FLUFF! ! ! !

We join Cherik here as he frets over making his house and dining room as perfect in possible in the vague hope of having Christine around for dinner... even after he watched her leave the Bistro with a different man. But hope on!

It just wasn't right.

No matter how much he fiddled with the forks, corrected the crockery or cleaned the candelabras, the table just looked... off.

He'd changed twice since returning from the Bistro, and the soup bubbled away on the stove, his third batch since six o'clock — the other two had been so kind as to be too watery or spill right down his front.

And now, as soon as he'd fixed those problems, the table was all wrong.

Erik found himself tapping his foot against the floor, the little clacks of makeshift tap-shoes dancing around the dining room. He could almost hear her sigh, as though she were right behind him in the doorway, watching him pace endlessly around the table, setting it this way and that.

A perfectionist, she'd call him, a fond remark she'd begun to make during their lessons in the past few weeks, usually at any sort of correction he made to his piano style or muttered comment about the original artist's score. If he stopped for just a moment and closed his eyes, the fairytale was real.

But no. Now was not the time for make-believe; now was the time to make his palace fit for a queen. And if that was to happen, the table needed to be ready.

It's just dinner, she'd add quietly, her smile audible even though he wouldn't look up at her. Ah, but he'd read the books. It was not just dinner, was it? It was a gentleman keeping the company of a woman for an hour or so to celebrate a wonderful victory, followed by a relaxing half hour of music or reading or chess, a perfectly harmless time. It was not as though they would be unchaperoned in a... in a cart for the night!

Yes, he'd seen her leave the Bistro earlier.

Looking back on it all, his invitation had been a rather awkward conversation in the hansom cab. How had he phrased it?

'Do you like chicken?'How he'd wanted to kick himself afterwards. She'd frowned back at him.

'Chicken?'

'Yes...' he'd mumbled, fidgeting with his cane. 'Chicken soup, perhaps?'

'Well, yes,' she'd chuckled. He'd nodded. The cab had gone silent.

Looking back on it, he hadn't actually asked her to dine with him, and how he'd scolded himself for it afterwards! Maybe he'd held her hand just a second too long to be proper as she exited the cab, or perhaps she didn't catch his meaning at all. But then—

'With soda bread!' she'd added as he saw her to the steps that would bring her to the bustling room, to her future. He'd smiled and tipped his hat, his heart too aflutter at the nervous grin she'd sent him from the top step to do much else.

And then she was gone. But he was not.

Soda bread. The girl had him wound around her little finger. He'd sworn never to wear the custom-made Chopin apron Gerard had gifted him, complete with a medley of his scores, but now it was tossed upon a growing pile of laundry in the conservatory — behind a locked door, no less — and utterly covered in flour and little, dried crumbs of dough.

So she must have understood him! She was not a silly girl — impressionable and trusting, yes, but not silly — and she'd more than likely picked up on any quirks he might have displayed during the months they'd worked together.

He stood back from the table, looking over it one last time. A pair of plates sat opposite each other, their cutlery washed and polished until they gleamed in the light of the candles that decorated the rest of the table, which he'd draped in his finest, silk white cloth. The floor had been swept of its dust, a rug had been laid beneath the table for her after a long evening and the candles in the chandelier above replenished and fueled. The wooden panels that would make this room perhaps the most familiar to her out of all the others had been dusted too, and the picture frames upon the crockery cabinet cleaned until they sparkled.

It looked alright, didn't it? Vaguely decent? It would at very least serve its purpose?

Oh, good grief, that fork, no, it simply wouldn't do—

He stopped himself. No. The fork was fine. Was he looking at it from the wrong angle? Thrice now he'd set himself at Christine's chair and dipped to her height to make sure she would see and reach everything with ease.

He forced himself to step away and distracted himself with his pocket watch. She'd be back in half an hour, tops, and he must he there to greet her. How could he expect her to find her way down here? How, indeed, did he expect her to know he lived down here in the first place?

He pocketed the watch again and fiddled with his cufflinks. Should he have polished them a fourth time? No, no surely thrice was enough. He wasn't sure if the polish might start affecting the plating or not. Better safe than sorry. But was that a scratch on the metal?

He fiddled more vigorously with it, trying to hide the imperfection, and only now did he realise his heart was racing, in his chest, his throat, his ears, it was all he could hear!

A deep breath, just like Gerard had taught him, and a shaky exhale. It would be alright. It had to be.

He hadn't planned what to do it it wasn't.

