Opera Populaire, Paris, France, 1881

Ting… ting… ting

Young Christine Daaé's eyes fluttered open. A temperate, yet persistent sound ringing in her eardrums….

Ting…ting…ting

She immediately sat up, confused by the odd tune that had suddenly awakened her. A sheer, black fabric hung around the bed. Lotte absentmindedly pulled on the hanging cord to lift the curtain, listening to the tune that was sounding oddly familiar….

Masquerade!

Paper faces on parade!

Masquerade!

Hide your face so the world will never find you!

Masquerade…

The tune softly died away, but Christine continued to hum the cheery chorus under her breath.

Every face a different shade…

Masquerade!

Look around—there's another mask behind you…

The source was a musical box sitting on a table in the room. It was designed in the form of a monkey in Persian robes, playing the cymbals. Christine, despite raw protests from her injury, shifted to face it.

'The handiwork is exquisite…it's beautiful…'

She reached for it, wanting to feel what it was made of, but a deep voice brought her up short.

"If you admire it, I wouldn't touch it."

Christine jerked back her hand as if it had been burned. The Phantom of the Opera stood in the doorway once more, piercing her through with his gaze.

'His eyes burn…' She couldn't help but think.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to-"She started.

"I know. You don't have to apologize." Came the short reply.

Suddenly the wool blanket became very interesting. She drew it up closer to her chest, fingering the threads of it nervously. Erik, however, mistook the clutching of the blanket as a testament to her sense of propriety.

"Your clothes are on the floor beside you." he said, "You should find them in good order."

'Of course you will…It's not liked he ripped them of you or anything…'

Christine blushed crimson, her thoughts appearing on her face quite profoundly.

"I'll leave you alone to change." Erik said, a hint of similar discomfort tinting his voice.

"Merci." The girl muttered, embarrassed beyond words.

Several minutes later, Christine has begun to wonder if had been better if he hadn't left. He blouse had been fairly simple but her skirt and accompanying underskirts were soon problematic. Her foot wouldn't let her move, much less pull on her skirts, without agonizing protest.

'You could always ask him to—'

"Absolutely not." Christine verbally interrupted herself. "I do not need his help with dressing…it's indecent. We're not children anymore."

Biting down on her lower lip, Daaé bore through the pain as she pulled on her gray day skirt, her blouse soon tucked under it. The stockings, she knew, would be suicide to attempt over her swollen ankle. Her corset was completely out of the question; she couldn't put it on without assistance.

Despite her determination, Christine couldn't help but gasp in pain as she stopped to catch her breath. The simple action of changing garments was excruciating. She knew she wouldn't be able to get up, much less stand.

"Erik?" she asked softly, her voice almost inaudible in her hesitancy.

She didn't receive a response; and sitting there would not help her any.

Sighing heavily, Christine eased down to the floor, holding in a yelp. Crawling was her only option.

Erik sat at his black organ in contemplative silence, not being able to fully ignore the subject of interest sequestered in his lair.

He sighed. There was still much left unsaid between them. How was one to bridge the gap? They hadn't spoken since they were children and he wasn't exactly the conversational kind of man. When he spoke, it was usually as a mysterious voice behind a wall or snapping at the Madame to stay out of his affairs.

Needless to say, Christine was making life increasingly difficult for the Opera Ghost. He just wanted to speak with her, a very simple desire. Then why was that so blasted difficult?

'Because you're afraid…you're afraid to tell her what you have become, resorting to terrorizing innocent inhabitants of an opera house…'

'They are not innocent,' Erik angrily thought, 'No one is…'

'Thinking like that will not get you anywhere…you have no one to blame but yourself…no one forced you to become the Phantom…'

"I can think of a slew of persons…"

'Can you truly blame your mother for hating you? She gave birth to a demon….what woman wants that? And the gypsy, can you really blame him for using you the way he did? As an entertainment piece, to be ridiculed and jeered at? To be at another's mercy is all you have ever been good for, Erik…but this isn't about them is it? Christine is the subject of your thoughts…you want to blame her for all this….but can you really hold it against her to want to leave you?'

"Are you alright?" a shaking voice plunged into his gloomy thoughts.

With speed uncanny to a man of his muscular weight, the masked man whirled around.

Young Daaé was peering up at him from across the wide expanse of the main room—on her knees.

"Christine? Wha…what are you doing?" Erik asked in complete shock.

"I…was restless. I had to get up, Erik." Christine murmured sheepishly, "I called for you but—"

"You should have waited for me to fetch you!" Erik thundered, standing up immediately and striding toward her.

