Chapter 29 — And Then Again

It's a little known fact that talking oneself down from the plank of a pirate ship—a task not wholly unlike the one at hand—isn't actually all that difficult. It comes down, really, to three simple elements: unshakable confidence, the presentation of a cool, controlled exterior, and, obviously, quite a bit of talking.

In this case, the first two would present little problem. Erik was confident that he knew the truth and could extract it, and few were as skilled at creating an impeccable facade as he was.

Talking, however…

Well, the problem with talking was that, when given the opportunity to speak their mind, the other person was bound to say things Erik would really rather not have to hear.

This, of course, was one of the many benefits of a genial, yet…compellingly written letter; one could say exactly what needed to be said with no risk of showing inopportune emotion or the other party interjecting, and if a response was not desired, well, it was cold down in the cellars, a little more fuel on the fire was always welcome.

Unfortunately, a letter would not do in this particular situation. Though the words appeared in Erik's mind as clearly as if they were written there with pen and ink, he could never commit them to something so tangible as paper. It was bad enough that he had been forced to acknowledge the truth he'd tried so hard to ignore — despite her best efforts, Christine could not overcome her physical repulsion and was clearly miserable, and to pretend she wasn't had been stupid and selfish and they simply could not go on like this — to see that truth printed in his own hand would be a humiliation beyond imagination.

And that was to say nothing of the risk that a letter might be discovered by the vicomte, in which case, Erik would have no choice other than to kill the boy. And while Erik was still many things he had always been—repulsive, selfish, stupid—he was no longer a murderer. At least not if he could help it.

Which meant, unfortunately, that talking was the only option. So, tucked into the deepest shadows of the dimly lit room, Erik rolled up his shirtsleeves, slowed his ridiculous heart rate down from the frenzy he'd whipped it into, relaxed his clenched hands—those long, pale, ghoulish hands he'd been foolish enough to think she would ever want to touch any part of her—cultivated that cool exterior, filled himself with confidence—some genuine, some false—and waited.

Though not for long.

The bathroom door opened and Christine trudged into the room, still dressed only in chemise and corset and petticoats, with her tired eyes cast down, and without any indication she had noticed his presence. Her heavy steps took her to the dresser, where she pulled the cloth from the mirror and smoothed her hair away from her pale face, then to the small wardrobe, from which she began to pull her clothing and dress herself – drawers, shoes, bustle – with the practiced, weary ease of a woman who had spent her first two decades without the luxury of servants to attend to every need.

As she worked, Erik felt a pang of unsettling recollection. How many times had he watched her like this, from the other side of a mirror—unhurried, unguarded, completely unaware she was being observed?

It did sound…bad, he had to admit. But it hadn't been all bad; a lot of good had come from that time. He'd given her her voice, and in return she'd adored him and trusted him and listened to him unquestioningly, and yes, he'd been a disembodied voice she thought was an angel sent by her dead father, which was abhorrent—and also something he regrettably couldn't pull off now—and yet they'd found comfort and connection in each other, despite the deception.

And to give credit where credit was due, he'd never watched her when she was— That is, though he'd had the opportunity—and though he'd certainly been tempted—he hadn't ever seen her completely—

Well.

In other words, though Erik was admittedly a very…lonely man, he wasn't without principles; he had managed to adhere to a code of honor, dubious in its honorableness though it may have been. There were lines he wouldn't cross, and that had been enough to convince himself that a little…observation was harmless. Now, though, his face grew hot with some feeling he couldn't quite put a name to.

Swallowing to ease his dry throat, he watched as Christine stepped into her overskirt—a pile of sumptuous blue silk—and pulled it on, positioning herself in front of the vanity mirror so she could adjust the pleats and falls. Her hands reached behind her to work at the fastenings, but they did so half-heartedly, fingers fumbling limply at the waistband. With a sigh, she gave up and leaned heavily upon the marble dresser top, head hung.

At least if Erik had any doubts about just how miserable she was—how miserable he and his repulsiveness and his stupidity and selfishness had made her—he certainly hadn't any now. She wore her unhappiness like another of her fine garments, heavy upon her shoulders, burdening her with its leaden weight.

Any lingering desire to stay hidden, to hold his tongue, sneak out behind her to pretend he'd been waiting in his room, and then carry on as they had been for just a bit longer—for really, wasn't it perhaps a touch overdramatic to claim that he would prefer nothing at all?—evaporated at the sight of her slumping shoulders, the tense lines of her bare arms and clenched fists.

Shame and self-hatred, hot and coiling, twisted within him until he felt about to collapse in upon himself, twisting tighter and tighter until, finally, it snapped, propelling him out of the shadows until he came to stand just behind her. Only his mask appeared in the dark mirror, pale and luminous as a half moon, looming above Christine's bowed head. Immediately, a slight, subtle change came over her, a prickling sort of tension. Her head snapped up. The blinking, disoriented look Erik saw upon her reflected face lasted but a second before it was replaced with alarm, then disbelief—then alarmingly angry disbelief. Christine whipped around to face him.

