wake3

He stalked from one side of the room to the other and back again, his hands balled into white-knuckled fists, his shoulders knotted with tension. He couldn’t even escape her in his sleep. She invaded his dreams, claimed his thoughts every waking moment.

Love, fear, anger, hatred... it didn’t matter what she felt for him: his adoration for her was unending, undying. Her touch was on his soul, an imprint he could never erase. He couldn’t forget her, he could never forget... although he should, he should. Remembering hurt so much....

But his dreams wouldn’t let him forget. They brought her back: so close to him, so close. And he never wanted to wake up, wake from the safety of her arms, the scent of her skin, her perfume, her... enough, Erik!

He pressed his knuckles against his eyes for a long moment, then abruptly flung his hands away from his face. It was no use: he couldn’t stop the memories; they circled through his mind, one image leading to the next with no reprieve. Curse his dreams. Their sweetness turned waking into unspeakable torture. Waking to empty arms, an empty house, empty memories.... He growled low in his throat and slammed his fist against the wall. Stop thinking about it.

Very faintly, he heard the front door open. He spun and reached his pipe organ in two strides. It was the work of seconds to scoop up his mask and settle it over his face. He drew a quick breath before turning to face the direction from which the noise had come. He didn’t bother going to investigate; whoever it was wouldn’t be able to enter the rest of the house without first passing the open door of his music room. He hoped it was the daroga: he’d welcome the excuse to bodily throw him out of the house. He had warned him to never come down here again. And if it was anyone else… in his current frame of mind, he might even welcome the necessity of killing them.

Rapid footsteps came down the hall and he caught sight of the intruder. For a moment he was sure he was still dreaming… but no, he knew he was very much awake.

How had she found her way back down here?

She turned her head and saw him. She moved into the doorway, then paused, relief and uncertainty flickering across her face.

He couldn’t look at her. He turned away, one hand rising to touch his mask, to reassure himself that he was indeed wearing it.

With a conscious effort he kept his shoulders straight, fighting the urge to hunch over, to hide from her. And he wanted desperately to hide. She couldn’t see him like this: every emotion raw, every nerve aching. He had to pull himself together, throw a veneer of control over his shattered composure.

He closed his eyes, striving for a center of calm. But how could he be calm when she was in his home, standing less than twenty feet away? He could feel her presence at his back like a heat, a pressure, a touch against his skin. He shivered, remembering the feel of her against his hands: her body warm, responsive.... He ground his teeth together. It hadn’t been real. She was not his to hold.

He dragged in a deep, ragged breath, balanced on a razor’s edge of control. If he looked at her he might not be able to…. No! No matter what he felt, he would rather kill himself than hurt her.

Killing himself might not be such a bad idea, he decided, as his brief glimpse of her superimposed itself on the blackness of his closed eyelids. A dressing gown: she’d come down here – alone – in her dressing gown. Was she insane?

"Erik." She spoke his name softly.

His back stiffened at the sound of her voice. "Christine." His voice was strained.

“You’ve been gone a long time, Erik. I was worried that I might not find you here.”

“You’re not safe here,” he told her flatly, mentally naming himself as the greatest danger she now faced. “Why did you come?”

“I had to. I couldn’t lose you again.”

Her words made no sense; she had never lost him. He had been the one who had lost: lost her trust, lost her love. But he couldn’t pursue that thought: she was still speaking.

“You were right, you know. I do belong to you. But… that night the chandelier fell…?” Her voice held a questioning note, as if he might not remember. How could he forget that sight of twisted iron and shattered glass and the knowledge that she could have easily been beneath it when it had fallen? It was a vision that would haunt him until the day he died.

She seemed to be expecting a response: he nodded sharply, a quick jerk of his head.

“After you heard what I said to Raoul… I thought you didn’t want me anymore.”

“What?” he exclaimed, finally turning to look at her.

“I didn’t mean it, Erik, truly I didn’t. But when you dropped the chandelier….”

“I dropped the chandelier?” His voice rose in disbelief.

“Didn’t you?” She frowned in confusion.

“I most certainly did not! How could you think…? Christine, you could have been killed!”

She blinked, startled by his anger. “I was just about to leave the stage when it fell. No one was hurt. I thought you had planned it that way.”

Stunned, he could only stare at her and slowly shake his head.

She gasped and raised one hand to her mouth, her eyes wide. “You mean… it fell on its own?” she finally asked, her voice trembling slightly.

“I was in the basements when it happened,” he replied shortly, his voice tight.

“Oh, Erik,” she whispered, her eyes filling with tears. She took a few hesitant steps forward, then suddenly crossed the distance between them in a rush. His upper body swayed as if he would move away from her but he remained where he was, his arms stiff at his sides, his hands curling into fists as she threw her arms around him. She turned her head and pressed her cheek against his chest.

He felt her trembling. The entire length of her body was pressed against him: he felt every silent sob that shook her. He felt the wetness of her tears through his shirt.

