How Long Should We Two Wait
"Where did he take her?" Raoul shouted, slamming his good hand on Madame Giry's desk. His bandaged wrist rested in a sling draped around his shoulder and complained after the long carriage ride from the Château. The slam rattled up his arm and registered as a dreadful throbbing. Try as he might, Raoul could not leave Christine to whatever fate she had chosen with him. Visions of the masked demon hurting her filled his waking and sleeping hours.
He holds my soul.
Her words haunted him.
The ballet mistress regarded him through her half moon spectacles with an ironic lift of brow. She waved a piece of paper under his nose.
"Erik has not taken Christine anywhere, Monsieur. Of that I can assure you. Look at the note she left."
Raoul snatched the scrap of paper and hungrily devoured Christine's neat, slanted hand. His stomach dropped with each read word.
"'Madame, don't worry for me. I've gone to see Erik. Pray that I have the courage to say what I must,'" he read aloud.
"Does that answer your question, Monsieur le Vicomte?" There was no hint of mockery in the Madame's voice . . . it was almost gentle. Raoul shook his head as if to clear it. The edges of his vision were blurred, pain throbbed like a second heartbeat in his arm. The truth of it stuck in his throat, filled his mouth with a bitter taste.
"Tell me all you know about him." Damn the quaver in his voice! He wanted to sound calm, authoritative—like Father. But Father was gone and Raoul's courage with him. He sank into one of the Madame's chairs, his legs too weak to hold him.
"Monsieur . . ." Madame cooed, handsome features set in discomfort.
"I have a right to know!" Raoul said. Madame spread her hands, offering an eloquent little shrug.
"Even if I wished to, Monsieur, I could not. He is a very private man." Raoul sneered.
"I imagine so, being a murderer tends to dampen one's social circles." Damn the woman, she was all wide-eyed innocence, the expression augmented by the magnification of her spectacles.
"Murder, Monsieur? That is a very serious accusation." The gentleness was gone from her voice, replaced with something steely with warning, belying the guileless look. Raoul narrowed his eyes. He would find his answers. He had one last card to play.
"I know about Josef Buquet."
If Raoul expected her to capitulate, or babble inane excuses, he was sorely disappointed. Madame Giry's poise was a thing to be reckoned with. The same fierce loyalty as her daughter. Their misbegotten affection for that monster repelled and worried him. At this accusation, Madame Giry simply lifted a brow.
"Oh? What is it that you know?" A muscle in Raoul's jaw fired. Raoul knew he was cornered. In a verbal spar with Madame Giry, he often was. He opened his mouth to confess what Christine told him, when the door opened behind him.
Raoul was gifted with the singular pleasure of hearing Christine's soft laugh, like distilled joy. An answering joy rose in his heart, a big, stupid smile spreading on his face. God, he loved her laugh. He turned, desperately trying to smooth the golden hair that escaped his formal queue, a desperate thought chanting: Please be happy to see me. Please. Please. Raoul found only the hard blue gaze of Erik Rousseau glaring at him from behind a black mask.
XXX
Christine's fingers dug into Erik's forearm, feeling the tension ripple through him. Her emotions roiled through her in successive waves. First was fear, its sharp, cold prickle along her skin for both of her men, infernal as they were. She couldn't bear having them hurt each other. The second was pain at the sight of Raoul's bravery despite the trembling in his limbs. The third was anger.
Oh God, Raoul, why? She thought. Why would he chase after her when she had been so clear as to her wishes, and he had made his anger a wedge to drive them apart? Was her grip to hold Erik back or cling for support?
The silence in the room was leaden, heavy and hot. It seemed to score her lungs. Erik's taut stillness was unsettling. The fine hairs on the back of her neck rose. Her fiancé had become a stranger. The effervescent tang of his energy, so soft and enveloping as they strolled through the Populaire's darkened halls, laughing together at a shared joke had been replaced by something pulsating and dangerous. A panther, all savage power and rippling grace, ready to pounce. Raoul, her erstwhile golden champion, looked pale and wan in comparison to Erik's dark glory.
