I'm not even sure where this came from. Goes up without editing, I have literally just written brilliant but I liked writing it

As usual, reviews are welcome but flames are not. I respectfully ask, that if you don't like it, stop reading it. You will usually know after the first chapter. I do not flame and would appreciate if people do not do it to me… I do this for my own enjoyment. If others happen to like it then excellent… it's just a bonus.

Also, I don't own it. Unfortunately.

No Regrets

Christine watched as he entered his home, the warmth of his breath meeting the cold of the room in a plume of white air. Meticulously he turned and checked the door behind him, click one lock, click two and then three, the fourth was at the bottom and he used the heel of his shoe to push it down. He wore his mask, bright white against the dullness of the dark room, and a dark suit which, to her surprise, was not quite black.

His shoes gleamed, even in the blackness of the room.

She kept her distance, of course, she always did, often choosing to watch his movements from outside the window. She was too afraid to get any closer, too afraid to feel what she knew, deep down, she had felt all along.

Glancing back up, her eyes found him again, when had he stopped wearing black? She could not remember, silly really, but it bothered her. This detail. Such a small detail and yet it moved her, moved her heart. When had he stopped and why could she not remember, she wondered, she remembered everything else so vividly.

Her eyes followed him and he slipped his jacket from his shoulders and moved to hang it on the coat stand, one he had made himself. She had watched him do it. Well, she had watched most of it. It was impossible for her to be there all of the time. Even if she tried.

She remembered the way his hands had moulded the wood, sanded and cut, how the materials and tools had settled so comfortably in his palms. It was ridiculous, she knew, to be jealous of those tools and yet she could not deny that she was. She remembered, with so much fondness, how it felt to be guided by those hands. She remembered his long, elegant fingers pressed to her back in a kiss she could not, and would not, forget. How they played across ivory keys as she sang to his music, his beautiful, wonderful music.

Watching him, still alone after all this time, made her heart hollow. It was the most empty feeling she had ever had, it made her ache, made her soul ache.

He sat in silence, in darkness, and stared ahead. There was nothing there, of course, only the wall. He often did this. Christine wanted to walk to him and touch his face, turn his attention to her, but she knew that she could not.

Many wrongs do not make a right, as she had so painfully learnt.

Erik tilted his head to the side and turned his face. Christine ducked, it was an instinct now. He did not see her. He had no idea that she was there. It was better that way.

When she was sure he was no longer looking, she rose again and returned to her vigil, watching and guarding him. She was positive that if he knew she was there then he would tell her to leave and she did not think that she could bear that. She hated the thought that he could reject her as she had so callously, so erroneously, rejected him.

And yet she knew that it would be no rejection of her affection, not of her love, but it would be a rejection of her presence. In the years that had past it was still clear that he loved her. He would turn her away out of sorrow. Disbelief.

For her and for himself.

Finally, he lit one candle and then a second. It gave him enough light to do what he did most nights, as she watched. Read. He lifted the red, leather backed book from the side table, stretched his legs out in front of him, and began to read. It was her favourite part of the night and always would be. It was the only time he ever looked truly relaxed. His feet crossed over in front of him, leaning slightly back in the cushioned seat, his book held up in front of his eyes.

She knew that it would seem strange to most, the idea that she could get so much pleasure from watching someone do basically nothing, and yet she returned to him again and again…

He never smiled. It had always been a rarity but sometimes, when they were alone, years ago, he would smile at her. Despite what was beneath the mask two things remained physically beautiful about Erik, two things that captivated her, they were his smile and his eyes.

Eyes that were nearly as blue as the night sky and a smile, for her, that was simply stunning in its earnest.

Oh, how she wished he might smile.

No matter how funny the book might be, no matter what memory he might be reliving in his mind, he would not smile. She feared that he never would again.

Another twang of sadness.

Another pinch of pain.

Graceful, slender fingers turned another page as he continued to read. She knew the book well, she had once borrowed it from him, had once read it over his shoulder. It was not a book that was likely to make him smile but it was a book from which he drew an odd comfort, there were many parallels.

When he closed it shut, she heard the soft thump of the pages pressing together and she saw the golden title shimmer under the candlelight, 'Wuthering Heights'. When he placed it back on the table and his eyes drifted over it, as they always did, he reached out and touched one tattered corner.

The corner she had bent back when she had dropped it on the floor all those years ago.

She closed her eyes briefly, felt a wrench of grief that she could not go back to that time, she could not go back and borrow his books, she could not go back and ask him to sing for her.

Singing.

He didn't do that anymore either and she wondered if he missed it as much as she did. She wondered if he was ever tempted to play the dusty piano, in the corner of the room. She wondered what he was thinking. Did he miss singing as much as she missed him singing? Did he want to go back as much as she longed to?

He filled the bath with water and placed it in front of the fire, splashing his shirt as the water swished from side to side. He glanced down at himself and shook his head. He wandered off and moments later returned in nothing but a robe.

The robe.

Erik had had it for years, it was tatty and the blue had faded but he refused to give it up. Christine had given it to him, many years before, and he still wore it. Somehow a little gladness permeated her sadness, the knowing that he had kept it in spite of everything.

He tested the water with his toe and Christine turned away when he slipped out of the robe and stepped into the tub. When her attention returned, his back was to her, as usual, and she wanted to go to him and rub the soap into the knots of his back.

Bath time never lasted long and before she knew it he was out and drying himself, slipping back into the robe and taking up his seat once more. He did not empty the water, as she knew he would not, because he would do it in the morning.

He leaned back, eyes closed, but not asleep. She watched as his foot bobbed up and down, she knew that thoughts swirled his mind relentlessly, she knew that he could not relax. She would not expect him to. To expect this man to stop thinking was like expecting the sun to stop rising. She knew this about him and she loved this about him.

It was some time before he stood again.

This time he pinched the candles flames, putting them out and dipping the room back into darkness. The fire had died long ago and he slowly walked to the door.

Quietly, she followed him through to the bedroom where he was settling under the blankets. From the door she could see him, shadowed in the darkness but eyes as clear and blue as the ocean.

When tears built in his eyes, she could resist no more.

She walked in and crawled onto the bed, next to him, facing him. She looked into his eyes and felt immediately at home. This was the man she loved. She had married Raoul, of course, but she was wrong.

'I miss you,' she whispered, gently. He did not respond. 'I always miss you,'

He closed his eyes.

'I love you,' she said, her voice soft. She reached out to touch his grey hair but pulled back. 'I always loved you… will always love you.' She swallowed, felt tears in her own eyes. 'But you need to let me go.'

For a brief moment his eyes opened again.

'I know it's hard for you,' she said. 'I know. It's hard for me too… I hate it when you cry.'

Not for the first time, she was overwhelmed by sadness.

'I was right,' she told him. 'To come back to you. I have no regrets. Raoul never forgave me, but I could not be without you, it just didn't feel right. We had so many wonderful years together, you and I, didn't we?'

Her chest heaved.

'I cannot leave if you cannot let me go,' she whispered. 'Oh Erik, how I love you,'

She reached for him and his eyes flickered open, blue bolts through the darkness, 'Christine,' he murmured. He could not see her, of course, nor could he hear her. In her heart, though, she knew that he could sense her, she knew that he could feel her presence.

Her ghost.

He had always been able to sense her.

His eyes closed again. 'I love you too, Christine,' he said as he finally slipped into sleep.

And then she watched him sleep.

It had been her second favourite thing in their life together and it was still her second favourite thing in her death.