The ache of wanting her was nearly unbearable. And he knew – he knew – that she felt nothing for him. He knew he could never have her.

He needed to move away, he needed distance… enough distance that he would no longer smell her, the spicy, lavender scent that was uniquely hers. He had never felt the loss of her as keenly as he did in that moment, when her arms were wrapped around him and her heart was forever beyond his reach.

“Christine, let me go.”

Her arms tightened and she shook her head vigorously, pressing even closer to him.

She wasn’t thinking clearly. She didn’t know she was holding him. She feared his touch: he had heard her say so. She would realize her mistake and pull away soon enough. She must pull back soon: soon, before he forgot himself and crushed her within his arms. He trembled with the effort of restraining his desire. He couldn’t endure this; he had to move away now.

“Christine, let me go.”

“No, Erik, you’re not leaving me again. That night… I didn’t do anything… because I thought it was only fair, that I deserved it, deserved anything you did. But not now, not this time.”

Confusion caused him to relax slightly. He didn’t understand what she was trying to tell him; he responded as best he could to the few words that he did understand.

“I didn’t leave you.” His voice was quiet, cautious.

“You did!” she burst out, raising her tear-streaked face from his chest. “For six months!”

He looked down into her accusing, tear-filled eyes. He couldn’t understand her anger. She feared him. His absence could have been nothing but a blessed relief for her. Why should she resent him for that? Hadn’t she wanted freedom from him? Hadn’t she?

“I was always nearby.”

“I never saw you. I never heard you.”

“I know. You were always with someone. If you weren’t with Meg, you were with Raoul. If not him, you were with Helene. You seemed… busy.”

“Busy!” Her voice was bitter. “Yes, everyone thought I should be kept busy. They thought it would help somehow. But it didn’t. I couldn’t forget you. Every day I had to remind myself that you weren’t going to come and teach me anymore. And every day I still waited for you, hoping that you would come back. Sometimes at night I would wake up and stare at the mirror and try to call you to me. I would have given anything to hear you say you’d forgiven me, that you still loved me.” Her voice died to a whisper. “But you never came.” Her face crumpled and she ducked her head, burying her face in his jacket.

He cautiously pulled his arms free of her tight embrace and reached around her. When she made no to move to step away from him, he hesitantly lowered his hands and touched her back. Slowly, he wrapped his arms around her shoulders, pulling her closely against him. “Forgive me,” he whispered against her hair. “I didn’t know.”

She abruptly pulled back, a watery, hysterical laugh tearing from her throat. “No, Erik. I’m the one who needs to be forgiven. You didn’t do anything, whereas I…” she broke off and stumbled away from him, raising both hands to cover her face. “How can you even stand to touch me?”

“Christine…” His tone was wondering, helpless.

She gulped and shook her head, hiding behind the golden curtain of her hair.

“Christine.” He started to reach for her, then dropped his hands to his sides. “What is it?”

She looked up slowly, lifting one hand to push aside her tousled curls, revealing blue eyes shiny with tears. “Am I still yours, Erik?” Her voice was low, dull, as if unsure what his answer would be. His head jerked back as if she had slapped him, his mouth opening in surprise as he groped for words that would adequately answer such a ridiculous question. She continued speaking before he had a chance to reply: he blinked twice and snapped his mouth shut, still at a loss for words. “Does this…” she raised her left hand and touched the gold band circling her ring finger, “mean what I want it to mean? Would you really marry me, Erik? Do you still care for me that much?”

He swallowed hard, his mouth gone suddenly dry. “I will always love you, Christine,” he said simply. “Always.”

A brilliant smile spread across her face, lighting up her red-rimmed eyes and flushed cheeks. To his eyes, she had never looked more beautiful. “As I will always love you,” she murmured.

A roaring filled his ears and his knees suddenly felt incredibly weak. He couldn’t have heard her correctly. “What… what did you say? Wait.” He held up one hand and took a deep breath. “I think I need to sit down.”

She nodded – her eyes worried – and followed at his elbow as he crossed to the divan and sank down upon it. Grasping her hands, he pulled her down beside him.

“Now.” He licked his lips and smiled crookedly behind his mask, uncertain, embarrassed, and terribly vulnerable. “Now, would you mind repeating that?”

“I love you, Erik,” she said earnestly. “I never stopped loving you.”

He exhaled slowly and leaned back against the divan, feeling knots of tension ease in his neck and shoulders. He gazed into her eyes for a timeless moment, then squeezed her hands and raised one finger to brush away a tear lingering on her cheek. “I thought you had.”

“Oh, Erik, no! What I said... I can never forgive myself… I knew – I know – that I have nothing to fear from you, and I….”

“Shh.” He smoothed a curl away from her forehead. “You had every reason to be afraid of me.”

“No, I didn’t,” she whispered, shaking her head. She caught his hand as he drew it away from her face and laced her fingers through his. “Everything I know of you should have made me trust you even more.”

