cw: discussions of severe injury, internalized ableism, bad mental health states, possibly suicidal urges. its bad out here folks
[Time slips away from Alicia. How long has it been since the fire? A month? Two months? The bandages have long since been taken off and the wounds scarred, if still sensitive.
The doctors say she doesn't have to be confined to bedrest anymore, that she might even be able to go out in the garden if she's mindful, but Alicia doesn't really listen. She spends most of her time in the room anyway, blinds still drawn. She sleeps as much as she can and is miserable when she can't.
Clea takes care of her, which she no longer resists. Verso tries to cheer her up, which rarely works but she rarely resists. She can't remember the last time she saw Maman.
So here she is again, in the middle of the day, still lost in darkness and buried in her covers. Since she hasn't come down for breakfast, Clea or Verso will come in to bring her food soon. She's not even sure she'll eat it. She doesn't want to do anything. She doesn't want to see anyone. Not now, not ever.]
[The sound of a cane echoes outside in the corridor, the first sign of a break in her routine. Most of the staff have been released after the fire. They grieve privately and spare themselves rumour and scandal, and their home mostly exists in silence. Clea is visiting Simon. Verso is downstairs with his mother at the piano, keeping her spirits high.
Breakfast has come and gone. Much of the morning was spent slaving over the stove, secure in the heart of home. He offers what care and comfort he can and provides food for those unable or unwilling to feed themselves.
Mornings, afternoons and evenings are spent between comforting his wife and daughter. While Aline spends time with her son, he spends time with Alicia. When she is sleeping, he observes her silently, unable to believe she is alive. When she awakes, he sets down a bowl of coq au vin, made precisely as she likes it, and pulls open the curtains before offering his youngest child a glance.]
Do you intend to become as much a leisurely layabout as your brother?
[She hears the cane before anything else, and that rouses her a bit. Papa has come to visit, but he's also busy comforting Maman with the grief. What grief? She is alive, but sometimes it feels as if something's wrong. Maybe Maman is grieving the girl she can't be anymore. Sometimes she feels like she's grieving someone, too.
Alicia curls more into her blankets when he opens the curtains, trying to hide her face. Another time, she might have groaned in protest, but now she's just silent. She contemplates staying like this, but it's Papa. He'll pull the covers back if he has to.
So grudgingly she sits up a bit, glancing over at the meal he's set. She's sure it smells good, but she still can only smell the burning. She recognizes a meal she likes, though, and something a touch more solid than the soups and mush she'd been stuck with for a while. She stares at it for a moment, contemplating, which is more than she had expected to do.
Before, maybe she would have huffed at his teasing, or gotten offended. That feeling is there still, but it's under layers of numbness and scars. She just stares at her hands and avoids looking at her father, barely reacting. She just wants to go back to sleep, even though she's not tired.]
[Renoir stands beside the window but continues looking in her direction. He recognises when his daughter is genuienly incapable and when she is capable of reaching out, be that with a bit of confidence or a gentle push. But he is the sort of father who prefers to build the tools to make it happen.
The food he brought? That's his tool of choice for today.]
I see you intend to be a recluse like your mother.
[In her case, sitting up a bit is nowhere near enough. He comes over, leans his cane against the wall and begins arranging the pillowcases behind her.]
Doctor's advice, in case you refuse to listen to your father.
[It's easier for him to placate Verso into leaving her be, and Clea will at least accept attempts at taking care of herself. But she's pretty sure Renoir isn't going to be as easy for her to dissuade to leave her be.
The comment about her mother digs in more than she likes. She gives Renoir a hurt look, but it at least inspires her to cooperate a little bit more. She sits up to let Renoir fix her pillows, and then grudgingly -- and with still burned and clumsy hands -- pulls the bowl onto her lap. She doesn't eat, just yet, but baby steps.
[Alicia shoots him a glance, her expression colored with discomfort and pain. But he already regrets the necessity of his words in helping her move. He lifts the bowl into the air to support her by lying a heavy blanket across her legs. Enough to offer comfort through pressure while supporting the weight of her dish.
Once done, he perches on the bed. His right leg extends across the floor, lest nerves and muscle flare. Their disabilities are nowhere near the same, but he understands some of her frustration.]
[The blanket does help, if only to steady the bowl so she doesn't have to worry about it. And to distribute the warmth radiating from it, so that the prickly feeling to too-hot skin doesn't overwhelm her again.
