Erik paused. The poor girl was delirious with fever, he realized. Surely she didn't know what she was saying - surely she locked her door.

"Well, that's how it'll be tonight, I'm afraid. Is that okay with you?"

She nodded slowly, still looking at him, her hand still on his shoulder.

Their faces were mere inches apart, the way they were standing was dangerously close to an embrace, yet still she didn't pull away. Delirious, he was certain. He swallowed hard.

"Let's get you to bed," he repeated quietly, and turned her towards to the door, a gentle hand hovering close to her back even still, just in case she almost fell again.

He saw her to the doorway of her room, at which point she went over to her dresser and pulled a nightgown from it. Erik quickly turned went down the hallway, and she watched, biting her lip, as he went away.

She had very nearly asked him to help her unbutton the back of her dress, and she couldn't help but feel that perhaps he knew that. She supposed she could manage on her own, but her fingers were trembling and they felt slow and clumsy. She sighed. Even in the daze of her illness she knew such a request was highly inappropriate, and yet...

She changed (with difficulty) in the bathroom before pulling her dressing gown around herself, then settled into bed, wishing for more blankets. Though she felt hot on the inside, she was shivering and couldn't seem to stop. She blinked miserably as she nestled her face into the satin pillow.

He came back to check on her in a little bit, knocking on the doorframe and pausing before glancing in. She turned a little to face him.

"How are you feeling?" he asked softly.

She shrugged and shook her head.

"The same."

"Do you want another blanket?"

She nodded eagerly.

He left and came back a moment later, cautiously entering her room and spreading the blanket over her

"There," he said. "Anything else?"

"No," her voice was small. "Thank you."

"Of course," he turned to leave but she sat up a little.

"Erik?"

He paused.

"Will you- well, you won't be too far away, will you?" she sounded so uncertain, so scared, and was overwhelmed with the urge to kiss her forehead and assure her that he would never leave her side, ever.

"I'll be quite close, my dear. It's alright. I'll check on you every now and then, okay?"

"Okay."

True enough, Christine noticed him at her doorway every now and then as she tried to sleep. He would linger a few moments before leaving once more, but she felt greatly comforted by his presence.

Eventually she fell asleep entirely, her mind simply too exhausted to keep worrying. At first Erik hoped that sleep would bring her some relief and help her feel better, but before long her slumber became fitful and he watched with concern as she tossed and turned.

He approached her slowly, and hesitatingly placed his hand on her forehead - she was quite asleep, and did not even wake when he did so. Her fever was still burning and he was briefly concerned that if it lasted much longer he might have to take her to an actual doctor. Still, there was nothing to be done for the moment except wait.

An hour later she was still restlessly turning, clearly uncomfortable. Erik felt terrible that there was little else he could for her. Unless-

He left her doorway, making his way to his own bedroom quickly. She had said that her father used to play the violin for her when she was ill, did she not?

He brought his violin with him and entered her room, feeling out of place in it. It was a foreign thing, being there with her. It was not unpleasant, but it held a sense of wrongness about it still.

She, fast asleep in her bed, dressed in her nightclothes with only the blankets to hide her from view, and him, there in her apartment while she slept - almost as if they were married. It would not be so strange if that were the case, would it? Husbands were allowed in their wife's private rooms.

He placed the freshly rosined bow to the strings and began an old folk song that he thought would please her.

She stopped squirming. Her eyes tried to flutter open, uncertain of where she was, and her brow furrowed.

She could hear the most heavenly music - surely only the angels could play like that. Had her Papa sent her the Angel? Or was that Papa?

She pressed her face into the pillow, even the dim gaslight too bright for her eyes. But still - she had to know where that music was coming from. She wasn't certain where she was or how she got there, or why she felt so terrible and hot, but she did know that finding the source of the music was currently her highest priority. She blinked unseeing into the room.

"Papa?" she asked weakly.

Erik paused in his playing. His hand tightened around the neck of his violin, just as the lump in his throat squeezed as well. She thought he was her father.

"Close your eyes, dear child - go to sleep," he managed and began to play again.

She obediently closed her eyes at once. Her mind was still muddled and she still felt unwell, but now a sense of peace enveloped her as well. She wasn't alone - there was Someone there with her, even if she couldn't quite tell who. The Angel (was Papa the Angel?) wouldn't let any harm come to her. As sleep caused her mind to drift away like a wave on the beach, her last discernable thought was that she was forgetting someone important from the equation, someone she needed to tell Papa about, someone who had been sent to her by the Angel - someone terribly important but she couldn't remember his name. When push came to shove, however, she realized she couldn't even remember her own name in the moment, and she gave up on the quest for his name as she gave up all waking thought and settled into slumber once more.

