Well, here's my first attempt at romance. Many thanks to the Chat, for being a most excellent beta, and to Ms. Numbers, who was great for bouncing ideas off of.
Meg grasped the smooth white leather and gazed down on it with an expression approaching wonder. The Phantom's mask. Final proof that he did exist. Not that she had doubted it before, not when she was kneeling in the middle of what had to be his lair.
Someone jostled her from behind, and she almost fell. Looking up, she could see more and more people flooding into the lair. Meg had led the original mob down here as she searched for her mother and Christine, but it seemed that more people had followed her than she had thought.
Fighting broke out. Blood-lust had turned to greed, and the mob was fighting over the Phantom's possessions. She was jostled again, and this time she lost her balance and fell over. The mask fell out of her hands, and she watched it fly towards a velvet-draped section of the wall. Instead of clattering against it and falling to the floor, however, it fell through the drape. Meg stared in astonishment. There must be a passage back there.
Then she had to focus on not being trampled. There were too many people in the cavern, and her slight build made it hard for her to withstand the crush. With difficulty, she managed to get to her feet. She needed to get out of here and do what she came down here for—to find Maman and Christine.
Suddenly, she smelled smoke. Someone had set fire to a pile of furniture, and the rising flames made the cavern glow orange. Instantly, chaos enveloped the entire lair. People began screaming, shoving, stampeding to get out of the cave before it became a death trap.
Meg was trapped in the back. She'd never get out before the flames got too high. Already they were spreading, and more smoke filled the air. She began to cough.
Her gaze fell on the velvet hanging. She got to it easily, as it was further back in the cavern, and drew the drape aside. Sure enough, there was a dark passage behind it. She looked at it doubtfully; she had no idea where it led. She turned to try to make it out the front, but found her way blocked by a giant candelabrum which had fallen over. Beyond, she could see some of the men piling more furniture on the blaze, determined that everything should burn. She watched as a stagehand hefted what looked like a small wine cabinet onto the pile. There was no escape in that direction. A fresh billow of smoke made her realize she had no choice. It was the tunnel or death.
She turned and raised one foot to step through when there was an explosion behind her. The force of it sent her flying. Her foot caught on something, and there was a crunch of glass as she landed hard in the corridor beyond.
Pushing herself up with her hands, she winced as she discovered the abrasions on her palms and elbows from the fall. She looked back over her shoulder. The back of her shirt was a little scorched, but she didn't think anything had reached her skin. Then she tried to move her ankle and nearly passed out in pain. She carefully looked around to see the cause of her fall. From her vantage point, it was clear the door to the passage had been a mirror, and it had been smashed in. When she had fallen through, her ankle had crushed against the remaining shards of glass.
The velvet drape had fallen shut again, but she could hear the crackle of flames beyond it, reminding her that she wasn't safe yet. Taking her courage in both hands, she lifted her ankle free from where it lay across the bottom of the mirror. The room spun about her, and she whimpered in pain.
When she could move again, she began crawling down the tunnel, dragging her bad ankle behind her. Her leg hurt too much for her to even think about standing on it. She couldn't smell smoke anymore, but she didn't stop. No one knew where she was. Even if someone remembered her in the cavern, when she didn't return it would be assumed she had perished in the fire. She would die here, alone in the darkness of the tunnel. Terrified, she tried to crawl faster. I have to get out, she thought frantically.
But she couldn't keep it up for long. Pain overwhelmed her, and she sank to the floor, sobbing. Not even all her years of dancing had prepared her for this kind of pain.
A rustle of cloth sounded in the tunnel ahead of her. Meg froze, not daring to look up. It came again, closer this time, and she had to peek. Slowly, she lifted her eyes from where they had been buried on her arm, widening them as she found herself staring at a pair of boots mere inches from her face. She sucked in a breath and slowly followed them up, up to where a white mask gleamed faintly in the darkness.
She squeaked in surprise and shrank back.
"What are you doing here, Meg Giry?" The Phantom's voice echoed harshly around the tunnel. Meg shivered and couldn't find any words to respond with. She hadn't expected to find him here, and now he was angry at her.
