A/N: By popular demand, the kiss is staying. However, the details of the kiss will remain a mystery to you for now, and instead I'll write about their everyday life together...and a little kind-of-good Erik. No, he's not a totally good guy...there's actually very little that's nice about him, other than what he shows Christine, because I rather don't like the idea of him changing overnight.
Disclaimer: Yea, again...own nothing.
Meg had put Mrs. Giry ill at ease with hersudden call. They hadn't scheduled a phone call, and the girl was lucky Mrs. Giry hadn't chosen that moment to go to the market to buy ingredients for tonight's supper. Then, she'd heard the reason.
"Did I ever go to a big house with you, Mama?" Her voice was small, trying to remember by herself. Mrs. Giry had stilled on her end of the line, but had not denied or affirmed her daughter. She set down her purse and sat at her table.
"Meg, why do you ask?" She sighed. Distract her. "Do you really have so much free time to-"
"I had an odd dream, Mama. Just last night." Meg bit her lip. "It still bothers me. I've been off-beat all day."
"You're not an infant, to be so frightened by a dream." Her words might have seemed harsh, but they were tender, trying to reassure Meg. "How bad could it have been, petite?"
"I opened a door I ought not have...and everything was dark. I was not yet afraid, so I went in to look. You'd told me I couldn't, but I was so curious..."
"Meg..." Mrs. Giry whispered as the girl continued, closing her eyes.
"--And then, I saw it. Something frightening. I can't describe it now, except for thosefrightening eyes. Those eyes...I thought it would kill me just by looking at me. I shrank back in fear and closed my eyes, but I knew it was there...watching me." She sighed, coming from the very bottom of her lungs. "Then I woke up."
"It was nothing, girl." Mrs. Giry was quick to break the trance. "It's over and done with, so don't dally on it. The mind likes to play tricks, doesn't it?" But in the back of her mind, Mrs. Giry knew just whose eyes Meg had seen, and later demonified in her childish brain.
"It...even now, it feels like a memory from long ago." She gave a small laugh. "But if it had happened, I wouldn't have forgotten it. I should never be the same." A slight tremble escaped her.
"Just a dream, darling," Mrs. Giry assured her. "And a dream can't really harm you, can it?"
"No...I suppose not." Meg finally agreed. "It just felt very real. My mind is very deceptive at times, no?"
Your mind...and your mother, Mrs. Giry thought bitterly.
"You won't be singing for at least a few days." Erik put his foot down on the subject. She'd been out in pouring rain, and on top of that had injured herself. He set down some books beside Christine. She was lying on the sofa, watching him like a sleek cat. "If these aren't to your liking-"
"They're fine." She gave him a small smile, undetectable meaning behind every flicker in her eyes. "I- may I ask a favor?" She sat up slowly, and didn't wait for him to respond. "Where is my father's violin?"
He lifted the case from the table. "I'm going to take it to be checked out. I think it's in need of some new strings. No one's played it for a very long time." He watched her nod her head in affirmation. "I'll be out for a short time. Is..." It was awkward, as new things usually are, but he struggled through his nervousness. "If there is something you need..."
Christine looked up in surprise. He usually trusted to is intuition for her things. This was...different. "I-" she faltered, giving a small, breathless laugh, "I don't really need anything, but if you could...I'd really like some bath salt." She had to falter further as he watched her stoically. "I'm a little sore after...well, I'd just like to take a hot bath tonight." She tugged at her own sleeve and finally looked away. "Never mind, it's-"
"All right." Of course she's sore. She's run so far, while ill, in the rain, and cuts herself. He unlocked the door and walked out. "Just don't strain your voice by practicing." With that, he was gone. She smiled to herself, and did not feel the blush rising on her cheeks, nor her hand at her lips..
Samantha sat on her couch, looking at one of the drawings in the parlor. Her cordless phone was cradled by one of her soft, small hands. "Raoul, what did you say?"
"I saw her, Aunt Samantha." Raoul sighed, pulling some sweetner from his cupboard to pour into his coffee. "I was wrong, though. She's been in Paris."
"Well," she mused, "last I remember, she was a small-town bumpkin. It's good that she's out discovering the world. A pity about her parents, though."
