[A/N: Happy holidays, lovely readers :) ]


"January is such an inconvenient time to die." Erik thought irritably as the rain began. It was very inconsiderate of Madame Giry to shuffle loose at such a cold time of year.

Erik hovered at the back of the small gathering in the cemetery, fidgeting beneath his umbrella and anxious to be gone; perhaps somewhere inside to warm up. In an attempt to blend in a bit more, he had donned a flesh coloured mask and used a considerable amount of putty and foundation to complete the look. His face itched tremendously and it was all he could do to keep from ripping it from his face and having done with it.

At the front of the crowd, the priest droned on about immortal souls or other such rubbish. Though his mother had been a devoted Catholic, it'd been a lifetime since Erik had any use for the Church. Meg stood to the priest's side, her face carefully blank and her eyes dry. In her gloved hands she gripped half a dozen white roses, waiting for the moment she was allowed to throw them into the grave and finally go home. Erik still found her calm attitude to her mother's death unsettling. There had been some tears, sometimes violent fits of them, but mostly she carried on, going through the motions of planning and mourning.

Standing near Meg was Monsieur Desjardins, at the head of the contingent from the opera house. He was much too close to her for Erik's taste. His preference would be for the fat manager to sink to the bottom of the deepest ocean; or, better yet, shot from a cannon into the heavens.

"That still would not be far away enough from her."

If Meg noticed Desjardins proximity, she gave no sign.

"Or maybe she doesn't truly find him objectionable. Did he comfort her at the mass where I would not see-" He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "No. She is firmly against him and I trust her." Erik clenched the umbrella tightly. "But what if she lied?"

Those nearest him edged away, sensing his rapidly darkening mood.

"You promised to try harder." He muttered, but the darkness was so strong, feasting on his growing jealousy. The rational part of his mind knew the jealousy was misplaced. "She is no more interested in that wind bag than she is any of the other men here." Meg had made her preference for Erik quite clear; a preference he was struggling to remember.

The priest finally concluded and the mourners formed a line to toss flowers on the coffin. Some remained to offer Meg some final words of comfort. She and Erik agreed beforehand that he would join her once the graveside service concluded. Now was the time but he remained where he was, frozen with fear. Meg glanced his way and inclined her head slightly; her eyes silently plead with him to join her. He could feel the forward momentum building in his body, all that was left was to take that first step. His focus shifted to the young men speaking with Meg; finely dressed men with unremarkable faces.

"My disguise will fool no one." Erik agonized over the unbidden images of a future Meg married to each man who tipped his hat to her. "They can offer her a normal life and a brood of normal looking children. I cannot."

The rain fell steadily and Meg glanced his way again, her mouth a tight line. "Join me." Her eyes urged but he couldn't. He watched Desjardins approach her. The man's entire posture was overly familiar and after kissing her hand – "Entirely inappropriate at a funeral." Erik seethed. Desjardins stood at her side, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder.

If looks could kill, Erik's would've incinerated Desjardins on the spot. Why could he not just go to her and insinuate himself into the conversation? Meg shifted uneasily and looked to Erik for a third time. The flash of panic in her eyes was unmistakable.

"I can do this. There is nothing I cannot do." The small voice coached him through the maelstrom. Yes, he could do this. Erik took a deep breath and sauntered over.

"Marguerite." He murmured, offering his arm. Meg pushed Desjardins hand from her shoulder and accepted Erik's offer; she squeezed his arm tightly. "What took you so long?" her fingers crushed into his arm. Shame twisted his guts.

"Pardon me, Monsieur, are we acquainted with you?" Desjardins huffed.

"Pierre, allow me to introduce Monsieur-"

"Raquet." Erik gave a curt bow along with his made up name.

"A distant cousin of my mother."

Desjardins eyes narrowed as he looked Erik over, his gaze lingering on the mask.

"Antoinette never mentioned any family."

"Were you so well acquainted with my poor cousin, Monsieur?" Erik kept his voice pleasant and disinterested.

"I had hoped she would be my mother in law."

"I beg your pardon." Meg squeaked, her grip on his arm tightening; Erik was beginning to fear circulation loss.

"Marguerite, you did not mention you were betrothed." Erik remarked casually. The manager could not take his eyes off Erik's face and Erik exercised immense restraint in not smacking his head clear into next year.

"I'm - I'm not." She stammered.