"You were watching me? How could—"

"I am sorry to intrude upon you in this manner," Erik cut in quickly—very quickly, "but you said that we should talk about things, even if they are difficult. So." He spread his hands in a gesture of gracious formality. "Here I am."

As a final confirmation that there were, indeed, difficult things to talk about, Christine showed no surprise at his explanation. The anger drained from her just as quickly as it had appeared, and her shoulders went slack. She took a deep breath. "Erik, I—"

She paused, twisting her ring, as she apparently considered her words…

But words weren't necessary; Erik already knew very well what she would say: things which he did not want to have to hear.

Still, he knew he should let her speak her mind. He should be forced to hear what she had to say.

He should…

"However—" Erik raised one finger. Christine's mouth snapped shut.

He'd really rather not.

"I think it best that rather than trouble ourselves with all that," he continued briskly, "you simply say—without explanation or elaboration—that you'd like to stop this portion of our arrangement. We will resume your lessons, and we need never acknowledge that…any of this happened." Erik smoothed his hands down his waistcoat, satisfied with the steadiness of his voice, the simple elegance of this solution, which she would have to admit would be the easiest thing for the both of them.

And yet, unexpectedly, Christine frowned.

"But I don't want to stop," she said, crossing her arms over her chest.

Erik clamped his lips shut just in time to hold back a laugh. Of all the responses he'd considered, the possibility of a flat denial had never occurred to him. How could it have, when the truth was so glaringly, humiliatingly obvious?

Erik took in a deep breath and huffed it out as a sharp sigh. "Here." With a press of his hands on her shoulders, he turned Christine to face the mirror, then took up the fastenings of her skirt, willing his hands to work swiftly and steadily.

"The thing is," his carefully controlled tone was smooth, businesslike; no matter how sickly his stomach twisted, this was, as she'd made so clear, just business, "we both know that's simply not the case. It couldn't be more clear that you…" Erik hesitated, searching for a less humiliating way to say '…are so disgusted by me that you break down into tears.' He glanced up at the mirror—Christine was watching him with a furrowed brow. "Look," he sighed, "I know that beggars can't be choosers—but I wasn't begging, Christine. I never expected anything of you. I never asked anything of you. You asked me. And while I know that this wasn't a choice you wanted to make, you did choose."

Finally, the last fastening caught and held, and Erik ran his hands over the skirt, smoothing and straightening. "And, likewise," he stepped back and lifted his chin in a hopefully dignified posture, "you must choose to put a stop to this endeavor if you find the process so…disagreeable."

"Erik…" Christine turned to face him, her hands twisting in her skirt, making a mess of the pleats he'd just so carefully arranged. "I'm sorry. You are right, this has been more…difficult for me than I expected, and I am struggling to…" Again she paused, briefly. "But that doesn't mean I want to stop."

An involuntary twinge clenched Erik's jaw tight. "Well perhaps I don't want to continue," he said, his voice strained through gritted teeth. "Perhaps I'd really rather you not struggle to put yourself through a trial you find so difficult to endure."

"No, Erik, that's not what I said," Christine said calmly, much too calmly compared to his own rapidly building tension. "It's complicated, but it's…it's not that I don't want to…"

Tighter and tighter Erik's jaw clenched, until the muscles twitched and ached. This—this was exactly the problem with talking. Just as he'd predicted, he was being told things he did not want to hear.

But it was more than just that.

He hadn't wanted to hear the truth, but at least it was what he needed. Whatever this denial was, though, whatever self-preservation or misguided compassion drove her to tell these lies—for clearly they were lies—he did not want or need it. In fact, this was nothing but another humiliation: to concede to her assertions would make him look like a fool who believed she could ever feel anything other than disgusted by him.

No. He wouldn't have it. He'd already humiliated himself more than enough.

Besides…he needed to hear the truth so that any lingering hope that he was mistaken would be thoroughly, brutally quashed.

He would have the truth from her—

After all, it was right there, on her face.

Erik stepped close, very close. He smiled a tight-lipped smile. "Now, I suppose that's where I'm confused. You say that—and yet…" With the pad of a thumb, he brushed just under the corner of her eye, carefully lifting away the tears which had been gathering there. "Perhaps you can tell me, Christine, since my experience is, as you know, rather limited." He rolled the drop of moisture between thumb and forefinger, with a detached sort of curiosity. "Is it typical for the woman to cry, afterward?"

At once, tears began to flow in earnest down Christine's stricken face. Stepping back, Erik furtively brushed his fingers off on his waistcoat, swallowing hard, an odd pang in the back of his throat. He shouldn't have been surprised that he'd made her cry—for the second time this evening—but he truly hadn't meant to. And the sight of those tears only made things worse; Erik could feel the tears burning in his own eyes. Quickly, he tried to blink them away.

