Christine Daaé stared out her circular window, puffing loudly in irritation. She raised herself to her elbows and began counting the flakes of powder that hit the south roof of the ballet dormitory, as she had when she was a young girl, still awaiting her nightly visit by the Angel of Music.

She heard the footsteps growing nearer and nearer the dormitory door, and only relinquished her reverie when Meg Giry hissed a warning though her teeth from the neighboring bed. With a sigh that only a theatre girl could muster, Christine sunk back down onto her pillow.

A creak of rusty, feeble hinges and a weak spray of candlelight announced the entrance of Madame Giry, late to her nightly rounds of bed checking. Though she looked as though she might lack observance, the more-than-capable matron passed over each bed, risking nothing less than a complete evaluation of each and every little aspiring prima donna. In her younger days, more than one dancer had escaped her watchful eye and managed to slink out of the dormitory unnoticed, having to be retrieved from the police the next morning for loitering.

Needless to say, with such a reputation as hers on the line, Giry was a nitpicker.

…

It seemed like hours, but after fifteen minutes, Mme Giry stalked slowly out of the room, latching the door behind her. Christine snapped open her soft, chocolate eyes and met Meg's eager gaze. "I'll be back," she mouthed as she discarded her tattered coverlet and padded towards the door.

…

The enticing organ music grew louder in Christine's ears and deafer in others'. For a month and a half now, her every thought had been that of music. Her lethargy had interrupted her rehearsals more than once, caused the managers, Monsieurs Firmin and André, a good deal of discomfort, and worried Meg sick. "I hate to see you such a slave to your work, dear," she would tell Christine affectionately, who now spent every second out of rehearsal in her little chapel.

But just as the organ music fell upon a majority of deaf ears, Meg's pleas were virtually futile. Christine thought the competition for her interest was absolutely no contest, but she had not the heart to tell her best friend for the past nine years that her revulsion for the mad recluse that lived five floors below the street was turning slowly into something else.

To determine exactly what that was, she figured she'd just have to indulge in her whims for a little while. And right now, nothing could stop her from breaking into Carlotta's unoccupied dressing room and scurrying down to the basements.

Thankfully, the door to the obnoxiously pink, flowery dressing room was unlocked and ajar, permitting Christine the easy entry she was hoping for. Sneaking across the room like a shadow, not quite unlike someone she knew and loved, she reached the prima donna's full-length mirror. The ornate, gold framing was shedding its paint in some places, and one could faintly make out from behind the frame the original fuchsia (she couldn't believe it could've been any darker…) of the faded wallpaper. Though not an old building, the Opera Populaire had seen its fair share of busy galas and strutting singers hoping for stardom in their next performances. The chaise lounge, upholstered in rose-colored velvet, stood watch over the mirror as it held Carlotta's dressing gown, a clashing pastel green with white faux fur lining the collar, captive. She focused now on the age-speckled mirror, in particular its left side, the side that had opened to let her pass with her Angel the night she performed the lead in Hannibal.

She tried to latch onto the mirror as best she could and pulled, audibly releasing a spring and lessening the pressure on the glass substantially. She smiled as she pulled harder and the mirror slid gratingly to the right, letting her pass into a dimly lit walkway that melted into a dark, dripping passage clad only in rusty candelabras and stringy cobwebs.

Looking around, she had to admit the dream had worn off. Somehow, the Phantom had managed to make this passageway seem warm and bright, and she had absolutely no recollection of the cobwebs. This was not matter to her, however. The dank passageway would only lead to light eventually, the light of candles and the light of music down below.

Emerging some minutes later through a tiny, invisible trap door in the masonry of the Opera's first cellar, Christine glanced eerily around. The sceneshifters, Carlotta's entourage, and the other behind-the-scenes workers were dancing around and singing loudly, completely smashed. She watched them for a moment from behind the set pieces that concealed her, wondering if the all-too-coincidental death of their friend and co-worker, Joseph Buquet, had meant so little to them.

She though on it for a moment, then turned to leave. It was none of her business, anyway. Christine gathered up the skirt of her nightshift and plodded her way down the incredibly long, spiral staircase that inevitably led to her destination.

…

The scent of alcohol and burning candles was long behind her. She felt as if she'd been walking for hours when she came upon the landing she remembered from her first trip below. His gondola was missing from its usual spot, which meant he had locked himself away for the rest night. Or the rest of the week - however long it took to complete his next task. She didn't remember the moss-covered walls, the green hue of the water, or the grotesque gargoyle faces carved into the stone. Overall, the scene disturbed her. She had to stop and remember why she had left her warm bed in the ballet dormitory and come here, late at night and against her better judgment, of her own accord. A cold wind blew from out of nowhere, swirling around her and dissipating as quickly as it came. No amount of blankets could warm her now; she was too numb to the bone to bother warming herself.

