Teach Me To Live

by donttouchthefigs

Summary:

They had not fallen in love so much as tumbled straight down the stairs of affection into passion, and here they were at the bottom, smarting from the landing. He had claimed to love her and had promised to give her all she wanted of him if only she'd let him love her from afar. She didn't want that. She wanted him to love with her, near her. Modern AU, T eventual M.

Chapter 1

Of course, Christine knew who he was before she saw him.

Large cold brew, two shots of espresso, black, light ice. That was his order. And considering the orders the Little Latte got, it was fairly tame. They were competing with the big national companies that had other coffee shops on every corner, and had to out shine them with creativity. And in New Jersey there were a lot of corners. The LL had three shops, but did good business, had good workers, fair prices and were a Mom and Pop alternative for those who cared deeply about that kind of thing. They survived on two things: regulars and technology. Because they were small they were able to update their tech faster than broad national corporations.

Online orders were the hot thing, and his was always an online order. She never knew his name: on the app you could have a name or screen name and Music Angel was all that popped up on his tag. But she knew his drink and that he only ever came to the drive thru. His black Jaguar would pull up and a quiet voice would tell them which order he was coming for. And while she was certain his windows worked, he would open his door, and a gloved hand would come out for the drink, and to place a five dollar bill in the tip jar. He always tipped 100%, which made him a favorite among the baristas.

But she never once saw his face until October.

She was working the bar, making drinks, and dealing with the public. Christine was told by Meg's mother she had the sweetest face this side of the country, so she was always shoved front and center. It was half way through the month, and still he ordered the same iced drink even if a freakishly early snow was threatened every day. She placed it by the drive thru counter and thought no more about it.

"Here Detective." She handed out the cappuccino to the cop, another regular. Detective Khan, who always took patrol no matter what the weather, was a kind man, with an easy smile. He'd hang around the hand off plane, chatting even after he got his drink. He knew all their names too, and made horrible jokes that were a blessed break between the impatient sighs and snide corrections of retail.

"Thank you Miss Daae." He popped the top and took a sip humming. "Wonderful, perfection, sensational."

"Standard," she said, giggling, wiping off the milk steamer.

"You mean you didn't make this special with love and care?"

"Always for you," she vollied back as the bell above the door rang. With a cold gust of chill wind, a dark figure stepped into the shop, hood up, hands stuffed into their pockets and slipped towards the hand off. Christine's stomach clenched ready as always to guard against the possibility of a robbery, but she told herself that it was October, and that masks were not totally uncommon. Maybe he was going to an early Halloween event? After all she had seen weirder, especially in the summer when the Renaissance Faire was in full swing.

"My, you're inside," Detective Kahn murmured, watching the stranger. Apparently he knew him. He moved a little to the side to make room for the dark figure.

"My car is broken," came the soft, deep baritone that tickled Christine's memory. He observed the online orders and sighed softly, almost as if he were in pain. He lifted his face and Christine saw pure gold eyes. Ah! Of course he must be wearing stage contacts! Though they were very good, one was less colorful than the other, almost unsaturated. "Did an order for Music Angel come?"

"Oh!" This was Music Angel, the Great Tipper? "You have legs!"

It was a joke most baristas said when drive thru regulars came through their cafe. She said it with flippant ease, and a large smile as she hurried over to collect his drink. When she returned, his eyes had gone as round as coins, and Christine felt her stomach drop. Had she misspoken? Been too familiar? Had she just coast the store a regular and tips? People had ripped them online for less. "I-mean you're usually..."

Then Detective Khan leaned back and spoke in another language looking Music Angel over. It sounded a bit like Farsi. The masked man finally blinked. His whole demeanor changed. He became easy looking at his friend, or easier as his eyes narrowed and his head cocked to the side, voice sardonic as he spoke back in the same language. It made the detective laugh heartily.

Music Angel took his drink and made to hand her the five dollar bill. "Oh here!" She tapped the little mason jar for tips that was in front of him. His shoulders hunched and his head ducked as he quickly shoved the money inside and made for the door.

"Wait," Khan said, following quickly. "I'll give you a ride. Did you walk here?"

"From the garage, yes. I don't mind the cold."

"Then you can come and shovel my driveway. Come on."

"Lights and sirens?"

"Of course. I'll even cuff you, Be like old times." The office turned and winked at Christine before placed a hand on Music Angel's shoulder and led him out of the shop.

The next time she saw him was a similar situation. It was Christmas time, and Detective Khan was waiting for his drink. Christine was wiping down the tables, humming along to the music with him. He had complimented their playlist and was joining Sorelli in a soft and only slightly off key rendition of "Last Christmas." She heard the bell, and instinctively turned around. Again a black figure stepped in, a black mask covering his face from hair to upper lip. Immediately she leaned over the counter and called, "Meg, can you hand me that large cold brew?"

The blonde hurried over with it and gave the men her best retail smile. She had been the first one of them to notice the amount given by Angel. She could guess with almost perfect accuracy who and how much a customer was going to tip. "Thank you," the man murmured. He reached for the straws only to find the bin empty.

"I'll get it," Meg chirped heading to the back. Angel frowned and his shoulders seemed to hunch again, and Christine wondered if it was from embarrassment. He had done the same thing when he had been corrected where to put his money.

"This year to save me from tears I'll give it to someone special," The cop teased his friend with the lyrics of the song.

Angel tilted his head, smirking. Or at least Christine thought he did, it was hard to see his mouth. "Je ne savais pas que vous et votre proctologue etaient si proches," he murmured reaching for the newly replenished straws.

Khan's laugh however was accompanied by Christine. Though hers was more of shock. While she couldn't claim to know Angel outside of his fine overcoat and drink, he didn't seem to be a man to make such a joke. The man spun to look at her, his eyes wide again. This time it was more comical than scary, as he had the straw between his teeth sliding the wrapper off. But, then again he stood more than a head taller than her...

"You speak French," Khan asked, still grinning.

"I learned it in college."

"In the conservatory?

"Yes, we had to know it to really sing opera well. But I only know enough to recognize, not really to speak with any kind of..." She waved a hand, trying to think of the word. "Mastery. And I prefer Italian."

"You sing opera," Angel said softly. He was giving her his full rather intense attention. Christine straightened a little, as if in front of a professor again. He was so tall and imposing, with his soft voice and finely made clothes. She saw under his wool overcoat that he was wearing a black on black suit, and spied the gold chain of a pocket watch.

"I did," Christine corrected.

"No more? Why?"

"I had to leave school."

"Wh-"

"Erik," Khan murmured finally taking his drink, and continued softly in Farsi. Angel-Erik, ducked his head, eyes sweeping over Christine as if suddenly seeing her for the first time, then turned towards the door again, hurrying out.

"It was okay," Christine said, embarrassed for the man. "He wasn't bothering me."

"All the same, he doesn't really know when to stop. Better early than too late."

"He seems...jumpy? If he doesn't like this place why does he order everyday?"

"It's not this lovely store," he assured. "Or the lovely baristas. He doesn't do so well in company."

"You're good friends?"

Khan nodded, sipping his espresso. "Old friends, I don't know if that counts as good."

"Well...tell him thank you for the money. And that he doesn't have to be so nervous. We don't bite."

"Yeah," Meg said turning off the steamer. "It costs extra."

"Meg," Christine cried, her cheeks blooming red. "I'm sorry, detective."

"Don't worry. I'm used to Meg. Here." He stuffed a dollar in the jar, and winked at Sorelli. "Pass on the bite. Merry Christmas!"

After that, Christine didn't think much on it. She had her apartment to pay for, hours to pick up to pay the bills. She sometimes felt bad that the store keeper, Meg's mom Mrs. Giry, always favored her with hours. But she put her best foot forward and did work hard. Anything else that needed coverage was paid by her side business, taking commissions as a makeup artist. She was glad that some classes from her theater degree hadn't gone to waste. Though it had taken practise to take it down from stage make up to something that would look pleasing in the sun. And up close.

Safe to say she was busy enough as it was.

Therefore, when An-Erik showed up again in mid August, she was surprised. More so because he appeared quite suddenly behind her as she swept the cafe floor. She squeaked and pressed a hand to her chest. He was so tall and dark behind her! And who on earth wore an overcoat in the summer? At least his hood was no longer up. She could see that he had thick black hair, combed back and tied tightly at the base of his head, locks escaping to fall over his eyes. Maybe those weren't contacts after all...?

"You scared me," she said trying to laugh it off even as her heart pounded in her chest. More than that, she was a little embarrassed. Phil Collins was playing and she had been singing to herself.

"I did...cough," he said, so softly she had to lean closer to hear him. He took a quick step back when she did, and lifted his hand to his face, adjusting his mask, as some who wore glasses did with their spectacles. Definitely a nervous habit. Then he stuck out his arm. In his hand was an envelope.

"Ah, is this a-"

"This is not a tip for everyone. This is for you."

"O-oh. Thank you." She took the envelope, but before she could say another word he turned and swept from the cafe. "H-hey did you get your...? Meg!" Dragging the broom behind her she went to the hand off. "Did he get his order?"

"He didn't make one," she said consulting the touch screen computer.

"What?"

"Yeah, no. Nothing today. What did he give you?"

She shrugged. Tucking the wooden handle of the broom under her arm she peered into the envelope. "Holy Moses!"

"What? Is it a hundred? Lemmie see!"

"It's not money Meg, yeesh."

"Listen if it's not green I ain't seen'."

"It's opera tickets!"

"Opera!" She leaned her whole body over the counter now, the red apron soaking up the condensation left by hundreds of iced drinks that had been placed there before. "Whoa Nelly!"

"I can't keep this!"

"What do you mean you can't keep that? He's asking you out!"

"No-there's only one ticket." She took it out and showed it to Meg. They were box seats to boot!

"Then they're a gift. Why can't you take it?"

"Meg, do you know how much these coast? I can't accept these tickets from a man I don't know!"

She snorted. Meg was a good friend, and a pure opportunist. She was always one to push Christine when she as too timid to do anything. When her father died and she dropped out of the college, she had pushed for her to go back. When that had failed, she had been the one to take Christine out to find an apartment, convinced her to take the shift manager position at the Little Latte, and to use what skill she had learned as a theater major to do freelancing. With out Meg and her mother(who was like a beloved aunt to Christine) she didn't know where she would be now, orphaned and alone in the world.

But sometimes she was a bit much.

"Your choice. But if you're not going to take them I'll give them to Mom."

Christine drew back, pressing the paper to her chest. "No. Listen, if Detective Khan comes in, will you call for me in the back?"

She was on her lunch break when Meg called her. Brushing crumbs from her shirt, she used the back door and hurried out into the parking lot, catching Khan before he slid into his patrol car. "Detective! Detective Khan?"

He stopped and turned, grinning. "Hello there, Miss Daae. It's not often I have a pretty girl calling my name. At least not for years."

"Detective..." She raised a finger to ask him to wait as she gasped for breath. "Erik...he..."

"Erik what," he said, his voice growing concerned in the space of a second. He was standing straighter now, his dark brows knit, turning his usual warm brown face hard. "Erik what?"

"He gave me these." She pulled the envelope from her pocket.

He took it and peered inside. He seemed to calm immediately, but then looked uncomfortable. "Oh. I see."

"Can you please tell him I can't accept. That's way to expensive a gift to give to your usual barista."

"I wouldn't call it that," he murmured. "Erik has certain connections. I've been getting free tickets for me and my dates for years."

"Still, pulling big favors like that, I can't accept. It wouldn't feel right."

Detective Kahn seemed to be weighing the possibilities, dark eyes darting between the ticket and Christine, then to the establishment. "Normally I would agree but..."

"But?" She frowned. "It's...Meg said he was asking me on a date. He's not, is he?"

The detective let out a loud short laugh, that ended in a cough. "Ha! No-ah, no he is certainly not. Not that-" He pressed his knuckles to his forehead. "I'm sure you have plenty young men on your dance card. But Erik, I told you he's not used to company. He's also not used to showing gratitude or most...emotions. I think this is just the only way he knows how to show it."

"He tips well."

"Yes, but that's for the store. I think he appreciates how kind you are. After all you didn't gawk."

"The mask? Well starring is rude, but why does h-"

The Detective interrupted her by handing the ticket back. "Not everyone has your tact. In fact most don't." Now the detective sounded bitter, a frown pulling at the ends of his mouth. He handed the envelope back. "Think about it. If you really feel that uncomfortable I will of course tell him, and remind him how to act. But I do think it's no more than him just trying to give what he has to give, since you both share an interest. Surely other patrons give you little things here and there?"

"Well...yes." There was a professor that gave them some of his drawings when they showed interest, a woman starting her own company gave each of the girls a tester of liquid lipstick, and an older man who came into the store for company at Christmas gave the store a fifty dollar tip, then a little extra for Christine and Meg and a few others he favored in little red envelopes. But all of the didn't amount to the dollar sum in this particular gift!

"Erik is nothing if not...extravagant, shall we say. And there are not many that have an affection for opera, so much so that they go to school for it. It's a lonely hobby."

Christine remembered his over coat, and the gentle way he spoke as if he was afraid of scaring her off with a few decibels difference. He acted like a skittish cat, from what she saw, as if everyone were about to reprimand him.

She peeked again into the envelope. Turandot. She loved that opera to death. Her father would play it on his violin for her, and it was the one of the only operas she studied with a happy ending. And she had to admit she missed the theater. The dressing up, the luxurious velvet seats, the curtain call, the orchestra tuning up, the excitement of overtures. She longed to go back to that happy time when it was her life, home and beyond.

"Think about it," Khan repeated, softer this time. "I promise this isn't a bad gesture. When he found out you sang he wanted to ask you a million questions. That's why I stopped him. I think he feels you need encouragement," he said. But he looked a little perturbed behind his smile.

"I...I will. Thank you detective."

At home in her little apartment, she turned the the ticket over in her fingers. Booting up her rather chunky laptop, she looked up the theater in Jersey City. The Mazenderan Theater, was an interesting name. It was a beautiful building, lovingly designed, she could see that; when she went to google maps, her mouth fell open at how...gorgeous it was. It rejected the usual Greco-Roman styles that modern theaters in America tried, as if architects couldn't get away from the stately vision that government monuments possessed. It really did look like some Persian palace plopped into the middle of the lot.

The website boasted Trundot and the rest of their listings for the season as well as some photos inside. It was gorgeous, all red and gold and old-world charm. And when she looked up the price of her ticket she turned white. "Holy..." she murmured. That was it, she wasn't going.

Unfortunately it wasn't so easy. She kept thinking on how lovely that theater was. She had been in plenty when her father went on tour with the orchestra, and in school. But none that breath stoppingly beautiful. She could imagine herself, as she washed dishes, putting on a pretty dress, sweeping into the theater, feeling lovely in heels and her makeup, for a night of sophisticated entertainment. To feel her heart beat again in time to the beat of the music, to let her whole sense of self go with the sway of music.

To be transported away to that place that wasn't very far, but certainly wasn't reality, where music played with her imagination, conjuring up pictures and people and scenes in her mind's eye, letting her live somewhere that wasn't her apartment, or the drudgery of life, that wasn't really Christine anymore. In place she could be anything, from milk maid to queen. To capture that feeling that only came now when she was tired and her to-sleep playlist was particularly good. And only then it was only or a few moments, until she was asleep or jarred by some alarm, rousing her to complete some task or another.

After all, it's the only ticket. She had looked up her seat online, box five, and found that it only had one seat assigned to it. Odd but it also meant that if Erik was trying to trick her into a date, or anything else, he wouldn't be sitting with her. She could avoid him.

She winced. That was a mean thought. But she didn't know the man. And Detective Khan was good and she trusted him in a way most trust the police, but this masked man didn't exactly endear himself.

And she could pawn off her hours onto someone else who wanted them. What else was she going to do on Saturday night? She glanced around her apartment the day before the performance. It was rather cluttered, she had taken all she could from her parent's house before the bank took it and auctioned off everything inside. But despite the things crowding it, it was as empty as a tomb. Bare walls, only staples in the kitchen. No flowers, not even a pet. Or a bookshelf! All her novels piled up on the floor.

She had no friends besides Meg, having gone mute on all the people she had met at the conservatory. The grief had been too much, and the thought of associating with people steeped in music like her father who would never ever play another note had been too much. She had shut down, numb to the world except for the seering hours of pain that shot through her like an arrow when she least expected it. Anything could bring it on, from eating breakfast to hearing a certain note on a string.

She had not only lost a parent. She'd lost her passion. Oh she still loved music, as her bloated MP3 player could prove. But she sectioned it away For sleep and for the store, that as all. Now silenced reigned in this tiny place. No more singing, no more shows, no more stories.

She missed it, as dearly as she missed Daddy. It was the pain she was afraid of. When the song ended, and she was alone again.

Well...it was just a night. And what if he came back and asked how the show was? That would be embarrassing. And worse off they might lose their best tipper.

Turning back to the desk, she picked up her phone and quickly swiped the screen open. "Hey! Hey Meg. Do you still have those black suede heels? Can I borrow them?"

---

The drive to Jersey City was treacherous. It was the part of Jersey that was swamped with New Yorkers who drove like it was still New York. And in her father's old car, it was a bit of an ordeal. In the end Christine had pulled over, pulled off her stockings and heels, and drove barefoot in case aggressive maneuvering was needed. When she got to the parking lot, she redressed her legs and headed towards the building. Her ticket was scanned by a very nice young man who called her ma'am and gave her a little bow.

The inside of the theater was just as spectacular as the pictures showed. The candelabras looked like real gas lamps, but gave off no heat behind their glittering cage. The cut of the covers sent splendid light throughout the room, and she spent a few moments observing it, to figure out the illusion. How did the bulb flicker so convincingly? And that was just the lighting!

All at once the old rushes came back to her, the feeling of being oh so proper and lovely just by being here among the other finely dressed people. She hoped her tea length dress wasn't too plain. She had dressed it up with her mother's diamond pendant, and even a pair of lace gloves. Though the heels were a bit of a trick. They fit fine enough, she and Meg were only a half size different. But after years rocking differently styled sneakers it was a bit treacherous. She bought a program to add to her collection that had had no additions besides dust for years. As she marveled over the pretty picture they used for the glossy cover, she stepped in line for the queue to enter the main theater.

Handing her ticket to the usher he frowned. "Ma'am this can't be right."

Her heart skipped a beat. "I'm sorry?"

"Box five doesn't have tickets."

Christine would have happily disappeared into smoke right there. Had that masked lunatic played a horrible prank on her. "I-I don't understand? It was a gift."

"Give me one moment," he said, giving her a smile and the usual customer service platitude: "And I'll see if I can't clear this up, okay?"

Standing there, blushing horribly, she felt like everyone could see and would know that she had tried to enter with a bogus ticket. She kept her head down and waited by the stairs, well out of the way. In a another few minutes she was going to run from the building and call Meg for a good cry. Maybe Detective Khan to demand he give a very colorful message to Erik. Or maybe she would wait and drop cleaner tablets in his cold brew. There was an idea...

The usher returned with a short middle aged man in tow. "Forgive me, Ma'am. There's been a mix up."

"No it's okay. I'll just go," she said, her mortification complete. But the man quickly stepped in her path.

"On our part. I apologize for your discomfort. I'm the usher manager and I apologize for our mistake. You see, box five is always subscribed to, it has a season pass. But I was alerted that the pass holder had given up his ticket for this opera tonight."

"Oh." Christine felt relief flood her, and lifted her eyes heavenward for a moment. I'm sorry for mentally calling Erik a bean pole bastard in my mind. And for contemplating poisoning. It also made her feel a bit better that he had given her his ticket from a subscription, rather than buy it special. A second hand seat he didn't want was better than a full priced seat he was gifting. "No, it's totally fine. Don't worry about it Mr...?"

"Jules." He shook her hand, and gestured for her to climb the stairs. "Please allow me to personally show you to your seat."

Now she really did feel like a proper lady. The last time she had been in a theater was as a student and it hadn't been at all glamorous. They had sat up nearly in the rafters, and most of the time she and the other students were listening for technicalities rather than for beauty. Before then it was as a child, and she had always loved the feeling of tradition and ceremony dressing up to listen to her father play in the orchestra, with her frills, clinging to her mother's satin gown skirts.

Carefully they ascended the stars to the box, Christine practically clinging to the railing. Three years and some living in sneakers made these things feel like stilts. Mr. Jules took out a key for the door to box five. Leaning back, Christine saw that all of the other boxes had curtains that sectioned them off from the light of the hall. No doors but this one.

The heavy door swung open, and Jules entered first, making sure it was all prepared for her: a large chair with a gilt footstool. Christine felt unease again, because what box had its own lovely chair, instead of the standard theater seats? Or maybe she had never been to this nice a theater before...

She smiled and rifled through her purse for a tip. Jules stopped her with a little laugh. "My pleasure. Please sit, Miss Christine."

"Oh-" But he was gone before she could ask how he knew her name. Erik must have called a head, she rationalized, taking her seat. She nearly sunk into the plush velvet and sighed, happy to get off her already aching feet. After a moment she propped them up on the foot stool and grinned.

The box was practically on the stage, and while it wasn't the best for being totally immersed in the story, it was excellent for observing the stage craft and skill. He reached forward and moved back the heavy red curtain that seemed to cover most of the box. Someone must have forgotten to tie it back. As she searched for the gold rope to keep it to the side she saw a little shelf on the wall behind her chair. On it, where patrons might store their bags, was a little piece of paper that said "Christine".

Oh boy.

Taking it, she flipped the-was this parchment?-leaf over and read the message.

Please enjoy the show. I would like to know your thoughts afterwards.

She raised her brows. Her thoughts? She had only mentioned she sung in school once. This was a lot for a passing comment. Then again, she was sitting in a seat gifted by a man wearing a mask. If there was time to question the oddity of the situation it was long passed. Just sit back and enjoy the free show, Meg's voice murmured in her head. Free show!

The lights gently twinkled signalling the beginning of the first act. Tucking the note in her purse, she returned to her seat.

---

The thunderous applause jarred Christine. She sat up, her body lethargic and heavy, as if the beauty of the show still wrapped her in it's warm embrace, unwilling to let her go. And she was unwilling to go. As suspected, from up close she could see every detail of stagecraft, the makeup and costumes, the scene changes (with the sets somehow looking like they melted from one set to another how did that happen?), and every step of the actors. She had watched with a learned eye, but so starved of music was she that the melodies had quite swept her up in it's spell.

Instead of watching like a teacher ready to grade, she had leaned forward and placed her arms on the box's edge, chin on her hands and watched. She hadn't even gotten up for intermission, not that she wanted to be stuffed into the crowded looking ballroom with the East Coast glitterati.

It was just as good as she remembered, the experience and the show. Though the soprano, the princess, had been rather screetchy. It was the only thing that had snapped her out of the experience from time to time. But other than that she had felt like...

Like she was home again.

She got up and stretched, smiling. She hummed a few lines of music, her favorite from the third act, and sighed. She heard the sigh echo behind her, and jumped a little. Even the box had good acoustics. Ah, that must have been it! She snapped her fingers, happy to have figured it out. This box was special because of the sound, that's why it was so expensive!

That mystery solved, she headed out to do battle once more in the streets of the city.

"So how was it," was Meg's first question when she opened the door.

"Thanks, yeah it was hard driving in the city but I'm okay. How are you," Christine said, raising a brow and offering up the borrowed shoes. The girls entered the blissfully cool house, and Meg whistled over Christine's choice of dress.

"I bet you knocked his socks off!"

"I didn't see him. It wasn't a date Meg. He gave up his ticket for the night, from his subscription that's all. He did leave me a note though-"

"A romantic note?" Meg waggled her eyebrows.

Christine turned and flopped down on the couch, snorting. "Hardly. He wanted to know what I thought of the show. Basic polite note, don't get excited."

"I'm not, especially not until I see his face. Or his bank account. But if he's got an opera subscription-"

"Marguerite Giry," Christine cried throwing her hands up. "You are a gold digger!"

"Hell yeah," she laughed. "You think I want to work at the shop all my life?"

"You're going to inherit! You have a business degree!"

"That's worse case scenario, incase a millionaire doesn't show up" she said waving a hand. "So. The show?"

"It was wonderful." Christine picked at invisible fluff on her skirt. Here it comes.

"Make you wanna go back to it?"

"Yes." It was the honest answer. But... "I can't Meg. I can't go back and learn all the stuff Daddy did for a living, and hear them talk about timing and structure and dissect it until it's nothing but notes on paper when Dad made it so much more. I can't."

At least, in this one tiny area, Meg didn't push anymore. Instead she tossed the heels into the corner of the living room and flopped down beside her. "...Did you eat?"

"Not yet."

"Pizza and Sixteen Candles?"

Christine grinned. She may be crass, she may be a little shallow, but Meg always knew just how to end a night.

---

"Hey, Sarah Brightman!"

Christine jumped, and spun to peer through the shelves of coffee bags and supplies, the industrial spray she was using to clean dishes splashing her. "Yeah Sorelli?" Her cheeks were bright red. She couldn't help but hum Turandot for the rest of the week. The music lived again in her, melodies to match any mood she was in, any conversation she had. She heard it in the back of her head, and sometimes it was too loud, too beautiful, she had to hum!

"Music Angel is in the drive, Meg said you'd want to know."

"Oh yeah! Yeah! Hold on! Is there a line?"

"No just him."

"Hold him there!" She dried off her hands and hurried out onto the floor. She flung the window of the drive thru back, and practically tipped out of it, tripping over Meg in her haste. The Jag's door was open, and the gloved hand came out, almost as if to catch her. Opening the door a little more, she was able to see Erik. Still masked, his hair perfectly combed now. The leather interior of his car was cast in a dark light from the surely-not-legal-tinted windows, but she could see his coat folded over the passenger's seat with a silver money clip tossed carelessly on top.

"Whoa! Hi, there, hi! Sorry."

He nodded, sure now that she wasn't about to topple out of the window and into his car.

"Thank you for the ticket!"

"You enjoyed the show," he stated softly.

"I loved it! It's my favorite!"

"I thought so."

That gave her pause. "You...did?"

"I...you have...on your back pack. You have lyrics on it, written. I've seen it sometimes, when you leave."

Her mouth dropped open. That was true. Her work bag was old and she didn't mind bringing it because she didn't care if it got beat up. It was her old high school backpack and she did indeed have lyrics and patches covering every inch. He had probably seen her leaving one of her early shifts when he came, and would have seen her loading it into her car.

"You remember that," she laughed. She as probably tomato red by now.

"Yes. It's not my favorite, and...and you said you were a student of opera...and thus..." His shoulders hunched.

"I loved it! I adored it," she was hurry to assure, not wanting him to be embarrassed. It was pitiful when he was, such a grown man like him and obviously successful. And after doing something so kind.

"Did it make you want to go back?"

"You are just like Meg," Christine laughed, jabbing her thumb over he shoulder at the nosey blonde who was craning to hear the conversation. "She asked me the same thing!"

"Music is too wonderful to waste."

"You're right. But I have bills to pay. But still! It was wonderful. And wow! That theater!"

Now the man seemed to sit up straight. "You liked it," he asked, eyes glittering. He was even smiling.

"It was the most beautiful building I've ever seen!"

"Would you like to see inside it?"

Christine laughed. "I already did!"

"I mean the whole building."

"Like a tour? They have them? Do you know how they change scenes? Do they use mirrors? Can they tell or is it like a company secret?"

"They can." He glanced in the rearview mirror. A car pulled up to the speaker and the driver was ordering. "On Sunday. They can. After noon."

"Oh well..." She shifted. Now this really did sound like a date, or at least something other than a passing interest.

"I will understand if you don't," he said, softly again. "But I would be...honored, if you did." Then he nodded in way of goodbye and closed the door. She watched him a few moments after he left, a little shocked. Did he ask her out? Or, was he just a professional, wanting to encourage young aspiring people? Trying to encourage her back into music? Or maybe he was just as Detective Khan stated. An older man wanting to be kind but not sure how, overstepping social lines to do so.

"Hey, if you're not gonna work my window, get out of it," Meg teased tugging on her apron strings.

The interrogation came when Christine was on her lunch break. Meg, who was manager of the shift, pretended to count the inventory as she pestered. "Okay spill."

"You mean you couldn't hear? You were right next to us!"

"Yeah, but he whispers!"

"It was nothing. he asked if I liked the show."

"Oh come on, I know it as more than that! You practically flew out the window."

"I didn't want to miss him!"

"Christine." Meg ripped three brownies out of the freezer box, and tossed them on a tray to thaw. "Get real, now. None of this it's just being nice crap. Between the ticket and him at the window I haven't seen you this excited over something in ages. You're humming again, and smiling and excitable like a puppy. Like before."

"I get excited over stuff," she protested.

"Name something."

Well that had her stuck. It wasn't as if Christine was unhappy. Mostly. She had her interests, her favorite movies, she read and went shopping with what little money there was left over. She was older now though, not a kid anymore. Her excitement was more refined, she supposed. Less bubbly, less exuberant. "I got excited over that new Christian Bale movie."

"You said 'oh great, let's go see it' then forgot that we made the date a week later." Meg shook her head. "You were on the phone with me for an hour talking over shoes to wear to this friggin' show when no one but the ushers were even going to see you! C'mon, kid. You love this crap. Good crap, don't get me wrong, Music, and theater and all that: you love it."

She leaned against the fridge. "You can still love it without your parents being with you. You did at school. And since you won't go back to that, isn't this the next best thing?"

Christine lowered her head, staring at her red sneakers scuffing the linoleum floor. The thing was, she didn't want to enjoy it without her mother, or her father. She didn't want to feel that swept way joy, because it wasn't fair. She knew it was foolish, and a little dangerous, but she didn't want to feel much because they would never feel again.

"He offered me to tour the theater."

"No way!"

"And he gave me the ticket because he saw I had the lyrics written on my back pack a couple of times."

"Christine, holy crap! I can't even get Phillip to notice I've gotten a new jacket without specifically showing him, let alone him figuring it out from something as small as that!"

"I'm not sure it's a good idea. This is definitely, date-y. Right?" Meg had more experience than her. Christine had been a total devotee to her voice, and hadn't had time for boys. She had had the odd boyfriend here and there, usually during the summers, and there was her childhood crush Raoul. They had gone to grade school together, before his parents moved away to the rich side of town.

"Definitely date-y."

"Then I shouldn't go."

"Why not. I met Phillip though the store."

"Yeah but you wrote your number on his cup, and we saw him everyday."

"We see Angel everyday. And Detective Khan knows him. It's a small town, Christine. I'm sure it would be fine. Besides it's not like he said he'd be giving you the tour. Did he?"

"No he said the theater does on Sundays afternoon."

"It's settled then." Opening the freezer, she began to count this time for real. "We'll go shopping and pick you out a nice outfit and you're going if I have to drive you myself!"

They sat in silence or ten minutes more, nothing but the crunch of cardboard and plastic as Meg pulled out the empty containers breaking the stillness. Then-

"It would be cool to see how they rigged the staging to change so seamlessly," Christine mused.

"That's my girl!"

Chapter 2

Christine did not, indeed, have to have Meg drive her. They went out as planned and bought Christine a new outfit for the trip. Dark wash jeans and a blue peasant blouse that dropped off the shoulders. Christine did however, refuse to look at the theater's website for specific tour times. It as a safeguard for her cowardice. If she went down there and missed it, then she could back out. If she felt comfortable enough, she would always ask the times when she was there for the next tour.

That weasley plan in place, she decided to take the train down instead of the car, and save herself the heart attack. The building was just as beautiful as it had been all lit up that night. The white stones seemed to gleam in the sunlight now, making their pristine color eye catching. it stood out among the grey and brick colored buildings on either side of the street next to it.

She tested the front door and found it opened, surprisingly. Devoid of people, the entrance to the theater yawned before her, large and imposing. A circular entrance hall, thick red carpet on the floor with white marbled walls. A vaulted ceiling stretched over her, the crystal arabic lamps hanging from it glittering softly in the morning light. Every move she made sounded loud to her own ears. The program stand selling pictures and soundtracks was unlight, the posters taken down for the day and there was an usher vacuuming the carpet. Ah. She had missed it.

"Miss Christine," the boy said, turning off the vacuum.

"Uh...yeah. How did you-"

"Mr. Jules is waiting for you. Just a moment I'll grab him." With a polite smile the young man hurried off. Mr. Jules? The same Mr. Jules who was the head usher? Christine frowned. Erik hadn't arranged for a tour just for her had he?

She had little time to ponder before the short round man was coming towards her from an office, grinning. "Nice to see you again, Miss Christine."

"Uh-hi? Yes it is nice to see you too. But how did you know I was coming? I didn't sign up for the tour-"

Jules smirked, shaking his head. "Of course not. The owner told me you were coming. I'm very glad too, he doesn't usually like anyone but staff in his theater when there's not a performance going on."

Christine had a sinking feeling she could identify just who owned this theater. "Oh boy."

"Indeed. I was surprised, but not unhappily. I'm glad-" He seemed to stop himself. "Well, if you want to leave your things here, I can start to show you around."

The tour started in the ballroom, which Christine had certainly missed. A pity too because it was jaw dropping. The walls were reflective gold, and a whole rounded wall was made of glass french doors leading out into a garden that had the same white glass arabic-style lanterns dotting the pathways. In the sunlight it the whole room glittered, sending glints off the floor, which had a fresco of what looked like important scenes from several different operas. She was currently standing on Aida, draped in the arms of her beloved.

From there she was shown back stage into the costume room, which made her want to fall into the voluminous skirts and silks of the dresses, and she had a hard time keeping her hands to herself. From there the prop room and finally the stage. Jules was very learned about every part of the theater, an effective guide for a head usher, Christine complimented. "I have to be, to keep up with the boss. He doesn't explain much and expects a lot. The thing I cannot explain however, is the rigging." He laughed at her look.

"How did you know I was going to ask," she said, smirking. She knew damn well how Jules would know. And she was wavering between impressed at the building and abject fear that a rich important masked opera owner was pulling strings for her.

"Everyone asks. It's really impressive. He used mirrors but I don't understand it even after all these years."

"He-you speak like the owner built this place. Did he?" At Jules' nod she whistled low, and her stomach sunk lower. Oh boy, oh boy was she in hot water if this was his idea of a date-y evening. There was going to be some expectation of her, in repayment. And more than just a polite thank you. That feeling only worsened when Jules said,

"Let me get him. He's in his...office. He can explain it to you. He wanted to see you before you left anyway." But instead of walking back to the front of house through the isles, he disappeared behind one of the main scenes behind the stage. Christine twisted the bell sleeves of her top, nervously, spinning slowly on stage.

It looked so much bigger from here. And even though the lights weren't on and she was alone, she felt her heart pound. She looked out at the hundreds of seats, imagining people in them, staring up at her breathless with expectations. She had only been on stage in her choir before-she hadn't finished out her schooling enough to audition solo. It had been flattering, but she had been one of many faces. If they came to see her, Christine Daae-

Diva.

She hung her head. No, not after her last year at school. She had almost flunked out. Her voice hadn't carried her grades that was sure. If she truly had some amazing gift, wouldn't it have still been beautiful in grief? Or maybe the worse was true: she was just above average. She didn't have some special gift, not more special than other gifts, like her father and mother said. She wasn't blessed by music.

Still...when would she have another chance like this, all by herself? Going to the lip of the stage, she mulled over what to sing. Something short and easy that wasn't loud enough to catch attention. She took a deep breath-from the diaphragm like a good soprano-and began In The Air Tonight.

It was an old favorite, and before she had loved the smooth undertone of the synth against the quiet lonely sound of the lyrics. But now she could understand the depth of grief it took to put such words to paper. And the gloom of the song touched her mood. Like sucking poison from a wound, she was able to wind that sadness into the words, and through the effort and concentration to carry them to the back of the room despite it being in her lower register, her spirits lifted. Even if it was only her ears, she still sounded decent.

"Well I remember! I remember, don't worry./How could I ever forget?/It's the first time, the last time we ever met." Christine closed her eyes and gripped her fingers into fists, pressing them to her chest. Her nose was a little clogged from the beginning of tears the song brought, but it was easily sniffed away. Christine stamped the heels of her boot against the stage to simulate the sudden introduction of drums before flinging herself into the crescendo:

"I can feel it coming in the air tonight, oh lord!/But I've been waiting for this moment all my life, oh lord!"

Her body swayed and she could hear the beat in her mind, the steady drums that she could feel in her chest as she sung, arms still stretched to the invisible crowd. She came back to herself in degrees, her voice going soft, now hurting a little with the sudden use without warming up. Finger combing her hair back, she lifted her head and wondered where Jules was-before shouting in freight.

Erik stood in box five, both hands gripping the edge of the box in what might have been a white knuckle grip if she could see. But he was still wearing his gloves. He seemed unable to move, even at her exclamation of surprise, except to pant slightly.

"You have got to stop doing that," she said with a little laugh. "You are seriously going to stop my heart."

"I knew you could."

"Sing? I told you that."

"That wasn't just...!" He stood and turned, quicker than a flash from the box. She was worried for a second that she had offended him, until she saw him hurry down the stairs stage right. He moved so fast and so noiselessly he could have been a ghost. But as he came towards her on the stage he had all the grace of a dancer, as if each movement melted into the next. He went to lean against a wood tree, a hand on his trunk as if it was keeping him up. After a moment, he smoothed back his hair, hands falling to tug his vest straight. The motion seemed to change his entire person, from panting wide eyed excitement to...gentleman. "That was not just singing. The instrument that you have!"

"I'm not that good," Christine demurred, more than embarrassed now. This was more than a startling change from the quiet man who had flinched even at her smiles. Now he seemed to be brimming with emotion, his body tense like a bow with the effort to keep it in. "I certainly didn't know I had an audience!"

"But the pitch, the sound the clarity, you have a gift-a gift! It is not just anything!" He seemed to spit the word. Or he would have-she was so used to seeing him wear a mask that she hadn't realized that this one covered his whole face, an emotionless black, that blended into the rest of his clothing. And what clothing-black shirtsleeves, black waistcoat, and pressed trousers. Like he stepped out of one of Meg's trashy novels; though he certainly wasn't trashy.

"Well...there's no reason to argue about it," Christine said diplomatically, the same way she treated her friend when she was a little too angry or a little too tipsy. Calm and slow.

"You m-" He lifted a hand to his mask and adjusted it looking away for a moment. After a deep breath his voice returned to the quiet murmur he used in the store. "Why did you stop your schooling?"

She looked down at her feet. Well it wasn't like it was a secret. "My father died. I had to come home and put things in order, and it took away from my studies. I didn't want to officially flunk out, so I stopped all together." She shrugged. "And I never went back. I had to live somewhere, and to do that I had to work."

Behind the gaping eyeholes of his mask the mismatched yellow eyes narrowed. "And there were no grants to be had? No scholarships? No loans?"

"I don't like being in debt."

Erik lifted himself up to his full height-an impressive one at that-and said, "If you will not be totally honest with me then...then I shall not tell you how the scenes change!" My how childish he sounded, even with his beautifully deep voice.

Christine raised her brows and folded her arms. "Really? You're holding my curiosity hostage?"

"Yes-because I believe you are a desperately curious thing, thus why you came to the opera. Thus why you are here." He matched her pose, but after a second of silence he admitted, "and it is all I have."

"Why do you want to know so badly? Why-" She took a step forward, and he mirrored her darkly, sliding back as if she were rushing him. Back again where those hunched shoulders, the curling inward as if to make his impressive thin form smaller. "Why did you give me your ticket? Why did you invite me on this tour?"

"I...had my suspicions about you. And I am usually right in this sense." He looked up at the wooden tree as if suddenly finding it amazingly interesting. "And...After knowing you were once a student, I began to notice you more. You hum when you work, and it's lovely. And you have good pitch. You even talk well."

"Talk well," she snorted.

"Yes. Most are too loud, or too quiet. You speak well, clearly and confidently." He inspected one of the cloth leaves hanging and giving shade to the wooden floor boards below. "And you are very kind." This was almost a whisper.

And that was what broke her. Because he said it in such a way that made her understand: he wasn't used to much kindness. Not the real genuine selfless kind. Even if it was as simple as a remembering a return customer for more than his money, which she wasn't sure she did for him entirely. "Thank you," she said softly her cheeks coloring.

He seemed to know he had won. His mismatched eyes turned on her again. "Why did you not continue?"

"...I missed my father too much. He was a violinist. Charles Daae I don't know if you have heard of-"

"I have heard him play," Erik said suddenly. "Once, first violin in an orchestra. He was exceptionally skilled, that is why I remember his name."

She nodded. It was another reason why she had quit. When Daddy was alive, being Charles Daae's daughter The Singer was a badge of pride. After...well she became Charles Daae's orphan, and everyone wanted to press stories and memories of her on him, as if she did not have enough to make her remember. And mourn.

"He passed. And...and the light went out of music. Out of this instrument you seem to like." She shrugged. "Then it became all breathing, and tempo, and notes and parts and pieces. I mean I know you have to learn it, it's apart of the mastery, and it is a craft but I felt like a machine, like a music box and...and this is really personal. Okay?"

At last, he nodded. He looked down at the floor as she spoke, sparing her a look of pity. She was grateful. "Of course. Music is personal. I...am sorry for your loss. Thank you for telling me."

Christine nodded and leaned back on her heels. "So uh...right. The scene changes. Yeah? You're gonna tell me?"

"In a moment-"

"Oh come on, just threw my heart at your feet, have mercy!" She smiled, tried to joke, but she saw him close his eyes as if in pain. "Sorry."

"Do not be," he replied clearly. "No, do not be. You were very good to tell me that, and I do owe you. But I want...I want to ask you just one more thing." Christine waited, opening her hands as if to say so ask. He knew her worst pain, what else could he ask? "If...if music could be more again-if you could learn, and learn in a way that wasn't mechanics all of the time, would you?"

"I..." She was taken aback. "I don't know. I think it's just me mostly."

"Yes but when you saw the opera, you felt it again. The music, you felt it in your soul, didn't you? If you could learn and still feel that, would you?"

"...Maybe? I suppose. But I don't have any money to do so, and the grants and stuff that's long over with I've been gone too long."

"I wouldn't charge you."

Now she was down right floored, and she almost met it. Thankfully there was a stone bench in this little fake garden for her to sink onto. "You? You want to teach me?"

"Your voice-please believe me when I say I have never heard another like it. Now it is your turn to have mercy. You heard Charlotte last week?"

"She was in Turandot? The lead-"

"Yes. What did you think of her?"

"She is well trained. Alright, she screeches," Christine relented hen he waved her first kind observation away with a frustrated gesture. Christine never liked to critique people who only tried their best.

"Yes, she screeches, like a tire on asphalt and the manager will not be rid of her!"

"You're the owner, fire her."

"I own the land, and part of the building, and I have some sway but not entirely. Not anymore." He said bitterly, folding his arms and huffing like a walrus. "She comes from Spain, calls herself Carlotta, and is very famous. She brings in ticket sales and is like a needle rattling in your ear."

"Well..." Maybe he was a little harsh, but he wasn't entirely wrong.

"So to hear you! Ah, your voice is like a bell. But it is untrained, or at least out of practise. But if I could teach you-"

"You want to teach me to out a soprano you don't like," she asked, standing and putting her hands on her hips. "It wasn't very complimentary."

"No. No I want to teach you so I may hear you sing," he said simply, arms unfolding to spread entreatingly. It made her blush from her neck to her roots. Just to hear her sing, it sounded very romantic very soon. "If you take my teachings and go far and above this opera house-well then. It is your due!"

"Far and beyond-I haven't even agreed yet, you know. I don't even really know who you are." She tapped her cheek, indicating his mask.

His hands flew to it, and he took another step back. "You will not see Erik's face. I cannot show you. I have my reasons, and they are very good reasons. If you want you can ask Nadir Khan and he will tell you that there are good reasons. You trust him enough."

"I do? He told you then I asked about you."

"Yes. Understandably. You're a young woman, you must be careful."

"You're right I must. Like being careful of men that offer candy and singing lessons."

"...I did not offer sweets," he mused, confused.

"It's a joke. Nevermind. Alright. If you wear the mask all the time I'll just assume you have a good reason." Maybe he was famous, and it was a clever way to avoid attention while he ran the opera house. Or maybe he had a light sensitive skin condition. Who knew. "But if you're going to teach me, and I haven't agreed yet, how do I know you're qualified to do so?"

Erik stood tall again, and she knew instinctively that he was grinning. Everything about his posture spoke of smug happiness. "That I can prove! Stay here." He turned towards the stairs again, and glanced back once, to make sure she stayed put.

Christine rolled her eyes and plopped down onto the hard wood of the stage, as if to prove that she wouldn't budge. He disappeared again, and Christine tried straining to hear footsteps or anything. Nothing, but the faint noise of the vacuum cleaner from the main hall.

Just when she was about to stand up and call his name, she heard the first note of a violin. And then she was transported.

Glued to the stage, she closed her eyes and swayed, utterly taken in by the music Erik-for she assumed it was Erik-produced from simple violin strings. The melody was complex, she could almost see his hands fly over the fingerboard, pressing a half second before the note was wrung from the strings.

And he began to sing.

Oh, the love that was poured into that playing, the sound of his voice! The soft sighs and loud ringing notes of the song made her soul rise with it. She had heard beautiful music before, and her father's violin had alway brought her to new and different fairylands of stories and tales made of song. But with this, she was truly swept away, until she was no longer Christine, no longer human, nothing but what the song made her. She was simply a creature of feeling, a creature made to hear these notes and rejoice.

It took eons for her to realize that the music had stopped. She opened her eyes, and found that there were dark spots on her knees, where her tears had fallen on her jeans. She hadn't even noticed how her face flushed, and the sting that preluded crying. She wiped her nose and eyes on her sleeve, and took a shuddering breath.

And he, with that voice, wanted to hear her sing?

She heard the rustle of the curtain and knew he as coming back. But instead of slipping back onto the stage like the dancer before, he strutted, spinning his bow by the crux of the frog. That black masked head wagged on his shoulders in the height of hubris, for he knew just what he did. "What say you," he demanded, pointing the bow in her direction.

"I say I need some time to think," Christine said, sniffing again before getting to her feet. Her knees were a little weak, and she felt...empty without his song.

"Think! Think? Did I not prove my worth? Did you not like it? I play you the human spirit, I wrap you in notes and you still need to think?"

"Yes. Because I don't have unlimited time," she pointed out. "I have a job and I'm not half as convinced as you are about my talent. And it's a lot of money coming down here-"

"Erik will cover your coast. A pass, for the bus or train or what you need," he interrupted. Though he sounded unsure, whether about the amount of money or how the trains worked she wasn't sure. The third person narration wasn't helping all that much either.

"You are really determined."

"Enough time has been wasted, thankfully I found you while you are still relatively young. Any longer and I might not have been able to salvage your talent."

Even though he was right, and Christine knew he was right, it didn't sting anyless. "Is this a date?"

That took his breath away. He stopped, letting out a short choked noise, leaning slightly as if he stopped short while walking. "A date? Courtship?" She nodded and he brought his violin up to his chest, hugging it like a shield. "No! No, no dating! No-did you think Erik meant to seduce you?!"

She gestured around the stage. "Opera, free tickets, a tour, serenading me. It's not so off base," Christine muttered the sting increasing since he seemed not only shocked by the idea but adverse. She wasn't so ugly was she?

"Then I apologize, most profusely," he said coming towards her, bending to where she was still sitting. "I apologize, ma'am. Erik would never impose on you in such a way, never have such expectations of you! I will try my best, in future to ease and avoid such discomfort-I swear it!" Now those wide gold eyes were pleading, begging to be believed. She wondered if she stayed silent if he would actually get on his knees. She would not like that at all.

"I'm not-I'm not uncomfortable. I was a little nervous that I might be leading you on just to satisfy my undeniable curiosity." She tossed his words back at him, smirking. He straightened and huffed again.

"How long will you need to think?"

"A week-I have work," Christine cried hearing his quick intake of breath to argue. "I have to earn my keep and all until I become the next Maria Callas."

He seemed to, like her previous jokes, take her seriously. Nodding he walked away and she felt a little sad that he seemed to have forgotten his side of the agreement. Then came the clicks of a violin case, and her heart stuttered a little. She hadn't even heard that alone in her apartment. She had taken her father's violin and placed it in the trunk with his orchestra tuxedos and old college t shirts. Christine forgot how much she missed that simple sound.

Erik returned and threw his arms open wide, the showman once more. "And now! The magic of the stage. And let us see if I cannot gain your consent forthwith!"

---

Christine did not, in fact, agree to lessons after the show. And it was a show. He brought her up into the rafters first to get a birds-eye view. There she saw the mirrors that spun on axles, and the gears to turn them. That with a bit of light play made the scene changes seem to melt into one another, like film transitions brought to life. He showed her once, in the rafters, and then once from a place on the stage. It still made her head hurt to figure out and she felt that, in the end, she and Jules would just have to nod in awe of it.

Before he left her go, not walking her to the door, he stopped her halfway up the aisle with a soft call. "Christine, something else to think on."

"You really hate that word."

"Not usually. I prefer the people I have...near to think. But think on this: how would it feel to create again?"

And it had, as he probably knew it would, stuck with her. Create. It was hard to think of submitting to lessons at creation, but like an artist given pen and paper, it would give her the tools to create. To sing, to produce art. To be the sweeper and not just the swept away. To join that society of people who wove sounds like a loomer weaves thread and create a story, a feeling, of beauty.

It was like the first moment you became the creator of Santa to someone younger even if you no longer believed. Suddenly, this old story was yours to give to someone wide eyed and trusting. Suddenly you were the one to spin the tale, to take all those feelings of warmth and wonder and place it on the next generation like a mantle, even if it was just a wink or to ask what they asked the long revered saint for for Christmas.

When her father was alive, and she had began her training in music, it felt like that. Like she was apart of something, passing on something, keeping the motion of music going. He had entertained her with his songs and stories, and when she found she could sing, began to join him. He had been so proud when she had dedicated herself to the craft. Soon they weren't just Daddy-daughter. They were partners, talking sound and technique. When he died, so soon after her mother, music, life, and emotion had screeched to a halt.

If she seemed pensive Meg did not mention it. They were deep into the summer and their rushes were random and intense throughout the day. Everyone went home tired. After soaking her feet, she would tap on her laptop and try searching up this Erik. She could ask Detective Kahn but she didn't want to keep running to him for advice. He was just a jovial customer after all. It seemed rude.

But Christine didn't get very far. Putting 'Erik' and the 'Mazenderan Theater' in the same searched only brought up public records of permits. She did learn his last name was Khan, oddly enough. She wondered if they were related, maybe distant cousins? The detective wore a wedding band, brothers in law?

She closed her computer and looked around her bare bones apartment. It's not like she had nothing to do! She read and she watched movies here...by herself. She did go out with Meg, but going to bars or third wheeling dates wasn't her idea of fun. Oh she had plenty of great memories, but it was a wonderful exception not the rule. Christine chewed her lip.

She had always been a quiet child, always living in a realm of fantasy. She would spend hours in her bedroom, an only child, dressing up as queens and fairies and lions and anything else that struck her fancy as she play acted her simple stories full of scenes from books and movies she had just read. Each new tale from her father or the tapes he brought her gave her a little more understanding, from sympathetic villains or flawed heroes, complex stories or the sweet simple joy of a good old knight versus dragon.

When Raoul had lived next door he had found it a wonderful escape. His parents were always telling him to grow up, putting him through summer courses, rigidly monitoring his play time and what he consumed by mouth or brain. Coming over to the Daae's meant laughter for him, and freedom, and fun. Maybe that's when she had first felt it, that creation and storytelling. Pulling this towheaded child into her world of make believe and trust despite his parents trying to force him into the skepticism of the world.

Looking back she thought he had been the blessed one, and she the duped. Christine winced at her own bitterness. Alright, her father hadn't duped her per say. But he'd coddled her, leaving her without the tools she needed to grow up. He made her fall in love with the innocence of childhood, something that the world loathed. He'd left her vulnerable.

And music was irrevocably linked to that. It was linked to so many aspects of her life. But wouldn't it be grand if it wasn't? If she could view it as a calculating adult, and both with the breathless wonder of a child, like she had at the theater. Could he show her that middle ground?

She thought of Erik and his abnormal wear and speech. If he taught like he talked she wasn't going to be a child again, in the attic listening to the violin as she read fairy tales. He had called her voice and instrument, and the mastery of his own foretold her that he wasn't going to be easy on her. But he did indeed understand the magic of music.

In the end, the shrewd part of her that had been born from piling bills and suddenly being homeless was what drove her to call the opera. Free lessons and a free bus pass? Who as going to offer her better? As the phone rang, she almost hung up, chastising herself for thinking someone would be there so late.

"Mazandaran Theater, how may I help you today?"

"Ah-oh, is Mr. Jules there?"

"Yes," the woman on the other end said slowly. Obviously this was the number just for talking about ticket sales and opera questions. "May I ask who is calling?"

"Christine Daae-I came for one of the tours and he will remember me."

"The tours...? Um, hold on one moment please, ma'am."

Christine frowned into the phone handle. Then she wondered if there being tours was a thing at all. Closing her eyes she berated herself for being so stupid. Of course there wasn't. Erik owned the opera house and Jules worked for him. He could have her come and go as he wished.

"Miss Daae?" Jules sounded happy to hear her.

"Hi! Mr. Khan around?"

"Uh...Detective Khan doesn't work here."

"I meant Erik Khan?"

"Er-Oh! Yes, but he is busy. I was told to keep an ear out for you."

"Well I don't need to talk to him, just tell him I agree and I just need a time."

"Five o'clock on Monday," was his immediate answer. At her silence, he chuckled. "That's what he told me to tell you."

"He is determined, I tell you."

Another laugh. "He's like that. Anything else?"

"No. Thank you Mr. Jules."

"Really, Miss Daae. It's my pleasure. Truly."

---

Monday came way too quickly. She worked an early shift and alerted Mrs. Giry that she might be changing her schedule soon. In the backroom office the older woman smiled and assured her it was no problem. "What's the change?"

"I'm picking up some extra work."

"Oh sweetie, if you need hours," then she pitched her voice low, "Or money, you only had to come to me."

"No, it's more like volunteer work. Nothing big. It might not even last long." She waved a hand. "Promise. Everything's fine!"

"Well if you're sure, I can put off next week's schedule until tomorrow."

She was nervous as she made the half hour journey back to Jersey City. She had dressed in her old college t-shirt and comfortable jeans. She hadn't truly practised singing in a few years, and she's rather be as comfortable as possible if she was about to relearn everything and wake up her lazy throat. Of course the moment she entered the theater she felt underdressed.

Erik was standing on the now cleared stage, a piano in the middle, staring at his pocket watch. He as in his black shirtsleeves again, this time a crimson brocade vest fitted to his slender form. Happily-if it could be happy-he wore a white mask that exposed his mouth. She's hate to talk all night to that blank expression again.

"You came."

"I said I would."

"I'm not used to believing only words." He watched her climb up the stage and looked her over, his gaze lingering on her shirt. She knew he was not thinking it, probably just reading the college name, but she flushed a little knowing that under this shirt she wore a simple bralette instead of the underwire contraption that made her shirts look nice and her back ache less.

"I wanted to be able to breathe freely. I thought it better than looking pretty. But I'll dress if you want."

"No, you are quite correct. Your focus will be entirely on your music, and nothing else."

She bristled a little at the commanding tone and the assumption that she would obey, but then remembered a few choice professors from the conservatory. Often genius came with a bad attitude. "Alright."

"Now." He swept to the piano, but did not place his hands on the keys. "Your diet. Tell me what it is."

She winced, knowing exactly where this was going. She had seen the diets of the high achievers at school and she had once been one of them. "...Coffee in the morning and a lot of it. With milk. And I do have my fair share of soda. I didn't think I'd ever sing seriously again," she explained at his narrowed eyes.

"Well I am glad to know that you are aware you are not helping yourself. I assume you know what to switch to? If you do not cater and treat your instrument well then it will not work for you. An out of tune piano will play horribly no matter the skill of the player."

"I'll cut back."

"Stop all together, if you please."

"Stop?" She put her hands on her hips. "That's rich, coming from you, Mr. Cold Brew, Two Shots! Do you know how much caffeine is in that?"

"Erik is older than you," he pointed out. "And has taken much better care of his voice for longer, and he treats it well after consuming. But your voice is out of practice. Please, let us give my lessons a...fighting chance as it were."

Christine ran her tongue over her teeth, wanting to argue more, but nodded anyway. He may be able to withstand the heart attack that espresso gave, but she had to admit she was getting close to addicted to the coffee. She had to have a cup to get her through opening...and closing...and-well. Switching it up might do her more good than just singing.

"And you will sleep eight hours a night."

"That's not always possible!"

"While you hold this other occupation perhaps, but you will at least try. And you will come here three times a week."

"Three!"

"Must you have an echo for every statement Erik utters," he cut across, with another loud huff. "Yes three! We have serious work to do! Not only must we shake off the dust from your training, but we must push hard to catch up to where you should be if you ever hope to sing on this stage!"

He seemed determined that this would be the gateway into a career for her. She wasn't so sure, but she was certain that voicing her doubt would lead to a lecture. And noticing how long winded he tended to be, she didn't want that either. He was tough, but...these weren't unreasonable expectations for a serious student, which he deemed her. She was simply out of habit. But that didn't stop her from smiling and answering, "Yes."

Christine could have imagined it, but she might have seen his lips twitch, as if fighting a smile. "Scales." Then his fingers were on the piano.

Her voice ached within minutes, and still he pushed her. He had three large water bottles prepared and seemed to be attuned to her needs by the sound of her voice, telling her to drink just when she wished to wet her lips, or to rest when she felt the pull of the notes becoming too much. After warming up he decided to have her sing In The Air Tonight.

"I looked up the music," he said pulling a sheet of staff paper out, with hand written notes on it. "And since you seem to know it we shall work on that until I can figure out where you need the most improvement."

"You had to look it up? Not a fan?"

"Of whom," he asked arranging the sheet music.

"Phil Collins?"

"I do not know him."

Her jaw dropped. "You don't know him? It's one of his most famous songs! He-he wrote the Tarzan soundtrack! You'll Be In My Heart?"

"Indeed? I have little use for modern music. Drink and let us begin."

Christine shook her head. Little use for modern music indeed! "Who do you you listen to? Is classical all you play?"

Erik seemed to want to huff again, but turned to face her. "Yes. Music that takes skill and mastery of the craft. And before you have anymore questions, drink." He played the opening note for her, then stood and gestured for her to sing. She had gotten to 'feel' before she felt the tip of the conductor's baton under her chin. "Up," he said. Where had he even gotten that thing? She reached up to push his hand holding the baton away, and it retracted suddenly, as if he feared being burned.

"Head up. Drop your shoulders and take a deeper breath to sustain the last note. Your knees are also locked."

Again he played the first note, and again she started, with him slowly circling her. He stopped her a few more times, before her muscle memory kicked in. He continued his vulture's circles, throwing out commands but no loner interrupting her. In the end he listed the long itinerary of what needed to be fixed.

Christine blushed. She knew she was out of practice but she hadn't thought she was so bad. Erik hesitated and said, "It is now six o clock. Rome was not built in an hour. But it ended up as a glittering city by the end of the work." And with that, the gloom lifted slightly. Not exactly a compliment but...

He was tough, but at least he was in some sense fair.

"You may leave now. Your life will be missing you."

She gathered up the empty water bottles and her bag. "Thank you, Mr. Khan."

At that he stiffened, his freezing as he collected his music sheets. His head was the only part that moved as it swung towards her. "Who?"

"Your last name is Khan, isn't it? At least the permit papers said this land was owned by an Erik Khan."

"You looked me up," he said, voice rough and cold.

She hesitated, suddenly feeling guilty, like she had read his diary. "Yes. I wanted to know who I was going to be spending three hours a week with. Of course I looked you up."

"You w-" His teeth clicked as he shut his mouth around the command. "...I ask that you not spread information about me. To anyone. Indeed I think it best if these lessons continued to be private. If the fool who runs this theater caught wind, or anyone else, it would be a terrible distraction to our work."

"Would they try to stop you from supplanting Carlotta?"

"Among other things."

"Alright then." Detective Khan had indicated he as odd. And he did seem a strictly private man. And perhaps...it wasn't the worse idea. Her whole body went cold, thinking of telling anyone that she was singing again. The questions would start, when will you go back to school? Will you sing live? All the things that came with it. She did not want that. "But I can't call you by you Erik. Not if you're my teacher it doesn't feel right or respectful."

"Then you may call me maestro. That is what I am now."

"Maestro," she repeated. "That fits. Then thank you Maestro."

He turned to face her completely. Without the music, he stood awkwardly again, like he had when he inspected the tree rather than face her as they talked. They stayed like that for a moment before he spoke.

"Your voice is unlike anything I have heard. When I heard you humming in the shop, I felt as if an angel caught my ear. Out of tune, yes. Our of practise, but beautiful. You must have patience with it. And with your Maestro. I have never taught before." His hands tightened on his music and she heard the crinkle of paper in his fists.

You are kind, he had told her. You are kind, that was the reason he had decided to reach out to her. She wondered if she had been acidic and indifferent to him, would her beautiful voice still have compelled him to reach out? She took an educated guess in the negative, and felt her heart twist a bit. It took nothing, nothing at all to be a little kind to people. She had been taught that by her parents, who had always done everything to help others-from taking in Raoul at times to even helping Mrs. Giry with her start up business.

She took a step towards him and he retracted again, hand going to plant itself on the piano as he backed up. Christine halted her advance. "So...we'll have to learn together then," she concluded.

His eyes widened slightly. Her maestro was always so shocked when it came to simple interactions when he wasn't filled with emotion. "Together," he breathed. "Yes. You are correct."

"Goodnight then, Maestro."

"Goodnight, Christine."

Chapter 3

For the first time since the funeral, Christine felt like there were not enough hours in the day. Her new lessons didn't give her the confidence to slack off at the cafe. And after a full shift, her lessons did not always limit themselves to one hour. Some days she made it back to her apartment and simply fell onto her bed, asleep almost before her body hit.

Maestro Erik was just as tough as day one, and he told her that she must practise even when she was not at the opera, which she eventually did. She stopped all coffee and returned to her old favorite decaf tea with honey. The taste was filled with memories of a life with purpose, and just the aroma and familiar habit seemed to warm her everyday. It was like climbing into your old bed, wrapped in your favorite blanket. There was comfort in her old routines and happily they no longer came with the sting of memory.

And she needed it. For all Erik was awkward and shy outside of singing, he was hard and sharp while teaching. He craved perfection, and when he did not achieve it, would work her for hours on one tempo, one stanza, one note at a time if need be. She was a soprano but laziness had gotten her comfortable in her lower register. The high notes scared her in a way they had not before.

And like blood in the water, Erik knew this, thus a whole month was devoted to conquering that fear. She grew frustrated, but she never really lashed out or threw a fit. He was too commanding a presence to do so, and both the threat of a long lecture and his disappointment in her childishness kept her bitterness at by. And it was her own fault in a large way.

But that did not stop her from growing angry all together. In fact, in one of his more challenging scales, it was what drove her to finally reach and hit the note he had wanted. She had sung it at him, clear and crisp in lieu of a frustrated shout. He had thrown his hands down and pressed a triumphant chord onto the piano keys.

"That! That is what I have been trying to reach! Now don't you dare let go, sing! Sing for me, Christine!" He had come to her, and though he never touched her, gestured for her to spin sharply and face the seats. Now that she knew the feeling, she hit the note once more, the clear sound of her voice echoing long after she had run out of breath.

She had gone home, tired, tears in her eyes, and a grin plastered onto her face.

The continuous summer rush kept questions about her change in schedule at bay. But with September once again approaching, and her shift in mood, Meg was chomping at the bit to know what was behind it all. The Friday before the first day of school, Christine was packing up to catch the bus for the theater when Meg cornered her in the coat room. She was wielding the mop and wheeled bucket, positioning it between them and blocking her exit.

"That's far enough Daae," she mocked growling.

Feeling a theatrical demand coming on Christine pleaded, "Meg, please! I have to catch the bus!"

"The-you have a car! Where are you going? Ma said that you have a second volunteer job that you never told me about!"

Christine looked down at her jacket, and shifted uncomfortably. Oh how she hated lying. Even the littlest white lie sat in her stomach like a snake, ready to strike at her conscious. Even this small little omission, though lessons almost felt like a job, with all the work they poured into her voice. But to tell Meg would be opening a big can of worms: first of all, it would be betraying the promise she made to Erik. How could she wriggle out of this one?

"I've been...volunteering at the opera house."

Meg's pale brows shot into her thick bangs. "The opera house? Angel's opera house?"

"Yes."

"Why didn't you just say that?"

"Because...because it comes with expectations!" She threw up her hands. If she hinted that once again, her music was beginning to live, not only would Meg result in a firm round of I-told-you-so, but there would be the assumption that she would return to school, or aspirations of becoming a diva. Erik certainly expected that, and it was more than enough that he did. At first she hadn't rebuked him because it seemed too much of a losing battle in the first few weeks.

Now, with almost three months gone by, she hadn't wanted to, afraid that he would call off these lessons all together. But singing just to prove she could, taking parts of her old life she had missed and mending them to this new Christine had felt like healing infected wounds, a balm for the pain that her parent's death had left. The pain she had ignored so dutifully for years. It felt like waking from a long horrible sleep. To loose it now would be terrible. And she didn't think she could bare the disappointment in herself, for messing up such an opportunity.

Christine had always known how her life was going. Her father and mother, being musicians lived a rather transient life. Every summer was always away, traveling. And during the school year, her father was always traveling, leaving her and her mother alone, waiting for his calls. And even when her mother passed away, she still knew what she was doing: conservatory, become a singer, and follow in her father's footsteps. Then he died, and her life exploded. She had only just gotten it back on track, knowing full well what she was doing. Another plan, another comfortable feeling of safety. Work up the ladder in cafe, become a store manager, slowly save until she would retire. And now, now she was poised to change all that.

Yes, she had one foot in, one out. Yes it wasn't fair, but she needed time. She had no guiding hand now. All this was her choice, no circumstances or family legacy mapping her choices. Christine was scared of her imaginary failures.

"I don't expect anything from you," Meg said, suddenly hurt and angry. "I just want to know where my best friend is. It's like having you back and not. You're all dreamy and happy again, but without me. You call me back late, sometimes you don't answer my texts at all! You're never home when I drop by!"

Christine balked and grabbed Meg's arms. "I'm not without you! I just don't...want to disappoint everyone. Again."

Meg's rage was short-lived. "You don't disappoint me, Chris. You're the strongest person I know. If I had lost Ma I don't think I could have done what you did."

"I just did what needed to be done. I didn't exactly fancy living in a box on the street."

"Yeah-not everyone manages that," Meg pointed out. Even brusk and hurt, Meg had an odd way of boosting one's confidence. "You can hang at the opera house and not go back to the conservatory. You can do whatever you want. I'm glad you're going, I'm glad your doing something. I just wanted to know! I hate secrets."

Christine felt that like a blow. She was keeping a secret, but it wasn't totally her secret to tell. If her Maestro wanted privacy that was his right. "I go every Monday, Wednesday and Friday. And..." Christine squeezed her eyes closed. Meg's hurt look was burned into her eyelids and blinking wouldn't expel the sight. "And I'm...taking review lessons. In singing-but you cannot tell anyone. Marguerite I am serious, you cannot tell anyone this! I've just betrayed the confidence of someone who really needs to trust me all so that you won't hate me!"

"Okay, okay, calm down." Meg let go of the mop handle and held up her hands. "I promise I won't even tell Ma. But is it because you're working on something secret? Not an expectation-but are you thinking about singing again?"

"Something like that."

"Well..." Meg's good sense won out over desire. "I don't want to get you in trouble. If you can't tell me about it then you can't. But once it's out you'll tell me?"

"Definitely," Christine swore again.

"Then go. You're gonna miss your bus." She rolled the bucket out of the way, and Christine pulled her down for a quick kiss on the cheek before hurrying by.

"You're the best!"

"Yeah I know that!"

---

"Stop."

Christine blinked and shut her mouth. Erik considered her through narrowed eyes. She had done something wrong, she knew it, but couldn't remember what. She hadn't been focusing, instead thinking on the conversation with Meg, replaying it over and over in her mind. It hadn't been a fight, but still her friend had dragged up all the problems with this little arrangement. And her honesty. The snake was sinking its fangs into her heart. She had traded guilt over lying to Meg with guilt for betraying her Maestro. And this was somehow worse, with his wide eyes and simple earnestness.

"I'm sorry, Maestro. Did I miss a cue?"

"You are singing like a marionette doll," he told her. "You are not here. Break and refresh."

She nodded and went to the edge of the stage where he kept the water. He had switched to a pitcher filled with ice and a glass instead of the many water bottles. It was always just one glass for her. She sat on the edge of the stage, legs swinging as she sipped her water dutifully.

Erik played softly behind her, always something different and always something she didn't know. She assumed they were his own compositions, and often would listen trying to see if they were a continuation of a former piece or a new one all together. If they were all new he was rather prolific. But now she just rocked to the beat of the lullaby.

"Christine."

She stood immediately and returned to the piano. But he wasn't ready to play. Instead his shoulders were hunched, his head down. "Do you no longer wish for Erik to be your Maestro?"

Her heart sank. "No! I want your lessons," she said immediately, her hands gripping the side of the piano.

His grip on his knees loosened. "Then you will tell your Maestro where you were tonight, if not in your singing?"

Christine had not expected this to come to a head so soon after her talk with Meg. She wanted to lie, maybe even through out the time-honored 'monthly troubles' that so often got men to at once sympathize and alienate the topic immediately. But two lies in so short a time would drive her mad with guilt. Or at least make her stomach upset or the rest of the night. How could she break it to him that she had no choice but to tell one person about their time together?

He was staring at the piano, waiting, like a dog ready to be swatted. Oh she really hated that look on him. How to start? Maybe with something else, something smaller that had been bothering her. "Maestro, do you really still want me to replace Carlotta?"

His head snapped up so quickly, she feared for his neck. "Of course!"

"Even though she's seasoned and trained and I'm a college drop out?"

"You are receiving a better education than any of your fellows," he told her emphatically. "You could replace her tonight!"

Christine winced and had to look away. She had been afraid of that.

"You dislike Erik's compliments."

"No, no it's not that. They're really nice actually. It's just that..." She pressed her thumb into the black lacquer top of the baby grand, watching the pressure drive the pink of her skin away from the tip and pool at the knuckle. "I'm not ready for that. At all. And I can't see that time being close either. I need more time, a lot more. And...and you'll probably feel like I'm wasting your time. I don't think you'll want to continue these lessons anymore-and I want to so badly. I've really come to love them. To progress, even if just for myself."

There was a long silence, and Christine guessed that he was preparing to tell her to leave, kindly. After all, he was so very serious about work ethic and music and applying herself. She heard the creak of the piano stool as he shifted. Then his voice, that soft, soft voice from the cafe floated over to her. "Time hearing you sing is not wasted," Erik informed her.

She looked up and saw his gaze was still planted firmly on the black and white keys. "Erik spoke without thinking. I meant to say that even when you sang first on this stage, it was clear that you were the superior by talent alone, and in feeling. But you are not ready to audition anywhere as of yet. Your repertoire is non-existent and even the most lenient managers would not take you, even if they wept at the beauty of your voice."

Finally he chance a glance at her. The relief must have been obvious on her face, because he took to starring for the next few minutes before saying, "If there was no chance of you ever auditioning your Maestro would still instruct you, three times a week, gladly."

Christine could have wept. But she had more control than that. Slowly, so she didn't scare him off, she took his hand from the piano bench and held it. It was thin and the fingers were oddly long and the gloves were horribly tight-why he insisted on them to play the piano she didn't know-but she squeezed gently anyway. "And I wouldn't miss an hour. Thank you...Erik."

Carefully, almost like he was in a hypnotic trance his free hand came to their joined fingers. He turned his palm over, holding her hand knuckles up in a touch so light it was barely there. Her hand looked so tiny in his, and she was made aware that, though he was slender and gaunt, he was much larger than her. His fingers trailed over her knuckles and the blue veins hidden just under her soft skin.

When had he last touched another person, she suddenly wondered. "I suppose I'm not ready yet, or the expectations it would bring. I'm not confident in my abilities as you are."

"It will come in time. When you reach your true potential, even you will not be able to deny your talent." His hands now folded around her fingers in a soft hold, not pulling away unless she did.

"But...there is something else. And I hope you'll be as kind as you were just now."

His expression turned confused-so much was conveyed through his eyes and mouth. Christine was being coming adept in translating even the slightest twitch. Her hand grew a little clammy in his hold and she wondered if he was going to throw it away when she said, "I was forced to tell my best friend about my lessons-just my lessons!"

He did not let go, but his grip turned to steel. "I believe I made myself clear."

"You did, and I did not tell her about you at all. I know you like your privacy, I just told her I was getting refresher lessons. She doesn't know how intense we're working. But she was worried about where I was going and why I was gone all of the time. She's my best friend and I swore her to secrecy-"

"I swore you to secrecy."

"-And I couldn't get through without lying to her and I just can't abide lying. That's why I'm telling you. I won't lie to you either. She's a good friend, she won't tell now that she knows I'm safe." When he didn't answer she pressed the only advantage she knew: "I mean you wouldn't lie to me, would you? Or to Detective Khan? You're friends right? You have to know where I'm coming from. Please Maestro."

Now she sat on the bench beside him and he slid, with almost comic speed, to the edge of the bench, letting her go. But it was Christine who was holding on now. "I tried my hardest to keep my promise to you and be honest. But I can't lie."

He took a deep breath and his gaze dropped to her fingers holding him captive. "...I would never ask you to do something you believed wrong," he finally relented. "And as a young woman perhaps it was an unreasonable request to forbid you to alert anyone to where you were. You are sure she will not pry further?"

"I know it!"

"She will not tell anyone and jeopardize your chance?"

"Never!"

"She will never know your teacher is me?"

"Not until you want it known, if you want it known. I mean once I am on stage, people are going to wonder who has taught me."

Erik inclined his head, his eyes going round at the prospect. Perhaps he hadn't thought exactly that far ahead. "Yes. And I will also need time."

Christine let out a long breath, relieved. She let him go finally and felt like the world was raised from her shoulders. She stood, tired, but ready to exorcise the remnants of ill feeling from her. "Okay. Let's start again."

But Erik shook his head. "You must go, Christine. It is late, you're exhausted, and your life will be missing you. We shall make up the missing half hour on Monday."

---

Erik was in heaven. Or as close to heaven a creature like him could attain. Heaven came to him three times a week, and like the needle he had abandoned so long ago, it was addictive. It clouded his every thought when he was away from their lessons, robbed him of thought and of music. In his home he would put bow to string and find nothing coming forth. Not one instrument in his music room would produce beauty, not even when he played the music of others.

But, oh! He did not suffer for it. He could not coax the music from objects because it was inside of him! Every moment Christine's voice did not fill his ears, it echoed in his mind, his soul surging up to play counterpoint. He went through seven stacks of staff paper in the first two months. Half of it had been fed into the fire when he reviewed it, but it did not deter him. His shopping list for Jules shortened when it came to food (not to say that the list was ever very long) and lengthened when it came to supplies. But the short man didn't seem to mind. He seemed just as happy with Christine's presence.

And why should he not be? The girl exuded kindness. She was an angel, sent down from Heaven and West Caldwell. She came into the opera with smiles and hellos. She learned the cleaning staff's names and sometimes brought the leftover pastries for them all and little cups of coffee before sweeping into her lesson. Jules had informed the staff that she was to be apart of the production crew and was helping the opera owner with 'future projects'.

So kind. Just like when she had first smiled at him-so free of the usual gawking stares at his mask and attire. She had talked to him the same way Nadir had, as if she did not need twenty years of caregiving to be easy with him. Then she had remembered him, laughed at his joke, and conversed like a normal person. He had watched her carefully during his only trips into the world.

Not that he would ever tell the smug Persian, since it was technically his doing. There were plenty of coffee shops closer in the city than The Little Latte, but Nadir preferred it, perhaps for the workers. It was the place Nadir had begged him to go, just once or twice a week, just to get him out of the opera house. Apparently in his six years of solitude in his home underground he had "forgotten his manners" and "how to live among others".

That genius idea had come from hearing his last row with Charles, the man Erik had partnered in building the opera house. Erik had vehemently rejected the new manager, Firmin, Charles had hired, and Charles had told him that the ticket sales were too low; the business needed more than Erik's narrow tastes. Erik responded to the insult and had shouted so horribly the man, and apparently made to put his hands around his neck (though Erik did not remember that part of it at all!). It had scared him so thoroughly that the coward had run to Khan to tattle. From then on Nadir firmly believed Erik had forgotten how to deal with humans.

Erik had tried, and failed, to remind Nadir that he had never possessed that skill! But to get the man off his back he had agreed to make the half hour drive a few times a week.

But now he wished to deal easily with others, oh he needed to. And all for his angel!

He had even braved the crowds that reminded him how much a creature he was, and slipped into the cafe unnoticed, just to watch her. To make sure what he had thought he had seen was true. Even as she plied the masses with the stock "Good morning, how are you?" she made it sound as if she genuinely cared how each person was, as if their morning routines were the height of interest.

And then the humming-it had taken his breath away. She had been making drinks behind the counter, and in the little alcove between bar and door he had sat with his hood up, face turned away and listened. She even sang breathily under her breath, and Erik could have wept with the beauty of it. It was like seeing a beautiful kitten with its fur drenched in mud: so beautiful and so neglected.

So he had used the only thing he knew would lure her closer, the only thing he had of worth: his opera house. He had given her the ticket, and watched her in box five, in the false wall behind the seat. There were innumerable ones just like it through his opera house, as well as trap doors. Charles had been leery on it, and Erik had almost swayed. Now he thanked his own stubbornness to keep the secrets of the opera house, for he could watch this angel in repose.

How lovely, how sweet and open she had been, her hands folded under her chin, leaning against the edge of the box like a child. He watched her take delight in the mechanics of the stagecraft, the lull of the story, and even felt this heart swell with pride for the girl when she winced at Carlotta's wailing.

When she sighed happily, not even God could have kept him from sighing with her.

And how happily she had run to him to thank him for the opportunity! That she should thank him, when he was the one so in debt! How she had grinned at him, run to him not away, how her eyes sparkled! He knew, in that moment, he had to keep her close, had to stake claim to some part of her life. He needed it, even if he needed to make fake tours to do it.

And then she had sung with such piteous emotion, in his theater. Oh he could have wept with her the sadness she had poured into that song. A cruel world indeed that such a girl should ever feel and ounce of pain. But the part of him that longed to commune with her suffering was snuffed out by the artist, who craved to take that beautiful sound from her lips and craft it into the majesty it was sure to become. In the heady rush of want, he had run to her.

Nadir had often told him that his swing of emotions could be off-putting to a mankind, is if that and not the visage he had the gall to call a face, scared people off. But the rebuke was not without merit-and he had stopped himself before he chastised her for demurring about her gift, fixing his hair and clothes. He would never posses any beauty, but he could at least look presentable. He had even cut his long hair, purging himself of all signs of self neglect.

But she was not off put in the least. In fact she was able to take his exuberance in stride and at times match him. This he learned over the course of their lessons. He could see the real emotion below the placid kindness she showed. She would suck her teeth and flex her hand, but keep it tightly controlled. He could see in her the only good in him: passion, the passion for music and the want to master herself.

When she had finally broken free of the fear of her own voice, her note had flown from her like a dove into the open air. He had begged her to sing for him, and she had. Then Erik had known bliss for the first time. And how he was continually showered: even when he thought she might betray him as so many had before, by telling her friends about lessons, she had begged him-him!-to forgive her.

And he had. He could not allow his own machinations to affect her. Of course she could not lie and keep secrets, not from anyone. She had agonized over the admission, as if she should worry for his comfort: he who deserved nothing but an unmarked grave as the corpse he so resembled.

How did she not know, that he would give her anything? That he would open his shirt and slice into his chest to fish out his heart if she desired it? She had it already so secure, even through their months of lessons. He had to force himself to be firm, to be the stiff maestro she needed to achieve all that she could. It was a little easier when he heard her mistakes and hesitations, relying on his frustrated desire for perfection keep himself from coddling her.

Or worse, letting her know that this dog, this ugly vile thing loved her.

He shivered to think that she might know and finally run. But, miracle of miracles, even when he touched her-just a curl, just her arm-she did not suspect. And she became easy around him, touching his hands without recoiling at their oddly long shape. He had held her hand one or twice, such a delicate and small thing, so warm and thrumming with life. Had he been a normal man, like everyone else, he might have been brave and lifted those white knuckles to his dead lips. Perhaps even ventured to steal paradise and brush his mouth against her slender wrist…

(No. No he mustn't think of that. He must not tempt Him to want Christine. Let his love be pure. Let it be clean, let it be innocent, the only scrap of it he had left, the heel that was held when he had been so thoroughly dipped in blood.)

And when she was angry, she always returned! And how-for she was at times righteously furious. They could not sing forever during their lessons, and the repetitive nature of teaching quickly burned away the novelty of their time together. When she would rest he inquired about her knowledge of musical theory, history and her tastes. Her classical knowledge was vast, and she had a peculiar taste, but not bad. Their arguments came of course when they talked of modern music.

She loved what she called "fusion" whether it be of cultural sounds or different types (rock and opera, 'techno' and classical). Synthesizers had become a quick sore spot ("They are nothing but noise!" "Every instrument is just noise until you make music with it!"). From her phone she played him some of her favorites, trying to show him what drew her to the songs.

Despite the vile noise that would eek out of her speakers he rather liked these times. Christine's shyness was swept away with music. She'd sway to ballads, bounce to the hard rock tunes. When her beloved 80's would play she apparently couldn't help herself but to dance a little around the piano. Rather than listen to the racket, Erik would watch her, and wished-wished so dearly-that he was not who he was. That he could stand and catch her waist as he had seen human men do and dance with her…

No. He must not think so.

Very often didn't see the merit, and launched into his critiques, which she would rebut. "Just because you can't see the beauty or worth in something doesn't mean it's not there," she said as 'Don't Fear The Reaper' played from her phone's speakers. She had handed her maestro her phone to look through, and he had tapped on the songs with interesting titles, but found nothing of note within.

"If it is not immediately apparent, perhaps the worth is minimal," he had sniffed.

"You are an ungodly snob," she replied, watching him scroll. Erik had quickly learned that such names, spoken lightly, were teases meant to tell the truth...sweetly. "There are plenty of songs I thought were useless before I started to sing or play them. Then I found the beauty."

He stopped, and almost dropped the phone, mouth agape when he came across a playlist titled "Club Tunes."

"What?" She peered at the list when he turned it towards him, and smirked. "Oops. I don't listen to that one without Meg, or unless we're driving to a dance club. I guess you're not an Eminem fan either?" She broke off in a snicker and took her phone back.

"Christine, what on earth are these songs about?!"

"Just what it says. But they've got good beats. When you're dancing you don't really listen to the lyrics. If I did I'd probably hate them as much as you."

"That..."

Christine laughed again, and Erik registered that he did not feel one ounce of shame. He was no on display and felt no need to hide. She was laughing at him, but it did not hurt. In fact he never wanted her to stop. He wanted to bottle that sound and keep it with him, knowing that he had made her produce it. "Are you scandalized? Should I get smelling salts? You're too much of a gentleman to look at that list."

"A gentleman," he replied, still a little stunned by this recent miracle.

"Well, look how you dress and talk and act." She stood from the bench and took up her place by the piano again. "Like you've walked out of a history book."

He shifted his gaze to the piano keys, mask uncomfortably hot now.

"I'm sorry I didn't mean to embarrass you. It's a compliment."

Erik closed his eyes. How attuned she was to him. How well she could guess his moods, when he seemed such a mystery to others.

She was meant for him.

The thought cracked across his mind like lightning. His fingers dug into his knees and his shoulders hunched quickly around his neck. How dare he? How dare he think of her so? How vile was he to align this angel with his grotesque nature, his unearthly longing for something that he could never have. No woman would want him. Face or no, he was a monster in and out, clothed in a human body. A body that had been abused and twisted, a body that had murdered and enjoyed it. And that body wanted just as most males did.

But he could not allow himself to want her, less that part of him return. Blood soaked, grinning and disastrous. Not Christine. He had to squash any idea of kissing those hands, or touching her face, or even holding her to him in an embrace. Such fantasies must be thoroughly and well routed, for if they were not he would begin to want. And oh, how his want would burn-burn everything beautiful he had collected and hoarded, just as he had before. It would awaken that creature he had spent years to control, the creature tamed by Reza and his care for Nadir's well being.

The Phantom who did only Bin Nasheed's disgusting bidding. He would not keep himself from Christine. He had been denied such touch, such beauty and he burned-she would become nothing but ash under his touch. Erik could not let that happen to his Christine. He must remain Erik, her maestro. And he must never, ever think to keep her. But, oh...

"Maestro? Please, I'm sorry. I don't understand why that's such a bad thing."

"It is not," he said softly, purging the emotion from his voice. "Not at all. Erik simply wishes to do nothing to alter your opinion. You must tell your Maestro if he does."

"I will," Christine promised, tilting her head to catch his eye. "Believe me, I will. You'll hear about it." She smiled. Was that another one of her jokes? Erik lifted his face and tried to return the smile, forgetting that he had one of his more comfortable full face masks on. But she seemed to understand anyway.

She always did.

He carried her compliment with him through the weekend. He composed a little and finally tried to put the melodies he created with her in mind to piano. It ate up most of his Saturday and Sunday, he almost missed his weekly meet with Nadir. Coming up from his home, and using the entrance on the stage he found the Persian already sitting at one of the prop tables left out after rehearsal. He was opening the sparkling water (Nadir, despite his god's teachings, usually drank wine but abstained for Erik's sake who could no longer touch the stuff since recovery), two cigars already cut and waiting.

It had been years since Nadir pestered him to enter his home. The man had never seen it, no one had. It was better that way. "You're late."

"Indeed. I will have to beat you faster today." Erik placed the chess kit on the table and sat, setting up the board.

"You're never late. Are you planning new tortures for Firmin?"

"If I was, why would I tell you and spoil the fun?"

"Charles doesn't think it's fun."

"Charles is a cry baby." Erik made the first move and took out his lighter. He never tortured Firmin, or the previous managers. They were simply skittish. He always arrived in their offices silently through the bookcase and waited in shadow. While it was effective the first few times, Erik wondered why the novelty never wore off. Surely something could not be scary every single time? But it was all for the better. Scared men were more pliable. Usually, unless they had a short stout cry baby telling them to hold firm against the opera house landlord.

"You're going to have to let it go some time," Nadir pointed out, leaning forward to light the end of his cigar. "Charles does want what's best for the opera house."

"What's best for the theater is talent," Erik snapped, sitting back and crossing his long legs. "And true art. Not this...celebrity and her crowd of fans. And this idea for a showcase! Not even a play, it's little more than a grade school talent show!"

"Everyone starts somewhere." Khan, ever patient, ever rational made his move and spoke softly. "You might find some real talent as you said. Maybe Carlotta's replacement will be in one of the show cases? Then you won't have to get Firmin to fire her."

Erik huffed before starting his cigar. But as he stared at the board, the wheels in his ghoulish mind turned. If there was someone in the show case that was that good, it would not be out of the question to demand they be retained by the theater. He had planned on bullying Firmin into opening auditions for one of the operas, no matter the insult to Carlotta and placing Christine in the running. But if she entered the show case, proved her worth independently, then there would be no need. It was still just an idea. By the time Firmin began setting it up, she would be more than ready and over this silly demure attitude about her gift.

And it would prove to Charles (and Nadir) that there was no more need to harp on him and his tactics of running the opera house.

Letting out a trail of smoke Erik murmured, "Nadir, you are surprisingly useful at times."

"Thank you. I just put hundreds of criminals in jail during my time, and saved your life three times over but I'm glad I'm useful some of the time."

"Don't pout, I gave you a compliment."

"Thank you for my yearly compliment, sir." But the darker man was smiling in spite of himself.

"You're welcome. Check."

---

"You can't even have a little?" Meg waved the new latte drink under Christine's nose. The singer whined softly, and wanted desperately to suck it down. Maple with hints of apple and cinnamon. In the quickly cooling weather it fit the mood perfectly. But no...

"I can't," Christine sighed, sitting back. The were in the back, both on last break. She might have been able to sneak a little on any other day. But she had a suspicion that Maestro would be able to tell if she partook in dairy right before a lesson. "Describe it to me, and talk slow."

Meg snickered and downed the rest in one gulp. "Yummy. So you're saying something about your teacher?"

Christine had kept her promise of giving Erik his anonymity, but this was just too good not to tell. "He scrolled through that playlist we made-remember on our senior year road trip? He almost fainted."

"What's he got against a little Slim Shady?"

"Not in his wheelhouse. I mean the man doesn't even like gothic, and it usually has an orchestra!" Christine shook her head and opened her phone, smiling at her playlists fondly. "So I was trying to explain that some music needs to be done rather than just heard. And he asked me what I played, and he couldn't guess it!"

It had been amusing. After the whole 'gentleman' debacle he asked her if she meant what she said about 'singing and playing'. He had guess the piano first, and she did indeed play it to some extent. Then the violin, which was a good guess considering her lineage. But she played less violin than piano. The flute as next, and then the harp, which sent her into laughter. Her teacher who knew so much couldn't find the common theme in most of her well played songs! "Erik will find out," he had mumbled finally, returning his hands to the piano.

"I'm sure. Maybe in time. Maybe." The look he gave her was worth it all.

Meg smirked. "Your only rebellion. Your Mom hated when you practised, she'd run to our house for some peace!" After their shared laugh she continued, "So you like your teacher? I mean getting back into music has helped but you always seem to be into something new when ever you come back from your lessons."

"He's..." Christine wondered how to describe him. It was true that every lesson seemed to spark her creativity. Christine had first found herself content to hone her own craft. But having to explain, and then defend, her taste in music she found that she had a taste for theory too. It helped that he was a walking college course on the subject. And how he taught-before she even began to start a new piece, he'd launch into a long passionate explanation, how it moved and sounded, and how to capture that spirit.

After so many conversations, she found that not only did she want to sing beautiful music, she might even want to make it. Christine now asked what he was playing during their breaks, and how he planned on finishing or altering the piece. Maybe he was simply rubbing off on her, but she liked it. She could engage with her voice, yes. But to write the lyrics that her voice transported: that would be something else.

In fact her bag today was heavy with her laptop. She had splurged and down loaded several music programs. On Wednesday she had set about memorizing one of his tunes. She hadn't gotten it exact and she was rusty with writing notes, but she had taken out the old electric piano her mother once had, and played until she got something close. Then she translated the notes into the program's piano player, and added a synth rift (deep and thrumming, like a mix of bass and drums). She was nervous to show him, and still wasn't sure if she would.

But she felt silly explaining that to Meg. She'd listen happily, but she might not really understand. So, if she couldn't explain her Maestro's influence, how to explain he himself? In her mind she saw him in his usual spot on the stage, dressed formally, staring at his pocket watch, one hand behind his back, holding his conductor's wand. He was long lines, and grace. There would be a few times when he would lean an elbow on the closed piano lid and cross his legs, and her eyes would follow the length of his legs. He was so very tall...

But that was just the physical. He had a command of any room he was in, even in the yawning theater. When he played, even a simple tune, he coaxed the notes from the piano, almost asking permission of the instrument. Encouraging it, like he did her. Though she had never seen him snap at the piano, she thought with a snort. Still, when he chastised she never felt cowed. Erik only asked of her what he knew she could give. It was her responsibility to reach that level.

"He's...a lot," she said lamely.

"Is he hot?"

"Meg!" Christine let her head all back. "I don't know! Does it matter? He's a wonderful teacher."

"It matters a little bit. You're spending all this time with him and you're always talking about how you learned this and that and on and on. I mean if you have a crush-"

"I do not have a crush," she gasped, sitting up like a shot.

"That's something someone with a crush would totally say by the by," Meg chuckled. "I wanna know if he's worth the crush that's all. I mean face isn't everything. It's how they hold themselves. It's all in the attitude."

"I do not have a crush," Christine repeated. But when they returned to the floor she had to agree with her friend. She had not seen Erik's face, of course, so all she had to go on was attitude. He carried himself like she said: a gentleman. She remembered when he had held her hand as she had given her little confession; like it was a bird ready to fly as a moment's notice. His fingers in those too tight gloves tracing her bones, then clasping her fingers completely.

Suddenly, her face felt hot for a reason other than the steamer wand. In the moment she'd felt too bad to think about it, but now from a different point of view...he'd held her hand a very long time in those long fingers. He who always skittered away when she moved close. Even as she poured and served she recalled his look behind those awful full faced masks. She hated when he wore them, both because it meant she wouldn't hear him sing, and by that token, he wasn't going to help her by example anymore with the piece.

He always watched her with those wide gold eyes, never wavering, giving her his full attention. They softened when he sang, or played. His whole body changed when he put on a show for her. No longer hunched and hiding. But neither was his bombastic and vulgar. No, there was a magnetism about him when he performed, that muddled her thoughts, until there was nothing but him and the music he was producing; dark almost seductive. More than once, while he was lost in song, she had edged closer, meaning to place her hand on his shoulder, or even to move back a piece of hair from his eyes that had fallen loose.

She never did however. She had more sense than that.

No, Meg as right. He had a nature about him that was mysterious, but inviting when he played. Now she really blushed, thinking about how he never really touched her, but was always so close, telling her how to stand how to breathe. Sometimes he would tsk in her ear when she ran out of voice by not breathing deeply enough. "Christine, what has your Maestro told you? From the diaphragm." His hand would hover over her middle, and then he was gone, the almost fond reprimand pulling a smirk at his lips. "If you faint, what ever shall Erik do?"

Oh damn Meg! How was she going to face her Maestro now, thinking about all this? She did not have a crush! Crushes were for cute boys who winked at her, and told silly jokes to get her to laugh. Erik was none of those things. He engaged her mind, challenged her and sometimes frustrated her. Thinking about how he made her feel, his presence after the fact...

Christine was shaken from her blushing reverie by Sorelli, who was shaking her arm. "Chris? There's a customer who thinks they know you."

"Huh?" Turning, she looked toward the cafe where three soldiers stood, US NAVY emblazoned on their sleeves. Two were dark haired and buzzed, talking to each other as they mixed milk into their coffee. The third lifted a hand as she turned, waving a little, his blue eyes dancing-

"Oh my God!" She couldn't help her screech as she ran from behind the counter and into his arms. "Oh my God, Raoul!"

"I knew it!" He caught her, lifting her up with a laugh. Good Lord he was strong now! She could feel the steel muscles through his uniform as he squeezed her. "Christine!"

"I can't believe it! You're all grown up!"

"Me? Look at you!" He placed her down and stood back, holding her arms out to the side. "All grown and covered in caramel!"

She laughed, hopping a little in place. It had been so long! She had always felt bad about losing touch, but after they had moved to ritzy Franklin Lakes and he'd gone to boarding school and then her Mother... Well life had just gotten very chaotic. But here he was, that same dimpled smile, those large blue eyes and sandy blonde hair. Raoul, grown up and-

"You're in the Navy?!"

"Yup. Just got back from Germany. I went by the old houses, and the owners said you moved to somewhere around Montclair. Then Rachel said that Mrs. Giry had opened a coffee shop around here so I decided to see if I couldn't track you down and here you are! Hey Meg!"

Meg was watching them, grinning from the counter. Raoul had only gone to their school for a year or so, but had known he was Christine's neighbor. "Hey, looking good kid! What are you getting, it's on the house."

He gave her a simple order and asked Christine when she was off.

"In an hour," She said consulting the clock. She had a half an hour to spare before she had to get on the bus.

"I can wait. We're just killing time and we're used to hurry up and wait. Don't let me keep you."

"Alright-stay put!" She pointed to a table and he saluted.

"Yes Ma'am!"

For the rest of her shift Christine grinned happily, unable to believe that the little boy who had so faithfully played with her and engaged in her fantasy was here again, big and strong. But still with that puppy dog grin, those sparkling blue eyes. More than once she caught him staring through the window (he and his fellows were seated outside). He'd give her two thumbs up, in that charming, goofy way of his. Christine couldn't help but giggle.

"He's so hot," Sorelli sighed, leaning over the divider that separated the cash register from the bar area. "I know he's your friend, but can I have him Christine?"

"Not before I get a crack," Meg called, turning off her headset mid drive through order. "Christine I call dibs!"

"Don't you have a guy?"

Meg stuck out her tongue before returning back to her customer service persona and asking "do you want that hot or iced?"

"He's not mine and I can't give him away, Good Lord," Christine cried shaking her head. "All these drinks and you're all still utterly thirsty." Still she practically tore her apron off as soon as she was clocked out, skidding outside. Raoul was alone now, and stood to envelop her in another hug.

"I'm so glad I was able to find you!"

"Me too-you're so big!"

"And you're still the same height," he teased, placing a hand on her head.

"Hey! Though she be little, she be fierce!" Christine put up her fists mockingly, and took a soft jab at his shoulder. He feigned falling back in his seat in pain. Raoul was still a decent actor. "You're a sailor!"

"I am. Dad didn't get me too." Raoul's father had been a lawyer and had lived in the same neighbourhood as the Daae's when he was just starting his firm: the minute their business took off, so did they. They had strict control of their children's lives. Good Catholics, Raoul had both two older brothers and three elder sisters, and all of them were to be prepared for greatness. While honorable, Christine knew his father might not see eye to eye with his youngest.

"Your parents...?"

"Couldn't do anything once I was eighteen. And I know the law is great and all but I wanted to get out there and do something with my life. See the world, be apart of something. So, the Navy recruiter came by my school and the rest is history."

Christine listened, her cheek on her fist. "That's really brave, Raoul. I mean-not just your parents. But it's so dangerous."

"It is," he agreed. "You see...a lot. But the community, and my fellows. They make it manageable."

"And you're back for good?"

"I don't know, I might go into the reserves, go to college. Or I might stay and work up the officer chain. We're actually here..." His face fell. "Well we're here for a court martial, actually."

Immediately, Christine grabbed his hand. "Are you alright?"

"Me? Oh of course. Believe me, I didn't go running into the street after anyone else's teddy bears," he teased. Christine winced. He had been so determined to be brave; thank God there had been no cars coming. "No I'm a witness."

"May I ask?"

"Yeah. It's a mess. One of the men in my...sorry lemme think of the layman term. In my squad? He had been having an affair with a female officer-both married. And if that wasn't bad enough he was beating the sh-he was abusing his wife. And the female, that he was sleeping with? She knew about it the whole time."

"Oh my God, I'm so sorry." Christine's heart went out to the poor navy-wife. "Is she away from him?"

"Oh yeah. I've been sleeping on a couch for the past month to make sure. She's such a nice girl too. Me and Jackson, and Innis-the two I was with before? We've been crashing at her new apartment, making her feel safe. I just hate that I didn't see it. That I didn't notice it. I would have..." His hand on the table tightened into a fist.

Her fingers closed over his. "You're doing something right now. A lot."

His hand relaxed, and Raoul nodded. His fingers closed over hers. "I know. Gotta keep focusing on that. But you! Tell me about you! I did hear about Mom and Pop."

"Yeah. It was...hard. With Mom it was better, if you can call it better? We knew about the cancer, and it was a fight, so there was time to say goodbye. But Dad."

"I didn't know his heart had been so bad."

"Neither did I. He always had congestion and that sort of thing but a blockage in that artery, if it's not taken care of." She spread out her hands, at a loss for words. "...How often do you get yours checked?"

Raoul ducked his head, smiling sadly. "Often. I have the records if you wanna see them?"

"I might just, you know! Now that I see you're alive and well I'm not gonna let a decade go by again before bothering you!"

"God please don't! It's been a bore without you. Here," He took out his phone and unlocked the screen. "Put your number in. So what else? Are you still in school?"

"Not...formally. When Dad died it was just all too much. The Girys have been great to me but school on top of it all. I wouldn't have been able to. But I am taking some instruction."

"Oh yeah? Where? In New York?"

"No, Jersey City. I take the bus from-oh crap!" She finished plugging her number into his phone-and taken a moment to coo over the cute dog that was his background-and caught sight of the time. Her free half an hour had bled into a full one. She'd have to wait another thirty minutes for the next bus. "I'm late!" She should call-

No she couldn't call the opera house. There was no guarantee Jules was there, and no one else knew about their lessons. Five o'clock was their time because it was almost certain they'd have the entire theater to themselves.

"Oh no." Raoul tossed his empty cup into the trash. "I made you late. C'mon, let me drive you to where you need to go."

"It's a half hour away, I can't ask you to-"

"I have absolutely nowhere else to be besides home, and I won't miss a few hours of my mother and sister's nagging. This is your bag?" He picked up her side saddle, and stood, waiting.

Christine stood and hugged him again. "You really are a knight in shining armor-or, blue camo."

Chapter 4

Raoul dropped her off a few blocks away at her request. "It's easier to get back on the highway from here, and you won't get turned around," she had excused which was true. She was more than grateful to Maestro for her bus pass.

"Be safe. I'll text," he called as she got out.

Lugging her bag beside her, she ran those blocks to the building. She made an awful noise running inside, letting the door slam behind her in her rush across the foyer to the theater. When she arrived at the stage, it was empty, the piano lid down. Groaning she slid onto the bench, but did not have long to feel sorry for herself.

"Indeed she arrives!"

Heart racing, Christine popped up, looking about wildly for her teacher. He as in box five, leaning over the side, fingers digging into the banister. But it was not shock and awe that drove his posture this time. "An hour late and counting!"

"I'm so-"

He fled the seat and like that first day was on the stage in minutes, silent and swift. Then he was storming onto the stage, footsteps echoing harshly in the empty theater. "An hour late! Does she not care what she does to Erik? Worried that she had been hurt? That she was somewhere in the city lost? That she decided she no longer wished to learn? Or does Christine believe she is a diva already, and is cultivating such attitude early?"

Her face heated, the insinuation hitting it's mark. "No! I'm sorry Maestro!"

He stood from her and folded his hands behind his back, his mouth in a firm line. He was waiting for an excuse. She was ready to provide (she had spent the whole car ride thinking).

"At work, an old childhood friend appeared-I had no idea they were in town. I haven't seen them since my mother and father were alive!" She held out her hands pleadingly. "That's a lot to catch up on. I was watching the time at first, but then I had to explain why I wasn't in the house-my childhood house-and everything that happened."

Her teacher took a breath and closed his eyes. He turned on his heel and walked away from her for a moment. She could see him spinning the conductor's baton deftly in his hand as the silence stretched on.

Feeling a little braver she ventured, "It's the first time I've been late. Usually I'm early."

"That is correct." Another deep breath. "You have been an exceptional student. And Erik...worried unnecessarily." He finally turned back to her, the tension gone from his shoulders at least. "You would not forget a lesson."

"No way," she promised, placing a hand on her bag. Not when she had so much to show. Maybe.

"You would not let your Erik sit here waiting and worrying on purpose."

"I'm sorry. I wanted to call but I didn't know if I should waste the time, or if you'd even be near the office phone."

"I would not have been," he agreed, his head lowering a little.

"You know if you have a better number for me to call incase something like this happens again... Buses can be late."

"Indeed. But I do not know it."

"You don't know your phone number?"

"No. I never bothered." He reached into his jacket's pocket and took out a sleek black cellphone. It looked so odd, her Maestro in his formal garb holding a modern phone. It was a few generations behind her own.

"I can find it in your phone, if you'd like. So I can contact you if I need to. If you'd like."

He held it out to her silently. Taking it, Christine frowned. "How do you not cut your fingers?" The screen of the phone was shattered. It wasn't unusual, Meg's phone had been shattered for a years while she waited for an upgrade. She had been too cheap to replace the screen. But Maestro's phone was a criss crossing web of breaks. She was almost afraid some of the pieces would fall out as she touched it. And was wasn't broken was scratched, not a reflective surface in sight.

"Erik manages."

His screen was the stock start up phone image, and he didn't have a password. Opening the lock screen she saw he had seventy eight messages and three missed calls. "You don't answer your phone much?"

"Those calling are not as important."

"Over seventy messages?"

"Na-Detective Khan-is a chatterbox."

