Chapter 9: What Happiness Is
Erik rifled through a very messy closet, searching for wood varnish. Christine was obviously not very organised concerning home repair, and the varnish was nowhere to be found. What he did find, however, surprised him. There were an assortment of junk metal bits, mostly nuts and bolts, but occasionally hook screws and no small number of gears. There was an entire jar of sea glass, kept apart from the mess, and a giant pair of hedge shears, though he was bewildered as to where she would use them.
A thought, a dream, almost, entered his mind's eye: he and Christine walking along a beach, hedge-trimming gear in her hand, and her other in his. Then he shook his head. That was impossible. If he visited the beach, she'd face abuse for his appearance, if he dared go without his coat. His chest ached almost physically- even if a giant pair of shears wasn't the most romantic thing to carry on an outing.
The varnish was nowhere to be found, so he began organising, as it was second nature. Each metal part had its own place, but the glass… He had ideas for the glass. That glass was downright beautiful.
"Knock-knock," came a playful but tired voice from the opening doorway. He didn't turn around, mortified at the silly grin that came to his sliced and mended face.
"'Here's a knocking indeed! If a man were porter of Hell Gate, he should have old turning the key,'" he answered. Maybe that was too much, he thought, mentally panicking. Maybe-
A gentle swat at his leather-clad shoulder silenced his inner monologue. "It's 'who's there,' not 'ignore the knocker.'"
"I could never ignore you," he shot back before he really considered what he was saying. Thankfully, she didn't notice. "Hello, Christine," he added as she peeked over his shoulder. He tried not to shake as her fingers skated over the place his wings were hidden. She is undoing me!
"I see you've found my stash of miscellaneous junk," she commented, smiling, and brushed a lock of hair out of her view. Erik didn't move. He didn't want her to stop touching him, but he wanted her to stop touching him. When did I start to think in such nonsensical phrases?
Christine noted the way he froze up under her hand, but didn't pull away. "What are you doing, exactly?" He knows that I know now; the best thing to do is pretend everything is fine. And it is. He is just a human, no more and no less.
"Something you have neglected to do, that is, organise; clean." She makes me forget everything bad.
"Shut up." He shrugged, hiding his nervousness.
"You asked." Any moment now she's going to notice what I did. But then he really looked at her. Her eyes were crinkled with stress, distraught, and tired, and it was barely afternoon. "You're upset. Why?" She looked back at him with those beautiful blue irises, and he knew he would do anything for her to smile again.
"Just…pressure. I have this friend, he wants me to do things for him…" Erik was beginning to look apologetic, but she stopped him. "No, not you, don't worry. But…" Now or never. "It does pertain to you. And me."
His heart sank to his stomach. This cannot be good news.
"Don't be mad, but… Well, it's a little complicated."
"What is?" He had to know.
"Er, just please don't…"
"Don't what?" He felt his volume go up with his hackles. Then he did his best to relax. If he tensed up too much, his wings would start to show through the infernal leather coat. Christine took a deep breath.
"You remember those people on TV, and the scientist, and the girl?" she asked very quickly. Of course he remembered, and of course it turned his mood for the worse.
"What about them?" He looked away from her, not wanting to know if she truly pitied him or if she was going to make him leave. The sound of skin on skin alerted him to the nervous wringing of her hands.
"They're not well off and need a place to stay. My friend wants me to keep them here," she said shakily, unsure of how he would react. The scientist had hurt him, of that she was sure. And now they were hurting these children. She had to do something, it was just a matter of whether or not Erik would agree.
"What do you mean, 'not well off'?" His voice was as inscrutable as his face.
"They're…test subjects. Not treated as humans offscreen."
"I thought so." She just stared. She felt that she'd been doing quite a lot of that lately.
"They need somewhere to stay, Erik, and the only place I could think of was here." And then she had to look away because he was looking at her in amazement. It hurt her to think of all the pain he had surely endured at their hands, and the pain she would cause him by bringing living reminders to live in her home, but she could not abandon them to his same fate. She could not let them be abused and tortured. "I can't just leave them there."
"I don't do well with others," he began. "Can you imagine me dealing with three of myself?" Christine lifted her head in surprise. This was not the answer she'd been expecting. "It would be disastrous."
"But…two of them are barely three. Just babies, Erik. They're innocent."
"And the girl? What atrocities have they forced her to commit?"
Her eyebrows crinkled closer together in response. "What do you mean? 'Atrocities'?" I know they did terrible things to him, but I never imagined… Dear Lord, what did he do?
