You all are so fabulous!

If you're curious to see an image of the real-life cruise cabin on which I base this one, try a Google search for "Anthem of the Seas." I fell in love with the Sky Loft Suite with the balcony. Namely, it's the room with the dark brown furniture and dark blue accents, with the balcony master bedroom on the upper left and the piano underneath. If you can find the pic, it's lovely. The rest of the details of this ship, including procedures and such, are based on the Queen Mary 2, a true ocean liner that sails from NYC to Southampton (and back). I try to keep it all as true to life as possible.

Enough of that - onward!

Chapter 19

Nadir had excellent foresight in setting up this meal service. Not only did she get delicious meals throughout the day, accompanied by a specially selected bottle of wine, but she didn't have to worry about bringing something back to the room for Erik. The meals were huge, and she didn't need all of that food, so it was easy to put a bit on an extra plate for her companion.

Erik partook of the wine, pouring them both a glass of the dark red, and he didn't protest when she put a small portion of fish, rice, and vegetables in front of him. He joined her at the long dining table without comment. She hadn't seen him eat since the meal they'd had at his French restaurant in New York, when he had let her feed him small bites of her own food. Now, she didn't say anything about it, just offered in case he felt like eating.

The man had to eat something, after all. He couldn't live on wine and tea alone, as much as he might try.

To her delight, he did eat, cutting small bites that fit easily around his mask without getting the silk-lined porcelain dirty. He had once told her that he couldn't taste a lot of flavors, but when she commented on how tasty the food was – and it was beyond delicious – he nodded in agreement.

It was all such an extremely normal scenario, the two of them sitting down and sharing a meal together. She could almost forget all of the other business. Forget his mask and her own scars, forget that he was on the run from crazy people with a decades-old grudge, forget that she was leaving behind her entire life for him. They were a man and a woman, sitting at a table, having dinner.

After they had finished and cleaned up, sending the cart back into the hall, she grabbed her second glass of wine and headed for the balcony. She hadn't been out there yet, and she wanted some fresh air. She didn't ask Erik to join her, knowing how he felt about exposure, but gently smiled at him as she pulled the curtain aside so she could open the balcony door.

Gone were the still waters from this morning, replaced with higher waves that pounded against the side of the ship far below. A cold, brisk wind met her face, but she didn't mind that much. It was all well worth it to take in the view of the sunset before her. Striking colors of red, orange, and yellow bled out in all directions, cut by dark streaks of cloud moving quickly across the sky.

"The weather might turn for the worse," Erik said. She looked over her shoulder to find him standing in the doorway to the balcony, leaning casually against the glass.

"You think?" She turned back to stare across the waves and took a sip of her wine. "I hope not. I can take some waves, but any more and I might get seasick." The wine certainly wasn't helping, but she felt okay if she kept her eyes on the horizon and didn't look down anymore. "I didn't expect this trip to be so chilly."

"This far north, across the ocean, it is always cool. In a few more months, we would have to worry about ice and snow."

"Like the Titanic." She fell silent, feeling solemn. The captain had said he would announce when they were near the resting spot of the Titanic; they would travel about a mile from it. A cold wind blasted her face, making her shiver.

"You should come in," Erik said. "The evening is cold."

She shook her head. "I'm not ready yet. Who knows if I'll ever see such a beautiful sunset again. I want to soak up all of this."

He was silent behind her. Then, she felt a weight settle around her shoulders, and she turned to find Erik without his suit coat, standing next to her. He draped his coat around her body, holding the edges together under her chin. The thick fabric immediately pushed away the cold wind, enveloping her like a blanket, warm from his body, filled with his musky scent. She resisted the urge to bury her face into the wool, instead smiling up at him.

"Won't you freeze now?"

"The cold does not bother me." Using the front of his coat, he pulled her closer, gazing down at her. The multicolored glow of the sky around them gave his white mask more of a pink tint. "Like you said, I do not want to miss this beautiful… sunset."

She flushed. One of his hands came up to cup her cheek, his thumb tracing a path under her eye. She tilted her face up. His eyes were only on her.

This was a moment she wanted to commit to memory, no matter what might happen between them in the future, no matter if their paths would stay together or diverge. Here in the middle of the ocean, cocooned in the iridescent glow of the sunset, sheltered from prying eyes by the walls of the balcony, she was more in love with him than ever.

Kiss me, kiss me, she thought.

She didn't have to wait long.

They stayed out there for a long time, long after she had set aside her unfinished glass of wine, not wanting to lose her sharper senses. When her nose grew cold, she tucked it against his chest, burying her face into his silk vest. His hands couldn't seem to stay still, drifting from her hair to her shoulders, down her back, and back to her hair in a slow pattern that relaxed her.

