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night-unfurls-its-splendour · 2 years ago

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When the Longing Returns

Phantom of the Opera (2004) Fanfiction

Chapter 4

Also read on AO3

Pairing: Erik (The Phantom) x Christine Daaé

Rating: M

Chapter Summary: The Opera Populaire prepares for their production of Faust, and Christine reunites with the Phantom in the opera house tunnels for the resumption of her lessons.

Chapter Word Count: 8,891

Enjoy this chapter with my custom immersive soundscapes! Follow the links in the story! (There's also a link for Gounod's Romeo et Juliette, which I think you'll find helpful!)

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Christine awoke quite regularly with the other girls the next morning. This time she knew she had dreamed as she clutched the precious ring under her pillow; nebulous dreams, shadowy and half-formed, not nearly as vivid as her nightmares had been, but perhaps that was because she had nothing hidden from herself anymore. She couldn't quite remember exactly what had happened in her vague dream, but there were two things about it of which she was certain; that it was about him, and that she had awakened feeling wonderful and wishing she could go back to it.

The morning was ordinary; or, rather, as ordinary as it could have been.

Raoul was started rather rudely awake by Mme. Giry rapping her stick against the leg of his chair, and made to leave the immediate vicinity. Christine was pleased to see that he was more tractable this morning, but she also knew he would be in the stalls during practice. Hovering. Always hovering.

But a memory struck her suddenly:

Say you need me with you, now and always...

She'd actually said that to him herself! She'd never before been so haunted by her own words; but how could she have known how very literally he would take them, given the right provocation? She couldn't have.

All the more reason for her not to have said them.

She cursed her own stupidity and shook her head a little, attempting to cast off the feeling of mortification that now twisted in her chest as she pulled her stockings on.

When she was dressed, Meg helped her fix her hair and she tied it back with a black silk ribbon.

Whatever the managers' decision regarding Don Juan Triumphant would prove to be, regular rehearsals were resuming today for the Opera Populaire's current production: Gounod's Faust. The next performance was in four days.

Christine wondered if it would be odd to return to the routine of the past three months, now that the Opera Ghost was known to be haunting the halls again. But routine was what everyone seemed to crave, and what taskmasters like M. Reyer relied and thrived upon, so one and all approached the day determined for everything to be normal in spite of the Opera Ghost's return.

The one person whose courage seemed to be failing her was Carlotta. Since she had always been the Ghost's first choice of victim, and since it seemed certain to all that he, through some unknown dark art, had been the cause of the only wrinkle in her otherwise fabulous career (but what a wrinkle it was! It was fully a month before she could open her mouth on stage without the audience visibly bracing), her haughty confidence today was a mere pretense of her usual attitude—and a very shaky one at that.

Christine would have been lying if she denied deriving a little bit of satisfaction from watching La Carlotta sweat.

All through morning rehearsals the Diva had kept losing her place, having to start over; glancing around, up at the stage rigging and in the shadows with an acute paranoia that was, admittedly, justified.

And had it been as it was four months ago, she would surely have stormed off the stage, insisting that she couldn't work under such stress. She might have done so now, except for her certainty that if she did, it would open a door for Christine to shine again, and that she would never countenance.

Though Christine never visibly reacted, Carlotta still accused her of smirking and hurled abuse at her. This had been her unrestrained wont for three months.

One would have thought that Carlotta might have reconsidered the wisdom of this practice, since the Ghost had made his identity as Christine's mysterious song-master public, and given what had happened the last time she had insulted Christine in his hearing. But vanity and circumspection so rarely accompany each other.

At one point during rehearsal, Christine looked up, past the chandelier, to the railing of the walk that ran around the edge of the ceiling, and remembered him leaning insouciantly against it, almost cat-like—a panther, shrouded all in black—entirely at ease as he surveyed the stage, waiting for his blow to fall on the unsuspecting diva.

She still felt troubled whenever she thought of that night, but as with the masquerade, Christine's perspective on this particular moment felt quite different now (disregarding what came after); she could now appreciate the charisma he'd radiated just then. It almost made her giddy.

M. Reyer was very dubious about Carlotta's anxious behavior, but she did seem to ease as rehearsal continued, so that by the time they broke for lunch, she was, more or less, her usual self.

Christine was slightly surprised by how comfortably the morning passed.

The Phantom was observing, she was certain of that, but she had no difficulty focusing or behaving as she normally would. Carlotta's insults glanced off of her, and even Raoul's fussing over her did not irritate; she bore it with gentle patience.

But, although Christine was relaxed enough in the morning, as the day wore on, creeping closer and closer to nighttime—to her reunion with her good genius—she felt herself becoming quite nervous. She was ever more aware of his presence as evening approached.

She was also more aware of Raoul's.

She was determined that, tonight, he must be convinced to go. It was not that Christine doubted the Phantom's promise to her that he would not harm Raoul; she simply did not want Raoul there. She did not want to have to walk past him—didn't even want him in the building—when she went to rejoin her Angel.

He did not belong in the opera house after hours. His presence was aberrant to the location; it was not his realm. He was an interloper here. Like the human prince carrying off the swan maiden. Away from her magic. Away from her natural environment, to languish in mundanity for his own sake. Christine was infinitely glad she was preventing that fate for herself, she thought as she readied for bed.

Then, like clockwork, Raoul's boots were heard upon the steps again.

This time Madame Giry seemed almost resigned to his presence, but Christine opened the door and stepped out next to her warden without waiting to be summoned.

"Oh, Christine," Raoul said with slight surprise—her appearance had interrupted their disagreement.

She took his hand, holding it with care as she had in the carriage house.

"Raoul, I really don’t think it's necessary for you to stay tonight," she said, her voice nervous, but rational.

"But Christine..."

"I know you want me to be safe, and I appreciate it dearly, but Madame Giry will ensure that I am well looked after."

"I am her guardian, Monsieur," Mme. Giry stated icily.

Raoul did not seem impressed by the good lady's declaration. It was under that very guardianship, after all, that the so-called "Angel of Music" had gained access to Christine for all that time. Raoul had a mind to blame the entire situation on Mme. Giry's negligence; but he had too much respect for Gustave Daaé's memory to insult that gentleman's chosen steward of his only child to her face, no matter how badly he, Raoul, felt that she had failed in her duty.

"Raoul," Christine said in a hesitant whisper when she saw that he was unconvinced. "I know it's a small thing compared to my security, but I don't like what your staying here... well, the other girls have been saying... things... and it was alright for one or two nights, but now..." Christine's voice tightened and tears threatened assembly at the corners of her eyes.

The other girls, of course, were spreading the calumnies which originated with Carlotta. None of them really bothered Christine to the point of tears, but she let herself feel the sting of the ill-will behind them and was, in the moment, hurt enough that the tightness in her throat which choked her speech was genuine.

Raoul was instantly moved.

"Oh, Christine..." he said, his voice pained. Girls really could be so cruel to one another, he thought. It really was a triviality compared to the threat the Opera Ghost posed, but, since it was Christine's plea that had cemented his resolve to keep his vigil, her plea for him to cease it must hold equal power.

Raoul looked from Mme. Giry's severe gaze to Christine's plaintive one and back three or four times before sighing. He did not like that Mme. Giry had been so remiss (or complicit?) in the past, but he did not truly believe that she would betray her duty to her ward now, when it was clear how terrified Christine was of her one-time tutor.

"Of-of course..." he said finally, with resignation. "I'm sorry, Christine. I've been very thoughtless, haven't I?"

"It’s alright Raoul, I know you mean well," Christine replied with a gentle smile.

He turned now to Mme. Giry.

"Madame, I apologize most sincerely for any trouble I've caused you," he said courteously.

Mme. Giry thought this a very mean compensation for how high-handed he'd been with her for two consecutive nights, but she accepted the apology with a curt grace.

Raoul grasped Christine's hands (a little too tightly) and kissed her. Even now, when he was so desperate in his gallantry, his evening's parting kiss, though longer, and perhaps more forceful, than usual, lacked the heat and depth that Christine now knew even a chaste kiss could hold. Clutching her hands still, Raoul's lips parted from Christine's after a suitable length of time for a young lover (rather too suitable for a young lover) and he lifted her hands in his, kissing them quickly as well.

"Goodnight, my darling," he said affectionately, the words tinged with clinging reluctance.

"Goodnight, Raoul."

Her parting wish was also affectionate. She couldn't help that, though he was older than she, he was still the soft-hearted boy who had retrieved her red scarf from the surf, and had then happily spent his summer playing with an odd, lonely little foreign girl who was so far beneath him. It was difficult not to feel fondness for her playmate.

But fondness was as far as her feelings could stretch for him now.

As Raoul retreated down the steps, Christine was feeling prodigiously pleased with her success. She turned to go back into the dormitory and exchanged a glance with her guardian that communicated everything she needed to know—she had only to go to bed now, and Madame Giry would come for her when it was time.

She crawled into her bunk, doing her level best not to appear as excitable as she felt, but her hands shook as she pulled her covers over herself and curled up on her left side, facing the room. Her hand slipped automatically under the pillow and found the ring, clutching it in her sweaty palm as she turned her face into the cool pillow and breathed deeply the scent of the clean linen to calm herself.

She was not afraid to see him again—she desired nothing more. But so much had changed so quickly. Yesterday morning seemed almost as much a dream now as her first sojourn to his lair had in the days after he had returned her (though this new memory remained untainted by either imprudence on her part or anger on his).

Her experience with engagement had not been a helpful education—her present suitor was far more passionate with her than her previous one had been, and she more eager with him. It was a certain fear of the unknown that now kept Christine from settling, and she again found herself combing through various pieces of music to sing in her head and keep her mind occupied while she closed her eyes and feigned sleep.

Eventually the whispered giggles and conversations carried on by those girls determined to flout lights out until the latest hour they possibly could died away, and the hush of sleep fell over the moonlit dormitory. It must have been nearly eleven by that time.

