A/N-This short story belongs with the Night Encounters series, and can fit into either the Red Rose or Second Chance timelines. I'll let the reader decide. It is set after the unmasking, but before the chandelier scene in the ALW musical. This piece was written for LittleLongHairedOutlaw, who was looking for some hurt/comfort stories on Tumblr the other night.

Please read and review.

Disclaimer—All characters used in the Night Encounters series belong to Gaston Leroux, Susan Kay, or Andrew Lloyd Webber. In regard to the French language, Paris, history, music, and the Opera Charles Garnier, all errors and liberties taken are mine.

-Riene

A Touch of Comfort

2016

Riene

Like the good girl she was, Christine waited for him in the unused dressing room, the one he had selected for very specific reasons. It was far enough from the others as to be sufficiently soundproof. There were hollow channels in the ceiling that allowed airflow into the hidden back corridors and could allow his voice to carry, and the enormous one-way mirror, which enabled him to view the small chamber and also allowed egress to his labyrinth of passageways and tunnels.

True to her word, her eager acceptance of his terms, his angel awaited him for lessons. For a moment he allowed his burning eyes to dwell on her, her lissome figure, her soft lips, her delicate skin. An angel incarnate, with a voice to match. How he adored her.

He frowned…she seemed upset, smoothing her hands down her wet…wet? dress, and using the small face towel on her hair. Curling tendrils drooped down from her upswept coiffure, and she blotted at them ineffectively.

Instantly shame and anger flooded his veins. He had been so focused on the new sonata that he had not thought to check the autumn weather, the inclement weather his angel would have to bear in order to return to the Opera House this evening for their lessons. The Opera Ghost berated himself, scourging himself for such neglect.

"Christine Daae…" He modulated his voice into a hypnotizing, alluring call, and her head snapped up, her hands still frantically blotting at her dress.

"Maestro?"

Maestro. Always Maestro now, never Angel. He found he missed the name, the title, the trust.

"You are wet, child," he chided. "You will harm your health, your voice."

Color suffused her cheeks. "I'm sorry, Maestro…I was not paying attention and it began to rain…I ran the rest of the way here." In truth, she had dined with Raoul and afterwards been daydreaming, and ran, fearing her teacher's wrath should she be late. There had not been time to return home and change.

"It is of no matter," he said abruptly, and released the catch on the mirror. "Come, you will be late for your lesson. I will…find something dry for you."

She ignored his outstretched hand, making a pretense of lifting her heavy, sodden skirts, shuddering in the chill, dank air of the passage. At once Erik removed his cloak. She saw him approach, holding it out, and for once did not flinch as he drew near, settling the heavy garment about her shoulders and pulling it around her. Christine drew the woolen folds together, grateful for the sudden warmth. The cloak retained the heat from his body, with the scents of wood smoke and sandalwood overriding the usual faint underground musty scent that always seemed to cling to him. The long folds dragged at her, trailing the floor, so great was their disparity in height. She placed one hand on his sleeve, signaling her readiness, and they began the descent.

He had warned her to never attempt the journey below by herself, and indeed, she would have been a fool to try. He did not ever seem to take the same route twice. At times there were dim stone passageways, at other times ladders and trapdoors. Some passages led to the old Communard tunnels, where dusty bones still lay in long-forgotten cells. Others led to a trapdoor and cistern, where water lapped endlessly at a maze of stone walls. One route led deep underground, to where stone arches became natural caverns, large enough to stand in, wide enough for rooms, where the incessant rushing of underground streams had worn away the stone. In one of those caverns was a natural jetty, and beneath it lay a black gondola boat, concealed by a rocky outcropping. The boat led across an eerie lake, where a vague phosphorescence seemed to illumine the very air, hiding the far side. And on that far side lay the underground house, Erik's demesne.

She knelt in the bottom of the boat, looking up at him. How he navigated the lake she could not understand. There were no beacons, no buoys, just this endless blue glow and black glassy water. He was the one substantial thing in this silence, gazing somberly down at her, while his arms moved unceasingly, propelling the boat with a long black pole. One time only had she trailed fingers in that frigid water, the chill going to the bone almost immediately. Erik's soft voice had interrupted her thoughts, warning her to never fall in, that she would surely drown immediately from the shock of the cold.

Now she wondered if the chill air on her wet hair and dress might do the trick.

For his part, Erik watched the girl huddled at his feet. It was by far the best place for her to be in terms of balancing the awkward gondola, but it displeased him, deep in his soul, to see Christine at his feet. Memories rose, choking him, of the servants in Persia, groveling and desperate to avoid punishment, and he swallowed the thick bile which rose in his throat, feeling nauseated. And what to do once they reached the underground house?

