A/N hello everyone, here is some pure fluff with a bit of angst sprinkled in. is this too tooth-rotting? also would we like to see a wedding? i'm thinking of a handful of few chapters before i wrap this baby up and maybe embark on some more E/C stories!

thank you for reading!

WARNING: Drug use and drug abuse (morphine)

Night became sacred to Erik. Sometimes, during long days when she was away, he would be able to close his eyes and pull a delicate a string of pictures in dim light, so frozen in time they could have been preserved in wax. Today was such a day; a sluggish, irritable afternoon, Christine perusing Paris with the Giry's for summer dresses. At first, he had made a fuss about the whole trip, insisting that he could find her the loveliest gowns if that was what she desired, ones that could not be matched by any in the new season, because she really needn't be absent the entire day.

"Darling, that is hardly the point of such outings." She had sighed, gracing him with a kiss to his twisted cheek and a roll of her eyes.

He sat idle at his piano now, watching his pocket-watch for the hands to rearrange in such a way that allowed him to wander to her home after the faint glow of dusk. She hadn't spent many nights there in recent months, but with Christine deciding to keep the fact that the mysterious man who had captured her heart was also the nefarious Opera Ghost to herself, she would have to return to her apparent home. She had said a premature 'goodnight' on her departure, knowing that he would be knocking at her door at nightfall all the same.

Erik resisted the urge to pace and instead closed his eyes, rummaging through his memories to find that sweet collection of images; bed, sweat, her smiling face…

….

"That is ridiculous! You have to know it!" She was propped up on her elbow, gaze sparkling in merriment. She was golden from the candlelight, her curls messed and falling to tickle his shoulder from where he was, laid on his back and still practically drunk with pleasure. There was something innocent about her unabashed nakedness, as if through their lovemaking she had forgotten bodies were things to be clothed and covered. A little hand plucked a Turkish delight from the tin resting between their hips, icing sugar dusting her bitten bottom lip as she popped it leisurely in her mouth. Despite the complete satisfaction humming through his gut, Erik had to admire the warm beauty of her form, as if she was some lounging young Empress posing for an elegant marble nude.

"I do not read children's poems, my dear." He smirked in a tease, raising an eyebrow. Christine huffed, rolling onto her stomach to brush noses with him. In such moments, he had to remind himself of the horridness of his face, and yet even when he did it all became rather secondary to the fond, playful way she was looking at him.

"Shall I recite for you then? After all, you always teach me things unknown to me." She challenged with a jesting grin. Erik couldn't help but chuckle, bathing in her light and the radiance of bliss and the warmth of the Spring night.

"Of course."

His eyes closed to a sweet whisper that he could feel on his skin.

"The Owl and the Pussy-Cat went to sea

In a beautiful pea-green boat:

They took some honey,

and plenty of money

Wrapped up in a five-pound note.

The Owl looked up to the stars above,

And sang to a small guitar,

"O lovely Pussy, O Pussy, my love,

What a beautiful Pussy you are,

You are,

You are!

What a beautiful Pussy you are!"

Erik smiled at the lilting tones of her voice, at the nonsense of it all. She began to stroke his face with the tip of one finger, gently, rhythmically, up and down his cheek. He barely remembered fading into sleep, but like the figment of a dream, he captured the last of her words.

"And hand in hand on the edge of the sand

They danced by the light of the moon,

The moon,

The moon,

They danced by the light of the moon."

….

His hands began to start a meandering tune on the piano, relishing in the past moment stirring in his mind. He found the corners of his lips tweaked in a smile.

Who would have known, when I stood bathed in blood before the Shah, that I would spend nights entangled in bed with an angel, eating sweets and reciting nonsense-poems?

The thought drew a bitter edge, however, another memory flooding into his head in a sudden flurry. It was a cousin of the gentle images that floated gently around in his consciousness, though it was one he had no real want to remember. He was suddenly plunged back into the iciness of Winter.

….

"Älskling, you are still awake?"

A hazy, sleepy Christine appeared at the doorway of his organ room, rubbing her eyes with a fist. Her feet were bare, tightly wrapped up in one of his robes that completely dwarfed her slight figure. She was frowning.

"It is alright, my dear. Go back to bed." He assured softly, trying to not let his biting misery bubble through his words. He had begun to secretly wane himself off the morphine at that time, not being able to bring himself to show her the true cost of his screaming, tormenting memories. It made him feel weak, and he knew she would only be crushed even further by the extent of his burdens. It had been miraculous how Christine had quietened the aches, yet the past still reared and kicked at his ribs, and now it meant that there was no instant remedy to drown it all.

