A/N - This is set about a month after the ALW version of POTO - Christine is living with Raoul and Erik is still under the Opera. And for all the Raoul lovers out there, I'm going to try and make him a nice Raoul - tribute to Matt Cammelle, Steve Barton, and Christopher Carl - my three favourite Raouls of all time :) Oh, yes, and the mean ballet girl - I couldn't think of an appropriate name, so I named her after Cosette of Les Mis fame - I've never been keen on her. But she's not based on Cosette as a character, so please don't flame me for any OOCness!! This is the beginning of a fic I wrote quite a while ago (with a seriously unkind Christine!) but it's been revamped a little and for the first time ever, I actually have the plot planned out in my head before I start on a long fic! Not that I'll probably stick to it, mind you ... ;) )
Disclaimer: Christine and Erik belong to Gaston Leroux; so does the daroga and anyone else who looks familiar. I'm just playing with them. The managers are ALW's, and anything else probably isn't mine either :) The title is a quote from a poem - I'm not entirely sure who wrote it, but the entire quotation is more famous for being the title of the novel "Of Mice and Men" (wonderful book, by the way!) Anyway. Not mine.
"But there are very few of us who have heart enough to be truly in love without encouragement."
Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice
Christine drew a deep breath and opened the door to her dressing room. It had now been over a month since she had been inside the Opera House, and she wasn't entirely sure she wanted to return. There were too many memories hidden among the gilt decorations and cardboard sets, none of them particularly pleasant, and her still-ambivalent feelings towards Erik confused and frightened her - better surely to avoid the subject altogether. And so she had flung herself, heart and soul, back into her work as the fiancee of the Vicomte de Chagny, a role she was somewhat surprised to find she enjoyed. But she had been quite certain that she wished to continue her singing as soon as possible - and equally sure that the Opera Populaire was the place she wanted to do it. Raoul had been surprised and perhaps even a little hurt, but he had listened, and finally capitulated to her irrational desire - but now she wasn't quite sure that she hadn't made the wrong decision.
Steeling herself, she entered the room and looked around. It looked exactly as she had left it, the table covered with her bits and pieces, nothing changed, everything dusted and clean.
She jumped violently at a timid little knock on the door. "Come in!" she called, trying to still her heartbeat.
Meg Giry poked her head round the door, then came bouncing in all the way, her face lighting up.
"Christine!"
They met in a spontaneous embrace, and Meg squealed in excitement. "Oh, they were right - I can't believe you're back!"
She checked herself suddenly "Back to stay?"
Christine smiled and nodded, and Meg squealed again. "Oh, this is wonderful! I've missed you so much! And I have so much to tell you!" She flung herself down onto the divan at Christine's feet, and with a brief inward smile at her friend's exuberance, Christine joined her, picking up a hairbrush to try and render her appearance halfway presentable before her first official meeting with the managers.
"Tell me all about the new cast members," she requested, running the brush through her hair.
"Well ..." Meg appeared to consider deeply. "There's the new head tenor, Christophe Randell ... he's very handsome, and so charming!" She giggled. "Just what we need, now that you've stolen Raoul from us!"
Christine laughed softly and reached down to stroke her little friend's hair. "Oh, Meg," she murmured. "I've missed you."
"I've missed you too! Everything's so depressing without you and Raoul here ... nothing ever happens! But ..." she giggled again and took Christine's hand, "you heard Carlotta left? Well ... that leaves the post of prima donna open ... and who better to take it than you?"
Christine laughed. "I'm still under contract, Meg - I'll do whatever I'm told. Who knows, perhaps some other Spanish beauty with the voice of an angel has come to Paris in my absence and will be taking over where La Carlotta left off!"
Meg raised her eyebrows. "It's possible ..."
The girls giggled again, then Meg rose and began to brush Christine's hair. "However ... if we don't get to rehearsal soon, neither of us may have a job left at all. Do you want me to plait it for you?"
Christine nodded her thanks and swallowed over a sudden nervous lump in her throat. This was the moment she'd been dreading, the moment she would have to face the staring eyes, the inevitable questions - what exactly had happened down there, and how was dear Monsieur le Vicomte after his terrible ordeal ...?
