Time is often said to fly as though on the wings of Hermes himself, when in the company of friends. Jane and Erik became strong friends in their years of companionable existence. She took over the chores of cooking and cleaning around the lair, not that Erik would ever admit that her skills were superior to his. Yet, every time she spent more than a few days out of her home and in the ballerina barracks, she would come back and he would be almost ravenous, indicating that he hadn't eaten. She never said anything, though, preferring a peaceful silence as he wolfed down whatever she cooked.
Things continued this way for years, sometimes finding the two in the library reading for hours on end. Erik taught her English and Persian for their interactions with contractors and his old friend, "daroga", though he never revealed his real name. The first time Jane meet the man, both were more than surprised, for different reasons.
Jane had been puttering in the workroom, cleaning up Erik's usual mess of shavings and crumpled idea drafts. She was humming quietly to herself, something she heard Erik composing on his organ the other day, not that she would ever let him know she loved to listen. Music was for him and his 'angel.' The word was bitter in her mind, causing her to pause in her own soft music. She was in no way musically talented, but it was enough for her to quietly sing or hum when by herself, enjoying the way the sound bounced off the cave walls, like some kind of distorted cathedral. She would love to share in her friend's love of music, but she knew he only had ears for the wanna-be diva upstairs.
Sighing, Jane shook her head, now was not the time to be mulling over such negative thoughts, she had to get their home clean for a guest. Erik had told her that this friend was from the very beginning of his past, someone who had known him during the dark ages of Erik's childhood. He didn't give her much else, but emphasized that the lair was to be spotless before he got back from Christine's lesson. Jane didn't mind cleaning, that's what she was paid to do, so she took to it without a fuss. She had just finished sweeping all the shavings in the bin when a voice from behind her spoke, "Christine?"
The scream could be heard throughout the catacombs. Jane whipped around to confront what she thought was a wandering stage hand only to find herself face to face with an older, foreign gentleman, looking just as startled as she. "Oh my word, are you alright?!" His deep, brown eyes searching for injury or illness as he helped her into a sitting position on the floor.
Jane took a moment to compose herself and take in the strange visitor. Was this the "daroga" that Erik spoke about? From her studies, the word meant "policeman" but this man bore no official rank or even very official clothes. His fez was worn and the tassel had only a few remaining strands, his shirt was loose fitting, one that a common workman would wear, and his pants, tight at the ankle above his pointed shoes, had a few patches to cover the threadbare knees and pockets. This man looked more like a grandfather than a policeman.
She hadn't realized she was staring, "Madame?" His gaze changed from searching to curious, "Are you quite alright?"
"What? Oh, yes, thank you." She was still sitting on the floor, wood shavings caught in the folds of her simple work dress. "Are you, 'daroga', sir?"
His laugh was musical to her ears, like old bells in a shop. "I haven't been called that in ages, my dear, but as Erik refusing to call me by anything but, yes, I am daroga, at your service." He lifted his fez in the air as he bowed to her. "And are you the lovely Christine I've heard so much about?"
At the name, Jane's mood soured. "No, sir." Turning her head toward the floor to hide her angry tears, of course Erik wouldn't mention her to anyone outside of the opera, "My name is Jane, I live here with the Phantom."
The Persian was taken aback, "I'm sorry, my dear, he never mentioned anything about you." Before she could respond with words she would later regret, he smiled, "Our first impression was a bit lacking, how about a hot cup of tea while we reintroduce ourselves and I can learn about the woman living in the catacombs with the Phantom of the Opera." He finished with a flourish of his hands as he offered to help her up. She was starting to like this man.
And that was how Erik found them not an hour later. Both of them sitting on the love seat, a cup in each hand, quietly talking about whatever came to mind. He wondered at the look on his ward's face, it was peaceful and content, something he didn't see unless she thought he wasn't looking. An odd tightness hurt his chest at the sight but he brushed it away.
"My dear daroga," At his voice, they both jumped, "Had I known you were coming earlier, I would have prepared a meal."
His friend smiled, they hadn't seen each other in years, "Nonsense, my friend. I was perfectly content with having a pleasant drink with your charming ward." At this, he lifted her hand and placed a polite kiss on her knuckles. Jane blushed and Erik scowled.
Quickly though, the moment passed and the three friends sat around a dinner of Jane's creation, talking about developments in Persian and Erik's plans with the opera. It was the closest to domestic bliss the three had known.
