Chapter 11: Continued
(Or: The Fickle Nature of a Willow Sprig)
A/N: I know about the clothes, I'm just too lazy: I know I know I'm bad. There are a few small revisions on the first half of Chapter 11 tell me if that's any better.
UPDATE! (Yeah, I know –FINALLY- but I have a brand new obsession and its taking its toll on my Phantom/Cats time. And I feel bad about it. This will be updated in pieces whenever I have time over the next few days, stupid school wanting me to work, and we should have a new complete chapter within the week! Also, I turned fifteen! Go me!)
"As long as I live…" she began, "I'll remember this night…and love you."
"Christine?" Meg's voice seemed to drift across infinity and her friend's rather pleasant dream within a dream was rudely interrupted. Christine swatted at Meg grumpily, upset at being disturbed in her reminiscence for fairly obvious reasons, and suddenly terrifically aware of the dull thud below her stomach that she had often noticed when her husband allowed her to see him not fully clothed.
"What do you want?" she finally mumbled irritably, a melodramatic mournful quality to her voice,
"It looks like rain, I heard a thunderclap and…" Christine groaned,
"If you insist, we'll go back." Meg smiled pleasantly and helped her friend to her feet.
"You shouldn't get so comfortable, my mother and your husband will worry." Christine looked rather amused,
"You talk as though they're pacing the same room bouncing ideas as to our whereabouts off each other." She smoothed the many folds of her dress, making a face as she wiped hastily at the mud that adorned her bottom.
"Maybe someday they will be." Christine giggled,
"I'm sure they'd get along swimmingly, they're about the same age." Meg's mouth dropped open,
"What!" she squeaked. Christine turned to her friend,
"Your mother's…?"
"Fifty-five." Meg breathed,
"Well then, I was just about right. Erik's only in the vicinity of fifty-two…we're not exactly certain." Meg mouthed for a moment without succeeding in producing actual speech.
"Christine I don't care what you tell me, there is no way that man is fifty-two years old." Christine glanced at her,
"Well perhaps fifty-three, but certainly no more than that…Why Meg dear, you're ever so pale."
"And I thought mother looked good for her age." Meg plunked down on the damp grass and therefore earned an eye roll accompanied by a sigh from her friend,
"Oh, now you sit!" Christine tapped her foot irritably, now as anxious to get home to her husband as Meg had been to her mother. (Though for vastly different reasons and good nature had little to do with Christine's.) "Come along Meg, we're not getting out of the rain by standing about." She finally gave up waiting, dragged the petit dancer to her feet and proceeded to pull her back to the carriage.
The return trip was quieter, but still gay and slightly more mischievous. Christine dropped vague -and not so vague- hints as to her thoughts on activity for the evening, but for the most part such things are lost on Meg and she only giggled and blushed helplessly. When they reached the opera Christine seemed to suddenly adopt a great urgency and she paid the driver good deal more handsomely than he deserved before skipping up the stairs two in a step, whistling all the while. Meg shook her head and followed, hoping her mother was still at the opera, and fearing her wrath if she wasn't.
Meanwhile… Christine seemed to burst into the house on the lake, casting about for her husband as she tossed her hat and shawl aside. He was sitting in the enormous armchair opposite the sofa and was putting his book down with and amused air,
"There you are!" his wife exclaimed, hurrying over to sit on his lap and kiss him welcome in a slow teasing manner. Christine presented the willow sprig with an animated smile, "Ta da! For you." She held it out and he took it, raising an eyebrow inquisitively,
"Willow my dear, what…?" a mockingly outraged smile passed his lips, "Darling!" he reprimanded feigningly
"That's my clever boy." Christine cooed as bent over him and licked his lips, just touching them with the tip of her tongue. Erik's fingers let the willow slip to the floor and his other hand forced Christine into a kiss, enjoying the unique taste of him she giggled against his mouth and set nimble fingers to work on his cravat.
"I don't suppose," Erik breathed in a jovial tone when he regained the ability to speak, "that by willow you meant to mourn. For that would be a pity." Christine looked up from kissing his collarbone,
"Oh no, I'm not mourning anything." Her mouth trailed after her fingers where they uncovered his smooth flesh, down his torso to his navel where she paused to rub her nose on his belly and make him laugh helplessly. A she was about to attack his trouser button he stopped her,
"Now that's not fair!" he protested, pushing her off onto the floor and carefully slinking down over her, "First I must ask you to even the score a little." He leaned over her and began to undo her dress.
"You can wait, give me a minute." She pushed him off, or rather he allowed himself to be pushed off, "Men, only one thing on their minds." Erik burst out laughing; it was rarely him who had a one-track mind in their marriage,
"I can wait, hah." He muttered under his breath with a chuckle as Christine stood and dusted herself off with a barely controlled smirk. Being sure to ruffle her dress in Erik's face before bustling off to their room, she took no notice of him shaking hid head and laughing all over again as he settled to wait.
More tomorrow, because I should be sleeping.