Author's Note: This chapter goes into a little bit of Erik's past, and because I borrowed from several versions Phantom in creating this story, the timeline is a little wacky. Although the 2004 version places the events of Phantom in the years 1870-1871, the Franco-Prussian war was actually going on during that time. I decided for the purposes of this story, I'd move the events forward in time so that Erik could have time to visit Persia, etc., before coming back to the opera house in Paris. The Metropolitan Opera actually opened in 1883, so I guess you could say that this story takes place then, but I'd just leave it kind of vague and say that it's set sometime in the 1880s. To sum things up, although "Song of the Nightingale" takes place in the 1880s, it has only been ONE year since the events of Phantom. Hope that clears things up! Enjoy the next chapter! :)

~CaptainHooksGirl~

Disclaimer: Sadly, I still don't own any of this...

Chapter Three: Getting Reacquainted

The following morning, Erik awoke to find Christine sitting at the kitchen table with Meg and Madame Giry chatting and laughing as if they were still back in Paris and nothing had changed—and in a way, he supposed, it hadn't. They were in a different place, in a different time, but the Girys were still the closest thing she had to family. He still loved her. And she still did not return the feelings. In that respect, nothing had changed. But now she was living on borrowed time—a freshly plucked flower with an expiration date, slowly wilting day by day. And that changed everything.

The melodic sound of her lighthearted laughter was both a salve and a scourge for his broken heart. A year ago, he would have done anything to have her willingly within his home. Now here she was, bright-eyed and beautiful and alive and so close to being his…but for how long? How long would it be before those rosy cheeks lost their color, before that angelic voice was silenced forever and those dark eyes closed in an eternal sleep? He would gladly give up the privilege of her presence—give up his very life!—if he knew that it could somehow save her. But this was one situation that was beyond his control, and so, steeling himself against the inevitable heartache, he forced what he hoped to be a respectfully aloof expression on the visible side of his face as he approached them, ignoring the fact that their incessant chatter fell to hushed silence the moment he entered the room. Walking over to the stove, he quietly poured himself a cup of tea.

Christine was the first to speak up. "Good morning."

He could practically hear the smile in her voice even though he had his back to her. He wasn't quite ready to make eye contact. "Did you sleep well?" he asked.

"Yes." In truth, she hadn't slept much at all due to what she had come to accept as a perpetual headache…but that wasn't his fault. "The bed was quite comfortable, and the room is beautiful. Thank you for letting me stay."

Erik wasn't quite sure how to respond. She's thanking me for letting her stay?! I should be the one thanking her!

Christine took another sip from the teacup in her hand, and Erik suddenly found himself staring at the way her lips caressed the porcelain rim, the way her fingers wrapped lovingly around the curve of the handle.

Oh, to handle that cup! To touch the spot that her perfect lips have graced with their sweet innocence!

He tried not to think about the time those same lips had touched his own, but the memory was difficult to suppress. It had been the best and worst moment of his entire life—the moment that broke him and the moment that saved him. If he closed his eyes, he could still taste the salt of their mingling tears and feel the soft stroke of her fingertips against his marred and maskless cheek….

"Angel…? Erik?"

Erik faltered, embarrassed at having been caught daydreaming. "Forgive me, Christine. I was just—Did you just call me Erik?"

Christine blushed and looked down. "Madame Giry told me it was your given name…but if you'd rather I didn't use it, then—"

"No! No, it's fine…. I'm simply not accustomed to hearing it from you."

Erik. He liked the way she said it, as if she were addressing an ordinary man. Before, he had taken great pleasure in being her Angel, but such immortal beings are ethereal and unattainable. To be a man, flawed though men may be, was to be warm and real and temptingly tangible.

Christine dared to look up, still slightly uncomfortable under the intensity of his gaze. "Since I'm new to the area, I thought I might go into town today…." She blushed again. "Perhaps…perhaps you could show me around…?"

Erik blinked in surprise. "O-of course," he stammered. "What would you like to see?"

