Imoriginalwooo: I've never abandoned a fic once I'm in this deep! I've got it mapped out, so I shouldn't be able to write myself into a hole.

FantomPhan33: Thank you for all the lovely reviews! They were hilarious and very insightful.

E.M.K.31: I tried to make Christine much more self-aware too! Of course, she's still only 24 years old, and she's been through some harsh stuff, and we'll see her not dealing very well after this upcoming chapter. Poor Christine!

Historical facts come from Google and my nerdy husband. Let's roll with it. :)

Chapter 8

Christine slept restlessly during the first part of the night. Her blankets felt too heavy, but when she kicked them off, she was too cold. Her pillow wouldn't change into anything but a lump under her head no matter how many times she beat it with her fist. She rolled onto her back and blew her curly hair out of her face with a puff of annoyed breath.

She was highly aware of the fact that she had left Erik hanging out in the living room, in her father's clothes and with a pile of her spare sheets. Erik, the masked man she thought she would never see again, much less find him here in her own home. Erik, who had sent her away only to follow her here.

To make matters worse, her chest was aching with increasing discomfort. She had been able to avoid her usual Percocet for the better part of a week, but the ibuprofen was still necessary. Getting caught up in Erik's arrival, she had forgotten to take any. When had her last dose been? With lunch?

She rubbed down the center of her breastbone, but the pain was intensifying too much. Uncomfortable too much to sleep, she swung her legs out of bed, slipped on her robe, and headed to the door of her bedroom. When she pressed her ear to the door, she couldn't hear anything on the other side. However, she could tell at least a little light was on in the living room. Trying to be quiet, she cracked open her door and peered out.

Erik sat on one end of her couch, which was the only place to sit in her living room. The sheets and blanket lay folded neatly on the other end, untouched. He had one lamp turned on, and he was reading. He looked over at her when she came into the room, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.

"I hope the light did not wake you," he said.

She shook her head. "I was having trouble sleeping anyway."

As she came closer, she could see that he had changed into a set of clothes she had bought him, and she felt a warm flush of pleasure at that. He still wore his mask, and he had also replaced his wig. The thicker black hair was clean and combed neatly back. Overall, he was looking more like his normal self, though still a bit less formal without his suit coat or accessories. He had even donned a pair of black socks, and she spied his shoes sitting by the front door as they dried.

He closed the book he was reading, leaving one long finger inside to save his place. She noticed the title was one of her textbooks from a semester ago – a dry recount of the history of pulley systems for the stage. Not the best elective she had ever taken.

"A common problem?" he inquired.

"What?" She looked away, having been caught staring.

"Your insomnia."

"Not always. I'm just… hurting. I forgot to take any painkiller before going to bed." She made her way to the kitchen to find her bottle of prescription-strength ibuprofen. She popped two and chased them with a glass of water. "I was distracted earlier, you know."

"Ah." He tilted his head to the side, considering. "Is your pain expected to get better with time?"

It was an odd question, especially since they had never openly talked about what had happened to her. She knew, of course, that he had read her medical files, but that meant he only knew of her past from the perspective of her doctors and surgeons.

She was still pissed about all of that.

She made her way to the couch again and perched on the arm furthest away from him. She didn't trust herself any closer. "I'll answer your question if you answer one of mine."

His face darkened at that challenge. "Questions are treacherous territory, Christine."

"Only if you let them be," she said with a shrug. "Shouldn't you wait to hear my question before you panic first?"

"Ask it, then." His eyes glowed in warning.

Her heart skipped a bit at the sight of those golden depths. Damn him.

She cleared her throat. "Okay. How did you get here? I highly doubt you took a plane, especially if you left soon after we talked on the phone."

"How much of the truth do you want?" His response should have angered her, but she found it rather endearing. He was asking if she wanted to be protected from anything uncomfortable, and therefore giving her the choice.

"All of it," she answered honestly.

He shifted his body to face her more. "I cannot fly because I have no passport, no identification of any kind, in fact. I cannot travel in any of the typical ways one might. I couldn't take a passenger ship because I dared not involve Nadir in this; he would have taken steps to stop me. Therefore, I boarded a freight ship."

