Disclaimer: All Spider-Man characters are property of Marvel. Phantom of the Opera themes belong to LeRoux.

Author's Note: And here I continue with the chapter so rudely cut off last time. You've all made it very clear: you didn't appreciate the cliffhanger. LOL. Oh, well. I'm not going to promise never to do it again, just to warn you. And Rosie's dream, here, is based a bit off a dream that I had. It wasn't a good dream… And I just learned something exciting. April of next year, The Phantom of the Opera musical is coming to the auditorium on campus! It's going to be right here, where I can see it!

Musique de la Nuit

Nine – Dream

Her sleep had been plagued by the same images ever since she'd woken to find her entire world had changed. For months, she had been haunted by confused images of a glowing sun and shards of flying glass, their jagged edges prismatically catching the gleam and transforming into drops of rainbow – drops of a shattered rainbow that cut through the tissues of her throat as precisely as any surgical instrument. Her terrified scream, so abruptly cut off, still echoed in her ears. At this point, the vivid dream-memory usually transformed into surrealistic nightmares of Otto's death, her subconscious coming up with a myriad of terrible deaths for her beloved since she'd had no memory of how he'd died. These horrifying images would make her awaken in a cold sweat, and linger in memory for the rest of the day. And then she'd learned the truth about Otto and his terrifying change, and ever since, her dreams had become far, far worse for the knowing. Lately, she'd dreamt of Otto writhing in pain, bound in thick, rusty chains slick with blood, slowly being flayed to death by his tentacles. And these weren't the sleek, streamlined scientific tools she'd seen him create, but limbs of desicated flesh and exposed bone, their razor tips dripping with blood…

But this time, before the dream could take that turn for the worse, a soft touch at her throat pulled her from that dark path. The feather-light caress could have been the capricious wind, but the warmth where another's flesh had come into contact with hers proved it wasn't the fault of an errant breeze. Rosie opened her eyes slowly, still too caught up in her dreams to feel any alarm at this unexpected touch.

And even when she saw what stood over her, she didn't feel panic at this unexpected intrusion. The inky black silhouette, broken only by the curve of a pale mask with a single smoldering red eye, was something straight out of a dream, if not one of the dreams that had dominated her slumber so often recently. She met that crimson gaze boldly, and the figure began to back away. "Wait," she whispered hoarsely. She had the feeling his presence was all that held back those images of her husband in torment, and she was in no hurry to return to that nightmarish phantasmagoria. "Don't leave."

The figure stilled, and its gaze seemed to bore into her. Yet, despite its frightening countenance, she didn't feel threatened. In fact, there was something almost tragic about the masked figure before her. Rosie glanced around, noting that, rather than being in some fantastic dreamscape, as she'd half expected, she was atop the roof of her brother's building, in the garden. But it was darker than she'd ever seen it, with only the glow of the city below providing any light. The velvety darkness and the coolness the night brought with it were welcoming after the oppressive heat of day, and Rosie didn't want to awaken into reality.

She stood, feeling a twinge in her muscles as she stretched her legs, wondering distantly why she was feeling pain in a dream. But the twinge faded, and she took a step towards her masked visitor, hand extended. She didn't quite know how or even why she was going to greet this mystery man, but it was a dream, and she would play along with it to the end. Anything that wasn't a vision of her husband in agony was worth extending. "Hello," she said softly. Even though she couldn't see him as more than a vague shape, she could sense his tension, his fear. If she pushed him, he'd flee.

He shrank back from her hand, and she let it fall. To cover for this, she studied him carefully. What she'd initially taken for a flowing cloak was in fact a trenchcoat, leather, judging by the soft gleam off the surface, though she couldn't tell its color. The mask completely obscured his face; with the coat's front buttoned and the collar turned up, none of the man's flesh was visible. Only his hair, dark and thick with a slight wave, was exposed to the night. In his gloved left hand he clutched a rose by its stem, and even from here, she could scent the sweet odor the flower gave off.

Her eyes strayed towards where her music box sat beside the lawn chair, the miniature Phantom surmounting the top barely visible. Of course… A small smile tugged at the corner of her lips. The music box… The Bugle article… The fond remembrances of dragging her husband to see the musical… Was it any wonder she was dreaming of a Phantom to save her from herself?

Without quite knowing what she was doing, she reached out and seized his hand in hers. He started, and she could feel him tremble under her fingers. But he didn't pull his hand away. His hand was uncovered, and beneath her fingertips, she could feel smooth skin in peculiar ripples, and he was shy a finger. It was as if beneath the layers of clothing he was only half-formed; sculpted into vaguely human shape but left unfinished. Perhaps he hid his face because he had none. She wondered at her imagination's reluctance to fill in details when her previous dreams had been so vivid.

