A/N: The Christine-chooses-Raoul-then-changes-her-mind-and-goes-back-to-Erik story has been told and retold thousands of times on this very site. But what if Raoul weren't quite so oblivious to Christine's actions and the decisions she was wrestling with? What if things didn't work out... quite as anyone had planned?

This story is mainly novel-verse, but it will touch on some elements from a wide variety of versions. And whether you like E/C or R/C, I hope you'll find something to amuse you in the story that follows.

Special thanks to Kryss LaBryn and Biskuits, who have been wonderful contributors to, and sounding boards for, so many deliciously ridiculous ideas for this piece!

If you like what you read, or have any thoughts to share, I would love to hear from you! Thank you, and enjoy.


Throwing the Switch

Being a sombre comedy of love, loss, and liars

.

Chapter One

Vague and only a little disconcerting at first, the signs had been unmistakable for some time now.

Their union had started off happily enough, despite both of them needing some time to recover their shattered nerves after their adventure in the cellars of the opera. However, as the months had passed, and Raoul felt himself regaining at least some of his former youthful energy, Christine had begun to display some rather… peculiar… behaviours.

Listless during the days of her recovery, she had surprised Raoul when she began to find sufficient bursts of energy to take up the hobby of sewing. Not thinking on it much at first, he was surprised again when his wife's creations began to reveal themselves to him, one by one. A curious and beautiful set of clothing, and all its pieces very tiny, as though for a small child. An elaborately embroidered silk vest with an Oriental look to it. Small silk pantaloons. Slippers with curled toes, and a fez-style cap. All were lovingly, carefully, beautifully crafted through Christine's feverish efforts.

Raoul began to understand. Or at least, he though he did.

"Christine," he asked one day, cheerful expectancy in his voice. "You aren't by any chance… That is to say, with all these lovely clothes you've been making. Are you… with child, dearest?"

Christine stared at him, seemingly uncomprehendingly, for a moment before letting out a shrill little laugh and waving her hand as though brushing the notion aside. "Oh heavens no, no. What on earth could have given you that idea?"

Raoul frowned, unable to hide his disappointment. "Why, then, this sudden fixation? What on earth are all these—"

"Oh you know how long these days are for me, Raoul. It's just… I do get so lonely here sometimes."

"I suppose. I—"

"Wouldn't it be nice to have a little person about to keep us company?"

"So you do mean you want a child?"

"Oh heavens, heavens no. I am talking about a pet monkey."

"A – what?"

Raoul had most adamantly not agreed. Christine had grown silent and blushed bright red, and had never spoken of it - or returned to her sewing - since.


On the occasion of Raoul's birthday, Christine had made another disconcerting choice.

The morning of that chill November day, Christine had blushed brightly, telling Raoul she had gifts for him that she simply could not wait for him to open. Her excitement was so great she was nearly trembling as she had handed him a large, surprisingly heavy box.

Smiling indulgently and expectantly, Raoul had opened the package to reveal… an expanse of heavy wool fabric, as black as a moonless sky. Curious, he lifted it from the box and shook it loose of its folds. He looked over at Christine, trying not to betray his confusion. Then back to the garment. In his hands, he held a full-length black cloak, with caped shoulders and a high collar. Clearly a lovely, quality piece of clothing, but a little… eccentric for his more conservative tastes.

"Isn't it just absolutely beautiful?" she fluttered. "You look simply so dashing in black. I wish you would wear darker clothing so much more." She giggled and added in a whisper, "It makes you look so mysterious."

Raoul chuckled, bemused. "Come Christine, surely you don't think I have a mysterious bone in my body! It does look very warm though." He loosely refolded it and walked over to the thank her with a kiss.

"That's not all, dear!" she added, still with great energy. And she had handed him a hat box.


As the weeks progressed, a melancholy descended over Christine. Her strange bouts of manic inspiration seemed to fully abandon her. Though concerned by her mood, Raoul was over all pleased to think that perhaps, finally, she was putting the past behind her.

Or so he had dared to hope.

.

One particular day, as they shared afternoon tea, Christine's sighs were so frequent and regular that they alternated with her sips of the hot drink. Finding himself turning from mildly amused to fantastically irritated, Raoul finally asked her – as gently as though he had been coaxing a child – what was bothering her.

