Philippe de Chagny was not having the best evening. His little brother's expedition to the Arctic left him to deal with his cranky grandmother. He took a sip of rather acrid tea and pursed his lips, staring into the embers of the fireplace. Raoul had always been Grandmother's favorite because of his natural charm and people-pleasing facade. In addition to this he had the advantage of a deceptively innocent face. All these qualities combined made him far more popular than Philippe had ever been, despite his position as head of the household.

Yes, he was the sterner, more practical brother. He had a goal in mind, and that made some people (Grandmother de Chagny included) dislike him. Perhaps his grandmother disliked him because it was obvious he would not be pushed around like Raoul so easily was. After decades ruling the de Chagnys it was probably hard to release her bony, avaricious grip on power.

He took another sip of tea, wishing it was spiked with something stronger- maybe a shot or two of bourbon. The old lady in the armchair across from him stared with a pinched frown. "Yes?" Philippe prompted coolly. Unless he spoke first, she'd never say what irked her this time around.

"How much will Raoul's expedition cost? I've heard from the head butler how much the clothes alone cost. How will you pay it? Illegally, out of his own trust fund?" She frowned even more deeply and set her teacup down with a clink.

Philippe resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "No, Grandmother, he funded the whole trip himself, with my money, I might add." He found it both ridiculous and irritating that Raoul had to be put on an allowance at his age. The boy had no concept of budgeting, and badgered him constantly for money for this and that. This latest vacation to the north had left him about twenty-five percent poorer than he should have been. "Besides, you know no one touches the trust fund until he's married."

"To a respectable woman of my choosing," the woman added.

"We've been over this." Philippe also set his cup down a little harder than necessary. "Those are not the terms of the trust. Raoul can marry whoever he pleases. It's you who cause these 'respectable women' to flee for their lives." He looked into the fireplace again, which gave only an ashy red light now. "Pity- I truly thought he'd succeeded with this last one."

The decrepit countess scoffed. "The singer? Please- I never made him out as the sort to wed one of those theater girls. Women of the night, they are."

He raised an eyebrow. "I have personally invested in the Palais Garnier and always found it a most reputable organization. Not one of the performers is or has ever been a prostitute."

"I still don't like it," she squawked back. The folds of her neck skin flapped as she jawed at him, harping on about morals nowadays and the corruption of the entertainment business. He mentally muted her and instead turned to introspection. Arguing with his grandmother required too much energy and reaped no benefit. It was going to be a long night- he might as well make the best of it.

I do need some way to recover my funds. Perhaps I'll strike a deal with a bounty hunter to go after some political assassin, or a murderer. It's a relatively small project, but it'll have to tide me over for a while…

...

After her bath, Christine redressed most of herself in medicine and strips of linen, then called Erik back for help with the places she couldn't reach. As much as she enjoyed him fussing over her, newfound mobility was not something she intended to let slip through her fingers.

When she took a place on the settee for her nightly reading, Erik did not sit by the hearth. Instead he headed for the door and donned his customary dark cloak.

"Where are you going?" She knew he went out for food or other supplies, but he always seemed to go when she was asleep. She never saw him come or go.

"I am going back to the opera to recover some funds," he replied. He unhooked a small lantern from its place by the door and donned his hat. "The flooding has subsided from the basements, and the workers will be gone at this time of night."

"Funds?" To her knowledge, large amounts of money were made of paper and dissolved after long exposure to water. She had always known Erik was wealthy, but she assumed most of that wealth was washed away when she turned the scorpion. "I suppose…" He was almost out of the door. "Erik?"

"Yes?" He had his black mask on, since the white one easily reflected light.

"Please be careful." He nodded slowly, and left. The door shut with a dull thud.

And so the former singer found herself alone in the little stone house. She picked out another book to read, but it turned out to be in a language she didn't recognize. Ahmar was asleep on her bed. The silence grated on her ears, punctuated only by intermittent flickering from the lamp in the kitchen.

An irrational fear fluttered through her chest. She was alone. As quiet as Erik was, it was comforting to hear him making a meal or paging through some ancient book. In the absolute silence, her ears itched for noise of some kind.

With a sharp snap, the lantern in the kitchen gave up its last bit of light. The noise made Christine jump. Feeling a little silly, she placed a hand over heart and let out a nervous laugh. Then, with some effort, she made her way to the dark kitchen area.

There were no other lanterns in the house, so she would have to light a candle and if she wanted to sit at the piano or rummage about for a snack. The prospect did not thrill her- instead, as she felt her way through the dark cupboards, her palms grew clammy. Where are they? I only need one. One, and that will be enough, she repeated to herself. With some relief, her fingers closed around a little matchbook and a stumpy little candle.

