A/N: Ang is beginning to learn French... I, however, am not. Things spoken in French are in quotes and italics... then again, so is the actual French... and so are lyrics. Eh, y'all are smart; you'll get it. I have faith in you! You guys are awesome and will figure out what I mean, I'm sure!
Now, without further ado...
The field trip to the opera's roof was a turning point for Ang – for both of them. While the dark depression that had slung its chains around her shoulders and mind still lingered, she felt more equipped to face and fight it.
She wasn't as shy or hesitant to ask for help from her mercurial host, and in kind, Erik never went more than a day without checking in on her, asking after her needs, making a decided effort not to ignore her like he had before. On the third day after their truce, he surprised her with a second crutch to match the first. He even went as far as to alter them to fit her slight stature, and allowed her to choose the fabric that would slide beneath her arms as she moved. In the end they were a beautiful, wooden version of modern crutches that were far simpler to use.
She was no longer a prisoner confined to the chamber in which she slept, now free to come and go as she pleased. For that reason, she sketched a quick map of the catacombs in her immediate vicinity: the bathroom, his music room, the dining room, the bedroom he now used as his own, the kitchen, and the twisting path that led back to the magical lake. The only places forbidden to her were his bedroom and music room, unless it was the most dire of emergencies. She had teasingly asked him if his rooms were the West Wing, unsurprised that he didn't understand the reference but delighting herself with the private joke nonetheless.
He removed many of his own personal items from the room she occupied and instead filled the drawers and wardrobe with clothing and trinkets he thought she might find useful. Silk ribbons, pins, jewelry, a brush and hand mirror took up residence on his desk, now uncovered for her use. Drawers held silk stockings and wide ribbons used to keep them from slipping down her legs.
Two pairs of shoes waited for her under the bed, and she could hardly hold back her smile when Erik hesitated to offer her both the right and left shoes. She accepted them without fuss. Five gowns now hung in the armoire, three for every day and two for special occasions, although what those 'special occasions' might possibly be, she couldn't begin to imagine. He had given her corsets as well, though she forewent any attempts in dressing with them, as she could never find the right laces needed for a proper cinch. She had a decent figure without the confining garment demanding a wasp's waist, and even so, the gowns were still a bit too large on her lithe frame, anyway.
Day after day, she became slightly faster at dressing, but it still felt like it took forever. What she wouldn't give for a crash course in period costumes and dressing from Stitch. What I wouldn't give for my jeans!
She would never ask for them, of course, tempting though it was. Ang knew there would be questions, as as much as she longed to explain where and when she was really from, she fear the repercussions. Weren't nerds always talking about some sort of space/ time continuum or something? How it all worked, she had no clue, but it frightened her enough not to want to risk revealing her origin.
If she could fall through time and space, she was certain she could destroy it, too.
Morning and evening meals were now shared together in dining room, although in reality, he never ate with her. She came to the conclusion that he didn't want anyone to witness the awkwardness of eating with the mask in place, and Ang knew he would never remove it in her presence, nor would she ask it of him. Even so, she always offered to share the meal he placed out for her. Once she even managed to convince him to take a few sips of wine from her goblet – this was her biggest success.
Erik began to speak in his native French with more frequency, expecting her to pick out reoccurring phrases and deduce their meaning without aid. Though he never verbalized such, Erik fully expected her to parrot him and try to communicate on her own. She was clumsy at it – she'd only ever taken Spanish in school. But because of the similarities between the languages and their rules, she surprised herself by picking it up quicker than she expected. She'd been sure it would be years before she could even begin to comprehend the romantic language, however a month later, she could pick out familiar sayings and respond in kind. Another success.
While she did see more of him, the pair were nowhere near inseparable – far from it, in fact. Erik coveted privacy and retreated into his solitude without ever being aware of it, sharing his time with no one but his music.
Ang understood.
Their days fell into a comfortable, predictable routine. They breakfasted together. He would leave her to work on his various projects while she read. Sometime around midday, Ang found her own lunch in the kitchen. Every evening, they would return to the dining room for supper and light conversation. Then, at the close of the mean, each would go their own ways until morning began the cycle anew.
