Gently, he pressed his thumb into Christine's lips, silencing her torrent of apologies and half-formed explanations. It took all of his self-control to quiet her with his fingertips instead of his mouth, but Erik forced himself into good behavior; after all, her husband was watching. "Shh, my dear," he murmured, stroking her tears away. "Your mistake that evening was simple and innocent—and no matter how hard I tried at the time to convince you otherwise, it did not merit my behavior. Or had you forgotten?"
Christine looked down; he knew she had no desire to remember most of that night. It had been an unmitigated disaster on all sides; from the moment he had stolen her off the stage in Mephistopheles' costume, he had set each of them on the path that led to this painful conclusion.
Raoul's short, harsh bark of laughter turned them both to him. "How could she forget being forced into an engagement?" Both of them turned to look at him. "But then, since you obviously didn't want to marry me, I am forced to wonder whether or not you actually went willingly. I guess, though, that only one will ever mattered between the pair of you: his." Erik felt his lips twisting in anger. He could see his rival struggling to hold back his words, but they burst from Raoul's mouth unrestrained, cold and painfully insinuating. "In fact, Christine, I must wonder if you didn't always go . . . willingly." He spat. Raoul stepped closer. "How often did you sleep here, Christine? How many nights that I mourned for you did you spend in the arms of your murderous Angel?"
Christine gasped, tears appearing in her wide eyes at her husband's accusation. She wasn't allowed the opportunity to reply, however, as Erik's fist interrupted her when it savagely connected with Raoul's jaw. The Comte stumbled back; Erik shook his hand disdainfully.
"Erik!" Christine cried in dismay. "Raoul . . . Erik!" She pulled away from him and stepped hesitantly to her husband, who was cradling his sore jaw. Reaching up, Christine tenderly touched Raoul's hand with her own, but he moved back and out of reach. "Raoul, are you all—"
"No, Christine, I am not all right," he fumed.
"That would make three of us," Erik observed lightly.
"You're not helping," Christine shot back at him.
Erik glowered. "He is?"
"If you hadn't 'helped' so much five years ago, none of us would be here!" Raoul retorted.
"Stop it." Christine said this quietly, but the impact on them, with her threat from that morning hanging in the air, was immediate. Both men quieted and looked at her. "You shouldn't hit him, Erik. It won't make this any easier. And you," Christine turned to Raoul. Her voice was tight with pain. "How could you say that to me? I've only ever given myself to one man, once," Christine informed them, her voice hard despite her tears. "And in the sight of Nadir and God, he was my husband."
Christine had left the room before her words caught up to him. "Wait a moment," Erik mused slowly. He had not truly registered Raoul's comment the previous evening about getting the Chagny marriage annulled . . .
She had been completely faithful to him.
Even in marriage; even past death.
He didn't deserve such love.
RaoulRaoul slowly made his way to the Louis-Philippe room and lay down on the bed, resolutely ignoring the thoughts that this room normally brought forth. He regretted speaking so cruelly to Christine, yet he was still angry with her. She had not been with him this morning, seeing the destruction of their home—never mind that he had nobly not asked her to come. Five years of living with the crumbs of Erik and Christine's relationship had not prepared him for being confronted with the living and breathing reality of it. He had forgotten how much this hurt, swinging back and forth between a desire to protect Christine and angry jealousy.
And then, the admission that she had not meant to marry him after all . . .
He had understood it, in part. He knew better than anyone—save Erik—how Christine's mind worked; sometimes Raoul even allowed himself to believe he knew her better than her blasted Angel did. Though her illusions were shattered, her beliefs and hopes scattered on the ground through Erik's wickedness, Christine still existed in the partial dream-world of her own mind, a world where magic was more real than science and love always conquered death. To her, the wedding plans would easily have become just another extended role-play of their pretend engagement, and Raoul would never have known the difference until it was too late. Her dreams back then had been more believable than reality; it was not until the night Erik kidnapped her from Faust and truly tore apart all of her imagined fairy tales that Christine grew up
And she had grown again, the night, a month later, in which she returned to give Erik the wedding invitation; that night. The Christine Raoul had found in the basement of the Opera the next afternoon had been a very different woman from the timid, but slowly strengthening, creature who had left him the previous day to keep her promise to her maestro.