Ten minutes of ticking hands later saw him blowing out a taper and closing the lantern case gently. He set it aside and pulled his cloak over his shoulders, fumbling with the clasp; it was the gloves, he told himself, the gloves were making it harder than necessary.

Eventually, it clicked into place and he started with a huffed 'right, then!' He picked up the lantern, and was halfway to the door when he stopped himself.

His home was presentable, his clothes were clean and pressed, but...

He closed his eyes against the voice that told him not to bother and paced backwards to the mirror on the wall over the cabinet.

He had to check the mask.

How pitiful. He'd spent hours tidying, baking, cooking, slaving over his home to make it as comfortable as possible, and yet he had to make sure his face was completely hidden by porcelain and powder.

He stared for a moment too long at his reflection, or rather, his mask's reflection, recalling her smiles as she followed her boy to his little cart and pony. He would never be able to offer her that, he knew that much.

And yet...

'With soda bread!' Her voice still rang clear and pure in his mind.

He pushed a comb through his hair quickly, picked up the lantern and made for the door, confidence renewed, for he possessed what no other man could ever: the magic of the opera house, of music.

And if he knew one thing about Christine Daae, it was that she was fascinated by such magic.

She was late.

Erik had already spent an hour and a half in the music room, going over and over various compositions to pass the time, and had been Down Below more than once to make sure the soup was alright. It had finished cooking twenty minutes ago and now sat on the stove at a gentle simmer.

And still no sign.

He checked his watch again, beginning to make believe he hadn't set it properly. It couldn't possibly already be half past one in the morning! He slouched at the piano, running his fingers across the keys.

Ten more minutes, he told himself, although ten turned to twenty, and twenty to half an hour. By now, a glum weight had settled in his chest.

She wasn't coming.

He picked himself up from the bench and straightened his waistcoat.

Never mind, he thought, fixing his cuffs again, although his hands were tight and his jaw gritted. She's gone home, that's all. Never mind.

He tried not to think of the chicken soup and soda bread as he walked back to the door. The darkness ahead crept up to meet—

"Maestro?"

He turned.

She stood on the other side of the room, dragging breaths. Her headpiece hung lopsided in her hair, tangled and undone. Her cloak had stained with muddy water at the bottom; he didn't dare think about the dress.

"Oh, forgive me!" she scurried towards him, touching the piano as she passed it. "Forgive me, please!"

But he couldn't find his voice. His mouth opened and closed in a desperate attempt to form words, until he was sure he resembled the little goldfish Gerard had brought him so many years ago.

And then, from nowhere: "Forgive? There is nothing to forgive, Christine."

He shut his mouth in shock. Had those words been his? He looked about for the Count for just a moment, but it was a moment she used to complete her journey and catch his arm.

"No, no, you don't understand, I was—" Her words trailed off and she bit her lip. He looked from her hand, wrapped around his sleeve, to his freshly polished, clicky-clacky shoes.

They both knew.

"I baked soda bread," he mumbled.

A frown. "Soda bread?"

"And cooked chicken soup."

A silence.

"For me?"

"No," he said, clearing his throat. "I had thought about inviting La Carlotta for a pleasant evening meal. We are ardent lovers, you know, but her husband must never find out, so you cannot tell a soul."

She let go of his arm. He looked up at her sweetly. She didn't catch on, searching his eyes for a moment. He smiled — he couldn't help it; she was so amusing to watch as she guessed whether he was lying or not.

Her eyes lit up and she slapped his upper arm lightly.

"You're too convincing to play jokes!" she protested. "That wasn't fair!"

For the first time that evening, he laughed, and the weight that had settled in his chest earlier lifted entirely.

"Mademoiselle Daae," he chuckled, easing the old headpiece from her golden hair as she tried to glare at him. He pocketed it and offered her his arm instead. "Would you care to join me for dinner to celebrate your success tonight?"

She cast him a sideways look, and if she had any experience with masking her emotions, she could have been rather convincing. "You must swear not to play tricks on me!"

"You have my word, Mademoiselle!" He bowed for good measure, and, finally, she slipped her arm through his.

The small pressure of her hand resting upon his wrist stole his breath away. With one touch, his confidence seeped away and a fiery heat swept up through his face. He blamed it on the clammy mask.

"Maestro?"

He cleared his throat. "Indeed; shall we go?"

If Christine was surprised at being led below street level at two o'clock in the morning, she wasn't making it known. Down and down Erik brought her, further than she'd ever gone before — he'd discovered her following him from a lesson one day and sent her back with scolding before she'd gone very far past the third cellar, but he was fairly sure she hadn't tried it more than once.

