Hello dear readers! It's been for quite a long while since I posted for the last time. Thank you so much for your continued support, it helped me lot to finish this story; it turned out to be a lot longer than I originally planned. It's my longest one-shot so far!:)

Please, tell me what you think!

Bang.

Christine felt him shudder against her and the edge of her vision started to blur.

She was falling.

Literally.

His arm kept her close to his stiff form, letting her go only when they reached the ground, but then he immediately staggered away from her. Her ears were still ringing from that awful sound and her whole body shook violently. She wrapped her arms around herself but unfolded them quickly when her fingers touched something warm and sticky fluid at her side.

She lifted her hand to her eyes – her fingers were covered in red.

She was bleeding and she didn't even feel it.

How…?

Her breathing quickened to a sickening intensity as her surroundings started to dance around her head. What…? Why?

Erik. He would know what to do.

Where?

Her eyes roamed around in the darkness; she found him standing only a few feet away, his jacket on the floor behind him and he was busy with opening his shirt when he noticed her watching.

It wasn't her. It was him.

She must have been staring at him for quite a long while for he ordered her, "Don't come here," as he slowly peeled back the torn and blood-soaked shirt from his body. When he cursed aloud, instead of backing away she took an involuntary step closer to have a better look – she sucked on a breath when she finally got that look.

"Oh, my…" It was not only his shirt that was torn, and around that round-shaped gash the skin was smeared with blood, the injury wetting not only his shirt but his trousers as well. She saw no other damage – the bullet was still in his body. Her head felt numb.

His head snapped up to look at her. "I said stay away. Now." With a nod of his head he dismissed her and went back to examine the gash. Blood was leaking from the open wound; tentatively he pressed the edges of the twisted area and he hissed.

"No," she heard herself moan, eyes riveted on the red mess on his side.

"I told you not to come here," he said courtly but she was still staring at his injury.

No.

This wasn't meant to be. She was not at all prepared for this. There had been only dim images in her mind of what would happen but she never actually thought of that this loomed at the end of the plan. Raoul wanted to kill him but she hoped he would fail in succeeding. She hoped that he would give up. It was foolish of her to think that; the Phantom never gave up on anything. And he knew about everything what happened in his opera house; most probably he knew about the gendarmes, too, yet he came for her. Not where they had expected him, though; who could have thought that he would risk appearing on stage with her?

Those four lines weren't part of the libretto.

Save me from my solitude…

Still she exposed him because… because she had promised and because Raoul was right; he was terrorizing the whole opera house and was a murderer and who knows what else he had done.

Save me.

But she betrayed him.

Wishing that she had caught that bullet was useless now.

A deep breath. Another.

The sickness refused to go away and her thoughts were frozen.

What now? He can't…

Tearing her eyes off of him she leant down and lifted her skirts, than with a nervous yank of her hand she ripped a good amount from the fabric of her petticoats and handed it to him awkwardly.

"Use this," she said, voice wavering in mid-sentence.

He didn't reach for it at first but was looking straight to her eyes, only after a minute did he lift one arm to take it from her. He then folded it and placed it on the wound, smoothing his shirt back in place at last.

"Come," he told her, reaching down to retrieve his jacket.

"Don't you need to… take care of that?" She asked.

"Later. It won't be worse for a while. We should move until then."

"Don't you sit down at least for a moment?"

"I won't be able to stand up again if I sit down," he said and a shiver ran down her spine. He was speaking of it as if it was the most natural thing in the world. "Are you cold?" He asked after a moment of silence.

His voice startled her a little and she followed his sight – her arms were wrapped tightly around her body.

"I…"

"Put this on," he said, holding out his jacket for her.

"Thank you," she whispered, reaching for it hesitantly and once again her eyes returned to his injury. He pretended not to notice it.

"Come," he said and turned to leave. Slipping into his coat she hurried after him.

- o -

Furious was not a strong enough word.

He trusted her! She knew bloody well why he wore that mask.

In front of hundreds of people.

