The Phantoms of the Opera And The Things They Do To Annoy Nadir.

The Magic Evening - Cherik phic #3

Cherik invited Christine to dinner before she went to the Bistro and is now having a bit of a meltdown over the details. Watching her leave with Phillippe didn't help, yet he remains hopeful and sets about making his humble abode suitable for the company of a woman.

~•~•~•~■~•~•~•~

It just wasn't right.

No matter how much he fiddled with the forks, corrected the crockery or cleaned the candelabras, the table just looked... off.

He'd changed twice since returning from the Bistro, and the soup bubbled away on the stove, his third batch since six o'clock — the other two had been so kind as to be too watery or spill right down his front.

And now, as soon as he'd fixed those problems, the table was all wrong.

Erik found himself tapping his foot against the floor, the little clacks of makeshift tap-shoes dancing around the dining room. He could almost hear her sigh, as though she were right behind him in the doorway, watching him pace endlessly around the table, setting it this way and that.

A perfectionist, she'd call him, a fond remark she'd begun to make during their lessons in the past few weeks, usually at any sort of correction he made to his piano style or muttered comment about the original artist's score. If he stopped for just a moment and closed his eyes, the fairytale was real.

But no. Now was not the time for make-believe; now was the time to make his palace fit for a queen. And if that was to happen, the table needed to be ready.

It's just dinner, she'd add quietly, her smile audible even though he wouldn't look up at her. Ah, but he'd read the books. It was not just dinner, was it? It was a gentleman keeping the company of a woman for an hour or so to celebrate a wonderful victory, followed by a relaxing half hour of music or reading or chess, a perfectly harmless time. It was not as though they would be unchaperoned in a... in a cart for the night!

Yes, he'd seen her leave the Bistro earlier.

Looking back on it all, his invitation had been a rather awkward conversation in the hansom cab. How had he phrased it?

'Do you like chicken?' How he'd wanted to kick himself afterwards. She'd frowned back at him.

'Chicken?'

'Yes...' he'd mumbled, fidgeting with his cane. 'Chicken soup, perhaps?'

'Well, yes,' she'd chuckled. He'd nodded. The cab had gone silent.

Looking back on it, he hadn't actually asked her to dine with him, and how he'd scolded himself for it afterwards! Maybe he'd held her hand just a second too long to be proper as she exited the cab, or perhaps she didn't catch his meaning at all. But then—

'With soda bread!' she'd added as he saw her to the steps that would bring her to the bustling room, to her future. He'd smiled and tipped his hat, his heart too aflutter at the nervous grin she'd sent him from the top step to do much else.

And then she was gone. But he was not.

Soda bread. The girl had him wound around her little finger. He'd sworn never to wear the custom-made Chopin apron Gerard had gifted him, complete with a medley of his scores, but now it was tossed upon a growing pile of laundry in the conservatory — behind a locked door, no less — and utterly covered in flour and little, dried crumbs of dough.

So she must have understood him! She was not a silly girl — impressionable and trusting, yes, but not silly — and she'd more than likely picked up on any quirks he might have displayed during the months they'd worked together.