But it was too late.

Christine stepped forward, arms outstretched. "Erik…" she said, the lines of her lovely face falling into an expression of unbearable tenderness.

Erik flinched away from her reaching hands, his spine curling between his hunching shoulders. She felt bad for him? She wanted to spare his feelings? Since when had anyone ever cared about his pathetic feelings? He hadn't asked her for pity or comfort or anything except confirmation of the truth, so they could finally stop lying to each other and to themselves and drop this whole humiliating farce.

Swallowing down the burn of tears, Erik turned and drew himself up, hardening his shoulders. "Well, is it? Do you cry when you're with him, Christine?" His constricted throat stung, but he forced the words out anyway. "Do you cry after you've made love to your handsome little vicomte? Or do you save all your tears for when you have to fuck the monster?"

Outrage blazed across Christine's face—though it was hard to take it too seriously when her cheeks were flushing as pink as they were and she couldn't even manage to look at him. "No!" she insisted—to her feet. "It has nothing to do with—"

"How repulsive I am? How difficult it is for you to contain your revulsion long enough to finish with me?"

The blood drained from Christine's heated face, leaving it a chalky white. "That's what you think? That's really what you think?"

"You don't deny it!"

"Yes, I do! I just—" She broke off abruptly and covered her eyes with her hands, breathing deeply; when she emerged, it was with an expression of pity so profound the ground seemed to sway under Erik's feet. Once again, she reached for him. "Erik, I'm sorry…"

"Yes, I believe you are!" he laughed, bitterly, stepping further out of reach. "That's all it's ever been for you, isn't it? Poor unhappy Erik!"

And it was then that the realization hit, swift and hard and horrible; like a stab, deep to his gut, blooming in queasy waves, rippling through him with dizzying clarity. "That's exactly what that was earlier, wasn't it?" His eyes narrowed in pained disbelief. "When you let me…" Bile rose up his throat.

Oh god, she had not been trying to find pleasure in the unpleasant, it had been pity after all! And it didn't matter that she was shaking her head, saying no, no, Erik, no because Erik couldn't trust her any more than he could trust himself; he had been so certain it wasn't pity he'd seen on her face as he'd touched her, but he had been wrong, wrong, horribly wrong. And though he had been wrong about many, many things, not one of them was as bad as this, for nothing was worse than pity masquerading as something genuine. Nothing was worse than humiliating himself by being foolish enough to think she might actually…

He needed this to be over with. He needed to be alone. Desperately, he wanted nothing more than to turn and run away and drink and wallow, alone again, as always, but no, no he could not do that. They were in much too deep now, and there was no other way through this but straight through the bottom.

Erik pressed a hand above his worthless heart. "Well, thank you so very much, Madame!" he said, executing a mocking flourish of a bow. "Such generosity! Such selflessness! How very kind of you to throw a bone to the pitiful creature by letting him put his hand up your skirts!"

Christine's face flamed a hot red, yet still, she was shaking her head—more denial! More lies when the truth had never been so clear! The room seemed to narrow, as darkness ringed the edges of Erik's vision. Blood beat in his ears.

She wouldn't admit to the truth? Fine. Erik could speak enough truth for the both of them.

"You know," he said, his voice tight and harsh and seemingly coming from somewhere outside himself, "there's plenty to pity, if that's what does it for you!"

Everything seemed to be happening at a remove, actually. It was as if he was once again hidden in the flies above the stage, watching a scene play out below him—"You like pitiful? Is that what you want?"—watching from above as, in one quick movement, he closed the space between them—"Well, then how about this?"

And then, with a kind of dull, detached horror, he watched himself fall to his knees at Christine's feet.

"Please," she gasped, "don't—"

"No, no! You wanted to talk about difficult things, let's talk!" As quickly as she could, she tried to take a step back, but it wasn't quick enough; Erik reached for the hem of her skirt, clutching it in his hands. "Surely you'd love to hear just how pitiful poor Erik is, wouldn't you? Wouldn't you like to hear how very grateful he is for the charity you bestow upon him?"

Of course Erik understood that Christine covering her face with her hands meant the answer was no, she did not want to hear, but there was simply no stopping now.

"I have nothing, Christine! I have no one!" he cried, just like the pitiable fool she thought him to be. "I am so alone!"

For two whole months he had suppressed an inhuman amount of shame and pain and fear and love, and now it poured from between his horrible lips in an unstoppable torrent he'd never intended to unleash—least of all not while groveling on his knees, pressing gathered fistfuls of Christine's skirt to the unmasked side of his face.

