Erik woke up with a start. His breath caught painfully in his throat and his body tensed. He tried to stay still, his senses frantically assessing his surroundings. What was that slight tapering sound? It was nothing he would hear in his underground lair. It was more like. . . Like the branches of trees against some hard surface. He winced involuntarily at the memory of the sound of branches brushing the tin roof of a cart. No, no, the rational part of his mind argued. It wasn't possible. He had left the fair behind a long time ago. The pain, however. . . The force of the memory was too strong and he cowered, tightening his eyelids, his arms covering his head. They would come soon. Javert would come and beat him, force him to perform. . . After some time of inner battle, he bravely opened his eyes. He found himself facing the embers of a fire and sighed in relief. He was indoors, and he was alone. He took a deep breath, starting to relax. Gradually, he remembered where he was, why he was where he was.
With a groan, he steadied himself on his right arm and shakily sat up. His back was sore, his neck ached and his left shoulder was throbbing painfully. He tried to move it around to loosen the cramped muscles, but a sudden flash of pain made him whimper. Damn wound. It wasn't healing properly. Neither was the one in his thigh. He had tried stretching and exercising the muscles in the past days, for he knew that if he indulged and didn't move they would contract and leave him with a heavy limp and a stiff shoulder for the rest of his days, but the pain and tightness hadn't lessened.
Carefully, he flexed his arm. Sleeping on the couch hadn't been a good idea. He sighed. He hadn't thought he would fall asleep, being in a new place and all. But he had evidently been so exhausted that even the old instincts hadn't been enough to fight his drowsiness. He awkwardly rubbed his uncovered eye with his right thumb.
He knew his body needed the sleep, but it also worried him that his instincts were not as sharp anymore. Only his instincts had kept him alive all these years. And yet. . . Why did he care that his instincts were dulling? His damned instincts had betrayed him when he had been shot in the cellars of the Opéra. As if it hadn't been enough that the clowns that had shot him hadn't had any decent aim, his visceral will to live had kicked in when he'd fallen into the lake, prompting him to hold his breath when he'd fallen and then forcing him to swim underwater towards the farthest shore.
Erik shook his head ruefully. He should be dead by now, sunk into oblivion, and not lingering in this bleak Limbo. Damned instincts. Damned Daroga. If the Persian hadn't had such a disproportionate sense of righteousness, if he hadn't been so courageous, he wouldn't have ventured once again underneath the Opéra, and Erik would have found his peace on that shore. He would have bled to death, or perhaps died of hypothermia. Or both. It would have been a peaceful demise. He huffed and ran his hand through his dishevelled hair. No good in crying over spilt milk, he thought in self-mockery. He looked at his wrinkled clothes. He needed to wash and to change.
With an effort, he pushed himself to his feet and hobbled out of the living room and down the hall. He'd prove to the Daroga he was recovering. Maybe then Nadir would stop hovering over him like a mother hen.
Erik tugged at the edges of the waistcoat to straighten it and cursed under his breath, when the deep pain ripped through his shoulder and chest. Despite the long weeks in which he had been laid up, despite knowing the pain would stab him if he moved his arm or put his weight on his right leg, it still angered him that he had to think twice to perform the most trivial tasks such as lifting a cup or getting dressed. He hated moving so awkwardly, so slowly.
Exasperated, he crossed the room and plumped on the narrow bed. He stared vacantly at the intricate patterns of the carpet for a long time before he realized his mind had been wandering. He was so tired. He shook his head ruefully, acknowledging the fact he still was unbelievably weak. He lay down on the bed and rolled to his back. Maybe a short nap was in order.
He smiled ironically behind the mask. All those years of keeping himself awake until he literally dropped from exhaustion because he feared the nightmares that plagued him, and now he was just indulging like a dotard. The nightmares had continued, and they were as terrifying as they had been in the past, but he had stopped fighting sleep altogether. That was strange. Why wouldn't he. . . His eyes began to slide shut, and he abandoned the thought.
He had been drifting in that twilight zone between sleeping and waking where thoughts detach themselves from their real importance when he heard the front door open. He stood up with a jolt and staggered, his right leg sinking under his weight.
Cursing his clumsiness, he looked around desperately, trying to find a place to hide. As silently and fast as he could, he retreated to the side of the wardrobe, flattening his back against the wall. He realised that he didn't have any weapons and that he was too weak to wrestle with anyone who'd come for him. He inched closer to the wardrobe, overwhelmed by the stiffening panic of a cornered beast.
Heavy feet came closer. There was a knock at the door. Erik held his breath, and the door opened. Darius scanned the room. Erik released his breath, and stepped forward, leaning against the wardrobe. Better to bear the humiliation of his overreaction straight away, was his self-deprecating thought. Darius regarded him with dispassionate eyes and then bowed.
"Would you like some breakfast, sir?"
Erik nodded, unable to utter a sound. Darius bowed again and closed the door behind him.
Author's notes: thanks Violetrose and Pemberlee for the reviews. I hope this story meets your expectations!
