800 years later, I wake from my slumber and return to writing fanfiction. Enjoy the sexy and the cheesy and the musicky. I own nothing. I might have changed some lyrics - honestly can't remember.

I awoke with a thunderous headache at noon, when Molly burst into my tent to look for me.

"Get up!" she said. "It's a lovely new day, Belle, and you hafta be in your prime."

"Why?" I asked groggily, sitting up and putting a hand to my pounding skull. I laid back down immediately. Laughing, Molly filled a cup with water from a pitcher left by housekeeping, and handed it to. The cool liquid made me feel slightly better.

"Mr. Y's givin' Phantasma Exotique a break tonight… and he wants Belle and the Pirate to be performed on Main Stage!" Molly squealed. I stood, flustered.

"What?!"

"You heard me, puddin'!" she replied. "Here, I have a note…" From her ample cleavage she withdrew a piece of Monsieur's signature parchment and read, "Please inform Louis St Regis and la mademoiselle that tonight's production of Belle and the Pirate will be changing venues. I extend to them the use of Main Stage, with all its accoutrements. The space will allow the world to see the act as it was, no doubt, meant to be seen. Let us see how it measures up against Phantasma Exotique. Signed, your most benevolent dictator, Y."

Molly's eyes shined as she looked up to me, standing there in shock. A flurry of panic and rage coursed through me. Did he know how much work it was to move venues? Of course, he must! The sets, the props, the illusions, all had to be transported. New blocking would have to be carried out to accommodate the Main Stage's much larger space. The lighting cues all had to be transferred, too, as well as the sound.

And we only had seven hours!

Was he trying to throw me for a loop? Was he trying to sabotage me?!

Was this punishment for kissing him?

Or was it, as Molly clearly thought, just a chance for glory? A compliment, even.

I sighed, and Molly frowned, as though my reaction had certainly not been the one she expected.

"I suppose I should get to work then," I said.

With the help of the now complete and enormous cast and crew of Phantasma, we were able to get Belle and the Pirate together in Main Stage by six o'clock - just as the first members of the audience started lining up at the door.

I'd had to tweak the blocking quite a bit, but it seemed fluid and instinctive, and the cast picked up on it quickly. The countless lights and effects equipped by Main Stage let us to give an air to the production that our limited resources in my tent had not allowed.

Louis was ecstatic with this opportunity. He giddily pranced back and forth doing last minute adjustments, expressing excitement that Molly would be here to see the production. I was thrilled with the prospect that she would see it, too, along with Corvo and all the other absent Phantasma performers.

I was exhausted by the time the audience was seated, and still a little hung over, but I slapped myself across the cheeks and geared up. I had not even been able to dwell, in all the energy of the day, on Mr. Y's rejection or his possible anger with me. I thought that was for the best.

When the lights dimmed and the audience quieted, I swept onstage in my white dressing gown and corset. Then I got a grasp of how huge this audience was - five hundred at least - and the lights shone in my eyes. My breath left me and I began to shake. For one horrible moment, I paused with nerves, right in front of everyone.

But then, squaring my shoulders and forcing a deep breath, I found my mark and began to sing.

It went well, all things considered. There were a few minor missteps, but nothing too major. I did not make a fool of myself, luckily, and Louis shone. I could practically hear the ladies swooning for the dashing pirate captain.

When we took our final bow, a gentleman brazenly ran up onto the stage and handed me a bouquet of deep red roses. Then he attempted to kiss me, this complete stranger, which made the audience laugh and applaud as I pushed him away. Blushing, I laughed too - but I thought of how I'd practically done the same to Monsieur last night.

God, I hoped he liked the show. I felt my entire life was riding on this single night - I was convinced Mr. Y was using this as a test to see whether Belle and the Pirate would continue being performed in Phantasma.

There was no word from Monsieur after the show, but the travelers gave us their congratulations. Molly, tears streaming from her eyes, told me it was beautiful and thrilling. Max and Claudia called it brilliant. They couldn't get over one of the jokes we'd told, laughing hard whenever either one mentioned it. Even Corvo called it "pretty good," which was a huge compliment from that cheeky bastard.

"I can't believe that came from your little mouse brain," Corvo went on to say. I laughed and hugged him, which for some reason made him hunch his shoulders and tense up. Was that the effect I had on men lately? It wasn't flattering.

After striking the set and cleaning up, people went off to start their nightly drinking. As was my ritual, I stayed behind late to give the stage one last thorough sweep… and as I was sweeping, I looked toward the hallway that led to the basement.

It was now or never, I decided. If I didn't do this tonight, I'd lose my nerve. I had to speak with him. I had to apologize for the kiss.

Quietly, I crept down the stairs. He was playing the violin, I heard as soon I entered the basement. Was he always playing music?

