Author's blurb: I'm currently having issues with my Phantom of the Opera fanfics, so I thought I'd upload this in the meantime. I was completely stuck on whether or not I needed the final paragraph or not, so I may remove it in the future. Enjoy!

The Piercing

The chair was stiff, the cushion unyielding. But if there was anything her mother had taught her from childhood, it was to sit still and obey her elders and her superiors. And so she sat without fidgeting, facing her master. Vermeer gazed steadily back at her, his expression unreadable, half of his face shrouded in darkness. The fingertips of his left hand played with the square of white cloth dipped in clove oil before grasping it and handing it to her.

"Hold that to your ear for a moment. "

Griet took the cloth from him, swallowing as she felt his fingers touch hers. Obediently, she pressed the damp cloth to her ear as told. After a few seconds, the telltale numbing sensation crept through her earlobe, tingling the skin as the oil penetrated the flesh. Putting it down on the table, she took the box next to her and pulled out the long piercing needle within. A suffocating fear swelled within her as she held it in her hand. It was easily six inches long and extremely sharp. Forcing her feelings down, she held it out to him.

"You do it," she said, her voice a pitch higher than usual with trepidation.

He took the needle from her and held the tip in the candle's flame; she withdrew her hands and held them in her lap, attempting to suppress the spark of fire humming through them given by his touch. Griet studied Vermeer's face like she had done so many times before, even before she truly knew him: wavy hair that gently graced his shoulders, dark eyes that seemed to see much more than other people's eyes did. The firm set of his lips, the slight layer of stubble on his jaw, his brow that he often wore creased as if willing into existence a treasure he was searching for. After a moment Vermeer slid the sterilized needle from the flame of the candle, and taking the cloth in his left hand, rose from his chair. Griet glanced up at him, helpless not to, but dropped her eyes as he approached her and kneeled at her side.

Bracing his right wrist against her shoulder, he nudged her cream-colored headcloth aside with the knuckle of his little finger as he gently grasped her earlobe with the thumb and forefinger of his left hand. Griet turned her head to expose the lobe, partly to help him and partly as an involuntary response to the sudden heat of his fingers on her skin. Vermeer repositioned his hands slightly, tracing the cooling tip of the needle over her flesh and she shifted in her seat, swallowing hard as she felt the fear escalating inside her. The clove oil's numbing effect was wearing off quickly, leaving nothing to the imagination. Seconds passed as the point of the needle hovered over her ear next to Vermeer's thumb and she closed her eyes, terror of the needle rising in her blood, pinned down under his suddenly intense eyes and the unforgivable way that his grip was commanding and firm, yet infinitely gentle at the same time.

She felt his grip tighten first, then her breath fled her lungs as the needle sank in like a command, piercing her lobe smartly. He continued to drive it in as pain lanced through her, seemingly forever before coming to a stop. The metal seemed to heat up as it slid through the virgin hole it had just made, until Griet felt as if there was a molten thread being pulled through. A soft sound of protest escaped her as she tucked her chin to her chest, trying to suppress the cry within, and she sighed in both pain and relief as Vermeer quickly pulled the needle out of her ear and pressed the cloth to the wound. As if premeditated, he drew his right arm around her shoulder and drew her close to him as she fought the burning sensation radiating from her ear, tried not to think of the blood that must be flowing. She barely had time to register how much nearer they were, the flutter of his breath as it caressed her shoulder, the steady expansion and contraction from his chest as it pressed softly into her upper arm, the warmth of his body, before he withdrew his hand from around her, folding the cloth around the needle and setting it on the table.

"The earring."

Still fighting the fiery pain from her ear, she picked up one of the luminescent pearl earrings, her fingertips toying with it before finding the hook and handing it to Vermeer. He took it, brushing against her fingertips as he did so and raising an echo of the simmering heat within her from the brush of his fingers before. Positioning her earlobe with the fingers of his right hand, he gently fed the earring through the hole. Despite his care and gentleness, Griet squeezed her eyes closed at the harsh sting as an uninvited tear slipped out, warm as it slid down her left cheek. She forced her eyes open, remembering her promise to herself not to cry, and took a shaky breath as Vermeer finished sliding the pearl earring in place.

He noticed. As if by impulse, his hand, warm and surprisingly soft, slid down her jaw as he shifted his gaze to her face. She closed her eyes helplessly as he slowly ran his thumb across her cheek, capturing the tear before sliding his thumb across her lower lip. Tendrils of fire blossomed within her as she found herself memorizing the texture of his warm skin, dampened by her tears, the touch as erotic as she imagined a lover's would be. Before she could stop herself, she was turning her head towards him. Her eyes opened and found his, now darker than before as he gazed at her with a mix of tenderness and intense desire. And for a split second he stared at her seemingly with the full intention of kissing her, but his body was already straightening up, pushing away from her hard even as his lips parted slightly in the process of shaping a silent wish. His hand dropped from her chin and he was already turning, but even as he strode away from her the hand that had earlier embraced her trailed behind him, like a half-alive sign of interest, like a quiet yet passionate apology.

His departing silhouette was tight and tense as he withdrew, and Griet could only look down at the floor as her emotions roiled within her, reliving his embrace, the way he had caressed her cheek and her lips: tenderly, silently, but in that moment, unashamedly. And yet he had pulled back at the last second, leaving only ghosts of suggestions, whispered ideas and images that even now flitted around Griet and through her, begging the question, What would he have done—what would we have done—if he hadn't stopped?