FYI, the rating has been raised to M.

Chapter 15 - Don Juan Triumphant

She was so close.

Almost close enough to touch — but not quite.

Mere steps away, with only the empty, waiting bed between them.

Softly lit by the single oil lamp burning on the bedside table.

Her fingertips trembling at the hollow of her pale throat.

Eyes as wide and dark and unblinking as the first time he breached the distance between them, the night he slid open the false barrier of the trick mirror to extend to her a hand that was all too human. That night, her touch was hesitant, then stronger, bolder; the grip of her fingers an unspoken challenge, the warm weight of her hand clasped in his an ill-fated promise.

Now, he could almost reach out and take that hand again.

But not quite.

"Erik..."

His name — his name — was the barest breath through her parted lips.

He clutched at the footboard of the bed, his fingers hooking around the carved edge of the worn walnut as the room shimmered in and out of focus. If her name on his lips had been as sweet and soul-warming as a sip of wine, the sound of his name on hers was like downing a whole bottle without pausing for breath. He fought to pull in enough air to slow his racing heart — he would not let himself gasp like the pitiful wretch he was.

For many moments they simply stood there, eyes locked, silent, as Erik's heart thudded on and on and on.

She was a memory made flesh, too perfect to be real, and coupled with the haziness of his vision, he had himself half-convinced that this was only one long, drawn-out, rather inventively masochistic fantasy.

But it wasn't. It was real.

Because there was an essential element of his fantasies which was notably missing from this scene. The one thing that made his sacrifice all worth it. The one thing that kept his pain from becoming intolerable.

In his fantasies, Christine was always, always happy.

The Christine standing across from him now, however, looked very much as if she was about to cry.

Unshed tears wet her lashes, making them dark and glossy; she blinked them away as she wrapped her arms around herself, shoulders hunched and slightly shaking. She looked so small, so fragile, and Erik was so very tempted to see what would happen if he simply went to her and gathered her into his arms, letting the body say what words could not.

He could count on one hand the number of times his arms had been around her, could recall each instance in excruciating, intoxicating detail. Each one a memory more valuable than any earthly thing.

Once had been a seduction. Once had been out of desperation. Once had been his salvation.

This time, were it to happen, would not be so easily categorized.

It would be an embrace of comfort and apology, of longing miraculously fulfilled, of the raw relief of being reunited with the one who had been an inextricable part of his soul and then had been suddenly ripped away, leaving a wound that could never heal.

An embrace of love, undemanding and unexpectant.

God, he wanted that.

And the way she looked at him now, brows drawn together in a question that hurt to even attempt to put into words, made him wonder if maybe — maybe — that might be what she wanted, too.

But no, that couldn't be true. How could he even think such a thing when the image of those hands twisting in her skirts was burned into his mind like a brand? A surge of sickly shame settled heavy in Erik's stomach. He knew she hadn't wanted to do this, and he'd agreed anyway, letting his desperation to see her again — his incredible selfishness — overpower his better judgment. No, he would not lay so much as a finger on her for any reason until he'd gotten the truth from her. Even if it led to confirmation of the worst of his suspicions.

Even if he lost the only chance he may have had to feel her in his arms again, just once more.

The small bronze clock on the dressing table filled the room with the urgent ticking away of this precious hour. He couldn't stall any longer.

"Why are you here?" he asked, the tightness of his throat giving his words a hard edge he hadn't intended.

Christine flinched, recoiling as sharply as if he'd broken the silence with a shout.

For a moment she simply blinked at him. And then slowly, those beautiful dark eyes, which had been so sad and subtly entreating, began hardening, narrowing with each blink until she was all but squinting at him.

A single, sharp exhale of a laugh shook her shoulders.

"Was that not made clear?" Her voice was sweet and lilting — a perfect replica of the incomparably exquisite melody which haunted his dreams...except now with an acid bite. She crossed her arms sharply across her chest.

Erik's shoulders tensed. Her reaction was unsettling, yes, but it meant he'd struck a nerve. Clearly, he was on the right path.

He shook his head. "You don't want to do this." He didn't phrase it as a question — it wasn't one, and they both knew it.

"Oh no?" She raised her eyebrows. "And how would you know what I want?"

Beads of sweat began to form beneath Erik's mask. "I— I know that much time has passed—"

"Yes, it has." Her tone was matter of fact, yet had the sting of an accusation.

