We're starting to roll a bit now, peeps. I hope you enjoy the shorter turnaround on this chapter, spurred by the holiday break. :)

Chapter 10: wake

Christine's lips tingled as she made her way back to her own bedroom, the movement of Erik's mouth upon hers still fresh upon her skin. He had been so tender with her, so pleading, not taking anything more than what she had offered. By bringing her to his own chambers, he had revealed more of himself than he had before, and she had soaked in every detail with delight.

Her husband was not like other men, of that she was now certain. He was perpetually cold, warming only with the touch of her own skin. She had not questioned his choice of location for his bedroom, not yet anyway, but he seemed to hide from the world whenever possible. He had a temper that he struggled to control, and yet this anger seemed reactive rather than directed toward her, seemed rooted in fear rather than a need to hurt.

When he had stood on that stage, his white shroud of rage around their ankles, his teeth bared as though ready to rend and destroy, she had wanted nothing more in that moment than to soothe his seething emotions. Her own intense outburst had snapped him out of his mood, and she had seen the way he had responded to her, immediately mollified by her voice and presence.

He was drawn to her in an intense way she was only beginning to process, and his fixation was not one-sided. Reluctance to leave his rooms made her feet drag their way back to her own bedroom. If he had asked her to stay, she was not certain she could have refused.

Christine was surprised to see Meg in the morning, opening the curtains and stirring some warmth into the room with the fireplace. She sat up, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

"You came back."

The other woman paused, placing the back of her hand upon one hip. "Good morning, madame."

"Good morning." Christine stifled a yawn. "I thought I wouldn't see you again."

"If maman had her way, then I certainly would not have been back. She was absolutely furious with your husband. Apparently, he broke some kind of agreement they had by showing up at the theater."

Some kind of agreement? Christine wanted to dig, but she did not want tension between her and Meg. "I'm glad to see you, in any case."

Meg stepped up to help Christine into her morning wrapper and slippers. "I'm glad to be here." She dropped her voice to just above a whisper. "I told maman there was no way I was going to leave you alone here. Monsieur Voclain… he was so frightening!"

"Yes." Christine chewed the inside of her lip. "I suppose he might seem that way. I appreciate your concern, but he was quite nice when we got back home. He would never hurt me."

Her words echoed Erik's same statement last night. Meg did not argue with her, either because she accepted Christine's assurance or because she knew when not to press her own opinion. Either way, Christine was relieved the subject was dropped, even as she was relieved that Meg was still here.

Meg fixed her tea the way she liked, and she was grinning when she handed it to Christine. "Think about what you would like to do with your afternoon."

"What do you mean?" Christine asked, blowing on the rising steam.

"I have been charged with escorting you to wherever you would like to go. The note I found this morning in the kitchens was quite specific about my new duty of making sure you get some fresh air every day. I think you are right about Monsieur Voclain – he seems quite willing to listen to you!"

Christine could not help herself. She returned Meg's easy grin. "Wherever I would like?"

"You can read his note yourself." Meg fished it out of her bodice and handed it to Christine, who glanced over the short letter. "There are some restrictions, but otherwise, we are free to venture out."

Christine's heart blossomed with excitement. "I know exactly where I want to go!"

Christine spent the rest of the day unable to concentrate on much of anything. She tried to read, but her body was a bundle of happy nerves, so she spent much of her time roaming the grounds again.

The clouds had split, giving her enough of a break in the rainy drizzle to venture outdoors. She had only seen the gardens from the window, and even up close, they were not much. Thorny rose bushes were in the throes of winter already, and these were framed by boxy hedges in need of a trim. She made a note to come out here and tend to the garden on another day. At least the fresh, cool air was a nice change.

Soon, she heard the sound of wooden wheels upon stone, and the gate creaked open to admit the stagecoach that carried Meg. Despite the other woman's protests, Christine helped carry in the different parcels.

"You know where he is?" Meg asked as soon as they had unpacked.

"I have his address," Christine said.

