Chapter Forty-seven

Amazingly, Friday passes without incident. Ana and Christian again visit Pru, spend some time with Carla and various members of the Lambert clan, and yet have time for not quite enough (because it's never enough) sex. Ana smiles, on exiting the en suite that night, to see that her husband is already asleep. Despite the fact that he now seldom has nightmares, his sleep patterns remain erratic enough that a sleeping Christian is still a rare sight for her. When she enters the bed and moves into his arms, he stirs a little, so she smiles and says, "Hey, sleepy head."

Barely awake, Christian murmurs, "Sorry, babe; too pooped to pop…unless you really want to fuck?"

Resisting the urge to laugh at the idea of Christian Grey being too tired for sex, even though he's clearly still ready to oblige, Ana turns over, so they can comfortably spoon, and says, "That's fine, darling. I could do with a break. At the rate we're going, I'll need a vagina transplant before I'm thirty."

Yawning, Christian wraps himself around her, one hand resting on her belly, and says, "Well, we can't have that. I've no interest in anyone else's vagina."

"Now, how is that sexy?"

His hand gliding up to cover one breast, idly rolling the nipple between two fingers, Christian kisses her neck and says, "I guess fidelity is sexy; certainly I find it so."

Her body coming to life under his attentions, Ana says, "Thought you were too tired?"

Taking a moment to adjust his position, so that his burgeoning erection can rest between her butt cheeks, Christian says, "I was."

Ana wakes up in an oven. Realizing that the heat is coming from Christian, she struggles out of his embrace. He stirs and mutters something incoherent. Reaching a hand towards him, she can actually feel heat emanating from his body. Contact with his skin confirms that he's feverish and slick with sweat. He thrashes a little and rants something else, apparently in the throes of a febrile nightmare.

Sitting up and turning on the lamp, Ana pushes the covers from his torso to see a bright red rash at the base of his neck. He stirs and moans, "Baby? Baby, I feel like shit."

Time to test whether Bree's promise to be available twenty-four hours a day is real. Ana texts her even as she says, "I know, baby. You're sick. I think you have measles or chicken pox."

Kicking the covers from the rest of his body, Christian reaches for her, saying, "No. Mom had me vaccinated when I started fourth grade."

Surprised that Grace, of all people, would wait that long before protecting her son from childhood diseases, Ana asks, "Fourth grade? Not when you were younger?"

His head in her lap, Christian murmurs, "Home schooled. Had to catch up…academically and socially. Couldn't attend school until I was able to cope with a crowd. Mom covered me for every disease she could. Fuck, baby, everything aches."

Her heart aching for him—he's not been sick since she's known him—Ana says, "Baby, Bree will be here any second. You okay with her seeing you naked?"

A groan and Christian lurches towards the end of the bed, grabbing his pajama pants as he says, "I guess not." Swallowing, he adds, "Fuck, my mouth feels like the Sahara."

"I'll get you a drink. Stay in bed; you're all wobbly." Quickly donning her robe, Ana fetches a glass of water and is returning when there's a knock on the door. She hands Christian the drink, then opens the door to a bleary-eyed Bree and says, "Sorry to wake you. But, as you can see, Christian is not well. Uh, his mom is a pediatrician, and he's been vaccinated against just about everything." Checking that Christian is momentarily distracted, she then whispers, "I've never seen him sick. I'm really worried."

Bree nods her understanding of all this information and says, "From here it looks like fifth disease…slapped cheek. Not serious, but there's no vaccination for it. Did you have it as a child?"

"I think so. I can check with Mom?"

"Do that; right now. I'll draw some blood from both of you, and have it tested today. If it is fifth, and you don't have the relevant antibodies in your system, there's a slight chance your baby might be at risk, so we'd have to book you in for monitoring. But, as you don't have any symptoms, you're almost certainly immune to it, which means your baby is protected." Approaching, Christian, she then says, "You spent Tuesday afternoon with the children, did you not, sir?"

"Yeah. What, one of the little fuckers infected me?"

"Ansel only showed symptoms yesterday. He would have been contagious on Tuesday." Fishing in her bag for a few things Bree continues, "I'll do a basic exam, check out that rash and take some blood from whichever arm has the most obliging vein. As the son of a doctor, I'm sure you know the drill."

