A/N: All right, so this is the end (for now) of Raoul. And I decided to be a bit nicer to him as he says adieu; his last sentence was . . . er . . . rather brainless (sorry to anyone who felt that that last bit threw off the mood of the last chapter; I just couldn't resist). And forgive me if hot chocolate is an anachronism . . . it is my favorite drink, which, of course, makes it Christine's as well.

Raoul

Raoul cringed as the utter foolishness of his statement hit him and the couple on the couch turned to stare at him. He had not meant to eavesdrop; truly, he hadn't. He had been awakened by a soft humming throughout the hotel room—Erik's doing, no doubt—and when he had made his way into the common area, had stumbled upon his two companions having a serious and painful-looking discussion. Raoul had had no desire to listen in, but he feared that if he moved to return to his room, they would hear him—and if he headed into the main hotel area, they would see him. He found himself stuck exactly where he was, listening to a conversation that brought back painful memories on all sides. When it looked as though the conversation were winding down, Raoul decided that it would be wiser to announce his presence than to have them turn and discover him.

Clearing his throat, he started over. "I meant—I was just going down to breakfast before I packed, if anyone would like to join me."

Christine and Erik exchanged a glance. "Pack?" Christine asked. She stood and frowned at him. "You're leaving me?"

"Christine." Raoul sighed and found himself—wonder of wonders—looking to Erik for support. "You don't need me, Lotte. I have stayed with you because I don't want anything to happen to you; I could not just leave you alone in a foreign city. But now . . ." he trailed off. Now was rather obvious.

If he was not very much mistaken, there was understanding, and maybe even a little pity, in the Phantom's eyes as he stood. It was quickly masked, however, by Erik's characteristic sarcasm. "You would leave a woman you cared for in the company—unescorted, mind you—of a villain such as myself?" He asked dryly.

"No." Raoul forced himself to meet that steady gaze. "I am leaving a woman I care for in the hands of someone I know would die—or kill—before he saw her harmed. In any way."

"Monsieur." Erik bowed to him, utterly sincere, while Christine stood between the two, watching with an expression of bemusement on her face. The masked man took her hand and beckoned towards the door. "Breakfast, then, I assume?"

Christine

Raoul left them later that afternoon; Erik disappeared for a few hours, ostensibly to let the pair of childhood friends say their farewells, then as evening approached he materialized at Christine's side once more. She discovered that he had been busy in his absence; she was checked out of the hotel and most of her belongings were already stored in his apartment. When she asked him about the speed of his arrangements, Erik simply replied "You had already agreed; no better time to begin this little experiment of ours than the present. If you would rather spend another day or two here . . ." he trailed off into a shrug. She had assured him she would not; now, they stood before a door in a modestly prosperous portion of Venice and Erik was turning the key in the lock. Idly, Christine wondered how he was supporting himself—he couldn't very well be blackmailing Opera managers any more—but her thoughts were pushed aside as Erik took her hand and gently led her into his home.

The few belongings they had carried over together were set by the door, and then Christine surveyed her new surroundings. They were in a combination kitchen/living room, with a couch gazing out over an east-facing bay window. Along one wall were shelves dedicated to Erik's many loves; novels, works of architecture, and musical scores covered several of the shelves, while others were devoted to strange mechanical-looking objects. A closed door led off into what Christine assumed would be a bedroom; but then her attention was drawn to the piano set delicately into the corner underneath the shelves. She had to smile; of course. No matter where he was living, Erik would manage to get a piano at the very least, even if he couldn't fit an organ into the apartment.

"Do you approve?" He asked quietly from behind her. Christine turned to smile at him and felt her breath catch. His eyes were drinking her in, absorbing as if for the first time every detail of her face, her hair, her neck . . . she watched as he jerked his gaze away from her and gestured to the kitchen. She was quite certain his hand was trembling; she would have to be very foolish indeed not to have seen the desire in his eyes. "Dinner?" Erik interrupted; Christine could hear a faint tremor in his smooth voice.

She stepped towards him; his eyes flicked to her with a warning that clearly said Come no closer. Christine hesitated, then obeyed, moving past him into the kitchen. "Yes," she answered softly. "Dinner. You will not have forgotten that I am an abysmal cook?"

"All things can be learned given time," Erik answered cryptically, lighting candles on the kitchen table as she began a search through his cupboards. When she turned to face him, he seemed to be perfectly controlled once more. Indicating her selections, he asked, "Bread, cheese, fruit; not very hungry, are you?" Christine shook her head and he frowned at her. "You don't eat enough, you know."

"Hah," she retorted with a smile. "Neither do you."

"True enough, I suppose." Erik took her hand and led her to the table. "If you will slice those, I believe I can find us some wine—or even," his voice took on a teasing glint, "a certain favorite drink of yours I have kept stores of out of sheer . sentimentality." Christine looked up at him hopefully; Erik laughed and leaned down, deliberately sniffing her. Despite herself, Christine giggled and immediately clapped her hand over her mouth, mortified at both the young noise and the school-girl reaction she had covered it with. "Yes—just like I remembered," he murmured. "The scents of your perfume, you, the opera house, and the faintest hint of chocolate following you around like a small, unobtrusive cloud delicately proclaiming your presence; I could smell it in my house for hours after you had left . . ." Erik trailed off and seemed, quite suddenly, to realize how close they were. He cleared his throat and returned to the cupboard, reaching up to the top shelf and pulling down a wine bottle, a teakettle, and ingredients for hot chocolate.

Noticing that she could not have reached that shelf even on her tip-toes, Christine accused him with a slight grin, "You deliberately hid those from me."

"Why yes," Erik replied, his lips curving sardonically, "I believe I might have done just that."

Christine felt her grin grow in response to his. "Rogue," she muttered, turning her attention to the bread she was supposed to be slicing.

"Angel," he whispered in her ear as his arms came around her from behind; his hands closed over hers and they finished slicing the loaf together in silence.