Title: Help Me Say Goodbye

Rating: M

Word count: ~86k

Characters: Erik, Christine, Meg, Madame Giry, Raoul, André, Firmin, Reyer, Piangi, and sundry members of the opera company, some of which belong to me and some don't.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' does not belong to me.

Christine did not know how much time had passed since she had arrived in the music room to find Erik in such despair. Her back ached from her position, the neck of her dress was drenched with his tears. He was no longer shaking, and she thought no longer crying, but his face was still pressed against her neck and she would not make him move before he was ready.

At last he tried to pull away from her, his hand still pressed against his face, and Christine let him go. He sat stiffly next to her, made no attempt to dry his face – perhaps, she thought, too exhausted from the outburst. Perhaps simply unwilling to move without his mask, and she glanced around for it, found it by her feet. She must have pushed it off the bench when she came to sit, she realised, but made no attempt to reach for it.

She did not try to see his face; she leaned against him, rested her head on his shoulder and watched the way he twisted his fingers together. He sighed, a great heaving sigh, and Christine waited to see what would happen next.

"My mask," he muttered then. "Please…my mask."

Christine nodded, leaned over and picked it up. She was careful not to look at him when she handed it over – did not think either of them could easily handle Erik's reaction if she did, if she looked and flinched.

She thought he should dry his face before putting it on, thought of how uncomfortable it would be otherwise, but she said nothing and in a moment Erik had replaced the mask on his face. Christine did not move away from him; she leaned against him again, rested her head against him again.

"This was a mistake," he said at last.

"What was?" Christine asked softly.

"Bringing you here." He sighed again, shook his head. "I was a fool. You will never…"

Christine licked her lips, thought carefully before she spoke. Could she tell him that she already felt differently? But it had been less than a day since he had found her at the graveyard, surely he would not believe her. She could scarcely trust in her own feelings, she could not expect Erik to have any faith unless she was absolutely certain.

"I'm sorry," she said. "For…for everything." She reached out and took his hand, entwined their fingers. "Please don't cry over me," she whispered. "Not after…after how I've treated you."

"How you've…" He trailed off again, shook his head and tried to pull his hand from hers. "Christine, you said it yourself. I have hurt you. I have killed. I have trapped you down here with no hope of escape. Your behaviour is perfectly rational in response."

"I can't bear to see you cry," said Christine, clutched his hand tightly. "Please. And anyway, you said yourself you didn't meant to hurt me."

"That hardly excuses my actions," he muttered. "Christine, please. I know you loathe me."

"You know nothing of the sort," said Christine quietly, with dignity. "I hardly know what I feel anymore. But…but I don't loathe you." She let him pull his hand back at last, clasped her own hands together in her lap. "I am frightened of you. They are different things."

"Yes," he murmured. "Yes, I suppose they are. But the end result is the same." He rose, turned away and went to the fireplace. Christine twisted around to watch him, saw as he knelt by the hearth and rested a hand on the music box there, on the funny little monkey with its cymbals. "I should never have brought you here," he said.

"Perhaps not," Christine conceded. "But I am here now. And I promised you two days." His head lifted, he glanced at her, frowned and made to speak again. But Christine shook her head, held a hand out to stop him. "Please do not send me away," she said, a plea that she could only hope he would listen to. She knew she could not stay here, knew they would be looking for her above…and yet she could not bear it if he sent her away. If he retreated once again into solitude.

"Why do you want to stay?" he demanded, growing defensive now, snapping at her. "You told me you couldn't stay – you said you were a prisoner here! And what of your precious fiancé?"

"I don't know!" Christine cried out, lifted her hands to cover her face. "Oh, I don't know," she repeated miserably. "I no longer feel sure of anything – if I was ever sure." He was silent, and her ragged breaths sounded loud in the silence. "You scare me," she said at last. "You cannot blame me for that. The things you have done…" She trailed off, shook her head, kept her eyes covered so she could not see his reaction. "But I do…care for you," she whispered. "Despite everything you have done, I…I cannot see you hurt."

"Oh, Christine."

"And I cannot bear to see you cry," she went on, dropped her hands into her lap again and stared at him. "To know that you were crying because I have hurt you – I can't bear it, Erik!"

He rose then, came back to her, put his hands on her shoulders and almost shook her.

"You do not mean these things," he said, and his voice was gentle even if his hands were not. "I have confused you, bringing you down here. In a few days you will forget entirely what you think you feel now."

