FIC: Splendor Will Collapse (King's Speech, B/E, PG)
Title: Splendor Will Collapse
Fandom: King's Speech
Genre: Missing scene, H/C, angst, romance, drama
Pairing: Bertie/Elizabeth
Characters: Bertie, Elizabeth, Lionel, Margaret and Lilibet
Words: 2,671
Rating: PG-13
Summary: "Elizabeth has pneumonia..."
~*~
It starts when she bursts into tears over a lost earring.
This isn't like his wife and for one surprised moment, he wonders if she's expecting again. He's prepared to be thrilled, except that she doesn't appear as she usually does when pregnant -- flushed and healthy, if a bit overemotional.
He pets her hair and leans in to look more closely.
Her normally perfect skin is ashen. The hand that covers her eyes as she cries is trembling and her well-manicured nails are strangely blue around the quick.
Tucking his fingers beneath her chin, he raises her weary, red-ringed eyes to meet his. Her lips in the dull lamplight are a pronounced shade of gray and he stumbles back, crying out for a footman who comes running in at top speed. "A d-d-octor for the Duchess," he orders wildly. "Now!"
"Bertie, no need to shout," she says weakly, before sliding off the chair into a dead faint.
He falls to his knees and gathers her up, his horror strangling him. The housekeeper and the girls' nurse rush in, but he waves them back furiously, unable to articulate his order to give her air. Finally, he forces the words out. "K-k-ee-p the g-gi-girls out of here. G-g-go away!"
He scoops Elizabeth up from the floor, terrified at how light she feels. When did she lose so much weight? How long has she been sick?
How did he not notice?
The house goes into a muted uproar around him as he kicks open the bedroom door and lays her on the bed. The footman returns, breathlessly announcing that the king's doctor will be here in twenty minutes, arriving straightaway from Buckingham.
Bertie thinks he is going to strike the man because twenty minutes is nineteen minutes too long. But he merely sits down beside his wife who is having trouble breathing, between wheezes and wan coughs, so he carefully removes her pearls before undoing the top button of her evening dress.
Her neck is burning with fever, as is her forehead. He opens his mouth as if to plead for her to speak to him, but no sound comes out. It would be just what he deserves, to lose his voice completely, wouldn't it?
If sensing his distress she comes to, patting his hand, offering comfort to him, he who least needs it. He shakes his head and strokes her cheek as the moments tick by with infuriating slowness. "The d-oc-oc-tor will be here s-s-oon, darling."
His stutter has grown doubly -- three times -- worse all of a sudden, as if all his training with Lionel has never happened.
She nods and closes her eyes, as if too tired to keep them open which is not like her at all. He forces himself to breathe, to stay strong but inside he's crumbling like a bloody child, feeling as he did on those endless nights when his legs were strapped inside the splints.
Helpless, hopeless ... doomed.
By the time the doctor arrives, he's in a frenzy, pacing the bedroom, forcing himself not to light a cigarette as that might aggravate Elizabeth's breathing further.
The physician ignores him and goes straight over to her, his stethoscope already out. He sits her up, barring her from flopping over and Bertie opens his mouth, but again, nothing comes out.
"Your Highness, either you or your housekeeper must help me undress her," the doctor says. His entire demeanor is grimly matter-of-fact and he shakes his head every time he presses the device to her back. "She will not be going to dinner tonight."
"Of c-c-course not," Bertie snaps back, sliding off his wife's clothing with some difficulty. He finally rips the last bit off, promising silently to buy her a new dress the moment she's better.
She seems to relax once the clothes are off. Bertie rummages for a nightgown in one of the drawers as the doctor continues his examination. "Her lungs are quite congested. I'm afraid she's developed pneumonia. I'm going to send for a round of medication and with luck, we'll be able to avoid hospital. Has she been sick for long?"
"I don't know," Bertie spits, the guilt feeling like a punch in the stomach. "She never s-s-said anything."
"Of course," the doctor replies diplomatically. He rises and bows. "I'll send my orders out and will administer the medication to the Duchess once it arrives. With your Highness's permission, I would like to stay downstairs for the evening, so as to be here in case of any emergency."
Bertie wants to tell the man that he'd be locked in a dungeon -- if the house had one -- to keep him from going anywhere, but he simply nods. He waves in the fretting housekeeper who helps him put Elizabeth into her nightgown. Together they tuck her in beneath the warm covers and he pretends to ignore the fact that she's crying as she leaves, even if it's like a knife in his heart.
