Sorry for the infrequent updates, guys. This is my very last semester of college, and it stays pretty busy around here. Spring break is in two weeks, and I'll try to get the next vignette up by then.

This chapter will kind of mark a turning point for our beloved E/C. Thank you all for your kind comments. Thanks to MadLizzy for her continuous help.

Read and Review!!!

His heart clenched when Christine announced that she was going to her first interview. Dressed in a grey skirt, loose white blouse, and grey jacket, his angel appeared bland and colorless. Her hair was wrapped in a tight bun, and her shoes were narrow and black. He had the urge rip the stale clothing off of her and shred it into tiny pieces. But then she would be angry with him.

"It won't be forever," she stated, kissing his cheek and running a hand through his sparse hair. She gathered up her purse and glanced at herself in the mirror, seeming satisfied. "Just until we settle in and decide what we both want to do. I have to have a job, though."

"I could get funds," he murmured, warily watching her.

She looked at him. "How?"

"The bank down the street has extremely lax security. They are practically requesting that I rob them tonight. No one would be harmed. At least no one of importance."

His wife shook her head and smiled. "I'll be back soon." His heart fell a little more after she was gone. They'd rarely been separated over the last several months, and he'd been fairly sane for that entire period.

For awhile, he sat on the couch and stared at the wall. A fly buzzed near the window, and he glared at it. Although he remained sane, he could feel his mind drifting in unwanted directions. The silence and solitude began to make him edgy. He finally arose and dove into his music, able to get lost in the notes and forget that he was alone.

He met her at the door when she returned two hours later carrying a brown paper sack. She set it down on the coffee table and hugged him, resting her cheek against his chest as though she were tired.

"How was the affair?" he enquired, feeling his mind and heart calm again.

She shrugged. "Mm. All right, I guess. We'll see."

"No matter. There is still the bank."

"No banks, Erik."

That evening, they took a walk together in an older part of the city that been renovated with antique and novelty shops. He stayed to the shadows and was able to relax a bit, watching her as she looked in the store windows. Although he told her she could have whatever she desired, Christine told him she wanted nothing. At his loving coaxing, she finally purchased a caramel apple for herself and a square of chocolate for him.

The only object that Christine did still talk of buying was a new mask, and any mention of it caused him to twitch. Perhaps she was unaware of the complications involved in getting one molded to fit the shape of his face. Namely, he would not let anyone see or touch him to make a mold of his features. The thought of anyone besides Christine making contact with his skin repulsed him.

Three interviews and two weeks later, she'd found a permanent place of work at an insurance company. When the call came one afternoon, she beamed. After hanging up the phone, she ran up to him in triumph and cried, "I got it!" Although he embraced her, it was difficult for him to share her enthusiasm. He still despised the idea of her working in a dreary office for some idiot who did not appreciate her talents. Or for some wretch who became far too interested in her. He'd have to kill the latter.

Christine belonged on a stage, her divine voice ringing out for the world to hear and worship. Christine deserved the world.

And yet he could do nothing to prevent the events from going forward. She would become upset if he forbade her from working, and pride was evident in her eyes as she told him the details of her job. Pathetic creature that he was, he merely stood there and nodded.

Christine ran out to an Italian restaurant and obtained food for them to celebrate, telling the chefs to add extra flavor to his cuisine. The tomato sauce ended up being a bit too salty for even him. The cheesecake with strawberry topping was sweet and easy for him to chew; he marked it down as one of his favored foods on a very short list. The tasty dessert still did not numb his growing distress with his wife's situation.

Dressed in black slacks and a grey sweater, she prepared to leave for work the next day. "How do I look?" she asked, turning around in a circle in front of him.

It would take years before he realized that there were articles written about this specific question. Males had to take care with the answer because females were fickle when it came to honesty. Of course, he knew little about the subject. "As though you are attending a funeral," he replied with an outward gesture of his left hand. She rolled her eyes and shook her head. "It makes you seem pale and drawn. Like a wilted flower. And--"

"All right," she interrupted. "I get the point. But I have to dress like this. It's…professional." She softly grunted as she straightened her collar.