"Well, then let us get you dressed, and then we will go. I don't mind staying past my shift if it means you get to see your Papa."

Saying the words aloud made Christine even more eager to climb aboard the stagecoach that awaited them in the courtyard. She changed out of her day dress into an evening gown of pale pink, the shade so light that it was nearly the same as her skin tone. The bodice hung in a large v-shape across her chest, mimicking the delicate ruffles that lined the hem in neat little rows. Meg helped to pin her hair, leaving thick blonde curls that hung over one bare shoulder. Christine wanted her father to see that she was well cared for, that he could stop worrying so much about her. His letters had simply not been enough. She could not wait to talk to him in person.

The Salpêtrière hospice rose up before them. On this relatively nice autumn day, patients could be seen walking slowly among the grounds or being pushed in wheelchairs by nurses. Christine hoped to see her father among them, knowing how much he loved the outdoors, but there was no sign of him as she and Meg made their way to the front office. There, Christine gave her father's name, and the nurse found his room number.

"I will take you there. You are his daughter?"

"Yes," Christine said, stomach flipping with nerves.

The nurse smiled. "He speaks much of you, madame. This way."

Christine turned to Meg. "Thank you so much for helping me get here. I know you have things to do."

"I will at least wait until you're through," the other woman said. She patted the pocket lining of her skirt. "I might have snagged one of the novels from your shelf. Monsieur Voclain has so many interesting books!"

Christine gave a small laugh. "I will come find you."

Meg settled into a chair in the office and waved her off. Christine followed the nurse, looking around her as they walked. The place was clean, at least, the floor well-swept, the walls freshly wallpapered. The patients they passed were dressed in comfortable, clean clothes, and the nurses were kind and attentive.

The nurse stopped in front of a wooden door with a number upon it. "Here is Monsieur Daaé's room. This late in the day, he is likely sleeping, but you can sit with him as long as you like."

"Thank you."

Christine knocked softly, and when she received no answer, she opened the door to a little room with a narrow, rectangular window that let in soft afternoon light. The room was large enough for a small bed tucked to one side, a wooden chair, and a washbasin.

It felt odd to see her father after almost a week apart. She had spent a lifetime by his side. She walked quietly to the chair and sat, and she watched his chest rise and fall steadily in sleep. He wore clean linen clothes, and his gray-peppered hair was neatly combed, but he looked far frailer than he had at her wedding. His cheeks seemed sunken beneath his beard, and his body was far too narrow beneath the blanket.

She leaned forward and took his thin hand that lay atop the covers, his skin dry and cool to the touch. His eyes cracked open, still bright blue despite the rest of his appearance.

"Lotte?" he croaked.

"Papa!" The word caught upon a sob in her throat, a mixture of relief at seeing him and shock at how much he had changed. "I am so sorry it took so long for me to come to you."

His parched lips curved in a smile. "Nonsense, daughter-mine. I wanted- I wanted you to focus on your n-new life."

He barely made it through his sentence before a cough racked his frame. Christine helped him to sit up, startled by the bones she felt in his back. Then she poured him a glass of water and held it to his mouth to drink. A few sips seemed to stabilize him, but he was too weak to remain sitting up, so she lowered him gently back to the mattress.

Tears sprang to her eyes. "Oh Papa. You shouldn't be here alone. You should be with me!"

"We have been together so many years, Lotte," he said, squeezing her hand. "We have had our time, haven't we? And this place is not so bad. I can see the sun. I have a comfortable bed and fresh soup and bread each day. And I have gotten the chance to see you once last time."

One last time.

The closest Erik came to death was when he slept. His body became still, a marble statue of bone and dry veins, his muscles and sinew hardened from the lack of blood. He never dreamed, and as far as he knew, no vampyre did.

However, even though his body shut down, his mind never truly relaxed. He entered a blackness as dark as his tomb of a bedroom, a place to wander in his thoughts or shut himself against whatever troubled him. Sometimes, he truly slept: a closing of eyes, later an opening of eyes, a realization that time had passed without his awareness. Sometimes, he laid down and did not sleep at all. Sometimes, he sat at his piano, plinking at the keys and ignoring the sunrise's call to rest.

