It had been, by Christine's estimation, eight months and one week, to the day. And though she knew she'd brought it upon herself, that didn't detract from how utterly sick of the whole thing she was. She was finished with being pregnant.

This was normal, Erik told her.

Messed up pregnancy dreams now plagued her nights. Many were pleasant, if not bittersweet: blue-eyed, golden-haired babies gurgling at her in a small house with no husbands. Others were strange, like giving birth to litters of little black kittens and not having enough baskets to put them in. And some were terrifying. In the most recurring scenario, she was paralyzed in a hospital bed, stuck with needles and wires, unable to look away from a faceless corpse child swaddled at her breast.

These she didn't tell her husband about, but she imagined a rational Erik who wasn't offended by the products generated by her unconscious mind would also tell her they were normal.

That particular evening she struggled to get comfortable again on the couch in the media room—the other couch—after what felt like the hundredth trip to the bathroom that day. Feeling like a beached whale, she swung her aching, bare feet up onto a cushion and resumed surfing through Erik's 500 channels of satellite television. The infomercials wouldn't begin for another few hours, so she switched to his dubiously legal film collection instead, but nothing there could pique her interest either. Her groan of boredom startled Edgar from his grooming on the arm of the sofa, and she apologized.

The coffee dreams were the worst of all. Only one thing now prevented her from returning that joy to her life and it woke her in cold sweats at night. The idea hadn't seemed so terrible eight months ago, or even two, but now her stomach felt constantly knotted with anxiety. It was almost enough to make her wish she hadn't ever thought of seducing Erik.

Almost.

In the distance, a piano played.

Whatever peace Erik had achieved with the idea of a baby was audibly deteriorating. She heard him rather than saw him these days. The air thrummed with apprehension and stress as he relentlessly he wove subjects she did not recognize into complex counterpoint, dropping voice after voice into an increasingly breathless whirl that strained against the suffocating structure he imposed upon it, yet never tore free. Erik seemed to break out into fugues the way normal people developed hives.

The music resonated with the anxiety quivering in her gut, and for a few moments she could forget it was there. Instead of turning up the television volume, she listened for a while.

Christine must have dozed because she woke to the sensation of being watched. It was far too quiet. Blearily, she glanced around and discovered Erik leaning in the doorway of the media room, his arms crossed over his chest, regarding her with a curious expression from behind the mask; one that was all-too-familiar in recent weeks. It was horror and revulsion. The tightness of his mouth gave him away.

Dropping her gaze to the floor, cheeks burning, she tugged her shirt further down over her belly as if a thin layer of fabric could disguise just how grossly pregnant she was. Edgar was now perched on the armrest behind her head, watching Erik unblinkingly through half-lidded eyes.

"How are you feeling, dear?" Erik asked softly, his mouth and eyes softening. The disgust was gone. "Is there anything I can get you?"

'I feel like gnawing my own left hand off and feeding it to the cat' didn't feel like a particularly civil sentence, so she shook her head. "What were you playing today?"

"Some personal nonsense, mostly. Why do you ask?"

He never talked about his music.

She reached awkwardly over her shoulder to scratch Edgar reassuringly, then looked back at the TV. "No reason. Feeling any better?"

"Why wouldn't I be? Are you hungry at all? How are your feet?"

"I ate a little while ago. Haven't moved since then." Christine glanced cursorily at her swollen feet and ankles. "I'm good."

"So there's... nothing I can do for you?"

A sigh. It was the same stilted conversation they'd had all week. With the baby room painted, the crib assembled, and the dresser now containing all the accoutrements of infanthood, they couldn't be any more prepared without looking like a Babies'R'Us.

She looked up at him as he wrung his hands. "I could do with a glass of water, if you're not busy, I guess. Thanks."

"Of course I'm not busy," he replied, smiling thinly. He promptly disappeared and returned a moment later with a tall glass of water, iced, which he brought to her. "Do you mind if I sit with you a little?"