After completing the exam, and obtaining a blood sample from Christian, Bree says, "Well, Mr. Grey, you do appear to have slapped cheek syndrome. It's a virus. The rash is unusual in an adult, so it shouldn't get any worse and will fade soon enough, as will the flu-like symptoms. But I'm afraid that the joint pain may persist for a few weeks, with a slim chance that you'll have ongoing problems, so mention this to your physician back home. Take ibuprofen or naproxen sodium for the pain and fever. Do you have some?" At Christian's nod, she concludes, "Other than that, not much to be done, I'm afraid. If the blood tests prove a liar out of me, you'll have to postpone your flight and see a doctor here."

Somewhat relieved, that it's not more serious, Ana bares her arm so Bree can obtain her second sample, and asks, "So, he's not contagious right now?"

Preparing equipment as she speaks, Bree says, "No. He'll need rest and lots of fluids while his temperature remains high. Other than that, the biggest issue will be the joint pain."

"Christian has a high tolerance for pain."

Glancing at her new patient, already asleep, Bree comments, "Apparently." The procedure doesn't take long. Bree stands, bag in hand, and says, "I'll get these samples to the hospital; should have the results in a couple of hours."

"So soon, and at this hour? Do you need a credit card or anything?"

Smiling, Bree says, "No, thank you. I used to run the place, so they'll rush this through for me."

After seeing Bree to the door, Ana fetches a couple of Advil and another glass of water. Sitting beside Christian she manages to wake him and says, "Baby? Can you swallow a couple of pills? Then you can go straight back to sleep."

Groaning, Christian sits up enough to do as he's told and then puts his head on Ana's lap as he moans, "This is all Lucy's fault. I should have let her drown."

Trying not to laugh at his petulant misery, Ana runs her fingers through his sweat-soaked hair and asks, "How is it Lucy's fault?"

"She dragged me round all her friends. One of those little fuckers did this to me."

"Not on purpose, darling."

"I'm not so sure." He's quiet for a while, then sighs and murmurs, "That's nice, thank you." A minute later, he's again asleep.

Ana stays there a while longer, soothing his dreams with her caress, until she's sure he's sleeping soundly. Then she eases out from underneath him and is heading for the bathroom when there's a soft knock at the door. It's Carla, and she greets Ana with, "Slapped cheek?"

Stepping out into the corridor, so as not to disturb Christian, Ana says, "Yeah. Have I had it? I remember being sick when I was about four."

"Yes, sweetheart. Christian didn't have it as a child?"

"No. He, uh, wasn't ready for school when Grace and Carrick adopted him. So he was homeschooled for a few years."

"But…he grew up with a brother and sister. Were they homeschooled, too?"

Still nervous about revealing anything of Christian's past, even to Carla, Ana thinks about it for a moment and says, "His fear of being touched was much worse when he was a child. And…and I'm guessing he spent a lot of time alone."

Carla stares at the door, as if she can see her son-in-law, and asks, "Just how bad was his life before he was adopted?"

"Bad, Mom…the worst. But that's his to reveal when he's ready."

"I understand. He said that he might get brave enough, one day. But it's really not necessary. Whatever happened to him as a child, it's clearly forged a good man." Then giving Ana a hug, she asks, "Anything I can do?"

"Not right now, thanks. I'm going to get some more sleep. But I might need your help later? I've never seen him sick, but I have a feeling that Christian isn't going to cope very well with this."

Patting Ana's arm, Carla smiles and says, "No men do, sweetheart; least of all the good ones."

Carla next knocks on the door in time to watch a still sleeping Christian while Ana has breakfast. When she eventually returns, carrying toast and juice on a tray, he's sitting up in bed—freshly showered, now wearing a t-shirt over pajama pants, Blackberry in hand—and accuses, "You left."

Looking around, she says, "Yes, but I left you with Mom. Where is she?"

Putting the phone aside, Christian waves a dismissive hand and says, "Oh, I sent her on some errand. I don't need a fucking babysitter."

His belligerent tone confirming Carla's theory that good men make bad patients, Ana curbs her smile, placing the tray on his lap as she says, "Of course not. I just didn't want you to wake alone."

