Chapter 37 — All I Ask of You (Reprise (Reprise))

"Erik, I'm tired," Christine complained, for the fourth time that evening. "Please, don't make me do that passage again."

Erik lowered the violin and sighed. "You said you must be on the stage, did you not?"

"I did, but…" She frowned and tightened the shawl around her shoulders—the cold was yet another thing she'd complained about, but as Erik had patiently explained, she would simply have to endure it; wood smoke was bad for the voice. Her gaze dropped to the music stand, where she picked at the corner of the open score. "Well, things have changed, haven't they?"

"They have," Erik replied crisply. "And they will change even more if you can't pull off that cadenza and the role goes to someone else. Or have you decided to give up now, and spend the rest of your life as a little housewife?"

Christine's head snapped up to shoot him a reproachful pout—but, tellingly, she did not argue.

Erik raised the violin. "From 'Sorge il tremendo fantasma e ne separa,' then?"

The last few lessons had been similarly…tense. The night Christine blindsided him with her suspicion that she'd gotten with child, Erik had stumbled back home on numb legs, then spent the many long hours alone in a haze of potent wine and even more potent music, seesawing between denial and gleeful triumphant acceptance, until at last Christine returned—bearing answers Erik wasn't really certain he wanted.

At his insistence, during that time apart she had discreetly seen a doctor who had confirmed that it was exactly as feared: Christine was pregnant.

This time, as she tearfully shared the news, Erik was prepared. He listened, he nodded, and then he immediately ushered her off to the music room, where they had since spent the vast majority of their time together. There wasn't a moment to lose. It was early yet, but there was only so long her condition could be concealed from the vicomte, and so even if Erik could feel her energy flagging, even though he knew he was being a bit tough on her, he could not let her give up now.

"Yes, that's right, pull your breath from there," he said, making a quick gesture with the bow in emphasis. "You need to be working on expanding your diaphragm, or you won't be able to sustain that final note. Good, good."

That she could glare at him so cuttingly while still sounding so lovely was becoming a particular talent of hers.

"Very good. Again."

"No, Erik, not again!" Christine flung the music from the stand, stamping her foot like a child. "I'm done!"

"Christine," Erik replied, through lightly gritted teeth, "you have hardly more than two weeks until you sing for the part, and since you must be 'indisposed' next week, it means one of those weeks will be spent without the benefit of my guidance. We simply don't have the luxury of time. It was such a pain to get them to change the schedule to accommodate you, I'd really rather not have to go through all of that again!"

Christine's hands flew up to her mouth. "Erik! You promised you wouldn't meddle!"

"Yes, right, yes. Of course," he said, hurriedly putting away the violin; he hadn't done anything wrong, not exactly…but perhaps now was not the time to argue.

Yet Christine was at his side, grabbing him by the arm. "What have you done? You didn't start with the letters again, did you? Have you thought about how it might look? I return to the stage at the same time mysterious threats are made to the theater?" Her expression was one of shock and anger, which wasn't exactly fair, he'd only been doing her a favor.

"I didn't threaten a thing! I merely made a suggestion."

Christine groaned into her hands.

"Oh, don't worry, no one will have any idea I had anything to do with it," Erik said, slipping the bow into place and snapping the case shut. "I implicated one of the patrons."

"Oh god!" she wailed.

"Actually, it's all rather funny if you—"

But Erik did not get to finish what really was, in his opinion, quite a funny story, if one had an expansive sense of humor; as her eyes widened and a subtle green tinged her complexion, Christine covered her mouth with her hands and fled from the room.

Ah. Well. That was one way to change the subject, wasn't it?

Thanks to repeated experience, Erik knew that Christine would be a while in the bathroom, and so he took a few minutes to attempt to tidy the piles of paper spilling across the floor. As he gathered up an armful, an empty wine bottle rolled across the carpet and into his shoe; Erik winced, mildly embarrassed. There hadn't been so much time for housekeeping when every spare moment must be spent either working on his music or making plans, but surely he'd get around to it during Christine's upcoming week away. And perhaps he could also use the time to catch up on some sleep…and have some suits laundered…and sneak up in the wee hours to pilfer some fresh food from the restaurant on the corner…and write a letter checking in on Nadir and the business…

Or perhaps not. Even just thinking about the pile of obligations he'd let accumulate and the work it would take to dig his way out from underneath was exhausting.

