A/N

So far, I've had several "Keep it!"s, and only one "Dump it!", so the dream stays, for now, at least. This chapter involves some Christine. She'll come and go at kind of random intervals, in the story.

Enjoy!

The First Step

It was deigned of specific import that suitable housing be acquired. I still had sufficient funds, from my days at the opera house, enough to afford comfortable living situations for Henri and myself for at least a year. It was obvious that a steady income would need to be attained, but what I had in my current possession would be enough for the time being.

And so, with little further ado, we set out for London. It was not a ridiculously long trip, and thus it was deemed economically intelligent that we travel by way of César and my carriage. Once we arrived in London, I found an apartment of considerable size, and by means which I never intend to fully reveal, purchased furniture for our new home, as well. With Henri's help, I invested a large sum of my money in what a great authority had informed me would be wise: a trading company. This great authority located for me a company in great need of funds, that was also showing much promise; and, with little procrastination, I began to receive returns.

Within only six months, my investment had already begun to pay off highly. With such a large sum of money—and only steadily growing larger—I decided to see to Henri's education. I found one of London's finest tutors, and also sent him to study with a butler—for, if I intended to one day trust him with the run of my household, I desired that he be totally informed. He was an intelligent lad, and it took him only three years to complete his learning and training both. I then sent him on to higher education; he studied with accountants, physicians, lawyers, and though he studied with them only briefly and in little detail, they were all of great esteem in their field.

My days without Henri—for he was almost never at home, for even once he had finished studying for one day, he still had many chores to run for my sake—passed slowly. I spent them reading up on the literature of the day—Henri was always very careful to bring me things he thought I would enjoy—or browsing through the periodicals that Henri enjoyed reading. He was always leaving them strewn about the house, which left me no choice but to pick them up.. and, in doing so, I must admit my attention was captured. I feel rather embarrassed to admit that I especially enjoyed the ones he brought home involving the stories from the "Wild West" of the Americas...

-O.G.

Erik tossed aside his third periodical of the day, and breathed a heavy sigh. One hand rose to massage his eyes, pressing furtively against the little orbs, and observing the multicolored spots that the pressure inspired. He had taken to not bothering with the mask, while Henri was not home; he felt secure in his privacy. Heavy curtains remained drawn throughout the house when Henri was absent, and in all rooms except Henri's even when he was home.

Erik had begun to regret how rarely the boy was around—though, he supposed he could no longer refer to him as a boy. In his seventeenth year, it had quite suddenly occurred to Henri's body that perhaps it should attempt to keep up with the mind and years of its inhabitant. And so, in almost literal leaps and bounds, the boy's body had warped into that of a young man—and a handsome one, too; almost handsome enough to upset the poor once-Phantom of the Opera.

Angry knuckles dug into his eyes, attempting weakly to dash away the images flashing through his mind. It was not enough that every waking moment was a reminder of his failure; he had, also, to deal with the constant memories, the doubts, the regrets—but, most frustratingly, the perfect hindsight that supplied him with so many obvious alternatives to the routes he had chosen.

One hand fished out his pocket-watch, and flipped its cover open. Three forty-two, in the afternoon. Henri would not be home for at least another few hours. He stood quickly, just as fluidly as ever—it pleased him to find that he had not lost the grace he had possessed in the opera house—and meandered into the kitchen. Fingers closed around a cold biscuit, and he nibbled on the near-tasteless object. A mug of coffee, long gone cold, still perched forlornly on the corner of the counter; he grimaced, and drank it anyway.

The sound of a key in the door froze him in place. He listened, coffee mug poised a finger's-breadth from his lips, as the lock clicked open and the door swung in. Silently, he set the mug down, and eased into his own rooms.

"Erik?"

Shoulders sagged with relief, as Henri's voice came wafting through the apartment. Erik quickly retrieved his mask, pressed it into place, and then moved to join Henri in the kitchen.

The boy was lifting the mug, feeling of its temperature, and frowning. "You were drinking this?" Erik shrugged, as Henri tossed the coffee down the drain and moved to produce more. "It's not difficult to work the stove, you know. You could easily fix yourself more."

"I didn't want to waste what had already been made." The words were chosen carefully; Henri did not seem to be in the best of moods. Erik took a seat at the small kitchen table, and folded his hands on the cool surface. "What are you doing home so early?"

Henri turned around sharply, and looked down at Erik with no small amount of exasperation. Erik's cautiously-lifted brow caused nothing but more agitation. "Erik, we—you—I—have a meeting today, remember? With Mr. Bradbury?"

