Author's Note: No matter how hard I tried, I just couldn't avoid it. I'm afraid you're going to have to have my longest ever chapter. I was tempted to post part of this on the end of the last chapter and have you go back and read that, but I just can't be bothered faffing around - and that cliffy is too delicious to forgo. I probably could have easily split this into a few chapters, but as with Hannibal and Il Muto, I'm fed up of waiting.And before anyone else threatens to Punjab me, I'll cut straight to the thank yous.

Thanks to Spectralprincess, phantom-jedi1, Timeflies, KyrieofAccender, Freetrader, steelelf, Lothiel, snowflake17, grannydaisytoo, mikabronxgirl, Melodic Rose, terbear, Lady Winifred, Lady Wen, mildetryth, and Passed Over for their latest reviews. Hope this was worth the cliffy - it does grant a few requests. Thanks again, everyone, 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 75

As soon as the engine stopped, Raoul had gotten out – after making sure the driver got his taxi back – and moved towards the gates, uncertain of exactly how he would find her, if indeed she was still there. He was barely three feet inside the graveyard, when he had to stop. The most beautiful music he had ever heard was coming from somewhere within. He snapped out of it as soon as he heard that voice joining it. The beauty and power of the voice was not entirely lost on him, as he finally understood a little of why Christine kept succumbing to it. Turning back, he reached into his car and drew out one of his fencing blades. At least it was something. He caught the sound of Christine's voice on the wind. It steeled his resolve and he removed the tip from the blade, transforming it into a weapon. Running through the snow, he finally found her. She was moving towards something . . . someone, and as he heard that voice calling to her over and over, he knew she'd been bewitched again. Was the monster really stooping so low as to use the memory of her father against her?

"Christine! Christine, listen to me! Whatever you may believe, this man . . . this thing . . . is not your father!"

She snapped out of it when he reached her. As she turned to face him, he saw the confusion written clearly across her features. His poor Lotte! He tried to bring her away whilst she was still in that moment free from whatever spell it was.

He was stopped as he finally met the Ghost.

Christine was brought of her sweet reverie, dragged away from their music as she heard Raoul's voice calling to her. It couldn't have been her imagination, for it would never betray her or her Angel like that. But if he was here . . . her Angel would be furious. No! Not now, not when they were so close to finally reconciling. Though it pained her, she turned from her Angel's voice to see Raoul running towards her with . . . a sword? Did he really think she couldn't tell the difference between her Angel and her father? What was he playing at? He reached her side and it was all she could do not to step away.

Perhaps it would have been better if she had.

In the next moment, her dark Angel swooped in, lunging at her friend with that same startling sword from the Masquerade. She watched in a fascinated horror as the two engaged in their vicious dance. Though her Angel towered above Raoul and was clearly the stronger of the two, her friend was agile enough that they were evenly matched. The skull on her Angel's sword glinted manically, the cold steel evidently stronger than the other flimsy blade, but Raoul's skills were fresher and more refined, making his clean efficient strokes just as terrifying to her.

At first, her masked mentor had the advantage, lunging powerfully at Raoul, catching him off guard and making him so clumsy that it was all he could do to retreat. But retreat he did, putting enough space between them that soon he was matching blow for blow. The two fought their way around the little graveyard, dancing amongst the monuments furiously. Like a phantom, the elder used his cape several times to confuse his young opponent, affording him the opportunity of slicing his arm.

When the first sign of blood stained Raoul's shirt, Christine snapped completely out of her Angel-induced daze. Raoul wanted to free her, and it seemed he would go to great lengths too accomplish that. As for her Angel: somehow she knew the wild look in his eyes was the same as when he had looked on Buquet before releasing the rope.

They were going to kill each other.

At least, neither would be satisfied until life's blood had been spilt.

Raoul fell against one of the sepulchres as his other arm was cut. With both his arms bleeding, Christine knew she had to act quickly. But the injury only made him wilder in his attacks. There was no time for retreats as they matched each parry and thrust: it was a true duel fought in earnest.

Until Raoul's blade slipped and he pierced her Angel's side.

Using the distraction, he twisted his own to bring the skull blade to the ground, kicking it away and knocking the Ghost down. He rolled over and reached for his sword, raising it in time to block what would surely have been a lethal blow. Summoning enough strength, he forced the boy away and rose to his feet, only to be knocked backwards once more. His back collided with stone, its low height knocking the wind out of him momentarily. He saw the boy's blade raised to strike, saw it moving forwards but knew he did not have time to block it.

"No, Raoul!"

Her voice froze them both where they stood. The next instant saw Christine stood between the blade and the Phantom.

"Christine, move out of the way." Raoul quietly ordered.

