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.

"I must say, Mademoiselle, your sojourn away from the opera house seems to have done you good," said Monsieur Reyer, peering at Christine over the top of the piano. "You seem more comfortable with that aria than you did."

"Thank you, Monsieur," Christine murmured. She had given Reyer the same story that she'd given Raoul – that she had fallen and injured herself, and had been under the care of strangers until she had recovered from the concussion and been able to return to the opera house. She wasn't sure whether he believed it or not – and she'd seen the way people looked at her, knew what they thought must have happened – but Reyer, at least, had seemed uninterested. He was concerned only with rehearsals, and catching up for the two days she had missed.

"We'll work on the duet tomorrow, I think," said Reyer, more to himself than her, and Christine waited patiently, forced herself to keep concentrating on Reyer and rehearsals. After a moment Reyer nodded, refocused his gaze on her. "Yes, the duet, and then in the afternoon a run through of act one," he said. "You're progressing very well. Well done."

"Thank you," she said again, hesitated a moment and then continued. "I do apologise once again, Monsieur, for missing the past two days of rehearsals…"

But Reyer waved his hand at her, shook his head. "These things happen, Mademoiselle Daaé," he said. "And frankly you're well ahead of the rest of the cast. Anybody else and I might have worried, but you've been working very hard."

Christine nodded; that much was true. She'd worked hard from the moment she'd realised she had no choice but to perform in Erik's opera. Despite the plan, despite her reticence in taking part in the awful plot to capture or kill Erik, she could not give this work any less than her best.

It was Erik's opera, after all.

"The opening is in three weeks," she said. "I should hope that we were all working hard." Reyer's eyes were sharp as he looked at her, and Christine regretted her words, did not want to talk to him about…about the Ghost.

She did not want to talk to anyone about Erik. But she knew she would have to – she knew Meg and Madame Giry would be waiting for her when she went to lunch. She was sure they would be waiting for the explanations she had not given last night.

What explanations could she give? What could she possibly say? Madame Giry seemed intent on persuading her to marry Raoul, and Meg…

Meg had promised to try to understand, but she would still have questions. Christine knew her friend would have unending questions, and she supposed she must try to answer some of them, at least.

So: Meg and Madame Giry she must talk to. But she did not have to speak to Reyer, did not owe him any explanations, at least. So she lifted her chin slightly, looked at him and silently dared him to comment.

He did not, of course; if the director was anything, he was circumspect.

"We'll meet again after lunch," was all he said. "Practice room five, for the market scene, with the corps de ballet."

"Yes, Monsieur," said Christine demurely, and she gathered the loose pages of her score into a pile, tied a string around to keep them together. Reyer left the room ahead of her, and Christine paused for a moment in the empty room, gathered her defences in preparation. She had managed to go from her dressing room to the practice room without talking to anyone, but she wasn't foolish enough to believe she could manage the same now.

And indeed, Meg was waiting for her in the corridor outside, pounced upon her and almost dragged her along.

"Maman wants you," she said. "We're having lunch in her room."

"Slow down," said Christine, tried to laugh as Meg pulled her down the corridor. "I'll drop my music!"

"Oh, fine," said Meg with a huff, but she slowed, released Christine's arm. "I'm sorry," she said. "It's just…I've been waiting all morning." She glanced about as they hurried up a staircase, and Christine did the same. A group of younger dancers came past them, and one of the tenors nodded and smiled as he moved out of their way. Meg pressed close to Christine, took her arm again. "Raoul came to speak to Maman," she said in a low voice. "He was very upset."

"Yes," said Christine slowly. "Yes, I imagine he was." Another staircase, and down a passageway, past the row of workrooms occupied by the costume department. "Let's wait until we're upstairs," she said then. "I don't want anyone to hear."

"You know she'll try to change your mind," Meg murmured. "You know what she thinks."

Christine said nothing, held her music close and let Meg lead her up to Madame Giry's rooms. Madame Giry was waiting for them, with trays from the canteen laid out on her desk, and Christine put her music down and took up a bowl of soup.

"Now, Christine," said Madame Giry, when they were all settled. "You will answer my questions this time." Christine nodded, glanced up at her. She had answered last night – or at least, she had tried to. She felt it wasn't her fault if Madame Giry had not liked her answers. Still, Madame Giry had been her guardian for many years, and she could not be disobedient, would not be impertinent. "What happened while you were with him?"

Christine was slow to reply, thought about what to say before she spoke. So much of what had happened would be impossible to explain – and so much she did not want to explain. Thoughts and words that she could never tell anybody, even those closest to her.

"He looked after me," she said at last. "He made me meals, and he sang to me…and we practiced the opera." She stirred her soup with her spoon, tried to decide what more to say. "We talked," she said finally. "About…many things."