When Erik left the room, with three empty bottles now clutched under an arm, he found Christine waiting in the parlor, fastening her cloak.

"I'm ready to go."

"But Christine," Erik shot a glance at the clock for confirmation, "we still have nearly an hour before you're due back."

"I know, and I don't care. I'm not feeling well, I need air, and I want to go now," she said, jamming her hands in her gloves as punctuation, a full stop that left no room for argument.

Erik sighed as he set down the bottles. There was no use trying to get her to see logic when she was in such a mood. Hopefully, it would pass soon: Erik had found he'd come to count on her stability as a counter to his own changeable moods. They couldn't both be the volatile one.

In the meantime, he had no choice but to bow to her wishes, and so he rowed her—very carefully—across the lake, as she kept her head between her knees and hands in a death grip on the edge of the boat.

With careful timing and even more careful rowing, they had managed to avoid a repeat of the earlier event, which was something of a small miracle. So often was Christine sick that it was hard to believe that the vicomte had not become aware of the situation. But, Christine had sworn, she'd been extra careful at home and had not even so much as a close call. The frequence and violence of her illness was concerning for another reason, as well. Erik had no idea what was normal for a healthy pregnancy, but the thought that there might be anything at all abnormal about Christine's pregnancy, well, he simply could not think on it.

Which wasn't too difficult given the fact that he tried not to think about her condition at all.

Aside from that touch of possessive, virile pride which he reveled in on occasion, Erik found that it was much better if he simply pretended it wasn't happening. Because if it were happening, he would have to think about the answer to Christine's question of "And then what?" and there was no answer that didn't make Erik's stomach turn and palms sweat. And in the end, it was rather foolish to get so worked up about something which very well, given the commonness of miscarried pregnancies coupled with the added factor of Erik's dubiously viable heredity, might not end up happening at all.

Sensing his preference, Christine did her part by not speaking on the subject unless directly asked, which, actually, had yet to happen, and hopefully never would. Instead, her illness was treated as just that: an illness. Erik helped her tend to her symptoms and did what he could to make her comfortable, and tried to endure this temporary state that would, god willing, be short lived and nothing but a small bump in the road towards Christine's true destiny.

"You see, Christine?" Erik said once they'd reached the gate, putting away his pocket watch with a demonstrative sigh. Even rowing as slowly as he could and waiting as she took a short break after each flight of stairs, there were only so many extra minutes to be dragged out of the journey. "We still have almost a half hour to wait. And it's freezing up here."

The cold was bitter, nipping at the skin and seeping into the bones, despite layers of wool and leather. Erik glanced through the gate; it was a deep winter night, with a black sky lit only by streetlights. A few pedestrians straggled along, bundled under their coats, clouds of their misted breath lingering in the frigid air—but no vicomte.

"You can wait, I'm leaving," Christine sniffed, and she pushed past him to fumble at the gate's latch with clearly numb fingers.

"Don't be ridiculous, you can't go walking out there alone at this time of night, in this weather. And what do you even think you're going to do? Ask after him at every establishment in the area that serves alcohol?"

"Raoul doesn't drink anymore, for your information," Christine shot back over her shoulder, scowling. "Anyway, you're one to talk. I don't think I've ever seen you consume anything that wasn't poured out of a bottle."

"Is that so?" Erik replied archly, and was just about to remind her that, on the contrary, she had quite frequently witnessed him gorging himself between her thighs—when he was halted by the sound of her muffled tears.

"What's wrong?" he asked, his petulance extinguished by genuine concern.

"I'm just tired, and frustrated. And— And… " She bit her lip and swiped at her eyes with a gloved hand. "And I am really very cold. And I'm sorry, I shouldn't have insisted we leave."

"Oh, my dear, come here," Erik said, opening his cloak to her.

Wrapped securely in the heavy velvet and wool, Christine melted against him, slipping her arms around his waist, and sighed.

Erik lowered his face into the hair elaborately twisted and pinned on the top of her head and breathed her in. Nothing felt better than the feeling of his Christine pressed against him, sharing her heat, breathing her scent, the solid weight of her in his arms an anchor, keeping him tethered to a life otherwise not worth living.