She shrugged, smiling. "Whatever you think is most interesting."

xxxx

Despite the chill in the air, the bright winter sun was shining gaily in the ice-blue sky when Erik and Christine headed out for their walk, both a bit nervous about spending a significant amount of time alone together for the first time since the night of the fire. It was extremely awkward at first, Erik being unsure of whether to offer her his arm, and Christine frowning in quiet disappointment when he didn't. They walked in silence for nearly a block, neither quite sure of what to say, neither willing to make the first move.

At long last, Christine took a deep breath. "So, I heard you plan to open the opera house next month…. What will you be showing?"

"Faust." He frowned. How ironic.

"And have you filled any of the roles yet?"

"Most of them. The lead roles have already been assigned."

She hesitated. "May I ask who will be playing Marguerite?"

He felt the color rise in his cheeks, suddenly very grateful for the protective barrier of the mask on the side of his face nearest her. He'd hoped she wouldn't ask. "A Miss Christina Nilsson." [1]

Christine stopped walking and turned to look at him. "The Swedish singer who debuted in La Traviata at the Théâtre Lyrique?"

Erik looked mildly surprised. The similarities between the young soprano he'd chosen to play the lead and Christine were no coincidence, and the realization that she was familiar with the singer only furthered his embarrassment.

"Yes. You've heard of her, then?"

Christine pointedly avoided his eyes. "Yes…. She's supposed to be very good."

There was a hint of sadness in her voice, a longing that he hadn't been expecting…and was that jealousy he heard? Did she honestly believe that she had been replaced by another in his heart? The thought gave him a surge of hope.

"Not as good as you," he assured her.

She blushed and looked down, suppressing a shudder as the winter wind swept back the dark curls from her face.

He hesitated for a moment before removing his outer jacket and wrapping it around her shoulders, careful not to touch her any more than was necessary lest she recoil from his hand.

"Here."

She smiled, grateful for the additional layer that separated her skin from the icy breeze. It was still warm from the heat of his body, and the intimacy of the gesture—though innocent in nature—took her by surprise.

"Thank you."

She hugged the coat tighter around her frame, and Erik noticed for the first time that she looked significantly paler and thinner than he'd remembered. There were dark circles beneath her eyes, the girlish spark of energy and enthusiasm replaced by a tiredness that made her look much older. He felt a stab of pain within his heart.

Oh, my poor Christine….

He was shaken from his reverie by yet another curious question from the girl—no, woman—walking beside him.

"So…where exactly are we going?"

"Central Park," he answered. He nodded in the direction they were heading. "It's just up ahead."

Christine's eyes widened in delight as the trees came into view. "Oh, it's lovely!"

"It's one of my favorite places in town. It's a relatively quiet place compared to the rest of the city. I like to come here sometimes just to sit and think."

She considered his words thoughtfully. "Why did you stop composing?"

Erik sighed. "A bird sings only when he is defending his home or calling to his mate. When he has lost both, he no longer has a reason to sing."

Christine dropped her eyes guiltily. "I'm sorry."

"You're here now," he whispered. "That's all that matters."

For a few minutes, they walked in silence, each lost their own thoughts. This was more than Erik had ever hoped for. Strolling through the park with Christine at his side, he felt almost normal. They still weren't touching, but she didn't seem averse to his company—in fact, she had asked him to join her!

I want to have a wife like everyone else, and to take her out on Sundays….

It seemed an eternity since he'd spoken those very words. She had been afraid of him then, but now it did not seem like such a stretch to imagine such a possibility. But then she stopped suddenly, bringing a hand up to her eyes, and for a moment, he thought she was going to cry.

"Christine," he asked worriedly, wondering what he'd done to offend her, "are you alright?"

She shook her head. "It's just this headache…. I'm not feeling well. Do you mind if we sit down for a moment?"

"Of course."

He led her to a bench just to the side of the walkway. She sighed as she sat down, massaging her temples.

Erik frowned. "Perhaps we should return."

"No, no! I'm enjoying our day out," she assured him. "I just need to rest for a bit." She gave a half-hearted laugh. "Maybe I should have had coffee instead of tea this morning. It seems to help with the headaches sometimes…."

Erik looked surprised. "I didn't know you liked coffee."

