Charles

He should have listened at the door. Charles was certain he could have convinced the short man wearing the odd hat to move away from it, and he had learned long ago that any time his parents wanted him out of hearing it was because they were going to talk about things he was interested in. Unfortunately, his eavesdropping intentions had scattered when he looked around the room that the funny-hat man had led him into.

Music. Everywhere, there was music. The sleek piano in the corner, the stacks of scores on shelves and haphazardly lining the walls, the worn violin case leaning against an old, squishy couch, the pitch-pipes and fresh, untouched sheets for composing, the rosily carved lap-harp; everything in the room hummed to his heart of music. Charles glanced up at the funny-hat man only once for permission; at his nod, the child eagerly dove into the nearest stack of scores, his mind translating the written notes instantaneously into a dancing melody playing throughout his head. It looked to be a little beyond his skill, but he climbed up onto the piano bench and, entranced, began to slowly and quietly pluck out the tune. Charles' confidence grew as he continued to play, and soon he was running through the piece at speed and adding a few little variations of his own.

His playing was interrupted by an odd, discordant sound; Charles stopped and listened to it with a frown on his face. It was coming from beyond the music-room's other door and was noisily distracting; something like two pieces of wood being smacked together. The man in the strange hat had heard it too; he motioned for Charles to stay still and went out of the music-room. When he came back in, he was accompanied by a tall lady in black—Charles recognized her as Madame Giry, the woman who had held his hand while his Mama sang on the stage of the Opera House—and Caron and Marie. Apparently, the wood-knocking noise had been Madame Giry's cane rapping on the door. Charles smiled at his nurses and turned back to the piano, but at a gesture from Madame Giry Caron gently touched his wrists and shook her head. "Not now, Charles, we need to talk to your Papa. Come with us?" She opened her arms and Charles stood on the bench to jump into them. He knew he was rapidly approaching a time when no one would carry him any longer, so the young Chagny relished any opportunity to be held. He buried his face into Caron's long red hair and waited patiently as the funny-hat man—had he heard Madame Giry call the man Nadir?—opened the door into the kitchen. He spoke, and soon Mama, Papa, and Angel were in the music-room as well.

Madame Giry immediately looked to Angel and said, "Forgive me for intruding on your privacy, but something has happened and we decided it would be best if all concerned were informed immediately."

Angel nodded, that curious white mask seeming to float above his black clothing, before turning to face the fireplace, his back to the rest of them. Charles was brimming with an impulse to find out why his friend wore the mask, but he was distracted when Madame Giry nodded encouragingly to Marie and the young nurse quietly began her story. According to her, just after the Chagnys had disappeared into the depths of the Opera House, Monsieur Barret had burst into the theatre with devastating news. Barret acted as the chief steward for the Chagny family; anything that could draw him off the estate in search of his master and mistress was serious indeed.

Fire?

His music was at home. What did Marie mean, fire? The music Mama taught him, stored safely in its wooden cupboards at home, was delicate; fire would hurt it. Fire would hurt all of the lovely books Mama had explained to him about architecture and drawing from; worse, fire could destroy his works, his drawings . . . the compositions he had created out of the light of his own mind . . . crackling, hungry fire licking at his scores, eating the nursery and the piano, throwing a smoldering orange glow over every place he loved and played, destroying his home . . .

Charles began to cry. He was too old for tears, he knew, and so he hid them in Caron's shoulder. She rocked him gently, soothing, and Charles looked up to realize she was weeping too. Papa was white; Mama was shaking, tears in her eyes. Marie had finished speaking and was huddled on the couch. His sobs increasing, Charles reached out for Christine. She was there suddenly, easing his tears, taking him out of the music-room where the dreadful word fire had been said. Mama's tears mixed with his as she carried him into a quiet room with a large, soft bed, and sang softly to him until his tears wore him out and he fell asleep.

Christine

"No one was harmed?" Raoul was gently questioning Marie and Caron when Christine went back into the music-room. The girls shook their heads; M. Barret had been quite firm in his assurances that no one had been caught in the fire. "Razed to the ground," he muttered to himself, staring unseeingly at the walls.