She could have stayed out even longer, after the sunset glow had darkened into a beautiful blue that matched the ocean. However, the wind had picked up even more, blowing in a bank of fog across the choppy waters. Even Erik seemed to feel the chill, his arms, clad only in his thin white shirt, shivering a bit around her.

She pressed a kiss to his cravat, the highest she could reach unless he was bending down. "Back inside?"

"Back inside," he agreed.

It took her a moment to warm back up to a comfortable temperature in the room, but after a few minutes, she took off his coat and handed it back to him. Instead of putting it back on, he draped it over a nearby chair. Then he stood where he was, waiting for her to take the lead.

She hadn't forgotten his wound, but she hadn't wanted to press him about it too soon after dinner. Now that the sun was down and night was upon them, she knew it was time to get a look.

She took his hand and guided him to the couch. "Are you still going to let me see how you're healing?"

He frowned at her. "I don't understand how you can possibly want to look at… any of it."

If he had really expected her to drop the subject, did he know her at all? Had the last few weeks with her taught him nothing? When it came to some things, she simply lacked the ability to let it go.

"Since I love you, isn't that my job? To take care of you and everything that goes along with that?" Giving his hand a squeeze, she pointedly looked him up and down. "Are you or should I?" She hoped that was clear enough: are you going to take off your clothes or should I do it? Again?

She managed not to breathe a sigh of relief when he began to tug loose his cravat. The first time she had done this had been just after he had strangled a man right in front of her and fled into the night to kill seven more. She had been exhausted, emotionally drained, and fearful of any touch from him. He had been on edge, injured, and seriously dangerous. Knowing what she did now, she was amazed that she had made it through that night unscathed.

No, that wasn't true. Erik had never intentionally hurt her, had always pulled back before things had gone too far. Even though he had treated her roughly, his actions had been spurred on by her harsh words. This was a man used to mistreatment, who always expected the worse from people.

She would always fight to prove him wrong.

She tried not to openly stare as his cravat and vest joined his coat, and he began to unbutton his white shirt. He had undone two buttons when he paused, his eyes darting around the room like he wasn't sure where was safe to look.

"The light," he said softly.

Ah. They had turned on extra lights to have dinner and combat the increasing darkness outside, but here he was undressing in the open expanse of the living room. Dashing around the room, she turned off everything but a small lamp nearby, leaving that one on so she could still see his gunshot wound.

Cast now in dimmer light, he untucked his shirt and continued his conquest of the buttons. Even though she was doing this with a medical intent, the action seemed too intimate. Erik must have felt the tension between them too for he wasn't looking at her, his yellow eyes far away.

She stepped closer to him before he could finish the last few buttons, stilling his hands. She reached up and curved her hand around his masked cheek, turning his head so he would meet her eyes. "Hey," she whispered. "It's just me."

Getting no response from him, she gently moved his hands aside and undid the last two buttons herself. Having him stand there and undress himself, when he didn't want to, seemed so wrong. She wanted to soothe him, to have him understand that she was safe, that she would never hurt him the way he had always been hurt before.

Staying close so he wouldn't think she was ogling him, she raised both of her hands and hovered them over his chest, asking for permission. She wanted to touch him, to feel his scars with her own skin, but she wouldn't if he said no. After a moment of his burning stare, he gave the slightest of nods, and she flattened her palms against the broad planes of his chest. She kept them there, unmoving, feeling his fierce heartbeat under her right. Then she began to slide her hands upward and out, toward his shoulders, smoothing over cool flesh and the dry ridges of scars, until she was able to sweep his shirt off his shoulders. The garment slid easily off his limp arms, and she set it atop the other articles of clothing.

His injury was covered with a bandage, a different one than what she had put on it, but darkened, old blood cut a burgundy line across the center of the white gauze. She asked him to sit down on the couch, and he did without question, leaning back a bit against a cushion so she could easily reach his side.

Thin tape covered the edges of the gauze, and she peeled them off as gently as she could. The sight that greeted her made her gasp with dismay. His wound was much worse than it had been even while fresh. The skin was swollen and an angry red, the inside edges of the gash turning sickly pus-like yellow. The bullet had barely grazed him. There wasn't any reason that this wouldn't be mostly scabbed over by now.

She wanted to hit him. How dare he not take care of himself!

He must have noticed the anger in her expression because he explained quietly, "You and I had not parted well. I had no idea if I would ever see you again. I… did not trouble myself with this." With cleaning his wound and making sure it healed properly, he meant.

She blinked away a rush of tears. "Even if we weren't together, do you think knowing you were hurt, knowing you weren't putting forth effort to get better, would make me happy?"

He had no answer to that.

Straightening to stand, she put her hands on her hips. "I didn't even bring Band-Aids, so do you have anything or do I need to call Nadir?"