Impatient, nervous, Christine clutched her sheets with one hand, and her ring with the other, her eyes still closed as she waited... waited...

~~~~~

She was very lucky she did not gasp aloud when Madame Giry—who, silent as a cat, had come to her bedside—put her hand on Christine’s shoulder as signal. She was holding a lamp in her other hand and had Christine's corset, negligée and a shawl draped over her arm, ready for her use. Hanging from her wrist was a drawstring bag.

Christine dressed quickly and quietly, wrapping the warm shawl close before finally sliding the Phantom's ring onto her finger. At last she was able to let it rest there, in its rightful place, without immediately having to remove and hide it.

"These are for you," Mme. Giry whispered, handing Christine the drawstring bag.

She opened it, and withdrew a beautiful pair of ivory silk slippers embroidered with blue and yellow flowers. Christine's breath caught in her throat as she remembered how she'd been in her stocking feet when she'd followed him through the mirror. At the time, the chilly, damp stones hadn't bothered her, she’d been so enraptured by his voice... but on the way back her feet had been so cold they were almost numb by the time he passed her up through the trap-door, and the wooden floorboards had felt as warm as anything when she set foot on them.

He must have noticed. His consideration for her comfort sent warmth spreading through her chest, up into her cheeks and down to her fingertips.

Her heart was pounding as she sat on her bed and slipped them onto her feet. It didn't surprise her at all that they fit with snug perfection. After admiring them for a moment, she collected herself and stood again.

She debated whether to tie her hair back... she seemed to recall it somehow coming undone the last time she traveled down into the tunnels below the opera. She picked up the black ribbon she'd used to tie her hair that morning, pulling it through her fingers thoughtfully, and then suddenly remembered exactly how she had come by it: tied around a red rose. Her hands trembled a little as she smiled to herself and gathered her hair, tying the ribbon around the mass of springy curls, so reticent to be restrained.

Madame Giry led her out of the dormitory, around the corner and through a hidden door that concealed a set of steps. This hidden staircase led to another door and created a kind of steep vestibule. Mme. Giry retrieved a small lantern, gave it to Christine, and motioned for her to descend first. She followed, closing the door behind them.

As Christine reached the bottom, her guardian stopped on the last step but one.

"There is another set of steps immediately through that door. They are very steep, so you must go carefully," her chaperone said quietly.

Christine nodded and reached to open the door, but Mme. Giry's hand suddenly grasped her shoulder, turning Christine to face her.

"Wait," she whispered gravely. "Before you go through, my dear, I only ask that you promise... promise me that this is what you want."

Christine was surprised at the worry in Madame's eyes—she had thought her desire to see him again had been clear to her guardian.

She had seen this unwonted emotion on Madame Giry's sharp face only once before, and it struck her as solemnly now as it had then.

So, with equal solemnity, she placed her hand on her foster mother's wrist and simply said, steadily and serenely, "Yes, it is. I'm sure."

"Quite sure?" the good woman pressed, holding Christine's shoulder more tightly and glancing down, almost fearfully, at her adorned ring finger. "He told me that you had accepted him, and gone to him willingly, but I didn't... I wasn't sure I could trust his account...."

"You can," Christine said earnestly. "He has not forced me, or manipulated me, I promise. I did go to him in the cemetery of my own free will, and I am going to him now of the same; I swear it on my father's grave."

Fitting that she had stood upon that very grave when she had declared her fidelity to him.

Madame Giry's look of concern did not immediately dissipate, in spite of Christine's assurances. In fact, Christine thought she looked as though she were considering the possibility that her ward had gone mad. But Mathilde Giry knew that Christine would never swear on her father's grave unless her conviction was entirely sober.

At length, her expression relaxed, and she released Christine's shoulder.

"Very well then, my dear," she whispered, smiling very slightly. "Go. He is waiting for you." With just one glance back at Christine, she scurried back up the steps.

Only after she had disappeared through the door at the top of the stairs did Christine turn and, lantern held aloft, open the door before her with a trembling hand.

It was very dark. Almost too dark to see a thing; the lantern light was only enough to show the immediate steps before her, which were, indeed, very steep, and quite narrow. Christine descended carefully with her little lantern, her new slippers whispering in the echoing shadows and her free hand trailing on each previous step as she edged down them. It was not as difficult to navigate as she feared, though she was a little embarrassed by how awkward she was. She had spent her entire childhood climbing the ladders and stairs and flitting along the catwalks of the stage, and she had always been sure-footed then; but these steps were not mere sport, and anticipation made her shaky.

Once she was down further, she saw a ruddy glow, and a spot of white in the darkness, and her heart leapt.

His mask...

She moved a little faster, struggling to balance her careful pace against her enthusiasm, and the shape became clearer.

Yes. It was him.

He held his own lantern, much more substantial than the little one Christine carried, which he hung on a hook as she eased her way down, down, closer to him.

Christine's breathing became unsteady as he stood directly at the bottom of the steps and looked up at her.

"Let me help you," he offered, taking her lantern and hanging it on a hook beside his. The sound of his voice made her heartbeat spike.

He reached for her with his arms outstretched and she, fighting to appear composed, lifted hers to hold his shoulders so he could place his hands—so gently—around her waist. He lifted her from the narrow step and set her down in front of himself with the utmost care.

"Thank you," she managed to murmur without her voice cracking, but her cheeks felt warm, and her lips tingled. The rich, tangy scent of him threatened again to overwhelm her, and her hands clutched his cloak as she attempted to discreetly steady herself.

His eyes, so bright, so adoring, so pleased to be making contact with hers, held her spellbound for a moment, so that she could not have moved her hands from his shoulders if she had wanted to. Nor did his hands move from her waist in that time—on the contrary they tightened around her, as they had in the cemetery.

Once she found she could move her eyes from his, they strayed down to his lips, which were curved up into a satisfied smile that made her stomach tighten. Their faces were very close... would he kiss her...?

But after a few moments he loosened his grip and shifted back very slightly. He placed his hand over Christine's where it still rested on his shoulder, his leather glove warm and smooth.

The sight of Christine trembling on the narrow stairs—her progress lurching, but her face intent as she made her way to him—had made his heart swell with a joy hitherto unimaginable to him. It was difficult to tell in the red glow of the lanterns, but he thought her face had flushed when he reached for her.

His Christine... she was in his hands now, and he was very careful in all of his movements: he had resolved to the use of only such touches and gestures as she had already allowed him. And though she had very much allowed his kiss, their separation had stoked his longing for her to a degree such as he was sure he would struggle to control himself if he indulged in that particular pleasure just at this moment. He thought there was something different about her tonight; something intangible which he couldn't quite place, but which made her all the more alluring. Another reason he must not take too many liberties with her.

Later.

For now, he drank in the sight of her. As ever, her dark ringlets were pulled back away from her face, displaying the pale, slender column of her neck, in all its gentle grace, to full advantage. He glanced down, and was pleased when he saw the slippers on her feet.

He'd been so thoughtless, on the gala night, as to allow Christine to follow him, with only her stockings to cover her feet, down to the damp tunnels. And then on the return trip... he was disgusted with himself to even think of her poor, bare feet on the cold floor, struggling to keep pace with him as he hauled her along. There could be no repeat of that foolishness.

He'd gone out the previous night and scanned the shop windows until he found those exquisite confections of ivory satin, and blue and yellow silk thread. Christine loved blue.

This morning, as soon as Mathilde was available, he'd had her go and purchase them (and given her a little surplus, that she might get something nice for herself and for Meg. Both deserved it.)

Christine followed his gaze down to her feet, and then glanced up again when he asked, "Are you pleased with them?"

"I am, very," she replied with a bashful smile that drew her full, pink lips up at the corners in a most appealing fashion.

Her mouth was rather broad, which he understood was not considered the ideal of beauty by Tout-Paris8. It was no demure bud fit only for pretty conversation, but a rose in full bloom, made to open wide and pour out the hallowed notes of music… and other sacred tones which he hoped, soon, to draw from her.

It took a great deal of willpower for him to resist the draw which that blossoming mouth held for him; but the very temptation of it was precisely what reminded him why he must.

Instead, he lifted her left hand from his shoulder, brought it to his lips, and pressed a gentle kiss to her fingers.

Her fingers, on which his ring rested once again. The picture sent a rush through him. It was so beautiful to see the boldness of the ornament softened by the grace of the hand that bore it.

Christine's skin crisped as he bowed his head and his soft, red lips brushed her fingers. As she took in this image, she suddenly gasped.

His eyes shot open, sharp and alert, as an icy anxiety jolted through him. Had something frightened her? Had he done something wrong? He almost dropped her hand, but as he looked, he saw that she was staring at her fingers with shock, though not fear.

"It's red!" she exclaimed breathlessly, her dark eyes bright with fascination. Her hand slipped from his hold, and she held it close to her face to examine the stone in the ring, twisting the band on her finger. Perhaps thinking it would change its color again.

Relief washed through him, and then became a warm flood of affection as he admired how captivated she was by the phenomenon.

"I thought it was blue at first, in the carriage," she breathed, "and then in the dormitory it looked green... but..." she trailed off, her brow furrowing.

He reached out to take her hand again, which privilege she readily granted as she looked up at him with inquisitive eyes. Smiling as he gently cradled her hand in both of his, he looked down at the ring.

"The stone is Alexandrite," he explained. "The color changes depending on the source of light: in sunlight it shows green, in firelight red. Quite a rare gem; it was only discovered in the last century."

"H-how did you come by it?" Christine asked, feeling rather slow and stupid, having been momentarily stunned by the sweetness of his smile.

He hesitated before answering, but didn't seem able to stop himself from indulging her curiosity.

"I acquired it in Persia," he said, watching her eyes widen and fill with yet more questions.

Christine found it strange to even imagine him outside the shadows of the opera house, let alone in such an exotic, sunlit environment as Persia. The spices she had noticed in his scent made some sense now.

He read her next question in her eyes, and answered before she could ask it.

"I was contracted by the Shah, very briefly... he required a significant architectural and... inventive skill. This ring was part of the payment for my services."

One of the few parts he'd been able to escape with before the Shah could give him his full payment.

There was little good that came from his work in Persia, and it was not the sort of thing that he would boast of to as good a girl as Christine, but he couldn't help taking some pride in this proof of the value of his technical achievements.

The astonishment on Christine’s face became quite an adorable stupefaction as he revealed these details to her, and for the moment it was his pleasure to allow her to feel awed by his exotic past. At some point he would have to reveal the less enchanting details to her. But not now. He didn't want to worry about that now.

Before she could ask any more questions that he might find awkward to answer, he lifted her hand, unable to resist feeling the smooth skin against his lips again, and kissed it with every intention of doing so only briefly and then leading her on down the passage; but as he breathed in, he stopped.

Honeysuckle.

He had hit upon the impalpable difference about her this evening.

"This scent," he said softly, running his thumb over the back of her hand. "This is different...." He inhaled again, subtly. Christine's face became hot again and she was sure that she could not hide this blush even in the lantern light. She had been so preoccupied with the prospect of Raoul perceiving the difference (which was needless, it turned out—he hadn't commented on it once all day) she hadn't considered that the Phantom would take notice of it as well. Which was rather foolish, as she was quite certain that he noticed everything about her.

"Yes," she said feeling herself begin to sweat as she paused, unable to think of how to continue. The silence rang in her ears. She felt almost as though she'd forgotten the lyrics in the middle of a performance.

"I... it's my soap. I was using a lavender scent, which Raoul gave to me, but, well, I don't really like lavender. So after... after yesterday... I decided to use my old soap instead..." she said at length, concluding rather lamely.

Now he understood.

At the masquerade she had smelt of lavender, which he had noticed just at the same moment he'd seen that ridiculous, vulgar ring hanging from her neck. In the cemetery the same scent had further provoked him to doubt her, but he'd forgotten about it when she'd pledged her faith to him.

Why, exactly, such a benign scent as lavender should have vexed him so he'd not been sure, but now, with this insight, it made sense. It was a change in her from when he'd last been close to her: one that didn't suit. It was a common scent. Uninspired. Unartistic. Dull. Not at all appropriate for such a muse as she.

When she'd followed him to his home, this was the scent that had clung to her skin and hair. Fresh, clean, simple honeysuckle. It was so natural to her.

But of course Christine, always so eager to please, had used a scent she disliked for months simply to oblige her fiancé. And of course the ignorant whelp wouldn't have noticed that it didn't please her. Oh, how he loathed that dunce; he could at least have made an effort to be a worthy rival for Christine's affections.

He swallowed back the bitter taste which the Vicomte's inattentiveness to Christine's partialities left in his mouth, and instead focused on how sweetly she was blushing.

"I'm glad," he smiled—almost smirked. "I don't think lavender suited you. This..." he inhaled another pull of the sweet fragrance, "...this is much more fitting."

And for a moment he wondered if she would allow him to kiss the inside of her wrist. Something in her utterly disarmed expression told him that she would, and happily, but should he? No. He'd set his boundaries for this evening; he must abide by them… unless she told him not to.

Christine was still and silent as he seemed to be contemplating something deeply, and there was a very peculiar light in his eyes that made her insides quiver. But presently, as before, when she wondered if he would kiss her, he moved back.

He lowered her hand away from his face and held his head erect again, taking a deep breath of the cool air in the passage to clear his mind and slow his blood, which had begun to rush. Still holding her left hand in his right, he unhooked her lantern, handed it to her, and then took his own.

"Come," he urged, gently but irresistibly tugging her along. He needed to walk, to move his restless body; and their time was short enough as it was.

Christine followed, taking long strides to keep up with him, as she'd had to do in the cemetery. She understood why they needed to move quickly, having dawdled so long at the foot of the stairs, but she still trailed behind him. He did not move so fast that the pace was insupportable for her—he seemed to be very consciously regulating his speed for that very consideration—but she thought he was perhaps a little agitated. Not irate, or displeased, simply... tense.

Had he gone a little slower, she could have matched his steps and held onto his arm as they went, but the passage then narrowed, and another steep flight of stairs dropped off before them, making that impossible in any case.

Progress was much faster down these steps with his hand to hold on to, though she was sure he could have gone twice as quickly and much more gracefully without her slowing him.

"I'm sorry this path isn't as easy as the one from the dressing room," he lamented. "We'll return by another way." He'd selected this route because its ingress was nearest the dormitory, but he'd not considered how treacherous the steps were.

"I don't mind," Christine said meekly, gripping his hand on the next step down. She truly didn't mind the necessity of holding him for support, and she especially didn't mind when he lifted her from the last few steps again. She couldn't help enjoying the feeling of his hands around her.

"It's more level from here onward," he assured her, nonetheless.

They proceeded on a little ways and then Christine heard a clink, and a soft snorting, then the scrape of a hoof along the floor.

She was, therefore, not entirely surprised when they rounded a curve in the passage and came to the tremendous black horse tethered to the wall and clad in a side-saddle.

She, of course, remembered that he'd conveyed her part of the way on horseback before, but she had been so focused on him that she'd not taken much notice of the horse, and hadn't thought about it much afterward. It seemed impossible now because she recognized that she was very familiar with the animal.

It was César.

He had disappeared from the opera stable nigh on a week before Hannibal opened, apparently stolen. Christine and Meg went often to the stables to feed the horses, and had fed César treats from their very own hands almost daily. They both had been very upset by his disappearance. It was well known he was the cleverest horse in the stable, and had the sweetest temper.

