Chapter Text
Each time that Christine's mind urged her to wake, her body dragged her back into slumber. Three times this happened when she could tell from the light in the room that it was well into morning. Each time, she felt a stab of anxiety that Erik might still be there and then, confusingly, even greater anxiety that he might not be. So heavy were her head and eyelids that she could not even bring herself to look for him, hinting at a deep-seated sense of safety that she would later try to deny existed.
When she finally did open her eyes, she spent five terrifying seconds panicked that she was missing work until she realized that it was Sunday, her one day off. Then she located him.
He was sitting straight-backed in an armchair, one long leg crossed over the other, and he was reading a newspaper: the very picture of a gentleman, if one discounted the bone-colored porcelain masking half his face. It was perhaps the most relaxed she had ever seen him, but even then he still carried himself with a rigid solemnity.
She wondered whether he had even slept. She felt some guilt over taking the bed; he certainly owed her that much, and more, but he did have an injury.
When her gaze found his face again, he was looking right at her. She felt herself flush, and she sat up in bed, smoothing back her hair as she did so.
"Good morning," Erik greeted her. "May I get you something? Breakfast? Tea?" His courteous tone belied the utter absurdity of the situation.
She wanted coffee. It had become a vital part of her day since she had started working at the laundry. But he had not let her drink it under his tutelage, citing potential damage to her vocal cords, and she suspected that he did not drink it himself. Therefore, she did not ask.
Instead, feeling refreshed and emboldened, she gestured toward her satchel. He was up in an instant—too fast, judging by his subtle wince—and he brought it to her. He sat gingerly in a chair next to the bed as she pulled out her notebook and pen to write. This was her chance to say anything that she wanted, anything she had dreamed of saying these past eight months.
But there was nothing more that she needed to say about his treatment of her, she realized. She had made clear to him, that final night in his home, the anger and betrayal that she had felt. He knew, and he harbored remorse. She had seen it in his eyes then, and she could see it there now: the look of a man haunted by his own sins. Rehashing them right now would not be productive, and who knew how much time she had? So instead, she addressed the transgression of his that he had yet to answer for, the one that had shocked her to her core when she had come to fully process it. She wrote a single question, and then she angled the notebook for Erik to read it.
Why did you murder Piangi?
His jaw tightened. "So we are doing this now, are we?"
She replied so quickly that her penmanship suffered, but she hardly cared. If not now, when? She fixed him with a stare, waiting for him to reveal his intentions.
Instead, he muttered, "When indeed?" and rose to his feet. She watched him run a hand distractedly over the dark hair of his wig as he considered his response. "It was a matter of circumstance," he finally said. "He was in the wrong place at the wrong time."
Though she had suspected as much, Christine's anger flared at the utter senselessness of the act, so much that her mind could not form a coherent response. Erik watched her, tight-lipped. "It was not premeditated," he added. "In fact, I—" He paused, studying her face as though trying to predict a reaction, and she took to the notebook with impatience.
Tell me.
"I do not remember killing him."
His words created a thick silence. She gaped at him. She did not write the question burning in her mind because she knew it was evident in her expression: how could one possibly forget taking the life of another man?
He sat back down in the chair, hunched forward with elbows to knees, hands clasped as he looked down at the floor. "There have been," he said, "a handful of episodes in which I have found myself having carried out entire sequences of events, without any awareness of having done so. Violent events." He raised his head to look at her now, skewering her with the eye on his masked side that was so icily blue it seemed near transparent. "It starts with rage, with blood pounding in my ears. My vision turns red and narrow. And then, nothing. Time and memory cease to exist, until I come to and must ascertain what I have done."
And this happened during Don Juan?
He nodded. "I saw you waiting in the wings, holding hands with that fop, and I became incensed. It occurred to me that if we could sing that duet together, then you might see—you might remember—the connection that we had. In fact, there was a moment on stage when I thought that, perhaps..." He shook his head and laughed low and quiet, without mirth. "No. A testament to your acting ability, I suppose."
She did not correct him, and she hoped that he had not seen the panic that had stilled her body.
"The next thing I knew," he said, "I was walking onstage in Piangi's cloak. And I felt, in my gut, what I had done."
But did you regret it? she wrote.
"Not at the time, no." He got to his feet once more, extending a long arm to anchor his hand on one of the posts at the foot of the bed. "I cannot pretend to have liked the man, Christine, but I agree that it was a poor course of action. Forgive me."
Oh, she was seething now. A poor course of action! As though taking a life had been simply a misstep in the pursuit of his goal. She had never understood Ubaldo Piangi's devotion to La Carlotta, that much was true, but that was hardly something to die over. He had always been courteous to Christine despite his lover's vendetta, and he had always shown up ready to work, wielding his resonant voice with impressive skill.