(Cue: "No One Would Listen" from Phantom of the Opera [2004 movie])

I pushed open the door to his chamber, and his soft, beautiful voice filled my ears, my soul, all of me.

"Shamed into solitude,
Shunned by the multitude,
I learned to listen.
In my dark my heart heard music."

My heart ached for him. He had his back to me as I stood in the doorway, and his beautiful hands guided the bow slowly across taught, ringing strings.

"I longed to teach the world.
Rise up and reach the world.
No one would listen.
I alone could hear the music…"

I couldn't let him go on. This music was his soul in song, and it felt wrong to secretly listen into it.

"Mr. Y?" I called. His bow hit a false note at the interruption, screeching before settling into silence. I jumped as he threw down his instrument and slammed his hands down on his desktop. He breathed a moment, collecting himself.

"Can I have no peace?" he asked softly. His head turned to look over his shoulder… and he stilled when he spotted me. "Ah," he said, sounding resigned. He sighed and his shoulders slumped.

"Sorry, monsieur," I said in French, as I had the first time I met him. Taking his time, he turned around and leaned against his desk, arms folded across his chest, staring at me expectantly. Nervous, I took a breath. "I only wanted to… well..." Now I had no idea what to say.

"You have come here," he said, also speaking French, "for my opinion?"

"Uh…" Well, no, not exactly, but if he was offering it I wasn't going to stop him.

"Amateur," he said, pacing slowly towards his organ. My heart sank. "Rushed in parts, lagging in others…" He shook his head and I ducked mine, looking down at my hands. "But…" he said, and I met his eyes eagerly. "There is… something there. The glimmer of potential."

I smiled, taking a chance and stepping toward him. He did not move.

"Changes must be made," he said. "And I do not trust you to make them." He sat behind his organ and scratched something onto a piece of parchment there. "I will take direction of Belle and the Pirate."

The way he said the name of my show was somewhat scornful, and while I was thrilled he was willing to include it in Phantasma, I was mildly annoyed at being undermined so thoroughly. I'd worked so hard, it was mine, and now I had to relinquish all control. But, of course, what could I do? All the resources belonged to Mr. Y.

I sighed.

"Go now," he dismissed me.

But I couldn't leave. I hadn't even said what I'd come here to say!

"Monsieur," I said, "if I could just say one thing…" He looked at me, and I hesitated.

"Speak, child." His voice was gentle. It encouraged me.

"About last night…"

He slammed his hands into the organ's keys, producing loud, discordant notes. He stared at me, allowing the music to fade away, breathing a little heavily.

"We will not speak of that," he told me.

"But…"

"Go," he rasped.

I almost did. His tone of voice was frightening. I felt violence wash off of him, and I feared he might fly and strike me. He looked barely controlled. I watched his hands shake, ever so slightly.

But instead I said, firmly, almost as though speaking to a belligerent child, "Listen to me."

He blinked, but stayed silent.

"My actions were… unnecessary," I told him. His mouth tightened. "I shouldn't have surprised you like that. I... suppose I was caught up in the moment."

There was a long moment of silence as he stared at me, then his head dropped to look at the keys of the organ intently.

"Go," he repeated. I didn't move. "I heard you, girl. Now go."

(Cue: "Could We Start Again, Please?" from Jesus Christ Superstar)

"I've been living to see you."

The song burst from my lips, unbidden. I wanted him, so badly, to understand where I was coming from. And now that the first line was out, I just kept singing.

To his credit, he stilled and listened.

"Dying to see you,
But it shouldn't be like this.
This was unexpected.
What do I do now?
Could we start again, please?"

That, really, was what I wanted from this - to erase the kiss as though it had never happened. I kept singing, watching his eyes. His eyebrows were brought together in something like concern, but he stared at me softly, almost… tenderly? I dared not hope.

"I've been very hopeful so far," I sang on.
"Now, for the first time,
I think I'm going wrong.
Hurry up and tell me
This is all a dream.
Or could we start again, please?"

Monsieur answered me, his voice booming, with a hint of anger.

"I think you've made your point, now," he sang.
"You've even gone a bit too far
To get your message home.
Before you get too frightened,
You ought to call a halt."

I looked him dead in the eye and replied, "Or could we start again, please?"

He echoed me, a scornful hiss, "Could we start again, please?"

I nodded and finished, "Could we start again?"

After a long moment of silence, he finally rumbled the words I wished to hear, but it sounded melancholy.

"It is forgotten," he said.

I nodded gratefully and turned to go.

"As for your voice," he called, and I stopped, waiting for the worst. A smile flitted across his lips at my look of nervous anticipation. He stood. "Do you believe you have reached your potential?" he asked me, his deep voice quavering only momentarily in something I imagined was longing. It was only wishful thinking, I knew, but I loved to hear it.

"No, Monsieur," I replied honestly. "I think I could improve."