"Whoever said so should be strung up by their smallest fingers and tortured with arachnids." He had never had the opportunity to do that to anyone, although he had considered it for Oliver.

She grimaced and then softly laughed, attempting to smooth out her clothing one last time. "There is no one in the world like you," she fondly murmured, coming up to kiss him goodbye. When she started to draw back, he refused to release her. Christine hugged him again and then began a half-hearted struggle against his tight grasp, which she quickly lost. "I'm going to be late." She stopped fighting and leaned into him. "Please. Let me do this for us. Just to give us a start."

He reluctantly released her.

"Wish me luck," she said with a nervous smile.

"I wish for nothing but your happiness," he replied as she left.

Again, he was able to place himself in the protective cocoon of his music. Without music, he would not have survived those months after escaping prison. Even with it, he had been insane, but composing had allowed him to retain a small fraction of his mind. It provided a point of focus and a conduit for his hatred. Now the combination of music and the constant sight of his wedding ring kept him sane. She would be back.

Indeed, Christine returned that night with dinner and an entire box of cheesecake. He had not said anything about enjoying the dessert; she'd simply been able to tell. Her eyes were weary as she removed her shoes, but she held her head high. "Well…I think it'll be fine," she said, setting everything on the kitchen table and pushing a strand of hair out of her face. "I mostly just take phone calls and keep track of records. Nothing too hard. The boss isn't even there half the time." She shrugged and looked up at him. "What'd you do today?"

"Nothing of importance."

She gently kissed his jaw. "You must have done something." Her gaze drifted to the stack of papers on the coffee table. "Did you compose?"

"A bit."

Her face brightened. "Something new?"

"I…do not know. I merely write notes. It is not important." He had tried to get back to his original masterpiece--one giant symphony of despair, hatred, and loneliness. He was having a difficult time perfectly capturing those feelings within the music now.

She seemed to sense that he didn't want to talk about it. "All right. Well…let's eat."

It was not that he meant to be cold with her. Something bitter had lodged itself in the middle of his chest, and he found himself feeling more useless by the moment.

They went to bed soon after a dinner. The nights were still his favorite times. Perfection was lying with her in the warmth, softness, and darkness, not fretting over the next day. He could even pretend he was not monstrous because she could not see him. He kissed and caressed her, wordlessly saying that he was not upset with her. It was never her, always him. She stayed close and seemed to understand.

The days began to follow a similar pattern. When Christine did not go to her prison, they would venture out together in the evenings. He once discovered a play in the newspaper and offered it as a suggestion for the weekend. She became excited, and he made it a point to look for other forms of entertainment that she would enjoy…and where no one could see him.

She also bought a small television for their living area. At first, he was annoyed with the talking box, but Christine insisted that she'd always had one. It had been her "babysitter" during youth. He soon realized that there were benefits to the contraption. In the evenings after supper, she pulled him to lie on the couch with her, turning the channel to some inane sitcom at a low volume. She would softly tell him about her day or what she wanted to do over the weekend. He decided that the television could stay.

Despite Christine's job, the warmth and love remained. When she was with him, he felt the tingle of joy in his veins and wanted her as near as possible. Still, he was frustrated by their situation and the thought of her trapped behind some desk each day, taking orders from a moron. It ate at the back of his mind, and he felt helpless to fix it.

And he despised feeling helpless.

On one day, he could immediately sense that she was upset when she came home. "What is wrong?" he asked, noticing her frown and the wrinkle in her lovely forehead.

"Oh." She shook her head and slipped off her shoes. "It's not important. Just something stupid at work."

"Tell me."

Christine hesitated and looked up at him. "Some customer yelled at me over the phone about something that wasn't even my fault. I don't even know what he was talking about. I couldn't hang up on him without getting trouble. He screamed at me for like ten minutes."

His fingers curled. "What is his address?"

"What are you going to do?"

"Kill him."

"His address is 4837…" She tapered off, obviously playing with him. "It's all right. It was just one of those days."

"You should not be working there," he muttered, wishing that she would have given him the real address.

"It's not so bad," she replied. "Tomorrow will be better."

