Ch. 8— Settling In
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Christine was exhausted!
After making certain his feet were bathed and dressed, and giving him his shoes, Christine had seen the little cottage scoured from top to bottom, working well through the night.
A détente of sorts had been founded between them since she had bathed and ministered to his feet, and he kept clear of her as she worked; not giving her a word of encouragement, but not telling her to leave either.
In short, he let her do her job.
The cottage was all one level with a master bedroom to the side of the parlor and a smaller bedroom-cum-office off the kitchen. The hallway in between held the bathroom which thankfully had all modern amenities including a claw-foot porcelain tub and shower fixture.
She had discovered hot water and all the electricity ran from a gas-powered generator found near the back of the kitchen. Due to the war, electricity from the city had proved too unreliable, and so, Dr. Khan had thought to outfit the cottage with an electrical generator that would keep the appliances running provided there was petrol in the tank to fuel it.
Not wanting to waste precious fuel, Christine found some oil lamps, and lighting them, began setting the small cottage to rights, using remains of the broken furniture to fuel the small pot-bellied stove and warm the cold cottage.
She carted crates and crates of empty –and some half-filled— liquor bottles to the front door for disposal in the morning, and she set aside the numerous papers she found scattered, vowing to read them at the first available opportunity.
Then a little before midnight, Christine examined the contents of the larder, and discovered them severely wanting: a jar of pickles, a glass of some kind of raw egg concoction, and a moldy-looking wheel of cheese. Dipping into the stores Dr. Khan had urged her to bring, Christine made them Spam sandwiches using some of the canned meat, cheese, and sliced bread she'd brought.
Setting it before him with a glass of water, she was gratified to come back later and find the sandwich and pickle eaten. The water was left untouched. A half-filled bottle of liquor and a nearly empty tumbler lay beside the empty plate, and Mr. D'Anton was laid out on the couch, his drooping mouth open in a slight snore, oblivious to all.
Shaking her head, Christine nabbed the bottle and put it with the others to be taken out and disposed of at first light, and covering him with one of the clean blankets she'd found, left him to his rest.
Finally, around three in the morning, she deemed the cottage habitable enough, and made her way to the small bedroom off to the kitchen that she was going to call her own.
It, too, was filled with clutter and debris, but Christine didn't have the energy or wherewithal to care. Folding back the mattress from where it was stored, she sloppily made up the bed with the clean linens she'd found. And undressing to her chemise and slip, she laid her head down on her pillow and closed her eyes.
A moment later, she was sound asleep.
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Glass bottles smashed and broke, waking her, and jackknifing in bed, Christine scrambled to her feet with a start.
"Mr. D'Anton?!" she yelled, as she threw on her shoes and ran to the source of the noise.
Surely he couldn't have fallen on the glass! She had made sure the crates were tucked well behind the front door, out of the way of the main thoroughfare. What if he was rifling through the trash, looking for his liquor? Christine's heart sped up as she turned the corner to the foyer and came to a dead stop.
An intruder stood beside the door.
Thinking fast, she grabbed a sharp-tipped umbrella from the stand beside her and brandished it at the thief. "Who are you, and what are you doing here?!"
The man's eyes widened in shock as he looked her up and down, and he backed up a step towards the door, the crate he was carrying off his only defense against Christine and her pointy weapon. The man looked scruffy in his faded cap, jacket, and weathered dungarees. And he quickly averted his eyes from hers in a very suspicious manner.
Christine backed up a step, not liking this new turn of events at all. "Stay back! I swear to God if you come any closer—" She took another step back and bumped flush against Mr. D'Anton's chest.
"Ms. Daae? What is the meaning of this?"He caught her at the shoulders and ran his hands along her arms until he felt her hands and the umbrella she wielded in front of her as a weapon.
"Beggin' yer pardon ma'am, Mr. Erik, sir." She immediately felt Mr. D'Anton's posture relax as the intruder spoke. "I jes' come along with the things you requested for the week 's all, sir."
"Ah. At ease Ms. Daae; the man you are threatening to thrash with that umbrella is my valet. Andre, I would like you to meet the new housekeeper and security expert for the E.C., Mademoiselle Daae."
"G'mornin' ma'am. I'm jus' a bringin' Mr. Erik's weekly supplies like he toll me." Christine watched as the man put down the crate he was carrying and doffed his hat to her, giving her an odd look. "Sorry to have awoken ye, but I wasn't spectin' a pile a' crates and sech by the door when I come… ya see, I have a key." He held up the shiny, metal key for her inspection.
Nodding, Christine lowered the umbrella she held, and as she did so, realized Mr. D'Anton's arms were still around her, gripping her hands. And she also realized he was bare-chested and dripping from having been interrupted in the bath. And it was late morning… and she was dressed only in her chemise and slip in front of this strange man…Oh, what he must be thinking!
Blushing crimson, she quickly stepped away from both men and focused her eyes demurely on the floor.
