A/N: This chapter was getting seriously out of hand and I still need to write one more scene, so I decided to split it. The other half will be posted tomorrow, and then a few hours later I'll post the epilogue.

I may also repost this section if I find any typos in it.

Title comes from the Heather Dale song 'Crashing Down'.

Warnings for general emotional disturbance, depression, one reference to animal death, and some possibly graphic medical imagery.

Raoul's fingers are soft curled around his own, and there are no words that Konstin can use to describe how grateful he feels. He has laid awake all night, trying to breathe around the knot of guilt in his chest, unable to sleep because each time he closes his eyes he is back there, back in the middle of all of that and besides, in the small hours he sent away the nurse that came with the morphine, plastered a false smile onto his face and insisted he did not need it, and now the pain throbs insistently in his knee, lancing deep if he moves it, and he cannot move because then the other pains will all protest sharply.

He had half a mind to tell her it is a priest he needs, and not morphine. A priest to absolve him of his crimes, to bless him so that he can lie here and wish wholly for death, and not simply long for it by halfs. It would be merciful to let him die. If he were a horse someone would have taken a pistol to him long ago, and condemned him in one shot.

Merciful to let him die. Just to let him live.

And the war between the two rages silently in his heart, even as Raoul holds his hand, but Konstin cannot think about it, must let the war inside of him play out as it will. Raoul does not mention the Front, the only war he knows of, playing out there somewhere east of here. He simply keeps talking of other things, so far removed from all of that, from the battlefield and his men and Dupuis, and it is sinful for he, Konstin, to think of those things when Raoul is talking about things like Anja and "that Capitaine De Courcy" (and it was one of the few times Konstin managed to speak, to inquire if it was Capitaine Valentin De Courcy, and Raoul nodded that it was, and in spite of everything a laugh bubbled up inside of Konstin. Anja, and Valentin De Courcy? Who ever could have imagined that?), and "Émile is wearing himself out he's just so fascinated by the work" and "they've invited your mother to perform at the New Year's gala, the message only came this morning, and she has half a mind to turn them down, but I said she should perform. It would be good for everyone's morale, and I know she misses the stage. Sometimes," and does Konstin imagine it, or are his eyes sad?, "I regret taking her away from that."

"And what do you do? When you regret it?" and Konstin's voice is faint simply asking, but suddenly it seems to important to know, so very critical, as if it might throw him a lifeline to cling to, though how can it?

Any imagined sadness disappears from Raoul's face, and he smiles. "I tell her. And she tells me that I'm a fool, and she knew what she was giving up when she agreed to marry me, and if marrying me hadn't been wholly something she wanted to do, even though it meant giving up the stage, then she never would have agreed to. She can be very forthright, Christine, when it comes to things like that." And his voice is soft when he adds, "I think she had to be, to get to where she did."

Before Konstin can ask what he means by that, Raoul has already moved on, saying, "She's resting now," and his thumb gently rubs the back of Konstin's hand. "She says that you get your sleeplessness from Erik, but I think it's from her." He smiles slightly and squeezes Konstin's hand, and Konstin's lips twitch into a faint smile in reply. "She's worn herself out over the last few weeks, but it's a great comfort to her to have you here. A great comfort to both of us."

And there it is, the guilt twisting afresh in Konstin's chest, different guilt now. He worried Mamma, worried Raoul, worried Anja and Émile, worried Antoine most of all, but Guillaume and Marguerite too, and Sorelli, and Philippe. Worried them all by letting himself get wounded, and the guilt throbs deeper in his chest. Oh, but he should have insisted that they not try to cross in the fog. His men would all be alive, he would not have been wounded, Mamma would not have had to worry for him, would not be worn out now, and the guilt is a pain, lancing through his chest, and he whimpers but Raoul is shushing him, shushing him with a finger to his lips and a sharper squeeze of his hand, his eyes stern.

