REUNION

He had not been aware of her presence. His attention had been focused on the parchment before him, ripped and yellow and blank. Picking up a long, black quill pen, he began to sketch, smoothly and elegantly, so much of his soul pouring out through the pen and onto the paper. He always started with her eyes, round and innocent yet strangely seductive, and finished with her lips, full and beckoning. Al his work was from memory, but the image he had of her in his mind was perfectly authentic, every detail of her exactly as she was in life.

"Angel…?"

He stopped, the pen poised above the paper. Slowly, he turned his head and looked out upon the water. His first thought had been one of disgust- with himself. An echoing voice in his ear hissed, "So her voice alone wasn't good enough? You had to go and recreate her in her entirety?" She was behind the gate, clutching the iron between her hands, her body soaked and dripping from head to toe. His second thought had been one of heart-stopping amazement. Even in his mind, she was as beautiful as ever.

But when she collapsed, falling in a heap to the floor, he realized. He knew. And with one fluid movement, he pulled the wooden lever connected to his gateway and stumbled towards her, eyes wide and shining.

"Christine…"

When he lifted her into his arms, he was struck by how immensely cold she was, with her head lolling lifelessly from side to side against his chest and her hands laying flaccidly against her stomach. He carried her delicately to his room and laid her down on his bed, his eyes never leaving her face. Pulling the deep red silk blanket over her frail frame, he paused, his hand lingering on her shoulder. He gently slid it up her neck and to her cheek, stroking her skin tenderly, still warily expecting her to be a figment of his tragic mind.

He wanted to leave her alone, give her some privacy, but he found he could not move from his spot above her, leaning against the headboard of the bed, watching over her. And so he stayed, running his fingers through her hair and smiling for the first time in six years.

-

Raoul twirled the ring between his fingers, his eyes staring off into nothingness. Shimmers of gold reflected onto his face, casting thousands of tiny points of lights across the room. He inhaled deeply, his mind replaying the conversation he had had the morning before with Meg.

"What do you mean, she didn't leave you?"

"I lied."

"Lied? Are you saying I slept with the man, the husband of the woman who was like a sister to me in my childhood?"

"Yes."

"Why is she not home, then? Where was she last night when you were…incapacitated?"

Pause. "She was in the hospital…"

Raoul closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Oh God, what have I done?" he murmured. And now she was gone…she could be anywhere…

-

The first thing Christine saw when she awoke was the small figurine of a monkey, its eyes glassy and haunting. Its song was barely perceptible, blending in with the silence. Masquerade…

"Every face a different shade…Masquerade…" She murmured the words quietly.

Then there was another voice, and it sang to her, its tone strong, masculine, and intriguing. "Look around, there's another mask behind you…" She sat up and turned her head, tilting her gaze upwards. His face loomed above her, like an angel's… "Masquerade…"

"Paper faces on parade," she continued, her vocalizing natural and high. "Masquerade…"

"Hide your face so the world will never find you…" His note trailed off, sad and echoing. He stared at her, beauty shining in his eyes. "You haven't been practicing, Christine," he whispered sorrowfully. "Have you forgotten?"

A tear slipped down her cheek, and he wiped it away with a black gloved finger. "I did…but when I heard you sing, I remembered." She reached for his hand and clutched it to her. "Dear, sweet Angel…"

He withdrew his hand suddenly and looked away, eyes closed. "I am no Angel," he muttered harshly. He touched the mask that covered the right side of his face which, Christine realized, was no longer pure white, but pitch black. "I am…a Creature, a Monster. Not an Angel."

Christine got off the bed and stood before him. He turned his head away from her, his gaze directed at the ground. Gently, she cupped his face in her hand, running her finger over his exposed eye. "You were always my Angel. Does that not count?"

His head snapped up, and he stared at her, eyes wide. "Of course it does! You are all that ever mattered to me, Christine…"

"So you are not a Monster; you are an Angel. My Angel…" She stepped towards him and buried her face in his lean chest, clutching his shoulders tightly. For a moment, he did not know how to respond. Then, slowly, he wrapped his arms around her and hugged her to him, stroking her hair and breathing in her ear. She shuddered suddenly.

