Chapter Seven: The Underwear Caper

Lonny woke up early, at nearly seven, and comforted herself with the thought that it was Saturday and she wasn't due to show her face above-stairs for another two hours. Her parents liked their privacy, and preferred her to stay in her room in the mornings until breakfast. She contented herself with considering what breakfast would be— this being Saturday, she was free to spend as much time cooking as she liked. Considering that she wasn't very good at it, this wasn't likely to be long, but it was nice to have the opportunity if she wanted it. She thoroughly enjoyed the results of long cooking sessions, simply didn't like the effort. For a while she toyed with the idea of what she could do to bribe her mother into making French toast.

Finally she swung her legs over the side of her bed, having forgotten that there was a man on her carpet, and stepped on Erik's face.

He yelled.

She yelled.

They were both just loud enough to reach her parents in the room above their heads, and her parents yelled.

He yelled again.

She yelled.

The parents yelled.

Erik yelled, "We have to stop yelling!"

Lonny yelled, "What do you suggest?"

The parents yelled, "What's going on down there?"

Erik emitted a cut-off sound like a squeak as he closed his lips, shut tight over the next yell, which had been gathering itself in his throat and was sure to be a doozy. Lurching up from underneath the bedcovers he clamped a hand over Lonny's open mouth. For a moment they stared into each other's eyes, breathing fast. Part of Lonny's mind registered that Erik was at least half naked, and she couldn't see the other half in order to be sure, and a blush stole over her face.

"Silence," hissed Erik quietly.

Lonny nodded.

He tensed, and slowly removed his hand from her mouth. She gulped in air and nodded slightly, keeping her eyes fixed firmly on his face— though she couldn't help but notice the sharpness of the protruding collar bones. He was just a skeleton with a thin layer of skin stretched tightly over.

From above came another couple of startled yelps as Lonny's parents decided that nothing important was happening and turned their attention back to each other. Lonny decided to ignore this if at all possible.

Erik finally released her from his gaze, now looking slightly self conscious as he gathered a blanket around him and lay down again.

"Are you—" she started.

"You may have the lavatory first," he cut her off.

The blush deepened as she stepped carefully over him and made her way to the bathroom. At the door she turned and glanced back at him. He lay quietly, his arms at his sides, the mask staring blankly up at the ceiling.

"I'm sorry—" she started, and had to stop and clear her throat. "—that I stepped on your face."

He didn't reply, and finally she stopped waiting for him to speak and went in the bathroom.

She'd had the presence of mind to grab her clothes, and so she put on her jeans and t-shirt first and then stared at herself in the mirror. How could this possibly have happened to someone normal and boring like her? Gradually it was becoming impressed on her mind that despite the fact that this Erik wasn't her favourite Phantom, he was still a Phantom— the Phantom, if you listened to him, as she was increasingly inclined to do. By nature a cynical young woman, Lonny had always assumed that when faced with some deep truth about life or about herself, she would be able to shake it off with a shrug and a muttered, "Whatever."

But you didn't say, "Whatever," to the Phantom of the Opera. He punjabbed you if you did, for one thing.

She shook herself out of her introspective stupor and washed her face, brushed her teeth, then attacked her hair with a brush. It took a while. Sometimes on the weekends she didn't even bother, but not bothering wasn't really an option this morning.

Finally she opened the door and stepped back into the bedroom, thinking to herself that she was as ready as she'd ever be. Erik twisted around and glanced at her— he was dressed once more, complete with coat and cravat, and was seated at the computer table, aimlessly punching keys.

"It won't come on," she said. "You unplugged it."

He said nothing, only stood up after jabbing at the keyboard a few more times. He turned to face her.

"Good morning," he said formally. "Lonny."

The use of her name made her smile, and she reckoned to herself that Erik had been doing some thinking as well.

She swept him a bow back.

"Good morning. Erik."

He straightened his shoulders and put his hands behind his back. "In order to complete my morning ablutions I will require some very soft towels, a basin of hot water, a straight-edge, non-electric razor—"

"Why the razor?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Why the razor? You don't have any stubble or anything at all." She squinted at him. "Do you even have facial hair? I can't tell if you have eyebrows or not."

He proved the existence of the eyebrows, or one of them at least, by pulling them down aggressively and frowning at her. She smiled back.

"There's shower in the bathroom, you can use my towel as its clean, or mostly clean anyway, and you can borrow my razor. Provided," she added hastily, "that you wash it off after and don't use it on anything other than your face." She ignored the look of befuddled outrage on his face and went on. "As you can hear from the sounds above us, my parents are getting up. If you hurry, you may get some hot water, but I can't answer for it if you don't."

He frowned at her a moment more and then, swayed by the argument of hot water, pushed past her into the bathroom, slamming the door. Lonny grinned to herself for a moment and then went upstairs.

Her parents were going to be gone for the day, something which Lonny appreciated, though she couldn't act too enthusiastic or they would have been able to tell that something was up. She patiently shepherded them through breakfast, into their jackets, and out the door, before calling to Erik that he could come up, and going to the kitchen to get something to eat.

When he showed, his hair was carefully brushed back, with his fingers apparently, and shone wetly. He'd nicked himself with the razor, and Lonny handed him a paper towel. Then she scrutinized him.

"How long have you been wearing those clothes?"

"Beg pardon?"

"You heard me."

"I—" He gave up. "I can't remember. However long its been since I became a fugitive from the law."

"I see." She shook her head. "Come with me, we'll get you something from my father's closet. He's quite a bit fatter than you, but—"

"No, mademoiselle." The quiet certainty of his voice took her by surprise.

"But its just clothes, Erik. What's the big deal? I can get you some jeans, a sweater—"

"No, Lonny. The Phantom of the Opera does not wear jeans. Or—" he shuddered slightly. "Sweaters."

Lonny raised her eyebrow. "Are you telling me you think you'll lose your identity if you change your clothes? Is that what you're telling me? Look, buster, you'll still have the mask. I'll still know its you. But those clothes need to be washed. Look at them, they're all rumpled and— okay, so they're in pretty good shape for your having worn them for however long it is. But I still can't just let you wear them around. I'll give you some clean ones, and I'll wash those, and then you can have them back, okay?"

It took some more discussion, wheedling, pleading, threats, and puppy eyes, but Lonny finally managed to get him into the bathroom. After a lengthy pause, he pulled the door ajar and wordlessly handed her a stack of clothes— she noted to her amusement that he'd folded them neatly and arranged them in apparently alphabetical order.

In return she handed him some things she'd lifted from her father's wardrobe. He took them without a word, but from behind the door came a faint sigh of disgust. Lonny grinned to herself and took Erik's clothes to the laundry room, humming quietly to herself.

After a few moments she stopped humming and said, quite audibly, "Yay for masked men in black boxers."