Groaning, Christine set her feet back onto the floor, patting the cushion next to her as invitingly as she could. She accepted the glass and held it on her thigh, not drinking, otherwise she would be forced to get up in another five minutes and she simply couldn't be bothered.

"Oh, you don't need to sit up on my account," he assured her quietly, taking the far end of the couch to demonstrate. "I don't take up much space, honestly. I don't want you to be uncomfortable."

She smiled lightly. "I don't mind. I should probably try to be getting some exercise... do you think sitting up counts?"

"How about we say yes?" He returned her smile awkwardly and shifted closer, though maintaining at least a solid foot of distance between them. Edgar was still eyeing Erik with disapproval. "I was doing a little reading," he said, "and they say that massages are good for expectant mothers, especially around this time... What they suggest is a little beyond my abilities, however. I was wondering if you would like me to call your doctor for recommendations?"

Christine sighed. "But I'd have to go out."

"I'm certain we could find someone who would be willing to make a house call... but a little walking would do you good, don't you think?"

She narrowed her eyes with good humor. "No. No, it wouldn't."

"But you just said you should probably try getting some exercise..." Erik spoke carefully, watching her with equal attention.

"I don't want to." She may have sounded a little whiny, but she'd earned it, damn it. "And I know you don't want some stranger coming into the house."

At that, Erik smirked, half-obscured by the mask. "I know you don't want to," he replied soothingly. "But it might help a little. Besides, a massage by a professional who knows what they're doing would be worth it, wouldn't it?"

She frowned. It did sound amazing. "It's frivolous. You can do my feet, that's enough."

"It isn't frivolous if it makes you feel better. It helps a great deal swelling and aches, I'm told," he murmured, discreetly looking her over as if capable of identifying these places at a glance. "Are you feeling stressed at all?"

"No," she snapped too quickly. Stressed? What on earth could she possibly be stressed about?

Erik hesitated, then glanced away to the TV at a sitcom neither of them had been paying attention to. "What's troubling you? I'd like to help, if I can." A frown appeared.

Christine frowned too. "Nothing. I'm fine."

"You don't sound fine," he muttered, keeping his eyes on the screen. "I'm here to serve you, Christine. And at this stage, I don't want you to be experiencing any undue stress... The baby could be born any week now. We ought to schedule another appointment, just in case..." He pulled out his phone and glanced down at the screen with a growing frown.

"I know that." Her voice was trembling despite her frustration. "Do you think I don't know that?"

He looked back to her, slowly, his eyes now blank and unreadable. "Of course you know that. You know that better than I do, I'm sure... If... If you're anxious about the, ah... delivery, I'm certain it might help to talk to someone. Hilary, perhaps. She wouldn't mind coming over to visit for a little, I don't think."

"I... no, she doesn't need to. I don't want to put her out." Christine was fidgeting, picking at her sleeve.

"She's your friend, isn't she? Friends aren't supposed to mind visiting and talking, especially not when someone is upset. Isn't that the case?" He continued to fuss with his phone. "It's been a while since we've seen them. You could call her even."

She rubbed at her eyes, completely ruining the little bit of mascara and eyeliner she'd bothered with. "I don't want to. It's bad enough you have to see me all gross."

"If you're gross, then I worry what that makes me," he teased.

She attempted to remove her smudged makeup with her fingertips. "I must look like a fat, demented panda. All the time." She stopped, frustrated, and wrapped her arms protectively around her stomach.

"As it just so happens, I like fat, demented pandas. Besides, it's only for a little longer and then you'll be back to normal in no time..." Cautiously, he reached out to squeeze her shoulder with a firm, but reassuring pressure. "You're almost done."

There was a tenderness in his voice that made her throat knot. She closed her eyes. "I'm really scared."

There, she had said it, but she didn't feel any better for it. Here she was like an idiot offering up yet another weakness for Erik to systematically exploit. Yet she had to admit, it felt very strange to contend with a fear that existed utterly independent of him. It was almost comforting in a way.

Emboldened, Erik rubbed her upper back, or at least what he could reach of it. "What scares you?"