"Alas, we are not betrothed, but I believe it to be her mother's dearest wish that Madamoiselle Giry is settled." Desjardins was crafty; much more than Erik had credited him.

"But not as crafty as I am." The manager could present more of an obstacle than Erik expected.

"What other ridiculous notions might you also believe, Monsieur?" Meg asked heatedly.

"I say, Monsieur." Desjardins exclaimed, ignoring Meg entirely. "What happened to your face that you wear that bizarre get up?"

Meg nearly choked and she waited for Erik to snap the manager's neck.

"I was terribly burned fighting the Prussians, Monsieur. I am lucky to be alive." Erik lied smoothly. His fingers itched to reach for his Punjab lasso. He bitterly regretted his decision to leave it at home.

"Oh I am dreadfully sorry." Desjardins was the picture of insincerity. "That conflict was so long ago, I'd nearly forgotten it."

"How fortunate for you since I cannot." he gestured to his face. The two men lapsed into silence, each trying to stare the other down. Desjardins was trespassing on Erik's territory and he would not allow it.

"Erik, I would like to go now." Meg's voice wavered. She looked like she wanted to sink into the earth.

"Yes, of course. The day grows short." Erik nodded to Desjardins and guided Meg away slowly, sharing the shelter of his umbrella with her. The manager departed in the opposite direction but Erik could still feel eyes on his back, calculating.

The persistent rain became a downpour as they exited the Cimetiere de Montmarte. Erik handed the umbrella to Meg and he jogged a short distance along the walk until he flagged down a passing carriage. Bundling her inside, Erik scrambled in, shouting their destination as he slammed the door behind him. Erik collapsed into the seat across from Meg, trying to catch his breath. Rain drops ran in little rivulets down his face, seeping behind the mask and into the putty. The grease makeup had moistened and he could feel the thin skin beneath his eyes chafe and irritate. Just a little while longer, less than half an hour, and they would arrive at the flat and he could wipe off his absurd disguise.

Meg stared off into the middle distance, her hands loosely in her lap. She appeared more like a marionette with its strings cut than a woman.

"She must be exhausted." Erik wanted to sympathize but came up short. The passing of Madame Giry had brought thoughts of his own mother. "That relationship was different. I hated her and she hated me." Years of beatings and punishment at her hands poisoned any love he might have felt. She'd been dead for at least twenty years and even longer since he'd seen her alive but right now, it felt like yesterday.

The carriage rolled through the ninth arrondissement and past the Garnier. He relaxed a little; just a few more minutes in this blasted carriage with his melting face. He glanced back to Meg, still puppet-like.

"Cricket." He said softly, his voice low. Meg gave no indication she'd heard him. "Cricket." He tried again, a bit louder but still nothing. The carriage was in her neighbourhood now and Erik didn't think he had it in him to carry her up several flights of stairs to the flat. How he longed for the days when that would not have been impossible.

"Marguerite." He barked, colouring his voice with the full command of the Opera Ghost. Meg jumped in her seat and her eyes pulled into focus.

"What?" Her annoyance was obvious.

"We're home." He pointed out the window to her building as the carriage rolled to a stop. The downpour faded to a drizzle and fog licked the darkened corners.

"Home." She echoed as he practically leapt from the vehicle to the street. She took his hand and stepped down and into him, wrapping her arms about his waist. He felt her shoulders shake and realized she was crying.

"What's this now?" Erik's voice was gentle; not unlike the kind he'd used with a young Christine, in the early days before he'd become her Angel of Music.

"Stay with me tonight?" Meg sniffled, craning her neck to look at him. Her brown eyes seemed dull; rimmed with red and hung with dark circles.

"I've stayed with you every night." He reminded her; save for short periods of time in the day or at night while she slept, Erik had been a constant fixture. He couldn't bear the thought of her all alone; but the nights on the sofa and floor in front of the stove were taking their toll on his middle aged bones. He longed for a few hours of respite in a comfortable bed.

"Then take me home with you?"

Erik hesitated; the thought of whisking her away to his home was tempting. Safe down below from prying eyes and Desjardins.

"One more night." He brushed his thumb across her cheek. Meg sighed with relief, her arms dropping to her sides. Erik took her hand, lacing their fingers together and led her inside. One more night on the floor wasn't likely to kill him.

"At least I hope not."