"Raoul, don't do this." She replied, her voice firm.

"You're not thinking clearly; he's bewitched you. Move out of the way!"

To both of their surprise, Christine found herself being pulled to the side. Her Angel placed her behind him, out of the way of danger, raising the skull to begin anew.

"No!" She whispered. He didn't even glance at her as she raised her arm to his, slowly daring to lower the blade once more. She stood at his left side, her hand on his right arm, his other still around her. Studying his eye that she could see, she found no triumph there, only the fire that told her it was not yet over.

"Raoul, you have to go now."

"Christine, he's a murderer!"

"And you would become one?" She flashed back. She felt her Angel's hold on her tighten; felt his arm try to rise, and so she in turn increased her hold on him.

"He's a monster! Christine, this is your chance to be free-"

"Raoul." She interrupted, her eyes pleading with him to understand. "I'll be alright. Just go." Softly came her final plea. He looked at her despairingly before sending a final glare to his nemesis: a look of fire that promised there would be more. It was returned by the unwavering volcanoes burning behind the steely blue orbs that had yet to leave his face. Looking back at Christine one last time, he saw only regret in her eyes as he finally made his way out of the graveyard. Of course! She was doing this to stop him from being hurt. If only she'd realised . . . and yet, if that monster would not hurt her, if she knew that even in those circumstances, she was somehow safe from him . . . perhaps . . .

He only hoped she would be alright. If that was the case, if she was still here . . .

Finally, he had the answer. (AN: That's probably where I should have left it if I'd realised how long this would be.)

The two stood in the snow, watching the boy leave. Only when he was beyond the gates did Christine allow herself to breathe. Closing her eyes, she sank against her Angel slightly, trembling as the last few minutes were finally able to sink in. When he felt her leaning against him more, he instinctively increased his hold on her. He turned his head to stare after the boy she had just released; the boy she had just stopped from killing him. As he did so, his chin brushed against her soft curls that were now damp from the snow. When the sensation registered he looked down at her in wonder: wonder that she had let the boy go safely; wonder that she had stayed with him; wonder that she was trembling.

But most of all, wonder that she had not yet moved from being in his arms.

She opened her eyes and found him looking down at her, his expression as unreadable as it had been in the house at Halloween. With a slight pressure, he bid her stand on her own and released his hold on her. She didn't move. Their eyes still locked, he wiped his blade in the snow, removing the fop's blood from it in disgust, before sheathing it, putting the horrifying skull out of sight. He searched her eyes, looking for what, neither could tell. His mouth fixed in a grim line, refusing to succumb to the confusion of the moment. He knew enough: she had returned; she was his – and she knew it. Turning away to retrieve his violin, he knew that it would only be a matter of time before she would be ready to return with him to the seat of sweet Music's throne.

A cry.

He whipped around to see Christine's head bowed, staring at the red stain on the snow where he had cleaned his blade. Slowly it raised, her gaze following a thin, patchy, barely noticeable path of red that led to him. Her eyes reached his midriff and widened before she rushed to his side, her hands gently brushing his cape aside before he could make a move of protest. As her slender fingers found the gash the boy had made, he hissed and pushed her hands away.

She looked at him then, her eyes silently questioning.

"It is just a scratch." He said before turning away.

"No it isn't." She stopped him. "It needs to be treated."

"I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself." He insisted, moving away a few steps before he was stopped again.

"But you don't have to." His shoulders stiffened and he turned to face her, his visible eyebrow raised. "Please, let me take care of it, my Angel." It was all she could do not to slap that stony visage, if only to have a different expression on it – one that she could understand. Walking past him a little, she turned and held out her hand. He looked at it as though he'd never seen a hand in his life.

"Come on." She said, beckoning her fingers in encouragement. He stood there in indecision. Was this some sort of game? Or worse, a trap? The visit had been planned, that much he knew. Was the boy even now calling the authorities whilst she ensnared him in a final, complete betrayal? He was snapped out of the brief debate.

"Angel, please. You've helped me so much in the past, let me help you now. That's a nasty cut and would be difficult and painful for you to treat yourself." She insisted, before adding coyly, "I won't leave here without you, my Angel, and if you keep me waiting in this snow much longer, it could be bad for my voice."

Giving off a low growl, he marched towards her and with one hasty movement, had his cape wrapped around the two of them. Even though he didn't look at her as they took the back way, both out of there and towards the house, he knew she was smiling. Not a word was exchanged between them until Christine felt something damp against her side. Stopping, she again made to examine the cut, but his hands prevented her. She looked up at his face and saw that it had turned very pale. Taking his hand, she put it about her shoulders.