Christine nodded, even if she wondered why the detective didn't just give up. She opened up his contacts, and forced herself not to spy, quickly tapping the plus sign. She put in her name "Christine" with a picture of a music note beside it. Quickly she lifted the phone to a decent angle and stuck out the tip of her tongue as she snapped a profile picture. Maestro watched this all, anger gone to be replaced with a little concerned curiosity. She texted her own phone though his and handed it back.

Erik starred at the picture for a very long time, before lifting his eyes and watching her open her own phone. "That is not you," he mused, catching sight of the singer on her background.

"Yeah. Amy is a lot prettier than I."

"Subjective. I believe remember her. The one with some sense of music."

"You only liked the album that had an orchestra on it," she reminded him. "You're more than a little biased." That album had been a mix of synth and classical. It was what had inspired her to play around with one of his tunes. She hoped it wouldn't be insulting.

"You do not keep photos on your phone?"

"I do! I just feel like it's narcissistic. For me. If people like seeing their own faces all the time that's alright. But not me."

Maestro nodded. "I quite agree. From now on you will call if you will be late?"

"Yes. I swear. Look up." He did and then frowned at the sound of a snap from her phone. It was a decent enough photo of him, a moment of casual repose.

"What was that?"

"I needed a photo for your contact." Christine paused. "Is that alright?"

"You took a photo of me," he breathed. "You...wished?"

"Yes. Is that alright?"

Erik blinked a for a long moment she thought he was about to yell at her again. It was thoughtless, and an apology was already on her lips when he said, "I am unsure. I have...yes. Yes you may have my image. If you wish it."

She replied to his text with a quick reply of 'Hello!', to test the number. Christine saw Raoul had already texted her. She couldn't help but smile.

His phone dinged in his palm, and he grimaced. "That noise."

"I suppose it would be annoying to hear it over seventy times."

Now Erik rolled his eyes, turning the ringer off tucking the phone away. "If it troubles you I shall open the messages tonight." He came closer to sit on the seat, but not before leaning closer and murmuring, "As I think of a fitting punishment for my diva."

Christine blushed furiously, and cursed her friend once more. The words and tone would never have made her stomach flip if she hadn't already been thinking about such...stupidity! "Yes, Maestro."

They worked or the next hour as usual. Warm up, scales, and then into The Magic Flute. The Night Queen's aria was almost perfect, and after time with her and her voice, he seemed to have shed the annoyance about her tardiness.

"Very good, Christine," he complimented. "Simply remember, 'aw' not 'ah'. It gives a deep tone, and is more pleasant for the ear."

"Yes Maestro."

"Rest. I believe it will be a little while before your bus arrives."

She went to the edge of the stage and refilled her glass. He shifted on the bench and began playing. It was beautiful, his songs always were. But today she gently interrupted him.

"Maestro?"

"Hm?" He continued playing, turning slightly to face her. "Yes, Christine?"

"I have...something to show you, I think."

"You only think?"

"I don't want you to be upset." Now that she was about to brooch the subject, she felt her stomach leaden. He must work hard on these pieces, and she had botched it in imitation, then tortured it with a medium he disliked. It was an insult. "Nevermind. You know what, it's nothing."

The music stopped. "Christine, please. Do not be afraid of your Maestro. What have you brought?" He turned his total attention to her, and she knew that she wasn't going to get away without showing him now. He was waiting there, hands folded primly on his knee, waiting for her to continue.

"Alright. Remember, before our lessons, when you asked about my creating?"

"Yes. Creating a new world with your voice," he agreed.

"Right. And I understood that. And I thought all I wanted to do was use my voice. Just...give life to the words."

"And you do," he encouraged.

"Well...I dabbled a little in creating music too. Not with my voice."

"Indeed?" Erik brightened, then held his hands to his chest. "Have you composed? And you wish me to see it?" He spoke as if she was giving him some great gift, bestowing an honor on him.

"No-sort of. There was a piece you played me last week. That..." She hummed a few bars, and he nodded. "It stuck with me and I tried to play it at home and I...please don't be mad at me. It inspired me and-"

"You altered it," he said, eyes narrowing slightly.

"No! I...I added."

"Added." Erik repeated the word as if it was another language. Then he stood and held out his hand. "Let me see." When she didn't move, he snapped his gloved fingers impatiently, and beckoned.

"I didn't write it on paper." She took out her laptop and brought it to the piano, gently placing it down on the lacquered wood. As it booted up, she took out her head phones, and cleaned then with an alcohol wipe from her bag. Opening the program, she plugged the buds in and held them out to Erik.

Glancing wearily at them, he held one to his ear, and nodded. Biting her lip she tapped the space bar and started the music. He starred off somewhere stage right, at least giving her attempt his undivided attention. She watched the notes scroll by, her stomach twisting. Finally, it stopped, and she waited for his verdict.

"You gave it a beat." He sounded surprised. "It's little more than a lullaby." At least he didn't sound angry. Indeed he cocked his head to the side, like an owl, curious.

"It is? To be it sounded like...like a love song. Like a slow se-soulful song." She was not going to call Erik's music sensual to his face, even if it was!

"Indeed?" He held the earphone up again and nodded. "Again."

He listened to it three times before Christine ventured to explain what she did. "I didn't get it quite right, your piano-"

"No you didn't. But it's very close."

"And the deep humming you're hearing? The beat, it synthesized. So is the piano but it's trying to sound real."

"Like that album you played me. Mixing the two."

"Yes. And...and look what I can do." She hurried back to her bag, forgotten by the water, and pulled out the little microphone. She had bought it along with the programs in a bundle. She had heard voices as well as instruments manipulated by the computer in some of her recent playlists. Not just autotuning, but creating a totally alien and impossible sound with them. She had bought the microphone just in case Erik did not throw her out on her ear. She wanted to get his voice, and play with it.

That sounded so awful, damn Meg!

After a second of set up, she turned it on. She pulled out the headphones and sang a single note, a soft 'ah', recording it in the computer. It played back at her immediately, and for the first time she heard what she sounded like now.

She sounded damn good.

Using that confidence she fiddled with the program. When she hit play again, her new audio played back. Christine had changed the key of the clip in the computer. It didn't' sound totally authentic, but now her voice was harmonizing with itself. Then she shortened the clip, until she could play her recorded voice like staccato notes on a piano.

She turned turned to Erik, smiling. He was standing there, eyes wide. And he said nothing. "I...it doesn't sound real, I know, but it's interesting. And I couldn't sing like that-short bursts-without hurting my voice. So it can do things that I can't. I mean it-"

"Can you do that again? Singing a different note?"

Christine swallowed. It wasn't a rejection. Not at all. Now she grinned, on a roll. "You mean like a scale? Instead of auto-tuning it?"

"Yes."

"I can!"

Before she could move, he was at the piano again, and played her note. She sang it back, and when he nodded at the accuracy, she sang once more into the microphone. Again and again they did this, until she had all that he needed. "Can we do your voice too?"

"Mine?"

"Yes! Your voice is amazing. If you thought those tricks with my sound was good, imagine what we could do with yours. Or both, together!"

"Together...?" His eyes glazed a little. He put so much stock in her own ability, didn't he know the magnitude of his? "If you wish. Yes. Yes if you wish I will." Now he smirked a little. "On your cue, madam."

They repeated the process with his vocalizations, then stood, heads close over the computer, each with an earphone. Listening to Erik's golden voice was a joy. Having him near her, interested in her teaching him was like a drug: addictive. It took Erik a bit to adjust from staff paper to the way the program laid out the notes, but once he did they began to create. He would point and she would place clips of their voices in the track, playing it back for his approval. They had recorded in different keys, and thus created an effect of her light soprano answering back his baritone over the swell of the piano (he had already adjusted or added the notes she had missed in her memory).

Christine like to play with the effects, creating distortion or and echo. The first Erik didn't care for at all, but the latter he found he was fond of, especially for her higher angelic notes. Finally they listened to it in full, both of them smiling as the file slipped by, now dense with clips.

"Wait here." He gently took her computer and stepped down from the stage into the shadows orchestra pit. She waited, peering to see where he went in the darkness. Suddenly a light came on, revealing Erik inside a room under the seats of the opera, just behind the conductor's station. He was fiddling with something out of sight, and above her she heard the static of the hidden speakers coming to life above her.

Grinning, Christine understood what he was doing. He was going to play the piece on the speakers so that it filled the entire theater. Their music-because it was now, so much more than his lovely lullaby. Something they had created together, something he with all his musical talent deemed good enough to work on. Pride swelled in her chest, and she felt her eyes sting.

He complimented her, of course, during their work. But she had never really shaken the feeling of being a young student, just trying to catch up. Trying to match his command of sound with her feeble little songs. But if he wanted to hear the piece she had brought to him, that she had started in his theater...he must like it.

He must be proud of her, in someway. She must have created something that spoke to him, on the level he seemed to touch with such ease, the level her father's music had also reached. When she heard the first notes of the piano echo around her, Christine had a sense of arriving. Where to, she wasn't sure. But she knew she wanted to stay, stay where her work echoed back at her. Where her music-their music-lived.

Home.

Erik hurried out of the sound booth and scrambled back up onto the stage. He fled behind the curtain for a moment before returning with his violin. Counting the beat silently, be began to play counterpoint, the new notes soaring over their vocalizations sparing with each other with the deep humming synth beat.

His eyes closed and he simply began to play by feel, rocking back and forth in in tempo as his finger flew over the strings. His face, what she could see, relaxed into pure bliss as he was swept away by their music. She could see the sound live through him, and for the next few minutes he was beautiful.

Christine had never seen him play that way. Oh tunes on the piano, yes, but not losing himself to the music. It was not just the violin, his whole body was the instrument. He held the wood lightly, the bo dancing across the strings, making them sing, coaxing sound rom them as he so often did with her.

When the last echo faded, Erik opened his eyes to find Christine standing right before him, tears in her eyes. "You..." But she couldn't go on. It seemed to crass to break the heady silence now. She lowered her head, wiping her tears away. He had lost himself in something she had created, and he had played for her again. Lost his strict control and let his own voice fly. Happiness seeped through her veins, filling her with warmth, and the genesis was the look he was giving her. His mismatched golden eyes soft as they sought out her face.

"Thank you," he said softly. "I think I understand a little more now. About your synthesized sound."

Christine let out a watery laugh. "I'm just glad you didn't rage at me for destroying your music."

"Rage? No!" He clutched his violin to his chest. "You memorized my music! You replicated it by sound, you were listening!"

"I always listen when you play," she insisted. "Your music is beautiful!"

"I have never played them for anyone else, not my own pieces," he admitted, and Christine's eyes watered all over again. She had never really thought about what his reclusive life meant outside of the secrecy their lessons held. Had he truly never let anyone else in as far as her? Not even detective Khan?

"I would not have thought that piece anything more than a simple tune, a lullaby to relax you between exercises. I never would have thought to put a beat to..." Then Erik jumped back, bow raised in triumph. "You were a drummer!"

After a moment of stunned silence, Christine burst out laughing. "You got it!" Clapping her hands she explained, "It was my feeble attempt at teenage rebellion. My father wanted me to play the violin, and Mom wanted me to get serious about the piano. But I love drumming, I like a great beat. I like to dance too, that may be part of it. But I'm nowhere near as good as my friend Sorelli-she does ballet and jazz dancing in her off time."

Erik threw back his head and laughed, almost like a drunkard, high on victory. "I told you! I told you Erik would figure it out! And now you must perform!"

"Oh no!" She stepped back. "No way, it's been forever!"

"One does not forget-you did not forget how to sing."

"It's completely different! It'll be awful!"

"All the same." He took her by the wrist and pulled her down into the orchestra pit. There was a drum set there, not put away from rehearsal. Christine sighed, knowing there was no stopping him.

"Alright ,but I'm warning you I'm really, really rusty." She sat on the stool and tested the bass pedal. "Hey, do you know how to fiddle?"

In answer, Erik lifted his violin to his chin and waited, poised. Finding the sticks she tested out a few beats before falling into an old favorite. After a few moments, her teacher joined in, following her beat and dancing his tune along in time. After the first song, Erik started playing, encouraging her to follow him. Back and forth they created again, playing known tunes and making a few things up as they went. After a while, muscle memory kicked in, and Christine felt comfortable once more seated behind her drums and hitting out a rhythm.

With a last hit of the crash cymbal, Christine put up her hands in surrender. "I give! I'm all played out."

Erik nodded, lowering his bow. A few hairs had come loose in their music making, and he too seemed to be breathing a little heavier. "Indeed. Thank you Christine. That was...invigorating!"

She laughed and stood, but froze when she heard clapping. Erik too seemed to go stalk still. He held up a finger before returning to the stage. Christine kept to the shadows of the orchestra pit, but twisted to watch him. Erik peered into the darkness of the theater.

And then he snarled-truly snarled lips pulling back over bared teeth. "Charles."

"That was very nice, Erik." The voice she heard was friendly enough, and was coming closer in time to the heavy footsteps down the aisle.

"It is after hours. What are you doing here? Your manager is not here for you to protect!"

"He isn't my manager, damnit, Erik. He's the manager and he's been doing his job! Why can't you see-"

"I see every night that woman is on MY stage shrieking in MY theater."

"It is not just yours!"

Her Maestro brought himself up to his full height, his hand tight on his bow. She swore she heard the creak of wood. "Maestro," she said softly.

"Who was that?" Suddenly a face peered over the edge of the pit from the front row. A man, middle aged and a little pink in the face peered down at her. His brown hair was combed neatly, and he wore suspenders under his tweed suit jacket. "Christ there's a girl here! Who are you?"

"Why are you here," Erik demanded again moving closer to the edge of the stage, as if he were protecting Christine from his questions. "Why are you interrupting my work?"

"I came here to talk to you. Who is this? Is this who was playing before? I thought you were playing against a recording."

"Talk and leave."

"Does Nadir know you have a girl here?"

"Nadir does not have mastery over my life!" Erik was screaming now, hunched as if ready to leap across the pit at the man.

"Hey! Hey, wait a minute." Christine didn't even bother with the stairs, hualing herself up on stage between Erik and the intruder-Charles. She had never seen her teacher this angry, not even a few hours ago. Frustrated yes, exasperated even, like before. But never rage filled. Her veins had depleted what ever warmth their creating gathered, and she began to shiver as if chilled. Erik was scaring her, with his glare, his fury. She'd never seen him so transformed. "Her name is Christine Daae. And if I don't want anyone knowing about my lessons, then no one will know!"

"Lessons?" The man dropped into a theater seat. "Lessons? You're teaching her?"

Erik didn't answer, and Christine wondered if he was beyond words. Her stomach dropped a little more. Maybe she shouldn't have let that slip. "Yes, he's helping me. And, excuse me, but you are interrupting Mister...?"

"Charles Garnier."

That name rung a bell. Where had she heard it before? Oh, she hadn't. She had read it. He had help build this theater. Erik Khan and Charles Garnier where the names mentioned.

"What did you come here to talk about," Erik hissed, his voice low. He was as taught as his damaged bow, nearly humming with barely suppressed fury. Christine put out a hand, but was afraid to even touch his arm.

"To bury the damn hatchet Erik." Once more Christine was ignored as Charles stood coming around to the stage and hefting himself upon it. Still, Erik's student placed herself between them, but protecting who was still in question. "Firmin has brought in the money to keep the lights on. Even you have to admit that-"

"But has his ideas finally left a sour taste in your mouth? Have you been included in all the meetings, hmm? Finally realizing what...what drivel he is dragging into the building?"

Charles folded his hands, and seemed to pray for calm. "But he is Carlotta's man."

Erik laughed again, the same drunken peel. But it wasn't victorious now. Now it sounded almost...demonic. "Finally found that out now, eh? Eh? Haha! Oh what poetic justice."

Charles ran his tongue over his teeth. "He asked to see the blueprints of the building. Carlotta is renegotiating her contract and she wants a bigger dressing room."

Erik gasped. "She wants to alter my building!"

"Our building, Erik. I told him no, and he went on about having to keep our star and sales."

"And?" Erik stepped closer, but no longer looked ready to fight. "And? And! Well man what did you say to that?!"

"I told him no, again," Charles cried, throwing up his hands. "I won't let some spoiled diva cut into the plans we poured our blood into! Christ Erik, I know you're angry but what do you take me for?!"

Erik placed his violin down and began to pace the stage. "Insupportable! Insufferable! Intolerable," he raged, fingers curling and uncurling into fists as he moved. Christine wrung her own hands, watching him prowl like a caged animal, hackles raised and snarling. Where had her soft spoken teacher gone?

Charles however, seemed unfazed. He finally came to her, hand outstretched. "I am sorry, I didn't mean to ignore you, Miss Daae did you say?"

"Yes." She shook his hand, and was immediately glad for the warmth that radiated off it. She was numb with shock, and more than nervous. "Pleased to meet you."

"Erik has never, ever taken students before. You must be quite talented."

"He seems to think so."

"What do you play?"

Before Christine could answer, Erik had reached a decision. "I will speak to our beloved Firmin. Not even Reyer can stand this woman, and demanding changes to my theater!"

"R-reyer," she asked softly. Christine was a little lost in this current drama. Though, technically, it was her drama. Or would be if she supplanted the diva. Which, at this very moment, was the last thing she ever wanted to do.

"Our conductor," Charles supplied. "The only one Erik seems to be on regular good terms with."

"The man has something going on here," Erik said, tapping his temple hard enough to make a knocking sound. Christine winced for him.

"Anyway, I hoped you would."

"Now you find my talks convincing! La! Nadir was telling me how un-fun you thought they were!"

"That was before Firmin stopped listening to me."

"Can..." Christine lost her voice when both men turned to look at her. Clearing her throat-Erik winced and gave her the familiar Maestro reproachful glare-she asked, "Can Carlotta actually change the building herself?"

Charles shook his head. "No. I own the building, and Erik is the landlord. The two people they can go to won't let them. But this is the last in a long list of demands."

"She has say in what operas play," Erik snapped.

"Yes. That was in her contract."

"Oh..." Christine understood a little. Erik was an owner in a way, and when she had asked all those month ago why he couldn't fire Carlotta, he had told her he did not have the same sway as he used to. This must have been what he meant. "Oh no."

"Her tastes are self serving, to say the least," Charles supplied.

"Self serving to say the least!" Christine jumped slightly. A high pitched mimic of Charles' words seemed to come from the man himself, but his lips never moved.

Charles lifted his eyes to the ceiling. "Really Erik."

Christine turned to her Maestro, who was smirking now, arms still folded. He had done that? He could throw his voice! Her lips parted in awe, and in her left ear she heard a good imitation of her own voice "Oh wow Maestro!" She batted lightly at her ear, still a little shocked.

"If you're done showing off..." Charles sighed.

"Well now that you've finally seen sense, Charles, I will speak to Firmin." Erik leaned against the piano, crossing his ankles casually. The rage that had enfused him a moment ago seemed drained; being right had soothed him. "Though, for all your worrying it won't be much of a problem in the end. Carlotta is getting on in years. There is always someone younger and ready to take a diva's place-anyone's. Theater life, you know."

Charles' eyes slid to Christine. "Hmm. I suppose. But talk to him Erik. No more, do you understand?"

"Don't be such a boring little fart, Charles. You're worse than Nadir."

"His constitution for your antics is stronger than mine." Charles sighed and turned to Christine. "I'm sorry for interrupting your lesson, Miss Daae."

"You're forgiven this time. Now go away," Erik snapped.

Christine glanced at her teacher, shocked at his rudeness. But Garnier sighed. "Don't worry. This is normal. A pleasure." He held out his hand again.

"Same." She shook his hand again and mustered a smile. Once he had left, Christine finally turned on her Maestro. "You were so rude!"

Erik's eyes widened at her chastisement, whether from the validity of it or the fact that she was dressing down her teacher. "Rude? Rude! Bringing that man into my theater, and I am rude? Having that woman run roughshod over everything I have built and I am rude?" Erik gestured to the empty seats, the boxes and the sage around them. "I built this! I created this! I bankrupt myself to make this happen, the only thing the the world I've ever truly wanted, and she threatens to corrupt it all and I'm rude?"

"To Mr. Garnier," she said. "You were so angry! You...you scared me."

Erik's arms fell, his shoulders hunching around his ears. He didn't look at her, his gaze fixed firmly on her sneakers. All at once, the smugness, the anger, the indignation bled out of him. Now, before her stood the man unsure, the man that had been so embarrassed by a passing joke in a cafe store. Her head hurt a little trying to reconcile the two. They had gone from anger to ecstacy to shame all in the space of a few hours, and she was thrown off kilter; and more than a little tired. "Erik would never harm you, Christine. I did not mean..."

"You looked like you were gonna strangle him."

"Erik would never harm Charles. But the man doesn't see what he does! I understand the ways of the world, I am not a child. I know the theater needs money, but to...to whore out my theater just for the sake of profit!" He shook his head, shivering at the idea. "It...it has been a long standing struggle. It has come to a head many times. Erik may become angry but he would not harm his partner."

"Alright," Christine said slowly. He had shown some of that anger at her, just before and still he had not moved to touch her, had calmed himself before their argument was heated. This time.

"Please." He stepped closer, holding out a hand. "Please. Let me play for you. We played so beautifully before. We created music, together. Erik and his student created something beautiful. Do not let your poor Erik's harsh words ruin a perfect memory. Do not fear your Maestro."

His student glanced around them. Her computer was still in the sound booth, his violin laid on the piano he had used for her lesson. She was still holding the drumsticks in one hand. They had created music. A glance at her watch told her that they had been working on her computer for hours, and played for more. It as almost midnight. And it had been wonderful, to lose herself in the act of creation, using her head and not just her voice. And he had enjoyed it-he would not have played so beautifully to their music if he hadn't. He would have treated her attempts with the same scorn as the idea of Carlotta if he had not been pleased. But instead he had moved past his snobbish tastes and given her a chance. And loved it. She had changed her firm Maestro's mind.

It was a perfect memory. Theater people-music people were passionate people. She'd seen 'artistic differences' before in the conservatory and most of them weren't exactly civil. It didn't make it better...but if this diva was threatening to destroy part of Maestro's theater-one he had sunk his entire life into. Well, of course he would be defensive. He was simply...enthuzed for his cause. She wanted to believe that; she had to.

"I don't like fights like that," she convicted at last, and stepped forward, her eyes dropping to his hand. His bare hand.

He could not play violin in those gloves, after all. His hand as just as long fingers as it seemed, and encased in pale grayish skin. She could see the veins clearly in his wrist, and there wasn't an ounce of softness or fat in that hand, the bone clear through the papery flesh. She had to guess when he refused to remove his mask, that he had a skin condition. This seemed to confirm it. Erik realized what she was staring at, and immediately pulled back.

But Christine's hand shot out, clasping around his fingers before he could. If he could stand her touch, she would give it. It had been rude to stare, and mean to look so shocked. Shame reddened her cheeks and she held tight as he weakly tugged from her grip. His flesh was cold, but smooth like marble. Christine could feel the bones as clearly as she saw them, but it was no different then holding the hands of an elderly man. Whether time or condition ravaged his hand, it was still just a hand. Just her Maestro's hand. She'd held it before after all. Smooth and soft on the back, with rough hard working palms and calloused violinist fingertips.

Now that she came closer, she looked at his mouth, visible by his white mask. They were thin and pale as well, the same bloodless color, like the flesh of a man dead. They parted now, to speak, to rebuke her. Would he pull away in shame, order her to go? Or fall to his knees as she feared?

Christine beat him to the chase before he did any of those. "If you're not tired, I'd like to hear you play. But something short-I'll have to call a cab. No buses are running now."

Erik was staring at her hold, mouth agape. She heard him take his next shuddering breath, his eyes closing shut. "Christine," he whispered. "Christine..."

"Maestro? Are you tired? Maybe I should go."

"No!" Now his hand tightened around hers. It didn't hurt, but she couldn't pull away. "No, no not yet. Not while you're standing here, holding my...my hand. Not when there's more music to be had." Then his voice changed, became the rational teacher again. "And Erik will drive you home. I will not have you wondering the city at this time of night."

Christine nodded, and her Maestro let her go, descending once more into the orchestra pit, to the sound booth and retrieve her laptop. She flexed her hand. Though his flesh had been cold, it left her own flushed warm. 'Not while you are standing there, not while you're holding my hand'. That's what he had said. Not that he wanted to teach her more, but he wanted her to stay because she had held his fingers.

She was going down a path that would shift their whole dynamic. Subscribing something more than fascination with talent to their partnership...to their relationship. But what if her Maestro was having the same struggle? What if Erik had thoughts like her?

What if he found her just as alluring, just as beautiful as he was when he played?

Tears crowded her eyes, and she wasn't sure why. She was too tired, too emotional from the constant tug and pull of emotions. Christine had to turn her back to the front of house, and held her flaming cheeks. She did not want to lose these lessons. Not when they had discovered something new, not when she had become his own maestro in so many things. And if there was something there, something burning low and simmering, to add fuel to it by acknowledging it could burn their beautiful structure to the ground.

She must not let it happen. She must stop these ridiculous thoughts. She must, to save them both, and this place that was almost like home.

"Christine?" He was by her side now, holding out her closed laptop. In this lovely theater, the stickers on the top seemed garish and too colorful; childish. She took it and bent to tuck it in her bag. Erik stood beside her and wrung his hands. "Christine, there are tears in your eyes. Erik has harmed you."

"I'm-I'm just tired," she murmured, beyond glad her voice was steady.

"Then I will not play."

"Oh! No I want to hear-"

He held up a hand. He had replaced his gloves while she stood there lost in her thoughts. "No. You are exhausted, and your life must be sorely missing you. Erik will take you home, and you will go straight to bed and sleep as much as you can. Saturdays you do not work, correct? Then you will sleep your fill."

Erik disappeared again and returned with his overcoat and fedora. Not the trilbies young men in the cafe always wore, tossed jauntily on their bags as they worked on school work at the little tables. A real dashing felt fedora that he placed elegantly on his head, tilted fashionably. Maestro maybe moody, and strict and perhaps had too much of a temper, but he was a sharp dresser.

He led her back stage, weaving between the sets and discarded props. Had she been less tired Christine's curiosity would have stopped them a million times over. But she could always ask later, and now she had to concentrate on one step at a time. With the adrenaline of music gone, her body sagged under the weight of being up at six and pulling an eight and a half hour shift before an 'hour' long lesson.

Out a side maintenance door, the cold October wind whipped at her face. Here, outside the walls of the theater, the world moved on, the lights bright and garish on the deserted side street that led into the car park for the opera house. Erik's jaguar was parked in the first spot, and he came around to the passenger side to open it for her.

The leather seats were supple, and she sank gratefully into them. When he was seated beside her, the first thing he did was turn on the seat warmers. She sighed happily, her head lolling back against the rest. "This car is beautiful."

"I like beautiful things."

That voice, the soft timber that he used outside of the theater warmed her just as much as the heaters. His honeyed voice was so beautiful and had so many facets. Showman, singer, ranging Maestro, hissing demon, trickster god. So many people wrapped up in her Maestro, she wondered which was the one that was truest?

The car silenced the hum of the road as he pulled out onto the highway. Christine rubbed her eyes and forced herself to stay awake. Once they got to Montclair, she'd have to give directions to her little flat in Caldwell. "Maestro?"

"Mmm?"

"Why do you say my life will be missing me?"

"It does. When we are in lesson, you are away from your current work, your friends, your home. If I keep you, they will miss you."

"Yes. But you're my life too," she murmured, watching the street lights flash by. "Our music is my life, even when I'm away form the theater. I think I've proven that." She rolled her head to the side to look at him. Mistake.

He had to recline his seat to make up for his height, and he drove with his hand lightly on the bottom of the steering wheel. He was like a leisuring cat, elegant in repose. The white of his mask reflected the streetlights, softly glowing form the rest of his black clad attire. She felt her stomach drop a little at the sight. It was...inviting.

But then his hand slid up the wheel to grasp it tightly. "Christine."

"It's true. And if I start to audition, and really go on your stage, that will be my life won't it?"

"Yes. Your new career."

"You'll still be my teacher, won't you?" Christine's heart tightened. "You won't just leave me to the conductors and directors, will you? I'll always need coaching." Not that she was even sure she'd go through with this plan. But to think that she may, one day, be insane enough to step on stage and sing and know that her Maestro was no longer there, no longer watching and expecting and encouraging. It chilled her to her very bone.

"Christine please," he whispered. "Please do not worry so. You will never be without your Erik. But he cannot..."

"Can't what? You'll be with me. That's it. You're in my life. I mean I gave you number after all."

Erik's lips twitched in what might have been a smile. "Yes. But you are exhausted. Your mind is laying traps for you, and Erik does not wish to see tears in your eyes again. Where do I turn, after the cafe?"

She told him the basic route, and before she was ready they were slowly pulling up to the side of her building. Once more, he stepped out, coming around to open her door. She took his gloved hand and heaved herself out of the low car. "Thank you for the ride. I know it's a long way."

"It was my pleasure." He shook a finger at her gently. "Sleep immediately. And do not rise until the sun is well up."

"Yes Maestro." Christine looked up at him, his eyes still softly glowing under the brim of his hat, those eyes that were so oddly clear in the dark. She always had to tilt her head back just to look at him, he dwarfed her so. Her hand squeezed his gently. "You need sleep too, you know."

"Erik manages," he said, seemingly unable to let her go as well. His breath was warm against her cheeks. He smelled like the leather of the car and honeyed tea tonight. He was standing barely a foot away from her, his body blocking the chill of the wind.

Erik was gazing at her, and Christine wanted and feared him lowering his head; that she would learn tonight if the skin of his lips felt the same as his wrist.

Behind them there was a small crash of metal. A stray cat meowed somewhere in the shadow, and they heard his claws skitter across the sidewalk as it ran off. Erik whipped around towards the sound, peering into the darkness just outside the glow of the lamp light. Seeing nothing, he turned his gaze back to her. "Go. Go to bed."

Christine nodded and hurried to open her building door. Up the stairs she stepped into her apartment, the warmth of home feeling suddenly empty and dark. Turning on the lamp by the door only helped her see. Without thinking, she was at the window, wanting to get one last glimpse of his car.

She got more than that. He was standing beside the Jaguar, looking up at the building. Waiting to see if she was safe inside. Christine pulled back the curtain, and pressed a hand to the glass. When he noticed, she waved. Erik bowed slightly, before sliding back into the driver's seat. In the next moment he was gone.

Christine watched as his taillights faded into the darkness of the street. Her forehead rested against the cool glass of her window with a small thud. Don't think. Don't dream. Don't go there, Christine, she chided herself. Don't think about that moment, or any of the moments tonight, or in the last months where he looked at you so...adoringly. Not when you just got everything in order. Not when you just avoided everything falling apart. Not while it's still good.

No, she couldn't let herself imagine kissing her teacher. Could not imagine riding in his car, their hands entwined, standing by this window every other night as he waited to catch one last glimpse of her. There was danger in pondering these moments as precious, rather than routine. Her eyes squeezed shut as the tears that had risen and ebbed all night finally fell.

She was a damned coward. She had been scared to sing again, scared of music again, then scared to perform again. And now she was scared of the man that had robbed her of that fear. Damn her fantasy heart, damn all those fairytales, damn all those stories, and damn the perfect love her parents had that left her now so bereft. And damn her too for feeling the absence of it all, and not using that pain to move on. To heal.

In the end, Christine was afraid of living. And she wept for her own lack of courage.

 

Notes:

The album Erik mentions and the one that inspires Christine is Synthesis by Evanescence

For a sense of what they did to their voices listen to All About Anna by Cellogram

Chapter 5

He must look.

He mustn't turn away. Erik had to stare into the mirror and look at the horror that stared back at him. His mask clutched in one hand, he stood in the men's bathroom of the theater and stared at his sisyphic burden. He had to remind himself what he was. A creature, a thing playing at a man. A murderer, a monster attempting to be a maestro. He was vile and ugly, his soul rotten from within. He was the devil, for even the devil could quote scripture; the devil could create beauty for his own ends.

He had scared Christine. His vile temper, born from years of nurturing it like a mother to a babe. It was his child, his lover and his constant comfort; the blinding red rage he had towards humanity. The humans that had beaten and twisted him, sold him and used him. Made him a murderer. Made him enjoy it.

But no. It was him as well. Humans made him, and he allowed them. He was weak, a cowering monster who could do nothing but destroy. Could only snap and hiss and drive the light away. He had scared Christine, because she had seen the true man beneath. The Phantom who wore Erik as a mask.

She had taken his music-oh she had liked it! She didn't know it was all for her, that every song he played for her he wrote for her. It would drive her away. If she knew, she would come to her senses, even an angel's pity had it's limits. She would realize this demon wanted her and she would rightly flee. He did not deserve to be with her, he did not deserve to put notes to paper and try to describe her through song.

But compose he did. The lullabies he would sing her, if she would let him. She had thought it was a love song-they were all love songs in a way. He played her the romantic, the sweet, the loving. But those were only moments, the moment's he would show her. Locked away, even from his sight were the scores he had written in the dead of night. Scribbling out notes and melodies that beat against his brain demanding release. The passionate music that he would seduce her with, if the Phantom had its way. The sounds that echoed in his brain as he thought of her, needed her, wanted her. Burned for her. His music burnedburnedburned.

But into the mirror he must look. This is what he was. His ugly face, dressed in long healed scars. What girl would take this face to her bed? What woman would allow this face to love her? He could not have what he desired. He had to remember why and remember that these were stolen moments, he and his student.

He was a thief, and these lessons, this girl, was his little prize. He paid for it with secrecy and torture. For every moment she was near and gentle and sweet to him was an unending torture. He wanted to reach out and touch her, and see his hands on her and have the kindness stay in her eyes. He could see it, in the theater of his mind. He would confess all, cry out every word of love he had for her and she would accept him, his fantasy Christine. Maybe have her accept his touch, rather than endure. These ghosts of futures that could not be ripped slowly at his heart, shredding whatever was left to pieces. Because it could not be.

Because that burning, red Phantom would stretch out his hand and take her and use her, and turn her to ash. It would make her what once was: cowering crying and weak only to prove that he was strong enough to do so. That he was the whip master, no longer the whipped. And she would walk so willingly into that trap. Ever love opera he played on the stage of his thoughts soon turned to horror under The Phantom's direction.

But, oh...he had held his hand so dutifully. Christine, such a good girl! Such a good girl to swallow the horror of seeing his corpse hand, and had actually touched it without shuddering! Even said that he was apart of her life, as if he were important to her. As if she wished him to be with her in anyway he could be. She did not know what she did! Her touches were innocent, free of malicious intent! She only meant to be kind, Christine always so kind. It was he, he the poison that infected their bond, that took such sweet gestures and turned them into objects of sinful desire.

His forehead pressed into the glass. Look! Look at you! Do not think! Do not think of holding her hand, of kissing those fingers. Do not think of touching those curls and lifting her face-she had to lift so far just to see! So tiny was she, so delicate but soft. So soft, how soft she would be under his mouth, how gently he would kiss her pretty lips, her cheek. Kiss her throat that produced such a heavenly sound.

Disgusting! This was why he could never play her his music, see her face flush with passion. Never see her reach for him and accept all he had to give, his tender love, his burning passion.

No! No no no! He shut his eyes, willing the thoughts to disappear, to retreat like mist in the morning. No he could not think of that, could not defile her even in his dreams. For surely such dreams would bleed into reality. She would see the evil leech from him like shadows from the night-and then she would be gone!

And now a new act began, curtain rising on a scene more likely to play. He could hear her now, echoing in his ears, her cries of mercy. Her pleading, crying, that lovely voice cracking as she struggled in his wanting hands, pinning her down and taking their fill. That face, that throat, that soft sweet skin hidden by cloth and modesty. Caressing touching, needing as she struggled like a little butterfly pinned to paper. "Please Maestro, don't! Please! I'm sorry! No! Please!"

"Please no," he cried to his own face in the mirror. Perhaps it was madness, but Erik could see his face, his reflection twist into sinful pleasure. Saw the dead cracked lips turn up into a smirk in the mirror. And when he shut his eyes again, he still saw it, that grinning visage trapped in glass, laughing at his heart, as his compassion, his weakness.

"Stop, stop! Don't hurt her!" His fist connected with the glass, and there was a great shatter. Pain, welcoming sobering pain blossomed in his hand, traveling up his arm until he staggered back, falling onto the tile floor. His eyes opened to see his hand covered in blood, the knuckles torn open by the glass. All around him, his fractured, weeping monster's face stared back. A thousand accusing eyes, reminding him what he was capable of. Reminding him that he must not want.

Blood cooled by the pain and the realization of what he did, he could resolve calmly. Christine would never be his, no matter if she begged him to stay as her Maestro. The best he could have was seeing her stand on his stage, and sing with the voice he gave her. He would be her teacher, he would give her what she asked, and want nothing more of her. This was his punishment, if the law would not have him.

"Take what you can, Erik," Rookheeya's voice whispered in his ear. "Take just what you can. Nothing is ever perfect. We all lose something along the way. Just take what is good matter how small and cherish it. Now come on. Come and help me with the dishes."

The rest was grace.

---

Mrs. Giry was always so nice. Christine hated to lie to her, especially on a Sunday. But she did not think she could rise from bed. She had slept most of Saturday, and not just because she was tired. She had been, of course, after such a long night in the opera. But moreover, her heart was heavy.

She wanted to take it out of her chest and snap at it for being so spoiled! She could not have everything! She could not tuck away her lessons, as apart of her life but separate and then desire her teacher. She could not desire him at all! Besides, what if he was simply courteous? He spoke and dressed so formally, his attentions were nothing but that, weren't they? He drove her home to keep her safe, he played her music because it was pretty. What were a few hand holds? Plenty of people held hands!

But even then, he had called himself 'her Erik'. Her Erik. Not teacher, nothing so formal. He, Erik, the man, was hers if she wished it.

Tucked up in her sweats and comforter, she rolled over in bed, sighing. Picking up her phone for distraction she peered at the messages. One from faithful Meg telling her to get better and did she need anything? And four from Raoul.

She opened those in full.

.

Knight in Camo
Hey! Just wanted to make sure you got home alright. It was really wonderful time catching up! You're still something else, Chris!

Knight in Camo
Meg told me you're sick. Feel better!

Knight in Camo
Especially because her cappuccinos aren't as good as yours, tbh.

Knight in Camo
Btw do you have lessons on Saturdays? We should grab a bite to eat, when I'm not making you late.

.

Christine smiled at her screen and typed her reply.

.

Me
Thanks so much! Just a stomach thing. Should be okay soon. Saturdays are free! I'd love to have dinner and talk more. I want to know about all the places you've been to!

Me
Send me a time and place and I'll be there.

Knight in Camo
Awesome! You like Japanese? You will once you eat here. Umi's in Wayne is excellent. Let's say 5:30?

Me
See you there!

.

Hitting send, she swiped through to the contacts and started at the new name 'Maestro' logged in there. After a moment of second guessing, she tapped the number and opened up a new message. After writing and deleting for several moments she settled on

.

Me
I slept just as you said. I know you manage, but I hope you slept too. I can still hear our music though. Thank you for letting me show you. Thank you.

.

She hit send before she gave up and deleted the whole thing. Then she silenced her phone and tossed it aside. She'd look when she was braver. Besides, there was someone at the door. Sliding out of bed, she shuffled to the door, and peered through the peephole. Then she sighed, tears once again close to the surface.

Opening the door, Meg stood there, a grocery bag in hand. "I have pepto, and I have advil-I got some soup from the diner across the street and chocolate in case it's a period thing."

"Thanks," Christine murmured, her voice rough after hours of not using it and lack of tea.

"Jesus you sound God awful. I thought those lessons were supposed to be helping?" She came into the apartment and went straight into the kitchenette, pulling down the bowls. Meg had practically organized the apartment herself when Christine moved in. She knew where everything was.

But mentioning the lessons, in addition to noting how this was affecting her, broke Christine a little. She had to duck her head to furiously wipe at the tears.

"Oh my God Christine are you crying," Meg gasped. "Honey? Honey! Babe what's wrong?!" She came closer, grabbing Christine in her famous bone crushing hugs, and Christine let herself be crushed.

"I don't know," her friend whined. "I don't know anymore. It's all going to fall apart. And it's all my fault!"

Meg sighed and stepped back, leading Christine to the couch. "Sit. This is enough, Christine. I don't care who you're protecting, I don't care what you think, you're gonna sit here and eat this soup and tell me everything." She held up a finger as Christine took breath to argue. "Everything, do you understand me? Look at you, you're weeping!"

And after spoonfuls of soup, Christine did. God help her, she told it all. It was too much to hold herself. And if she was honest, which she always tried to be, she missed Meg. Though it had been settled with Erik that Meg should know something, it had felt like cheating, sill, not telling her the whole tale.

So Christine started with the opera. Some things Meg knew, like when she spoke to Angel-Christine did at least, save his real name-in the drive thru and the lessons. But the fact that their regular was her teacher, the feelings he gave her when she succeeded, their playing together, their creation. She even dragged out her laptop and let Meg listen.

"He played a violin part for it that we didn't record," she murmured weakly, as Meg's eyes widened.

"Christine, is that your voice?"

"Yeah."

"And that's his?"

"Mhmm."

"Oh my God." It was quickly becoming her standard answer for the night. "You sound...and he's...!"

"Yup." Christine sunk back into the couch, listless and spent from her confessing. Erik's voice was honeyed gold, it was magic in a soundwave, it was darkness made real, and beauty made tangible. And she knew she was better as well. To Christine it had just been cool effects to their singing. She didn't realize how it would sound to a layman like Meg.

Taking the earphones out, Meg mirrored her position. "Oh boy. Where to begin."

"There is no beginning," Christine insisted.

"Oh yes-yes there is." She tapped the computer.

"No Meg! He's not...it's all me! It's me! It's my stupid feelings coming in and messing everything up again. Just like with school! I was too sad to continue! And now, now I'm too idiotically infatuated to keep singing."

"First of all," Meg said with finality, "you weren't sad. You were devastated. Give yourself a little freaking credit. Second of all, you're the one that just told me Angel is like some recluse hermit, right? That he didn't even plan on telling you his name? But he invited you to the show, to the theater, to lessons and then-then! He let you play with his music? And you're going to sit here and tell me he doesn't have the same feelings?"

"He's not like that Meg. You don't get it. He's serious about this stuff. To him there's nothing but the music! There's nothing but perfecting it! He doesn't have time for school girl crushes! He and his partner on Friday got into this huge fight because of the diva-the lead singer of the opera house. It almost came to blows!"

"Well that's not comforting."

"He said it wouldn't have, but they were mad. He was mad. It was like someone insulted his mother. His music is him."

"That proves my point!" Meg threw up her hands. "His music is him, okay! He just let you plant your voice and your touch onto his music! And you were afraid he would hate it! But he didn't. He loved it, wanted more of it. I think he just wants more of you."

Christine pressed her palms into her eyes. "But that's worse!"

"H-Christine, what the hell are we even arguing about? Don't you want him to want you? Isn't that why you're all upset?"

"Yes-no! Sort of." She growled and took a pillow, pressing it into her face. She wanted to scream-but she couldn't. It would hurt her voice. "I don't want him to feel the same," he muffled voice shouted. "Because then it would change things! And maybe not for the better! I love my lessons. I love my life how it is! Right now! I don't want it to change, because what if it doesn't work out?"

The pillow as ripped away from her, and Meg's glaring purse-lipped face was over her. "You are just going to have to get over it, Christine." She tugged the pillow away again as Christine reached for it. "I'm serious this time. You've always had your head in the clouds, you were always thinking about stories and music and fantasy. You were always thinking about other people's lives and other people's emotions in those stories because you're afraid to feel them yourself! And I get it."

Now Meg softened and took her hand. "I get it, babe. You've been hurt so much. Your Mom, and then your Dad. He was such a great guy. But they lived life, Christine. You can't keep running from things like this. It might not work out, and you might lose something. You're gonna lose a lot more-that's life. But for a little while you really could make something...great." She gestured to the computer. "I'm not you, but to me that would be worth it. Besides if it does crash and burn, you can write an opera about it. Isn't why they all did?"

Christine didn't want to smile at the worthless little joke. But because it was Meg, and it was her way of comforting she did. And she was right. Christine loved music because of the emotions it gave her, the worlds it took her from. But when she sang and wrote it was either for beauty or pretending at real passion. She had felt the devastating grief of course, but the bashful hopefulness, the blissful happiness...the swelling love? She only lived vicariously through characters and people long dead. It was safe and separate.

Like taking a risk on Erik's ticket, she was going to have to risk again if she wanted something real.

She reached out and wrapped her arms around Meg's neck, wanting to feel that realness immediately. She was lithe compared to Christine's curvy form, and a little skinny. But she was warm and her hair was soft against her cheek. She smelled like coffee and a floral perfume, like she had all of their friendship, through all of their hugs both joyous and comforting. Meg squeezed her tight, as if to promise that, though she may lose somethings, Christine would never lose her sister.

"I just can't tell him all of this, though," she concluded, pulling back. "Not all at once."

"Well yeah, you don't wanna sound crazy. But I mean if you stopped stopping yourself maybe things will...progress. You know? Naturally."

"Not much about this is natural. He's a lot older, reclusive and I'm not exactly all together myself," Christine laughed.

"Well yeah, but it's good, y'know? You need someone willing to put up with your crap and he's seemed to survived, what, eight months?" Meg smiled and shrugged. "If he's staying, I say slap sticker on him that says 'Daae Property: Fuck Off'."

Christine giggled, imagining Erik's reaction to such a thing. "He'd never allow it. He doesn't curse-he almost fainted when he saw our playlist, remember?"

"You need to play him some songs off it."

"No way! He'd kick me to the curb!"

She waved a hand and picked up the earphone again. "I wanna listen one more time. Then let's rent a movie or something. I'm beat and ready to dig into that chocolate."

"I'll get it." Rising from the couch, Christine felt like she was shedding a thousand pounds from atop her heart. She floated happily into the kitchen and 'ooh'ed over the goodies Meg brought. Ripping open a Three Musketeers (and swearing she'd drink five thousand gallons of water to make up for the sugar) she went to fetch her phone. The little light blinked blue, indicating a message.

.

Maestro
Thank you Christine. You have humbled and honored me greatly by your interest. Perhaps we could do more on Monday? I something that might spark your creativity, and we must take a break from lessons this week in any case.

.

The happiness she had felt slammed straight into a brick wall.

.

Me
Why? Did I do something wrong?

.

She sent it without thinking, wanting an immediate answer. Only after she read it, did she realize how it sounded.

.

Maestro
Of course not, silly child. Never. But your Maestro had been very careless and damaged his hand. He cannot play the piano accompaniment until it heals. I apologize.

Me
Oh no! Are you okay? What did you do? Is it bad? What happened?

Maestro
Broken glass. A few stitches, nothing more. But I do not wish to risk permanent damage to my hand.

.

Stitches? Christine frowned and had the sudden ridiculous urge to drive down to Jersey City...and then she realized she didn't know where Erik lived. He certainly didn't live in the opera house for goodness sake.

.

Me
Oh no! Poor Maestro! Yes, please rest. We can find other things to work on.

Maestro
You are a very good girl, Christine. Thank you.

.

"Hey! What's the hold up, where's the chocolate?" Meg's voice brought her back to reality. The movie, the listless afternoon they were about to have. She looked back at the scant few text messages. No, she wouldn't let loose all the feelings she had all at once. But she would not allow herself to skitter away from it anymore. Let him reject her-at least she would have told the truth. It's time she started living life.

Chapter 6

"I think you should come stay with me for a few days." Nadir watched Erik in pure shock as he tried to text with his left hand. His right was held at an angle as the doctor finished the stitches. The man had barely even spoken on the thing since Nadir gave it to him. He had given up hoping for replies, though he dutifully sent a message once in a while just in case. He had told Erik that he needed to have it, in case he ever relapse, but it was a piss poor excuse. Once Erik decided building the opera house was more important than addiction, Nadir was sure he'd never return to it.

And Nadir had watched him take an ice pick and carefully, methodically, crack the screen. He knew the reason why, he never balked at the rudeness of it. Balking at Erik grew stale years ago. Why Charles continued to moan about their mutual friend was beyond him. At least when it came to his manners.

"No," Erik murmured, locking the screen. He didn't even wince as the doctor's needle sunk into his knuckles. He hated hospitals, and the doctor was eyeing him with gawking looks (between his grey skin and the mask), giving them both a good reminder as to why.

"Erik, you shattered a mirror with just your hand. You need to rest." More importantly, Nadir was worried about why Erik had done it. It had been a years since such a violent outburst, give or take the rows with Charles which usually amounted to nothing more than screaming. It had been quite a shock after sitting in the theater for an hour, to go searching, give up, go use the restroom before leaving and finding Erik sitting on the floor, staring vacantly at his bleeding hand.

He didn't want Erik running off to California again, getting high and trying his hardest to kill himself with poor choices.

"I am well." The masked man glanced at the detective, guessing his thoughts. "I am not leaving. My home is here. My opera house is here."

Nadir waited until the doctor was finished and left before asking, "What happened?"

Erik smiled at the opposite wall humorlessly. "I was looking at my face in the mirror."

Nadir sighed, shoving his hands into his pockets. Erik never wanted to see his, admittedly, very bad, face. He never willingly had mirrors around (case in point, the black mirror of his phone). But Khan thought his friend beyond torturing himself with his reflection. Too involved with more important matters, like the opera house. "Why?"

"To remember what I am."

"And you needed a mirror to remember that you're Erik?"

The masked man turned slowly to Nadir, frowning. "Don't be willingly obtuse."

"You're not the Phantom," the detective said softly. "You haven't been since that day in my living room."

"I am always the Phantom," Erik hissed. "It is always in me. Just like the ability to kill is in you."

Nadir rubbed his face. He hated having this argument. No matter what Erik did, no matter how many people he helped put in jail; no matter how many sons Erik soothed in their times of need he would always see himself as a slave. An assassin. "Yes, Erik. But it's my choice not to act on that which makes me who I am. It's no different from you."

"Everything is different for me." Erik looked at his phone's blank screen. "I will never be able to do anything like everybody else. Even if I wish it."

Nadir lowered his head. That was true. Erik's face, his past, would alter everything he did. It would bleed into every action he took. but they need not all be bad. "Come stay with me for a few days. Eat real food, Erik, and rest. Maybe even sleep a whole night through, I know you're not."

Erik slid off the examination table, already shaking his head. "No," he said with sudden lightness. "Thank you. No. I have things to do at the theater. I'm needed. Charles and I have come to an agreement, and there's a manager I have to deal with."

"I'm glad to hear that at least. But I don't think a shattered mirror in the men's room is going to go in your favor, though."

"I can fix it. I have spare glass from when I built the stage."

"You can't with that hand. How are you going to survive without playing?" It may have seemed a joke to anyone else, but Khan was deadly serious. Wouldn't Erik go mad without his piano? His violin? When ever the case against Bin Nasheed grew to be too much, Erik went straight to any instrument and began playing. It used to bring Rookheeya to tears with it's beauty and pain, and after her, Reza. Without it, he worried what Erik would turn to.

"Erik manages," he said plainly. "I'll work on building up the strength in my left. Or maybe catch up on reading. Does that comfort you?"

"No. But I don't have much choice, do I?"

"You do not."

"So I guess it'll have to."

Erik sighed, huffing liking a walrus at the pitiful look on Nadir's face. The man worried like a mother hen. Erik would have died without his clucking. "If it will keep you calm, I will contact you to prove I can manage."

"I was going to ask about your sudden chattiness," Nadir said, jerking his chin towards the phone.

"Theater business, like I said. Things finally going right."

They walked out of the hospital, standing on the edge of her curb. Erik as searching for the number of a cab company when he asked, "Do you still keep pictures of Keya?"

That was unexpectedly painful. Nadir almost doubled over with the blow of it. But if Erik was asking about her...he had good reason. Even to this insufferable prick some things were sacred. "I do. Of course I do."

"But it brings you pain."

"Yes."

"Then why?"

"Because I loved her Erik. Do you need me to Dick-and-Jane you through it? You were there."

"No need to get testy." Erik looked up, but his eyes were distant, that same hundred yard stare he had when he had confessed all his crimes. All his past. Nadir felt the cop in him bristle at the odd combination of question and look. Something was going on, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. It was a hateful feeling: knowing that you know, but unable to remember just what you know.

"I keep them because they bring me joy too. Remembering that it happened. That it was real. That's why I keep Resza's things too. Erik-." He hesitated, then finally decided to be bold, putting his hand on Erik's shoulder. "If something is wrong, I can handle it for you."

"No, this is my problem." That wasn't right either. Erik answered him as if rejecting the offer of a ride. He was still so like a child. Letting a little bit out, to test the waters, make sure it was safe, then retreating immediately. "Not a problem exactly. But Erik can manage. Go Nadir. You have the night shift."

---

Christine entered the opera house early on Monday, carrying a box of Little Latte pastries that were expiring today. The cleaning crew was more than happy to have the leftovers, eating them on break, and it was better than them going to waste. She chatted with them happily, then left them to go into the theater. It had been an excellent day. After her chat with Meg, it felt like she was lighter than air. A set course and a set attitude, a man-woman-with a plan. Her shift had gone by quick, and Dolly Parton had come on the radio right before she left the cafe, leaving Christine humming the whole bus ride down. I can remember all the words, Mommy would be proud.

On her way she saw some of the boys carrying out buckets of glass. "What happened?"

"Someone broke the glass in the men's room," the younger one, Mike, reported.

"Oh no..." Erik must have tried to clean it up-that would explain his carelessness with glass. "Who would do such a thing?"

"People break in some times. Kids looking for a high. Usually they just steal some of the merch and we catch them on camera but.." Mike shrugged. "Hey, did you bring lemon cakes?"

Entering the theater, Christine was happy that Meastro was at his usual stop by the piano. Her heart flipped, and she knew she was in deep trouble. Not all at once, she reminded herself. So instead, she carried the little box of pastries and bounded down the aisle. "Nine to five! For service and devotion, you would think that I deserve a fair promotion! See, I warm up at home and practise just like you ask." She bounded up the stage and placed the box on the piano. "I brought you things from the cafe to help with the healing. But I didn't know what you liked."

He clicked his pocket watch shut as she approached, swaying from side to side, singing. His lips tilted into an indulgent smile. "Good evening. Did you bring your computer?"

"I did!" She flipped open the box and let him peer inside.

"I don't care much for sweet-ruins the voice as I have explained. Is that lemon cake?"

"Sure is. Would you like something with it, sir? Cold brew?" Christine plucked up the cake with a napkin and held it out. When he took it, she reached for his right hand. "Let me see."

"See what?"

"Your hand of course." He was wearing gloves, as usual. But these were better fitting, not as tight. "You can't wear those. It'll keep the stitches moist."

"It is well enough."

Christine shook her head and held out her hands. "Please? I've seen your hands. It doesn't bother me honest. And I want to see your cut."

Maestro closed his eyes, and for a minute seemed to be praying for patience. But not the usual, aggravated prayer not to throttle his student. He looked...so sad. But, placing the cake down, he lifted his hands anyway. Coming close, she took his fingers in hers. this was the third time, but still, her tummy jumped at the contact. She tugged the gloves off. On his left hand he wore a gold ring, studded with onyx that she hadn't seen before. And his right hand jagged stitches sewn into the knuckles.

If he was trying to clean up the glass, wouldn't the cuts be on his palm? Now that tummy flip landed and sunk to her shoes. "Did...how did talking to the manager go," she asked carefully, leery of the answer.

Erik tilted his head. He was wearing a full faced black mask today, and it didn't help her trepidation. "Well. Carlotta will not be altering my opera house. Her first refusal, and the first of many I hope."

"So you didn't have another fight?"

"No…? Ah." He looked down at his cuts. "I see. No, Erik did not punch glass out of rage. I was careless, that is all."

"Then-"

"Questions! Always questions, you and your curiosity," he sighed. "Christine, must you know everything about everything? Can you not trust your Maestro?"

"I do," she said after a moment. "If you said it wasn't out of anger, then I believe you. How does it feel?"

"Sore, but manageable."

"Want me to kiss it better?" The words were out of her mouth before she could think. That was too much-idiot Christine! What had she and Meg decided on? Not all at once? And here Erik was, wide eyed and stiff under her touch.

"I...you cannot wish to!"

Christine frowned. "I do-but-I mean haven't you heard of that before? Kissing a wound to make it better?"

Erik heaved a relieved sigh. "Ah! Your jokes! I see!" But there was something a little bitter in his voice. "I doubt a touch of skin will stop the throbbing of nerve endings."

"You'd be surprised." She lifted his long fingered hand. Careful not to touch the stitches, she did not so much kiss his hand, as lift it to her cheek and the corner of her mouth with a soft 'mwuah'. His flesh as still so cold, even in the warm theater-and just as soft in her fingers.

Eriks' eyes were about to fall out of his head. Really, when was the last bit of kindness shown to him? "Ah..." He gently flexed the fingers. "I...I see. No pain."

"All better?"

"If only. Then we could do your scales."

"Uh-well it doesn't always work," she said with a cheeky grin.

"Down playing your power healing prowess to wheedle out of work, eh?" They stood together, their still joined hands hanging between them. Christine didn't mind in the least because he didn't seem to be letting go. If he wasn't then... "I want to show you something. Take your bag."

He led her into the wings again, stage left this time and into the backrooms. Here were the dressing rooms, the room here the dancer's practised before stage rehearsal and a long office room where meetings were held. It was into this room Erik led her, telling her to sit in one of the comfortable leather swivel chairs. On the long table was a leather portfolio with gold tips. DJT in gold leaf were stamped on the front. He pushed it towards her. "Go on."

Arranging her bag beside her, Christine eagerly flipped it open. Inside was a pile of staff paper, written on with red ink. Placing her finger at the first bar, she began to read the notes. In a few minutes she got the feel of the melody and was able to hum along softly. "...This is your lullaby? Our song?"

His eyes closed when she called it that. He could only nod. But the tune wasn't long enough to support this much paper. She thumbed through the rest, and it was obvious there were several pieces here, but according the the page numbers there were large chunks missing. "This-oh...this is your music, isn't it?"

"Yes. I thought you could put it into your computer. Like you did our song."

Christine sat back. "You're..." Taking the paper, she hugged it to her chest. "You're letting me see the rest of it? You didn't mind that much?"

"Not at all! Was that not plain?"

"Well yes. But I told you, I was so worried, I wasn't sure! I was taking your music and changing it!" And now he was giving her more. He didn't just love that one piece. He loved what she was doing. She grinned, and stood, ready to hug him, but stopping short. She didn't want to short circuit his system. "Thank you Maestro! Thank you!"

"You are pleased," he stated, and she could hear the chuckle in his voice.

"I'm honored!"

"Then you are ready to work just as hard on this, as your other lessons, while my hand heals?"

"Yes! Can we start now? May I put them all in? Are they all for piano? The computer can simulate almost anything-until we can record the real thing. If you want to."

"I think that best. The piano on the program was good enough for a mock up-but it pales to the real thing."

"I agree. Just like your idea to record different notes, rather than auto tuning." She hurriedly dug out her computer now, searching for a plug to charge it in. They were about to use it to death. Most of Monday was spent recording each piece into the computer's program, giving them something to play with.

During the week, they spent much of their time in the office or in the orchestra pit, recording her drumming, or playing around with their voices in the effects. Most of the songs were sweet and lovely, but Christine's imagination could shift them to anything; fast paced anthems from sweet sonatas, or slow haunting melodies from the tinkling simple tunes. There were times they disagreed, Erik flat out refusing to change the feel of some of them. But other than that, they had the freedom to try anything they wanted.

Sometimes they would go through the work of recording their vocalizations and a beat to something, then scrapping it within the next hour and starting all over again. These 'lessons' went on much longer, and she as home later, but she was ecstatic through all the sleepiness. Erik took to the new medium grudgingly, but with exceptional skill, as he did anything it seemed, and his more rigid tastes presented challenges for her she had never had before. Art from adversity indeed!

At work it was hard to concentrate and every break she was buried in her phone, texting him ideas or revisions she thought of while humming tunes on the floor. Dinner with Raoul that Saturday was a bit of a trial, as she tucked her phone away and had to push the music from her mind.

It was his turn to talk about his adventures in the Navy, and it was exciting. But most of it devolved into what his parents thought about his career. They hated it. Not only was he in danger, but he wasn't making the connections they should he should be. "Military life brings a certain ilk. They don't care for it," he explained, snapping his chopsticks apart and scraping off the wirey bits of loose wood. "I never thought they'd be like that. It's like I don't know them anymore."

"I'm sorry," Christine said, genuinely sympathetic. She thought of her father, and wondered what was worse; death or becoming someone you couldn't abide? "But your brothers supports you? And what about your sisters? You were always the apple of their eye."

"Oh yeah. Both of them, my brothers, were there at my graduation and every time I deployed."

"Your parents didn't even come to see you off," Christine breathed.

"No. My sisters did though, as well, and I kinda wish they didn't. Ouch, that sounded bad. I mean that they were treating everyone else like trailer trash. Do you know what you have to do on a ship? It's not easy, it's not entry level."

"I can't even imagine! Have you ever been on a submarine?"

"Yes, once. Thanks, but I hated it." He grinned. "I felt like I was going to collapse under the pressure. I just kept thinking of all that water bearing down on us." Raoul shivered at the thought. "But enough about me. You said you were getting back into your music?"

"Um...yeah. I'm trying my hand at writing," she said vaguely. Breaking Meg was one thing, but as dearly as she loved Raoul, she wasn't about to betray Erik a second time.

"That's awesome! Can I hear some?"

"Nope!" She grinned and clumsily tried to pick up a fried potato ball with her chopsticks. "No way. Not until I'm happy with it."

"When's that?"

"Never!" Christine laughed at his expression. "Haven't you heard? Art is never completed, it's only ever abandoned."

"That's a dreary outlook, don't you think?"

"Maybe, but it's accurate." Besides, it wasn't all hers to release.

"Oh well. I'm glad you're still into it. I mean, you seem really happy Christine. It's like you're that little Chris but...just a little taller." He smiled at her. It made his blue eyes twinkle in the low light. Christine flushed a little. She was happy wasn't she? Writing music, her friends, reconnecting with Raoul. At the moment, she was content. "So, lessons?"

"Yeah, um. Just to get refreshed on a few pointers about my singing...for my writing, you see." She drank her water deeply, instinctively knowing Erik wouldn't be as pleased with her telling Raoul about the ins and outs of their work as he would Meg.

"Is that why Chris the Coke queen is drinking ice water?"

"Oh yeah. No sweets, no caffeine and very little milk," she said, ticking off the points on her fingers.

"Oh come on, for singing?"

"Yeah, Raoul, that's the life," Christine laughed. "You can tell, and I'm sure my teacher will be able to."

"He can tell if you've have milk?"

"A little, when you sing. Which I found it a little unfair, since he drinks coffee like a monster." She giggled to herself. It was her favorite back up incase Erik grew a little to high and mighty about her habits. Despite his protests of age and care, that wasn't just a lot of caffeine for the voice. How he isn't vibrating with caffeine shakes she didn't get.

"That doesn't seem fair." Raoul tried to mask his frown. "Well you can have it on your days off."

"Nope! Gotta treat the old instrument right," she said rubbing her throat. She could see that he wasn't even trying to hide his concern and flapped a hand. "Most singers do this, Raoul. It's a part of the life."

A flicker passed through his eyes, before that boyish grin broke through once more. "I guess I'll have to just sneak you some!"

"That sounds like Raoul!"

"So I guess inviting you out to ice cream next is the worst idea." Raoul dipped some of his salmon teriyaki into his white rice before taking a large bite. "So, why don't we go concert or something like that. Or hell, even a movie. Anything. I've been missing you kid, for years!"

Christine smiled back, and cast her mind around for something they could do. She worked Sunday through Friday with only the odd day off during the week. And when she wasn't working she was with Erik. And Saturday was her beloved sleep in/errand running day. Thinking about it this way, she had certainly gotten busy, hadn't she? "Yeah-uh…"

"I think there's something going on at the PNC Art Center." Raoul took out his phone to look it up. "Yeah! Lindsey Stirling is playing Friday night."

"Fridays, ah I can't do Fridays, I have my lessons."

Again that flicker in his eyes. "They don't run all night, do they?"

"Sometimes…"

"Damn that is intense. C'mon, can't you wheedle your way out early? Hell I'll treat."

Christine waffled for a moment. She wanted to get back to writing...but she did miss the easy fun time she always had with Raoul, even if it had only been child's play. She hadn't been to a concert in forever, and to see a premiere violinist like that…why it might give her new ideas. She and Erik were currently bickering over a certain piece that they had deleted five times. He insisted it should remain totally orchestral, with the only technical support being the editing of her voice, and Christine had wanted to rip all the organic sound out. Maybe she'd figure out a way to strike a balance.

"Give me half a second." Christine's own phone came out.

.

Me
Is there any possible way to have my lesson on Saturday this week?

.

The reply was almost immediate.

.

Maestro
I am willing. Has something gone wrong?

Me
Nope! But a friend has invited me to a concert that night, and I don't want to cut our time short.

Maestro
Of course. Your life has dearly been missing you. We shall meet on Saturday, after their rehearsals. Five o clock.

.

Christine could almost hear the smugness in his voice. Your life will be missing you. "You know what De Changy, you're on. But I'm paying for my own ticket."

---

Brimming with excitement, Christine bounded into the theater, carrying a bag of Italian food. She suspected that Maestro did not eat much, seeing as he was as skinny as a rail, and now that he was healing she had been determined to see him eat. Also their lessons lately had been running straight through dinner time.

The concert had been amazing. The violinist had danced as she played, bouncing around the stage in a way that made Christine want to get up with her and move. She wanted Erik to see her, and get his opinion on not only mixing two types of music, but two mediums of art.

He sighed when he saw the bag she was toting up towards the stage. "Erik eats, Christine. I do not understand your obsession."

"Hey, it's the only way I know how to heal!" They moved through the stage, edging around the Egyptian altars and column props towards the back room. Aida was their next production and Erik had been, in his words, 'suffering stresses that even Prometheus would pity' because of Carlotta's take on the production. Apparently she was now making an enemy of the costume department and their 'modest' necklines.

She placed the bag on the table and sorted out the food, then held out her hands for his. "Erik has some medical knowledge, he can assess his own progress," he protested as this as well, but he was already pulling off his gloves.

Christine took them and peered at the stitches. The skin was yellowish now, puckering over the medical thread. They would dissolve on their own. It was looking better now. They'd get back to their lessons soon, though she hoped they'd still have time for this. "It's looking good," she declared, her slender thumb brushing over the onyx stone of his ring. "It'll be good as new soon."

"Indeed." He took his hands back, flexing them as he always did when she touched. "And soon we shall be training again." Then he shook a finger at her. "And soon you will stop with the sugary syrups in your drinks."

"How can you possible know that," Christine laughed. She had told Raoul!

"I can smell the maple and apple on your breath. Not unpleasant, but I know that sugar is simply rotting your throat."

"I wouldn't go that far, I had to sample new drinks for work!" She flapped a hand at one of the chairs. "Sit. Eat, eat. Before it gets cold."

"I will be glad to return to our lessons." He obeyed her, pulling the box of his portion and taking the tiniest bite. "When Erik was obeyed instead."

"Oh come on, I'm not so bad." She slid into the chair next to him and poked her calzone. "After all, I left your fifth sonta mostly unscathed. Besides I have some more to show you."

"Did you write more?"

"No I have video from the concert."

Erik paused, not lifting his eyes to her. "Yes, you and your friend. I hope you enjoyed yourself."

"I did. It was a violinist, and she has back up band members, but…" Christine took out her phone and propped it up against her own food box. "She dances while she plays."

"Dances?" Of course, the minute Christine pressed play, Erik was absorbed, watching the girl with a half critical and half impressed eye. "That was an interesting progression...my! How she moves, that was almost a split!"

"See?" Christine grinned, watching what she could see of his face instead of the screen. The night with Raoul had been fun, both of them laughing and clapping along. But there had been moments she wished Erik was there. Though she couldn't of course envision him in a crowded theater, with speakers shaking from the volume of the music. But there were things, professional things she wanted point out that Raoul simply wouldn't get. At least not without three hours of explaining.

"Was that all you could capture," Erik asked, having pushed away the food altogether.

"No I have another, let's see." She flipped through the photos of the night, and Erik paused her finger. She had settled on a picture of her and Raoul, their backs to the stage so they could capture it in their picture. Raoul was grinning, his cheek pressed against her temple, Christine throwing up her usual peace sign.

"Your friend." Erik didn't ask, he stated it flatly.

"Yes, that's Raoul. We knew each other when we were really little-,"

"The same friend you were late for."

Her stomach dropped. Quickly she shook her head and began to explain. "Yes. He's here because he's a witness in a trial-"

"Is he," Erik whispered. His whole demeanor changed, his shoulders hunching. "A witness. A witness in a trial. A good man. They are good men aren't they? Witnesses."

"Yes, but that's why he's back. For this trial. And he's just catching up that's all."

"You are having fun in this photo."

Christine shook her head. "I am, but I have fun with Meg too."

"I do not begrudge you! How queer you must think me," he said, quickly. But his eyes were narrowed at the picture, as if it were some vulgar image to cause offense. "Your life is outside these walls. Friends and your occupation."

"I told you, you're apart of my life too. Maestro. Maestro?" She waited until he looked up at her again. Christine made sure her smile was extra bright. This man had never been touched like this before, that was obvious, and he had told her flat out he had never let anyone into his world before: this world roiling with music and working and passion. If she wanted in...and she did (her heart was in her throat, beating so fast she thought she would choke), she had to prove herself.

"I am devoted to our music."

"Music," he breathed, eyes finally meeting hers. Christine almost reeled back for a second. His gold eyes were burning, staring right through her. Their food and her phone forgotten, Christine brought both her hands up to catch his, just as he done month ago, the first time they touched. Confession was on the tip of her tongue, a full bodied confession-

No, not all at once. Screwing her courage to the sticking place she continued in the vein that had begun. "Our...music is everything to me now. It saved my life. I didn't even realize it needed saving. I hear it in my dreams, even when I'm working it's all around me. Nothing even compares."

"And when it stops," he murmured softly. "If it ever stops, do you feel so alone? As if you've never been lonely before, and are just now learning the meaning of the word?"

She nodded, feeling as though he were reading those words off of the inscription of her heart. If he felt the same, and if music was so apart of them, he must understand how she felt. His eyes were watching her, so gently, wandering over the planes of her face as she nodded. Wetting her lips she began, "Maestro-"

His gaze had settled on her mouth as she began to speak. As she struggled for the correct words, his gold eyes widened. He straightened and placed their hands on the table, gently disentangling his fingers. "Good. Good, I am glad of that Christine. You have a talent." He gestured to her bag, where her laptop was stored. "You have a gift, and a lovely instrument. But you must devote yourself totally and utterly it's craft. It's a jealous thing, fickle and will leave you if you neglect it." His eyes wandered to her face again, grazing over her brow and nose and-then quickly away.

"I won't neglect it," she murmured lamely, letting out a breath she had been holding. The opportunity passed. Not tonight, I suppose.

"Music speaks things you do not dare. Understanding that goes so much further than words or letters. It communicates, soul to soul." Erik took a deep breath and looked up at her again. "And if you are kind to it, it will never leave you."

Do you promise, she thought. "I understand Maestro."

"As fun and...handsome as distractions might be, they will not understand. None of them can possibly understand. They haven't the means."

The urge to defend her friend came quick, and it was almost on the tip of her tongue, but she bit it back. They were proving the futility of words, speaking in half truths and metaphor. "I know. Yesterday proved that. The only one I feel I can share this with is you." She willed him to understand that. A little understand, a drop before the rain storm.

Next time. Next time would see it done.

Chapter 7

A month later saw it done.

"We must speak," was what started it.

"That's never good." Christine stopped on the stage, hugging her bag to her chest. Erik was not standing by the piano today, instead seated on the bench, fingers laced over the fall board. His mouth, visible by his black mask, was set in a resolute line. She felt a lecture coming on. "Did I do something wrong?"

"No."

"Oh good." She leaned against the piano. Creating music was euphoric, but she had to admit, she was missing her singing. She practised at home, like usual, but she missed the back and forth with her Maestro. It was more...intimate than constantly recording and editing. She tugged off her mittens, and wriggled her fingers, reaching for his folded ones.

"I showed you mine, show me yours." It was what she had fallen into saying before every lesson. His hands were healing well, and she didn't need to check them every other day. But their touch was electric, and guiltily, it was an excuse to touch him.

Erik sighed and pulled off his gloves, almost routine. She took his right hand and examined the stitches, gently ghosting her fingers over the stitching. He would be playing again, and he had promised to show her the organ he had tucked away somewhere. She was excited for that; it would add depth to much of their music.

"We must discuss your career."

Oh no. Christine forced a grin. "My repertoire has only a few songs, remember?"

"I do. But the stitches will dissolve soon, and we will build on it."

"I'm not ready to perform!" Christine stepped back, dropping his hand as if the touch burned her, her heart hammering in her chest. She had said she needed time...months ago. Yet still! She couldn't, oh she just couldn't sing in front of a crowd-or worse. Judges. "It's almost Christmas, the opera season is ending soon. There's nothing for me to audition for!"

"I am not asking you to audition. Stop fidgeting as if you were about to flee." He used his teacher voice, and God help her, it worked. Her spine straightened automatically, and she stood, waiting for his next words. "But there is a showcase being planned for the summer, here at the opera house. It is a perfect opportunity for you. It is not an audition, you'd only have to learn one piece, and it will give you the early exposure you'd need."

A showcase. She, in a line of other musicians, showing off their talent. She'd be all alone on stage, singing for a packed theater. Singing with the voice she'd given o Maestro to the cold, critical crowds. Her stomach squeezed and she felt a little queasy. "No."

"No?" Now Erik tilted his head. "No, she says. No."

"No I can't do it, I'm not ready."

"I decide when you are ready, Christine. I have given you the time you-"

"No you don't, it's not your voice!" Said voice was so high and shrill by now, it echoed around them. Erik went utterly still, and did not speak for a very long while. But ironically, her cowardice gave her the bravery not to crack first. She wasn't going to do this! She wasn't going to go on there, a college drop out and show them the voice they, together, had brought.

Indeed, despite the argument she had witnessed, Christine had quite put out of her mind the reason for her lessons. Supplanting Carlotta, becoming a diva, if only to prove they didn't need the celebrity. It had all fallen totally by the wayside. They had been creating-had been with each other for so long now that it seemed…

It seemed like they were together only to be together.

Christine, fool that she was, had come no longer to learn, but to be with Erik. And she had suspected-believed-the same about him. Her heart went into free fall at the thought: had he really only been kind? All these gentle smiles, and indulgent touches, had they only been to humor her and her over excited enthusiasm?

Had he only meant her for this purpose, and this alone?

"It was not your music to cultivate," he said softly, and her mouth fell open at the low blow. "But you did anyway, and you created something beautiful. No, it is not my voice, but I have worked beside you just as hard."

"That was cruel," she whispered.

"What is cruel is denying yourself, and me, the recognition you deserve," Erik snapped. "What have we been doing all this time Christine? What have we been working for? Devotion, do you not remember? Total devotion!"

She stamped her foot. Actually stamped her foot like a five year old. But the pain that radiated up her leg kept her from tearing up. Oh, she was so close to tears at all times now! Before returning to music, she was never this volatile! No, no this couldn't be happening. There was still so much to do and to say. If she started performing it would be the end of all they had created. He told her he would always teach her, but if he was planning on this showcase launching her into a career it would be different, they would be totally different. They would no longer have this precious secret time together. They'd change before she could even have him for her own…

"You told me that even if I never auditioned you'd be happy to teach me! Did you lie?"

Erik lowered his forehead to his hands, resting atop them on the fallboard. Christine wanted to shake him for the gesture. She wanted to know, did he lie? Was he just comforting her? Treating her like a child (not that she was helping that cause at the moment) and soothing her emotions at that moment with white lies?

"Erik did say that. Erik did not lie." When his head rose, his eyes blazed into her, skewering her where she stood. "But I cannot let my personal feelings interfere with what is best for you." He rapped a knuckle against the fall board, accentuating his point. She wondered for a flash of a second, who he was talking to. Him or her?

To that Christine had nothing. She only knew she couldn't do it, not yet. She couldn't let people see this beautiful thing she had, have them all staring at her, expecting her to be great. She didn't want the cruel harsh, critical world picking apart what they had done. It was precious to her. It was her home, and she felt protective of it. She didn't care about their opinions, their jeering thoughts invading the one bit of peace she had carved out for herself. "Please Erik, please don't make me do this."

She heard him gasp, sucking air quick into his lungs as if her were in pain at the sound of his name. She looked up, but his hand was on the piano, flat and unmoving. "Christine..."

"I don't feel so good. Maybe today is not good for a lesson," she said quickly, before he stared another round of reasons why she should obey. Surprisingly, he nodded, letting her go. Disappointment wracked through her. She had planned on sitting with him and choosing a rift for one of his faster pieces. She had simulated three for him to choose from, like an eager student ready for praise. Now she stepped off the stage too early, a failure to her Maestro.

"Wait."

She was almost to the door, and Erik was striding up the aisle towards her. "Christine. Your Erik would never ask more of you than you can do. I know you can dazzle the world. I know this." He held out a gloved hand, having already replaced the damn things. That touch, their only real touch conveyed so much. Understanding, hurt, happiness. She slid her fingers in his, wanting to know what he was conveying now, hoping perhaps to communicate her own heart to him. His hands clasped hers, covering it completely. "I've scared you, hurt you. May...may I make it better? The hurt?"

Christine tilted her head to the side, confused. Slowly, ever so slowly, he lifted her hand up. Eyes never leaving her, his lips pressed against her knuckles and the sickening poison of shame was banished in an instant. Suddenly, she was all aflame, every nerve alive as his thin lips touched. They were firm, barely any lips to speak of, but his flesh had that same marble smoothness she had suspected. It lasted only a second before he parroted, "All better?"

"A little," she breathed, her blue eyes wide and glassy. Had they always been this close? Her fingers tightened over his. How could she leave now? How could she go? We he coming closer? Her eyes lifted from her knuckles to his-and she saw they were no longer gold, but had darkened to a honey with...with...

I'm going to be kissed, she thought. Of course she had been wrong before, maybe she was just over romantic. Or maybe this was the only time she had really wanted someone to kiss her. But they were so close... The mask is going to be uncomfortable, but he's gonna kiss me. Oh God... His gaze lowered to her mouth, and she tilted up obligingly, instinctually. Should she close her eyes? What if they missed? Kiss me, please don't make me do this. Don't make me be the one to confess. Kiss me so I can accept you.

"Go. Please go. Think about it," he said softly. His breath fanned over her mouth, but he moved no closer. He was like stone to her now, unmoving, not daring to come any closer. "Think about it Christine. Please, for your Maestro?"

"Yes. For you," she swore.

He closed his eyes. "Go," he whispered, before his voice became stronger. Commanding. "Go, Christine."

Her heart was in her throat, and she could barely feel her limbs, having gone numb with anticipation. She left him standing there, slightly bent in the isle and hurried out into the street. The biting late November wind shocked her back into reality. She crunched through the blackish snow left on the sidewalk, hurrying to the bus stop, apprehension and...disappointment weighing in her stomach.

Erik almost kissed her, right there in the theater. He had kissed her hand, held it tenderly, leaned so close that had she lifted but an inch...

There was no mistaking it now. He did think of her the same way. He did want her like she wanted him. And he was unable to let go, like her. Oh what a pair they made! Sitting on the cold metal bench beneath the glass shelter of the bus stop, she pulled out her phone.

.

Me
Meg, tomorrow I need to talk to you after my shift. Don't let me weasel out of it, don't' let me go. Make me talk to you.

Megalicous
You can't just TEXT THAT. What's wrong? Are you safe? Are you hurt?

Me
No, not at all. But I need to talk, and I know I'll be afraid tomorrow.

Megalicous
ARE YOU STILL A VIRGIN?

.

She promptly ignored that message and shoved her phone away, willing her heart to slow. The fear over performing was far from her mind now. It wasn't even an afterthought. No, her next lesson wouldn't be about preparing anything. No, the next time she walked into that theater it was going to be her and Erik.

Maestro could wait.

It was only after sitting for a few minutes did she realize she had left her mittens on the stage.

---

Her instinct had been correct. In the cold light of morning when she dragged herself out of bed for her early shift, she wanted to talk about none of it. She'd go to her lesson the next day, and sing, and cajole Erik into pushing off a performance. She was already thinking of several good arguments to use against him, and wondered how pitiful she could make herself look. Maybe if she kissed his hand he would relent?

Christine almost wretched at her own manipulative thoughts.

But Meg Giry was not about to let that happen. The very minute Christine tapped the 'punch out' button, she dragged Christine onto the back patio snatching their coats off the hook. It was open to the public but almost no one went there; it was unofficially the staff's. "What the fuck, Christine," were her first words, shaking her friend by the shoulders. "What happened?"

Christine bluffed and weaseled her best, but Meg stood firmly, silent with arms folded. Finally, she dropped into a cold patio chair and repeated the whole episode to Meg. With each word, the blonde slowly melted, until she too sat across from Christine, hands covering her mouth.

"Why didn't you kiss him?"

"I don't know! I didn't-I wasn't thinking. He was so close and he told me to go. I just did, I didn't have the presence to stay and fight."

"Are you going to kiss him on Wednesday?"

"That's why I texted you. Do you think I should tell him?"

"I think you should kiss him," Meg practically shouted, Christine hushing her, and waving her hands, as if the motion would silence Meg's steel bending voice. "You just need to grab him and smooch him on the face!"

"You don't smooch Maestro," Christine said. "He's not a smooch person he's...he's a kiss kind of person."

"He's a you kinda person," Meg said nodding. "Kissing you on the hand? Like a gentleman, waistcoats and pocket watches? Totally up the Daae alley."

Christine blushed, cupping her flushed cheeks. It was so chilly out here, but she felt so warm! Thinking about his lips on her hand-his lips on hers. The way he said her name, like a prayer. "I have to tell him. Forget performing, I can't do anything unless this is settled...right?"

"Right!" Meg slapped her hands on the cold metal table. "Get your man! Perform later!"

"Who's performing?" Both girls jumped, seeing Raoul in his blue peacoat standing at the bottom of the patio stairs. "You, Christine?"

"Oh-uh, no. Well." Christine looked to Meg for help.

"She doesn't know if she will or not," Meg explained.

"One of your music pieces?"

"No, singing."

"Really?" He grinned and came up to their table. "I thought you said-nevermind. That'd be great, Chris! I bet you're really great now, and I'd love to hear your voice again."

"I'm not-"

Meg snorted. "You know that's a lie. I've heard you."

"You have," Raoul asked. "She wouldn't show me any of her stuff."

"She's fantastic! She's just scared."

"She's sitting right here," Christine interjected, glaring at Meg. That wasn't the point. This wasn't about performing. This was about her and Erik! And she couldn't keep talking about it in front of Raoul. Not when they were talking about the difference between kisses and what have you.

"Why don't you want to perform?"

"Because-despite what you all think, I'm not actually that good. I mean I'm better but we're talking in an opera house, with real seasoned professionals!"

"The only difference between you and them is maybe a paper degree," Meg said, shaking her finger. "You are just a scaredy cat. You always had butterflies when you were in choir, you'd pace and drive me freaking insane!"

"You should do it, Chris," Raoul said, coming up the stairs now. "You were great when we were kids-and that was as a baby! I can't even imagine what you sound like now!"

"She's wonderful," Meg continued. "Sing something, Christine!"

"No, no way." She waved her hands, standing and backing up.

Raoul smiled kindly. "I mean, no pressure. But-hey-if you sang a little right now, maybe it'll show you there's nothing to be afraid of?" He promptly turned Christine's abandoned chair and sat.

"That's a great idea! You're good for something DeChangy, who knew," Meg snickered. "Come on! Something quick! Just one song, after all you're supposed to practise everyday, right?"

Christine as wringing her hands, looking between them both. They wouldn't judge her, she knew. And they really didn't know music, they wouldn't catch her mistakes unlike a house full of music aficionados. If you perform, you won't need a teacher as much. But you'll need Erik, her mind whispered. Her first performance would indeed change them...but why did it have to seperate them? Perhaps, if she gave him what he wanted, it would give her the opportunity to shift their dynamic in her favor. Yes, it would change them from student and teacher. But perhaps...yes, perhaps it would give them the chance to simply be Christine and Erik. The chance to tell him she'd always need him, and not just to tell her to open her mouth wider. Explain to him why she acted so stupidly childish, that it wasn't just about the music. Now is the time. Live life, Christine.

Her spectacular performance as a spoiled child in front of Maestro had been a blip in her new life outlook. Children couldn't love men like Erik. She needed to grow up (she really needed to apologize for stomping on his stage, what a little fool!) And she was determined to get back on track. Especially if that meant she'd get Erik's kiss.

"...One song."

Immediately they both clapped chanting 'sing, sing, sing!'. Digging out her phone she searched for a karaoke version of In The Air Tonight. It was horrible accompaniment, but they were outside, with the wind of the cars speeding by to distort the cheesy music. It wasn't the best venue in anycase. And she was only doing it to see if she could.

She played the first few seconds, singing softly to find the right note. Then she started it at the beginning and placed her phone of the table. "Whenever you're ready."

Meg counted her in and pressed play. Closing her eyes, Christine began to sing. She focused on the technique, breathing, unlocking her knees, the round vowels and where to stop. But soon the song took her away, and she was able to open her eyes, focusing on a point above both of their heads, and singing to the patio railing. She no longer felt their eyes on her, no longer noticed the cars passing by, or even the cold nipping at her nose and cheeks.

And then, there was the last note, and it reigned. She chanced a look at them both. Meg had her face clasped between her hands, a grin stretching her pink cheeks. Raoul looked stunned, and if he wasn't in his chair she was sure he'd probably be on the floor. After a few more seconds Christine murmured, "Well...that's all."

They clapped enthusiastically, and thought it was muffled by their gloves, the sound still filled her with pride. She had performed, in the public! She had done it and her voice hadn't cracked, she hadn't faltered halfway through because they were watching. I can do this. That wasn't scary at all.

"Oh...Angel." Meg looked stricken, staring at someone behind Christine.

Time slowed, and Christine could have fainted. She turned to look behind, to the other side of the patio. There was a second set of stairs, and there stood Erik, holding her mittens, a black stain against the white piles of snow surrounding them. Her eyes darted from the gloves, to his face-and his eyes that burned. If the mask was gone-well even then she was sure she couldn't imagine the rage that twisted his features.

"E-"

"Delilah," he shouted. The insult shocked her, her mouth dropping, body paralyzed. "You lying Delilah!" He turned, racing down the steps.

"Who the hell is that," Raoul snapped, starting to stand. But Christine was already chasing after him.

"Wait! Wait, Maestro I-"

He rounded on her, and she had to skid to a stop. His face was inches from hers as he hissed. "You won't perform for me. You won't perform for your Erik, no matter what he tells you, eh? But they can convince you, hm? You will sing for them! You will sing for the wind and the stone and that...man! But not for Erik."

"I didn't-they're my friends! Listen to me. I just thought-"

"Your friends! And what is Erik?"

"Maestro, you're-"

"Your teacher! Ah, of course! Just your teacher! A free teacher, whose music is free to butcher. Of course, I have been so naive!"

Christine clapped her hands over her mouth. She felt tears prick her eyes, but this time they were tears of rage. "Oh dare you," she screamed. It made him jerk, backing up towards his jaguar as she advanced. "How dare you accuse me of that, a second time! After what I've given you, after the sacrifices I made for you! After I sang my heart out for you!"

"It seems your heart is freely given," he sneered.

"How dare you!" It was all she could think to say, the only response her brain formulated from the stinging hurt his words left. Freely given? This breaking thing that now beat for him? That she had protected and kept caged for so long, and now bleeding with each second? "When you know that is not true!"

"Erik knows nothing of you. You have proven that point quite nicely!" He grabbed her wrist and shoved her knit mittens into her hand. She didn't need to wonder what this touch conveyed. Then he was sliding into his jaguar, pulling out of the parking lot and onto the street. Christine stood there, watching the red headlights disappear out of sight.

"Chris!" She stumbled as Meg nearly knocked into her. "Chris, are you okay? What happened?"

"Who as that?" Raoul was close behind, peering after the car. "What asshole yells at a girl like that in public? Was that your teacher?!"

"Chris, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," Meg was whispering, ignoring Raoul's indignation. "I-I didn't realize he was there. I'm-"

"He's not hiding anymore!"

Both of her friends jerked back as Christine shouted. How dare he? All he'd given her? It didn't amount to anything but pretty noise! Not when they had each other. Not when they had shared their souls, when they were carrying each other's hearts so carefully, and now he would leave her after...after what? Doing what he wished her to do? His way or the highway? "No fucking way," she snapped again. She grabbed her purse from the patio table and stormed to her car, Raoul and Meg following.

"Chris-Chris!"

Christine hopped into her car, slamming the door shut, fumbling with the keys in the ignition. Meg was knocking on the glass of her window. "Christine, don't drive mad!"

She waved for Meg to get out of the way as she backed up. She wasn't mad, she was seething. She didn't know how she made it to Jersey City, and was sure that any cop would have had a field day with her blatant disregard of the speed limit. But she was running on righteous anger and hurt. She barely made it in the lines of a spot in the garage, and only just managed to turn the car off before she was storming into the opera house.

"Where is he," she growled to poor Jules. He looked as if he had just seen Erik himself, for he was leaning against the ticket booth, white as a sheet. He could only point to the theater. Of course, she could hear the piano. "Clear out, Jules," she ordered, and he was more than happy to oblige.

The door to the theater rebounded off the wall with the force of Christine's push. Erik was there, pounding mercilessly at the keys of the piano. The sound stopped him immediately, and he stood, knocking the stool over in his haste. She was sure he was opening his mouth to say something else cutting, but she was quicker.

"Fuck you!" She ripped off her coat, flinging it into the seats as she stormed up the stage. "Fuck you Erik! You come to my work and make a scene like that? You scream at me, and call me a Delilah? A Delilah?! And then accuse me of butchering our music?!"

He kicked the stopper on the wheels of the piano and pushed it out of the way. It bounced off the wing wall with a sickening snap of wood and clang of notes. "You lied to me! You said you were afraid to perform! You did not seem afraid then! Was it that young man? Yes, you'll sing for him, your friend, and all he has to do is ask!"

"Is that what this is about?! Raoul?" She threw her hands in the air. "He is a friend! Oh my God, I've known him since I was two, I told you this! I barely even know him anymore!"

"So even your casual friends have more say than Erik," he sneered.

"That's not true, and you know it's not! You know that I care for you!" She didn't realize when she was crying, but suddenly it was hard to breathe. Her rage didn't stop, but tears splashed down her cheeks as she shouted. "You know I care for you! You know it's more than as a student! You know this!"

"You could never care for Erik," he said, his arms wrapped around himself tightly, as if shielding himself from her words. "Lies! You must not-no-it is impossible! You could never care for me as I-" His teeth clicked as his mouth shut. Now his shoulders hunched, and he backed away. His eyes were wide, and he shook his head, hands fisting in his hair. "No, no!"

"As what? As you do?" She stepped forward. "Tell me! Tell me, dammit! I am sick of guessing what you think! Of wondering if what I'm seeing is real! Tell me Erik!" But he did not speak, merely shook his head, his back hitting the wall of the wings, sliding down to crouch on the floor.

"You must not, you cannot know. No, you can't know me!"

Pity should have stayed her tongue, seeing him curled and frightened, so unlike the man she'd come to adore. But blind rage was still coursing through her veins, pride stung from his vicious words. "I don't know you! I know nothing about you, and I still love you! It's not fair! It's not fair that you know about me, my heart, my soul and I don't know you! I don't even know what you look like!"

She had only gestured. She had come up to him and his bent position, and waved a hand at his face. He must not have thought so. Maybe he was used to careless people ripping of his mask, for his fingers were as fast as lightning to grab her wrist. She cried out, jerking, and in the scuffle, her hand knocked the black leather on his face. It skewed, showing her a pale forehead, white as a ghost, and almost translucent skin upon which she could see every vein and curve of his skull. Christine gasped, and jerked her hand again, trying to back away, to fix her mistake. But his hold was like iron on her arm.

Erik stood slowly, his thin chest heaving with each pant. "Know what I look like?"

Oh, she did not like this voice at all. She knew stern Maestro, soft Angel and even hesitantly teasing Erik. But this voice, so deep and foreboding, made all the color drain from her face.

"You wish to know what I look like." With his free hand, he reached behind and tugged the ribbon that held the mask on. It fell with a soft thunk that echoed in Christine's ears.

Now she was really afraid she was going to drop to the floor. His face-Erik's face was unspeakable. The skin pale and death-gray, bleached so white in areas she wondered if it was bone she was seeing and not flesh. She could have traced the veins like river maps across his temples and forehead. His brow would have been noble and strong had he been given eyebrows, but it only managed to make his eyes look sunken in it's shadow. His cheeks were so thin, and she could see the outline of the muscle of his jaw. And then, there in the center of his face, was the bisected gaping hole where there should have been a nose.

Fresh tears leaked out over her cheeks at the horror of it. It did not look like a face attached to a living person. No one could have such features and live, could they? But the proof of it stood before her, still panting-still glaring.

"Tears, Christine? Ah yes, tears. But you mustn't cry, child. You wanted this. Look...LOOK!" He grasped her chin, pulling her towards him until they were inches apart. One arm made a band of steel behind her back, almost bending her over double, his lips almost brushed hers as he commanded her, "Feast your eyes, little girl. See? Handsome, right? Right?! Love this! Care for this! Go on, little one. Want a kiss, eh? Shall we kiss, Christine? I'm sure you'd faint in my arms straight away! How romantic it will be! Like Don Juan! Ha! Your personal Don Juan!"

"Erik-"

"Erik," he mimicked cruelly. "Erik, Erik! This is Erik's face! Or shall I say this is Erik's burden. This is the face of the thing you have such tender feelings for. You care, hm? You care for me? Still want to sing for me? Still think I can create beauty? Come, Christine finish your thoughts! Declare your feelings so we may be together! That we may make beauty and love and be happy! Don't I inspire happiness? No? Oh, you're crying! No words now!"

"Maestro please," she whined, clawing at the hand that held her chin. "Please! You're hurting me!"

He let her go and she dropped to the floor, staring at his shined shoes. She clutched at her shirt, and couldn't look up. Oh God, that face- Erik bent over her, speaking low in her ear.

"Know this, my pretty girl. I am this from head to toe. You have seen, remember? Remember Christine?" He ripped off his gloves, shoving his hands into her line of vision. "Showed you mine, show me yours! How sweetly you held my hands! You kissed me! You kissed my dead hands!" His voice cracked and he spun away from her, pacing the floor.

Christine squeezed her eyes closed. He did look dead, like a corpse come to life. And he was so thin-dead from head to toe. She let out a little sob. Poor Erik! Poor deformed Erik!

"Yes cry! Weep Christine, men have before you. Many just about to die welcomed death once they saw my face! Anything to escape this creature! Oh now you are looking at me, so brave to look me in the eyes! Yes, Christine, death! I am made of death and I have brought death! I am death incarnate, and it is death and destruction that gave you your voice! It is death that loves you! That adores you! Oh Christine, Christine..."

Erik's turned away, covering his awful face with awful his hands, hunched over with the pain of it all. Christine shakily got to her feet. Brought death? What was he talking about? He wasn't making any sense, and she couldn't puzzle it out. But here was her teacher, the man she was beginning to love, weeping. And how he cried, great wracking sobs that shook his entire frame. "Oh no, Maestro, please..." Her voice was barely there, her hand reaching out to touch his shoulder.

He fell to his knees, just as she always feared he would turned to her, reaching out to clutch her shirt. "Oh Christine, please. Please you mustn't care for me. No, let me love you from afar. Let me watch over you and care for you and let us make beautiful music, but do not care for me. I am your willing servant, I swear, but do not care! It can only harm you. Please, please let me be your Maestro still. Please Christine!"

He ducked his head again, hands falling from her clothes as he continued to weep. Her stern elegant teacher reduced to a creature crawling on the floor before her. She stepped back, unable to take it. Had she done this? Had she reduced him to this? What had her confession, her love, done to him? "No, Erik, please. Please, Maestro, get up off the floor! Please!"

It only brought more sobs, and for a moment she couldn't tell what he was doing. Then with a sickening feeling of falling she realized he was kissing the floor where she had stood. "Don't, don't do that!" But instead of rushing forward, to pull him up straight, she could only back further and further away from the sight, aghast.

"Christine-No, Christine!"

Her foot hit nothing but air, and she fell. White hot pain blossomed from the back of her skull, and then the world was suddenly, blissfully silent.

Notes:

I just thought I'd let you all know, if you want to scream at me in real time, my writing blog on tumblr is donttouchthekeyboard
Just in case you need it.
~Donttouchthefigs

Chapter 8: Chapter 8

"...happen? How did she come to be in the opera house? Erik, look at me."

Christine woke, but could not open her eyes. Her head pounded sickeningly, but couldn't bring herself to move from the soft cushioning she was laying on. She knew the voice that was demanding answers. And she knew the voice answering-thick with tears.

"I...she's...I taught her to sing."

"To sing? Oh my God, Erik you've been seeing her since you gave her the ticket, haven't you? She's the solution to Carlotta you've been talking about."

"She needed a teacher. I taught her, no more, I swear. I did nothing-nothing. She fell, she backed up off the stage and she fell and she-she did not wake." More sobbing, soft and pitiful.

"She hit her head pretty bad. Did she just move?"

Christine frowned, wanting to lift her head, wanting to talk. Cool fingers sprinkled water over her forehead. The moisture felt good, and she tilted her head towards it with Herculean effort. "Miss Daae? Miss Daae can you hear me?"

Finally, she cracked open an eye. Where ever she was, it was dark. Only candlelight illuminated the room, and it made it hard for her to see anything about it. She could tell that she was laid out on a couch, a heavy quilt over her body. Blinking, she made to move, and was hit with a wave of vertigo.

"There now." Detective Khan gently placed a hand on her shoulder, easing her back down. "Easy does it. Can you speak?"

She parted her lips and rasped. Her mouth was dry, lips cracked. There was a scuffling to her right and suddenly a glass of water was before her mouth. She took a few large sips, and then breathed, "Erik..."

A soft keen and the glass was taken away, shoved into Khan's hand. The detective sighed. "He's here. You fell into the orchestra pit and hit your head. Do you know who I am?"

"Detective..."

"Good. Do you need to throw up?"

"No...I don't...think so."

"She may have been spared a serious concussion," Khan said, looking over his shoulder. Christine tilted her head to peer into the darkness. She could just make out two golden eyes. Then, as she focused, a full faced black mask. Erik nearly melted into the shadows of the room and he shook with silent tears. He turned his face from her, a gloved hand coming up to shield his eyes.

His face...

"I'm sorry," she murmured.

"No dear, don't be sorry. Just relax, alright?" Khan turned again to Erik. "You should have taken her to a hospital."

"I didn't think-"

"That much is plain," Khan snapped. Erik covered his masked face again, hiding like a child.

"Don't, please...It's my fault." Christine reached out, grasping Khan's sleeve. "I did it."

"You did nothing." Erik suddenly found his voice. "You did nothing, sweet heart. It was my doing. I told you. I told..."

"Erik-" Khan made to rise, but Erik was already gone. Distantly she heard a door close, moments later the jaguar start up. The detective sighed and knelt by Christine again. "Can you sit up?"

"I think so. My head..."

"I have Advil, but it's gonna pound for a while. Try and sit up so I can give you the medicine, then you can lie down again." He placed four capsules in her hand. "Maximum dose, I think it's warranted." She took them one at a time and swallowed, then drained the glass. He helped her ease back onto the couch.

"Where am I?"

"You're in my home. Erik brought you here. Said you fell straight off the stage, and knocked your head on a chair."

Christine winced, and her head throbbed in answer, confirming the story. "He's so mad at me. I yelled so badly..."

"He said you had a fight," Khan murmured. "Did he hurt you?"

"No. He grabbed my wrist when I knocked his...his..."

"His mask." Khan's voice was low and sympathetic. "I guessed it might have been that." With a grunt and sigh, he shifted until he was cross legged in front of her on the floor. "Did you see...?"

"Yes." And her voice cracked. "I saw his face. And he cried, he cried so horribly and he wouldn't get off his knees and then he was just kissing the floor and I..."

"Don't think about that. It's not your fault. You just need to rest right now."

"But I backed up. I was going to run. I was going to leave him like that." She closed her eyes. She was beyond tears now, her shame and hurt a dull ache in her breast.

"I don't doubt he was doing all that, but I don't think you're giving yourself enough credit. Erik tends to get hysterical when...he just has a tendency to get that way sometimes. It's not something easily handled." The cop shook his head. "It is not your fault Miss Daae."

"Call me Christine."

"Christine. Then I am Nadir." He gently took her hand, squeezing it. "Pleased to meet you, at least personally. Now I fear I must apologize."

"For what?"

"When you showed me that ticket, I thought Erik was being kind. That he was thanking you for being so sweet to him and his awkwardness. He's not used to such genuine attention and tends to be over dramatic. I thought it was a one off thing, not really knowing what an appropriate thank you gift was. If I thought it would have led you to this, to you being so close to him for so long I would have ripped that damn thing up."

"Why?" Christine tried to sit up, and immediately regretted it. Pushing through the pain, she gritted out, "Why would you do that? He taught me to sing. He gave me my voice again..." She wanted to defend their time, because it as true. He did not give her the beauty of her instrument, or the talent. But he gave her another voice, distinct from her past, from her parents and from her own destructive behavior. The old Christine would have never had the courage to write music, she never would argued with someone more experienced and talented than herself. She never would have driven after a man, and defended herself and her own emotions like that. That Christine would have only done just enough to get by, and fled.

Their time together had given her independence from the past. She wouldn't give that up for anything, even for a now throbbing head.

"You saw him Christine. He's not able to have...relationships like that."

"That's not true-he's scared. He doesn't know how to express himself." Guilt spurred her on. She had pushed and yelled and...and broke him. That face, that awful face-she had been running from that face.

Khan snorted softly. "That is more true than you know. It's still not a good idea for this to continue. Rest a little more, then I will take you home. I've already called the cafe, told them you hurt yourself and I found you. You shouldn't go back for a while."

The cafe-Meg, and Raoul. How much time had passed since they saw her speed off? Christine did lay back down, but instead of closing her eyes she said, "It's not a good idea, because he's hurt people before?"

The cop's dark brows shot into his bangs. "How did you know that?"

"He...he said that he's seen people close to death. I don't know what that means, but I can guess."

Khan closed his eyes, face screwing up like she had wounded him deeply. "Ah..."

"Please. Please I have to know." Her and her insatiable curiosity. But even broken and tired on a stranger's couch, her heart called out for Erik. Worried about him, defended him. If she was going to give up music for a second time, if she was going to give up this love, abandon it in its cradle, she wanted a good reason.

"I don't think it's a good idea. I don't think you're prepared for it."

"I think it takes a lot for a man to recluse, wear a mask and have only two friends in this day and age," she rationalized. "Please, Detective. Nadir. What you know about him, or I'll just imagine something worse."

"That is not possible." He looked at his watch. "I want you to rest more, and maybe eat. It's late, and in the morning, if you feel the same...Well, I suppose you're owed the truth."

---

Christine did rest, and slept a little when Nadir felt it was safe enough. He made her a simple breakfast of eggs and toast in the morning with a large glass of orange juice. He waited until she was finished and had walked around a little before doing anything. He had a nice home, cozy. She could tell it was meant for a family of three, maybe more. "Is your wife going to mind me being here," she asked. She knew he always wore a wedding ring, but it was odd that the woman wasn't here herself. She had always assumed he was just a kind hearted flirt, a fatherly figure that dolled out compliments like grandmas passed out candy, and had a lucky woman at home.

"No. Well, I mean I'm a widower," he said loading the dishes into the dishwasher. The kitchen was tiled in cream, with a sandstone backsplash. She could see a fancy tea maker, the name of which she couldn't remember, and a beautiful silver Arabic carafe. She was seated at an island in the middle, and next to her was a small breakfast nook. All these things pretty, obviously for a family, and it was just him now.

"I'm sorry."

"Thank you. It's been a while, but even so… She always rolled with the punches. Somehow she would have found amusement in all of this." He huffed a little laugh. "She was good like that. Do you want to lay down again?"

