"Mademoiselle?" The silken voice wove its way through her dreams and drew her slowly from slumber. "Mademoiselle." A hand lightly nudged her shoulder before pulling away again.
It took a few moments for the last traces of her dream to dissolve. Her eyes twitched, then cracked open, and with a moan she promptly closed them again.
Every inch of her ached, and her head throbbed, particularly at the back of her skull and in one temple. Erik had said she'd had a wound there. Erik! Her eyes peeked open again, and this time, she her gaze skipped about until it landed on the thing which she sought: a very familiar masked face hovering near the bed a few paces away, his stature tall and controlled, his arms casually behind his back. Swallowing what felt like a throat full tacks, she cleared her voice once. "Hm?" He stood so expectantly, as if awaiting something. Had he asked a question? Her brain felt like a jumbled mess. "D-did you need- Um, should I get out of-"
"I have a bath," he blurted.
Ang blinked in surprise and her gaze narrowed. "What?"
Erik fought the urge to cringe; he'd rehearsed this and it still came out wrong. "What I mean is it would not be wise to remain in such soiled clothing. There is a hot bath waiting for you, and clean clothes, and I imagine you would also wish to... how did you say?... relieve yourself?" He wanted to rock back and forth like an uneasy child, but that would not do. She held no power over him! He was the one in control.
"Oh. Um, thank you." Ang pushed the blankets back and pressed her hand and elbow against the mattress to lever herself up. The room didn't spin too badly, and so she slowly continued to sit up. Erik stood apart and let her go at her own pace. Her stomach rolled but not so terribly that she felt the need to lunge for the empty chamber pot he'd placed on the floor under her. With a slow, steadying breath, she swung her feet – foot – over the edge of the bed. Teeth bit into the pout of her lower lip as she considered her next course of action before bracing one hand on the nightstand and the other on the mattress by her hip. With a soft grunt she pushed herself up onto her foot. A single attempted hop sent a bolt of agony through her head and she cried out, her leg buckling beneath her as her vision tunneled and darkness threatened to swallow her.
Strong arms were around her before she hit the ground and she was lifted with ease, borne across Erik's chest like a child. He turned carefully, every step he took slow and calculated. It brought to mind the scene when the Phantom carries a limp Christine to his bed to tuck her in after she faints. Did she look at all like that? Was he cradling her the same way? It was an odd train of thought, but forcing her attention on the obscure kept her from thinking about the pain and nausea of her concussion. She sucked in deep, slow breaths, each one pulling his scent deep into her nose. It was some sort of spice, she thought, though she doubted it was an aftershave; the visible parts of his face looked as if a blade had never once touched his skin. But it was something. Cologne? Or perhaps something he used on his hair? Wig? Whatever. With a sigh of resignation, Ang leaned the uninjured side of her head on his shoulder, one arm folded across her middle while her other curled into the fabric of his shirt and carefully tied cravat.
"I should b-be able to do this," she offered quietly, the rhythmic sway of his steps lulling her anxiety.
"I think you would find walking with a single leg rather difficult," he replied.
"Ugh, what am I going to do?" Ang moaned, her voice pitched low. "I'm never going to find a- another one here. I'll have to sit in rags on the- on the sidewalk and beg for food and- and-"
"One problem at a time, Mademoiselle," Erik countered. "There is no point in borrowing trouble before it comes."
"It already came," she protested with a whine. She knew she sounded pathetic but she couldn't quite stop herself. To his credit, he said nothing, choosing instead to remain silent as he carried her through the catacombs and tunnels away from his living quarters and toward the bathroom far down one hall.
The door to the bathroom she remembered stood open. He twisted sideways to carry her within. True to his word, the copper-and-wood bathtub was full, steam rising invitingly from the surface, and the aromas of lavender and something else, something natural, hung in the air. A low fire crackled and spit in the small fireplace, giving the room a welcoming coziness and warmth. The vanity table held a folded white night dress. The bench to the vanity had been pulled away from the table and stood between the toilet and the tub, a safe way for her to get herself from point A to point B. He'd thought of everything, and Ang almost smiled.
It was to this bench he took her and gently set her down. "I shall leave you to your ministrations." Without a word more he left, pulling the door shut behind him. His shoes clicked against the stone floors, his footsteps fading as he returned to the other wing of his underground estate.
