A/N: I know, I am a horrible, horrible person. First I leave you hanging for three months, then I give you a little tiny chapter, with very little real action. I'm sure very other fanfic author knows that the hardest thing to write is the end, and I am so close! Anyway, my only excuses are a full time job during the summer, and going off to college in the fall. Yeah, reality sometimes does have to take precedence over fiction. Ok, enough about me. Thank you so much to every one who reviewed while I sat at my computer and tried to remember where I was going with this plot. I appreciate your encouragement and support wholeheartedly. So, tell me what you think, and I may have a new chapter for you by Monday.

The first day he was too busy wallowing in the double anguish of his physical pain, and the emotional pain brought on by Madame Giry's betrayal to actually be able to say anything worthwhile to Remy. On the second day, he felt like he ought to at least thank her for her faithful care, and constant attention to his needs, but all he could manage to do was look at her and hope she understood. There was far too much happening in his mind to find the right words to say in such a highly delicate situation.

She had come back, so presumably she wanted to stay, but she may have since changed her mind. A trip through the sewers could do that to a person. Or, perhaps she hadn't wanted to stay at all. Perhaps she had forgotten something, or wanted to say goodbye once more, or...or what? There was no good reason for her to return unless she meant to stay. Unless she somehow found out what Leon was planning, and had come to aid him? But how would she have known? There wasn't a way for her to find out; no, she must have wanted to stay with him. It was the only explanation for her behavior, much as he might try to talk himself out of it.

And now the Opera Populaire was to be rebuilt. He had spent a lonely, useless year here in utter solitude, the like of which he had never known, alone and uninspired. Now, the performers would return, bringing music in their wake, music that could once more feed his soul while he lived in darkness.

So now he would have the two things in his life he had wanted most of all-the love of a woman, unless he was completely mistaken, and music. He should be happy, but so much could go wrong. She could change her mind, and decide that she must go to Marseille. Or perhaps she might wish to stay, but would it be dangerous for her here? Would it be dangerous for him? Everyone with any sense must think him dead, and those who didn't would certainly wish him dead. They knew he was just a man now, though doubtless some were still afraid of the phantom he turned himself into. If they thought he was alive, they would come searching for him, and there would be nowhere left for him to run. Even if they left him alone at first, soon his presence must be made known, and then they would hunt him. They hadn't found his lair before, but that was because they were all too busy fleeing the fire that destroyed the opera house in the first place, and after that, no one wanted to enter the building.

This kind of thinking was hardly constructive, but he was so used to seeing only the possible evil in every situation, that finding the hidden glimmers of hope did not come easily. His thoughts were all pushed into nothingness when he heard Remy's light footsteps and the opening of the door from the mirror chamber. These past two days, she had taken to wandering around alone, which perhaps meant that she was simply trying to accustom herself to the building. Either that, or she was going insane from living underground, and even the ashy hallways of Opera Populaire were preferable to the even more intense gloom below. He rather hoped it was the first.

When I returned to my candle-lit prison, I didn't go see Erik right away. I knew I probably should have, as his present condition was at least partially my fault, but I didn't know what I was going to say. I had yet to develop that inner security that allows one to exist without words in difficult situations; I always felt the need to fill silence with words, and knowing Erik, any words spoken would need to be mine. I subconsciously knew that I shouldn't expect him to be a brilliant conversationalist with a bullet wound in his leg and broken fingers, but a few words of encouragement, along the lines of 'I'm feeling much better' would be a welcome addition to my current existence.

I sank into one of the chairs at the table, and turned my attention to the matter at hand. Should I let Erik bring up the matter of the intended reconstruction first, or should I ask him about it myself? It was probably a better idea to just mention it first, then let him expand upon it if he wished. That way I could figure out whether he intended to stay, and whether he thought I was going to stay with him. I stood, and was ashamed to find that my knees were weak with fear. It occurred to me that a single conversation might very well decide my future.

Why did she remain at the bottom of the stairs where he could not see her face, read her expressions, figure out what it was she wanted? With strength born of frustration, he lifted his torso off the pillows, and swung his legs over the side of the bed so that he was sitting up. He ignored the jabs of pain that shot through his leg and the dull ache of his fingers as he reached for his robe, and wrapped it around himself. From force of habit, he reached for his mask, but decided against wearing it. If she did want to stay with him, she would have to see his face occasionally, and she had not objected before.

His descent from the room must have startled her out of some very heavy thoughts, as she did not even notice him making his laborious way down the stairs until he reached the bottom, and she jumped from her seat when she saw him. She stopped a few feet in front of him, with anxiety in her every expression, and looked him over, as if to make sure he was indeed alive.
"You shouldn't be walking around, you know." She told him, in a matter-of-fact tone that did little to conceal the worry that clouded her eyes.
"You needn't worry so much, my dear."
She stood silent for a moment, then took a hesitant step towards him, and reached her hand up to brush his stringy brown hair back into place. His mind seemed to fog over with the idea that she would touch him so willingly, and while he tried to recover, she compounded his confusion by standing on her toes to brush her lips first to the smooth skin on the left side of his face, then to the monstrosity on the right.

A/N: Yeah, I'm evil