Just as she's grudgingly about to pick up the spoon, she hear Renoir talk again. She knows Papa means well, but -- but today she's feeling stubborn and miserable. She gestures wildly at his cane, angry, and then to her throat and face. He had something to help, but there's nothing like a cane that will help her. The doctors have stopped telling her that her voice might come back, or that the scars will fade more.
Renoir and his leg are dignified, and she's just... it's better if she hides away in her room. She gestures to her face again, trying to dare him to look at her without pity or pain. That's all people are going to see, now.]
[Her gestures are fierce, open and outspoken, though she does not scream or shout in his direction. She wishes to be seen as herself, not a child in need of protection. But his protection is given without request or obligation. He patiently waits for her to finish.
That same patience was there before the fire and shall exist after.]
Look in the bedside table.
[There is a black journal and a collection of fine pens.]
[...What? She frowns, even though it tugs on her still-sensitive scars. She hands her bowl to him to hold, so she won't spill it when she reaches over and grabs what he's talking about.
She pulls the journal and pens closer, running her hands over the cover. It's nice. It is both touching and devastating. It would be nice to put her thoughts down, maybe, put words to paper again, but that also means that's all she'll ever do. Alicia squeezes her eyes (eye, just one) shut and tries not to cry.
She opens the journal quickly and scribbles something down, knowing it'll only hurt but almost craving it at this point. Then she turns it around and shows it to Renoir, a question in a single word:
[Renoir balances the bowl in his palm, his calloused hand protecting against the warmth. She swallows her emotions like her father has for decades. He thinks it would be good fortune to see her smile, knowing she feels more like herself, but remembers his mood when his own mobility became limited.
In the end, he remains quiet on the edge of the bed and chooses to say nothing. Since when have condolences meant anything?]
I asked your brother to look after her a while.
[Verso is doing what he should be doing. But in helping his daughter, he hopes to help his wife. He knows the two have barely spoken after the fire.]
It is hard to witness those we love in pain. Just give her time.
[Oh. She thought she heard music, but she didn't know if she was just imagining it. It'd be nice to be down there, humming with him...
Give her time. Alicia knows it's true, and her body languages just sags. She doesn't reach for the bowl again, instead choosing to turn and lay on her side, with her back to Renoir.]
[Alicia not so subtly hints she wants her brother for company. He knows the two are close in ways that are different, more willing to share secrets, more open to sharing emotions. But he does not abandon her to her misery and remains on his perch.
He glances towards his cane, a smaller version carved from white beech nestled behind. He stretches to grasp hers and lets it rest upon the covers. Reach out and take it.]
This will spare you the indignity of your sister pushing you downstairs. I suppose. Though she will find other methods that embarrass you.
[His daughter is self-conscious of the chair that was used in the early days, simply to help her move through the house.]
[Oh? She does turn a little bit when she feels something put on the bed. And she sits up, looking at it.
Oh, it's like papa's cane. It's nice, and pretty, and better than being in the wheelchair. She hates that, but Clea insists sometimes. But she's still too weak to walk on her own, most of the time.
So she sits up and reaches to take a bite of her food, at least as a gesture, and then grabs the cane. She'll eat more later but for now she slowly and hesitantly scoots to the edge of the bed, staring to brace herself to get up.]
[Renoir finds himself patient in this matter. He moves from the edge to afford her room; gripping his cane before rising to his feet with his stronger leg. He models the best method and waits for her to follow.
In that time, he considers his wife reacting to her daughter. He understands she needs space and time, but she must face reality. But he affords her what she needs, because he recognises that level of pain.]
[She'd like to watch him without making it obvious, but it's hard with her more limited vision. She has to turn her head to examine his form. Then she grabs her cane and tries to mimic him.
When she gets to her feet she sways a little bit, more from being laid in bed so long than anything. But the cane does help her keep her balance, even if she still seems a bit uneasy.]
[His mind is a haze, full of knowledge and understanding. He recalls growing up in her position, feeling like the world had turned against you, and that the only person he could depend on was himself. Faces and names had become hazy over the years, probably because his early years were painful enough that he wanted to forget.
So he watches her struggle, watches her fight to assert her presence, and finds himself filled with pride. He leans into his cane when the feelings become too much to physically handle.]
I understand it feels different at first. [Difficult.] But things will get better.
[She is a child and does not deserve to be targeted.]