"I'm not fucking hungry."

Though he's thankfully no longer fanatical about her meals—possibly only because she's always hungry since Blip grew big enough to need extra—Christian remains compulsive about food. Ana moves, slowly, to pick up the tray as she says, "Okay. I'll just throw it out."

Of course, he stops her movements, muttering "Fucking kids," before reluctantly starting on the meager meal.

Really struggling not to smile now—he's just so cute when he pouts—Ana says, "You're going to be like this until your symptoms ease, aren't you?"

"Like what? I'm fucking sick."

"It's just slapped cheek. I had it when I was four. And like a bear with a sore head."

Showing one hand, he pouts, "Well fuck, baby, it's not like for a kid; every joint aches, from my knuckles to my toes."

Taking his hand in hers, Ana gently kisses each digit. Finally able to smile, Christian wipes the crumbs from his other hand and offers that for "treatment", too. She's worked her way up to his wrist when there's a knock at the door. She heads to answer it with the whispered caution "Be nice," which is countered with a death glare.

Expecting Carla, Ana is surprised to see someone much smaller. "Hey, Lucy. Come to see Christian?"

"Daddy said he's sick, like Ansel?"

"Yeah. I'm afraid he's not well enough for visitors right now."

"Oh, okay. I'll come back later."

Glancing back at Christian, to see that he's vigorously shaking his head in opposition of the idea, Ana returns her attention to Lucy. "That'd be nice, thank you. I'll let him know you called on him."

Apparently undeterred by the failure of her mission, Lucy smiles brightly and skips off. Mentally preparing for the consequences, Ana shuts the door and turns. As expected, Christian's glare has returned, tenfold, and he growls, "Why the fuck would you do that?"

Vigilant for signs of real anger, Ana gently explains, "You need distracting, and nothing distracts you like me messing with you."

His pique remains for only a moment longer, then he grins and says, "Well that's true." Putting the now empty tray to one side, he commands, "Get in here and mess with me." Another knock on the door is answered by, "Fuck!"

As if the expletive is permission, Carla enters, carrying an ice bucket. She nods to Ana, even as she comments, "I take it his mood has not improved? He woke up speaking like that."

Ana glances at Christian, who is managing to simultaneously glare at both of them. "Uh, not yet. I think maybe just some rest and quiet would be best."

Seemingly oblivious of the sexual tension in the room, Carla puts the ice bucket by Christian's side of the bed, using the tongs to drop a couple of cubes in his water glass, even as she nods and tells him, "I've asked everyone not to bother you. Just take it easy, okay?"

Christian grins and teases, "Yes, Mom."

Carla pats his hand and says, "I wouldn't start that unless you're willing to continue it, son."

Christian's smile widens and he says, "Thanks for the ice, Mom."

Carla shakes her head and says to Ana, "He's a devil, isn't he?"

Recognizing that whatever is going on is a good thing, she smiles and jokes, "Pure evil."

Leaning over and kissing Christian's forehead, commenting "You're still very warm," Carla then hugs Ana and says, "Well, I'll be around if you kids need anything else."

And sees her mom to the door, then locks it. She turns to see that Christian has noticed her precaution; a broad grin on his face, and he asks, "You going to mess with me, now?"

She knows what he needs; she's always known. "Yes, Sir."

Sex proves the best medicine for Christian, even improving his mood. He's again asleep when Bree checks in with the good/bad news that is fifth disease, and that Ana's body contains the antibodies that have protected her baby from the virus.

Much as she hates to see Christian suffering, Ana is grateful for another quiet day. With Advil enough to keep his fever and pain under control, he's actually a joy to be with. And she would endure all the worry again to relive that moment when she'd returned, with toast and soup for his lunch, to find Christian again in bed with Lucy on top of the covers beside him, reading A Sick Day for Amos McGee. Christian had such an imploring look on his face, that she'd taken pity on him; thanking Lucy and suggesting that it might be time for her "patient" to have a nap. The junior caregiver had fairly professionally checked his pulse before agreeing; with the added caution that he stay in bed until he's well.

