Erik awoke, blinking slowly into awareness; the candle on the bedside table burned low. He considered his surroundings; the unfamiliar ceiling above and the soft coverlet upon the bed.
"Where am I?" Erik racked his brain, unaccustomed to the foggy feeling. Gradually it came to him: errands, a meeting with his solicitor. Erik snorted at the memory of Meg shouting at him for the entire world to hear. The chase that Desjardins gave Meg through the theatre immediately darkened his mood and he clenched his fists. Erik glanced and found Meg still there, sleeping peacefully in his home.
Erik's heart clenched at her innocent beauty. He did not deserve to lie next to her. "You do not deserve to exist in the same world as her." Drawing a shaky breath, Erik struggled to calm himself before the mania overtook him again, and then slid gingerly off the bed. He longed to touch her, to hold her in his arms, but he resisted, determined to let her slumber in peace. Erik pulled the coverlet up to her chin, tucking it carefully around her shoulders. Satisfied, he crept from the room.
The murderous rage that had earlier threatened to consume him was conspicuously absent.
"Perhaps I am getting too old for homicidal retaliation." He padded barefoot through the cold corridor into what had once served as his parlour. It was laughable that he had once thought he needed a room to entertain guests. Erik shook his head in disgust, lighting candles on his way to the fireplace. Filled with furniture he inherited from his mother, the room was a shrine to the memory of his hateful childhood.
"That Erik even had a mother is the height of absurdity. Monsters are not born." He muttered, crouching in front of the formal fireplace and set about making a fire.
"Then how do monsters come to be, fool?" The sneering part of his mind queried
"Monsters are formed, with sinister hands and evil intent and sculpted into being." Erik told the box of matches.
"Or perhaps you were hatched."
"Yes, very funny." He held the match to the kindling and waited a moment for it to light. Erik rocked back on his heels and watched the fledgling flames begin to grow. His vicious inner monologue had nothing else to contribute.
Erik paced restlessly in front of the fireplace, pausing only briefly to warm his hands; he minded the cold and damp more these days.
"One of the rewards of aging, no doubt." His chest felt tight and his skin crawled. Erik undid the buttons of his collared shirt in a fruitless effort to ease his aching throat. It was all he could do to not claw at his chest.
"Whatever is the matter with me?"
"Meg. Meg is the matter with you." Beautiful and innocent and in his house, all alone with him. It infuriated him and he didn't know what to do.
"Return her home once she wakes, fool." He paused in front of a mirror, dusty and cracked, and considered his masked visage. "Take her home now before she sees you. Yes, that is – yes." Determined on a course of action, Erik started for the bedroom.
"No, that will not do." He froze mid-stride. Meg would wake up if he moved her, and truthfully, he did not want her to go, not yet.
"Not ever." Erik dropped into his old wing back chair and snatched his violin from the side table. "What is wrong with me, why is this so hard?"
"You love her." The nasty voice was back.
"I do, I do love her." Erik whispered, plucking absently at the violin strings. It was a fact Erik could no longer deny but he couldn't form the words either. What could he hope to gain from speaking his feelings aloud?
"Love is denied to the damned." He muttered, thinking bitterly of his romantic past, scant though it was. That night in the Bois, before he ruined it all was a fluke and besides, they were both very drunk. What if he had not uttered Christine's name and they continued? Erik couldn't even imagine that outcome. Wine was a powerful influence, it was impossible that she truly felt anything for him, other than pity. He would rather Meg reviled him. Erik picked up the bow and tucked the instrument beneath his chin.
With no particular plan other than a musical pity party, low, melancholy notes vibrated through his fingers and his face, washing over him, leaving behind a small sense of peace. Erik held onto that peace and continued to play, letting his mind wander the dark paths of his life into the Romany melodies of his young life. Melancholic though mixed with a determined joy for life he had rarely felt, Erik bowed on, the aching in his heart ebbing with each passing measure. He permitted himself a small smile as the anxiety drained from his limbs; he reached the end of the tune and sighed with relief.
"Bravo, Maestro." Meg's voice broke into his thoughts. Erik stumbled from his chair and whirled around in surprise. She stood in the doorway, in a thin white nightgown he did not recall seeing before; she'd still been wearing her day dress when he left her. The warm glow of the flames lit the fabric in ways that left little to the imagination; and Erik had an excellent imagination. Her hair hung in loose waves of burnished gold cascading down her back.
"Cricket." His voice sounded strangled, not at all the confident Maestro or bold Opera Ghost he tried to hide behind. Meg walked toward him; her feet were bare, the firelight bathed her face with an angelic glow, and her brown eyes glowed with affection.
"What piece were you playing?" She was smiling at him. The panic was beginning to bubble back up.
"I'm sorry, what?"
"The music?" She gestured to the violin still in his hands.
"Oh, um. Nothing in particular." He mumbled, setting the instrument and bow back on the side table with trembling hands. She was much too close; the light floral scent of her soap was blasting over him. Erik took a step back
"It was very beautiful, Erik." She locked eyes with him and reached for his hands, pausing before they touched and waited. He hesitated a moment before slipping his hands around her thin wrists; Erik tugged her against him and wrapped an arm around her. Noting the surprise in her eyes, Erik tilted her face upward and pressed his mouth to hers. Meg melted in his arms and deepened their kiss, allowing him to explore with his tongue.
The warmth of the fire bathed his face and he half registered that Meg had pushed his mask off and tossed it to the floor. Burning with need, Erik plunged his hands into her hair, tugging gently; she moaned against his lips and it nearly reduced him to ash, until she broke their kiss.
"Cricket?" Erik looked at her with alarm. Had he done something wrong again?
Reading the worry on his face, she shook her head. "I must breathe, Maestro." She chided, and Erik pressed a kiss to her forehead, determined to regain control. But then her soft fingers were dancing along the bare skin of his chest as she nimbly undid the rest of the buttons of his evening shirt and control slipped from his mind. He kissed the tip of her nose, her flushed cheeks and kissed his way along her jaw to the satiny skin just below her ear. Ignoring the growing discomfort of his tightening slacks, Erik suckled her neck, living for the little gasps he elicited from her.
"Take me to bed, Erik." She whispered.
Fear trickled down his spine and he hesitated. Erik searched her dark eyes for any hint that she was jesting.
"Do you not want to?" Meg pouted.
"Oh no, I want to." Erik's gaze raked over her. "More than you know."
"I think I have an inkling." Meg smiled coyly and tugged him back towards the bedroom. He went eagerly, desperate to please her; desperate to slake his lust.
Meg all but skipped to the bed and with a sly smile over her shoulder, grabbed the hem of her nightgown. Erik's mind was empty of everything but need; he needed, to be with her, in her. She lifted the hem slowly, revealing her thighs. Erik's mouth felt suddenly dry. Should he help or did she want him to watch?
"What do you want, Erik?" she paused in her striptease to beckon him over.
Erik opened his mouth but no sound came out, he was struck utterly dumb. He surged forward, desperate to eliminate the distance between them. Meg gasped as Erik tumbled over a footstool he had not noticed and he fell hard to the floor and woke up with a grunt.
