Blemishes
Chapter 10: His Glorious Goldfish

"You would be such a good father." She said suddenly, tracing a finger down his face. He made a sound similar to a snort at her statement, chancing to give her a soft peck on the cheek and shaking his head.

"Really, you would be wonderful, you would tell the very best stories and play the most beautiful music and sing the sweetest lullabies and you could teach a child so much, and you would be perfect to come to if they were sad or needed comfort."

"No child should have to have a corpse for a father, Christine." An emotionally-stunted, mad corpse at that.

"But you would not be a corpse to them, you would just be Papa."

"It is a very pretty thought, but not a realistic one."

"Why not?"

"I would not know what to do with a child."

"You do well enough with me."

"Oh, but Christine, you are not a child." He kissed the corner of her mouth to make his point and she felt goosebumps rising on her skin again.

"Yes, but I am very childish sometimes, and you always seem to know what to do when that happens."

"Because I know my Christine, I would not know a child… would not understand one. I was never a child, Christine, I have always ever been very, very old." I disagree, she thought, I don't think you ever stopped being a child.

"Well, you wouldn't have to raise one on your own, you know, you would have me."

"Would I?"

"I suspect so, seeing as it would probably be our child." She felt her cheeks warm at the thought of that – having a child with Erik? It was a strange thing to think of indeed. He did not respond but stared at her in amazement as her blush deepened, and then he sprung up and left her there all flustered and unsure. He disappeared into his room for a little bit, she was almost afraid she had upset him again and he wouldn't return… but then he came back with a small container in hand. He gave it to her and inclined his head.

"Once in the morning after you bathe, and once in the evening before you go to bed – do not touch your face for any other reason save for applying this, understood? And if you cannot help yourself, then, so help me, Christine, I will put a cone on your head."

She almost giggled at that, but then saw his very serious expression and nodded, taking the container, "I understand."

"Good girl – go on and put it away and then come back to me for supper – your husband has a surprise for you."

Christine did as she was told, taking a moment to fix her hair up and then gladly swooping in to take Erik's arm, "You said something about a surprise?"

"I thought perhaps we could have something of a picnic tonight, Christine, would you like that?" She grinned widely, jumping up and down at the thought.

"Oh, Erik, I would love that!" He nodded, retrieving his mask, gloves, hat, and the picnic basket he had set on the table. He was happy to receive the kiss he did not get this morning before covering his face. Christine quickly fetched his overcoat for him, clasping it for him when it was over his shoulders. It was a beautiful cloak – he had given it to her many times when they had gone out together, draping it over her and rubbing her chilled arms (though his hands were as cold as ice, even when wearing his gloves). He always wore so much, even when he was leisurely relaxing at home – she wondered if he was unbearably uncomfortable all of the time. She had only seen him once without his jacket, vest, and tie – it had been the weirdest thing… she could have laughed by how scandalous it had seemed to her. Yet, she had woken up in the middle of the night feeling peckish and so decided to tiptoe out to get herself something eat. She had done it plenty of times before, and Erik seemed to know whenever she did as well as whatever it was she had eaten, no matter how great or small the quantity.

"Did you like those strawberries?" He'd asked her the first time she had done. She'd paled considerably, worried he would be angry with her. But he only chuckled, "It's perfectly alright, Christine, you are the lady of the house after all. Eat whatever you would like whenever you would like."

And so she did just that. Sometimes it was strawberries other times an apple or plum, and occasionally she would search out for chocolate. Christine loved the chocolate – it made her think of her Papa and when he would bring her back small pieces after leaving for long amounts of time. This night, however, she had settled on getting an apple, just something simple and refreshing. What she had been astounded to see was Erik's bedroom door wide open. He always kept it closed, and usually locked (not that she would ever try to open it for any reason anyway). It was pitch black in that room, even while there were lamps turned on and glowing right outside of it! – it was as if the light was just as afraid to be near that complete darkness. It was terrifying. She had been about to retreat when he emerged from the chasm, carrying a stack of papers she presumed to be his compositions and then glancing at her as if he was not surprised at all.

"Out for a midnight snack?" He'd asked softly as he sat on the bench and began writing something. Christine noted that he sounded quite tired. When was the last time he'd slept? She had thought.

"Yes," she squeaked and then cleared her throat when she saw him give her a questioning look. It was then she realized that he was not wearing his usual formal ensemble. He was dressed in a very simple white shirt, a stark contrast to the black suspenders and the dark trousers it was tucked in. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing extremely thin, pale forearms, and he did not wear his dress shoes but a pair of snug black socks. He looked casual… and he did not cut an unattractive figure. He was abnormally skinny, but his shoulders and waist made a pleasing if not narrow triangle shape, and his legs were lengthy, contributing to his elegant and often imperial bearing. Christine began pondering on what he may have looked like if he did not... look as he did. Raoul had once asked her if she would still love him if Erik had been born with an ordinary man's face, she had told him not to tempt fate. But she herself admitted that she (no matter how hard she tried not to) wondered what would have happened had Erik been born normal and still loved her (because she doubted that he would probably notice her with how stunning he would be with all of his best traits and magnificent talents). She imagined that he would have had a very aristocratic face, with a long nose and sharp, noble features. She thought he would probably have looked very Roman and regal. She had not noticed that she'd been staring at him for a whole ten minutes, not until he looked up from his work and said rather matter-of-factly:

"Christine, you have been staring at me for over ten minutes now."

"Oh," her face flushed, "Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't realize." It had been three weeks since she had told him she loved him – the memory burned in both of their minds.

"Erik – "

"Christine – "

She cleared her throat, "Sorry."

