Ch. 16— A Shave and A Haircut

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Erik told her where to find his razor, strop, and soap. He heard Ms. Daae in his room; a moment later, she returned with them.

Deliberately, she sat the things aside, and Erik made a mental exercise of ascribing names to each sound he heard: the snip of the metal scissors as she opened and closed them and then laid them down, the shushing whisk of lather being whipped in a ceramic bowl by a brush, the soft scraping sound of his straight-edge being stropped on supple leather so that it wouldn't nick him to pieces when she shaved him.

"You have used a straight-edge before, Ms. Daae? Yes?" He tried to mask the uncertainty he felt but was very much afraid he missed the mark.

"Yes, sir," she answered with a smile in her voice. "My father preferred a close shave."

He felt her hands gently move his head so that it was straight, and then her fingers were carding through his hair parting it different ways, and Erik couldn't stop himself from leaning back into her hands, loving the feel of her nails' slight scoring across his scalp.

She might have noticed this, she might have not, but she did seem to spend an inordinate amount of time getting his hair parted 'just so', and Erik smiled. His Ms. Daae was just as aware of him as he was of her… perhaps even more so. He almost groaned aloud when she used her thumbs to press from the back of his skull all the way down his neck, and when she did it again, that time, he did groan.

She was giving him a massage. Where on Earth had she learned such wonderful things? He asked her, and her hands stopped as she answered a bit uncertainly, "Is it bothering you? I can stop if you want—"

"For the love of God, NO!" Erik exclaimed, "Please, I was just wondering how you came about knowledge. Please, Ms. Daae. Continue." He was hard-pressed not to put a compulsion in his voice.

Hesitantly, she did so, and Erik sighed as he felt her small, talented hands move to his shoulders working on the tension there. "When I attended University," she began, sounding slightly embarrassed, "there was another daughter of the Physiology professor that was also in attendance; she was of Asian descent. We were in many of the same classes." Erik groaned aloud in appreciation as she pressed on a tight bunch of nerves and began to massage away the ache. "She lent me some books on far-eastern medicine, particularly on holistic healing methods; massage being one such technique. And, of course, in Sweden, holistic healing methods are very popular—particularly massage." She moved back up his shoulders to his neck and then his skull, again scoring it once more with her nails, and Erik felt a shiver run from the top of his head to the soles of his feet.

He was going to marry her. By God, if he wasn't!

She removed her hands from his head, and he felt suddenly bereft, but he heard the water run, and then she was slipping damp hands back into his hair, finger-combing the lank strands. Why wasn't she married? The thought occurred to him suddenly, and he frowned. It made no sense for her not to be married…

For that matter, why didn't she have a plethora of suitors at her beck and call?

She was a talented, intelligent girl, and as far as he knew she'd never even mentioned stepping out with a beau. He tried to remember hospital scuttlebutt. Lord knows they talked about everyone else's, but he didn't recollect any of the hospital staff ever having discussed the love life of one Ms. Christine Daae. And although he didn't know what she looked like, he knew from collective personal experience that she had curves in all the right places and smelled more than appealing… so why?

Absently, Erik registered the snip-snip of scissors as he continued to think.

The girl was extremely reserved and shy. While at the hospital, it had taken him weeks to get her to warm up to him, to utter the most perfunctory of greetings, and even then she stuttered.

Was that it then? Her shyness and reserved nature were what held her back from attaining a beau?

Was that why—?

"Ms. Daae, how old are you?" Erik asked suddenly, his query causing her to jump, jarring his head slightly.

"Twenty-three," she answered puzzled, and he heard another snip as more of his 'mane' fell to the floor.

Twenty-three years old. Thank God she was past adolescence!

For a moment there…

But she was young still… young compared to his thirty-four years. However, the difference in their ages was not insurmountable. And at times, she did have the bearing of someone wiser beyond her years.