"Do you know what I do while you're gone? Nothing! I do nothing but wait for you to return! Then, finally, you're here with me, and you stay for an hour—one paltry hour—and then it's over, and you go back to him, leaving me behind—alone again!" Erik's tears soaked the blue silk, turning it black. "Left alone to try to remember what it feels like to be touched…to try to forget that the woman touching me had to struggle to hold back her tears until it was over. To try to convince myself that even that is somehow better than being alone!" Then, with a great heaving sob, he collapsed upon the floor at her feet.

It was always going to turn out like this. No matter how he'd tried to fool himself into thinking otherwise, Erik had known, deep down, that he would end up miserable, hurt, and alone once again, with nothing but his tears and his regrets and bittersweet memories. That she would leave him, just as he deserved, and she would never think of him again, except occasionally with relief—relief that she was free of him once and for all.

So he laid upon the floor, crying into his arms, still holding onto her skirt with the tips of his fingers, saying his silent goodbyes, waiting for the inevitable—which he himself had all but forced into inevitability, because all he ever did was ruin everything, because he was selfish and stupid and horrible, and he deserved to be alone.

Any second now, she would walk away and never come back, and then Erik would simply curl up on the bed and wait to die, alone, because he couldn't go back to Brussels, couldn't face Nadir, couldn't even face himself.

But the seconds became a minute—two—and still…Erik was not alone.

Nor was he, he realized suddenly, in a moment of quiet between fits of his own pathetic sobbing, the only one crying.

So deep had he been in his misery, he had not noticed the sounds which were all too clear now: the unmistakable gasping and choking of deep, wracking sobs.

Erik raised his eyes. He was right—with a sharp swell of nausea, he watched with horror as tears poured down Christine's face from beneath the cover of her hands.

Ah…

Well.

Shit.

Perhaps, Erik considered—as he released his grip on her skirt, letting it slip from his fingers, and gingerly pulled himself up to sit back on his knees—that might have been…a bit much.

There was nothing in the world so terrible as to watch Christine—the person he cared for more than anyone else in the world—sobbing convulsively, inconsolably, completely broken down. Because of him.

And yet, hadn't he acted as he had precisely because he'd intended for her to feel badly—very badly—for him?

Well…yes.

But truly—truly—he hadn't meant to make her cry that hard.

There was no dignified way of picking himself up off the floor and drying his tears and dusting himself off, but Erik did the best he could, even though each movement was a fight against the instinct to collapse upon the floor again and hide under the cover of his hands and hope she was…feeling better by the time their hour was up. But the simple truth of it was, he had not considered how his hysterics would make her feel. He had made her feel badly. And he must be the one to fix it.

He took a tentative step forward. "Christine, I am….sorry. I, ah—" He adjusted his mask, smoothed his shaky hands over his shirt and waistcoat, then clasped them in front of him. "I very much regret my behavior just now. Might I offer you a—"

"I'm sorry!" she choked out, between gasping sobs. "I'm so sorry!"

"Oh, no, no, no." Taking her by the elbow, Erik guided Christine to the desk chair to sit. "Don't you say that. You have nothing to be sorry for! Please, you needn't feel sorry for me."

She dropped her hands from her tear-streaked face and looked at him with red, incredulous eyes. "How could I not?"

Erik stayed silent, his face growing hot, hoping very much that this was meant to be a rhetorical question.

"Do you think," Christine continued, her voice raw with undeniable pain, "that I haven't spent years imagining what your life must be like? That I don't remember how I left you back then, so broken—so alone? Do you really think I cried after we slept together because of your face?"

And then once again Christine covered her eyes with her hands and wept, and with a horrible, sinking feeling in his stomach, Erik was left to consider that it was entirely possible that what she had told him just weeks before might be true: sometimes…he could be wrong.

Which, incredibly, was something that hadn't occurred to him before this moment. But now…well, it was certainly beginning to look like this might be one of those times.

"Oh," Erik said, stupidly, because suddenly he felt very stupid indeed.

"I'm so sorry!" she wailed, tears dripping from her quivering chin.

"Wait, let me— let me get you something…" In a numb sort of panic, Erik began searching the desk for a handkerchief.

"Oh, leave it," she said, and grabbed a handful of her skirt, wiping her face with the silk, still damp with Erik's own tears. "This is all my fault. I've been so selfish!"

"No, Christine, no, you could never—"

Abruptly, she shot up from the chair and rushed over to the wardrobe, sending Erik staggering back in her wake. "I didn't want it to be like this! I didn't! I just wanted to see you again!" she cried, snatching her bodice from within and slamming the door shut. "And even that was wrong of me. Oh god, I've made so many mistakes!" With shaking fingers, she fumbled with a row of tiny hooks, trying to get the thing opened—trying to get herself dressed so she could leave.

But she couldn't go, not yet, not when Erik was only just beginning to understand that he may have…gotten a few things wrong. Not when he was slowly realizing that perhaps the truth he'd tried to force her to admit was maybe not the truth at all…

All of this could have been avoided, of course. Before he'd decided that he would really rather not hear what Christine had to say, Erik ought to have remembered that not one of the conversations that he and Christine had had since they'd been reunited had ever gone the way he'd expected.

