A/N – For all those of you who wanted to see Christine's hangover … voila.

Thank you to all who have reviewed, both this and the other stories I have on the go at the moment; you make my day. :)

The song used later in the chapter is, of course, You'll Never Walk Alone, from the beautiful Carousel (or, if you prefer, the theme song for Arsenal. Whatever.)

Erik sat perfectly still, barely seeming to breathe. Christine was still lying in his arms, her hair covering her face. She seemed to have fallen asleep, and he did not dare to move in case he should wake her.

All he wanted to do was to crawl away into the dark and hide himself: it was the most uniquely painful torture to sit so still, feeling her in his arms, unable to move lest she should wake and begin to cry again.

Christine came awake slowly, groggily as he eased her into his arms and carried her to his bedroom. A pernicious idea, of course, but there was nowhere else for her to sleep and the thought of enduring her sweet weight in his arms all night was too terrifyingly exquisite to be seriously entertained.

"Where are we going?" she murmured groggily, half-raising her head to look around.

He ignored the question and opened the door to his bedroom, shouldering his way in to avoid disturbing her.

He deposited her gently on the bed and retreated to the kitchen, returning moments later with a jug of water and a glass. She was sitting upright on the bed, staring vacantly down at her hands, toying with the tassels which hung from the thick bedspread; and when he held out the glass of water, she took hold of his hand, holding it between both of hers.

"Your hands are cold," she murmured contemplatively, lacing her fingers through his.

He abruptly withdrew his hand. "I know that. I'm sorry." He pressed the water into her hand. "Now, here – drink this."

She blinked at him. "Why?"

"Because if you don't, you will feel even more staggeringly awful tomorrow morning than you will if you do."

"Oh." Erik did not for a minute imagine that she understood, but she took the water and drank obediently, making little slurping noises against the side of the glass. When she had finished, she kept the glass in her hands, rolling it between her palms. A drop of water detached itself from the glass's smooth surface and fell onto the bed. Erik relieved her of the glass, and she continued to sit still, staring at her hands.

"Do you think I'll ever see him again?" she asked at last, without looking up.

Erik looked sharply at her. She looked very small, her hair hanging down to partially obscure her face. He paused, considering his answer. "You are a Catholic," he replied at last. "Of course you will."

"You don't believe in God," she mumbled with curious lucidity.

His reply was gentle. "You do."

She was silent for a long time, and Erik drew back the eiderdown on the bed.

"Lie down," he instructed. "It's time for bed."

She did so, climbing beneath the covers like a little girl waiting to be tucked in. He drew the blankets up over her and smoothed her hair on the pillow.

"Good night," he murmured gently, turning to leave the room.

Her voice called him back. "Erik!" She sounded drowsy and still less-than-lucid. "Stay with me?"

He turned back to her and knelt on the floor beside the bed. "No, my dear," he whispered. "I want you to go to sleep."

Her hand caught at his, and would not let him leave. "I'm afraid of the dark."

Erik sighed. "I know you are."

"Sing to me." Her fingers absently stroked the palm of his hand, and he fought the urge to kiss them. "The way you used to."

"Very well." He thought for a moment, drawing the blanket up to cover her shoulders again.

"When you walk through a storm,

Hold your head up high,

And don't be afraid of the dark.

At the end of the storm is a golden sky

And the sweet silver song of a lark.

Walk on through the wind,

Walk on through the rain

Though your dreams be tossed and blown.

Walk on, walk on, with hope in your heart

And you'll never walk alone.

You'll never walk alone."

Christine's eyes were closed, and her breathing was even, indicating sleep. Gently, cautiously, Erik withdrew his fingers from hers, and laid her hand carefully beside her on the bed. He remained kneeling by her bedside for a moment longer, watching her sleep; the tracks of recent tears still showed on her cheeks, but she looked peaceful, her face relaxed in slumber.

He looked down at the crown of her head, thick chestnut hair tousled in glorious curls around her delicate shoulders, and closed his eyes, his heart burning. Gently, he touched the softness of her hair spread over the pillow; and, temptation becoming too strong, stroked back a few errant strands from her forehead. She did not stir.

Erik stood, and bent over her sleeping form. Very lightly – just once – he pressed his lips to her forehead.

"Sweet dreams," he whispered.

He left the room, closing the door behind himself, and seated himself in the warm depths of his armchair, the dying fire casting flickering shadows over the room.

He took up his book from the side table and opened it; but it took him less than five minutes to cast aside the book and lean forward to stare into the dying glow of the fire and think.

Christine awoke slowly the next morning, feeling tired and drained. She opened her eyes slowly, and winced. She raised a hand to her head, which was throbbing mercilessly, and squeezed her eyes shut, hoping the pain would recede.

