Christine has had a longer day at work than normal, so Erik is there to meet her in the office when her shift is over. Even though he saw her just earlier that morning, he misses her. Still, when he eyes the bag she's carrying as she enters the office, he knows nothing good is about to happen.

"Erik," she says breathlessly, smiling at him. "Guess what I volunteered us for!"

He says nothing, warily regarding the knitting needles he can see sticking out of the top of the bag on her arm.

"There's a charity drive being held by the orphanage, they need warm things for the children, and I signed up to donate thirty scarves - you'll do fifteen, and I'll do fifteen!"

She thrusts the bag out to him and doesn't seem to notice as the light in his eyes starts to die.

"We- we can buy them scarves, Christine," he tries, but she isn't having it.

"Erik, no! That's not the same at all," her smile fades. "These children don't have anyone to take care of them, to look out for them... It will mean so much to them to know that someone took the time to actually make them a gift, a gift with loved stitched right in to it!"

Erik sighs. He can tell there's no way out of this one now that her mind is made up.

"Of course, my dear."

She smiles brightly, either ignoring or simply not noticing his resigned tone, and takes his arm as they go through the door in the bookcase.

"Oh, I'm so excited, Erik! We can start tonight after dinner!"

Erik takes his time eating dinner and wonders if Christine has always eaten so quickly or she's merely in a rush to get started on the scarves. He worries for a moment that she might actually choke - surely his angel used to chew her food more throughly than this? She finishes well before he does and he waves her off with a soft smile, telling her not to worry about the dishes.

Erik also takes his time as he washes the dishes, taking extra care to rinse and dry them just so. Finally he has run out of excuses to linger in the kitchen.

He enters the living room and sees Christine already settled in one of the plush chairs, Ayesha curled in her lap, and a decent amount of scarf already hanging from her needle.

"Pick your yarn out of the bag, love," she nods to the bag next to his chair.

Christine is working with a pale green color, and after search through the various balls of yarn in the bag he pulled out a fiery red that looks most appealing. He grabs two needles out of the bag and settles into the chair, apprehensive.

He pauses to watch Christine.

Her stitches are nearly flying from one needle to other, the scarf getting longer before his very eyes. His heart twists with love and something else. His wife is so talented at this - he never knew that she knew how to do this. How could he have known her for twenty years and yet not known that she could knit? What other surprises does she hold? He looks down at the needles in his hand and fidgets with them, finally taking a piece of the yarn and tying it around one needle.

He moves the knot of yarn down the needle as though counting out the number of stitches he'll need to cast on, runs the rest of the yarn through his fingers and loops it around a few times in an imitation of Christine, hoping she isn't watching him too closely. He finally sets the yarn and needles down, frowning.

"Christine."

She looks up quickly, stopping her work. That small voice isn't like him.

"Do you mind terribly if I just went to bed? I do not feel well."

It's not a lie, not exactly, but he avoids meeting her gaze all the same.

"Oh Erik," she coos. "You don't have to ask my permission, it's alright. Get some rest, I'll be in in just a little bit, okay?"

He nods and rises, still avoiding her concerned gaze.

He's nearly asleep when she enters the room not more than an hour later. He glances back at her as she approaches the bed.

"Are you feeling any better?" she asks softly.

"A little."

She wraps her arms around him, pressing herself against his back.

"Good, I'm glad. Sleep in tomorrow, and take it easy. I don't want you making yourself worse."

"You should not worry for me, Christine," he says quietly.

Guilt presses down on him and he knows he's being silly over this and he should just come out and tell her - but he can't bring himself to form those shameful words.

"I do worry for you, Erik - I love you, how can I not worry? But I'm sure you'll feel better after you rest - in fact, you can spend the entire day knitting by the fire, and then I'll come back and cook you dinner, how does that sound?"

Erik is silent, and Christine assumes he's already fallen asleep.

But when Christine returns from work Erik is already preparing dinner for them. She enters the kitchen looking confused.

"Erik dear, I said I could cook tonight if you wanted me to."

He pauses stirring the sautéed spinach and looks at her.

"It's quite alright, Christine, I'm feeling much better, and you shouldn't have to cook after working all day."

And it really was a lovely meal he had prepared for them. She's so focused on the flavors that she almost forgets to ask.

"Did you make very much progress on your scarves?"

He freezes, staring down at his plate.

"Erik?" she prompts.

He finally looks up.

"I forgot," is his only reply.

He immediately regrets it, because not only does it put off getting over with the terrible conversation that's looming ominously in the distance, it also causes That Look to cross her face.

