Hi, everyone. Thank you so much for your kind feedback. I'm glad that so many of you are enjoying these little vignettes.

This is probably one of the softer and sweeter vignettes that I'll ever write. This is also a fairly mature chapter, so feel free to skip it. Nothing too descriptive, though. And I do hope that it comes off as more than just fluff. The next vignettes, however, will be more serious.

For those who read it, I hope you enjoy the chapter. And a big thank you to MadLizzy for her suggestions.

Read and Review!!

There were times when Christine pretended to be braver than she actually felt. On some days, she didn't even think about being the more stable one. It was only when Erik panicked (or suddenly decided that he wanted to take up crime again) that she wasn't always sure what to say or do.

Raoul had always been the strong one—the rock--when they were together. She'd sobbed onto his shoulder more than a few times and had several attacks of hysteria over the death of her father. He'd always held her and told her that the pain would pass with time, never acting annoyed by the fact that she was an emotional mess. After several months had passed, she'd finally begun to believe him.

They'd gone up to the Appalachian Mountains for an autumn weekend and stayed in a cozy little lodge. The weather had been rainy before they arrived, leaving the leaf-covered ground slick and filled with puddles. As she was trying to open a water bottle while climbing up a hill, Christine had tripped and fallen into the mud. Raoul had tried to help her up with one hand and had fallen into the puddle, splashing the dirty water onto both of them. A giant blob of mud had landed on his nose and cheeks, dripping onto his white polo shirt, and he had sat there blinking in slight disbelief.

She'd started laughing hysterically, cathartic tears running down her dirty cheeks. He'd laughed, too, and they'd shakily stood together and trudged back to the lodge. It was the moment that she realized her father's death wouldn't destroy her…that she could be happy again in time.

Her brief bout of depression was nothing compared to the horrors of Erik's life. Still, she had to believe that her husband would eventually reach that day when he embraced the future and stopped cursing the past. Until that time came, she would have to be stronger, even if it sometimes meant hiding her own fears.

These were her thoughts as she folded laundry in their bedroom on a late Saturday afternoon. It was the weekend after Erik had considered resuming his life of crime, and she was still shaken up from that disturbing evening. After how far they had come together…how much they had been through in the last year…the thought that he might want to return to that lifestyle nearly broke her heart. When she left for work the day following Erik's outburst, Christine had sat in the overheated car and sobbed for a few minutes. And then she had spent another ten minutes trying to get rid of her puffy eyes.

Thankfully, outside of taking a short walk with her, Erik didn't go out at night for the rest of the week. He stayed at her side and held her in the evenings. He even ordered food for a second time, including a slice of chocolate cake with white icing just for her. Her hope was slowly replenished.

Before folding the rest of the laundry, she opened the blinds to let a little sunlight inside, knowing that Erik would close them when it was time for bed. He still refused to let her see any part of him outside of his hands and face. Several times, she had caught sight of his long, pale feet and toes. She found them rather cute but didn't dare tell Erik that.

Christine smiled to herself as she matched his dark socks together. During their first month in the apartment, he'd actually attempted to hide his laundry from her. After noticing that she never saw his dirty clothing, Christine had searched the house to no avail. Finally, she'd given up and asked him outright.

"It is no matter," he'd replied, with a wave of his hand.

"But I might as well do your clothes with mine," she protested. "It'll save water, and it's no trouble."

"But you do not need to."

"Why? I'm happy to do your laundry with mine."

"But you do not need to."

She'd shaken her head in frustration. "Can't I please have your clothing? It's no trouble."

"Do not worry."

"Erik! Let me do your laundry!" She'd turned a little red; the neighbors had probably heard her.

He'd stared at her with his head tilted to the right. "No one has ever really…not since my…it is…The clothing touched me." Erik had looked momentarily confused by his own words. He tapped his fingers on the arm of the sofa and looked at the floor in thought. "But you touch me, don't you? Yes. So I suppose you will not mind."

"I'm happy to do your laundry," she'd replied, her voice softer.

