I hope you enjoy, and as always I'm grateful for any feedback!

The anniversary of her father's death was gray and chilly, just as it had been one year prior. Christine managed to get through rehearsals without breaking down, but after returning to the underground house, she sequestered herself in the bedroom and spent most of the afternoon and evening crying off and on, hiding from Erik.

It wasn't that she wanted to be alone. If anything, what she really wanted was someone to hold her and comfort her, the way Raoul used to do. However, whenever she cried, Erik's typical reaction was either to try to fix whatever it was that was causing her distress or tell her to go cry somewhere else. She didn't want him hovering around her, repeatedly telling her with increasing panic to stop crying while she mourned.

Her poor father. He had died depressed, impoverished, sick, in a foreign country with no real family or friends. He had brought them here for a better life, but it had been a mistake. They never should have left Sweden. The ever-present reminders of her mother's absence would have been hard to bear, of course, but at least they would have been home, surrounded by people who spoke Gustave's language and who knew him. Then Gustave wouldn't have been forced to borrow money from some drug lord, he wouldn't have been taken, and she never would have had a reason to contact the Phantom. She could have gone her entire life not knowing of Erik's existence.

But imagining a different life had never been helpful, and it wasn't now. All it did was make her feel even more miserable, in more ways than one. The fantasy of living her entire life in Sweden with her father made her current reality depressing, but so too was the idea of never having experienced the kind of music Erik had given her. It would have been a tragedy to go an entire life without hearing and feeling the kinds of emotions he could pull from his violin strings or with his voice. And had she never left Sweden, she never would have been able to perform in such a venue with such an established company.

However, none of that made the pain of her father's death any easier, and she felt tears dripping from her eyes and splashing onto the pillow. She remembered that she hadn't cried during the graveside service, something she had found very weird at the time. Raoul had been her anchor, but directly after the service, she had gone to see Erik instead. He had given her something hot to drink—some kind of tea. It had been an uncharacteristically-thoughtful gesture.

When she didn't emerge for dinner, Erik knocked on the bedroom door. Christine was curled up on the bed, facing away from him as he opened the door and stepped inside.

"Are you feeling unwell?" he asked.

"Just tired from rehearsals," she whispered, hoping the low volume would disguise the thickness in her voice from her tears.

There was a moment of silence. He walked over to the bed, and she immediately shut her eyes, not wanting him to see how swollen and red they must be. His long fingers pressed against her forehead, feeling for some type of fever.

"You've been crying," he then said, not falling for her pretty pathetic attempt to hide her tears. "What has Erik done to upset you now?"

She sniffled, pulling the blankets up to her chin. "Nothing," she murmured. "It's not you. I'm just tired."

"Was someone cruel to you at rehearsals?" he pressed insistently. "Was it Giudicelli?"

"No," she said, finally opening her eyes. He was tall next to the bed, and she had to crane her neck slightly to look up at him. She knew he wasn't going to give up until he had a satisfactory answer, and so she relented, her voice trembling as she said, "It's just—my dad. He died a year ago today."

She fully expected him to give a brusque "I see" and leave the room, telling her he would give her privacy to grieve. Instead, to her surprise, his eyes widened a bit, his mouth pulling into a thin line.

"Ah...I should have remembered." He reached down and gently ran the back of his fingers down her warm, sticky cheek. "Forgive me. I can bring you some tea, or I can give you something to help you sleep. Or perhaps you'd like something to eat?"

His cool hand felt good against her flushed skin, and she felt her eyes drift closed momentarily. As he started to pull away, she reached out and took hold of his fingers, looking back up at him.

"Will you stay with me?" she whispered. "I don't want to be alone."

He hesitated, glancing between her and the door. She tugged on his hand slightly, softly pleading for him to stay. Carefully, slowly, watching her, he lowered himself on the bed, and once he was finally on his back, she curled up next to him, resting her cheek against his bony shoulder. She desperately wanted him to hold her and whisper that things would be okay.

The day after her father's funeral, Raoul had spent the entire day with her, ensuring that she rested and ate, and he had cuddled with her when she had wanted it, doing his best to comfort her. The difference between then and now was stark. Erik was stiff and motionless next to her, and as she wept quietly, he did nothing but awkwardly pat her back a couple times. Still, she tried to be grateful for what he was able to give; it was better than being completely alone.

After she had cried herself out, she gave a shuddering little sigh and reached for his arm, pulling it around herself like a blanket. His hand came to a rest on her stomach, the weight comforting, and she nuzzled into his shoulder, wishing for the first time in her life that he would kiss her, soft and consoling. It was an unsettling and jarring realization. She had been afraid of his face for so long, frightened by just the idea of his shapeless lips on her. Their strange nights of touching, stroking, caressing, had never included either of their mouths. But she was too nervous to ask for fear of upsetting him and causing him to storm from the room.

