A/N: Thank you for all the follows, favourites and reviews! I'm glad to see this story well received.

IMPORTANT: Since this story will be delving into mature themes, I have decided to up the rating to M. This will include violence as well as smut, since I think they're both necessary to tell this story the way I want to. I'll be sure to put a warning if a chapter contains smut or violence, so feel free to skip those parts if you want to. This chapter contains some mentions of blood.

Disclaimer: I do not own The Phantom of the Opera or any of its characters. I don't own the war mentioned in this fic. And I don't own Mumford and Sons or their album Sigh No More. The song featured in this fic is called After The Storm—beautiful song. Have a listen.

Enjoy!

Night has always pushed up day.

You must know life to see decay

But I won't rot, I won't rot

Not this mind and not this heart,

I won't rot.

February 1980

The aircraft hummed quietly, soldiers shifting around in their seats. Some were eager, determined to fight for their country and defeat their enemy. Others were silent and forlorn, staring hopelessly ahead, never having imagined themselves in this situation. And there were some who were only boys, frightened at their prospects, unwilling to kill or be killed.

There were no windows, nothing to signify their arrival apart from the engine whirring. Most were talking amongst themselves, discussing strategies or listening intently to the experienced ones.

Now, it was all about survival.

Erik sat to the side by himself, wearing the standard faded, army green uniform. There were various weapons attached to his person: a pistol by his hip, two daggers by each ankle and one strapped to his shoulder, a single bracelet around his wrist hiding a grappling hook. Small explosives hid in his form, ready to be triggered at the slightest warning. The others didn't possess his weapons; he was an assassin after all, and had collected knife and gun carefully throughout years of spy work.

Not a soldier, yet disguised as one.

But the weapons or how he would use them was the last thing on his mind. Instead he stared down at the hand on his lap, where a simple, faded pocket watch rested on his palm. When flipped open it did not reveal the face of a watch, however—it showed him the woman he yearned for the most.

His Christine.

There was a picture on each side: one of Christine, the other of them together. Her portrait, though small, was beautiful as always. He had managed to snag a few objects here and there from the enemies he was told to kill; a bottle opener, a beautiful tie, a cufflink. He had been lucky enough to swipe a camera from one of his elite targets, and remembered musing to himself as he made his swift escape that he would be able to capture some lovely photographs of his lovelier woman.

The image captured her in the midst of a laugh. Erik hadn't been assigned a job for months, so had indulged them in a trip to Greece for a week. They had prepared to pack and return at any given moment should his current employment status be compromised, but had enjoyed themselves nonetheless. He remembered how they had ventured out for a simple moonlit dinner one night, satisfying themselves with delicious Greek cuisine. After that, they took a walk along the coast, stopping for a moment to admire the sea. She had worn a simple white dress he had recently purchased for her—a dress he claimed made her as radiant as Athena, the goddess of wisdom and strength.

"She was the goddess of the arts too, so I think it's only fitting," he had pointed out. Her dress and hair were both blown by the wind, lending her a graceful, divine look.

Christine had turned to face him, amused. Her dark hair tangled from the wind, sweeping over one shoulder carelessly. "And what are you?" she had questioned, raising an eyebrow. "Ares, god of war, or Apollo, god of music?"

"Neither. I am no god."

"Liar. Plus, what if Athena had been with any one of those gods? You'd be missing out."

Erik had snorted. "Athena was a virgin goddess." And then, "Actually, on second thought, maybe not Athena. God knows she'd be offended since you, my dear, are no virgin."

She stifled a laugh. "And you made sure of that, didn't you?"

"Oh, definitely."

His blunt, arrogant answer had derived an incredulous look from her. And then, she had tossed her head back and emitted peals of laughter. There was no other way to describe her other than glowing at that moment. Cheeks flushed, hair tousled, white goddess dress gently blowing by her ankles, revealing a single gold anklet. She looked radiant; she looked loved.

He hadn't hesitated to raise the camera and snap the picture.

The memory brought a faint, fond smile to his lips. It brought a fierce wave of longing in his chest to think about being apart from his angel. His service in Afghanistan would be different from his other shorter assignments; it could last for months, years even.

