I hope this makes up for the delay. Thanks to Jaxboo for her help!

Rose32

It came as a surprise to Erik when he returned to his apartments and found a very unhappy Christine waiting for him. He'd expected to return to darkness and the cold, uncaring presence of his pipe organ where he would sit and stare at the keys. Step by step, floor by floor, he imagined himself dead before the organ and covered in a layer of dust.

Somehow, Christine's presence did nothing to brighten his mood. He wouldn't be discovered in a hundred years as a skeleton. He'd be found murdered at the hands of a woman scorned.

With one icy glare from her anything but angelic eyes, he considered returning to Madame Giry's room to see what bottle of wine she was currently chilling. But it was too late. He'd been seen, and as much as he wanted to walk away, he knew he couldn't leave unless he intended to find a new home. After all, she'd proved her unwillingness to leave once already.

"Erik," Christine said as she sat on his bed with her arms crossed. She was still wearing her overly poofy pink dress, but her hair looked as though it could have housed a whole family of weasels.

Feet dragging, he attempted to avoid eye contact. "You shouldn't be here," he muttered.

"You're right, I shouldn't."

He looked away from her and frowned. If he'd had an ounce of sense he would have told her how grateful he was to see her, how much he regretted storming away.

But if anything, he was bull-headed and tired of always being the one who had done wrong. He risked a glance.

"Where is your lover?"

Her eyes narrowed. At any moment he expected her to leap from the bed, tackle him, and pull his heart out through his chest.

"I'm not sure I have one any more."

He inhaled sharply and stared at one of the many mirrors which remained hidden by draperies.

"Fair enough," he mumbled.

She sprang up. "Oh, so now it's fair?"

"Excuse me?"

"You arrive late, taunt people who could give your career, and then you don't even speak to me before you disappear down a trap door?"

"I—"

"Don't argue!"

"I'm—"

"We shared passion, Erik, like I've never felt before. Or was I the only one?"

"Christine—"

"Madame Giry was correct when she said men only want one thing and it comes from the pages of a book I should have never opened. But I ignored the warnings on the Greenberg Guide just for you, threw caution to the wind in order to discover the true meaning of love behind stable doors, brought myself to the very limits of my sanity for JB's Extended Positions and More."

"Who?"

"It's for Scorpios. You wouldn't understand." She sighed heavily. "Why? That's all I want to know and then I'll leave you be, since it appears you want nothing to do with me."

Her tirade continued, leaving Erik with no other choice but to gawk.

"You're a man, you have your own organ. I trust you've spent countless hours playing, pounding away as though the rest of the world didn't exist. Why should anything change?" She looked at him, her face crumpled, which Erik wasn't prepared to see—indeed, he was ill-prepared for both anger and tears. "Why did you walk away from me? Didn't you…feel…it?"

"I—"

"Did I do something wrong?"

"No, you—"

"No more excuses! It was bad enough to arrive alone, but do you realize how terrible it was to dance with Joseph Bouquet? His mother must have been a goat and I bet his father smelled of elderberries."

And suddenly Erik stepped forward. "What did you say?"

"I said his mother—"

"No. You danced with him?"

"He gave me no choice. You saw me with him, did you not?"

She'd said enough. Livid, Erik stormed away and considered tearing the room apart. He hadn't seen the stagehand dance with Christine. He'd found the Vicomte, the little mindless twit, with his arm around Christine. Raoul de Chagny seemed like the least of his worries.

"I'll kill him."

Christine scampered to his side and grabbed his arm. Her face was immediately sobered. "Perhaps you should sit down. Take off your boots. May I unsheathe your sword?"

It was tempting, but he shook his head. "Not now. I must kill him."

"You're not thinking rationally, Erik. Now, please, there are two pages in the Scorpio Guide that are stuck together. Wouldn't you like to discover what's between those pages?"

"The backward horseman," he mumbled, holding his hand over his lips. "I am thinking rationally, Christine. I should have killed him during Il Muto but I had a chest cold."

Instantly she placed her hand on his chest. "Come with me. We'll make certain it never happens again."

He sighed, his desire to kill slowly crushed by his desire to see what Christine could do about his chest. Still, he was alarmed by her transformation, wary of the enraged woman he'd happened upon.

"Christine," he sighed as he pulled her hand from his chest. "How did you find your way down here?"

"I can find my way down anywhere." Her eyes twinkled.

Clearing his throat, he nodded. "Right. What happened to your…friend?"

"Who?"

"The Vicomte?"

She blew a raspberry. "I had forgotten he's deathly afraid of the dark."

Erik made a mental note of the information and nodded again.

"I had to practically carry him from…well, wherever it was your trap door opened. He thought I was Meg until…" She glanced at her chest. "He discovered I wasn't. Do you think there's something going on between the two of them?"

"The weasel and the crocodile?"

"Pardon me?"

"No, absolutely not."

Christine frowned and took a step back. "I apologize for intruding upon your home. I should return. It's late, you cannot sleep in your costume, I cannot sleep in mine." She feigned a yawn. "I do hope I don't fall asleep midway up the stairs and crack my head open."

His shoulders dropped. "I should not have left the Bal Masque," he mumbled.

"Excuse me?"

He should have known a mumbled apology wouldn't do. Inhaling, he started over. "I said I shouldn't have left the Bal Masque. I'd kill any man who harmed you—and I'd never forgive myself."

Perched on the tips of her toes, she kissed him softly. "Perhaps such extreme measures are not always needed."

Her hands unbuttoned his shirt, distracting him at last. "Perhaps," he agreed merely to end the conversation.

"There are other ways, aren't there? Other ways to settle disagreements?"

"Yes." He brushed another kiss past her lips as he embraced her.

"Promise me," she whispered, "that all you say is true."

Her fingernails grazed his chest, trailed down to his stomach toward the prominent bulge in his trousers. The palm of her hand rubbed against him, encouraged him to abandon his thoughts. He could barely stand as she coaxed him, brought him fully to life.

As her mouth closed over his, he groaned and lifted her from her feet, crushing her body to his. He tasted her mouth, her throat, her shoulder while his fingers worked to remove her dress.

He lowered her onto his bed, felt her legs wrap around his hips, and hoped she would forget he hadn't answered.