Understanding her decisions and beliefs did not make them hurt less.
Erik
He found her curled on the piano bench, her knees tucked up to her chin as she stared at nothing. Erik stopped, wondering whether he shouldn't just leave her alone, but Christine raised her face to him and smiled bitterly. "We've had a good marriage, you know. Peaceful. Loving, even. We hardly ever fight; we've seen too much real pain to try and inflict more on each other."
Seeing the hurt in her gaze, Erik silently cursed Raoul de Chagny to the devil. He picked Christine up and sat on a couch, cradling her in his arms. It was awkward; of course it was awkward. They had not been so close for five years. Somehow, though, the awkwardness disappeared when Christine asked quietly, "Is your mask still the only thing keeping you from kissing me?"
Erik gazed down at her. Slowly, he answered, "Yes."
Her fingers reached up and tugged at the white leather ties. Erik let her; the mask fell to the couch beside them. There wasn't even a flicker of surprise in Christine's eyes as they absorbed his terrible features; instead, there was warmth. "I've missed you," she murmured, brushing her fingers along his cheeks and down to his lips.
Raising an eyebrow at her, Erik nibbled lightly on her fingers but forced himself to speak his mind. "I would love nothing better than to kiss you, Christine," he murmured. "But are you doing this because you want me as well, or because you are angry with Raoul?"
A soft gasp was his answer, as she leaned forward to bury her face in his neck. "I love you! I have been wanting you to kiss me again for five years," Christine protested quietly.
He waited.
In an even lower tone, she finally added, "and if my husband is going to think of me as a harlot no matter what I do, why should I not allow myself to kiss the man I love? Is that so wicked?"
Sighing, Erik gently maneuvered her far enough away to force Christine to look him in the eye. His mouth twisted in self-depreciating amusement. "My opinion is biased, and you must remember that my conscience left me before you were born. The choice is yours, beloved, as always."
For the first time, Christine's smile seemed as warped as his. She leaned forward slowly, lifting her mouth to his, and Erik tensed. The woman he loved would not do this . . . his Christine was incapable of betraying vows she held sacred, no matter how hurt and angry she might feel. So who was this creature in his lap who was—stopping?
Yes, stopping. Christine's lips were mere centimeters from his when her face crumbled, her chin dropping in defeat. "This is wrong."
Erik smiled slightly and pressed a gentle kiss to her cheek instead before tucking her in against his chest. "Good girl." Christine shook in his arms as she cried; he hummed to her, hoping to sooth her. He wanted to kiss her; of course he did. But only when it was for the right reasons. This moment was enough; to be able to hold her, with the knowledge refreshed in his soul that she would not shy away from his face, was beautiful and fulfilling in its own right.
Christine
Needless to say, dinner had been tense. Raoul and Erik were absolutely silent; the two men acknowledged each other with only a curt nod. Caron was occupied with coaxing Charles to eat his meal, while Christine and Marie each made stilted efforts at a conversation. The so-called 'family time' lasted a grand total of ten minutes, after which Erik fled and Raoul tried to apologize to Christine. She found that she was not ready to forgive him yet; she could feel the look on her face, a long stare managing to be both cold and hurt, cutting into him.
Raoul's mouth had tightened into an angry line and he, too, had stalked out of the kitchen. Even Charles was now noticing that there were frictions between the adults, and instead of continuing to fight with Caron, he quietly ate every bit of his dinner. The young boy even took his plate to the sink, exactly as his Angel had done. The gold eyes were dark when they turned to regard the three women solemnly; Christine felt her lower lip tremble a little at the sorrow in Charles' gaze. She opened her arms and the four-year-old swiftly crawled into her lap
"It was something I did, wasn't it?" Charles asked finally. He had not been crying, Christine noticed, but his beautiful voice was tight with sorrow.
"Hush now, Charles, what do you mean?" The question seemed innocent as she asked it; she could hope, for a moment at least, that it was not the obvious harshness between Erik and Raoul that was upsetting the boy.
