Chapter Text
Raoul wakes up in terrible pain the next morning. All the exertion, as happy as it made him, did not settle well with his body. He blinks his eyes open, squinting in the sunlight that filters in through the curtains.
With a quiet groan, he attempts to move, but the pain shooting down his legs causes a loud cry of pain, waking Christine.
“Raoul, dear?”
The Vicomte’s lips are pinched together and his face twists in agony. “Hurts,” he mutters, squeezing his eyes shut. “Thighs, hips, legs… God damn it, it hurts .”
“Oh, I’m so sorry.” Christine crawls off of the bed and jogs around to kneel in front of Raoul’s side. “I should not have pushed you so far yesterday.”
“No, no,” Raoul pants, shaking his head. “It’s not your fault; I loved it. I wanted to dance. It's just… the pain. It’s so bad. I can barely move.”
Christine takes his hand and kisses the knuckles. “What can I do to help, coeur ?”
“I don’t know,” the Vicomte mutters. He tries to roll onto his side, but he can’t help but whimper as the pain worsens.
“God, it hurts so bad .” Raoul reaches to grab his sweetheart’s forearm. “I think I… I think I may throw up. Or… pass out. Or both– I don’t know.” He bites his lip to stifle a sob. “Oh, Christine, make it stop. Please .”
“Let me get you a bucket.” Christine runs to the adjoining bathroom and retrieves the wash basin on the vanity, taking it back to place it on the bedside table.
“Th-thank you,” Raoul chokes out.
“Sit up, honey.” Christine helps the Vicomte sit against the pillows and headboard, placing the basin in his lap over the blankets. “If you need to be sick, do so in here. Don’t worry if it makes a mess. I just don’t want you to throw up while on your back, lest you choke.”
Raoul nods and closes his eyes, taking deep, shuddering breaths, before tensing up and doubling over to retch into the bowl. Christine grimaces, but places a hand on his back and rubs from his waist to in-between his shoulders.
“Let it out, dear. It’ll be alright.”
The man’s knuckles turn white as he grips the rim of the ceramic basin, his face twisting in pain and displeasure. He heaves a few more times before finally, finally , his stomach settles. Leaning back against the pillows, he sighs and pants, trying to catch his breath.
“I’m… I’m going to draw you a bath.” Christine kisses his sweaty forehead. “A nice, warm bath. Would you like that?”
“A bath… yes.”
With that, Christine rushes to the bathroom to start the water, then heads out to the kitchen to heat up the kettle. After a few minutes, she returns with a large pot of steaming water. She goes back into the bathroom, turns off the faucet, and pours the hot water in.
“There.” She skips over to the bed. “Let me help you up.”
Raoul raises his arms, letting Christine pull him up by his sides. He grimaces. His legs protest. The effort to even stand is nearly too much.
“Do you want your wheelchair?” Christine asks gently.
The man wants to say, ‘no, I don’t need it, I’m a grown man and I can handle standing.’ But the pain is sending a wave of exhaustion over him.
“Yes,” he says quietly, feeling shame creep up his spine. “Yes, please.”
Christine reaches with one hand for the chair parked next to his bedside table and brings it around, letting Raoul sit down.
As they roll into the bathroom, Christine notes the way Raoul frowns. It’s not a painful frown, but more one of a grumpy old man, unhappy with his situation.
“It’s not a bad thing to need a chair, Raoul,” she reminds him. “It’s to help you.”
“I know,” Raoul snaps, then shakes his head and softens his voice. “I know. It’s only… God , I miss walking. I miss dancing. And now something as simple as a bath is a hassle.”
“It won’t always be.” Christine parks the chair next to the tub and unbuttons his nightshirt. “You’ve made great progress already. Honestly, I am confident that before the end of the year you’ll be able to walk without a cane. We just need to keep working at it. And be gentle about it.”
“Gentle, yes.”
Raoul never sleeps in anything more than a nightshirt these days. It’s too much trouble to get smallclothes or trousers on unless he’s getting dressed for the day when it matters. So, it’s easy for Christine to just take the shirt off and leave him bare.