Fingers curled around her upper arms and hauled her to her feet. She gasped in pain. But he kept raising her until she was inches from his face, feet dangling above the floor. "I asked you why you have come here. Do not try my patience with hysterics, for I have little restraint left tonight."
His golden eyes hypnotized her, and she answered slowly, thought chattering teeth, "I came to find Maman and C-christine." She stuttered over the last name as her mind caught up with her mouth, and she realized who she was talking to.
The Phantom's face, the visible side, hardened. Meg paled and prepared herself for the worst. Instead, he said, "Go back where you came from, Little Giry, and don't come back. They are not down here. Now go!" He abruptly sat her down on the ground.
Her ankle gave out, and she fell against him, clutching at the front of his shirt to stay upright. She whimpered, and the Phantom froze. In an icy tone, he said, "You may have my gratitude for the return of my mask, Mademoiselle, but I suggest you leave now before you cannot."
Meg could barely speak through the pain. She was beginning to grow woozy from it, but managed to say, "My ankle. Don't leave me please." She closed her eyes and trembled. Her fingers lost their grip, and she began to slump towards the ground.
Above her head there was a muffled curse, then his finger were gripping her arms again, this time controlling her descent to the ground and propping her against the wall. She kept her eyes closed. She didn't want to watch him walk away from her, leaving her to die. Instead, gentle hands gripped her foot and lifted it slightly, permitting him to examine it.
Her eyes opened. In the dimness, she could just make out the Phantom kneeling beside her, evaluating the damage by touch. He caused surprisingly little pain.
His voice came again, "There are bits of glass in it. They need to come out before it can be bandaged."
Meg couldn't read his tone, so she said nothing. He carefully set her foot down and stood. Before she could react, she found herself cradled in his arms, being carried down the passage. She gasped before she could stop herself, "Where are you taking me?"
He chuckled, but it wasn't a pleasant sound. "You asked for my help, Mademoiselle," he said grimly, "but perhaps wish to retract your plea? Regret asking for help from a ghost?"
Cautiously, she answered, "No, it was just—I didn't think you'd help me."
His arms tightened briefly around her, and he said, "Call it a favor to your mother, Little Giry."
She looked up at him. The masked side of his face was towards her, and for an instant she was petrified. But then she remembered all the things her Maman had said over the years. For good or for ill, Meg believed her Maman had trusted this man. It gave her the strength to say, "Thank you then, for helping me. And call me Meg, please…monsieur." She wasn't sure what to call him. She waited for him to say something, but he remained silent. Finally she asked timidly, "What should I call you?"
He glanced down at her and smiled sardonically before looking back up. "So you want a name. As I recall 'The Phantom' always worked for you before."
Meg felt herself blush. "Well, you were playing tricks then," she defended herself.
There were several moments of silence, and then he answered her question. "It's Erik."
Erik. She added that to the growing pile of facts she was acquiring about him. Most had been gleaned by eavesdropping and from things Maman had said.
Meg thought about the last few minutes. A comment he made stuck in her mind. "Erik," she asked, "what do you mean I returned your mask?"
He looked down at her, "I presume it was you who flung it through the opening. I simply was there to pick it up. Then I left in case anyone had seen it and come through after it."
They were both silent then until they reached another cavern. A few candles dispelled the gloom and revealed a few furnishings. A small stream or spring ran down the side of the space.
Erik carried her over to a pile of blankets set beside the wall and sat her down carefully. Then he got up and fetched a small box and what looked like a couple of old shirts. Setting them both beside her, he then retrieved all the candles in the room and arranged them around her, to get the best possible light she supposed.
Kneeling, he picked up her bad ankle carefully. He looked up, "I'll have to cut your shoe off."
Meg nodded mutely, already tensed. She hissed in pain as he drew a knife, cut off the shoe, and rolled up her pant leg. Looking at her ankle nearly made her faint—there was so much blood. It looked terrible. She was glad she had been wearing that outfit though—black trousers, leather shoes, and a white shirt—because it had surely provided some protection from the glass.
He looked up at her again, but when she didn't say anything he continued his work. Opening the box, he withdrew a pair of tweezers and set to picking every splinter of glass from her skin. She couldn't contain her whimpers anymore, her hands fisted in the blankets under her.