Damn it. Damn it all. To think that she would not betray him… out of courtesy? honor? of love? What was he thinking?

He turned to the left on the next corner and heard the rustle of her dress as she scurried after him.

Hope was useless. Always.

Christine, why?

But he already knew the why. A shiver started on his nape then ran down his spine.

Because it was too late, that's why.

To think of proposing her on stage… The most pitiful, desperate and weakest thing he could have done. Of course she didn't accept it. She knew about everything.

And yet… Sometimes he wanted her to know about all those things. To tell her everything and then hear her words of love and forgiveness. To hear her choosing him despite of all those things. To hear that she gave her consent.

She betrayed him instead.

What the hell did he think?

He kept marching forward, now in the complete darkness. Dark was good. Familiar. Safe. Only a few minutes and he would be back to the…

"I can't follow you if you're going so fast," she cried after him and he almost turned around. He had completely forgotten that she was there, too. He took a turn to the right without slowing.

"Hurry."

He heard her skipping a few steps to catch up with him and he continued to rush ahead.

Why was she still here at all? I can't follow you. As if she was coming with him on her own. But she wasn't.

Another turn to the right.

I trusted you!

Her eyes… For a moment it really seemed she would accept his proposal. To sing with such empathy, and that look… She couldn't possibly be acting all along, could she? Allowing him to hold her, to touch her… She was breathing with him, leaning back against him, holding him close in return…

Alone again.

He sucked on the next breath. Something tugged at his side and the pain increased with the next breath.

Oh, yes, a bullet.

He pressed one hand to the bandages but it only worsened things. Better if he tried to ignore it.

He hurried along, listening how she tried to keep up the speed with him.

She had given him those temporary bandages that were wrapped at the wound right now… Then he offered the jacket for her because she seemed so genuinely shaken. But why if she accepted to be part of that plan?

Sit down. He was perfectly fine. A bullet was nothing; it could be worse.

Like, two bullets.

At the next turn he stopped short and stared at the wall in front of him.

They'd been walking around in circles.

- o -

Slow down, Erik, you're hurting yourself.

But she wasn't sure that it wasn't his very idea when he started that awful race.

He was almost running.

There were a few torches lit on the walls here and there but she could barely make out the white of his shirt in front of her. Not once did he turn back to her nor did he speak a word. It was rather disturbing to follow him in silence – and in the dark tunnels. Obviously there were no ghosts haunting the opera house except of him but there certainly were noises… and not all of them belonged to their persecutors. It was the wind and most probably water dripping from the ceilings but still…

They passed beside a torch that cast a long shadow on the ground as they went but then it was dark again.

Or the lake. And that cracking sound could have come from the boat as it hit the shore.

He took a turn to the right, then they passed under an arch and finally reached the top of a staircase. He continued his way without pausing, descending into the dark floor below. A cold breeze stole under her coat and she shivered.

Under his coat.

That was why he was wearing nothing more than that shirt now; a rather thin shirt, she remembered. Its soft material couldn't conceal the heat of his body and where the shirt opened in the front part of his skin was pressed to her bare back.

She shivered again, this time not from the cold. Watch it burn. There was certainly no way back from that moment.

Meanwhile they reached the last stair and he turned into the passage on the left.

Noises. They were there again but instead of eluding them he seemed to walk deliberately towards that direction. It was just as dark here as it was on the first floor and she followed him now without the wish for memorizing where they went. It was useless: this was a labyrinth.

"We are going straight towards them," she whispered, only half-waiting him to answer.

"That's what they least expect," he said without turning to her.

Suddenly he stopped in front of her and pulled back into some kind of alley, casting a short glance towards her, but by that time she had already taken her place beside him, her back to the wall.

They were coming.

She had only one glimpse at the crowd; she recognized a few faces from the staff of the opera house, maybe a couple of people came from the audience but most of them were gendarmes. All of them were searching for him with an obvious reason. They wouldn't accept any other judgment than death if they ever found him.

Her stomach gave a sickening twist. He had already been shot.