Months ago he had begun preparing a room for her. Her room, never theirs, that was a grandiose dream from the depths of his wildest morphine hallucinations. No, her room would be inviolate, a sanctuary from the cruelties of the world above. And so, fueled by a desperation and desire he could put no name to, he began to provide for her. A bath chamber, with a second gas flame-fueled heating tank for hot water. The finest Egyptian cotton towels, floral soaps and bath salts. A room with a thick Persian carpet, ivory with rose and Delft blue patterns. A bed, a dressing table, an oval mirror, a cushioned chair, a wardrobe, a chest, all made of the finest wood, rubbed to a gleaming satin polish. Transporting the disassembled pieces down had been a tedious, difficult undertaking, but once positioned, were perfection. A silver brush and comb, a box of hair pins, ribbons in the colors she wore, rosewater and lavender. The smoothest linens for the bed, the softest white woolen blankets, an embroidered coverlet, a dozen pillows. Coal and kindling laid in the corner fireplace, a stack of logs in readiness beside it. Fat white tapers in sconces, awaiting the touch of a match. Writing paper, pens, and ink. A music box. Books of poetry, novels, and mythology, that she might pass the time. And then, blinded by his desire for total perfection, he had foolishly ordered clothing for her. Night dresses of fine batiste, embroidered and beribboned. A warm robe and matching slippers. Tea gowns of rose and blue, ivory and teal, with slippers to match. Even undergarments, all folded away with sachets in the drawers, that they might smell sweetly. All lay in readiness. His shaking hands would never touch them, defile them with his cold touch, again. They were hers.

In the end, he even installed a lock on the inside of the door, that she would never feel unsure. He had then shut the door, closing off his dreams.

But now, looking down at the shivering young woman, he paused. She needed to be warm, needed dry clothing. He could not, could not, offer her anything of his own; the thought was abhorrent. But how would she react to the room he had prepared for her, so many months ago?

Not well, he suspected. Yet what choice did he have?

The boat bumped gently against the shore and he gave the pole one more mighty thrust, pushing the boat sideways. He leapt out gracefully, and unfurled a long hand to her. This time, Christine reached for it, trying to balance on the unsteady boat and keep a grasp on the heavy cloak as it slipped from her shoulders. Within moments they were in his front room, and the welcome warmth made her gasp in relief.

"Christine," he said, worry evident in his dark amber voice, "you must change out of these wet clothes. I have…there is…for you…"

"What, Erik?" She watched him warily, eyes wide. This was so unlike her instructor.

"Come," he snapped out, and she followed. Erik led her down the corridor toward his bedroom, and Christine suppressed a shudder. She had seen it once, the heavy curtains, the coffin, the notes of the Dies Irae. Was that where he was taking her? But no, he stopped in front of a wall with a carved wooden panel, and pressed two of the roses, turning a third. A door opened, and he stepped back, silently, inclining his head.

She knew at once this room was meant for her. The colors and feminine trappings proclaimed it. She turned, eyes wide and slightly panicked. "Erik? Why?"

"Please," he said tightly. "There is a washroom through the door. You may bathe if you wish. There are clothes in the wardrobe. Come out when you are ready." He took a box of matches from the tiny shelf near the gas globe and lit a paper spill, then knelt to light the carefully prepared fire and the gas lights, then stepped into the washroom. A minute later, he returned and met her frightened eyes. A flush of color darkened his exposed cheekbone, and Erik departed.

For a moment Christine stood, shock racing through hers veins. What did this mean? Did he mean to keep her down here? For how long had he been planning this? She shuddered violently, cold and fear consuming her, then buried her face in her hands and tried to calm down. Deep breaths, Christine. Surely there is nothing to fear. You've been down here many times and nothing has ever happened. He's just…being Erik.

She turned, seeing the bolt on the door for the first time, and with a cry, ran to slam it closed. She leaned her forehead against the door, shaking. First, get out of these wet clothes before you catch your death.

As he had said, past the other door lay a small washroom. Hot water poured from a tap and she thrust her hands in it, reveling in the warmth. He'd laid towels beside the basin, and slowly, listening for any outside sound, she stripped off her heavy wet dress and petticoats. Shivering in her damp chemise, Christine investigated the chest of drawers and wardrobe. Tea gowns, made of the finest fabrics and so soft to the touch, hung there waiting. Matching slippers lay beneath. Stockings, nightclothes, and, she blushed, undergarments in the chest, folded neatly, still wrapped in their original tissue paper and ribbon ties. She recognized the store names and the quality, the thought and preparation for her comfort that had gone into this room. Slowly her spinning thoughts calmed.

It was like Erik…thorough in every way. She might never have known of this room, save for this sudden need. Rising to her feet, she clasped the clean linens to her chest and looked around for the first time. No detail had been missed, no expense spared. Gradually, her turbulent thoughts eased. She stripped off her wet stockings and chemise, and then pulled the clean, dry garments on.

Would the gowns fit? Possibly. She held the first one, a deep rose pink, up to her shoulders, and with a shrug, tried it on. It was only a little loose, and she belted it more tightly, sliding her feet into the slippers. The wet garments were hung in the washroom, and she could only hope they would dry adequately and not be ruined. She had no funds with which to replace clothing. Seating herself at the dressing table, Christine began to work on her hair.

