A/N: Thank you so much for the reviews, everyone; you have no idea how much I appreciate them. Glad that you all enjoyed the last chapter, and I hope you enjoy this one as well.

Chapter Nine

Oh, Christine.

You lead me to the kitchen, as vague anticipation gathers within me. I find myself hoping, praying, that what you have prepared is palatable. It would do no good to either of us for me to show disgust at your meal.

As I take a seat at the table, I find neither the scent nor the sight of the food offending in any way. This is good.

"I made the tea on the samovar," you announce proudly. "Russian tea, with lemon."

"Well done," I said, my tone full of honest praise. "But, Christine, you do not have to try so hard to impress me."

You blush. "Are my efforts that obvious?" you ask quietly.

"Well, I do not know about obvious, but some things concerning you, I simply know."

You throw me a glance which is a mixture of confusion and wonderment, before serving me.

You have prepared a rather simple meal, though I expected no more, as I keep little food in the house. You have boiled me some noodles, with a small, bruised peach and an unbuttered croissant on the side, along with a glass of red wine.

Although the components of the meal obviously are not compatible, I am sure that, together, they will make a decent meal.

But fact aside, I know in my heart I could tell you no less, due to the eager, slightly anxious expression on your face.

"Thank you, Christine. It looks delicious," I assure you.

You seem pleased, and finally take your seat opposite me, where you have prepared for yourself the same thing, minus the fruit.

I happen to know that you like peaches above all other fruits, and almost laugh at the way you keep throwing it longing glances as it sits beside my plate, thinking that I will not notice.

"Christine, would you like the peach?" I ask you quietly.

A small smile graces your lips at the offer, but you quickly force it away. "No, Erik, it is for you."

"That is sweet of you, dear, but please, you may have it." I hand you the fruit.

"Thank you," you say shyly, accepting it. "And Erik?"

"Yes?"

"Could you please not call me 'dear'?"

"Why ever not?"

"It makes me feel like a child; your fond niece, or pupil, as opposed to your wife," you say to your plate.

"Consider it done, darling," I reply softly.

Your face lights up.