Erik's mind raced — What was happening? Why did he feel on the defensive? Had he said something wrong? He'd only spoken factually, had he not?

He took a deep breath and pressed on, ignoring the twisting in his stomach.

"He said that you desperately want a baby, but...is that true? True enough to—" He paused, swallowing thickly. "To go to these lengths? I know how important it is that he have an heir…" He loosened his fingers from the footboard and took a small step back, keeping his eyes fixed on hers. "Is he forcing you?"

"No, he is not," she shot back. She raised her chin, defiant. "How dare you even ask that. You think I don't know my own mind?"

Erik's heart was pounding, but it was no longer from lovesick yearning. He paused to assess the situation.

A sensible man might back down, given the fierceness of the fire blazing in her eyes. But there was sensible and there was right, and Erik had never much cared about being the former.

Because he was right — he was certain of it. Despite the years, despite the distance, he knew her. He knew her soul. Better than that boy ever did. Maybe she wasn't being forced, but there was no question that this was not what she wanted. The only question that mattered right now was how to get her to admit it.

"This is my choice," she continued forcefully. "I want to be a mother, more than anything."

More than...anything?

Erik almost laughed. Christine Daaé, the goddess with the voice of an angel, who could have conquered the continent, who could have had the world at her feet, claiming such a paltry goal as the pinnacle of her desires, as if they both didn't remember the greatness she'd been destined for. She had given up the stage for a new life as a vicometess, but certainly she had not forgotten its pull, despite the words she spoke so insistently.

But those words, it turned out, were nothing but words, for as she spoke, her hands — in a final, pointed confirmation of the truth — slowly snaked down to her skirt, clutching white-knuckled fistfuls of the silk.

Ah...

Erik's jaw settled into a grim, yet satisfied smile.

"Really?" he asked lightly. "The girl I knew dreamt of much greater things than motherhood."

"But I'm not a girl anymore. I haven't been for a long time. Priorities change." Her tone was harsh and, to Erik's ears, quite bitter. She looked down at her hands, lost in the folds of her dress. "Dreams are for dreamers, not for those who have awoken to reality."

"I see," said Erik, stepping around the corner of the bed and moving towards her with slow, careful strides. "And is your reality that you're to be nothing but a mother and a vicomtesse?"

Her eyes snapped back up, challenging. "What's wrong with that? Orphans know better than anyone the importance of family."

Rounding the end of the bed, he took one last step, finally facing her fully where she stood, hemmed in by bed and table and wall. "But would that fulfill you?"

Bracing herself against the edge of the mattress with one clutching hand, Christine stood her ground. "Of course it would." She pulled her shoulders back into a regal posture of authority. "There's no greater calling than being a mother."

Erik did laugh then, a soft chuckle. "Is that so?" Less than an arm's length remained between them. He dropped his voice low, gently coaxing. "Has Christine Daaé forgotten who she is?"

"It's Madame de Chagny now," she said, a flush beginning to work its way up her throat.

He tipped his head in wry acknowledgement, belying the sick hot twist of his stomach.

"And Madame de Chagny, a child is the only thing she desires?"

"No, it's not," she snapped. She spun away, turning her back to him. Beneath the pearl gray bodice, the muscles of her back and shoulders were tensed and rigid. "But wanting a thing isn't enough," she said, more quietly now. "Some desires must go unfulfilled."

Erik smiled. She could lie to herself, but she couldn't fool him… and he remembered all too well how to get her to succumb to the truth of her desires. His chest swelled under his hands as he slowly smoothed them down his waistcoat.

Then, in one quick step, he closed the distance separating them — still not quite touching, but so, so very close. There was nothing but a few inches of air between them now, warmed by the heat of their bodies. Her hair, pinned up to reveal a slender white neck, smelled of lavender oil and soap and he had to try so very hard to resist the obscene urge to bury his face in it. Breathing her in, filling his lungs with her, he brought one arm around her shoulders — still not touching, never touching — and let his splayed hand hover over her heaving chest. "Must they?" he whispered. Eyes closed, her head tilted back ever so slightly, and he lowered his mouth to her ear. "Even the desire—" and swiftly contracting his fingers into a fist, pulling the undeniable, inescapable essence of who she was from her very soul, he breathed into her ear the truth she refused to acknowledge— "to sing?"

