AN—The first chapter was originally written last year for a Christmas phic contest but I didn't get the story completed. I found it a few weeks ago and did a bit of revision. I'm glad you are liking it!

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

Chapter 2

Christmas Eve

.

Finally school was out for the holidays and she had a chance to relax a bit. The last week of the semester was always crazy with Christmas plays and music programs, parties, report cards due, and the kids wild to be out on the break. Working most evenings and every weekend at the package store now became a nearly full-time job, six hours a day (sorry, Ms. Daae, but that's all the hours we can offer you), just enough so that she was useful but wasn't full-time with insurance or any benefits. Oh well. It would be over with on Christmas Eve. Maybe she'd have enough saved up to go somewhere warm over Spring Break this year. Evening rehearsals for the play were for only one more week, the managers giving in to demands not to hold sessions on the week before the big day itself. Soon they'd announce the names for each coveted role.

And therein lay the problem. She had just one more gift to leave for the mysterious sound-man, a jolly red stocking filled with Hickory Farms treats and candies, just snacky things he could eat on the run. She'd had fun picking out the sharp cheddar cheese, sausage, crackers, cookies, jam, mustard, fruit, and candy, enough to fill the stocking from toe to tip. It was easy enough to justify the expense...she had no one else to spend any money on, with Raoul lazing on the beach and her gift for Meg already purchased and wrapped weeks ago.

Christine was fairly sure the taciturn man was on the watch for his mysterious benefactor. He was suddenly everywhere at once- -lurking in the shadows, leaning over the catwalks, clinging to the baby-spot rigging like some awkward black spider- -and she'd had no chance to slip off-stage or to the lower levels recently. Here it was already Christmas Eve...she'd need to sneak in to the building at some point tonight to leave the last surprise. It should be easy enough. She had a key, one that Meg had slipped from her mother's keyring years ago and copied so the girls could explore the building when they should have been studying. The management had never bothered the change the locks on the old side door so getting in unseen was not difficult. She had successfully used the key just last week, to leave a card with a book of fast-food coupons (for the always-rushed spots between rehearsal and set-up) taped to his basement door. Christine had no idea where Erik lived but the crew always seemed to be up at the theater during breaks. He'd find this last gift soon enough.

She parked the Bug down the alley behind an old truck and glanced up at the sky. It was already dark as pitch and the clouds were heavy; it would probably snow again soon. She'd need to get in and out fast before it hit. Christine fished the key from her pocket, fumbling with her heavy knitted mittens, and eased the door open, bracing for a creak, but it swung easily and silently, recently oiled.

The theater was dark, with only the ghost light on above the stage. Christine stood still, letting her eyes adjust to the darkness, and hoping she would not stumble on the mess backstage.

And nearly jumped out of her skin when the piano began to play.

The old grand was an ancient and battered thing, a full fifteen feet long, the lid scarred from various activities, but kept in tune and wheeled about on its truck as needed. It had been a great lady in its day, but like so many of the other bits and pieces of scenery, props, costuming, and sets in the old theater, was only a dim shadow of its former grandeur.

The notes fell softly into the velvet silence of the theater, absorbed into the dusty curtains at the sides but channeled easily to her ears due to the superb acoustics of the old building. She stepped forward, straining to listen, as the unseen musician worked magic on the grand. Christine did not know the piece and it irked her. As a teacher of music she prided herself on a familiarity with many genres from classical to folk, rock to country to pop. This was outside her experience, a soft lament, a gentle lullaby, an aching sadness in auditory form. She stepped closer, straining to see, as one of the boards creaked under her weight.

The pianist continued and Christine let out the breath she'd been holding. Surely he...he?...had not heard the sound over the notes, a waterfall of arpeggios in a minor key. Smiling at her good fortune, Christine retreated as quickly as she dared. Perhaps she would be able to drop off the gift and exit while the unknown musician played to the empty auditorium.

Stage left led to the stage director's alcove, a short hallway, the green room, and beyond that, the hallway to the managers' office, break room, and dressing rooms. She tried the door, finding it locked, and slipped on down to the auditorium entrances. From here she could hear the unknown pianist again, still pulling such sweetly sad notes from the grand.

