A/N: Written for an anonymous Tumblr prompt which simply requested "E/C, picnic"

It was Christine's idea. He attempted to mount a protest, reminded her that he could hardly join her on the Bois with a face like a skull. The people would run and scream and then he'd have to explain that he isn't actually Death, not today, and it would ruin their picnic. Really, it would be better for all involved if they just stayed home and cuddled by the fire, and maybe he could be persuaded to read to her for a little while. She just smiled, knowing that he could always be persuaded to read to her (she, likewise, can always be persuaded to read to him), and calmly informed him that she had other plans for their outing, and he need not fear anyone seeing his face, because she knows somewhere quite secluded enough for them to dine without his mask or prosthetic nose.

Then she closed the lid on the basket, handed him his cloak and wide-brimmed hat, and ordered him up the stairs in front of her.

Knowing that it truly would be best for his health to obey her, he went without protest. The protests, in fact, died in his throat at the kiss she planted on his cheek as she handed him his hat. If his doing this would make her happy, well then, who was he to object?

That is how they've ended up in a secluded corner of the Opéra Garnier roof, the sky above them glowing gold and violet in the dying sunset. She feeds him red grapes one by one, her fingers light in his hair as he lies with his head in her lap. If he strains his ears enough, he can almost hear the strains of a violin swathing them in its music. Why did he ever protest to this?

If he could he would stop time, hold this moment perfect in the palm of his hand – the sky, the gentleness of Christine's eyes, the soft silk of her bodice pressed to his cheek. If he could die here, wrapped in her embrace, he would so as never to have to part with her.

"I love you," she murmurs, smiling softly down at him and he sighs, for once utterly content to never move again. The knowledge of her love is one that he is gradually growing used to, and it seeps through his veins, warm and safe and superior to any morphine.

"I know," he breathes against her fingertips. "I know." She bows her head, and kisses him where her fingers lingered a moment before, her lips sweetly soft and careful, laying her cheek against his forehead.

There is nothing but this, the two of them pressed together, the world slowed down and floating around them. It is simply, and completely, perfect.