Christine didn't want to have anything to do with next part: wading to his gate. Though he might think it romantic in some way (to have the girl he loved brave all and hasten to his lair, only be with him), she thought the exact opposite. The idea of even touching the green water (which upon further "inspection" turned black from the muck at the bottom) made her skin crawl. The thought of turning back was erased from her mind, however, when the organ music recommenced its hypnotism. Her eyes glazed over and she climbed down into the water.

Conveniently enough, while making her way clumsily down into the algae-colored muck, she slipped on the stone dock. Cursing softly, she plunged her arm deep into the ooze she was standing in and groped at her leg, searching for any physical signs of injury. After finding none, she pulled her arm out of the water and trudged forward, ready to retch at any moment. She remembered thinking that she should've worn shoes; bare feet on the bottom of this "lake" produced a gross, black mud that was agitated and stirred around in the water as you walked. She was chest-deep, and wondering if the water would get any deeper. She hoped not.

…

"…Erik?" she called softly, but no reply. His fox-ears were too engrossed in the music he was laboriously playing. He was obviously in less than a good mood; his body language always revealed what his words did not. Each of his muscles, visible through his nearly saturated linen shirt, was tense and pulled almost to a breaking point. The bones in his hands, his knuckles, his fingers, were all white and bony-looking. His posture was not his usual straight-backed sit; now he looked older, hunched over the organ, his hair askew. He hadn't even bothered with the wig today; Christine could see it sitting peacefully on its little bust. His mask, though, was always on, and tendrils of graying black hair wisped across its front.

Christine tried to make her presence known, but nothing could distract him. He was far to preoccupied to notice his beloved clinging to his gate, soaked to the skin in his lake water. "Erik," she called, again nothing more than a loud whisper. Should any of the intoxicated sceneshifters hear her, albeit an unlikely occurrence, she would have a raging Mme. Giry to pay.

She almost swore that at her last call, she saw his ears prick up like an attentive dog. He turned abruptly to see who his intruder was. Startled that it was Christine, there by no one else's will but hers, she stood up suddenly, upsetting his bench and dropping his quill that splattered ebony ink on one of his oriental rugs.

He stared disbelievingly for a moment

Adopting her most convincing voice, Christine cooed, "Erik, please let me in?" Himself now hypnotized, Erik trotted down to the lever that raised his portcullis and pushed. The gate lifted itself out of the water, and Christine entered.

Now only waist-deep in icy, green water, Christine couldn't wait to reach his figure. She expected no warmth, emotional or otherwise, but she felt herself needing him more now that she was in front of him. It didn't matter that he always had the chill of death about him; Erik was a life source for her.

She stared at him as she waded towards the rocks on which he stood, observing his every move with the greatest interest. His eyes, those deep pools of burning, stony gray, had melted from surprised to self-pitying and angry, half-expecting what was about to happen. Christine shook her head. "Don't pity yourself, Erik," she almost purred, making the experience more painful to Erik than she'd meant it to be. "I haven't come to pull of that mask again." His heart jumped, leaped as far as his throat in that one beat, but his eyes did not betray him. They remained stoic and expecting the worst until she actually approached him.

She extended her hand, apparently still expecting hospitality and gentlemanly manners from a broken-spirited "opera ghost" living in the bowels of a sewer. He reached out and took it, helping her the remainder of the way out of his lake, then awkwardly replacing his had at his side. Christine reached up to touch the vulnerable, exposed portion of his face in her haze, her addiction to his music that had sent her below in the first place.

He actually almost let her.

"There now," she breathed, a possessive look in her eyes, "don't be upset." He caught himself that time before it was too late, and angrily slapped her hand away, backing from her like a wounded animal ready to attack. The haze lifted from her features and her face turned to a confused frown. He heaved silently, his muscles tense once more. "What…why?" she asked, plainly confused.

"You expect me," he replied, his voice low, angry, feral, "to trust you to keep your word? After such a betraying display on the roof the night that fool Buquet died?"

She gasped. She had felt his presence, but after hearing Raoul, she had forgotten him entirely. His eyes were beginning to betray him now, like they used to when he was younger, like they used to before he'd learn how to cloak them. She saw their shine increase dramatically, and she saw their hurt. She felt like she had no choice but to promise herself to Raoul, her childhood sweetheart, the boy who'd spent countless hours with her in their youth, imagining they were in some foreign land. She now understood that Erik had expected something of the sort in recompense for his services, some form of attention from the one human he could stand to be near.