"Raoul," she breathed, breaking the deadly silence. Raoul's gaze flickered over her and she saw the joy die. Hurt welled up, then she realized just how she must look: hair tousled, nightclothes—already less than conservative—gloriously askew, lips puffed by Erik's kisses—
"You bastard! What have you done to her?" the words burst from Raoul like gunfire, fierce red color flooding his face. His blue eyes snapped and crackled with fury, anger radiating from his lean form. Of all things, Erik laughed. The sound was unbearably beautiful, as was every sound that left his lips, but this was rich with scathing mockery. It was almost an indulgent sound, like a teacher amused by the antics of a precocious student.
"Ah, are we to begin with the tedious accusations again, Monsieur le Vicomte? How very predictable. What is it now? Rape? Assault on Mademoiselle Daae's most delectable person? What would it take to appease you? Sworn statements before witnesses? Or perhaps something a bit more concrete."
With that, he draped Christine's hand over his forearm. Raoul's eyes fell and Christine imagined she could hear his heart breaking as he saw the ring. Something inside her writhed with terrible remorse for being unable to love this wonderful man as he deserved.
"Perhaps you should leave now, Monsieur," Madame Giry suggested, very gently. Raoul jerked free from whatever reverie he'd fallen into and looked dazedly around the ring of faces.
"Yes. Yes, I think I should." His bow was stiff, inclined in Madame's direction. The subtle snub was enough to show the depths of his contempt. He brushed past Christine into the hall.
The tension did not ebb with Raoul's exit, no, it was like a held breath, waiting . . . waiting. The focus had shifted to her. Both her dearest guardians regarded her with something like suspicion and Christine tried not to shrivel under their scrutiny. Erik's eyes were hard, his posture stiff and ringing with tension. It dawned on Christine that they both expected her to run after Raoul, try to mollify him with gentler words. Christine stifled the surge of betrayal with the knowledge that she had been tempted to go after him. Regardless of the depth or timbre of her love for Raoul, she still would go through considerable lengths for his comfort. Christine mustered a wobbling smile for Madame, forcing her feelings for Raoul into a separate place, far from Erik's jealousy.
"Madame, Erik and I have very happy news."
The baited breath exhaled and Erik ducked his head. The gleam of lamplight caught the overbright sheen in his eyes. Christine's heart cramped with a painful rush of love. This dear man, hiding tears of relief that she had chosen him! Her throat closed at all of her thoughtless actions stemming from bewildered hurt.
No more, she vowed to herself. Erik reached out to her, and Christine saw also the timid expectation, as if unsure of his welcome. Christine fitted herself against his side, marveling at his warmth and how she fit, just so. Like she was made for him. Erik's hand cradled her cheek and drew her close for a kiss. Christine melted eagerly into his caress, reveling in his taste. When he pulled away, his grin seized her viscerally.
"I hope you weren't planning on a long engagement, my dear."
Everything would be all right.
This was where she belonged.
XXX
Her voice drew him from his prayers in the evening, before he sought his rest. Devout Muslim that he was, he logged away the particular amalgamation of frustrated affection tinged with reluctant lust that she educed in him for later examination and repentance. Nadir rose to his feet with a faint crackle in his less-than-young knees. He combed his hair from his forehead, damp and cool from his bath.
"Nadir!" The syllables of his name sounded quite exotic and rakish on Minette Giry's lips, he though as he shrugged on a robe and hurried downstairs. Even spoken through a barrage of very rude knocks, like an insistent woodpecker. Nadir threw open the door, catching her mid-knock. The hour was late, and the street dark, and bitterly cold. He could discern nothing of her features, only her shapely silhouette.
"Minette, do come in," he murmured. He ushered her into his study and brightened the lamp in silence, struggling to collect his equanimity.
"To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit, Minette?" he said.