For several minutes they remained like that, his little angel tucked under his wing. But then, beneath his cloak, beneath his overcoat and jacket, Christine's small hands slid, under the bottom hem of his waistcoat and then up, until there was only a couple thin layers of linen between his lower back and her heated palm, and stroked him there in a way that did not feel the least bit angelic.

There was no way to help it; his desire swelled needily between them.

With a slight shift of his feet on the ice-gritted stone, gently, he pushed in closer, craving even just a taste of friction; unintentionally, he groaned with pleasure when he found it against her corseted waist.

"Now you're really making me regret leaving so soon," Christine laughed.

Erik groaned again, this time in delicious frustration. "Not as much as I am, I guarantee."

Her coquettish laugh did nothing at all to cool the heat pulsing heavy between his legs. Nor did the teasing tripping of her fingertips up his chest to hook over his shoulders. She raised to her tiptoes, her parted lips brushing against his burning ear as she whispered, "You think so?"

Shamefully, yet predictably, one of Erik's first thoughts upon learning of the doctor's confirmation was the horrified realization that Christine might put an end to the physical part of their relationship. It was a reasonable concern; there would be no way of rationalizing continued attempts at conception now that the thing was apparently, unfortunately done. To do so would mean an out-and-out betrayal of her husband, worse even than a little lie here and there.

And so Erik had tamped down his desire through a combination of great force of will and the even greater fear of humiliation, for nothing could be worse than making the first move only to be met with confusion, followed by horror, followed by apology. No, it simply had to be her decision, an active choice, an indisputable indication that she wanted him, and would not give him up, no matter what, not even if it meant a clear, intentional betrayal of her husband. He conducted her music lessons with an air of cool authority, kept his hands to himself as much as possible, and thought through each and every word and action to ensure it did not convey the merest glimmer of expectation. And silently he waited, and he hoped—and begged and bargained and prayed—for Christine to initiate.

And initiate she did. And continued to, often and with such neediness that Erik felt silly for ever worrying she was through with him.

And now, huddled together in the cold just inside the Rue Scribe gate, waiting for that extraneous fool, the vicomte, Erik found he was far, far from through with her.

He pulled Christine flush against him. "Do I think so? Hm," he responded to her teasing challenge, happily taking the bait. "I suppose there's only one way to be sure, isn't there?" He ran a hand over her hip and down her thigh, to capture her there, just behind her knee, and hitched her leg up so that it hooked over his hip, rucking up her skirts as he went. A tantalizing view of her stockinged ankle and curving calf wet his mouth as he brought his hand up to pull the leather glove off with his teeth. Before it even hit the ground, that hand was back on her, under her skirts, between their shivering bodies, sliding up her inner thigh, finding the opening of her underthings, and god—dear god—the slickness which met his fingers had him groaning and whimpering in turns—and Christine laughing at his buckling knees.

"See," she said, teasingly, "I told—" but then Erik began working his fingers into that inviting heat, and her words left her with a gasp.

No matter how many times he'd experienced it, finding Christine so aroused by him—him!—never ceased to be anything other than miraculous. A man like him was made to be tolerated, at best—not desired. He'd always imagined, when he allowed himself to imagine it, that the most he could ever hope for was a woman who would allow him to satisfy his basest physical needs upon her body without wincing away from his touch, without closing her eyes to the sight of him, and yet here was Christine Daaé, clinging to him, asking—no, pleading—for more of his touch with the canting of her hips, heavy-lidded eyes fixed firmly onto his as she fisted her hands into his cloak and pulled him even closer.

"I don't know what I was thinking," she half-whined into Erik's neck. "How will I ever make it until next time?"

And just like that, a thought, an idea—a vindictive need—took hold of him, something which would be an exhilaratingly brazen feather in his cap, so Erik dropped his mouth to Christine's ear and whispered, teasingly—yet not teasing at all—"Ah, but who says you must wait?"

Immediately, she froze, and her eyes widened, shining in the dark. "Erik, we can't! He's going to be here soon and—and—"

And there was one particular thing Erik had learned to do with his thumb, something Christine was especially fond of, a certain rolling twist with just the right amount of pressure, which he employed now, slowly yet effectively.