Ang waited a moment or three on that bench, glancing around the empty room. It was such an odd blend of archaic castle-like construction and Victorian elegance, the two styles at war with one another yet co-existing here as if they'd been like this always. She didn't feel as threatened this time in here as she did last time. There was no more cage, no more yelling. Granted it had only been a day or so, but he seemed more protective of her. It had been his choice to bring her back this time, rather than her being an unwelcome intruder.
Gritting her teeth, she scooted to the edge of the bench and hauled herself onto the toilet.
Hands went beneath her skirts to pull her panties down... and found nothing there at all. Her heart slammed into her chest as her stomach plummeted like a boulder. Hands groped blindly at her hips for the missing fabric, her fingers practically clawing at her skin as the ugly truth solidified.
It had happened again.
Oh God! It had happened again! The realization crashed over her like a ton of bricks. Her pulsed raced and her heart pounded almost painfully. The room spun, nausea roiled within her. Spots of light winked in and out of her vision as it began to tunnel. She felt the tell-tale flush as a cold sweat rushed over her from head to toe. Don't faint don't faint don't faint! Breathe! A surge of energy swept through her and she frantically tore at what remained of the gown until it fell away. Tremors erupted until she was trembling like a lone leaf in a winter wind. Fully bared, she stumbled across to the copper bath and sloppily fell into it. A small cloth folded over the side was seized and she raked it across her skin, scrubbing every inch until her pale skin was red as a sunburn, and she still wasn't satisfied. Sobs racked her body as she fought to rid herself of any trace of the assault. Finally, unable to control her limbs, the washcloth dropped from her fingers to sink slowly to the bottom of the tub. Curling into as small and tight a ball as she could manage, she cried until the tears ran out.
He'd returned down to his music to while the time away as he waited. He had no idea how long a woman took to cleanse herself. Erik checked the time; an hour and a half had passed since he left her to wash up. That ought to be enough time, and left his composing to return to the room. The door was still closed, and he pressed an ear to the wood. It was quiet. Perhaps just a little longer, he allowed, and set to pacing. Some time later, he repeated the action, listening intently.
"Mademoiselle? Are you finished?"
Still nothing. He scowled and paced again. What could she be doing in there?! He'd been pacing outside the door for over half an hour and not a single sound had come from the other side since he'd arrived. Tugging the gold fob on his vest to check the time, yet again, he shook his head. It had been over two hours; enough was enough. He knocked thrice and let himself in.
"Mademoiselle," he started sharply, "I am not accustomed to-" Erik froze.
She sat against one end of the tub, arms wrapped about her knees, face partially hidden, those almost too-large eyes staring emptily across the room. Her hair fell down around her shoulders and arms the ends drifting aimlessly in the water around her. Had she been in there this entire time? The bath couldn't still be warm, could it? Her body trembled but she didn't seem to be aware of the fact.
She didn't appear to be aware of the fact that he was even in the room. He moved cautiously toward her, hunched down as if approaching a cornered animal. He ripped one glove off and tested the water; it was freezing.
"Merde!" Panic swelled and he grabbed hold of one of the large towels he'd put out for her, tossing it on the floor by the tub. Ignoring his state of dress – and her state of undress – he reached in and scooped her out of the frigid water, setting her quickly on the towel. Another was snapped up and haphazardly thrown around her quivering form. Shedding his other, now dripping, glove, his hands chafed her arms beneath the towel, willing some warmth to seep back into her.
He'd lit a fire for her when he first filled the wash basin with water, but it had died down and left the room chilly. Leaving her side, he fairly dove for the iron poker and stoked the logs back to life, adding another for good measure before returning to the woman's side.
She hadn't moved.
Her face was as blank as one of his masks, her eyes deep as oceans and haunted by demons unseen. Her hair, once as shining and rich as spun rose gold, hung limply in bedraggled knots. She was but a hollow shell of the fiery woman he'd first encountered, a vacant house whose tenants had abandoned it, an battered doll tossed carelessly aside to be forgotten.
She looked how he felt, and the realization floored him.
All these years, he had mistakenly assumed that he was alone in his misery, that none could ever feel the torment and despair he did. Yet here was a perfectly beautiful woman who warred with all the ugly emotions that he did. She was just as alone as himself, as isolated, as frightened, as broken.
