It's when Christine is walking down a hallway as the audience is leaving that it happens, and immediately afterwards she has an unpleasant feeling that something bad is on the horizon.

She had only wanted to get her work over with for the night, and she was so close to completing that goal when suddenly a guest turned to her. There was the briefest moments of eye contact before the horror of being vigorously coughed on in close proximity. Her shoulders stiffened and she increased her pace, but it was already too late. Whether the man had not seen her until it was too late or perhaps he simply enjoyed the look of terror on the faces of others as he infected them, she had no idea.

What she does know by the next afternoon, however, is that she does not feel well anymore.

She feels so ill, in fact, that she barely makes it through the rest of her shift. Now she is coughing, but thankfully she knows to cover her mouth with her arm when she does so. The last thing she wants to make anyone else sick as well.

And on that note - at the end of her shift she asks Madame Giry (from a respectful distance, lest she breathe too forcefully and the sickness spread) to fetch some of her things from her bedroom down below and bring them to her old room upstairs.

"I'm so sorry to have to ask you, Madame, I wish I had left something of mine up here, but I moved everything downstairs- I don't even have a nightgown to wear! And could you please tell Erik about all this? I don't want him to worry, but I can't bear the thought of him getting sick because of me, either." she wrings her hands nervously before suppressing yet another cough.

That is how Madame Giry ends up at Erik's doorstep.

"What are you doing here?" the words sound unkind, but only because he has been expecting his wife instead.

"Christine is sick, Erik."

He flies from his seat with a great anxiety.

"What?!"

"It's nothing serious, I'm sure! But she wants to spend the night upstairs until she feels better."

"I will go too." he nods.

"No, Erik, she wants to stay above so that she does not get you sick as well."

Oh. He sits back down. So that's why Giry was here.

"She wanted me to get some of her things for her. Where is the bedroom?"

Erik fidgets nervously in the doorway of their bedroom as Giry pulls various articles out of the dresser and wardrobe. If only he could see his wife.

"Can I take them to her?" he asks.

Giry gives a long-suffering sigh.

"She's sick, Erik. She does not wish to infect you."

"But that's exactly why I should see her!" he frowns. "I have plenty of medical knowledge, I can help her."

"I know you do, dear, but I'm just following her request."

Giry folds up the clothing into a stack as Erik watches, biting his fingernails. Giry glances at him and chuckles.

"It seems you've already been infected by a bad habit of hers."

"How did she get sick? What are her symptoms?" he lets his hand drop.

"Well, she's been coughing a lot, she says she's running a fever. It must have been from that man that coughed on her."

His eyes narrow.

"What man?" he demands sharply.

She flutters her hands up and rolls her eyes.

"I do not know, Erik, just a random man. He was watching the show last night and when he left he turned and coughed in Christine's face for no reason."

Erik storms out of the doorway and paces in the hall, muttering to himself. Giry is quite certain that she hears the word 'lasso' at one point.

"I'm going up now, Erik."

"Wait!" he's pulled out of his tantrum and runs to the kitchen.

Giry follows to find him mixing a drink together and pouring it into a bottle with a cork stopper.

"Give this to her, please." he hands her the concoction. "It will help with the fever."

Giry takes the items upstairs, leaving Erik there below. She shudders just a little at the almost childlike look of abandonment in his eyes as he watches her go. Surely the man can last three days without the poor girl. But from the look on his face you'd think he thought Christine was never returning again.

She knocks on Christine's door before entering and setting the items at the foot of her bed.

"He made this for you." she gestures to the glass bottle.

"Oh, he's too precious." Christine sighs as she picks it up and looks at it. "Did he say what it is?"

"He only said it was for your fever."

Christine drinks it down, the taste not too terrible but still definitely medicine.

"Thank you, Madame."

Giry takes her leave and Christine changes into her nightclothes. She settles into her bed and into a fitful sleep, the fever making her too hot and too cold in turns.

It must be making her hear things, too, because she thinks she hears the door rattle then creak open. She glances over to the door. And now she's seeing things. Wonderful.

Wait-

"Erik!" she cries, pulling the sheet up over her nose and mouth.

Erik is standing in the doorway. His heart stutters at her cry, the way she the tugs at the sheet to hide herself - she's afraid of him! Perhaps she's not even sick, perhaps the poor thing had only wanted to get away from him - and now, now he's picked the lock on her door and forced his way in to her private room and what was he thinking to do such a thing?

"I don't want you to get sick, love. What are you doing here?"

The tension slightly eases from his shoulders - her voice is warm, and she is not angry or frightened - but he is embarrassed now that he's here.

"Erik only wanted to make sure that his Christine was okay." he fiddles with the tool he used to pick the lock behind his back.

Christine does not comment on how he got in, as she is quite aware of his skills in that area.

"Well you're already here so close the door behind you before someone sees you."

He complies and afterwards takes a few steps closer.

"I'm glad to see you, Erik, I am, but truly you should go before you catch this too."

"Nonsense." he tuts as he strides across to her bedside and presses the back of his hand to her forehead.

She's burning up. He pulls out another bottle from his pocket and hands it to her.

"My priority is making sure you get well, not avoiding becoming ill myself."

She sips the bottle, the same taste as the one before.

"Erik... What would we do if you got sick?" she asks softly.

He does not understand the question.

"Then I would make something to ease my symptoms and drink it."

"No, I mean... If you got very sick? I know you're quite skilled at pharmacy, but our home is rather drafty and damp at times, and I worry for you. Heaven forbid it should happen, but if I became very ill I could go to the hospital. Where will you go? We could not even fetch a doctor for you. What will happen if you come down with something worse than what you can treat?"