"What did he say?" Madame Giry demanded. "What did you talk about, Christine? There must have been – child, two days ago you loved Raoul. Now you claim you love the Ghost. What did he say to you?"

She shut her eyes for a moment, thought of poor, scared Erik. "Many things," she said again. "But he does not think I love him, Madame. So you cannot say he has persuaded me it is so."

"But why not?" Meg asked then, leaning towards her a little, curious. "Haven't you told him?"

Christine managed a small, bitter smile for her friend. "Meg," she said, "if you had been rejected and despised from the moment of your birth, how could you believe anyone could love you?" Meg frowned, pursed her lips and shook her head a little. "And – and there's his face," Christine added, and she glanced at Madame Giry, saw that lady's narrowed eyes. "But Madame, I do love him," she said. "I think I always have, I just…let myself forget that. I was so scared, and so was everyone else. It was easier to love Raoul."

Madame Giry sighed, put her bowl down. "Easier," she muttered. "I suppose so. Well, you've certainly chosen the harder path now, my girl."

Christine nodded. She could not deny it, knew that loving Erik would be hard – perhaps the hardest thing she had ever done or ever would do. Nothing about him was easy, and she could not expect that loving him would become easier with time.

"I know," she whispered. "I know that, Madame."

"You could still change your mind, Christine," she said then. "The Vicomte came to see me this morning. He was quite distressed. He was sure you'd been taken by the Ghost – oh, I confirmed your story, of course. But he is convinced you're under some threat to break off the engagement."

"I tried to convince him," said Christine, looked at Madame Giry in distress. "Madame, I tried to explain things to him, but…but I don't think he really listened."

"He probably didn't want to," said Meg softly. "He does love you, after all." Christine nodded, couldn't look at her friend, couldn't bear to see the judgement she was sure would be on Meg's face.

"I know," she murmured. "And I do care for him. But…but I love Erik." She closed her eyes, pictured him, could almost feel the brush of his fingers across her lips. "When I think of how much time I've wasted," she said, "and how much I've hurt him – I can hardly bear it."

"But the things he's done," Meg said, and Christine nodded, opened her eyes and glanced at her friend. "Christine, he murdered Buquet. How can you love a man who could do that?"

"I don't know," she said honestly. "It makes me sick to think of it."

"And his face?" said Madame Giry then. "What of his face?"

Christine could not answer for long moments. She reached forward to put down her soup, had no appetite now, and then she clasped her hands together and examined her own feelings. What of his face? She had seen it, perhaps more than any other living person could claim. But glimpses, and so long ago now.

What of his face? That horrible, distorted face? She remembered the hollowed cheek, the bloated lips. The disfigurement on his forehead – hidden, mostly, by his wig, but she remembered the skin stretched thin and translucent over the bone beneath. And if he wore a wig, that must surely mean he had little or no hair of his own. She wondered, briefly, what further disfigurement was hidden by the wig.

She suppressed a shudder, would not let Madame Giry or Meg see her misgivings. Her doubts.

"I love him," she said. "Not for his face, or his goodness. I know both, and I must accept them. I do accept them." She looked at Meg, at Madame Giry, tried to make them understand. "You're right," she said. "It will be difficult. And if I married Raoul I would be secure, and would be safe. I would never be afraid of Raoul as I am of Erik."

"But?" said Madame Giry softly.

"But I would not be happy," she whispered. "And surely, Madame – surely you want me to be happy?"

"Oh, child, of course I do," said Madame Giry, and she sighed. "But you must be sure. Absolutely sure, with no doubts. I know you have always felt something for him, but two days is not enough to be sure of yourself."

"It's enough to be sure of some things," said Christine. "And Madame – I'm more sure of Erik than I ever have been of Raoul." Doubts had built in her mind over six long, lonely months. That was, after all, why she'd gone to her father's grave – to try to resolve some of those doubts, to be clear about what she wanted and what she must do.

"And there's nothing I can say to persuade you?" Madame Giry asked, and Christine shook her head. There was nothing. She loved Erik; she would return to him. "What do you plan, then? What of this plot to capture him?"

"I'm going to meet him," said Christine, cautiously – would not reveal everything, for although she did not think either woman would reveal her plans to Raoul, she could not be certain, and could not trifle with Erik's safety. "Tomorrow night. After that…I'm not sure. I won't take part in the plot, Madame – but I don't see how to stop it."

"We'll think of something," said Meg in assurance, and Christine smiled at her, more grateful than she could say for Meg's support. "Now finish your soup," Meg went on. "We're due downstairs again soon."

Thusly admonished, Christine retrieved her bowl and finished her meal.