"I would have taken you to see him, had I remembered," Erik then said, his voice beautiful and soft. "But I will take you tomorrow instead. Would you like that?"

She nodded, scooting closer to him with a murmured thanks. Now pressed up against his bony side, she could hear the faint, low thud of his heartbeat and feel his chest rise and fall with each breath. They lay there in silence for several long minutes. She had spent so many hours crying alone in this bed, and it was comforting to have someone next to her.

However, as if he had read her mind, he began to move away from her, obviously intending to stand and leave the room. Leave her. Quickly, she wrapped her arm around his thin waist, clinging onto him tightly.

"Don't go," she whispered.

"You must sleep," he replied. "I would only—"

"Stay," she interrupted. "At least tonight. Please. You always leave, and I don't know why."

After a few moments of hesitation, he rolled onto his back, looking at the ceiling as he quietly said, "I always assumed…" He trailed off, not finishing his sentence, and Christine slid an arm over his bony chest, trying to wordlessly reassure him that she did actually want him beside her.

"Stay," she said again. And he did, lying next to her, unmoving but there. They were silent, both of them lost in their own thoughts, and she eventually fell asleep, exhausted from all her tears. The bed was warm and comfortable, and she slept undisturbed for several hours.

Christine woke to movement beside her, blinking sleepily in the darkness. She could feel a solid body next to hers and was touched to see that Erik was still next to her. His soft, even breathing indicated that he had also fallen asleep. He must have adjusted his position, his movement waking her. She wasn't used to sharing a bed with anyone.

It was the first time he had ever slept in front of her, and she couldn't help but be curious. She wanted to watch him, see if his eyes moved under his eyelids as he dreamt, watch the rise and fall of his chest. What did he dream about? Did he also wake up in the middle of the night, too hot or too cold, leave the bed to use the bathroom or get a drink of water?

Before she had come into his life, this had been his bed. He had slept here, had dreamt here. Not for the first time, she felt a little guilty that he had insisted on giving the entire room to her. Where did he actually sleep? The floor of his office? She was ashamed to realize she had never really considered that before.

It was very dark, and Christine reached over slowly, not wanting to wake him. Carefully, she brushed her fingertips over his cheek and felt the hard, impersonal planes of the mask. Despite the darkness and despite the fact that she had been asleep next to him, he still wore his mask. It was a little upsetting.

Her fingers ghosted over the hard grooves, and she traced the brow and ridge of the false nose before gingerly touching his exposed lips, trying to be as delicate and soft as possible. They were thin, cool, and rough. She could feel his warm breath brushing over her fingertips. When her fingers touched his exposed chin, there was a sharp change in his breath, and suddenly her wrist was seized, her hand wrenched away from him. The angle at which he pulled her was unnatural and painful, and she gave a strangled little yelp.

"Ow! Erik—stop! It's just me!"

"Don't touch my face," he hissed, not sounding at all like he had just been asleep moments ago.

She tugged her arm from his grip, wincing as she cradled it to herself, her wrist smarting.

"Do you always wear your mask when you sleep?" she asked, somewhat indignantly.

"You want a monster in bed next to you?" he said nastily.

"That's not what I asked," she said, wishing there was enough light so she could see his expression. "So? Do you?"

"Why do you care?" he snapped. "You have always been happy to know as little about Erik as possible."

Anger flared up in her at the statement. "That is not true!" she said, sitting up and folding her arms, hoping he could see her furrowed brow and downturned mouth. "How could you say that? After all those time I met with Mr. Khan to ask about you? And I'm still asking things about you, but you never tell me anything." She shook her head. "I don't understand. It's like you don't want me to love you."

"Fine," he said shortly. "I typically take my mask off when I sleep. There. Now do you love Erik?"

She glared. "You know that's not what I mean."

"Then what? What can I say that will make you love me?"

God, he was infuriating. The darkness and the lateness of the hour was somehow emboldening, and she didn't feel remotely worried about his undoubtedly angry reaction as she said, "There aren't any magic words. You know that. You know what you have to do, but you won't do it."

He was also sitting up by now, and she could feel him practically tremble with anger as he hissed, "What the fuck are you talking about? What have I not done for you? I do everything you ask, I let you go to all the little parties you want, I provide everything you could ever desire, I worship the ground you walk on, I touch you whenever and wherever you want me to! What more do you want from me? But I'm not stupid. I know what it is—my face. You can never love a monster."

"It's not about your face!" she protested.

"No?" he sneered. "And if I were to turn the light on and take off this mask, you would scream and faint from—what, then? How terribly handsome I am?"

Christine could hardly believe that mere minutes ago they had been sleeping peacefully next to each other, and now they were arguing bitterly. She wanted to go back to the hours before, when she had been curled up at his side, both of them quiet and reflective. He was capable of being soft and gentle, but he was so quick to lash out, even when she didn't mean to be antagonistic.

