Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters from The Phantom of the Opera. My characterizations of Erik, Christine and Madame Giry are based on the 2004 film.

A/N: Since this is fiction, and my fiction, I have taken a few liberties with Erik's physical appearance, and have not followed exactly the "conditions" in the film, i. e., the wig. My Erik's hair is all his own, and since the fire, he no longer wears his mask.

NO ONE BUT HER

Chapter Two—A Tiny Scrap of Hope

"Christine? Christine, wake up! It's only a bad dream!"

The voice, so tantalizingly familiar and at the same time unfamiliar, murmured soothingly in her ear. She tried to wrench away, but her hands were held tight against a hard chest, and the arm around her back was like iron. For an instant she melted against him, whispering brokenly, "Oh, Raoul, it was horrible! The chandelier at the opera house was falling toward me and I couldn't move!"

Then the truth struck her like a great blow. "Oh, God, no! Raoul's dead!" Realizing suddenly she didn't know who held her so close, she drew a deep breath to scream, only to have a warm, calloused palm cover her mouth.

The man holding her eased a few inches away, until she could see his face in the dim light. Her eyes widened above his hand as she recognized Erik.

"Please, Christine, please don't scream! I mean you no harm, I swear!" Slowly he lowered his hand, his thumb gently wiping away the tears that had trickled down her cheeks.

"Erik!" she whispered. "How did you get in here? No," she continued quickly, "I don't want to know." She swallowed hard. "You heard—about—about Raoul?"

"Yes. I wanted to—to tell you in person—how very sorry I am, Christine. He was—a good man." He inhaled sharply, then went on, "I—wanted you to know that—I bore him no ill will."

With a soft cry she dissolved into tears, and without thinking Erik pulled her into his arms and rocked her, gently rubbing up and down her back until her grief was spent for the moment. The scent of wildflowers in her hair had filled his memories for so long, and the feel of her in his arms after four long years was almost more than he could stand. Stop it!, he told himself harshly. That way of thinking will do you no good. Gently he ran his hand over her luxurious dark curls. Oh, Christine! How much I wish things could have been different!

With a tremulous sigh she pulled away, wiping her eyes with the backs of her hands until he produced a handkerchief and gave it to her. Gratefully she dabbed at the remaining tears, noticing against her will the smell of him that clung to the square of linen—a hint of bay rum, and a scent that was his alone, something that she recognized even after four years of living with Raoul.

"I'm all right now," she told him, handing the handkerchief back to him. Gently she cupped the scarred side of his face, and he had to forcibly stop himself from turning his head and kissing her palm. He stiffened at the touch of her fingertips tracing lightly over his cheek, fighting the feelings that flooded over him.

"Your face!" she said excitedly. "The scars are smaller, aren't they?"

Before he could reply, there were voices in the corridor, just outside her door. Swiftly he laid her back against her pillows, pressing a kiss to her fingertips before tucking her hand under the coverlet. "Take care of yourself, mon ange," he whispered and was gone before she could blink.

Later that night, as she was twisting and turning, seeking a more comfortable position, she gave up trying to fight the memories of a few hours ago. He called me his angel, she mused, an endearment only he had ever used, and absently rubbed the mound of her child. A sharp kick made her wince, and she smiled wistfully. All right, little one, no more thinking about Erik.

There was never any doubt that he loved you, a voice in her head argued.

"No, but the lengths he went to for that love were more than frightening," she murmured. Is he still the same obsessed man I knew, or has he changed? Marie would have me believe that he is a different man. Oh, what am I doing even thinking about him, when Raoul is barely cold in his grave? The tears that were never far from her these days spilled down her cheeks, and she turned her face into the pillow to muffle the sound.

Standing unnoticed in the shadows, the sound of her sobbing tore through Erik like sharp knives and he clenched his fists and gritted his teeth against the cry that rose from the depths of his very soul. He inhaled slowly and deeply, and concentrated on listening for sounds that Christine had fallen asleep. Only when her breathing was deep and even did he venture from his hiding place and approach the bed.

He went down on one knee and reached out to smooth a curl off her forehead. She shifted at his touch and he froze, until he was certain she hadn't awakened. Slowly he let out a breath, and leaning down so that his mouth was near her ear, he began to sing softly. He stopped suddenly when he realized what he had been singing—The Music of the Night. Giving himself a mental kick, he touched his forehead to hers for a brief moment then said softly, "Christine, I love you." With a butterfly kiss to her cheek, he left the room as quietly as he had come, making his way silently out of the house and down the road to where he had tied his horse.

Quickly he mounted and rode away, ignoring the tears that ran down his face. He reached home without meeting anyone on the road and unsaddled his bay mare without bothering to light a lantern in the stable. As he stood brushing her glossy coat, suddenly he leaned against her neck and said brokenly, "Anywhere you go, let me go, too."

Christine woke drenched in sweat, crippling pain working its way from her back around to center in her belly. "Oh, God!" she gasped and began to pant, remembering that the midwife had told her to breathe in such a way when she was in labor with her son. Soon the pain subsided and she swung her legs over the side of the bed, grimacing at the wet clamminess of her gown and the sheets.

Slowly she eased down from the bed and made her way across the room to the bell pull. Within minutes her maid Louise appeared, with Madame Giry on her heels. Caught up in another contraction Christine cried out and the maid began to sob.

Marie gave the girl a hard shake. "Go and send one of the footmen for Madame Piccout, the midwife. I will take care of your mistress." Her eyes huge with fear, the girl scurried away to do as she'd been told.

That was one of the longest days Christine had ever endured. The midwife insisted that she walk around the bedroom between contractions and Christine was positive that by the time it came to push, she'd walked miles. The child came just before dawn the next day, a tiny girl with Christine's dark curls and Raoul's blue eyes, squalling indignantly until the midwife placed her in her mother's arms.

Blinking away tears, Christine touched her daughter's tiny cheeks with a fingertip. "Hello, Annaliese," she whispered. Looking up at the two women who stood beaming at her, she said, "Raoul and I had decided to use my mother's name for a girl." She looked back down at the baby, now sleeping peacefully, and added, "But Raoul left the decision of her middle name up to me." Bravely she looked at Madame Giry and said, "Her middle name is Erika."

A/N: Thanks for the reviews-- I think I can respond to all in one. Yes, Christine and Raoul have a 3 year-old son, Stephen. Sorry for any confusion! Underlining "thoughts" is force-of-habit with me-- for years that was the "proper" way to format a manuscript for publishing. Anything that was not to be printed in normal typeface had to be underlined. Hope you enjoy Ch. 2!