Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera.

Author's Note: This chapter is dedicated to Sue Raven who was my 100th reviewer!YAY!

By the way, since I have too much going on at once, I have decided to prioritize the updates of my stories based on which one happens to get me the most reviews that week. This week, this story won. So, there you have it. Leave a note when you're finished reading. Thanks!!


Dear Journal,

We have a visitor. I do not know who it is, though. As soon as one of the alarm bells sounded, Erik locked me in my room. I had hoped that I might hear what was going on, but the walls down here are thick. Occasionally I can make out a raised voice, but I cannot tell if it is Erik's or the visitor's. Even if I knew, I am not able to distinguish anything they are saying beyond muffled sounds and vibrations.

The one good outcome of the gendarmes' sloppy investigation of Count Philippe de Chagny's death was that the Persian had managed to spot another route through the cellars that circumvented both the lake and the torture chamber.

Not that it particularly increased his chances of surviving this little adventure. Erik was sure to have traps set along each path. Still, if he had to meet his death, he decided he would prefer a gamble verses the surety of drowning or the surety of burning. Besides, perhaps he might even get a chance to speak to Erik this way rather than one of his automated trapping mechanisms.

It is with these cheerful thoughts that the daroga made his slow trek through the underground caverns.

After about an hour of careful steps, the Persian noticed a wall panel out of place. Without shifting his feet, he managed to pick up a stone and throw it onto the stair in front of him. Right on cue, the wall panel flew open and three sharp arrows came shooting through the open portal and stuck into the parallel wall.

The daroga, stressed and relieved by his narrow miss, took a moment to wipe his brow with his handkerchief.

As he looked up, he caught only the briefest glimpse of two yellow eyes before a rope was thrown over his head.

However, the detective had known never to let down his guard with a man such as Erik. Even as he had moved to replace his handkerchief, his other hand had remained at the level of his eyes.

Consequently, it took little effort for him to throw the deadly noose off.

As he freed his neck, another rope shot out from the darkness and tightened around his wrist. The Persian gasped and looked up into the yellow eyes that appeared to be moving closer.

"Well done, daroga!" praised a chilling voice, "For a moment, I was afraid you had lost your touch."

"I came to talk to you, Erik."

"You're memory is failing, old man, so I shall have to remind you… I told you never to come here again."

With each spoken word, the Persian felt a pull at his arm and took a reluctant step forward. By the time the menacing voice had finished speaking, the daroga found himself within arms reach of the Opera Ghost.

However, if anyone could appear fearless before the Living Corpse, it was the Persian. He had known the masked man before he was the Angel of Music, before he was the Opera Ghost… even before he was the Angel of Doom. The Persian had known Erik when he was just Erik.

That didn't really change anything, but the certainty of the masked man's capabilities inspired a sort of resignation in the daroga that allowed for a somewhat indifferent front in the face of sure peril.

For a moment, the two men stared at each other, silently challenging and sizing each other up. When it was clear that neither man would be intimidated, Erik was the first to break the silence.

"I suppose I should invite you inside, is that it?"

"I think it would be for the best, my friend."

They have been talking for nearly an hour. I am frustrated with my lack of evesdropping skills and bored since, in Erik's haste to shut me away, I did not take any books or sewing in here with me.

And so I return to you, dear journal, to pass the time.

"So, daroga," Erik asked while pouring the shorter man a cup of tea, "what trouble have you been digging up recently? Enjoying your retirement?"

The Persian took the cup and sat back comfortably in his chair. Two could play at this game.

"It's been frightfully dull, actually. I've thought about purchasing season tickets this year. Are there any Operas worth seeing this coming season?"

"I'm glad you asked, my friend…"

The two chatted amiably about the strengths and weaknesses of the upcoming Opera season (throughout this discussion, Erik never once brought up the soprano, Christine Daae. The daroga made a mental note of that observation for later examination.). Then they moved to discuss various other current events both local and global.

After a time, when the conversation began to lull, the Persian stared pensively into his teacup for a moment before speaking seriously.

"Erik, my friend," he sighed, "do you know why I have come."

Anger flashed across the man's eyes but he made no other outward sign of tension. He tented his fingers and said evenly, "I have an idea, but perhaps you should enlighten me."

The Persian knew he was treading on dangerous ground, but he pressed on. No going back, now!

It has been just under a week, but already we seem to have fallen into a sort of routine.

After breakfast we spend a few hours in the music room. Generally we have a music lesson and then Erik composes for a bit while I sit near him and work on some little project of my own (sewing, drawing, whatever I can think of to do quietly).

I don't know why, but I always picture this as an evening sort of activity.

