A/N - I'm glad you all liked Andre's little cameo!! I've always thought there was some nice potential for him as a serious father figure to Christine - unfortunately, that means making Firmin the bad guy. Sorry :S (Are there any Firmin fans out there?!)

Anyway ... this is a nice little E/C chapter in which things are said ... and they make up, which is always good!!

Hope you enjoy!

Christine sighed, distractedly raking her fingers back through her hair. Her resolve to talk to Erik was rapidly failing her at the sight of his house - in utter darkness, courtesy of the shattered gas lamps and broken candles, smashed furniture and sheets of torn music littering the floor - what on earth had make her think that the mob would have left his home undamaged, simply because she and Raoul had reappeared unharmed?

More worrying, however, was the utter absence of any evidence that Erik had even returned to his house since his disappearance.

But he had to have come back ... he was in the Opera earlier today ... where else could he have gone?

She turned, taking in the absolute destruction a moment longer, before picking up her lantern and turning to make her way out of the lair with a heavy heart at the knowledge that she had, yet again, failed him.

* * *

Cosette wandered idly along the passageway, kicking absently at the wall. She was bored. Until Christine decided to reappear, she had no idea where she might even begin her hunt for the ghost, and even the handsome head tenor seemed to have disappeared off somewhere, leaving the only available company silly, empty-headed ballet dancers, who feared her almost as much as she despised them.

She stopped suddenly, her eyes taking in a young man with blonde hair and a faintly worried expression on his face standing at the end of the corridor. He hadn't noticed her, glancing around as if looking for someone, but her appraising eye ran him up and down and approved of what she saw. He was certainly attractive ... he might just prove to be an interesting diversion.

"Monsieur," she purred, sauntering up to him. "Do you have the time?"

He took out a pocket watch and flipped it open.

"It's just gone two o'clock," he said, sounding a little distracted. "I don't suppose you've seen Christine Daaé anywhere, have you?"

Cosette rolled her eyes inwardly. Another man chasing after Christine Daaé! And hopelessly in love with her, by all appearances. She was rapidly losing interest in him; from what she had seen of Christine, she was a colourless little mouse with a superb voice but no spirit to call her own; any man who could fall for that wilting flower act was clearly either hopelessly immature or just blindingly stupid.

"No, Monsieur," she said, trying to smother her irritation. In a moment of spite, she added, "You do know she's engaged, don't you?"

The man turned to look at her, still looking a little troubled. "Yes, I do," he said. "I'm her fiancé."

Cosette's first reaction was to swear. Of all the people to encounter on her first day ...! But as her natural cool logic and intellect took over, she glanced him over with a freshly appraising eye. He was certainly handsome ... and he clearly didn't deserve Christine ... he might just be the one perk of what looked otherwise to be shaping up as a truly awful job.

The man glanced away from her, scanning the hallways as if he expected Christine to appear at any moment, then looked back at her, as if seeing her for the first time.

"You're a dancer," he said suddenly. Cosette rolled her eyes inwardly again - this man was either seriously distracted by Christine's mysterious absence, or just remarkably stupid.

"Yes, Monsieur," she murmured, demurely dropping her eyes.

He nodded, and suddenly a complete change came over him.

"I apologise," he said with disarmingly charming frankness. "Please forgive me. You must think me appallingly rude. My name is Raoul de Chagny - I'm Christine's fiancé and a patron here at the Opera."

"Cosette Graham," she murmured below lowered eyelashes.

"You must be new," he said with a smile. "Have you met Christine yet?"

"Only briefly, at rehearsal," Cosette said brightly, inwardly cursing the woman she had barely met and already disliked intensely. Is he so utterly incapable of forming a sentence without the word "Christine" in it?

His handsome face clouded briefly. "At rehearsal ... I don't suppose you know what happened, do you?" he asked. "I was told she'd fainted and was waiting for me to come and take her home, but I can't find her anywhere and nobody seems to know where she's gone!"

Cosette tossed her hair back with practised ease, opening her eyes wide in her best "concerned" expression.

"I'm afraid I can't help you, Monsieur ..." she paused briefly before plunging in, watching him closely to exactly gauge his reaction. "There was a little talk of the Opera Ghost after she fainted ..." she gave a little laugh and flicked her hair again, "but being new, I don't believe I really understand the ins and outs of what really happened here regarding the ghost and ... Mademoiselle Daaé."

She watched his face crease with confusion and anxiety.

"Perhaps ..." she suggested carefully, "perhaps we could go and wait for Christine in her dressing room ... and you could tell me a little of the legend behind the ghost while we wait?"