[Things will get better. People keep telling her that. Yet something feels so inexplibly wrong, and it's not just the scars or the silence. Sometimes when she looks at her hands, her skin looks grey. Sometimes the whole world looks grey. Sometimes she sees Verso and thinks she's seeing a ghost.
Alicia feels like she's going insane. She hopes it's just the misery from the fire.
After a second she moves closer to him, looping her free arm around his free arm. She might need to separate when they reach the stairs, but right now all she wants is the quiet comfort of her father's touch.]
[Alicia stares into space in similar ways to how he studies his work. She loses herself in another world, making him worry she will never return. But her cane gently pounds the floor and her arm wraps around his own.]
You don't need to spend too long downstairs. But seeing everyone will be good for you.
[His body leans gently in her direction. His left foot steps forward as a guide.]
Just take a step and then take it from there.
thought i replied to this oops good thing i checked
[She leans on him more heavily than she leans on her cane, though she worries that'll make it harder for him. But every part of her aches and strains under the weight of existing.
When she walks it's slow and hesitant, but at a steady pace. She realizes, suddenly, that she doesn't want Verso to stay like this. But they're already going, so.
Her eyes drift to some of the flowers someone's brought in to try and cheer her up. She gestures at those, trying to get him to understand that she wants to go outside. To see the gardens.]
[Her movements are a struggle at first, and that draws his attention, leaving him ignorant to softer gestures towards the flowers. Time needs a moment for his head to turn in their direction. Realisation colours his face. His hand slides protectively over that grasping his arm while his head cants towards his shoulder.]
You do understand your brother will accuse me of stealing your attention?
[It's honestly not criticism! Just banter. His gentle tone makes it clear. Were he more resistant, it would be more forceful.]
[There is no particular stiffness in her -- except maybe the still-rough exhale of her breath -- just that everything's sore, everything's still a bit weak. Her motions are slow and careful, trying not to pull on the still new scars.
She gives a huff at his little banter, almost making a noise. The effort makes her cough a couple of times, but she recovers quickly enough. It's a good sign that she can be amused, at least. Right now, she wants fresh air, and to see something alive. To see something with... color. To make sure it's not just her eyes playing tricks on her.]
[Renoir angles his head back to being upright. One might consider it a sign this conversation is returning to normal. Those who know him will recognise it as him reaching a decision. His motions are similar to hers, slow and gentle in trying to not disturb anything that might cause pain.]
One question. Would the mademoiselle prefer the front gardens or the rear?
[Would she prefer to brave the crowd or ignore them? Not that it matters. The limestone walls are tall enough to guarantee privacy.]
[Alicia gestures behind her very quickly. It's not even a question to her. While the risk of being seen by anyone in the front gardens is low, it's not zero, and she can't deal with that.
In the back gardens, she's only at risk of running into Clea, or something like that. Even that might be a bit much, but it'd be better than strangers.]
[The back gardens, then. Where he watches the fountain while he paints outdoors, wondering what else could take its place. He releases her grasp to open the bedroom door, balancing his cane on his other side for a moment, wondering why he feels something should take its place.
Because a fountain is not enough of a marker these days?]
And would she fancy lunch?
[What use is a private and luxurious garden if it never gets used by family? He would have killed for such a life when younger.]
[Alicia had always liked the gardens. Really, she's always liked being outside. Even on her shyer days, she'd always loved to slip out and enjoy the fresh air, have some time privately with just her and the world.
Now, she turns away from even that. But maybe the reminder would be good for her. Or maybe it'll just make her feel worse.
Oh. Lunch. She considers, then tries to make a gesture that indicates something smaller. She'll eat something, but maybe not a full lunch. Still, a snack is better than nothing.]
[Renoir reminisces on travelling between the gardens and his atelier, always fond of frequenting places one hardly expects to find people. He welcomes privacy and exploring his emotions - but his wife had taught him the importance of moderation. Show yourself to the world just enough to stop them asking questions.
Lunch outside is a balance between those expectations. He relishes being alone with his emotions when he cannot be amongst family.
But first one needs to leave the safety of indoors.
He holds open the door with his shoulder and gestures for her to pass over the threshold.]
[Renoir opens the door and automatically, preemptively, Alicia turns her good eye away and squints. It's as if she's afraid the sunlight and fresh air will burn her again, somehow. But nothing comes, and eventually she carefully turns to look outside again.