"Do you think they would allow her talents to go unused?" he hissed. Then his face morphed into a mad cackle. "Do you know who killed the last President?" Christine's heart clenched tight with fear, and she stepped back instinctively. Her calf nudged the low table and something fell over with a light knock and a roll. He's snapping again, recoiling; and I am in his path!
"I did. I killed him, Christine, did you know that?" He was backing her up, but she could move no further, and he was so close and so crazed… He was shaking, though with shame or anger or just madness she couldn't tell. His eyes were wide, and his mouth was stretched, but it wasn't a smile. "They said he was mauled by a wild beast as he went out for a leisurely flight." Images ran through her mind of the pictures that had been released. The body had been nearly unidentifiable. Her skin broke out with gooseflesh.
"Erik, please…"
"Please what? Please get away?" His teeth were bared, and she could feel warm breath against her cheek. Only human. He's human and he needs me. But then he was shucking off his coat, and spreading his great, membrane wings out wide. She could see the many worming vessels and little sparking scales and even soft fuzz, like peach hair. She would have reached out to touch, but his stance made her lean back. "I don't want to go away."
"Erik…" She wanted to shut her eyes, but she couldn't. She just looked into his face with its gold eyes and numerous scars, but he needed her now. Her trembling hands reached up, one landed on his chest, and the other…
Erik flinched as she caressed his cheek. He came back to himself, and there she was before him, tears filling her eyes, stiffly forcing herself to touch him. There, too, was her broken wing, the wing he had splinted himself while she lay unconscious and at his mercy. Her hands were warm. It was as if she was giving his heart life, and with the return of his heart's function came crushing guilt. What have I done?
He had to get away. So, tucking his wings back as tight as he could, he ran back to the library in shame.
Christine stood there for a moment, then sat down, hard, on the table behind her. He has killed a man. Something else besides her mind rattled and rolled. She turned around. There were four little figurines, incredibly detailed, yet unpainted. With slow hands, she reached for them and examined them.
There was a fairy decked out with a helmet and a gun, pointed ears prominent. There was a mouse in a dress with a knotted rope. There was a little queen, a young girl, really, with a crown of leaves. And there was an elf queen.
He wanted to surprise me, and I had to go and ruin it.
…
"Erik!" Christine kicked at the door with the ball of her bare foot. It rattled horribly, but there was no answer. He'd locked it, and though she had attempted to pick it, she suspected he'd barricaded himself in. After an hour of knocking and waiting, and yes, kicking with her shoes on, she'd gotten fed up and decided to relax.
Bang!
Sort of.
The sun was beginning to go down, as were her hopes of ever getting Erik to forgive her. Or getting the three young ones a safe place to stay. "Please, open the door! I'm sorry, just please, talk to me…" She leaned against the window and felt the cool glass slide against her wings. The feathers were almost all back now, soft and numb like pillows. It occurred to her just how tired she was, and the splint was itching. She looked down at the little figurines she'd lined up against the wall to keep her company.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket, a text message. It was Meg.
Whats up? haven't heard frm u all day.
Erik's…acting up? I don't know. Raoul wanted me to take some kids in, let them stay here at the apartment.
Lemme guess- he doesn't like other people.
It's a little more complicated, but yeah, more or less.
Is he actin crazy obsessive. You should call the cops. Omg did he hurt u?
No, I'm fine, he didn't hurt me. In fact, I'm fairly sure I hurt him.
Wut
He's a complicated guy. And he needs me now, despite the fact that he's literally shut me out.
All right Christine, I'll trust you on this one; but I swear, if he hurts you in any way…
Christine smiled. She knew Meg was completely serious when she started using correct grammar and punctuation.
Of course, I know.
(:
She stayed there, leaning against the cool surface for a few minutes, and closed her eyes. It was still warm in the house, since Erik didn't use the AC, even though it was close to summer now. And she honestly didn't care if she fell asleep on the carpet that night.
…
Eveline laid back on the overly soft bed. It was a posh place, everything was soft and convenient. It was so different from her stark, bare quarters back at the lab. It's just…the woman. There was the matter of the woman Ciara. She did not seem very welcoming, though that was understandable. After all, she looked like a freak.
But that shouldn't matter. She is blind. She cannot see me. But then what was wrong? She was a loving partner, she had seen that in the way she and de Chagny kissed. She was caring for the twins, too, making sure they were cleaned, fed, even taught. Is it my fault?
The light were out, but she could still see, courtesy of her green-gold cat's eyes. Like Robert Frost, she reflected. Poetic. What was not poetic was the sound of the window's lock being picked. There was a dark figure hovering outside, fiddling with the lock. What?