Of course. The man who had been seeing to the money that traveled between Erik and his investment. He had written a letter, declaring it of great importance that he meet with the investor and have a discussion pertaining to the health of the company. "Ah, yes, I remember," he offered, to quell the look of anxiety spreading across Henri's face. "And?"

Henri's hand rose to mash against his cheek. "Erik... Dear God in Heaven, Erik, this can't be a good meeting. What if the company's gone bankrupt? What are you going to do then? You've got no alternative source of income, do you?"

The boy needn't have asked—he knew more about Erik's funds than Erik did. "So, then, we'll find another. We've got enough money to go for quite a while..."

Henri, of course, knew he was correct, but it did not seem to make the boy feel much better.

Coffee was seen to and distributed, with enough remaining to make Mr. Bradbury comfortable. Henri sat down at the table with Erik, and quiet murmurs of conversation held them over until four, at which time Bradbury was scheduled to arrive. A few moments beforehand, Erik rose and made his way to his rooms, where he always was when company arrived. He listened as Henri walked about, opening all the curtains, and tidying up the magazines that first he, and then Erik, had left lying about.

Before long, a knock came at the door. Muffled voices, greetings and questions after one another's health. Henri inquired after the well-being of Bradbury's family; Bradbury, knowing Henri had no family, inquired after the well-being of his bank account. Both replied that things were marvelous, of course; it was only polite to do so.

"Care for coffee, Mr. Bradbury?"

"Oh, yes, please, Henri."

Both of them walked into the kitchen. There was silence for a moment, as Henri presumably was pouring the coffee. He heard two chairs dragged across the floor, and the quiet clunk of the mug being set on the table. He heard Henri begin to say something, and then suddenly fall silent. Silence stretched, and finally:

"Who's that third mug for?"

Erik's jaw clenched. He had left his coffee... and so had Henri.

Come on, Henri. You're smart enough for this, kid.. Make something up!

"Oh.. That's mine." A sharp, nervous bark of laughter. "I, uh. I get lazy, you know? Just pull out another mug."

Bradbury was quiet for a while longer. There was no way, of course, that anyone could believe Henri was that lazy, that messy. The near-immaculate state of his living conditions was testament enough against that. However, after a few moments' consideration, Bradbury apparently decided it was not worth it to call Henri on the lie, and allowed it to pass.

"Anyway, Mr. Goodings, I feel it important that we speak... honestly, with one another, about the business."

The sound of Henri sitting interrupted a few of Bradbury's words. Erik cursed the pitiful eavesdropping post, and swore to find himself a better one.

"—hasn't been doing so well, in Africa. A family just died, recently; a little too fond of safari, you see, and... well, the Dark Continent claimed another respectable English family."

Erik frowned, and Henri echoed his own thoughts: "Why are you telling me this, Mr. Bradbury?"

"Because, Mr. Goodings. You're a strapping young lad. Certainly a man your age has a taste for adventure? Certainly, simple pursuits within London cannot hold your attention."

Erik cursed the man; he could almost feel Henri's anticipation. Bradbury was correct, of course—Henri had aspirations that went far beyond London and its dreary life, but he would never have moved to take them without Erik's consent—until now.

"We need a representative out there, Mr. Goodings. A good man, a smart man, who can help to arrange the shipping back and forth, that can speak with the businessmen there, that can oversee the run of things. You'd receive pay, for your time there, as well as a spending allowance—and, of course, you would still receive the usual money, from the investment.

"The family lived on a plantation; you'd be well looked after. Servants, stables, acres and acres of land, and right on the edge of a town, so entertainment would not be far off. A respectable, English town, mind you, with a pub and billiards and good Englishmen."

"I.. will have to think this over, of course," Henri replied, barely waiting until Bradbury had finished speaking.

"Oh, of course, Mr. Goodings. I would except nothing less, from a man of your intellect." He heard Bradbury stand, heard his footsteps fade as he moved towards the door. "You know where to reach me, lad." And the door was shut behind him.

"No."

"But Erik, didn't you hear what he said? We'd be swimming in money before you could even—"

Erik raised a hand to press against the left half of his forehead, kneading the skin there as if it could do any good against the throbbing in his mind. He had no desire to leave Europe—why would he? Leaving Paris had been a very huge step in accepting his past, but to leave Europe seemed almost too big a step, too vast a separation from Christine. He still held the foolish hope that one day, he would look down from one of his windows and see her form passing below, and he would go to her, and she would—

Henri's fist collided with his shoulder. "You aren't even listening to me, are you?"

