Disclaimer: All references to the characters from the Gaston Leroux's The Phantom of the Opera belong to their pertinent parties and publishers. I do not claim ownership to the characters, any iteration from a major production of the same material, and / or the original source material.

De petite souris a monsieur chat: Chapter 26

February 1883: The Lake in the Cellar Beneath the Opera House

Erik sat in the boat next to the small outcropping. Bobbing upward on the water, he exhaled. Moving downward, he inhaled on the cigarette making the end glow orange. He fingered the note in his pocket. She won't come, the voice nagged. Or she'll come and throw your gift in the river. She'll say it's not good enough for her.

"Or she will come and spend a quiet evening with me," he muttered examining the cigarette in his hand. Smoking burned his throat, but for some reason, he found the repetitive actions soothing. He didn't do it often; tonight seemed like a good night. It calmed his nerves ever so slightly, or so he thought. A flicker of light caught his eye and he heard the soft rustle of skirts on the stone stairs. Eagerly he watched the candlelight grow and the figure emerge from the stairwell.

Erik admired her – a swarthy complexion highlighted by her ivory top and her ballerina's figure by the charcoal grey skirt. She didn't have that odd fringe of hair he had seen the ladies wearing lately and he was glad she didn't. It wouldn't have suited Meg's face. She wore her hair pulled back into a simple chignon. Her smile vanished as she pursed her red lips to blow out the candle. In an uncharacteristic move, she had rouged her lips. He liked it on her.

"Bonne nuit, Mademoiselle Giry," his silky voice glided out to her.

"Erik." He felt warm when she said his name. With a flick of his wrist, he sent the half-finished cigarette flying out onto the lake. Erik rose to his feet and offered his hand to Meg. She hesitated and the color rose to her cheeks. She doesn't... A sense of disappointment began to rise when he saw her smile and shake her head. "You haven't been composing."

Erik blinked and looked at his hands – without ink stains and his customary gloves to hide them. He gave her a rueful grin. "Other projects took precedence today," he hedged amused. "Are you joining me this evening or did you simply come down here to comment on my hands?"

"I will join you, but I can't stay long. There is a performance tomorrow night," she said with another smile. "Will you be -" Her sentence was cut short as she stepped to take his hand. She slipped and fell forward. All Erik could do was grab her. He tried to take a step back to ease her momentum forward, but the boat lurched underneath his feet. The water hit his back with a sickening smack and they went under. Erik held onto Meg even though she struggled. He kicked and pushed Meg up toward the surface. He broke the surface shortly after her. His hand immediately went to his mask and to his relief, it was still secure. She was sinking again.

"Meg! Kick your feet. Faster. Now move your arms from side to side. Good," he instructed the frightened girl. Since the boat hadn't completely capsized, the lantern swung dangerously from its perch. One moment he saw only darkness; the next he saw Meg looking like a drowned rat. More accurately, a drowned ballet rat. He couldn't help but laugh out loud.

"Here, wrap your arms around my neck," he said turning his back to her. He waited and anticipated her weight on his back and the shivering hands. She trembled against him and he ignored her body pressed against his. With powerful arms, he moved them towards the edge of the outcropping. He recalled there being stairs under the water and he was right. The stairs were corroded and covered in muck, but they were still there. He eased Meg over to the stairs so she could feel them for herself. "Do you feel them? Good. Climb up."

She scrambled off his back in a rush as if frightened and up the stairs. He tried not laugh again at the desperation in her eyes. Erik followed her and nearly slipped on the top stair due to his own shoes. Gracefully, he caught himself and joined her on the outcropping. The boat bopped gently against the stonework and Erik thanked his intelligence for the forethought in tying the boat up before Meg's arrival. The pole rested comfortably in the boat as well and not in the clutches of the water.

"I never... I never learned how..." she breathed before clutching herself. Her gaze fell to the boat where her shawl rested half in the water and half in the boat..

"So I gathered," Erik replied trying to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. Survival had forced him to learn once upon a time as well. "Come, if you return home like that and someone sees you, we'll be in trouble." He helped her to her feet and like a natural sea man, Erik stepped back into the boat. "Let's try this again."

