Erik / Christine. AU from the moment in Kay when Christine freaks over a spider in her room and Erik gets really sad over having to kill a couple eight-legged little friends.

Thank you so much to the two charming people who reviewed the former chapter to this, it warmed the cockles of my barren little heart. I might write a couple more of these, but as much as I adore Phantom there is only so many moments I can make into smut-filled AUs. I'll do my best, though... Does anyone have any requests?

Disclaimer: I do not own Susan Kay's brilliant work Phantom, her enchanting Erik or her enchantingly weak-willed Christine. Neither do I own oral sex, although that would be an interesting thing to put on a resume. Title from Repo! The Genetic Opera, incidentally the song Chase the Morning by Blind Mag / Sarah Brightman.

a sheltered rose needs a little room to bloom

"It's gone now. Go back to bed and I will bring you something to make you sleep without nightmares."

I did not bother to watch her return to her bedroom. Why would I need yet another memory of her walking away from me stored in my brain, ready to be accessed and the misery savoured over once again like a wine for which I have an endless thirst? As she retreats I crumple back into my armchair, feeling the wet slick of tears against my face under the mask. I would not cry like a foolish child over this, over a girl's natural aversion to ugly things. The fire crackles and pops and I focus my eyes on it even as it blurs from the wetness on my cheeks. Oh, Christine -

Her door opens yet again, and I can't help a tiny trickle of anger. Has she found something else ugly to torment? A cockroach, perhaps? A mouse? Can the girl not let me be weak in peace? She wanders out, approaching me but stopping some feet away as though trying to determine whether I am still cross with her. I am, of course, but I can deny her nothing. Such is love.

"Erik," she murmurs, her voice so little and timid. My heart aches for her reluctance to approach me. Though it was the thing I least want in the world, she is ever afraid of me, of this monstrous face that shields an even viler mind. "I don't want to go to sleep just yet. Please, can't I sit with you?" She cannot look me in the eye; her gaze rests upon the patterns in the carpet.

I rise automatically. "Of course, my dear," I say at once. "You may have the armchair, I will pull up the footstool." She'll probably fall asleep in it, the poor dear; it is well past her usual hour of sleep. If she sits upon the footstool she may fall and crack her dear little head open, regardless of the carpet softening the blow, and then where will we be? As I turn away to find the footstool, I almost miss her next words. But I hear them, and they stop me dead.

"It is a very large chair, Erik," she says to her feet. "Couldn't we sit in it together?"

In shock I chuckle at her charming little offer, and immediately regret it, seeing her shrink back into the shadows. But it is amusing. She is comfortable enough around me to snuggle against me in my armchair, as though I am a kind old grandfather, but she worries about approaching me when I am reading. Such a bundle of contradictions, this girl.

"I'm afraid that would not be very proper, child," I reply, still amused at her sweet naiveté.

She finally raises her eyes to mine. "I'm not afraid of you being improper, Erik," she says, those lovely wide eyes pinning me as surely as a pin does a beetle on a card. "I know you'd never hurt me."

In two sentences she has granted me more humanity than the rest of the entire miserable race and I am nearly struck dumb by it. The world that considers me a mindless beast seeking only to spread my filth does not exist in this room, not here, not with her. Yet another sign that Christine, for all her little human faults, is worth more than anyone else I have ever met - even Nadir, even Giovanni. A goddess incarnate in this imperfect little girl-child, with her faith in my humanity enough to let her share the same chair as me, let me into her life and perhaps, someday, into her heart.

I only wish I shared her faith in me but wordlessly, I sit back down, letting her tuck herself against me in the chair. She had been right, there is more than enough room, but the sheer proximity of her makes my palms sweat and my heart race. And, well, other things take notice. Of her softness and her curves and the way she looks in her nightgown - her nightgown! I, the monster, have a girl in a nightgown tucked up against me!

"Aren't you going to read again?" she asks and I, powerless to resist, open my book and begin again, this time out loud. She smiles and rests her head on my shoulder; I imagine her sitting in this similar position with her father and feel a little ill. I imagine her sitting in this position with de Chagny and feel even worse.

I read until my voice gives out in an indelicate squeak and I clear my throat, once more rising from the chair. "Forgive me, my dear, but I find myself in need of refreshment." To my surprise she nods.

"Would it be too much trouble for some wine, Erik?" she asks, and I savour the way she says my name.

"Of course not, Christine. You know you can treat this place as your home. I will return with a glass shortly." I make it to the doorway before she speaks again.

"Perhaps..." I turn back to her, hopelessly attuned to her whim. She bites her lip, fidgeting with the hem of her nightgown. "Perhaps you'd better bring the bottle."

