The following is my answer to all of the fics in which Christine is always helpless and has no mind of her own, which I can't stand. To me it seems inevitable that the events of the original novel would cause her to mature.

Enjoy.


Christine sat on the edge of her bed, calmly rewrapping her hand with a fresh bandage, thoroughly convinced that she was on the cusp of insanity.

Nothing out of the ordinary had happened per say, at least nothing concrete enough that she could state with any kind of confidence what every one of her instincts was telling her to be true.

If anything it was what hadn't happened that had her fearing for her mental health. She would walk into her room at night to find things conveniently laid out that she could have sworn she hadn't moved, but of course whenever she checked all of her possessions were exactly how she had always organized them. Or she might oversleep and rush to rehearsals only to find that they had conveniently been postponed for an hour. One day she fainted during one of her solos, which the doctor told her was likely due to simple exhaustion and that she really ought to try and sleep better, and before she could ever make the trip to an establishment in which she could refill her empty vial of laudanum she found the container full to the brim in her cabinet.

She knew full well that she had not simply forgotten that she had already attended to it, she always kept careful stock of her belongings, a habit ingrained since she had assumed the role of house keeper shortly after her mother's death.

Someone had put it there. Never mind that not a thing was out of place or that her careful inspection of the door had yielded no evidence of a break in. There was no rational explanation to give, his presence lingered so strongly it was almost tangible. She kept awaiting the day that he would make a mistake and give himself away, but two weeks had passed since the incident with the water glass and there hadn't been a single slip-up since. She was slowly but surely on the mend, she didn't have a fever anymore, the coughing fits, while still bloody, had decreased in both frequency and intensity, and little by little her strength was returning as her body was finally granted the rested it had so desperately needed.

Oddly enough the management had yet to raise issue with her extended absence, even though her contract stated that any leave she may take must be explicitly approved by them. She knew it was not simply out of compassion or the goodness of their hearts that they did not harass her. She couldn't know for sure, but if she had to guess she would speculate that they may have come across a rather threatening letter regarding the matter. For a moment she was seized with the irrational urge to go and search their offices for just such a note, but she brushed it aside with no small amount of irritation with herself. As if they would be fool enough to leave something like that just lying around. The only thing going through their possessions would accomplish was getting her thrown out of The Opera House and possibly into the Parisian City Prison.

As her well being returned she became increasingly more determined to see him. Truthfully she wasn't entirely certain why he was avoiding her, she could guess of course that his motivation may fall somewhere within the emotions of sadness, guilt, and anger. But if he had truly meant to hide why resume all of those tiny little gestures that seemed as if they might be passed off as chance singularly, but on the whole were obvious enough that he may as well have announced his return with a fanfare of trumpets?

Moreover she didn't care to analyze to deeply why it was so important to her to see him. By all rights she should never have wanted to speak to him again, yet she often slipped into rehearsing in her mind exactly what she say to him if given the opportunity and when she felt that her speech had been perfected she would spend the rest of the day unbearably anxious for the encounter to occur.

She was becoming increasingly certain that if she ever hoped to confront him directly she would have to take matters into her own hands.

Christine did not consider herself to be half as clever as he was, however, in this case he had obviously grossly underestimated her powers of observation and she would use that to her advantage.

She rose and checked that her door was bolted and then inspected all corners of her apartment, including the area beneath her bed and inside her wardrobe. She appeared to be truly alone.

She fetched a hair pin from her armoire and made her way over to the bedside table where all of her many medications currently resided. For a long moment she contemplated her selection carefully, and then plucked two bottles from the center of the array.

Ordinarily she set each container so the label faced outward, into the room. Now however, she took the pin and carefully scored the side of each of the two vials and replaced the them in such a manner that the tiny scratches faced out, if he turned them at all she would know, even if he noticed the marks he would have to perfectly match what she had done in order to conceal the fact that he had been setting the proper dosages out for her while she went about her day.