However, in her periphery, she couldn't help but notice Mr. D'Anton was completely nude as he stood there in the hallway.
"Where are your clothes?!" she blurted out, scandalized; instantly looking up at the ceiling for she was now mortified to look anywhere else.
Mr. D'Anton looked to where her voice had come and said wryly, "I was looking for another of your jackets, my dear nurse, for I couldn't find a towel. Andre, please unload the crate in the liquor cabinet and help cart away the mess in the foyer. Also, hausfrau Daae might have one or two tasks for you to complete around here if you're amenable? The dear hausfrau will make it worth your while, I assure you."
So saying, naked and absolutely unashamed, the scarred and blind man turned and with a slight limp, walked bold as brass back through the hallway to the bathroom, closing the door as Christine's cheeks burned red.
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Erik closed his sightless eyes as he settled back into the warm water. It had been longer than he cared to admit since he'd taken the time to bathe, let alone luxuriate in the tub.
He'd had to run the water twice in order to get rid of the stench, but he did, washing and rinsing himself thoroughly, feeling the uneven stubble on his mangled face and the long, lanky hair falling down past his nape.
Something would need to be done about that and soon. He hated being anything but clean-shaven, and with the scars and long hair, he imagined he looked like an aborigine come fresh from the wilds. But that was for later.
For now, he could lie back and remember.
Oh, his proper little nurse and her scandalized tone!
How he would've loved to have seen her expression when she realized he was naked! An image of Ms. Daae came to Erik's mind.
While in the hospital, he had often thought about what she looked like.
From previous encounters with her, he knew she was small-proportioned—perhaps five foot one if she was an inch.
He imagined her hair to be curly, framing a sweetheart confection of a face with a pointed, stubborn chin. She would have beautiful blond hair, as favoring most Swedes, and eyes that were the purest sapphire blue, perhaps green?... …no, blue. Remembering her pressed against him, held in his arms as she trembled, holding that ridiculous umbrella, Erik took his fantasy a bit further, also recalling her gentle touch as she ministered to his feet.
Taking himself in hand, he slowly began to move up and down as he thought of the little nurse and her bewitching voice. God, but he would love to hear her laugh! He just bet it was a husky, sultry sigh of a thing, elegant and just a tinge naughty. And her smell! Good God, her smell drove him to the brink! Sunshine, springtime, and lavender soap—something so simple, and yet, it set his loins afire. He inhaled deeply, and he could just detect the faintest note of her scent in the air.
His hand moved faster as he recalled how she fit so petitely in his arms, wielding that ridiculous umbrella. His bare chest had brushed against her back, and it had been silk-clad… she had just been dressed in her chemise then. Her chemise, slip and perhaps… nothing else?
Erik groaned as he pictured his hands encircling her waist, cradling her as he ground against her in a lover's embrace. He twitched in his hand on the upstroke, coming close to the brink—
"Mr. D'Anton?"
Erik came with a silent groan to her voice calling his name, hanging his head and mutely gasping out his release.
"Mr. D'Anton, sir, are you alright?"
Attempting to regain a modicum of his dignity, Erik answered more curtly than he intended, "What is it, girl?"
"I-I just wanted to let you know there's a clean towel and change of clothes at the base of the door, sir. That's all."
Not trusting himself to speak further, he heard her retreating footsteps, and drew a shaky breath. She had almost caught him at it! He laughed to himself, feeling strangely lighthearted.
How long had it been since he'd taken the time to pleasure himself? Meetings with Carlotta had been few and far between towards the end of the fighting in Paris, and dammit, Erik was a red-blooded, man in his prime, used to receiving his fair share of sexual overtures and advances. He never once strayed from his fiancé, that was for certain, but he was used to the act of sex—used to the rote movements and then release of it all. And he was pleased, pleased that even feeling as low as he felt in his broken, battered condition, he could still summon the spirit to give himself a helping hand.
Perhaps having little Nurse Daae around wasn't going to be so bad after all.
No…not bad at all.
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"Where the hell are they?!"
Christine turned from the dough she was kneading to face Mr. D'Anton.
She had wondered when this would happen—when he would realize that all of his bottles—his caches of liquor were gone. She had also given Andre strict instructions—and a large bribe from the money Dr. Khan had given her—never to carry bottles of liquor into the house again.
As she observed him, she noticed Mr. D'Anton looked better after his bath, more relaxed and less wild-looking… though she still needed to tend to his face. The stitches needed to be removed and antibiotic ointment applied. In the unburned, unscarred places, hair still continued to grow, and he was looking quite seedy with his hair falling almost to his nape. She bit her lip and took a step back as she read his expression.
It was murderous.
"Ms. Daae, I will not ask you again. Where. Are. They?"
Wiping her hands on her apron, Christine turned her back on him to check the progress of the loaf she had baking in the oven; it only lacked a few minutes more before it would be done, already the edges were starting to crisp.
