Every step was difficult. Enigma may have been correct; he was not yet ready to be up and about. It burned him that his body, now of all times, would betray him to such humiliation. Debilitation by the hands of others, he understood. But by his own rude corpse of a body, that was unforgivable.
Nevertheless, he saw how Christine watched for signs that he was not well, and knew enough to know that if he showed her weakness, she would not react favorably. He had no desire to disturb her further this night, not after all he'd said already to her. And so he led her confidently, burying the signs that he was yet unwell, and if their steps were a touch slower, he trusted he could make her forget that.
At the door of his office, he stopped momentarily to turn the handle. It was a trial again, to make his hand work correctly -- a trial he was unwilling to show Christine. So, instead of allowing her to see him fight with a bit of metal and wood, he used his good arm to pull her close to him.
"Such a good little mother," he said softly to her, crushing those dark and springy curls of hers in his hand as he cradled the back of her head. To see the way her eyes changed when he did this was to know desire. It was there, flickering under his affliction, a warm heat that reminded him that he was yet still a man. He felt her breath against his throat and tightened his hold on her.
When his mouth trespassed against her lips, the woman went all soft and yielding against his chest. She tasted like honey and promise.