In coming weeks the Julia and Erik vignettes I've done as sides to One Week won't be frequently updated due to conflicts with some manuscripts I recently sold. More information will follow shortly. I will also be out of town for 9 days starting this Saturday and may not update during that time. Knowing me, I probably will still update!

Thanks for your understanding and your support. It means a lot to me.

Julia13

For the most part pain kept Erik silent on the journey home. I pitied his condition, as he breathed in sharp, labored breaths, but at least he was still conscious. Honestly, I should have expected such perseverance from him.

While I walked beside Alex, who would not allow me to assist him, I attempted to convince myself that my actions were out of necessity, not affection. Without me he would die, and as a woman with the knowledge and skills of a nurse, it was my duty to aid him.

Before we reached Erik's front door I knew he should not return to his house for the night—at least not without doing himself a great deal of harm. His legs were unsteady, the wounds to his head had already made him sick, and I had no idea if he'd bruised or broken a rib.

I found myself smiling at the sight of stairs. He couldn't hole himself up inside his room this way. Still, I suggested to him that he call upon his neighbors or Madame Giry and Madame Lowry for assistance. Each suggestion only increased his irritability, which I had never guessed possible.

"My house has no stairs," I said lightly.

"Perhaps I'll stay with you." His tone was cynical but when I didn't laugh or make a reply, he looked at me through his swollen, bruised eyes and then turned his attention to Alex.

"Alex, tell Madame Giry that you're safe," I said.

He moped inside, glancing back at his father, whose mask no longer fit due to the knots on his forehead and the bruises to his cheek. Alex lingered a moment as though he were waiting for Erik to ask him to stay. Instead, Erik stared at his knees, which were practically at his chest, and waited for Alex to leave us.

"It would hardly be the most inappropriate thing we've done together," I reasoned.

"Yes," he said as he touched his chin with his fingers, "But I always leave once we're done."

"Romantic," I muttered.

I saw him wince at his own words. "That isn't what I meant."

I couldn't help but smile at him. He was in a tremendous amount of pain. For the moment he had my sympathy and the very last shred of my patience.

"There's a guest room," I said. "It was once a library but I sold all of Louis' books. In a few more hours I could find a doctor for you."

"No doctor."

I sighed heavily. Perhaps I should have guessed that he would never allow a stranger, not even a doctor, to gaze upon his unmasked face. When we first met I thought it was a matter of vanity, but the longer I knew him the more I understood how ashamed he was of himself. He couldn't understand that I accepted him, as he had no acceptance for himself. In his actions, in his words, my thoughts were confirmed. He was a good person, an intelligent person, but a very deeply damaged one. No matter his pain, he could not forget the scars he'd carried for a lifetime.

Unexpectedly Erik attempted to stand. I froze, alarmed by his actions, and watched helplessly as he managed to lift himself from the chair. His hips were jammed between the sides, which made it impossible for him to free himself.

"For God's sake, you foolish man," I said as I waved my arms and made him sit.

He'd done himself a great deal of harm. I saw it in his face as he sucked in a breath and groaned.

"I know a little about wounds from the war," I said absently as I stared across the street. "But if there is something serious—a broken bone or whatnot—you must have someone see to it. Infections could spread, fevers could spike, Erik—"

"Why?"

"Because if you don't…" I looked away.

"I'll be horribly disfigured for the rest of my life."

I shook my head at his self-loathing. His words saddened me. "You'll be in tremendous pain," I replied, "Or you could die."

"Pity."

"Alex would be devastated."

His lip trembled but he said nothing for a long time after that. His expression, nearly hidden by his injuries, was so hopeless, as though he longed for a different option, one in which he could be alone. He only knew how to suffer alone.

"A guest room?" he said.

"It's nearly as big as the master bedroom. There's a reading lamp, a nice window facing south, and the water closet is down the hall."

When he at last relented I wheeled him to my door where Meg met us. Erik kept his head bowed. Alex returned briefly and Meg escorted him home. The only words Erik had for her were, "Tell your mother not to worry."

He said nothing more until I pushed him into the guest room.

"I want to sleep."

He was covered in his own blood, his trousers wet from the puddles in the alley and the rest of his body covered in dirt. I suggested that he first clean himself up a bit for his comfort, and he naturally disagreed.

I left him in his wheelchair beside the bed and walked around to close the curtains since the sun was rising. Exhaustion had not yet interfered with my ability to nurse him back to health. I hoped my strength would last for at least another hour, as I suspected I still had quite a struggle on my hands.

"All of my linens are clean. I would hate to have them all bloodied by you," I said as I approached him.

"I'll sleep sitting up. I'll be fine in this chair."

His expression was anything but convincing.

"You can sleep if you want," I replied with a yawn. "I'll clean the blood away while you rest."

For whatever foolish reason he attempted to move again and discovered that his shoulder was dislocated. He begged me to put it back into place.

I gave a slight nod. "I've never done it before," I lied. I'd put my cousin's shoulder back into place twice as a child and assisted a soldier as well. I didn't want Erik to know, as I assumed he'd put up a fuss and bark commands at me.

His teeth gritted in frustration as he turned from me and stared at the wall.

"But I've seen it done before," I told him.

I rambled on for a moment about what I would need to treat him, my intention set on distracting him. His head tipped forward, the pain from his injuries slowly exhausting him and putting him to sleep. I saw my opportunity to put his shoulder back into place and took it.

His shoulder crunched into place, and from the scream and curse that left his mouth I thought for certain he would hit the ceiling. The shock of it all made him tremble, a tear slipped down his cheek and his lips quivered in agony.

"I'll return in a moment," I promised him, allowing him privacy to muster his dignity.