With a gasp, she broke free, whirling around, eyes wild. "Yes, especially that!"

Erik pulled back, looking down the sculpted nose of his mask at her. "Why, because your high society won't allow it?"

"No..." she shook her head, taking a few small, shuffling steps backward.

"Because he won't allow it?" Erik sneered.

"No!" She pulled her arms across her stomach, shoulders tight. "It's nothing to do with him."

"No?" Erik stepped closer. "So he's not determined to have you off the stage and confined to the nursery, using your voice for nothing but lullabies to soothe his precious heir?"

Her eyes flew to his, aflame with indignation. Lashing waves of barely suppressed fury rolled off of every line of her tensed body; Erik braced himself against the onslaught, his racing pulse sending an exhilarating rush of blood to his head. A challenge of a smile curled on his lips.

She turned her face away with a jerk. "You don't know what you're talking about," she said, very quietly. In profile, he could see the slight tremble of her small, pointed chin.

Warmth flowed through him, head to toe, trickling into his tingling hands. "Oh, I know..." Reaching out with long, lithe fingers, Erik traced in the air the contour of that trembling chin, speaking low and slow and so very right. "I know that Daaé or de Chagny, without music, Christine—" the fingers skimmed down her throat, not touching, no, but close enough to feel the heat of her pulse in his fingertips— "is not Christine."

She had not drawn a single breath of air as he spoke; now she sucked in a shuddering lungful. "That's not…" The whispered words trembled and then fell away as Erik's hand waited, ready, poised over her heart. She bit down on her quivering bottom lip, hard.

Then, suddenly, her face crumpled — and for the second time that evening, Christine looked very much like she was about to cry.

Oh God.

Erik dropped his hand, heavy.

What was he doing?

He blinked, clearing away that old familiar fog, that red-tinged haze of his Phantom days, which had settled over him, unnoticed, weightless and frighteningly comfortable.

What had he done?

The oversharp clarity of hindsight rendered the scene so plainly that it hurt, but he couldn't shut his eyes to it: he had far too easily begun slipping into old habits, manipulating with his words, using his physical presence to draw an admission from her that she did not want to give. In the end, it seemed he was about to get his way...but it didn't feel like a victory worth celebrating. In fact, all he felt was the hollow, sickly pang of shame — still a somewhat novel feeling for him, which made the sensation all the more unpleasant.

Tears were welling in her eyes in earnest now, and once again he felt the need to drop to his knees and beg her forgiveness, his lips murmuring self-flagellating apologies between reverent kisses pressed along the hem of her dress. But that was his need, not hers...wasn't it? Did he know what she wanted? Had he ever known?

Christine turned to him again, and she looked so lost, so helpless, and perhaps he should have apologized, without theatrics, just simply and honestly.

Perhaps now he should ask her if it would be acceptable for him to take her into his arms.

Perhaps he should just do it anyway.

But perhaps...

Perhaps, rather than risk doing the wrong thing, it was better to do nothing at all.

Silently, Erik backed away.

Christine held his eyes as he retreated, her gaze stony but watchful. Tears hung heavy from her lashes, crystal bright against sapphire eyes so dark they looked almost black. But then, before they could fall, she shook her head, blew out a harsh sigh of a breath, and dashed them from her eyes with a decisive swipe of her balled fist.

She slumped against the bed, her hands pale and still against the black silk.

"I hadn't sung since that night, you know," she said, her voice roughened by the strain of holding back tears. "How could I?" She cut her reddened eyes to his, and Erik's heart gave an excruciatingly guilty squeeze. "But it didn't matter. I could focus on being a wife and then, someday, a mother. And that would be enough." Her shoulders lifted in a shrug. "Maybe it would have been. But then...well..." she grimaced, her fingers digging into the bedspread. "I was so adrift, and I— I needed something. I thought maybe…maybe enough time had passed. I reached out to Madame Giry and…" She paused, her fingers twisting at the fabric. "And she helped connect me with a new voice teacher. A man she knows from her new position."

Erik pulled in a breath as sharp as if Christine had slapped him. Actually, he would have gladly taken a slap over the words she'd spoken; a stinging cheek was nothing compared to the hot stab of petty jealousy searing his heart.