After the noises faded then died completely he leant out to make sure that the mob had left, then resting his head briefly against the wall he straightened his posture. Her eyes involuntarily travelled to his injury: the red stain on his shirt had definitely grown since she had last seen it. She swallowed.

Some uncomfortable feeling made her raise her eyes again – he was staring at her.

"Come," he commanded.

Stepping out he crossed the tunnel then only the white spot of his shirt could be seen as he went farther. Maybe it was just her imagination but his steps seemed to falter halfway through the corridor.

She followed him short after; when she reappeared beside him he had just pushed himself away from the wall. The slight nod of his head signed her to follow him so she resumed walking after him, the pace now considerably slower than before. She watched his steps with growing anxiety but the earlier wobbliness couldn't be seen again.

They walked for quite a long time when he came to an abrupt halt and drew his fingers along on the stone, then he pushed at something. It was some kind of panel that slipped into the wall and something gave a low, murmur-like sound next to them. He leant back for a moment, closing his eyes and she watched how his chest moved with his rapid breathing.

"Stop for a while," she offered.

His eyes snapped open. "No." He disappeared through the hole that had just opened on the wall; she went after him and the passageway closed behind them. He wasn't leaning on the wall anymore but his arm was stretched out, grasping the stone for support.

"Don't tire yourself so," she told him.

"Spare your pity. I don't want it," he growled, his shoulders still hunched over his body.

"It's not pity. I just don't want you to get hurt more."

"You could have thought of that before you accepted to be part of it," he snapped.

"I didn't have a choice. He would have carried out his plan anyway."

"So you just decided to betray me because he told you so?" He shouted, chest heaving with the exertion.

"They weren't supposed to shoot when I was near!" Even she was surprised at hearing her voice, the volume matching his earlier tone. She dared not to look into his eyes. "I didn't betray you," she continued after a breath of time a little calmer.

"No, just exposed me to hundreds of people!"

"I had to make it seem real."

"To seem real what? Your dread of my face?"

"It was never about your face," she told him coldly.

"It always was. Ever since you told it to him on the roof."

"You deceived me for years!" She cried again but quickly softened her voice. "I thought he would understand my concerns. He didn't even believe me."

"It seemingly didn't bother you back then."

"Because he promised to keep me safe!"

"From me."

"You killed a man!"

"You have a suitor who didn't. Why troubling yourself, then?"

Never before had she been that furious with him. As if he truly had no idea why it was so condemning to take someone's life. Or he didn't care. She couldn't decide which was worse. And raging at her like he did… Why troubling herself, then, indeed? "Because I love you," she muttered, then turned and blindly started towards the darkness. For several steps she didn't hear any sounds from behind, only the soft tap of her shoes echoed around her in the tunnel.

The cold around her was growing with each step she made. Where she was going she had no idea, neither did she know why she had started to leave in the first place. Just to be away. Because she wanted to be with him.

It was not how it should have been told to him.

Maybe he would go after her… but then it occurred to her that even if he wanted to, he couldn't. She would have to stop very soon if she didn't want to get lost.

Then his low voice startled her more than his harsh words did minutes before. "This way."

By the time she turned back he was already walking in the opposite direction and she followed him wordlessly.

He kept up his slow pace at the beginning but as the minutes passed his steps began to waver until he had to reach out to brace himself against the wall. He didn't turn back to her again and she watched his struggle with heavy heart. Not as if she expected him to ask for her help – most certainly he would not, after tonight – but she wished she could help him somehow.

He stopped for the fraction of a minute but continued to walk ahead. The sound of his suppressed, labored breathing echoed in her ears.

Then he stumbled again.

A cold grip forced air out of her lungs; she stepped beside him and took his arm. He shuddered at her touch and tried to pull away.

"No. Let me."

"I just want to help you," she told him, holding onto his wrist.

"I don't need help."

Of course not. Again he tried to get out of her hold and she turned to face him. "Erik, please."

