Gift Three
"The Nightcap"

CHRISTINE DAAÉ'S JOURNAL

I think it has been a week since Erik left. I do not know where he went or if he ever shall return. In all honesty, though, I have not yet checked outside of the house to see if he has hanged himself from the cellar rafters in a fit of despair. I am afraid of knowing. And I hardly know that it's actually been a week since the time I've seen him last; all the timepieces have since stopped because I did not know how to rewind them. There is no setting of sun or rising of moon in this dark dungeon below the Earth to let me know of the passing of the days… oh, how much like a tragic opera my life has become! Is this how Erik spent his years down here? No wonder…

Madness picks at the edge of my mind. It is hard for it not to. I am so afraid down here; there are rats, and spiders, and other tiny beady-eyed dark bugs that move around so quickly I can't tell what they are. There is no sound down here but the sound of my own fearful breathing. And it is so cold – so terribly cold – that I have stolen all the blankets from Erik's room out of desperation. Even now, I have wrapped myself in his scarlet cloak to write this. It has his stench but it is so warm that I am forcing myself to bear with it for the time being.

And I am so hungry! My stomach makes that clear to me at increasingly frequent intervals. But now all the food really has gone bad, and I am left to pinch off the mold from the bread loaves or else risk starving.

I pray Erik returns soon, with a heavy bag of fresh groceries laden down on either arm…

It was the middle of the night when Christine awoke with a start.

There were soft footsteps in the hallway outside her door, trailing away now so soft that the sound faded into nothingness. But still! There had been that brief sound… after a week of silence, it was no wonder she jumped at the first slight sound she heard.

She leapt out of bed and ran to the door in the span of a heartbeat. Wrenching open the door, she was able to catch a glimpse of a person's form before it disappeared into the other room.

"Erik?" she called, following him around the corner.

She found him standing like a child with his hand in the cookie jar, in the middle of the parlor. His mask was off, he had his nightshirt and nightcap on, and his satin pillow tucked securely under his arm.

"Christine…" he said, uncertain.

So many things ran through her mind. Where had he been? Was he okay? Where did they stand now?

In the end, she only asked one thing: "What are you doing out here?"

"It -" he grimaced, as if steeling himself to give an answer she wouldn't like, "is a touch cold in my room."

The realization dawned on Christine. "I'm so sorry – I took all your blankets…"

"Christine has nothing to apologize for," Erik said delicately. He gestured to the fireplace. "I'll be quite fine on the chaise out here."

Christine regarded the chaise. "Are you sure? It seems pretty narrow… and… short…"

"It's actually a lot bigger than it seems," Erik assured her. He laid himself down on it, on his side, curling his long legs up to his chest so that only the sharp points of his knees and his feet hung off it. "Look, Erik fits perfectly."

Christine frowned. He certainly did not fit perfectly… "Erik… just let me give you your blankets back."

"But then you would be cold." His logic was infallible as always.

"But they're your blankets," Christine reasoned reluctantly. A selfish part of her knew he was right; she would be cold without them. "Then you could sleep on your bed instead of this little bench."

"Nonsense. I won't have you catching cold down here."

"Well," Christine said, putting her hands on her hips defiantly, "then we'll just have to share."

"Share-?" Erik questioned, genuinely confused. "Christine, I don't see any reason in cutting the blankets in two."

"No, share," she explained. "The blankets. And the bed. Together."

His face blanched as he caught her reasoning, and his face creased into one of disgust. "You… must be delirious, Christine. You don't know what you're saying right now."

"I do very well know what I'm saying," she said, extending her hand to him impatiently. "Now, come, and let's go to bed." For good measure, because she knew he wouldn't be able to argue with it, she added, "I'm tired, too."

He followed her without complaint after that. Sometimes she felt bad… she had lived with him for so long at this point that she knew exactly what to say to get him to do what she wanted. It was sort of like manipulation… but was it really, if he was the one who manipulated her first?

And the truth was she was tired, like she said! She wanted to sleep, and she didn't want to have that feeling of guilt in the back of her mind that he was lying out there, on the narrow chaise, all because she had stolen his blankets…

She made him lie down first, because he was so stiff and dramatic; and when he refused to relax even when he was snuggly tucked in, she went to the kitchen to retrieve the opened Palomino Fino – the only thing that hadn't expired yet - and two glasses.

