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It was snowing as Christine stepped out onto the roof of the Opera Populaire. She had fled high, needing to escape and breathe after everything that had happened. Being told she would no longer have the lead, forced into a silent role to appease Carlotta. The rumors surrounding her whereabouts after the last show, and that she had become the mistress of the patron. Raoul’s not helping overmuch with his being a constant presence in the opera house and hounding her almost as much as the men at the doors wishing to leave her flowers.
All that, only to have Carlotta’s voice fail her after Erik’s voice boomed over the audience, his displeasure at having his box taken evident to everyone. For Christine to be dragged before the curtain at the insistence of the managers to declare her replacing Carlotta, and then, as she was being prepared, news of Buquet and the horrid way he died.
Raoul had rushed to her side, and it was everything Christine could do to slip his watch and run.
He was sweet and kind, very much like she remembered from their childhood. But in the days that followed their reunion, when she was allowed to clear her head away from him, from everyone, she realized that she didn't know Raoul. Not the grown version of him, anyway. It made his wanting to hover and protect her suffocating, and that hint of possession had her apprehensive.
But up here, on the roof, away from him and the noise, she was starting to be able to breathe.
She let her eyes slip shut and basked in the cold of the late fall. There was something grounding about it, as though it made her feel closer to her father.
What would he say? What would he tell her to do?
Before she could ruminate too much, footsteps came up behind her. She didn’t have to open her eyes or turn to know who it was.
“Was it you?” She asked, eyes still shut.
A pause, and Christine could swear she heard the snow falling in the silence that hung heavy between her and the Phantom of the Opera.
“Yes,” Erik eventually replied, the edge of his tone blunted for her.
“Why?” She asked, eyes opening to the view of the city stretched out before her.
Erik took a step closer, and while he did not touch her, she sensed his hands hovering around her shoulders.
“He’d have killed me first,” Erik reasoned.
Christine frowned. Buquet was a drunk and a lech, but she didn’t think he was a murderer. She hadn’t thought Erik was one, either.
She turned, finding Erik as close to her as she had expected, and had to tilt her head back to meet his eye. There was no sorrow, and hardly any remorse. But there was apprehension, and Christine believed it was only there because Erik worried over her reaction.
“How can you be sure?” She asked.
“He had that look in his eyes,” Erik replied. “I’ve seen it before, many times, over my many years of being a monster.”
“Don’t say that,” She said, reaching for his mask.
He caught her wrist, grip almost too tight in his haste to stop her. Almost as quickly as he snagged it, he let it go, instead curling his gloved hand around her bare one, pressing her palm to the cool porcelain that covered his deformity. It was a facsimile of an affectionate touch, yet Erik still leaned into her hand as though he could feel her skin along his.
“You’ve seen the horror beneath the mask,” He said, voice gravelly. “It frightened you when you first gazed upon it. It’s natural that the immediate reaction after horror and revulsion is to destroy. As a child, I ran. As I got older….”
“Erik,” She said softly, brushing her thumb along the cheek of the porcelain.
She was at a loss for words. Part of her wanted to condemn him for what he’d done. Much as she knew that Buquet would not be missed, she couldn’t very well agree with Erik’s method of ensuring he wouldn’t have been a problem. No one would have believed the stagehand had he spun a tale of encountering the Opera Ghost. But she also knew that Buquet would have likely done grave harm to Erik, as would many men who encountered him.
She should condemn him. That’s what any sensible person would do, what she could see in his eyes that Erik expected. Yet she couldn’t. God help her, she just couldn’t.
“Carlotta?”
“Will be fine,” Erik replied dismissively.
Christine smirked in spite of herself, and Erik’s eyes brightened.
“You can’t sabotage her,” Christine said softly.
“I will do what it takes for you to have the spotlight as you should,” He threatened.
“Let me get there on my own merit.” Christine placed her other hand on Erik’s chest, over his heart. She thought she could feel it speed just touch through the layers, though that might have just been fanciful thinking. “If you truly believe I’m worthy of the spotlight-“
“I do,” Erik said with conviction, his other hand curling hesitantly around Christine’s waist. “You are my Angel of Music.”
“Then allow my voice to be the thing that puts me on the stage, not threats and sabotage.”
“If I must,” Erik relented, everything about him softening as he pulled his hand away from her own against the mask and tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear.
The silence between them was heavy with anticipation. It wasn’t unfamiliar; Christine had had the odd infatuation growing up and found herself alone with those boys in the past. But this felt different, more intense. Perhaps because there wasn’t another soul on this Earth who knew hers so well. Maybe because when she had no one else, she had had Erik, even if she hadn’t known who he was at the time.
Or, perhaps, it was because she had already loved him, even before she had met him, and that despite everything he’d done, she loved him still.
As she began to lean toward him, stretch up on her toes, the door to the roof creaked.
Erik moved, disappearing into the shadows provided by the statues, away from whoever it was that came up.
“Christine?” Raoul said, voice only a touch louder than normal. She supposed from where she stood, she wasn’t visible from the doorway.
Christine stepped into Raoul’s line of sight, and she watched his shoulders sag as a relieved smile graced his lips. He let the door fall shut behind him as he inched his way over to her.
“I worried,” he said. “With this Opera Ghost running around, Buquet’s murder, and then you disappear again.”
“Again?”
“You did after your debut,” Roaul reminded her. With a chuckle, he added, “We were supposed to dine together, remember?”
She glanced toward where Erik would be, perhaps even still was, since she had no idea if there was a way for him to have slipped away from the roof.
“I believe I had said, ‘no,’” She reminded Raoul, clasping her hands together in front of her.
Raoul grinned boyishly, taking another step closer.
“Oh, yes. Your strict Angel of Music wouldn’t allow it,” he said with a hint of teasing, though to Christine’s ear it sounded almost of mockery.
She frowned.
“He wouldn’t,” she said. “But my declining should have been enough.”
Raoul shook his head with a grin.
“I suppose that can be the game we play,” He said.
“Game?” Christine took a step back.
Raoul followed.
“Little Lotte,” He said as he reached for her.
“I must go,” Christine said as she side-stepped away from his touch. “They’ll wonder where I am.”
“And I will wait for you,” Raoul promised.
A creeping dread crawled up Christine’s spine as she recalled the things Meg had told her in the days that followed her return from the depths of the Opera House. There had been whispers that Christine had become Raoul’s mistress and that she had been with him in her absence. The new patron hadn’t been seen around the theater, not until the day Meg and Madame Giry had gone to inform the managers that Christine had returned.
To Christine’s knowledge, Raoul hadn’t denounced the rumor.
She backed away slowly, not wanting to say anything further, not wanting to stay where he perceived them to be alone. She then turned and fled for the door.