Remember that sweet date that was supposed to be forthcoming? Yeaahh...

I feel the need to put a warning in this chapter. The next will deal more fully with the issue (but not explicitly by any stretch of the imagination), but we're heading into some uncomfortable waters. I'll put another heads up next chapter but for now... consider yourselves warned!

Onward!

XXX

True to his word, Erik disappeared as soon as they entered his underground home, and Christine supposed it was to scrub away the taint of the taxi from his person. Doubtless his suit and coat would suffer the same fate shortly as well. She would also follow his suggestion, but not before scooping up the mewing Boo who loudly protested being left alone for so long.

"I'm very sorry, handsome. But now those horrid people are gone and we don't have to go out ever again!"

It was probably as wrong to lie to a cat as it was to a human person, but he kept blinking at her so reproachfully, and she found she would promise him anything to ensure he was happy.

Did Erik feel that way too, only when she was the one blinking and discontented?

She wondered if she should feel guilty for that or not.

She carried Boo to the kitchen and set him down on the floor so she could see to feeding him, giggling as he nudged against her ankles as he prompted her to move more quickly.

"You at least had crunchies while I was away! I'm the one who's half starved!"

"An ailment I mean to alleviate very soon."

Christine yelped, not at all expecting him to appear so quickly. Perhaps he had not bathed after all? But his hair was slightly damp and the lapels of his suit were just the tiniest bit different.

"How do you do things so quickly?"

Erik sniffed and walked to a cupboard, fetching a bowl and can of food for Boo. "How do you do things so slowly," he quipped back.

Christine pouted but tried to hide it by picking up Boo and burying her face in his silky fur. She wanted to say that she did things as a normal person would, but that felt mean and hurtful, and she'd said far too many things that were so to consider allowing the words to find purchase in the open air.

Seeing that Erik was now the one tending to him, Boo wriggled in her arms, and with a sigh she relented and placed him on the little platform Erik had procured for him, his bowl soon to follow, little pink tongue lapping in appreciation.

"You're determined to make him like you more than me."

Erik's eyes glittered. "Perhaps."

Christine wanted to hit him.

But instead she huffed and crossed her arms, feeling a great sulk coming on.

She really was hungry.

Erik must have noted her posture for he sought to smooth her rankled nerves with comforting words. "You were the first person to have cared for him, Christine. No one could ever replace you in his affections."

She softened at that somewhat, and was much more willing to obey his suggestion that she bathe while he prepared them dinner. "Do try to keep from drowning," he drolled, his face obscured by a cupboard door as he inspected its contents. "You do take so long I begin to worry for your safety."

Christine rolled her eyes. "I'll certainly do my best."

To drown herself or to keep from doing so, she wasn't exactly sure.

Her stomach would keep her from taking very long, but still, the prospect of a bath was lovely, and she searched through her wardrobe until she found some pants that might have been pajamas, or perhaps they were merely created for lounging about in swathes of softness. She didn't mind if that was their sole purpose. A t-shirt completed the ensemble, a much more casual outfit than the rest of what Erik had chosen for her. But she was ready to be cozy, and she had a feeling that if their conversation turned to where she expected it would, at least her skin could be comfortable even if the rest of her proved not to be.

She looked about the bath, searching for any sign that Erik had used it. His home was the epitome of secluded, and she had begun to wonder at the sense of having more than one bathroom, yet the door was always open when she needed it, no sign of another person attempting to make use of the facilities.

She'd never seen his room, so maybe he had simply built it with multiple bathrooms?

Yet another question that she somehow doubted he would answer.

The water filled quickly thanks to those luxurious taps, but she did not fill it overly high lest she be tempted to ignore her hunger and float for a while.

She really would need to take more time for her hair, but instead she set to washing it as well, knowing it would be contained in yet another braid before she returned to the kitchen.

Ablutions finished, and the drapey pants of softness donned as well as the rest of her clothes, she returned to find Erik topping perfectly circular pans of dough with... pizza toppings?

"What's this?" she asked with amusement.

