Chapter Nine
Christine had now been in Erik's penthouse for one month.
If she was being honest with herself, she wasn't even entirely sure she still needed to be there. The necessity of her captivity was never brought up in conversation again, and with the constant kindness Erik had shown her since the week she had been sick, she wondered if he would free her upon request.
She had a mess to return to though, of that she was certain. She assumed she had not been reported missing, as Mr. Khan never did search the apartment for her, and Madame Giry did know of the Phantom, so Erik had likely told them she was with him of her own free will. She doubted Madame Giry would believe that so easily, though, so there had to be something else at play.
The dynamic between Mr. Khan and Erik was a confusing one. He seemed to constantly enable his behavior, all the while threatening to find a way to condemn him for it. She had listened in on their visits and phone conversations, searching for answers in between the lines of how their odd friendship - if it could even be called that - had begun. There was still so much she did not know about Erik, and though she had managed to coax a few vague facts out of him, she still had no clue what his last name was or where he was born.
The little bit of information she had gathered, though, was ironically rather deep. She did not know his favorite color, but during another late night conversation about literature, he had vaguely revealed his own plight regarding his face. He was born deformed, abandoned by his father and hated by his mother, eventually escaping the abusive home. This, of course, was not directly admitted, but rather presented through metaphors about literary characters. This covert method of exchanging information sufficed for Christine, knowing that he was likely unable to properly express his trauma in any other way. She knew more terrible things happened to him after his childhood, though, something that caused the white scars that littered his back that she had once seen when she peered into the guest bathroom mistakenly, not expecting to find him in there removing his dress shirt.
Her heart ached for him.
She did not know what had inflicted those scars or what had caused him to live a life in the shadows after he built the opera house, but she knew there was some damage done that was likely irreversible, and she accepted that. She found that she did not want to fix him, only aid him, soothe him.
The most astounding realization of all, though, that only came to her late at night and was quickly dismissed before she could ponder it further, was that she was quite certain she forgave him.
She couldn't fathom how lonely he must be. Whether that loneliness was of his own making was up to question, but even then, how could he not believe that was what he was worthy of, what he deserved, when his own mother had placed that thought in his mind? She was sickened by the fact that the very basis of the thoughts in his mind, those dark thoughts that she knew tormented him during the rare nights when he did sleep, were instilled in him by the one person that was meant to teach him how to be good. Instead, he was taught he was not good, would never be good, and she supposed he believed there was no use in trying.
He would play the part of being the bad, of being the Phantom, if it was the only way for him to live freely. If he could not be good, be out in the open and living honestly, could not be accepted for his face or his music or the darkness within him, he would take refuge in that darkness and inflict it on other people. To Christine, it seemed like he was the Phantom because he felt that was who he was made to be. This was here analysis of Erik's character, though he was not quite a Jane Austen love interest nor was he the featured figure of an editorial investigation.
It was wrong, but she forgave him, if only because everything he had done since she had fallen ill was right.
She noticed that he no longer left the penthouse at night. She knew he previously had to go tamper with the opera house performances, but he now spent his evenings on the couch with her, moving through a long list of literary film adaptations she had yet to see. They were watching Sense and Sensibility when she knew she could not hold back her question any longer. She asked him if he ever intended to continue his business as the Phantom, and he froze up.
"That is none of your business," he muttered, but she saw through his facade.
"Bullshit, Erik. We're friends now. I know of your struggles, you know of mine...and what you don't know, you've likely found somewhere deep within the recesses of Google. So tell me."
He sighed deeply before responding. "I suppose...this is a business I am growing tired of," he admitted. "I only...I only made the opera productions follow my direction because I needed them to sustain myself...I needed...I needed something to fill the time, Christine."
"Time?" She had questioned.
He looked at her pointedly. "Nothing escapes you, my dear. Fine, it was not to fill the time. If you must know, as pathetically melancholic as this answer is, I needed something to fill the…" he became quiet as he searching for the right word. "Emptiness," he finally added under his breath, partially hoping that she would not even hear it.
She did. Christine felt a tightness in her chest - pain for him. "And now?"
"And now, I find, analyzing literary adaptations is a much more suitable hobby," he smiled, and she thought she had never seen such a fascinating sight. His thin lips stretched out in a way that was so unfamiliar, yet so entrancing, she wanted nothing more than to provoke that sight again.
She knew that analyzing literary adaptations was not truly what had filled those empty, dark spaces within him, though, and he was simply speaking vaguely: the way he always did when he was unable to outright admit something. She felt warmth at the pit of her stomach at the realization that she had somehow changed him with her company, with her friendship and perhaps, with the forgiveness she had shown him, though she still hardly realized she was giving it.
She had not thought much about the night he had stolen her away, though, and a sudden provocation of the memory reminded her of the lasso within his pocket.
Buquet. How had she forgotten about what happened to Buquet?
Could she truly forgive him so easily when he had taken the life of another man? She was horrified that she had forgotten, horrified that she had forgiven everything else, horrified that she had touched and soothed and tried to help him. She stiffened next to him on the couch, and it did not go unnoticed by him.
