He fell asleep not long after that. Whether he actually went to sleep or passed out, she wasn't sure, but seeing him so relaxed was good. For a few more minutes, she simply sat there, a hand on his chest, feeling him breathe in and out. Happy tears were slipping down her cheeks, and she couldn't help but continue to smile a little. After all this time, all those long months of torture, and he was before her. There were still so many questions and so many problems, but she was content to let them be for a while. Instead, she focused on him, on the fact that he was breathing and alive—not as well as she would have liked, but alive, which was much better than she had thought.

After a moment, she rubbed his bony chest gently and then stood, stretching and looking around. Cleaning his house would take a while, and she would have to return aboveground soon to get things like fresh groceries and clean clothes and linens for him. It was a good feeling—to be able to take care of him in some small way. He had always taken care of her, provided for her and protected her, but for now, she wanted to take care of him.

Frowning and wrinkling her nose, she gathered up all the liquor bottles and poured all the contents down the sink. The last thing he needed was alcohol. Then she gathered up all the empty bottles and other debris from his room, working quietly and quickly. She piled the dirty laundry by the front door, hoping she could salvage some if it with a good washing.

When his bedroom was somewhat tidy, she moved on to the other rooms. The kitchen was trashed as well. Smashed cups, bowls, and plates littered the floor and countertops. Whether they had been broken on accident or on purpose, she couldn't tell, and she didn't want to know. She cleaned everything as best she could, found nothing in the fridge but sour milk and moldy cheese, and then went to clean his front room.

The piano was in a sorry state, and she wiped it down thoroughly, cleaning all the little crevices between the keys, trying to return it to its original luster. His violin was also thickly coated with dust, and it nearly broke her heart to see how neglected his beloved instruments had become. As she was wiping down the violin, she glanced over and saw, with shock, that the eternally-closed door was slightly ajar. It was too dark to see what was inside, and she took a few hurried steps over toward it, stretching a hand out to push open the door further. But as her fingertips brushed the wood, she paused and let her arm fall. Whatever was in there, she wanted Erik to tell her first. She wanted to talk to him about it before she went barging in. Perhaps there would be things she would not understand—things that would frighten her without Erik's explanation. So she gently closed it and returned to her chores.

The house soon looked clean, but it still had a cold, unused feeling to it, and it was still dim. The only thing that kept her from being scared was the knowledge that Erik was in the bedroom. She couldn't resist running over occasionally to peer into it and ensure that he was still there.

At long last, she had done all she could, and she returned to the bedroom, her lower back beginning to ache from bending over so many times to pick things up. Erik was quiet still, sleeping deeply, and she looked at his face, her stomach clenched slightly. The blood on it made her feel queasy, so she gathered a bowl of warm water and the cleanest towel she could find. She sat on the bed beside him and took a deep breath, deliberately staring at his face.

"This is just his face," she said quietly, dipping the towel into the water with shaking fingers. "This is just his face—Erik's face. This is what he is. That's all."

Still, it took many more minutes of just watching him before she felt brave enough to take the damp towel out of the water and press it against his hollow cheek.

"It's okay," she whispered to herself. "It's just Erik."

With deep breaths and long pauses, she cleaned up the clotted blood, ensuring that she was looking at him the whole time. When he was clean, she felt exhausted and exhilarated. His face hadn't gotten any better—it was still horrific—but she was able to look, and that tight feeling in her chest had lessened.

She was worried that the cuts would become infected, but she had no idea where any antibiotic ointment was located, and since everything in his bathroom medicine cabinet was unmarked, she wouldn't take the risk of putting some unknown cream onto his cheeks. So she simply hoped that cleaning him up was the best thing she could do for him.

With nothing more to do except wait for him to wake up, she took one of his clammy hands between her own and held it, stroking the protruding knuckles and knotted blue veins and watching him, silently willing him to wake up and see her and realize that she was there. But the minutes passed, and he continued to sleep. She was tired as well, having been up all night, and so she carefully curled up in an empty spot on the bed, keeping one of her hands on his and letting her eyes close.

Before she had realized she had fallen asleep, she was startled awake, and she sat up groggily, peering through the bedroom. Erik was still sleeping, and she blinked in confusion, unsure of why she had woken up. Then she heard it again—the sound of a door closing. Knowing now why she was awake, she crept off the bed, padding over to the door and peering out, her heart thumping loudly in her chest. Erik was vulnerable and virtually helpless, and she was always so weak and afraid. Still, she was prepared to defend him—fight anything for him and to keep him safe, and so she looked out, afraid and determined.