"Agreed," he said. "Tomorrow you will continue your training."

"I'll tell Castro," I promised. Mr. Y shook his head.

"That hack does not have the talent," he said, and I gave him a curious look. "No, he will do nothing for you." He paused, apparently making a decision. "I must train you myself," he finished.

My heart leapt and my words left me. Probably looking far too eager, I nodded enthusiastically.

"Come here tomorrow evening, and we will begin," he ordered. And then, with a flick of wrist, he dismissed me. "Go."

I went.

"The hell have you been, then?" Louis demanded, raising his glass to me as a chorus of bawdy laughter bloomed behind him. The cast and crew were drinking in celebration, as was usual after a successful show. Spirits were high, cups were deep, and everything seemed right with the world again. I shook my head, smiling as I took a seat next to Molly, whose flushed face told me she was pretty far gone. Louis had an arm slung around her shoulder as though he'd never let her go.

She swayed and fell against him, and I rescued her drink just before it was dropped to the ground. I took a deep swallow before coughing at the burn and horrible taste.

"What are you drinking?" I asked her, and she laughed loudly, covering her face with a hand.

"Absinthe!" she said. "We brought back gallons, I swear, from France!"

Well, no wonder. I hadn't left them alone for an hour, and they were already higher than kites. I mumbled something about finding a drink for sane people and headed into the kitchens to find a good bottle of wine.

Corvo was already at the pantry when I arrived, swearing and rooting around.

"Irresponsible," he slurred when he saw me. "No rum for miles. You'd think, after all that time on that bloody boat, that I'd be sick of it. But it's only given me a taste for it! How fucked up is that?"

"Terribly fucked up," I replied, and he grinned at me - oh, that charming grin, lopsided and genuine. I'd missed that.

"Well, your pick, little mouse," he said, stepping aside so that I could peer into the pantry. "I seem to remember you having a very good taste in wine. That hasn't gone away with the baby fat, has it?"

"No," I said, plucking an 1807 Cabernet Sauvignon from the shelf and wiping away the dust from its label. "And I think it's a night to open the good stuff. Monsieur liked my show."

"Of course he did," Corvo said, taking the bottle from me. "Who wouldn't? It's good, Belle. Very good. I mean it, too. Just don't tell sober-me that I said so. He'd be so embarrassed if it got out, how much I enjoyed a musical bloody romance."

Europe had apparently introduced the word "bloody" into his vocabulary. It sounded funny in his American accent, and I giggled at him.

He let out a low whistle, eyes focusing and re-focusing as he tried to read the label on the bottle.

"Exceeding expectations, as usual, little mouse," he said. "This is a damn good wine. Cook is going to be furious."

"Tonight, we celebrate," I replied as he began to open it with a corkscrew left on the counter. "Tomorrow, we deal with the consequences." It was a sentiment our group had echoed often, before they'd left abroad. The old words made Corvo grin as the cork popped from the bottle.

"Same old mouse," Corvo said, taking a swig straight from the century-old bottle. He pursed his lips at the wine's taste and handed it to me. I drank deeply from the bottle, too, high on his company, too giddy to care about being classy.

When I handed it back to him, I found his eyes hadn't left me. A small smile played around the corners of his lips, one hand at his chin.

"Or maybe not the same old mouse," Corvo mused, taking the bottle from me and placing it gently on the countertop. "You've grown."

"That will happen," I replied, giggled nervously. There was something in his eye that excited me, but after my girlish crush on him and his scattered presence in my fantasies, I couldn't trust myself to read Corvo. He'd never been one to wear his emotions on his sleeve.

"You've grown well, though," he said. "That doesn't happen often. You're not such a mouse anymore."

"Louis calls me bird," I replied.

"Louis' a dick," he said, another sentiment that was often echoed in our group. It made me laugh loudly. "You're more like a… a…" He searched for an animal he thought I resembled. I grabbed the wine bottle again.

"How about woman?" I asked, tilting it to my mouth. Corvo smiled like a knife. God, that smile.

"Angel," he said, and while I knew it was sarcastic, there was truth in his tone.

"Aww," I cooed, bumping my hip against his as I leaned with him against the countertop and passed him our wine.

"No, truly," he said, his tone all sincerity even as his eyes flashed like they were making fun of me. "That voice of yours is something special. I had no idea you had it in you."

"Would it have changed anything?" I asked him, and he took a long drink of the wine.

"Now, what could she mean by that?" He looked at me from the corner of his eyes.

"Oh, come on," I said, receiving the bottle from him and swigging. My head was starting to buzz pleasantly, and I couldn't see any reason not to say the words that were on my lips. "You know I was practically in fucking love with you before you left. But you barely gave me an inch, and then only when you were teasing me. Would knowing I could sing have increased my chances?" I meant it all lightly, almost a joke, but Corvo's face darkened. Suddenly, I regretted my candor. I took another drink of wine.

