A/N: I stared at my computer screen for an hour, wanting to write a Phantom one-shot but having no idea what to write. I wasn't in the mood for a crossover or to write Christine, which left me with an 'other woman' plot, but how to do that in a one shot that wasn't terribly cliché? Finally I decided to try my hand at a slightly more realistic Erik/OC situation. Though I adore those stories, let's face it – they aren't very likely. This is a tale I think is a little more realistic.
It's worded oddly here and there because I wrote it from 11 PM to 1:30 AM, and am a bit out of it myself. I just want to post it before I lose my nerve. Maybe I'll go back and rewrite someday.
Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera belongs to Gaston Leroux, I don't care what copyright laws might say, it's just true. Any characters you don't recognize belong to me, though I did take some inspiration from Luna Lovegood (oh snap), so I guess some thanks go to J.K. Rowling.
Enjoy.
It wasn't that she was particularly beautiful, because she wasn't. Her hair was the same dark brown as a million other women, and her eyes were a dark green…pretty, but not stunning. She did not have the flawless skin of a porcelain doll, with soft blushes and long, dark lashes and red lips as a certain other woman did.
In other words, she was not Christine Daaé. She didn't have the silken, golden waves of hair or clear blue eyes or flawless complexion. She did have a sort of glow about her, but one that came from happiness, not beauty.
Erik could never honestly say he loved her. He was fond of her, certainly, and he adored her in a way, but never did he claim to be in love. She didn't expect him too, either, and nor did she love him.
They had met casually enough one afternoon. It was a Thursday, to be exact. He remembered because Thursday was not a day that a tea house tended to be busy, and he had decided to risk trying on his mask that made him look like anybody, and go out in the daytime, to a place where normal people gathered. He hadn't lied to Christine – he wanted desperately to be just like anybody else. And though with a wife he would have even bought a house aboveground and gone out on Sundays, without one he could content himself with his old lair and Thursday afternoons.
He took shelter from the rain on his way to the tea house, hiding in a little shop a block away. He'd been a little worried that others would have taken shelter there as well, and he hadn't wanted to face a crowd, so he was relieved when he looked around to notice one male customer and a female shop girl.
It was a flower shop, filled with lovely spring flowers that filled the air with a pleasant aroma. Not wishing to be rude, he walked about, trying to take interest in the flowers but being unable to, since he'd had no one to give them to.
"Good afternoon," the woman greeted, chirping happily. "Can I help you with something? Perhaps an arrangement for a woman you admire?"
He wasn't allowed to send flowers to the woman he admired anymore. It would have been inappropriate to court the wife of the new Count de Chagney. But in order to look a little less like he'd only walked into the shop to get away from the rain, he'd have to claim he was buying flowers for somebody.
"I am just looking for something for my home," he said stiffly. He hadn't spoken to a person who was not the Persian or the Shade or the Ratcatcher since Christine had left months ago. Hopefully, he'd used the right tone of voice. He may be the world's greatest singer, but he was not the best conversationalist.
"Oh, wonderful. May I suggest something white? White flowers always seem to make a home a bit brighter, more welcoming." The woman gave him a smile, one that made her look a little prettier then she really was.
"Not white," Erik insisted. "I prefer darker colors."
"Red, then? Or perhaps blue or purple?" she pointed to three different clusters of flowers, a group of red roses, and then an usual blue flower that looked rather like a lily, and a purple flower he recognized as hyacinth.
"Purple, perhaps," he said. He was a little tired of roses.
"Excellent." She said, walking over to gather a bunch of hyacinth, and then held them out to him to see. "We have this, as well as some lavender – great for relaxation – or some violets. Of course, orchids are lovely flowers the home…if you add some baby's breath and stargazer lilies, you'd have a rather exotic bouquet. Or if you'd rather go for meaning, asters are really the best, meaning 'contentment', and added with geranium or holly…"
Goodness gracious, did this woman ever stop talking? You'd think she was auditioning for a show on flowers, and performing her best purple-themed monologue. And she managed to do it all while smiling that charming smile. How did she manage to smile and talk at the same time? Could she even breathe? Did she need air, or was she some sort of creature who took in oxygen by speaking? This must have been why she was hired – she had the ability to never tire from smiling or chattering.
"I like the orchids," he spoke, once she proved that she was, indeed, human and needed to take a breath. "And I'll take the stargazer lilies, as well. And the narcissus." He found a man such as himself owning a plant named for a man in love with himself was an irony he simply could not pass up.
"Wonderful!" the woman chirped. She gathered the flowers and went briefly to the back of the shop to arrange them in a vase, then came out again to deliver the vase and take payment. She named the price and as Erik reached into his pocket to pull out the required amount, she turned to the other customer who had approached. "Did you find anything you liked, Gilles?"
