The morning of the opening of the new showed dawned bright and early. Erik was still half asleep when she woke, but he had enough presence of mind to know what he wanted as they lay together under the rumpled sheets and blankets.
"Not right now," she told him, stopping his creeping hand from traveling any further up her leg.
"Oh," he said, and stopped. "Are you- is it- is that-" he lowered his voice, "is it time, again?"
"No," she shook her head. "I just don't feel like it right now. I'm too nervous for the show tonight."
"Of course," he patted her back instead, leaving off his more amorous touches.
Christine couldn't help the slight smirk on her face as he put a little more distance between them, clearly not believing her words about it not being her time of month.
She still remembered with striking detail that first time he realized that she was indeed a woman in every single way, and apparently it was absolutely burned into his mind as well.
It had been shortly after they'd first moved into their home, and as he did every morning, he'd leaned over to kiss her neck and cheek. That morning, as he did on about half of their mornings together, he had wanted to take it further. And, as he typically did, he indicted that wish by running a cautious hand up her leg.
Still half asleep, she squirmed under his touch and smiled. As her mind gained more functional, she began to try to remember something she was supposed to tell him. But what was it? There was something... Something important. Something about this day on the calendar, something she'd meant to warn him of the previous night but had forgotten then, too.
"Christine, oh Christine," he had murmured in her ear as he delved his hand deeper between her legs. "I guess I wasn't too rough with you last night after all, sweet- I thought you might be too sore, but it seems you're already so ready for me, aren't you?"
He pulled his hand out from under the blankets to show her the proof of his words on his fingers, but the second before he did so, she suddenly remembered what she'd wanted to tell him and her smile vanished. That wetness between her legs wasn't what Erik thought it was. That was-
He froze when he saw the blood on his fingers.
"Erik-" she tried to warn him.
"What did I do?" he cried. "What happened? Christine, what did I do? We have to get you to a doctor!"
He was shaking and his voice was high and scared as he struggled to get out of bed.
"Erik it's not-"
"I'm so so sorry, Christine," he sobbed, becoming hysterical. "I didn't mean to - I didn't meant to do this to you, I didn't know-"
"Erik! You didn't do anything!" she cried, peeved. "That's my- my menstruation."
Her face was red as she said the words, and Erik stared at her like he didn't understand.
"I'm perfectly fine, Erik, for goodness's sake!"
He started to calm just slightly, and she wrinkled her nose at him.
"Go wash that off your hand," she told him, and he stared stupidly at the offending hand.
"You're not- you're not dying?"
"No! Erik!"
She rolled out of bed and went to change her nightdress.
"Christine-" he said urgently, following her. "Are you very sure?"
Pity for him and his shock finally won out.
"I'm very sure," she told him softly, squeezing his arm. "There's nothing wrong. I'll be fine. This happens every month, you know."
He nodded slowly, going to the bathroom to wash his hands as she'd told him. He still looked uncertain as they made their way, freshly cleaned and dressed, to the kitchen for breakfast, and she couldn't help but notice how his eyes kept dropping to that part of her.
He fussed over her, insisting that she sit down and rest while he cooked, glancing at her every so often with concern. Breakfast cooked and placed before her, he watched her eat as he nervously picked at his own food.
"Erik," she said as she put her empty dish in the sink. "I'm fine, I promise."
She hugged him, an embrace he reluctantly returned.
"I'm going to do some knitting for a while in the sitting room, okay?" she told him.
"Okay."
She settled herself there and picked up the project she'd been working on, a new shawl for Meg. After a few moments Erik joined her in the room, sitting in the chair across from her.
Christine counted the rows of stitches in her head, and, coming to the end of one row, glanced up from her work to see Erik staring at her with the utmost concern on his face, as though he were waiting for any sudden change that might signal she needed a doctor. She raised an eyebrow.
"I'm fine, Erik," she reminded him. "I've had this every month for the last ten years, I think I can manage."
"Oh," he said stupidly, but continued to watch her as she knit.
He was aware that this was something women did, and he had always been acutely aware that Christine was a woman, but he had never really put the two together enough to realize what that meant.
Had she really? All that time he'd known her? That was a little unsettling. He licked his dry lips and looked away.
"Can I get you anything?"
Christine waited until she finished the next row of stitches.
"A glass of water?" she suggested, not truly thirsty but just afraid he'd continue to stare at her otherwise.
He sprang up from his chair, rushing off to the kitchen to find it for her.
