Christine tossed in her small, hard bed, disturbed by a nightmare. The sun was so hot against her skin, she was sure it would peel away any minute and leave her raw and smarting; which really was strange, considering she thought she was in her little shack at the edge of the city.

A loud crash jolted her upright, gasping. The air was smoky and dry, and the candles she'd left on the windowsill were melted into the wood floor, emitting a foul odour of burnt fat. Her heart thudded in panic as she realised her own sheets were on fire, and a corner of her nightclothes. A scream tore from her once-star voice, and she scrambled to her feet, only to find that the flames confined her. The door was blocked by a smouldering beam of the ceiling, revealing, as if to mock her, a section of the cool, starry night outside.

Dear God, protect me! The window, too was blocked, as the frame was burning along with the handmade, patchy curtains. Pain seared through her as the flames reached her calf and galvanised her into action. She leapt up, gown still burning, and cried as the floor, burning as well, peeled the skin from the soles of her feet. The house was eating at her arms and fingers, at her back. She stumbled from the pain and smoke blindness, and the beam seared a bleeding stripe across her breasts and down her stomach. She would have screamed out again, but for the dryness hurting her throat. With hands that felt too weak and pained and bloody, she scrabbled at the breaking wood. Cinders showered her with sparks of pain and ate away at her scalp.

By some miracle, the weakened planks gave way and she scalded herself one more time on the doorknob before staggering out into the night.

Salt tears stung her steaming skin, and everything hurt. It hurt to move, so she fell to the cooling ground one street over, trailing blood on the cobblestones, and stayed still. It hurt to breathe, so she closed her gasping mouth, despite the protest of her lungs. It hurt to see, so she closed her eyes.

It hurt to feel, so she shut her consciousness down and surrendered to the oblivion at the edges of her vision.

…

Erik had tried to cut Christine from his life and from his heart. He had burned every last bit of her that remained in his house, from the sheet music she used to the handkerchiefs she'd carried. He had locked her room, rearranged the furniture as if it did not exist.

Try as he might, though, he could not eradicate her memory. The feel of her tear-streaked cheeks the last time he'd touched her still burned in his hands and made them itch to feel again. The look in her eyes, of fear and conflict, still met his inner eye with intensity and heartrending regret. Her voice, and all the things she'd said, every moment she'd laughed or cried still echoed, forcing him to acknowledge that she existed and would forever haunt him.

"Erik, Christine-" A loud clatter sounded, and something expensive broke, but he didn't look up from his blank paper and now-dry pen.

"I told you never to speak of her to me," he interrupted. "And do clean that mess up, I shouldn't like you to spoil my rugs with sharp objects."

The Persian was absolutely frantic. "I know it's late in the night, but you must come quickly! Christine will die without you!"

"What do I care if she lives or dies? She will die happy." Erik spat viciously. "And why should you care either? You owe nothing to her, or to me. Now leave me in peace."

"She will not die happy!" Nadir nearly roared. "I have watched her mucking about the dumps for food, squatting on unclaimed land because no place will employ her in light of the scandal at this opera house! And now she lies in the cold, burned and marred by the very house she built! I know you asked me never to interfere with her life, and even threatened my own, but by all things above and below, if you don't help her now, you really are the beast she said you were!" He backed up, suddenly afraid he'd pushed too far.

Erik's fists were clenched tight, as was his jaw. "Who told you this?"

"I have eyes all over the city. I've been watching over Christine, but never interacting, as you told me not to." The chair he was sitting in fell back as he stood up suddenly.

"Where is she now? And why isn't she with the Vicomte?" he demanded.

"She left the Vicomte as soon as she was able, because his relatives hated her. She had a house by the city dump, but it burned about an hour ago. She's unconscious not far away."

Erik retrieved two coats and opened the entrance to the opera's upper levels. Then he turned back as an afterthought. "I'm not going for her, Nadir. I'm going so as to prove to you that I'm not a beast."

As soon as he was out of sight, Nadir smiled, but just a little, because now there was hope.

…

Christine gasped as pain jolted through her along lines of her back. Nothing new, but just enough to tell her that she was moving steadily. Maybe it's the undertaker, thinking I'm dead. I certainly feel near death. She was not afraid. If she died, she would go to her Father in Heaven.

A dark hand entered her vision and pulled something tight over her whole body. She was wrapped up, as if in a shroud. The cloth abraded her raw wounds, but there was little pain, and she thanked the heavens for that small kindness. She was so tired… I think… I think I'll sleep again.

…

Erik did not bother assessing the burns on sight. They were beyond bad. She had been nearly naked when he found her, for only a few scraps of her nightdress hadn't been consumed by flame. My coat will be bloody after this. Well. It's not the first time she's ruined my clothes. He tried not to think of it, but as he carried her back to the opera, his mind drifted.

She had come to her lesson a few minutes late, sneezing. He, trying to be very stern, had made her skip the lesson and ingest several cups of hot soup and tea, all the while admiring the way she trusted him and let him care for her. Then, he sent her back home with one of his smaller cloaks (still far too long for her) to be snuggled in, dragged through wastewater, and eventually hemmed up for her safety.