I think I understand though. For a man who does not have a regular profession (besides the various ghostly activities he engages in), it brings a great feeling of normalcy to have a place to get up and go to in the morning.

"Good morning, my darling girl. Did you enjoy your breakfast?"

"You know that I did." she teased, smiling. Part of her wished she had been the one to make breakfast for once but Erik, as always, had found a way to wake up before her and she had woken up to the smell of freshly baked muffins as he brought her a tray of delectable food directly to her bedside.

Christine had smiled genuinely. She had to admit it was a terribly romantic and thoughtful thing to do. Briefly she had wondered if Raoul would have been one to make such gestures. Somehow she doubted it.

Erik had reached over and caressed her cheek and Christine had leaned into his touch, wanting to show some sort of appreciation for his thoughtfulness.

The action had made Erik sigh and the look in his eyes told Christine that that was the greatest thanks she could have given him.

Still, Christine couldn't help but feel slightly guilty. She was the wife and she should be taking care of her husband. Normal marriage or not, that was how things were done and she felt like she wasn't living up to her expectations.

Had he even eaten at all? She was more than a little disturbed that she could not answer that question.

She asked him as much.

"I was not overly hungry, my dear, but you are so very kind to worry about me. Now, enough of that. What shall we sing today, hmm?"

Christine grinned, breakfast troubles forgotten, and moved over to the piano. Now that she was Erik's wife, he had taken to letting her choose her own music. It made her enjoy these lessons all the more.

The afternoons are not particularly interesting. We generally spend that time doing various household chores. Erik cleans the kitchen while I wash the laundry. The rest of the dusting and sweeping we do together. It is not exactly the romanticized idea that one might have of living under an opera house, but it must all be done. At first, he was very much against the idea of my working around the house. But I am no stranger to hard work and its nice to have a purpose outside of being the object of a man's obsession. Besides, it is not as if Erik could go out and hire a bunch of servants.

"Absolutely not, Christine!"

"But, Erik," she reasoned, "What would you have me do all day?"

"You may read or draw or do any number of things. Anything that makes you happy, my wife. Please, let me take care of you. I want to take care of you."

"Am I your wife or your pet?" asked Christine in agitation.

"My wife! Of course! How could you even suggest such a thing?"

"And you want me to be happy?"

"Haven't I said that enough?"

"Erik, if you want your wife to be happy, at least let me help you. I can keep you company. It'll go twice as fast and housework is always more fun when someone else does it with you."

"Do you promise to tell me if you get tired at all?"

Ah yes. Because I cannot pick up a dishrag without needing a nap afterwards. "Of course."

"Then I suppose you may help. But only if you feel up to it."

"I understand."

At some point each day it will occur to Erik that he needs to go take a 'walk'. When that happens, he drops whatever he is doing and leaves. I still do not know where he goes. Furthermore, I haven't the slightest idea of what happens while he is there to bring him back in such a frantic, bad temper.

"How's the wife, monster?" Raoul croaked.

"Mind your tongue, you insolent boy, or I just may remove it." he said, tossing a pail of water at the young man's feet.

"Mind your wife's tongue, beast. I know for a fact she can do some wicked things with it. Or has she not shown you? No, I suppose not. Who would want to kiss a creature like you? Do you even have lips?"

Erik pounced on the younger man and beat him with his bare hands for several minutes. Raoul groaned and struggled, but he was no match for the masked man. When he slumped to the side and stopped resisting, Erik rose to his feet and looked contemptuously at the boy.

"Choose your words wisely, boy." he growled as he turned to leave.

"She hates you, you know," he whispered, throat too dry and sore to speak, "When I get out of here, she's going to leave you. Even if you kill me, she'll eventually find a way to leave you. She betrayed you once… what makes you think she wouldn't do it again? No one could love something like you. You are a monster and that beautiful, innocent woman can never feel anything more than pity for you."

Erik gave Raoul a swift kick in the head, effectively knocking him unconscious. He noticed that, in their earlier struggle, one of them had tipped over the water bucket. Erik shook his head and chuckled softly. The boy will just have to wait until tomorrow. Maybe that will teach him not to speak thus.

In all honesty, Erik was not sure why he didn't just kill him and be done with it. It was definitely a greater hassle to keep him here. He couldn't do it, though, just as he could not let him go.

He needed assurance. Something to hold over Christine's head in the event she did leave him.

Because somewhere, in the back of his twisted mind, he knew the boy had spoken the truth.

I have learned now to wait patiently by the door for his return so that he does not go tearing through the house like a mad bull trying to find me. I do not know what to make of all this. Each time he returns, he seems genuinely surprised to see me. It is as if each day he encounters some reminder of why he should not trust me. It unnerves me not knowing what is going on.

