Ch. 15— The Lion and The Mouse

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She left the room; he heard her go.

And then he heard her in the kitchen washing dishes, making breakfast, doing exactly as she said she would do.

And that was the moment Erik knew he had met his match.

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Christine turned from wiping down the countertop to find Mr. D'Anton seated in a chair at the kitchen table with his arms crossed and his expression one of long-suffering resignation.

Her eyes widened. Did that mean…? Was he going to let her care for his—?!

"Come, come, my dear nurse. I may be blind, but I can practically hear your thoughts. Yes, I am agreeing to let you tend my face. However," he held up a forestalling hand, "you better believe I'm going to make you pay dearly for this, my girl, very dearly indeed." His smile was predatory, his teeth agleam. "Perhaps with another score or two…" His expression said he was only half-way teasing.

Not the least bit intimidated, Christine beamed as she set about gathering ointment, tweezers, surgical scissors, soap, and a bowl-full of warm water. Meanwhile, her charge sat in a chair with his head tilted to the side, his eyes blankly staring, following her as she bustled about.

Christine took note of his apprehension. It was in the stiffness of his bearing, his shoulders and neck; the fact that his jaw was clenched tight. The best thing she could do for him would be to get the worst part over with as quickly as possible.

With everything assembled on the table beside them, she stepped behind him and lifted her hand to his shoulder, saying soothingly, "Alright, sir. Are you ready to begin?"

Jumping slightly at her touch, Mr. D'Anton nodded tightly and tilting his head back, closed his eyes.

Soaking a cloth in warm water, Christine began to gently moisten his face, and thinking that she needed to distract him, she asked, "You call me 'little mouse' a lot, sir. Is there a specific reason for it, or do you honestly find me to be a small, bothersome pest?"

His answering smile was cryptic at best. "You're asking me this question now, Ms. Daae? You really are a masochist, aren't you?"

Christine blushed and pursed her lips together, concentrating on her task, and not on her disastrous foray into idle chatter. She was never any good at it anyway. It was far better if she stuck to what she knew which was tending her patients and keeping her silenc—"Are you at all familiar, my dear, with the fable of the 'Lion and the Mouse'?" Mr. D'Anton asked interrupting her thoughts.

Eager to keep the conversation going, she answered him readily, "I'm afraid I've not yet had the pleasure," She grabbed the soap and began building lather in her hands.

He cocked his head to the side curiously. "Hmm, you are a young woman well-versed in Latin but sorely lacking knowledge of Aesop's fables?"

As she began to work the lather into his abraded skin, Christine winced in sympathy as she saw him grit his jaw at the first sting of soap. She looked down; his hands were clenched tightly into fists at his lap.

Muttering softly, again trying to distract him, she said, "That would require having had someone around to relate them or books to read about them, sir." At his perplexed expression, she felt compelled to explain further, "Though a gifted orator, my father disliked anything approaching fiction. And novels, fables, and fairytales were all a part of that." She rinsed the soap away as quickly as she could. "You see, Professor Augustine Daae dwelt firmly in the realm of fact."

"And your mother?" Mr. D'Anton ground through clenched teeth as Christine began purging a pocket of infection clear. Oh, but she was causing him so much pain!

Biting her lip, she answered him, "My mother was an opera singer, sir." She heard him give a small groan as she bathed the area in rubbing alcohol. Quickly, she blew over the area in order to take away the sting.

He squeezed his eyes shut tight, and she noticed they were watering at the corners. "Tell me about her," he demanded, a bit desperately. Christine swabbed at the corners of his eyes with her thumbs, wiping away the tracks of his tears. Thankfully, the most painful part was over; all she had to do now was remove his stitches and apply soothing antibiotic ointment.

And then they'd be done.

"Errm, there's not much to tell, really." She grimaced, knowing her comment sounded at best impersonal, and at worst, like she thought he was prying. "I barely remember my mother," she explained, a wistful note seep into her voice. "She was lead soprano for the Royal Swedish Opera, and a renowned beauty. She and my father met while he was still a student at University giving violin and voice lessons at the opera 'for a song' he liked to say."