Meg hesitated and shivered. She held her arms tightly around herself and looked at the shiny edge of the outcropping. He watched with a strange amount of patience as her expression shifted trepidation to determination. She took his hand again and this time entered the boat properly. Once she was settled, he picked up her shawl and laid it at her feet in the boat. She didn't move to pick it up. In silence Erik poled the boat to his lair as fast as he possibly could with his passenger. He ignored the cold seeping into his clothes.

By another lucky stroke of forethought, he had worn an older shirt and pants and not his formal attire that evening. He glanced at the shivering girl in the prow of the boat. She hugged herself. Her hair hung limply down her back and a few strands were plastered to her forehead. Her ivory shirt had taken on a translucent appearance revealing her corset underneath. Erik chose to focus on poling the boat towards the shore rather than let her notice his eyes lingering. The girl had gall he realized. I would've had to coax Christine to come with me after that mishap. Meg is altogether too trusting of me. She shouldn't trust me... The boat ran aground and Erik leapt out of the boat to help Meg out of it.

"Come," he commanded in a stern but concerned voice. Obediently she let him carry her ashore and into his house dripping. The pair left a trail of murky water from the door to the bookcase. With his foot, he tripped the floor mechanism at its base and stood back as the door swung open. Meg had seen the bookcase door before and she had ventured into his bedroom cautiously. Yet she had never seen what else lay beyond the door. She craned her neck to see the dimly lit hallway as Erik carried her inside.

"W-w-where?" Meg stuttered and her fingernails dug into his skin through the soaked shirt.

"Here," he replied placing her down in front of a door. He opened it for her and strode in to light the gas lamps. He heard her gasp from the hallway once the room was lit. The extra room was lined with racks of old costumes and aging stage props. Erik proudly waved his hand at them. "I've saved a few over the years for the sheer lark of having them. I will be back momentarily with a towel for you to dry off with. Take your pick of any costume and meet me back in the lair when you are ready."

Erik felt good. In fact, he felt exceptionally good as he passed her to enter his own private room. Little Meg had lost her bravado, the iron had washed away with the water. She seemed frightened, and her fear was not because of him. Instead he had calmly helped and saved her. It felt good. When he returned with a towel from his private bathroom, he found Meg standing by one of the racks. She stood there leaving a puddle of water from charcoal skirt on the wood floor. She held a dirty and torn white bridal dress in her hands that he recognized immediately.

"Not. That. One," he cautioned her in a growl. He checked his anger as he strode into the room.

"It was meant for Christine, wasn't it?" she asked quietly letting it slip from her fingers. "I understand." Erik felt his anger slip at the name of his precious ingénue, and Meg seemed to sense it. Her voice was still quiet as she pointed to the gown beside the ruined bridal dress. "I was looking at the one next to it."

His gaze moved from the gown he had envisioned for Christine to the elaborate full, three tiered red skirt with wide black lace, black vest with front laces, and a white chemise top from a gypsy harlot opéra-comique. He glanced back at Meg and her dark features. Her face was guarded, lacking any expression, which was unusual.

"Oh," he exhaled awkwardly. Erik, the taunting and demanding Phantom, found himself at a loss for words. His mind reeled at imaging Meg in the elaborate Spanish peasant outfit dancing in the spotlight on the stage.

"It... it would suit you," he stammered out before thrusting the towel upon her. Quickly he turned and exited the room feeling something tighten in his chest. Shutting the door behind him, he leaned against it. The voice chuckled in his head.

You want to see her in that dress. You realize how good she would look in it. The red & the black against that glowing tawny skin of hers. All you have to do is open the door and watch her change. Force her to wear it. Speak gently and she'll do your bidding. She's vulnerable now. Trusting. Right in the next room undressing… dripping wet and cold, looking for warmth. All you have to do is open the door.

"No, I won't," he breathed pushing his hands against his head.

But you want to do it. You partially saw what was underneath her clothes… the press of her body against yours in the lake….

"No, I don't."