Her frown was accompanied by a furrow of her brow. He forgot how apt she had become at sensing such things.

She shouldn't have to be, you are pathetic…

"Erik?" She tried again, taking a step forward. He hated the tentative concern in her voice, as if wanting to approach a wild beast. He was a beast, and he had trapped her with him, yes, he had, like a whispering serpent, slithered his way into her heart. His hands were trembling as he struck the organ hard with his fists, and he felt her start with the scream of the keys. The silence afterwards was worse than the sound itself.

"Please, Christine. Please, go to bed." He was pleading, gently, softly, still not able to look at her, desperate to contain everything fizzling dangerously within him.

Fearless, kind-hearted, dear girl… my darling girl could not just leave me to my torments…

"No, Erik! Tell me, I could, I could…" She was flailing for the words, and he knew she would never find them, because there were no stitches strong enough to pull the wounds inside of him together. He was grotesque; bleeding endlessly within a scarred carcass, a carcass that made love to her, that defiled her beautiful body and oh, now he felt sick, he felt sick, he felt sick, he felt sick…

"Leave me! Leave me alone!" He howled like the depraved creature he was, it all overflowing in a tidal wave, but it did not sound like his voice, and she was standing so very still, just watching him with those big blue eyes that always cut to his very soul. She did not seem afraid, he did not know what she seemed, but her face was screwing up in a way that he knew meant she was fighting back tears.

Oh God, I need it. I need it.

He strode at a deadly pace past her, towards his chambers. He never really used the room, hence why he stored the last remnants of his liquid sleep within its walls. Pulling apart the little compartment in the skirting board, he dropped to his knees to sift through it. His fingers were shaking as they found the clear vial, the needle, and he could only just see the outline of her little pale feet before everything dissolved into blackness.

He woke with a pounding head and heavy veins, bundled in the musky warmth of his bed, his unused and dusty but so very warm bed. Colours were melting dimly around his eyelids, and he thought perhaps he did not have to ever open his eyes again, that perhaps he could just lay here and forget he ever existed. But he could feel her satin skin on his cheek, her little body curled protectively around his. He stirred and she held him harder. Unbelievable shame and humiliation flared in his chest, and if his mind was at all present, he would have thought the Punjab lasso to be his only remedy.

She didn't speak, although the words would come. In those minutes, all he could cling to in reality was the heaving of her chest in deep breath and the smell of her fading perfume. Hours, perhaps it was hours, drifting in and out of consciousness and yet always so painfully aware of the tears slipping quietly onto his forehead. When she finally spoke, it was in a whisper that was hollow.

"I did not know that you…how could I have not known?" He barely knew if she was asking the question for him, or for herself. Her fingers were ghosting over the fading, though still scarred punctures on the inside of his arm, a glimpse that she perhaps knew, in the corners of her mind, all along. Thorns struck at his heart at her guilt. This horridness was nothing but him, disgusting and weak. He tried to tell her this, to coo gently into her hair as he did when she was upset, but he could not find his tongue, nor any will in his limbs.

I may as well be a corpse…

"I wish I could see into your mind and understand." She spoke so quietly, her throat raw with tears. Her sad voice seemed to hum in his head. Time eased in and out between them. In what had to be the early morning, though it was still shrouded in deep darkness, he grasped the thin thread of his shame, his secrets, and began to pull. He had to tell her, he had to tell her enough. No, not all, but enough, lest the tears his unsaid words caused burned into his skin. He moved to sit up and his head swam, Christine scrambling to hold his face in concern, but after a moment he had pushed himself upright.

He could not look at her, but he could tell her. Yes, he owed her that much. He took a breath even as his heart felt dazed and sore. His voice was low and meandering and rough with drugged sleep, watching her hands writhe in her lap.

"The Shah spilt blood in his court. There I learnt how to kill with the Punjab lasso, and with it I took the lives of many men."

He pulled the thread in his mind, willing the past to unravel itself. The Shah on his throne, a hall of mirrors, the murdered souls who haunted his spirit. Christine was so quiet, so silent, a statue.

"A man named Nadir, a cousin of the Shah, became the only person I could trust. When the Shah grew wary of me, saw my twisted mind and bloody hands, saw a phantom that could wring his neck and slip away into darkness, disappear into walls, Nadir helped me escape. I came back to France."

The thread caught at a knot that seemed to gather in his throat. He did not tell her of how it felt to bleed from the gut until he saw nothing but grey. He did not tell her of the faint memories of his mother, or the brutality, or the gypsies or the cages. This was enough of his past, or it would be for now. The silence hung heavy and damp, and for some reason Erik realised there was no shock or horror that electrified it, like he had always expected. It was weighted simply with sorrow.