He hates That Look and all it implies.

Her eyebrows raise and her brow furrows, a sadness creeping in around her eyes as her lips draw together in a pout and turn down at the edges before trying to disguise themselves and rearrange as a polite smile, and her head tips just so, and her hand raises to either her cheek or her chest (depending on whether the emotion she's feeling is more likely to result in unshed tears or a painful twist in her heart).

It's a look that says, plain as day, "my poor, decrepit husband's mind is going, he can barely get along in his advanced age and I must try my best to humor him in his few remaining days", and it bothers him to no end.

He doesn't receive The Look very often, but there are times he'll say or do something that inspires it to take shape, such as when he got up from a particularly long composing session at the organ, and upon seeing Christine at home had asked her if it was still yesterday or if it were already tomorrow. She hadn't replied, just sighed out an "oh, Erik," and placed her hand on her cheek as she looked at him in his confused and rumpled state. It never fails to make him uncomfortable, even if it occurs over something small like the time he stood up too quickly and heard a popping in his back - That Look had appeared once again as he winced and placed his hands on his lumbar, her hand fluttering to her chest as her face betrayed the thought of "his frail elderly body is giving out on him, it won't be long now until he fades away into nothing".

He flinches under That Look now, and stabs his fork into the food and he drops her gaze.

"I was very busy, that is why I forgot."

"Oh, I see," her face relaxes marginally and she attempts to make conversation. "What were you busy with, then?"

He freezes once more, trying to think of an excuse and evidently he takes too long to do so, because now her hand is being clutched over her heart and That Look is back in full force.

Damnation. He somehow managed to make it even worse.

Christine, for her part, isn't even aware of That Look or the fact that she's currently giving it to him. She is, however, just slightly worried that perhaps he's not feeling as well as he thought, considering that he can't even remember what he did all day. The poor dear. She must remember to be extra tender with him. Maybe she should have cooked dinner after all, he can be so stubborn at times. She sighs sadly and more audibly than she realizes.

"I'm alright, Christine, really," he frowns as he tries to convince her.

She gets up from her chair and crosses over to him, hugging him. In her haste to embrace him she hadn't even bothered to stoop down to match their heights, so he finds his head is being cradled to her bosom. If this is a potential result of That Look, perhaps it isn't as terrible as he originally thought.

"My poor unhappy Erik," she whispers to him.

Poor unhappy Erik indeed. He brings his hands up to rest on her hips.

"I'm sure I'll be fine, Christine, really."

When she pulls away at last, she helps him clear away the dishes and afterwards she insists her rest on the couch with his feet up. She settles herself on the soft rug in front of the couch, leaning back against the seat of the couch and stretching her legs out to warm her bare feet by the fire. From this angle Erik is able to let one hand easily caress her soft curls, and Christine humors him in this as his fingers idly twist the long locks between them. Were it not for the mocking clack of the needles against each other, he would consider it a supremely peaceful evening.

She doesn't mention anything further about the knitting that night or the next day, and by then any concerns of hers over a mystery illness are forgotten.

He manages to direct a flow of conversation the following night that keeps her distracted from anything to do with scarves, an almost foolproof plan of his - until as they're getting ready for bed she suddenly exclaims about the forgotten projects.

"Oh! Erik, we simply must work on the scarves tomorrow."

He quickly turns away from her so that she won't see his face fall. His plan was so close to succeeding.

"Just think," she cuddles up close to him while he remains still, staring up at the ceiling. "Those poor little orphans will have something to help keep them warm, and every time they wear it they'll be reminded that someone was thinking of them and cared about them."

Damn those orphans, Erik fumes to himself. As annoyed as he is, though, he can't remain too upset. After all, it's not those pathetic children's fault he remains hopelessly unable to knit. And the way Christine sighs over her thoughts of them and her concern over whether they know that anyone cares about them... Perhaps she's thinking of herself as a young child, crying for her papa and all alone in the world. Perhaps she's thinking of him, with no one to even cry over losing because no one had truly cared about him. No, he can't be peeved at all when he thinks of it in those terms.

But still, that does nothing to lessen the awkwardness of the emotions the next evening when Christine confronts him over it.

They both sit near the fire, Ayesha between the two of them and purring quite loudly, oblivious to everything going on.

Christine is finishing her third scarf, and Erik is reading a book and pointedly not knitting.

"Erik," she inquires evenly. "Do you not want the orphans to stay warm?"

Erik stops reading. How the devil is he supposed to answer that question?

"Of- of course, Christine-"

"I'm sorry I volunteered you for this project without asking you first, but I had thought that you would enjoy working on something together with me. Is that not the case?"