She frowned at that and rubbed one of her arms uncomfortably. "You mean a ship that carries goods? Supplies?"

"The same. They have small crews and plenty of shipping containers in which to hide." He lifted and dropped his broad shoulders in a shrug. "I have traveled this way before. I disembarked as the ship reached Boston's harbor. The rest was a walk to get here, but I was able to keep to the shadows."

No wonder he had been in such bad shape last night. He had gone through horrible conditions to get here, and yet he spoke of the experience as though the trip was something he would do again if he had to.

He had done it for her.

She pressed her thumbs against her eyes, the call of sleep starting to creep upon her. "How do you talk about this stuff so calmly?"

"Practice," he replied. "And my question?"

He had read her files, so why shouldn't she talk about it? But she always dreaded when someone found out – they acted so differently afterward. People couldn't handle when she talked openly about it, especially the aftermath of her surgery.

She sighed. "The pain should get better with time as I continue to heal, but it might always hurt, at least a little. The road to full recovery is long. Though I didn't lose my hair, chemotherapy was difficult, and my body didn't handle surgery well either." What had Erik said to her before she left? Oh yeah. She couldn't keep the bitterness away. "Don't worry. I'm not like you said, a dying woman."

To her satisfaction, he winced at that. "Christine-"

"I want to drop it, Erik, and go back to bed."

He looked like he wanted to continue the conversation, and she didn't think she could continue to be polite if he did. But then he acquiesced and turned back to his book. She took one last peek at his still form before she returned to her room.

Christine woke to the smell of something cooking – onions, peppers, and maybe a little ham? – mixed with the fresh scent of coffee. She tossed on her robe, finger-combed her wild hair, and headed out of her room.

Immediately, she noticed how dark it seemed in her apartment. It took her a moment to realize that all of her curtains were closed, including the thick blinds over her sliding glass balcony door. Besides her bedroom window for privacy, she never left them like that, preferring the openness of being able to look outside. Bright sunlight peaked through the edges, showing that today was going to be a beautiful day after the rain.

Erik stood in the kitchen, dressed the same as he'd been in the middle of the night except he had donned his shoes. He was stirring something on the stovetop with a spatula.

She looked at him and then the curtains. "It's rather dark in here, isn't it?"

"It is now," he replied coolly. "Did you sleep well after you went back to bed?"

"I did." She walked over to the kitchen. He stayed facing away from her, busying himself with whatever he was cooking. It smelled heavenly. "Can I open a window? Let in some light?"

"I would prefer you didn't."

"Why? Are you allergic to the sun?"

The temperature in the room seemed to shift, growing several degrees colder. Erik's turned back radiated a new tension. Christine realized she had just said something very, very wrong. Why had she come out being so flippant first thing in the morning?

Even with the curtains drawn, the light in her small apartment was somewhat bright, brighter than it had been last night. Erik had existed only in candlelight under the opera. She had never seen him aboveground during the day, and here, she had only seen him at nighttime. With his black clothes, he seemed to merge with the shadows, becoming one with the dark. The absence of light seemed to be a space in which he preferred to exist.

"I'm sorry," she said. She came to his side, but he still didn't look at her. "I was just making a joke. It was stupid."

There was no reply. A glance at what he was cooking showed her that he was making an omelet. Erik added freshly shredded cheese to the pan, then flipped the omelet in half before sliding it onto a waiting plate. He placed it on the kitchen table where he had set out one place setting.

"There is coffee as well," he said, his face carefully blank. "I did not know how you take it."

"I'll get it." She fixed herself a cup and brought it to the table. He gestured for her to sit. He didn't join her, and he had only made one omelet. "Do you want some too? Food or coffee? I can share."

"I had tea before you woke."

He probably didn't mean to hover, but he did, standing next to the table, a little too closely. Christine took a bite of the omelet; it was delicious, and she told him as much.

He seemed satisfied by that and started to wash the dirty dishes he had created. The sight of him, standing there in the black pants and light gray button-down she had bought him, a kitchen towel tossed over his shoulder, hands covered in soap suds, disturbed her. This reality was so different from the one she had known beneath the opera house.

She finished the omelet, famished after her lack of dinner last night, and waved him off to rinse off the plate and put it in the dishwasher. Taking her cup of coffee with her, she motioned to the couch. "Sit with me?"

