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Rather long A/N here:
It's been four years (four years!) since I've updated this story, and in the time I've been away, I've done a lot of living if not so much writing. :0) However, now that life seems to be headed to more calm waters, I can get back to what makes me happy again, and writing about Erik and Christine makes me very, very happy. There's just something special about these two that leaves me captivated and wanting to know more about their story, especially the little tale I've woven here.
It's been four years since I've written anything, and yet, in some respects, when I pick up and read my work, it's almost like I've never left it. I will not abandon this story. It may not, in the end, be the story I set out to write. But it will be finished and happily so for HEA is all I do.
Thank you all so much for your concern, your follows, your favorites, and your reviews! They made me want to get back into writing for you. And a special thanks goes to FantomPhan33. She is my Fantom Fairy God Beta, and if you have not read her works, please do for they are wonderful. ANNND too, an especially BIG thanks goes to cotesgoat for which this posting would not be possible, my friend, without your well-timed review reminding me where to go and what to do.
Now, on with the show!
-PFP
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Ch. 21— There's Always Mistletoe
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Erik stepped to where he thought Ms. Daae stood by the front door. He heard the door close and then the click of the lock as she slid it into place. Tentatively reaching, he felt for her shoulder and stepping forward, drew her back against him until she was wrapped up in his arms.
Immediately, she stiffened in his hold, but Erik held still, and let her get used to the contact of him embracing her from behind. When he didn't move further, she slowly began to relax in his embrace. He leaned his nose forward, inhaling the scent of her perfumed hair, nuzzling until he reached her neck. He could feel her tremble, and moving one of his hands underneath the bulky sleeve of her sweater, he felt for the pulse at her wrist: it was beating franticly.
He did nothing but hold her like this, savoring her response and the anticipation of the moment.
Soon.
He would have to tell her of his intentions soon for he didn't know how long he could keep this up. "Well, my dear," he spoke calmly; masking the desire he felt, "it's Christmas Eve. What do you say to sitting on the sofa, drinking some hot buttered rum, and listening to the radio, hmm?"
"Th-that sounds good." Her voice was but a whisper, and he cherished the shy desire—that note of husky arousal—he could just detect.
He needed to put an end to this and break the mood. As it was, he was only torturing them both for he absolutely refused to make her his until their wedding night.
Erik turned her so she was facing him. "Or we could sing carols," he offered amiably, "Is there a specific holiday tradition you remember from your childhood, my dear?"
Leading them over to the sofa, he sat and drew her until she was seated beside him as well. He put his arm around her waist and held her close. "I know we don't have a tree or any of the traditional trappings that seem to come with the season, but… we could try to re-enact those little customs here if you'd like? Why don't you tell me what a typical Christmas was like for the Daae family, hmm?" He raised his hand to her cheek and felt her shake her head in the negative.
"My father and I—we didn't celebrate Christmas."
Erik was taken aback for a moment and grit his jaw at his own insensitivity. Of course, they didn't. But perhaps this was a way to find out how long her father had treated her badly. Perhaps she had some good Christmas memories, maybe with her mother?
"So no believing in Santa's sleigh and eight tiny reindeer for you, huh, my girl?"
She again shook her head. "Father was against perpetuating the myth of Father Christmas and really didn't care for the holiday in general so we didn't celebrate."
Erik drew her closer so she was nestled completely against him, and he again felt for her cheek to read her expression. Lowering his head, he murmured in her ear, "That still doesn't tell me what a typical Christmas for you was like, my dear. Won't you share it with me?"
He nuzzled her cheek with his nose, prompting her.
She whispered, "Christmas morning, I would complete my chores and make breakfast as usual. Father would play his violin and give me vocal exercises and theory training until late afternoon. We would have an early supper together, and then he would leave for the annual faculty and family Christmas party in the evening. I'd read for a bit and go to bed."
Oh, my girl, Erik thought.
His eyes closed, and he swallowed the knot of emotion that was lodged in his throat—hurt vying with anger at her father's treatment of her on what was supposed to be a day of family, of friendship, and good will. It wasn't just her words, but the stark way she recounted them, as if this was all Christmas was for her, as if this was all it could be.