It is not only my forgiveness that you need, she wrote, and even that will be hard-won if you cannot comprehend the value of the life that you took.
"Yours is the only forgiveness that I seek," replied Erik succinctly.
It should not be.
He exhaled, the air whistling through the nose-holes in his mask. "Perhaps."
What were the other such episodes that you spoke of?
"The chandelier was one."
And Buquet's death?
He took a slow, deep breath. "No; that was not. He had become far too much of a nuisance."
Well. At least he was honest. The confession made her feel sick to her stomach, however.
What provoked all of these instances? she wrote. Why so much rage?
Here he looked at her closely again, the unmasked parts of his face honest and open. "I was convinced that you were the one to save me, and I clung to that at all costs. Woe unto anyone who interfered."
Including me.
He winced as though she had struck him. "Yes."
Dark and imposing as he was, he seemed so very human to her now. He had been utterly selfish, of course, but it was not hard to understand how a man so tortured and isolated could become so desperate for rescue. She knew that she need not—no, should not—apologize, but she wanted him to know her sympathy, even if she could never fully convey how crushed she had been to leave him so broken and alone.
I am sorry I could not be that for you, she told him.
His eyes widened as they lifted from her words to her face. "Oh, but you were, Christine," he said with quiet reverence. "Perhaps it was not in the way that I had hoped, but you showed me that my salvation was entirely in my own hands."
She looked on in disbelief, scarcely believing her ears. She had not expected him to take responsibility for his actions, let alone credit her for that development.
"I have endured much cruelty in my lifetime," he went on, "and I have responded with malice. But you! How much cruelty you endured at my own hands, and you chose to respond with compassion! You are still making that choice, even though I do not deserve it. You are an angel, a saint, and I would have gladly thrown myself at your feet in worship."
His words made her uncomfortable. She was far from a saint, and she did not want to be worshipped. Don't, she wrote. Idolatry is perhaps what doomed us to begin with.
Erik nodded. "I understand that now. But until you, my dear, I had no context for relationships. I looked to Don Juan as a role model, for God's sake."
At this, she could not help herself; she smiled. In fact, she had to bite her lip to keep herself from erupting into silent laughter. It was utterly baffling that a genius could be so clueless when it came to human interaction.
His face softened. "'Loose now and then a scattered smile,'" he said, "'and that I will live upon.'"
She glanced at him questioningly, even as something inside of her fluttered and warmed at his words.
"Shakespeare," he said. "Ah, Christine, would that I could show you how you have changed me."
He already had, she thought, by opening himself up to her like this. But she seized the opportunity regardless. No more killing, she wrote.
His mouth tightened when she showed him the page. "That is a lot to ask," he said, "given the present circumstances."
She nodded resolutely.
"Ah," he continued, "but perhaps that is your aim. You would have me die at the hands of these men, knowing that I will do what you ask of me." There was no bitterness to his voice, only resignation.
Her eyes went wide as saucers. Did he truly think she wanted him dead? She was suddenly overcome by the realization of how glad she was that he was not dead, after all of this time. Eight months of not knowing—was that why he had haunted her dreams?
But she had known, hadn't she? Because she was inextricably linked to him, through the barriers of even space and time, and she would have felt it had he vanished from this earth: her angel of music, tall and dark and brooding, her opposite in every way except for the music that had brought them together. Even now the air crackled lightly between them, abuzz with tension and promise.
Christine shook her head fervently to indicate that, no, she did not wish him dead.
She could not say what possessed her to do what she did next—the heady rush of gratitude, perhaps, that he was alive and whole, or maybe the emergence of his raw and vulnerable humanity—but she found herself sliding out of the bed to go to him. She heard his swift intake of breath as she wrapped her arms around his torso, and then she lay her head against his shoulder and held him.
"Christine." Her name was little more than a shaky breath escaping his lips. His long arms came up to envelop her back and shoulders, pulling her to him even harder, and he lay his unmasked cheek against the crown of her head.
Her muscles relaxed against him, even as she felt his heart thudding away in his chest. It felt too easy, too natural, this embrace, and she realized just how lonely, how starved for human contact she had been of late.
Surely that would also explain the warm tendrils of desire that had begun to curl around her midsection.
They maintained the embrace for some time before Erik murmured, "Oh, Christine, you angelic creature. How am I to bid you farewell a second time?"
He intended to release her, then. She sucked in a breath of surprise, and then she wondered why she was surprised at all; he should release her, after all. Unless it was not surprise that she felt, but rather something more...wistful.
On impulse, she lifted her head to look at him, and the respective angles of their heads put her lips right in line with his. She froze, drawing in a quivering breath. Her mind instantly replayed every single fantasy, good or bad, that she had experienced in the last eight months regarding those broad lips. Were they as soft and yielding as she remembered?
