Continuation from present day:

Refer back to chapter 16 if you need a refresher.

Only slight warning (in comparison to the rest), but a warning, nonetheless. Just a little 'heads up'.

Her Comfort - Chapter 18

She wondered how long he had been cold before he finally started to wear layers, where he had purchased so many pairs of identical gloves as she followed him with her hand in his. Their feet travelled along the plush carpet, across wood panelling, to the lounge. Christine could feel the gentle pull of his thin delicate fingers around hers, how they were trapped against the darkness that he hid within. The very clothes he wore was a shield, she mused, while he sat her down on the sofa. Dim lighting came from two large lamps and again, there was distance as he sat down in his chair. He always had a chair. A chair, a throne for himself. A throne here, a throne in his home half across the world.

Did he tire from holding the crown of loneliness for so long? Was that why she was here? Did he love a companion? Did he actually love her?

She'd never felt like it. An object, that's all she was. A pet to keep and dress up and play pretend. Was Erik so different from the games she had loved from childhood, was he so different from Raoul who had loved saving her from the drowning wreck of the ship of playing a knight to her princess?

Would the princess ever decide to stand up and fight all on her own?

Was she the knight to Erik's king? A devoted loyal servant, bound to their master out of obedient love to their duty and kingdom?

"Are you cold, Christine?" Erik whispered, molten eyes for once asking rather than deciding. Had he changed? She couldn't tell anymore. She could barely think.

She only had her feelings left.

His chin shifted into view and she realised she hadn't answered him, staring into space as numbness seemed to fold over her like a well-worn blanket. But she couldn't seem to snap out of it. In her mind it was all replaying again. Again.

The sickening scream. A scream that was hers and it wouldn't stop. Smells of something wrong. Shaving cream smeared on half his face. Razor dripping blood. His blood. The cake burning, edges burning burning –

"Christine!"

Her eyes met his amber ones, frantic and wider than she had ever seen them. They were close, closer than she had ever seen them before. Were those bags under his eyes?

She groaned, feeling the pressing of the headache and she leant forward slightly.

"Please, my dear, try to stay with me," and god – it hurt – to hear that comfort she had so missed. Had anyone actually bothered to look out for her since Papa died? Mary and Meg had tried, but no one could replace him. No one could understand the devastation that ate away at her heart, as if the organ was the centrepiece of her entire being – and a vital piece was missing.

He had been her home. Papa had been her safety, her joy, her centrepiece! His only person, his only person in a terrible world. Then he left her! After signs she was too young to see, to naïve to think about, shouldn't she have been able to save him. He had depended on her. She had depended on him. How could she trust anyone else? How could she trust someone else to care, when Papa had done it unconditionally?

Every time she had looked into Mrs Giry's eyes, all she could feel was guilt. Meg didn't deserve her life torn up by another intruder to feed, for her mother to dote on as Meg wanted to do to her. God! How could she even assume that she was as important as Meg? Just a little orphan who took pity on her because Meg loved her as a sister; while Mary liked because Meg had been so 'choosy' with friends.

All she had was pity, from a substitute parent in a substitute family. That sounded as if she was ungrateful, because she would have died going into the system where she would have been lost as a ward of the state. It was a miracle she hadn't got deported; her father's papers had been a rushed escape from Sweden when Mor died. She hadn't been ungrateful.

But what she had been was a burden. A burden on a grieving child and then a grieving 'adult'. What family of two had ever needed that thing thrusted into their lives? Who wanted a damaged girl who wouldn't sing? Who's smiles felt wrong and never gave love back in return? The love that Mary had wanted from her.

It was wrong. It had all been so wrong.

What scared her is what motivated Erik was that it was not pity at all. Not anymore, not even when he first saw her as a profitable instrument to showcase to the world. No that was greed and a musical ear that believed she was capable of an instrument that rang true.

But this – this tender, beautiful, unattached need. The want to comfort, just to be able to bring a smile, just to bring happiness –

Erik was just. Like. Her.

That almond cake was cruel irony, a cruel slap in the face. He had been so proud. So devastated – now she could see it wavering in his eyes like a moth fluttering just to reach the flame.

And what had her father done with her burnt offerings, of a childish love so pure that she had thought invincible?

He had embraced her, he had cherished her.

He had loved her.

And at that moment, she felt loved for the first time since her father.

"Tell me what to do to make it better, my sweet girl," he was kneeling before her, bony knees digging into the carpet.

