The Persian man sat in the audience, watching the director attempt to block out movement as the orchestra practiced. He hummed along with some of the music. He really did enjoy the theater, though at this point he wasn't quite certain if he loved it because he always around it or if the love of it had come first - before tailing Erik had become his unofficial career.

He sighed happily. The new production was going to be spectacular. He was quite grateful that the managers allowed him to go wherever he pleased whenever he wished - and they should, after all, considering how much he paid them for the opportunity. As such, he was the only person in the audience. Or so he thought.

A Voice in his ear caused to jump ungracefully.

He twisted in his seat, looking behind him. Erik crouched there in the row just behind him, hat tipped low to hide the white mask, a serious look on what was visible of his face.

"I need to speak with you," The Ghost hissed.

"You're going to give me a heart attack one day," the Persian whispered harshly. "Then you'll be sorry, won't you?"

Erik arched an eyebrow.

"And just why would I be sorry?"

"Because then you won't have anyone to ask for advice on your love life," he snapped.

"I do not have a love life," Erik sputtered, as though the very idea of such a thing was offensive to him - but despite his denial his face turned red.

"Well, what do you need to talk to me about?"

Erik sat sullenly, refusing to answer, too embarrassed now to say that it was about Christine.

"Well?"

"Tell me about Christine," he said and pouted, crossing his arms - the man was right, he didn't have anyone else to ask about his pathetic semblance of a love life.

The Persian's brow furrowed.

"What the devil am I supposed to tell you that you don't already know? Don't you still tutor her?"

"She slapped a man, Daroga," he said ominously. "I saw her do it."

"Oh? Who?"

He had aimed for nonchalance, but Erik narrowed his eyes at him anyway - he knew the man only wanted to know so that if something happened later on - say, if a body should turn up and a certain red rope was involved - he would know what had happened.

"That's not important, Daroga - as always, you've missed the bigger picture."

"Which is?"

There was silence from behind him for the longest while.

"Why hasn't she slapped me?" he finally asked softly.

The Daroga shifted uncomfortably.

"Erik, if you want the girl to slap you, that's something you need to bring up with her - what you two do in your private moments is not my business-"

"Not like that, you great oaf," he snarled, then paused. "I mean- I'm me. I thought she was just pretending to like being around me, or perhaps she was simply too polite say anything, but..."

He shrugged helplessly.

"I do not understand," he whispered.

The Daroga sighed. He hoped he wouldn't regret the words he was about to tell his old friend - after all, there had been a time that Erik's enormous guilt and shame had kept his darker impulses in check. Although, he supposed, it was that very same self-loathing and hatred of who - of what - he was that had driven him to be capable of atrocities in the first place.

"Erik," he said carefully. "Have you ever considered that you might be too hard on yourself? Just sometimes?"

"What does the Daroga mean by that, exactly."

It felt a statement, not a question.

"You're so bent on seeing yourself as the monster, Erik, that you can't even understand when someone sees you as anything else."

Erik was quite.

"Maybe Christine hasn't slapped you because she hasn't had reason to, have you thought of that?"

Erik was at a loss for words.

"Christine is no wilting flower, you know," he continued.

The Daroga knew this for a fact - he didn't think he'd ever forget the day he'd seen (not to mention overheard) her verbally accost one of the patrons who had said something to make one of the other girls cry. The man had been quite pale at the end of it, and the Daroga had to admit that even he was a little taken aback as well, though he knew that he had no reason to be on bad terms with her and thus would never be on the receiving end of such a scolding.

"I don't think she's the type to be polite for politeness's sake, not when she's uncomfortable in a situation. At least not from what I've seen."

"But Daroga," he pleaded. "How can she not be uncomfortable around me? How she could she possibly be honest in how she acts towards me? She treats me... she treats me like a normal man, I think."

"Well then behave like a normal man," he scoffed. "You are capable of that, aren't you?"

Erik scowled at the back of the Persian's head, hoping he could feel his great distaste for him.

"If she treats you like man, Erik - then the only one clinging to the facade of the monster is you."

There was silence behind him for so long that he turned to glance back. He expected him to be gone, but he was still there, crouched down and looking pensive.