In the space that served for his kitchen, Erik leaned on his hands, shoulders bowed. She had not screamed, but the look in her wide eyes, momentarily terrified, would haunt him. Perhaps he should try to explain? No, best to stay away from her rooms. He busied himself heating water on the gas ring. Tea. She would need something hot to drink.

Lost in thought, he did not hear her approach. The small, slippered feet were nearly silent on the deep carpets. Erik reached for the heavy saucepan, lifting it to pour boiling water to preheat the pot, when her small hand came down on his arm. She was touching him! He jerked away, frantic, and cried out in shock as the boiling fluid soaked his sleeve.

The saucepan clattered to the floor, water splashing his shoes and pants legs. He could hear her anxious words through the ringing in his ears.

"Erik! Oh my god, I'm so sorry! Are you hurt? Here, let me see!" Then she was grasping his hand, pulling him about, trying to unbutton and raise the sleeve of his right arm. Touching him again.

"NO!" he thundered, desperate to pull away, to keep her from seeing the mottled, scarred skin that made up his grotesque body. But she was reaching for him anyway, holding his cold, bony hand, concern in her eyes. Shocked, he stared at her. Concern? For him?

"Erik, please let me see!"

Numbly, dizzy from the gentle pressure of her warm soft fingers, he could only stand there as she cautiously slid back the black coat sleeve and white cuff. He was silent, his eyes never leaving her face, searching for the first sign of revulsion. But she touched his scarred flesh and gasped, tears rising again at the sight of the reddened, burned skin.

Christine pulled him forward, lowering his arm in the sink, turning on the taps to find cold water. The rush of sensation nearly undid him. "I'm so sorry," she mourned. "I didn't mean to startle you so. Does it hurt very badly?"

"No," he whispered. How could he tell her that her divine touch completely overwhelmed his senses? That he could feel nothing but the pressure of her hand, cradling his own, her fingers caressing his wrist? Had anyone ever touched him with such care, such compassion? There must be a distinct lack of oxygen in the room; he was dizzy, her words coming from a distance. He was horrified by her touch….he might die if she stopped.

"Erik? Do you have medical supplies? You must have something, some cream or bandages? Here, please tell me where they are and I will fetch them." Christine's blue eyes were beseeching, pleading. Did she feel responsible for his clumsiness? He attempted to pull away and she tightened her grip. His heart was pounding.

"In my…in my washroom," he said quietly, still staring at her hand.

Christine pushed his arm back firmly under the cold water. "Leave this here, and don't you move! I'll be right back!" She whirled and was done.

Erik closed his eyes, already desperate, craving her touch once more on his skin. Why had she done this, knowing what lay behind the mask? Why had she touched him? How could she stand to see his death's flesh, touch his pallid, scarred skin?

Averting her eyes from the coffin, Christine entered the door that must lead to his washroom, bracing herself. But there was nothing intimate to be seen, no comb, no razor, and no mirror, only a blank stretch of wall where a mirror might have gone. Where to begin? She had no desire to search through his possessions.

"The right side shelves." His voice was soft, and she jumped, hastening to comply. Behind a cabinet door lay several small jars and rolls of soft linen strips. He had an extensive set of medical supplies, and she refused to think about those implications. Erik sat on the edge of the bathtub, bringing his great height down to a manageable level, and in a quiet voice she'd never heard him use, directed her to the proper jars of creams and unguents.

As gently as possible, she covered the painful, blistered burns with a soothing salve, noting how the reddened marks stood out against his pale skin. There were other marks as well, odd brown rubbed scars on his wrist, and thin scars that surely had been made by a knife. Wisely, Christine held her tongue, efficiently wrapping the linen bandage around his forearm, conscious of the weight of his eyes on her. Erik said nothing, seemingly barely breathing. When done, she carefully pulled done his sleeve and coat, smoothing the black wool in place, and stepping back, putting distance between them.

"I thank you." She would never know the crushing effort to keep the longing and love from bleeding into his tone, and so he kept it formal, but soft. Yet something must have come through, for Christine looked up at him suddenly, her blue eyes wide.

"You're welcome. And…thank you for the beautiful room and the...the things in it. It's more than anyone has ever done for me, more than I deserve."

"I will always care for you," he said quietly, and rose to his feet. "Come now, let us go back to the library. It is getting late…I think no music tonight, but if you care to join me, I will try again to make tea, and we could sit and talk."

Her luminous blue eyes smiled up at him. "Yes," Christine agreed softly. "I think I'd like that."

A line was crossed that night, a barrier breeched. In the end, Christine made tea, a process that would become routine in the weeks to follow. Erik built up the fire in the library music room and pulled two chairs before it, with a small table between. Here they would sit on so many nights, sharing the warmth, drinking tea and talking softly, or while he read to her, his black velvet voice filling the room while she gazed dreaming into the fire. It was a tentative trust, a fragile peace that would make the later betrayal so much harder to bear.

Thank you for reading, and please leave a comment! :)

~R