Thanks once again to everyone who reviewed for Chapter 5. Wouldn't it be great if we could reach 100 reviews with this chapter? I don't think that's an impossible goal--especially since I consider this one of the most emotional and pivotal chapters of the story. It's the first time the Phantom and Christine--no, I'll give too much away if I say any more. Bring forth the ballet--er Chapter Six!

All Love Can Be

"Angel, you awake?" Christine's voice was gentle, as was the hand she ghosted over his cheek. The Phantom stirred, rolling slowly onto his back to look up at her. "I've made that tea for you. Can you sit up?"

That was a good question. He raised himself up on his elbows, closing his eyes as the room dipped and swerved around him. Christine gripped him under the arm, helping him the rest of the way up, leaning him against pillows she piled behind his back. When the dizzy sensation passed, he opened his eyes to find her seated on the bed beside him, a mug with steam rising from it in her hand.

"I'm afraid this will taste quite awful, but you must drink it. It should help bring your fever down." Once again, she wrapped her hands around his as he accepted the cup from her. He took a sip and nearly gagged. She was right, it was foul, but he dutifully drank it quickly as he could, not wanting the taste to linger on his tongue any longer than necessary.

She took the cup away when he was done then laid her hand against his forehead. "For reference," she told him, but he could see the worry in her eyes.

"How long has it been?" he asked. They had agreed that if Raoul did not return with Dr. Jarred within four hours that Christine would have to clean the infection out of his wound. Neither of them was looking forward to that.

Christine picked up the Phantom's pocket watch from the bedside table. "A little over an hour. I'll be right back." Rising, she left the bedroom, returning a few minutes later with a bowl of water and some towels. Setting the bowl down, Christine soaked one of the small towels in it, wrung it out then turned to the Phantom.

He eyed her uncertainly, his feverish brain too tired to make the logical connection he knew had to be there. She wiped the wet rag gently over his face and down his neck. It was cold. Ah, another method to bring his body temperature down. He watched her as she worked, her head bowed in concentration, stroking the damp cloth over his shoulders, across his chest, down his arms. She looked up as she dipped the rag in the water, catching him with his mouth slightly open and his breath shuddering in and out of his lungs.

Awareness dawned in her eyes and Christine blushed then squeezed out the cloth again and helped him lean forward so she could run the cold rag over his back. Despite her efforts, the Phantom could feel his fever spiking, and he began to shiver uncontrollably. She pulled all three of the blankets over him, but he couldn't get warm, couldn't stop shaking.

He felt the mattress dip and opened his eyes to find Christine crawling under the covers next to him. "Come here," she said, and for some reason, he didn't understand what she wanted. "My poor, sick Angel. You're cold; I'm warm." She held out her hand to him, and hesitantly he moved toward her, not quite believing this was happening.

"Closer," she said. It was as if she was speaking a foreign language. Nothing was making any sense to him. The Phantom didn't know if he should blame it on the fever, or the fact that this whole situation was utterly beyond his realm of experience.

Giving what sounded to him like a fondly impatient sigh, Christine scooted over until she was tucked in against him. She wrapped his arm around her waist then pulled the blankets up over his shoulder. After several minutes, his shivering stopped, and he could let himself enjoy what he was experiencing. She had been right, she was very warm. He could feel her heat against his skin through the silk she wore. Her fingers slowly carded through his hair, the sensation soothing and yet completely unfamiliar.

Boldly, he tilted his head down, resting it against her shoulder. The soft vibration of her humming fluttered against his cheek. A smile crossed his face, and he tightened his arm around her. The humming became long wordless notes, barely above a whisper, but sweet and pure. The melody seemed familiar, but he couldn't recall the last time he had heard it.

"I will watch you in the darkness, show you love will see you through…When the bad dreams wake you crying, I'll show you all love can do…All love can do…"

An ache rose in the Phantom's chest as he realized she was singing a song he had written for her years ago, when she had first come to the opera house. It had been a lullaby to calm a child frightened of the dark, alone in a strange new world. It had been his promise to her as her Angel.

"I will watch through the night, hold you in my arms, give you dreams where no one will be…"

He had never imagined his own simple words, sung so softly, could move him so deeply. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to hold back the flood of tears.

"I will watch through the dark, 'til the morning comes, for the light will take you through the night to see. A light showing us all love can be…"

She was his light, his candle against the darkness. Christine was his Angel.

