Christine
Waking, Christine smiled down at her sleeping husband. Erik had turned on his stomach, his back exposed to the warm air of their room. His worn black trousers were shadowy against the white sheets of the bed. He had been awake at least long enough to dress, then, after she had fallen asleep; he almost always was. Her gaze sobered a little as she studied the scar-patterns across his shoulders; she had only asked about them once, and his reply had been a flat stare that firmly denied any further attempt to pry into that particular portion of his past.
Prodding her thoughts away from the old scars, she smiled again and slipped out of bed. Christine put on her dressing-gown and made herself a cup of tea, then hesitated, looking longingly at the comfort of the pillows. Erik wasn't awake just yet . . .
She settled herself back into the mattress, sitting near her husband. All was silent peace for a few moments as she sipped at the hot, sweet tea, then a long arm crooked around her waist and Erik moved his head a little to rest against her leg. His eyes remained closed. "You're drinking tea," he murmured. Christine smiled to herself but didn't answer. Erik was a firm believer in the idea that bed and breakfast should remain two separate entities. At her lack of response, he gave a light, playful growl, and his arm tightened around her. "Infernal woman," he muttered, smiling.
"Hmmm." Christine reached back and set the tea on the hotel's nightstand. Her fingers stroked Erik's hair, and for a time they remained quiet, lost in each other's presence.
She quivered just a little, however, when the hand he wasn't using to hold her stretched up to feel, almost lazily, at the back of his neck. "Where did that sheath go, Christine?" Erik asked softly.
"You took it off last night," she replied evasively.
Now his eyes did open and he gazed up at her. Erik's stare was even; there wasn't, at least, any anger in his eyes, only a wry prompting. "I put it back on after you fell asleep."
"You did?" Her tone was far too innocent, and she knew it.
"Yes. After replacing my dagger, I might add." Erik reached up to touch her cheek. "Christine, if you want a knife, I will get you a knife." She shook her head; she had no desire for a weapon of any kind. Erik sighed. "Why take this one?"
She leaned against his hand and closed her eyes. "I don't know." Before he could reply, she slipped the sheath from where it had been hanging at the back of her own neck. "I think I was hoping you would explain to me . . . " about last night, she silently continued.
Erik sat up and pulled her into his lap, tucking her head under his chin as he held her close. "Forgive me, Christine," he murmured into her hair.
"There is nothing to forgive," she replied in the same tone, content suddenly to just be cuddled up against him. The whys always seemed so much less important when he was holding her close.
"I can't even explain it in my head, much less to yours," Erik told her quietly. "I just . . . was thinking. Of the life you could have had with," he deliberately paused, "someone else. You wouldn't have had to run these past few weeks; you wouldn't be so thin now that I worry about your health," to prove this point, he gently stroked her now-bony shoulder. "I was almost angry with you for staying with me, for doing this to yourself . . ."
She touched her fingertips to his mouth, silencing him. "Raoul wasn't right for me, Erik. I knew that even before you came back into my life. Let it go. We're free; we don't have to run any longer, right?"
"For now," Erik replied cryptically.
"Then we can rest." Christine smiled up at him. "I'll let you fuss over me to your heart's content. I'm happy, Erik," she whispered, letting her eyes fill with tenderness. "Can't you see that I'm happy with you?" Erik was quiet; Christine smiled and touched his mouth. "And you're happy, too. I can tell; you usually don't have that bitterness your eyes always used to carry. Isn't happiness worth anything else we lose?"
His lips curved in a smile, and he leaned in to kiss her lightly. "Angel," Erik murmured quietly.
Erik
Christine was true to her word; those dark eyes were mildly amused, but she didn't speak a note of protest when I confined her to bed for the day. I may have disliked the word 'fussing', but that was precisely what I intended to do. I had not been able to coddle my beloved in far too long; I fully intended to make up for lost time.
