Humbled, humiliated, and terrified, Christine paced up and down the length of the hospital waiting room. So much of the afternoon had been a blur, and she didn't think much of the irony that her mother was with her here in the same building, lying half-dead in a coma somewhere in one of the many rooms that lined each long hallway. Christine had never wanted to visit her. She felt that she had sacrificed enough of herself already for that woman; her only concession to any family tie had been paying for her mother's care.

It's what her father would have done.

As she waited, she gave her mother hardly a thought at all; her only concern was for Erik, who had arrived far ahead of her by ambulance, and was now in surgery. Christine had been with him when he'd been caught in the crossfire, it was Erik who had appeared from nowhere to protect her. There was no doubt in her mind that had it not been for Erik, she would be lying in the hospital morgue, rather than pacing the waiting room.

"You should sit down, let me get you something to drink,"

Christine turned to Philippe, vaguely aware that he'd been with her the entire time. It had been he that had driven her to the hospital, after all. She was wearing his sweater. "No. I don't want anything."

Only Erik. Christine didn't say it, but the words were hanging in the air between them.

Philippe lowered his head, understanding. "I didn't think you would. I'm sorry, Christine. This is all my fault. I never should have-"

Christine rounded on him, all of the stress and fear finally catching up to her. She lunged at him, clawing at his shirt and struggling against his hands when he caught her shoulders. "You're right, you shouldn't have! So why did you? Did you want to see me like all the rest of them? Was that it?" Christine tried to pull away from him, but Philippe held on, even as she tried to hit him and dissolved into tears. "Erik could be dying in there because of you! If you hadn't asked for me…"

Philippe held Christine against him as she cried, overwhelmed and completely overcome. He couldn't blame her. Already he was wracked with guilt, sick with fear that the man Christine loved could be dying or very well dead because of his ignorance.

Like his younger brother, Philippe had the unfortunate habit of being in the wrong place at the wrong time, for in essence, if Philippe had stayed away from the club as he should have done, none of this would be happening. Likely, Erik and Christine would be out celebrating the club's foreclosure and ultimate downfall, but it was because of him that they were here in the hospital with Erik on the operating table and Raoul on his way to join them.

Philippe held Christine, even as she continued to struggle against him, and he accepted all the blame.

News traveled fast, especially among friends. Christine sat across from Tawny in the waiting room. The other girl sat beside Philippe, appearing uncomfortable and very nervous. Christine tried to ignore her, she didn't want to see anything that reminded her of the club. She felt sick from worry. Still, try as she might, Tawny's very presence called for attention.

I'm here if you need to talk, was the message in her soft eyes, but Christine felt disgusted.

She didn't want to talk. She was exhausted from anger and shame, the guilt of knowing that Erik had been hurt for protecting her. The people surrounding her were curious; the constant secrecy from the world that existed outside of her and Erik put an ache in her heart, but now was not the time to divulge her connection with him, or the arrangement she'd had with the police force working the narcotics investigation.

All Christine wanted was to be told that Erik was perfectly fine, with barely a scratch on him, and he would walk out of the hospital with a clean bill of health.

Christine looked down into the hands that were resting on her lap.

No.

Dark stains of blood marked her palms. Erik's blood. Her hands had been covered in it when she'd pulled him into a corner on the floor with her, out of the crossfire. Christine swallowed painfully. Tears stung her eyes. Her hands shook as she recalled the expression on Erik's face when he'd looked up at her. "What are you doing?" He'd rasped. "You weren't supposed to be here…"

He'd reached up to touch her face, but his eyes had rolled back and his body had gone limp. Christine had screamed for help, and in her panic it had seemed hours before the medics pushed their way into the room and forced her from his side.

Now, here she was, waiting and ready to hear the fate of Erik Latour. The man she realized she loved more than life itself.

Hours passed.

Raoul had been the first to arrive, both anxious over Erik and relieved that Christine was unharmed.

If he only knew.

Claudette strode into the hospital waiting room, cool and confident as ever; she seemed uneffected, unyeilding to the possibility that Erik might not walk away from these injuries as he had from others in the past. The idea of Erik's death simply did not occur. The French redhead simply entered the room, assessed everyone assembled there, and moved to approach a passing nurse.

Her words were subtle, but her meaning was clear. She wanted an immediate update on the status of Monsieur Latour and she would have it.

Others came after Claudette- an older man wearing a white labcoat, of all things, and several of the dancers that Christine remembered from the opera house. Even in their worry over Erik, their 'beloved maestro', they were unified and beautiful. Sychronized tears of grief.

Christine sat, huddled into her plain plastic chair, with Raoul on one side holding her hand, and Philippe on the other. Her leg was shaking, her stomach twisting. Christine's skin felt clammy, the frustration of not knowing was slowly driving her insane.