"Now, I don't want you to feel guilty," and there is an edge to his voice. "It is not your fault that you got wounded. I know that I don't know what it's like out there, or what exactly happened, but you must not feel guilty. You were only following orders, only doing your duty, what you were supposed to be, and getting wounded is just one of those things, it could have happened at any time. There is no need for guilt."

No need for guilt. But it is so easy for Raoul to say that, so easy. He does not understand that it was wrong, it was all wrong, and he should have mutinied, should have let himself be executed rather than end up here, like this. They should not have gotten a telegram that he was wounded but instead one saying that he was traitor, was treasonous, and the tears all catch in a ball in his throat, so tight he can only gasp and Raoul is shushing him, stroking his hair, but the tears come, come and blur him, come in a rush and burn his eyes and Raoul's fingertips are gentle brushing them away, his arm careful wrapping around him, pulling him close, and that jars the wounds, makes him whimper, and for a moment he is blind, completely blind, the pain washing over him, making his heart falter, and then he feels Raoul's hand on his back, warm and rubbing him, feels Raoul's heart beating beneath his ear, his lips gentle kissing his hair.

"It's all right, Konstin. It's all right. You're all right now, I promise, you're all right. You're safe. It's not your fault, it's not your fault…"

But it is his fault, it is, can't he see? He shouldn't have gone out there, should have mutinied and taken the blame and none of this would have happened and it would have been better for everyone, so better if he had—if he had not—

"Oh, poor boy. You dear, poor boy. You've been through so much…"

But not as much as the others, not as much, and it would only be fair if he had died out there too, if Antoine had never found him under the fog and he had laid there until he died or until the Germans found him. And Antoine would never have been wounded, if he had not found him, and it would be so much better if Antoine had not been wounded. He would not be stuck here too, would be well.

And it takes a long time for Konstin to get control of himself, a long time of Raoul holding him, rocking him as if he were a boy, but eventually he is too exhausted to cry. The tears simply stop coming, and he is left trembling, and cold, Raoul's arms around him the only heat, and Raoul is so gentle, so infinitely gentle and careful with him, as if he might be breakable, and when Konstin is able to breathe again, when his heart has finally settled from its pounding, Raoul smooths back his hair, and lays him down, and pulls the bed sheets back up to his chin, resuming his seat in the chair beside the bed, his hand warm around Konstin's own again.

"I'm sorry for—for wetting your shirt." And Konstin's voice is still groggy from the tears, but Raoul shushes him, and smiles softly.

"It's all right. It's just clothes." He pauses, and swallows. "Do you—do you feel any better now?"

Any better? Konstin considers. It is not that he is better, the nauseous guilt is roiling in his stomach, but he is so heavy, now, so empty, as if by crying he has hollowed himself out, tunnelled through so that there is only a cave, yawning open with him. Not better. But different.

"Maybe a little."

Raoul nods, and his eyes are knowing, as if he can see clear through to his soul, can sense his very thoughts and the torment, the turmoil, that has writhed within him and now seems soothed, at least for a time. "Good."

And for a long time they sit in silence, and Konstin simply focusses on breathing, on trying to keep his heartbeat steady. It is when it pounds that the pain comes, when it pounds that the thoughts come. And if he can keep it quiet, then maybe, maybe it would be easier to bear, it would all be easier.

After a time, Raoul sighs, and presses a soft kiss to his knuckles, and his voice is low when he speaks.

"Your mother—she," he swallows, and sighs, "she told me how you saw Erik, and I thought—thought it might be some comfort to you, now, if I brought you his pocket watch." A pause, and then, "We never exactly saw eye to eye, your father and I. About the one thing we ever agreed on was that I would be there for your mother after his—after his day. Of course he, he didn't know about you, none of us did. His day came a little sooner than I had expected." He sighs, and his eyes do not meet Konstin's but Konstin hangs on what he might say next, hardly daring to breathe, the world shrinking down to this moment, to these words. "But I've always regretted that I never tried to know him when I had a chance. I know he did a great deal of wrong in his life, but he had a great deal of good in him too." His eyes meet Konstin's again, gentle and smiling, but sad, oh so very sad. "Kindness, and gentleness, and immense talent beneath everything else that he was. And Christine saw that, saw all that somehow in spite of the things he did, even when no one else could, when Nadir was the only other one who could see what he was really like beneath it all. And I think, and I've always thought, that the best of him is in you."