The relief was short lived, however. Once she set the candle down and opened the matchbook, her trembling fingers were unable to grip a match to strike it. Come now, it's just one match. You've done this countless times before. But her treacherous body would not obey. With both her hands shaking so, she eventually pinched one matchstick out of the packet- and fumbled, dropping it on the table where it blended into the dimness.

Tears formed in her eyes, both from anxiety and frustration. Why is this so hard? It is such a small thing, and yet I shake. With a deep, shuddering breath, she withdrew back into the light of the sitting room. Ahmar padded over and curled up in her lap, purring as if to comfort her. Eventually the frantic thudding of her heart slowed, her eyes closed, and her lungs steadied.

One day, I will not be afraid, she decided. One day I will be able to light a candle like an ordinary person. One day…

When Erik returned, he found his little angel asleep on the settee and carried her to her bed. Then he went to replace the batteries in the kitchen lamp. When he stepped down from the chair, the warm light from above drew his eyes to the objects on the table: a matchbook and one of its lone children, bent from a tight grip, and a stumpy candle.

An idea formed in his mind.

…

Erik went out that evening in search of a store he hadn't been to in a long time. In fact, it had been so long that he'd almost forgotten how busy the area was. Normally the little store stocked a little gunpowder, unattached fuses, and various hardware, but this time he was after a more whimsical item.

However, on the way he found his eyes wandering with uncharacteristic curiosity. Was the Persian out with his woman again? This street was popular with lovers looking for refreshment on an evening stroll. Nadir always did appreciate a little cliché.

It seemed his train of thought was correct, surprisingly. As if telepathically summoned, just in the pools of light cast by the lanterns above, there walked Nadir Khan and the Asian woman he had seen before. Perhaps I should stop thinking about him; every time the blasted man crosses my mind he appears. A smirk crossed his face. The couple was on their way to Nadir's apartment, and the man's suit was the same as it had been the night before, which meant they'd shared a bed the previous evening.

Would a little more mischief put him too much out of his way? He mentally calculated the time it would take to successfully irritate his long-time friend and decided against it.

It was almost eerie the way his thought processes came true. The couple walked a little too slowly across the way; the oncoming carriage turned the corner a little too fast. In his efforts to move out of the way, Nadir's ankle twisted at an unnatural angle. Erik sighed.

I really should stop thinking about him. It appears anything that occurs to me results in bad luck. Then, he watched as the woman steadied him as he hopped on one foot. Of course, they both tumbled to the ground, unbalanced. After three clumsy attempts to get up, the woman's frustration was apparent. He could hear them bickering:

"Here, put your hand here and move backwards-

"Ow!"

"Not that way."

"Yes, I know 'not that way,'" he huffed back, wincing.

"Your shoe is on my skirt," she said. "And there is a man in black standing behind you."

At this Nadir heaved himself backward with a yelp of surprise. When he looked up he scowled. "Damn you, Erik! Why'd you have to show up now?"

Erik, who stood quite still in the entrance to a very narrow alley, raised what would be an eyebrow on a normal face. "Ever courteous, I see," he muttered. "That isn't a very nice way to greet potential help now, is it?"

"Just help me up," Nadir demanded. Biyu looked on, expression warring between confusion and mirth.

Silently, Erik held out one arm and the Persian gripped it, and was pulled upright. With her characteristic calm, Biyu lifted him so he could rest one arm about her shoulders. The phantom eyed her with a fair amount of suspicion. There had been some occasions when storekeepers or yapping street children threatened to expose his presence, but this woman was cool and composed. She showed no sign of panic at a stranger's presence, even one as imposing as himself. Perhaps I won't drug her after this. She doesn't seem the type to run to the police.

Nadir complained a bit about having to go the long route, but knowing Erik preferred to stay out of sight, his grumbling died down. At any rate, the populace that still hunted for a glimpse of the infamous opera ghost looked for a Red Death costume, or perhaps the fancifully feathered cap of Faust from that fateful night. They did not expect an ordinary cloak and gentleman's suit.

When they at last entered Nadir's small flat and laid him out on the single bed, Erik withdrew a syringe from the folds of his coat and stuck it in the Persian's arm. "Ouch! What the-" He was unconscious within seconds.

At last, Biyu spoke. "You carry morphine with you?"

"Of course," he said smoothly. "How else would I stop his infernal griping?"

"That is…useful," she said, choosing her words carefully. She looked up at him. Erik paused, unsure whether to leave without a word or drug her as well. He hadn't known it was possible for a human being to be this short. She was almost half a head shorter than Christine, by his estimate. "I take it you are the famous M. le fantôme?"