She turned around to find him upon her. He had moved as silently as a cat, and she was now pinned between him and the closed oven door.
She gulped. "Mr. D'Anton, I need to know to what you are referring." She was proud her voice only shook the slightest bit.
He lowered his face until it was inches from her own; his honey-hued eyes staring sightless daggers at her. "I am referring, Ms. Daae, to the fresh supply of liquor that was supposed to be placed in the sideboard but now stands empty." He took a menacing step towards her, and Christine took another step back, her legs meeting the hot oven door. She winced, a hiss of pain escaping her lips. "Tell me where they are, Nurse Daae. NOW!"
Strangely, Christine felt herself complying to his command, even as she tried to bite back the words, "I threw them all out. I also told Andre they were no longer necessary and paid him not to bring any more to the cottage."
"YOU WHAT?!" he roared in her face, and Christine took another involuntary step back, preferring blistered calves to the certain doom his expression assured would be hers.
"Go fetch them from the trash," Mr. D'Anton ordered lowly. "NOW!"
Even as she told herself not to, even as she was chiding herself, asking herself why she was doing it, she was already there, rooting through the trash until she'd found all the bottles of liquor she'd thrown out—even the ones with only a swallow or two remaining, and two by two, Christine carried them back into the house and began to restock the sideboard with them.
She looked up to find Mr. D'Anton waiting for her there, and she saw his hand shake as he gropingly reached for one of the bottles she'd just sat down.
Christine turned away as she heard him drink.
Why?! Why did she do it? She had told herself she was not going to tolerate any kind of alcohol in this house, so why did she go back on her word.
"You no doubt are wondering how I did that, Nurse Daae; made you do something so completely against your will." She turned back around to face him and watched as he groped for one of the glass tumblers and poured himself a measure of alcohol, using his finger to gauge distance. "Please, for the conversation we are about to have, I insist you have a seat."
Christine was seated in the chair across from him before she even knew it. She watched as he felt along the edge of the other chair until he was seated facing her.
His posture was relaxed, friendly now, his expression calm as he spoke, "Some might call it a talent, others might call it a devil's gift, but regardless of that fact, Ms. Daae, I have the ability to entrance and enthrall those of weaker intellects with the power of my voice." He smiled a lop-sided, cynical grin and took another sip from the tumbler he held, saluting her jauntily with it. "I was born with this gift and have used it quite effectively over the years to get what I want when I want it. My poor, dear mother, God rest her soul, was beside herself with such a child as me, but I digress. I want you to repeat after me: I, Christine Daae," Christine felt herself repeating his words even as she was urging herself to stop, "vow never to touch another bottle of liquor in this cottage so long as I reside here under its roof." She repeated his words verbatim, and he snapped his fingers.
Christine blinked, coming out of the trance he'd had her under. "Do you understand, Ms. Daae?"
Blushing, Christine rose quickly from the chair and turned her back on him. "I asked you if you understood, girl. And I most certainly did not dismiss you. Sit. Back. down."
She was seated before him again before she registered the thought.
He reached out, and groping, touched her leg; she jerked away, and he smiled again, that bitter, cynical smile. "Just making certain you were following orders, Nurse Daae. That's all." He sat up, and twirled his fingers over the tumbler he held. "Now, knowing what you know about me and my peculiar gift, I will ask you honestly, do want to leave? My offer still stands. I will pay you double what Nadir quoted you for leaving me to my own devices and going back to the little hell-hole of a hospital whence you came."
Christine inhaled sharply, the smell of burning bread teasing her nostrils. "Sir? I need to see to the brea—"
"You need to answer my question, Nurse Daae! Do you want to return? Yes or no?"
She grit her jaw as the answer was wrested from her, "No."
He smiled again his cynical, lopsided grin, the right side of his face unmoving. "A glutton for punishment are you, my girl? Well, you'll get no sympathy from me. Now get in there and see to your bread. It's filling the house with its stink."
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A/N: A note for clarification: In case you haven't noticed, my readers, when Erik tells Christine to do something, and speaks in 'Italics', he is using his Angel's voice to force her compliance. If he tells her in BOLD ANGRY ITALIC CAPS as well as bold italic font… then he's using his voice as well as his anger to direct her.
Although I'm certain Christine is a dab hand at baking, I've never baked a loaf of bread in my life, dear reader. *the authoress looks around and cringes at the piles and piles of take-out boxes stacked in her kitchen* And as such, credit for the bread-making portion of this fic goes solely to FP33 who pointed out a few inconsistencies that had this authoress perplexed. You're amazing, lady!
Well, what did you think of the entrance of M. Andre, Erik's valet? Erik's private errm… moment in the bath? Did he overreact, you think, to Christine's new policy concerning alcohol? And what of his vocal gift? Now that Christine is aware he holds such power over her…I wonder what will happen…. will it be enough, you think, to send our little nurse running for the hills?
Please leave a review to let me know what you think. :D
More soon, dear readers. Keep watch,
PFP