First of all, I'd like to welcome all my new readers! And it has come to my attention that somewhere in the shuffle (or did I just not mention it this story?), my policy for chapter previews for reviews is not well known! So yes, if you leave me a review, I will happily give you a snippet from the chapter to come, though I'm frequently told that can at times make the waiting all the more difficult...

Okay, the real warning goes on this chapter. We're wading into the murky depths of some of Erik's past and there is sadness to be found there. I will not go into an abundance of detail, so that should be some comfort at least. Please proceed with caution.

Onward?

XXXI

Erik stiffened, his hands once clutching and holding now rigid against her back.

"You… you what?"

Christine took a deep breath.

She hadn't meant to say it. Hadn't even really made a conscious decision that she had, let alone felt prepared to offer him assurances.

But despite her misgivings, her full acknowledgement that Erik was not at all a normal man nor were his actions always acceptable...

She had known love once.

It was a familial sort, but powerful.

And she had known its loss.

And when she thought of Erik, of leaving him, of doing what she was sure any other person would tell her to do as she fled from him and didn't look back...

It sent a piercing pain through her heart to simply consider it.

"I said that I... I love you."

Erik was silent for a moment and to her surprise, next she felt his hands leave her back as they sought her wrists, disengaging her from his person as he took a step backward. His eyes, still red and swollen from his tears, searched hers, and she tried to make her earnestness clear.

"You cannot," he finally stated firmly, yet also managing to sound despondent at the thought.

She blinked at him. "Why?"

His shoulders lowered, the weight of thoughts and years of torment seeming a physical burden upon them. "No one loves Erik. No one can love Erik. Especially not someone that he has wronged so very much."

He released her wrists completely now, but she reached forward, grabbing his hand—still uncovered from her earlier ministrations. "People are allowed to be sorry, you know," she assured gently. "And those same people can also be forgiven."

Erik stared down at her incredulously. "But I wasn't sorry. I told you that. That I do not regret bringing you here, or the time that we shared. So how can you possibly offer forgiveness for what I have not sought?"

Christine sighed. "I think you are, in your way. I think you are very sorry for frightening me, for making me feel trapped. It's all right to want company, especially from someone you... you care about."

She wanted to say love... was very certain that he loved her back. But whenever they had spoken of his desires, it was always to be loved... such a foreign and unknown concept for him.

Yet he had never said that he felt that way for her, and she wouldn't dare presume to force such a label upon it if he was not yet ready to do so.

"I am... unworthy," he whispered brokenly.

"I think you should let me be the judge of that. I'm the one with the gavel after all." She nudged him gently, playfully, and to her great relief the tiniest of smiles graced his lips.

"True," Erik acknowledged almost begrudgingly. "And you proved a very fine one."

"There now," she responded, unreasonably pleased by his praise. "So perhaps in this you can simply... believe me. I wouldn't lie to you, Erik. Not about something this important."

He stared at her a while longer, allowing her to hold his hand and offer what comfort she could through contact alone.

His skin was cool, his palms dry and rather papery beneath her fingertips. It was not an unpleasant hand to hold, despite its boney nature. Elegant in its way, as he moved with such practiced grace, doing his bidding in such an exacting manner.

Able to create beauty as well as pain.

Yet with her, despite his haste, his foolishness, his rashness, he had always been so very gentle. So careful.

And how could she not appreciate being treasured by such a man?

"I think we still have some things to talk about though," she murmured softly, not wanting to disturb the calm she had managed to create for them. But there were things unsaid, there were memories that needed to be shared, and she could not simply leave him here in his darkened room, plagued by thoughts and fears.

Not again.

For the first time she allowed her attention to drift from Erik and flit about his room—at least, the details she could make out with such dim lighting for illumination.

It was... dark. Not simply because of the lack of light, but because the walls appeared to be painted an oppressive ebony, the floor an unrelenting hue of grey. There was no other furniture in the room except for...

She swallowed and released his hand, taking a step forward to inspect what could not possibly, simply could not be...

A coffin.

She choked.

She gasped.

She stumbled forward and laid her hand against the casket. Empty, but perfectly real as she skimmed her fingertips across the polished wood.

And then Erik was pulling her into his arms and leading her away, and she numbly allowed it, still not quite believing what had been in the center of his room.

Did he... did he sleep there?

Surely there was another room off of that one that was more comfortable. Where a proper bed and a nightstand with a proper reading lamp rested so he could wile away his Sunday mornings in relaxation if he so chose.