Erik noted how her breathing evened out, how she was finally still and restful, her brow unfurrowed, her lips no longer twisted into a frown. He breathed a little sigh of relief and kept playing for her.

He played for her for quite some time, eventually having to stop when the joints in his fingers and hands began to ache. He waited a little while there in room, choosing to sit in the chair there and make certain that her sleep continued calmly. After a half hour he decided that she was fine and he left to get himself some tea. He came back a little later only to notice she was once more restless. He frowned, approaching her, but was surprised that she quieted as he drew closer.

Could it be? Could it truly be? Could she sense his presence even now?

He brought his tea into her room, and a book too, and sat back down, settling himself in for the night. He was certain that it was merely presence of someone else in the room that calmed her - he most definitely did not feel the hubris to assume it was anything about him specifically - and if that's what she needed to get better, that's what he would give to her. Never mind all the voices in his head saying how inappropriate it was that he should spend the evening - or any time at all, really - in her private chamber, especially as she slept. But was it so terribly inappropriate if no one else except for her and himself would ever know? And he hadn't even touched her, besides!

He paused briefly in his reading, wondering if having placed his hand on her forehead counted as touching her. He hesitatingly decided it did not, not really - he had only done it to accurately gauge her condition, it wasn't as though he took in pleasure in it...

He chewed his lip a little.

It wasn't as though finding it pleasurable was the only reason he had done it. He really had needed to know if she was getting better or not.

He returned to reading, not wanting to focus on any disturbing thoughts. Christine was sleeping peacefully, and that was all that mattered.

In the small hours of the morning he regretfully had to wake her in order to give her a second dose of medicine - her fever still had not broken, and he was concerned.

"Christine?" he whispered.

She did not stir.

"Christine? Wake up, sweet," he spoke normally.

She twitched.

"Christine, you need to take your medicine."

She frowned in her sleep.

"Christine!" he spoke a little more forcefully, and she awoke with a start, blinking fast.

"Wha- what- Erik, why - what's with all the yelling?" she asked sleepily.

"Drink this," he handed her the mug, and she drank it down, wrinkling her nose at the taste, and then she handed it back to him.

"Now go back to sleep," he said, gentle once more.

She huffed and rolled her eyes and flopped back down into the pillow, muttering.

"I can only sleep if you stop yelling," she grumbled.

Erik smirked and was about send back a retort, but he realized she had, in fact, already fallen asleep again.

It was in the early morning that her fever finally broke. Erik rested his hand on her forehead as he had every hour or so and finally breathed a sigh of relief. The worst, hopefully, was over.

She continued to sleep until a little past noon. When she finally woke she felt disoriented, not knowing what time it was or where she happened to be. She blinked groggily at the room around her as bits and pieces came back to her.

She was ill, that's why she felt so strange. And Erik has offered her use of his home. She placed her own on her forehead, but she didn't feel hot. She was in her room in Erik's home - yes, she recognized it now, that familiar decor she loved so. Her eyes swept over it and stopped when they reached the chair in the corner near her bed.

"Erik?" she asked, leaning up on her elbow.

"How do you feel, Christine?" he sat up a little straighter.

There was a book next to him but he hadn't been reading at that moment, simply sitting and staring at the wall (staring at her?), and though she supposed she should find the concept disturbing she truly couldn't find it in her to think so.

"How long have you been there?" her voice sounded scratchy, and she didn't like it.

He hesitated a moment. Would she find his answer distasteful, unseemly?

"All night," he said truthfully.

She merely nodded and lay back down.

"Let me go get you some water," he offered, standing. "Do you want anything to eat?"

She shook her head.

He brought her back a tall glass of cool water, and she drank as much as she could.

"Oh," she said. "Oh, I had the strangest dream, don't you know..."

He tilted his head, listening.

She opened and closed her mouth a few times. Should she say it? She looked at him a little oddly. Had it- had it been him?

"It was about Papa," was all she settled on saying.

She had been absolutely certain that somewhere in the midst of her feverish slumber, someone had played the most exquisite violin music. Had it only been in her head? Had Erik played for her as she slept? She didn't know to ask such a thing. Imagine if he hadn't - if she had hallucinated the whole thing! No, she wouldn't ask him.

"Was it indeed?" he mused, studying her.