"A small black bag in my room. And please do not bother Daroga or I really will have to send him cake."

Her laugh came out half amusement, half sob as she quickly headed into his room, which was right off the living room, down a short hallway. His suitcase sat on his bed, unzipped, full of the same articles of clothing he always wore. An extended ironing board sat out with an iron atop it. The man did take his appearance seriously. On his dresser sat a small black bag, and when she grabbed it, she noticed a picture in a frame sitting next to it.

It was a black and white picture of her taken a few years ago, on a stage, a smear of paint on her forehead, her hair a sweaty mess against her neck, her clothes an old pair of ill-fitting jeans and a stained t-shirt. She was smiling, looking into the empty chairs of the audience, her face lit up. She remembered the exact moment that picture had been taken. Meg had snapped it while getting shots of the set construction for their first project in which Meg would dance and Christine would help manage the stage. Christine had laughed at some stupid joke told by someone off the stage.

It had been right before her diagnosis. Everything had seemed so much easier back then.

She hurried back to Erik's side with the bag, kneeling next to the side of his legs. Unzipping the bag, she started to riffle through the contents, laying out items that seemed useful. He had a little bit of everything in here, including prescription drugs from a variety of names she didn't recognize and a couple of syringes. She didn't bother to comment on them – would anything surprise her anymore?

The picture had definitely taken her aback. Erik had to know she had seen it. She didn't have to wait long for him to broach the subject.

"I saw the picture in one of the albums in your apartment," he explained. "Your smile captivated me."

"I would've given it to you if you asked."

"I would like to see you smile that way again."

Her lips pursed. "That was taken before I got cancer. I'm not that girl anymore."

"Happy, you mean?"

She opened her mouth to protest but snapped it closed. He was right. "I thought nothing could touch me, nothing bad could happen to me. I had lost my father at a young age – what could really be worse, right? Now I realize so many other things can cause that same stabbing pain."

She gathered up towels and washcloths, including some dampened with warm water and soap. The gash wasn't easy to clean, the skin raw from infection. At one point, he sucked in a sharp breath, his belly quivering. She wanted to press a kiss to his chest, but she took his hand and squeezed his fingers instead, thinking better of too much intimacy.

After she had washed and dried his skin, she smeared on a thick layer of Neosporin and covered the wound with a fresh bandage. Then she sat back on her heels and gazed up at him, her next request on her tongue. He was still reclining back on the couch, his legs stretched out before him. His chest rose and fell with quicker breaths than she would like to see, his skin glowing pale in the dim light, his multitude of scars casting shadows across the planes of his body.

"Erik, I would like to clean your face."

He jerked his head around, eyes wide. "What?"

"Your face." She tapped her own cheek that mirrored his. She spoke as clearly and bluntly as she could, spelling it out for him, making her intentions obvious. "The last time I saw under your mask was two days ago, and the sores you got on your long trip to Boston hadn't healed at all. I know you've been wearing your mask too much, and now I want to clean it up for you. You can refuse, of course," she continued, shrugging with forced ease. "But I can't imagine you feel very comfortable right now."

She placed a hand on his knee, felt his body jump at the contact. "Please let me help you. It would mean a lot to me if you would."

His eyes slid closed, his single exposed eyebrow furrowed. "Christine," he groaned.

"I know. But this isn't about exposing you or trying to make any point." Sitting up on her toes, she settled her cheek against his knee. "Your choice."

"I… accept your assistance."

She brightened, smiling at him even though he couldn't see it. Settling onto the couch on his right side, she carefully pried off his mask, setting it aside. His deformed skin looked much the same as it had the night of Meg's masquerade party, still enflamed, the sores open and oozing at his cheekbone and upper forehead. Luckily, she saw no major signs of infection, so he should easily heal if he would let his skin breathe properly.

She set to work, dabbing at his face with the softest washcloth she could find and patting the flesh dry. The entire time, he kept his eyes tightly closed. As gently as she could, she applied a little Neosporin to the worse of the lesions.

"There, all done."

His hand spasmed, seeking his mask, but she stopped him with a gentle caress across the back of his hand.

"Please, Erik, you need to keep your mask off so you can heal."

"Let me put it on." She hated the sound of rising panic that hoarsened his lovely voice. She realized that having both his shirt and mask off at the same time was more than he could bear, an exposure deeper than any he had encountered, certainly with her. She tucked the white piece of porcelain into his hands, so he wouldn't think she was hiding it from him or intentionally forcing him to remain laid out on display.

"Go ahead, if you must, but I really wish you wouldn't."

