A/N: Sorry it's been so long. Gah, school had been taking its toll on me lately...

"Phantom," Noelle said. She was smirking, an obvious sign of self-satisfaction. She had been considering going out on the streets shopping, before she realized that they were the same streets which, under the cover of night, had swallowed whole her cries and moans for help.

"I am here, child." Noelle chafed a little bit after the 'child.' She was only twenty-two years old, but had experienced enough bitterness and pain to suit someone three times her age.

"I am no child," she said, half-mockingly. Her sharp tongue had lost none of its edge from being out on the streets.

The voice came back, with a tone of irritation in it.

"All the same, you must cover your eyes when I approach." Noelle obeyed, taking no chances. She wanted to see the Phantom. She remembered the events of the day before, but swore to herself that she would never loose control like that again.

She strained her ears for any slight thing that might indicate his approach, but there was nothing. She did not even know he was there until she felt a slight, gentle touch on her arm. She removed her hands from covering her eyes and looked back. The Phantom was standing there, with an unreadable expression on his face. He still made her take a breath, even though she had promised herself that she would not loose control.

"Sit, please," she said, trying hard to keep a tone of sarcasm out of her voice. The rehearsal had been tiring, and she felt mildly frustrated at anything and everything.

"I have so much room now," she continued upon seeing that he had not made a move to take a chair, "That it would be a shame not to take advantage of it."

"Do you like your new room?" asked the Phantom. Noelle noticed that he still did not take a seat. She nodded, words seeming not to come. She bit her lip and looked down. She had been bitter with him, and there was no reason for her to be.

"Please, sit," she asked again, more kind then she had been before. It had been a long day. The Phantom raised one eyebrow, as if to smirk at her, but he sat. Noelle collapsed into the chair across from him, exhausted and not caring for the proper etiquette.

"What do you want from me?" She blurted out. She did not know where the question came from, but it seemed right to her to ask it at that moment.

"I mean," she continued, "You give me a lesson, you come to me, you tell me I shall take La Carlotta's place, you get me this new dressing room," (for Noelle was certain that this was his doing), "What do you want from me?" she repeated herself. Her voice grew in volume as she continued on, only half-minding her words. "I did not know that the Opera house come with its own ghost, or I would not have come." Her voice was harsh and unforgiving, even to her own ears. "Do you enjoy it?" She asked, not able to realize that she was ranting on mindlessly. "The fear? I know you are a man, an therefore must have the same feelings as a man." She saw astonishment, clearly written on his face. She continued on. "Do you enjoy the looks of fear that they have, watching themselves around every corner, scared that the phantom will come kill them?" She was almost yelling then. She did not even consider or care about the possibility of someone hearing her. "I suspect that you wish that I should fear you too, don't you? That you should scare me? Well, monsieur, you don't!"

There was silence for a moment, and she tried to catch the eyes of the man sitting before her, but he would not look at her. She regretted her words immediately, realizing her rashness too late. But the words had sprung from truth. She wanted to know what he wanted of her; what he expected of her.

His green eyes now met hers. There was a little spark, but she saw sadness and hurt in those eyes. She also saw distrust, which was the thing that hurt her the most, cutting her deeply. She berated herself, telling herself that it was foolish to feel any feelings of hurt. She had only met with this man twice before; she didn't even know him! But the hurt penetrated a part of her heart she did not know she still possessed.

"It was a mistake for me to come here," the Phantom said. His voice had a strange ring to it, the beautiful tenor infused with hidden hurt. Noelle was tempted to reach out a hand to him, but one look into his blazing green eyes told her that would not be wise. He stood abruptly. Noelle swallowed, knowing that she caused the hurt that he felt, but helpless to stop it.

A black-gloved hand reached out and caught her wrist, pressing hard on it. She forgot to breathe as she remembered that same hand, reaching out to caress her. She followed the line of his arm with her eyes until she was gazing into those two green pools of light again. They stared at her with an odd combination of anger and accusation. She could loose herself in those eyes, she realized, loose herself and never return from the darkness that was the Phantom's eyes. She felt fear then, abrupt and harsh, seizing her soul. She had never feared a man as much as she feared the Phantom then, not even Michael. Noelle closed her eyes, forgetting the pain in her arm. She felt her arm being released, but still did not open her eyes until she was sure that he was gone.

She opened her eyes and sighed, a long and woeful sigh. She felt her cheeks, barley able to comprehend the fact that she was crying. She climbed into the gigantic bed she had been given, sobbing. She had not cried once since her rape, not ever. She had repressed the hurt, banishing it into a place deep inside of her. It came out now, all the grief and woe she had felt. She wept for herself and for the Phantom. She blew out the candlelight, still crying uncontrollably. It seemed as if this man had opened a gate to her soul, and all the sorrow and grief that she had ever felt.

