.
She kneels beside him determinedly, setting the objects down, and runs her fingers gently around the periphery of the bloody, mottled skin. The firelight catches the flush in her cheeks, and she quickly tugs her hand away, reaching instead for the neat square of cloth at her knees.
She makes him want to weep. She swipes the cloth against his wound with such tenderness, it is as though she believes him to be made of porcelain. He could almost laugh - she couldn't be further from the truth! - and yet he finds himself immobilized beneath the tips of her fingers.
The pungent salve stings his skin, but it is a small matter - he is drowning in the feeling of her flesh against his, rosy and perfect and intoxicating. And kind! Has he ever come across a kinder soul? His eyes begin to water, and it has little to do with the ointment.
When at last his wound is dressed, she speaks a few words to him. A bandage, if he has one, and where would it be? He finds himself unable to reply over the lump in his throat. To his relief, she shakes her head quickly and her request evaporates. Instead, she reaches for the hem of her skirts, and tears off a strip of the fabric.
She leans back to examine her handiwork. He finds something terribly charming in the pride on her full features. She glances up at him shyly as he mumbles his gratitude - a thank you to Christine.