Hi, guys! Thank you all for your kind comments about the last chapter. My beta is still away but will hopefully be back for the next vignette. I hope you enjoy this one. We're probably going to start jumping forward in time soon; these first months were important for development, though.
Read and Review!
Christine stared at him with big, sad eyes all throughout the next morning. The sound of the violin did not even block her voice out of his head. Please, Erik? Please help me this one time?
How dare she ask him to parade his carcass in front of some strange female? Why not display him in a cage and charge twenty-five cents for merely viewing him and fifty cents to throw an apple core at his head?
Somewhere in his mind, he knew that Christine wasn't that cruel. Still, he felt cornered. On the one hand, he desperately did not want some wench staring at him and telling her friends about him. But if Mr. Lewis lost his wife, he would never hear the end of it from Christine. Mr. Lewis was already stealing her attentions away.
After they argued, Christine refused to speak to him for a few hours. According to Internet articles, that was called the "silent treatment." The dear girl was never very successful with it. At lunchtime, she came after him again. "Erik? All I want is for Gavin to keep his family."
"It is not my fault that Mr. Lewis cannot keep his own wife," he stated, brutally stabbing a piece of chicken with his fork.
"No, it's not," she agreed. "It's more my fault than yours. But…I think you're the only one who can fix this. Marisol wouldn't believe anything I had to say."
"So the sight of me will convince her that monsters do exist? And then she will be so horrified that she will forget her husband's lies. Delightful."
Christine frowned. "I don't care what she thinks about us. If she's still upset after she sees you, there's nothing else we can do. But I want to try to fix this. I feel so bad for Gavin."
"She will stare at me." He twitched at the thought.
"We'll ignore her." Christine took his hand. "Like I said, I don't care what she thinks of us."
"What if I cannot ignore her? What if I have the urge to…?" He tapered off.
Christine hesitated and looked down at her plate for a moment, gnawing on her bottom lip. She then stared him straight in the eye with so much seriousness that he wished to crawl under the kitchen table. "Do you really think you'd hurt her?" she asked. "If you do, then we won't go. I'm not going to take a chance on ruining your sanity. That's the most important thing right now." Her thumb stroked the back of his hand.
He was trapped. If he said that he was sane enough to handle the situation, one of his best excuses would be gone. If he stated that he was not sane, Christine would continue to see him as more of a child than a husband. She would continue to worry over his sanity until little lines formed on her young face and all the pretty color disappeared from her cheeks. Damn.
His answer was honest. "If you are near, I will not hurt her."
The expression on Christine's face was worth the upcoming misery, he supposed. "I won't leave your side that entire night," she declared. "We won't even stay that long. A quick meeting should be fine. "
"If she has a heart attack at the sight of me, it does not count as murder."
"It doesn't," Christine agreed.
"And when we return home, I get to have you."
She laughed. "Erik, you can have me no matter what. That's not something we should use to bribe or punish each other. It's…unconditional."
How could he deny her anything when she spoke such sweet words?
Well, he did try one more time to get out of it. "I do not wish to do this. I would rather cut my smallest fingers off." He had done that before; the fingers were not his own, though.
"I know." Her tone was hopeful; the crafty girl knew she was winning. "But if you do this for me once, I'll never make you again. We don't even have to go out anymore, if you don't want to."
"But I want to take you out. My wife should go out like all the other wives."
"Then you can decide where we'll go next."
He grinned as much as his twisted mouth allowed him to do so. She was so cheerful over her victory that he could not resist toying with her. "I get to decide where we go, eh? Would you prefer a morgue or a cockfight?"
She wrinkled her nose. "It has to be legal, and it can't involve dead people or animals."
"Then Erik will have to think about what he wishes to do."
"How about a movie?" she gently suggested.
"It is my decision, and I will decide later," he firmly stated. "And we shall have a splendid evening, my sweet wife."
During their loving banter, he almost forgot about his anxiety over the upcoming meeting.
Almost.
If anything happened during the encounter that destroyed his precious new life, though, he would ensure that Mr. Lewis suffered for it.
Gavin kept his cell phone by his side all throughout a fairly sleepless night and into the following morning. Marisol remained in the bedroom with Rose, only emerging to use the bathroom and get a drink of water. When he knocked, she said, "Leave me alone."
"Honey, we really, really, really need to talk about this. You've got it all wrong."
"I don't want to talk to you right now."