Christine touched his arm. "We were going to stay in Paris for a time anyway," she murmured. "Everyone but Caron and Marie can return to the house in England, and we should be able to get an apartment here that can accommodate the five of us easily enough." Raoul nodded; her heart ached for him. He had been raised in that house; it had been home to untold generations of the Chagny family. To lose it so unexpectedly, on top of everything else that had happened in the last two days, was a painful shock for her husband. Christine mourned the quiet things they had lost; not the fine silver and the paintings, but the nursery with its drawers and cupboards of Charles' toys and creations, the little sitting room where the five of them had spent almost every evening when they were in France, and the library with it's shelves of books and old family journals.

Erik had remained silent through Marie's retelling; Christine, unused to hearing his voice outside her mind for the last five years, started a little when he spoke now. "Stay here." Everyone in the room turned to stare at the tall dark figure outlined by the flickering light from the fireplace. He did not face them, but seemed to sense their surprise. "This house is large enough for six to fit comfortably; I don't use half the rooms in it now. The kitchen should be adequate for our needs, and you would be spared both the cost of an apartment and time spent traveling between the Opera and any apartment you might rent. Besides," he added dryly, "I believe I have lived enough alone."

"You hate company," Christine murmured, moving to stand beside him. "Living with five other people would drive you mad."

"I thought I passed that point several years ago," he quipped lightly. Erik turned a little to look at her and shrugged. "At any rate, you are not company. The lines connecting us may be crossed and twisted, but strange as it is, we are, in a way, family."

Caron and Marie both wore confused expressions; Madame Giry and Nadir looked uncomfortable, as though they felt they were infringing on the family's privacy. Raoul tiredly rubbed his eyes with his fingers and sighed. "Fine," he responded quietly. "I can't say I like it, but it seems as though intruding upon your hospitality here is our best option." Remembering just where here was, Christine wondered vaguely how Charles would like living by an underground lake. She resolved to impart warnings to him against any ventures toward the water as soon as he awakened.

Raoul

The rest of the afternoon and early evening were spent recovering; Raoul was kept busy arranging lodging and passage to their England home for the rest of the staff, while Caron and Marie moved a sleeping Charles from the Louis-Philippe room to an out-of-the-way former storage area that was suitable for a nursery. It took very little to convert it into a room that was fitting for a young boy; Raoul had a deep suspicion that housing such a boy might have been the room's silently hoped-for purpose when Erik added it onto his crazily complicated house. Christine and Madame Giry oversaw the stocking of the kitchen and a general scrubbing of most surfaces; Erik himself scrupulously avoided those two, other than one memorable confrontation outside of his music-room in which he unequivocally denied them entrance. Once Charles was settled, the young sisters lent their aide to the cleaning efforts. Raoul had seen nearly identical flashes of understanding overcome their lingering confusion the first time Caron and Marie came face-to-face with Erik and his pair of familiar golden eyes; a brief vocal explanation might still be necessary, but they seemed to have admirably grasped the basics of the situation. Meg, who had entered through the Rue Scribe after fulfilling her duties as ballet-mistress for the youngest Opera girls, had taken Christine on a quick shopping trip to meet the basics of their clothing needs. The mantle clock now read half-past nine, and both the Giry women as well as Nadir had abandoned the house, leaving only Erik, the three Chagnys, and their two nurses within.

They had gathered in the music-room once more; it was one of the few areas in the house both large enough and with adequate seating to fit the five adults comfortably. Charles was still soundly asleep, and Raoul knew Christine hoped that he would remain that way until morning. Beds had been found and hauled into the house for Caron and Marie as well as Charles; they had managed to fit all three into the now-nursery comfortably, so that if the young boy did awake, he would not be alone.

"Your room is as it always was, as I'm certain you've discovered," Erik quietly told Christine. He added the briefest—and utterly blank—glance to include Raoul as he continued, "I am certain you will be comfortable; now is when I bid you good night." He inclined his head in a formal bow to the others and headed for the door.