He's not strong enough for this, he thinks desperately. But he must be and so he forces himself to leave the bedroom, in spite of all misgivings, to take care of the babies before returning to Elizabeth's side.
~*~
The girls, of course, are not stupid.
They ignore the nanny's attempts to ply them away with an extra sweet and converge on their father the moment they see him. "Where is Mama?" Margaret asks stridently, even as Lilibet chastises her with a tap to her arm. "Is she sick?"
"A l-l-little," he answers, bending down to embrace the both. "But the doctor is h-er-ere and will make her better. It's time for bed now."
Lilibet tries to pull her sister away, but Margaret won't hear of it. "We haven't had our story yet, Papa."
Bertie sighs and looks at her innocent face. He wonders if a man could die of love and decides that it's entirely possible, if that man is himself. With a watery grin, he kneels and pulls both his children close. "Very quickly. Once upon a t-time, there was a prince who was very much in love with his princess. But one n-night, she felt ill, so he stayed by her s-side until she was better no matter how long it took. Everyone tried to make him go out, to d-di-dinner, to tea and such, but he could not leave her, no matt-ter how much fun was to be had. However, one day she was well again and everyone in the kingdom was ha-happy."
Margaret and Lilibet don't look exactly pleased with this story, but they accept it without another word. "Can we see Mama tomorrow?" Lilibet asks quietly.
"We'll see," Bertie replies and kisses them both. "Now to bed, my dears-s. Have no fear, all will be well."
It's then the nanny ushers them away with a kind whisper and they follow silently.
Neither one of them bother to take their horses.
~*~
The doctor administers the medicine to Elizabeth and leaves, infuriating Bertie with his reluctance to give any sort of prognosis. He's left to pace the room and stare at her, jumping to her side when she awakens, but her expression is confused and exhausted, not reassuring at all.
Her fever lessens as the night passes, but the coughing gets worse, much worse. He holds up a small basin to her mouth as she vomits, brushing damp hair away from her pale face. "Oh, Bertie, I'm so sorry," she gasps between heaves and he wants to tell her that he doesn't care, that she can be sick all she has to be, as long as she gets better but his cursed tongue -- damn it to hell -- refuses to work.
He kisses her forehead instead. The housekeeper takes away the full sick pan and replaces it with another as he holds cool water to her lips, letting her take tiny sips, one after the other.
The doctor comes in every hour on the hour. He listens to her chest and frowns, but doesn't suggest she be sent to hospital, not yet. More medicine is administered, more heaving commences and it's only when dawn peeks over the horizon, is there quiet.
Bertie curls himself around her, holding her very gingerly. She's not quite as hot and her breathing sounds easier, which heartens him. He buries his face against her hair, shuddering at the thought of losing her. If she dies, then so will I, he thinks for one terrible moment, forgetting his children, God help him.
Bertie realizes the awful nature of his thoughts, how impossible they are and his grip on her tightens without him realizing it.
"Ouch," she murmurs sleepily.
"I'm sorry," he whispers. "Are you a little better?"
"A little, but I'm so very tired," she replies and he forces himself to believe her. "The girls ..."
"Are fine. Lilibet is keeping Margaret on the straight and narrow. As much as anyone m-might be able. Don't worry about them. You re-rest and let us take c-care of you. Tell me what I can get-t for you."
"A rifle, to put me out of my misery. Oh darling, I'm sorry, don't start so. I ... I just don't understand why I feel so awful. I thought it was a silly little cold." She sighs and melts into his embrace. "I can hardly move."
"Then don't." He kisses her gently, tucking his knees in more closely behind hers. "You will be my indolent Duchess as long as need be. We shall ply you with b-bon-bons and trays of sweets all day long, until you have the strength to get up."
She groans. "But I will get plump again. The only good thing about this sickness is how slim I am now."
"You are not fat, you were never fat and if that awful cow Mrs. Simpson inspires you to revel in your illness, I ... I ... I ... " He pauses, breathless, unable to complete the thought without cursing. He decides on a diplomatic finish. "I will be very displeased."
He hears a weak laugh, followed by a cough. "Heaven save us from that."
"Silly goose," he says, pouting somewhat, but relief fills his soul like sunshine pouring in through a terrible, terrifying storm.
