Author's Note: Chapter Originally Posted on Ao3 on Jan 8th, 2024 - Now we are all Caught up and new the Chapter will be posted on both sites tomorrow!

No Regrets

The day was proving strenuous, though that was to be expected with the agenda he had to fulfill, such as his conversation with Buquet.

That man had a way of striking Erik's every, last, nerve.

The matter of Buquet had always been something of a contention. Erik never liked having his haunts being so closely watched by the Fly Chief. That deplorable man would spend more time drinking, leering at the Petit Rats, and chasing Phantoms, than he ever did managing the ropes and sets as he should.

Erik had hoped to avoid killing him this time. However, Buquet had puzzled together that Chantseur and the Phantom were one and the same, and made a threat against Annette. These were things that Erik could not let pass. Which was why his most dreaded task of the day was done first.

After his little conversation of thinly veiled threats was had, a tiny pang of guilt for killing Buquet in that other life was felt. Not necessarily for killing Buquet, but more for the 'brats' in his… care? Was it even care? Did it even matter? The thought of sending innocents alone and into the world, because of Buquet's death, was almost sickening.

Perhaps it was because of Gustave, and that miniscule taste of fatherhood, that spurred the guilt. Maybe, it was because he somehow managed to scrape his way into being a slightly better man.

Of course, the presence of a dying sister and her 'brats' had to be confirmed.

Doctor Mehri made that easy by opening the window.

As 'drama' unfurled in the Buquet residence, Erik came to understand two things.

If Buquet continued on a course that would lead Erik to take his life again, he would not hold regret or ponder the welfare of those girls.

Second… Erik gained a certain understanding of Mehri and his nature. Mehri was the only on-call Doctor for the Garnier he bothered to keep track of, or whose name he bothered to learn. There were reasons for that, of course, that stretched back years. Even with an added decade, Mehri was one of those men not easily forgotten. Given the circumstances, no one would have forgotten him.

However, a part of Erik wondered if Mehri adopted those girls that other time.

No matter. There was no way of knowing that answer, but the notion gave him some solace.

From the Buquet tenement, Erik went about his usual channels of procuring necessities for his home. His kitchen was currently far too bare for his liking, a very problematic situation when he could not take Christine to a proper restaurant for a meal. Then came the things that pertained to quality of life for her and him. Though Erik had to admit, most of the items needed were for his beloved's comfort, such as a few simple frocks and underthings for her to have a change of clothes after a night in…

As the day and dull errands wore on, Erik came to stand at an unnerving crossroads, in both reality and his mind. There was a looming predicament that was not something he could ignore or put off until a later date.

This was a finite matter. There was no delaying to debate the logic, not when the knots forming in his stomach demanded he make this change. Erik was never one to feel the pangs of anxiety, at least not in the manner he felt now. The decision he held in his hands would bring more changes to this new reality. By letting things progress naturally, as history would have it, Erik knew he would bear the burden of doing nothing.

Erik lingered in the alley across the street from LeMaitre Investigations, a private firm operated by two brothers, both former Detectives of the Préfecture. Even he had to admit a certain irony of keeping track of these two, and the inherent risk. Years parted them, and a lifetime brought them back. Try as he might, he possessed a certain steadfast obligation to them that was not easily vanquished.

Although his information was technically quite old and flawed, there was one day in the near future that he remembered with painful clarity, and the stab of grief that stirred his cold heart when he read the headline, days after the fact.

The day his younger brothers died.

Murdered in an alley, in a case that their former compatriots of the law never bothered to solve.

Between Christine running off with the Vicomte then, his madness in writing Don Juan Triumphant, and the murders of his estranged siblings, Erik had no wish to repeat those six months of tragedy and heartache. He did not want to shed tears over their deaths in this way again.

While his heritage was something of a sore subject better forgotten, his brothers were innocent of the abuses of their parents and their exceptionally cruel mother. It was just after Valen was born, that Erik was cast out into a crueler world than his 'home.' Liam was scarcely three at the time.