Finally he finished. Setting her foot gently down, he rose and wetted one of the shirts in the stream. Coming back, he began to wash the blood from her ankle. She tensed again, but it was nowhere near as painful as the glass-extraction. After it had been cleansed, he tore the other shirt into strips and began expertly bandaging it.
"You've done this before," Meg observed.
His hands stilled for a moment, then continued. "Yes," he said without looking up, "I've learned a few tricks over the years."
She watched him. In the light, he was not as fearsome looking as he appeared in shadow. Intent on his task, his face—the half she could see—lost some of its harshness. Oddly, she didn't feel scared of him anymore.
He finished with the bandage and sat back to examine his work. "That will hold until it begins to heal," he said, "I'll return you to the surface as soon as it's safe."
She smiled shyly at him. "Thank you," she said.
He eyed her warily and rose to clean up his supplies and return the candles to their original places. Meg watched him as she took off her other shoe and stocking. She was surprised by a wave of wanting at the sight of him.
She had lived unnoticed by men in the opera house for years. The noblemen went after the lead dancers and singers, and her mother had kept her away from the stagehands. She had never before met a man she had wanted either—not one available to her anyway.
She wanted Erik. Wanted him to hold her again. Wanted him to love her, like Raoul had loved Christine. That was it, she realized, why she wanted him. She wanted someone to love her, instead of passing her over. And she had heard about Erik for years—her Maman had never painted him as evil, unlike Joseph Buquet. But before she could pursue that thought, she had to know—
"Erik," she asked softly, "what happened tonight?"
He stiffened. "I told you, your mother is safe. She never came down this far." His tone said to drop the issue, but Meg couldn't stop.
"And Christine?" she asked.
He whirled on her and almost growled. "Do not mention her to me. It is none of your concern!"
She gulped, but pressed on. "She's my friend. I want to know what happened to her."
Erik had turned away from her. "She left," he said. Meg thought she heard a note of despair in his voice. "I let her go, and she left."
"Erik," she began, but he spun around and was almost on top of her before she could blink.
"Damn you! I let her go! Are you satisfied?" he roared as he leaned over her, hands on the wall on either side of her head.
She looked up at him with as much calm as she could muster. "Yes," she said simply.
The anger seemed to melt out of him. "Why aren't you scared of me?" he asked, almost to himself.
She met his eyes. "Maman trusted you. So I do too." Then she rose up and kissed him gently on the lips. "Thank you again," she murmured, pulling back.
He jerked as if she had struck him. "How can you trust me?" he rasped. "After all that I've done?"
"You've only helped me." She gestured towards her ankle. "Please Erik, I just want…"
He interrupted her angrily, "You just want what? To amuse yourself with a monster?"
She sat up indignantly, then winced as she jarred her ankle. "No! I don't think you're a monster, and I'm not trying to amuse myself. I just want someone to see me as something other than a child," she blazed angrily. She didn't know why the accusation made her so angry. "And anyway, you saved my life. Why shouldn't I be grateful?"
Erik sat back on his heels. "Was it gratitude that made you come down to this cavern of death in the first place? No, it was fear that the Phantom was going to do something wicked. Don't deny it," he growled.
Meg shifted restlessly. "I can't deny it, seeing as I told you that myself. But then you let them go, and you saved me. You didn't have to do that."
"So the monster saved you, and suddenly he's not so monstrous anymore. Is that it?"
She looked down, not able to meet his gaze anymore. "You're twisting my words."
"What, precisely, is there to twist in the first place?" His voice was harsh, ringing throughout the cavern.
Meg forced herself to look up. "You're twisting that I ever thought of you as monstrous. I never did! Maman didn't think of you that way, and where do you think I heard so much about you? Not that she ever spoke about you directly to me," she said bitterly, anger beginning to rise in her, "to the managers and Raoul, yes. To Christine even, but never to me."
She was surprised to find herself shouting. "You're not the only one who can eavesdrop, Erik! I know more than you, or anyone else, think! I have more in common with you than you know." Not seeing his expression grow harder, colder, she pressed on heedlessly, "I was always in the background. More so then you even! When you did something, people sat up and took notice. No one ever noticed me. That's what I want, Erik! I want you to notice me!"