"Please, sit-" she swallowed, unable to look into his eyes, to look at this thing inside them, "With me," she patted the seat next to her, before Erik would become cross legged. No, it was wrong to see a grown man reduced to nothing before her. Not when that something in his eyes caused her heart to squeeze.

Erik faltered, stopping like a bird in flight, before elongating once more. Stiffly, two legs came to point out beside her, together – the hanging material bagging below the knee but his jutting knee pushing against the material.

Even a tailor's attempt had failed in matching his proportions. They had never sat this close before, the inches apart no more than sterile comfort. He didn't sit back into the seat. No, his back was ramrod straight. Not like Raoul's, how he slouched! Often, she found it hard how much he complained of a little ache in his back – blaming it on the sports – when in reality, it was his atrocious posture when he wasn't at work. Of course, she hadn't wanted to take away his relaxing time because he couldn't slump into the sofa after a day at work.

"Why did it upset you, my dear?" he was truly… at a loss, confounded by a variable that did not match the equation. One hand lay feebly on his leg. Christine hunched over, the guilt on her shoulders a weight almost too heavy to bear.

"It wasn't you, it's all me," she admitted in a whisper, sweaty palms holding her head, "It isn't you. I loved it,"

And she did. She had loved it. She had loved it very much.

The hand curled, "But why did it make you cry! Erik does not want his Christine to cry!" his hand tore her shoulder to face him, the black hand keeping her turned. She allowed him to suck a breath at her rolling tears she couldn't stop, feel his leather thumbs brush against her cheeks. If she had a stronger imagination, she would have felt her father's calloused fingers.

But there was nothing left.

There was nothing left.

"He's gone," it came from her mouth as a plea, as an admission, a cry. An illusion shattered. "He's really gone," numb words flowed from her lips.

There was no cake to be made for him. There was no day he would return. There was no moment she could bargain or take back.

He was gone. Gone gone gone gone gone.

Under the earth. In the stars. Over the rainbow.

Gone.

"He's gone," she had said that moments ago. But it felt worse this time. It felt so much worse.

Her fingers were clutching at his arms, fabric thin, so thin. Her eyes were near his and his face was near her, "He's gone Erik, he's gone!"

There was movement in her hair, she could feel it. She knew she was breathing too quickly and that it was getting harder to speak, because there were tears and her eyes hurt.

"Erik! He's dead!" she wheezed it out, pulling on that thin fabric, needing something! She needed something! What was it that she needed?

Gone lost father gone. Gone lost father gone.

"He's dead, Erik! He's dead! He's dead, he's dead, he's dead," and it was his cologne she smelt, she breathed from his shirt, the rocking wasn't her, but those arms were safe and around her. Listen to my voice. Listen to my voice, Christine. Christine. Listen to me. Breathe. My darling. My darling, breathe with me.

He's dead.

We need to breathe. Breathe in. One... Two… Three... Four…

He's dead.

Again. We need to breathe in, darling. One… Breathe with me, Christine. Look, look into my eyes. Yes? Breathe while we count. Breathe in.

One, two, three, four.

He's…He's dead Erik.

My darling, yes, your father is dead. Now we breathe. Look at me, Christine. Look at me. Me. Now. Look. One…Good girl…Two…Three…Four…

Now hold. Hold it. Yes, keep going…Three, four, yes we keep holding Christine, five, six and seven. And now slowly–

A shuddering gasp.

And again, we breathe in. One…Two…Three…Four…Now keep your eyes on me, interesting yes? Concentrate. Hold it, yes good girl, you are doing very well…Six, seven. And out.

Eight…Seven…Six, yes that is it, steady, steady, Five…Four…Three…Two…One.

Erik –

Again, Christine.

Again. Again. Again. And Again.

At some point, she had ended up in his embrace, with her head resting on his bony shoulder. Christine didn't have the energy to feel invaded as a hand gently soothed her tangled curls, how his voice had dropped to a low murmur of French that she couldn't be bothered to translate.

Christine let it glide over her, until her mind came back. Heavily, she detached herself from him, but not in a way that was defensive nor a retreat. It was simply movement with little motive other than to stretch her cramping neck and curled up fists.

"I'm sorry," came her half-whisper as she slumped back into the seat, not caring that her socks had slid down or that her throat hurt.

"You have no reason to apologise. I have caused such trauma. It is Erik's fault," came the mournful voice from beside her.

"No, that's not true," again she whispered, knowing that tomorrow Erik wouldn't let her sing on how strained she was.

