Welp, apparently my focus really has shifted to my new story because I almost posted a segment from that instead of this! That would have been a very different change of pace! Trudging through a tunnel carved by giant worm-like beasts, anyone?

No?

Oh, well, then. How about a reaction to a kiss? Think it'll be nice?

Onward!

xvii

Erik's mind was a silent thing. No doubts plagued him, yet no rapturous exultations came either. He simply felt. And was amazed. For Christine was kissing him.

Only in his most innermost dreams had he considered such a thing possible, but his rational thought had ensured that he remained very much aware of its impossibility. She would have a proper young man, one day. One handsome enough to give her beautiful children, kind enough that his past was not littered with death and horror.

And yet here she stood, out in the cold, kissing him.

He was certain he was not doing it right. What few films he had seen before he had banished romance from his collection entirely—it was simply too painful to view something that would never be—depicted passionate embraces, robust lips that nearly devoured one another. But instead he tried to be gentle and chaste, fearful that to do anything more might frighten her away and make her regret her action.

And nothing could wound him more than that.

Christine did pull away eventually, and he was gladdened when instead of moving away from him entirely as he had feared, instead she rested her head against his chest, a small smile playing about her lips. "You're very tall," she commented, almost apologetically, and he wondered if she suffered some discomfort from the angle. He frowned at the thought, the hand not occupied with holding her scarf coming to rest upon her neck, rubbing softly.

"That is disagreeable?"

She shifted slightly against him, and he stilled his hand. Simply because they had kissed did not give him the right to touch her at will. "My apologies," he murmured, letting it fall back to his side. He could not quite convince his other to release her completely.

Christine peered up at him, and he could make out the faintest of blushes on her cheeks. "That felt very nice, Erik. You don't need to be sorry."

He watched her carefully for any deceit, any sign that she was merely saying so to appease his feelings, but he could detect none. Tentatively, he allowed his hand to return to her back, holding her close. His feet were wet, his pant legs up to his knees equally so, and it was an uncomfortable thing. Yet, with her in his arms and uncertain when he could experience it again, he was unwilling to be the one to force them to part.

He would have liked to have remained solely focused on Christine, on the way she felt nestled so sweetly against him, to remember the feel of her upon his lips as he drew the lower one between his teeth to see if he could taste her there. But instead he watched the beach, ever mindful that his duty was not only to her whims, but to her protection. And while he was fairly certain they had temporarily escaped their pursuer, he would not risk Christine. Not for anything in the world. Not even her kisses.

Though he would very much like to have one again.

He was embarrassed that he very nearly wanted to weep at her small affection. It would only frighten her, only cause her to question the stability of her chosen recipient, so he refrained from allowing such a display, even as he wanted to fall to her feet and clutch her to him, thanking her for bestowing what no other woman had even attempted.

"Your feet must be cold," she told him eventually, and he wished he could assure her that they were perfectly well. She took his silence as confirmation, and pulled out of his arms, holding her hand out to him as she did so. "We should head back."

He was being too quiet, if her frequent glances of concern were any indication of her thoughts. But words eluded him, now that he had entered this strange new world of possibility. She would not kiss him if she was repulsed, would she? Impossible. His mother had never managed to do so, and many had claimed that birthing a child imbued a greater love than many were capable of experiencing.

Evidently his birth had instilled quite the opposite.

He followed Christine obediently as she led them back up to their hotel rooms, pulling out her key card and tugging him inside. He hesitated in the entry, belatedly noticing how much sand clung to his shoes and the cuffs of his trousers. "I must change," he said at last.

"You need pajamas," she told him firmly. "I'm starting to believe you don't have any, but you must sleep in something other than a suit."

To his surprise, she drifted through to his room, and to his greater horror, moved to his suitcase. Before she could begin to unzip it, he had crossed the room, startling her when his hand clamped down over the pull. She looked up at him with wide eyes. "Erik?"

He forced his voice to hold some measure of calm. "There are dangerous things inside, Christine. Mustn't touch."

