The Phantom

A/N: Alright, this chapter is mostly about Erik's motivations with Christine, in the past, and now. I felt it was important to the story and I hope you appreciate how I've written his character. Don't forget to post a review and tell me what you think 

Christine awoke the next morning with the most uncomfortable stiffness in her neck. With a groan, she turned over only to see the afternoon light streaming through the bay windows. Christine rarely slept late so she was a little surprised when she met Brigitte downstairs in the kitchen and she chirped, "It's nearly lunch time! I haven't seen you sleep so late since the honeymoon."

Brigitte nudged her at this and said, "But that was for a completely different reason." She laughed uproariously and tottered back to the dining room table and continued to wipe its surface until it was glistening. Christine did not swat her playfully, feigning shock at Brigitte's familiarity, but grew rather warm in the face and clutched a hand protectively to her chest. If Brigitte had known the nature of her dream she could not be farther from the truth …

Christine forced out a small titter and turned around, busying herself with arranging flowers in vase.

Truthfully, Christine had awoken with the bitter cloud of her dream still hanging over her threateningly. Now as she mulled over it, she was both embarrassed and saddened by it. To dream of making love to another man as her husband had watched – it was too much for Christine to even contemplate. She had never heard of such a thing and to dream it was nearly unfathomable.

Perhaps it had not been about the act of sex, she mused. Was it possible that she wanted Erik? Furthermore, was she unsatisfied with Raoul? Even more depressing was the niggling that her selfish heart was not content with either or.

As a child, Christine had always had the most vivid and often disturbing dreams after her father died. Her shyness had drawn her further into herself and she often read to escape from her everyday life. Once, in the attics of the Opera Populaire, she had discovered a book of dream interpretations which had detailed the possibilities of what one's subconscious was trying to express during sleep. Much of the interpretations were rubbish, Christine had thought, but she had still clung to the belief that dreams meant something.

However, the part of her that loved Raoul was deeply ashamed of her betrayal, astral or no. If it were true that her mind was simply sorting out her innermost desires and hidden thoughts, what did that mean for them? And when she had, in her dream, stabbed herself in the heart she had felt as if she were drowning in despair. To have them both had filled her with sorrow at the same time as it as satisfied her. Ultimately it had not been right.

Christine shook her head, trying to rid the vividness of the dream and its implications from her mind. Maybe it did not mean anything at all, her mind supplied hopefully, but inside the words rang false.

"Oh, Christine?"

Brigitte's voice made her jump and immediately Christine felt as if she had been caught doing something unlawful. She turned to Brigitte and blathered quickly, "Yes, Brigitte? You frightened me a little. I am not myself today, forgive me.

"What were you going to say? I'm sorry, I keep babbling on but –" she sighed, forcing a tight smile at the look of confusion and worry on Brigitte's face. "Ah, yes, my dear, what is it?"

"It's the – it's Erik," she corrected herself quickly. "I brought him his breakfast and he requested to see you. He was very gruff, I might add. I told him that he should be more polite and he said I should learn to hold my tongue."

Christine chuckled genuinely, some of the gloom lifting from her slightly.

Brigitte faked hurt as she said, "You agree with him, do you? What a lousy friend you are," she teased.

Giggling slightly, she replied "No, it's just that it is just like Erik to speak so freely. I had forgotten." Christine became wistful for a moment, her eyes searching beyond the sunny walls of the summer house. With a tiny sigh, she turned back to Brigitte and smiled. "I guess I should be on my way to see Erik. I would not want him to pick on my tardiness as he did your tongue."

Brigitte had been slightly troubled by Christine's sudden reverie. For a moment, she had looked almost as if she were yearning for the past, a past without the horrors of murder and choice. Without thinking, she blurted out, "Christine, do you feel for him?"

Christine looked sharply at Brigitte, her mouth turning down slightly. "Brigitte! I am a married woman!"

"Oh, Christine, I'm silly! But you just –" she paused, sorting out what she wanted to say. "It's just that, I feel like there is something between you. Did you ever have love for him?"

"I certainly did not!" Christine sputtered, aghast that Brigitte had managed to cleave from her own discrepancies about what she felt for Erik. Was it that obvious that her feelings for Erik were questionable? "I just, I did care for him, of course. He was my teacher. He brought me music, he showed me things I had never dreamt to see. But he also did a lot of terrible things, Brigitte."