"It was Erik's idea for the cake. Not yours," his fingers were still cased in that awful leather.

Frowning, she sat up, twisting in her seat to lightly take one of his long hands and start tugging off the kid-skin gloves, "Dear child, what are you doing?" he tugged his hands back only slightly.

"Your hands must be so hot in there. It's almost summer," she explained, voice only a murmur.

"But my hands-" he protested, musical voice shot with panic.

"It's ok, I've seen them," finally one hand was freed. Christine's eyebrows shot up, "Oh my, they're like ice. You poor soul," and then her hands were dutifully ignoring the dry skin and focusing on warming it from the temperature it was.

"You are so dear, so lovely," was it awe? Was it disbelief? She couldn't tell.

"Was it truly not to your liking, my dove?" he was talking about the desert again.

Christine cringed, squeezing the palm a bit tighter in her hands, "It was his favourite," she forced herself only to breathe for a few moments, while she waited for the tears to recede.

But Erik's understanding finally dawned in those moments of dark silence.

"I see why it upset you, now," he replied softly, looking down at their interlocked hands. "There is no need to hide here, it is only your Erik,"

Your Erik. The pronoun made her heart squeeze again and a grimace bittered her smile. She looked down too, exhaustion leaving her with little way of finding the correct words, "I know. That desert was – has been one of the only things that has made me cry since –" from the way Erik gave her a comforting pulse of his fingers wrapped around hers, she knew that he understood.

"You have cried finally, after such repressing. I knew it would come soon," he replied in a murmur, gently removing his hand from hers. Yet the one glove lay abandoned on his lap.

Slowly, gently, the hand rose to the height of her cheek. It wasn't the right colour, greyish in this almost-light. His amber eyes glimmered.

"Would you allow your Erik one touch? The greatest pleasure he has ever hoped to know?"

Sweet Jesus - his voice was so desperately beautiful then, that her heart trilled in reply to his plea.

And she, not much, just a little(1), put her forehead out in reply.

There was almost something miraculous as he tension that had been boiling between them for the past few months, slip into peaceful co-existence. Though he had predictably stopped her from singing that next day, their walk that day had been serene, in a naturalness that had been lacking before. She actually forgot that her hand had been on his elbow the entire time. How his strides matched hers. How though she would stop quickly to watch a squirrel hop through the branches, or kneel by a flower she did not recognise, she did not loath to hear his voice answer her unspoken question. At one glorious point, she had even spotted a monarch butterfly and had hoped it had been the same one from before.

Finally, she could breathe.

Their lessons had made a breakthrough, Christine had heard his golden laugh for the first time as she sang an aria from so long ago. However, on this occasion, she had sung it with a purity that she never accomplished before. Air flittered through the opened window, lifting her waves of hair gently as she had sang, her mind clear – which reflected in her voice. The notes that came out of her mouth had shocked her so much that she had gasped almost instantly, hand clapping to her mouth as if to stop the sorcery.

Her eyes slowly travelled to Erik, who had become a statue on the piano bench. The only sign of surprise that could be seen was the faint tremor of his black shoe on the pedal and the halting of his fingers on the keys. When it became clear she was waiting for a response, he mildly tilted his head in a nod for her to continue.

And for once, a hard undisciplined clenching of her heart belayed all of her disappointment. He hadn't noticed, or he had and was displeased? Did he not hear it too? Was it so hard for him to see what had just occurred? But –

"Surely, after what I have just heard, you have not been rendered you voiceless?" the glimmer of amusement in his tone made her let out the breath she had been holding. It was very hard not to allow a victorious smile to grace her lips. He had heard!

Christine shook her head vigorously, knowing the pink tinting her cheeks could not be disguised. But the triumph overruled it. She had sung, sung in a way that she had held herself back from before.

"Then let us begin again, Christine," the pleasure in his voice was so new, the faint caress so careful, that her voice sprang free once more. Bright, pure and beautiful.

When she had sung the aria thrice over, he finally called her to stop. Was she glowing? She felt she was glowing as her laugh of delight spun with her, feeling the fabric of her dress flutter against her legs.

"We did it, Erik," breathless. She was breathless. Her mouth ached from her smile, yet as Erik looked at her, his molten gaze never seemed more joyous. Had he really been hiding for so long under the guise of a stranger?

"Yes, you have done well," was his reply, "Very well,"

But it was enough. Enough to send her smile stretching wider.