"I will guard you with my bright wings, stay 'til your heart learns to see…All love can be…"

The tears spilled over, and he buried his face in her neck, feeling her arms go around him, holding him, holding him…. And in that moment, the Phantom knew what it was to be loved.

Tristan Jarred had just risen from the dining room table, intent on heading to his study to write up some case notes when there was a knock at the front door. He paused in the hallway, hearing the door to the kitchen open behind him. "I'll answer it, Jean," he said to his houseboy, "eat your supper."

"Yes, sir, Dr. Jarred," came the reply.

Tristan continued down the hall to the front of the house, wondering what poor soul had braved the drifting snow in search of a physician. Turning up the gaslight just inside the door, he opened it. A young man of about twenty stood there, well dressed, his coat the finest cashmere, a scarf of silk around his neck. A cloak hung off his shoulders, the hood covering his head. Despite the expensive attire, he shivered in the cold, his cheeks reddened from his ride in the sleigh that stood at the curb. Tristan had just noticed the coat of arms painted on the side of the sleigh when the man spoke.

"Please, Monsieur, I must speak with Dr. Jarred."

"Come in, sir." When the man was inside and the cold once again shut behind the door, he said, "I am Tristan Jarred. What business do you have with me at this late hour?"

The young man pushed back his hood, revealing shoulder-length blond hair and a worried visage. "My fiancée has taken ill, and she asks for you specifically." Reaching into the inside pocket of his coat, he produced an envelope sealed with red wax.

Tristan took it from him, breaking the seal and withdrawing the note. "Who is your fiancée?" he asked as he opened the single, folded sheet.

"Christine Daaé, the opera singer," came the answer, just as the doctor saw the signature at the bottom. He was heading for his surgery before he had the note half read. There was only one reason Christine Daaé would be writing to him, and it was not a good one.

"Give me a few minutes to gather what I need, then I will be with you," he told the man, leaving him standing in the middle of the hall.

Once inside his examining room, the doctor gave his full attention to the note.

Dr. Jarred,

I'm sorry to impose upon you again, but I must ask you to please come at once to the opera house. That which we feared has come to pass, and I am in feverish need of your assistance. The man who bears this note to you is my fiancé, Raoul, the Vicomte de Chagny. If he feels the need to question you about my whereabouts yesterday, you have my permission to provide him with whatever details he requires regarding my Angel's death.

Please, I beg of you, come as quickly as you can. Madame Giry will bring you to me.

Christine Daaé

Clever girl, hiding her true message between the lines. She must have some reason for not wanting her fiancé to know that the man Tristan had begun to think of as Monsieur Angel lived. And truly, there was only one he could think of, only one reason why Mademoiselle Daaé had not told him the identity of their attacker the day before, even though he had seen in her eyes she knew it. The love and affection she had shown Monsieur Angel would not sit well with one of the Vicomte's stature. Young men of his age and societal position were, in Tristan's experience, far too concerned with honor and appearances, prone to dueling over the smallest of slights. He suspected Christine's Angel had wound up on the wrong end of the Vicomte's sword.

He gathered the supplies he thought he would need and tossed them into his medical bag, throwing the note into the fire. Taking the back hallway to the kitchen, he informed Jean and his housekeeper of where he was going, and that he did not expect to be back until the next morning, if then. Returning to the hallway where the Vicomte waited, Tristan put on his coat, hat, and his warmest pair of gloves. A surgeon with frostbite was of no use to anyone. "All right, sir," he said to the Vicomte, "shall we be on our way?"

His tears finally slowing to a mere trickle, the Phantom raised his head from Christine's shoulder, moving so that there was a distance between them. He felt…embarrassed, ashamed somehow that he had cried like a small child in her arms. This was never how he had wanted things to be between them. He had never wanted her to see him this way, sick and weak, frightened.

He had planned everything so carefully the night he had first shown himself to her, wanted her to only see his strengths, his genius, his beauty. Yet when she had had the chance, Christine had gone straight for his mask, stripped away his shield, bared his face and then his soul. She knew all his darkest secrets. He didn't understand why she was still here.

Opening his eyes, he found her watching him, her face wet from her own tears. She laid her hand on his cheek, her gaze searching his, looking for what, he didn't know. "I love you, Angel," she finally whispered. "You know that, don't you?"