But. She lingers at the threshold. When was the last time she actually went outside? Has she been since the fire? She doesn't know, and the thought scares her. Instead of continuing, she presses herself more against Renoir, staring with a wide eye outside.
It's just the garden. She knows it's fine. But she also feels like, if she steps outside, she'll crumble to ash.]
[The light of day has never been so terrifying and welcoming at the same time. He remembers spotting smoke and fire, smelling ash and char, but not being close enough to pull anyone out the rubble.
Today, here and now, he releases her grasp on his arm and embraces her closely. If she is afraid to step outside alone then he is right here.]
It's a difficult choice, ma cherie. This is why families need each other.
[Amongst other reasons. In any case, will she want to step outside with him holding her close?]
[Alicia closes her eyes and lets herself get lost in the simple comfort of her father's embrace. If it was Clea, she'd just make Alicia step out. If it was Verso, he'd try to ply her with gentle words, then give up and suggest something else. If it was Maman...
Well, it's good it's Renoir. He won't mind if it takes her a few minutes to gather her courage. And when she does move, she does so while still clinging to her father. She forces herself to just edge past the threshold, making sure she doesn't cross it without him.]
[Renoir closes his eyes and puts one foot before the other. Alicia moves in his shadow, keeping close and quiet. His arm wraps more comfortably around her shoulder. This could hardly be called walking but can be called progress. He forces himself to match her pace. If these small steps are all she can manage, then he can manage to be patient.]
Good, Alicia. I understand this is difficult.
[It is a short distance to the top of the stairs that descends from the porch to the fountain.]
[Each step is a little easier. Or not the steps themselves, because even at her boldest they are still hesitant and weak. But each second spend out in the air and the sun makes her a little less nervous. Once or twice she considers bolt back in, but her father provides a convenient barricade to that impulse.
Eventually they make it to the fountain and Alicia pauses, giving a shaky exhale. Her breathing still rattles a little bit, but it's been getting better. She doesn't wheeze as much. And look, she's outside, even if she leans again Renoir from the sheer emotional effort of going this far.]
[Renoir leans forward, looming like a protective shadow that envelopes from every direction. The sun warms his back while he inhales gratitude and breathes out his fear. The fountain is still while he rests his head upon hers. He holds her close, afraid to let her go.
Perhaps she wishes she had died, but he is grateful she is alive.]
[Part of her wants to stay here, in the shadow of her father as he embraces her and shields her from the world outside. It'd be easier, to ignore everything else. But that's not much different from staying in her room in the darkness all day, and they'd come out here to voice that.
Eventually she untangles herself slowly, with careful and calming breathes. It's not so bad when it's just them in the quiet of the garden. There's even some faint birdsong to brighten up the scene.
Even as she tries to sit up and be brave, one hand still stays clinging to Renoir's sleeve. Even so, she forces herself to breath deeply in the fresh air. It's good for her, even if the action still makes her hurt. The doctors said it was good to practice, sometimes.]
[She breathes in and out, out and in, and he observes with a remarkable amount of patience. It is a difficult position to occupy, watching his child learning how to become used to herself again. But this is extremely difficult for the child in question.
Perhaps the birdsong brightens his mood. Perhaps the sight of her trying to practice. But a fleeting mixture of love and pride colours his face.]
We should move your bedroom outdoors, non? Back into the treehouse?
[He does not speak of the doctors or nurses who visited her bedside. He has endured their presence in his life - meaning she might be tired of hearing about their opinions. She is outside and walking with support. That is proof of recovery.
So he says something colorful and obscure to lift the mood. Hopefully.]
[To the treehouse. She makes a small sound, a light little laugh, but even that's too much. It's only a moment before she devolves into a coughing fit, irritation her already sensitive throat.
Luckily she recovers after a moment, but it leaves her breathing heavily and with a rasping rattle. She hasn't learned how to laugh without making noise yet. It's disheartening that she might have to.
But she tries not to let Renoir see her dip in mood again. Instead, she points to one of the flowers that's starting to bloom nearby. Isn't that nice?]
[He notices those small moments of comfort, dwarfed by her embarrassment, always he notices, but this time as so many times before he looks towards whatever she uses as a distraction. He gifts her that moment of grace.]
Magnolias. [White to be precise.] Associated with nobility and pride. I sent your mother a bouquet while we were courting.
[And by courting he means scandalous rendevous in his garrett on the wrong side of town.]