"You don't think she hates me?" he whispered.

He sighed again.

"I can't say for certain what she feels, Erik."

Silence again. When Erik spoke next, it was so quiet that he almost missed it.

"Am I?"

The Daroga frowned. Clearly Erik had been having a conversation in his mind again and had expected the Daroga to keep up.

"Are you what?"

"Capable," he muttered, eyes downcast.

"Of behaving normally?" he glanced behind. The Daroga wasn't certain of the answer to that, but for heaven's sake, the man could at least try.

A terrible thought occurred to him - perhaps this was Erik trying to behave normally. Perhaps all the oddity and bizarreness he found he could expect from the man was the result of his utmost effort to be normal, and if that were the case, who knows what he was really like when he was not pretending? The Daroga felt a little lightheaded and nauseous at the thought.

But Erik shook his head, reminding the Daroga for all the world of a scolded schoolboy.

"Of being normal. Of being... not a monster."

The Daroga thought over his next words carefully.

"I think that you are capable, if you so choose. Perhaps not entirely normal, but- you don't have to be a monster. That's a choice you have to make. And I think you are capable of making the right one."

"What if she's faking, Daroga? What if-" he swallowed hard. "What if she truly thinks me a monster but she's only pretending otherwise? I'd look a right fool trying to be a normal man when all the while she's laughing at me behind my back."

The Daroga mulled this over.

"That could be. But consider this - what will she think of you if she's being genuine, and you're rebuffing her opinion of you at every turn? Which option, at the end of all this, would you rather live with - that you tried your very best even though she didn't see it, or that someone actually saw something in you and believed you were capable of more but you refused that until finally she changed her mind?"

A long silence.

He glanced back again and caught sight of Erik trying to creep away. He frowned. Maybe he was expecting too much of him, after all. Hopefully he didn't end his lessons with Christine in such a fashion.

"Erik," he said tiredly.

Erik paused mid-creep.

"Aren't you even going to say thank you?" he was irritated now - he hadn't been able to focus on anything on stage.

Erik stayed in that terrible crouch that made the Daroga's knees ache just to look at, and without turning around, he asked a question that was often on his mind when he thought of the Daroga.

"Would you still be around me if your pension wasn't at stake, Daroga?"

The question hung heavy in the air.

After the Shah had ordered Erik executed, the Daroga had helped Erik escape and found a body to pass off as Erik's. He had then retired, receiving a pension that had ensured he'd never have to worry about money again - but that pension and good standing in his home country was dependent on his last job having been done - executing Erik. Should the Opera Ghost go off the rails and somehow draw enough attention to himself that Persia should notice... The Daroga would be the one being executed for his deception. And how could an executed man receive a pension?

"Yes."

The answer surprised both of them.

The Daroga liked to think it was true. If things had been different, if it had ended better in Persia, perhaps he wouldn't have sought Erik out after he retired, perhaps he would have gone someplace other than France for his retirement. Perhaps he would have been fine to let his acquaintanceship with Erik fade into the past. He couldn't say for certain. Fate had decided that this was what his future would hold, however, and to his mind it was pointless to think about the way things might have been. But he did know one thing for certain, and also that maybe Erik was asking not this specific question - but maybe he was looking for an answer to a certain other question. Maybe Erik didn't want to know if he would still be around him otherwise, maybe he merely wanted to know if the Daroga thought him a monster.

"Erik, I saw your worst sins, and I still saw something in you worth saving."

And this, at least, was true.

"Do you think I would have gone to such trouble for you if I didn't care about you? If I didn't think you deserved to be saved?"

Erik sucked in a deep breath. He didn't like talking about their time in Persia, and this was the closest they had come to talking about it directly.

"If could see that way back then, in the midst of all that, how much more do you think Christine sees now?"

Erik blinked hard and cleared his throat. He would not cry in front of the Daroga, he would not.

It was suddenly too much for him.

"Thank you," he croaked out and tried to continue his escape.

The precarious crouch he was in didn't last, however, and when he was halfway away from his destination of sinking into the shadows, he fell forward on his knees, his hands breaking his fall before his face could meet the ground. The Daroga quickly looked away, pretending he hadn't seen. The Opera Ghost had been practically benevolent lately compared to his past behavior, but essentially falling on his face in front of someone was definitely the sort of thing to awaken his ire again.

