Thank you again to all those who are reading... I hope you like this chapter.

Chapter 5. April 1887. The day after Erik abducted Christine (concluded).

He looked at her then, and she saw that he would not be satisfied with that. As his reason was returning, so was his aura of command. She took her courage in both hands and forced the words out.

"It means I want…you." She heard him inhale sharply. Embarrassed, she tried to play down the tremendous significance of her meaning by adding awkwardly, "If – if you still want me, that is." One glance back at Erik and she saw how ludicrous a thing that had been to say.

For a long moment they had not spoken, merely held each other's gaze, and then he had lifted her battered hands up and laid his disfigured cheek against them. Relieved that she would apparently not have to say anything else, she closed her eyes.

Eventually she had had to open them, however, because Erik groaned and stirred, and she looked at him. He appeared…well, he appeared tired, actually. She had not seen him look so before. Always, he seemed to have boundless strength for whatever he needed. Tonight had nearly done them both in, she thought.

"Christine," he said hoarsely, "You should…sleep. How long has it been since you could?" He glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner; the small one he had knocked over had stopped. "Oh, Christ. It is five in the morning. You have not slept for nearly two days."

"Don't remind me," she said, the mention of fatigue making her yawn hugely. "S-sorry." She tried to hide it with her hand, just as another nearly dislocated her jaw. It hurt to keep her eyes open; even her teeth ached. "I – I – ohhhhh."

"You must get some rest," said Erik, rising off the couch. He staggered as he did so, and she reached out a hand to him in alarm.

"Are you all right?"

"Yes," he answered immediately, but it sounded distinctly automatic and she found she did not believe him.

"Erik…when was the last time you slept?"

"That does not matter."

"It matters to me," she insisted doggedly. "You didn't sleep at all either in the last day, did you?"

He turned to face her, and his eyes were uncharacteristically soft. "Christine cares about Erik's health," he said mistily. "What a good, sweet girl you are."

If he kept talking like that, he was going to get on her nerves. She wondered vaguely how long it would take her to break him of that speech habit. "Of – of – of course I care," she said, yawning some more. "I – you – don't talk like – that." She stood up herself, swaying, and he caught her by the arms.

"Christine, go to bed."

"All right." She had never wanted to obey one of his commands more. "Will you as well?"

"Yes."

Satisfied, Christine started to take a step away, but then stopped short. "But – wait! I just thought of something!"

"What is it, Christine?" said Erik, rather testily.

"You don't have a bed to sleep in!" In her current state, this seemed a dreadful thing and she looked up at him worriedly. Erik, however, simply scowled forbiddingly down at her like a gargoyle. "Christine, Erik shall sleep in his coffin as usual. It is where he belongs, and good enough for him too after what he has put you through this night."

"Oh, please don't! I don't want you sleeping there anymore!"

"Erik has slept there for years."

"Well, you must stop, now, today! It's morbid, and revolting, and it must be bad for your health."

"Christine, go to bed. Now." He turned resolutely, stepped over her bedraggled train and began propelling both of them in the direction of the parlour door. Perturbed, she attempted to dig in her heels, to no avail.

"And – and you won't get restful sleep in there, I'm sure! You need rest as much as I do, maybe more."

"I will be fine, Christine! Now do as I say!"

"You sleep in the bed, you need it more than I do. I'll sleep on the couch."

"Absolutely not. That is your bed, and I would not take it from you. How ungentlemanly."

"You weren't any too concerned about being a gentleman just a few hours ago – "

"A low blow, woman!"

"And it's not my bed, it's yours really – "

Squabbling, they headed for the hallway and their separate bedrooms. At the door to the Louis Philippe bedroom, Christine flung out her arms to block Erik's intended path away from it and her. Smirking wickedly, she deployed her surest weapon.

"I can't get undressed by myself."

This was perfectly true. Erik, in his ignorance as to the practicalities of ladies' attire, had acquired a wedding dress for her which was everything that the most formal of bridal raiment should be. The dress was, or rather, had been, a vision of loveliness; fashioned out of glimmering white satin, the skirt elegantly draped and swagged with that satin and with silk organza, and a long train which flowed out behind her like a peacock's tail.