The evening progressed as it normally did. When she hopped up from the couch and announced that she was ready for bed, he slowly stood. His heart continued to feel heavy. "I think I will take a walk. I feel the need for air…"

"Oh. Do you want me to come with you?"

"You appear tired. Rest. I will return very soon."

She hesitated. "You're not really going to kill that customer--"

A sharp laugh escaped his throat. "No. You still think that I would…Oh, it does not matter. Perhaps I would."

She reached out a hand as guilt streamed into her eyes. "I'm sorry. I didn't really think you would do that. You just usually don't want to go out by yourself."

"I merely need to clear my head." He strode toward the door.

"I'm sorry," she repeated behind him. "I shouldn't have said it."

"It is no matter. Sleep, my love. I will be back soon." He went out the front door and felt warm air brush against his skin. The faint sounds of traffic and laughter came from the distance. A few families and couples were still out, sitting under their porch lights or strolling down the sidewalk. Several children were playing with colored chalk in a driveway. The nearby restaurants were still open, and people emerged from the bright insides, talking and laughing loudly.

If they had known a murderous monster lived nearby, their façade of suburban innocence would have vanished, and they would have formed a lynch mob.

He headed toward the more run-down side of the city, where the buildings and streets were crumbling and half the streetlights were out. The sound of booming car radios and yelling assaulted his ears as shady men roamed the streets holding paper sacks. Of course, he was probably the shadiest of them all. He crawled through shadows to examine the territory, watching as back-alley deals were made.

Within a matter of weeks, he could have half the thugs in the city working for him. The games and manipulations needed to take control were second nature for someone with his looks and talents. There was power and wealth to be found within the black markets; he could have bought her anything she asked for.

It was likely that he could become intimidating enough to influence the entertainment industry. He could ensure she sung on the most world's most famous stages, and no one would dare touch or insult her. They would be invincible.

He also knew that murder would be inevitable, though. Someone would challenge his authority in the underworld. And what choice would he have but to eliminate his enemies? That was simply how the game was played.

For the thrill of it, he jumped out of the shadows and scared one of the passing thugs. The hooded man jumped back a foot, shouted a curse, and grappled into his coat for a weapon. After failing to produce anything, he ran in the opposite direction with his package tucked under his arm.

He followed the idiot for a short distance and heard him tell a friend that there was some "freaky crap goin' on back there."

"Think it's one of Jimmy's guys?" asked the friend.

"If that's what Jimmy's got workin' for him now, we're screwed. The bastard didn't even look human." The man glanced to both sides. "Let's get the hell out of here." They scrambled away together.

Too simple.

Christine could live as a queen.

Queen of the Underworld.

It was nearing midnight, and he already missed lying beside her and holding her in his arms. His heart ached to return to her. If only she could understand that this was the only way he could provide for her. This was all he could offer her. He took off his mask and pressed his forehead against the cool bricks. "Help me," he muttered to no one but the rats.

After a minute, he headed home, casting a steely glance toward the closed bank. Still, he passed it and went directly to his apartment. Once inside, he hesitated, feeling unfit to enter their bedroom. A dim light flipped on. "Erik?" Her soft voice came from the room. "Is that you? Are you okay?" He slowly walked inside to see her sitting up in bed, wearing a satin nightgown as her hair fell around her shoulders, framing her face in gold.

"I am fine," he replied. "I merely walked. It was extremely refreshing." Something stung at his heart as he removed the jacket of his suit and reclined beside her. He didn't untie his mask until the lights were off.

Christine scooted closer and wrapped an arm around him, pressing a kiss to his cheek. "I missed you," she murmured before falling asleep.

Two nights later, he took the same concrete path into the underworld, again telling his beloved that it was good for his mind if he could occasionally leave the apartment. He scouted out territory, attempting to determine the easiest way to make himself known and feared. A blackness crept into his head, similar to the fog that he had entered when going on a vengeance spree.

This time, though, something opposed the fog. Another part of his mind fought for sanity and reason, and his heart ached with the knowledge that he was deceiving her. Still, this was the only way he could care for her. He was born to be a criminal; even his mother had known that—known that he was a sin. But that didn't mean he was incapable of love and devotion. He did all of this out of love for her. All he wanted was for her happiness!

