A/N: Hello my darling readers and lurkers! This chapter is longer and extra juicy, so please enjoy.

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Let me be your wings

She wanted to keep this moment forever.

Why couldn't she bottle it up, why couldn't she capture it in a jar, or pin it to a corkboard like a dried up, dead little butterfly?

He was impossible to pin, she decided. Impossible to claim or to take as her own. Yet the impossibility of having him made her heart wilt with fear, for a small part of her needed his steady commands, his thickly veined hands that decided, that took anxiety from her heart with a long, plastic syringe. He was better than Gage could ever be. Gage never just held her in his arms, even when he'd seen her panic or back herself into a corner. No, in fact Gage did quite the opposite. He made her more nervous, he rounded upon her like a demon, hounding her for a pact that had been made, with her soul as the leverage. A crossroads demon, he was, with features that were too perfect, and lips that dripped with venomous control. I hate him, she thought bitterly, listening to Erik sigh against her.

"We should go inside," Erik murmured into the side of her neck, and she felt her body respond before she could even make a sound – a warmth pooling in the midst of her belly. "Why?" She asked him softly, nuzzling his shoulder with her chin, wanting to remain as close to him as possible for as long as she could. "I like it here, in the water."

"Maybe you're a mermaid," Erik responded thoughtfully, and she smiled, imagining her legs growing together into a long, emerald scaled tail, with fins that were splashed with magenta and bright pink.

"I can't swim very well," she admitted, as Erik began to flutter them toward the side of the pool. Her heart sank, knowing that once they reached the cemented edge he would let go of her. Why couldn't she stop time? Her wings had changed color in the water – oh, how brilliant and pure they were, carved from an ivory mountainside – a white so brilliant, it rivaled the moonlight and the stars above. She watched as the blue-black sin swirled in the cerulean of the pool water – sin that had been poisoning her wings! Had she finally slipped into something that could take away all pain, or was it he, the one who held her, that had cleansed her of darkness and brought her into the light?

Erik released Christine gently, allowing her to grip the side of the pool before completely letting go. Her heart fell as he pulled himself up out of the water, and she watched tiny droplets run down his muscular back like tears – her tears that she could not claim. She stayed there, clinging to the edge of the cement, wondering if she should just stay here, in this moment, forever. She did not want to leave the water, for she feared that the gentle spell he had cast upon her heart might shatter the moment she ripped herself from the surface. Her eyes followed his form as he stalked back into the house, returning shortly with a couple of folded towels in his hands. He knelt by the poolside, setting one down in front of her, then proceeded to towel dry his hair. Christine wondered, again, what was under the mask – was he disfigured, in some way? Did the other side of his face match the anger that Eleanor had mentioned, and the tiny bit of it that she had seen…

Was he half darkness, and half light?

"Christine," he drawled, pushing the towel toward her with a tattooed foot. "Come, let's go inside. I will make us dinner."

Her heart leapt within her chest. "Oh, you cook? And here I was thinking Eleanor did everything for you…" she smiled up at him, pulling herself from the water. She prayed that her wings stayed white as snow, for she felt lighter, somehow, within the change…and he had something to do with it; perhaps it was the way that he held her, rocking her back and forth softly, speaking – without knowing – to her lost, inner child.

"As I said before, Eleanor cleans the house. I'm gone before she even arrives in the morning."

Christine wrapped herself in the fluffy black towel, noticing how Erik turned away as she stood, naked, in front of him. She bit the inside of her lip, following him as he turned his back to her, leading them through the outdoor kitchen and into the house. "So what is it that you do? Where do you go that needs you that early?" Christine asked, trying to hide the hunger of curiosity that ached in her gut, this desperate need that she felt to know more about him. Erik dried himself fully in the midst of the kitchen, falling silent at the question that now became stagnant in the air. Leia padded past her master, eyeing Christine as she jumped up onto the couch. "I'm sure Leia must miss you when you're away," she added, hopping up onto one of the stools at the marble island, the towel still folded around her.

"I'm a composer," Erik said finally, folding his wet towel in his hands. "I'm going to change, and I'll bring you some more…comfortable clothes. Or would you rather step back into your Louboutins?" The side of his mouth curved into a smirk. Christine giggled, drumming her fingernails on the countertop. "Four inch heels are a bit much for me. I mostly prefer platforms. But yes, please…I would like some of those sweats you gave me last time."

