Chapter 36 — Expectations

There was exactly one upside to being forced to get out and push the boat back to shore: extra time for solitary, silent panic.

The lake, despite appearances, was actually not all that deep, yet the opaque black water coupled with blinding white panic made locating the pole all but impossible. God only knew what was in that stagnant water, but it couldn't be worse than what awaited him in the boat, so in Erik went. By the time he stood dripping in the parlor, he was so numbed from the cold that he couldn't feel anything from the chest down…though perhaps that was not due to the water alone.

"Not…exactly." That's what Christine had said, wasn't it? The fog clouding Erik's mind made it difficult to remember.

He stirred up the fire and excused himself to change, leaving Christine pale-faced on the sofa. Though he understood that no amount of dragging out the process of getting dried off and cleaned up would be long enough to shelve this particular topic, that didn't mean it wasn't worth a try.

He turned those two words over in his mind—stretched them, inverted them, tried to make them disappear—while meticulously lacing every lace and buttoning up each button, then selecting and attaching a new set of silver cufflinks and a pearl cravat pin…and a spare pocket watch he hadn't used in a while…and of course a carefully selected chain to match.

'Not exactly' could mean a great many things he reasoned as he swapped out the cufflinks for a different pair, and then another. Perhaps she'd only meant that she'd had too much champagne with dinner, or had suddenly acquired a susceptibility to motion sickness. When one thought about it for long enough, actually, and ignored a few pieces of supporting evidence—her recent moodiness, a certain womanly plushness to her body, the stomach upset, which, dear god, when strung together, suddenly formed a horrifying picture which also must be ignored, and quickly—it was actually rather unlikely that she had gotten…

Not when he couldn't— He shouldn't…

No, this simply wasn't happening. It couldn't have! They had been so—

Well, no, they hadn't been careful at all, in fact. At best they'd been playing a game with fifty-fifty odds.

And, yes, on some level this was always the planned outcome, but that was the vicomte's plan, not necessarily Christine's, not anymore. And most certainly it had never been Erik's.

Eventually there was not one single piece more of silver or gold that Erik could reasonably affix to himself, and he was left with no more means of stalling. And so he swallowed down the sour burn still bubbling up from his stomach, tightened the mask until it pressed so firmly to his face that it hurt, and strode swiftly back to the parlor.

Christine appeared not to have moved at all in the time he'd been absent: she sat perched upon the sofa, arms wrapped protectively around her stomach, and a wretched look upon her face that said, very clearly, that Erik was going to need a drink.

Without even looking at the label, he uncorked the nearest bottle of wine—he doubted he'd be able to taste anything other than the metallic tang of fear which filled his mouth anyway—poured himself a glass, downed it, and then poured another and downed that one, too.

And then he filled the glass yet again, in case a third was necessary.

As Christine watched expectantly, Erik said one last silent prayer to any and every deity he could recall; if ever one were to show mercy and at last answer a prayer of his, please, oh please let it be now.

"So." He drew in a steadying breath. "When you say 'not exactly'…is there any chance that you mean anything, anything at all other than…"

"Erik, I think I'm pregnant."

Down went the third glass.

And then down went Erik. Without warning, his knees buckled under him, and he might have hit the ground if he hadn't managed to fling out an arm, just in time, catching himself against the wall and saving what little dignity he still retained.

"Erik!" Christine cried, scrambling to her feet.

He waved her away as he steadied himself. Alas, he was fine, with no alternative but to live through this moment.

"You think?" Erik said, when he was at last able, his voice hoarse with wine and panic; he fumbled the empty glass down onto the sideboard. "What do you mean you think? You're not certain?"

"Well, I…" Christine settled back onto the sofa, arranging and then rearranging her skirts over her knees. "I haven't seen a doctor yet, but…" She winced. "But I am fairly certain, actually. The signs are all there."

"Signs? What signs? I don't understand. Didn't you just— You were indisposed only…" He counted on numb fingers. "It hasn't even been a month since last time! How long does it take for one to know these things? Longer than a few weeks, surely. You must be mistaken!"

That's right, it simply had to be a mistake! She'd gotten the idea in her head and saw confirmation where there was none, that was all—she couldn't really know. All this worry for nothing! And perhaps that was a good thing, in the end; it was a reminder to be more careful. He'd foolishly convinced himself this possibility could not come to pass, and yet here he was, choking down a stomach-turning taste of it.