He had to look away: her eyes – so sweet, so confident – pierced him with their fearless candor. He cleared his throat. “It was none of your doing,” he told her, his voice husky. “I blame myself. You should have never seen Buquet. When you did… I thought I had done the unforgivable. I thought I had lost you. I was certain you would flee the Opera that very night, screaming in terror.”

“No, Erik. No,” she protested softly.

“But you didn’t leave,” he smiled, his voice gentle. “You didn’t leave. And I thought there might still be hope for me – for us.”

“Then why did you stay away for such a long time?” she asked, her forehead crinkling in hurt confusion. “I thought I was the one who drove you away. I thought…” she trailed off and dropped her head.

“What?” he prompted

“I thought that was why the chandelier fell,” she confessed in a small voice. “I thought it was because you were angry with me.”

“Christine, look at me.” He waited until she raised her head before continuing: “I would never put you in any sort of danger. Never. No matter how angry I was. You are far too precious to me to ever risk your safety. I still have nightmares of you…” he caught himself before he finished that sentence.

Even so, she knew what he had intended to say. She raised her left hand to his face and brushed her fingertips over his brow. “I’m safe, Erik,” she reassured him. “I’m safe.”

He caught her hand and pressed it against his cheek, feeling the warmth of her skin even through his mask. “If anything had happened to you…”

“But nothing did.” She smiled gently. “And nothing will.” He nodded slowly and released her hand, recapturing it as she lowered it to the divan. “But you still haven’t told me…” she looked down at their joined hands and then back up at him, “...why you left.”

He squeezed her fingers, rubbing his thumb over the back of her hand. “It was bad timing on my part,” he confessed. “I had an opera that I wanted to write for you. I felt that I didn’t have the right to see you until it was perfect, that I needed something to give you – something alive, something beautiful – to take the place of the pain I had caused you.”

“You heard me.” It wasn’t a question.

He nodded.

“I knew you were there.” Her voice was calm, quietly accepting. “I can always feel when you’re near. Oh, Erik, I missed you so.” She heaved a soft sigh and edged closer to him, leaning against his shoulder and tucking her legs beneath her. Suddenly she laughed. “So much time,” she mused, her voice rueful. “So much time lost. I should have hunted you down long before this.”

He smiled indulgently. “You would not have found me. My mind was not my own these past few months.”

“Mm. Yes, I know what it’s like when you’re composing. But it’s not your music I want, Erik: it’s you.”

He swallowed hard. Her words sharply reminded him of how very much alone they were. He became acutely aware of how close she was: curled up against his side, her hands in his, and… this was a very bad idea. Needing to gain some distance and some perspective – fast – he disentangled his hands from hers and rose from the divan. He strode to his pipe organ and rested one hand on the keys, his back to her. It was too soon. He must wait until she was ready. He would not rush her. She was an innocent and he could even yet frighten her away if he was not careful. Very, very careful. Trying to distract himself from the allure of her presence - an impossibility, but he had to try something - he returned to his original question: “Why did you come down here tonight? You know how easy it is to become lost.”

“I know. But I had to find you.”

He glanced at her sharply. “In the middle of the night?”

She dropped her eyes and blushed faintly. “I couldn’t wait. I was afraid you would disappear and leave me again.”

He grimaced. “I realize the past does not inspire much confidence….”

“Oh, I know you wouldn’t,” she broke in, rising from the divan and approaching him. “Well, now I know,” she amended. “But it frightened me.” She shrugged, her blush deepening. “It sounds almost silly now, but,” she swallowed and looked down at her hands, then glanced up at him out of the corner of her eye. “But I had a dream about you. That was why I had to come.

“Really.” He heard himself reply as if from a great distance. “How… peculiar.”

Against every ounce of common sense he possessed, he turned his eyes – full of a dark desire he made no effort to hide – to meet hers. He saw the recognition, the comprehension in her gaze, the shared secrets. She knew.

She stepped closer to him and delicately placed one hand on his chest. “Did you dream tonight, Erik?”

He nodded, momentarily rendered speechless. This was impossible. They couldn’t have shared... could they?

“Was it a good dream?”

He cleared his throat with an effort. “Not entirely.”

She nodded in complete agreement. “Neither was mine. When I woke up, I wanted to die.”

“So did I,” he breathed.

Her arms snaked around his neck and she leaned against him to whisper in his ear, “But what I wanted even more was to find you again.”

A shred of sanity warned him to back away before it was too late. “Christine.” Her name emerged on a growl as he unwound her arms from his neck and pulled away. He caught hold of her wrists and took several steps back, keeping her at arm’s length as she tried to follow him. He had to know: he had to be sure that she knew what she was getting into. “This isn’t a dream,” he ground out, his voice low and strained.

She dipped her head and kissed the fingers wrapped around her left wrist, then slowly straightened until she met his eyes. “Good,” she said fiercely.