Raoul couldn't tell if her words about Christine were an insult or a compliment. "You should have seen her. She's grown to be very pretty. Still quiet, but very pretty." His voice was almost wistful. Even when soaked, he could see the russett in her curls, the clarity of her honey eyes, and that transluscent skin.
"Yes, well, she was a pretty little girl. I'm sure that, being a pretty young lady, she must have found someone by now." She chuckled to herself when Raoul did not respond. "Well, it's for the best. You can finally forget this childhood dream of yours." She placed her free hand at her cheek. "I know she was the only girl you ever really knew before I sent you to St. Augustine Academy. It's no wonder you built her up to be your ideal. But you've turned down so many girls, just because none of them were her."
The words still cut him, but he'd accepted the truth when Christine had left him. She'd looked to damned determined to return to her mystery lover. He'd only called his Aunt because, deep down, he was certain she'd worried too. Samantha was elitist and snobby, but even she'd loved the warm Daae family. "Aunt Samantha, I understand all of that. I just wanted to let you know she's all right."
"And that she's still beautiful, right? I'm sorry, for what it's worth. I know you're disappointed, and people don't quite get over these things overnight." Her mouth wasn't smirking victoriously, just sincere. "But it's as it should be. She belongs with the man best suited to her. Christine always was a sweet girl, if a little naive, and I'm sure that's exactly what her beau sees her for. Maybe even loves her for it. Tell me, what was it that brought this urge to find her again? Where did her name appear?"
Raoul paused and thought back. Although her clever tongue licked something raw with her little speech, he thought of what he'd heard to make him think back to her. With his mouth slightly agape to respond, he realized what it had been. A news clipping, from nearly two years ago that he'd found much by accident. It was the same one he'd shown the detective, with Christine shining onstage, being complimented for an honorable mention. She'd been so beautiful...but had that been enough incite him? Her prettily painted mouth, her dress- was this all?
"You're a little too clever, as usual, Aunt."
"Well, thank you." She chuckled. "Oh, and be sure to let everyone you've alarmed know that Christine is fine."
"Of course...but I don't think anyone was really looking. I'll make the rounds when I have the chance."
He stood before the shop clerk, and placed the violin case on the countertop carefully. "I'd like this to be re-strung," Erik said. The clerk nodded and opened the case. He settled his glasses higher up on the bridge on his nose as he looked it over.
"It's old, but very unique. A very good piece." He turned it over to examine the back. "The carving here is exquisite."
Carving? Erik looked over, and took the violin from him, and studied it. At the base was an image, hand-carved into the frame. A divine creature with wings stretched out, holding a flute. Under it, an inscription.
I play to honor the angel of music.
"Sir?" The clerk watched him patiently, and Erik handed it back to him. "It'll be ready in two hours. You can come back then."
With that business taken care of, he walked out of the shop. Even in his own mind, he found the violin to be beautiful. He understood why she loved it- her father must have played it so proudly! But he felt the poetry in the writing, even if he could not imagine her father. She'd been ready and willing to throw everything away for this violin, for her father, and- he imagined- for the Angel of Music. Never quite in thinking ahead, sensitive and childishly noble -- beautiful, foolish Christine.
He knew he was the villain. As he looked around the shops, and picked out trinkets and little gifts for her, he knew he tried to appease this feeling. He would care for her. He would watch over her. Above all, he would give her his music. She would want for nothing with him. Nothing but the outside world...
From the corner of his eye a brightly colored shop caught his eye. In the shop window were buckets of flowers, arranged pleasingly. He stepped inside, and wondered all the while if even a room full of roses really meant what he wanted to say.
She had resumed her curled up position and sighed into her book. With Erik gone, and no instructions for practice, she'd become bored. Yes, she still felt the effects of her illness, and she hurt a little, but she wanted to play. She wanted to resume their natural routine, to really remain as she'd promised. Odd pauses like these just bothered with that. Without him, without music, the apartment was so lonely.
He'd never know...
Temptation had finally gotten the better of her. Setting aside The Masque of the Red Death, Christine went to the piano. I'll only pay a simple tune, she reasoned to herself, I won't even sing. Her hands set themselves above the keys, and she smiled devilishly. She wanted to play. It had been so long since she'd played on his piano. The sweet clarity sent a delicious shiver through her, starting at the tips of her ears to her very toes.