"Lean on me, Angel." He tried to protest, but she put a finger on his lips and silenced him. "We'll get there quicker, I think, out of the cold." Reluctantly, he once more acquiesced. Though he loathed appearing this weak in front of anyone, it was actually a relief. The boy's carelessness had done more damage than he had first thought. He didn't doubt he could have made it back himself, but the feel of Christine's arm around his waist gifted him with more strength than he would have otherwise had.

He waited behind a tree whilst Christine checked that no one – meaning the fop – was in the house. Returning, she instantly resumed her hold of him and brought him inside. The warmth of the house was a blessed relief instead of the outdoors. Granted he was used to cooler climes, but it was still delightful, nevertheless.

"Where shall I-?" She asked hesitantly as they reached the hall.

"The first floor." That debate had already been settled in his mind as they'd walked in silence. It wasn't a particularly great secret, and it was the safest place he could think of that was nearby. They took the stairs fairly slowly, though he hid each stab of pain – it really was an inconvenient place for a gash – she still tightened her hold, silently encouraging him to lean on her more.

When they got to the first floor, he stopped. Thinking he was tired, Christine put her hand on his chest in concern. Taking the dainty limb, he lowered it, though didn't let go. He looked down into her eyes, grateful beyond words to see trust there, even though her confusion was evident. Still refusing to release her hand, he moved past her and pressed against an invisible panel in the door that had hitherto remained locked in her sight. The lock appeared when the panel moved out of place, and taking the key from his waistcoat pocket, he opened the door.

He allowed Christine to precede him and was struck by the wonder and astonishment written so unabashedly on her features. She made no move to touch anything in the room, yet the appreciation was clear as she beheld the piano he kept in there, along with a few other instruments he toyed with from time to time. She took in her whole surroundings, pausing slightly at the other doorway that she had not realised would be there, before turning back to him. Returning to his side, her fingers brushed against the violin case.

"May I?"

He nodded, relinquishing the precious instrument. Moving to a cabinet on the opposite wall, she placed the violin exactly where it belonged, causing him to smile briefly.

What was he doing?

He had promised himself that no matter what, he would keep his distance, that she would learn the price of rejection, that she would remember obedience. And yet he had done nothing in the last half hour other than follow her silent commands and bend to her will.

"Thank you, Miss Daaë. I do not believe I require any further assistance." So saying, he stepped out of the way of the door, clearly indicating that she was to use it. Her mouth dropped a little in shock, before asking in a tone that said she did certainly not believe him.

"Really?"

"In case you had forgotten, I do value my privacy and would appreciate-"

"No." In the next moment, he was mere inches from her, but she didn't have time to wonder how he moved so quickly.

"You dare defy me?" The whisper held more ice and steel than the graveyard had.

"I dare." She returned; her voice equally unyielding.

"If you think I will tolerate this, then you are far too trusting for your own good, Miss Daaë."

"And you are far too stubborn for yours, Monsieur Phantom." His eyes burned at hearing that name from her lips, in spite of what he had said at Halloween. Satisfied that he wasn't completely made of stone, Christine went on, moving forward slowly as she spoke – and forcing him to unwittingly retreat in kind.

"You are hurt and bleeding. You are having trouble staying upright at the moment – yes I have noticed – and yet you think you don't need assistance. Not to mention that cut is in just the right place so that you would have difficulty treating it properly. Right now I don't care about whatever is going on in your head that's making you behave so idiotically; all I care about is that my Angel is hurt, he needs help and I have learnt enough from my uncle over the years that I can give it to him. Now-" she prodded him gently in the chest as his legs hit the back of the bed, making him fall and sit on it, "you can glare at me all you want, but I already told you: I'm not leaving."

"That was in the cemetery." He said, stunned to make the full thought coherent.

"Well, I've said it again." Was her rejoinder as she unfastened his cape. It wasn't until she'd gotten it out from under him and was folding it away that he realised she'd done it again: he was letting her control him completely.

She sat beside him on the bed and tried to look at the wound properly, now that she actually had to deal with it, but it seemed he had decided to listen to her when she'd said he could 'glare at her all he wanted'.

"Angel-"

"So it's 'Angel' now? Whatever happened to 'Phantom'?" She met his glare evenly.

"You tell me, because I don't know anymore." The challenge was a quiet one, but it was unmistakeable.

Looking into her eyes, seeing the plea and despair that was there – that which he had dispelled only minutes before – he fell under the old spell once more. His hand rose to trace against her jaw before he realised, touching the skin lightly. After a few moments, she gently lowered his hand again and finally looked at the cut, horrified by the amount of blood that had evidently seeped from it. Forcing aside both her concern for her Angel, and an immense anger at Raoul, she got up and started for the door. She stopped when he seized her hand.