Their mouths hovered against each other, waiting, as their warm exhalations of breath mingled and interchanged. It would take only the slightest movement for them to touch. She could sense from Erik's hitched breaths, and from the coiled tension in his body, how much he wanted it. Yet, he resisted. Did he, like her, suspect that their story would still be ill-fated? Or was he simply waiting for her permission?
The idea of rewarding him incensed her. She was still so angry with him, after all of this time, yet that only seemed to fuel the reckless part of her that ached to give in to her craving for touch after so many months of isolation. Stop thinking, her body urged. Stop thinking and give in.
She swallowed. The simple action forced her lips closed, causing an inadvertent brush against his mouth. The contact sent a shock rippling through her, all the way down to her toes, and he emitted a small gasp. There would be no coming back from this, she thought.
Suddenly, there came a hard knock at the door that sent them both clambering apart.
Christine had pulled away out of embarrassment, so it was only when she saw Erik's tense and alert stance that she realized the threat inherent in the knock. He slipped a hand inside his tailcoat as he edged closer to the door, no doubt to ready the Punjab lasso. She stood stock still, waiting, willing her legs not to tremble.
Finally, he completed his silent prowl and leaned forward to peer through the peephole. At once, his shoulders relaxed and he drew back. "Leave the linens outside the door and go," he said loudly. "I have requested no fewer than five times to never be disturbed! One more infraction, and your superiors shall hear from me again."
Christine heard a muffled "Yes, monsieur" from the opposite side of the door as Erik stepped back and sighed. "Is it really so much to ask for competent staff?" he asked of no one in particular. He looked back at her, and she averted her gaze. She did not want a repeat of what had just transpired between them.
She could feel the heat of his eyes still on her, and it was a long moment before he spoke again. "I will put you up in a hotel until you are able to find a more permanent residence, and then I will draw my pursuers away from the city so that you are left alone. I only request that we wait until evening, when we will have the cover of darkness again."
She nodded her hesitant cooperation. "Good," he said. He crossed over to her in a few easy strides, sleek as a cat, and lifted the abandoned notebook to give to her. "Now, if you would be so kind, I would very much like to know what you have been up to lately."
So she summarized as succinctly as she could, noting how he struggled to keep his face impassive when she mentioned the broken engagement, and again when she disclosed her job. He seemed determined not to comment on her affairs, and she was both impressed and grateful. When she had filled him in, he thanked her and left her alone.
Though the day was long, Christine was surprised to find that it was not awkwardly so. Erik seemed comfortable with their silence and generally left her to her own devices. She mended her stockings and made more bandages for him; she read the book she had been keeping in her satchel; she wrote a vague letter to Meg stating that she had found a new residence and would forward the new address shortly.
Meanwhile, Erik spent much of the time writing. From the occasional folding of paper and pouring of wax she deduced that it was correspondence, which piqued her interest, but she did not think it her business to ask questions. Therefore, she resigned herself to sneaking furtive glances in his direction. She wondered whether he still signed his notes O.G.
Lunch and tea both came and went, with Erik providing both. As late afternoon rolled around, their collective restlessness seemed almost a tangible thing, and he took to pacing the room.
Christine could not stop watching him, if only out of the corner of her eye. Everything about him was long and lithe and majestic, and he moved with a breathtaking sensuousness that seemed to come to him effortlessly. No wonder he had entranced her; pair his physical presence with his rapturous singing voice, and the result was spellbinding.
"I do not suppose," he said suddenly, "that you might indulge me in a game of cards?"
She perked up immediately; she and her father had played cards together often. She agreed, and when Erik pulled out two decks for bezique, she took one and helped to set aside the unnecessary cards, numbers two through six. He watched her with an unreadable expression as she began to shuffle the remaining cards, their shape and weight a tactile comfort against her fingers. She wondered when he had ever found the opportunity to play cards with other people.
He was good, of course. His long fingers manipulated the cards so quickly and deftly that he could have thrown the game with sleight of hand and she would have been none the wiser. His plays were swift and calculated, and she constantly felt as though he was always two steps ahead of her. She had gotten in a lot of practice with the game, though, and she held her own. She could tell that he was putting forth effort—perhaps more than he had expected.
In the end, he was still the first to reach one thousand points and win the game. Her own score, however, was nothing to sneeze at. "Well played," he told her. "It was a pleasure to have a worthy opponent. I thank you." He swept up the cards and set to procuring her a small supper.
After dusk fell, Christine gathered up her things and followed Erik back to the roof and down through the neighboring building. They had negotiated her accommodations earlier; he wanted her to have as many comforts as possible, while she was well aware of how much she would stick out among wealthier clientele. Besides, the less she had to rely on his money, the better.
