A/N: I NEVER write canon so this is crazy for me! It will be the closest to canon I've ever written, and although the events leading up to Christine in the chapel are based off of the movie, the rest of the story WILL be non-canon.

I've always wondered this - what if he just had enough and had to come to her as a man? What if being an angel wasn't enough for him anymore? And doesn't Madame Giry have a bit to explain, shoving him down there? Was she truly saving him, or condemning him?

…

Through the Painted Glass

Slipping backstage unnoticed was easier than Christine had imagined; every single dancer was already pressing pink lips to long spouts of liquor bottles, and smoke rose from cigarettes in the air – a haze that she could get lost inside of. She hurried along toward a back corridor that led her into a void of silence, with only a flicker of distant sound from the backstage celebrations. She didn't want any of the armfuls of flowers, nor the starry-eyed looks from the new managers; she only wished to speak with her Angel, and prayed within her mind that he had heard her voice rising from the stage mere minutes ago.

Downward, she plunged through hallways and stairs until she was at the doorway of the basement chapel. The only sounds were the trickling of water behind the walls, and the soft dragging of her crystalline dress train along the floor. She knelt at the small altar, crossing herself before she struck a match and lit a candle for the memory of her father. It was here, her father's spirit might linger about, along with the angel that he'd sent to her…for her.

An Angel torn from God's right hand.

"Tell me you heard, Angel," she spoke gently, her eyes downcast, her hands clasped together in a position of prayer. She could finally breathe deeply, now that she was here. All that mattered was that he would appear to her once more, and praise her for all of the lessons she had so carefully followed upon her stage debut.

For tonight, there were stars embedded in her hair, and a flourish of red blush upon her cheeks. It was something that she never expected, to be chosen to sing once Carlotta had made a very public and preposterous exit. Her angel had been warning her of this day, though; she just never expected it to come this quickly, and with such pleasure, such power.

"Angel, please tell me you're here. Please tell me you heard!" She was breathless, a laugh almost forming in her throat; the first time in months that she'd even uttered so much as a giggle. She knelt down onto the cold cement, her skirts folding in around her like tufts of cloud from an evening sky. She began to hear footsteps that approached, a sound from behind the walls that was out of place – alerting her senses that something wasn't quite right.

Christine gathered her skirts and rose at the sound, whirling around to ensure she hadn't been followed. Strangely, the door to the chapel remained closed, just as she'd left it, but the footsteps still continued, growing louder by the second. She stared incredulously at the painted glass window on the far wall, moving toward it as quietly as she could. Surely it was a dream, hearing the footsteps of an angel! Surely, it was only in her mind…

A loud thud sent a fissure of shock through her, as two shadows of large sprawling hands appeared from inside the painted glass. Christine blinked, shaking her head, rubbing her eyes – but the palms still remained in place. "Angel…?" she whispered, stepping closer to the glass. "Is it you?"

"Christine," a raspy, deep voice answered, "It's me. I'm…I'm here."

She cocked her head, placing a hand upon the painted glass over the right palm; her hand was so small in comparison, and she could feel heat from behind the glass.

"You're…you're out of breath," she murmured curiously, pressing her ear to the cool surface. "Why are you…how are you…?"

"I…I…ran here," the voice mused, seeming overconfident, and a tad bit arrogant. She slowly began to back away from the glass, frightened at the handprints that could not belong to an angel, but a man…a man with hands instead of mighty ivory wings.

"Wait. Christine, please wait. Let me explain," the voice was slightly slurred, and Christine shook her head against the voice, refusing to believe that her angel would indulge in drinking as mortals did.

"You're not him," Christine said slowly, tasting the bitterness of the words on her tongue. She heard him breathing heavily, right there, through the shards of glittering glass…

And then, it happened. Icy reality collided into her, just as the handprints slid down the other side of the glass, leaving trails of sweat in their wake. She stood up tersely, looking around wildly – had someone come to play a trick upon her? One of Carlotta's little henchmen?

