A/N: Written for an anonymous Tumblr prompt which read, "the first time Erik thinks "our bed" instead of "her bed"."
"Time for bed, Erik," she murmurs softly in his ear, her arms warm around his chest. Her breath is gentle, and she presses her lips to his cheek. "You need rest too."
"Soon, my dear," he whispers, inclining his head and nuzzling her throat. "When I have finished here." It will not take long to finish; there are only a handful of notes left and he can feel them prickling at the back of his mind, begging to be written.
She nods and withdraws, and immediately he misses her arms around him, though her fingers rest idly against the nape of his neck a moment. "Alright. Don't take too long." One last kiss, pressed to his hair, and she is gone. His ears follow her tread into her room, and catches the soft click of her door closing. He returns to his composition, fingers lightly tapping the keys as the notes swim through his brain. With infinite caution he draws in the quavers and semi-quavers on the staff paper, and in ten minutes he is done. It is done, and tomorrow he will play it for her but tonight he must retire to his coffin. He promised her that he would rest, after all, though he is not tired.
Erik has been sitting on his organ bench so long that his muscles protest stiffly when he stands. His hip cracks as he stretches, twinging pain down his right thigh that stabs in his knee. He massages it briefly, then sighs and hobbles into his own room, carefully not to jar the leg too much. It is something of a relief to take off his dress suit, and pull on his long nightshirt. It is even more of a relief to climb into his coffin and turn down the oil lamp. His hip protests, but if he lies just so some of the pain ebbs out of it.
The darkness is cool tonight, quiet, and he might, if he is fortunate, snatch an hour or two of peace before the nightmares come. Christine need never know if he does not spend the whole night in bed.
Christine. He detects her soft tread crossing her room, and the clicking open of her door. Every sound is magnified in the stillness of the night, and her light step is engraved upon his heart. She crosses the sitting room, and is at his own door almost before he realises it, padding inside and over to his coffin. Her little hand is cool cupping his cheek, and he softly takes it, kissing her fingers.
"Erik," she murmurs, her voice a soothing breath in the darkness, "when I said it was time for bed I meant it was time for you to join me in our bed."
It is easier to sleep beside her. Her little body pressed against him is enough to keep the nightmares at bay, and even when he does wake it is enough to simply lie beside her and watch her sleep, her pale rose lips parted for her soft breaths. Her bed is also a great deal easier on his hip, if he is being honest. But it is her bed and her room nonetheless, her sanctuary away from him, and he cannot simply invade it for his own purposes whatever the comfort her presence brings him. It would not be right to do so.
But Christine. Oh, Christine is an angel, truly, and she always insists on inviting him into her bed. Since their marriage a handful of months ago, he has only slept the night in his coffin twice, both occasions when he went to bed hours after her. And each time he woke in the morning to her sitting in a chair beside him, her fingers twined with his own and her thumb stroking smooth circles into the back of his hand.
She has her bed, and he has his. It is for the best that way.
(When they make love it is in her bed. He would not have touched her in that way, never permitted himself to consider defiling her in such a manner, but she insisted. Her gentle caresses, soft hands smoothing over the roughness of his skin and his hair and softer lips pressed to his throat and his chest. He has kissed her too, learned her in her bed, cupped her breasts and worshipped the softness of her stomach, her navel, the warmth between her thighs. And yet it is not a marriage bed but her bed. Only and ever her bed.)
She guides him into her bed every night now. Leads him by the hand and has his nightshirt ready. He does not need her help undressing but her hands are so lovely at the buttons of his waistcoat and his shirt, easing his clothing off and pulling his nightshirt over his head. He might protest that he is not an invalid, but he is mesmerised by her hands and by the kisses that she presses to his brow. She lies him down and undresses herself, skirt and bodice falling away, replaced by her nightdress. She is not a mother, she does not need the nightdress with the buttons down her bosom, but she buys it anyway and wears it to bed with him, knowing the comfort he gets when the nightmares come from nuzzling her breasts, feeling their smooth, soft skin beneath his lips.
She slips into her bed beside him, folds herself around him, rests her head upon his chest and draws the covers tight. And he does not object to her wanting him in her bed, because how can he? He is but a humble sinner and she is an angel, and he cradles her close and pretends that his throat is not tight with his love for her.
He wakes to a world of blinding misery, of the room tilting around him. His eyes will not be still. They insist on roving, escaping the fire-hot pins burning the back of them, twisting his stomach. He makes some small sound of pain or must, because she is there, ever there his angel, cool hand resting on his burning brow.
Shards of broken words reach his ears. "...safe...our bed...sleep..." He has never been sea-sick in his life but he is sea-sick now, the acid burning his throat, retching, and her worried eyes searching his, watering. Water trickles between his lips, bitter and cool, soothing his throat, and sleep rocks him in its cool dark embrace.
He wakes to darkness, he wakes to her words jumbled, he wakes to nausea and sweating heat and every time he wakes he is reminded that it is our bed and he is safe here. At last he wakes to her, smoothing his brow and murmuring softly, sitting at the edge of their bed.
"How do you feel?" Her fingers lightly trail down his arm, find his hand and squeeze it.
His throat is sore, tired, but he manages to whisper a hoarse, "Better." It is true. The room has stopped tilting and his eyes have stopped roving through it takes all of his effort to raise his head from the pillow and kiss her. "Tired."
"Then rest, my love." She kisses his forehead gently. "Rest. I'll be right here." And then, a trace of frustration in her voice, "You are never sleeping in that coffin again. I insist you only sleep in our bed."
He nods faintly and sighs, eyes slipping closed and she slips into their bed beside him, wrapping her arms tight around his waist. Our bed. The thought is a sweet one, soothing, though if he had the strength perhaps he would protest it. Our bed. Yes, it is their bed and he finds, as the sea of sleep bears him slowly away, that he is alright with that.