He didn't say anything but there was that look in his eyes… it made her throat tighten with an emotion she didn't wish to name. At long last she was allowed – or rather wasn't objected when she tried – to clasp his arm around her shoulders and they walked forward. Bit by bit he revealed where to turn and they reached another staircase; by the time they got to the bottom he was dragging his feet on the floor.

She stopped the two of them beside an overhanging.

"Here," she told him. "Rest for a while."

"No. Keep going."

"I'll help you to stand. Now sit." Her hands soon followed her words, pushing him down by the shoulders to the overhanging. The shirt beneath her palms was soaked with sweat and she felt him trying to move away from her touch but in the end he obeyed her, sinking heavily to the rock. He released a shuddering sigh and leant back to the wall where she couldn't make out his expression in the dim light. For a moment the two burning spots disappeared, but then when he opened his eyes again he was looking straight at her, as if it was enough for him to feel that she was looking. Prying again. Hastily she dropped her sight to the floor and took a few steps aside while he turned his head just a little so that shadows could conceal most of his face.

Her heart was hammering somewhere deep in her stomach. The watchful eyes of dozens of gendarmes couldn't stop him from performing but he couldn't bear that she was looking at him.

She shuddered and closed her eyes for a moment to stop the dizziness that was trying to take over her thoughts.

Forgive me. I never wanted this.

Guilt had never been so suffocating before. He might have deceived her – but she was no better, either. He would never believe her if she told him how much she regretted it now.

A drop of sweat ran down the visible side of his face while his arms were folded around his frame. A tremor shook his body that was immediately followed by another. She wondered how long he tried to hide that from her.

She watched him for a long while, before stepping closer she slid out of his coat and draped it over his back. Even if you hate me now. He seemed to ignore it but after a long moment his eyes looked up at her with an unnerving expression.

"Christine, I love you. I only wanted you to…" His voice trailed off before he could finish and he looked away. Slowly she took a step aside and stopped in front of him; he turned back but wouldn't look at her again. She lowered herself on her knees in front of him but still he refused to look; only after a minute did he cast a quick glance in her eyes. "Not drag you down here," he whispered. "I wanted you to choose me on your own. Not because I left you no other option."

"I came on my own," she told him at last.

"After I brought you down that trapdoor," he insisted.

"And I would have had perfectly enough time to escape you since then. I knew you wouldn't be able to follow me."

"You couldn't know that."

"I was perfectly sure of it. You did very well in trying to hide it but I still knew how awful you felt."

"I'm fine," he said again.

His face twisted for a moment and he reached towards his side, touching the bandages briefly.

"No, you're not," she sniffled, following his movements with her sight. The lower part of his shirt was completely soaked with blood. "You've been walking about for too long," she choked. "That thing has to be taken care of properly. We really should leave now."

One of his arms reached out carefully, stopping in front of her face for a moment before his fingers brushed against her cheek lightly.

"Please don't cry," he breathed.

"I never wanted this. I never wanted you to get hurt but you are and…" She sniffled awkwardly, wiping at her face. "Forgive me. Forgive me for all that I've done."

"It is I who should be begging you on my knees; until the end of my life." His thumb caught a tear that was running down on her cheek. "Christine, forgive me." His voice broke on the last word. "Forgive me."

She caught his hand with her own. "I already have."

"You should be as far from me as possible."

Her fingers curled around his hand, gripping it tightly to her face. "Probably yes. But I cannot bear to picture such a future. I won't be marrying him." She smiled at him sadly. "I love you."

"I love you, too," he echoed, sweeping another caress down on her face.

But he wouldn't go any further. She wanted him to and saw the endless yearning in his eyes as well but he wouldn't do it. She wanted him to know that he was allowed, though.

Leaning forward she brushed her lips lightly over his and in that moment he froze against her.

A breath of time.

Another brush.

His hand was limply held against her face and she wasn't sure he was breathing at all.

When she kissed him again his resolve broke at last, drawing a soft caress down on her cheek while he returned the kiss timidly. He trembled when he initiated the next kiss, his free arm coming to a rest on her back. His fingers lightly traced her cheek but all too soon he drew back altogether.