It wasn't that she minded so much these tiny gestures, but she hated that he refused to reveal himself. The more egotistic side of her decried his actions as an insult to her intelligence, did he really think she would assume that it was just good luck that all these little aspects of her life were suddenly running so smoothly? Did he believe her so forgetful that she wouldn't remember that this was exactly how it had started before?

She hoped that she was wrong but even if he hadn't meant it as such the insult still stung. It also begged the question why someone like him would even be interested in her in the first place.

She supposed she could understand how men her own age would take a liking to her admittedly extremely youthful appearance and Meg had told her more than once that an agreeable nature nature was more important even than beauty because of how much the male species loved to feel as if they were in charge.

But Erik had clearly seen and done so much, even if he had not explicitly detailed all that, that encompassed, and she doubted any part of him was drawn to her particular brand of silly, overly sheltered, ignorance.

So why? Why her? It was all she could think after she had taken his mask from him that fateful morning as she watched sobs wrack the body of the notorious Opera Ghost. She couldn't fathom what on earth it was that allowed her to reduce someone who seemed so utterly unbreakable to such a state, it had frightened her beyond all reason. Not simply for the reaction it incited but because it was something so wholly beyond her awareness or control. Because he had seemed such a source of strength and whenever she was weak and uncertain it was her support. And suddenly it was he who was vulnerable and frightened and she knew he needed her but she hadn't the vaguest of notions how to help him and panic seemed to render her mind utterly blank. She could only sit transfixed and watch the scene unfold before her, immobilized by her own fear of a volatile situation being placed entirely in her hands.

It was the first time anyone had regarded her as wholly capable of controlling not only herself but those around her and instead of rising to the occasion she had frozen and then fled like a frightened child straight to someone who would never put her in such a daunting position ever again. Unwilling to admit that for one thrilling moment she had seen though his eyes, right past who she was, to what slept within; a woman more than formidable enough to hold just such a heart at her fingertips.

It was flattering, she could not deny it pleased her that he thought so much of her potential. Certainly this belied the times he had called her weak?

And god help her she had wanted to be that person more than she had ever wanted anything. To forget propriety and tradition and everything that had been instilled in her since before she could even talk. It would be so easy, all her manners and virtue, all the times she had kept her head down and a smile on her face when all she had wanted to do was scream, suddenly felt shameful instead of good and right, as they had seemed at the time. Fake! It was all fake! Everything about her was fake! And instead of wondering what was wrong with her to feel so much pent up hostility as she ought to have done, she felt as though all of her attempts at decency had tainted her somehow.

I'm the one wearing the mask.

The words were on the tip of her tongue but when she made to speak whatever spell that had fallen over her broke.

In the next instant cold reality returned and with it came horror. Not at him, though he was quick enough to assume the worst of her alarm, but at what he seemed to have awakened within her. What would her father think if he knew the moral little girl he had tried to raise was so power hungry, and selfish, and angry? How could she even look at herself in a mirror each morning knowing that she harbored such ugly feelings?

That was not the person she should be. She should be dreaming of safety and stability, a respectable marriage, a beautiful house, lovely children in her lap, it was what any sane individual ought to hope for. Yet suddenly that all seemed to loose it's allure in the face of the alternative. Freedom, and not the sort of freedom that simply meant she could come and go as she pleased, though she knew that if she insisted enough he would release her. What he could offer her was freedom of the soul, to be whoever she desired and know she would be loved for it.

She had tried so hard in the months that followed to forget that brief flash of insight, but the damage was already done. She had thought her blossoming relationship and then impending marriage with Raoul would be enough to remind her of what truly mattered. If anyone could chase away the darkness that seemed to hide within her it was him, he was gentle, uncomplicated, and more than willing to take the reigns should she ever feel overwhelmed. They were so happy together, his perpetual good nature warmed her heart as nothing had since her father passed away.