M. Lachenal, the head groom, was even more upset. He was certain the Opera Ghost had been the culprit. And he had been right.

César whickered and his ears flicked up as he pawed the ground impatiently at their approach.

"Hello," Christine greeted him, smiling as César whinnied in joyful recognition. Quite absently, she handed her lantern to the Phantom and patted the horse's neck. "I've missed you."

The stallion let out a familiar contented sigh, pleased by the attention.

"Is he taking good care of you?" she whispered as César turned his head and nudged her shoulder. Christine glanced at the dark, inscrutable figure watching them, who seemed unamused by her comment to the very clearly well-looked-after horse.

In truth, he was quite taken with watching this exchange between Christine and César. Her sweetness with the creature was immaculate, the innate gentleness of her motions utterly stunning. He had often admired the virtues of such moments from afar, but it was altogether more breathtaking to witness whilst standing next to her.

After appreciating this vision for just a moment longer, he gathered himself and extinguished their lanterns, hanging them up nearby.

"You needn't worry on that score," he said, approaching and helping her to mount the steed. "César and I have always been very good friends."

As if to affirm this assertion, César turned his head to nudge the Phantom's shoulder, just as he had Christine's.

"Always?" Christine asked as she settled in the saddle.

"I visit the stable quite often," he replied simply, sounding quite sentimental as he reached over to briefly scratch César's jaw. The horse whickered and nudged him again, asking for more attention.

The Phantom spoke softly to him, patting his neck: "Not now, my friend. Later," he said. Horses were so much easier to abide with than people—they were too clever to judge by appearances.

Christine felt a singular swelling sensation in her chest, watching him interact in such a gentle, familiar way with their mutual friend.

"He certainly does like you," she said with a little smile.

"He's a good judge of character," he replied, smiling as well, as he stroked César's snout once more for good measure, and then gathered the reins in his hand.

The passage was indeed very level, but it soon became apparent that César's employment tonight was not merely a romantic gesture—it was quite justified, as this tunnel was much longer than the one from the dressing room had been. The lair must be on the complete opposite side of the building, she thought during the long ride.

They didn't speak because the Phantom had begun to sing from Roméo et Juliette:

"O night, beneath thy dark wings shelter me!"

These first lines were so softly sung and so casually begun that Christine was unsure if he was singing for her, or if this was simply his habit. It was possibly both—his choice of song, Romeo's serenade under Juliet's balcony from Act II, seemed too apropos for it to be entirely unorchestrated.

It mattered little either way, for as soon as he began his song, Christine felt herself become lost in it, as she always had done whenever his unearthly voice carried a melody to her.

"Love! Love! Ah, its intensity has disturbed my very being! But! What sudden light through yonder window breaks? ’Tis there that by night her beauty shines!"

And here, without hesitation, he turned his head to look up at Christine.

Indeed, this was no mere song of idle routine.

"Ah, arise, o sun! Turn pale the stars that, unveiled in the azure, do sparkle in the firmament! Ah, arise! Ah, arise! Appear! Appear, thou pure and enchanting star!"

Oh, it had been so long since she'd heard him sing for her, just to give her comfort and pleasure, without the taint of fear or desperation in the golden notes. His rendition would ruin this aria for her forever; not even the most mellifluous of lyric tenors would ever be able to do it justice.

Christine was swaying in the saddle as he matched the time to César's gentle gait. Or was the horse matching him?

"She is dreaming, she loosens a lock of hair, which falls to caress her cheek. Love! Love, carry my vows to her!"

She did look as though she were dreaming, so relaxed and contented with her eyes closed. But upon this last line they fluttered open and met his.

"She speaks! How beautiful she is! Ah, I heard nothing; But her eyes speak for her and my heart has answered!"

Christine found herself no longer soothed by the cavatina, but excited.

"Ah, arise, o sun! Turn pale the stars that, unveiled in the azure, do sparkle in the firmament! Ah, arise! Ah, arise! Appear! Appear, thou pure and enchanting star! Appear thou enchanting star...

As he rounded out the verse she knew it would next be Juliet's turn to sing. Did he expect her to join him? Could she resist? She knew it by heart...

"...Come, appear! Come, appear!" Romeo bade.

Without a single thought, Christine sat straighter in the saddle, and Juliet began:

"Alas! I – to hate him?! Blind, cruel hatred! O Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo? Refuse that fatal name which divides us, or I’ll refuse mine!"

"Is it true? Did you say it?" he demanded, his eyes desperate and hopeful—a desperate hope which Christine recognized from a frigid morning in a cemetery. "Ah, dispel the doubt in too happy a heart!" he begged.

"Who listens to me, and surprises my secrets in the darkness of night?" she challenged.

"I dare not, by naming myself, tell you who I am."

"Are you not Romeo?"

"No! I’ll no longer be he, if this detested name keeps us apart! That I may love you, let me be born again, in some other self than mine!"

"Ah!" she returned "– you know that the night hides my face from you! You know it! If your eyes could see its blushes they would bear witness to you of the purity of my heart!"

Christine sang in earnest, more ardently than she'd had occasion to in many months, and she could truly hear the difference in her voice that was inspired only when she sang for him. The fullness and richness that had been missing for three long months.

She would never have admitted it before, but Christine was glad she hadn't been given any leading roles since Hannibal.

Though her years of lessons with the Angel had given her the necessary technical skill to sing as proficiently as La Carlotta or any other Prima Donna, she knew that the depth, the passion, the angelic quality which had so captivated Paris on gala night would be conspicuously absent; and she had not thought she could have borne the disappointment of showing that ordinary kind of performance when she had tasted but briefly her own potential for true greatness.

She did need her teacher. She had been singing for months now without coaching and it was painfully apparent to her. And yet, here, now, she was not discouraged by it, as long as he looked at her.

"Away with useless evasions...do you love me? I can guess what you will answer: but make no promises! Phoebe, I fancy, with her inconstant rays lights up false oaths and laughs at lovers! Dear Romeo! Tell me honestly “I love you!” and I’ll believe you; and my honour will entrust itself to yours, o my lord, as you can trust in me!"

Her spine tingled at the way the heat of his eyes seemed to sear into her as she sang the words 'O my lord.'

"Do not accuse my heart, whose secret you know, of wantonness, because it could not keep silent... but accuse the night whose indiscreet veil has betrayed the mystery."

He indeed must have organized this duet with intention, for as Juliet's solo ended they were coming upon the shore of the underground river that would lead them to the lair.

"Before God who hears me, I pledge you my troth!"

He sang the last line of the duet as César came to a stop and, just as if they were performing on stage, the Phantom reached his hand up to her, as Romeo would, trying in vain to touch Juliet's outstretched fingers. But unlike Juliet, Christine was on a horse, not a balcony, and their hands met easily.

The Phantom.

Again she'd been forced to use an epithet for him in her head, and this gave her a great deal of disquiet, but it was momentarily driven from her thoughts as his other arm slipped around her waist to help her slide down from her mount and into his embrace.

And he held her there for a moment, gazing down into her eyes with unrestrained admiration. He couldn't help himself... his hand came up, cupped her face. It was an intimate touch. It made Christine's heart race. She could hear it pounding in her ears, and her breath came heavily.

"Oh, Christine," he whispered, and he was so close his breath washed over her face. It carried a sweet, but slightly bitter scent; one of the many notes she'd sworn herself to identify, but she couldn't hardly think to even try just now. "I have missed your voice," he said, the words laden with a tender ache. He stroked her cheek with his thumb. Otherwise he was quite still, though his breathing, too, seemed heavy.

"I-I've missed yours," she admitted, her voice breaking. To say it aloud, to hear the truth she'd so steadfastly denied for months ringing out in speech, echoing in the underground cavern, in words that another person could hear, was incredibly cathartic.

Her confession seemed to transport him. His eyes were no longer merely admiring, they were almost worshipful. It was so powerful she thought she might be crushed under the gravity of it, and so she buried her face in his shoulder again and hugged herself to him, feeling his solid breadth fill her arms as she waited until she felt she could bear the weight of his gaze again.

He seemed to lift his head and took a deep breath, which shuddered slightly. He still held her, but his arms loosened a little, so that she was quite sure she could easily have pulled from them if she'd wished to.

She didn't wish to, though.

Even when she did bring her hands to his chest and pushed back, ever so slightly, it was not because she wished to, only because it was necessary in order to tentatively raise her eyes to his.

Either the intensity of the moment had passed, or she had adjusted to bear it, because the emotion was still very much present there, but no longer did it seem to overpower her. He, too, seemed more in command of himself when he released her from his arms and lifted his hands to move hers from their resting place. With both of her hands held in his, he drew her toward the bank and, without another word except to send César trotting back up the passage, helped her to embark the little boat before boarding himself and beginning the short voyage home.

Home. With Christine.

He must be careful.

Embracing her like that had been a risk. When she'd said she missed his voice, she'd looked so sweet, so beautifully emotional, he'd almost broken his own boundaries; almost kissed her without invitation... until she'd hidden her face from him and saved him from his own imprudence. He should have known better than to hold her so closely. It would be best to keep his distance from her during their lesson.

Yes. Only approach her if necessary, he told himself. She'd hidden, though, and that troubled him. Why? Had she seen his control beginning to slip, seen the temptation overtaking him? Perhaps she had feared the coming kiss, and hidden to prevent it from taking place. Perhaps she had forgotten, in the cemetery, about his hidden, hideous countenance, and only remembered in the intervening time. He could hardly blame her for wanting to avoid any part of his face that came so close to his deformity—

Stop this, now! he commanded himself.

It was impossible that she could have forgotten his true face! Had she not said so herself, on the rooftop? Her harshness had cut him, but it was only accurate:

'Can I ever escape from that face? So distorted, deformed, it was hardly a face! '

And she had only glimpsed it.

So no, the possibility of her having forgotten must be discounted.

And in spite of it, she'd begged for him to kiss her. Passionately. Adorably. She had begged him.

Just now, she had admitted to missing him over the two days they'd been apart. So she would not hide out of fear then, would she? No! She would not have struggled with determined vigor down those treacherous steps to meet him with such delight if she feared him... The remembrance of her face when she'd seen him waiting for her set his roiling unease to rest, and he breathed a deep, calming breath.

Then it was, perhaps, that she was overcome by emotion?

He was spared any further agonizing analysis of her behaviour when he glanced down and saw that she had turned around in the boat, quite without his noticing, to sit facing him. Her arms were gathered under her knees, keeping her nightdress tucked close to her legs, and she leaned forward against her thighs, looking up at him with contemplative doe-eyes.

When previously she had ridden in this boat, Christine had sat facing forward, marveling as she took in the wonder of this subterranean realm. But the surroundings held little interest for her now, as she had infinitely more pressing thoughts on her mind.

Since he had freed her of his intoxicating proximity, her earlier concern regarding his name had returned to her in force. She wasn't sure of she could muster the courage to ask him outright when he'd not yet told her of his own choice. It felt almost like a violation. Like touching his mask. If he hadn't told her yet, he must have a reason. But surely, as he intended marriage... he must tell her sometime. Or was she to call her husband "Angel" and "Phantom" for the rest of their lives when he was neither?

And it was this which she was considering when he chanced to look down at her, and was pulled from the labyrinth of his own thoughts.

He could just see the soft rounds of the tops of her breasts where they pressed against her knees, but he forced himself to focus on her face. Clearing his throat, he said with apparent nonchalance, "You're very intent, Christine, are you making a study of me?"

His comment caught her quite off-guard, and Christine quickly looked down at her knees, embarrassed for having been caught staring. She floundered again, unsure of how to respond. She'd been presented with a chance to broach the subject which she had been contemplating, but should she?

Even as she questioned herself, though, the words came tumbling out of her.

"In the dressing room, just before you appeared in my mirror, you said I should know you, but..." and now she hesitated, trembling; remembering the words he had flung at her in his thundering fury the last time curiosity had caused her to overstep. Was she Pandora again? She couldn't speak.

Christine was in some kind of distress, he recognized it immediately, just as he had in the cemetery when she'd stumbled. At once, he ceased poling the boat along.

"'But' what?" he asked softly, eager to put her at ease. "What is it, Christine?"

He said her name so tenderly that Christine found she was able to glance at him, and gathered enough courage to find her voice again. Surely he would tell her. Did she not have a right to know?

"You've not yet told me your name," she whispered timidly. She looked down again before she'd finished speaking. Her face felt hot in a most unpleasant way.

He was silent.

This had been a mistake. Christine's palms broke into a sweat. Had she angered him? She didn't dare look at him to attempt to determine it.

She was silently cursing her own curiosity when he spoke.

"I don't honestly know that I have one," he admitted.

He didn't sound wroth. Terribly sad... not angry, though. Christine looked up and found that his expression matched his tone, to a heart-rending accuracy.

Her observation had surprised him. It was actually almost droll; in all his planning for that moment of revelation, he'd forgotten that she would need a name to call him by. He supposed an opportunity might have presented itself if he'd had more time with her that night; but he'd not accounted for her fainting in shock. And then... the subsequent events had not been conducive to openness. Any further consideration of the subject had been completely driven from his mind, with how badly his plans had gone awry. And now it seemed she could barely bring herself to ask him. There was some fear there in her eyes when they met his. That must be remedied at once. She mustn't be frightened of him, so he must answer her, gently and as fully as possible.

"My father's surname was 'Vachon', but I don't remember if my mother ever gave me a Christian name," he said, struggling to keep eye-contact with Christine as he told her this; but he must. It was vital. "She may have done, but I don't recall her ever calling me by it. My mother... was ashamed of me..." That was so much an understatement it was almost a lie—resented would have been a more accurate word, or better still, loathed. "When I... was older, I took the name 'Erik'. Few people have ever known me by it. It would please me if you did."

Christine felt reassured by the weight of this short history; and there was so much he'd not told her, she was certain of it by the pain she could hear underlying his composure. Yet, at the same time, she felt, not happy, but something akin to happiness—he could simply have said 'Erik' if that was what he wished her to call him. He'd not only told her his chosen name, but also these intimate details. She felt trusted, and that solaced her greatly.

"Erik," she repeated softly with a sweet smile, and hugged her legs a little more tightly to calm whatever floating sensation had been stirred inside her. She looked down again, but neither fear nor shame was the motivation this time.

Few people, thought Erik. And none of them had ever spoken it with that sweet affection or... pleasure. He longed desperately to kneel in the boat before her. To take up her hands, and kiss her sweet fingers again.

He restrained himself, gripping the pole tightly instead, and resuming their progress. The boat once again began slicing through the murky water of the canal.

A few silent moments later, she glanced up at him and observed: "Erik is a Scandinavian name..." A notion had crossed her mind... he'd not said exactly when he'd chosen his name... could it be that he...?

Again he seemed to read the question in her eyes, and smiled in amusement.

"I took that name by happenstance, long before I knew you." He'd almost said, 'met you', but that somehow felt insensitive to the fact that they had only properly met on the night he took her to his home.

Christine was a little relieved—as touching as it might have been for him to have chosen his name to appeal to her and her ancestry, that would have been a bit too... much, even for one as romantic as herself.

She asked no further questions, now content to gaze at him again, and to feel no shame in the activity. She had asked, and he had revealed more of himself to her, and she felt freer for it.

By and by, she heard a familiar, metal cranking sound that made her insides swoop and her heart thud from a vivid memory.

She turned in the boat to see the iron portcullis opening to admit them.