He always kept some sort of weapon on his person, though now that the threat to Christine was a real, tangible entity, he had bedecked himself with three varieties. Nothing was going to happen to her, not while he was near. But the rest were safely tucked away in his suitcase, and she was not to go near them. It seemed... wrong to picture her holding something lethal. Even more so to imagine her in a situation that would make its use necessary. He could not taint her so.

Yet perhaps it would not be remiss to teach her some means of defense, should the unthinkable ever occur and he was unable to be with her.

He swallowed thickly, the thought making him cold.

Christine eyed him suspiciously, but her hand left his suitcase. "Okay," she said at last, though something in her posture indicated he had offended her in some way. She made to leave, and before he could think better of it, his hand reached out and grasped her forearm.

"Christine," he tried again. "This is not a matter of trust. Nor do I think you too childish to act responsibly with them, if that is what you were to accuse me of next." She softened somewhat at that, and he hated that she would have thought so. "What were you going to retrieve?" That seemed a safer question than allowing her to enquire as to the nature of all of his weaponry that would prove so dangerous to her.

"You need warm socks. Not dress socks." She glanced down at his feet before leaning downward, tugging up his pant leg and evidently finding his current pair to be wanting.

Erik took a step backward, releasing Christine and keeping her from a more efficient perusal. He was not sure what to think about her fussing. It was... endearing, he supposed, but unexpected and most certainly foreign, and it would take some time to consider things.

Christine frowned at him, but allowed for his retreat, for which he was grateful. "You should go to bed," he told her once again, hoping that this time she would listen. Before, she had insisted on a walk, but now his feet truly were cold and his ankles were thoroughly uncomfortable where his trousers had mingled with both water and sand, so there was little chance he would agree to another such distraction.

And she did look tired. Her eyes appeared slightly less alert than usual, her movements perhaps a little sluggish. She stifled a yawn behind her hand, though she tried to remain firm as she watched him. "How do I know you'll take care of yourself?"

Erik offered her an indulgent smile. "I have been doing so for longer than you have walked this earth, Christine."

Her lips thinned at that, and he wondered if he had offended her. He was truly not so very much older than her, though he was not entirely sure of his own age as a comparison. He had a guess—had conjured some of his earliest memories to compare to the events of the time to create a rough estimate—but it did not seem overly important.

Unless it troubled her.

Erik did not like that thought.

"That shouldn't have been necessary," she told him quietly, her expression still unhappy—a result of his own careless words. What had been meant as an assurance of his capability, clearly had not been taken in such a way.

"Christine," he soothed, unsure of how to do it properly, but determined to try his best. Whenever she thought him upset, she touched his arm, so he started there, his own long-fingered hand seeming to dwarf the delicate bone. He swallowed, briefly unnerved by the sight. What business did he have touching her without her explicit permission? Especially since it was so readily apparent that he could so easily exert his will over her own.

He determined to pull away, to extract himself from her person before she could find it objectionable, but to his great surprise, she seemed to relax somewhat from his attempt.

"Well, it's true," she told him steadily. "And... we're together now, aren't we?" Her cheeks were a bright red, and it took him a moment to supply the meaning of her words.

Together.

A couple.

It was amazing how she could render him completely breathless with such few words.

"Did you wish to be?" he managed to ask, thoughts and words very nearly escaping him.

"Only if you want," Christine responded, not quite looking at him.

Foolish Christine.

As if her offering alone was not the greatest gift anyone had bestowed upon him—as if he could possibly reject it. Perhaps he was a selfish man, that he should have encouraged her toward a better one than he, but he could not form the words. Not when she so sweetly was asking if he wanted her, wanted them to be more.

Together.

He approved that word.

"I should like nothing more," he replied earnestly.

Things would have to change, if she was his. He would allow no harm to befall her, no threat of his past to overcome what happiness they manage to uncover. He would make her happy, would stop at nothing until she was so. He would find her a house, a safe one this time, private and secure, and he would give her money enough that she could buy all the baubles and trinkets she required until she felt at home.

And maybe, someday, she would allow him to be the one to give her a diamond.