"And…?" he prompted

"Oh…" Even in the dark Erik could see the hot, rosy flush spread across her face. "I…" Her eyes drifted shut.

A half-dozen careful strokes later and Christine had gone limp in his arms. "There you are," he said, his voice rumbling in his—yes, rather puffed up—chest, beneath her cheek. "Let me take care of you—just you. There's time. I can make it quick."

Yes, Erik could make it quick—but he wouldn't.

He guided her toward the wall, within earshot of the gate, but not within sight, and removed his cloak, draping it over her shoulders, to protect the pale wool of her cape from the damp, mossy stone. She slipped her arms around his neck as he positioned himself with knees bent and feet braced, one hand on her waist and the other back under her skirts and beneath undergarments, slowly trailing up her inner thigh. Once again she was his, ready for his touch, her body an instrument, and he, its master.

With a confident hand, Erik drew pleasure from Christine just as he'd drawn sound from his violin—with slow, smooth legato strokes, rhythmic pulses of portato, swirling arpeggio embellishments, and rapid bursts of toe-curling tremolo. He kept her body taut and thrumming, yet light and weightless, floating on a cloud of pleasure, high enough that she would no longer take note of their surroundings and situation, while never letting the tension reach a peak. Not yet.

Because this was an opportunity that Erik would not miss.

When he chose to pay attention to such a thing, Erik could have a very good awareness of time, related as it was to tempo. And now he ticked off the minutes, his smug satisfaction increasing with each one. He kept her drifting in a state of physical intoxication, waiting, listening. And even though his ears were much older than Christine's, they were still much sharper, so it was at the very first footfall halfway down the sidewalk, long before she would notice, that Erik began to roll his hips tantalizingly against her, while slowing the stroke of his fingers to a deliberately frustrating pace.

She groaned, and Erik smiled.

Just as her hands began to scrabble down his arms, his hips, urging more speed, more friction—more of him—a sound: a scuff of a shoe, the soft clearing of a throat.

"Christine?" the boy's voice called, softly at first, then louder. "Are you there?" Christine went rigid with panic—which was Erik's cue to resume that useful trick with his thumb.

"Oh god," she gasped before melting into his arms. Prepared, Erik caught and held her tightly, angling his hips so she could feel the enticing pulse of him at her thigh. "We have to stop," she whispered, and in the dark, her eyes were glittering with a certain amount of fear, yes—but with an even larger amount of need.

"But you don't want to, do you?" Erik asked, with a subtle twist of his wrist; a ragged exhale was her only reply. He lowered the unmasked side of his face, letting his lips brush against the burning edge of her ear. "You're so close—almost there, my dear, just a moment more. You can be quiet, can't you? He'll never know."

Her protestations could not even be called half-hearted; they'd hardly started forming on her full, parted lips before they dissolved into deep, gasping breaths. She grasped him by the shoulders and pulled him to her urgently.

Within moments, Erik had her tensing again, her nails digging into the straining muscle of his shoulders, delectably painful even through her kidskin gloves and his layers of wool, deeply enough that he might be able to admire the sight of them on his bare skin later on. The press of her leg hooked around his hip grew stronger and more insistent as Erik continued masterfully winding her up, tighter and tighter, almost to breaking—almost—so close. Torturously close.

For him as well; he throbbed miserably within his trousers.

He dipped his head to where her neck curved into shoulder, and inhaled the heady mixture of perspiration and perfume rising from her heated skin, then sampled the sweet taste of it with his lips and tongue. When he moaned against her skin, her panting breaths quickened, sharpened, taking on the hard edge of a whine.

"Christine!" The whisper was much harsher now, equal parts concerned and irritated. "Are you all right? Do you need help?"

"No, Raoul!" she cried out, doing an impressive job of keeping her voice steady. "I'm—I dropped my hat, and it's—it's very dark. I'll be just a moment, I'm fine, I'm coming!"

"I should say so," Erik chuckled, low and dark, then groaned as Christine's hands slid down to press at his lower back.