Christine's called quietly after him, "Erik," and he paused, looking at her over his shoulder. Raoul watched a wry smile twist her lips and memory fill her face as she inquired, "I think it might be best if the organ remain silent at night, don't you?" He could almost swear he saw a repressed grin behind the mask as Erik nodded again and left the room.

"The rest of us should probably try to get some sleep as well," Raoul spoke into the silence. Rising, he gently pulled Christine to her feet and smiled tiredly at each of the girls. "Caron, Marie, good night. We will see you in the morning." Their quiet echoes of 'good night' followed the two Chagnys into the hall.

Raoul lay awake long after he was certain Christine had fallen asleep, trying to force the day's images out of his mind. His thoughts shot terribly between mental views of his ancestral home in flames to Christine smiling at Erik in a quiet moment with the loving smile that Raoul had never seen from her. Christine and Erik, their voices as irrevocably twined as their souls, singing of their undying love; the adoring tone he had heard as Christine and Charles spoke of the Angel; all of his family's possessions and shelter bursting into flame; reddish orange color devouring Charles' nursery; that moment he had left his wife and the man she loved alone on the lake shore; back and forth, real and imagined, each picture stabbing farther and farther into his heart.

It had been easy, Raoul discovered, to be generous about sharing his family with a dead man. As deeply as Erik's shadow had haunted every corner of the Chagny home, it had been a light touch indeed compared to the reality of a living, breathing Opera Ghost who still held sway over Christine's heart. Jealousy he thought he had put behind him years ago—jealousy it had taken enormous strength not to give into that day—rose into his soul. Never mind that her heart had never truly belonged to him; Christine wore his ring around her finger, and it was to Raoul that her wedding vows of faith and fidelity had been made. She would be true to those; they both would, or face the consequences . . .

He woke and realized immediately that she was gone.

Raoul gritted his teeth and, for one moment, considered simply staying in bed. The next, he was on his feet and putting a robe over his night clothes. If they wanted to shatter promises, they would shatter them with his condemnation hanging over them.

Whatever he had expected to find, it wasn't Erik leaning in the door to the lake, alone, looking out at the darkness. Raoul hesitated and, ashamed, began to retreat; the other's voice stopped him. "She'll catch her death of cold out there," Erik murmured, his tone quite casual.

Coming nearer, Raoul could see past Erik's shoulder well enough to get a glimpse of the pale figure in a thick white dressing-gown sitting on the edge of the lake. Christine had her knees drawn up to her chin; she was very still, and though he could not see much of her face, what Raoul could view wore an expression of blank disquiet. He turned away. "Then why don't you bring her in?"

"Because, monsieur," Erik replied, his eyes moving thoughtfully to Raoul as though they knew precisely what he had been thinking when he rushed from the Louis-Philippe room, "she is your wife."

Raoul shook his head. "It isn't me she needs," he informed his companion darkly.

"What Christine does not need, at this moment, is for me to tempt her to break promises she holds sacred." Erik yanked off his own cloak and tossed it negligently to Raoul. "If you use that, she will come quietly." He turned and disappeared into the darkness, leaving Raoul feeling both ashamed and incredibly impotent. Raoul would not have used that cloak to wrap around Christine for the entire world, except he wasn't wearing anything much warmer than she was . . . with no other choice, he walked toward the lake-shore to persuade his wife to return to the house.

Erik

It had been a wicked thing to do, loaning Raoul that cloak; Erik watched a little guiltily as what he had suspected would happen occurred. At the entrance to their room, Raoul asked Christine to remove the cloak; there were warmer blankets inside and she would no longer need it. She refused, wrapping it more closely around her; angry and guessing the reason for her reluctance to part with it, Raoul suddenly snapped, "If you want him that badly, just go to him."

Christine looked at him for a moment with wide, hurt eyes; then her gaze narrowed. "I will not break my vows to you, Raoul. I can't believe you think I would."