He obliged. At some point, he had put the untouched sheets, blanket, and extra pillow away. Although he kept his movements slow, he walked easier this morning, his actions less labored. She wondered if he had slept anymore last night. He sat on the opposite end of her small couch, resting his hands on each of his thighs.

This was so weird, this moment. She curled her legs under her, sipping her coffee. There were a million things she wanted to say, and none of them seemed appropriate for right now. She decided to keep things mundane. "I have to go to work at 11 at the library. It's an 8 hour shift, so I should be back around 7:30. I can bring back dinner too. Or we can cook here."

"As you like," he murmured.

"I'm sorry there's not much to entertain you here. I have books, but you found those. I have TV but only local channels. Cable is expensive." She gulped down more of her coffee, glad it had cooled.

"You want for money?" he asked, his revealed eyebrow arching.

She let out a small laugh. "Not really. I get by well enough, though. Hang on a second." She finished her coffee, put the cup in the dishwasher, and hurried to the bathroom. A moment later, she brought back a collection of items. She rejoined him on the couch, this time sitting a little closer.

When she reached for his mask, he sucked in a furious breath and caught her hand in one of his own, not causing her any pain, but firm enough to stop her.

His voice was dark, threatening. "I let you do that once before, but I will not yield today, Christine. Not now."

She kept her own breathing calm, her expression as open and pleasant as possible. "I saw your face last night. You have sores from wearing your mask too long."

"Not your concern." He didn't let go of her hand, keeping it encircled in his own.

"It is my concern," she said softly. "Let me clean your wounds, Erik."

He studied her face, amber eyes searching for what, she didn't know. His grip loosened enough for her to slip her hand free. On his own, he reached up and slipped off his mask, revealing the hideous half of his face. She had never seen him in the daylight, and with the red lesions on his sharp cheekbone, distorted nose, and thin-skinned forehead, it was all she could do to look upon him calmly. She was sure her heart was pounding, but she ignored it.

Amazingly, her hands didn't shake as she dipped a cotton ball in the isopropyl alcohol. "This might sting. I'm sorry I don't have anything more appropriate."

He nodded, giving his assent, and she began to dab the soaked cotton ball onto the worse areas of his cheek. If it hurt, he gave no indication. His eyes, too close now, studied her as she worked, but she stayed focused on her task despite how aware she was of his proximity and attention. His hands, the fingers splayed over his thighs, flexed against the dark fabric. Maybe she was hurting him?

She remembered something her father had done once when she had scraped her knee. The alcohol had burned horribly, so he had tried to help. She blew out a steady stream of breath onto Erik's cheek, trying to dry the solution and relieve the stinging.

He jerked, and his hands came up and grabbed her upper arms, holding her away from him. "You should leave, Christine."

"W-why?"

"I fear I my control is… looser than I would like right now. I might regret my next actions."

She swallowed thickly, glanced away, then met his glare evenly. "I haven't put any antibiotic ointment on yet."

"Leave it," he said, not letting go of her arms. His eyes roamed over her and landed on her neck. After a few seconds of staring, he shoved her backward and lunged off the couch, putting the length of the room between them. His uncovered face, with its twisted expression, was terrible in the harsh light of day.

She gave him some time to compose himself, not moving, not saying anything. She had touched him too much, pushed him too hard, exposed his face twice in less than 24 hours. No wonder he was now pacing like a caged animal. She rose slowly, setting aside the supplies, and held out his mask.

"You don't have to put this on for me," she said, keeping her voice low and even.

He paused, stared at her, eyes wide. At once he was in front of her, but he wasn't looking at the mask. He was looking at her neck, and when he lifted his hands to move aside her hair, she didn't move, letting him push aside her curls so he could get a better look. His long fingers were cool against her neck, the backs of them brushing against her skin.

"I hurt you."

"It'll fade," she said, meaning the bruises.

"Will it?" Was he still talking about her neck? Each of his hands rested under her hair, the long fingers encircling her neck without touching. One of those hands had come so close to strangling her only hours earlier, merely because she had startled him awake.

