A/N: This story has been in the works for over a decade, please read and review if you are still following/reading! I really appreciate the reviews and any criticism. Y'all stay safe and well. More to come.

I spent the next several hours preparing for my meeting with Christine, discovering the words I would say, the confessions I must make over and over again, winding the thoughts in my head like a key to turn a music box to play the same tune repeatedly. How she would respond to my confessions of deeds and sins was an agonizing mystery to me, and I felt I could barely breathe. My brutal truths could be our undoing. The decades of blood on my hands could very well make her shun me in revulsion and make her leave my presence forever. But there was no other choice now. If I were to continue to hold her heart, she must know the truth of my transgressions.

After I'd prepared her room for the evening- in expectation that she would stay in my home for the night- I washed my horrid face, straightened my wig upon my head and put on my finest suit, before replacing the cursed white mask that was my constant companion. I studied my appearance in the mirror, exhaling a deep sigh. Handsome, I was not. However, the cut and fit of my clothing was always impeccable and, if anything, I looked commanding and a bit sinister. It would have to do. The thought of once more seeing her, after so many agonizing days of solitude caused my pulse to quicken and my blood to race, so much so, that I had to grip the edges of her vanity table to steady myself for a few moments. I inhaled slowly and deeply several times, each time whispering her name.

I ended up pacing for hours, stealing a glance at my pocket watch every few minutes, my eyes and my heart begging the hands to turn more quickly, to hasten to that moment when I would see her again, and hopefully hold her in my arms once more. But the hours did not pass as quickly as I desired, and I ran to the organ in an effort to alleviate my nerves and my forever running thoughts with the comfort that composing brought to me. My only comfort . . until I would find Christine.

As I wrote, I pictured her laying languid in my bed, our bed, her flesh bare and supple and her arms reaching for me, a look of adoration in her bright blue eyes. Would I ever again experience her touch? My mind still reeled around the very fact that she had willingly, eagerly, taken me in her arms, not once, but many times. I clung now to those memories of ecstasy, remembering the sublime feeling of our bodies pressed together writhing rhythmically, as close as two humans could possibly be. She had allowed me to feel the greatest pleasure of my entire sordid, bloodsoaked and miserable life.

Happiness, it was true and unabashed happiness she had given me, felt for the first time in my horrible existence. Again, the constant occupants of my mind battled in those moments before I would be reunited with her: Loneliness and Bitterness waging war with Love and Desire. She would eventually drive me to madness, if she had not done so already. I did not know. Every single thought in the endless depths of my mind was now filled with her.

I had pushed her away all these weeks, because I was so terrified of any possibility of continued happiness. I had been my own undoing, I realized, as I completed my walk to the gate of the Rue Scribe now. Would she be there?

I could hear her heavy breaths and the shuffling of her feet, the rustling of her voluminous skirts as I approached. She was waiting for me! I pulled my cloak behind my shoulders and walked on through the darkness, inhaling deeply for my expected view of her. In what state would she appear? How would she receive me?

"Erik? Angel? Are you here? If so, reveal yourself, please! I need to see you!" At her words I took a deep intake of breath, and steadied myself again. I would be mere inches from her in seconds. She exhaled and practically stomped her feet in impatience. "Erik?!"

"Hush, dear, your Erik is here now," I whispered in a soothing tone as I made the last few steps towards my little Nightingale. In mere seconds, my hand was caressing her cheek. At first, she trembled at the surprise of my touch, and then, to my quiet joy, she leaned her face into my hand and sighed, falling into the caress I made of her cheek. She was all softness and light, and she smelled of the lavender oil I had left on her vanity table days ago- a gentle reminder that I had not forgotten her. I had not realized that she had noticed it until this evening, though I had kept careful watch on her comings and goings since our last parting.

"I have missed you," she murmured, "why have you kept me away? No matter, we will discuss it when you take me home." My darling girl then held her hand out in a silent demand for me to lead her through the darkness, and to take her to my home . . .was it our home?

I dared not dream as much.

After the silent shock and implications of her words, I took her outstretched and offered hand, perhaps squeezing her fingers too tightly as I reveled in the renewed feel of her touch. "Shall we go home, then?" She, in turn, caressed my gloved palm and nodded in acquiescence. Wordlessly, our eyes met in a silent and knowing acknowledgement of what was to come when we arrived. We made the journey down to what I must now call our home. I was, as always, baffled by her acceptance of my touch. Once we arrived, would she still be so eager for my hands upon her flesh?