"Christine?" He asked, but she did not reply. "Christine? What is going on in that mind of yours?" He said, raising a shaky hand to turn her face towards his, and she flinched at his touch. He yanked his hand away, his head hanging low, the masked side of his face turned towards her, hiding his expression.
"I am sorry, Erik, I did not mean to...I was just thinking, and I was startled…"
"You do not have to explain yourself, my dear," he snapped, the usually fond use of "dear" now hinting at bitterness.
She would have felt that familiar ache of sorrow for him in her chest if she could have stopped seeing that rope in her mind.
"Erik...I want to ask about something. I think I know the answer, but if things…" she stopped herself before saying "if things continue the way they have," not wanting to hint that the fact that things were going anywhere in the first place. "I need to know," she said simply, summoning up the courage to look at him.
He turned to face her. "You may ask me anything, Christine, but I cannot promise I will provide an answer."
"You will. Or else you will regret it."
He seemed to pale at this, Christine's strength and agency always holding a power over him she did not quite understand, nor did he. He was the Phantom, for god's sake, yet he trembled at the sight of her turning her chin up at him resolutely, her jaw clenched tightly.
"Very well," he replied, nodding his head. "What do you want to know?"
"Buquet. I want to know what you did to Buquet."
There was a long pause, Erik searching for words but not finding the right ones. What is the right way to admit that you took someone's life? What is the right way to admit that you cannot bring yourself to regret it?
"I did not mean to kill him, Christine. That is what I need you to understand," he finally spoke.
She nodded, hot tears forming in her eyes at the admittance that he had, in fact, killed him. She had not wanted to believe it, not after all the time they had shared together this past month, but she could not live in a fantasy anymore.
"I simply meant to punish him...to scare him away from the opera house and from ever laying a hand on one of those girls again. I saw things, Christine; things he did that I should have stopped and never did. It was often an unwanted caress or a lewd comment, and while I knew it was a gross misuse of his position in the casting team, it did not feel grave enough to warrant exposing myself. The ballet girls often attempted to report it, but they were discouraged from doing so. I wish I had intervened then...then maybe...maybe no one would have gotten hurt." His voice broke in a way that she had not expected it to. The Phantom was dark, unforgiving, but Erik...Erik was tender in a way that constantly surprised her.
"He began to commit much larger offenses, though I never witnessed them myself. I heard of them throughout the hallways, ballet dancers whispering warnings to each other to not be caught alone with him, and I tried to think of ways to keep him away from them, threats to make, but nothing seemed right. I could have had him fired, but I knew that he would blame one of the girls. I wanted to try to scare him away instead. I did not want to act until I had the perfect plan to keep him from ever laying a hand on on a woman again, lest he act out in vengeance on one or all of them for clearly speaking about what happened. But...but when I overheard him discussing his next target with another member of the crew...Christine, I…"
Christine grew pale. Was it Meg? He seemed to sense this question on the tip of her tongue, answering her before it even escaped her lips. "It was not a ballet member, Christine. It was someone he did not have as much power over, someone who was not in the cast, but someone who had caught his eye nonetheless...I could not let him near you, Christine. I was enraged. So, I took my Punjab lasso, and I did not look back for a second. I...I wrapped it around his neck but he struggled too much and...oh, Christine. Please do not be afraid. I would never hurt you. I did not mean to kill him...I have lived a life of crime before, Christine, and it is not something I wish to go back to. Not when I have seen such beauty, such kindness...Christine…"
Out of all the results of the conversation about Buquet she had anticipated, she had never expected this surge of empathy, this swell of an unfamiliar sense of fondness in her chest, stronger than any of the emotions she had felt in regard to him before, to take over her, causing her to lean forward slowly before falling completely into him, wrapping her arms around his neck. They were both crying, she realized, when she felt tears rolling down her cheeks while his body was racked with sobs. "I am so sorry, Christine. I wanted to be a better man for you. I wanted to cease being the Phantom and become a teacher instead, your teacher, or whatever else you would allow me to be…" His voice faded out in a whimper, and her heart shattered at the helpless sound escaping him, remembering how cold and unfeeling he had once been as her instructor. Now, he was falling to pieces in her arms, and she would put him back together, god so help her.
"Thank you for protecting me," she whispered, before placing a kiss to the cold porcelain of his mask. He could not feel it, as she hoped he wouldn't, but it felt right to give him that small peck, like she was practicing for the moment she would place a kiss where he could feel it, whether that be his cheek or…
She pulled away from him at the thought.
He was still a criminal. He was still her captor. She could not think such things.
She gave him a sad smile before turning away from him to face the television once again. They were halfway through the film when Christine noticed puffy white flakes floating down outside.
"Erik, look!" She exclaimed excitedly, pointing.
He seemed taken aback by her enthusiasm, the joy in her voice a stark contrast to the nature of their previous conversation. He looked out the window to see the source of her excitement: a heavy snow shower coating the city in a glistening white sheet. He smiled at her, and her grin only widened at the rare sight.
