A/N: My French is extremely rusty; the abbreviation for "monsieur" is "Mssr.", yes? And, er…lyrics are necessary for this next bit, so I take my previous statement back.

XXX

The backstage was tingling with nervous anticipation. All of the stagehands and actors had been informed of what was to happen tonight. Unlike the usual chattering of the ballet rats and the shouting of half-drunk stage technicians, there was an unusual silence amongst them. The only sounds heard was the orders of the prop master and the high-pitched piercing scales Carlotta was attempting to practice.

Roxanne sat perched upon a wooden crate, her legs spread apart lazily; her back slouched against the wall of Dressing Room "A". None of the ballet rats spoke to her. Carlotta, who had been reduced to preparing with the ballet rats, tossed her a haughty look and sniffed disdainfully.

For it was common knowledge that any woman working with the Gendarmerie was a thief, a prostitute, or an adulteress. Or all of the above.

She turned her gaze to the miniature grandfather clock on the wall, five minutes until she was to come out on stage. Five minutes until she was to meet the famed 'Fantôme de L'Opéra'.

She rubbed the plain silver band on her right ring finger thoughtfully; Monsieur Montague had guaranteed she would be safe from the Phantom, but it would not be the first time that Montague had lied to her.

"Mademoiselle De Winter!" Madame Giry barked.

"I'm coming," Roxanne hopped off her perch, "Where's Christine?"

"Behind the left curtain, you are to stand near the left side of the staircase at all times, understood?" Giry demanded, she sighed, "If only they had given us more time to prepare you. Three days to prepare a woman who has never been on stage before in her life! What is my opera house coming to?"

Roxanne refrained from comment and hurried out of the dressing room.

XXX

"No thoughts within her head but thoughts of joy, no dreams within her heart but dreams of love!" Roxanne had almost forgotten the opening line, when Christine began to sing she nearly panicked. She quickly reined herself in check and moved her mouth accordingly.

"Passarino…Go away! For the trap, it is set and waits for its prey…"

Roxanne froze, that voice…it was intoxicating, entrancing, even. She had heard Piangi sing before, that was not his voice. She lifted her head, barely turning, trying not to turn completely, lest she confuse the audience. What was she supposed to do next? Oh, yes! Stand up, you silly goose! She slowly rose to her feet, and turned partially around.

"You have come here, in pursuit of your deepest urge, in pursuit of that wish, which 'til now has been silent…" His lilting tones echoed throughout the Opera, his voice like honey. His lithe form was partially obscured by the cloak enshrouding his body. He was pale, deathly so, he moved with a strange sort of confidence. Roxanne had seen it before—the confidence of a killer.

"I have brought you, that our passions may fuse and merge, in your mind you've already succumbed to me, dropped all defenses completely succumbed to me!" He declared possessively.

Yes, Roxanne could completely understand why the young Vicomte wanted to rid his mistress of the Phantom. She stared fixedly at him as he circled about her, like a cat stalking its quarry.

"Now you are here with me, no second thoughts, you've decided…decided…" His golden eyes bored into her with a passion rarely seen by Roxanne.

Roxanne closed her eyes, allowing the seductive warmth of the Phantom's rich baritone to wash over her.

"What raging fires shall flood the soul? What rich desires unlock its door?" Suddenly, the Phantom grabbed her about the waist and pulled her close to him. His hot breath tickled her neck as his lips brushed her shoulder.

Roxanne's breath caught in her throat as he wrapped his arms about her waist. She had been a nightwalker ever since she was fourteen years old, and yet a ghost was able to invoke such reactions from her? Shameful.

She was almost regretful when the Phantom's grasp slid down her arm to her hand, signaling it was her turn. She suddenly felt inadequate, how was she to fool such a master?

XXX

Something wasn't right.

Her mannerisms, something about her wasn't right. He studied her and could tell no visibly apparent difference, and, yet, she was different. Bolder. More impassioned. Not his little angel. Her voice wasn't right at all, either, her posture was inaccurate for her to be able to hit certain notes, her breathing, she was not breathing from her stomach.

Erik, you fool, he chastised himself, you're simply nervous because of the nearness of her.

As they began to climb the stairs, the difference became more apparent, her face, something was different about her face…perhaps it was the stage make-up. As a ballet-rat, before, she had not worn so much. He shook his head slightly, he must enjoy the moment; in minutes she would be his.

"When will the blood begin to race? The sleeping bud burst into bloom? When will the flames, at last, consume us!" The last verse was strange, her mouth was moving, but the words were different.

Throwing off his cape with a dramatic gesture, they reached the top of the stairs in unison. "Past the point of no return! The final threshold!" They met at the center, empowered by the nearness of her, he seized her about the arms and spun her around gruffly, pinning her back to his chest. His hands wandered up and down her body freely.

"We've past the point of no return…" He crooned, Oh, Christine…

As he looked out onto the crowd he noticed the Vicomte—in Box Five, no less—staring down at Christine and himself, he smirked, seized with a sudden idea.

"Say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime. Lead me, save me from my solitude…" He buried his nose into her neck, "Say you'll want me with you here, beside you. Anywhere you go, let me go, too! Christine, that's all I ask of…"

Christine turned to face him, her green eyes glistening with emotion…green eyes…Green eyes! Christine's eyes were brown. This was not Christine!

The woman realized she had been found out, her face turned ashen and contorted with panic. As if fate itself had planned this, she seized his mask and tore it off, hoping to distract him.

XXX

A/N: Recommendations on how I could have improved the scene are welcome.