"Yes. But I want to hear how you know Erik, too." She smiled sadly when he sighed, shoulders dropping.

"It's not a nice story. I'm surprised I even survived it, let alone live to tell about it."

Christine's stomach tightened. What was she getting into? "I have to know. You don't want me to see Erik again. I'm sure Erik doesn't want me to see Erik again. But if I'm gonna make a choice I want to know what I'm leaving, or taking on. No more masks, no more secrets." No more unspoken truths.

"God you have been spending time with him. You're talking like him now."

"You're supposed to be his friend," Christine murmured. "Why are you being so...cold?"

"Because of how I know Erik, Christine." Nadir closed the dishwasher, and leaned against the counter. He was a few inches shorter than Erik, stout but muscular. He would still be considered a handsome man, if the weight of their conversation did not etch deep worry lines in his face. "And because I am worried how far this will set him back."

He closed his eyes and hung his head. "Alright. But I need to get something from the attic first." Nadir started tea and had her bring a tray of tea things, sans the pot, into the living room. While she waited, she wandered around the large, comfortable space, inspecting the photos on the walls. Detective Khan was always so happy in the cafe, jovial and sweet to them. To think he had lost a wife, a lived through something so bad he didn't want to tell her, under all those smiles?

She found his wife easily, and she was gorgeous. Persian, like him, but a little darker than he was. Her thick black hair cascaded over her shoulders, brushing against a young Nadir's cheek as she leaned against him in their wedding photo. Around them bridesmaids were holding a canopy above their heads, grinning into the camera. And here she was again, holding a little boy in her lap. They were in a school room or library of some sort, obviously engaged in some group activity. Christine's stomach turned over. She didn't see evidence of a grown child in this house either.

What happened to these poor people?

She did find Erik. Twice, specifically. Once in a large photo of a dinner party. It was for Nadir apparently, who sat at the head of the table, in front of a cake that was inscribed HAPPY BIRTHDAY. His visibly pregnant wife was on one side, kissing Nadir's cheek, and here was Erik, his hair long, longer that it was now, bangs falling over his white mask, looking down at his hands folded on the table. But a smile played at his lips.

The second was in front of the opera house. Here Charles, Nadir and Erik stood in front of a red ribbon across the doorways. Erik was older, his hair short, and wearing a normal black suit. Charles was laughing, popping open a bottle of champagne. Nadir had his arm around Erik, grinning like a proud father despite Erik's unsmiling face.

They seem like family.

"Here we are." Nadir came down the stairs, caring a thick binder. Inside there were dozens of folders. A case file, she guessed. The detective placed it down on the coffee table then went to fetch the tea pot. When he returned, he hesitated before taking up a tablet from his computer desk. "Well, if you're sure, here it is."

Christine waited until they both had a cup of tea, before carefully lifting the cover of the binder. DOE v BIN NASHEED was written in black marker on the folder. Nadir sighed and seemed to cast about for the best way to begin.

"I guess I should start with me, and work my way back, let you find out how I found out.

"I was just made detective right before I met him. Very early, mind you. I was a bit of a rising star, if I can say so myself. There was a case, investigating this Iranian crime family that had put down roots Jersey. East Orange is what it is, but when a lot of gangsters start saying the same name over and over, you start to notice patterns in and out of the city. Bin Nasheed was popping up a lot, and following the trail back it was looking organized. Selling drugs, buying land to launder money. Picking and choosing sides in gang scuffles, extortion, that sort of thing. I was put on the case because I spoke the language and I knew the culture. My parents came here from Tehran when they were newlyweds.

"But then people started dying. Not the petty criminals or the dealers. People we were going to finger for being big in the family-crime family and related by blood. People we thought might flip, they'd die by strangulation, and there'd be no trace of who did it. We had no fingerprints, no DNA, not even a foot print: it was like chasing a ghost. Are you going to be sick?"

Christine shook her head, but it was a lie. Her stomach was in knots, because she knew where this was going. People. Multiple people, dead. You kissed me! You kissed my dead hands! Blood soaked hands.

"Are you sure, Christine? This is heavy stuff even for an officer."

"Please don't stop. I have to know, even if it makes me sick."

He shook his head. "You're tougher than you look. Alright. So I was put on the case. We got nowhere, and now with the people dying, everyone was too scared to flip. Except for one, a young man. Amir, was his name, and he wanted out. He married for love, recently had a kid and wanted them to be safe. I gave him my card and told him to call when he was ready. Well he did, but it was to tell me that 'the phantom' was coming. Somehow the 'bitch sultana' found out. Then the line went dead.

"Well you can imagine the reaction. I raced over there, calling for backup later. There was a kid involved, I wasn't going to waste time. But I wasn't fast enough. I got to the house, and the door was off the hinges, a big fight. He was dead, strangled like the rest, but his wife was alive. For as long as I live I will never forget her screaming, her and the baby."

Nadir rubbed his face and swore softly. "And there, on the floor, crying just as hard was a man in a mask, covered from head to toe in black. The Phantom himself."

"Erik," Christine breathed.

"Not Erik," Nadir said suddenly, eyes flashing. Remembering himself, he wet his lips and smoothed a hand over his hair. Christine wasn't sure if she was glad for him finally showing some loyalty to his friend, or scared how this murderer and cop had befriended each other enough for said killer to be free today. Maestro...

"Erik isn't his name, not really. I'll get to that. But yes, in reality, the man that you've been with. He was weeping just as hard as Amir's wife, and she was screaming at him. And all he could say was 'I didn't know. I didn't know.' Well of course I snapped, you know, freeze hands up police and all that. But he want afraid of me or my gun. And he was fast as hell too when he was younger, knocked me out right then and there. Next thing I remember was waking up in the ambulance.

"That incident report wasn't fun, I'll tell you that. But I just couldn't get it out of my head-call it instinct from being on the job-the fact that this assassin was crying. I knew I'd have to take a different tactic. So we continued, trying to find a lead. The 'little sultana' we guess was the kind of matriarch of the family. Yasmin. She was young to be the head, but she had married a much older man. We noticed that all the family gatherings were at her mansion, so it wasn't hard to guess who it was. Traced her dealings trying to find this 'phantom' again.

"Didn't manage it of course. He is not found if he doesn't want to be found. Weeks go by and finally Rookheeya went to visit family in North Carolina-Rookheeya, my wife's name."

"It's a pretty name."

"Thank you. She was a pretty person...Hmm. So that was when the phantom decided to drop by. And I almost had a heart attack, I tell you. I come home with take out and there he is sitting in my goddamn living room, just left of where you are now. Calm as can be, holding my wedding picture. She's lovely he said. You're going to start a family, aren't you? I answered yes, and he told me not to do anything but take out my phone and sit on my hands. He had what I can only assume he used to strangle in his other hand. Looked like a lasso, and I wasn't about to test whether or not he could throw it well. So I did what he said-you're suppose it, in that situation. And I was thoroughly rattled that he knew where I lived. And knew about Keya.

"I asked him his name. I've chased you long enough, I should know your name. And you know what that c-that son of a bitch told me? He quoted Tolkien. He stood up arms wide and said, I am from under the hill, and under the hill and over the hills my paths have led. I am he that walks unseen."

"That's sounds like him," Christine murmured, trying to be brave. Try hard to reserve her judgment, to not comb through every sweet moment and blot them with black knowing where that soft spoken man had come from. His dead hands...

"Yes, some things haven't changed. I tried my best to make conversation, stall, do anything to get information. And he only had one thing to say. 'Stop investigating. Save yourself, and your pretty wife. Live a peaceful life and leave Bin Nasheed alone.' He also insinuated that they had ears in the department, how else did he know where I lived? And that, I swear, more than anything scared me. To think that people I worked with, cared for, where traitors in our force.

"He gave me something to drink, to knock me out while he left and I had just enough presence of mind to tell him something before I fainted. I told him It doesn't have to be this way. And he told me..." Nadir had to look away from her. It was hard for him, she could tell, and she knew this was just the beginning. So she waited, her hands smoothing over the cover of the folder again and again. "He told me," Khan continued slowly after passing a hand over his mouth, "Where else is something like this supposed to go? Something."

Christine closed her eyes. Erik talked about himself like an object. Like a broken toy whose worth was only limited to the scant amusement it could bring. She could see now it was an old attitude, that he had thought himself no more than his uses. "I've heard him talk about himself that way. He talks about himself in the third person a lot."

"Yes...yes." Nadir cleared his throat. "At the time I wasn't so sympathetic. But I had a...hunch that I had just been allowed in. That he showed me behind the mask, a little. Over the next few months he called, dropped by like that, always when I was alone, catching me in a parking lot, calling my phone from an untraceable number telling me to clear off. I had reduced the size of the task force to only the people I trusted and suspected that I had succeeded in cutting off the information to the family. And I would tell him the same thing again and again and get the same answer."

Nadir stood and went to the cabinet. He returned with a crystal bottle filled with amber liquid. He poured it into his cup before refreshing it with tea, then, as an afterthought, held it out to her. Christine did the same, and downed the spiked lukewarm tea in three stinging gulps. They called it liquid courage, and she wanted to see if they were right. It burned her throat and she pulled a face.

"And then one night, he showed up at my house, at the front door. Rang the bell and stood there, out in the open without shoes or shame. I had the same expression you did I think. It was a scare I'll tell you that. I want to confess, he told me. I need to confess. I want to confess, please let me. Well I was floored. I couldn't think of anything else to say. I had to get my wife out, she was pregnant by that time, but of course she refused. Since Er-since the phantom's first visit I had begun to teach her how to shoot, and she said she wasn't leaving me alone with him. And the phantom stood there watching us fight, and didn't move.

"I brought him inside and started recording. Read him his rights right here."

"And he confessed to all the m-murders?" Her lips were numb around the word. The deeds so serious and dark she couldn't even process it.

Nadir laughed, a hollow sound and rubbed his face. "He didn't just do that, Christine. He confessed to his crimes, and every single thing the Bin Nasheed family did. He knew everything, everything! Who was related to who, who did what, from the top of the chain down to the petty dealers they used to scout information. I asked him, because I could hardly believe what was happening in front of my own eyes, how he knew all this. I listen, they ignore me, he said."

"And he became your informant?"

"He...he was our victim. And our key witness."

"Victim." Christine didn't think she could become colder, until the word sent a shiver down her spine.

Nadir nodded and drank deeply from his own cup. "He was...telling me things he shouldn't know. He was around my age, and telling me about crimes...decades old. If he was just employed by Bin Nasheed he would have been too young to be working for him and witnessing some of the things he was telling me."

Khan swallowed hard. "Are you sure, Christine? Very sure?" He seemed to need her choice more than she needed to make it. His throat bobbed as he swallowed.

"Please, Nadir."

"Very well." He shifted in his seat and, after a few moments where Christine wondered if he was about to shed tears, began to recount the tale like an officer reporting. "He dodged my questions at first, wouldn't give me a straight answer. Why does it matter? Who cares? I know what I know. But I didn't let up. The dates didn't match up, everything was too personal, he knew too much for too long. So I chipped and chipped for hours. We had gone through a whole pack of tapes before he cracked.

"He said that he remembered a home in France, catholic catechism and reading in a bedroom before his step father sold him-"

Christine gasped. "Sold? Sold how?"

"Sold like sold, like you'd sell a couch or a house. You've heard of human trafficking, of course? Well, it's not always for sex. The slave trade hasn't ended you know, not by a long shot. It's easier to hide kids in it as well, all you have to say is that they're your ward or you've adopted them and they're so hard working aren't they?"

Christine's cup dropped from her fingers, falling on the carpet and rolling away, leaving a thin trail of tea in its wake. Sold, sold, slave slaveslavesalve… The word echoed in her brain, beat against her skull and still she couldn't fathom it. Her life, her understanding was treading water by the shore line. Slavery...that was the depths of the ocean.

He pointed to the file. "I think it's page forty five."

Now Christine flipped open the case file, her body acting without her mind's notice. She was greeted immediately with the horrible visage of her music teacher, standing against a backdrop marked for height. He was four inches over six feet, naked from the waist up. His body was horrible, a skeleton with flesh stretched thing over the protruding bones. Dead from head to toe, covered in greyish skin. And now she could see the scars. The pictures were photos taken to record the abuses he had obviously suffered. Hands holding rulers to fresher scars to measure them, up close photos of scars that looked like belt buckles and whip marks and cigarette burns. Christine closed her eyes, and tried to blindly flip to the page he indicated.

These pages had six photo copied polaroids on each. Here was a beautiful Iranian family, at parties and celebrations and dinners. But there were red circles in each, pointing out the little boy in the background, a cloth covering his face as he cleaned and laid out and picked up after them. A slave.

"Yasmin was given Erik when he was a child. A wedding present by her parents. Bin Nasheed had been a petty white collar criminal in America for a while before their marriage was arranged and she was sent over and expanded. She was the real brains behind the operation. She was-is-fucked in the head.

"They used him as a maid, as a workhorse, anything they needed. One of the 'uncles' as he called them, used to put him on display at family gatherings, stripping him naked so everyone could see how something dead could come to life. They made him sing too, even as a little boy he apparently had a lovely voice-alright, you look really green now."

He stood coming to her, and taking the case file from her lap. "Christine, I can't keep hurting you like this."

"I just need water please," Christine whispered, her heart pounding in her chest. So much horror, so much pain. But if Erik could live through it, she could endure it. You're stronger than you look, Nadir had said. Meg had said the same thing. It was time to prove it. "Please, Nadir I've heard this much. I can hear more."

Khan fetched her a glass of water and waited until she drank half of it before continuing. "So he grew up like that. Lived out of a closet in the basement, which is how he learned to see in the dark so well. Stole books, taught himself to read and write Farsi-and English from sneaking the kid's textbooks in the middle of the night. He's a prodigy, you know. A genius. What he could have been…"

What he could have been had he had a normal face. Had he had not been passed between hands like a bolt of cloth. Christine could see him now, handsome and acidic, the kind of person you saw in Forbes, his name plastered on buildings, his own section of recordings in every music store. He would have never noticed you, her mind hissed.

She held her glass to her head.

"There was a girl, Yasmin's step daughter, the youngest. Apparently she tolerated the boy, was kind to him and Erik looked after her. He told me about her before he confessed. He said keep Esther out of this. She was what turned that little slave boy into the Phantom. The uncle that abused him so tried to rape Esther, and the phantom killed him. Strangled him to death.

"I would have thought they would have killed him, but Yasmin had apparently noticed that he was clever, that he was quickly becoming smarter than most of them. And now had a talent for killing very efficiently."

"She used him."

"She used him. He was twelve years old. No one thought to look at a slave boy, no one expected it. He...he was that which walked unseen." Nadir shook his head. "For seven years, maybe more they used him as their attack dog. Erik-he went by Erik after confessing, he thought the name was dashing. Erik refused to acknowledge this, but I know better: Yasmin had taken a sick liking to him. He reported directly to her, was punished only by her. I think if things went differently, he would have been used for her demented pleasure too. She was attracted to the fact that he could kill, from what he told me. He never believed it but...

"She cultivated all the hatred and abuse and twisted him to find pleasure in killing. His revenge on the species that had rejected him I think. Made it his only way of life-he tortured someone, he was treated nicely. He killed, he was given a gift. He ratted someone out, he was praised. Gaslighting.

"The first time he killed someone on an order, he was given a hot meal. He had never had hot food before.

"Later he was given an apartment near the house, his own car. He lived on his own, and he was still their pet. After all." Nadir sneered at his coffee table, "where was something like he supposed to go?" His hands tightened his righteous anger, even now, as if he were once again young, hearing this story or the first time.

"I hate them too," Christine said, reaching across and taking his fist into her hand. His hand was large and rough, but warm. He relaxed under her touch.

A few minutes passed, and he slid from her touch with a grateful smile. "If...If Erik had felt a tenth of the hatred I did for that family when he told me, I think I could understand why he killed. It was wrong, it was disgusting, but I could understand it. He was like a cult member: it was the only way of life he knew. It was the only moral system he had: what hurt and what didn't, and what brought on each. I wish...I wish I knew what broke the conditioning. He's never told me.

"Umm...Well, his confession was enough to prompt a raid on the house. Of course they had nothing, no drugs or money or documents but we weren't looking for that."

"The pictures, the one with Erik in them."

"Exactly. Just where he said they would be. They thought so little of him that they kept the pictures that he was in, as if he were a vase or chair in the background. Well it proved a lot of the dates and places Erik told me. Confirmed his story. I pulled every string I had to, called in every favor I could to grant him immunity. He was our victim now, and we could build a real case off him.

"That's where Keya came in. We couldn't keep him in jail, or even in a mental hospital. Bin Nasheed had so many cousins and family friends that he was in danger wherever he went. And relocating wasn't an option: the mask is a dead giveaway. At first we gave him a detail and relocated him to a hotel. Well there wasn't a hotel in Jersey that didn't at least have a friend of a friend that knew Bin Nasheed. It was insidious, really. His cover was blown at least five times.

"Rookheeya-if I could have sicked her on the family, I would have avoided a lot of paperwork. She told me to keep him here. Instead of having a remote detail, have them guard the house. They wouldn't attack a detective head on, it'd bring down the full force of the boys in blue on them. He wore an ankle monitor and was basically under house arrest. But I think, really, she felt for him. She made it her mission to reach him, to reach Erik beyond The Phantom.

"For years we worked-seven years. He brought them all down, and even ferreted out the cops who were dirty, though you won't find that published in any newspaper. We'd bring people in, questioned them, then send Erik in. He'd never touch them, but he has a way with words. And he is comfortable taking off his mask when it'll scare someone. More than once that's how we got information. After all, he wasn't threatening them, just showing his face. I'm sorry." Nadir notice her wince. "It sounds awful, it is awful, but it's the truth. And he was glad to do it. He wanted them all to suffer, to rot in a little cell like he did once. Like I said, I don't know what flipped him, but when it did, it did it for good. Erik was the linchpin that blew up their whole operation.

"During all this, Rookheeya and Erik...they were like brother and sister. She was such a good person, Christine. She seemed to understand what he needed, what he was trying to say, even without him really saying it. And she brought out this person...this good gentle person in him. I barely recognized the man that was in my house after a while, this Erik. She put so much work into him, and he nearly broke when she died."

"I'm sorry. May I ask how?"

"Cancer. Ah, you too?" He noticed how her brow knit, her eyes flickered to her feet.

"My mother."

"I'm sorry. It can be so fast sometimes. But she left me Reza, my little boy. Erik loved him, more than anything in the world. He was like a second father to him. It was Reza that kept Erik from reverting, I think. He taught the boy to read as early as he could, played music for him, magic tricks, anything to keep a child amused while I balanced losing my wife and the case. I'll always be in debt to Erik for the help he gave me during those years. He kept us together." Nadir let out a short laugh, and rubbed his eyes. "I suppose he just took up Rookheeya's work."

Christine smiled sadly. She could imagine, the gentle soft spoken Erik, playing with a young boy. Magic tricks and throwing his voice, making the child laugh and getting drunk off of creating happiness instead of pain. But that wasn't all. Something more, oh God, something else must have happened to the man to send him away, reclusive and private. What Nadir was describing was a family, an odd impossible family, but one full of dedication. Full of love. So she waited.

Nadir did not disappoint: "The case ended with Yasmin and her husband getting locked up like they deserve. So many of their fellows were already in jail, but that was the crowning jewel. There were other cases left open in relation, but that was the point where I was done. I had completed what I set out to do. Erik was tired of being a witness, as well. I convinced him to sue civilly and he was sitting pretty on a good amount of money.

"And a lot of it went to finding a cure for Reza. The boy had not been healthy when he was born and he grew but..." The detective covered his face. It was a long while before he spoke again, voice cracking slightly. "No one took it well. After the funeral, I woke up one morning and Erik was gone. He left his clothes, his violin, his wallet, everything. He was gone, like a phantom once more. I went insane, I was afraid he would go back to his old ways, that I'd have to chase him down and arrest him for murder, finally. For two years I had no idea where he was.

"Later I learned he was in California. The least I can say is that he didn't kill, or try to kill anyone but himself. There are about twenty five bars he's banned from out there. He drank and got himself addicted to heroin because he can never do anything halfway."

"Addicted," Christine breathed. Nadir held up a hand to stay her panic.

"When he came back to New Jersey, he showed up at my door in a holy terror. Do you know what they're doing he shouted, barging into the house. I think he must have been high as a kite, but he could speak clearly. He had heard, somehow, that they were building an opera house in Jersey City, and he had seen some of the mock ups for it. It was quite ugly but I didn't think much of it. Erik took it very personally. Somewhere along the way he had learned architecture as a slave. Where and how, I have no idea. He had no formal schooling that he's told me about. He didn't even have a social security card when he became a witness."

"He came back for the building? He left you to mourn and came back for that," she breathed, floored by her Maestro's selfishness.

"Yes. I had much the same attitude. Worse even: we had a fight, a very, very bad fight. It almost came to blows, saying things we didn't mean. By that time, after seven years of working together, living together, we were bonded. Like brothers, and I don't believe he understood how to handle that. Everything until then, even now, is so transactional. Give and take, and he always expects others to take.

"But that's besides the point. I told him, and I don't feel good about it, that no one would want his input. I told him to-" Nadir winced "-look at himself. Who would listen to him, high, reeking of drink and homelessness. I told him if he wanted anything but an early grave, he'd better shape up, and that Rookheeya would be ashamed of him. It was awful, and I know I hurt him terribly."

"But he built it."

Nadir nodded. "Erik locked himself in the basement and detoxed. Just like that, I've never seen anything like it. It was hell, the screaming at all hours, I could hear him going through withdrawal. He had tied himself up in the corner and demanded I not let him go until he was clean. It was a pure living hell, but he would not go to a hospital. I honestly don't know how he survived it, he shouldn't have. Sometime I wonder if he survived simply to spite me.

"But survive he did, and just in time too: Was able to buy the land or...something. It was very confusing for me. I'm not good with all that business legal jargon, I never got into white collar crime, so it was all Greek. But he managed to get a hold of the project. He depleted his settlement on it, and that's how he met Charles. He's a smart man in his own right, Charles is. I think he liked Erik for telling him just how awful and ugly his designs were before even saying hello. It sounds strange, doesn't it? But they became fast friends, or at least co workers."

The detective sat back, and sighed, sinking bonelessly into his chair. "What else can I tell you? He built the opera house, and found somewhere to live and never came out. That was six years ago."

'"But he did," Christine prompted. "He comes to the cafe."

"Oh yes, well that was my doing. It's the one thing I regret, now, with you sitting here and your poor head. We still have Sunday dinner, you see, he and I, at the opera house. And one Sunday before I went, Charles called me up, shouting about Erik. They disagreed because of the manager-"

"And Carlotta," Christine nodded. "He wants me to replace her. I saw him and Mr. Garnier fight about it."

"Ah, so you've seen how they get. Charles swore up and down that Erik was going to strangle him. So I went and told Erik he needed to return to some kind of society, interacting with people again. Invited him to come get a coffee with me. I can be very annoying when I choose to be and he relented, driving the half an hour a week just to prove a point." Nadir looked at her sadly, eyes drifting to the top of her head. "I am sorry, Christine."

She shook her head, then groaned. That was a bad idea, her head still felt heavy and achy. "It's not your fault. Thank you, for telling me. If it was hard to listen, it must have been worse to tell it. To live it."

Nadir nodded and glanced at his watch. "Lunch, I think. Unless you'd like me to drive you home?"

"I hate to be a bother, but I don't think I can take the car ride just yet."

"Not a bother at all, not at all. It's been ages since I've had company, though I wish it was for a better reason." He gestured to the file in her lap, holding out a hand for it. He had brought it out for proof of his incredible tale. But after seeing the shots of Erik, the photos of his slavery, Christine needed no more proof. She handed it over happily.

"What's this," she asked, gesturing to the forgotten tablet.

"Another side of the story," he replied, before leaving the room. "I'm glad I started scanning stuff when I did."

Carefully Christine picked it up. She was happy for anything to occupy her hands. She didn't want to think, or to feel, or try to figure out how to go from here. Not just yet, it was too much. She unlocked the screen and tapped the photos icon. They were organized by year, and she scrolled until she found the year that she assumed the case was completed.

The very first photo in that folder was a rather belligerent one of a police precinct. Five officers, Nadir and Erik stood around a case file-the case file. All but Erik were making a rude gesture at it, Nadir's other hand, clasped around a champagne bottle, a cigar clamped between his grinning teeth. She had to admit he was quite handsome as a young man. Erik was smirking slightly under his black mask, holding a lighter just out of reach of the paper. A celebration to the end of the case, she guessed.

The next was of Erik, leaning back in a chair at one of the officer's desks. He was talking to who ever was holding the camera, arms folded behind his head, long legs propped out in front of him. In the background, the other detectives were having a blast they probably wouldn't remember in the morning. Christine touched his face on the screen, tracing a finger over it. Maestro. Erik. "Erik," she whispered softly. Then she swiped quickly, before the tears could come.

She stopped at a video, and it opened, grainy and low in volume. It looked like it had been recorded on an older phone and in secret. Erik, in a cheap suit, standing with lawyer at a table-oh, it was a courtroom. Nadir and a few other officers she recognized from the picture were seated behind the bar. It was the ruling of the civil suit. When the judge decided in 'John Doe's favor, the officers clapped their hands. Several, including Nadir slapped Erik on the back happily, shouting "Yes! Yes!" The masked man sunk into his chair and covered his face, and Nadir came around the bar and knelt before him, talking, but the video couldn't pick up his voice over the din. The detective pressed his forehead against Erik's after peeling way his hands, and continued to talk. Finally he grinned when Erik sat up and nodded. Nadir playfully slapped Erik's masked cheek in a brotherly way before helping him stand again and putting an arm around his shoulders. The officers had started the old football "Ole" chant, despite the judge calling for silence.

The rest in the following years where casual photos inside this house. Mostly of Rookheeya and the handsome little boy that must have been Reza. Erik weaved in and out of these photos, usually cooking, or at the piano in the background, watching whatever was being photographed. There was even a video of Erik laughing-really laughing. Baby Reza was babbling happily, and hitting his hands on his high chair, shrieking with giggles. He would pause to grin toothlessly at Erik, who was nearly breathless. "Hello," Erik said to the baby, who tried mimicking him in the loudest high pitched voice before dissolving into laughter. Erik would laugh with him, and Nadir, who was holding the camera, sounded nearly in tears himself from the silliness of it, as Erik repeated again and again, "Hello!" and receiving the same answer.

The one Christine lingered on most, the one that felt like a punch to her chest, had Erik smiling wide, almost displacing the mask. He was holding a little Reza, Rookheeya laughing at both son and friend. She was paler here, sick looking. From the side Nadir leaned into frame, grinning. A moment of happiness for all of them, a stolen second of pure joy in all the horror and pain; what had passed and that which was to come. She ran her hand over the faces.

When she could smell cheese cooking, Christine eased herself off the couch and entered the kitchen. Nadir turned from the pan where the grilled cheese simmered and gave her a sad smile. She showed him the picture. "Oh yes. That was the last year we had with Keya. I can't remember what we were doing. I think she must have said something to make Erik laugh, and it worked. I took the picture quick to document the moment, you know. To prove that he can. There's a video I think-"

"I saw it, with Reza. Tell me more about that," Christine said. "Erik was an assassin, a mobster. Not by choice but you've told me all the bad, and I've seen it too. But you care for him. Mr. Garnier cares for him." She pointed at the woman in the photo. "And your wife doesn't sound like someone easily duped. Tell me why. It can't be hopeless."

"Sit, and let's eat first." He served them the simple fare at his island again. After a few bites he sighed, and said, " I don't know where to start. Erik's not someone to stay idle. When he first stayed with us, he helped cook, and cleaned. I hated it, I didn't want anything to remind me of what had been done to him-but Keya was always smarter than I was. She told me to let him, that it was the only thing he really know how to do to earn kindness.

"He learned all the names of the rotating detail, he learned about me and Keya just by observing, and he can be very generous when he wants. He just...folded into our family. He didn't become my witness, he was just Erik."

Christine nodded, understanding how quick things could change, how quick silver Erik could be. He had gone from customer, to stranger, to Maestro to...to…

"He and Keya were my support during those days. Rookheeya knew some of what we were dealing with but not all of it. Erik was right there beside me. With each layer we peeled back, each new horror, I felt like I was losing my mind. And Erik was glad of it. He told me once, he said I'm glad Khan. I'm glad your repulsed. Because it proves you're not one of them. It gives me hope.

"And of course, with Reza...God he loved him so much. Erik's like a big kid himself. Give him a little praise, be impressed with things he does and you're his best friend-or was. Before life continued to knock him around."

"He's still like that," Christine murmured, her stomach suddenly souring around the cheese. He had been so eager to show her, and impress her. And every little act of kindness, of appreciation had wrought in him gratitude the likes of which… She covered her face, leaning it against her hand. It wasn't that he had been denied kindness. It was that every kindness he had grown to cherish had been ripped away from him. Had died in his dead hands. Everything around him died-I am death incarnate!

"It's not...Even after it all, even now that he's cold and detached and away from me, there's still that gentle little kid in there somewhere. He never misses a Sunday lunch, and even though he doesn't answer my calls, I know he would never really ignore me. That's what I wish Charles would remember sometimes. He saved the man's life after all."

"Mr. Garnier?"

"Oh yes. His wife died too, a year after the opera house was completed. He was going to fling himself off the top of it, apparently. Erik talked him down for hours. When I got the call to come and get Charles, I found them both on the roof. Erik had-" Nadir chuckled and shook his head. "He had taken his belt and Charles' and strapped his partner to him to keep him from getting away. When I got there Erik was giving him a Keya-worthy lecture about the worth of his life. Have you met Jules?"

Christine finally broke a smile. "Yes, the usher manager."

"He's more than that. He started out as Erik's secretary, his go between when the opera house was being built. Well when he didn't have anymore use for him in that way, Erik got him the management position. The man has seven kids-"

"Seven?"

"Oh yeah, they're a real Von Trapp family. Erik's paid for his two eldest college careers, and he puts away money for the rest of them too, whatever they want to pursue." Nadir frowned and looked off into the distance. "I think he's their god father actually, now that I think about it, but he's never been to a christening that I know of.

"Erik has been and done horrible things. That's why I can't encourage you to stay. He's never...women..." He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "If just dealing with people is hard for him, love is totally alien. I can't encourage you to be with him, in fact I discourage it. But on the whole I won't give up on Erik."

"He told me no one could love him. But you and Mr Garnier-"

"Erik will never believe we love him," Nadir said flatly. "It's something I've given up trying to explain. I might be hard on him sometimes, but that's only because I know what a good person there is. He likes to cover it up, he likes to think he's still The Phantom, because if he's just Erik, he can be and will be hurt again."

"And you want me to stop this." She didn't accuse him, she couldn't. Nadir was right, it was dangerous, almost foolhardy for a stranger to get involved with Erik and his volatile temper, he skewed worldview and twisted mind. But she had spent a year with him, and knew that he could control himself. She knew, just as well as Nadir, the man that lurked beneath the mask. But as it worth it...?

The detective sighed, looking at her with such mournful dark eyes. "Can you say you love him, knowing all you do about him?"

"I don't...know. I feel a little numb. Like I can't even begin to think about it." She hung her head in shame. Shouldn't she know? Shouldn't she be able to figure out if she loved this man? When Nadir had started his tale, she had been sickened that the hands that murdered had touched her. She had felt betrayed even, for having such tender feelings for a killer. But...but the horror he had gone through. What hatred went into teaching a child that the only way to feel kindness was to end the lives of others? That to survive, he must destroy?

She felt anger, burning righteous rage for Yasmin Nasheed. Like Nadir she could have easily wrapped her hands around the woman's throat and squeezed. Buying a child to abuse them, passing him around to family members to torture. It did not excuse Erik's actions, but in the same place, could Christine say, with any certainty, that she could refuse a sliver of freedom, whatever the price? No, she could not.

After all here she was, envisioning herself taking revenge on the woman that had hurt him. How easy it must have been for Erik to envision the same righteousness against the whole human race.

So then, did she pity Erik? Willing to confess love because she felt he was owed? Had his temper, his tale, his face destroyed the connection she had worried over so endlessly?

Nadir touched her shoulder and squeezed. "Then don't think about it right now. It'll still be there tomorrow. Deal with it then."

The last thought Christine had, before firmly pushing everything from her mind except food, was about Nadir. About his touch on her shoulder:

These soft warm hands, too, are probably the hands of a killer.

Chapter 9: Chapter 9

She stayed another night at Nadir's. He was very good company, she found. He liked to talk, and Christine loved his stories and how they chased away the gloom. Most were cop stories, and even more were about Rookheeya and Erik. She had made Erik human, but moreover they had become fast friends, having had the same dry sense of humor. Christine guessed perhaps they bonded over their caring for Nadir but didn't voice it. In the evening he even pulled out a few home movies. One was of Erik's very modest birthday party, where in Nadir and a very squeaky voiced Reza had to explain to Erik what a birthday was, how to celebrate one, and why.

At least the tears Christine shed now were ones from laughter as Erik and Nadir fought over the logic of putting burning wax candles on a cake, and then complaining about the length of time to extinguish them as it dripped onto the frosting.

She was put up in Nadir's spare bedroom rather than the couch, and for that she was grateful, but she couldn't find sleep. Instead of thinking about Erik and her own feelings, she was musing about Rookheeya. The woman who refused to leave her husband's side when a criminal had shown up at their doorstep, the woman who had welcomed said criminal into her house while she was pregnant, and let that criminal be with her son. True that criminal seemed to have a true heart underneath his horrible visage, but still, she had seen what the rest would fail to recognize. She had seen the person beneath the Phantom's mask. She had been very brave, and the love for her remained years after. She must have been very strong.

Christine had taken the tablet with her into her guest room and flipped through it again. She noticed, probably because Nadir took most of the photos, that Rookheeya and Erik were almost always together. She touched him easily; more than one photo had her hands on his shoulders, her head pressed alongside his so they fit into frame. She knew what he had done, and had seen passed it all. She had seen-maybe-what Christine had seen. The beauty beneath all the twisted scar tissue. The gentleman who cared too much. She never shrank away from him, even though Erik always leaned away from her. And in all of these pictures, Erik's long dead hands were bare. In most of these pictures, Rookheeya held them.

It was such a jarring feeling when switching from one year to the next, Erik was suddenly and utterly gone. At least that she could understand. How that content, almost happy family was whittled down and turned into the two distant men she knew today. Christine understood how death came suddenly in the night, and stole every piece of home from you; every smile, every laugh, even the feeling of warmth.

So many called Christine strong, but did she have the same metal? And if she did, what choice would a strong woman make? With a sigh, she pulled out her phone, opening up her map. She found out that she was in Rochelle Park, and a long way from her home. Her messages, phone and voicemail all sported angry red notifications, but she didn't have the energy to listen to them. Instead she opened her browser and searched for Bin Nasheed. Old newspaper articles came up, telling the public side of Erik's story (called John Doe in everything).

She was even able to find a video of Erik from Dateline episode, covered on all sides by officers, holding their jackets up to hide him, climbing the courthouse steps. A woman seemed to come out of nowhere and threw her high heel at him, screaming like a person possessed before the guards were on her. Keith Morrison identified her as Esther Nasheed. The girl Erik had wanted to protect. Another rejection. His mother, Yasmin who never wanted him for anything but evil, Esther...and me.

What a circus it must have been, and Nadir had said it lasted for years. No wonder they had such a tight bond-chaos did that to people. Someone to hold fast to while the world shifted under your feet. Christine suddenly thought of Meg, her own Nadir, and her thumb tapped the message icon. Just as the window opened, the screen blacked out, the phone shutting down from the drain on the battery.

Christine sighed and placed it on the bedside table. So where was she left? Did she still love Erik? She now had an explanation for most of his behavior. That nervous tick of hunching his shoulders had looked so odd-she could recognize it. He was still forever waiting for a blow to come, hunching down to lessen the impact. Jokes, playful banter went straight over his head, a man used to orders and harsh words. Oh, he had proved his mastery in that. Some of the insinuations he had made of her still stung as she thought about them.

He lashed out, hurting her to keep her from hurting him. And he had claimed to love her. At least she had been right in that. They had not fallen in love so much as tumbled straight down the stairs of affection into ardor. Ass over tea kettle and here they were at the bottom, smarting from the landing. He had claimed to love her and had promised to give her all she wanted of him if only she'd let him love her from afar. He had kissed the floor at her feet, humbled like a dog willing to die for her. A faithful slave.

That she didn't want. She had feared Erik going on his knees before her, he had been close so many times. But Christine had simply thought he was being overly kind; humble. Now she saw that they had plumbed emotional depths he had never felt before. That he was afraid, so very afraid at every moment of her rejection. Of her hatred, perhaps like the girl in the video? Like Esther who he tried to protect? He had come to Nadir and wanted to confess, he must have assumed he was going to jail. But even then he had tried to protect...

The sun was rising again. Christine had spent hours going around and around in circles, trying to tiptoe around the pitfalls her memory and imagination laid for her; thinking of Maestro as a slave, thinking of what the worst of humanity could do to a child seen as worth nothing more than an animal or plastic toy. Finally, exhausted, running only on her ire, she slid from the bed.

There were some things Nadir couldn't tell her. Some things she needed to know.

Her bag and jacket were down in the living room. She crept through the halls and collected her things, leaving a quick thank-you note for Nadir while she waited for the cab she ordered to come. She ended it with 'Did you know his last name is Khan?' He may have come back for the opera house-but he had come to Nadir. Erik is a surprisingly loving man she mused, almost detached from herself, if only people learned his love language. It was quite foreign, and odd.

She hoped she was a quick study, because they had a great deal to talk about.

---

The opera house was locked, of course. The lights out, not even Jules had arrived to get an early start on the day. Christine sighed and walked around to the side exit Erik had helped her use at times, when they went particularly late in lessons. It had a well lit path to the parking garage. But it too was locked, and the garage was empty. She would have left it there, if she had not spied flattened grass made by tires. Following the tracks she saw the Jaguar parked haphazardly by a door far, far in the back of the house, where she assumed the generator and industrial climate control system was.

The door had a warning on it, the usual KEEP OUT DANGER ZONE that were on doorways to electronic sources. She glanced back at the Jaguar, sitting like a pet, waiting for its master to return. She gently placed her hand on the hood. It had only a short time since she had ridden in this car, imagining herself leaning against her teacher, loving him.

She tried the door in front of her, just in case and it swung open. It did, but there was no equipment here, or large generators. Only a long, long staircase that disappeared into darkness. She looked back at the car, as if to say there he is, thank you. She found a large rock and propped the door open. The weak dawn sunlight didn't reach far into the stairwell, so Christine was forced to cling to the side of the wall, and feel every step with her shoe first. The stairs were sturdy, but steep, and they went on forever! Finally she reached a landing and before her was a heavy mahogany door, carved beautifully with trees and jungle creatures twisting in the grain. And through it, very barely, she could hear the baleful wine of a violin.

Raising her hand, Christine swallowed. They might fight again, in fact it was almost guaranteed. But, she wouldn't be a coward now. Not when she came so far. She may walk away from here, without love and without a teacher, that was true. But the explosion had already happened, as she predicted it might. The time was upon her to pick up the pieces and see what could be salvaged, if it could be. Christine knocked firmly. The music stopped short on a loud sour note. Then she pounded three more times, and waited.

After a few minutes of waiting, the door cracked open. She barely spied the glow of gold eyes, before it pulled open completely. Erik stood there, and Christine was nearly bowled over. He wore his full faced black mask, but that was all she recognized. His hair was messy, falling into his face, he was wearing a baggy long sleeved shirt, NJPD in yellow letters across his chest, and loose pants. He was barefoot. Eyes bulged, he looked her over, then up at the door she had propped open. Understanding flooded them, and he was back to looking at her. He followed her gaze and almost shut the door again, to hide his appearance.

Christine's hand shot out, stopping the heavy wood. "Wait. Wait we need to talk Erik." It was not lost on her that similar words had preluded this mess.

He hesitated then held up a finger before almost closing the door. She heard the tell tale sound of a Flight-of-the-Bumblebee-cleanup, and almost smiled. Many a time when Mrs. Giry dropped by she had been forced to do the very same thing. He returned, shod and his hair combed back. He bowed a little, letting her inside.

Christine stepped inside, and immediately turned in a circle. She was in a home, deep underground. Here was a lovely entryway, as it would be in any fine house. He must have built this at the same time as the opera house. This was why Nadir never knew where he lived, why he always seemed so at home in the theater. Connected to it was his home. By the door there was a coat tree sporting his fedora and coat. Through one doorway she saw a windowless kitchen, with an island and only one stool. Through another she saw a library decorated like an old baroque French manor. To her left was a sitting room that looked straight out of Japan. Every room must have been in a different style, and why not? He had the freedom to play with his art, his architecture, in this place where no one could disturb him.

There was a soft little tug on her hood. When she turned Erik held out a hand. Shrugging off her coat, she let him hang it up, then lead her down the main hall. She wanted to peer into every room they passed to see what other design wonders he had made. But for the moment, she had to stamp out her curiosity.

He brought her to a living room that looked fairly modern. A fire place was at one end before a fine leather couch. Christine spied a desk in the corner, where his violin lay, the bow frayed and nearly hairless. Played to death. There was also a computer monitor and tower hooked up to an electric piano. The boxes lay nearby, signaling that these were a new additions. She winced at the sight. Had he bought a whole computer to catch up learning the programs she had introduced him to? That seemed like an entire lifetime ago.

He moved one of the overstuffed arm chairs, turning it towards her. Taking the hint, she gingerly sat down in it, watching him as he fidgeted before her. He had changed into dark wash jeans as well, his hands hiding in their pockets. It was so odd, seeing Erik in casual clothing. She guessed that the shirt was a relic from his time with Nadir.

Christine knew where she wanted to start, but didn't expect a find a good reaction to it. She looked into his masked face, but Erik would not make eye contact, his golden gaze fixed on her shoes. Every so often they would dart to somewhere around her head, but only quickly, as if he was trying to judge her mood without looking her in the face. Her stomach twisted painfully, her dinner sitting heavy in it. Another habit from survival?

"I have to ask you something first," she murmured. "Actually, two very important questions. And I think I'm owed an answer, Erik." His shoulders hunched and she forced herself not to break, to run to him and tell him not to worry. The old warm instincts to protect had flared into her chest, as if there was no question of still caring for him.

But this new voice, this voice she had found fighting with and for Erik, shushed such notions. "Why did you decide to confess that night you came to Nadir's house? All those years ago?" More than a decade. It occurred to her that Erik was a great deal older than she had first assumed. But that could come later.

Erik stopped his nervous movements, and stared shocked into her face. "He told me-I made him tell me," She said quickly. "I had to know everything Erik."

He turned from her, and Christine was afraid he was going to run. She grasped the fabric of his shirt, and he stopped immediately, going dead still. He didn't seem like he was going to turn around any time soon, so she gently tugged, pulling him towards the couch opposite her chair. He perched on the love seat's arm, and hung his head.

Hesitating, Christine stood, and came closer. "I am going to touch your chin, Erik. Because I want you to look at me." He made no move, so she slowly reached. Her fingers found the cool skin under the lip of the mask, and pulled. His head came up easily, but his eyes squeezed shut. "Please tell me Erik. What happened that night?"

"I..." Oh God, his voice was so rough. That beautiful baritone was so harsh and breathy. She hoped he'd done nothing to damage it in his grief. "I...killed someone. With my face."

Christine swallowed hard. More death, more violence. "How...did you do that?"

"Please," he whispered. "Please no more. Let it die, let the past die..."

"I want to, Erik. I want to, but if you hope for a future with me, I have to know what that death will mean." Oh, he looked at her now.

"There is no future for us. Not when Erik-"

"-You...have done a lot of things. But you were who you were when I fell in love with you. You haven't changed, only my understanding of you. And I want to fully understand before anything. Please, let me understand you."

She felt Erik sigh. His head became heavy in her hand and she let him lower it. "When...I assume Khan has told you everything he knows. When I was allowed my own home, madar-Yasmin-and the family were laundering money through buildings. They hired a man, an Italian architect. He was very kind, very kind to me. I had wanted to learn, and he taught me everything he knew. When I was not...working. I was with him. Do...have you been to Cape May?"

Christine nodded.

"Do you know that strip of shops downtown? That look like a little storybook boulevard? We built that, among so many others. He...stupidly, cared for me I think. Like his own son. He only had one child, a daughter whom he loved. But no sons, and his daughter didn't want to become a mason, let alone an architect. His daughter...Lucy..."

Erik looked up at her again. "She loved me," he spat. "She loved me! Oh she hated me and loved me all at once. She never had a kind word to say, but she would always be around me! She followed me like a faithful familiar, pulling and teasing and testing until I gave her attention. And she told me she loved me!" Erik stood, imposing over Christine's small height, but he was talking fast now. A river of words flowing from behind his mask. "One night, when we were building apartments in Patterson, I was in the unfinished floor, and she bounded up the stairs and demanded I love her back! She was tired of waiting, tired of trying! She knew I wanted her-I did, she was beautiful! And she was so in command of herself! I did not love her but I wanted her awfully. She demanded I kiss her-be a man, take off that fucking mask and kiss me!"

If the imitation was anything to go by, Lucy's voice had been high and feminine, and full of rage. Erik covered his face, shoulders shaking. "I was scared, I was angry! I did just what she told me to. I took off this fucking mask and I showed her just what she wanted to kiss! Oh she screamed, she screamed so loudly, so much! On and on, and I told her, I tried to tell her to stop. I came close, I was so afraid that she was going to hurt herself. I came close and she backed up." Erik's face slowly raised from his hands, staring at the wall over Christine's head. "Back," he breathed, all the fight suddenly gone from him, reaching out to the ghost of that girl as she reeled back from his visage.

"Back...back, back...and she was gone." Erik's hands fell, his voice going flat and lifeless. "She fell down three stories, through the plastic that covered where a glass wall would be placed. She was in such a rush..."

Christine covered her mouth, a sob trapped in her throat. Backed up and fell, never to wake again. Oh Erik, poor Erik what he must have thought, seeing history replayed so perfectly in front of him. His love, angry and vengeful, his face revealed and then...

Erik gained control of himself, turning away from her, and putting his hands on the back of the couch. He leaned against it heavily. "I went to madar's house. To Esther. She was always...tolerant of me. I went to her room, where she was making wedding favors. She was getting married, you see. And I told her what happened. She sighed: that's all she gave the dead. A sigh. She told me not to worry, they'd take care of Lucy's father, they'd cover it up. She told me I really shouldn't lead girls on like that. If I wanted someone , why not ask madar if I could convert and marry one of her cousins?

"And I sat there, handing her ribbons as she worked and thought 'Yes, we can take care of him. Cover it up. Money can dry any tears, or make any murder into suicide'." He slammed his fist against the couch. "I thought that. I thought that Lucy and her father who had meant so much hours before could be...swept away! I was like them." He turned on Christine, eyes full of tears and fire. "I was one of them! I was finally one of them! I was family then! I could sit, holding pretty white things for a white wedding and talk about slitting the throat of a man who treated me like a son! Lucy was still laying in the street, her head open for the birds and where was I?!"

Christine went to touch his shoulder and he ripped away from her. "No! Don't you see? Don't you see what I am? What I did to the girl that always claimed to love me? I needed to be locked away, hidden forever and ever and ever because a creature like me can only bring destruction and death!"

"That's not true," Christine said. "You built this place! You put those people away, you taught me-"

"I built this place to hide," he snapped. "I became a witness to have revenge. I taught you because...because Erik needed to see you again. Erik needed you to look upon me with those kind, kind eyes..." Erik reached out, a hand ghosting over her face. "I was selfish at every turn. I love beautiful things, I always have. I stole them, I hoarded them away for myself. This opera house is beautiful. You are beautiful. Their destruction was beautiful..."

"I don't believe that," she whispered.

"You're a fool. A pitying fool."

"No. Nadir told everything. You wept when you killed..."

"Amir," Erik quietly supplied.

"You wept, Nadir saw you. That's when he knew you were different. Why did you cry? That's my second question."

Erik sighed, a deep heavy thing that seemed to sap him of his posture. "...Because he had a baby and a wife. Madar had wanted him for Esther. At the time I was told he was going to turn on the family to the FBI. And they always told me that if that were to ever happen, they'd offer me up first. After all, I had actually put rope to throat, while the rest of them only ordered it.

"They didn't know how true their lie was; they were shocked when I reported back and told them a cop had seen me. But the real reason they sent me after him was because he had already married in secret, already had a baby. She was Tamil, Catholic, and poor. For such vile people who drank and ate pork they were very offended he not only rejected their daughter and married outside their culture, but their religion as well. Three strikes meant he needed to die and quickly."

He looked at her finally. "Don't you see? I didn't know, but I acted. Look at you, demanding the truth even as it hurts you. I do not have that strength. I didn't want to know, Christine, the extent of my actions. I liked it that way. It was simply orders, simply what they wanted and I provided. That was the real mask I wore."

Strong. Always so 'strong'. But she wasn't. It was taking all of her fortitude to stand here and listen, and not to run. Not to forget it all and run back to the cafe and her little life: become a store manager, live and die alone. If she was strong, wouldn't it be easier? If she was so damn strong, wouldn't her limbs stop trembling? "Erik, if you knew...if you knew I think you might have refused. And they would have killed you. Isn't that the truth? They would have beat you or killed you if you refused?"

Slowly, after long moments of considering, he nodded.

"You did what you had to, to survive. Erik...how much pain can one man take?"

"More than even the thing can think."

"You're not a thing," she hissed. "You're a man!" He drew breath to argue and she was on him, her hands gripping his fingers. His fingers were so cold and so soft in her hands. Blood soaked, calloused hands. A corpse's hands. Erik's gentle hands. Listening to him twist the story into something cruel, dark and wrong made her blood boil. If what he said was true, what he said about himself was true then it was all for nothing. Those smiling faces in the photos, the laughter, the brotherhood. It wasn't real.

And Christine knew better. There was pain, pain when Erik was gone: which meant it had been real. And all of sudden, Christine knew her answer.

"These hands are a man's! This-" she pressed a palm against his chest. Oh God she could feel his ribs. "This heart is a man's! Your love for me is human! And men get hurt, men do awful things when they have to survive. But men can change, they can do right! You wept for Amir because you knew you it was all wrong. You left Esther that night because you knew what she was wrong. She was one of them! You didn't run away, you ran to Nadir because you knew it was right. You're a man Erik! You're not the Phantom, you're not a thing. You're a man and I love you!"

Erik's eyes were wide again at her verbal onslaught, and he was trembling in shock under her fingers. Christine shook too, but for another reason. Fear made her heart pound, and cowardice screamed that she stay still. But she was going to be strong-strong like everyone told her she was. And she wasn't going to let him call himself a thing ever again!

Her fingers slid up from his heart, finding the lip of his mask. Erik let out a soft whine-"Oh please, Christine"-but she did not stop. She knew he was fast enough to prevent her, but he did not. He could not tear his eyes from hers. Up, up came the black leather until it slid right off his deformed head.

She held the mask limply, her eyes falling once again over his dead features. In the low light of the fire, he looked even more frightening. But it illuminated the tears that coated his hollow cheeks. When he wasn't grinding his teeth she couldn't see the jaw muscle as clearly anymore. Without the harsh light of the theater the veins were fainter, and she could see there was no bone showing, he was merely so pale from wearing the mask at all times. On his temples there were livid red marks she could only guess were from his own fingernails.

And Christine looked. And looked, and looked and did not gag, or reel back. His hair was falling in his eyes, the water he used to slick it back too dry to tame it now. Tossing the mask onto the couch, she reached up and pushed the locks out of the way. His eyes shut and the poor man whimpered.

"Stay here," she told him. "Stay right here and don't move." Christine left the room, searching for the kitchen she saw before, blindly. She came across it and pulled a wad of paper towels from their place at the sink and hurried back. Erik was still standing there, fresh tears coursing over his cheeks as he sobbed silently.

"Look at me." She mopped up the tears from his cheeks, then held the paper to the gaping hole that served as his aborted nose. "Can you still breathe?" He nodded against her hand. It would have been comical if everything wasn't so awful. "You have to stop crying just for a little bit, okay? I can't stand when you cry. It hurts me-and when you went on your knees. I never want to see that again Erik. You don't belong on the floor."

"I do," he said, muffled against the paper. "You are too beautiful, too sweet to your awful Erik. You're too good to be here, taking care of me." He took the wad of paper from her and turned away, finishing cleaning his face. "I need my mask..."

"Does your face hurt without it?"

"No, but-"

"Then please, keep it off." She scooped it off the couch, and handed it to him. "If you want it, here, but please don't put it on Erik. I want to say these things to your face. And I need to get used to you without it. I want to."

Erik faced her again, lips parted in awe. "You wish...to see this?"

Christine nodded. "I...can't lie. It's not like everybody else, your face. But it's yours." She spread her hands, shrugging. "It's apart of you. A small, small part. And you won't believe anything I say, I think, unless it's to your face."

There seemed to be peace for a moment, with her questions answered. And what an answer. Christine sat on Erik's couch and patted the space next to her. He had told her what she wanted to know-what she needed to hear. Erik may have thought he turned himself into Nadir for selfish reasons, for revenge. But Christine knew that he had done it because he did not want to be a monster anymore. He did not want to harm, to kill. He could not have guessed Nadir would show him such mercy, and spare him a lifetime in a cell.

He would always be a dangerous man, as anyone would be when they learn such skills. But Erik had proven in his small and not so small ways, that he was no true assassin. That he longed to create, and that he had no more love for blood, if he ever truly did. He loved beautiful things-and kindness to a slave boy was as beautiful as life to a dying man. What wouldn't anyone do to end pain?

And now looking back on it all, the endless little attention he gave her, the music he made, the passion and childlike excitement he carried with him when they started a new project, or when he had succeeded in coaxing the right note from her; all of it carried so much more beauty. Because he could have been so easily bitter and hateful. Instead he was beautiful-tarnished, beat up and more than a little broken, laced with rage..but even blood couldn't cover this type of beauty.

Christine loved him so dearly, she found, watching him shuffle around the couch towards her. This timid, passionate, stubborn, dark and broken man. She loved him and every side of him was dear to her.

He sunk down beside her, watching her warily. Maybe he thought she'd disappear at any minute. "You'll have to be patient," she said softly. "I've been through a lot and heard a lot and my head still kills. But I won't rest until this is settled between us."

"Between us," he echoed softly.

"Yes, Erik. Because I don't want to leave you."

"I hurt you!"

"Yes, you did. You said such awful hateful things to me. And they were hateful. You were trying to hurt me and you did."

"Yes," he hissed. "So go! Go be with that boy and be loved!"

Christine closed her eyes. Which battle to pick: Raoul or Erik? Choosing the latter she asked, "Don't you love me?"

"...You know I do."

"Then you regret hurting me?"

"Erik would rather-"

"I don't want to know what you'd do to yourself, Erik. If you wanted to make it better, an apology would be a better way to start."

He looked at her as if she had just sprouted a third eye. "An apology?"

"You don't think I deserve one?"

"You-it is not enough." He was standing again, bending to keep his eyes level with her face. "Christine! An apology! Just words! Erik...what I said-"

"Were just words too." She patted the space beside her again and didn't budge until he once again dropped onto the cushion with a slight bounce. "You were so mad at me. Almost as mad as you were with Mr. Garnier. Worse I think, and all you did was say awful words. Doesn't that prove you've changed Erik? You don't have to pay every misstep with your life."

She left him digest that for a second before folding her hands. "It goes something like this: I'm sorry I put up such a fuss singing for you in the showcase. I was childish, and I wasn't thinking and you were only trying to help."

Erik held up his hands. "You were right. Erik was pushing you. Erik had to push you on to the stage, because we were too close. I wanted you beside me too much-"

"Erik." Christine's tone was short now. God there was so much, so much to say and to think and do. But they couldn't do it all right now. "I wasn't right. I acted like a baby, right down to stamping my foot. I'm not always right, or good. I won't always be right or good. You can't put me on that pedestal because I will always disappoint if you do. I don't want that. I just want to be with you."

"You can't be with me." Now Erik was the one that forestalled her words. "No, Christine. I am sorry. Erik was a horrible brute to you. Erik shouted and acted like the animal I am. If that is not enough reason, then this is: if you will always disappoint as an idol, I will always harm as a lover." His hand reached out to her head, not quite touching her curls. "I already have."

"You didn't hurt me Erik, I fell. I wasn't looking, it was my fault-that part at least. And I didn't mean to take off your mask. I was only pointing to it."

"And Erik grabbed you. Like a ruffian."

"You are strong," she agreed. "But I shouldn't have even made to take it off. It's wrong to just snatch it off." She reached out and placed her hand on his wrist. She could feel how tight the muscles were. "I won't ever do that. But I probably will ask you to be without it, if you'll allow. You can say no." That was a very serious point. Erik acted like she was some saint to bend the knee to. Perfection and he was only groveling at her feet for scraps. She was not Yasmin. "If I hurt you, you must tell me no."

"And if I tell you 'no' now," he asked, his head tilting to the side.

Christine's lips trembled at the idea, but she bit them, controlling her emotions. "Then I'll have to go. And I won't come back. Do you want me to...?"

Erik sighed, and shook his head. "No. I should tell you to go, but want? I never want that. Erik told you, that is why he had to push you onto the stage. Once you become a diva, no matter how Erik will forever haunt your steps, you could not have kept me with you. You would fly away on wings made of success, gone just in time."

"Just in time?"

"We were so close. We no longer had the structure of lessons. I was not your Maestro when we created music together, and you were no longer Erk's student. We were friends, we were partners. We were growing closer and closer to each other, and I wanted it more and more. Erik contemplated ripping out the stitches to make the time last longer and I knew then Erik had to send you away, because if I didn't…"

"You wouldn't have hurt me," Christine said. "If you didn't hurt me when you thought I betrayed you, you wouldn't have hurt me then either."

Erik closed his eyes with a soft 'Oh Christine.' He turned away from her. "I would have done so much worse."

"Worse?"

A humorless smile spread across his lips. "I would have sung for you. Erik would have sung the most beautiful words you had ever heard. And it would have worked. It has done so before, I know the power I have." His eyes slid back to her, and they were dark, so dark the gold was almost brown in the firelight, those irises still glowing slightly from the hallow sockets of his skull.

"It would have sung, and you Christine, would have opened to him-to me-like a rose to the sunlight. Blushing and soft and secret, my own blossom to deflower. And...I would have plucked every...last...petal."

Christine's cheeks burned with heat that slid down her dry throat and pooled low. The fire in her belly was not only from desire however. "It?"

"This...thing inside me. What makes Erik an animal, this phantom that haunts my thoughts. That poisons our love. You would have blindly offered, and It would have taken you whole. And Erik would have been helpless to stop it for…" His eyes flickered to her mouth and settled there. "For you being so near quite intoxicates me. You break my will."

Taking a deep breath Christine ventured, "There is always darkness in people, Erik. There's darkness in me too. Cowardice and selfishness. Yours has been nurtured too much by…" Her lips pulled back in a sneer, "by vile, evil people. But if what you're talking about is 'darkness' then I could match you black for black."

She moved closer, taking advantage of Erik's stunned silence at her declaration. He was so afraid of who he was, of the instincts his masters had created in him, that he hadn't realized with each denial of his viciousness, he had changed. That he controlled the phantom, and that he could now as well. She had faith he could. He won't hurt me like that she told herself as she moved closer. Erik is not The Phantom.

Christine's breath nearly stopped as she scooted onto his cushion. Their knees brushed and she could feel the slight chill that always seemed to radiate off him. Feeling the only warmth he had, his breath, panting across her lips before those lips touched his. Slight pressure, pressing closer, a small little thing against his slightly open mouth. She could feel his teeth against her lower lip before his mouth closed over hers. His hands trembled near her face, ghosting over her hair, almost holding her, but instead grasping blindly at thin air. Another moment feeling the thin softness of his mouth before Christine pulled back, opening her eyes. It was not the romantic embrace she had envisioned after their confessions, but it left her stomach feeling heavy with want anyway. Finally.

Her gaze swept over his face, his hideous features. Oh Erik was ugly, his body was probably worse now than it had been in those evidence photos. There was not a pretty thing about him. His visage was ugly, but Erik, the man was lovely. Dark and seductive and gentle, like velvet, like night. Like a first kiss in the firelight.

Christine leaned away and straight into his hands. Those too long fingers threaded through her curls as his eyes slowly opened. Those glowing gold irises were sapped of their color, so dark with want they were almost black. God only knew, she might just faint as he predicted. He was guiding her back, pulling her into another kiss, his lips pressing back, clumsy and wanton.

She had some knowledge of kissing, but this fresh new desire was making her just as inexperienced as him. They fumbled and tried and wanted, finding their own rhythm that had been so out of sync these past days. Christine almost moaned when Erik parted his lips under hers, finally understanding what she was trying to do.

And then those dead hands were sliding down her back. One found her knee and with his frightening speed, cupped the back of it, and swung her leg over his. She was astride him in a second, her hands braced on the couch behind his head on either side, and then it was his tongue that plundered her mouth: he learned everything so very quickly, her poor, passionate Erik.

His thin lips placed searing warm kisses against the corner of her mouth, her jaw, finding the soft hollows of her throat, gently grazing with his tongue to taste and soothe. Christine was adrift in his spell of touching and discovering until she realized his hands were guiding her hips into that primal beat he only knew by instinct. And she was more than willing to follow.

Now, she would prove to him his change. "Erik…" Her hands closed over his. His fingers twisted and grasped her wrists, pinning them to the small of her back as he pressed a necklace of kisses to her collar bone, whispering in French against her skin. "Erik."

Wriggling her hands free, she put them on his shoulders and pushed, firmly. "Erik stop. No more." Christine looked into his face, and saw his eyes narrow. In that moment, she was sure she was about to be carried off and 'plucked' as it were.

But in the next, his face, which had taken on a soft pinkish hue, suddenly drained of color. He looked her over, settled firmly across his lap, knees digging into the cushions on either side of his hips. As he came to reality, Christine herself became aware of a pesky firmness making her thin seat a little uncomfortable.

Immediately she was dumped onto the couch next to him, and he was backing up, hands held out as if to stop her. "Stupid Erik, selfish creature! Christine why, why did you...and why did you let me?!"

"I wasn't exactly passive," she murmured, righting herself on the couch. She snatched his fingers and pulled him closer. "And you stopped Erik, you stopped when I told you."

"I didn't want to! I wanted...I…" He shook his head, not meeting her gaze.

"You didn't want to but you did." She squeezed his hands. "If you were an animal Erik, if you were the Phantom, would you have stopped? Did the Phantom ever stop for pleading?" Silence was her answer. One battle down, now to win the war.

He slid to his knees before her, looking up at her with confusion, and maybe a little awe. She swallowed the urgent need to tell him to rise, when he spoke: "Why did you let me Christine?"

"Because I love you." She leaned closer, and cupped his horrible cheek, her forehead resting gently against his. Erik's eyes closed in utter bliss. "It was an expression of my love. I want you Erik. I want your love in all forms. I-I'm not quite ready for that step right now. But, I mean it. I'm not afraid of you."

"You ought to be," he told her.

"Maybe."

"You're foolish."

"Probably a little."

"And you're..." His will broke, just as he promised, right before her eyes. "You're so wonderful. You're unlike anyone I have ever met. The kindness you have...the mercy."

"It's not mercy. I just love you."

He reached up, passing a hand over her slightly swollen lips, her flushed cheeks, evidence of her promise and want. Tears, fresh and sparkling in the fire light coursed over his cheeks. "You kissed me and did not cry. Did not weep…"

"Did you think I would?"

"Yes. When..." He turned his face away from her completely. "When I couldn't help myself and I imagined what it-what I wished to do to you, you always wept. Erik expected you to cry and beg me not to. You, my dream you, was so hurt that your teacher would betray you that way. Erik never imagined you willing."

She shook her head and took his wrist, pressing her cheek into his palm. "Erik, when we do make love, I will want you just as much as you want me. I already do. I'm just not ready now, maybe not soon, either. I'm sorry."

His face twisted into incredulous shock. "Sorry? You apologize? That you would allow me with this...body, to love you like that-It would be the greatest gift, the greatest sacrifice. If you allowed Erik to...m-make love to you." His fingers caressed her face, and Christine closed her eyes.

There was still so much to talk about, so much that needed to be explained and set down and figured out. But for this moment, right now, there was just Erik and Christine. No more guessing, no more questions. Free to be together, free to love if only for a moment. And yes, as always, it might once again burst into flames.

But this moment was worth the pain of being burned.

"That's what it would be Erik. What it will be. Making our love physical. No crying, or pleading. No fear."

"No fear," he echoed dumbly. "No fear for your poor, ugly Erik."

"Not from your Christine," she replied, kissing his palm.

Erik took a sharp intake of breath. "My Christine...my own." And then those dead lips lifted in a smile, dazed, confused, maybe not all together sane. She could only guess that he believed, for the first time, she might really be telling the truth. That she loved him. "If I promise to behave...may Erik kiss you again?"

Christine leaned down in reply. When he broke away, Erik burst into tears. He buried his horrible face in her knees and wept. Christine knew it was not despair or pain, and let him get it out, gently stroking his dark, dark hair. As she combed she noticed there were a few silver hairs here and there. I wonder if I made them, was her last thought before she closed her eyes, and let her utter exhaustion take over.

Chapter 10

Christine had fallen asleep there her hand on Erik's head. The man himself had returned to his senses, and realized the angel in his living room was slumbering. Her care came first before anything. The beautiful, wonderful creature who had granted him such forgiveness and mercy must have been so tired. He had taken her through trial and terror, and here she was, lips swollen from his monstrous kisses, hair tousled and eyes rimmed with purple.

Here.

He must protect her at all costs. And that started with putting her to bed.

Erik only had one, having built this maze like home for only one man with no hope for company. He lifted her small body, and carried her to his bedroom. Just outside he took a steadying breath, clasping her soft body to his chest. She would lay in his bed, and sleep. He would place her on his bed and leave. Christine had told him-needed him-to control the Phantom inside. The darkness that whispered to him while he stole his kisses from her; that all he had to do was talk, to sing and she would be his. Melt like butter in his hands, and he would know her soft beautiful body.

Perhaps Christine was right, he would not harm her. But he could. Oh he could. She was so small and so trusting-words of love so easily fell from her lips! And he could take that love and use her. Make her a little doll that sang for him, and laid herself down for him. He knew the techniques, learned them under threat of death and a whipping. He was a master of manipulation and illusion before anything.

He could be like madar. He almost was, once.

Erik laid her on his bed, and found every blanket he could. The cold here, seeping through the stone, never really bothered him. He had lived so many years in a closet in the cellar, started puberty there, and adapted. But now that the flush of their kisses were gone, he could see her nose and fingertips were pink with cold, despite the fire. He gathered all the spare bedding he had and tucked the quilts around her, topping it with the one Rookheeya had made for him. Red and black yarn crocheted in a pretty delicate pattern to put on his bed. It was her parting gift to him. Reza loved laying on it as a baby.

Christine curled under the weight of it and sighed, lashes fluttering on her pale cheeks as she sunk into a deeper level of sleep. Her tousled mane of dark brown curls spilled over his pillows, and Erik could not help himself, reaching for one and running it between his fingers as he kelt. He lay, half on the bed, and played with a single curl, the silkiness tempting him. Just another kiss-a kiss goodnight. He dropped her hair and slid off the mattress completely.

How selfish, how gluttonous. He, who had received his first kiss only hours ago, yearned for more. And the burning hunger rose in him again-the kind that clouded his mind and began to think how to steal and trick and gain. But he would not take a kiss from her in her sleep. He would not steal from Christine. Because if he pressed his lips to hers again, in his bed, while his body was so wanting and so weary from fighting himself, it would not stop there. And he would prove himself right-he would watch himself hold her down while she begged him to stop.

When we make love...when... She saw a future with him. As a couple. Erik removed himself quickly from the bedroom, closing the door quietly behind him. As he wove through the halls, he thought on the couples he knew.

Madar and her husband, who loathed each other and wanted each other. They were sick, Erik could see that now. Perhaps when they were younger, their ambitions and good looks may have brought them together. But madar's husband did not retain beauty like she had. And he was not as clever or vicious. She became the head of the family in her quiet covert way. To admit so would have emasculated him and seen as wrong in the eyes of the family, so madar's husband had let it go, never acknowledging it, but always resenting it. When Erik was up late cleaning, when he was still young, he could hear them in what could only be called fucking, taking out their hatred and disappointment on each other.

And he thought of Rookheeya and Nadir. The utter opposite. They adored one another, protected each other. There was a comfort always there between them, a love so strong it radiated off them, warming anyone around them. How many years had he spent in that house, first as a protected witness and then as a member of their new family? How many nights had he marveled at them over the edge of his books, watching as they sat together, happy just to be, and to know they were loved?

But Erik and Christine were not Madar and Bin Nasheed. Nor were they exactly Nadir and his Keya. So what were they? How could they be?

Fool, there is no future. She knows her maestro, she knows of the Phantom, but that is all. She only loves an illusion. Erik clapped his hands over his ears, willing his thoughts to stop as he fled to the edge of his house.

When they were building the opera, they had come across the water underground. With the city basically in the river, it wasn't odd, but it had been too much money and effort to drain it. So Erik had them build around it. His home stretched far under the parking garage, and ended at the lake here. On the other side was his path up to the theater itself. It wasn't very deep, but there as a little dinghy tied to the edge. Building a bridge took time, and Erik had never gotten around to it.

He stepped out the door, onto the stone of the dock. It was here had built his organ. The sound inside the cavern had been beautiful, bouncing off the water, echoing back to him. Here he had truly lost himself in sound and feeling. He wandered to the water's edge, and sat on the hard stone, gazing out at the little electric light above the door on the other side of the lake, the only light here.

Christine knew who he was. From birth until now, she knew almost everything. She had asked that he tell her even more. And she had stood there, an angel at the mouth of hell, and kissed the lips that had revealed such horrid crimes. Erik sighed, the old pain hitting him square in the chest again.

Lucy, so beautiful, so bold, so independent. Everything Erik himself was not. Lucy, with fire in her eyes, and in her soul. Lucy, spoiled and beautiful, but cruel; his perfect match in that respect at least. Lucy, whom he had loathed and desired.

Lucy crying, asking him why he would not simply love her.

"Why, why are you telling me this?"

"Because it is true. Go home, Lucy," he snapped, standing from his place on the floor. He had been surveying the work for tomorrow. what needed to get done as he had for years. Giovanni had been on retainer for the Nasheed's since Erik was a young man. He had accepted that their practises might have some stink to them, but Giovanni had wanted to build his own dreams on the side, and to do that he needed money. The Nasheeds gave him plenty of that. And he wanted Erik's help.

The smell was never bad enough to complain, apparently, and they gave him enough honest work to confuse him into not bothering. Erik, who had always been fascinated by watching buildings go up in a matter of months (from nothing into something so big!) had at any opportunity, watched the man, either as he sketched, surveyed or built himself.

Giovanni was flattered, and he had taken to the boy. The Nasheeds were a very private family, who usually hired only their own. But they had no architects, nor contractors. And as the only two non-Iranians, Erik and Giovanni had gravitated towards each other. Once the man found out about Erik's interest, it was all over. He bought the boy material, brought him to sites, and tutored him in the business. By then Erik had been madar's little lap dog, trained well enough not to run away. She didn't care if he learned under the Italian. After all, when Giovanni left or died, they would then have Erik and no need to hire outside again. The perfect situation: Giovanni had an apprentice and the Nasheed's had a spy to keep the Italian in line.

And then Lucy. His daughter, who had attached herself to Erik nearly the moment they met. Erik never saw it. He was a gangly ugly teenager and now a gangly ugly man. He had some muscle to do what he did, but the deformity always left him slender and far too tall. But she insisted seeing something mysterious about him: his mask, his good manners, the way he'd say her name in his odd accent (leftover French, American and some habits of speaking Farsi). She teased him, and mocked him. When the workers asked if they were together, she'd loudly list his many faults, making them laugh. But Erik was used to laughter.

"You're gonna stand there and tell me you don't want me," she screamed, tears falling over her cheeks. "I know you want me!"

"And what if I do," he sighed. "Who cares? Is that what you want me to say? I love you? That I want you? When you're flirting with every man that walks by so you can watch me watch you and burn with hatred?"

"I wanted your attention. I want you, damnit!"

"No, you don't," he growled. "You can't."

"I can! I do, don't tell me what I want," she shouted back. Even with her too heavy mascara running, her ombre dyed hair falling out of its band, she was beautiful. "I want you, I've wanted you since we were kids, and all you care about is your precious Esther!"

To that, Erik could only laugh. "Esther? Is this what this is about? Christ, Lucy, you're dense. Esther is getting married."

"And you've been moping about it for month."

Erik frowned. No. Not about that. He looked at his hands, and could hear Amir's wife and child screaming, could hear that stupid busy body cop banging down the door. Esther was finally having her wedding, bought in blood. No moping was not the correct word. "I don't want Esther. I want you. There. Happy?"

"Then have me," she said, coming up to him. "I'm here! I'm ready for you!"

He laughed in her face, laughed loud and long as if it was the funniest thing he'd ever heard. And in a sense it was. No one was ever ready for him, not The Phantom. Not the living corpse. Lucy was shocked, her cheeks flushing an angry red.

"You think I'm not? You fucking asshole, you think I can't handle you?" She reached for him, but his reflexes were faster. He duck and spun away, laughter dying.

"What are you doing?!"

"Kiss me, goddamnit," she snapped. "Be a man! Take off that stupid fucking mask and kiss me!"

His hand covered his face, holding the plaster to his deformity, all the humor and fight gone out of him. "No. No Lucy, I won't. It's not even about us. I won't subject you to this."

"Subject you to this," she mimicked. "You think you're so special? You think that whatever is under there is so special? You're precious face? What, you have a scar? Some bullshit like that? Or maybe you're just ugly, and you're a big ass baby about it!"

Rage had coursed through Erik once more, as if his gentle pleading had only been the deep breath before a scream. He shook with it. He had taken much of her belittling: about his talent, about his voice, even about his size both seen and unseen. But this, to belittle this curse he had been subjected to, the thing that had brought him years of torture, of suffering, of so much blood he almost drowned in it. This was too much.

Fingers digging into the eyeholes of the mask, he ripped it off with a snarl. "A baby am I?!"

Then she had screamed. She had covered her mouth and screamed, tripping over herself, over the scattered materials, hurrying away from him as he shouted over the din, hands reaching out, pleading for her to be quiet.

She tripped over the planks of plaster that were yet to create apartment walls. She had fallen backwards into the flimsy plastic shielding that kept the bitter wind out of this unfinished floor.

The sheet broken free of the tape and wrapped its arms around the screaming girl. She in her new shroud, had fallen out of sight in the span of a gasp. Erik stood, the sudden gaping maw of the plastic-free window letting in the whistling wind that whipped around his legs as he stared at the spot Lucy had been.

He heard an echoing thump.

Erik closed his eyes again the distant light, hanging his head. He had seen Christine do the same, backing away from something just as ugly-he love and devotion. She had gone over, but he had screamed. He was surprised no one had called the police, because he had screamed himself hoarse, trying to wake her. He had screamed and screamed until he had enough of a mind to get her in the car and take her to Nadir. Driving her through the city, such a horrific echo of that night.

He had driven from the apartments, tears clouding his vision, until he hit Franklin Lakes. He stumbled out of the haphazardly parked Bentley and up the steps of the mansion, gasping for breath. Because Lucy was dead,

Deaddeaddead and bleeding somewhere in Patterson. And it was his fault. He had not killed her on command, he had not strangled her and reported back. There was no direction here, there was no plan, no orders. So he came to the place where orders were given.

Into the kitchen he stepped, smelling dinner for tonight. Before he could see who was cooking, a hand slapped him sharply. "Take off your shoes, idiot. Are you ten again? Can't you remember to be clean," Madar snapped, turning back to the pot. Erik sighed, holding his face, and closed his eyes in joy at the pain coursing over his face.

Take off his shoes in the house, kneel and greet madar. That was how it was done. Here was order, here was calm and the familiar. He stepped out of his shoes and knelt to touch madar's feet. She sighed and waved him off. "You reek of the construction site. Don't you have a shower in that apartment?"

"Yes ma'am."

"Well use it. I don't want you stinking up my bathroom. What do you want?"

"I need to speak with Esther."

"She's upstairs. If you're going to waste her time talking, help her."

"Yes madar." He moved away, head down, shuffling up the stairs. He noted the carpet was slightly off colored. Their new servant, the daughter of the cousin of...someone in the family who was currently out of favor, wasn't doing the best job. He spied her as he passed the living room, cleaning the dinner table in preparation for the meal. Bin Nasheed himself was watching her from the living room, eyes scanning over her frame again and again. Apparently he didn't mind a pretty face even with a black eye.

Esther's room was the largest now, with all of her brothers gone to school and on their own. She had painted it lavender, and still had her childhood furniture, pine wood draped in white lace. She sat on the bed, tying ribbons around bags of sweets. Favors for her wedding. "Oh! Excellent, you're good at work like this." She tossed the bags, lace squares and ribbons on the other side of the bed, where she intended for him to sit. "I have to finish wrapping my bridesmaids gifts."

Erik carefully sat on the corner of the bed and picked up one of the bags, swathing it in a lace square and tying it off with a ribbon with quick easy motions. The grunt work was soothing, a task to complete, a person to serve. Here he knew just what to do, and there was no question or panic. Esther gathered up the thin jewelry boxes that held her bridesmaids' necklaces from her desk and returned to the bed. It bounced them both with the motion. She peered into his face and snickered. "Are you crying? Seriously? You haven't cried since you were like, five."

Esther, of course, had not known Erik when he was five. Those memories were of France, of a little bedroom with an always locked door and no windows. But he couldn't think of anything more right now. His head might actually crack. He tied another bag. "Esther...Esther, Lucy Giovanni is dead."

"Dead? Oh no, oh my God, how," she said her voice soft. She tilted her head, black locks tumbling over her shoulder. She looked so caring, so sincere. If she were not madar's step daughter he might have flung himself into her arms and buried himself in that sympathy.

"I...she...she wanted to see m-my face. A-a-and she fell off the site and...and..." He hiccupped, feeling the sobs come again. He looked towards the wall. There was a little lamp on her desk, one he always stared at when ever he spoke with her. At first it was because of who she was, a respectful gesture. And then, when he had spoken of how Lucy treated him, how he liked her, or even about some of his hopes and dreams of building beautiful houses, it was just easier. It was a familiar comforting sight.

And like a switch, the sympathy evaporated. Esther sighed. "Oh boy. You, God, you have to be more careful with your face." She rubbed her forehead. "Was Giovanni there?"

"...No." His tongue suddenly felt thick and heavy in his mouth. Where had the softness gone? Where was her sympathy now?

"Good. You have to tell maman. Something's gonna have to be done about her father." She scratched her head, fingers buried in her dark thick hair. "You've learned under him, right? Maybe he won't be needed anymore? That'd save a lot, since my wedding is costing an arm and a leg."

Erik's brain breathed a sigh of relief. Yes, they didn't need Giovanni. They had Erik. He could be 'handled' and Erik would be in the clear. He could be paid off, told some excuse and with a big enough check, sent back home to Italy. Or the cop that Bin Nasheed had could be arranged to oversee Giovanni's body when the deed was done, if he wouldn't cooperate. Make it look like a suicide. Yes, and his mistake would be washed away, and Erik would go on. In fact he'd be more useful.

It was in that moment, the moment relief came, he felt his heart crack cleanly in two. Because kind Esther, the one who had spirited him food when he starved, helped him walk when he was weak, Esther who had been so kind spoke reality to him. The family would kill Giovanni, madar would want him handled. And Erik would slit the throat (or more practically, wrists) of the man who had taken him under his wing, the only father Erik had known, and for a moment Erik had been glad.

"You know if you wanted someone, you could just convert. I have plenty of cousins."

He stood, taking a step backward.

Esther glanced up and mistook his stunned shock for the robotic movements of a well trained servant. "Yeah, go tell maman. Dinner should be done soon, too, can you bring me back a plate?"

He left the room, but he did not go and tell madar. He did not go to the kitchen, and see if dinner was done. He did not take his place in the family, he did not revel the thing that would make him one of them. An equal and not just a servant. Part of him, the part that told him to survive when so often he longed to die, screamed to go and obey and succeed. It was a strong voice, very convincing. But he could not obey it. No, he had to go somewhere, where that voice was powerless. Where that voice would not be able to convince him to coldly kill his father.

He had to be put away in a small cell where the boy, and his phantom voice, would never be seen or heard or hurt again.

Erik grunted as he stood from the water's edge and went to the organ. But he didn't play. Instead, he knelt and pressed a button on one of its many panels. A false bottom popped out from the bench. Here was a square of lace that had stuck to his leg that night, his very first sack cloth mask (the only thing he had of his mother), the official statement of his winnings from his civil suit, and soda can tab. Sitting on the bench, he picked up the tab, running his thumb over the little piece of metal.

What a shock he had given Nadir that night. Barefoot, tearful and out of breath on his doorstep. He had sped off from madar's house and raced up and down the highway, hoping that some officer would pull him over, find no license and take him in. It hadn't happened, as speeding was rather par for the course. He had arrived at detective Khan's house in record time. The little house had looked so sweet and innocent. They, too, had just been cooking dinner.

Khan had let him in, his gun already in hand and told him to stand in the living room. Erik had done so, and disarmed when told. His 45., the garrote he used, and the few knives he had hidden in his clothing. His boot knife was lost to him forever now, he thought with a distant sort of regret. He had sliced open Uncle Adam's throat with it, and his penis, which he had hoped to put in little Esther. The only good deed that blade had done.

After a pat down he told Erik to sit, and called in his wife. "Rookheeya, I need you to pack a bag and go to your sister's," he told her in soft Farsi.

"Wha-who is that?!" Rookheeya had stopped dead in the doorway to the kitchen, almost dropping the plate she was carrying.

"Rookheeya, go and-"

"Is that the Phantom? Is that the man that's been leaving those messages," she snapped. "I'm not leaving you alone with him-oh my God, are those his?" She pointed to what was now on her coffee table.

"Yes," Erik had said dully. They had both gaped at him, and he shrugged. "Did you think I did not speak Nasheed's language?"

"Oh...right," Khan murmured. "It-"

"This isn't normal," Erik had said, trying to comfort. Always ease, always make easy for others. "I understand. It is unusual for me as well. I've never confessed before."

"Right..." Khan and his wife had argued for a few more minutes. Erik had kept his eyes down, and noted with some pleasure that the woman had good taste in house decorations. She had complemented the design of the house and made it her own, she had a little taste. The arches of the doorways were obviously put in new... Finally, Rookheeya would not be moved and Khan had told her to fetch his tape recorder and stay out.

Hours they had spent, Erik telling all that he knew, Khan's gun always trained on him. He started with confirming that madar...that Yasmin, ruled the operation with an iron fist. Then his own killings. This led to mentioning her husband, her sons, her nephews and the marriages she had cultivated to leech power. Their crimes, and where. The soon to be crimes and even the names of a few cops that were paid to look the other way.

But Khan was a pesky, tiresome little man. There were some crimes that stretched far back, further back than Erik should recall. Things Erik heard as a child, flitting between rooms as he worked. 'How do you know that' followed every confession, and Erik told him he was there, and Khan would be confused, looking him up and down. Erik would learn later, without the tired aggravation that clouded his thoughts then, that Nadir had been adding up the years, and grown concerned. Erik was not much younger than he was, and the crimes he detailed happened when Nadir was in highschool, or earlier.

Then it came down to it: "How long have you been with Bin Nasheed?"

"A long time."

"Since?"

"A very long time."

"How old were you when they gave you your first job?"

"I do not know."

"About how many years ago? How old were you?"

Erik huffed, frustrated that he was missing the point. "Ten years ago? Twelve, perhaps? I do not know."

"You don't know how old you are?"

"No."

Khan had sat back a little stunned. "How do you not know how old you are?"

"I never had a birthday to tell me. I do not know my birthday. Is this relevant? I shall..." But what could he do? What threat could he make? He was confessing, most of it out already. He was going into that little cell-ashes to ashes dust to dust cell to cell his Catholic schooling, such as it was, brought back to him suddenly-and there was nothing he could do about it. The monster had trapped himself nicely, just as he planned. If only the path to his doom wasn't so tiresome!

"How did you come to be employed by the Nasheeds?"

Erik lifted his shoulders. "Why does it matter?"

"Oh..." And he heard the detective's voice break slightly. "Oh it matters very much right now."

Erik had sighed and sunk deeper into the cushions of the couch. If it would end this talking. He had never talked so much in his whole life, and his voice was going. His precious, insidious voice. "I do not remember the details. I remember being taken from my room, and looked over. I remember there was a price, a good couple of thousand francs? And then I was given to m-Yasmin."

"Francs-money was exchanged? Between who?"

"I don't r...Maybe he was my mother's husband? Not my father, but he lived there."

The detective leaned forward and voice marked the tape before shutting it off. Then he sat, head in his hands. For fifteen minutes he sat there, unmoving, staring at the floor. Rookheeya, who had of course been eavesdropping, popped her head into the room, softly calling 'Nadir?'

The man stood, turning his face from Erik. "Keya, is there food ready?"

"I can make something quick, dinner got cold," she supplied, hurrying off.

When the man turned back to his suspect, Erik could see there were tears in his round brown eyes. "I need you to tell me everything they did to you."

"Why? This is about what I have done," Erik snapped leaning forward, pounding the coffee table with his fist. "Is that not enough to put me away?"

"Yes. But I can't."

The phantom stood, glaring. Can't? Can't! "What kind of officer of the law are you?!"

"One that wants justice."

"This is justice. I am a murderer, have I not confessed over and over?"

"About how old were you when you were sold?"

"Why does it matter?!"

"Because you're not simply a suspect. You're a victim."

The accusation hit him squarely in the chest. The force of it sent him back down onto the sofa. A victim? No, he was a monster. The shadow that moved in darkness and strangled the life out of its prey. A victim was a helpless thing, a hurt thing. And innocent thing. "You're wrong."

But Khan was shaking his head. "If you want me to take you in, you're going to tell me everything I want to know. Everything. Understand?"

Erik could only nod, his brain gone dead silent from the accusation of victimhood. He did not know how long he sat there, silent as the grave. He could have very easily gotten up and left. Nadir could have easily called for back up in that time as well. But they were both too numb, to burdened with the sins of others to think clearly. It really was Erik's luck, to get a noble nemesis.

Rookheeya came in later with plates for both of them, as Khan was setting up a new tape. "Mac n cheese, I hope...well. It's hot and it's good," she said putting two plates down. She came back with two orange cans. "And something to pick you up. I know you can't drink when it's all official."

Erik took the can, and popped the tab, grateful for the fluid. The bubbly orange tasting substance surprised him as he sipped, and he spluttered a little. "It's all we have," Rookheeya had said apologetically. She had heard it all, and understood.

"It...it is good," he assured. "I am fine. You are too kind."

"First time I've heard that," she had replied with an attempt at humor. He had tried at a smile. They both failed.

Erik now ran the tab over and over again in his fingers. He had played with the stupid piece of metal while Nadir had leeched every horrific detail from him, about him. Khan had wept silently, tears coursing over his wide brown cheeks, the horror of it all rattling him. He had never gone into human trafficking, or child crimes or anything worse than the normal law breaking. It had been a shock to his genuinely kind system. And when Erik had taken off his mask, to prove why it had all happened to him, Nadir had stopped the tape and covered his face, shoulders shaking with grief. Never had there been any fear, even if Nadir still could not truly look Erik in the face.

The rest was a mess of officers, fingerprinting, pictures and finally a trip to the hospital. He was handcuffed to the bed and endured too many indignities, including, but not limited to, a rape kit. Just in case. But Erik had endured, thinking that at the end he'd be in a cell again. A cramped horrid little cell, but at least he'd be left alone, as he had been for so many years. Free from harm, from duties and humans. Free to hum himself healed and into the sweet madness that took him far from the bitter insanity of reality.

But that cell never came. Nadir had fought for that. Instead, there were many hissed conversations in that guarded hospital room over what to do. Nadir, quite unwilling, but in the end forced to used many of the same tactics madar had. Did he not want to see them suffer? To be punished for their crimes? To suffer for their attitude towards poor cold Lucy, and dear Giovanni? And Erik did. Erik did want them to suffer.

So much suffering he had witnessed, and created and endured. Suffering then, suffering now.

He clenched his fist around the tab and gathered the mask, lace and paper. Using the cloth mask he bound them all together and stood, going once more to the water's edge. The Phantom had confessed, had run and turned himself in. The Phantom lurked behind Erik's every step, his own hatefully beloved shadow. The Phantom gave him strength and conviction. The Phantom reminded him of the thing he was.

But Erik no longer wished to be a thing.

A thing could not return Christine's love-and he did, oh how he did! A thing could not kiss her, could not hold her, could not be with her. Only a man could do that. And he wanted to be a man, the man she claimed he was. He finally wanted to join this human race that had forgotten and abused him. For, despite their depths of evil, there was so much joy to be had. The joy of feeling, of learning, of creating. He thought of Nadir and Rookheeya, laughing together as little Reza cooed in Erik's arms. The joy of loving was strictly human.

And for a moment his mind envisioned something beautiful: He and Christine, tangled in his sheets. She willing, and smiling and joyful in his arms. Accepting his kisses as they basked in their nearness. No pain, no weeping. Just a man and a woman, loving. A beautiful fantasy that made his soul ache with want, both carnal and spiritual.

He would become a man for Christine. He could not just control it, he must kill the phantom; deprive him of life and air until he suffocated and was no more. He had wanted that for so long, for the past to die. But it was the thing within him that deserved the grave. While he cowered to it, it lived, grew strong. No more.

You will fail. You'll bring pain. You did before. Rookheeya dead, Reza dead. Nadir was right, they would be ashamed of you: for wanting to become something normal after all the hell you've created. You couldn't even be grateful to Nadir for sparing you the cell. The Phantom hissed his poison into Erik's ear, pleading for it's life, needing Erik's weakness to survive.

Well, Erik had learned a great deal under the Phantom's tutelage. The strongest victims took the longest to suffocate. He had time. An angel had descended into hell for three days. Now it was time for their Easter.

In the end it wasn't very dramatic. He rowed the dinghy to the other side of the lake, up into the theater and outside. He threw the little bundle in the dumpster before the truck came. Hiding in the new dawn shadows, arms folded, Erik watched the truck hook onto the dumpster and over turn it over the compression body.

"I don't want it," he said, turning over Bin Nasheed's ring in his fingers. Gold, inset with onyx surrounded by diamonds. "I don't want any of it. This was a mistake."

Rookheeya shook her head and pushed away from the island. "How $700,000 dollars is a mistake is totally beyond me," she muttered. "Erik, you deserve something. If you couldn't see that witch fry, this is a good substitute."

"You take it." Erik looked up, pushing his uneaten broccoli soup away. "You and Nadir."

"No-o way, habibi. That is not happening." She shook a finger at him. "That's your money. Why don't you build something with it? Or, or! Become a patron of the arts? Or you could buy a music label and publish whatever you scribble late at night when you think we're all asleep."

"No one will want the music of a madman, Keya."

"You aren't mad, Erik. Not anymore at least."

His lips pulled up slightly at that. "...I could pay for Reza's doctors."

She stopped moving for a minute, looking at the opposite wall. There was a calendar hanging up. In red ink were the dates for her doctor's appointments. In blue were Reza's. Erik was more of a realist, like Rookheeya. They never spoke of her appointments, Erik would never offer money for that, though he wanted to. But in the end, for her, it would be wasted.

Reza however…

"You do what you want with your money, habibi. But if you did...I would be grateful."

"I would take your illness if I could."

His words, so determined, made her smile sadly, her lips tilting without joy. "We can't have everything."

"We should have something. Justice, justice, all Nadir talks about is justice." Erik dropped the ring and immediately crumpled the bank statement that declared his winnings. "There's no justice in this. There's nothing in this. It is...it is…"

Her hands, so skinny now having lost all her mother-fat, closed over his dead ones. She was coming to resemble him more and more each day. "Take what you can Erik." She waited until he looked at her. "Take just what you can. Nothing is ever perfect. When we win, we always lose something along the way. Winning a case or winning a home, even if it means losing those you love, losing comfort. Take the good that you do get, and leave the rest. Come and help me with the dishes. I'm feeling a little winded."

Erik wiped his hands off on his pants and returned to his home. He would lose the Phantom, he would lose the comfort of being an outsider looking in. He would lose the safety of the shadows, and become a man with all the accountability that came with it. And he would lose something else: never trying meant never failing. He'd lose that guarantee too. But he'd take the good, even if it was just one more minute, one more look from his angel, and try his hand at being human.

And he would start with the very first thing humans usually did in the morning: Breakfast.

Chapter 11

She was in a seat at the theater. Stuck to a seat at the theater was more accurate. For if she had not been she would have been able to storm the stage, scream and stop this farce from continuing. Christine shouted soundlessly, cupping her fingers around her mouth to try and amplify the little raspy noise she could make. But it was no use. She had no voice, no way to communicate. She was trapped, forced the view the travesty before her.

In the halo of the spotlight, standing just right of center stage, a woman, her long brown hair loose, covering her silky white angel costume. Her mask was expressionless and stark in the stage light; so bright it hurt to look at.

At her feet was Maestro-Erik. He knelt, reaching up in supplication, broken and obedient.

"Bow," snapped the woman, and Erik obeyed. "Bark!" And again, he obeyed. Christine shook her head, trying to shake out the sound of Erik's canine imitation. "Laugh!" That cackle, that deranged demonic sound! Christine clapped her hands over her ears screaming for it to stop, stop, stop! But nothing but her useless panting came out.

The orders continued, again and again, more degrading than the last. Speak! Undress! Dress, you ugly thing! Bow!

"Love me," Erik begged, shaking from the exertion. His maskless face was bright with hope and sweat, looking at the angel with endless longing. "Love me! I serve only you!"

The angel touched her chest, as if aghast at the situation. "Love you? Love you. Shall you earn my love?"

"Yes! Yes, a thousand times yes! Let me earn your love, and I shall be as gentle as a lamb, your lamb! Do what you wish with me!"

The woman knelt held out the gold cord ties that cinched the waist of her gown. What a tableau: the ruthless angel and the creature, longing for her tender affection. "Kill yourself."

Eyes closed, as if in bliss, Erik took that chord in his hands and wrapped it around his throat as one would a gifted Christmas scarf; with a little flair. And then he pulled. No matter how hard Christine pressed her palms to her ears, no matter that she squeezed her eyes shut, she could not block out the sputtering guttural sounds of Erik's dying gasps.

A hand gentle rubbed her back, pulling her against a strong warm chest that smelled like wood, ink and grass. The smell of comfort, and home and stories and love. Christine started, looking up into her father's wide kind face. She clutched his shirt, his pure white shirt, starched and pressed, ready for a performance. 'Daddy, Daddy! Help him! Help him, he's dying,' she mouthed, shaking his collar, willing him to understand. Charles Daae's lips moved, but no sound came out, nothing to drown out the gasping.

Christine couldn't remember her father's voice.

---

"Christine! Christine, wake up!"

With a start, Christine struggled against the warm blankets that swaddled her. Suddenly, without her frantic help, they were pulled off. Erik hovered above her, his eyes wide behind his full face mask. Without thinking Christine wrapped her arms around his neck and ripped him closer, hugging him tightly. He tumbled ungracefully onto the bed beside her from the force of her grip. He didn't weigh much, nothing at all, but she was grateful for the feel of him, his heart beat against her cheek. Strong and steady and there.

"Christine…?"

"You were dead," she gasped. "You were dead, and I…" But there were no more words. Tears leaked out over her cheeks and she sobbed, heavy deep sobs that wracked her entire frame. Every tear she had held back, every moment of stiff lipped stoicism crumbled before her, leaving her heart fresh and open for the wounding. And now it felt like a splinter was lodged in it's very core, spasming with each beat. "You died, you died…"

"I am not dead. Come now, girl." Erik adjusted, sitting up slightly and pulling her with him. Seeing that she wasn't going to let go any time soon, he sighed and gently stroked her hair, the other hand rubbing soothing circles into her back. "Only a nightmare. Only a dream, Christine. It cannot reach you now. After all you've been through, then waking up in the monster's lair, Erik should have known-"

"You aren't a monster," she snapped, pulling back to glare at him with tear filled eyes. "You aren't a monster! Don't you ever say that again!"

"If you wish it." Unfortunately for Erik, that only caused her to sob once more and return to her death grip on his neck. The man could do nothing but hold her and wait out the storm.

As she hiccuped into an exhausted silence, Christine finally took inventory of her surroundings. Erik's home. Erik's underground home. Erik's bedroom, too, apparently on his king sized bed. It was not as dark as she imagined with the sun rise clock in the corner, giving the illusion of day break. Peering at the base of the disk she saw the time was nine thirty.

The room itself was fairly normal. That was off-putting: It was underground, belonged to a hermit genius, decorated lavishly, but it was in and of itself normal. Normal clock, normal furniture, normal wallpaper. She saw on the dresser there were several different masks made up of varying materials, tools to make the masks, and a sewing kit. The armoire was slightly ajar and she saw it packed with dress shirts and pressed trousers. Lined neatly along the wall were shoes and through an open door she saw a modern bathroom. For all the rooms beyond this door, this room was practically blase.

"Better?"

Glancing up, Christine tried for a smile. "Sorry." But she squeezed him tighter.

"Do not be. Of course you're having nightmares with all you've been through. Erik should have anticipated that."

"You can't control my dreams. Believe me, I wish you could."

"You dreamed I died."

"I dreamed that I killed you!"

Erik tilted his head to the side. "You do not have the capacity to kill. A very illogical nightmare Christine."

She pushed back a shiver, knowing that Erik would know exactly what it took to kill. Decades of slavery, abuse and insanity. No she wouldn't have the ability to kill, not coldly. "I dreamed I couldn't remember what my father sounded like."

"Oh, now...don't be afraid of that." Gently, he placed a hand on the back of her head, and tucked her curls under his chin. She half heard half felt him speak: "You'll never forget that. It will come back to you when you most need it. Do not try and force these things, Christine. We musicians are blessed and cursed with the gift of sound. Such things never really leave people like us."

Content in his cool grip, Christine closed her eyes again and felt the siren pull of sleep once more. She was so tired and rattled, she didn't even have the mind to register that this was their first hug, their first real touch as lovers. But new as it was, being in Erik's arms felt as normal as one of Meg's hugs.

"Meg!" Christine rifled around in her pockets, but her phone was gone. "Oh no!"

"What is it?"

"My phone-"

"Is on the charger, in my office." Free of her hold, Erik slid off the other side of the bed and brushed off his pants. He was dressed for the day, shirt, vest and trousers, complete with mask and gloves. "It was quite drained, I'm afraid."

"She's going to kill me."

"It is not good, Christine, to dwell on so much death before breakfast. Before you think of another grave prediction, let Erik feed you." He went to the door and picked up the bundle he had obviously dropped there. "Here. Relax in the bath for a while, and Erik will wash your clothes. I'm afraid all you have are my slacks to wear, but I was able to procure a shirt from upstairs."

Christine took the bundle. On top was a MAZANDERAN STAFF t shirt. She looked down at her own clothes. They'd been on her for three days, and were wrinkled to hell. And she hadn't showered. Suddenly she felt gross and embarrassed. "You don't mind?"

"No. Go and...and soak. For as long as you need." He wasn't looking at her, suddenly finding the clock very interesting. She blushed, too, her mind following the path of his.

"Do you have a ribbon?" At his silent confusion she continued, "to tie back my hair? The ones you use for your masks, maybe, if you don't mind? If I get this mess wet, it'll take forever to dry and I can guarantee what you use isn't strong enough."

Nodding, he went to the dresser and took out a roll of black ribbon from the sewing kit. Pulling a long length, he snipped it, then held it out to her. "I will be in the kitchen."

When he left Christine headed to the bath, determined to do just what he said. But her damning curse of curiosity nipped at her. With a resigned sigh at her own weakness, she placed the spare clothes on the bed and wandered over to the masks again. One was white and heavy, porcelain with a silk cushion. A few were paper mache, light for everyday use she supposed. And here was the one, black, with gold leaf. She recognized this from the first time they had met in the theater. Lifting it, carefully, Christine passed a finger over the pressed gold vines on the leather. She put it up to her own face.

No wonder Maestro lived inside his head, in his music. To see the world, with all it's sights and colors, through two round slits! How awful, how suffocating! Sneering at the thing, as if that was what had wronged Erik his whole life, she made to drop it back into the shallow box. Under the masks however was paper.

Envelopes and letters. She recognized a very old wedding invitation, christening invitations, party invitations and letters of thank you. She picked up one letter, and scanned the first few lines.

Dear Uncle Erik,

I want to thank you for your gift of my education. I've chosen to study at MIT and Dad said you'd find that acceptable since you would be paying for me to complete my degree. I know how lucky I am that I have a benefactor as generous as you. Going through prep school was awful at times, but I know that you wanted what was best, so I tried my hardest...

One of Jules' children. Nadir wasn't joking when he said he had put those kids through school. MIT wasn't cheap!

Placing it all back, she checked the door again. She was snooping and she knew it, but he was still such a mystery to her. She knew Maestro, and she now had full knowledge of The Phantom. But Erik, this man she loved, was still a distant tune, played from behind a locked door. She could hear him, but could not quite make out the tone and tenor of him.

Christine collected her clothes again, and indulged only once more. A bedside table told so much about a person, after all. Sliding open the drawer, she quickly peaked inside. A moleskine notebook, pen, prescription bottle and a gun, its magazine taken out and laid beside it. But there was also bits of plastic, smoothed out, but curved slightly. She caught the logo for The Little Latte, the young girl with her red scarf over her head like a hood, half stamped on one. Picking up the top, she saw that it was her hand writing. Music Angel written by her, from one of his drinks. It looked like everyone she had ever written for him was here, just hers, cut out from the cups.

Placing it back in the drawer, Christine smiled a little to herself. He loves me.

Erik's bathroom was big and well supplied. She tied up her hair securely before hopping into the shower stall and turning on the hot water. She felt the tension and ache from the past few days melt off as she stood under the steaming spray. His soap was masculine, but smelled wonderful. Teak wood and spice. I like beautiful things... Everything here was beautiful and fine.

Which meant he found her beautiful, too. He had very much proved that last night. She smiled at the frosted glass door. Our first kiss. Finally!

He had told her that she was beautiful last night and at the moment she had tried to keep him focused. But now she had time to savor the compliment. Christine had never minded her looks much. She looked like her mother, her dark curls, her short height, and curvy figure prone sometimes to plumpness. She was pale, and had her father's icy Swedish eyes, and a little too wide pink mouth. Nothing extraordinary, nothing much to fuss about.

But Erik thought she was beautiful. And wonderful apparently. And while she really must do something about his complex about her perfection (she shuddered almost violently, remembering her angel doppelganger), it was still nice to hear.

And he wanted her. Her whole face flushed again. No more of the school girl contemplation, like she had at work. No, there was proof now that he very much wanted her as a man wants a woman. And she, well, she wasn't too keen to deny him when the time was right. Her hands covered her wet, burning cheeks. Christine Daee was in love with a man, no young twenty somethings here.

Drying off quickly she donned the clothes he'd given her, and laughed at herself. The pants had to be rolled up nearly a hundred times to be short enough, and the draw string was pulled as tight as she could make it. The shirt was over-sized as well, but hid the fact that she wore nothing under it.

Padding out into the hall, she followed her nose to the kitchen. "Um..." At the sound of her voice, Erik whipped around immediately. "I can put my things in the washer. But I'm not sure where it is?"

He directed her down yet another hall, next to his boiler room. She saw a basket of freshly folded laundry already on top of the dryer. Normal, normal, normal. He craved the normality he thought he was so denied, and yet, was so shocked when she wanted a normal relationship. Christine shook her head. She was going to need food before diving back into the morass.

Back to the kitchen, her following like a distracted duckling, trying to peek into rooms as they passed. Finally, Erik gave up and took her hand to keep her near. "Erik will show you all that you want, later. Food first."