I walked out the door and stood with my back against the wall, one hand pressed to my stomach. From where I stood I could still hear him attempting to breathe through his pain. I wanted to return to his side, to hold his head to my breast and stroke his hair, to comfort him, mother him, and love him the way I had often dreamt of doing.

While I stood in the hall and listened to him whimper I wondered if he needed my assistance or if I needed to care for him, to prove myself worthy. Tears fell down my cheeks, one after another.

"I hate her," Erik groaned. "Hate her."

I inhaled sharply and held my breath. He sobbed alone in my guest room and I risked a look through the doorway. He sat hunched over, his shoulders slumped, the arm I had put back into its socket held close to his chest. He wept too hard to see me standing there, to know how desperately I wanted to help him.

It took all of my strength to walk away and find towels, sutures, and fresh water to tend to him. I knew before I returned to his side that he would argue and fight me, no matter how great his pain. Such a prideful man, I thought, but so much more. He was unaccustomed to anyone caring about him. From what little I knew of his childhood I fully understood that he'd received little, if any, affection. He couldn't comprehend that someone would repair him, as he only knew that others could do him harm. More than ever I prayed for patience and strength, to love him when I knew he would show me nothing but his worst side.

Once I returned to the room I wheeled him closer to the bed and poured him a glass of water. I started to hand it to him but saw that with his arm so damaged that he couldn't hold it. His left hand was so bruised he couldn't make a fist, and I highly doubted he could hold a glass without spilling it.

He turned his face away and I saw his eyes turn glassy again. Exhausted, humiliated, and unwilling to cooperate, he refused to speak to me much less meet my eye. I placed my hand over his.

"You need to drink something," I said simply.

He wouldn't look at me as I pressed the glass to his lips. His eyes blinked rapidly as he gulped down the contents, ignoring the blood that trailed from his damaged lower lip.

"Would you like more?" I asked once he finished the first glass.

He stared straight ahead and inhaled to keep from sobbing. I decided to fill his glass again, as I would rather have offered him too much water than not give him enough.

"Hold still," I whispered as I wiped the blood from his lips and dried the tracks of tears on his left cheek. He watched me from the corner of his eye, his posture perfectly straight. I didn't know if I hurt him or if he merely didn't enjoy how I treated him.

"Your mouth is bloody," I said. I showed him the towel I used but he didn't look at it. He continued to stare at me. "Let me see your teeth."

They were still there, I discovered. Fortunately, he hadn't loosened any of his teeth, but his lips were swollen and split open, his chin and jaw bruised. He'd sustained quite a beating. Far worse, I was afraid, than I had originally anticipated.

We sat in silence for a while as I washed the blood away from his mouth. As the seconds passed I found my former experience as a nurse settle into place. I'd been a girl of only fourteen years when I held my mother's hand and followed her into the hospitals. I'd seen men with their legs freshly amputated, their faces torn apart in the midst of warfare. The injuries Erik had sustained in the alley were incomparable. He was bruised and bloodied, but he hadn't been torn apart. Fortunate, I thought to myself. I doubted he would agree.

I glanced up and found him still staring at me. I couldn't tell what he was thinking, but if his mind worked as mine did then he was thinking about the alley and what had led him to this fate.

"Did you see her?" I asked suddenly.

It took a moment for him to reply. "Who?" he asked.

As if he had no idea of whom I spoke. I glared back at him. "Christine. The vicomte's wife."

He sighed in disgust. "Yes."

"You found a way into her hotel room?" I asked. He had started to tremble as I dragged a wet rag along his flesh.

"I followed him inside."

I decided that I wanted to hear Erik say the names for himself. Perhaps I thought it would bring clarity to a seemingly ignorant man. "Who did you follow?" I asked.

"Who do you think?" he snapped.

I pulled my hand away. It was terrible of me to pursue an argument when I knew he was miserable.

"Her husband," Erik admitted at last. He no longer looked at me as he answered. I wasn't sure if it was a breakthrough or a setback.

"He didn't see you?" I continued.

"He was drinking," Erik mumbled.

Ah, the reason behind such brutality. I thought about the vicomte who had shown himself at the end of the alley while Alex and I retrieved Erik. He could have easily finished what he had started, but he had chosen to walk away. I wondered if he had sobered and regretted his actions, or if he was unwilling to beat a man while a woman and child were present.

He was an aristocrat, however, and I couldn't imagine his polite society looking favorably upon man who had nearly beaten another to death. Did this vicomte think of Erik as a man, I wondered? Erik made it difficult for others to endure his company. The devil was most certainly on my shoulder as I continued to clean his face, exposing several scrapes and cuts along the left side of his face.

Eventually Erik closed his eyes and I allowed him a moment of undisturbed rest. I sat with him for almost an hour and held his hand in mine. I fought to keep myself from crying. All I wanted to do was sit with him, to hold onto him even if he didn't know I was there.

He mumbled to himself as he slept in the wheelchair. His hand clutched mine as he muttered to himself, his words mostly incoherent. I understood his nightmares well enough, as he had fallen asleep in the parlor enough times for me to understand one aspect of his life well: He knew cruelty. A dozen times before I had heard him beg his father to stop. He never said what, but it was perfectly clear in my eyes. In his dreams he showed weakness I never would have known.

Gently I touched his cheek to rouse him.

"You should lie down," I told him. He blinked at me, startled to find me beside him. It took a moment for him to realize where he was. "Let me help you into bed."

He seemed more ashamed than anything and resisted my assistance.

He fought me yet again, but he was far too exhausted to continue for long. Once he was on the bed—a trial of my patience in and of itself—I removed his shoes and covered him with a blanket.

For the moment I had Erik as content as he would allow.

It would not last.