"Don't raise your voice to me," Erik growled. "And don't hit me either, damn it." The hand that had been seeing to his forehead now abandoned its post, to rub his shoulder. "I'm thinking." Sulky tones, more befitting of a teenager than an aging man.

"Yes, and I know what you're thinking about, as well." Angry eyes met his own; Henri was squaring off for a confrontation. Erik turned away from him and moved to the window, pushing back the curtains ever so slightly and looking down on the street below.

Look at all the people, old man. Look at all the men, women, and children who will never know of you, never hear your story, never feel your pain. They know nothing of your existence; why should they care, if you desire the world to end? They will never worry for you, never think about you, never wonder how you are doing. They will never lie awake at night, hoping you have found love, and happiness. They will never look up and see you staring down—their hearts will never go out to you. Only you feel sorry for you—what does the world care for the pitiful fate of the Opera Ghost?

"Erik."

His name brought him back to himself. "Hm?" His eyes never left the bustle of the streets.

"Let us go. What is there to keep us here?"

What, indeed? Had that not been his reason for leaving Paris? He told himself he was leaving his past behind, but truly had it not just been a lack of a reason to stay? No one in Paris wanted him in Paris. No one in London wanted him in London. But Henri, Henri wanted him in Africa. Why not go to Africa, then?

And then, the unbelievable happened.

A spot of light in the sea of darkness below him. Curly, unruly hair, silken as the wind against the flesh of his accursed face; dark, round eyes, filled with wonder and life and beauty; flawless skin, and the mouth of an angel... That face turned to look straight into his window, and her skin went white as the dress she wore. So far away, and already beginning to back farther. Erik raised a hand and pressed it against the glass, straining against his cage even as his little sparrow turned and vanished into the sea of people.

"Henri!" he gasped, turning from the window. "She is here! She has come!"

The boy stared at him as if he had gone mad. Had he? He did not care. "I must—I can't! Oh, Henri, please, you must go after her!" He turned back to the window. "She has gone around the corner, to the right. She will be gone forever! Henri, please! Go and fetch her! She is wearing white... She is the only one wearing white..."

He heard the door shut before he realized that Henri had obeyed him. His weight sagged against the wall beside the window, as he watched Henri's form spill out onto the street and rush in the direction Erik had specified.

Please, let him find her... If there be any compassion in the world, let him find her...

Christine de Chagny, formerly known as Christine Daaé, staggered to a halt in a less crowded space of walkway, and allowed her trembling form to collapse against the brick wall behind her. People passed her by without a second glance. No one cared for the foreigner who swooned against a wall, hand pressed to her bosom.

"Madam?"

Eyes flicked up to the man standing before her, and a breath was released. His voice... But, no, it did not matter what his voice had sounded like—for, quite obviously, this blonde-haired young man was far from being who she had feared.

"Madam, are you alright?" He stepped closer to her, and offered his arm for support. She took it thankfully, and put no small amount of her weight on it—though, the weight of a woman her size was no great burden.

"Yes, thank you, Monsieur. I.. have not eaten, and was feeling a little faint."

He began to walk, and she followed, too distraught to realize he was taking her in the direction she had just come from.

"You look as if you have seen a ghost, Madam."

Oh, if only the boy knew how ironic his choice of words truly was. "Yes, Monsieur, I suppose you could say that I have." She paused, fanning herself, and then amended, "Or, that I thought I had." Surely, there was no way that the face looking down on her had been—? It was not possible. She had buried him, in Paris, years ago. He was no more than a rotting corpse, now.

A terrible part of her mind quipped, Was he ever more than a rotting corpse?

She chided herself for allowing that thought to pass through her mind, and forced it to instead focus on the young man aiding her.

"What ever do you mean, Madam? You are not hallucinating, are you?"

Christine laughed. "No, no, Monsieur. If you would kindly point me in the way of—"

"Perhaps you should come to my apartment, and allow me to make you something to eat?" The young man looked at her earnestly.

Fear gripped her heart, at the same time that appreciation flooded her mind. She had either fallen into the grips of a rapist, or a kind gentleman indeed. It was not proper to go to a man's flat, especially not when one was married. But.. when one's husband had suddenly vanished from one's side, leaving one to find one's own way through a strange city?

"Oui, Monsieur. I would like that, very much."

He smiled, and continued to lead her onward. She paid little mind to where they were going.

"So, from France, are we?"

She nodded. "I lived there, a few years ago. I moved, with my husband... but his sister invited us to spend time with her here, in London."

