A/N: I'm going to write a few vignettes about Alex and Erik. Rather than start a whole new story, I'm going to add them here periodically since the first chapter starts with Erik receiving his son. Nothing like a new chapter update 13 years after the first time the story was posted. I hope you enjoy the story continuation as much as I've enjoyed writing them! Gabrina

Chapter 50

Despite what Christine had claimed, Alex was not days old. Madeline estimated he was at least four months old, and she requested permission for him to be examined by a physician to make certain he was healthy.

Reluctantly I agreed.

"You may stay with him," Madeline offered, although she knew full well I would not. I waited in the parlor with my son cradled in my arms until there was a knock at the door. With a sigh of dismay, I placed him into his bassinet before retreating into my bedroom where I stood with the door cracked open.

The doctor, an older man with remarkably black hair for his age, waddled into the foyer and followed Madeline into the parlor. He had wire-rimmed glasses perched on the bridge of his nose and a moustache that twitched when he listened to Madeline ask him about the weather. They lingered momentarily in the hallway within my line of sight, which I knew Madeline did on purpose so I could see the man who would examine my son. After a moment or two, Madeline escorted him into the parlor and I was left waiting out of sight.

"Oh, goodness me, he is a very large baby," the doctor stated. "How old did you say he was again? Four months?"

"Yes, four months."

"He appears quite healthy."

"He is fed every three hours," Madeline replied. "And on most occasions he will sleep through the night," she added.

"Good, good." Papers rustled and I heard the physician mutter to himself as he made notations presumably regarding my son's exemplary health. "And he is holding his head up well?"

"Yes, he is a very strong baby."

I sighed in relief, grateful the doctor seemed to approve of how I had cared for Alexandre over the last week since he had been dropped off within my home.

"Let's hear those lungs, shall we?"

As if on cue, Alex released the most ear-splitting, alarming wail of despair I had ever heard emerge from something so small and helpless-at least while in my care. For a week he had barely made a sound as I kept him fed, dry, and within my arms nearly around the clock, which gave him no reason to cry. After our first few hours of getting to know one another, he was remarkably content in my arms.

And now, it seemed, all hell had broken loose in his tiny, perfect world and spilled over into mine.

My heart hammered, my hands balled into fists at my side as his cries continued to rip through the house. Frustration roared through my veins as my tolerance waned, and I pulled the door open with such unexpected force that Madeline's daughter, who had unfortunately been standing at the bottom of the stairs, jumped and looked up to meet my eye.

There were many instances in which I forgot Meg Giry lived within my home, such was her mousy demeanor. She was blond haired, blue eyed and petite in size, which made her appear as a perpetually young child despite being in her twenties. All of the times in which I saw her face to face she stood silent at her mother's side, her eyes wide and lips parted as though I would consume her, which is precisely what the other ballet dancers told her for years.

For the most part, when I entered a room Meg immediately exited. When supper was ready, she brought food to my room, knocked once, and handed me a tray with her eyes averted. On most occasions she turned and darted down the stairs before I could acknowledge her presence, which meant on most evenings I never uttered a simple thank-you less anything else more elaborate.

On this day, however, her eyes settled on mine, and before she could turn away I took a step forward and held out my hand, which effectively kept her in place.

"What is he doing to the child?" I asked through my teeth.

In the year we had shared the same house, those were quite possibly the first words I had spoken directly to her.

"The doctor unswaddled him," Meg answered.

"Why?" I demanded.

"It's part of the examination."

Her answer did nothing to ease my growing anxiety, especially as my son continued his blood-curdling screams of anguish.

"The exam is over. Have Alexandre brought to me at once," I demanded.

"Alexandre?" Meg echoed.

I realized then that she had no idea what I had named my son. Most likely Madeline didn't know either as I could not recall if I had told her.

"Bring him to me," I said through my teeth before I turned on my heel and returned to my room.

The exchange with Meg and the wretched cries of an infant left me almost dizzy with heightened anxiety. I listened with my ear pressed to the door as Meg meekly interrupted the doctor.

"May I return him to his father?" she asked.

"I do believe this young man's parents have a very healthy child on their hands. Do the fortunate couple have any inquiries I may answer?"

"I will contact you should his father have any questions," Madeline dutifully answered. "And I will have his father complete the rest of the form when he is able."

To my surprise, the doctor did not ask why the child's parents were not present, which i assumed was on account of Madeline when she made arrangements for him to pay a visit.

Within seconds of their exchange, Alex's screams grew louder.

"There, there, you are putting on quite the show," Meg said as carried him up the stairs.

I opened the door as she reached the landing, and my sudden appearance made her jump once more. She held Alex pressed to her chest, her body swaying gracefully as she rocked him. The movements seemed to settle him, his cries little more than frustrated whimpers. Without meeting my eye, she reluctantly held him out to me.

"Alexandre," she said under her breath. "It is a good name, a strong name."

