A/N: My long-time Tumblr followers might recognize this chapter as a slight revision of the oneshot I wrote ages ago, "Fire Dance With Me." My sort-of plan when I wrote it was to include it as a chapter in a longer story, so hopefully this is a smooth transition.
I'm pretty much skipping the Notes II/"Twisted Every Way" scene to get to where Christine runs off to afterward.
This is inspired by a scene in the Twin Peaks TV series prequel movie Fire Walk With Me. I borrow a lot of the dialogue and just twist it around a bit.
"Christine, Christine, don't think that I don't care, but every hope and every prayer rests on you now…."
Christine felt something bursting inside her. The tension of expectations and demands and suffocating, unearned love bubbled inside her.
All around her were stunned faces. Moments before they'd all been a clash of rising, entwining voices. The frantic chorus pressed against Christine's ears mercilessly. Carlotta and Piangi cornered her, screeching about her supposed complicity. Their breath scorched her face and she felt dizzy and primal at the same time.
Then she heard another voice cry out above the others, like one demented: "If you don't stop I'll go mad!"
Dimly Christine was aware it was her own voice.
Then she'd rambled incoherently, rocking senselessly in the chair Raoul led her to. Christine reached for Raoul, circled back to Raoul, hunted Raoul with her hands on his.
The others looked at her mystified, a strained hint of sympathy even in Carlotta's face. "She's mad," Carlotta said softly, without the cruel bite Christine expected.
But Raoul...Raoul was firm.
He wanted her to play an active role in the ang – in the Phantom's end.
Before she erupted she tore away from her darling Raoul, the monstrous Carlotta, the frantic managers, the contrary Madame Giry, that wretched office.
Tears blinded her as she ran down the corridor, past surprised and scornful opera denizens.
Where could she turn in this moment? She was afraid, afraid. Afraid of what she might do, might say, afraid of falling to the floor and screaming like some rabid animal of the underworld, afraid, afraid.
No one. No one to turn to. No father. No angel. How unfair that at this moment, this, when her reserve of strength seemed vanished there was no one nearby she could dare face. Who would accept her, sobbing, shaken, enraged and embittered? Pale and beleaguered, messy curls strewn about and sticking to her damp cheeks.
She was no tantalizing siren singing with the voice of an angel now; and she wasn't the strong, independent fighter Raoul wanted her to be. Even Mamma Valerius could not provide much comfort these days. She slept most of the time, and when she was awake she needed tending to. The old woman in turn could not tend to Christine.
Yet right now Christine was a child: a loud, angry, belligerent child. And children need care, she told herself perhaps a pit petulantly. Can't someone just let me cry...?
Instinct like a small but firm hand fell over her. Rapidly now the chaos was clearing, and Christine hurried toward the only source of comfort she needed right now.
Meg stretched her leg on top of the ballet bar in the Giry home. Compared to the other dancers' dormitories, the Girys' living arrangements were a bit more spacious. Oh, it was no luxurious suite in a hotel at the center of Paris, but Meg often concurred with her mother: the space suited them nicely.
True, the sitting arrangements weren't the best – in order to install the dance bar, they'd had to clear out the small room that served as their parlor. A few wicker chairs served for whatever company dropped by – which other than Meg's friends from the ballet, was few and far between.
Two portraits graced the wall's peeling dark green wallpaper, generic portraits of a ship in a storm and a bowl of fruit.
No pictures of family. The only photographic evidence of a family dwelt away from human eyes within the cupboard: the portrait of Jules Giry.
Meg looked at that cupboard now.
The letters Mother looked at after masquerade...
Although Meg had as usual been eager to accompany her mother to the manager's office, anxious to hear what the new letter from the Opera Ghost foretold, Madame Giry insisted Meg remain behind. After Erik's return – not to mention his more reckless and unhinged behavior, presenting himself at masquerade in gruesome splendor, so different from the cautious lurking creature of just six months before – Madame Giry was less and less inclined to include her daughter in the happenings around the opera house.
The elder Giry knew this only increased her determined young daughter's fierce curiosity and concern for Christine, but as long as Madame Giry was firm with her, she felt sure Meg would stay in line.