"Four inches?" Erik asked playfully, shaking his head as he left the kitchen. Christine took a deep breath once he was gone, sliding off of the stool to reclaim the bottle of whiskey. She snatched a clean rocks glass from the silver rack beside the sink and filled it, dumping half of it down her throat. It scalded as it went down into her, and she shivered against the burn, returning to her place on the stool. She looked around the spotless kitchen as she waited for his return, impatient for him to come back to her; how the hell was she supposed to leave here, at some point? How was she to rip herself away from him…

And why did she even care so much?

Erik returned wearing baggy black sweatpants, his long hair twisted into a messy bun, his chest bare. He handed her a set of beige sweats and a top, snatching the glass out from in front of her, putting it gently to his lips. After he swallowed, he leaned over her slightly, a hand pressed into the marble countertop. "Go change," he ordered quietly, and she nodded, lost in the intensity of his eyes.

"I'm guessing there's a bathroom down here?" Christine blurted nervously, chewing the inside of her cheek. As soon as his power had entered her, he withdrew it, turning away from her and making his way to the stove. "Yes. Down the hall."

She wandered away from the kitchen in a trance, shaking her head to try and free the reign that he already seemed to have over her. "You barely know him," she whispered to herself, once safely inside of the bathroom with the door locked. "You're dating Gage."

She pulled off her soaked thong, tossing it into the glassy paned shower, shutting the door softly. Was she marking her territory against any other female that he might bring over? Absolutely. She smiled to herself gleefully, returning to the oval, gold plated mirror, pulling her damp hair into a bun at the nape of her neck. She pulled the soft sweatpants over her legs, and grabbed a stray hair tie from the side of the sink, tying the back of the sweat top so it would be taut against her waist, showing a large amount of her navel. Christine stared at herself in the mirror, watching as her wings fluttered behind her. "He doesn't date, Christine," she muttered crossly, her eyes bloodshot from the alcohol and the chlorine of the pool. "He only fucks. He's no better than Gage. No better!"

You're wrong, Christine! Her wings whispered; her mouth fell open as tiny blue eyes began to open, a hundred that were embedded in the soft white flesh made of feathers and clear veins. He's not at all like Gage. Gage doesn't calm you, or sing to you, or make you dinner. He shoves you when he's angry, he lays on top of you when you ask him not to…when he knows how claustrophobic you are!

Christine's eyes widened as she stared at her wings…they were very much alive in the mirror, and the many eyes blinked back at her, softening their gaze as they recognized her fear. Don't be afraid. I've been here all along! I've just been hidden by the darkness, the sin that used to cover me! But now I can see clearly. And so can you.

"I…I feel as if I know you," she said hesitantly, putting a hand to the glass. "What would you have me do instead? Let Erik fuck me?"

No. Let him know you.

"Know me?"

The real you. The one before the fame, before your father died. The one before the slashes appeared on your wrists. The one that is pure and sweet. The woman and child underneath.

"He doesn't want to know me," she sighed, letting her hand fall from the glass. "He doesn't like relationships, he's said that already. And he doesn't even look at me when I'm naked, right in front of him. Is…is this real? Or is it in my head?"

The eyes softened again. I am what you've made me, Christine…very much alive, very much a part of you. You thought I died, didn't you? But I'm here, deep in the center of your heart. A heart that is cold and riddled with anger. Anger at yourself. Anger at him for not taking you in his arms and wanting you…needing you.

"He doesn't need anybody," she whispered sadly, closing her eyes against her reflection. "Go away. Leave me alone."

The eyes fluttered, and then one by one shut, disappearing from the ivory feathered surface of each wing. She was alone in the bathroom once more.

Christine braced herself, promising her jolted mind that alcohol would cool the heat from her skin. She unlocked the door and padded back into the kitchen, taking her place on the middle stool, watching as Erik pulled various pans from the bottom of his cabinets. Music was playing quietly in the background, and soon she found herself singing softly to an old jazz tune.

"Wow, Erik, I didn't think you'd be a Sinatra fan," she laughed, and he whirled around to face her, the marble island forcing a space between them. He splayed his fingers onto the surface, leaning forward a bit, his eyes glinting mischievously. "I used to think of myself as somewhat of a modern Sinatra," he said through a half smile. "I have his mug-shot framed, along with mine."

Christine almost choked on her whiskey. "You've been arrested? For what, exactly?"

Erik's smile grew wider – she noticed his canine teeth were a bit longer than the rest – God, what was he, some sort of vampire?

"I got into a fight," he said simply, turning away from her and back toward the stove.

"A fight? Let me guess, it was over some…girl, wasn't it?"

Erik let out a hearty laugh. "No. I never have to fight for a woman."

"Oh, right…because they just can't wait to be tied up and whipped, right?" Christine scoffed, but inside she was hoping he would answer the question directly.