Caron and Marie, who had been finishing the dishes, each turned to stare at Charles, waiting for his answer.
"Papa and Angel are angry," Charles' reply dashed their hopes that he might be unhappy about some other small childish worry. "Papa never gets angry. And I never thought Angel could get angry at Papa. Is Angel angry at Papa? Or are they angry at me?" Charles lifted his head from her shoulder to meet Christine's gaze, his eyes begging for understanding. "I've tried to be good, Mama, I have! I didn't mean to—"
Christine groaned softly and pulled him closer against her. "Shh, Charles, you've been wonderful. Oh, my boy, you have been so good for Mama; I'm proud of you. Shh, it's all right. . ." She trailed off, stroking his dark hair as he pushed his face into her shoulder for comfort. When his shaking had subsided, Christine gently forced him to look at her. "Charles, whatever happens between Papa and Angel, it is not your fault. Do you understand?" The boy nodded.
"We love you very, very much," she whispered, stroking his cheek with her finger. "Especially Angel and Papa. But Papa has been angry at Angel for a very long time, and Angel . . ." now, she knew, there was a bitterness to her smile, a wry and painful knowledge that her son would not recognize. "Angel," Christine continued quietly, "gets angry more easily than I might wish."
"Why is Papa angry with Angel?"
Closing her eyes, Christine sighed. There was no easy answer to that question. She was silent for a long moment, and when she spoke, her clear voice was cluttered with held-back tears. "Papa is angry with Angel because Angel . . . because I . . ." Because we love each other, your Angel and I. Christine bit her lip.
What could she say, after all? No mother wanted her child to learn that anger could be born of love.
"I once took something from your Papa, Charles, something that was very precious to him." Coming suddenly from the doorway behind her, Erik's voice was even. "It was, perhaps, wrong of me to steal it the way I did . . . but it was—is—precious to me as well. I hold it dearly." She swallowed hard at the tenderness in his tone and knew that, though he was speaking to their son, his words were for her alone.
The boy in her lap gazed past Christine's shoulder to the masked man, his worry and hurt temporarily soothed by his mother's arms and his Angel's voice. "You should not steal, Angel. And you very much should not steal from my Papa," he informed Erik solemnly.
A curious tilt of Charles' head brought his temple against Christine's left cheek. "What did you take from him?"
Erik was standing close behind her now; Christine could feel his fingertips lightly ghosting along her right cheekbone, and she leaned into the caress. Erik cupped her face gently in his palm. "A rose," he answered the boy softly. "A white rose, fairer than any other, who once sang for a nightingale."
A sad smile lifted the corners of her mouth. A nightingale . . . yes, he always had been her nightingale. Her dark angel, her golden-voiced creature of the night . . . how she had missed him! The touch of his cold hand against her skin was tender, but the way he stroked her cheek with his thumb reminded her of other embraces and the fire of his kiss.
Oblivious to the affection his parents were displaying, Charles laughed. "Roses cannot sing, silly Angel!" he protested; Christine could still hear the smile in his voice as he corrected his erstwhile tutor.
"Ah, but this one could." Erik's hands, light and swift, drew the child up into his arms. "This was a most special rose, Charles, and she sang more beautifully than any other creature on this earth."
"Even Mama?"
Erik was silent for a moment. When he answered, his voice was quiet. "She sounded very much like your mother, Charles. Very much like her indeed."
Christine
Charles had been sung to sleep and Erik was in the music-room. The girls, too, were likely asleep, so it was as Christine had intended it to be; Raoul entered the kitchen late at night to find her waiting for him, a mug of hot chocolate in her hands.
"There is more hot water in the teakettle," she told him quietly, knowing that any conversation would have to start with her.
"Thank you," Raoul answered shortly, but his voice was not so very harsh. He gathered a cup and busied himself making his drink; Christine just watched him calmly. When Raoul could not fiddle about any longer, he sighed and sat next to her at the table. His blue gaze was direct as he asked, "Are you ready to listen to me yet?"
She almost—almost—smiled. "Yes. It would be rather pointless for me to wait up for you otherwise, would it not?"
The Comte de Chagny pressed his lips together and turned away from her a little. "You even speak the way he does. I hadn't noticed that before."