[Nobility and pride. Something she feels she's always been particularly lacking in, but more so now than ever. Nobody ever says it, but she feels like the failure of the family. She even failed to die right.
But Papa wouldn't want her thinking like that. She exhales a small sigh, feeling the back half of it rattle in her sensitive throat.
She lightly smacks Renoir's arm, teasing him for bringing up something as gross and embarrassing as his courtship with Maman. As if she'd want to know about that! (But she wants him to keep talking about happier days).]
[The slightest noise. Her soft murmur that is almost unnoticed between sounds of breezes and birdsong. Air cracks with the gentle slap of his arm; her hand striking the skin where his sleeves are rolled up to his elbows.]
So you can smile when the mood takes you.
[His cane transfers to his left hand, so the right can rest upon where hers has settled in his arm.]
[He teases, but there'd been a time she'd been genuinely worried she wouldn't be able to. When the scars were still healing, growing thicker and stiffer. Even now, it's harder to smile than before, but it doesn't hurt. It just feels... strange.
She lifts his hand to move it, so she can lean against his arm. She places his hand back down on her shoulder, so that he's basically embracing her again.
She gestures a little bit, a rolling motion. She wants him to keep talking.]
[Fingers clench gently around her shoulder, settling in place with a comforting weight. His voice echoes from above and behind, a low and warm tone befitting of the season.]
Ours was a romance between a lady and an artist from the wrong side of town. [Prince and Pauper. Rich and Poor.] You know, it threatened quite a scandal.
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pre-fracture; for @betenoir
[Time slips away from Alicia. How long has it been since the fire? A month? Two months? The bandages have long since been taken off and the wounds scarred, if still sensitive.
The doctors say she doesn't have to be confined to bedrest anymore, that she might even be able to go out in the garden if she's mindful, but Alicia doesn't really listen. She spends most of her time in the room anyway, blinds still drawn. She sleeps as much as she can and is miserable when she can't.
Clea takes care of her, which she no longer resists. Verso tries to cheer her up, which rarely works but she rarely resists. She can't remember the last time she saw Maman.
So here she is again, in the middle of the day, still lost in darkness and buried in her covers. Since she hasn't come down for breakfast, Clea or Verso will come in to bring her food soon. She's not even sure she'll eat it. She doesn't want to do anything. She doesn't want to see anyone. Not now, not ever.]
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Breakfast has come and gone. Much of the morning was spent slaving over the stove, secure in the heart of home. He offers what care and comfort he can and provides food for those unable or unwilling to feed themselves.
Mornings, afternoons and evenings are spent between comforting his wife and daughter. While Aline spends time with her son, he spends time with Alicia. When she is sleeping, he observes her silently, unable to believe she is alive. When she awakes, he sets down a bowl of coq au vin, made precisely as she likes it, and pulls open the curtains before offering his youngest child a glance.]
Do you intend to become as much a leisurely layabout as your brother?
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Alicia curls more into her blankets when he opens the curtains, trying to hide her face. Another time, she might have groaned in protest, but now she's just silent. She contemplates staying like this, but it's Papa. He'll pull the covers back if he has to.
So grudgingly she sits up a bit, glancing over at the meal he's set. She's sure it smells good, but she still can only smell the burning. She recognizes a meal she likes, though, and something a touch more solid than the soups and mush she'd been stuck with for a while. She stares at it for a moment, contemplating, which is more than she had expected to do.
Before, maybe she would have huffed at his teasing, or gotten offended. That feeling is there still, but it's under layers of numbness and scars. She just stares at her hands and avoids looking at her father, barely reacting. She just wants to go back to sleep, even though she's not tired.]
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The food he brought? That's his tool of choice for today.]
I see you intend to be a recluse like your mother.
[In her case, sitting up a bit is nowhere near enough. He comes over, leans his cane against the wall and begins arranging the pillowcases behind her.]
Doctor's advice, in case you refuse to listen to your father.
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The comment about her mother digs in more than she likes. She gives Renoir a hurt look, but it at least inspires her to cooperate a little bit more. She sits up to let Renoir fix her pillows, and then grudgingly -- and with still burned and clumsy hands -- pulls the bowl onto her lap. She doesn't eat, just yet, but baby steps.
It's a bad day. Most days are bad days, now.]
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Once done, he perches on the bed. His right leg extends across the floor, lest nerves and muscle flare. Their disabilities are nowhere near the same, but he understands some of her frustration.]
