Author's Note: I do not own Phantom of the Opera.

34

Erik was seated at the organ, hands flying thunderously over the keys. The porcelain mask perched steadily on top of the organ. Brow furrowed, he allowed his emotions to flow out into the cacophony of notes. With a satisfied snarl, he abruptly stopped playing, reaching an ink pen up to the sheaf of paper on the organ's music stand and sharply marking down the melody he called into being. Once each element of the verse had been properly transcribed, he dropped the pen and picked up the song where he had left off, as if the music had never stopped at all.

As his masterpiece trickled out steadily through his tapered fingertips, Erik felt more at peace than he had in weeks. The worry about the managers, the fop, his artist, and his angel flickered only dimly in the back of his mind. Nothing mattered but the music.

Until he, engrossed in the melody, suddenly became aware of the tap of boots on the rough stone of the cavern.

"Yo, so I was wondering about the sleeves on this one dress – Aminta's, I think – cause the way you said they were designed they're just going to keep falling down and I swear it's just going to piss everyone off, but it's going to be amusing for me, I suppose, so should I just go with it or...?"

Erik's fingers stumbled, the rhythm coming to an abrupt and dissonant halt. One hand scrambled for the white porcelain and slammed it over his disfigured face. Turning with an abrupt motion, knocking over the organ bench in his haste, Erik turned to face the intruder, breathing heavily.

Kayla Abbots was standing casually at the foot of the shallow steps up to the organ's platform, one hand on her hip and the other holding a leather folder full of newsprint and watercolour splashed paper and fabric pieces. A dark black pencil and a fluffy brown brush were stuck through her high, mussed blonde bun. There was a long piece of the black lace he had provided as a sample tied over her hair, one of the reference samples he gave to her for her drawings of the costumes. There were smudges of graphite and dots of ink on her hands. Red watercolour was striped over her cheek.

She cocked her head at him. Erik tried to calm his raging pulse, talking himself down from the terror of being caught in his own home. His chest was heaving. Kayla stared into his wild eyes. She took a cursory glance up and down his figure, smirking slightly. Then she caught him watching and blushed ruby red. "Whatcha so freaked about?" she inquired nonchalantly, ignoring the fact that she - if Erik was not mistaken - had just surveyed him in the same manner that he had seen the noblemen of the Populaire audience staring at the ballet corps. Maybe this was a common behaviour in her time, so Erik made an effort to be understanding. Nevertheless, the idea that she was judging his physique brought back the painful feeling of being caged and beaten for the amusement of an audience. Her cheeks were steadily brightening crimson, and she was avoiding his eyes. When she finally looked up, she smiled sheepishly. He looked intently back at her. Her blue eyes narrowed quizzically, rosy lips pursed. They stared at each other in complete silence for a moment. She caught his gaze again, and her eyes widened in realization.

"Oh shit, I'm not supposed to know the way down here, am I?"

Mademoiselle Abbot's exclamation was followed by a long period of silence in which the two merely stared at each other. He broke the silence first.

"How long did it take you to find your way here?" Erik inquired, his voice dangerously calm. Her tanned throat tensed as she gulped.

"Um… two hours?" she squeaked.

His dark brows furrowed.

"I got lost?" she tried.

His head cocked to the side inquisitively, almost of its own accord.

"Magic?" she attempted, throwing up a hand in tandem with her shrug. "Witchcraft? Crossroad's demon?"

Erik was unable to stifle a sharp bark of laughter. The girl visibly relaxed. "I am really very sorry to have barged into your home uninvited and unannounced," she articulated formally, with a slight bow. "It was rude and probably is stressing you the hell out. If you'd like me to leave, I will go."

There was another moment of silence.

"I can't handle the suspense, so if you're going to kill me, kindly get on with it," Mademoiselle Abbots sighed. "It'd be a damn sight better than going back upstairs."

"Why did you venture into my Hell in the first place?" Erik asked coldly, unable to keep the snarl out of his voice.

"Hey now, I have nothing but respect for your interior decorating," Mademoiselle Abbots snapped back. "If you must know, I was making a daring escape from the Vicomte."

Erik stared at her. "What do you mean, a daring escape?" he hissed.

Kayla blinked. "Rehearsal was over, I wanted to get some set book work in before dinner, Raoul ran into me in the hall, I didn't want to talk to him - he's been a douche since Carlotta's party, I swear – so I kinda ran… He kinda chased me?" she paraphrased, uncharacteristically timid.

