Title: Help Me Say Goodbye

Rating: M

Word count: ~86k

Characters: Erik, Christine, Meg, Madame Giry, Raoul, André, Firmin, Reyer, Piangi, and sundry members of the opera company, some of which belong to me and some don't.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' does not belong to me.

Something was stinging at her forehead – something sharp and unpleasant, and Christine lifted a hand to bat it away, felt something grip her arm tightly to keep her still.

She opened her eyes, inhaled sharply, found eyes and a mask close to her, so close. He was gripping her arm, holding her down, and with his other hand was dabbing something onto her forehead.

"Lie still," he said curtly. "You've hurt your head, I'm tending to it."

Christine could do nothing but obey, controlled her trembling with effort and lay still. She tried to look at something, at anything other than him, but he was so close to her, leaned over her as he lifted a damp cloth to her forehead. He was focused on his work, but the mask was so close to her, and all she could think about was what lay underneath.

He moved at last, turned away to do something, and Christine was able to look around. She was lying on a bed – a beautiful bed, covered with luxurious bedding, soft and rich under her fingers. She was still in her dress, but her cloak and scarf had been removed. Her shoes also, she realised as she wriggled her toes.

She could see little of the room she was in, both because of his order to lie still and because the lamp he was using did not light the room well. But the walls were rock, she could see that much, and there was other furniture in the room, a wardrobe of some sort and she thought there was a dressing table as well.

He returned, leaned over her once more. "This will sting," he said, his words still curt and abrupt. Christine nodded, just slightly – enough to make her very aware of how her head ached – and he paused, his expression softening a little. "Be still," he said. "It isn't a bad cut, but you may have a concussion." He lifted something to her head, and Christine hissed at the sting of it. "Is your head aching?" he asked her, and she moistened her lips, murmured agreement. "I will get you something for that."

"Where – where am I?" Christine asked then, couldn't stop a flinch as he touched her forehead with cold hands.

"My home," he said, didn't meet her eyes as he pushed her hair aside, scrutinised the cut. "It's clean now," he said finally. "It's an awkward position to bandage, so you must be careful to keep it dry." He pulled away from her, rose and gathered together the things he had used to tend to her. Christine lay still, felt fear rising once again. She was alone in his home – and the only ways out were his. She could not navigate the dark passages, even if she could cross the lake.

Was she to be his prisoner, then? He had said in the graveyard that he would not hurt her, and yet…

Her head ached, a sharpness behind her eyes, and she longed for sleep. For respite from the confusion of this man and his intentions. But when she closed her eyes his hand came to touch her again, cold fingers against her cheek, and she gasped, stared up at him.

"You must not sleep," he said, and there was regret in his voice despite the distance he so obviously sought. "Not quite yet, Christine." She shook her head, then lifted a hand to her forehead as the motion worsened her headache. "Do you remember what happened?" he asked her then.

She thought; did she remember? Yes, the graveyard – he had been there at the graveyard, he had asked her to go with him. She couldn't remember why she hadn't agreed, couldn't remember why she had refused him. Why should she refuse her Angel? Everything was jumbled together in her head, such a confusion of duty and desire and fear.

"I – I fell?" she said at last, hesitant. "I hit my head?"

"Yes, Christine," he said patiently. "You hit your head and I brought you here." He left her for a moment, left the lamplight but not the room, returned and sat on the edge of the bed. He did not reach for her, did not try to touch her, and Christine wondered why that bothered her. His cool hands might bring relief for her head – no, she told herself, no, she did not desire his touch. He was the Ghost, he was a murderer, nothing like her kind, sweet Raoul.

"Raoul," she murmured, and his lip curled but she paid it no attention, tried to sit up. "I must go to Raoul, he will be so worried."

"No, Christine, lie still," he said, and his hands were strong, implacable as he eased her back against the pillows, piled high on the bed at her back. "You must rest. You were unconscious for nearly an hour. You will feel worse if you move."

That much she knew to be true from that brief, futile attempt to sit up. Nausea had risen within her, and she breathed through it, stared up at the dark ceiling and felt the pounding ache in her head. Tried to grasp the worry of a moment ago, but it had fled her mind, had gone entirely.

His hand had remained on her shoulder, fingers stroking gently, and she looked up at him, tried to remember the fear that she was sure she should feel for him.

"Angel," she murmured. "Angel, what is this place?"

Concern flashed across his face, his eyes were narrowed as he looked down at her, but his words were soft and pleasant when he spoke.

"My home, Christine," he said. "This is your bedroom. It has been waiting for you."

"Mine," said Christine, startled, and she tried to sit up again but his hands were iron on her shoulders. "I want to see," she said, frowned in irritation. "Please let me."

"Later," he said, a promise. "You will see it all later. But you must rest now, Christine. Stay in bed like a good girl."

"I'm not a child," she murmured, chafing at his words. Everyone treated her as a child – her Angel, and Madame Giry, and Raoul. She was not a child, she was nearly eighteen, she was a star of the opera house now. She would not be treated like a child, not even by her Angel.