Raoul shook his head. "Forgive me, Mademoiselle ... I think I'll go and take a final look around for her, and if I can't find her, I'll see if she's made her own way home."

He lifted her hand to his lips in an automatic gesture of parting and strode off down the corridor towards the auditorium.

Cosette frowned, unreasonably disappointed at her failure. He was young, naive, idealistic, and hopelessly in love with a seemingly unfeeling young lady - just the type she usually excelled at controlling. Evidently he had a little more spirit than she had given him credit for ...

Cosette smiled and locked herself into her dressing room, sitting down to study her face in the mirror. Her reflection smiled a cold little smile at her as she began automatically to brush her hair.

Yes, Raoul de Chagny would be a very interesting nut to crack ...

He was just like all the others. So why did she suddenly have the feeling that it would almost be a pity to break his heart?

* * *

Christine turned to go, then whirled around, her heart suddenly beating fast with a mixture of hope and anticipation. What was that noise?

She retraced her steps back into the living room, and looked around. She wondered suddenly, as the fine down on her neck prickled, if he watched her from some hidden inner sanctum.

"Erik?" she said again, her voice sounding loud in the silence of the abandoned house.

She took a few steps towards the door of her bedroom and paused, her hand hovering above the door knob, suddenly unsure.

She took a deep breath and pushed the door open.

Erik was sitting huddled in a corner, his legs drawn up under his chin and his eyes tightly closed. He was shaking all over, his fingers twisting compulsively in the dark material of his jacket sleeves.

"Erik?" she whispered, taking a tentative step forward into the room.

His hands closed around his arms, his fingers clenching convulsively as if to retain some contact with something solid. She thought she heard him breathe her name, his voice breaking, and he buried his face in his knees, tears spilling out from behind the mask.

"Erik!" She knelt beside him, catching hold of his arm, and he started with a violence that almost knocked her over, his hands rising automatically in self-defence as he jerked away from her.

"What's wrong?" she whispered, reaching out to him.

He rose instantly, turning away from her with a brief, angry movement of his hand over his face, a gesture which betrayed more anguished emotion than he had intended.

"What's wrong?" she asked again, rising to her feet and making her way over to him. "Didn't you hear me calling?"

He stared at her for a moment, utterly lost for words. What could he say? I haven't been able to shut your voice out of my head for even one moment in the last month - in the end, even the most painful of hope eventually dies?

Ignoring her question, he looked her up and down, careful to avoid making eye contact, fearing the sudden wild hope and painful stabs of love for her might betray themselves in his eyes.

"You shouldn't be here," he said tensely. "I told Madame Giry to contact ..."

He broke off, feeling the agonisingly familiar sick wave of intense jealousy sweep over him. "You ought to be resting," he amended finally.

She shook her head, playing with a lock of her hair as nervous displacement activity.

"No, I'm fine," she said softly. "Nothing actually happened ... thanks to you ..." She took a step towards him. "Erik ..."

She paused, brushing her hair back out of her face.

"In the auditorium ..."

He turned away, utter misery filling him. He had been trying to forget - God, anything to forget - but her voice echoed on in his head; crystalline, pure - unbearably painful.

"Erik, please! What else could I have said?"

He turned slowly back to her.

"What are you saying?"

He heard her sigh, felt her hand descend on his arm, felt himself freeze at the unexpected contact, his mind going numb.

"Forgive me," she whispered. "I was put on the spot - what would you have had me do? Risk my place in the company by telling the truth?"

He looked into her eyes for a long moment, hers beseeching, desperate, wide with sincerity. Suddenly acutely aware of her proximity, her hand still on his arm, the soft scent of her perfume, he turned hastily and took two steps backwards. Why did she still have this effect on him ...?

"It doesn't matter," he said quietly, turning his back on her and fighting to keep his voice even. "Whether you meant it or not, everything you said was true ..." He bit down on his lip until blood flowed, his hand passing automatically over the mask.

"No!" She caught hold of his shoulders, forcing him to face her. "You know I don't think that! I could never ..." She released him, turning away from him and pulling a hand back through her hair.

"Why can't you ever believe me?" she whispered, half to herself.

Erik stared at her for a long moment, torn between heartbroken self-doubt and an overwhelming desire to trust her, to give her anything and everything she wanted, to stroke her hair and hold her close and never let her go - oh, God, I love her ...

Crossing the distance between them with one step, he caught her by the shoulders and turned her to face him. One glimpse of her eyes and he was lost, and when she suddenly flung herself forward into his arms and hid her face in his chest, and they sank to the floor with a sudden mutual weakness, he buried his face in the soft perfume of her hair and clung onto her as if to life itself.