He said nothing else. She began to shiver, the numb of the music wearing off, and hissed in pain so suddenly that Erik almost dropped his guard. Again.

He wanted to help her, to be there for her, to care for her, to do everything he hadn't experienced during his lifetime at all. But he wasn't a fool either, and he understood that playing the doormat would be his undoing. Christine, though beautiful and talented, had a personality that would overtake him in a second if he let her. And power was an integral part of his being that he wouldn't sacrifice, ever. It had been his substitute for love in his younger years, and now it was to supplement it, should his plans go the way he wanted them to.

She looked down at her leg, the source of her pain, and noticed a faint line of red penetrating her white nightshift where it stuck to her damp flesh. "Oh," she whispered, pulling up the edge of her skirt. She had obviously expected Erik to be embarrassed at such a display, and was dismayed when he bent down to look at it. "What did you cut yourself on?" he asked, gently pulling at the soft skin on either side of her wound. "The dock," she replied, gazing down at him, watching attentively as he got up and ran to his bedchamber. He returned a moment later with a ripped shirt and a jug.

…

It was with the greatest care that Erik lifted Christine onto his bench (once set right, of course) and tended her wound. She watched him attentively, completely in awe that he could be so caring so…gentle. He dabbed at her wound with clean water, his own precious supply for drinking, and examined the gash. "This may need to be stitched up, if you don't clean it daily," he spat rather gruffly, contradicting his kind actions. He was leaning over her folded legs, attempting to retain some propriety and clean the girl's wound. He was burning, though. He wished she wouldn't look at him the way she was, that unidentified look festering in her bottomless brown eyes.

"Be reasonable, Erik. Sit." She moved her legs off the second half of the bench. He sat cautiously, not sure of what to expect. When he though her could finish his miserable task, the girl placed her right leg up across his lap, so he could get better leverage at her cut. He gulped.

His hands were shaking as he poured some of the whisky he had stashed away onto the rag and dabbed her leg, to clean the wound. He finally dropped the rag, cursing under his breath that he was caving under such pressure – the pressure of lust that he'd abandoned decades ago. Gracefully, staring at him the whole time, she handed him the rag. She too was caving under pressure: a need for his presence that wasn't being satiated in her present situation. Their hands touched and sparks flew. He stopped staring at the wound and turned to face her, she leaned closer to him, his heart racing – he was in a situation he had never been in before, and probably would never be again. He hoped to the God he didn't believe in that he wouldn't botch it. As he moved in slowly to kiss her, she put two slender fingers to his lips. "No, Erik," she whispered, confused that he misinterpreted her behavior. "I don't want this, I want music."

…

Maybe, Christine thought, maybe she should tell him she was sorry. Sorry for ever following him, sorry for not kissing him, sorry for everything. But as he escorted her back to her room, she had not the courage to open her mouth. She squeaked a kind "goodnight" as he bade her goodnight; he was now afraid to even kiss her hand as he had the first time they had parted.

Maybe, she thought, as she lay in bed, counting the snowflakes as they fell, maybe I need to give up on my Angel. Maybe it's for the best.

In truth, she didn't really know what to do. Meg found the next morning that her friend had cried herself to sleep, and throughout the duration of her friendship, she couldn't determine why. She didn't know why Christine was in a hurry the next morning. She was elated to hear about her friend's engagement, though, and was excited to see her ring.

…

On his solitary trip back to the fifth cellar, Erik was a myriad of emotions. How had he managed to misinterpret her? When he'd been successfully reading people since his earliest days like the pages of open books? She had shown no remorse at letting him hear her love pledge to another, undeserving (as he thought) man. She had shown no remorse to her behavior that night either, as if she either didn't know or didn't care that she was hurting him.

S'no matter, he figured. He'd lived this long without love, why did he think he needed it now?

Because she was different. She was the part of him that died when he first saw his face, when his mother claimed she hated him. He had one more chance at a happy life, after he'd given up. There was one more opportunity to see her, he figured, at the Masquerade ball that was steadily approaching. He hadn't planned on making an entrance before that night. Now, though, it was time to make his costume.

As he pulled the lever to close the gate, pulled the string to close the curtain, he thought of nothing. For seemingly the first time in his life, he thought of nothing. In passing, he grabbed the rag, now saturated with a mixture of her blood and his whiskey. He kicked over the bottle, letting the contents seep onto the remainder of his oriental rug, and trudged wearily towards his bed.

He didn't even bother to pull the veil down or take off the mask, as he always did. The second his head caressed the velvet pillow, he buried his face in the rag and cried himself to sleep.

FIN