By afternoon, Christian has recovered enough that they're packing, readying for their late-night flight home, when the inevitable happens. As if he's somehow been preparing for it, Christian is immediately by Ana's side, embracing her and offering soothing words as the tears run down her face. Sobbing against his chest, she splutters, "Fucking hormones!"

"It's not just hormones, babe. I'm sad to be leaving, too. But we're going home to new house and, in a few months, a brand new family."

That familiar too-much-love pain in her chest eclipses everything else, and she lifts her head to gaze up at him and ask, "How do you do that?"

Smiling, in answer to the adoration shining from her face, Christian asks, "Do what, baby?"

"Make it all better."

He shrugs and says, "No idea, but I'm glad it helped." Glancing over their luggage, he suggests, "How about we get Lea to finish this?"

"She won't mind?"

"Baby, I'm paying her enough that she'd carry our bags to Seattle if I asked her. Come on; Lea can take care of this, while you and I can have a last tour of the grounds before dinner."

He's done it again; her heart lifting at the thought of one last walk with him. "Husband, I think perhaps you're a genius."

One of the extra security officers that now surround the estate falls into step at a discreet distance behind them as they exit the building. With this being Christian's first public appearance since this morning, the couple's progress is very slow, because everyone—both young and old—stops them to check on his health ("Feeling much better now, thank you.") and ask if he's well enough to attend the farewell dinner ("Oh, yes; wouldn't miss it.") When they've finally run the gauntlet, and are ostensibly alone, Christian asks, "I've little experience of being ill. Is it always like this?"

Marveling at the fact that he truly cannot understand it, Ana says, "They love you, darling."

Clearly disbelieving, he says, "I don't think so. They're just being nice."

"All of them?"

They walk in silence for a while, then Christian says, "I did save Lucy. And word has probably spread by now that we're saving this place."

Glad that she gave him the time to work it out by himself, Ana says, "Exactly. You're practically a hero in their eyes. Also; sex on a stick…even when you're ill."

"Well, that's certainly true. If it weren't so cold out here, I'd prove it."

"Oh, no you don't. You proved it enough this morning that it'll probably hurt to sit down this evening."

Christian grimaces apologetically at that, though he doesn't look very ashamed, then more seriously says, "Thank you, for looking after me and distracting me so effectively. I felt like death warmed up this morning. You've probably guessed that I've not been sick very often in my life. I hope I wasn't too cranky this morning?"

"Other than cussing out my mom?"

He grimaces and asks, "Do I need to apologize to her?"

"No, darling. She was married to Ray, remember? I'm pretty sure she's heard worse."

"Good point."

Christian is the one who suggests they turn back. Truly enjoying this last look at the winter wonderland that will soon belong to them, Ana is about to protest that she's not too tired when she notices the slight sheen of sweat on his forehead and guesses that he's more ill than he seems. "God, Christian, I'm sorry. Are you okay to walk back?"

With a harsh laugh he asks, "What are you going to do; fucking carry me?" Then taking a deep breath, he continues, "Sorry. I'm not fucking used to feeling weak. Flynn says that it's fear, because I equate physical weakness with vulnerability, even when I know that I'm safe."

Ana nods and says, "Being weak makes you feel four years old again."

Drawing Ana into an embrace, Christian is much more relaxed when he asks, "How is it that you just know this stuff about me?"

Smiling, Ana teases, "I know you like to think that you're some sort of dark, mysterious individual, Mr. Grey, but you're really not that complicated."

This time his laugh is genuine and he accusea, "Yes, you're definitely Flynn."

"He says that?"

Steering them towards the house, Christian explains, "He maintains that all my symptoms—what I've previously thought of as my darkness—make perfect sense in the context of what I've endured."

"Well, that's what I mean; what you call—" Suddenly stopping, Ana looks at Christian to ask, "Wait…'previously'?"

Christian smiles and says, "Yes."

Even through a veil of ecstatic tears, he's beautiful. "Because I'm still here?"

Cradling her face and gently wiping the tears from her cheeks with his thumbs, Christian tenderly kisses her and affirms, "Not only still here. But, by some miracle, you still love me."