"Where will you sit," she asked, sliding onto the only stool at the island.

"Erik is fine standing." He had his sleeves rolled up as he was cooking, and Christine could see the faint track marks on his arms, like a dialysis patient would have. The only good thing she could think was that they looked old. Her stomach soured despite the delicious smells of an omelette cooking. "You were correct, last night."

"Oh?"

"I need to apologize. I harmed you."

"M-Erik, I fell off the stage because I wasn't looking."

"Not that. No I acted like a brute at your place of work. I grabbed your wrist. I hurt you with my words."

Christine looked down at her lap. Well, he had, and his apology last night had not really been about remorse but self hatred. "It's alright."

"It is not." Erik finished her omelette and plated it. Handing it to her he gathered her a fork and knife and a glass of water before he spoke again. "I have...contemplated our situation. And I must tell you again, though I do not want to, that it is best if we continue as student and teacher. Or perhaps...cease even that."

Christine frowned. "We discussed this already."

"You were distraught and-"

"I love you."

Erik closed his eyes and bent slightly, as if her words were a blow rather than a declaration. "Christine…"

"If we are going to talk, Erik I want to speak to you. I want to see you." Though the memory of his visage made her stomach still turn a little, now that she had seen it, she desperately missed his expressive face. Christine did not make to help him. She would not force him if he was truly too uncomfortable. And this was something he would have to come to terms with on his own.

"It will spoil your appetite."

"The omelette smells too good for that. And I'd like to see my Erik's face."

He let out a soft noise of disbelief and shook his head. His hand lifted and undid the ribbon of his mask, peeling it away from his face. The rest was easy to get used to, frankly, but the nose, or lack of it, was what caught her every time. Her stomach twisted a little more at the sight of it. But her face didn't change, and she was glad of that. Time, they both needed time. Her appetite wasn't gone completely, however. She leaned up, kissing his cheek, more to remind herself how soft his skin was than anything else. But she did not think Erik would care about her reason.

Indeed, the man sighed and leaned into her kiss. His next breath caught and she knew he'd be close to tears once more. Her arms came around his bony frame, this time savoring the new touch. "Good morning Erik."

"Good morning," he murmured back, hands undoing the ribbon from her hair. The curls tumbled down her back, aided by his smoothing hands. "You will not listen to reason?"

"Is reason giving up on this before we are even together?"

"Yes."

"Is reason giving up my music, my heart, and the chance for both of us to be happy, instead of apart: miserable and silent just because we might risk heartache?"

"...Yes."

"Then no, I won't listen to reason, so stop trying." She settled her cheek back against his chest, listening to his heartbeat. Strong and steady. So many chances, so many times this heart could have stopped, before she could have even known him, could have even missed him.

"Erik is weak," he murmured. Before she spoke, he placed a finger over her lips. "Erik-I-do not wish to let you go. I want you here, with me, always."

"Then why are you trying to send me away. Make me 'see reason'?"

"Because you are young, Christine. I am not. You are full of life and hope, and I am not."

She shook her head. "You are filled with more life than anyone I know. The music you create Erik, is filled with such feeling. A corpse couldn't make that kind of music."

He lifted what would have been an eyebrow had one grown, as if to say a corpse? Look at me. To that she pursed her lips. "I know what you're talking about. But you survived Erik. You survived Yasmin and drugs and hatred and trials. And for six years you've been locked away down here. Nadir gave you immunity, he allowed you a chance at life, why are you not living it? To protect me?"

"Of course. Of course to protect you, Christine."

"Well don't. I can protect myself." She shook her head and spoke over him as he began to protest. "I'm not a kid, Erik. I'm not a child. I know I did spectacular performance of one, but I'm an adult. I know what Nadir's story meant. I understand the gravity of what you did, and more importantly what was done to you." Christine wet her lips, eyes stinging from tears again. "I wish I could take it from you. The suffering, what you've been suffering your whole life."

"Do not pity me," he begged. "I would rather have your anger than your pity!"

"I don't pity you. I hate that it happened to you. I hate her more than anything. I wish-"

Erik took her hands suddenly, the hands she had balled into fists thinking about Yasmin Nasheed. "Erik told you: no more death before breakfast."

Christine chuckled without mirth. "Okay. I'll try. But only if you eat with me-and get rid of those gloves!"

He sighed, shoulders slumping in defeat. He removed the offending articles as he wandered back to the stove, tucking them in his back pocket. Her eyes lingered on that area without shame as she finally began to dig into her omelette. It was wonderful, of course it was. There was nothing he did not do, it seemed, without trying to do the best. He's had a lot of time to practice. Her first swallow was hard at that thought, but she firmly pushed it away. He was here now. And they were in jail. No more death this morning.

"This has nothing to do with you being a child, Christine."

"You're worried that I'm in love with your music, right?" She shook her head, her cheeks blushing at the memory of his confession. Of what he was tempted to do. "That your music is manipulating me, making me feel love that isn't genuine. Blinding me."

He cracked an egg smartly on the side of the counter. "Yes."

"Well it's not. I didn't fall in love with your music Erik. We've been dissecting and recreating it for months. And you never sing for me, except when you correct my vocals. I fell in love with you."

"You did not know me then."

"I know you now, and I feel the same. And I don't pity you, or...or feel like I owe you something!" She dropped her fork trying to figure out the right words. "I still love you, because you're gentle, and you're more kind than you think. If you'd like to know I hate when you become subservient! I like it when you argue with me and challenge me and make me be better. You make me a better person, you have. Not because you've manipulated me, but because you've loved me and an encouraged me. You were the one who told me I could sing and I did, you were the one who asked me to go back to the drums, and I did. You were the one that told me I wrote good music, so I have been writing. All those things you've given me, and all you can think about is the first fight we had!"

"But I am not you." He turned, frowning, frustration etched into his features. There was the fight he had been lacking. "I am not good, waiting to be...to be honed and perfected. I was an animal, a ghost of a man. And now I wish to be a man, for you! Because only a man can love you, but what if I am not a good man? What if there is not enough to make even a decent man? I will never be that...that boy!"

Christine scowled. "I don't want Raoul."

"You should!" Erik shook his head, pain now swallowing his fear, as if each word were a needle to ingest. He is good, a good man. You sang easily for him, you trust him, and you ought to."

A witness in a trial. A good man. Like so many things, it clicked right into place. Erik saw Raoul as the good, handsome foil to his ugly imposter. Raoul was a good man, and Erik believed he only played at one. "Too bad! You want to be a man, alright. You are afraid of being a bad one, so is everyone! That fear is what will make you a good man," Christine snapped. He flinched at her curt tirade and she tried to soften her tone. "Evil people don't worry about things like that Erik."

"I know that. I never did...not before…" Shame, now. Shame twisting his dead face as his shoulders hunched.

Sliding off her stool, and giving her one-bite omelette a longing look, she walked up to him. "Before you confessed. Evil people don't confess, and don't want to be punished." She reached up and cupped his cheek gently "I think you became a man a long time ago. You're just trying to figure out how to love."

He leaned into her touch, eyes focused somewhere over her shoulder. Then his gold gaze cast over her face. "You won't leave?"

Christine shook her head.

"You'll indulge Erik's selfishness and stay?"

A nod this time.

"And you'll love me, and let me love you?"

"Can we be done with this part of the argument, finally?" She tilted her face up for a kiss. With a small noise of defeat he leaned down, capturing her mouth. He eagerly kissed her, and as he moved to place his hands on her shoulders she murmured, muffled against his withered lips, "I'm also really hungry."

Christine felt his smirk before he pulled back and turned her towards the island again. "Eat."

She happily slid back onto her seat and devoured her food before resuming her new favorite pastime of admiring how well his finely tailored trousers fit his slender frame. Oh he was nothing but skin and bones, but the man knew how to tailor clothes to look just right. Besides, it was a backside that belonged to her, which made the sight all the more inviting. Erik finished making his portion and joined her at the counter.

"Is that all you were thinking while I bummed on your bed?"

"Mostly. You mentioned loving me made you a better person? I am hoping the same works for Erik, the man." He pushed his food around the plate rather than eating it. "I do not want to be that brute that screamed at you and grabbed your wrist."

"Well, yes, you're never yelling at me like that again," Christine agreed.

"Or try to harm you like I did with my insults. You did not butcher our music."

"That did hurt. It cut me like nothing else." Christine pushed a lock of hair out of his eyes. Ah, how wonderful to be able to, at last! "I am trusting you Erik. I know you think I shouldn't. No one probably will. But you've spent months assuring me, and encouraging me. Besides my singing, you've been pushing me to try new things, because you believe in me, not because you want something from me. Apart from the obvious you've proven to be gentle. To be loving. I trust that part of you told hold a piece of my heart. And I will try to be just as careful with yours."

His fingers came around her hand, and pressed a promising kiss into her palm, holding her fingers there. He cradled her as if she were an injured bird; firmly unwilling to let go, but tender enough not to hurt. "I must, I must, I must. Erik cannot be without this now," he whispered into her flesh. "Oh Christine, you're touching my face, my face! How can I live with only the memory now?"

Christine smiled, her thumb gently brushed the little bone of his nose. The skin was smooth here too. Such softness stretched so thin over stark horror. "You're also stubborn and passionate, and a show off and acidic, and I love that, too. That's what makes us such a good team."

Now he smirked a little. "You like that I am acidic? You did not like that Erik said your lack of breath was making you squeak like an ungreased wheel while we were learning Der Holle Rache."

She pulled a face. "Okay, well, yeah, that I'm not too pleased with...but I did squeak."

He chuckled and leaned into her hand once more, like a cat looking for affection. She thought for half a second he might actually start purring. "I did not mind."

Her mouth fell open. "Oh, what a lie!"

"You are right, I hate when you do that especially when it was the first thing Erik taught you."

"See?" She grinned and continued to stroke the lines from his forehead. It was the first normal interaction they had for days.

---

After finally finishing breakfast, Erik indulged more of Christine's insatiable curiosity and gave her a tour of his home. Music may have been his great love, but architecture was his best hobby. Each room seemed totally independent from each other in terms of style. Some had vaulted roofs, some low and wide. Some had lovely carved doors, other simply elegantly created archways. Christine of course was drawn to the library that was in the Rococo fashion, elegant in pastel blues and golds. Erik called it the Louis-Philippe library, and it was the only room in his home that had call backs to his motherland.

The Japanese sitting room was next, and she insisted he show her how to do a real tea ceremony with the little set he had on display. Carrying their fresh tea into his office she found out why he called it the 'Punjab Room'. Here lanterns (the same from the opera house's garden) provided soft light that sent the jewel tone clothes draped against the walls a glow. Christine had the warm feeling of being inside a tent on a lazy sunset evening.

In the Italy room, she was able to pore over his architecture drawings. Sitting in the false window seat, where the glass panes were flat lights that gave off fake sunlight, she lifted the sketches to admire the thin, straight lines and the bare bones of beautiful buildings. He showed her the plans he had framed, of the opera house and of other buildings he had once wished to make. He could draw as well, apparently, as there were sketches in the margins of the plans. Little 'doodles' that looked remarkably real. A few of Mr. Garnier, some of Rookheeya, and others of furniture or anything he found interesting at the moment.

On the dark mahogany shelves there were trinkets, little metal...things that could walk, or move or play music when he wound them up. "You created these," she asked in wonder.

"Yes. It's all just a matter of engineering. They don't do much. This one I made for Reza." He pulled down a little music box and lifted the lid. A little woman inside looked curled asleep. With a mechanical ticking, she rose and help out her arms as a lullaby played. Reza's mother.

"It's...Oh Erik." She gently touched the music woman's head, completely in awe. All these things he created, gave life to, and he called himself death incarnate? She held the little box as it played and remembered the little boy with his broken voice cheering 'Blow out the candles Erik! Blow them out!' She could imagine the child, curled up on his bed, watching the music box until he fell into peaceful sleep, all because of Erik's little gift.

At last, music room was purely modern, with sound proofing on the walls and racks for his carefully placed companions. Here he had his many violins set up, his Steinway tucked in the corner and other instruments he claimed to handle at varying levels of skill. "You mean we've been recording in the orchestra pit and you had a perfectly good studio hidden away?"

"If I had invited you to my house, Christine, Erik would not have been able to control himself," He murmured, smoothing down the sleeve of her t shirt. Throughout the entire tour, Erik had kept touching her. Now that he seemed to feel he was 'allowed' (he was), he did not want to stop. Whether it was a guiding hand on her back, or a finger twisting the end of a long curl around his finger, he was always in contact.

"You said you bought up the showcase to distance us, because we were getting too close. Is that because you wanted to show me your instruments?"

"My organ, yes. I had forgotten myself as we were creating, and the organ would add to our music, so I promised to show you. Erik wanted to impress you. But the organ is down here. And I did not realize how it would feel, you in my home, until I was preparing. Your...new familiarity wasn't aiding, as well. You were touching Erik more often, talking about 'us' more as a couple than as student and teacher."

"I was trying to confess."

"I know that now. I thought you were getting too close, not realizing what you were doing..." He took up one of her curls again, worrying it between his fingers. "But I always intended you for the showcase. It was my way of bringing you into the opera house, showing your talent, and smoothing your way into the role of diva."

"We have a lot to do then."

"Mmm?" His fingers trailed up her lock, apparently the showcase totally forgotten as he weaved his long fingers into her hair. She almost forgot too, as his hand gently massaged her scalp. The place she had hit still felt horribly sore, and his rub was easing the pain.

"For the show case?"

"You said you would not perform." His mouth turned down for a moment, and she knew he was thinking of her 'performance' at The Little Latte.

"I thought, if I could sing in front of my friends, then I'd prove there would be nothing to be afraid of. Get over this stupid fear." And what a fear! It seemed so distant now, Carlotta, lessons, the showcase. All the worries that had consumed her for months had fallen away, like scales from the eyes.

"It is not stupid. Your Maestro was cold and unsympathetic. But that young man did not watch you as an audience member."

"I told you-"

"Perhaps not on your end." He pulled her a little closer, gently leading her by his hold on her head. She went willingly, eager to wrap her arms around him. He was bony and there wasn't a comfortable place on him to hold. But after so many months-nearly a year-of looking and wanting, she found herself greedy for more. "But I know the look he gave you. He is half in love without already. And how can Erik blame him?"

"But Erik has what Raoul never will." Christine opened her eyes and lifted her face. "Erik has Christine. Raoul is like my big brother. Maybe, if you hadn't been there first, maybe. Even then I don't know. He's so wrapped up in my childhood, with memories of my father and mother. I'm not clinging to the past anymore, I've wasted too many years on that already. I'm clinging to you."

"Christine…"

The girl shivered. Her Maestro had such a way with her name, as if caressing the letters of it in lieu of the woman herself. And now… His lips ghosted over her temple, pressing softly against her forehead. His hands, both now buried in the morass of silky curls, held her captive as he traced the contour of her face with his dead lips, tilting her head this way and that. Christine, his willing victim, her lashes fluttering against her cheeks as he explored with feather like touches of his mouth, felt the slow simmer of heat rise in her cheeks. Suddenly their conversation was utterly forgotten. Her ears were filled with the sound of his small well placed kisses, the subtle shift of fabric as he stepped closer.

Cool lips became more firm as he followed the line of her jaw, kissing the hollow behind her ear. Christine's knees almost buckled, and his arm wrapped around her waist. Who knew a little kiss to that patch of flesh could make that happen? The electric shock raced down her spine to settle low in her belly. Her skin was a flame, hyper aware of every sensation; the softness of her clothes against her freshly washed skin, the firmness of his bony body against her soft pliant one. How his breath, now traveling over her pulse point, was so hot it almost burned.

Christine had never understood the term 'hungry for a kiss' before now. She needed his mouth on hers, needed to taste him again, participate with him. By now his free hand had slid to her back, fingers caressing between her shoulder blades through the thin cotton, exploring the flesh no longer bound by her undergarments. Down her spine, causing a shiver, up again to the softness of her throat, fingers dancing along the lines of her collar bone.

Her fingers wrapped around his tie, and she led his face back to hers until her lips claimed their new territory. For a second, she thought the power of their kiss might actually make her faint, feeling the world tilt around her. It wasn't until she remained conscious, and rather active, did she realize Erik had to bend to kiss her, and was tilting her back in his arms in a mockery of his former grip on the stage, days before.

Not one to pass up an opportunity, Christine locked her arms around his neck. She teased his thin lips with her tongue before growing bold and plundering his mouth, tasting the green tea he had made. Erik's own equilibrium was not doing well either, it seemed. When she pulled at his lower lip with her teeth, he staggered, a hand leaving her to brace against the keyboard of the piano sending out a jarring chord into the room.

He pulled back, avoiding her questing mouth to gaze quizzically at her. Their panting breath mingled as they were caught in a moment of choice. He was waiting on Christine, but could not wait long. She felt him shake with the force of control, his dark amber eyes half question, half dare. But her flesh called out for his, the need beating against her mind and...places certainly not as intellectual.

She had the night before told him she was not ready. There had been too much to think and say, emotions swinging so widely that to make love would only end in regret and blame. But now, captured in his arms, trapped by the iron strength of his grip, she searched for the quivering feeling of apprehension. Christine found none. That part of her was barren, passion flooding in its wake. She wanted Erik, every dead scared inch of him. He may fear his desire, but Christine wanted nothing but to be the victim of it. To once more be his student, and he the Maestro. What sounds might he pull from her in this new lesson?

"Christine…?" That beautiful voice, so low and breathless, almost a plea.

In answer, fingers trembling, Christine undid his tie pin, the little metal piece capped with a dark ruby pinged on the floor when it hit. Erik's head dropped, following its descent, watching it drop. Then only his eyes raised, waiting her next move, which was the first button on his brocade vest.

Now he stopped her, fingers closing over hers gently. "Erik does not wish to be brutish," he murmured.

"You're not going to hurt me, Erik." No, he could take her all he wished to, she would not cry out for help. Only for Erik. Her Erik. She rested her forehead against his, and felt him shake his head 'no'.

"On the top of the keyboard would be brutish."

Christine almost fell back against said keyboard. "O-oh."

Erik straightened and lifted her hands to his lips for a quick kiss. Holding fast to one, he turned and began leading her back out of the music room. Christine followed, a little slower, glancing back at the almost abused instrument. Sorry.

They were at the bedroom doorway when the tell tale ping of Erik's phone echoed from the office. He paused, glancing at her, a sardonic smile playing at his mouth. "Are you going to force me to answer?"

She raised a brow, suddenly brazen. She took a hold of his tie once more and brought him to her level. "Is your office desk better than the piano?"

"No." His mouth covered hers, and he knelt further, preparing to lift her into his arms. The ping sounded again-and then turned into a vibrating ring.

"It's Nadir, probably. I only left a note thanking him, I didn't tell him where I was going." Christine gave him an apologetic smile. "That might not have been wise."

Growling about the 'clucking busy body', Erik changed course and brought his student with him to the office. He let her go only to pick up his phone. The ring had stopped, and he was scrolling through the messages with a frown. With a quick tap he brought it to his ear. The answer was immediate and Christine could hear Nadir's voice from where she stood by the door. "I know," Erik answered when the rant ended. "She is here. She's safe...what report?"

The languid ease their would be love making had created in his posture was sapped away immediately, tension coiling his muscles, forcing him ramrod straight. "Who filed it? That's absurd, she's an adult."

Christine's stomach soured immediately, guilt falling over her like a weighted blanket. Meg. She'd been gone for what, four days? Of course she'd probably be hysterical by now.

"...A naval officer," Erik said, his eyes going wide, lip curled, tone deceptively light. "I see."

Christine covered her face. Not Meg. Raoul. Dear, heroic Raoul. Damnit Raoul. Just when she'd tried to settle Erik to the idea that he was a benign presence. Of course Raoul filed a report. Of course Meg let him. Did she really think after her spitting anger they'd let her get away with going silent, especially with Nadir calling her out of work? Stupid Christine, she should have sent that text when she had the chance at Khan's house.

"We will meet them in the theater. How fast can you be here? Charles? Well I suppose there's nothing for it." He hung up without saying goodbye, and dropped the phone on the desk with a clatter.

"Erik I'm sorry-"

"Why?" He turned to her, frowning. "Of course your friend is worried about you. That's what friends do, is it not? At least in that I have some experience."

The implication made her cheeks hot with a totally unpleasant feeling this time. "He's jus-I'm not going to say it again. Especially when we were almost in bed just now." To prove her point she tugged his vest, and re-buttoned the top button. "I'll just tell them that I'm fine, and that it was stupid to waste the police's time."

"I doubt he will be satisfied," Erik muttered, sneer still firmly in place. "I doubt it will be that easy. The police know me."

"You haven't been charged with anything have you." Her hands suddenly stilled on his chest. California. If he had a record out there, they wouldn't be very understanding.

Erik snorted, or what he could do with what nature gave him. "No. Luck has been my cruel and fickle friend. No charges, but a few stern warnings from the LAPD. Not that Erik was in the frame of mind to comprehend them." His hand began rubbing his right arm, and the injection sites through the sleeve.

Christine laid her hand on his. "But that's not a problem now." Her steely gazed locked with his, and he immediately softened.

"No, Christine. Erik is no longer using. Nor shall he ever. I have an addiction far more powerful now." His eyes trailed over her face. "When Reza...there was no music then. Only memory. Playing that night in the hospital over and over again. When I drank, when I used, there was at least silence. It numbed me to everything."

"Why did you leave," she asked softly. "You didn't when Rookheeya died. And...and you're so cold to Nadir, Erik. Why? You're like brothers."

"We are not," he murmured. With a shake of his head, he led her back to the bedroom, this time with totally different intent.

"He said you were."

"He would. Nadir is too kind to be Erik's brother. Erik owes him too much, and repaid him nothing. Erik has only taken from him, and does not deserve such a title."

"He said you were the only thing that kept him sane."

"Until I killed his son."

Christine, twisting the hem of her shirt, forced herself not to react quickly. She schooled her features when he glanced at her, gauging her reaction. He used the term 'kill' very loosely, and more often than she liked. "I have a hard time believing that. You loved Reza."

"Which makes my crime only worse."

"If you killed Reza, Nadir would have put you behind bars." Standing her ground Christine asked, "The real story please."

Erik took out his pocket watch and glanced at the time, giving him something to look at that wasn't his beloved, begging for another tale of woe. "Reza was ill all his life, we tried to find a cure, but… One night, he was having trouble breathing. We both knew this was it. The last midnight trip to the hospital. In the end it came down to life support. There was no chance, but they still needed a signature. Nadir wept, and asked of me 'what parent can kill their own child?'. None should." His lips turned up in a humorless smile. "No parent should sell their child either. If only my mother went through what Nadir did, and Nadir had the healthy ugly child. It would have been better for all.

"I signed the papers. Forged his name when he could not. I killed his child, and knowing that I did, I left his house immediately. How dare I stay under his roof, break bread with him, be family to him when his kin's blood was on my hands?"

How many depths of horror could someone listen to before going mad. She rubbed her forehead, wondering if she was teetering close to it. "He doesn't think the same. Not at all. Not every tragedy in the world is yours to own." Christine swallowed, glad she had spoken without a break in her voice, and looked down at her stocking feet. Then there was a cold kiss on her hair, and she was dragged back from the edge of sorrow once more.

"You are a good girl, Christine. And your clothes are still in the wash unfortunately."

"Let me get my purse. And shoes." Her current state of dress probably wasn't going to help their case, but there was nothing for it now. Let them assume what happened did, she would not shy from it.

But Christine was a little glad it didn't, now that she was free of the lust-haze and thinking clearly. Not that she would have totally regretted their love making. She glanced at the bed as she slipped into her sneakers. But perhaps it was better if she had more time to think than a few hours. And when she did not still have a lingering headache. No, when they made love she wanted nothing in their bed but her heart and his. No ghosts, no guilt.

Perched on the edge of the mattress, leaning back she watched Erik select a suit jacket, and then a mask (a white one to match his crisp, white shirt), tying it on deftly. Smoothing back his hair, he turned and asked if she was ready, stopping dead at the sight of her on his bed. It took Christine a couple of seconds before realizing what he was staring at. She hopped off the edge immediately. "Sorry."

"You have it very backwards," he said at last, after several swallows. "You apologize for things you ought not, but remain stubborn and obstinate when you squeak on stage."

"That one aria! Just that one!"

He lead her easily through the maze of his home until they reached a heavy metal door with an airtight seal. Opening it, they stepped out into what looked like a cavern, with a small lake in the middle. He was explaining to her the complications of draining a lake when building and how it was better to simply build around it, before the first question even dropped from her lips. He seemed to be old hat at her curiosity by now.

Evidently the stairs underground had gone down a long way. But what impressed her most was the organ on the far side: a real beautiful pipe organ polished to gleam in the low light. It's rack of pipes reached high up into the cavern ceiling, almost into darkness, and the bench was covered in a red velvet cushion, complimenting the dark mahogany wood Despite it being so close to water, it looked brand new and untouched by nature. It was obviously well loved. There were several scores on the music rack she recognized as Erik's with it's red ink.

"Later," Erik promised, taking her hand just as she began to wander over to the keyboards, and helping her onto the dinghy. "I don't want them waiting for us longer than they already will." He took the long pole from off the wall and pushed them off into the water.

"You do this just to get into the theater? Every time," she wondered, glancing back at the organ. It wasn't very far at all from 'shore' to 'shore', but she assumed the little lake made up in depth what it lacked in width.

"Yes. It's not very hard. I should build a bridge, I suppose. But Erik often thought of it as some kind of security," he admitted. "The water is freezing, and dirty. Not conducive for swimming. I was thinking of adding a siren, to alert me should anyone try to jump in and swim to my house."

Christine, who had wanted to trail her fingers through the glassy ripples the boat was making, immediately snatched back her hand. After docking, they stepped out and found the door to another set of stairs. This was a shorter journey, as it opened up into the opera's cellar where they kept old pieces of scenery and damaged costumes waiting to be used for scrap. As they climbed to the back stage, the familiar warmth, smell, and feel of the place washed her clean of any lingering darkness.

She felt a bit like coming home. She glanced at her companion and knew it would make him happy to hear. She'd have to tell him so afterward.

After they faced the world waiting for them in the lobby.

Chapter 12

They heard voices even before they reached the lobby. Raoul's voice over the rest made Christine's stomach twist. He sounded snappish, and she could hear a low calmer voice trying to sooth. Before Erik took the handle of the theater door, she grabbed his hand. Lifting the gloved limb to her mouth she pressed a kiss to it. "Have I ever lied to you?"

She wished she could see the confusion in his face, but all that was visible now was the slight frown on his thin lips. He bent slightly, his fingers winding between hers. He always held her hand as if it were made of glass. "Never."

"Then you believe that I love you?"

"I believe that you mean it. It is hard to believe it fully."

Christine squeezed his fingers. "He's worried, and whatever he says, it's not true. Remember that."

Erik's eyes narrowed, but he inclined his head. His fingers around hers tightened for a moment. "Erik will not harm your friend. How ever dearly he might wish to knock sense into him using the door. A missing persons report for an adult accounted for…" He descended into muttering in Farsi, and Christine was a little glad she didn't understand whatever he was muttering against Raoul. He opened the door, letting her go through first.

"Christine!" Raoul was at her side in a moment and pulled her into a tight embrace. Christine could feel Erik's gaze burning into her neck as he let go of her fingers. Well, she had been missing, and he was worried. I can't coddle him, he wants to be a man he will have to learn to keep his temper in check. Still, she pulled away before long, and took a step back, putting her hands on Raoul's wrists to keep him from reaching for her again. Christine didn't want him too carried away. She was taken now, after all.

"I'm alright. I'm sorr-"

"Christine we've called you non-stop! Meg's been out of her mind with worry! And then Mrs. Giry gets a call that you fell?! Your head-" He looked her over, trying to find evidence of harm, and finally took in her state of dress. His bright blue eyes snapped to Erik, and narrowed. "Come on. Let's get you home."

"Excuse me." Now Christine looked passed her old friend. There was an officer in uniform standing by the ticket booth. Behind him was Nadir and Mr. Garnier, both locked in a furious conversation, looking stern and aggravated. But their glares were sent in Raoul's direction, not Erik's. Indeed as soon as Erik stepped out from the shadows, Charles was by his side, murmuring too low for Christine to hear. Erik shook his head and tried to step back, but Charles put a hand on his arm and hissed something else.

The officer came forward and gently hovered a hand over her shoulder, gesturing towards the benches near the coat check. "I'd like to talk to you Ms. Daae."

"Officer, I'm sorry for causing so much trouble," Christine hurried to say. "I'm fine really, I wasn't missing. Detective Khan knew where I was, and-"

"Yes, I know. But unfortunately, Detective Khan has a relationship with the man Lt. Commander DeChangy is accusing. Now please, come with me."

She chanced a look at Erik, but his face was stone. His gloved hands however, were firmly folded behind his back, and he was as silent as the grave. She wasn't sure if that was good or not.

Following the officer away from everyone else, Christine sunk down onto the plush velvet of the bench. Nadir joined Erik and Charles, but to whatever he said, Erik shook his head. He was staring at Christine, and she could see the sadness in his golden eyes. Did he think she was about to break from this? Give up when she had promised so faithfully?

"The story I have been told is that you and Mr. Khan," he gestured at Erik, "had an altercation in front of your workplace."

"It wasn't an altercation, we had a fight. We shouted at each other."

"And you drove off recklessly."

"I...might have been going a little fast. But I didn't run any stop signs or lights, you can check the cameras! I'm sorry, I'll pay a speeding fine."

The officer smiled a little at that. "I won't charge you. That's not really the point. But you had an altercation, didn't you? You fell."

"No," she insisted. "We came back here-or Erik came here and I followed and we continued talking. Arguing," she corrected at the officer's raised brow.

"And you 'fell'."

She grit her teeth at the insinuation. Erik's behavior had been unacceptable. But he had never even made a gesture to hurt her. Even though he had grabbed her wrist, it had been her pulling that hurt. At least that sin wasn't laid at his doorstep. He'd done so much that he was accountable for-she was not about to let some stranger pin falsehoods to him as well! "I fell because we were on the stage, and I was angry and not thinking clearly and I was too close to the edge. I turned to leave, and I fell into the orchestra pit."

"Ms. Daae, If you two argued I can understand." The officer tried for another smile, that he must have thought comforting, but Christine only found condescending. "Things get heated, people do things they don't mean. Maybe he might have pushed you, or backed you up and-"

"I misstepped and fell. He was on the other side of the stage, otherwise he probably would have stopped me going over," she insisted.

"I want to believe you, I do. But I have spoken to Ms. Giry, your friend? She says that you've been here in secret, telling no one. And all of a sudden there's a fight where you accidentally get hurt? You can see how it looks."

"It wasn't in secret." Christine and Charles both spoke at the same time.

Now everyone in the room looked to Mr. Garnier, who had wandered a little closer to the officer and supposed victim. "I knew about it." Behind him Erik's lips parted. He was staring at Charles in shock. Did he think his friend as about to throw him under the bus?

"You did?"

"Of course I did. She's to be our new lead, hopefully. Officer Rodriguez, it's a cut throat industry, the theater. It was kept a secret so that the manager and our current lead actress can't start throwing their weight around, or try to scare off Ms. Daae before she's ready. Mr. Khan and I own this theater and we've been in a bit of tug-of-war with the management. Mr. Khan asked her to keep it silent, because in the digital age there's no such thing as secrets anymore. The usher manager and our staff knew she was coming here, but not the exact reason. I can call them in, if you like."

"And after a few months I did tell Meg," Christine insisted. "It was secret at first. But she was worried, and I thought I ought to let someone know."

"Hmmm." Officer Rodriguez pursed his lips. A little behind him Raoul glanced at Christine, his look pleading; as if begging her to tell an awful tale of woe they'd find more truthful. He obviously didn't believe it was that benign either. "Well then. You fell."

"Yes. And Erik called detective Khan."

"Why weren't you taken to a hospital?"

"I guess he panicked. I mean, I was knocked out. It's scary. And maybe he was afraid of just what's happening now. But when I woke up, I was sore, but fine. I told detective Khan I didn't want to go to the hospital. He let me stay with him for the day."

"And how did you end up back here?"

"I used the bus. It wasn't-I was a still upset, but I wanted to make up. That's why I didn't talk to anyone. I'm sorry I scared everyone, but that's the truth. I wasn't thinking. That's not a crime is it?"

"No. But not contacting anyone after nearly getting a concussion: that's quite upset."

"Carlos, come on," Nadir said, spreading his hands. "Artists, man. They're like that. They had a lover's spat, and she fell. Erik drove her to me, because who in the hell wants to go to Christ Hospital? I told her not to come back, Erik didn't try to make her come back but she's not my daughter. She'd an adult."

"A lover's spat? Her arm is bruised and she fell off a stage, Khan. He's your friend, you know how this looks," the cop snapped. Nadir looked just about ready to pull rank when Rodriguez said, "Listen, help me help you. You don't want to risk an IA investigation, thinking you're covering up domestic abuse, right? Fine. Maybe they should cool off for a bit. From what I've been told they've been seeing each other nearly everyday for almost a year. Let's give it a break for...a month or two."

That caused an immediate reaction from almost all parties.

"Two months," Christine cried. "We'll miss Christmas!"

"She has lessons," was Erik's concern.

"They're practising for a production," Charles added in.

Rodriguez held up his hands and spoke over them all. "It's that or I take you all down for official questioning and maybe even booking. That's what I ought to do, assessing this situation. She's bruised, not in her own clothes, saying 'nothing happened it was just an accident I fell'? All the evidence points to abuse, and if he wasn't your friend Khan you'd say the same."

"But he is and I know better," Nadir snapped.

"That's precisely why we have to be extra cautious. I'm trusting your opinion, give me that at least. It's your choice." Rodriguez shrugged, addressing the room at large again. "Booking or a break. But I'm not leaving here doing nothing, while she's sitting here banged up."

"Excuse me. Can I ask a few questions?" Charles, giving his best salesman smile, turned to Raoul. "Who are you?"

Raoul, who had been happy to blend in the background, the silent referee, blinked at the sudden inclusion. "Lt. Commander DeChangy."

"And, how do you know Miss Daae?"

"She's my friend. I've known her forever."

"Right." Charles looked between Christine and Raoul. "You're a friend that saw Christine fight with her boyfriend, and despite having information about where she was, called the police anyway?"

The unspoken accusation made Raoul color. "Listen, we called Detective Khan and he didn't know where she was this morning. Then she wouldn't answer her phone, and she always answers her phone. It'd been like a day, and she was hurt!"

"Sure," was all Charles said to that. He shook his head and returned to his spot planted at Erik's side.

Nadir was about to add his two cents, when, to the surprise of all, Erik placed a hand on his arm. "Don't risk your retirement any further," he said softly. "This is the price I have to pay."

"Price you have to pa-it's bullshit," Nadir hissed to him. But all he did was shove his hands in his pockets and pace away. "Like I've ever given you special treatment."

Christine was not so easily changed. She looked at Erik, trying to catch his eye again. But he was staring firmly at the floor, arms folded. This was ridiculous! She was responsible for her own life! If only Erik had not already been tangled up in the law, if Nadir's reputation hadn't been at risk, she'd tell the cop to take them down to booking and either charge Erik so he could fight it or let them go.

But he is tangled up in it. He is all those things. This is what you will have to handle now. If the scorn was Erik's price, this...this was Christine's. She would have to fight to make them understand.

Tears crowding her eyes, she looked down into her lap. She didn't want to cry again, and she didn't want anyone thinking she couldn't handle the situation and give credence to their accusations. Then she saw her wrist. It was a little purple, very faint where she had tried to twist in his grip; she hadn't seen it with her sweater. She rubbed her thumb over it. It was ugly stain on her white skin, one that no one would understand at first. But Christine would make them understand at last. Still, she looked at Erik once more, wishing he'd fight a little bit. Was he giving up before he suspected she would, to save him the pain?

When he lifted his face, however, she reconsidered. From behind his mask he sent Raoul the darkest of looks, golden eyes shadowed, and posture rigid. In that second Christine came face to face with the Phantom, hungry for violence and vengeance.

"Two months. Miss Christmas and New Years. Fine." Christine pushed herself off the bench and adjusted her bag on her shoulder, planted herself between Raoul and Erik's line of vision. "Fine, I'll jeopardize my entire career if it means you'll leave us alone."

Rodriguez ran his tongue over his teeth, but at least relented. "Alright then." Behind the officer, Raoul frowned, but at least said nothing more. If he had, Christine didn't know who would be in less control: her or Erik.

"Can I at least say goodbye?"

"If you want. Lt. Commander, let's talk outside."

When Rodriguez and Raoul left the theater, Christine finally dropped her bravado and went to Erik. He was watching Raoul, as if calculating how fast he could get to him before either cop reacted. Or maybe Christine was just envisioning the worst case scenario. He did look seething. "Two months, we're going to lose so much time. We'll have to crunch for the showcase-"

"It's not enough time," Erik said with certainty, made sharp by vitriol. "Erik will have to think of something else."

"But...But Carlotta. You-I want to help." How stupid she had been. Now she may have ruined Erik's plans for good. All they had been working for, all he had asked of her in return for so much. He might have to listen to Carlotta screech until she retired!

"You will. Erik will think of something." He took one of her curls gently, rubbing it between his fingers. At first the movement was jerky, robotic and she feared he might accidentally rip the lock out unthinkingly. But, as always, he handled every part of her with unexpected gentility. With each pass of his gloved thumb over her silken hair, the rage seemed to exsanguinate. "Erik would suffer Carlotta for hours on end, for the few moments you have already given me. I will remember them for the rest of my wretched life."

The way he spoke, with such finality, made Christine's stomach sour. "I'm coming straight back." She captured his thin wrist. "I'm not going to go off and have Raoul try to convince me that what I feel is manipulation. I know my own mind, so both you and him can stop trying to make me think otherwise."

Erik's fingers fisted, but he said no more about being compared to 'the boy'.

"Don't worry," Nadir said, having returned from walking off his anger. "He's staying with me during the separation."

"Am I," Erik asked, giving his friend a sidelong glance.

"Yes, you are. And I'm not taking no for an answer, go pack a bag."

Christine forced Erik's fingers opened and pressed his palm to her face. "I think it's a good idea. Just until I can speak with you again. Someone has to make sure you eat."

"Erik eats, woman." It took a moment for Erik to thaw, but when he did, his gloved thumb ran over her lips, his shoulders lifting around his ears. They tingled under his touch and Christine was reminded of how, mere moments before, he had devoured them. How they had hurried towards his bedroom, ready to press every inch of skin together and create a different melody all together.

She was a little glad they hadn't, though. Erik's utter revulsion as his own natural want, and her hesitancy that had been totally swept away in the moment wouldn't be solved with one afternoon of hurried love making. Even if it would have been sublime. Maybe time wasn't the worst thing in the world, even if the circumstances were unjust.

Nadir seemed to be thinking along the same path. "It will be alright, Christine. Spend some time at home. Rest your head, and be with your friends. They obviously need you, and they need to see they still have you."

Christine nodded, understanding. Like many young woman the signs of abuse had been drilled into her head: isolation was the first. She would have to prove that Erik wasn't pulling her away from the world, to control and harm her. It was almost laughable. She had fallen off the damn stage in part because he was pushing her away, keeping her a apart from him.

"Your life is indeed missing you, Christine," Erik murmured.

The comment zinged across her heart having lost all of its teasing endearment. Erik had quietly predicted this the entire time. That sometime, somehow, their precious conclave of music and feeling and belonging would be broken apart, like everything he had created for himself. She hated that he had been proven right. Christine stepped up and motioned for him to bend down. Carefully, with the tips of her fingers on the mask's edge, she signaled what she planned to do. Erik took control of her fingers with his free hand and helped her lift up the mask as far as he was comfortable.

Quickly she pressed her lips to his in a sweet kiss, and did not budge until she felt him respond. If she was to break his will, at least she could do it for his own good. He stepped back and adjusted his mask proper, glancing at Nadir who, along with Charles, had suddenly found the molding around a nearby light very interesting.

The door to the theater opened as they broke away, and she heard Raoul call her name softly.

"The monster is giving her, her liberty," Erik spat. His patience, what precious little that had been recovered with Christine's kiss, ended. "Fear not."

Christine glanced at her friend, who did not look at all convinced. "Two months. I don't want to miss Christmas with you. But we'll have others. And I'll practise every day, like usual. No slacking off. And our music-"

"Will be the only thing that keeps your Erik sane," he murmured softly, so as not to be overheard. "I will have you without having you. You'll be in every line of our songs."

And you'll be in every beat, she added silently. They could take her away from Erik physically. But that was all. He lived inside her, fused with her music. Her heart, which had been made vacant for so long, was suddenly filled with an occupant that painted every wall with his colors. His love. They couldn't be too far away so long as they had that. "Good. Please be gentle with Nadir."

"Erik treats Nadir very well indeed, clucking busy body that he is," her lover said, more for the detective's benefit than her own. "And you will have your freedom. If…" Then he ducked his head, quickly pulling off his glove from his grey, veined hand. The gold ring on his little finger glinted wickedly when he slid it off. Taking her hand, he placed it in her palm. "If you take this. It would bring your poor, pinning Erik great comfort if you carried this with you."

"Alright. Are you sure?" She touched the ring, still cool from his lack of warmth. The stones looked expensive. She could be holding five thousand dollars in her hand right now.

"I am very sure." He closed her fingers over it.

Christine, gripping the ring tightly, put her arms around his bony ribs, and squeezed. Erik's hands cupped the back of her head, and she could feel him place a kiss on her crown. Two months. She could do it. Turning towards Raoul like one who would walk to their execution, they left the theater into the too bright November morning outside the opera house. She blinked at the sun, and after the colors and wonders of Erik's home, the art center of Jersey City looked grey and lifeless despite the morning rush already in full swing.

Erik would have his friends to comfort him. She was sure she was not in for such a warm welcome.

---

The car ride was as awful as Christine feared it would be. Most of it was in dead silence, Raoul driving them the half an hour back to Caldwell as remote as a stone templar to her. She sat, turning Erik's onyx ring over and over in her hands. She wondered if he knew the significance of giving a woman a ring...

When they pulled up to the Giry's house, he finally said, "I know what I saw in the parking lot Christine." His usually butter soft voice was low and rough. Christine glanced at him, the face that was so familiar, and now so totally alien to her, illuminated faintly by the porch light reaching in through the windshield. Oh, he was still brave Raoul, fetcher of toys from peril, but now the stuffed bears were a woman of more than twenty years, and the monsters were men with good hearts but poor communication; not just ugly troll dolls propped up with no names.

They were so like the children they had been, bonded so closely together. Even now with his rage and her resentment, Christine felt comfortable in his presence, as if she had not missed a single second. But it still stood that she barely knew the man, the officer that sat with her. And he did not know the musician he so wanted to protect.

She rubbed her forehead. "I know how it looked."

"He called you names. He degraded you and yelled in your face. I know those types of men."

You didn't know it right in your own squad, was on the tip of her tongue, and she quickly bit it back. Immediately a rush of poisonous guilt flushed through her, and Christine felt the need to apologize for even thinking such a hateful thing. She couldn't cut at him, she didn't have the right to do that. Christine hadn't done right, not at least shooting them a quick message assuring them of her safety.

She wanted to be as strong as everyone claimed: well, people with strength admitted when they were wrong. Raoul might be over sensitive to the situation of course; between the court martial and seeing Christine through the eyes of a childhood friend; but he did genuinely care. She resented the over reaction, yet she couldn't resent the intention.

"Erik is a passionate man. And how he behaved was completely wrong. And I told him so."

"Then why were you with him? Detective Khan said you left the night before last. You were with him the whole day."

"He apologized-"

"Said he was sorry? That he'd never do it again," Raoul said skeptically, quote the cliches he'd heard before. "He screamed at you for singing Christine. Singing!"

"No," Christine continued, reigning in her frustration. Her hand closed tightly over the ring closed in her palm. "He said it was wrong. That he was wrong and he knew he had to change if we were going to be together. Everyone thinks we've been together. We haven't. He was-still is-my teacher. But it's been unspoken between us and it came to a head because of…" She glanced at Raoul. Telling him the sight of his handsome face was the catalyst for all this would not be the best explanation. "Of me exposing what we were doing. But...all this frustration was about us, not the singing."

"And now you're dating? Because of all that bullshit?"

"No. Not dating, it's not that simple." What they were couldn't really be called dating. They were in love...but it wasn't as if they were going to go to the movies on Fridays and neck in his Jaguar. They were building music together, taking the good of their own existences and building a life together, catching each other's hearts in between. This wasn't just a flushed feeling that overcame her. There wasn't a word for what they were, nothing official, but nothing as shallow as dating. Their love was real, and it was more than affection and desire. It was a real job, and it was that effort that proved to Christine it was real. That it was permanent. She squeezed the ring again. As permanent as...

She finally turned to look into Raoul's face. His brow was furrowed, his bright blue eyes wide with fear for her. "I know how it looks Raoul, but I told that cop the truth. I fell-he told me something about himself, and I got upset, backed up and fell."

"The fact that he used?" Raoul frowned. "I saw his wrist when he pulled his glove back on. I know what track marks look like."

Christine frowned for a moment. It was odd to hear Raoul, in that voice that still sounded so much like the boy she knew, talk about abuse and track marks. He wasn't the only one that was having difficulty plucking the thread of a new relationship from the tapestry of the past. All at once, Christine hoped that even with Erik and her mistakes, there would still be a place for him and his worrying kindness in her life, even if that place was not so intimate as Raoul would like. "Something like that. Raoul, you're a soldier. Did you do things that followed you? I'm not trying to pry..."

"I don't have PTSD," he told her plainly. He dropped his eyes to the stick shift between them. "But...yes."

"You're a dangerous man, because of everything you know. But you won't hurt me or anyone else, will you?"

"Of course not. Of course not because I know better!"

"Right. You know better. You were raised better, you were shown what kindness is, you know how to love people because you've been loved. And even though you became a soldier, and saw and did things that rattled you, you kept that part because you know it's important." She placed her hand on his. He immediately took it, and entwined their fingers.

Her heart skittered. It was such a quick and easy thing. He was holding her hand as a friend, and maybe as something more. He probably didn't even think about it, just reacted. Erik would never do that. Everything would have to be thought about, practised, and deliberate. It made her sad for Maestro. It made her a little sad for herself.

"We're really lucky, you know? We never think about it because most people are that lucky. We only see the unlucky ones on the news or in those true crime shows. Erik is unlucky. But he wants to be like you. He wants to be more than his tragedies. And I want to give him that chance. Because under it all, he is good. He's just had everyone expect the worst, and only met those expectations. And now he's going to have to meet better ones. And I can't give up on him, not when there's so much to gain. Even if it doesn't work I have to try, just like he's trying."

She'd have to be strong and Erik would have to be brave. But it was a different type of strong than surviving the death of her family, and his was a different bravery than standing before his mistress in court. Just like their music was different than what it had been separately, more than mastery and timing. Just as he promised last year...

Music had freed her, and in her freedom she realized just how trapped by fear she was. Erik's cage was even smaller, and even more heavily locked. They'd have to keep picking those locks forever. Together.

Raoul lowered his eyes. "I feel sorry for him then," he murmured. "But I still think you should stay away from him. I still want to knock his head in for treating you that way. And I can't...let go of worrying about you." He ran his thumbs over her knuckles, his gaze softening.

Christine kissed his cheek gently, knowing he wanted more. With Raoul she could feel every emotion that played off him. He was Erik's foil in everything. Open and easy to read. But there was nothing there, but the sisterly affection.

For a second,Christine wished she could give him more. She could see them, the prettiest couple, he the officer in the Navy, she the loving girlfriend who supported him when his family didn't. Laughter and playing, that would be their life. A lovely airy tune with no bass line, no beat.

But there was no note in Christine that responded to the hum of that tune. Not even an echo, or pitch. Her melody was far away now, planted firmly in Nadir's house in Rochelle Park.

"I'm sorry I worried you," she said squeezing his hand, and letting go.

"I know. I'm just glad you're safe. How's the bump?"

"It still aches, but nothing Advil can't help." She slid Erik's ring on her pointer finger, for safekeeping, and opened the car door. "Come on. I have to go and face the music."

Meg swung wildly rom tearful gratitude to rage in the span of ten minutes. She had hugged Christine tightly, rocking her when she came through the door. "I was so worried, Christine! I knew you were mad when you drove off, and I thought you'd need time to cool off but then for days! Days-and then Detective Khan called the cafe and said you were hurt and that you couldn't come to the phone?!"

When Christine was pulled into the living room, she rounded on her with horrible fury. "You could have sent a fucking text, just something to say that you were alive! You know Christine when you were telling me about the lessons I was kinda hurt. And then you tell me about Ang-Erik all in this rush and how you care about him. And the recluse thing was weird and I thought maybe he was just artistic and had a bad break up. But then you get into a pure domestic in the parking lot and run off for three days?! It's like I don't even know you anymore! It's like you don't care at all that I'm worried for you, or that I care about you! You have your music back and you don't need me anymore!"

"Meg," Raoul who had gone into the kitchen to get them water, softly called her name, giving her a pitiful look.

"No you don't get to talk. You haven't been here. You weren't here when she was shattered after Daddy Daae died! You weren't here forced to watch her pick herself up and become a robot and die inside! You haven't lost your best friend of twenty years!" Meg pressed the back of her hand to her mouth, having to walk away from Christine, determined not to cry. Meg wasn't a cryer.

"You haven't," Christine whispered, her voice cracking. She sunk on the couch, head ducked and shoulders hunched against Meg's anger, and didn't have a single good excuse. Meg was right, every nasty word laid at her doorstep was deserved. She had dropped Meg, wrapped up in Erik's magnetism and rediscovering her own self. Almost all her thoughts had turned inward.

Maybe if she hadn't, she would have reconsidered everything that had caused this. Maybe if she had just found her tongue and told Erik, their confrontation would not have nearly been so violent. If she had just spoken up, if she had kissed him. If she hadn't been so damned afraid. Well if this is where fear got her, then she didn't need it. Pedal to the metal. You promised yourself to live life, well here it is, Chris.

After all, she had weathered the storm of knowing about Bin Nasheed and come out victorious. There weren't only losses in her book. Hurricane Meg was next.

"You haven't lost me Meg. I'm so sorry. You're right. I've been selfish. I wasn't thinking." Christine swiped at the tears, the cool metal of Erik's ring only a slight comfort. "I've only been thinking about how I feel. I've been that way for so long, that I don't even realize I'm doing it anymore. I've leaned on so many people, I do it all the time. But I don't want to. I have to stand on my own. I want to be as strong as everyone says I am, as strong as you say I am. That's why I didn't call. I was trying to figure out everything on my own, without having to run to you every time. I didn't think about how you'd feel. I've just leaned on you so much...and..." Christine bit her lip, a sob bubbling up in her throat.

Finally she lifted her face. Meg was standing by the TV, arms folded and glaring at the foot of the couch. Her lip was still trembling. Christine stood and went to her. "You're the first person I go to with everything. You know everything about me. Even when I was sworn to secrecy I told you. I'm sorry I didn't show it better. I'm sorry if I made you feel left out." She gently placed her hands on Meg's arms. "Music or no music, Erik or no Erik, there will always be Meg Daae and Christine Giry."

Meg didn't want to let go of her anger. She stood there, breathing heavily and leaving Christine in her deserved limbo. She hoped Meg would give, hope she'd accept Christine and her apology, hoped she believed her. Either that or tell her to get out and get it over with already. Was this how Erik felt when he had given Christine his answers? What an awful sensation, the agony of waiting for your future held in someone else's hands.

"How could you think I don't want to help," Meg's wavering voice finally broke the hateful anticipation. "How could you think that you're too much for me to support? That I wouldn't want to. I'm your best friend."

"I didn't think."

"That's obvious," she muttered, tears finally spilling over her flushed cheeks. But under her friend's hands Meg's stance relaxed a little bit. Christine could now understand Nadir's cold, biting attitude towards Erik that horrible night, hearing the same turned on her.

"Are you finally gonna tell me what happened yesterday?"

Christine glanced at Raoul. "Everything I can."

"Can?! More secrets," Meg snapped. But Christine cast another look at Raoul, and squeezed Meg's arms. Happily, after twenty years, their radio channel was well tuned. Meg cleared her throat and turned to the man herself. "I've got her Raoul. She's not going anywhere and I want to hear what she has to say for herself."

"Alright." He came to hug Christine one last time, telling her to call if she needed a ride. Meg walked him out, then went into the kitchen where here parents were currently huddled, waiting out the storm, to assure them everything was fine. Christine would have to apologize to Mom and Dad Giry too, they had been just as worried.

Coming back, Meg demanded, "I want to know everything. And I want you to prove to me that you trust me. I won't tell anyone, but I want to know absolutely everything. I'm not Raoul, I'm your-your sister. And if you leave something out, Christine, and try to do this confession thing all over again I swear to God…"

"Most of it I just learned myself, from Nadir-Detective Khan." Christine gestured to the stairs, and they both made the familiar trek up to Meg's room. "And you have to really make sure you don't let this affect you when you meet Erik."

"Oh so I get to meet Maestro without the bar between us?"

"Yes. I hope so, after New Years."

Meg stopped dead. "Why after New Years? You see him practically everyday!" Her eyes widened. "They didn't book him did they? Raoul said-I mean I tried to explain but Erik was yelling so badly! I was worried and I-"

"Just, let's sit down and I'll explain." Christine pulled the rope that let down the ladder to Meg's attic room. Her bed was low, placed on the floor and piled high with all different colors of bohemian pillows and blankets. Her TV was tucked into the corner, and various high heels were littered everywhere between the discarded jeans and leggings. Christine plugged in the lights she had hanging from the ceiling, at home in this room as much as she was in her apartment.

They curled up on Meg's bed, beneath her hanging models of the planets and The Apollo 17, from Meg's space obsession from the ninth grade. It was there, heads close together that Christine explained what happened when she left the Little Latte.

She had no words for Erik's poor face besides 'horror'. And seeing Christine's reaction to the memory of his violent unmasking, Meg seemed to believe her, about his face and how she bruised her wrist. At least she had nothing to say but a soft 'Dear Christ'. Christine did leave out what Erik had stated, about killing in his rantings. She had a better way to explain that.

On Meg's TV, she was able to pull up the video of Bin Nasheed's Dateline episode. She made it through most of it. The way that Nadir, and Keith Morrison, set up the situation it seemed totally hopeless. Meg at least, did not' interrupt, except to exclaim at a very young Nadir being interviewed.

It was when they began to play Erik's interrogation tapes that she had to leave the room. It was good that they focused on the crimes committed against Erik than the ones he committed himself. Christine did not think that anyone would understand, unless they spoke to and saw Nadir and Erik. The trauma that laced every word testify the truth of it, but Christine could not ask for them to repeat it, or ask Meg to sit through it as she had.

They distorted Erik's voice, to something even Christine couldn't recognize,but it was reading it in plain black and white on the screen over the picture of a tape recorder running that sent her out:

John Doe:
I do not remember the details. I remember being taken from my room, and looked over. I remember there was a price, a good couple of thousand francs? And then I was given to...Yasmin.
Khan:
Francs-money was exchanged? Between who?
John Doe:
I don't...Maybe he was my mother's husband? Not my father, but he lived there.

Here the tape was cut, and a new one began. But it wasn't about the crimes committed in New Jersey. Oh no, what was about to be revealed would change this case forever, Keith narrated.

John Doe:
I worked.
Khan:
What did you do specifically?
John Doe:
I cleaned. I cooked for the family. I fetched.
Khan:
And when you weren't working?
John Doe:
I was kept out of sight.
Khan:
Where?
John Doe:
There is a closet in the basement I was given. I slept there.
Khan:
And that's all they made you do?
John Doe:
I would sometimes entertain. Sing, the singing corpse. They'd strip me and prove that I was alive despite how I looked.
Khan:
What about those marks on your neck?

Christine got up from the bed and climbed down the ladder stairs. She knew, she knew what had happened to him, had seen the pictures. But hearing Erik's distorted voice recount it with...calm clarity. As if he were explaining a boring story, some description of no import.

She wandered into the prettily decorated bathroom and shut the door behind her. Here among the floral patterns and cross stitches on the walls, so utterly familiar and benign, she let the horror of it all wash over her again.

Leaning her hands on the sink, she took a deep breath until she was sure she wasn't about to vomit. Then she caught sight of herself in the mirror, her blood going cold from utter shock. Her eyes were rimmed with deep purple, her skin pale beyond recognition. Not even her lips had color to them. Is that me? No wonder they hadn't believed her when she had claimed all was well. She combed back her dark hair, snitching one of Meg's hair bands to put it up in a messy bun before splashing water on her face.

Meg had to see what Christine did. How they had beaten cruelty into his bones, and ground the kindness almost to dust in his heart. How they had made a sweet deformed boy the terror of the world. A special brand of evil, she decided, pushing the bunny shaped soap around in it's dish. They could have destroyed her Erik before he was even hers.

They won't steal our love, she vowed to her sickly reflection. No, that would sink or swim on its own. I am not my past, and neither is Erik.

She returned when she was sure Erik's story was over, and stumbled in on more heartbreak. It was the epilogue part of the special, the where-are-they-now, and Keith was speaking to Nadir on his porch. The detective had a baby Reza in his arms.

"Detective Khan lives quietly now, with his son. He says that one headline worthy case is enough for his career. And what of John Doe? Why, he lives with him."

On screen Nadir and Keith stood on the porch of Nadir's home, listening to a tune faintly drifting from the piano inside. "Is that him," Keith asked.

"Yup." Nadir was grinning with pride, glancing at the door. "He plays all day. I think he's going to buy a theater or something. Something with music, definitely. Once he has a name, of course."

"Detective Khan has a kid," Meg murmured numbly as the credits rolled. The poor girl. She was a sickly green color.

"Not anymore," Christine murmured.

"Oh Jesus…" Meg lowered her face into her hands, and Christine felt a fresh wave of kinship with her. Meg could have just as easily railed on Christine, telling her she needed to cut ties with these people immediately. After all, it was one thing to have a sad story play out on your TV. It was another for the main player of said story to be in love with your best friend. Instead, Meg, like Christine, had let the story touch her heart, and understood just what kind of suffering had to occur for such a tale to be created.

But there was more. Kneeling next to her, Christine began to softly explain what Erik never told Nadir: Lucy and Esther. And then California and the opera house.

Meg's first question, when she had found her voice, was "How long has he been clean?"

"Almost a decade. Neither he nor Nadir are really worried about that."

"Bully for them," Meg muttered. "But...after all that, I guess…" She fell back against her pillows. "For the record I have lost all my enthusiasm for this little romance."

"I suspected as much," Christine agreed. She lay down beside her and started at The Apollo turning slowly above their heads. "It's almost too much to think about. How much one person can suffer. You never think about that stuff going on in the world. I mean you know about it, but to think it happens to real people, you know? You never expect to come face to face with it, until suddenly they are there in front of you. They're never your neighbor, or your customer or your friend. Not yours."

Meg turned her head towards Christine. "You never think it'll be your parents, until suddenly it is," she whispered.

Without ceremony or even trying, Meg had signaled her understanding. Had spoken to her on a level so private and true that Christine automatically burst into tears. Tears for Erik, tears for herself, tears for her father, of exhaustion and hatred and fear. And tears of pure gratitude that she did not have to explain to Meg all she felt. Her heart was always plain to Meg. There was no need for useless words.

Her friend's arms wound around her, and Christine returned home in her embrace. She felt Meg's own tears drop on her forehead, and her hands smooth comforting lines down her back.

When their sobs ran dry, Meg tossed her a blanket, taking one for herself until they were swaddled side by side, just as they always were. "Detective Khan let him around his kid," was her next inquiry.

"Yeah. Said Erik was like a god-father to him."

"That's a lot of trust," Meg observed, sniffling a little still.

"And Erik didn't break it. Or at least not until Reza...passed."

"And you think you can handle this?"

Christine closed her eyes. "I've asked myself that since I fell off that stupid stage. But...thinking about a life without Erik tears me up inside. It's not just the music. I mean a lot of it is, but it's us. We click. When I'm with him I don't feel stupid or cowardly. I can talk to him, ask him questions, and he never makes me feel...less. He's a genius, a real genius. But he goes on and on about me. He pushed me to sing again, he pushed me to play the drums again and even though I've never once tried it, he kept encouraging me to write music. He makes me brave. I love him. And I know he loves me."

"He really...crawled on the ground like that?"

Christine covered her face. "Yes. Yes it was the most awful thing. Then when Nadir told me all of this…"

"And he's still alive. God how much can one man take?"

"That's what I thought."

"Well...at least we're still on the same wavelength. Even if you shut off your radio for a bit." Meg offered her one of her wry smiles. It wasn't total forgiveness. But it was a welcome back.

Christine reached out and took her fingers, squeezing them tightly. "I can't imagine him living through all that. It was all I could do to listen to it myself. And I didn't have Meg there to hold me up. But I still love him. I loved him before, and I love him now. And even two months away, I will love him still."

"Goddamnit, you artists are so dramatic," Meg teased, finally, rolling onto her back. "Why couldn't you have found an accountant? They're quiet, they'd probably have a nice car, and money."

"Erik's richer than an accountant."

Meg's hand smacked Christine's leg approvingly. "Ah, see? There, I knew you had some sense in that thick skull."

Chapter 13

In the kitchen, Erik could hear Nadir cleaning up the abandoned pots and dishes from the aborted dinner he had been making. Erik himself was seated at the upright piano near the storybook window in the living room, reuniting with his old friend after so many years apart. The poor, abused girl: so out of tune, and a thin layer of dust on her fallboard. How she must have suffered without his care! Of course she had suffered Reza's little hands beating the keys when he wanted to 'be like Erik' or Rookheeya's pitiful attempts at a tune, trying to recall lessons from her grammar school days. Yes, Erik liked to think that this little music maker was at least glad for his return.

He played Dance of the Knights, the pounding rhythmic beat good against his hands and body, playing as if volume might make up for the lack of tune. He already missed his beloved organ with her perfect tone and well polished keys.

His first day of being a man had been trying, and left Erik wondering if it was even worth it.

No, not Erik. The Phantom dripping poison into his ear. Yes, that was it. The Phantom who had almost come out and strangled the beautiful man that wrapped his arm around Christine's shoulders and took her away. The man that stood there, the reason that cop had been spouting lies, lies! That he should hurt his angel-how dare they. Oh, Erik was a monster on the inside really. A reformed monster, the modern Prometheus (he even spoke French), but to think that he would lay hands on his sweet Christine with evil intent; to batter her? He feared the Phantom's desire, or rather...his desire, tainted by that urge to disregard the well being of anyone but himself. But of all the things he feared for Christine, hitting her out of rage was not one of them!

They had come up with a pretty tale of knight and dragon, and this particular serpent resented it. To think that he could have ever shoved Christine in rage down into the orchestra pit to hit her poor head! There had even been a dark spot where she had lain! One he had cleaned up, weeping the entire time.

He had stood there, controlled himself when really he wanted to shout, and scream the truth. Rage that they had ruined a beautiful moment-that they were liars, that he was helping Christine. That he loved her. But no, he had been a man, a gentleman and kept his horrible mouth shut because he had to. Because there was too much at risk.

His fingers, no longer needing order, switched quite suddenly and without transition to the third movement of Beethoven's 14th sonata, fingers flying over the keys faster and faster with each measure. If he was capable of violence (he was) it would be directed at that boy! That handsome sailor, that good man. How he had touched Christine as if he claimed ownership of her! Erik could have let the Phantom loose, his dead hands wrapping around round his pale smooth throat, crashing against that lovely face until it was as mangled and distorted as Erik's own! Standing there, staring at Christine like some lost dog in need of a master-smugly watching as the officer demanded their separation. Erik knew that was what the busy body cop was telling the boy outside: to keep her away.

And just when Erik had settled himself to the fact that she was his!

Oh he was capable of violence. But even restrained, he was blamed! He would always be blamed. This face was the face of a monster, it was expected. It was demanded. How that child must have been sickened, seeing Christine press her perfect pink mouth against the creature. But she did! Oh she did, and she took his ring! She embraced him! Christine had faith in Erik, and Christine had seen the Phantom starring with blood lust at the sailor, and did not back down. No, she had come right before the creature budding forth from her Maestro and had not been afraid. Glared and spoke until it whimpered and turned tail.

The Phantom was as powerless against Christine as Erik was. Ah, his angry beautiful angel! She could tame the beast. It could be done. He would have to emulate her example. Strong, lovely Christine…

His fingers paused, silence the only intermission before Erik scaled down into the first measure of Satie's Gymnopedie. She had, you know. Kissed him, again and again. Kissed him in front of all those people with her pretty pink mouth. Kissed him in his music room. Nearly undressed him in his music room. Despite the fact that they had almost gone to bed, where Erik surely would have made a mess of things, the creature remembered it with a slight smile on his lips.

Her little hands sliding up his dead arms, into his hair and holding him to her. Her mouth opening beneath his, welcoming him as he tasted the tea on her tongue. The smell of his soap on her flesh, ah! Was there any better scent than his things on her skin? Any better feeling than her body cradling his? His head lolled to the side, eyes closing to the slow tempo of the music he coaxed from the ivory. Perhaps: the taste of her lovely throat under his tongue. That beautiful instrument he worshiped inside and out was capable of so much more than beautiful notes in an aria. The notes of desire...and for him. For ugly, vile Erik. He had made her make such beautiful noises.

She'd also fought him: she had endless fight in her, his brave Christine. Fought him for him, what an odd notion. Fought to be with him. She welcomed him, and his touches. He would touch her hair, and she'd lean into it. He had placed kisses on her face and she tilted it up for more. Even when he had been a little brave himself and began leading her to his bedroom, she followed readily. She trusted him, did not make him ashamed of his initiative: readily welcomed it in fact! You're a show off, you're acidic, I don't want to lose that. She…she seemed to love him, even his worst parts. Maybe one day he could believe it. Believe that of her own free will, needing no service from him, this wonderful woman loved him.

Yes, becoming a man would be worth it. Even if he must stay in this house of memories to do it.

Ah yes, this house. Erik straightened. This house where Rookheeya had given him so much. This house where he had enjoyed the sacred gift that was the love of a child. In this house where he had destroyed it all, and left heartbreak in his wake. In this house, once again on the goodness of Nadir Khan, a man Erik had stolen everything from. Even his name.

Erik hit a sour note, and quickly recovered, leading into Rachmaninov's prelude. Nadir, who did so much for him, and lectured him like a school master. Both friend, benefactor and annoyance. Nadir to whom so much was owed, once again burdened with this masked freak, barely escaping an IA investigation. If Erik's small notion of pride was certainly undercut by this turn of events. He did not like to think that everything he was, that he had tried to make Erik be, was all due to Nadir and nothing else. But...it was quite close to the truth.

Would there be nothing in his life that did not need the aid of Nadir? Erik as not only a monstrous creature, but a helpless one to boot. Poor Nadir, poor man to have his loving wife and child ripped away from him, and be given this viper to nurture instead? What loving God would give such a fate to such a good man?

"Could you play something a little less mournful, dearest?" Charles' voice carried over the notes like a car backfire on a peaceful afternoon. Erik's eyes lifted to the heavens. He was back, having left them to buy food. Apparently he would be playing dragon-keeper with Nadir for tonight.

"He's been giving me emotional whiplash for the last hour," Nadir murmured, coming into the living room. "Come on Erik. Eat while it's hot."

He looked down at his dead hands on the pure white of the keys. Men faced the consequences of their actions, monsters tried to hide in cells to escape them. Though he'd much rather pull his teeth out by hand then seem weak before these two. He had been pitiful so many times in front of Nadir already, Erik was quite convinced the man viewed him as a pitiful, particularly slow dog.

Men told the truth, and here was a hard one: Despite what Erik wanted, and despite all he had done, Nadir was still with him. He always would be, like those days when he had been just a cop chasing the ghost. One step behind Erik and all he did. Despite the lies Erik lined his life with, to keep him comfortable in those bloody days, Nadir had always broken through, and held a mirror to his monstrous visage. It was Nadir who had first touched the neglected human inside the Phantom.

Erik owed him much. But he definitely owed him this: "I want to apologize." He said it to the piano first, then turned. Charles and Nadir had already claimed their seats on the two arm chairs, turning them towards the coffee table as they were dividing up the food in the styrofoam containers. Again, a little louder, "I want to apologize."

Both men looked up, hands pausing in their work.

"Your career was risked, again, because of me, Nadir."

"My career was made because of you," Nadir laughed. "Besides, Rodriguez is full of shit. He wants to be sheriff one day and is practicing throwing his weight around, acting all righteous. Besides, what were they going to find? It would have been more annoying than anything."

"An Internal Affairs investigation is more than annoying. They ruin detectives, even when they find nothing."

"You didn't do anything. I was trying to get them to throw out the missing persons report, saying that people knew where she was. Absolutely ridiculous, she was reported as safe the last time they had word of her. But he wants to make it seem like I was...covering it up. Ass, I should talk to his commanding officer, honestly..."

He could strangle Nadir sometimes. Why must he drag this out? Erik's non-existent pride was in tatters, did Nadir have to be so blind on top of it? "In any case, you have gone to many lengths for me. I apologize I have made that necessary once more."

Nadir lifted his shoulders slightly. "It's fine, Erik. It wasn't a big deal. I hate that it was made one because some kid got jealous. That's all."

Erik looked at Charles next. This would be more difficult. In all reality he was still reeling from the man's violent defense this afternoon. Charles and he had been business partners and not much more. Years had given them polite familiarity, or so Erik thought. Had keeping the stupid man from careening off the roof meant to much to him? "Charles-"

"Yes I do deserve an apology. Yes you are going to give it to me, and you're going to start from the first time we met. Talk slow." The man reached into the yellow ShopRite bag at his feet and pulled out a bottle of Jack Daniels. As he poured some into glass tumblers, he said, "Erik, contrite is a horrible look on you. Forget it, and come eat."

"You lied for me."

Now Garnier had the nerve to laugh! "Oh, you think very highly of yourself, I did no such thing! I did know you were giving her lessons. You maybe a prick, Erik, but you don't hurt little girls. I wasn't going to let them try and say that."

"She's not a little girl," Erik snapped, all good will and humility used up and wasted on Charles.

"Oh, yes she is," they both retorted at the same time. Erik turned back to the piano with indignation. He had apologized, there was no need to speak to them for the rest of the night if they were going to be such boobies about it.

Nadir came close and took his arm, leading him up off the piano bench and to the couch. "Come on, now. You have to admit she's young."

"Younger than I, yes! But I did not seek her out because of that! I did not seek her out at all." Nadir nodded as Erik spoke his defense and placed a food carton in his hands.

"Of course not," Charles said taking out a cigar and cutter from his jacket. "You're simply very lucky. Unfairly lucky."

"Lucky?!" Erik was flabbergasted, offended and indignant. Of all the words in the world, especially after the events of tonight, 'lucky' was hardly to be applied to him!

"Yes lucky. In two months you'll be back at the opera house with a little soprano in your lap, while Nadir and I will still be here, drinking and praying for senility." Charles lifted his glass, and Nadir clinked his against it.

"Sh-I-Y-" Erik huffed, appalled by such a brazen description of he and Christine, and so annoyed at Charles' smirking face he could not find words. And he was, perhaps, a little embarrassed, as it was quite close to the truth. The image of Christine once again in his arms, kissing him so willingly made his whole body go hot and freezing cold at the same time.

"Oh no, I think he crashed," Nadir murmured around his bite of calzone.

"Too bad she's not here to reboot him."

"I have been totally proper with Christine," Erik finally said, with such an heir he might have been an emperor. "I never wished more than to be her teacher, to help with the opera house."

"Of course," Charles soothed.

"I didn't mean it to be anything more. I knew she loved music, I could not let her love for it die out. Not when she had such a voice."

"I suspected as much," was Nadir's answer.

"And she has done exceptionally well. Her talent goes far and beyond merely singing. She has the makings of a great composer, and I have done nothing but encourage her pursuits, no matter how fond I grew of her. It was she wh-..." Erik shut his mouth with a click, glaring as smirks crawled over both of their faces. They would drive him to madness. Not the memories, not the silence, not Christine and her unfathomable kindness. No, these two men and their teasing knowing looks would drive him right out his mind. Then he really would be locked in a cell, just like he had wanted. Erik scowled at his food container.

Nadir at least tried to fix his face. "She who did what? And weren't those your clothes she was wearing?"

"Hers were dirty. I was washing them for her."

Charles grinned as he cut his cigar. "I'll have to try that one." He looked at Nadir, smirking. "I just want to help you with your laundry, honey." The cop chuckled into his tumbler, trying hard not to glance at Erik and his murderous gaze.

"Christine in a good girl," Erik ground out.

"She is." Nadir sobered a little, giving Erik a small smile. "I was very impressed by her. We're only teasing you, Erik. We know nothing happened."

"We don't? We-you didn't see them play together." Charles snorted and set aside his primed cigar in favor of his cooling food. "She looked at him like he was the second coming. God's gift to music. I mean Erik is a wonderful musician, but it wasn't the music she was loving. Erik don't look at me like that."

Erik, indeed, had been a little stunned by Charles' observation. He remembered that night plainly. It had been both hours of pure bliss and agony. He had adored Christine from the moment she stepped into Box Five, and that night had brought it to such a crescendo he feared he would scare her off. He had almost stolen a kiss off her forehead in the dim lamp light outside her apartment. So violently in love was he, he had shattered glass with his fist to remind him of who he was.

But to think that Christine might have felt something like it in return so long ago… Erik sat back, his embarrassment and anger forgotten.

"Erik how can you be so smart, and so absolutely thick at the same time," Charles laughed, wiping his fingers on a cheap paper napkin. "She's in absolutely love with you. After everything she went through, she still kissed you goodbye. Isn't that proof enough?"

"Well..." He finally opened his container and took a fork, poking a little at the pasta that lay inside. She did kiss him, but she was alone now, with that handsome boy and an angry friend that were no doubt telling her how foolhardy this was. That he was not worth the time, that it was dangerous for her. That she could do so much better. That she was so much better. And they would be right.

In two months she may very well walk back through those doors, place his ring in his hand and say goodbye. Or maybe she'd mail it back. Maybe that kiss was the last he'd ever feel of his Christine...

His history, he himself, might have ruined the bit of heaven he had stolen. And if she chose, he would have to let her go. No more watching her from the crowds, no more listening in the walls of the opera as she spoke to the staff. No more following her home on nights they went late. No more lessons, no more Christine. He would let her go, and let her go completely, with nothing but the memories and their music to comfort him. To remind him that for a second, a moment of time, it was real. And a part of her, this angel, had been his. Because he loved her so.

"Now you look like you're about to keel over," Charles said, lowering the drink he had been about to sip. "What horrible fate have you thought of?"

"She may not come back in two months. I'm sorry, Charles. I might have lost our new soprano."

Charles blinked and looked at Nadir. "Is he stupid?"

Nadir nodded. "Erik, she chose, after listening to all that I had to say, to come back to you. To work it out."

"She pities me, and she thinks that's love. She's so curious, she wanted to know my side of-of it all." Erik glanced at Charles. He knew something of their history, but couldn't even begin to guess the details.

"Erik, even if she doesn't come back, you think I would be upset that we're stuck with Carlotta? Jesus, what about you? I'm more concerned about how it's going to affect you."

"Erik would manage."

"Hiding for six years isn't the best management," Nadir pointed out. He shook his head. "It doesn't matter too much. You should worry about it when it comes to it. She had texted me already, she's home and safe."

"You're in communication with her?"

"Yes, I got her number before she left. I know you'd go mad without knowing if she was at least safe." He was right, Erik would. He hadn't thought about that. He hadn't thought about much of this. So blinded by the bliss of it all, he had, like all those years ago, gone in without a plan. What a mess he had made of it all.

"You are correct. Erik would have. Erik might still, without my organ and my music. How long am I to be kept here?"

"You're not under arrest but I strongly advise you stay with me for the two months. You can go back to the opera house, but I don't think you ought to be alone to go on imagining horrors and God-awful outcomes." Nadir waved his plastic fork in Charles' direction. "Besides, if you were left with him you might actually kill each other."

"Oh yes, more than likely," Charles agreed, grinning. Erik's lips twitched. Despite their friendship (perhaps), Erik and Charles clashed more often than not. It was part of the fun they had had building the opera house, the push and pull of artistic and logistical minds working with the possible. It was reality they both had trouble with.

"And if I disregard your advisement?"

"Then I camp out at the opera house and play Ol' Dirty Bastard at high volumes."

The expression Erik pulled, what could be seen of it, must have been comical because both men burst out laughing. The rest of the night was spent discussing Christine, and what he was like when she wasn't sleep deprived and brought low. It was a subject Erik was enthusiastic about, one he could speak of easily.

He did not miss how they smirked and glanced at one another as if seeing Erik in love was the most amusing thing in the world. He as determined to convince them of Christine's worthiness, how kind she was, and bright. How she was unafraid she was with her music, her creativity. He found himself explaining to them the uses of synth in music well into the night, with only a little bit of sarcasm.

Their bottle of Jack drained quickly between Nadir and Charles, and the conversation turned towards the subject of women in general, Erik finally able to contribute somewhat over the cigar smoke. He was surprised to learn that Nadir entertained a woman from the cafe from time to time. "Sorelli? The tall one with the dyed hair."

"Does Christine know this," Erik asked, head cocked to the side.

"No one does, thank you very much. Oh, now you're looking at me strangely. You don't like it."

"No," he said quickly. Rookheeya was many years passed. Though Erik could not imagine another woman if Christine…

But he could of anything understand the empty pain of loneliness. And Nadir was lonely, was he not? Erik had mused that perhaps the detective did not meet him every Sunday simply to keep an eye on him. Perhaps he had nothing better to do, and he had no music to comfort him at night. "Is she a good sort of girl?"

"Yes, but I am not about to marry her," Nadir laughed, then mocked a concerned tone. "Don't worry, you're not getting a new mother, Erik."

That prompted a very nasty name in Farsi from Erik and the conversation wandered to something else. Erik was quiet, thankful to listen without hearing for once. For the bursts of drunken laughter and chatter that kept him from sinking to deeply into his thoughts. His whole world had been turned upside down in the span of twenty four hours and he was rather tired.

Being a man would be the most difficult thing he had attempted. But as Charles tapped his arm, and asked him to recall one of their anecdotes from the construction days, he wondered if it wasn't worth it, and not just for Christine.

Erik would manage.

---

Charles was happy to bunk on the couch in the living room, and Erik still had his bedroom in Nadir's house. But the old detective did not find him there. Instead Nadir, a little unsteady from all the drink, peeked into Reza's old room with its door ajar, and found a lithe, dark figure sitting on the foot of the bed, half in shadow, as if hiding from the weak light spilling in from the hall. It had been cleared of Reza's things over the years; the Power Ranger sheets and Batman blanket were gone, the walls bare. Now there just lay a blank mattress on the dark wood frame.

Erik placed his hand on the middle of the bed. After a moment it became clear that he was humming You Are My Sunshine. Keya had chosen that song for Reza's crib's mobile, and Erik had sung it to the baby when Nadir needed sleep between the case and taking Keya to her chemo. His unnatural voice had such a calming quality, that by just being in the doorway, Nadir was beginning to drift.

"I never understood what they meant by a beautiful child," Erik said, softly breaking the spell. "When I saw the Nasheed babies during their rites they were all ugly and red and wrinkled. I thought they looked like drowned rats. Then Reza was born, and you brought him home from the hospital."

"You were worried," Nadir said coming to sit at the head of the bed. "I remember. I still wasn't totally happy with you in my house. But after the hospital mishap-"

"And the detail mishap," Erik provided. The law didn't like the key witness being with the head of the case, and they had thought to keep Erik checked into the hospital under guard. But he disturbed the patients, as the doctors forbid him from wearing a mask. It was easy for Nasheed's paid doctors to find him there.

So they had put him up in a hotel with a guard, and Erik had told Nadir that his detail was incompetent. When the detective attempted to assure him, Erik disappeared for twelve hours to prove that those officers didn't see what was right in front of them. It had been childish and Erik had almost been arrested, and his immunity revoked. And then Nasheed had double down on Erik's point by sending men to kill Erik at least five times. On the third attempt they nearly had him too.

"-And I knew that my home was the only place you'd stay put. Well I guess, since you seemed to trust me. But then we came home with the baby you were worry-baking."

Erik's lips lifted. He didn't have many normal skills, but as a family slave he could cook and bake better than the rest of them. He, in some sort of rent payment, had kept house for Nadir while Keya was laid up, first with the baby then with the cancer. Keya had cried so badly during labor when it had started in the kitchen, that when she was taken to the hospital, Erik was worried that she was going to die. He had scrubbed the whole house with bleach in an attempt to clean away his concern, and left with nothing left to do, began to cook to keep his hands busy. The piano was still being repaired at that time, and his violin was in evidence. "I thought Keya would need food after that."

"Mmm. But you peeked around the corner of the kitchen and watched us bring the baby in and you looked like a little kid. You were so afraid of hurting Reza, just by being near. I think in that moment I knew I had done right. You didn't deserve a cell."

"You let me hold him." Erik lifted his hand, looking at the palm. This dead hand had cradled the baby's head so carefully, the small weight so warm against his flesh. So alive. "And he was red and wrinkled. And I saw Keya looking at him, and you. And I realized that I was looking at something beautiful."

"Are you sure there was nothing you put in your food," Nadir teased, throat closing up a bit. The liquor was loosening his control on his emotions. "You're being very forthcoming tonight."

"I'm tired," Erik admitted. He never looked more exhausted, more broken then he did now. "I'm...trying. Christine...I will need to be a man for Christine. Not a Maestro, not a ghost, not a witness. A man."

"You always were a man Erik. A brave one," Nadir said softly. He turned to face the door, focusing on the lamp on the little table outside. Above it was a picture of Rookheeya from her graduation as well as Nadir's Marine photo. "Why did you never tell me your name? The one you wrote on your certificate?"

Nadir never pried into Erik's things after the case, and Erik had gone through all the paperwork to make him a human recognized by the government with the district attorney alone in preparation for his testimony.

Erik shook his head, looking away, out through the window. Here they had cut back the tree branches, so Reza could look through his telescope. Oh this room had been bursting with toys and activities. Everything a child could want, brought to him since he could not go out, especially when Reza was unable to rise from the bed. "How could I admit my theft, when I had already stolen so much from you?"

"Stolen?" Nadir tried to catch his eye. "Stolen, what did you take from me, Erik?"

"Everything." Erik stood, hunched over, arms crossing on his knees, as if the pain of confession bent his back like an old man. "I took your security away at first, and then your home. I stole the precious time with your wife for the case. And then I killed your son." The last he said through grit teeth.

Silence reigned, as it had for so many years in this room. Nadir's mouth hung open, shocked at the confession. When he turned his face away, Erik saw the glisten of tears on his cheeks. He took a deep breath, but his next words lacked any voice. "That's why you left."

Erik turned his face away, his shame complete.

"Oh habibi, what have you been carrying all these years?"

Erik hissed, backing away. "No! Everything has been about me! From the moment I met you, I have been a burden on your life. Everything you held dear has been infected by me." He braced himself on the dresser, empty now of the t shirts and little socks, free from the models he and Nadir and Reza had made. "You say I imagine horrible fates? I know them to be true. That is what I do, Nadir. I will destroy what I have with this beautiful girl, as I destroyed your beautiful family."

As he had destroyed Lucy, as he had destroyed the little family he had stolen during those blood soaked hours in Yasmin's service. As he had nearly destroyed his time with Christine. Erik could become a man, Erik could kill the Phantom. But he was, always, a burden. A curse.

"That's not true." Now the detective was following him, gripping his shirt to make sure he didn't leave. "It was always about the case. It was the Nasheeds that stole the time I had. It was always about them. And I was losing my mind. Because I could not be a husband or a father when I was carrying that whole damn family on my back, trying to do right.

"And then...then I didn't have to be. Because you were there. You fathered Reza when he cried for me, you comforted Keya when she went out of her mind, worried I wouldn't come home some nights, that they might kill me. You gave everything to my family, when what you needed was help. Real help, and I used you just like they did." Nadir swallowed hard, but before Erik could refute he continued. "And...I was a coward. Reza was suffering, he was suffering so much, and I couldn't do it. I couldn't be the father he needed."

Nothing more could have been done for the boy, except to up his morphine until he passed. Nadir had to sign the papers, but instead he and Erik had stared at them on the coffee table of the hospital sitting room, doing nothing. It was chapter and verse proof that Reza would be no more. Days, hours, minutes perhaps was all that was left.

Nadir had covered his face and wept. Erik had knelt and asked "Nadir, do you want Reza to be free of this pain?" And the detective had nodded. When he collected himself, Erik and the papers were gone. A nurse was telling him to come say goodbye, that it wouldn't be long now. Later, when they drove home, Nadir realized Erik had forged his name on the documents. Erik's own handwriting was abysmal, but his copying was oddly good. Erik left after the funeral, three days later.

Nadir closed his eyes against the memories. "And then it was about the opera house, and after that your music. Somethings have to be about you sometimes Erik. At least once."

And to the monster's horror, he felt tears well in the eye holes of his mask. "I don't deserve it," he whispered. "I don't deserve any of this."

"Did you deserve what Yasmin did to you?"

Silence again.

"Erik." Horror sapped Nadir's face of any color when his friend looked at him with those sad gold eyes. "Erik you didn't deserve that either. Hasn't anyone ever told you..?"

The masked man turned his face away, unable to stare at the justified terror in Nadir's face. It was too much, to much to think he didn't somehow deserve what had come to him. It was too hard to think that the evil was not always in him, waiting to be nurtured. It was too much to think of himself as innocent: there was a block in his mind that kept him from turning that secretly kind part of himself inward. He couldn't do it.

"See…? You needed help. And all I did was use you. I'm sorry, Erik." At the former assassin's continued silence, Nadir gently rest his forehead against his brother's. "You don't have to try and be a man Erik. You are one of the best men I know." Then Nadir let go, stepping back and heading for the door. "I know you won't, but uh…" He wiped his nose with his sleeve, clearing his throat of tears. "Try and get some sleep, okay?"

Erik nodded silently, still unable to face the man who called him 'beloved'. Who apologized for saving him. Erik was surrounded by people who were too good, and, for whatever reason, insisted on placing that goodness on him.

He stayed and communed with Reza's memories a few more minutes. The boy who had grown up with the mask and music. The boy who read at a frighteningly young age because of Erik, and after his introduction into Erik's music, was good at math. The boy who wanted to follow him everywhere when he could finally toddle, and his favorite place was in his father's lap right next to the piano as Erik played. Now that he knew what a child ought to be, he was on Nadir to give the boy what Erik had always been denied: education and freedom. Fairytales and possibilities. Reza would have the world Erik was denied.

And in the end, it was Reza who had been denied.

Standing, he quietly left the room, closing the door softly and creeping into the basement. After a few moments of digging he found Reza's toy chest and pulled out the piano mat Erik had bought so long ago. It was a pitiful thing, really, but the actual upright piano in the living room would keep everyone up for hours, and at least this toy had eighty eight keys ( Erik would settle for no less, even for a child). Sitting on the hard cold floor of Nadir's basement, he plugged the mat in, tested that every push button key worked and began to compose. It was slow working, like doing chemistry with rocks and sticks, but it was a start. He'd write Reza a proper requiem.

And then he would dabble with a wedding mass. Just as a nice idea.

Chapter 14

Christine's headache didn't abate until Monday, and still, Mrs. Giry told her not to come in, to rest, and that they would manage. Meg also took off, giving a lot of part-timers the chance to pad their paychecks. A friendship as long as Christine and Meg's was not one to fester. Though more serious than ever before, it was not as if this was their first fight. A week of silence from both parties in the past had aided such ills before. Now, however, they did not have the time.

It took another half a day of questioning before Meg was satisfied. Her main focus was Erik's addiction, of which Christine found no evidence, and was armed with Nadir's assurance. "He wouldn't do anything to jeopardize his place at the opera house. I think I even take second to his music."

That settled, and after a good round of ShopRite Brownies and a viewing of The Edge, Meg retracted her claws. Though she did extract a promise from Christine to focus more on quality time between them. Christine did so faithfully, especially after finding out that Meg and Phillip had broken up some months ago without Christine ever noticing the difference. "You were busy," Meg said, "It was around the time you were first crying about Erik."

After that, Meg insisted on more than a little TLC. Christine's resemblance to her corpse-like lover had been extremely disturbing to Meg and her parents. At every meal they tried stuffing her until she almost split at the seams, and Meg spared no expense with the treat bag she brought home from the store. Christine considered Mansion De Giry a space out of time, where sugar didn't 'rot' the throat, and Coke never tasted better than the first sip after a year of refraining.

Christine had to admit, though she missed Erik terribly, lounging about with Meg and talking about everything and nothing as they used the latest Korean face masks by the illumination of a hundred scented candles in her attic room was heavenly. She turned off her poor, overworked brain and let the hardest decision she made be what color of polish did she want Meg to use on her nails?

Also, without secrets and caveats and nervousness, talking to Meg about her man and life just felt so good. So right. Once again, they were open books to each other, after cramming a few chapters. Her icy optimism lovingly cooled any worrying passion Christine could dream up.

"You, both, are gonna be a trip," Meg said, shaking the bottle of pink glitter and adjusting Christine's foot on her thigh. "You both are totally ready to believe the absolute worst outcome and never hope the for the best." She glanced behind her at the muted TV. They were waiting for Say Yes To The Dress to air a new episode, though they were only half watching the previously recorded marathon.

"He is worse than me. I swear I could shake him until his teeth rattle sometimes."

"Oh, huh, gee, I wish I knew that feeling."

"Yes, yes, I know Meg. You were right, you were right all along, I should have listened to you." But Christine's smile removed any venom the statement might have carried. Besides, it was true. If only she had been braver before, if only she had spoken up, if only she had told the truth, their beginning may not have been so violent. If she had stopped waiting for happiness and home to come to her and reached out and taken it.

Meg smirked, testing the dryness of the base coat on Christine's toe with her finger. "See, I don't understand how you keep forgetting."

"Anyway, I can't tell you how many times I had to repeat that I didn't want Raoul. He just kept saying I should, and that I shouldn't be with him! And he barely spoke a word when that cop was just assuming he knew what the situation was."

"Well, in that case, maybe it was best. You said he does have a temper, and Raoul was all 'you don't understand Meg, men like this will get their partners to say anything we need to remove her' and wouldn't listen to anything else. Seems like you avoided the spark from reaching the wick on that one."

"And I'm glad he cares that much. But...it was like Erik was defeated without even trying."

"He doesn't have a lot of 'w's in his book, babe. I think you're just going to have the be patient. He was patient with you when you waffled about lessons."

Christine curled her fingers into quotes. "Patient, he showed off then bribed me until I said yes." She felt her stomach twist. She missed those times. She wanted that back, the teasing, comfortable times. Would they ever have that again, after all this pain? Christine clutched his ring at her throat. Meg had given her a long chain to put it on after it had slipped off her finger while she slept.

Yes, Christine had to believe they would. Had to have the strength to try. She'd fight for them too. "I just wish he'd fight a little too," she murmured.

Meg lifted her eyes, stopping mid-swipe. "...I wish you could tell him that. Two months is excessive, I mean really..."

"I did look awful" Christine rationalized, trying her hardest not to wallow in bitterness. "And he will have Nadir."

But Nadir was no Meg. If Christine could dream up horrible fates, Erik was a master dreamweaver. And Nadir had stated outright he didn't think this was a good idea, that Erik wasn't ready. She prayed that his attitude at the theater had indicated a change of heart. She prayed he wasn't at home now, reconciling Erik to giving up his lover and student altogether.

And if he was, she hoped that same flare of unbridled rage she'd seen focused on Raoul was enough fire to get Erik to hold strong. I have his ring, to give him comfort. Let it comfort him, It certainly did Christine. The ring had been present ever since she'd seen his hands, a relic from their older happy times. It was a part of her Erik, the teasing, pushing, gentle Erik who sat just a little too close to be platonic when they bent over her computer, the man who kept all her ice cups and showed off with a little waggle of his head. With each rub of the onyx, she felt a calm wash over her.

A ring to ward off other men, a ring to remind her that somewhere in all the silence, her duet waited to be joined again.

"Not anymore. Or, at least I've done the best that I can. Not a miracle worker."

Christine grabbed one of the silk Chinese pillows and thumped it on Meg's head. "Thanks!"

"Hey-hey I'm workin' here!"

Meg finished and picked a bottle of red glitter for Christine to return the favor. Three toes in she asked, "Speaking of work, what do you think I should tell them?"

"This truth bender you're on seems to be working so far."

"Okay, but 'I fell off a stage hard enough to knock me out then slept at two different guy's houses after screaming in the parking lot' isn't going to go over too well."

"As scary as it was to see you peeling out of the drive, it's not the worst fight that lot has seen. Last week when you were at lesson Sorelli and her boyfriend went to town because he found out she was fooling around with Detective Khan, and-"

"She WHAT?"

---

They decided it was best to go with a simple version. She and Music Angel fought in the parking lot because they were dating. Yes, that Music Angel. She had tripped and hit her head and he had taken care of her for a few days, not wanting to risk her being sick from a concussion. Meg declared the gossips needed nothing more.

"I'm going to have to figure out how to return his clothes without seeing him," Christine mused as they hung up their coats in the back room before their shift on Monday. "I don't want to make waves with the law. Maybe I could go to the theater and give them to Jules."

"Who?"

"Erik's assistant-the usher manager at the opera."

"He has an assistant? How rich is he exactly?"

"He lives underground Meg, he needs some help. And anyway, I didn't exactly ask for a figure between it all."

"I raised you better than that. You should at least know his FICO score." She grinned directly into Christine's exasperated glare. "I don't think that's a good idea. Just keep them here and give them to Detective Khan, he'll be here sometime. Erik's staying at his house, right?"

Sometime turned out to be three days later, and luckily the detective had the same idea, coming into the store a minute before she clocked out with a bundle of clothes under his arm. He was in street clothes (jeans, boots and a nice turtleneck under his peacoat), and again Christine was struck with how handsome he might have been once, as a young officer. She glanced at Sorlelli, and deemed the girl lucky, even if she hadn't gone about it in quite the correct fashion. "How are you feeling," was his first question, as she came from around the bar. "How's the old noggin?"

"Better. The ache is gone, but the bump is still there," she said, touching the back of her head. "How's Erik?"

"Erik manages."

"Oh good, he does it to you too."

"It started with me," Nadir said with a chuckle, handing her the bundle. "Your clothes."

"Oh good, wait here, I have his." Christine hurried into the backroom, clocking out. She juggled the two piles of clothes, trying to transfer one from her bag and the other into it. Her own articles slipped and she barely caught them before they slid to the dirty floor. An envelope fluttered from the folds of her shirt and floated down to the tile. With quick hard shoves, Christine stuffed the cloth into her bag and bent to pick up the lost letter. A last note from Erik before radio silence?

Grinning, she tore into it, but there was no message inside. Instead, she pulled out a Chase Bank check for…

Back in the cafe, skidding to a stop before Nadir, she tugged him away from the counter towards the corner where the comfy seats where. "Is he insane?"

"Oh, you found it."

"Take it back." She thrust the $3,000 check at him, but Nadir held up his hands in surrender.

"I can't. He told me to deliver it, and he said to not touch it again once you had it. He is also cooking all the food now and I don't want to make him angry."

"I don't need it."

"He said to pay your rent since you missed so much work-"

"It's more than my rent."

"And then he said to use the rest as you see fit-"

"He can't, I'm not taking his money. I don't want his money." She wanted him, she wanted this whole hiatus over with already so that they could have their days back. Erik's relationships were transactional, Nadir had claimed and Erik expected people to take. She wasn't going to be one of them.

Nadir was pulling out his phone shaking his head. "And then he said to show you this." He had opened the screen up to his text message with Erik.

Nadir
Gave it to her.

Erik
Good. She'll protest. Tell her to pay her rent.

Erik
And use the rest for whatever she may want, that she deserves it.

Nadir
Okay, but you know she's not going to take it.

Erik
Then show this to the little viper: Take the money. I want to make sure you are taken care of, that I have done no more damage to your life now that you've decided to live it with me. Take it or I will not show you the organ.

"...Viper?" Christine glared at the phone. It was an empty threat, wasn't it? He wanted to use the organ for their tracks… But, like before, it was all he had to coerce her with. Just like the stage mirrors a year ago. She tried to keep the amusement from lifting her lips and failed. Oh, Erik. What had Nadir said also? He tended to go overboard? Never does anything halfway.

Still, three thousand dollars.

"I'll think about it." She handed the phone back. "Sorry, I interrupted your socializing."

Nadir gave her a kind smile, and it warmed her a little. They were connected now, in some small way. After all he had witnessed, and all she had endured. And all they cared for Erik. "Don't worry. January will be here before you know it. I'll try to keep him in one piece."

Her smiled brightened. Maybe Nadir was in their corner after all. "And yourself."

Christine didn't know what she ought to do with the damn piece of paper, so she elected to stuff it in her wallet and think about it later. Bundling up in her sweater and mittens she headed out the back way, to the ill-fated patio. If only…

No, no more wasted time gazing back over the hours or years wasted. She was going to fight for her happiness, no one was going to give it to her. And that meant having to think positively. Having the strength to hope.

Someone was there, reading as they nursed their drink, and the cars were stacked around it waiting in the drive-thru. She had let the knobless door swing behind her before she realized she parked in front, that she had her car today because there were no lessons.

Her mittened hand fished out the ring again, squeezing it. Well...she'd go home and clean, that's what she'd do. And buy groceries, since her fridge was probably filled with expired products, if anything at all. Then she'd sing some by herself. She couldn't slack off, even if there were lonely weeks ahead of her. Erik would have her in a sling if she showed up again and her voice cracked.

Christine sighed. She'd give anything for one of his lectures right now.

"You sound so sad."

Christine blinked, her head swiveling around, trying to find the sound of the small almost childlike voice that had sounded like it was right next to her.

"Here. Right here. It's such a lovely place to be, around your neck."

Christine looked down into her palm. With a rush, she looked again at the lone patron, his back to her, his felt fedora tilted just right. She took a step towards him, then brought herself up short. No, no she didn't want to be in trouble with the law; and they weren't speaking, technically. She was speaking to...her ring. No contact with Erik. Altering course, she went to lean against the railing of the patio, her back to the figure.

"You're a magic ring?"

"Does being alive constitute as magic?"

"Sometimes I think so."

"Why do you sigh so?"

"I miss my...teacher. My man."

"You're free! You should be happy."

Christine frowned a little. She was about to say she had always been free, that no man forced her to sit and endure all she had and she was mistress of her own actions, but it wasn't quite true. She was free now, even if she had to take a bump on the head to realize that she had been trapped by her own fears and hesitation, so obedient to their demands.

Once clear-headed, however, she had freely chosen Erik, the thick-skulled ass, again and again. "You're right, I'm free. I don't have to hide how I feel anymore, and everyone knows that I'm in love, and I can talk about it freely. But I can't be with him all the same."

"You're with your friends! And you can talk to whomever you choose! Why mourn a monster?"

"Erik is not a monster. And if you keep talking like that back into my shirt you go." Christine smirked when she heard the man behind her choke on his sip. "I want to talk to Erik. I've told him so many times he's apart of my life, just like everybody else. And...I wish I could speak to him now more than ever."

"And why is that?"

"I'm worried about him."

"Creatures like him always manage."

"He's not a creature, either. He's a man. He proved that to me himself." Christine passed her wool-covered thumb over the onyx. "I wish I could tell him that...that I miss him. And I love him. And I can't wait to start our life together. And that...I'm worried for him."

"Worried he will not stay a man?"

"Worried that he's going to give up. You see, you must not have been paying attention. He continued to tell me to leave him. That I should want someone else. He had this whole story written out where he lost me and it was justified. I want him to fight for us. He's fought bravely before, and I know I'm not as important as his other battles-

"That's not true!"

"-Well thank you. Still. He fought for me to take lessons, he fought for me to be in his opera house, even though that got a little sidetracked. But when it comes to me being with him."

"Singing and working in the opera house are all goods things. Having an old man for a lover is not."

"Doesn't he want me to have a choice?"

"Yes!"

"Does he think I'm stupid?"

"No! Not at all!"

"Then why does he think I'm too dumb to choose what's best for me? Does he think so little of my opinion?" Christine waited, even pretended to lift the ring to her ear to hear better. Trapped in her logic, Erik apparently had nothing to say to that.

"...He does wish to fight for you. He almost did, and it would have been disastrous for everybody's health. He wished to take you and return home and never let you near that boy again. He'd turn me into an...an engagement ring if he could. But he must wait. He must not think of absconding to your apartment in the night. He must be a man, not a phantom. And men are responsible."

Christine was stunned, the word engagement hitting her squarely in the chest, robbing her of any other worry she wanted to impart on him. Engagement...marriage. That was certainly not giving up.

"See? Such horror for the idea, as there should be."

"I am not horrified," she gasped. "And...and if he could think that after all I've told him in the kitchen then...then I really am going to knock sense into him!"

"You're a half a foot too short. But you'd make a good try of it I am sure."

"I go for the knees." A shared chuckled, and Christine found herself grinning, her cold cheeks stinging from the stretch. Engagement. "Y-"

"Erik, yalla!"

Christine jumped at Nadir's voice. He was standing by his car, calling. She kept her eyes firmly down, not moving as she heard the man rise behind her. After all, she'd been talking to her ring...not Erik. Technically.

She felt him pass behind her towards the stairs, stopping only at the railing. Glancing up she caught a flash of golden eyes behind a black mask before he was taking his long strides across the parking lot. "Finished flirting?"

"Shut up and get in the car. What were you…?"

"You should think again about coming here. The staff tends to talk to themselves."

Christine shoved the ring back into her shirt, grinning as Nadir's brake lights disappeared up the lane. Engagement. If he could, he'd marry her. Well, they had known each other a year, that was as long as anyone else took to decide. Husband and wife. Mrs. Khan-

Oh. They'd have to discuss that. She grinned again and hopped a little on the spot. He hadn't proposed, not really. But he was thinking about it! They'd have to discuss their shared surname! They'd have to discuss a future, together. All thoughts of doubt and struggle had fled her mind.

Instead, her brain was flooded with music! Not just her half of the duet strung anew with another verse. No, this song was Erik through and through. The counterpoint he played to her melody. A low, humming, seductive tone that was her gentle, passionate man. Like velvet, like night, like a first kiss in the firelight… And words! Words flooded her tongue, begging to be let loose into the frigid air on the smoldering tune. Analogies of night and music and worlds created within were forming without her consent as if they were simply waiting to be built, and her mind desperately tried to keep up. She had to rush home, she had to capture these notes before they were gone!

I have to tell Meg!

Chapter 15

The Mazandaran Theater had a ghost.

Well, the staff always said that there was a ghost; that it was a little haunted. New Jersey having ties to both Native and Colonial history, such things were either believed or understood as local folklore. Some places were simply haunted. Maybe it was built on unlucky grounds, or perhaps whatever was there before had been haunted already.

And it wasn't such a bad ghost. Sometimes when the ballerinas lost bobby pins or hair ties, suddenly they'd find a pile right under their jackets. And the stagehands who were nervously managing the mirrors, scared to death of such delicate machinery, would swear that the ghost whispered instructions when they most needed it. Sometimes, late, late in the night, there were echos of music coming from the cellars, a lonely sound echoing faintly from the floorboards.

But do not anger the ghost. Oh no, there had been many stolen ballet shoe, ripped costumes right before a performance, and written on librettos for those who displeased him, denied him or worse: performed poorly.

Of course, the managers knew better. The managers knew it was Erik, who managed the theater in all but name, before Firmin. But the staff and actors and dancers, being artists and loving a good story, clung to the fact that there was, indeed, a ghost. It was an easier way of showing their displeasure at the current direction they were going. Many curses upon Firmin and Carlotta came at the demand of the spector.

"I hope the ghost pisses in her tea," one stagehand said, watching Carlotta slam the dressing room door behind her. They were practicing for Aida, for the final performance of the season after Thanksgiving. The chorus had been a little off tempo, mostly because Carlotta either paused too long or rushed her words for 'artistic license' to give the piece 'real emotion' and sometimes skipped cues all together, singing over people just because she could.