He pulled away, ashamed. "I'm sorry…I know I'm cold…"

She gave him a small smile. "No, that tremble was not a shiver. It was…" she began, pausing as she searched for the right word.

"Pleasure?"

"Yes," she agreed, returning to his embrace. "It was pleasure."

-

"Why did you return?"

She had expected the question, but still, she was taken aback. She didn't answer right away, instead turning her gaze to the candles that lined the walls. "It was…Raoul. My dead child. Everything. I felt alone, unimportant…unnecessary. The only thing that kept me sane was the thought of my happiest memory…"

"That night, on the roof? With your lover?" he asked sharply.

She started to walk towards him as he sat beside his organ, her fingers stroking the small marble sculpture of the Phantom in which his expression was filled with pain and deformation. "No." She looked at him, directly in the eyes. "It was of the first time I came down here. With you." He did not reply. "And I decided I had made the wrong decision." As she watched him, he met her stare, his eyes filled with tenderness. "But where have you been all this time?"

He extended his arms, indicating the chamber in which they stood. "Here. Working."

"Surely you must have left…"

He laughed, his chuckle loud and booming. "Of course I left. Whether I be an Angel or a Monster, all living things must eat, mustn't they?"

"I suppose," she mused, sitting down on his rocking chair. "So you only came out to buy your provisions? How could you live like that?"

Smiling, he paused and rested his chin upon his hand. "Those weren't the only occasions, Christine. Most of the time, I left to see you."

"You were watching me?" she asked incredulously.

"Yes. And you were aware of it." She opened her mouth to argue, but he held a finger to her lips, and she fell silent. "Maybe not consciously, but somewhere deep inside your mind, you knew I was there."

She frowned, thinking back, while he watched, amused. "I guess I did…on some level…" Christine turned back to him. "When?"

"Once a week, sometimes less. Usually at night, before you went to bed." She narrowed her eyes accusingly, and he raised his hands innocently. "I hope you respect me more than that, Christine. I am not without my modesty. I gave you your privacy when I felt it necessary." There was a deep silence, as Christine gazed upon the water, and the Phantom gazed upon Christine. "You and your husband did not make love often."

She turned her eyes on him penetratingly, patches of red appearing on her cheeks. He looked back on her, calm and unruffled, and she relinquished. "No. I guess we didn't."

He narrowed his eyes and leaned forward. "Why?"

Christine averted her eyes, her blush deepening. "We just…never got around to it, really. Why does it matter?"

A small smirk danced across his lips. "Simply curious."

For a reason unbeknownst to Christine, that leer infuriated her. "Curious about my sex life? Or your lack of one?"

She instantly regretted her words. His face fell before her eyes, and looked at her with fire in his eyes before standing violently and retreating to his room. "Wait…I'm sorry, please…" The crash of his door slamming shut caused the cavern to vibrate forcefully. A framed picture on the wall fell to the floor, shattering the glass in every direction. Slowly, she knelt beside it and picked it up.

Christine found herself staring at herself, folded in the embrace of the Phantom. He wore no mask; instead, both sides of his face were formed as the left one was, uncommonly handsome and tempting. Her picture self looked up at him longingly, and Christine's guilt deepened. She stood and walked towards his door, trying to think of something to say. She could hear him inside his room, singing quietly to himself.

"This face which earned a life of endless searching,

a life, unfilled, that's left me bare and yearning…

Never should I wish-

Someone would love a face like this.

How could I expect a woman's tenderness…?"

She sat next to the door, her arms wrapped around her knees, hugging her legs to her chest. Placing the palm of her hand on the wood, she began to croon:

"Say you want me with you, here beside you.

Lead me, save me from my solitude…

Anywhere you go let me go too…

Angel, that's all I ask of you…"

Slowly, the door opened, and the Phantom stared down at her, his eyes cold and hard. "Why, Christine?"

She stood up and met his gaze. "I was embarrassed…Raoul…he hardly ever…"

He nodded, looking at the floor. "I understand. No one knows what it's like better than I do."

Cautiously, she stepped towards him and leaned into his chest, waiting to see his reaction. When he once again wrapped his strong hands around her and held her to him, she relaxed. "I'm so sorry, Angel…" she murmured.

"Please don't call me that," he whispered.

She took a step back and stared at him. "What should I call you, then?"

"Erik."