Nor had they even once been helped by him opening his stupid mouth; the least he could do now was to shut it.

So, hesitantly, Erik took the bodice from her hands and tossed it aside onto the bed. "Then tell me." Taking her hands in his, gently, he tried to lead her back to the chair—but Christine pulled away, shaking her head. "Please, just…" Erik raised his hands in a conciliatory gesture, "talk to me. I won't say anything—only listen."

Now was not the time to say so, but despite her disheveled clothing, despite the locks of hair falling loose from her pinned up curls, despite the raw, hot glow of her tear-scalded face—or perhaps because of all of those things—Christine had rarely looked so beautiful, even as she paced back and forth alongside the bed, wringing her hands, throwing glances toward the door.

Suddenly, she stopped and turned to him. "Do you remember when I told you that I cried for weeks after— after everything? Why do you think that was?" Her brows pinched together in an expression of deep hurt. "It killed me, back then, to leave you," she said, more quietly, looking down. "I didn't want to—not like that. But Erik, the things you'd done… What choice did I have?"

Under his thudding heart, Erik's stomach curled into a cold, queasy knot.

He'd known he had ruined everything then, but he'd never truly believed that there was ever a chance that she might have— If only he hadn't—

"I had to leave—I had to. And then you were just…gone and I was left with so much uncertainty and so many…conflicted feelings and I couldn't even talk to anyone about it. I've had to carry it inside, bury it deep within, move on somehow." Taking a deep breath, she paused. "When Raoul told me he knew where you were the whole time, that he'd seen you— That you'd been so close…" She shook her head. "How can I describe how I felt? And then he told me that you'd agreed to do this, and I thought— well, I assumed that meant you had moved on, that there had been…" Her mouth pulled into an apologetic grimace. "Others."

Others? Without meaning to, Erik laughed out loud—even the idea was simply too ridiculous. Others!

Christine looked up with an indignant little scowl.

"Well what was I supposed to think! Who would agree to do such a thing if—" Her face colored, and she bit her lip. "I'm sorry. What I meant was, that was what I assumed, and I felt…well, I felt some things that weren't exactly fair, but I also felt that it wouldn't be wrong to— to agree to see you again. Even under these…circumstances. I could tell myself that maybe I didn't mean so much to you anymore." Tears once again gathered in her eyes. "I didn't think you…needed me anymore. And thought I could forget all that you'd wanted from me—that I couldn't give you. Not then, and certainly not now."

This should not have come as a blow. Erik had never expected… No, he had always known that this wouldn't end with her declaring her love and staying with him, but all the same he let himself collapse to the ground on his knees again, no longer able to keep himself upright, no longer able to feel something as insignificant as embarrassment at such an open display of grief and vulnerability when it felt as if she had plunged her hands right through his chest and pulled out his heart.

Christine stepped quickly over to him, and sank to the ground as well, close enough that the billowing silk of her skirt brushed his knees. "I truly didn't expect anything from you. I thought it likely we would see each other that one time, and that would be it. Or— or who knows. But you offered me music, and…" her voice grew thick, and she paused, pressing her hands over her heart, "and I was selfish enough to accept. And then, even worse, this."

Her eyes flew wide. "But I swear, I thought I might have been the one who was…less experienced! I would never have— oh God, I feel so terrible when I remember how I— I probably wouldn't ever have asked you to take part in this plan in the first place, but I certainly wouldn't have let it play out like that. I'm so sorry! And I— I— should have called it off once I realized but—" she shifted on her knees, adjusting her skirt "—but I didn't, and…and—" her fingers worried at a bit of velvet trim "—that was selfish, it was so selfish. You told me you couldn't deny me anything. I took advantage of that! I told myself all sorts of things to justify it, but when it was done…" She pressed her eyes shut. "I knew! I knew it was wrong. And yet I came back and did it again!"

Erik let his own eyes close too, let his chin dip down to his chest, letting her words wash over him.

"And what makes it so much worse," Christine continued, her voice growing increasingly hoarse, "is that I am…so grateful for all you've been doing for me. For my voice. For—" the small weight of her hand fell on Erik's shoulder, the fingers tentatively squeezing the tense muscle, and he covered her hand with his own, desperate to feel something solid, "for giving me the opportunity to be a mother. And I feel terrible that I have so little to give you in return— and that I have to leave you alone, after..." Her nails dug into his shoulder in a desperate grip. "But I couldn't stay then and I certainly can't stay now—I'm married, Erik. Things have changed. And the past…the past hasn't changed. But— but I feel cruel, and selfish. And so, so guilty. And you're right, we should stop."

