Raoul
He couldn't understand it, he truly couldn't. Hadn't Christine already chosen him? Didn't she know how much better off she'd be with him?
I can't believe-I refuse to believe that she would go back to that-that madman.
Images of the life they were supposed to be leading haunted his dreams. Christine, radiant at their wedding, Christine, watching the opera with him instead of singing in it. Christine, holding their children. By his side at night, in the morning. Where she should be.
Why can't she see it anymore? He rubbed bloodshot eyes and contemplated his wineglass. He knew he'd already had too much. He didn't care. He reached for it again. It was the Phantom's fault. The angel-devil was beguiling his Little Lotte again, trying to steal her away from him. If it weren't for the accursed Opera Ghost, he and Christine would be happily married by now, the Opera House a distant memory. Everything would be as it should. He raged. If only that damned monster was out of the way. The Vicomte stopped. If only he were out of the way.
He had tried the police. That had not worked. If anything, it had made things worse. They had been unable to stop him from wrecking the Opera Populaire, from kidnapping Christine... Useless idiots. He fumed. If you want something done, do it yourself, Raoul. If you want Christine to come back, get rid of him yourself.
A theatre worker had once remarked that no one could best the Phantom in his Opera House. Buquet and Piagni were testament to that remark.
Than we'll just have to draw him out of it. And then...
He shivered, a thrill of joy racing through him. And then...
Madame Giry
She rubbed her temples and wished in vain to be twenty years younger. And to have a less complicated life, while she was at it. But it had its compensations.
Erik and Christine, together. So, she finally accepts him. A warmth spread through her every time she saw them together, the tender glances Erik gave his angel when he thought she wasn't looking, Christine, her smile blazing like wildfire. The aura of closeness, of rightness between them. The way that they did not have to touch to seem so utterly connected.
A whimper came from the bed. Madame Giry sat back on her stool and sighed. I wish all of my girls could find such joy. Celeste, relatively new to the Opera House, young and frightened when the Vicomte had taken advantage of her, had been left with a cowering aversion to touch. Her dreams were troubled, she looked over her shoulder constantly as though she felt she were being stalked. She did not seem fully connected to the world, there were times when Madame Giry had found her standing in the hall by herself, staring into nothingness and shivering.
A cold fire sparked in her. Damn the Vicomte. As though I didn't have enough to worry about- what with managers with all the sensitivity of a brick. Damn him for taking the girl's innocence. He was the reason she woke up in the middle of the night, shaking and soaked with sweat. He was the reason she could not bear to be touched. Celeste was no prodigy, no great beauty, had no outstanding talent in anything except acting, but she was one of Madame Giry's girls, her adoptive daughters. Nothing gave the Vicomte the right to harm her, no matter how much money he gave to the Opera.
I'll help Erik get him out of here if it's the last thing I do. She thought forcefully, eyes on the half-conscious girl, whose eyelids were squeezed shut as though to block out the world. He will never hurt my girls again.
Meg
She did not understand the sudden silences of her mother these days, though she suspected that it had something to do with Celeste's own quietness. There had been dark rumors, never spoken above a whisper, that someone had misused the girl.
I almost miss the Opera Ghost. At least when he haunted the Opera, you knew who to be afraid of. Now...
Even more disturbing, Louis, her current beau and secretary for the Opera, had confided worriedly that he thought the Vicomte was running out of money. A few weeks ago, the man had quietly auctioned off a family estate, and the Vicomte looked more worried and less sober every time Louis saw him. Christine, oddly enough, had never looked in better health. None of this made the least sense to Meg.
What happened to the simple life? How can things be put back the way they were? And- God, send us a miracle. A thought hovered on the edges of her mind. The Phantom. What if he was not gone, as everyone supposed him to be? The Opera is his home. I do not think he could leave it. If someone talks to him, told him what was wrong, he would try to save his Opera House.
What ifs don't help anyone, Meg. She reminded herself. If he's still here, there's only one place to find him.
Love Me, That's All I Ask Of You
Christine
She sighed in pure contentment, watching Erik poring over a composition on his desk, humming quietly to himself, her book forgotten. How long was it since I had a moment of peace like this? Not with Raoul, in any case. Since the night of Don Juan even simple conversations had been difficult, silences had been awkward and his touch had stirred nothing but her apathy. Not that he had seen it. And he wants me to marry him. So we can both be miserable for the rest of our lives.
She had never realized it before, that Raoul had a naïveté, a way of keeping himself in denial, that even she had lost. If they married, it would be long nights of avoiding his eyes, forced tones and false smiles. Days of pretending to be in love for the sake of children that she could not love because they were his.
