Christine is standing in his apartment, teetering on her feet, and there's something about seeing her in his home that is wildly exhilarating and calming all at once. Like a long-lost piece falling into place.

"I should get you some water. You must be thirsty…?"

"Mm, water sounds good," Christine says, bending over to remove her heels, and Erik quickly turns away, striding into the kitchen.

That skirt of hers is far too short.

In the refuge of his kitchen, thankfully clean, he fills a glass with water as he simultaneously powers on his phone. Surprise, surprise – a series of new texts from Nate, assuring him that he'll be stopping by to check on him later tomorrow, and to chat about the concert as well. Erik tosses his phone onto the counter with a clatter; he braces his hands atop the counter and breathes.

Christine. Christine is in his living room. And she is very drunk.

He's brought girls home before, of course - in varying degrees of mutual inebriation, but under very different circumstances otherwise - and always with the understanding that it would certainly be a one-time thing, that come morning they'd be walking out the door alone. This is uncharted territory, even disregarding the matter of just who exactly this girl is; for a moment he considers picking up his cell, dialing Nate, asking – no, demanding that his manager come over right away, and, and –

His forehead meets the closed cabinet door with a dull thud. And what?

Memories of Box 5 flit rapidly through his mind: Nate's eagerness to help, his teasing words… a bewildered concern that had quickly morphed into grim disapproval, sympathetic and pitying as Erik slowly lost his mind.

But of course, Nate had moved on since then. Why wouldn't he? It hadn't been Nate who had heard the voice of an angel, who had felt that music down in the marrow of his bones, who had soared when the voice soared and wept when the voice wept. It hadn't been Nate who had gradually knit himself back together into a semblance of an existence singing, playing, producing, shooting up with the certain knowledge that he had lost something vital, something visceral - that with the disappearance of a girl named Christine had vanished a slice of hope he hadn't known he'd craved. He hadn't known it existed at all, and the loss of it had shattered him as deftly as he'd shattered the glass of the bathroom mirror that he still had yet to replace, four years later.

No, Nate had moved on, and if tonight proved anything at all, it was that Erik had not.

No, he's not going to call Nate.

In an instant he's whirling, stumbling, catching himself on the countertop, reaching for rationality; it's shocking how everything has changed, and yet nothing has changed at all. Nate's actually – miraculously - gotten himself a college degree, that son of a bitch, and now splits his time between helping his dad out with the new security business and, for lack of a better (or more accurate) term, managing Erik. Liya is sixteen and in the thralls of junior year; on his better days, Erik will find himself cajoled into doing a math assignment or three, something he can actually help out with these days and trust himself not to fuck up. On his not-better days he contents himself with a few texts here and there because, even as the absolute moron he is, he's self-aware enough to know to stay away lest he become a worse influence on Nate's little sister than he already is. Nate would kill him, and Erik would kill himself. The poor girl has enough to deal with without his slew of pharmaceutical-based garbage heaped onto the mix.

And as for himself - he produces, composes, mixes. He sings. The Khans are his social life - it may be pathetic, but he doesn't mind. He makes music. He's famous, to a certain degree. He's toured the country twice, picked up a few awards here and there, always in the guise of The Phantom. He's upgraded stage masks more than a few times – and suddenly he's wondering, again, just what Christine Daae thinks of the Phantom, the extent of her knowledge of his persona, her thoughts on his music.

Oh, it broke my heart…

Everything is the same – nothing has changed, and yet he's feeling anticipatory, shellshocked, breathless in a way he hasn't in years.

Christine, Christine, Christine!

He still wants – no, needs to hear her sing. To hear Christine sing… repeating it doesn't make it any less surreal, or less definite. It's like a fact of his existence, a facet of his personality. Never mind that inexplicable breakdown of hers, back in the Palais; she's not in her right mind right now, not tonight, and at any rate he's relatively certain that he'll die if he doesn't hear her sing again, now that she's manifested right in front of him like some sort of miracle. An unspoken dream come true.

He straightens, reaching for a glass. But first, water.

Turning off the faucet, Erik adjusts his mask and leaves the kitchen.

He finds Christine standing in his living room, her back to him, practically pressed up against the glass of the floor-to-ceiling window. She's left her black pumps lying by the couch; the sight of her on the tips of her toes, barefoot, is oddly endearing, and he clears his throat.

"Christine."

She turns to face him, and he freezes in his tracks.