I did not try to forbid her to speak, however. Her voice, as far as I could tell, was fine; it was only her body that was worn to the bone. Besides, while I could think of a number of ways of enforcing such a command—some, such as spending the entire day just kissing her, more pleasant than others—I was no longer her voice teacher who could demand instant and complete obedience from his devoted student.
Personally, I preferred our current relationship.
With Christine safely ensconced in blankets and pillows, and a hearty breakfast in her stomach, I found myself faced with an abrupt lack of purposeful activity. For a few moments, I was able to pause and simply watch my wife. Christine had requested one of the light romances she cherished from the inn's front desk and was lying curled on her side, idly perusing through the pages. Her curls were tumbling loose around her face and shoulders, and my eyes lingered on the soft curve of her arm in sheer bliss. The darkness of last night was utterly forgotten; as she always managed to in the end, my Angel had once again led me back into her light.
Only when Christine raised her eyes to me did I realize that I was singing, my voice low and hypnotic even to my own ears. She smiled and accepted the temptation in my tone, letting her sweet, clear sound mingle with mine in an old gypsy tune. The gypsy passion for love, for life, for travel, came through in the music and when we ceased singing, the silence was full of all the words we could not say to each other.
This, then, was heaven.
Christine
Neither of them had any inclination to seek out a large city just yet; the quiet simple life of this little Italian town was appealing to Erik and Christine's mood. It was a good place to rest, to recover for a while, and so they took up temporary lodgings in what Christine had begun to call the trap-door inn. Her husband, much to her laughing dismay, was thoroughly enjoying himself with the inn's twisted secret passages; while Christine extracted a promise from him not to frighten the other guests, Erik delighted in appearing from no-where to startle her.
After the first day or two, however, they found that they were both in need of something to occupy their time. Erik, particularly, was growing restless, and that worried Christine. While it was under much better control now, her beloved husband's temper could still be truly phenomenal when roused, and his temper was never shorter than when he was lacking activity.
She was not amused at the occupation he used to ease his boredom.
Erik had found a friend. This friend was large and furry; Christine hated it. She hated the rigid brown hairs that covered its body; she hated the predatory stare it leveled at her every time she blinked. She hated the very way it moved; and she hated, she hated, each and every one of its eight legs.
Only Erik's fingers around her mouth had prevented her from screaming, the first time he showed this 'friend' to her; she had quivered, terrified in his grasp, as she stared at the tarantula he was holding in his opposite hand. Christine was quite proud of herself for keeping quiet until her husband placed his newfound pet into the glass cage he had bought for it; her vocal and high-pitched protests once the creature was safely put away had only earned her a raised brow and the calm warning that her screeching was going to ruin her voice.
Christine had stared at him in shock. How could he do this to her? Erik knew—Erik knew—that she was frightened of even tiny spiders. Why would he think this monster he had found would be any different? She had been about to explain this to him when he had casually reached for her with the hand that he had held the demonic wretch in; Christine had promptly given a tiny, soft shriek and jumped away from him. Erik had stared at her, utterly perturbed; when she explained, with all the dignity she could, that he was not touching her until he had washed his hands, Erik had laughed out loud and then allowed his amusement to darken into a menacing chuckle. The resulting chase around the bedroom had ended with Christine squirming in her husband's arms as he gently stroked her with the spider-infected fingers of his right hand.
Now they were alone in the room, Christine and her enemy. The tarantula was in its box on the dresser; Christine was sitting on the bed in her nightgown, knees tucked up to her chin, as she glared at her husband's pet. Erik had gone to find food for the three of them and Christine refused to let the glass cage out of her sight while he was gone. She didn't know what she would do if the monster escaped; the only thing preventing her from smashing cage and spider to death was the worry that the spider would not, in fact, die, and would chase her from the room.
This was the tableau Erik was met with when he entered the room; neither arachnid nor girl had moved from their respective places, and Christine heard him sigh. "It cannot escape, Christine," he muttered as he sat beside her on the bed, wrapping his arm around her. She was silent; she did not move. Wanting a reaction, he told her something he had not intended for her to know for a while yet. "You know, I eventually want you to hold it."