In the kitchen I surreptitiously lift my mask, wiping my face with a damp cloth to remove the residue of tears and in an attempt to calm down. My hands shake on the wineglasses and it takes a marked amount of concentration to still them. Her behaviour is unfathomable, in comparison to all previous interactions we have had it is a glaring aberration. Surely she could not be growing to care for me - no, of course not, an old man's foolishness to think that. I half imagine her to be gone when I return, a faerie of my own mind, conjured up in madness and loneliness to relieve the pain of going slowly mad alone, down in the dark.

But she is still there when I return, holding two glasses and the bottle of wine as requested. She gulps her first glass in one and I raise an eyebrow behind my mask at her impatience, filling the next and the next and the next even as I continue reading. When I come to the end of the book, I sigh. "I think that's it for tonight, my dear - " My hand accidently brushes her arm. She shivers and I cringe. "Forgive me, Christine - "

I break off mid sentence. She has picked up my hand and is holding it between her own, studying it with an expression of utmost fascination. Her skin is warm and soft against my own, rough patches on her fingers from needlepoint and darning, and I catalogue every minute sensory detail with gluttonous joy. "So strange," she muses, but when I try to pull away she holds me fast. "Your hand is cold... but when you touch me I don't feel cold at all."

In the long and strange history of my life, this is perhaps the most stupefying thing anyone has ever said to me. "Christine - " I begin, about to tell her to stop, to desist, to not do this to me. But her fingertips on my throat stop me cold. They do not push or stroke, merely rest there, the barest of touches until they begin a gentle glide over my Adam's apple, above my cravat, in soft movements round and round. I can hardly breathe."Why are you doing this, Christine?" I manage through a throat locked tight in mingled disbelief and fear. "Why now?"

She cocks her head as if it should have been obvious. The poor child, she's had far too much wine. "I've never touched you before this," she says as though I'm the dim one for not understanding. "I've been too afraid."

"Afraid?" I ask, and then cringe at my own lost powers of speech. Christ, how is it possible for one drunk little girl to make me feel like a hopeless youth again?

"Not of you," she says, skimming her hands up past the ties of the mask to caress the curve of my ears. My ears, for God's sake, areas of the body up until now I have thought of as only functional necessities shouldn't feel this good to be caressed. "Of what I wanted to do with you. Bad things," she says, dropping her eyes modestly. "Things I'm not supposed to want to do."

"Before you're married?" I ask before I can stop myself.

"At all," she emphasises, looking up at me with the strangest expression even as her fingers knead firm but tender circles in the back of my neck, releasing tension I didn't even know was there. The picture we must make strikes me suddenly; a small, exquisite woman tucked up in a chair with a tall, skeletal, masked man in full evening dress, her hands all over his emaciated body, his unnatural eyes glued to her form and struck dumb with disbelief. She is mapping my body with her hands, and even knowing how very inebriated she is does not stop me from swelling, inching my hips away from her in an vain attempt to disguise my lust. For God's sake, she sees me as a mad old uncle, old enough to be her father and with only fatherly desires in his heart.

"Are you cold everywhere, Erik?" she asks.

"Why do you want to know?" I counter, wishing I could read her as clearly as the rest of the human race. She is as inscrutable to me as I imagine I am to her, although if she brushes up against me any closer she will gain rather hard evidence of my feelings for her.

"I've seen your laboratory," she breathes. It's true; although I have not permitted her to go inside, I have shown her the lab from the doorway and outlined its purpose. "Are you the only one of us two allowed to conduct experiments?" And she leans up as high as she possibly can and kisses my throat.

A kiss. One tiny, insubstantial, unbearable brush of lips to my pitiful skin and I am undone. I tug, losing all pretence of not noticing her beside me, and is no longer sitting on the chair but rather sitting on me. To her credit she doesn't appear bothered by her sudden change in location but it is possible I simply I don't notice, too preoccupied with the sudden weight of her and the way that somehow her legs have managed to fall astride me.

Oh, dear God.

She is splayed on my lap.

"This is interesting," she says with no trace of coyness, as though genuinely bemused by how she has ended up sitting on my lap. And then she looks down, and even though her cheeks flush bright, she says, "And that is interesting too."

I can only stare at her, mouth open like a fool, in pure and undiluted shock. "Woman, who are you?" I manage, and receive a quizzical stare. I anticipate her next response. "I know you're Christine Daae, but - Christine, this is a little unexpected." Perhaps it's just the alcohol, the substance has defeated far greater people in this world than Christine, but I can't bring myself to care anymore. Every moment like this that occurs without her running away screaming is just a bonus now. Part of me cares she needs nearly a whole bottle of wine to be at ease with me, but not enough to stop me.