Today, he slept, giving into the sun's downward pull. He laid upon his bed, atop the covers he never used, his back straight, his bare hands entwined across his belly. Because he intended to sleep, he removed his shoes and jacket, loosened his cravat, took off his mask and placed it within easy reach near his hip.

He closed his eyes.

He awoke to the sound of a fist pounding atop wood. He was upon his feet quicker than a human eye could have followed, a flourish of one hand lighting the candles and lamps that dotted his chamber. It was a move that cost him precious energy, magic more complicated that a mere glamour, and he was taken aback by the fact that he even decided to do such a thing. He needed no lights to see in the dark.

Suddenly, he understood why his instincts had instructed him so: he heard a voice catch upon a sob, the sweetness of it tainted with desperation and fear. His wife's anxiety rolled off her in a wave that had him snatching up his mask and appearing at the top of his stairs in nearly the same motion.

Christine stood on the other side of the door, tears staining her cheeks, the side of her fist red from pounding. "Oh Erik!" she cried, her relief at seeing him evident.

"What is it? What has happened?"

He took a few steps past her, scanning with all his senses and finding no danger. The late afternoon sun was still too high, and even with the covered windows in the stairwell, he felt the warning sting. He retreated back beyond the doorway, halting when he felt the warm touch of skin upon his hand. His wife had grasped onto his bare hand, and the touch rooted him to the stone steps.

"I went to visit my father," she said. "Oh Erik, he could barely sit up, could barely drink or speak without coughing. I had no idea how ill he had become!"

"Nor had I," he said, frowning. He had asked the ward to contact him should the man's health worsen, but hospices were in a constant state of decay. A slow decline would have been easy to overlook.

"I am so afraid for him. The longer I stayed with him, the more I realized that he has been lying to me about his health in his letters. I feel… I feel so guilty for going this long without seeing him."

"It is not your fault, Christine. He was already ill beyond care."

"Beyond care?" She looked up at him, wide-eyed, unshed tears causing her blue eyes to appear luminescent in the dim firelight. "How can you say that aloud? The thought alone is too terrible for me to bear!"

"Bear it you must, my wife." He lifted his free hand and brushed a damp curl from her forehead. "I am pleased you came to me when you were this distressed, but where is your handmaiden?"

"I sent Meg away. It was far past her time anyway, and I felt guilty keeping her. I didn't know what else to do after that. Dr. Martin arrived and tended to him, but all he would do was shake his head." White teeth flashed as she bit the side of her plump lip. "Is there something you could do, Erik? Anything at all? Call another doctor, maybe? My father is all – is all the family I have now. I lost my mother. How can I l-lose my father as well?"

More tears spilled. To his surprise, she let go of his hand, moved onto the same step as him, and wound her arms around his narrow middle. Her shoulders began to shake. He hesitated a moment before folding his arms around her and drawing her closer, his long fingers stroking the rope of hair that fell in golden curls from her chignon.

"What is wrong?" Darius asked from the top curve of the staircase. He rubbed sleep from his eyes, his fresh heartbeat still beating slowly in relaxation from his slumber, a navy robe cinched loosely around his waist. "I heard the noise, but it took me a while to wake enough to come here. Christine… are you all right?"

"It is Monsieur Charles Daaé," Erik said.

Darius's dark eyebrows drew together. "Has he…?"

"Not yet."

Christine hiccupped a sob and clung tighter to him. "I can't do this again," she wept. "I cannot!"

Erik met Darius's eyes over the top of Christine's head. Was this not a moment they both had known would come? And yet the course was heading in a different direction within Erik's mind. The younger vampyre stared back, and in that brief instant, Erik could see Darius realize the new course of his thoughts.

"No –" Darius began.

Erik held up a hand. "Not here, not now."

Darius hissed softly, took a few steps toward them. Erik bared his teeth but his fangs were not descended. He would not lose control with Christine tucked between them as she was, so caught up in her own distress that she did not notice the conversation going on around her.