His student, his Christine, who he'd found in raw form, painstakingly shaping, cutting away facets with expert precision and polishing until she sparkled brighter than any diamond, only to be shut away in that vicomte's gilded jewelry box of a home, was now out and under a wing which did not belong to her Angel of Music? The thought was unbearable.

"He came very highly recommended," Christine continued in a rush, "with impressive credentials. I was lucky to be able to engage him. And he has been a good teacher, but..."

'But…'?

Erik clamped his lips against the nasty, spiteful — and yes, completely unreasonable — words which were sharp on his tongue.

But….no teacher was good enough for Christine, and certainly not some commonplace tutor, likely some lecherous old man with credentials not worth the paper they were printed on, no matter how highly he came recommended by Giry, that duplicitous schemer. That was the only correct end to that statement.

He ground his teeth, the painful friction oddly satisfying. These feelings were unfair, he knew, but that didn't make them any less potent. Still, they were feelings he would never dare let her see, so he set his face blank and mask-smooth, while inside, he seethed away, silently.

Her eyes snapped back to his, wide and pleading. "Raoul doesn't know. I didn't tell him — I couldn't, not right away." She sat up straighter, her voice firm despite the insistent, fluttery gesturing of her hands. "But I never lied to him! I never would. If it was a sin, it was a sin of omission. I was always going to tell him, but it's a bit of a…" she bit her lip, "- a touchy subject. I had to find out for myself first if— if I even..." She looked away, her shoulders going slack.

"But then later, when I did try to tell him, I...couldn't. Sometimes the words wouldn't come, and other times, he cut me off and I just let it drop. But I'm glad I never said anything, because..." She was silent a moment, chewing her bottom lip, a subtle, but clearly growing tension in her body causing Erik's breath to catch in his chest. "I— I can sing, it's just…" She paused, then inhaled deeply and glanced up at him through her lashes. "I suppose I don't have the voice I once did."

The sear of jealousy had cooled, leaving behind raw, numbing cold. Erik considered the evidence before him: the bitten lip and the tearful confession, the desperate clutching of the bedding and the darting eyes. He had sought proof that Christine hadn't wanted to go along with this plan, and, well, he had certainly gotten it. Now his stomach was lurching, sour and queasy, and he had to resist the urge to double over.

Confirmation after confirmation was springing up in his mind so quickly it made his head spin, and he staggered slightly, unsteady on his feet.

It was all true. She didn't want this, she didn't want any of this. She didn't even want a child — she wanted to sing. And if not for the fact that she was struggling, she would have been back up on stage right now, not in the dark, lonely cellars beneath it, trapped again in the lair of the monster responsible for the loss of her career, and now, apparently, her voice, thanks to his selfish, destructive obsession.

She was watching him closely, her hands clasped over her chest, an expectant tilt to her brows. She must, Erik assumed, be waiting for him to come to terms with the truth and release her from this farce. And he would, of course, but first he needed a minute to think, to get the situation — to get himself — under control.

What he should have said — what he wanted to say —- was "I need a moment", or, even better, "I'm sorry". But for some incomprehensible reason, what he did say, in a tone as flat and impenetrable as his carefully cultivated expression, was a cool, clipped...

"I see."

And then, afraid that he wouldn't be able to keep that expression impenetrable for even a moment longer, he turned from her, his shoulders squared, a shield against the uncertainty filling the space between them.

His head was pounding, filling with thudding, insistent waves of self-loathing.

She didn't want to be here.

She didn't want him.

He'd known in his heart that she would never have been willing to subject herself to him, so this knowledge was hardly a surprise, but the incomparably cruel clarity of reality still managed to shock. At least he had gotten to the truth without allowing himself to be humiliated, or to show real vulnerability; it was the only reason he was still standing.

But he still didn't understand. Why had she agreed at all? Why let it get to this point? It didn't make sense.

The thoughts swirled within his head, beating against his skull hard enough to crack bone. It was so consuming that he ignored the long, harsh sigh which came from behind him.

So consuming that he almost didn't register the rustling of silk against silk.

Almost — but not quite.

Erik spun around, his heart thudding to a stop.

"What are you doing?"

Christine paused in her attempt to hoist herself up on the high, overstuffed mattress, her skirts hitched up to reveal small stockinged feet, shoes discarded nearby on the faded carpet. She gestured to the clock with a flick of her hand.