Brushing a thumb over her photograph, his gaze directed to the other frozen image Meg had taken of them. His hands wrapped around her waist from behind, chin resting on her shoulder. They were both smiling at the camera, radiating their obvious love for one another.

His happy face stared back up at him. He had never considered himself handsome, even if Christine shamelessly doted and fawned over him in insistence. Thin lips stretched widely, sharp cheekbones seemingly jutting out from a fierce grin. Two deep-set eyes bored into their mirror image, golden irises striking even from the faded quality.

Christine once told him that she loved his eyes. They held a unique colour, she had said, so beautiful and distinct. He had rolled them to hide his surprised pleasure.

He hated taking his own photograph, but couldn't help loving the perfect image he looked at now. It spoke of their love and affection, their fierce devotion towards one another. Her arms possessively wrapped around his, his just as possessively snaked around her waist.

It was clear that they belonged, were made for each other.

Erik traced her smile with his thumb, sighing. The last few weeks of her were not of their usual, simple happiness. Once the letter ordering his involvement in the war had arrived in their mailbox, there had only been frantic kisses and hours spent making love in their bed, bodies yearning and taking, desperate to learn and relearn until there was no inch of skin left that would not be branded by a thrumming touch.

Christine had yelled at him for not confiding in her at first. He had hidden the letter, refusing to believe it. He was an assassin; a spy! It was completely ridiculous and uncalled for to send him into a war. But the letter clearly stated his skills were needed; the Afghans were skilled in guerrilla warfare, and often took the Soviets by surprise by raiding their camps, striking before slinking back into the shadows. They were ghosts amongst the battlefield—Dukhi, as one of the soldiers had said previously.

And they needed the Phantom to hunt these ghosts down. How poetic.

He was shaken out of his thoughts by a voice sounding from the speaker. "Landing in ten minutes. Get your gear ready," were the only words said. It was clipped, professional—detached.

The men around him hastily got off their seats, standing to check weapons and holsters, slinging rifles around their shoulders, securing them with straps. Erik stood and snapped the pocket watch shut, hanging it around his neck and tucking it under his uniform. He felt safe with Christine resting against his thudding heart, wild from adrenaline and anticipation and a little fear.

He slipped an AK-47 and a shotgun around his shoulders, straps crossing his chest. A military knapsack securely attached to his form, light enough to ensure his movements wouldn't be hindered.

The plane was landing, engines whirring louder from their descent. Some soldiers were frantic now, hastily arranging weapons in a way that would not inconvenience them. Once they stepped out of the plane, Erik knew that there was no looking back. There was no room for lagging behind or hope for a safe area until they reached camp, so it was critical for the soldiers to be able to move quickly and easily. A man lagged behind was left behind. They were all fighting for their survival, here.

The image of his last moment with Christine suddenly filled his mind.

"Promise me," she had insisted between kisses, body tightly pressed against his own. They had fiercely clung onto each other in front of the airport gate where he was due to leave in a matter of minutes, locked in a bruising kiss. "Promise me that you'll come back to me as soon as you can," she begged. He felt the wetness on her cheeks on his. "Promise that you'll be safe, and whole, and never leave me again."

He had closed his eyes, leaning their foreheads together. He knew that he couldn't swear the impossible, but she was crying and clinging onto him and his heart clenched painfully at the mere idea of being apart from his angel that he fiercely nodded.

"Of course," he vowed, cupping her face in his hands and looking deep into her eyes. "I swear it, Christine. Never again," he pledged, and she had let out a sob before tightly winding her arms around his shoulders in a grasping hug.

As the plane finally landed, Erik took a deep breath. The cargo doors started to open, revealing a wide, sandy rainforest.

This was it. The moment he stepped out of the plane, he was a soldier-spy officially representing the Soviet Union. Not by choice, but by necessity to serve his country, to ensure his people's protection.

To ensure Christine's protection.

"Alright, boys, get a move on!" the frontman roared over the engine, and one by one, the Red Army filed out of the cargo, guns clutched tightly in hand.

And as Erik strode out of the plane, he breathed out the promise he had made to his wife. His last thought was of Christine's smile before he ventured out to his fate.

Present Day

It was dawn. Christine only knew from the familiar rise of the mattress behind her, signifying that Erik had woken and was going to leave the room. She assumed that his body clock had become used to functioning on a few hours of sleep.