"No, I apologize. Is there something I can help you with, my dear? If you wanted to get something to eat, please, don't let me stop you."

"Oh… um, do you… want something, Erik?"

It took him a moment to process what she was saying – at first he had thought she was asking why he was there, but no, he realized, she did not mean that, though he was sure she was probably curious. He glanced at her up and down, she was in her dressing gown and nightclothes, looking particularly cute with her arms wrapped around her and that expectant expression in her big blue eyes and one of her bare feet sticking out from underneath her dress – she truly had the most adorable little feet – yes, there was definitely something he wanted… he wanted to bound her up in his arms and press kisses to her golden curls and never let go of her again – he felt like a scoundrel. It occurred to him then that what she had meant was, 'do you want me to bring you something to eat, too?' and further, that he had been gazing at her long enough for her to grow confused and uncomfortable.

"No, I am perfectly fine, Christine, thank you… I think I will retire now. I hope you have a pleasant evening."

"Wait," she said, moving forward and pinching his sleeve, trying not to overtly stare at his bare arms or neck. Those arms – so thin and... now that she was closer, she thought she saw the light definitions of scars. And then there was his shirt, how it was unbuttoned at the top, exposing more of his long neck. There was no doubt that his face was a horrid thing, but the rest of him did not seem too... inhuman. He had skin like any other man, even if that skin was a peculiar sallow-yellowish colour and looked as if it was stretched far too tightly over his bones. He had legs and arms: and he had muscle and bone in those legs and arms. He had a chest, and in that chest was a beating heart... one that he claimed beat for her. He looked down at her, his hands suspended slightly, twitching with nervousness. The last time she had said that, she had begun to tell him that she loved him.

"Are you alright? I mean, you seem very tired. Are you having trouble sleeping?"

Oh, what a sweet, dear thing his Christine was, asking after him and worrying about him like a proper, little wife. She shifted nervously under the intense look of adoration he gave her then. She needed to get used to those looks. Her hand moved from his sleeve to rest on his forearm, and she gasped aloud at how cold it was, just like his hands, and she could not stop herself from enclosing another hand around his other arm.

"Erik! You are positively freezing!" He was about to pull away with a sad groan but then she ran her hands up and down his forearms to the tips of his fingers and he was sufficiently distracted, "Surely, you'll catch a cold!" He shook his head, watching as she suddenly wrapped her arms around him tightly.

"I am simply cold, Christine, I do not know why... but I will not get sick, do not worry."

There had not been any other reason for holding his waist and pulling him close other than trying to warm him... at least, that is what she told herself while she marveled at the feel of his bony ribs and chest beneath her cheek and the sound of his thudding heartbeat. It was odd to have a husband. He feels quite nice, she concluded as he settled on a very similar conclusion about her. They could not help but think back on the last time they were embracing, when she did not accept his offer of freedom... when she chose to stay. They both lingered on parallel thoughts… is this what it's like to be married and to hold your spouse in your arms? They wore wedding rings, but they were fairly aware that neither of them were very sure on what it really meant to be married. Erik had only seen marriage from afar, as some sort of idealistic dream of supreme happiness: it was what all truly normal and happy men (and women) wanted, right? And Christine had only just begun to entertain thoughts of marriage when Erik had... well, stolen her, and as for her basis, she hadn't been in the prolonged company of a couple since she was nine years old. It was all very new to the both of them.

"Are you any warmer?" Christine asked him and he chuckled, her breath catching when she could feel it rumble in his chest. It was a remarkable sensation.

"Do I feel any warmer to you?"

"No," she pouted, "you do not. Why is that?"

"As I have said before – I am simply cold; there is nothing to be done about it. But I appreciate your exceptionally valiant efforts to warm me."

It was unfortunate and strange that rather than her warming him she had actually begun to feel cooler – the last time she hugged him she had not started to feel so cold, she wondered if it was because she was wearing less – and then Christine realized she was wearing less and embracing Erik, who was also wearing less. She 'ahem-ed' and let go, tucking her hair behind her ear and looking up at her husband nervously.

"Ah, goodnight, Erik."

"Goodnight, Christine – have pleasant dreams."

He bowed his head, grabbing his papers and practically scurrying to his room. She felt the desire to have something warm then and so decided rather than getting an apple she would make herself a rare cup of hot chocolate. That night she fell asleep on his chair, curled up with the cup discarded on the floor – a little leftover chocolate dripping onto the carpet. Erik had cleaned it all up for her before she awoke, taking a moment to lay a quilt upon her as well – she had reacted immediately, snuggling and sinking deeper into the chair. He was half-inclined to exclaim 'awwww,' and Erik had never in the whole of his entire life felt the desire to exclaim 'awwww.' Christine had told Erik that she was not his pet, yet sometimes, even now, as he led her out of the ground and to the awaiting carriage outside the Palais Garnier… he could not help but feel like she was – in the most human sense, of course (mostly) – his adorable, precious pet: his sweet songbird, his curious kitten, his loveable lamb, his glorious goldfish… well, perhaps not that last one, but a pet to him nonetheless...

Discarded pet analogies: his charming chipmunk, his luscious llama, his saucy squirrel, his adorable agouti, his beauteous barracuda, his titillating turkey, his delightfully darling ducky, his felicitous fox, his mini mouse, his heroic heron, his zesty zebra, his kickin' kangaroo...

HAPPY FOURTH OF JULY TO MY DARLING FELLOW AMERICANS AND HAPPY ANOTHER DAY OF SUCCESSFULLY CONVERTING OXYGEN INTO CARBON DIOXIDE TO MY DARLING NON-AMERICANS!