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.

Erik shook his head, eyes so wide as he stared down at her. As if he could not believe the words she had spoken, and Christine could hardly believe her own daring.

"I – I want…" She stumbled over the words, felt her cheeks burn, tried to tug her hand from his but he would not let her go. "I want you to hold me," she muttered, tried to explain herself. "Not to…just to sleep beside me. That's all."

He was silent, and Christine could not read his expression. She could not tell what he was thinking, what he was feeling. His grip on her hand loosened, but she did not pull away, waited for whatever his response might be.

"Sleep," he said at last. "I do not think I could sleep…like that." Christine was hurt, tried not to show it – and Erik shook his head again, impatience obvious. "Do you not see?" he asked. "I have dreamed of you for so long. To have you so close…" He released her hand, brushed his fingertips across her lips. "Torture," he muttered. "Do you know how it would torture me, Christine?"

"I don't mean to torture you," she said, the sting of hurt eased by his words but leaving uncertainty and a little embarrassment. She should not have said it, should not have asked. Whatever their relationship now was, whatever it would evolve into, it was too soon and highly improper.

But she wanted it; she wanted to fall asleep with his arms around her, to wake with him beside her. She wanted more, of course she did – but not tonight. It was too soon, far too soon, for both of them. And anyway, she shouldn't think of such things, not…not until there was something permanent. Marriage. If such a thing could even happen with Erik.

Too many complications, and Christine thought she was only making things more complicated now by expressing her need to keep him close to her. If Madame Giry found out about it, she thought wildly, she would be appalled. An unmarried woman, sharing a bed with a man, was so wholly indecent.

And yet she wanted it.

"Please," she whispered at last. "I don't mean to…to torture you, but I…" She wrapped her arms around herself, lowered her head, waited for his answer.

He touched her lips again, brushed his fingers across her cheek. She shivered slightly, felt desire burning under her skin. But it was sluggish now, tempered with fatigue. Erik was right; she needed to go to bed, needed to rest.

Needed him beside her, although that was an emotional need rather than a physical one.

"If you wish it," he said softly, "we will try."

Christine's breath caught in her throat and she couldn't help a smile as she lifted her head again, looked up at him again. He wasn't smiling, looked strangely nervous – and she could understand that, she thought. He desired her with such intensity, and she could make an educated guess that he had never shared a bed with anyone before.

"Go and get ready for bed," he said then. "I'll – I'll join you shortly." He stepped away from her, picked up a candlestick and passed it to her. Christine took it, looked at him for a moment more and then turned and left the music room. She walked down the passageway, so familiar to her now, and went to her bedroom.

She moved around the room, lit candles on the dressing table and in the sconces on the walls, and then she went to the bed. Her nightgown was still neatly folded under the pillow, and she shook it out before beginning to undress. Shoes and stockings, bodice and skirt, and then her corset, savouring the release from constriction for a moment.

She pulled off her undergarments, shivered slightly as the chemise brushed over her breasts. Sensitive, heavy. Her skin felt too tight, desire curling in her belly and making her want. She closed her eyes for a moment, traced a pattern on her skin and imagined Erik's hands on her.

Then she shook her head, tried to dispel such thoughts, to quell the desire she felt – desire that even now was warring with fatigue. No matter how she wanted, she would not find satisfaction today. She was too tired, and Erik too scared.

But she would sleep beside him, and that would be enough.

She pulled the nightgown over her head, went to the dressing table and gave her hair a cursory brush before deftly working it into a plait. Then she returned to the bed, turned back the blankets and climbed in. Waited for Erik, strained her ears for some sound of him.

After a while she lay down, pulled the blankets over herself, fatigue trying to pull her down into sleep. She tried not to worry, tried to tell herself that it had been too much to ask of him.

Tried not to cry, felt a lump in her throat. But it was too much, she thought, too soon. She should not be surprised that in the end he had felt unable to join her. Torture, he'd said. How could she ask it of him when she knew what he wanted? What he must have wanted for so long now?

What had always been denied to him.

She did not know how long she waited, was almost asleep by the time the door opened to admit him. She heard rather than saw him move around the room to extinguish the candles, the slight sounds he made enough to jolt her awake, if not quite into wakefulness. She woke enough to stretch a hand out to him, managed the barest of smiles when he took it in his own.

"I thought…I thought you weren't coming," she murmured, yawned. Erik kissed her hand; a moment later the bed shifted as he carefully joined her.