Gavin trudged back into the living room and collapsed onto the couch. At least his wife hadn't called her mother yet; Marisol probably didn't want to hear, I told you so! I told you that boy couldn't settle down!
His phone finally vibrated at a little after one in the afternoon. Gavin flew to his feet and answered it, feeling his heart jump. Calm down, dude. "Hello?"
"Hi there," replied Christine. "How's it going?"
"Not well," he replied, hoping for her sympathies.
"I'm sorry." She paused. "But maybe we can try to fix it soon. I…um…think I got Erik to agree to a quick meeting. Very quick. No more than five minutes."
Gavin grinned and fell back onto the couch in relief. "That'd be great!" he exclaimed. "You don't know how happy you've made me. If I wasn't in so much trouble with my wife and if your husband wouldn't kill me, I'd give you a big hug."
Christine softly laughed. "Yeah. You might not want to do that. But I hope it all works out."
They agreed that scheduling the meeting for tomorrow evening would give them both enough time to prepare. Christine said they couldn't meet at her home because it would be an invasion of Erik's territory. Gavin wholeheartedly agreed, and they decided to get together near a Greek restaurant about an hour after sunset. The building would be open so they wouldn't appear suspicious, but most people would be finished with dinner, which would mean fewer crowds.
"Maybe he could wear the black mask," Gavin suggested at one point. "It might be less confusing for Marisol than the realistic one."
Christine grunted. "I'm not going to make this less comfortable for Erik than it already is. I'll let him decide on the mask."
Gavin backed off. "All right. That's cool. Let Erik decide."
After the conversation, Gavin immediately ran to the bedroom door and knocked three times. "Honey? I really need to talk to you."
"Go away."
"But I spoke to Christine on the phone and arranged a meeting-with both her and her husband. You wanted to meet them, right? Well, here's your chance."
A short silence followed. "When?"
"Tomorrow night. But if that's not good for you, we'll pick another day."
The door to the bedroom slowly creaked opened. Her cheeks were tearstained, and her eyes had dark rings around them. Gavin felt a pain in his heart; his wife actually believed that he'd been unfaithful.
"This is all I have, Marisol," he said, holding his open palms out toward her. "Come meet them. If you don't believe me after that, then there's nothing else I can do. Please."
She stared at him, her lips pursed. "I'll meet them," she muttered. Rose started crying, and Marisol turned around and went to take care of her, leaving the door to the bedroom halfway open.
The rest of that day was cold and cordial. Marisol finally came out of the room, but she didn't talk to him. After awkwardly sitting around the house and feeling like a loser, Gavin went to Rose and told her his problems.
"Daddy really messed up," he explained, letting his daughter grab his fingers. "So now I have to take Mommy to see Aunt Chrissy and Uncle…uh…I don't think he'd want to be called Uncle Erik, do you?" Rose made a gurgling noise, and Gavin took it for agreement. "Yeah. Let's hope Mommy doesn't have a heart attack over Uncle Erik. And let's hope Uncle Erik doesn't bring his magical rope."
Gavin's stomach tightened with anxiety as the time approached. After spending another night on the couch with only the television for company, he approached Marisol in an attempt to avoid a disaster. "I really need to talk to you," he began, hoping she didn't tell him to go away.
"What?" she asked, staring at him with wary eyes.
"When you meet Erik, Christine's husband, you have to stay very calm and collected."
"No, Gavin," Marisol replied with more than a little sarcasm. "I'm going to run away screaming at the top of my lungs."
"I mean it." He was getting another headache. "You have to stay calm or you'll upset him."
She rolled her eyes and put her hands on her hips. "Do you actually think I'm going to point at him or something? How shallow and immature do you think I am?"
"No. I don't think you're shallow and immature. But you need to understand that he is a little intimidating. He's tall and…he'll probably wear all black and…."
"It's going to be fine."
"Don't try to take his mask off." Christine had once mentioned that story; it was unpleasant.
"Why would you even think...?" Marisol shook her head and walked away.
That evening, they left Rose with an elderly and trustworthy babysitter. Marisol didn't want to leave their daughter at such a young age, but Gavin didn't think Erik needed a strange woman and a crying baby around him all in one night. Rose was much safer with old Mrs. McGooken.
Gavin gripped the steering wheel as they drove to their destination, feeling his stomach continue to turn. Was he really taking his wife to meet a murderer? "It will be fine if we handle this carefully," he murmured, more to himself than to Marisol.
"You're really paranoid," his wife replied. "Is this guy dangerous or something?"