Christine did not tell him that her mother was the one person she'd always tried to emulate, and the memory of her had been corrupted and used countless times in myriad ways by her father to reinforce the fact that she would always be found wanting.

Swallowing thickly, she informed him, "My mother died when I was five."

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Erik heard the grief in her voice, and he gave a sad, crooked smile. For being a child of music, the picture Ms. Daae painted of her youth was bleak.

He had listened to her tone as she related details about her life to him; bare facts with no embellishments and no additions. The stark, plainspoken way she spoke of her parents fit in so well with the information he'd already gathered from observing his little mouse thus far.

Her father had abhorred fiction, and yet, he was a musician; a musician lacking creativity—a professor who was a critic. Why did that thought niggle at him so? He heard a snip and then felt a gentle tug in his cheek as one of the remaining stitches was removed. Again, he attempted to distract himself, and more importantly, find out more about her. "So why nursing, Ms. Daae?"

"Why not, sir?" she countered, giving the scissors another snip as another stitch was deftly removed. "I nursed my father when he was ill, and I found the profession suited my limited abilities."

Erik was dumbfounded. "Limited abilities?" There was disbelief in his voice.

"Yes, sir," she answered him with certainty as he heard another snip. "You see, my father told me I could be one of three things when I grew up: a nurse, a teacher, or a secretary."

What about world-renowned Prima Donna? Erik thought. How could her father have missed the jewel that was right under his nose? Erik's opinion of the man plummeted with these solemnly voiced words of hers.

She continued, "When he fell ill, and I had to take care of him, I realized I had an aptitude for nursing, so that's what I chose to become," Erik could practically hear the shrug in her voice, "or at least, I will be someday when I finish my schooling." He felt another snip and tug, but his mind was far from such mundane matters now.

How he would have dearly loved to meet the music critic for himself.

Perhaps Nadir had taken care of him during his decline and could shed some light on the bastard's treatment of his daughter. Another few snips, and he felt the fiery burn of rubbing alcohol purifying the site where his stitches formerly were.

And then he felt her sweet breath was once more blowing across his cheek, easing the ache, taking away the sting. Erik's heart cinched. It was such a small thing she did, and yet so precious, so very dear.

As she began to apply the soothing ointment for his burns and scars, he posed the question he was going to ask next very carefully, "And music, Ms. Daae? Did you ever give a thought to pursuing a career in music?"

Her hands stilled upon his face, and Erik focused on them, cursing his thickened, scarred flesh for his inability to truly feel it. He raised his hands and grasped hers, and just as he suspected, hers were trembling.

"I—" she faltered.

For the thousandth time, he cursed his inability to see. If he could only read her expression, Erik would know what she was thinking. Keep her talking and focus on her tone, he told himself.

"You what, my dear?" he asked, posing the question as gently as he could, stroking the soft inner flesh of her palms with his thumbs, praying she would continue.

"Music was my father's life," she explained solemnly, "it consumed him. Everything I know of music is because of him." Something in her tone alerted him that this was no fond remembrance or credit to the man she called 'father'.

The girl disliked music… disliked her knowledge of it. Did she dislike her father as well? Erik wondered.

Slowly sitting up, he took her hands in his and drew her until she was standing beside his chair instead of behind him as she had been when caring for his face. Tentatively, he asked, "Tell me, Ms. Daae. Why have you turned your back on the gifts you've been given?"

"I—" He heard a catch in her voice and knew he was on the right track. Not too forceful, not too prying. Just casual interest—perhaps a little more so than casual but that was alright. He had heard her sing after all; he knew the extent of her ability.

Erik refused to consider the notion that she did not know its value, that she was not aware she possessed such talent; such a travesty could not be borne!

Gently, oh so gently, he pulled her down until she was seated sideways on his lap, until he could wrap his arms around her and hold her tightly to him. Her small frame was strung taut with nervous energy, but he did not think he was the cause. Clutching her to him with one hand, Erik felt for one of her hands with the other and held it, massaging until her clenched fist relaxed. He entreated softly, "Tell me, my dear, why is it you've never pursued music?"