"Why didn't you go with him?"
"Go where?" she countered, puzzled.
Erik stated thickly, "The faculty and family Christmas celebration."
He felt her shake her head, "Father said he didn't want to have to leave the party to escort me home only to come back later on, especially when I was younger. And well, as I got older, I guess it became a kind of tradition." She shrugged.
Oh, some right tradition! he thought, not for the first time thinking how much he would've liked to have met the man that sired her. Erik would not think of the bastard as her 'father' any longer. 'Father' was too honorable a term for the likes of him.
He thought back to his own Christmases spent with his mother at the Populaire.
They hadn't had much in the way of money, the opera house had fallen on hard times, but there was no shortage of entertainment to be found. What they hadn't had in money they made up for in laughter and revelry.
When the silence grew, and it was apparent she had no more to say on the subject, Erik observed, "It sounds very lonely, my girl."
He felt her shake her head. "It wasn't so bad, truly. It was kind of a relief in a way never to be asked or expected to go. There were all those people and having to think of what to say and how to act..." He felt her cringe. "I was happier at home."
Erik could almost believe her. That was, if he hadn't heard her laughter and sensed her joy at his and Nadir's playful bantering.
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Christine was tucked into Mr. D'Anton's side, and he had his arm around her keeping her close. She was curious as to why he wanted to know about her past Christmases. To her, Christmas had been just another day.
However, she had liked it one year when the students that stayed over for the holiday assembled and went door to door singing carols around campus. She had stood watching out her window until they were all of them out of sight.
"How about we work on creating some of our own Christmas traditions, hmm?" Mr. D'Anton mumbled into her ear causing her to shiver.
"Like what?" she asked him.
"Hmm, well, there's always mistletoe. Don't you see it hanging above our heads?"
Christine looked up and then back down at him. "Mr. D'Anton, there is no mistletoe."
"Erik, Christine. And yes there is for I can see it just fine."
Taken aback, Christine looked up at him, and then up at the ceiling once more. Had he regained his sight?! But the ceiling was devoid of mistletoe, and his blank stare had never left the floor. And that's when she noticed his pirate's grin.
He was teasing her.
"Use your imagination, little mouse. Play with me," he urged, putting his head down low until his forehead touched hers. "And do you know what couples who get caught under the mistletoe have to do, little mouse?"
Christine gulped, her pulse beginning to thrum. "They k-kiss?" she answered uncertainly.
His grin deepened to a predatory smile. "Precisely, my dear. They kiss."
She felt his fingers lift her chin urging her to turn more towards him, and he moved until his lips were scant centimeters away from hers.
She moistened her lips, and then his mouth was on hers, just as it had been before, showing her what to do, teasing her to follow him.
Closing her eyes, she let the kiss sweep her away.
Somehow, they ended up with her reclining on the sofa; Mr. D'Anton's arm was underneath her, holding her about the waist, and he was laying above her, his mouth still fused to hers, and her every nerve-ending was wire taut and zinging with awareness.
He broke the kiss, and the two of them gasped for breath.
She opened her eyes to see him above her, his head was bowed, his eyes were closed, and his smile present. Seeing a small movement out of the corner of her eye, she looked over and saw his forearm—the one bearing his weight—was trembling. "That… was a superb observance… of Christmas tradition, Christine," he whispered reverently.
She wondered, was he as affected by the kiss as she?
He continued, "Any more of this kind of tradition, and we're going to have to attend Midnight Mass… if only for the priest."
His words sounded cryptic to her. Did he mean they would have to go to confession? "I'm not Catholic, sir," she stated, hoping to set his mind at ease. "In fact, I was raised atheist so there's no need for me to confess."
He paused in the act of righting himself, as if he was working out the meaning behind her words, and then he grinned that pirate's grin of his. "Oh, Christine, there's nothing we could do together that would ever warrant confession. And churches and priests are good for lots of other things besides that."
He smiled softly, "How about some music? Come, my dear, and sit at the bench with me." He helped her to stand and drew her close when she swayed, still a bit lightheaded from their kiss.
He led her to the piano bench and entreated her to sit, and then he did so as well: Christine on treble, Mr.D'Anton on bass.