"He's tense and unfriendly." It wasn't a lie; Gavin simply hadn't answered the question.
"Well, that's okay. It's not like he's going to hurt us."
Gavin twitched. "He might say something rude. Ignore him. Don't get upset over it."
"Gavin, would you calm down?"
"No!" he exclaimed, facing her despite the fact that he was driving. "You're not taking this seriously enough."
"I'm just meeting a disfigured man and—you're about to hit that truck!"
Gavin swerved out of oncoming traffic and kept his eyes on the road. He took a deep breath as his heart pounded. "Okay. I'm sorry that I'm being a big jerk. I'll try to calm down." Once they arrived, he parked in a nearby vacant lot and turned off the car. After taking several seconds to gather himself together, Gavin looked at his wife. "Ready?" he softly asked.
She nodded twice.
They stepped out of their car and strolled down the damp streets, their breaths visible in the glow of the streetlights. Gavin slipped his gloved hand into hers, and, to his relief, she took it. As they neared the restaurant, he saw Christine and waved. She waved back. Marisol's eyes narrowed in disdain.
Erik materialized only after they walked closer, either stepping out of the shadows or from behind a corner. Or maybe he had mastered the art of teleportation. He wore the realistic mask, but there was just enough lighting to tell that it was a false face. The yellow eyes were clearly visible.
Marisol sharply drew in her breath and took one step backward, her eyes widening. Gavin put an arm around her waist to both hold her in place and reassure her. She leaned against his shoulder, reflexively searching for protection. "It's okay," Gavin whispered into her ear. She nodded once and swallowed.
Christine stood in front of Erik, her back nearly touching his stomach and chest. At first, Gavin thought Christine was trying to restrain Erik. On second glance, though, it seemed like she was guarding him.
Gavin spoke first, his voice a little hoarse. "Hey. Wow. So…okay…this is my wife, Marisol. And, Marisol, this is Erik and Christine Ackart."
Christine slowly offered a hand to Marisol. "Hi. It's nice to meet you."
His wife blinked and managed to tear her eyes away from Erik. Fortunately, Erik was staring down at Christine-and swaying as he continuously shifted weight from foot to foot. "It's nice to meet you both," Marisol managed to say, limply shaking Christine's hand. Marisol hesitated with her arm half-extended, obviously unsure about whether she was supposed to shake Erik's hand, too. Gavin gently took his wife's wrist and brought her arm down; Erik only let one person touch him.
"I wanted to say that I'm…very sorry about any misunderstandings," continued Christine. "It was a really confusing situation, and I needed the help of a friend. But…I didn't mean to take Gavin from his family."
Marisol continued to side-glance Erik. "It's…okay," she said, keeping her voice soft. She wouldn't dare give Christine a piece of her mind with Erik standing right there. "I'm happy that we're getting it all sorted out."
Christine nodded. "Gavin helped us a lot in England. He probably saved our lives."
"I'm glad he could help you," Marisol stiffly replied. "I wish he would have explained it to me."
"I understand. We all could have handled it a little better," Christine agreed.
"Yep," said Gavin. "I definitely could have done things differently."
"A lot of it was my fault, too," said Christine.
One of Erik's pale hands came to rest on his wife's right shoulder. Christine reached up and placed her hand over his. Marisol watched their interaction with wide eyes; Gavin scratched his head.
"So," Christine began again, struggling to make conversation. "Um…you guys will have to tell me the best places to go around here. It's…a big city. I feel lost sometimes."
"Yeah," replied Gavin. "There's a lot to do. Marisol knows the best places to shop."
"I could use some new clothes," said Marisol. "Gavin told you about our baby…?"
Christine smiled for the first time. "Yes! Gavin showed me pictures of Rose. She's beautiful."
Marisol managed a close-lipped smile. "Thank you. She's our joy."
A bunch of giggling teenagers suddenly walked by them, breaking the eerie peacefulness. Once they were gone, several awkward seconds of silence passed. Marisol stared at Erik again.
And then Erik spoke for the first time that night, causing all three of them to glance up. "I wish to go now. My wife is cold. You have spoken long enough." The yellow eyes narrowed into a slight glare, and Erik released Christine's shoulder and took her hand.
Marisol shivered as his strange voice echoed around them. Gavin inwardly chuckled. At least there was nothing dangerous about Erik's statement; it was simply blunt and rude.
Christine laughed and turned to follow her impatient husband. "Well, I guess it's time for us to head off. Nice to meet you."