The formal dining room has been transformed, as if by magic, into a festive wonderland; every vertical surface is draped with tinsel garlands and fairy lights, a tree tall enough to almost reach the high ceiling is festooned with all manner of decorations and filling with air with that evocative pine scent, unseen speakers are playing carols at a volume that doesn't preclude conversation, a veritable mountain of beckoning gifts surround the base of the tree, and the elaborate table setting is a stand-alone celebration of the season. The smaller children's table is similarly decorated, but with what looks like an edible centerpiece; the rules against candy as an entrée apparently ignored for this one meal.

The children, having rushed through the doors as they open, approach the brightly wrapped gifts, to a chorus of parents reminding them that it's dinner first. Ana giggles and, at Christian's questioning look, says, "I bet they have to say that every, single time."

Of course, he's holding her hand. He affectionately squeezes it for a moment and says, "And I bet we'll have to remind our kids, too."

Shaking her head to banish the happy tears, Ana protests, "Not nice, Grey."

His smile confirming that he knows the words are actually praise, Christian jokes, "Sorry, baby."

Pru is here, her bandaged scalp concealed under a cloth bandana; her every move supervised by an off-duty and hyper vigilant Nigel. Ana sees that even Lea is joining the large dinner party, and soon spots Bree, too. She's silently acknowledging the women's presence when Christian murmurs, "Thought you might like to have one meal with our minions before we have to go."

It's a talent that still eludes Ana—thinking of twenty-four hour staff as mere employees—so she kisses Christian's cheek in gratitude.

Dinner is exquisite; a cornucopia of local seasonal produce. Ana is wondering how all this is possible on family donations when she recognizes a champagne bottle—Cristal; a wine she's only become familiar with since meeting Christian. So she turns to him and whispers, "Funded by GEH?"

With a quiet smile he replies, "Merely a contributor, my darling. Nan wouldn't hear of it, so I went straight to the source; our chef, Rosemary. She was glad of this chance to make tonight special."

"Any evening with you is special, Mr. Grey."

He smiles and says, "I'm glad you think so, because we've got many more ahead of us; you, me and Junior."

"Blip."

His eyes widen a little at her open defiance and he leans close to whisper, "I'm looking forward to you opening your gifts, especially the hairbrush."

Ana smiles and says, "You worked it out."

Christian raises one eyebrow and quietly asks, "You sure you can open it without blushing?"

She hadn't even considered that. "Well, not now. Why do you delight in torturing me?"

Christian grins and says, "That's easy; because you like it."

A little worried that there might be speeches, Ana is relieved to find out that Nan tapping her knife against her glass signals only that it's time to open the gifts. The thundering of little feet racing towards the tree puts a smile on Ana's face. She's surprised when the first child chooses one, reads the label, and races to an adult. Pru explains, "Part of the ritual; they open their own last."

"They don't mind?"

Smiling, she asks, "Does it look like they mind?"

It really doesn't. Without any adult intervention, the children who are old enough to read help the younger ones play Santa; handing out gifts with a smile and a "Merry Christmas."

By chance, Christian receives his before Ana. When he thanks the child and puts it aside, Ana says, "Don't wait for me. I want to see your reaction."

With a wary frown, he unwraps the t-shirt. On seeing the design he looks up at Ana, sees Pru grinning at him, and accuses, "You put her up to this."

With a self-satisfied grin, Pru nods and says, "Be a man; put it on."

Glowering his disapproval, Christian nevertheless obliges; sliding it on over his dress shirt. Ana manages to not laugh…just. But a few others round the table notice his wardrobe change and loudly express their delight at Christian wearing a "Mr. Worry" t-shirt.

Ana now has a hand to her mouth in an attempt to curb her laughter. Christian says "Thank you, baby," and kisses her cheek. As he does so, for her ears only, he adds, "You're in trouble."

She knows he's playing, so finally releases her delighted laugh, then murmurs, "I'm counting on it."

Only she can see the slight flaring of his nostrils as her behavior turns him on enough to accelerate his breathing. Just then a child hands Ana what she knows—because she bought it and had it wrapped—is the extra-large Mason Pearson wooden paddle hair brush; the implement she intends for not only its original purpose, but as the tool Christian shall use on her tender buttocks when they eventually resume discipline. She knows it won't be like when he's used his hand, which arouses her enough to prove ineffective as punishment; the brush will really hurt. Yet the part of her that needs Christian to be in control means she's blushing with arousal, not embarrassment, as she unwraps her gift.