It was a trivial thing, really—a fact that wasn't particularly important—and yet, he was frustrated with himself for being unaware of it. He'd thought he knew everything about Christine—her history, her likes and dislikes, her adorable little quirks—but the more he thought about it, the more it became clear that he didn't know as much as he'd thought he did. He didn't know her favorite food. He didn't know her middle name. Until Raoul had become the Palais Garnier's benefactor, he hadn't even known about her childhood friendship with the vicomte! The thought troubled him.

Christine laughed again without raising her head from her hands. "Don't fret over it. Until this morning, I didn't even know your name!"

She realized, then, that for two people who had been acquainted for so long, they really didn't know much about each other at all. She sat up, forcing herself to ignore the constant pressure on her brain.

"I have an idea. Why don't we pretend we've never met? We could introduce ourselves and then ask each other questions as a way of getting reacquainted—make it a game of sorts."

Erik shifted uncomfortably. He wasn't sure he liked the idea of being questioned about his past and personal interests—particularly with Christine's insatiable curiosity. It sounded more like an interrogation than a game. But the spark of childish excitement in her eyes was enough to silence any protests he could think of.

Seeing his hesitation, she decided to start.

"I'll go first." She cleared her throat and held out her hand. "Hello. My name is Christine Daaé. I'm eighteen years old and originally from Sweden, though I've spent most of my life in France. I was orphaned at seven and came to live at the Paris Opera House dormitories where I eventually became the lead soprano after much assistance from my brilliant music teacher." She paused to smile at him, blushing. "I was engaged to marry the Vicomte de Chagny—a childhood friend of mine—but ended the relationship when I realized that I thought of him as more of a brother than a fiancé. Soon afterwards, I came to New York in search of a very dear friend…." She looked up. "Your turn."

The way she said friend was more than a little discouraging, but Erik did his best to play along. He took her hand, glancing up briefly to obtain her permission before gently pressing his lips to the back of it. He had no right to mar her perfect porcelain skin with the touch of his twisted excuse of a face, but he couldn't resist taking the opportunity to kiss her once again—even if it was only her hand. He felt a slight tremor snake its way down her arm and immediately withdrew, embarrassed at having elicited such an open display of disgust. Of course, the shiver could have just as easily been from the cold or even—dare he think it—pleasure. But Erik refused to acknowledge such a possibility, and resigned himself to be content with her presence, if not her love. He sighed and looked away, releasing her hand. If she feared his touch now, how much more would she recoil if she knew all that he'd done?

"Mademoiselle, I think it best that you remain ignorant of my former life. Already you know more than most, and whatever little respect or dignity I have left in your mind, I would prefer not to further degrade it."

Christine chewed her lower lip. This was not the lighthearted conversation she'd been hoping for. "May I at least know your full name?"

He sighed again, staring at the clasped hands he rested in his lap. "Erik isn't even my real name. I never had one. My mother was so disgusted with my face that she refused to name me, so the priest who christened me named me after himself."

He knew without looking that Christine's eyes were filled with that most detestable of emotions called pity. Pity! Pity! Always pity and never love! Will no one ever see me as more than a horrid demon to be feared and hated or an injured beast to be pitied?! Will I never be appreciated as a man? Oh, Christine…. He clenched his fists, forcing himself to ignore the rising anger in his chest.

Noticing his internal distress, Christine laid a hesitant hand on his arm, and he sucked in a sharp breath of surprise. Her hand was resting over the place where he regularly administered the injections of morphine, and he couldn't suppress a slight grimace. But the shock he felt far outweighed the pain.

She's touching me! She's voluntarily touching me. Only a few moments ago, she shuddered at the brush of my lips against her skin, but now she is touching me of her own free will! Is it possible that what I thought was disgust was something else? Could she possibly—NO! Even if her feelings go beyond friendship and pity—which is highly unlikely— I cannot return them. It nearly killed me to lose her before…I cannot afford to love someone I will inevitably lose again.

"And your surname?"

Christine's question caught him off guard. He'd become so caught up in his own thoughts that he'd almost forgotten they were having a conversation.