"Do you think with this voice, they would have cast me?" hope made her words unwary.

Erik stilled again, but she could feel the tension radiating off him and she stepped back, frowning.

"Those fools appeased a witch, while knowing that your voice was perfection itself. They would have not changed their course, even if your voice had become higher than such," resignation slid into his tone, hunching his posture, while his fist only grew tighter, "Those baboons suffered only an inch of what they deserved," danger lanced and despite her fear that grew, Christine pushed it away.

He was not going to ruin this – this peace – for her.

"Well it doesn't matter. Everything has changed," she replied sharply enough to snap him out of his haze.

His shadow loomed as it straightened, but she refused to cower, staring defiantly at him.

"You mean to say that your career doesn't matter? That your reputation and yourself are able to take a snub from those imbeciles is perfectly alright?" he hissed, hands almost crashing on the keys, before he stood and shoved the stall out of the way. It careened, almost falling before falling back down on all four legs with a slam.

She flinched, before crossing her arms, "I may have enjoyed my time up there more as a lead and I didn't enjoy Carla's behaviour, but that doesn't mean that I will hold a grudge over the natural order of the theatre world, or of managers petrified by a terrible hoax!"

Crossing to the window, she strode away from him, continuing, "They may have been a bit money-oriented, but they were good people, trying to run a theatre without being dictated by a tyrant,"

"You do not realise that without my direction, those fools would have reduced my opera house to nothing more than an abandoned centre of lost art. Tickets sales would have plummeted, that shrieking shrew would have driven away what was left of the opera-attending audience in that city and there would have been no hope of recovery! Well, being a Spirit is not new to one such as I and if I hadn't stepped in –"

"Joe would have lived!" she snapped, turning to him with baleful eyes. The curtains brushed against her back while her gaze centred on the looming shadow and glowing eyes.

He seemed hardly human.

"That insipid boy was a lost cause," he snarled, fingers covered in dark leather were straining and flexing against their confines.

A gasp left her mouth, "How could you say that! He did nothing wrong,"

The man before her sniggered, actually sniggered, "You truly believe that?"

Her fists clenched, "He was my friend,"

His head flicked sharply from side to side, "How naïve of you, my dear Christine,"

"I am not naïve, not anymore, Erik," Christine narrowed her eyes at him.

He inclined his head mockingly, "Ah, and I am to blame for that as well. Well then, let me regale you of the tales of Joseph Bouquet," he indicated for her to take a seat in one of the armchairs that was placed by a coffee table, but she knew it was no mere offer. Walking stiffly to one of them, she sat down, keeping Erik in sight. He, however, did not sit down. Standing behind the opposite chair, he clinically recounted, "He was a child that had a persistence for rebellion and for telling tales through his in youth. The infliction of testosterone later on started multiple brawls, while he paid little respect to his mentors. At eighteen, he finally flunked out of school – to do an easy apprenticeship at the theatre – after having issues with several kids his age that he had previously sold illegal drugs to; he had come across such substances through his network of disreputable 'friends' and thought he would benefit from the extra change," he sneered at this, before his orbs flittered to her.

Christine was aware of something expectant in his gaze, but she did not offer any defence for the victim.

Erik continued, almost daring her to interrupt, "At nineteen he almost got a girl pregnant from the chorus, and continuously had relationships with several of them, of which he was never committed to. He never worked hard enough to be much more than the privileged 'Chief of the Flies', which is a job with a dead-end," he drawled, "He never achieved much academically, so would never have been able to support himself solely and therefore took the extra cash he desired from his unwitting mother,"

"Then, by the age of twenty-seven, he had driven under the influence, done three different types of drugs (one of them prescription) and while trying to recover from such addictions, began to make a nuisance of himself in discovering me," his mask held no remorse.

The news hurt, in a way that made her want to curl up and simply forget, to knock back those words and defend Joe. Of course, she had known of the rumours. 'Shameless flirt', Meg had snorted derisively, 'A man of many tales,' Lena had sniggered, 'Beware the Chief of the Flies – and the fly on his pants too,' Jamie had rolled her eyes, 'Highschool dropout,' Sorelli had mocked.

All Erik was doing was confirming his reputation. But a small voice yelled that Joe had been different with her, he had seen her as a person, had apologised – even if he had moved to a different girl to settle his affections on – had dashed to save that pitiful creature in the corner rather than squash it with the heel of his big black boot.

"- And then, he tried to have his way with you," he hissed venomously, unaware of her introspection.