He shook his head abruptly, tearing himself from his reverie. He scooped her up again, and this time set her on the rug in front of the now crackling fireplace. Another towel was tucked over the first as he knelt behind her. His hands returned to her arms and continued to rub them aggressively, hoping the movement would force her to return from wherever her mind was currently sequestered. His thoughts raced: he didn't have any smelling salts, and brandy would do no good in this unresponsive state. He could carry her back to his bed, but if her mind cleared while he carried her, it might damage her clearly fragile psyche even further.
Damn it all, he wasn't a doctor! He should have left her on the street, should have minded his own business as he always did! But even as the fleeting thought came, he knew he could never do that. It had been clear as crystal that she'd needed someone to intervene, and that someone had been his reluctant self. She was his responsibility now, and his alone. No one else's.
A new sense of possession washed over him. Mine!
And the tiniest part of his stoic, frozen soul rejoiced.
"Reviens," he coaxed. "Retourne à moi."
Long fingered hands continued to rub her arms and shoulders, willing warmth into her. A soft lilting melody came to his lips as he did so, words hardly intelligible but they filled the silent bath chamber with the calming presence of his song, his music.
"They f-f-found me," came the sudden, broken whisper, so quiet he almost missed it.
Erik crawled around and crouched in front of her, long slender fingers gently taking her face and urging it to lift. "What?"
"They- they always find me," Ang whispered haltingly, new tears forming in her unblinking eyes and dripping onto her cheeks. "No matter what I do, they al- always come back. They always find- find me." Her breathing quickened again, threatening to throw her into hyperventilation before a wail split the air. "Oh God! I'll never be safe!" Fresh shudders shook her until her teeth chattered, and the few tears became a deluge as she wept.
It had been ages since he'd witnessed a woman's tears. The last time it had been out of terror of him, and while he had hated them, he was equally disgusted. It was all because the harlot had been utterly repulsed by him and would rather be killed than endure a single night in his bed. Even while he wanted her life spared, he loathed her.
But this was different. This copper-haired angel could have done nothing so heinous to have deserved what had been done to her, and by her own admission, been done several times. He thought back to her missing leg, the dozens of scars that marred her thighs. A hand scrubbed against his chin as he deliberated. He had observed people comforting the hurting with an embrace, but he feared that would that terrify her more. The hubris he felt in his own power faltered and he felt helpless and inept.
The sounds of her sobs ripped at his insides, but what was he supposed to do? Her keens both terrified and befuddled him. She made the sounds his heart had every time he remembered how unloved and horrific a monster he was.
Swallowing uneasily, he offered a quiet, "You... are... safe here."
A most wondrous thing occurred – she leaned into him! Slightly, the most minute of movements, but it was undeniable.
Erik went stock-still, hardly daring to breathe for fear it would shatter the magic of this miraculous event. His mind raced in a bleak slide show of cruelty: every taunt, every jeer, each time a child screamed because of his face, every moment when he had reached out and been pitilessly rebuked by humanity. But this strange woman actually sought him out as a source of comfort, and the longer she sat with her weight against him, the more the images faded.
Did he dare?
He was sure his heart would pound a hole in his chest as he slowly, cautiously lifted his hand to set it on her back between her shoulder blades. This time, there was no mistaking it: she tucked herself into his side and turned her face into his chest, quickly soaking the front of his waistcoat with tears.
His eyes widened to the size of saucers in amazement. Gnawing at his lower lip nervously, Erik's arms slowly moved to cradle her. She nuzzled closer still and wound one skinny arm about his waist, holding him tightly, her fingers desperately gripping the fabric of his vest.
After several moments, his ability to breathe finally returned and he relaxed just a little. Silent tears dripped from his eyes and slid down his mask to fall into the tousled mess of pale ginger tresses beneath his chin. With the reverence due to a saint, he bowed his head and set his lips against the top of her head.
"I will protect you, mon petit ange," Erik vowed in hushed words against her hair. "I swear to you, I will keep you safe."
A/N: Thanks for staying with me! I'm really proud of the way this chapter flowed, and am so thankful to my writing bestie for all her help and encouragement.
Please R&R - the validation feels AWESOME! Blessings all! Nika