"Oh, Christine…" Erik moaned, like the miserable wretch he was, and with the last of his strength, he fell forward, burying his face in Christine's lap, and once again he wept into her skirt, adding more tears to the ruined silk. He wept for her, he wept for himself, he wept for the past and the present and for the future, which he seemed to have destroyed in the space of an evening—and not even for the first time. He wept until the skin beneath his mask grew tender and chafed, and Christine held him in her lap, cradled in her arms, curling over him with her cheek pressed to his back, weeping along with him, her hot tears soaking straight through to his skin.

"I am sorry, I am so sorry," he said at last, for what else was there to say? "I was so…horrible to you. I am the one who is cruel and selfish—I am the one who needs to be sorry, not you. Never you."

There had been countless mortifying revelations tonight, but none left Erik feeling quite as hollowed out as learning that, despite all his effort, Christine had seen straight through the front he had tried to put on and right into his soul, to all the secret hopes and fears and desires he thought he'd hidden there.

Yet there was a sick sort of relief, a lightening of the heavy burden of concealment. And even though it hurt to hear so explicitly that his fears were justified and his most secret desires would not and could not be fulfilled, at least he no longer had to feel the pain of hope. And at least he could ease her burden, too, of the guilt she had carried for accepting that which he had given freely.

"And you needn't ever feel guilty, not for my sake. You are…" with the tips of his fingers he petted the soft fabric of her skirt, grasping for any little touch he could hoard away in his memories, "you are an angel to have given me even this. I never, never expected… I've always known you were here only because you need my help, not because you want me. I thought you knew that I had made my peace with…how it is for me. I am not— I am not someone who is wanted."

She didn't respond to that, of course—or, at least, not with words—but with a slow, gentle hand, Christine stroked his back, from the knotted shoulders down the hunching spine, and it felt so good, that simple, steady touch, and with each stroke, Erik could feel the tension and pain and remorse drain from him just a bit more, until at last he felt nothing so much as an exhausted sense of relief that at last, all had been laid bare.

And she didn't need to say anything, actually; there was nothing more to say. The boy could come after them, bringing along the entire police force for all Erik cared, because the only thing that mattered now was her gentle hand, that slow, even touch, and there was no better way to spend what might be—or indeed were, though Erik didn't want to think about that now—the very last minutes they would ever have together.

But, suddenly, Christine's hand stilled.

And then she spoke, very quietly.

"What you said…about not being wanted?"

An inhale caught in Erik's throat, settling there like a stone. He waited, silently, straining to hear over the sound of his own heartbeat.

"It's not true."

Erik blew out his breath, long and slow. Not this, not now. Not when they'd finally done away with hidden truths and false fronts. The peaceful, half-numb feeling he'd been enjoying started draining away, replaced by another sick knot in his stomach and more tension creeping up his spine. He needed to put a stop to this now, because he simply didn't have it in him to go through all of it again.

Swiftly, Erik extricated himself from under Christine's hand and stood, brushing his hands over his wrinkled clothes. "Please, Christine," he said, somehow managing to keep his voice composed, "you really don't need to say that. I'd prefer that you not, actually. Let's just put all this behind us, and we can talk later, if you wish, about how you'd like to proceed. Now," he turned sharply toward the door, "come. It's almost time we return you to your husband, so you had better—"

"Wait," Christine said, scrambling to her feet, "wait." She grabbed him by the sleeve. "You wanted me to talk, but I— I haven't told you everything. Let me tell you this…please."

The almost…frightened look in her eyes did nothing to relieve the knot in Erik's stomach; instead a tense, fluttery feeling was growing there, making it quite difficult to say or do anything—except give a terse nod.

"I told you that I felt guilty, and that's true. But…" Biting her lip, Christine looked over her shoulder, at the clock, then back up into his eyes. "But it's not only that I feel guilty about hurting you. I also feel guilty about…hurting him. Because…" She dropped his sleeve, then dropped her voice. "Because I do want you."

"You—" Erik blinked, uncomprehending. It wasn't possible, but it sounded like she'd said… "What?"

"I want you," Christine breathed, her hand coming up to cover her mouth.

There could be no mistake now—Erik heard the words clearly enough, but that didn't make them true. He turned away. "No, no, please, just…" He stumbled toward the door, his eyes unseeing, his ears vaguely ringing, and he couldn't get his lips to work, but if he could, he would ask her why she would say such a thing, but it was for the best that he could not ask, because the answer—the true answer, whatever it was, whether pity or guilt or any other compassionate impulse—would only cause him pain, and he couldn't handle more pain, and—

"Listen. Erik—" A small, unyielding hand wrapped around his wrist, and Christine stepped close, eyes fixed on his, unblinking. "I…want you." And then she stepped closer still, and she was close, so close, the heat of her fogging his mind, which was currently nothing but an empty chamber echoing those last three words. And perhaps if they could just…finish getting dressed, he could think straight, if his heart wasn't pounding like it was, because how could he be reasonable when she was saying those words while she was dressed like that, when he could almost feel the heat of her on his skin, when there was a rumpled bed right behind them—it was far too tempting to want to believe.