Except...

This was Erik.

With his haunted past, with his lack of smiles, why would he not choose to embrace the morbidity that someone had sought to convince him formed his true self?

She took in a rasping breath and forced down her horror and Erik led her to the sofa, Boo blinking at them as they neared, but making no move to vacate the leather reading chair.

"Christine?" Erik asked tentatively.

She shook her head. This would not be like last time. There was no panic clutching at her throat and keeping her lungs from drawing in air. There was only the terrible realization of the extent in which Erik suffered. And how could her own feeble love ever hope to ease the demons that so plagued him?

Erik sat down beside her, his hand wrapping about hers, before he gave it a tender squeeze. She was grateful for it, for his reassurance that even in the midst of his own despair, he saw her upset and sought so soothe.

Only to chuckle despite herself when he ever so stealthily reached two fingers toward her pulse point, checking to see that her vitals were within a normal range.

"I'm fine," she finally managed, bemused that now it was he who felt the need to comfort himself with the steady nature of her heartbeat.

"Shall I get you something? Tea perhaps? You do so like tea."

His eyes were wide, and she could see that he would very much like to be of use to her, but she shook her head yet again. This was not going to be about her. She needed to talk with him, of so many things, but first she needed to collect herself.

"No, thank you. But... I think I'm going to make us some hot chocolate and then we can... talk."

Erik stared at her in surprise. "Hot... chocolate," he murmured, the name seemingly foreign on his lips.

Her heart gave a little ache to think of it.

"Yes. Nothing soothes rumpled spirits better and I think we could both use some. I'll be right back."

"If you but tell me the recipe, I should be happy to retrieve it for you," Erik insisted, moving to follow her.

Christine swallowed and gave him a wan smile. "Let me do this for you, Erik, please. Just this simple thing."

For a moment he looked as if he was prepared to argue, but eventually he gave a little sigh and nodded his head. "If you wish it, Christine," he relented, easing back onto the sofa.

And as she left the room he felt him watching her, but when she peeked behind, instead his gaze was settled on Boo lounging in their favorite chair, his eyes narrowed.

She couldn't help but smile at that.

The kitchen, while well stocked, did not seem to have any cocoa mix anywhere, no matter how many cupboards she rifled through. But there was a bag of chocolate chips, and with a shrug she added a generous portion to the already heating milk. She would have liked to have added generous dollops of whipped cream, the only proper way in her mind to enjoy the beverage, but that always left her with a white nose and sugary face, and she highly doubted Erik would approve of such a thing, never mind the mess it would make to pull out a mixer.

To her amusement however, she found a bag of marshmallows, fresh and fluffy as they waited patiently to be used. What on earth had possessed him to buy them?

The very act of making something—something sweet and comforting and delicious as she dipped a spoon into the dark liquid to taste it—was soothing to her. It was tangible and real and not fraught with painful emotions and even more difficult memories, and too soon it was ready.

She carefully poured two mugfuls from the saucepan, proud of herself that she didn't spill any on the counters, before adding a healthy layer of marshmallows to seal in the heat and flavor.

A part of her wanted to stay here where it was safe, but that was cowardly, and Christine could not afford to be so. Not now. Not when Erik still suffered so.

"Here we go," she announced, her voice overly bright.

Erik was still engaged in some sort of stare off with Boo, gold eyes meeting like as they determined who was in fact the true owner of the chair. And if a cat could look triumphant, he most certainly did so when Erik gave way first as he rose to assist her, taking the mugs from her and easing them down on coasters upon the coffee table.

"I don't know if you'll like it," she said bemusedly, "but I'd very much like if you at least tried."

It was still rather incredible to her that he had never done so before. Or perhaps his unfamiliarity had been born more from disbelief that adults would willingly consume such a saccharine treat of their own volition.

He reached for one of the mugs and glanced down at its contents dubiously, and for a moment she thought he would refuse it outright. But eventually he brought it to his lips, sipping delicately, and from the way his eyes widened, receiving a mouthful of marshmallow.

"Whipped cream is better," she apologized quickly. "But some might say that marshmallows are more traditional."

He nodded, and seemed more content to hold his mug rather than try more of it. And that was fine with her as she took her own sip. It was more a distraction than anything, something that might ease some of the awkwardness to come.

"You wished to...talk," Erik affirmed hesitantly.