"I'm going to get the first aid kit." Turning to look at him, she could see the scepticism. "It's upstairs. If you think I'll call someone then you can stop worrying." Still he didn't release her. "If you want, I can sing so you'll know where I am; it's not like I could call for help if I was doing that." He nodded his head, finally releasing her – and feeling a bit too dizzy to protest further.

Just as she was heading out of the door, she threw over her shoulder:

"Oh, and you're going to need to take your shirt off."

Christine absent-mindedly hummed 'Ode to Joy' as she hunted for the first aid kit. It hadn't been easy selecting a piece. Whenever her Angel was near, she always had the urge to do her best; but a piece from one of the productions was out of the question, as was 'Lift the Wings'. She had briefly toyed with the idea of 'Carrickfergus', but given the refrain, the content was a bit too loaded and she doubted he'd think much of the last line.

Finally, she remembered where she'd put the kit. Checking it over, she found another reason to be grateful that Gustave was her godfather: her first aid kit could probably rival a small doctor's surgery – and no doubt she'd need it.

What was she doing? He'd pushed her away, he'd scorned her when she'd told him that she'd missed him, he'd as good as said that the only reason he'd done any of it was for her voice. And no matter how she tried to justify it, he had killed – though knowing why; she couldn't find it in her to apply any of the terms that Raoul had used. But even when she had chosen to remain with him, offered to help him, he was still turning her away.

Her song faltered as the opera came to mind. Don Juan was a seducer, not a lover. He used women. Was that what it was all about, proving to her that he was Don Juan? What then was to be his triumph? Was he trying to conquer her? And what was to come after that? Unless . . .

He was afraid.

How long had he lived away from the world? His underground home could not have been established overnight, nor could his ability to move so invisibly in the shadows. How long had he lived away from the world? Been denied by it? Did he expect rejection so much, so instinctively that he was lashing out in . . . fear?

Her Angel was still there, beneath the surface; that much she knew. The Ghost had never been able to enchant her as he had in the cemetery. That was why he had attacked Raoul so violently! They had been so close, and he had . . .

Was he still ready to kill for her?

Did that mean he still cared? She could still feel the way he'd held her, looked at her at the Masquerade. And even when he was frustrated, angry with her, he'd still remembered to put his cloak around her. Or was that just to protect her voice?

She hurried back down the stairs, knowing that the more she delayed, the more damage would be done. As she hurried through the music room that she hadn't been entirely surprised to find unlike the modest bedroom off it, she tried to remember all that Gustave had taught her about dealing with injuries professionally.

But the moment she saw him, those thoughts flew out of her mind.

What was he doing? He had resolved to be strong, to resist her, to not let her see him any longer in his weakened state. And yet here he was, unbuttoning his shirt as she'd requested. The red patch on his left side was larger than he'd thought. Damn that boy's clumsiness! And damn his own carelessness in allowing him that one victory. That one victory that could have cost him his life.

But for her.

She had stood in front of him, had protected him. But she had not defended him. That boy had called him a monster, a murderer, and she had not said a word against it. Was it the heat of the moment, or did she truly believe that of him? Surely not. Surely he had not imagined when she had leaned against him, held him; that she wanted to help him. Surely he had not imagined when she'd said she cared.

Or was it all just a trap? Just because she did not call for help now, didn't mean she wouldn't later. Was she trying to betray him? Or was she acting out of some strange sense of obligation to him for their lessons; or to her parents, still thinking he was the Angel she had been promised?

This was NOT what he had planned. She was supposed to obey him as she had done before. Everything had been so perfect in the beginning: she had done as he had instructed and in return he had done everything for her. The happiness she had felt and shown in those months was not a figment of his imagination, though the longer it was only a memory, the more he doubted that.

But he did not imagine the look on her face as she stood frozen in the doorway.

It was not the horror or disgust that he had feared when he had done as she'd asked. It was the same expression he had seen on her at the Masquerade. As he had surveyed the crowds when he'd first appeared he had triumphed, relished in the fear. But when he saw that look on Christine's face . . . he had never seen it before, could not recognise it . . . but it stirred something within him that made him feel . . . alive, powerful.

And she stared at him that same way now.

He was beautiful.

She'd thought him breathtaking when she'd seen him guised as Red Death, but only now did she truly understand the meaning of that word. Her eyes roamed over his perfect form, only returning to reality when she spied the angry red stain on his otherwise flawless skin. Sitting next to him again, she tried to even out her breathing, knowing she'd need steady hands to do this without causing him further pain. Of course, it really didn't help that her only other 'patients' had been her father or the occasional childhood playmate and the worst she'd ever had to treat were slight cuts or scrapes. Granted Gustave had let her practice on him, shown her what to do, what to look for; but that had been a game. This was her Angel.

