Entry for Not A Ghost3's Phantom's Christmas One-Shot Challenge. If you haven't participated in the contest, or at least "watched" it from a distance like I usually do, you certainly should! It's super fun. Not going to lie, the holidays are not my favorite time (yuck, sentiment) but I always love the Christmas phantom feels! Hope you enjoy! (New chapter of Prince coming on Sunday, as usual - don't worry)
There was a huff, a sound of struggle.
Erik looked up from his book to see his darling wife, struggling to pull a sweater over her swollen belly. He couldn't help but smile at her determined frown, her brows furrowed in concentration.
"Why are you doing that now?" he asked. "You're going to have to take it off anyway."
Her eyes snapped up to his. "I don't care, I just want to know it fits."
"It's nearly midnight, come to bed." He patted the spot next to him.
She usually hated it when he read up late, so tonight he was surprised when she didn't click the lights off at exactly nine, pulling him into a fierce hold. Normally, he would patiently wait for her to fall asleep before opening his book or pulling out some work, but tonight was different.
She had been up for the past few hours, digging through the closet. Cursing.
"Screw you."
He chuckled. "Darling, there is simply no way that's going to fit, stop wasting your time."
She huffed again, turning to face him this time, sweater barely covering her pale skin.
"You just don't get it, do you?" She put a hand on her hip, and he raised an eyebrow, preparing himself for whatever was about to come next. "I have won the ugly Christmas sweater party five years in a row. I'm not about to lose it to your loser friend."
"I'm sure Nadir wouldn't mind winning for once."
She let out a fierce little growl that sent naughty thoughts to his head.
"Have I ever told you how ravishing you are when you're angry?" He smirked.
"I'm nine months pregnant and have never been further from sexy." With much struggle, she ripped the sweater off and threw it aside. "And there isn't an ugly enough sweater that will actually fit my swollen arms and boobs and belly and—"
"I happen to like your swollen breasts."
She let out a cry and quickly covered herself up, throwing on a tee shirt that barely grazed her thighs with the size of her stomach.
"I hate you."
He turned a page in his book, making a humming noise. "That's not what it seemed like this morning. All those sweet little noises, those little—"
She let out a small scream, covering his mouth with her hands. "Stop right there, mister. You happened to be making the same noises."
He kissed her palm, wrist. "That's because I love my wife."
She flipped him off. "I would really like to flop dramatically into bed, but unfortunately I have a child in my stomach who is scraping out my insides. Move over."
He scooted over — there were never really sides of the bed for them. It didn't matter, as long as he could hold her and she could hold him.
He waited patiently as she adjusted all of her pillows and blankets and little things she needed in the night to stay comfortable. It was a big ordeal, every night — finding someway to be comfortable, even more so in these last months of pregnancy. It had started with the morning sickness and only gotten worse from there.
He hated seeing her in so much pain, but she never complained.
And he couldn't either, when she finally snuggled against him, the scent of roses and everything Christine in the crook of his neck.
"You smell good," she murmured, kissing his neck.
He smiled, his rough skin brushing her smooth cheek. Kissing her hair, he flicked off the lamp and waiting until she fell asleep.
It never took long.
Only this time, he gently crept out of bed, grabbing his coat and mask.
He had a mission.
"I tried on four more sweaters today at Target. None. Of. Them. Fit." She threw her fork down. "Why can't you carry the baby?"
He glanced up from his music sheets. She hated it when he worked at the table, but with his late nights he needed to fit it in somewhere. His hand cramped up.
"I'm afraid that's not what God intended."
"You've never cared about what God intended."
"This is true." He hissed, his fingers spasming.
"Are you okay?" Christine asked, eyes filling with worry. Then suspicion. "Have you been getting up and composing in the middle of the night? You know I have to pee a million times at night, I notice when you're—"
"No, it's not that."
More like, he hadn't been playing. His little side project was taking up all of his time, and when he didn't play his fingers protested. They needed to stretch, to dance, otherwise they got mad at him.
She didn't say anything, only munched on a bite of her broccoli casserole — a pregnancy craving. She made it three or four times a week, always doubling the recipe. His stomach rolled in protest anytime he saw it, and if he never ate broccoli again in his life he would be content.
"The party is in three more days, how am I going to find something ugly enough?"
He glanced at his sheets. "I'm sure you'll find something, you always do."
She didn't say anything.
He put the finishing touches to the thing in front of him, quickly tying off the last loose end. He knew she wouldn't care much for wrapping, so he threw it into an old brown paper bag from the grocery store.
Throwing away the instruction manuals and checking once more that his YouTube and browsing history were cleared, he clicked off his office light and locked the door behind him.