"You told me you play the piano."
"I told you I play the piano poorly, sir."
"Erik, Christine. Call me Erik. We are going to play a duet, you and I. A singing duet."
Christine began to blush. "Really, sir. My playing is awful! I couldn't hold my own against you—"
"The song is in four-four time," he interrupted her. "Play left hand: g minor, three beats, quarter rest," Hesitantly, she did so, "And now right hand: f sharp, two beats, quarter rest, one beat." She did. And note by note, chord by chord, hand by hand, he began to feed her the treble side of the duet they were going to perform.
"Alright, little mouse. From rote and from the top, let's see how you do." He positioned his hands at the keys, and Christine did the same, her stomach twisting in knots. Her father always said her piano playing was atrocious. She really didn't want to disappoint Mr. D'Anton… even if she did try to warn him.
He unexpectedly broke position by turning towards her, saying, "And Christine, the only time you are ever against me is when I'm holding you, dear. While seated at this bench, you are playing with me. Always with me."
Her nervousness lessened at these words, and as they began to play, Christine concentrating on her hands; making certain she got each and every note precisely correct right down to the rests. But something magical happened while they were playing together, something that had never happened to her before.
She forgot to be conscientious, forgot to be so self-conscious. She forgot to count time, and she was very much afraid she flubbed it up, but that hardly seemed to matter because Mr. D'Anton was right there with her and kept right on playing as is if the mistake—her mistake—had never even occurred.
And she did too because playing this duet with him, hearing the music—imperfect as it was—that they were making was a wonderful joy! And she was smiling for the sheer honor and joy of making music with this man.
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Erik lay reclined on the sofa by the woodstove deep in thought.
The weather had turned considerably from the freeze that yesterday heralded, and the little cottage was keeping warm. He had sent her to bed with a hot toddy and an even hotter water bottle, wishing with all his might he could replace that device in her bed to warm her tonight.
But not yet.
Tomorrow was Christmas, and he turned his thoughts to how he could make Christmas special for her. She who never had cause to celebrate before.
Honestly, it wouldn't be that hard to do if he really thought about it.
His diva was delightfully unspoiled, willing to settle for the most meager scraps of his kindness, his attention. But that was just it; he wanted a feast for her. He wanted to shower her with everything that had been missing from her bleak, colorless life when her father was still alive, help her connect more to the music in her heart and soul.
He needed to get them back to Paris somehow. Back to the opera.
Perhaps for New Years?
He would have Andre— if the man ever deigned make another appearance—take them, and he'd install her in the diva suite… which just so happened to be right next to his rooms complete with a hidden passage adjoining.
For the thousandth time, he thanked his great-grandfather's ingenuity, his brilliance in forethought and design. And mentally walking through his almost completed operatic score, Erik finally began to plan the re-opening gala and his diva's debut.
She was going to take the world by storm.
He knew it.
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Christmas morning dawned cold, and Christine bundled under her covers to keep warm, dreading stepping foot outside her bed today.
"Christine." Mr. D'Anton knocked on her door, and she peeked from under the covers to see him come into her room; his honey-hued eyes staring blankly in front of him. He crouched down low until he was at her bedside, and gently reaching out, he felt for her shoulder then her face.
Smiling, Christine closed her eyes and nuzzled into his palm. "I know it's cold, and so I've drawn you a bath to warm you for the day ahead." He leaned his head close to hers and whispered, "I do still offer my back-scrubbing services free of charge," he smiled innocently, "satisfaction guaranteed."
Having no idea what to say, Christine turned her head in her pillow and blushed three shades of beet. He laughed quietly—knowingly— and something low in her belly quickened to life at the sound. "Come on, little mouse, up from your burrow. Christmas Day's upon us, and I for one don't intend to waste a moment of it."
Christine gasped, as bracing on his good leg, he put his arms underneath her and rose, lifting her and her mound of blankets up from the bed. He sat her upright gently on the floor with a couple of blankets still wrapped around her keeping her warm. "There, now you're ready. Come, my dear. We have much to do and very little time with which to do it."
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Looking back, Christine could honestly say she'd never had a more enjoyable day in her entire life before that Christmas.