He brought it back to her, and she took it from him and took a sip, hoping it would encourage him to leave her be, but instead he sank to his knees next to the chair, his long fingers clutching the armrest. She gave him an even look as she set her water on the table next to her.
"Are you in pain?" he asked suddenly.
She blinked.
"Not terribly."
"Did I make it worse? Last night?" he asked, cringing as though he were afraid of the answer. "Or this morning?"
"No, I don't think so."
"I don't ever want to do anything that might hurt you, Christine. I don't want to see you hurt, or in pain."
"I know, love," she said softly, and reached out to cup the side of his bare face.
He leaned into her touch. He'd been so frightened that morning, certain he'd broken something inside her somehow. Even knowing what it was now, even knowing she was perfectly fine, he still couldn't shake his fear. Erik was no stranger to the sight of blood, but the image of his darling wife's blood on his hand was one that was going to haunt him. He didn't ever want to see her blood ever again. He had had a lifetime of blood on his hands already. He wouldn't be able to continue living if something were to happen to her because of him.
He had remained attentive to her the rest of the afternoon, until she became annoyed and told him that what she truly need was a bit of space, at which point he watched her from the doorway, or, when she escaped to the garden, from the window.
Ever since the rather traumatic incident, she'd made certain to warn him if she knew, and during those times he'd take extra care to make certain she was comfortable, asking over her numerous times until it verged on annoying.
And even after all these months together, the morning of the new show was no exception.
"Are you sure?" Erik asked cautiously.
She huffed.
"I think I would know, I assure you."
She got out of bed and set about dressing for the day, fretting a little over her clothing.
"There's nothing to worry about," he said soothingly, coming to stand behind her and place a comforting hand on her shoulder. "You're going to be wonderful."
"I'm not worried about me, I'm worried about the show. It's so different! What if no one likes it?"
"They will like you, regardless of whatever role you play," he assured her, kissing her neck before pulling away.
"You'll be there? Watching?"
"Always."
"And then tonight, we can-"
"Oh, always," he chuckled as he dressed.
The time passed swiftly and she soon found herself dressing for the show with Erik's help in her dressing room at the opera house, and he stayed and talked with her while she put her makeup on to help her settle her nerves. At last he had to leave to make his way to box five, and she made her way backstage as the show was about to begin.
Carlotta was already there and waiting, though she gave no sign of acknowledgment when Christine arrived. A sense of awkwardness hung about them in the dim light, until finally Christine felt she had to say something just to break the unease. There was still a bit of time until the curtain went up, and she could bear the weight of the relative silence no longer.
Christine glanced up at Carlotta as they stood in the wings, awaiting their cues. Carlotta was carefully avoiding her eye, staring out into the dimness around them. She didn't look like a fierce, intimidating prima donna here, when there was no audience to watch her, Christine mused - she just looked like a woman, a singer, trying to go about her job.
"I didn't mean to unseat you, you know," Christine murmured.
Carlotta still wouldn't look at her, but Christine could tell she was listening.
"I'm just trying to be the best singer I can," Christine explained. "It's not a personal threat towards you."
Carlotta jutted her chin out, frowning.
"There's more stages than just the Populaire," Christine continued. "We could-"
"You think I'm going to give up what I've worked for here because of you?" she scoffed. "Why should I leave this stage, hmm? Why should I have to find another place to sing? I've been prima donna here for years! Do you expect me to just leave, just like that?"
Christine squared her shoulders.
"No, I don't expect that at all. It's just- well, I do want to be the best singer I can be, and if this is the natural progression of things - I'm not doing it because I hate you! If we could both be prima donna always, I would be fine with that!"
"There can be but one," Carlotta sniffed.
Christine looked down at her shoes in the darkness.
"You know," she started quietly, hesitantly. "When I was younger... I sort of looked up to you. What you could do on stage. How you had Paris' heart. I- well, I suppose I wanted to be like you, really."
Carlotta raised an eyebrow.
"Oh?"
Christine nodded.
"You can't imagine what it's like to share the stage with you like this. Or maybe you can - you were once in my shoes, I'm sure, before you were La Carlotta. I have a lot of respect for you..."
She was being truthful - or at least as truthful as she felt the situation warranted. She had looked up to the prima donna of the Populaire when she was had first been accepted into the chorus and lived with Mamma and Professor Valerius, just as she'd looked up to all of the prima donnas of the famous opera houses. And she did respect what Carlotta could do on stage, even if she didn't particularly respect how she often behaved as a person - no matter what Erik's personal opinion was, Carlotta was a very good singer.