The strongest name I knew, I wanted to tell her, the name that meant more to me than anything else in the world.

Instead I remained silent and settled him into my grasp. I looked down at him nestled against my chest, his arms free and waving about as he exhausted himself once more. One tiny fist clipped me on the chin and I smiled at him, impressed by his strength. He would have made his namesake proud.

Meg eyed me for a long moment until I glanced at her. Awkwardly she turned away and walked down the stairs without saying another word. I watched her until she reached the end of the hall, unsure of whether or not I should have said more.

None of my concern, I told myself. Meg Giry meant nothing to me. It was better that she feared me, I reasoned, since the silence between us was better than incessant questioning and forced pleasantries, which I endured from her mother.

Once I closed and locked my bedroom door, I placed my son on the bed and simply watched him as he closed his eyes and yawned. My own eyes grew heavy, the lack of sleep in the past week taking its toll. How such a tiny person who slept in erratic spurts around the clock could leave me exhausted and elated I had no idea. Of course, as Madeline had told the physician, Alex was quite good at sleeping through the night. It was my own damned fault I stayed awake to make sure he continued to breathe.

"I apologize for allowing him to make you cry," I said to him as I pulled the blankets tighter. He seemed to like being swaddled tightly, his legs and arms practically bound together. I, on the other hand, did not enjoy any type of restriction, but in my lifetime I had experienced many instances where my hands and feet had been bound in order to prevent me from either escaping or fighting back.

The thought made me shudder, and as I drank in my son's tranquility, I was grateful for the opportunity to live vicariously through the world he would experience. No one would ever strike him or hold him down. There would not be a single moment where he would ever be told he was worthless or evil. Not spoiled, I told myself, but comfortable. The agony of my childhood and young adult life would be foreign to him.

As if he knew I had vowed to keep him content, the very next morning he woke feverish and screaming in the most awful fashion, which naturally was the conclusion of a fitful night where he spit up several times and woke whenever I attempted to place him in his bassinet.

I spent the evening and night walking him around my bedroom, up and down the stairs, and around the house. I swaddled him, unswaddled him, left him in only a diaper, and at last wound him in blankets like a mummy once more.

Nothing eased him. In fact, his nose began to run, he vomited all over the bed and my waistcoat, and his screams turned hoarse from endless hours of crying.

At five in the morning, with my eyes like sandpaper and hands shaking from lack of sleep and worry, I noticed his cheeks had turned quite rosy and his tiny face was warm to the touch.

Alarmed, I immediately carried him down the stairs to Madeline's room, but found it empty.

"Madeline!" I yelled, despite the early hour. I was desperate to locate her at once.

She emerged from the dining room, a cup of tea in hand and cane tucked under her arm.

"He is still crying?" she yawned. "My goodness, he has been awake all night."

Obviously, I wanted to say. Half of Paris had heard his inconsolable wails. I was surprised no one had come rapping on the door to demand he be silenced at once, particularly the man living behind us and a surly old man closer to the corner, who despised children, dogs, carriages and the birds his wife fed.

"He is feverish," I said as I shoved Alex into Madeline's arms.

Madeline accepted him from me with a bit of surprise and pulled the blanket down from his face. She placed the back of her hand against his forehead and gasped when she felt his flesh.

"Yes, he is quite warm.." She started to hand him to me again but I refused for fear of making the situation worse.

"Do something," I ordered. If anyone was capable of caring for this infant, it most certainly was Madame Giry. She had single-handedly cared for twenty ballerinas at any given moment for over a decade as well as tended to her daughter. She had cared for me as well, but I was not a decent example of her caretaking abilities.

Her eyes widened at my request. "Hold him," she said gently. "And follow me. We will bring down his fever."

"Does he need a physician?" I questioned once we reached the kitchen.

"Not yet," Madeline answered.

Her casual tone frustrated me to no end.

"He is dying," I muttered under my breath.

Madeline narrowed her eyes. "Dying? Heavens, no, he will be fine."

"He is clearly not fine," I said through my teeth, my anger escalating with every passing second.

Madeline ignored my tone and pumped water from the sink onto a kitchen towel. She wrung it out and placed the end on Alex's head. At first he squirmed, but the damp, cool fabric agreed with him and at last his cries turned to ragged breaths and the occasional protest.

"Remove the blankets and run the towel under his arms and along his thighs," Madeline instructed. "That will help bring down the fever."

I was desperate to do anything in order to ease his suffering. Without a second thought I placed him on the dining room table, which earned a grunt of disgust from Madeline, and unwrapped his squirming body.

His cries were half-hearted at best as he allowed me to run the towel along the undersides of his arms and along the insides of his legs as Madeline instructed. All the while he stared at me, grunting as he chewed on his fist.

"He is cutting teeth," Madeline said as she came up behind me and looked him over.