"Some of them, yes…it depends. But no, the fight was more of a…let's say, moral debate that got out of hand."

Her eyebrows shot up as she took another sip from the glass. "What happened?"

Erik sighed, laying out a wooden cutting board on the counter. "I had a disagreement with someone. They, of course, could not continue the battle of wits, at hand…so they resorted to using their hands. And I just couldn't allow that. So I choked him."

Christine feigned shock with an open mouth as he grabbed a clear container from the fridge. "You choked him? Why choking? I'm sure that turned you on in some way, knowing what you're into, and all."

Erik slapped two raw chicken breasts onto the cutting board. "I don't get sexual pleasure from choking men, if that's what you're asking. No, it was more of a…a warning, to him. That if he kept fucking with me I might just crush his windpipe. No more wit of the mouth for him, then."

Christine didn't know whether she should be horrified or aroused. "I suppose I should never get you angry, then."

"If you're alluding to me not having control of myself, then you're sorely mistaken, Christine. I am very much, always, in control. Even in my anger."

Christine cocked her head at him as he began to smear the chicken breasts with seasoning. "All right…but what made you frame your mug-shot? Can I see it?"

"No."

"Why not?" She asked, perplexed. Erik went silent for a moment, but the music kept her swaying, the melody taking the worries from the edge of her mind, obliterating them before they could even take form.

"Because I'm unmasked in it." His voice was cold now, and she dug her fingernails into the inside of her wrists, wishing she hadn't asked.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to pry like that. I was just curious…and besides, you're the one who brought it up, Erik." She stated flatly, trying to hide the tiny bits of fear that swam in the back of her mind. Eleanor's voice came flooding back in, and she tried to suppress it with a large mouthful of whiskey. The thoughts faded away, as if they were characters drawn on a page, slowly being erased into nothingness.

"I suppose I did," Erik murmured, pouring a stream of olive oil into a pan that seared on the stove. He tossed both chicken breasts in and moved back to the fridge, pulling out a few more containers. "But it connected me in a strange, infinitesimal way, to him. Sinatra. I couldn't help but mention it. The unmasking, it…it was involuntary. I was forced to remove it for the picture, you see."

"Well, of course they wanted to. It's a damn mug-shot," Christine fired back, eyeing the baggie of cocaine that was left on the coffee table, in front of Leia who slept on the couch. "Can we do some more lines? Your beast seems to be guarding it. And I'm not going anywhere near her."

"Not until after dinner." His voice was soft but firm, and she rolled her eyes at his back, taking another swig of her drink. She decided to change the conversation into something that might…delight him, make him happier? It seemed as though the mug-shot unmasking had unnerved him in some way. Perhaps he'd felt…dehumanized?

"So you're a composer…what kind of music do you write? I mean it must be good, considering the house you live in…and the car that you drive."

Erik turned toward her, setting a glass bowl on the island. He was mixing what looked like a chocolate sauce, and he pushed two long fingers into it, curving them against the gentle rippling of the stirring – her eyes could not stray, for it almost looked like he was…fingering something soft, something wet…

Get a fucking hold of yourself, Christine!

She swallowed nervously. "I mean, you must be very good at what you do…unless you have some secret, underground business. Like some sort of anti-hero…"

Erik slowly lifted his fingers out of the bowl and held them out to her, nearly brushing her lips.

"Suck them…Taste it," he simpered, and she stared at him with wide eyes, frozen to her stool. She opened her lips carefully, wrapping them fully around his two fingers as he twisted them into her mouth, fluttering slightly against her tongue. She sucked on them softly, staring into his eyes that seemed to smolder with a quiet fire.

Fuck.

A satisfied smirk crawled across his face as he pulled his fingers from her mouth. She swirled the taste around, not wanting him to see her swallow – it seemed too electrically charged, too warm around the tips of her breasts, too sweet between her legs…

"Do you let all your girls suck on your fingers?" She forced the words out, not wanting to give him the ease, the satisfaction of her body riling against her own mind, bending to his whim. Erik laughed again, wiping his fingers on a towel that hung from the island.

"Why does it matter what I do with other girls?"

"Because I want to know. I want to know if this is some…some sort of ritual. You play Sinatra, you make them dinner, you make warm, liquid chocolate to dip your fingers into…"

Erik sighed noisily. "I'm making us dessert. I figured you'd want to taste it."

Christine blinked, steeling her resolve. "You know what I mean, Erik. Just tell me. It's not like I will be offended. I'm dating someone, anyway…"

"Yes, yes, so you've told me," Erik replied, tending to the chicken breasts on the stove. "Although I don't think he'd be pleased to know you were here, with me. Or does he not even care, Christine? Does he know where you are?"