It does get better, child. I promise you.
getting heavy ooops
Just as she's grudgingly about to pick up the spoon, she hear Renoir talk again. She knows Papa means well, but -- but today she's feeling stubborn and miserable. She gestures wildly at his cane, angry, and then to her throat and face. He had something to help, but there's nothing like a cane that will help her. The doctors have stopped telling her that her voice might come back, or that the scars will fade more.
Renoir and his leg are dignified, and she's just... it's better if she hides away in her room. She gestures to her face again, trying to dare him to look at her without pity or pain. That's all people are going to see, now.]
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[Her gestures are fierce, open and outspoken, though she does not scream or shout in his direction. She wishes to be seen as herself, not a child in need of protection. But his protection is given without request or obligation. He patiently waits for her to finish.
That same patience was there before the fire and shall exist after.]
Look in the bedside table.
[There is a black journal and a collection of fine pens.]
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She pulls the journal and pens closer, running her hands over the cover. It's nice. It is both touching and devastating. It would be nice to put her thoughts down, maybe, put words to paper again, but that also means that's all she'll ever do. Alicia squeezes her eyes (eye, just one) shut and tries not to cry.
She opens the journal quickly and scribbles something down, knowing it'll only hurt but almost craving it at this point. Then she turns it around and shows it to Renoir, a question in a single word:
Maman?]
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In the end, he remains quiet on the edge of the bed and chooses to say nothing. Since when have condolences meant anything?]
I asked your brother to look after her a while.
[Verso is doing what he should be doing. But in helping his daughter, he hopes to help his wife. He knows the two have barely spoken after the fire.]
It is hard to witness those we love in pain. Just give her time.
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Give her time. Alicia knows it's true, and her body languages just sags. She doesn't reach for the bowl again, instead choosing to turn and lay on her side, with her back to Renoir.]
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He glances towards his cane, a smaller version carved from white beech nestled behind. He stretches to grasp hers and lets it rest upon the covers. Reach out and take it.]
This will spare you the indignity of your sister pushing you downstairs. I suppose. Though she will find other methods that embarrass you.
[His daughter is self-conscious of the chair that was used in the early days, simply to help her move through the house.]
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Oh, it's like papa's cane. It's nice, and pretty, and better than being in the wheelchair. She hates that, but Clea insists sometimes. But she's still too weak to walk on her own, most of the time.
So she sits up and reaches to take a bite of her food, at least as a gesture, and then grabs the cane. She'll eat more later but for now she slowly and hesitantly scoots to the edge of the bed, staring to brace herself to get up.]
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In that time, he considers his wife reacting to her daughter. He understands she needs space and time, but she must face reality. But he affords her what she needs, because he recognises that level of pain.]
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When she gets to her feet she sways a little bit, more from being laid in bed so long than anything. But the cane does help her keep her balance, even if she still seems a bit uneasy.]
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So he watches her struggle, watches her fight to assert her presence, and finds himself filled with pride. He leans into his cane when the feelings become too much to physically handle.]
I understand it feels different at first. [Difficult.] But things will get better.
[She is a child and does not deserve to be targeted.]
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Alicia feels like she's going insane. She hopes it's just the misery from the fire.
After a second she moves closer to him, looping her free arm around his free arm. She might need to separate when they reach the stairs, but right now all she wants is the quiet comfort of her father's touch.]
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You don't need to spend too long downstairs. But seeing everyone will be good for you.
[His body leans gently in her direction. His left foot steps forward as a guide.]
Just take a step and then take it from there.
thought i replied to this oops good thing i checked
When she walks it's slow and hesitant, but at a steady pace. She realizes, suddenly, that she doesn't want Verso to stay like this. But they're already going, so.
Her eyes drift to some of the flowers someone's brought in to try and cheer her up. She gestures at those, trying to get him to understand that she wants to go outside. To see the gardens.]
it's all good!
You do understand your brother will accuse me of stealing your attention?
[It's honestly not criticism! Just banter. His gentle tone makes it clear. Were he more resistant, it would be more forceful.]
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She gives a huff at his little banter, almost making a noise. The effort makes her cough a couple of times, but she recovers quickly enough. It's a good sign that she can be amused, at least. Right now, she wants fresh air, and to see something alive. To see something with... color. To make sure it's not just her eyes playing tricks on her.]
