Erik sighed heavily while hurrying along the pitch-black passages. He did not want to have to face Christine after their ridiculous argument. The fact that she could become upset over nothing at all never ceased to infuriate him, and the idea that she would still be angry with him when he returned was something he did not want to ponder. He nearly activated one of his own traps on accident as a result of his distraction, and he bit back a hefty curse as he continued. A small boat waited for him on the shores of a black, bottomless lake, and he swiftly climbed in. As it drifted lazily toward his house, he wondered if the siren would have anyone joining her soon. It had been so long, and she must be getting lonely...Erik's bony fingertips came to rest on the icy, black water, staring into its depths.

As he approached the shores that led to his home, he looked up swiftly. Loud noises were wafting across the lake – something that had never happened. There was crashing...and screaming. Without a second thought, he dove straight into the lake and swam the rest of the way, knowing it was stupid to leave his boat, yet perfectly aware that swimming was faster. His long, lean legs kicked powerfully, and he crawled up onto the shore before running to his front door. The crashing had not ceased, and the screams were separated by sobs. Erik, his mind in a panicked frenzy, opened the front door with the push of a button. Someone was in the house...Someone was hurting Christine...his Christine...my Christine...

"Christine! Christine!"

His front room was unrecognizable. Loose sheets of music were still floating to the ground, which was littered with shards of glass and books. Some of the furniture was even overturned. Before he could lay eyes on his wife, the corner of a heavy novel found his thigh, and he grunted in pain. The crashing had stopped momentarily, and Erik looked up. Christine was right in front of him, her face red and covered in tears, her hair wild, and she beat his chest, tugged on his clothes, and slapped his face.

"You killed him, you killed him, you monster! When did you – how could you lie to me like this? You horrible monster! I hate you, I hate you! Why, why did you...?" And she collapsed into his thin chest, sobbing, burying her face into his sopping-wet shirt.

Erik's mind reeled. He stood stiffly, letting Christine continue to tug on his wet clothes, twisting her fingers into his coat and weep as if her heart was broken.

"Christine...," he whispered brokenly. "Christine, I..."

"There," she cried, shoving a piece of crumpled paper into his hand. "There...Tell me why you were hiding it, why you wouldn't show it to me!"

When Erik realized just what was written on that paper, his stomach clenched painfully. Christine pulled away when he attempted to run a hand through her hair, and he stood alone, forlorn. She waited impatiently, wiping away the fast-falling tears.

"I – Erik..." He did not know what to say, but managed to find something suitable. "Christine, I did not want you to see this. I did not want you to hurt, to cry like you are now. I was trying to protect you."

"Liar! You wrote it, you forged it, trying to make me think that Raoul has given up, that he isn't coming. I don't believe you!" She picked up whatever was on the ground – a small fragment of something that Erik recognized as being an ancient and priceless china plate given to him by a lord in Asia – and threw it at him. It bounced off his chest harmlessly.

"No, dear child," he said sadly. "I did not write it. Erik cannot write things so elegantly, even if he tried. I could show you, but I do not think that you would believe me. It was only to protect your fragile heart, Christine. Your young man is now married." Although his tone was sympathetic, his heart seemed to be freezing at a rapid rate. Even after these months and all the things he'd done for her and all the things she'd said to him, she was still sobbing over Raoul de Chagny. He wanted to strangle her and then crush her to him, viciously bed her and push her into the lake. He wanted to hurt her in the same way that she was continually hurting him. The sobs were piercing his brain, annoying it beyond belief, and he suddenly and violently seized her arms.

"Stop crying! Stop! I will not allow my bride to stand here and cry over another."

Her sobs increased.

"I will lock you in your room! I can silence you, Christine, I can...It would be so easy. Quiet! You are my wife, not his, not that impertinent boy's, and I will not let you do this!"

"Erik – Erik!"

His fingers had crept up to her shoulders and were pressing down so hard that she knew bruises would soon appear. He gathered her hands in his, bowing his head.

