I was feeling a little contrary today and almost didn't post but... guilt. It's a powerful thing. So here ya go! Let's have the start of a reaction, shaaaaaaaaalll we?

Onward!

xix

He should not have said anything. That much was obvious. She stared blankly at him, her mouth slightly open, and he cursed his forwardness. She had already stated she feared that pursuing their relationship too hastily would end it prematurely, and now he had suggested they enter matrimony rather than adopt a more sedate pace.

But he had meant it.

And he was so very tired of lying to Christine.

Her eyes were wide, her dinner seemingly forgotten as she stared at him. "Do you mean that?"

He was becoming no stranger to guilt. Not since he met her. At every turn he had made mistakes, had acted rashly and thoughtlessly—two attributes that he never considered would once so aptly describe him. But in this, he knew it was true, even as his conscience, what was left of it, told him that he could not even begin to consider it. Not until she knew the truth. If she chose him, as remarkable and unlikely as that could possibly be, he could not bear the thought of her ever regretting it. If he ever had the privilege of calling her his wife, he did not think it was within his power to let her go.

And if she knew he was the man in her nightmares, the one who had murdered a man in front of her, she very well might wish to leave.

Yet still, he could not lie. "That is my wish, yes."

He waited to see her reaction, perhaps looking for a glimmer of encouragement that she was not wholly adverse to the notion of becoming his bride. She swallowed thickly and took a sip of her water before she looked at him again. "Is this a proposal?"

He smiled grimly. "No. I promised you a diamond and an offer from a man you love. You have not yet indicated that either would be welcome."

She fiddled with her napkin, and he wondered if this would now be the part where she told him she was ending whatever relationship between them had begun. His heart ached at the thought of losing her, a little voice reminding him that she was completely at his mercy. He could do anything to her—tie her up, keep her with him, and she was completely lacking in the strength necessary to rebuff him.

He recoiled from such thoughts.

He had done enough to her. She had felt enough fear without him adding to it with his lack of self-control, even if it was tempting to consider. She could be his boon for his years of suffering. His reward for enduring all his torments.

Yet it would mean nothing if she looked at him with hatred. With loathing. He could imagine nothing worse than that.

And so he awaited her reaction, to tell him if his hopes were unfounded, all the while preparing himself to hear her gentle words of rejection.

Only for her to shock him all the more. "Do you? Love me that is?"

He had not thought the words required stating. "I do," he confirmed, finding the turn in the conversation an odd one. Why did she not simply rebuff him quickly? It was difficult to maintain his composure, to keep from flinging himself at her feet and begging her to issue him one scrap of happiness in the dark, terrible world he had known since his unfortunate birth.

But he remained in his chair, sitting as passively as he could manage. He would not pressure her. He would not threaten or bribe or cause her any undue distress. He simply would not.

He did so hate her tears.

"Enough to marry me?"

"Yes," he said earnestly. There was no question of that. Of all the things he doubted—whether or not she could love him, be satisfied with him—his love for her was not among them.

But enough to risk telling her the truth?

He did not welcome that particular thought. Not at all. He wished that he could embrace those parts of his soul that did not require such honesty. That their relationship could withstand a few deceptions, so long as it kept her happy and with him.

But perhaps that was impossible. Perhaps that was the part of his soul that still held some measure of goodness to it. The very same that loved her, knew that to keep pretending would be an even more terrible agony. That every touch, every kiss, every time she allowed him to make love to her—if she ever allowed such a thing, which was too incredible a notion to dwell on for long—would tear a little more at his resolve. Would linger in his mind until, mocking him that if she knew who he truly was, she would push him away in terror. Would run from him and never consider coming back.

And how could he live with himself if he took away that choice from her?

"Yet there are things you should know before you agree. If you wish to agree."

Her head tilted slightly as she continued to look at him. "What kind of things?"

He opened his mouth to answer, but a vibration in his pocket distracted him. He withdrew the phone quickly. If it had been anyone but the Daroga he would have refused to answer, but if he had called to confirm the Shah's involvement...

Christine's safety was paramount.

