Three sentences fic (or longer) using "I hear you" as dialogue. (E/C, a blend of Leroux and ALW)
"I've waited two years. Two years, and still nothing."
Erik paused in the hidden corridor, not expecting to hear anything on the other side of the wall. He only ever visited the dancers' dressing room when it was empty, to tie a shoe ribbon in knots or "misplace" a hairbrush. Harmless pranks to amuse himself and ensure that the Opera Ghost's salary continued to be paid on time.
"You promised…"
Moving silently like a proper phantom, Erik crept along the passageway until he reached the two-way mirror. There were several like it installed throughout the Opera - his windows into the world above. He peered through, expecting to find one of the petits rats embroiled in some lover's quarrel, but the young woman was alone. She sat at the vanity, hands clasped tightly in prayer and head bowed before the portrait of a fair-haired man. With a stifled sob, she rose and approached the mirror.
He recognized her from the chorus. Christine Daaé. She was a timid thing, a foreigner and seemingly friendless other than the Giry girl. No patron. No admirers waiting for her with flowers and platitudes after a performance. Her voice was pleasant enough, on the rare occasion he could hear it above the rest of the ensemble. Erik kept perfectly still as she wiped at her eyes and pinched the color back into her cheeks. A private visit from the Ghost would not improve her mood, he was certain.
"I tried to be patient, Pappa. Truly, I did. But I...I've waited long enough." She squared her shoulders and stared into her own reflection. Erik stooped to match the level of her gaze, intrigued by the feeling of being seen while remaining invisible. "There is no such thing as the Angel of Music."
Her chin was set at a determined angle even as her fingers twisted nervously in the folds of her gown. From her demeanor, Erik sensed that this Angel of Music was sacred to her, and that it had taken a sizeable measure of courage to speak such blasphemy. There was a spark inside this little sparrow, the hint of a firebird desperate to rise from the ashes...but as quickly as it had appeared, it began to fade. He watched as her face crumpled and fresh tears doused the lights in her eyes.
He should have left straight away and haunted some other corner of the Opera. The poor girl did not need a witness to her pain, least of all a hideous creature who lurked so closely now that his breath fogged the glass. Christine Daaé was nothing and no one to him. Why, then, this sudden desire to fan those dying flames? Why this kindred fire set to burning behind his ribs? He knew her, Erik realized. Her despair, her loneliness - they echoed his own.
A single thought possessed his mind. A different sort of trick; one meant to inspire hope instead of fear. An Angel was not so very different from a Ghost, after all…
Erik began to sing - softly, at first, throwing his voice across the room. It was the first Swedish song he could recall from his travels, a hymn about Lazarus rising from the grave. It seemed fitting, somehow. She gasped and spun around in search of the music's source, the doubt in her expression giving way to wonder as the melody swelled and surrounded her.
"Angel? I hear you."