Again, the gentleness in his tone, in his touch, made hot tears burn in her eyes. Why couldn't he be like this all the time?

"Mom died. I could die." Christine fought to keep her breathing steady. "I could die. He could..." Her arms tightened around herself. Her mother survived the birth that started her down a road to ill health and eventual death, but only just. If one more thing went wrong for her than had for her mother, Christine or her baby could die. Or worse. "Nothing can happen to him."

Erik's hand stopped moving for a telling second. "I thought your mother passed away later than that."

"She did, but I made her really sick. She didn't get better."

"You aren't your mother. Besides, you have the best doctor I could find and he says everything is exactly as it should be," he assured her in a low, calm voice. "You've done everything you're supposed to do and, on the remotest chance something does go wrong, we'll be at a hospital and they'll be able to fix it."

Her face was serious. "You won't get rid of him if I get sick and can't take care of him, will you?"

A too-long pause preceded Erik's response. "I don't think worrying about remote and unlikely what-ifs right now is helpful."

She looked at him with what was almost a glare. "Promise me you'll keep him."

"I promise," he assured her with a worryingly facile shrug of his shoulders. "Though someone else would be able to take better care of him than I ever could, you know."

The glare intensified. "I don't care."

"You truly want me to keep your son?" he asked softly, incredulously. "You would actually entrust the future of your child into my care?"

"Your son," she corrected viciously-an automatic habit these days. Her cheeks flushed and she opened her mouth to say more, but a kick derailed her thoughts. She frowned and rubbed her stomach to placate the baby. A sigh. "You woke him up," she said accusingly.

"How could I have possibly woken him up?"

"You pissed me off. He felt it." She closed her eyes with a groan. "You've gotta stop doing this."

"Stop doing what?"

"Acting like this," Her face was hard. Christine rubbed her stomach with a wince, hoping he would settle without forcing her to take a walk. "You're his father whether you like it or not." An observation she was also tired of stating. But if she said it often enough, perhaps he'd finally internalize it, the way he did his own lies.

"I will concede that on technicality, but I cannot raise a child, Christine. I'm not you. I didn't... I never signed on for children." He slouched back against the couch and glared absently at the television. "But you aren't going to get sick. And if you do, I will look after you because you can't go anywhere. I need you." Then, he amended as an afterthought: "We both need you."

"I'm not going to get sick," she repeated hollowly. She glanced at him. "I'm sure you'd cope without me." There was a slight smile on her face, though she didn't feel it.

There was no humor in his voice. "Not for long. I'm tired of merely coping."

The smile went away. "Have you been 'merely coping' for the past two years, then?"

"No, I was 'merely coping' until I married you. And if you were gone… I don't want to go back to that... I can't and I won't."

Christine sniffed and rubbed at her wet eyes with her fingers, further smearing her makeup. Then she pursed her lips. "I'll have to stick around then."

"You're contractually obligated, I should hope so. I can't live without you, you know that."

The room suddenly felt too small; so did the house. Christine resisted the need to pull away from him. "Please don't say things like that."

"When it's the truth, why not?"

"It makes me uncomfortable."

"Why?"

"I don't know. How would you feel if I said, in all seriousness, that... it... it doesn't compare, I guess, but... I asked nicely. Please don't."

"What doesn't compare?"

"I don't feel about you the same way you feel about me. It's different."

Erik blinked in confusion, frowning. "Why does that matter?"

She pouted and made to get up, setting her untouched glass of water on the coffee table. "I don't want to think about death any more than I have to, thank you very much."

Erik's frown intensified and he immediately stood to offer her a hand. "It isn't flattering to know someone loves you that much?"

Christine refused it, and barely managed to get up. Erik awkwardly pushed his hands into his pockets, as though trying to retroactively retract his offer without either of them noticing.

"I guess, if you look at it that way," she said, a little out of breath. "But it still isn't nice to think about."

"I see," he muttered quietly, unconvinced. "Well, I won't say it again, then, if it bothers you that much. Can I still tell you I love you from time to time, or is that objectionable, too?"