"Thank you very much for drawing my bath, sir," she told his seated form as she entered the kitchen intent on preparing their breakfast. She was surprised he wasn't at the piano prepping for the warm-ups he liked to do while she cooked. But she had savored the warmth in the porcelain tub until her fingers had become pruny. Perhaps she had lingered too long?
He held out his hand for her, and Christine went over to him taking it. He had done this so often over the last few weeks, that now, she didn't even hesitate. He sat back from the table and drew her until she was seated in his lap. Leaning forward, he said lowly in her ear, "Consider your perfumed bath one of the many gifts I plan to give you today, Christine."
"Bu—" she shook her head, intending to refute him. She didn't have a gift to give him, had never received many gifts really, and she was certain there should be an exchange… shouldn't there?
"Hush," he commanded. "This is a holiday; the greatest of holidays in my opinion. And as such, no work—at least, not in the way we usually perform it—will be done today. Breakfast will be prepared here together. All transcribing will be placed on hold in observance of this merry day. And you and I are going to make merry ourselves doing whatever pleases us. Now tell me, have you ever had Crêpe Suzette?"
"No." At Mr. D'Anton's urging, she leaned back against his chest and his arms came fully around to support her. "Isn't that a dessert, though?" she asked uncertainly.
"Yes, my dear, it is," he mumbled in her ear causing her to shiver. She felt him lean closer and heard him breathe in deeply at the spot behind her ear where she usually dabbed on a bit of perfume. A full-body tremble coursed through her as she realized he was inhaling her scent.
He spoke lowly, "Today, on this most holy of days, we're going to commit a sin and have… dessert for breakfast." Turning her head, Christine peered up at him. His pirate's grin was back and his honey-golden eyes were open comically wide even if they were staring blankly at the floor.
Smiling, she decided to play along. "I'm unfamiliar with this sin. Would this be something to warrant confession, sir?"
His left eye crinkled at the corner as he smiled fully then. "Oh, yes. We'll have to go to chapel soon, my girl, very soon."
She shivered again, not so much at his teasing words, but at the tone that accompanied them. And he squeezed her waist where he held her to him. And again, for the second time that morning, Christine experienced that swooping sensation in her lower belly.
"Now," lifting her up, he set her away from him and stood beside her, saying, "I will direct you in preparation of the crêpe, and you will follow my instructions."
She laughed softly and shook her head.
"Oh, is there something funny about what I said, Christine?"
"Well, errm…it's just… I thought you said, 'no work—especially in the way we usually perform it—will be done today'. And well, aside from the process of crêpe-making, that's generally what I do for you every day: you tell me how something should be done, and I do it."
"Hmm... so it is, and you just threw my words back at me, did you not, little mouse?" He grinned toothily and his eyebrows waggled. "Just for that bit of insolence, mademoiselle, in order to make certain you are not doing anything that is in any way like that which you do every day, if that even made the slightest bit of sense," he mumbled as an aside, "I challenge you to complete my instructions with my arms around you, like so…"
Christine giggled to feel him step behind her and wrap himself around her like a vine to the point where she couldn't even move her hands. "Mr. D'Anton," she shook her head, "I don't think this is going to work."
"What?!" His tone was scandalized. "Quite right you are, my dear! We are nowhere near the stove."
Christine laughed fully then to feel him goosestep them to the gas stove. "Now," he said, "we gather butter, sugar, flour, eggs and oranges….and a whisk and a bowl…and a measuring cup…and a sifter…and a spatula—by God, there's a lot that goes into preparing 'dessert for breakfast', isn't there?"
Christine giggled in his arms.
"Ms. Daae," he playfully whispered out of the side of his mouth, "we need to move."
"Mr. D'Anton," she countered, also whispering, "I need the use of my hands."
"Ah, how remiss of me!" Grudgingly, Mr. D'Anton moved his arms up until she was able to move her hands… but nothing else." This caused her to giggle again.
"Well, then," he ordered, "let's get to it!"
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"I can't believe you fed me the burnt one!" Erik teased her.
"It wouldn't have been burnt if you would have lent me the use of my arms sooner," she countered.