Confusion overcame him, nearly making him ill. He could feel the lasso pressing against his pocket, tempting him. Continuing to walk forward, he gazed around as though in search of an answer to his dilemma. A combination of sinister characters and disoriented vagrants wandered around in the darkness. One of the well-dressed men would likely lead him in the most profitable direction.

A soft shriek caused him to whirl around. A woman in a revealing purple dress and a man in an expensive navy suit were standing near the entrance to a shoddy bar. "I said I was sorry!" the woman yelped. The man roughly slapped her, sending her to her knees on the asphalt. She sobbed and curled into a ball as the man strutted away, counting a handful of money.

He turned and left the area, feeling even more lost within himself. Christine could never be a part of that world She would have to remain oblivious to and separated from his activities. But that would mean continuously lying to her. Still, he had to keep her safe. He panicked as he bolted to his apartment and locked the door behind him.

Again, the light turned on in their room. She left the bedroom and came to meet him at the front door. With one glance at his eyes, she frowned. "Erik! Are you okay? What happened? Where were you?"

He did not get close to her. She would remove his mask, and he felt the need for it. "I am fine," he gently replied, keeping his voice steady. "I merely took a walk around the city."

"What's going on?" she asked, taking a few steps toward him. Her eyes narrowed.

"Nothing."

"You're shaking. Tell me what's wrong."

"I needed to support you," he muttered, cornered now.

Her eyes widened. "You…What do you mean?"

"Nothing."

She came closer and gently took his hand, eyeing him. "Let's go to bed, Erik."

He entwined their fingers together and allowed her to guide him into their bedroom, finding solace in her touch. "Yes. We will do that now."

She took a seat on the bed. He continued to stand, turning his back toward her and closing his eyes.

"Erik? Where did you go?" she asked again. "You need to tell me, no matter what it is."

"As I said, I wished to…support you."

"How?" Her voice was steady, but he sensed her tension.

"Erik can do many things for people," he said. "Erik is good at what he does."

"What did you do?"

"Nothing." He finally turned to look at her.

"Did you--" She inhaled, and he hated the sudden distress on her face. "Did you…steal something?"

"Erik did nothing," he repeated. "Only considered it…and pondered…There are many ways to make a profit. And you could have whatever you wished. Anything you asked for. I promise."

"You're talking about committing crimes, aren't you? Erik. You can't do those things. Why would you want to?"

"To support you."

"But you can't do that by stealing."

In frustration, he felt like throwing something across the room and watching it shatter against the wall. The only available items were a few antique figurines from Christine's youth, and he did not want to make her sad by breaking them. He tugged at his own sparse hair instead, later realizing how pathetic that must have looked. "You will not let Erik do the only things he can do!" he exclaimed.

" It's theft! And drug dealing! And God knows what else! It's wrong!"

"Fine. I could be a freak in a traveling carnival."

"No…"

"It is honest work. There is nothing illegal about making people pay a price to gawk at me. Why should they get to do it for free, eh?" He was being cruel now. And it came from self-hatred more than anything else.

She buried her face in her hands and took a deep breath before looking him straight in the eye. "What do you want me to say? I don't—I can't say that it's okay for you to commit crimes. I can't! I don't want to live like that."

"I can do nothing else," he muttered, staring at the ground. "Erik is useless."

"But that's not true!" she protested. "Do you know how much some people would love to sing and play an instrument as well as you do? You're the smartest person I've ever met in my life. I think you could do anything if you wanted to."

"You overestimate me."

"I do not!"

"What if you do?" His voice shook. "What if I am always nothing to you?" He was afraid of her. After all the horrors and dangers he had faced in his lifetime, Christine suddenly frightened him more than anything. When no one else was able to defeat him, his wife could destroy him with two words, and there would be nothing that he could do. I'm leaving.

"I don't overestimate you," she replied. "You saved the lives of my friends. You let the two horrible people who destroyed your life live in the end. You go out with me now. You're gentle…." A tear fell down her cheek; she quickly wiped it away. "And, until tonight, you haven't done anything since London…."