Her entire body shuddered at his softly voiced question, and it was as if something within her snapped. She went pliant in his arms, like a puppet whose strings were cut, and he had to scramble to keep her from sliding to the floor as her small, dear head rested against his chest.

She began to speak, and her voice sounded distant, as if she were speaking of someone else, "I've told you I attended college, and though that's true, I never received any kind of degree. While at University, I took all sorts of classes: history, science, higher level mathematics. Anything that was concrete and fact-based. Those were the only classes I was allowed to take, the only ones for which my father would approve.

"I was the only student my age taking such advanced music theory courses. And it wasn't because I was especially gifted or talented in the subject; quite the opposite actually. It was expected of me. Required. What you are having me do—your transcriptions—these are child's play compared to the types of exercises I had to do every single day growing up in my father's house, and my father, sir, was a more demanding critic than you could ever be.

"And he taught me well. I know music," her beautiful voice tinged with bitterness, "I know it backwards and forwards. You can extemporize a song, and I can sing it back note for perfect note because this is how my father taught me to appreciate music. However, the perfectly sung note for him never existed. Every sound, every word I voiced could be improved upon in some way. And how many times did I hear him say, 'Do not speak, Christine, unless you can improve upon the silence.'?

"So… no, I never considered a career in music. Once I grew up, in fact, it never even crossed my mind."

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Christine closed her eyes and basked in the feeling of being held by Mr. D'Anton.

While she was speaking, he'd drawn her to sit on his lap, and she'd gone willingly… well, perhaps a tad unknowingly. Now that she was more aware of where she sat, she probably ought to scramble off him…

But Christine found she couldn't— she just didn't want to.

It was comforting being held by him in such a way, and truth be told, she needed a little comfort at the moment. Perhaps it was selfish of her to stay held in his arms like this, but she didn't want to give up that feeling, not until he forced her to.

Breathing in his scent, relaxing more into him, she wanted to absorb and catalogue every sensation for recollection later. There was the feel of his chest pressed against her side, his warm breath teasing the hair at her temple, and how marvelous it was to imagine herself so small and yet so protected.

Cherished.

He spoke quietly into the silence, scattering her thoughts, "We had begun this conversation, my dear, by you inquiring why I call you 'little mouse', and my asking if you've ever heard the fable 'The Lion and the Mouse'?"

Christine shook her head and uttered a softly voiced "No. I've never heard it."

Mr. D'Anton pulled her closer to him, and then he began to speak, weaving the tale for her with his liquid voice:

"There once was a lion—brave and true— the King of Beasts, out on a stroll through his kingdom. Now, every animal, be they great or small, would have to bow to him and pay his majesty some respect when he passed by. The birds in the trees would fall to their knees, their wings genuflecting in front of them; the monkeys swinging from the vines would sing a chorus, caroling his majesty's praises; the snakes that slithered would take up a hissing harmony that heralded his majesty's approach.

"With all of this fanfare that was surely impossible to ignore, along came a little mouse that stumbled across his majesty's path. The little mouse was in such a hurry, she didn't notice her king until it was too late, and his majesty, insulted by the little mouse's ignorance, caught her up in his paw and brought her to his mouth intending to gobble her up.

"'I'm going to make a meal of you, little mouse,' said the lion, holding the wee thing by the tail as she shook and trembled."

"'Please,' she pleaded in a squeaky voice, 'Please, sir. I was in such a hurry, I'm sorry I did not see or hear you, my king. And I surely deserve to be eaten, but I'm so small, I would make a terrible meal.'"

"The lion smiled and dangled the mouse from his paw, 'hmm, yes,' said his majesty, 'a wee thing such as you would, indeed, make a terrible meal, but it is the law of the land for me to punish you in such a way.'"

"'Have mercy, my king!' the little mouse cried. 'If you let me go, I promise to help you one day when you shall surely have need of it.'"