"I am tired of fighting you, Christine," he said wearily. "Is this...is this what you want, Christine? Do you want to scream at me and hit me every time you become angry and confused? All I want from you, Christine, is – is to think of all the things we have shared, all of the nice things, and feel something other than loathing for me."

Christine opened her mouth twice, yet no words came. She stared at him, her eyes wide. He could feel her small hands trembling between his own, and he released them. They came up to cover her lips, but she continued to stare, her eyes once again filling with tears. This time, however, they did not fall. Her eyes were full of confusion and sheer...helplessness. Frantically, she looked around on the floor and hurriedly began to pick up the books.

"Christine, dear, no, I will – " He attempted to take the books from her, but she clutched them protectively.

"No, I must...I must do this," she said distractedly. Nothing he said stopped her as she picked up book after book. When they were all back in their proper places, she began to gather the scattered music. It took a very, very long time. Any time Erik would attempt to help, she snapped at him and took away whatever he was holding. Unsure of just what to do with himself, he paced back and forth agitatedly, watching her flit about. She did not look at him but instead focused on gathering all the glass bits and debris that littered the floor. The cleaning took hours, and Christine trembled as badly as ever by the end. Erik noticed, with an uncomfortable jerking somewhere near his heart, that her fingertips were bloody, a result of picking up all the jagged shards.

"I'm sorry, Erik," she whispered. He had put her on the couch and was busily cleaning her small cuts, but he did not reply. "I'm sorry. I was so...so angry at Raoul. I felt as though he had betrayed me – but you don't wish to hear that." She was not unaware of the tighter grip he had on her hands when the boy's name was mentioned. "It wasn't your fault, and I made it out to be. I'm sorry that I hurt you, and that I broke all your pretty things." She swallowed a muffled sob. "You're always doing the right things. You always want to make me happy, and I'm so terribly selfish."

Erik shifted uncomfortably. He was, in fact, the most selfish thing alive, and the idea that Christine was blaming herself for things that she should rightly feel made his face grow very warm, indeed.

"I should not have said and done things that I did," he muttered in reply, examining her fingertips and gingerly wiping off a welling drop of blood.

"I do not hate you," Christine said. "I...I don't know what I feel, Erik, but it is not hate."

"Will you ever know?" he ventured to ask, but perhaps he did not wish to have an answer.

"Yes. I'm sure that someday I will." Christine thanked him for cleaning her fingers. "I don't wish to fight anymore, either, Erik," she said earnestly. "We try so hard, and yet I always do something stupid."

"Quit blaming yourself," he snapped irritably. "We both know very well that it is my fault."

She was quiet, her sniffling still pitiful and painfully adorable. There was a long, awkward stretch of silence, and Erik busied himself with tidying up all his medical supplies. A small pressure was put on his forearm, and he stiffened.

"Erik?" Christine whispered, her voice so soft that he was forced to be very quiet to hear. "I...I know you probably do not wish to, but...I really need...would you – would you hold me?"

He dropped his supplies and looked at her. She did not retract her question but merely looked at him pleadingly. Somehow Erik managed to sit himself on the couch, and Christine immediately snuggled against him, resting her head on his cold, solid chest. His shirt and waistcoat were still slightly damp. It was very much worth it to Christine. The growing desperation in her heart had to be stopped; the physical contact that had been withdrawn for so long had to be revived. If Erik was the one she could touch, she would endure for several minutes. Christine heard a heart beating, pounding rhythmically beneath her, and she was able to convince herself that Erik was alive. His chest rose in and out gently.

This was all very forced. Erik took great care not to gasp or overexcite himself. Christine looked so...content there. Her feet were tucked under her skirts on the couch, and her arm was thrown out lazily across his stomach. This physical contact, so frustratingly common for Christine, spread a ridiculous grin across Erik's grotesque features, and he was grateful for the mask.

"Erik?"

"Yes, my pet?"

"Do you love me?"

"Of course, dear. More than anything – how could you even ask this?"

"Even after I broke your pretty things?"

To his great surprise, he wished to chuckle, but didn't. "Even after you broke my pretty things. I will always love you, Christine."

Within a few short minutes, Christine was asleep on her husband's chest.