As many times as Erik had been certain he'd never been harder in his life, this time, at this moment, not one of those times could compare. Who knew that spiteful semi-public indecency was such an aphrodisiac? Grinding against her hip had at first brought some relief, but now frustration overwhelmed the small pleasure that friction provided. He felt nearly lightheaded from lust, his erection almost painful, begging to be released, to be buried deep in her tight, welcoming heat—but Erik would not beg. This time, Christine had to be the one to want it most.

Let her beg.

Out on the street, the footsteps shuffled and paced. Again Erik slowed the work of his fingers, reduced the pressure, until Christine began to writhe beneath him in obvious agony. She slipped a hand between them to palm him through his trousers, shuddering as she closed her fingers around his length. His name slipped from her lips on a whimpering exhale; Erik knew the sound well enough now to recognize the needy desire of it. The desire for the fullness only he could give her, the desperate need for completeness—for only together were they truly complete.

Erik could keep his voice quiet, so quiet. "What do you want, Christine?" he prodded, gently. "What do you need?"

Faint light glinted off her eyes as they darted toward the gate, then back up at Erik, pleading—begging not to have to put her desires into words.

Christine was a good girl, Erik knew that. She didn't want to hurt that boy.

But Erik had no such compunctions.

To say the least.

"Tell me. Say it," he insisted, slipping just one finger within her—deep, deeper, and then withdrawing. Teasing, tempting. "What do you want? Who do you want?"

Her mouth fell open, wordless. She was torn. It was one thing to silently accept, another altogether to ask; one a sin of omission, the other, well, just a sin. Erik understood the difference; it was that distinction which scorched the blood pumping through his veins.

Erik didn't need to be accepted, he needed to be chosen. And not simply as an "also", or "in addition to." He needed to possess Christine entirely, and he needed her to want nothing and no one but him. After all they'd been through and all he had given her, was it really so much to ask? And perhaps she wasn't quite ready to take that leap—though she was close, so close—but now, at this moment she could at least admit, in words, what they both knew she desired.

Who she desired.

And oftentimes, a person might not truly realize how much they need something until it's gone.

"You're right," he said just under his breath, slipping his hand from under her skirts and releasing his hold on her leg. "This is wrong. We can wait. It's best if you head on home, I'm sure you'll find a few minutes to sneak away to your bathroom and see to your—"

"You!" Christine gasped, throwing her arms around his neck, to Erik's immense satisfaction, but not to his surprise. There was nothing that could compete with the depth of Christine's need for Erik and all that he could give her. She would not give him up, not now, not for the night—not ever. Her eyes burned in the darkness as she clung to him desperately. "I want you, Erik, I need you to—oh!"

It would have been nice to let her finish that thought, to hear her say exactly what it was she needed, but time was of the essence—and so Erik simply gave it to her. The moment she'd started speaking, he'd begun tearing at the fastenings of his trousers and shoving them down his hips, pushing her back up against the wall, and hooking her leg around him, so that before she had reached the end of her frantic plea, he'd already entered her, fully, with one easy stroke.

The relief was immediate, yet still not enough. Urgently he claimed her, spurred on by the soft gasps which escaped from her with each deep, thudding thrust. With one arm wound around his neck, she held fast to him, and clamped her free hand over her mouth. Yet how Erik wished she would let that hand drop, and set free those beautiful sounds she attempted to stifle.

Let the boy hear. Let him know. Let him be dumbfounded by sounds he'd never even imagined his wife could make. Let him understand how much Christine wanted—needed—Erik. Let that stupid boy know that he could never be enough for her.

It would be fair payback, actually, for that night on the rooftop.

In truth, nothing could repay in kind what Erik had experienced the night of Il Muto—the humiliation of Christine's fear and disgust as she spoke of her fallen Angel, the sickening words of love and devotion she'd bestowed upon the boy, the despair and the pain, the blind rage. Nothing could adequately settle that score.

But it would be a start.

However, Erik was smug, not stupid; he had no desire to actually get caught. This secret satisfaction had been enough—for now. And so he adjusted the angle of his hips and brought his hand between them, just above their connection. No longer teasing, his fingers drove her steadily toward her peak. He held her heavy-lidded gaze as he filled her again and again, his heart swelling from the beauty of her flushed cheeks, her falling curls, her trembling fingers pressed over her mouth.

