A/N: In honour of Riene's birthday, and knowing how much she's wanted more Philippe/Sorelli content from my Etched/Wraiths 'verse, I wrote this little one-shot about the Thing that made them get married.
Rating is for implied marital relations
He has never been one who is easily ruffled. It is unbecoming in a man of his status, and of his years. Polite smiles and affirmative nods or a impassive mask over internal turmoil is much more his style, occasionally augmented by the odd frown. (He has practised in the privacy of his own rooms, a mirror his only witness so that his expressions will always be just so instead of too much.) This careful self-curation is, perhaps, the reason why his dear younger brother elected to inform him of his association with a certain soprano in an excellent restaurant of all places, and, later, why said dear brother informed him of the soprano's delicate condition in the same restaurant, though before he could choke on his wine upon hearing the news, Raoul hastened to add that the child was emphatically not his, but rather the offspring of the girl's unfortunately departed husband, and that he, Raoul, intended to do all in his power to ease her situation.
Pride warred with distaste and even now, many months later, the baby boy safely delivered (and Philippe, in the privacy of his own thoughts, can admit that he is very close to being fond of the child) he fears that his expression was caught between a smile and a frown and rather approximated a grimace.
Based on that experience, Philippe cannot help but be thankful that Sorelli decided to hold this conversation in the privacy of his study, and now it dawns on him why, exactly, she wished to come to his own home tonight instead of his visiting her apartment as usual (or liaising in her dressing room, but he will not lower himself to consider the baseness of such things now).
The thoughts slot into place, the words I'm expecting a baby still turning jn his mind, and there is no doubt but that the child is his because he would know if she had been unfaithful, and he is distantly aware that he is staring at her, his mouth open like some uncouth ruffian as her fingers twist with each other, pulling on her sleeves, bottom lip bitten between her teeth.
Her loss of composure in this moment is the most horrifying thing.
He swallows, teeth clicking as he snaps his mouth shut. Inhale. Exhale. Slowly. Breathe. Think. Swallow. Inhale again. Resolution flares in his heart, burning hot as he flexes his fingers, exhales slowly again. This is Sorelli, Sorelli. Sorelli standing before him, Sorelli carrying his child. Sorelli, who he sees almost every night, whose arms are gentle when they come around him in the darkness, whose lips pressed to his jaw make him draw shuddering breaths. Sorelli, who is as close to being a lady as someone of her position can be, who has refused to take other lovers and made it so that the thought of taking other women sits oddly uncomfortable.
Sorelli, looking at him with tears in her deep brown eyes. His heart twists, the resolution flickering stronger, and he burns to take those tears away.
There is only one thing he can do, really.
He inhales sharply, bracing himself, and sinks down onto one knee, carefully, slowly, so as not to overwhelm her, taking her hand, fingers light between his, as if she might pull away. Her eyes widen, lips trembling as he swallows.
"If you have no objection," the words almost catch in his throat, "I would dearly love for you to become my wife."
Now it is her turn to gape at him, her turn to stare, mouth hanging open, the clock ticking in the background, louder and louder, in time with the pounding of his heart and then his heart is beating too fast, too loud, drowning out the clock, blood rushing in his ears, and her hand tightens in his, her expression softens, tears slipping from her eyes as she nods.
"Yes," she whispers. "I'd be—it would be an honour."
His breath catches in his throat, and then he is on his feet, pulling her into his arms as she giggles and a laugh bubbles up inside of him, and then he is giggling too, giggling and kissing her and slipping off his signet ring, easing it onto her finger. He's going to be a father, a father, and this marvellous woman has agreed to marry him, and it's too much, more than even his immense reserve can handle and the tears are rolling down his face as he kisses her, tears of wonder, tears of joy, the only tears he could never object to.
They marry a month later, a small ceremony in a quiet church, most of his family, including his sisters, not in attendance (a calculated decision so that when they do discover he has a wife it will be too late for their objections to carry weight). It is tantamount to an elopement, a scandal of the highest order, but to hell with it. All his matronly aunts, his cigar-chewing uncles, will just have to deal with it and plaster on their polite smiles when he presents Marguerite De Chagny née Sorelli to them as his wife. The only member of his family who knows is Raoul, Raoul who stands tall beside him, hands clasped behind his back, firmer than he would have been even a year ago, as impassive as Philippe himself and he cannot help being proud of his younger brother. Beside Sorelli is Christine Daaé, who balked and paled when he called her Madame, and of course Mademoiselle is inappropriate for her now, so when she asked him to simply call her Christine he accepted it but it still sits wrongly with him. He almost feels guilty for drawing her away from her little boy to act as witness, but she seems truly delighted to attend, smiling at Sorelli, happier than he has ever seen her though there are shadows under her eyes that are accentuated by her soft grey dress, and her fingers twist at her own wedding band.
It does not take an academic to realise that she is thinking of her lost husband, and he resolves, again, as he has resolved privately so many times in the last month, as he has resolved before God, to not let Sorelli suffer what that girl went through, and is going through.
And at the priest's say-so, he smiles at Sorelli, who is a little pale, and kisses her.
His aunts call her "charming" in a way that suggests they consider her anything but, and hide their mouths behind fans and cups of tea. More than one of his uncles cast questioning eyes over her. His friends have teased him for "getting into trouble". Whispers follow him at the opera. Antoinette made a gesture as if to say, "it was your choice" and Maria pursed her lips before they insisted on meeting their new sister-in-law.