His eyes… They were beautiful. Shining. Believing.

"Why?" His voice was barely more than a whisper.

"You've been there when no one else was," she answered softly, reaching out to caress his face. He didn't pull back. "Sometimes I spoke to you only to hear your voice." She chuckled. "I couldn't decide which I feared more: that you'd figure me out or that you'd think me to be a ninny."

Slowly he reached up to draw a light caress through her curls with trembling fingers. It was as if he waited for her to recoil from him. "I knew why you did it." He stopped for a moment to reconsider. "I wished that that was the reason," he corrected.

"And…" She stopped shortly before revealing, "because he wasn't you."

His lips parted but no sound came out. But he didn't try it again. His eyes shone with an emotion she rather felt than understood and the light stroke of his thumb on her lips was enough to know she was right in her assumption.

"Let us leave, shall we?" She told him as she stood, and she reached out her arm for him to take. "Come."

Rising to his feet he started to walk beside her. Somewhere in the distance she heard the water splashing but they never crossed the lake. He said there was other way.

However, there were noises, noises from the mob and those noises were coming closer. She turned towards the direction where they came – but there was no route on their left.

"Where are they?" She asked him, astounded.

"Somewhere above us. On the first floor."

"It sounds as if they are right behind the wall."

"Because of the acoustics."

She wished those acoustics wouldn't work for tonight; for a fleeting moment she even wished to be deaf, just to not her the voices.

He couldn't have gone elsewhere.

…couldn't get too far…if you see him, shoot…will be hanged by his legs…in public…

Bile was rising in her throat. She glanced at him furtively: his eyes were set firmly at something in the distance. She was sure he knew she was looking at him.

"They can't catch up on us, can they?" She asked him.

"No," he heaved. "The tunnel to the stairs is closed." His next step faltered a little. "Stop here."

"Why?"

"For a minute."

"We're almost there. We should keep going," she pressed.

"But I can't!" He snapped.

Christine let go of him and he rested against the wall.

"I hoped to reach the house before you have to see me like this," he continued after a sigh.

"Don't care about that," she answered.

"Christine, I…"

"I know," she told him softly.

His sight lingered on her lips, visibly holding back the words he wanted to ask her. She took a step closer to him: she could now make out the remnants of that intoxicating fragrance on his skin that she felt earlier during the performance and his irregular breaths caressed her cheeks.

His eyes held some unfamiliar feeling, something that was more overwhelming than tears could ever express.

Shame.

She tried to swallow the lump from her throat.

"May I?" He asked her at last.

She tilted her face before answering, "Yes."

It started with a light brush and he didn't go further until her fingers softly touched his neck, returning the kiss. He pulled her closer by the waist and deepened the kiss timidly when her fingers slipped into his hair, then drew back with a tender caress on her face. He was panting slightly – and his free hand was pressed to his injury.

"You don't need to ask me," she breathed when they broke apart.

"I wouldn't have done it if you said no."

"I know," she smiled.

"We should leave now," he said.

"All right." After straightening her posture she offered her arm to him – he took it after a short hesitation and started to walk beside her.

They reached his house without any words, mostly because his labored breathing prevented any speaking on his part. It was him who opened the front door but then she had to close it after him while he supported himself on the edge of the dresser by the door. By the time she turned back he was already on his way, one of his arms braced against the wall.

"I'm here," she said hurriedly but he kept moving forward on his own. With a little difficulty she achieved to get hold of him and after two steps he finally accepted her help, leaning on her as he did in the tunnels.

They went straight to his room where he immediately sunk on the bed with a heavy sigh.

"Your room is still intact. You can rest there," he heaved.

"You want to be left alone?"

"Surely I won't allow you to stay here."

"You can't be serious," she protested.

"Christine, it's not pretty. Better if you don't see it."

"Instead let you do it all alone?" A shiver ran down her spine. Cutting into your own flesh?! Not if the other option would have been more appealing, because then she had to be the one who would cut. She swallowed. "Have you done this before at all?"