Oh yes, he was still the deadly man she had first met beneath the opera. None of that had changed here in the small living room of her very normal apartment. In fact, he was even more of an imposing force than before. He had proven that he could not leave her alone, that he would travel in horrendous ways, thousands of miles, just to capture one more glimpse of her. Despite the fact that she had told him repeatedly to leave her alone, he had done the opposite, tracking her down and invading her personal space, her private life.

Realizing all of these terrifying facts, she should have yelled at him to get out. She should have the moment she saw him on her balcony. She should now. He was still inspecting her neck, the slight pressure of his fingertips turning her neck this way and that so he could see all sides. She felt very exposed by his attention but oddly not afraid.

If she stepped away from him now, she would be confirming his own worst thoughts about himself.

This close, in the daylight, she could see his golden eyes weren't quite so alarmingly strange in color, the yellow flecks giving way to a hazel shade of green mixed with brown. She still held his mask. After another long moment, he dropped his hands and gently plucked the heavy white porcelain from her grasp. He ran a hand over the gruesome side of his face before replacing his mask, hiding himself from view once again.

She breathed a sigh not quite of relief that he had released her. She wasn't ready to be touched so much by him, not again. She had a horrible habit of losing her common sense where he was concerned. She did know what she wanted him to do next, and she wouldn't let him protest and be avoidant about it.

She fetched her cell phone from her bedroom and brought it to him. "Erik, you need to call Nadir."

He scoffed. "I would rather eat fire. Something I have done before, I might add. Burns more on the way up than down."

She was glad to hear him attempting to joke, but she wouldn't be deterred. She pressed the phone against his chest. "He's probably going out of his mind with worry. How long have you been gone, anyway?"

"Nine days," he whispered.

Dear god! "You have to call him and let him know you're okay. He's your friend!"

"Hardly the word I would use." But he took the phone from her and punched in a number, not mentioning the fact that Nadir's number was no longer available in her phone. He'd probably quickly realized why.

They both waited as the phone rang a few times, and then the older man must have answered because Erik made a grimace.

"Ah, Daroga. You're still alive."

There was a long pause of silence, and then Nadir's voice rose up in a long string of angry shouts in a language Christine didn't recognize, something Middle Eastern. Persian? He went on and on yelling at Erik, and Erik stood there and took it, his mouth a firm line of held back annoyance.

When Nadir drew in a breath to continue, Erik sought the opportunity to interject. "Come now, Daroga. Be reasonable."

Nadir continued on his loud rant. Erik held the phone away from his ear.

"What's he saying?" Christine asked, unable to keep from wondering.

"Nothing I shall repeat for your innocent ears." Erik put his mouth back to the phone. "Enough, old man. You will destroy Christine's good opinion of you." He hit the speaker button, and Nadir's voice flowed through where Christine could hear, this time in English.

"She's there? Erik, where are you?"

"Hi, Mr. Khan," Christine said. "I hope you're well." She still hadn't forgiven the Persian for prying into her medical files, but she at least understood why he had done it. Erik was the one who had reacted so badly.

The anger in his tone softened. "I am better now that I hear your lovely voice." Erik scowled at that, and Christine waved him off.

"I'm sorry you had to worry so much, Mr. Khan. Erik is really sorry too. He would've contacted you sooner but I only now thought of it."

Both men snorted, and Christine thought they were fighting much like a father and son might fight, neither one wanting to fully break ties with each other but neither willing to back down. Of course, Erik had tried to kill Nadir… and that didn't seem like the first time.

"Where are you, Erik?" Nadir asked again.

"Boston."

Nadir hesitated, then said in a weird manner. "Is… everything all right?"

"I'm fine," Christine said, knowing he was thinking the worst. "We're both fine."

Erik glanced at her, then focused on the phone. "I suppose I could have left you a note."

"At the very least," Nadir said. "I woke up and you were gone. I left you alone for a few days, but when I went to your home, and you had obviously not been there in a while, I feared the worst. I checked all of your usual spots, but you left no trace at all, Erik."

Erik sighed. He massaged his exposed temple with long fingers. "Not the first time I have vanished."

"No, but the first time after speaking with Miss Daaé. I did see the records you left on my phone, you know."

"So why not contact her? You could have found out her new number easily enough."