A little smile tugged at Carlotta's lips. The girl's humble praise was satisfying to hear.
"I would never purposely try to drive you out of the job you've worked so hard to achieve... But Carlotta-" here she gave her a sideways glance, and from the corner of her eyes Carlotta could suddenly see a glimpse of the cunning woman her rival really was, hiding behind the facade of a child. "If that's what it comes down to here - that only you or me can keep singing as the prima donna of the Populaire, well- I hope you know I won't go easy on you."
Carlotta turned her head to look directly at her now, at the wry little smile on her former understudy's face, and she couldn't help but smile as well.
"I look forward to it, Little Toad," she smirked, and it almost, almost sounded like a term of affection.
The music swelled and Carlotta swiftly walked onstage, one last backwards glance at the soprano she knew she was going to enjoy a battle with. If the girl was going to unseat her, at least they could concoct a drama out of it... Dramatic exits always made for good stories in the papers, good for garnering the public's interest, and great public interest made it easier to get hired at new opera houses.
Christine gave it her all onstage, and so did Carlotta. Most of their scenes were together, and the nature of their characters were so different than their own personalities that if felt nearly outlandish and downright comical. Still, there was thunderous applause at the end of it all, and the two women took their bows together, each trying to act more demure than the other, each trying to play the most humble role as though they weren't both seeking attention and hoping to out stage the other one.
Erik paced urgently in her dressing room, waiting for her to show up. Where the devil was she?
She showed up at last, a grin on her face. He waited only long enough for her to lock the door.
"What did you thi—"
He cut her off with a nearly bruising kiss, pulling her to him tightly enough to press the air from her lungs.
"You temptress," he panted, biting at her neck. "You vixen."
He sucked hard at her skin, drawing a surprised squeak from her.
"You've no idea what you do to me," he growled as his hands groped at her.
She was about to retort that she currently had some idea, but suddenly she found herself being bent over her vanity table, her arms automatically going up so she could rest her head on them.
It was only once he had one hand on her back, pressing her to the table, her skirts hitched up around her waist, and his other hand about to unfasten his trousers that he paused, suddenly realizing what he was about to do.
He swallowed hard. He hadn't even asked, and the implication of that crashed down upon him.
"Christine," concern tinted his voice. "Is this okay? Do you want this?"
"Yes, please!" her voice was muffled but she nodded against her arms eagerly.
In the brief moment of clarity he remembered the condom in his pocket and pulled it out with trembling fingers.
"Sweet girl," he crooned. "My little minx, Christine-"
When it was all finished he leaned over her back for a moment, his breathing slowly returning to normal as he placed kiss after kiss to her neck and massaged his thumbs into her waist from their place on either side of her hips.
He straightened up when he was able, helping her to shed the rest of her costume and wig as she tried to steady her own breathing. He pulled her with him, stumbling backwards just slightly, their legs still shaky as they they both fell onto the divan.
He was thankful, afterwards, as his mind cleared while he sprawled across the divan and held her, for his foresight in bringing the condom. If there had been any untoward stains on her costume, the costume manager would have surely killed her (metaphorically) and then he would have had to kill the costume manger (literally).
She was now clad only in her chemise as she lay across his lap, arms around his neck. He nuzzled his masked nose against hers.
"You were magnificent tonight," he murmured, and she smiled wider.
"Do you mean on stage, or just now?"
He laughed.
"Both," he said, and kissed her cheek.
The opera likewise received excellent reviews and ended up being quite popular. But what surprised Christine the most was Carlotta.
Her one time role model turned rival actually turned out to hold some amount of affection towards her, seemingly inspired by Christine's determined rise to fame.
"You remind me of a young me," she said to her one day, a small smile on her face as she reached out to touch her shoulder, then laughed and turned away. "But I was never so unfortunate as to be up against anyone who was as loved as La Carlotta when I was your age!"
Christine learned to take her teasing in stride, believing there was a bit of genuine feeling underneath it all. Sometimes the older woman would give her tips and advice on dealing with reporters seeking interviews or on how to project a persona in public — and on how to keep a private life that was truly private.
She ran these things by Erik, who was horrified at his wife's tentative growing friendship with a woman he hated, but even he had to admit her advice seemed sound.
The season came, and the season went.
It was the week before the show closed that Christine happened to see Philippe in one of the hallways with Sorelli during a break from rehearsal.
"Christine!" he called out to her eagerly, and she politely came over to them.