Christine glanced at him. "And you don't?"

He grimaced at that, and she couldn't really blame him. He seemed so ashamed of his past, and if she felt similarly, she doubted she would have relished the prospect of speaking of it openly.

"I am certain what you wish to discuss is not one of my favorite of subjects."

Christine sighed. "I want to talk about a lot of things, but I don't really know where to begin."

Instead of offering a suggestion, Erik merely brought the mug closer, his lips not touching the rim but simply breathing in the steam.

Evidently he expected her to guide them through the murky waters of communication.

Christine took her own sip, the sweetness nearly cloying on her tongue, and she told herself firmly that when she'd finished she would promptly brush her teeth thoroughly, cavities the last thing she needed to worry about at the moment.

"Who said those awful things to you? About... about being a corpse?"

He had never fully answered her. Her had been bandied about, but there were a great many women in the world.

Erik allowed his long naked pointer finger to drift into the melting marshmallow, idly twirling it about as he noted the way the sticky white substance clung to his flesh.

"That would be the woman who birthed me," he finally stated, his tone carefully flat.

He was tense beside her, his posture of forced relaxation, but Christine could easily see through his façade.

"What was she like?" she asked cautiously, ready to divert the subject if it prompted an outburst from Erik.

He gave her a withering look. "I thought I made her temperament quite clear already."

Christine took another sip. "You said that she hid you, and hurt you. If she didn't want a child, why didn't she give you up for adoption?"

Erik snorted. "Families want sweet, perfect children. Not those born to drug addicted prostitutes whose babies have their own share of tolerances."

Christine blanched. "You..."

Erik shrugged. "Evidently she had much cause to resent me from the moment I was born. Not only was I hideous, she came to realize that apparently I cried a great deal for some of her stash."

"She… she didn't give you any, did she?"

Erik chuckled humorlessly. "Share? I think not."

Christine was quiet for a while, not sure how to respond. She had seen those kinds of women walking home from work, their eyes dead even as they pranced and sauntered for men driving by. She couldn't imagine what they went home to. Did they have little children they were trying to feed? Or did they choose such a profession because with their drug habits, other more reputable places wouldn't have them?

"Frightened you away already, have I?"

Christine startled, lost in her own thoughts. "No," she assured. "Just... I'm trying to picture it."

Erik shook his head. "Best not to. There was nothing pretty about any of it, and you should only have to dwell upon good things. Nice things."

Christine huffed. "No, I shouldn't. Not when someone I love is hurting because of not so nice things."

Erik's eyes widened, but he did not argue with her again about her love, for which she was very grateful.

"Do you... do you want to tell me about the other thing you said?" She couldn't even form the words to be more specific, and that did not bode well for her ability to get through the conversation without bursting into tears.

Erik groaned. "Why do you wish to know more of it? You are distressed enough."

Christine placed her hot chocolate down on the table, mindful of the coaster as she did so, and very carefully nestled her body against his. She drew her knees up and tucked them under her, her head resting against his shoulder, his body tense and rigid beside her, but not making any move to push her away.

"You shouldn't have to carry all this alone, Erik. Not when it still makes you so miserable. I want to know you, to understand you, and I think... I think all of this is important." Erik's lips thinned and she reached out her hand, rubbing his arm softly. "But you don't have to if you don't want to."

Erik sighed deeply and Christine smiled when he shifted ever so slightly so he could rest his head against her hair, perfectly nestled as she was beside him. "The Daroga would ask me questions. Whenever I'd done something particularly terrible he'd shake his head and ask how I got this way. I never wished to answer though. It was none of his business."

Christine fiddled with Erik's sleeve. "And now?"

He hummed, and she could have sworn that he pressed a kiss into her hair. "I want you to know me," he confessed. "I want you to know of me and still… still love me at the end of it."

She told herself firmly that her eyes didn't need to water, that the lump in her throat could settle without releasing any of the ridiculous sobs that threatened to overwhelm her. So instead she merely nuzzled closer, relishing the contact she had not realized she had missed so very much. "Tell me about yourself, Erik. Whatever you want to share."

And to her great relief, he did so.

His tone was not overly pleasant, more morose than anything, and she could tell that he skimmed many details for her own delicate sensibilities. "We lived in a dingy apartment. You never could imagine such filth as the grime that clung to the walls and the horrific carpets. The smell alone..." He shuddered beside her, and despite his warning that to do so would prove unpleasant, she could not help but try to picture the world he had been born into. Erik was fastidious in everything he did, from his personal grooming to the house he so carefully maintained. Was that simply an essential part of his nature, or was he desperate to create an environment so different from what he was raised in?