She felt Meg take her hand. "Come on, Christine," murmured Meg. "You have to face them sometime. I'll be with you, you know."
Christine drew a deep breath and stood up. "Meg ..." she said suddenly. "They don't all think that I ..."
Meg looked at her for a moment, uncomprehending, before the penny dropped. "Oh, no, Christine, of course they don't!"
"Because I didn't ..."
Meg shook her head. "I know you didn't, Christine."
The two girls stood staring at each other for a moment, then Christine impulsively threw her arms around Meg. "Thank you, Meg ..." she whispered into her friend's hair.
The moment Christine set foot on the stage, all rehearsal halted, and she was immediately set upon by crowds of ballet girls, pulled into the smothering weight of their curiosity, surrounding her in a cloud of frothy skirts and scent.
"Was it awful?"
"Oh, Christine, we've all been so worried!"
"Is the Vicomte all right?"
"What actually happened?"
"Yes ... I mean, you didn't ... you know ...!"
The ballet girls all giggled with delighted horror. Meg took protective hold of Christine's arm.
"Of course she didn't!" she said stoutly, the fierce loyalty in her face defying any of her fellow dancers to contradict her. "Christine would never ..."
"Why don't you let her tell it herself?"
The ballet girls parted with a gasp to reveal a taller dancer with a slender waist and long glossy blonde hair hanging loose down her back.
"You'd better fasten your hair up before my mother sees you, Cosette," Meg warned anxiously. "You know she ..."
"So, Christine?" Cosette inquired coolly, ignoring Meg's nervous attempts to take the spotlight off her friend. "Were your relations with the Opera Ghost ever ..." she paused briefly, "... as he would have wished them to be?"
Meg clutched Christine's arm more tightly. Christine had gone very white and looked ready to faint.
"Of course not," she said in a very low voice. "You know as well as anyone that I am engaged to be married to the Vicomte de Chagny."
Cosette laughed nastily and tossed her hair back over her shoulder. "So? Will you ever see him again?"
Christine glanced around and found eyes watching her from every side; curious, anxious appraisal from ballet girls unsure as to whether they dared invite the ghost's angel back into their midst, stage hands who had put down their work and were now listening openly, the new head tenor who looked faintly surprised but amused, and - oh, God, Monsieur Andre, who had always been so kind to her, hovering in the wings, all waiting with ludicrous anxiety upon her reply.
Meg's fingers tightened around her arm, and Christine took a deep breath, aware that her entire future in the company depended upon the wording of her denial of any future intimacy with the man who had nearly single handedly destroyed the Opera's business.
"Of course not," she said again, feeling her grip on reality slip. "I ..." She felt Meg squeeze her arm, and she continued, improvising feverishly, "He's dead now, anyway ..." her voice trailing off as the guilt caught her unexpectedly and she was forced to blink back sudden tears.
Cosette studied her carefully for a moment. "Good riddance," she said coolly, flipping her hair back over her shoulders and turning as if to go. "Don't you think so, Christine?"
"Yes," whispered Christine, feeling faint. "Of course ..."
A faint moan reached her, causing Meg to flinch and glance nervously round the auditorium for a moment. Christine's eye was caught by a flicker of white in Box Five - but in the swirl of a black cloak, it was gone, and in the ensuing panic, Meg managed to hurry her out of the auditorium and to her dressing room before she fainted.
* * *
Erik stumbled into the lair, almost blinded with tears of pure anguish. His head throbbing, his legs barely supporting his weight, he crashed into the wall and slowly slid down it, surrendering himself completely to the black despair which was gradually enfolding him.
What did you expect? he told himself, furious at his own weakness. What the hell were you expecting? You could have killed her and her lover, how else would you expect her to react to you this time around?
He slumped into the corner, trying to force himself to think of something else; anything else. His music, the damage the mob had done which he still had yet to repair, the new head tenor ... can't think, there's more and I can't remember ...
Darkness was rushing in to him, and he reached desperately out to it, welcoming oblivion as it came, silent and gentle, the only place these days where respite was forthcoming.