"Amused, the King of Beasts scoffed, 'Such a tiny thing you are, and how do you propose to help me?' The mouse continued to shake and tremble in the king's mighty paw, and not an answer could she give. He considered his smallest subject before him but a moment before his majesty gave a mighty, jaw-cracking yawn, and said, 'Be off with you then. I will let you live, little mouse, for I find I am not hungry. However, may you always remember this, and that your king is kind and merciful.' The lion sat his littlest subject carefully on the ground where she bowed low before him, and then scampered off into the green, the king certain he would never see her again.

"Now, many weeks passed and the king continued in his daily custom of strolling through his kingdom, keeping order and maintaining peace over all his subjects great and small. And the birds bowed their wings, the monkeys cried their praise, and the snakes hissingly lauded his certain rule. But the King of the Jungle was unfamiliar with the trappings of men, and one day, he stumbled upon a net made of rope, and was unexpectedly hoisted in the air.

"He gave a mighty, indignant roar, clawing and biting at the rope, trying to free himself. However, he could not; the rope was too intricately woven and far too thick. He called out to his loyal subjects, entreating them for help.

"Suddenly, the forest was quiet, the birds had taken wing and flown away, the monkeys were silent in their chorus, and the snakes no longer hissed their harmonious praise. The lion continued to claw at the rope and roared demanding his subjects come to his aid.

"Still, not a single one did, and the Lord of Beasts realized he had been well and truly abandoned by his kingdom; the subjects he'd thought so loyal and true. They had extolled his praises throughout the land but had all of them forsaken him in his time of need. He hung his head in shame, knowing certain death awaited him from stumbling upon this: one of the trappings of men.

"But lo, there was the tiniest squeak, and the lion squinted, looking down from his position hoisted in the trees to see a little mouse chewing at one of the lead ropes that bound him. Her progress was slow. What would have taken him one chomp took her seemingly hours to complete, but she was determined, and the lion recognized that she—the little mouse he'd let go weeks ago despite her lack of obeisance—had held true to her promise of coming to his aid.

"One final bite and the taut rope snapped, the lion came crashing down onto the jungle floor in a tangle of rope and fur. Unhesitating, the little mouse climbed and climbed until she was perched on the nose of her king. She bowed low. 'My king, are you alright? I would have been here sooner, but my feet are small, and the distance between us great. Is there anything else I can do for you?'

"Shaking himself free of the rope, the Lord of the Jungle put his paw to his nose and entreated his most loyal subject to climb on top. 'No, little mouse,' said the king, smiling kindly down at her, 'I should not have laughed when you told me you would one day help me, and for that, I most sincerely apologize." He put the little mouse upon his shoulder, and with a mighty roar for all and the sundry to hear, he resumed his patrol throughout his kingdom. The birds in the trees again bowed their wings; the monkeys out of fear of their king's displeasure, sang beautifully and apologetically, and the snakes hissed their harmony far and wide—all telling the tale of the brave little mouse and the King of Beasts, and the unique friendship that was forged through one small act of kindness."

Christine looked up from her position in his lap; a piece of his hair was tickling her nose, and she gingerly reached up and tucked it behind his ear. "You know," she whispered, "you quite resemble the lion you spoke of in your story, and not only in temperament."

Mr. D'Anton smiled crookedly down at her, his golden eyes unfocused at a spot near the floor.

"Won't you let me shear your mane, sir? And perhaps, shave these scruffy whiskers?" Christine tugged gently on the patches of beard that needed shaved badly.

Shutting his eyes, he ducked his head, nearly touching his cheek to hers. His hand moved to her cheek feeling along the line of her jaw. He tilted her head slightly, and Christine closed her eyes and trembled when she felt his lips at her ear. "Is this what my little mouse wishes?" he asked in a hushed voice, "That her lion be shorn?"

Pursing her lips, Christine nodded, touching cheeks with him.

He smiled at her. "Then so be it."

Gently, he lifted her from his lap so she could stand, holding her securely in place by the waist when it took her a moment to gain her balance.

Christine found she was rather weak in the knees.

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A/N: Is it hot in here or is it just me? *fans self*

Reviews are love!

PFP