Unsurprisingly, Nadir insisted Erik pay for the filched linens. Also unsurprisingly, Erik instead deducted the required monies from the amount he owed Nadir for the wheelbarrow of supplies. "The nuns receive more than enough in donations, but if you insist I pay for your moral quibbles, I might as well pay with your money," he said. Nadir grumbled, but eventually went along with it, having been outwitted for approximately the thousandth time in the years they'd known each other.

With new sheets safely folded away under his cloak, Erik made to return underground, and he would have if not for the irritating Persian's next words. "Erik… Is it a trick of the light, or have you put on weight in the last week?"

"What?" He whirled about, eyes flashing dangerously. The kitten down his shirt protested the motion with a yowl and a sudden dig of claws. He twitched, not liking the feel of sharp things on his skin. "I thought you knew better than to mention my appearance, you uncivilized-"

"You look better."

He blinked suspiciously. "…Better? Impossible," he said flatly.

"Well, you do," Nadir said haltingly. Then he grinned, having hit upon the reason for his friend's weight gain. "I suppose being around Christine does you some good after all, albeit in a roundabout way. Good evening to you." He tipped his ruddy astrakhan cap and strode off, whistling happily.

Erik glared after him. "I've no idea what you're on about, Khan!" he called.

"Keep eating!" the daroga-turned-clerk shouted back with more jollity than was appropriate. He huffed and turned back towards his underground home. Honestly, sometimes that little prick had the strangest ideas.

…

Christine was sitting by the unlit hearth when he returned, bedclothes under his arm. He frowned. On one hand, he was glad she had regained some mobility. On the other hand, he wished she'd chosen a better place to sit: the settee, or even the piano bench rather than the hard brick of the fireplace. In all her bandages, she resembled one of those embalmed Egyptians. She looked up when he entered, hopeful. I doubt any of the Egyptians had beautiful blue eyes as she does. That painful twist in his chest intensified.

Then her expression changed from hope to worry, and he panicked. She lifted herself up as best she could. Erik steeled himself for a rebuke regarding his absence in the past few hours. What instead emerged from her mouth shocked him. She had a way of doing that.

"Erik, you're bleeding!" He looked down at his shirt, perplexed, to find that he had, in fact, bled a few drops on the white of his dress shirt. "And what's that in your shirt?" Suddenly she shied away. Their earlier exchange had been tense.

But, since he so wanted to see her smile, he reached down into his shirt and lifted the kitten out by the scruff. Christine's scabby eyelids widened with her soft gasp. Then, to Erik's amazement, she let out a soft squeal. His mouth twisted with confusion. He was quite certain he'd never taught her to make a sound like that.

He set the small thing down on the bricks, right near Christine's hand. "Did it scratch you very badly? Maybe you should put a bit of plaster on it."

"I'm not bleeding now," he pointed out. "Now, I believe it is time for your dinner." The kitchen provided him an escape from further conversation, other than a request for milk on the kitten's behalf. While she was occupied with the tiny kitten, he spooned out a bowlful of stew for her. As an afterthought, he included a second mug of milk on the dinner tray. Black tea wasn't a beverage that induced sleep in most people.

Christine hadn't moved when he returned. He supposed she was unable, being so thoroughly bound in bandages. She was, however, holding the kitten to her chest with tender smile. Erik swallowed hard, mouth suddenly dry, and wished he'd brought the tea anyway- for himself. At any rate, he was pleased to see she had regained some movement.

He couldn't set the tray down on the floor, so he sat down next to Christine and held the spoon out to her handle first. "If you can move, you can eat," he said brusquely, unsure how to act with so many unfinished words between them.

She glanced at him quickly, then turned aside, raw mouth twisting with worry. "Erik…do you hate me?" He gaped at her for a moment, spoon still suspended. How could he possibly hate her? She continued: "I…I put you through so much hurt, those months with the Vicomte, because I was afraid. I wouldn't blame you if you sent me back to the street to die for my fear."

He placed the spoon in her palm and gulped back his own nerves. "I do not hate you, Christine. After all, you chose the scorpion. You have been forgiven for a long time." That was right, she had; she had still chosen him in all his madness. He had given her the grasshopper, the option of leaving it all in flames, but she had chosen him. For that, he let her go. He could almost smile at the irony. Now fire had brought her back to him.

His hand lingered for a moment on her own. Then, as if remembering himself, he pulled back. The neglected kitten made a sound unusually loud for its body size. "Forgive me; I've let the cat go hungry." Its eyes reflected the ambient candlelight like new pennies. Without further delay, he took it into his hands and dabbed the milk on its mouth.

As it lapped the liquid from his finger, Christine's expression softened. "Cherry," she remarked suddenly.