She shook her head, couldn't pull away from him. "I won't," she said. "I won't. You said you were listening to that horrible meeting – you heard me telling them I wouldn't do it. Why do you think I said that?"

"You told me you had no wish to be a pawn," said Erik slowly, looking keenly at her. "And you were afraid – you were so very afraid."

"Yes," she said. "But I…I don't want to hurt you, Erik. I don't want to be part of that plot. You were my Angel." She was nearly in tears, felt drained, felt so twisted around that the certainty she'd found while resting had almost entirely fled. She was no longer sure. She thought of Raoul, but found no reassurance in those thoughts. She thought of this broken man in front of her, and wondered how she could ever overcome her fear.

"I don't want to forget," she whispered, and he lifted a hand from her shoulder, stroked his fingers down her cheek. "For six months I have let myself be…be drowned in this fear that you have choked the opera house with. But I don't want to be afraid anymore."

"You will always be afraid," Erik foretold. "You will never be able to look at me and forget your fear. You will never forget what I have done, to you and others." She didn't think he believed himself, and she looked up at him, tried to show him she meant what she said. She did not want to be afraid – of him, of his anger.

But perhaps he was right; perhaps she always would be afraid.

"Your Vicomte is right," Erik continued then. "I am a monster. And you belong with him." Yet despite his words, his hands did not move from her; his fingers stroked her cheek gently, and Christine turned her face into his touch.

"Perhaps," she said. "But I cannot marry him while I have any doubt." She met his gaze, saw the surprise in his eyes, the fear. "You wanted me to look past the Angel and the Ghost," she said softly. "Now I am doing so, and you want to send me away."

Erik swallowed, shook his head. Her skin burned where he touched her, and she couldn't help comparing it to how she felt when Raoul touched her. It was unfair to them both, she knew, but Erik's touch…

It burned.

"No," he said at last. "No, I do not want to send you away. But it would perhaps be best for us both." He traced a line down her jaw, her throat – and paused, his fingers against her fluttering pulse. "You…do not have your ring," he said slowly. She nodded, could not speak. "Why, Christine?"

"I don't know," she had to say, and Erik sighed, pulled away from her. She missed his touch at once, found herself almost breathless from it, and it was so different to how she felt when Raoul touched her. Raoul was gentle, and loving, but his touch did not make her burn.

"I'm trying, Erik," she said, desperate now, needing him to believe her – to understand how changed she felt. "Please – please don't make me leave."

"You cannot understand your feelings while you are here," he said quietly, faced away from her, and she closed her eyes against tears. "But…I do not think the Vicomte's presence will help you understand either."

No, on that point they were in agreement. She knew Raoul, she knew what he would say when he found her. He would fill her head with thoughts of the monster that he believed Erik to be. And she knew herself, she knew she had allowed Raoul to influence her too much, had allowed everyone to influence her. But was Erik right? Would staying here simply mean another influence?

Christine shook her head, stood up and went to him. She touched his arm and he jumped a little, looked down at her, and she looked back. The man in the mask, the lonely, angry man who had taught her to sing.

"I went to my father's grave to say goodbye to the past," she said. "If I'm an adult now, I must try to make my own decisions. I decided to agree to your two days, and I decided to try to see you as you are." He nodded, frowned faintly, as if unsure of her words. Christine spoke carefully though, meant every word. "Please don't belittle my choices now," she continued. "Two days, and then I will decide, as you wanted."

"I do not think I can bear it," Erik told her. "It would be better for you to leave now."

"But I don't want to go."

He was silent; Christine stared up at him and found herself once again wondering what it would be like to kiss him. He would be scared, she realised suddenly. He would be scared of such affection. Passionate, yes – he would be passionate. But scared.

"I don't want to go," she repeated. "Not yet."

"Not yet," he repeated dully. "But you will go, Christine. You are scared of me still; you cannot deny it. You will run away as you have done before."

"I don't want to be scared," Christine said again, trying to be patient with him. "Please, why can't you believe me?"

"Why?" He tore himself away from her, flung himself into his chair and shook his head. "What was it you said that night, what did you tell the boy? That I am monstrous. You, who have betrayed me so utterly, ask why I cannot believe you now?"

"I was scared!" she said, hugged herself. "You had killed a man, Erik! And that night – I was wrong, I know I was wrong to take your mask, but you had only ever been my kind Angel and then you destroyed everything I had believed you to be!"