A/N: Written for a prompt from ArtistForever, who requested the night Eva was born and Erik saw she was healthy. This is a companion piece to another fic of mine, Twice Blessed, though it is unnecessary to read that for context.

Almost as soon as she gave him the news he began to worry. The idea that he could father child was one thing, reasonable when one considers the activities they had been engaging in. But the risk, the sheer, terrible risk that the child might look like him! He feared it even before she told him, feared it since they were first intimate and he took measures to ensure that it would not happen. But there was wine one night, and having done his calculations, it must surely have been that night that it happened.

There is to be a child. A child born of his blood. Of course the child is going to look like him. (Christine assures him otherwise, swears that the child will be healthy and normal and he has nothing to fear, but she does not know that, cannot promise it, and the sheer knowledge of how unlikely everything is to go right is enough to make him sick.)

For three months he reads every book he can lay hands on about pregnancy – every medical volume, every journal, every midwife's tale, and it is only when he wakes in a cold sweat for the fifth time in a week that Christine persuades him to put the books away. Knowing what can go wrong is not going to prevent it, Erik, she murmurs, kisses his forehead. You know the odds of those things coming to pass are not high. You'll only worry yourself. She is worried too, he knows, in her own way though she does not speak of it with him, and for her own sake he puts on a brave face, and tries to forget.

"You look as if as if she's gravely ill," the Daroga says, a line of worry in his own jaw as he sits Erik down before the fire with a brandy, "and not merely expecting." He had a daughter, Erik remembers for the first time in years, a daughter whom he had to leave behind him, and what's become of her he does not know, and wonders if the Daroga knows either. He does not ask, accepts a re-fill of his brandy, and struggles to frame his worries for the man who has been half a brother to him.

And when, at last, he gets the words out, the Daroga's lips twitch into a faint smile, and he asks in a soft voice, "Do you think that matters to her?" Why would it not matter to her? If she had married anybody else (if she had married the Vicomte) she could have all of the babies she could ever want, healthy babies with whole faces and he let himself love her and she loved him back and here they are, and how could she possibly be happy with a baby that looks like him?

The words strangle in his throat and he can't speak them only whimper, tears prickling his eyes. A baby of his will ruin her. He should never have touched her, never have let any of it happen and she'll hate him now with this child that will of course carry his father's face, and that if she survives, if everything goes right and there are so many things that can happen – haemorrhage, infection, the sheer strain of it. The ache that's throbbed in his chest all of these months pierces deep and he can barely breathe, sweat beading on his forehead as he gasps. His hand trembles so much the brandy sloshes out of the tumbler, and distantly he feels the Daroga take it from his hand.

A pair of arms, warm, strong arms, wrap around him, pull him close and he can feel a heartbeat beneath his ear but the pain in his own heart swells, choking him, the words still swirling in his mind. You've killed her poisoned her she's going to die and it's all your fault you and your child you've destroyed her. Around and around they go, over and over weaving a web and if she dies he rather thinks he'll die too and it would be only just to make him live without her for what he's done to her, only just.

It is a long time before he gets control of himself again, the Daroga rocking him back and forth and murmuring softly in Persian to settle him. And through the fog in his brain, the sheer exhaustion of three months of worry, he hears the words that she'll be all right, and everything will be perfect, and clings to them as if they were a lifeline, as if they will keep him (keep her) afloat.

He is in a numb stupor, afterwards, and the Daroga fills him with tea, and insists on travelling with him back to the Garnier. He is too tired to argue, and when they reach the house on the lake Christine takes one look at him and puts him to bed.

Five and a half months along, and she has to look after him. Distantly it strikes him as wrong, and he is grateful that he had his breakdown with the Daroga, and not with her. It would only alarm her more, and he cannot have her getting upset now over anything.

He takes her in his arms, that night, and holds her close, and swears that he will be better. I'm sorry, he murmurs, kissing her hair, I'm sorry.

That night marks the turning out. He compartmentalises his feelings, and tries not to dwell on the baby, on the problems, even as he goes about making preparations. He waits on Christine, attends to her every whim, and forbids her to leave the house without him lest something happen to her travelling through the bowels of the Opera House. He buys another house, on the Rue de Rivoli next to the Daroga, and with his and Darius' help readies it to move Christine in. He organises a midwife, and, under Christine's instruction, prepares a room for the baby. He spends three months in a haze of preparation with hardly time to sleep nevermind compose or consider the things that can go wrong, and two weeks before they think the baby is due they move into the new house.