There. Cool, polite. Nevermind that his heart was racing and his blood pooling in embarrassing places. Why was she calling on him in the middle of the night? Surely nothing had befallen the little Daae or Erik! Nadir faced her and the breath rushed from his body at the sight of her flushed cheeks, sparkling eyes, the golden tendrils of hair escaping from her elegant coiffure. At that moment, lust and affection didn't begin to encompass what coursed through him.
Base desire had pestered him on occasion in the long years since his wife's death. When these hungers plagued him, he healed the hurts of his soul and sated the desires of the body in the embrace of a prostitute. But never, in over fifteen years had he felt anything like this. Fluttering heart, sweating palms, a special awareness of her presence, the notes of her scent . . .
Nadir Khan was infatuated with Minette Giry. His wife and son were dust and ghosts, lost to him along with his home and position. There had been a time when Nadir swore he would never again love. But, miracle of miracles, Allah saw fit to soften his callused heart.
Unaware of his epiphany, Minette made a restless circuit of the room, her movements lithe and supple like the dancer she was. Nadir gripped the edge of the desk with white-knuckled hands. Inwardly, he grasped for a shield to these disquieting feelings. She wore a widow's black. The European tradition was to wear the mourner's color for a year. The fact that Minette had worn no other garb in over a decade spoke volumes to how much she loved Pierre Giry. It was impossible for the two of them to find happiness after they lost their great loves.
It had to be.
"You'll never believe what's happened, Nadir! Never! I certainly didn't expect it, not after how they were both carrying on with that infernal Vicomte, but it happened!" Nadir had never seen her more animated, or more beautiful. Nadir shook himself, focusing on her words.
"Erik finally summoned the courage to say his piece, then?" he said, with his usual dry good humor. No trysting, then. Only this bizarre three-cornered way of speaking regarding their shared charges. Nadir hid his mingled relief and disappointment behind a brittle smile. Minette stopped before the bookshelf, joy suffusing her features.
"It was Christine! She marched down to Erik's home and told him how she felt." Nadir nodded, quietly impressed. It had been his longstanding opinion that Christine Daae was an inconstant piece of fluff that didn't deserve the singular gift of Erik's undying love. In this instance, he was quite glad to be proven wrong.
"Erik didn't stand a chance," Nadir chuckled. Minette's closed-lip smile was full of promise and it struck him hard in the chest. Damn these newly awakened emotions!
"No. He didn't stand a chance," she agreed softly.
The moment warmed and stretched, parting into sweet filaments like pulled caramel. Hope rushed through him. Nadir coughed discreetly, distracted momentarily by the leap of her pulse at the base of her throat.
"So they're finally engaged?"
"Yes. Erik wants the ceremony to take place within the week, after Don Juan's premiere." Her hazel eyes softened into tenderness and Nadir was unsure if it was for him or Erik.
"He spoke of having you as his best man."
Islamic marriage practices being what they were, Nadir only had a vague notion of the duties of a 'best man,' but he knew it was a high honor, and, for Erik, an ultimate gesture of trust. Only a privileged few were permitted to look upon his beloved Christine on her wedding day. Unexpectedly, a knot of emotion rose in his throat. Infuriating, blasphemous and mercurial as he was, Erik had a talent for making one feel cherished and valued.
"He will no doubt come to ask you himself, but I wanted to be the one to tell you." There was something in her tone that touched and stirred him, a mixture of shyness and flirtation.
"I'm glad you told me," he said huskily. Again, that delicious warping warmth stretching the moment between them. Were his feelings reciprocated? He dared not voice them and loose her friendship. Nadir shifted from foot to foot, at a loss for what to say.
"So . . . Don Juan? What was Erik thinking?" he said at last.
He moved across the room to the brandy decanter and lifted an inquiring brow. Minette nodded. He could feel her gaze fix upon him as he poured two modest drinks. Her cool hand grazed his as he handed off the drink. A pleasant frisson of warmth rushed through him. Allah, he felt sixteen again! Minette grimaced as she took a sip and Nadir laughed. She was unused to drinking anything stronger than tea.
