X. See why in Shadow I hide
Wrapping her blanket around her tightly, Meg curled up and closed her eyes. Still there were wild, unpleasant thoughts in her head, mostly images from the afternoon – Hulot stumbling backwards bleeding, Niobe, leering gypsies, Adhemar's empty eyes – but also memories from a few days ago, flashing past her inner eye, but she tried to ignore them. The Lost Ones had suffered a grave defeat; they would not strike again too soon.
Or would they?
Pushing the idea away, she tried to think of something else. The coming productions, for example.
Which would not come too soon, since a certain Phantom had thrown down the chandelier and caused a fire on stage and in the auditorium.
Or her friend Christine.
Who was away with Raoul currently and would probably quit the ballet to marry the vicomte.
Or how about... her favourite chocolates?
With the Opera Populaire's current situation, there would only be very small wages, which meant that there would be no sweets at all for the time to come.
Meg sighed. Why did all the world have to annoy her currently?
The door to her tiny room creaked very softly, and Meg froze where she lay, unable even to pull the blanket over her head. Créon, she thought. Créon is coming for me... From the darkness inside her head, Lionel's luminous green eyes stared at her once again, like a hunting predator's, full of bestial malice.
And then there was the very softest creaking of floorboards...
Curled up to a ball, Meg awaited the blow with clenched teeth.
"Now, now," a soft voice whispered by her ear. "Why are you scared of me so suddenly?" Then she felt a gentle lurching of the mattress as somebody lowered his weight onto the edge of the bed.
"Erik!" she exclaimed, relieved and furious at the same time. "You gave me such a scare, you jerk!"
Above her, he chuckled softly, and she felt his fingers gently thread into her hair. "Excitable little thing."
"Jerk," she insisted. Only then she realized that her eyes were still pressed closed, and she hastily opened them again to give the Phantom a dirty look. At least this was her plan, because when she looked at him, he gave her such an indecent little smirk that her eyes snapped shut again for a moment all by themselves. "Jerk," she repeated and glared at the ceiling furiously.
"You look so sweet when you sulk, little one," he commented. "Say, do you have any plans for tonight?"
Plans for tonight? Immediately Meg jerked upright. Was she already smelling adventure again? "What are you up to?"
He shrugged. "Nothing much. I'm only looking for a bed to move into."
So that was what he was after! How naughty indeed... Meg had to suppress a giggle. "Are you feeling cuddly, then?" An odd thing to say to the Phantom of the Opera, it occurred to her, but the mask's dim white gleam in the shadows beside her held no dread for her anymore, not even after the things she had witnessed on this day. He had killed, but so he had done before, and so had others. He had acted like a bloodthirsty beast, but – Heavens above! – wasn't he entitled to a little bit of mad behaviour, after acting sane for so long? Well… In this case, Meg preferred not to think of the incidents; it was easier.
"Particularly so," he replied cheerfully while taking off his boots and placing them beside the bed. Then, without waiting for an invitation, he swung up his legs and slipped under the blanket beside her, tugging at the blanket. "Won't I get tucked in properly?"
Still giggling, Meg shoved part of the blanket over at him. Currently she felt like a naughty child starting a late-night party in the ballet dormitories, and with the boys as guests. There had been plenty of those occasions, she recalled, before she had been old enough to get a tiny chamber of her own, and the boys had always been eager to visit – especially Xavier. But never had she even imagined that one day she would have the Phantom in her room at night, and even under her blanket.
Now that was a very naughty thought. Her mother would box her ears for sure.
The Phantom shifted around beside her, trying to find a comfortable position, then stretched out on his back, with one arm beneath his head. The bed felt rather crowded now, but comfortably warm. Lying back down beside him, Meg gave his mask a little pat, wondering of what material it was made. It felt leathery under her fingers, yet smooth and hard. Hard leather? Very hard leather? Was there any such thing? And how exactly did he manage to keep the thing on, when there were no ribbons visible to fix it to his face? Surely he didn't just put some kind of sticky substance on it? Meg was very tempted to try and take his mask away, yet she knew from Christine how touchy the Phantom was about actions of that kind, so she resisted the urge and tickled him under the chin instead. His skin felt soft under her fingers, softer than she had expected – and a fool she had been, why should men be rough-skinned? – though there was a little bit of dark stubble already. Meg was surprised at how quickly that obviously grew; he had been completely clean-shaven in the morning. Well, otherwise he wouldn't have to shave every morning. Meg was glad there was no need for her to do so; she did not like the idea of a sharp blade too close to her face and neck very much.