The man shook his head. "It has to be perfect, Chloé. I want her to see it and instantly know that she wants to marry me. Should I try roses?"
The woman – Chloé – shook her head, somehow managing to turn that smile into a deep, thoughtful frown. "Roses are overdone, brother. Let me think about it a little longer and I promise I'll find something perfect for Mademoiselle Poirier. Look at the ranunculus and I'll be with you in a moment."
Gilles nodded, turning away from the counter and going somewhere near the back of the store. She accepted Erik's money, gave him the change, and wished him a good day. He wished her the same, took his purchase, and rushed back out into the rain, deciding to skip the tea house for that day.
They met again a few weeks later, when he found himself missing the beautiful flowers he'd left on a table nearby his beloved organ. They had been something of an inspiration, and once they died he decided to buy another bouquet (this time containing sweet peas and yarrow, though that was hardly important). Over the next few months he saw the girl on a regular basis, and…dare he consider it?...he almost considered her a friend. Certainly more so then the Persian, whom he'd known for years but was always being blamed for something or other whenever he saw him.
Their conversation rarely turned from flowers (which she had a deep passion for, as she did for all things growing), but when they did he learned that her name was Chloé Travere, and that she was the only daughter of the business owner. Her brother, Gilles, was due to marry Aurore Poirier, a beautiful girl with an empty head, but 'sweet nonetheless'. Chloé was nearing twenty-four and ought to have had many marriage proposals by that time, but she spent so much of her life working at the shop that she hadn't much time for socializing.
Erik shared precious little about himself, other then the fact that he was unmarried and loved the Opera. She loved the Opera, too, but could rarely attend. It was on one of the rare nights that she could attend that something…odd happened.
During the second act, he watched from his place in Box Five as she left her seat to go out and, following her, he saw her sit on the grand staircase. By herself. Crying. He's assumed that hell must have frozen over and that the sun was soon to swallow the earth, because he'd never once seen the girl not smiling, unless she was thinking of a way to better improve a flower arrangement. Unable to help himself, he slipped on his 'normal face' mask and went to ask her what was wrong, though it was a little inappropriate for him to be alone with her in a social situation.
"Oh, nothing," the girl insisted, attempting to wipe the tears off her face and cover her red eyes.
"Lying is not your strong point, Mademoiselle Travere, nor should it be." She was always a very honest girl, even calling him 'silly' once when he suggested putting together a bunch of lavender with sunflowers, which apparently did not only look wrong, but had two opposite meanings.
"My father says that I cannot work at the shop anymore," she said, and Erik winced. She really was the only person he enjoyed being around anymore…who would he talk to without her there? Himself? "Gilles will take over my place, since he needs to support his new wife, and I need to prepare myself to find a husband."
"Ah…I see," Erik said weakly. "That is…unfortunate."
"It is," Chloé agreed whole-heartedly. "I've always seen myself growing old working there, maybe as an old spinster, but still…happy. I ought not to say this, but I am not so certain I would be happy as a wife. I enjoy my freedom too much." She smiled apologetically at Erik for voicing her controversial opinion. "Not that all men would be controlling, only that I've never met one that wasn't. Except you, perhaps, though I do not know what you are like personally." She laughed lightly, a pleasant laugh that could bring a smile to almost anyone's face. That was the most beautiful thing about her – her ability to smile and make others do the same.
"I understand," he said, thinking of Raoul, though unjustly so. He knew that he was far more controlling then the young man had ever been. But still, he had to blame him for something, right? "Sometimes it is hard to know who would act the same way in private as they do in public." He had heard far too many stories of young woman who were swept away by charming young men who turned out to be abusive drunks in private life. Again, he had to stop himself from hoping Raoul would be the same. Not that he wanted Christine hurt, of course, only driven back to his arms – ah, this was beside the point, only he was so lonely –
"Precisely," Chloé agreed, though by that point Erik had forgotten what she was agreeing with. "I do not want to be trapped in a marriage where neither person is happy. And I want someone who needs me, not just someone who marries me because it's what ought to be done. Someone who needs someone there to remind them to smile and find the small joys in life, and who perhaps loves flowers as much as I do, or at least likes gardens."
"Yes. I would like to be needed, as well. To have someone to protect and to take care of, to help and to teach. I do not even need to be in love anymore…at my age, love is a luxury I know I will never have, because I am unlikely to give it. But I would like acceptance, a woman to accept who I am and who is patient with me, and who has a love for music, however small or passionate." Erik was surprised at his openness, but the woman was just the sort of person you found it hard to keep a secret from, because it was unlikely she would judge you harshly for whatever you might say.
