As You've Never Lived Before
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Erik tucked Christine into the curve of his body, nuzzling her mane of hair draped across his arm. This beautiful, precious woman, his goddess, she accepted him into her heart and embrace. The familiar burn of shame smoldered in his belly, dissipating the sweet languor of lovemaking and chasing away the lure of sleep. He had run like a coward, run and hidden in the warm safety of the Daroga's study from a truth he didn't want to face. And abandoned his wife.
This slip of a woman who was so essential to his existence, he had left her. Granted, he was unused to anyone of earth craving his presence, or wishing to seek him out to soothe his fractious moods, but still. She had bound herself to him by those sweet heavy bonds of matrimony that he thought forever beyond him.
His vow made in the heat of passion hardened into resolve.
Never again.
He would not leave unless she told him to. He nodded to himself, affirming the decision with a gentle kiss on the back of her neck. The proposed honeymoon in Milan was a pure distraction for them both. The lure of a fresh start, with no ghosts or managers or Comtes haunting them was irresistible. He tried not to think of all of his own ghosts that he carried with him, and had hidden from her. A lie by omission was still a lie, he knew that as well as any man. The Daroga's significant glances weighed on Erik's fragile conscience. His exquisite goddess would not appreciate his deception. A soft sound told him to loosen his grip. He forced the quivering muscles of his forearm to relax and soothed her with a hummed croon.
Christine slipped deeper into sleep, leaving her husband to stare hot-eyed and guilty into the darkness.
Giovanni. Luciana. Persia.
Skeletons that had each cut out a piece of him with their cold, hard bones. He couldn't forget them. They had knit themselves into his psyche.
Erik imagined bloodlessly telling her that she had bound her pristine soul to a reprehensible murderer and couldn't tolerate the betrayal that would color those beloved brown eyes. For some unfathomable reason, Christine adored him. To see that love die would be to see himself die. Yet lying to her was almost as intolerable. Philippe damn his eyes de Chagny had tidily dispelled any illusion Erik had had about wallowing in the joys of marriage without a thought for tomorrow. Fate and God conspired against him in this. As ever.
It was only as night softened into the grey of dawn that it struck him where they were. His soft laugh woke his sleeping angel. She purred and stretched, turning in his embrace and gifting him with a singularly sweet smile. Her gaze flickered over his mask, then settled on his mouth.
"What a wonderful way to awake, my love, to the sound of your laugher," she breathed, blinking slowly as her sleep-warm hand stroked his cheek. The nerves accepted Christine's ministrations with shivery joy.
"Well, if it pleases you, I shall endeavor to make it so every morning," he purred. Joy danced in her eyes.
"No, not every morning. Wouldn't want to lose the novelty of it."
Erik snorted and pressed his lips to hers. So decadent and sumptuous was that plump lower lip, as was the delicate bowed shape of the upper closing over his own, offering the sweet, hidden delights of her mouth and tongue. He slid his out in a tentative flick of greeting. Her soft sigh spoke of welcome, something so blessedly beautiful to him that he fought tears every time she made it. Gently, he broke contact and smiled.
"I sincerely hope that we did not wake the ladies Giry with our . . . activities last night." The expression of mingled shock and mortification that graced her features drew another laugh from him. She swatted his shoulder.
"Erik, you beastly man! Why didn't you stop me? Oh God, if they heard us-" with an embarrassed squeal, Christine buried her burning face in his chest.
"If I recall correctly, my angel, you were the instigator of our relations last night. To refuse you is beyond my capabilities," he purred, stroking her impossible hair. The temptation to continue this light-hearted teasing was too much to resist.
"And as I recall, you were . . . especially vocal when I-"
"Not another word, Erik Rousseau!" Christine hissed, plucking a few of his chest hairs.
"Ow!" Erik yelped, rubbing the spot, a large, stupid grin on his face. Mischief glowed in her eyes.
"Never fear, love. The ladies Giry are much too well-mannered to mention our indiscretion, even if they did hear us," he soothed, then impishly added, "Meg might wish to sleep elsewhere for a time, though."
Christine groaned.
"Oh poor Meg!" she cried, nestling into the curve of his body with a soft sigh.
Weak sunlight began its slow crawl along the carpet. Erik begrudged the dawn its light, wishing they were in the cool timeless darkness of his home where he could hold her to his heart's content.
"Come, love. We must rise." Christine murmured her assent and they braved the chill of the room as they rooted for various articles of clothing.
In the sitting room, Minette resided over a modest meal, demurely sipping tea with her cane leaning against her knee. The smell of porridge and fresh tea made Erik's stomach cramp with hunger. His wife's amorous attentions roused quite the appetite.
"Good morning, Minette," Erik said warmly. Minette's hazel eyes grazed dismissively over Erik and fixed on Christine. Erik accepted her subtle censure with grace, he deserved as much for leaving so ignominiously.
"Good morning, Monsieur and Madame Rousseau. I trust you rested well?" though the tone was cool and polite, Erik caught the fugitive gleam of amusement in her eyes. Christine flushed and stammered under her beloved guardian's cool regard.