Yawning, the Phantom wrapped an arm around her waist. "Get some sleep, little one," he murmured, his eyes already closed. "We can play in the morning."
This was all the invitation Meg needed to poke him in the ribs. "What if I want to play right now?"
"Oh, you little brat." His voice was tinged with amusement. "What do you want to play, then?"
"How about Pinch the Ghost?"
"How about Pinch the Ballet Rat?" he returned. "Although from the noises you'll produce, I'd rather call it Slaughter the Piglet."
At first Meg wanted to protest to being called a ballet rat – she was too old to belong to the rat category, she was almost seventeen! –, yet what came after that drove it out of her mind entirely. "Not true! And just wait what noises you'll make!" To underline her threat, she elbowed him in the ribs. "I'll pinch you where it really hurts," she continued, in case he was not intimidated enough. "I know a few good places."
"Really." He did not sound impressed at all. "Now withdraw your elbow; I'm not exactly comfortable."
With a little battle cry, Meg wrestled free of his arm and leaped onto him, settling down on his stomach, straddling him. "Got you," she announced.
He blinked up at her lazily. "Apart from crumpling my shirt, you can't do much to me, I'm afraid."
Meg looked down at him. He was wearing a white shirt, probably made of fine linen, of the kind worn under jacket and waistcoat of an evening dress, without lace or embroidery, but with buttons all the way down the front. And just as she could have told without looking, he had left the two topmost buttons open – though she might have expected it to be the topmost three. "You won't exactly die of a crumpled shirt," she decided. "Though it might wound your pride a little bit."
The Phantom chuckled softly. Already his dark hair was in disarray, spread across the pillow in long strands. "I'll have to take it off, then," he grinned, and his grin broadened as he started unbuttoning it slowly.
Lord in Heavens, did he really have to do this? Meg felt the blush creep onto her cheeks. True enough, she enjoyed an occasional glance at male anatomy, and at his in particular – though she wouldn't say no to a little gawk at Raoul's, either –, and she had seen the Phantom without a shirt before, yet there was still no reason for him to start taking off his clothes while smirking at her. All he wanted to do was make her feel embarrassed; she could see him right through.
Or maybe – her breath caught – he wanted more. From what Christine had told her, it was easy enough to deduct that he had never yet spent a night with a woman. After all that time alone, he would be quite eager to. And if he could not take Christine to bed, then maybe he would try to find satisfaction with somebody else. At once, Meg strongly suspected that his object of choice might be her.
Good God, she couldn't just... She wasn't supposed to... Her mother would never allow... She bit her lips nervously. But surely he wouldn't try to force her? No, he wouldn't, he certainly wouldn't. He was a friend.
But he was the Phantom, after all.
And very suddenly Meg wished that someone were here with her, apart from him, even her mother.
The Phantom sat up very abruptly, throwing her off him and rolling her onto her back, and Meg could not quite suppress a little shriek. While with one hand he held her down, he finished opening his buttons with the other, and Meg expected him to reach for those on his trousers any moment now. Instead, he let her go, but only to undo the buttons on his sleeves. Trying to raise herself up into a half-sitting position, Meg watched with unease as he let his shirt slide off his shoulders, then threw it onto the floor carelessly. And then, before she had any time to escape, he was over her on his hands and knees, and his eyes bored into hers. Once more she felt heat filling her, just like when they had met for the first time, and she wanted to turn her head away, but before she could do anything, he was kissing her already, robbing her of all senses.
As he let her go at last, she gasped for breath. "I hate it when you do that!" she panted.
Still kneeling over her, he smirked once again, and somehow his mask seemed to be mocking her, staring at her from the gloom like a demon's face. "Oh, but surely you enjoyed it."
Once again, Meg felt the blush coming. "But I don't intend to," she snapped defiantly, and the next moment she could have kicked herself for saying such a stupid thing.
Throwing back his head so that the loose strands of hair flew, he laughed, and Meg could have kicked him just as well. "Why? What's wrong with a bit of entertainment?"
"I'll tell my mother you're a horrible lecher!" Meg cried furiously.
"She can tell for herself," he replied, and his smirk even broadened. "We're going to play now, little one."
"What do you want with me?" Meg demanded, expecting him to start ripping the thin fabric of her nightshirt apart from neckline to hem any moment.
"The important question is, what do you want?"
Meg drew a deep breath. "We can't do this, Erik." Would he listen to her? Oh God, make him listen!