"Watch your step," he said, helping her down a slippery set of stairs; they were nearing the lake and now the stone was becoming too wet for him to feel safe with her walking unaided, not in the shoes he'd given her earlier.

"You're not really seeing Carlotta, are you?" Christine said, stepping down to his side and looking up at him, her eyes slightly narrow in question.

A laugh ripped its way from his throat without his realising. "Good heavens, no! I'd rather go deaf!"

"You'd go deaf anyhow," she giggled, as though she was worried someone else might hear her all the way down here. "I think I should rather throw myself into the dirty old lake they say is down here than listen to her all my life!"

"Christine Daae!" he exclaimed, nudging her with his side so she giggled. "You must never threaten such a thing!"

She, like a child, stuck her tongue out at him, but retracted it with a blush. He tried to remain unfazed, despite the mask hiding his burning cheeks, and sniffed, feigning indignance. "Besides, my lake is perfectly clean and drainable."

She pushed him back. A mouse had better luck moving a table. A huff, masking another laugh. "Your lake?"

He stopped. She stumbled back to him, feet slipping but never falling. He regarded her look of shock and held her up.

"You don't believe me?"

Her mouth pressed into a line. Again, she searched his eyes. "You cannot own an entire lake."

"Whyever not?"

"Because you cannot own a part of this opera house!" She gestured to their dark, stoney surroundings and frowned at him. "Do you?"

"My dear," he chuckled, guiding her along to the door ahead. He lay his hand upon the handle and pushed it open. "Everything in this opera house belongs to me."

Her jaw hung. There, where she must have expected a wilderness of stone, sat his little dining room, decorated in wood and candlelight. He saw her to the table, doing his best to ignore that accursed fork at his place.

"Please..." His voice was a bit smaller than he'd have liked as he drew her chair out. He waited until she'd tentatively seated herself before pushing it back to the table, and flexed his hands in a bid to stop their quaking. He stepped back, raising himself up and down on the balls of his feet.

Good God, the soup!

He gave a gasp and hurried for the broth pot, fetching their bowls on the way.

But was that a chip in—

He ignored it and set about pouring ladles of soup. Did she have too little? Too much? She would hate to leave it if she had too much, and he didn't want her to overfill herself and make herself ill, although he didn't want her to go hungry either, and what about—

He hadn't realised she was laughing until he forgot about the soup and picked up the warming bowls, but, in that moment, he didn't know whether to smile along or check his clothes for stains again. His face fell instead.

"What's wrong?"

She only giggled further, louder, and covered her mouth with her shawl. He stared at her for a long moment — had the poor girl gone quite mad? — and dared to check his reflection. No, his mask was perfectly in place and clean. So what could possibly—

"Christine Daae, what on God's green earth has come over you?"

Her giggles erupted into laughter and she gave a clap. "You're wearing tap-shoes!"

His cheeks flamed as bright as his copper hair, and the mask grew hot against his skin all of a sudden.

"It was a passing fad!" he blurted out, setting the bowls down and taking his own seat. But she was too far into her hysterics by now and clung to her chair. She'd gone a terrifying shade of red and it wasn't getting any better. "Christine!"

"I'm sorry," she spluttered, dabbing at her eyes with the napkin he'd spent the better half of twenty minutes trying to fold with the aid of an origami book, which he'd borrowed — yes, borrowed — from Choletti's desk drawer.

Oh, come now, he'd told himself as he'd snuck it into his cloak and headed for the passage behind a bookshelf, decorated with more pictures of La Carlotta than actual books. Choletti had spent three weeks trying to fold a piece of paper into a swan. Erik had managed it in less than half an hour. He wouldn't miss it.

"Tap-shoes were the last thing I'd have expected to see you wearing, I'm afraid!" she added, still fighting the odd coughed giggle. "Do you dance?"

He wasn't sure whether she was mocking or not as she blew gently on her soup and sipped it from her spoon. But something about the glimmer in her eyes told him she couldn't possibly be.

"I used to," he mumbled. "I gave it up a while ago, but I think I just kept the shoes because the sounds are comforting."

"You shall have to teach me that one day too, now you've told me!"

He was sure he would. There was, after all, only so far he could bring her voice, and that tether was straining by now. Teach her to dance? Why, he still stumbled over his own feet!

But his mind wandered to her foppish boy and, despite his growing hatred, he smiled back. "I will, Christine. But first, your dinner is going cold."