"CHRISTINE!" he bellowed, throwing open the door. During the walk back to the apartment, he had dwelt on his dark thoughts. Now, as he entered his eyes were wild and he was frantic to convince himself that Christine was real and alive and still with him.

Christine, for her part, had just managed to jump out of the way of the door as he threw it open. Wouldn't that be just perfect? Be waiting by the door just so he can smack you in the head with it. With your luck he'd accuse you of trying to kill yourself… and you do not want to go down that road again!

"I'm here, Erik." she answered immediately. She raised her arms ever so slightly to accept the desperate embrace she knew she was about to receive. It was best not to fight it, that she knew. For some reason, he needed assurance.

Again, when he pulled back he looked at her intently. She tried not to flinch at his piercing gaze. He was gasping and shuddering like a dying man. She could tell he was weeping.

"You are here…" he whispered in amazement.

"Yes, Erik. I never left."

"Don't go." he plead, sounding like a child waking from a nightmare.

"Never."

I wonder if it has something to do with this visitor today.

"What became of Christine Daae?"

"She is gone." he said gravely.

"What have you done to her?"

"Why would you assume that I have done something?" he snarled.

Honestly, the daroga half expected him to strangle him on the spot. He never really believed he'd make it this far into the conversation. The fact that he was still standing encouraged him greatly.

Raising his hands in a placatory gesture and said calmly, "Forgive me, Erik, I just need to hear the words. Did you harm Mlle. Daae in any way?"

"NO! Don't you ever accuse me of… of… I would never harm a hair on that child's head!" he shouted as he lunged forward in his chair, clenching his fists to keep from killing his old friend for the presumption.

"Are you holding her captive here?" the Persian asked boldly, knowing he was pushing his luck.

Erik took a long breath and sat back down. Calmly and evenly he ground out, "I assure you, Monsieur, that there is no one by the name of Daae in this house."

"And what of the vicomte?"

"What matter is that boy to me that I should care what becomes of him?"

I wonder what is taking them so long.

Christine took a pause from her writing to lean her ear once again to the door. She couldn't hear anything distinguishable so she knocked on the side of her door. She could have picked the lock as she did once before and let herself out, but she thought it more prudent to, rather than show up unannounced, give Erik a friendly reminder that she was still stuck in her room.

"Erik!" she called, giving the wall a good pound with her hand, "Can I come out yet?"

She heard the room grow eerily silent for a brief moment before the muffled talking began again.

Has Erik forgotten I'm in here?

"I want to trust you, my friend, I truly do. But it is so hard to believe---"

"that I'm not the monster you think I am?" the masked man interrupted dryly.

"I didn't say that. It's just---"

Again the detective was cut off. This time, though, it was by a faint knocking down the hall.

"What was that?" he asked suspiciously.

Erik paused, rage making his head pound. What is she doing? Does she think she can escape me?

"It is nothing of consequence, daroga. Now, I believe this interrogation is over."

"How can you say that, Erik? I heard a voice and I know you heard it to! Who are you hiding here? Is it Mlle. Daae?"

"I assure you that it is not. There is no Mlle. Daae. Perhaps the voice you're hearing belongs to my wife."

There was a hint of a smirk in the man's irritated voice. The Persian gasped, "Erik, you didn't!"

"Didn't what? Force the child to marry me? Of course not, I am not so wicked. She agreed to it."

"But you cannot---"

"Cannot what? Have a wife? Live as a normal man? Be granted a shred of happiness in my miserable existence?"

"What have you done to her? I swear, Erik, that if you have harmed her in any way---"

"You'll what? Never," he growled dangerously, "make the mistake of accusing me of that. I would never harm my wife!"

"If you have not hurt her, let me see her and ask her if she is here willingly."

"I'm afraid that is impossible."

"Why?"

"Because my wife is… apprehensive… around strangers. Now, I really must insist that you leave."

"I will give you two weeks, Erik. Two weeks to prepare your wife for my return. I will come back and I expect to see her in good health."

"If you come back, daroga, I will kill you. Do not underestimate what I will do to protect what is mine."

As the Persian left the flat, he thought on those parting words. He did not doubt that Erik meant what he said. But, in the end, it did not make a difference. He had a duty to this girl.

And whatever became of the vicomte?

Evenings are generally relaxing. Sometimes we read together or play music. I have taken to sitting at his feet each night so he can play with my hair.

Sometimes we just talk--for a recluse, my husband is in excellent conversationalist when he wants to be.

On Sunday night we took a walk in the park. I do not think I have seen him happier. When I asked him about it he just shrugged and told me I would not understand.

Nights are… different here.