And a high-necked, long sleeved bodice which fitted like a suit of armour and laced up the back with dozens of pairs of tiny eyelets, thus making it completely impossible for its wearer to get in or out of it unassisted. When Erik had ordered her to put it on, Christine had banged her bedroom door shut and changed into the gown on her own, as far as she could. When the skirt was on her and the bodice was laid out on the bed, she deliberately sat down and waited, tapping one foot in rage. And when he bellowed a command to hurry up, she had taken a vengeful joy in jerking open her door to inform him that if he wanted her to wear it, he would have to be the one to dress her – and in his obvious discomfort at seeing her in her corset cover. Hurling the lacing ribbon and needles furiously at him, she'd watched him catch them reflexively out of the air and then look at them in total confusion as to what he was supposed to do with them. After a few words of sarcastic explanation, she'd turned her back on him. Then she had stood fuming as he struggled with the unfamiliar task and the miniscule silk-bound eyelets, growling in nervous frustration as he periodically missed one and thereby twisted the whole bodice out of shape. And she'd laughed scornfully when he dropped a needle and, swearing furiously, had to hunt for it through the multiple folds of the skirt. There had been no shortage at all, in fact, of sharp words exchanged on both sides, a thoroughly miserable experience for both of them, and after Erik was done threading the eyelets, he'd jerked so hard on the ribbon as he tried to close up the bodice that she'd almost fallen over backward on him.

Altogether, it had taken him over half an hour to get her into that dress. The finished product had been an utter mess, but finish he had, after a fashion at least. When he'd finally knotted the ribbon at the bottom of the bodice and slammed his way out of her room, she'd craned her head over her shoulder to look in the mirror, and reflected that this was a fair representation of what their marriage would be, should he go through with his stated intention to force her into such a thing. The whole affair did not fit properly at all, fastened like this, and the twisted fabric was binding her arms so that she could not raise them without pain.

But she was technically in the dress, which meant that now he would have to undo his haphazard lacing job or she would be sleeping in it. The look of consternation on his face as he realised what she meant by her words was so comical she nearly laughed out loud.

"Christine, Erik can not go into your room and – and disrobe you!"

"You managed to dress me!" She was enjoying getting a little of her own back, after his treatment of her earlier, and he looked so embarrassed. "Would you rather I slept in this dress, as it is now?" Pointedly she spread her arms, displaying the mud and damp and general awfulness of the current condition of her attire. The gown was utterly ruined, filthy and ripped in multiple places, and long since past being anything resembling white.

He glanced about, as though there might be an answer for his predicament somewhere farther down the hallway. "Christine, I would not compromise you…"

She laughed sharply. "Then you might have thought of that before you dressed me in this! How were you thinking you were going to – " She stopped dead. He had, of course, been thinking that he would be taking it off her as a bridegroom.

A thoroughly uncomfortable silence reigned for a few moments, each of them looking everywhere but at the other, and then Christine said definitively, "I am exhausted and ill and I don't want to sleep in this dress. So you come in here and help me." A quiver of apprehension at the immodesty of this troubled her, and she eased her conscience by hastily adding, "We are going to be married anyway, so it's all right." She swung the door open, and repeated, "Come in."

Showing a meekness that was very un-Erik like, he finally did as she ordered, and once they were in the room, she turned her back to him expectantly. The idea of getting undressed and being finally in bed was very attractive indeed. But she could feel the edginess coming off him in waves, and hoped she wasn't going to have to turn round and talk him into this all over again. Then she felt his hesitant hands on the tail of her bodice, and a tugging at the laces.

"Damn."

"What's wrong?"

"I can not undo this," he said shortly. "Erik did such a bad job of knotting it that after getting wet it is stuck fast."

"Oh. I have embroidery scissors in that drawer – " She pointed.

"Don't bother," he said, somewhat distantly. "I shall just use a knife."

There was a snicking noise while she was still processing his comment, and a sudden draft of air on her upper back, above her chemise. The constricting bodice had sprung loose all at once, not gradually as it would have if he'd unlaced the ribbon. Christine panicked suddenly, her mind leaping back to when she'd feared he would violate her, and she cried out unthinkingly and whirled to face him.

But he was quite obviously in no condition to do anything to anyone. Undressing her even to this extent appeared to have been the final nail in his proverbial coffin, because he had dropped the pocket-knife and was paler than ever and swaying like a drunkard. Sweat beaded on his distorted brow, and his head was lolling, his eyes shutting. They snapped open momentarily, a shocking flash of gold in his demon's face, and then rolled abruptly back in his head, which was a truly alarming sight given his aspect. She grabbed for him, frightened now for his safety instead of her own, the fast switches between emotions making her feel sick as well.

It was not a terribly big room and they were standing not too far from the bed; she managed to direct his fall so that he ended up more or less on it. Frantically she felt for his pulse, and found it beating steadily. His skin was cold, but no more than normal for him. A faint, then, nothing more. Very, very unlike Erik…but then, she reasoned, he was exhausted too and he'd had a thoroughly dreadful night. And here she'd been suspecting him of diabolical intentions again, when he was not going to do anything of the sort. She felt quite guilty. And ill at ease too; he had never been so…well, so vulnerable in front of her. Always he was in control, the one who was ruling the situation and everything in it, and now here he lay, stretched out helplessly before her – and looking more human than Christine had ever yet seen him look.