She waddled awkwardly for the doorway to the kitchen. "I doubt I could stop you doing that even if I wanted to."

"But if you could, would you?" he asked gloomily. Like a shadow, he followed slowly, keeping pace with her.

She paused, catching her breath. "No."

At that, Erik smiled a little, if only to himself. "I'm glad. Because I love you, Christine, and I'm going to look after you. Don't worry about anything."

She gave a sardonic smile as she crossed the kitchen and set about making some coffee. "Spoken like a true Prince Charming."

"You're kind to say so," Erik said dryly, lingering in the doorway. "Are you sure you don't want to speak to Hilary?"

"Can you get the milk for me, please?" She was struggling to reach for a mug. "No need to bother her."

Erik wordlessly did as he was told, fetching the soy milk from the fridge and setting it on the counter. Then, moving towards her, he brushed behind her with a soft apology as he reached up to grab the mug in question. The kitchen felt so small when they were both in it. He handed it to her. "But you're still worried."

She pouted good-naturedly with a nod of thanks. "I'll be worried till this freakin' kid is out of me."

He leaned back against the counter, hands in his pockets. "I suppose I would be worried, too, in your place..." Erik frowned, watching the floor a moment in silence, then glanced to her. "Do you... want me to be there when it happens, or would you prefer I be elsewhere?"

She grinned. For such a smart guy, he could be a little stupid. "Oh, please. I need to have someone there."

Erik smiled uncertainly, eyes flicking back and forth as he searched her face. "Why's that?"

A small laugh escaped as she picked up the carton. "Like I need to look any more like an unmarried teen mom."

"You don't look like an unmarried teen mom."

She smiled. "How old do I look to you?"

He shrugged uncomfortably. "I… couldn't say. I certainly wouldn't say a teenager..."

The smile persisted. "You must have some idea, though."

"Your early twenties, but that's because I know how old you are," he said, watching her with embarrassment. "But... I suppose you do look... young for your age—alright, yes, I see your point..."

She nudged him with her shoulder. "Of course you do." She paused, taking a moment to pour herself a cup of decaf and stir in a bit of soy. "I'm going to have to start buying real coffee again soon."

"I promise to pick some up the day we get home from the hospital," he assured her, contemplating the liquor cabinet. "Baby in one arm, coffee mug in the other. I imagine you'll be quite happy."

She frowned. "You'll hold him for a while, won't you?"

"I... I suppose I could," he admitted reluctantly. "If you show me how. I've never… held one before. Properly, anyway, if you can believe it. Not by itself."

Christine allowed another grin. "Of course I'll show you. Can't have you dropping him."

"That would be horrible," Erik muttered, covering his eyes with a hand, mortified.

She punched his arm lightly. "Relax, I was joking. You'd deprive me of something I wanted before you dropped him." Something, of course, that wasn't freedom, but that always went without saying.

His hand remained where it was, not looking at her; he shook his head. "Is it easy to drop them? When you're holding them on their own? Because they are very unmanageable when they get bigger."

She smiled. "Not newborns. You'll just have to support his head."

He nodded and crossed his arms over his chest. "That doesn't seem too difficult. I suppose I can manage that... Have you handled many newborns?"

She sighed and moved to the table. "Not really, unfortunately. I'll be learning too."

Erik remained where he stood, watching her with a frown. "Ah."

She looked back at him. "What?"

"When did Mrs Giry say she was coming?"

She looked distinctly offended. "What're you trying to say?"

"Nothing, only that... well, infants are complicated, aren't they? It would be reassuring to have someone in the house who knows what's going on, if only for a little while. It's what grandmothers do, as I understand it." He didn't meet her eyes.

She was glaring. "I can take care of my own son."

"I meant no disrespect, I was simply concerned. It wouldn't be a bad thing, wouldn't it?" He chanced a glance in her direction, only for his gaze to fall back to the floor.

"No." She hardened again. "But I don't need her here."

"You don't want her here, either."

"I do. Just not straight away."

Erik sighed quietly, his frown growing pronounced. "It just seems like we never see your family..."