She lay on her bed, weeping deep, wracking sobs. It seemed as if there was no remedy for the tears that were coming from her, as if they would continue until the end of her life, until her last, sobbing breath. She was so distraught that she did not hear or recognize any sign of the other person in the room until a black glove gently touched her back. She tensed, but then, realizing who it was, relaxed a fraction.

She was still crying, but it was softer now. She felt the gentle presence of another body beside her, even though her head was turned and she could not see him. Him, she thought, the Phantom. The black glove gently encircled her waist, drawing her closer to him. Noelle still felt the sadness, but it was beginning to fade. In its place came a warm feeling of being held; of being safe. It provoked even more tears, gently slipping away into the pillow beneath her head. She was up against his side now, pressed gently up next to him, being held with a tenderness she never imagined possible. She felt his chest, with her back gently pressed up against it. She felt her legs, gently entangled with his. She felt his mask; his cold, white mask, pressed gently above her head.

She heard a gentle, ethereal humming that come from just above her, softly coaxing her to peace and rest. She cried a little still, but listened to the music, transfixed. She gently felt another hand, slowly, gently, making its way to encircle her until she was completely enveloped in the embrace of the Phantom of the Opera. Noelle forgot to think at that point, losing herself in the music and the gentle embrace. She gently felt for the hand that had moved to encircle her, finding it in the dark. She hesitated, but gently eased off the glove. She felt sudden tenseness from the body beside her, but the music did not abate its gentle rhythm.

She slowly interlaced her fingers with those of the Phantom. She felt him begin to tremble. She gently caressed his fingers, his cold fingers, gently bringing warmth and life back to them. It was an unspoken apology for how she had spoken and acted earlier. They were long and graceful; a musician's fingers. They were warm now, and the caressed her back gently, almost timidly. She snuggled closer to the Phantom, her eyes gently beginning to shut. There were no more tears, and her cheeks were beginning to dry. Her hand rested now within his, gently giving and absorbing warmth.

She began to drift off to the gentle music that was sweetly filling her soul. She was half-asleep when a voice whispered gently in her ear, lips softly in her ear, "My name is Erik." Erik, she thought drowsily, her spirit filled with a feeling of contentment.


Erik hid behind the mirror that was in Noelle's room. He smirked as he saw her close his book, wondering if she had been waiting for him. This thought, he realized, was unworthy of him, and he sent it to the back of his mind. He wondered what she thought, after the day before. Was she still angry? Erik was filled with regret for how he had acted. She had been angry, and it had been his fault. He hoped that she had forgiven him now.

He watched her whisper 'Phantom.' Erik sighed. He did not like it that she only knew him by the name that the ballet-managers and ballet rats knew him as. She is not ready, he warned himself. She cannot accept Erik yet; only show her Phantom. A glimmer of hope rose in him. Perhaps, in time, he told himself, she can grow to accept both.

"I am here, child," Erik said. He, however, know she was not a child, and did not think of her as one. But it was necessary to keep up the 'Phantom' image that he knew she saw him as.

"I am no child," she said, with childlike impishness. Erik smirked. He was amused by her, as much as she irritated him occasionally.

"All the same, you must cover your eyes when I approach." He did not want her to know of the system of mirrors he used to navigate the Opera house. Erik had learned stealth well, and did not make a sound as he entered the room. He saw her then, with her slender hands covering her eyes. Her beauty made his breath catch, as always. He gently touched her arm, his flesh inflaming even from the slight contact with her skin, and with a glove between them. He took in the outfit she was wearing. It was a simple leotard and tights; yet the sight of her made him catch his breath. He managed to keep all this from his expression and eyes. He knew that she could read him through the expressions in his eyes.

"Sit, please," she snapped at him, with obvious sarcasm. Erik felt her words burn him deep, the sarcasm in them hurting him. Had he done something wrong? He did nothing, but simply stood there, not knowing what to do. She continued on, her words still vaguely angry. "I have so much room now, that it would be a shame not to take advantage of it." Erik wondered if there was some problem with the room. He began to come back to his senses slowly, a bit of anger beginning to build inside of him.

"Do you like your new room?" asked Erik. He hadn't figured that Noelle would be like Carlotta; spoiled and never content with what she had. He hoped that wasn't the case. Somehow, he had never seen Noelle that way.

"Please, sit," she said. Her voice was kinder now. Erik nodded, taking a seat, wondering if she had even heard his question. It was clear that something was on her mind. He had planned to take her once again to the study-room to give her another lesson, this time concentrating on her vocal abilities. Although they were good, there was still room for improvement. He watched her with concern he dared not show as she collapsed into the chair across from him. Her eyes were dull, and he feared for her, that she had lost her light somehow; the part of her he most admired.

"What do you want from me?" Noelle blurted out at him. He frowned. What did he want with her? He thought of all his fantasies and hopes of the woman sitting across from him. They all seemed impossible and foolish to him now.