It took a moment to process what he said, but she held her chin high, meeting his eyes that seemed far worse than the crimes Joe had committed, "Well, what he did for me was kind; he didn't have to get me the chocolates or show me the rig. But he corrected his wrong-doing, which is far more than you have ever done,"

"Foolish girl!" he snapped, head twisting at her snake-like, pinning her to the chair, "Do you not believe that if – if things –" instinctively he ducked his head, using the shadow to hide his mask, "Were different, I would have gone about such a venture without needless violence?"

"So, you regret his death?" she demanded, resisting the urge to stand up and finding her hands clench the armrests instead.

His eyes drew into slits, "No. I do not regret such a thing. What I regret is that you had to be there to see such an event," So stiff. So cold.

Unfeeling.

"You are so –" she choked, "I am sitting here in a room with a murderer – a murderer, while only moments ago it was good! Everything was perfect," her voice spluttered out, unable to deny the truth. Every time there was a small bit of peace, another matter drew the waters to churn once more. When would it end?

"It doesn't have to be that way," no – god no – that voice was going to be the end of her. Shut up, shut up, shut up! "There is no need for the fantasy to end," she shuddered, shaking her head at it, the nagging voice that tugged at her to believe. To trust. To forget.

"Please, stop," she squeezed her eyes shut. If she fell for his dream for one moment, the hole would close up and she would be trapped in his wonderland forever. How long did she have left before he had finally whittled away at her resolve enough for her to submit?

Erik was crouching beside her, that seductive knowledge in his tone so thoughtful. How many times could she run away – the thought of another rooftop happening scared her into stillness as he drew nearer.

No more running. I can't bear anymore of his pain, his wounded advances. I can't keep kicking the puppy. I can't!

"Just give me a chance, Christine," came his plea, "Anything, I would do anything,"

Anything?

Christine raised her head, meeting his gaze, "You could show me your face,"

Erik recoiled, creeping hands stolen from the arm-rests, swaying back on his heels before twisting away. Harsh pants filled the air, "You would not ask if you did not know! Oh, the curse of Erik's face. No, I cannot. Erik cannot let you condemn yourself to that horror – for horror, horror, horror is what it is," he rasped, hunching over as if he were an old man, suffering an ailment that was mortally wounding.

Her brows rose, the same time she did from her chair, seeing the man bow over so precariously, "Erik, hey. Hey, it's alright," soothingly, her voice came without her meaning to, but all she was reminded of was a child needing comfort. Yet seeing him so hunched, reminded her of a previous text she had studied, 'like a child: yet not so like a child as like an old man'(2).

It was eerily similar, but her fingers grasped his shoulder – comfortingly. The man let out a haunting moan at her touch, flinching and twisting his head away from reach – as if she was reaching for his mask.

Something stung deeply at the sight of his wounded reaction. Was it pity that flooded her veins when her hand remained steady and calm, noting the distinct sharpness of his shoulder? But it was something that did not let her recoil, that made her stay, if only to prove that she wouldn't run. That she would stay committed, even though the husk she saw before her only needed a little bit of love.

Love. Such a word mocked the very foundations of her life. How the very memory of her favourite Swedish desert was enough to fill her with tears, while she knew that this man certainly had no such things to cry over. No, he was wrecked with a plague far deeper than she could comprehend.

A life without a tender touch. A life without love.

Her heart cried for his sorrow. To live for so long without such taken-for-granted tokens and relationships. Had Erik ever loved someone?

He loves me.

Am I the first person he loved?

Before she had time to finish those thoughts, Erik had stilled, just his harsh breathing in the air. She went to move her hand, but Erik grunted, "No –" before shuddering so hard that even she felt it, "Do not go,"

Maybe she heard his plea within the command, or maybe it was her mind deluding her; however, she knew with those words she couldn't leave him even if she had wanted to.

Stay.

Gathering her courage, her hand trailed from his shoulder – reassuring him of her presence and touch – along the arm that seemed almost disproportionate in comparison to his height, to the black hand that was so daunting to touch. A mission to reach.

He hadn't been lucid before, trapped in that memory. She had been able to give herself an excuse. To help the man in an obvious state of pain, blind to his surroundings to lead him back to the reality. But this…this was a choice. Even if it was a faint sensation, Christine could feel the weight of his need and expectancy, the doubt which crippled him. Crippled her.