"No," he said curtly, opening the shirt then slipping out of it.

"Then I'll stay," she answered and knelt in front of him. The makeshift bandages they used were all soaked with his blood and even so it wasn't enough to stop the red liquid. She had to bite her lips.

She felt his eyes on her face. "I said go out," he muttered but removed the bandages nonetheless.

Air left her lungs in a forceful sigh and she tried to swallow the lump in her throat. She had a short glimpse of it before but to see the damage from such a close distance was sickening. The metallic smell of blood clung to the back of her throat and the sight of the remnants of blood that had already started to thicken around the wound didn't help, either. Droplets were leaking from where the bullet had hit his body, trickling down his side that moved with his every breath.

"I'll bring some water," she choked, her head reeling as she stood. Turning around she tried to door on the front wall – it lead to the bathroom.

"There is a box in the cabinet," she heard his faint voice from outside. Taking out the box she brought it to the room until the basin was filled, then came back for it and washed her hands before entering his room again.

By the time she returned he had reclined to the headboard in a half-sitting, half lying position. She placed the basin on the floor beside him.

"I hope you don't mind these," she said, placing a few towels next to him on the bed, holding out one towards him. He didn't answer but turned a little so that she could lay it under his injured side. Her eyes roamed over the things she prepared beside him – as if she could tell if something was missing…

"I'll be back," she told him hurriedly and returned in a moment with a pitcher and a glass. His eyes were closed but on the nightstand she found the box already open. It wasn't a pleasant sight: he may have never had to deal with a bullet yet he did possess the necessities for that, and all of them were sharp and painful-looking.

"Do you have something… for the pain? Alcohol, something. Anything?"

"I don't drink," he said as indignantly that her cheeks began to burn. "And I have to be awake to tell you what to do," he continued.

"I understand." But it seemed she couldn't stop shivering from the thought. Purposefully inflicting pain upon him without anything to dull it… Somewhere this night had taken a very twisted turn. With a sigh she lowered herself on the edge of the bed, her hip barely touching his thigh. An almost imperceptible shiver ran through him.

Dipping a towel into the basin she began to work, starting far from the wound and nearing it with careful wipes of the cloth. She dared not to look up at him until it was done and he wasn't looking at her, either, his sight was fixed on the wall somewhere beside the two of them. His sight returned to her only when she asked how to proceed from there, but he looked away again when she poured the antiseptic on a clean cloth. As useless it was, she wished she wouldn't have to watch this either; she herself had some unpleasant experience with that colorless fluid – and it was just a scratched knee! Compared to this… nothing.

"And now?" She asked him when it was done.

"Take that out." He pointed at an object and she obeyed. It was a rather slender kind of knife – a scalpel. Somehow she always envisioned something much bigger, something that was very familiar to a dagger. Ridiculous. But it was just as threatening as any dagger.

The scalpel wavered between her fingers but he pretended not to notice it. She saw that he did.

"You have to cut somewhere here." He drew his finger along his skin. "It couldn't have gone too deep." Her wheezing increased to an unbearable level and her face twitched as she was looking into his eyes. "You may leave if you changed your mind," he told her gently.

"No, just…"

"Don't think. Just do it."

She braced her fingers on the scalpel while resting her left hand on his stomach and his hands reached out to grab the two edges of the bed frame.

"All right," she whispered but wasn't sure whether it was meant for her or to him.

It was horrible.

His whole body tensed as the blade cut his skin and a fresh stream of blood was running from the enlarged wound. He gave no sound save from a low grumble but she felt the consuming tremors that shook his body. I'm so sorry. But probably it was the last thing he wanted to hear from her.

She tried to draw in a full breath already before cutting further.

It didn't take long until she found the bullet, then following his short instructions she took care of the rest, cleaned the wound and finally closed it. It was indeed easier if she didn't think at all, but it was hard to ignore his detached voice or the fact that by the time she finished with the work he was just lying limply beside her.

She folded the last layer of bandages on the injury with great care and wiped her hands. His chest was rising and falling slowly but he wasn't asleep: his eyes fluttered when her hands disappeared.

