A/N: I HAVE RETURNED! I will be posting two chapters 11&12. Chapter 13 coming tuesday!

Oh what a promise to keep! No mask, and yet she still smiled at him. He had thought it must be a dream. He waited at the table, tea steaming by his side. He wished that there were less light-they were underground and yet he still wished that there was less light. She had kissed him, kissed him and wanted him. He who had been called every iteration of monstrous. She held his blood-stained hands, kissed his twisted mouth.

He had not slept since. He stayed up all night ensuring that her morning repast would be nothing short of perfection. Now, he waited barely breathing for the telltale creak of her chamber door, the humming that filled his empty home when she stayed with him.

She tripped into the kitchen so gracefully that it startled him. She wore a ribbon in her hair, but her curls bounced as she approached him. He could not find the words, was still half-convinced that she would reel back in horror at the sight of him like this. Dressed in pale blue like this, she looked like salvation, she looked like desire, she-

"Good morning, mon ange," she said, and she kissed his unmasked cheek as she situated herself in his lap like it was ordinary. Her pink cheeks were the only indicator of her modesty. Oh how he adored her, adored every inch of her. He'd gladly be the sole cartographer of her majesty. How he would worship her if she would let him.

Still sitting on his lap, she poured them both some tea. It sloshed as she adjusted herself.

"Christine, we have chairs," he offered faintly, but he could not make his body obey propriety. He felt his fingers seize the silk-clad softness of her waist; she wore no corset, and he almost hissed at the beatific injustice of the knowledge.

"Erik, you'll make me spill."

He stopped himself before announcing that he would gladly clean any spilled tea off of her with his tongue. Kisses were one thing, voicing the fervency of his desire was entirely another. Yet, he could not stop himself when she was so warm, so close. He could not stop the image of her splayed across the table, pink cheeked and dripping with-

"Let go-"

"Forgive me I-"

"I can't reach the biscuits," she finished.

They regarded each other, silently. Christine sat beside him, but pulled her chair close.

"Erik," she said. "I want to be here."

"Oh," Erik said.

Tentatively, she laid her hand atop his.

"Christine, you have...little notion of how unbelievable I find your presence in my life. You dine beside a monster, and you smile at him."

"Promise you won't call yourself a monster, Erik. It hurts me."

"I would die before causing you intentional pain, petite." He dared to lace his fingers with hers, dared to brush the faintest of kisses to the back of her perfect hand. He would burn the world to make her smile, sell his soul to hear her sing. To have this, her hand in his. Her beautiful trusting smile. "No one else must ever have you." She blinked at him, startled. "Forgive me, I…"

"Such passion, ange," she teased. "But I'm afraid Reyer must, we have rehearsal today." Christine grinned and stroked his cheek. "You'll have to share me for at least the duration of act 2."

Erik leaned into her touch. "Tell them that you are unwell," he pleaded shamelessly as her fingertips ghosted over his jawline.

She feigned shock. "What would my maestro say?"

"That it would be very sensible to rest your voice before the premiere of the newest opera."

"Newest opera?"

"One that is best rehearsed in his company. After all, he is the composer."

"Oh, Erik! Truly? Wait, but how?"

"I own this opera house, Christine. I have much sway over the creative offerings of this company."

"Oh," Christine said, eyes wide. "I didn't know."

He raised a finger to his lips. He almost did not recognize himself. He had never been playful like this, and yet-he found he was smiling, unworried about how his twisted face might appear. "You still don't. It will be presented, albeit anonymously."

"Oh," Christine said again, deflating. "I had thought that you might want to be there for the premiere, or to...to sing it opposite me?" She ducked her head, remembering the passion they had shared the last time they had sang together. She tried very hard not to betray her wanton thoughts by staring at his lips, or his hands, or any of the many parts of him that made her cheeks flame and her heart beat faster. Yet beneath her joy that Erik's music would be heard by the world, was her unease at the thought of anyone other than Erik singing the music he had clearly written for their entwined voices. It seemed sacreligious, wrong in the way spitting on a crucifix would be. "I-I want to sing it with you," she confessed softly. "If-if there was a way, promise me you will, Erik."

"My heart aches to oblige you, ma petite, but the whole world is not as accepting as you of my flaws. You will sing for me, Christine. That will be enough. It will be enough to hear the majesty of your voice echo from the chandelier, to hear you sing your passion into the air and know that perhaps it is I who inspire your desire."

It was always easiest for them to betray themselves when talking of music. Erik did not miss the catch of her breath, the barely perceptible sway of her as she took in his words, the way her pupils dilated in the candlelight. It made him bold; bodies do not lie, and Christine's was betraying her. "Christine, Christine," he said and the power of the music was in his voice, in the way he lingered on the vowels and curves of her name. "You will sing to all of Paris, your talent will shatter the reserve of even the harshest critics, and when you are done, I will be the first to greet you-"

"With kisses and roses?" Her fingertips slid beneath the cuff of his shirt to bestow an unholy caress to the inside of his wrist. Would that he could brand her mark upon him. Would that he had physical proof of the claiming evidenced in her gesture.

"Should you desire either or both, I will supply them in any quantities you desire. My lips are yours to command, as all of me is."

This was getting rather sordid for a breakfast conversation. Christine's eyelashes fluttered as she leaned into him, over the table, into his space-

There was a sudden crash and lukewarm liquid spilled over the table. Christine yelped, and sprang backwards before the tea hit her dress. They both stared at the upended, but unharmed teacup. Christine blushed, ducking her head as she watched Erik sop up the liquid with a tea towel.

The clock struck ten. She was going to be late!