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.

The room was dimly lit when Christine woke, three candles sending shadows flickering around the room. She sat up slowly, let the blankets fall away from her, found Erik sitting at her dressing table.

Watching her.

She wondered how long he had been there, wondered when he had returned. Thought perhaps she should feel awkward, that he had been so clearly watching her sleep. But all she felt was love, and contentment.

And desire. She felt that, felt her breath quicken at the way he was looking at her, felt a prickling just under her skin. Desire for the man who was hers now.

But she remembered what had happened last night, and during the night, remembered how she had felt and what she had thought. Too soon, too much – for both of them. So much had happened so quickly, and she counted it a triumph that Erik had even kissed her as he had. More would be too much, for herself as much as for him.

Besides, there was still the question of what would happen next. What they would do, what they would become. Erik had a wedding dress for her, but she couldn't imagine him standing in a church and making vows before God. And no matter how she loved him, how she desired him…she wasn't sure how she could be with him if they were not married. She had spent her entire life believing that such things should only take place within a marriage bed, after all.

But oh, how she wanted him. And he wanted her too, she could tell he was thinking of it. Could see it in the way his gaze flickered to her neckline, the way her nightgown fell over her curves. She almost wanted to cover herself, to lift the blankets back up to conceal herself, but she pushed the instinct away. She would not be ashamed of it, of this want that they both shared. Would not be coyly modest, not when he knew – he must know how – how much she shared his desire.

His lust.

She smiled at him then, stretched out a hand. "Good morning," she said, and Erik rose, crossed the room, took her hand and bowed over it. Kissed her knuckles, and lingered a moment with his lips against her skin.

"Good morning," he said at last, released her hand and sat on the bed. "Did you sleep –" He cut himself off, and she knew he was thinking of what had occurred during the night. There was the faintest of blushes on his exposed cheek, and her own face was hot.

"You look more rested, anyway," he said after a long moment, awkward, and Christine nodded.

"Yes," she said. "I feel…much better. What time is it? Have I slept late?"

"No," said Erik with a shake of his head. "Later than your usual, but not late. It is not quite half past seven." Christine smiled, thought of three whole hours before she was due in rehearsals, thought of spending the time with him. And Erik smiled too, just slightly, as if pleased by her pleasure.

"I should get up," she said then. She hadn't brought any clothes down, but of course there were many in the wardrobe, more clothes than she could wear in a week. Erik nodded, his gaze flicking over her once again, and she wondered for a moment what he was thinking, whether he was…

She shook the thought away firmly, pushed the blankets aside, and Erik rose as she moved to leave the bed. Paused, stared down at the expanse of leg revealed in the moment before her nightgown fell to cover it, and Christine flushed, wrapped her arms around herself.

She wasn't used to this, wasn't used to such blatant regard. And she wanted it, wanted him – but she wasn't used to it. Nobody else had ever looked at her as Erik did.

"I'll leave you," he said, perhaps aware of her discomfort. "I will be in the kitchen, when you are ready."

"Alright," she said, but reached out for him when he moved to leave, grasped his sleeve. He paused, glanced at her in surprise, and Christine offered him a smile. "Erik," she said softly, "may I kiss you?"

He was silent, tilted his head slightly as he looked at her. She couldn't tell what he was thinking, the mask such a barrier when it came to reading his expression. His eyes were narrowed slightly, but thoughtful more than irritated. At last he nodded, his mouth curved in a slight smile, and Christine lifted her arms around his neck as his went around her waist. He lowered his head to meet her, lips warm and gentle against her own.

Would she ever get used to this feeling? The feel of him against her, his mouth on hers, hot and loving and still so hesitant. She felt dizzy from it, leaned against him so every inch of her was pressed against him.

She felt she could stay here in this moment forever. Held in his arms, kissed by the man she loved.

Erik was smiling when they parted, a soft, awe-filled smile and he looked at her as if he couldn't quite believe she was real.

"Christine," he murmured. "Oh, Christine." He lifted a hand, stroked her hair, trailed his fingertips gently down her cheek. Then he shook himself, stepped away from her, and she wanted to protest his absence. But Erik shook his head before she could speak, gestured at the wardrobe. "Get dressed," he said. "I will prepare your breakfast."

He left the room, closed the door behind him, and Christine stayed where she was for a long moment. Stood in the centre of the room and touched her lips, closed her eyes to recapture the feeling. She swayed a little, felt sluggish and almost feverish. Wished for more time, wished things were different – wished she felt ready to give in to this dangerous passion she felt for him. Three hours until she was due in rehearsals, and she thought that would not be enough for them – not now, not at the beginning of their relationship – even if she could overcome her own morals.

But no, they must talk. There was so much they needed to talk about now, things that were more important than…than desire.

