Author's Note: It's not December yet but, oh well.

( thirteen )

BLACK SHEEP

Jovan felt the heat rush to the apple of her cheeks as she passed by Damien, a fellow stagehand, on the corridor. The moment she crossed his line of sight, his eyes widened into saucers and he immediately stepped to the side to let her pass through.

"Mademoiselle Rousseau," he muttered with an awkward bow, and Jovan replied with a nod that was just as awkward.

It wasn't because of the stagehand's attitude towards her that morning that Jovan found herself blushing at but, rather, it was because of Elea's words that rushed back to her the moment Damien stepped aside for her. All I want is for you to gain even just a little bit of respect from the imbeciles trotting around here. As she roamed around the Opéra Populaire, Jovan found that Elea was right after all. She currently donned the white blouse and black walking skirt that Elea had dressed her up in over four months ago. It seemed that dressing appropriately was only doing her a favor, if something was to be learned from Damien's newfound respect for her.

As she turned around a bend, Jovan ran a hand through her hair. She wore it loose on that morning during her stroll around the opera house, but it wasn't like she could style it anyway. She knew of no way as to how to style it neatly without Elea's help, and the ballerina had gone home for Christmas the night right after their performances had drawn to a close. Jovan doubted that her hair could be styled anyway, given how short it was now, only ending a mere inch below her chin. She had cut it in a bout of self-loathing not long after her last nightmare where she ended up waking all of her roommates.

The opera house was uncharacteristically silent, but it was expected to be in such a state now that almost everyone had gone home for the holidays. Only a dozen or two of the entirety of the staff remained, consisting of those who had no families to go home to and those who had made the Opéra Populaire their home. Jovan, Damien, Christine, Meg, and Madame Giry were a few of those people.

The redhead emitted a sigh as she recalled the absence of her two closest friends, Elea and Mateo. With both of them gone, she practically had no one else to talk to. Sure, she shared the same room with Christine, but it was obvious that the Swedish ballerina preferred the company of Meg over Jovan's. She wasn't considering talking to the handful of stagehands that had stayed for the holidays as well ― they would be keeping to themselves for the rest of the break, and she generally didn't want to come near with them. Conversing with whoever had remained from the ballet corps and chorus members was out of the question as well. Jovan had no interest in the subjects their lot tended to discuss ― gossip about the nobility, the latest Parisian fashion, et cetera. These were matters that could not hold her attention for so long, and she desired the companion of a person who made the gears in her head turn and twist.

A name came to mind at that thought. But it wasn't like Jovan could exactly call upon the Opera Ghost to talk to her, could she? Besides, she knew that there were far more important matters that were worthy of his attention besides a stagehand like her.

Written on his face was a clear expression of mild distaste as Erik eyed one of the two beds closest to the door. While the bed was neatly made and the curtains were tied back to the bedposts, there was quite a mess atop the mattress. Several pieces of paper were scattered across it along with a pen and a capped inkwell. He couldn't help but sigh at the disorder before he returned his attention to the object he carried.

He held a pink rose in full bloom between his fingers, a black ribbon tied around its stem. Even with his gloves, he could feel the thorns on the part of its stem where he held it, but he couldn't be bothered the change the spot where he held the rose. It was a simple gift, but if one knew the language of flowers, the significance of the flower increased. Pink roses stood for grace, sweetness, and joy ― words that Christine Daaé embodied. Not to mention, the flower also stood for admiration, which was what Erik felt for the Swedish ballerina.

His heart swelled with pride at the very mention of the name of his pupil. The very first time he'd heard that voice of hers, he couldn't help but be reminded of an angel that had fallen from grace. She'd sounded as broken as she'd looked but, still, he saw the hidden gem in her juvenile voice. And ever since he 'revealed' himself as the Angel of Music to Christine in the chapel, he made it his goal to polish and shine to perfection the rough diamond that was her voice. Such a gift was just too precious to be left to waste.

Angel of Music. Erik was no angel, but he could be one to Christine if that was what she needed to help her spread her own wings.

With a small smile playing on his lips, he gently placed the rose down on Christine's nightstand. He didn't celebrate Christmas himself, even harbored a distaste for it, but he didn't want to miss an opportunity to give her another gift besides his lessons. If luck was on his side, Christine would see his little present later tonight on Christmas Eve. That was if she, Antoinette, and Meg had any plans to return to the opera house. They had left earlier in the morning, and as to where they had gone to and whether they were to return tonight, Erik had no clue.

He was about to make his leave through the mirror on the wall when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the chaos on Jovan's bed again. But this time, it was his curiosity that was roused and not his displeasure. He recalled the last time he met Jovan in the chapel when she'd said that she had writer's block. Was it possible that the block had been lifted since then?

Erik didn't mean to pry. Or, at least, he really didn't want to. But as he had predicted on the opening night of their last show, his curiosity was going to be the death of him. He found himself approaching her bed and, before he knew it, he held in his hands one of the papers that were scattered on the mattress. His eyes perused the lines in Jovan's messy handwriting.

I am drowning in worry this blurry December;
I don't want this to bleed on out into next year.
In a daze, I am trying, struggling to remember,
How it was when my heart left no room for fear.

I just don't want the world to leave me behind,
At least wait till I put on my wings.
Who doesn't long for bigger things?

But I am anxious and envious
Of people who live like they'll die tonight.
And I'm careless and restless
And I wish I could just close my eyes
And fly.

The cold December air caressed her skin as Jovan stood on the rooftop, which was blanketed with snow. Below her, the streets bustled with Parisians who engaged themselves with the affairs of celebrating Christmas. Jovan's face was a blank canvas, devoid of emotion as she stared out at the scene below. Christmas used to be mirthful occurrence that was worth celebrating, but as she gazed into the distance, Jovan realized that this was the first Christmas that she was spending without a single member of her family by her side.