Her tone turned argumentative, almost as if she were trying to convince a jury of Erik's guilt. "He forced me to choose, he threatened to kill Raoul. And yes! He did do many wonderful things as well. He was just so adoring when he looked in my eyes, so fragile."

She broke off suddenly, tears coming to her eyes. Closing her eyes, she finished quietly, "It does not matter anymore. That is in the past and we have both moved on."

Brigitte was unconvinced by Christine's words, but backed off quickly. If simply talking about her feelings for Erik, platonic or not, would bring forth a deluge of emotion, it was not worth upsetting her simply to quench her own curiosity.

"I'm sorry, Christine, I did not mean to cause you pain."

Wiping her eyes, she laughed dryly. "It is not you, Brigitte. Many others have accused me of loving Erik and yet it never fails to incite emotion. I guess it is because of how we parted. How I hurt him." She straightened, arranging her skirts busily.

"I appreciate your honesty and do not hold that against you whatsoever." She walked over to Brigitte and put a warm hand on her shoulder.

"Never hold your tongue," she said wryly, "if only to spite Erik."

With that, she tramped upstairs, her heart quickening at the prospect of facing Erik after their last encounter. Would he be angry? Christine was soon to find out.

…………………………

Erik stood up, enjoying in the way his new clothes fell against his body. The pants were a little tighter than he would have liked and the jacket was an inch short of what was proper, but otherwise, it all had fit delightfully. Again, he wondered at how Christine had managed to get such a close fit.

He walked toward the hanging mirror at the far side of the bedroom and surveyed his neatly polished attire. He look smart and dapper, a part of "the Phantom" partially restored under his black exterior. But it was his face which gave him away.

All the mystery and enigmatic sexuality he drew from being the phantom of the opera was not present without the mask to complete the picture. It was true that he hid beneath more than just the opera house.

In all the years dwelling in the bowels of the Opera Populaire, he had been a spectator and later, a spectre. The opera ghost, he snorted deprecatingly He had seen the elaborate sets, the elaborate coifs, the elaborate costumes. Everything, from the music to the audience, all were beautiful. Only the rich and finely attired ever stepped into the opera, and when they came, they dripped in diamonds, silk and lip rouge. When he had set the chandelier to come crashing down upon the audience, he had secretly delighted in the thought of eliminating the pretty guests below with a symbol of their sickening opulence.

Beauty. It was integral to the status of the Opera Populaire, and it was part of his attraction to Christine.

When he had found her as a child, crying out for her father, he had seen a part of himself in her. She was truly alone in the world. Her sadness, which she did not let anyone hear nor even voice the words of her despair, had touched him. He knew what it was like to be abandoned in this cruel world. He had wanted her to feel that she had a witness to her life. Selfishly, he had wanted her in his life, no matter the barrier of walls and illusion between them.

I did not want her to be alone, he thought, but neither did I want to be.

Though she still would not speak, he had sung to her, encouraging her to raise her voice in song. Soon, she began to sing and Erik had watched as her voice grew in maturity. When she was sixteen, it came upon him suddenly that she was a woman. Therein lay the problem.

He laughed softly without mirth, cursing himself for the millionth time for allowing himself to fall for her. But it had been so easy to seduce her with his voice and to impress restrictions upon her to keep away anyone who should divert her attention from him. When he had come to her, dressed immaculately and guiding her with a confidence he, Erik, did not feel, he had come as the Phantom. Beneath the mask, the debonair clothes, the allure of music and the sensuality he had yet to explore, he had imposed his power over her.

She had not fought it until that boy came along. In his arms, he had felt her respond to him, the physical him beyond the ethereal voice which spoke to her in her dreams. Foolishly, he had wanted this woman, this child, to be content with the persona. Erik, the man under the mask, had frightened her. The look of horror on her face as she had pulled back his mask haunted him even now.

Without it, he felt like the same little boy whose mother had never loved because of his face.

A soft knock at the door awakened him from his trance and he frowned. Adopting a look of stern control, he strode to the door and opened it to reveal Christine standing before him.