Back in the car – and he had never been so grateful, so incredibly grateful to have driven from the concert venue to the Palais in his own car, that night – back in the car, during the short drive from the Palais to his apartment, weaving through the sparse late-night traffic, he'd watched her. Couldn't resist turning to look at her, stealing glances like a thief, basking in the presence of her like a man half starved, dangerously distracted from the road yet unable to care. He'd watched the colors of the city illuminate her hair, flicker across her face as she leaned her temple against the glass of the window, gazing up and around with wide, glassy, black-lined but sparkling eyes as she commented on anything and everything, giddy and drowsy by turns, like an overexcited, overexerted tourist; and Erik could only watch her, snatching looks, keeping only enough presence of mind to steer and stop in the right places and to avoid running down any of the pedestrians swarming Manhattan at night – not nearly enough presence of mind to hold any real conversation, not enough to respond to her strange little comments with any more than half-assed replies and thoughtless hums of affirmation.

And Christine was supposed to be the one under the influence.

But the transcendence of the car ride, the colors in her hair… it flashes across his mind's eye like a dream – ridiculous, really, it was less than fifteen minutes ago! – as he watches her now, standing barefoot in his living room…

Behind her, the Manhattan cityscape sprawls to the horizon, dark buildings and streets laced through with light… a panorama of brilliant rainbow luminosity. It surrounds Christine's figure like a halo, speckling her dark, wavy hair, infusing the outline of her arms and shoulders with a warm glow, and it's absolutely stunning. She's stunning, and Erik steps forward hastily to offer her the glass of water before he stands there gawking like an idiot for far too long.

"Here you go," he manages, and her murmured "thank you" is enough to send warmth flooding through his body, thrumming, elated.

"Uh, why don't we sit down? More comfortable that way," and he's leading her to the largest couch, sitting down stiffly even as she curls up comfortably on the other end, resting her head on one upturned palm.

"Oh," she says, and then she's scooching up to remove something from within the high waistband of her skirt – it's her cell phone, and Erik startles, suddenly on edge. Is she going to try to call the friend, Meg, or worse yet the police?

"Here, let me take that, I can charge it for you," he offers, quickly, relieved when Christine places it in his hand with a look of languid gratitude. As luck will have it, it's flashing on 5% battery anyway, and with long strides he hurries to plug it into a charger in the kitchen, silence it, and return to Christine as quickly as possible.

Now what?

He can't help but soak in every detail of the girl, now that he can see her properly – finally! - in the cool, unwavering light of his apartment. Her eyes are a soft, dark brown, and her face is a little flushed, but fair thrown into contrast with the streaks of mascara and glitter across her skin. It's messy, and it's wild, but Erik's certainly not going to be the one to tell her to wash it off. She looks like some sort of fairy princess, with glittering skin and glimmering eyes, and if this is what it's like to be bewitched, he'll take it.

"So, Christine, tell me about yourself," he starts.

The girl blinks up at him as she raises the glass, sipping at the water with pursed lips. "What do you want to know?"

But Erik is fixated on the ring on her right hand wrapped around the glass, a simple rose-gold band on her middle finger. How could he not have noticed it before?

He speaks before he thinks. "Are you married?"

Christine snorts, choking on the water a bit, bringing her other hand up to her mouth – but there's mirth in the look that she levels at him, surprised yet apparently amused. "What do you think? Oh, wouldn't it be wild if I were married? I'm flattered, truly – thank you for that, sir."

No, not mirth; sarcasm, he realizes at the bite of her words, their bitter inflection.

He swallows. "Oh, I see."

"And what about you, Erik without a last name?" Christine's voice – drunk but breathy and gorgeous, gorgeous – sinks down to a stage whisper. "Are you married?"

A harsh laugh barks out of his throat. "God, no." Perish the thought.

"Why not?"

He eyes her; she's relaxed into the couch, propped up on one elbow, a cheek smashed into her palm and her other hand playing with the rim of the glass perched precariously near the edge of the couch cushion. He briefly considers removing the glass but it's mostly empty, there's a rug on the floor, it wouldn't make much of a mess.

"I don't think I'm at a marrying age yet," he quips offhandedly. And then, "How old are you, Christine?"

Her eyes narrow at him and for a moment, he's on guard, berating himself – Too much, Erik! Too personal, you've gone and fucked this up, you fool – until she finally replies, with a devious look he hasn't seen on her yet, "Twenty-one."

"I see. Well, of course, you're legal. You're drunk." How tactful, Erik.

"Mm-hm, I guess I am, aren't I? And how old are you, Erik without a last name?" She's smiling now, teasing him, and Erik basks in the light of it even as he begins to mull over her previous response. Twenty-one's not so bad; that would've made Christine seventeen or so back in Box 5. High school – I was right.

He's about to open his mouth to answer her honestly – he's twenty-five, not much older than her at all, by any standard – but Christine beats him to it.