"It's not about your face," she said insistently. "I never—" She paused, the vague idea that had been niggling at the back of her mind coming to the forefront, and she swallowed and tugged nervously on a curl.

"Kiss me," she then said.

Despite the darkness, she could practically see him reel, a sudden silence descending on them.

"What?" he finally said, his voice a croak.

She took a little fortifying breath. "Kiss me," she repeated. "If it really was about your face, why would I want you to kiss me?"

"You want…?"

It was rare for him to be so inarticulate, and she realized then, with a terrifying and exhilarating swoop in her stomach, just what kind of power she held over him. It was never something she had considered before, having always thought that Erik had the upper hand in their relationship. But now she clearly remembered the times she had told him to stay, to lie down, to touch her, to caress her, and he had done so. Every single time. And he would do what she asked now, she knew that.

"Take off your mask and kiss me," she said quietly.

Several long moments of silence passed. She was sure that his desire to kiss her was fighting against the cruel side of him that wanted to keep insisting that she was horrified by him and could never, ever love him.

But she knew which side would win, and she wasn't surprised at all when there was a soft rustling as he lifted up his hands to untie his mask.

It was too dark to see his face, and although she knew it was somewhat cowardly to do it this way, she knew it would be better for both of them, especially for this first time. She could hear the way his breathing was slightly uneven, how it came out in little gusts, and he tried one more time, "You're sure? You won't—if you scream…"

"I won't," she said. "I promise."

His weight shifted on the mattress as he leaned closer to her, and she felt his hands trembling as they moved down her hair and across her face, as if mapping out the terrain. One thumb swept across her lips. He pulled his hands away, and she could feel him lean closer to her. Her heart leapt to her throat, and for a split-second, she was tempted to pull away and say it had all been a mistake, tell him to leave the room and never come back. But then she closed her eyes and tilted her face upwards. A few seconds later, he timidly pressed his lips against hers.

His own lips were thin, not at all soft or smooth, just as they had felt underneath her fingers, and she could hear the way he breathed shakily, shuddering against her. He was not a good kisser at all, stiff and clumsy, and she leaned back just a bit to murmur, "Try to relax. Open your mouth."

He tasted a little bitter on her tongue, but it wasn't unpleasant, and she did her best to kiss him slowly, trying to wordlessly teach him. One of his hands came up to cradle her jaw, his cool fingertips barely brushing her skin. She sat there, hands awkwardly in her lap, unsure what else to do with them, what he would allow her to touch.

After another minute, he pulled away with a small sigh, almost wistful. She wanted to be brave and tell him to turn on the light and kiss her again, but she couldn't seem to make herself say it.

"Was I very terrible?" he said, a question which she found weirdly-endearing.

"No," she said immediately, trying to be polite. When he gave a disbelieving scoff, she amended, "Well…I mean, you got a lot better by the end. It was—it was good. Nice."

"Nice," he repeated skeptically. "I suppose I should be grateful for anything better than revolting or repugnant, eh?"

She shook her head in exasperation. "You'll get better. It just takes practice." The implications of that statement weren't lost on her, and she hoped Erik understood the meaning as well.

"I'm tired," she then said, rubbing her sore eyes briefly. "It's the middle of the night. Can we go back to sleep, or do you still want to keep arguing?"

He huffed, as if offended that she thought he was the one who wanted to argue, but when she put her hand on his arm and pulled as she lay back down, he followed without further resistance. Again, Christine was overwhelmed at the thought of what she kind of influence she had over him. Over Erik—over the Phantom. She wasn't under any delusion; she knew there were limits, and she knew that she wouldn't be able to live with herself if she tried to manipulate him with it. However, it gave her a modicum of confidence and self-assurety to know that she wasn't helpless.

They lay there, and she traced her lips with her fingers. The next time it happened, it couldn't be in the dark. If it did, he would know immediately that she was too afraid to look at him. The thought brought a chill to her stomach. She would have to get used to it, to him.

She rolled over to her side, facing him, and murmured, "Where do you sleep?"

A few seconds later, his voice came from the darkness: "What do you mean?"

"Where do you sleep?" she said again. "I didn't see anything in your office. Is there another room? But you told me that the bedroom used to be your room before I came down. So where do you sleep?"

"I don't sleep much," he said. "It doesn't matter where."

"But where?" she pressed. "When you're tired, where do you go?"

"I thought you wanted to sleep," he said flatly. "Not argue."

"I'm not trying to argue," she said. "I just asked a question. Where do you sleep?"

"Wherever I can," he said shortly.

"Not in a bed?"

"There is only one bed in this house," he said, "and it is yours alone."

She was silent, imagining him slumped over his desk or sprawled out on the floor. Maybe he curled up on the couch in the front room for a few hours of sleep here or there. All those images were heartbreaking. She reached over and slipped her hand into his.

