[Stef--you'll have to tell me if we are still friends, after this.]

stefanie_bean's prompt: Gerik and Christine pushing the pram on a walk through the park.

He hadn't quite remembered the feeling of the sun on his face. Oh, he'd thought about it, thought he could recall the sensation, the sense-defying smell of it, but he'd been wrong. But one of the joys of knowing he was wrong was that to know that, he had to experience it.

Which was what he was doing. He'd promised her he'd be her husband, her man, in every sense of the word. They went walking on Sundays; they dined, though mostly privately, at nice restaurants; they even slept in the same bed. Like sunlight, it was everything he'd dreamed of but somehow different. Richer. Everything about her enchanted him. He insisted on pushing the pram, because it left her free to punctuate whatever silly tale she was telling with those delicate hands, and lean over to smell roses, and to take his arm every so often, like a real wife.

He didn't even mind, really, that the eyes which gazed up at him from the pram weren't his. Neither was the nose, or the toes, or (thank heaven) the face. He did not begrudge Christine her baby. He'd railed about it at first, of course, but in the end her happiness was more important. It was a little extra mess, another mouth to feed, but Christine's eyes lit up so when she cooed at it, as she did now, trailing along the side of the pram. And in truth, Erik had become somewhat attached, even if he had tried, and failed, to give her the motherhood she so wanted.

He reached down into the pram to lift the delicate creature out. Their eyes met, and Erik knew it was as much his as hers, and that fate had merely set a different course for them.

"Come on then, Duchess," he said, and smiled at the feeling of her tongue on his hand. Dog ownership was a new responsibility, but he felt up to it.

metalmyersjason's prompt: Erik/Carlotta pairing taking place in a theater in San Francisco in the early seventies

"What are you doing here?" The voice dripped venom—or was it acid, what the kids were doing now? Either way, it was a voice she'd hoped never to hear again. She rolled her eyes and her head to look over at the speaker. It was dark, here in the flies, but she could make out a dark outline and those unmistakable gleaming eyes.

"I might ask the same of you," she said tartly, and self-consciously smoothed the front of her much-outdated skirt. She just couldn't seem to adapt. Well, to the clothing styles, anyway.

His pale fiery eyes narrowed. "Erik is here to listen," he said, "and you're in his spot."

"Your spot?" she echoed. "I was not aware that the Fillmore was offering season tickets to backstage."

"You know what I mean!" he growled. He gestured down to where roadies were stacking Marshalls and adjusting cymbals and racking guitars. He noted with a pleasure he felt every time that Hendrix's old Strat was there. If only he could still play. Being a ghost, a real ghost, had its advantages—like constant access to the best music—but it came with some drawbacks, too.

Such as running into people he'd much rather not. Carlotta was still glaring at him. Had she lost weight?

"No, I do not!" she was insisting. "I was here first."

"You ought to have read the papers more closely," he sneered. "The Monkees broke up a year ago."

She looked away. Really, he was insufferable, and it made no sense at all for them to end up here, in the same theater, after all this time. "I am herrre to leesten to the music!" She hated how the accent came out when she was irritated. "And I warn you, if you try any of your tricks tonight, you will have me to answer to!"

Erik shut his mouth quickly and stared at her. She thought she could almost read disbelief on that blank face. "Erik would not dream of it," he growled. "You commit blasphemy to suggest it."

She rolled her eyes again. "Oh, please. We are both far too old for such drama. And we are incorporeal, so there is enough room for all. We don't need to be enemies anymore, do we? Since I am not on the stage?"

They both looked down. Flo and Eddie—or was it Eddie and Flo?—were arguing about harmonies or something, and the proper sequence of events when violating a donkey. The crowed had filled up the auditorium, and the lights dimmed. With a last look at Carlotta, Erik set about ignoring her and enjoying the concert. There was, in reality, nothing he could do. The crowed roared as the main attraction came out and slung his guitar around his neck. The most incredible noise wafted up from below, as full of device and technique and passion as any opera.

But Carlotta could still here Erik when he muttered, "Erik cannot believe you're here for Zappa, too."