"It was . . . I mean . . . we . . . Where is Meg?" Christine said at last. Now it was clear Minette was hiding a smile as she took a decorous sip.
"Her fiancé the Baron arrived this morning. They have gone to begin planning the details of the wedding." Having sidestepped any embarrassing commentary, Christine settled on the couch beside Minette and began dividing portions. Erik's heart swelled as she so casually appropriated him a plate. It seemed like such a domestic, wifely gesture that left him feeling cosseted and cherished.
"Planning a wedding? However are they managing that? Meg told me that the Baron has no money," Christine said, frowning as she handed Erik his tea. Minette glanced sidelong at Erik and he hid his own smile in his teacup. Christine was a dab hand with lemon; the tea was perfect with no unpalatable pulp or seeds.
"The Baron, it seems, has recently come into a large sum of money. A distant relative willed him enough to see the both of them comfortable."
"Quite wealthy if the Baron has any sense to invest," Erik added with practiced nonchalance. One of Christine's fine dark brows rose. She cast a wary glance between Minette and Erik and a smile bloomed across her features.
"A distant relative, hmm? And what was this relative's name? Monsieur Spӧke?" Erik snorted into his tea, both at Christine's acumen and Minette's bewildered glance.
"Something of the sort, my love," Erik replied in Swedish. The shining look Christine bestowed on him was worth every franc.
Talk ranged amiably over Meg's upcoming nuptials—planned for June, during a furlough at the Opera and would it be possible for the newlyweds to avail themselves to the manor for a short time?—and danced uneasily around Philippe's de Chagny's paradigm-altering visit, before at last alighting on their impromptu visit to Milan.
"Milan? An interview at La Scala? Now?" the words emerged from Minette in an odd staccato, a vexing expression falling over her features. Concern filled Erik.
"Yes, Minette. Is there something I am unaware of? Do you require my assistance?" he asked, leaning forward on the opposite settee, the cushions groaning under him. Trepidation filled him at the thought of another devastating admission. Minette's careworn face softened.
"No, Erik. Nothing is amiss. It's just that . . ." Christine's hand alighted on Minette's shoulder.
"What is it Madame?" she asked gently.
Minette looked from Christine's wide, concerned eyes to Erik's and a single tear eked past her iron will and slipped down her cheek before she dashed it away. Erik rose and settled on Minette's opposite side. In all the years he had known her, he could count on one hand how many times he had seen her weep. Something was amiss. She reached out toward them and both Erik and his wife clasped Minette's cool, strong hands, the same hands that had nurtured and soothed and scolded them through their formative years. She gave Christine a watery smile.
"It's just happening so fast . . . it seems only yesterday that I brought you here as a child. You grew up when I wasn't looking! Grown and mature and wed."
"Oh Madame . . ." Christine crooned, at a loss of what to say. Minette turned to Erik and squeezed his captive hand.
"And Erik . . . you've always been like a bird with a broken wing. I knew one day you'd fly away and never come back. But I thought . . ." she bit her lip, drawing Christine close, "I thought with her here, you would stay!"
"Minette," Erik chose the gentlest tones to inflect, the layers of warm milk and thistle down, weaving in an echo of brotherly tenderness. He cupped her cheek in a rare physical gesture between them.
"Whatever claim the de Chagny men make upon me, in my heart you are the only family I've ever had. You are my sister in the only way that matters." Before Minette could slither into a sobbing heap, Erik added dryly, "Besides, you silly woman, it's not as if we are moving away; we will return in a matter of weeks." Minette sniffed bravely, smiling through her tears.
"You always come back." He felt the warm weight of Christine's gaze, and the forgiveness there.
"You always come back," she repeated.
XXX
Christine threaded her arm through her husband's, relishing the deep sense of pleasure it afforded as they made their way along the train platform. Erik laid a possessive hand on her wrist, eyes shining. The wind ruffled his black hair, catching an odd silver strand. In the harsh daylight, the faint lines on his beloved face were more apparent. He was no less beautiful to her.
The platform was abuzz with activity, the titanic black iron of the train looming, its shrill whistle piercing the air and clouding the clear blue sky with its coal black smoke. The babble of voices rose and fell around them in a sea of sound.
Christine's eye darted this way and that in a vain attempt to take it all in. Christine only left the sheltering walls of the Opera for Mass or the occasional countryside visit with Madame and Meg. Never had she ventured beyond Paris since she was eight. A sharp-edged memory pierced her of her rootless childhood with her father. Her Papa was a fine musician, but Sweden held no joy for him with his wife gone.
So together, they had ranged far abroad, singing for their supper. Though her beloved Papa tried to shield her from the harsher realities of life with his tales and songs, Christine could still remember nights she'd spent hungry and cold. Christine clung tighter to Erik's arm, buoyed by the fission of excitement in their venture. She was young and in love and so happy she sometimes thought she would float into the clouds. That was enough.