"That would be nice," Chloé said, nodding. "To have someone like that or to have someone want me that way. I would like love, certainly, but it's not a requirement in my life like it is in others. I am happy with who I am and what I have, and I don't need someone else to make me feel worth something, or to add anything romantic to my life. I have enough."
"It would be nice," Erik agreed. "I do not think I am capable of loving another woman – I've already loved once, you see, too intensely – and though it is something I have always longed for, I have accepted the fact that I do not need it."
"The same here," she said. "I mean, I have never loved before, but I assume that I do not need it either. I won't be marrying for love, anyway, only money."
"Marry me," Erik found himself suggesting. Oh – oh dear, he hadn't even thought about saying that. But now that the words were spoken, it didn't seem such a bad idea – he was lonely, and she needed a husband. He had far more then enough to support them both, and with her by his side he could buy a nice house aboveground with a large garden for her to tend. They could take meals together and share music and books, like he'd always wanted. She could have her flowers and as much freedom as she liked, so long as it did not involve anything romantic with another man. There was, of course, the problem of his deformity, but somehow he found himself believing that if she saw it…of course she would be afraid at first, who wouldn't be looking at a living corpse? But she might be able to accept it, though she was more used to looking at beautiful things.
As surprising as his question was, her answer was even more so.
"Alright," she said, with a smile. "Why not? We're friends, aren't we? We already know each other fairly well, and I don't expect you're the type to control every portion of a woman's life."
"Really?" he asked, taken aback. "You'll marry me?"
"Yes."
"Though I am much older then you, and though I will never love you, and though you do not even know my last name or profession?"
She smiled. "I would likely marry someone older then me as it is, and I already know you will not love me, as I likely will never love you, and I expect you'll tell me your last name, and as for your profession, I am sure I can guess."
"Is that so?"
"Though it is cleverly made, if one should see that mask enough, it is obvious it is, indeed, a mask. And the only masked man I have ever heard of is-"
"The Opera Ghost," he answered for her softly.
"Yes," she admitted, still smiling. She folded her hands neatly in her lap. "Your voice was a giveaway as well – they always said you had an angel's voice."
"'They'?" Erik asked, curious.
"The ballet girls," Chloé said, shrugging. "They come into the shop every once in a while, to buy a rose or a daisy." She wasn't fond of people whose imaginations didn't stretch beyond the classic flowers.
"Then you have heard the rumors…"
"Of what is behind the mask?" she asked. He nodded. "Yes, of course I have. Are they true?"
"The one about the Death's Head, yes. And there is body to go with it."
"Obviously," she laughed. "You are not merely a floating head."
He couldn't help but smile. "The deformity, I meant. It is not confined to my face."
Her eyes narrowed as they did when she was feeling curious and trying not to be nosy. "Is that what it is, then? A deformity from birth?"
He nodded. "Yes. Once you see it, you may change your mind about marrying me."
She shook her head. "Appearances don't matter so much to me. I was told often enough that I am not very pretty and therefore must attract a husband through other means…that physical beauty ceased to matter much."
"This goes beyond mere ugliness."
Her mouth twitched. "Did you just say I was ugly, Monsieur?"
Erik winced. "Ah, no. Of course I did not. I am not so foolish as to call a woman-" But she was laughing too hard to hear him, her head thrown back unattractively, though her laugh was infectious.
"What a way to win the heart of a lady!" she giggled, wiping tears from her face once more, though this time ones of mirth. She stood suddenly. "Show me, Monsieur. Your face. And then we will say who is ugliest!" She smirked, and it was odd to see that mouth forming something other then a full smile or a thoughtful frown.
"Now?" Erik said, a little uneasy. He'd thought he'd taken some time to steady himself for her instant rejection first.
"Yes, now."
"Not here," he insisted.
"How improper of you, trying to get a lady alone," she laughed again. "Very well then, take me somewhere that I can see it."
He stood and led her to an empty room, with only an out-of-tune piano, a broken bench and a harp with missing strings inside it. He had her walk in first, then followed her and shut the door behind them before slowly turning toward her.
"Are you ready?"
She nodded. "Are you?"
No. No, he was not ready, but he had to be, so he nodded as well, and then reached up and removed the mask. Her face was suddenly pale, and she pursed her lips and swallowed hard a few times. Her green eyes went wide, and for what seemed minutes she did not breathe.
"Mademoiselle?" he said, and she flinched. He felt his body tense. Though he did not love her, he would not be able to stand her rejection. "Please, remember that it is only me."
She nodded, though her eyes held tears of what was likely fear. He knew how hard it was to remember the man inside the decayed body at first…he only hoped she would see it faster then others did. He took a step toward her, and winced again as she took a step back.
"I am not going to hurt you, Mademoiselle Travere."
