The Phantom stood behind the mirror. He watched as she slept soundly in the dark room, resting before the medical ordeal that awaited her. Light from the lantern lit her features. Manon Moreau was older than her, perhaps only by a few years, but she neither possessed her childish beauty nor her innocence that had so drawn him into such a torrent of longing those years ago.

Yet this woman possessed some attribute that he had not seen in the twittering ballet dancers of so long ago, nor any other woman in that had stepped foot in his opera house. The Phantom had seen fearlessness in her dark eyes.

In the dim light, he examined her features: the strong arch of her dark brows, a delicate, truly French nose, pale lips and skin that contrasted much with her tumbling brown hair. The Phantom remembered the scars upon her torso as he removed her bodice. He had dressed her bleeding wound, observed the small deep hole of the bullet. He remembered her face close to his. He had noticed the gash on her brow that she must have received during their fight. He saw a cut on her lip still coated with dried blood.

Moreau was a disheveled beauty, but a beauty no less.

I have been alone for so long… he thought before he could stop himself. He immediately throttled the notion.

You have known solitude all your life, fool; you should love loneliness now.

Love. He lifted a hand to his face so that his fingers brushed the cold porcelain of his mask, and in a rush of anger, he slammed his palm into the icy mirror. A deep hum reverberated into the dark passage.

Across the dark room Moreau's eyes flickered open, and she glanced around immediately alert. The Phantom was motionless as she looked for the source of the noise.

Her eyes wandered across the dark room, settling for a moment on the mirror, then moving into the shadows. Now she seemed to be looking for something specific. Moreau squinted and her eyes fell onto the dirty sack, the one she had lost in the stage alcove and which he had retrieved as she slept.

Lifting herself up on her elbows, she thoughtfully bit her lip and with a determined glint in her eyes threw her legs off the bed. The Phantom took a step forward to leave his hiding place behind the mirror, intending to toss the chit back into the bed. Yet as she steadied herself on her feet he hesitated, curious.

Moreau gritted her teeth and began to move slowly, one hand pressed against the wound on her waist, the other against the wall to steady her. The Phantom raised an incredulous brow as she began to cross the room, walking slowly but with a sturdy tread -

And collapsed.

He was beside her instantly. He kneeled and scooped her easily into his arms, ignoring her groan of pain and annoyed glance.

"You little fool; this is the second time I have had to peel you from the floor!" he said acidly, stalking back to the bed. Moreau winced at his every jolting step.

He placed her gracelessly back onto the bed.

"Insolent girl. I did not bandage your wound to have it needlessly undone. You still have a bullet embedded in your side – it somehow missed your more vital organs but your condition is still extremely delicate," he snarled at her, stepping back. Moreau flinched at the last word, closing her eyes.

If he hadn't thought she was pale before, she certainly was now. Her lips were almost the same color as her skin. All blood seemed to have drained form her face, the dark circles around her eyes were more defined than ever, and her hands trembled.

Christ, she needs to eat.

Manon savored the meal as if she had a date with the hangman in the morning. Roast chicken, rich consommé, crusty bread, soft butter, and a strong red wine. If it were not for the unrelenting pain in her side she would have wriggled in pleasure. She used her teeth to tear another bite of meat from the thigh bone in her hand and chewed, permitting a blissful hum and sated smile as she washed it down with a long sip of the wine.

Manon settled more comfortably against the bedstead and could feel his dark eyes on her as he stood in the shadows. In her gastronomic delight, she could not quite bring herself to care what a heathen she must appear.

How long since I had such a meal? she mused, licking the wine from her lips and savoring the warmth in her belly. She had finished her meal and could not help but half wonder if she were drunk.

"You appear much improved," came the low voice. He stepped forward from his perch in the shadows, mask glowing deviously, a mellow smirk on his face. Manon bit her lip. He drew a chair from the vanity table and sat down beside her bed.

He glanced at the serving tray in her lap and the smirk grew. Manon looked down. Barley a crumb or drop lingered. She had to smile back.

"May I inquire about the consommé?" he asked politely, eyes smoldering naturally.