She got up and ran towards the window, sure that if he (or at least, so she assumed) was hostile, she could knock him unconscious in seconds. The figure noticed her, and wings still keeping him aloft, he held a finger to where his lips would be. He was masked rather crudely, with a ski mask. Her curiosity thoroughly piqued, she waited and helped slide the window open.
The man stepped into her room and pulled off the ski mask. He was younger than she'd imagined, eighteen or nineteen at the most. He looked at her and spoke softly. "Eveline?"
"Yes," she said, not knowing exactly what else to say. After all, it wasn't as if strange people entered her room every night. Well, other than the various scientists who liked to prod her when she was asleep and wouldn't fight. Then she found her tongue. "Who are you? You look like de Chagny."
He grinned, and she thought he looked rather silly and boyish. "I'm his younger brother." Then his face turned serious. "I need you to come with me." She tilted her head.
"What for? I just got settled in." This seemed to take him aback.
"You don't want to leave?" he asked.
"Your brother promised me a family, at least for a little while, and he has treated me and my brothers well." And as uncomfortable as she was with de Chagny's girlfriend, the boys were happy. They would not be abused or examined or judged in this household.
"But are you happy here?"
"Where would I possibly go? I don't know the city. I don't know anyone." She was simply being practical, but her own words made her realise how lonely she was. At this, the boy (man?) stuck out his right hand.
"I'm Raoul de Chagny, nice to finally meet you." She blinked at his offered hand. "Now's when we shake hands," he hinted.
"Oh." She took his hand and squeezed it. "I knew that," she justified quickly. Then she released his hand. He had that smile on his face again.
"So, now that you know me, are you happy here? Do you really want to stay?" She thought for a moment.
"I'm not happy, and I never have been, I don't think. But the twins…"
"Are well cared for. Ciara loves them, in fact, she's like the mother they need."
"If I go with you to wherever, what's the catch."
"What?" Again, this surprised him.
"What do you get out of this?" Her eyes narrowed.
"Nothing; I mean, I just thought…" His eyes gained a determined set. "What do you want? Do you want to stay here and be a guinea pig for the rest of your life? I just thought you might be happier if you had some choice in what you do."
"You broke into my room for my happiness?" she said skeptically. He scratched his head.
"Well, kind of. I just don't believe anyone should have to be controlled. I believe in choices, and passion, and doing what you want." He shrugged a little awkwardly, waiting for a reply.
"What do people like me do? Ordinary people, I mean." She backed up and sat on the tall bed. Her toes brushed the soft carpet.
"How old are you? Sixteen?" When she nodded, he began to explain. "Usually, people at your age go to school, and interact with other people of around the same age, make friends, party occasionally- and prepare for college and the working world."
"I know, but how am I supposed to know what to do? For a living, I mean." Raoul felt rather proud of himself. Now she seemed genuinely interested in outside life, normal life, instead of the cold training and sterility of labs and constant biopsies.
"You find what you like to do, and something that will make money at the same time. Then you can find a job and buy everything you need. Did no one tell you this?"
Pressure descended on her chest and suddenly she couldn't speak. They never told me this because they wanted me to remain dependent on them. They wanted me to be their tool, beholden to anything they said… They never wanted me to think for myself. Suddenly all her time training to be the best at everything seemed useless. She had never really wanted to do the things they told her to.
"They really didn't tell you…" Raoul breathed. She stood up and began searching under the bed for something. He noticed that the back of her shirt was cut much lower to accommodate for her hind wings. "What are you doing?"
"Going with you, wherever. I'm just not staying here, that's all." She pulled on a jacket and reached around to zip the customised sleeves over the deltoids of her wings.
"You get cold easily?" he queried casually.
"Yes. I burn more energy than most in flight. By the way, where are we going?"
"You're not worried I'm a criminal or a kidnapper?" She gave him the side-eye.
"No. And if you were, I could kill you quite easily, considering you're bare of weapons at the moment." He swallowed uneasily.
"Well, whenever you're ready, we'll be off…"
…
Erik got up out of the chair. It was the one whose legs he'd butchered to make the statuettes of Captain Holly Short, Mariel of Redwall, Queen Lucy the Valiant, and Queen Arwen. He was tired of sitting, that was all, and the incessant knocking and calling had ceased hours prior. For once, he cursed Christine's innocent, pure ways. There was no liquor in the apartment to ease his mind and make him forget. As for drugs, well… He'd had enough experience with those to have instilled in him a very definite distaste.