"A nightcap," she proposed when she had returned to his bedside, pouring a tiny amount and offering it to him, careful to keep the label turned away from him. Perhaps he wouldn't recognize -

"You really know how to rub salt in a man's wounds, don't you?" he moped, but accepted the glass anyway. Of course he'd know. Erik always knew.

Christine sighed. "I meant to grab the milk, but it's all gone sour…"

"I'm sure it has," he said moodily, turning his eyes down to the glass. "I'll pick some more up in the morning."

She poured her own and sat on the edge of the bed beside him.

"Erik," Christine said after a long while. "I'm sorry about the sherry."

"It's not about the sherry, Christine."

"Oh," she said only. She gazed into the deep amber of her glass and swirled it slightly. Erik's eyes…

"Would you pour me another, Christine?" Erik said, interrupting her thoughts. He held out his empty glass to her. At her questioning gaze, he added, "The bottle's already open; it'll be vinegar in another week's time. It seems a shame to let such a priceless vintage go to waste."

There was no acid in his remark; no bitterness nor acerbity. Just a plain statement of fact, with but a touch of mild mellowness within.

So she poured another glass for him, but not for her, as she was still working on her first. He requested her once more after that second glass, until his eyelids drooped over his red-lined eyes and he fell against the pillows of her bed in defeat.

Tired herself, Christine re-corked the bottle and set it upon the one nightstand in the room. Putting out the light, she crawled into bed and shuffled herself deep under the warm covers. Her own eyes began to drift closed, and her breathing began to even out…

She felt a hand brush against her thigh under the quilt. It was the faintest touch, as light as the hair of a feather, but then it swept further upwards and inwards -

"Erik?" she said, instantly alert. "What are you doing?"

He didn't answer, but the hand sprang away. She rolled over to face him.

He was already crying.

"Erik!" she exclaimed, sitting up to examine him better. "My dear, what's gotten into you?"

He tucked his face under the damp linens. "Forgive me!"

"Did you think we were going to -"

"What was I supposed to think?" he wailed, voice muffled under the blanket. "You led me into your bed, you plied me with wine, you implored me to lie next to you… oh, Christine, you vitriolic seductress! Tease and temptress! Surely you knew what I would think! You had me fooled, as was surely your game – you made a sure fool out of me! So go on, laugh about it to yourself! Laugh about what a fantastic imbecile you've made of your poor foolish Erik!"

"Erik!" Christine cried. She pulled on the blankets he was threatening to suffocate himself with. "Erik, please!"

"Let me die!" he moaned into the sheets. "Let this be my shroud! Do not uncover me – please, Christine, you may laugh and jest but please do not look upon me right now! I cannot bear the shame!"

"Dear, you have done nothing -" shameful, Christine meant to say, but of that she could not quite make herself believe. They were an unwed couple, of dubious legitimacy, together only because she had chosen to stay with him in exchange for the lives of Raoul and the Persian. She could not leave without his escort, and by all definitions of the word she was his prisoner. Yes, perhaps she did harbor feelings of love towards him – but how authentic could those feelings be when one did not have another choice? "Oh, Erik, please do not blame yourself for this misunderstanding."

"Misunderstanding!" he howled. "Always a misunderstanding with you!"

She could stand his self deprecation no more. She reached out and wrenched the sheets out of his iron grip, and yanked them down off his face.

His naked, tear-stained face contorted in rage at her refusal to obey. "Must my pain be exhibited for your amusement? Damn you, Christine! Is this what you truly desire?"

He turned on his side and pressed his face into the pillow, satin lining already sopping with his snot and tears. "Am I really so horrible that you must do these things to me? Ache after ache – do I really deserve no reprieve?"

"I want you to breathe," she insisted quietly, but she knew he wouldn't listen to her at this point. "I want you to sleep well under the covers and be warm…"

"An entire life spent enduring the never-ending siege of arrows and slings," he muttered, "and yet yours are the only ones that ever truly sting…"

His breathing leveled out and she realized he must have fallen asleep, exhausted by his own desolate temper. Gingerly, she crept to her side of the bed and laid herself down as well, and then willed herself to follow suit.