Much to his surprise and chagrin, Christine began to scowl angrily.

"I am not a dog you can just 'fetch' at your will." The girl snapped.

Erik had reached her now, his eyes fiery and obvious irritation lacing his person. Why didn't the woman just stay put? And why is she mad at him? He'd been nothing but helpful…

"Forgive me." Erik retorted, his patience and benevolence worn too thin, "You would prefer to crawl like one."

Christine gaped at the harsh comment and seemed ready to say something just as biting, but instead dropped her gaze to stare at the cold stone floor.

"I did try to call you, but you didn't hear me." Christine whispered, dragging her finger in an invisible pattern on the ground, "I just—needed a change of scenery is all. I don't want to be a burden or anything, it's just…"

Christine paused, exhaling sharply.

"It's just been a long time and…and I wanted to see you."

"I wanted to see you…"

Erik couldn't deny odd thrill he feels to hear those words; but he quickly shook it off.

'Don't get used to it…'

"Get up off the floor." He demanded, more severely than he meant to.

Erik couldn't help but notice the flicker of hurt in her eyes when Christine looked up at him.

"I can't." She says almost apologetically. "I hurt my ankle in the fall."

'Wonderful….your insensitivity has reached a new low…'

Erik ground his teeth—partly at himself, partly at the situation before him. There was only one way he could get her back to bed and resting. He had to carry her— and carrying her required touching her.

"Christine…sit still for a minute."

Lotte nodded obediently. The Phantom lowered himself until he was swatting beside her.

"This may hurt a bit."

"What are you going to do?" Christine asked somewhat tentatively. She was not sure what the man was planning now…

"I'm—I'm going to have to carry you back to the Swan divan. You can't stay out here like this."

By the way Daaé's brown eyes widen, he knew she distinctly remembered his avoidance of physical human contact. Her gaze then becomes questioning, but she didn't voice her inquiries.

"If that is what you think is best." She murmured after a moment, her statement an obvious mode of escape from his inevitable discomfort.

"It'll be less strenuous to your injury." Erik says, ignoring the hinting quip.

Christine regarded him for a moment. Erik half suspected she wouldn't let him touch her, even if he was trying to be of assistance.

"Alright."

Almost immediately after her acquiesce was voiced, Erik crouched and slid his arms under her knees and back. Christine was in his arms in one elegant motion.

Instinctively, she grasped his loose white shirt to balance herself. Erik froze. Christine felt how his muscles tensed and she wondered if she'd be dropped. When her rear didn't meet the ground, Christine dares to glance up at the man. She silently gasped.

His gaze was terrifying; terrifying, not in a fearful manner of speaking, but terrifying in intensity and gravity. He stared at her, his facial features obscured by mask and a blank expression. He didn't move, but Christine swore she saw his green irises swirling with varied emotion.

Christine Aminta-Marie Daaé had seen many shades of that bright color in her life. Living on the coast, traders had occasionally flaunted their wares of emeralds and jade. She had known what the color green had looked like in its best of forms. But that had been before she saw his eyes.

As a boy, Erik's gaze had consisted of a dark, moody glare that originated from grey-green tinted orbs peering behind his half mask. The look had haunted her dreams many nights growing up and she had never forgotten it. But now, instead of a melancholy sort of coldness, like a despair often seen in the eyes of an abused animal, Christine saw a man's eyes—eyes of piercing, burning intensity that belayed a person with strong, unchecked emotions.

Mesmerized in that glance, Christine felt a shudder slide down her spine. Something told her circumstances had changed in the last decade. Something told her that Erik was dangerous.

Erik tried not to think about how inappropriate it was to slowly ease a young woman into the lying position without a chaperone. Oddly, Christine didn't seem uncomfortable—besides her obvious pain in her ankle—or flinch at his touch.

And for that he was thankful.

Lotte pulled the wool blanket he had provided around her bare legs, tucking herself in once more into the Swan divan. He didn't remember the elegant couch being used so many times. It was more a décor piece than an object of necessity. Despite its beauty, it was a product of an obsessive drive aroused by severe depression. Yet, if it hadn't been for it, Lotte would have been recovering on his floor.

"Are you comfortable?" he asked, after several moments of watching Lotte adjust herself to the surroundings once more.

"Oui," Christine nods, "Thank you."

"It's the least I can do since you fell into my—"

Erik immediately stopped short, shocked at his own honesty. Where did that come from? He never apologized; he never abdicated, recanted, repented, or regretted any of his less than reputable actions. He was the Phantom of the Opera. The Opera Ghost. The Unseen Terror. He humbled himself to no one.