He'd stood and pulled his clothing out of a tiny pantry. It was all nicely folded into a strangely compact black ball. She'd kissed his cheek in gratitude, and he'd wandered off to the living area with a peaceful expression. To her dismay, the tags said that his suits were dry-clean. After her noisy fuss, Christine had decided not to say anything. She'd taken them to the cleaners on her way to work and then bought Erik machine-wash clothing. Thankfully, he'd found them acceptable.

Strange little things like that also gave her hope.

Erik wandered into the bedroom as she folded the last few washcloths. He silently watched her work for a moment, and she smiled.

"You said you would sing this weekend," he stated after a moment, his voice hopeful.

"I did," she replied. "I will."

"This evening you will?"

She'd been catching up on some housework throughout the day but still had a little energy. She glanced out the window. "Are the neighbors gone?"

"Yes. They are. Although they play their wretched car stereo so loudly that it is damn well time they heard what true music is."

Christine laughed. Their neighbors were actually a middle-aged couple who listened to oldies and country rock. Their music wasn't that loud, but Erik seemed to have sensitive ears. "All right. I'll give it a try, then. If anyone complains, we'll go somewhere else."

"If anyone complains, I will take them somewhere else." His eyes softened, and he leaned back onto his heels as though trying to take a less aggressive stance. "Come. Please. You will sing tonight for me as you said you would. I have waited all week to hear you." He spoke in a tone of voice that made her want to follow him anywhere, and she felt her shoulders relax as they went into the living area.

As they went through the beginning warm-ups, keeping to a lower volume, Christine realized how much she'd missed singing. The realities of life had taken precedent over everything else, and she was severely out of practice, barely able to sing a soubrette piece. Erik corrected her throughout the lesson but was never harsh or sarcastic. The muscles in his face were relaxed, and his eyes shone with delight. The balance of power also shifted slightly when she sang for him. Erik was the wise teacher, and she was the flawed student. He was right; they could never let music go. Even if it no longer composed their entire lives, it was essential to their wellbeing.

At some point, she stopped trying to sing and merely listened to him play, watching his shifting fingers and the rapid movement of the bow. He indulged her, keeping his concentration on the polished instrument.

"Do you still have your masterpiece?" she asked when he was finished, looking at her husband with intense admiration. "The one you were working on way back…? Don Juan?"

He hesitated. "Yes. But I do not work on it often now."

"Will you play part of it?" When she'd first spotted the music at the house by the graveyard, he'd harshly told her that she couldn't hear it.

"It is not pleasant," he replied. "You will not like it. It is a sort of nightmare."

"Please play a little. I've always been curious about it."

"You cannot hate me over it. Most of it was written years ago."

"I'm not going to hate you over your music, Erik. I'm only curious."

"Curious, are you? Yes, of course you are. Fine. I will play it. But you must tell me if you become ill." He paused for several seconds as though gathering his thoughts. And then he placed the violin at his shoulder and began to play, the muscles in his face tightening and his eyes becoming intense.

It was shocking. Living in a lower middle-class neighborhood and going to public schools, she'd been exposed to most of the music out there. She was no stranger to songs that consisted of screaming and high-pitched electric guitars. Erik's masterpiece was still hard to take in, though. Half of the composition made her want to cover her ears in pain, and the other half was strangely alluring and hypnotic. If he had played it during their first encounters, she probably would have run out of the room. As his wife and lover, she could listen to the music with morbid fascination and appreciation for her husband's talents.

Erik finally stopped in the middle of the piece and stared at her. He appeared confused for a moment and then quickly set down the violin. "Are you ill?" he asked. "I warned you of it. It is a horrible thing, no? Do you wish me to get water?"

"No." She blinked a few times, her heart beating quickly. "I'm fine. But that was…I'm not sure what it was. When did you start writing it?"

"I began it during prison with half a pencil and a piece of moldy cardboard. And then much of it was written afterward. Some of it was changed after you."

"Oh. I've never heard anything like it."

He grimaced. "I would certainly hope not."

"Will you tell me what it's about?"