His one visible eyebrow went up a fraction. "What's bothering you? Your petty Christian morality, devised by a tribe of desert-dwelling primitives and carried on by a handful of eunuchs afraid of women? Your lusting, your deepest desire is part of you, and you have to embrace it in order not to torment yourself. To satisfy the needs of the body is what makes the soul feel at home in it."
Meg could only stare. The impertinence of him! "Erik, you're saying utterly indecent things to a lady." Maybe her mother's strict tone would help. "I must ask you to stop it immediately."
Lifting up one hand, he caressed her gently under the chin. "A maiden so fair makes my blood boil."
"Oh, you're such a Don Juan, Erik. Now stop it."
His features, framed by tangled strands of dark hair, did not shift at all. "You're afraid," he stated. "What do you fear?"
"You," Meg replied before she could stop herself. Once it was out, she bit her tongue. No, this was not true. But then again, it was. Her heartbeat resounded dully in her ears. He was a very attractive man, in her opinion, and the mystery about him excited her, as did the definite sense of danger, and she had come to consider him as her friend during the last few days, had even imagined him to be her lover… but now, when it came to it, she could not just give herself to him, not like that. Not in that way.
He nodded slowly and withdrew at last, making her breathe easier, and sat down again on the edge of the bed. "I don't mean to scare you," he said softly. "I'm trying not to. But maybe I can't do anything without scaring those I don't want to scare, grotesque gargoyle that I am."
Had it been anybody else, Meg might well have told him to stop lamenting and leave her alone, yet it was something different with the Phantom. He really meant it; she felt that he did. For a moment, she thought to feel all the pain, the guilt, the self-loathing accumulated over all those long years he had spent alone, and it grieved her to imagine what life must be like for him. He pretended to be strong, and he certainly was, but deep down inside, he was defenceless and vulnerable. And he was afraid.
And Meg realized that she was not the only one who could not just give herself away. He needed her to do so because he could not himself.
He would have to learn that there were some he could trust – apart from Christine and her mother, probably, Meg supposed. But could she really teach him? This was something Christine certainly could, but Meg... Was she fit for it at all? She greatly doubted it. All she was was Little Meg, her mother's little jester, everybody's silly playmate, cheerful friend of most of the ballet members. But could she be there for the Phantom, too? Could she ever save him from his solitude?
No, she was not ready for it, she decided. She was not able to. But what she could was try to be his playmate, too, a merry companion to chase away at least some of his darkness.
And she could certainly tell him that he was no gargoyle. Sitting up and crawling over to him, she snaked an arm around his waist. His skin felt soft and warm under her touch, except for a half-healed little cut on his side. "But you're still my favourite Ghost," she said.
His ribcage vibrated gently as he laughed. "You can't know too many Ghosts, little one."
At least she had been successful in one aspect. Meg beamed at him. "You're quite enough for anyone, you naughty little Ghostie."
"Little Ghostie?" he repeated in a tone of staged indignation, and Meg was glad he had been so easy to distract. "Naughty maybe, but little certainly not, and as for Ghostie –"
"Can be debated?" Meg suggested, giggling. Teasing her friends had always been one of her favourite games. Might there be any chance of him being ticklish? Probably not, but maybe it was worth a try.
"I tend to argue against it." Meg squealed as he suddenly pushed her down onto her back and gently began poking her sides with a sharp finger. No, this was unfair! He could not just start tickling her! "And to teach you I'm a big bad Ghost, I'll hold you over the fire until you're brown and crunchy, then nibble a few bits off. Your ears look tasty, for example." And despite Meg's squeaking and flailing, he leant down and bit her earlobe.
"Ouch!" Meg exclaimed, though it had not hurt at all. "Bad Ghostie!" This was exactly the way she liked him, rolling around on the bed with her wrestling. She was just not ready to picture any other ways of rolling around in bed with him.
"Don't scream, or your mother might come running." He let himself fall onto the bed beside her again. "And she'd box your ears for lying in bed with me."
"And yours for coming with such wicked intentions." She hoped he had abandoned the idea, or else it might really be better if her mother came.
"Not if you don't want me to." Sighing, he brushed a strand of hair out of her face. "I ought to have a girl," he suddenly said.
Ah, now he named the problem. "We'll find you one," Meg assured him, patting his shoulder. "There are enough in the ballet alone who'd run after you drooling as soon as they see you from up close." Strange, but somehow she didn't want just any ballet tart to come close to him. But no, he would not just take any tart, he had better taste than that. Surely he had.
"Do you enjoy match-making, then?" he asked, clearly amused.
"I haven't really tried it yet." Meg giggled softly at the idea.
