"What do you mean? What's wrong?" she frowned.
He shrugged his shoulders, looking lost.
"I don't know, I- I don't feel right. I have chills and everything hurts and I'm dizzy and- I don't feel good," his voice broke. "Am I dying? I can't be, it's too soon, isn't it? Isn't it?"
"Erik, go sit on your bed, I'll be right there," she rushed to get her medical bag, but Erik stayed where he was.
"Christine, am I dying? Is this what it feels like?" his voice was getting panicky and high pitched.
"Sit down, sit down," she ushered him to his bed, but he stood right back up after sitting down.
"I can't be dying, Christine, I have too much I still wanted to do! Tell me it's not so! Christine?"
"Erik calm down - I can't tell you anything if you're like this!"
He looked like he was going to give himself a panic attack, assuming he wasn't already in the middle of one.
At her urging he laid back on the bed while she stuck a thermometer in his mouth and tried to listen to his heart.
"Am I-" he asked around the thermometer.
"Erik, hush! I can't hear!"
His heart was faster than she'd ever heard it, and he had a fever. She pulled his mask off, finding his brow sweaty and clammy underneath.
"Do you have any shortness of breath?"
"Yes. Christine- is this it? Is this the end?"
"Do you have any stomach pain?"
"I don't want to die, not like this- not right now- please- do something, anything!"
His pleading was heartbreaking. Whereas back in Rome he'd seemingly faked symptoms to get her to touch him, she could tell that he wasn't faking this. Not only was he clearly sick, he was also out of his mind with fear.
"Does your stomach hurt?" she asked again, a little more forceful.
"Yes, everything hurts - my head, my joints, my stomach - Christine- what's wrong with me?" he begged, clutching at her arms.
"Lay back," she instructed. "Let me look at your ankles. Are you having heart palpitations?"
He obeyed her orders, placing his legs and feet on the bed, and she knelt on the bed and peeled his socks off, but his ankles weren't swollen like she'd expect them to be if his heart was failing.
"No palpitations," he whimpered. "But I don't feel right."
"Your ankles look okay," she told him, and he sat up again. "Do you feel weak?"
As soon as he was sitting again he pulled her to himself in a tight hug, burying his unmasked face in the crook of her neck. She could feel his hot tears on her shoulder, and she wrapped her arms around him in return.
"I don't want to die, Christine, please, don't let me-" he whispered through his tears as he clung to her, as though if he just held on to her tightly enough, he could cling to life, too.
"Oh, Erik - honey, I think you just have food poisoning," she murmured, carding her fingers through his hair and rubbing his back with her other hand, hoping to calm him. "I don't think you're going to die tonight."
"Food poisoning?" he sniffled against her skin.
"Yeah - did you-"
Before she could ask about any gastrointestinal distress she suddenly found herself being pushed away from him as he sprang off the bed and ran for the bathroom. She recovered her senses as she heard him retching, and darted into the bathroom with him, falling to her knees beside him as he kneeled in front of the toilet.
"Food poisoning," she sighed, and rubbed a hand on his back. "You're going to be okay."
She stayed there with him, brushing his hair out of his face and flushing the toilet every now and then until at last his stomach was empty. She helped to pull him to his feet and used the bathroom faucet to pour him a glass of water to rinse his mouth out with. After that she took him by the hand and led him back to the bed.
"Why don't you lay down, and I'll go get you a ginger ale from the gift shop, okay?"
"No," he whined, clinging to her hand and not letting her leave. "Let room service bring it up. Don't go."
She relented and sat on the edge of the bed, him sitting behind her as she dialed up the number for the concierge. Room service hours were over, but perhaps there was someone who could send the drink up. She listened to the phone ring, and was slightly surprised when Erik placed his hand on the top of her shoulder as though he were afraid she'd run off and leave him all alone - and more surprised when he rested his forehead against the back of her other shoulder.
"Hello? I was wondering if someone was able to deliver a can of ginger ale up to my room? My husband is ill, and I'm not able to go get it myself."