Erik eyed her, bewildered. "I do not have cherries, Christine. They're not in season." Indeed, peak cherry season was summertime for France. However, being on speaking terms with his beloved was a relief, so if importing cherries from the southern hemisphere pleased her, he would gladly do so.

"Well, we need a name for her. We can't very well keep calling her 'the cat.'" She mused on this for a moment. "She has very striking eyes, don't you think?"

Oh. "They're…certainly uncommon." He hadn't looked very closely at the kitten's eyes, but he knew enough about cats to know their eyes were usually light blue or green at birth and gradually changed to brown, amber, or a darker green-yellow. "I doubt she will appreciate being called a fruit."

"Then what would you suggest?"

He picked the little cat up by the scruff and inspected it as if appraising an antique or a prized piece of livestock. "Ahmar." The thing had somehow gotten milk on its paws and both its ears. With one bony fingertip, he made to wipe away the mess, but it seized his finger with its paws and gnawed on it. Christine laughed.

"And what does Ahmar mean? It sounds foreign."

"'Red,' in the language of the Arabs. I must confess, I am more fluent in Persian, though I take a scholarly interest."

"You know Persian?" Her eyes widened.

"My dear, I've lived among them. It would be rather hard not to learn the language." The endearment had slipped out like a reflex. He glanced at her and set the kitten down to explore its new surroundings. "Don't look at me like that; your bandaging will slip off." Her infernal curiosity piqued, he attempted to stave off the upcoming flood of questions.

By some stroke of luck, she did not ask what he'd done in the east. Instead, she asked about the weather, the people, the food and traditions he experienced. Together they sat, her eating slowly, listening with rapt attention and making amiable conversation. By the time her head nodded with sleep, he had told her things that would make her dreams would swirl with images of the deserts, bazaars, and people dressed in many-colored robes. He had even told her of his job as an architect, omitting the violence and coercion.

He had gone through agony during his time in Persia. His own dreams were dark, but Christine deserved only the best of his memories, few as they were. That part of his life had ended when he settled in Paris. She didn't know it, but she was his beginning. Erik allowed himself a fond smile as he picked her up and carried her back to the bed.

…

Christine's dreams were not about the foreign land of Persia, but of her old apartment. It was grayer than she remembered, and smelled of ash. She couldn't breathe. Fire all around ate at her, grabbed at her clothes and hair. The wood beneath her feet glowed and shattered into a million tiny embers, and she fell into the darkness-

And bolted upright with a cry, heart thudding. Then the pain from her sudden movement set in and she hissed out a hard breath. When she sucked in air again, and came out in return was an agonized moan. There in the dark, she clutched the pillows around her, shuddering. Fire…and it was burning. In the back of her mind, she knew fire wasn't anywhere near her, and she was being cared for. A stone cave by a river couldn't possibly catch on fire.

More of those blasted tears coursed down her cheeks, stinging her healing wounds. The door opened, and Erik entered with a candle in hand, clad in his evening silks. Christine let out a terrified sound, half-sob, half-scream, and squeezed her eyes shut. She heard him shuffling back. "Erik, wait!" He stopped.

"Please," she sniffled, "don't leave. Don't leave me alone." With a sigh like wind, he came closer to her trembling form. "It's not you- it's the candle. Blow it out, please!" A moment passed. His soft footsteps neared the bedside.

"It is extinguished, Christine. What do you require?" His voice floated over her, soothing her fears, but she still shivered like a spiderweb in a gale. When she opened her eyes and found no light but Erik's gold cat-eyes, she reached out and clutched his arm. He tensed, but she insisted on pulling him closer.

Finding himself very awkwardly leaned over the pillows, he adjusted so he sat on the edge of the mattress. "Would you…" She hesitated. "Would you hold me?" Before she'd finished speaking, his thin arm was around her, simply resting on the surface of her many layers of cotton. Christine felt her breathing slow and her tremors lessen. Erik was warmer than the surrounding chill. It was very nice to be hugged. Even when her eyes closed again in sleep, he kept holding her, bandages and all. After all, she'd never said to release his embrace.

…

When she woke, Erik was nowhere to be seen. She opened her eyes, however, to crumpled sheets beside her: evidence that he'd been there. There was only one candle in the room, recently lit. Her nightmare faded, she pushed herself up from the bed with more ease than before and scooted her legs to the side.

Once her feet touched the floor, she hesitated. Her last attempt to walk had ended in failure, and Erik was upset. Perhaps moving about on the floor was the better option, since there was no risk of falling. But if I never try, I'll never walk. Her legs clenched at the thought. Maybe leaning on the bed would serve me better, she surmised. With some difficulty, she gripped the blankets and let herself lean on the bed frame.

The flush of success washed over her as she limped all the way from one side of the bed to the other, towards the wardrobe in the corner. After eight days of being dressed only in bits of cotton sheets, she decided it was time to put on a bit of real clothing. A robe was better than nothing. Thankfully there was one such robe hung up in the closet, a black one that trailed behind her as she went. It rather looks like one of Erik's capes.