Christine felt a frown of her own forming. "Why does that upset you so much?"

He continued staring at the floor, not immediately answering. "I don't know. It just seems... wrong to have a family and never see them, especially if you love them and they love you. If I had a family like that, I'd see them all the time if I could. They must miss you."

"You're going to have that," she reminded him, hand on her belly. "And we will see them. They're just busy people."

Erik shrugged off her comment. "Once the baby is born, perhaps we could go see them, if they're so busy. I haven't really met them properly."

"You gonna wear a face around them?"

"Of course."

"Oh."

"They won't recognize me otherwise."

How exactly were they meant to keep a charade like that up for twenty years?

"They're your family too."

Erik finally looked up at her, his eyes narrowing briefly in confusion. "I don't follow."

She was frowning. "You're my husband. They are."

"On technicality, yes..." he spoke slowly. "But we hardly know each other and... that's what makes a family. You can't be strangers."

"No, it's not." Her expression went blank. She still felt sometimes that there was a screen between her adopted family and herself—there were things about her they didn't know, and there were things about her family of which she'd never be aware. "Family cares. That's all."

Erik crossed his arms over his chest, watching her intently, pressing his lips together thoughtfully. "I... I suppose that's true but... it has to be mutual, doesn't it?"

"Do you care for them, Erik?"

"...Yes?" he answered hesitantly as if it were a trick question.

Christine's face didn't change. "I mean it. Do you?"

"Yes, I do. Why?"

"They care about you. That's close enough to family, isn't it?"

This information caused him to frown. "How do you know that?"

She lifted a foot onto her thigh, rubbing it idly. "Because you're my husband, and they're good people, so they do."

"It's as easy as that?"

She shrugged. "For some people."

"I see…" Erik sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "I'd still like to spend time with them all the same. If I have family now, as you say, I want to make the best of it."

Her expression turned long-suffering. "You can call them, then. Tell them you're excited to show off your new baby boy."

"I have your permission then?" His tone remained carefully neutral.

She glanced at her now-cold coffee. As if he had ever asked her permission to interact with them in the past. "I don't care either way. If you want."

The truth was she did care. She didn't want them liking him more than they already did. And she certainly didn't want them liking him more than they liked her, which had seemed like such a dangerous possibility the week he introduced himself behind her back. No one could spin a sob story like Erik.

"Then I will," he said softly, turning away to the liquor cabinet. He removed the half-empty bottle of vodka and poured himself a shot. "I'd like to spend time with my new mother-in-law."

"Your mother-in-law is only... what, fourteen years older than you? Does that weird you out at all?"

Erik tossed it back, then promptly refilled the glass. He regarded her with a shrug. "I hadn't really thought about it, honestly, though I can hardly hold that against her. My own mother is only five years older than that."

Thoughts of Erik's mother rarely crossed Christine's mind, yet amid the anger she felt towards her, she couldn't help but feel a small pang of pity. At 21, Christine felt overwhelmed by even a 'planned' baby, while Erik's mother had still been a teenager and clearly not coped well with the ordeal.

Christine watched as Erik downed the second shot and set the tumbler next to the sink.

"Have I upset you?" she asked.

"What makes you say that?"

"Why are you drinking?"

"It's that time of the evening."

"I wish you wouldn't."

"It's two shots. That's hardly anything."

Christine rose laboriously to her feet, taking her mug in her hands. "What sort of example does that set?"

"It's a couple drinks," he repeated incredulously. "I hardly call it excessive."

"You can't be drinking every night around him." She tipped her coffee out into the sink. "We've got enough bad habits we're going to pass on."

"I hardly call this drinking," he muttered. "But if it bothers you so much, I'll keep it to myself."

Christine was so sick of alcohol.

She had vivid memories of her own father sitting in a dim living room with a half-empty bottle next to him. He'd been a vodka man as well; a melancholy, ultimately benign drunk, who smiled at her and warbled his own compositions to himself when he'd had too much—which wasn't often, in his defense, but enough that she still had to make her own sandwiches in the mornings sometimes.