A little moan escaped his misshapen lips. "Oh, my inquisitive wife. No. Please do not ask that."

Despite the fact that his expression was that of a cornered animal, she walked forward, wanting to be closer to him. In the center of her mind, she could suddenly picture Erik huddled in a dark jail cell, trying to write his beloved music with a broken pencil. He looked down at her as she embraced him before relaxing and kissing her forehead with a soft laugh. "This is why I cannot finish the wretched thing," he said.

"You can't finish your masterpiece?"

"No. But it does not matter, really. It does not matter." They stood there together for several moments, and she closed her eyes and inhaled. The detergent made his shirt smell like pine. He gently drew back and took her hand. "Perhaps it is time for sleep now. You have sung for me. You must sing more often so your voice does not rust."

"Yes," she agreed. "We should do this at least once or twice a week."

"Yes!" he exclaimed. "Until the day the world hears you, you will sing here."

"We might have to go somewhere else if the neighbors complain."

"They will appreciate your voice if they know what is good for them. Everyone will appreciate your voice. But you will still be mine."

Her skin was warm as she entered the bedroom and changed into a lavender cotton nightgown. Maybe it was the music. Or the fact that he had opened up to her that evening. But she felt bolder and closer to him that night. Erik closed the blinds and curtains tightly and then turned off the lamp. Once she was sufficiently blinded, he approached and tilted her chin up to kiss her. Her cheeks tingled, and she wrapped her arms around his narrow shoulders, wanting the night to last a long time.

After they were lying beneath the covers, though, Erik moved quickly and gracelessly toward her. She knew that the evening would end with disappointment if she didn't act soon. And maybe there was no better time than the present. Taking both hands, Christine grabbed his upper arms and held him back from her. "Wait," she attempted to say. Her mouth was so dry that it came out as a choke.

Erik froze, and she immediately felt guilty. "You do not want…" he stuttered. "That is fine. I am sorry. That is fine." He rolled away to the opposite side of the bed.

Using her hands to guide her in the pitch black, she reached out and touched his shoulders with her fingertips. "No, Erik. I mean, yes. I mean…" If she ever went back to school, she was going to take a Speech class. "I mean I want to take our time together."

He turned and stared at her. "Why?"

She blinked several times. "Well…it'll be nicer…and I don't want to rush everything. I want to enjoy all our time with each other. I love being with you."

Erik was momentarily silent, eyeing her with confusion. "I always attempt to make it very quick for you. Someone once said I should."

"That's horrible! Who said that?"

"It does not matter," he mumbled.

"Well, they were mean and wrong to--"

"Nadir said it," he interrupted. "Before my imprisonment. If…If I won enough money in the lawsuit against Falcon, I thought some poor woman might stay with me if I bought her things. I wanted to live in isolation, but I did not want to be alone forever, you see. Nadir said it was possible that I might find a companion; many females will suffer through anything to have nice possessions, you know? And I would always keep my mask on. But Nadir said I should be quick and merciful if a female ever allowed…it. He was merely being honest."

"Erik--"

"I should probably not bother you at all, but you are very beautiful. And I love my wife so much. And I have always badly wanted to touch her."

"You--"

"And you allowed me to be with you on our wedding night. And so I thought--"

"Erik!" He stopped speaking and looked at her. She took a deep breath and found his hands in the dark, gently squeezing his fingers. "Listen to me," she whispered. "Nadir was wrong. He probably wasn't trying to be mean; maybe he wanted to protect you. But…he was very wrong, especially about us."

Erik didn't answer. She leaned forward and kissed the corner of his mouth, letting her hands run down his torn back.

"I didn't mean to upset you. I want you here. Will you just let me try something?" she softly asked. The yellow eyes bobbed up and down, which she took to be him nodding. "Thank you."

Christine pulled him toward her, determined not to let the night end on another awkward and depressing note. She really didn't know that much. Her father hated talking about the subject, and so most of her lessons came in the form of whispered conversations with friends that were frequently interrupted by giggles. Still, she liked to think that she wasn't completely clueless.