Christine stiffened. "Did you want to make up this fight, or just start another one?" Raoul was silent. "You of all people—you of all people, Raoul, for you have had to live with the fact for five years—should know how closely we are bound. Yes, I sometimes speak as he does; and when I sing, it is not my own inflection you hear. I thought you had learned that Lotte disappeared long ago."
"Please do not remind me of the years that I have spent trying to forget how closely my wife is tied to a madman. I know that you are not Lotte," he nearly spat out her childhood nickname. "Lotte would not have fallen in love with her Demon of Music!"
"Lotte was a child!" After this exclamation, Christine forced herself to speak calmly. "And you know that he is not mad."
Raoul bowed his head, and his voice was quieter when he spoke. "No, he is not mad. Forgive me, Christine; I wanted to apologize to you for what I said earlier, yet here I am arguing with you again."
"I know that you're angry with me. You have every right to be, after all. Even I cannot deny that." Christine closed her eyes and held her face in her hands. She knew she was hiding from him, but at that moment it just didn't matter. "But that you would think me that loose—that wanton . . ." Christine paused, and an unbidden echo of 'Wanton woman?' in Erik's voice came to her mind. She blushed and hoped that Raoul did not notice. "It tore my soul, nearly, loving you both. And it's happening all over again. How could you cheapen something so priceless by making the love I have for Erik into mere lust?"
He did notice her blush; when she took her hands away from her face, she could see that in his eyes. But Raoul did not want to know the reason behind the flush to her cheeks, and so he did not ask. Instead, he murmured, "It was wrong of me to say it, Christine. I'm sorry."
"Me too," she answered quietly. Raoul nodded once and stood, placing his mug into the sink and making to leave the kitchen. Christine watched him hesitate at the door, then he slowly turned back to her, a guarded hope in his gaze.
"I don't suppose you'll—"
Christine looked away. "No, Raoul. I will sleep on the couch tonight. It's better that way."
His voice was cool again when he slowly replied, "I see." They stared at each other, knowing that the bridges between them were not truly repaired, then Raoul left her with a flat, "Good night, Christine."
For a long while, she stared into her cooling chocolate, wondering how she was ever going to solve this tangle.
Eventually, Christine decided that there was no chance of her coming upon an epiphany this late at night, so she gathered up her night-things from the bag she had left them in that morning under the sink and headed for the music room.
She was not expecting to meet Caron dashing from the room in tears, her mouth set in terror. Eyes widening, Christine gently caught the girl and held her; the red-head desperately clutched at her shoulders. "Don't go in there, Christine," Caron begged, the frightened tone of her voice sending tremors into the pit of Christine's stomach. "Don't go in there, he'll kill you! He'll kill you! Christine please . . . " The girl collapsed against her, sobbing.
"Hush there," she murmured into the dark red hair. "Hush, Caron." Christine gently rubbed the teenager's back. Had she only been a year younger than this? No wonder she had been incapable of choosing . . . but that had been real fear in Caron's voice.
She could guess what had inspired it.
"Caron, listen to me," Christine sighed. "He will not hurt you." At this, the young woman's head raised in disbelief. "Oh, he'll frighten you," she assured dryly. "He'll terrify you right out of your wits. But Erik is incapable of physically harming you—or me."
The girl stared at her for a moment. "How can you be sure?" Christine didn't answer; when she pulled away from Caron and began moving toward the music-room, the young nurse's voice rose in fright. "How can you be sure! Christine, don't!"
She turned back and motioned toward the nursery. "Go to bed, Caron. It will be all right. I promise." Christine put just enough steel into her tone to insure that she would be obeyed; with one last trembling glance, Caron fled.
Tightening her hand into a frustrated fist—difficult conversations, apparently, never came singly—Christine walked into the music-room.
Erik stood with his back to her, the utter stillness of his manner chilling. For a moment he blinded even her eyes, and all she could see was the Phantom in his dark glory, his anger freezing the very air around him.
Then Christine's vision cleared, and he was once again her Erik, her maestro, and beyond the anger was his pain. The white mask lay crumpled on the floor between them, a crushed pale soul . . . she could imagine Caron's hand, different from her own and yet eerily similar in its actions, creeping up to tear it away.