"Yes. While the ah . . . carnality of the work is repellent, Erik's score is beautiful. And Aminta was made for Christine," Minette said.
Nadir nodded in wholehearted agreement. While Christine's silver-hued voice would no doubt elevate the score, Nadir was certain a lifetime's worth of frustrated lust, unimaginable anger and all the other twisted leavings of a passionate soul and an incomparable intellect existed between the staves of Erik's life work. He was not sure what mad impulse spurred him, but in the next instant, the words were rushing from his lips: "Are you not amenable to a reasonable amount of . . . of carnality, then?"
A rush of blood crept up his neck to color his face and he had to force himself to hold her gaze and not scuttle away like a bashful boy. Minette's eyes flew wide, he saw her grip tighten on her brandy glass. So she had caught the none-too-subtle innuendo couched in his words and tone.
Damned besotted fool! He berated himself. Nadir waited, on tenterhooks for her reply.
"You shock me, Monsieur," she murmured, glancing up at him through the veil of her lashes. Nadir chose to play along with the coquettish gesture and not the face value of her words. A big, stupid smile spread across his face.
"And I believe you quite like it, Madame," he whispered. Her slight smile fell away into an expression of glowing warmth and cautious hope.
Yes, her eyes said. Nadir knew what to do as he cupped her cheek and drew her close. As his lips touched hers, he felt maybe she had been leading him all along.
XXX
The day of Erik's wedding dawned cold and clear, the sky like a shard of blue glass without a wisp of cloud. As Erik looked out into that endless expanse of blue, he knew the first moment of true happiness in his life. Christine, his beloved, his student, the unreachable and mercilessly beautiful goddess he so ardently worshipped, had succumbed to a moment of madness and agreed to be his wife.
Wife.
Was there any word more beautiful in the world's languages, any word more laden with promise?
The ecstasy that propelled him to this cold perch atop the Opera filled his chest, his limbs, tingling in his fingertips. He was willing to throw out his arms and embrace the world that had spurned him for its simple serendipitous miracle of creating Christine. If the humiliation and pain had been part of Fate's design to bring him to her, he blessed it. If she was his, he could bear the wind's caress on his naked face, stare down the sneering men beyond the cage's bars. She made him brave.
The wings of his cape flew behind him under the bracing push of bitterly cold wind. Erik gripped the stone railing, wind-whipped tears leaking from the corners of his eyes.
"Today, I could perhaps entertain the concept of deity, Daroga. For had I not endured the hell of Persia, would I have come here, to heal the wounds of my wanderings in the sanctuary of my childhood?" The notion staggered him. If he had not returned here, they would never have met. A life never knowing Christine? That would have indeed been the very definition of Hell!
"I do not know, Erik," replied his conscience, and today, his best man, "Perhaps you would have returned by a different route. Perhaps Christine would have crossed oceans to find you. Fate is strange." Erik turned to his good-hearted friend, an expansive rush of affection rising in his smile. He tilted his head and regarded Nadir through narrowed eyes.
"Fate. A very European notion, Daroga." Nadir's smile lit his tired face with mischief.
"'Nothing will happen to us except what Allah has decreed for us,'" he quoted.
"'He is our protector.' Ninth surah, fifty first ayah," Erik finished.
"Not bad for an infidel. I thought I would phrase my 'tiresome faith' into more palatable terms on this day, my friend. Bridegrooms are meant to be humored, after all." Erik laughed.
"My thanks," he said dryly, "all is arranged, then?" Nadir nodded.
"Madame Giry found a père to suit your particular need."
"Bribed him, you mean." Yesterday, a surge of bitterness would have washed over him at the thought that no man of the cloth would look upon him with anything but suspicion and revulsion. But that was yesterday. Nadir's dark eyes shone with triumph.
"No, Erik. The pére presides over Mass at the church Minette and Christine regularly attend. It is his delight to marry Christine." Through the gallant defense of another man of faith, Erik scented a deeper meaning to the casual use of Madame's given name. A hot, angry ember sparked to life.