"When I said that I was selfish because I didn't call it off, that first time? That was because…I wanted you." She gave a start, as if stunned by her admission. "God, I want you. Even when I think of all the reasons I shouldn't, I still want you. Even now, after…all of it, I want you." Slowly, deliberately, Christine slid her hand from Erik's wrist up his arm, and he stared, unable to breathe, at the desperate way she gripped his forearm. "And I shouldn't. Especially not now…when this was only supposed to be for— Oh I'm so selfish! I knew it was wrong of me to say yes to this!"

It was for the best that Christine didn't seem to need him to say anything, because Erik could not respond, not even if he knew what to say, for his tongue felt leaden in his mouth, his lips numb and useless, and there was still no sense to be made in what she was saying, because how could she— How could anyone—

"It feels like a betrayal of him," Christine continued, her fingers now slowly kneading his bicep, her other hand creeping up his chest. "But he wanted me to! Not like this though…not like this."

Christine was touching him, her fingers tracing his sharp, unsightly collar bones through his shirt, her other hand still traveling up his arm, slipping around to grip his shoulder, and surely that meant something, for her to touch him this way, of her own free will, with no fear, no disgust, nothing but…well, want.

And god, he wanted her. And of course he wanted her to want him, but when had anything Erik ever wanted come true? Surely, surely, this couldn't…

Could it?

Erik took a step closer, and Christine inhaled sharply. With a silent prayer for the steadiness of his hand, he placed one finger under her chin, tilting her face up to his. "Tell me again," he said, his voice rough and throaty.

"I want you," she answered quickly—so quickly—and it really did seem sincere, didn't it? Something not quite like a smile played on her lips. "Do you really not know? You don't see what you do to me?"

He dropped his hand from her chin, let it fall to her shoulder. "What do I do to you?"

"When you touch me," she said, dropping her gaze to watch the hand on her shoulder, her eyes lingering on Erik's fingers as he gently stroked the skin just beside the eyelet trim of her chemise, "sometimes I feel as if I might swoon away. And your voice…" Her eyes slid closed. "Even when you speak, it's as if…as if all my nerves have been set aflame. But when you sing…" A shiver ran through her and she really did smile then, beatifically. "And when I sing with you, when we make music together, it's…" Both hands were on his chest now, her palms pressed just above his thumping heart, her eyes open wide and shining. "It's ecstasy. How can you not see that?"

How…how could he not? It was a good question, a ridiculous question, really, when he thought back now, with a flash of heat up his neck, to their music lessons—to her flushed face and heaving breast and avid gaze and increasingly passionate song choices and— God, he'd been a fool, hadn't he?

"It has been…so difficult, this— this impersonality, this restraint. I know it's against the rules, and I know it's so selfish, but I want…I want to touch you. I want you to touch me. I want…" She bit her lip, then took up his hand in hers, turning it over, tracing the tendons, the palm, the long bones of his trembling fingers with her fingertips. "I want your hands on me. Here." There was a brief hesitation, but then she pressed his palm to her heaving ribs, at the curve of her waist, and held it there. "And—" and then she was sliding his hand up until—oh god oh god—it covered her— her… "And here."

In some distant place in his mind, Erik worried that she would feel the dampness of his palm soaking straight through the thin fabric of her chemise—but that place really was quite, quite distant, for his mind was consumed almost entirely with the incomprehensible, incomparable knowledge that he held Christine's—Christine's—soft, full breast in his hand.

With a low, involuntary moan, he gently caressed the flesh that rose from top of her corset, then slipped his thumb farther down, between the stiff corset and the soft cotton of her chemise, until he reached the hardened peak there. In a daze, he slowly rolled it under the pad of his thumb.

This wasn't happening, Erik thought, distantly—it was much too much a fantasy to be real. But she certainly felt real, under his hand, the warmth and the plush weight of her. And her head, with its crown of satiny curls and delicate scent of lavender, was solid and heavy against his shoulder, where it had fallen. And the soft, hitching rhythm of her breath, the heat of it against his chest, the small, stifled moans—certainly all seemed very, very real.

And he could have remained that way forever, or at least until the hour was finally up, but then she reached again for his hand, pulling it away, leaving the palm cold and bereft and Erik groaning in frustration.

But then it became a groan of aching hunger because Christine dragged his hand down between her thighs, to the place radiating heat even through the layers of silk and cotton. "And here, oh god, here."

In just a few steps, he had her braced against the wardrobe, her leg hooked over his knee. Reaching down, he rucked up her skirts, and found the spot where there was no doubt she wanted his touch, letting his fingers glide over her slick, heated skin. "Here?" he rasped, angling his wrist, adding pressure to the slow stroke of his thumb.

The ragged gasp of her confirmation felt even better than the silken heat of her around his fingers.