"Well?" he prodded; Christine had stayed vindicatingly silent. "It would be much too early to know, yes?"

Her mouth opened—and then it closed, arranging itself into a quavery grimace which spoke more clearly than any words could have. It wasn't uncertainty that stilled her tongue and caused her to shift in her seat.

It was guilt.

"My god." Erik whispered, gaping at her with widening eyes.

The pace of his heartbeat, already far above normal, kicked up several additional beats per minute, till it fluttered in the base of his throat.

"You lied?"

Christine's hand flew to her mouth in horror. "I'm sorry! I was going to tell you, I just—"

"Wait, wait," Erik cut her off with a flick of the wrist. "Do I have this clear? You knew last month, and yet you lied and said you'd gotten—gotten your…"

"I didn't know what else to do!" she cried, her face crumpling into anguished apology. "When you mentioned that it should have been time, I realized that I was late. And then everything made sense, all the little things that had felt different, and I just needed—I needed a little more time." She dug her hands into her skirts, wringing the silk in her fists. "I thought if I had a little more time to be sure, and to— "

"But you lied…" Breathless anticipation swelled Erik's chest. "To him?"

The dam broke then; tears—the sweetest, most beautiful tears ever cried—began to pour down Christine's cheeks.

"I didn't want to! I didn't want to lie to either of you! It wasn't meant to be like this, I should be—" she said, and then she said some more things, but her words became a buzz in Erik's ears as triumph radiated through him in exhilarating waves.

This revelation was—it was unthinkable, and yet here was a silver lining, shining so bright it blinded in all the right spots:

So desperate was Christine to remain with Erik, she had lied to her husband.

And this was not a little lie! This was life-changing news, which she'd deliberately and carefully kept hidden so she could continue her visits with Erik, lying again and again, each night they returned here. The ground still felt unsteady beneath his feet, yet Erik felt as though he could float above it.

Christine had deceived her husband—to be with him—him—him!

Interweaving with the exultant pounding of his own pulse, the buzzing in Erik's ears grew louder, and sharpened, taking shape as pleading words. Christine was still trying to explain.

"Of course, of course…" He waved his hands to clear away her excuses and self-flagellations, and rushed over to sit beside her, wrapping her in an embrace. "You only did what you had to do. I'm just so glad that you told me." Within the protective circle of his arms, he felt a little of her tension melt away; she leaned gratefully into him. "Oh, Christine, my dear, my angel. I'm so sorry you have been alone with this secret, but you aren't anymore. I'm here with you—for you." He took her sweet face and cradled it in his hands, tipping it up to look into her eyes; they glittered wetly in the firelight beneath uptilted brows. His heart ached to reassure her, to hold her and kiss away her tears and promise her the world. "This is…a complication, but it needn't ruin everything."

"Oh," she said. Erik's fingers slipped from Christine's face as she sat back, leaving his hands cradling air. She blinked, looking vaguely confused. "Oh?"

"Well, yes," he said, smoothing out his cravat, rumpled and damp with her tears. "This is unexpected, but—"

Already the initial shock was wearing off—hastened in no small part by the sheer glee of one-upmanship—allowing plans and machinations to begin materializing in his mind, sliding into place swiftly, clicking and spinning into life like the gears driving an automaton.

The most important thing, when it came down to it, was that Erik maintain control of this situation. He had a head start on the vicomte, and it was vital that he keep it as long as possible. For one thing, it was early yet—if her assumption even was correct, which it might not be. Anything might come to pass over the next several weeks; there was no reason to give up the game at this point. And if she was correct, and she was at this moment carrying a— a—

That is, if the worst came to pass, they still needn't give up on her dreams. They'd worked too hard and were much too close to their shared goal.

"We've made a plan," Erik continued reasonably, "to get you on stage—and there's no reason we can't proceed with that."

"I—" Christine frowned down at her lap for a moment, then swiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. "I don't know…"

"Oh, but there have been many singers who have been—have been in such a condition who have remained on stage for the majority of their—their, ah…" He cleared his throat. "There will be some adjustments to be made, but you will be on that stage as Lucia, I swear it!" Onto the floor Erik dropped to his knees and captured Christine's small hands in his own, squeezing them in emphasis of this earnest vow.