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One question. Would the mademoiselle prefer the front gardens or the rear?
[Would she prefer to brave the crowd or ignore them? Not that it matters. The limestone walls are tall enough to guarantee privacy.]
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In the back gardens, she's only at risk of running into Clea, or something like that. Even that might be a bit much, but it'd be better than strangers.]
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Because a fountain is not enough of a marker these days?]
And would she fancy lunch?
[What use is a private and luxurious garden if it never gets used by family? He would have killed for such a life when younger.]
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Now, she turns away from even that. But maybe the reminder would be good for her. Or maybe it'll just make her feel worse.
Oh. Lunch. She considers, then tries to make a gesture that indicates something smaller. She'll eat something, but maybe not a full lunch. Still, a snack is better than nothing.]
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Lunch outside is a balance between those expectations. He relishes being alone with his emotions when he cannot be amongst family.
But first one needs to leave the safety of indoors.
He holds open the door with his shoulder and gestures for her to pass over the threshold.]
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But. She lingers at the threshold. When was the last time she actually went outside? Has she been since the fire? She doesn't know, and the thought scares her. Instead of continuing, she presses herself more against Renoir, staring with a wide eye outside.
It's just the garden. She knows it's fine. But she also feels like, if she steps outside, she'll crumble to ash.]
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Today, here and now, he releases her grasp on his arm and embraces her closely. If she is afraid to step outside alone then he is right here.]
It's a difficult choice, ma cherie. This is why families need each other.
[Amongst other reasons. In any case, will she want to step outside with him holding her close?]
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Well, it's good it's Renoir. He won't mind if it takes her a few minutes to gather her courage. And when she does move, she does so while still clinging to her father. She forces herself to just edge past the threshold, making sure she doesn't cross it without him.]
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Good, Alicia. I understand this is difficult.
[It is a short distance to the top of the stairs that descends from the porch to the fountain.]
But I know you can do this.
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Eventually they make it to the fountain and Alicia pauses, giving a shaky exhale. Her breathing still rattles a little bit, but it's been getting better. She doesn't wheeze as much. And look, she's outside, even if she leans again Renoir from the sheer emotional effort of going this far.]
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Perhaps she wishes she had died, but he is grateful she is alive.]
You're going to be all right, Alicia.
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Eventually she untangles herself slowly, with careful and calming breathes. It's not so bad when it's just them in the quiet of the garden. There's even some faint birdsong to brighten up the scene.
Even as she tries to sit up and be brave, one hand still stays clinging to Renoir's sleeve. Even so, she forces herself to breath deeply in the fresh air. It's good for her, even if the action still makes her hurt. The doctors said it was good to practice, sometimes.]
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Perhaps the birdsong brightens his mood. Perhaps the sight of her trying to practice. But a fleeting mixture of love and pride colours his face.]
We should move your bedroom outdoors, non? Back into the treehouse?
[He does not speak of the doctors or nurses who visited her bedside. He has endured their presence in his life - meaning she might be tired of hearing about their opinions. She is outside and walking with support. That is proof of recovery.
So he says something colorful and obscure to lift the mood. Hopefully.]
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Luckily she recovers after a moment, but it leaves her breathing heavily and with a rasping rattle. She hasn't learned how to laugh without making noise yet. It's disheartening that she might have to.
But she tries not to let Renoir see her dip in mood again. Instead, she points to one of the flowers that's starting to bloom nearby. Isn't that nice?]
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Magnolias. [White to be precise.] Associated with nobility and pride. I sent your mother a bouquet while we were courting.
[And by courting he means scandalous rendevous in his garrett on the wrong side of town.]
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But Papa wouldn't want her thinking like that. She exhales a small sigh, feeling the back half of it rattle in her sensitive throat.
She lightly smacks Renoir's arm, teasing him for bringing up something as gross and embarrassing as his courtship with Maman. As if she'd want to know about that! (But she wants him to keep talking about happier days).]
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So you can smile when the mood takes you.
[His cane transfers to his left hand, so the right can rest upon where hers has settled in his arm.]
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She lifts his hand to move it, so she can lean against his arm. She places his hand back down on her shoulder, so that he's basically embracing her again.
She gestures a little bit, a rolling motion. She wants him to keep talking.]
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Ours was a romance between a lady and an artist from the wrong side of town. [Prince and Pauper. Rich and Poor.] You know, it threatened quite a scandal.