The man's lips pursed—she assumed, from disapproval. "Where is your husband, Madam? Does he often abandon you to your own devices?"

"No, Monsieur. We became separated. I assumed he wished me to meet with him at his sister's home, but I am not truly sure where that is."

The man smiled. "Well, after we have eaten, if you will tell me the address, I will see to it that you arrive there safely."

"Oh, thank you, Monsieur."

The man extended his hand, and smiled. "Please, Madam—my name is Henri."

She raised her eyes to meet his own, and placed her hand lightly in his. "Christine, Monsieur. It is a pleasure to meet you." His face brightened, at the same moment that his eyes fell into shadow.

They reached his flat in no time at all, and he led her up two flights of stairs before unlocking a door and admitting her in. The room was dark; the curtains were all drawn, and daylight was fading. Henri cut on two lamps, on either side of the door, and supplied a little light for the sitting room. He motioned Christine into a chair; she took it gratefully. It was a rather overstuffed arm chair, that forced her to lean back a little more than she would have preferred, but it was suitable—and, appreciated, for after wandering the streets of London for nigh on three hours, she was more than ready to sit down.

"Care for coffee, or tea, while you wait for supper?"

"Tea would be lovely, Monsieur. Shall I take it in the kitchen?"

"No, no, stay where you are. I shall bring it to you." He vanished into an adjoining room, and shut the door. She frowned. Did making tea require privacy, nowadays?

A gust of wind from an unidentified source swept through the room, sending shivers up her spine. She crossed her arms over her stomach, hands grasping at her elbows. Why did she suddenly feel so—

"Christine..."

One hand flew to her mouth to stifle a scream. Had she truly heard that terrible, beautiful voice? Surely not. Surely it was impossible.

And yet, her curiosity got the better of her. As quietly as she could manage, to avoid sounding like a lunatic should she be mistaken, she called out, "Erik?"

Her eyes found it before her mind recognized it. A glimmering spot of white amidst a sea of inky shadows, off in the farthest corner of the room. It retreated, down the hallway, and that voice floated out to her to wrap around her senses. A quiet song, in French, that needled its way into the very fibers of her existence and tugged with undeniable persistence. Without a choice left to her, she rose and followed it.

He could not believe it, when she came into the house. He had expected Henri to show up fruitless; he had not dared hope that it was even truly his Christine. But Henri had brought her in, sat her down, and vanished into the kitchen. He had called her, and she had answered. She had used his name! Even to hear those simple syllables falling from her lips had been enough to nearly drive him to his knees. He had sung for her, though, and she had followed him—God, she followed him!

He retreated into his bedroom, and still she followed. When he stepped out of view, behind the door, he heard her steps falter... but then her curiosity got the better of her, as it always had, and she continued into his room.

He stopped his song at the same moment that he shut the door behind her. She yelped, and spun around, eyes searching the darkness in vain. He reached out one hand, fingertip just barely grazing her ear lobe. She whimpered, and stepped away from him, though she could not very well evade him when she could not see anything at all.

"Please, Erik. I am frightened... Can you not turn on a light?" He heard the pitiful tremble of fear in her voice, and was helpless to deny it. He moved to the corner, and cut on a lamp. Immediately, the shadows fell back from the room. It was a simple room, with a simple bed, and a simple chest-of-drawers. He was not one to live in finery—or at least, not one to sleep in it.

Christine turned to look at him, and her hands flew to press against her mouth again. She looked as if she were going to cry. He looked down at the floor, shame suddenly flooding through him. What had he done? He had meant to leave her forever in peace, and now he had ruined any hope she had ever had of leading a happy life.

"I thought you were dead!" she declared, one foot stomping into the floor. "Why would you fool me like that, Erik? How could you be so cruel, to let me bury some rotting corpse, and then come back to haunt me afterwards?" Tears were now spilling down her cheeks. He took a step towards her, but just as his leg moved forwards, so did hers move backwards. He stopped, and she stood regarding him warily.

"I am sorry. I thought to.. I did not intend to.. I saw you, in the window, and I.."

Her hand came up to collide roughly with his left cheek. He raised a hand to touch the stinging surface of his cheek, and turned angry eyes on her vehement little figure.

"Who did I bury, next to your well? On whose finger did I place my ring—your ring? Over whose body did I spill mindless tears? For whose sake did I slave away on digging a grave? For whose sake did I submit myself to terror-filled days in those awful sewers?"

He shook his head, turning his body away from her. She reached out and pressed against his shoulder, trying in vain to turn him back towards her. "Who, Erik? Who, if not you?"