"Christine," he said crisply, sweeping a hand toward the room, "Come in."

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak quite yet. Erik noted this and grinned. So, she was still shaken from last night. Well, he would give her more reason to be.

She perched upon the couch, looking up at him with a mixture of expectation and foreboding. "What is it that you wanted to speak to me about?"

"I wanted to apologize."

Christine could not help from dropping her jaw in surprise. "You – what?"

He chuckled easily. "I wanted to apologize for last night," he said seriously. "You were right. You are not a child and I should not have treated you as such. I fear that old habits died hard," he finished dryly.

Christine was speechless. She knew she was gaping at him like a wall-eyed fish, but she could not help it. Erik was apologizing? When had Erik ever apologized?

"What is it? Do you find my words disingenuous?" His voice had a hardness to it that had not been present before. He needed Christine to believe him, for if she didn't, there was no way he could begin to gain her trust again. He needed her trust if he was to break her.

"No, no, not at all, Erik," she babbled quickly. "I just … I am surprised. You said such harsh things last night and I am afraid I took it to heart." She did not mention their kiss for she was still not able to think of it without blushing terribly.

"I know you are angry with me," she went on quietly. Meeting his eyes, she said, "I want you to know that I understand it. I understand you."

Anger flared within him but he did not let it show outwardly. Over the years, he had perfected denying his body the revelation of his emotions. So it was with disinterest that he said, "It is no matter. Please accept my sincerest apology. I do not mean to cause you hurt." Inside, he added, I mean to cause you much more than that.

Relief was evident on Christine's face and she touched a hand to her forehead, pulling away an errant strand of brown curls. Erik's mouth fell open slightly and he was lost in her beauty. That spark of innocence he had once fallen in love with flickered within for a moment and then was lost. Then it was gone and Erik's resolution return.

Since his return, Christine had noticed Erik's near refusal to show her the right side of his face. When they spoke, he always leaned to one side, leaving the marred cheek in shadow. It was obvious he was still uncomfortable without his mask to guard him and it arose empathy in her. His face did not frighten her, had long since bothered her at all. But still he hid from her.

Christine got up. "I will be back in a minute."

She hurried out the door and Erik seethed. She understood him! Trifling, stupid Christine. She had no idea what it was to suffer as he had. For her to look him in the eye and tell him she understood his anger filled him with a rage that was nearly blinding. He balled his hands into fists and felt his nails bite into his flesh. She still incites passion within you, a voice said.

"No, she only incites rage," he said out loud.

You still love her, his mind spoke.

"I will never love her again," he said through clenched teeth. Bringing a hand to his face, he leaned into it as he gripped the ravaged side. The emotions within him almost overwhelmed him and he wanted to cry out.

"Erik?" Christine's questioning voice forced Erik's back to become stiff again. He turned to her and saw that she held something white in her hands. As she drew closer, she held it out to him. It was his mask.

Shocked, he did not react right away and Christine took this as a sign of his disapproval. "Meg found it after – " she stopped, knowing she did not need to finish. "She gave it to me because she knew I wanted to have a part of you." She looked down.

"It is just that I noticed that you feel uncomfortable without it; you will not look at me head on. I want you to know that this – " she touched his scarred cheek tenderly, "does not frighten me. Please do not wear it for me. I only give this to you for when you wish to leave." She gulped suddenly, the reality of her words hitting her. The prospect of Erik leaving once more filled her with a strange sadness.

Belatedly, she noticed that her hand still lingered at his face. She drew back quickly, embarrassed at the tenderness his skin under hers incited within her.

Erik did not speak, simply took the mask from her hands. When she had touched him, he had felt as if he were back in his lair the first night he had taken Christine to his home. Only instead of ripping the mask from his face as she had once done, she was giving him the chance to put it back on. He knew her words were true; she had never looked at him with the same disgust as before. Her hand at his face had been so caring it had nearly choked him with emotion. But then she had wrenched it away. She could not bear to be close to such ugliness for long.

He stepped back and approached the mirror. His face betrayed none of the earlier emotion as he fitted it to him and became whole once more. He found her eyes in the mirror and said in a voice that was not his own, "Thank you, Christine." Thank you, indeed.