She was silent for several moments, staring at her hands enfolded in his. Her brow furrowed.

"And then what?" she asked, quietly.

"And then? Well…"

And then Christine would be dependent on Erik in a way that would supersede anything else, obviously. She would stay with him as long as she was singing professionally, because she needed him to be able to sing—really sing—just as she confessed, months earlier. Once she was back on stage, the public would demand La Daaé, and without Erik, there was no La Daaé.

Just as with no Christine, there was no Erik.

Anything else didn't matter, so long as he kept her with him. Not husbands, not business partners, not…the other thing they were currently worried about.

But clearly he could not tell her that.

"And then…we will get to that when it comes," he told her, instead. "If there does end up being a—a… That is, if this does successfully come to fruition, there is no reason why you couldn't live your life normally enough. There are nannies and—and then later on, there are boarding schools, and you can go into residency, at theaters all over the continent—then perhaps beyond!" He shifted forward, angling toward her with urgent intensity. "You can—and will—take over the world, one theater at a time."

Christine looked at him in disbelief.

"I know, I know! It seems impossible now, but I have full faith that, with my help, you can achieve nothing less than a legendary career. It will be a lot of work, and some sacrifices will have to be made," by the vicomte, preferably, he thought, but didn't include, "but my point, Christine, is that even with this, ah, hindrance, you shall still be able to do whatever you want."

"Oh, god," she moaned, sinking back into the thick cushions of the sofa and pressing her fingertips to her eyes.

At once, Erik was on his feet. "Are you going to be sick again?"

"No, Erik," Christine said, with a sigh which trailed off into a tired laugh. "No, I'm not."

Such moodiness did not, Erik thought as he tried to shrug off a creeping sense of unease, bode well for his hopes that there was nothing to Christine's suspicions. It was said that expectant women were especially moody, and already he'd lost track of how many moods she'd cycled through just in the last half hour. This current mood, though…Erik wasn't quite sure what to make of it. But then again, whatever it was and whatever it indicated, it would likely be replaced with another in minutes, if not seconds.

Still, he floundered.

"Then are you…ah… Should I…?" His hands opened and closed uselessly at his sides.

"I'm fine, really. Actually…having this out is such a relief." Christine straightened up and tucked a few loose curls back into place, and indeed she did sound relieved. "I haven't been able to let it sink in. I haven't been able to feel much of anything, except worry." Her hands drifted down to her stomach, and Erik felt his own stomach clench. "It's been so many years, I can't believe it's finally happened. I haven't—I haven't been able to be…happy about it." She caressed her belly, just above her lap, reassuringly still flat as ever. "And I am. I am happy. Thank you, Erik," she said, and she smiled up at him, a deep, genuine smile, warm and glowing, brimming with unspeakable emotions which nevertheless spoke directly to his heart.

And it was at that moment, the way an unexpected key change at exactly the right moment could overwhelm the spirit with a rush of transformative beauty, Erik found himself nearly swept off his feet by a swelling surge of pride.

Heady, rapturous, rather…masculine pride.

The experience was as confusing as it was alarming.

To think about the natural conclusion of Christine's supposed condition was… Well, he could not think of it. Biologically, perhaps, the way it was said that those who experienced a great traumatic shock sometimes lost a chunk of their memory, in a protective function of one's own mind. And indeed there was nothing but blinding whiteness when he attempted to imagine the— the product of— of this…

Yet at the same time, some primal instinct demanded to be acknowledged.

The idea of a child? A living, breathing, Christine-monopolizing child? One that could potentially inherit— No. No.

No. The thought was absolutely horrific.

But the idea of having gotten Christine Daaé with child…?

Well. That was rather different, wasn't it?

If she wasn't mistaken, it meant that Erik had made Christine pregnant. That within her, she carried tangible proof of their union, of the significance of their connection—of her want for him, his desire for her. Of their love. He was in her now, truly, in a way not even her husband had been or ever could be. They would be connected forever.

In the most simple, most irrefutable way, he had marked her—claimed her—made her his.

And, now that he allowed himself to recognize it, was there not a certain…sensuous allure in her ripening body, plumped and rosy and so full of life?

Why yes, yes there was.