"How do you know?" I asked, my curiosity piqued by her statement. I felt I should have been more aware of what ailed him.

"Look at him with his fingers in his mouth." She placed her hand on my shoulder, which she had not done in years, and caressed me gently. "That is why he is so miserable."

To be fair, he had a habit of placing anything within reach into his mouth.

"I thought for certain this was my doing," I said under my breath.

Madeline seated herself beside me and took Alex's free hand in hers. He gripped her finger tightly, his face turning so that he looked at her. Even with his fist shoved in his mouth he managed a smile for her.

"You are far too hard on yourself," she said quietly, her attention focused on Alex.

"Why would I not be?" I turned the towel over and began sweeping the cool, damp fabric over his neck and chest. "For God's sake, look at me…What business do I have raising him?"

"You are the only person he has," Madeline answered. "And you have dedicated yourself to him fully in a week. Not all men would do such a thing." Her gaze flashed up, but I did not meet her eye.

I was clearly not all men, I wanted to say.

"He deserves more."

"What more could you possibly offer this child?" Madeline asked with a shake of her head.

I had no answer for her. No matter what I did, I felt it would never be enough.

Madeline leaned closer, her arm nearly touching mine. I paused for a dreadful moment, longing for her approval and yet still more than willing to push her away as I had done for so many years. The friendship we had once shared would never be repaired. I had made certain of that time and again.

"Did you know?" Madeline boldly asked. "That Christine was with child?"

I hesitated. She had no business questioning me, and yet I was glad for the conversation. Most days passed without me saying a single word to anyone as I kept within my bedroom and busied myself with composing-or at least staring at a blank sheet of paper with a pen in hand hoping a melody would find me. For weeks music abandoned me, and the loneliness I felt inside became magnified to the point where breathing became difficult. Dark thoughts beckoned darker actions. Not a soul in the world needed me or desired my company, and days before Alex arrived, I told myself if Hell existed, it could be no worse than what I had experienced.

"She told me," I said at last. "But she swore he would not be born."

Madeline inhaled sharply and said a prayer. "Then he is truly a blessing."

She had no idea how blessed I felt the moment I laid eyes on his perfect face and mess of dark curls-and how the elation grappled with every reason I could fail him.

"If Christine should return for him," I started to say.

"She will not," Madeline said sharply. "He belongs to you."

I nodded, finding comfort in her words. Other than staying awake to make certain he still breathed, I wanted to make certain I memorized every detail of his face and the way his eyelids fluttered when he dreamed in the event Christine returned to claim him.

Repeatedly I had fallen victim to a feckless woman who found comfort in my voice in one heartbeat and screamed for me to leave her alone in the next. Each time I forgave her, crawling on hands and knees for a moment of her time. I had openly wept at her feet and begged for her affection. I had willingly kissed the hem of her dress when that was all she would allow me.

I knew if Christine returned, I would beg her to let me keep my son or kill me where I stood. I had not thought it would be possible to live without her, but I knew without a doubt losing Alex would unravel every fiber of my soul.

"How long will he suffer like this?" I asked.

"I'm afraid babies do not come with set schedules," she answered with a sigh. "I imagine he will cry until he exhausts himself and teeth pop through his gums. It could be days, perhaps weeks even, before he finally calms down."

I girmanced on his behalf, recalling the many instances where I had gone through days and weeks of physical pain and recovery. Of course I had no recollection of cutting teeth, but I wondered if I had been locked away in the cellar, naked and crying for mercy alone in the darkness. Most certainly my mother and father had never brought down a fever or swaddled me in blankets as I had done for my son.

"You are good with him," Madeline said. Again she placed her hand on my shoulder, which made me inhale sharply.

"I love him," I blurted out. Instantly I had loved him, which came unexpectedly. I had not loved anyone or anything-including Christine-as suddenly and fiercely as I had fallen in love with my son.

"There is gentleness in you," Madeline said quietly.

At last I turned and looked at her, at the only person in the world who perhaps knew me more than I knew myself. I started to shake my head as I considered all of my mistakes and shortcomings, but Madeline pressed her fingers into my shoulder.

"You should rest while he sleeps," she suggested. "You look like you did when you spent days composing. It is not healthy to stay away for days on end."

I felt similar to the days in which I agonized over compositions in my dark, underground prison, confined like an animal beneath the opera house. Losing sleep over music seemed inconsequential compared to the reason I was now deprived of rest.

"I cannot leave him on the table."

"I will take him," she offered.

"What if he wakes-"

"Rest," she ordered sternly.

"Madame," I growled back. "You do not issue me orders."

She stood, gathered Alex in her arms, and had the audacity to walk away with my son. "Keep your voice down," she said over her shoulder. "Or you will wake the baby."

"Alexandre," I corrected. "His name is Alexandre."

She paused before exiting the dining room. "You have not said that name in many years. It is good to hear you say it once more."

"It is good to speak it," I replied.