A/N: Written because wheel-of-fish once requested a Sorelli/Daroga fic. And honestly? We ship that here.

Sexual references

They meet because of the Daaé girl, and sometimes Sorelli still has to remind herself that she thinks of her as Christine now. They meet thanks to Christine, who came to her one afternoon after rehearsal to ask, timidly, if she would act as witness at a marriage ceremony.

And it is laughable, now, to think that she almost refused, almost decided that she had a private engagement with the Comte instead, but in a moment of prescience and practicality, she agreed.

After all, one never knows when they may need to call on someone to act as a witness. Better to have Christine owing her a favour now, than to get into a difficult situation later and have no one to turn to.

So she agreed, and went home and changed into a blue dress that there had been no proper occasion to wear, pinned her hair up and selected a little hat to wear over it. And with a slight bit of rouge the picture was complete, and it was off to the ceremony.

The ceremony at which there was only her and Christine, Christine growing increasingly anxious, tugging at her gloves until Sorelli grasped her hands to still them.

Then the door swung open, and in stepped two gentlemen, the taller one wearing a mask, mildly unsteady on his feet, and the other one—

Why, the other one was Monsieur Khan, the Persian who always attends the opera, and who some of the petite rats insist has the evil eye.

Sorelli has always been a superstitious woman, but even she never quite believed that one. The man is far too polite.

Monsieur Khan nodded at her, and smiled at Christine, and lay a steadying hand on the masked gentleman's arm.

"Erik was," and Monsieur Khan's eyes flickered for the barest moment, "concerned that you would change your mind."

Christine reached over, and grasped the masked—grasped Erik's hand, and smiled shyly up at him. "I would never."

Curiosity burned within Sorelli, to know more about this Erik, to know why his face was hidden, but the magistrate interrupted them, and after he verified that Christine had not been coerced into the marriage (and if anything, it seemed to Sorelli more like Erik had been coerced), the ceremony continued apace. Sorelli and Monsieur Khan signed the required documents, and that was that. Over and done with.

Christine kissed her on the cheek before they parted, and Erik nodded curtly at her, and then it was only her and Monsieur Khan remaining.

Monsieur Khan turned to her, and smiled. "Would you object to joining me for dinner?" he asked. "Or have you—other plans?" And the way he said other plans made it clear to Sorelli that he knew what those other plans were likely to be, and she held her head up high and reasoned that if he tried anything it would be a quick draw to pull the dagger from her boot as she nodded.

"I would be delighted to join you for dinner."

That was how it began. By the end of dinner he had become simply Faisal, and in the brougham her lips met his and a thrill ran through her at the brush of his tongue against hers. He whimpered when her hand brushed the bulge between his thighs, his hands coming to cradle her face.

Then the brougham drew up, and they broke apart, and taking his hand she led him into her flat.

They did not make it to the bed.

She never got a dress off so fast in her life, and when his thumb softly brushed over her nipple, she gasped and spread her legs, and the weight of him settling between her thighs was more comfortable than De Chagny ever was.

They kissed, and gasped, and stroked their way through their pleasures, and she knew even as her heart pounded and those glorious spasms rippled through her, that he was a better lover than she had had in years.

His breath hitched as he hit his own climax, lips brushing the corner of her mouth, eyes rolling as she rocked up into him, and then he lay heavy on top of her as she pressed soft kisses to his face.

"Next time," she whispered, when they got their breath, "in bed." And he giggled like a schoolboy.

And there have been many next times since. In her bed, and in his, and on the floor and by the fire and on the chaise, and alternating sitting in a chair, and a particularly memorable occasion in her dressing room twenty minutes before she was due on stage.

Her reviews that night called her inspired, and she knew they could never begin to guess what had led to her elation.

(Christine was starry-eyed two nights later as she stepped on stage, and Sorelli struggled to hide her grin, feeling oddly proud that the little Daaé girl, too, had discovered the joys of dressing room intimacy.)

Frankly it was a relief to get rid of De Chagny. Faisal is far superior to him in every way, and though they have not spoken of such things, have not begun to mention such sentiments, she fancies that he might be a little bit in love with her.

And when he does profess such sentiment, she will be ready to smile, and kiss him, and suggest that, perhaps, they should call on Christine and her Erik as witnesses.