Clutching the grooves in the wall, she moved carefully to the door and pulled it open. Darkness met her eyes, except for one lone flame on the kitchen table. Beneath it was a note. It took some doing, but eventually she made it to the chair and picked up the paper. With a smile, she realized he still wrote in red.

Dear Christine,

I've taken the day to inquire about alternative lighting, since fire doesn't seem to agree with your recovery. An acquaintance of mine, M. Khan, will attend to you today. Perhaps you remember him. Please do not hesitate to tell me should his culinary attempts be unsatisfactory or his behavior untoward in any way. I will return before dinner, so you need not worry. If you feel so inclined, there are dressing gowns in the bureau and books in the trunk under the pianoforte. M. Khan can do the heavy lifting for you.

Yours, as always, Erik.

There was a postscript added to the note, but it had been scratched through, as if he wanted to say more and hesitated. She had no time to think of it, however, because the door opened with a creak, and a rather short man (or was she just used to Erik's towering height?) with olive skin and a cylindrical red cap entered.

He was startled to see her, especially in the dark, wrapped in a black robe, but he recovered quickly and came towards her. Up close, he seemed somewhat familiar, but then she supposed it had been months since she'd last seen him. "M. Khan?

The man nodded and removed his hat, bowing slightly. "And you are Christine Daaé," he stated more than asked. He squinted about over his unhelpful spectacles. "Or at least, I could be sure of that if it were a bit brighter in here. Erik and his infernal night vision has us all groping about in the shadows," he grumbled. This extracted a startled laugh from her. Never had she heard anyone dare speak so familiarly of Erik.

"Well, if it makes you more comfortable you could light a few more of his thousand or so candles," she said, slightly more at ease. This M. Khan struck her as the kindly middle-aged sort, easygoing and pleasant company. How Erik and this man had ever struck up an agreement was a mystery. After all, he had escorted the Vicomte down to the maze under the opera.

M. Khan deftly held one candle to another, spreading a little more light in the room.

She put aside her questions until there were more lighted candles on every surface, which brought the house back to a warm glow. Then, she waited a bit longer at the table, sitting far from the flames, while the man clanked about in the kitchen preparing a simple porridge. Erik is much less clumsy. When he cooks I hear much less banging and rustling.

To occupy herself, she looked about for the kitten Ahmar. The little creature had disappeared into the many layers of shadow about the room. When M. Khan emerged with a bowl of scrap meat mixed with a generous portion of cream, however, she came out of hiding and tackled the meal rather clumsily. The man chuckled and attempted to scratch the cat's head, but was swatted away with unsheathed claws.

"My, my- such a troublemaker!" Christine accepted her bowl from him, and because her fingers were still splinted, gulped the starchy substance directly. Apparently nightmares left her hungry. At last, she was able to ask her burning questions.

"So, M. Khan- how is it that you are in Erik's employ, despite- well, everything?" He knew what events she referred to. He gave a long sigh and set down his spoon.

"I am not in his employ, even if we do exchange a bit of money now and then." He adjusted his glasses with a slight smile.

"Oh! Forgive me, I didn't know," she apologized, ducking her head. The man found some humor in her assumption, however. Christine found she was glad for his casual attitude.

"I don't blame you for asking, though. The stubborn bastard won't admit we're friends after all these years. And please, call me Nadir." At this, her mouth fell open slightly. Not only was M. Khan Erik's direct opposite in terms of disposition, he wasn't at all afraid to speak of him negatively- or was it positively? She wasn't quite sure.

"Er- well, Nadir," she sounded out the unfamiliar name, "I'm afraid I have very little context as to your acquaintance with Erik." Suddenly breakfast was far less interesting.

"Ah, he hasn't talked about me, has he? Suffice it to say we met long ago, under…strange circumstances." Here she noticed a slight lilt to his tone. While his French was near perfect, it was clear that his speech patterns were influenced by a non-Western origin. I wonder…was he the one to teach Erik Persian?

"Strange circumstances? Of what sort?" She tilted her head to the side as she often did, in confusion. "They must have been very strange indeed. Erik doesn't seem the sort to have a friend as straightforward as you." Nadir laughed.

"Erik doesn't seem the sort to have friends, period! But," he said more seriously, "I believe that if Erik wishes to tell you of his circumstances, he will. It is not my place to reveal something he might wish to keep private." He scraped up the last of his gruel and swallowed it. "Now, how would you like to pass the time? A book? A game of cards, perhaps?" Christine acquiesced, but even with Nadir's witty conversation, she couldn't help but wonder. Her Erik had always been her teacher and confidant, but he never told her where he came from or what he did before the opera. With every question the Persian man avoided, two more grew in the back of her mind. Her caretaker would have much to explain upon his return.