He nodded slowly. He had felt it lying in her arms; it had enfolded him like a living blanket, warm and golden. It was the only explanation for everything she had done, but even hearing the words, even having experienced it, he found it difficult to believe. She must have seen the doubt in his eyes because she moved closer, brushing her lips over his cheek, kissing the corner of his mouth. Need overcame him, and he turned his head so that his lips met hers. The first kiss was quick, soft and chaste. The second was softer still, her mouth barely touching his until he captured her trembling lips with his own, savoring the salt of mingled tears and the sweet, soul-shaking taste of love.

They finally parted, his breathing sounding harsh and loud in his ears as he shivered in her arms. Christine leaned her forehead against his shoulder, her arm around his neck. "Oh, Angel," she whispered, "oh, I never knew it could feel like that…."

The Phantom was in a daze of his own. She had kissed him…She loved him…Christine loved him. All his fears were swept away for the moment. "Christine," he said, his hand under her chin lifting her head. "Christine, you must do it."

Her confused gaze met his. "What? Do what?"

"My wound. You have to clean the infection out now."

"But—" There was fear in her eyes.

"You have to do it! Every moment that goes by the poison goes deeper. We can't wait for the doctor any longer, not if you want me to live." A bout of violent shivering underlined his words. "Please, Christine. Please, I trust you."

She looked into his eyes for a long moment, swallowing audibly. She nodded, then rose from the bed and began to prepare a shot of morphine for him. This time there was no hesitating on her part. Once it was ready, she leaned over him and plunged the needle into his hip through the silk pajamas. He gripped the sheets tightly, grunting at the quick pain, then relaxing, feeling the drug began to flow through his veins.

Bleary-eyed, the Phantom watched her prepare. She read through Dr. Jarred's instructions, setting out the medical supplies and medicines. She gathered all the towels he had and stacked them by the bed, placing several layers underneath him. She tied her hair back and rolled the sleeves of her pajamas up as far as they would go. She boiled water and scrubbed her hands carefully in it then used the flame from a candle to sterilize the blade of a scalpel, needles, and a pair of fine-pointed scissors.

Finally Christine turned to him. "Are you ready, Angel?" she asked as she unwound the bandage.

Biting the inside of his lip, the Phantom nodded. Christine bent over him, the scissors in hand. He felt a slight tug as each stitch was snipped, but no real pain until she actually touched the area, applying pressure to force the infection from the wound.

Then it was as if a red-hot poker had been shoved into his side. He twisted his fists in the sheets, trying not to move, the morphine doing nothing to dull the pain. The room began to blur before his eyes as another wave of agony rolled through him. Giving a short, sharp scream, he mercifully passed out.

Tristan and the Vicomte settled themselves in the sleigh, and the driver clucked to the horses, urging them forward. "Push them now," the Vicomte called out, and the man gave a curt nod, cracking his whip over the animals' backs. The sleigh lurched slightly as they broke into a trot, then the ride evened out.

There was silence between the two men for a few minutes, though Tristan caught Raoul staring at him quite openly on several occasions. Finally, the Vicomte asked rather brusquely, "How do you come to know my fiancée? Have you been her physician long?"

"No, Monsieur," he answered honestly. "Yesterday was the first time I ever laid eyes on her."

The Vicomte took a moment to digest that information, then said, "Christine brought him to you, then." He didn't bother to hide the hatred in his eyes or his voice.

Tristan nodded slowly, sensing he was now treading dangerous ground. "She brought me an injured man, but I never learned his name. He survived the surgery, but not the night. She was most distraught at his passing."

"And now she has made herself ill, grieving for that creature." Raoul turned his head away in disgust.

The doctor looked away himself, to school his expression into one of neutrality rather than indignation. No wonder Mademoiselle Daaé wished to keep the fact her Angel lived secret. "He was no 'creature'," he finally said. "He was a man, cursed by God, perhaps, but a man none the less."

The Vicomte rounded on him. "What did he tell you? That he was an Angel of Music? Did he tell you how he bewitched my Christine, how he made her think he was the spirit of her dead father? Did he confess to you the murders he committed, or how he drove Christine to the cemetery in order to kidnap her?"

"All I know of him is what Mademoiselle Daaé told me. That he was her friend, her teacher, and that he had been attacked by someone with a sword." Tristan watched Raoul's face for any sign of remorse.

"It was he who attacked first!" Raoul snarled. "I had to defend myself, defend Christine. Go to the police if you must! I do not regret what happened. I am glad he is dead and will trouble us no more." At that, the Vicomte fell silent.