He sighed again. "Then there will be nothing but trouble for you. No girl would ever want me."
"Don't say that. It's not true."
"You've never seen me without a mask."
God, did he always have to bring that up? "I have, but not from very close." Yes, she had caught a brief glimpse of his disfigurement when Christine had taken his mask away on stage. Poor little Ghostie darling, it suddenly occurred to her, he would probably have preferred losing his trousers in public to being unmasked. No, she should not think of him as a little darling, but the rest of it very probably held true.
Lord in Heavens, the Phantom on stage in his scarlet underpants! Meg had to suppress a snort of delight. The audience would not have screamed, but laughed, probably, except for a few old ladies, who would have fainted with shock at seeing his underwear, and perhaps some more, who would have been shocked that there could be such indecently tight-fitting underwear, and with the legs cut off. And some of her ballet colleagues would have drooled all over the stage, she guessed. What about her mother? Would she have boxed Christine's ears – for the first time ever, as far as Meg knew – for giving his trousers a tug? Or would she rather have run to cover the Phantom? No, he could probably cover himself. And Carlotta would have quitted the Opera Populaire forever because of the Phantom's underpants stealing her show.
"What's funny?" he grumbled close to her ear, and Meg realized that she must have giggled after all.
"Nothing," she hastily replied. He certainly would not like the idea of standing on stage with his trousers down, and with everybody, including Carlotta and her horrible little doggies, staring at his underpants. Once again, her curiosity broke through. "But will you let me see what you look like?"
"So you have something to shriek and point at?" he answered roughly. "No, never."
"Do you really think I would? Do you think I'm that kind of person?" Meg sat up, puffing her chest out indignantly. "You can trust me, Erik. Just like you can trust my mother." And Christine, she thought, but she rather did not say that aloud.
"That's no reason to take my mask off," he insisted, scowling at her, though she was not quite sure, since she did not see his face that well, even when propped up on her elbow beside him. But at least the mask was scowling. "Leave me alone, will you?" He did not speak as roughly as before, yet still he was clearly displeased with what she had asked of him.
"Erik..." A different tactic now, Meg decided. Maybe it would be more effective. After all, she knew what he liked – at least more or less. Threading the fingers of one hand into his hair, she pulled him close, huddling against him at the same time, and wrapped her other arm around his waist, despite the bit of embarrassment she felt at being so close to him when he was wearing so little. "My sweet little darling Erik." She almost laughed out loud at her own words. "You know I'm very impressed with my brave, strong Ghostie." Here she paused for a moment to place a little kiss on the side of his neck. "And I'll still be impressed if you show me your face." He couldn't look that horrible, she thought. He just was too conceited to show his face, that was all. Arrogant git.
"I don't want to," he said flatly, despite her efforts at stroking his shoulder blades.
Or was he just too lazy? If he was, he deserved a good healthy kick, that much was certain. Otherwise… "Look, I've got an idea. You take your mask off, and you can kiss me until oblivion." Knowing him, he might really do something of that kind.
His visible eyebrow went up questioningly. "And I thought I wasn't supposed to do anything of that kind."
"Oh, that… but I never said anything about kissing me too much, now did I? So you can still kiss me all you like," Meg said slyly. "Besides, why that shy suddenly?" Her mother would box her ears quite horribly, she really would!
"You wouldn't want me to kiss you once you've seen my face."
Now did she dare to say it? Yes, she did. "You don't have any idea how much I want you to kiss me, Erik," she crooned. It would give him nothing but more stupid ideas about what he might do with her, it certainly would, but she would gladly fend him off once again for a glimpse at his face.
"Very well." His voice was a throaty growl suddenly. "But I won't know mercy when you scream. I will be your waking nightmare of a lover, if you want me to." And before she could say or do anything, he had swiftly thrown off his mask onto the pillow beside her and was pinning her down, already kissing her, too fast for her to get a clear look at his distorted features. And Heavens above, how he kissed her! The world was spinning madly, she felt, revolving around her, as she was clutching his shoulders not to fall into an abyss she could not see… His presence filled her as it had not done before since he had first entered the room, entrancing her, enchanting her, consuming her, and she could not fight it, and would never, never want to, not ever again. His tongue brushed along the line of her teeth, then flicked against her own, making her almost claw at his back and shoulders. Lord, this was pure bliss! Her mother could box her ears ten, no, a hundred times, and she would not care! Then he broke the contact, only to press his lips to the side of her jaw, then down her neck in a burning line, nibbling and licking her skin briefly all the way down to her collarbone. No, a thousand times! A million times! However often her mother wanted! Who cared? Who would care at all? And his skin felt so smooth and warm under her touch, the muscles taut and hard beneath it. As his lips travelled further down, her hands went up along the sides of his neck and into his tangled hair, to his cheeks – His head was turned so that she could not reach his right cheek that easily, and her fingers brushed over her own flushed skin as she tried. And at the same time he was pushing her nightshirt off one shoulder, hungrily kissing what he exposed. At the side of her neck, the moist trail he had left behind was already feeling cold, but down on her upper chest, it was hot as fire. She must be steaming, she felt. And his breath against her skin… could he be breathing pure flames? God, burning up had never felt so good!
