A Glimpse of the Past's Future
"Tell me the truth!"
They were standing there backstage during the show—Christian recognized it as backstage, but couldn't understand what they were doing there. His hands grasped at Satine's shoulders, and she was kneeling there before him, shaking her head in denial of what he was demanding of her. He could see the sleeves of the sitar player's coat, which he had removed from the Argentinean's unconscious body, and Satine wore the white vestiges of the Hindu courtesan's wedding gown, along with the heavy choker gifted from the Duke.
"Open the doors!"
"Tell me the truth; tell me you don't love me!" Christian continued to shout in a frenzy uncommon for himself, shaking with the emotions that ravaged him.
"Open the doors!"
Distantly, the voice of Harold Zidler sounded again from the stage, before Christian's vision was flooded with light . . .
"I've paid my whore . . . I owe you nothing, and you are nothing to me. Thank you for curing me of my ridiculous obsession with love!"
It was Spectacular Spectacular, only Christian played the part of the sitar player, and the money he knew he'd pawned his typewriter for was thrown down upon the stage in front of Satine's collapsed form . . .
He was walking away, but she beckoned him with a song, and suddenly they were reunited again, their voices joining together, and he felt so high . . .
"Come what may . . ."
Then he was kneeling there on the cold flooring of the stage himself, surrounded by rose petals and the other members of the cast, Satine's weakening form in his arms . . .
"I'm sorry, Christian. I'm—I'm dying."
"Shh, you'll be all right, you'll be all right—"
"Tell our story, Christian. That way, I'll always be with you . . ."
Satine shifted around in her deep, pleasant sleep, intending to snuggle closer to Christian—but her hand met only empty air, and she frowned, blinking her eyes open. There was indeed no Christian there, and judging from the tangle of sheets on his side of the bed, he had slept fitfully at best. There was no warmth left in the indentation from where he had laid, so she knew he had probably risen a while ago, but it was not yet morning, and with a glance at the clock she saw that sunrise would still be hours away.
Rising quietly, Satine slid her feet into her slippers, then pulled on her robe and padded out into the main room, where she saw little sign of Christian. She passed by his desk, where a nearly full glass of water set atop its surface, the chair pushed out in sign of its late occupant's restlessness. Squinting down at the paper in the typewriter, she saw that he had paused mid-sentence in his writing, and had used a pen to mark through words and correct them several times.
Frowning at this, she moved on past the desk and found the balcony doors were open, the sheer curtains billowing back from them like streamers. There stood Christian on the balcony, in his bare feet and haphazardly dressed, shirt hem left untucked and fluttering in the warm, gentle breeze. He was leaning forward against the railing, but his head was tilted up to take in the view of the sky above them, where a full moon hung luminous and silver among a dotting of twinkling stars.
Satine lingered there in a moment of indecision, torn between interrupting the scene, or simply going back to bed and leaving him to his reverie. Finally, she decided that there was something decidedly melancholy about his moonlit silhouette, and she moved out onto the balcony, arms threading upward and around his neck.
Christian barely started at her presence there, tensing for only a brief moment before relaxing beneath the comfort of her touch. He closed his eyes as her lips pressed softly against his neck, then up toward his jaw, and a light shiver ran through him.
Satine remained silent for a time, settling herself against the railing alongside him, though she turned at an angle to face him, rather than sharing in the view afforded them there.
"What's wrong?" she finally asked, looking up at him.
Christian finally tore his gaze away from the sky and settled his attention upon her, his eyes seeming dark and troubled in the dim light.
"I've been having dreams," he responded at length, reluctant to do so. In all truth, he had been having the dreams for days now—ever since Dr. Morrow had assured him that Satine would be fine—but he had chosen not to say anything, not having wanted to worry her. But now . . . now, the dreams were growing too vivid and too disturbing to ignore, and he had promised not to keep anything from her again.
"Dreams?" she questioned, her brows knitting in concern as she studied his face. "Or nightmares?"
"Both," Christian admitted, giving a sigh.
He bowed his head and looked down across the city below them, then continued slowly, "Of you . . . of us . . . being back at the Moulin Rouge, the night we left, only—only, we didn't leave, and you . . . you . . . died."
If she was taken aback by the statement, Satine managed not to show it. She simply rose from her perch and wrapped her arms around him again, and he accepted the embrace, his own arms finding their way about her waist.
"But I didn't," she corrected him with a smile of reassurance, "I'm right here."
"I know," he responded, and at the same time shook his head stubbornly, "but it felt so real."
A shudder ran down his spine, and Christian drew in a slow breath. "It frightened me. More than anything else, the thought of losing you—"
"Shh," she interrupted, lifting a finger to his lips. "I'm not going to leave you."
He nodded slowly, reluctantly, still unwilling to let go of the vivid imagery that danced around his mind. It was silly, he knew, to worry about dreams when he had her there in his arms, solid, and real, and alive . . . but the doubt lingered despite all that.
"It was only a dream," Satine continued, drawing her hand back down and leaning up to kiss him softly.
"Only a dream," he repeated, and he gave a firmer nod.
"Let's go back to bed," she beckoned, and he followed her, pushing the thoughts to the back of his mind.
As they settled back into bed, Satine snuggled into the crook of his arm and soon fell back to sleep, but Christian would find no peace that night . . .
"A love story," Alexander stated, lowering the page that Christian had only just taken from the typewriter to show him.