She feels a twinge of guilt at making her questions so manipulative, but she feels rather hurt at his staunch and continued refusal to help her with a project that's clearly for a good cause.

"C-Christine! No, it's not like that at all!"

"Well then what is it, Erik? Why won't you knit with me?" she frowns down at her dark blue scarf on the needles.

He's let this drag on for far too long. He swallows hard as he leaves his chair and falls to his knees in front of her, his face hidden in her lap and his hands twisting in her many layers of voluminous skirts. He had only meant to protect his own pride, his own ego - he had never intended for her to feel scorned by him, never.

"Christine," his voice is muffled and sad. "It is because I do not know how."

The silence, broken only by Ayesha's contented purrs, seems to stretch forever.

Christine places a gentle hand over his head, still not entirely understanding the situation.

"You- what?"

He lifts his face off of her skirts just slightly.

"I do not know how to knit, Christine," he says hoarsely.

His hands tremble just slightly and he dares to look up at her face. Her face shows the warring emotions of utter bafflement and odd amusement, as though she can't bring herself to take his confession seriously.

Did he really not know how to knit? She knew for a fact that he had been the one to tailor all of his fine clothing, that he could sew with great skill. In fact there was hardly anything she would have thought would be outside of his skills - he was highly talented at practically everything she could think of. Well, perhaps his handwriting could use some improvement... His notes and letters, when he found it absolutely necessary to write words down on a paper, still held the look of a young child who hadn't quite mastered the alphabet. But for anything else...

"Do you really not know how to knit, Erik?" she asks gently and strokes her hand over his wig.

He nods.

She bites back the small laugh that threatens to burst forth.

"I can show you how to knit, darling, it's okay."

He sniffs deeply against the tears that foolishly prickle the corner of his eyes and sits upright.

"You do not understand, Christine. It is not just that I do not know how, but I am incapable of learning how as well."

There. The secret is out. The Phantom, in all his dizzying intellect and genius, was bested by a ball of yarn and two thin pieces of metal. He avoids her eye like a scolded child, his hands still gripping the fabric of her skirts.

She scoffs at this.

"Erik, that's impossible. Here, bring your yarn and needles over, we can work on it together," she coaxes.

He reluctantly retrieves them and once again sits by her feet. His poor, sweet, naive Christine.

She shows him over and over again, very slowly, with lots of explanation, how the yarn must twist around his fingers and thumb and where the needle must go through to cast on the loops that will make the end of the scarf. A scarf! Literally the easiest project one could do! But each time the yarn seems to slip across to the wrong place, or the loop comes undone, and it doesn't work out. How is it even possible? She's seen him tie knots with efficiency, she knows about his Lasso, how can this simple movement that she's done since she was a small child possibly evade him like this? Perhaps it is her teaching. She tries to explain it another way, and then another. She shows him with her own needles at a snails pace, but still - still - he cannot grasp it.

She is reduced to taking his hands in her own and physically moving them herself to get the yarn to where it needs to go. At this, he manages to cast a single stitch onto the needle. She breathes a deep sigh of relief as he stares at the needles in wonder.

"Now just do that again, the very same thing you just did."

He bites his lip and attempts the same movement he had just completed. But a finger moves, and the yarn slips and he looks up at her with unrestrained horror in his eyes. This is almost as bad as his handwriting lessons as a boy. Perhaps this is a fitting punishment for not admitting the truth to her when she first handed the bag of yarns.

She reaches down and moves his hands back into the correct position, and he manages to cast on a second stitch. It becomes painfully obvious after twenty stitches, however, that he's only able to manage if she's doing most of the work herself.

"Christine," he begins. "I do think this truly counts knitting if you must move my hands for me."

She pinches the bridge of her nose and squeezes her eyes shut.

"It's just casting on that you're having trouble with. Lets try some actual stitches and we can see how that goes."

Erik thought for certain that nothing in the world of knitting could be more difficult than what they had just gotten through. Surely this would be the easy part - after all, he had never gotten this far before. Erik was wrong. Now there are dropped stitches to worry about, the difference between a purl and a knit, and that damned loop of yarn around his thumb that refused to stay put. One overly vigorous stitch later and suddenly three more stitches unraveled. Erik looks up at Christine with the blank fear of a person who knows that they have, for lack of a better word, fucked up.

She smiles wearily and ends the knitting lesson.