* * *
Christine leant on her elbows on her dressing table, massaging her aching temples. She had passed her faint off as a result of the fact that she hadn't had time to eat before leaving the house, and although she could tell by the sceptical look in Meg's eyes that she hadn't fooled anybody, at least it had gained her a little time alone.
"Christine?"
Or perhaps not ...
Christine looked up to see Christophe Randell, the new head tenor, standing silhouetted against the light in the doorway.
"Hello," she said noncommittally.
"May I come in?" he asked.
"Yes, of course," she replied, her mind searching vaguely for an excuse to refuse him entry. She failed to think of one, rose, and gestured towards the couch. He sat and looked around with curiosity.
"Nice room," he said at last.
She smiled slightly. "Yes ... very nice."
There was an awkward silence which Christine broke by holding out a necklace, a delicate silver chain with a teardrop diamond hanging from it.
"Could you ... could you help me put this on, Christophe?" she asked.
As soon as she said it, she knew she'd made a mistake. It had broken the silence for sure, but it had given the man an excuse to come closer to her, and she was getting the feeling that Christophe Randell was the sort of man she would prefer to keep a significant distance away from her.
"Of course," he said, rising and taking the necklace from her fingers. She turned and pulled her mass of dark curls back from her neck, feeling his breath on her back as he fastened the chain and trying not to flinch at his touch.
Suddenly, he slipped his arm around her waist and turned her around until she was facing him. She pulled away and took several hasty steps backwards to distance herself from him, her breath short and nervous.
"Come on, Christine," he said, breathing hard as he stepped towards her.
She backed off, fighting the urge to run. "Don't be absurd, Christophe," she said quickly, fighting to keep her voice level and realising too late that she had backed herself into a corner. "You know I'm engaged."
He leered at her. "I won't tell if you won't," he told her.
"No!" She took a step forward and tried to brush past him to leave the room, but he caught her arm, pulling her closer to him. She slapped him then, as hard as she could, her hand leaving a red mark down the side of his face with a small cut where her engagement ring, absurdly large, had scratched him.
For a moment he was still, his free hand reaching up to touch his face automatically, staring at her with utter disbelief. She shook his hand off her arm and turned to go, turning her back on him with contempt.
His hand landed on her arm again, harder this time, more restraining measure. She tried to pull away but winced as his fingers tightened around her arm, forcing her to take a step closer to him.
"Oh, no you don't," he said quietly. "No one says no to me, Christine."
"Well, I am doing!" she snapped, jerking her arm from his grasp. "Take your hand off me!" He grabbed hold of her arm again, his fingers bruisingly tight, his other hand tangling in her hair, forcing her head back as he lowered his lips onto hers. She struggled, fighting to hit him with her free hand, twisting her face away from his, bringing her hand up blindly to rake at his face, hearing him curse as her nails scratched his cheek.
He threw her backwards, her head striking against the couch as she fell, leaving her slightly dazed and struggling to sit up, to back away. Christine touched her hand to her head, and stared at it uncomprehending as it came back stained red.
Then he was on top of her, forcing her head back, his lips over hers, swallowing her screams. She heard her dress rip, felt it fall away from her shoulder, his hands on her body ...
The door opened and the room was flooded with light. Christine curled into a ball, cowering against the wall as Christophe turned to face the tall shadow silhouetted in the doorway.
"Do you mind?" he said nastily. "We are rather busy in here."
Christine tried to call out, but her throat had dried and words seemed to have deserted her.
The figure in the doorway didn't move.
"Get away from her," it said very quietly, every word suffused with unspoken menace.
Christine fell back against the wall, her last reserves of strength sapped by the recognition of the voice, the realisation of who her rescuer was.
Christophe had also realised, a slight smile spreading over his features. "Ah ... at least I meet the famed Opera Ghost. Flesh and blood after all ..." He laughed softly. "Although perhaps not with regards our little Christine here, as I'm told. Too pure for her own good, wouldn't you agree?"
At this, the shadow in the doorway moved, faster than Christophe could ever have anticipated or even imagined, he crossed the room in less than a second, his feet barely seeming to touch the floor as he dragged Christophe to his feet and slammed him up against the wall in one fluid movement.
