I've never actually written a fic about Erik's mother, but the idea has been following me around for some time now, so here's chapter one of it! This won't be a very long fic once completed, though. Just one or two more chapters after this.

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Christine noticed it fairly quickly at first. In the way Erik began to bounce his leg, even when she sat next to him. Laying a hand on his arm always seemed to calm her husband down- but not anymore.

A feeling- not quite agitation, not quite unease, flickered in his bright eyes. His glorious hands furling and unfurling at his pianoforte, staring down at the keys as his jaw tensed and brows furrowed.

In the beginning, she thought it simply nothing more than a writing block- or songwriting block, as it may. No music flowed from his fingertips. For the first time in forever, it seemed, he did not ask her to sing.

"Is something wrong?" Christine picked up her plate from breakfast. Erik remained picked at his own croissant, the loss of appetite clear in his discontent expression. "Did I do something wrong?"

His amber eyes flashed up to meet hers. Unwavering and unblinking in their intensity, as always.

"No," he murmured, clearing his throat and repeating himself. "No, my dear. You have done nothing wrong. You are perfect, as always."

And he stood up, pressed a kiss to her forehead, and retreated into his old bedroom, where the coffin still remained and the black dreary wallpaper had yet to be torn down. They had plans to remodel it, hopefully as soon as possible, into anything that was less of an eyesore.

Christine remained standing in the dining room, holding her plate. Gathering his untouched croissant, she stored it away to be eaten later. Surely he'd have to be hungry at some point or another.

The next few hours crept by slowly, and Erik did not resurface. Something was wrong, Christine knew, yet she couldn't figure out what. And she most definitely wouldn't figure out if he remained holed up all by himself.

She knew Erik- too much time alone would do only harm to him.

Gently she rapped on the door.

"Erik?" she called, "I have your breakfast, out here. You need to eat."

No response came from inside the room. She shifted on her feet for a moment, before knocking again.

"Erik, love, I'm coming inside if you don't answer. You've been in there an awfully long time."

An exhale sounded from the other side, and she watched as the door opened to reveal Erik. He blinked down at her, and she summoned a small smile up at him. An infant could tell it was not genuine; the worry was too clear in her eyes.

"Please tell me what is wrong. I can tell you're troubled, Erik." Christine followed him back into the room, her hands twisting and tugging at the fabric of her dress.

He pulled out a chair for himself, placing it near the sette. He sunk down into the cushion, all sharp angles and bony limbs.

"I am troubled," he admitted, quietly.

Christine seated herself on the sette, reaching over to take his cold palm in hers, intertwining their fingers. She waited for him to continue.

"I… Do you ever have this feeling, Christine, where..." his free hand balled up by his stomach. His face unmasked, she could see his brows furrow and eyes dart up to look at her. "Where you can tell something is not right. A sinking feeling in your gut, as so to speak. Almost trepidation, but for what reason I am at a loss. Mostly."

"Well, yes," she nodded. "It's anxiety, Erik. It's alright to have anxiety."

A pause as he seemed to digest her answer.

"Christine, it's about my mother. I believe something is wrong."

"Your… mother?"

Erik nodded. "I… think she's either ill or dying. Unhealthy."

"You sense this?" she tilted her head.

He nodded his head once more, closing his eyes. "I do. I do. God, you must think me insane."

"No," she interjected, "I don't. I trust your instincts, Erik. You're an intelligent man."

He glanced up at her. "I only hope you are not incorrect with your expectations, my dear."

They sat in silence after that, both unsure of how to further the conversation. Christine especially felt hesitant, unfamiliar with how to proceed. The topic was so… delicate. Was that the proper word? She did not know.

"Do you… are you going to visit her?" She looked up at him.

Erik's lips pressed into a thin line. "I don't know."

"Do you know where she lives?"

"Rouen still, I presume. I cannot see her ever choosing to move away."

Her gaze fell down to where their fingers remained intertwined. Her hand tightened around his, squeezing reassuringly.

"Whatever you decide to do, I'll support you." Christine murmured. His returning 'thank you' was quiet, almost inaudible.

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That night, she felt him climb into bed behind her, as always. It was to her pleasant surprise to feel his cold arms wrap around her midsection, gently pulling her back to his front. Erik pressed his face into her flaxen hair, exhaling. Usually, she had to initiate affection between the two of them- he had always been hesitant to show anything other than the polite kiss to the hand. It had taken her nearly a year of marriage to encourage him to move that kiss to her lips as a regular occurrence.

She closed her eyes, drinking in his closeness. She shivered as his soft voice, hushed in a whisper, met her ear.

"I am sorry that I ignored you this afternoon. It was rather brusque of me."

Christine tilted her head. "It's alright, Erik, I don't blame you."

His only response was a slight hum of disagreement as he tugged her closer, if possible.

"I love you," he murmured right before she slipped into slumber.

It was with slight concern that she awoke the following morning in an empty bed.

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Part two is in the works, and should be out relatively soon!