Like an angel reaching from the darkness, her hand steadily sought his. Fear clung steadfastly; blood rushed around so fast that the ticking of the clock was faint. Echoing. The hand had a form, sinew and bones, covering suffering skin and a tormented soul. Was she Charon, guider of the dead? She was no avenging nor spiritual angel, Christine was sure.

Erik's gasp shattered the air, painfully real, as if he too noted the monumental event that shook the Earth's foundations.

"Let's sit," her voice a mere wisp, breathless. Erik was silent as she led him slowly from the room, glancing around the empty hallway, before crossing over to the lounge. His hand was a deadweight, sitting in hers docilely as she closed the door behind them. Lush carpet sank beneath her toes, while Erik's tread remained as silent as the grave. Finally, she sank down on the sofa, bristling slightly as Erik sat on the cushion next to her. Not to close, yet at the same time, not far enough away.

Christine peered at him, his forbidding mask so oddly near, that she could reach out and snatch it off. The golden eyes had slipped closed, but the fingers that had gone to clasp hers were peacefully resolute in keeping her hand in position.

Oh, god. She wanted to. That insufferable tug, tug, tug of wanting to know.

To know, to know, to know.

Her free hand's fingertips itched, actually itched to move closer, and when the time was right – snatch! And finally, his identity would be revealed to her. Would she get another chance? He'd never allowed her to be so close.

Erik would be mad. The indulgence of even thinking of such a thing almost send a shiver racking through and she only controlled it due to Erik. He worried about her getting cold.

Cold.

Yes. Erik worried about her getting cold.

Christine jerked away her hand, horrified how near it was to Erik, who seemed to be recovering. Her not so subtle jerk roused him, for at once, those golden eyes opened.

She froze.

"Am I dreaming?" his voice seemed so innocent that shame burned on her cheeks.

Christine uttered barely a sound, but already, Erik was regaining true consciousness. His fingers tightened around hers before they were abruptly ripped away, almost yanking her from the seat as Erik tore himself away from the sofa, wide eyes hovering around where she was perched.

"You – you – you –" he couldn't seem to formulate a sentence, his panting back a full force. Christine ached to rise, to approach him calmly as one would do a flailing child or bucking horse, but logic told her the best option was to stay very still in the face of a threatened creature.

Anything could be perceived as a threat. Christine lowered her eyes, again looking at the black rose at the centre of the carpet.

"You touched Erik…again," he whispered reverently. In the corner of her eye, she saw his hand raise as if he was ogling the appendage she had graced her gift of sensation with.

What was weird and what was normal was a twisted concept in this world, she realised abjectly. As if she was in backwards land. Had she touched those fingers only yesterday, only to be recoiled from today and treated with reverence. What an enigma this man was!

Yet, what meant nothing to her, meant everything to him. It was hard not to feel the dreaded responsibility clutch her heart. What if she made a mistake? What if to him, this was a marriage acceptance when it really meant nothing! Such implications bit at her and there was nothing but to take it.

To hope she would come out intact before she was no longer herself at all.

"You are such a good girl to Erik," his voice glided to her, praise that brought nothing but pain. No, she didn't want it.

But she was helpless not to help him, to not see him in anguish. If it wasn't pain, it was always a bargain of her sanity. What was right: never leave one to suffer. What was wrong: to aid a murderer in receiving positive affirmation for a crime that cost her freedom, and pain beyond imagination.

"Please let me see my father," the words blurted out before she had time to stop them.

Silence.

"It is not yet winter, or near the time of your voyage to Perros," his hand dropped to his side.

Suspicion. Yes, he was suspicious.

Bowing her head came easier this time, "I just want to see him," she mumbled to the carpet.

"You will have time to do so when it comes to your annual trip, Christine," as if he still expected her to be there by December. A horrifying thought.

She shook her head, going to explain once more – to plead her case, before her words sunk. If he was saying no now, there was no way in hell he'd allow her to go. Arguing would only make him irritated. Taking advantage of his happiness did nothing but make him more suspicious!

Clenching her jaw, she rose, "Don't worry about it," Lord and Master, she added snidely, before half-marching to the door.

Her fingers just about reached the doorknob, he called softly, "Halt a moment, my dear," his words incited a familiar prick of terror. Underneath, she could dare to admit that there was some curiosity too.

She turned.

Erik stood, hands oddly clutched in front of himself as if betraying nerves. Nerves? She peered closer, noticing his gaze was distracted. Christine stepped closer.

"What is it?" she mimicked his tone. You attracted more flies with honey than vinegar.