To her complete alarm, it was Mr. Khan, and he was looking around in apparent confusion. Her heart leapt to her throat, and she exited the bedroom, closing the door behind her so her conversation wouldn't travel and wake up Erik.

For his part, Mr. Khan looked equally astonished to see her, and they simply stared at each other. Then a deep scowl formed on Christine's face, and she folded her arms.

"What do you think you're doing here?" she demanded. The thoughts of all the things she had planned on doing to him if she ever saw him again flashed through her mind.

He looked around at the house again, seemingly stunned. "I…" he said slowly, pulling off his heavy coat and setting it on the couch. "This is the last place…I thought I'd see you…"

"Funny," she snapped. "I was going to say the same thing about you."

An expression of guilt crossed his face. "Yes, I'm sure," he said, moving into the room. "This must all seem very confusing for you."

"Usually I didn't think people who shot other people were allowed to come into their houses," Christine said, bitter and angry. "Or maybe you have your own rules here."

Mr. Khan held his hands up in the air, a gesture of defense. "There's no need to be snappy," he said. "If you calm down I'll explain it all to you."

She plopped down on the couch, crossing her legs and continuing to glare. "Go ahead."

"I…" He hesitated, and then he said, "I did what was best for everyone."

She almost laughed out loud, still feeling incredibly sour toward him. "Really?"

"Yes," he said firmly. "Erik had gotten out of control. He needed to be stopped."

"Well, you certainly stopped him!" she said, sounding shrill. "Two bullets did the trick!"

"I wanted you to have a choice," Mr. Khan said, sounding annoyed at her sarcasm and bitterness.

"You didn't give me one!" she said. "You just tricked me and carted me away."

"I know—I know," he said. "I did things that I shouldn't have, but I did it for you. You didn't deserve that life Erik would have forced you into…And he agrees."

"What?" In that moment, all of her purposefully-rude manners were forgotten. "What do you mean?"

"Erik understands why I did what I did," Mr. Khan said. "Even though he isn't exactly…happy with what happened, he knows that it had to be done."

"Wait. You're saying that he's okay with the fact that you shot him?" she said disbelievingly.

"Maybe not the shooting part," Mr. Khan said, having the nerve to smile a little. "But he knows that my hand was forced. I couldn't let him do that to you, and now, neither can he."

"I don't understand," she said plainly.

Mr. Khan sighed, rubbing his face and sitting in Erik's large armchair. Then he seemed to realize where he was sitting, for he quickly stood. He faced her and said, "I had to get you out any way I could, and time was essential. Erik had become unreachable. He wouldn't listen to reason. I was afraid he was going to do something to you that would be unforgivable—something he would realize and regret later. He has…problems with things like that. He becomes so caught up in the moment, so fixed on something, that he doesn't understand the damage he does until much later."

She stared at Mr. Khan, feeling hollow and afraid. "Did you think he was going to…?" The question hung in the air, unfinished. She didn't want to say it.

Mr. Khan understood. "I'm sure Raoul de Chagny told you about Erik's stint in an Iranian prison."

"Yeah—but Erik wouldn't…I mean, he didn't…? He wouldn't do that to me."

"I don't know," Mr. Khan said. "He was going to force you to marry him…Forceful…um, consummation seemed like the next logical step for him, but we can never be sure. I'm not sure if even Erik remembers what he had intended for that night."

"Well, maybe he wasn't going to force me to marry him, then," she said.

He shook his head. "Erik has openly admitted that he was going to, even if you tried to refuse."

She sat for a minute, absorbing it all, her heart pounding loudly. "So—but it didn't happen. You and Raoul made sure it didn't. I mean…you almost killed Erik. That was…overreacting, don't you think?"

Mr. Khan sighed a little. "Not then. I wasn't planning on using my gun, but obviously I had to. I've told you before—Erik would not listen to reason. He was completely fixated on the idea of marrying you…I doubt he would have listened even to you."

She swallowed, finding a lump in her throat. "But he's alive."

"Yes," Mr. Khan said. "Miraculously. It's only thanks to a doctor friend of mine who owed me a favor. I don't know how I got so lucky—the first bullet went into his leg and the second didn't hit any major organs. Even though I shot him, I didn't…I didn't want him to die. I really didn't."

It was all so hard for her to comprehend. The friendship between Erik and Mr. Khan was more complex than she would ever be able to understand. Somehow…Mr. Khan still felt comfortable enough to visit Erik's house after he had shot him twice.