"You should sleep here," she said softly. "Whenever you're tired."

He didn't reply, but she didn't expect him to. They said nothing else, and she fell back asleep, exhausted.

La Rondine turned into a very popular show, with most evenings sold out completely. The reviews Christine received were excellent, and she received an influx of fan mail. To her surprise, Erik stopped interfering.

"They are yours," he said, looking between her face and the small bundle of envelopes she held out to him. "But you will tell me immediately if anyone writes anything untoward, yes?"

"Of course," she had agreed, taken aback and touched that he was trusting her enough to receive private letters again. "Thank you."

Rehearsals and performing were a joy, and Christine let herself get swept away in the excitement of the overtures, the applause, the praise of her fellow performers, and the compliments from fans. She giggled and gossiped with other cast members in the dressing room, chatted amiably to those who helped her with her costumes, and even gave some tips and pointers to a new alto who had been hired a few months previously. It helped that the weather was finally taking a turn. The wet, gray spring was turning cool and blue, clear skies waking up the world and melting away the stubborn patches of ice and slush.

And Erik. Strange, confusing, infuriating, alluring. He hadn't mentioned the kiss again, nor had he returned to the bed to sleep after her invitation, but she had never actually expected him to take her up on the offer. He would wait for her to take the lead, something that always made her nervous. She had made so many missteps and mistakes already.

Her first attempt was clumsy and out of the blue. She had finished putting away the dinner dishes and walked into the front room, anxiously wrapping her arms around her stomach, watching as he scribbled away at the piano, his head tilted at that unnatural angle, focused on his work.

"Do you—" she blurted, feeling her face grow warm with embarrassment when he looked up at her. She blundered on: "Are you…tired?"

He frowned. "Not particularly."

"Oh." She glanced around to the closed bedroom door. "But when you are…Tired, I mean. You can come?" Weakly, she gestured to the door and instantly felt like an idiot.

His eyes narrowed, and he glanced between her and the door. After several moments, he returned to his work, saying, "I'm very busy tonight. I'm sure you will make do without me."

A few nights later, when the world was dark and silent, she pulled him into the bedroom, slipping off her shirt, asking him in soft whispers to touch her, caress her. She felt his long hand slide down to the heat between her legs, and—not for the first time—wondered what it would feel like to have his lips on her skin. The memory of Raoul's mouth on her breast was still intoxicating. What would it be like with Erik, she wondered?

He whispered her name as she wrapped her fingers around his length and moved her hand up and down, doing her best to replicate the pressure and movement she was learning that he liked. It still felt so foreign to her down there; soft and hard at the same time, warm, a smattering of coarse hair at the base, and long. Sometimes the thought that it was supposed to go inside of her made her lightheaded. His fingers seemed to fill her up already.

Afterwards, as he took deep breaths, coming down from his climax, she pulled away, holding her sticky hand out awkwardly.

"Will you stay tonight?" she asked. He opened his eyes and looked at her, his neck flushed that ugly pink color. Knowing the excuse he had ready, she quickly added, "You can just clean up in the bathroom. Please? You should sleep for at least a few hours."

A few long moments of silence passed between them, and he at last murmured, "If you'd like."

She smiled widely. "Yes. Please."

When they had both cleaned up, she curled up next to him, her body throbbing softly and pleasantly with the aftershocks of what his hands had done to her. He was on his back, looking up at the ceiling, and she imagined him lying there alone, night after night, the Opera House's Ghost, lonely and powerful.

The thought caused a memory to resurface. You now have sex with someone powerful.

She did, didn't she? Carlotta was right again. And the thought of Carlotta caused yet another memory to come to her.

Christine sat up quickly, causing him to tense up immediately.

"I forgot," she said, looking at him. "I heard it today in the dressing room. I was going to tell you."

"What?" he said.

"I heard…" She felt a little bad about gossiping, but hadn't Erik said it was his duty to know everything that went on in the Opera House? And if it was true, it would be important for him to know. "Someone told me that Carlotta and Mr. Poligny are sleeping together. That they've been sleeping together for years, and that's how she gets all her roles."

To her surprise, Erik seemed unaffected by this news. He shrugged.

"It's possible," he said.

"But you would know, wouldn't you?" she pressed. "I mean, you knew all about Mr. Poligny's…contract negotiations. Have you known this whole time that they're together?"

"They are not 'together,'" he said. "Poligny is married with three children."

The information caused her to grimace in distaste. "I guess it makes sense," she said slowly, lying back down. "Since Mr. Poligny has all those 'meetings' in his office. And Carlotta has been the lead soloist for a long time." She turned to look at him again. "What are you going to do?"

"Mm. Sleep, I suppose. Isn't that what you asked me to do?"

Christine rolled her eyes but ruined the effect by laughing.