Early on, Erik had been that kind of drunk, too. After they first met in person, she had preferred him inebriated because it made him sedate and docile. At worst he'd cry at her feet or text her increasingly incoherent messages. She knew how to deal with that. She had practice. But as her relationship with her boyfriend deepened, he became rapidly unstable. One moment he'd be sobbing pathetically at the kitchen counter, the next he'd be raging and openly expressing his violent fantasies of murdering Raoul or his brother. He never touched her, but he had words enough to frighten her. Since the wedding, the docile drunk had returned, but she had seen enough to know what he was capable of.

Christine frowned and glanced at Erik. "We'll pretend to be normal, won't we?"

"Why wouldn't we?" He blinked at her. "We're going to be as normal as possible."

"I've been... thinking."

"About what?"

She was blushing. "About... when he's a little older. Old enough to... realize."

Erik regarded the color in her face with mild alarm. "Realize what?"

"That we're not... traditional. Or, I guess we are." She was staring at the floor. Victorian traditional.

"What do you mean?"

She was bright red. "The separate bedrooms thing."

He regarded the empty shot glass intently. "I doubt he'll think much of it. That will be normal for him. In fact, I imagine he will find it strange when he learns some spouses share the same room. I really wouldn't worry about it, Christine."

She glanced at him. "I do worry about it. He has to be able to make normal relationships."

"What, and you think I'll teach him anything useful? That will be your job. And... he'll hopefully have friends and certainly your family to learn from. I really don't think knowing his parents sleep in separate bedrooms is really going to hinder his social development terribly much." He met her eyes, mouth pressed into a thin line. "I imagine a lot of couples sleep alone."

Her eyes shot back to the floor. "Just... just think about it for me, okay?"

"Are... you asking me to share your bedroom, Christine?"

Erik used to do a shot every time his surveillance caught her kissing Raoul. It was one item on a lengthy drinking game he wrote for her date nights, documenting all the affection and sweet nothings they exchanged. It would have been funny if it hadn't been so sad or made her so furious.

If she wanted him to curb his drinking, maybe it would help...

Christine turned away slightly in mortification, wondering if she could ever look him in the eye again. "I'm... asking you to consider it. In... not straight away."

"If... you think that best, then... I... I will consider it. But with... certain conditions."

She was able to breathe again. "Yes?"

Erik, on the other hand, was not. His ears were red, but his voice was steady. "I want you on birth control."

She was silent a moment. "Okay. Anything else?"

"That's all, really," he mumbled. "It's for... accidents."

"I'm sure there won't be too many more of those."

Erik shook his head quickly, staring at the floor. "None. Absolutely none, I promise, but it's... I'd rather be safe than sorry, you understand. There are other... other procedures that could be done—that really should be done—but I hate doctors, Christine, and... I'm sure you can agree it's a good idea."

Other procedures.

She felt dizzy.

"I'm not doing that." She put her arms around herself. "I know you'd prefer that, probably, but..." She shuddered. "No. Suppose I got remarried. No."

Erik blinked at her, then his eyes widened. "No... I meant..." He reached for the vodka and poured another shot, staring at it. "I didn't mean you. I meant… I meant me," he snapped, and tossed it back, grimacing.

"It's not necessary." She paused. "We just... won't."

"Oh, yes. Because that worked so well before," he said darkly and returned the glass to the sink.

Embarrassed anger flared in her stomach.

"Don't blame me for your being a randy old man," she snapped before she could stop herself.

Erik turned to stare at her, eyes and voice hard. "Excuse me? I missed the part where I blamed you."

"It sounded like it." She shrank a little, with a noncommittal "sorry".

"Well I wasn't," he snapped, glaring. "I already admitted it was my fault. Repeatedly. I've already told you I felt awful about it and I never once blamed you for what happened. I made the mistake, not you. And where do you get off calling me a randy old man anyway?"

"I said sorry," she hissed, crossing her arms. "I think you're old enough to handle one insult."

