A/N: Written for a prompt off a Tumblr prompt sheet which read, "This is probably a bad time, but marry me?"
He has not broached the question since the very early days of their acquaintance, but she has given it much consideration of late. She may wear his ring, but they are courting more so than married. They do not even share a room when she stays with him, for heaven's sake! He remains in his coffin - when he sleeps at all - and she is supposed to lie in her far-too-big bed and pretend to be all right with that! Well it is not good enough, and she is not quite certain what it is that she wants but she knows that she wants more than whatever this is supposed to be.
It is all a matter of deciding just how to pose the question to him, that is all.
Yet, there never seems to be the right time. If they are dining, she is too busy enjoying the meal to consider the subject. If they are having a lesson, she can hardly just drop it into a song. If he is composing he cannot bear to be interrupted, and the same when he is drawing, and when he is reading to her she is so pre-occupied with floating in his voice that nothing else matters, not even the possibility of marriage.
Still, there must be sometime.
And she resolves that she will just have to spring it on the poor man when he is expecting it the very least.
The night comes that she is débuting as Isolde. Erik has worked her exceptionally hard this time though she cannot object. It is a truly marvellous opera.
When she is in her first costume and has her make-up on, she shoos her dressers out, telling them that she needs some time to prepare herself. In truth, she knows that he is on his way up to the mirror, and she leaves it open in readiness for him, her fingers curled tightly around his ring. She will not wear it on stage, but perhaps he will wear it for her tonight.
Hardly does the thought cross her mind when he is standing before her, tall and regal in black, his fedora tilted to shadow his mask. He always keeps his distance when she is preparing to perform, but tonight she beckons him over and he kneels on the floor beside her chair. Carefully she takes off his hat and sets it on the vanity, then, gentle as she can, she hooks her fingers around the edge of his mask, and lets her eyes ask the silent question. He nods, and she lifts it off. His face does not trouble her now, though looking at it she feels a brief pang of pain for what he has suffered due to it.
"This may not be a good time," she murmurs, taking his left hand gently in her own, "but Erik, will you marry me?"
For a long moment he gapes at her, not even breathing, and just when the pit of her stomach twists with worry that he might faint, he gasps and grips her fingers tight.
"Are you serious, Christine? You cannot- Surely-" She shushes him by laying her finger softly against his lips.
"Of course I am serious, Erik." She cups his chin, stroking her thumb over his cheek. "Why would I not be?"
He gestures helplessly at his face, eyes watering, and she sighs.
"You ought to know by now, my darling, that your face means nothing to me." And to prove her point, she kisses his cheek.
"Oh, Christine." She has never heard his voice so filled at once with pain and wonder.
"Hush, darling. Just answer, will you marry me?"
He nods, his yes an almost-imperceptible breath. And she slips his ring onto his finger.