Author's Note: Thanks to montaquecat (double thanks), CarolROI, Busanda (double thanks), Soignante, Spectralprincess (double thanks), jtbwriter, mikabronxgirl, Lady Winifred, Lothiel and a super duper thank you to KyrieofAccender for five reviews and getting through the whole thing so far in two days.

I was going to leave it at this chapter, but it turns out we've hit ANOTHER target (you guys are unbelievable - luckily, I've got a pretty good idea what's happening in the next chapter), so I'll get to work and try and get another one posted for you today as well. Thanks again, and enjoy! Nedjmet.

Disclaimer: The characters and plotline of the Phantom of the Opera on which this story is based are – to the best of my knowledge – the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. Nor do I own any of the songs or music used or referred to within this story. No infringement of copyright is intended nor is this story written for profit as I have the greatest respect for their work.

Chapter 57

He turned to her, the tone in her voice making him both intrigued and worried. The last time her voice had sounded like that, she had asked whether or not he was the Ghost. That she was offering information instead of asking for it made him particularly anxious about whatever it was.

"You should be resting. Can it not wait until morning?" She didn't answer, merely looked at him, pleading with those beautiful blue eyes of hers. Resignedly, he put down his pen and moved to her side, wondering what new torments she had in store for him.

As he sat down, she looked at him fearfully, knowing that this could well decide her future – and more importantly, whether or not he would be in it. He met her eyes, and she looked away, her hands starting to fidget.

"You are afraid of me." It wasn't a question, and he was unable to completely mask the tone of bitterness in his voice. Her head snapped up.

"A little, yes." Seeing him stiffen, she continued, "But probably not for the reasons you're thinking of." He looked at her, curious but silent. Taking the cue, she elaborated, "It's just that I've never talked with anyone about this before."

Looking down, she began quietly.

"My father was killed in a fire." She looked at him, searching his eyes, smiling a little at what she found. "She told you then." His brow creased in question. "Mother Giry, she told you that." Carefully, he nodded, uncertain how she would take it. Lowering her head once more, she went on in a quiet but steady voice which thickened with each mention of the man she had lost.

"The fire started in our home, when we were asleep. By the time Papa was awake and realised, it had spread pretty far downstairs. When he'd woken me and got me out of my room . . . even if we could have made it down the stairs, we wouldn't have been able to get out that way. He took us into his room to wait. It was the one furthest from the fire. We couldn't get out of any of the windows – they weren't big enough and the drop was too much if we'd broken one. So we sat by the window, waiting for the firemen. They took so long to come.

"When the smoke started creeping under the door, he took every blanket, every covering that could help and wrapped me up in them. He didn't want the flames to touch me. But that didn't leave enough for him. I tried to have him join me, but there weren't enough for both of us and he didn't want me to get hurt, so there was no arguing with him.

"By the time the firemen arrived, the fire was in the room, and what with the smoke, heat and the blankets, it was only Papa's voice that was keeping me awake. They managed to get us out, but Papa insisted I go first.

"I didn't see him again until we were in the hospital. It didn't matter what I said, they wouldn't let me go to him until they'd treated me a little. He was in the burns unit, covered head to toe in bandages. Two days I sat by his side, holding onto his one hand that hadn't been burnt as much. It's funny; his one good hand was his left hand. He could have still played if . . ." The tears began streaming down her face, and neither made any move to stop them. At length, she collected herself and went on, though the tears continued to flow.

"Two days he lingered. Two days we stared at each other, exchanging the few words we could, knowing somewhere inside that there wouldn't be anymore, though we never spoke of that. The last thing he said to me was 'Remember the Angel'. I know all that he would have said if he could, but it was enough. Even when they turned the machines off, I still held his hand.

"When I finally realised that he . . . that he'd gone home, it didn't sink in properly. I eventually persuaded the doctors to let me see him, one last time. Without the bandages. I wanted to say goodbye to him, not a mask. So they took them off. It wasn't till I looked into his eyes that I recognised my Papa, when I saw his hand that was still wrapped around mine. I was the one who closed his eyes, after I'd kissed him one last time." Before she continued, she returned her gaze to her dark angel, looking at him steadily, willing him to understand.

"I couldn't recognise him because all I could see was what had taken him from me: the mark of the flames was all over him. That's why I can't stand the sight of fire, in any form: all I see is what took Papa away from me, what took my voice, my music. All I see is what destroyed me, and because of what happened, when you brought the candle in, all I could see was the fire coming for me again. I wasn't running away from you. You brought me out of the darkness, just as Papa kept me out of it."

"Christine . . ." Was all he could manage to say as he finally took her face in his hand, smoothing away her tears, even as they went on falling. Antoinette had told him she was afraid of fire. How could he have forgotten! Even if he'd remembered, he never would have guessed the extent of it and cursed his temper for once again harming his rose. He marvelled at the patience with which she had borne these sorrows – and the ones he had inflicted.

"There's more." His movements stilled, wondering what else she could have gone through.