He lay stretched out on the bed beside her, the only point of contact her hand in his, and Christine made a disgruntled sound, rolled towards him. Erik flinched, and Christine was too tired to be remember how little he knew of affection, of loving touches. She pulled herself closer to him, took advantage of his surprise to lift his arm around her shoulders. Curled into him, rested her head on his chest. He hadn't undressed, she thought, was still wearing his shirt and trousers – she could feel the buttons when she lifted her hand to his chest.

He was stiff, uncomfortable. But Christine thought he would never become comfortable if he didn't grow used to it, if she didn't keep reaching out to him like this.

She refused to pull away. She could hear his heartbeat, hear how fast it was. Closed her eyes and breathed him in.

"I love you," she murmured. "Thank you, Erik."

"Why are you thanking me?" he asked, and she could tell he was truly puzzled. Christine opened her eyes, lifted her head as if to look at him, could see nothing in the darkness. Could not tell if he had replaced his mask, but was certain he had. It could not be comfortable to sleep with it on; perhaps he would remove it once she was asleep, and then put it on again before she woke.

Despite his actions this evening, despite the way he had voluntarily removed it to test her conviction, she knew it would not happen often. He would never be comfortable without it – or at least not for a long, long time. Years, perhaps. Years of reassurance, of love, of declaring by word and deed that it truly did not matter to her.

Time would make it true; she did not mind it now, but with time…yes, she thought, with time it would become so wholly unimportant. She would grow used to it, familiar with his face. And it no longer mattered even now, not really. In time it would become insignificant.

"Because I know this isn't easy for you," she said at last. "It's not…I know…" She struggled with her words, struggled to explain what she meant. What she thought. "Thank you for being with me," she said at last. "I – I've missed you."

"Christine," he murmured. "Go to sleep, Christine."

"But – but you'll stay?" she said uncertainly. "Stay with me, Erik?"

"I told you I would try," he said. "But sleep, Christine. You are so tired." And he was persuasive, used his voice against her as he had done before. Christine could not resist, gave a soft sigh and rested her head on his chest once more. She felt Erik's arm curve around her shoulders, slow and tentative, a welcome weight, and the comfort of it accompanied her into sleep.

Christine woke during the night; woke both because she was unused to sharing her bed with someone, and because that someone had moved away from her. She stretched her arm out, found empty sheets – but warm, she realised through the heavy fog of sleep. He had gone, but had not been gone long.

Then he took her hand, returned to her, and Christine sighed happily as his arms slid around her waist – more comfortable than he had been earlier, she identified, but she wasn't sure what had changed.

"Go back to sleep," he murmured. "I am still here, Christine."

"Erik," she said drowsily. "My Erik." She pressed against him, felt his fingers trail up her arm.

Felt something else, something hard against her hip – and it pushed her into wakefulness, made her lift her head to try to peer at him through the darkness.

She knew what it was; knew now why he had moved away from her. Torture, she recalled. Desire so great he had called it torture to simply lie in bed with her.

"Go to sleep," he said, but his voice was strange, almost choked. Restrained, perhaps, as if he was exerting great effort to be controlled. He lifted a hand to her cheek, stroked gentle fingers across her skin. "Lay down and sleep, Christine."

Christine bit her lip for a moment, felt his fingers at her mouth and lifted her own hand to keep them there. Kissed his fingertips, felt that aching flutter in her belly – and elsewhere.

She clasped his hand, took it and brought it lower, brought his hand to her breast and almost gasped at the feel of it. Erik gasped too, a sharp exhalation, and his hand moulded to her shape. His hand, so warm with just one thin layer of cotton between them.

"I want you too," she whispered, daring in the darkness when she would have blushed to speak so plainly in daylight. "You know that, don't you?"

"I – I…" He couldn't speak, and in the darkness she couldn't see his expression. But he didn't pull away from her, his hand remained at her breast. Her nipple under his palm, a slight friction when she breathed.

Torture. He had been right – this was torture.

At last Erik pulled away, his hand slowly leaving her, fingertips lingering for a moment before finally ceasing to touch.

"No," he said. "No. I cannot – you – " He pushed her away from him, not roughly but firmly, and rose from the bed. The darkness precluded observation, but she felt him tuck the blankets around her, felt how carefully he kept from touching her at all now.

She could not object to his leaving her, not now. Not when she felt heat in her limbs, wetness between her thighs. She knew what would happen if he stayed, and she was no more ready for it than he was.

"Go back to sleep," he directed her, and Christine nodded, closed her eyes, listened as he left the room and closed the door firmly behind.

Sleep did not come for long minutes; she lay in the bed, felt the warmth from where he had lain beside her, and wondered if she was playing with fire.