"Alright," he heard her say, "I think I've almost—" he heard another snip and felt a strand of hair fall into his lap. "Yes, there. That… should do it." She began dusting off his shoulders with her hands, and Erik felt the top and sides of his head, relieved to find them even. "Ms. Daae, hand me a mirror, won't you? I want to make certain my sides are even and the back is straight. If there's one thing I cannot stand, it's my hair touching my collar."

"Bu—"

Erik smirked at her perplexed silence. "I'm only teasing, little mouse. It feels as though you did a wonderful job considering the material you were given." He gestured to himself, his face in particular, and his mouth drew into a crooked grin. "Thank you, my dear."

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There were only a few places where his beard did grow, but grow it did, and Christine quickly snipped as much of it off as she could with her scissors before she started to shave.

She began by spreading the whipped lather with the rounded brush, careful not to cover his scars and the medicated ointment she'd applied.

As he had with his haircut, Mr. D'Anton relaxed under her hands, closing his eyes and smiling a bit, and Christine couldn't help an echoing smile in return.

He seemed at peace.

Ever since she'd come to the cottage, she'd never seen him this… tranquil.

Not even in the last three days when he worked on nothing but his music. He had been smiling then, but there had also been a fire about his eyes, an agitated spark of creation. And although she had loved it, loved his energy and eagerness, she was glad to have this Mr. D'Anton back… the man that somewhat resembled the patient she knew from the hospital.

She had tried to style his hair from memory of the clean-cut way he'd worn it while a patient under her care. Biting her lip, she examined her handiwork critically once more. Well, he certainly wouldn't pass muster for the army, but he could definitely go out into public without shame or disgrace of that she was sure.

Picking up the straight-edge razor, Christine ran her thumb horizontally across the blade testing it. It was well-honed and very sharp. Drawing a steadying breath, she put two fingers under his chin and tilted his head back.

And as she was about to begin, he spoke, "Careful, Ms. Daae. I need not remind you my face is my fortune."

Christine shook her head and tsk'd at his humor. His humor was so subtle, so dry as to be easily overlooked if one didn't stop to observe it.

Once again applying the razor to his jaw and carefully beginning to shave, she rejoined absently, "Fortune favors the brave, you know?" She truly hoped that's what he considered his scars from battle being—wounds of bravery—and not anything else.

Mr. D'Anton countered with a self-satisfied smirk, "Fortune is a woman."

"Ah," Christine smiled, "And will you also as Machiavelli recommends, 'beat and ill-use her' so she stays true to you, sir?" She finished shaving the last little bit of his beard and removed the remainder of soap with her finger, gently dabbing at his face with a clean towel, and examining her handiwork. A nice, clean-shaven jaw, a face that was medicated—and even now looked less red and inflamed—and short, cropped hair.

He looked less a pirate and more a gentleman.

His smile widened as he stood, "No, Ms. Daae, I would never treat a woman thusly." Groping, he reached for her shoulder and felt down the length of her arm. Taking her hand tenderly in his, he brought it palm open to his lips and kissed it.

Christine blushed, every nerve-ending on fire.

Clasping her hand in both of his, he placed her palm directly over his heart. His eyes closed as he spoke, "A woman is like a flower, Ms. Daae. With enough attention and care, she'll grace you with the honor of watching her bloom."

With a squeeze to her hand, he released her and began to walk out of the kitchen, his limp barely noticeable. "Oh, and Ms. Daae," he stopped and turned back around to face her, his expression gentle, "Fortune, my dear, has indeed smiled upon me for it was fortune herself who brought you here."

He turned around and left, and Christine had to clutch at the chair to keep upright, her entire body quaking.

The man's charm was positively lethal when he wanted it to be.

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A/N: Indeed it is, Christine. Indeed it is.

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As always, thanks be to FP33 for her delightful beta-ing talents and cleverly insightful commentary. This would be a much lesser work without her.

More soon, dear readers, as the page turns.

PFP