The chorus girl who had been her particular victim laughed a little through her tears. Reyer was sitting with her on stage, the other actors crowded around, still rattled after such a spectacular diva tantrum. "I just don't want to be fired. Please, Mr. Reyer."

"Don't worry, you won't be," he lied. She should worry, as Firmin had the power to hire and fire, one of the very few powers he did have.

High above them, their voices echoed against the dome roof of the theater. Here was painted an Arabic crescent moon, beautifully coquette behind wispy clouds and crowned in stars. If one looked very carefully, if they had a ladder high enough, the lower section of the moon and navy sky seemed a little more vibrant, the colors a little glossier. Down below the naked eye couldn't see it, even up close it was hard to tell that part of the dome ceiling was glass.

Two-way glass in fact. Erik leaned against the railing behind that two-way, having witnessed the whole rehearsal. Yes, the little chorus girl might get canned. He must send a rather nasty note to Firmin to ensure she didn't. But...after that, she might wish to leave. He'd have to write her a glowing review and letter of recommendation if that was the case, to ease her way. He shook his masked head. Reputations killed opera houses as easily as budgets. Carlotta had been a temporary boost, but if their turn over became too high...

He had hoped to find a little escape in watching the rehearsal, engaging his analytical side in seeing flaws that could be improved, and writing them down for Reyer. It kept him from all the other thoughts swirling around his skull.

She smiled. Christine smiled at the idea of being bound to me forever. Oh this poor girl, what have I done to her?

Nothing, she chose this.

She knows not what she does.

Erik pressed his fingers to his temple, as if the pressure could transfer to the thought itself, and suffocate it. It was the Phantom, the parasite that needed him weak, that fed off his doubt. Christine asked him to fight, fight for them. Couldn't she understand that he did? Every day, every moment that told him to never allow her back, that he was a monster and would harm her the first chance he let his guard down. It was a never-ending battle between hope and experience.

Fought every day to keep the Phantom in check, keep it weak. She wanted fight, by God he could give her a war! He could battle her young friend, fight her life, fight them all and bring her back to his home and lock her within its walls forever. His little soprano, his muse, his lover. Entertain her for hours, years with all the wonders of his creation, his home and his world of music. That was his type of fight. Battles had many strategies, and retreat was one of them.

But no, she did not mean that type of fight, did she? No, she wanted more of...more of his possessiveness! How, why, he couldn't fathom. The analogy of dragon in this little tale wasn't far off as much as he resented it. He hoarded what was his viciously: his privacy, his music, his house. But she was a free creature, a being with her own mind. She wouldn't simply be his wife, as an object, like the organ was his organ and the masks were his masks.

She would be a living wife.

A human that deserved no chain, no captivity. Yet, she wanted to be shackled to him forever and wanted him to rejoice in it. She petted the ring Erik had trophied off Bin Nasheed as if she were happy for her collar. Oh, he found it very pleasing, of course. But that pleasure surely had to be sick. That dark part of him humming with want and passion which wanted to take her as his. Take her in the most intimate ways and not so intimate; hold her close and hiss that she belonged to him, him, him! Her voice, her body, all that was Christine! She was made for him!

Erik pressed his temple harder. For a man who needed little sleep, he had gotten even less than usual last night, tossing and turning in his old bed. Not only the principle of the matter picking at him but the thoughts of Christine as his bride, dressed in a beautiful gown of white, vowing her life to him, tiling her veiled face back for a kiss. His hands lifting the fabric away from her round angelic visage, his hands trailing over the bodice to its laces as she sighed his name. Erik turned and sat on the railing, crossing his legs with a hiss.

I need a drink. Perhaps if I crack my skull against the glass, it will help.

It was an old argument he had been knocking about these past two weeks. How much of this hunger was the Phantom and how much of Erik was irredeemable?

Behind him the door to the passage opened, Charles carefully picking his way up the rickety stairs to the little viewing platform. When Erik had built the opera house, he had let Charles know there were a few secret passages built into the main structure. It was enough to mislead him from the other things and throw off his suspicions of why Erik was so involved with the grunt work. Like building a house under the foundation.

"I thought I might find you here." He came to Erik's side and leaned against the railing. "I just had a chat with Reyer."

"I witnessed the incident."

"Well, you're the opera ghost. Perhaps you should slash her tires."

"Does Nadir know you're encouraging me?" Over the years, Charles' voice was the one Erik could mimic with almost perfect pitch.

Charles lifted his eyes and leaned his legs against the railing as well, arms crossed. "Yes, I know, thank you. He's not your father, I shouldn't keep tattling to him and I'm not. This is our theater, we'll figure it out."

Erik shook his head again. Once more, Charles alluded to a friendship Erik was surprised he felt. He had been a regular for dinner, as well, these past weeks. Nadir was always glad for company, and Erik found he didn't mind so much. The nonsense chatter distracted him for a time from Christine and music and want.

"...If you only slash three, she has to pay for it."

"There are cameras." Erik lifted a shoulder. "And if I were to jeopardize my relationship with the law, it will not be for that soprano. Erik will think of something." He already had a ghostly plan for Carlotta before she returned to rehearsal. "Christine will be audition ready soon," he added almost as an afterthought.

Erik still loathed Carlotta, yes. Her attitude, her bad habits, the way she loved her fame and importance more than constant study to her craft. And he did wish for Christine to stand on his stage, and sing with the voice he had awakened again. But that desire...dimmed. The war with Carlotta and Firmin had dropped drastically in his estimation. Ruling the opera house with an iron fist, watching the beautiful people and beautiful music come together under his watchful gaze, knowing he had created a small kingdom of notes and glitter had lost its luster.

It was a little candle flame compared to the inferno of having Christine as his wife. Being her teacher and a manager touched his vanity. Being her maybe-husband made his soul sing.

Now, the idea of waking up in his house, or perhaps...some other house with a window, or even a yard, or a real lake, seemed like owning a palace. Of waking in the morning to the sound of birds and a bride breathing next to him was more intoxicating than waking to the vibrations of the orchestra above. Making breakfast for Christine and sharing the day wrapped up in music and maybe going on a hike with his wife on the weekends-that was a dream so sweet it made his tongue ache for want of it.

"When I came that day, you weren't playing anything I knew. Something modern?" Despite his crass nature, Charles had an encyclopedic knowledge of opera and a good ear. Had he been listening for a while, he would have caught what they were and were not playing.

"No, we were simply improvising."

"But you've written music together?"

"Yes. We've been editing my compositions."

"Are there any ready for performance? I mean you could always play something before a show, or during intermission. Like an opener. Get her exposure without having to fight for an audition."

Erik hunched his shoulders. "It's…that music is-"

"Every artist believes their music is too personal, too good to put out there." Charles leaned close and in a stage whisper continued, "That's what makes it good music. Really, Erik, I'm surprised at you."

The masked man frowned. "At me? I've always been private."

"Yes, but not about your music. It's like you're ashamed of it-and her."

Now that confusion turned to rage. "Ashamed! Ashamed? Christine could stand on that stage and deliver a performance that could put you in tears, Mr. Garnier. And be a better actress with no training. Ashamed! That girl has talent beyond what even you could fathom. She is a composer in the making, equal only to myself! Our music is not simply personal, it is too good for the ignorant masses!"

Charles, thoroughly unshaken, cocked his head. "You don't act like it."

"Excuse me?"

"You don't act like it. Keep your music squirreled away, lessons in private. Even when that idiot kid came to 'rescue' her you just stood there and let it happen. Then you gave her your ring, and you don't even mention her. It's like you're not proud of her, no wonder she looked close to crying."

Not proud? Not proud of his protege, whose voice soared and entranced? Who's mind worked with vicious determination and whose creativity knew no artistic bounds? Not proud of his Christine? Erik gaped at the man, too stunned by the ludacris accusation to speak. How could Charles doubt it?!

"You know, women like a little reassurance once in a while," Charles, who could not recognize death when it's golden eyes were staring him in the face, continued. "I mean a ring is all well and good, but you should propose before she begins to doubt your commitment. They like being fought for, or at least Felicia did."

Fight. All the vitriol drained out of Erik, like a chink in a dam giving way. He would have to strangle Charles another time, for today he had a point. Is that what Christine had meant? That she wore his ring proudly, but he seemed to give no notion of the same? Did she really believe, given the chance, he'd let her escape from him? Oh, she should leave, he wished her safe. But wished her separate from her Erik? Never. Never! What was fighting the instincts etched into his bones for if not for her?

Did she doubt his commitment? Did she doubt his estimation of her, of her worthiness as a spouse? The worth of their relationship?

Oh.

Erik slapped the railing in frustration. If that was all, then what a ridiculous problem! What lunacy! Suddenly his heart ached desperately as if his and Christine's really were tethered together, and distance made him bleed. He missed his angel; it had been so easy and sweet with her here. The slightly dented but altogether wonderful morning had been so easy, talking to her with his bare face, like a normal man. Asking questions and having real, truthful answers. No guessing, no doubts. Had she been here, he would have not spent weeks fretting.

Another flare of rage for Raoul De Changy, that was quickly snuffed out with planning. He had much to do. "We will have a set list ready to perform by Halloween," Erik said, pushing off the railing. "We have to finish certain tracks, polish, and record, but we will be ready for a concert of our own. Hopefully, she will not mind putting off the wedding."

"W-wed-So you really are engaged?"

"We will be." He had to get to work quickly now. In his mind, he already had a new melody for their opening song. A duet, a masterful duet that would send the foundation of the opera house shaking! And a proposal-she would have no doubt of his pride and want after the proposal he was planning! "Tell Reyer that the chorus is off center and that the stagehands are changing the scenes too early. I have work to do."

Without even a by your leave, Erik was descending the stairs and disappearing into the passage.

"Hey-hey, just so you know I was kidding about the tires! Erik!"

But Erik as no longer listening, slipping through the little corridors he had hidden in his opera house, his gilded cage. This opera house was not only the monument to his genius but his glorious mausoleum. Like the pharaohs of old, he had planned to die here quietly and out of the way surrounded by what he loved.

But that was before Christine. How she gave him bravery! How he wished he could go to her and kiss her for all she did. Soon. Erik grinned, and for the first time in his life, he did not feel the hands of the Phantom on him as he schemed.

Not even as he hid behind Carlotta's mirror waiting for the right moment to crack the glass and make her scream. But he did use the Phantom's echoey chuckle to make her flee the room. Better than the disgusting suggestion of the stagehand, by far.

---

"So, mermaid or ball gown."

"Is it really an either-or situation," Christine called to her phone tossed on the bed. The girl herself was bent double, rubbing down her curls with a microfiber towel. Another squeeze and she flipped back, catching the towel keeping her modesty before it slipped. "And he hasn't even proposed, Meg!"

"Okay, but you said 'engagement ring if he could'. He is so proposing once you go back," Meg said with confidence. "And weddings take a long time to plan! So, mermaid or ball gown, which should I be marking in catalogs?"

"What happened to 'losing all enthusiasm'?" Keeping true to her word, last week Christine had gone straight to Meg and told her of the almost illegal conversation they had on the patio.

Meg had fretted over the commitment to a man with such a heavy past for a good two hours as they whispered up in her bedroom until they began speaking about dates and realized all these things had happened almost a decade ago. It was new and frightening to them as young women just learning about it and having never had experienced things so serious. But it was, quite literally, history. And didn't his restraint with Raoul count for something? After all, Christine had reasoned, Erik was the same as he was when their lessons began. His past was unchangeable, but he had proven that a new future was possible.

Also, the allure of gowns and weddings and romance had lurked too temptingly on the horizon. That was a much more appealing conversation to have.

"You have another month, and a year of planning a wedding to reconsider," Meg rationalized. "One misstep and I'm on him like white on rice. But until then mer-"

"Ballgowns!"

"My girl!" Christine heard her throwing out a magazine and flipping through another one. "Sleeves?"

"God, yes!"

"Alright, I will start marking. When is Raoul picking you up?"

"T-minus two hours," Christine said checking the clock on her phone.

"Your hair should be dry by then."

"I wouldn't count on it," Christine laughed. Raoul had invited her to Thanksgiving, and Meg had let her off the hook from the Giry celebration, as Christmas would be theirs. Taking out her bottle of argan oil, she began dripping it to her locks strategically before taking a comb to her locks and evenly distributing. "I'm nervous, his parents weren't exactly warm when we were kids."

"They're what, lawyers right?"

"His father is the founding partner of his firm, De Changy and De Changy."

"That's a pretentious mouthful. Can you recognize a salad fork form a dinner fork?"

"No…? Now I'm really nervous." She sighed and went to her wardrobe. "I don't have anything nice enough, do I?"

"Wear your opera outfit. It has good luck, I bet."

"Maybe." She rifled in her underwear drawer and was suddenly very glad that she and Erik hadn't gone past kissing. Not that it mattered, especially to him, but she didn't have...much. Clothes, or alluring undergarments. Most of her things were so worn, she was afraid another wear might rip them. She had never bought much when her parents were alive, being a fashion icon was never her gig. And now with money so tight, she didn't have the budget. Especially for fancy panties. In fact, the ones she had been wearing that day had had unicorns and constellations printed on it. She would have flat out died of mortification. "Hey, are we still on for Black Friday-ing? I think my wardrobe could use a little revamping."

"Don't tease me like that, Daae."

"Ha-ha, I'm serious. I mean clothes are necessary and I haven't bought anything new in years. Things are starting to have holes in them."

"He said use the money however you see fit. If you see fit to give me some so you don't look like a 90's catalog reject then…"

"I'm not that bad!"

"No, I love your fondness for sweats, it always makes me feel like I'm dressed."

"Goodbye, Marguerite."

"Love you, don't eat anything you can't recognize!"

Christine hung up and finished dressing, sliding Erik's ring back around her neck. She threw on her best blouse and pants and decided that would have to be it. After a nice dance to Lovefool and quick scales, she put on the music for Die Hölle Rache and began to practice. Sexy undergarments or not, Erik would have her strung up if she didn't practice as much as she could. With a quick swig of water, she leaned into the first note and felt her voice open up. And she did make sure to breathe deeply. Let him see if she squeaked by the time she got back!

She lost herself in the song, even as she pinned up her hair in her mirror, stopping only to act to her reflection and try her hand at a beautifully villainous expression. She almost had the perfect Scarlet O'Hara brow lift down her third time around when she heard her doorbell.

"So bist du meine Toch-Coming!" She drained the last of the water in her glass and hurried over. After a confirming peek through the peephole, she opened the door. "Hey!"

Raoul grinned as he stepped through. "Wow, Chris."

"What? You've heard me," she reminded him, before wincing. She didn't want him dwelling on what exactly came after her exhibition.

"Yeah but not, you know, opera style. Your voice is powerful! It's more...uh."

"Full-bodied," she offered, with a smirk. "Resonates?"

"Yes!"

"Good, that's what I've been trying for, but I'm sure it's not enough."

"Oh? He doesn't think so?" The happy look on Raoul's face darkened. Before he could ask if he degraded her regularly, Christine forced a laugh.

"Oh, he loves my voice. That's what he noticed first but he always thinks I can be better. Breath more, you sound like a marionette, more tone, less trilling!"

Raoul snorted at the mimicry. "He sounds like a hard ass."

"He is a hard ass. First lesson we had, I was on a brand new diet and sleeping pattern. I told you about that."

Again, Raoul frowned. "He can't control your life like that."

Christine smiled sadly. "Raoul, a lot of singers are like this. When I was at the conservatory-well you wouldn't believe what some girls did before auditions."

"Really? You were really serious about that diet and sleeping even then?"

"Oh yeah." She picked up her music, straightening it and tucking it back into her leather folder. Raoul peered over her shoulder and shook his head.

"I guess it's all just Greek to me. I just go and listen and like a nice tune."

"I know," Christine said. It was probably the biggest thing keeping her from thinking of Raoul as anything more, and the biggest thing Erik didn't see. Raoul, though he loved Christine's curious spirit, and guileless ways didn't understand music. Perhaps he had an inkling of it: it took something to risk your life for your country. He could understand devotion and commitment, but (even though it wasn't nearly the same level) the commitment to something like music, all at once so ethereal and technical... "But that's alright. I mean I don't know anything about ships, only that somehow, that whole hunk of metal floats!"

Raoul was happy to explain the technicalities of ship, and ship life, as she got her purse. It made her smile with real joy. He may not have a devotion to music, but he was just as passionate about his work. He'd find a girl who shared it, who'd hang off his words and look at him like he was the smartest, loveliest man in the world. Raoul would be happy, she knew. The rest would sort itself out.

On the drive over, Raoul gave her the rundown of everything she had missed during their separation. His older brothers, Victor and George were working with their father as lawyers, and their wives would be there. His sisters, Rachel, Alison, and Gene were also married, but their kids were with a sitter.

"For Thanksgiving," Christine asked, her brows raised. That was part of the holiday, wasn't it? The kid's table? All your relatives crammed into your house eating and making noise? Christine rubbed her arms as if she could already feel the formal chill of the DeChangy house.

"They had breakfast with the family this morning." Still, Raoul did look uncomfortable. "They don't...the kids can get rowdy and the house isn't exactly safe for them with all the...stuff, on display."

Christine nodded. "Makes...makes sense. Glass can be dangerous." If this was how the conversation was going to be, her night was going to belong. She almost asked Raoul to turn around and invited him to the Giry's.

Pulling up into the circular drive wasn't much better. The whitewashed house stood tall over them, the warm glow of the Victorian light posts casting something of a homey feel to it. As homey as a mini palace could be. She was glad it didn't have a tower at least.

Raoul pulled his Honda behind the three Bentleys parked in the drive and got out to hand Christine out. She gripped his knuckles a little tighter than needed. The house was three stories tall, and she could see the path that led to the large pool in the back and the little stone hills around it that made up the waterfall.

The tall double doors were black iron, with filigree over the glass. As Raoul opened one for her, Christine's gaze automatically locked on the chandelier above their heads in the foyer. They have a foyer! The glass of the beautiful light fixture tinkled from the air gust and she was half afraid a wrong breath might bring it crashing down on her head.

"It's safe," he whispered in her ear, smirking. Christine tried to hide her smile at his reading her thoughts and gently elbowed him. "Mom! Dad! We're here."

Christine half expected his parents to come out, dressed to the nines; father in white tie and mother with a mink wrap. But happily, Papa De Changy was only wearing a normal suit for the family dinner. He was a fit man, with curling blonde hair gone steel grey now. He towered over her, much like Erik, but filled out his clothes much better. He clapped his meaty hands with a grin.

"Well look at you little Chrissy all grown up! Spin, let me see you."

"Dad," Raoul groaned. But Christine shrugged and spun in place, a smile plastered on her face.

"What? She's so grown, I can't believe it! You look just like your Mama." He grinned, placing a slight accent on the word. Clarice Daae had been a real southern belle, straight from Atlanta, Georgia. Biased though she was, Christine had never seen someone prettier than her mother. It always warmed her to hear of the resemblance.

"Rose," Mr. De Changy called. "Rose! Come here, little Christine is here!"

"I'm coming!" Mink-less, Mrs. De Changy hurried in, wiping her hands on a lace trimmed apron. She had on a tasteful cocktail dress beneath, and her bottle auburn hair was pinned up in an elegant chignon. The former Miss New Jersey was still slender as a needle, though age was allowed on her smile and hands. She probably wouldn't let it touch anything else. "Oh, my! She is, look at you, Christine!"

Despite the declaration to look, Mrs. DeChangy immediately enveloped her in a hug, kissing the air beside her cheek before letting go. "Look at you."

"Yes, everyone is looking at Christine, Mom." Raoul gently pried Christine from his mother's grasp. "Sorry we're late, I had something to finish up."

"We always expect you a little late, son," his father laughed. "Come on, get in the living room. What do you drink Christine? Whiskey?"

"Umm…"

"Whiskey, really, Jeremy." Mrs. DeChangy said waving a hand. "Christine, come on, you'll have a mimosa with me in the kitchen and warm up by the oven!"

Christine gave Raoul a wide-eyed look, begging him silently not to leave her to the mercy of either parent. He took her hand and they followed his mother into the kitchen. Gene and Alison were already there, whispering. It stopped when they came in, the phones away immediately to greet the new guest.

Women are more perceptive at social dangers than men are, and Christine immediately felt the charge in the air. Something in her shifted subtly to defense, her natural openness slamming its gates shut at the look over both women gave Christine. Their mouths spilled hellos and welcomes, but Christine knew instinctively their thoughts lent to gold digger. Still, nothing said, no slight yet given, Christine was pleasant and hugged them in return, agreeing that, yes, it had been a long time since they last saw each other and thank you for your condolences.

His brothers weren't much better. While the accusatory nature melted quickly into almost lewd staring, they merely kissed her cheek, the older one, Victor, asking stupidly how her parents were. Immediately his mother gave him a clenched teeth explanation that Christine's parents were at peace Victor.

Raoul, during the whole round of greetings, changed from white mortification to red indignation. Christine placed a hand on his arm as they were herded to the dining room table. Cold as it was, the one thought keeping Christine afloat was that this would not become her family.

Raoul was a friend, and nothing more. This would never become her annual burden. The girl she had thought of before, the one looking on Raoul with such affection, became a pitiable figure to her all of a sudden. No Christine had a family in the Girys and now, in the Khans. She was to become a Khan herself...maybe. I'll have to talk to Nadir about that. Quickly before she sat, she shot a text to the man in question under the table.

Me

How is your Thanksgiving? Is everyone alive and behaving?

Slipping the phone back into her purse, she tucked it under her chair. Oh God, there really are multiple forks! And the dining room chair, impressive mahogany nearly swallowed her. Hell her feet almost swung! Raoul made sure a husband was sitting next to Christine on the other side-Robert or Mark or someone married to either Alison or Gene. He already smelled a little like gin, and the only conversation he required with a polite 'thank you' or 'pass me the'.

"So Christine," Alison started off prepping her rifle for the shot across the bow, "I heard you're a barista."

"I am," she said carefully. "Mrs. Giry opened up a coffee shop when we were really little, and I work with Meg. Um, I think you knew her slightly, Mrs. De Changy. We all went to school together?"

"Oh yes, the little blonde cherub who'd always be up in a tree," the lady of the house agreed. "Has she calmed a little since then?"

Not seeing the inherent evil of tree climbing, Christine smiled and replied, "She's just as she ever was. A go-getter, she'll inherit the business."

"And what will you do," was Alison's next question. "Assistant manager?"

"Well…"

"Christine's a singer," Raoul cut in. "And she's amazing."

Gene leaned in, as if fascinated, her blonde hair flopping from its perfect coif a little in the heat of the candlelight. "Really, you sing? Have you auditioned for American Idol? Or like, The Noise?"

"The Voice, G," Victor snorted.

"No, I'm taking private lessons."

Mr. DeChangy gave a small noise of interest. "You were in the conservatory, weren't you? When did you graduate?"

Christine stared at the potatoes she had just loaded on her plate, pressing the tines of her hopefully correct fork into the mass as she tried to control her blushing. She had nothing to be ashamed of! She was a decent singer, good enough for Erik. Good enough to go against a seasoned diva! "I didn't. I'm taking private lessons now to complete my training."

"Oh," Alison said gently, glancing at Raoul with a sharp look. Christine followed her gaze, but all Raoul was doing was currently digging into his turkey. But she could see the muscle of his jaw as he chewed harder than necessary.

"Good for not giving up on it," Mrs. DeChangy said. "You know, not everyone's path goes through college. I may just have been a mom, but I think I had a very nice fulfilling life even without extra schooling."

Rachel almost choked on her wine. She was the eldest child and sister, and the only one of the sisters that had a career herself. "It's not the fifties anymore, Mom. Women need more out of life. I mean, if that's what you want Christine. No shame in other stuff too." The last was added for polite tolerance rather than any real sentiment.

"I'm not…" Christine elected to take a few bites and swallowing before continuing. "I mean, I'm trying to complete my training to audition for the opera house."

"Opera singer-of course, I should have guessed!" Mr. DeChangy smiled warmly. "Your father's daughter through and through. Now that's different than just a mere singer. Which opera house, maybe we've been?"

Christine wasn't a show-off, in fact, she really didn't like talking about what she had been doing with nothing officially completed on her resume. But the smirking looks of Alison and Gene and the judgment laced encouragement of Rachel compelled her to brag a little. "My teacher owns the Mazanderan Theater in Jersey City. He wants me as the lead. I told him-well, there's no telling him anything."

"I know the Mazanderan," Victor said smirking.

"He knew the last diva," George snorted, smirking wickedly at the implication. Now they were looking at Raoul with a knowing gaze. That was how they knew opera singers-as opera tarts.

Her blush deepened and she took a hold of her mimosa glass, nearly draining it. You have a gift, Erik's voice snapped in her ear. What are you ashamed of? Nothing. But their attitudes were cracking her foundation. They were determined to see her as lesser, a flippant young girl clinging desperately to fame and their brother. She wanted to go home, but instead, she simply clutched Erik's ring through her blouse. She wasn't clinging to Raoul, this was not her burden to bear.

"If you get it, that'll be something," Gene cut in, obviously displeased with the bent of the conversation. "Maybe you'll get to go on a tour? Release an album?"

"Maybe." And Christine was glad her voice didn't shake. "One step at a time, but that would be nice."

"Then you can pop around the world like Raoul here." Mrs. DeChangy gestured to her son, with a dim wattage smile. "Send postcards back from the most interesting places. I mean, I know young people are so into traveling, it's good to get it out of your system. Where have you been again, baby?"

Raoul looked indignant at the idea that he was merely traveling the world and risking his life and limb for the homestead to 'get it out of his system'. But his pride and enthusiasm seemed to win out over his upset. "Germany recently. I was in Iraq helping out the Marines and then I spent some time in Japan too."

"Iraq was so scary," Alison fretted. "He only got to call once a month."

"I was working Ally, there wasn't a lot of downtime, they needed someone who had experience with mechanics."

"Still! He could only call at the most random hours, and if you missed the call that was it!"

"It was a little upsetting," Mr. DeChangy agreed. "But you're back now, all in one piece."

"And hopefully no longer a part of the military industrial complex, my own brother." Rachel poured herself another glass, and offered the bottle to her husband, saying, "Remember when we went down to meet him in Virginia, babe? Christine, you would not believe what those girls wore. I'm glad he has you, and how smart you look."

Raoul glared at his sister. "They were welcoming back their husbands from a war zone, Rachel."

"Quite a welcome," she snorted. "And the screaming, oh my God. I think I walked away with a bad accent myself after hearing it so much."

"They were probably glad they had someone to welcome," Christine said softly, before taking her first bite of turkey. The table went totally silent, and Christine hid her smirk well. I can play social games too. She didn't want to pull her grief card like that. But anything to shut them up about Raoul and his career, and southerners in general. But after sporting so many arrows of pointed backhanded compliments, it felt good to fire a shot over their bow, and rattle them. Just a little.

Mrs. De Changy, who had shot Rachel a useless, but common mother-glance filled with reproach and chastisement leaped off from her daughter's ill-fated comments. "Your mother was from Georgia, right Christine? I remember she was in the pageant system too."

"Yes, she tried for Miss Atlanta, but she won my father instead of the crown." Christine was always happy to talk about her parent's love story. It had been a mistake, really. Clarice Howard had been in the competition for Miss Atlanta, her talent had been singing. Her father, Charles Daae had come to the theater by accident. He had gotten his dates mixed up, and come to perform in the orchestra three days too early. It had been quite a shock for him to run into the back room of the theater and find fifty shocked women in ball gowns rather than an orchestra starting to take their places.

Clarice had taken pity on him and secured him a good hotel at a reasonable price where he could stay for a few days (Clarice was friends with everyone and could coupon with the best of them. She always had a price fix up her sleeve). He had stayed to watch the competition, and when Clarice didn't win, offered to buy her a drink as a consolation prize.

The rest was history, as they say. Clarice came and watched him perform in turn, and they bonded over their love of music at first. But really they were one of those couples that simply…'clicked'. Their love story had been her ideal for all of Christine's life. Perhaps that was why she so easily fell for Erik. He was her corresponding puzzle piece, to click with. Being next to him was so natural as if he had been waiting there her entire life.

With his age, technically he had. She really should pin down an approximation of his years.

This table, though full, lacked the genuine warmth of the hearth Christine had shared with her parent's marriage for years. She was chilled through with the lack of it, and though she was sporting almost threadbare clothes and cheap shoes, she felt pity for them. Most of all for poor Raoul.

The rest of dinner passed by pleasant enough. The siblings still did not take to Christine, wary of her design on their brother. Many times their condescension shone through when they would explain things to her she, as an adult, was fully capable of understanding on her own.

When dessert was served and it was socially acceptable to leave the table, Raoul quickly offered her a tour of the magnificent house. Grabbing their drinks they hurried off, Mr. DeChangy chuckling with a fond "Well there they both go, as usual, to create some kind of fun!"

They hurried up to his father's office, painted a royal blue, the crown molding a bright regal gold, and Raoul shut the door, locking it. "Jesus Christ, Christine, I am so sorry."

"Don't be," she hurried. "It's not your fault, they were going after you too. No, I don't wanna hear it!" She put a hand on his arm. "Honestly, you're not going to take responsibility for them."

"I just wanted you to have a nice family meal, and get away from all the nonsense last month. Them doing that to me is one thing, but I thought they'd behave with a guest!" He ran a hand through his thick hair, gripping it tightly. Christine saw the muscle of his arm work and feared for his poor scalp. "It was supposed to be nice for you."

It was supposed to drag me away from Erik, she guessed. To show her something of normality and tempt her to stop throwing herself away on a hermit who lived under the opera house. But she wouldn't outright accuse him. She did want a spot for sweet Raoul in her life, after all. "It...it is!" Christine gestured to the room. "The house is really great! And the food was good and your parents were nice! Please don't worry about me Raoul, I can hold my own. Remember? Though she be little…?"

He chuckled humorlessly. "Yeah...yeah, I remember."

"I'm more upset that they talked about you that way."

"Oh, that is nothing. I can only imagine what they'll say when I tell them I want to work up the officer chain. That I'm not getting it out of my system."

Christine grinned brightly. "Good! You should. You really love it, Raoul, anyone with eyes can see that you love what you're doing, and you should pursue it and don't waste time about it!"

His expression changed to one of pride, before breaking out in a grin. "So just follow your example, right?"

Christine turned a little pink. She didn't think she was the model for living life to the fullest. Her hand went to the ring again. But her life was certainly full now.

"Hey, you know what, let's get out of here. Jackson is having a Thanksgiving at his house for everyone who can't go home yet. It'll be a lot louder than this place but, still!"

"Won't your parents mind?"

"No, they're probably halfway into the fifth bottle of Merlot. C'mon, it'll be fun!" He took her hand and they hurried back downstairs, Raoul making their excuses. Christine gathered up her jacket and purse and was glad to be rid of the house. Hopefully, she'd never have to step back in here.

As a secondary thought, she was a little proud of weathering this storm. If she could stand up under that, maybe Carlotta wouldn't be so scary.

Chapter 16

Christine checked her phone while Raoul was making his goodbyes. She had already grabbed her things and had freshened up her makeup in the bathroom after the awe of the room wore off. She begrudged no one doing what they will with their money (after all her Maestro's little underground world must have cost a pretty penny), but she was unsure exactly the purpose of a five-foot mirror and real artwork in a guest bathroom on the first floor. It was not the coast, but the tackiness that put her off.

As she unlocked her phone, she made sure her lips weren't crooked in the glass. It was always risky with plum lipstick, it tended to stain. Christine wanted to make a good impression on Raoul's friends, almost more than his parents. There was care for their opinions at least.

Nadir had replied three times.

Nadir
Alive and behaving well enough.

Nadir
Erik and Charles are like minding four year olds.

Then there was a video. Greedy for any sight of Erik, she immediately cupped her hand around the speakers of her phone and tapped play.

"-bring you all of this food and you're horrible to me." That was Charles' voice as the camera was adjusted, to bring the kitchen into frame. The island was covered in plates, the electric stove stop crammed with pots. Erik was slowly stirring gravy, watching Charles with a bored expression. He had his sleeves down and his gloves still on, despite the steam around him.

"You're like a cat, Erik I swear to God." Charles was leaning against the counter, his elbows on the tile, a bottle of imported beer dangling from his limp hand. But he was grinning, his jacket off, and his collar unbuttoned under his suspenders; already in a liquor haze. So was Nadir, she guessed, from the shakiness of the video.

"A cat," was Erik's deadpan response. He capped the gravy pot and began to clean his space of paper towels and wrappers that he abandoned after their use. The action made Christine recall the photo of a stick-like little boy, wiping up a mess on a long dining room table, flinching from the partiers around him. But Erik was here among friends, no longer forced, and the attention he was giving Charles proved he was in on the teasing. He had his head cocked, and Christine recognized that stance. It was the same look he had given her when she had argued over the validity of electric guitars.

"You destain all attention, but the very moment everything's not the way you want you are louder than hell, you will not stop complaining about it." Nadir behind the camera snorted, and Charles shot him a grin. "He is! If his sunspot is a centimeter too far left then it's just fucked!"

Erik shook his head and after a pause, held out his hand where he was holding eggshells in his flour spotted palm. "And you Charles are like these eggshells."

Charles glanced at Nadir again, biting his lip and trying not to chuckle as he pulled an expression of mock fear. "Oh God: how? I'm white and brittle?"

There was the clang of the garbage pedal being stomped on before Erik threw the shells into the bag. The room immediately went off-kilter as Nadir howled with laughter, the phone almost dropping from his grip. Charles, now tilted in frame, had to bite on his fist to control the volume of his guffaw. "I belong in the trash?! Is that what you're saying?!"

"What you gather from Erik's allegory is yours," Erik said lightly, returning back to his cooking, his lips twitching in a smile. "It's like a parable."

The video ended there, on Erik's half smile. Christine touched the screen, her finger covering his face as she gently tapped it. He was doing well enough. Better even. Perhaps their proxy conversation had done as much good for him as it had for her.

Me
Why can't they play nice?

The reply came surprisingly fast

Nadir
He still let us eat, unpoisoned, so that's nice enough. And you? All well?

Me
All well. Happy Thanksgiving!

She locked the phone and dropped it into her purse, finally braving her own farewells. By the time the touching, and awkward hugging and false oaths to 'do this again' were done, she and Raoul were hurrying out of the door. He grabbed her hand and they practically ran down the drive.

"Go, go, go, before Mom calls you back for leftovers," Raoul hissed, a grin stretching her beautiful face. All at once they were six years old again, outrunning the shadows as the sun set, or racing home before the streetlights went on; just skirting trouble with their fun. They practically collided with his Honda, Christine scrambling around the back to the passenger door.

"C'mon, sailor. It's-what is it? A retreat!"

Raoul laughed, turning the key in the ignition. "We survived this far, but who knows how much longer we would have made it!" He pulled out of the drive faster than necessary, making Christine grip her door handle with a laughing shriek. "Here we go! To freedom!"

They blasted the radio and sung along to whatever song crossed the 'throw back' channel, Raoul often falling silent just to listen to her. If she hadn't been so happy to be away from the judgments and leers of his family, she might have seen how soft his glances were. Until his eyes dropped to her hands, her finger hooked through Erik's ring as it usually was these past two weeks. It was a habit now. "Is that his class ring or something," Raoul asked, focusing on the road again.

"Hmm?" Christine glanced down. "Oh." She didn't want to bring up Erik with Raoul. They had not talked about her missing three days since he dropped her off at the Giry's; there was no heart to heart under a bedroom ceiling with this old friend. She could not truly blame him for overreacting, but it stood that all the suffering that had followed that morning had a dual cause: Christine's thoughtlessness and Raoul's bravado. "I dunno. He's always wearing it."

"It's kinda gaudy" he murmured, checking behind him before he switched lanes. Christine wondered if he would have ever even formed an opinion on the piece if it hadn't been his rival's. She had to admit that Erik had been right.

To Christine, who had aspired in romance to nothing more than some distant notion of a husband and a comfortable life with said man sometime in the future, it seemed impossible that not only one but two men should vie for her attention.

Had she been a bit more coquette, or maybe just shallow, she might have found a thrilling sort of fun in the game, pitting them against each other. Some of the others at the Little Latte did so, never really dating but 'hanging' with men and women, whatever their fancy was, one tonight the other this weekend, dates with no commitment. She had always found it a little mean, and rather hypocritical when the same people would complain their whole shift that they had found pictures of one of their marionettes having fun without them or, God forbid, 'hanging' with someone else. It had made the whole game of it distasteful to Christine.

She and Meg had watched these, admittedly younger, baristas with bewildered resigned sympathy. Of course, Meg being the more loquacious of the pair had made her opinion known, that a lot of grief could be saved if you didn't 'play with hearts like you play pinball'. Meg was a one-man type of girl, forever waiting for her elusive billionaire, but settling for young men who made her laugh. And Christine…

Well, Christine had liked the notion of love, the same as she liked the notion of becoming suddenly independently wealthy and traveling the world. A nice daydream for her boring hours, and an oath of 'one day…' for her more frustrating times. All of a sudden, she was thick in the game, and barely understood how the pieces moved. But she knew her side of the board: and it already had a king. "Well, it's men's jewelry. It's all gaudy."

"Maybe. But still, it looks like something off Al Capone's wardrobe."

The realization almost had an audible sound as it landed squarely in the center of her thoughts. She lifted the ring up, the passing streetlights making the diamonds glitter in the dim of Raoul's car. This was Bin Nasheed's ring. The thought alone was enough to make her drop the metal as if it burned her, and it fell heavily around her neck. This ring had been on the finger of a man who had hurt Erik.

Nadir had told her he won a large settlement against the family, and this must have been one of his prizes. A symbol of his freedom. She supposed it must have brought him a sense of victory, but to her, it seemed only an echo of triumph, a symphony in another building, drowned out by the notes of grief and pain in the street that it took to arrive there.

But it meant something to him, and it had been important that she take it when they were separated. She glanced at Raoul and recognized it was symbolic of more than freedom and remembrance. She tucked it back into her shirt, though now it felt heavy against her chest.

"Sorry. I just...it bothers me a little. Like he's claiming you."

He is. "His name is Erik. And he isn't trying to trap me. He tried to get me to leave when I first came to him. And not in the way you're thinking, he didn't manipulate me with my sympathy. I'm the one that pressed the issue."

Raoul shifted in his seat, properly chastised. "It's just...he doesn't seem right for you." He lifted his eyes briefly. "And I know we've just reconnected but...people don't change much. And you're still little Tina the Fairy Queen under all that opera and age."

Christine covered her face. Little Tina the Fairy Queen had been the main character of all her father's made up adventures and little ditties he played for them when they were kids, putting Christine at the center of great tales of darkness and adventure and love. If only he had told her the tears such characters shed on their trails. "Why do you have a steel trap memory?!"

Finally, a grin broke from his gloom. "I remember a lot, Tina. You once wandered the little forest behind the school for an hour after recess because you were pretending to be Snow White. The school almost called the cops," Raoul reminded her with a laugh.

"I was a kid!" She pinched his arm, but barely got a grip with all the muscle there, which only served to make him laugh harder, desperately wiping the tears so he could see the road. It was infectious, a smirk finally clawing its way across her lips. Yes, she already had her king, but it didn't mean she did not love her knight dearly. She would always love him, until the day her heart could love no more.

After all this pain and hurt and repentance, Christine was starting to understand just how much a human heart could endure, sacrifice, and hold.

---

Jackson's house was on the crest of the hill in Wyckoff, and the procession of cars that stood like sentinels along the sidewalk signaled just how many sailors were unable to leave the state for the holidays. It took three circles for them to find a place to wedge Raoul's car, and then a few minutes to hike back up the hill to the house.

Here Raoul was easy enough to simply unlatch the backyard gate rather than go to the front door. Jackson's family obviously had money as well, they were still in the rich part of the state, but the practicality of the squat brown house welcomed Christine much more. There were even gnomes in the front yard, watching over the sleeping flowers and a gag floor mat on the porch that read 'Wipe Your Paws'.

Tall flames danced to the bass line of the music from the hanging speakers and rumble of the party goers, encased in skinny metal pyramid outdoor heaters to ward off the early chill. The noise was deafening and Raoul had to lean in close to ask her if she wanted a drink. The crush of bodies eased up around the covered pool, where a beer pong table had been set up, a game already in full swing. Christine recognized Jackson and his wide brown face from the Little Lotte. He drained his solo cup and weaved past his teammates to embrace Raoul with a grin.

"Great, you made it! Come on, what are you having?"

"Nothing, I'm driving," Raoul said with a little wave towards Christine.

"Aw c'mon, you can both bunk here. Innis and Angie are staying too, and the downstairs couch is still free."

Raoul colored a little at the idea of him and Christine sharing a couch and tried to laugh it off. "Uh, no that's good, Jackson. Really. Y-you remember Chris, right?"

"Of course!" He shook Christine's hand. "Thanks for coming! You look great without the apron."

"And the espresso splashes," Christine said, immediately taking to him.

"You can drink, right? C'mon, Innis is bartending." Jackson put an easy arm around Christine, steering her to the little home bar by the covered jacuzzi. There the other sailor from the cafe was standing, trying to do a trick with the margarita shaker. Whatever he attempted was not as entertaining as fumbling the lid and splashing his own face. "...I can make you anything you want."

Raoul nodded at the house. "Hey, while you do that, I'm going to go see Sarah. She's inside right?"

"Yeah, she's resting a little. Got a little overcrowded."

"Okay. You okay Christine?" He offered her a questioning thumbs up which she returned.

"Oh don't worry she'll be fine," Jackson announced, loudly continuing, "Did you know Raoul almost fell off the ship the first time out?"

The sailor in question groaned loudly for effect and clapped his hands over his face. "No!" Christine grinned and leaned close to hear the story over the din. Tina the Fairy Queen had nothing on this. She listened to Jackson's story, only taking small sips of her Screwdriver, with rapt attention, glad when Innis joined in. One tale melted into the next and they Scheherazaded their way through their acquaintance with Raoul and their own tenures in the Navy.

Along the way, she was shuttled to group after group, meeting sailors and girlfriends and wives. She had to reach down back in her experience once more, back to the time when she followed her father to concerts during the summers and mass introductions were par for the course, matching people and names to significant traits (Alexa with the red shirt, Mark with the Colgate smile, Marianne had dyed hair…) in a vague hope to remember them.

When she caught sight of Raoul in the backdoor of the house, beaconing her over, she felt a wave of absolute gratitude. It was a bit of a shock, realizing how very isolated she had been for years, shut away with her own grief. Once adjusted to the dark and lonely, it was almost painful to return to light and company, Be easy with me she wanted to tell Raoul as soon she got to him, happy to dump her drink in the sink of the warm kitchen she entered. And I need to be easy with Erik.

"Got enough dirt on me?"

"Did you really wander into the desert in Iraq?"

"I'm going to murder Innis. Come on, I want you to meet someone." He took her hand again, and they stepped into the carpeted hall. Here on the walls were things that made up a life: pictures of family, Jackson's graduation from school and the academy, wedding photos, family vacation photos, little plaques with prayers and Bible verses on them. Frames crammed with love and brotherhood, and not enough wall to hold it all.

The living room was relatively empty: someone in the corner, cupping their hand around their phone as they spoke quietly, a few sailors starting to drift off full of food and liquor and comfort on the two sofas. A small woman was in one of the armchairs by the little electric fireplace, wearing an oversized THE GARDEN STATE sweatshirt and leggings, her long, straight dark hair curtains about her round face.

"Christine, I want you to meet Sarah."

The woman looked up and smiled so sweetly it made Christine's teeth ache. She had large dancing green eyes, one ringed in a sickly healing yellow. Sarah, the wife, the victim. "Oh, you're Christine? Raoul's talked about you a lot." She made sure her sleeve was pulled down before offering her hand. Her glance at Raoul was filled with relief and a bit of adoration for her protector. Christine took it with a gentle shake.

"Oh, well, I'm sure none of it was flattering. But I'm really glad to meet you." Raoul guided her to sit in the chair next to Sarah, already smiling proudly.

"Oh, no he's so kind and he told me about your music. You're a real opera singer?"

"Fingers crossed," Christine said, pulling a little face. "In training. Hopefully by this time next year, if I don't totally screw up on stage."

She shook her head sympathetically. "I'm sure you won't. Raoul says you're training is really intense. Opera boot camp."

"Oh, that's an excellent way of putting it, my teacher is like a drill sergeant."

Sarah laughed, and Christine noticed that her mouth's left corner never lifted as high as the right. Horror was a familiar feeling by now, and the claws of it irritated the barely healed scratches it in her stomach left by the tale of Bin Nasheed. But she hid it well, glad to have given Sarah some joy, whatever the small joke was worth.

"You didn't have to bring her all the way here just to meet me. I could...could have gone out." Her eyes widened a little as she looked at her hands, brow furrowed, then it was gone. She was good at hiding her emotions for the comfort of others. "I suppose I'm missing the party…"

"Well, it's really packed out there." Christine learned a little closer, "You don't mind if we talk in here a little bit? I was feeling crowded. Is that okay?"

Christine saw the same relief she herself had felt moments before washing over the woman. "Not at all. It can be a lot. Why don't you scoot closer to the fire?"

Christine obeyed, but not before Raoul placed his hand on her wrist, squeezing it in thanks. Glancing at him, Christine saw that he was barely suppressing a grin, blue eyes dancing. He looked quite proud of Christine, who had within seconds put Sarah at ease both with absence from the party and making a new acquaintance. Christine herself was glad to be of some little help, even if it was being a companion away from the boisterous crowds just outside.

As they talked about everything and nothing to keep the conversation going, Christine noticed the habits that belied Sarah's easy manners. She tugged her sleeves down, and seemed hunch whenever someone passed by their little cluster of armchairs and footstools, and jerked violently from a loud crash outside, turning her face a fraction towards the fire, her hair falling in her face.

Was this how Raoul had seen her? True Christine had not looked much better, but she had not been weak from conditioning. She had been broken from evil, all the same, and exhausted from simply enduring. But Christine had not been in danger, not like Sarah; she wasn't a survivor.

I'm so lucky, she thought once again. She was so lucky that all the grief she had ever known in her life had only proved there was love in the world. She grieved her father because she had loved him, and been loved in return. Her introduction to the evil of humans had not been nearly as violent as Erik and Sarah, all second hand. The grief of hatred left scars that would never fully heal, deep cracks on the heart that left it a little more brittle.

But as Sarah began to slowly open up, story by story, smile by smile, Christine found that with all its dents and bruises, damaged hearts that continued to beat kindly were the warmest. They radiated welcoming heat, like a fire on a cold Thanksgiving.

It was rather late when they left Jackson's house. This time the promises of contact and repeat meetings had genuine swears and expectations. Especially with Sarah, who squeezed Christine's hands with a familiarity that the soprano accepted with gratitude.

"I've never seen her talk so much," Raoul informed Christine as they pulled out of their parking spot.

"Good. Right?"

"Right!" He grinned at her. "I knew she'd be comfortable with you. You've got a really calming presence, Chris."

She smiled down at her low heels which by now were encasing throbbing feet. But Christine didn't mind the pain, proud of herself. "Good, I'm glad. I'm like a human Xanax!"

They drove the half an hour to Christine's apartment in a comfortable silence, watching the houses get smaller and smaller, the roads a little more worn and the shops older as they ventured towards Caldwell. Christine noted without shame how much smaller her town looked after the grandeur of Raoul's home and even Jackson's, like trying to blink away the latent image of the sun after glancing into the sky.

She was happy to be home, she thought, getting out of the car; the driving and socializing weighing heavy on her. She still had to shower and clean up her makeup before finally crawling into bed. As she made her quiet mental checklist and searched for her apartment keys in her purse, she didn't notice Raoul coming up behind her. His hand on her back made her jump.

"Whoa, sorry." He gave her a crooked smile. "You're kinda wobbly, you want help up the stairs?"

"Eh-I think I'm good. I'm just sore." She smiled up at him. "Thank you for driving, and for inviting me out."

"Thank you for coming. I think Thanksgiving was fine, despite the rocky start, yeah?" He brushed an errant hair off her cheek. "And...thank you for your patience. And Xanax like abilities."

"Hah-hah." But his hand didn't leave her cheek, thumb brushing across the bone softly. His fingers were large and warm, warding off the chill nicely, and his eyes were kind and sparkled even in the low light of the street lamp. And while his mouth was temptingly soft, and Christine herself rather kiss-starved, she moved forward to hug him, tucking her face safely into his chest, where his lips could not seek hers. "Thanks for everything Raoul."

He was still a second, shocked out of the moment by her decisive movement. Then his arms came around her. She let him hug her a little longer than necessary. Over his shoulder she saw a skinny orange cat sitting on one of the garbage cans, lazily watching them as he groomed his paw. Thanks for nothing, mangy. It was the other guy I wanted to kiss and you ruined that.

Christine ascended the stairs to her apartment and was happy no tears of regret crowded her eyes when she waved off Raoul from her window. No, no regret. Temptation perhaps; after all, Raoul was strong and handsome and warm. Kissing him would have been pleasant. Being his girl would be pleasant and safe and surface.

Christine closed her eyes and asked herself if there was any danger here, danger in keeping Raoul so close. As the moments passed, the answer wafted up from another room in her heart. A room with red drapes and a piano and hundreds of words written on the walls of her soul. The answer was the tune she had begun writing for Erik: the calm, dark seductive melody that made him feel a little less far away.

As the tune traveled to her tongue, coaxing sound from her throat, Christine smiled, happy with her answer. No, no danger. One could not settle for the veneer of pleasing when they had felt a true connection. Erik's melody was a part of her, like her marrow and flesh. She carried him with her, even when she laughed and spoke and lived with others.

No time, months or more, could change that.

---

"You said around Halloween. Do you have any idea for a specific date?" Charles was in the kitchen, helping scrub pots as Erik was packing away the leftovers. The masked man was glad Nadir had the presence of mind to keep most of Rookheeya's kitchen things. Her tupperware had survived many a trial as neither Keya or Erik believed in wasting food. "I can only hold open spots for so long. You'll need to pick a night soon."

Snapping the last lid in place Erik shook his head. "No. Most of them are still in the writing phase, and what we have recorded are merely demos."

"Are you sure it'll even be ready? Maybe we ought to look at pushing it back."

"For performance? Yes, I can build a set out of what I have."

What he had written as a rough draft for an opera was shaping up more to be an album with Christine's modern touch; each song distinct with gossamer threads of tone connecting them. But Erik did not miss it. Don Juan Triumphant had been a burning thing, the Phantom's child, full of hate and lust, trickery and deceit and pleasure selfishly taken. A story of a man, ruthless in his want and lust for flesh and blood. A villain who won.

But Christine had helped him take the memory of those melodies and baptized them into something new. Something...seductive rather than predatory. Along with the few sweet lullabies he had written for her, their tracks were something to be proud of now, not a score hidden from the world and only touched in the manic rush of firey creativity deep into the night.

"If only you could work on it now, there wouldn't be a rush," Charles grumbled.

Erik nodded, but that was the last thing on his mind. He missed Christine so deeply it hurt, each thought of her like working an aching muscle. His few days of suffering over their conversation on the patio would never have come to pass if she had been there, to speak sense and assurance to him. He had begun his fight against the Phantom with her by his side. Now he was a soldier alone in the field and exhausted. And for the first time, Erik was not alone, but he was lonely.

He missed his angel.

The music did help, as did the work. Routine in the Khan house had kept him from dwelling too hard on any one horrific outcome (he only had one or two visions of utter despair a day, rather than hours of wallowing in his theater), and the music he was plunking out on the upright was fresh enough to hold his attention.

In addition to lazily playing with something like a wedding mass, Erik had begun to compose a duet. Something powerful and soul-gripping for him and Christine to sing together, showcasing her angelic higher register, and even the hypnotic tones of his own voice. It needed his organ desperately, but even the bare bones of the peace bespoke a noble and powerful visage. It would be the perfect piece to play to introduce them, as a couple. A team.

There was also the little project he as working on in his room. That one needed most of his attention. Ir had to be done and perfect by the time their hiatus was up, and he had barely started the face.

"You know, if-when-Carlotta goes, Firmin will not be far behind."

"You think he will follow her?"

"Maybe, maybe not. But either way, I'm going to be taking a very good look at the backdoor in his contract." Charles shut off the tap and shook the water off his fingers into the sink. "We'll need a new manager."

"Another round of interviews from the posh elite that want nothing more than Mazandaran on their resume," Erik grumbled. "No one who will truly care about developing music under my roof."

"Your r-I nearly fell off the rafters putting that roof in," Charles reminded him.

"That's because you're clumsy."

"C-you know what, never mind-but I already have someone in mind."

Erik whipped around. "Who? How did you have time? Have you been looking this whole time?"

Charles had been the one to bring Firmin in, and while he was knowledgeable, Erik firmly believed he didn't understand what the theater needed. Money yes, but it had to be staffed with those that understood music; theory and practice. That cared not only for the beauty but the mechanics and mastery of it. Reyer was a good start, and the prima ballerina was quite talented and devoted. But the manager had to be someone that knew a little of everything, master of all, and beyond that inspired.

"No, I don't need to look." He smiled, and it only served to confuse Erik.

"...Reyer?"

"Christ, you're stupid. No, you, Erik."

The familiar choke that so often came when Christine stopped him short, gripping his throat. "Erik? Erik as manager?"

"Yes, is that so surprising? You manage through whoever I put in place anyway. I never understood why you didn't take it when we first opened in the beginning."

"Because a masked man will not bode well for business. Especially a recovering addict."

Charles lifted a shoulder. "I can take care of the business end. The face-to-face. I should be doing more…" He looked out the window, all of a sudden very far away. Erik did not push, knowing he was thinking of his wife. It was what had driven Charles so far away from the business in the first place, leaving the vacuum for Erik and his ghostly ways to insert influence.

The ballroom in the theater had been dedicated to her. They had danced there on their anniversary, Erik watching from his secret passage curiously, and a little wistfully. He had missed watching the love between Nadir and Rookheeya while he was in California.

"I…" Erik had no words, and surprisingly, a protest was slow to rise a second time. Not for lack of fear, of course. His visage would scare off anyone, and Erik had a vicious temperament. It had turned on Charles often enough, and he had known him for years. But the idea of no longer worrying for his theater, of having the control at his fingertips, rather than on tenuous strings of coercion and fear. I could put Christine on my stage whenever I wished…

"Think about. You might have to do it anyway, temporarily, if Firmin leaves in a huff after Carlotta. If Reyer puts his foot down about bringing Christine in. If, if, if-I really should report that Rodriguez; he's truly fucking up our jobs."

Job, a career, like a man. A composer and theater manager. Work like a man, and come home to a wife. Like everybody else.

Charles left to gather his coat and phone, and Erik finished the kitchen clean up. Carrying a few boxes for Charles to take home, he headed to the living room, stopping short of the entryway. Nadir was speaking in a low voice, trying not to be heard. But both men were drunk, and their volume control was shot.

"...can't push him like that."

"Push? Nadir he's a grown fucking man."

"That's not what I meant."

"Oh, come on, you treat him like he's your kid, not your friend. He has to get out there sometime. Hiding away and playing ghost is fun, but it's time for him to live in the real world. He has a fiancee now."

"And that's enough! God, I'm surprised he's handling that as well as he is! Half the time he's playing funeral marches, talking about how she won't come back."

Erik lowered his eyes. It wasn't from lack of confidence in Christine. It was his simple misunderstanding of why she pushed and clung to him. But she did: despite his spells of despair, he continued making his engagement present. If she was willing to give, even after all his warnings he'd be a fool not to take it. All he desired at his fingertips if only he'd take it.

It was his lack of confidence in the outcome. All he touched turned to ash. Not all ash, Muslims do not burn their dead.

"Maybe he needs more to handle. Leaving him alone doesn't seem to be helping. He needs the distraction, he needs work."

"I agree, but not all at once!"

"He built that opera house on pure will alone. And he started teaching that kid on his own. I think you're more upset that you're taking a back seat in his life than anything."

"You don't understand anything. I have nothing to do with that."

"You're right I don't understand because neither of you are telling me anything. It's like this big damn secret this case you worked on."

Erik leaned back and hunched his shoulders, waiting for the shame to come. The assurance of his worthlessness, the poisonous voice to begin to whisper. But...it never came.

Instead, he turned red with embarrassment that his two friends were talking about him like he was indeed a child. He was a grown man. He had built the opera house, he had curated a voice touched by the angels. It was romance and love and Christine's gentle heart he was afraid to handle. The opera house? His music? That was old hat, something done so by rote that it apparently wasn't even worth the Phantom degrading.

He let out a breath, and for a moment missed the comfort of pain. Pain was familiar, an uncomfortable but known mantel to don. The degradation, the humility, the contestant denial of himself. He knew his place in pain, it was paths well tread. It had been routine, and now as the days had passed, the more work he put into reuniting with Christine the routine had become…

Stale. Looping words of monster, animal, devil, vile, ugly that repeated in time with his heartbeat had faded into the background, like an errant tune one hums while working mindlessly. There, but with little thought. Still, the echoing absence of the normal rush and heat of self-loathing left him a little hollow, unsteady on his feet. He still did not know how to feel, being Erik without his ghost.

Perhaps it was simply this house. In this house, he had begun his first forays into becoming a human being. Perhaps these walls and stones were like a church, sanctuary where he could cower and hideaway. Perhaps the moment he stepped from under this roof and returned to his bed below ground the Phantom would sink fangs into him so deep, he might bleed outwardly.

Until then, it did not make sense to waste this respite.

He finally made his presence known, offering the packages of food to Charles. "Get out."

"Yeah, yeah, my cab is here. Thank you for everything. It was great food at least, even if the company leaves something to be desired." Shrugging on his coat, Charles tucked the boxes under his arm. "Think about it Erik."

"If it is available, I'll do it." Erik lifted his chin, deciding in the moment, pride filling the void left by pain. "It is my theater, after all." Again, no regret came, no hissed voice of fear. Was this true freedom? It seemed like it should come with more fanfare.

Charles raised his brows. "...That was fast. Alright. I'll see you at the Maz. Goodnight Nadir."

"Goodnight Charles. Get home safe."

Once gone, Nadir did not pounce on Erik or say anything at all. He turned off the post-game show and went to turn the thermostat down for the night all in silence. Perhaps what Charles had said clanged more on the truth than was comfortable.

Ridiculous. Khan was apart of his life, a permanent fixture. He was his conscious, the voice of anxious reason who had been fighting the Phantom much longer than Erik. Now Erik merely took up the battle himself, no longer relying on the detective for everything. Could Khan actually miss such a burden? It wasn't so far fetched. The stupid man continued letting Erik back into his life, despite the destruction in his wake. He was a glutton for punishment.

But instead of the disdainful apathy or twisting guilt that usually rose where Nadir was concerned, Erik felt a stirring of...pity? Maybe I am sick. He wandered to the piano, nothing left to do with his hands and pressed out a few pianissimo chords. "Do not worry for Erik. Erik manages."

Khan sighed, glancing over his shoulder. "I forget you hear everything."

"You both are not exactly quiet, as you have showcased all day."

"I don't want you running off again if something bad happens," Nadir cut to the quick. "Not again. I doubt you'll survive a second go."

Why would he want you to? Ah, there he was, the old fellow. Erik had almost missed the ghost and smiled sadly to himself. "I did not run this time."

"I made you come here."

"Do you think you can truly make me, old man?" Erik spread his hands. "How many times did the Phantom knock you unconscious? How many times were you caught unawares?"

No, Nadir had not made him come back, he could not have. Erik returned because he knew it was the right thing to do, as he knew letting Christine go was right. Like confessing had been right. That inherent sense of correct and incorrect Erik had been cursed with all his life was finally rising to the top, fusing with his instincts, and fight becoming stronger than flight. It was untested, new and probably brittle. But it was better than nothing. If it brought Christine back to him, he would clutch at any flimsy shield he had.

"I'm worried for you. You seem to be doing so well, I don't want you to rock the boat."

'Well'. He felt hollow and unsure, running without direction, shocked that all he wanted was within reach. Christine wished to be married, so he would propose. Charles needed a manager, so he would manage. As usual, luck played fickle mistress: giving him a soft smile now. The slap down would not be far behind. It was only a matter of gathering as much as he could before the blow connected.

She had given him a family once before. All that was left of it was standing in this room, discussing relapse and fear.

"I would be concerned if you were not. You would no longer be Khan if you did not vibrate with anxiety." As if to prove a point, Erik picked up the tuning fork and held it close to Nadir's arm. He cocked his head as if waiting for it to sound.

That broke him. Khan shoved his hand away, trying to mask his amusement with a scowl. "Charles is right, you're a prick. Fine, take the job. File taxes and drag your ass in early on Monday like the rest of us plebs."

"If Erik manages the opera house, he would create the schedules."

"Oh, you think you're so clever."

They turned off the lights and retired for the evening. In the quiet of his room, Erik turned on his desk lamp. On top of his scores and sketches of Christine, the gutted pink Barbie boxes lay. He moved them to the bed and picked up the doll he had been working on.

He had wanted to find just the right body and face and had taken a page from Mary Shelly's book to do it. Taking pieces from several dolls he had something close to Christine, her curvy body from a special edition doll, the elegant arms of a ballerina doll. Turning the head towards him, he passed a thumb over the blank features where he had melted off the garish paint that made up the eyes and lips. The sculpt of the face was based off some actress from a fantasy show and had been decently close to Christine's delicate features.

Propping his phone on a stack of architecture books, he brought up the image Christine had left of herself on his screen and for the first time lamented the scratches and cracks that distorted her beauty. It was hard to see her clearly through all the damage.

Searching in his drawers for the new model paint he had ordered and the brushes, he adjusting the magnifying glass clipped to the edge of the desk. Erik popped open the deep brown first, laying down the first swipe of the left eyebrow. He worked for hours in the quiet of the house, not even realizing it was the first night he would lay down to sleep and not worry about the worth of the man he was becoming.

Instead, as he stared at the ceiling of his borrow room, he hummed their duet with a smile on his dead lips.

Chapter 17

"If you hum that one more time," Meg snapped, "I am going to strangle you."

They were in a lull, the very first and hard-won break from the hoards of Christmas Eve travelers. Harried parents running around for last minute gifts, entire families pouring in for food and drinks on their way to homes far and wide. The store's heating system working over time, the temperature constantly low form the practically revolving door.

The last few weeks of separation had passed without incident, but with the date of reunion growing closer, Christine was growing more excited. There was a new world awaiting her-the world of love and feeling with the man she adored. Movies with Raoul and weekends with Meg were fantastic, but she wanted her Maestro. Or now, however, she had to settle for his song.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I didn't realize my inside thoughts had become outside." Christine handed off her last drink and stepped back to survey the damage of the bar with Meg. Milk pooled in puddles everywhere they looked, and the ice melting next to its bins from tipping over the lips of cups, leaking steadily onto the black anti-fatigue mats they were standing on. Syrups ran like thick rivers from their spouts, dripping grotesquely. All in all, a proper disaster.

Meg knelt to pluck a rag out of the red sanitizer bucket and gagged. Pressing the blinking intercom on her headset she snapped, "Sorelli. Sanitizer."

"Bring a HazMat suit," Christine added into her own mic.

Sorelli was already pink-faced, her hair frazzled, the red streaks looking like animated distress lines around her head, lugged out two red buckets. "Make way, y'all. C'mon let's clean before the next round!"

Rags passed out, the red-aproned baristas set to work scrubbing away all the evidence. Christine was running the pumps of the syrups under hot water, humming the first crescendo of Erik's melody again. She was a little shaky on the last note, not sure where to land the triumph of the bar.

She had already begun to gather a few lyrics, the melody almost complete. Coming up with words to describe her teacher wasn't hard. But she didn't want it to simply be a picture of him. She wanted to tell him just how he had infected her. She wanted to tell him about her adoration in the language he understood. Maybe then he'd believe her.

He had said she intoxicated him. The concept was too good not to play with. And she knew more than a little of the sensation. Erik was not the only one susceptible to the allure of what they had created in the gathering shadows of his theater. The nights they had worked, so touching but never touched, as music had unfurled around them, possessing them and making them more than the broken musician and the cowardly soprano.

Through Erik, and his slow gentle guidance, he had taught Christine to live as she never had before. Oh, she could sing now; practiced every day, and made beautiful sounds and lovely melodies. But it was only with Erik that her heart soared with every note because it was to him that she sang. Every breath, every word she formed was to communicate her affection. Her love.

Here, in her normal job, her normal life felt like waking from a beautiful dream, the light of day eroding the fantasy. It wasn't anyone's fault, of course. She loved her friends, her job. But Christine was intoxicated by Erik, and she missed that small strange world they had secretly cultivated between them. She couldn't wait to make that little sphere of home her forever. She began the bar again, adjusting the chain where his ring hung. (Its origin still bothered her, but she had to overshadow it with meaning behind the gift.)

Christine had tried to put all of that into this song. But her fingers were novice at it, clumsy and without art as she tried to form lyrics that were communicative and beautiful. At least the melody was working somewhat. It had been surprisingly easy to lay it on her electric piano. She had closed her eyes and thought of her lover, and the floating, lilting tune had unraveled before her. There were finer points she had to fix of course. But in the writing, the days passed just a little faster.

As she reached the cresting note once more, quietly and under her breath, two damp hands wrapped loosely around her throat. Meg rocked her back and forth, saying "I-will-kill-you! Sing something else, please!"

Christine tilted her face back and mocked a choked, 'Sorry!' "It's just a piece I'm having trouble writing."

"I can't wait for you to have an outlet again." Meg let her go with a flick to her ear and began restocking cups. "I love your singing but over and over and over-"

"That's how music is made Meg," Christine explained, before calling 'Good morning,' to whoever had wandered in. "Repeating again and again. Do you know how many times Erik works me on every bar, every word? Sometimes we'll spend a whole lesson on a few notes."

"How did you two get so gushy over that," Meg laughed. "That sounds like a total mood killer."

"Yeah, believe me, the mood comes and goes when it wants. Maestro is Maestro during lessons, and that's it." Christine adopted her best French-Persian accent she recalled some of Eriks' greatest hits.

"Breath woman! Don't slump! Lift your chin, are you singing to the floor? Do you know this note? G! G! Why are you singing B? You almost fainted! Breath, child, don't you know how to do that, you've been doing it all your life!" She even tapped her foot on the floor, wagging her head from side to side as Erik did sometimes when chastising her.

Meg began to laugh, covering her mouth with her hands, Sorelli wandering over to join the fun. "What a hard ass," the older girl said snorting.

"Yes, but he's my hard ass," She said, touching the ring under her shirt. "I'd take a thousand lectures now, just so I could talk to him…"

The baristas gave her the obligatory 'aww' which swiftly turned into a taunting 'oooh' as they pointed over her shoulder. Christine whipped around to find Detective Khan leaning lazily against the bar, recording her on his phone. "Delete that," she cried, her jaw dropping open.

"Nope."

"Nadir, no-o." She clasped her hands together, speaking more to the camera than him. "He'll think I'm making fun of him and I'm not, I love when he lectures me."

"That is such a lie!"

"Okay yes, but I miss him I don't want this to be the only thing he sees. Erik, I didn't mean it!"

Nadir stopped the video with a chuckle. "Finally I won't be in the dog house."

"Nadir!"

He tapped his phone screen with a flourish. "Too late."

"I hope he doesn't feed you tonight," She said pushing his cup towards him with a pout. The detective only laughed harder.

"You both have the same vicious streak, you're perfect for each other. I'll make sure he doesn't take it the wrong way, I've had enough practice. Here." He took out a fifty dollar bill and addressed all the baristas. "From Music Angel and I. He says Merry Christmas and I agree-in spirit." He stuffed it into the tip jar with a wink. "Am I forgiven?"

Meg covered Christine's mouth quickly, grinning. "Yes!"

"You are such a gold digger," Christine muttered against her palm.

"You are correct. Wipe up your station."

Christine didn't worry too much over Nadir's little prank. Christine had impersonated Erik to his face on more than one occasion, especially when it came to their collaboration. He was so stuck in his ways, that his complaints became repetitive. It was always the same battle: introduction, rejection, debate and finally tentative curiosity. Still, she did not want Erik thinking she was mocking him to her friends.

Surprisingly, wonderfully, she got her answer later that afternoon. She had her headphones in the electric piano, playing out the bridge of Erik's song, and hadn't noticed her phone light up. It was only when she eased off the headphones to forage for food did she noticed the blue blinking light.

She cast her mind about, trying to remember if she made a date with Meg as she pressed the lock button. The screen light up and showed only one message.

Maestro
Hoyden.

Christine gasped, clutching the device to her chest. He shouldn't have done that. They had done so well, they were almost there! But...who was going to check their phones? She hurried to her room, as if the police were monitoring her main room, and closed the door. Curled up on her bed, she grinned at the word on her screen and felt the same wicked thrill she had gotten when she and Meg had hopped the gate at the mini golf course their senior year to play around.

Me
Uh oh someone's breaking the rules.

Me
Good, I was afraid I would snap first. I was only joking I swear. I like how you lecture.

Maestro
Then you shall adore me when we return to our lessons.

Christine grinned and could see him saying it, cocking his head to the side, attempting to look threatening and only achieving in looking inviting. Well, he wasn't inviting when he was pounding at the piano, and telling her just how did she expect the note to release if she didn't open her mouth? But it had all been inviting to her towards the end when she had been thinking more of Erik than of Maestro.

Me
I'll adore you no matter what.

Maestro
As I will you. I am still punishing you. You've racked up quite a lot of offenses.

Maestro
Late, impudent, teasing.

Me
Late was months and months ago! Aren't I forgive for that?

Maestro
No. Three hours of scales should be repentance enough.

Christine pouted to her screen, as if he could see her, and tapped her thumbs against the sides of the phone, trying to think of her next reply. She had texted boys before and flirted a little. But this was totally unlike any of that. It was easy to fall back into their old rapport as if a month and a half of silence had not existed. But she didn't want to waste precious time. Besides, they were an item now. It ought to be different, no?

Me
Anything but that! Isn't there anything else I can do? Please, Maestro?

Sixteen miles away, Erik sat at his desk once more. The doll's brows were finished, and he was attempting to capture the green flecks in Christine's blue eyes without mixing the color or overpowering the sapphire. He had enlarged the picture on his phone, and even absconded with Nadir's reading glasses in lieu of the clumsy magnifier, perched carefully on his mask's nose. He held the brush between his thumb and pointer finger, using his ring finger for purchase on the plastic as he dabbed minuscule color onto the blue circle of 'her' iris.

The phone buzzed again, and Erik smirked at the coquette message. In truth Erik would have indeed been extremely hurt by the video, had not Khan prefaced it with 'Your student is boasting about you in the cafe'. And her unprompted words about enduring lectures just to hear him, how her hands touched the ring under her shirt...It quite made up for the teasing.

Not that he would ever tell her. He could become as accustomed to her flirtatious begging. Was this flirting?

Dipping the brush into thinner and pressing the bristles against the paper towel he laid out to suck up the moisture, he placed his brush down in favor of his phone. He too knew that they were playing a dangerous game, should anyone find out they were in contact. And by anyone, he meant one very blonde very annoying boy.

But Christine would not let him go through her phone, no matter how open she was to anyone. He hoped.

Me
The only thing that can soften me is your voice.

Delbaram
You want me to sing?

Me
My dreams do you little justice.

There was a pause, a few moments were Erik began to feel the tightness of panic in his throat. Minutes ticked by and began to look up how to retract messages. Dreaming of her was horrid, wasn't it? That was why she was not replying. It was something worth horror, that his thoughts caressed her every hour of his existence quite without her permission. With a soft ding, reassurance came:

Delbaram
Over the phone is bad sound quality. And someone would hear us.

Me
You need not do anything, Christine. I only jest. Your words here are comfort enough.

His thumb pressed against the little picture of her next to her messages, letting loose a relieved breath. This had not been the wisest of ideas. How would he last these last weeks now that he had a taste of just how wonderful speaking to Christine was? He placed the phone down, ready to distract himself with the replica of her.

He had just completed one eye and was beginning on the next (they would be slightly different, as realistically everyone's eyes were slightly different) when his phone buzzed again.

Delbaram
How hard would it be for you to leave the house?

That gave him pause! Leave the house? Was she proposing meeting? Sneaking about like teenagers? He had a sudden flash, seeing a young Esther hissing at him to hold the sheet as she shimmied down the side of the house to meet her Irish boyfriend. He was to guard her room, and crawl under her covers should madar come to check on her. It didn't last long; it was the only time Esther had been whipped by her father when they found out about the 'white boy'. It had been vicious, and the first time Erik cried for someone other than himself.

He closed his eyes. No, no more thoughts for Esther, no more thoughts for that time. Not when his Angel was calling for him. Not when he had a chance to see her again, to smell the floral scent of her hair, perhaps even hold her delicate little hands. Her little hands, her little height, his darling was so very small and delicate and he missed every tiny part of her.

When Erik thought of it like that, the risk was nothing but an afterthought, and an irritating one at that.

Me
Lead and I shall follow.

---

Christine rolled to a stop just inside the entrance of Brookdale Park, and shut off her engine, idling on battery power for heat. I hope the directions I gave were good enough. It was still dark, the gentle snowfall not yet sticking, not yet reflecting the moonlight to illuminate illegal activities. Though it technically wasn't against the law, just a cop's direct order... Besides, it was Christmas! Or would be in a few hours.

The jolly spirit hadn't caught her this year, too much to worry and think and do. Christmas had often been a time of reflection for Christine since her father had died so soon before the holiday. She normally visited his grave before happily enduring a day with the Giry's. But usually, she could find a spare smile for a candy cane, or warmth when she saw the happy faces in the TV specials.

This year, however, had totally passed her by, not even a breath spare to hum 'Hark The Herald Angels Sing!'. We met during Christmas time, she suddenly remembered. Or, really talked for the first time. Nadir had been teasing Sorelli with 'Last Christmas' (well that certainly made more sense) when Christine had laughed at Erik's joke, leading into their conversation about opera. He had seemed so odd and awkward then, and he still was. But there had been so much beneath that...that mask. So much suffering, and so much beauty.

Had Christine then known what would happen… She shook her head. She didn't feel changed. She still felt like Christine. But she was changed. A little braver, a little more open, a little more frightened now that she had something she could lose. But she would not take the safety of her pain over Erik for anything.

Light filled her car as headlights slowly rounded the lane's corner. Christine lowered her head, waiting for it to pass so she could see again. But they did not drive by, instead came to a stop and shut off. Christine rubbed the floaters from her eyes as she peered into the sudden gloom, her heart skipping a beat.

Sure enough, a tall figure stepped out from the dark mass of the shadowed car. A too tall figure, a hat tiled just so over its face. Erik. She fumbled the handle of her door with her mittened fingers, practically spilling out of the car. The cold shocked her system, making her already light stomach jump sickeningly.

Rounding their vehicles, the lovers edged slowly to the yellow dash in the road, stopping short of the paint. In the darkness, Erik's yellow eyes seemed to glow as he surveyed her. His scarf was wrapped firmly around his nose and mouth, leaving no room to decipher his expression.

Christine let out a little laugh, white lace curling in the air between them. So many things she had wanted to say and discuss, and yet here she was, staring up at him without words. She touched her pocket briefly, the flash drive resting lightly within. She hoped the words she had recorded for him would make up for sudden dumbness.

"Merry Christmas, Erik."

"Merry Christmas, Christine."

His voice, so soft and deep warmed her immediately, and tears pricked at her eyes. She thought she had missed him before? Was it possible to miss someone more when you were with them because you knew that time was short? She wanted to explain that to him, she wanted to tell him how she missed their lessons, how she missed his teasing and his dark, comforting presence next to her every other day a week. She wanted to tell him that she hated that their romance had been so horribly destroyed within its first breath. She wanted him to know that she ached for them.

But every way of saying it seemed whiny, childish or foolish. So she held out her hands, hoping to communicate with the touch, as they had before. It seemed as if it were ages ago, that their touch had been so important, the simple brush of hands as earth-shattering as his unmasking.

His long fingers in their leather gloves hovered over her mittens for a moment, as if afraid. Then his hands covered hers, so large, they encased her. She felt the strength of those fingers, these familiar hands she was sure she could sketch from memory from hours of watching them caress the ivory of the piano, as they held his pen so awkwardly like a child to match his horrible handwriting.

"There are tears in your eyes," his smooth baritone noted. "Oh, Christine…"

Without thinking, she stepped over the line and wrenched her hands away, to wrap her arms around his middle. He was so thin, that even with the layers of coat and clothes, he did not feel as fleshed out as a man ought to feel. But he felt like Erik. All this time she should have become accustomed to holding, memorizing each rise and valley of him. Instead, they had spent it in silence and uncertainty.

Erik still had his hands outstretched, immobile in her embrace. His hands lowered to trace her. Yes, this was Christine, her little purple knit hat tugged harshly over her wild curls, her shoulders, her back. This was the angel who had breezed into his life like a dream, like a hurricane, like the sweetest high.

No, no, not like that at all. This was the woman who had touched him without fear, and made his dead heart beat, for was he not once made up entirely of death? Flesh and bone, and soul and heart? But now…

Man. I am a man, and here is my lover. My wife.

"Christine." Erik clutched her little body to his chest, lifting her to her tiptoes. She was no burden at all, her weight welcome in his arms. He repeated her name over and over as he buried his face in the stitching of her hat. It smelled like her perfume, rose water and earth-ivy perhaps? Or grass… "Christine, you've come back to me." For the first time, his doubts had been proven wrong.

"No, no, Erik. You came to me," she breathed, tilting her face back. "You came for me."

"Did Maestro not tell you? No matter what, you will not be without your Erik." He tugged down the scarf and placed a kiss on her nose, only to reel back in horror. "You're freezing."

"I don't feel it," she swore. "Please don't make me go. Not yet, just a minute longer. It's Christmas…"

He shook his head and gently led her to the Jaguar. Did she truly think he could leave her now, after only a moment in her arms? Opening the back door, he ushered her in, following quickly. He leaned between the front seats and fiddled with the controls, turning on the engine, but shutting off the headlights. Heat blasted from the backseat vents, and Christine scooted closer to the middle to be in their direct line.

Erik, unable to stand his arms being so empty, snaked a hand around her waist, pulling her close. Without reservation, she curled against him, tucking her head under his chin, just how he wanted. She knew him too well. She was made for me. The thought that had sent him reeling in terror a year ago now gripped his heart like a vice. It was true, it was true and right; as right as anything he had ever known.

Practically curled in his lap, Christine closed her eyes. She could sleep right here, in his half embrace, happily. He was so bony and thin and long (his knees were almost to his chest in the backseat) and so Erik. Unlike anything else in her life, totally unique and hers. The feel of his black camel hair coat, the smell of his leather gloves, the shiny gold buttons that pressed against her cheek, his scent: musk and spice and paper and smoke. Elegant, and proper, her Erik.

She dabbed at her cheeks, trying to stem the flow of tears. "I missed you."

"As I have, you, delbar-am. As I have you." He removed her hat and basked in the glory of burying his face in her wild curls. So thick, like a pillow of silk, soft against his thin lips.

"What does that mean?" She shifted slightly, to look up at him. It removed the satiny perch for his mouth but put her own lips a hair's breadth away. A fair trade. "You haven't called me that before."

"No. I've been practicing Farsi for months now at Khan's," he said, lips twitching in a smirk. His curious little songbird, of course, she would not let even endearments go without wanting more. "It means, one who has stolen my heart. And you have. My thief nature must have rubbed off on you. I suspect that it the source of my pain." He traced a gloved finger along her jawline. "I have been separated from a vital organ. Delbar-am."

"Del bar am," she repeated, slowly and with a heavy American tongue.

He nodded, eyes blinking back tears. To hear the endearment, so tenderly spoken by Rookheya and Nadir suddenly repeated back at him from the pink lips of his bright-eyed angel...this was no dream come true. He had never had the courage to create such an impossible fantasy. And yet... "Now...Doost-et daram."

"Dos-Dost et. Dar ram. Doost-et daram," Christine repeated clumsily, trusting whatever he was teaching. It must have been important, for his eyes closed and she saw the tears well in the mask's eye holes.

"And I love you."

"Oh...then that is something I have to remember," she murmured, taking off her glove so she could cup his face. His mask today was made of paper mache, and thin. Too thin for the cold outside. She rubbed her thumb along it as if heating it could heat the skin beneath. "Jag alskar dig."

Erik blinked, the tears stemmed with slight confusion. Christine grinned. Finally, something she could teach him, that was not a tragedy to do so. "That language…Erik doesn't know it."

"It's Swedish. My father, his parents were from Sweden. I should teach you how to say it in my family's language now. Jag alskar dig. I love you."

"Yar-g el scar deg," Erik tried. "Y...Jag alskar dig."

Christine grinned. He would master it in one try. "Uh huh. You got it. Puss-puss." She took her hand from his face, to tap her lips. It was habit. Her father, after a little Swedish lesson, would always say that. Puss-puss! A sweet call for a peck on the cheek. And Erik had pronounced the word so well, he more than deserved it. "Kiss."

He made a small noise as he lowered his head. The mask was too firm against her nose and cheek, and their lips could barely brush, indeed just a peck. Her lips burned from the contact, and she wanted to feel that satin soft skin under her mouth, his lips thin but pliant under hers, moving and tasting.

She curled her fingers under the lip of the mask, Erik stopping her with a touch to her wrist. "The window…"

"It's dark," she rationalized. "Please, Erik." She tilted her face up, craning her neck back to offer her lips. "Kiss me."

He let go and ducked his head, his lips against hers even before the rising mask dislodged his fedora. "Christine, atashe del-am." The words were spoken into her mouth as his lips closed over hers. The mask and hat were forgotten behind him, her arms swathed in her puffy coat coming about his neck. He whispered other endearments and oaths between their lips, sealing each on her flesh with his mouth, pressing the words into her.

She took advantage of his whispers, her tongue delving into his mouth. He tasted like oranges and coconut, and she grinned into their kiss. Whatever he had for dessert tasted wonderful. Well, he promised to eat. He was still hesitant, still learning. But she could feel his hunger devour his fear as his mouth responded, finally finding her rhythm, one kiss easily melting into the next.

Only when her head began to spin did she realize how hot the car had become, how overheated she was between the vent and her lover. Her jacket, locking in her warmth felt too heavy, her clothes too tight over her skin. She wanted to feel his arms around her, the surprising strength, the long fingers caressing the small of her back. "Wait," she murmured, pulling away.

"There's so little time," he pleaded, lips seeking out her cheek, her ear, trailing to what he could get of her neck. He should be taking this time to tell her of his plans, to talk about their music, the theater, her lessons-anything. Yet the sight of her kiss-swollen lips, the pink flushed over her nose and cheeks. Her bright eyes called him like a siren to a sailor. And he could think of no better death than to drown in her. "Please, don't test me now, Christine. Please, please..."

"No test." She leaned back and fumbled at her coat's zipper, finally tugging it down, wriggling out of her coat. He reached for her once more, but Christine caught his questing fingers and tugged the leather free. Even in the low light cast by the Jaguar's console, she could see a new scar across his knuckles, pink and shiny. She trailed her fingers across it, this new memory of pain. "My poor Erik…"

His face-that dead face still made her stomach jump, seeing it in the darkness, his soft eyes practically glowing in the low light above the gaping black of his 'nose'. But the shock and disturbance were gone in a heartbeat. Soon, soon when she had the opportunity to see it every day, it would not even register. That is what these months should have been she thought as she lifted her lips to his cheek. All it was only bone and stretched skin, but it was still so very soft. I should have been in his arms, memorizing the feel.

"Oh Christine, how can you," he breathed. "How can you kiss this face?"

"Because it is the face of my…"

He grinned, bringing her hands he still clutched to his chest. She felt his chuckle. "Delbar-am."

"My delbar-am." Without her coat, she felt every plane of his unforgiving form. Her hands slipped inside his overcoat, feeling the softness of his suit jacket and ascot. Of course, he had dressed completely to meet her in the park. Now her oversized sweatshirt felt a little cheap and sloppy until cool fingers found the hem, and her hips hidden underneath. Then all she could feel were his hands on her middle, his lips against her throat.

Perhaps she ought to have been shy, no one had ever kissed her like this, not even her most handsy boyfriends. Christine was awash with new sensation, her body suddenly producing reactions and sensations that were utterly novel to her experience. She had understood in a vague way about passion: seen it overrule a thousand intelligent minds in operas and stories. But never had she felt it's powerful grip, the mist that clouded her thoughts, and narrowed her focus to nothing more than feeling and being felt.

Her fingers threaded through his thick hair, pulling his lips towards her own in a fruitless battle. They'd share another warm, breath-stealing kiss to sate her, then his mouth was exploring once more, over dip and valley along her jaw and neck.

Erik was clumsy and skittish, fingers barely brushing, barely moving from those acceptable places he touched before. But it was his humble hesitancy that made her burn all the more. The featherlight caress created ache for a firmer touch, the skirting hand revealing a burning path she longed it to follow.

His teeth grazing the sensitive hollow of her throat bit through her consciousness; only a moment, enough to register how they had shifted on the leather seats. His face was buried in the crook of her neck, his hands flat against her back, pressing her torso against his thin chest until every breath pressed sweetly against him, sending electric shocks to her stomach. As his tongue soothed the bite he had left on her flesh, Christine shifted with a stifled moan. She could feel him against her leg.

"Erik…?" She nuzzled his temple, her hands buried in his hair lifting his horrible face up. "Honey, I…" She couldn't say she wanted him to stop-it'd be a lie. She was half tempted to forget the idea altogether, but-"The backseat is a little brutish, too. Right?"

Her Maestro was not comprehending her at first. His honey-colored eyes, watching her lips without hearing her question. His mouth brushed hers before his brain finally registered her words. Are you going to rut in your back seat? Like man paying for a hooker? The shock of their situation sent him reeling back, but Christine was giving his self-loathing no quarter. Her fingers fisted in his jacket, keeping him close as they eased back from their almost supine position. Another kiss, a kiss goodbye, and her clawed grip finally loosened.

Erik averted his eyes. He couldn't look at her, flushed with passion and pleasure. It was too tempting, and while he had once again been able to control himself, he would not like to test himself further. He found his mask, and for once was grateful for the stiff, suffocating pressure of it. A physical reminder, an object that sliced through ador like a knife through silk. "Forgive me."

"No."

Temptation forgotten, he cut his gaze to her, surprised and hurt by the command. But she was smiling, finger combing back her wild tresses.

"Stop apologizing for kissing me. Especially when I was practically wrapped around you. You'll make me think we're doing something wrong."

Women like a little reassurance once in a while. For the umpteenth time, Erik could strangle Charles. Not only was he annoying but he was right more often than was comfortable. Another glance in his angel's direction and Erik was struck by how young she was, especially compared to him.

Christine had shouldered so much of their relationship passed the mechanics of lessons. Every step outside of Maestro and soprano had been taken by her. She had become the teacher and he the pupil, a lazy and slow one at that. Even in claiming her, she had to practically force his hand. He thought of her little replica back on his desk, and the trinket the figure would soon be poised to carry. Done in the dark, like a secret to be ashamed of.

Men were not ashamed to love. No, this was the only thing in his life that was pure, untouched by blood, if not by the knowledge of it. And he was an older man, more experienced than this little woman. She needed more than his desire, she needed his guidance, his assurance. He could not ask for hers constantly without returning it; he was a thief no more.

Fingers hovered over her leg, before Erik reconsidered, and placed his long fingers on her wrist. "No. Some might call such an ugly old man touching you sinful. But if you wish it, Christine, it is never wrong." He lifted her palm, pressing it against his withered cheek, watching her expression soften. "Your Erik is simply…"

"Intense," she offered, a tease adding a little smirk to the word.

"Ah. Quite. It is hard for him to resist you, especially when you are so soft and warm and welcoming. Erik never wishes to overstay that welcome." He nuzzled her fingers, realizing they were trembling. "Christine, you're shaking!"

"I am?" She lifted her free hand and indeed it trembled in mid-air. In fact, her whole body felt hollow, as if lust had filled her so completely, and suddenly she was an empty vessel without it; a cracked vase, hollow.

"You're tired. It's well past midnight." Searching the seat he found her mittens. "You ought to be in bed, asleep."

Once spoken, the truth of his words tugged at her eyelids, fatigue weighing on her shoulders. She had worked a full and hard shift, and now thoroughly kissed, she felt lethargy was quickly becoming sleepiness. "I know. So should you."

"Erik-"

"Manages." She smiled up at him as she zipped up her jacket. "But I'd like for Erik to be well sometimes."

"Erik is well when he is with you." He took her hands and gently tugged the mittens on. "For Erik shall no doubt hear about it if he is not. Perhaps even force-fed."

Christine grinned. "Well then, don't risk it."

He walked her to her car, the snow that had fallen while they were engaged crunching under their feet. Shoving her hands into her pockets, Christine stopped short. "I almost forgot, this is for you!" She took out the flash drive and pressed it into his hand.

"Ah...I did not bring a gift for you," Erik replied, shoulders hunching.

"Well it's a gift but…" She huffed, and reached up, straightening his shoulders manually. "I wanted it to be a gift, but I'm not as good on my own. This is my best effort but I...I wrote it for you."

"Me?" He looked down at the flash drive. "...You wrote music for me."

"It's kept me company when I couldn't see you." Christine tilted her head. "That's why you wrote all those lullabies, didn't you? To be with me, without me?"

"Yes." His fingers curled over the piece of plastic and he brought his fist to his heart. "Christine…"

"Please, don't cry. You'll get me started then." She was already dabbing at her face. "I don't want to say goodbye. I don't want to leave you and have to wait even longer. I hate that I can't talk to you or text you or see you when I want to. I hate everything about this. So let's just get through."

Erik obeyed as best he could. With a kiss to her forehead, made awkward by the mask, he murmured, "Soon, Christine, you will never have to say goodbye, if you do not wish to. But go now. I would be a poor lover indeed if I let you freeze out here, tired and crying."

He stood by his car, watching her until her tail lights faded up the street. Even then he lingered, surrounded by the white gathering snow, waiting. But no shame came. No curses of monster or flashes of an unwilling Christine weeping under his body. Perhaps it was not that house, after all. He looked into his hand, smiling at the flash drive.

He did miss the comfort of the known pain, in a sick needy way. But if the sudden silence was the only price he had to pay for this, for Christine, for life, then there was no better purchase.

Chapter 18

Fixing his cuff link, Nadir Khan smiled at the picture of his wife on his dresser. Here she was in her wedding gown, grinning happily up at him, still beautiful and healthy. That was how he remembered her, even when he knew at the time she was sick. Rookheeya, always smiling, always going, always rolling with each tidal wave. He envied her strength, and it was that tenacity that he took with him. He was, by nature, a worrisome creature. He didn't like change, he liked settling, and routine and calm.

He was good at it, you see. He was good at creating it, had a good head on his shoulders. He knew just what he wanted; that's why he had married Rookheeya the day after he turned eighteen, and two weeks before he was carted off to Parris Island. He knew he wanted to be married, and he wanted her.

He knew he wanted to serve and then wanted to become a detective. He knew he wanted a child and live a good stable life with a nice, two-story house. That never changed from the moment he could understand what having a future meant to now, as he stood listening to Erik cooking in his kitchen.

Erik was not calm. Nor was he steady. He was like a cat on the hunt after the ever elusive game. Racing from one thing to the next with terrifying speed, elated and excited, gold eyes sparking with untapped genius, morose and solemn the next, remote as a stone angel but for the movements of his fingers making music. Erik turned on a dime when he thought sufficient enough cause, his only routine the secrets he kept locked inside.

He drove Nadir to total and absolute distraction! He cared for the man greatly, for the wonderful potential for good in him, the potential he sometimes met. He was only like Khan in the way he tended to fret and care for things that, sometimes, were none of his business. Had they not been fused together by strife and horror, they might not have been friends.

But they had been and were each other's only family left. Well...until now.

He touched Keya's smiling face under the glass goodbye before checking his appearance one last time and descending the stairs. Passed Reza's room, and looking into Erik's he found the bed already made, the desk cleared and the curtains opened to let in the light. Gone were the scraps of music that littered the floor, of the sheet that covered whatever he had been working on so religiously.

The detective tried to rub away the twist in his stomach at the loneliness the room reflected. On the stairs Erik's bags were already packed, his coat laid over them. Leaving again, happily not in tears or brought low. More change.

Nadir was glad for him. Tonight was his first lesson with Christine after the separation and all week the man had been nearly insane with fretting. Mumbling to himself, and working none stop at the piano-which was odd as he had headphones on listening to something on his phone at the same time. It was a different tune than the mighty and regal one he had been pounding out on the poor upright for months. It was a slow, loving tune which left no doubt about where Erik had gotten the inspiration (or where he had snuck off to on Christmas Eve, though Nadir had said nothing).

"Leaving so early," Khan said casually, taking a seat at the island. He had not even tried to dissuade Erik fro cooking every day during his stay. It still niggled at him, that he was acting just as he had when he had been a slave. But if it brought him stability, who was he to deny it? Anything to soothe the chaos that was Erik.

"Erik has much to do before six," he said distractedly before scraping the eggs that had just sizzled to perfection on a serving plate, turning his fully masked face to Nadir. The detective grimaced.

"Erik that must be uncomfortable to cook in."

"It is well enough, and Erik will be working with a soldering iron later." He adjusted the mask, as one would push glasses up their nose.

"What are you making? I know you're making her something." Nadir took the offered plate, with what he hoped was an honest smile. He was happy for him. Simply...worried. This was all very fast, very sudden and very serious. Erik had had difficulty loving a family, and it had caused him great pain. This was another human being, a woman who had every right to walk away and not care what she left behind. Not that he believed Christine so callous. But as a detective, he had seen the worst of breakups. He worried...and well...

Charles had been more right than he knew. It was not that Nadir viewed Erik like a child. The man was smart and quick, despite his emotional retardation. Seeing his calculating mind up close as they planned out sting operations, and how to handle interrogations, Khan would never regress Erik to that level.

And he was glad, partly, for Christine and her influence. He'd seen the labor of her work and been very impressed. Erik lived in the house rather than occupied it. No longer holding himself up in his room, only coming down to clean, cook and complete tasks like an automaton. Erik was living again.

There had been a time between Rookheeya's death and Reza's quick decline when Erik had made similar progress. A child needs constant care, and Erik couldn't hide from him when Reza began to toddle. Luckily Erik was smitten with the baby and had told Nadir not to waste money on a nanny or God-forbid-day-care, as the musician had put it.

In those few years, Erik had been working on...something. Composing something that sometimes he would talk about performing. But more concretely, he had gotten his license and was looking into becoming a contractor, taking mail order classes for some type of education. It had been progress, slow and sluggish, but Erik had begun to build a life.

Nadir had been proud, and a little astonished at the elasticity of the human condition: how this man could suffer so much, and suddenly, happily, settle into a normal existence.

Then it had all imploded. After years of worry, and fighting, they had settled into easy acceptance. Erik haunted his own opera house, hermit-like and alone, and Nadir was his sole connection to the outside world. It was a duty he had taken seriously, and a little selfishly. And sometimes, very rarely, he could snatch those old feelings of home on those short Sundays together.

And then Christine, and then the separation and suddenly Erik was home again. His own, their home, solitary as it was. It felt like having that Erik back, but better. More open, more stable, more independent. Nadir could see how Erik had changed. He no longer talked to the floor, or your shoulder, but looked you in the eye. He moved with his own presence, not clinging to the walls and corners of the room like the shadows he so insisted on inhabiting. And he could be teased, and tease in return without a blank stare of confusion. Nadir had caught himself, many times, telling a joke and beginning to explain, only to be cut off by Erik's chuckle.

He was still awkward, still skittish, of course. Private and secretive and quick to irrational thought and anger. But they were no longer just below the surface, to be irritated by some random word or look. Erik was more man than he had ever been. More healed than Nadir could have ever done. And now the house would be empty again, never to be filled.

He pushed the word usurped from his mind. It was irrational and ridiculous, no matter how Nadir would miss his friend. He'd just have to get on with it. Especially if Erik was about to get married. He wanted him to be happy. How could he deny Erik the same bliss that carried Nadir all his life?

That was a balm that aided him. Erik, married, what an idea! What hilariously wonderful idea. There was no jealousy here, and that discovery gave Nadir relief. No, he was totally happy for the man, who had finally found someone to love him for him.

Though he didn't understand it, Erik was rich and well-spoken and rather a good catch if one neglected his past. Even with the mask, he would have been a prime target for the less honorable of the female sex with his surprise at any affection or attention; his love-starved soul. It had never been a problem worth considering before, as Erik never looked at a woman but to see a flaw, as any human being. He locked himself away quite nicely, and at least from that, safely.

After seeing the metal and compassion in Christine, the detective hadn't even begun to worry. She did not want his money or his influence, what influence he had in the opera scene. The instant sympathy she had displayed had gained Khan's respect. She immediately became 'one of them', a part of this unspoken secret circle that had too long been bisected by death.

No, he could never be jealous of Christine, not really. He would get over it. Erik would no longer come to him for what scant advice he needed. Maybe he would no longer need a sponsor-like presence either. "I mean, you're going to propose aren't you?"

"Yes." Erik carefully sat across from him with his own breakfast: tea with a ridiculous amount of honey and a lemon slice. He obviously planned on singing the entire night away. "Erik is proposing tonight." Up came the shoulders, mirrored by Nadir's lone brow.

"That's...Erik that's a good thing. That's great!"

"If she accepts."

"She will. She's been wearing that ugly ring around her neck for weeks." Without prompting, Nadir had been giving Erik updates on Christine, whenever he had seen her at the cafe. His companion never asked, and never seemed to show more than a slight interest. But for hours after he would play nothing by lullabies and sonatas.

Hopeless.

"Loathe as I am to give that ring any good value, it is all I had until now."

"You have another? Good. I hope you didn't buy the biggest diamond they had."

"Diamonds are a scam, you know that," Erik snorted, or what he could do with what nature gave him. "But...it is the most expensive thing Erik has ever bought. Between the rush and the mechanics-"

"Mechanics?" Nadir tilted his head. Erik the engineer was entertaining, but there had been too many spark fires in his basement for the detective to look upon this hobby with fondness. "Erik, don't give her trick ring, not for an engagement!"

"It's not a trick!" He lifted his chin, eyes narrowed behind the mask. "It will help her when she is on stage! It is a unique piece, unlike anything you could buy in a store!"

That caused Nadir to smirk. Utterly hopeless. "So why are you worried?"

"You have been bound to this thing for long enough, would you wish the same fate on anyone else?" Erik lifted his mask slightly, to sip at his tea. Nadir had the urge to reach over and snatch it off him. He had seen men cut up and dumped and bloated and evil, he could see his friend's face if his little soprano could. Instead, he busied his hands with making coffee.

"I told you-"

"You were drunk."

"-You're not a thing, Erik. And I'm not bound to anything." He didn't want to rehash this. It would take years and years for Erik to get it through his thick skull, a hundred years for each second lived under Yasmin's fist. But Nadir would reject Erik's inanimate self-image until his last, annoying, dying breath. Ready to change the subject, the detective asked, "Can I see it?"

"Not yet, it is packed away just so. I am sure you'll see it soon."

"Probably, but she doesn't work on Saturdays."

"You will see it on Sunday," Erik corrected.

Nadir glanced up as he poured water into the coffee machine. "Oh, will I? I'd think you'd be too busy to keep that up."

"...You always come on Sunday."

The sound of it, the almost childish nature of it gave Nadir pause. They stared at each other over the expanse of years and brotherhood and kitchen counter. He couldn't tell Erik's expression, there wasn't a mouth to see. Closing the top gently, he pressed the start button before explaining, " I thought you'd be too busy. New fiancee, new music, maybe even a job? It's not that big of a deal." There. That was good. That was the first step of getting over it.

No, Erik was not like his child. But Charles was correct: he missed being depended upon. He had been a husband, the head of the household and keeper of the most precious jewel in the world. And then he was a widower, but still a father. A little boy he needed him, and a friend that needed him. Then Reza died and Erik left. All of a sudden, Nadir had a heart full of love to give, and no one to give it to.

"You will continue to come," Erik snapped, the mood switching with an almost audible whip crack. Insane though it was, that was more comforting. It was more like the Erik he knew, more like his brother. Erik stood and turned his back to drain the rest of his tea before going to the sink. "You are correct, Erik is busy and certainly cannot go trailing after you. You will continue to come on Sundays and save me the hassle of chasing you down to speak."

Nadir hid his smile well, and instead inclined his head. "As you wish, Mr. Manager. But Erik, don't feel that you need to-for me. I am fine no matter what you heard."

Erik paused, turning to face his old friend. "What was heard…?" After a beat, Erik slapped his hand against the sink. "I will strangle Charles. No, I shall cut out his tongue, keep him alive but unable to speak stupidity. You are truly hanging onto the words of a drunk man from two weeks ago?"

Khan, unappreciative of the irony of Erik lecturing him on emotional health, rolled his eyes. He waited until he had poured his cup and added sugar before giving his reply. "I don't want you to think about it-as if every time I call I'm trying to be your mommy. I've just grown used to you letting me know you're alive once in a while."

"Erik never listens to Charles."

"Well, that is known."

"You'd do well to follow Erik's example." Rinsing out his cup he left it in the sink and went to collect his things. "Now I must leave. There is much to do, and if you are done fretting and clucking like a hen..."

"I was not-"

Erik paused at his bag and took out the tuning fork, placing it on the coffee table. "I will leave this here, in case you begin to worry again-"

"Get out of my house!"

"-Keep the piano in tune. You are also almost out of detergent." Coat on, bag and fedora in hand, Erik turned to face his once benefactor.

Nadir had seen this tableau twice before in his life. The first, they had been enemies; Erik had brandished a garrote, a balaclava serving as his mask, his hoodie up and boots caked in mud from the rain outside. The chase had begun.

The second, he had been broken, in work clothes, his long hair lank over his face, boneless and teetering to stay up; Nadir had been a savior.

Now Erik stood, dressed to the nines in a pressed suit, eyes looking upon friend and family. How would they change now that Erik's life was beginning?

Opening his mouth, Khan meant to give him words of good luck on his engagement. But Erik ended the sentiment before it began. "I will not be changing my name for the marriage certificate. There will be three Khans now."

Nadir blinked, cup halfway to his lips, almost unsure of what he heard. Three Khans. A family. "...If you're looking for an objection, I'm not giving one."

"...Good. Be on time and bring cards. I tire of beating you at chess."

"Out!"

---

"Damn," Christine hissed, fumbling with the little four-color palette she had balanced on the tips of her fingers. It fell into the sink and circled the porcelain a few times before she gingerly plucked it out. "Thank God." None of the little caked circles were cracked or crumbling. Tossing her brush into the bag she gave up and dabbed her ring finger into the shimmery gold, pressing it to her lid. Just a little sprinkle of sparkle, a flick of black liner almost too small to see.

Done with her eyes she ripped out the napkin she had tucked into her collar to catch the fallout. It was a new dress and she did not want to mess it up. Another look in the Little Latte's bathroom mirror. She still looked like Christine: she didn't want to show up primped and polished like some other girl. But she still wanted to look nice, for Erik.

And for herself. They were finally done with this stupid hiatus, and while she may have lost two months, she gained new titles. Girlfriend...lover. She straightened the ribbon in her hair, a simple tie with its tails fluttering down her ponytail, before finally ripping it out and letting her hair fall down.

This was ridiculous. She should go in her sweats like usual, be comfortable because Erik was going to run her through the wringer, she was sure. She was already working on the buttons of the dress when there was a sharp knock on the door.

"It's me," Meg called. "Let me see before you go!"

"No, I don't think I'm gonna wear this." Christine unlocked the door, letting Meg inside. She was still in her Latte gear, her apron dark with espresso splatter, her ponytail threaded through her LL baseball cap. "Can you help me with it? I don't want to smear lipstick on it."

"What? No! Christine, don't! It's just this once and you look so cute," Meg protested, batting Christine's hands from her neck. "I knew you'd look good in white ruffles."

Christine smoothed said ruffles down. It was a white dress with bell sleeves, a peek of red slip with gold thread for modesty at the tip of the V neck. She was worried about her white kitten heels, with the black snow coating the ground outside, and the grime of the bus. It wasn't sexy by any means, but it had been so cute in the store, and with the Black Friday discount, Meg had threatened her with harm if she did not buy it.