"Good seeing you," Gavin replied.
"Nice to meet you," Marisol choked out. She remained silent as she walked back to their car, hugging her arms against her chest. As soon as they were inside and had the heater blowing over them, the questions started pouring out of her. "He's…what…how…where did he come from?"
"France." Gavin started the engine and backed out of the parking lot.
"But I mean…where?"
Gavin softly chuckled. "He's a human being. He got here like the rest of us."
"Have you seen his face?"
"No. Not really." The old photograph was the closest that Gavin had come to it.
"Then how do you know-"
"Christine told me."
"How'd they meet? Where on earth did she find him?"
Gavin cringed and quickly formed a half-truth. "Erik's former job. I don't know the details."
"What does he do for a-"
"Maybe we can talk about this tomorrow. I'm kind of tired, honey. I'm sorry." In other words, he was too exhausted to form any more half-truths.
Marisol stared out the window for several minutes. "He loves her," she murmured. "He watched her the entire time."
"Yeah," Gavin agreed. "It's a little funny sometimes how—oh, what's the word?—not obsessed…well, maybe that's right. How obsessed he is with her."
Marisol scoffed. "There is nothing funny about a husband's devotion to his wife."
Gavin groaned. "Are you still mad at me?"
"Yes. You've still been lying all this time." She frowned. "But…at least it's not what I thought it was. You could've told me from the beginning."
"I know. I'm sorry. But this will stay between us, right? Erik is sort of a secret."
She nodded. "I won't tell anyone about him. It'd be terrible if they were harassed." Marisol paused. "But no more secret meetings with Christine. Tell me when you want to visit them; they could probably use friends. I hate it when you sneak around behind my back, though!"
"I'll stop," Gavin promised. "I'll tell you what I'm doing from now on."
"Thank you." After a second, she smirked and said, "At least I know you'd never cheat on me with Christine. I bet Erik would get really angry at you. He'd probably beat you up."
"Heh. Yeah…. He wouldn't be too happy. Fortunately, I have no interest whatsoever in Christine." Gavin turned and kissed her on the cheek, managing not to drift into oncoming traffic this time. Marisol softly grunted, and he hoped that she was at least starting to forgive him.
He also hoped she didn't consider the Ackarts as candidates for luncheons and tennis doubles.
Christine jumped on him.
Not even a year ago, he would have reflexively thrown her off and likely injured her. But even as the adrenaline rose within him and prepared him to fight, he was able to process that she was his wife and not an enemy. He sat down on the edge of the bed with her still hugging him, tentatively wrapping an arm around her. Even after a quiet ride home, the events of the night were still eating at him.
"Everything went perfectly," she stated. "And you were fine, Erik. I'm so proud of you."
"I merely stood there."
"But you were fine. Even I was about to tell her to stop staring. You ignored her, though."
He tensed. "She stared at you as well."
"So? I don't care. Everything went fine." Christine began to kiss his bare face and remove his jacket.
"How can you not care?"
She drew back with a sigh. "What?"
He momentarily closed his eyes. "She…people will always gawk at you and wonder what sort of girl you are to have married such a freakish creature. They will look down upon you and judge you. I do not know how to make it stop without…injuring them." It was the first time he had realized that his presence tarnished his wife's image; it pained him.
"I'll ignore them. I don't care what people think," she protested.
"But that is untrue. You always adorn yourself before we go out. Your hair, your clothing, your face. If you did not care, you would not put so much effort into your appearance."
Christine glanced down in thought, her brow creased. "Part of it is looking nice for you," she admitted, gazing back up at him. "I like it when you…want me." She blushed, and he could not resist pressing a kiss to her forehead. "But I do want to look nice when I go out, too. People respect me a little more when I dress up. But, as far as we go, I don't care what people think. You're more important than they are."
"Oh."
"Besides, you've worn a suit since the first day I met you." She finished removing his jacket and tossed it aside. "Why do you do that?"
He considered this. "After being forced to wear a dirty prison uniform for ten years, I wished to wear the opposite. And the suit was intimidating, especially when I was…dealing with the upper class."
"So kind of for respect."
"I suppose that is so."
"It's the same for me." Christine began to kiss him again, and he became calm enough to return her affections. She was…extremely passionate that night, and he was left to assume that his fears were unfounded.
It was one thing if people stared at him; he could refrain from killing them for Christine's sake. It was quite another thing if they upset and embarrassed her. But perhaps his wife had already made these decisions and accepted the burden. Perhaps she would not break into pieces at the first cruel whispers and hostile stares. Perhaps…she was strong.
