(This work would not have been possible without the help and guidance of my amazing beta, PhantomSith. Love you lots, girl.)
Manhattan, 1977
Erik startled awake with a quiet gasp of breath, blinking through the darkness as the dingy, yellowed ceiling above him coalesced into view. He closed his eyes and took a deep, shuddering breath as the nightmare began to fade and reality slowly set in.
The subway car gradually melted away to become his bedroom.
In his apartment.
He was safe. He was still alive.
And…his leg was fucking throbbing.
There was only thin air six inches below the knee, but it felt like hot pokers were being inserted into his nonexistent flesh. One by one and excruciatingly slowly.
Dragging himself up to sit at the edge of the bed, the pain became even more unbearable as blood rushed through the stump to feed the frayed and damaged nerves. White hot pain screamed at him as it crawled up his leg, akin to someone overpowering a lightbulb that was ready to burst.
Sweat dripped from Erik's brow, and he could feel it trickling down his back, making his skin crawl with discomfort. By now, he was panting with the exertion of simply sitting there, rocking back and forth in utter agony.
There was no way he could put his prosthetic on now. To even touch the skin was too much.
If he wanted to get to his meds, then it was either hobble on the damn crutches or descend into madness.
Erik braced himself on the rickety nightstand, hauling his body off the bed and using one hand to hold himself up, while the other reached in the corner for the crutches.
Steadying himself, he managed to trudge his way over to the bathroom bit by bit. Mercifully, he managed not to knock himself around any further, grateful for his exceptionally accurate memory regarding the room's layout, even in darkness.
The bathroom light was intensely bright on his weary eyes, making him shrink back in a flinch and blindly reach to flick it off, opting for the soothing nightlight instead. The cacophony of sounds coming from the street corner below, the discordant symphony of the night, rattled his sensitive ears, turning a mild headache nearly into a migraine.
Erik flung the medicine cabinet open and grabbed the orange bottle of mind-numbing salvation, quickly popping three pills in his mouth and washing them down with water from the tap.
Breathing deeply, he waited a few moments for the medication to begin its work. Slowly, he inhaled. Exhaled. He blinked once again and gazed at his reflection in the grimy mirror, the low light partially cloaking his disfigurement in shadow.
As it would always be.
The person he saw staring back at him wasn't anyone he recognized. That Erik died in the accident. Whoever this drawn, gaunt husk of a person was staring back at him…was nothing more than a stranger.
Holding the sink in a white-knuckled grip as waves of pain lanced through him, Erik kept his breathing as steady as possible. More minutes passed, and the numbness finally, finally began to settle in.
After a little more time had passed, the searing pain had receded into a more bearable, pulsing ache. Erik managed to shuffle over to the bedside and quickly dress, attaching his prosthetic and donning his mask with a swiftness that only ingrained muscle memory could provide.
There would be no going back to sleep tonight.
Only one thing could calm his mind after that kind of nightmare. Only one thing could bring him peace.
Slowly making his way down the stairs, his leg stinging, he opened the door to the workroom entrance of the music shop. Living above the place was fortuitous for Erik, as it gave him unlimited access to the store after hours. The owner, Annette Giry, didn't mind because this was when he did most of his work.
Annette was the retired ballet madame for the famous Manhattan School of the Performing Arts. Though she hadn't been one of Erik's teachers, she was so impressed with the enormity of his musical talent that she made him her accompanist in class, and he even composed a few small pieces for her recitals. She had been one of the few teachers at the school who did not look down her nose at him for not being a physical performer.
After his accident and long recovery, she allowed him the use of the unoccupied upstairs apartment in exchange for his skill in refurbishing and tuning instruments. It was a good deal for them both and allowed Erik the nightly freedom he so desperately desired.
Flipping on the lights, Erik walked over to the workbench, regarding the violin that sat upon it with deep affection, his brow lowering softly as a crooked smile graced his lips. He'd come across it quite by accident one day while he was searching for his tuning instruments, lying disregarded on a shelf, its case collecting dust. The Stradivarius was old, yes, but well-loved. True, it was worn around the edges, and its luster had dulled with time, but he was determined to restore it to its former glory.
If nothing else, doing this would at least bring a blessed calmness to his battered mind.
He'd already removed the strings, bridge, and tuning forks. Now, he was dedicating his time to painstakingly removing the layers of grime and loose resin that had built up over countless years of disuse and intermittent cleaning. It was slow going, but Erik knew his dedication and precision would be worth it in the long run.
As he began taking the cloth to a new section, the unexpected screeching of the metal security door caused Erik to jerk with a mighty flinch, dropping the cloth on the floor. He stiffly looked up from his cluttered worktable, staring intently at the door to the main shop with a raised brow and pursed lips. At first, he thought it might just be some neighborhood kids messing around, but…
At this time of night?
God damnit. Please tell me this isn't a fucking break-in.
The screeching finally stopped, the security door having obviously been pulled up. Then, the sound of tinkling chimes, as the front door opened and closed. The security door was pulled down once again, and then all went quiet, except for the light shuffle of footsteps across the worn carpet.
Erik hobbled over to the light switch as fast as he could and flipped it off, shrouding the room in darkness. The irony that he was trying to keep two intruders from spooking each other was not lost on him, but he couldn't exactly fight some unknown person on a bum leg.
Though, he'd be damned if he let this guy touch any of the instruments, fucked up leg or not.
As he was inching his way towards the door to the main area of the store, a strange thing happened.
Whoever was making their way through the store…began to hum.
The voice was slightly gravelly but was definitely a woman's soft tones.
A soprano, if his ears were not deceiving him. Tentative and a bit rusty, but lovely, nonetheless.
Curious, Erik slowly, quietly inched his door open a crack, just enough to see into the room beyond.
…And there she was.
She was short, maybe only a few inches over five feet, and completely bundled up in a bland-colored winter coat and hat that seemed far too big for her slight frame. It was as if she was trying to disappear in all that fabric, Erik idly thought.
She carried a small mug, the scent of very strong coffee assaulting his senses. She was straightening things as if she worked there or something, which made Erik even more intrigued. If she was trying to rob the place, why would she let herself in and wander around so casually?
Eventually, the smell of the coffee became overpowering, and Erik had to step back, but in doing so, his prosthetic foot scuffed the floor, the small noise so loud in the silence of the moment, that it might as well have been a bomb being dropped.
The girl whipped around suddenly, reacting tensely to the unwelcome sound, and locked gazes with Erik, his eyes wide as he stood frozen in the doorway.