She smoothed his tangled hair away from his brow, and then was deeply shocked when his lips suddenly curved upward for the briefest of instants, causing her to freeze still. After close to a minute, she got hold of herself and did it again. Again he smiled, only fleetingly, and crookedly due to the deformation of his mouth…but still, it was definitely a smile. The lines on his face smoothed somewhat, and he looked…calmer.

Compassion for him twisted her heart. Poor Erik. Had anyone else ever stroked his hideous head to ease him while he slept? Or was she the only one who had ever bothered to do so, and therefore the only one to see that furtive smile cross his misshapen lips? His lips, which she had kissed…That kiss which had moved him so.

She bent swiftly and did it again, just a light brush of the mouth before she had time to think about it. But he sighed softly, and his breathing took on more the appearance of sleep than of a faint. Then she took a handkerchief from the drawer in the nightstand and wiped his face, and undid his tie so she could loosen his collar. But when she did so, she drew back, for there was a thin line of a scar running across the front of his throat. For a mad instant she thought he might have tried to kill himself at some recent time, but no; the scar was very old, white against his pale skin. She would ask him about it later. After a moment's further thought, and with several timorous glances to see whether he were waking up, she lifted his feet onto the bed, removed his shoes and laid them neatly on the floor.

One of his stockings had a small hole in the heel. Christine felt rather motherly, looking at it, and decided that once they were married she would see to it that his things were mended before he needed to wear them again. Picking up the folded quilt at the foot of the bed, she draped it over him.

But…now what? He was in the bed, and appeared highly unlikely to get out of it anytime soon. That would mean that she would have to sleep beside him, when they were not yet married, or sleep elsewhere. The chaise longue? She had slept there before, the very first night he brought her down here, but she had not been nearly so tired then. A wave of disorienting fatigue hit her, so hard that it nearly made her retch. She turned away from the bed and Erik both and took several deep breaths, her hands on her midsection, till her stomach calmed back down. Everything hurt; the soles of her feet ached, and her eyeballs felt like small burning orbs in her face.

She wanted to be out of this horrible dress, at least. She went to the armoire and got out a nightgown, and went to the bathroom to change, lest he wake up and see her in the middle of the process. Stripping off all the heavy layers, as well as her wet shoes and stockings, felt indescribably wonderful, and she nearly crooned with delight as she slipped the light night-dress over her head. She brushed her hair mechanically and stumbled back into the bedroom, eyeing the chaise longue. It was horizontal; it would do. Oh, it seemed years since she had last slept. The events of the time since she was kidnapped from Faust's final act swam through her throbbing head in a wave of images, some clear, some hazy. The horrendous descent underground, pulled along mercilessly by an explosively angry and wildly reckless Erik who clearly no longer felt he had anything to lose. The hours she'd spent tied to a chair after she tried to dash her brains out on the wall, thinking that better that than submission. Raoul's crazed shouts from the other side of the wall, and, much later, the pitiful moans he made as his condition deteriorated. The Persian unconscious on the couch, his elegant evening suit ruined by sweat and lake water. Erik on his knees begging her to love him…Erik on his knees sobbing.

It occurred to her, suddenly and irrationally, that Erik might still try to kill himself. His despair had been so great; she shuddered as she remembered him weeping bitterly into the hem of her gown. Such a sorrow would not just obligingly disappear in the space of an hour, surely? Badly weakened by fatigue and her head injury, her mind could not see the obvious; that he had no reason anymore to be sorrowful or despairing now that she had returned to him. Frantic with the desire to keep him safe, she slipped under the bedcovers and took hold of his arm, hovering over him and thinking woozily that he had no one but her to comfort him.

And…nothing happened. Erik slept on. God did not strike her dead. Gradually her panic subsided, and she took a vague stock of her situation. She was under the blankets; Erik was on top of them. That was better than nothing, wasn't it? And... and they were going to be married, they were going to be married, it would be all right if they slept chastely beside each other for one night just before their wedding…

Repeating that justification to herself to take her mind off their compromising situation, Christine settled down onto her side. Then, impulsively, she nestled close to Erik and laid her cheek on his shoulder. Now, if he moved, she would feel it and wake, and be able to stop him. She raised her eyes to see his face, utterly unmistakable as anyone else's, and thought of how glad she was that he was here with her, merely asleep and not dead. She gave a shudder. How horrible that would have been, and he had been seconds away from taking that poison…

But his arm was reassuringly solid and real under her hand, and she took a firmer grasp on it and pressed herself against him, drifting off almost immediately.

O-O-O O-O-O