And a day soon after, she would give him a ring of his very own.

If only.

She smiled at him, finally meeting his eye even as her blush refused to quiet. "I'd like that too," she confessed, and something tight and troublesome in his chest began to loosen.

For reasons he could not even begin to explain, she wanted him. There was no mistaking that she had initiated their kiss upon the beach. Even his mind, with its so frequent torments, could not find a way to twist their exchange to seem as though he had forced himself upon her.

She had kissed him, had wanted him, and apparently she did not view it with regret.

But instead wanted to establish something more.

His dear, sweet girl.

Christine hadn't meant to have this conversation now. She was going to wait until she'd slept, had time to think and be sure of what she hoped would come next. Kissing him had been impulsive, had been a culmination of her fear for him as well as her gladness that he was whole and well and had returned to her—her precious scarf in hand.

But as they'd walked back to the hotel, she'd been acutely aware of how uncomfortable he had been, and she could not ignore her growing desire to care for him. That had to stem from more than simple gratitude, did it not?

Nothing had changed. Not really. He still worked for the marshal's office, and she was still an assignment. They were no closer to finding a safe haven from her pursuer, no more hopeful that they could return home in the near future.

And yet, everything felt different.

She wanted to hold his hand again, wanting to strip off his shoes and socks and replace them with a fuzzy pair of her own, just to be sure he was taken care of properly. He had told her already that no one had ever done such things for him—a terrible thing in its own right—but it wasn't enough that someone should provide him such things.

She wanted to be the one to give him that.

"I'm so glad," she told him, quite sincerely. She was glad he wanted her—that her kisses had been wanted and reciprocated. He had been so still in the beginning, so stiff and uncertain that she had nearly come to think that he was simply too kind to push her away. And that thought proved remarkably devastating.

And she hoped she wasn't being too forward, too insistent when their relationship was still so new and tenuous, but she pressed on. "But if we're a couple now, doesn't that mean I get to fuss over you if I want to?" Perhaps it was a bit manipulative, blinking at him that way, her tone just a little cajoling, but she worried for him—both for his wet feet, and the man beneath. The small glimpses he allowed her of his home life were bleak ones, with abuse and neglect so commonplace that he accepted them without question. She hated it. Hated that he hadn't known the love of a mother, the comforting pats of a father.

But at least he'd known a woman's kiss. One that cared about him deeply.

And it made her smile.

Erik was staring down at her, his eyes narrowed and clearly considering her enquiry. "I suppose," he admitted carefully. "Though I warn you, you are setting a precedence for when your own needs are in question."

She hadn't thought of that. But remembering how she'd awoken earlier, terrified and lost only to find him there... if that meant when she was sick he wanted to ply her with medicines and tea and tuck her into bed, surely that would not be an unwelcome thing.

"Then I suppose I'll just have to make sure I take care of you well enough that you'll know what I expect when it's my turn."

She was presuming far, far too much. She knew that. He hadn't promised her anything. They had only kissed. But to her it felt like a great deal more. And when he looked at her that way, with such quiet disbelief as if she could not possibly be real, she allowed herself to imagine that it meant just as much to him.

Erik said nothing else before undoing the zipper of his suitcase, giving her a warning glance that she took as her cue to temporarily exit the room. She did so, deciding she would find her most suitable pair of socks and put on her nightgown once more. Perhaps with a few more layers for modesty.

Maybe.

The lateness of the hour was becoming all the more apparent as she stifled yet another yawn. She listened closely to the room beyond and was pleased to hear the shower running. Good. Shower, pajamas, socks, and bed. And maybe then he wouldn't get some terrible cold for her sake. She shimmied into her nightgown, folding her clothes haphazardly and placing them back into her own suitcase, determining to make a better effort in the morning.

She hoped he would allow them to sleep in tomorrow. Christine sincerely doubted it, knowing Erik's penchant for early starts, but she was so very tired. She looked over at her bed with a grimace. The walk had been good for her, feeding her exhaustion and hopefully quieting the last of her nightmares. But even so, she did not relish the possibility of waking yet again, fearful and alone.