"And miraculously you appeared in my tunnels?" he exclaimed sarcastically.

"I got in through the mirror in my studio. I knew you'd be pissed but I was bloody desperate," she explained haltingly.

"What do you mean by he chased you?" was the Phantom's next question.

"Let's use a metaphor here: Raoul is a cat. I am a mouse. Covered in catnip," she described dryly. "I ran, he followed. It was all very exciting."

Blood roared in Erik's ears. "I wonder where the precious Vicomte is now," he mused, almost to himself, leather fingertips brushing over the coil of rope at his waist.

"NOPE!" Kayla yelped, lifting her hands in what appeared to be a gesture of surrender. "No please, Monsieur; he's not worth the effort."

"WILL HE STOP AT NOTHING?" Erik roared, sweeping his arm furiously across one of the small tables next to the organ, quills and bottles of ink and candlesticks clacking, crashing, and clanging on the stone.

Mademoiselle Abbots squeaked and unconsciously took a step backward.

He flipped the table over, hurling it brutally against the wall as he yelled. Standing perfectly still at the foot of the shallow steps, Mademoiselle was as quiet and immovable as an ice statue. "HE WILL NOT STOP!" Erik howled, swiping a pile of parchment onto the floor, pages fluttering feebly through the air. "EVERYTHING WILL DISAPEAR, MY ANGEL, THE FOP, THE MAGICIAN AND THE DANCERS, LEAVING THE DEVIL ALONE IN HELL!" He swung his arm angrily and a crystal decanter of wine flew through the air and smashed with musical finality at Mademoiselle Abbot's feet. As maroon liquid flowed around the shards of sparkling glass and splashed the leather boots, the girl's blonde head snapped up.

"Destler."

Her voice rang out loudly, echoing like a bell through night air, ringing in Erik's ears. Her deep blue eyes flashed silver sparks.

The harsh noise brought back repressed memories of jeers, of shots and snarls and cheers as a mask was ripped off his small head, the rod swishing and cracking again, and again, and again…

Erik's hands flew instinctively to clutch his head, holding his mask tightly to his face as he dropped to the floor, almost curled in on himself. "Erik is alone, Erik is alone, Erik will always be alone," he chanted under his breath, the mantra escaping his lips without permission from the scared child that still concealed itself in his skull. Silence fell. For a moment, Erik retreated deeper and deeper into the dark recesses of his own mind.

"Phantom?" the female voice rang again, the tone softer, gentler. There was a pattering noise, followed by slower, more measured taps, the vibration moving steadily closer. Next came the shuffling of shifting fabrics, the scrape of leather on stone, and a gentle thump. "Phantom," she repeated insistently, the words closer than ever.

He opened his eyes and raised his gaze, desperate emerald meeting steady blue. Her head tilted quizzically to one side, her expression appearing almost birdlike. "You okay?" she asked hesitatingly, the words sounding strange to Erik's ears. He blinked. The silence remained. Indigo eyes roved with concern over his face, her attention focused – to Erik's puzzlement – not on the left side of his face, or on his face in general, but stayed on his eyes. "Are you okay?" she repeated. Erik's heartbeat raced in his chest and he did not answer. His breaths came fast and shallow.

Her arm reached forward and hovered over the hand that anchored the Opera Ghost to the ground. He could feel warmth radiating from her fingertips, but she did not touch him. "Damn it, Jim, I'm not a doctor, I'm an art major," she muttered to herself, not intending for him to hear. She scotched back a pace, still seating on the floor, and pulled a thin black rectangle from out of her pocket. Giving a short sigh, she began to tap her fingers on the surface of the device, biting her lip and narrowing her eyes. The girl paused for a moment, tapped once more, and began to run her finger continuously along the far edge of the rectangle's surface. When she halted a few seconds later, she nodded briskly and hopped up on the balls of her feet. "May I?" she asked, sliding one foot slightly forward, signalling her intent to move closer. Erik did not move.

"Well, unconsciousness is consent, I suppose," she huffed, scootching towards him and sitting down, crossing her legs gracefully and relaxing, her spine curling forward slightly from beneath her shirt. "Disregard any freak outs about witchcraft for a moment and just do what I say, please," she requested holding out the metal shape to him. He glanced at it, and his rage and grief were promptly overtaken by shock.