"How touching," he drawled, "Minette, is it, Daroga?" Nadir bore up under Erik's glittering stare as only he could. His careworn face had been handsome in his youth and was now distinguished with grey at his temples and in his mustache. Friend or no, if he had seduced Minette, not even his Allah would be able to save him! Erik swept his cape behind him, glaring at his best man with all the menacing patience of a snake waiting to strike.
"Yes, Erik. Minette and I are—" He moved quite without thinking, lost in a blaze of red. In the next instant, Nadir was dangling from Erik's grip against the stone rump of Pegasus.
"Are what, Daroga?" he enunciated carefully, with a suggestive squeeze. Strong brown hands chopped at Erik's elbows, breaking the hold. Nadir's empurpled face was livid as he coughed and rubbed his throat.
"Damn it all, Erik! Surely you have more trust in me, and in her! She and I are . . . courting. We do not need your permission to do so." Erik snorted, folding his arms over his chest. The seething anger was receding, as it always did, leaving him slightly abashed.
"Forgive me, Daroga. I . . . overreacted," he said softly.
Discomfited, he raked a hand through his hair. Pompous words rose in his throat, lectures on propriety, appeals to Nadir's sense of decorum. Instead, Erik looked out into Paris's skyline and said, "Minette is the only family I have. She rescued me from a Gypsy cage when I was thirteen." Nadir's face was carefully blank, no doubt struggling to internalize this heretofore unprecedented information of Erik's past.
"A . . . cage? And the marks on your back . . ." For the first time, Erik could discern the difference between pity and compassion and he blessed Nadir for it. A bitter smile touched his lips.
"Javert had a worse temper than I and was vindictive as well. I would say he rivaled the khanum in petty cruelty." Prudent and circumspect as he was, Nadir did not offer platitudes or homilies. There were no words to assuage the atrocity his life had been before Christine.
"Treat her well, Nadir. Or you'll have me to answer to." Erik said with all seriousness. Nadir bridged the gap between them with a rare hand on the shoulder.
"I would never dream of treating her otherwise. Now come. While your bride is too gently reared to say anything, as your groomsman, I am allowed to say that your home is in serious need of cleaning."
The next hours saw Erik and his best man in the quiet camaraderie of shared labor as they tidied and organized his home. Their paltry efforts still wouldn't make this rocky home carved from a sewer a fitting bower for the holder of his soul, but it would do for now.
As they worked, Erik recalled Christine's strange request the night before. They had shared their happy news with Minette and accepted her joyful congratulations and the warning of the Vicomte's threat. It wasn't until Madame excused herself to rouse Meg and share the news that Christine turned to him, an expression of pure flirtatious mischief on her sweet features. God, what a stunning creature! He thought. Dazzled, dreamy and dazed, he could have happily floated on pink-tinged clouds for the rest of his life.
'Erik, I have something to ask of you. For a . . . a wedding present.' Her shy tone matched the charming blush staining her cheeks.
I'm mad about you. Because he couldn't stop himself from touching her, he wove their fingers together and pecked a kiss on the back of her hand.
'Name it, my dear and it's yours.' Christine chewed on her lower lip, bringing his attention to her lips and tongue. He remembered the sweet battle of their tongues as they kissed, her wandering hands . . .
'I want you to sing with me tomorrow night. On stage. As Don Juan.' Erik shook himself from his lustful reverie and tried to summon his formerly formidable powers of reason and logic.
'You want me to sing with you?' he repeated slowly, unsure if he had heard her correctly. In the grieving madness of the masquerade ball, he had forced Don Juan into the managers' laps, intending on punishing Christine and the Vicomte and most of all himself for daring to hope, to love. God, was that really only two months ago? It seemed he had lived lifetimes since then. Hopeful expectation shone from Christine's face as she earnestly gripped his hands.