"I did nothing tonight." He was suddenly grateful that he hadn't. "I swear."

"Then I didn't overestimate you," she softly replied, lying back onto the pillow. She turned on her side to examine him. "Is there something you want that you think we can't afford?" she asked after a moment. "Tell me. We'll figure something out."

"I want nothing except for you to have everything."

"But I don't need anything."

"You should still have everything."

Christine sighed. "I understand you want to do something. I thought maybe you'd like some time to heal and rest first. But whenever you want to find a job or even a hobby, I want you to. You're not a prisoner here, Erik. You can do anything. Except—"

"Murder, kidnapping, theft, extortion, bribery, and assault," he finished, looking down at her. He suddenly felt ashamed. "Perhaps not arson, either."

"Probably not arson, either," she agreed with a choked laugh. Her expression became serious again. "I can't live like that. We would live in fear all the time if you did those things. It would be like London again…."

"I know," he whispered, sitting on the edge of the bed. "I know. I am wretched."

"You're not wretched. I love you. I get through work each day by knowing that I get to come home and be with you."

"Christine." It was more a plea than anything.

"We're both fine now," she continued. "When you're ready, you'll find something that you like to do. It may take time. But…I know you can do whatever you set your mind to."

He said nothing, not daring to contradict her or agree with her. The bed shifted as she rolled onto her back. He finally untied his mask and rested beside her. His skin was sore from wearing the damned porcelain for too long.

After a moment, he took her hand. She squeezed his fingers and clicked off the lamp. They slept.

The next day, as she was readying herself for work, he said, "Leave money. I will obtain dinner tonight. Somehow."

She looked at him, obviously surprised. "Are you sure? It's not a problem for me to grab something on the way home."

"I will obtain dinner," he repeated.

She nodded. "All right. I'll leave you some money on the table." Christine gave him another curious glance before she left. After last night, he supposed that she had reason to be suspicious.

But his intentions were pure. He wanted to do something normal for her.

He had no idea how to cook anything decent. And he could not walk around in broad daylight looking for food. And there were no deer nearby that he could hunt and roast over a fire.

That left delivery.

He called in an order at a medium-priced steak restaurant. "You will give me two well-done number threes," he commanded into the telephone. "And you will deliver them to my house." The employee on the other end did not argue with him. When the delivery boy knocked at the door, he opened it just enough to slide his bony arm through with the money in hand. "Leave the food on the porch," he quietly commanded.

The boy stared with wide eyes and took a step backward. "All right…sir." He slowly set the food down. With a slightly shaking hand, the boy grabbed the money and quickly walked back to his car.

After all was clear, he stepped outside, grabbed the bags off the pavement, and closed the door. He spread the food out on the kitchen table, content to see that they had not ruined his order. The last thing he wished to do was call the boy back to his apartment.

When Christine came home, she immediately glanced toward the kitchen. "I promise there are no bodies in there," he stated. "Oddly, cannibalism has never sounded appealing to me."

"That's good to hear," she replied, giving him a half-smile as she walked into the kitchen. Seeing ordinary cartons of food, she grinned and ran back to him. No words were exchanged as they embraced. To say too much about it would have been patronizing.

She did tease him once that evening. "No cake?" Christine asked as she started to clean up their plates.

"Erik deserves no dessert after his display of idiocy last night," he said.

"Well, we may just have to get Erik some dessert this weekend anyway."

"Will you sing this weekend?" he asked. "You must never stop. You must sing forever."

"I will," she replied, looking at her hands. "Just…don't expect me to go that far with it."

"I do not overestimate you."

She looked at him, perhaps realizing that he'd used her own words against her. "Now that's not fair," she said with a little scowl.

"But it is very fair."

She unsuccessfully attempted to hide her smile. "I'll sing for you. But maybe only for you."

"We will see," he replied as they headed for the living area. He refused to leave her side for the rest of the evening.

The impending sense of doom that had followed him since prison finally began to fade in those utterly ordinary hours. It was the first time that he thought that maybe…that possibly…that perhaps everything could be somewhat…fine. Perhaps it was not all about to come crashing down upon him at any moment.

And she believed in him.