"It's been half an hour already," she said flatly. "We need to get started."

"What?" A jolt of icy cold rushed through Erik's body, stealing his breath. "Wait… You don't mean you actually intend to…" Uncertain of what to do with them, his hands twitched and twisted awkwardly at his sides. "You were just saying you want to sing."

"Yes, I do, but…" she shrugged her shoulders in a tense little jerk. "Besides, I did say I wanted to be a mother, didn't I?"

Erik blinked, his face going slack.

Christine arched an eyebrow. "I am capable of wanting more than one thing, you realize," she said, in a tone which sounded very much like she were speaking to a child — and not a particularly bright one. For a long moment she looked at him, her lips pressed tight, as he stared back dumbly, then finally, shaking her head, she turned from him and resumed her struggle with the mattress.

Pausing, she glanced at him over her shoulder. "Do you think you could manage to help me up?" she asked curtly. "It's difficult in this skirt."

No. No. This didn't make sense — this shouldn't be happening. He'd been so certain.

But as he stood there like a stunned, useless idiot, she'd at last made it onto the bed, and was now settling herself against the pillows, her skirts bunched up around her knees. A tight swallow burned its way down his dry throat, and he tore his eyes away before the sight of the delicate curve of her leg disappearing into the layers of skirts began to affect his body as strongly as it was affecting his mind.

"But certainly this is not what you want," he insisted, perhaps more for his benefit than for hers. He was shaking his head, his feet carrying him away from her, far enough to make the horrible temptation to reach out and glide his fingertips over that delicious curve impossible to act upon. "Not like this."

Christine crossed her arms over her stomach. "No, this isn't exactly how I want it to be, but we don't all get things exactly how we'd like, do we?" With a sigh, she squeezed her eyes shut, and it was finally then that Erik could see the passage of time on her face, in the slight creases around her eyes and between her brows. "But we both knew what we were agreeing to, so could you please just turn off the light and come over here?"

Then, abruptly, in a flurry of petticoats, she rolled away from him onto her side, leaving him staring at her back.

As wrong as it felt in that moment, Erik couldn't resist letting his hungry eyes drink her in, from the piles of pinned-up curls, down the pale swoop of her neck to the sharp angle of her shoulder, plummeting down to the nipped-in curve of her waist, swiftly followed by the dizzying rise of her hip, all the way down to her little toes, tensed and curled in their fine woolen stockings.

No fire burned in the small hearth, but the room was suddenly stifling. Erik ran a finger inside his collar, loosening the tightly knotted cravat ever so slightly, almost gasping at the feeling of cool air on the overheated skin of his throat. He blinked, testing reality, trying in vain to make sense of the fact that his most secret, most shameful dream was somehow now playing out in front of him: Christine Daaé reclining on a bed, his for the taking—

Erik's heart dropped into his stomach like a cold lead weight.

That was just the thing, wasn't it?

He didn't want to take.

The heady rush of blood which had been pulsing through him slowed to a sickening trickle. She might technically be willing but she clearly didn't want to. Not here and now.

Although...if he were to be perfectly rational, she likely never would want to. Not truly. The only physical intimacy they had shared, kisses that had meant everything to him — that had changed everything for him — had been given out of desperation, not want. So how could he hope to resist the temptation laid before him, to be allowed to experience the joys of the flesh, flesh which belonged to the one woman he desired more than anything, knowing full well that he wouldn't get another chance?

But just her flesh was not enough. It had never been enough. He'd rather have nothing at all than the grudging allowance of a quick one-sided slaking of his lust. He'd managed this long, hadn't he?

"Erik—" Christine's voice, strained to the point of breaking, interrupted the torrent of his tormented thoughts. "Are we going to do this or not?"

Once more he let his eyes drift over her, as his heart pounded hollowly in his chest.

No.

No, he can't do this.

He won't.

This — an indifferent, mechanical coupling, a loveless encounter with the woman he loved — is not something he is sure he is even capable of, and if he hadn't been so willfully ignorant he would have been able to admit that to himself from the start. But he'd forged ahead with this stupidity, thinking only of getting to be in her presence again, not truly believing it would ever come to this.

Ah God, what had he gotten himself into?