~*~
At Elizabeth's insistence, Bertie keeps his appointment with Lionel two days later.
She's somewhat better, but weak as a kitten. He's been forced to take up duties again, even after protesting to his mother that his first duty is to his wife, which Queen Mary handwaves away without response, imperious old bitch that she is.
David is nowhere to be found, neither are his other siblings and everything falls to Bertie alone ... again.
Oddly, his father seems compassionate, but that just might be his illness talking, the one that's gotten to the point where most of the court is quite sure he's going to die sooner rather than later.
At least Lionel is honestly sympathetic. "She will get better though?" he asks, his long face even longer at the news that Elizabeth is sick. "Are you sure?"
Bertie sighs and nods, suddenly liking Lionel Logue better than his entire extended family put together. "That's what the physician s-s-says and he's the best there is, although it is going to take a while. She wanted me to s-s-ee you because my stam-mer got worse when she fell ill."
Lionel snorts. "Is that such a surprise? If Mrs. Logue fell so terribly ill out of the blue, I'd be speechless myself. Of all the things to fear, Bertie, being a regular man who is worried about his wife is the least of them. You're fine and will be right back on track, once you can relax."
"I cannot relax. The girls ..." Bertie twists his hat in his hands, his teeth grit. "They are frightened and I cannot ... unfrighten ... them."
"Then don't try. Don't shield them from the facts, that only makes things worse," Lionel advises in that infuriatingly calm way of his. "Bring them in, let them share your worries and you'll all find them lessened. Tell them the truth."
"You make it sound like i-it's the simplest thing, to tell them the truth," Bertie protests angrily.
Lionel smiles at him. "It is."
~*~
With great hesitance, he brings Margaret and Lilibet into Elizabeth's sickroom that evening, cautioning them not to jump upon the bed, but to sit beside her quietly.
They don't listen, of course, but some color comes back to Elizabeth's cheeks as the girls throw themselves upon her, fighting for the chance to hug her. "My angels," she says, her eyes brighter than they've been in days. "All right, now you are squashing your Mama. My little sillies."
Margaret regards her balefully. "Papa told us a story. About a sick princess who gets better. Are you better now?"
"Not quite yet, but soon." Elizabeth lies back against the pillows, regarding both her daughters as she strokes back their hair. "You must be very patient with your Papa, my dears. He works hard and I cannot help him at the moment, so you must take my place and be his good helpers by listening to all he says."
"We will, Mama," Lilibet says, in her own, very serious, way. She looks pointedly at her sister. "Both of us."
Margaret nods without arguing, so great is her relief at the sight of her mother. "We will be the best of helpers."
Bertie sits on the side of the bed and enfolds them both in his arms. "I knew I could count on you." He kisses the tops of their heads before gently shooing them out. "Tomorrow, you'll see her again, I promise. Now off to Nurse, and care for those poor ponies you've ig-ignored for the past few days. G-go on."
They practically skip out and Bertie exhales a sigh of relief which Elizabeth echoes. He leans in and touches their foreheads together. "Lionel suggested I bring the-m-m in. I hope that was all right."
"Better than all right," she smiles. She covers a cough with her hand and he automatically reaches for the sick pan, which makes her eyes twinkle. "You've become quite the nurse the past few days. Rolling bandages is next."
"God forbid," he breathes. He looks down at the covers, playing with a loose bit of thread between his fingers. "I've gotten news that Father's illn-ness has reached its last legs. I'll have to go up there, no matter what. Even David is coming in, God help us all."
Elizabeth nods. "Shall I ..."
"You shall not," he interjects firmly. "You are too ill and I'm not sacrificing my wife to be at a mere ceremony, which you know this is. He's been ... not there ... for m-months now. No one will think less of you for not attending such a scene. It's The C-Company's business. Nothing more." He curls in closely, wishing he could lie down beside her and not get up for a fortnight, at least. "I'll miss you."
"I'll miss you too," she murmurs, caressing his cheek. "And your father, old and cranky battle-axe he is. He does love you, you know."
Bertie shrugs. "I have all the love I need. Right here."
She reaches up with effort and kisses him very gently. "A moment may come, a word can be spoken, and both you and all this splendor will collapse," she quotes quietly. "But I promise one thing, my love, I won't let it."
His throat tightens brutally, his eyes welling with unshed tears. "Thank you," he stammers, not telling her that his world is her and she is all he needs to survive.
