As always, mad props and love to my Beta/PR Agent, Erik.
Yes, I believe that Christine Daaé was frightened by what had happened to her…
From "The Phantom Of The Opera" by Gaston Leroux.
Erik's feet led him back to the flat after the sky had lightened to the cheerfully anemic gray of another London morning. He could feel the beginnings of a headache, and wanted nothing more than to crawl into his bed and die.
He was starting the withdrawal symptoms faster than he had expected; just knowing that the coke would be gone by the time he got back made him antsy. That feeling made him want to quit all the more, which made him crave it more; he grimaced at the rapidly escalating cycle made his headache throb behind his eyes.
He wanted so badly to just peel the mask away and bury his face in his hands. Course, he could no more do that than he could hop a plane to sunny Barbados.
Erik's eyes slid up the dingy building as he approached and settled on his own window on the third floor. He didn't want to go back there; he knew what was waiting for him. If Darren didn't have a lecture ready then he'd be all silence and pitying stares. Erik didn't know which option he hated more. Not to mention that Mandi was probably still passed out; he really hoped she didn't remember. More to the point he hoped that Nosey Parker of a girl kept her trap shut about the incident.
Christ, that little fuckwit had really made a dog's dinner of the whole evening. Erik hated him for putting him in this position. Now, not only did he have to face withdrawal, but he hadn't even been able to scratch his other itch and spend some quality time with Kitten. He rubbed the back of his neck irritably; he should send her some flowers or something, make sure she was alright.
All too soon, he was climbing the worn stairs. The pothead in 2B was blaring David Bowie again, the floor near his door thrummed with the bass line.
I'll stick
with you baby for a thousand years
Nothing's gonna
touch you in these golden years
Erik was halfway up the last staircase before he realized that the song had forced itself into his consciousness. He swore inwardly as he sang aloud. Could be worse, he thought, at least the stoner doesn't listen to ABBA anymore.
He grew quiet as he entered the flat and looked around. Mandi was still passed out on the sofa thankfully, and he could see neither Darren nor Mandi's friend. What was her name? Kirsten? Eh, it doesn't matter.
Erik sighed and walked tiredly towards his bedroom; Darren caught him as he went past the bathroom. "Hey, wait," he said softly reaching out to grab Erik's wrist.
"What is it? Did you find all the Charlie?" he replied, pulling his hand away.
Darren nodded and let his arm fall limply. "Yeah I did, unless ye've started pulling the floorboards up."
He shook his head. "No, never that extreme. I'm going to bed; don't let anyone one bother me."
Darren stopped him again before he'd taken a step. "Erik wait! Christine's in your bed."
"Who?"
"Christine, Mandi's friend?"
"Oh right." Not "Kirsten" then. "Why is she in my bed, Darren? I'm in no mood to entertain guests."
Darren shrugged faintly. "I just told her to pick a room and she happened into yours. You can have my bed if ya want."
Erik flashed him a slight sneer. "I don't want yer bed Mate; I want mine, and that little princess will just have to deal with it."
His room was still thankfully dark because of the thick curtains, and he didn't bother to turn the light; he'd always had better night vision than most, and as a child would scare the hell out of his mother while wandering around the dark house.
He wove with unconscious grace through the various obstacles, the books, the clothes, and the papers. He sat heavily on the edge of the bed opposite the sleeping silhouette of Christine.
Erik pulled his trainers off and tossed them carelessly aside; setting down an extra guitar wire, his hands moved to his kilt and then paused. He glanced back over his shoulder at the sleeping girl. Now, there is an opportunity here, Erik ol' boy; shall we play the gentleman and grab a pair of sweats to protect the fair maiden's honor?
His headache gave another heavy throb, and he grimaced at the thought of sleeping in anything; it just made him feel too confined. Besides, it's not like he owed the bird anything after she'd shot her mouth off like that in the kitchen.
Erik slipped out of the kilt without a second thought and crawled into bed. He pulled over part of the comforter over his legs and lay on his back, tucking his hands beneath his head. He listened to Christine take a deeper breath when the blanket moved, and then grow silent again.
He grimaced as the mask shifted against sweaty, irritated skin, and wondered why he hadn't just agreed to use Darren's bed. At least then he'd be able to take the blasted thing off. Still, if he left the room now, then Darren would give him that 'I warned you' look, and he hated that look more than he hated sleeping in his mask.
After a few moments, he felt exhaustion begin to creep over as his breathing slowed to a soft counter rhythm of the girl next to him. Erik would never admit it to anyone, but he'd always slept better with another person in the bed.
Christine woke with a slight feeling of wrongness and frowned as she stared at the opposite wall, lit by a slash of sunlight through a part in the heavy curtains. What was---and then she heard it.
There was someone else in the room; she could hear them breathing. She did a quick mental check to see if she should panic. Dress: check. Tights: check. Panties: check. She wasn't in any pain, so it didn't look like she was in any danger. Christine cautiously sat up and looked over her shoulder. She stifled as gasp and nearly fell out of the bed.