"The reason we cannot go just yet, is that we would not have enough time to both visit your father and…" he took in a breath, deliberating as if he should tell her such a piece of information, "France," he straightened, eyes gazing at her with an emotion that was akin to the tenderness she had seen fleetingly before, "We are going to France in less than two weeks and to travel to another continent across the Atlantic ocean is an unplanned and most of all, timely, event," his fingers ran down his black waistcoat he had stripped to earlier, "It is in our best interest to make France, or more specifically, Paris, our destination,"

Time seemed to repeat his words over and over until the meaning crashed over her, "We're leaving?" she was gaping, she knew she was gaping.

Erik nodded, albeit sharply, "Yes. Not permanently, but it is across the channel. A quick flight. A few days – perhaps a week if you wish it – we shall spend there. But if your wish is for a week, we would be leaving in two days, rather than eight,"

Channel. He knew that she knew that England was where they currently resided. But forty eight hours? Forty eight hours?

There was no time to be annoyed at the sudden revelation, knowing he had kept the information from her, doing so without even asking her if she would like to go. Of course, being there for a week rather than a few days allowed her more of an opportunity to send a message to Raoul…

"Why are we going?" it was her who was now suspicious.

There was a devious light in his eyes, "All will make sense soon, my dear,"

Another riddle, she groaned internally.

"I assure you, you will not be disappointed, petite," he offered consolingly at her fallen expression, "I promise you will be able to see some of Paris. I have some business there, but I will be your guide on the days I can. We shall only go for a few days if you are not interested in such a city," she could detect a hint of disappointment in his voice.

As if he truly wanted to see her happy – pleased even.

Her hand inched instinctively towards him, before she restrained it by her side. Lifting her head, she gave him a smile only half forced. The gleaming city did appeal to her! A faint memory told her Papa had perhaps once played at a symphony there, but she didn't know if it was mixed between childish adoration or fondness of daydreaming.

"Would we be able to go there for a week?" her hesitance was enough to sound genuine.

She didn't notice the change those very words caused.

"Indeed, Erik – I believe we can. Of course we can," the richness of his voice almost startled her and she jumped to see that his eyes gleamed. Pleased. He was…pleased.

What worried her the most was the amount of relief that filled her at the sight, bordering on an emotion she didn't want to define.

"We shall go in two days then," it was disconcerting to see that gleam in his eyes; how there was no smile – only black unmoving material. Unnerving; his movements were fluttering, he was calculating something.

He spun to her, catching her hands by her sides and raising them, as if he was going to kiss them. But his eyes were upon her once more and they were merely suspended in his lithe traps, "You shall adore Paris! I will make sure of it, Cherie. It will be nothing like the terrible grey-stoned city, or the miles of green here. There will be architecture, restaurants – there will be so much to inspire you," he paused, tilting his head, eyes almost flitting to the ceiling of the room, "May I even suspect that the art studio shall be in use for weeks after our trip," he added softly, in awe, "I have yet to have seen your latest piece, but I shall have to settle for one inspired by our first vacances…together,"

Horror was a lesser word to describe her feelings when she realised that by agreeing to go with him for longer, only mislead his approximation of their relationship.

And she knew, there would be hell to pay for her mistake.

Present Day: Elsewhere

Nadir was scouting. That's what he preferred to call it as he re-walked the halls of the Opera Garnier, finding his bearings of a long-loved refuge. Signs of preparation were beginning, the influx of delivery vans and employees storing away decorations for 'La Bal Masque' crowded the back entrance. The sound of the rehearsals of the ongoing ballets that continued throughout the year; the current one was Romeo and Juliet, which would shortly be stopping for the night of the ball and continuing after a few weeks break with a new production. Whisperings he had heard, after his few days he had watched, made him query what he had naturally assumed.

The Opera was peacefully active; of course, the hounded ballet manager was still barking and the stagehands were still rowdy, but no whisperings of ominous notes, of a Ghost's return…

There could be two reasons of this: one, his old comrade was leading Nadir into a false sense of security in making him believe Erik was hiding, or two, Erik truly wasn't there.

Yet.

Nadir frowned, the lines all-too familiar in his brow. Though he had once managed to claim a paltry seat in the upper layer as a theatre goer, with his reserved money, on occasion, he had kept an eye on management. Wary of Erik's meddling, he had kept tabs on it as much as he could. Alas, he was never much able to stop the man's obscene need for perfection, or desire for power. Though his unwanted lectures always caused him to earn death-threats. When Nadir had found out the man had even earnt the name of 'Fantome' and demanded a salary and confronted the infamous ghost, those threats soured to a near fatal choking. Even though the old officer had threatened (bluffed) to tell the police, the Erik had only laughed. His web of power had already spread far beyond Nadir's control.