It did not.

Christine lay back on the pillow, her eyes closed against the pain in her head and the fractured light filtering through the gaps in the curtains, trying to remember the night before. She felt vaguely depressed, and could not quite remember why; her mouth tasted foul and she desperately wanted a drink of water. She was aware of feeling heavy, and realised she was still wearing last night's dress; she plucked weakly at the material, feeling unclean.

She remembered the performance; that indescribable thrill of performing again – poor Angela – the hushed excitement and barely-contained chaos of backstage that she had half-forgotten in her long absence; she remembered Erik taking her out for dinner …

A sudden, unexpected wave of nausea swept over her.

She remembered the journey back to his flat; the expensive label on a bottle of wine, half-turned away from her.

Consciousness was returning slowly to her, in fits and starts, and with the realisation that she still wore last night's dress came the horrified shock that she was not in her own bed. She sat up abruptly, and immediately bent forwards, burying her face in the soft blanket in a vain effort to quell the pain in her head and the nausea movement appeared to induce. Gradually, the feeling of sickness receded, and she raised her face to the cracks of light appearing where the curtains met.

The room she had been sleeping in was expensively but subtly furnished with mahogany furniture and thick curtains and carpet. The papers on the bedside table, covered with elegant, precise music notation, should have given her sufficient warning of the inevitable conclusion; but in her still-fuddled state, it was the lingering scent of candle wax and sandalwood that gave Christine to know that she must have spent the night in Erik's own bedroom.

Christine drew the blanket around her like a small child, deriving comfort from its softness and unmistakable smell of Erik.

"What happened last night?" she asked herself aloud, immediately regretting it as the sound reverberated through her head.

Erik looked up from his book to see Christine emerge from the room in which she had spent the night, her hair tangled and her eyes heavy with sleep. She looked confused and tired, blinking owlishly as she came into the sunlight, raising one hand to her head as if to ward off its brightness.

"Good morning."

Her eyes came slowly to rest on him. "I don't feel well," she mumbled.

"No," he agreed. He poured her a glass of water from a jug on the table, and she accepted it obediently, drinking it greedily.

"Thank you," she mumbled, and came unsteadily to sit in her chair.

In his youth, Erik had occasionally resorted to alcohol in a final effort to forget, and knew well what Christine was feeling. He had considered making himself absent for the morning to spare her the embarrassment of having to face him before she had recovered herself; but on reflection had decided that her fear on finding herself left alone would probably outweigh her self-consciousness.

Christine drew her feet up under her, this unreserve a sign of her still-confused mind, and stared down into her glass.

"Why do I feel so ill?" she asked in a little voice. Erik was momentarily gratified that she should still look to him as the ultimate authority on any question to which she did not know the answer, and rose to refill her glass with water.

Gently, he explained; and she nodded weakly.

"Reeves will be worried about me," she mumbled.

Erik shook his head. "He has received a message that you stayed with a friend from the Opéra. He will, however, be expecting you back this morning; and so I think perhaps you might consider preparing yourself." He glanced at the clock. "The hour grows late."

Christine looked down at her hands through bleary eyes, feeling faintly depressed. She wanted to stay; to crawl back into that soft bed with its thick blankets and comfortingly familiar scent of Erik and close her eyes. But – still confused, and her head aching – she could not find the words to articulate that desire. Therefore, she nodded, and rose clumsily to her feet.

Even in her heavy, bemused state, she found momentary pleasure in the fact that Erik reached out to steady her as she stumbled.

Erik spoke very little on the journey back to Christine's house. He had been supremely kind to her all morning, solicitously offering her water and anything else she might possibly want; but somehow he seemed distant, and through the haze of her clouded memory of the night before, Christine wished she could remember exactly what she had said and done.

As they drew close to her house, however, she screwed up her courage, and addressed him.

"Erik."

He had been gazing out of the window, watching Paris pass by, but at the sound of her voice, he looked towards her.

"Yes?"

"Thank you."

He raised one eyebrow, and she stumbled on, wishing she did not feel so dull and stupid.

"You were, I think, very kind to me last night." He made a dismissive gesture, his glance drifting towards the window again, and she reached out towards him, desperate to hold his attention. As her hand made contact with his arm, he looked back to her, startled, and she sensed from his instant tension that only an earnest desire not to offend her prevented him from drawing his arm away.

"You were kind to me last night; as you have been kind to me for goodness only knows how many months now." She laughed self-consciously. "Sometimes I wonder how I would cope without you."

Christine felt the carriage come to a stop, and realised that they had arrived at her house. She could feel Erik's eyes on her, his expression unreadable, and she laughed uncomfortably.

"I had better go and face Reeves."