"I have a surprise for you," Erik said, coming up behind her one evening after she'd finished a sumptuous dinner of fish, roasted carrots, and fresh bread. "Close your eyes and hold out your hands."
Ang twisted round to peer up at him before she faced forward again. It took a moment or two to dissect his words and translate them into English, but once finished, she did as he requested.
Something cold and metal was dropped in her palms, and she curled her fingers around it as she opened her eyes. "A watch."
"En français, mon ange," he corrected.
She wrinkled her nose at him, just barely checking the urge to stick her tongue out at him. The smile that came instead was warm and genuine. "Thank you so much, Erik. I love it." Her fingers slid across the back, exploring her gift with rapt attention. It was dented from age and looked like it could be real gold. Her brows furrowed as she unwound the long gold chain, running the length through her fingers, staring hard at it in confusion. She'd seen men wearing watch chains buttoned to their vests in pictures, but they were never this long.
It took a few moments until her mind came up with the correct words for her query. "It seems, um, large. Shouldn't it be..." She couldn't remember the word, so she held her two index fingers apart about six inches to indicate what she was trying to say.
"Only those meant for men," he answered with a bemused smirk. Adjusting the gem-encrusted slider that hugged the chain together side by side, he took the entire piece from her and slipped the elongated loop over her head, then tucked the small watch in a tiny pocket near the waist of her gown.
She bit back a chuckle; so that's what that pocket was for. Rising to stand, she braced a hip against the edge of the table to face him, moving as if to embrace him before catching herself with an awkward clear of her throat. "I'm very grateful for this. Thank you." She grinned before adding, "I will never be late again."
A small, genuine smile tugged at his lips before his expression returned to its typical indifference. "See that you aren't, mon ange." He cleared his throat before taking her hand, as he did every night, to bow low over it, then gathered up the dishes, glasses, and utensils from the meal and took his leave.
Once a week Erik drew her a bath, setting out a clean, dry towel as well as various soaps and oils, allowing her to bathe at her leisure. It was a kindness that never went unnoticed, or unappreciated.
Not wanting the waste the water, Ang had taken to bringing laundry with her each time she went. Needing regular washing were a few pairs of the bloomers, silk stockings, chemises, nightgowns, and the most prized, her bra – Thank God! Since she still had to employ both hands and arms to work the crutches, she could only bring a few small pieces each time, always slipping a loose corset on beneath her clothes so she could wash her bra and still have something to support her breasts throughout the day while it dried.
Using extra soap and the remaining bath water, dirty as it may have been, she vigorously scrubbed each piece until clean. Though she was certain Erik had some solution for laundering his clothes – necessity was the mother of invention, after all – Ang didn't feel overly comfortable asking him how she might wash her under things. So she continued on as she had, finding no reason to fix what wasn't broken.
Dressed again and kneeling on her damp towel at the edge of the copper and wood basin, she scrubbed and plunged, singing softly to herself.
"Green finch and linnet bird,
Nightingale, blackbird,
How is it you sing?
How can you jubilate, singing in cages,
Never taking wing?
Outside the sky waits, beckoning, beckoning,
Just beyond the bars. How can you remain, staring at the rain,
Maddened by the stars?
How is it you sing... anything?
How is it you sing?"
She stopped, her fingers brushing against the faded blood stains on the nightdress. Flashes of that awful night rushed her mind and Ang gasped as if stung. Biting down on her lower lip, she traced the stain with the tip of one finger. It had been months since that fateful intervention, when they were each stripped of all the pretenses, finally seeing one another, just for a moment, as themselves.
No hiding. No lies. Just Erik and Ang, two broken souls that life had thrown to the wayside.
She had learned everything and nothing about him in those moments. He believed the worst of any situation, turning it on himself, assuming it was his fault alone in a toxic version of self-absorption. She understood, having suffered a similar trait in childhood and all through high school – still struggled with it now, if she were honest with herself. It was a poisonous way to see oneself, and the only way she knew to combat it was to mentally shake herself each time she felt her brain slipping into the old habits of self-abuse.