Christine stood up defiantly, turning her back toward him, making her way for the coffee table. "You didn't answer my question, so I'm not going to answer yours."

"Fine. I let women suck on my fingers, but…never in the kitchen."

Christine moved stealthily, trying not to wake the evil spotted beast who slept curled up on the couch. She snatched the bag and high-tailed back to the kitchen, plopping it in the middle of the island. "I'm gonna do some lines. You don't get to make all the rules, you know."

"Oh? So you'd rather be the one who makes the rules, Christine? Maybe you're just as controlling as I am," Erik chuckled, flipping the breasts in the pan with ease. Christine ignored his snide remark and focused on laying out three jagged lines. These would give her more strength, more power over him. With these tiny bits of lightning she could control anything. Everything. Make him beg, for once. She snorted the first line and smiled as it wriggled down her throat, staring up at the high vaulted ceiling. "I'm not controlling," she said simply, the blue eyes speckled across her wings coming to life again. "In fact I'm…I'm more out of control than anybody I know."

"Hmm," Erik commented slyly. "Perhaps you need a bit of structure."

"And you think you can give that to me? Structure? What if I don't want to be tied up?" she lied, gritting her teeth together. She snorted another line. Heavenly. Just like him.

"I don't need ropes to take control of you," Erik stated plainly, flipping each chicken breast with a fork in the pan. "I can do it in other ways."

"Like...?" She snorted the third line. The eyes seemed to be singing on her glorious white wings. They sang along with the Sinatra that tinkled in the background, pushing her along the smooth, darkened river that was both Erik and Sinatra's voice, combined.

"I would use a riding crop," Erik shrugged as Christine's jaw dropped.

"And what if that's not what I want?" she played coy, but inside she was melting.

"Once you get a taste of it, you'll only want more. That I can promise you."

"Erik…I can't. I mean…it's not that I don't want to, it's just…"

"Yes, you and your monogamy. I understand," Erik replied heavily – was he a bit disappointed at her determination? She strained against the warmth building between her legs, watching as he carefully slid the chicken breasts back onto the washed up cutting board. He began to slice them with quick, agile thrusts of his hand, and the knife glimmered as he moved it, blinding her with its power. With his power.

"Can you just…hold me, tonight? On the couch, or your room…" She asked, now confident enough with the three jolts of cocaine fresh in her system. Her heart throbbed with need, pounding so hard that it knocked against her ribcage. Erik shook his head. "Not in my room."

"Okay…what about down here? On the couch? Once we eat and…and finish the cocaine."

Erik paused, lowering his head as if to think. "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why do you want me to hold you?"

Christine sighed. "Because you…you calmed me when I…panicked, last night. You sang to me. And I've never felt so…so…complete. It was strange. Something I didn't think I could feel again."

Erik slid a plate in front of her, filled with a perfectly sliced chicken breast and some fried green beans slathered in butter. He seemed to be lost in thought, his dark eyebrow furrowed into his other – the one hidden by the black mask. "I suppose," he said softly, cocking his head to one side. "Down here, on the couch. Just until you fall asleep."

"I may not sleep, tonight. I only have 48 more hours to be here," she replied sadly, pushing a fork into a juicy piece of chicken. "Then I have to leave the Hills. I have to go back and…perform. Ugh, it makes me fucking sick. To think about it."

Erik leaned forward on the counter, his chest tattoos glimmering with sweat as he interlaced his fingers together. "Must you go so soon? Can you not…buy yourself more time?"

"I can't, I promised my manager…and Gage, my boyfriend, that I'd be back home in exactly 48 hours. If I'm not, they'll send police to find me," she sighed. "It's happened before. Unless you can…hide me, somehow. Be my wings."

"Your wings?"

"Yes, it's…it's silly, I know. Just something I thought when I was a little girl. I always wanted to have wings, like the great archangels did. They were warriors of God," Her voice dropped into a whisper, remembering how much she hated God from taking her father from her…from taking his music from the world.

"Eat, Christine…or else I might be offended that you don't like my cooking. Don't think about the future," he said gently. "Don't think about the past. We can snort coke and drink champagne all night. If that's what you want, to stay here for your 48 hours. To let me…be your wings, I suppose."

Christine smiled shyly, dipping her head to break his deep gaze upon her.

Let him, her wings whispered. Let him hide you, steal you away from the world…Let him show you heaven, for all you know of is Hell.

Let him be your wings.

…

A/N: It got hot in that kitchen, didn't it? Hehe. Please leave a thought or comment if you can – they absolutely, as a writer, make my entire week! And as always, thank you for reading. Love, L.