And all at once, he saw this whole thing clearly, for what it was, but also for what he absolutely would not allow it to be: A second Don Juan Triumphant — a ludicrous plot schemed up by two men, blinded by the need to possess this woman, foisted upon her in a short-sighted effort to achieve their own goals, damn the cost to her. To all of them.

But how could he extricate her — and himself — from this mess?

Perhaps…

"Yes, yes, of course," he said quickly. "But, I'm wondering…"

Perhaps there was something else he could do for her instead. Something he should have thought of right away, rather than filling his head with unjust jealousy and indulgent self-disgust.

Christine turned, squinting over her shoulder at him.

He ran his hands over his lapels, smoothing and straightening, and took a deep breath. "You want a child, very much. I understand. And I've promised to— to try to help with that. But…" He took a step closer. "You also want to sing." He raised a questioning eyebrow. "Can I not help with that too?"

She said nothing in response, but her glare softened into what looked to him like guarded interest.

"You say your voice is not what it once was, but I could restore it," Erik pressed on, with a proud lift of his chin. "Would you allow me to try?"

Christine pulled herself up to sit amongst the tumbled pillows and fixed him with a skeptical look. "That's not possible. I know the rules, and I won't break them: No singing." Slowly though, her fingers began to twine themselves into the rumpled pleats of her skirt.

"Ah," said Erik, a new lightness in his chest urging him on, "but the rule is that I can't sing. He said nothing about you."

That was a little detail the vicomte had missed — more proof that the boy didn't understand her soul. And it was far from the only missed detail...

"And I've promised not to play the 'piano, or organ, or whatever that thing is,'" Erik said, pulling his tone back from the edge of mockery at the very last second, "but he didn't include, say, the violin I have locked up just across the hall, which would provide excellent accompaniment."

With a furrowed brow, Christine opened her mouth as if she would speak...but closed it again without a word, pressing her lips tight.

"It could be a trial. A month. Just to see. And if at the end, you're certain that music is no longer a possibility for you, then we can, ah," he tugged at his cuff, "focus on fulfilling the other goal."

Christine's hands went to her lap, her fingers finding the thin band of gold, twisting it absently as she chewed at her bottom lip.

"I won't lie to him…"

"You won't have to," Erik replied quickly. "He won't ask details, I specifically requested that he not." He caught her eye and he gave her a meaningful look. "If it's a sin, it's a sin of omission…"

Her fingers continued to work at the ring a moment longer, then, as Erik held his breath, those fingers trailed lightly over her breastbone and up to her throat, resting on delicate skin there, just above the rhythm of her pulse. She raised her eyes to his.

Despite the tightness around her mouth, a smile was twitching on her lips. Shifting herself on the bed, to Erik's great relief — and maybe just a twinge of guilty disappointment — she tucked her legs under her skirts and sat up straight. "Yes," she said finally. "Yes, I'd like that."

Erik released his breath in a long, silent stream. Suppressing the smile he could feel forming on his own lips, he sealed their agreement with a nod.

The air in the room had shifted. The tremulous uncertainty, the crackling energy, had gone out, leaving an odd sort of uneasy peace. There was still more time to fill before they made their journey back to the surface; now, at last, with fear and shame and so many other emotions no longer clouding his vision, Erik turned to Christine.

There was so much he longed to say, so much he wished to know. How many nights had he lain awake, trying to push the questions from his mind that he knew he would never get answers to?

He hesitated a moment, uncertain of the propriety, before perching himself gingerly on the edge of the mattress. Christine drew her hands to her lap, where they rested small and still against the gathered silk.

Erik cleared his throat. "Has he treated you well?"

"Yes."

"Are you happy?" he asked stiffly.

There was a pause before she answered, the words measured. "I have been."

Unsatisfied, Erik cocked his head. "But now?"

"I think I will be," she said softly. And then she looked up at him, the soft curve of her lips pulling ever so slightly into a smile and Erik lost all ability to speak or think or even breathe.

Then, suddenly — and not a moment too soon — her face fell. "Have you really been right here, this whole time?" Her brows were drawn together and her eyes looked— No. He wouldn't even try to guess at the feelings he thought he saw there.

"Not the whole time, no." Erik wasn't sure if he should elaborate, but something told him this wasn't the time.

She nodded. "And you?" Her eyes drifted down to her folded hands. "Have you been...happy?"