Erik opted to crawl the rest of the way to the shadowy side of the auditorium, cringing. He dearly hoped the Daroga hadn't seen, but couldn't risk pausing to look back. He would simply pretend that he hadn't seen, and if the old fool brought it up later, well, he would deal with that then. First, he needed to get back to Christine. He had left her! What if Buquet came back?

But Buquet was back at his post when Erik arrived backstage once more. Christine had strayed from the group of dancers once more, though this time she hadn't gone as far. He threw his voice down to her, and she glanced around, trying to see where he was but also trying to not draw attention.

"Nod if you're alright, my dear."

She leaned down to check the ribbon on her pointe shoe, nodding as she did - but the look on her face said otherwise. He frowned.

"Meet me underneath the box seats."

She looked around herself, stretched a little, and milled about for a moment before slipping away to stand in the shadowy wings that were overhung by the box seating. Erik appeared at her side suddenly, but she didn't startle.

"What did Buquet want from you? What did he say?"

Her face turned red. How was she supposed to speak about such delicate matters with him? And she certainly couldn't repeat the vulgar words Joseph had used!

"He, um, he wanted... wanted to pay me for, ah- t-things," her voice wavered.

"What things?" Erik was confused.

"Just things, Erik," she scowled, and made some vague gestures with her hands, her face turning even redder.

He frowned a little, his eyes suddenly going wide when he realized what her hand gestures were reminiscent of. He embarrassingly hadn't even realized it was something of that sort, or he wouldn't have pressed the issue with her.

"Oh! Oh- oh, Christine..."

He paused for a moment. Should he offer to kill him for her? He would do it, if she asked. Hadn't he seen with his own eyes how Christine had repeatedly said no, only for Buquet to continue to insist? He surely deserved the lasso, and what's more, Christine deserved to feel safe from grabbing hands.

"I'm so sorry. Are you sure you're alright, Christine?"

She nodded, looking out across the auditorium, crossing her arms in front of her.

"I'll be okay."

"But he put his hands on you."

"I don't think he'll try it again. And if he does..." her eyes lit up. "Maybe the Ghost could-"

"Anything, Christine," he said seriously, his grip on the lasso tightening.

"Could scare him a little."

"Oh. Yes. Yes, scare him..."

Erik cleared his throat.

"Thank you for checking on me," she said softly, as she turned and looked at him.

In the dim lighting his amber eyes seemed to glow, and it was strange and thrilling to her.

He thought back to the conversation he had just had with the Daroga - was she really being genuine? It seemed so, but was that only because he wished to believe it?

"Of course. Are you sure you'll be alright?"

"Yes," she paused, wrinkling her nose. "But aren't the paint fumes a little strong?"

He looked up to the stage. That fool of a director had insisted on the new backdrops being painted in the lighting they would displayed in, so he had made them be dragged up on stage. And she was right - they were strong.

"Hmm," he glared at the wet pain on the big panels of wood and the various prop pieces that were being worked on. "It is."

"I don't know why they couldn't wait until after the performers are gone," she rolled her eyes.

"Do you feel like you need fresh air?"

"No, I don't think so. It's just annoying."

She made to leave.

"Christine-"

She paused and looked back at him.

"Yes?"

"Do you make a habit of slapping men?" there was a hint of humor to his voice, a bit of curiosity.

She smiled a little, her eyes sparkling as she replied.

"Only when they make a habit of being monsters."

She took her leave of him and made her way backstage once more, settling into the group of dancers.

Erik stared after her, wondering at her choice of words.

"Christine!" Meg cried. "I was about to go looking for you, I didn't see where you went!"

Meg pulled her friend into the circle and cast a suspicious eye all around, as though Buquet were still lurking.

"I'm fine, Meg," she assured her, patting her arm. "I just stepped away for fresh air."

Meg sighed.

"Oh, I know - it's awfully strong, isn't it?"

"Christine, what are you doing for your birthday?" Alexis piped up.

All eyes turned to Christine, and finding herself the center of attention, she felt suddenly shy.