Erik turned and gave her an incredulous look. "Surely this is not beyond your palate that you cannot identify it."

Christine laughed. "No, but I never thought I'd see you making one. You're so..." She waved her hand in a vague gesture of his person.

Erik stiffened. "What am I?"

Christine barely resisted rolling her eyes at him yet again. "Formal. You're formal. From your speech to your clothes, there is no other word for it."

He blinked at her. "And this… displeases you?"

Already she could tell he was thinking of how he could change. How he could force levity into his voice and search through databases of slang until he sounded more like people their age. Her age? How old was he anyway?

But the truth was, she liked the way he spoke. That formalness was what prompted him to carry handkerchiefs and offer his arm to her when they walked, and the thought of him becoming just like everybody—utterly normal in every sense of the word—seemed… wrong.

But that also seemed horribly selfish since it was clear that he wanted nothing more than to act normal. To be normal.

She took a step nearer, any laughter gone as she tried to make her tone as sincere as possible. "Not in the least," she replied earnestly. "I quite like you as you are. And that you're making pizza for me when you clearly never would make it for yourself."

He glanced down at his concoction and his lips thinned. "It is a messy food," he complained.

Christine smiled. "Yes, it is. And half the fun is trying to get it in your mouth without toppings going everywhere."

Erik shifted uncomfortably, and she sobered just as quickly. "Do you... are you self-conscious when you eat?"

She hadn't thought about it before—that there was a reason he wouldn't take a meal with her. But she supposed that a lot of people were concerned with how they looked when they ate. Many times she would catch a couple on their first date, the woman taking unnaturally small bites and trying to be covert as she pulled out a compact mirror to check her teeth for anything offensive. The men however typically didn't seem as concerned, but with Erik...

She was learning that there was nothing typical about him.

Erik's shoulder hunched ever so slightly inward. "Corpses should not eat."

And her heart broke for him.

For what person would come up with such a dreadful thing by themselves?

"Who told you that?" her voice sharper than she intended.

He looked at her in surprise. "It does not matter."

Christine didn't believe that for a moment. It mattered very much. If it had come from a random passerby on the street it would have been hurtful, but for it to be so ingrained in Erik's mind as truth…

Still angry and indignant for him, she forced her voice to soften as she laid a careful hand on his arm. "Was it one of your parents?"

And then it was he who was so very angry, his spine stiffening and his eyes, his pale, pale eyes that now seemed to burn with immeasurable pain, cut into her very soul as he stared down at her.

"Erik had no parents. Erik had a jailer! He had a woman who loathed him and hid him and hurt him whenever possible. And yet you say that I am your captor, but I do not starve you, or beat you, or…"

Christine's mouth was dry, and while his voice had risen, how the words were bitten out through years of carefully honed resentment, she knew that his ire was not directed at her. Not really.

She forced the words out, dread settling in her stomach even as she was fairly certain she already knew the answer. "Or what?"

Erik shook his head, his eyes pleading. "Please, Christine, there is no need to speak of it."

But there was need—he very clearly needed as his hands, his perfectly dexterous hands, trembled as he finished placing toppings on the nearly forgotten pizza, and he placed it in the oven.

She watched quietly as he washed his hands and seemed to collect more of himself as the silence continued.

And when the timer was set and he made to flee the room, she took his hand gently between hers.

She did not say anything, not at first. And she was so terribly sorry at how wide and fearful his eyes had become as she cradled his hand in hers—so much larger than her own!—and set to pulling off the black leather glove she had never seen him go without.

"What… what are you doing?" he murmured breathlessly. A man so sure of himself, reduced to stammering because of her.

She smoothed her fingers over his open palm, traced the lines that connected and swirled over the very tips, noting calluses that were so familiar after seeing her own papa's hands.

And then her fingers probed at his wrist, her pointer and middle searching and finding, the blue veins so prominent beneath his papery skin.

His heartbeat.

Wild and fluttering, but so very present.