Darius glanced at Christine, then switched over to Persian. "You cannot do this, maestro! Didn't you yourself remind me of our plight mere days ago? Didn't you yourself acknowledge the danger in which we still find ourselves? You could undo everything we have worked for these past twenty years!"

Erik let him rant, knowing there was nothing Darius could say that he had not already thought. "How can I do nothing," he replied in Persian, "when she comes to me for help?"

Christine turned her head, peeking out from his chest. "Why are you both talking so I cannot understand you?"

Oh, his perspective wife!

Darius cleared his throat, spreading his hands placatingly. "Madame–"

"Do not speak to her," Erik cut him off, this time back in French. "We leave at first sunset. Remember your place, young one."

Darius's eyes shot daggers at him, but he wisely drew up. He swung back around and headed back to his own chambers, the slam of his door echoing throughout the spiral flight of stairs.

Christine stepped back and wiped at her eyes with her palms. "You will go see Papa?"

"Yes," Erik said. "First, I must dress."

Christine's cheeks pinkened, seeming to notice his state of undress for the first time. "Should I leave?"

She was his wife. Could she not watch him complete the most basic care of his own needs? His first instinct was to tell her to wait beyond the door. However, her obvious distress made him hesitate to leave her alone for long.

"No," he said, turning to head back into his rooms. "You may join if you wish."

He began to walk down the staircase to enter the basement once again. He heard Christine's soft footfalls as she followed. He tried his best to ignore the warmth of her living presence in his domain, his hyper-awareness of her threatening to invade his senses. His shoes were the first to be put on, his bare socks more uncomfortable than even standing around in his shirtsleeves. He sat on the far edge of his bed and tied them with the precision that came with decades of the same repetitive movements.

Christine shifted at his back, the rocking from foot to foot a revealing of her own nerves. She seemed too anxious to approach him closer, so he found it safe to move to the tap he had built into the wall near the back of this main chamber. He had designed it to flow cool water when he turned the spigot, and now he filled the small basin. With one hand, he lifted his mask, and with the other, he splashed the flesh of his face. He dried with the towel there and returned his mask in place, checked the secure of his wig. All the while, Christine's eyes bore into his back with eagle focus.

As he walked over to take up his coat, she broke her attention to glance back up the stairwell. "May we leave now?"

"Darius will have the coach ready at sunset," he said.

"Why sunset?"

Her question was so open, so expected, so innocent. He did not want to see how her expression would change should he tell her the truth. But from this detail, he could hide no longer.

She was already one step ahead of him, her eyes swinging wide in the way they did while she put pieces together. She was marvelous.

"I have never seen you during the day."

It was a simple conclusion, and one he merely gave a nod to confirm.

"You were sleeping, weren't you?" she continued, hands fiddling with the fold of her skirt but eyes steady upon him. "You and Darius both. That is why you took so long to answer me."

Again, a nod.

Then she asked the question he knew was coming: "Why do we have to wait until sunset?"

Erik pulled on his coat, taking care that details were in place: his cuffs pulled into position, his cravat tightened, his collar straight. Fully dressed at last, he felt more prepared to handle any reaction she might give him.

"Darius and I cannot go outside during the day."

"Why not?"

He came to stand before her, wanting to study her face as they spoke. She did not flinch back, and he thought this a testament to the bravery she had always shown before him. It was one of the many reasons he had been drawn to her. Her heartrate quickened at his closer proximity, and he was reminded of the fact that he had not eaten even a drop since their wedding night. Lucas's bonded blood was now forbidden.

He would not lie to her, but neither would he spill his whole truth. The moment she discovered his true nature was the moment he would lose her forever. A woman as pure as her would never choose to be with a creature as foul as he.

"Darius and I have a condition that causes sunlight to be harmful to us. If we are exposed to it, we will burn."

Her little nose wrinkled up. "Like a sunburn?"

"Accurately enough."