He had a violent and volatile temper, but then she sort of already knew that. Of course, knowing it from a book and knowing it from first hand experience were incredibly different things. She shuddered as she recalled his outbursts, decided she far preferred book knowledge, at least as far as that was concerned.
She'd also discovered that Erik was capable of great kindness and tenderness. The way he handled her, had nursed her back to health – both after he rescued her from her assailants as well as when he helped mend her wounds spoke of the duality of his nature. He could rage and scream all he wanted, but she had seen his softer side. He wasn't a monster. Far from it. He was injured more than anyone would ever truly understand, and, like a wild animal, lashed out as a result of his pain.
Pitiful creature of darkness,
What kind of life have you known?
He wasn't alone any more, and Ang smiled to herself. Not while I'm around.
Sound carried easily throughout his stone labyrinth underground, especially when he wasn't entranced by his own symphonies. As it happened, he hadn't turned to his organ for many weeks, focusing all his attention instead on a very special surprise for his angel. It wasn't until a strange song wafted toward his ears that his focus diverted. Laying his tools aside, he lifted his head and listened.
Beneath his mask, his expression furrowed; the snippets he caught were unfamiliar. He knew every piece of every opera the theater above had ever performed or planned to show this season. He picked the shows, himself!
Yet this tune was foreign to his ears.
Leaving his project, he followed the lilting notes through the tunnels. Disappointment crested when the melody stopped. Fearing he would never again hear the entrancing cadence, he waited with bated breath. One hand was pressed against the cold, damp wall, his ears pricked like a hound on the hunt. He sighed in relief as the song resumed, offering a silent thanks as his feet carried him down the corridor. It didn't drift down from above – it was too pure to have traveled so far – which left only a single source.
He arrived nearly breathless outside the washroom door, knowing what he sought lay just out of reach. Every fiber of his being begged him to barge inside so he could watch her. He wanted – needed – to study the music as it poured from her lips, catch each note before they were lost to him.
But that was impossible.
The very idea of storming through the door as she bathed was indecent and lewd. Furthermore, he was a gentleman – much as he despised the title at times – and she was a lady behind a latched door, in no real danger. Interrupting her now, the most vulnerable and intimate of situations, would be unpardonable. But, oh! How he longed to hurl convention to the wind and succumb to his every desire!
"Ringdove and robinet, is it for wages?
Singing to be sold?
Have you decided it's safer in cages,
Singing when you're told?"
His angel began to sing once more, and he let the stone wall at his back take his weight as he listened, allowing the melody to wrap its wings around him in a caress.
"My cage has many rooms, damask and dark.
Nothing there sings, not even my lark.
Larks never will, you know, when they're captive.
Teach me to be more adaptive."
He straightened suddenly when operatic vocalizing followed the English lyrics, strong and steady, without a hint of shyness or reservation as her voice danced up and down the scales. Erik stared intently at the door barring his way as if the simple act of doing so would make it open. His hands clenched and unfurled at his sides as he fought to urge to break through it so he could bear witness to this momentous occasion.
"Green finch and linnet bird,
Nightingale, blackbird,
Teach me how to sing..."
There was a pause, and he heard the wooden feet of her crutches tap rhythmically as she approached the door. His body fairly vibrated with anticipation.
"If I cannot fly... let me–-"
The door opened and Ang's voice cut off abruptly as she pulled up short, a gasp catching in her throat, stormy eyes flying wide, perfect lips parted in surprise as she stood still as one of the statues that stood guard in the parks.
He scarcely dared to breathe, his own wide eyes staring across the narrow hall into hers. He wanted to fall to his knees and worship her. He wanted to shake her until more came out.
He wanted to gaze into her eyes forever.
Finally, he could take the silence no longer, and his demand was blurted out in a single word.
"Sing!"
A/N: I honestly didn't intend there to be so much singing in this one; it just sorta happened that way. While I love listening to musicals, I always laugh to myself about the characters randomly breaking into unrehearsed song. Of course, if ever you hang out with a theater geek for ANY length of time, you'll find that we tend to do just that. We just happen to already know the lyrics to so many shows we can find a song for pretty much any occasion. LOL
Please R&R if you're of a mind to, and I hope you are – I love reading your reviews! Love and blessings, folks!