She continued to kiss him until he relaxed and simply stared at her, blinking and waiting. She took his cold hands into her own again, guiding him and explaining with as few words as possible. And he seemed to gain an understanding after a few moments, especially when she voiced her approval at his touch. His eyes became less guarded and more curious. He finally leaned forward, kissed her, and took over.

At first, Christine felt as though she were being dissected and studied like a foreign specimen. His caresses eventually became less mechanical and smoother. She was his wife again rather than an object of curiosity. The warmth that she'd been craving for the last several months, since London, finally started to overtake her.

Erik finally seemed to understand that these parts of their lives were not doomed to be miserable for her; she was not in bed with him out of pity. These moments could be some of the happiest and most healing times for both of them. Euphoria flooded her veins. He gazed at her with fascination and adoration until she pulled him up over her with a smile, and then he gladly acquiesced to her final wish for complete intimacy.

The strangeness of it all was worth it in the end. When he moved away and whispered her name, she quickly rolled over and embraced him, resting her cheek on his bare shoulder. She sighed with contentment as her pulse returned to normal, hoping that he was as ecstatic as she was. His flesh was now cool instead of ice-cold, and his heart beat quickly beneath her palm. She murmured words of gratitude and kissed him as a pleasant exhaustion overtook her.

As her eyes were beginning to droop closed, Erik spoke into her hair. "If Nadir were not dead, I would murder him."

She opened her eyes. "Oh. Erik. I think Nadir would be happy for us. And please don't speak about killing people right now. It's in the past, anyway."

"Oh." He wrapped his arms around her and kissed the side of her head. "You are very precious, and I will give you everything and make you happy."

"You do make me happy," she murmured.

Feeling as though she were drifting on a cloud, Christine dozed for a little while, soft music playing in her mind and trickling into her dreams. When she awoke and looked up a few hours later, the yellow eyes were still watching her. His hand was running through her hair. "Erik?"

"Yes, my wife?"

"Have you ever thought that you could compose music for other people?"

He scoffed. "They cannot hear my music. They would not understand any of it."

"But maybe they would still like it. It's kind of both classical and modern. I'm not sure if anyone's written anything like it before."

"They would not understand," he repeated. Then he quietly added, "And my music is derived from that which is nearly nonexistent, so it does not matter."

"What do you mean it's derived from something nonexistent?"

"You are here," he stated. "That music is slowly dying a little death."

"I'm killing your music?" She sat up and stared at him.

Erik laughed at her indignation. He pulled her back down to him and held her tightly. "You are only killing my masterpiece. But I do not mind. It is a small sacrifice, really."

"I still don't understand."

He hesitated. "You ruin my music because my music thrived off misery and horror. When I began my masterpiece, I had nothing else. But it is impossible to be utterly miserable when one sleeps and awakens to this. " He touched her cheek with the tips of his fingers.

"Oh." She relaxed into his arms. "I'm not sorry for that, then."

"Nor am I. And as I said, they would not understand even if I could write it. Only you understand. Still, I must find some trade that is useful to the human race, outside of entertaining them with the spectacle of myself."

"What did you want to do when you were younger? In India?"

"I do not even remember. Perhaps engineering or architecture--something where few would see me. But I have no formal education. And if I did write music, it would have to be something that their pathetic minds could comprehend. But I must do something to get you out of that torture chamber."

"You'll find something that you like to do. Besides, my work isn't that bad. Maybe a little dull."

"I am sure it is worse than any torment I could devise. Do you go tomorrow?"

She didn't want to think about work now. "Not till one."

"Perhaps you could not go at all and stay here with your husband."

"Mm. But then I'll be fired." She pressed several kisses to his neck, her heart fluttering.

"If they fire you, I will kill them."

"No, Erik." She kissed his tiny, nearly non-existent ear and ran her hand down over his sunken stomach.

"I will give them a stern reprimand, then. Is that better? As though that would do any good for…." He finally stopped speaking as her hands wandered over him, giving her his undivided attention. And she finally felt a little surer of herself.