Erik opened the carriage door and sprang down with his own peculiar grace to help her out. She accepted his hand to help her down; but as she turned to go towards the house, embarrassed now, she felt his hand tighten around her own.

"Christine."

She looked back at him at once. With a rapid movement that spoke of swiftly-formed resolution tainted yet with uncertainty, he brought her hand to his lips.

"It has been a pleasure."

He released her hand abruptly, and for a moment she simply stared at him, astonished by this unprecedented display of affection. Never had he initiated contact of this sort before; and never before had she felt so strong a desire to fall into his arms.

Shaking off this strange and unfamiliar emotion, she took a step backwards towards the safety of her house.

"Thank you," she whispered, and, turning, hurried up the path to the house, where Reeves waited to open the door.

That evening, Christine sat in the music room, holding her needlework in her lap. She had long since abandoned the intricate embroidery, her thoughts too distracted for a task requiring such a degree of concentration, and was instead staring into the fire, thinking.

She was roused from her reverie by the sound of a knock on the door. Reeves entered.

"The Marquis de St Cyr," he declared portentously.

Christine rose as St Cyr entered the room, almost glad of the distraction from her thoughts, which had all day been spiralling through endless revolutions of confusion.

"You were beautiful last night," he told her, leaning in to kiss her as the door closed quietly behind Reeves' departing form. "I came to see you afterwards, but they told me you'd already left." Christine managed a weak smile, and gestured for him to sit. He did so; but rose again almost immediately, and began to pace the room.

"The truth of the matter is," he went on, "that there was something I wanted to ask you."

Christine took a sip of water and nodded. "Yes?"

St Cyr looked her in the face, his brow suddenly crinkling with apprehension. He came towards her and took her hand; and, to Christine's utmost astonishment, knelt down before her.

"I wanted to ask you …" He paused, and then continued in a rush, "I wanted to ask you if you would marry me."

Christine's mind reeled.

"Armand …"

"No," he interrupted her feverishly. "Don't say anything just yet. I know you're thinking of Raoul – he knew all about it, I assure you. I waited – I thought that if I waited long enough, I would forget you, or be able to find someone else …" He shook his head distractedly, releasing her hand to pass his own through his hair. "But I couldn't. Every woman I met –" he laughed roughly, "– and goodness knows my sisters were desperate to ensure I met every one who was even vaguely eligible – was nothing. Incomparable." He stopped and looked into her eyes. "I loved you while he was alive, and now six years have passed and still I can think of nothing but you."

Christine stared at her husband's best friend. Her silence seemed to unnerve him, and he stood up hastily. "Of course I don't expect an answer now," he said hurriedly. "I will leave you now … and if you don't want me to come again, of course I shall understand."

He kissed her hand quickly, and hurried out of the room; Christine heard him pass a few rushed words with Reeves in the corridor, and then the sound of the front door closing. A female voice – one of the younger servants, perhaps – asked "Why was he in such a hurry?" and Reeves shushed her curtly, sending her away.

Christine passed a trembling hand through her hair, feeling weak. She laughed tremulously, hysteria and astonishment battling for supremacy.

"What would Raoul say?" she asked herself aloud, and knew the answer as soon as the question had left her lips. Raoul was not a selfish man: he would have wanted her to be happy. He would have been glad to bestow her hand upon a man whom he himself esteemed so highly. Why, then, did she feel such a strange aversion to the idea? St Cyr was her friend: she liked him, respected him. He was a kind man – she could never forget how tenderly and compassionately he had soothed her pain after Raoul's death – and he would love her perfectly and care for her as well as Raoul could ever have wished.

But she did not want to marry him. No, she acknowledged to herself as she pictured his kind face before her eyes, she did not want to marry him.

Why not?

And then suddenly, coming upon her with a suddenness that sent her sinking back into her chair, was a memory that she had thought locked away forever.

"I love you."

A wave of emotion crashed over her: she covered her face with her hands.

"God forgive me," she whispered brokenly. Only once had he spoken that way to her: he had been always kind, always steady, but only once had he spoken of love; and, frightened by the unfamiliarity of the feelings inside her, she had run away. St Cyr kissed her frequently, on the cheek or on the hand, and yet his touch had never inspired the terrifying jolt of her heart that the barest brush of Erik's cold fingers could produce.

"Is that why?" Her voice sounded small in the enormous room; the expensive furnishings and soft drapes seemed to swallow her words in cushioning opulence. "Because of –"

She covered her mouth with her hands. She could not finish the thought. Desperately, she looked to the mantelpiece, to the framed portrait of Raoul that stood there.

"Forgive me," she whispered. "Forgive me."

She buried her face in her hands, and tears soaked through her fingers.