He swallowed. "I…"

What could he say? Such a complicated answer to such a simple question. But then her eyes were on his again, and this time there was no denying it. The emotion there was written plain: a plea, a desperate need to be absolved of guilt. An assurance that when she'd left, she'd not left him completely broken.

That he would gladly provide.

"Yes," he answered simply. And it was close enough to the truth.

She fixed her eyes on his, and he could have sworn he saw a challenge there. "And now?"

Erik inhaled sharply.

His own question, echoed back to him by the woman responsible for almost every bit of real happiness he'd ever known, those dark, guarded eyes asking a question he could not even begin to know how to answer.

The words would not come.

A sad smile curved her lips and she nodded, in what felt like understanding.

And just like that, all too soon, their time was up.

Christine slid off the bed before Erik could even offer his hand in assistance, and went to stand before the mirrored vanity, her hand poised over the draped fabric.

She glanced at him, asking permission with her eyes. Erik nodded, and she tugged off the cover. In the reflection of the dusty mirror, he watched as she pinched color into her cheeks and artfully rumpled her dress.

"Do I look convincing enough?" she asked timidly, turning to him.

In the space of a moment, she had transformed — a shy actress with wide, uncertain eyes, costumed as his furtive lover, one who in reality he had not so much as touched. She'd never looked more heart-breakingly beautiful.

Tentatively he reached out, his hand skimming her cheek, still not touching, his tingling fingertips hesitating just over the pulse point behind the soft edge of her jaw, deciding. Gently, he pinched a single curl between his fingers and tugged it from behind her ear, letting it fall loose.

"You look perfect," he said, and to his surprise and relief, his voice didn't break at all.

…

They walked in silence to the boat. At the dock, the candlelight was dim, but not so dim that Erik couldn't see Christine's hesitation as she reached to take his offered hand at the top of the steps. Her fingers hovered for a moment, curling in, and Erik glanced up from their hands to see her eyes fixed on his ring — the ring he'd not taken off since the night she'd pressed it into his palm before turning and fleeing toward her life in the sun.

He tensed, fighting the urge to pull his hand under his cloak, concealing that band of silver and onyx which suddenly felt like a still-beating piece of his heart displayed on his finger.

He thought maybe he should say something, but before he could find the right words — or any at all, really — her voice broke through the weighted stillness.

"Erik…" She still wasn't looking at him, but the beginning of a small, shy smile was blooming on her lips. "I really am happy to see you again."

The words hit him square in the chest, the impact stopping his heart momentarily before it skittered back to life, though if it hadn't started back up and instead he'd dropped dead right where he stood, he would not have been the least bit surprised.

Then their eyes locked, and with breath-stealing certainty, Erik understood, truly and deeply, that he very well may not survive this drama. However, he could hardly blame anyone else if he did not — he had placed the knife in her hand himself. But he would gladly hand over his heart, it had always been hers to carve up at will.

It wasn't as if he was using it, anyway.

She smiled at him, and then her hand was in his, hesitant, then stronger, bolder; the grip of her fingers an unspoken challenge, the warm weight of her hand clasped in his a…

Well, for now, her hand was in his, and that's all that mattered.

Oh yeah, that rating change was in preparation for future chapters. I probably should have mentioned that. ;)

Noooooo Raoul! Could it be that the man who was spotted with Mme Giry and your wife was only a...music teacher? And rather than ASKING her about it, you made a series of very questionable decisions that delivered her right back to...the worst possible choice of a music teacher? See, this is exactly why communication within a marriage is so important. Didn't your mother ever teach you that? Eh...that's probably a no. :)

Thank you for your patience with this one! It was such an important, pivotal chapter, and I wanted to make sure I did it justice! And I never would have without the help of Aldebaran8423, who provided the most invaluable feedback. Thank you so much, you! And if you haven't yet, you MUST go read her stuff. Start with Within, I promise you'll love it! (Also, Mercy is basically required reading, as it features these versions of the characters and does them more justice than is even deserved.)

Thank you also for the most INCREDIBLE comments and discussion and questions about this story. It is absolutely so fun to hear all your feedback, and you all are the BEST.

Up next in Chapter 16: What was Raoul up to during this date? Just enjoying a book and a nice cup of coffee and vibing, right? Yep, sounds right. :)

Thank you thank you thank you, all!

xo Flora