They had finally settled on something mid-range. It was within walking distance of the laundry, too, though she did not tell him that.
Thankfully, he did not push the sewers on her again. Instead he took as many side streets as possible, head angled down and back so that his brimmed hat might obscure his face. She kept the hood of her cloak drawn tightly as well, struggling to keep up with the long, swift strides that sent his black cloak billowing behind him.
He stopped a block away from the hotel. As he turned to face her, he withdrew from his tailcoat a thick wad of crisply folded banknotes that he pressed into her palm. She knew that it would be fruitless to protest the amount, so she tucked the money into her bodice, out of sight. With her luck, she would be mugged the moment she left Erik's company.
"There is enough there to sustain you for some time, should you choose to pursue a different means of employment," he said. "I will be honest: I hope that you do."
She felt her jaw go rigid. Who was he to assume that he had any right to opine on her life choices, especially now? She was half-tempted to throw the money back at him, but she swallowed her pride, much preferring to keep herself off of the streets.
Her reaction was apparently not lost on him. "I know; it is none of my business. But I can sense that you are lost, and if I wished for nothing else in this life, it would be that you find yourself again." He lifted a broad hand to her face, hesitating there, and then he dropped it again without ever having touched her. "I hope that you have a good life, Christine Daaé," he said.
She felt like she should say something. She could not speak, of course, but even so, she struggled to get a hold on how she felt about this parting. Finally, she gave him a slight nod of acknowledgment.
His expression sank into one of resignation. "Farewell, angel," he said, his voice thick. With a broad sweep of his cloak, the Phantom disappeared into the night.
Christine returned to the laundry the next day. She had not yet decided what to pursue instead, if anything, and she could not put herself out of a job in the meantime.
Her next several days were consumed by thoughts of Erik: whether he had, in fact, returned to her apartment for the body; where he would go next; how fiercely he had wrapped his arms around her when she had embraced him; whether she should have done something different at their parting. She was more shaken by the reunion than she would have cared to admit.
Otherwise, life went on as usual. She came home exhausted and grimy every evening. Her knuckles continued to crack and bleed. The man from the butcher shop continued to ogle her from his stoop, occasionally lobbing inappropriate quips in her direction. As long as he did not touch her, though, she could manage to stomach it. She once even smiled at the thought of what Erik might do to the man if he were there, but she quickly and guiltily shoved that thought away. How morbid, she chastised herself.
It came to a head after a week or so, when one of the other women told her that there was a man asking for her outside the shop. She stayed in the back room late that evening, hoping that he would lose interest and leave, and was pleased to find the storefront unoccupied when she emerged.
The next day, however, the problem returned. "That man is asking for you again," said her coworker at the end of their long shift. Exasperated, Christine peeled off her apron and pulled on her cloak, this time prepared to face the issue head-on. If she could not get through to him with gestures, then at least she could walk to the police station two blocks away. Certainly he would understand that.
But he was not outside the laundry when she got there. Instead, there was a different man leaning against the facade of the building, hands tucked casually inside his pockets. She knew him, but she could not place him. He gave her an unnerving smile when he spotted her, and then she realized: he was the shorter, stockier one of the two Italians who had followed her into her apartment.
"Buonasera," he said, his grin becoming even toothier.
She hesitated for only a second, and then she spun around to run back inside. As she did so, however, she found herself face-to-face with another, taller, dark-haired man who pushed aside his tailcoat to show her the pistol at his waist.
"He does not speak French," said the stocky man from behind her, "but you understand his meaning, no? I must ask you to come with us."
Slowly, reluctantly, Christine nodded. The men flanked her on either side and led her away from the laundry, many blocks to the north, until finally they reached a quieter area where they pulled her into an alleyway. The stocky one produced a length of rope and began to bind her wrists. "I do not enjoy this," he said, "but we cannot have you knowing our location, hmm?" Then they blindfolded and gagged her, and she was slung unceremoniously over the taller man's shoulder.
The rest of the trip was uncomfortable, and terrifying, and humiliating. Hot tears fell freely from her eyes, soaking the blindfold. How had they found her? Why had they found her? And what did they plan to do with her now that they had?
She knew that they were close when she heard the creak of a door opening, and when the sound of the men's boots on the ground spoke of wood instead of pavement. She began to hear exchanges of Italian in the distance. She was carried down a set of stairs—to a cellar, perhaps?—and then she was finally set back down on her feet. The blindfold and gag were removed, and she gasped when her eyes adjusted.
She recognized the man before her: lanky build, tan skin, clean-shaven face and dark hair. He leered at her once again, but his eyes were not smiling.
"Hello, signorina."