A/N: Written for a prompt from easilyaddicted which read "either Christine or Erik reading aloud in bed".
He does not understand the words that roll so neatly off her tongue. They swim in the air around him, wrap him in their embrace and her voice, and she could be reading the Opéra's account books to him and it would not make a difference, not with her reading it and holding him close.
He has not slept in two days. He could not, with his mind buzzing full of music as it was, and only when he had exorcised the melodies from his blood (and once a priest tried to exorcise the demons from him and it's an amusing little thought that he is capable of his own exorcisms now) was he able to lie down. He did not ask her to read to him, though he considered it, and when she saw him struggling to keep his eyes closed she settled on the edge of their bed, book in hand, and simply let the words flow.
(When she was a few pages in, she re-positioned herself. Moving beneath the covers beside him, she wrapped one arm around his shoulders and pulled him close, tucking his head in beneath her chin. He did not object, of course, only too content to be closer to her, to breathe her in and be able to press soft kisses to her throat as she reads.)
With one hand holding the book – and he is too tired to attempt to make out the words on the spine – she lays her free hand over his heart, her touch ever so gentle. The very act is possessive, yet strangely gratifying. He is hers now, and she gives him reason to keep his heart beating. Slowly he slips his own hand on top of hers, his fingers lightly caressing her own and her voice does not falter, simply softens more so that it is silk upon his weary eyes.
And there is space for nothing now, except for her.