"It was a painful recovery," Mr. Khan continued. "He…wanted you to come back, but I wouldn't allow it to happen, and he wasn't in any real position to threaten me. He'd say your name over and over while on medication. It made him…delirious, and he'd just lie there, staring as if you were there and saying your name."

Her heart gave a painful tug.

"After a couple months, he finally knew what he had done, and he stopped talking about you. In fact, he hasn't mentioned you once since. Maybe it is too painful. I don't know. But he hasn't asked about you anymore."

Tears pricked at her eyes, and she rubbed them impatiently, too overcome with questions to cry.

"But…what are you doing here?" Mr. Khan then asked at last. "I thought you'd be out of the state—out of the country, even—and married to Raoul de Chagny."

She shook her head quickly. "No, I couldn't. We're not together—we don't live together or even really see each other anymore. It was…too hard. For me. And it wasn't fair to him."

"It's been almost six months," Mr. Khan said. "Why have you come now?"

"I know," Christine said. "I couldn't bear the thought of coming back here, but I don't know why I did tonight. It just sort of…happened. It wasn't planned. I didn't ever plan on coming back, not when I thought he was de—gone." She looked around the house again, dim and cold. "It doesn't look like he's taken very good care of himself."

Mr. Khan shook his head, going over to his coat and pulling a pill bottle out of the pocket. "Not particularly." He sighed a little and set it on the end table before picking up his coat and putting it back on. "Well, come on. I'll show you the way back up if you need me to."

She frowned deeply. "What?"

"I said I will show you the way back up. If you need me to walk you home, I will. It's dark and very cold up there."

"I'm not going anywhere," she said blankly. "I'm here…to stay."

Mr. Khan paused, looking at her, his eyes growing wider. "No," he said. "I can't—you shouldn't. It was very kind of you to check back up on him, but perhaps it's best you leave now, while he's asleep and can't stop you."

"He's alive," she said, as if he didn't know that. "He's alive! I've spent six months thinking the worst. I'm not leaving now."

The familiar expression of worried, tired exasperation crossed over his face. "Christine," he began calmly. "You have no obligation to him. You don't owe him anything. It was generous enough of you to come back to see him once more, but you can't be serious about staying here. Erik may feel remorseful for what he put you through, but it hasn't changed him. He's still very damaged and incredibly unstable. In fact, he might not…" He trailed off, looking over toward the closed bedroom door.

"Might not what?" she prompted.

He shook his head again. "Never mind," he said. "But there's nothing for you down here. He didn't come after you because he wanted you to have a real life. Don't throw it back at him. If you said you were staying and then left again, you would really kill him."

What Mr. Khan said was undoubtedly true. Her heart pounded loudly in her chest—another moment of truth. Did she really care about Erik enough to stay here? To endure his moods and his flaws and the knowledge of all of the awful things he'd done?

But she thought of the crushing depression she had been in and how it had somehow lifted right off her shoulders the instant she had heard his voice. She remembered the literal tears of joy and the warmth pulsating through her veins as she saw him and helped him into his bed. Yes. It would be enough.

"I'm staying," she repeated firmly. "Like you said, I deserve a life, and I'm going to choose what to do with it. So I'm going to stay here."

"You still don't understand," Mr. Khan snapped, growing angry for the first time in their conversation. "Erik wouldn't be able to handle it if you left again. You would kill him. In a couple weeks—months, maybe—you will realize what you've chosen, and you'll leave. Then I will be left to try to clean up the mess and have to sit and watch him die."

Then she saw it—Mr. Khan didn't want her to stay because he really did not want Erik to die. It was incredibly touching, somehow. He was trying to do this for Erik, not for her. And then she realized that she hadn't left a good impression on Mr. Khan—all of their whispered conversations and her always saying how much Erik scared her. Mr. Khan didn't believe her. He was convinced that she would leave. But she was afraid that nothing she would say would convince. Nothing except time.

"I'm going to stay," she repeated. "I couldn't bear going back, not when I know he's alive. I want to be here for him."

He still looked angered and annoyed, and he zipped up his coat roughly, his brows knitted deeply and his mouth thin. Before he could get to the door, she picked up the bottle of pills he had set down. "What are these?"

"Pain medication," Mr. Khan said shortly.

She blanched. "Do the…It's still hurting him after six months?"

"It's for his pneumonia," Mr. Khan said, heading over to the door. "It helps with his symptoms. He's used up everything else he had."