~~~

Author's Notes

#when the longing returns #phan phic #phantom of the opera fanfiction #poto fanfiction #erik x christine #christine x erik #eristine #poto e/c #e/c #christine daaé #christine daae #erik the phantom #poto erik #erik poto #phantom of the opera #poto

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mooseonabreak · 1 year ago

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This is gonna be kinda long and it’s mostly me rambling/venting, so feel free to ignore it.

Brother asked me to help him find any of his surviving baby pictures (a lot of our baby pictures were destroyed in an accident; most of the remaining ones are of me) and we stumbled across one of my mother’s high school and college photo albums. It’s so strange flipping through stills of her girlhood and seeing faces of people I never got to know or people I barely know in their older years but were so important to my mom in her youth. Saw pictures of her friends, cousins, aunts and uncles– all people I don’t know but people she held so close to her. Saw pictures of her in her college years when she was still chasing after her dreams of becoming a fashion designer and participated in fashion shows. There wasn’t a trace of the wrinkles or grey hairs or disillusionment that come with growing older. She was just a girl.

We found notes from her teachers and friends that told fragments of a story we’ll never know. A hand written apology from someone named Barbara. A thank you note from someone named Christine. We found browning dress patterns tucked between the album pages and pictures that never got tucked inside the plastic sleeves for display. I found envelopes with images of my mother on her graduation day to celebrate her special day that were never sent out. There were so many.

I don’t know why I’m saying all this or even posting it, but seeing a different version of my mom from who I’ve gotten so used to seeing has me feeling nostalgic for someone I never knew. She’s always been My Mom to me. I never got to know her when she was just Her. Obviously not. And I won’t ever because my mere existence means she can’t go back to being just Her. My existence can’t be separated from my mother’s. I saw someone else looking through those pictures, and I guess I feel a little guilty about killing her (metaphorically), because as soon as I stepped into the scene– even if I was just a concept, a theory, I was just a clump of cells and not a person yet– things changed for her.

It’s like survivor’s guilt, I guess. That girl from those pictures and that past locked away by time died so I could live. I’ve heard bits and pieces of what she was like when she was younger, but I’ll never know the full story. She doesn’t talk about it. I wonder if my brother felt the same way flipping through the photo album. Maybe I’m just overthinking everything. Idk. I don’t think I’ll tell my mom what we found either. If I feel this way about it, I don’t know how she’ll react if I tell her.

#heavy emotions #my bad #can’t always be cool and mysterious sometimes I have to overshare on the internet /hj #moose posting #moose rambles #but fr this time #lots of rambling #might delete idk

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lovely-lotte · 2 years ago

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@wandering-child-rp

“I may have to ask if it’s possible to wear another,” The dress was rather wrinkled now, even after she tried to smooth it out it seemed the only way to do so would be to iron it and there wasn’t exactly much time for that. Her husbands clothes weren’t much better either, but he could at least hide his shirt with his waist coat and jacket.

“I know, and you’ll have to remove it from your face now.” Christine smirked as she wiped her thumb across his lip, showing the red residue from her lipstick. The mark on her own neck could easily be covered, so she wasn’t worried about that, and Erik’s marks would all be covered once dressed.

Once they tried tidying themselves up a little, they made their way out, but before Christine could make it to her dressing room Meg stopped them and began chatting with them, although she normally liked to have a conversation with her dear friend, now wasn’t the time. She told her that she needed to fix herself up a little before the show, then excused herself.