"Papa died saving my life, saving me from the fire. If it hadn't been for me, I doubt it would have taken two hours, let alone two days. Well, if it hadn't been for me, I know he would have managed to get out somehow."

"He died for you. Do not wish yourself gone, Christine. You are too precious for that." He commanded, taking a firm hold of her shoulders to emphasise the point. This time, he did not ignore her wince. As he released her, she went on.

"He didn't get his wish." He looked at her, confused by her words, uncertain that he wanted an explanation. "He tried to keep me out of reach of the flames, but not even the threat of what they could do could keep him from mine. I couldn't help but think it our last, so not even that fire could keep him from my embrace. He had one good hand, because it was buried in the blankets as he held me."

Slowly, she unzipped her jacket and slid it off her right arm.

"He couldn't keep me from the flames, because the flames couldn't keep me from him."

Her masked companion took in the sight of her arm, his mouth falling open in undisguised shock at the scars that traced their way up her delicate flesh. Of its own volition, one of his hands reached to touch them, unable to believe it. He stopped a hair's breadth from her, realising what he was doing. Taking a gentle hold of him, she traced his fingers along the path one of the larger scars took. When she let go, he continued the path up her arm and across her shoulder.

Their faces were mere inches apart as he looked into her eyes, the blue orbs holding tears; but these were of a different sort.

"Why?" He whispered harshly. "Why didn't you tell me? Why have I never seen . . .?"

"I became skilled with make-up." She replied softly, not daring to answer the other question.

"Why didn't you tell me?" She shut her eyes, unable to look away as he held her head in his hands once more. By the silent command of his fingers, she opened them again, whispering brokenly,

"The mannequin." He released her, leaning back, stunned. "You demand perfection in our lessons. When I saw . . . that, I thought you wanted the same perfection in me. I'm not that beautiful and I was so afraid of disappointing you, I couldn't tell you." His head snapped up with the start of her last sentence. Realising what it was she needed, he allowed his own desires some small release by folding her gently in his arms. With her seated on his lap, her head against his chest and her arms clinging onto him, he was in ecstasy, but did not allow himself to surrender to the moment. She needed him.

"You are beautiful, Christine, and I will not have it said otherwise." He told her fiercely. Raising her head, she risked looking into his eyes, and found there only the adoration she had come to treasure in him. Throwing her arms around his neck, she whispered a thank you to him as he held her, finally able to drown in the sensation of his Christine willingly being in his arms.

At length, he felt her breathing slow and even out. Before she could doze off completely, he picked her up and carried her back to the swan bed. She looked at him bleary-eyed in question.

"It has been a long night, my dear. You need to rest." He stopped and looked at her, saying with mock severity: "And this time, I insist." She smiled and put her head on his shoulder in the crook of his neck.

"Yes, my Angel."

This time when he laid her down, her eyes were on him, filled with contentment. As her hand fell from around his shoulder, it brushed against his jaw slightly – but not accidentally. Taking that hand before it fell to the covers; he tenderly pressed a kiss to it before bidding her a final good night.

As he rose to leave, Christine's gaze drifted and she caught sight of the candles. Clutching hold of his hand before it could leave hers; she turned pleading eyes to him as he looked at her in concern.

"Stay." She whispered.

"Christine?"

"Please stay with me. I won't have to fear the dark if you're here." He searched her face, refusing to read too much into her request. As if to reassure him, she tugged slightly on his hand.

"You know what you ask?" She nodded. "I doubt that your guardian will approve."

"You're my Angel. I trust you. So does she; or she wouldn't have told you."

Tentatively, he lay down as she shuffled over a little, allowing him room, but never letting go of his hand. They lay silently for a while, the air filled with tension.

"What did your father do to keep nightmares away?" He eventually asked, knowing it was not simply the dark she feared, but what was in it, and knowing it might help her sleep – because otherwise what was left of the night would be long indeed.

"He let me fall asleep to the sound of his heartbeat. That way I knew I hadn't lost him."

"You feared that?" 'Even before the fire' went unspoken in the air as he looked at her.

"When he told me stories of the Angel of Music, he always ended them with a promise that when he was in heaven, he would send me the Angel of Music. Then I'd say that I wouldn't trade him for the Angel, even if he did grant me Music. On bad nights though – usually if I'd been thinking about Mama – his promise made me afraid that I would lose him, so I'd usually end up sneaking into his room. He'd pretend to be asleep, but I always felt him kiss my head before I dozed off." Again, her smile was a teary one.

Without a word, he lifted her slightly, slowly guiding her over a little. Reading his face, her eyes asked him, checking she wasn't mistaken. Silently, he gave his consent. Shifting the rest of the way, she moved so that her torso was half on top of him. Placing her head on his chest, her ear over his heart, she smiled as she rested her hand on his arm.

She lifted her head and placed another kiss against his unmasked cheek, bidding her Angel a final good night. Lowering her head to its human pillow, she missed the single tear that welled up in his eye. Before she finally succumbed to the immense tiredness the night had wrought on her, she did not miss the way his arms wrapped around her, securing her in his protective embrace.

And she was certain she didn't dream the pair of lips that softly pressed against her hair.