Clutching the bottle tightly, she took a deep breath. "He has pneumonia?"

"It's not usually life-threatening to middle-aged men," he said. "But it makes him incredibly ill-humored." He opened the door. It was obvious he wanted to leave—maybe to get away from her before he said something nasty, because she could sense that such a comment was bubbling beneath the surface. She felt bad for him, but she also felt a defensive indignation. She was staying here, with Erik, and it wasn't up to Nadir Khan to tell her how to live. He'd tried that once, and it hadn't led to good places.

With a curt nod, he disappeared, the door slamming shut behind him. She started at the noise and then hurried over to the bedroom, hoping that it hadn't woken Erik—and slightly hoping that it had. But he was still sleeping, and she went back over to the bed, sitting beside him again and watching.

What Mr. Khan had told her had touched and saddened her. Erik hadn't come after her because he had wanted to let her have her life…Nadir Khan said that Erik hadn't changed, but the simple fact that he had let her go spoke wonders to her. Erik had consciously made the choice to let her choose what to do.

"And I chose to come back," she said quietly, putting a hand back on his thin chest.

Now that she knew he was ill, it was easy to feel how warm his skin was; a change from its usual coolness. She filled a bowl with tepid water and found another towel and tried to keep the heat down a bit. This time it felt easier to touch his face, and she put a hand on his neck, feeling his pulse flutter and his skin warm further at her touch.

Before too long, her eyes traveled down to his exposed collarbone and to the remaining buttons on his shirt. Quickly, she set the bowl aside and peeled the blanket back a little. With trembling fingers, she unbuttoned the shirt, wanting and needing to see. If she was able to see and absorb without Erik's temper getting in the way…maybe it would turn out better.

His shirt was untucked, making it easy to spread it open, and in the dim light, she let out a little painful gasp. It was…as she had expected, but it was still hard to look. He was gaunt, emaciated, his skin dry and discolored, spread taut over his ribcage. She could see old, white scars crisscrossing his chest and shrunken stomach. The bullet wound was bright pink, healed over but still a painful reminder of just what had happened. It was a hard reality check. She had been separated from him, unable to really see the effects and see him recover, but that scar was vivid and told her in no uncertain terms that he had been in pain and had suffered because of her.

Just as she had put two fingers on it, she felt him move underneath her hand, and she took it back quickly, looking up to see him open his eyes, appearing somewhat disoriented.

When his gaze focused on her, he stared for several long, silent seconds, and she couldn't help but give a wide smile.

"Hi," she said quietly. Then she blushed. Nearly six months of thinking he was dead…and she said hi.

After another few seconds of staring, he seemed to remember that his mask was off, because he put a hand over his face. Then he looked down and saw that his shirt was unbuttoned, and it appeared like he couldn't decide which he wanted to hide more. He tried to button his shirt with hasty, shaking fingers, but his hand kept going back to his face, as if it was instinct to keep it there. She tried to help, feeling guilty, but he shoved her fingers away.

"What—" he snarled, his hand jumping from his face to his shirt. "Just what are you doing here?"

The question threw her for an inexplicable loop. Of course she should have expected this question, but she had been so focused on the fact that he was alive that she had kind of brushed aside planned explanations for him.

"I—I," she stuttered. "I came back."

"And why is that?" he said, his voice a harsh, rasping growl. He had finished with his shirt and was now pushing himself up to a sitting position, obviously unwilling to be so vulnerable before her.

"Because," she said lamely. Then she tried again. "Because I…thought you were dead. And that made me sad."

"How very nice to be sad over my death," he said, cruel and sarcastic to the end. "Well, you have seen that I'm not. I won't bother you anymore. Nadir has seen to that. So you are more than welcome to resume your wonderful life. I would see you to the door, but I'm feeling somewhat ill right now, so you'll have to excuse yourself."

She had not expected this—an outright anger at her returning. She hadn't expected him to tell her to leave. Selfishly and childishly, she had expected him to cling to her and command that she never leave his side again. Feeling put on the spot and incredibly unprepared to deal with a moody, angry, sick Erik, she got up from the bed and stood there, pulling on some loose curls.

"I don't want to leave," she said honestly. "I came back…to stay."

His short laugh was cruel and bitter, and he struggled to get out of the bed, cursing angrily. He swayed when he stood, and she rushed to support him, but a foul glare stopped her, and he made his way out of the bedroom, hobbling and looking very ill. The alcohol last night seemed to have temporarily disguised his illness. He limped a little, making it clear which leg had been injured.