It is as well that they do, because hardly have ten days passed when Christine's labour starts. The midwife orders him from the room, and he would protest but Christine agrees with her, and he hardly has time to give his wife one last kiss before the Daroga leads him out. Christine promises that she'll see him later, smiling a pained, taut smile, and it's all he can do not to ask, can you be certain?

He paces the parlour, unable to settle, each cry of pain from the bedroom piercing him deep. He curls in a ball on the couch, folds down as small as he can get to cover his ears, and when his back cracks and complains he stretches out, trembling with fear, all the while the what ifs circling in his brain like vultures to torment him.

The Daroga, bless him, tries to distract Erik from his worry. He asks about different books on the shelves, inquires after the music, and, eventually, half-hesitantly, asks if they have names chosen.

Names. It was Christine's insistence that they choose names, and he didn't want to for fear it would tempt fate but at last he acquiesced and said he would like to name a daughter after her. She protested that it would be too confusing with two Christines in the house, and said she favoured Erika, which he said was too confusing. And his lips very nearly twitch into a smile at the memory, his heart aching for to take her back in his arms now and never let her go.

"Eva," he murmurs at last, "for a girl. Eva Christine. And Erik-Sven for a boy. She…she wanted to have her father in there somewhere." And he did not object, just hugged her when she made the suggestion. He felt a flicker of excitement at her words, one of the few since she first told him, but it was quickly overwhelmed again beneath the weight of his thoughts.

The labour goes on for hours, hours in which it feels as if he can barely breathe, the very air putting pressure on his chest. At last, at long, long last, he hears a thin wail from the room, joining with Christine's own cries, and the slight smile of the Daroga tells him his suspicion is correct. In a rush that leaves him light-headed he goes to the bedroom door and opens it, only for the midwife's little assistant to poke her head out and say, "You have a healthy daughter, sir."

The word healthy barely registers in his mind in the flurry of Christine but Christine how is she?

He very nearly stumbles on the words, heart beating so hard he can feel it pounding in his throat. "And my wife?"

"She came through well. Let us tidy…"

Her words fade into a buzz and he finds himself nodding weakly, knees buckling in a wave of dizzying relief. The Daroga puts an arm around his waist, leads him back into the parlour. Tears prickle his eyes. She came through well. And yet, even as the Daroga smiles at him, presses a tumbler of brandy into his hand, he finds he cannot settle the aching in his heart until he sees her for himself. Came through well can mean so many things, that she's hurt herself or is suffering or is weeping at the sight of a baby that looks like him. The girl said the baby is healthy. How can it look like you? The traitorous little voice tries to appease him, that same one that has spent long months telling him there is no need to worry. A baby can be perfectly healthy and perfectly disfigured. Just look at him! He is testament enough to that.

He sips the brandy and it burns his throat but the bite of it is a comfort. A fire erupts in his stomach and he shudders, the heat spreading into his veins, flowing to his fingertips. The Daroga gives him another soft smile.

"You are still worried." It is not a question, and he settles down on the couch beside Erik. "There is no need to be, my friend." Erik nods mutely, and curls his fingers tight as if it will stop him shattering completely.

A long time they sit there in silence, the Daroga balancing their brandy intake with tea. It is enough that Erik feels a little warmer, a little more steady. The fear in his gut has eased somewhat, edged with acceptance if not peace. There have been no more cries from the room, no rush, no panic, only the whimpers of the baby and hushed voices that he cannot make out. He thinks he hears Christine but cannot be certain, and tries to hang on to the thread of that voice but loses it. The girl's words drift back a healthy daughter, sir and for the first time, the first true time, his heart stirs at the thought. A daughter, a little baby girl and if God is good she will look like her mother.

Tears sting his eyes and he blinks them away, his lips twisting. If she…she looks like him he will deal with it, somehow (whatever way he must), but if she is whole, perfectly whole (and that little voice in his head whispers that surely she must be when the midwife has not come out claiming to have seen the mark of the Devil, though he must not let himself get his hopes up) he will do his best by her, for Christine's sake. He nods, and flexes his fingers. For Christine's sake.