She twined her fingers through his. With his other hand, he held up the rose, delicately placing the stem behind her ear. Velvety soft petals brushed her skin. He pulled his hand away slowly, reluctantly, drawing his fingers down her cheek in a delicate caress before breaking contact. The touch sent shivers through her; not fear, but something else. There was something about the touch. Something… familiar…

"Wait," she said, caught up in the moment. She bent down, winding the knob of the music box. The soft, haunting melody of "Music of the Night" filled the air, and she took her mystery man's hands in hers again, bringing him close. "Dance with me," she whispered. He went rigid, and she feared that he was about to turn and run. But then he gave in, moving with her. He wasn't graceful, but he didn't put a foot wrong, either. Again, she felt that feeling of familiarity. She'd known another who'd danced like this. It felt so comforting, being in his arms. Like coming home again.

As the song reached its conclusion, her partner spun her out, then back into his arms, so her back was pressed against his chest. His arms wrapped around her, and he rested his chin on her head. Only one man had ever held her this way. Otto… If she closed her eyes, she could imagine her dream visitor was her husband.

She would have been content to spend the rest of her dreaming hours in this comforting embrace, but something intruded on her bliss. A soft sound, a gentle click-click-click that sounded almost metallic. Rosie's eyes shot open, just in time to catch a glimpse of something moving in her peripheral vision. Her visitor pulled away, and Rosie spun around, not knowing what to expect.

What she saw was… nothing. Her mysterious visitor had vanished back into the night from whence he'd come, and she felt a sense of loss. It was just a dream, and he'd just been a figment of it, an amalgamation of her memories of Otto, her thoughts about The Phantom of the Opera, and fragments of other men she had known and imaginedMaybe she'd have the dream again, on another night. Or maybe she'd never see him again…

She felt foolish, getting this distraught over a dream. Just a dream…

She settled back on her chair, holding to this thought. Just a dream… She drifted into a dreamless sleep, with the sweet smell of roses filling her nostrils. When she awoke several hours later, truly woke, she'd wonder why she still had a rose in her hair…

XXX

Otto clung to the side of the building, actuators outstretched like massive spider legs, and trembled uncontrollably as he replayed the events in his mind. He'd seen Rosie, he'd touched her, even. He was warmed by the contact as a dark, empty void deep within him was temporarily filled. And she hadn't been repelled… of course, she'd thought the encounter was a dream, and it would be for the best to let her continue to believe that. But he would cling to the memory, savor it in his darkest hours. For a brief time, she'd been his again. For a brief moment, he hadn't been a lonely, miserable outcast.

If only he could have stretched that moment to last an eternity… She's still up there… I still have the chance to whisk her away. He could do it, too; in her current state of mind, she wouldn't fight him. His resolve wavered, and he almost commanded the actuators to take him back up. And then he dispelled his fancy with a bitter laugh. Whisk her away to a life with a hideous monster of a husband and keep her locked away from the rest of the world… She'd hate me for it. I'd hate me for it. I could never do that to her. His moment of indecision over, Otto began his descent. It was slow going; he wanted to make no sound, so the actuators had to feel out handholds rather than make their own. And he felt painfully exposed. He half-expected the webslinger to swoop down and challenge Otto to a fight. It would all be worth it, because he'd held his Rosie in his arms again…

In fact, he half hoped that Peter would come. Drunk as he was on the moment, Otto felt like he could take on the world. Even the ever-present migraine couldn't dampen his euphoria. As the actuators brought him to ground level and carried him into the safety of the closest alley, he began to laugh.

But the temporary high didn't last. A few steps into the deep, all-encompassing shadows of the dank alley, his laughter changed. It was a sad, bitter sound that threatened to turn to sobs.

To Be Continued…

All right. I know. It was evil of me to make Rosie think that their encounter was all just a dream. But I promise you that their reunion is coming up. It's so tantalizingly close… I can't wait to write it. And sorry it's short, but this was originally intended to be part of chapter eight.

And, because I know someone is going to ask this at some point: Why hasn't Spider-Man come after him yet? Well, many of the times Otto has gone out, it wasn't for any criminal activities. Peter's senses weren't triggered, so he didn't come after Otto. And as for Otto's crimes, he pulled them off very, very late at night, and even Spider-Man has to go to bed sometime.