"No no no, lemme guess," she drawls softly, picking up and swirling the remaining water in its glass with a swivel of one slender wrist. "You are… twenty-something. You are older than me." She tilts her head, pouting. "But it's hard to tell with the mask."

Erik freezes.

Ah, but he should've been ready for this. He really, really should be. It's a small miracle it's taken her this long to mention it at all.

"I'm twenty-five, Christine," he answers smoothly, congratulating himself for the steady delivery, his seamless gloss over the mask. His little pathetic burst of pride fizzles away in the next five, ten seconds, though, as his mind goes blank.

Erik knows he's a shitty conversationalist. Nate makes it a point to tell him so, and often, but he's never been more aware of it than in this moment, simply gazing into Christine's eyes as he gropes for words. Fuck buddies don't require conversation, after all – he's never had to do this before. He shifts uncomfortably; he runs a hand through his hair before realizing it'll only draw attention to his face, and quickly drops it to his lap.

He's saved, though, when Christine's eyes suddenly go wide.

"Oh my God, you have tattoos!"

Oddly enough, the spontaneous comment doesn't have Erik up in arms, shying away; his tattoos are his business and no one else's, but he finds himself keeping his arms right where they are, open to Christine's scrutiny. It's a better conversation topic than the mask, anyway. "I do in fact have tattoos."

Christine eyes him. "Spider-man has tattoos," she says plainly, and Erik can't help but bark out a laugh.

"No, I'm pretty sure he doesn't," he chuckles before glancing at her. The girl looks genuinely offended.

"He does, I know it."

He shrugs. He's not about to argue the finer details of fictional, costumed vigilantes with someone two sheets to the wind. "Well, if you say so. I guess you can't tell under the suit anyway."

In the next moment, Christine yawns. "No you can't," she manages, before another, smaller yawn cuts off speech and she giggles, a tiny flush staining her cheeks. "I'm sorry, you wanted to talk and here I am being super rude."

"No, not at all. Would you like to sleep?"

"I guess so. If you don't mind…?"

There's suddenly nothing as appealing as the thought of Christine in his bed. In a completely innocent, domestic way, of course – the girl looks exhausted.

"Not a problem at all," he rushes to assure her. "You're more than welcome to spend the night. You can take my bed, and I'll see you in the morning - "

In the morning, Christine will most definitely be sober, and maybe confused. Maybe angry. Furious. He hadn't considered that – he's clearly doing an excellent job of thinking rationally tonight – but it'll be alright, it has to be; he'll explain everything to her then. Perhaps over breakfast? Perhaps – and the long-treasured thought sends a bolt of adrenaline into his bloodstream, potent, a surge of glee – perhaps, over breakfast, he can extend her that offer he'd been considering four years ago, an offer of collaboration, just a recording studio and a pair of mikes, his music and her…

If the thought somehow feels slightly less exhilarating than it had back then, four years ago in Box 5, well, he doesn't dwell on it.

A muffled thud brings him out of his head; the glass has fallen to the floor.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Christine slurs, apologetic, and a quick pang of worry sets in. How could it have slipped his mind, become anything less than a priority? He's got no idea how much she's drunk tonight, and with her tiny frame…

"I'll be right back," he promises, slipping off the couch to pick up the glass and retreat to the kitchen.

When he comes back with a fresh glass of water, full to the brim, it's to find Christine fully passed out on his couch, her head pillowed against one arm on the wide armrest, feet tucked up beneath her.

XXXXXX

He lies still in the dark, racing thoughts chasing themselves across his wired brain.

It hadn't been the last time he'd had to clean up someone's vomit in his bathroom. It had been, however, the first time it was anyone's but Nate's or his own.

The more shocking part of it - he didn't mind.

A huff into the silence of the music room.

From the moment the decision had been made, it had been a given that she'd sleep in his bed. He only had the one, after all, and the thought of her on his couch discomfited him – Christine, falling off his couch in the middle of the night, possibly bashing her head on the steel-rimmed coffee table? Never. So he'd prodded her awake, lifted the glass to her lips, and then it'd been sleepy awareness transforming into frantic gestures, a look of pure alarm before he'd understood in an instant – all too familiar with it himself – and scooped her up, rushing into the bathroom and setting her down just in time.

The most shocking part of it – he'd stayed.

He'd knelt on the tile behind her, rubbed her heaving back and murmured comforting endearments like any good, normal host; he'd cleaned her up, not with distaste but with a sympathy he reserved for Liya on the more awful days of the young Khan's condition; he'd carried her to the bed and tucked her in, stoutly ignoring the flash of black lace underwear exposed by the rucked-up skirt, folding the covers over her, brushing an errant curl out of her face and then just sat with her, watching to make sure her breathing evened out, staring at her lips and at the occasional flutter of black lashes against the residue of makeup and glitter still staining her cheeks.