... You do. YOU DO. You just won't admit to yourself that you find her... The voice paused. Erik realized he couldn't place his finger on why he admired Meg. He wanted to protect her - from those who would hurt her and from himself. She wasn't innocent like Christine; not talented in the same way. She was compassionate but that wasn't what sparked the voice in his side to accuse him of desiring the young girl. He pushed himself away from the door and ripped off his wet clothes. Caught in this conundrum, he argued with himself over what exactly was it that Meg was to him. He threw his own towel into the empty wash basin and pondered his reflection. The mask was ruined. He removed it and examined himself again in the small mirror. A man on one side and a monster on the other. With resignation, he picked up the ivory mask given to him by Josef and Antoinette so long ago. He tied the ribbons into place and arranged his damp hair to hide the ties.

He stepped out of his room dressed in semi-formal attire - black trousers, matching vest to hide his suspenders, and a white shirt with softly curled wings with the top button undone. He had rolled the sleeves up to his forearms so as to appear less formal and more relaxed. Erik was a gentleman, but in his own house, he preferred to be comfortable. He noted the door to the extra room stood partially open, but he forced himself to walk past without looking in. He made his way out of his private dwelling to the lair in search of something stronger than wine to calm his nerves. He found no solace in the empty brandy decanter on the top shelf of the short bookcase. With an inward sigh, he turned to the bottle of wine placed among the foodstuffs he had laid out for Meg. Erik examined the red liquid swirling in his glass in the firelight before quaffing a sizeable amount of it.

"Will we ever stop giving and returning garments?" Meg asked appearing in the lair. She wore a pair of men's woolen trousers that would've ended at a normal man's knees; on her, they stopped at her shapely calves. Underneath a gauzy man's shirt (Erik assumed from the same ballerino shepherd's costume as the pants), she wore the fiery red corset top from Don Quixote. Her black hair hung like a limp black flag on a windless day over her left shoulder. On bare feet she padded over to the side table and poured herself a glass of wine. He began to chuckle admiring the effect the light white shirt gave to the black beaded, blood red top. The v cut around the shirt's neck fell close to her navel revealing more of the top than he had first noticed. Little Meg's attempts at modesty – the ballerina who occasionally worse less than most –completely and utterly failed. The white shirt kept her shoulders covered, but the shirt simply revealed too much of her figure poured into the corset. He hadn't heard her at first, but the second, angrier question drew his eyes to her face. "What's so amusing?"

"Your dress," Erik replied with a twinkle in his eye. He felt devilish for the moment. He waved in a vague gesture from her head to her toes. "What possessed you to choose... that outfit over the dresses?"

"You wear one of those frilly, pale frocks day in and day out. Then you can tell me what you prefer to wear when you have gone swimming accidentally," she grumbled back at him. Her cheeks flushed out of embarrassment at her outfit. She wasn't about to admit to Erik that her undergarments were sopping wet. She could've worn the Spanish dress, but after Erik's reaction, she chose to find something akin to a corset and more comfortable attire. She was used to pants, and she enjoyed the freedom they accorded at the moment.

Of course, Erik would wear something civil. He also wouldn't understand how uncomfortable female fashion was unless he read the newspaper articles on the necessity (or not) of corsets. She stood next to him feeling awkward and weak pouring her glass of wine. She gulped at the wine and nearly choked. Coughing and tearing up she heard Erik laugh genuinely amused. "Ah... So... That's why you keep inviting me. Amusement," she croaked out.

"Partly. Although I prefer my entertainment to not perish from choking on good Cabernet," Erik admitted watching her settle on the other end of the couch closer to the fire. For some reason, she deviated from her typical demure seating habits. One foot she had gracefully tucked underneath her while she placed her other foot on the couch's edge. Then she proceeded to finger comb her damp hair. He watched interested in this slightly different but the same Meg; he forced himself to appear nonchalant.

"Do you have any ribbon?" she asked casually looking at him sideways. Her homely act combined with the femininity beneath her masculine attire stirred something in him. Rousing himself from his observation of the woman, he met her dark gaze. He couldn't read the expression hidden there and so chose to acquire what she requested. Easily, he found a black ribbon among his masks.