Sorelli was smiling widely at her, and Christine's eyes fell to the ballerina's hand on Philippe's chest, and to the giant diamond ring there that sparkled and shined. Christine smiled at her.
"Christine, how are you?" he asked eagerly as she approached.
"I'm doing quite fine, thank you," she said.
He dug in his breast pocket for something, and pulled out a small photograph.
"This is for you," he told her, holding it out for her.
She took it, curious, and her eyes widened to realize it was a photograph of Raoul.
Her Raoul, dear, sweet Raoul. She hadn't heard from him since that day they'd parted tearfully, and she hadn't thought it her place to be the one that reached out to him. In the photo he was on a ship, surrounded by other sailors, and they were all smiling at the camera.
"He looks so happy," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion, and it was true - Raoul really did seem to be happy and enjoying whatever he was up to.
"They're going to the North Pole," Philippe told her. "He sent me a letter before the ship left, and he said he wanted you to have that photo."
She cleared her throat, trying to will away the tears that threatened to spill over in her eyes.
"Thank you, Philippe," she told him earnestly. "I'm so happy he's happy."
She took the photograph home with her and showed it to Erik, telling him what Philippe had said. He stared at it for a long time, running his thumb over the image of his former rival, deep in thought. He handed it back to her, his expression carefully blank, and she asked if there was a spare photo frame she could put it in. He silently left to search for one, and came back a little later with one that would fit, scavenged from some mysterious corner of the house.
He watched as she placed it in the frame and took it to her own private bedroom, and as she placed it on her vanity table there. He knew it was ridiculous to feel jealousy over a small snapshot, but the truth was he didn't know what he felt in that moment. Too many things, he supposed. Without the boy and his help, however, he wouldn't have married Christine, so he knew he couldn't grudge her this one photograph.
She exited her room and hugged him, not saying anything. She was grateful for his own silence over the matter. She missed Raoul and his kind friendship, but she didn't regret what she had with Erik, nor would she trade it given the chance. But that did little to ease the loss of her good friend.
Raoul - and his photograph - were not brought up again.
But there was plenty to occupy both of their minds besides the way things could have been. He had his work, which was still going exceedingly well, and things continued to go well for her at the opera, despite Carlotta insisting that she herself was still the main attraction.
Erik often slunk around the opera house while Christine was busy there with her work. He listened in on the managers talk privately, he spied on Carlotta - still unconvinced that she wasn't a threat to Christine - and sometimes he spied on Christine herself out of sheer boredom, though he had a feeling she knew he was there. She had an entire life beyond him, and sometimes it amused him to watch her go about it.
Erik tilted his head as he stood behind the mirrored wall and watched her search the ballet room. She hadn't been in this room in ages, and thus he hadn't either. But still - what was she looking for?
He slid out from his hiding place and managed to stand just behind her without her noticing.
She frowned down at the little panels in the wooden wall and stood upright from where she was stooping, letting out an audible gasp as she backed right into Erik. He chuckled and put his arms around her as she swatted an annoyed hand at him, but then relaxed into his embrace.
"You startled me! Really, is there any mirror you don't hide behind?" she accused, and began to wiggle out of his arms. "I can't play right now, Erik, I'm looking for something."
"And what is Little Christine looking for, hmm?" he drawled, nuzzling his nose against her neck.
"Meg is almost certain that Francesca stole her hair comb with the little jewels, and she wants me to look for it while they're out at lunch."
"Why not search her room, then?"
"Erik," she rolled her eyes at him. "That's amateurish. She knows we'd all look there first. No, there's hiding places down here and she's likely using one of them. If she hides it here, she could blame it on anyone, if it's in her room then she has no way out of being guilty."
She pulled a few panels of the wall back, finding nothing. Erik couldn't help but note the irony of a building that he had designed so many hiding places into that then received even more hiding places created by the very ones who were frightened of what might be hiding around the corner. Everyone had secrets they'd rather keep from the light, it seemed.
She pulled back a floorboard and found something - a piece of paper. She frowned at it, picking it up. Erik peered over her shoulder at it. It seemed to be a letter, and Christine quickly realized it was a very private one.
Erik snatched it away.
"What's this, then?"
"Erik! That's Doreen's letter from her beau! Don't read it! That's wicked of you!"
She grabbed it back, fully intending on putting it back immediately, but somehow she paused and her eyes happened to glance at what was written there.
Erik laughed and pointed a finger at a certain line.
"Christine, look!" he said, obviously delighted. "He calls her pet!"