“I know I haven’t been as careful to rest as I should have been,” Raoul mutters, looking at the raised scar tissue on his belly. “Perhaps this pain is my own fault then.”
“I wouldn’t say so, no.” Christine lifts him by the underarms and eases him into the tub. “It’s easy to go too far.”
Raoul shifts to sit comfortably under the water, allowing the heat to seep into his aching body. The sensation causes him to let out almost a whimper.
“This is nice,” he whispers.
“The temperature is good?”
“Perfect. Yes.”
Christine kneels beside the tub and uses her hands to scoop water and pour it down Raoul’s arms, neck, and hair. “But really, Raoul. It is not your own fault.” She massages the back of his neck.
“I suppose. I just get frustrated. I want to be better. I want to kick over that chair and snap that cane in two and walk on my own.” He leans back with a sigh. “You know, it’s funny that the top half of me is the half that’s burned, and yet it’s my legs that fail. How on Earth does that happen?”
Christine kisses his nose. “I’m not sure. But I understand your being frustrated.”
Raoul reaches out blindly, searching for her hand. "You're too good to me.”
Christine meets his hand and interlocks their fingers.
"I am just good enough."
Raoul gives her hand a slight squeeze, expressing his emotions through the pressure of his fingers tangled with hers. "You deserve so much more," he mutters. "You deserve... happiness, and beauty, and a proper husband who would be able to give you a family."
" You are my family,” Christine objects. “I don't care about anything else."
The Viscount's heart aches painfully in his chest. Her words are so sincere, so full of affection. Again, he's overwhelmed by the love and loyalty she shows him.
"Oh, Christine..." he whispers, "What on Earth did I do to deserve you?"
"You rescued my scarf from the sea, all those years ago," she answers plainly, kissing the back of his neck.
A small, bittersweet smile pulls at his lips as he remembers the memory. "Is that it?" he chuckles, "All it really took was a scarf to win you over?"
"Well, there were other things." She nuzzles her nose in his wet hair and giggles.
Raoul lets out a sigh, relishing the feeling of Christine's breath on the nape of his neck. "Tell me the other things," he murmurs, tilting his head slightly.
"The way you abandoned your aunt every day to come see me. She was so mad at you! And yet you kept doing it." Christine smiles and wraps an arm around Raoul's shoulders. "You were the sweetest boy. Rich, a bit dumb, but so sweet. And you still are."
The Vicomte smiles, recalling those memories. "I was dumb, wasn't I?" he remarks with a laugh.
"Very." She kisses the crown of his head. "But you've wised up. A little bit."
"Only slightly."
Raoul smiles as Christine kisses his hair. He turns his head and nuzzles his face against her shoulder, breathing in the scent of her skin. It smells like lingering perfume and laundry soap.
It's calming; it's home.
After several minutes of quiet domesticity, Christine sighs and stands up. "The water is getting cold. Are you ready to get out?"
Raoul nods, a pang of disappointment going through him as Christine reluctantly lets go. "Yes, I'm ready," he says, already missing her warmth.
As she lifts him out of the water, she whispers to him: "I'd like to try something. Do you trust me?"
"Of course," he replies without hesitation. He fully trusts Christine — to his very core, heart and soul.
Once Raoul is out of the tub, Christine doesn't move him to his wheelchair. She supports him up to standing, positioning him in front of the mirror, then moves behind him to wrap her arms around his waist and rest her chin on his shoulder.
"Look here, darling."
Raoul obliges, meeting his own eyes in the mirror. His body looks smaller against Christine's, especially since he's still wet and naked. He swallows hard, uncomfortable with being on display like this. He's well aware of all his flaws, his scars and deformities, and he's embarrassed for Christine to see him this way.
"Tell me how you feel about what you're seeing."
The Vicomte stares at himself intently, taking in a sharp, slightly panicked little breath. "I... I don't like it," he says shakily, eyeing the way his body is all mangled and deformed. "I don't like me," he adds quietly.
