Title: le Visage dans le Miroir

Author: Rancid Melody

Summary: A ballerina from Rouen joins the staff of L'Opéra Populaire to prepare to take the position of a soon-retiring Madame Giry – assuming, of course, that 'all goes well.' Is there more to this cryptic reference than the ignorant Mireille Decker realizes?

Disclaimer: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra belongs to all those people who wrote it and stuff. But I reserve the right to stalk Gerard Butler. Until he notices, and gets a restraining order. Upon which I would have to use binoculars. Or something. Um. Heh.

Warning: I have not read the book. I have a Gerard-Phantom. Deal. However, my Gerard-Phantom will not be OOC. Also, there's some French in here. It's all translated at the end, if you don't mind scrolling down to check. However, most of it is easy to figure out, and what is not is not important to the story.

Chapter Title: Créature Pitoyable d'Obscurité

Acknowledgements: Laura Kay, our minds follow a similar pattern, I see. Romance novels are going to be the death of me, someday… Quixotic-Feline… clasps eye don't worry, I'll survive. Thanks for the encouragement! flushes Collins: Never fear, I try to update at least thrice a week. Also, thanks to LostSchizophrenic, TheSiriusSparrow,and Shirl for their reviews.

In this chapter, Erik happens! Oh, and Mireille is there too. They do stuff. Nothing fluffy, of course. Too early for that. Eh… sorry if I ruined the anticipation for some. I always feel rather frustrated when I expect fluff and find none, but perhaps some of you prefer to continue to expect fluff, in order to heighten the gratification when it is actually found?

I'm rambling.

Great, I'm turning into Mireille.

Wait a moment.

I based Mireille's ramblingness on me. Not Mireille as a character though – we're muchly different. For instance, I would have jumped Erik in that costume room, rather than drawing it out… but anyhow, the ramblingness comes naturally.

I often surprise myself with my own brilliance in situations such as this.

Yeah, that was sarcasm.


Okay, Mireille. Patience. You'll need a lot of it, so go ahead and prepare yourself.

I carefully schooled my expression into one I'd decided was as attractive as I could ever hope to appear – best to start out on the right foot, after all – before pushing my oar against the floor of the water to propel myself around the corner.

"Bonne noire, Monsieur!" I called as the little demon boat and I glided into the open space. "I've brought you something!"

Erik appeared from beyond the gossamer hangings of his bedchamber, looking as immaculate as ever. Honestly, was it not depressing to spend all of one's time dressed up, to be seen by not a soul?

Except me, that is.

Which implies that he would dress up for me. Which is, quite frankly, ridiculous.

"You're back." His voice informed me that this was not exactly delightful news.

I half-glared at him. "I brought you a present!" I said brightly, thrusting the basket towards him.

He warily lifted the lid, and his eyebrows shot up his forehead. "Cookies."

I smiled, quite proud of my thoughtfulness. "This lovely little girl has been selling fresh cookies outside on the corner for half a fortnight now, and I thought you might not want to miss them. They're simply addictive."

For some reason, le fantôme de l'opéra did not seem quite as enthralled by this prospect as I was. To my incredulity, he did not even seem interested in my offering, taking the basket to set it carelessly on the table behind him. "Is that all?" he asked dryly. "I really do not have the time to entertain you."

I felt my eyes grow large and pressed my lips together to keep them from trembling. Erik had the audacity to look slightly exasperated. "You can drop the drama, Mademoiselle, it only lowers my opinion of you further."

My mouth fell open, and tears were banished by the jolt of vehemence that I felt flash through my eyes. "You- you- you accuse me of fallacy?"

His lips curled into a wicked (and yes, still positively intoxicating) smirk, and I forced myself to ignore it in order to maintain my righteous fury. "I suppose I do."

I glared hotly at him for another moment before relinquishing my ire. "Well, what did you expect? I'm only human, dear, and I use the talents I have been given, however scarce they may be."

He raised an eyebrow, clearly taken aback. I did my best to return his smirk, but I suppose it didn't turn out the way I'd planned, as I only merited a derisive snort in response. "You think rather highly of yourself, Mademoiselle Decker."

"On the contrary," I replied, ambling casually past him. Oh, this was fun! That moment of disbelief which merited such a startled silence was worth all of the time I intended to waste provoking it. "I think very little of myself, which is why I know myself so well. One must recognize one's flaws to recognize one's strengths to the fullest."

Where had I read that? Ah, there was no telling.

I sat on the bench before the colossal piano… er, organ, and saw his shoulders stiffen from the corner of my eye. "I can play this thing," I announced smugly. "I can play that one from… whatsitcalled… oh, whatever – this one." I tapped out the melody of 'Ode to Joy' with a single finger, knowing that it sounded rather ridiculous when such a simple tune was matched with the booming pipes of the piano… organ.

I turned to him, chin lifted proudly, to see him looking caught between horror and mirth. I made a face, getting up. "Well… at least I can play something," I muttered, exhibiting my most dejected persona.

He snorted – the second acknowledgement of my comedic tendencies. I avoided glowing so early into the game.

"So… what do you do here?" I asked lightly, looking around. "Don't you get dreadfully bored?"

He was quiet for a moment: not in reflection, I noted by his expression, which was rather flat with distaste. "Yes," he answered shortly.

"Oh." My mind was already wandering, and I grabbed a cookie from the gift-basket. Hey, if he didn't want to be polite and thank me for them, he couldn't expect me to be polite and resist the temptation of them!

He regarded me with raised eyebrows – again – and a sort of unconscious upturning of those perfect lips that was a little to close to a genuine smile for comfort. I fidgeted under his alluring gaze, and he blinked, then dropped it, looking rather startled at himself, rather than at me.

There was a very short silence. I hadn't the foggiest idea of what was going on behind those marvelous eyes, but my mind was positively… blank. My goodness… he was attractive at the first glance, but now that I'd a moment to study him further… he was nearly breathtaking.

I absently wondered if he'd ever been stopped on the street and asked to model for a painting – a dream I'd always harbored for myself – when I realized, immediately horrified, that there was absolutely no possibility of that happening. How was it so easy to forget that mask, when it was so prominent on his face?

I tilted my head as I stared in his general direction, before slowly speaking as I stepped into a reasonable conversation-distance.

"How does it stay on?" I heard myself ask.

Erik blinked, dragged from his mental whatever-he-was-doing-up-there. "What?" he asked blankly.

I sighed – no turning back now. "Your mask. Does it stick, or something?"


Translations:

Le Visage dans le Miroir – The Face in the Mirror

Créature Pitoyable d'Obscurité – Pitiful Creature of Darkness

Bonne noire – good evening

Oh, dear. It's dreadfully short, I know. I promise the next one will be very long, to compensate! Maybe.