A/N: So…I've decided to continue this little fic, mostly because the relationship between Meg and Erik is extremely fun to write. Hey, what can I say, I'm a sucker for angst. This chapter is mostly just Meg being angsty with herself, but for some reason I like it quite a bit. Oh – just so you know, I don't hold my fic hostage for lack of reviews. When I finish a chapter, it'll be posted. =) That said, I do thrive off of reviews…and they may attract the plot bunnies…
The October wind was uncommonly harsh against Meg's skin, even through the relatively heavy cloak she had managed to sneak from the Louise-Phillipe room. She knew that Erik would probably be furious when she returned; he absolutely loathed it when she touched anything that may have once been meant for Christine, had been touched by Christine, or had even the slightest connection Christine whatsoever. And due to his lovely obsession, that happened to be almost everything in the house on the lake.
Part of Meg wondered whether she had just taken the cloak to be difficult, to provoke another argument and perhaps a violent outburst. Don't be stupid, she told herself stubbornly. It's cold out here, and I didn't plan to be staying in those godforsaken cellars so long. I didn't have an appropriate cloak of my own.
But then there was the fact that she hadn't let Erik know that she was leaving. The last time she had left to retrieve some personal things from her home, he had gone off into quite a rant upon her return. But why should he care? she asked herself bitterly, wrapping the contraband cloak tighter around herself. It's not as if he actually wants me there. He constantly reminds me that I'm not his angel… The word sounded surprisingly venomous even to her churning mind.
Plus, what would I have told him? Oh, yes, Erik darling, I'm off to pay a visit to the love of your life who left you for dead and who may possibly be dying. That would have gone over very well. Lying to him was completely impossible; he'd see right through her deception in a beat of his twisted heart. Down inside, she realized that she was attempting to justify actions that had been completed for purely selfish reasons.
Meg sighed, looking back over her shoulder, looking for what she could not place a name to. For Erik to follow her and drag her back to his hell of a home? She wanted to laugh at even the idea. He had been slumped over unconscious on the second love of his life, the organ, when she had awoken, still in the awkward position against the wall. For a self-proclaimed gentleman, he certainly had a strange perception of chivalry.
Even in the months that she had resided in his home, he had not even gone so far as to offer her an actual bed. Her sleeping space had been the divan in the living room, as the only bed in the eclectic house had been previously occupied by Christine.
At least she wasn't on constant suicide watch, as she had forced herself to be when she first came into contact with the heartbroken musician. Even after he insisted that the blood she found wasn't his…
Would Erik notice if she herself committed such an unholy act of cowardice? Perhaps in her death he would realize how much he had cared for the currently unemployed ballerina…
Meg inwardly cursed herself for such morbid thoughts. Really, I'm becoming as paranoid and crazy as he is! I really must leave the lair more often…
Although her underused feet ached at the long walk, and the wind whipped her hair unkindly around her face, Meg was relishing in the long walk across Paris to the de Chagny mansion. It helped her to think about her pitiable predicament, to focus on something besides whether it was safe to enter the same room as Erik for once.
She had to laugh at herself as her mother's nagging voice echoed in her head. Marguerite, if you go out in the cold so long, you will never be able to dance again! You'll make yourself so ill you won't be able to move for days!
The idea was so humorous, probably because dancing hadn't even had a place in Meg's thoughts for months. She couldn't remember a time when she had gone so long without even a thought of an opera, of the ballet corps, of dancing…
But that was a different lifetime. A life where she was not constantly yearning for a violent psychopath's attention. Thank God he was born with his face, she found herself reflecting. With his talents and voice, he would certainly have the world at his feet if he was handsome…
No matter how much Erik constantly complained about his appearance, and as terrible as his past had been, Meg did not think she would feel the same way about him if he was whole. He just wouldn't be…well, Erik.
And even currently, Meg was unsure how she felt about the masked murderer. She scoffed at the idea of love; years of being harassed by stage hands, both drunken and sober, tended to do that to you. Ballet rats who lost their talent, appeal, or youth almost always ended up as prostitutes or beggars. What respectable gentleman wanted a chorus girl for a wife?
Well, there was an answer to that question. The Vicomte de Chagny, for one, and Erik would be the second, if either man fell under the category of gentleman. The Vicomte, while nobility, seemed to be too naïve to realize all that his station entailed. And Erik….well, one's reputation as a gentleman cannot be enhanced by terrorizing the inhabitants of an opera house. Kidnapping could hardly be considered proper courting…
Not that Meg knew much about courting firsthand. Her mother had always insisted that men were unimportant to a training prima ballerina – there would be men enough when she attained prima status. Rehearsals. It was always rehearsals.
Most of her perception of romance had come from the cheap paperback novels that often littered the dormitories. And, quite frankly, Meg had found the traditional ideas of romances rather uninteresting. Candle light dinners had never appealed to her, similarly to bouquets of roses and love letters written by a handsome suitor.
Now she would give anything to even feel a flicker of romance. And she didn't want it from some random stagehand – she wanted it from the one man who would not give it to her.
So no, she did not consider her feelings for Erik love. So then what was it? Meg had been struggling for weeks to put a name to the feeling. Lust? No, that wasn't it either. She recalled the feeling of lust all to well from the visit of the son of a certain patron… Now is not the time to think of that! she scolded herself. Love and lust ruled out, what did that leave?
Fascination was another word that came to mind, but she wasn't sure whether that explained her feelings completely. She knew and would openly admit to anyone besides Erik and Christine that the dangerous aura that surrounded Erik enticed her even further. But she would deny until her grave that another underlying reason she desired Erik was that he was the one thing she couldn't have, the one thing that was unattainable.
Meg turned her mind to other things as she began to pass through the low-class parts of town. Dwelling on what she felt for Erik would not be a good excuse to be attacked. So instead she took notice of but spared no glance to the toothless beggar woman that called out to her, the man dressed in rags whispering obscenities at her passing form. Living in an opera house for most of your life exposed you to poverty, and also taught you how to handle it. You lived with the poor and performed for the rich. Meg was more street-smart than Christine could ever wish to be.
Ironically enough, Meg's lack of naivety repelled Erik, rather than impressed him. He wanted his innocent angel, the girl he could protect and control without a complaint or second thought. Christine wanted her life planned out perfectly ahead of her, Meg did not. Christine wanted safety and security, Meg did not. That was just about the last thing Erik had to offer the unemployed ballerina.
If Meg was to be honest with herself, Erik had absolutely nothing to offer her.
Then why am I still here?