"You really are insane; for wanting to stay conscious for the whole time," she whispered, the familiar coldness tingling her spine again. He didn't answer her. "Do you want some water?" She continued.

Again, he didn't reply but she noticed the softest nod of his head, so she filled the glass and sat a little closer, supporting his head as he drank it. Her stomach was quivering mercilessly and now the calculated and even breaths couldn't stop the trembling of her body. I'm fine. He didn't look like as someone who was fine.

There was a short rustle of the sheets and something was pressed into her hand.

"Keep it," he rasped. When she opened her palm there was a ring resting there. Tears couldn't be stopped from there. You're not dying.

"You'll have to ask me properly," she wept.

"Will you say yes?"

"Yes." She took his hand in hers. "I'll be here when you wake up."

"Good. Be here," he whispered and his eyes closed again.

- o -

Something hurt. Very persistently.

It used to not hurt while asleep.

Well… It must have been so then because he was waking up.

His whole left side was throbbing with every breath.

Just a little longer. Pain was excruciating.

There was something, though, why he needed to wake up…

"Christine…"

"I'm here," came her soft voice and something was placed on his arm. When finally his eyes opened at his repeated attempts he found her sitting on the edge of the bed, a little closer, maybe, than the last time he saw her. And it was her hand that was on his arm. She stayed.

Thoughts were returning so slowly…

Something heavy was weighting down on his stomach and he closed his eyes again.

She stayed.

She has seen the worst and she stayed.

Why was she here?

I'll be here when you wake up.

Oh. She promised.

It was kind of confusing to wake up and see that she actually was there. He would have doubted he had already waken had it not for those unceasing waves of pain. If anything, that was certainly proof of consciousness.

He opened his eyes again: she was still there. Ever since he had fallen asleep…

"How much time passed?" He asked her at last, the fog in his mind now clearing slowly. He was lying in his bed and there was no one else in the room apart from the two of them. Good. He let out a sigh. She was wearing his jacket again under the blanket that was folded around her shoulders.

"About ten hours," she said, rubbing her eyes with her free hand. The hand on his arm remained unmoving.

It was the same hand that touched him so gently last night, the one that she clung to his hand with… But why would she…? As if he had given her something… Now he remembered dimly pressing the ring in her palm right before falling asleep. A quick glance at her fingers – they were empty. Throat suddenly dry, he looked at her from head to toe: the ring was dangling from her bracelet.

Blood started to pound in his ears. She wore that other ring on a chain in her neck.

But she stayed. And was wearing his coat.

Nothing made sense.

Asking her outright sounded reasonable enough – except that it would painfully make her aware of his lack of control.

And he was still lying on his back.

He tried to lift himself up on his elbows but quickly turned out that it was a wasted attempt. He didn't even make it to halfway before sinking back. That was when she stood and stepped closer, then pulled him up to rest against the headboard. Her bare hands on his skin. He thought it would be marvelous once she would touch him like that but all he could feel was how mortifying all of this was.

After that she sat back and was staring down at her hands in her lap. The silence stretched to an unbearable length.

"You haven't changed," he said quickly.

"No," she agreed.

"You've been sitting here for the whole time?"

"Mostly. Yes." She reached out to the pitcher, involuntary leaning closer to him and he had to stop himself from drawing away from her. Whether it was instinct or purposeful he couldn't tell and had no desire to figure it out. Some of her curls fell from her shoulder as she leant forward and her scent reached him in a soft wave. His heart skipped a beat. She'd been so close last night…

"I think you should drink some water," she told him, her eyes returning to his after they'd wandered down on his chest. She was almost blushing. She couldn't possibly think of…

"I want a shirt first," he said hurriedly, folding back the edge of the coverlet.

Before he could move to stand, though, she was already on her feet. "Don't even think of moving from there," she said, then stepped to the wardrobe and returned with a clean shirt in her hands. Thankfully she didn't insist upon helping him to put it on.