She glanced upward and saw his throat bob ever so slightly as he swallowed, his nervousness palpable as she studied him. "Last I checked, corpses do not have heartbeats. Corpses are not gentle and kind and make pizza even though it's messy." She released his wrist and simply held his hand, trying to imbue as much compassion as she was able. "Corpses do not feel pain… and you carry much."

He flinched, and she was very sorry for what she had to ask next.

"What else was done to you, Erik?"

He wouldn't look at her. Wouldn't meet her eyes as he frowned down at the floor, his body tensed and coiled. He could pull away in an instant, that she knew, and there was nothing she could do to stop him.

But he stayed, and when he spoke, his voice was low and flat, as if he no longer had the strength to infuse it with any emotion. "When first you came here, you feared that I would… that you would be violated."

He glanced up at her only briefly, and with some trepidation she gave the subtlest of nods.

Erik sighed deeply and pulled his hand away, the weariness he felt so evident in his posture. "Why would I hurt you in such a way when I know what it is to be tortured so?"

-X-

Dinner was not what she had hoped for only that morning. There was no easy chatter, no playful teasing as she tasted more of Erik's culinary prowess. Instead, Erik was utterly silent as he sat across from her at the table, a slice of pizza settled on a plate between a carefully placed knife and fork, though he touched none of it.

She made herself eat despite her sudden lack of appetite, but she could not seem to focus on the flavors and textures. In some part of her mind she knew it was delicious—that Erik had used the perfect amount of cheese to offset the sauce and chewy crust, but was not so much that it puddled unduly. That he'd used a balance of meats and vegetables so as not to overwhelm the palate.

Yet all she could think of was Erik as a boy, of how much he had endured while still in his most tender years.

And before she even realized she had done so, Erik sighed deeply and pushed his unused napkin toward her. "I seem to do nothing but put tears in your eyes."

Christine touched her cheek in surprise, indeed finding that some tears had escaped her without her notice. "I'm sorry," she apologized hastily, accepting his napkin and wiping away the evidence of her upset. "I shouldn't… I know you don't like it when I cry." She sniffled and plucked at her crust before she continued. "But you know that isn't true. You've made me smile much more than you've made me cry."

Erik did not appear wholly convinced, yet he nodded anyway.

Christine took one last bite and forced herself to swallow before standing and gathering up the plates. Erik made to protest, but she shook her head. "Let me help, Erik," she begged softly, welcoming anything that would push away the horrible images her mind conjured. Had it happened many times? Only once? But even once was too much. And to not have a loving parent to heal and provide desperately needed love and reassurance—to remind that goodness and mercy could be found in the world…

Was it any wonder that he now was so distrustful? That he clung to his dignity and his privacy when both had been so viciously taken from him?

She set about washing the dishes by hand, the act of cleaning a soothing one. Erik had protested when she wrapped the leftovers in plastic and tucked it into the fridge. "I shall make you fresh!" he insisted, but Christine had only smiled grimly and patted his arm before adding the pan to her sink of soap and water.

"And I would prefer not to waste what you've provided me."

He was quiet after that, allowing her to work and wash and dry, leaning against the far wall and watching carefully—for what she did not know.

When she was satisfied that the kitchen was in order, she turned back to him, trying to pull her thoughts together so she could offer him what comfort she could. But instead Erik suddenly stood to his full height and interjected, "You must be tired. You should rest."

Her brow furrowed. It was still early yet, and while there were days when she would come home from work and sleep for hours, the walking they had done today hardly constituted such.

Christine wanted to argue, to tell him that she would much prefer to sit and talk and hold his hand and tell him how sorry she was.

But maybe...

She swallowed.

As gently as possible, he was asking for privacy.

And she would be a brute indeed if she continued to bother him when he was the one exposing painful secrets to the scrutiny of another.

"Okay," she confirmed, still feeling uneasy at the exchange but willing to let him lead.

He nodded and she moved toward her bedroom, only to divert into the library for a moment. She could give him time if he so needed it, but she was not ready for sleeping and if she was left alone with nothing to do, she could most certainly spend the entire time imagining all sorts of horrors.