Going to the police was the last thing Tristan could do, no matter how much he wished to see the arrogant Vicomte punished for his crime. Mademoiselle Daaé and her Angel had entrusted him with their lives, and the gendarmes would ask all sorts of unpleasant questions like where was Monsieur Angel's body? Tristan wrapped his scarf more tightly around his face, trying to hide his growing dislike for the young man. He had no idea if what the Vicomte had said was true, if Monsieur Angel was a murderer or not. He could only judge him by what he had seen with his own eyes, and Mademoiselle Daaé had not treated him as a murderer or a monster. He could still see her standing by his bedside, her small hands wrapped around her Angel's large one, a look of resolve on her face. A truer love he could not imagine.

And based on that single impression he was conspiring with her to hide Monsieur Angel from a member of the nobility. He shook his head ruefully. What had he gotten himself into?

"Angel!" Christine cried out at the Phantom's scream. "Angel!" He gave no response. Her hands began to shake and her breathing quickened, yet she knew she could not afford to waste time on hysterics. Turning her gaze to his chest, she watched it continue to rise and fall. Fainted, that's all. He had simply fainted.

Best that she took advantage of the situation then, and finished what she had started. She pressed on the swollen flesh surrounding his open wound, choking at the fetid odor raised by the sickly yellow fluid that oozed from it. She now knew where the expression "the stench of death" came from, for if death could have a scent, she was certain it would be the one stinging her sinuses and making her eyes water.

Minutes passed as she worked at the wound, soaking up the poison with towels, using the scalpel to trim away flesh that was bloodless and dead. Her Angel did not stir during the whole ordeal, and Christine prayed that he would remain unconscious until she was completely finished. Finally the injury bled clean, red blood untainted by infection. Taking up the bottle of carbolic acid, she poured part of it into the cut, wincing in sympathy as it hissed and bubbled.

She scrubbed her hands again before beginning the suturing, going so far as to rinse them with the acid, not wanting any trace of the poison to transfer from her back to him. Taking up the needle and thread, Christine looked at the Phantom. The wound still bled sluggishly. Swallowing hard, she bent over him again, using her right hand to hold the edges of the cut together, while the left pierced them with the needle. It was all she could do not to gag. The stench of the infection had not affected her as deeply as the realization that she was sewing living flesh did. She tried to think of it as anything else, mending a dress, or sewing ribbons on a new pair of toe shoes.

Eventually, Christine fell into a rhythm of sew, tie, cut, sew, tie, cut. So focused was she on the actions that it was with surprise she noticed she had reached the end of wound. Cutting the tail end of the thread, she soaked a cloth in the carbolic acid and washed her handiwork with it.

Finally, she looked up at her Angel's face, calling to him. Nothing. The controlled calm that had sustained her through cleaning and suturing his wound slipped away. "No…no…" Tears blurred Christine's vision, and she couldn't see clearly enough to know if his chest rose and fell or not. She laid her hand over his heart, but it was shaking so badly that any movement she felt might have been her own.

Tears became great wracking sobs she couldn't control, all the tension and fear she had held back now spilling over in hysterical wails. She had killed him…she had killed her Angel…. She sank ungracefully to the floor, curling into a ball, her back pressed against the side of the bed as she cried.

She was still in that position when Madame Giry found her. "Christine! Child, whatever has happened?" She felt the woman's arms go around her, lifting her to her feet. Christine clung to her, still sobbing, though her tears were nearly exhausted.

"I've killed him…" she moaned, unable to even look at the still form in the bed, barely noting the fourth presence in the room. Madame Giry hugged her, offering comfort that Christine could not accept. Her Angel had trusted her to save him and she had failed.

"Mademoiselle, you condemn yourself too hastily." Christine lifted her head from Madame Giry's shoulder long enough to recognize the tall figure of Dr. Jarred bending over her Angel. "Come, give me your hand."

Letting go of Madame Giry, Christine offered her hand tentatively. The physician took it, laying her fingertips against the side of her Angel's throat. A slow, steady throbbing pulsed against her skin.

"You have not killed him, on the contrary, you have most certainly saved his life." He moved her hand to the Phantom's forehead, and while still overly warm, his flesh no longer burned as it had before.

"Oh, Angel," she whispered, trailing her fingers across his cheek. His eyes opened, and Christine found herself once again pulled in by that dark emerald gaze.

"Christine…" The rest of the world disappeared in that moment, all she could see, all she could hear was him. Then that, too, faded away.

The song Christine sings to the Phantom is "All Love Can Be" by James Horner and Will Jennings from the "Beautiful Mind" soundtrack, sung by Charlotte Church.