"A story about love," Christian corrected with a smile. Though he had gotten little sleep the night before, his energy returned soon after rising earlier that morning, and since then he had been busily at work on his new story, the one he was certain would be the story.
"Well, Chris, I'm no expert—" Castleton paused, smirking at his own pun, "—but I think you have a best seller on your hands."
Christian accepted the page as it was offered back to him, and set it aside on the desk.
"Yes, well, I'm not really looking to do it for the money, but because I love what I do . . ." He trailed off, thinking momentarily about that debt he owed his future publisher, "But I am glad to know you think people will like it."
"In my opinion, they'll love it," Alexander responded with a grin, obviously pleased with the young writer's progress. "You're going to be a famous man, a renowned writer."
He nodded toward the careworn copy of Romeo and Juliet that lay atop the desk, then went on, "I daresay even Shakespeare himself would be proud."
Christian smiled and shook his head, settling back into the chair at his desk just as Satine approached and leaned down to kiss him affectionately on the cheek.
"Don't be so modest," she chided him, then turned and offered Alexander a smile. "He underestimates himself, doesn't he?"
"Quite," Castleton agreed.
"And now you're both just trying to embarrass me," Christian protested good naturedly, in the manner of one who is really enjoying the compliments he is receiving, but still feels it in his better graces to be humble about it.
"Never, darling," Satine responded innocently.
She moved to sit down on the couch, then glanced back and forth between the two men. "Though I do hope I'm not interrupting you gentlemen?"
"No, Miss Satine," Alexander provided, "we were just discussing the new story."
"Ah, yes," she responded with a teasing smile in Christian's direction, "the 'story about love.' "
It seemed she, too, had made the same error as the American man, and had been promptly corrected on it.
The writer of said story, however, simply gave a long suffering sigh and turned back to his typewriter, feeding another sheet of paper into it.
"Well, the genius is at work, and I have some business I need to take care of, so I think I'll leave you two now. You two have a good morning." Alexander rose and nodded to them both, then let himself out of the apartment.
As soon as he was gone, Satine got up and moved back over behind Christian, draping her arms around him and settling her chin on his shoulder as she read the words that were appearing on the page along with the typewriter's rhythmic clacking of keys.
By now, Christian had gotten used to her reading over his shoulder like that, considering she had impatiently awaited every new scene of Spectacular Spectacular when they were back in Montmartre. However, he was not used to the way she was blowing in his ear, or distractingly nibbling his earlobe, and his typing died off with a few feeble clicks.
Satine grinned in a positively wicked manner in response to the pleading glance he cast up at her, but soon enough found the tables turned upon herself as Christian grabbed her by both hands and pulled her into his lap. They settled as comfortably as two people could be in a chair designed for only one, Christian wrapping his arms around her waist and Satine covering his hands with her own.
"You slept late," he stated.
"Mm," she responded, twisting around to look at him, "and you didn't sleep at all."
Slightly taken aback by that, Christian raised an eyebrow. "What makes you think that?"
"You tossed and turned. I don't sleep that deeply," she stated matter-of-factly.
"I didn't disturb you, did I?" he asked, now self-conscious of the nightmares that plagued him.
"No, darling, it's all right." She leaned forward and kissed him gently on the forehead, then settled in with a contented sigh, leaning her forehead against his.
They sat there in silence for a time, but it was a comfortable one rather than an awkward pause.
Finally, Satine was the one to break the silence.
"You know, Christian . . ."
"Hmm?" he murmured, looking up sidelong at her.
"I don't know where I'd be without you." She paused, hesitating, but lifted a finger to his lips as he began to respond.
They both knew where she would probably be, in a literal sense of things—with the Duke, or *dead*, though neither happened to be situations either of them wanted to bring up . . .
Drawing in a breath, she began to sing softly instead.
"I can fly, but I want his wings.
I can shine even in the darkness,
But I crave the light that he brings.
Revel in the songs that he sings . . ."
Satine got to her feet, prompting Christian to rise along with her.
"I can love, but I need his heart.
I am strong, even on my own,
But from him I never want to part.
He's been there since the very start . . ."
She pulled him in close to her, and they began to dance across the floor, heedless of everything else around them.
"Bless the day he came to be.
Angel's wings carried him to me.
Heavenly . . .
I can fly, but I want his wings.
I can shine, even in the darkness,
But I crave the light that he brings.
Revel in the songs that he sings . . ."
Satine smiled, leaning in to kiss him softly and sweetly. "You're my angel, Christian."
Christian returned the smile, his expression conveying the emotion he felt in response to her words, a rare moment of introspection into the mind of this woman he loved so deeply.
"I love you, Satine," he stated simply, when he finally trusted himself to speak again.
"I love you, too."
Author's Note: Kind of lengthy, and wow, a lot of fluff, but I really am going somewhere with the things in this chapter. Lyrics are from Lamb's "Gabriel," edited to take out the lines that actually included the name Gabriel, since . . . that is not Christian's name. I use a lot of Lamb lyrics—take that as a hint and check out their music, since it's really great. (Psst, for the uninformed, their song "Gorecki" is that one Satine sings that begins "If I should die this very moment . . .")
Thanks go out to Craig Armstrong for writing and composing music that's inspiring, and Black Tangled Heart for writing four reviews in the span of an hour—they helped get me motivated into finishing this chapter.