She shook herself. She'd been on her own for quite some time, and suffered plenty of disturbing dreams. And while she'd usually soothed herself well enough to go back to sleep, now that she remembered what it was like to have someone there, for arms to encircle her and to feel so safe and sure...

Christine did not relish the thought of returning to her lonely existence.

She rifled through her suitcase and found a pair of what she hoped would be adequate socks. They were technically of the deepest purple, but she hoped if the light was dim enough he would mistake them for black... if he thought they were of his usual color, perhaps he would not recoil quite so much at the thought of wearing them.

She could hope at least.

Waiting for Erik to exit the bathroom was a tedious business, and she very nearly fell asleep in the attempt. It likely was not so terribly long, but now that she was comfortable, her sleeping sweater tucked cozily about her and one of her less garish pairs of socks pulled over her knees, her drowsiness was beginning to take over. The only thing that kept her from reclining and giving in was the knowledge that she currently sat on Erik's bed, and that would be highly inappropriate. Or, she tried to keep reminding herself of that. It seemed more comfortable somehow, the duvet a little softer, the mattress a bit more plump. And she was so very tired…

The door clicking made her jerk, and she blinked tiredly. She hadn't dozed off had she?

Erik looked… different. They weren't normal pajamas. Even though they clearly varied from his usual attire of suited perfection, his current clothes were not at all similar to the casual, even careless garments her papa wore to bed.

These were black—did he own anything else? There were his crisp white shirts, of course, but those hardly counted—silky and luxurious.

And she was staring.

He did not seem to appreciate it.

Guiltily, she held out the socks. She glanced down at his bare feet, hoping they would fit. They were stretchy and were not remotely snug on her, and she thought they would accommodate his much longer feet. "Here," she offered, not moving from the edge of the bed. She was too tired to move. "They'll help you warm up."

Erik eyed them with distaste, and she kept from curling her legs toward herself. She would not be embarrassed by her own pair, no matter how he glared the proffered selection.

She was certain he would argue, her slightly muzzy mind already preparing itself for having to persuade him. But instead, he released a longsuffering sigh and accepted them. He sat down slightly away from her on the bed, donning them with all the appearance of one harangued into action.

"Thank you," she told him, meaning it. She wanted to take care of him, and it meant a great deal that he would allow it.

Erik grunted lowly. "You have turned me into a cross dresser."

Christine's mouth dropped open. "I did not!"

He stared down at his feet, eyeing them dubiously. They fit him well, and there was nothing girly about them. "You purchased them in the women's department, did you not? Meaning that they were never intended for a male to don them."

Christine rolled her eyes. "Erik, they're practically just knitted tubes. I hardly think you need to read into it so much." She plucked at the sleeve of her sweater. "Besides, I didn't buy those. I made them. Meg taught me during breaks at the theatre."

Maybe that would make him feel less weird about things. She hoped so. Because seeing him wear them, something that she'd made, that she'd picked especially for him to wear… it was rather endearing.

Erik no longer looked quite as stiff as he continued to look at his feet. "You made them?" He leaned forward slightly to study them more closely. "You did… a very adequate job."

Christine grinned. "How magnanimous of you to say so."

Erik grimaced. "I was attempting to pay you a compliment."

Christine's smile faded and she drew a little nearer to him, resting her head against his shoulder. She was so sleepy. And it didn't seem important to quibble with him. "Well, thank you, then."

He stayed very still, except that his arm shifted slowly, tentatively, until it curled about her and her head rested against his shoulder. "You need your rest, Christine. I am dry and warm enough and you have no cause to worry any longer."

"Don't wanna move," she groused, already feeling not quite herself. Sleep beckoned and he shouldn't be talking…

And then the sweetest melody began, a soft, gentle hum that soothed and lulled her completely into slumber.

Soooo... that escalated quickly! First a withdrawn Christine, then a midnight stroll, to kissing and then sharing a bed! La de da! Happy with the direction this is going?

Think it will last?

Bwahahaha!

Ahem. Until next time!