#wandering-child-rp

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meilas · 10 months ago

Note

For the WIP ask game, do you have a snippet from the plant au to share? 👀

another?? okay!

“Oh, Christine, I think your plant is dying!” Jammes said one day.

Christine looked over at her dressing table. Erik’s leaves were small, and his petals were wrinkly, yes, but he wasn’t wilting. “No, he’s fine,” Christine said. “He always looks like that.”

Jammes wrinkled her nose at Christine’s words. “He? Well, he is very ugly. Where did you get it?”

Oh dear, Christine thought. “Raoul gave him to me,” she said. She watched as the tips of Erik’s petals retracted enough to reveal his teeth. If she didn’t do something, Erik was going to bite her friend. “I like him,” she said firmly. “Anyway, come sit down.”

Oblivious to the danger, Jammes bounced over to the circle of girls sitting cross-legged on the floor. Christine shook her head minutely at Erik, and he covered his teeth and seemed to shrink down. Whether it was guilt at being scolded by her, or shame over Jammes’ comment, Christine didn’t know. But she would have to do some damage control after her friends left.

#plant au #phanfic #fanfic

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multirptrash · 2 years ago

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Christine couldn’t help the small sag of her shoulders as the two got back to planing…however, she would be happy to get out of this ridiculous dress. Sure, it was pretty, but one slight breeze and disaster would follow.

It was decided that they would, essentially, use the ship to try and blow up the structure. As for weakening Apollo, Christine had to make him believe that she had turned to his side, and then betray him.

Betraying him wasn’t the part she was against.

“I’m not kissing him,” she said firmly, wrinkling her nose.

Kirk buckled slightly, “I’m not asking you to. Just lead him on, make him believe that you’ve fallen to his side. We need him to feel betrayed.”

Where My Heart Belongs

multirptrash:

Christine felt like she might pass out under the heat of his steady gaze, but she didn’t look away…and Klingons would have to make a lot of heavy threats to get her to move her hand right now.

Some part of her brain, probably the part that helped her pass her exams in med school, put words together. “No…no, he, well, he flirted a lot…tried to hug and kiss me…but not hurt me.” It wasn’t anything she hadn’t experienced before in dingy bars.

Spock nodded. He sat up properly, which took some effort, but not as much as hiding the grimace of pain he would have made had she not been crouching by his side. They did not have the time to behave as though he was an invalid. The captain looked in their direction and hurried over, offering Spock a hand up, for which he was grateful. Then, ever the gentleman, he did the same for Christine. Spock was less grateful for that, a ridiculous reaction.

“You all right, Spock?” Kirk asked.

“Perfectly, captain. How do you propose we deal with this…deity?”

It was obviously back to business.

#wmhb

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patsywalker1 · 2 years ago

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Stranger Things AU

She Snapped AU

Other than the incident with Jason at the beginning of summer; Chrissy hasn't been bothered by him since. It made her anxious because he wasn’t one to back down so easily. The rest of her summer was spent behind the desk at Family Video or at the Byer-Hopper house. Thoughts of her parents and brother were always in the back of her mind; Hopper seemed to be doing a great job of keeping them at bay, or they just no longer cared.

That is until two weeks before the summer ended. Chrissy was working a shift with Robin at Family Video, stocking the shelves, when a familiar car pulled into the lot. She thought nothing of it until the overhead door chimed and footsteps came right behind her. Whipping around she found her mother; dressed like she was ready to go yachting, polished and perfect, all except for her face. Her mother’s beautiful face was set in disapproval, causing her face to crease “don’t make that face Chrissy, you’ll get premature wrinkles. Men don’t like women with wrinkles; they’ll move onto someone younger and prettier if they see you’re getting old” Her mothers words rang in her head.

Color drained from the young girl’s face; she was prepared to hear from her mother at some point but didn’t predict it’d happen at work.

“You look positively awful Chrissy. First you leave your family and now you don’t care about how you look? Think of the family’s reputation; the one you’re already damaging. We had to tell our friends that we sent you to cheer camp!” Her mother lunged forward as she spoke, grabbing Chrissy roughly around the bicep, nails digging into her skin through her t-shirt.

Her mother continued. “I’m taking you home right this instant and we’ll discuss your punishment when we get back. I’m appalled by your behavior.” Chrissy tried pulling back but her mom’s grip just tightened on her, nails digging deeper; she could feel her skin breaking.

“Let go of me! I’m not going back to that house with you.” Her voice was raw.

“Oh yes you will be young lady. I’m over this tantrum you're throwing, you obviously haven’t learned your lesson, so I’ll make sure you learn properly.” Her mother, she had always been good at punishments. Chrissy thought she could hear Robin on the phone calling for help, oh she hoped she was on the phone. Chrissy took a deep breath, the time away from her family gave her the opportunity to see how delusional her parents were. How absolutely fucked up their family is. She’s done taking this kind of abuse from them, from anyone.

Her other hand wrapped around her mom's wrist that was currently digging into her bicep. She gripped as hard as she could until her mom yelped and let go of her. Fight fire with fire.

“I’m done with you and dad. I’m not letting you live through me, I’m sick of living the life you always wanted. I am not a doll for you to play with. I'm not coming back.” She’d start sticking up for herself from now on. No longer was there the little girl with no backbone, letting her mother play as much as she wanted.

“You’re making a mistake Christine. I hope you know that. You will never be allowed to come back; you won’t get any money from us. You’ll suffer for the rest of your life as a poor nobody." Chrissy's mother stuck her nose up, as if she could smell what she said.

"I'd rather be poor and happy then spend a second longer with you." Her mother cringed back, she knew it hit her deep, good, she needed to understand.

"How dare you?! I've done everything I could for you. I set you up with a wonderful boy, put you in sports, helped keep track of your eating, helped you make friends! Christine Anne, you are ungrateful." Her mother was seething.

"No mom, you did all those things for you! You never asked if I wanted to date Jason, you never asked if I wanted to cheer, you didn't keep track of my eating! You never fed me. And friends? They would have stabbed me in the back in a heartbeat." Tears were threatening to fall out of her eyes. She looked up and willed them away as best she could. She'd rather die than cry in front of her mom right now.

Nails dug into her arm again, pulling her roughly. She gasped in shock at the pain as she felt her skin break.

The door whipped open; their heads shot up. Her body instantly relaxed at the sight of Hopper entering the store, coming straight at them. Finally, she could get away from her mother, she’d be out of her claws. Her mother smirked at the sight of Hopper.

“Oh, Chief Hopper, thank goodness you’re here! My daughter is acting hysterical, and I need help getting her in the car. She’s been gone so long I’m afraid she’s lost her mind. We must get her home at once! Only then can we start to help her get back to her usual self.” Her mother thought that Hopper would go along with this, she truly did. Was she delusional?

“Excuse me Mrs. Cunningham, I’m going to have to ask you to let go of your daughter.” Hopper replied coolly; eyes fixed on the grip her mother had on her wrist. He looked calm but there was a fire burning in his eyes. After having spent the greater part of the summer with him, Chrissy had gotten a better read on him.

“Ohh Hopper, there’s nothing wrong! I’m just trying to help her into the car. Christine needs help.” Her mother put a frown on her face, looking as worried as she could.

“She looks like she’s in pain so I’m going to have to ask you to let her go. I also have a witness that you were verbally abusing her; in addition, I can see you physically restraining her.” He motioned towards her mother’s hand. The hand shot off her like it burned her. Hopper put himself between Chrissy and her mother after and continued.

“Additionally, she doesn’t have to go anywhere with you, according to the state she’s been emancipated, you have no control over her.” Hopper did a bad job at concealing the curling of his lips; but Chrissy couldn’t find it in herself to care. He was right, she’s her own adult, her mother has no say over her.

A sneer left her mothers mouth as she clicked her tongue and looked straight at Robin, she knew who reported this to the police. Robin simply just shrugged her shoulders. The eyes of her mother shot back to her.

“Fine, live your miserable life you ungrateful little pig. Those jeans are pinching you in all the wrong places. Maybe you should buy a scale with your extra money. Oh wait…” Her mother waved a perfectly manicured hand with her parting words; exciting the store not long after.

The final jingle of the bell had Chrissy falling to the floor. She felt lightheaded and weak-kneed. Her eyes followed her mother as she left the store and into the parked car. Chrissy’s eyes found another pair of eyes watching her, it was her brother Matthew.

A sob escaped her throat as she mouthed ‘are you okay?’ at him. He nodded her head and mouthed back ‘I’m okay, I love you’. Relief flooded her. The worries she was holding onto all summer drained out of her. He looked fine, if not a little tired, but he was in one piece. The car roughly pulled out of the parking spot, the tires screeching at the speed.

“Well at least now I know why Jonathan Byers has been dropping you off.” She heard Robin comment behind her.

Hopper stepped forward and wrapped his hands under her armpits, lifting her up, up into a bear hug. She relaxed in his embrace, not embarrassed by how small and childlike she probably looked in the moment; she just felt safe. Her tears burst from her like a dam that broke. Feeling overwhelmed from all that had happened in the last 30 minutes.

Hopper had started feeling like a father soon after she moved in with Joyce and Hopper (and the kids). He’d already done more for her than her actual father had. Spending time with her, teaching her how to shoot, showing her stars in the night sky (which had been one of her favorite nights that summer. She got to watch shooting stars with him and Jane). He was just there for her; a shoulder she could cry on. Like a father should be.

“Thank you.” She mumbled into his neck. He nodded in response, rubbed her back softly before setting her back on her feet and released her from his hug, kissing her on the forehead before he pulled away fully.

“Thank Robin, she called me right after your mom approached you.” He commented after stepping away from her. Chrissy sniffed and wiped the tears from her eyes.

“Thank you, Robin, I’m just so glad I wasn’t working by myself when she came in, who knows what would’ve happened.” She smiled softly at the girl. Robin appeared to be embarrassed and rubbed the back of her neck.

“Well I’ve seen my fair share of crazy parents, let me tell you. This one time-“ As Robin continued to ramble, Chrissy couldn’t help but feel grateful to Robin for not asking questions or trying to pry.

Chrissy shared a smile with Hopper as they listened to Robin rant.

----------

They started school in just one week. Chrissy couldn’t believe how fast the previous week had gone by after the confrontation with her mother.

She was in the process of packing with Jane and Max. They had already gone supply shopping and picked-up their textbooks for the year. Chrissy had tried to pay for her school supplies, but Joyce and Hopper were having none of it and told her to keep her money. She felt excited packing the girls backpacks, like a big sister.

It hadn’t taken long for Max to warm up to her. Will and Jane had warned Chrissy before she met the young girl that Max could be rude to new people. But she didn’t find that to be the case at all; it’s like Max took one look at her and adopted her as an older sister. She loved it. She loved being with Jane and Max, just doing girly things with them. Not worried about any snide comments or being laughed at. Which was a general occurrence when doing a girl’s night with the cheer team.