Walking out of the hallway, he paused to watch her deft fingers pull hair and twist it into a braid from the crown of her head down. Erik wondered if all women knew how to do such things with their hair or if they were taught. Who taught them? Mothers? Sisters? Friends? He pushed the obvious answers aside and placed the black ribbon on the arm of the couch next to Meg. She picked the ribbon up and began to wrap it around the ends of her hair. With a sigh, she finally relaxed with her braided her loosely hanging over her shoulder. She picked up her wine glass and took a smaller sip. Erik settled himself back into the green chair as the Meg he recognized returned. "I don't know how to swim."

"I gathered as much by your panicked expression," he said over his wine glass before taking a sip. He rose from his seat and picked up the basket on the side table. Then he did something unaccepted. Normally Erik chose to keep a distance between himself and her; tonight he wanted to be closer. The cat wanted to toy with the mouse. He wanted to see her reaction up close and not from a distance. He sat on the other end of the couch and set the basket between them. He watched as Meg eyed the bread and opened the basket further. When she smiled, he smiled inwardly at the triumph. His small "surprise" had pleased her. "Go on, have a tart."

"How did you get them?" she asked in awe lifting out the small pastry with lemon filling. She bit into it, and her eyes closed in happiness. Meg forgot the frightening moments on the lake and savored the burst of sugar in her mouth. "This... is fantastic, Erik. Thank you."

"I thought you would enjoy them. I happened upon a baker taking some to a stall this morning. I simply lifted and pocketed a few."

Her ecstatic expression faltered. She grew pale and swallowed her second bite hard. "You stole them?"

"And what if I did? Does it matter?" Erik questioned. He raised an eyebrow at her. "The baker can always make more."

"But... Erik, thou shalt not steal." She set the pastry down and brushed the crumbs from off her trouser legs as if they had been burning embers.

"I left a few coins on the tray, Meg," he lied quickly hoping to reassure her. In his world, there was no omnipotent higher power or mythical being of unimaginable forgiveness. He had survived often thanks to his sleight of hand. He tried to not let her moral and ethical perspective ruffle his feathers. He had wanted to see her enjoy his "surprise." When she picked the pastry back up to eat it, Erik felt himself calm down again.

"Will you read?" she asked leaning over the basket to pluck out another pastry. Erik let his eyes travel up her arm and back to the smooth skin stretched across her shoulders. The beads shone faintly in the firelight and drew his gaze downward. Instinctively her hand went to the shirt's lapels and pulled it inward. She held it in place as Erik's eyes darted up to meet her gaze. Her eyes held annoyance and a dare for him to try to leer at her again. Her tone of voice held a threatening edge. "Perhaps I should change into something less -"

Distraction immediately came to Erik's mind. He had never seen Meg as attractive. For all extensive purposes, Meg was never a woman to his tastes. He preferred angelic, innocent, and frail; not a cool ember with the fire still burning inside it. Being so close to her in such a disassembled state began to gnaw at his baser instincts. He was not immune to women... and Erik was not a Ghost. Awkwardly Erik took the opportunity to rise from the couch to retrieve the book before she could find the right word.

"Off-putting," she said finally. She hadn't liked the way Erik looked at her… Those eyes lingering on her made her feel uneasy. She chose to ignore him and turn her attention back to the tarts. She let her anger slip away and she opted for being friendly again. "How did you manage to slip so many out from underneath Eleanor's nose?"

"The managers did most of the work for me," Erik answered settling into the side chair. Originally he had thought the distance would help him relax; instead he realized he simply had a better view of her. Her hands had left her shirt and her attention was fully on the basket. Her bent leg stretched and her foot gracefully touched the floor as she leaned over the basket. He shifted uncomfortably in the chair trying not to stare again. He thought to sit up straight in the chair, but it proved too uncomfortable. Resigned, he opted to stretch his legs out and slouch in the chair. "They requested Eleanor make room in storage. She argued but in vain. So she was forced to get rid of many costumes from the early days of the Opera-Populaire. I simply brought them down here for my own uses."