'She's still affecting you after all these years…'

The thought unsettled him. He had thought—no, truly believed—that Christine Daaé no longer meant anything to him. Erik had convinced himself that he didn't need to her. He didn't miss her. He didn't long to be a child again, running in the meadows with another who didn't care if he had a face of a demon. For ten years, Christine had meant nothing to him.

And yet, here she was, and Erik suddenly knew that his emotions had not changed. He still cared deeply for Christine and he was a different person—Erik, not the Phantom—when he was with her.

And that terrified him.

"Erik! Wait!" Christine called, instinctively reaching towards the man's departing figure.

Obviously, something had suddenly troubled her friend and he had turned abruptly to leave. What it was that had triggered this response, she couldn't yet guess, but she wasn't going to let him go so quickly.

Thankfully, Erik seemed to slow his withdrawal and paused at the doorway, slightly turning toward the sound of her voice.

"Please," She pleaded, gently, "Don't go."

"I doubt my company would be desirable, Christine." His tenor timbre sounded melancholy.

"Any company would be better than the stone walls and candles." Christine said lightly, attempting to lighten the man's mood. "It's quite lonely in here after a while. Come, sit down. "

The dark haired damsel patted the side of the Swan divan encouraging him to sit next to her. Erik shook his head.

"Christine…I can't."

"Why?"

The question was asked gently, with pity and understanding, but it caused Erik to sigh heavily, as if he had a great burden on his shoulders.

"Things aren't the same. The times have changed since you left Paris…I've changed."

"Won't you tell me what's troubling you?" Christine asked softly, tilting her head slightly.

Erik remained silent, staring at Daaé with obvious conflict flickering in his eyes.

"I won't know unless you tell me Erik. Please…stay with me."

Very slowly, almost painfully, he eased towards her. She knew it was against his will, even his nature, to oblige to anyone else's pleas. He didn't move to sit next to her, however, and he settled to lean against the cold wall.

'"How are you?"… Probably isn't the best thing to ask… "My, you've grown"….I am not his mother…'

"I thought you were dead." Daaé blurted before she could think to talk herself out of it.

"What?" Erik replied, slightly caught off guard.

Christine looked away from him to hide the blush rising once more to her cheeks.

"I—Antoinette told me that you were dead." She repeated, after swallowing down her embarrassment.

"That doesn't surprise me."

Christine's head shot up to face him again. "Why not?"

Erik shrugged tensely; there was nothing carefree about the movement. He obviously was not comfortable with the conversation.

A weighty silence hung between them.

Christine racked her mind, fumbling to find the right words to say. Suddenly, her heart leapt into her chest. An odd idea struck her. It had its risks of failure—anything involving Erik was so—but it was the only thought she could conjure up…

"Erik," She began slowly, making sure she caught his attention. He eyed her warily. "Do—do you still sing?"

If the Phantom of the Opera had been flustered before, he was undeniably shocked now.

"Sing?" He asked numbly.

Lotte nodded.

'Of course you sing! What else have you done in this sewer? You live in an opera house for the Virgin's sake!'

Erik swallowed hard, suddenly feeling unexplainably nervous.

"I…it's been a long time since I've sung for anyone but the walls."

Christine saw right through his excuse. She smiled broadly, her dark eyes brightening to the point it made Erik's heart flutter strangely.

"Would you sing for me then?"

Erik leaned further into the wall, the back of his head pushed into it as much as possible. He wished it would engulf him. But her eyes were so hopeful…

He closed his eyes, forcing his nerves to settle.

'I can do this….it's for Christine…for Christine…Christine…'

The Phantom opened his eyes, a determination overwhelming him. He could do this. He would do this. And so, he opened his mouth.

And he sang.

Later…

Raoul clenched his fists as paced up and down his office set aside for him in the Populaire. He was alone now, attempting to gather his composure. The Vicomte had to be ready for the performance of Il Muto that evening. He could not appear distressed. He could not have the condition of his only cousin on his mind. He could not—

A hard knock broke into Raoul's thoughts.

"Enter!"

A blond woman gracefully sailed into the room in a white ballet shift, an uncharacteristic dirty look featured on her face.

"Is that how you address everyone?" Marguerite Giry asked distastefully.

Raoul sighed. This was not what he wanted to deal with right now.

"What now, Meg?"

"Mother wanted me to come fetch you."

"Why?"

"Lotte seems to have reappeared."

The Vicomte didn't even bother to wait for Meg as he burst through the door.