The first time, she had sat up in bed with a sleepy frown, asking him where he was going.

"Go to sleep, Christine," he had murmured, and slipped out of the room quietly.

It had been two weeks since the time she followed him and tried to offer the comfort he refused to take. As a result she had yawned her way through rehearsals, a completely useless diva who blinked sleepily at changes to the script. Anton, the director, had exasperatedly told her to go home after a wasted day.

So she simply rolled over to his side of the bed, breathing in his scent and lulling herself back to sleep.

She woke at eight, fresh and rejuvenated. Blinking sleep away, Christine tossed aside the blankets and attempted to arrange them before finally giving up, as she always did. It was useless, anyway: no matter how delicately she would make their bed, she would always come home at the end of the day to find it neatly arranged by Erik.

Not bothering to don a shift, she padded out of the room clothed in one of Erik's old shirts that hung slightly above her knees. Ever since he had left her, she had taken to wearing his clothes to sleep—her nightgowns had tears in them, after all. She had felt closer to him this way—surrounded by his scent, his shirt covering her body protectively. If she tried hard enough, she could imagine his arms wrapped around her, his lips pressed to her neck as they both slept comfortably in each other's embrace.

It had been pointless to start wearing her old nightgowns once he returned, so she stuck to her usual habit of clothing herself in his shirts before bed. Erik hadn't said anything about it—in fact, he hadn't spoken at all apart from the occasional, "Good morning," or, "Goodnight."

The smell of freshly toasted bread and eggs wafted the air and she breathed in deeply, sighing contentedly. Erik had taken to preparing her breakfasts and dinners since he was no longer employed under the KGB and while she longed to keep him company all day, she could not simply stop working at the theatre. Erik would probably snap out of his spell and throw a fit if she mentioned it. Plus, finance was not an issue: the pension he received along with her income was more than enough to support them both.

His unemployment, however, left him a sinful amount of time of doing absolutely nothing. Which in turn prompted him to make her meals, clean up after them, and stoke the fire when it got cold. She never caught sight of any sign of books he had read, or used manuscripts written on. Before, he would usually spend his leisure times visiting her during rehearsals and staying behind to watch. His artistic eye had caught Anton's interest and Erik would often have to stay late into the day at his insistence of discussing the production.

Christine had teased that Anton worshipped him. He had scoffed and claimed that he didn't desire anyone's worship unless it was hers.

Now... he did absolutely nothing. But Christine refused to grow depressed due to his state—she faced each new day with hope that he would open up a little so she could help him grow back into his life once more.

She caught sight of Erik standing by the stove, back to her as he stirred the contents of a pan. The bandages were firmly in place around his face, tied tightly in knots as usual. She had never seen him without it, but didn't want to push. He would show her when he was ready.

So she darted into the kitchen and hopped onto the counter, peering into the pan. "Mm, that smells delicious, Erik."

He didn't say anything, but there was a tiny quirk of his lips. It was more than she got yesterday, so she relished in it.

"Thank you, love. I don't think I've had a proper breakfast in a long time. You know me, always rushing to get ready and all."

He inclined his head in acknowledgement.

She chattered on. "Thank god we live closer to the theatre now. Meg used to complain about how I always made us late, but it wasn't all me. She can't tie her shoelaces under pressure at all, so whenever we're rushing we always need to calm down enough for her to bend down and tie her shoes. It's ridiculous, really. She's doing really well, by the way—Meg, I mean. She's prima ballerina now. I couldn't be happier for her, but she's so full of herself. Did I tell you about that one time she paraded us around the stage, telling everyone to 'Get out of the way, the queens are passing!'?"

He silently shook his head, focused on scraping the eggs off the pan and pouring it onto a plate. Setting the sizzling pan in the sink, he crossed to the opposite counter to retrieve her toasted bread.

"Well, the managers had just walked in and promoted her on the spot," she went on, watching him work. "It was so dramatic, Erik—they asked us to hush and everything before announcing that Meg was to be the prima ballerina! I think Sorelli threw a fit. Meg literally twirled, grabbed my arm and told everyone to move to let us pass. They parted like the sea, Erik, it was hilarious."