He spoke very softly and very clearly, every word a clear threat.
"If you ever," here he slammed the boy's head against the wall, "if you ever lay so much as a finger on her again ..." he left the sentence hanging, shooting the boy a look of pure hatred. Throwing the boy contemptuously to the floor, he turned to Christine, who was still sitting crumpled on the floor, looking, he thought, like a broken doll. She looked crushingly vulnerable and desperately fragile but at the same time, more beautiful than he'd ever known her. Her hair was in total disarray, a lock falling over her eyes. He resisted the impulse to reach out and brush it back into place.
Behind him, he could hear the boy scrambling for the door and smiled slightly at the speed which people found they possessed after an encounter with the Phantom of the Opera.
As if suddenly realising the state she was in, Christine pulled her torn blouse closer around her and tried to pinch the rip in her skirt together with her fingers. Erik slipped off his jacket and offered it to her. She shook her head weakly, but he insisted.
"You're shaking. Take it," he instructed.
She accepted the jacket and slipped it on. It was ridiculously large on her, drowning her in its folds as the sleeves fell down over her hands. He smiled faintly and offered her his hand. She took it and rose, staggering as her legs gave way beneath her. Erik caught her before she fell and helped her over to an overstuffed armchair into which she sank gratefully.
"Are you all right?" he asked quietly, his eyes skating quickly over her to make sure there was no actual physical damage apart from the bruise on her face.
She nodded wordlessly, and then began to shake as the tears came; long, shuddering sobs born of all the months of confusion. She put her hands to her face, uselessly trying to conceal her tears.
Feeling helpless, Erik fumbled in his waistcoat for a handkerchief. He found one and handed it to her; she took it gratefully and scrubbed it over her face, desperately trying to rein in her racing emotions and failing miserably.
As soon as she had enough control over herself to be sure she could speak connectedly, she choked out, "Erik ... I said ..."
Erik held up a hand to halt her, agony sweeping through him as he recalled exactly what she had said.
"Don't," he said, abandoning all efforts at composure. "I will send your friend Meg along shortly ... you won't see me again."
Sweeping his cloak around him, he left silently without a backwards glance.
Christine sank back in the chair, tears streaming down her face as she realised how he must have taken her words; as further rejection as opposed to the heartfelt apology she most decidedly owed him.
* * *
Erik sank down into a chair, his head spinning. He realised he was still shaking with a mixture of blind passions; the fury he had felt when he first opened the door was by no means diminished; for a moment there, he had been completely out of the control that he valued so highly. It had been the smirk on the boy's face as he mocked the Opera Ghost ... the infuriating arrogance while Christine still crumpled against the wall like a broken doll, her eyes wide with terror greater than he had ever inspired in her. That the boy should have dared to touch his Christine was bad enough, but that he should stand there and gloat ...
Erik took a deep breath to calm himself, and forced himself to stand up. Where would a dancer be at this time of day? he wondered. His answer came in the form of excitable voices floating down the corridor; rehearsal had evidently just ended, and, unless he was very much mistaken, he could hear Meg Giry's voice among them. He stepped back into the shadows and waited as the girls passed in a cloud of scent, ruffled skirts and noisy chatter. Meg, fortunately for him, was right at the back, listening intently to some mindless anecdote one of the other girls was telling about one of the male chorus and an absent dancer. As Meg passed, he reached out and swept his cloak around her, spiriting her away before she had a chance to scream.
Covering her mouth with one gloved hand, he dragged her bodily through one of his secret passages into a small circular room where he released her and she staggered away from him, her expression one of blind terror.
She opened her mouth to speak, but he cut her off before she had a chance.
"Be quiet," he said firmly. "I don't want to hear it. Go to Christine's dressing room directly - don't let her leave for a while. Do you understand?"
Meg nodded, her eyes still wide with panic.
"Good girl," he said quietly. "And I don't want to hear any reports of this little encounter circulating round the corps de ballet, is that clear?"
Meg nodded again, and he released her with a brief gesture towards the door. As the light pattering of her feet faded away down the corridor, he sank into a chair and covered his face with his hands.
To be continued ...