Her fingers fiddled with the switch on the wall, it taking her a moment to align her fingers just so before she was able to see well enough to select a few titles. Erik stood in the doorway, his expression unreadable, but she supposed that if he disapproved of her actions then he would have spoken up.

She would have liked him to explain his method of organization, and perhaps another day she would ask him for a proper tour of the space so she could better find something. Most of the titles were wholly unfamiliar, the authors equally unknown. The spines were mostly aged leather, also revealing little of the subject. So as soon as she found a low shelf cluttered with more familiar names like Brontë and Austen, she selected a few and hurried to her own room, worried she had taken too long already.

Maybe another day she would have complained about being escorted to her room like a prisoner with a warden. But Erik's words from earlier still sounded in her ears, guilt niggling at her as she considered how she had indeed viewed him over the course of her stay with him.

She bit her lip and made to say something—anything—but Erik simply gave a modest bow and shut the door as he left her alone in her room.

With books she didn't really want to read, with thoughts she didn't want to have, and with hands that still itched to reach out and comfort him.

But he wanted to be alone, probably to collect his own thoughts and she could respect that.

Maybe.

She curled up on the bed for a while, Pride and Prejudice balanced on her knees as she forced her attention on the characters and their love story. And with a grimace she realized how most of their troubles stemmed from the horrors of miscommunication, just as hers did.

And when suddenly the most mournful sound came from outside her bedroom, she could stand it no longer.

She put down the book and went to the living room, thinking she would find Erik standing there with his violin in hand, the pain of his soul so easily communicated by the strings and his bow, the tragic lament to lost innocence and a final infliction of pain that assured his distrust of the entire human race.

But only Boo was there, washing away the remnants of his meal as he luxuriated in Erik's chair.

With great trepidation, she moved down the hallway, at last standing before the door that was ever closed to her, the music most definitely coming from within.

Erik's room.

She had felt such relief when he had told her that she was not to enter there, and at the time she had seen it as the blessing of some modicum of privacy and boundaries in an otherwise horrifying situation.

But now...

Now she wished that she felt confident enough to simply walk inside.

Instead she raised her hand and knocked. "Erik?"

The music continued, low, haunting tones creeping about her soul and making it ache in places she hadn't even imagined were there.

She tried again.

And still he did not answer.

Until finally she could bear it no longer and she tried the handle, only to find it locked.

"Erik, please," she entreated.

And the door opened.

His mask was no longer in place, and the evidence of his tears shone in the dim light of the room beyond.

"Oh, Erik," she murmured, and uncaring that he still held his violin and bow, she stepped forward across the threshold and wrapped her arms about him. "I'm so sorry for what you've had to go through. And I know I don't know all the details, but whatever happened was so very wrong and I..."

She sniffed, pushing away her own tears so she could best relay her thoughts to him without blubbering into his suit. "I'm sorry that I hurt you by thinking you would do something so terrible. I'm sorry that I haven't thanked you enough for being kind and gentle with me, for telling you how little that your face troubles me. I'm sorry that you don't yet feel comfortable to eat a meal with me for I... I should like it very much."

Her breath hitched when she felt his hand settled against her back, softly at first and growing more fervent as he held her to him, his head bowing until it lay across the top of her head. "I'm sorry that you believed those horrible people. You are not a corpse, sweet Erik. You're just a man, and one that I... I'm coming to… to hold in very high regard."

Christine kicked herself, as that was not at all what she needed to say, and was something much better suited to Austen and her merry band of characters.

She released a shaky breath and pulled away until she could look up at him, pushing forth the word before she could convince herself that it was a terrible idea.

That it was too soon.

That she was mad for even thinking it.

Yet even as she spoke it, she knew that it was true, and as his eyes widened in disbelief, she was glad that she found the courage to at long last be honest.

"That is to say… I think that I…"

She swallowed.

"That I love you."

Sooo... she loves him! Or at least she thinks she does... And she said it! Think she'll try to take it back immediately? Does it seem too soon? And what about poor Erik and a hinting at his past? We're going to delve a bit more into it next chapter... think Christine will be able to handle it? Will you?

Please review!