"You are a very foolish child," he said, and she looked up at him with wide eyes, heard the fondness in his voice. "And I shall treat you as one as long as you continue to be so foolish. I have said several times that you must stay still in bed and rest."

"…Yes," she said at last, relaxed into the pillows. "Yes, you have. I'm sorry."

"There is nothing to be sorry for," he soothed, and his hand came to her face then, cold fingers down her cheek. She shivered, and he retreated with a sigh. "If you promise to stay still, I will fetch something for your headache," he said then. "Do you promise, Christine? Promise your Angel."

"I promise," she said, and he looked at her for a long moment, judging her promise. At last he nodded, rose from the bed and went away. The room felt cold and empty without him, his presence so strong, and Christine was almost tempted to sit up, to disobey him.

But fear returned then, fear of his anger and his disappointment, and so she remained as she was. If she was to stay in bed, she thought to herself, she must undress. Her dress would become uncomfortable, and would wrinkle horribly, if she lay in it for long. But she had no other clothes here, no nightgown to wear, and she could not simply strip to her undergarments.

No, that would not be proper – Christine knew that. And that nebulous worry returned as she remembered Raoul, remembered that he would be concerned for her absence. Meg too, she knew, would be missing her. How long had she been here? He'd told her, she thought, but she could not remember now.

Concussion, he had said. Was that why she felt so confused, so muddled? She lifted a hand to her head, felt for the cut – small, no longer bleeding, but she had seen head wounds before. They bled profusely, and she wondered for a moment if her Angel had been scared when he saw it.

She wondered why she should care. Her Angel. The Phantom. Why should she care if he was scared? Why should she care? After all, he had – he had…

He had done something, something to scare her terribly, but she could not remember it. It hovered in her mind just beyond her reach, and she knew if she could remember, she would be scared. Would be terrified. Would not be content to lie here and wait for him to return. But she could not remember, and she was not scared.

She waited; he returned.

"Good," he said, his approval obvious. It had been six months since she had heard his praise, since she had won his approval, and she smiled to receive it now. He carried a glass in his hand, held it out to her as he came to the bed. "Here, drink this."

"What is it?" she asked, tried to sit up a little to drink it. He slid an arm underneath her shoulders to help, and she had to close her eyes, breathed through her nose to keep from being sick. Then she took the glass, tasted the bitterness of laudanum – barely a mouthful, and she swallowed it quickly, returned the glass to him.

"It will make you sleepy," he said, eased her back down onto the pillows and then put the glass somewhere out of sight. "But sleep will do you good, the concussion may be more severe than I thought."

"I'm fine," she said, relaxed into the soft bed.

"You are not fine," he contradicted her, and he smiled then – an expression she had never seen before, and she looked at him with wonder. She had seen him angry, seen him begging, but she had never seen him smile. It was…nice, she decided. It changed his face somehow, made the mask less cold, although half the expression was hidden.

She liked to see him smile, wished she could see it more often.

But that was impossible – somehow, that was impossible. She could not stay here, could not stay with him. There were reasons why she couldn't stay here…but she couldn't remember them right now.

Something about the chandelier, she thought, and fear – an all-pervading fear that was with her from the moment she woke until the moment she fell asleep, and past that even into her dreams. She was afraid of him. She must be afraid of him.

And yet how could she be afraid of this man who was taking such care of her, who tended her wound and eased her pain? How could that be possible?

"I feel so confused," she whispered, felt miserable with it. "Everything's so confused in my head." She lifted a hand, tried to touch the wound once more but he caught her wrist, stopped her.

"No, Christine," he said, gentle but firm. "Do not touch it, or you will begin bleeding again. You are confused because of the concussion." He looked down at her, sighed heavily. "You must rest," he said, more to himself than to her. "I shall be in the next room – you have but to call me, Christine, and I shall come."

"No, don't leave me," said Christine, reached frantically for him. She could not be alone, not here in this dark underground room. "Please, Angel – please don't leave me!"

"Oh, Christine," he said, with another sigh. "You do not know what you are saying. When your head is better, you will regret all this so deeply." She shook her head, closed her eyes briefly at the ache in her head. The laudanum was working but slowly, and shaking her head still made the pain worse. "You will, Christine. You will be angry with me, and perhaps you should be."

"I could never be angry with you, Angel," said Christine. He had settled again on the edge of the bed and she felt easier with him there, as if he could push back the shadows in her mind and restore the memories that were beyond her reach. She felt…safe with him.

Could that be possible? She felt so confused, for surely she felt safe with Raoul, surely Raoul kept her safe from this man who masqueraded as a Ghost.

She could not remember why she would need to be protected from her Angel, although she looked up at him, looked at his mask and thought perhaps that was it. His mask, hiding his face. That hideous face. That was why she was scared of him, surely?

"Sleep now, Christine," he said gently. "I will be here."

She nodded slowly, closed her eyes and fell deeply asleep.