By the time he fastened the last button the glass was filled with water and he emptied it gratefully. She took the empty glass from him and placed it on the nightstand.

"How do you feel?" She asked him then.

"Fine," he lied. When she sighed and looked away he knew she didn't believe it. When did he lose the ability of deception?

"I've left here the antiseptic," she offered, looking at him again.

"Good," he answered absently, then lifting the shirt a little he folded back the edge of the bandages. Well. At least it explained the pain and all.

Her hand appeared in his vision, holding out some gauze with the antiseptic on it. "Let me."

"I can do it myself."

"Yes; I've heard that before," she said, nearing the stitches with careful strokes.

The ring kept swinging on her bracelet, mocking him with every glittering sway.

"Did you hear anything?" He asked, swallowing a hiss.

"No. Nothing." She pulled away. "Is it all right?" She asked, her eyes riveted on the gash.

"Yes," he answered curtly, telling the truth this time. Just stop looking at me.

When it was done she sat back and he straightened his clothing once again. He couldn't tell how much time passed but when he looked up she was unbuckling the ring from her bracelet, then placed the gold band on his palm. He stared at it blindly for several moments.

No.

He tried several times to swallow the lump in his throat.

Please.

"Erik."

His head lifted a little at her voice. Please don't.

A cold grip was blocking air from his lungs and he dared not to look up at her.

Coward.

But he didn't care now.

"You promised to ask me properly," she said and slowly he looked up at her.

"And you don't want me to?" He choked.

"That's what I'm waiting for." Her lips turned into a small smile and he struggled for another breath.

"I thought you changed your mind," he whispered but couldn't decide whether it was meant for her or himself.

"No," she protested and rubbed her eyes again. "It was for fear that I was crying; I was so worried that you wouldn't wake up." Her voice faded in the end and she tried to cover it with a sigh.

"You did?"

"Look at me, I'm a mess!"

"You're beautiful," he whispered.

"Because you're too tired to see the truth," she smiled.

Too tired to see the truth. She was right. He was too tired to do anything, even thinking seemed to be beyond his abilities right now. But… there was something; something unfamiliar and almost uncomfortable that was constantly nagging at his mind. She stayed. He didn't ask for her help. He had given absolutely no reason for her to care. Yet she stayed. And it felt good. Someone, who was there when he couldn't think anymore, someone who knew what he dared not to say aloud or even admit, not even to himself. Such an exceptional person – and she had chosen him.

Ask me properly. Nothing he could say would make his intention proper.

"Christine, you know about everything," he began at last.

She nodded. "I do."

"And last night… you've seen probably the worst of it."

Her eyes were still on him. On his face. Without flinching. Waiting.

"Would you marry me?"

The words swirled around them in the quiet room as her eyes slowly filled with a slight sheen of tears and she nodded several times before offering her left hand to him. "Yes," she breathed, then repeated a little firmer, "Yes."

He slipped the ring on her finger before she could change her mind and her fingers slid into his palm afterwards. It fitted perfectly.

"I love you so much," he whispered in awe.

"I love you, too," she echoed, eyes wandering over his pitiful features. The tears he was dimly aware of rolling down on his face surely didn't help to make it seem more appealing but she showed no signs of abhorrence at it. Just… love.

It was still there when he reached for her face, when he leaned a little closer and when a moment later he kissed her. It was in the caress she touched his ruined cheek with and in the brush of her lips – and when his arms wreathed around her body she rested her head on his shoulder and returned his embrace. Willingly.

"When will we be married?" She asked, drawing away from him but holding onto his hand still. The ring sparkled brightly on her finger.

"As soon as I get up from here," he answered, starting to stand from the bed. He was pushed back down on it immediately.

"No, stop. Stay there. I don't want to spend my wedding night with cleaning up your broken stitches," she said, her eyes casting a short glance at his injury before finding his eyes again.

The sharp sting of shame and indignation started in his chest but it faded quickly as the meaning of her words sank in.

It was still embarrassing to let her see his weakness but to send her out?

It hurt less when she was there.

And she wanted to stay out of love.