Thankfully, he shifted slightly to give her better access. Though the cut was shallow, it was long, on his side and in a tender area. As if the small puddle on the floor hadn't already given it away, its location made it apparent that it wasn't going to stop bleeding any time soon. Taking a wipe, she gently began to wash away the blood that was drying on his skin, and to clean out the wound. The first time she touched it, she felt him wince, and murmured a gentle 'sorry'. No reaction. Looking up, she saw him staring straight ahead. Was his face slightly flushed? Did that mean she wasn't the only one finding this . . . uncomfortable? Taking out some antiseptic cream, she put it on her finger and before applying it, warned:

"This is going to sting."

"I'm not a child, Christine." He answered lowly.

"Despite evidence to the contrary." She returned, applying the cream as gently as she could, though she still heard him hiss.

"Are you mocking me?" He asked through clenched teeth, finally looking down at her. Still concentrating on the task at hand, she calmly and quietly returned:

"Of course not. I'm arguing with you."

"You never did before." He sounded rather put out.

"You never gave me reason to before."

"Really." He answered flatly.

"Yes. The few times you were rude to me, I could understand it. Assuming that you did eavesdrop on my interview with the police after Il Muto, I can understand why you were angry with me. What I can't understand is why you've so completely refused to let me explain, or apologise, or make amends." Finishing as quietly as she had begun, she put the cream away before gently blowing on the freshly stemmed cut, making sure the flow had subsided enough that she could finish dressing it.

He had been ready to answer her back, to offer his own complaints of her behaviour. But the second he felt her warm breath on his skin, all thoughts of harshness left his head. Were it not for her conversation, he would not have been able to ignore the feel of her soft fingers touching him, almost caressing him; but her breath on his body was something he had not felt even when she had slept in his arms. And it was the most intoxicating sensation! All too soon it ended, and he was brought back to reality as he felt her placing some plaster over the cut.

Taking up the roll of bandage, Christine placed one end of it gently over the plaster, then shifting to her knees, began to slowly, carefully wrap it around his midriff to ensure the dressing would stay put. Of course, this did mean that she effectively spent the next five minutes embracing him, her face inches apart from his own. Somewhere along the way, his hand had come to rest on her waist, obviously to support her, make sure she didn't fall and spoil the job . . .

Somewhere along the way, her hand brushed against one of the scars on his back. When next the bandage was on that side of him, she risked taking a quick look. But he was not fool enough to miss it. He waited several moments before asking.

"Curious?" Briefly, she froze. Collecting herself she continued as she answered.

"Concerned, yes. Unless you don't want me to know." He met her eyes then, confused by her answer. Seeing only sincerity, he let his gaze ask the question, to which hers answered by flickering briefly to his mask. He looked away, strangely moved by her . . . understanding? No. Compassion? Yes, that was it.

"They look old." She commented quietly as she taped the end of the bandage securely in place.

"Yes." Hearing no objection in his voice, though it didn't look like he was going to volunteer any more information, she dared to let her fingers lightly trace the scar she had first found – though there were many to choose from. His shoulders tensed, but he said nothing, made no move to stop her. So she continued. The white marks were all long, rough, criss-crossing all across his back. And . . . the skin on either side of each one was . . . stretched.

"You got them as a child?" She whispered in horrified disbelief.

His head whipped round so fast their noses brushed before he moved away slightly. The horror had returned to her eyes, but he knew it was not because of him. Still, he knew what came next, and he would not have her pity him. Not so long as there was a chance . . .

Pursing his lips so as not to answer, he stood. And clumsily fell back down again. Still kneeling, Christine put her arms around him, supporting him.

"No." He tried to shrug her off, but for once she was quicker than him, and came around to sit in his lap, her hands on his shoulder, forcing him to stay seated. Reflexively, his own came up to hold her slim waist.

"No." She tossed his objection back to him. Again, she silenced his protests by placing her fingers over his mouth. "We have a nice puddle of your blood decorating the quilt and floor; I'm not sure how much of it is currently marking a trail from the graveyard to here, but it's too much for you to be going anywhere right now."

"And I suppose I am to wait here for your lover to return and finish the job?" He bit back. Rolling her eyes, Christine momentarily gave up and rested her forehead against his.

"You. Are. Impossible!" She groaned. Raising her head, she saw that he was sufficiently surprised into submission again. (She really needed to keep a record of these tactics.) "I don't know where Raoul is, but as far as he or anyone else is concerned, this door is locked and always has been. No one will find you here."

"Without your help."

"Which they won't be getting." Still he glared at her. She put a hand on his unmasked cheek.