Erik had to admit that Christine was an excellent teacher, even if he could not truly make use of her instruction. He liked to think that just perhaps all those many years of him tutoring her had something to do with that, but he knew without a doubt that if he were in her place he would have snapped far earlier in the lesson. No, Christine was an excellent teacher because Christine was an excellent person, he told himself. Her patience and goodness was certainly nothing she had learned from him.

"I think that's enough knitting for tonight, Erik."

She takes the needles away from him.

"I think that's enough knitting for the rest of my life," he tells her seriously.

She pauses before answering slowly.

"I think, dear, that you might be right."

And then she levels a new Look at him, one she's never given him before, and Erik distinctly reads the words written across this look, words which say, "my idiot husband is hopelessly incompetent in this endeavor and I must pretend that he is not so that his fragile psyche isn't shattered by the blow of being so horrifically terrible at a simple task".

Perhaps that is not exactly what's going through her mind - perhaps Erik is off about the meanings of all of her Looks. He knows, in the back of his mind, that perhaps he is reading a meaning that really isn't there, but nonetheless he withers under that perceived gaze.

He is so terribly unused to the feeling of not being good at something, so unused to not being able to pick up a skill and excel at it. It makes him feel small and unworthy and he wonders if this is what other people feel like when they aren't good at something, and he wonders how they manage to get through life if so because there are very many things that very many people are not good at. Does Christine ever feel like this? He swallows hard. Has he ever caused her to feel like this? During a singing lesson on a day when he had little patience and she was struggling and he snapped at her, or reproached her with a little more sternness than was called for? Heaven knows he's often lacked patience over the years. He hopes that she's never had to feel this way due to an offhand comment of his.

They both sit there a while longer, staring into the fire, until finally Christine breaks the silence.

"Will you play a few songs for me, Erik? If you're not too tired, of course."

His eyes light up as he scrambles up off the floor, eager to leave the knitting and its accompanying thoughts of melancholy behind.

"Of course, Christine."

She watches him as his fingers fly over the keys of the organ, song after song spilling forth. She desperately wanted to see him do something he was good at, something to distract her mind from that awful knitting lesson, because she feared that the image of him sitting at her feet as he struggled with that yarn was going to haunt her every time she closed her eyes. This should do the trick, she thinks as he plays. It was rather unnerving to find there was anything that he struggled with so much - his letters were shaky, yes, but at least they were mostly legible. The knitting fiasco had been horrible in comparison.

Erik coaxes melodies sweet and plaintive from those keys, and Christine wonders if, when he had first started teaching her how to play the organ, he too had felt that odd mix of distant horror and sheer bafflement as she had struggled for so long to remember which keys to press in unison, that inward cringe as someone you knew to be otherwise smart and talented floundered about at a skill that was, for you, as easy as breathing. At least, she thinks wryly, she actually managed to learn how to play music.

She comes and sits next to him on the bench, and when he pauses at the end of the next song, she leans against him and rests her head on his shoulder.

"Thank you, Erik. I love hearing you play."

He reaches down and takes one of her hands in his own and gently squeezes it. His precious Christine. How he cherishes her. Only for her would he have even entertained the thought of attempting to knit again after those few disastrous tries so many years ago. Had anyone else brought up the subject it would have been entirely out of the question. His bruised ego is beginning to heal, and he knows that this was likely Christine's intent when she had asked him to play for her. He lifts her hand to his lips and places a delicate kiss to her fingers.

"I am sorry that I did not you tell sooner, Christine."

"It's alright, darling."

"And I am sorry that you will have to complete all thirty scarves by yourself."

She slumps just a little. She is capable of making all thirty herself, but wanting Erik's companionship was not the only reason she had intended that they each do fifteen.

"Oh, I suppose I will have to make all thirty..."

Erik hesitates.

"Perhaps," he begins. "Perhaps the time would pass quicker if I were to play for you as you worked? Or I could read to you?"

"Would you? Oh Erik, I would love that!"

So from then on their evenings are spent by the fire, she working away at the multicolored yarn while he sits next to her and reads aloud, or sometimes he would stand leaning against the armrest of the couch, playing any number of folk songs for her on the violin. These violin nights made her duck her head to hide a bittersweet tear from Erik, reminding her so much of evenings from her childhood spent knitting or darning or mending clothing while her papa played the violin for her, and it caused a painful sort of joy to bubble up inside of her as the memories of the past mixed with the sensations of the present and the hopes for the future. She would have enjoyed if Erik could knit alongside with her, but if that were the case she would not have had this exquisite sentimental ache, this feeling that she had thought long lost when her papa had died. She found herself rather thankful that it had all turned out this way, after all, and didn't really mind having to create double the amount of scarves as long as Erik kept playing for her.