She had new and fun experiences with the girls. Max taught her how to skateboard which she wasn’t very good at, but Max said she was improving. Jane showed her all her favorite shows and they spent long nights binge watching. They’re going to watch Golden Girls together once it starts airing. They both introduced her to comic books about Wonder Woman, a female warrior princess, whom Chrissy loved. Max even lent her all the comics she had on Wonder Woman.

Max and Jane left shortly after they finished their backpacks to go to the arcade, Chrissy had declined their offer to join them, she wanted to stay in and do some light reading. It was a Friday night so the house was empty. Joyce and Hopper were on a date at Enzo’s, Will was with the gang, Jonathan was out with a friend. So she had the house to herself. She tucked herself in on the couch and read her book for hours, it was her favorite Princess Bride.

Chrissy could hear a car approaching, she knew just by the sound that it was Jonathan. The headlights of the car bathed the living room in a yellow haze.

The slamming of the car doors broke her from her daze. Whispered conversations just on the other side of the door. He must be bringing friends over; she’s never met any of Jonathan’s friends before.

"No one likes a messy girl Chrissy. A man can only see you at your best." The words of her mother ratting in her head. She shook the thought away, she didn't care, she didn't.

The door opened and Jonathan plus two of his friends walked in right behind him.

I didn’t know Jonathan was friends with Eddie Munson. She wasn’t sure who the other guy was, but he had hair so nice that she felt jealous at how glossy it looked.

Eddie looked the same as he did last year. Ripped jeans, denim jacket, rings decorating his fingers, he even had his leather jacket on. His long curly dark brown hair framing his face and the same deep brown mischievous eyes. Plump full lips that looked so smooth that Chrissy could imagine hers locked to for hours. Wait what? She squeaked.

The three heads whipped to her, apparently they hadn't sent her.

“Jonathan, either Argyle laced the weed, or Chrissy Cunningham is sitting on your couch right now” She wondered if Eddie was feeling alright, because his face looked like it was turning red as he spoke. Hers wasn't much better.

"Well, well, well, Jonathan you're holding out on us man! You didn't tell me you lived with such a beautiful lady!" Mystery man sent a wink her way. If she wasn't red before, well she is now.

Chrissy's looking forward to the school year.

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nursc-a2 · 2 years ago

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as a reflex, she smiled when the captain tapped her on the back and praised her skills, going on and on about her perseverance and what a wonderful job she had done with roger in the past month; it was hard to think of the broken creature they found on the desolate planet to the men who had dinner with the captain tonight. gone were the sunken cheeks and lifeless eyes, color had returned to his cheeks, and that familiar spark of cleverness was once again charming everyone in sight, including her.

five years. five long years of searching and they finally found him, it had been a herculean effort, and even as her love wavered, her faith in the rightness of never giving up on him never did. it didn’t matter what they were to each other, roger deserved better than to die alone, forgotten. when she had saw him, she had been overwhelmed, not prepared for the wave of emotion that coursed through her. as the hours passed, and she was sure the beating heart underneath her hands was the same one she had cherished once, it became easier to separate the friendship she still felt, from the love that, while still existed, did not burn as it once did, that emotion now reserved for someone else.

she had been clear, with him, with brea, and with herself — she was his friend, but she was with ralis now. they were happy, and he had been happy for her, cradling her face and telling her that her happiness was what mattered; and yet... she couldn’t feel that happiness anymore, she couldn’t feel anything. her heart was now lost, unable to comprehend its own whims and desires, in which direction it wanted to go.

after dropping off roger in his quarters, christine started to aimlessly walk through the halls of the ship, mind unable to focus on any given subject, jumping from her research, to the planet they were going to next week, to ralis, to roger, to herself, to the nightmares which had begun plaguing her.

five years. five years, how would she have felt if he had been the one to move on?

eventually, her feet entered autopilot, and she found herself in front of the room she had started sharing with ralis; they had finished moving in together a mere week before they found roger. for four years she had guarded her heart — a crush here and there, loneliness making her cling to fantasies: the more impossible, the easier it was for her to indulge in such crushes, knowing that the other person would never make a move as well. it was safe, it kept her sane, until she saw ralis and felt her heart burst with life again.

the doors open in front of her automatically. stepping in, she removes her jacket, the formal dress she wore beneath slightly wrinkled from her walk. “ ralis? you’re awake? ” she asked, not knowing which answer she wanted to hear.

@varispiritcd ♥♥♥ remember that this is your fault

#varispiritcd #varispiritcd ( ralis brea )#oh crap i just realized my tag is wrong #oops #☾ interactions. _________ ⋆˚ *･༓ very much in control of herself.

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theflowerofhumanity · 1 year ago

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Never Say Never

multirptrash:

Christine Chapel. Twenty-one years old. Studying to be a doctor. She came from a loving home, with supportive parents, and already had a best gal for a best friend one year above her in the Academy. She was heading into it with a near-perfect grade-point average, a fantastic work ethic, and she was intelligent to boot.

But Christine was also coming off of one of hte worst breakups o her life. The getting-together had been messy, the relationship had been messy, the breakup was messy. A year of pure emotional torture, dragging her heart through the mud. The only comfort she had was that it was over, and he wasn’t going to be anywhere near the Academy.

Another bright spot, she surmised, stepping with bare feet into the cool sand, was that the Academy campus was a mere mile away from the pristine beaches of San Fransisco.

Christine too spotted the bonfire, but wrinkled her nose at the idea…bounding over there with endless energy only to likely get rejected was not what she needed right now. So she instead began a slow trek down the rocks…hoping instead to not run into anyone, but moments later, she spotted a dark, tall figure…and against her better judgement, her hand tilled on the railing, and her eyebrows climbed high in her forehead. Sure, it was hard to tell from here…but tall and dark was certainly a step leading to handsome.

Spock, carrying his cloak over his left arm and his shoes in the same hand, was still wandering—both down the beach and in his own mind. He didn’t catch sight of the young woman standing among the rocks until just a few yards separated them. The same intense evening sunlight that had gilded the sea also bathed her in gold, making a halo out of her bright hair. Light-colored hair was such a recessive trait on Vulcan that it no longer appeared in the population. Therefore, Spock had been fascinated to observe a variety of such colors, from flaxen to amber to fiery copper, during his first visit to a space station full of humans as a child. The visual appeal of hadn’t diminished in the intervening years, and his eyes lingered somewhat appreciatively on the woman now.

It was only fair, since she already seemed to be staring at him. He’d grown accustomed to being stared at from an early age and attached no particular emotion to the experience, though he had found the best response when among humans was to calmly return the stare. Most often, it seemed to make them uncomfortable and got them to look away in short order.

The sun behind him threw his profile into sharp relief as he approached her—including his distinctive pointed ears. He wasn’t dressed for a trip to the beach; not in any classic human sense, anyway. He wore long, dark trousers and a long-sleeved charcoal shirt with an angled, asymmetrical neckline. His bare feet were the only beach-appropriate aspects of his whole ensemble. By now, they were of course covered in sand. Spock said nothing despite them now being close enough to exchange a verbal greeting. He simply inclined his head in acknowledgment before taking a seat on one of the big boulders to slip his shoes back on.

#spock: 👀#him being into blondes is canon idc is anyone says otherwise #also bestie tell your friends to share? I miss you :'(#*nsn

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nerdywriter36 · 3 years ago

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POTOber Day 28 - "Look At Your Face in the Mirror"

day 28 prompts: seduction/deception/the mirror

AO3

FFN

Erik looked up from the book on his lap when he heard the door to the bedroom open and smiled as his wife stepped into the room. She seemed tired, he could tell, but having a young baby would do that to a person; in truth, he was feeling the toll that having to constantly be tending to their young son was having, but he knew that he didn’t understand how much Christine had to do, all the things she had to do that he couldn’t necessarily help with. Nevertheless, he thought she was the definition of beauty that night and every night, no matter if her dress was a bit wrinkled and her hair was starting to pull out of its loose braid.

“He finally went down,” Christine said with a sigh, starting to unlace her dress. “I honestly was beginning to think that wouldn’t happen at all.”

“It always does, dearest, no matter how long it takes,” Erik said. He stifled his quiet laugh at his wife’s tired comment, knowing that he probably would have ended up banished to sleep on the sofa in the parlour if he’d laughed at her. Instead, he got to his feet and stepped over to her, nudging her hands aside so he could finish untying her dress. “Hopefully he’ll actually sleep tonight rather than waking up once an hour.”

He smiled sympathetically when his wife simply groaned quietly and ran her hands over his face. “Let’s hope for the best,” he added, pressing a gentle kiss to her cheek. “You look beautiful, my dear.”

Christine scoffed and shook her head as she ran her fingers through her curls while she looked at her reflection in the mirror in front of them. “You and I must be looking at different people.”

“I mean, if you’re looking at me and saying that, then yes, you’d be right to shake your head, but I am most definitely looking at you,” Erik replied as he helped her step out of her dress and started working at the laces of her corset.

“Don't start us down this path again,” Christine said, laughing quietly and reaching up to cradle her husband’s head as he tucked his face in the crook of her neck and kissed it gently. “And don't you try anything right now.”

“Try what? I haven’t the slightest idea what you mean,” Erik replied, his voice muffled against her skin as he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close.

“Erik, honestly,” Christine said with a giggle, a wide smile on her face as he lifted his head to kiss her. “None of your sweet seduction is going to work tonight, I’m far too tired and not feeling in a good enough mood about myself for any of that.”

Erik nodded, giving her a reassuring smile. “You never have to feel bad about yourself, my dear. You will always be absolutely beautiful to me.”

#short sweet and fluffy #that's the good stuff #e/c #potober #potober 2021 #my writing #erik #christine daae #erik/christine #erik x christine #fluff

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timebird84 · 4 years ago

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🎄 PotO Advent Calendar 2020 🎄

By @paperandsong

Feast Your Eyes

Gifted to @shinyfire-0

Happy Christmas everyone!

Christine rose from her bed long before sunrise and padded sleepily into the kitchen. She lit the oven and pulled down an old recipe book from a shelf. She cracked it open to a page marked with a red ribbon; recipes for Luciamorgon, written by the hand of Maman Valerius’ own mother, and brought from the old country long ago. Its tattered pages were heavy with the nostalgia of mornings past and the expectation that such traditions will go on forever.

She did not need the book; these were recipes written across her own heart. But she liked to trace the handwriting with her fingers, smudged with ancient butter and flour, and to stir up her own memories. She liked to think that her late mother had also woken up early on December thirteenths to pull out the same ingredients and to follow the same steps. The echo of this ritual was a comfort to her.

She yawned as she set the kettle on the stove and pulled out the sugar, the butter, the flour, the yeast, the eggs, the milk. She reached far into the back of the pantry for a little bottle of saffron threads, neglected all year long until this dark morning. A sprinkle of cinnamon, a crush of cardamom. For the lussekatter buns, she steeped the saffron in milk, she kneaded the yellow dough, and shaped it into buttery swirled S shapes, pinned with currants on either end. She pressed an angel-shaped metal cutter over the thinly rolled pepparkakor dough, inhaling the ginger and clove with deep satisfaction. As the buns and biscuits baked in the oven she went back to her room to dress.