"I know," she whispered. "Just…give me a moment, will you?"
He nodded his head, standing as perfectly still as she was for several minutes. Finally, she let out a deep breath, blinked a few times, and then gave a weak smile.
"It's not so bad," she said, and attempted a laugh.
He did not laugh. "If you have changed your mind, then-"
"Could I touch it? You, I mean," she correctly quickly.
"I would rather you did not."
She nodded. "I haven't changed my mind, though. You'll take a little getting used to, but it really isn't so bad."
"…Yes, it is."
Chloé smiled. "Yes, it is. But not so bad I can't live with it."
And that was how they became engaged. It was a short engagement, though it involved numerous lies and thoughts of 'why did I ever suggest this'? Since he had to convince her parents that he had an occupation beyond haunting opera houses, he told them he was a composer, and actually sold some of his music to make the story true. Chloé and he discussed many things, including his past as a murderer. She decided she'd rather ignore that fact then to face it, since she wouldn't be able to marry him otherwise, and he accepted it. Since neither one expected to love the other, it didn't matter if she knew every detail of his life. He did not know every detail of hers, either, except that as a child she'd had a fondness for dolls.
He purchased them a lovely home outside of Paris, away from the crowds but close enough to go for tea or the Opera on weekends. He started a business, working through the Persian and other connections he had so that he never had to be seen, only compose music to sell, which he was content with. Don Juan, he decided, he would complete and then leave behind in his lair, as he would leave behind his life of solitude.
The wedding was nice, not large but well decorated with white floral arrangements. They received a good amount of gifts to get them started, he met a couple of her extended family and avoided questions about his own. Their honeymoon was to be a trip to the French countryside, where they could relax and get to know each other better.
The wedding night was sufficiently awkward, though not altogether unpleasant. Nevertheless, they agreed to reenact it as rarely as possible, partially to avoid more embarrassment, and partially to avoid her getting pregnant. Neither thought a child should be brought into a loveless marriage.
A couple months later they were back, and moved into their new house. Chloé did, in fact, tend to the garden, and it was a large, magnificent one that Erik found himself strolling though while searching for inspiration. They spent a lot of time reading different books, her preferring novels and he enjoying poetry. Her cooking was not fantastic, and though it was supposed to be the woman's role, he found himself doing most of the meal making in order to avoid a stove being set on fire a second time. Somehow, she was better at baking and made mouthwatering desserts and held excellent tea parties when a business situation called for one.
When not entertaining company (who would have thought it – he, entertaining!), he walked about without his mask, which his wife (wife!) preferred.
"It's uncomfortable looking every day on something so cold and emotionless," she insisted. He didn't see how looking at his face could be much better, but he didn't object.
When not reading or gardening, he played music for her, and sang to her whenever she requested it, which was often. She loved to hear his voice. She had a little singing talent, too…no future as an opera star, but a fairly good parlor singer.
One evening he confided in her what had happened with Christine, and he found it odd that she was so sympathetic. She asked him never to talk about the 'blowing up' bit ever again, but if he should ever feel the need to talk about how he missed Christine, she would understand. Another good part to having a wife in a marriage without love, he decided.
Though they did not love each other romantically, they did love each other dearly as friends. They enjoyed spending time together, whether singing or reading or dancing in the rain (admittedly, Chloé was the one who did the dancing, Erik merely watched in amusement). Erik had even enjoyed nursing his wife back to health when she fell ill with a severe cold (due to the rain, he insisted against her protests).
Friendship grew to something more over time, something not quite love, but close. They held a deep fondness for each other, an admiration, and even adoration. He loved her in so many different ways, and for so many different things – mostly for the joy she spread, the happiness she was radiant with, the smiles she caused in him. They hardly needed romantic love. They both could admit that if they went back in time, they would choose this path again. They were both very happy, nearly all the time they were together.
But of course, things do not last forever. Erik was, indeed, old, and one day he fell ill, and shortly after died, leaving everything to his youthful, charming wife. The end of his life had been more then he could ask for; dying alone had always been his worst fear, and she had made it so he didn't have to face it. She lay in his arms in their bed, surrounded by bouquets of white flowers, which he had accepted as, indeed, being very welcoming. He died peacefully, staring into her tear-filled green eyes, looking at her flushed face which held a bittersweet emotion as though she could not know if she should be happy to be with him or sad that he was going, and smiling at the silver in her dark hair, her bright smile and small lines in her skin.
"You are so beautiful," he whispered, and kissed her forehead affectionately. She graced him with a laugh and kissed his mouth.
A death had never been so lovely.
RubyMoon's Secret Place
Artificial: Odd's fish, now I really want to write a Luna/Erik fanfic. Wow. Anyway. Please review…criticism is more then welcome!