This marked the start of Christine's recovery, a process that took no less than four days.

Neither one was certain what sickness, exactly, she had come down with, but it was apparent that whatever it was it had left her entirely fatigued. She barely got out of bed the first day, and on the second she became winded walking short distances. She was rather frightened of what that seemed to imply (how could she ever sing again, like this?), but Erik reassured her endlessly and insisted she would be quite fine (he had learned to not share his worries over her condition with her - the last thing he wanted was for her to cry again about being afraid to die, so he refused to give voice to his own fears).

Erik found he quite enjoyed doting on her and fretting over her - "are you quite sure you don't need me to fluff your pillows again, my dear?", "Christine, you simply must go back to bed, I won't have you exhausting yourself so!", "I made you some soup, I think you'll like it." Would this be what it was like to have a wife to look after? He'd care for her like this every day if he had the chance.

But that's where the doubt crept in. He only had this chance because she was sick, and because she was upset about being sick. If she hadn't given a fig about not feeling well, she'd have slept it off in her own dormitory and gone about her business. But no - she had been greatly distressed, thinking she might die, even! Surely he was an abhorrent fiend to take such joy in a situation comprised of her suffering. But was his joy not found in the alleviation of her suffering?

After her fever broke he preferred to let the door stayed closed when he was not in the room, to allow her to have some privacy. He was quite baffled when he brought her a tray of breakfast foods the next morning - he knocked on the door, and she called out almost immediately for him to enter. He narrowed his eyes at the doorknob before he turned it, finding it unlocked. Did she really never lock it? Or had she merely forgotten to do so the previous night, too weary from her sickness? He presumed he would not find out - it seemed impolite to ask, and downright brutish to try opening her door on any other occasion to see if it was locked or not. But still, it seemed within the realm of possibility that she truly never had locked her door whenever she stayed there, just like she'd said.

Christine, for her part, hated being sick. She was missing so much up above! Life - and dance class, and rehearsal - was going on without her, and she couldn't stand it. She felt like she was getting behind in everything, though she had to admit that perhaps she was being a bit overdramatic. Still, she hated it.

The only redeeming factor was Erik's attentive care. There was something satisfying about having him fuss over her. She hadn't been fussed over in ages - Mamma had when she was younger, and of course Papa before that, but Mamma's health had been in a steady decline ever since the Professor had died, and as such it was more and more that Christine had been the one doing the fussing over her Mamma. It had been five years, if not more, since she had been on the receiving end of someone looking after her.

It was nice to be fussed over, as though it validated how terrible she felt, how tired she was. And she truly was tired from it all - she was still coughing a great deal even after her fever had passed. It seemed even just the bare minimum of getting through the day drained what little energy she had. Eating whatever Erik cooked for her, taking a bath, changing into fresh nightclothes - she felt up to little else after that was done.

Erik knocked on her closed door.

"Christine?" he tried his hardest not to think about whatever it was she was doing behind the door. "Let me know when you're ready for dinner, my dear."

"In just a few minutes, I should think," she replied, wrapping her dressing gown around her. "Could we eat in the sitting room tonight?"

"Of course."

The previous night she had eaten her dinner in bed, and though she was still fatigued she didn't want a repeat of that lonely meal - not only had she worried over spilling the tray of food and ruining the sheets, Erik had refused to eat with her in her bedroom. He had drawn himself up to his full height, tugged a little on the edges of his jacket to make certain it was straight, and gravely informed her that it wouldn't be proper, as though every step they had taken up to that moment had been a paragon of propriety.

She took one last look in her mirror, smoothing out her flowing dressing gown. It wasn't exactly proper, either, but in her own defense she reminded herself that she had a very modestly cut nightgown on underneath, and a chemise below that, and it wasn't her fault she didn't feel well enough to dress fully, was it? She went and found Erik in the sitting room.

Erik's eyes darted over her, shamefully lingering before pulling away, only to take another look. It wasn't so much her state of dress, though that was undeniably part of it - she hadn't been truly dressed all through her sickness, but her dressing gown covered everything up to her neck (the hem touched the floor and the sleeves were quite long as well, still, Erik could never understand how a garment so modest managed to look so appealing). No, tonight the cause of the bright red on his face was her still-damp hair, evidence of the bath she had just gotten out of.

The residual water had turned her tresses darker, and they had less curl than they normally did. She looked lovely with darker hair, he mused - but then again, she always looked lovely to him.

They supped together and and talked, and Erik frowned in concentration, trying very hard to not imagine her in the bath she had just been in.

