His dazed mind hadn't caught up to the moment yet; it was still somewhere in the clouds as he reeled from the bliss of this unexpected intimacy. She kissed him; she kissed him! She didn't cringe or weep or scream, but had instead initiated the kiss, the second one, herself. She could have run away, but she hadn't! She'd stayed, and kissed him! He was flying through heaven and would never come down!
"You do see me. You are the only one who sees me," he finally answered, burying his nose in her hair and inhaling deeply.
Her cheek rested comfortably against his chest, and she could hear the steady, and still rapid, thumping of his heart. "That isn't what I meant. I mean, can I see you – your face?"
If she'd thought his heart was fast before, it was fairly galloping now, though it skipped a few beats as if it tripped over itself.
"Oh, mon petit ange," he moaned sadly before kissing the top of her head. "You had to ask for the impossible, did you not?"
"What do you mean? It isn't impossible."
"Oh, but it is. No one is permitted to look upon my face. Not even you."
She scowled and leaned back in his arms to peer up at him, but he had lifted his jaw and refused to meet her gaze now. "But why? I don't understand."
"An angel should not be tormented with the vision of a demon."
"Don't say that; you aren't a demon! You're… you're… wonderful."
He smirked cynically to himself. "Lies do not become you." He released her and stalked away down the corridor in the direction of his music room.
"Wait! Please, show me! I want to prove to you that not everyone is as awful as you've experienced!" She was on the ground now, scrambling to pick up her crutches, and once they were under her arms she hurried after him as fast as she could hobble. "Erik!"
"No! I tried that before, and it is for that very reason I am condemned to this prison. All people are the same!" he yelled over his shoulder as he went.
"I'm not! You've already seen every inch of my ugliness, my shame, the scars I hide, my leg. For God's sake, I'm missing more of my body than you are! I've shown you everything; I haven't hidden from you. Why won't you trust me?" She caught up with him enough to reach out and snag tight hold of his shirt sleeve, yanking so he was obliged to stop. "Erik! Answer me!"
He whirled on her and grabbed her by her shoulders, and she flinched in surprise. He said nothing, however; just stared down into her face, a war waging behind his eyes.
Ang sighed softly, the intense desperation in her expression softening to pleading hope. "I'm not them. Trust me." Her hand reached up and gently cupped the side of his face, mask and skin against her palm. "S'il vous plait?"
The weight of that dare settled heavily on his shoulders and he swallowed the lump that lodged itself in the middle of his throat. She may as well have thrown a gauntlet at his feet. His insides squirmed and the awkwardness of that heavy silence ignited his flight response.
Every curse, every beating, every horrid person that had tortured him in the past as a result of his trusting them came crashing down around him. The warmth in his eyes turned to ice and he shoved her bodily away from him.
Her balance upset, she toppled to the ground with a soft yelp. "Erik!" she called after him, desperation lacing her tone as his name flew from her lips.
"You should have stayed in America," he tossed over his shoulder, and before she could utter another word of protest, he was gone.
What in the actual hell?
Ang stared at his retreating back, dumbstruck and mentally flailing. She couldn't have been more shocked if he had vanished in a puff of mist before her eyes like an actual ghost. For all his crowing that hid a cowardly nature, he could very well have been a specter. Maybe that was why he got his nickname.
"You're an idiot," she muttered to herself, hating that hot tears of rejection streamed down her face. Reaching for her crutches, she pushed herself up and trudged back toward her room. As she walked, she was only aware of the recent scene that repeated itself again and again in her mind, and she arrived at the foot of her bed without any recollection of actually walking there.
Her gaze swept across the room, borrowed without actual permission, like a squatter who long overstayed her welcome. Granted, part of the time, Erik acted as if he really wanted her there.
Like today. Or part of today.
She smiled before her lips were granted permission to, and she quickly smothered it. It was just a fluke, some weird in-the-moment reaction to too many strong emotions coming from both of them simultaneously. Or something like that. With a frustrated groan, she rolled her eyes, shook her head, and hobbled to the side of the bed. With a small hop, she released both crutches and flopped onto the mattress.
Now what? She couldn't stay here, not when Erik's attitude and mood was as changeable as the winter weather in the northwest, warm and pleasant one moment then stormy and freezing the next. This was worse than walking on egg shells... hell, she felt like she was traipsing across a minefield more often than not. It was exhausting! She never knew if she was going to meet the real Erik or the monster he professed himself to be. Extended time down here had revealed a self-serving, manipulative side she hadn't known existed... Or perhaps she hadn't wanted to believe it existed.
Not to mention the fact that this was – STILL – all utterly impossible.
Ang wanted to go home. As much as her existence had been downright lame in its dreary, day-to-day duplication, she longed for it now. She wanted to walk without having to rely on stupid two hundred year old crutches that hurt her arms and ribs. She wanted her own clothing, with real underwear, and jeans, and comfortable shoes again. She wanted hot running water, and a real toothbrush and paste!
She wanted her theater back. She ached to work on the catwalk again, to hang the lights, to exchange light-hearted banter with the giant Scotsman, or to share the rare coffee with Stitch while they discussed costume plans. She wanted things that were familiar, reliable, something she knew she could do and do well.
And that was when she sat bolt upright, hit with a most obvious revelation.
She was in a theater!
Well, below one, but even so! She would just make her way topside again, figure out the ins and outs of the theater above – the Opera Garnier he'd called it – and offer her services in whatever way they'd take her. Granted, everything she knew was technologically light years ahead of them, but that didn't mean she wasn't perfectly capable of learning how an old fashioned theater operated. While she might not be able to help run the pulley system, as she was likely much too light to counter balance the weights and flies, Stitch had taught her enough to hold her own with a needle and thread. Thank God she'd never taken to using a sewing machine.
With her mind made up and her heart feeling lighter than it had in weeks, possibly months, she dressed herself in something nicer than the shift she'd tossed on that morning. If she was going to convince anyone to give her a job, she'd better look the part. She wouldn't need a cloak indoors, but she could use it as a bundle and take a couple dresses and underthings with her.
As her mind ticked off each necessary item, her eyes traveled across the interior of the room. What else? She hated to take anything that didn't belong to her, but she wasn't left with much other choice. She debated returning the small watch Erik had given her weeks prior, but on second thought, it was a gift. He was bound to be angry about her leaving even though she knew it was what he secretly wanted, but returning a gift would make him absolutely livid.
And everyone knew what happened when the Opera Ghost saw red. How many times could she provoke his ire before he killed her in a fit of rage? Was he that rash?
It was safer not to stick around and find out.
Less than an hour later, she was ready to go. The crutches were picked up, her clothing bundle slung over one shoulder, and she surveyed the clean and neatened room from the doorway. Everything was as tidy as she could make it; surely he'd approve of that.
Ang turned to go, but a sudden idea gave her pause, and she glanced back over her shoulder at the books standing proudly on the shelf, the ones she'd read and reread so many times. Heading back to them, her fingertips caressed the spines before selecting Hugo's The Hunchback of Notre Dame. It was in French, not English, but she knew the book well, and understood enough French now to be able to skim through and pick out the place she wanted: where Esmeralda finally looks beyond Quasimodo's appearance and becomes his genuine, affectionate friend. The book was set lovingly atop the pillow, left opened to that exact passage.
Content with the order of things and determined to make a life for herself in Paris until she could figure out a way to get back to her real home, she quietly crept from the room, descended the stone steps, and made her way down a hall she knew would lead away from the lair of the Phantom of the Opera.