All too soon though, joy is turned to anguish. Carlotta Giudicelli soon became the Opera Populaire's leading soprano and it was swiftly understood that any disobedience was meant with abuse. Some of the ballerinas sported bruises from a hit with one of the many props (mostly huge, gaudy fans) and some of the stage hands had bloody wounds from a close call with her manicured nails.
Jane managed to avoid contact with her for the most part, but when one lives in the same house, an encounter can't be avoided. Jane was walking back stage, inspecting the wooden structures for the next play, ensuring that there weren't any flaws. Unfortunately, while she was walking around a corner, looking up at the ropes, Carlotta was turning the same corner, causing them to collide. Jane wasn't a small woman but with the Diva dressed in over 50 pounds of makeup and costume, it was enough to send her to the floor and only jostle the Italian beast.
As she stood up, she looked to see Carlotta staring her down, her arms as folded as they could be with the starched sleeves of her dress. "Apologies, Señora."
She was so intent on leaving that she didn't see the enraged sneer on the diva's face and the hand that came rushing toward her unprotected face.
Erik was patrolling the rafters, overseeing Christine's ballet practice, when he heard the slap of skin on skin, and the shrieking of Carlotta's shrill voice. Looking down over the rafter as he happened to be right above, he was shocked to see Jane on the floor and Carlotta screeching over her, something about an apology and the rights of stage hands. When Jane looked up at her attacker, Erik could see 3 red lines across her cheeks, dripping slowly down her neck. Enraged at her pain (proud at her silence), Erik threw his voice to distract the dense diva enough for Jane to scurry away.
"Señora Carlotta, you're needed in my office!" Lefevre was easy enough, let him have the trouble. Besides, he was late on his payment.
She bought it without hesitation, "Si, señor Lefevre. I coming!" And thus, she waddled away under weight of her burden, the stagehand forgotten.
Down in the caves, Erik gently helped his friend out of the gondola and followed her into the washroom. She had been silent the whole time the diva raged down on her and during the trip home. He was worried, he knew Jane had a few choice words to say about Carlotta, especially about her treatment of others. But, this silence was unlike her.
Yet, when she placed the whiskey-soaked gauze on her cheek, she winced and made eye-contact with herself in the mirror. To Erik's sorrowful surprise, she began to cry. Her hands gripped the basin as the tears fell and molded around the slices on her cheek. Unsure of what to do, he picked up the gauze and finished what she started, not wanting it to become infected. Never in their time together did Jane cry in front of him, not since the beginning when she was healing from her trauma. It scared him.
When it was all wrapped and clean, he took her into their living room and gently sat Jane in her chair, moving his so he could hold her hands while she grieved. He tried to console her, "Please don't cry, my dear, it won't scar. You won't have to worry about looking as I do."
Instead of reassuring her though, she only cried harder at his words. Panicked at her hysterics, he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her to his chest, "Please, Jane why do you cry so?" He was afraid that this was her true insanity and he would never get his friend back.
After a long moment, he heard her take a deep breath, "I do not fear scars, mon phantom," his heart always clenched strangely when she used the endearment, "I fear myself. I am hated by all and forced to be the source of anger and fear, a scapegoat for the regal and rich of our society. I hide and slink in silence. I do not wish this, for anyone."
He knew she spoke of him, yet he could not answer her. He just gently rocked her and stroked her hair until she fell asleep, her soft snores and occasional mumbling the only sounds in the tranquil cave. He wondered at this strange girl and how she had wormed her way into his life and eventually his heart. Yes, he could say that now. But it was no more than a platonic love. His one true love was Christine, at least, that's what he told himself. As both of them have grown, he's found himself torn between the angelic beauty and talent of the Swedish ballerina and the acceptance and companionship of the Parisian woman. Such thoughts made his head hurt though. There would be a time and place for them, just not now.
He carried her to her room, surprised at the fullness of her body. The last time he carried her, it was away from the alley and she had been a frail thing then. All of the work, comfortable eating, and lack of stress had let her body fill out to that of a woman's. 'Would Christine feel this full, this womanly, in my arms?' He was brought out of his thoughts when Jane curled closer to his body and sighed quietly in her sleep. After he put her to bed, he sat down and wrote a letter to Giry about the incident, requesting that Jane be placed away from Carlotta's influence. With this in his possession, he went upstairs to help his angel with her music lesson.