Two hours later, practically dozing off himself, he'd left her for the music room.

It was a wonder he'd stayed awake so long at all – the performance felt like a lifetime ago, but he had performed, and clubbed and gotten high too at that – but now, lying on the black-leather sofa of the music room, Erik can't sleep.

This is new. He rarely makes use of the sofa for anything but sleep. It's a habit of his, one that Nate bemoans (but that's nothing new), to work in the music room until the early hours of the morning and wake up in the late afternoon to find that he's passed out on this precise black-leather sofa. There are no windows in here, no distractions, nothing but his instruments and his sound mixers and, for all intents and purposes, his life – but his mind is over in the next room and his heart is pounding loud with the knowledge that Christine is right fucking there, in his apartment, in the next room, sleeping in his bed.

Fuck.

He only has to think back to Box 5 to tell himself off for being ridiculous. Really! Honestly, genuinely scumbag-levels of ridiculous for even thinking about being attracted to Christine, when she is so much more than that – when her voice had been the most incredible thing he'd ever heard, when he'd spent years dreaming about that voice…

But Christine's not just a voice anymore, and he's far too aware of it.

Not just a voice – Christine is a beautiful, adorable enigma, and Erik is baffled, and the once-intense curiosity he'd had regarding the audible grief of a teenage girl four years ago doesn't hold a candle to the burning, insatiable need to know her now, every crack and crevice and every dream, every memory hidden behind those glazed eyes and every hint of sarcastic sorrow hiding in the seams of her smile.

He breathes out on another frustrated huff; like the first one, it doesn't help. Christ.

He's going to have to talk to her in the morning, in the far-too-sober light of day – and with that thought he reaches for his phone. It's four in the morning, and for the first time in forever he clicks open the alarm clock app and considers, thumb stalling. He hasn't set an alarm clock in God knows how long, has good reason not to after the deep, dark hole of his teenage years – instead, he counts on Nate to either call his phone a million times until he wakes up or come barging into his apartment to drag him out to a meeting or a concert or whatever.

He's far too dependent on Nate Khan, come to think of it.

But he can't risk sleeping longer than Christine…

He sets the alarm.

It's a moot point if you don't fall asleep in the first place, dumbass.

He slinks from the couch and exits the music room, careful to stay quiet as he glances over at the bundle fast asleep in his bed. Less than two minutes later, he's back in the safety of the music room, silent throughout, materials procured.

There's only one thing he can do.

Tossing the needle aside, Erik flops down lengthwise onto the couch, rolling his sleeve back down, and willingly succumbs to the chemical bliss already permeating his consciousness, syrupy and warm, dragging him down into the welcoming dark as the last vestiges of frantic thought sink down, swirling, now coming sluggish and slow.

Christine – not just a voice. A body. A woman. A fascinating individual…

His thoughts are wandering, dipping and meandering out of his plummeting control, and the forbidden question finally crystallizes within the haze of pharmaceutical bliss.

Do I love her?

Does he know what love is? He thinks he might have, had Lucy not torn his foolish heart out and trampled on it with the sound of a scream. But thoughts of that-long ago summer are rapidly supplanted by glitter, a halo of light - black heels and brown hair -

I love her. Fuck.

Love love love.

Christine, Christine…

And, lastly, as sleep pulls him under - I'll deal with it in the morning.

Famous last words, eh?

Note on Christine ~ She's very drunk here, and rather adorable, but she's going to be a pretty different person when she's sober. She's had four years to make sense of her life since we've last seen her - enough time to move to a different city and start college, enough time to piece back together her relationship with music in the way that hurts the least, enough time to *somewhat* heal – and to develop a rather thick shell in the process. (And we'll get to those four in-between years in this fic eventually.) She's still the kind and lovely person we all know and love, but with one important caveat: she doesn't take shit from anybody, and she will absolutely lash out if she feels uncomfortable or threatened. Deep down, at the root of her, however, Christine's lost – and we'll explore that in much greater detail as the story goes on.

Also, just to avoid unnecessary confusion – Liya, as my version of Reza, also has a genetic disorder (though not fatal). I'm thinking a mild form of thalassemia or sickle cell anemia.

Anyway! I'm in the midst of finals (AHHH) and decided to take a break by finishing up this interlude-ish chapter. Will try to get the next chapter up as soon as my finals are over, to make up for the long wait on this one – at any rate, I think we all know what's coming up next ;)