She found, to her utter exasperation, that she could not be angry with him. Not when he hadn't even raised his voice to Caron, though Christine knew his quiet hiss could be as frightening as his fury. He had not asked to be born looking like a corpse; he had not asked for the insidious curiosity of teenage girls.
Slowly walking up to him, Christine left the mask where it lay and gently soothed his back with her hand as she pressed herself against his side. Gradually, Erik turned his head to look down at her, the expression in his eyes carefully blank. When her gaze did not accuse him, he sighed and buried his face in her hair, pulling her into his arms. "I'm sorry," Erik murmured. "I should not have frightened her. I should have been paying attention . . . I'm sorry."
"Later, I will ask you what you said to scare her so," Christine answered quietly. "But Caron will be all right; I will stop by and comfort her more in a while." She paused, then more softly, added, "I'm sorry that I didn't see her curiosity in time to prevent this; some indignities should not have to be experienced twice."
That forced a short chuckle out of him. "Yes, the incident was rather similar. Though I think I frightened you more than I did her. And how do you know, dear heart, that I had to say anything at all?" Erik gestured bitterly to his face. "This is quite enough to send a young woman away in tears, as you well understand."
"Lotte was a child," she repeated herself, this time to another man. "As is Caron. But you do not frighten me." Christine raised her face enough to see his and smiled, tracing his cheek with her hand.
Erik closed his eyes and quietly relished her gentle touch. "Angel," he whispered in her ear.
-Chapter End-
A/N: Just a note—school is starting, so my updates will be (even more) rare. Sorry! It's what I get for writing three stories at a time. Forgive me? Please?
As for the review replies—when I see it in the guidelines, or a mod tells me I need to not reply, I will happily and swiftly comply. Until then—well, I trust FF.N enough that I disbelieve they would punish writers for rules that are not –in- the rules. So here are mine.
Oh yes—thanks much to Mominator for providing me with one of the lines in Raoul's bit (hope you don't mind that I'm shamelessly stealing it) in one of her reviews. Merci, m'dear, as always. Kudos to whoever can spot it!
phantomlovin4ever: Updating for you now! Glad you like it. Thanks!
grotto1: Thanks for enjoying this—heh, yeah, the mayhem potential is very, very high here. I'm glad you like it so much, and many thanks for your reviews!
EvilStorm: Ah, reviews like yours make me sigh happily. Yeah, the three (four) of them are really and truly messed up, so I didn't want to ignore that. Thanks so much for reading and reviewing this little tale of mine! And as for an easy ending . . .
(dark laughter, menacing and wicked, issues from ErikMuse)
I swear to you, the ending will be anything but easy. Mwuahahahaha!
Onelastchance: grins and bows Wow, glad you're loving it! The "Think of Me" duet is where the whole idea started, so I'm glad you liked it!
Phantomluvr: Thanks! Yes, I feel sorry for them all—so much pain, and so few ways to deal with it. grin I'm glad you noticed Erik's particular ability to sound elegant when he's fighting with someone; I work to maintain that part of his character. Thanks much for reading! (my email cleared up your confusion, btw, right? I hope so).
Hisinspiration: Lol, here's an update for you. I'm glad that you're liking this story so much; yeah, I usually like Raoul pretty well, so I'm trying to keep him human. Thanks for your review!
Clever Lass: Hey CL! Thanks for your reviews, as ever; yes, I'm rather enjoying the tension here myself. Glad you liked the lyric changes. Here's an update (finally . . . .) for you!
Mominator: We really need to cure your ECRness, lol. Yep, I wanted that little show of bravery—continuing even though they were listening in—to show just how much she really has grown up. When you look at the difference between 16 and 21 . . . wow. Lots of changes. And she had become a mother besides. Glad you liked it; here's more of Raoul being non-martyrish for you (grin).
CrazyCarl: Lol, glad that you love this story so much!. I do too; I think it's the best of my three. Thanks gadzooks for reading and reviewing; here's an update for you!
intoxicated by eriks music: Lol, savy, and thanks for the review! Glad you like it.