The once black surface of the metal had turned a glowing grey, and near the bottom was a tiny black dot. As Erik stared, it lengthened out into a line, opened up into a triangle, then a square, then a pentagon, hexagon, heptagon, octagon, before sinking back down into the single black dot once more. "Breathe in and out with the box," she stated calmly. "That doesn't mean hold your breath, you ninny," she added impatiently when Erik did not respond. Obediently, he took in a much needed gulp of air. "Slower." He exhaled as the shapes sunk back into nothingness, and inhaled as the line expanded. For several minutes the lair was utterly silent except for the sound of his own steady breathing.

"Better?" she ventured cautiously as Erik began feeling his heart thumping more slowly, the anger that had filled him seeping away, a small little creature of red, determined annoyance curling up in the corner of his psyche to lick its wounds. "Now keep breathing exactly like that." She pulled the magic image away, and Erik focused on regulating his breathing pattern properly without the helpful moving lines. "Now look at this cat," she said unexpectedly, brandishing the object under his nose. A tiny black kitten was curled up in the centre of the grey and white background, its tiny little chest rising and falling in the exact rhythm he was breathing now. "It's bloody adorable," Mademoiselle Abbots cooed, the glow of the object reflecting sapphire glints into her dark blue eyes. The two examined the kitten in peaceful quiet.

"The sleeves are supposed to fall." The words left his lips before Erik had time to process the fact he was calm enough to speak. "Aminta is innocent, but teetering on the edge of maturity. She will try to push up the sleeves and they will not stay."

"It's on purpose then; good. It's going to mess with people so badly, my gosh that'll be a fun night," Kayla chuckled, not taking her eyes off the kitten. She shifted her legs, stretching them out in front of her. Flexing her toes into a strangely accurate dancers point, she grinned at the tiny magical photograph she held. "Welp, it's quarter to seven, my crew's gonna be worried sick. You mind taking me back upstairs?" Clambering to her feet, she stood and stepped back a pace – giving him space.

He too stood, nervously adjusting his cuffs and smoothing a hand over his slightly dishevelled hair. Mademoiselle Abbots smiled. "I will show you the way back to your dormitory. Only the cast and crew is allowed in that section of the opera house. I will move your art supplies, and you will work here from now on."

Wait, what? Part of his mind hissed at the unapproved invitation. The part of Erik that had spoken ignored the dissent.

The girl grinned, flashing ivory teeth and sparkling blue eyes. "Oh my gosh, that would be amazing, thank you. As long as I'm not intruding."

Erik shook his head.

Dropping into a hilariously exaggerated curtsey, the young manager dipped her blonde head and held it there for a moment before rising again. "A place that the Vicomte doesn't know about, thank the blessed Lord," Erik heard her mutter as she bent down to pick up her leather portfolio.

Erik stepped forward and took the folder of sketches from her, narrowly avoiding touching her bare fingers. Laying it on the table where the stage model sat, he snatched up his black cloak off the table and swung it over his shoulders.

"Javla helvete."

Erik could have sworn he heard the little mademoiselle squeak the Swedish words, a phrase which he did not understand. He ignored it and turned to face the girl, who, for some unknown reason, was blushing again.

"Follow me," he ordered brusquely, striding past her down the stairs.

It was only as he watched Mademoiselle Abbots practically sashaying out of the passage into the dormitory hallway – exuding confidence that she could avoid the fop for another day – that he realized what he had missed.

She had been terrified out of her wits. Looking back on the expressions that had crossed her face when he had lost control, he vividly remembered her wide eyes and bitten lip. Pursued by a man she knew nothing about she had turned to a man the world despised for help. Yet she had ended up having to comfort him.

Erik snarled at his own incompetence, rubbing a hand angrily across his masked forehead. He had failed, again. He needed to keep better control over his emotions as far as his little Magician was concerned. The same sentiment could apply to his Angel…

He quickly crushed that line of thought and stalked off into the dark, an image of an opening and closing box moving calmingly in the back of his mind.

Author's Note: So I didn't get another chapter out last weekend. Please don't be mad, I'm sorry! *cries*

Anyway, that was a long-ass chapter, all from Erik's POV. I find him tricky to write, so I hope I did his character justice. The gifs that Kayla shows Erik are from an Anxiety Gif Master Post on Tumblr, from the blog dead-rainbow. It actually is a fabulous way to calm down, I use it all the time.

But enough about Tumblr, please feel free to let me know what you guys thought of this chapter in a review or PM, and follow or favourite if desired. To E-may-dy-S, thetasigma, and Guest, thanks for the reviews, and thanks to all those who have followed and favorited. Thanks to all of you for reading!

Hugs!

Tierney

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