Christine Daaé sits beside Sorelli, her head high, as if to warn them to keep their tongues in check, and Philippe feels a rush of affection for the young widow.
(Afterwards, when his sisters and their husbands have left, and Sorelli is telling hm about how Maria, always the less understanding of the two, dared to question the matter of Christine's own late husband and his unknown background, Christine will smile into her tea with her eyes glittering and say, "I told them he was an intimate friend of the shah of Persia. That took the fire out of them.")
Maria's own husband, Alexander, is the younger son of an English Lord, and he alone of the extended family seems genuine as he claps Philippe on the back and says, "Your wife is a remarkable woman."
The memories of his mother's pregnancies with his sisters are faded, and she was mostly ill while she was expecting Raoul, so perhaps he can be forgiven for marvelling at the swell of Sorelli's belly, at just how big she has gotten. He would never presume to say anything on the subject, but he makes certain there is additional fabric in all of her new dresses so they may be repeatedly let out.
The De Chagny men have always been tall, but if her newfound size is any indication, then his own son will surely be exceptional.
He kisses her lips, kisses her throat, kisses her breasts, fondles them gently (so soft now, and they've always been wonderful, but the changing of her body has made them full, and he flicks his tongue over a nipple as she gasps, and his hand slipped between her legs brings her pleasure that she swears will not harm the baby but will ease her discomfort.) And then she lies on her side and arms wrapped around her he presses himself to her back, kisses her neck and her shoulders as he fits himself to her, and the content noises she makes take all of his worries away.
The baby will be a talented athlete. This much is obvious from the way he kicks even inside his mother. Sorelli has been confined to bed, owing in part to the vigorous child within her, always kicking and dancing and moving. She is not to be excited in any way, and so the most he can do is lie beside her and stroke her hair, and kiss her hand. One of the maids is skilled at rubbing some of the ache out of her back, and the midwife has remedies for the swelling of her ankles. Sometimes he reads to her, but mostly he feels useless.
The regular visits of Christine Daaé and her little boy Konstin, six months old and full of wonder at the world, are more of a comfort to her than he can be.
He could go out and find other women, women who ask no questions but who would ease his own situation, but he cannot bear to be far from Sorelli now. Instead he takes himself off to a different room, and with various oils and his store of memories becomes more acquainted with his own hand than he has been since he was sixteen.
Thankfully it is only a myth that such activities cause blindness.
And then the day comes. It comes, and he is ordered out of the room, condemned to his study or the parlour with Raoul as his only company. He would not bring his friends into this, or his brothers-in-law, and he knows Christine and the midwife and the doctor will take good care of Sorelli and the baby both, but as he plays cards with Raoul and they sip brandy and then swap to chess, he tries not to think that it is two weeks earlier than Sorelli's calculations, and tries not to think that for all of her care and rest, disaster has struck anyway.
He is full of restless energy, unable to settle to the games, and he is losing badly to Raoul, so they go out for a walk that only brings him partial relief, and they drop in on the two old Persian men Christine lives with, only for a couple of minutes because the baby is asleep (and again, Philippe feels another pang of guilt from drawing her away from her child but he will endlessly grateful for her friendship with Sorelli in this time, and the sentiments war within him). The older of the two men, Monsieur Khan, draws him aside and squeezes his shoulder and gives him a cigar. "It is the nature of women and babies that these things take time," he says, and Philippe tries to take heart from the words but it is more difficult than anything he has ever known. Then Monsieur Khan smiles. "I'm sure she'll come through it splendidly."
They take their leave, and walk to the Garnier just for the sake of it, but something unreadable flickers in Raoul's face, just for a moment, and so they do not go inside.
Evening is closing in when they arrive home, the chill of late September sinking into Philippe's bones, and he shrugs off his coat, positions himself by the roaring fire that his manservant has maintained in their absence, and sips more brandy, willing his heart to settle. These things take time.
But it's been eighteen hours!
He is too unsettled to stand, paces as Raoul's eyes follow him from the armchair, and then, finally, at last, just when his legs are protesting at yet more exertion and his old knee injury is stiffening, Christine Daaé appears in the door and smiles.
"You have two healthy sons," she says, and it take a long moment for the words to coalesce in his mind.
Sons.
Sons.
Not one baby, two!
"T—twins?" The word is an awkward hush on his tongue, and she nods, and then he is laughing and Raoul is laughing and he is hugging Christine Daaé.
Twin sons. Twin sons.
He is distantly aware that his laugh has turned hysterical and it's getting hard to breathe.
Two boys.
It's like a dream. It is a dream, it must be.
He must have spoken aloud because Raoul is grinning at him with tears in his eyes.
"If you're dreaming then I must be too!"
As long as he lives (and it will be many, many long years yet) he will never forget the sight of Sorelli propped up in bed with pillows at her back, her hair neatly brushed and fixed in spite of her pale face, and one precious baby cradled in each arm. He will never forget crossing the room to her, and kissing her gently, and looking down into the faces of his little boys for the first time. Their foreheads are soft beneath his lips, their hands impossibly small peeking from their blankets.
When he loses his composure, sinking to his knees, fingers hesitating over one of those tiny delicate hands, Sorelli smiles at him, tears in her own eyes, and nods.
He kisses the tiny fingers, and smiles.