"That... woman..." Christine did not correct his choice of word, knowing that he referred to his mother. "As I stated, her profession was one of whoring," the word was harsh and made her flinch, but still she did not correct him.

"Until one day she brought a man home."

Christine stilled further, her heart beating quickly.

"I must have been about eight years of age at the time, although I do not actually have any earthly idea as to my actual date of birth. He... frightened me."

Christine swallowed, but said nothing, allowing Erik to collect his thoughts and divulge his history at his own pace.

"She would lock me in the closet most days as he complained about me, and I became very grateful for the dark. It was safe there where I was alone, where no one could see, no one could hurt." He sighed and gestured at the room about him. "I still find the solitude a blessing."

"And a curse," she amended, not meaning to have spoken it aloud.

She felt him nod. "Yes, I suppose in its way. But loneliness hurts in far different ways."

That at least she knew well, although to compare their two situations seemed a grave disservice to Erik's pain.

"What happened then?" she prompted softly.

Erik was quiet for a while longer, and she felt a tremor run through him at the memory. "He liked to ply her with drugs and various alcohols. That seemed to be their primary motivation for their relationships, aside from the sex of course."

Christine flinched, not at all wanting to think about young, impressionable Erik being exposed to such tawdry episodes while locked away in the dark.

"One day however, she passed out. Not an uncommon event, mind you, and I had hoped he would simply depart as he typically did. But instead..."

He shuddered and she wrapped her arm more tightly about his arm. "You're all right now, Erik. You're here with me, and I would never think of hurting you."

She felt a little silly for reminding him of that—she wasn't even sure it was possible for her to actually hurt him physically, but she hoped he knew how much she meant it all the same.

"The details matter little," he finally stated. "You need not be plagued by the particulars."

"But he... hurt you," she confirmed, burying her face in his sleeve.

"Yes," he whispered, although there was a hardness to his voice that should have frightened her. "And I can assure you, I hurt him back."

Christine pulled back slightly, her hands still wrapped about his arm but now she could see him properly. "What do you mean?" she asked, dread filling her belly.

His eyes flashed dangerously, and for a moment she knew fear—she knew that while he was sweet and kind and good, he also possessed an anger that she could not possibly begin to fully understand.

She nibbled at her lip, soothing herself with reminders that he would never hurt her. That while he might understandably yell and shout as he remembered the injustices of his past, that did not mean he would ever be cruel to her in turn.

"I killed him, Christine," he answered plainly, no hint of remorse crossing his features. "When it was over, I took one of his precious bottles and I hit him. Again and again until he moved no more. Until he could hurt no more."

Christine blanched, trying to keep from imagining the scene.

Of a young Erik, terrified and so recently abused, broken both in mind and body.

Of his tormenter, newly sated, finally releasing him.

And of a desperate act that had resulted in murder.

"I fled after that," he continued, his voice still slightly dead. "Only later did I learn that upon her awakening did she call the police, only to then be convicted of his murder. I did not feel the need to enlighten the authorities as to the true cause of his death."

She didn't know what to say, hadn't the words to even begin sharing with him the thoughts that whirled through her mind, but he looked at her expectantly, and with a resignation that she hated.

"I told you that you could not love me," he reminded her, fully expectant that she would agree with him now. "I'm a murderer and allowed someone else to take the punishment for my crimes. If you frowned upon my title of kidnapper, you surely will be incapable of caring for one such as me."

"Oh, you foolish man," she choked out, tears halting what few words she could find amidst the jumble of her thoughts. She was confused, was saddened and heartbroken at what he has shared with her, and was so terribly angry at those that had used him so monstrously.

And they dared call him monster.

Not caring for propriety or modesty or any of the like, Christine moved so she sat across his lap, pulling him as close as she possibly could as she embraced him. There was more to talk about, more she needed to know and to understand, but in this moment... she simply wanted him to feel how very much she cared.

"You sweet, ridiculous man. How could I do anything but love you?"

And then before she could think better of it, she leaned forward and pressed her lips against his forehead.

Sooo... Christine is really getting the hang of this "I love you" business! And I think Erik needs it after that childhood of his... Were you surprised at what happened? The line for giving Erik hugs starts here...