She had wanted to wear it on Christmas, but the collar made that impossible. Or really, Erik did. The morning after their meeting she had gone to dress for Christmas at the Giry's and had almost fainted after catching sight of herself in the bathroom mirror. Her throat was dotted with vibrant red marks, one especially viscous gem at the base of her throat where her hair could not cover.

The whole day she felt as if Erik's lips were against her flesh and she often rested her hand on the marks over her turtleneck. She almost missed them when they finally faded.

"I suppose. I mean…" She rolled her eyes and began tossing her cosmetics into her crescent moon makeup bag. "This is ridiculous. I'm going to lesson, I've had lessons for almost a year. I've known Erik for a year."

Meg played with her hair as she cleaned up, combing her part off center to add some volume on top. "Yes, but this is like a victory lap. You made it! Besides, who knows what you two might talk about…"

Christine huffed. "Meg, stop. I'm not going to expect a proposal every time we meet. And I'm not going to drop hints either." She gave her friend a smirk in the mirror. "You're just going to have to be patient to turn into Maid of Honor-zilla."

The blonde's only response was to stick out her tongue.

Armed with a box of pastries, she sat stiff as a board on the bus, careful not to let her white dress rub against the dirt of the plastic seats. She clung to the ring about her throat, for confidence, for peace. She prayed that, though everything was different, the same ease and comfort would return to them.

The theater came into view, the lights still on and casting a warm glow on the modern slate buildings on either side; a drop of Persian gold between the cracks of the cold American Nouveau. Christine exited the bus and hurried to the stairs to escape the chill.

"I'm sorry ma'am but we-oh! Hello Miss Daae." Jules, who had been counting the register at the ticket counter grinned. "I'm sorry. I forgot you'd be coming back today."

"And the fact that I don't look homeless," Christine teased, walking up to the counter and popping open the box. "It's good to see you too Jules."

"Thank you." He took a coffee cake, and cupped his hand under it, catching the crumbs. "I'm very glad things are back to normal. I have missed closing to the music. I think he's waiting."

"Best not to annoy him the first day right?" She grinned and made her way to the theater doors. Her fingers traced over the lattice design carved into the deep mahogany wood, saying hello to her old friends. Passed these doors was the world of her and Erik, no intruders permitted; a world in the shadows they had weaved themselves.

Erik was on the stage, as usual, waiting for her. There was a new piano at his side, the wood freshly polished. Christine remembered how Erik had shoved the last one into the wall hard enough for it to crack, then firmly pushed away the memory. They were in the after: it was time to heal.

Her teacher obviously wished to impress her as well. Dressed in a pressed suit, his vest, and shirt a crisp white under his black tie and jacket. The white of his mask seemed bright in the stage lights, his eyes no longer glowing from under the black brow of his usual attire as they lifted from his pocket watch. She saw his lips turn up immediately. It was such a warm smile, welcoming and novel on his dead lips that whatever anxiety Christine might have had, returning to the sight of such joy and sorrow, melted away under the heat of it.

Closing the clock with a snap, he knelt and held out a gloved hand.

Christine grasped his fingers and was still surprised with his wiry strength as he hoisted her onto the stage, pulling her far back from the edge. His eyes cast over her and she was suddenly glad she didn't change.

"You look very pretty, my dear," he murmured, eyes coursing over her again, settling on the ring nestled safely on her breast. Lifting one gloved finger he followed the chain and hooked the jewel around his knuckle, lifting it between them. "You wore Erik's ring, then, the entire time."

"Of course," Christine said, her hand closing over his. "It wasn't just you who needed comfort."

His eyes fluttered closed for a moment. When they opened, he as smirking. "Quite an ugly thing is it not? Gaudy, though it is changed from the original. I did the best I could."

"It was...his, wasn't it?"

Erik tilted his head. "...You are a very quick young lady. Yes. Forgive Erik, does that trouble you?"

"Not more than it reminded me of you," she admitted.

He lifted the ring until the chain was gone from her throat. She missed the weight desperately the moment it was gone. "As always Christine, you have the power to take the horrible and turn it into something worth keeping. We shall have to find you prettier things to wear, however, with prettier intentions."

Not for the first time, Christine wanted to smack Meg. It was her fault that Christine expected him to fall to one knee, and her fault Christine felt a slight pang of disappointment when he did not. He was not acting his usual self, not the shy Maestro of time passed. He was smiling...confident. The showman then. "Come, there is much we must discuss."

Keeping his hold on her hand and led her to the bench on the piano. Before he sat, however, Christine plucked at the tip of his fingers, tugging off his leather glove. She held out her hand for his other, which he offered up obediently. She took both and reached around, stuffing it into his back pocket. His facade broke for a moment when he grunted at the invasion, and the friendly pat she gave said pocket as well. She left his mask. Without it, it would remind her of seeing it in the shadows of the car-in between kisses. Best to leave it on for the lesson.

She sunk down on the bench with an innocent smile. Erik joined her after replacing his ring to its rightful place on his little finger and gestured to the paper on the music rack. "I have composed for us. I have come to the conclusion that all our work must not go to waste. We will no longer be working on your repertoire for a time, but our own music."

"I thought you said there was no time for us to prepare for the showcase?"

"Indeed. So we will be performing our own work."

"Making an album," Christine asked. It had been the obvious conclusion to all the work they put into it. It had been another thing, like husbands and life that had seemed logical but separate in a later time. She had been too caught up in being with Erik, and feeling the first flush of love.

"And putting on a show." He placed a hand on her leg, as if afraid she was about to bolt. His guess was not far off. Christine did not slide away from him, or, God forbid, stamp her foot. But she stiffened immediately under his touch. "A...performance? Where?"

"Here. Perhaps close to Halloween. One night, a showcase all your own."

That was worse, that was so much worse. Worse than being one in a row of talented professionals, to be the only person for the entire show. To have people come curiously, skeptically just for her and her voice. Her music, that she had written. There would be no one to fail before her so that she could triumph, and not one after her to cover should she fail.

Still, Christine did not run, the visions of what had followed her last tantrum dancing before her mind's eyes like an opera sewn together from her mistakes. "You are going to perform with me?"

"Is it our music," he replied as if it were obvious. Of course, who would he trust to do it well besides himself?

"But all the effects, how are we going to do that live?"

"There are tools, I have researched it. Playback machines, voice changers that can be manipulated live, ways to record sounds on stage and play it back in the next measure." Sure she wasn't about to run, he placed his hands on the piano keys. Indeed to fill up the ticking moments that tempted him to imagine the worst, he had all but capture Nadir's computer hostage for such research. "We could use such things later, but I suggest that for this set, we focus more on our acoustic pieces. We can keep synthesized bass lines, that is simple enough to produce without having to learn new systems in such a short time. But we are going to show the world your voice, and give you a track record to impress with."

It would give her experience. Should this turn out to be a hit, she would no longer be a college drop out, a try-hard. She'd have a notch in her belt, notoriety. She might even have a few fans after one performance. After all, she wasn't a fool. Christine had been taught and guided by Erik, a musical genius. Their creation was good, better than good. It could rival anything on the radio she was sure. They would create a name for themselves.

If they succeed. "You've thought this all out."

"Erik told you he would think of something."

"We don't have much time."

"No." He was looking at her, perhaps waiting for the tears or some similar response. "Of course, you need not do this…"

Christine smiled ruefully. "Is Maestro saying that or Erik?"

"Erik."

"And what does Maestro think."

"You will perform."

"That's what I thought." Here is it Daae. It was all words before, vows right before sleep. That you'd be brave and strong and reach for your dreams. Well, do your stretches girl. "Alright." She forced out the word, without meaning it the first time. The second came a little easier. "I already said I would so...I will." God help me. "Alright, we have little less than a year to complete our tracks and get them performance ready." She looked at Erik who was still eyeing her cautiously. "...We should get started."

He inclined his head, fingers rising to touch her cheek. His smile was unmistakably proud, and once she had seen it, Christine wanted to inspire it again. That would be her goal; not the crowds, not her name in the arts section of the papers. She would sing her soul, her songs, her heart out for and to Erik. And the rest would fall where it may.

His fingers never brushed her cheek. Pulling back, she saw Maestro take over as he straightened on the bench. With a snap, he pointed to the bow of the piano. "Scales."

Christine stood, huffing, and leaned against the black lacquer as she usually did. Rings and love and new clothes didn't matter. With the first press of keys, she was back. Christine the soprano with her Maestro, her attitude switching immediately with perfectly honed obedience. He joined with her on the warm-up and afterward handed her a copy of the music.

"I have written this as an opening number. An introduction if you will." He pressed the chords of the first bars, the minor keys dancing firmly down than up then down the scale again. It was an impressive introduction to be sure, the tune giving her goosebumps with the first note.

He continued passed her cue, his left hand simulating the drum beat with the lower notes, his right playing the ghostly minor tune, first in her register, and then answering in his lower one. She read along the duet, about power and dreams, about two souls finally meeting after living within each other's thoughts, in each other's fantasies.

"Wow," she breathed when the last note of her part's triumphant scale was played.

"Indeed. If you do well, I will play it on the organ as it's meant."

"That introduction on the organ," she repeated, her lips pulling back in a hungry grin.

"The whole piece will have the organ, your drum beat, and the orchestra."

"You have to let me listen to it, good or not," she begged, hugging the music to her chest. "Erik this is fantastic! It's...it's majestic and dark and...it's so powerful."

His smug smirk only widened with each word. "It is us."

Them, the angel and the Maestro, the teacher, and the lover. It was them coming into strength and power. Outside they may fumble and trip and knock together, barely clinging on. But here, with their music, they had their strength and courage. And together it was as unstoppable as his melody. "Yes! Though I think you're being a little over generous if you think I can hit all these notes."

"I know you can, Christine. All that you sing from now until the performance will have been written for you. There is nothing here that you cannot achieve. Drink, and let us begin."

It was slow work at first, Erik having had much more time with the piece than she did. The first half of the duet spent a great deal of time in her lower register, which made the latter half more impressive but harder to achieve as it switched keys with every verse, climbing toward the peak of the song.

Another struggle was not becoming lost in Erik's voice as he sang, missing her cues or her opening notes. He was not singing for instruction or example now. He let the full range of his powerful baritone play over the frantic heartbeat of the tune, the silk cord that tied all the gothic notes together, laying the foundation for her angelic sounds to soar. A few reprimands, one oh-so-longed for lecture and a time out to 'refresh' with water got her head on straight, and the duet progressed well after that.

Now that she knew what it was like to sing with Erik, their voices entwined, live, rather than in the computer, she doubted she could ever truly have the heart to sing anything but their songs again. Their gazes locked, their voices pressing against one another, lifting each other to higher and greater precipices.

But it was that last note, that damn triumphant note that eluded her. She had lost count how many times they had started in the middle, only to lead to disaster. One time her voice cracked, the next it was a breathy whine. The time it came out as nothing but air Christine threaded her fingers through her hair, not caring for how it looked and gripped it tightly.

"I'm sorry," she murmured, her voice weary and rough.

Erik stood and she prepared to have him stand behind her and correct her posture or breathing or whatever he thought sabotaged her attempts. Instead, cool fingers found her chin and raised her face. "You can do this Christine. You are doing very well for your first run, and for your first lesson back. Come. Erik will play it for you on the organ and we will give it one last try."

With a sigh, she nodded. She did want to see the majestic instrument in play, but even that was dampened by her failure. Erik closed the fallboard over the keys and offered his hand. She took it, letting him lead her like a lady backstage to the door that lead the basements. Their journey was inverted from two months ago, down to be together rather than ascending to be separated.

It was dark as ever, and in her kitten heels, Christine felt a little unsteady. She clung to his hand tightly, solely depended on his guidance. They made it down without a single misstep. When they finally arrived in the cavern, Erik helped her into the dinghy and asked, "Shall we begin now? The sound in here helps. From the top?"

"As you wish, Maestro." She threw a smile over her shoulder. Simply being with him again made whatever gloom rested over her very temporary.

"Ah, such obedience. I must savor it while it lasts." He sang her first note, and when she matched it, she began her first verse, sitting straight in the small boat as he pushed off from the shore. Her voice echoed back to her, and she pushed the notes open to fill the space, hearing her improvement with each word. The ringing of her voice in the cavern turned the majestic song into something other than music, something living, breathing, and feeling. It clouded her head, surrounding her on all sides, even if it was only her own voice.

Erik sang back to her, his powerful song intoxicating her as he rang out all around, circling her with its velvet stranglehold. Christine did not marvel at it as she had in the theater, for he was not singing for perfection now. No, with his golden eyes locked on Christine's face, it was clear he was singing to her, and how he sang! It was like a god, a real music angel, masked and descended from heaven to serenade her.

And she poured out her soul in response. Oh, what had he created?

This was no flirtation with passion that their computer manipulations had created, nor was it the first flush of excitement the novelty of singing live with him had created. Now she felt each word he had written and understood where this melody had come from. It was their gift to one another, the life they had sparked within each other.

He stepped from the boat, not even bothering to tie it as he handed her out and pulling her close until she could almost feel the vibration of his chest as they reached the second key change, voice climbing higher to words her climax.

"Simply sing," he whispered as she began her vocal ascent. "Sing, Christine, sing it to me."

Christine turned with him as he backed away from her, one hand extended as if he could pull the notes from her very throat with a gesture. She lifted her arms in return, focusing all her mind, all her voice on him, to reach him, touch him with her song. She felt the beauty of it rise in her chest, pushing her voice higher and higher, stretching as she stretched, reaching for him, for her angel of music.

He gave her his back only to press the final chords into the organ. The pipes decreed notes with their booming voices, dancing along the scale, making the very stone beneath her feet tremble. But Christine would not be conquered, her voice blossoming without her permission, cresting over the notes that had mocked her before.

His hands lifted from the keyboard, reaching for her again. "Now Christine!"

The note rang out, alone and victorious in the cave, her eyes closed until it trembled and shook with vibrato, dying with her loss of breath. She hugged herself, body sagging from the fight, demanding the rest of champions. "I'm dead," she breathed. "I did it, I gave you everything I had, and now I'm dead!" With a little laugh, she lifted her face again.

She saw him, eyes wide behind his mask, the same entranced look he wore when she had sung, out of tune and earnestly, on his stage the first time. He came to her in a rush, catching himself just short of her, teetering on his feet. He seemed to be searching for words but was unwilling to break the commutative silence they now shared. She thought for a moment he may fall and kiss the floor again, so awed was his expression.

Instead he slowly, so slowly, he took a curl from her face and tucked it back. With all the gentility of a lamb, he began to sing to her. It only took a few notes for her to realize he was singing her song, the one she had written for him, to give voice to the man who now lived in her heart.

When she had last heard the lilting tune, it had been a demo, aching for the smoothness of a well-practiced hand. Now...oh, what could she say about it now? Erik had taken it, a token of her love, and, as he did her, polished it into beauty; into majesty.

His voice alone, without the aide of tune or instrument, began to weave the dream once more, dark and beaconing. Had she thought she sang her soul to him before? That she was dead? How could she have died, when suddenly life unfurled in her chest, breathing in time to her lover's song.

The duet he had written had been their triumph. The song she had gifted was their love; penned so faithfully by Christine, and now so carefully adored by Erik. He had taken the tune that had hummed between them almost from their first lesson and made it real, given its shape from her key and tone. Soft as candlelight, as seductive as midnight.

There was no fighting the glory of his voice, not when he was singing his all for her. Christine had wondered so long ago as his many masks: Maestro, Phantom, trickster god. She had wanted to know Erik, know him as she loved him.

And here Erik was, and he was beautiful. So beautiful as he sang his soul to her, using her own language, that tears stung her eyes. She reached for him, barely touching his moving lips before he slipped away. He grasped her hand, leading her with him.

He stood there in the shadows, emperor in their dark little kingdom, decreeing the words written on their hearts. The cavern fell away, the garish light of the door behind her nothing but the glimmer off Erik's white mask, the world becoming his voice and his voice alone. No stone, no bone, no blood. His voice and her soul, in one combined, as his voice climbed to the height she had so struggled with, landing with such perfect pitch Christine's breath stopped, her life only beginning when he sang once more.

"Now I know...you were meant for me,"

Tears fell over her cheeks, the truth so simple and so powerful that it shook Christine down to her very foundation. And still, at the bottom, she found her only line back to reality was his singing. She covered her face, soft sobs shaking her form. It was too much to take in at once. Too much passion, too much love.

She felt him come to her, wrap an arm around her shoulders from behind. She leaned against his thin chest, spent and willing to let him lead her wherever he wished, wherever the fantasy he weaved took them. His arms surrounded her as much as his voice, rocking her gently back and forth, comforting her as he sang softly, words of life and love and adoration. She felt his lips grin against her cheek as he called her sweet intoxication.

Christine would have gladly lived in this moment, but for one thing. Her hand sought his face, and only found the smooth white leather of his mask. Her fingers curled around it, finding the lip to lift it away. Erik's hand caught hers, halting her progress. She turned to look at him, to silently plead to see him and make their moment complete.

He shook his head and led her by the hand once more. Transported by their music, Christine had not noticed the curtain against the far stone wall. Erik led her there, her song coming to a close on his lips as he drew back the plush red velvet. Upon a pedestal was a gold mirror box, reflecting her visage in its cloudy colored glass.

The tug of the curtain had released a mechanism and it began to tick, the seams of the box parting, opening up to reveal the little stage. As the ticking grew louder, a little chiming tune began to play. Christine recognized it-the lullaby she had first edited, the very first piece of music she had memorized from Erik's repertoire. The sweet tune that at once both lulled and hunted, for there was no tenderness in her lover that did not come clothed in darkness.

And there, in the middle of the stage was...her. But not in some costume as the Night Queen or Carmen or some other woman of reputation and glory. No, the doll was Christine through and through, right down to the slanted smirk of the lips, the cock of the head under the snowy white veil; for the doll was dressed as a beautiful, white bride in a gown so voluminous it took up most of her platform.

And the bouquet she carried was made of metal and gems. In the doll's small plastic hands held a ring, antique gold, and shaped like a tea rose, the metal petals baring little cut pieces of garnet. Carefully, as her hand was trembling violently, Christine plucked the ring from her doppelganger's grasp.

The light across the lake was so far it barely reached, but those weak beams were reflected ten-fold in the mirror of the box and made the red jewels sparkle in the low reflection as she turned the ring. The band was trisected, the middle ring engraved with vines. Christine, still too stunned to let anything but curiosity to reign, ran her thumb along it. The slight pressure made it twist, and as the middle band turned, the petals of the 'rose' began to close.

She gasped. Even the ring was a mechanism! Tinkering proof of Erik's originality and uniqueness...and all in her service. Erik! Christine spun, for Erik he removed himself from her side. For a moment she feared he was gone, his looming height nowhere to be seen. Then his hand was gently on her hip, and she saw him, knelt before her. This time it was not of supplication, bent and groveling on the floor. Only one knee was pressed into the hard stone, the picture of a gentleman who had but one question. He quickly smoothed back his hair, lips parting.

Christine burst into tears.

Panicked, Erik took a hold of her skirt's hem, as if it had been his touch that had destroyed her. "Why are you crying? Christine, it kills me when you cry! Is this not lovely? Do you not like it?"

All the poor girl could do was nod, and clutch the ring to her chest. She had given her soul away to him in their duet, only to have it returned, loved and cherished with his song. And now, the soul he had breathed life into seemed too big for her body, too much for her sense that all she could do was weep helplessly at the magnitude of it all. But there was no pain or fear here. She overflowed with joy, and it came leaking from her lashes. She bent double from it, a small hand coming to rest on his shoulder for balance. For a moment there was only the sound of water: the lap of the lake, the tap of her tears on his mask.

"You...you would have a good life with me," he continued into the torturing silence. "I would give you a home without false doors and a cave, you'd want for nothing. For things, or music or love-you know that don't you? You know that I have loved you since the first? The moment you sighed in my box-you were so taken away by the music but I hadn't heard a single note all night Christine. It was you I was taken with, and you sighed happily. I loved you then-but that does not compare."

He scooted closer, his hold on her skirt tightening as if the strength of his grip translated the strength of his affection. "I love you now so much more than I did then because I know you. My student, my muse...my Christine. Please, that is all I wish, for you to be mine. I am yours to do with as you like, I would be your teacher and your admirer and your friend, and all I ask in return is to bear your mark as husband."

When she didn't give an answer he shook his head, whispering, "Oh, I don't know what I'm talking about. This was not how it was meant to go…"

That cut through her more than anything else. No, this was exactly how it was meant to be between them. Words were such clumsy useless things when they had music. Her grip on his shoulder tightened, making him look up again. She had managed to stem the flow for a minute and held out the ring to him.

Erik took it, and before he could fathom rejection, she held out her hand, flat and waiting. "You're supposed to do it," she instructed gently, her voice barely more than breath.

"Oh," was his numb reply. His long fingers wrapped around her wrist-what a sight. It should have been ghastly, his skeleton hand gripping her perfect limb. But he slid the ring onto her finger and stared at her pale hand baring the product of his labor and possession. He looked at her once more, almost seeking approval, as if asking did I do it right?

"Yes, Erik," was her reply to both unspoken questions. "Yes. Yes!" Then Christine flung herself at him, her arms around his neck, burying her wet face against his golden throat, that crystal instrument that was, and ever would be, hers.

He caught her, still a little stunned. He had dreamed of his moment: replayed it, again and again, spent all afternoon practicing and reciting and singing to make it just right. Of course he had fumbled it at the end, it was the disaster he always expected when attempting to do something good. But beyond his fantasy and structure, he did not know what would come next. He hoped for a yes, and perhaps ought to have expected one, but his mind simply could not piece together such a response in his daydreams, even as his hands pieced together doll-Christine's stage.

And now she was here, and his and...and shivering? Her nose pressed to his neck and it was cold. "Christine! Christine, you're freezing!"

Of course the silly girl would be cold, she wore nothing more than a slip in this cave, and the cold of January was the one invader Erik could not keep out. He stood, lifting her up in his arms.

Christine clung to him, surprised as always at the strength his skinny body possessed. He carried her like the bride she was towards the door to his home, leaving the music box to wind down sadly without its audience. Christine gave a small wave to the little doll as if thanking it for its services.

His house was pleasantly warm but dark. Ambient light spilled from down the hall, where he had the fire going in the living room. Having no ability to predict the end of his little show, Erik had prepared for the best and worst, placing some cheese and fruit out for after a yes, and stowing three packs of cigarettes near his computer for the worst. He had no champagne, determined to give his addiction no quarter with his recovery no matter the outcome.

But he never managed to carry her there, as she wriggled to get down as soon as they were over the threshold. Christine captured his face in her hands and dragged him to her level, placing her lips firmly over his despite the mask.

Yes. She said yes. She wept...happy tears? She wishes to marry me. It is real. She is real...and meant for me. He felt the hisses of the Phantom rise, and before he could allow them voice, he gripped her small body tighter, kissing her in return until she was quite breathless. An effective and pleasant method thwarting the demon, one he would happily apply again. And now he could, for he would have a wife, a wife to kiss breathlessly, to hold and to love. Something bubbled up inside him, like carbonation popping in his chest. He was excited...he was happy. A wife, Erik and his wife.

Christine grinned foolishly, practically hanging in his embrace, her full weight in his arms. She panted, murmuring a soft, "Oh wow."

"I agree," Erik whispered in return, golden eyes casting over her flushed face, her sparkling eyes in the low light. My wife. "Oh, Christine…" He lifted one dead hand to trace the blossoming red over her nose and cheeks. "No rose ever blushed as comely."

Her perfect bottom lip was suddenly crushed under her teeth, and Erik recognized that look. She was about to tell him something shocking or teasing to throw him off kilter, and he was ready to be flung. "Are you going to play the 'Love Me Not' game and p-pluck my petals?"

She stumbled over the word, echoing the warning he had given her their first night as lovers. There was no fear in that wording now, no fear of his overwhelming passion. Christine wished to be swept away again in Erik, and sing a different duet completely.

"'Love Me Not' game?"

"You pluck a flower's petals thinking about the person you love, and see if they love you back."

"Seems unnecessarily cruel to the blossom."

"Oh no, I don't think so. I think they are glad for the service. It's 'they love me' first, then 'they love me not'." Seeing that Erik was about to wander down a scientifically curious path than the one of metaphor and meaning Christine was thinking of, she took his caressing hand and boldly led it to the button of her dress. "There." She helped him pop it open. "She loves you."

Now he fully understood the nature of this game, and his skin seemed to burn, his eyes locked to that piece of cloth now dangling loose and free from the hold of the plastic button, trembling with each of her breaths. What was he to do? Oh, he'd burn her to ashes. Could he do that to his sweet, delicate fiancee? Inflict this corpse upon her? "Christine...I-"

"I'm not afraid Erik," she murmured softly. "It's nothing to fear. I want your passion. Intense and overwhelming and...and covered in scars. I want you.." She led his fingers down again, to the next button.

What was he to do? His will was broken-how easily it snapped! With just a brush of hands. "She loves me not, a horrible fate," he murmured as he plucked the next button. How he could easily rip the fabric form the perfect body beneath-No. No, a man, be a man.

"But there's hope yet," Christine breathed as his hand continued without her prodding. She loves me, she loves me not, she loves me…

"Alas," Erik murmured, sounding not one bit sorrowful as the last button gave way. "She loves me not."

Then he felt a cool rush of air on his face, as his mask was pulled clean off. He ducked his head, but her lips on his cheek stopped him. Christine dropped his mask to the hardwood floor. With a whisper, her white overdress followed, too loose to stay up now. Erik's lips parted, his eyes more accustomed to the dark, seeing every valley and peak of her body through that silky red slip. So small...soft…

"She loves you, Erik."

He closed his eyes and his tears slid over his cheek, mingling with her nearly dry ones, and then her fresh ones. "Oh...I believe she loves me."

Chapter 19

Christine was more than grateful for Erik's gentle guidance. Tears were still wet on her face, but not even their moisture could snuff out the heat now in her belly. The sunrise clock in the corner was mimicking the moon outside, casting the bedroom in dim silvery light. He stopped at the bed and turned to her, lifting her now bejeweled hand to his thin lips.

"You need not do this," he murmured softly into her skin. "It is such a great burden to put on you, and you've already consented to be Erik's wife. That is more than I had ever hoped for."

Shaking her head as she moved closer again, lifting his chin. "Erik, this is no burden. I want you." She ran her thumb over his pitifully hollow cheek, the bone protruding from the thin flesh. No ugliness of his body could dim the fire in her now. She loved and wanted to feel every thin, bony part of him. Her very eye for beauty had been shattered, and it would never be fixed. For the rest of her life, it would only be Erik and his visage that pulled desire from her body. "Don't think you're about to get away with being married and not touching me, mister."

He pressed his face into her hand, but the look he gave her had no trace of sweetness. "I don't wish to get away at all."

Her spine shivered at the timbre of his voice. It seemed to pass through her, the notes of his words stroking down her spine. "Just...be gentle? It always hurts the first time for girls." It was better to prepare him now, in case he didn't know. If he suddenly discovered it in the middle, there was no telling what he'd do. Well, there was: it would certainly cut their fun short. Perhaps even cut it out of their married life altogether which was, apparently, his working assumption.

That was not going to happen.

He hesitated. "I hate that you must remind me of that. I hate that Erik might forget in the midst-"

"No, you won't." Christine shook his head with her caressing hand, teasing. "Not my Erik. My gentle, loving Erik. My husband."

The word pulled a groan from his crystal throat, his eyes closing as he pressed a kiss into her palm. He cradled that hand, his lips dragging up her wrist to her forearm, his face nuzzling the smooth skin there. Christine realized then that, with a mask on, his face would never have known the sensations humans took for granted. The wind across your cheeks, the sunlight on your face, the flesh of your beloved as you kiss them.

The knowledge made her tingle as she had one thought: she wanted him to nuzzle and feel every inch of flesh on her body with that gentle, loving touch.

"Let me turn out the light," he whispered into the crook of her elbow, reluctantly letting the limb go with a parting small lick to the sensitive skin.

"Please do." She sat carefully on the edge of the bed, the sheets satiny and cool against her fevered skin. It seemed more sensual now than when she had slept in it before. Now that there was nothing between them, no questions no secrets. Both laid bare-well... Christine didn't realize she could blush hotter. But as she tried to rub the butterflies from her stomach, she realized the silence that drifted between them was no longer comfortable.

"Of course," Erik whispered, his shoulders hunched. "Of course. I would not force you to see when you have already accepted so much."

Christine frowned at the return of his skittish habit. "Erik that's not what I meant. Look at me." She waited until he turned his resigned face towards her. Gentle, gentle Christine. This isn't just your first. "You aren't the only one nervous about being seen...like this."

She brought her knees up to her chest, the slip ungodly short on her legs, showing much of her thigh. She tugged fruitlessly at it still. Christine had never thought much about looks; they were a genetic accident. She had accepted her frizzy hair, and her slightly chubby legs and hips as facts of life. Nothing but industrial shampoo would work, there was no such thing for skinny jeans for her and at her height bunching was and putting things on the bottom shelf was the norm.

Now, here on her soon-to-be-husband's bed, she felt every squishy, or odd, or small part of her body and desperately hoped for approval. It did not matter that Erik was a dog at her feet at any whim or command, or that he had already explained his untamed desire. It was something in her, on this new vista of emotion and desire she had yet to trek, that left her insecure.

Erik, for his part, was confused. Why should she, with her unscared body and whole face be shy? There were varying levels of beauty, and she did surpass most, but even if she did not, he would want her the same by the very dint of her being here, loving him. Her voice, her beauty all were ribbons on her loving soul: wonderful, but merely dressing.

Then, all at once and in a moment outside of time, Erik realized that she needed him just as much as he needed her. For so long, and so much of their acquaintance, Erik had depended on this poor girl, unwillingly but no less desperately. Christine had a strength she was blind to-of endurance. Of tenacity and a soul that was unbroken, no matter how it was battered.

But as he looked at her now, he saw a young girl, trusting and needy. As needy as she had been for a sign that day at the opera; a soul crying out for an angel of music, even if he arrived in her drive-thru. And he was the older, wiser one-or so he should have been. No amount of inexperience in the physical would excuse him should he fail in this responsibility; of being her husband, her touchstone.

It was more than becoming a man; it was being her bravery when she was scared, and her guide when lost. So similar to Maestro, and yet so much more important. Again he prepared for the whispers of degradation to come, and remind him what he was: that there was no hope for anyone depending on him.

But the beating of his heart drowned whatever hisses were prepared before they even reached his ears.

The silvery light was cut off, casting them both into the inky blackness. Erik's golden eyes reflected whatever scant light there was remaining from the cracks in the doorway. It was the only way Christine knew he was still staring at her, that he was coming closer. The dip of the bed signaled his approach as well, but still, his touch on her chin, a finger lifting it, was a shock.

"Nervous? Before your Erik?"

She felt her breath bounce off his mouth and knew he was close. His lips brushed against her jaw, cool to the touch but leaving scorches in their wake. "I'm not afraid of you."

"Ah, some would call you foolish."

"You did."

"I did." He spoke these words against the corner of her jaw, whispering against that sensitive patch of skin behind her ear. The one that had nearly dropped her before, now only made her limbs go slack with surrender. "Must I again? For you would be foolish to think that I do not see you as the most beautiful creature on this earth. Shall I tell you why?"

His hand cupped her head, leading her back against the pillows. He moved down her body, his cold pants of breath chilling her through the thin material of her slip.

"Shall I start here, with your feet?" His hands cradled one foot, thumb pressing along the sole, easing the swelling there from her heels. "Delicate and small, even when they stamp my stage."

"Please forget that," she groaned, covering her face in embarrassment. It was probably her worst moment, and of course, he would remember it. It was their worst day as well. His lips against her ankle made her forget even her mortification. The touch reached up her calf, her flesh jumping as he traveled.

"No. For as delicate and pretty they are, they do not matter. It was the defiance and command that Erik admires."

"Or brattiness."

"Hush," came her Maestro's command.

Christine grinned, giggling to herself. Her apprehension was melting away moment by moment. It was not so frightening, not when it was only Erik, the man she teased and loved and wanted for so long. Just Christine and Erik, as it always was. She trusted him to teach her this as much as she trusted him in anything else.

She flexed her foot in his hand and pressed her toes against his leg. At his moan, she bit her smiling lip. Maybe she could teach in return. A mutual lesson then.

His fingers climbed up her legs, and then his cheek was against her knee. "And your legs are so soft, but I can feel the strength in them from all your standing. Strong enough to carry you and all your love." He nuzzled again, his path leading up her thigh.

Her giggles turned a little breathless as his face pushed her slip out of the way until it was up over her hips, his hands following as well. He dropped thin kisses over her silk covered hips, to the plane of her stomach.

"Are you going to say something wonderfully poetic about my belly," she whispered.

"No. I simply like it." He grinned against the flesh of said part, kissing and nibbling the softness, tongue teasing the indent of her bellybutton. Every indulgence he had imagined over the last year, every touch he had wished to place on her was now his. He was almost stunned with the sudden freedom, but selfish creature he was, did not pass up the opportunity.

Her hands threaded through his hair, still thick and dark. He moaned against her stomach, arching into her fingers like a cat. Christine scratched her nails over his head and felt him shiver. "And that as well…?"

She tugged gently, wanting his lips covering hers. But he resisted, instead kissing her palms. "No, my impatient girl. Erik is not done."

With carefully gently tugs he lifted the slip up high until she was wriggling to pull it up and off. Despite her underclothes remaining, she crossed her arms over her chest instinctively. Erik laid himself alongside her, his body pressed tall against her side. He did not try to pry her hands away and force her; merely ran his fingers along her arms, his lips resting against her shoulder. "Here is where all your beauty is born. This heart which you have given to me, this soul that is one with mine."

It was comfortable, in his arms. She felt safe. Despite all the horror and ache and separation, Erik had been very careful with her heart. He might have lashed out in hurt, he might have tried to protect her by pushing her away. But he never denied her love: he never disparaged her still loving heart or made her feel ridiculous. He wouldn't now either. He treated everything she gave as a gift, and to him it was.

Erik made it clear she had utter control of her heart and mind and body. It was that respect that made it so easy to give all three to his command.

In degrees, her hands slid away, her face finding purchase in the crook of his neck. Even new and a little awkward, she felt like she was at home. He was meant for me, this is where I belong.

It took surprisingly little courage now, to let him touch her. His graceful violinist hands were gentle, and light, almost reverent. She felt how he was affected, his breath catching when his hand felt skin, then lace, then silk and skin once more in his travels. Instead of protective, her last scraps of clothing felt restrictive, and she was glad when they gave way, replaced by Erik's flesh-warmed palms, caressing and cupping and stroking.

He tried not to think of her as an instrument but it was just too apt, finding what was correct by her sighs, deciphering between a whimper of pleasure and a squeak of discomfort. It became harder to divine when his long fingers quested between her thighs, almost burned by her heat. But it must have been a good sound as her fingers wrapped vice-like around his wrist to keep him from moving away. Still, gentility was his rule. She was so small-so breakable.

Christine did not begrudge him keeping his clothes on. She had started tugging at his tie only for him to stiffen and grasp her hand. She remembered then, the poor little boy stripped for people's sick amusement. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm sorry, I-"

"Just...just this." Erik's golden eyes were pleading as they looked at her. He could let her strip him, these were Christine's gentle hands who had only caused comfort. And yet, the simple physical sensation as enough to overwhelm him, and he was already drowning in her. "Yes?"

"Alright," Christine soothed, moving slower now as she removed his tie, unbuttoning his collar just enough to place her lips on his flesh. He moaned, and suddenly his manly weight was laying atop her, his hips finding their place between her legs. That was easy.

He wasn't so very heavy, and she did not mind a bit. Instead, she cradled him with her own limbs, her mouth exploring the scant bit of flesh allowed. The jacket was done away with next, but his shirt stayed, unbuttoned and untucked. It felt too good, too wonderful to have her perfect body curled around his, to have the ghosts of his past haunt their bed, called by her fingers over his scars. This was enough for now.

His belt was the last to go, but by that time they were both fumbling for the buckle, Christine grinning against his throat at their efforts. Her hands began to explore shyly inside the cloth of his trousers, and Erik felt for sure that he would go mad-not from the Phantom or his own sins, but from the unimaginable heat and the pleasure raking its nails over his spine, shivering his entire frame; reducing him to a creature of feeling and sensation by a simple touch of her delicate little hands.

He caught her fingers, pulling them from his body, and lifted his face to apologize. Christine's touch was overwhelming, but he wanted to finish with her, to be one in flesh with her. The apology died on his lips. In the gloom, where he could just make out her face, he saw blushing pride etched into her features, rather than hurt or chastisement.

He had no choice but to kiss the smirk off her lips.

Christine's small cry of pain lanced through his heart, when he finally within her. He cradled her head with both his hands, thumbs stroking the scant few tears off her cheek.

"I'm fine, I'm fine," she breathed. She clutched at the back of his shirt, the material tight in her hands. His strong angel. "Don't leave."

"Never."

---

It was warm. Warmer than normal, that is. Erik's comforter retained as much heat as possible, here underground. But now he was almost sweating-and it was hard to breathe. He had the sensation that something was different, instinctively like when the electricity winked out sometime in the night. And it was dark. A city-wide blackout?

With a start, he realized his problem: there was a very warm, very frizzy-haired lump on top of him, who had stolen all the blankets. Christine's face was hidden, tucked into the blankets, probably to warm her nose form the cool air of the underground. Her leg was tossed over his hips, and she was using him as her own personal body pillow.

So this is the reward for being a man, all the trials and humiliation. What a small price to pay.

Indeed, instead of being disgusted, tainted by his hands and lust having covered her body, she slumbered sweetly, even clutched at his shirt in her sleep when he made to move a little. Well, it wouldn't do to disturb an angel who slept so sweetly.

Settling back into his pillows, Erik closed his eyes again, a smile playing at his lips. The night had gone off rather well, in spite of him. He had the strongest urge to jostle her awake and pepper her with questions: did she like the doll, the music, the ring? Oh her responses were positive, but after having finally done something successfully, he was shaking like an addict for more. Pride had always been soldered to his music, never to the man, to Erik, and the new experience had him schizophrenic with a desire to do more, thoughts flitting from place to place:

Memories of last night, memories of their singing, realizing that he had not been in total control the entire night and yet...yet he had not hurt her. Never once had she begged him to stop, or wept as his nightmares had so often prophecized. All this time he had believed a false oracle of doom, while there was a goddess much more deserving of worship.

But here he was, a man and his (soon to be) wife. Would she mind going to the courthouse now? Maybe, but he had convinced her to marry him after all; perhaps a little more cajoling could push her to elope as well. Contentment begets joy; like running downhill, once begun it was hard to stop.

If he was to do that, however, Erik needed to shower, and fix breakfast. He had noticed over the course of their work sessions she was more agreeable to his terms when her belly was full of warm food. It wasn't manipulation...not really. Mustn't a husband provide?

Carefully, inch by inch, he shimmied his body from under her, transplanting her to the pillow beneath his head. Her fingers snaked out of the blankets, reaching for him blindly. He caught it, cradling it like a small animal and tucked it back under the covers.

"Mmm?" The mound of the blanket that was somewhere around her head moved slightly.

"Sleep more," he whispered.

"Mmm." The mound lowered onto the pillow once more.

She was such perfection.

While he, well, he was a mess. His clothing askew, his trousers kicked onto the floor, wrinkled beyond repair, belt and tie tossed elsewhere, while her red slip was tangled up in the sheets kicked towards the bottom of the bed. He picked up their forsaken clothing, tangled during sleep and glanced at the lump again. Under there was a nude Christine-though perhaps not totally nude. She was covered in his kisses.

His mouth burned for want of flesh as he thought of her, the taste of skin and her sighs as he kissed her. There was nothing more in his life that he wished than to crawl back into those covers and rediscover each peachy-pink swath of skin.

Breakfast. Elopement.

He needed to leave the room and engage in his recently favorite habit: an icy cold shower. It had been a boon to him after many a lesson.

The bathroom underground had no mirror. All the glass was etched and frosted, the metal matte. Erik had become proficient at checking his appearance by touch without the aid of a looking glass. But as he discarded his clothing, he noticed the red lipstick smeared all over his collar, and wanted to see if his neck matched. He did not long for a mirror per se, but just one reflective surface (very small) to see the evidence of her passion. Swiping a finger along his jugular it came back rosy as well, and he shivered

He settled for leaning close to the shower door. Here he was nothing but a large colored shape, but on his grey, there were splotches of red where the neck and face should be. The shirt was totally ruined, not enough a year's worth of scrubbing would remove the color from the crisp white. He had never been happier to destroy a perfectly good piece of clothing.

Her mouth-Breakfast, man, elopement. Then I do not believe she would object to ruining another shirt.

What an odd sensation, hope. It shifted so easily from the large to the insignificant. He hoped that the world would see her as the diva she deserved to be, he hoped that he could be able to fold himself into the world as a man, and opera manager and husband. But also he hoped Christine might allow him to crawl into bed with her, let him make love to her again. He hoped and hoped and guessed this what it was like, to have a future.

Erik is engaged. Erik is going to be married. Erik made love to his angel and she did not die.

When had this happened, he wondered, turning on the shower tap. When had the Phantom been so successfully poisoned by his own venom? Pain and doubt had been his companions so long, it seemed a little strange that they could be shucked with such ease.

Well if two months of separation, sobbing hysterical confessions and discussions, and constant worry could be called easy, which Erik could with much certainty. He had weathered so much worse than anything gained without bloodshed seemed so...simple.

Erik could live simply.

Stepping under the spray, burning coursed up his spine, making him give a rather ungraceful jump and yelp. Twisting as much as he could, his hands smoothed down his back to find the source of the pain. There just over his shoulder, he saw it: red marks. Nail marks, he knew this from his days as an assassin. They were not very effective, one could fight through the pain they gave, but they did tend to sting for days after. They had always been a sick reminder that the creature he had snuffed out of existence did not go quietly: did not submit to dying, did not want to.

No, no this is not the same. He rubbed his shoulder, and forced his thoughts forward again, towards the blinding light ahead, rather than the yawning chasm of memory. No these marks, however similar had a different connotation. Christine had clawed and fought to keep him close (rather effectively too through the cotton of his shirt). She had worn his awful ring, she had snuck out to meet him, had kept the vigil-she fought to keep him with her. These were simply her efforts made manifest. Making our love physical she had said all those months ago.

And she had clung to him. Their first time had been a little awkward, and not exactly that pleasing, but once adjusted to the new sensations and motions, it had got on rather well. Or she seemed to think so at least. After a few gentle commands of slow down, she had found his efforts very nice.

At least he assumed so by the way her arms and legs had refused to let go, even when they were shaking and panting for breath, exhausted.

Shower or she'll find you here, standing like a fool under the water.

Erik scrubbed, and for once did not mind how the water at his feet turned red, washing off last night's activities. For once did not feel so heavy and bent from the weight of his own guilt, his own thoughts. Without noticing, for he never really noticed music it was so apart of him, he began singing to himself. A tune floating up from his life, hearing an errant song from an errant movie in the other room while he cleaned.

He certainly didn't notice the silhouette of a tiny girl creeping into the bathroom as he scrubbed the soap through his hair.

"Meetha hai, kosa hai: baarish ka bosa hai! Jal jal, jal thal, jal th-"

"That's a nice song," Christine murmured, closing the shower door behind her, which she promptly flattened herself against when Erik choked on his own words, almost slipping in surprise. "Hey, don't fall!" She reached out steady him, but he sunk to the other side of the shower (everything in the underground home was big and roomy, nothing to remind anyone of small closets).

"What are you-"

"Well, I thought we should get a head start on combining all out stuff," she teased moving forward again. "You know, bedrooms, homes-showers?"

Suddenly, the suspension that had kept his demeanor, thoughts and hope buoyant and light snapped and his knees nearly buckled under the weight of his horror. She meant to touch him. Every disgustingly skeletal and scared part. He knew his body well, he had to when he would heal from beatings, or from fights. He knew every single scar, discolored patch of skin, and valley created by healing hardened flesh. It wasn't pleasant. It made him sick to think she might pass over a twisted swatch of skin and recoil-what sane person wouldn't? What insane person wouldn't as he himself had done.

"Don't," he breathed, shrinking from her.

"Erik," was her soothing reply. "Erik I've already touched you, and I'm not disgusted." But still, he flinched when her hands outstretched. Instead of looking hurt, he saw the little wrinkle between her brows which meant she was determined and regrouping for a different attack. "Will it hurt you if I touch you? Disturb you? It didn't last night."

While that was true, they had both been running high on the chords of their song. It was a moment out of time and consciousness, where thoughts had only been on each other, worries and fears veiled by lust. Now, to have her conscious and feeling everything that made him unworthy...even if they were her gentle hands that had touched his face without fear.

"I don't...know?" She had touched his face, and it had felt wonderful-it was now his new favorite sensation, even above the first notes of the organ when he sat down to compose.

"Alright." Taking the washcloth off the rack that hung from the shower head, she said, "then I won't really touch you. But you got to see all of me. I want to see you, Erik. I'm looking at you right now, and I'm still here."

Don't leave me. Never. He had promised her, hadn't he? He did not so much give permission as slowly uncoil from the wall while she found his shower gel and began to lather. It would be a poor beginning if he were to run from his fiancee now. And he had been doing so well. All thoughts of elopement had fled rather fast, and his whole attention was focused on her and her soapy hands holding the washcloth. In the end, that new addiction to doing good outweighed his shivering fear, even if he was still trembling under her first touch.

"So cold," she murmured fixing the temperature of the shower and standing under the spray herself. He watched the rivulets of water cascade over her body with an almost detached air. Erik would focus on how the wetness glimmered on her flesh, turning her peach and pink to glass, delicate and pretty. Yes, focus on beauty while she insisted on miring herself in the disgusting.

Christine began with his arms, slowly scrubbing, and humming the tune he had been singing before. She had such good retention. That was one of the reasons he loved her. Another was how her hair was so thick and lovely, like a pre-raphaelite nymph or mermaid. He played with a few of her locks as her scrubbing led over his chest and defined ribs. She was so beautiful, and she didn't even know it. Christine captured the hearts of everyone about her, as easily as she captured the sun in her auburn locks, and she was totally innocent to the effects of it.

Yes, focus on her. Focus, focus...

It was her soft "I hate them" that brought him back to her task. Now the water was not what turned her skin glassy, but the tears on her cheeks. She passed over a cigarette burn on his belly. "I hate them so much, Erik." A sniffle. "Sometimes I feel like I'll choke on how much I hate them."

"Don't cry." His wet fingers did little to wipe her tears away, but he tried valiantly anyway. "Don't cry over Erik."

"Someone ought to," she snapped. "Someone should have. My poor Erik."

Without warning, she bent and placed her lips against the mark, and it burned all over again. But...but not with pain. The memory returned-Uncle Adam had wanted to make the little skeleton dance-but it did not cut into his brain, blocking out any other thought like an eclipse of the mind. Instead, it came, and left quietly, meek and defeated, and Erik was left with nothing but the sensation of her soft lips on his flesh.

"Sorry," she said drawing back quickly. "Did that bother you?"

Erik stared at her with something like awe. He remembered and did not hurt. He touched the round scar himself, and this time all he thought about was her kiss, the recent memory suffocating the old. Somewhere deep in his experience, was the lonely grave of his catechism, one word written over the tomb: Baptism. Just as she had done with Don Juan Triumphant, Christine baptized his flesh into a new life. A good life.

"Not at all," he breathed. Then he took her hands and placed them on his chest. Here was the scar he had from a knife fight. It slashed from his collar bone to his rib. He had jumped out of the way enough for it not to be fatal, but it had sliced the skin neatly.

Christine, without being told, leaned forward and pressed her lips to the silvery line, trailing down to his ribs. There she found a scar from a belt buckle, and then another from an iron, and another and another. She circled him, her little fingers preparing the next patch of skin, before blessing it with her mouth. Diligent little priest, she sought out every sin and curse, rooting it from the flesh that now was hers.

A gentle exorcism that left him no less shaken.

His eyes turned heavenward, and he swore to the God that had so abandoned him, that should this be his charge, he would not forsake his protection of her. In as vile a creature as He made Erik, he had created Christine in virtue.

It was his surprise then, when her small hand slipped over his belly to touch him below, that he did not recoil but press into her palm. He was already wanting, the heat rising so slowly he had not noticed. Sex had always been linked in his bain since childhood as fearsome and disgusting. He had seen rapes, abuses of that nature, and even when consensual, the things he had heard had left him feeling disgusted and dirty; as if he were the man grunting and cursing, and not a child curled inside a closet.

It was with that lexicon he had sought to translate his own arousal when he had met Christine. It was why he had never envisioned any future but her degradation and struggle. So high as the obelisk of his disgust he couldn't see anything beyond it, and why her reactions had created such stunned bliss in him that morning. He simply could not conceive of anything but terror until it was very real and before him.

But now, as he stood with her and her encompassing love, her soft acceptance and purging touch he felt nothing but heat and the shape of her slender hand around him. There was no embarrassment or self-loathing-there simply wasn't room as pleasure blossomed in his limbs. There wasn't space for it in their gaze that locked so intimately as she coaxed him, her pretty pink lip crushed between her teeth.

Here was only Christine and her Erik.

Even after a cry ripped from his throat, and he leaned both hands on the glass door behind her, body trembling and lethargic, all Erik could find in the chasm of his heart was adoration. "Christine…" He pressed his lips against her temple. He watched her extend her hand and clean it under the spray of the shower, then it rested against his spine, pulling him into her tight embrace.

"Thank you," she murmured to his heart.

Erik had to laugh. Yes, she was truly oblivious to all she did. He had to kiss her, guiding her head up capturing her lips. What a silly wife he would have!

Picking up the abandoned washcloth he lathered it again and began to wash her. There was nothing here to kiss clean. No, every blemish was a gift to observe: a dimple here, an errant freckle there. He did frown, however, when he noticed the bit of red on her thigh-barely there, pink from lack of substance. Erik glanced up from his kneeling position at her, to apologize, but she placed a finger over his lips.

"I'm just sore now, that's all. For what we shared, Erik, I'd take a million little wounds."

He shook his head. She would never suffer that, not within the reach of his arm. He lowered his noseless face to her thigh and kissed the stain before swiping it away. Then another kiss higher up. He leaned in a third time and Christine wriggled, her hand catching his cheek.

"H-hey, where do you think you're going?" Ah, he loved that blush.

With a smirk that no doubt looked horrific on his features he claimed, "I'm going to kiss it and make it better," before lowering his head.

---

The best thing about being engaged changed six times for Christine over the course of the morning.

At first, she thought the best part was waking up in Erik's bed, surrounded by his scent and hearing him in the shower. Knowing he was just in the other room, and he was hers.

Then she thought it was the simple pleasure of drying off together-once her legs had stopped trembling from his 'healing' touch. It was certainly easier to wash her hair with a second pair of hands and to dry when your fiancee insisted on toweling your head for you.

It changed when she watched him dress, knowing that this was a sight no one but she got to enjoy. He was very quick, his long tapered fingers smoothing out his shirt, and tucking it in without the help of a mirror, shrugging on his vest and straightening his ascot with practiced ease. But that best was quickly discarded when he sheepishly told her all he had to offer were his casual clothes.

The best part of engagement was, of course, wearing your fiancee's silk boxers and t-shirt, big and comfy and comforting.

That selfish best paled in comparison to breakfast, of course. Watching Erik work at the island and the delicious smells he created were the best part of their engagement because this would be their forever.

After they ate, they lingered there in the kitchen, talking about the duet he had written. After a mountain of compliments had been given and demurred, Christine immediately began on how to play and improve the tune with other instruments and electronic modifications. He came to her side, looking over her shoulder as she pulled up songs on her phone to show examples of what she was talking about. He refused to have an electric guitar ruin the chorus. She refused to let him refuse.

He leaned his hands on the island trapping her comfortably between his arms. This was the best part of engagement: the ease between them now as they worked, and how it flowed so much better without the stammers and accidental brush of hands bringing creative thought to a halt.

The sixth and final time came around the afternoon. After talking, that turned into sweet hours of gentle kissing on his fateful livingroom sofa, Erik recalled that Detective Khan would be arriving shortly. He invited her to stay, though warned her that it would be very boring as they often spoke exclusively in Farsi, mostly just to curse each other for a good move, and smoked heavily.

"Erik, cold brew and smoking? And you begrudge me cupcakes from the cafe!"

"Cigars, and only once a week," he swore as he let her out of his embrace to go and fetch her clothes.

"Well, I don't want to hear any complaints next time I eat a Twinkie in your presence."

"I banned those based solely on the ridiculous name!"

She giggled as she wandered back to his bedroom. It was this, their easy teasing, their return to norms with a few added bonuses that was the best part. They weren't different, now that they had new titles. They were just as much Erik and Christine as they ever were. Just with a kiss or two on top.

She could stand to wear her wrinkled dress for an hour on her way back to her apartment. She would stay until Nadir arrived and there was no reason to confirm what he probably suspected by staying in Erik's underthings. Christine blushed. Maybe she ought not to wait to see him-what would assume? That they had been ravenous like starved rabbits, again and then again throughout the night? What an asinine notion. Their awkward, sweet, virginal introduction to love had been more than satisfactory thank-you-very-much!

But once they were on stage again, Erik immediately sat at the piano and began composing on the spot; a light aria pulled from the keys, simple and satisfied and quietly joyous. Christine couldn't walk away if she tried, and so, let whatever embarrassment about their friend's assumptions go.

It was here, with her cheek against Erik's shoulder as he played that Christine realized how foolish she was. None of those things were the greatest part of their engagement: the best part of it was the fact of its demise. That one day she would no longer be a fiancee, but a wife. And that sometime soon they would vow to no longer live two lives, but one built with two souls.

That was how Nadir found them, Erik still playing, switching from sonata to sonata, some made up others not, Christine leaning against him, her pale face turned up to watch the man rather than the instrument. He coughed politely, smiling as the couple had to shake themselves free of the spell they had been wrapped in.

"I take it today is a very good day?"

Erik stood and took Christine's left hand, leading her to Nadir as if introducing them for the first time. The officer was sufficiently wowed by the ring, and 'ooh'ed when Erik showed him the mechanism inside, winking at Christine and calling it a "neat trick ring". Then shoved the cigar box and cards into Erik's arms to take Christine and kiss her on both cheeks. "You are going to be the most beautiful bride I ever saw...well, second most beautiful, I'm afraid."

Christine caught his hands. "I wanted to speak to you about that, and about Erik's name. I don't...I don't know how you would feel about me having the same moniker as Rookheeya. I can never replace her, and I can only try to live up to the kind of woman she was. So if you prefer that...I don't know, Erik becomes Mr. Daae instead, then please believe me when I say I would understand."

She glanced at Erik, who seemed to be rather touched that she would extend her family's name to him, glad that his pride wasn't insulted by the notion. Of course, it wouldn't be. Again she felt that zing run through her, that reminder that for them everything would be different because of his past. Well, she was used to being the odd one out. At least she wasn't alone in that anymore.

Nadir, however, was only growing more and more solemn. With a squeeze to her fingers, he made sure she was looking him in his round brown eyes when he said, "I can think of no one better to be the new Mrs. Khan than you, Christine. Rookheeya would have been glad to know you, and proud to call you 'sister'."

Christine swallowed hard, determined not to cry herself. Gone as she was, the woman's touch was still felt here, years after her time. It was in Nadir's gentle smiles and warm touches. It was in Erik's soft encouragement, and his wry smiles. She had sewn together with a tapestry of a family that not even death and distance had rendered. Frayed though it was, Christine wanted to find her own threads in this rug and hoped her vibrant colors would be welcome.

Nadir pulling her into a tight hug was like the loom heddle slamming down, locking her weaving in place.

She folded herself into his embrace, squeezing him tightly with a soft "thank you". Thank you for trusting that she knew what was best, thank you for letting her be brave and face down horror and pain. Thank you for being her guide in the very beginning and taking a chance on a syrup stained barista, fretting over opera tickets. "I'll take the best care of him. I promise," she swore into his chest.

"You'll both be fine, better than fine." He pulled back to give her a real smile. "It's too late anyway. Once the Khan's get you, you're got." He glanced up at Erik. "Whether they like it or not."

His huff as the only answer.

Christine grinned and returned to her fiancee. "I'll call you later after Meg stops hyperventilating. Hey, you wouldn't happen to know your FICO score off the top of your head, would you?"

"Uh...not the recent one?"

"That's alright. I was hoping to stop her heart outright, but it saves me the trip to the hospital. Now, play nicely." She stole a quick kiss off his lips, heading up the aisle.

She heard Nadir mimic, "play nice, you hear? Eh, moosh-moosh-am?" Then a loud slap and yelp of pain. Well, not everyone could celebrate the same, she supposed.

Chapter 20

After what Meg called the 'obligatory girl-screaming', she took her straight to Mrs. and Mr. Giry who were, once again, hiding in the kitchen until their commotion was over with. It was here she was faced with the first trial of what was going to be the rest of her life. They asked her when they could meet this mysterious man that was dating their 'second daughter'. Christine was about to say at the performance, but that was almost a year away. It also came hard upon the fact that meeting Erik would mean seeing his face. His masked face.

Would it be an invasion of privacy to explain why Erik wore a mask, without him present? Would he feel more exposed knowing everyone knew his secret? Though, with such a big indicator it wasn't much of one. But if she simply stated he wore one with no explanation, then she ran the risk of them staring in wonder. Of course, they would guess, as she had guessed. But the not knowing is what drew the curiosity. After all the hell and high water of the past two months, Christine was a firm believer in the truth: good, bad and...well.

In the end, she decided to prep them but found no need to go into detail. "Soon, I hope. We're really busy since we're working together now."

"Meg told us you two are making music together," Charlotte, the famed Lotte of the titular Little Latte supplied, grinning over her afternoon cup of coffee. "And that he was teaching you, right?"

"Right, and we're getting ready to perform-"

"Oh, that's wonderful," she cried.

"You'll be on the stage just like your Dad," Mr. Giry supplied.

Or just like me. For the first time, the comparison grated on her. She wanted to make her father proud yes, of course. And she wanted to follow in his footsteps. But this was nothing like her father's music. This was just her, just Christine. She rubbed her chest where the knot of frustration began to tighten. Erik certainly fulfilled his promise: she viewed her talent without the lens of her father, and now she was protective of that picture.

"Right. But, I just need to let you both know that Erik isn't...fond of meeting new people. They tend to stare."

"He wears a mask," Meg cut across, trying to find a good wedding-planning snack as Christine talked with her parents. She glanced over her shoulder into Christine's glare and shrugged. "What? He does, that's why they stare."

"A mask? All the time," Mrs. Giry fretted, worry coloring her voice. "It's not some...you know, bedroom thing he takes outside, is it?"

Innocent as she was, it took Christine a few moments to realize why Meg was cackling. Christine gasped. "Ma! No! God, no! That's gross!"

"Well! He's proposed to you but never really met any of your friends and family. What am I supposed to think?"

"No, I mean the mask is the reason why he hasn't met many people but not like that. He's…" She gestured to her own face. The word deformed was on the tip of her tongue and left a bitter medicinal taste in her mouth. It was correct, and not really insulting when it was used properly. His face was deformed from the womb, grown improperly. But it felt too cold, too cruel to simply state it like that. Especially when that ugly face had become a haven for every sweet emotion she had felt with him. "His face is not like everyone else. He was born different."

"He has a disfigurement," Mr. Giry supplied softly. "Oh no, that's too bad. But he feels he needs to wear a mask?"

"It's his whole face."

"Poor dear," Mrs. Giry echoed. "And he gets stares because of the mask-and he hates to explain it, right?"

Christine sighed in relief. They got it. "Something like that. It's caused him a lot of pain. He...doesn't have any family. Because of it."

Mr. Giry gruffed under his beard, shaking his head. "People really are despicable."

His wife placed a hand on her heart. "Just because of that? Well, that's just…just"

"Careful Mom, you might be close to saying a no-no word." Meg grinned and dodged her mother's swatting hand, having pilfered a bag of popcorn and M'nM's from the pantry. Christine smiled and felt the knot in her chest loosen just a little bit. Not every explanation would be this easy. But these were the people that had raised good, loyal Meg. Of course, they would be gentle with Erik.

"I'll talk to him. You'll meet him real soon, promise."

The rest of the day was filled with Meg's crash course into wedding planning, looking through magazines and websites for a theme ("I dunno, Meg. Gold and white? Nothing kitschy!") bridesmaids gowns ("I swear on my fourth-grade-gold-fish's-grave it won't be ugly, Meg. There, happy?") and even venues ("That is the tackiest building I have ever seen in my entire life, go back to the Google search.").

By the time Christine wandered back to her apartment and finally changed out of her, well, her engagement dress, showered and curled on her couch, it was already dark. The apartment, though more lived in than before felt as empty as it had been the night she considered going to the opera in the first place. She was alone...and she didn't like it, now that she did not have to be.

The contemplation of calling Erik came and was dismissed by habit before realizing that the ban was long gone. The slight ache between her legs was a testament to that, she thought with a blush. Erik had made it 'better'-but only made her miss him more.

Digging her phone out of her purse she tapped his number and waited. It was odd to think their first phone call would be after an engagement rather than before a first date.

"Hello?" Erik's deep baritone voice lost none of its smoothness over the connection. "Christine?"

She grinned, cradling the phone to her ear. "Hi."

"Is something wrong?"

"No! No, I just...wanted to let you know I was home."

"So late?"

"Well, I had to go tell Meg."

"Ah, and did you indeed avoid the trip to the hospital?"

Christine grinned. "Despite my best efforts she did not, indeed, drop dead."

"A pity. Well, I shall have nurses on call when she hears you sing. That has a better chance."

She giggled and laid back against the lumpy pillows of the couch. "More like when she hears your voice. Meg heard my recordings once, and she nearly fainted."

"As flattering as that is, Erik worries about using your friend's distressed state as a measuring tool for success."

"Think of it like Detective Khan's blood pressure. The higher it is, the funnier your teasing is, right?"

"...I understand now."

After a shared chuckled, Christine savored in their comfortable silence. This-this was how it was supposed to be. She gazed at the ring on her finger, heavy metal proof of her life's sudden change. This ease and friendship was what made their love so warm and homey, despite its passion. She heard him shift on the other end and asked, "I didn't interrupt anything, did I?"

"No, not really."

Christine waited for him to continue, and hearing that he wasn't about to, prompted, "So what did you do today, after Detective Khan's visit?" She had often wondered how he whiled away the hours, before their lessons. Having been in his house she saw the evidence of it, but it was hard to imagine him alone, moving from room to room, working on anything to keep his mind from wandering. It was a sad picture, and Christine didn't like to dwell on it.

"Ah…" The question seemed to catch him off guard. "Nothing so interesting. A few mockups for our staging, cooked and cleaned up the organ room-"

"Oh! Mini-me! Don't do anything to her, okay?"

"...The doll?"

"Yes! I forgot her, don't dismantle it, okay?"

"Of course. Then you liked it?"

"I've never had anyone draw me before, let alone make a doll of me! Erik, it was amazing!"

"It helped Erik through the months. I worry about the accuracy though-I had only your picture on my phone, and it is…"

"We really need to get you a new phone."

Again, his face. Always it came back to his masked face. No reflective surface anywhere in the house because of it (and she knew this because she had desperately searched for one trying to fix herself up that morning). Still, cell phones were so necessary nowadays, and to have one not just shattered but totally destroyed was hard. And if they were going to be putting together an album in under a year they'd need to be in constant contact. Sighing, she took her phone from her ear, gazing at its almost perfect surface; shiny but for the face smudge it now bore and the thin crack in the protective screen.

"...Hey, I have an idea. Are you free tomorrow after three?"

"Yes."

"Would it be possible for you to come get me at the cafe, and we get you a new phone before our lesson?"

"I will come, but Christine the problem remains-"

"Just trust me, I have a good idea. Promise."

"...Very well. Though, may Erik wait outside?"

"Sure, but everyone already knows you there."

"Indeed. And as you have told Miss Giry they will all know about our engagement as well. Erik knows how people react to the news of engagements, he has seen it even around corners."

Christine bit her lip. And the Caldwell Lotte crew did bend to the more sarcastic. Teases and cheers would be their go-to as soon as she came in, let alone Erik. "Alright. But, and don't be scared, we're going to have to deal with that sometime. Mr. and Mrs. Giry want to meet you. They're like my second parents, I've known them forever."

The dead silence on the other end of the phone made her stomach drop. She knew he would be reluctant, but it seemed as if he hadn't thought of that at all. Marriage entailed weddings, and weddings, people. As did concerts and albums. Erik too would have to weigh success against his inclination to hide. And he had so much more death to shroud him than she did.

"Of course," was his tight response. Christine knew it was as forced as her 'alright' the night before. "Of course they would want to meet Christine's intended. Though they will fight the engagement when they see him."

"No. And don't be upset, but I've prepared them."

"Prepared."

"I told them you wear a mask, and I said it was because your face was different from birth and they understood. And they still want to meet you."

Silence again. "It is so much more than that, Christine."

She sighed silently, glad he wasn't railing against the actual act of meeting them. "I know. I know, honey. But no one thinks of that when they see you. I know, and you know. But people just see a finely dressed, quiet man in a mask. And once they see how much we're in love, and how talented you are, they're only going to see Erik. And that's all they'll ever know." She let him chew on that for a moment. "And that's all I've ever known too, you know. I may know your past now, but you've always been just Erik to me."

She heard him swallow, and his next words were thick. "Thank you, Christine. Thank you. But...not tomorrow?"

"No, not tomorrow. Just you and me, and the phone store, okay?"

"Very well."

Christine grinned. Another battle won. Slowly, little by little, they'd grow into together. "So how did your game go?"

"Khan is a cheat who counts cards."

"You'll get him next time, honey."

---

Her shift went much faster now with the promise of seeing Erik on the horizon. It was even easier to bear all the of the baristas demanding to see her ring and asking her when the wedding was. That was a subject she wasn't about to broach. Between the performance and her job and finding time to be with her fiancee who lived over a half an hour away, setting a date seemed a pipe dream even with all the casual browsing of shoes and veils. Besides, she had prepped for a battle just meeting the Giry's. It was going to take some work to get him into a chapel full of people.

Or some good kisses. What time was it anyway?

She turned to glance at the clock in the cafe and nearly dropped her pitcher of freshly steamed milk. "Mr. Garnier!"

Charles was leaning against the handoff plane, grinning. His neatly combed brown hair fell into eyes alight with mischief. "You're engaged to my partner, I think you can call me Charles."

"O-oh. Of course, Charles." The name was clunky on her lips, and Christine gave him a weak apologetic smile. She had only met this man twice: once when Erik was shrieking at him, and the other when the police had been questioning them. He seemed nice enough, in spite of Erik's vote of no-confidence before. And he had been in their corner against the police officer trying to separate them.

And he was Erik's partner, staying with him as faithfully as Nadir had. He seemed to have taken to her, as well, despite their limited contact. At least with Nadir, she had years of casual customer relations to fall back on, but Christine would not allow herself to be awkward with him. "Can I get you something to drink?"

He nodded to the cash register. "That young lady has already taken care of me, thank you. At least now I know why Erik and Nadir always come here. A shop full of lovely, kind young ladies. What an Eden-and you have wifi."

Meg raised a brow at the latte she was pouring, cutting a glance between them, unimpressed at the flattery, but saying nothing. Charles caught her look and smirked. "I am rusty, I'll admit."

"Did you just come to call us all beautiful," Christine pushed again, smiling a little more genuinely now. He was pushy and fresh but meant the well.

"No, I need you to tell Erik something."

"We just got engaged, I'm not his keeper yet!"

"When you accepted that ring-may I see it by the way?-you signed a binding adoption, and I'm afraid we at Garnier & Kahn cat shelter have a firm no-refund policy."

Christine rolled her eyes and took the ring from her shirt (no jewelry with stones were allowed on hands on the floor). It was lighter on the chain than Erik's manly ring, but it was no less dear. Charles leaned close so she did not have to crane her neck and easily found the mechanism in it. "Beautiful-it closes so it won't catch the light on stage?"

"...I suppose so. Wow, I didn't think of that."

"True, but Erik did, I'm betting. He's good like that. Not so much for returning calls, but things like that."

"Ah, that's why I've become carrier pigeon?"

"I called him, I called Nadir to call him and tell him to call me. Me being here shows how successful that's been." He gently laid the ring against her neck again before accepting his coffee from the front end girl with a thank you. He let out a low whistle over her looks when she walked away. "Wow...just-what are you girls drinking here?"

"Bleach," Meg supplied with a dazzling grin.

"Meg!" Christine smacked the back of her hand against her friend's hip as she snickered. "Excuse her, she's not housebroken yet. I'm seeing Erik later, what did you need me to tell him?"

"I want to throw you guys an engagement dinner, and I want to know what days work for you. I know the owner of Chez Présager, he can get us a nice table."

Christine blinked. "...Why?"

"Good God, you two are suited for each other. Because it's a good thing." Charles popped the top on his coffee and blew away the steam. "When your friends get engaged, you celebrate. Engagements are happy things, generally speaking."

"But-I-I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that." She shook her head, placing her hand on his arm. She hadn't meant to offend, it was simply too generous. "But that's-you don't have to do that. It's too much."

"No, it's not. He's my partner, and he's certainly not going to organize one. Khan says Sundays are best, but he'll adjust his schedule if he needs. I don't know what's good for you and your side."

"My side? Mr. Garnier-"

"Charles."

"Charles, I can't let you do that for me and my friends, it's too much."

Now it was Meg's turn to smack. "No, it's not. I've raised you better than to reject free food."

"No it's not," Charles echoed with a smirk aimed at Meg. "And please do invite anyone you think is appropriate. Especially your lovely friends who jump for free food."

"Jump," the blonde snorted.

Charles raised a brow, Christine temporarily forgotten. "No? Do I need to guess what entices you?"

Meg's brows disappeared into her bangs. She leaned against the stainless steel counter of the bar and surveyed the opera house owner in his tweed suit; slender, but muscular like a construction worker. Christine had that shivery feeling one got watching two predators stalk each other on the Serengeti in a Discovery documentary. Tigers circling, their tails snapping. "You want to know what entices me?"

"I'm trying'," he replied leaning his chin on his fist.

With a loud clang of change, Meg took the mason tip jar and slammed it on the handoff plane between them like throwing down a gauntlet. Christine was mortified by the rudeness of it, and apologies were filling her mouth-but before she could speak, Mr. Garnier was laughing.

"Oh, oh. Cold blooded." He reached into his jacket and pulled out a monogrammed leather wallet, stuffing a five dollar bill into the jar. With a bit more searching he pulled out a business card and a fountain pen. "Here, Christine." He wrote his personal number on the back of it. "Speak with our mutual acquaintance and convince him. There's been too much nonsense surrounding the opera house. It's time for something good."

"Okay. I'll convince him." While she was awkward about accepting such a gesture from someone almost a stranger, it would be a good place for Erik to be introduced to her nearest and dearest: with his friends there to ease his way. And it would give them a dry run for what the actual wedding would be like. Happily, with the limited number of 'family' and friends, it was always destined to be small. "Thank you again, Mr. Garnier. It's really too kind."

"Charles. And it's not." He smiled, a genuinely warm thing that sapped all the sardonicism from his face. Then-"Also, feel free to be loose with that number."

When Meg turned to give him another good eyebrow lift, he had the audacity to wink at her. Whistling You Never Can Tell, Charles left. He paused only to open the door for the next customers, an acidic grin stretching over his face when Raoul entered. "Hello, Lt. Commander."

"H-hey," Raoul greeted back, leaning a little away from him.

"Have a lovely day." The tone he gave the boy was only a little less than poisonous. Ah, now Christine saw why Charles and Erik tolerated each other enough to be called something like friends; their capacity for both wickedness and loyalty.

Christine turned to Meg, who was still staring at the door. "Did you see-"

"Oh, I saw." Christine folded her arms, cocking her head to the side. "I saw Meg Giry meet her match."

Meg let out an offended noise, her lips pulling back in a shocked grin. "How dare you!"

"How dare I? You shoved the tip jar in his face, even made a bleach joke and he didn't even blink." Christine picked the card up off the handoff. "...Wanna write this down before I put it away?"

"The man was wearing tweed Christine!"

"He's Erik's partner, And he owns the opera house," her friend singsonged.

"He's old enough to be my dad."

Christine's mouth dropped open. "Hey, he's Erik's age!"

Meg looked Christine up and down and couldn't help smirking. "That sounds like a you problem."

Christine wrapped her hands loosely around Meg's giggling throat, mocking a growl. Raoul, still looking a little perturbed by his strange encounter with Garnier, took the owner's place at the bar. "Hey-isn't murder against health codes?"

"Not if someone doesn't squeal about it," Christine said with a grin. She let Meg go with a gentle smack to the back of her head. "What are you getting? It's on the house."

"Oh, thanks. Just...I dunno, surprise me. Load it with caffeine. I have a meeting with the JAG officers." He folded his arms against the counter, and his eyes settled on Christine's new ring as she started his quad macchiato. "That's nice. Did uh...your teacher give it to you? Erik, right?"

Oh, God. Well, if there were going to be dinners and parties in her future she might as well get this fight over with. Even if it wasn't a fight. It was an engagement, not a crime. With a roll of her shoulders, she casually said, "Yup. He proposed when we got back together. It was really sweet, he wrote this new song and made a whole scene, you know. Anyway, I said yes."

She kept her voice light. After all, Mr. Ga-Charles was correct. Engagements were happy things. Weddings were happy things. And friends should be happy for friends.

"...You're engaged," Raoul said slowly. His brow knit and she saw hurt flash before distrust. "Wait a minute, I thought you said that you were just getting together when what happened, happened?"

"Officially, but we've known each other for a year and...well." Christine shrugged, dropping the ring back into her shirt. "We just know."

"Isn't-"

Meg, for all her teasing of customers and Christine, knew a fight when she saw one. She tapped the soprano's shoulder, saving her from the ding of the first round bell. "Hey Christine, can you do a garbage run before your shift is over?"

The girl gave Meg a look of deepest gratitude. It was a discussion they would have to have-just not right now. Not when happiness was fresh. Raoul already smothered their joining in its cradle the day of the police report. True, she could not blame him entirely for it, he was doing what he thought was best. But his noble footprints had left track marks on her heart. She wanted this joy to last a little longer.

And she didn't want to taint it with breaking Raoul's heart. She had gone into all their meetups and time spent as a friend. She was rather sure he had not.

"Yes. Can you finish his drink? Sorry, Raoul, I gotta run. I'll come to say goodbye before I leave."

Before the officer could speak again, she hurried off the floor, ripping away her apron and searching for her sweater in the morass of coats on the backroom hooks. Raoul, good Raoul, meddlesome Raoul-she didn't want to put her foot down with him just after mending their relationship. Not when his intentions were...mostly good.

But too many ghosts and memories and laws had come between her and her happiness. She wasn't going to let her friend do the same. Ripping on her sweater Christine steered the chunky garbage can towards the back door, opening it with her elbow as she wheeled it out. The cool air soothed her flushed cheeks as she dragged the can to the dumpster and started hucking bags inside. The work gave her an excuse to vent out some of her frustration with strangled grunts.

Why? Why couldn't people just leave them be? If it wasn't their own insecurities coming into play, it was Erik's past. If it wasn't Erik's past, it was her overprotective friends. She just wanted to live! She wanted to, write and to learn and to get married in peace! "Is that so much to ask," she grunted, throwing the last bag into the dumpster with a little hop.

"Depends on the question."

Erik's deep baritone made her jump. Turning she, she saw that he arrived a little early, and was leaning out of the Jag's window, watching her with a small smirk. He held out a hand and she eagerly hurried over to grasp it. Technically they had seen each other a morning ago and spoken most of the afternoon. But the novelty of being an item still made her giddy. Besides-he was her future husband now. "What did the rubbish ever do to you?"

"It couldn't walk to the dumpster on its own." She reached in and unlocked the door, swinging it open and dropping herself in Erik's lap. Wrapping her arms around his neck before he could protest, she placed a kiss on his lips with a loud 'mwuah!', despite her upper lip technically pressed against his mask.

All the lovely jittery feelings of excitement and happiness flooded back in. She had become so used to dread and worry and doubt, she clung to them like a crutch. They were heavy emotions, grounding emotions. Happiness was easily punctured and pulled back to earth-but she'd rather float as long as she could than suffer forever on the ground.

"Uh..." The voice from his car's speakers made her jump. On the console screen, it read PHONE: NADIR KHAN. "I'll call back, Erik."

"Oh...sorry. Sorry, Nadir!" Christine gave Erik an apologetic look, but he was too dazed to register it.

The detective chuckled. "It's nothing, Christine. Have fun."

After the three beeps that announced Nadir had disconnected Christine bit her lip. "Whoops!"

"Hm." Erik seemed to return to reality in degrees. "I did not expect such exuberance…"

"I'll just-" Christine made to stand, but Erik pulled her back to her original seat.

"Erik did not say he minded," he murmured in her ear, nuzzling the hair at her temple.

It made her shiver, simple as it was. After all, she had barely done more than kiss her boyfriends before. Now she was sitting with her lover. Or, on. She leaned into his touch and kissed his lower lip again. He adjusted his mask just enough to stop being a hindrance, his lips bolder than their chaste kisses before. Long lingering touches that brought back memories of darkness, and cool sheets cocooning their bodies.

She pulled back, her mouth tingling. "Miss me?"

"Yes. Erik missed you." His eyes were already dark. Apparently, he was contemplating the change in their relationship as well. "I have only woken with you in my arms once, but Erik finds he never wishes to sleep alone again."

"Well, I guess we'll have to work on that." One last kiss-one that she had to force herself to keep short. She found she rather liked wasting time on Erik's mouth. "I have to clock out real quick. And I have to say goodbye to everyone inside."

"I'll be waiting." He let her slid from his arms, catching her fingers and bringing them to his lips, lingering until she wriggled the digits.

"I'll be quick, I promise." Christine grinned. She had a day of Erik and music to look forward too. It was too nice to paint it with the irritation of having to defend her choices. She returned inside and quickly packed up her things, fingers quick on the computer's keyboard to log out and snatch up her tips from the bag.

Out in the cafe, she called a quick, "Okay, bye Raoul," to the officer at the condiment stand. She banked on her harried look and tone to put him off, politely letting her leave when she was obviously in such a hurry.

"H-hey, wait, wait!" He left his drink on the stand and hurried out the door with her. "Christine just wait a minute okay? Can we talk?"

"Talk about what? Raoul, I have to go."

"To your lesson right? With your fiancee." He shook his golden head. "Don't you think it's a little weird that the moment you come back he's proposing that you get married?"

Fine. He wasn't going to take a polite hint then.

Placing her bag on the ground, she turned to face him properly. Maybe she ought to have had more of a talk with him as she had with Meg, gently pushing him to understand. But she suspected it would have been useless, just like she suspected most of his invitations were to show her the life she could have not attached to a recluse with a temper. She was sure there was an undercurrent of genuine care there as well, but it was wasted on her.

And he shouldn't waste himself like she had these past years. If this was his falling off the stage moment, then so be it.

"No, Raoul, I don't. I don't find it odd because this is just making what's between us official. We had talked about it that day at the opera house."

"When you were bruised and looked like a concentration camp victim?"

Christine's mouth dropped open. She had been banged up and sleep deprived, sure, but- "Raoul!"

"You looked bad, Christine. And then you walked around for two months carrying that ring like a dog collar," he snapped.

Christine flushed, a little shocked at the accusation. "I kept his ring as a reminder that he was thinking about me like I was him."

"He gave it to you to remind you that he was waiting. And he's proposing so that you can hurry up and get married so he can keep you isolated!"

"Iso-he's not abusing me, Raoul!"

"Yet!" Raoul stepped closer. "Christine please, I'm scared for you. I'm so afraid that you'll come into work pulling your sleeves down and jumping at every little sound because no one cared enough to help."

Christine ran her tongue over her teeth, throat already aching with rage and the onset of angry tears. Without reserve, she went for the jugular: but even in her viciousness, she tempered her words. Christine wanted him to stop, not to bleed. "Listen to me, Raoul. I understand that you're trying to be protective. I understand you're worried. And I understand you're guilty because you didn't see what was going on in your unit and you're afraid you're letting it happen again, but Erik is not abusing me. I am not Sarah."

The accusation hit squarely where she meant it to, and Raoul even reeled back a step with the pain of it. She saw the shock melt to guilt, and then harden in anger. "I didn't see it then. You're right. I was a shitty friend and officer because I was too naive to think it was happening. And you're naive to think it can't happen to you too. I care about you!"

"I know that Raoul! Don't you think I know that?! You took me to see your parents and your friends, and I tried telling you without shooting you down that we were just friends-but you can't accept that!"

"Because I didn't think it was this serious."

"No, you didn't want it to be this serious," Christine cut across. "You were hoping that after I saw what 'normal' life is, getting away from my 'abuser' that I'd have a wake-up and we could be together."

Raoul straightened. "...Fine. Fine, alright, maybe I did. There, I said it. I'm falling in love with you-I said it. I've missed you for years, I liked you when you were kids and now I think I love you as a woman. Is that so goddamn terrible Christine?"

"It is when the woman is taken!"

"Grow up Christine," Raoul finally snapped. "I saw the way he treated you, I don't care what sob story he gave you to prove why he is the way he is. This isn't beauty and the beast, because not every asshole with a nice voice and good clothes has a heart of gold. So what, someone left him? Didn't get enough hugs as a kid? He got hurt now he lurks around with a fucking mask hoarding his money waiting for some sweet girl to come along and save him? You can't save everyone, Christine."

Christine's mouth went dry. In front of her eyes, she saw every picture of Erik in the case file-in the shower. Each ridge and rough patch of skin. Each missing chunk of flesh and the definition of his ribs-scars stretched over bone. The callous dismissal of it all robbed her of her voice. Every word of Raoul's like a blow to her own body, leaving similar but invisible marks.

No, she couldn't save Erik-there was no getting that flesh back, there was no taking back those scars. There was no reclaiming the man Erik could have been-and she didn't want to try.

Because who Erik was now, with all his hurt, was the man she loved. And the woman she was, orphaned and scared, she had begun to like. She could never be that girl again, the endlessly hopeful dreamer, who lived only in the bubble of her music and heart. No matter how desperately she missed the past, it was gone. And she wouldn't want it even if she could.

The Christine Raoul thought he knew, that he was loving, was dead. There was no saving anything. There was only living with what was left.

"You don't know anything about him." Christine stepped closer, her hand white-knuckled on her backpack strap, her voice low, trembling with rage. "You don't know anything about what happened to him, Raoul. And you don't know anything about me."

"I know this isn't who you are."

"Then maybe you don't love me as much as you think." Shaking her head she turned to go. "It's you who needs to grow up, Raoul."

For the second time, Christine left Raoul on the patio of the cafe, heading to Erik's car. The masked man in question had gotten out, watching the exchange from afar, obviously torn on whether or not to join. "Let's go." When he reached for her she waved him off. "Please, let's just get out of here. I don't want to talk about it. Get in the car, Erik, it doesn't matter anymore."

Chapter 21

Sliding into the Jaguar she could sense Erik's coiled tension. But he did not speak, or rail or rage against Raoul. Instead, he watched her as she buckled her seat belt, and quietly pulled out of the drive. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel the whole drive, however.

Then she realized she could see his knuckles.

"Thank you," she murmured. Christine reached out and touched his hand on the wheel.

"I would not have harmed the boy," he ground out, the leather of the wheel creaking as his fingers tightened even further. "Though Erik is loathe to stand by while his fiancee is abused."

"I meant about the gloves." But Christine was glad he had stayed back and let her handle it. She supposed that was the difference between them, Erik and Raoul. Erik was always pushing her to be braver than she was, letting her tread water, saving her only when he thought she might drown. Raoul didn't want her to get wet at all.

Erik blinked and flexed one hand, the knuckles cracking slightly under her touch as he did so. "Ah...Yes. You dislike them. I thought to save you the trouble of lecturing me once more."

"Thank you. And thank you for not losing your temper and coming over." She leaned over and kissed the scant bit of jaw left open by the mask. Taking off her chain, she removed her ring and slid it home on her finger. The dying dappled afternoon light through the naked branches of passing trees made the garnets wink. She thumbed the mechanism, opening and closing it, before taking up Erik's free hand.

Christine knew Erik was seething, and she wasn't any better. Still, the rest of the day was theirs, and at the thought, she immediately felt some of her gloom lift. They were together and nothing anyone could do would stop it. After putting the directions to the phone store into the car's navigation she reached for the radio and searched for a palatable music station.

Beside her, still holding onto her hand, Erik drove by rote following the directions in silence. His body hummed with rage. Barely controlled rage, but controlled nonetheless. He focused narrowed down to the car in front of him, blocking out even Christine and her warm touch encasing his hand.

It didn't matter. It would never matter that he obeyed the law, that he did all that was proper and right. He had kept away for two months, he had proposed like a gentleman, he had even offered to wait before taking his beloved to bed. By all standards, he had been everything good and human. But it would never matter for the likes of him. Obedience never brought him compassion.

And it did not matter that he held his tongue and did not indeed drag Christine away like a brute. He had wanted to. Without even a warning, the old instincts had flared and he had been so very tempted to give in. Again, images of a French-speaking monster came to the surface, grotesque but well-meaning, like an earnest pet rodent. One could dress up a rat in a suit and have it perform mundane tasks as tricks to mimic a human: but it was always a rat. Despite those that loved it, people would point and declare it should be sent away, that they shouldn't have it less they get infected by it.

And why not? After all, such creatures killed half of Europe, and my count is not far behind.

But, rat though he was, Christine decided to keep him. She should not suffer for her innocent choice, for her sweet love. And that boy, who thought himself so entitled to her time, entitled to foist his opinion on her as if she were obliged to listen to him!

Erik grit his teeth. Seeing that perfect boy and his handsome features; even in frustration and anger, he was good looking. How dare he be angry with Christine. He had no claim to her, no connection beyond that of a friend, and what a friend! Coming in and separating her from her life, her music!

That boy aspired to look upon the one thing Erik had fought for with all his soul, the one thing of worth he had.

For a flash, he saw them: Christine and the officer. The prettiest pair, petting and smiling at one another. His handsome living hands on her hair and face as he kissed her. His warm pink flushed flesh looking natural and right against Christine's pale blush. No tableau of death and the maiden, no, there would be no fuss made about them-

"Erik," Christine broke through his masochistic vision. "Fast, honey."

Blinking he glanced down at the speedometer and winced. One brush up with the law in a year was enough for him. He pumped the brake gently, bringing them back under the speed limit. Still, he nearly trembled with anger. No, Christine belonged with him, to him. Just as he was totally and utterly owned by her. They wore a brand that was completely theirs. But that didn't matter to good men like De Changy. To him, the brand was a blemish.

But Christine…

He glanced at her, his good girl; sweet and enduring. Why must she bear such burdens? She said she did it gladly, and he believed. But it simply was not fair. She had taken so much in stride, only to have more weight added to her burden. To have to defend her attachment, with no relief even between themselves. Today was a testament to that. She would witness first hand that when a girl married a sideshow, she became a circus attraction as well. The stares, the whispers, the questions. Like a poison, Erik's situation would infect her too.

Christine glanced up at her fiance, seeing how his jaw muscle worked under the mask. His fingers were truly dead in her hand, stiff and unmoving. She pulled them into her lap and began to rub the pink scar. "Erik?"

"Yes?"

"I love you. I'm glad you came early."

He ran his tongue over his teeth. Then he leaned a bit back into his leather seat. She hated the idea that she 'broke his will', but he was a man made of iron and stone. If she had such an influence, she'd rather use it to help him, than for any selfish desire.

"...I love you, too. And I am glad to see you. Erik is always glad to see you."

"Soon you'll see me every day, and you'll get bored," she predicted, singing the last word.

"Never."

"You have to wake up to me snoring on your shoulder."

"You don't snore."

"And you'll have to fall asleep with me stealing all the covers."

"Erik doesn't mind the cold."

"And don't even get me started on feeding me. That'll be the worst, I hope you know how to make pizza."

She saw his lips purse. "Christine."

"And I tend to leave my clothes all around the room-and shoved into drawers. I saw that your closet is organized by color which is easy because they're all black. You need a bit of a color explosion, so I guess I'll just shove all my sweatshirts in-between your jackets. And I guess you won't want to give up that nice sheet set, but mine has stars on it so you might want to reconsider. And we should get another rack for the bathroom to hold all my soaps, I goo-hoard you know and-"

His fingers disengaged from hers to pinch her face gently, squishing her full cheeks and stopping her flow of teasing plans. He was fighting a smile. It didn't really work, but her attempt to cheer him soothed the ire for a moment. She tried, his young angel, and Erik was grateful for it. Her silliness, her wit, and teases were of a world far from him, like a fresh spring wind sweeping through the cellars of his heart. "Did you ever think that these visions of destruction would be welcome to Erik? For it would mean you live with him, as his wife."

She tried grinning her pinched lips. "Even the messy closet?"

"Yes. For that means you spent every morning and night with me."

"And the snoring."

"It's quiet enough to ignore."

"Hey! I thought you said I didn't!" She adjusted his fingers on her face until they cupped her cheek. At least he was smirking now. He pressed against her temple until she leaned against his shoulder. When his hand returned to her, he held it back, his long thumb exploring her knuckles lazily.

"Besides, Christine cannot live underground."

That gave her pause. Did he think they would continue their commutes? Their separate lives with only the promise of fidelity? It was hard to gauge with Erik, who had lived in the world so long but was so separate from it, what he knew and what he did not. "But we'll be married. Married people live together."

"Indeed. And Erik will build you a real house. With doors and stairs that only go up, and windows." He took his eyes off the road for only a minute to glance at her. "No home in a false-bottomed opera, no emergency doors. A real house, like real people, have."

The notion as so childishly innocent, a real house like real people that Christine had to blink away the sudden tears. "Oh. Of course. We'll be really married so...but you're just going to abandon that house? It's so beautiful. It's like our own little world."

"Erik can recreate it. And without building into the rock it will be easier, and better as well. Building up is always easier than down. Besides, it would not be abandoned. It could be a studio." His amber eyes were already glowing with the prospect of a new architecture project.

For all his doubt and hesitancy and disbelief in the future, her Erik certainly planned well into it. He was already considering a house, upheaving his whole life and aligning it with hers. She wondered if she was horrible for not being so quick on the uptake, and after a moment decided that she was not.

Erik worked at an inhuman speed, and it was up to her to slow him down a little. It was a tug of war that brought them to a rather even keel, she figured. Where she was slow, he poked and prodded and lectured until her courage was up. They were a team. Marriage. Just the idea made her grin. "That's a good idea. I just hate to think of you leaving everything you had."

"That house was a lovely mausoleum," he told her softly. "Built to entertain me until the day Erik died, Christine. And now I find I do not wish to die in such a great hurry. Not when there is time to be spent with you."

That, more than anything, assured her. It was frightening, at times, the self-loathing Erik harbored for himself. She could only imagine the horrors he would inflict upon himself should he ever want to. Christine shivered, thinking about the nail marks on his horrible face when she had looked at it after the first unmasking. But to hear, without prompting from his own lips that he wanted to live-to thrive. That was comforting. Christine smiled into his coat's soft sleeve. "Good."

There was almost an audible shift in the atmosphere between them: from serious to teasing. "And then it will be Christine who must contend with Erik. She must learn to pick up her clothes, and listen to his playing constantly and the fact that he likes to sleep on the door-side of the bed and will not have candy in the house-"

"Uh-hey, wait a minute, that wasn't in the contract!"

"-And the constant candle wax everywhere for he likes to play by candlelight. And the incense in every room and dinner promptly by six and bed by eleven."

"Eleven!" She tugged at his sleeve. "What if I'm not done with you by eleven?"

The choke he made was enough to change her giggles into full-blown laughter.

The Jag pulled silently into the parking lot, the passengers in a considerably better mood. Erik's however, dropped when he saw a few people who were both leaving the building and getting out of their cars looked around, peering at the vehicle, impressed. But all he saw were curious eyes leering at the windows.

It was one of the main reasons Erik lived so reclusively. The Little Latte and other more lenient places of retail might let him get away with curious looks. But the places one had to go to live: the bank, the grocery store, places generally held up weren't friendly to a person covering their face. That was why Jules did all he did, and why Erik was so grateful for the internet. He had been able to order all the parts to Christine's music box with a click of a button, as he did his instruments and materials for his little inventions. Despite it's wrecked face, Erik was grateful for his phone. It was his connection to the outside world and for years his only way to see it; through the cracked distorted glass.

His shoulders lifted, hands picking at invisible fluff on his pants.

Christine frowned, then noticed the people admiring the Jaguar. He could dress like a dashing gentleman, he could be in such command, such a good man. But there was still so much of a young boy, afraid and lonely, left in him. Always expecting hurt and humiliation. To Erik, every stare would feel like a judgment. He simply couldn't fathom anything else. You can't save everyone. Hearing Raoul's acidic words, she felt her stomach twist in anger again. She gripped his arm tightly.

"Come on Erik. They're not going to bother you. And if they do I'll explain" she swore. "I'll explain to them that it's...it's a medical thing. Like a prosthetic, or glasses. In fact, you really should have something written as proof, because your skin is probably sensitive to light, so it's not totally untrue. When's the last time you went to a doctor?"

At his silence, her brows rose. "Erik, please don't tell me the last time you went to a doctor was the medical examiner over a decade ago. Erik? Erik! What did you do when you got sick?!"

"The medical examiner is still friendly to Erik, and is very good about writing prescriptions for antibiotics when I need them," her fiance explained.

Christine gaped at him. "I'm making an appointment for you with my doctor. He's very good, and he's nice. You can't go that long without getting a checkup, Erik! Not with the way you smoke. And you should have some paperwork so people will leave you alone."

"Once a week. Erik smokes once a week!"

"Yeah and I have chocolate on Sunday, but you still manage to make it sound like witchcraft in Salem." She shook his arm and finally slid out of the car.

Don't leave me.

Never.

It had been his pledge to her, as binding as her agreement to marry him, and he was willing to do it...but the magnitude of it all was alarming for one day. Stores, and doctors and people and control-always control.

Man, you're a man now. You have a wife, be grateful. This is your payment: all of it in service to keep her. If she can bear you as a burden, you can bear the world.

Christine deserved more than a cowering middle-aged man. That thought alone gave him the gumption to step out of the Jaguar after her. Christine immediately took his hand again and pulled him up the stone steps. And electric bell sounded at their entrance, and several automatic 'good evenings' were flung their way.

More stares, and this time there was no car as an excuse. Christine tightened her grip and pulled Erik up to one of the blue shirts, holding a tablet and waiting for a customer. "Good evening! My fiance needs to upgrade his phone." She nodded to the shadow beside her whose eyes were glued to the floor.

The young man glanced at Erik, and she saw his customer service windows slam down over his blatant curiosity. His plastic grin was oddly comforting; he wouldn't tell Erik to take off the mask. "Great! What were you thinking?"

"Just the newest version. We need something with good sound and a nice screen as well-Erik." She nudged him. "Your phone?"

He produced it like a guilty child and the representative whistled low. "Oh yeah, you definitely need something new. Alright, give me just a quick minute to get the two newest versions and we'll talk. Have a seat please." He patted one of white bar height tables and wandered into the back room.

Christine pulled Erik to sit beside her as she clamored up on one of the stools. "Why do they have to make them so high nowadays?"

Erik glanced at her, head cocked to the side. "Shall I answer that?" She glared at him for his unspoken comment on her height, mumbling something like skyscraper legs as she did so.

Christine's gaze wandered about the shop, then narrowed her eyes at a group of people in the corner, staring and whispering. After a few moments, she lifted her face to Erik, indicating she was waiting for a kiss, here in public. She wasn't ashamed. His sudden desire, of course, won out over his modesty. Her lips were soft and warm and moved gently against what she could get of his.

"It won't stop you know," he murmured against her mouth. "The stares. They will always be there."

"Erik-"

"Listen," he gently interrupted. "Listen to Erik. He knows more about this. And he is sorry for it."

"I don't care. I don't care what any of them think. I'm done living under other people's expectations, even my own. I just want to be with you, and we will take the rest as it comes."

"Be that as it may, it is unfair. Unfair for you."

She pulled him down for another kiss, her tongue pressing past his own in a quick swipe, and suddenly the heat of the stares burning into the back of his head was doused. All he knew was her warm touch against his jaw and her floral scent.

Her lips were very effective, how foolish for him to forget.

They moved a little closer after that, Erik's arm about her waist, her temple against his jaw. This way he could press his mouth to her thick hair as he pleased. As they waited Christine pressed the home button on his phone, to check the time. She swiped away the text message alerts from Nadir (Hey, what the hell is in the trash? Why are there four dismembered naked Barbies in the kitchen garbage can? Habibi, what the fuck?) and found her own face staring back.

"Oh…"

"It helped," he murmured softly. "But I prefer the original." It wasn't until the young salesman cleared his throat as he sat across from them did Erik notice the world around him again. Still tasting her on his mouth, he doled out Nadir's information easily to access the account. Christine convinced him to buy the better version, explaining that when they were passing photos or videos for inspiration back and forth, it would be easier to see. When the salesman pulled the new device out of the box to transfer his information, Erik glanced away from his masked face in the black mirror.

It was bad enough when he saw his hands on Christine's lovely skin, or his own body when he showered. It disgusted him, even though he had but one flesh all his life. So the prospect of a mirror always in his pocket...It was what had caused him to destroy its predecessor. It was why he would crack this one as well.

"I checked online, and it said that you carry those frosted anti-glare screen covers," Christine said softly as Erik brooded. "We definitely need one."

As the boy went to find the product, Erik whispered, "Christine let's not waste the money. I can not-the screen doesn't need protection. I cannot have this in the house." He tilted the screen until she saw herself in it.

She looked him in his reflection's eyes, her own soft and her smile sweet. "Trust me?"

Their representative returned with the glass sheet. "It cuts back on the gloss of the picture just a little, but other than that it keeps the screen smear free, no glare, all that good stuff."

Erik narrowed his eyes. "Does it crack easily?"

"Oh no, don't worry."

"Wonderful."

The sales boy glanced at Christine, his dark brow raised at Erik's sarcasm. She only rolled her eyes. "I can put it on." Tongue sticking out in concentration, she wiped the phone's screen down and with tactical precision, and laid the new glass on top, dead center. With a couple of presses, she grinned and turned it to Erik.

He looked away, not wanting to see his face again.

"Honey?"

With a sigh, he shot it a glance. Then a longer look. He could see his form, two lighter spots were his eyes were and the dark mass of his covered face and his hair. But...that was all. It was like looking into the frosted glass of his shower stall.

Christine waved it a little. "See? It has a mask just like you. You match!"

Erik snatched the device out of her hands, leaning close to the frosted glass. He practically had to press his mask's nose to it to see any definition in his face.

"I told you to trust me." Christine pressed her cheek against his arm with a happy sigh.

His eyes cut to her and he shared the smile with her, both of them lost in the moment, not paying attention to the salesman as he packed them up and charged his card.

---

The moment they returned to his house through the street door, Erik wrapped one arm around her waist. She felt his mask's nose against her skull and felt his words more than heard them.

"Thank you" he murmured into her curls.

"Of course." She grinned and twisted to look him in the face. With gentle fingers, she reached up and pried the mask off his face. "There you are." She noticed there was still some redness around his cheeks. He must have been wearing it for too long. Did he wear it around the house as well?

That too would have to be a discussion. Inch by inch Christine would rip away the scales Yasmin placed on him, convincing him he was a creature rather than a man. She led him to the kitchen, speaking over her shoulder. "I know they will always stare. And I'm not foolish enough to think that everyone is going to accept us. But those are problems we can't fix. The ones we can, we can find the solution together. After all, what are wives good for?"

With a gentle kiss to his lips, she asked, "may I shower? I'm still crusted with syrup from work."

"Of course, but I still have no clothes for you."

"Didn't matter last time." She tugged gently at his ascot. "I don't think you understand, guy. All your clothes are mine now. But I do have a change in my work bag."

Christine left him a bit dazed at the prospect of her traipsing around in his clothing. He wandered to the kitchen and began to prepare a meal for them blindly. His phone was left propped up against the backsplash, the frosted cover reflecting only the muted shapes of the lamp and his silhouette. He touched the bottom of the screen, and Christine's visage returned, undistorted, no longer bearing the cracks of his weakness.

At least on his phone. She would bare his scars all her life.

Erik sprinkled salt into the pot of water, staring at the ripples as it thought about boiling. He felt rather like a silly child-he had put up such a resentful fuss, when she was only trying to help him, sniping and sighing and doubting her. Fool. What a true fool.

Had she not already proved her worth? He had tried to send her away, and she merely returned, transforming them from tragedy to comedy; for did not all comedies end in a wedding? It had been Christine who had begun their music making, Christine who had bridged the gap during their separation. Christine, Christine, Christine. His poor girl was always shouldering the lead.

Problem. That's what she had called it. His mask, his phone, his hiding, himself. She viewed it as nothing more than a puzzle to figure out; an equation to solve, rather than the evil he was made real, and a curse-that was how he had always thought of it. His visage more than anyone, displayed what was inside. But to try and think of it as merely a problem…?

Firmin was a problem, the lake under the opera house had been a problem. His face-living in the world? That, he had always considered his lot in life. It would always be different for him. He didn't deserve anything more.

The water boiled, and Erik snapped the spaghetti in half before dropping them inside, stirring with the pasta server.

Despite Nadir's insistence, Erik was keenly aware of what a burden he was. He had needed so much help once he was free of Yasmin. Oh, he could function in the world, he knew more of it than most: to survive he not only knew the system but knew how to undermine it. It was being in the world as Erik, rather than a shadow, a puppet master manipulating the strings or a ghost haunting musical halls, that had taken work. Manners instead of servitude, to trust and being worthy of trust in return (though he still liked to pickpocket the old cop for old times sake, just to keep him light on his feet).

It was having to be polite when all he wanted was to rip down. It was following the law when crime was so much easier. The grueling questioning and proving and confessing again and again to the police, the medical examiner, the DA, the judge, the lawyers the government...there had been many times he wished to return to the family for the simplicity of that life. The illusion of independence was easier than the responsibility of a real life. Freedom was precious, but a bloody and heavy price was attached.

And he had proven what a waste he was when given that freedom. In L.A. he had utter control over his own destruction. And then for six years, he had holed away here, in this house, where he could inconvenience no one, not even himself by hoping.

Now he did hope-and want. A house, a life: a normal man, with a normal job, a normal wife. Now he had Christine who not only wanted him but needed him. She was young, her life was beginning, and even if she was glad of it, she did not deserve an old fool barely able to function. She and Erik would share everything, including his bumbling learning with his Bunyan-esque burden.

Still, he was too selfish to give her up now. Even the idea of it sent a pang through his heart.

Men aren't burdens. Men take care of their wives. Men solve problems. His stirring paused. But what could he do for her? She did not see it, but Christine had natural courage. She was self-sufficient, bold and unafraid. Everything Erik was not. What could he do to help her?

Teach her? That was nothing. He merely polished the instrument she already had. Developed her composing? All he had was more experience. In a few years, she would be writing scores all on her own.

He sighed, taking out the collider and placing it in the sink. It seemed the biggest problem Christine had was Erik. Erik and…

He stopped mid-pour, the rising steam almost burning his sensitive, naked face.

Erik and the boy. The boy who would not take Christine's refusal. The boy who was determined to separate them. The boy who wanted her just as much as Erik.

That...that he could solve, that was something Christine could not accomplish on her own. If the officer did not mind Christine's words, he would mind Erik. The creature knew he could be very convincing. He wouldn't hurt the boy-but he could encourage him to shape up.

He was Christine's friend, and while he would rather demand she cut ties with the man altogether, he knew that would drive a pick in the barley dried mortar of their relationship. The boy was the last tangible evidence of the life she had before, of a life with her parents.

Erik could understand that-it was why he remade the trinkets he had designed for Reza, why he still dragged himself from the shadows every Sunday, half irritated, half glad for the comfort of the familiar.

But Erik's ties to the past did not seek to hurt him. Did not trying to control him. Mostly, he thought, finishing the pasta sauce and pouring it over the noodles on the serving plate. After all his friend's meddling brought him to Christine.