"And I made you tell all those stupid stories…" Her voice was shaking, in what seemed anger or in shame. He had to look at her then. Her face was bright with tears and rage. Her curls were messed and created a mass around her slight, trembling body, her eyes glassy.

"Christine, you did not know…"

"How could I not know? I am a stupid girl, and the morphine… oh Erik." With a choke of a sob, she buried her face in her hands, then as he blindly, slowly, reached out to her, she grasped his hand, pressed kiss after kiss into his knuckles.

"I am trying to use it less, I just have been trying for…some time now." He exhaled and suddenly felt so very tired, and she was coaxing him back, laying him down. His eyelids felt heavy, and though the pain in his chest was sharp and the buzzing in his brain was loud, it stilled slightly as she curled up into him. The world went quiet, and something seemed to lift off his soul, making it just a bit lighter.

….

Erik shook off the dread of that memory, of the gentle nights in her arms that followed. The morphine still took hold of his veins in harsh hours, but it all seemed less cold and terrible when he dozed with Christine bundled in his arms. It was icy in that past scene, but now it was Summer. He checked his pocket-watch though his fingers now trembled slightly, and yes, she should be starting to her home now. Arranging his wig and mask, he slipped into the deep catacombs. As he saw through the blackness that ran under the streets of Paris, he pulled his most sacred image from inside his consciousness, the one that in its purity and beauty banished all stabbing thoughts and painful throbs. He breathed out a sigh and let it soothe his psyche.

….

The air was warm, the stars silver overhead as they strolled through a park with green trees and budding flowers. It had been a lovely night for a walk, he had insisted, a question heavy in his mind that he was hoping she could not see or sense in her uncanny way. Christine was beautiful, her hair pinned back, wearing one of his dresses, a soft, silken pink gown, and chattering brightly about a play she had seen with Meg, about a book she was reading on linguistics, about the next production at the Opera. Her hand was on his arm, her sapphire eyes reflecting the light of a lone street lamp. He had been rather quiet, and after a while she had resulted in saying something.

"I must say, I am almost exhausted by maintaining this conversation solely on my own." She quipped after a pause, glancing teasingly up to him. His heart hammered like a drum, swallowing hard. He slowed their pace, watching her eyebrows furrow in question. He suddenly felt hot, alight just under his skin, and as he breathed deeply he willed himself to please say this right.

"Christine, I…" He tried, but then choked on his own breath.

What if she says no? What if she didn't mean what she said? What if she says no?

Her eyes went soft, her fingers coming to run along the edge of his mask until she reached his lips, tracing them with her thumb in a thoughtful way, studying him.

"Is something the matter, my love?"

"No, only that…"

"Yes?"

He took a breath, his hands grasping hers. He was shaking.

"Erik?"

"Will you marry me, Christine?"

There was a bated breath. Christine's hands went limp in his hold for a moment, her eyes widening and her pink lips parting. He poured his words desperately into the open air, where they drifted between them.

"I know I do not have much to offer you, but I swear I would be a gentle and kind husband, and I would take care of you. We could live wherever you chose, and I would try to never raise my voice with you or cause you any pain. I never wish to be parted from you, and if you will let me stay by your side, if- if you will become my wife, I will treasure you for as long as I live and longer… and longer. You have brought life into my existence. I love you, Christine. I love you."

Her eyes suddenly held pools. A brilliant smile grew slowly upon her face like a rising sun.

"Well, then…"

….

The dark city engulfed Erik as he walked to Christine's home. It was quiet in the backstreets he took, but even so he found himself less guarded than usual, the memory trickling into his mind like golden honey. When he reached her door, when he knocked and she opened it with an expectant smile, he realised what his heart had been whispering in each pulse, ever since he met her.

Yes, here is my other half. Inside of her, inside of her.

He sat in her small bedroom, watching her hurry to and fro in a pale nightgown making tea, prattling about her shopping trip. Her elegant, small hand was flitting between china tea cups, the third finger banded with his black-stoned ring.

On some nights, Erik felt dizzy and sick with fear, with loathing, simply at the notion of coveting her before God. But on gentle nights like this, all he could do was smirk beneath his mask and bask in her glow, letting it ease every ache in his soul. Later, he would unwrap the nightgown from her body and worship her with his lips, and in the quiet and stillness, he would feel slightly whole.

Just before Christine fell into dreams, she spared a thought for the pearl white dress waiting for her at the dressmakers.