Finally finding the courage to lift her gaze, she sees that Christian is entirely focused on her, his eyes alight with excitement, and he warmly reminds her, "I love you, Anastasia."

Any misgivings she might still have over her decision vanish at the absolute sincerity in his voice. For her part, she means so much more than anyone else can know when she merely says, "Thank you."

By then her second, larger gift has arrived and Christian smiles, saying, "I'm enjoying this; it really is better to give than to receive." He's not quite as impressed with the adult-sized tiger onesie, indignantly muttering "You're not wearing that to bed," until Ana shows him the rear flap, intended to facilitate bathroom breaks without having to remove the entire garment.

Mindful of the children still in the room—some have already vanished to places unknown with their new toys—Pru quietly chimes in with, "Good for naughty time, too."

This brings an image to Ana's mind of her wearing the onesie while Christian spanks her with the hair brush, and she practically cackles at the thought, eliciting a questioning look from him. Once she's recovered, she rests her hand on his and promises, "I'll tell you later."

A much smaller party of now just adults filters into the piano room—drinks in hand. As usual, they make way for Kevin, the designated pianist of the family. But he defers to Christian, saying, "I hear that you can play?" Ana is shaking her head, to assure him that she didn't reveal that detail, when Kevin explains, "Someone Googled you. Can you really fly helicopters and planes, pilot a large yacht that you designed, play piano like a professional and kick arse like Chuck Norris?"

Christian, still apparently uncomfortable with being the center of attention, hasn't yet replied when Ana declares, "Yes." Putting a reassuring hand on his arm, she then adds, "Please, darling?"

She wonders what he's got planned when he arches one eyebrow and asks, "You sure, baby?"

Deciding, as ever, to trust him, she says, "I'm sure."

Everyone finds a seat—Ana next to Nan—as Christian sits down and tinkers with the keys for a minute or two; apparently testing the piano. Ana knows only from the thin line of his lips that the instrument is not perfectly in tune, but he proceeds. She's always been impressed with his musical ability. But tonight he surprises even her; playing several classic Christmas songs in a row from memory, while everyone sings along. And it occurs to her that he's probably done this for his family—year after year—that scared little boy doing whatever he could to feel worthy of his adoptive parents.

It's almost midnight—nearly time for them to leave—when he turns to her and mouths "For you," so Ana knows she's in trouble. The next tune is familiar, but the name at first remains elusive. As if he's arranged it, no one joins him when he starts singing, and she wonders why it never occurred to her that "Kiss from a Rose" is so relevant to their story. Her chest is aching with love by the second chorus; of course hearing every "gray" as "Grey". By the time he concludes "Now that your rose is in bloom, a light hits the gloom on the gray," she's openly weeping, and Nan silently hands her a clean handkerchief.

Muttering a "Thanks," and drying her eyes, Ana is struck by the tightly stitched initials on one corner and comments, "Funny; 'A.L.' sounds like a man's name."

The evening clearly taking a toll on her, Nan's face is pale and drawn, her voice like the flutter of a moth's wings when she smiles enigmatically and replies, "Yes, I know."

A concerned Jerry is immediately by her side, but she waves him away with a reed-thin arm and manages to instill command into her voice when she says, "I'm fine." Then to Christian, she instructs, "Another? Make your wife cry with happiness again."

Christian chuckles at that, and then silently asks Ana for permission. Only at her nod does he return his attention to the piano and begin another song; this time "Into my Arms". Again, his choice of song holds special meaning for Ana, because he's said more than once that only her presence in his life has ever made him consider the existence of a benevolent god. So she sheds more happy tears as he sings.

When he's done, and the room has once more broken into spontaneous applause, Ana dries her eyes and comments to Nan, "If he keeps this up, I'll need a second handkerchief." When there is no reply, she glances at the woman to see that she's asleep. Smiling, that Christian's singing acted as a lullaby, Ana wonders why those alarm bells are ringing in her head, and then her conscious brain catches up; Nan's chest isn't rising and falling with each breath. "Jerry!"