"Unexpected?" she queries, wriggling her hips a little, trying to get comfortable on my terribly bony body, and I tense. Oh, she's going to drive me mad.

"Un... expected," I confirm, trying not to notice her movements. "Unusual. Unlikely. Completely out of the bloody ordinary."

"Well, why do you think I'm doing this?"

"My dear, I have no idea."

"None at all?"

I hesitate. "Boredom? Revenge? Sudden, localised madness? Pity," I add without meaning to, cursing.

"You should know me well enough to know I wouldn't do something like this simply out of pity," she replies and the worst thing is, I do. Christine is a kind girl but she wouldn't just martyr herself out of some deluded sense that because the rest of the world has been terrible to me, she should right all of those wrongs by being deeply improper with me in an armchair. I stare into the fire, deep in thought, even as my body can't help but notice the soft, warm girl on my lap. My arms are lax by my sides; I can't bear to touch her. I don't know how.

But I won't let her touch me, not now. Not like this. If she wants this - later, then we shall see. Oh, who am I trying to fool? Certainly not myself. In the morning she will no doubt be horrified at her own actions and perhaps then I will finally have the strength to send her away as she understandably screams and blames me for what has occurred tonight. Using her to satisfy my own perverted lusts... now that would be unforgivable. Any man who would do that to an angel such as Christine would deserve death. But perhaps, bringing her pleasure, touching her soft skin and willing body only to bring her bliss, surely that isn't so bad?

I have to ask her first. "Isn't this a sin, Christine?" I ask, invoking her God in an attempt to bring some gravity to the situation for her.

"No," she replies after some consideration, and soundlessly I curse. "I think God wants his children to be happy."

And that's enough. Because if she thinks God wants me to touch her in very inappropriate places that the de Chagny boy probably hasn't dreamed of, then I'm not going to stand in her way. And all that I want, all that I've ever wanted, is to bring her pleasure, to make her happy. And so I slip my hand between her legs.

I am unprepared for the violence of her reaction, the way her entire body seems to experience a shock, stiffening and then relaxing back into my arms. I am barely brushing her flesh but she is slick against my fingers, and that alone is difficult for me to comprehend. She is aroused because of me. All of this is because of me. Not de Chagny, not the wine, but me. Ugly, monstrous Erik. By some eerie malfunction of the universe this exquisite creature wants my cold skeleton of a form against hers, my frigid long fingers on her skin, my lips -

I press one fingertip into her, afraid to hurt her. She shudders and says yes, and oh-God-she's-so-tight-and-warm. I half want to run away in fear and awe, but she shifts and suddenly my whole finger is inside of her and then maybe two and three and oh I did that, put that expression on her face. I tentatively move my fingers inside of her, with absolutely no idea what I am doing and only her reactions to tell me I'm doing it right. She turns her face to my shoulder as though in a delirium of ecstasy, her lips against the fabric of my evening jacket. I wish I could feel them on my skin. I scissor my fingers and am rewarded with a moan. I rub my thumb against the nub at the top of her thighs and she moans again. And when I do both at the same time - oh, my name, in that voice.

I need more.

I withdraw my hand from her and stare at in amazement. This repugnant limb, these hideous digits, the cause of so much pain and death, were just touching a woman. Touching Christine. It feels like a blasphemy and absolution all in one. I want to lick them and I do, lifting the mask a little to suck at the wetness she has left on my skin. Christine stares at me and I flush, feeling like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

"Oh. My. God," she breathes, chest heaving, and I realise that she wasn't surprised, but rather... aroused.

This whole situation is so surreal I might as well check in my sanity at the door. And so I drop to my knees on the carpet, pulling her drawers down in one smooth motion. She starts and presses her knees together.

"Let me, please Christine, let me..." I am begging and I know it and I don't care, just as long as I can bury my unworthy face in her, breathe in her scent and never think again.

She does not reply in words, but she nods and spreads her little legs, opening herself for my eyes. This is heaven and this is hell, and the two meet in fire and uncontrollable beauty. I don't care how I've come to be here or what I've had to do; this is what it's always been about, the sight of this beautiful girl with her body open and waiting, and waiting only for me. She is pink and perfect, dark hair a contrast to the inviting flesh, and I am simultaneously fascinated and frightened.

And yes, I've seen this done before, with the gypsies and in Persia and even here in the Opera, but I have no idea what to do. What if I do it wrong and she doesn't like it? And I have my mask on. Quickly, I slip my cravat from around my neck, tying it over her eyes.