"It is the detective," he told her apologetically. "He may have news."

Christine nodded, picking up her fork with a disappointed expression.

His lips curled downward at the sight. He did not like for her to be unhappy.

He answered the call, simply to keep it from buzzing, though before he spoke, he rose, coming closer to Christine and allowing his thumb to brush against her cheekbone. "I shall only be a moment. Then we may resume our conversation."

She smiled then, a bit too thinly, her eyes too troubled and confused, but he sighed, turning away and putting the phone to his ear. "And here I had begun to suspect you had forgotten all about me."

He strode down the hallway to his bedroom, shutting the door behind him. He would tell her, explain things to her, but not when he could not give her his full attention and do so properly. Hearing half a conversation would only further her confusion and worry her more.

It was a testament to the seriousness of the situation when Nadir did not acknowledge Erik's rude greeting. "He isn't in Europe. He came back to the States two months ago, though his whereabouts are currently unknown."

Erik paled. He had suspected, of course he had, but to hear it confirmed...

"You are certain?"

The Daroga sighed. "As much as I can be. My contacts were leery, which only confirms it further in my mind. They were safe and comfortable enough when there was an ocean separating them, but now..."

Erik leaned against the wall of his room and released a heavy breath. Back? He had suspected. Even though he had prepared himself for the eventuality, but to know it was true—to know that it was now more than his life that was at risk…

Christine would not suffer for his past. She simply would not.

"Erik? Try not to panic."

Erik released a chuckle, a dry humorous sound. "Might I remind you that you have an entire police force that is interested in seeing that you remain alive. I have no one."

The Daroga was silent for a moment, and Erik tried to collect his tumultuous thoughts.

"Is Christine still with you?"

Erik rolled his eyes. "You imagine I would abandon her somewhere?"

Nadir sighed. "No. I'm trying to understand the situation. Are you somewhere safe?"

He hoped so. He had done what he could to ensure that nothing could lead an investigation to his doorstep. He paid cash whenever possible, and had searched the car thoroughly for any further signs of interference. He had found none, and liked to think that he was observant and clever enough to outwit one of the Shah's other goons.

Yet, he had not been before...

"Come on, Erik, I want to help you. Help her. I can only do that if you let me."

Erik scowled. "And what is the nature of that help? I return to your precious city, you put her into protective custody—brilliantly done before; might I be the first to congratulate you—while I find my safety in the confines of a prison cell? That is hardly incentive to allow for your help."

The Daroga huffed out an annoyed breath. "You think very little of me."

"Do you deny investigating me?"

"You were still murdering people, Erik! I swore when I got you out that I would start fresh. I was going to be a good cop, this time. No bribes. No corruption. Just clean police work. And I thought you were going to do the same."

Erik's lips pressed into a thin line. "Buquet was an unfortunate necessity. I do not know why you felt the need to show Christine some of my older work, nor why such an esteemed," perhaps he said that with a bit too much mockery, "officer is so concerned with cold cases. You know perfectly well who committed those, and that I had little interest in continuing."

"Erik," the Daroga began, his tone suddenly careful. "Those weren't cold cases. There have been three murders in the past six months. And I thought..."

Typical.

"You thought you already knew the answer before you fully had a grasp on the problem," Erik could not quite keep the disgust from his voice. "It would appear you have another man to search for, Daroga, not just me. Not that I do not thoroughly enjoy your unjust accusations at every turn..."

Nadir grew very quiet, and Erik was quite ready to disconnect the call entirely. Everyone presumed the worst of him. They always had. He was ugly, so he was beyond kindness. He certainly would not give it, so he was unworthy of receiving it in return. Except, as a small boy, he had longed for it so. He would watch other children trudging along on their way to school, a mother hovering nearby as she watched over them, giving the pretense of independence while maintaining her care and attention.

Later, when trapped in the confines of his cell, his display, he had seen families together as they perused the exhibit. Not all were cruel to him—usually older teenagers who had ventured to the carnival unaccompanied were the very worst. But the families...he had longed for one of his own. For one to see him, and to invite him to join them.