"I feel like I've been coughing less today," she mentioned.

"That's good," he nodded.

He was most definitely not wondering how deep she filled the tub - all the way up to the edge? It was a deep tub, after all. Did she sit in the water all the way up to her chin? Did it reach her shoulders? Did it cover her-

"I'm just glad the fever is gone, but I do wish I wasn't so tired," she mused.

"You'll probably be tired a few days yet," he said distantly.

Had she put her towel next to the tub so that she could preserve her modesty, wrapping it around her as quickly as she stood up from the water? Or had she left it on the counter, necessitating her to take several nude, dripping steps across the room to fetch it?

"Erik?" she broke his thoughts, and he guiltily met her eye. "Is there something wrong with your steak?"

"What?"

She gestured to his plate.

"You've been cutting that piece rather harshly, and you've been frowning at it for some time now," she sounded concerned.

"Ah, no, no - it's fine," he cleared his throat.

He was the worst kind of monster around, surely one would be hard pressed to find a fiend lower than him. How dare he sully the image of Christine with such vulgar and crass thoughts about her?

"I don't want to rush your recovery, now that you're feeling better. No singing for a while still, but we'll work on your breathing exercises once you're feeling up to it," he told her, trying to remind himself that he was her teacher and her mentor and had no excuse to think of her like that. Besides - she would never return any sort of feeling towards him. It was ridiculous to even entertain the idea. She was probably too innocent to even imagine such base longings could be harbored towards her.

She nodded, stirring her pudding with the spoon. He seemed quite focused on his own food, and she took the opportunity to let her eyes rest on his hands once more.

Breathing exercises.

She had overheard one of the singers make mention of a number of breathing exercises she performed while laying down - perhaps in her next lesson she would ask about that. Perhaps she could spend her next lesson laying the divan in her dressing room- no, no - on Erik's couch - and perhaps she wouldn't quite understand his instructions... Perhaps he'd need to place his hand on her midsection, or perhaps over her, er, lungs... Perhaps that hand would have to... Go lower (she could not, for the life of her, imagine a reason why his hand would go lower than her waist - oh, she could think of a reason, all right, but not a singing lesson related reason).

She stared at his hands as they expertly wielded the fork and knife, graceful and poised and agile. Did his hands ever warm up, she wondered. Or were they always cold? She shivered a little, suddenly all too aware of her indecent state of dress. Most of the time she had no problem at all around him, but every now and then there were occasions where she would suddenly be struck by the realization that he was an oddly handsome man.

Would he kneel beside the couch, or would he remain standing, towering over her? Him on his knees beside her was an appealing image, but she spared a thought for his poor joints - what if he had arthritis? He wasn't exactly a young man, after all. His knees would surely ache if they had to be on the hard ground for very long. Perhaps it would be best if he were to join her on the couch, then...

Her throat was unbearably dry, and she reached her for glass, flustered. Her hand was unaccountably clumsy, and she nearly knocked it over.

Erik paused at the clatter of the glass nearly falling, his frown softening. She must be terribly tired still, and here he was speaking of lessons and plans when she could barely make it through a meal.

"Are you alright, sweet?" he asked kindly.

She narrowed her eyes and licked her dry lips, stealing a quick glance at him before looking away. Could he see her blush in the firelight? He seemed completely oblivious to the feelings he created in her.

"I'm just a little tired still, that's all," she said.

He nodded understandingly.

"Would you like to go bed when you're finished with dessert?"

She sank down a little, shy.

"Mm, I was wondering if maybe you'd read to me for a little while tonight? Right here on the couch? The fire is lovely this evening, and I'm not ready to go bed just yet."

He was surprised but agreed immediately. They finished the pudding and he took their plates to kitchen before returning to find a book for her. She had dearly hoped that he would sit on the couch next to her, but he returned to his own chair once more.

She blinked sleepily as she watched him while he read, and she let her mind wander to some day that he would actually sit on the couch next to her as did so, a day that he'd let her curl up to him instead of sitting so far away from her. Maybe he'd keep an arm around her shoulders. It would be warm to sit like that, she thought. He might have a perpetual chill about him, but surely the fireplace would make up for some it, and the warmth from her own body so close to his would take care of the rest.

He stole glances at her above the pages of the large volume of German fairy tales. Her hair was drying, returning to it's usual cornsilk shade and curling up into ringlets. He noted with interest that the forming curls didn't have their typical glossy sleekness about them - it looked a little unkempt, a little wild, and he wondered if on most days she put something on her hair to keep it all in place. He was almost certain that she did, and he wondered, not for the first time, what that mysterious product might make her hair smell like. Erik had studied a great many subjects in depth during his long life, and, if he could have one wish granted, Christine's hair would be one of them.