The toast had been placed on the plate by now, and Christine hummed her approval. "Oh, that looks just as good as it smells." She clasped her hands together before hopping down from the counter, quickly catching his hand in hers and giving a small squeeze before he could pull back. She released him just as quickly, turning back towards the counter swiftly to hide the familiar pang of hurt she'd feel every time he flinched away from her.

He doesn't mean it, she told herself firmly. He's been hurt, and badly. Don't be naive enough to think that everything would go back to normal again.

"Thanks, Erik," she said once more, turning around with a smile. "I appreciate it, really."

He nodded in acknowledgement and picked up her plate, gesturing for her to sit by the stool as he arranged her meal upon the island counter. He laid down a glass of water by the side of the plate.

Christine pulled a face. "Can't I have juice?" she asked, pouting.

Erik's stony demeanour broke slightly as he rolled his eyes. She bit her cheek to keep from smiling.

"Okay, I know, it's bad for my voice," she grumbled, but the curve of her lips betrayed her amusement. He seemed to share in the humour too from the way he seemed to exasperatedly—yet fondly—shake his head. Quietly, she ate her meal, offering some to Erik who refused, as usual.

"Mm, that was delicious," she complimented once she finished, looking up to smile at him.

Erik had simply leaned against the counter the entire time, watching her eat. He inclined his head, then raised an eyebrow before glancing at the clock that hung on the wall.

Cursing, she rose quickly from the seat. She grabbed the plate and glass to wash but Erik stopped her, easily taking the dirty plate and glass from her hands and walking towards the sink without another word. She would have protested if not for the time, so she hastily thanked him and rushed towards their open bedroom door.

Once she had cleaned her teeth and thrown on her clothes, Christine emerged from the bedroom with gloves clenched between teeth and hands working to wrap a red scarf around her neck. It had been a gift from her father, back when he was still alive and thriving, and had lasted her twenty years now.

"Why don't you head outside today?" she asked conversationally as she strode towards the door. Lifting her cloak off a hook, she slipped it on and buttoned up. "The weather's nice, so that stall with the shashlik you love so much will be around," she continued, knowing that he was hovering silently behind her. "You could even drop by the theatre—I'm sure Anton would love to see you."

She knew she had asked in vain, and her thoughts were confirmed when he crossed his arms and leaned against the door, watching her bend to slip on shoes.

Sighing her defeat, she straightened up and nodded. "Okay. Don't get too bored. I'll try to come home as early as I can."

He simply opened the door and stepped aside for her to walk through. She caught his hand in hers once more; he didn't flinch. She victoriously counted it as progress.

Smiling softly, Christine lifted his rough, calloused hand to her face as he had done so many times before. His beautiful golden eyes burned into hers as her smooth lips pressed to the hardened skin of his palm.

"I love you," she told him, caressing his hand in hers. He stood deathly still, back straight and tall, eyes trained on her. Gently releasing him, Christine shot him one last smile before turning to leave for the theatre.

She didn't catch him staring after her, the small, amused smile he had worn the entire morning immediately dropping.

Erik spent the rest of the day as he always did: doing everything possible to distract himself from changing his bandages.

He knew that Christine meant well, that she was trying for his sake, but putting on an act of their usual teasing and hinting smiles had been painful and exhausting. He didn't want to pretend with her, but knew that if he accepted her comfort she would urge him to tell her what had happened.

He knew his Christine too well to identify when she was trying to heal him.

Erik walked towards the kitchen sink, routinely washing the dishes. One of the mugs had Christine's lipstick stain on the rim, and he carefully wiped it off, meticulously washing it. The flat was completely silent apart from the sound of water running.

Before, she never wanted to know about his experiences. She clearly disapproved of his line of work, but there had been no way of detaching himself from the KGB without severe consequences. His darling angel said it didn't matter, but he knew there must have been some part of her that was disgusted. Sometimes he would come home with a forlorn look from a wayward kill, and all it would take was her arms around him for him to calm down once more. She would ask him about it and he would tell her the same thing every time.

"I killed him, Christine," he would whisper into her neck, burying his face into her curls. "I'm sorry, I killed him. I'm sorry."

She would hush him by pressing her lips to his, letting him lose himself in her and forget.