"Angel, you've cared for me more times than I can count. Let me care for you now." She was in his arms, she was holding his face. Her eyes and voice were full of pleading sincerity. Still he had to ask.

"Why?" She couldn't give him the truth. Not yet. He wouldn't believe it, and it wasn't time. So she gave him the nearest she could manage.

"Because I want to. Because I care. You're still my Angel." Slowly, he relaxed a little as he nodded his head. She smiled warmly at him in return. Looking around, she spied a chair.

"Come on." Getting off his knee – though both of them would have been happy if she'd remained – she carefully put her arm around him and helped him over to the chair.

"What are-?"

"Unless I missed something, this is the only other bed in the house, and I'm afraid you've made a bit of a mess of it."

"Christine-"

"Angel, you're in no condition to go anywhere. I'll fetch some clean sheets so you can sleep here comfortably. Now, am I to assume that this arrangement means you've stayed here before?"

"Yes." He answered. Was he sulking?

"And can I assume that means you have a change of clothes somewhere?" Grudgingly he gestured to a closet that was – surprise, surprise – hidden in the shadows. Cleaning her hands off with a wipe, she opened it and found another white shirt for him. One look at his face, and she resisted the little voice telling her that he would need help with it, instead merely handing it to him as she gathered up his other one along with the ruined sheets. Perhaps if she got them in time, they wouldn't stain.

With no small amount of difficulty, he shrugged his way into the shirt, though every move he made with his left arm seemed to send fire shooting up his entire side. He hated being this weak in front of anyone! Especially in front of her. How was he supposed to have any influence over her if she could look down on him, pity him? She soon returned with fresh linens and immediately set about making the bed. It was so domestic; all he could do was stare as she carried on, bending over the bed to make sure it was done properly, unaware of his eyes upon her with her back to him.

Of course, she was aware. She'd know the feel of that gaze anywhere. It was so odd to be making his bed for him, almost like a wi- no. Now was not the time to be thinking like that. It was bad enough she'd found treating a gushing side wound almost as sensual as when he'd sung to her in his underground home that first time.

Turning down the covers, she then went to his side without a thought and helped him up again, though he seemed to come somewhat more reluctantly. Gently, she helped him lie down, and began to take his shoes off.

"Will you be alright sleeping like that?" Thankfully he didn't ask what she meant, because she wasn't about to elaborate on his being fully dressed.

"Yes." He answered moodily. Setting one shoe down, she set to work on the other.

"I'll try and clean up the . . . any blood downstairs. I honestly don't know what Raoul's doing, but if he gets it into his head to come round here, it would be easier if there wasn't a trail leading straight to you." She explained with a nervous smile.

"Christine, stop fussing. One cut does not make me helpless." She stood and looked at him.

"I know." How could she be so calm?!

"Then stop treating me like an invalid!" Had he spoken to her in such a voice during one of their earlier lessons, she would have instantly acquiesced in fear. Now, she sat by his side and took his hand in one of hers. Brushing a few stray locks of hair from off his face, she answered.

"I'm not. But everyone needs a bit of mothering once in a while. You said you'd let me care for you. And I plan on holding you to it. For tonight anyway. No doubt you'll be back to your usual stubborn self in the morning." She said in a smile.

"Now you are mocking me."

"No. I'm teasing you. Mockery is meant to hurt. Teasing isn't." For the third time that night, she silenced whatever he was going to say with a hand to his mouth.

"I'll go and start cleaning up. Rest, my Angel."

The cleaning took her a good hour and a half. Thankfully, owing to some of Meg's parties, she'd helped clean up tough stains before – although this was the first time she'd had to deal with blood, and such a lot of it. It didn't help that she was moving as quietly as possible so he wasn't disturbed by her. Not that it made a difference. When she went back up to check on him, he was still wide awake.

She stood in the doorway, an eyebrow raised in question.

"Perhaps I am not as used to being here as I once was." Was his only offer of explanation.

She sat next to him and placed her arm around his shoulders, her hand bringing his head to rest underneath hers. Though he flinched and tensed up when she touched the mask to do that, he did eventually relax enough to ask.

"What are you doing?"

"Everyone needs a bit of mothering once in a while. This is what my mother used to do when I couldn't sleep. Just, no criticisms. I know my posture isn't right, but this isn't a lesson." He looked at her in confusion, but she only smiled and brought his head down again so that she was his pillow. Softly, she started humming a wordless melody with Irish strains to it. Her lips opened as it grew stronger; and as it grew, so did its effect over him.

Katie

It was all he could do not to whisper her name. He remembered in those early weeks when he had first known her, she would sing this to him whenever he shrank away into the shadows. So sweet was the song, and so alluring her voice that it always ended with him stood in front of her, staring in wonder.