He shoved her back against the wall, hands gripping her shoulders. "So you want a monster to notice you? Because I'm all that's available to you?" he hissed. Then he kissed her, hard.
She was too surprised to react at first, then she began kissing him back. She could feel the anger radiating from him, and she reverberated hers back through her kiss. She brought her hands up, threading them through his hair. Distractedly, she finally noticed it was different then when she had seen in onstage, and she realized he had been wearing a wig. Then she ceased to care and focused back on the kiss. Gradually its tenor changed from anger to, something else. Meg didn't know what. All she knew was that suddenly she was relying on him to even sit upright, and that his arms had come about to encircle her completely. Oh yes, she thought, this is what I want.
Erik broke the kiss first. Meg blinked up at him in confusion, trying to regain her thoughts. To her surprise, he looked confused, "Meg, I don't—"
She stopped him but kissing him again, briefly. "You need this," she told him, "and I want it. Stop thinking."
He was gazing at her dazedly, an almost lost look in his eyes. Slowly, Meg pushed him back to make a little room, then drew her shirt off, baring her corset. Erik made a strangled sound in his throat, and she threw him a coy glance. Reaching behind, she began to unlace it slowly, arching her back as she did so. She pulled it off and set it to the side, leaving her naked to the waist. The she grasped Erik's shirt and pulled him back down, kissing him fiercely.
She tugged feverishly at his shirt, wanting it off. Finally he broke away and pulled it off himself, returning to kiss her eagerly, running a hand down her bare back, the other braced on the wall behind her. She ran her hands down his chest and around his sides to his back. She could feel scars there, and she traced them with her fingers, wondering how he had got them. Then his hand came up to cover her breast, and she gasped. He drew back instantly. "I'm sorry," he began.
She grasped the nape of his neck and pulled him back down. "Don't stop," she murmured. He lowered her down to the pile of blanket and kissed her again in reply. He didn't stop.
Later, Meg woke up to find him curled about her. She stretched a little and winced at the soreness in all of her muscles—she was sore in other places besides her still-tender ankle. Then she sighed in content.
Behind her, she felt the even rhythm of Erik's breathing change and knew he was awake.
"Good morning," she said, and wriggled around to face him, careful not to jar her ankle.
He stared at her in surprise, and Meg knew he was remembering what had happened a few hours ago. "I—we—you seduced me!" he said at last. To her everlasting delight, he sounded affronted.
"Mmhmm," she murmured, brushing aside a lock of hair that had fallen over his mask, then tracing her finger down the smooth leather. He hadn't removed it, and she hadn't asked him to. She had seen what was under it during Don Juan, so she felt no curiosity to look as she might normally have done. She knew also that any mention of it would make him distance himself immediately, and she liked him right where he was. "Would you have done this otherwise?" she asked with a small smile. She rested her head against his collarbone and nearly purred in contentment.
"How could you let me make love to you? A monster like me? How could you want me too?" he asked, last night's bitterness starting to creep into his voice.
"I don't think you're a monster," she said, voice muffled against his chest. With one hand she began tracing one scar that wrapped around over his shoulder. She raised her head to look at him. "I don't see a monster at all, only a man."
"But later, after you leave," he protested.
"Shh," she murmured, "I'm not leaving now. I'm going back to sleep." She rested her head back against his chest and closed her eyes. She felt him sigh, and then his arm came around her and pulled her closer.
Before she drifted back into sleep, she realized she really didn't want to leave him, ever. This was where she wanted to be, and she suddenly wondered, am I in love with Erik, the Phantom of the Opera? It had a sort of odd symmetry about it, the career ballet rat falling for the theater's ghost. I wonder how he'll react when he figures out I'm never leaving, she wondered. But she put off thinking off that till later and let sleep lay claim to her.
Fin
That's it for now! The next thing I'll post will probably be of the humorous variety, but it's up in the air. And if you know me in real life please, in the name of all that is Right and Reasonable, please don't be too scandalized or judge me for this. Come talk to me first. And to everyone else, I'd really love your opinions on how well I pulled this off. Thanks!