Erik pursed his thin lips. "I suppose I am, though if you wish to keep your full memory of this night, I suggest you refrain from revealing my continued existence." He held up the still half-full syringe for emphasis. To his surprise, the small woman just shrugged.

"It is of no importance to me if you are a private man. Unlike the majority of Paris, I form my opinions of people without the influence of a newspaper." She searched about in a side drawer for an extra blanket and laid it over her comatose lover. "As it stands, I owe you."

He was already at the door. "You owe me nothing- I simply wanted to ensure that your M. Khan owed me one more debt." He gave a slightly mocking bow and turned to leave.

"You do not seem a bad man, M. Erik," she called after him. "You do seem a lonely one." For a moment, he didn't answer.

Then: "Nadir is lucky to have you. I wish you well, though with my luck the next carriage will trample you," he muttered. He left silently. The hardware store would be closed and quiet by now.

Biyu was left to gather herself and go home. It had been a rather interesting night, one she was glad she would remember.

…

After retrieving the needed supplies from the store (and leaving an appropriate amount of money in their place), Erik returned to his home. Home. With Christine residing in his once little-used room, and Ahmar scampering about underfoot, his hiding hole was warm and bright. With her declaration of a tentative chance at love, everything changed. Yes, he wept- but his heart sang of roses and the pink-tinted lens of one in love.

A florist's shop was just closing, so he plucked a day-old rose from the basket of extras and tucked it into his pocket. Christine said she would love him, but what was the harm in speeding the process along a bit? If his observations of the human race served him correctly, didn't most women enjoy a little wooing? He grinned a rather smug grin. Even that vile vicomte and his practiced charms had not wooed her correctly.

The wet tunnels of the river did not dampen his mood. Ahmar greeted him, tail up, at the door, with a tiny mew. For once, he bent to scratch between her ears. The kitten purred and rubbed her body along his bony hand. "Come on you beautiful thing, it's time for you to keep Christine's feet warm," he teased, not caring whether she understood or not.

He plucked the kitten up, long fingers wrapping around her fuzzy little body, and very softly entered the bedroom. Christine was still asleep, but her head had rolled awkwardly to the side. Erik frowned. If she slept that way, she'd wake with a stiff neck. He set Ahmar down on the quilted covers and ever so gently readjusted the pillow so her neck was in a more comfortable position.

With her eyes closed, she looked so peaceful. However, without needing to directly interact with her, Erik saw, perhaps, what her own eyes might someday see. Her scalp was still tender in places, scabbed over in pink and cracking brown. He knew from experience that those wounds closed and became mottled, ropy tracks on the skin. In all likelihood, her hair would not grow back. In a cruel mockery of his own features, the flesh of her nose had also withdrawn a bit from its frame as it healed, making it appear as if the tip was altogether missing. With her body so intent on healing itself, she had lost weight, making the hollows of her cracked cheeks more prominent. Her lips, once sensuously full, now smeared their pink outside the natural borders, as if with a careless artist's paintbrush.

And yet, if he absorbed that damaged picture as a whole, with its healing peace and sweet repose, she was heart-achingly beautiful. His fingers twitched at his sides. I've done it once before, and it did her no harm. Perhaps… Perhaps I might do so again.

With some trepidation and trembling, he unclipped the strap that held his mask in place and removed the hard, dark barrier. She cannot see me, he reminded himself. This is not like before, with all the tears. This is because I am happy. She has made me happy. Slowly, he leaned down. A heartbeat passed, and a nervous gulp- and he pressed his lips to Christine's injured forehead with all the tenderness he could muster. He felt her breathe out a sigh, as if she knew he was there.

When he withdrew, Ahmar was staring with her coppery eyes. With the casual sass that only cats have, she blinked and looked aside.

Erik glared. "Well, it's not as if you could have done any better," he whispered. The kitten just circled and settled herself for sleep in the small gap between Christine's ankles, a shadow in a field of white and grey. "Impudent creature," he muttered to himself.

After inspecting it for any thorns, he placed the rose on the mirrorless dressing table. Beside it was the folder and the small satchel of things that had survived the fire. He considered the folder for a moment. Inside it, his life's work in Don Juan Triumphant resided…and with it, the decades of agony and and smoldering misery. It was his masterpiece, his brainchild, and too grim for the new hope and contentment that permeated his stone house. Those dreary lines and smoldering lyrics had to wait for their time. For now, his mind filled with fantasies of lovers' duets, all sung in his voice and Christine's sparkling soprano.

He exited the room and closed the door with new ideas to keep him up all night.