Men protected their wives. Erik would let no one harm Christine, even her heart. He had done enough damage there as it was. He would salvage what he did not harm and protect it. Salvage what was good and move on.

"That smells great!" The wife in question broke him from his reverie. Two hands slid around his middle, and he felt her round cheek press against his back. "Hungry!"

His hands covered hers. He would fight for this. This new normal life-this world, unshattered by his fear and shame, new and glassy and full of possibility.

"Good." He lifted an arm to look down at her, her face pink and freshly scrubbed from the shower. He smelled his soap on her and considered asking her how attached she was to her own things at home.

Her shirt was long and hung loosely over her legging-clad legs. As she rifled around for the dishes, Erik watched her, the black fabric stretched all the way down to cover her heels. Hours and hours of standing and walking had given her limbs strength and tone, and comely shape. Suddenly his thoughts were far from shattered glass and meddling officers.

Erik had seen even thinner coverings on the ballerinas. But because it was Christine, and because he knew just how those legs felt under the cloth, they pulled all of his attention. His lover turned to ask where they would eat since there was still only one stool and saw where he had been staring. Hopping up on the stool, she stuck out a leg. "Like what you see?"

"Indeed." He knelt, the supper totally forgotten. Catching her foot, he placed a kiss on her ankle, his fingers caressing the firm muscle of her calf. But one was not enough. He nuzzled against her leg, his kissing crawling higher and higher until she wriggled.

"Hey, I am not on the menu, you know!"

"My kitchen, my menu." He lifted her shirt, and kissed the waistband of the leggings, teeth grazing the flesh of her belly. This freedom he could handle, touching his beloved. Like her lips, it made him quite forget everything else: the food, his own hesitations, and woes. He lost his concern and fear in her warm, pink flesh. She was all soft curves, not a bony jutting part on her, and he wanted to cushion his deformed face on every part.

Christine captured his head with her shirt, pulling the collar out to peer down at him. A set of wide amber eyes looked back at her. The smirk pulling at his grotesque features should have been frightening, but it only made her warm. "Well as the dish in question, don't I get a say? I think pasta is a better choice."

He huffed. "As the diva wishes."

She placed her hands on his head over her shirt and began to ruffle his hair until he finally extracted himself with muffled protests. He emerged with his dark hair on end, desperately trying to slick it back again.

"Hoyden!" But the word was barely heard over her shrieks of laughter, almost falling off the stool. Erik caught her, and could not help but to grin at her antics. Yes, Erik would have her like this always. Happy and free. He could do this for her, protect this for her.

He must.

Chapter 22

The Vortex was like walking into a neon dream. Once you passed the heavy metal doors that canceled all the sound from the highway, you were enveloped with the sounds of the music thrumming through the floor and walls, the bright lights flashing and shifting in the dark of the various rooms. Couples were tucked away in the corners, groups at the standing tables that surrounded the singer and dancefloor were giggling; already lost in the alcohol haze of pleasure and fun. The neon beams glanced off the sparkling bodycon dress of the performer on the stage, turning the glittering white multicolored in the dark as she tossed her head and moved in time to the thumping of the subwoofers.

She winked at the three naval officers in their bomber jackets, the stitching on their backs declaring their unit and deployment name. Two of them grinned up at her, swaying to her song themselves as the bar waitress sauntered over to their stools, calling for their orders over the din. The handsome blonde at first refused, then nodded and ordered a vodka on the rocks. His friend slapped his back and told the waitress to "bring the bottle."

"I don't need the bottle," Raoul muttered, already playing idly with the cardboard coasters, bending it and snapping the picture of a neon scorpion in half, then in quarters. "I'm fine."

"Nope, gotta get fucked up when a girl breaks up with you," Innis said, handing over a tip for all their drinks when the waitress returned with the glasses.

"She didn't break up with me, we weren't together." Raoul took his glass and ran his thumb around the rim. "It wasn't like that. I'm such a fucking idiot."

Christine had never given any indication they were anything more than friends, and he'd fallen in love with her anyway. It was just so easy to. He'd always held a little bit of a candle for the little barefoot adventuress of his childhood, with her wild curls and explosive imagination. Butter yellow memories of fantastic adventures and easy laughs had made up his life before boarding school and the naval academy. He held fast to them, and the warmth of the Daae' home, because it was proof that there was something other than the stiff slightly platonic love he had at home.

And then to see Christine again, the same girl, but more mature. Just as excitable, just as wild and free. Just as easy with her love-how could he not fall as hard as he did? It was simply so easy just to fall back into their old norms, their adventures now taking them to dinner and concerts rather than down the block.

Christine had a guilelessness that was inviting. She threw herself one hundred percent into whatever she was doing, and it infected everyone around her. She was the kind of person that made you want to be the best version of yourself. For her. Well, he'd fucked that up, that was for sure.

But he was too late, anyway. Someone was there before him-a man-an old man-had already laid claim to her affections, taken the love she gave for free and tied it to him.

Raoul took the bottle and poured himself another glass.

And she gave it to him, after going missing for two days and then showing up looking like a corpse, her face white and hands shaking. She was so sweet, and so empathetic, of course, she' give all her attention to someone who she was duped into believing pitiable. If she believed that bastard was in need of affection and friendship, she'd drop everything to give it. After all, wasn't that what she did for Raoul? And she'd only been a child then...

And he had been behind her when they found Christine, wearing a fucking mask of all things. Raoul saw the scene all over again, in the middle of the opulent opera foyer. Christine sitting there, with all the loyalty of a wife defending her teacher's innocence to the officer, all the while looking to him as if waiting for him to speak. Probably fearing his chastisement, or worse: a repeat of whatever bruised her arm.

Then for two months, she wore that ugly ring around her neck. Raoul knocked back his second drink, grateful for the burn exorcizing his anger. He probably told her to wear it to prove her love or some bullshit. Artistic types were like that. Believed everything was a story-or a goddamn opera.

After all, he was training her for the opera, wasn't he? He controlled her diet, her behavior and time, and now he tried to control Christine's heart, and he'd win. Her lessons would become longer, the questions would start about why she even wanted to leave or see anyone else but her husband. He'd trapped the free spirit that drew so many to her and was going to hide it away forever in that opera house. He would train her to be good and obedient.

That's how men like him operated.

Another pour.

Raoul knew it-he did know her teacher was that type of man. Raoul now had experience with them.

Christine, damn it, had hit that nail on the head. Sarah's husband was charming, a friend, Raoul had thought. He'd told them all his wife was shy, so don't bug her okay? And they didn't. They all wanted her to be comfortable so they didn't ask questions when she stayed in the bedroom when they visited or insisted on doing housework while they hung out in the kitchen, keeping her head down. She'd a little clumsy, don't make Sarah nervous. She just fell and hit her head. She just fell, she just fell….

Innis had been the whistleblower, and Raoul had been ashamed of how many times he told his friend 'she's fine, don't get into their business, what are you talking about? Don't joke about stuff like that, it's serious.' Because his friend, Sarah's husband, had told him they were fine. And because they were friends, Raoul believed him.

Belief is naive. Trust had given Sarah a broken wrist, bruises, and tears in places that could and couldn't heal. He'd seen the medical records in evidence and gotten sick. He wouldn't make the mistake of believing a friend about that again.

If they were even friends anymore. Raoul shook his head, dropping it into his hands. And what could he do? He pushed, and Christine hated him; if she ever needed help she would never come to him. But could he just let her get married to a looming, controlling recluse, whose friends consisted of an actual detective and a powerful millionaire? Even if she did want his help, how on earth was she going to fight those connections? And Meg didn't seem to care-she was actually happy about all of this.

Then again Meg's priorities weren't the best…

A glass of sparkling water was placed before his face. Raoul glanced up and flashed a smile at the pink-haired waitress. "Don't worry, I'll be fine." He glanced at the bottle of vodka and frowned at how much had disappeared. "Thanks."

"I'm not worried," the girl said, with a smirk. "Well, a little, you're going through it fast. But this is from your friend over there. He said to slow down." She pointed to the other side of the room.

Raoul turned on his stool and peered into the dark half of the club between the moving beams of light where the booth seats were. It was still early, just eleven o'clock, so they were mostly empty. At first, he couldn't see anything in the inky blackness.

Then a point of yellow light, growing stronger. Two more. The flare of a cigarette end as it was dragged, illuminating two cat eyes in the dark. The neon lights lowered as the band geared up for the climax of their song, and the soft uplighting growing stronger to give the club an eerie glow. In the half-light Raoul saw him, Erik Khan lounging in a booth by himself, a glass of water undrunk at his elbow, a black paper cigarette hanging between his gloved fingers before all light cut out, flashing as the guitars and drums screamed out under the singer's high note.

Raoul's hand tightened on the edge of the bar. I'm going to kill him, the drink encouraged. Fuck that guy, coming to gloat.

It didn't help that the man was smirking under his mask. Standing, Khan pointed to him, fingers in the shape of a gun. Then he winked as his thumb bent.

Bang.

He made his way toward the door of the club, triumphant and knew it.

The officer was off his stool before he even realized that he was charging through the club's halls to the front door. Bursting out into the January chill after the warmth of liquor and a central heating system, was a shock. He swore, fumbling to zip up his jacket, searching the dark of the street for the tall figure.

"Would you like a smoke?"

There, leaning in the alley beside the club was the villain. He looked calm and cool in his long black cloak, masked face half-hidden by the tilt of his hat. He took another drag and flicked the cigarette casually to the ground, grinding it with his heel.

"Don't you have somewhere to be," Raoul growled. "You know with your fiancee."

"I do. Which is why I'll make this quick." Khan slid his hands into his pockets and sauntered up to the officer. "You bothered her today. You upset her. That will never happen again. If you can't find it in yourself to cheer her, leave Christine alone. She doesn't need your lust laced heroism. She needs a friend-and she already has plenty of those that aren't trying to get into her pants."

"Leave her alone? Or what? You'll take her away? I mean you already control every other part of her life."

"Control-you don't even know what that means." Erik looked him over from head to toe. Raoul was not a short man, but he had nothing on Erik's abnormal height. To him, he really did look like a child playing at being a man. His act was better than Erik's, even so. The thought made Erik fist his hands in his pockets. "She didn't want you, boy. She wants to be happy, and I won't allow anyone to tamper with it. I won't allow any sorrow to come her way."

"You won't let anyone see how you screw with her head, more like," Raoul sneered.

The barb connected, and it hurt, for Erik wondered if after it all his talents had altered his angel. But her mind was her own. As was her heart. He believed her when she said I love you. He had to. Erik rolled his shoulders and went for the jugular.

"She knows what she wants. And she wants me. That must sting, boy, I know it must. You're so good, and just. Why you seem to help little girls wherever they may be; collect them like trophies. I was curious about your trial, so I looked up the court records. How many years did it take for you to realize your other friend was getting the shit kicked out of her?

"And here you are again, wrong again. The poor little rich boy wanted to play at being a hero and ended up being no more than a failure. You don't care for her happiness, you can't even see beyond your own pain."

Raoul grit his teeth so hard, he heard a crack in his jaw. "You don't give a shit about her happiness, you want someone to toy with, to control. You control everything she does, where she goes and even what she eats."

"Is that what you think? I will put her on the stage for the world to see. You think I'll hide her away-you must be mad. I will make her name known. It will be because of me that she achieves her dreams. Is that why you hate us? Or is it because you can't control what she does. Or who she's with? You don't love her. You only want to fuck her-"

The punch from below was strong and knocked Erik back against the stone of the alleyway. Pain blossomed over his cheek and jaw, and he could taste blood filling up his mouth. His hat and mask were askew and he knew a second punch was coming. Ducking, twisting, holding his left fist in his right hand to make elbow jabbing the boy's ribs more solid on impact.

Raoul was knocked back the wind leaving him immediately as he clutched his side. But still, as Erik straightened, he swung wide.

The masked man blocked it deftly, and it gave his own right hook freedom to fly. His fist connected with that achingly beautiful face with such a force it sent shocks up Erik's thin arm. The boy fell to the ground hard, and Erik wanted to put a knee on his stomach and make good on the fantasy of destroying that pretty mug.

But he cradled his hand and stepped back. He punched back in self-defense, no more. Better to keep it at that and not give this little sailor any more legal standing. He bent to hiss for the child to leave them alone but the words never escaped.

Two pairs of hands grabbed him, catching him by surprise and flung him against the wall. Erik's skull connected and his vision went blurry as he slid to the ground. A blow from the side sent his head ricocheting off the stone again. He heard the plastic of his mask skitter across the concrete.

Cover your head, roll over and put your spine against the wall to protect it, curl up. Years of beatings made the motions instinct and immediate. Erik flung his arms over his head, pulling his knees up to protect his vital organs, and rolled until his spine was against the stone wall as blows rained down. He could take the kicks now, without fear of becoming paralyzed or breaking a rib. But they were strong, each blow sapping him of air. His head swam from lack of oxygen. Wait for it to stop and run, it can't last forever. 

"Hey-Hey! What the fuck."

And it did stop. Erik looked between his arms, searching for an escape route. But a pair of legs blocked his exit. A little more peering about and he saw the boy standing over him, facing the two other sailors blocking them from doing any more damage. Protecting him.

"He was on you," one cried.

"Jesus your face, Raoul!"

The boy shoved them back more. "I was fucking handling it! What is wrong with you? Do you think this isn't going to get out? Two drunk sailors in a bar fight? Two on one?"

"R-"

"Go inside and call a cab, and I'm not fucking joking Jackson. Christ, we'll be lucky if JAG doesn't get wind of this. Do you know what they'd do to us? To the case? Jesus Christ."

There were a few more feeble protests, but Raoul shouted them down and repeated to call a fucking cab. When Innis and Jackson shuffled away, Raoul turned back to his enemy. But it wasn't much of an enemy now. He was still curled on the ground, shoulders hunched as if waiting for another blow, a long hand covering his face as if suddenly realizing it was free.

And that face…

Raoul swallowed the bile that rose in his throat and tried to look away. I fell, Raoul. He told me something horrible about himself and I fell, is what Christine had told him. He was starting to suspect that this man hadn't told her anything but shown her his face. Erik is unlucky. That face-what he saw of it wasn't unlucky. It was a fucking abomination. Christ, how did the man even breath? Was that a part of his skull showing? How pale was he?

And Erik knew how do take a beating. He did not look like the looming conqueror now, his breath catching with pain as he tried to steal it back, his long body impressively curled to a small bundle of clothes and shivers. Erik is unlucky.

Raoul had seen this before-making the body small as if to hide even out in the open. Sarah had had nightmares and done it on Jackson's kitchen floor. Christ, would he ever get something right?

Raoul knelt slightly and offered a hand.

Erik glanced at it between his fingers. The defiant Phantom hissed to spit in his hand and slap it away. But as Erik tried to straighten, only for shooting pain to lance his side, he took the boy bruised fingers. Even with the young man's help, he staggered. The pain was bad, not quite a broken rib, Erik figured, but bad enough to bend him when he tried to stand.

"Shit, that doesn't look good," Raoul murmured, seeing how Erik clutched his side.

"It's fine."

"You could have a broken ri-"

"It's not broken."

"How do you know?"

Erik glanced at the boy. "I've had enough to know what they feel like."

Erik is… Raoul swallowed. "Oh."

"Don't."

"What, am I hurting you?"

"No. Yes, stop touching me-but don't. I don't need your pity. I'm fine."

"You don't look fine." But Raoul controlled his features and turned away from his face. That was easy enough to do. Looking around the alley, he found the discarded mask, staring blankly up at him. He picked it up and offered it blindly to Erik. "I'll call Christine."

"No!" Erik whipped around and then hissed in pain at the action. "No-no don't wake her!" He looked scared, more afraid than Raoul could imagine someone like him being. He was afraid of…what? "You can't drive yourself, look at you."

"Erik will manage."

"No way, I'm not taking the wrap for you bleeding out halfway down the Garden State Parkway." Raoul took out his cellphone, glad it hadn't shattered in the fight. Erik's hand shot out and gripped his wrist.

"Do not dial," he hissed. "She can't know about this she will…" He swallowed and Raoul saw true fear in those horrible yellow eyes. This man was afraid of little Christine? Or-

"You think she'll leave you over this," Raoul asked, a sinking feeling of wrong weighting his stomach. Fuck, he really had it turned around, didn't he?

"I-don't tell her." A long pause. "Please."

Shit. He did not want to feel sympathy for this guy, especially not with a right hook like he had. And he didn't want to be wrong, again. That would make it three times over. But the way he was looking at him, angry, fuming really, but pleading all so Christine wouldn't find out that they'd scrapped like two idiots in an alley. "I have to tell her, she'll find out anyway. I mean..." Raoul growled. "I mean she sees your face often right?" How could she, Raoul could barely stomach glancing anywhere but his eyes-and even that was horrible. Amber, yellow in the stark street light. Unnatural. "She'll notice the cuts. And the fact that you can't fucking stand."

"Erik will say he fell-"

"Take it from someone who knows," Raoul snorted, tapping Christine's number and holding the phone to his ear as it rang. "That's not a believable excuse."

---

Together, slowly moving, three figures stumbled their way from car to apartment complex. Their only witness was the orange alley cat, resting on top of a trash can, tail lazily swishing back and forth.

Christine, running only on anger and worry, fished out her keys and opened the door, directing the not-so-steady-on-his-feet Raoul to which door was hers. Her throat already hurt from shouting over the phone for Raoul to tell the cab to go to the hospital, but Erik staunchly refused and threatened to disappear and go home. So, she had hopped in her Toyota and raced up the highway to The Vortex.

She did not know the whole of the story, just the Erik was hurt and Raoul had found him. Arriving there she had found them both leaning outside the club, Raoul's grip on Erik half keeping him close, half for his own balance, both of them sporting freshly purpling faces. Now, she had to extract the story and patch up two drunken idiots-or one drunken idiot, and his idiot companion. There better be only one drunk here tonight, she thought.

What had happened? The day had been so normal. She and Erik had finalized their setlist, practiced on the duet more and shopped for equipment for the show on his computer during their time. He had made her chicken and rice and drove her home.

She hadn't wanted the night to end; the novelty of holding or touching him with impunity had not worn off even with a week of lessons. So Christine had invited him upstairs, maybe to watch a movie or just sit on her couch with tea. Erik had walked her to the door but declined to come in. They had stood there, their arms around each other, swaying slightly from side to side, talking about what they would do during their next lesson, stealing soft kisses and extending their goodnights. Erik was still becoming accustomed to such easy affection-it was fun to steal a kiss and watch his gaze grow glassy as he fumbled to find his lost thought.

How had he ended up in fucking Riverdale, a half an hour away outside a bar after that?

"You better not be drunk," Christine hissed as she led her fiancee limping to her bedroom, easing him onto the mattress.

"He's not, I am," Raoul slurred.

"I'm not ready to deal with you yet." Christine watching Erik slowly unfold himself and lay flat on her bed with a hiss. "It looks li-"

"It's not a broken bone," Erik said softly. "I know."

She was too angry to feel sad about the implication his certainty brought. "Raoul, look away."

"What does it mattered," Erik murmured, "He's already seen."

Well, there was one piece of the puzzle. Only when Raoul obeyed did Christine take off Erik's mask, and hiss. She had seen his eye was slightly swollen through the mask hole, but it was worse than that. His cheek was bloody from where his bone had cut through the thin flesh, and purple too. There was also a lump forming on his temple. And she was rather sure his mouth was cut up based on the blood clinging to his lips.

"What happened," she breathed. "Erik-why were you at a bar?"

He looked away and did not answer her. The sun of rage in her flared, making her snap, "Look at me, goddamnit-answer me! Why were you at a bar? Were you looking for a fight? Is that it? I thought you said-"

"Erik did not start a fight with DeChangy," he snapped back.

Christine glanced at Raoul. He hung his head, looking fully ashamed of himself in the doorway of her bedroom. "You attacked him?!"

"I threw the first punch," he murmured.

"So you two had a fight?"

Raoul heaved a sigh, and his body seemed to hunch further. "We were...talking. FIghting-then I threw a punch, and he threw one back. Then...Jackson and Innis thought...well they thought they were helping and pulled him off but they were drunk too and…"

"They were both on Erik," Christine shouted, not caring for her neighbors or that it was three in the morning.

"I pulled them-I didn't ask them to hit him! They saw us brawling and tried to help and it just-it got out of control! I pulled them off of him. I would never-"

"Never what? Because there are a lot of nevers that happened tonight. I never thought you'd be near another bar Erik-and I never thought you'd be so drunk you couldn't see straight Raoul."

Both men remained silent. The fight that had hours before seemed so full of righteous anger and chivalrous justice now seemed to stupid and petty once all the broken pieces had fallen and needed to be swept up.

Grabbing an afghan off the foot of the bed, she flung it at Raoul. "Go to the couch and go to bed, I'm not letting you go anywhere drunk as you are."

"Christine-"

"Just go, Raoul. Just go." She turned her back on him and went to the bathroom.

The handsome man looked so dejected-so guilty and sorry, but Erik could find no joy in it. He had meant to help, meant to be a man and fix Christine's problem. He only ended up giving her more-and giving The Phantom room to play.

They caught each other's eyes and Erik was the first to break, looking at the ceiling above him.

"I wouldn't have let them…"

"I know," Erik breathed. "You're too good for that."

The officer murmured something scathing under his breath and wandered off to the living room, letting the door swing shut behind him.

He was numb and in pain all at the same time. His injuries throbbed in time with his heart: one moment totally static cold and unfeeling to the reality that he was going to lose Christine, then his face would throb, pain slicing through his chest at the realization that he had lost everything good in one hour of stupidity.

Numbness-I am going to lose her. She will patch me up and tell me to go. That's it. Why would she keep this troublesome thing? Everything will go back to the way it was-then the wounds began to flare in a fierce throb-I'll never hear her sing again, I'll never kiss her goodbye, I'll never have her hands touch mine. He grit his teeth until it faded, back to the resigned fate of dying in his solitude until the next agony crested.

His engagement would become just another stitch on his livery of shame, between the threads of loneliness and evil. Another memory to bask in, before the pain of missing came. Why, why couldn't they have let him go-back to his tomb where he belonged.

The bed dipped, and Christine returned, sitting on the side and lifting a damp cloth to his cheek. "Open your mouth." She shined her phone light to see his cheek. "I don't know if you need stitches or not." Her voice was flat, emotionless, losing all of its beloved music.

"They don't," he murmured. "Just scrapes. They heal easily."

She nodded and took away the cloth. "This'll sting."

The disinfectant felt like fire on the open wound, but Erik barely reacted. At least it was an actual medical wipe and not a fifth of vodka. In California he had used whatever he had on hand to heal up-but he was used to that. He used Lysol wipes to clean up blood on his back from Yasmin's beatings, too, when he was younger because they were stored in the same place he was.

How far he had come, he thought ruefully with a silent snort.

"I'd sure like to be in on the joke now because I can't find anything funny about this." She fanned the damp skin until it was dry enough for the square bandage to stick. "I am so mad right now. But I don't want to assume the worst of you. I don't want to be like everyone else. So tell me what happened Erik."

He closed his eyes. More confession. "It does not matter. Thank you for the bandage but let me go. I'll return to the opera house. It'll be over for you-I can't hurt you from there."

"Don't." Christine snapped through grit teeth, tears glittering in her wide blue eyes. "Don't you even try that. Don't pull that break-up-for-my-own-good bullshit. I can't take that right now. I could have lost you tonight and never known it, so don't you dare. It matters to me."

"If you lost me, it would have been for your own good," he murmured.

Christine's heart froze, the chill racing through her veins, making her shiver. "What? You dying would have been for my own good?! How can you say that?!" Her shriek caused her neighbor below to bang on the ceiling.

She covered her mouth, trying to stem the tears and get herself under control. So many times after Nadir's revelation she had thought about how Erik could have died. So many times in that tale Erik would have been killed and she would have never known him. It gave her a sick feeling, and the only thing that soothed her was knowing he was here now, and that was behind him. He was simply Erik now, her teacher and lover and partner.

Or so she thought.

"You better tell me," she murmured, voice still quivering. "Or I have to assume you went out and found Raoul-that you lied to me and you went to harm him like the nameless assassin."

That broke him. He turned his face away, hands covering it, nails digging into his flesh. "I am! I am! That's all I am! Can't you see that?! That is all I ever will be!"

Christine grabbed his wrists, prying his fingers away before they could add more cuts to his unfortunate visage. "Erik stop it-"

What she uncovered was his steely amber stare, the self-pity melting away and revealing the iron beneath. "And that's all it will be for you!"

"Wh-"

He sat up and grabbed her shoulders. "You will always be the wife of a monster Christine. A useless monster. You can fix my phone, you can fix others opinions of me, you can fix so many things and you can bring out the gentility in the beast, but beast he is! I told you I would destroy you. I thought it would be physical, but I was wrong. I will destroy your life and burden you until you are no longer a wife but nursemaid prisoner!"

"That's insane-"

"I. Am. Insane! Why can't you see this?! Everything that has gone wrong is because of me-everything that has worked is because you have survived me. Why are you here?! Why are you helping me? I can't even protect you! I cannot help you-I cannot give you anything."

The silence fell heavy in Christine's stomach. Oh, she knew Erik had no sense of ego...but this was far beyond simply low self-esteem. Christine had assumed his bouts of hysteria and self-loathing were the extreme: manic episodes that drained and returned him to reality. But no...he truly believed what he said. He truly thought himself is irreparable, irredeemable...and it scared her. Because he was so very right: she couldn't fix that.

Erik sees relationships as transactional, he always expects people to take. He expected her to want something of him. For Erik to serve her. It was not that he was unaware or unused to being helped: it was that he never saw anything he did as helpful. That every action he took he somehow found the selfish end.

He didn't understand love, which was why he couldn't believe her at first. He didn't understand forgiveness, which is why she and Nadir's mercy and tenderness was so alien. He didn't understand-

"You gave me Erik," Christine whispered. "That's all I've ever wanted."

"There is no Erik." He sat up, hissing in pain and snatched up the mask, holding it before her eyes. "This is Erik. A facade. I tried, Christine. I tried to become him. To become human-a man! And I tried to help you-I saw how upset you were. I wanted to tell that boy to stop hurting you. And all I did was act like the Phantom-I acted like myself. What you love will only ever amount to this!"

"That's not true. That's not true!" She had seen too much, seen him too repentant, seen him too gentle, too kind, too loving to believe that. He had turned his world upside down, himself inside out to be with her. He had been suffering, every day, right beside her. Christine was not about to stand here and have him call their love a lie.

With a growl, she snatched the mask out of his hands and bounded up off the bed. Her knuckles were white against the plastic, it's expressionless face staring up at her, mocking her. In the depths of its endless eyes, in the slight shine of the plastic she saw every fear, and scar every placed on Erik. Every tender moment between them that ought to have been perfect, destroyed by the terror taught to him, every milestone and touch that should have been celebrated only to be burdened with tears and memories, every distant stare Erik had when pain ripped him down into the depth of memory.

In this stupid, vile veil of shame, she saw everything that could, would, and did take her love from her.

"This is what's a lie. This is The Phantom! This is Yasmin and her torture-her fairytale that she spun to trap you. Her lies are what keeps you from me-always from me!" She held up the loathed item, her limbs shaking with rage. "It's this that hangs between us, the faceless ghost and the fear and cage that kept us from all we could have been. Well, I'm not afraid anymore!"

The plastic mask clattered when she threw it on the floor and snapped sickeningly when her slippered heel fell on top of it.

Erik cried out as if it was a bone of his she shattered. Christine lifted her foot...and there was nothing. No emotion, no ceremony-not even panic. Nothing at all but little pieces of plastic rocking to a standstill on her wooden floor.

He didn't die-he didn't even feel tears crowd his eyes or shivers of panic grip him to cover his face. Instead, he felt weightless, directionless and lost. He looked to her, the hand that had reached to save his fickle friend instead stretching towards her.

"But you're right. I can't fix you," she said softly. "I can't do this for you. It's something you have to do on your own. So what can I do?" She kicked the pieces out of the way, and came to him again, taking his hand, squeezing it tight. "I can only love you. Please, Erik…" She reached out, touching his face. "Please...please fight this. For me, for our future." Her voice cracked and she flung her arms around him.

Under the January chill and smell of the street, her nose was filled with the scent of leather and paper and incense. Heady, masculine and sweet to her. Her lover's scent. "I can't lose you too," she wept, her hand cradling the back of his head. "Please...please Erik, you have to keep fighting."

What had he said of her? She broke his will. But she wasn't Yasmin. Christine would not hold her power over him-even for good. That had been wrong. He was a free creature, and no one had that right. She would never break him again: Christine wanted to be the one to see how he build Erik up, with all the elegance and stability of his beautiful opera house.

Erik could do it. He was strong. He had tested her mettle-and she would temper his. She pulled back a little, smoothing back his hair that stuck to his cheeks by disinfectant and tears. "I'm sorry," he breathed. "I'm so sorry-oh, what have I done?"

"I forgive you," she whispered. "Not every mistake is worth your life. I forgive you, and you must forgive me."

"You have nothing-"

"I do, Erik, or I will. I ask you to let go of so many things in your past...and I couldn't do it myself. It was unfair. So...see? I'll make mistakes too. And you will have to forgive me if I am worthy. You'll earn my trust, and I'll earn yours. And we'll learn to live without fear together. Fight our own battles together. We can't do it for each other. But we can do it with each other." She kissed him between his brows. "And we will fail together. We'll fail a lot, and hurt and make mistakes. But there will be no more running."

Erik nodded slightly, and then confided, "I can't fathom that. I simply can't."

"I know." She knew all too well now. Happiness did not heal hurt, did not stitch together the skin of the heart to repair the rips. But it did balm the agony while needle pushed through, and pulled the seam closed. There was too much to gain to focus on temporary pain. There was such a bright future before them: in the world and out. So much to gain, if only he reached out and took it. But he had not relented in pushing to her grasp. She couldn't fail him.

"But you will."

---

The next morning as Christine carried pieces of plastic to the trash she found her couch empty, the blanket folded neatly on one end, a glass of water drained on the coffee table. She felt a quick pang of sadness, followed immediately by a fresh wave of resentment. Realistically, she knew Raoul was coming from a mostly good place. She knew he was trying to protect her-that he genuinely believed her in danger.

But he had been the center of too much upheaval for her to wish him back. Yes, he was her very last tie to her old self-whimsical, free and fun-loving. He was the type of man her father would have loved her to be with. He was everything her life ought to have been.

A life that was no longer hers, for a Christine that never existed, and never would.

There was, however, a long letter written on a legal pad in the kitchen. It started with Dear Tina. Another pang seeing that childhood nickname. Ripping off the pages she folded it up. She'd read it-but not now.

"What is that?"

Even injured and limping, Erik was as silent as the grave. He looked awful still. He'd removed his coat and jacket last night as they curled awkwardly in her bed trying to find sleep. Now, on top of his healing face, his clothes were wrinkled and disheveled. It was still a novelty, seeing him so out of sorts, but her heart was too heavy to giggle at it.

"It's n…" She looked down at the paper. No. No, they couldn't keep doing this. Telling half-truths and protecting each other. Hesitation and doubt had been the cause of so much strife between them. And if they were going to start building trust, real trust, they had to give each other opportunities to earn. "A letter Raoul left. I'll read it later. I don't really want to hear from him right now."

Erik glared at the paper in her hand but said nothing. "Erik will make you something to eat. You barely got any sleep."

Christine shook her head. "Erik, stop. Really. I didn't have the worse night. Go back and lay down. I'll bring in some Advil-and don't say Erik manages because that limp isn't very well managed."

"Erik's had wo-"

"I don't want to hear about worse. That's no longer apart of our lives." She folded her arms and stood her ground. "I can do somethings you know."

Erik hesitated. "You've done too much-"

"I can grab you a glass of orange juice and pills. That won't tax me as much as arguing with you." She came over and gently turned him back towards the bedroom door. "Please?"

He finally relented, hobbling back inside. Christine watched him and knew they'd have to talk. She didn't know the whole story, and she had some questions that were finally going to be answered.

She did more than juice and pills, however. The eggs were expiring soon, and there was a loaf of bread almost done. Digging out one of her mother's beloved tea trays (it was painted with a pink tea rose and a pretty starling), she piled on the plate of eggs and toast to share, two forks, two cups of freshly brewed honeyed tea and a glass of orange juice for his medication.

"I don't have any Pepcid tablets," Christine murmured as she backed into the bedroom. "So eat first before taking the Advil-it'll be hard on your stomach."

Sitting on the end of the bed, she folded her legs under her before handing him his tea and one of the forks. She looked up to make sure he removed his mask-and then she remembered.

Should she apologize for that? After all, she was not sorry it was gone.

They ate in silence, Erik going slowly, his face still smarting. When he was done he dry-swallowed the four pills and drained the glass of juice in one go. "Thank you."

"Sorry, it was a pretty pathetic breakfast."

"It was more than Erik deserves after last night."

Pinching the bridge of her nose, Christine sighed. "Let's start there. What happened last night Erik? The truth, please. I don't want the clean version where you try to protect me."

Gently placing the glass back on the tray, Erik sighed. He did not lift his head as he began to explain. "The officer's Facebook is public. Erik saw where he intended to go tonight-he was tagged in a few pictures with his friends. Erik wished to speak...wished to force the boy to treat you better. After his display at the cafe...Erik did not wish for you to be upset anymore."

"I told you I handled it."

"He was not going to listen, Christine." Erik finally looked up at her. "Surely you understand that. Surely you see that your word wasn't good enough. He considered your judgment tampered."

Great, that's the one thing they have in common. "I...yes. I guess so."

"Erik did not go to fight. But…"

"But you went looking for a fight-a verbal one."

"Yes."

"I suppose...you wanted to let him know everything you were thinking these past couple of months."

"...Yes. I wished to make him feel pain. The kind he caused us, caused you."

Finally, Christine found some black humor in the situation, her lips tilting up humorlessly. "And...you never thought with how you put things you'd ever get hit?"

"Erik is used to being hit for his turn of phrase." He lifted a shoulder and winced. "I suppose I thought about it. Perhaps Erik did want it, as an excuse. I returned the favor and it felt good." He shook his head. "Don't you s-"

"Not yet. Then what happened?"

"I merely meant to tell him to not return if he could not behave himself. And then his friends arrived. It was all very fast, they did not do much. They were all quite drunk."

"And you-did you go in the bar?"

"Yes." He snatched up his coat and pulled out his leather bifold, handing her a receipt. Two severely overpriced glasses of sparkling water. Nothing more. She nodded and crumpled it up, tossing it into the small wire trash can by her vanity. Christine stretched and placed the tray on the vanity's top before grabbing a pillow and making herself more comfortable.

"Ummm. Erik, do you trust me?"

"...Yes." His hairless brow knit. "With my life."

"With your past too?"

"Have I not made that clear?"

She shook her head. "Everything I've found out about you has either come from other people, or I've had to drag it out of you."

"Why burden you with such information? It is hard enough for even Erik to bear."

"You keep saying that, even last night you called yourself useless. That's why you went after Raoul, to be useful, right? Explain that to me."

His mouth opened, then closed. Explain? How could he explain it? How could she not already know? Was her love so blind she could not even see the imbalance of their relationship? His parasitic nature? His hands gripped her lavender and blue star blanket, frustration, and desperation welling up.

Christine watched him struggle and reached out to touch his hand. "Why do you think you need to serve me?"

"B-because! You are…" He growled and pressed his fist into the mattress. "Christine, you said yourself they will always stare. And they will. You will always have to be explaining and explaining who your husband is, why he is. All your life you'll have to be burdened with that. And that is just the world! You struggle through my demands as a teacher, you accept my demands as a husband. You can't even touch me in the light without Erik's demons returning. Erik cannot go out in public without worry about the mask, or just himself. I cannot even buy a new phone without bickering and worry and strife and that is all yours now!

"Even in that, you were the one to push me. You were the one that came back, you were the one that began all of this! Don't you see what you will be marrying yourself to? A life of servitude! It is always on you, always problems for you. There will always be conditions, we will always be different!"

Christine swallowed, her throat hurting with the onset of tears. When he put it like that, he painted a very bleak picture. The Christine he saw was a miserable woman indeed.

It just wasn't true.

Reaching out, she touched his face. Erik leaned into it, despite the despair etched into his features. "The first time I touched you, you flinched and went stalk still." Her thumb caressed his good cheek. "And now I'm touching you. And you aren't flashing back. And I've touched you a lot, and you don't pull away anymore."

Her hands found his and untangled them from the sheets. "See? You used to snatch back when I held your hands. You almost fell off the piano bench. Remember?"

Erik nodded, and lifted her hands to his lips, raining kisses down on them again and again. This may be the last time he touched her. He wanted to savor it while he could. What he did not expect was for her to crawl onto him, straddling his legs and sitting on his lap.

"See? I am touching you and it's not a problem. It was before, but now we've progressed. I rather think you like it." She smirked a little at how his ashen skin flushed pink.

"Erik does." His arms wrapped around her, folding his fingers at the small of her back. "I want you with me, like this, always."

"It might impede playing the piano, you know."

"Erik would manage."

Christine combed her fingers through his hair, her smile faltering when she saw the bump now clear on his temple. "How…?"

"They threw me against the wall."

Her hands tightened in his locks. "I'm sorry Erik." When his lips parted she kissed him silent. "No, I am sorry. Raoul...he's apart of my life-my life before. I guess...with everything moving so fast and being so new I was desperate to have something of the time before. I thought I was being loyal but I should have been stronger. I should have set better boundaries. I was just...scared to lose a friend."

"You would have lost a friend because of me." He shook his head. "How is that fair?"

Christine gave her lover a hard stare. "I would have lost a friend because he wouldn't have respected my wishes. You don't factor into it. You're just the catalyst." A beat. "Is that how you use that word?"

Finally, Erik broke into a smirk. He tightened his hold a little and nodded. "Yes. You're a very clever girl, Christine."

She didn't feel too clever. She was marrying a man she couldn't puzzle out. "That's what I tried telling you last week-we can overcome these things, Erik-"

"You can. Again, you've figured this out. You solve problems, and I create them, what of life is that?"

"Erik, how can you think that? This started with you giving me lessons! Erik, you healed my broken heart." Christine rested her forehead against his. He'd opened up the world to her again, and broken down the cage walls she had so neatly trapped herself in. Her life was full of color and emotions gain-rising and falling and sometimes dizzying in their speed. But anything was better than the stagnant grey she had forced her heart to be content with calling 'normal' and 'just life'.

He'd ripped the mask of her heart, and it beat freely again. And for him.

"You guided me and helped me. You taught me and pushed me and loved me-"

"I only took what was already there," he protested. "I've done nothing for you. Loving you...loving you is the easiest and hardest thing Erik has ever done. It came quite naturally, please believe."

Christine held his face still. "Erik, you have to stop this. Stop thinking of me as perfect and you as ruined. I'm not perfect, I'm not totally good. I told you this before. If you keep putting me on a pedestal, I'll disappoint, and I'd hate to lose your love that way. Believe me, when we get close to the concert you're going to see how un-perfect I am. My reaction to the showcase was nothing: I go insane. I'm hesitant and scared and don't speak up when I'm supposed to and I doubt and-"

"I love you despite it," Erik insisted.

"And you think I can't love you despite your flaws? I don't want a servant anymore than you want me serving you." She raised a brow. "Can't I love as good as you?"

To that, he had no answer. He tried and failed a few times before huffing, and staying silent. She'd trapped him quite neatly that time. Christine played with a lock of his hair idly until he conceded. "From now on, Erik-talk to me. Like an equal: not like someone to be protected. It's not too much for me-performing will be." She tugged gently at his hair. "That's when you'll be overtaxed because of me."

They sat in a calm silence for a while. Erik finally looked her in the eye again and murmured, "Erik-I am sorry."

"I know. Still mad, but I forgive you. Don't do it again."

"I promise." He lifted his face, hesitating only a second before pressing his lips to hers. It was a sweet kiss, gentle and apologetic, slowly turning warmer. By the time she parted her lips, sighing into the kiss, Erik pulled away, shifting her on his lap. "Forgive me."

Christine grinned, trailing kisses across his cheek to his ear. "That's okay. We're making up."

"O-oh?"

"Mhmm. Unless you're too sore-"

He gripped her nightgown and dragged her closer until she was flush against him. "Erik will manage," he explained, lips already covering hers.

Chapter 23

Christine, exhausted and running on fumes, paused outside her apartment door. She heard the quick fluttering notes of Fantasy Impromptu through the thin wood and felt a new wave of energy swell in her chest. Pushing open the door, she toed out of her worn sneakers and into the slippers that were already by the door. Erik had quickly learned of her habits: her sneakers were left by the door with her stock of aprons, and so he began carrying her soft and comfy slippers from the bedroom to greet her when she returned.

She shuffled to his side, watching his long hands glide over the keys. The electric piano wasn't nearly the same as the gorgeous instrument in the opera house, but her lover was still able to pull decent sound from its circuits. He lifted his bare face, no mask in between, yet his fingers never stopped. She may be his love-but the piece was not yet done. It wouldn't do to disrespect the composer by stopping halfway, as Erik had explained to her many times during their time together.

Two weeks now, to heal up from his brush with Raoul. His limp was too bad to be hauling up and down all those stairs at the opera. And she was not quick to let him leave in any case.

She found her soon to be husband a rather nice roommate, which she thought boded well for the future. When he was upright again he insisted on cooking for her, and Christine's objections were weak and quickly overruled. She did lay blame for her tightening jeans on him, to which he agreed happily. He diverted Jules' weekly supply drop to her apartment (something she had not thought of before-how did he get food and supplies without dealing with delivery people finding his home?), so that for the first time in a long while her fridge was stocked.

On top of that, the little apartment was always picked up-another argument she lost. She had insisted she didn't want him playing the part of a servant, and he had insisted he could not reside in a home without the bookshelves in some sort of order. She had not told him that before meeting him and their lessons, before Christine felt that her life was worth living again, her books had rested wherever they dropped-like the clothes and food cartons. Thinking about it was before she met him made her shiver-how had she lived?

In fact, all four rooms echoed Erik's touch on her from the last year: there were actual bookshelves for her novels now, pictures and notes of sentiment were pinned up on the once bare walls. She had little treat-yourself-buys scattered about (a rug for the living room, a shade for the kitchen's ceiling fan light, nice soap in the bathroom, and an organizer for her desk).

And now with Erik, the apartment became more of a home than simply walls in which she resided. It was not only filled with music, but with talking-hours and hours of talking.

They talked about the Phantom. Bit by bit Christine pulled from Erik who he thought this...thing was. How he saw Erik and the nameless boy turned hitman as two separate people somehow occupying the same body; an internal battlefield littered with corpses of dreams and lost loves. At least-it had been. For, despite Christine's worry that shattering his mask was another childish move on her part, Erik had finally felt completely free. So free that he knew, instinctually, there would be no more whispers in his ear from the venomous specter.

"It should not be so, but it is," he had told her one night, sitting cross-legged on her bed together, he rehairing his bow, she towel drying her hair. "I thought perhaps it would take more. Years. But no. No, I am free."

"Perhaps you're finally tired enough not to care," she had suggested. It had frightened her to the core hearing him speak of his former self like a separate entity-even if it made his speech patterns more logical. "Or maybe you don't need what he could give you."

"Self-loathing? Fear?"

"Survival. Purpose." She had combed back her hair and said, "Erik hs purpose now. You've survived without his help-now you've proven you don't need him."

"Perhaps. Better it be this way. Let his death be nothing more than a whimper in the night. He deserves no more-he deserves to be forgotten, shattered and tossed away. That was supposed to be my fate." He touched her cheek. "If not for the forgiveness of others."

But it was not always so heart-wrenching. They spoke about books and movies; so many he hadn't read or seen even in his long life. And laughter! To laugh together, Christine decided, was the only way to know if a love could survive.

He was a victim of her tastes and whims, as well. They worked on their music, of course, but Christine always had something playing. From her computer or phone-or his, as it was shiny and new-any song that passed her fancy: her little foray into gothic, her love of 80s pop, even her mother's old favorites Divine Miss M and Dolly Parton.

Erik learned quickly that as a husband, he would not be given the same freedom with words as Maestro. Her teacher could cluck and scoff at her music-but if Erik wished to keep his access to her smiles, he had to be more polite about why her music was subpar.

That didn't mean he couldn't surrender to whimsy. He learned her favorites quickly, both of them singing along, drowning out the music with the harmony of their own well-trained voices. It didn't matter that they were not in the opera house, or singing some great moving piece: singing with Erik was delightful at any time, even if it was just for play.

If only he could have seen what it had been, before meeting him-before meeting herself in a way. Before becoming Christine again, rather than just a body bearing that name, working for the next paycheck...not that she wasn't still, despite Erik's attempts to slip money into her bag when she left. But life was so much more now than reaching a perfect balance in paying bills and getting sleep.

Christine had thought, like many people, that she had completed her grieving and moved on, a changed woman. Comparing the apartment, her life-herself-to that girl, she had realized with frightening clarity that she had dressed her soul in a funeral gown for years, and never changed.

"Welcome back." Erik lifted his hand to his cheek to adjust his nonexistent mask, stopping halfway. Jules had also brought Erik a bundle of clothes and a few masks for his comfort, but Christine had been firm on this score. If he wanted to don his shield when he was alone, or if he chose to venture out for a walk in the sunlight while she was at work, that was his choice. Having his face covered was a hard habit to break, after all. But, so long as she was home, the damn thing was banished to the duffle bag his clothes had been brought in. She would only have Erik's face-no trace of the recently dead Phantom.

"Hi, honey." She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, leaning heavily against him as soon as the last note dissipated. Her spirit may no longer be tired but her body was still fatigued. Easily, he lifted her until she was perched on his lap. "Taking a break?"

While he healed, with nothing else to do while being bed-bound, he became the main producers of their tracklist, working and refining each song, waiting for her to come home to approve or change. Without the travel time between the opera house and work, the album progressed at an alarming rate. Soon they would be ready to practice on stage-Erik had even mentioned something about converting one of the rooms in his home to a recording studio. "It can be done with remarkable ease," he mused.

Charles-a frequent visitor-had been wild about the idea. "You should have some recorded stuff that we can promote and publish, even independently. After the concert, people will want to interact." He was already mocking up plans to build their set. A few times she had come home and they had not even noticed the door open, bent over her kitchen table with blueprints scattered about, haphazardly pinned to the fridge or window.

They tried to involve Christine, as she was fifty percent of the collaboration, but it was like explaining astrophysics to someone who barely grasped algebra, they were far too advanced for laymen. They also seemed to think with alarming similarity. Christine would be in her bedroom coming out of the shower and listening to them talk, one starting a sentence, tapering off, the shuffle of papers and the other picking up the thought as if it had originated in their brain the whole time.

She had mentioned it to Nadir, another regular to her little hovel (it was becoming a veritable Grand Central Station these days), and he had simply laughed. "You're correct. It's frightening. That's why I like when they bicker. Getting along is dangerous for those two. Too smart and too much time on their hands." To which, Erik, who was cooking in the kitchenette, had huffed and muttered something rude in Farsi that made Nadir wink at her.

Erik in the present, gently tugged the hair tie from her curls, finger combing them loose and pressing his fingertips into her scalp. She shivered, the soothing sensation crawling down from her scalp to her spine. "I am. I've completed most of the orchestral scoring, but Erik is sure he cannot lay down the beats as well as you."

She smiled and placed a quick kiss on his lips. "Thank you. But we may need to take it to your computer at your house. As much as my neighbors like your violin, I don't think they'll appreciate the thud of the subwoofer."

"Yes, Erik was thinking of that today. It has been over two weeks since our last lesson."

Christine narrowed her eyes. "Are you saying my voice is rusty?"

"Not at all. Slightly out of tune, perhaps, like any instrument will be when not properly maintained."

Laying her head against his shoulder she sighed. "I tried, but I cannot hide from Maestro forever."

"Especially when he shares your bed."

"Does he? I thought that was Erik's place."

He was silent. Raising her head, she caught her fiance's gaze. His eyes darkened to her favored honey-gold color. At first, he had been determined to keep to the couch-he was invading her privacy enough. But Christine had refused and then pleaded, saying she would only sleep well if he was beside her.

It had been a rough start, as Erik was still sore and more than boney, but with a few nights of adjustment and pain medicine, they found the situation more than acceptable. And productive. Christine, on a new crusade to break Erik of his attitude that she was made of perfect glass to be protected, had started with his hesitancy to touch her. Happily, in the dark of her bedroom, when conversation petered out and there was nothing but the sound of the heat turning on, they began talking in the language of touch and sensation.

And Erik was adept at learning languages with alarming speed.

"Yes, and he is loathed to relinquish it." His long fingers trailed over her chin to her throat, dancing along the lines of her collar bone.

Christine closed her eyes, always glad for his touch. Before, there was hesitancy and shame. Now his caress burned with want and familiarity. "Well, good. I don't see him being free from it any time soon."

"Erik has not worn out his welcome?"

She shook her head, and, reluctantly, stopped his hand from dipping below her blouse collar. "Not at all. But I have to shower and you have to get dressed. Dinner, remember?"

"Erik recalls," Erik replied, his lips brushing along her jaw. "But I find this activity more pressing."

"And we can't back out now. It's for us."

His hands tightened on her, but not for want of keeping her near. Dinner with the famed Meg and her parents, complete strangers. Strangers protective of Christine. Despite what she said ("They will like you, Meg already likes you and knows you!") he would be on the auctioneering block, looked over for worth and worthiness for their friend and adoptive daughter. Being free of his creature did not remove the normal fears of 'meet the parents'.

Christine rubbed his fingers at her waist. "I'm going to shower. Why don't you play your violin after you dress?"

His instrument of choice had a marvelous effect on him. The piano was all well and good, as was singing, but the Guadagnini was his baby. It was what he had used to impress her, it was how he mocked up tunes, and how it comforted him when there was nothing else. She remembered how abused his bow was when she had shown up unannounced at his door all those months back. It had a place of honor beside the bed, almost like a child in a bassinet. An hour or two (or seven) at its strings, plucking, playing and caressing, and he was a calmer man, the balm of music shielding him from the heat of his worries.

"Does Erik's wife wish for a serenaded bath?"

Christine kissed his cheek coquettishly "It's to make you feel better-and if I should benefit, it's just a plus."

Not that it was much of a serenade in the traditional sense. Erik was very professional with his personal practice, starting with scales to warm up his posture and hand, and after playing simple tunes only to move up the difficulty scale. He practiced for hours a day-his work on their album and self-appointed chores seemed to be merely interruptions in his rehearsal time.

By the time Christine stepped out of the shower and was wrapping her hair up in a towel, Erik was practicing his left-hand pizzicato, the staccato notes singing with each tap of the bow across the strings as his skillful fingers plucked at the fingerboard with alarming speed. She noticed Erik favored Paganini when he was stressed.

With a final draw of the bow, he paused to admire her in her terry cloth robe. She had stopped to watch him with a grin, still impressed by his mastery. Perhaps she would watch him for years, see every talent he had; but she would always be mesmerized by the beauty of his playing. It was a sight to behold: and all hers. "You're very talented Erik."

His bowed in thanks. He was already dressed impeccably in suit and claret ascot. "Thank you. But it comes with practice-like scales."

Christine had no response other than to maturely stick her tongue out. She herself was still not at the stage where the practice was as natural as breathing. But married to Erik, that would no doubt come soon. Seating herself at her vanity, she smiled at her freshly scrubbed reflection while, Erik, behind her, began a slow Brahms piece.

Married to Erik, doing her toilette to the sound of his violin, practicing in the day, simply together in the afternoons, and loving at night. These two weeks, stretched out for all their lives. Not the most glamorous or riveting life-but one worth the strife.

Her stomach twisted a bit. There would be one person notably absent from the table tonight, and possibly the rest of her life. She thought about the letter written on the yellow legal paper in the kitchen drawer. She still hadn't read it, instead, she shoved it into her purse. She'd give it to Meg, either to read or return, she wasn't sure yet.

Still, Christine would rather have a tarnished, dented, and happy life than an easy one that never rose above lukewarm. Take the good, and leave the rest. During one of their long midnight talks as they lay, wrapped in naught but a sheet, Erik had told her of Rookheya's wisdom.

She nodded decisively and reached for her makeup brushes. It took a whole concerto for Christine to dress and primp properly. Her fiance was lost to the world in his music (though she did notice him fall out of tempo when she rolled her stockings on, gaze lingering on the hem of her flirty dress), eyes now closed to better feel the music.

"Concertmaster," she called. When he opened his eyes, hands still moving, she held up two bottles. "Which lipstick do you think?"

"...They're both red."

"Yes, to match your ascot. Which one?"

He added a few plucked notes that Herr Johannes never wrote. "They're the same color, Christine."

"One has different undertones, this one is bluer."

Erik narrowed his eyes, then smirked. "Ah! You are teasing me now."

"I am not! And this one's a little darker, but that makes it stain more. I guess the-"

"The darker one," he decided with one long, low sustained bow stroke. He lifted his chin, removing his beloved from his shoulder. She was carefully tucked into her velvet bed for the night before he came towards his student. Christine smirked and turned back to the mirror, uncapping the lipstick and carefully adding swipes of color to her mouth. Like with the many things Erik taught her, she finally understood why the act of primping was regarded as sensual. Under his golden gaze, she felt a little evocative painting her lips, especially when he reached out and fixed a crooked edge with his thumb.

Though she stopped him when he leaned in. "It'll come off on you, it's still wet."

"That is the intent."

"You'll mind when Charles compliments you on the shade."

He huffed, but relented, instead dropped a kiss on her shoulder. "Then you will simply have to stain Erik later tonight."

---

They pulled up to the restaurant a half-hour later, and parked in the back, away from the heard of BMWs and Ferraris. Of course, Charles would have connections at such a swanky restaurant. Christine looked down at her little black dress. Maybe she should have bought something new-this was from a Macy's sale five years ago, a conquest of rack hunting and a sheaf of coupons.

Through the window she saw Charles and Jules standing by the doors, talking with a familiar tall blonde dressed in sea blue and green. Garnier was trying to turn on the charm, engaging her parents, and making them chuckle while Meg was trying her best to stay aloof. "He's really going for her," Christine mused.

"Whom?"

"Mr. Garnier after Meg."

"Miss Giry?" Erik bent to peer through the window with her. "She's young enough to be his child! The lecher."

Christine cut him a glance out of the corner of her eye both brows raised. She bypassed his hypocrisy and said, "They met at the shop when he invited us to dinner. Haven't you noticed the nasty names on his coffee cup when he comes over? Meg's been doing that because he won't stop visiting."

"No. Erik naturally assumed others realized he was 'Mister Compensation' on their own."

"Come on, I need to hear this."

She placed her hand on the door handle-only to be covered by Erik's. He was staring out the window at the group; their friends. Through the glass, he could see normality, the kind he sought with every laying of brick and wall in his home underground. A life-one of acceptance, but also with the possibility of his failure. Everything he ever wanted, everything he always feared.

She waited, fearful that the Phantom was not as gone as he had proclaimed. But all that greeted her was silence.

Then, finally, he exhaled. "Nothing...yet I still do not wish to go out there. Not really."

"I don't think you'll magically become a people person," she said gently, her hand rubbing his extended arm. "And this is a pretty important dinner. I don't want to be the center of attention either."

"Well...we've survived this much," he reasoned.

Christine nodded slowly, and gently teased, "I mean a concussion, a bar fight and the law. But I don't know, small talk is pretty vicious." She pulled a face. "What do you think our odds are?"

She saw what she could see of his lips tilt up, and with them her heart. He wasn't going to run-he simply needed a moment. They were both improving. "They have not seen us-we could make our escape."

"I have a coupon for Pizza Hut."

That broke him, a smile finally winning over his face as he lay his head against her shoulder. "I will not fall prey to your attempts to fatten Erik. Stay here, I will help you out."

Erik slid out of the car, shrugging on his coat and jacket and checking that his mask was in place. Coming around the other side, he carefully handed her out, and placed her coat over her shoulders. The chilly February wind cut through her exposed legs, making her hiss through her teeth. She linked their arms, half for warmth, half because she was teetering in heels again. How divas wore these on stage for hours at a time…!

"Ah, look who finally decided to show," Charles called, raising a hand. "The table will be done in a minute. Nadir is on his way."

Meg elbowed her way passed Charles as they approached. "Nope, me first! Come on Christine, make it official." She put her hands on his hips, almost nose to nose with Erik in her iridescent green stilettos. She was grinning, looking him over in his elegant overcoat and freshly pressed suit.

Christine gave her fiance's arm a squeeze, to reassure him. "Erik Khan, this is the famous Marguerite Giry, barista, friend and Official Maid of Honor. Meg, here he is. This is Maestro." She gently propelled Erik before her.

That voice, so soft and gentle from a year ago escaped Erik's lips as he held out a hand. "Miss Giry. As lovely out of the apron as in."

"Oh, that's a good one." She took his fingers, and he immediately bowed, lifting her hand the appropriate inch from his lips. Over his fedora Meg raised her brows, mouthing 'nice'.

Glancing at Christine, Erik straightened and attempted: "You must forgive me. I did leave my portfolio behind. But it is yours at your convenience."

Meg laughed, Erik's hesitant joke landing with ease. "Don't worry, I'm not really that bad. Also, I've seen your Jag, Erik. I can call you Erik right? I mean, you're going to be like my brother-in-law."

"Of course."

"Then you have to call me Meg."

"As you wish, Meg. I also wish to thank you." At her questioning look, he continued: "You have been Christine's friend and protector-when everyone else failed her. Yours is the first name she mentions, and the first person for whom she has a care. I admit at times I was jealous, but moreover, I am happy that she has such a friend. A lady like you is rare, both stubborn and wise."

Meg glanced at Christine, who merely lifted her shoulders, but she was grinning. Either Erik was turning on some charm he had suddenly possessed, or he saw in Meg all the things he missed in Rookheya, perhaps all the things Nadir was to him.

And Christine was happy to admit it was the truth. No one picked her up when she was broken like Meg-no one bore the burden with such love and grace. She watched the sister of her heart and her fiance smile at one another and felt something inside click into place. Two chambers of her heart coming together, keeping her alive.

"I...Thank you," she said softly, and Christine knew Erik was immediately and without effort, Giry approved. After all, he made the chatterbox virtually speechless: "I don't know what to say."

"How about, stop flirting old man," Charles interjected, having finally wandered over.

That broke the spell easily enough. Meg rolled her eyes and took up Erik's other arm. "Your friends leave a lot to be desired."

"You are mistaken, Miss Giry. Charles is not Erik's friend."

Meg's snort drowned out Charles' offended noise. "Come on, come meet your soon-to-be-sort-of-in-laws." She steered Erik towards her parents, and he went with her stiffly, but willingly. Christine bit her lip and wondered if she should go after-Meg was a force to be reckoned with...

Shaking his head Charles jerked his chin in their direction. "Your man just stole my lady."

"Yeah, I know. Now how am I supposed to walk?" As if to prove her point, she tried taking a few steps on the gravel walkway and swayed dangerously, gripping Jules' offered hand to stay upright.

Charles placed an arm around her waist with a chuckle. "Come on, they've forgotten us. Jules has pictures of his first grandchild, come look."

By the time Nadir arrived, and they were seated, Erik was rendered almost mute. He had done well meeting the Giry's and even engaged Meg's father in talk of zoning and construction as the Little Latte was exploring possibilities of a third location. But what little reserve of extrovert energy he had was sapped. Still, a success was a success; Meg and Charles could talk enough for the whole table and then some, in any case.

They were seated at a long table in the shadows of the stage where the live band was playing slow, innocuous jazzy tunes, giving white noise to the patron's conversations. Christine kept her hand in Erik's as they pursued the menu, asking him to translate the french for her. He was wearing thin silk gloves under his usual leather ones for inside the restaurant, and Christine knew not to ask him to part from them. The deep baritone of his voice in his mother tongue was seductive, and she had to ask him to repeat often as she focused more on how his throat and tongue formed the pretty words than what he was reading.

Her head found purchase in the crook of his neck and, careful of her coiffed hair, he leaned his cheek against her crown, more than happy to keep her there. His hand left in hers, his arm around her shoulders. Awkward as large dinners were, they were surviving this one quite nicely. Meg was smirking at them from across the table, and when Christine lifted her eyes, she winked, giving her two thumbs up.

Definitely a success.

Charles ordered champagne, and the waiter entertained them by sabering the bottle, ready to pour the bubbling gold and first offering it to Erik, who covered his glass with a hand, then Christine, who did the same.

"You need not abstain because of Erik," he murmured.

"I don't want you to have to taste it," she replied. "You know...later."

His eyes darkened, his arm bringing her closer. "Yes, later."

At one end of the table, Nadir took his glass and stood. "A toast? Let's see, what can we say? To Christine, the latest owner of the world's most talented cat?"

"I beg your pardon," Erik muttered over Charles' sniggering.

"To Erik," Meg replied lifting her glass, "for all the pre-show mental breakdowns he'll have to handle with Christine."

"Hey," Christine reproached.

"To the opera house," Charles proposed, "gaining two new divas."

Christine shook her head. "All of you-none of you are doing this right, they're supposed to be nice! I thought this was supposed to be supportive?"

"Hey, we are supportive," Meg laughed. "What do you want us to say? You make the toast then."

Christine immediately held up her hands, refusing, which caused everyone but her intended to tease, and even gently tap their glasses and chant 'speech, speech' until she stood with her water goblet. "Well, something like…" She turned to Erik, who was watching her with a slightly bemused smile. When the silence stretched on, it faded and he tilted his head.

What could she say? What was there left to say? They had finally made it-through all the pain and the worry and the secrecy. Despite her sudden and rude awakening from the dreamy-eyed child she had been, she was standing here in a story all her own. Yes, the fair prince turned out to be uglier than most, and yes, the heroine wept as much as she was brave. But yet here they were, the final victory feast; dented, bruised, and changed but victorious, the dragon defeated, lives saved.

Gathered around them was a family, mismatched, odd and improbable. Real. The gaps in her and Erik's hearts where grief and pain had worn the fabric of their lives through had been patched together with the scraps of others; sometimes garish against the color of their souls: but it kept them together. Kept them from being just more rags, victim to life's tears. They weren't alone anymore-and it wasn't just the two of them.

And all because Erik had wanted to teach her.

"To Erik," said softly. "Who taught my voice to fly, and my soul to sing. Who taught me to live. Maestro, husband, and friend."

Erik lowered his head but did not hunch his shoulders. After a few good swallows and soft clearing of his throat, he took his own glass, facing her. She saw the tears shining in his eyes, but his lips were smiling when he returned: "And to Christine, who gave my music, and my heart, a beat."

"To Erik and Christine," Nadir said softly, barely containing his own grin. "The future Mr. and Mrs. Khan. Congratulations."

A round of thickly cheered congratulations, as no one had quite escaped the exchange dry, and the distorted tones of various glasses clicking against one another. Instead of the customary sip, Christine bent and placed her lips on Eriks, a sweet and gentle promise, as good as her future vows.

Of course, that brought on a chorus of 'aw' and a soft retch from Meg.

"That's a nice shade, Christine," Charles said, as Nadir took his napkin and sopped up the condensation on his glass, then handed it to Erik. "But it might even look better on your fiance, here."

"See, I told you," Christine giggled as Erik snatched the napkin and dabbed off the red residue.

The night continued without much fanfare. Over food and drinks, the opera house was discussed, Charles regaled them with tales about the construction, Erik and Jules interjecting here and there to add a little more color to the tale. Mrs. Giry answered with anecdotes from Christine's childhood-and Erik was far more invested in listening closely than Christine appreciated, especially the escapades that ended up with her running through the yard barely dressed, her poor mother chasing after. He even hid his face in her hair, genuinely laughing when her very first exploits into makeup were discussed.

After a while, the owner of Chez Présager sauntered over, on his arm the lounge singer who had been on stage all night. Charles stood and introduced them to the table. "And on this side, we have Miss Marguerite, Miss Christine, and Erik Khan. These two are the couple of the hour."

Christine glanced at Meg, mouthing Marguerite?

"Congratulations," the restauranter said in his thick French accent. Erik inclined his head and under the guise of kissing Christine's temple, whispered it's fake. She had to swallow her laughter and offered her hand.

"Thank you very much, sir."

The singer was sizing Erik in his nice suit up. Her eyes lingered on the real jewel in his ascot pin. When she spoke, she spoke to him, saying, "Charlie says you're a good singer. That you're going to be singing live soon."

"My w-intended and I are going to put on a show, that's correct," Erik said, shifting uncomfortably under her lingering gaze. No doubt he was thinking that she was preoccupied with his mask, and not the fact that his cufflinks were real gold. Christine placed a hand on his knee to stop his squirming.

"I'm sure it'll be marvelous. You should hear how he goes on about your talent."

"Charles? This Charles?" He pointed to Garnier who narrowed his eyes.

"I'm not as much of a pr-stuff shirt as you," the opera owner said, minding his tongue around his favorite's parents.

"Yes, this Charles." The singer smoothed down her velvet gown and asked, "Won't you sing a song with me on stage? I'd love to finally hear you."

Erik straightened. "I sing only with my bride, forgive me."

The flush of pride and possessiveness in Christine at his words was short-lived. The restaurateur clapped his hands, grinning. "Then you should both grace us with a song."

"That's a great idea," Charles encouraged.

"It'll be like practice," Meg chorused.

Garnier put his arm around the back of her chair with a winning smile. "That's just what I thought."

Meg smiled, but her narrowed eyes made him back off an inch. "Thanks, Charlie."

"I'd love to hear how you sound now," Mrs. Giry chimed in, over Garnier muttering excuses for the singer's familiarity. "Your voice was so pretty before-it must be gorgeous now!"

"It is," Erik insisted. "But-"

"It's been a long time since any of us heard you, Erik," Nadir said softly. Christine remembered suddenly that Nadir had, in fact, never actually heard Erik sing. He had never sung in the house, he claimed. "It would end the night perfectly, I think, just you and Christine."

Seeing that no one was going to come to their defense, Christine glanced at her intended. She didn't want to suddenly be on stage with all the lights shining on her. Not without at least three good hours of mental preparation. Especially without warming up, and having at least one good crying jag.

Mustering all her courage, Christine asked "...Does the band know Something Stupid?" It had been a favorite of theirs from her playlists. A nice duet, with a very interesting melody and a sweet harmony, and a song she knew like the back of her hand. Simple and easy, but rather nice to sing with someone you love.

Erik had memorized it fast, the words holding special meaning to him when he had been so worried that his affection ruined everything. Christine herself had listened to it a great deal when she had tried to prepare herself to confess her feelings. It had been nice to sing it, now with irony rather than tragedy. It was common enough to be known but just rare enough that they might be spared the spectacle.

"Of course." Damn. "I'll go inform them," the singer agreed, still speaking to Erik rather than his bride.

"I don't want everyone to stare at my mask like her," Erik murmured as the woman slunk her way back to the stage.

That, happily, stopped Christine from sinking inside and preparing a God almighty panic. "Honey. She was staring at this." She took his wrist and waved it before his eyes. On it was his black Rolex with the ivory hands and ruby numbers.

"Oh...you think so?"

"Yes, I know so." She brushed the few locks of hair that escaped the careful combing and smoothing he had applied hours before. "I can't take you anywhere without people trying to steal you."

"That is something you do not have to worry about, silly creature. Drink."

They both drained their water glasses before rising from the table. Their friends quietly clapped as they carefully weaved through the other tables towards the stage, their steps steady, but their hands quickly becoming numb from their combined grip on one another.

"Now, we have a treat for you all," the singer was saying into the mic, her voice still low and seductive. "We've got a happy couple here celebrating their engagement, who just happened to be quite talented. The Mazandaran Opera house's Erik Khan, and his bride-to-be Christine are going to grace us with a song if we welcome them nicely."

Christine gave Erik's poor abused hand another squeeze. She knew this feeling. The dread of being on stage, of all those eyes on her, inspecting her. The lightweight of her stomach, the little fluttering wings of giddiness that barely broke through the worry.

"Just breathe," Erik murmured. He was rolling his shoulders, nervous as well. But he managed a smile for her. "And no squeaking."

Her elbow gently nudged his ribs. "That was one time."

They ascended the stage to polite applause, both of them lifting a hand to their eyes as they adjusted to the glare of the spotlight. Erik asked the pianist for their opening notes. It would be rather low in Christine's register, but it was better with her lack of recent practice. A smooth chaser to the darkness of his baritone.

They edged closer to the microphone, and she saw Erik's shoulders rise, looking out at the sea of shadowed faces. Gently taking his hand, Christine whispered, "Just sing it to me."

He looked around at her as the guitarist plucked the first notes, followed by the easy melody of the cello and piano. Erik's eyes were a little wide. Perhaps he was back in that awful house, seeing the faces of the Nasheeds as he was forced to perform. Perhaps he just had stage fright like her. In the end, he rubbed his thumb across her ring and nodded. "Just you and I."

Silently, she mouthed their count and simply sang. It only took one line, and the whole club fell away. Christine held onto Erik's hands as they swayed to the beat, their song swelling and falling like waves on the shoreline. There was only his deep voice, his golden eyes, and his always cool touch under her fingers.

"I can see it in your eyes

That you despise the same old lines

You heard the night before.

And though it's just a line to you

For me, it's true and never seemed so right before!"

Not caring for her sound, her lips pulled back into a grin, holding his hands to her chest as they crooned to each other.

"The time is right

your perfume fills my head

the stars go red and the night so blue!

And then I go and spoil it all by saying something stupid like

I love you

I love you!

I love...you."

Erik removed his hands from her grasp and cupped her face, his last note ending against her forehead as he placed a gentle kiss there, and then on her eyelids before ending against her lips.

The sudden applause jerked them both from the moment. The couples on the dance floor had stopped completely and many people stood from their tables to give a standing ovation. Christine glanced back at their party and grinned. Meg was bouncing, raising her hands as if that would give volume to her clapping, her would-be companion sitting rather stunned. Mrs. Giry was searching for a handkerchief to stem her tears.

Nadir had his hands folded before his mouth, looking for all the world as if he had just met his creator. With a deep breath, he nodded. Thank you he mouthed.

Christine returned the gesture and pulled Erik's arm around her waist. Thank you, she thought. Thank you for taking a chance. Thank you for saving him. Thank you for letting me have him.

The lounge singer, who had been leaning against the piano, came up to them, still stunned. "Please, you must sing another."

Erik glanced at Christine, who shrugged. "We've made it this far."

Intoxicated on their music once again, they sang more than one more. The pianist knew I Have Dreamed from The King And I, and the band gave them I Only Have Eyes For You which complimented Erik's deep timber so well, Christine almost felt unsuitable to be in company, especially when his gaze was attached to her the entire song. He insisted she sing one song on her own, and she chose Jolene, knowing it would make her Mama proud.

And, by that time, Christine was free. The featureless faces before her, the creeping heat of the spotlight, the fact that she was sure her lipstick was slightly smudged-all of it didn't matter. She felt the music inside her, controlling her body, demanding all her emotion and stealing it from her fear. She let her voice loose high over the heads of the crowd and sang it to heaven. She sang it to her Music Angel.

She was still breathless by the end of it. But, she did not squeak! Curtsying as well as she was able in her heels, taking Erik's wrist for support, they took a bow and left the stage amits the applause, lighter than they were when they ascended.

"Oh my God," Meg gasped.

Mr. Giry had given up the fight against tears. "Christine, that was...Christine your parents would be so proud."

Charles leaned over the table to grab Erik's hand and shake it. "Absolutely marvelous, my friend. This is going to be a hit."

Erik was grinning, grinning wide enough that he had to make sure his mask was not about to slide off. "Christine was the marvelous one. I've never-you were a wonder, Christine! I could hardly concentrate for watching you. Wasn't she, Nadir? Nadir…? Old man, are you listening to us?"

The only one who had not joined in on the excitement and the luminescent post-melodic glow was the detective. Indeed, his brow was knit, and he was staring at a table across the dance floor. Christine followed his gaze.

There was a small commotion, a patron grabbing her purse and throwing money onto the table, her waiter trying desperately to figure out the root of her agitation. She shook her dark head and snapped her fingers at the young man with her, obviously her son. For a moment, Christine was confused; did Nadir care that much about manners to be disturbed by one woman making a scene? It wasn't until the angry patron swung around to shoot them a venomous glare did Christine understand. Her stomach, once light with victory, sunk through the floor.

Even so, Christine stood her ground and glared right back into the face of Esther Nasheed.

Chapter 24

Erik saw her last.

His breath stopped in his throat, choking him as successfully as his old lasso. He could feel tension blossom across his back, straightening his spine. Esther…

Esther, the one he tried to save. Esther the one he didn't want to hurt. He remembered when she first learned to ride a bike, seeing her through the kitchen window, remembered her first gymnastic's competition, her first dance, her first date all-around corners and through doors. He remembered the first time she had shared food with him, the first time she let him sit on her bed. The first time she let him sneak her school books…

Esther, petted by her parents, had given him the greatest gift the night of Lucy's death: proof that he himself was not a Nasheed.

Esther started towards their table, but Christine came around, standing in between. That stopped the older woman's steps immediately. Erik and Nadir were bound by the law. Christine, however, was prone to having just as bad a temper as her fiance-and looked about ready to make Esther a few strands of hair less.

"Who is that," Charles whispered. Meg, shaking her head, placed a finger before her lips.

It felt like moving through a dream, standing from his seat, moving towards her. Erik placed a hand on Christine's shoulder, moving her slightly out of the way. He had not thought about Esther in years-not in the sense of a person. She was a thread in the tapestry of the Bin Nasheed case. He thought of her as a set prop, the ghost in the machine, weaving in and out of what he chose to remember when he absolutely must. Once the only thing that could have been the shadow of a friend, not just a face among many, forever young in the mug shots of his memory.

She was no longer young-neither was he. Still pretty, however, still graceful, still only coming up to his chin. Her eyes still that odd green color that she got from neither of her parents, her hair still thick and black, her face still round. The young man behind her tugged on her hand.

"Madar, c'mon. Madar, please…"

Madar-mother. Her son. While Erik and Nadir had been rounding up the petty Nasheed criminals, working their way up the chain, Esther had indeed gotten married. He remembered now: Nadir had staked out the reception, bringing pictures to Erik so he could identify guests. Esther had looked like a fairy queen and Erik's heart had spasmed at the time for missing it. His mind had hissed he'd have been mopping the floor of the bathroom free of blood if he had stayed.

Erik looked at the boy, whose face contorted in open curiosity and revolution at him and his mask. Even with such a familiar expression, Erik could not place the features of the boy's father on him. After all the trials, they began to blend.

Back to Esther. He should say something, shouldn't he? Or...not. She was not his life any longer. She was not as innocent as he thought-no matter how distantly he remembered caring.

But as he slowly contemplated, she acted fast. Leaning over she grabbed a water glass from one of the nearby tables and threw it in his face. A little jerk of his head was the only reaction he gave, blinking the cold liquid away as it welled in his mask's eye holes.

"We made you, and you betrayed us," she seethed. "For what? That?" She pointed to Christine. "Snake in the grass!"

Christine made to speak, but Erik pushed her behind him on instinct. He was confused, confused for the long seconds filled with nothing but Esther's breathing and the dripping of water. Distantly, in another life, he heard Nadir and Charles' voices raised, the snap of Miss Giry's heels as she came closer.

And then, like setting a bone, understanding clicked into place.

SHE EXPECTED HIM TO BE GRATEFUL FOR THAT LIFE.

He must have looked angry. He must have looked murderous. He must have looked frightening, because Esther took a step back, clutching her child to her side. Back, back, until she felt safe enough to turn her back and hurry out of the restaurant. It was only when Nadir's hands closed over his arms did Erik realize how stiff he had gone, how his fists had balled and trembled, how he wasn't blinking, wasn't moving; petrified with rage.

"Erik. Erik." He shook him slightly. "Breathe."

"She's…"

"I know. Breathe."

"She thinks…"

His warm brown face hardened. "I know." To Christine, he ordered, "go home, the both of you."

"She said...she said…" Then Erik realized he was dripping wet. Lifting his hands, he looked down at the front of his shirt sticking to his chest, the black darker where the water soaked through. He plucked an ice cube from his front as he heard Charles alternate between apologizing and demanding Nadir go after Esther for assault.

Then Christine's hands were on his, small hands warm against the cold water. She pressed one of the thick white napkins to his chest, patting his front down. "Come on, honey," she said softly, her sweet, tired voice shaking slightly. "Come on. Let's go home."

"Christine…" What was wrong with him? Why could he not speak? Every thought that formed in his brain seemed to begin strong-only to turn to ash at the steady burn; twigs tossed into the furnace.

He was angry, but he did not know this rage. Not a cold thing, filled with thoughts of silent choking and stalking. Not the type that left him blind to all else, that narrowed his vision to a small tunnel. One goal, one order to execute and release the pressure of fury. This white-hot burning coursed through, making him hyper-aware: too much information all at once to process like a jangle of notes where the melody is lost.

Christine was pulling him, weaving between the tables, her face drawn where once there was a joyful grin. Madar's shadow stretched even here, clouding his wife's beautiful face.

Erik tightened his hold on her hand.

Scavaging the keys from Erik's pocket, Christine decided she was in a better condition to drive than he. But she did not turn the car home. Instinctively she knew even her small apartment would be too open to the world for him right now. Erik was seething, but quiet. He did not even tap out a melody on his thigh as he usually did when confronted with silence.

She drove them south, towards the opera house. It was long after hours, only the security lights were on as they made their way across the grassy knoll. Happily, Erik kept the key to the underground house on his Jaguar's ring.

The house felt it's abandonment, the air even staler than usual with the lack of occupancy. Erik left her immediately, presumably to change. Kicking off her heels, she went straight to the living room and attempted to remember how he had built a fire the night she had stayed. After fumbling with a match and some logs, she found the switch and turned it on. The flames sprang to life, illuminating the space around her.

She remembered how welcoming and warm they were the night she was first here. How they had sat on the couch and spoken in low earnest voices, how each touch was electric, and every breath trembled.

It felt cold now as if the dancing flames were a lie. She felt the icy fingertips of history stroke down her back, gaining on their steps. "Erik," she called softly, wondering where he was. She knew he kept no liquor in the house, even for cooking. And she wouldn't begrudge him a smoke, or even a pack right now.

He passed the doorway, barefoot, and only in his silk shirt and trousers, walking fast. She heard another door bang open, some fumbling, and then he returned, with a black lacquer violin in hand, trembling fingers tightening the bow. Standing before the fire he fitted it under his chin, the mask getting in the way. With a snarl, he ripped it off and threw it across the room.

Moving to the sofa, Christine blinked when the plastic struck the far wall. Beyond that, she sat, hands clasped, barely knowing what to think herself. Her system too shocked to have any fully formed thoughts.

She had seen real and present evidence of what Erik had before her-what he had endured. Not text on paper, not a video-a real flesh and blood person who was truly evil. Had lived in a house were another human being was treated less than a dog and had done nothing. A woman totally devoid of any proper humanity. How could anyone process that? How could he, who had lived through it-had known Esther as intimately as Christine knew Meg?

Adjusting the instrument, Erik burst into Dies Irae without preamble or tuning, his chords so harsh she heard the clack of the bow against the violin with each new stroke. So much different than the worrying he had done before they left the apartment. Then, it had been some slight fear of the unknown; discomfort.

This was hate. Not the petty squabble with Charles, or even heated debates with his student. This was the terror he had been so afraid of, so afraid to unleash upon her. This was the ugly brokenness that he claimed made a ghost of Erik and reality of the Phantom. And Christine could only wait, and see if he would keep his promise: to finally let her in.

He abused his instrument, beating against the strings like his pounding heartbeat against his ribs. Faster and faster he played, his fingers flying over the board until one final downward stroke proved too vicious, the bow flying from his hand to clatter on the floor, expelling rosin in small clouds on impact. Christine was sure she heard the crack of wood. Even surer when the violin was launched into the fire with a twang of sour notes.

Christine swallowed but was not afraid. She wasn't afraid of Erik now, not at all like his earlier rages. No, she was almost grateful. She had wanted to take that glass and smash it against Esther's sneering face, or slap her as hard as her arm could swing. Instead, Christine sat with her hands folded tightly in her lap, letting the music leech her of her hatred. She had the urge to kick the crackling violin, but her respect for the fallen stopped her.

"Erik."

He was panting, staring into the fire, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. She had told him to talk to her-talk when he felt his darkest. But how could he give her such when he barely had the words himself? He didn't even have the notes-there was no melody violent enough for this feeling. "She looked at you."

"...Yes. I-"

"She spoke about you. She saw you." Erik whirled around. "I never wanted it near you."

"Nasheed?"

"Any of it," he bellowed. "You don't belong with them. You aren't apart of them. Nothing about this belongs to them. I've tried-I've tried so hard to erase them from me. The Phantom was theirs, but not Erik. Erik is not their slave, Erik is not their dog! I have to bare their scars, I will not bare them! I don't want them anymore-I just...I just...It's not fair!"

Silence again, nothing but Erik's panting and the crack of the fire. He was so close, so close to the truth. His fingers and toes felt numb, the kind of tingle that would occur standing on a precipice high, high above the ground, tempting the fall. He couldn't make that jump.

And he couldn't go back to the way he was before.

"You have to bear their scars," Christine repeated. "You do not have to carry them too." Standing, she edged to him carefully, making sure he was still with her, that he could see her rather than some ghostly memory. She saw it in his eyes, how they looked her over, softening oh so slightly around the edges. "You don't have to carry any of it." Her hands touched his arms. "I will carry you."

His hands closed around her shoulders. "They will not touch you."

"No Erik."

"You are nothing of that time, there is nothing of before here."

"No Erik."

"You're Erik's."

She smiled, though she felt no gladness. "I am yours."

"You're Erik's wife. And Erik...Erik is not that creature."

"No Erik."

"You're mine. I am not…"

"No, you aren't Erik."

"I…" His hands traveled up her arms to her shoulders, her neck, tangling in her hair. His voice broke. "I am so angry. I am so angry Christine, and I don't know what to do with it. I don't know how...help me." Without the Phantom, without the evil that had been rooted in his heart, he did not know how to handle his rage. And it was more than just Esther. It was so much more-a depth that dug deep in his soul, that he had not yet-could not yet face.

Tears crowded his eyes. "Help."

"Just breathe," she said, reaching up to clutch his face. "Just breathe. And stay with me. You promised not to leave me-just do that. That's all you have to do."

He nodded, breathing deeply-deep like he taught her. "From the diaphragm," Christine said softly. "And stay. Stay with me."

"I'll stay. I'll stay. I belong with you. And you belong with me. And you're mine." He murmured it again, and again and again as he pulled the pins from her hair. He murmured it as his lips coasted over her temple, inhaling her scent. He repeated it in French as well, speaking without thought as his fingers worked the clasp of her dress, his body knowing it's home from muscle memory without his conscious thought. There was no touch of the past here, no print from phantom hands. This smooth soft skin, warm and alive under his mouth, was his and his alone.

It was their darkness that had created the Phanom-it was her love that saved Erik.

The dress fell away, no protest. Without passion, she plucked at the small buttons of his shirt, peeling the still damp cloth from his chest. There was nothing romantic in their motions; they disrobed each other with a singular goal-to be one. They needed, nothing more. Needed to be together, to be close and remind each other of their ownership, to take refuge together from the storm just beyond their door.

Erik did not even hesitate, though the roaring fire placed every scar on display. He did not see them; he only saw Christine and in her eyes everything he ever secretly dreamed for. He hooked his thumbs in his trousers, removing them efficiently before pulling her to the rug. Christine straddled his hips, her hands locked behind his neck.

His hands anchored on her hips, gentle with the first contact only to lead her in an almost savage pace. Christine bit her lip, resting her forehead against his, hanging onto his shoulders for balance. It was brutal and needy, all their rage; fueled into this one act. His fingers anchored on her hips, guiding and commanding her how he needed. She was sure there would be bruises there, but Christine never wavered. In her eyes was all the trust in the world.

A hoarse shout was the end of it, Erik's muscles gone taut before he shivered, dying only a little death. Laying back against the rug, Christine rising and falling on his panting chest. His fingers flexed, stiff from his tight hold on her waist. "I'm sorry…"

"I'm okay." Christine pressed her lips to his throat. "I'm alright. I'm fine, honey. And I'm still here."

"Erik shouldn't have-"

"Shh." She placed her fingers over his lips. "It's alright. I promise. It's all right now."

And Erik believed her. There was no resentment or judgment in her wide blues eyes. Only concern, only love. He had lost control as he always feared he would and Christine was still here, unharmed. There was no hissing, no shame bare as he was. There was nothing of Nasheed here-he was…

Free?

Shifting gently, Erik flipped them, laying her back against the rug. This time, he leaned on his forearms, dropping soft kisses over her face. When he moved again, it was slow and languid. Gentle now, in both thanks and apology. Christine smiled, and tears leaked from her cheeks quickly lapped up by her husband's kisses. But it was no use. His own fell across her nose and jaw, sliding over her flesh, mingling together.

"I love you," she whispered softly. "I love you, Erik. Never forget."

"Never."

---

Six Months Later

Christine reached out and stopped the cymbal. "How was that," she called out into the room. Through her headset, she heard the click of the microphone.

"Better, much better. Another round, or shall we stop?"

"Stop, my leg is starting to shake." Sliding off her headphones, Christine stood and stretched her arms far over her head, before placing her drum sticks down on the seat. In what once was Erik's office, now stood a recording studio-or one half of it. He had knocked down the wall between the Louis-Philippe room and the office, installing a glass wall and an embarrassing amount of soundproofing. The hanging jewel tone curtains and lamps, however, were too atmospheric and beautiful to give up completely. They were still hanging here, the lamps on the floor, refreshed daily with new candles. It was how they had been recording for months now. Lit by candles and the button lights of their new equipment, in their warm cocoon of music in the half-light.

Outside the silent room, Erik sat, easing off his own headset. His cold brew was perched a safe distance away, half empty. They had already gotten their voices down-Erik feeling that was key above all else. Beside it, there was his notebook, already half-filled with notes, and corrections, measurements, and too many lists to name of what still needed to be done. And though she didn't look too hard, she believed she saw the beginnings of a resume outline.

Christine closed the door behind her and happily slid into his lap, looking over the soundboard. Together they had scoured every book and video tutorial about how to work this and every other piece of equipment Erik had bought for them until their heads were heavy with the new information. The nicest piece, however, was the three-screen computer to his left. Christine had almost fainted when she saw the bill for that.

"So that's track ten, done. Nice work, producer."

"Two more to go," Erik agreed, turning slightly on his chair, swiveling back and forth gently. "Have we decided on a name for the album yet?"

Christine looked over at the mock-up posters for the concert. Charles had come over to the theater and on the stage showed them several board options, and they were now stacked with Erik's sketches for costumes and sets.

They had decided on the one that seemed the most mysterious-A simple photo of Erik's beloved violin with the white wire mask Christine was to wear on stage, the title of Teach Me scrolled across the top. It was a working title that would do for their first concert.

Charles had already convinced them to play on their present dichotomy: the maiden and her dark teacher. Christine had loathed it at first, casting Erik in a role he was trying to shake off, but her Maestro seemed to agree. The theme was easy to do, and the sets would be simple, using mostly light and shadow to create an atmosphere. Without wasting time building set pieces they could focus on other things, like costuming and recording.

Erik's black ensemble was coming together nicely. Whenever he would stand before the frosted glass in the bathroom, checking where he needed to pin and sew next in the foggy reflection, Christine would linger and stare unashamedly. He was handsome and intimidating in his old victorian-styled suit, the only hints of color on him the crystal cravat pin and white gold chain from his pocket to give the illusion of a pocket watch. Long clean lines, complimenting his wide shoulders and trim waist. Her Maestro had caught her more than enough times observing, a private smile on her face. He had also ordered a while lacquer violin and was already carefully fitting the bow frog with a hunk of faceted crystal that would glitter in the stage lights as he played.

Her costume, however...well that was a secret between her and Meg, both of whom had sworn up and down that it would fit in seamlessly with the plan. Christine suspected the reason why Charles had so easily permitted it when Meg told him at the LL, rather than the diva herself.

"I don't know. Not many things will make 'synth' sound elegant, and it's most of what we're doing. We barely have track names." Behind her on the blackboard in multicolored chalk were the titles they were working on, to make it easier than saying 'the one song where we harmonize over the tremolo and switch to minor halfway through'.

Scorpion, Glass Forest, and Trap Door were a few of the titles they finalized, while Safety Pin was a work in progress since they couldn't decide what to call the track that had no words; a fight that cropped up daily. Others were just colors that 'felt' right.

"At least the most important work is completed," Erik comforted. "We have done enough today. Your voice and body are tired. Come, let Erik feed you."

He stood, gathering her up in his arms easily. Christine hung on, perfectly happy to be carted here and there, her leg tired from pedaling. She rested at the counter as Erik preheated the oven. "So are we going to catch the showcase tonight?"

Erik frowned as he considered two cuts of steak. "Why, do you wish to hear that harpy?"

"There are going to be others, you know. There's supposed to be this really good Bharatanatyam troupe performing."

Since she practically lived with Erik now that they were seriously recording, it was her turn to be subject to his tastes. While they all lent to the classical, the variety was multicultural. Though her western ear still wasn't attuned to the complexities of Japanese shomyo yet, she had taken an instant liking to the sound of Indian gamaka and their dances. When she was allowed input over what was played (usually paying a fine in kisses), she chose something out of that category, when she had enough of arias and sonatas.

"If you would like, we may go up."

"We could finally have a real date," she laughed, twisting her ring.

Erik paused. "Does it disappoint you? That we are so irregular?"

"Little late to ask don't you think? If we were anything else, we wouldn't be Erik and Christine. And I think we make a pretty good team."

Erik nodded, pleased with that response enough to hold out his hand. Hers came crashing down on it. He had to learn the coordination of a high five and was getting the hang of it. It was so much easier now, with six months behind them without incident.

After their engagement dinner, there had been a period of surveillance. Christine had at least gotten a free ride to work every day, even if it was in the passenger seat of a cop car. Nadir had finally been invited to Erik's underground home, and once the two hours of praise and arguing about how he 'hid this all away down here and you never told me, hey isn't that from my house' ended, had staked out the opera for a week. But nothing ever came of it. Somehow that made Nadir tenser, but Christine had begun to agree with Erik: the man wasn't completely happy without at least one thing to worry about.

Still, Erik's .45 had moved from the bedside table to the hall cabinet. Just in case.

It helped that Christine had all but moved in. She had even gone so far as to shut off the cable in her old apartment, using it only for the nights she worked closes and missed the buses to Jersey City. It had eased Erik's mind and added a lot more time devoted to work. The conversation about her quitting altogether was brought up-and refused. Until she saw some marked success in this field, she would not leave the LL. It wasn't that she recoiled from the idea of working from home-or even becoming a modern housewife-but she owed too much to the shop to just leave. Besides, she wanted to prove she could pull her own weight before letting Erik carry everything, just to know she could.

They had settled into a new normal, and Christine liked it. So did Erik, she assumed. He smiled more and had cut down on his predictions of failure and doom to only one or two a week. Christine chalked that up to him being busy-despite his solitude, Erik was an extremely active person.

They ate quietly, and with renewed energy, Christine went back into the sound booth to clean up the candles and cups of water. Erik disappeared into the Italy room that was slowly turning into his new office, probably to poor over Firmin's contract again. He and Charles had been scouring it for any way to fire him, on the off chance he didn't leave when Carlotta made her (hopefully) grand exit. An hour later found Christine washing the dishes that wouldn't fit into the dishwasher, dancing around to her phone's music. Erik paused, watching her from the doorway as she bumped and purposely hummed off-key, smiling. "Excuse me, Miss Jackson?"

"Hey-you remembered who did Smooth Criminal!"

"Indeed. How would you like to explore the opera house, while they set up?"

"Wouldn't we be in the way?"

"Not where I will take you. I want to show you how I move about my home."

Christine peeled off her gloves, tossing them on the side of the sink. "Move around? Like secret passages?"

"Like a totally secret opera inside the opera."

The concept made her eyes widen and sparkle with childlike joy. His curious little bride. "Lemmie just change!" Grinning she threw her arms around his waist, and after a squeeze, turned them, so that he was in the kitchen and she was able to pass.

He followed, watching her pull out clothes from her half of the closet. It was a bit cramped-he had built the walk-in for only one person-especially with her new items. Erik knew she was that odd combination of humble and proud that came with being financially struggling, but having seen what she kept in her drawers during his stay with her, he was determined to buy her new things that not only fit but weren't starting to fray. She'd put up an almighty fight until he simply began to order things without her input.

Shrugging on his jacket he flipped through his masks.

"Do you have to, if we're going to be hidden from view?" Christine was wriggling into a breezy sundress, just elegant enough to pass for evening wear. She glared at the mask: it was now odder when he wore it than not.

"I would like to be prepared, just in case." He pulled on one of his new ones-a wire mask that was wrapped in thread over and over until it looked like woven cloth. It was extremely breathable and light, and he had begun using the technique to create more, now that he was outside in the summer months instead of tucked here in the subterranean cooler.

"I suppose. I'm just used to your face now-whenever you wear a mask my heart stops because I forget." She shooed him from the dresser to use the mirror. It was extremely small-usually covered by a sheet until it was needed.

Erik promised her, in their new house, that she would have a walk-in closet all her own, with a large vanity and beautiful lights to make up for the lack of looking-glasses anywhere else. Until then he had asked her to bring only a small makeup mirror while she stayed. He wasn't quite ready for anything else just yet.

She made sure her lips were drawn correctly, then spun. "Alright, let's go June Carter!"

"How did you become Mr. Cash in this arrangement," he asked as she took his hand and dragged him to the organ room. He dug in his heels and watched her for a few amusing minutes struggle to slide him across the floor. "It's not that way."

She turned, still tipped precariously in the effort to use her weight to move him, hanging on only by his grip. "You have another door?"

Erik tugged until she was in his arms, and steered her towards the kitchen. Erik climbed up on the counter and felt along the seemingly smooth ceiling. With a push, some hidden catch unlatched, and a door swung down. After a few tugs, a stair ladder unfolded. "This is the easiest way up."

"Then why did you always take me by the lake?"

"It's more beautiful, and roomy. The halls are rather narrow, they were built only for me."

"How am I gonna get through?" Christine smirked and patted her sturdy hips.

"You'll just have to stay close." He covered her hands on her waist and squeezed. "And Erik will keep a good grip."

"I'll bet." She started up the ladder first, too intrigued by the prospect. "Don't look up my skirt."

"Why, are you keeping something new under there?"

"Ha-ha. You're so funny when you're caffeinated."

They ascended into pure blackness, Christine's step faltering slightly. Erik was right behind her, placing a steadying hand on her shoulder. It was rather cramped, and they had to stand in single file, which made an amusing struggle when Erik edged passed into the lead.

Ahead, Christine could see some scant light, too weak to really illuminate anything. Feeling her fiance's hand, she gripped it tight as he led her towards it. Small, nearly microscopic holes were drilled into the wall, letting in just enough light to see the first step in a staircase.

The higher they went, the less stifling the air, and the passage opened up slightly. She began to hear muffled voices, and the distant bangs of moving equipment. They apparently reached another door, because something swung open and Christine could finally see again as light blossomed before her, making her squint.

The passage before them was lit better, though still a little dark. It was plain wood, the backstage of the building, and stretched on before them, a few doorways turning off into what she assumed were other secret halls. Along one side, the passage was dotted with glass archways.

Curious, Christine wriggled ahead and peered through one of the openings and caught herself with a gasp. A young woman was looking back at her, tilting her head this way and that, gathering up her oversized MAZANDARAN STAFF t-shirt and tying it stylishly.

"Kenzie," someone called.

"Coming!" The girl smoothed down her hair again and grabbed the boxes at her feet and hurried off. Without her in the way, Christine saw the entrance hall of the Mazandaran theater. She could see the ticket booth, and Jules on the phone, nodding and speaking. Staff was hurrying back and forth, preparing for that night.

Concentrating for a moment, Christine tried to place where they were standing. "It's a two-way mirror," she whispered, touching the glass. Yes, now she remembered the large ornate mirror in the hall of the opera.

"My specialty, of sorts," he said placing his hands on her shoulders.

"That's why there are mirrors everywhere," Christine laughed. "I thought it was just the Arabic aesthetic!"

"It serves both purposes."

Christine was about to start off and explore, her curiosity unchained, but paused to ask, "the bathrooms?"

"Christine, really!"

"Just checking."

She set off, a goal in mind. She recalled something Erik said that awful night she first saw his face, and wanted to see if her suspicion was correct. Her teacher wandered behind, letting her have her freedom, silent and smiling. He was pleased she was so interested and flushed with pride that she was impressed.

Not every view of the world was as large as the entrance hall mirror. Somewhere rather high up and small, others were disguised as part of the wall, from how they were painted over, the view a little obscured. Still, armed with her familiarity with the opera house, Christine peered and peeked and felt her way through the passages.

She made a wrong turn once and found herself overwhelmed with light. The passage they were in now was curved, following the roundness of the ballroom. The gold panels she had admired on her first tour proved most helpful now, as they were not glass, but all painted two-way mirrors. No wonder they caught the light so well! Now it gave a totally clear view of the candelabras, the tables and workers moving about, setting up.

"This is my favorite," Erik informed her, finally breaking the silence. "I can circle the ballroom and see everything, from every angle. The glass is a bit thinner, so you can hear the music better."

He turned, expecting to still see her excited grin. But Christine was touching the glass wall, her brow knit. "Christine…?"

He could stand here and see the beautiful people laugh and flirt and dance, and revel in their prettiness, and he, who had made it all possible, was sequestered to a dark hall, gazing through glass. She imagined him as he was a year and a half before: skeletal, his lank black hair falling over his face. A spectator to the race he was supposed to be apart of. So close, and so utterly separated.

It was a torture chamber-his very own torture chamber.

But not anymore. Marshaling her expression, she turned to look into his face. "Will we dance here?"

Erik blinked, looking out at the wide muraled floor. "I suppose so. Yes."

"Our first dance, right on this floor. Wouldn't you like that?"

Erik's expression, what she could see of it, softened. "I would adore it."

With a firm nod, Christine took his hand and led him back, continuing their journey. As they ascended once more, Erik's pace slowed, suddenly understand what she was searching for. Christine had to tug several times to hurry him up, peering through little windows into real life to maintain her bearing.

Finally, she came across a door, the first one-that she knew of-in this maze of tunnels. There was no two-way mirror here, only a hole, covered with damask fabric that lined the boxes of the theater. Testing the handle, Christine opened the door and stepped into box five.

Moving around the seat, she peered out from her vantage point and saw the orchestra setting up their chairs, passing around last-minute snacks, some furiously scribbling in their music. Two violinists were hunched together, watching something on their phones and laughing.

"You watched me here," Christine stated. Fact, no implication or reproach. No forgiveness either.

"...Erik did. I wanted to see your reaction."

"But you watched me from the front too, didn't you?"

"I do not understand." Erik's fingers gripped the back of the plush chair. Perhaps this wasn't the best idea. She was a clever girl, of course she'd put it all together. "Are you angry with me?"

Christine shook her head. Perhaps, had this been a year earlier, she would have reprimanded, or pulled away, scared. But she knew Erik had no ill intent. His gaze would be that of a child or a cat-watching what they did not understand but were entranced by nevertheless. "No. I suppose it should feel odd, but I understand. Did you spy on me anywhere else?"

"No-well." He hung his head. "I followed your bus home many nights, to make sure you were home safely."

Christine raised a brow. "Did you ever go into my apartment?"

"Christine, that is a crime! Of course Erik did not! I only wished to see you home."

"Good." She smiled, reaching out to unhook his hands from the velvet of the chair. "I was just wondering. Come on, don't look like that." She pulled him around to sit in the chair, then dropped into his lap. "I'm not mad. I just forget that you've been in love longer than me. And here I thought I was alone in it."

"Foolish Christine." He slid his hand along her cheek, cupping it. "Who would not love you?"

"Music critics," she replied, deadpan. "Carlotta-Firmin in that case too. The opera glitterati, tabl-"

Her list was cut off by Erik's lips. Another plus about these wire masks-they didn't press so harshly against her face. "How long," he murmured when they drew back for air. "How long did you believe yourself alone in love?"

"A long time. It came so slowly I had to have Meg tell me I had a crush. Or that might just be a 'me' thing. I might be oblivious."

"You were focused." He smirked as his long fingers cupped her cheek. "Ah to have such focus again."

"If you rather I didn't kiss you while we worked-" She started to rise from her seat, but Erik pulled her back, holding her against his chest and found a better use for mouths than teasing.

Chapter 25

When they were able to pull away from one another, he insisted on showing her more-how to get into the backrooms, right under the orchestra, and even into the manager's office (a wall panel that slid on silent rollers right beside a large bookcase). He led, or she explored, both of them hand in hand when they could, smiling and excited. He even showed her his 'best seat in the house', right near the chandelier, in the room where it's mechanisms were; the place where Charles had so very unintentionally give Erik the gumption to propose. Here, part of the ceiling was his two-way glass, and he could not only watch the stage but the people too.

"And this will all be your opera house too, Mrs. Khan." He placed his hands on her shoulders as she pressed her nose against the glass, listening to the orchestra practice. To think only months ago he had been holed up here, in this very spot, wondering if he'd even have a chance to see his student ever again. Now they watched the workings side by side. "This is your home as well, now."

"It feels like it already," she agreed. Despite having never been in this labyrinth of secret passages, she had been able to navigate with some certainty. It was as familiar to her as her apartment, or Erik's home. With all that had been done and decided here, she felt much ownership, even if it was known only to them.

Christine felt Erik's lips smile as he placed a kiss on her neck. They made their way through the passages backstage, Christine peering through the mirrors in the dressing rooms, where ballerinas were doing their last stretches and singers were leaning close to the glass, pulling absurd faces to ensure their makeup was comely. She had to cover her mouth to stifle her giggles-which stopped soon enough.

"I can't believe this," one of the Bharatanatyam dances muttered into the glass. "I thought the theater was going to provide some makeup artists to help us? Otherwise, I would have down this at home with my own stuff!"

"Yeah well…" A ballerina paused in her hair gathering, pins clamped between her teeth. "We all know where they are."

"Where?"

"Carlotta," came the resounding answer from several people.

"The diva?"

"Yeah, the Maz keeps three make up artists on staff, and they all go to her." One of the women shook her head.

"They have to," another performer said, tugging up her stockings under her red shimmer gown. "To make that face look young again."

"Remember when the ghost shattered her mirror? She should have taken the hint!" A round of laughter and Christine turned slightly to Erik, a brow raised. After their adventure, she needed no hints to guess who the ghost was. The spectator even had the gall to wink at her.

"Are you serious," the dancer gasped. She moved over to the girl pulling a comb roughly through her pin-straight hair. "Not about the ghost I mean-wait, aren't you her understudy or something? Shouldn't you get one?"

"Not or something. I am. And no, I never do. Most of us do our own makeup before going out there."

"That's fucked up!"

"Tell me about it. And take your time, because we aren't starting on schedule. She's introducing the show and singing at intermission, so you can bet your ass we'll be late as fuck."

"Jesus, doesn't anyone complain?"

A ballerina nodded. "The owners do."

Christine felt Erik tense behind her, but looking up into his eyes she saw blatant curiosity. Had he never bothered to stay and hear them gossip about him?

"Yeah." The understudy began a delicate balancing act-one arm combing out her long hair, her other hand running the straightener over it, to give it shine. "I mean I've only ever seen Mr. Garnier. Mr. Khan is like a recluse or something. Or he doesn't live near here, something like that. But they both can't stand her. I hear they're trying to push her out."

"Good luck," one of the performers sing-songed.

"Man that's awful," the dancer murmured as she returned to her task, her hand shaking with her eyeliner. "Goddamnit, I can't do it like this."

Behind them, the door burst open, another Bharatanatyam dancer burst in, dressed in sweats, white flowers in her braid askew, and her face covered in tears. Her companion at the mirror jumped. "Holy shit, Aya, what happened?!"

"Someone stole my stuff," she wept. "What are we gonna do?! I put-I put it right outside the door, my bright red duffle bag-I wouldn't miss it, and it's gone!"

"Shit! Lemmie go find a staffer."

Christine shook her head and turned to Erik. She heard enough. "Can you go look for her bag?"