Erik lay across the bed from her on his belly with his left arm bent tucked beneath his cheek. She frowned in surprise. He was still wearing that bleedin' mask! Jesus, it was down right creepy the way the shadows hid his closed eyes. He looked far too much like a grinning skull, and she had to glance away.
That was when she really noticed that the design that circled his bicep was more than just a machismo band of flames. The twin bands of flames actually extended up and down his arm from a light blue band about two inches wide. Within the band she could see a string of dark birds in flight; she leaned forward slightly and realized that they were magpies. Why on Earth would someone get magpies tattooed on them?
Following the lines of his shoulder, she took a moment to examine the design on his left shoulder blade. It was a demon, and it was crying. Christine leaned forward another fraction. No, it wasn't crying, it was grieving with its ugly head thrown back in a silent howl as it clawed desperately at its chest. There was such a stark, ugliness to the figure that Christine felt her throat tighten until she couldn't bear to look at any longer.
Her eyes flicked lower and her breath caught in her throat. The comforter had fallen sinfully low over Erik's pelvis exposing far more of his lithe, athletic frame than Christine ever wanted to see. She'd never been a particularly lustful girl, but the sight of his pale thigh against the dark fabric and the toned curve of his arse caught something in her lower belly and twisted pleasantly, and then suddenly turned to lead as she glanced back up and realized that he was staring at her. With a smirk!
Why that inconceivable bastard! She felt her face grow flushed with embarrassment as she scooted helplessly backward and floundered for words. Erik's thin lips pulled back into a devastatingly handsome lop-sided grin, and his eyes nearly shimmered with amusement. "See something you like Sweetheart?"
The shame was burned away in a rush of indignation. How dare he! "Why you—to think that—OOH you ass!" she fumed. He only chuckled in reply and gave a small stretch; Christine's treacherous eyes darted down along his back once more, savoring the way he moved. He laughed harder and Christine choked the urge to slap the one area in reach. "You sonuvabitch! Why the fuck are you naked?" she cried, doing her best not to sound hysterical.
Erik winced briefly at her voice and then pursed his lips thoughtfully. "I think the real question here, Princess, is why yer even in my bed to begin with. I mean, I'd love to entertain company, but I've got a wicked headache."
She gaped at him a moment and then closed her mouth and hoped it was possible to simply drop dead from a blush. There was a moment of silence and then painful clarity. Shite! I'm in his bed! Christine scooted back hurriedly and promptly fell out of the bed with a squeak. Grabbing her shoes, she could hear Erik laugh softly and shift with a rustle of cloth, and she dreaded peering back over the edge the bed. She breathed a grateful sigh when she saw that Erik had simply rolled to face away from her and pulled the comforter up to his shoulders.
She turned to leave, but paused in the doorway; a question pushing against her lips, begging to be asked. "Erik?" she called out softly; half-hoping he was already asleep.
"Hm?" He lifted his head in her general direction.
She swallowed and tightened her grip on the laces of the Doc Martins. "Why do you wear that mask?"
Erik tensed suddenly and laid his head back down. "Go home, Princess," he answered finally. Christine frowned but did not press him.
Mandi was still asleep on the couch when she found Darren in the kitchen. He turned to her with a tired smile and offered a cup of tea. "You sleep alright?"
She grimaced as she took the mug inhaled some of the steam. "I slept fine, but the wake-up left something to be desired."
He nodded sympathetically. "I'm sorry about that, I tried to convince him to just use my bed."
Christine frowned him. "Why didn't you just ask me to move? Or move me?"
Darren shrugged weakly and glanced at the ground. "Honestly, it just didn't occur to me. I'm sorry."
She shook her head at the reasoning of men and took a sip of her tea. "Hey Darren?"
He had turned away to pour a bowl of cereal. "Yes?"
"Why does he wear that mask?"
Darren spilled some milk over the edge of his bowl as he flinched faintly at the question. He turned around and leaned against the counter and held his meal before him. "Because it's terribly comfortable," he muttered as he took a bite.
Christine frowned and gave him the narrow-eyed look she learned from her mother. Darren squirmed a moment and then sighed, hanging his head. He crossed the small room and stood next to her, contemplating his corn flakes. When spoke, his voice was hushed and secretive. "Erik was attacked by a pit-bull when he was eleven; it tore his face off."
Her hand flew to her mouth as she gasped in horror. Oh God.
Darren shushed her quickly. "If he knew I mentioned it to you, he'd be out for my claret," he whispered quickly.
She set the cup of tea down on the counter before it slipped from her shaky fingers. "Why? Why didn't he get prosthetics or plastic surgery?"
He shook his head and stared down at the soggy contents of his bowl. "Erik never told me, and it's not my place to ask." He turned to her and stared at her seriously. "I seriously recommend that you forget what I've told you. If he wanted to you to know, he'd've told you."
Christine nodded silently and peered forlornly at the cold tea; she couldn't stand the thought of food. The dog tore off his face…how could an eleven year old survive that?
Darren set the bowl and teacup in the sink and then faced her again. "When Mandi wakes up, I'll take you both back to her mom's place."
She nodded without really hearing him.