Yet even that hadn't been enough to ward off the discontentment and rebellion breeding within her. She felt it, always there, raw and menacing, simmering, just below the surface. There were days she couldn't believe such negative emotions really belonged to her or how she had not noticed them before. In her desperation to prove to herself that she was still fundamentally honorable and good she had condemned Erik, called him a monster. But he wasn't, at least not entirely, and she knew that fully well. Her hatred had nothing to do with who or even what he was, it was what he evoked in her that made her want so badly to put distance between them.

He had killed people! Had stolen, and threatened, and deceived and shown not even a flicker of remorse in doing so, and those were just the crimes she knew about! What sort of things did it say about her that she could not summon loathing enough to outweigh her sympathy, that the two of them suddenly did not seem so different?

The night Raoul left she had said terrible things to him, she was't certain what about his assumption had triggered her fit of temper, but the moment he had said it was so fortunate that they would soon be able to forget all of this business with Opera something inside her had snapped.

They had been out for a walk on one of her rare increasingly rare days off. Raoul had collected her from the Opera House early that morning so they could spend the day together in it's entirety, they had visited her favorite bakery for breakfast, then amused themselves by visiting the countless shops that lined the streets of Paris until their feet hurt, skipped lunch entirely in favor of watching the swans on the lake, had supper at a little bistro that he had claimed was to die for (she would have to agree), and sunset finally found them idly strolling through the streets of the business district.

The ill fated conversation had begun innocently enough with talk of wedding plans, progressed to where they might live, and finally when they might move there.

Even though he had never stated so explicitly Christine had always though that when they spoke of moving it meant in several years time once she was happily retired

Perhaps it was because it was her only outlet for all of her conflicting emotions, perhaps it was because it had been such a large part of her life for so long, perhaps it was because the music was the one remaining thread of connection to some of the most important people in her life.

But next she knew she had rounded on him and distantly she heard a voice snap, "Implying what?", it was only when she felt a rough grating in her throat that she realized that she was the one who had spoken.

For his part, Raoul was staring at her with blatant surprise written across his handsome features, accompanied by no small amount of uneasiness. He opened his mouth to speak but words seemed to fail him...

"Implying", she responded for him, "That you want to pretend I was never an opera singer", the words were not screamed, or growled, or even whispered. She spoke them with that matter of fact colorlessness which one uses to address truths that they wished were not truths.

He sighed and gazed at her imploringly, as if he could will her to understand, "I think your singing is lovely", he told her gently, "But my family is unlikely to find it an acceptable thing for you to pursue. I'm sorry".

She turned her face away from him because if she saw his distress her strength would leave her and this was a matter on which she did not want to bend, "I'm sorry as well", she began, her voice was as gentle as she could force it to be at the moment, she hoped it might atone for her severity moments ago, "But I'm not giving up my music".

"Christine, be reasonable!", he cried, seemingly aghast at the suggestion that she would go against his wishes, that she would not submit.

Her hands clenched involuntarily against her skirts and she leveled her gaze at the ground so he would not see how much his words had angered her, was it truly too much to allow her this liberty? He couldn't bare to acquiesce this one and only time? An overwhelming sense of betrayal made her eyes sting, though she steadied herself enough to prevent embarrassing tears. Raoul, her dear playmate Raoul, who had seen how special music was to her father, how important it was to them both, and later how it helped her to feel close to him after he was gone. And even given that he was willing to threaten what was precious to her for the sake of other's approval?

"Reasonable?", she echoed resentfully, "That has nothing to do with it. You know what performing means to me, how could you try to take that away from me?".

"I'm not trying to steal something from you!", he held her eyes with his imploringly, "I'm asking you to be sensible, you can not ask me to displease my relatives for the sake of you continuing this pursuit, you are a sensible girl Christine, I'm sure you already recognize the truth in my words".