Heat bloomed within Erik's chest, spreading further with each beat of his heart. His fingers itched to touch and knead and caress this newly sumptuous flesh. Covertly, he licked his lips, suddenly so hot and dry, as his eyes roved over the twin swells of her breasts, considering where, exactly, he wanted his lips to—

"And Raoul," Christine said, dousing the sparking fire within Erik more thoroughly than any bucket of water could have managed. "He'll be so happy, too. I'm really so thankful, to the both of you."

…'Raoul?' Erik almost laughed. What did it matter what that idiot felt about something that belonged to Erik? The boy was irrelevant now, superfluous.

Fucking Raoul.

Even thinking the name left a bitter taste on Erik's tongue. The only thanks Raoul deserved for was being stupid enough to bring his Christine back to him.

"But I've been thinking, Erik…and I think…" Christine continued, her eyes already forming an apology; Erik clenched his teeth. "I think that I should be honest with Raoul, and tell him that I want…I want to sing again. He's a good man! If he could just listen, if he could understand what it means to me, maybe…maybe we could work something out?" She pressed her hands together in hopeful supplication.

"No, Christine—no." Erik was back on his knees before her again, clutching at her skirt in desperate fistfuls, as though she might disappear at any moment. "At least, not yet," he added, when she opened her mouth to protest. "Another month. We need another month."

It was true that the boy was irrelevant…but that was a fact that Christine was not ready to admit. It would take some time, but she would get there, Erik was certain—so long as the boy wasn't given the opportunity to interfere, to poison Christine against him, to attempt to break the bond between them which now flourished stronger and more meaningfully than ever. The thought alone made Erik break into a cold sweat.

"Oh, Erik, please—" Christine wriggled under his grasp. "Don't ask this of me!"

"Please, Christine, I beg of you!" he nearly cried. With his bare cheek pressed to her knees, Erik prostrated himself before her, letting the tears well in his eyes, torn between letting them spill like the wretch he was, and using pity to persuade, or blinking them away and urging her to see reason with the stern conviction of a teacher who knows what's best for their pupil. Either way, only one thought repeated in his head like a warning drumbeat. "Once he knows, he will take you away immediately! And what then?"

At those words, a flash of panic crossed Christine's face—and Erik seized his opportunity.

Pulling himself back together with a swiftness he'd always prided himself in, he slid back onto the sofa beside her and took her hand. "All those years we spent apart," he reminded her, gently, "I couldn't do that again, could you?"

"I…"

Slowly, she pressed her eyes shut and shook her head.

Erik could be pitiful. Erik could be commanding. But…he could be compelling, as well.

He pressed in closer, dropping his face to the curve of her neck, so his breath just tickled the exposed skin, lips close to her ear, voice low and smooth and even. "I'm lost without you, Christine," he said, with just that slight—slight—musical inflection. "And you, don't you need your Angel? He needs you." Her hand was unresisting in his; he raised it to his lips. "I need you. And all we need is a little more time, that's all…" Soft curls brushed Erik's exposed cheek as Christine's head lolled to the side. "Just a little more time, and you can have everything you want. I've already made you a mother, now let me make you a star. That's what you want, isn't it, Christine?"

She shivered as he ran his hands up her arms to her shoulders, sighed as he hummed—just a little—into her ear.

"Yes, Angel," she murmured. "Yes..."

"Good." Erik smiled and pulled her to him, cradling her head on his chest. With deft fingers, he began plucking the pins from her hair, until it spilled over her shoulders, just the way he remembered—the way it ought to be. "You'll see, Christine. Everything will work out just as it should—I will make certain of it."

Whaaaaat? Another chapter in only a month? Is this some kind of record? Lord, I hope not. In fact, I have most of the next chapter written, so I'm hoping updates will become more steady again! My holiday gift to you.

Thank you to Aldebaran, for her input, which is always so essential. The final draft of this was done without her eyes (I'm giving her a break to work on her own fic!), so any issues at the line level can be attributed to the sloppiness of yours truly. And thank you guys for reading and sticking with this. Your support and kind messages have meant the world to me, thank you.

So! What do we think about how Erik is reacting to impending fatherhood? Is it in line with what you were expecting? More importantly, is it in line with what Christine was expecting? And, even more importantly, IS Christine expecting?

Up next: Christine seeks an answer to that question, and Erik seeks to...well, you know how he is.