"Delicious."

"The chicken?"

"Perfection."

"The baguette?"

"Heavenly."

"The wine?"

"Hard to say. You'd better pour me another."

To her relief, he smiled, almost a grin! She had seen him smirk, leer, and grimace, but not smile. Though she did not admit it to herself, Manon liked it. Deep inside her, like a dragon lifting its head to sniff the air after long slumber, she admired how handsome he was.

But this was, and would remain, deep in her mind, and it was swiftly dismissed. This Phantom bewildered her. Merely an hour ago he was snarling and calling her a fool, a day ago he had been cold to her, and a week ago he had tried to kill her. And now he was serving her meals.

The Phantom in question rose, retrieved the tray from her lap, and placed it on the vanity. He didn't immediately return back to the chair beside her bed but disappeared in into the corner of the room that the lantern's glow didn't reach.

He returned shortly, and in his hand was her bag.

"Yours, I presume." He said sitting down, gently placing it on Manon's lap.

Manon looked at it, eyes traveling over the familiar stains, recognizing every smudge of dirt, tracing it with her fingertips. This small, filthy thing had somehow remained with her, guarding what few possessions she could afford to keep, during these long years. She paused.

Manon looked up at this man beside her, gazing into his masked face, his eyes, searching.

"Thank you," she whispered.

Manon gasped. The Phantom's hands were colder that she expected upon her bare stomach, dangerously close to the wound. Yet it was not only the coldness of his hands upon her as he examined the wound – or the certainty of the perfectly excruciating procedure which awaited her – which caused a tremor in her belly. The bodice of her gown was completely open in order to expose her wound, and would have exposed rather a lot more had she not firmly tucked the thin blankets across her breasts and tucked it securely under her arms.

"It is deeper than expected," the Phantom murmured, brow furrowed as he looked closely.

She felt a cold finger apply slight pressure on her ribs. Manon recoiled.

"The surrounding tissues are beginning to swell, which will make it more difficult to maneuver them," he almost seemed to recite.

Lines of concern formed on the visible side of his face as he said, " We have already waited too long. As we suspected, I must extract the bullet now."

With that, he disappeared, and returned with a steaming jug and a black leather case. He sat down again, drew the bedside table, on which the candle lantern lay, closer to him and settled the jug down upon it.

"What, right now?" Manon glanced around desperately for a deus ex machina.

He ignored her and produced a piece of linen, dipping it into the hot water. Accepting her fate, Manon sat back and watched grimly. The stems of some plant bobbed in the water, steeping in the heat and giving off a pleasantly astringent scent.

That was the only pleasant thing about it. He fully removed her wound dressing, causing her to hiss as it stuck, and began to gently clean the dried blood the wound. Reddened water ran down her side, staining the sheets.

After a few moments he returned the linen to the jug and dried his hands carelessly, staring at her side in deep thought as he began to unbutton his fine black vest. Once he had shrugged it off, he threw it over to the vanity table where his long handsome cloak also lay.

He sat back down and leaned forward, frowning as he examined the wound more closely and gently palpated the surrounding flesh.

Manon's heart skipped as she looked at him again.

His dark eyes were narrowed, his firm lips set in concentration, mask glowing. Her eyes traced over his broad shoulders. His shirt was loose; its parting slightly opened to reveal a sturdy chest. Absurdly (considering the circumstances), Manon's mouth went dry.

MANON! Are you insane!? A voice in the back of her mind screamed.

The Phantom seemed to sense her eyes on his and glanced up at her.

Their eyes locked.

She blurted the first thing that came into her mind. "Let's get this over with."

She laid back swiftly and closed her eyes. Her breath was uneven.

"This will be painful," he stated quietly.

"I'll manage," she said with an unlady-like sniff. There was silence for a few moments as he sorted through the metal implements on the bedside table. Manon suddenly heard the metal clanking cease and heard him speak sternly, and grasp her arm,

"Will you trust me to do this?" She looked up at him, pausing. Then she nodded.

"I suppose I'll have to." And she closed her eyes again.