"In letter or in spirit, Christine?" Raoul demanded. "Because you're already breaking them in your heart."

She stared at him for a moment, then quietly said, "I'm sleeping on the couch in the music-room. Good night, Raoul."

Her husband shook his head in disgust; quite clearly, just before he closed the door, he shortly whispered, "It's not as if it makes a difference."

Christine had gazed at the locked door for a while; then she shook herself and, pulling the cloak tighter, headed into the music-room. Erik toyed briefly with the idea of following her, but decided against it; he had done enough subverting for one evening. However, as he passed the open entrance, she called out softly, "You knew that would happen."

Halting, Erik winced a little and retreated to stand just outside the doorway. "Yes," he admitted in as muted a tone as she had used, "I did. And it was wrong of me to cause it, which is why you'll notice that I did not come in here after you."

"Thank you." Christine stood and stretched out a hand to him; when he eyed it warily, she sighed. "I just want to be held for a moment, Erik. A simple hug, nothing beyond that. And I will stop you if you try to make it more. I promise."

"Or threaten," he muttered, but came into the room and gently wrapped his arms around her. They held each other tightly, as though with a single embrace they could wash away five years of absence, five years without the dear touch of a beloved. Christine nestled against Erik's chest till she could feel his heart beating against her cheek through the thin cloth of his shirt; his hands, safely against her back, trailed down to her waist, holding her tightly. Christine raised her head, and for a moment it seemed they would kiss. It was inevitable; they were moving closer, her hand was lifting to remove the mask . . .

"Go," she whispered, pulling away from him. "Go."

As ethereally as though he had never been in them, Erik was gone from her arms.

Raoul

A thought had come to him, lying alone in the middle of the night; a jealous thought, a suspicious thought, a thought which whispered to Raoul that the entire timeline of recent affairs had happened a little too easily. Everything had fallen into place too smoothly for the past two days to have been a series of accidents devised by heaven or fate.

Fortunately, Raoul could think of another entity who liked to orchestrate events to his satisfaction.

Early morning was a quiet time in this house of Erik's; the kitchen clock ticked evenly from seven to eight without anyone stirring. It was odd for Raoul to have to depend on the clock to tell whether it was morning, afternoon, or evening, but here one could hardly tell the time of day by looking out a window; even if Erik had had windows, all they would show was a dark underground cavern.

En-masked and once again dressed in unrelenting black, Erik appeared in the kitchen around eight-fifteen. A cool 'Good morning' passed between the two men; Raoul nibbled on his toast while Erik put water on to boil for tea. Silence descended between them, thick and heavy with past and present tensions, until Raoul casually asked, "Odd, isn't it? The house burning down like that. The one day we're in Paris, too. I can't think what would have happened if—what did they say it was? A fireplace left unattended?—had lit the place up while we were all at home." The words, he realized, had been said a little too callously, but there was no way of correcting that now.

"You have my condolences," Erik answered. Was it Raoul's imagination, or had the black-clad figure stiffened a little, that golden voice cooled just a bit?

"It's been a rough couple of days, especially for Charles. Getting lost in the woods, only to have his home burn away when he's gone from it the next day," he continued, forcing his voice to remain as even as possible.

"Quite." There was a definite coldness in Erik's tone now.

Raoul tilted his head back, looking at the other with what he hoped could pass for idle curiosity. "Rescuer," he murmured thoughtfully to Erik's back, "murderer. Angel and demon, magician and deceiver, architect and extortionist, designer and destroyer, composer and thief. Are there no end to your contradictions?" His voice lowered. "Or have you added another pair of titles to your name—Angel and arsonist?"

"You have already used 'angel' once, which severely weakens the delivery of your conclusion," Erik replied flatly. "Perhaps you should try to rephrase it and see if you cannot make your meaning more clear."

"You did it." Raoul stood and glared at the former Phantom. "I'll never prove it, no one will ever believe it, but I know you did it. Did Charles even get lost, or was he called away by a voice he couldn't ignore, just so that you could arrange this happy reunion of ours?"

