Disclaimer: You don't honestly think I own this, do you? Didn't think so.

Guardian Angel

Erik successfully avoided Michelle for about two weeks. Michelle cooked the meals and left some at Erik's door, then came back to collect the empty tray. She finished the housework in half her usual time, but then, she didn't have Erik to bicker with or get in hetr way. After a few Erik-less days, she simply ingnored the pain of not seeing him. The only time she felt somewhat happy was in the solace of her room where she secretly worked on her Christmas gifts for Erik. Then, she allowed herself to feel a tiny shred of hope that he would soon forgive her, that they could be friends again.

The urge she had to make things right, to see Erik again, was so strong it was almost frightening. Michelle knew what was happening. She was falling in love with Erik. She knew it and it frightened her--after all, he still didn't know her true identity; he might even hate her when he found out-and yet she reveled in the feeling. Her only true fear was that Erik could never love her back.

* * * * *

On the tenth of December, only two weeks before Christmas Eve, Erik awoke from his sleep. He didn't move, he just lay there. He should still be tired after spending all night out as he had several previous nights. While Michelle slept, Erik would wander around Paris just to keep himself from doing something stupid, like going to her room and asking her to stay forever. So much for ending the attraction.

Erik's thoughts were interrupted when he heard a loud series of coughs from somewhere outside his room, followed by someone blowing their nose and grumbling something about getting sick.

Sick?

Before he could stop himself, Erik was out the door and standing in front of a very surprised, and ill, Michelle. "Erik?" she said. "What are you doing--?"

"Quiet," he ordered and checked her forehead for a fever. She didn't seem to have one, but her pale face and red nose told its own story.

Frowning, Erik asked, "How long have you had that cough?"

"Just a few days," she answered. "But--"

"A few DAYS?!" Before she could answer, Erik was dragging her back to her room. "Get into bed," he ordered. "And stay there."

"But...I have to get breakfast."

"I'll get breakfast. You're sick. You're staying in bed."

She sat down on the bed. "I thought you couldn't cook."

Erik looked at her from the doorway. "I've lived down here for almost twenty years. If I couldn't cook, I'd have starved already."

That was logical. Nevertheless, Michelle had to protest. "There is no reason for me to stay in bed. I'm fine. Really I am." She stood up, and then waves of nausea and dizziness overtook her. She collapsed on the bed and put her head between her legs breathing deeply until the sick feelings had past. When she looked up, Erik had an insulate smirk on his face. Reluctantly, Michelle slipped back under the covers and said in a petulant voice, "I suppose a day or two of rest won't do any harm."

* * * * *

Meg Giry slipped into her costume. "Faust" had been showing for a week now, and the managers had planed something special for Christmas. While the singers were off work for Christmas, the dancers would put on a production of "The Nutcracker". Meg was even the understudy for Marie, the lead role.

Having successfully gotten into her outfit, Meg looked around the dressing room that used to be Christine's. She had been reluctant to switch, but Christine had insisted. "Raoul will look for me there," she had said. "He doesn't even know where your dressing room is." That was true enough. So here she was, nervously awaiting an annoying Vicomte that was sure to arrive at any moment.

As if on cue, there was a knock at the door. "Christine?" the Vicomte's voice called. "Are you dressed?"

"Yes," Meg answered. "Only I'm not--"

The door opened and Raoul de Chagny walked in.

"-Christine," Meg finished.

Raoul stared at her for a moment. Then, with all the arrogance of someone who always gets their way, demanded, "Where is Christine?"

Meg raised her chin. If this man thought she would cower before him just because he had a title, he needed to think again. "We traded dressing rooms. Christine didn't want you to bother her before she leaves." Realizing what she had said, Meg threw a hand over her mouth.

Raoul was taken aback. "Leave?! Where is she going?"

*Curse my loose tongue,* Meg thought. "I'm not going to say. She doesn't want you to know."

Raoul glared at her. "Fine." He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket. "How much will it take to get the information?"

Meg grew livid. "You can't buy everything you know. And you most certainly can't pay me enough to betray my best friend."

Raoul stood there, cool and composed. *Like I'll believe that,* he thought. *She's probably angling for more money.* "How much?" he repeated.

That was the final straw. "I told you I won't tell. Now get out of here before I have you thrown out."

Raoul removed his hand from his jacket. "You really mean that, don't you?"

Meg fumed. "Of course I do."

He was stunned. Usually all these ballerinas cared about was getting money from patrons like him. He half expected her to offer herself for his mistress, much like that Marie he'd come across in the hall. Such blatant behavior was disgusting, like she had no self respect at all. This Meg, however, didn't seem to even like him. How unusual.

"Very well. I will not try to discover Christine's whereabouts. I assume the two of you will keep in contact?" Meg nodded. "Then I will come to you everyday for news about Christine." He performed an elegant half-bow. "Until tomorrow, Mademoiselle Giry." He turned to leave, then Meg said to his retreating back, "Why do you care what Christine does?"

Raoul stopped and looked over his shoulder. "She's my fiancée. Draw your own conclusions." He left, closing the door behind him.

Meg watched him go, her mind reeling. He really did care about Christine. Of course, he didn't really seem to love her. More like he wanted to keep track of what was his, like a toy or something. Not very surprising. Not at all. And as for news about Christine, Meg would have to talk to her first. If she didn't mind, then the Vicomte would get his news. If not, he would come for nothing more than his own torment. And it would be torment. She would see to that.