She chewed on this knowledge just as she began to chew on her bottom lip again. If she pressed for more details…

She sighed, one born of acceptance and not annoyance. "Would you play piano while we wait?"

He would, gladly. He settled upon the bench and immediately swept into "Sonno," the sonata for piano that he had composed.

"You remembered," she said softly, coming to sit next to him on the bench. Of course he had – he remembered every word she had ever spoken to him, so he could certainly remember that she loved this piece.

She sat next to him while he played, and time passed. Once he could feel that the sun was drifting below the horizon, he stopped and settled his hands upon his thighs, turning to her. Whatever he was about to say died upon his lips as she grasped one of his hands and pulled it to her own lap. When she ran her thumbs across the prominent tendons on the back of his hand, it was then that he realized he had never put on his gloves.

"Christine-"

"Hush," she said. Her soft fingertips stroked his hand. He tried to focus upon the warmth of her touch and not what she must be experiencing – the dry, papery cold of dead flesh, large juts of knuckles, spidery fingers. He let her explore as long as he could stand it, then dragged his hand away.

"We can go now," he said, rising swiftly from the bench. He fetched a set of white gloves and donned them, not missing her flash of disappointment. How could she stand to touch him more than was necessary? He could barely even stand to look.

Darius had also felt the beginning pull of night. He awaited them at the foyer, his face was full of misery.

"Not another word," Erik snapped at him in Persian, "lest I remind you of your debt owed."

"How could I forget?" Darius sighed. Then, in French, he said to Christine, "Let me fetch your cloak and gloves."

"Thank you," she replied.

Erik put on his own cloak and hat, and soon, he and Christine had climbed into the carriage that awaited in the courtyard, Darius in the driver's seat. It was barely sunset, and the sting of the waning sun was not easy to ignore. No doubt Darius felt it even more so than him, perched as he was outside the cabin.

They arrived at the hospice. Darius helped Christine out, and then threw a look at Erik. "I will wait in the carriage," he gritted out in a pained voice before climbing inside the dark walls, curtains drawn.

Christine checked with the nurse at the front office, but she knew where to go. She took Erik's arm and led him down neatly kept hallways. This place reeked of death even to Erik's dimmed sense of smell. He could feel the slowing heartbeats from each room, the timestamp of ebbing lives. The predator in him surged, and he shoved it aside; there was no room for those instincts here, certainly not until he had spoken with the man.

Christine knocked softly, then opened the door. Charles Daaé rested in the single bed, and he gave a heavy sigh when he saw Erik.

"Christine," Erik said, gently removing her hand from his arm. "May I speak with your father alone for a moment?"

She blinked at him but did not argue. "I will be back soon," she told her father, bending to kiss his forehead. She gave Erik a little smile and closed the door behind her.

"She has always been like that," Charles Daaé said. "Headstrong. Stubborn. I hope she has not been giving you too much trouble."

"Not at all," Erik said. He came to sit next to the bed, raising a hand to stop the other man from trying to sit up. "I would happily do anything she asks of me, including coming to see you."

"I told her not to bother you," Charles said, sighing again.

"It is no bother. Christine follows her own mind, her own heart. She trusts her own instincts. And she loves you very much."

"And I her." Charles gave him a knowing look. "You love her too, this I can see. I knew it when I saw the two of you at the church. Once you meet my daughter, you would do anything for her happiness. She has always had that effect on people, just like her mother. Monsieur Voclain, the best thing you can do for her now is to help prepare her for the inevitable. I am a man who has come to the end of his life."

"Yes, you are." Erik leaned forward, elbows on sharp knees, hands folded, chin atop his hands. He peered down at the human before him, listening to the death's rattle in his failing lungs. It was only a matter of days now. "There is no doctor that can save you now, monsieur. But I can."

Charles frowned at him. "No tricks, man. No false promises. Christine needs you to – "

"It is no trick," Erik said, eyes aglow. "If you are willing to listen."

Charles stared, and then slowly, he nodded his consent.