"Alright. Can I tell you how I feel?" Christine mutters against his shoulder.
Raoul nods slowly, bracing himself silently.
"I feel so much love. For you, for your body, for everything I see."
She moves a hand to trace along his pecs, covered in raised scar tissue.
"See these? They're perfect. They're shaped perfectly. And they lead down to these–" She pokes at his ribs, also scarred and poking out from how little exercise he's gotten being crippled. "These are vital bones that protect your lungs and heart. And they're the perfect spot for tickling. Your hips, here, are like handles for me to hold, with the perfect amount of squish, just like your belly.”
With a kiss to his neck, interlocks their fingers. “See how nicely your hand fits with mine?” Then she traces a finger up his forearm. “And you’ve got soft hair along your arms. Strong arms, too.” She gently squeezes his bicep. “They make you able to lift me and spin me around like a bird.”
She keeps talking. Keeps telling him everything she loves. Every inch of him is praised, as if he were a marble statue on display in a museum.
Her words and her touch bring a lump to Raoul's throat. He listens to her intently, letting her words wash over him like gentle waves. Her genuine, absolute love for his body — broken as it is — is soothing. It doesn't make the scars and malformations suddenly beautiful, but it dulls the pain he feels when looking at himself.
For a few brief minutes, he almost feels... content with the way he looks.
"I love everything about you because it is you.” Christine wraps her arms around his torso and hugs him tightly. “No matter what scars cover it. I know underneath is still the man I love, and that's all I care about."
Raoul feels tears prick at his eyes and he gulps. The wave of emotions that washes over him is intense, overwhelming. He's deeply touched by Christine's unconditional love and loyalty. Her acceptance of his body, the way she looks at it with love and contentment… it's more than he could ever have hoped for.
He can no longer hold back the tears. With a shuddering breath, a sob escapes him and he sags against her.
"Honey..." She coos, holding him tighter.
All the pain, the suffering, the self-hatred and the fear, it bursts out all at once, and suddenly he's weeping. He can barely breathe through the tears.
"It hurts," he sobs between gasping breaths, "Christine, Christine..."
"Let's sit you down..." She lowers him into his wheelchair, still holding him tightly, and reaches for a towel with her free hand.
Once safely in the chair, the Viscount wraps the towel around himself protectively. He feels vulnerable, weak, and he's suddenly aware of the way he's sobbing like a small child. But even that doesn't bother him so much at the moment. Right now, all he cares about is Christine and her loving embrace.
Christine tucks the towel around his bare body like a blanket. "You can cry, darling. You can cry."
He nods, tears streaming down his face. This type of physical and emotional release feels good . He's been keeping everything bottled up for so long, trying to be strong and resilient for Christine's sake. He needs this.
He needs to feel safe to break down, to let his guard down.
"I love you," he whispers, voice thick with tears.
"I love you, too." Christine kneels beside the wheelchair and holds him tightly. “You’re so incredibly strong.”
Raoul rests his head on Christine’s chest, his ear to her bosom to hear her heart thump softly. “I don’t feel it. I feel tired and miserable.”
“But the very fact that you are alive today makes you strong,” Christine whispers fiercely. “You could have died.” She pauses, sniffling. The thought of losing her dear Raoul is not a thought she wants to explore.
“You could have given up,” she continues. “You could have stayed in bed for the rest of your days, not bothering to even try to get better. But you didn’t . You’re alive.”
Raoul’s breath hitches as he tries to calm his sobs. He presses his face further into her chest, right above the neckline of her nightgown onto her soft skin.
“One day you will walk on your own. The scars will become less and less gnarly, and the pain will subside. And when that day comes, we will move away from here and be properly married.”
“Oh, I want that,” the Vicomte chuckles tearfully. “In a grand church. With grand suits and dresses. I want… I want to do that.”
“And we will.” Christine combs through Raoul’s hair with her fingers.
Raoul lets out a deep breath, overwhelmed with an onslaught of pain and frustration and despair and longing.
“I want to hold you properly in my arms and dance again.”