At least, that's what the mother fervently hoped, wide awake at night, staring into the darkness. She unconsciously listened each night for Erik's envelope to fall from the trap door above the kitchen table next to Madame Giry's bedroom. And finally last night...
Meg reached for her toes on the bar. She gazed distractedly into her clear eyes reflected in the mirror. She'd reached a sort of detente with her mother. On the surface, Meg was as obedient as always, maybe even moreso. But gone was the effusive stream of chatter Madame Giry was accustomed to when they returned home from a long rehearsal. It wasn't that Meg was deliberately pouting; while certainly there was a glumness to the girl, Madame Giry felt instead that Meg was studying her – not with malice, but with yearning, with that damnable, ever-present, utterly endearing curiosity.
The sharp light in Meg's eyes continued to unsettle her mother. Two sweet candles that became torches.
As Meg stretched and contorted along the wall, her mind was with her mother and the letter, while her heart was prying open the cupboard with her bare hands and digesting the contents of whatever those letters told.
How to get the key away from Mother...?
She started at the quick light rap on the door. She straightened herself and headed quickly to open it.
"Christine?" The pale, splotchy face stared back at her with the wide dark eyes of a feral child, wild and lost, beseeching.
Meg noticed she was trembling.
Christine in turn looked at the wondering pale eyes, the fragile frame, the glossy reddish-blonde curls. Meg's cheeks were tinged with red from her exercise, and her body was standing at alert, always, always in the ballet fourth position.
Warmth and sunrise broke through the storm as Christine took her in.
Meg's heart broke at that beautiful voice now so weak and uncertain.
"Meg…are you my best friend?"
Meg's eyes widened and her lips parted in a disbelieving half smile. "Of course!"
She gasped as Christine dove for her and grabbed her in a tight embrace.
All the ballerina knew in this moment was that Christine was hurting, her form shaking with tears as she buried her face in Meg's hair. And so Meg stroke Christine's, rocking her back and forth gently.
"What is it, Christine," she asked gently. "What's wrong?"
Christine squeezed her eyes shut as she pressed her face into Meg's little shoulder, saying, "I just want a friend. Just one friend for one minute."
Meg leaned back to look into Christine's eyes, taking her friend's face in her hands. She brushed away the tears with her fingers. She gave Christine a lop-sided grin. "How about a friend for the rest of your life?"
Christine laughed, releasing tension bit by bit. "Yes! That's what I want." She squeezed one of Meg's small pink hands—so full of the warmth and vitality that she, Christine, lacked now—as she sniffed away the rest of her tears. "Thank you, Meg."
Meg continued stroking Christine's brown curls. There was a gleam in the dancer's eyes now – an ancient look of wisdom. Somehow she knew what Christine needed to hear. "You possess far more strength than you realize, Christine. When the time comes, you'll do the right thing, you'll see."
Christine played with the frill on one of Meg's shoulder straps. "You know, even when I think about your face I feel better," she said in a small voice, with the hint of a smile on her face.
Meg tilted her head. "Do you want to talk?"
Christine quickly shook hers. "No," she said decidedly. "No, I want to watch you dance."
As Christine sat curled on the Giry floor against the mirror, watching Meg spin spiritedly and fluidly around the room, she was reminded of why she'd always wanted to come to the opera house. The enthusiasm, the drive, the beauty that had at first been crushed by her father's death, then by the truth about the Phantom and his nature, was reawakened by this small young beauty, her breathtaking dance, and her heart the size of an empire.
The calm she felt when she knew Meg was the friend she needed expanded, turning into resolve, a sort of wisdom of her own.
Yes, Christine would do as Raoul wished.
She would trap the Phantom.
She would protect herself, her fiance, the opera, and Meg.
For if the madman destroyed the opera house, where else would a young elfin girl with golden-red curls and the soul of a warrior dance and dance and dance?
And who else would hold Christine in her small arms as the world burned around her?
Christine sat and she watched.
The figure that stood staring at Christine, watching her watch Meg, quietly departed into the shadows.