Mine, he thought, in time with each wild beat of his heart. Mine, mine—mine.

Again he adjusted his hips, pushing in, somehow, even deeper—and he groaned, he could not help it. Christine clawed at his neck, scrabbling to pull him closer, her leg wrapping around him, urging him on.

And as that foolish, useless boy huffed and paced and cleared his throat again and again, Erik noticed Christine's eyes squeezing shut, saw her hand pressing over her mouth, harder and harder—heard her pulling shallow breaths through her nose, faster and faster—felt her body clenching around him, tighter and tighter—and then, just as Erik himself began to teeter at the very edge of release, Christine flung her hand from her mouth and clutched at his shoulders, and pressed her face into his chest with a muffled cry.

Quivering, she collapsed against him. The sweet sound of her rapture still ringing in his ears was all the satisfaction Erik needed, yet the continued pulse of her around him was driving him nearly mad with the need for his own release.

Scooping her up under both legs, he braced her against the wall and drove into her, feverishly.

Within moments her slack limbs came back to life, her arms winding about his shoulders, her legs wrapping around his hips, pulling him in. He slid one hand between the hard stone wall and her head, cradling it, tangling his fingers in her hair, and buried the bare side of his face in her neck. Mine—mine—mine, he repeated soundlessly, dragging his lips and teeth down her throat and across her heaving breasts. Mine.

"Christine!" the boy hissed. "Whatever's taking so long, I don't like it one bit! Just leave the damned hat and get out here!" The rap of a walking stick on the pavement conveyed irritation, but his voice wavered with unmistakable fear.

Honestly, that alone could have driven Erik over the edge—but it was the gentle press of Christine's lips to his jaw just then that at last wrenched his release from him, in a blinding moment of unparalleled ecstasy. He filled her deeply.

Hunched over and panting into her shoulder, Erik allowed himself just a moment to catch his breath before he withdrew and set Christine down. His cloak dropped from her shoulders onto the ground and puddled at her feet as she scrambled to stand, shaking out and smoothing her skirts with frantic hands, eyes shyly downcast, and brushed away the sweat-damp curls from her flushed, glowing face. All in all, she quickly managed to make herself presentable enough—except, Erik noted with immense gratification, there was no mistaking the cause of that glow.

But then again, the vicomte wasn't really familiar with that, was he?

Christine tucked one last curl into place and glanced up at Erik, her eyes filled with all the words she could not say—yet Erik could hear all the same: words of bashful gratitude, of devotion, of regret that she must leave. She held out her arms to him for a farewell embrace, and as she stepped toward him, her boot tangled in the cloak, sending her stumbling forward. Erik caught her easily before she fell—though not before she'd let out a sharp cry of surprise.

"Christine!" shouted the boy, and the gate creaked and rattled as it was shaken on its hinges. "What on earth is going on in there? I'm coming in!"

"No, Raoul!" she called back, disentangling herself from Erik's arms and rushing off toward the gate. "Here I am!"

And then Christine cast one last glance over her shoulder and slipped through to the outside world.

And for once, Erik didn't really mind. The boy could spirit her home with every one of his fine horses, and spend with her all the nights and mornings which remained to him—which weren't many. Erik could endure it. He was close—so close—to getting everything he wanted.

And so too was Christine. Of course.

Erik's blissful mood lasted the rest of the night.

As he poured a glass of wine and sat down at the organ, he dreamily wondered if Christine was feeling the same way.

He wondered if she thought about him now—remembering how it felt to have him beside her, and inside her—while lying in bed next to her 'husband'. He wondered how much more it would take for him to finally get her to listen to her heart and her soul, and leave that 'husband' once and for all.

But mostly, he wondered if the stupid boy would ever realize that Christine hadn't even worn a hat.

Helllllloooo! Back again, this time with a semi-gratuitous sex scene, because I needed a treat.

Up next: Christine takes a week off, and Erik is fine.

Thank you to all who have been reading, and for your comments, kudos, and other assorted support! I appreciate every last one of you. 3

And thank you to Aldebaran for your eyes on this. I feel so much better putting this out into the world with The Deb Seal of Approval.