Christine shifted her weight from foot to foot, a bit uncomfortable that they were talking about her as though she couldn't hear them. Should she be listening to this?

Nadir was angry again. "I do value some privacy, Erik, despite how much you believe I don't. I tried to find you using other avenues first."

That caught Erik's attention. He straitened, staring at the phone with new interest. "Did you now?"

"What was I to think? I wondered if in your misery you had gone to pick a fight."

Erik waved a dismissive hand that Nadir couldn't see. "I am not so reckless."

"Aren't you?" Nadir paused, letting out a puff of breath. "In my search, I did discover some disturbing developments with… them. You are back on their radar for the first time in years. They know you've left Paris."

Erik swept up the phone from where he had laid it on the table between him and Christine. "What? How could they possibly know that? I left no trace anywhere. None, Nadir, not even on the ship. I made sure of this!"

"They must have set up surveillance somewhere. Maybe of you, maybe of me. I saw no warning of this, none at all in the usual circuits." Nadir hesitated, then said as politely as he could, "Is Miss Daaé still listening?"

Erik gave her an indescribable look, almost like he had forgotten she was there. Then he clicked the phone off speaker and held it back to his ear. He murmured something in Persian and strode to the other side of the room like he was trying to keep the conversation more private. Christine moved to sit on the couch and watched Erik pace around the small space, his free hand gesturing through the air.

Erik spoke nothing more in English, sometimes speaking in Persian, sometimes switching to his native French. Christine wondered how many languages he spoke. There was really little she knew about him beyond the snippets he and Nadir had revealed during the short time she had known each of them. Her masked companion was growing more agitated as the conversation went on.

Finally, he handed the phone back to her. "Nadir has questions," he snapped. He left her again and went to stand by the balcony door, peering outside between two shades.

"Hello, Mr. Khan," Christine said into the phone.

"Do you mind if I ask you a few questions? About the past week?"

"Not at all."

Nadir proceeded, stopping just short of what felt like an interrogation. Christine got the feeling that he had done this before. He inquired about her movements since she had spoken to Erik on the phone – where she had gone, who she had spent time with, anyone she had seen that looked out of the ordinary. He asked who had her new phone number, and who knew about Erik, if anyone. Here she cut her eyes at the masked man who hadn't moved from his position, and she admitted she had told Meg at least a few details.

When he seemed satisfied, he asked her to return the phone to Erik.

"Of course I will do anything," he snapped. "I have everything I need with me. Tell me who is first." He listened for a while longer. "Yes, of course we can take care of business. Use the account in New York. No, not that one. Yes, that one. Damn it, Daroga, what protocol are you following? Yes, get your head together, old man. The stakes are too high."

Nadir said something that caused Erik to pound a fist against the peeling plaster of her wall. Christine jumped. "Hurry up. The first flight to New York. Of course the cost doesn't matter. Get on with it!" He hung up and set the phone on the table behind him before bracing an arm against the wall and pressing his forehead against it.

Christine didn't dare say anything or touch him. She stayed silent and still, waiting.

"Ah, Christine," Erik said at last, the sound of her name on his lips making her heart ache. "I fear what I have done by coming here."

"Is Nadir in trouble?" she asked.

"Not if he follows my directions. He does so often think he knows better."

She hesitated, then continued quietly, "Are you in trouble?"

In response, he slid one hand inside his pants pocket and produced a length of red rope. She recognized the punjab immediately and sucked in a sharp breath. She was more than a little unnerved that he toted it around like he might his car keys. But he could take care of himself, then. Of course he could.

She thought about all the questions Nadir had asked her, about the possibility of being followed by strange people she didn't know.

"Okay, am I in trouble?"

He turned around at that, tucking the punjab away, his eyes shining fiercely. "They will never touch one hair on your pretty head, my dear, for they would lose their life before they could even consider the thought."

Pretty? He thought her pretty? She flushed, looked away, then met his gaze again. "Who are they?"

Now it was his turn to look uncomfortable. "Old accomplices of mine. I told you about my time in Persia, yes? Now called Iran. The Shah I worked for was not the last Shah but rather a Persian lord with wealth to match his mother's sadism. Royalty had already collapsed by the time I entered the country, but out in the mountains, word took years to get around. When I finally had enough and wanted out, I took what I could carry and fled."