She let Erik lean against her, let him nervously toy with the lace on the collar of her dressing gown between his thumb and forefinger. He was always so careful to give her space, and she knew he must be terribly frightened to want to be so close to her now.
"They're coming up soon," she turned to tell him as she hung up the phone.
He pulled his face and hand away from her, not quite meeting her eye, and nodded. She could see the self-loathing and embarrassment written across his face at the mortifying situation he was in, and she felt lanced with compassion.
"How are you feeling, now?" she asked softly, holding her arms out to offer him a hug.
He hesitated only a moment before falling into her arms again.
"Does your stomach feel better?"
He nodded against her shoulder.
"Your drink will be here soon, that'll help too," she assured him, rocking him back and forth just slightly.
Her poor Erik. Even her own heart was still beating fast, scared at what she'd almost thought was about to happen. She vowed to take better care of him, to make sure he rested enough and didn't have as much wine or salt, to keep a better eye on how much water he was drinking. She wanted him to be able to live long enough to complete the things that he wanted to do. It would be too cruel, otherwise.
They both stayed there like that in the silence, holding and being held. She couldn't help but marvel at how so tall and imposing a man could also be so uncertain and vulnerable, and that he, her teenaged self's hero, could fit so easily in her arms and rest his cheek on her chest and that it would feel like he belonged there.
It felt only natural, too, to run her hand up and down his back. She nearly shed a tear thinking about all the times in his life he'd wanted - needed - someone there by his side but had been all alone instead.
There was a knock at the door that broke the silence. She made to pull back, but he tightened his grip on her.
"I'm just getting your drink, honey. I'll be right back," she said.
He looked uncertain but reluctantly let go of her. She returned in a moment, a can of soda in one hand and a glass with ice and a plastic straw in the other. She set both on his nightstand and poured the ginger ale into the glass as he watched, stirring the straw around to remove some of the carbonation.
"Here," she said, holding it out to him.
He took it from her and sipped at it, but looked panicked as she turned to leave.
"Where are you going?"
She blinked, pausing in the doorway.
"I'm getting a cool washcloth for your forehead. I'll be right back."
She returned a moment later with the cool, damp rag, sitting next to him on the bed and placing it against his forehead.
"How do you feel?" she asked.
"My joints still hurt," he mumbled around the straw, glancing away. "I think I hurt my knees on the tile."
"Aw, that's bad luck. Poor Erik," she rubbed his back, scooting closer to him. "Let me feel your pulse?"
He nodded and held his wrist out to her. Some of his panic seemed to have faded, and this was evidenced in his pulse.
"You're doing better," she told him. "Do you feel like finishing your drink?"
He shrugged and tried another sip, but didn't drink much more than half the can.
"I feel exhausted," he groaned.
"I'm not surprised," she smiled sadly. "But you'll recover."
They were both quiet a long moment.
"I guess I should go to sleep," he said finally.
"Yeah," she agreed, then hesitated. "Erik- do you want me to stay with you tonight?"
"I'd never ask that of you, Christine," he said quickly, finally making eye contact.
"You're not," she said. "You're not asking me. I'm asking you. Do you want me to sleep here? Just- just sleep. Just to be close, in case you need help."
"Christine-" he whined softly.
"Would you feel more comfortable?"
"I can't- I cant make you do that. I won't make you stay."
She paused.
"If you want me to leave, I'll leave," she said carefully. "Erik - do you want me to leave?"
He was painfully still and silent for the longest time. Then, at last, he shook his head, slowly, barely perceptibly, just once, refusing to look at her. It was enough.
"I'll stay," she assured him. "It's okay. You don't have to be alone."
"Wait-" he jumped off the bed, rushing into her room.
When he returned a moment later he was carrying the two pillows from her own bed, and her blanket. He ushered her off the bed, and she watched, curious, as he took his own two pillows and stripped his blanket off, rearranging until there was a single pillow at the furthest end of each side and a barrier made of spare pillows going straight down the middle of the mattress. He folded the blankets just so on each side so that they could be wrapped around each of them as they slept, yet another layer of protection from any accidental contact as they slept.