"I'm…I'm not who I say I am. To you, I am an angel. I always wanted to be. But now, it's…it's impossible for me not to tell you. You can abandon me after this, and I promise I'll never…never sing through the walls, or your mirror, or this painted window. But right now, I…I have to reveal myself. If I don't I'll…I'll always wonder what you might have thought. Of me…" The voice was all-consuming, and it captivated her immediately – her heart opened up at the sound, but her mind spun a thousand different stories at once – it couldn't be anybody else.

It was his voice, but different than before. A bit raspier, drier, and…desperate?

"Who…who are you?" Christine whispered, terrified at the voice and the handprints that matched…and what it would mean if they matched.

"If you're no angel, then…what are you? A spirit? A stagehand playing with my head?"

"You know I'm no stagehand. You know my voice. Just…just promise me you won't run. If I…if I reveal myself to you. Just this once, Christine. Please."

He was pleading with her.

She took a deep breath, backing away from the painted window until her bare shoulders touched the cold stone of the opposing wall. "But I don't understand, you…you can't…you're not…" She swallowed a lump in her throat. Her head screamed out for her to run. To find Madame Giry, to tell her that there was some backstage drunkard who was pretending to be her angel, her teacher, her closest friend. She knew that her angel would never be able to show himself – humans couldn't be in the presence of godly creations anyways…so she decided that whoever it was behind the painted glass was not her angel…He couldn't be. It was impossible.

But why didn't she run now? Why did she wait for him, the slurred, ragged voice that seemed to be filled with pain?

"Come out, then," she called out, splaying her hands against the wall behind her. "Let me see you."

There was a shudder and a creak, and the painted window began to open like a doorway. A tall, shadowed figure stumbled out, and she covered her mouth with both hands, too shocked to even scream.

He tripped on the edge of the archway and sprawled across the cemented flooring, while Christine watched with widened eyes, her heart pounding in her ears. He slowly pulled himself up into a kneeling position, and it was then that she saw him – all of him, his chin lifted, his eyes glittering, his mouth agape. She could not move, or speak, or even think.

She could only breathe.

The man's mouth twisted into a semblance of a smile, gesturing grandly with his hands – a mockery of his entrance and his visage, she supposed. He wore a baggy white shirt with smudged dirt and mud smeared on the sleeves and stomach, half tucked into black leather trousers. His open shirt revealed dark chest hair, shining with sweat, and his eyes were blue…the color of ocean waves flowing through the back of her mind, and suddenly she could smell salt and sand in the air.

His hair was polished but tousled, black as the night, and he ran a hand over it in an unsuccessful attempt to tame it. "I know you're…you're frightened," he managed, his eyes traversing her – and she held her arms against her chest as reality and dreaming collided once more.

"You're not…no. You're not him," she whispered angrily, tears pooling at the corners of her eyes. "You're not! You can't be. He's from heaven, and you're…you're…"

"From hell?" he interceded, his mouth twisting into a smirk. Christine shook her head, charging forward with strength she did not know she possessed – and slapped him hard, across the left side of his face. He fell backwards a bit but steadied himself, adjusting his jaw as he looked up at her. "Hit me again, if it pleases you. Just don't leave."

"You! You've been the one behind the walls? You've been the one listening to every…every secret I've ever had? It's been five years! Five years, and you…you took advantage of me! You lied to me! And you finally decide to, what, reveal yourself after I finally am able to sing – so you can gather some sort of credit, some sort of…" her voice broke as she turned from him, her skirts flowing behind her angrily, a maddening storm, a shattering of everything that she knew.

The man sighed noisily, rubbing a hand over the left side of his face. "Yes. Yes it's been me. Fuck, hate me if you need to. That's fine, hate me, Christine. I just…I just wanted you to know. I couldn't keep it inside any longer. Don't you realize that it killed me too? To pretend I was some sort of spirit from heaven? You'd never have trusted me if I just…just…walked through your mirror one night…you'd never have – "

"You pretended to be an angel sent by my father!" she cried hysterically, covering her face with both hands. "My dead father! And you're not…you're just…you're just…"

"Erik…if you want to know. My name is Erik. And in my defense…well, this is what kept me from being honest with you," he motioned to the masked side of his face. "I know you're angry, I…I just couldn't lie to you any longer. I know you may never wish to speak with me again. I just…"

"Are you drunk? You reek of liquor! God!" Christine paced the floor, not knowing how to react to the flood of emotions that coursed through her. The man – Erik – nodded dully, his eyes suddenly filled with sadness.