It was during these times that Erik would thank every god that existed, real or no, for allowing him her love. His life had been pointless before she entered it; he had been a spy because he was skilled, not for any personal motive. His kills were clean and often delivered with a sardonic, "The KGB sends their regards." He was cool, detached, uncaring.

There was no purpose, no direction before her.

Once he was done with the dishes, he moved towards their bedroom. Christine had taken to depositing her clothes in the laundry basket instead of the floor since he returned, unintentionally causing his dismay. He only wanted things to go back to the way they were, but her little actions made it seem impossible.

He moved around the room automatically, picking up pillows on the floor and placing them onto the bed before making it neatly. With a quick flick of the coverlet the bed was tidy, yet not pristine. The blankets were slightly mussed on purpose, the corners of the pillows creased. The bed looked neat, but lived in. It looked like it belonged to two people who slept in it often, who shared kisses and made love in it.

Nodding once, he walked out of the bedroom and into their shared bathroom. Routinely, he picked up after her: the toothpaste that smudged the side of the sink, the towel tossed onto the toilet seat in her haste to get ready. The sight of Christine rushing around to dress had never failed to bring a smile to his lips during his time in Afghanistan, however faint. It was comforting to know that she had not rid herself of the loveable trait.

Soon enough, the entire flat was clean but not immaculate. Her books still sat unaligned on the bookshelf, the pillows on the sofa limp and messy. He liked it this way: it was as if she was still here, even if she was only ten minutes away.

He tried to find more to do, but soon accepted that there was nothing more he could do without the flat turning into an IKEA showroom. The afternoon passed with Erik wandering aimlessly around, carefully avoiding his music room—it still brought a degree of uncomfortableness. He needed to change his bandages, he knew, but would delay that task for as long as he could.

But there was only so much wandering to do before Erik found himself truly, sublimely bored. He didn't wish to read—stories held no appeal to him—and they had no television since neither he nor Christine used it. Finally with a defeated sigh, he walked to the bathroom to perform the most trying task of his day.

He had long since mastered the art of dressing his wounds without the aid of a mirror and quietly retrieved fresh bandages and gauze from the bathroom shelf. Laying antiseptic, gauze and bandages by the counter, he slid down the bathroom floor to avoid his reflection before reaching up and unwrapping his bandages.

It felt unholy to unwrap the material that exposed his hideous face to the world. He grimaced, discomforted as the bandages pressed against torn skin, but had long grown accustomed to the pain. Once the bandages were removed, he doused clean cotton swabs with water, never once looking up from sink to mirror. He dabbed the wet cotton onto his face, cleaning it as well as he could without looking at his wounds, then towelled his features dry. Rough material caught onto skin, and where once he would wince at the throbbing pain, he now huffed in annoyance and moved to tug it free, sighing exasperatedly at the sight of blood on the towel as he pulled it away.

He took care of the cut with a few dabs of tissue and antiseptic cream before navigating the rest of the bumps on the right side of his face, dabbing each wound with cream. He traced scars he knew to be disgusting from what he had seen before. It was a process he despised, yet he couldn't bear to ask Christine to do it instead, having been especially careful never to allow her a glimpse. If he felt nauseated at the feel of his own skin, how would she react?

He ran a finger across a hollow patch of skin when a fierce, vivid memory shot through his mind.

"Hah! Look at yourself, Phantom—look at you! Hideous, deformed, disgusting."

"But sir, the left side of his face—it's—"

"Completely normal! Exactly the way I want it. Did you hear that, Phantom? I want you to look at yourself in the mirror and see what you used to have. And then when you turn your head and see, you'll remember what we did to you. You'll remember that the Dukhi have left their mark on you—forever!"

No. Erik shook his head to clear his thoughts, breathing heavily at the sound of the spitting voice in his head. No—he thought it was over—he thought they would be gone! He dabbed the last of the cream hurriedly—almost desperately—onto his face. With shaking hands he applied gauze and bandages, covering his face from sight once more. Once the bandages were firmly tied around his head, shielding his face from view, he breathed a long sigh of relief.

The bathroom was silent apart from his heavy, gasping breaths, fighting to cease the rapid thudding of his heart. Clenching his teeth, Erik squeezed his eyes shut, dropping his head back against the tiled wall, counting breaths.