And so Erik explained, explain his true nature to a human for the first time since Mazandaran. It was risky, and he did not put a name to what he was, details which could come later as needed. He told the man how he could rescue him from death, drain his human blood and turn him into something beyond human, something that could not die. Charles listened with widened eyes the same shade as Christine's, and to his credit, he did not show any fear within his reactions.

When Erik finished, he sat back in the chair, hands spread atop his thighs, waiting.

Charles wet his lips. "You would-" he began, but he was suddenly taken with a ferocious cough. Erik helped him sit, gave him sips of water, helped him to ease back down. The coughing fit had lasted far too long, and Charles was weakened by it. His breathing turned even more labored, but Erik gave all the time he needed to regain control.

"You would… turn me like you?" Charles asked.

"Yes. You would have to live at night and cease to eat as humans do. However, you would not die. Your life would be never-ending."

"Never-ending," Charles echoed. He relaxed back into his pillow, stared up at the plain ceiling. "When my wife died, I thought my life was over. I ceased to play my violin. I barely wanted to eat or even leave my bedroom. But this little girl depended upon me… if it was not for Christine, I don't know how I would have survived that first year. I think I made it this far for her. Not for me." He turned his head, looked at Erik.

"And now you want to let go," Erik murmured, realization hitting him.

"Yes, I do." Charles smiled thinly. "Life is a gift, monsieur, but so is death. To be able to rest at last, to be able to see those I love again… that is truly what I look forward to. Maybe Christine does not understand this now, but I think in time, she will. I thank you for the offer, Monsieur Voclain, but I must decline."

"I respect your decision." Erik stood and turned toward the door. Then he paused and asked what he must. "Christine does not know… what I am."

"It is your secret to tell," Charles said easily. "I understand why you have kept it from her. She has more capacity in her heart to accept than you may believe. Eventually, you owe her the truth."

Erik looked one last time upon the man and went to the door. Christine sat in a chair down the hall, and she rushed over when the door opened.

"There is nothing I can do for him," Erik said as gently as he could.

Christine sucked in a sharp breath and dashed into the room. Erik did not follow. He needed to get out of this place of death. He maintained a walking speed until he had cleared the walls of the Salpêtrière. Outside, Darius called his name from the carriage, but he ignored the other vampyre, a youngling who had chosen to become undying and who could never understand the envy that was sweeping through him.

Once he was away from prying human eyes, he let his vampiric speed overtake him. He fled south, through the shadows of human dwellings, through the streets lined with Haussmann-style apartments, rows of windows lit up with families and voices and life. He fled further south, soon leaving beyond the crowded nature of Paris, delving between forests and dashing across open grassy hillsides.

Finally, he stopped, chest tight as though his lungs wanted to draw air but could not, would not ever again, not since that night that she-devil in a veil had snatched his life from him, sucked it from his veins in the same way he had just offered to steal away the life of his wife's father. What made him so different from her, to turn a human when it suited him? Had he truly even given Charles a choice? He certainly had not asked for his daughter's permission!

Erik fell to his hands and knees in the damp grass, retched like he had anything to give up, the movement simply a muscle memory. He had almost thrown away everything, everything. One turned human, and everything could come crashing down around them. It would no longer matter if Daroga was still alive, would it? They would all be hunted one-by-one, tracked down like the runaway progeny they were, aided by the transfer of vampyre blood.

But he had not done it, had he? Charles had rejected the idea, and Erik's hands had remained clean. His belly ached, his muscles spasming. He had traveled too far on too little blood, but he must get back to his bride.

"You love her too." Charles's words echoed within his head, but he shoved them away.

He stood, smoothed down the envy, the fear, the longing just as he smoothed his clothing back into place. He would return to the hospice and go home with Christine, and he would move on from this loss of control.

He tried to ignore the stirrings of life around him as he made his way back to the streets of Paris, the ebb and flow, the birth and death, the wheel that continued to turn without him.

So torn by hunger and fatigue, from the emotive turmoil, what he did not notice was the single, slow pump of his own, once immovable, heart.