But now, here was Christine . . . her Christine . . . his Christine . . . she was singing the exact same melody to him in comfort, to ease his mind. And because she was his, with his head resting against her soft embrace, the music had as much power as that which he had written for her, the music which had drawn her into his world of night. He could not resist it.

As she finished the last, long, low note, Christine felt him finally relax fully against her. Her hand continued stroking his hair, making sure he really was asleep before she gently shifted out from under him and eased him back against the pillows. Even through her tears, she could see how beautiful he was, how handsome now that his face was finally peaceful. Why did he have to be so difficult? Why couldn't he tell her – no; if he had to tell her, then he wouldn't accept anything she did – why couldn't he let her show him how much she cared, how much she regretted those words, how little they'd meant? Why wouldn't he see all that she was trying to do?

Sadly, she left his side and went to clean herself up and ready for bed. Goodness knows she needed the rest as well.

She didn't get it.

An hour of lying there wide awake, and still sleep refused to come. She wasn't restless, nor was she allowing anything to disturb her mind – having done enough thinking already that night – and yet she could not sleep. Even after he had played for her, even after she had sung for him, and even though he was in the same house as her, still it was silent. Except for the . . .

Practically leaping out of bed, she padded down the stairs in her bare feet and ran into the music room. He was having a nightmare. Either that or he had a fever, the way he was tossing about. Softly, she moved to his side, staying just this side of his head in case his arms decided to start flailing about. She touched the visible part of his forehead and he jerked away. Startled, she too moved back a little. At least he wasn't warm. But whatever he was dreaming about, he needed to wake up soon, otherwise he'd reopen his wound. A small part of her couldn't help thinking that she wouldn't mind redressing it, but the rational side said that they both needed the rest more.

"Angel." No response. Just the tossing and . . . what was that he was mumbling? She tried again, louder. Still nothing. Until her name escaped his lips. Why did it feel like all she could do was hurt him? Desperately hoping she wouldn't have to resort to Mother Giry's more drastic techniques, she took hold of his shoulders and tried shaking him.

In a flash, he grabbed hold of her and rolled over so that she was lying facing him.

"Christine." Her name sounded so beautiful coming from him, and yet it rang of a broken plea. One arm was wrapped around her waist, holding her in a grip she knew only he could break, the other held onto the bare skin of her back. One hand had landed on his chest when he'd pulled her down. With her other, she gently stroked his hair, then his face.

"Sh, Angel. It's alright, I'm here." She whispered over and over. He relaxed slightly, though he still held tight. The hand resting on her back moved up to hold her head and bring it to rest in the crook of his neck, his chin on top.

"My Christine." He sighed, contentedly. She knew then that he had been asleep through all of it. Though he had called her his before, he had never called her his Christine. In that moment, she suddenly felt the full weight of his possessiveness towards her – and hoped she knew the underlying cause.

She fell asleep minutes later to the gentle sound of his breathing.

He awoke to the strangest sensations.

The last time he had felt like this, he had woken to find . . .

Christine was in his arms!

Had the boy actually managed to wound him more seriously than he'd thought? Had he died and by some miracle been granted passage into Heaven? For surely it could not be sweeter than this. Christine lay with her head resting under his chin; her arm wrapped around his neck and her other hand gently on his chest. Their legs were tangled and he could feel every inch of her soft body pressed against his. The cream satin nightgown made her look so innocent, so pure . . . so tempting. He couldn't resist stroking the hair that lay in his hand.

What could have happened to cause this? She had as good as said that he'd abandoned her; had she not been there, he would have killed her friend, and yet here she was, quietly lying in his arms and . . . impossible! . . . was that a hint of a smile? The hand stroking her hair came down to trace the outline of her face in the softest of caresses. She shifted slightly, leaning into it. His hand froze.

What was he doing? What had he done? What would she think? What was he going to do? How was he supposed to continue with his plans now? His heart stopped beating.

Her eyes fluttered open.

For a few moments, they stared at each other, neither quite able to believe the situation. Until Christine remembered what had happened.

"Hello." He blinked, surprised. "Did you sleep well?" She sounded . . . hesitant. What had happened?

"Yes." Her eyes lowered, her hand absent-mindedly running along his chest a little.

"What were you dreaming about?" He stiffened again, which accidentally made him tighten his hold on her.

"Dreaming?"

"I heard you moving about. When I checked on you, it looked like you were having a nightmare. I tried to wake you, but it . . . didn't quite work as I'd planned." She explained, her eyes flickering between the two of them, illustrating what she was talking about where her words failed her.

Gently but quickly, he disentangled himself from her, getting up as quickly as the cut would allow. Standing before the small window in the room, he took a breath before speaking – clearly with difficulty.