One, two, three. One, two, three.

It didn't work. There were only images of a mad, bearded man and blood everywhere—covering his skin, the chair he was tied to, dribbling down his wrists to clump at the ties. His own voice ringing in his ears, raised and desperate and distorted. A blinding, white-hot slice of pain that seemed to go on endlessly.

"Jalil! Ya Allah, what are you doing, man? You're going to kill him!"

"Then—let—him—fucking—die!"

Struggling with the remains of his control, he forced himself to recall the image of Christine—her smile, her laugh, her kiss. But no, it wasn't working—she was quickly slipping away, replaced by a stinking tent and a red-stained knife, coated with his own blood—

"No," he gasped, shaking his head. "No—think about Christine—" Another gasp. Choking back the stinging heat in his eyes, he willed his darling angel back into his mind, anything to let himself drown in her once more. Anything—her voice, a memory—

"Erik—where are we going?"

"Patience, Christine. We're almost there."

"I'd have a better idea if I could actually see where we're going—"

"Yes, well, that would ruin the surprise!"

July 1977

The two lovebirds walked across the little parking spot, one guiding the other through the dark night. Christine shivered a little from a gust of wind that blew her way, feeling the cool air kiss her chapped lips and intwine into her hair. It was comforting to feel Erik's thin hand covering her eyes, a surge of warmth. He walked close behind her, an arm firmly wrapped around her waist to keep her from slipping.

She was after all bereft of her sight, and so took full advantage of the opportunity to lean into his strong form, feeling his warmth encompass her.

It had been the most wonderful night. When Erik had first asked her to spend her time with him on Saturday night—her only free night—she had agreed with a small smile, hiding the giddy butterflies flitting about in her stomach.

She had expected an enjoyable dinner and perhaps a walk in the park. She hadn't expected Erik bringing her to a lavish restaurant. The manager allowed them a reserved space away from prying eyes, since Erik enjoyed his privacy and Christine was growing more recognisable with each show. They had exchanged pleasant conversation, and she was sure that she had giggled too much. Erik himself had worn a broad grin the entire time, ordering her extravagant dishes that left her belly delightfully full.

After the dinner she was even more surprised when he wanted to bring her somewhere else. And then he had taken her hand—to which she intertwined her fingers with his—and led her through an unfamiliar path before instructing her to close her eyes and covering them with his own to make sure she obeyed.

"Okay, just a few more steps," he said. She could feel his breath slightly above her ear, hot and moist to the chilly night air. He nudged her forwards slightly, and she took a few more blind steps before he tightened his grip around her waist, signalling to stop. It may have been in her mind, but she could have sworn his smooth voice sounded almost giddy when he announced, "We're here!"

"Um, Erik, your hands are still over my eyes," she pointed out.

"Yes, well, I still need to get something before you can open them. I'm going to take my hands away—no peeking, Christine, okay?"

The only thing that kept her from going against him was the fact that he was clearly excited about this surprise. It was sweet, really, that he had taken the time to plan their date. So with a defeated sigh, she nodded.

She immediately missed the warmth of his palm against her face at the feel of cool air hitting her skin, and scrunched her eyes uncomfortably. She heard him shuffling around behind her, and then his breath was warm against her ear once more.

"Open your eyes," he whispered. A shiver definitely not due to the cold rippled through her, and taking a breath, she opened her eyes.

They were standing in an open space, and Christine's breath caught.

They stood in front of an ice rink. It was not too large—quite small for Moscow, actually—but the fairy lights that hung above it lit the entire rink up with a white, luminescent glow. Towards the left was the back of a church, its rich architecture magnificent in the moonlight.

It was beautiful, and it was all theirs.

Christine covered her gasp of delight with a gloved hand, feeling tears stinging her eyes. Back when her father had still been alive, their favourite past time was ice-skating. This was still in Sweden—before she moved—but there had been a similar cathedral at their favourite rink, rising tall and gleaming in the evening light. She could almost see her younger self now: her young, chubby features stretched into a wide grin, speeding along as her father laughed and chased her.