"I mean, you give me a lesson, you come to me, you tell me I shall take La Carlotta's place, you get me this new dressing room, What do you want from me?" Erik clenched his jaw against the pain. No! His mind shouted. It was not true. She was not accusing him... she could not be. She understood! Her voice continued on, a relentless tirade. "I did not know that the Opera house come with its own ghost, or I would not have come." Erik felt that as a slap across the face. He trembled with the hurt. "Do you enjoy it? The fear?" Erik inhaled sharply. Was that what she thought of him? "I know you are a man, an therefore must have the same feelings as a man." Erik felt astonishment, abrupt and glaring in its intensity. She knew he was a man, his mind whispered dully. She knew, and she loathed him.

"Do you enjoy the looks of fear that they have, watching themselves around every corner, scared that the phantom will come kill them?" Erik noticed the emphasis on his title. It was like a knife in his gut, twisting and burning. She detested him, his mind screamed. Of course she does, came the response. You are a monster and she is an angel. Of course she hates you. "I suspect that you wish that I should fear you too, don't you? That you should scare me? Well, monsieur, you don't!" Erik felt the hurt of her words, worse then any physical pain he could have endured. He felt her trying to see into his eyes. He evaded her, trying desperately to get his emotions under control. But his mother was there, along with the countless others, a multitude of others who detested him. And she hadn't even seen his face yet. He had been foolish to trust her, his mind whispered. Of course she hated him. He was a murderer; a monster; Satan's child.

He finally met her eyes. The look of regret in them almost killed him, but he forced the words to come from his tongue.

"It was a mistake to come here," Erik said. The hurt was gone, and in its place was anger; anger that burned and scalded him. He grabbed her wrist cruelly; he grabbed her thin wrist and held it. He watched her eyes travel up into his, slowly meandering into the darkness that was his soul. For the first time, he saw fear in them. It was more fear then he ever could imagine could be in her eyes. And it was because of him. She closed her eyes; her crystalline blue eyes were closed now, tears quivering on the edges of them. Erik let go of her wrist. He could not hurt her; he would not. He felt guilt and anger, conflicting within him in a tumultuous sea of emotion.

He stepped into the mirror dazedly, not caring if she saw. As soon as he was in the corridor, and safely away from her beautiful blue eyes that penetrated his soul, he leaned against the wall, no longer able to stand. The way she had looked at him... the mercy and compassion, mingled with fear... it was too much. Staggering, he began to make his way down to his lair, where she could not haunt him.

He heard weeping behind him, in the room he had left. He turned around. The weeping was so heart-broken and distraught, it cut into his heart. It was Noelle, weeping. But why does she cry, he wondered. Was it because of him? He did not mean to cause a second of pain to her.

He turned back and watched her from behind the mirror. She had thrown herself on the bed, and was weeping brokenly with a despair he had thought no other human being had. He was mesmerized by her, as much as he was sorry that she was crying. She blew out the light, and still cried in the dark.

Erik slowly entered the room, all the emotion of the previous moment gone, replaced with concern. He wanted to comfort her, any way he could. His mind threatened him, telling him that this was not at all wise. But he did not listen, gone in his concern for Noelle. She did not notice him, but continued to sob.

He gently came up to her, mesmerized by her beauty, even when she was in pain. Hardly knowing what he was doing, he gently reached out his hand to her back. He felt the muscles tense at first, but then they relaxed. Still not knowing what he was doing, he gently hoisted himself onto the bed. She did not draw away from him, and so he gently reached out an arm, hardly believing that she was letting him do this, and brought her close against him. Her touch was intoxicating to him; having her this close to him was amazing and wonderful, and almost made him descent into fantasy... but this was about comforting her, not him.

He gently began to hum in her ear, trying to comfort her with music. Slowly, her sobs died down as she listened to his voice. He allowed his other arm to gently cradle her body, so that he formed a cradle for her, gently comforting her. Comfort. It was strange to him that Noelle would seek comfort from him. Yet she did.

He felt one of her gentle, beautiful hands gently move towards his. His heartbeat began to race faster now, but he kept singing. Erik felt her remove the glove. He was tempted to hold his breath, but he was in the middle of a note. So he kept on singing, wondering what was going to happen, and hardly wishing to hope.

She gently intertwined her fingers with his. Erik swallowed, trembling. His fingers had never been touched with so much... love, so much gentleness, so much tenderness. She was gently caressing them, bringing warmth where it had never been. He trembled, trying to still sing, and succeeding. She had stopped, content to hold his hand. He slowly, timidly, began to return the caresses onto her fingers, gently stroking them with all the tenderness he could. He heard her sigh of contentment, and kept singing, softly and sweetly.

The song was coming to an end, and he felt her gradual drift off into half-sleep. Erik felt as if there was something he should do, something he should tell her... Of course, his mind told him.

"My name is Erik," he whispered gently into her ear. He knew she heard him, and was content to lie there and let her drift off into sleep. Erik did not sleep usually very much; yet lying here, embracing her, he allowed his mind the gentle recess into dreams.