"So you would sooner hurt me than their opinion of you?", she muttered. She shook her head in disbelief at his callousness, he was supposed to be her fiance, her friend. Yet here she stood feeling betrayed, he knew she could not bare to hurt him, that she wanted so much to make him happy, that she would give up her very life for him. But she knew as she watched him through the veil of her eye lashes, cautiously, because the boy she thought she knew suddenly seemed like a stranger, that there were things she was incapable of sacrificing. That she would not part with something as intrinsic to who she was as music, she would not surrender her self.

"This isn't about hurting you", his brow furrowed, "This is about compromising, relationships always require a little sacrifice". He made it sound so reasonable, so obvious, so easy.

But this was how any dispute between them was always settled, she would stand her ground at first and then he would gradually talk her around until she apologized, feeling terribly guilty for causing the disagreement in the first place. It was never an argument, at least not according to him, simply discussions, yet he always seemed to win. She doubted he even did it consciously, of course everyone thought they had the right way of going about things, but he was so used to getting his way and her desire to avoid conflict certainly hadn't helped matters.

Perhaps she wouldn't even have noticed that particular pattern of interaction before recent events, but just as she was learning that her heart wasn't as gentle as she had thought, she also found that her mind wasn't as dull as she had initially assumed. Some days it seemed to her as of she were noticing everything for the first time.

The good and the bad.

"What do you know of sacrifice?", she asked suddenly.

"Pardon?", he spluttered, clearly startled by the question.

"Tell me what you have sacrificed Raoul? What did you give up for the good of our future? You have your family, your reputation, your money, what is it that you have lost?", she demanded.

His expression quickly became wounded. She sighed heavily, willing herself to find the words to explain that she did not intend to portray him as selfish, she simply wished to make a point.

"Raoul", she began gently, "What I meant was-".

"What you meant," he finished for her resentfully, seeming to her for all the world a petulant child, "Is that I don't do anything for you".

"No! That's not-".

"What else could you have been insinuating!".

"Only that-".

"I risked my life for you! Was prepared to die for you when that-that...thing!...that madman-".

"Stop it!".

Raoul recoiled as if she had struck him, his eyes widened with unadulterated shock. Christine never raised her voice.

For once she didn't feel sorry to have upset someone. All she had wanted was to explain and he wouldn't even permit her to speak. She was tired of it, of being spoken over, of being drowned out and ignored. If she had to scream to make him hear her then so be it. He had no right to bring Erik into this, no right to speak as if he weren't a human being, no right to assume he knew her feelings. He was a taboo, not to be mentioned to her, she was trying to let go, she was trying to forget, for Raoul's sake as much as her own and there he went opening old wounds, picking at the scars.

She lowered voice, trying to regain some control before she spoke, though she knew her modulated volume was little improvement as her words were painfully tight lipped, "You don't get to talk about him".

"I see", he murmured solemnly, "So that's what it takes to win your heart. What would you like Christine? Would you like me destroy a theatre, would you like me to kill, to prove my feelings?".

She had told herself she wouldn't cry but tears came unbidden to her eyes, she was unable to summon any other response to his sheer irrationality.

"Why are you jealous of him?", she plead, "I chose you! I love you! Can you not see that!".

"I'm not", he denied stubbornly, "But I do think your expectations are a bit unreasonable. I've spent so much time talking them around as it is, couldn't we just be civilized about this? Do you feel no gratitude for what I've already done for you?".

"Raoul", she took a deep breath to steady herself, "I am grateful, but this is not about you. I won't bend on this, I'm not going to stop singing".

"My concern is for you", he assured her, "Do you think you will ever have respect if you perform on command like a trained animal?".

He seemed to have realized his slip the moment the words left his mouth but it did nothing to placate her. It hurt, to know that he thought so little of her profession, she had thought even if her vocation was unconventional she would have his support and admiration, but suddenly it felt as if she weren't good enough. His title had never meant anything to her but suddenly she felt his rank acutely, apparently the Vicomte de Chagny would not marry an opera singer.