He flattened himself against the wall as she shimmied passed. "Where are you going?"

"Well, this is going to be my opera house right? And some of these singers and ballerinas are from the Maz troupe, right? I'm going to help them-they need it. Besides, it'll make a good impression, just in case they start hating me on principal when I replace Carlotta."

She made it a few steps down the passage when Erik caught her and kissed her crown. "You're a good girl, Christine."

She found her way back to box 5, and hurried through the crowds to Jules' office, asking for a spare staff shirt. Pulling it over her dress, Christine rushed into the theater. Suddenly the opera that had become so dear to her was filled with people and noise and clutter. It felt akin to yelling in a church; there was something wrong with it. Like it tread on the sanctity of what she and Erik made in this very room, in the quiet of the night.

No time to dwell on that now. Weaving between the stagehands she edged her way backstage to the main dressing room.

"Hey!" The Bharatanatyam dancer with the crooked eyeliner waved her down. "Hey, we need help."

"Missing your bag?"

"I-" She stopped short. "Yeah, how'd you know?"

"I heard your friend, Aya? I have someone looking for it now."

"Oh-thank you!" She put a hand to her head and leaned against the wall. "I think her wallet and stuff were in there too."

"Is there any way to get a spare costume, just in case? So you can perform?"

"She's calling out studio now."

"Great. Come on, let me help you with your makeup."

"Aren't you supposed to be with the diva?"

Christine smiled. "I don't work for her, or the manager. I'm employed by the owner. Let me help."

Immediately Christine was swept up in it again: the excitement before a show. The breathless anticipation, the last minute practicing. There was a wide variation of talent here, between dancers and singers and those here to play solos with their chosen instruments. Now Christine was glad for the scant freelance makeup work she did at weddings and promos right after leaving school. It felt natural weaving between the stressed women, knowing what needed to be done to prepare for the stage. She bustled back and forth, helping with eyeliner here, zipping up a dress there, finding lost bobby pins and talking a few performers down from the ledge. With her lending an extra pair of eyes and hands, all the performers seemed to relax a little. Christine recalled Raoul's words: You're like a human Xanax.

Her hands slipped a little, helping a ballerina with her bun. "Sorry, sorry. I've got it."

Raoul. She never did read his letter. With all that happened afterwards, there had been too much to even think about it. It got misplaced or thrown out in the shuffle. She felt bad, but she was sure there was nothing in it that she couldn't devise on her own. She knew Raoul asked about her in the cafe-and Christine told Meg to relay messages back. On the Mazandaran Facebook account, when Teach Me was put up as the Halloween event, Christine saw that Raoul planned on coming. And that was it.

She shook herself. Well, they didn't hate each other, that was the good. She'd leave the rest. "Give me your makeup bag, let me help."

The connections she made during her lessons aided her here. Many of the staff and stagehands didn't dare break from their assigned duties, but when Christine asked, they were more than happy to help. She was able to flag Mike down and shoved some money into his hand, telling him to go to the local Quick Check and grab two cases of water-one for the female dressing room and one for the male. She got Jules to bring in a box of straws from the break room so the girls didn't have to muss their lipstick when drinking.

A quick call to Meg and a platter of pastries was brought on her way down from the Little Latte. Apparently, Charles had invited her to come tonight. "You're lucky you caught me before I left," she said as she helped pass out last minute food.

Christine thanked her again, as she brushed highlighter on the cheek of Carlotta's understudy, Martha. She was too busy to even ask about the invitation. "It's been a little crazy here. All the staff is either setting up or being commandeered by Carlotta." Meg gagged, causing many of the girls to laugh. Christine smiled a little herself. For a second, as she leaned back to check her work on Martha's face, she had a fleeting thought:

I belong here.

She caught her reflection in the mirror. Her hair was a little out of place with the running through Erik's passages and the busy help work. But Christine saw the flush in her face, the health hanging about her cheeks and hips, the slight smile that didn't seem to leave.

She remembered the girl before, who would glance into the mirror only to check for spots and smears, pale and dead-eyed, who's mouth only remembered how to smile, and never why. And she also remembered the woman in Meg's bathroom, barely even alive, eyes bright, but face pale; bruise-like bags under her eyes, lips dry and cracked and shaking like a leaf, weary from the emotional battlefield.

So who did she see now? The woman in the haphazard staff shirt, with a smirk, always playing at her lips, a ring flashing on her hand. Her round face full again made up simply and only for her own joy. The woman who acted now without fretting, or worrying.

The reflection looked alive.

Christine smiled at herself in the mirror and returned to cleaning up the discarded brushes. Whoever that mirror girl was or would become, Christine was truly beginning to like her.

Aya slipped back in, carrying a black bag, and in less dire straits than before. Christine smiled and immediately brought her over a muffin that was still warm. "They couldn't find your bag, Aya?"

She shook her head. "No-but our coach was able to race to the studio and bring me back another one."

"That's lucky. Here-are you good to finish on your own, Martha?"

"Yeah, don't worry." The singer caught her hand. "You're a lifesaver, Chris. Mr. Garnier ought to raise your pay."

"Mr. Garnier," Meg laughed. "Who did you say you were, Christine?"

Christine elbowed her friend. "She-Meg means I don't work for Mr. Garnier, I work for Mr. Khan."

Suddenly she was surrounded by those employed by the Mazandaran directly. Everyone fired off questions-(Who is he? What does he look like? Does he come here often and we just don't know it?) Christine held up her hands, wanting to kick herself. True their event was posted, but she supposed it was a stretch to believe anyone would connect that Erik Khan to the mysterious Mr. Khan. "He-he's a great man. And he wants everyone to be happy. So he sent me. He had an inclination that Ms. Charlotte would be hijacking the night. Aya, come on, let me help you with your skirt."

Finally, Christine was let go from evading questions and doing makeup. She wanted these people to like her-to think she got in on her talent (which, by God, she would!). Letting slip she was marrying the owner wasn't the best way to achieve that, so she had spent the last half hour giving half-answers or just avoiding the inquiries altogether.

Meg gave her a wipe from her bag as they slowly made their way back to the main hall. Christine scrubbed her hands and arms free of eyeliner smudges and shadow swatches. "Well, it looks like you'll fit right in here. I asked where 'Christine' was and everyone knew who I was talking about."

"We-they've got good people working here."

"It's gonna be 'we' soon enough, kid." Meg grinned. "Right where you belong, backstage, prepping for the big lights and the adoring crowds! And for your best friend who will get free merch, right?"

Christine shook her head. Golddigger! "Right."

"Marguerite!"

Both girls turned, seeing Mr. Gariner hurrying up to them. He was a little out of breath and had to comb back his hair, obviously just as rushed as the rest of the staff. Christine took a step back, looking him over. Where was the tweed suit, and who was this man in tan slacks and a black silk shirt rolled up at the sleeves? Was that a tattoo on his forearm, right under his watch? "Oh, hello Christine. Where's your shadow?"

"Somewhere." She gestured to the walls and ceiling. "I sent him on an errand and haven't seen him since."

"He probably went back home. Anything to avoid hearing that woman sing."

"Probably." An awkward silence fell, and Christine realized that she was the third wheel. Excusing herself, she went to look into one of the decorative hall mirrors, wiping away any stray flecks of highlighter from her neck and hands. But in the glass, she watched Meg and Mr. Garnier. He handed her an envelope.

"Here's our seats, we're in box 6. Can you find your way, or do you want me to walk you?"

"I'm not that foolish, I can find my way. And you're probably busy."

"Yeah-Firmins locked up with the diva, and not doing his damn job. I'll be so happy when Erik takes over."

"Why, so you can complain more about him?"

Charles spread his hands, grinning. "Of course, why else?" He stepped closer and, to Christine's shock, leaned down and stole a quick kiss. Before Meg could speak, he placed a hand on her waist and squeezed. "I'll meet you up there before the curtain rises, promise." Then he was gone, probably to put out another fire.

Christine stifled her giggles behind her hand at finally seeing Meg a little speechless. Then she remembered what she had just learned about the mirrors. She stuck her tongue out at her own reflection. Just in case.

"So-"

"Not a word Daae." Meg straightened her blouse. "He...I mean we...this is technically our first date and he just-"

Christine linked their arms. "Was that your first kiss? How romantic!"

"Roma-you being with an eccentric billionaire has really screwed with your perception of romantic!"

Laughing, Christine steered her towards the doors, wanting to take her up to box 5 and show off a little. Before they reached, however, Christine spied another Bharatanatyam dancer, clutching a thermos and looking lost, nearly in tears. Well, what was one more crisis solved before they sat?

"Hey, excuse me? Are you lost?"

The girl jumped. She was dressed but didn't have the same white flowers as the other dancers-maybe whoever stole Aya's red bag stole her hair stuff too. She clutched the thermos tighter. "I-I-I'm supposed to bring this tea to the soprano. Short, with long dark hair? Th-the star."

Oy vey. There was only one singer here that could inspire so much terror. "She's backstage." Christine pointed down the hall. "Go through that door, and take a left, you'll be near the dressing rooms. Find someone with this shirt." She tugged at her staff T-shirt she hadn't yet shed. "If you can't find someone, ask where Mike is, he'll help you. Okay?"

The girl nodded, still shaking so much her bangles tinkled. But she hurried off without another word. "Can you believe that? Getting another performer to step and fetch for her?"

"Yeah. If only there was some plan in place to kick her out," Meg teased.

Christine pulled off the staff shirt and threw it at her friend. "Keep that up and I won't get Erik to show you how the stage mirror work after the show!" As if on queue, Christine's phone buzzed. Taking it out, she saw a message from Erik. It was a picture of her, sticking her tongue out from the other side of the mirror.

---

"That's call spying, you know."

"You don't think she wouldn't do the same," Christine murmured. Perched on the footstool in box 5, she was using her phone's camera to peer into box 6 across the way. She could see Meg's golden hair, but Charles' seat was pushed back a little. They were talking...or so she assumed. Martha's prediction had been totally correct-the performance was late. Well, when Erik was manager, Christine was sure that'd be a thing of the past.

Erik himself was lounging in his seat, masked face illuminated by his phone. He and Nadir had discovered online chess, and now could be locked forever in battle, no longer regulated to just Sundays. He swore softly in Farsi, and bit his gloved thumb, peering at the screen and considering his next move.

"Check again?"

"Check isn't the end of the game," he muttered.

Christine patted his leg and went back to her shameless spying. "She hasn't told me anything about what's been going on with him, which is totally unfair as she has been privy to everything about us."

That caught Erik's attention. "Everything?"

"Well, not everything. She still doesn't your limit on your platinum card." She gave him an innocent smile over her shoulder. Erik huffed and leaned forward, pulling back the curtain.

"...What is he wearing?"

"I know right?" Christine glanced back at the box and immediately tucked her phone away. Meg was glaring at her.

Charles leaned around his date and caught Erik's eyes. He gave him a very rude gesture. Erik reciprocated and sat back, the curtain falling over the box once more, taking Christine's arm and pulling her with him. He settled her in his lap, and wrapping his arms around her, lifted his phone again to contemplate his next move. "Leave them be, Christine. Charles knows better than to stain my chairs."

"Ew, Erik. Ew."

She felt rather than heard him chuckle. Leaning back, Christine watched him for the next couple of moves before her curiosity got the better of her. As they started a new game, Erik began to explain his gambits and choices and how he suspected Nadir somehow found a way to cheat in the game. He leaned his masked cheek against her curls, and she found she didn't really mind messing up her hair. After all, they'd simply return to the house after this-maybe curl up in front of the fire while Erik critiqued every performance in the order of competency.

Finally, just as Erik was able to save one of his knights, the lights winked indicating the start of the show. Dutifully they turned their phones off, and Christine sunk deeper into Erk's embrace, her cheek tucked into his shoulder. Despite his general boney-ness, it was quite comfortable, tucked in his velvet chair, Erik's arms around her, his hand running along her bared skin.

"You are happy," he murmured. Christine shifted slightly to look up into his gold gaze.

"Of course I am. I'm with you, we're about to see a show. And we're together."

"We have been together for quite some time now."

Christine lay her head back again. "Sorry, Meg and I have already picked out flowers. You can't get cold feet now."

"Never." Erik held her a little tighter. She felt his breath, to speak again. But he seemed to think better of it, resting his lips against her hair.

On stage, Carlotta entered with her gold gown whispering behind her-slinky with a slit up the side to show off her glittering pumps. She was older but wore it well enough. She did not have many signs of her years, but it was made even more evident by the distinct difference between her arms and neck and the perfectly blended face. Three makeup artists and no one thought to pat foundation anywhere else? She seemed to clear her throat a few times before launching into a bored and rather stock introduction of the night's performance with her thickly accented voice. She mentioned her position as the Mazenderan's diva a few too many times for Christine's taste.

Losing interest fast, Christine focused more on capturing her fiance's hand, freeing it from its glove, and lacing their fingers. "Erik," she whispered.

"Mm?"

"When you have your wedding ring, are you still going to wear this?" She turned Nasheed's ring slightly on his little finger.

"Why wouldn't Erik?"

Christine bit her lip. "Well...um, would it be awful if I asked you not to? I don't like the idea of this sitting next to our wedding band."

He disentangled his fingers and held his hand up slightly. The onyx was like a void encased in metal in the low light. He had never contemplated it much. When he had won it, he had worn it everywhere. To every court case after Nasheed was behind bars, and they were prosecuting his associates. He wore it whenever he went out, like a trophy. He had in some way, placed on it the importance of his victory: his triumph over his suffering.

That was obviously a lie. So what was it about it, that he should hesitate when Christine asked? Indeed, when she reminded him of the ring he was to have-the symbol of their everlasting vows.

"I mean-I know it means something to you but…" She took his hand again and ran her thumbs over the still boney knuckles. No matter how much he ate now, he never seemed to gain a pound. Very unfair. "I don't want to take away from what you've done. I just, I don't like it. I'm sorry."

"Do not be sorry to tell your Erik the truth," he said, fingers closing around hers. But he did not respond to her request. He supposed he ought to get rid of it, it had no place among them…

Christine shifted on his lap a little, sitting up to watch as the Bharatanatyam dancers took the stage. All three of them with their gentle smiles and gold-lined outfits. They all had white flowers in their hair. The last girl must have found hers, though Christine couldn't find her face in the tiny group, and frowned. Had Carlotta rattled her so much she wasn't able to go on?

The following performances were just as good, and even had Erik nodding in time to the music-though she felt him huff like a walrus more than once during the solo violinist, and something about an 'awful technique' and the 'bow wound tighter than Khan'. Christine shook her head, and simply enjoyed. Though it was not lost on her that soon-very soon-it would be their turn up on that stage. She felt a little queasy at that-but only a small pang.

"Want me to get us some seltzer from the bar," she whispered in Erik's ear as Carlotta returned to sing them off into intermission. It was a classic tune from every soprano's repertoire, O Mio Babbino Caro, and from what Christine had witnessed during her time recording beneath the floorboards, she'd do nothing but add to it in an attempt to show off her prowess. She wouldn't miss much, and she'd beat the intermission crowds.

Erik nodded as the music began, shifting to let her off his lap. Below, Carlotta spread her hands and sang out to the crowd:

"O mio babbino caro

Mi piace, è bello, bello

Vo' andare in Porta Rossa

A comperar l'a-"

Her pitch hit sharp, squeaked and then her voice cracked. She had begun the bar so strong that the sound was as starling as a car backfiring. Even Christine jumped as she smoothed out her skirt, whirling around to look at the stage. Erik pointed and looked up at her silently as if to say she didn't breathe, to which Christine pulled a face. "Ha-ha. Whatever, I've never sounded like that," she whispered.

Carlotta, a seasoned professional, covered the mistake with a smile. "Pardon! Pardon." She tapped her throat. "How you say-technical difficulties!" Shaking her head, she gestured to the orchestra. "Maestro, por favor."

The music started again, and Carlotta seemed to take it easier, leading up the notes. Christine could even see her inhaling so deeply her bodice stretched and caught the light. Well, she was sure to hit at least a note this time-

"Mi piace, è bel-" Her voice cracked again. Clutching her throat, she tried again, without any signaling to Reyer in the pit. A scratchy high-pitched squeal, like one would make during a particularly bad cold, was emitted. A third time-and nothing at all but a gasp.

Erik, who had been snickering moments before, suddenly lept to his feet, clutching the side of the box as he had two years ago, watching Christine. But there was no joy in it now. His whole body shook, trembling like he had seen a real ghost on stage.

Carlotta looked around widely, tears suddenly in her eyes. She tried calling for help-but there was no voice to it. By that time Reyer signaled from the pit to close the damn curtains. A voice came over the speakers, asking for patience for the technical difficulties.

Christine rushed to her lover's side. "Erik? What's wrong? Erik, you're shaking!"

But he didn't answer, instead fumbled for his phone, turning it on and swearing when it didn't boot up fast enough for his taste. As he went for Nadir's number the door to box 5 opened.

"Did you hear that," Charles laughed as he stepped in. Seeing Erik's wide eyes, he sobered. "Hey-Erik you didn't-"

"No," Erik breathed, holding the phone to his face. "Khan? Khan! Get to the Maz, right now. Right now."

Charles looked alarmed now. "Erik what's going on?!"

"Carlotta-she was given madar's medicine!" Whether he was talking to Charles and Christine or Nadir on the phone it was hard to tell. "I didn't-I didn't think anyone else knew how to make it! They didn't know how to make it! Only she-"

"What are you talking about," came Nadir's panicked voice, loud enough through the mobile to be heard.

"Madar's medicine! My medicine! My punishment medicine!"

Christine blanched. Punishment medicine? Madar's? The world tipped slightly as she leaned against the box wall. They had heard absolutely nothing from Esther in months-and now a singer in Erik's theater had her voice ruined in a way Erik was familiar. If this was how he was punished as a slave-stripping him of the only physical beauty he had-

"The hell are you talking about," Charles cut off.

But Erik had stopped talking, his head cocked towards the theater again. Slowly, despite both of them peppering him with questions, he looked up at the ceiling. In all the chaos and chatter, none of them had heard the gentle tinkle of glass. But as Christine followed Erik's gaze, she saw it. The majestic chandelier above them, with its many cut crystal hangings, loose and swaying to catch the light, jostled. Just slightly. And then again.

Erik dropped his phone and threw himself at the secret door at the back of the box, his footsteps loud as he ran.

"Erik-" Christine made to go after him, but her eyes were glued to the chandelier. No...it couldn't-

Another jostle, and the sound of metal on metal, and the giant mass of glass and electricity began to free fall. Christine's shriek was lost among the crowd's screaming. It sailed down, but half it's rigging caught, sending it sideways with a crack of wire and electricity, straight towards her.

Christine was weightless as Charles grabbed her and flung them both back into the hall, landing hard on the ground. She heard a smash of glass and wood and saw other box doors fling open, their occupants racing out.

Christine stood, shaky on her feet and holding onto Charles for support. Peering through the doorway, she saw that the box still stood, the chandelier wedged onto its ledge, all broken metal and crystal, the lights winking feebly in its death throes.

She faintly heard Nadir's voice and peered through the wreckage. There on the floor of the box was Erik's phone, the screen flashing under its smashed surface.

---

Meg came and knelt by Christine's feet. "Drink this." She handed her a cup of water and watched the ripples as Chrisitne's shaking hands took hold.

They sat on one of the benches in the overcrowded lobby, out of the way for the moment. Christine was wrapped in an orange shock blanket, as were many others who had been in the boxes visited by the chandelier. Police officers were trying to create calm as well as interview witnesses. Which was, technically, all of them. The entire theater had seen what happened, and some had run out when the chandelier first began to tremble.

Behind her she heard Jules fighting with the printer, trying to give the officer standing over him a complete list of the tickets scanned tonight. Somewhere in the crowd was Charles, probably being interviewed. Nadir was there somewhere too, having rushed in, hastily dressed and ashen-faced. After making sure Christine was wrapped tight and promised to stay put, he went in search of Erik.

It had been hours now, the entire audience corralled into the entrance hall or the ballroom, not allowed to leave. Meg sat beside her, dabbing at her face, trying to clear it of mascara. She had been weeping as she pushed through the crowds, for both Christine and Mr. Garnier, afraid they had been victim to the crash. Her breathing still hitched slightly, even as she rubbed Christine's back.

She didn't dare ask if she was okay-Meg knew better. Still, Christine poked one of her hands out if her blanket and placed it on her friend's knee. She was still too numb to give any real comfort, but she wanted to feel something real-something grounded.

Madar's medicine. That's what Erik had said Carlotta swallowed, probably what made her croak. Christine had assumed the moment one of the performers mentioned in the dressing room that Erik was the ghost-had even wrangled a few spooky stories from the Maz regulars as she helped. But Carlotta's broken mirror was as violent as they ever were; and Erik spoke as if it was a surprise to him that Carlotta should have taken it, whatever that medicine was.

And, blood-stained though he was, Christine knew he would never destroy someone's voice.

A medicine that took your voice-what horror to those who used it to communicate, not only to others but to themselves. It seemed too sadistic, even with Erik's back covered in scars. It took true hatred, not only to destroy Erik but all he had built. Esther and the past had wormed their way through the cracks-and leaked it into the Mazenderan, into Carlotta's dressing room...

Christine gripped her cup, the plastic snapping under her palm. "What, what is it," Meg asked, worried that Christine was in pain.

"I have-I have to find Nadir." She stood, still clutching her blanket. She went to the officer with Jules. The cop standing over the usher manager looked tired, haggard and eyed the crowd warily. "I have to speak to Detective Khan."

"Ma'am, please, just sit and stay calm. Someone will be along to take your statement."

"No, I can't wait. It's important. I have to tell him something-I think I know something that will help. Something I saw."

The officer pursed his lips, obviously trying to decide between how much trouble he'd get in for bothering the detectives and how much trouble Christine would be if he said no. He tilted his head to the side, pressing the button on his radio. "Bryers, where's Khan?"

A bit of static and a scratchy voice answered, "In the manager's office."

"I know where that is," Christine said, and without waiting for a by your leave, turned on her heel, Meg following closely.

"What did you see," she asked softly, unsure whether now was a time to push.

"Do you remember that girl-the girl with the thermos? Without the flowers in her hair?" Christine took the steps three at a time. "She wasn't in the dance group, I couldn't find her when they were on stage. And she looked lost-but the other girls were already in the back and-"

Christine knocked on the door of the manager's office when they arrived. A detective opened it, took in Christine and her shock blanket, and frowned. "Yes?"

"I need to speak with officer Khan, right now, it's very important!"

"He's in the middle of-"

"Let her in, Bryers," came Nadir's voice within.

Christine ducked under the detective's arm and came up short. The manager's desk had been pushed to the far end of the wide room, and in the middle sat the girl Christine had seen in the hall, weeping piteously in the large swivel chair. Looking at her now, Christine saw how she stuck out. She had heels on under her costume, and her hands weren't painted. She was so obviously an interloper that Christine could have punched herself right there. At her feet was Aya's red bag.

"Come in Christine," Nadir said softly. "Not you Meg. Detective Bryers, please take Miss Giry back to the entrance hall."

Meg whispered Christine's name, but let herself be ushered back into the hall. The door closed with a soft click.

"I know her," Christine said softly.

Nadir pushed off the wall where he had been leaning. "Know her?"

"She was wandering around the halls. I thought she was lost-separated from her group. I showed her how to get backstage." Christine swallowed the lump that had grown in her throat. She had led her backstage, she had given her the chance to destroy the theater. Christine was at fault for this. "I-I am so sorry."

"I wouldn't feel too badly." Erik's voice was strong, dark, but quiet from his shadowed corner. "She had already set up camp in the chandelier room. You see, she stole a staff shirt first, got her way up into the rigging from the main door. So the chandelier was her main event. Carlotta was just the greeting card." He stepped closer. "Little viper was told just what to do. The question is, by who?"

The girl flinched away from Erik. Nadir edged closer. "Fatma, listen to me. We know the stuff you gave Carlotta, we know where it came from. But all we need to know his who specifically told you to do it." He knelt slightly, trying to look into her weeping face. How he could speak so softly, so kindly to a girl Christine wanted to shake until her teeth rattled?! "Who did they threaten? Your mom, or your dad? Your brother? We can protect you."

The girl-Fatma, clapped her hands over her ears and shook her head, letting out a moaning sob.

"This is getting us nowhere," Erik snapped. He ripped off his mask and grabbed the girl's face, forcing it up. Fatma screamed, clawing at his hand in terror. And his face was terrifying. In the low light of the officer, his hairless brow made his eyes look sunken, practically glowing from the shadows, his barely lipped mouth twisted in a snarl. He knelt close, Fatma unable to lean away from his twisted visage, and spoke low and in clear Farsi to her.

Christine's stomach turned, and she clutched the blanket more firmly around her shoulders, backing up against the wall with a bump. It was happening again-all of it. The terror, the revenge, the interrogation. It was like someone had necromanced the past versions of the past before her, the detective and the phantom. Like some sick play put on just for Christine.

Erik hissed one last time before the girl cried, "Esther!"

Letting her go as if her flesh burned him, Erik looked to Nadir. The detective looked sick. "Alright. Esther. Who did she threaten?"

"No one!" The girl looked at Nadir and for half a second Christine thought she was going to spit in his face. "No one! You put my father away! All he did was move money, that's it and you still went after him! Do you know what we had to do?! To survive?"

"Rats always find a way to live," Erik muttered, slinking back to his corner.

Nadir held up a hand to silence him. "Fine. Fine, you wanted to hurt Erik. But why harm the diva? Carlotta? She has nothing to do with this."

Fatma shot a glare at Erik. "Because it's marrying her!"

Christine, who was feeling light-headed before, felt like she was in total free fall. The soprano, long dark hair-the star. Such loose terms would describe her and Carlotta, especially by a woman who saw Christine and Erik announce their performance before the world. It was logical for her twisted mind to assume that she was already heading her lover's theater. After all, it was Erik's original plan.

Esther had wanted that to be Christine croaking and gasping on stage, to give Christine the same wicked substance that robbed Erik of his voice-and it would have deprived him two times over. Had she succeeded, Christine would have never wanted to be on stage again, the center of ridicule and pity. And after these two years, she would have finally understood Erik on the most base levels-in suffering.

A strong arm came around her waist, lifting her up, helping her walk out of the room. She hadn't even realized she had been falling. "Come, Christine. Come along."

Erik's soothing voice beckoned her back as her vision narrowed. They were walking down the hall-she couldn't tell where. But it seemed like a very long way, the red corridor stretching before her, as her fiance's voice became more and more distant.

Her-her-it was meant to be her. Esther had targeted Christine. She was the perfect thing to aim at, she was Erik's weakness-she broke Erik's will. Her knees buckled. Erik held her up and took the cup from her hands. Then she felt a sprinkle of cold against her face. He was flicking water over her forehead.

"Sweetheart-stay awake Christine. Christine, listen to me. Come now."

Esther had told the girl to harm her-everything they had worked for, destroyed. What made Christine Christine ripped away. And they would have won-and Christine and Erik would have been left broken. Voiceless.

"Christine!"

Her hand went to her throat, and her knees gave way as her vision went black.

Chapter 26

Erik rose from his spot beside Christine in his bed, the back of his fingers gently caressing her cheek as he did so. She slumbered peacefully now under the quilts he had piled on top of her, and no longer murmured in her sleep. He had driven her to Nadir's home under the watchful eyes of the boys in blue, staying there until the detective finished with the interviews and paperwork.

Meg was not about to leave Christine-and Charles was not about to leave Meg. Like a caravan, they had all driven to the Khan safehouse. Miss Giry and Charles could be heard in the living room below, talking softly about ordering something to eat while they waited and what would be easy on Christine's stomach. With the realization that this was a Nasheed operation, they were circled by the police cruisers like sharks around chum: leaving wasn't an option, tonight.

Just in case.

"Want me to call someone? There's a doctor who lives up the road," Nadir asked, lingering in the doorway. "He won't mind taking a house call for me."

Shaking his head, Erik slid his mask back on. "No. No, she's only fainted. She's sleeping now. I've told Miss Giry to give her a cyclobenzaprine when she wakes up so she'll keep sleeping."

"Are you sure it's wise to drug her?"

"It's just a muscle relaxer, to help." Finally, he turned to face the detective. Here they were again, under the shadow of Bin Nasheed. Another generation, the same terror and chaos. Only it was Erik's wife who was sequestered into the house, Erik who was their target.

"With Fatma, it's just a waiting game," Nadir said. "Once the ink is dry on the paperwork, we're picking up Esther."

"I'm sure." Erik picked up the keys he'd tossed on the dresser and slapped his pocket to check for his phone. No-it was still at the Maz, shattered and in an evidence bag.

Square one-back to the beginning again.

"Then w-Erik where are you going," Nadir demanded as Erik slid passed, taking the stairs two at a time. Clinging to the railing, he followed, making a hell of a lot more noise than his shadowy friend. Charles started from his place off the couch, but Nadir commanded, "Stay here, watch Christine."

By the time he got outside, Erik was already in his jaguar, turning off the headlights making the black metal melt into the twilight shadows. Nadir placed his hands on the hood, keeping him from speeding off. "You're not doing this Erik, you're not going after her. Don't throw-"

The window rolled down, and Erik fixed him with a cold golden stare. "Either get in or get out of the way, Nadir. Now."

Hesitation only lasted a second. If he was telling him to come along, he wasn't about to hang anyone. He had barely swung himself into the passenger seat before Erik sped off, one of the unmarked cruisers following. Nadir held onto the door's handle, his eyes trained on Erik. He saw his friend's jaw work under the mask, his gloved hands squeezing the wheel heard enough to make the leather creak. He had seen Erik hysterical and seen him calm with icy determination. But this barely controlled, all at once an utterly focused man-

"They aren't getting away with it," Erik snapped.

"They're not. Tomorrow-"

"It's not fair," he continued, the speedometer's needle slowly rising as they got onto the highway. "That we should sacrifice so much, and continually tithe apart of our lives because of them. Our lives, Nadir." He spared the cop a glance.

Nadir swallowed. So many had been sacrificed at the altar of justice: time with his wife, his precious baby; Erik's recovery and the help he so desperately needed. All of them, coins in the plate for the law's church. But what else could they do? "It's-she's lashing out. She'd not about to start another war over this, it won't be forever-"

"It already if forever! Don't you feel it too? Every creak in the middle of the night wakes you, doesn't it? Every time you see something out of place, you feel as if it's been moved, that your home has been violated instead of simply being misplaced. Every person walking in the same direction, you take extra turns to lose them-you watch people's hands instead of their eyes wondering if they have a knife or weapon or ill intent. Don't you?"

Nadir focused ahead of him, watching the white dotted stripes on the road flicker past. "Yes," he breathed. He slept with his personal firearm by his bed, an extra magazine beside his watch on the nightstand. He found himself memorizing license plates of cars that were behind him for just a little too long out of habit. Things he did that were not even conscious, as natural as breathing; living scars from a more painful time.

"That is the tithe," Erik said. "They've done to you what they did to me. They made you something else. They changed you. They hurt me, they hurt you-they tried to hurt Christine."

"So what are you doing? Where are we going, Erik? To get revenge, hurt them back? Then they will retaliate and the cycle starts again? There's a reason you came to me-you didn't want to be like them, hitting back blindly where they hit you!"

"I did not start the cycle," he shouted, crossing over two lanes for the exit last minute. The wheels screamed in protest, and the cruiser behind them had trouble following. "But I will end it. They make us dance at the end of their rope, making us chase and search and sacrifice-making us what we are. But no more-I am not their creature I am no longer theirs to scare and manipulate. I will fight them for every last inch until there is nothing left in my body but hatred and bones."

Nadir did not discourage him-really he was more concerned about bracing against the side of the door to keep his seat-but the last words caught his attention. "Don't give them more than what they've already taken Erik. They aren't worth it."

Erik stomped on the brakes, and there was a large bump as the low car's right front wheel mounted the curb. He stared out at the house, a fashionable mint blue townhouse with a typical double garage and innocent lace curtains in the window. A stage ill set for the penultimate act.

Worth-there was nothing more worthy than protecting his family. And if there was one thing the Nasheeds had beaten and starved into him, etched onto his very bones was that no one-not a soul-harmed the family.

It was time for the Phantom's last performance in this tragedy.

He opened his door, tearing out of the vehicle and charging up the sidewalk. Ripping off a glove, he stuck his fingers between his lips and let out a shrill, sharp whistle. Pacing like a panther, watching as the lights flicker on behind the lace curtains, one cracking to view the hell that had come to visit.

The door swung open and Esther's son started out, only to be grabbed by his mother and what Erik assumed was his sister. Esther shouted for them to stay as she descended the stairs, hobbling to put her shoes on and ran to Erik. "Get off my property! Get the hell away from here! You think you can scare me? You think I'll take it from-"

"I know I scare you," cut over her, looming high as she skidded to a stop before the sidewalk. "I'm the most frightening thing you've ever seen."

"The ugliest you son of a-" She cried and turned her head as he ripped off his mask. He bent to look her in the face.

"I know I scare you, Esther. I am you. Look at m-LOOK AT ME."

His tone was obviously more horrifying than his face, as her head snapped up to stare right into his golden unnatural eyes. Her own wide green gaze was swimming with hateful tears, her pretty little nose scrunched in rage, that full mouth still wearing the mauve of her chosen color twisted in horror. It was a face he had known all his life-had once looked upon as people look upon heavenly hosts and the Madonna. Once she had seemed everything light, and kind, and understanding. Once she had seemed friendly.

He had shielded her because he saw in her what he was. They may not have beat her as often, they may have fed and petted her, but he saw how they twisted and manipulated her. Erik had seen a kinship with Esther, wanted to protect her because he could not protect himself.

And he had been right-they had been tortured, in different ways but tortured none the less. But even victims-his heart still stuttered over that word-were given a choice. And like all those years before, Esther had only clarified his. Erik had chosen life.

Esther had chosen to drop a chandelier on a theater of innocents.

"I am everything you are, Esther. I was created by them too, I survived with you. We are the same; whatever you are made of I am too. I am your cowardice, avarice, and hate. Blindness and cruelty and apathy-I am your everything reflected perfectly: they made me with flawless aptitude just as they made you. The beast and the princess with the same disgusting center. I am simply without your pretty, pretty mask."

"I'm not a monster like you-you fucking murderer!"

"Murderer...yes-but for whom? In the service of whom? The first cut I made was in your name. I served you-and knelt before no one but you-I came to you in my time of need and you only offered my demise."

He remembered with perfect clarity, the very second Esther's sympathy for poor, stupid Lucy ran out. How the switch had been flipped, and how she had talked so callously of 'taking care' of the problem. He had reached blindly out in pain and she led him only towards more blood with hands that smelled of death. But he had tasted forgiveness. He had communed with mercy, been baptized by grace. And seeing Esther now, she was as disgusting to him as a swine rutting in the mud.

Having seen true goodness, she was no longer an angel to him.

Erik stepped back, out into the street. "So, yes, you are-and you're the worst kind: you don't know how monstrous you are, you vile cunt."

The slap was his goal, but it was still a shock after so many years of calm. It cracked through years of tough scar tissue and pressed down on the bruise of still-fresh pain. The spit that landed on his cheek might have burned-but it was hard to tell as her hands were still raining down on him. Instinct told him to shove her off, and hit back-she was smaller, slower and much too stupid to know how he could defend himself even without the lasso-but he bit down and took it, landing on the hard blacktop.

No more than a half a minute and Nadir was on her, his voice preluding the shouts of the officers from the cruiser as they barreled out. He heard her body hit the sidewalk and winced at the impact. But the feeling of saliva still dripping off his jaw washed clean any concern he might have had.

The sound of crying and shouting-of children calling for their mother and officers demanding compliance. The symphony of the hell was so familiar he could have hummed along. Erik stood instead, and took his ruined evening jacket off, wiping his face with the sleeve before folding it over his arm, standing like an immovable lighthouse in the storm.

They had Esther up, dragging her to the cruiser as she shouted for her children to call...someone. Erik didn't care to listen, he did not want to know what network she had created around her. Just like her mother. His hands could have had callouses from picking apart the web of Bin Nasheed, and the memory of the throbbing pain was enough to make him adverse.

"Erik." Nadir stopped him with a hand on his arm, the other hovering over his red cheek, breathing a little heavily. None of them were as young as they used to be.

"I didn't want to wait until tomorrow," Erik explained simply, slipping his mask back on.

The hand dropped, Nadir took a step back, watching them shove the struggling woman into the cruiser. Well...Erik was nothing if not efficient.

"...Yeah. Neither did I."

---

Sometime in the night, Christine heard Erik's voice asking her a question. It was so warm where she was, and so comfortable with him sitting beside her, long fingers stroking her curls. She knew something was wrong-whether with his tone, or the scent of the room or just some instinct that was as half asleep as she was. So wrong, she did not want to wake up and face it, wanting to stay in the theater of dreams, behind the black curtain of her eyelids. So she nodded absently to keep him from talking anymore. It must have been what he wanted because she felt his thin lips against her cheek, and the covers tucked more tightly around her.

The second time, she was more conscious. Meg was beside her with a glass of water and a little yellow pill. The light from the window made her wet hair look like white gold and she smelled like soap. "C'mon babe. Here, can you swallow laying down? Here's the straw." She helped her take the medicine (if Meg was giving it, there was no reason to worry, she figured). Swallowing, Christine lay her head back down and closed her eyes. She would just let the water settle for a moment before asking Meg what was going on. Just for a moment.

Just a moment.

With a sigh, she finally lifted her head and realized she must have fallen back asleep. The room was dark now...whatever room she was in. She knew this scent-familiar but different. She knew Erik had been here, his cologne lingered on her pillow, but the heady scent of incense and leather…

She was at Nadir's house, but this wasn't the guestroom. Sitting up, she pushed off the mountain of blankets and shivered as the cool air hit her bare arms and throat. She was still in her evening dress from the opera…

The Maz. The chandelier. Erik.

She had to find Erik. But standing was a problem. Her whole body felt like it was working through a vat of honey, slow and heavy. Her head felt like too much weight for her neck, even her flesh seemed to be hanging off her weak frame. Whatever Meg had given her was a doozy.

She made it out into the hallway, the smell of dinner making her stomach rumble with want but her mind recoiled from the thought of food. She rested a minute, leaning against the wall under Nadir's marine photo. She focused on Semper Fidelis engraved into the gold of the plaque until she felt brave enough to try the stairs. Even with her death grip on the banister she nearly missed the last step.

From his vigil at the window, Nadir whipped around. "Christine-"

"Chris!" Meg appeared in the kitchen doorway, alerted by Nadir's voice and hurried to her friend's side. "You okay? Come on, let's get food into you. Maybe I should have only given her half of one?"

Charles was at the kitchen island, cleaning up their dinner. He dropped the paper plates he was holding and immediately pulled out a stool for her. "No, she needed the sleep. Hey, kid. Look at me?"

Christine squinted at his face as he tilted her head to look int her eyes, the lights behind his head hurting. "What did you give me?"

"A muscle relaxer. You've never had one before, I bet."

She shook her head, and the room tilted slightly. Meg caught her arm and Christine realized that it was she herself had tilted.

"Ah, to be young with a good back. Sit, Marguerite. I'll cobble together something."

"What's going on?" Christine found purchase by resting her elbows on the counter and cradling her head in her hands. A delicate balancing act, as her arms felt as wobbly as her legs. "What happened?"

Meg frowned. "Now I know it was too much. Don't you remember the chandelier?"

The beautiful structure hurtling towards her-the graceful delicate beauty metamorphosed into an electrical creature of destruction with sharp glass teeth. "Yes, I remember. I remember the girl too. Is she in custody?"

"Yes. And so is Esther."

"And where-"

"No." Meg placed her hand on Christine's crown. "No, you're going to have something first. Charles, don't tell her anything else, or she won't eat."

Mr. Garnier nodded. "Marguerite is right, you need to have something in your stomach, you've been out for a day."

She knew she'd get nothing more out of them now that they worked in tandem, and Nadir wasn't moving from his place at the window. So she had the reheated Chinese they ordered and a bit of orange soda woke her up enough for her to attempt walking again. But she was diverted from the detective and ushered upstairs to the shower. Meg had brought clothes from home she could borrow, and sat on the toilet seat while Christine bathed, just in case she got dizzy and needed help.

And still, no Erik. It wasn't like him. If she had so much as a paper cut, he was by her side. Many times he deemed the trek from the living room to the bedroom too difficult for her and insisted on carrying her. So if he was not here…

"Meg, what's going on," she asked softly. "Please tell me. I'll just imagine something worse."

The blonde, who had taken up the unthankful task of combing Christine's hair, paused. She was seated behind Christine who was wrapped in a robe on her borrowed bed and scooted around to settling beside her. "I told you. They arrested the girl and Esther. No one was killed-Charles said there were some minor injuries from the glass and sparks but nothing that can't be helped or paid for. He says the theater has insurance-I didn't even know they made insurance for buildings."

Christine gripped her wide sleeve, willing herself not to shout. "Meg. Where is Erik?"

Meg seemed to weigh her words carefully. "The night before last, when we finally got here-he and Nadir went out. They arrested Esther."

"So he's at the police station?"

"No…" Meg rubbed her face. "No. They came back and Erik came up here to check on you. Then he left."

"When was that?"

"Yesterday evening."

"He's been gone for a whole day?!" Christine shot up, taking the stairs again, not caring as she stumbled her way into the living room. Nadir caught her just before her face met the coffee table.

"You should be resting-"

"He's been gone for a whole day?! Nadir, where is he going?"

"I don't know."

"When is he coming b-"

"I don't know, Christine. I don't know." Nadir's face was drawn-stony. She'd never seen the detective so detached and so cold before. Even his eyes had lost all their jade sparkle. "He went up to see you. I thought he was going to sleep. When I woke up, he was gone."

After the funeral, I woke up one morning and Erik was gone. He left his clothes, his violin, his wallet, everything.

Christine felt her knees go weak. Behind Nadir, through the double window she saw the faithful jaguar parked, masterless. It couldn't lead her to him as it had done so before. "No...No. He can't be gone."

Nadir did not rebuke her, nor did he agree. He simply held on tighter. As panic welled up in her throat, Christine shook her head. No-this couldn't be happening. Not after everything they had gone through. Not after all the fighting and tears. Not when they had made so much and when they had hopes and dreams and a future before them. It couldn't be gone again, it couldn't be happening again. "He wouldn't do that to me."

"Christine-"

"No!" She fought against his hold, but it was useless. He wasn't drugged or tired and held on firmly. "No, you don't understand. He promised me-he swore to me he'd never leave me."

It was not some whispered, breathy promise made in their virginal bed in between touches and feather-like kisses. He had vowed it again and again. The night of the dinner-the awful catalyst for this all-he had come with her. He hadn't left then. He couldn't leave now. She couldn't see everything he had done and said as a lie.

Christine couldn't survive her world imploding again and he couldn't survive another California.

"He's coming back. He is coming back, Nadir." Christine had to believe that. She could not doubt him now, not when they were so close, and come so far. And she wouldn't-she wouldn't let her cowardly childish self rule her better senses. She wouldn't return to the weeping, sniveling little creature that had so happily locked herself in the closet of grief, simply because it was comfortable-because it seemed safe.

She had lived with a heart that had swelled so large, and carried so much, it simply wouldn't fit there anymore. So she would be strong and be brave; she would do nothing and trust. Christine finally pulled free and turned to the window, folding her arms. "And I'm going to wait for him with you."

Finally, the man broke a little, lowering his eyes to the floor. "I hope you're right. God, I hope you're right."

"He has to. He swore to me, Nadir." The next she spoke as much to the universe as to Nadir: "Our life is worth more than those bastards. It's worth more than a thousand chandeliers."

That made the detective wince, but he nodded, and turned back to the window, his arm around her, holding her up as much as comforting. "Then we wait."

---

They shared their vigil at the window.

Christine went up to find her phone after they both agreed standing was not so nice as sitting on the readily available couch. She was going to stay there with Nadir and stare at the front door so she could give Erik a piece of her mind the minute he walked in.

Or maybe just squeeze him until she heard his bones crack. Either way, she would need to do something with herself until that confrontation.

But as she rifled through her purse and dress pockets and bedding, she couldn't find it, She even had Meg try and call it. They tore apart the room she had slept in-Erik's old room Nadir informed her-not that there was much to take apart. Christine took Meg's phone again to give it one last hail-mary call. Just as she found her number, the phone vibrated.

RAOUL THE SAILOR MAN CALLING

"Why is Raoul calling you," Christine asked.

"Goddamnit not again." Meg reached for the phone.

Christine leaned away, evading her snatching hand. "Again? How many times has he been calling you?"

"Since the day after the crash. Come on-"

But Christine spun as Meg tried again, unlocked the phone. "Hello?"

"M-...who is this?"

Raoul's warm honey voice shook her heart-it had been so long since she heard his voice. It still had the power to soothe her, like a comfortable blanket to crawl under. Warm and familiar. Perhaps it would always do so, and perhaps it was a testament to their childish promises of 'friends forever'. And in this uncertain, frightening time, Christine was happy for anything safe. She had missed him, after all that had been done, she still missed him. "This is Christine."

"Oh thank God! Christine! Are you okay?"

"I'm fine…"

"I saw it on my local alerts-and it trended on Twitter for like half a second: there was an accident at the Maz-and I knew that was his theater and then Meg wasn't answering! I didn't want to bother you after ever-uh-in case you were hurt, then I thought shit what if they're all in the hospital and I thought...well...are you sure you're okay?"

"I...yeah. I'm shaken up."

"I bet, holy sh-sorry. I'm sorry…" His voice changed slightly. "I'm sorry."

Christine knew he as sorry for more than just her shock. She felt a pang of guilt for losing his letter, for not reading it as perhaps she ought, especially as he still cared after all the silence. But none of that mattered anymore. It all seemed so stupid now. Love triangles, and hopeless declarations and back-alley brawls. How idiotic when real evil was just a town over. "I know. But I'm okay. Don't worry."

"Sorry, kid. Not happening. And...Erik, is he, you know, okay?"

"Yes. He's-they were trying to hurt him by screwing with the theater. So he's wrapped up with the police." It wasn't a total lie, as that was what Christine hoped he was doing. Though if he was, would he not tell Nadir? Her heart twisted. Erik, please come home.

"Jesus Christ. But...I mean, you'll be okay, right?"

"I…" Christine sunk onto the bed. She couldn't unload on Raoul, not the man who wanted to have everything Erik did. It wasn't fair to Erik-no matter if he was being foolish. It was breaking faith, it was inappropriate, and she didn't need him.

She needed to be strong on her own-and, if she couldn't be, she had Meg and Nadir. But it as so easy with Raoul, he radiated strength and optimism, and suddenly she wanted to tell him everything, and pour it all out like a glass too full ready to tip over. "I'm…"

But in the end, Raoul didn't need to hear a word. "Hey-hey listen, it's going to be okay. He's going to be okay. His friend is a cop, right? He's connected, and he went toe to toe with a sailor for you, that counts for something right? I mean I'm not a total pushover. I hope."

Finally, Christine gave a short, watery chuckle.

She could hear Raoul's smile. "He's not going to let them touch you, okay? And neither will I. And Meg is there, right? So, you're going to be okay. We got you surrounded, as they say."

The tears leaked, but she didn't need to sob. In fact, her voice was surprisingly steady. "I don't want anyone else hurt."

"You can't control that, Christine. You can only do so much. And if they need you to stay put, for now, that's the best thing you can do. Sometimes the best thing is to just stay put, as awful as it sounds. Hurry up and wait, the military motto."

Another laugh. Christine wondered at her new way of registering despair. "Got it. Thanks, Raoul." She smiled a little. "I-"

"Don't think about anything else, and don't say sorry."

"You don't know what I was going to say."

"Oh yes, I do. You'll say sorry for anything-anything at all. What are you going to apologize for the sun burning people? Say sorry for the rain?"

Christine grinned. "Okay. I won't say it then. I'll just think it at you."

They said their goodbyes, and Christine handed Meg her phone back. "I just didn't want him to keep calling, to worry." She rubbed her forehead. "It's awful to be worried about someone and not know what's going on, as you can see."

Meg slid down on the bed beside her, placing a hand on her back. "He'll be fine. If you say he's coming back, then he's coming back. That man loves you, more than anything."

Christine looked down at her ring and remembered what they had been discussing moments before the crash That damn onyx ring. Did he love her more than his own hate? She thought so-she wanted to think so. She had to wait for the answer, and trust he would provide one. That he was really the man she thought he was-and prove she was the woman she wanted to become.

Even is it was nice to just pretend, without the trials and tests. Pretend they were healed, that they had grown, like they had pretended not to love when they first met. But ignorance was not bliss. Bliss was music, bliss was laughing together when they had wept for so long. Bliss was singing two separate notes and hearing them hum against each other in harmony. That was bliss; that was real.

Christine felt it in her marrow: it was real, it as love, and it was true.

They returned to the living room, Christine taking her place next to Nadir, linking her arm with his. Two Khans, waiting for the third to complete the trio. Meg and Charles sat on the sofa opposite, her feet resting on his lap, silent support.

No, her old little hidey-hole of sorrow would not have fit all of these people inside, neither would her little life in her little apartment. Christine was indeed surrounded by a life that was full, as cherished as it was frightening. It was worth a hundred chandeliers, a thousand fights, and one cracked heart.

"He's coming back," Christine said, unsure who she was attempting to convince.

Nadir took a deep breath. "He didn't kill Esther. He didn't get hysterical like I thought. So, I was wrong then. I hope I'm wrong now."

Christine nodded and threaded her arm through his. "He wouldn't do that to us now. Not after everything. None of us are the same as before." She looked up at the detective, who had his eyes closed.

"Not to you-"

"You were the first person he called. I think he understands now-how we all love him. He has to. He'd be stupid not to, seeing all of us here around him, the ass."

Nadir huffed a small laugh and finally looked at her, head leaned back on the couch. "Keya would have said something like that." He covered her hand on his arm with his large warm fingers.

Christine matching his position, smiling wide. It was the greatest compliment he could have given her. "Sorry-but I'm kinda seeing someone else at the moment."

Finally, Nadir broke and grinned. "Damn." His eyes drifted back to the window, where the morning was melting into high noon. The shining sun was too bright, the lane too cheerfully summery, totally unaware of the dread that had made home within these walls. "He's coming back," He finally agreed.

Another long pause.

Finally, Charles, who apparently could not take contemplative silences well, began to ask about the wedding-was there a date? A venue? "We should have the glass cleaned up by then-you should have it in the ballroom."

"That garden would be nice," Meg added, not pleased with the bravery of waiting. "What flowers are in there? We have some picked, but it's flexible. If they do it in the ballroom, then we should try to match."

"Doesn't the little fountain have water lilies," Nadir wondered, still holding tight to his soon to be sister.

"I like water lilies." Christine tucked herself further against Nadir's side. Talking about the future, talking about when this was all over made her feel as if her assumptions were fact rather than hope. Erik would come back and marry her. He would come home to his family who waited so faithfully for him, that had held them together when they had been so cruelly ripped apart. "I think they're very pretty. I wouldn't mind that-water lilies might go with the tea roses we picked?"

Charles reached into his pants for his phone. "What do water lilies look like again?"

Chapter 27

The sound of the intrusive buzzer before the barred doors open, revealing the gaunt figure, lifting his dark head.

Beyond the plastic painted stones of the hall, the chorus of hell muffledly heralded Erik's return. After a moment he started down the hall, so well-trod he was surprised there wasn't a divot on the floor from all his past travels. Behind him, the officers who had patted him down and removed his mask kept their eyes steadfastly forward. In this cesspool of hatred and crime, he was the worst thing they'd seen, even dressed in his first-date finery.

They stopped before a row of doors with large white numbers stamped on the thick grey metal. Erik was led to number 11. He murmured a 'thank you' and stepped inside the little room, bisected by bulletproof glass, a desk through it armed with a chair and corded black phone. Sliding into the seat, Erik's breath caught. For the second time in ten years, he stared into his clear reflection.

Who was that, that well dressed, ugly man? The tamed monster? Was that sorrow or rage etched into every feature? It felt like anger-he had begun to reconcile this hot burning thing as opposed to the icy rage he had nurtured for so long. It turned his grey skin pink and made his gold eyes black as night.

He must look. He must stare at himself until he saw who he was staring back. Until that gaze was as familiar as hatred.

The warden of the women's prison had offered him an interview room 'like old times' when he and Nadir had grilled and wheeled and dealed with the lesser Nasheeds. It had come with the promise of a broken security camera.

But with Christine's phone heavy in his pocket, he had refused. There was life outside these walls, his life. A life on hold, a long inhale of clean new air waiting for the exhale of relief, the breath out before the first steps on a new journey. And he would suffocate if he did not move forward; if he held that cleansing air inside with the contamination and darkness.

He hadn't known where he was going when he called that cab yesterday, waiting on the corner while the house slept. He wanted to go back to the opera, he wanted to get on a plane and never come back. He wanted to crawl into bed with Christine and hear her heartbeat. He wanted to go to the precinct and slam Esther's head against the wall until white fragments of her skull swam in blood like stars in the night sky. Instead, the old instincts had returned, and he told his driver to go to Franklin Lakes.

He went home.

Technically it was his home. Another trophy in his settlement. He had been full of odd demands at the time and his lawyer was too drunk on inky bloodlust in the heat of the court battle, the judge too disgusted with it all to think of denying him his petty civil torments. In the dead of night, the dawn barely a thought, he had picked the lock on the door of the Nasheed McMansion. The keys were somewhere in Jules' house, wherever he kept Erik's tax papers, as a reminder to add it to his yearly declarations. As the door swung open, he wondered if the man ever used the house. For anyone else, it would be a gaudy, but nicely built and free place to spend an anniversary, if one didn't need electricity or water.

But it was still his home. It was something Nadir couldn't understand, something he couldn't really tell Christine. He hated the Nasheeds, and thinking of his time in this house made his hands shake and his body lock. But it had been his home, where he slept and ate if they let him. Where he had grown up, spent countless days and nights, found his place in the dynamics of the family; even if it was just as the living washing machine it was still a place and still his.

They had been his.

And the Nasheeds had been people. That was the hardest concept of all to reconcile. When Nadir had ripped them to shreds in reports and interviews, when Christine shook with rage at the very thought of them, Erik could not explain to their justified hatred that they had been just as normal as they were. They were not vile villains of operas, always cackling with mad desire. He was not one of them, but he had been apart of the household, and while the favored whipping boy, they were not always ruthless. At best most days they were cool, but no more. He was common like the old coffee maker or good broom. They would tell him what to do and spare him a glance, and that was all most of the time.

It was the banal conversations that cut deepest when he remembered them. The times madar asked him where he put the good plates, or how much longer for the chicken to broil, did he finish the laundry yet-the conversations that ended with nothing more than an acknowledgment twisted so painfully. Because there had been hope in those quiet exchanges. Hope that one day he would be so ingrained in their family he would become worthy of their name. Of a seat at their table.

He'd have done anything for a kind word, a smile or soft touch from any of them-and in the end, he did. The random and mistaken smirks, accidental 'thank you's he had carried in his heart for months after they were long made up for with beatings and screaming. The times they caught him laughing at some joke or story, or smiling as he was swept up in the excitement of a birthday or engagement and they did not rebuke him had been held in his heart as precious as Reza's gurgles, or Christine's touch. He had wanted so desperately to be apart of them, to be loved by them: his family.

He had loved them with the blind ignorant affection of a child.

He had hung his jacket on the coat tree, the cloth smudging the thick layer of dust that clung to it. He remembered all the parties, birthdays and holidays he had stood beside the pole acting as extra arms; a useful tool utterly ignored.

To be fair, the finely carved wood was better looking.

He took off his gloves and moved to the windows, ripping back the curtains. Dust danced in the street lights peeking through the glass, illuminating the large white cloth-covered figures dotted through the rooms. Then, like a grim magician, Erik began ripping back the cloth masks, tugging at the fabric of time in each room.

Here in the living room. It could be seen from the kitchen, a spot where he had watched with longing. Where madar and her little family had gathered, talking and laughing, praising and singing some times. Jokes and stories about school or the old country exchanged like the gifts opened at the Christmas time they weren't supposed to celebrate. It had looked so happy, and he had joined as much as he could. He listened and stifled his smiles and laughs into his arm. But he was never to enter unless he had to weave between the crush of bodies on holidays and birthdays and whenever someone wanted to show off, holding plates of food and drink or a rag to clean.

He stood by the fire, starring into the cleaned out pit where the logs once rested. He remembered how the flames had been so hot, so hot against his clammy white skin as Uncle Adam had pulled the clothes off him, how the grate had burned his hip when he backed away from the end of Adam's cigar held to his eye. "Sing you little shit, and show them." Then the marble against his temple when madar threw him against the mantel for pissing in fear.

Erik turned on his heel and returned to 'his' room in the house: the kitchen. His lips curled at the state of the place. Covered with dust, the sink scratched and unpolished, some of the drawers handles hanging by a single screw. Probably from the violent handling of the raid, and no more Erik to fix them. He placed his finger against one such molded handle and pushed. It swung twice and fell off completely with a sad clink on the floor.

To the sink now, placing his hands on the edge. He didn't feel the eery sensation that often came to him when he and Giovanni entered abandoned buildings and churches ripe for the remodeling: that sense of never being alone, like joining a congregation of ghosts, still there and at the same time forever gone.

No, this felt different: as if for the first time in his terrible existence he was totally and utterly alone; separate and apart from this congregation of specters, even abandoned by his own ghosts. His mind quiet, a primed audience for the play of memory to share its story on the stage of his consciousness.

The curtain rises with his head, staring at his masked reflection in the window above the faucet. Higher now-when had this sink gotten so low? He remembered the struggles of going on his toes to reach down in it-his whole arm blotchy and irritated from the exposure to constant soapy water. But he did remember growing taller than it-he had been bending when madar tried to drown him in the water he used to soak the pots for huffing in some random spark of frustration. He had been a teenager by then, ruled by hormones.

A teenager, because he had grown, all long limbs and questions and cracking voice. Even in his cage, he had the worries of growing up: would he ever sing again? Would he grow as tall as Bin Nasheed? Would he be able to go outside when he was full-grown? What would he do when madar died for surely she would since they all grew old? Concerns and questions of an adolescent.

Of a growing boy, of a teenager, of a human.

He left the kitchen and wandered the house, feeling his throat close. Erik stood at the top of the stairs to the basement. Careful down the rickety steps Bin Nasheed always talked about but never intended to fix. Passed the shelves now empty of cleaning supplies and broken toys, passed the impressions of lighter colored cement where the washer and dryer had been. Stopping now before the door...his door.

The door to the little closet in the basement.

He hadn't slept in here since he cut Uncle Adam. He had been taken to the garage and beaten left to shiver in his own blood, listening as Ester tearfully told the truth, told them how Erik saved her. He had loved her then, loved her like a sister and a goddess all in one. How stupid children are...

Child.

For all the times he shied from the fact, pulling away violently and tearfully from the reality, too afraid of what it would mean, he approached it now with all the reverence of a mourner approaching a casket; he approaching the closet. Mute sorrow and solemn silence.

He stared at the door, taller than it now. The room was so small when he opened the door to peer inside. He couldn't fit now even if he ducked and hunched. He had collected spare rags for years to make a bed: out-grown shirts and ripped sheets and curtains, discarded and stained table cloths and pillows the dogs had ripped up. And under it all the books he snuck away and read by a penlight he had figured out how to fix. But even seeing the little scratches of his feeble abc's on the walls made his stomach twist so violently that he had to close the door again.

He had been a child, a baby once like Reza had been. A squalling ugly little thing, delicate to hold. A creature that needed so innocently, not asking to be here, but saddled with the responsibility of a life anyway. And his mother had sold him, and knew what was going to happen to this baby she had held inside her body for months. And every human hand that had passed him along, trembling and crying to m...to Yasmin had known it. Had looked at him, a little child, and chose to forget his humanity, like passing along a glass bottle until the touches on top of touches made it lose its shine.

It had been evil.

He was evil too, wasn't he? But what had done to him had been evil.

How did it equate? Were they made of the same stuff? Could he look at a boy he did not know and do what had been done unto him? He had survived, why couldn't another? He did not even factor in what followed; the torture, the hurt, the darkness and the seduction of power. Just the simple evil of turning away, as they all had done when he was sold, or beaten, or starved or any number of things that still sank into his heart like teeth and made it beat a harder.

Could he have done it? Continued as the Phantom, accepted Esther's plan and become one of them. One of the spectators, who had paid for his ticket and now must endure the uglier part of the show?

Who was he, this nameless man?

The final act of memory began-The little Tamil girl that had caused so much rage in the family. A small little thing, crying over the body of Amir, staring up at his killer. She offered no resistance, perhaps she wanted to die with him? He could do that, and send them off together, away from this hell. It would be better than whatever followed.

Then she shifted and he saw it: the baby. The baby she held, the delicate little thing, as delicate as his mother. The child who would never truly understand what had been sacrificed for him, to spare him a life of evil, to give him life at all. Amir hadn't done it to prove something, some masculine defiance, selfish desire for this girl. He had done it to protect his child-given up his life for theirs.

And he had fallen to his knees, cut down by the image of this Madonna and Child. No notion came to him about how easy it would be to stop both of their screamings. No thoughts within his head but thoughts of horror, nothing within his heart but remorse. "I didn't know! I didn't know!"

Erik's hands fisted. Erik's hands slammed hard into the wood of the door, once, and then again. And in his head, Erik's voice rang clear. I could never do it.

He would never be one of them. He could never look at a new life and want to destroy, he would never see the pain of innocents and feel joy. He was not a Nasheed, he was not the Phantom.

He was a man, a man who had covered himself in the furs of evil to survive the bloodthirsty pack. And even if it had become as familiar as his own flesh it had been an actor's costume. A pantomime mask they had foisted upon him as a child.

An innocent child.

A child they had stolen and abused. A child they had tortured, not an evil thing tolerated and allowed to live and given only what it deserved. That had not been his birthright-they had taken his life from him, his future from him, his very identity from him. All of them. Knuckles against the door, pounding, pounding until the brittle wood gave way and a bleeding fist burst through the stubborn barrier that had once kept him locked inside as the concept finally settled in his heart: until he finally felt the idea as real as the pain blossoming in his fist.

It wasn't fair! It wasn't right! It's not fair!

The evil belonged to them, the pain belonged to them, the darkness and the fear-it was theirs.

He wanted his life back, he wanted the future he could have had. He wanted the laughter with Rookheeya free of its sarcastic edge, he wanted the quiet moments with Nadir washed clean of doubt. He wanted every milestone he shared with Christine back and free to love and live-he wanted his music without the sorrow that weighed every bow stroke.

He wanted the life that was his by right, and he wanted to be free of Nasheed. Erik loved them no more.

In the present once more, sitting before the glass, waiting. After all, every kill he had reported to her-and the Phantom had lay waste to the Nasheeds. Now all that was left was to make one final review.

He pulled out Christine's phone and Nasheed's ring from his pocket. They both caught the sickening yellow light dully on their reflective surfaces. Christine's phone was the only thing to register what he had as a face, and the lock screen came alive. Seven missed calls from Miss Giry, two from Nadir. He swiped away the notifications as he heard the buzz of the door on the other side of the glass opening.

Even shaking with rage, he kept his eyes submissively down. Never to look her in the eye until she spoke first. It was a habit that came on so naturally, he did not even think about the servitude in it. But there was fear there too. There was no Christine to lead him, no Nadir to buffer him back onto the right path. This was totally his alone-every choice made now was his to own.

He chose to look her in the face.

And his breath caught. Yasmin was still wondrously beautiful, with her carefully arched nose, her wide cat eyes, and perfectly small and shaped mouth. But now her luscious hair had rivers of white trickling through the inky darkness, wrapped up high on her head. The lines of her mouth were deeper, firmer as she scowled at him in that tanned round face, still desperately clinging to its youthful fullness. She shifted in her chair, sitting taller, lifting her chin and brow, sizing him up as she always did. Assessing him. She tried to fold her arms, but the cuffs stopped her.

Erik snatched up the phone, holding it to his ear, a million words on the tip of his tongue but nothing came forth, not even the scathing report about Esther and the rest of her family. Neither a villainous gloat nor a heroic speech tumbled forth.

Yasmin picked up her own receiver, and Erik heard her breath in his ear.

"Well? What do you want, thing?"

And then Erik exhaled. When had he forgotten that the Phantom and Yasmin had shared the same voice?

"Are you senile now? Stupid? Speak!"

Erik remained silent, felt tears crowd when he failed to blink as the final scale fell from his eyes. The Phantom had never been his creation. Not his protection to the evil they put on him, not his wolf's skin, not his act of vengeance. That voice that hated and berated, kept him alive only to live long enough to wish for death had always been Yasmin. He had not become the monster-since his purchase, he had always been a slave to it. He pressed the phone to his shoulder, looking down as if the acknowledgment weighed on his head.

In his lap, the phone recognized his face once more. The photo on the lock screen was of Christine and him: Erik pressing a kiss to her round cheek, she giggling as she kept one arm around his shoulders, the other holding out the phone for the shot. He could see their little studio in the background, his violin leaning against the computer, her bridal doll on the shelf above the monitor along with a few of Reza's toys.

What am I doing here?

This voice wasn't a voice at all. It was half words, half feeling, small like a child. What am I doing here Erik thought to himself. What was left for him here? Picking across the trappings of his old life, what did he hope to salvage?

Distantly, he heard Yasmin's voice muffled against his shoulder. He lifted his eyes to the glass. His faint reflection side by side with Yasmin's face, hers steadily growing more irritated...and unable to do anything about it. She wore the silver bracelets of her own servitude: to pride and wrath, to evil and greed and hatred. Yasmin was beautiful, and confident and never once doubted herself-everything he had wanted and craved and tried to imitate. And he had almost shared her fate.

She was the slave here; she would never be free. And he-And Erik…

He lifted the phone to his ear again. "What do you want," she continued. "Come to show me how ugly you've become in your old age?"

The insult washed over him, as forceful as a summer breeze. Was that all? Was that the only thing she held superior to him? Ugly, yes he was ugly. He was so monstrously ugly. But that was the only thing creature-like about him. And Yasmin, so pretty, a china doll of a woman… Erik wet his lips and leaned close, close to his own visage in the glass and his gaze never wavered.

"You're still so beautiful. And you're in here. And I...am leaving."

The clang of the receiver in its cradle was overly loud. Perhaps it rang in his ears because the jingle of Yasmin's cuffs and her shouting through the glass was totally muffled to him-as if it came from very far away. A lifetime away.

Erik stood and straightened his shirt before shrugging on his suit jacket. He thought he heard the officers come in to take Yasmin away as he picked lint off his sleeve waiting for his own door to open.

Out into the bright light of the hall, Erik nodded to the officer and returned back up the corridor without any direction. He collected his coat and mask and signed out. Dawn had long passed on the outside, and they were well into midday. Erik wished he had thought to bring sunglasses as his eyes adjusted.

A little over a half an hour and his feet brought him to the Raritan River. There was no ceremony as he flung Bin Nasheed's ring. It winked bring in the sunlight, a goodbye before diving into the deep rushes of the water. Erik watched the river for a very long time, and felt nothing for it, for what had happened, and what was lost.

Taking Christine's phone, he ordered a cab finally ready to return home.

---

Christine didn't know where she was at first. She smelled a strong cologne and felt too hot. Shifting, she realized the hard surface under her cheek was a body. She had fallen asleep against Nadir in the aftermath of the muscle relaxer, and in her tossing and turning, had managed to mummify herself in the throw blanket. Outside the window, the sun was taking its last bow, and twilight was upon them.

She sat up, extracting her body from the microfiber tomb, and twisted to peer into the kitchen. She could smell the cooking already. But Charles and Meg had left hours ago, to check on the opera house and go to work. And Nadir was here, grunting as she shifted on the couch. Which meant…

Flinging off the blankets, she scurried into the kitchen, her warm feet sticking to the tile of the floor. Christine knew who it was before she even crossed the threshold. Erik stood at the sink, staring into the water tumbling from the faucet. On the island, a pot was placed, soup already simmering inside. It took a minute for him to turn, maskless, towards her.

He hesitated, holding one of the dishes they had dumped in the sink to wash later. Placing it down he dried his hands and edged closer to her. "I'm sorry," he said immediately. "I know you were worried, I know you were trying to call. I should have...I needed to…." Erik swallowed. "I know you're mad."

Christine was mad? Even she didn't know. All she knew was the smell of summer air and that stuck to him and his clothes as she ran to him. All she knew was the familiar dip of his waist were her arms fit against him. He'd come back to her, he hadn't lied. He'd come back, despite all the reasons not to. She had not lost him to despair and fear and rage. He chose to come home, to her, to his life, to their future. Erik had fought whatever demons drove him from her side, and been victorious all on his own.

And if he was here, then somehow, impossibly, it would all be okay. Because everything they had fought and argued and begged for had been real, and worth it; not left to flicker, crushed under the chandelier.

His arms clutched her tightly, his mouth pressed into her curls. Inhaling her scent, and revealing in her warm body-so much warmer than the hate he had clasped for so many years. Erik breathed deep, filling himself up with her and his new life and there was no sting of doubt.

"I'm sorry."

"It's okay. I'm not mad."

Erik leaned back to look her in the face. "Christine, you're a horrible liar."

She laughed, an explosion of sound that blasted her fear apart. "I'm irritated. Don't ever run off like that again. But I'm not mad. You came back to me."

"I told you." He began the task of wiping away her tears. "You will never be free of your Erik."

"Where did you go?" That came from the doorway. Nadir leaned heavily against it, and Christine saw the years etched into his drawn face, the hesitation that anything might send Erik running again. He looked straight into Erik's face and did not flinch.

"I went to Yasmin."

Both lover and friend froze. "Yasmin," Christine breathed.

Nadir cautiously entered the room, like stepping into the pen of a growling lion. "Why?"

"I…Erik…" He looked between them, stumbling his letters like a child learning their first snatches of language. "I had to...I had to say goodbye." He fought for an expedient way to tell them what he had accepted, how he had to exercise her from him and draw her influence like poison from a wound. How he stood here now, a little weary and faint from the blood loss, but better for it. "I…"

Nadir came close. He didn't need any more explanation; he really didn't care. Erik saw the relief in his eyes that there would be no frantic search this time, no abandoned belongings left to be put in the attic. "And did you? Say goodbye."

Erik tightened his hold on Christine. "...As much as that goodbye was worth. Have they charged Esther yet?"

"I don't know. I haven't checked in."

"We won't do it again." There was a firmness in her voice, the kind Christine had only heard in lessons, never in defense of himself. "I won't put Christine through that. Erik will not let them take more of your life, Khan. She will try to rat out her family, like everyone before her, for leniency."

"With her accomplice rolling on her, it'd have to be good information to get her out of life."

"She's a Nasheed," Erik said and felt no stab of betrayal. It was a fact. Esther was a Nasheed and all that came with it. Erik could not betray a family that was never his. "She'll find something, or her lawyers will. She'll angle for a deal, and it will begin again. She needs to go away for the maximum time. She needs to be an example."

"I can talk to the DA."

"If need be, I will accompany you."

At this, Nadir peered into Erik's steady gaze, and couldn't find fear in his friend's eyes, nor icy hatred. Only cool resolve, and maybe something that looked like peace. No, the cycle would not start again, no more vengeance and blood lust, hatred and vitriol. Simply justice, what of it they could get.

Khan nodded and reached out. His palm was wide and warm on Erik's shoulder that no longer felt so boney, and found it hard to swallow.

"Tears? Erik is sorry for worrying you as well, old man," Erik said with a little smile.

"Who said I was worried about you?"

"I could hear the tuning fork humming from across the state."

Before Nadir could form a flippant reply, Christine grabbed Nadir's shirt and pulled him into the circle of her arms, too. There was still so much to do and endure, but for now, they were all here, impossibly alive miraculously together.

The Khans stayed like that for a long while, quiet in the middle of their kitchen, all three grateful to be home once more.

Chapter 28: The End of the Ghost's Love Story

Christine knew which one was Erik immediately, even in the masked crowd. Of course, she did-her husband towered over almost everyone.

Husband. Here on the sidelines of the ballroom, taking her third breather from the ball that evening, she was able to admire the antique gold band that accompanied her engagement ring. A thin ring, layered and etched to look like a rose vine encircling her pale finger, blending in naturally with her engagement ring stacked beneath.

Truly, Christine had planned to have a real wedding. She and Meg had been scouting churches online, halls and bands to play since Erik proposed. But as Halloween and their concert drew near, accompanied by months of tireless work on top of practically living at the police station to give statement after statement, Christine had decided that she simply wanted to be married. She would rather say I am Erik's wife, instead of saying I'm his fiancee, or worse girlfriend to the officers.

While the DA had, happily, agreed with Erik and pursued the harshest sentence for both Esther and her accomplice, it didn't happen overnight. She had been denied bail, but the rest was taking its own good time. The couple were quarantined at Nadir's house for a month for safety, which had become a ramshackle studio for want of their practicing, one they had not left, and possibly never would until Erik had their above-ground house built (another project tossed onto the pile of their projects.) Everytime she suggested returning underground, Erik would shy away, suggesting the drive time as a large obstacle if they were to return to their former studio. After all, they weren't recording anymore, merely editing. He didn't want to return to the place he once dubbed a tomb, no matter how repurposed it was; especially not while they were still cleaning up the mess his past had dragged into the opera.

Now Christine understood why Nadir and Erik were so burdened with their years of investigating and prosecuting Nasheed. If it wasn't relieving every moment she would gladly forget down to the most minute detail, it was the awful tedium of statements and legal jargon and wondering if all this hassle, and signing and repeating was even worth it.

Erik helped her through it. Without him, Christine was sure she would have gone mad under the weight of investigations and rehearsals. Erik was highly organized and determined, more sure of himself than she'd ever seen her teacher.

After his meeting with Yasmin, the man seemed lighter, as if he had laid down a great burden. Oh, he was no less acidic or quiet, but he was easier about removing his mask, and no longer played forlornly at the piano, or slunk away to his underground hermitage to hide for days when remembering details of Esther's crimes or his history, having to repeat it all to new officers for a new case concerning the chandelier. And he talked about it with his fiancee, not confessing; no protesting that it was too dark for her, too gruesome for her to handle.

And it was difficult to digest. It seemed with every layer of cruelty, a new memory of horror sprung up in its place. Many nights they had sat on his bed in Nadir's house after rehearsing or bent over papers and fliers and invitations with Charles, battling the hydra of his past. Often he would weep, but even then the steady slide of tears seemed less tortured than the pitiful sobs he had laid at her feet so often. Christine would listen, and weep with him.

But they were no longer hopeless tears. They were the bleeding of a heart hurting, one heart between two bodies, two people. And that was more important to her than any lavish celebration of the fact. Besides, if she tried turning her brain onto one more thing, it was sure to crack in half. Not a good look for a diva about to take the stage.

So the choice was there, either wait perhaps even more than a year to be Mrs. Khan, or be spontaneous. So the morning of their concert she had revealed to Erik her stage costume: a lovely silk wedding gown.

Not that Christine had intended it from the beginning. Meg had decided the wedding dress was the first part of the wedding they simply had to accomplish before anything else. It took the longest and was the main feature of any picture, she had argued. And lost in a sea of catalogs, wedding books and Pinterest boards, Christine had followed along a little dazed by the amount of work ahead.

At first they had thought of putting Christine's mother's gown to pieces, carefully cutting the stitches of the Diana-esque monstrosity and making it something new with a clever seamstress. But as they had laid out the still-white gown, and traced their fingers over what had to be taken off and what could be kept, Christine could not do it. No, her mother's Scarlett-wanna-be gown would stay whole and hale, as frozen in time as her memory of the woman.

So to the boutiques they had gone in between the furious writing sessions on the album, dodging Erik's questions whenever she had left the opera, or whenever she came home, about where they had been.

It was really his fault too. He had been sewing his own stage costume at the time, and demanded she finally choose one of his sketches for her own gown. "If you do not like any of Erik's sketches, tell him what you do want," he had snapped one night. The effect had been a little ruined since he had pins clamped between his teeth as he folded up the trouser leg he was hemming.

So when they had shifted through the racks and found a silky gown that sparkled with the slightest movement, Christine knew that she had found the garment she would wear to begin both new journeys of her life. The gown was covered in simple crystals that blended well into the fabric but caught the slightest amount of light. Fitted from the sweetheart neck to the hips, then lay in waves of silky skirt, it was surprisingly easy to move and sit in. The sleeves dropped off the shoulders in folds of fabric, then tightened from the elbow down, ending in points over her hands. A blend of whimsy and ornate, ethereal and pretty. And it had made Meg, who had not shed a single tear seeing her friend in ballgowns and slinky numbers, actually mist over. One picture to Mrs. Giry who called, weeping, and told them to stay there until she arrived had cinched the deal.

And with every fitting Christine could not possibly think of another frock. When she had picked out an elegant mantilla veil, the image had been completed. She would be half angel half-ghost on the stage next to her partner all in black, catching the changing lights as she moved, and sang and played.

That had all been before the chandelier.

After the dust had settled, the crystal picked out of seats, and the balconies repaired, the concert was coming up fast. And they needed it to be perfect, as Charles had planned to bring in the biggest patrons to showcase that Maz's first exclusive artists. He wanted to wow them with their talent (and an embarrassingly lavish party after), not only for the money but to ease them into the idea of letting the masked Erik run the theater, and make up for the hit they took with the repairs to both wallet and reputation. Christine had asked why it mattered when Erik owned half of it, and Charles had explained it was the difference between owning an opera and owning an opera with the lights on.

So it had come to pass with all they were needed for, Christine had no time to plan, let alone begin picking dates and caterers. She wanted the papers over and done with, she wanted to swear to Erik that no matter how many times they were questioned, and called, or exhausted but still pushing themselves to practice the third song in their set one more time, she would be by his side, and he by hers. Honestly, she wanted just to be able to say my husband without the "well, almost" that had to truthfully follow.

And if the last months of music and planning and investigation weren't enough to cement them, she doubted words spoken in front of a crowd would make much difference.

So this morning, hours before they were to appear on the Mazandaran stage, Christine slowly spun before her fiance, asking how he liked her gown. When she pulled over the veil, he had gotten the idea and very choked up.

But her surprise hadn't ended there. Meg had driven them to the small Presbyterian church the Giry's had been baptized in for generations. A favor pulled by the blonde herself paid for in years of catering church events with Little Latte pastries and a good tale of woe and redemption spun by a master saleswoman. The pastor was willing to look past Erik's Catholicism and Christine's lack of membership for a quick ceremony. Just the couple with Meg and Nadir to witness. At least it was meant to be short. Both were crying so steadily, it took a few tries for them to repeat the formal words, at least until Meg complained that if she wasted a whole tube of mascara over their eloping she'd never help them again.

"I don't understand," Erik had asked when the fun was over and done, and the pastor had given them a moment alone in the sanctuary. He lifted his mask to run his handkerchief under his eyes. Happily, Erik had already been in his stage outfit, not wishing to scare a stagehand or makeup girl with his body in the changing rooms. "You should have a wedding, you wanted a wedding-a real wedding."

"This is a real wedding," Christine had explained. "We made vows, we kissed. We're married. Besides, everyone we wanted to celebrate with will be at the masquerade tonight: what better reception can a girl ask for than that?"

"You could ask for so much more," he pointed out, finally able to look her in the eye again, mask straightened. "You should ask for more. But...but you never do. You're a good girl, Christine." He reached out and touched her face, and then her veiled hair. She bent her head and he placed a soft kiss on her forehead. "You're so good: to your Erik, to everyone. You deserve so much and ask for so little."

"I only want real things, Erik." She caught his fingers. "And those are hard to come by. It'd be selfish to ask for anything more when I've already received more than I could have ever hoped for."

They were alive, for one; together, and now they were married, their friends and makeshift family mostly intact. They were about to start a wonderfully insane life together, as partners and spouses. To want anything more than just that would be hubris. Christine didn't want perfection, and the evidence of that was staring her right in the face. "I just couldn't wait one more second to be married to you. Besides...I've promised Mr. and Mrs. Giry that we will still have a 'real' wedding later on some anniversary, one that everyone can see us at the altar. And I'm sure that's the only thing that'll keep Charles from strangling you for not coming."

"Oh, do let Erik tell him," he had begged with a wicked grin.

Luckily, Charles was in good humor about it-as good a humor as he could be overseeing the preparations. He had yelled at Erik for only ten minutes (calling him an ass only once), and given Christine a kiss before ordering them backstage for makeup and final rehearsal now that they were done 'fooling around'. He had been in high dudgeon for a solid week with all the planning and overseeing and paperwork. Erik had assured Christine it was good for him and gave him something to do other than Ms. Giry, for which the groom had received a pinch. A quick trip to Erik's underground house, however, provided them with the wedding bands he had made.

Now, on the outskirts of the colorful masquerade, Christine searched again for her husband. She found him holding court on the other side of the room, spinning his own wedding band around his finger as he spoke.

And he did speak.

From the moment they had left the stage, Erik had been on a high. He had swept her into his arms when they were backstage, swinging her around as they kissed and cried and laughed like mental patients. They had been too caught up in the music, in the thrill that creation gave them to be nervous. At the first musical cues, muscle memory took over. Now there was nothing but the euphoric high, their hearts and the applause just beyond the curtain battling for dominance in their ears. And Erik, at least, had not come down. There was no slap of reality from leaving the stage to the ball; not from musical god to monster, he went from being master of the stage to suddenly being a man, nothing more. A man everyone wanted a piece of tonight because he was not a freak in a mask.

How clever of Charles, how cunning and understanding the man was under all that sleazy charm. Erik, exposed to the world in the most public way, was sure to get questions about his mask. So how best to make his partner and friend comfortable? Why, a room full of masks, where Erik was no longer the only man who covered his face-the oddity and center of their entertainment. No, now he was another party-goer, the artist celebrating their debut at the opera, another excuse for the East Coast elite to gather and admire and begin buzz about; uniquely commonplace.

Here in a room of false faces, Erik and Christine finally were able to reveal their true selves. Christine grinned at the irony. Her husband caught her gaze, and a small private smile pulled across his lips before a patron asked him his next question.

How he had taken command once he realized his mask was no longer a veil between him and this world! Nothing like the mirrors Christine leaned against now, or the crowds unwittingly danced before. They were very much guests in his home, where he was master. In fact, it was Erik that had broken from her side more often than not that night. All it had taken was a few questions about the sets, how they had used the mirrors to redirect light and create different settings for each song with nothing more than shadows and reflections, about the opera and the design and her husband was lost to her.

"So long as you don't go marrying one of them too," she had teased when he had asked again for the fourth time that night if she minded him leaving to show a few guests a particular hallway, or carving or whatever part of the opera was the topic of that discussion. She was glad not to be the center of attention, despite being half of the celebrated team. Her voice was shot and her heart was overfull-and the makeup artists had worked too hard on her white glitter eyes for her to ruin it with crying.

And she was happy at how he lost himself so easily in his work. Christine could see him here, as normal as the flickering hall lights and red velvet. He would make an excellent manager once Firmin was gone, which would no doubt be soon.

Carlotta had decided not to return, giving her statement to anyone who would listen about the crime-riddled streets of Jersey City and the state in general. With the Maz closed for repairs, it was no greater loss than anything else, and there were rumors about Firmin leaving to become one of her agents. So it would seem Christine had ousted the diva after all, leaving the stage primed for her arrival.

When Meg pointed this out to her one evening they caught between work, and practice and police reports, Christine was as lukewarm about the idea as she'd ever been. It had never been about her own fame, or making a name for herself, or proving that she could. It hadn't even been about Erik for most of the time, either.

It had been about her soul and the gaping wound punched right through it. It had been about bridging that gap between the girl Christine had been, on track and loved by her parents, and the girl Christine was after, the orphan, cold and barely there. Tears crowded her eyes, blurring the image of her husband gesturing to the floor and explaining the frescoes. Her parents who would only know their daughter as a bride in theory, never in reality, her parents whom she would never stop mourning. There was no fixing her, replacing the pieces she had lost.

But she could, and had, taken the broken shards and made something new. Something that caught the light and reflected it as brilliantly as the stage she had performed on. A smile touched her lips as she looked back down at her ring, turning the old antique colored band of one and opening the metal petals to reveal the brilliant new garnet within.

No, she could never go back, could never be made whole again. That girl with her simple love of music, and her pure voice and ignorant heart was no more, and Christine could not cut herself into a shape that would fit into that mold in any case. The music she had played on the stage tonight, the notes that her voice had carried and pushed and melted with Erik's could not have come from that girl who had not known the glorious despair and the glorious victories of life. It was the difference between a placid lake and the roaring ocean. And for all the storms, Christine was happy with her tidal wave.

It had swept her up and pulled away her anxiety with the undertow. She'd stood on that stage, and sang until she had no more to give. She and Erik had created magic, not only for themselves but cast their spell upon the entire audience. A packed house, some coming for the party, more coming to finally see the mysterious second owner of the opera, and still more to catch a glimpse of the place where so much calamity had occurred.

Whatever had brought them there, all had left a little star-struck, or so Meg reported. And Christine, despite the doubts of her own ability, was inclined to believe her. After all, they had been called back onto the stage for two encores; surely it wasn't the simple novelty of masked singers or a wedding dress clad drummer that had encouraged such a response. Erik's bow was hardly haired and Christine was sure her palms would never stop being numb-they had left it all out on the stage, nothing held back.

And Christine vowed-since today was a day for such things-to always live her life that way.

So, Christine would sing for the Maz, if she earned the part, when they needed her for the regular season. But now that she had tasted her own power, her own creativity, she did not want to be locked into using someone else's words and phrases, living other people's lives. Being merely a spectator. She wanted to hear her the hum of her own soul, the chord she and Erik made. She wanted to continue their music, and see where it led them.

"I brought you some bubbly." Meg had finally weaved her way in between the crush of bodies from the bar to Christine's place along the wall. She handed Christine a flute of champagne before removing her peacock mask and leaning with her.

"How many have you had?"

"Only one. I wanted to be sober to hear you guys. I've heard the recordings but man-nothing, not even the restaurant, could have prepared me for the real deal!" Meg toasted her and threw back the entire flute.

Christine shook her head and linked their arms. "Thank you, Meg." She waited until the blonde was looking her in the eye. "For everything."

Sobering up just a little (while she still could) Meg nodded and bumped their shoulders. "Always, Mrs. Khan." Faithful Meg, brave and kind. Who could not be fearless with such a woman in their corner? "But don't go on a monologue-this foundation was fifty-five dollars and if I cry anymore and mess it up I'm gonna be pissed. So who's he talking to now?"

"I have no idea." Christine sipped her flute and slumped against her confidant. "I think he knows them. They were asking who painted the floors and how they got the colors to shine so brightly-then they were talking about the price of importing glass and I made my escape."

"Is that really what gets him going? Import receipts?"

"Well, before that they were talking about architecture, and someone asked what kind of wood they used for the doors, their speaker set up, and who Erik's luthier was."

"God, you'd think billionaires would be better conversationalists." Meg clucked her tongue.

Christine smirked. "Well, yours is."

"He's not, and he's not mine," she cried.

"Oh yes, he is. Or very soon will be."

Meg did not dignify that with an answer, instead settling for stealing Christine's glass and swallowing that shot as well. Christine encouraged her friend to dance while she still could stand, deciding she needed a moment to breathe away from the crush of bodies. Carefully slipping behind a large arrangement of flowers, Christine opened the secret door into the passages. The dark cool air soothed her flushed skin. Then like a heavenly white specter, she started down the corridor, the music that was all at once oppressive in the ballroom now nothing more than a muffled hum.

She made a round about the ballroom, her skirts swishing softly behind. Here was Meg and Nadir twirling across the dancefloor, both laughing riotously at something she probably said. Here was Charles, speaking with Jules, probably about directing the caterers as they weaved in and out of the crowd with their silver trays. Every so often his eyes would find a certain blonde head, and Christine saw the tension flicker away from his face for just a moment.

And here-another blonde head she would recognize anywhere. Raoul in a black domino mask, with the slim Sarah in white by his side. He had accepted the invitation in his father's stead, as a patron of the opera. They were in the corner, happy to watch the dancers' twirl pass. She looked good, healthier now. Her bruises had faded, and the color was in her cheeks again-that seemed to intensify when Raoul leaned close to speak soothingly to her. Christine was sure the big crowd and noise were still a little much for her. But she gripped his hand and seemed content for the moment.

The diva smiled and touched the glass, wishing Raoul and the girl who needed him all the happiness in the world if that were to be their course.

Up the stairs, and Christine made her way to the empty theater. Into box five, now shrouded in shadow, nothing but the after-hours emergency lights to guide her steps. To the edge of the box, she went, leaning her palms on the velvet-covered railing.

Only little more than a year ago she had sat here in her fraying dress and borrowed shoes, content with watching her life go by, like actors on the stage. Now...she sighed, her lips turning up. She was on the stage or had been, wrapped in silk and music and joy.

The future did not promise anything but elation, nothing in the world could make such an offer. The new wood and cloth under her hands proved that. But it did promise to be worth it. She smoothed down her wedding gown, impossibly smooth under her still numb hands. She was worth it.

A sigh behind her and Christine grinned.

But this time Erik stepped from his hiding place, into reality and her arms. "Christine, when a bride finally flees, she runs away, don't you know?"

"I'm not fleeing. I just needed a breather."

"Do you find your Erik suffocating as well?"

She shook her head against his chest. Beneath her cheek, his fine clothes, and scared flesh, she could hear the faint thump of that strong heart, followed it's beat as surely as she had that first lesson on the stage below them. Their tune had been pitchy, rough and sharp-two untuned hearts long out of practice. Now they hummed a melody that resonated, even when apart. And now they stood in the small silence between movements, their concerto just beginning.

He had promised to teach her-and he had in so many ways. Taught her to sing, to love, to survive-and afterward, taught her to live.

"Charles wanted me to find you. He says that he will announce our first dance, and then we can kick them all out of my opera."

Christine giggled and titled her face up. "Then we can take all the leftover cakes, right?"

But instead of answering, Erik slowly lifted off her crystal and wire mask, and without hesitation removed his as well. Whilst the masquerade continued just rooms away, the artificial faces of creatures and angels and ghosts whirling atop the tragedies painted on the floor for their amusement, Christine looked upon the bare face of her Erik, just Erik, and grinned into his kiss.

Tomorrow they would carefully put away their fine things, begin the post-concert work, return to lessons and coffee houses and investigations. Frustrations and fears and uncertain times masked the joys of creation and living that crowded into their full lives, like partiers in a ballroom. But now, wrapped in her lover's arms, Christine would take the words of her predecessor, and leave them for tonight.

Take the good Mrs. Khan would say. And leave the rest.

Chapter 29: Epilogue

Three Years Later

Christine felt Erik's kiss on her forehead and mumbled an incoherent reply to the words she did not hear, still under waves of sleep. She broke surface a few hours later, finding her husband's side of the bed cold. Stretching, she took advantage of the space and lazed on his side for a few more moments. Finally, a peek at the clock told her she should have been up an hour ago.

With a stretch, she poked her toes out from under the heavy covers and quilts. Despite their house being much warmer than the underground rooms beneath the opera house, Erik liked to pile their king-sized bed with as many quilts as he could. Picking her way across the icy floor, Christine quickly padded to the shower, shivering as she turned the faucets on.

Erik had gone a little overboard in everything once he had bought the land on which to create their house two years ago. Without having to mind rock and carving into it for space and electrical wiring, he was free to build a high tech home as wide and airy as he liked. The bathroom that housed a large rain shower, a small glass door shower for quick washes and a tub built into the floor, large enough for four let alone two was only one example of that.

Still, she wasn't about to complain-they had spent many lovely nights laying among the bubbles, especially a certain night last month after Christine had revealed her secret.

Scrubbed pink and wrapped in her fluffy robe, she padded to the bathroom mirror, wiping away the condensation and peered at her reflection. Mirrors. They had mirrors in the house just as he promised. True, they were all a little low, and usually, Erik could only see his chin. His face was hard to look at for him, his gut reaction always shame. But his recent ducking to check his hair had become so annoying that Christine guessed that he'd be raising them soon-nose or no nose. She'd just have to start going on tiptoe.

She didn't look any different-same deep mahogany hair, same pale skin, flushed cheeks. But she felt different.

She gathered up Erik's razor and shaving cream mix he had left out, rinsing off the parts of cream he missed on the brush. Next to it was an orange vial, half full. Lifting it, she read the label-alprazolam-and placed that too into the cabinet. Good, he would need it today, with everything going on.

Erik and Nadir had left earlier that morning to head to the prison. It was one of the many many parole hearings they had been asked to attend over the years. As the damaged party, Erik was allowed to have his say, something he did not relish and had never shown up for before the chandelier crash. It often left him cold and remote for the rest of the day, something Mr. Leroux had told Christine it was normal and did not mean a revert to past behaviors every time.

Mr. Leroux, Erik's therapist, and in Christine's eyes, a God-send. A year into their marriage, while Christine was deep into her first season as a diva, the night terrors had started. They weren't violent, and often Erik had tried to hide them. Perhaps now that he had reconciled himself, the good and bad, instead of locking his horrors away in some closet, treating The Phantom as a psychological boogie man, they surfaced more easily. He would wake, shaking and crying, unable to function or sleep for hours. He had passed it off as something he needed to live with, maybe lessen with time, or with more to distract him.

It had begun right around Esther's sentencing and finally pushed Christine to seek professional help. She had always known her love and understanding wasn't enough to heal him-he needed real medical attention. It had been a bear, not only to get Erik to go but to sit with any therapist for longer than an hour.

He may have mellowed a little, may have reigned in his famous temper, but no amount of fame or accolades or responsibility would make Erik Khan a people person. Mr. Leroux however, who insisted on being called Joseph, was willing to make house calls. Compounded with the fact that he could play the flute and had a deep love of musical theory, he had finally broken Erik's resolve.

Christine did not know much of what they talked about and was glad of it. They would lock themselves in the library, and she could hear the piano and flute, often Erik's violin for a little. Then silence as they dissolved into soft talking, punctuated by the odd laugh until they emerged. It was Erik's to do and Erik's to keep. If he shared whatever they discussed the library room during sessions, she was honored but did not push. She had more than her fill of horror and was happy to let someone trained leech it from her husband. Joseph had not turned to his script pad first, which also gave her confidence in him. The pills were only for extremely severe interactions that could trigger the worst memories or high-stress situations. Christine rubbed her stomach.

She had only seen the vial a few times; before parole hearings and before interviews, but never performances-they had gone on a whole national tour without them. Her eyes fell on the poster that hung on their bedroom wall as she went to the dresser for clothes. Their touring ad, she in white, Erik in black just like their debut. Someone had photoshopped smoky wings on them both against the deep red backdrop. Angels of Music the title boasted. It looked so much more elegant than cruising around across the nation on planes, trains and automobiles had felt.

Checking her phone for the time, her background photo stared back at her, taken during that tour. It was her, lifting her phone to capture the other three people seated in the plane seats next to and behind her. They had just landed in LAX, the official midpoint of their journey. Christine had taken a picture to prove to Meg that they were all, somehow, still alive. Christine in her best hobo-chic, Erik in his usual suit, glancing up from his laptop. Behind them, Jules-plucked from the Maz to be their direct assistant, and Martha, Carlotta's former understudy who had had her fill of the theater and thought to try her hand as a makeup artist and agent.

Had she once thought merely performing had been stressful? Now settled into Mazandaran for another season felt like a vacation compared to adapting on a dime to different stages and setups, eating at questionable diners at questionable answers in between running for trains and flights. Fun but chaotic. Whenever Charles hinted at them trying for the international market, it made Christine feel a little dizzy already.

Besides, She thought, looking at herself in the mirror. That will all have to wait a while. She smoothed her top down over her belly and imagined the fabric stretched over a swelling bump. Right now junior was about the size of a peanut, and the most beloved peanut at that, though it had not been easy.

They'd had one pregnancy scare already, last year. It hadn't helped that they had been home from their tour only a month and were still running on fumes, or that Erik's mask had been a large question in every single music magazine that did an article on the up and coming duo. But it had been their first real fight. Erik did not want a child born with his face, and Christine who was also afraid of motherhood asked if he assumed she would follow in his parent's footsteps-had snapped that if he ever wanted children he'd have to take that risk. She'd left the house when he had shouted he never wanted to breed, that it was irresponsible and foolhardy, and did not return for a whole week.

It had been terrible, their first real fight-and no falling off stages or meddling friends was there to break the tension. They had to come back together on their own, somehow after the shouting matches over the phone and the snapping texts back and forth like arrows across a battlefield. Christine had wondered if this was it-the end to a beautiful but short dream. If they had rushed in like fools-who wed without talking about children first, after all?

It was the only time Christine had shared a session with Erik and Joseph, discussing everything from Christine's fear of parenting from the pitfalls in her own upbringing to the fact that Erik did not know if his face was genetic or caused by mistreatment during pregnancy. Seeing how his mother had handled him after he was born, it would not be a stretch to imagine.

Joseph had pointed out that their issues stemmed more from their own pasts than any terror of the future. What followed after was a negative pregnancy test and a week off from the theater and writing to discuss their future. Christine who had never thought much about it before, adamant about her desire for children. She had felt the protectiveness instantly, the care and love over a creature that had, in fact, never been. She knew that she wanted that again-and wanted Erik's child. And if deformities were not the issue, Erik finally relented that the idea was not as irresponsible as he had thought. The thought of a little Christine running about had broken is bitter resolve, as had the possibility of a son who would have Erik's eyes, but Reza's name.

This time around had been less stressful, though she did note Erik had kicked up his visits with Leroux to twice a week. So long as he was handling the stress rather than running from it, that was good enough for her. At least when she took this test, she had not been alone in Meg's bathroom, whispering to the little strip to turn negative. Now, she could tentatively be happy, even though she had nine months of strict diet and even stricter work schedules ahead of her. If Erik's face had been an accident in the womb, they were going to take every precaution against it.

Still, she wished that the only day theirs, Charles', Nadir's and Meg's schedule all worked for dinner hadn't been on a parole day. But there was nothing for it now. "C'mon booger," she told her growing child, "Let's see if daddy left anything in the kitchen for us."

Into the kitchen with its floor-length glass windows, the same windows that made up almost all of the first floor walls. It let in the bright buttery sunshine, making their Easter decorations pop against the white wood and marble of the decor. Christine foraged in the freezer and pulled out a box of frozen waffles, then strawberries, syrup and the can of whipped cream. A little sugar wouldn't hurt the baby, and there was no husband to bemoan the damage to her voice. She'd brew herself a cup of tea with lots of honey to balance it out.

Set up with her meal at the island, Christine pulled the kitchen tablet closer. It was in a thick blue cover to protect it from drops when they carried it from counter to counter either to watch a movie, talk to their friends, or for Erik, to follow a new recipe. On the lock screen-a picture of their first sonogram-Christine saw the overwhelming alerts on all their media accounts. Two sets: one for Music Angels, and the other for the Mazandaran.

Interestingly enough Christine had taken to doing the social outreach for both the opera house and their label. She loved doing video tours of the theater, showing them the behind the scenes for their upcoming productions, the costumes, meeting the staff, their writing rooms and setlists-it was great fun for her and helped ease Erik and Charles' burden. She'd bring in revenue not only with her talent as diva, but in making opera more accessible to a younger generation. She also convinced Erik to let more than two musicals a year onto his beloved stage.

Of course, the questions came, why wasn't her husband and partner in more of the videos. Erik had almost always ducked out of sight, seeing her recording, but his pride had not stopped him from the odd quip off camera. And people loved it, so she had begun to ask him to join her on tours-mainly pointing out the unique structure of his building and stage, adding his vast knowledge of music to the video.

Erik found he had a ready audience vying for his presence and opinions. They had all been concerned at first. After all, the internet was dark and full of terrors. But he seemed to like being able to reach out and communicate with the world without having to truly be in the world. The mask now was incidental-just something that made Erik, Erik, totally overshadowed by his talent and occasional hidden charm.

He was not big on leaking bits and parts of their new songs, saying that music should be consumed whole and complete. But he did like talking about the technical aspects of their writing, their influences, and inspirations. There was even a desire for him to talk about other things like history and cooking from their Music Angels audience-they had a whole series on their separate channel with just his cooking tutorials. He was a good teacher still, and good at pushing Christine's hands away as they crept in off frame from trying to sneak pieces of the meal in motion, saying with some regularity, "You act as if Erik doesn't feed you!"

The most fun they had, however, were simply streaming conversations together. Their most popular video besides their songs was Let's Eat and Argue About Cinderella, where they had ordered Japanese and discussed the value of Rodger and Hammerstein musicals at this very kitchen island for two hours.

Never did Christine think that they, as a couple rather than performers, would be beloved by an audience. But more often than not she saw clips of their conversations and jokes floating out in the great unknown. Her favorite was a clip where she had informed her husband You know honey, you were worried about your mask alienating people, but really it's your opinions on Sondheim. To which he had taken a vicious bite of rice and simply stated Good.

Christine amused herself in the TV room until her husband finally returned home. She heard the door open, the drop of keys onto the hook and the thump of his mask against the little table by the front door. Erik appeared, looking tired but nice in his turtleneck and blazer. He passed the couch, then doubled back, remembering to drop a kiss on his wife's mouth in greeting.

He disappeared into the library, and Christine heard the first strains of Paganini's Caprice No. 24. Beethoven followed, ending in Debussy. By that time Christine was onto losing her fifth game of online racing, and her sixth by the time Erik joined her.

Laying on the couch with his head against her thigh, she spared his hair one pass before returning to the controller.

"You're not very good at this game," he murmured softly, watching a red shell upend her cart for the third time that lap.

"I'm better offline." At least she didn't quit in rage, only after she placed eleventh. Then she devoted her whole attention to her husband. "Everything...okay?"

He nodded, catching a caressing hand and bringing it to his lips. "I didn't say anything. Alexander was young. Barely eighteen when they caught him. I couldn't say let him go, but I wouldn't stop them if they thought he was reformed." He looked up at her.

"If you think that was best, then it probably was," she encouraged. So many lives ruined by a few greedy people, by one vile woman. So many young minds abused and tortured and hurt. Christine rubbed her free hand over her belly. Erik did this to keep his presence known, to remind them all to keep on the straight and narrow. He did this now so that their children would not have to live in fear. And as much as she wished she could help, it was something he'd have to do on his own.

"When are they supposed to arrive?"

"Not until six, we've got some time, and we can always order out."

"No, Erik will cook." He stretched and peeled himself up from the cushions. "Well then, how have you been faring this morning besides eating all our whipped cream?"

Christine ran her tongue over her teeth. "How can you possibly smell that?"

"I can't. It's a pleasant flavor to taste when Erik kisses you."

Christine trailed behind, choosing music for him to cook too. She sang along, proving that the sugar hadn't harmed her, and after a rousing rendition of Love is Strange, matching Miss Chenowith with her high notes, Erik's mood finally began to lift. Taking her by the waist, he put her on the counter while he chopped vegetables, not complaining too much when she stole a portion here or there. Soon the troupe would be wandering in, and Christine couldn't wait to see their faces when they announced. The god-parents, Nadir and Meg were going to be the first to know, with Charles there as the only person guaranteed not to cry.

They'd all toast and laugh and revel in all the possible futures, in the good they had snatched back from the edge of calamity. Christine patted her belly. She'd teach her child every wonderment her father had given her, but this time tempered with the worldly knowledge Erik had introduced. They couldn't protect their babe from everything, but they would prepare them as best as they could. Their child would not know the aching void where affection was meant to be, nor would they be blinded to the hardships happiness demanded.

But they would be loved-oh so loved. And they would live the fullest lives Erik and Christine could provide.

They would teach them how.

Notes:

And here we are, at the end of-not all things-but of this novel. Thank you, thank you, thank you all. You're support and excitement for this story which started out as nothing more than something to kill time between my barista shifts and rides home has truly touched my heart. This project and those of you who've enjoyed have followed me through so much: a career change and the passing of a beloved father figure, and I cannot say thank you enough for your kind words and loyalty.

If you want to see more about this story such as fan art from some truly, spectacularly, talented artists and face casting, please check out donttouchthekeyboard on tumblr, or my main blog donttouchthefigs.

So, until the next one, remember,

Don't touch the figs.