She followed him, anxious and upset that this was not going better. He snatched up the bottle Nadir Khan had left and promptly swallowed three large, white pills.

"Mr. Khan says you've got pneumonia," she said from the doorway.

"Somehow it no longer surprises me that Nadir still feels the need to cosset you and spoon-feed you details about me." He threw the bottle down and then headed over to the kitchen. She again followed, keeping her distance but not wanting him to think she was trying to avoid him or anything.

"I came back by myself," she said. "I got lost in the tunnels and then sang. You found me."

"Did I?" he said. "I can't recall any of that. Well, that must explain this hangover."

"Yeah, you were pretty hammered," she said, grinning but then sobering under his withering glance.

He was rummaging through the empty cupboards, pushing aside the newly-washed dishes, opening drawers and looking through the refrigerator.

"What're you looking for?" she asked, wanting to be helpful.

"Brandy," he said shortly, pulling out some plates to look behind them.

"Oh," she said softly. "I…poured all of that down the sink."

There was a terrific crashas the plates were thrown to the ground and shattered all over the newly-cleaned floor. She jumped and put a hand over her pounding heart, looking up at him, afraid.

"What are you doing here?" he then said, his voice a loud, thunderous roar. "What is it you want?"

A long silence followed, and her eyes had filled with tears. She brushed them away quickly.

"I came back for you," she said shakily.

"You should return to your husband," Erik said shortly.

"What? No," she said. "No, Erik—we've never…No. I'm not married. Raoul and I never…I couldn't. How could I?"

He stared at her, making no move to cover his face, and she could see how completely broken he was—she had never seen him so consciously disheveled and dirty. He was not hiding anything anymore. It seemed like he was trying to frighten her…and she was ashamed to admit that it was working.

"I didn't know you were alive," she said, her voice trembling. "If I had known…I would've come back so much sooner. And I don't know why I chose last night to try, but…I came back, and you found me." She approached him slowly and reached out for his hand, holding a couple of his long fingers. Then she continued, trying to be completely honest and open: "I know you don't believe me, and—and you have good reasons why. I've been really messed up for a really long time. And I'm not saying I'm completely better, but…" She looked up at him. "I really want to be here with you. For you. I've had a long time to think about it, and this is what I want."

He pulled his hand away, and she tried not to let the hurt show on her face.

"I have nothing more to give you," he said.

She shook her head. "I don't want anything but you."

After a moment of contemplation, he turned his head away and hacked out a few deep coughs, his thin chest convulsing. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and looked back at her.

"I have never been a good man," he said, "and I never will be. You can't honestly want to stay. I am…touched by your efforts, but I will not try to stop you or follow you. You have my word."

"I've had too much time to think about that," Christine replied, feeling braver now that he wasn't shouting. "And I'm being honest and very serious when I say that I want to stay here. But—but…" Here she faltered. "If you really…don't want me here…If you'd prefer it if I go…then I will. But if any part of you still wants me, I'm here." She bowed her head a little. "I've done a lot of terrible things to you, and I understand if you can't forgive me. But I want to stay. If you'll let me."

There was silence again, and she stared at the floor, her stomach churning and her heart pounding. What if he ordered her away? Said he wished she had never come back? Now that she knew he was alive, would she ever be able to move on? She had a feeling that if she left, she would be leaving a large part of herself down here with him.

She could feel him watching her. He said abruptly, "You have lost weight. You are too thin."

"I could say the same thing about you," she said, surprising herself when she was able to glance at him and smile a little. His brow was furrowed, hard, and he was staring at her, leaning against the counter to give some relief to his leg.

After a few more silent moments, he suddenly moved, reaching out and grabbing her left hand, yanking it upward to his eye level. Startled, she looked up at him.

"You still have…" he said quietly, staring at the ring on her hand.

"I've never taken it off," she said truthfully. His gaze traveled up to hers, and after watching him for a long moment, she carefully, slowly, and cautiously stepped closer and wrapped her arms around him, feeling him tense at the touch. He was uncomfortable and bony and still filthy, and she leaned her head against him, closing her eyes and feeling a few tears slip out of them. So many weeks and months, and he was in her arms.

When she felt a hesitant, unsure hand rest awkwardly on her back, a smile crept onto her lips.

"You are not a dream?" he then said, and she laughed a little, pressing her cheek into his thin chest.

"Not a dream," she said. "I'm here."