Over the years, Erik kept well away from them for their benefit, to let them have a chance without the blight of him on their lives.

For what good it did. It seemed his absence proved as detrimental to them as his presence.

Erik watched the pair of detectives turn onto the street, heading for their office. Both were darkly dressed, with one in a Homberg hat and the other in a Chester-style fedora with a shorter brim that was pinched up in the back and flat at the front. They were of similar builds and height, the one in the Homberg carrying himself with a more erect posture and a stiffer set of his shoulders. Liam. The other was a bit taller, slimmer, and more relaxed in his demeanor, by comparison. Valen.

He watched them with rapt attention as he peered over the top of his newspaper, that unnerving pang of prudence and regret clenching breath from his diaphragm. It was strange to watch them go about their lives as they discussed some topic in avid enthusiasm, Valen speaking with his hands while Liam was more restrained, as though he was consciously keeping still.

When the pair vanished into their office, where dark green paint was chipping around the front façade, Erik took several moments to steady his wits. Then, in practice of his lessons to Christine, he adjusted his posture and tucked the newspaper under his arm before crossing the street. With every step that took him to their door, Erik fought his want to retreat. While he was not looking forward to finally speaking to them, for the first time in decades, it was an unavoidable necessity.

A small bell chimed above the door when Erik stepped inside, drawing the attention of a brown-haired man with beady dark eyes, a narrow face, and a mildly crooked mouth. He was sitting at one of two central desks in the cramped room, typing up a document on a worn typewriter. However, when their eyes met, the man nearly jumped from his seat at the sight of the mask.

"Can I help you, Monsieur?" he inquired, his voice almost youthful, although a minor rasp tainted its lucidity.

Erik glanced around the small space brimming with shelves and filing cabinets, noting various points of interest. A third desk was against the wall, a bit more private than the center pair. It sat wedged between a pair of bookcases that helped fill every available paneled wall of dark-stained wood. On the far side of the small workspace were two windowed office spaces at the back, where Liam and Valen occupied one of them together, as they loomed over a table in discussion.

"I am here to speak with Messieurs LeMaitre on a matter that would be of some value to them," Erik said, with a nod to the pair.

The unnamed man glanced between them and looked Erik up and down in a familiar assessment, coupled with hesitation.

"It's alright, Jorge," a new voice said, drawing Erik's gaze back toward the office, where Liam stood in the threshold, dark brows furrowed and his gaze exacting, while his manner remained quiet. "If he's come here, it must be important." Liam turned away and went back into the office, where a wide-eyed Valen was looking through the windows.

Jorge settled back into his seat, though he continued watching as Erik glided through the overcrowded space and stepped into Liam's office, upon being granted entrance by minor gesture.

Shutting the door behind him, Erik looked over the pair before him. Both were smartly dressed in dark-colored suits and plain ties that were gaining popularity for their simplicity. They were almost identical in their handsome appearance, with near-black hair cropped short and parted on the left. Liam's hair was perfectly combed back, without a strand out of place, while Valen's was more natural, with a few waves not tamed by a pomade. A further difference between the pair was that Liam's face was a bit more squared, with finely chiseled features, dark blue eyes, and lashes that would have women pawing at him. Valen was taller, with a narrower shape in his face where his features were less defined, and his eyes were a more typical shade of blue that did not border on being black.

They looked like their father, Valen perhaps having a softer cheek that hinted at the shape of their mother's features, which was thankfully faint.

"After all this time," Liam began, in a brief tremble of emotion that dissolved into steely resolve, "you appear now? Why?"

Erik paused and slowly took off his fedora, holding it by the brim between his fingers, as he clasped his hands before him. "I have no intention of intruding upon your lives; if that is your concern," he murmured with a glance to a brass picture frame on Liam's desk, that he had enough of an angle in which to glean a wedding portrait. It drew his eye more than the various contraptions neatly arranged throughout the room, in addition to multiple bookcases and work surfaces.

Valen's cheek twitched, with a clench of his jaw.