She raised an eyebrow and pressed her lips into a thin line when she realized what he was doing. On one hand, it felt ridiculously overkill. On the other, she felt a little guilty - had she implied to him that she was this afraid of his touch?
At last he was satisfied with how the bed was set, and he wrapped his blanket around himself and settled on the mattress, facing away from her.
"Goodnight," he said gruffly, turning off the bedside lamp.
She couldn't help but smile. She put her blanket likewise about her self, laying down on her side of the pillow barrier, closing her eyes and trying to sleep.
It felt wrong, somehow.
She turned over until she was facing his back, facing the pillows, and reached her over to him. He tensed up under her touch, not expecting her small hand to make contact with his back.
"Erik," she whispered.
He turned towards her slightly, his brow knitting, his eyes gently reflecting the light from the little window across from the bed.
She sought out his hand and held it, leaving it there with her arm across the pillows. He lay on his back now, realizing what she was aiming for.
"Thank you," he breathed so softly she almost didn't hear it.
She smiled sleepily at him in the near darkness, and she felt warm inside to think of how far they'd come.
She could still remember those first few days in Rome, right after he'd given her the list of his expectations. She'd tried to hold his hand his the next day as they were out in the city, only for his hand to fall away after a little while. Thinking it an accident, she'd reached for his hand again, only for him to give her a tight lipped and polite smile.
"It's alright, my dear, it's already been three minutes," he had told her.
"Erik, you're counting? Seriously?"
She hadn't been sure if she should pity him or feel offended, or perhaps both. He had explained that she'd completed her part of the contract and didn't expect anything more. She'd said nothing in return at the time, but a little later that afternoon she had grabbed his hand again, giving him a pleading, meaningful look, and he had squeezed her hand and not let go of it.
Still, at the time, she'd never thought they'd end up here, like this. It wasn't unpleasant, though... once one ignored what had happened in the bathroom.
The alarm clock woke both of the the next morning, and even after being jerked awake by the incessant electronic beeping, Christine was surprised to find that they were still holding hands. A look of surprise flashed across Erik's face as well, followed by a deep frown. He rolled over and turned off the alarm clock.
He stayed facing away from her after doing so, as if he were trying to recollect the previous night and what had led to them waking up in the same bed together.
"I'm sorry," he said, wincing. "I'm very sorry."
"It's okay," she yawned.
"Oh," he groaned, rolling to his back and covering his face with his hands. "You must think I'm disgusting."
"No! Not at all."
"I really am sorry, Christine, for putting you through that," he insisted, his voice muffled but anguished.
"Erik," she laughed softly. "I'm a nurse. Trust me, you aren't the first person to puke on me."
His hands flew off of his face and stared up at the ceiling with wide eyes.
"I puked on you?!" his voice was filled with despair and horror.
"No! I just mean if you had- it's nothing new to me. It's okay."
He groaned and rolled to face away from her once more.
"It's not a big deal," she sighed as she propped herself up on an elbow and pressed down the pillow between them so she could get a better look at him. "Really. All I care about is that you feel better."
He was quiet.
"Do you feel better?" she asked after a moment.
He made a noncommittal grunt.
"Erik, I mean it - do you still feel sick?"
"My traitorous wretch of a stomach is fine, Christine," he said flatly. "That's not why I currently feel sick."
"Oh," she said softly. "What's wrong, then?"
He didn't say anything for a long time, and she started to get worried. At last he rolled over to face her.
"I feel like I took advantage of you," he whispered, and the concern was written plainly on his face.
"How?" she asked gently.
His eyes flickered over her face, uncertain.
"I don't know," he said finally. "But what if I did, somehow. What if I- what if I tricked you- I've tricked people before, Christine, I wasn't always a good man in my life- I had to to survive, please understand- I never meant to trick you, never intended to be like that with you, but- old habits die hard, I'm afraid..."
She was quiet as she absorbed all of this.
"What do you mean?" she asked. "How did you trick people?"
He looked up at the ceiling.