Claire du Lune. That's what she began with, bringing variations into the well-known tune. Her fingers graced the keys, her body moving with the caress. At one point, a flourish took her away from the tune altogether, and she began Think of Me. She kept her word, though very tempted to begin anew her studies. She simply played, enjoying and taking in the sound. When she'd finished, she realized her eyes had closd themselves, and that her heart was beating from the sheer joy. She stood from the piano and smiled. At least her piano had improved. No, not just my piano...my voice, too...
She stopped a moment, and felt the silver ring on her finger. A simple, silver band...a promise from her father. When she'd seen the inscription on the violin, the memories had come flooding back. What little melody did father play, Christine thought to herself, during those cold winter nights? And he told me such wonderful stories... In her mind she heard his voice, and instinctively knew the notes again.
"I thought I told you to rest today."Erik's voice cut through her before she could hit another note. She turned around on the bench and saw Erik, bundles in his arms. Why has he bought so many things? Erik moved to set the bundles on the sofa, then turned his attention back to her. "Well?"
"I- It was so quiet." She complained quietly. "I wanted only to play a little...I suddenly remembered a song, from my childhood."
The infinite sadness in her eyes was too much. She's had enough sorrow... He unwrapped one precious bundle, and held out the newly polished and strung violin to her. Her eyes slightly downcast, he knelt and placed it on her lap. "Is this better?"
"Erik...," she breathed as she saw the light reflect off of the polished wood. Her hands inspected it, then turned it around. Gently she slid a finger across the inscription. A grateful smile appeared. "It's perfect." Her eyes were warm as she clutched the instrument, and looked into his face. "Thank you." She did not notice that he'd placed a hand into his coat. It was only until he held the red bloom to her hair that she realized what it was. Alarge red rose. In her surprise she didn't move, allowing him to gently tug it through her curls. When he took his hand away to admire her, she felt the heat rise in her cheeks. What an odd man...
"What song?"
"W-what?" She snapped out of her thoughts as he turned back into her teacher. "Oh! My..." She set the violin down carefully next to her, and set her hands in her lap, "Father always believed in the Angel of Music."
"Yes, I saw the inscription. It's very poetic."
"Erik...do you believe in the existence of angels?" She was so embarrassed, but curious to know. He did not respond, but shook his head slowly.
"I've never had any reason to." He was too honest, and knew it upset Christine.
"Well, my father believed," she said childishly. "And he always played so the Angels could hear. He wanted me to sing like that, too." She looked so proud, speaking of her talented and devout father, that the corners of Erik's mouth lifted slightly as well. All too soon, however, her smile fell. "And...after the accident...when Father lay dying, he was not afraid for himself." She squeezed her hands violently for composure. "He held my hand so gently...and told me not to worry. Father said, 'When I'm in heaven, child, I will send the Angel of Music to you.'" Without realizing it, a few tears began to fall onto her hands.
"Christine..." His hand carefully swept her cheek, wiping at the tears. In Erik's mind, he knew he could tell her there were no real angels. He could tell her there existed no God to protect them. And by doing so, he could make her cry more of her pure, perfect tears. So instead he swallowed his bitterness, and kept sweeping at her tears. "Your father, I'm sure...is playing now in heaven." She nodded into his hand, but set her lips firmly to keep from sobbing. "And...and I'm sure if he promised you the Angel, he'll come. Your father wouldn't lie to you." A vile lie! He wanted tobeat such thoughts out of himself, but there she was, listening with such a look in her eyes...He brought his other hand to the other side of her face, making her look at him. "So don't cry. Not when your father is watching over you, even now."
The sheepish smile that bloomed in her soft features made his heart beat fast. She wiped at another stray tear. "Thank you." The same hand raised and set itself against one of his. "Thank you."
I play to honor the Angel of Music... An image of her father, handsome and gentle, with his glasses removed and playing his violin, flashed in her head. Christine had only seen one man play as her father had...holding onto nothing but the notes. Erik, she mused to herself, a man not quite human, an angel not quite divine... She wondered, watching him, if this is what her father had planned all along.
'When I'm in heaven, child, I will send the Angel of Music to you..'
A/N: Yay, she's found her Angel...I think. Review for more and stay tuned please!