She would be one of the wealthiest women in France, envied and emulated. She would never have to lift a finger in her own interest again. Her least needs would be cared for by others. She would be treated like royalty, like a glass figurine, a valuable commodity.
I don't ... want that anymore.
It was freeing to realize it- to realize that all she needed was the man who was both angel and tutor, friend and lover. All she needed was the man who gave her his love unconditionally and without reservation. She walked over to him, seated herself next to him, leaning against his shoulder. Wordlessly, he put his arm around her, drawing her close, looking up briefly at her with a warm glance.
All she needed was this.
Erik
But for the slight pressure of her slim body against his, he could hardly believe she was there, such a silent and restful presence. Her eyes were pensive on his, her expression reflective. It was thrilling, dangerous to have her with him, as though he would shatter with all of the joy that she brought. At any moment, he expected to wake and find this all a dream, his angel gone and his music gone with her.
Another glance reassured him that she was still there. The candlelight shone softly on her skin, her eyes blazed with another kind of light entirely. It froze his breath, immobilized him. Why did I go so long without telling her? Why did I wait to tell her who I was- how I felt? Why did I never tell her I loved her? He looked briefly at the pale face intent upon his, eyes aglow. Taking her hand, he caressed it absently. There was something he needed to speak to her about- something that, if he avoided it- would make this entire existence a charade. If he was shackling her to himself again, somehow controlling her, however unconsciously...
I'd be changing her into something made entirely for my own needs. Taking her freedom, her will to choose. The last time there had been such a choice, it had been him that had released her from her bond. What if I'm preventing her from living her own life? I want her to be happy, with or without me. It was true that he wanted her, needed her, loved her desperately, but not if it came at the price of destroying her. This needs to be her choice.
Forget the composition. I'll never finish it tonight.
"Christine?"
Her eyes flickered up to his- piercing him like summer lightening. "Yes, Erik?"
He began cautiously, not quite sure how to navigate the topic. "Christine, are you sure you want to do this-" he swept his hand around the room, somehow taking in the whole Opera, "-forever? I mean," he continued tentatively, "do you want to get married or have children? To leave the Opera Populaire? I feel that I am- limiting you, somehow, to my lifestyle. I did that once, Christine, I won't do it again. Would you choose to do this-to stay with me- of your own will, if it were not for my own shortcomings, a need to heal me? I cannot choose your life for you Christine, and I will not force you to mine. You should not-" his throat constricted, his voice strained. "You should not stay with me merely because I may need it." May? A gross understatement, but if he told her, she would feel compelled to stay, to heal him- and he would still be controlling her.
She laughed, rather breathlessly. "Was that what you thought? That I would be unhappy this way? That I would stay here only because I felt you needed me? Erik-" she took his hands in hers. "My reasons for staying are not at all as altruistic as that. I choose to stay because I love you, because no other makes me feel as you do. You and your music are enough for me. I am happy- more than happy- to stay with you."
The tension seeped out of him, he stroked her cheek. "That's all I wanted." And then, softly. "I love you."
Christine smiled up at him. She didn't even have to speak.
Look At Your Face In The Mirror
Meg
She stood in front of the mirror in Christine's dressing room. The eyes staring back at her were dilated fully, face pale and strained. The Phantom would see her fright as easily as she saw it. She could not guess what his reaction would be- she supposed he was used to it, but to have the audacity to disturb him...
This was a fool's errand and she knew it. She was shaking, her blood ran fast and cold. How could she hope to seek his aid- assuming he would even listen to her?
It didn't matter. The thought of what might happen to her home outweighed the fear that crawled over her skin. She fumbled for the catch she knew was there. Several unsuccessful moments went passed before she took a step back, reassessing the mirror.
He had the catch changed. It certainly proved that he was indeed still inside the Opera House. It did nothing to soothe her nerves. She ran her fingers over the mirror. Now how do I get in?
A hairline crack, so shallow as to be barely felt, met her fingertips. So slight was it, that at first she did not notice it.
And then- a tiny, barely visible hole, cleverly blended into the mirror frame. She paused, stared at it for a whole minute before moving.
Brilliant.
She fished a hairpin out of her hair, a tight smile on her face. Inserting it into the hole, she jiggled it gently. Alleluia. Finally, a good use for hairpins.
A soft click a minute later told her that it had worked. She slid her fingernails into the crack and heaved. It moved a few inches. Adrenaline jumped through her. Another push and it was just wide enough to fit one thin chorus girl.
Damp air rushed out at her, chilling her as it swept fine hairs away from her face. She stared out into the darkened, musty hallway. It seemed to stretch on into infinity, cold and ominous. And at the end of it... an unpredictable, deadly Phantom. She crossed over the threshold and closed the mirror behind her.
And now... to find the Angel in Hell.