He had kindness in him. And goodness.

Until it had been buried away with too many beatings, too much hunger, too much despair.

The Shah had given him hope, and that was the cruelest thing of all.

His men had freed him one night, had promised him a different life, a better life, and though wary, he had almost believed them. They had driven him to a fine home, grander and more luxurious than any he had ever imagined, and allowed him to bathe and dress in real clothes, informing him that he would soon dine with the Shah to discuss his future.

Because evidently, he would have one. One with food, and luxuries, and hot water. He would not have to beg for a bucket to wash in any longer. He would not have to plead for a moment alone—even an hour without someone watching him. Nor would he ever again be forced to endure his head being plunged into the icy offering until his lungs burned and he regretted ever having asked for it to begin with, his captor cruelly laughing at his plight. He would have real clothes too—ones that would no longer consist of rags so old they were nearly disintegrating each day he was forced to wear.

"A corpse such as you wouldn't have pretty clothes," his captor had sneered at him when first he had been sold into the fair.

And rather than be naked when the throngs of people passed his cage, Erik had donned them.

And hatred had grown within him.

And settled there.

Until he had grown tired. So very tired. He knew the absurdity of crafting a home beneath an opera house. But it was the promise of privacy. Of dignity that could only be assured with solitude. To be free of his masters, those past and any who would claim to be in future. To be close to something beautiful, to the music that had so enriched him when first he had discovered it, it all seemed a perfect solution.

And then he had found Christine. An intriguing girl, he had thought in a distant sort of way. He had...wondered about her. He would never claim to have loved her when first he had decided to take her away with him. It was a solution to a problem. But now...

He had left her contemplating the possibility of more with him, and though he was nervous, though it terrified him to think he would have to divulge so much of his pain and history... if she consented to be his, it would make it worth every harrowing moment.

"I'm sorry," Nadir said at last. "You're right. I should have been more objective. Are you saying... are you saying you've killed no one since I..." Freed him? Released him? Both suggested a debt that Erik was all too aware of. And he resented it.

"Perhaps. Though I should think you would appreciate that if I had committed such a misdeed, I would have the good sense to hide the body so that you should never find it."

"You didn't with Buquet."

Erik's lips thinned. "Might I remind you, there was a bit of an interruption."

"True." Nadir was fiddling with something, the tapping suggesting a pen. Was he taking notes? "What do you intend to do?"

That was the crux of it. Planning was in his nature. During his respective captivities, he had always fantasized about escape. The manner, the mode... how many deaths would be necessary in the process and the means in which to implement them. But lately his thoughts were consumed with other pursuits—they had been since this entire venture began. Christine was a distraction. A lovely, wonderful one, but a hindrance nonetheless. Yet he could not muster even the pretense of minding.

Except now, when he needed to think, to plan... all he could think of was the sweet girl waiting in the dining room.

"I shall do what is necessary." As he had always done. Especially since now he fought for more than his own life. He fought for Christine's.

"I still think you should come back. Before you start up again, I know you think it's inadequate, but we really can keep Christine safe. And... I won't arrest you. I probably should, but..." He groaned in frustration. "I almost believe that you didn't kill these men. And I don't want to see you in lockup while I sort it all out."

"How generous."

"I'm trying here, Erik. I want to help. I want to believe that I didn't make a mistake all those years ago by helping you escape. What you did with Christine was still very wrong, though, and I think you should seriously consider bringing her home. Don't keep her a prisoner. Surely even you can see how cruel that is."

"No, Daroga," he answered, his voice dripping with unconcealed sarcasm, "I could not possibly."

The man sighed yet again. "So what are you going to do?"

And though it frightened him more than he would ever admit. Though he knew he could lose what tenuous affection had been growing between them, he knew there was only one thing he really could do.

"I am going to go speak with Christine."

Sooo... Wouldn't be a Phantom story if Nadir didn't interrupt now would it? Foolish man... Who's anxious to get back to Christine and see what Erik has to say? Are you proud of him for actually consulting Christine this time? It's like he loves her or something...