She struggled to pull her arms through the tight sleeves of the same white dress she had been made to wear since she was a just a girl. She had grown considerably in her bust and hips since it had first been made for her; she did not bother to try to button up the back. It was impossible. Maman Valerius knew it was impossible. But it so delighted her to see Christine wear that same dress, year after year, that she wouldn’t dream of complaining. She dutifully tied the red sash around her waist. The white of innocence, the red of martyrdom.

Just moments before dawn, Christine arranged the cat-eyed lussekatter and angel-shaped pepparkakor on a tray along with two cups of coffee with milk, and a small lit candle. She lit another four white candles and carefully set them in the wreath of evergreen she had woven the day before. She settled the glowing crown into her halo of loose and unruly hair. She delicately lifted the tray, careful not to tip her flaming head too far forward. She glided across the floor as lightly as a snowdrift, making her way to Maman’s room. She stood outside the door and sang,

Natten går tunga fjät rund gård och stuva;

Night walks with a heavy step round yard and hearth;

She nudged the door open with her elbow. The dim room filled with candlelight as she entered. There was Maman, sitting up in her bed, her long white braid hanging over her shoulder. She was waiting eagerly for this blazing vision of Christine.

Kring jord, som sol förlät, skuggorna ruva;

Around the earth, forlorn by the sun, shadows are brooding;

The old woman clasped her hands together, her eyes glistening with tears.

“Oh, Christine! You are an angel - truly, an angel shining on me from heaven!”

Christine continued to sing, her voice high and sweet, as she used to sing when she was only a girl,

Då i vårt mörka hus, stiger med tända ljus, Sankta Lucia, Sankta Lucia!

But there in our dark house, arising with her burning candles, Santa Lucia, Santa Lucia!

She slowly walked towards the bed, allowing Maman to take in the holy sight of her. With each dazzling step she drove all darkness from the room. Truly, Christine was the daughter Maman had never had. And she had played this role of Lucia bride far longer than any other daughter would have tolerated. Perhaps somewhere in her heart, Christine knew this would be the last year.

She set the tray carefully on the bed. Maman pushed back the blankets and patted the place beside her. Christine first took off the candle crown and set it on the small table near the window. They had a laugh remembering the time several years ago when Christine’s hair had caught fire after wearing the wreath for too long. It took days to scratch out the melted wax from her scalp.

“Thank you, my child,” Maman said, nibbling on a lussekatter. “You are so good to me.” “It is you that are good to me,” Christine responded, kissing the old woman on the cheek. Tears rolled slowly down her wrinkled skin. “Maman! Don’t cry.”

“It is just - I can almost feel them with us. My dear husband, your dearest father.” “I know. I can feel them too.”

Maman rubbed her eyes and shook her head with a sigh.

“It is almost seven-thirty! Shouldn’t you be leaving for the Opera soon? Won’t you miss your voice lesson? Won’t your teacher scold you?” She said ‘teacher’ with a knowing glance that made Christine's heart tighten in her chest. They both knew he was no mere teacher. Christine blushed.

“I told him that I would miss my lesson today. You have me for the whole morning.”

“Oh, I am sure he was not pleased to hear it!” “Why, Maman, he was very understanding. He finds it good and proper that a daughter should tend to her mother on this, the Feast of Saint Lucia.”

“It is a good and a proper thing, my child. The Angel of Music knows these things. Shall I read from my book? Hand it to me, if you will.”

Christine went and found the ornately illustrated book of the lives of the saints, also brought over from the old country. Maman turned to the story of Saint Lucia and read aloud, as she did every year. Christine took a mouthful of pepparkakor and nestled deeper into her place in the bed. She tried to keep her eyes away from the brightly colored image of Lucia carrying her own eyes on a silver platter.

During the Diocletian persecution of the good Christians, there was a maiden of Syracuse by the name of Lucia. Even as a young girl, the light of Christ shined brightly within her.

As Lucia’s father had perished years before, the two women were alone and vulnerable in the world. Despite her faith, Eutychia arranged for Lucia to marry into a wealthy pagan family. Lucia wept with grief. No, mother, she cried. Let my dowry be distributed among the poor. I shall never marry here on earth for I am the bride of Christ and my husband awaits me there. Reluctantly, Eutychia agreed, for she could see the light that shined within her daughter. She gave Lucia her dowry, a host of riches and jewels. The maiden took to visiting the prison in the dark, to bring food and comfort to the men that languished there. She wore a crown of candles upon her head so that she might see through the darkness and keep her hands free to fill with alms.

But gossip reached the ears of her jilted betrothed. He was told that Lucia had broken their engagement because she had found an even more wealthy patron of far nobler birth. In his jealousy, he denounced Lucia as a secret Christian to the Roman magistrate, Paschasis . Paschasis ordered Lucia to burn a sacrifice to an idol of the Emperor. To which Lucia replied, I would rather burn myself than to burn a sacrifice to a false idol. In his anger, Paschasis ordered the defiant maiden defiled in a brothel. To which Lucia replied, You could lift my hand and rub it against your idol and still I would be guiltless in the eyes of the Lord, who knows me and knows that you can defile my body but you can never defile my heart.

When the Roman guards came to take Lucia away, to have her maidenhead defiled, they found that she was immovable. Even when they tied a team of oxen to her waist by a rope, even then, they could not move her from her mother’s home. When they could not take her to the brothel, they decided to burn her. They built a pyre around her feet, but it would not light. In frustration, they gouged out her eyes - those eyes that burned with the light of Christ inside! They slit her throat, that throat as pure as that of any spring lamb. And so the virgin Lucia died a martyr for our Lord. The angels sang as she entered heaven and the good Lord restored her eyes, more beautiful than those she had possessed here on earth. For she was truly the light of his own eyes.

Christine hated the story.

“It isn’t fair that she had to die,” she said bitterly, though her mouth was full of sugar.

“No. There is nothing fair about the lives of the saints. They have all suffered unjustly in one way or another. It is a great burden to be born a saint.” “I do not remember any male saints dying because someone forced them to marry some pagan princess.” “I am sure there is at least one.”

“But there are countless maiden martyrs. Do it please him, then? For us to suffer on his behalf?” “No, Christine. Our Lord suffers along with us. The tears we shed were his to shed first.” The old woman had become very serious. “No one is asking the Lucia bride to be a martyr. Only to carry light in the darkness.”

Christine was chastened. She had not meant to antagonize.

“I believe I am much like Lucia.” “Indeed you are, my child. The light of Christ shines brightly from within you.” “No, I meant only that I shall never marry.”

“Oh! You cannot mean that. Surely, you will find yourself a good husband. One who will love you as much as I do. For one day, I will no longer be here with you. No, no. Do not say that, Christine. You must find someone to look after you. What of the Vicomte de Chagny? Don’t you ever see him at the Opera anymore?” “Oh, I see him up there in his brother’s box. But he never looks at me. I do not believe he remembers me at all. But I could never marry him. I could never marry anyone. Then I would never hear the Angel again.” “Is that what the Angel has told you?” “Yes. He has told me that if I should ever marry, he would have to return to heaven and I would never hear his beautiful voice again,” she said sadly.

The old woman grew very quiet.

“Perhaps Our Lord has a greater calling for you, Christine, than to be a wife. Perhaps he intends for you to devote your life to music, and music alone. To be a bride to no earthly man, but the bride of music itself.”

“Do you think so, Maman?” Christine asked wistfully. She was excited by the idea that her destiny might be great and divinely written.

“I think you should listen to your Angel. He will know what is best for you.”

Christine changed out of her Lucia gown and went to the Opera later that morning so that she would not be late for rehearsals. A part of her wished that the Angel would come to her, despite that she had missed her lesson. When she stood in his invisible presence, he blessed her with a warmth she found nowhere else. She regretted even one hour lost. But he did not make himself known to her that day.

In the evening, Christine served mulled wine with dinner. Maman drank too much and retired early, but Christine took her warm and fragrant cup out onto their narrow balcony to watch the people walking along the street below. It was quite cold and she pulled her coat tight around her body as she leaned slightly over the railing.

Thoughts of Lucia and her bloodied eye sockets had haunted her all day. Christine wondered now how the saint’s story might have been different had Lucia agreed to marry the pagan bridegroom. Could they not have become friends, like Saints Cecilia and Valerian? Could she not have taught him the love of Christ better as his wife than as a martyr? They could have learned to love each other somehow. There had to be some way for Lucia to survive her own story.

Christine shook her head angrily. But why should any woman lose her maidenhead to a man on the mere hope that her love might be enough to save him? Why should she have to save him?

Her ears pricked up at a sad sound in the distance. Music, from directly above, but far away, as if from the clouds. Or maybe only as far as the rooftop. She turned and looked up towards the sky overhead. The streetlamps dimmed the light of the stars, but she could just make out the westerly motion of Freya’s cat-drawn chariot. A violin whined a melody so faint it could not be named. Had her Angel come to say goodnight? Her pulse quickened in her ears. If she could have no earthly husband, might she really be wed to the music itself? She listened for a while and then the cold began to bite at her fingertips and the music faded away and it was time to go to bed. She looked into her empty cup and smiled.

Inside, she placed the last lussekatter and a fresh cup of hot glögg onto a small tray and took it out onto the balcony. She kneeled to place the tray on the floorboards and stayed there a moment to whisper a little prayer,

“Oh Angel of Music, sent from my father in Heaven, I do not know that angels take offerings in the way of the saints. An angel is not a saint. But I offer you these in thanks for your music. And for your lessons. And for your arrival into my life. I thank my Lord every day that you have finally come to me. Please, tell my father I love him.”

Christine tossed about in her bed that night, straining to hear movement on the roof or on the floorboards of the balcony. In the morning, she found the tray quite empty. The cup was dry. She turned her face to the sun and threw a small laugh of delight up to heaven.

#PotO Advent Calendar #PotO #Phantom of the Opera #Door 13

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lovely-lotte · 2 years ago

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Obviously whatever Christine was doing was working as she noticed the way his body tensed, his hands gripping onto her a little tighter, although she could tell that this was a good kind of tensing. She longed to tell him to just rip of this dress, but it was her costume, so that wouldn’t be the best of ideas, a few wrinkled wouldn’t hurt though.

“All the more reason to do it… no one will see or know but me.” Once again her voice turned deeper, trying to entertain her husband without too much effort. Once he confirmed that was what he wanted, Christine pressed her lips against his neck, this time much harder as she had the intention to leave marks.

@wandering-child-rp

Erik never liked speaking of their loss, he seemed to prefer shoving the feelings away in most situations, whilst Christine preferred getting it all out, but they would not speak about it, not now when everything had been going so well.

“Exactly, an outing for the family and then one for the two of us.” Christine could never be away from Aria for long, when she was still very little even leaving her for a few hours was too much, let alone an entire day and night. She would still try and relax with Erik though, they would need it if they planned for another baby soon. “Maybe when the children are older we could all go to Sweden, I think it’s best we don’t venture out too much for now.”