She stopped him a little while later, not even a full hour after he had started, citing her tiredness.

"You know I enjoy evenings like this, but I'm afraid I'm going to fall asleep," she told him.

He walked with her to her room, pausing outside her door. She turned to look up at him, her thoughts going back to the subject matter that had flustered her so at dinner.

She was almost certain that he liked her in a romantic kind of way. He simply wasn't bringing up the fact that he did due to politeness. If she were to initiate it, however, she felt it was quite likely he would follow suit.

"Erik, I-"

One word from her, one touch, and they would be moments away from bring her earlier fantasy to fruition. He might even spend the night with her in her bed, if she asked him to. Was that what she wanted? She must admit, she was very... curious. And she knew of plenty they could do that wouldn't risk her conceiving a child. But...

What would become of her career after that, even if no child was produced from their coupling? Erik was too important to the future of her voice to be careless with him. She knew men's egos were easily bruised over such matters, but she also knew Erik was not like other men. If they were intimate together and she decided she no longer wished that to be the case, it wouldn't just bruise him - it would destroy him. He wasn't used to people touching him, or to kindness or love, wasn't used to opening himself up to vulnerability. And what could be more vulnerable than undertaking something like that?

If they spent the night together and she decided she didn't like it, that she didn't want to do it again, she didn't think he could bear to continue lessons with her. They had come back after some fierce betrayals, but that - she didn't think there could be any coming back from that. She thought about how cold and distant and hurt he had been from her just missing dinner with him - she could only imagine what it would be like if she rejected him after having physical relations. Once started, it would have to continue, because once it ended between them their relationship of teacher and student would forever altered - if she tried it and didn't like it, she would still have to continue to do it if she wanted to still have voice lessons with him - and she was not about to trade something like that in exchange for her career, not while she had a choice.

"I'm feeling so much better, now," she smiled at him. "Thank you for taking such good care of me."

"Think nothing of it, my dear."

They exchanged goodnights and she went in her room and closed her door.

Her curiosity would have to remain curiosity. She couldn't risk what they currently had because she simply wanted to try something to see how it felt. There was always a chance that it went wonderfully - but she could envision far too many outcomes where it went horribly. How would he feel about being treated as though he were a sample at ice cream store, or a book skimmed through in the store before being put back on the shelf? It would be cruel to him, she thought. He deserved better than to be at her beck and call to serve her whims of curiosity and then be cast aside. She knew she would be quite heartbroken if the roles were reversed. She knew some people were capable of trying something with someone and being able to leave it at that with no problems (she had heard rumors about Sorelli and a prima ballerina who had been a guest star at the Populaire for a season, rumors that, when repeated to Sorelli, had only caused a wry sort of grin to form on the dancer's face) - but Christine had the distinct feeling that Erik would not be one of those people. He was her friend, and she was hesitant to think unkind things about him, but the fact remained that Erik was rather needy.

She already had to reassure him on a regular basis that they were friends - she could only picture how it might fracture his already fragile mind if something so terribly intimate were to happen between them. Was it good for you, Christine? Are you sure? Had you truly wanted to do that? I didn't- oh, Christine, I didn't force you, did I? From all his concern over propriety - and from other clues as well - she had guessed that he'd never been with anyone like that, and she half expected that he might insist they needed to be married before they did anything. Even if they discussed expectations beforehand, even if he knew going into it that she only wanted to try something once, she felt he would still take it as some sort of deeply personal rejection, as though he were flawed or hadn't performed well enough. It would truly complicate matters all around, even some of her (comparatively) innocent fantasies. Their good working dynamic might be irreparably shattered, and she couldn't risk that.

She shook her head at herself and placed her hand on her forehead, wondering if she had become feverish again. She thought the oddest things sometimes - look how much energy she had devoted to imagining such a ridiculous scenario and it's imaginary fallout! As if such a thing would ever happen! Her with Erik! She fell into bed, sighing, and scolded herself for letting her thoughts run away like that. The fever, she told herself. It was most definitely the fault of the fever that she was thinking like that. Never mind that her fever had broken several days ago (never mind that this wasn't even the first time she had turned such ideas over in her mind). No, it was definitely the fever. Fevers could cause such strange ideas and feelings, it was very odd, but true.