Her hand flew to the necklace that she wore, a thin silver chain from which a small, round, white moonstone hung from. It had been a gift from Elea who had given it to her after she had gone to the rooftop on the night of her birthday. Besides the necklace and the photograph Monsieur Lefèvre gave her, Jovan received no other gifts. She wasn't even surprised because she hadn't even been expecting anything in the first place. Her hand wrapped around the small pendant as she closed her eyes, surrendering herself to the cool breeze that whipped around her.

"Away, and mock the time with fairest show. False face must hide what the false heart doth know."

The silence was shattered as she gave an amused shake of her head. Jovan didn't have to glance behind her to know who the owner of the voice was.

"Any reason why you're quoting Macbeth on this fine day?" she replied.

He clicked his tongue. "Didn't anyone tell you not to speak that name whenever you're in a theater?"

Jovan arched a brow. "Oh? Why not?"

"Uttering the name is said to be equivalent to wishing disaster upon the opera house."

Jovan couldn't help but finally turn around. The Phantom's dark and lean form was easy to spot among the snow and the white marble statues on the rooftop. He was donning his cloak and hat. He stood on a safe distance from the ledge so, Jovan reckoned, as to prevent himself from being seen by the people walking below.

"I didn't know you were superstitious, monsieur."

"I'm not. I was merely orienting you on the beliefs of the people who work in this place," Erik replied coolly.

"Hopefully, that is the only superstition I have to be aware of then?"

"Well, there is also this character that they like to call the Opera Ghost."

"The Opera Ghost?" Jovan decided to humor him. "Why, do you believe in ghosts?"

"I believe in myself, does that count?"

Jovan could not stop the chuckle that escaped from her lips. From the corner of her eye, she could see that a small smile had placed itself on Erik's lips.

"What about you, mademoiselle?"

"Do I believe in ghosts? Ghosts that haunt the halls at night? No. Ghosts that haunt from the past? Yes."

She could see that her words had piqued his curiosity. He arched a brow at her. "How unfortunate. Ghosts from the past are ones that you cannot exorcise."

"You can't escape from them either, it seems." Jovan found herself speaking with a bitter tone. She immediately shook her head and turned away from Erik.

"Indeed. So we learn to live with them instead."

Jovan found a sigh slipping from her lips. The melancholy of their conversation were finally getting to her and she quietly wondered who, between the two of them, had started the depressing subject. "Do tell me why we're discussing such a gloomy topic on one of the finest occasions."

"Because we have nothing better to do," was his sarcastic reply.

"Don't be a killjoy, Erik." The words rolled off her tongue before she could stop herself. Too late. Instead, she turned back to him and dared to reach a hand out as she beckoned him to come closer towards the ledge. "Come and look."

"There is nothing down there that I have not seen."

Jovan dropped her arm to her side as she rolled her eyes. "Suit yourself. I've got a wonderful view from here."

"What could be so wonderful about watching people walking down the streets of Paris?" he sneered.

"It's not that. It's..."

"What?"

"They all look so happy from up here."

Erik tried to ignore the way his heart clenched upon hearing her words. Rue and nostalgia were clear and evident in her voice as she spoke. He watched as Jovan turned her back to him again as her gaze returned to the streets below. Heaving a sigh, he decided perhaps coming closer to the ledge wouldn't hurt. He let his feet drive him until he was between Jovan and a nearby statue, his dark figure strategically concealed in the shadow of the looming statue. If she noticed his presence by her side, she made no sign of it.

He glanced disdainfully at the scene below him. "Happiness is fleeting," he muttered. "Come and look again once the holidays have passed, once they've returned to their mundane routines. See then if they still look as happy as they do right now from up here."

Jovan gave a shake of her head. "No need to, I know they won't be."

"Then why are we having this conversation?" Erik snapped.

She gave a shrug. "Because we have nothing better to do."

Her reply drove away the words on his tongue. He found himself at a loss for words as he stared at Jovan. Not for the first time, he wondered how someone had managed to create a creature as puzzling as the girl beside him. Clever, sentimental, and poetic all at the same time. Charmingly eccentric and, most of all, utterly unpredictable.

"You're dressed like a lady," he found himself saying his thoughts out loud before he could stop himself. The second he realized what he had done, Jovan was already looking at him, her brilliant green eyes ripe with amusement.

"That's because your sense of style put mine to shame, monsieur. I can't have you always looking spiffy while I wear trousers and a vest every time we meet," she answered in jest.

"I do pride myself on being very well-dressed, thank you very much." At his reply, Jovan gave a chuckle.

"Seeing that we're both appropriately dressed for the occasion after all, allow me to greet you on this most joyous day," Jovan said before she turned to face him. She held the fabric of her skirt with both hands as she lowered herself into a graceful curtsy. Erik found a grin pulling at the corner of his lips as he watched her. This girl was utterly unpredictable, indeed.

"I know not of whether you celebrate this glad affair, but let me be, hopefully, the first to greet you a Merry Christmas, Erik." As his name rolled off her tongue, a smile graced Jovan's features, and Erik knew then that he didn't have it in him to ruin the moment with a snide reply or anything of the like.

Instead, he took off his hat and gave a bow as he greeted her back. "And Merry Christmas to you as well, Jovan."

Author's Note: Yep, the word 'spiffy' was already around during this time period. The lyrics used for Jovan's poetry were taken from 'Fly Tonight' by Ylona Garcia. Please don't forget to review!