A surname. A name that connects you to a family and gives you a history. A name that defines who you are, where you came from, and where you belong. A name a man shared with his beloved to claim her as his own—and he had none.

Erik bowed his head shamefully. "I don't have one."

Christine protested. "Surely your parents—"

He cut her off. "I left home at an early age. If I ever did have a last name, I don't remember it." He shrugged. "Since I came here, I've been posing as Antoinette's brother. Most of the people here know me as Erik Gérard." [2]

Christine furrowed her brow, interested. "Gérard?"

"It was her maiden name."

She seemed somewhat surprised. "How do you know all of this?"

"Antoinette is one of the few people I truly consider a friend," he admitted. In fact, aside from Nadir, she was quite possibly his only friend. And he hadn't seen the Persian in years. "She helped me escape the mob that night. Years before, she rescued me from a similar plight."

That was before he'd had to leave Paris. Before the war had forced him from his home and back into the streets. Before Persia. He shuddered at the memory. The agonized screams of those innocent victims still haunted his dreams. By the time he'd returned to Paris, the old opera house had been replaced, Antoinette had been married and widowed, and the frightened young boy who'd escaped the gypsies had become an experienced assassin. But Antoinette had asked no questions and received him with open arms. He still remembered the day he'd come 'home,' unable to face his old friend's warm welcome with so much blood on his hands, the very fact that she hadn't pressed him for information compelling him to confess the guilt weighing heavy on his heart until at last he'd collapsed at her feet in a fit of sobs, weeping like a child as she'd held him as his own mother never had. He hadn't killed again until….

He blinked suddenly and shook his head, banishing the unpleasant memories back into the farthest recesses of his mind. He couldn't dwell on them for too long, or he'd be lost to the darkness again, and that was certainly NOT something he wanted Christine to witness. She had seen him fall apart the night of the fire, and he had no intentions of ever allowing her to see his weaknesses again.

He stood, noticing that Christine had lowered her head again, pinching the bridge of her nose with one hand and gripping front of his oversized jacket with the other. She looked absolutely miserable, and he silently cursed himself for allowing his own troubles to take precedence in his mind over her illness. He tentatively offered her a hand up, releasing a sigh of relief when she took it without hesitation.

"Come. I know of a little coffee shop that just opened up 'round the corner. Perhaps we might do better to continue our conversation there."

Without any prompting, she linked her arm around his and laid her head against his shoulder. His heart leapt at the unexpected contact. He'd wanted this for years, and yet now that he was presented with the opportunity, he had to force himself not to push her away.

Why, Christine? Why? Why must you tempt me with what I can never have? Why must you torture me with your nearness when your heart is so very far away?

He tried to tell himself that it was just because she wasn't feeling well and needed the extra support, but he couldn't help pretending for a moment that her reasoning might have been otherwise. He felt her snuggle closer to his chest as the winter wind picked up, her dark curls tickling the exposed lower portion of his right cheek, and sighed contentedly. He closed his eyes and inhaled the scent of her hair, envisioning a world where he got his happy ending—a world where his face was perfect and Persia had never happened and Christine wasn't sick…. He felt the sting of tears pricking at the back of his eyes and quickly blinked them away. He looked down at the woman on his arm, and for a moment, their eyes met. Despite the pain that was etched into her flawless features, she smiled. And for the time being, it was enough.

[1] Christina Nilsson was a real opera singer who lived during the 1800s. She was born in Sweden but later studied and performed in France. She also made appearances in London, Vienna, St. Petersburg, and New York where she performed in the Metropolitan Opera's opening performance of Faust. Because of their many similarities, some believe that Nilsson was the inspiration for Leroux's character Christine Daaé. (Faust was actually performed in October of 1883, but for the sake of this story, I'm moving the performance to the month of March.)

[2] Yes, this is a reference to Gerard Butler. If you've read my other stories "Becoming Erik" and the sequel "Becoming Family," you know that I used the last name Gérard for Erik in them as well. "Becoming Erik" was my first POTO story, and for some reason, the last name just sort of stuck, so I'm using it in here as well. :)