Christine opened her eyes, went to the wardrobe and opened the door. The dresses were just as she had left them, the evening gowns hanging alongside day dresses, and she pulled out the green dress she'd worn, four days before when Erik had first brought her here. A glance at the door before she pulled her nightgown over her head, replaced it with her underclothes. Her corset next, and then the beautiful dress.

Erik liked her in green, she remembered as she went to the dressing table to brush her hair. She longed for a mirror, resolved that if she was to be here more she must ask him to provide one. She could understand why there was none, was reticent to show her vanity to him, but after all, she must make sure her appearance was fit for the world above. Rehearsals and performances, and –

Don Juan, she remembered. The plot to capture or kill him. That was something else to speak of with him, far more important than the provision of a mirror! Such things were trivial compared to his safety. His life.

She hurried to brush her hair, tied it away from her face and then blew out the candles before leaving the bedroom. The kitchen door was open, spilling light down the passage, and she paused in the doorway, felt her heart swell with fondness as she watched Erik moving so gracefully around the kitchen as he prepared her breakfast.

"Come and sit," he said, glanced at her over his shoulder. "Breakfast is nearly ready." Christine stepped into the kitchen, went to sit at her accustomed place at the table, watched as Erik took the kettle off the stove. He made her a cup of tea, brought it to her, and she held it in her hands, let it warm her fingers.

"Erik," she said, "we must talk."

He paused, and when she glanced up at him she saw his rigid posture, knew at once that he had understood a different meaning in her words. She put the cup down at once, rose and went to his side. She lifted a hand to his face and stroked her fingers across his cheek.

"No," she said. "No, Erik. I have made my choice and I do not regret it." He didn't meet her gaze, but neither did he pull away from her, and Christine put her other hand on his shoulder, smiled up at him. "I love you," she said. "I will not change my mind. I promise. Haven't I proved that to you now, by coming back?"

"Yes," he said slowly. "Yes, I…that is what I said, isn't it? That you would come back if you loved me." She could feel the tension slowly leaving him, and he exhaled, closed his eyes and turned his face into her touch. "You love me," he murmured, awed. "How can this possibly be true? Four days ago –"

"I can't take back what I said," said Christine quickly. "But oh, Erik, I am sorry for it. I was a stupid child."

"Never stupid, Christine."

"We must disagree on that," she conceded. "Can you forgive me, Erik? Forgive my foolishness?" She hoped so; she had been so very foolish. The things she had said must have hurt him so very deeply. Not because it was anything he had not heard before – she was not naïve enough to believe her insults had been original to this wretched man who had never known love – but because they had come from her.

"Forgive you," he said. "Oh, Christine, I should be the one asking that. Don't forget what I have done, Christine. What I am."

Christine nodded, lowered her head for a moment. She had not forgotten, did not think she could ever forget. He had killed; he was a murderer. There was no escaping that.

"I haven't forgotten," she said in a low voice. "But it doesn't affect my choice, Erik. Or rather…it doesn't stop me loving you."

"It should."

"But it doesn't," she said, looked up at him again. "Please," she said, "let's not argue about this. Not now we're together." She could not bear the idea that an argument might mar the few precious hours they had together now, before she had to go back upstairs. An argument, when she would have to get through the whole day without him – would have to face Meg and Madame Giry's questions, and perhaps Raoul as well…

No. There was so much they must talk about, and she knew it would not be easy, but she would not allow it to descend into an argument simply because Erik had such a low opinion of himself.

"Sit down," he said. "Your tea will get cold." She sighed, nodded and obeyed, picked up the cup again, sipped the warm liquid. "What do you need to say, then?"

Christine sighed once again, recognised his mood. Antagonistic, as if he wanted to fight. Perhaps he did want it, perhaps he was unconsciously trying to drive her away. Certainly he could not believe so quickly that she truly loved him, that she had chosen him. There would still be some part of him – perhaps it would always be there – that believed she could never love him. That she would be better off without him.

"The opera," she said at last. Erik nodded, lifted one eyebrow in apparent curiosity. "Erik – you know they mean to capture you. I think Raoul even means to kill you if he can. Please, you can't go." Erik said nothing, and Christine's fingers tightened on her teacup. "You can't," she said. "Erik, please, you have to stay away."

"And miss my own opera?" he said mildly. "No, Christine, I think not."

"But they'll catch you!"

"Please, Christine," he said, a trifle impatient now, and Christine released her grip on the teacup for fear she would break it. Her hands were trembling a little, she realised. She was so afraid for him, and he didn't seem to recognise the danger. "Remember what I am," he said, and he came to her, touched her hand with cold fingers. Christine looked up at him, confused – confused further by the slight, sly smile about his mouth. "The Ghost, Christine. I am the Ghost. They will not catch me."