He sighed. Had she seen the little carved figures? He thought she might appreciate his depictions of the strong female characters. She'd seen him lose control again, and that was nothing good.
He thought on the request she'd posed. There were three others like him, all held by the same wicked woman and experimented on, trained… He shuddered. Were they cut up like him, but where no one would see? Were they trained to kill as he was? Did the tormentors drug them to make them more open to suggestion?
If so, he could not take them all. He knew himself, and if they were anything like him, they would be, for lack of more polite words, murderous beasts. Of course, they had to maintain appearances and appear well-behaved on television, but had Guidicelli trained them to be vicious, cunning killers.
He chuckled darkly. She had certainly done so with him. If only Christine knew who she truly held in her house… But she doesn't. I thought coming here was a new start, a second chance, and instead everything I wanted to disappear returns to bite me.
His legs needed a stretch, and so did his wings. He couldn't have put on the coat anyway, since he'd dropped it in the front room. If Christine wants a chance to get used to me, if she needs time… Well, she'd best get used to these hideous limbs, too, he supposed rather sadistically. Christine was a kind girl, a sweet girl, but she had hurt him unintentionally. In a masochistic way, he wanted to hurt her and punish himself in the process.
He opened the door, prepared for hostility, but the veneer melted away as soon as he laid eyes on the sight before him. Damn woman, being so…breathtaking. And she was, even asleep and sprawled out clumsily on the thick carpet. His eyes stung as he remembered he had come out to hurt her.
She was partially curled up, head resting on one arm, curls askew and draping all over her neck and shoulders. Her eyes were peacefully closed, of course, though he was unsure if she dreamed pleasant things or had nightmares of him. He desperately wished for the former.
It wouldn't be comfortable to wake like that, all twisted. Her room was just a few feet away, too, and the idea of actually holding her, carrying her was far too tempting to resist. He leaned down to pick her up when something caught his eye.
She saw them… The little carvings had been lined up carefully, facing the window with their fierce expressions. Again, almost irritatingly, he was on the verge of tears. She actually likes them. Why else would she line them up like that?
He slipped one arm around her back and the other under her knees and lifted her. It would be time to change the splint soon so her feathers wouldn't grow out warped. Why not change it now? his mind dared him. After all, she was unconscious, and it would be easier. And you could run your hands through all that softness…
With an incentive like that, he had to give in. Her soft feathers brushed against his arms, and her hair was deliciously soft, and so very close to his face. For a moment, he savoured the feel of body heat against his torso. But the splint… He entered her room and placed her down gently on the cool sheets.
"Hmm…" He froze as she adjusted her weight and swallowed, there was more: her eyes were shut tight, as if in fear. Is she afraid? Does she somehow sense I'm here? His eyes slid along the line of her flushed jaw and his lips fought the urge to press along that line. No, he thought weakly. I must not take advantage and corrupt her.
She stirred again, and more signs of a night terror stirred his sense of empathy. Her night terrors were his, and he knew the absolute fear that they drove him to. Maybe, since she was more mentally stable, she suffered less, but he wanted her to suffer nothing at all. So, he raised his voice and hummed what he longed to hear when no one was there to hold him.
The lines of anxiety slowly disappeared, and peace filled her expression as he sang on. His heart clenched in his narrow chest as he resolved to do that when she was conscious. The three who were like him yet unlike him, maybe Christine could show them what beauty and love was, just as she had shown him. If it will make her happy, make those worry lines disappear…I will do anything she asks.
Even if it meant dealing with the hurts that haunted his every step.
…
Christine woke in a familiar place, with at least a dozen texts from Meg shaking her cell off the nightstand. The covers were warm around her, and something delicious was cooking in the kitchen. What… She had no memory of getting into bed, and she was still in her jeans. She breathed deeply, and found the warmth of the air satisfying.
There was a wonderful dream fading, and her mind grasped at it. There had been a sweet melody and a warm embrace, the likes of which she had not felt since her father lay dying in the hospital. He probably came out and carried me. Her face warmed at the thought, though more at the realisation that she liked the idea than anything concerning decency.
Her phone buzzed once more, and she reached for it, but not before spotting the little carvings all lined up where she could see. She smiled at that. They were lined up in the order she had put them the night before. Then she realised that her bad wing felt different, more comfortable. The splint had been removed and reapplied so that her feathers were not askew anymore. He cares so much.
That notion was further concluded when she spotted the writing that now altered the schedule printout on her wall. She read it with no little satisfaction. I'll do it. He was a more gentle spirit than she had initially thought.
He deserved love; and now she was sure she could give it. It would just take some time.