Over the next week, Christine purchased a small, plastic tree for their living room. She hung some lights and ornaments on the branches before asking him to put the gold star on top. He did so to make her smile, not really understanding the significance. Red and green candles appeared on their kitchen table, and a wreath decorated their door. Such objects were not completely new to him because his mother had sometimes observed Christmas. He'd always been sent to his room because "a demonic child had no business celebrating a holy day."
Despite his negative feelings toward the season, he did wish to get Christine a gift. For several days, he puzzled over the matter and made a mental list of objects that women were traditionally given in the country. As of now, the list contained chocolate, flowers, jewelry, and Tupperware (how dreary!). There were also toys in the shapes of animals, but he did not have the stomach to buy a stuffed zebra with a red bow on its head or other such nonsense. Chagny had likely bought her that sort of thing. Ick.
While she was singing one evening, he decided that tickets to the opera would be the ideal gift. Rusalka was to be performed within the city next year. It was a tragic fairy tale that they might both enjoy, and she always did take pleasure from going out in the evenings. And she would hopefully understand the gift's significance concerning music as both a part of the past and her future.
As the tickets would not arrive swiftly enough by mail, he was forced to retrieve them. When Christine asked where he was going that evening, he said, "Someplace perfectly legal." He purchased them with a legitimate credit card and false identification. The older man behind the counter didn't seem to notice anything unusual…or he didn't care. Apathetic people were always appreciated.
All in all, the gift was successful. Christine grinned, hugged him, and asked if he would accompany her.
"Of course I will go," he replied. "I will certainly not allow another man to take you. I would kill him for trying to take my ticket." He became irate just thinking about that hypothetical, thieving man. She managed to calm him down.
He received a variety of small gifts from her: clothing, pens and paper for composing, CDs with operatic and classical music, and chocolate. As he sat there with it all piled in his lap, her face scrunched up. "I didn't really know what to get you," she said. "I wanted a piano, but it couldn't fit in here. So I just got you whatever I could think of. I'm sorry."
"Do not be ridiculous. It is fine." The truth was that nothing she purchased for him could really compare with the ring on his finger. She could have bought him a pipe organ, and he would not have been impressed.
"But-"
"Christine. You have given me far more than enough. And if I even have to explain that to you….Do not make me explain it to you."
She didn't force him to explain. And except for when he mistakenly knocked a bowl of brown gravy to the floor during dinner—he hoped most of his curses were in French so that her ears were not offended—it was a peaceful day.
The very last holiday of the year was also bearable; it was simplistic and only required a bottle of champagne. The drink made his face tingle, especially near his non-existent nose.
Christine reclined on the couch, waiting for midnight. "Last New Year's Eve, I was at a really horrible party with one of my friends. And missing you."
"I was at a costume party…borrowing Carlotta Glouer." And losing my sanity.
"It's a much better New Year's," she stated. The late hour and the alcohol had put a smile on her face.
"Indeed."
"Do you have a resolution?" she asked with a yawn.
"I do not."
"Me neither. I couldn't think of one."
She fell asleep on the couch before midnight. He sat there in the dim light with the television at a low volume. The year was ending, and he was alive and married. Alive and married. For a split second, it seemed so unbelievable that he nearly panicked. He stared at the coffee table, the lamp, the plastic tree…trying to make sure that they were not the hallucinations of an insane prison inmate. He even grabbed onto her hair for reassurance. The fear faded, and the living room came into focus again. Tilting his head against the back of the couch, he took several deep breaths.
It would take time for him to trust his new sanity.
With some alarm, he looked down and saw that he'd wound his hand tightly up in her hair. He quickly worked to untangle his fingers and not waken her, lest she suddenly jerk her head and end up with a bald spot. Christine did awaken, but, thankfully, she didn't move. "What are you doing?" she asked.
"I…do not know. Your hair is very soft, and I became a bit carried away." He looked down at her expression and chuckled. "Your husband is simply a crazy, old man."
"You're not that old," she teased, wincing as she tried to help him unwind his fingers. "And sane men—ouch!-can be kind of dull."
"I am glad you think so; it will save me from having to…deal with them once you begin school."
They managed to remove his hand from her hair before midnight. At the stroke of twelve, Christine grabbed him and taught him one more holiday ritual; he decided that he liked that one.
And the first year of his life came to an end.