She wrinkled her nose.
"Ew..."
They were both silent a moment longer, their eyes scanning the rest of the letter. Christine's face was red by the end of it, and Erik had a wide, mocking grin.
"I never would have guessed Doreen the type to-"
"Erik!" she squeaked, mortified. "We are putting this back now and pretending we never saw it!"
She hastily returned the letter and also the floorboard, trying to ignore his amused chuckles.
"If you say so, pet," he smirked, and she cringed.
He helped her look a little more for the comb, but after not finding it anywhere she could think of, she gave up.
"I can't imagine where she's put it," she sighed as she glanced around the room one last time. "I guess I'll go get ready to go back to rehearsal."
He reached out and took her hand, squeezing it.
"My dear, why such a rush? Rehearsal won't start again for another half of an hour... We have a little time... Why not spend it with your Erik, hmm?" he nearly purred as he brushed his thumb across her knuckles.
She raised an eyebrow at him.
"Not here, for goodness's sake, Erik..."
"Where then?" his eyes lit up at her lack of an outright refusal.
She chewed at her lip, thinking.
"My dressing room, I should think," she finally decided.
He led her through the secret tunnels behind the rooms until they arrived behind her dressing room mirror, which he slid open for her.
Christine Daaé was grateful for very many things in her life, but something that ranked near the top of the list of her gratitude was the fact that they had never been caught together in the opera house, despite a few close calls. One of the perks of being married to the Opera Ghost, she supposed, was that he knew all of the quietest places and had plenty of hiding spots.
Soon a new season was beginning, and with it came new costumes for ballet corps. Christine had tried to tell him about the new skirts done in the Russian style, but he hadn't seemed to fully understand, and when the costumes were done at last, Christine had pulled him aside one day to show them to him.
"Look," she said, pulling a hanger off the rack in the costume maker's workshop. On it hung a golden bodice with intricate beadwork, and underneath was a wide, flat tutu that stuck straight out as opposed to hang in long, graceful layers.
"Where's the rest of it?"
"That's it!"
Erik's brow furrowed. He took the costume from Christine to examine it.
"When is it getting finished? This is awfully close to opening night for the skirts to not even be done."
"Erik! It's finished! That's it!"
His jaw dropped and he looked from Christine to the tutu and back again. With these tutus, the entire legs of the dancers would be visible the entire time. He flipped the tutu over, gawking at the short ruffles and frills that would be the only thing covering the dancer's bottom.
"Why the devil aren't you still in the corps?" he asked, terribly disappointed he wouldn't get to see her in this scandalous outfit, his hands trembling slightly as they gripped the tulle fabric.
Christine laughed.
After they left the costume room, they spoke of other aspects of the new opera coming up, and Erik mused upon what be coming for the season after that.
Her stomach did a flip to the think of the season after this. She could hardly think of the next season, let alone the end of this one. She wasn't exactly certain where she'd be in several months, though she'd said nothing of this to Erik yet. But she nodded along and offered her insight here and there, and she kept her concerns to herself.
He didn't notice anything out of the ordinary as they rode back to their house, or during dinner. She acted no different afterwards, as she joined him in their shared bedroom wearing her dressing gown which Erik swiftly divested her of.
He laid her back on the bed, pulling her nightdress up and off of her.
"I don't know why I even bother putting it on," she sighed with a smile as he tossed it to the side of the bed.
"I haven't a clue," Erik murmured as he kneeled over her, kissing her down her neck, trailing his lips over her chest as she squirmed and giggled.
He licked and sucked marks across her skin, his mouth soon finding her breast.
"Ow! That hurts!" she cried.
He pulled back immediately.
"I'm sorry," he breathed. "I'm sorry."
"It's alright," she murmured, reaching up to pull him back down to her, kissing him.
He returned the kiss uneasily. He hadn't thought he'd been any rougher with her than he normally was, but she'd never cried out like that before. Perhaps he was a little off tonight. Perhaps he wasn't quite accurate in gauging the strength he was currently using, so he decided to simply cuddle with her that evening would be the safest course of action.
But Christine was undeterred, and she let him know so in no uncertain terms. At last convinced that she really wanted this, he began to continue, avoiding her breasts now that he knew they were sore. Before they got too far, he broke away from her, searching in the nightstand drawer for the box of prophylactics to retrieve one to use.
Christine waited patiently underneath of him as he searched for one and then put it on, but she didn't feel there was very much point in him doing so. If her suspicions were correct, she was already pregnant.