He called out his wife's name, but only silence met him.
Frowning, he searched the small house for her, but came up empty. Worry, sudden and fierce shot through him, mind going wild with a million things that might have happened—
But he found her on the closet floor, shirt soaked with tears, eyes swollen.
"I'm not going to the party," she declared. "I cannot let Nadir win and he will certainly win because I will not have a sweater to wear."
He couldn't help but smile. "Christine—"
"Don't you smile at me, this isn't a joke. This is super serious! I've always won and now I don't even have a sweater—"
"Christine—"
"And I just hate it. I'm in so much pain all the time and my feet hurt and my hips and this isn't even birth—"
"Christine," he used his firm voice.
Her eyes snapped up to his, frowning. "You'll only make it worse. Just go without me."
He knelt down beside her, brushing a hand across her chin, cheeks. Shoulders.
"I have a gift for you."
"I don't want it." She wouldn't look him in the eye.
"I think you will."
"I think I won't."
"How do you know?"
"I do."
"But darling, I spent so much time on it." He put a little fake worry into his voice, touched her hand.
She finally looked up at him, and he handed her the bag. She eyed it suspiciously, shaking the bag — she'd always had a weakness for presents.
He would never forget the light on her face when she pulled out the ugliest — and only — sweater he had ever made. It took him a full week of late nights, four books and hundreds of YouTube videos to figure it out, but the joy on her face alone was enough.
"Try it on, I promise it will fit."
A smile caught hold of her face, of his heart. She pulled her shirt off, then the sweater over her. It fit perfectly.
"Oh, Erik! This is so ugly! Nadir will never stand a chance against me — how did you find one that fit?"
"I made sure I could put it over the armchair in my office, you know the plush one you hate? It was the perfect—"
She punched him in the arm. "Bastard."
He stood in the shadows, drink in hand, watching the small gathering around him. It was only Madame Giry, her daughter, Nadir, and Christine, but he still didn't feel… good enough. He could never be good enough for them.
Christine had won the contest, though Nadir was a runner up. But, then again, Nadir could make anything look ugly, so—
"Why do you hide in the shadows, brother?"
Erik glared at Nadir, sipping his wine.
"Christine's sweater is quite the prize winner. I've never seen something so ugly in my life. It makes me wonder—"
"If you breathe a word about it to her I will personally see to your funeral."
The old man laughed. "I did wonder why you needed all that yarn and sewing stuff so suddenly."
"Knitting needles," he corrected. "One does not sew a sweater. One knits it."
"Like you have, my friend—"
Erik turned to punch his friend when Christine let out a sharp cry, hand flying to her belly. Her eyes found his instantly in the dark.
"Erik please don't be mad, I'm sorry for not telling you, I just wanted to go to the party—" Another intake of breath, a groan.
"How long have you been in labor, Christine?" Nadir panicked, rushing over to her.
Erik wanted to, but his feet were frozen to the carpet. His mind was going a million miles an hour—
"We need to get her to the hospital, damn it!" Nadir threw Madame Giry the keys to his car. "You drive, Erik, get over here and help your wife—"
"Yeah, Erik, it's your child too!" Christine tried to joke, but let out a small whimper that shot right through Erik's heart.
Fear, fierce and strong took hold of his body.
He couldn't lose her.
Emeline Elizabeth Destler was born exactly three hours later, at eleven fifty-nine, December twenty-fifth.
Erik thought he had felt happiness, thought he had fallen in love before, thought his heart had been crushed and soothed all at once, but it could never compare to what he felt when he held his little girl in his hands for the very first time—
She was so small, so delicate. His hands and arms and chest dwarfed her, wanted to hold her close.
Christine had needed rest after the labor, the birth, but he didn't mind losing sleep over his little girl. He would hold her and comfort her for the rest of his life, even if it meant never sleeping again. Never composing again.
He sang her lullabies in French, talked to her. Brushed his thumb against her smooth, perfect, cheeks. Kissed her small head.
When she would cry he would tell her stories, sing to her. And his deep voice would rumble against the small baby in his arms, and she would smile, so small. So delicate. She would smile at him.
A soft tear slipped from his cheek.
"Why are you crying, darling?"
Erik started, looking over at his wife. His beautiful, perfect wife. Who had his child — their child.
He had a daughter. He had a wife—
"She's perfect," he whispered.
"You're Christmas gift was pretty darn good, but mine was way better." A smile took her face captive. "Not going to lie."
"Oh hush." He flicked her nose, before catching her lips in his.
Merry (early!) Christmas! Hope you enjoyed, I certainly had fun writing it.