"I've lied, a lot. In the past. I've pretended. I'd say whatever I needed to in order to get my way."
"You think you secretly tricked me into getting into bed with you?"
"The subconscious is a scary thing, Christine."
She raised an eyebrow.
"Your subconscious thought the best way to seduce me was to vomit in front of me? Really?"
He grimaced.
"I never said my subconscious was smart. But... You're here."
"That's a hell of a gamble, though. How often does that one work with the ladies, Erik?" she teased, smiling.
"Don't make fun," he whined.
"Oh, really now - do you think you did on that on purpose? You ate an undercooked octopus, Erik. You tried to get me to eat an undercooked octopus. Did you subconsciously want me to get sick?"
"No!" he turned to her, horrified. "Never!"
"Well then there you have it. It's okay. I stayed because I wanted to. I wasn't tricked."
He nodded slowly, understanding. She had wanted to chide him for such a foolish line of thought, but she still remembered his words back in Rome, back during their visit to the cemetery - the words that Luciana had hurled at him all those many years ago - you tricked me.
"You didn't take advantage of me," she added quietly, reaching out to caress the side of his face.
He flinched at first, and it made her heart ache to think that his immediate reaction to someone reaching for his face was to behave as though pain were coming.
"You should take it easy today," she said after a while, sitting up. "We should stay in, or at least stay close. In case you start feeling worse."
"Okay."
"We should go to that little store around the corner and get you some bland food, do you feel up to that?"
"I think so," he replied as they got out of bed.
"Erik-"
She could tell he was still consumed by guilt, not quite looking at her.
"It's okay to want something, and then to enjoy it when it happens," she told him gently. "That doesn't mean you did something wrong, or bad, to get that."
He paused next to her in the doorway.
"Christine..."
He looked at her, hesitating.
"May I?" he asked.
She nodded.
"Yes."
She didn't know what he was asking for, but she was prepared to give it, whatever it was. A kiss, most likely, but she would comply regardless.
But he didn't kiss her. Instead, he reached a hand out and gently ran it over her hair, letting it linger there a moment before pulling away.
"Thank you," he said, his voice husky.
They didn't speak again on the previous night, and each of them got ready to go to the store. Their talk was on light subjects only as they made their way down to the street and then to the corner.
Once in the store, they walked up and down the isles, discussing the items. Some foods surprised them as things they had back in France, and some things Erik glared at as though they existed solely to make him ill again.
In the midst of it, Christine reached out to hold his hand. She was surprised when he pulled his hand away from her, thinking it must have been an accident. She tried again a few moments later, but this time he not only shied away but crossed his arms, keeping his hands out of reach. She blinked her eyes, not certain why the rejection stung so much. Had she done something wrong? Was he merely too overwhelmed at what had happened last night? She squeezed her hand into a fist and then released it, not understanding but too ashamed to ask him. He casually pointed out a brand of soda they'd never seen before. She stared dubiously at him a long second, then remarked that it looked like it tasted good.
They made their selections and paid and went back to the hotel, prepared to rest for the remainder of the day. As they settled in on the foot of her bed to see what channels the tv got, Christine suddenly remembered something.
"Shit," she muttered under her breath, grabbing her purse and taking it to the bathroom with her.
Waking up in Erik's room had been such an unusual occurrence that her morning routine had been thrown off entirely. She'd forgotten to take her pill. It wouldn't have dire consequences, she knew - nothing had happened, and he apparently didn't even want to hold her hand right now - but she also knew it was important to keep taking them, even still, because to skip days would interfere with her menstrual cycle.
She poured herself a glass of water from the sink and pulled the compact out of her purse, quickly downing a pill.
Erik was staring at her as she exited the bathroom, his expression blank. Her eyes darted away, guilty. He was quiet as she placed her purse back on her nightstand and sat on the end of the bed next to him.
"What's on tv?" she asked, trying to sound cheerful.
"Christine," he said quietly. "I think we need to talk."
"About?" she kept her tone light, even though her throat was far too dry all of a sudden.
"About those pills in your purse."