"Erik, don't be stubborn; come let me take a look."

Erik wilts, and a suppressed moan comes from near the organ. So long as she says that she has control, she has it; he has never been able to disobey her outright. He does hesitate though.

Christine crosses the room.

Even with his back to her she can see him angle his face away, and with her footsteps landing closer and closer, his shoulder curls up to block her view.

"Erik," she prods. "Will you let me look?" Absently her fingers fall lightly against his arm and he jerks a step away, his arms crossing each other slowly in front of him, almost as if he were raising them to fight. Christine lets him take the distance and gauges the situation.

"Don't be nervous," she says, and she gains on him again. He doesn't resist the hand on his shoulder this time, and very gently she pulls him around so that he faces her. He keeps his face angled down and away and the hands crawl up over his collar to cover his mouth and cheek. She assumes he is too ashamed of it even to bring the slightest attention to his disfigurement, even by hiding it effectively.

But that's not where her attention falls: A smear almost like lady's rouge stretches from behind his fingers to his chin. She sees then the only white in his entire wardrobe—a wrinkled cuff poking out from his jacket sleeve which is normally hidden. He's used it to wipe the blood away. She grasps that wrist and pulls it toward her.

"Why did you do this?" she asks, "You didn't have to do that; the shirt is ruined."

Christine falters when she glances up. She had not considered it a possibility, but Erik stands there blushing red. The embarrassment straightens the hunch out of him enough for him to snatch back his hand.

"I sor—" he fumbles, "I—I mmuh—" Erik flushes even darker and Christine nearly laughs at how near-normal that seems.

But he must see a laugh starting on her face and his features crumble. He uses the hand on his chin to turn his face away again, and Christine feels that pang of guilt in her chest.

"Thank you for letting me look," she offers," It doesn't look too awful—only a scrape really."

He accepts the offer, and she manages to make eye contact as she takes his hands and tilts up his chin.

There are two shallow scratches and one, long deep one on his right side. Christine resumes her firm tone.

"Are you in any pain?" she asks. Erik starts and bows his head.

"… No, not much," he admits.

"That's good; do you have any medicine for it?"

"Mmn … ah, the uh, cupboard I think." He nods choppily in the direction of … of the coffin. Christine takes a deep breath.

She backs him up to the left of the organ and guides him into a dusty armchair; she squeezes his hands a bit tighter. "I'll be right back then."

When she returns, she drags the stool from before the organ and sits to Erik's side. She does her best to ignore his shiftiness—it's almost like he's running over an escape plan, only to constantly remember that he's in his own house, and there's no escaping that. But Christine begins wetting a cloth to wipe his face, and the action does well enough to distract him. She sets down the medicinal bottle and raises the cloth; Erik shrinks into the cushions.

"Let's … clean that up?" she suggests.

Erik weighs the option and lets out a flaky murmur.

Christine puffs up. "Look that way please," she orders; she indicates the direction with her free hand, and though Erik pauses, he follows the direction. By the time her hand is raised again, he's chewing on his lip.

Christine makes a firm, downward swipe with the cloth, two of her fingers pushing lightly on his chin to keep his head still. It's very quiet then, and Christine exhales with the second swipe, realizing then the reason for the quiet: Erik's holding his breath.

"Breathe, Erik," Christine blurts.

A flush spreads in his cheeks again, and a breath shudders through his body, pushing him up in his seat. Erik mumbles an apology, his fingers twisting savagely into his pant legs.

Christine lets out a nervous snort and resumes the job. "You must learn to relax more," she says.

She wets the cloth again and pulls the red stain off his cheek bone with a few more swipes, the both of them having ducked themselves into silence. She doesn't think anything for a blissful moment, distracted with the task, but her eyes become bored and wander. They wander away from the safe-zone of Erik's cut and toward the deformity. Her eyes widen, and she snaps them away again and clears her throat.

"Do you think it will scar?" she asks; she knows it will not.

"Mm?" The flush again. "Nn, no, I think not."

She lets it fall back to silence, smiling a little more now, but Erik has been disturbed.

"Would you mind if it did?" he asks, and then hastily, "You won't see it of course, being up there again. And I'll be wearing the, the … but I, ah—"

"I wouldn't mind it," Christine says.

Erik stares at her straight on for the first time in five minutes.

"Turn please," she reminds him.

He jumps and follows the order.

"… I suppose it doesn't make much a difference—" he murmurs, fiddling with his wrists, "—the scratches I mean, not with, ah, this." He turns his palms up as if 'this' is obvious.

Christine hesitates, her hand slowing on his cheek. "I … suppose I might've told a small lie then. I would mind a little."

Hurt enters Erik's expression, but he sits on the feeling and looks away again. Christine finishes the statement.

"I mean I would feel badly if I saw a scar," she says, "It would trouble me."

"But you didn't do anything."

"I know that. You misunderstand."