"Yes, I am drunk. Very drunk," he cocked his head to one side, watching Christine as she paced the floor. "Can you please sit down?"

"No, I'm not going to sit down! I'm not going to do anything you tell me to anymore! Five years! Five years you've lied to me! How can I ever trust you? How?"

Erik leaned back on his feet, sliding to the ground with legs extended. He propped his chin up on both hands, almost looking childlike for a moment. Christine scowled at him, looking across the room toward the door. "I should leave," she responded miserably, but something within her knew she wouldn't. Was it wrong to make him feel bad, now? For what he had done?

"I understand if you do," he said in a low voice, hanging his head between his knees. "But I've been a good teacher, at least…haven't I?"

Christine stopped pacing suddenly, and collapsed on her knees to the floor. She stared at him, hunched over, his hair falling in tendrils over his ears. "Where do you live? How do you move through the walls…how were you everywhere that I was?"

"There are tunnels beneath the Opera house, hundreds of them. That's where I…well, that's where I live. Giry, she…she brought me here, years ago. From a place that people don't come back from. Let's call it hell, shall we?" He smirked again, lifting his chin and tilting his head back, his eyes fluttering shut. Christine winced as she felt his pain, trying desperately to push away the feeling that she really knew him; she wanted to keep hating him, to be angry with him, but…the longer she sat near to him with the painted glass window wide open, the more she began to see and understand. He was a recluse. Perhaps spat out from society, from the whole world.

Just as she had been.

"Madame Giry?" Christine repeated blankly, and he nodded slowly. "She knows about you?"

"Yes. All of it. Every…single…bit of it. Funny, isn't she? Letting this ruse continue. Passing my notes back and forth to the managers." Erik let out a short bark of laughter, staring at her devilishly. "She's been lying to you, too. Your precious stage-mother."

"Why are you acting this way? You're not like this! My angel isn't some arrogant, egotistical, open-shirted drunk!" Christine spat, surprised at the venom in her own voice.

"You should be angry with her, Christine. She knows everything. Knows that I was pretending to be your angel. That I live down here…in fact, she's the one who put me in this prison. I didn't come here willingly," he paused, pulling a flask from the inside of his shirt fabric. "Maybe you shouldn't truly hate her, though…for without her, you'd have no angel," he chuckled, drinking deeply from the silver flask. "And without me, you'd still be in those tight pointe shoes; silent, washed into the colors of the backdrops."

Christine frowned, glaring at him. "Aren't you drunk enough already? Give me that!" She leaned forward and snatched the flask from his hands, holding it idly for a moment. "What's in here?" She suddenly wanted something, anything to dull her senses – maybe a sip of his liquor might make this less heartbreaking.

For her angel was gone. And a man had appeared in his holy, blameless stead.

A drunk man in a half-white mask.

She pressed her lips to the spout, choking down the bitter liquid, shivering as it burned the back of her throat. When Erik reached for it back, she pulled it away from him, clutching it to her side. "Don't touch me," she warned, and he shrank back from her, holding his hands – large and very calloused – up in the air.

"I mean you no harm," he said quietly, his eyes pensive. "I never wanted to scare you, or…or to hurt you."

"Well…you did. You've hurt me already and I've just learnt your name," she replied coldly, taking another swig from his flask. "And now I'm drinking like a stagehand." Christine shook her head, staring at the ground, then slowly, she began to stare back at him. His arrogance faded away with one spiteful glance from her, and he seemed to disappear into himself, his eyes once more full of raw, feral anguish…

And fear.

"I drank because I planned to come see you. I was nervous. Then I drank a bit more, and then…suddenly I'm stumbling through an underground river," he sighed, his blue eyes searching her own before dropping to the stone floor. Christine sighed, her heart softening as his voice settled itself inside of her, just like it always had.

