She had no idea how she got him back. The hour that followed would be one of the most hair-raising experiences of her life. Strength flooded through her that she'd never known, and time had constricted to single moments filled with Erik's sawing breaths, her own frantic encouragement, and the agony of dragging him one step at a time back towards the opera through dawn-deserted streets of Paris which she knew would begin to wake at any moment.
Finally, fucking finally, they reached the opera stables. Though disused by the opera the stalls were still maintained and used by locals. Manon would never understand how, but through a combination of desperation and an immensely patient old mare, she managed to heave him – marginally conscious now – aboard the animal.
They made better time then, inching toward the lake at last.
With immense relief Manon dragged him from the horse, slapping it on the rump and hoping it would manage to use its horsey instincts to wend back up to the stables. Manon heaved Erik into the boat tethered to shore.
An eternity later, she felt a sob of relief begin to claw its way up her throat as the boat slid onto shore.
As if sensing that safety was at hand, Erik roused, despite the blood loss and blows to the head. He began to help her, thank God, as she labored to drag him to the bed chamber, supporting his own weight with lumbering steps.
He huffed out a breath as she finally flung him onto the bed, blood soaking the elegant bedding. She immediately began tearing off his shirt.
Erik's eyes fluttered open as he felt her yank his shirtsleeves down his arms.
"Right to business, eh Manon?" he slurred suggestively, the innuendo somewhat spoiled by his gruesome aspect and semiconsciousness.
"Shut up," she snapped, tears of fear and relief beginning to well.
The bullet had burrowed into his left shoulder laterally, in such a way that indicated that had his body been positioned another way, it would have found his chest or back, or, she thought with a shudder, his hear or his lungs. As it was, the thing was lodged in the muscle against the long bone of his arm.
"Diagnosis, Mademoiselle la chirurgienne?"
"It missed your important parts, but it's still in there and you're bleeding like a goddamn sieve. Unbelievable. I'm going to have to pull it out."
Manon forced herself to tamp down the hysteria clamoring to boil over and she raised her eyes uncertainly to his. Erik was upright, but barely, leaning heavily on the bolsters. His face was pale and smeared with blood and dirt, but, she noted belatedly, his mask was miraculously still intact. He was gazing at her tenderly.
"You stupid son of a bitch," she whispered, bringing her hands to either side of his head and caressing him desperately as she brought his face closer to his. There were no barriers now. "Why did you come after me?"
Erik's response was to surge forward, jaw knocking into hers and his right hand rising swiftly to crush her face to his. His mouth opened and he kissed her, desperately, sloppily, hard and brief, before he slumped back panting and gazing at her through half shut eyes.
"To kill you or kiss you, I'll never know," he sighed, head dropping back.
"Tell me what to do, Erik," she blurted.
After another moment of regarding her blearily, he snapped into a semiconscious version of his usual didactic air.
"Get my surgeon's kit, Manon."
Within minutes she had his kit, hot water, fresh rags, and a bottle of scotch whisky.
"Why…" Erik's question trailed off as Manon took a mighty swig from the bottle, setting it hard back down on the table before grimly taking up the sounder and advancing on him.
"Easy, woman!" Erik quickly covered her hand with his. "This requires some finesse. Moisten the cloth first and daub off the worst of the blood. Then we'll worry about surgical tools."
Manon obeyed with a frown, taking up the rag and cleansing his shoulder with firm sweeps. She had her opposite hand braced on his sternum, and her face was brought within inches of his as she scrubbed at the wound. Her hair was whipping with the effort, and his breath grew still shorter as it tickled his chest.
"Now the flame," he rasped, pointing to the forceps she was to use. She passed them through the candleflame once, twice, thrice, as she had seen him do for her over a month ago.
"Now, beginning at the bottom edge-" his words shifted into a groan as Manon dug in with the tool, carving a merciless radius through the wound til he felt her meet the bullet and close the forceps tentatively, groping for its edges.
"Gently now," he gasped as she held the lead firmly and slowly began to draw it outward.
"Shhh," she murmured – to herself or to him? – before the bullet finally pulled free with a wet popping sound to turn the stomach.
They both stared at it for a moment. Then at his shoulder, which had welled exuberantly with blood now that it was free of its dam. She pressed the cloth to it hard while groping for the kit with her other hand.
In an impressive display of teamwork, she leaned one hand onto his wound while the other held up the curved needle, which Erik threaded for her, and she passed through the flame in turn. She had to clench her jaw to keep from heaving, but Manon somehow managed to keep her head as she pierced the ragged edges of his flesh and draw them together into a short ugly seam.
At long last she tied a clean strip of linen around his shoulder. Erik reached with his good arm for the whisky, splashing some on his dressing on the way to his mouth.
He drank deeply, sighed, offered it to her, who drank and dropped it on the table.
Erik closed his eyes wearily and settled himself into the bedding. Eyes still closed, he flung his good right arm out across the bed, palm upward in unmistakable invitation.
Manon looked at it uncertainly as she bent to remove her boots. His left eye creaked open and regarded her sternly.
"No arguments. Come here this instant."
A nervous flicker of a smile fought its way across her frown of confusion. "Not with those boots on the bed, I won't."
Erik's response was to close his eye and settle in more comfortably, flickering the fingers of his open hand at her.
She quickly yanked off his boots one by one, letting them drop heavily to the floor, and threw her own cloak on top of them. Her limbs were heavy with a bone-deep fatigue that had just made itself known.
Obeying his request, she got into the bed, crawled up to the outstretched arm, and snuggled into his side, her face resting against his good shoulder. And, deciding to be hung for a sheep as for a lamb, she slid her hand up to rest on his chest.
Manon felt the steady, lulling rhythm of his heart beneath her hand, heard the gentle lapping of the grotto waves, sensed the reassuring rise and fall of his chest, and thought no more.