Therefore, he had been stuck to watch Erik through the five years, flexing his whims and tastes on the managers. Nadir hadn't wanted to admit it, but though Erik's unconventional way of exerting power had been…unorthodox, Nadir had seen the desire in the man's eyes to improve the theatre, rather than do so entirely for his boredom.

It reminded Erik of how he could have been, had he had been born with a face that didn't inspire horror. A director of the grandest of opera houses, a man of female attention and desire…Yet somehow, even knowing such a potential future, he was forced to admit that he would be worried for Erik succumbing to the race's more discreet habits of fame and attention. Drugs. Alcohol. Gambling. Living freely, yet without happiness.

Such a man would almost have been happier without being extraordinary; if he had been whole, he had the whole world under his thumb, a magnetism that would draw to him the attention and the draw of power that no man would easily give up.

Nadir refused to think about many matters further. He was a man of strategy, planning and action, not of idle contemplation that Erik was so fond of. Nadir refused to be likened to that monster. Who refused to change his ways.

He had thought…He had hoped…

"...but you know, I wanted to go as an angel, but Marie said she is!" a lilting voice of a ballerina and friend were approaching, completely ignoring his presence. Nadir sunk slightly in the shadows to allow them to pass; his ears filtering the French to the best of his ability.

The other ginger tittered, "That schemer is wanting to take Jeremy – hoping to match up their outfits, I heard. I know that all the patrons are going to be there!" her hand fluttered across her breast.

The lithe blonde nudged her buddy, "Oh, don't be dramatic Francesca, we all know that we wouldn't trade our places in the ballet for a guy," they both sniggered together and as they turned back into the foyer, he heard one last sentence.

"As long he's not the Vicomte De Changy, no chance!"

Nadir's frown faded and when he looked up, his green eyes glinted.

(1) Quote taken from the copy of Leroux's Phantom of the Opera that I have.

(2) Quote taken from Charles Dicken's A Christmas Carol.

Brownie points for guessing/knowing where they came from!

Plus 'vacances' means holiday in French (if Google translate hasn't lead me astray) I decided not to make the ballet girl's speak 'French' as there is no reason to complicate things. If they are in France, obviously they speak French.

BUT HHHEYYYY I'M ALIVEEEEEEEE. Cue the thunder and lightning.

One day before the end of the 'month' period I set myself! Phew, I made it...I mean over here it is…When I'm writing this right now.

Sorry for the delay, my phriends, my personal and school life has been pretty rough over the hols and new year, so the writing had to be put off for a while! Not to mention I'm fully online in lockdown so I've been using my hands twice as much as usual and on the computer all day! It's pretty rubbish, because mental health is really important, and I have been needing a break in the evenings – rather than be back on the computer! And my poor hands are quite overworked! So, my apologies! But your comments and favourites have encouraged me like you wouldn't believe so thank you so much for supporting me through these difficult times!

I have also fallen down the rabbit hole for a new ship…For those familiar with Greek mythology, or those not, I have discovered Hades and Persephone (as a ship)…I love them! It reminds me so much of Erik and Christine, so I definitely recommend checking out the content on here or AO3 (Archive of our own) for more fics. :D I might be tempted to write a oneshot crossover involving for such concepts, but it might take a while!

Thank you to my reviwers: HoursOfMazenderan, Laurenvbellado, TheTenthMuseSappho and last but not least my new reviewer Diamond Cutie. You are all so so appreciated!

I've been seeing views even though I haven't updated, and it makes me wonder if my computer is working correctly, or if people are truly reading it day after day! It's fascinating!

Ooo, Nadir, what are you up to, old boy? ;) Did you like the easier going scenes with Christine and Erik, Joe's history, or the mention of Erik's interest in her artwork? ALSO HANDSSSSSSSSSSSSS…heh heh.

Anyone thinking that they'd love a holiday? I Know I DO! Wahhhhh. Erik and Christine get to go to FRANCE. :'( Ahh, what a world we live in!

I think things are heating up for this season's finale…Shhh don't tell anyone.

Anyway, short(er) A/N today, you truly are blessed, amirite? XD

Merci to all,

Enigma :D