"You were so young, Belle," he said, ducking his head as his eyebrows furrowed, as if with a disturbing thought. "You didn't know what you wanted. You would have fallen for any handsome older man, especially one who walks around half-dressed most of the time." He gestured to his torso, which was indeed bare, and my eyes grazed along the pale, muscular skin, the piercings and scars.

"I didn't fall for Louis."

"Interesting. He told me you've been fucking for a year now. I knew he was lying."

"He didn't!" I exclaimed, and Corvo reached for the wine.

"You know Louis. He tells whatever lies he thinks he can get away with."

"Well, we haven't," I said. "Been fucking."

Suddenly Corvo's hand was gripping my chin, and he was facing me, driving me back against the counter. He set the wine bottle behind me and pressed forward, his eyes intense. I felt his warm hip bones collide with mine, and momentarily a rush of guilt flooded me at the thought of Monsieur. But why should I feel guilty? He'd made his stance on a romance with me very clear. There was no need to save myself for him, especially not with beautiful, enigmatic Corvo holding himself against me.

"You don't talk like a lady," he whispered. His mouth was suddenly very close to mine. He smelled like wine, but so did I. "I like it."

"Oh, I like you too," I replied, laughing nervously.

Corvo kissed me then, a wet kiss, filled with passion. I closed my eyes, trying to revel in it, trying to feel the fantasies I'd had so often about him. But in my thoughts, the Corvo kissing me was gentle, graceful, refined. Not like this, pressing and fumbling to lift me up onto the counter. I allowed it in any case, thinking I'd give it a little while to start being good. My legs opened for him and he pushed my skirts up to my waist, pressing forward, allowing me to feel his desire. He groaned, tugging at my hair.

"The French girl can kiss," he moaned against my mouth, and the compliment made me flush with pleasure. I hadn't had much kissing experience; it was nice to know I wasn't a mess at it.

Corvo grabbed one of my hands, leading it to his groin, which was swelling under his tight black breeches.

"I knew," he whispered into my ear, raising gooseflesh along my arms. "As soon as I saw you in that theater last night, I knew I wanted you. God, how you've grown..." His kisses traveled to my neck, my collarbones. Behind my back, his fingers were tugging at the laces of my corset, and when it was loose enough he pulled at the neckline with a hint of desperation. My breasts thus uncovered, he distracted his attention to them, while my hands clutched at his white hair and my moans filled the kitchen.

"I have to have you," he said, his fingers flying down to fumble with the lacing of his breeches. I stilled, unsure. Did I want this? God, what was I saying? I'd fantasized about this for years.

Not like this, a voice at the back of my head cried out, but all the same I allowed him to undress himself. I allowed him to lick drunkenly at my skin, to coo my name into my ear, to slur half-formed compliments against me as he pulled away my undergarments. His fingers introduced pressure in a startling, wonderful rush, rocking back and forth in such a way that he had me prepared for him very quickly. Then I felt him against me, firm and warm and demanding, and it was too late to back out. It was about time I learned the ways of a woman, I told myself, holding my breath as he entered me. He was steaming hot, and it hurt, but only for a few moments.

"Christ, mouse, you're tight," he gasped against my neck, and I moaned as if every thrust felt as good as I thought they should. I tightened my grip around him, trying to hold onto him, onto that last piece of the fantasy he'd instilled in me. But as he laid me back on the table to look at me and push deeper, a fire in his expression, a heat in the rasp of his moans, I closed my eyes and thought of Monsieur. It was unfair to Corvo - of course it was. But my dreams of a beautiful love-making were shattered by this rough, hot coupling across a kitchen counter. Yes, it was passionate and somehow dangerous. And, yes, it did feel good after a while. But it wasn't what I wanted from Corvo. He never gave me what I wanted; I don't think he knew how.

Part of me broke that night. Part of me learned that, even when you get what you think you want, it's rarely as good as you thought it would be. The return of the travelers, Corvo, Molly, Louis, my show, my voice… None of them fulfilled what my dreams promised. Perhaps they couldn't. The only person who hadn't failed me in that capacity was Mr. Y.

So I thought of him as Corvo thrust himself into me, again and again. I thought of that dark angel's voice as Corvo jolted to a shuddering halt not long after, groaning deeply. I thought of those deep black eyes as Corvo fell against me, sweaty and spent. I thought of the broad, melancholy mouth and those clever fingers, even as I laced my fingers through the sword swallower's white hair. Corvo kissed my neck gently, thanking me, telling me I was beautiful, and I thought only of Mr. Y.

I felt guilty and heated when we rejoined the party. Corvo kept his arm around my waist, which was noticed but not mentioned by my group. I smiled weakly through it, accepting drinks and telling myself all would be right in the morning. Nothing would have changed.

I was wrong.