The scene becomes one of those moments in Ana's life when time seems to slow down, so her brain can process everything that happens; Jerry begins checking Nan's vitals, even as he loudly orders, "Get Allen." Wondering why the butler might be necessary, Ana is staring at the monogrammed handkerchief, remembering Nan's earlier smile, when she's suddenly on Christian's lap as he lifts her to the far side of the sofa. Bree moves in to help, nodding and backing off when Jerry tersely utters, "DNR."

Again, it takes Ana's brain a moment to process what's going on, and then she remembers: Do Not Resuscitate. A silent howl rips through her at the sudden comprehension of why no one has called for an ambulance, and she turns her face into Christian's chest, some childish part of her confident that, if she cannot see that Nan is dead, then it won't become true. But it's not enough, and her distress finally finds voice with an inarticulate wail when Jerry's soft words—sounding so much like a question, for which there is no answer—fill the silently waiting room. "She's gone."

Allen, that aging symbol of a fading British class system, arrives just then; instantly taking in the scene. Exclaiming a couple of words in a language foreign to Ana (sounding like "muh khwish-la") he drops to his knees before Nan, holds one of her lifeless hands and brushes a strand of hair from her face as he tenderly says something else, in what Ana now guesses must be Gaelic, and sounds like, "Go-dteith-tu, mo-mhuirnin si-an."

Finally understanding that they're a couple, Ana is reeling from too many emotions when Bree quietly explains, "Go-de-thu, mavourneen slaun: may you go safe, my darling."

"What did he say when he first came in?"

"Mo chuisle; a term of endearment that translates as 'my pulse', but means so much more."

This Ana understands instantly, because Christian is in her blood, just as she's in his. So she knows what Allen is enduring at this moment, as he drops his head onto Nan's lap; grief shaking his old body while he silently weeps. Ana looks to Christian, wordlessly beseeching him to somehow make it all better. She almost feels guilty when he winces slightly at the burden she's placed on his shoulders, but he doesn't hesitate, merely loudly asking, "Nan's favorite song?"

Ana never finds out who answers, "Unchained Melody." Without a word, Christian stands, gently placing Ana on the sofa and commanding Bree, with a gesture, to watch over her as he again sits at the piano and performs; his soulful voice ripping and soothing Ana's heart at the same time. She's grateful when Bree perches on the arm of the sofa and offers her hand, and is clutching it for emotional support when Allen lifts his head and adds his surprisingly strong voice to Christian's.

When the song ends, and the music dies, Bill moves forward and places his hand on Allen's shoulder, offering a few words of sympathy before leaning down to kiss the top of Nan's head. With only "I'll fetch Pru," to Jerry, he leaves; wiping his eyes as he goes. The gesture of farewell is copied by almost everyone; the room slowly and reverently emptying. Ana doesn't even remember him returning to her side, but suddenly Christian is urging her to stand. Mutely, she does as bid; muttering "I'm so sorry," to Allen before saying goodbye the woman who's come to mean so much to her in the past two weeks.

Numb from a deluge of emotion, her pain too vivid for mere tears, Ana blindly walks where Christian leads. Outside the room, he lifts her in his arms and she snuggles into him, desperate for comfort. Their bags are packed and in the car, so Ana is surprised on realizing that they're heading towards the bedroom. "Not going to the airport?"

Of course, he's not showing it, but she can hear the emotion in his voice when Christian replies, "Not tonight, baby."

Christian puts Ana on her feet, pulls back the bed covers and wordlessly starts undressing her. "Christian, I'm not—"

"I know, baby. I'm not in the mood, either. Just get into bed, okay?"

"Okay." Somewhere in the middle of the process, she finds the handkerchief, still clutched in her hand. "Oh God, I have to return it."

She's actually moving towards the door when Christian stops her and bleakly intones "Sweetheart, she doesn't need it anymore." And she's finally able to weep.

Author's note: Sorry about the delay. This one proved difficult. Thank you, to those who checked on me.

Forgive my ignorance, but I'm not sure if I used Irish Gaelic or Scottish Gaelic, so I left it unsaid, even though the name "Stewart" is clearly of Scottish origin.