Konstin's heart stalls, and he can only lie there, his throat tight and tears in his eyes, and Raoul reaches into his coat, and slowly, carefully, pulls the pocket watch out from his inside pocket, and lays it into Konstin's open palm, and gently curls Konstin's fingers around it. The watch is an old familiar weight, the same as it always was, but it is not the same, not really, not with the way Raoul is looking at him and his soft smile. And Konstin aches to say something to him, anything, aches to thank him, but Raoul only shakes his head, and presses his finger to his lips again.

"I know," he whispers, his voice faintly hoarse, "I know. But just rest. You getting well is all that matters now. Nothing matters half so much as that." And he leansin, and kisses Konstin lightly on the forehead, and tears prickle Konstin's eyes as Raoul stands, and nods at him, laying his hand carefully down. He slips out without another word, and Konstin can only lie there, just lie there, the pocket watch in his hand, and tears coursing slowly down his cheeks.

All at once Marguerite is too empty and too full, too tired to move and her body too heavy. Guillaume is gone, must have slipped away while she slept, and it is all she can muster just to curl tighter in on herself, the blankets a shelter to protect her from the world. The images replay in her mind, over and over, those that came to her and haunted her sleep. She is aware, wholly, completely aware, that they are not real, were not real, it did not happen like that, but still her brain presents them to her as if they were fact, and in the darkness of the night it was no good telling herself that they were lies.

Even now, in the morning light filtering through her curtains, it is impossible to tell herself that they were lies, impossible to shake them away. They cling to her, sink their tiny claws into her, so that all she can see, all she can know, are these fictions presented to her as truth.

She closes her eyes and she is staunching a haemorrhage, her fingers slick with blood, pressing down and down, trying to stop the flood from Edouard's stump, Minette tightening a tourniquet high on his leg, the bandages dark and soaked.

She opens her eyes, blinks it away. There was no haemorrhage, no blood pooling beneath him. It was not like that, but it could have been, it could have been, and would a haemorrhage have been better than lingering? The fever burning through him and the end just the same?

She closes her eyes, her heavy eyes that beg to be shut, that beg not to be forced to confront the world, and sees the operating theatre, sees Edouard's pale face slack and blood coating Carrière's arms to the elbow and above, the shine of the scalpel, and his mutterings as he pokes through Edouard's stomach. And beneath her fingers she can feel a pulse, a thready weak pulse, fading and fading until it stops and she is crying out and Carrière is swearing, is dropping the scalpel and ordering adrenaline, ordering oxygen to replace the gas, ordering tubes and bandages and someone to raise his legs now and check his eyes and feeling for a pulse himself, blood staining Edouard's grey throat from the surgeon's fingers.

A shudder rips through her, her stomach churning though there is nothing in it to bring up, only water, and her eyes flicker open, sweat beading cold and shivery on her skin, as if it is she who has the fever, she who is fighting the infection, and it was an infection, it was, not heart failure during surgery and she is thankful for precious few things but she is thankful for that, thankful that he was not opened up, his innards on display, at the moment that he died, but that he was peaceful in bed.

Peaceful.

He was peaceful.

And she was with him, holding his hand and talking to him and lying beside him, and if it had been in surgery then she could not have been with him like that, would have had to watch Carrière's failing efforts to persuade his heart to beat.

She can still feel him, lying beside her, can still feel his frail body and his pallid cheek, and that it is how it was, him in her arms and Dumas presiding, the only eyes to see, as if it were some sacred holy thing. (And it was sacred, it was.) And she swallows down the bile in her throat, and draws a halting breath, and nods. That is how it was. And she will not permit her mind to show her otherwise. And when her eyes weigh heavy, she fights the urge to close them.