Even if her eyes tell him that she already knows.
~*~
end
Fandom: King's Speech
Genre: Missing scene, H/C, angst, romance, drama
Pairing: Bertie/Elizabeth
Characters: Bertie, Elizabeth, Lionel, Margaret and Lilibet
Words: 2,671
Rating: PG-13
Summary: "Elizabeth has pneumonia..."
~*~
It starts when she bursts into tears over a lost earring.
This isn't like his wife and for one surprised moment, he wonders if she's expecting again. He's prepared to be thrilled, except that she doesn't appear as she usually does when pregnant -- flushed and healthy, if a bit overemotional.
He pets her hair and leans in to look more closely.
Her normally perfect skin is ashen. The hand that covers her eyes as she cries is trembling and her well-manicured nails are strangely blue around the quick.
Tucking his fingers beneath her chin, he raises her weary, red-ringed eyes to meet his. Her lips in the dull lamplight are a pronounced shade of gray and he stumbles back, crying out for a footman who comes running in at top speed. "A d-d-octor for the Duchess," he orders wildly. "Now!"
"Bertie, no need to shout," she says weakly, before sliding off the chair into a dead faint.
He falls to his knees and gathers her up, his horror strangling him. The housekeeper and the girls' nurse rush in, but he waves them back furiously, unable to articulate his order to give her air. Finally, he forces the words out. "K-k-ee-p the g-gi-girls out of here. G-g-go away!"
He scoops Elizabeth up from the floor, terrified at how light she feels. When did she lose so much weight? How long has she been sick?
How did he not notice?
The house goes into a muted uproar around him as he kicks open the bedroom door and lays her on the bed. The footman returns, breathlessly announcing that the king's doctor will be here in twenty minutes, arriving straightaway from Buckingham.
Bertie thinks he is going to strike the man because twenty minutes is nineteen minutes too long. But he merely sits down beside his wife who is having trouble breathing, between wheezes and wan coughs, so he carefully removes her pearls before undoing the top button of her evening dress.
Her neck is burning with fever, as is her forehead. He opens his mouth as if to plead for her to speak to him, but no sound comes out. It would be just what he deserves, to lose his voice completely, wouldn't it?
If sensing his distress she comes to, patting his hand, offering comfort to him, he who least needs it. He shakes his head and strokes her cheek as the moments tick by with infuriating slowness. "The d-oc-oc-tor will be here s-s-oon, darling."
His stutter has grown doubly -- three times -- worse all of a sudden, as if all his training with Lionel has never happened.
She nods and closes her eyes, as if too tired to keep them open which is not like her at all. He forces himself to breathe, to stay strong but inside he's crumbling like a bloody child, feeling as he did on those endless nights when his legs were strapped inside the splints.
Helpless, hopeless ... doomed.
By the time the doctor arrives, he's in a frenzy, pacing the bedroom, forcing himself not to light a cigarette as that might aggravate Elizabeth's breathing further.
The physician ignores him and goes straight over to her, his stethoscope already out. He sits her up, barring her from flopping over and Bertie opens his mouth, but again, nothing comes out.
"Your Highness, either you or your housekeeper must help me undress her," the doctor says. His entire demeanor is grimly matter-of-fact and he shakes his head every time he presses the device to her back. "She will not be going to dinner tonight."
"Of c-c-course not," Bertie snaps back, sliding off his wife's clothing with some difficulty. He finally rips the last bit off, promising silently to buy her a new dress the moment she's better.
She seems to relax once the clothes are off. Bertie rummages for a nightgown in one of the drawers as the doctor continues his examination. "Her lungs are quite congested. I'm afraid she's developed pneumonia. I'm going to send for a round of medication and with luck, we'll be able to avoid hospital. Has she been sick for long?"
"I don't know," Bertie spits, the guilt feeling like a punch in the stomach. "She never s-s-said anything."
"Of course," the doctor replies diplomatically. He rises and bows. "I'll send my orders out and will administer the medication to the Duchess once it arrives. With your Highness's permission, I would like to stay downstairs for the evening, so as to be here in case of any emergency."
Bertie wants to tell the man that he'd be locked in a dungeon -- if the house had one -- to keep him from going anywhere, but he simply nods. He waves in the fretting housekeeper who helps him put Elizabeth into her nightgown. Together they tuck her in beneath the warm covers and he pretends to ignore the fact that she's crying as she leaves, even if it's like a knife in his heart.