She was becoming addicted to those rare smiles, she realized, the sight of them giving her an intoxicating feeling of dizziness, of lightness.
"Would you like to go out, my dear?"
Her grin faded into an open-mouthed look of shock. Had she heard him right?
He chuckled darkly before repeating himself, the expose corner of his lip turned up in a smirk. "Christine, would you like to go for a walk in the snow?"
She was on her feet before she had even replied, sprinting across the room to find her winter jacket somewhere within the closet of the guest room. He met her by the door, a dark blue scarf in his hands. He held it up to her, seeming to ask for permission for contact in the way he always did, and she nodded her head, willing him to proceed. He wrapped the scarf around her neck, fastening it a little too tightly, and she giggled at the care he took to ensure her neck was entirely covered. "We must protect your voice, Christine, if we ever hope to resume improving it." He seemed to not realize what he was promising, and she looked at him in confusion, wondering if he really meant it.
Would he really instruct her again? If he instructed her, didn't that serve the purpose of preparing her to perform? And if she were to perform, wouldn't he have to set her free?
She found that the answers to these questions did not quite matter as much in the moment. It was likely one of the first times in her life that she did not immediately feel the need to seek the answer to something. In that moment, all she wanted was to enjoy her stroll throughout the snow covered city with Erik. He offered her an arm, and she took it, reveling in the feeling of his thin but strong form against hers.
He took her to Central Park, but not before stopping by a cafe to purchase her a hot chocolate. They sat on a bench deep within the trees of Central Park, Christine placing the hot chocolate in between her thighs to keep it balanced. He laughed quietly under his breath at the sight, and she felt as though she'd never get over the sounded of his light, easy chuckle, so different from the harshness of his appearance. His laughter was smooth, gentle, in the same way his voice could be. They sat in silence for a few moments, simply watching the flakes flurry down in a cascade of white.
"My papa loved the snow," Christine finally said, breaking the comfortable silence.
Erik looked to her to indicate his attention, a considerate action he was prone to. It was how he asked her to proceed, expressed his interest in what she had to say, and it always caused warmth to rise in her chest in the acknowledgement she felt.
"He said it reminded him of Sweden. When the air is so cold and crisp, and everything is so bright, he said it hid the greyness that the city is often clouded in. I loved Philadelphia, but I think it was easier for him to pretend he was back home during the winter."
Erik nodded, not expressing any surprise at the mention of her home being Philadelphia. He obviously already knew. She likely should have been uncomfortable by the fact that he had thoroughly researched her before they grew close, likely before he had even taken her to his penthouse, but she only felt oddly flattered.
"My papa was really my only friend growing up, you know. I don't know what it was about me that kids didn't like. I know teachers thought I was too headstrong, but the kids never really explained what bothered them about me. I guess I just seemed different," she shrugged.
"You are marvelous, Christine."
She snorted. "Well, tell that to just about everyone else in my life, Erik. I had no friends in middle school, I only had Meg in high school. In college, I tried to socialize, but I knew that I was never quite really 'in.' I was just kind of there," she confessed. "I was never on the receiving end of anyone's...affection, either," she said awkwardly, trying to find a way to phrase it.
"You never...you've never been in a relationship?"
"Nope. I liked a lot of guys, but I just...I guess I was just too much for them, journalist nature and all," she laughed, though there was a hint of sorrow in her eyes. "Too much drive, too much curiosity, too much of everything...I suppose the same could be said for why I'm here with you."
When he didn't seem to understand, she sighed, realizing she had to elaborate. "I investigated you. It was none of my business, and yet, I investigated you." She almost added "and look where it got me," but it did not feel like the right statement, when sitting on this bench with him did not feel like such a horrible fate, even if she had abandoned the life she had once known against her will. "I'm not trying to make you feel bad, by the way, about the consequences of my investigation. I just meant...I just wanted to you know, I know how it feels to be isolated. Not to the same degree as you, of course. I would never compare our lives because I know mine has been much less difficult. I just mean...I understand, Erik."
He simply stared at her in wonder, his golden eyes filled with that look of affection that always caused butterflies in her stomach. She looked away before they could rise up to her throat and threaten to spill any sentimental words that might stretch beyond the boundaries she had set for herself. However, she decided to break past one wall, placing a hand on his while still staring straight forward, watching the snow continue to fall. His hand clenched underneath hers, stiffening, and she ran her thumb across his palm. He had just relaxed under her touch when she pulled away, only to readjust before entwining her arm through his, leaning her head on his sharp but broad shoulder and finding his hand once again. For a second, she thought she had heard him almost whimper, and she smiled at the mess of a man against her, this man that put so much effort into seeming strong and composed when he all but crumbled under her touch. They remained like that until Christine's nose had gone numb, and they retreated into the penthouse, making more hot cocoa at Christine's request and settling on the couch next to each other, a little closer than they'd been the last time.
A/N: Thank you all so much for the incredible reviews on the last two chapters, I'm feeling much better about this fic! I hope you all are having a wonderful week, I'm sending you all lots of good vibes and love :) Huge thank you to a-partofthenarrative as always for editing!