Erik stepped towards the side, watching her carefully. His smoothened dark hair fell across his forehead, lending him a boyish look for his age of twenty-nine. His breathtaking golden irises observed her every feature with a guardedness that would only drop, she supposed, with the confirmation of her pleasure.

She didn't hesitate in giving him a wide smile, overwhelmed.

"Surprise," he said softly, one hand rising to reveal two dangling pairs of ice-skates, blades shining in the glowing night.

A laugh of disbelief escaped her. "How did you know...?" she trailed off, staring at him with wide eyes.

"Meg," he said simply.

The few times Erik had been left alone with Meg was during that first week, when Christine hadn't yet expected him to be at the stage door when she emerged. Meg would often have to call her name more than once for her to realise he was waiting for her. He couldn't have asked her that early on, could he...?

"Do you like it?" he cut off her thoughts, raising an eyebrow. He stood with a casual nonchalance, but when she looked closely, Christine could see his forced posture, the nervousness in his frame.

She let out another laugh, bewildered that he couldn't tell how touched she was by his gesture. "Like it? Erik, I love it," she smiled brightly.

His relief was instant. Letting out a breath, Erik's features relaxed into a full smile for the first time in her presence. She had seen wry smirks, hesitant looks and the small quirk of lips, but was completely unprepared for the way his expression transformed into one of utter happiness, making her heart skip a beat within her chest.

He is so beautiful, she thought to herself as his golden, smouldering eyes creased slightly at the corners, staring at hers with mirth.

"I'm glad," he told her honestly, still smiling. Then, dangling the shoes in front of her face, "Shall we?"

Ten minutes later saw them zooming across the ice rink together, their laughter echoing around the empty rink. She thought she was good at ice-skating, but Erik was magnificent. He drifted across the ice with a fluidity and grace she could never hope to match, even with her many years training in ballet. His movements were effortless yet still holding the regal, impassive posture that was so indefinitely him. It was a privilege to be his partner in their elegant movements.

Breathless, Christine skated across the ice and clutched at the railing, still laughing. Erik followed soon after, the railing shaking slightly as his weight collapsed against it.

"God, I haven't done this in ages," she gasped, then nudged his arm with her elbow. "You didn't say you could skate!" she reprimanded. He gave her a cheeky grin and turned so that he was leaning his back against the railing, facing the rink. Elbows wrapped in a thick cloak rested on the top of the bar.

"I have too much free time on my hands," Erik shrugged, brushing a gloved hand over his hair, the strands catching onto tiny droplets of ice. Then, shooting her an impish grin, "Hopefully it won't remain that way."

Christine released a light laugh. "No, I don't think it will," she agreed.

His grin widened.

They stood in silence for a few moments, catching their breaths. Christine eventually turned so that she was facing the rink as well and they both looked out into the glowing white ice, a stark contrast against the darkness of the night. Soft golden light bathed them in a warm glow. It felt intimate; romantic.

Suddenly struck with an idea, Christine turned to face her companion, holding out her gloved hand. He looked at it, then directed a questioning gaze towards her.

"Dance with me?" she requested then seeing his surprise, quickly elaborated. "My father used to take me skating before he passed," she explained, the familiar ache at the thought of her late father causing a lump to form in her throat. She looked down at the icy rink, trying to compose herself. Their skates nudged on the ice. "It was my favourite thing to do with him—apart from listen to him play his violin, of course. And he would always take me by the hand and lead me to the middle of the rink, and he'd twirl me around until I got dizzy."

She could feel Erik's burning gaze on her. Her cheeks flushed—of course he would think it was a stupid idea.

Quickly dropping her hand, she shrugged and shuffled a foot, staring intently at her skates. "Forget I asked," she muttered, swallowing thickly. Refusing to look at him, she turned to skate towards the exit, but was surprised when he grabbed her hand.

Instantly, her gaze whipped towards his. His expression was unreadable as he slowly tugged, skating backwards as she followed his lead. His other hand found hers, creating a little ring of space between their bodies.

"Never assume that I will refuse something you ask of me, Christine," he told her.

His gaze never left hers as he gently released one hand, holding her wrist and bringing it up to his shoulder before resting his own against her hip. He held her carefully as if she were fragile, glove gentle against her cloak.