She was rarely prone to a diva's vanity but at the moment when his high station loomed over her she made herself resolute, La Daae did not give up her career to please a suitor. If she were simply Christine and he were simply her friend she would not have strength enough to stand up for herself, so she chose instead to slip behind the veneer of the successful Prima Donna who was far more bold than she could ever hope to be. If circumstances were more pleasant she might have laughed at how she had to pretend in order to tell the truth.

"I would grow old alone before I would give up my music", she answered and though her voice was scarcely more than a whisper it carried with a ringing sort of finality.

His shoulder's slumped and she could tell she had wounded him, but then his expression hardened and he seemed quite unlike himself and he said, "If that is your wish I will leave you to it".

He walked away from her without so much as a backward glance. Her emotions rose again at how easily he left her and she had to bite back a vicious retort so cruel it made her tears come harder that she would think such a thing.

She couldn't be sure how, but somehow she stumbled back to the Opera House unencumbered, barely seeing what was in front of her as the moisture welling in her eyes obscured her vision. When she entered she heard distantly a few acquaintances call out a greeting but she ignored and continued the trek to the room she shared with Meg and the rest of the ballet corps., which suddenly gave the impression of being endless. She flung open the door and did not bother with the lamps lining the low tables that sat beside each bed, simply kicked off her shoes and sank down into her bunk by the window and finally gave into her grief, pressing a hand to her lips to stifle the noise.

She must have fallen asleep, or at least slipped into some merciful state lower than consciousness for she was not aware of time passing but it must have because when she regained any sense of her surroundings Madame Giry was sitting beside her, rubbing her back and singing a lullaby in a language she didn't know, spanish or italian perhaps.

"Tell me what happened?", she coaxed kindly.

And Christine did, not just the evenings disastrous events, but all of the strange feelings that had precipitated it, she explained all of her discomfort, all of her confusion and the Ballet Master listened with the degree of attentiveness only a mother could possess.

"I'm so stupid", she whispered.

The older woman tutted and stroked her hair, "You're not, why would you say such a thing?".

Her eyes ached and her throat burned but she forced herself to rasp out the words she had just barely refrained from uttering as she watched the most important person in her life turn his back on her.

"He wouldn't have done this to me".

Madame Giry seemed to understand without clarification that she was not talking about Raoul.

In the weeks that followed she managed to pull herself together to the point that she could function, Meg and Madame Giry had certainly helped, always willing to listen patiently and offer advice if she wished, but it also did her wonders to be free of outside influence for the first time in as long as she could remember.

She threw herself into her work, with considerably fewer distractions and a sudden need for a new first soprano her sudden rise to fame was almost as meteoric as her first. And this she knew was entirely on her own merit , it was incredibly rewarding to have earned something entirely on her own. In fact, on the whole she found that she did not mind being alone as much as she had anticipated. She had not realized how much of her time she structured around the whims of others until the pressure was suddenly removed, she was free to spend her days as she saw fit.

Her world was far from perfect, as she increasingly found herself the new managers were testing their control, demanding unendingly more of her. She did not mind, she did not care, it was as if everything else had ceased to matter and there existed only her goals, the harder they pushed her the harder she pushed herself. Even as her body began to betray her she could not bring herself to regret.

Weeks turned to months, in the blink of an eye the previous year elapsed. She continued to fall ill; she watched as the shadows beneath her eyes deepened, as her bones became more prominent and stood out a little too sharply beneath her skin, as her appearance changed and sharpened. Slowly but surely she had allowed her determination to waste her but even this she regarded with a sense of victory.

She had made herself independent.

Satisfied her little trap was laid as perfectly as it could ever hope to be she collected her coat and left her apartment with a sense of purpose.

For better or worse, whenever the inevitable meeting came she would not be a victim.


Please review. I'm quite nervous about how my version of Christine will be received.