It is the slight shifting of the bed that wakes her, that stirs her out of a light doze. Her eyes flicker open in time to see Raoul lean in, and his lips brush her forehead. She takes his hand and twines their fingers and he smiles down at her, his eyes soft. "I went to see Konstin," he murmurs, and those words are all she needs to hear for her heart to clench.

"How is he?" She is hoarse from sleep, and Raoul lightly strokes back her hair.

"Worn to the bone." The look in his eyes tells her there's something he's not saying, and she swallows. He must sense her anxiety because he squeezes her fingers tighter. "He's upset, of course, over what happened out there, and he's going to need some time. But I think—I think he was glad to see me."

And it is so reassuring, so very reassuring and comforting, to hear him say that he thinks Konstin will be all right, and it is so much easier tobreathe, as if the band of iron around her chest has been loosened. She smiles up at him, and curling her hand around the nape of his neck, draws him down, and his lips are soft when she kisses him. "I know he was," she whispers. "I know."

If not today, then when? This is the thought foremost in Antoine's mind the moment that Delphine steps in the door, her face, if possible, even sterner than usual, lips pursed and eyes sharp. His heart falters a moment at the sight of her, should I really ask?, but then he draws breath and steels himself.

If not today, then when?

"Will you help me in to visit Commandant Daaé?" He is under no illusion but that he could get there himself, even if he had to support himself against the wall to do it, but it is better that his request have official approval.

Delphine arches one eyebrow, and opens her mouth to speak, but before she can get a word out Antoine is ploughing on.

"I really do feel quite well. Even without the morphine the pain is not a quarter of what it was." That may be an understatement, because the pain fairly smarts when he moves. "I don't think I am at risk of fainting, and it might be good for me to go a little further. Plus, I think it would brighten his spirits, with his being confined to that bed all of time."

And something flashes in Delphine's eyes, as if she knows something he does not, and she considers him appraisingly. "You are good friends with the Commandant, are you not?"

Good friends is something of an understatement. He swallows the statement down, and nods. "I would say that, yes."

Her lips twitch, almost as if she is considering a smile, but she nods. "Then perhaps you can talk some sense into the man. I'll leave you with him for a time, but you must be willing to return when I say so, all right?"

Her willingness catches him by surprise, and he barely has time to consider her words, talk some sense into him, before he is nodding. "I will, I promise."

"Good."

And it is ten minutes later, once she has examined his wound, and helped him ease into a dressing gown, and judged him ready, that he is shuffling out of the door of the room at last.

The door to Konstin's room is close to his own, which is a blessing. His legs are really not quite as strong as he would like. He has spent far too long lying down, both here and in the other hospital, but with Delphine's help he is able to make it the short distance down the hall, and to Konstin's door.

The moment the door creaks open, Antoine's heart lurches. There is Konstin, lying in the bed, his face turned up towards the ceiling and eyes closed, and it is a relief, such a wonderful weakening relief, to see a faint bit of colour in those cheeks.

The creaking of the door must disturb him, because his eyes flicker open, and he turns his head towards the door, and the sight of those eyes makes Antoine's breath catch in his throat, and Konstin's mouth opens as he stares.

The remembered words of more than a year ago, when he visited Konstin behind the lines before the Officers' Ball, and Capitaine Dupuis showed him into the room, come back now, as fresh as if he spoke them only yesterday.

"Hello to you too, Konstin."

Does he imagine it, or are there tears in Konstin's eyes? The light catches them just so, and they are tears, they are, and Antoine's heart aches for him as he whispers, his voice hoarse, "Antoine?"

The smirk that Antoine feels curving his lips is part relief, part happiness, part aching to get closer, but he keeps the trembling out of his voice as he says, crossing the room with Delphine's help and her settling him into the chair by the bed, "In the flesh." His hand catches Konstin's own, and he squeezes it, and Konstin squeezes weakly back, the tears trickling from his eyes. And it is so easy then, so easy to simply look at him.

"I've missed you," he whispers, tears in his own eyes, and the words themselves are enough. "I've missed you."

A/N: Please review!