At the side of the foyer a sweeping set of stairs curved up to the balcony tier, and from there, a smaller set led up a ladder to the sound room. She could leave the stocking next to the board.

Pleased with her stealth and success, she retreated through the foyer, down the halls, and up onto the old stage, angling to cross behind the rear-most set of curtains. The haunting melody wrapped around her, slightly louder, sounding oddly muffled and distant near the concrete wall.

She was halfway across when it happened.

Hands, terrifyingly powerful gripped her upper arm in an iron grasp, spinning her around and slamming her shoulder against the wall, her sweater tearing, a voice roaring from everywhere at once, the sound a thunderous bellow of fury. In her terror she flailed out with the other arm, jerking it away and above her head, encountering something slick and hard, cold and bony. The voice changed to a strangled gasp of pain, shoving her away with such force her head cracked against the cinder-block wall and a shower of sparks passed her vision. The hands grabbed her shoulders, bruising and icy, shoving her against the wall, and she screamed. The face that loomed over her was a thing of nightmares.

.

.

Christine sat on the edge of the stage, knees drawn up to her chest with her face between them, blotchy and red from crying, the bitter taste of bile from retching still horrid in her mouth.

She'd gagged at the sight, heart racing from fear as he'd ripped the stocking cap from her head and the bright curls had tumbled out. Erik had stared in shock as she'd crumbled, sobbing and choking, then turned away, one hand flying up to his face, covering the scars and the gaping hole where surely a nose had once been.

"I am so, so sorry," she choked out, arms wrapped around her head. He made no answer from where he sat at the piano, his back to her and head bowed, hands clasped loosely between his spread knees. "I must have looked like...I don't know..."

"An intruder." Erik's voice was harsh. "Dressed all in black, sneaking around. What was I to think?"

She gulped miserably, pushing back her hair. "I didn't know it was you...it was you, at the piano, wasn't it? How did you keep playing?"

He strode over to the stage manager's station, leaned down to tap a small silvery box and held up a cassette between bony fingers. "A tape."

"And the voice...it was so loud...it was..."

"Another trick. I used the new wireless mic, linked to the speakers. It was meant to be disorienting."

"Well, it worked." She sniffled, rubbing her face, and then added belatedly, "Are you okay? I didn't mean to hit you so hard."

"It wasn't a hard blow," he said shortly. "But you caught me right across the face." The scarred nasal cavities were still stinging, the prickles making his eyes water. It had hurt like the devil at the time. He'd been unprepared for the slight figure in his hands spinning and striking him, for the fall of dark honey-colored curls, soft as a kitten's fur, brushing across his hands. He'd pulled back as if burned. "What were you doing here, at this hour?"

"I could ask you the same," she quipped. "You scared me half to death."

Erik flinched. "I noticed."

"Not because of...of your face. You grabbed me in the dark!"

"You could have been a thief or vandal," he pointed out reasonably, touching the tender bridge above his nose, and swore under his breath. "And you still haven't explained what you were doing here, or how you got in."

She looked away. "I was bringing something up."

"What?"

She lifted a stubborn chin. "That's not your business now, is it? I don't have to answer to you." As he took a deep breath to respond, she rushed on. "What was the name of that piece you were playing? I don't recognize it."

"It doesn't have one," he snapped. "And at this rate, it never will."

Her eyes widened. "Did you write that? It was beautiful."

"Please, Ms. Daae, just go home," he gritted out.

"Fine." With one final sniffle she stumbled to her feet and head, down, slipped out the back door without even a final glance his way. Erik slammed the bolt in place behind her, and hit the wall with a fist of frustration.

.

The room was dimly lit at best, easier on his sensitive eyes, the lamps turned low. It was Christmas Eve, but nothing was merry and bright. The concrete walls were bare, the oak table empty of festive décor, the door shut firmly against a world that had never wanted him.