"Christine…"

Careful to keep her body from pressing against his, she kissed the sharp angle of his shoulder, over one of his scars, the puckered skin papery under her lips. She traced its path down his arm, then chose another and chased it across his collar bone. Pausing there, she let her lips hover above his skin, checking his reaction. His hands had fisted on his thighs, his eyes still held closed, his lean stomach bunched. She shifted a little closer and touched her lips to his neck, the beginning curve of his jaw, a point below his ear along the edge of his wig. She kept her kisses far from any of the sores on his face, caressing with her lips the malformed ridge of his eyebrow and the flattened portion of his nose.

Finally, she brought her caresses to the bloated corner of his mouth, where his lips darkened and stretched thickly, kissing him once there before planting a full embrace on his mouth.

He shuddered under her ministrations, and she longed to peel back his wig so she might kiss his scalp and smooth back his real hair, but instead she sat back while stroking the whole portion of his face.

"Open your eyes and look at me, Erik, please."

His eyelashes fluttered before they parted, and yellow eyes peered at her only a foot away. The eyelid on his ruined side had a permanent pull downward, causing that eye to remain wider than the other. She kissed that drooping edge and pulled back again, knowing he was searching for her every reaction, for any hint that she was afraid or disgusted. And she knew with finite certainty that he would fine none.

His hands drifted between them to cup her face, his palms rough and cool against her skin. Oh how she loved those musician hands.

"You must be an angel," he whispered.

She laughed softly. "Hardly. I don't even believe in angels."

"Neither did I but I might have to begin." His face was so full of wonder that she had to dip her head and kiss him again to hide the flush that no doubt tinted her cheeks pink. "Hey, Erik, I bought you something else today."

"What is that?" he inquired, words a bit muffled as he dragged his lips to her temple and began pressing kisses to her hair.

"I'll show you when it's time for bed." When his eyebrow rose, she was sure she blushed even more. "Nothing like that. I just saw them and thought of you. For now, you want to read together or something? Or sing, maybe?"

That caught his attention away from kissing his way around her head. "Sing?"

"Yeah. I don't know how thick these walls are, but we could always sing... softly?"

He snorted at that. "And ruin your voice with the strain. As much as I would adore to hear you sing again, my dear, I would rather wait until you are able to use your full potential."

Okay, fair enough. "Would you play something, then?"

"If you wish."

He rose, pulling her to her feet. God, he was tall, towering over her even when he was not trying. She wanted to run her hands over his chest again, kiss her away across the pale planes, make her way to the scarred ruin of his back and map his past with her lips, soothe the hurt he still carried. However, she just watched as he replaced his shirt, leaving the top button undone. She glanced away a bit as he tucked the ends into his pants, feeling a little awkward at the intimacy of the act.

Then, he was holding his mask between them, but she didn't dare touch it again.

"You don't have to put that back on for me," she told him. "I would rather you kept it off so your face can heal."

"That is not possible," he grunted.

"Okay," she said gently. "How about if you keep it off at night? I'm asleep as long as I'm not having insomnia, and so you can relax while your face breathes a bit."

He seemed to curl into himself a little, his shoulders hunching, his discomfort evident. She really shouldn't get mad at him, not about this, but he was so insistent at doing everything that only caused him more pain.

She puffed a sigh. "Please, do whatever you want, Erik. I'm going to play piano." Leaving him standing there, she crossed the room and sat upon the bench. She was nowhere near as good a player as Erik, but she had taken years enough of lessons to be able to launch herself into a lively rendition of Joe Hisaishi's Summer, an upbeat composition that always made her want to get into a car and start driving somewhere with a beach.

She made it about halfway into the song before Erik's long fingers joined hers on the keys. He scooted next to her, on her left, his unmasked face in full view as he sent the melody into a lower register, weaving a new thread through the song she spun. They finished together, the last notes of their combined effort hanging in the air.

She twisted on the bench to speak, but he shushed her with a sincere, "Thank you for everything you did."

"You're welcome." She plinked out a few bars of nothing in particular. "You don't have to thank me."

"Even so."

They seemed to be able to move on after that. They played together for a while longer. She lost track of time as she let the music take her over, entranced by the melodies he knew off the top of the head and the way he could improvise anything she tossed at him. He had an uncanny knack of being able to take a piece of music and transcend it, such as taking the slow melody of a classic piece and turning it upside down until it resembled something else entirely.

She had known he was brilliant, had seen glimpses of his intellect before, but the ease at which he manipulated music left her breathless.

This man was a genius.

She wanted to press on, to witness more of what he could do, maybe convince him to play something original, but soon, he was tucking her hands away and closing the piano keys' cover.

"Enough for today," he said, offering her his hand, which she accepted without hesitation. "The hour grows late, and I am done waiting for my present."

She laughed at that. "Weren't your earlier gifts enough?"

"I don't often receive them, so no."

That sobered her, but she brushed the darker thoughts aside. "All right, then, monsieur. This way."

Maybe her wish has to do with her present? Hmm...