"Eleanor would probably appreciate you returning some of them. She could repurpose the corsets, skirts, and male costumes easily," Meg offered encouragingly. She touched the top of the corset she wore in an innocent gesture. "Especially this one. It's so intricate up close. It must have taken her ages to complete it. I remember watching a dress rehearsal and La Sorelli looked like a redbird flitting across the stage in it."

"More like a statue. She was stiff that whole performance run and did not do the character justice," Erik muttered as he flipped through the pages. "A child would not have noticed the difference."

Meg glared at his off-handed insult. "And who would you consider to be good?"

"Your mother, to begin with," Erik replied reading a page of the book. Where had they left off? He continued to talk as he thumbed through the book. "She had a refined sense of movement and a natural grace to her carriage. La Sorelli never had that innate ability, but she was the darling of the critics." He paused and marked the page with his finger as he closed the book. "The new girl -

"What do you think of Teodora?" Meg set the basket down on the floor having finished the pastries, and she twisted to retrieve her wine glass. Erik watched and tried to mask his gaze with a hand to his brow in an attempt to appear at ease.

"The Polak? She's good but not great. She doesn't move the crowd and yet she still holds her position."

"The managers paid a hefty sum to convince her to leave Moscow, or so the gossip circulates," Meg replied. She brought her legs up onto the couch and laid down on her side with her head on her hand. She barely took up the whole couch unlike Erik and his tall frame. "Also, the word is she is sleeping with either Firmin or Fornier depending on the day of the week."

"Fornier," Erik stated in a tone of disgust. He ripped his gaze away from her and back to the book in his lap.

"I get the impression you don't like him dallying with Teodora?" Meg grinned. He glanced up at her face. She stared at him with an earnest and thoughtful gaze. Casual yet interested. He wasn't used to someone looking at him in such a manner. The mouse seems all too comfortable around the cat, the voice whispered.

"Oh, I don't mind the managers enjoying the... benefits of their positions," Erik acknowledged in a droll tone. "I do, however, have an issue with them cavorting in the manager's office." Meg's eyes went wide and she rose slightly from the couch. "It's rather difficult to find out information about my opera when one of the managers and the prima ballerina are doing the beast with two backs on the desk. They spilled ink everywhere."

Meg covered her mouth, but the gesture couldn't stop her laughter from filling the lair. Flustered and agitated by the colloquial phrase he used, Meg's raucous laughter didn't help his nerves. Erik drummed his fingers on the book cover. The normally nervous action hid his unease at seeing Meg's relaxed pose on his couch. Imagine how she would look with her hair unbound on that couch. Her hair would be like that ink on the desk dripping from the corner, the voice offered in a menacing tone.

"Mon dieu, I'm sorry," Meg finally said looking at him after wiping the tears from her eyes. "I'm not laughing at you... I just never imagined hearing the Phantom use that turn of phrase."

"Apparently," Erik responded drily. "I would prefer you keep that bit of information to yourself. Mademoiselles Jammes and St. Michel do not need to know about Teodora and Fornier's trysts."

"Oh! Of course!" Meg smirked and Erik felt something trip in his mind. She looked away from him to turn and flop on to her back on the couch. Her braid fell just slightly over the couch's edge. Her gaze seemed to search for something in the lair's cavernous ceiling. "They would be giddy with that information."

"May I read or do you require more secrets to share with your friends?" he flipped the book open to draw his eyes away from Meg – her chest rising and falling, accentuated by the red corset and highlighted by the flimsy white shirt. A curl from a loose strand of hair graced for elegant brow. She seemed comfortable, vulnerable… Delectable and inviting as she rested on his couch. She's not an angel but a temptation, the voice teased again.

"One last question," the lithe ballerina stretched out on his couch said towards the ceiling. The Phantom arched his exposed eyebrow at her comment drawing him out of his admiration of her form. The dancer turned her face towards him and those dark eyes matched the devilish grin on her red lips. "May I keep the corset?"

"You may," he muttered forcing his eyes away from the girl on his couch. He ignored the flush coursing through his body and the laughter from his inner voice. He opened the book with a smooth gesture and began to read. He didn't look up from the book until he heard Meg's soft snoring. He hesitated a moment before rising to his feet, wrapping the ballerina in an extra blanket, and whisking her away to her rooms once more.