"Absolutely not!" Her head snapped up and she stared at him in horror. "You can't be serious, can you?" Christine pleaded quietly. She gazed up at him through lowered lashes. "Please tell me you're kidding. Please?" He did not answer, just looked at her expectantly. "You are serious," she breathed. "Oh, Erik, no. No. You know I hate spiders. They terrify me. I thought you wanted me to rest. How am I to rest when I know that that thing is in here waiting to attack me?"
"Christine, it isn't going to attack you."
She whimpered and reached up to kiss him. "Please," she murmured between each fierce kiss, "please don't make me. Please." Christine dug one hand into his hair, pulling him closer, while she used the other to guide his fingers to her waist.
"Not . . .going . . . to work," Erik retorted when she lay back, locking his elbows as he stared down at her. Deliberately he leaned in to kiss her and then pulled away. "Temptress," he added as an afterthought before sitting up straight. He glanced at the dresser and frowned. "That might be a problem," Erik mused quietly.
"I'm not looking," Christine replied. "You're just trying to scare me." When Erik glanced back to her and raised his eyebrow, she groaned and nervously raised her head enough to see the—spider-less—glass cage sitting serenely empty.
---&---
A/N: Hope everyone's enjoying this! Wow, you guys—thank you so so so so much! The number of reviews I got for the last chapter was incredible. I'm glad that you like what I'm doing so far; a hundred hugs to you all! Tell me what you think of Erik's 'friend'—I'm avidly arachnophobic, so Christine's reactions are pretty much what mine would/will be . . . ---evil grin-
angelmuse: --grin-- I'll say it again here: thank you so, SO much for all the reviews! I wish I could publish this in book form; alas, I would have to know the ending first (sheepishly looks around). I'm kidding; I sort of know the ending, just what comes between here and there is kind of up in the air. Oh, don't worry—I agree with you that Dear Boy is absolutely not a creature of Hell. That's just a self belief we need to work out of him. And you're right about fluff; we should come up with a new name for it. After all, aren't our emotions what make us human? You really must stop praising me (well . . . TOO much . . . ) because you're right; you'll make my poor little head get too big!
CrazyCarl: Muchas Gracias for your reviews; yes, chapter 9 seems to be quite popular. Of course, it's probably my favorite part as well, which might be why. Thanks for reading; here's a bit more for you!
Godessofwisdom: Yay! Another reviewer! I'm flattered that you want other stories by me—check out Beyond the Grave, a more serious EC fic of mine that picks up where Susan Kay's novel left off, and A Voice Without a Soul, my third EC romance which starts at the end of the 2004 movie. Hope you enjoy!
marykate65: Lol, thanks, m'dear author. Yeah, I agree—they've put each other through enough of hell, let the lovebirds into heaven already. –grin-
Mominator124: I completely agree—the love and relationship between these two is what keeps me reading and writing phanfics. So utterly romantic, but with the other 'real' (sorrow, angst, tension, etc) things in there as well to make the romance just that much more meaningful. As always, thank you for being such a faithful and thorough reviewer—it really and truly makes my day. Merci!
SoccerFreak2516: Lol, thanks for your reviews—here's another chapter for you! I particularly liked that bit myself . . . even in the midst of a minor crisis, Erik retains his sense of humor.
phantomlovin4ever: Yep, Chapter 9 seems to be the definite favorite so far—and you're absolutely right, conflict and then fluff is the perfect combination! Thanks for the reviews—here is another update for you!
Clever Lass: -grin- Yes, I loved the little Raoul bits in those chapters. He's fun to write when I'm not putting him through fire and brimstone. Such a sweet boy. Wow—I'm making you fall in love with Raoul in an EC fic? Should I be worried? Thanks for the reviews—here's another chapter for you!