"Which you didn't retract. All things considered, I think I have done a damn good job keeping to myself. You have no right to call me that."

"Except you are, so I don't see a need to."

"I'm not that old!"

"You sort of are. Nearly forty. You're ancient."

"If I'm ancient, what does that make your mother? Prehistoric?"

"I'm not married to my mother."

"I don't see why it matters what age I am. It doesn't affect you."

"So, what, I can't have an opinion?"

"What is the point of having an opinion on that? Unless you enjoy thinking of yourself as the blonde trophy wife to a rich, randy old man, in which case I certainly can't stop you, though I shouldn't think it would be very flattering." His gaze darkened. "I'm not that old."

"Did I upset you again?" she asked with a flippant laugh.

"And what kind of example is that going to set?" he echoed coolly.

She smirked. "We'll just have to keep our little arguments behind closed doors. That's the appropriate thing, right?"

"Yes, I'll make certain I'm only considerate to you behind closed doors, because that apparently causes you to fling insults in my face. He's going to learn to form healthy relationships so quickly as a result!"

Her smile didn't fade. "You're really mad right now, aren't you?"

The quiet, mature part of her knew she was being childish and rude and yet she felt like they were newlyweds again, when she loved nothing more than the satisfaction of aggravating her husband. A familiar, perverse kind of contentment warmed her chest. It felt good. A therapist would have a field day with that, but she didn't care.

"I should think you know me well enough to know what really mad looks like." He grabbed the bottle of vodka and began to head from the kitchen up the hall to his studio.

She pouted. "Don't leave."

He stopped and turned to look at her, eyes narrowed. "What? A few more unprovoked insults you'd like to hurl? I'm waiting."

"Erik, I was kidding. Don't be like that."

"Oh, I'm sure you were. And need I remind you, when you're through with me, you'll be just as ancient as I am now. And if you get remarried... if you get remarried, you must convince someone that you—an ancient woman with her ex's child who may or may not be emotionally stable—are worth having. And in my personal experience, that's a tall order." His tone had taken on a savage edge. "You don't think I would have preferred to be a little younger in all this? Trust me, I've never exactly enjoyed our little age gap."

Tears sprang to her eyes. "Fine." They fell down her cheeks as quickly. "Fine. Sorry. Go."

"Don't be like that, Christine. I was kidding." His tone didn't change; if anything, it became snide.

"Leave then. I was…" She stared, ashamed, at the floor. Maybe she'd taken it too far. Maybe. "I'm sorry. I'm really sorry."

"You were what?" he asked softly, though the anger had not entirely left his voice.

"I was just... I don't know. I was being stupid. Please don't be angry."

Erik took a slow, quiet breath. "Are you actually sorry?"

She nodded vehemently, still crying. "Of course. Yes."

He watched her closely, almost suspiciously, and took a step backwards; but then, with a quiet sigh, he walked towards her and set the bottle of vodka on the counter. Moving behind her, he set his hands on her shoulders and massaged them gently. "Then I'm sorry, too."

"Please don't say things like that. I'm scared enough about... the future." She glanced over her shoulder at him. "... You don't want me to get married again."

Erik didn't meet her eyes, his own fixed on her back. "It's something I'd prefer not to think about."

Her voice remained insistent. "Please tell me the truth. You don't, do you?"

"I think you can surmise the answer," Erik replied quietly, "but obviously my feelings on the subject don't matter."

"Let's... I'm sorry. I'm being a jerk."

She pulled one of his hands away from her shoulder and placed it on her stomach. He stiffened at first before shyly stroking the fabric of her shirt.

"It's alright. I was being one, too."

She leaned her head a little more heavily on his chest. "It's a little bit less expected from me, though. I was being unfair."

"It's alright. I deserved it."

Christine reached for his other hand and placed it on the other side of her belly. "You didn't. I'm sorry."

Erik silent for a long moment. Then, warily, he crept closer until his chest touched her back; she felt his masked cheek rest against the top of her head. He sighed softly. "No… you were nineteen when I fell in love with you. That means I deserve it."