"Erik?" she asks, her body stiffening a little with fear, legs closing a little.

"Trust me, Christine," I reply, and manage to resist layering my voice with that extra level of command, of extortion to my will. It isn't needed anyway. She relaxes, her legs falling open once more, and I fumble with the ties of my mask, usual dexterity swept away. It seems to take an unholy amount of time to get of the mask and then there is nothing between me and her. I press my lips to her tentatively.

The feeling is like being dumped in cold water and heated with flames simultaneously. Oh God; the taste of her, the sensation - I will never be able to be satisfied with morphine's cold comfort now I have known the warm steal of this drug inside my veins. And the sounds - who knew my name could sound like that, that any woman would scream a monster's name as he tongued his way up her inner thigh? Certainly not me, and yet I was the one doing it.

I allowed myself a moment, just one, to listen, to feel the way her hands clench in my thinning hair and her legs feel hooked over my shoulders. To appreciate the way she looks spread out in my armchair - how will I ever be able to sit there again without remembering this? - with her nightgown hiked up around her waist.

"Erik Erik please, oh God hurry up, Erik I want you to - "

Smiling, I do as I'm told.

I have my head between her legs, and I haven't even kissed her on the mouth yet. Oh, the contradiction of it makes my head spin. Or perhaps that's just the lack of oxygen.

Shortly I am halted by her hand in what little hair I do have, pulling me from her silken flesh. "Erik, stop!" Her heavenly voice is distressed. "You have to stop!"

I'm hurt, but I pull away anyway. "Did I do something wrong, Christine?"

"No!" she say vehemently. "You did everything right! I just don't want you to die!"

I pause. "What? I'm sorry, my dear, but what?"

"If you don't stop soon you won't be able to breathe because you don't have a nose and you'll die!" she says all in one great rush and I can't help it, I laugh, a great full belly laugh that comes from deep inside me. It feels like an exorcism, like all the dark cobwebs in my soul have been swept out by her helpless, sweet concern.

"So you didn't want me to stop because you objected to what I was doing?" I tease, and am stunned to see her adorable face flush brick red.

"No," she murmurs, barely audible. "I liked it." You can't help but grin.

"So you wouldn't mind too much if I..." I wave a hand in the general direction - not that she can see it - but she gets the message anyway, and her emphatic nod makes me chuckle as I return to her once more.

It doesn't take long. She had been nearly there before she stopped me and something about that is touching, that she would pause in the midst of her ecstasy to check that I was not about to asphyxiate between her legs. What a way to go.

She bucks up and had I a nose, it may have been bruised.

"ERIK!"

I think they may have heard that one up in the Opera.

"Oh," she coos quietly, almost a song. "Oh, God." I take that to mean I did it right, and as I sit back on my haunches I mentally congratulate myself. Well done, old boy. Excellent show. Christine seems to think so as well as her hands find my shoulders and she pulls me into a bruising, searing kiss. I wonder if she can taste herself on my tongue. My head spins and I shiver under her firm hands, overwhelmed by this final intimacy My first kiss. When I pull away, she follows me with her hands, trying to find me without rising from the chair. The cravat is still on her eyes.

I need to slow my heartbeat down before I have another attack.

"I'll be back in a moment, Christine," I murmur and she nods, leaning against the back of the armchair, her expression one of simultaneous bliss and drowsiness. I walk back into the kitchen and reaffix my mask, once again with shaking hands. Did that really just happen? What the bloody hell do I do now? Nothing to be done but to return to her, to take that cravat off her eyes and discuss the future...

"Christine?"

She is asleep. Curled up in the chair like a child, looking far too young for all the things I want of her, the damn cravat still over her eyes.

I could wake her up. I could demand she finish what she has started. But I love her, and it is very late, after all. And so I put her to bed, pulling back the sheets, laying her down, tucking her in like a little girl. I untie my cravat tenderly, bringing her sweetly closed eyes into view, and stand back to look at her.

She sleeps with her hair spread around her, a halo against the pillow, eyelashes like soot against her flushed cheek. I half expect there to be some mark on her, like that of Cain, to say that I have touched her, that I have claimed her. But there is not. She is as fresh and untouched and perfect as she was before she asked to sit with me in my chair. I want her and I love her more than life, and I am pulled constantly between these two poles. There is no other place in this universe or any other that I would rather be.

And so I return to my chair, my book, the location of all of tonight's debauchery, the throb of aching, unrelieved flesh against my trousers.

I don't know where we're going to go from here.

But anything's got to be better than where we were before.