A mini oneshot to get me back in the groove. Rated M for a reason!

Please review and let me know what you think.

Nightmare

It always starts with a whimper.

It is not the whimper that wakes Erik at first, for he is already wide awake, lying next to his wife in the darkness. In these early morning hours, he does little but lie prone by Christine's side, listening to her soft, slow breathing, enjoying her quiet company while he waits for her to stir awake. He has already dozed a bit, which is all the sleep he needs. Sometimes he rises to compose, staying close if she needs him.

Tonight, she needs him.

He hears her whimper and knows it is about to begin again, but he does not lean over to twist the gas lamp and flood the room with light. The only time he decided to try waking her with light, she saw his unmasked face, her blue eyes pale and wide in the flame, and he still cannot erase the sight of her expression from his memory. Her petite features twisted into utter horror. Her scream seemed to echo throughout the underground corridors for weeks afterward.

That was the first hint that the nightmares are about him.

At his side, she whimpers, and he cranes his head up from his pillow to see her face. Her fine eyebrows are drawn together, a sheen of sweat glistening at her temple. Her lips part, another whimper escaping, this time with a whispering huff behind it, a harsh breath that tells him she now sees horrible images behind her eyelids.

They come almost like clockwork, about every two weeks, as though her mind cannot hold them back any longer than that.

He has never mentioned these nightmares to her in daylight, has never asked her about them. If she remembers what she sees during these moments, she says nothing of it. He knows in the morning that she will appear rested and refreshed, her smile cutting through his own worry. She gives no indication that his efforts to ease her fears manage to protrude into her waking hours. After the one incident when she woke screaming at the sight of him, he has taken care to banish her nightmares without fully waking her.

When one of her hands fists white-knuckled into her pillow, when her legs jerk beneath the blanket, he recognizes the signs that her nightmare has intensified. He whispers words of comfort in her ear and leans over to ease her tight fingers, rubbing his thumb along her knuckles until she relaxes them.

"No," she gasps. "No, Raoul!"

Her words cut him, but he pushes his reaction aside. He is the reason her dreams pummel her mind time and time again, after all. He hopes she spares him tonight from the other frightened things she has spoken in the dark, the other words that have let him piece together the stuff of her nightmares.

Erik brushes her damp hair from her forehead and presses a kiss to her temple. She lets out another unintelligible whimper, this time a pitiful sound in the back of her throat, and he lets his mouth trace her ear, hoping his low voice might soothe her. She begins to thrash, her shoulder almost catching him in the cheekbone, and he can wait no longer to see if she will slip out of her mind alone. He runs a hand down her arm, shushing her frantic movements, and follows the line of her hip to her thigh.

She wears her favorite long chemise, the one with the lace at the hem and sleeves, but now it is rucked up around her thighs, her skim gleaming white to his sharp eyes. He veers his hand under her hem and splays his fingers across the swell of her hip, easing her with alternating caresses and harder points of massage and hoping his skin is not too cold.

His lovely wife responds, her thighs clenching together, not away from his touch but in response to it, and he murmurs in her ear about how beautiful she is, about how much he loves her. He is rarely so forward when she is awake and gazing at him, even though he sees nothing but patience and adoration in her eyes, but even after all these years with her, he can still be overcome with shyness. He is little more than a thin, balding, scarred man with some musical talent, and she… she is everything.

She cries out, the sound wrenched from her lovely songbird's throat by fear of what she sees, and he is spurned into further action, slipping his hand between her legs to cup the moist center of her. Enveloped within the past as she is, she is not slick with desire, and he takes care to keep his touch light until he can feel her respond. His fingers delve into her soft folds with utter tenderness, finding the spot she likes best while he dips a finger inside.

She bucks against his hand, pressing into his palm, her whimper bleeding into what sounds more like a sob. At once, he is hard, his manhood inadvertently digging into the small of her back. He ignores his own mounting pressure for now, focusing on driving away the images from her head with his fingers. He nudges her shoulder aside so that he might inch his head down to play at her nipple with lips and teeth, latching onto the peak through her chemise.

Her back arches, the exquisite roundness of her behind rubbing against him, and he closes his eyes for a moment, straining for his own control. He cannot be quick with her, his beautiful wife, his Christine, his angel. After so many years, she still dreams about his worst sins – those committed upon the stage and below it. He has only himself to blame for her nightmares, and he will be slow with her lest she wake and remember what she just dreamed.

Now, he is no Don Juan, no Angel of Music, but only Erik, her Erik, and she needs him to give her something other than the pain of memories that will not fade.

Her teeth flash white in the darkness, and she latches onto one of her knuckles, biting the soft flesh as he plies her body with practiced precision. He eases into a quicker pace between her legs, and she squirms, the cant of her hips suggesting that she has drawn away from those dark remembrances and slipped into this shared moment between them. Unbuttoning his pants, he slides down her body enough to slip into her wetness from behind, the fit tighter at this angle making him groan despite himself. She tosses her head back, her dark hair falling across his face in a delicious cascade of rosewater, and he thumbs that little nub at her apex, his other hand snaking around to pluck at her nipple.

He wants to keep his pace slow, wants to cause her no discomfort, knows she enjoys the long drag of skin on skin, and she rewards him with a moan. Soon, she is pulsing around his shaft, her body shuddering in pleasure, and he quickly pumps inside her to find his own release before she wakes further.

"Erik," she murmurs, and he freezes, feeling them both still trembling where they are connected.

Was he too rough? Did he wake her too much? His heart begins to pound in a sudden surge of his own shaking dread. If she ever remembered her nightmares… if she ever began to fear him once again the way she does in her dreams…

But no, she is still asleep, her eyelashes fanning across her flushed cheeks. Her breathing is slowing once again as she slips further into slumber. He eases himself from her, tucking himself away, but he remains cocooning her back for a few moments longer, letting the warmth of her body seep into his long limbs before he leaves to wash up.

It ends, as it always ends, with her sleep returning with its usual easiness. He waits until his own heartbeat has returned to its normal beat, until he might feel surer upon his feet, until he can trust that the remnants of her warmth will carry him through to morning.

And he hopes, eventually, that his love will be enough to drive away her memories forever.