Her cheeks flushed again. "I'm sorry things happened this way."

It was a variation on a platitude she'd echoed in gentler moments from the day he knocked on her front door. Then, as now, he made a soft sound of indifference. "I thought we agreed it was no one's fault. No spark and all that."

"You must've thought I was pretty great, huh?"

"That's an understatement." He paused. "You know, I cried myself to sleep that first night we Skyped because I had hoped you wouldn't be as pretty as I imagined you were." He sighed quietly to himself.

She chuckled to herself. "Really?"

"Really. It was embarrassing." He rubbed her stomach absently. "I knew I would never have a shot with you. Pretty girls of nineteen are not interested in walking corpses of thirty-five—that's just the way of the world. This was the only way it would ever work for me, the only way I could have my chance with you or... anyone else for that matter..."

"Don't say that," she said, her tone still reasonably light.

"Why not?"

"I... Was moving on really that impossible?"

He didn't answer at first. "It's said the more you do something, the easier it gets. Moving on is... the opposite for me. The last time nearly killed me. Forcing it one more time..." He trailed off. "My heart couldn't take it, you understand? You get so tired of living alone... so incredibly weary of starting over again and again in the hope that next time will be different, but it never is... You start losing the will to live."

She softened with pity and covered his hands with hers.

"Maybe..." A pause. Her cheeks flushed. "Never mind."

"Maybe what?" he asked softly.

"Maybe you should... move into my room... sooner. Cause... I mean, in case the little guy decides to come in the middle of the night. Or something."

"I'm not across the house, you know, and I won't lock my door. No need to... resort to such drastic measures."

"I get lonely." She attempted to look past her bulging stomach to the floor. "Unless you don't want to."

To her surprise, she felt him pull away.

"It's not that I don't want to," he mumbled. "I imagine I could enjoy that very much, actually…"

Christine turned around to face him. He was staring at the kitchen counter, one hand curled tightly around his forearm. His ears were pink.

"Then why not?" she asked.

"I... can't…"

"What?"

"It isn't you—it's me," he said hastily. He glanced at her before examining the counter again. She could see the frown beyond the edge of the mask. "The fact of the matter is... I… just can't... Please understand, I really can't… Not right now… I'm sorry."

Christine's face burned and she wished a hole would open up and swallow her. "Erik, what I said earlier… I really didn't mean that."

He shook his head, still unable to meet her eyes. "It's… complicated."

"Oh," she mumbled, taking a step away towards the hallway. "Okay. Then don't worry about it. It was a dumb idea anyway."

"No, I… I appreciate it. It's very flattering you would ask, even if only out of concern for the baby. But if you're truly worried he'll come in the night, I'll sleep across the hall. You can call or text or shout… You know I'll hear you."

"I will. Thanks."

An awkward pause descended between them, all the while the kitchen growing smaller and far too hot. Unable to bear company amid the aftermath of her stupid request, she mumbled an excuse about needing to use the restroom and waddled off as quickly as she could in the hope of salvaging what little of her self-respect remained.

That night, she drifted off to sleep in her carefully-arranged nest of pillows, listening to Edgar hunting a fly to the sound of Erik's violin, which drifted up from the studio. The afternoon's fugues were gone, receding to the subdued melodic line of Pärt's Spiegel im spiegel, haunting and simple, and unbearably lonely.

At least she'd have the baby.

A/N: ...Surprise! :D

It's incredibly embarrassing how long it's taken to post this chapter and we're genuinely sorry for the wait, for those of you still keeping an eye on this story. With both of us in school and living on opposite sides of the planet it's been harder than expected to find minutes in the day that match up. We're not entirely happy with this bit, but we figured it would be best to post it anyway so the story can keep flowing.

We really, really appreciate the support and interest. As a pathetic apology for the five month wait, here is a selection from our Deceptive Cadence playlist if you're into that sort of thing: play DOT spotify DOT com SLASH user/darlingsociopath/playlist/7ucRcF2SaY6h3aLq9FAS7Z