Standard disclaimers apply.
Christine will speak no more of that night, and that is fine. He doesn't want to know the details. He's terrified she'll reveal a hint of what happened before the Vicomte was killed.
He has no desire to know if she's been with another man.
So they slip into a routine of silence and staring. He prepares food and places it on the table before her. He then pretends not to notice when she refuses to touch it. He can hardly berate her for it. He doesn't eat, either. Not when she's nearby, at least.
She stares at the darkness lurking beyond the candles. He stares at her. When their gazes meet, they both jerk their eyes away. Guilty. Confused.
Empty.
"You're in the papers this time," he says, almost a week later, waving the day's issue at her. She doesn't need to read it, of course. The retelling of the night's events, more callous with every recapitulation, would only upset her further. But she should know this much, at least. "They fear you were taken by the murderer."
"What?" For a moment, there's a spark of life in her eyes. They widen, stare him down questioningly. He sighs.
"You're missing, do you recall? You ran straight here, I'm assuming, after . . . the events of that night. They don't know you're safe."
She blinks down at her hands, where they're folded neatly in her lap. Carefully. Blank once more. "They do love to make me out to be the victim, don't they," she mutters scathingly. Her tone is in stark contrast with the vagueness of her expression.
She is a victim, of sorts. A victim of circumstance, as she always has been. But he doubts she would appreciate that sentiment now. She's lost almost everything — everything except him, and that's a small consolation. She won't want to have any last fragment of control over her life denied to her, too.
"In their defense, you have been . . . apprehended before," he observes dryly instead. Not that it was successful. "And you are in the company of a murderer." She glares at him, and he shrugs. "It would be unwise to forget it, Christine."
"Well, evidently, you're not the only one who can take a life," she breathes, and then she has stormed away, leaving him to wonder what he said this time. Perhaps she's still in shock. Or afraid.
Afraid of him? He hopes not. But something is certainly causing her fear.
He wonders if, this time, it's real or in her head. He was always real, even when the others didn't believe her stories of his presence. But even before the Opera Ghost took an interest in her, Christine Daaé was a haunted little girl. She slept on her father's tombstone and dreamed of angels possessing her. The shadows echoed with the violin music she could hear absolutely only in her dreams.
He only won her from her father by becoming her father. In a sense. If the Vicomte de Chagny has become her new ghost, then he has lost her for good.
This isn't what he wished for them at all.
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