A lit candle glistening in the darkness. A candle that always showed her where to go, what to sing, how to feel…

"God," she whispered, "It is you." She took another drink, playing with a stray star-shaped pin nestled in her curls. "I just wish…I wish you hadn't lied. I wish you would have told me. I would have understood. I know what it's like to be alone."

Erik placed a hand over his mask. "I wanted a chance to know you. And this…this covers something horrific. Something that I couldn't risk you seeing. I was afraid you might see me…as a monster. Not a man."

Christine eyed the mask, feeling a bit braver now with the heat of liquor curling inside of her stomach.

"Can I…can I see what's under there?" she asked tentatively, scooting a bit closer to him, smoothing down the billows of her dress. Erik did not speak, but shook his head passively, his eyes squeezed shut.

"No. Please don't ask that of me."

"All right, I…I didn't mean to pry," she replied softly, emptying the contents of the flask down her throat; did she tremble at the sting of the liquor, or was it the scent of earth and musk that radiated from his open shirt, his exposed flesh…She could not place a feeling on what was swirling around inside of her. She felt…warm, and not as afraid, and…

A strange, melancholy sort of happiness.

Nothing else existed in this moment. A woman had just found out her angel was not from above, but from beside her, here, on earth. A man, although drunk, who had stumbled through underground rivers, shattering his no-contact promise with the outside world for her.

Could he be a good man, after all?

"You're an orphan then, aren't you? And your parents, are they…?"

"Dead, I believe," Erik responded quietly. Her eyes wandered to his feet, where tightly laced boots, splattered in dried black sludge, covered halfway up his calves.

"But you don't know for sure?" she asked, her eyes falling upon his chest for a moment. She had never seen a man with so much hair on his chest. It made her throat tight, and she forced her eyes to look away.

"Do you…do you go outside? You don't look like a man who lives underground."

"I do. I go many places," Erik began to trace a finger in the dust on the floor. It looked like another language. "I go where I please, when it's dark out."

"Yes, but why do you stay down here? Why do you still do what Madame Giry says?"

"She does what I say," Erik said tersely, pulling back to admire his artwork on the floor.

"What does that mean?" Christine slid closer to him, curious to finally have a glimpse into her angel – Erik's – clever mind.

"It's Aramaic," Erik drew himself back on his knees, gesturing for her to see.

"Well, what does it mean?" she asked again, absentmindedly pulling a handful of pins from her hair. Curls began to fall down around her shoulders, and Erik looked away, prompting her to giggle slightly; from him or the alcohol, she did not know. She could not tell, anymore. Everything, even him, was blending into one, darkened picture with a lightning strike splitting it right down the middle. An electrified flash that might have caused a fire in a wide, green field…

If she were a field, then he, undoubtedly would be the fire. He would be the strike from the sky. Angel, or no angel.

And although the images inside of her mind were dark, they grew like vines, glittering with fireflies, with beasts of the night that hid themselves away. Out of fear or mistrust, perhaps.

But one thing was for sure; this land, this world of the night was so much better, so much richer than the world that she knew from above.

"I'm…I'm sorry for slapping you," Christine blushed, admiring the swirls and cuts of the language she did not know written in the dirt in his handwriting. "I shouldn't have, I was just…confused. Confused and angry with you. But now I know it's not entirely your fault, although…I'd like to see. To see your home, where you live. If you'll take me there, of course."

Erik looked up at her with astonished eyes. "You want to…to go with me? Down there?" He pointed toward the painted glass doorway. Christine's eyes glimmered with mischief, and a warmth pooled in her stomach. "Can I trust you?"

He stood up, stumbling only once, smearing the Aramaic dust with his foot.

"That's one thing you should never, ever doubt, Christine," he replied, his voice heavy and deep, cradling her, catching her as she fell back down to earth.

As he stepped through the threshold, he held out his hand to her. She was nervous, at first, to touch him, but found his hand to be warm, although rough and calloused. And he pulled her through, shutting the painted glass door and locking it from the other side, leaving the rest of the world behind as they tumbled down into darkness.

…

A/N: THOUGHTS?

The next chapter is in the works...

As always, thank you for reading.

Love, L.