"I only came to inform you that I have heard whispers that there is someone who aims to kill you both, likely by hire."

"By whom?" asked Liam after a poignant pause.

"I was unable to ascertain any further detail." It was true. The article bore little useful detail, in the absence of context. He could not divulge the source without implicating himself as being quite mad. He was never 'right' in the head and was often reminded of his wrongness of mere existence, but not to that extent.

"Then, where did you hear this?"

Another question he could not answer. "Irrelevant. Anything else I might have to offer you would be speculative at best."

"That would be better than nothing," Valen said at last, his eyes still trained on Erik as if committing something to memory.

The intent of that gaze was neither readable to Erik, nor appreciated. Regardless, he did his best to ignore such unrelenting attention. Liam was equally studious, though he recognized the analytical glint there. "As our nation's tumultuous history of government suggests: the honorable seek justice and the corrupt pursue revenge. Either way, blood is so readily spilled, with fewer questions asked."

"Curious statement, coming from you," Liam said.

Erik clenched his teeth, wondering just how much they knew. In all likelihood, more than he cared to know. "One does as one must to survive. Though by default, I consider myself more an observer and the world a museum, with exhibits I strain to understand. I see repeating patterns that either no one else can, or they choose to ignore. Either way, greed is often in the habit of winning by popularity."

Eager to take his leave, Erik returned the fedora to his head as the words hung between them. As he turned away, with a tight grip on the brass doorknob, he felt a gentle hand fall to his arm and fought the urge to let his elbow fly backward at the head of the other.

"You are not an intrusion upon our lives, Erik," Valen said in a dulcet tone that could melt the iciest barrier. "Don't continue to remain a stranger to us, please?"

Erik said nothing as his throat swelled, though he remained rigidly in place.

"My wife and I have dinner promptly at seven-thirty," came Liam's voice. "You are welcome at our table on whatever night suits you."

Erik remained silent, and the moment Valen's hand fell from his arm, he bolted through the door.

As the LeMaitre brothers watched their estranged sibling take flight from their office, Valen asked, "Do you think he will?"

"I think…" Liam began, as he settled thoughtfully into his chair behind the large desk, where he took a pen and began jotting down a note on the parchment before him. "That there will be a shadow outside my home, debating if he has the nerve to accept the invitation. What I am currently more interested in, is his speculation."

Valen pursed his lips. "We're the honorable who took on the corrupt."

Liam gave a nod, "And the corrupt wants revenge."

"The repeating pattern."

"Of the world, not just France."

"Why be so cryptic and not just say it forthright?"

Liam finished writing out Erik's cryptic responses, word for word. "Because I believe there is more being said between the lines."

~x ~x ~X~ x~ x~

Hours ticked away, and it was late into the afternoon when Erik emerged from the mirror in Christine's deserted dressing room. Although rehearsals had concluded for the day, it was probable that she was still within the confines of the opera house. The Girys had ballet practice still, and Erik doubted that Christine would leave without them.

However, what concerned him was that the room was dark and vacant. Not one electric lamp remained on in her absence.

Odd.

Christine was not fond of the dark and favored leaving a light on for her return. If dark, it meant that she was gone for the day.

Gliding over to the vanity, he flicked on the smallest lamp and spied a knotted black ribbon deliberately placed at the center of the table. Erik's fingers tightened around the stem of the fresh rose he brought for her…and the note. Pursing his lips, he hesitated and reached behind the vanity's mirror, to feel folded parchment bend under his probing fingers.

Erik plucked the note from its hiding place and opened it with a simple flick of his index finger.

E.

I don't know what occupies you today, of all days. After tasting heavenly bliss with you that has left my spirit soaring, I find myself plummeting now, without getting to savor the moment long enough to carry me until tomorrow.

Raoul came here during the break, and he did not take the news that I was courting another well.

Come to me, my Sweet. I need the comfort of your arms around me and your kiss on my brow.

~Christine

The stem of the rose snapped in Erik's right hand, while his note to see her tomorrow crumbled in his fist.