She couldn’t help but grin when he wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her closer. It was taking all of her willpower not to request they return to their bedroom right now, Christine suddenly just felt she couldn’t have enough.

“That sounds perfect, and maybe don’t criticize the violinist as well.”

#wandering-child-rp

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hailbop1701 · 4 years ago

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PlatonicKirkxReader

Please don't do that again...

Request from @thottiewithashotgun!

"A platonic kirk/reader, based off your Reaper/reader story, where she experiences his allergic reaction for the first time"

I really hope you like it! ❤

The planet was hot and sticky with humidity, you wrinkled your nose at it but kept silent as you and the Captain explored. You eyed your surroundings carefully as Kirk examined the native flora; you smiled at his childlike curiosity. “Careful, they might bite.” you teased and Jim looked up with a huge smile. “Nah, I’m too amazing to eat,” he said getting back to his feet brushing off the knees of his uniform pants. You rolled your eyes and looked up towards the sky; you used your hand as a sun shield. A type of alien bird chirped and squawked above you circling almost like vultures. This made you frown, looking back over to the Captain you saw that he was wandering further into the thick brush, “Jim!” you chided crossing your arms. The man in question froze and looked back at you with wide eyes, “I saw something!” he said pointing and you shook your head. “We can’t go any further unless we move the entire landing party. Spock wouldn’t be pleased,” you said in your no-nonsense tone.

Kirk huffed grumpily but moved back to where you were standing. He stared at you for a moment longer than usual, furrowing his brow in concern, “Aren’t you hot?” he asked, gesturing at her black uniform. You gave a humorless laugh, “Of course I am but I wasn’t going to traipse through an alien jungle wearing my dress.” you said looking down at your black pants and shirt. The silver Starfleet insignia glinted in the sun. After your explanation, Kirk nodded, “Yeah I can see where the dress would be a hindrance.” he said with a light chuckle. You scowled, “Sometimes they can be ridiculous,” you muttered turning toward your bag.

Kirk laughed as you rummaged through the little bag on your hip, “I can’t believe you still use that old thing.” he said eyeing the bag with fascination. “I can carry more with it,” you mumbled only paying half attention. The bag wasn’t that big but you still tended to lose things in its depths, you pulled out a few specimen jars and held them out to the waiting captain. “You’re like a mother with a purse,” he snickered taking the jars from your hands; that earned him gloves to the face. “Get the samples on that side. I’ll get some from the stream,” you said turning in the other direction. “Don’t get eaten and stay where I can see you!” you called at Kirks back. He waved an unconcerned hand, “Yes mom,” called back.

Shaking your head you kept a peripheral eye on your charge while you filled specimen jars with the water from the stream. You labeled the jars before putting them away back in the little case they came in. Pulling out your tricorder you fiddled with the controls and scanned your surrounding area; it pulled data and stored it for the science nerds to play with later. Looking over your shoulder you spot the Captain squatting by a mass of purple and orange flowers; he waved his hand over them and they seemed to follow the movement intently. The sound of footsteps made you turn away from Kirk; Commander Spock by you now. Back straight and hands clasped behind him.

You gave him a smile, “Hey Spock,” you greeted squinting against the light that glowed behind him. He inclined his head in his greeting, “I see you put the Captain to work, “ he said voice cool. Your lips twitched, you looked back over to the blonde for a moment. “Yeah I figured if I kept him busy he wouldn’t wander off,” you said with a chuckle. With a sigh, you stood up putting your tricorder away. The Vulcan in front of you held no emotion in his face but slight amusement danced in his eyes, “A logical tactic, “ he said and took the little case of vials when you offered them. “Hey, Spock did you see the flowers! I think they like me,” Kirk said jogging over to you and the Vulcan. He handed you his samples but Spock plucked them from his hand hands instead, “Captain flora hold no emotion,” the Vulcan said patiently. Jim pouted ever so slightly; he seemed to get over it rather quickly because he was smiling again, a real genuine smile. He held up a lovely teal flower, it twirled between his fingers before he put it in your hair gently, “for the best thing and only thing to come out of section 31,” he said with a wink. You gave him a small smile and ruffled his hair, “Jim, you’re the best brother I never wanted,” you said and the man clutched his heart with a grin. “(Y/N) that just warms me up inside,”

You raised an eyebrow mirroring Spock at that moment, Kirk looked between the two of you amused. “Do they teach a class on that?” he asked lightly. He let out a cough and tried to brush it off; it almost worked too if you didn’t notice the redness creeping from his hands up past his neck. “Jim?” You asked voice filled with concern, he tried to wave you off but couldn’t pull any air. He gasped and doubled over, your hands immediately steadied him and lowered him to the lilac grass. You made sure he was on his back before checking him for bites, or punctures. You picked up his hand and examined it quickly, ‘that’s the source,’ you thought with a grimace. Blisters began to form at a rapid pace. ‘Rash, blisters, asphyxia. Allergic reaction.’ you concluded. Spock knelt on Jim’s other side tense, “Jim, I need you to relax for me. You know what’s going on. Relax sweetie,” you whispered to him gently placing a hand on his forehead. “Do we have a medical kit?” you asked the Commander seriously, “It’s with Nurse Davin, she was beamed back aboard the ship with Ensign Clark. He sustained a broken ankle,” he said and you growled in frustration.

“Okay, call for beam up. I’m going to do something to help him breathe,” you said pulling out supplies. You pulled out the pen you were using earlier along with a flint; Kirk reached up a hand and gripped your forearm in a vice. You whispered encouragement to him as you pulled a knife from your boot. “Jim, I’m going to perform an old medic trick. It’s called a tracheotomy. It means I’m going to be cutting into your throat,” you said sparking the flint so it caught fire. The captain’s eyes widened making you frown guiltily. “I know it sounds horrible, but it will help you breathe,” you said running your knife over the fire. You looked him in his panicked blue eyes, “I need you to trust me,” you said evenly.

“Beaming in three minutes,” Spock said calmly from the side, you paid him little attention. Kirk choked gripping your wrist, his eyes searched yours before letting you go and doing his best to relax. You took a deep breath and moved your fingers an inch below Kirk’s Adam’s apple, you took your knife and made a small incision. You pulled your pen apart until it was just tubing and gently eased the incision open before sliding the tube in. You felt Spock at your shoulder tensed and waiting; you breathed a sigh of relief when Kirk took a shuddering breath through the tube. He opened his eyes and looked up at you, he brought a shaky hand up to grip yours. He went to speak but his voice came out as a pained squeak.

"You'll be okay, I promise." You whispered to him and felt the distinct feeling of the transporter pulling you upward. Looking around you saw Scotty looking at you and the Captain worriedly from behind the glass partition. Medical burst into the transporter room with McCoy at the forefront. "What in the hell happened?" He asked voice raised. You told him what you had done and pulled the flower from your hair, "I think this may have been the cause," you explained. Spock took the sprig from your fingers and you watched as the medical team loaded Kirk onto a stretcher and took him away. You followed with Leonard walking briskly beside you, "You did good," he mumbled and you gave him a shaky smile. "Does that happen often?" You asked looking up at him and McCoy sighed running a hand through his hair. "More than you think," he grumbled. You both entered medbay and went your separate ways. He went to take care of Kirk while you washed your bloody hands in the nearest sink.

For a solid two hours, you sat and watched as nurses and Dr. McCoy fuss around the Captain. He was breathing regularly again; the tube is gone. You were propped up against the far wall watching people come and go, "He'll be alright," a voice gruffed from next to you. You smirked and looked up to your right; John, no Leonard leaned against the wall arms crossed. "I know,"

"Spock already put a commendation in your file." He chuckled and you rolled your eyes. "Just doing my job," you sighed and he bumped your shoulder gently. You smiled gently and pushed off the wall gliding over to Kirk's bedside. "Can I borrow a Padd?" You asked McCoy with a single glance over your shoulder. His eyes hinted green in the dimmed lights of medbay; he gave you a sweet smile before disappearing into his office. You sat down on an abandoned stool next to the biobed and settled in to watch over Kirk. Nurse Chapel strode over to your side, Padd in hand, "Doctor McCoy said that he was called to the lab and that you requested this." She said kindly. You smiled taking the device, "thanks Chris,"

The woman nodded, "oh and he also told me to tell you that he expects you to meet him for breakfast in the morning. No excuses!" She said with a laugh. You chuckled and shook your head; she took another quick glance at Jim's vitals before moving on. Crossing your legs you set the Padd on your knees, logging in you resolved in working on your mission report.

Later when you felt a gentle tap on your leg. You looked up blinking the fogginess out of your eyes; Kirk gazed at you with his pretty blues. "Hey, kiddo" you murmured reaching out a hand to ruffle his hair. Jim groaned in protest but did move to stop you, "Hey lifesaver," he croaked. You set your borrowed Padd down on the bed to reach over to grab the cup of water Christine brought earlier. You held if for Kirk and guided the straw to his mouth; after a minute you took the water away.

"Shouldn't you be sleeping?" He asked looking around with a frown. You followed his gaze and saw that medbay was now a skeleton crew. "Guess it's later than I thought," you sighed and rubbed your tired eyes. You looked back at your friend again, "You should get back to sleep," you advised picking up your Padd again. "Thank you for, you know," Jim whispered shifting, his voice rough. You took his hand giving it a soft squeeze, "no thanks are needed. Just do me a favor," you said eying him seriously. "Don't you ever do that to me again," you said with a half-hearted glare. Jim smiled lightly, "no promises but I will try." He chuckled.

"I guess that's all I can ask for." You mumbled letting him go and fixing his blanket. Jim grinned, "I'd hate to scare the big sister I've never wanted," he said cheekily. A low laugh made you both look up to the end of the biobed. McCoy stood there, arms crossed and a smile playing on his lips. "Good to see you awake Jim," he said walking around so he stood beside you. "Bones looks like you only pulled my ass halfway out of the fire this time," Jim said with a grin. Leonard hummed in agreement, he placed a hand on your shoulder, "do you mind if I steal this one for a bit?" He asked and if Jim's smiled could grow bigger it would have.

"Course Bones! She didn't sleep at all by the way," he tattled. You shot him a glare as you were pulled from your stool, "traitor," you hissed. Jim's laughter echoed behind you as you were being guided out of medbay to the officer's mess. On the way, you passed by Spock whose eyes were glued to a Padd, “Lieutenant Commander (Y/L/N), Doctor.” he greeted formally. “Hey Spock, Jim’s awake if you wanted to see him,” you greeted. The Vulcan gave a nod and moved to continue on, “Oh, and give him a nice long lecture on how he needs to wear gloves when coming in contact with foreign flora.” You called after him. Spock hesitated before nodding again; he pulled up your report and disappeared into medbay. “Rat me out again Kirk,” you dared. Leonard snickered and gave a snort, “He’s going to be hearing about this for the next couple of hours, you know that right?” he asked as you both got moving again. “Yup. Don’t hate the player and all that,” you grinned skipping ahead of him a little bit.

#star trek aos #james t kirk #leonard mccoy #leonard mccoy x reader #unedited #so many typos

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