And then, slowly, he began circling the ice, dragging skates around as she surely followed. Their feet moved in perfect tandem, marking a ring onto the ice.

It was a perfect picture: a man and a woman in the centre of an ice rink, the dark colour of their cloaks a contrast against the white ground. The stars shined brightly and fairy lights decorated the spaces above their heads, softly lending a faint glow. Two sets of eyes never looking away; the first a fierce cobalt and the other a burning gold, rare and ardent, melting into swirling whiskey. No music, no voices—just the mingle of steady breaths and racing heartbeats, both electrified, both alive.

"You are so beautiful," Erik murmured after a while, breaking their silence. His breath evaporated into mist, rising above them in a hazy cloud.

She flushed but never left his gaze. She assumed he thought as much from the way he would look at her at the end of every performance—with a tender, appreciative expression only reserved for her—but had never heard him say the words aloud. It brought a small, shy smile to her lips.

"I really love spending time with you, Erik." It was a plain statement next to all he had done for her tonight, she knew. But it brought a tiny curve to his lips, glowing eyes softening.

"I've never liked being around other people," he told her, a hand reaching up to play with a single curl that had fallen in front of her eyes. Twirling the strand, he continued, "Their words are meaningless, their joyful expressions empty and trivial. I would easily give up their company." His voice was a velvet undertone, resonating with a quiet strength that made her lightheaded. "But you, Christine—"

He broke off, stopping their slow swaying abruptly. For the first time, she saw a hint of unsureness in his eyes.

"I don't know," he shrugged helplessly, dropping his gaze to their skates. She watched him shuffle his feet, the powerful, intense man becoming a defenceless, shy boy in front of her eyes. "I don't know how I feel," he repeated. "I hear you singing in my head, I dream about kissing you in my sleep. You're in everything I see." Then, meeting her gaze, "I think I'm in love with you."

Her breath caught in her throat. He was looking at her vulnerably, fearfully. His expression revealed just how much power she yielded over him; she could easily break him if she wanted to, and he would not fight back.

It made her wonder how he had come to live the life he had. Had he been hurt before? Was he the object others directed their anger onto, a receiver of pain and heartbreak?

Or was he just a lonely boy, yearning to love and be loved?

Meg had told her that love was not something found so easily. Back when they were giggling gossips, Meg would firmly lay out the rules of dating. Don't be too shy, but don't be too bold. Bite your lip, but never let him see how much you like him. And most importantly, never, ever, ever tell someone you loved them on the first date.

She had met Erik and her life had become a speeding whirlwind. One tender look from him and she was melting under his gaze, heart thudding painfully in her chest. There was no doubt that he was reserved, that he gave no one the chance to really know him for who he was, preferring to slink back into the shadows instead of conversing with others.

She didn't know if she loved him. She wondered if she could love him from how quickly their relationship had progressed.

But at that moment, there was no doubt that she felt very strongly for this man—this strange, wonderful man who was tentative and brought her roses every night, who was quiet yet brimming with a passion she had never known in anyone else.

So she pushed Meg's words aside and told him the truth.

"I think I might love you too," she confessed in a whisper.

Her heart fluttered a little at the sight of a growing smile on his lips, his breaths uneven and so close to her own mouth. "That's—well—" he stammered, grinning all the while. "That's bloody fantastic."

A laugh escaped Christine's lips, shaking through her body. The moment had been so sweet, so beautiful—and then they were both doubling over, gasping in their laugher, staring at each other with their newfound secret knowledge.

"It is," she finally agreed after catching her breath. "Erik, I—"

He pulled her towards him and pressed his lips to hers before she could say anything else.

Back in the bathroom of a small flat, the same man, four years older, sat slumped against the wall. His bandages had loosened around his face, palms spread on the floor, chest rising and falling with deep, steady breaths.

He smiled.

A/N: So, there's more unraveling about Erik and Christine's past as well as what happened in Afghanistan. Erik and Christine are both trying to go back to normal, but it's not that easy. And I'm not sure if some of you remember in my first author's note that a certain special guest will be featured in this story, but there was a tiny glimpse of him/her in this chapter, though I really didn't make it obvious at all. Still, is anyone up for guessing?

So don't forget to drop review and let me know! It never fails to bring a smile to my face.