He had reached the lowest he could get without tearing her nightshirt – and part of her desperately wanted him to do so, to just rip it off her and continue kissing her forever – and was now suckling at her skin gently, the fingers of one hand threaded into her hair tightly while the other still rested on her shoulder, holding her down even though it was unnecessary. She was still more or less decently covered, though he managed to slip his tongue beneath her neckline a little. As he did so, she at last reached the right side of his jaw and traced his cheek upwards curiously, up to his nose –
And then she felt it, the uneven and somewhat rougher skin of the part of his face he usually kept hidden, beginning slightly above his upper lip, beside his nose, and going up all the way to his eye and above – one eyebrow was much thinner than the other –, and back to his ear and partly into the hair at his temple. She traced the scars with her fingertips gently, keeping her eyes closed and picturing what he would look like when he faced her, and prepared for a solid shock at what she would feel any moment, but it did not come. There were just scars, nothing more. Just scars. And they, too, felt warm.
Suddenly she realized that he had ceased his remorseless assault on her senses – how could she have missed that? – and was just cowering over her now, holding perfectly still as she stroked his marred cheek. Then, as she rested her hand over it lightly, a tremor seemed to run through him. "Now you know," he murmured, his breath tingling her moistened skin. "Now you know why I'm doomed to hide in darkness forever."
Opening her eyes at last, and having not the slightest idea about for how long they had been closed, Meg stroked his hair briefly with her other hand. "Not yet. Look at me, Erik."
At first she thought he was not going to, but then he sat up slowly, facing her. Their eyes met, and though it was too dark to tell for sure, she thought that his carried a hunted look, a frightened look very suddenly. And there were the scars she had felt, uneven and darker than the smooth skin around them…
And then Meg suddenly laughed, however irrational that was.
Immediately his lips twisted into a snarl, and his bared teeth gleamed in the semi-darkness of the room. "So you find it funny, do you?" One of his hands shot out and closed around her throat with choking strength, making her gasp for air at once. "So you laugh at the loathsome monster that I am?"
"No, Erik, no!" She struggled to free herself, but his grip was just too strong, and it was growing tighter with every passing moment. Oh God, he was going to kill her! "Please, Erik! It's just – I imagined it – to be so much – worse –"
She coughed as he suddenly released her, massaging her throat. "What did you just say?" he demanded above her, still dangerous, but… hopeful.
"I'm sorry, Erik," Meg said, reaching up to caress his scarred cheek again, and he did not pull away. "It was stupid to laugh, but I was just so glad you look so much better than I had imagined. God, I thought you'd have half a skull beneath that mask or reptile scales or something, all those things rumours say. But those are only scars. To me, you're no monster at all, and you wouldn't be even if you had a dragon's skull for a face."
And then he smiled and stroked her cheek in turn. He did not say anything, but his eyes showed how grateful he was.
Meg laughed again softly as he stretched out close beside her, just for joy. And Lord above, what they had been doing just a minute ago… "Have you been messing with my mind again? I suspect you did." But she was not angry at him, not at all, not when he stroked her cheek so tenderly.
His breath tickled her ear as he chuckled. "A little, maybe. Just a little."
"Naughty, naughty." Meg huddled against him closely, pulling the blanket over them both. She had never felt closer to him than she did now, not even just before when he had kissed her so passionately, yet now it was in a surprisingly innocent way, like with the closest of friends.
"But I'll be a good boy now." He managed to slip an arm beneath her waist, pulling her half over him as he lay on his back. "Just hold me for a bit."
One arm around him, the other hand on his chest, a little beneath where she rested her cheek, Meg comfortably closed her eyes. She was lying like with a lover, but it did not bother her, nor did his partial lack of clothing unsettle her any longer. He was just Erik, after all. Just her Erik.
And he had left the mask lying on the pillow beside him.