On an old side table in the corner lay the only bright color in the room-a hideous leering elf mug, a spill of tinfoil-wrapped chocolates, a booklet of coupons, a folded scarf, absurdly long, a card. A red stocking slumped against the mug.

All from her.

He'd retreated to his rooms below the theater in a black mood of rage-fueled self pity. Another person, horrified and screaming at his face. But she hadn't run after that first shock. He had to give her that much. But still, the look on her face….

Erik had returned to the piano after firmly shutting the door behind her. Oh, he'd watched long enough to be certain she'd made it to her car and driven safely away; he wasn't that much of a cad, and the neighborhood was sketchy at best. But the music was gone, the delicate wistful melody lost again in the abyss of his mind.

He'd slammed his fists on the closed keyboard cover, frustration welling up in a black tidal wave of despair and anger. So close; he'd been so close to finding the right passage again, only to lose it. Erik swept the pages from the top of the battered grand with one long arm, seething. Another night lost.

He was on his way back downstairs when it occurred to him that the girl—Christine—had neatly sidestepped answering his question. What had she been doing? She had been out in the main lobby, had come from the foyer…he'd heard her steps, quick and light, on the marble stairs. She'd been upstairs for something. Scowling, he rose, gathering the scattered pages, and went in search.

The foyer was empty, the rooms locked. A trickle of a idea teased the back of his mind and he frowned up at the sound booth then took the stairs two at a time, and there it was, a lumpy fake-fur stocking, small twine-tied boxes packed inside, the bright red jarring in the harsh fluorescent lights.

The pieces came together.

She was his secret Santa, his unknown benefactor. Pity for the monster, perhaps? His thin lips curled into a snarl. Did she consider herself some Lady Bountiful? Bestowing blessings on the less fortunate? With a curse he seized the stocking and hurled it into the trashcan…only to fish it out a minute later. Food was food, and god knew he'd had little enough of that lately. He'd eat the treats as he had the others and never acknowledge he knew from whom it came. Five minutes later he'd slipped behind the packing crates and through the passage between the walls, into the old storage room that was now his home, the laden stocking dangling from one long hand.

The drive home had been endless, the cheery colorful lights blurred by tears, but Christine had not truly started crying until she had bolted the door of the apartment and thrown herself down on the shabby sofa, arms locked around an old pillow.

It wasn't fair.

She'd tried, she really had, to make someone else's holiday merry and gay. Well, it didn't feel merry now. Was there even any point to going to the midnight church service? No one would notice. No point in hanging a stocking by the radiator with care. Santa wouldn't be showing up, though she could certainly use a visit from the Wise Men bearing gold and advice.

Holidays stunk.

.

Stop being a bastard to everyone, Erik. It's not always about your face.

Khan's tired voice echoed through his mind and Erik sat up, the thin and scratchy blankets falling down around his narrow hips, and promptly began shivering in the chill dank air of the basement. What time was it?

He'd met the Iranian at the VA Center years ago, when they were both in rehab. Fate had brought them back together in Chicago. Khan had been genuinely pleased to see his former roommate, had helped him get the job, remembering the younger man's skill with electronics and interest in music. They'd stayed up late over more than a few drinks, more than once.

Now in the dim light he looked more ghostly than ever, pale skin marred by old injuries. He rubbed the bare flesh gingerly, jutting bone and twisted scars, the missing eyebrow and pulled lid, the utter lack of a nose. There were limits to what plastic surgery could do with facial injuries, but would it have really made that much difference? The worst scars were in his memories.

But the girl, Christine, hadn't looked at him with pity, not after that first terrified reaction, and he could almost...almost...believe she'd been actually interested in his music. She had spent weeks bringing him little gifts, nice things, too, and for what reason?

Erik pushed the covers aside and swung his bony feet to the floor stifling a yelp at the cold concrete, and dressed quickly, black turtleneck sweater and sweatpants, sneakers and very thick socks.

No, there was nothing here that any woman would want.

But that didn't mean he had to be a bastard.

A few minutes later he was unlocking the door to the managers' office.

.

Thank you for reading, and please review! :)
~R