Erik had protected her and she had done her best to protect him, but she had failed, and he'd been terribly hurt. Shot, caught in the crossfire of thugs and agents. Her man had gone down, one among many earlier that evening.

Christine moved to check her watch, and blanched to find that the face of it was dark with Erik's blood from hours before. She struggled out of her chair and ran for the nearest restroom, ignoring Raoul's call after her.

She made it to the sink, her hands shaking and her stomach tight.

Oh, God, please, please let Erik walk away from this. He's never done anything to deserve this, he was only trying to help. Please, don't let him die after trying to help me…oh, Erik, how could I have let this happen?

Christine could hear herself sobbing, her cries echoing off the polished tiles, but she didn't care. She cried for Erik and herself, for everything she hadn't told him, for what might have been and for what may never be.

"Christine,"

Glancing up, she saw Claudette's striking form in the mirror. Christine turned to face her, swiping at her tears like a child in a desperate show of pride. "Sorry…what is it?"

Claudette moved toward her and took Christine up into her arms. It had been a very long time since Christine had been held by a friend, and a woman's hold was much different than a man's. Erik's embrace was so often reassuring and strong, while Claudette held her only to offer a bit of comfort and calm.

Claudette genuinely adored Christine, and it hurt her to see the younger woman in such obvious anguish. The girl's cries had spurred her into action, demanding answers from nurses, and electing herself to bear Christine the news. She took a deep breath before lowering her head to Christine's ear. "Christine. Stop this crying, you can do no good for him like this, cowering at the sink. You must be patient for him. Strong. Erik needs you to believe in him now. That man loves you, he told me this many times. Believe he will pull through this, and he will. For you, he will."

Claudette's words were strong, and her voice was steady. Christine pulled back to see the steely strength of her friend's bright jade eyes. Claudette gripped her shoulders. "Do you believe Erik will make it through this or not?" She demanded, shaking her.

Christine found her voice, surprised that it came out just as strong as her own. "I know he will."

"That's the last one, stitch him up,"

"Close call, he's lost so much blood…very healthy, very strong…"

"Could have been paralyzed, or died, if it had come any closer,"

"Will need plenty of rest, I've just started him on a morphine drip, it will put him out for hours…"

Distantly, he could hear voices. No. Echoes of voices, but none he could recognize. Erik felt buried in his own mind, smothered under a cloud of numbing gray. He could not see, or speak, or move.

He wondered if he had died.

Christine.

He remembered seeing her on the other side of the mirrored walls, nearly naked, being pushed and pulled by a man, she had been in danger…had that been real, or part of his dream? He recalled her face above his, her eyes bright with tears, her hands covered in blood. She had seemed very afraid for him. What had happened?

The club. She wasn't supposed to be there, he'd told her to stay home, to stay safe in his loft…

Erik felt exhausted, his thoughts were only turning him in circles, and he had not the strength to chase down every stray detail of his memory.

He felt unaware of his physical body, and as morphine began to flow through his veins, Erik quickly became unaware of everything else.

"Erik, I'm so sorry…I don't know how it came to this, but it's my fault."

Christine sat beside his bed, her guilt cutting her inside. Erik was there, motionless, breathing quietly in the dim room. He had lost his mask somewhere in the shooting- it was a rare opportunity to absorb the sight of him unmasked, but Christine didn't give his scars a thought. For her shame, she couldn't see them, she could only see Erik, laying so pale and damaged before her.

It had been Claudette that had directed the nurse to her, stating that Christine was Erik's woman, and deserved to see him first.

The nurses informed her that Erik had been shot several times- mostly minor wounds that, after being cleansed and stitched, would heal on their own. More scars to mar his body, reminders of what he'd endured for Christine.

There had been one bullet, one shot that had very nearly reached its mark. Half an inch to the left, perhaps an inch deeper, and Erik's heart will not only have stopped- it would have been destroyed completely.

His eyes were moving as he slept, she could see his lashes moving back and forth. She inched closer to him, cupping his face, stroking his hair. "Erik," she whispered to him. "I love you- God, I love you so much...I'm sorry about before, that I didn't kiss you or make love with you. Wake up, Erik, pull through this and I'm yours, for as long as you want me."

She moved even closer to him, kissing his cheeks, and then his lips. Her own heart was thundering in her ears, each beat pounding love for him, only for him. Everything she'd been holding back from him came over her in a rush, breaking down her careful defenses, renewing the strength of self that she'd lost over the past year.

Christine glanced down and took his hand into hers, gripping him fiercely, lending her strength to him. "You will come out of this, Erik. I know you can hear me. When you wake up, I'll be right here, waiting for you."

Christine smiled for the first time that day as she felt his hand tighten over her own.