Earlier, her eyes had grown languorously half-lidded as he worked between her thighs, but now they were wide and bright and glinting in the gaslight. One hand came up to clutch his shoulder, and the other slid up his neck to cup his jaw, the thumb sweeping over his slack, panting lips. "And your mouth…" she breathed, and the hand moved to the back of his neck, "I want your mouth on me—" With gentle but insistent pressure she pulled his head down to her breast. "Here."

And god, she was even more heavenly there under his lips than under his fingers, and he devoured every inch of bare skin he could access with a hunger he had only thought he understood the voracity of, and god he wanted more, so much more, wanted his lips on what still remained hidden under the clothing, wanted to take that hardened nipple in his mouth, to have his tongue on her, his teeth on her— but then she guided him away, up to her flushed throat with its thudding pulse— "And here."

Reverently, he brought his lips to her throat, and carefully, so as not to displace the mask, he dragged them up to beneath her ear—though surely he was not as careful as he ought to have been because how could he be when her fingers were caressing the back of his neck and he could feel her pulse upon his lips and tongue and she tasted like salt, but not the salt of tears, and nothing in all these decades of fantasy had ever come close to approaching how this felt, the desperate energy, the shared heat and breath and grasping hands and gasps and coiling tension.

"And—" with a light touch at his jaw, she guided him again, upwards, and then they were close, so close, and her lips were wet and parted and her eyes were dark and intensely focused upon his lips but she looked so fearful, and it was all right, it wasn't disgust, he knew that now, and while she wasn't crying anymore, she wasn't ready, not for the intimacy of a kiss, and maybe she'd never be, and that was all right, this was enough.

And he could be merciful, too.

Erik slid his left hand into her hair, cradling her head in his palm. "And here?" he asked, bringing his lips to hover by her ear and she nodded almost violently—and so, gently, he pressed his mouth, his misshapen, clumsy mouth which she incomprehensibly seemed to want on her, to the place where her ear and jaw met, and he kissed her there as she shivered and pressed herself closer to him, and he kept kissing her, over her temple, her jaw, down again to her throat, while his right hand delved deep between her legs. And when, between those kisses he said, in a voice roughened with overwhelming emotion, "You want me…" it was no longer a question, and she no longer needed to answer because he could feel it in the heat radiating from every part of her body, could hear it with every inhale and every whimper.

"You want me."

He needed to have her again, now—right now—and they didn't have much time, but what did time matter when she was right there, his mouth back on her breast, her hands sliding down his belly, and there was no time to think, only act, so with a hand under each thigh, Erik scooped Christine up and she held tight around his shoulders as he rushed her to the desk and sat her upon the edge, tipping over a stack of books and toppling a crystal inkwell.

"Oh, Erik, careful!" she said with a breathless laugh.

"Fuck careful," Erik growled, and with a sweep of his hand he knocked it all —books and stationery and a hopefully empty inkwell—onto the floor with a clatter, and she responded with a real laugh then, bright and thrilling, and he would have laughed too, but she was pulling him to her, and her thighs were pressing, insistent, against his hips, and her hands were on his back and shoulders, grasping, her lips at his ear, repeating his name, and she wanted him, and, god, he wanted her, and his hands could hardly work fast enough to rip open the fastenings on his trousers and shove them down his hips—

And then finally finally finally he buried himself in her, as deeply as he could. And then he was driving into her with quick, desperate need and she was meeting each thrust with gasping, grasping ferocity, her breath hot against his neck, their bodies pressed together, close, closer, and yet still unable to get close enough, and there could be no doubt she wanted him, with the way she moaned his name into his shoulder, the way she pulled back to look at him with eyes bright and wild and wanting, and when, moments later, he found his release, it was with her name on his lips, her lips against his neck, his fingers tangled in her hair, her legs encircling his hips—holding him tight.

Wrapped in Christine's arms, he caught his breath against her shoulder as their bodies slackened, hearts slowing, heated skin cooling, and finally finally finally…it had been everything he'd wanted.

Well…almost.

He still had to take her back, of course, to the world above. She still belonged to someone else.

But that didn't seem to matter so much anymore, because now he knew—she wanted him.

And he knew—they both knew—when she left the world above and descended into darkness, away from that other man, away from reason, from propriety, from caution…from reality…

Christine belonged to him.

Hello again! This was super long so I'm gonna keep this short. Thanks so very much for hanging in there with this story! This chapter is such a relief to have done, and signals yet another shift in the way this story is going. The next one, in particular, is going to be a fun one. I have so deeply appreciated each and every comment and Tumblr message, more than I can express. Thank you guys.

Thank you also to my writing buddies for all their input and support, with a special thanks to Snows, for the suggestion of a little foreshadowing in an unexpected place, and to Aldebaran, for reading this in bits and in full...so many times, and for her eagle eye and thoughtful suggestions.

Up next: Well...I think you can guess. :)