He hears the door creak open, out in the hallway, and rises on unsteady legs, the Daroga standing too. He raises his hand, brushes his fingers over the edge of his mask and assures himself that it is firmly in place, then smoothes the creases from his suit. How long has he been wearing it? What time is it now? He has no idea, does not wish to know but the light filtering through the drapes tells him that it is dawn outside. The midwife's footsteps echo in the hall, and he straightens. He may not be the Phantom, not anymore, but he draws strength from the impassivity of the role now.

The midwife steps in, a small, older woman, proud, with hard lines around her mouth, her assistant behind her with her bag of tools. "It was not too difficult of a labour, sir," she says, "shorter than some first-time mothers face. However, she will need rest for a time. I will be back in the afternoon to check in on her and the child. She is expecting you in there anytime now."

He would shake her hand, but he is not wearing his gloves and so he nods instead. The Daroga spares him having to speak by offering the two women tea, and Erik uses that as his chance to slip from the room.

The bedroom door is closed when he reaches it, and he stands there a moment contemplating it. Behind that door is Christine, but she is not the Christine she was a few hours ago. She is a mother now, changed irrevocably. With a child to love she may not want him, and the thought is crushing but he pushes it away. It does not do to dwell on such things now. If the child is flawed in anyway – and, when the midwife did not comment on the matter the flicker of hope that the child is perfect grows in his chest – she may hate him, curse him for defiling her. She may not want to see him at all.

No. She is his Christine. She will want to see him, even if it is only to tell him goodbye she will want to see him. He toys with his wedding band, the gold cold beneath his touch and draws a breath. She is his wife, his beautiful, wonderful wife, tired though she surely is now. He has stalled enough, waited enough. It is time to see her. He nods resolutely to himself, one last time, swallows against the pounding of his heart, and pushes the door open.

Christine is sitting up in the bed, nestled against a pile of pillows. His suspicions are correct. She is tired, exhausted in fact, hair hanging lank and face pale, murmuring softly down at the bundle wrapped in white linen in her arms. At the click of the door behind him she looks up, and smiles.

"Come meet your daughter, Erik." The words wash over him, her voice worn but that smile still playing around her lips and his heart stirs at it, the hope that flickered a few minutes ago bubbling anew now in his gut. She is smiling, she is pleased so surely-surely-

He crosses the room unbeknownst to himself and leans in, kissing her on the forehead. "How do you feel?" he asks, searching her face, unable to look at the baby. She gives him that same soft smile, and kisses the cheek of the mask.

"Tired, of course, and a little sore, but better now."

Now. Now he must ask her, must check, and he keeps his eyes firmly focused on hers. "And-and the baby?"

"She is perfect, Erik, perfect. Look at her." Her eyes plead with him, begging him to look down and he takes a breath, braces himself, and lets his gaze drop.

The baby is pink, decidedly so, and it is on the tip of his tongue to ask why, to declare her wrong, when he remembers one of the books he read, aimed for mothers-to-be, which said that it is natural for babies to be a shade pink for a little while after birth. But other than that, and the wrinkled skin which he knows, too, is normal, her face is perfect, undoubtedly perfect. No hollow cheeks, no sunken eyes, no twisted mouth, an actual nose – nothing deathlike whatsoever.

A laugh swells inside of him, chokes in his throat. A normal baby. He, Erik, he fathered a normal little baby, nothing amiss at all. His eyes sting and the tears trickle forth, slipping down beneath his mask. She's normal, utterly, completely normal, right down to the tiny, curled fist poking out from the wrap.

She is asleep, sound asleep with her little eyes closed, and he does not wish to disturb her but he cannot help himself, brushes his fingers against that curled fist. A thrill runs through him, jolting his heart, and he makes a little noise in his throat that he cannot help. A whimper, not of pain, not of fear, but a whimper of relief and the tears tighten his throat so much that all he can do is gasp, "oh, Christine."

She does not say I told you so, says nothing of the sort, simply asks, softly, for him to take his mask off. He obeys with hardly a thought, and she kisses his cheek, leaning into him. "Thank you," she murmurs. "Thank you."