He's not strong enough for this, he thinks desperately. But he must be and so he forces himself to leave the bedroom, in spite of all misgivings, to take care of the babies before returning to Elizabeth's side.
~*~
The girls, of course, are not stupid.
They ignore the nanny's attempts to ply them away with an extra sweet and converge on their father the moment they see him. "Where is Mama?" Margaret asks stridently, even as Lilibet chastises her with a tap to her arm. "Is she sick?"
"A l-l-little," he answers, bending down to embrace the both. "But the doctor is h-er-ere and will make her better. It's time for bed now."
Lilibet tries to pull her sister away, but Margaret won't hear of it. "We haven't had our story yet, Papa."
Bertie sighs and looks at her innocent face. He wonders if a man could die of love and decides that it's entirely possible, if that man is himself. With a watery grin, he kneels and pulls both his children close. "Very quickly. Once upon a t-time, there was a prince who was very much in love with his princess. But one n-night, she felt ill, so he stayed by her s-side until she was better no matter how long it took. Everyone tried to make him go out, to d-di-dinner, to tea and such, but he could not leave her, no matt-ter how much fun was to be had. However, one day she was well again and everyone in the kingdom was ha-happy."
Margaret and Lilibet don't look exactly pleased with this story, but they accept it without another word. "Can we see Mama tomorrow?" Lilibet asks quietly.
"We'll see," Bertie replies and kisses them both. "Now to bed, my dears-s. Have no fear, all will be well."
It's then the nanny ushers them away with a kind whisper and they follow silently.
Neither one of them bother to take their horses.
~*~
The doctor administers the medicine to Elizabeth and leaves, infuriating Bertie with his reluctance to give any sort of prognosis. He's left to pace the room and stare at her, jumping to her side when she awakens, but her expression is confused and exhausted, not reassuring at all.
Her fever lessens as the night passes, but the coughing gets worse, much worse. He holds up a small basin to her mouth as she vomits, brushing damp hair away from her pale face. "Oh, Bertie, I'm so sorry," she gasps between heaves and he wants to tell her that he doesn't care, that she can be sick all she has to be, as long as she gets better but his cursed tongue -- damn it to hell -- refuses to work.
He kisses her forehead instead. The housekeeper takes away the full sick pan and replaces it with another as he holds cool water to her lips, letting her take tiny sips, one after the other.
The doctor comes in every hour on the hour. He listens to her chest and frowns, but doesn't suggest she be sent to hospital, not yet. More medicine is administered, more heaving commences and it's only when dawn peeks over the horizon, is there quiet.
Bertie curls himself around her, holding her very gingerly. She's not quite as hot and her breathing sounds easier, which heartens him. He buries his face against her hair, shuddering at the thought of losing her. If she dies, then so will I, he thinks for one terrible moment, forgetting his children, God help him.
Bertie realizes the awful nature of his thoughts, how impossible they are and his grip on her tightens without him realizing it.
"Ouch," she murmurs sleepily.
"I'm sorry," he whispers. "Are you a little better?"
"A little, but I'm so very tired," she replies and he forces himself to believe her. "The girls ..."
"Are fine. Lilibet is keeping Margaret on the straight and narrow. As much as anyone m-might be able. Don't worry about them. You re-rest and let us take c-care of you. Tell me what I can get-t for you."
"A rifle, to put me out of my misery. Oh darling, I'm sorry, don't start so. I ... I just don't understand why I feel so awful. I thought it was a silly little cold." She sighs and melts into his embrace. "I can hardly move."
"Then don't." He kisses her gently, tucking his knees in more closely behind hers. "You will be my indolent Duchess as long as need be. We shall ply you with b-bon-bons and trays of sweets all day long, until you have the strength to get up."
She groans. "But I will get plump again. The only good thing about this sickness is how slim I am now."
"You are not fat, you were never fat and if that awful cow Mrs. Simpson inspires you to revel in your illness, I ... I ... I ... " He pauses, breathless, unable to complete the thought without cursing. He decides on a diplomatic finish. "I will be very displeased."
He hears a weak laugh, followed by a cough. "Heaven save us from that."
"Silly goose," he says, pouting somewhat, but relief fills his soul like sunshine pouring in through a terrible, terrifying storm.
~*~
At Elizabeth's insistence, Bertie keeps his appointment with Lionel two days later.