"Just a stagehand," he managed after a moment. "A stagehand, who died of too much drink. I found him one night, and took his corpse."

A single cry escaped, before her hand cut off its departure from her lips. She stood regarding him with horror for a long moment, before continuing her tirade. "Just a stagehand, wearing your mask? A man with family, who will never know what happened to his body?" She was backing away from him again. "Oh, Erik, how could you?"

He advanced on her. She had hit the door; she could not back away from him any further. He stepped close to her, hands catching her face and holding it gently. "But I did it for you!" he cried, in his own defense. "I wanted you to be happy. I wanted you to think me dead and buried! I wanted you to live, content, and forget me!"

Her hands closed around his wrists, but they did not tug his hands away. "Erik, you cannot want me to think you dead and to know you alive at the same time." She looked down, her long lashes batting against tears. "You stole me away again, Erik, just like all those years ago, in Paris. Will you keep me here again, Erik?"

His heart thudded uncomfortably against his breastbone. How could she ask such a thing? "No, of course not..." He had seen the ring on her finger; she was obviously quite content, with her viscount. He could not steal her away from life again... "Oh, Christine!" He sagged against her, head dropping onto her shoulder. Timorously, her hands migrated to rest on his shoulder blades, petting his back softly. He could feel the rigidity of fear in her body, but he ignored it, told himself it was not fear that kept her so tense. For just a moment, he wanted to believe himself loved again.

"Stay with me?" he whispered.

"For a little while," she answered, her head nodding. "For a little while."

Christine awoke to a gentle shaking. She opened her eyes, and found herself quite firmly entrapped in Erik's arms. He had coaxed her to the bed, had laid down beside her—both of them still fully clothed—and had settled against her, arms enfolding her with a desperation she had never imagined a human being could feel. They had fallen asleep there, him weeping pitifully, and her trying her best to calm him. She had removed his mask; she knew as well as he did that when he cried, if he left his mask on, it agitated his skin.

"Madam, wake up..."

She turned her head, to find Henri bent over her. Erik's head was buried against her chest; his breathing suggested that he was sleeping soundly. That terrible right side was pressed against her, and though her heart swelled with compassion, her skin could not help but crawl at the prospect of being in such close and steady contact with that horrific flesh.

She gently pried his arms from around her waist, and eased out of the bed. He immediately settled into the warm spot she had abandoned. Despite herself, she sat next to him on the bed, shielding his face from Henri's view. She did not know if the boy had seen his face or not, but she would not be the one to allow Henri his first eyeful. She glanced behind her to see Henri with his back respectfully turned; she bent and pressed a feather-light kiss to Erik's temple, and then stood and followed Henri out into the sitting room.

"You should leave now, Madam," the boy whispered. "He will awaken soon."

She nodded, and kissed the boy's cheek. "Thank you," she mouthed; not even a whisper would she risk, for she knew her voice, more than any other thing, could awaken Erik.

Christine retrieved the few things she had discarded near her little chair, and exited the little apartment with Henri on her heels. He saw her down to the street, and helped her into a carriage. Coins were handed her, to supply her with transportation to Raoul's sister's house. The first grey light of dawn was beginning to grace the streets.

"Madam, we are going to Africa," he said, as he came to stand near her again. "I.. think that he would not have had me fetch you, if we were not. It is hard, I think, for him to say goodbye to Europe."

"Do you know, then, what passed between us?" she asked, with a slight flush of her cheeks.

Henri looked at her for a moment, and then shook his head. "I know only that he loved—no, loves—you, Madam, and that he dreams of you every night."

She shivered, and nodded. As the carriage lurched to a steady roll, she leaned out of the window and waved a hand to Henri. "Take care of him for me!" she called, before settling back into her seat. She could not decide whether to weep for joy at not being held captive.. or for misery, at Erik's pitiful fate.

Henri watched the carriage until it was out of sight, and then turned and made the weary trek back to the apartment. He moved to the kitchen, and began to boil water for coffee. Erik would need it this morning more than he ever had before.

A slight noise caused Henri to turn—and there, in the doorway to the kitchen, stood a haggard Erik. One hand covered the right side of his face, as the other tried desperately to dash away tears. His voice, usually so smooth and angelic, was rough this morning with the weariness that comes from prolonged weeping.

"Alright," he said finally. "We.. will go to Africa. But on one condition."

Henri's stomach tensed.

Erik gave a sad smirk, and looked over his shoulder towards his bedroom. "Help me find my mask?"