"You're saying I . . . grabbed you. I forced you to . . ."

"You grabbed hold of me and held me there. But you didn't force me to do anything – I didn't exactly try to move." Not that she would have been able to without climbing over him, even if she had been able to get out of his hold. Her words didn't seem to sink in though. She tried again, wanting to know.

"What were you dreaming about?" His hands clenched into fists.

What could he tell her? That he was so desperately afraid of losing her she had once again invaded his dreams. That he had relived every torment, every mocking word or blow he had ever known, and he had seen her face amidst his persecutors. No. That would surely horrify her, and he had done that enough. Or perhaps he could say how at some point during his worst agony – no doubt when she had tried to wake him – he had dreamt of her coming to him, holding him; of everything and everyone else melting away. There had only been the two of them, and it had been ecstasy beyond anything he could imagine – even though he felt himself blushing at the memory, now that she really was here with him. As he thought of it, it came flooding back and he could not stem the self-loathing that flooded through him as he imagined her . . .

"It was not my intention to do that. I am not an animal." The last word sounded like he'd said it through clenched teeth, and she knew she had to tread carefully.

"I've never once thought that of you. Or anything like." Turning his head slightly, he looked at her, though she couldn't read his expression, as it was the masked side.

"Christine, I . . . I'm trying to ask . . . I need you to-"

"Did it help?"

"What?" He faced her fully.

"Did it help? Did it make the nightmare go away?" Slightly slack-jawed, he nodded. Finally rising, she moved to his side and looked him clearly in the eye.

"Then there's nothing to forgive."

All he could do was stare down at her. How was it that this beautiful, incredible angel was standing before him without any trace of horror in her eyes? How was it that she could want to be so close to him, even after what he'd done?

Unless . . .

No matter how much he wanted to believe it, longed to believe, he had known too much of betrayal, of rejection, of the world's cruelty and caprice. And her behaviour had been so out of character, especially given the way he had spoken to her after the Masquerade. He had never known her to dress so . . . alluringly outside of the ball, nor could he quite believe that she would be so considerate, giving how close he had come to murdering her friend.

"Angel?" She saw some sort of battle being fought in his eyes, and somehow she knew that she was going to be on the losing side of it.

He couldn't withstand that pleading look of hers, not when she had weakened his resolves so completely. Instead, he walked past her and to one of the rooms at the front of the house. Looking out of the window, he saw nothing. Could it be . . .?

It wasn't until the police car came into view behind it that he recognised the little silver car as being the fop's. He felt Christine join him and heard her sharp intake of breath as she realised what he was looking at.

"Very well done, Madam. It almost worked." This time when he touched her face, it was a mockery and it was all she could do not to recoil in disgust.

"Angel, I didn't-"

But he didn't even bother giving her the chance to finish as he swept past, back to the music room. Instead he took up the rest of his clothes, swinging on his cape with a very Ghost-like flourish. Christine just stood in the doorway watching, knowing how foolish it would be to stop him. It was sorely tempting to march up to him and smack him on his cut, knowing that would distract him long enough so that she could explain, but given his obviously fragile temper, she wasn't entirely certain she could bank on his reaction.

As he made his way down the stairs, someone knocked on the door. Still he kept going, not wanting to waste time by uncharacteristically freezing like a deer in headlights. Before he could disappear through the door under the stairs, he felt a very familiar hand on his arm – but it wasn't trying to stop him, merely to get his attention.

"Angel?" One last plea.

"I expect to see improvement in your rehearsals, Miss Daaë. You have had enough time to familiarise yourself with my opera." Another knock. "You don't want to keep your little Don Jose waiting, do you?"

"Let me go with you." He finally turned to face her.

"And let you leave a trail for your lover to follow?" She saw the fury in his eyes, heard it in his voice, but still she was startled when he took hold of her and crushed her to him, her back against his chest. His hands were on her shoulders, her stomach – it was just like that first night in his home, but even in the heat of that moment, she didn't remember his breath being so hot on her cheek, his body making hers feel so alive.

"Remember, Christine: I will never leave you."

His voice was so soft, so sensual, so passionate and so possessive; Christine fell under his spell once more. So enraptured was she that she didn't even realise he had gone until Raoul called her name through the door. She shivered at the loss of his warmth – in more ways than one.

Finally opening the door, she managed to fake a yawn as she tried to look bleary-eyed at her 'friend' who had managed to spoil things yet again with his good intentions – no matter how sweet; he was suffocating both her and her relationship with her Angel.

"Raoul, what are you doing here?"

AN: Am I forgiven? Even if it does end with the fop. Be honest, how many of you saw that chapter coming? Thanks again. N.