But, as it so often did, life intruded upon her innocent happiness. More than once, Christine saw a pair of eyes linger on Erik, followed by furtive whispers. Slack-jawed children gaped, clutching their mother's skirts. A fine tremor shivered through Erik and Christine bit her lip, hating them for spoiling this perfect day with their prejudice. Erik's impetus to retreat underground away from prying eyes made perfect sense to her. She shared the same urge. The sacred quiet and cold stillness felt so safe. She wanted so much to gather him close and protect him from those cold, burning and pointing fingers. The conductor's shivering fear and obvious concern for Christine's safety as Erik bought their tickets darkened his already bleak mood.
"Maman! Maman! Look, a bandit! Shouldn't he be at the fair?" a child shouted shrilly. A barely discernible huff of breath left Erik.
"Angel," she murmured, pulling him to a stop and cupping the rigid strength of his clenched jaw. His grey-blue eyes were stormy, lines carved deep around his unsmiling mouth.
"It doesn't matter. I'm here. I don't care. I don't care," she crooned, pecking several small kisses along the flat line of his lower lip. He melted under her touch, clutching her shoulders for dear life. The whistle pierced the air and they broke apart.
Time to leave.
"Oh Erik! Who will care for César while we are away? I'm sure Madame is much too busy, and she doesn't particularly care for horses. She thinks they're-"
"Clumsy, malodorous and coarse. I believe this opinion stems from a stage pony leaving a gift for her on stage when she was the prima ballerina. A gift that she had smeared all over her new slippers," Erik drawled, his voice slightly muffled as he yanked his shirt over his head. Christine giggled.
Their car was situated near the engine and the pitch and heave of the churning steam engine was muted to a pleasant vibration beneath their feet.
"She never told me that!" she said, watching him in the age-clouded mirror of their car's cramped lavatory as she washed with the aid of ewer and basin. Her eye wandered over the broad, meaty curves of his shoulders bathed in the milky light of a frosted lamp, admiring the shadow's play on the sinews in his neck that she so loved to bite . . . The smile that graced his lips was thin and distracted.
"Ah yes. She avoids them like the plague now. Never fear, my love. I left César in the Daroga's capable hands. I daresay César will enjoy himself. The Daroga has found several very fine mares for César to stand at stud. With any luck, we shall have a foal or two come spring."
As he spoke, Erik scrubbed a soaped cloth underneath his arms and across his chest. The dining car had been abominably hot, the food a congealed mess and the company additionally atrocious. Pointed stares and whispers abounding. As a result, the pair of them returned from supper flushed, sticky and irritable. Their car's windows were opened as much as possible to let in the night's bracingly cold air.
"That is wonderful," Christine murmured, finishing her ablutions and tying the knot in her deep blue robe.
"When I was a child, before we left Sweden, Papa bought me a pony for my sixth birthday. I named her Sugar Lump. That was her favorite treat. Lumpy was such a fine pony." Erik's visible brow arched.
"Lumpy?" he repeated, his silken voice tasting the word like a sweet morsel. Christine ducked her head, smoothing a lock of her unruly hair. Her mane of curls did not agree with the heat either, and was doing its level best to stand on end.
"I was six. Papa always indulged me." Erik's finger curled beneath her chin, drawing her gaze level with his.
"It was not my intention to mock you, love. Tell me about . . . Lumpy." Christine nuzzled his hand and sank onto the padded bench along one wall.
The constant motion of the rail took some adjustment; Christine felt the jellied mess of the coq au vin liquefy in her heaving stomach. Erik slid gracefully to his knees, clasping her hands.
"Are you feeling unwell, Christine?" she managed a weak smile. She must look like quite the mess. She bid the thought of lovemaking a fond farewell.
"I'll be fine. A bit nauseous is all." Erik hummed a sympathetic noise. She groped for the thread of the story to steady her.
"We had many adventures, Lumpy and I. At one point, I even dreamed she was my mother and I had been trapped on two legs by an evil spell. My beautiful flowing mane was now an ugly mop and my strong forelegs were replaced with flimsy hands."
"I love your hair," Erik murmured, turning her palm over and dropping a warm kiss on the center of her palm, then the inside of her wrist, "your hands too." Christine stifled a discreet shudder at his casual purring.
"Did you ever pretend that way?" she asked, mesmerized by the damp, velvety caress of his lips on the delicate skin of her wrist. He paused his determined worship of her wrist and looked up at her. This smile was stiff and sad. A large, warm hand cupped her cheek. She nestled against it, steeling herself for another of Erik's heartbreaking stories.
"Christine, before you, my life was . . . difficult. My stories do not have happy endings." Humor darted across his expression, fleeting and precious.
"I would much rather hear of your adventures with Lumpy." Christine snorted.
"I won't press you, Erik. I couldn't stand to be another one of those people, staring and poking and prodding at you. But . . . but I want so much to know more about you. Warts and all." He surged close and kissed her.
"You are different just being who you are. I will tell everything you wish to know. Later."
The next kiss found her smiling lips and Christine floated, fell into his embrace.
xxxxxxx
A/N: Sorry the update took so long, my dear readers! College work and impending finals suck all the creative juices out of me.
(Spӧke is Swedish for 'Ghost')