Gift Two
"The Palomino Fino"

One of Erik's most annoying habits was his ability to pretend something terrible had never actually occurred. It was the source of much of Christine's distress, especially in the beginning period of their relationship – what with the whole Opera house fiasco and subsequent chandelier crash – and still at present Erik acted like he had no clue what she was talking about when she brought up the untimely death of the Comte Philippe de Chagny.

But it was this same annoying trait that Christine found herself ever thankful for, as by the next morning Erik seemed to have completely forgotten his tears. He was standoffish, but that wasn't unusual for him per se… he had moods where he alternated between overtly affectionate and downright miserable. He hardly spoke a word to her before he left to God-knows-where for 'work', but his eyes were not red or bloodshot, so she assumed he was okay.

With Erik gone, though, Christine found the day stretching before her imposingly. The days were so long and boring without him… but somehow they seemed all the longer when he was there. Something about the way he stared at her as she ate, golden burning eyes unmoving from her form as she tried to chew her food with a mouth as dry as the desert. She felt like a specimen under his intense observation, and every second under his stony gaze seemed like an hour.

Bored, she wandered into the kitchen and poked through the cabinets for something to nibble on. Erik always made sure the kitchen was well stocked so she didn't go hungry when he was gone. She opened the cellar – ha – door and climbed down the ladder, to the lower cellar where the perishables were kept… and where Erik kept his vast wine collection, too, apparently.

How many bottles does he have down here?! Christine wondered as she perused the racks. He never drank in front of her… and secretly she had always wondered if he could even smell anything, what with the whole nose thing. Was she to find out after all this time that Erik was really a wine connoisseur? The caps showed the wines to be of extremely rare vintages and collections… is this where the twenty thousand franc salary went every month?

She plucked a bottle off the rack at random and read the label: Amontillado, 100% Palomino Fino. Interesting, she supposed, but she wasn't going to pretend she knew anything about liquor beyond the fact it was some sort of sherry. What caught her attention about it, after all, was the the color of the liquid.

It was a deep amber - the same shade as Erik's eyes… the same shade as his pleading, threatening, adoring eyes…

An idea brewed in her mind. Perhaps it wouldn't be as bad if he were to just eat with her? Then he would at least have something else to focus his attention on besides her. She thought on it for a moment…

Erik, on his 'work' days, typically was gone for anywhere between five to eight hours at a time. Sometimes he would be gone for twelve hours, but those were infrequent days, and he'd come home from those looking like he'd walked the length of the globe. There was no way of knowing what sort of day today would be, but if she planned it right, there shouldn't be a problem, should there? Of course not.

With her mind firmly made up and a plan in place, she held the bottle firmly in one hand and carefully climbed back up the ladder to the kitchen to begin. She was going to cook him the greatest meal he'd ever been served, and he was going to eat it, if it was the last thing she did!

He didn't come home until the next morning.

She had tried to wait up for him, with the table set and the appetizers out and ready, but exhaustion had gotten the best of her and she'd fallen asleep at her place setting. The sound of the door opening and his footsteps upon the wooden planks in the hallway were all the warning she had before he appeared in the dining room archway.

"You're home," she yawned, lifting her head and blinking her bleary eyes. "I made – uh, breakfast, I guess."

He glanced at the table spread in confusion, and took in the vast number of dishes set out before him. "Were you very hungry without me?"

"Oh, no, I already ate," she admitted with embarrassment. "But I figured you would be hungry when you came home, and thought I could treat you to a meal you didn't cook yourself. You always make food for me, so I thought -"

"Christine doesn't like it when Erik cooks her food?" Erik asked. Christine could see his bottom lip quivering below the cut of the mask. "Christine hates Erik's food so much she had to cook her own?"

"No, Erik, that's not what I said," Christine said imploringly. "Please, just listen to me before you -"

"Christine thinks Erik doesn't listen to her?" His shoulders sank. "Oh, Christine, is Erik truly that horrible to you?"

"Erik, please!" Christine cried. She gestured to the table. "Please, just sit down and eat!"

He stared at the table in confusion. "Where?"

He was looking at his usual place setting. Normally it was empty, but this time Christine had taken special care to place all the dishes close to his end and had taken it upon herself to put a hearty serving of the main course on his plate.

"Right there, in your seat, dear," Christine said desperately.

"But all the food is at this end of the table," Erik said. "We should switch, so you don't have to reach for it."

"The food is for you, Erik," Christine attempted to explain. "I put it there so you could eat it."

"Is-is there something wrong with it?" he sputtered. "Oh, my poor Christine, did I leave you with rotten groceries? Has the food gone bad? I wouldn't blame you for not wanting to eat it…"

Dejectedly, he sat himself down at the seat finally and picked up his fork. Christine could see tears pricking at his eyes, even as he dutifully stabbed into the coq au vin.

A part of her wanted to reassure him that she wasn't upset with him, and that she wasn't forcing him to eat the food because it went bad. She wanted to make him understand that sometimes she just wanted to do nice things for him for a change, instead of the other way around.

And yet – he was eating the food, wasn't he? She couldn't really tell if he was enjoying it, as his mask covered up all of his face save his mouth, and he was shoveling the food into his mouth as if their love depended on it. She decided not to say anything, and settled for just watching him eat to see if he made any grimaces of disgust.

When his plate was completely clear, he lifted his watery eyes to her. "May I be excused, please?"

And oh, if he didn't sound like a child! "You may, Erik – but first, dear, did you like it?"

"Yes, it was exquisite," he said.

"Did you even taste it?"

"I – of course - " he stumbled over his answer. "Anything Christine cooks is exquisite."

"Did you like what I did with the chicken?"

"Yes, Christine, it was exquisite." He paused. "What did you braise it in?"

"Sherry," she said.

His eyes flicked back to the empty plate. Something was bothering him, she could tell. "What type?"

Christine fetched the bottle from the kitchen and presented it before him. He took the glass in his hands, mouth agape.

"You – you used this?!"

Christine cowered before him. He sounded genuinely upset. "Is something wrong?"

"Wrong? Wrong!" Erik steamed. "This is a sixty-nine year old bottle of wine! A pure palomino fino! An antique amontillado! And you used it for some rancid chicken!"

The chicken, of course, was not rancid, but Christine figured that point was moot by now. "I'm so sorry, Erik, I didn't know!"

"Of course you didn't know! You never know!" Erik sneered. "You hurt me, and you hurt me, and you hurt me, and you - never - know!"

He rose from the table in disgust, flinging the bottle in her direction. She hastily caught it before it hit the ground.

"Erik, please!" she called as he stormed out of the room. "Forgive me, please!"

He spun on his heel. "Of course I forgive you, you little viper! I have to, don't I? And that's what makes you so wicked! Christine knows how much Erik loves her, and so she knows that she can do whatever she wants to him because he'll always forgive her!" He suddenly reached out and grabbed her wrist in his vice-like skeletal grasp, and pressed her hand against his thumping chest. "Do you feel my heart? Do you feel how much it beats for you? Just imagine, then, how much poor foolish Erik loves you! - and know, Christine, you could stick a stake in his heart and he would still forgive you for it!"

He flung her wrist aside. "But I'm afraid, Christine, that I'm hardly in the mood to grovel on the floor this morning! You'll have to excuse me, as I have found my humor unexpectedly soured..."

Without another moment's hesitation, he turned back around and stormed out of the house, disappearing back into the abyssian darkness of the Opera's lowest cellars.