She doesn't explain further, but wrings out the rag and begins sifting through bandages. She picks at one and brings the edges to Erik's cheek, but he pulls back just a bit.

"You don't hhha—I can—"

A short 'shush' cuts him off and she sticks it on, smoothing over it gently with her thumb. Dark blush forms underneath it, but the pride that swells inside of her is squished when she glances further up: there's a look of deep mortification in his eyes that she hadn't noticed before. The air sucks out of her, and something heavy sits in her chest at the contrast of what she can do with her hands, and what he can do with her hands. She draws away.

As she puts the bottle and the bandages back in the small box she found them in, a memory swims in the back of her mind. Her father pats her sore little knee and places a kiss over the bandage, nudging her into a teary-eyed smile. A smaller one forms on her lips at the thought, and before she considers it more, she sits up and pecks Erik on the cheek.

"All better," she says.

The silence is suddenly a third presence in the room, and the weight of her mistake slips over her-but she doesn't understand why. A tremendous glare settles in Erik's eyes and he shifts to fold his arms and cross his legs.

Christine tries to save the situation. "Erik, I, I didn't mean to, to ….."

She can feel her brain straining to appeal to the hatred pouring her way, that horrible, pinching panic coursing through her chest again. But Erik breaks his gaze, and she sees his eyes turning red as he looks away.

"Don't mock me please," he grumbles.

She feels immobile; her brows furrow and she watches him sidelong.

"I meant it honestly," she says.

His response is an uncertain frown as he tightens his grip on his upper arms. He snakes his fingers into the thick sleeves as he'd done before, and his eyes flick around the floor. Christine tries to watch him more carefully, but he turns his face away from her to glare at the wall that holds the organ. Christine tilts her head to try to get a better look. His lips purse and twist.

"Erik …?" she prods. She scoots further on her seat and lays a hand over his upper arm.

A gasp hitches in his throat, and he pulls his back to her. Christine stands and walks to the side of him.

"Erik, are you crying?"

He brushes an angry hand over his eyes and nods miserably. Christine is struck silent. The flush slaps across his whole face and she slumps with the understanding of it: it isn't shyness like she had thought; it's all shame.

Her impulse is to coddle, but she restrains herself. Erik shrinks as if he wants the chair to swallow him up; it's surreal to see her nightmare of only a few minutes ago shaking harmlessly in front of her. She sits closer this time, her hand winding under his and prying it off his own arm. As soon as it's done his tight grip falters, and she controls the hand completely, letting it rest beneath hers on the arm of his chair. She can't tell if he's stopped crying or not, but he's gone stiff all over, right down to his lungs. Christine searches for something that might calm him.

"I didn't mean to … confuse you," she says.

He can't reply.

"… My father used to wrap my skinned knees when I was small. He'd give them a kiss when he was done, and it always made me feel … better when he did."

The arm she's holding tries to disentangle itself, but Christine squeezes just a little and folds her other hand atop it too.

Erik huffs weakly. "Please don't do it again."

The voice is miserable.

"Why shouldn't I?" she challenges.

Erik's lips become a tight line, but she can see his gears turning, trying to focus.

"It isn't … I don—it doesn't make any sense."

"Why doesn't it?"

Fury sparks in his eyes and Erik yanks his hand away. "Stop asking me questions!"

Christine doesn't say anything, only watches him, and immediately his fury crumbles back into uncertainty. He apologizes.

Christine softens her expression. She puts out her hand. Erik hesitates and flushes, but reaches his hand out timidly toward hers. It's a very soft grasp.

"I'm sorry," he says again.

"It's all well."

Erik seems to remember suddenly that his face is still showing, and his lips stretch unhappily. Christine almost expects a third apology, but nothing comes and he looks far off into space.

They sit there for a very long time, a wavering sphere of stability growing around them. He almost mimics her actions, and as the tension floods out of her in one deep breath, his follows in the next two minutes—he slouches in his chair. His palm goes limp beneath Christine's.

She's never seen a man become drowsy so quickly, and in just another minute his head tips forward and then lurches back.

"Would you like to go to bed?" she asks.

Erik sighs and nods; he forgets to lift his head and leaves it lolling forward in the downward motion of the nod.

Christine glances at the coffin across the room and frowns. "Come on," she says, and she coaxes him into standing; he doesn't open his eyes when she leads him toward the bedroom door.

She measures the sofa as they pass the living room: she can imagine his long legs dangling over the end of it if they even tried. Instead she herds him into the Louis-Philippe room and tips him over onto the edge of the bed. He shifts clumsily onto his stomach and buries his face into a thick pillow.

She's glad to see that; it gives her the first real smile she's had the whole day. She stands there looking over him for a minute, too tired to really move yet. She doesn't bother with his shoes.

Instead, she shakes a slipper off each foot and wanders to the far side of the bed. Damn consequences.

She sleeps on the other side.