"Oh Raoul," she sighed again. "You would never understand."

She stood suddenly and turned away, one hand still clutching her tea cup. The other went to her forehead in a sweeping gesture – like an actress in one of those abysmal melodramas to which she had lately become fond of dragging him.

Raoul crossed his arms and – only while her back was turned – allowed himself the great catharsis of a full eye roll. "Darling Christine. Whatever is troubling you, please be assured that your loving husband will do his very best to console you and to remedy the problem."

Christine sniffed, and the tea cup still hung precariously from her fingertips. Raoul tensed as the remaining sips still held within threatened to escape the rim and drip onto their Oriental carpet. "I'm sorry Raoul. It's all so very complicated."

He attempted patience in his tone, but found himself speaking through gritted teeth. "Put it to me in plain language, dear, and I will attempt to wrap my head around it."

"It's – I feel so empty, Raoul. There is a hunger burning within me."

Raoul frowned. He leaned back in his chair and said evenly, "Would you like a scone?"

She turned and looked him in the eye, and gestured broadly in woeful frustration. The tea gave up its last foothold and was flicked from her despondent fingertips across the rug. Well, at least the pattern was dark, he thought, repressing a sigh.

"Not that kind of empty, Raoul. Empty in my head."

He bit his tongue.

"Empty of… the sound of music. It used to fill me at every hour. Obsessing me. Fascinating me. Now there is only dreary silence and the ticking of clocks to pass the day."

Raoul looked away and frowned. Was his conversation really so tiresome?

"If you've been wanting to hear music, I wish you'd have said something sooner. I can get out my violin. I have been keeping up the practice of it, and—"

Christine had turned away. She batted her fingers in the air in his general direction, as though shooing away a small fly. "Oh no no, Raoul, you needn't apologize for your lack of interest in the power that makes my very heart beat. I've always known you never had any interest whatsoever in the musical arts, and I knew I would have to accept their absence from my life when I married you."

"But… but I play the violin! Christine, I took lessons from your father. I've attended every new opera for years. I've a devoted patron of the arts. I invest in all the new productions. I… Why on earth would you think I have no intere—"

"Oh you needn't fret. I simply, oh, I knew that I would have to give it all up to be happy with you. And that the price of my safety would be this interminable silence. Oh Raoul, you do keep me so safe. So predictably, simply, quietly safe. You are a dear thing." She walked up to him and rather determinedly planted a few pats on his blond head. Then she turned and walked from the room, rubbing her eyes and sighing.

Raoul sat there gaping a moment longer. What the hell had just happened?

He stood and called after her. "I, I–I'm getting my violin! Right. Now." But there was no use. She had already shut herself away in their room.


He didn't mean to spy on her, exactly. He never… never really meant it each and every time that it seemed to just… happen. Always, however, he was able to console himself with the fact that it had been in her interest and for her own good. (Almost always.) Raoul had known for years that she was not really right in the head – a few notes short of an aria – but he had come to love her back when they were still children and her fantastical persuasions were not only acceptable, but truly fascinating. As they had both grown older and she had not grown out of them, his love had only deepened with compassion.

Now, however, he was listening at her door once again, ear pressed up unapologetically to it with his empty teacup in between to amplify any sounds.

At first there were only the deep sighs to which he had grown all too accustomed (and which had started to sound, to his ears, like fingernails grinding over slate) and then what seemed to be muffled sobs.

"Oh angel, angel. How I wish you could hear me now," came her voice, softly. "Or that I could hear you. That we might… hear… each other."

Raoul blanched. He pressed his ear even harder to the cup, the rough bottom of the china digging into the sensitive skin and most likely leaving a mark.
Silence, and then more sighs, made Raoul quiver in irritation. He next heard a door open within the room, and the sound of metal sliding over wood. Clothes hangers! Then, soft whump noises. These took him a moment to interpret, but he eventually identified the sound as clothing being tossed onto a bed.

"What the devil—" he started to mutter, catching himself before she could hear him in turn.

He wasn't truly alarmed, however, until he heard a couple of clicks, rattles, and creaks. He knew that sound.

Christine was packing a suitcase.

He didn't have to wonder where she was headed.