I am not exactly sure what to say on that note. Our arrangement in the area of… married people activities (that shows how mature I am that I cannot bring myself to write the word!) is as follows: I will not deny him but I will trust him to wait until I am ready.

It is an agreement based on the mutual trust of people who had very little of it to offer. A compromise--gift of sorts--that cost each of us dearly, yet, brought our relationship to a different level. It is odd, I realize, but it works for us.

However, what makes night-time so very strange is the sleeping arrangement (as opposed to the… non-sleeping arrangement).

I thought we had agreed that we would both be sleeping in my bed. Erik does not deny this fact. In truth, he goes out of his way to appear to sleep with me. And yet, I know that he does not.

Erik entered the bedroom to find that Christine had already fallen asleep. He sighed in relief. Nights like this were easier than the others. There were so many reasons why he could not bring himself to sleep beside her. But there is no way she would understand that.

Firstly, he thought it a grand mistake that a demon should be allowed to share a bed with an angel. She was so peaceful… so vulnerable… so perfect as she slept. He wondered how she could do it. He knew he would not be sleeping if he knew another like him was in the same room. Heavens! He would not be sleeping if he knew another like him was in the world! Too dangerous… too… unsettling.

Furthermore, what was the likelihood that he would even get to sleep in such proximity to her? Just her mere presence set fire to his veins. His reactions had become so powerful lately that… well… he had recited the multiplication tables and the Apostle's Creed so many times now that they no longer helped. He had taken to memorizing long, tedious sections of various science textbooks. Actually sharing a bed with her… lying closely beside that sleeping form… possibly brushing up against her as she rolled over…

No.

As much as his arms ached to hold her while she slept, his rational mind protested against it.

At the same time, he could not bring himself to leave her. Perhaps he might catch a few minutes of precious sleep in the chair beside her. Those hours spent, resting by her bedside, feeling every bit the secret protector… that time was his only refuge against the nightmares that had begun to make him frightened to close his eyes. In a sense, then, she was also his protector. Here he could finally sleep fearlessly (if not peacefully).

Each night he perches himself on the very edge of the bed but, as soon as he believes me to be asleep, gets up. In the morning he simply acts like he woke up before me. I wonder if he has even slept an hour since we married. I don't know why he does it. I think he might be afraid of me.

Erik entered the bedroom to find Christine lying in bed, reading a book. He inwardly groaned. This was the most awkward and most wonderful time of his day. Nothing brought him more joy than to know that Christine was here, welcoming him into her room. At the same time, nothing brought him more feelings of trepidation.

She settled down into bed, extending her hand to him as he settled down over the covers beside her. When they were both comfortable (Erik less so), Christine grasped his bony hand in hers and snuggled further into her covers.

Erik smiled and panicked. He loved that she had begun to touch him willingly. Soft, casual touches. The type that most took for granted but that was precious to one like him. On occasion, he daydreamed about how wonderful it would be to kiss her on the lips, but he told himself constantly that this was only a dream. Don't be greedy. Don't over think this. Just accept what she gives you and treasure it.

I probably should not torment the poor man so. I cannot say exactly why I do what I do. It is kind of a sick game I enjoy.

When her breathing became slow and regular, Erik tried to disengage her hand from his.

Christine, not quite asleep and feeling mischievous, grasped onto him tighter and even rolled so that her other arm was wrapped around his arm as she cuddled against it.

She couldn't help but smile as she felt his clammy skin heat up through his nightclothes as a fierce blush spread over his whole body. His breath sped up and she felt his head turning frantically from side to side as if looking for help somewhere in the room.

It is not unlike how, when we were kids, Raoul used to tug on my pigtails. He did it to get a reaction. That is why I do it.

After two or three long minutes, she decided to put him out of his misery. With a sigh, she rolled over and actually drifted off to sleep.

However, this was not before she noticed when he released the breath he had been holding and not before she noticed how he quietly rose from the bed and took his place as sentinel in the chair beside her.

Despite what Erik thought, Christine was a light sleeper. Consequently, in the morning she was aware when he rose and left hours before she usually woke.

She was also not oblivious to the big show he made each morning about how he had definitely not left the bed all night.

Christine shook her head. No one, not even Erik, could go without sleep indefinitely. Sooner or later, they'd have to have a talk. Until then, he could play his games and she'd play hers.

Oh, Raoul! I cannot believe this is the first time I have thought of him today. It's probably for the best, though. I'm sure that he is better off wherever he is. I just wish I could forget him so easily. But, no, I must nurse my broken heart in silence while he is free to live his life and find a new love.

Stop. No time for bitterness. I must think positively. Besides, I think I hear Erik returning.

Until next time,

Christine