She's somewhat better, but weak as a kitten. He's been forced to take up duties again, even after protesting to his mother that his first duty is to his wife, which Queen Mary handwaves away without response, imperious old bitch that she is.
David is nowhere to be found, neither are his other siblings and everything falls to Bertie alone ... again.
Oddly, his father seems compassionate, but that just might be his illness talking, the one that's gotten to the point where most of the court is quite sure he's going to die sooner rather than later.
At least Lionel is honestly sympathetic. "She will get better though?" he asks, his long face even longer at the news that Elizabeth is sick. "Are you sure?"
Bertie sighs and nods, suddenly liking Lionel Logue better than his entire extended family put together. "That's what the physician s-s-says and he's the best there is, although it is going to take a while. She wanted me to s-s-ee you because my stam-mer got worse when she fell ill."
Lionel snorts. "Is that such a surprise? If Mrs. Logue fell so terribly ill out of the blue, I'd be speechless myself. Of all the things to fear, Bertie, being a regular man who is worried about his wife is the least of them. You're fine and will be right back on track, once you can relax."
"I cannot relax. The girls ..." Bertie twists his hat in his hands, his teeth grit. "They are frightened and I cannot ... unfrighten ... them."
"Then don't try. Don't shield them from the facts, that only makes things worse," Lionel advises in that infuriatingly calm way of his. "Bring them in, let them share your worries and you'll all find them lessened. Tell them the truth."
"You make it sound like i-it's the simplest thing, to tell them the truth," Bertie protests angrily.
Lionel smiles at him. "It is."
~*~
With great hesitance, he brings Margaret and Lilibet into Elizabeth's sickroom that evening, cautioning them not to jump upon the bed, but to sit beside her quietly.
They don't listen, of course, but some color comes back to Elizabeth's cheeks as the girls throw themselves upon her, fighting for the chance to hug her. "My angels," she says, her eyes brighter than they've been in days. "All right, now you are squashing your Mama. My little sillies."
Margaret regards her balefully. "Papa told us a story. About a sick princess who gets better. Are you better now?"
"Not quite yet, but soon." Elizabeth lies back against the pillows, regarding both her daughters as she strokes back their hair. "You must be very patient with your Papa, my dears. He works hard and I cannot help him at the moment, so you must take my place and be his good helpers by listening to all he says."
"We will, Mama," Lilibet says, in her own, very serious, way. She looks pointedly at her sister. "Both of us."
Margaret nods without arguing, so great is her relief at the sight of her mother. "We will be the best of helpers."
Bertie sits on the side of the bed and enfolds them both in his arms. "I knew I could count on you." He kisses the tops of their heads before gently shooing them out. "Tomorrow, you'll see her again, I promise. Now off to Nurse, and care for those poor ponies you've ig-ignored for the past few days. G-go on."
They practically skip out and Bertie exhales a sigh of relief which Elizabeth echoes. He leans in and touches their foreheads together. "Lionel suggested I bring the-m-m in. I hope that was all right."
"Better than all right," she smiles. She covers a cough with her hand and he automatically reaches for the sick pan, which makes her eyes twinkle. "You've become quite the nurse the past few days. Rolling bandages is next."
"God forbid," he breathes. He looks down at the covers, playing with a loose bit of thread between his fingers. "I've gotten news that Father's illn-ness has reached its last legs. I'll have to go up there, no matter what. Even David is coming in, God help us all."
Elizabeth nods. "Shall I ..."
"You shall not," he interjects firmly. "You are too ill and I'm not sacrificing my wife to be at a mere ceremony, which you know this is. He's been ... not there ... for m-months now. No one will think less of you for not attending such a scene. It's The C-Company's business. Nothing more." He curls in closely, wishing he could lie down beside her and not get up for a fortnight, at least. "I'll miss you."
"I'll miss you too," she murmurs, caressing his cheek. "And your father, old and cranky battle-axe he is. He does love you, you know."
Bertie shrugs. "I have all the love I need. Right here."
She reaches up with effort and kisses him very gently. "A moment may come, a word can be spoken, and both you and all this splendor will collapse," she quotes quietly. "But I promise one thing, my love, I won't let it."
His throat tightens brutally, his eyes welling with unshed tears. "Thank you," he stammers, not telling her that his world is her and she is all he needs to survive.
Even if her eyes tell him that she already knows.
~*~
end