He can see the worry in her eyes illuminated by the soft candlelight.

"Oh, Christine..."

He backs away to the door. He isn't certain what he would do should such a thing happen to him, but he certainly does have an idea. Before Christine, he hadn't thought it would matter either way. He would either recover - or he would not. If not, well, it wouldn't have seemed like such a terrible loss, would it? But now... His Nightingale looks so sad on her old bed, contemplating his theoretical illnesses that suddenly he's struck with the fear of becoming sick. Surely it would matter now that there was someone to miss him. He could not do that to her. He could not get sick.

"I will see you when you are feeling well again, Christine. Make sure you drink all of that bottle."

She nods gratefully. "Thank you, Erik."

He locks the door behind him once again and fades into the shadows.

She sighs and flops down on her pillow, only to cough so hard that she sees stars. How she longs for him to still be there with her. She stares hard at the contents of the bottle, willing it to work faster before drinking it in one go.

Downstairs Erik paces absentmindedly from room to room. He doesn't know what to do with himself. Weariness finally sets in, and he enters his personal bedroom. He changes into his pajamas but hesitates before stepping into his old bed. It does not feel right, somehow, to lie here in his coffin while Christine is upstairs worried over his health.

He tentatively goes to their shared bedroom - he will always think of it as her bedroom, no matter what she says to the contrary, it will always be Christine's room that she graciously allows him to share with her - and stares at the bed. It seems so empty, so quiet without her. It feels wrong in here, too - like an he's an intruder somehow, has overstayed his welcome here now that the room's owner has gone.

But he is so lonely, and he does not want to go back to his dusty old coffin. He lays down on his side of the bed and stares across at the spot Christine normally occupies. He has never been one to complain of the coldness here so far under the ground, but he has grown accustomed to her warmth and the lack of it is sorely felt. His hand finds its way to her pillow and pulls it closer, and when he presses his face to it he can still smell the scent of her shampoo there. He feels pathetic, but he would gladly be the most pathetic creature on earth if it meant he would never have to be without her.

The following morning Giry is yawning as she enters her office, mind already full of the day's tasks ahead of her. She does not notice the secret door sliding open as flips through papers on her desk, so when she turns to put some of them on the shelf and instead sees Monsieur Opera Ghost standing there holding a tureen, she lets out a most undignified yelp.

Erik is unfazed by this noise. He holds the tureen out to Giry.

"Will you give this to Christine, please?"

Giry sighs inwardly. She would never say it out loud, but one of her favorite aspects of Christine and Erik's marriage was that she no longer had to carry messages between the two of them. She did, after all, have a life of her own to attended to - or she tried, at least - and that was a difficult thing to do when you're always expected to run a note or message to someone on the other side of the damn building. But Christine was sick, and she knew it was only temporary, so she took the tureen - which she found contained soup - to Christine's room, setting it on the table and asking after how she felt before leaving once more.

Her fever had broken during the night, but the cough was as bad as ever. The warm soup, however, feels lovely on her throat, small pieces of chicken and a creamy broth seasoned with herbs. She thinks that perhaps in a different life he could have been a famous chef.

It's in the middle of the day that Giry finally lays down the record books, rubbing her eyes. Too many numbers, she thinks to herself. It's time for lunch.

She stands to exit, then hears a voice come from the little lamp on table and she nearly jumps out of her skin.

"Giry..."

This man and his damned ventriloquist skills will be the death of her, she is certain of it.

She turns to look at the air vent she knows he's hiding behind.

"Heaven's sake, Erik - what is it?"

She can almost hear the scowl in his voice.

"What else could I possibly be inquiring after, woman?"

She suppresses the urge to chuckle, imagining him in the air duct, trying to be intimidating or commanding, as though he weren't crouched knees to chest in a dusty passage inhabited by all manner of insect and rodent.

"Her fever is gone, but the cough is quite bad, I'm afraid. She did enjoy your soup though."

"Thank you, Giry. I will have something ready for you to take to her again this evening."

He is silent after that, probably hoping for the image of a ghost melting into shadow, but Giry must once again bite back amusement. She knows the dimensions of the air ducts, and knows with a certainty that right now he's crawling along on his hands and knees. She leaves the room in a hurry, hoping he doesn't hear the quiet snicker she simply can't hold back at the realization that her old friend is probably still wearing his cape as well. What an image.

Sure enough, that evening Giry brings another tureen of soup - various vegetables with a hint of honey - and another stoppered bottle. This bottle has a distinctly stronger and different taste, a much thicker consistency as well, but she manages to drink it knowing that it will help.

Sleep is easier to come by for Christine that night, her cough finally easing. Giry brings her a breakfast tray, eggs and soft toast and fruit this time. One more bottle of that strange purple potion on the side. By that afternoon she realizes she's only coughed once or twice, and by that evening she feels much improved. The next day she feels back to her normal self, but waits just to be certain. Four days after moving upstairs, she declares herself well enough to be around Erik again, promptly packs her things, and travels down the catacombs.

She finds him in the kitchen, no doubt working on her next meal. His habit of walking so quietly must have worn off on her, for he doesn't realize she's there until she unceremoniously drops her neatly folded clothes on the floor and rushes at him, flinging her arms around his neck.

"Christine! You are feeling better, I take it?" he returns her embrace, daring to press a kiss to the top of her head. He has missed her so.

She nods.

"Thank you for cooking for me, Erik. And thank you for the medicine as well, even if that second one did have the most hateful texture."

He huffs.

"More hateful than coughing your lungs out, dear? I dare say you still drank it, otherwise you would not be here with me so soon again."

She giggles at this, and asks what will be for dinner.