Oh, Erik thought, but she was wonderful! Almost flirting with him as she was, acting at ease with him, even bantering back and forth. He could get used to this. He could definitely get used to this.
He finished drying the last dish she handed him. "Keep that up, Christine, and I'll have to find another way to curb that insolent tongue of yours."
He heard her draw a quick breath and then ask daringly, "L-like what?"
Erik stilled for one beat, then two.
And placing the dish he was drying carefully on the countertop lest he drop it, he reached out and felt for her face and drew close until he was centimeters away from kissing her. He felt the pulse at her neck.
It was thundering.
Good, then that made two of them.
"This is a very dangerous game you're playing, little mouse; baiting your lion as you are. You do realize that, don't you?"
He heard her gulp and felt her nod her head where he held her. Her skin beneath his fingers was prickled with gooseflesh. "Just as long as you're aware, my dear." Caressing her cheek with the backs of his knuckles, Erik slowly drew away from her.
"Now," he rubbed his hands together, deliberately dispelling the mood, "let's go to the living room. I'm in the mood to sing a silly song or two."
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For Christine, the next few hours passed in a blur of laughter and sheer silly fun. She never knew that music could be like this: funny and charming and absolutely frivolous. She had never been exposed to such delights as the songs, "Aba Daba Honeymoon" or "Swingin' on a Star". And it was songs such as these that Mr. D'Anton taught her, sung for her, and had her sing with him.
It was wonderful!
And through it all, he stayed close to her side, close by her, always touching her in some small way, making her skin fairly hum with awareness of him.
That feeling, that tingling in her lower belly hadn't gone away, hadn't dissipated, had grown seemingly with every touch, every caress he gave her.
And when they danced!
Oh, when they had danced, it had been magical! And that swooping feeling intensified almost to the point where she could hardly stand it! He'd held her so close to him their cheeks touched. Slowly turning and twirling her about the living room floor and holding her in his arms, slowly dipping her, leaving her breathless and almost moaning out with some nameless want.
And now evening had fallen, and it was after dinner; a dinner Christine insisted be cooked solo due to the fact he kept touching her to the point of distraction! Twice she'd burnt the bread as it was warming in the oven, and she almost scorched the potatoes due to his roguery.
But appetites were keen enough, and if he noticed the carrots were a little underdone and the meat a little charred, well, thankfully, he kept his silence.
They had held hands through the entire meal.
Never had she considered something as simple as holding another's hand could make her feel so… alive!
And now as she lay on the sofa by the woodstove with her head in his lap, she felt as contented as a cat lazing in the sun, as happy as a cricket in the field, as satisfied as… as a little mouse with a morsel of cheese.
Never before had she spent a day in such leisure, and she had him—Mr. D'Anton— to thank.
He currently had his fingers running through her hair as they listened to the final strains of the evening Christmas broadcast winding to a close, and Christine closed her eyes as she felt his hand move from her hair to her face to 'read' her expression. He periodically had done this throughout the day, and she found she loved it.
"You're smiling, little mouse. Care to tell me why?"
"This day was amazing, Mr. D'Anton. Thank you."
He patted her cheek and then held there, running his thumb back and forth.
At length, he stated softly, "Christine, it occurs to me that you have yet to give me my Christmas present."
She stiffened in his hold, immediately blushing. Of course, she had taken his kindnesses, his attention for granted —of course he would want something in retur—"All that I ask is that you refer to me as Erik, Christine. No more 'Mr. D'Anton'. No more 'sir'. Erik is the name I was given, and Erik is what I want to hear tripping past your lips when I take your breath away with my kisses. Do you understand?"
Her heart in her throat, Christine could only look up at him as he stared blankly down, a little past her, a small smile on his lips. "Will you not answer me, little mouse?"
Biting her lip, she reached up, and cupped his jaw, mirroring his movement. With his other hand, he caught her hand in his and brought it to his lips for a lingering kiss.
Christine swallowed thickly and said as evenly as she could, "Y-yes … Erik. I understand."
His small smile blossomed fully until it lit up his face, and he resumed carding his fingers through her hair. "Good girl."
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A/N: Another update will be posted soon.
Your devoted authoress,
PFP