'Oh Erik, it would be so wonderful to sing together, sing your words . . .' she trailed off, lost in dreams. Erik found himself transported along with her. He hated to conjure the boy's ghost, but caution whispered.
'Christine, by now, the boy has probably gone to the gendarmes again and told them of the murder of Buquet.' Christine began to voice her apologies, when Erik stopped her with the simple expedient of a kiss. Soft as a whisper, sweet as honey. He could kiss her forever and never tire of it.
'We'll attend that later, darling. But to appear on stage seems to be an invitation for trouble.' Christine nodded.
'Of course you're right. I would never want to put you in danger.' He could sense her disappointment.
'Maybe I could talk to Ra—him. I—I could explain . . .' Erik stifled the surge of irrational, jealous anger and pecked another kiss on her hand, as if to reaffirm that she had indeed chosen him.
'I fear that wouldn't help, my dear. Regardless of the circumstance, the bo—the Vicomte will not call off his quest for justice for my sake. The Vicomte and I will always dislike one another. We share the misfortune of loving the same woman.' Christine's face twisted into a curious conglomeration of regret and sadness. Earnest brown eyes feverishly clung to his face, vainly searching for a hint of his expression.
'I'm so sorry, Erik. I . . . I didn't want to hurt either of you. If I had only . . .' a charming blush stained her cheeks, 'if I had only had the courage to tell you how much I loved you when you touched me the first time, I would have saved us all grief!'
Animal lust surged through his veins even as the words pierced his heart with joy.
'That long? You loved me that long?' he breathed. A dazzling smile broke on her face.
'I've loved you since I was eight years old.'
Minette arrived with their noon meal, startling him from his reverie. Erik obeyed Christine's insistence on not seeing each other until the ceremony and was desperate for details of her day, her feelings. The hours they'd spent apart since their engagement seemed longer than the twenty-six years he'd spent alone. He sat at Minette's feet, devouring her words as he devoured the simple fare of spread cheese on toasted bread. A sudden thought occurred to him.
"What of a gown, Minette? Can one be procured on such short notice?" Erik demanded. What a bridegroom he was, forgetting such vital details! Minette grinned, wiping a smudge of dirt from his chin.
"Don't worry, Erik. Meg found one in the costume storage that will suit splendidly." Erik persisted, exacting a thorough report of the plans for flowers, rings and setting. Their hasty nuptials would not give his beloved a second of regret, if he had anything to say about it! His home ordered to his exact specifications, Erik found himself with a moment alone as his best man and his fiancée's guardian made their way to the surface, mooning at each other.
He tried not to think about the fact that in a scant handful of hours, he would be returning here with Christine in tow—as his lawfully wedded wife. And . . . and then, together they would sample the joys of the flesh. A joy forever denied him and one he was terrified of being entrusted with. What if he disappointed her? A cold sweat broke on his skin. How could she find him desirable?
This repulsive carcass?
Erik ripped one the covers from a mirror and stared at his naked face and bare chest. He gazed with an artist's intentness, searching out flaws in the stroke of nature's brush. Erik flinched away from the horror of his face, hearing the demons jeer that Christine would go running when she saw it.
His body . . . well, it was nothing special. Too thin, too pale, laced with scars. His hands were adequate, long-fingered and graceful. There was certain breadth of shoulder that was perhaps pleasing, tapering to narrow hips. He winced at the sight of the Vicomte's wound slashing across his belly. Scabbed and on the mend, it was still hideous. Miraculous really, that Christine made the pain a distant memory. The nerves of his body were too busy thrumming all the delicious pleasure messages from Christine's touch to register pain. Erik heaved a sigh, surrendering the effort. The least he could do was honor his bride with a decent wrapping, even if the gift itself was riddled with flaws.
One thing was for certain: every aspect of his lonely, miserable, solitary existence would change.
Tonight.
xxxxxx
A/N: You've all been so patient with the slow build of this fic, how about we get on with it, hmm? I always love the Madame Giry/Daroga plot bunnies. Just seems like it fits.
Love you all. Reviews are appreciated.