"But Nadir was captured."

"He was. He spent five years in prison before being released by the new anti-Shah regime and given a full pardon."

"But you weren't pardoned?"

"Hardly. I had killed the Shah and his mother, taken most of their wealth – both on my person and spread among overseas bank accounts – and contributed to the liquidation of their hierarchy. Their family still tries to hunt me down."

Erik had killed the Shah and his mother? This was something he hadn't admitted to her before, though she had known he had worked as an assassin. The thought of Erik killing anyone still made her dreadfully uncomfortable.

Christine thought for a moment, considering something Erik had once told her. "So what are the five countries that want you dead?"

He gave a grim smile. "Iran, of course, and its primary allies: Lebanon, Russia, Palestine. I have, at some point, also managed to anger Belarus."

"Belarus?" Christine echoed. She had never even heard of the country.

"Close trade relations with Iran. I once did my best to destroy the relationship between the two countries, but I was found out before I could do much besides take over some assets." He shrugged. "A beautiful country with terrible politics."

Christine wanted nothing more than to continue to talk about all of this, no matter how much the topic unnerved her. It was clear to her that Erik had lived a lifetime before she had met him, and she had only just scratched the surface of his experiences. Suddenly, she felt very young, very inexperienced. Did she really know anything at all?

"Christine?" Erik called. He stretched out a hand toward her, checked himself, and dropped it to his side. "I have frightened you."

"Yes," she admitted, wanting to be truthful. "Who wouldn't be afraid when hearing you talk about your past? It's all a bit much to take in."

He ran a hand over the exposed side of his face. "That it is."

Christine glanced at the clock on her oven. "Crap, I really have to get ready for work! I can't be late because I start when everyone else goes to lunch. Do you want me to get your clothes dry-cleaned while I'm out?"

He nodded, and she was aware of his gaze following her as she headed toward the bathroom. She made sure she grabbed her clothes for the day and took them with her so she wouldn't have to run back to her bedroom in nothing but her robe. While she took a quick shower, she pondered everything he had revealed to her. He seemed to be making more of an effort to open up to her, which certainly made her happy than if he was trying to hide it all.

He and Nadir had been so mysterious and vague about what was going on. Nadir had been so pissed at first. Nadir thought Erik had been rash in his decision to trek across the Atlantic, but Erik had done it for her. He had endangered his life and stirred up his past… because he had been worried about her.

Christine dressed in a comfortable pair of jeans and a nice tank top with a cardigan because the library often got chilly. She combed her curly hair that she would let air-dry and put on a tiny bit of make-up. When she emerged from the bathroom, Erik was sitting back in his spot on the couch, now toward the end of his reading.

She hurriedly put on her flats and grabbed her purse and keys, as well as her phone. "Sorry I don't have a phone here at the apartment, but um, my laptop is right there. You can send me a Facebook message, and I'd get that on my cell." She felt weird explaining all of this to him – how much did he even know about computers? – but he only nodded. "You can eat and drink whatever you want. Please, whatever you need. I'll be home around 7:30, and I'll bring us something to eat since it'll be a bit late."

"That will be fine."

She stopped at the door. He had tucked his carefully folded dirty clothes into a bag, and she scooped them up. She gave him a long look. "I'm sorry I have to be gone for so long." Why did she feel guilty leaving him? He'd done the same to her every day she'd spent with him in Paris.

"Spare yourself, Christine. I have been alone most of my life. I will manage."

"Okay, then. Um, have a great day!" She all but threw herself out the door before he could reply, feeling utterly idiotic.

Would she ever feel comfortable around him? She spun between being so dreadfully uncomfortable and so utterly attracted to him that she often had no clue how to act. She hated the way her cheeks heated at every little thing he said, but she couldn't help it. His voice alone could raise goosebumps across her skin.

Christine shook her head and quickened her walk to the campus library after dropping off his laundry. She had no way of contacting Erik until she returned home, so she could at least lose herself among the books for a few hours.

Oh dear so much talking in this one. More action in the next, I promise. Things are about to get even crazier for Christine.