Now Erik did turn to look at him, and the anger in those yellow eyes hit Raoul like a physical blow, almost forcing him to retreat, but he stood his ground. "You are rambling, monsieur," Erik hissed acidly. "I suggest you desist from this line of thought until you are rational enough to consider its full implications."

Short and humorless, Raoul's laugh echoed through the room. "Rational? You stole my son, seduced my wife, and burned my home. Don't talk to me about rational!" He was shouting now.

If anything, Erik's voice went lower, quieter, but somehow still strong enough to reach Raoul with its rawness. "Who stole what, my dear Comte?" The words were nearly a snarl, and this time Raoul did step back from the fury that lay just behind the mask. "My son. My wife, though we were married only in heart. How dare you accuse me of anything—anything—that would harm Christine or Charles, cause them the least amount of distress, when I would gladly die and take you with me to keep either of them from knowing a moment's pain? How dare you!" This last, finally, was said in a raised voice, an almost-shout that growled through the kitchen.

"Your son? Your wife? Then where have you been for the last five years? Hiding in a hole beneath a gaudy opera-house, sacrificing yourself for their sakes? When all either has ever wanted was you? Oh no, Phantom, what you have been doing is selfishly keeping away from the two people who have needed you most!" Raoul clenched his fists, matching Erik's angry stare. "How many nights have I watched her cry herself to sleep? How many times have I seen him struggling with something that I cannot help him with because neither Christine nor I understand how his mind works? How often is it a trial for her just to get out of bed and face another day without you? Countless. Endless. And every day. You're right, Erik," Raoul spat. "You haven't caused them a moment's pain—you've caused them a lifetime of it."

"I know. You think that I have not watched them, monsieur? You think that I have not seen that pain in her eyes, cutting out my heart every time I look at her? I trusted you to take care of them. Not let the hurt in her soul grow until it nearly consumed her. Do you think that I wanted to leave her alone? I thought I was dying; I had no choice but to see that she was cared for. And I would only have caused more pain by reappearing in your lives when I had recovered." Erik's voice changed noticeably, from angry defense into a weary resignation. "Good morning, Christine."

Raoul whirled to find his wife standing quietly in the doorway, looking between the two of them with hurt anger in her expression. No one spoke for a moment, then another voice—a younger version of Erik's—spoke. "Mama? I heard angry voices." Christine turned and picked Charles up; she soothed him for a moment, assuring him that Papa and Angel had just been talking too loudly. Caron appeared on Charles' heels, obviously upset that the boy had managed to sneak away from her again.

When Caron had taken Charles back into the nursery, Christine turned to face Erik and Raoul once more. The hurt that had been in her eyes was gone, leaving only a fury that turned her pale. "I cannot ask you to get along," Christine said softly, her words clear and sharp despite the lowness of their tone. "Say what you must to each other." She paused, taking a moment to meet each of their gazes, and her voice shook when she continued. "But if you raise your voices in his hearing again, I swear I will leave you both."

The three of them stared at each other in silence, then Christine left in a swirl of dark hair and white nightgown. Erik turned his back to Raoul; he took the now-boiling teakettle off the stove, but instead of making tea he simply stood, resolutely facing the wall. Passing his hand tiredly over his eyes, Raoul left the kitchen in the direction opposite to the one Christine had taken.

A/N: Hope no one wants to injure me for this chapter--I had a great deal of fun writing it. I'm also hoping that the argument, esp between Raoul and Erik, came across okay. Thanks for reading and tell me what you think!

Mominator124: Thanks! Assuming ECR means what I'm thinking it does--no. Ewww, no. I'm a major EC fluff fan myself; that's why I'm writing a fluffy story alongside this one . . . I needed somthing to keep me happy, lol. You guessed it--the company was Madame Giry. And yes, everyone was being civil . . .-grin-. Thank you so much for always reviewing--you make my day!

Lindaleriel: Just a quick note if you're still reading, because you're probably upset with me about the Raoul in this chapter. I'm sorry I had to make him angry, but he couldn't be inhumanly good all the time!