He forced himself to think of the current situation instead of doting. Christine had not found employment in another city, as he would have expected. Why would she stay in Paris? Surely there were too many traumatising memories here. With a bit of charity from the ever-giving viscount, she could have easily moved to another country, even. Foolish girl. She thinks of herself at all the wrong times, and is selfless when it least suits her.

He slipped into his tunnels by the back entrance and never once looked upon Christine's face. To look now would make him weak. The smell of burnt flesh was quite enough, and anything else would overload his senses.

In a mockery of their first official meeting, he laid her gently in the bottom of his little boat and poled them across to his home.

Nadir was not there, likely because he knew Erik loved all things secret. He would make sure no one remembered the little shack that burned near the city limits.

Her room had been cleared, so he set her on the couch, gently unwrapping the cloak. He winced as he saw some skin tear away that had clotted against the cloth. She shifted, but thankfully remained unconscious.

Erik grimaced. I wouldn't like to wake in an unfamiliar place with invasive hands all over my skin. Why should she be more uncomfortable than she already is? He went to his supply cabinet and extracted all the necessary supplies, including a vial of morphine and a syringe.

His emotions recoiled automatically, leaving him with only surgical interest. It would hurt too much to think of anything but medicine. Much of her skin was raw and bleeding, or seeping yellow pus. This was where she would begin to feel pain. What was still covered with skin was waxy and white, deadened by heat, so damaged as to be completely numb. These would not scab over by exposure. They would need antibiotics, ointment as soon as they started to dry, and enough bandaging to make the patient look like an embalmed Egyptian.

He set to work. She would live, and Nadir would not think him a beast. He was determined that this would be his only objective.

…

Christine drifted in and out of reality. Once, in her dream, she thought she saw the edge of a coat sleeve, an onyx cufflink, very loosely fit. Occasionally, it hurt, so she retreated to dreamland.

Waking for the first time after her accident was stifling. Her eyes, thankfully, were unharmed, but her joints felt stiff, as if her body had swelled and aged at the same time.

Some places on her stung, as if rubbed by alcohol, but most of her was unfeeling. The hospital doesn't have candles like this. The hospital doesn't have a stone ceiling, either. The awareness of where she was calmed her, strangely. If Erik had not contacted her, yet still cared enough to save her life, he would not hurt her.

As to how he feels about me…that will be another matter. Apprehension filled her at the thought of having to deal with her former tutor. He had been on the brink of insanity last she'd seen him, and while his timely rescue spoke well of his character, it did nothing to assuage her fears of dealing with an obsessive madman.

"I see you're awake." She swallowed. The gauze scraped painfully against her throat. She suspected her inability to speak was due to more than inhalation of smoke.

Erik was leaning against the doorframe, as nonchalant and striking as ever. He looked the same, perhaps a touch thinner. Has he been eating properly? He had absconded with his wig, and left the light, sparse strands of his hair to glow in the candlelight. His mouth had more of a downward set than it had when he was teaching her.

"Don't speak. Nadir sent me to you, accusing me of being a beast." He turned his yellow-gold eyes to her blue. If she hadn't been nearly incapacitated by bandages, she would have shuddered. There was no visible compassion in those eyes, only resentment. "The only reason you are alive is because I am not."

A beast? Or alive? He left her alone again, in the silence. She thought. He has every right to hate me, she told herself. I left him when he needed me most, I betrayed him to the world, left him at the hands of a mob. And while he may have escaped that mob, he did not escape the damage I did him. Still, it hurt that he no longer cared.

After a bit, her stomach complained, a familiar feeling in the past months. He used to make me breakfast down here, and a good one at that. She twisted around, despite the pain, and set to getting up off the couch.

To her credit, she made it to the kitchen's entrance before Erik found her. True to his new, cruel form, he did not assist her, only watched with a mask of indifference. "I see you've learned some self-sufficiency in your absence." She gritted her teeth and didn't look at him. "If you think you're going to cook, you're wrong. Your fingers are too weak to lift much right now. You're putting yourself through needless difficulty."

Then why don't you cook? Or why am I here? Oh, that's right, I'm only here to prove a point to the little Persian man. Christine wished she could speak and give Erik the tongue lashing of his life. Her stomach rumbled again, further embarrassing her.

She lifted the lid of a container with her clumsy, bandaged digits, only to find a thick golden syrup, not flour or biscuits. Honey?

"Sit down before you harm yourself." He took the lid from her and glared meaningfully. "Go on. Sit. Right now, you're not fit for much else but sleep, food, and a lot of fluids."

She looked at her dully aching fingers. Too late. They were bleeding, red blooming in spots on the gauze. If it wasn't so disturbing that she felt no pain, she would have given a relieved smile. Despite what he says, he still cares for me.

…

Erik found out later that day that lavatory business was going to be clumsy and embarrassing for the next few weeks. Visits there consisted of helping Christine walk there (though she would soon be able to move by herself) then closing the door on her until she called him for help getting up again. Sometimes he considered just carrying her everywhere, but her bandaging would become mussed.

At least, that was the excuse he gave himself.

When the time came to change her bindings, they both braced themselves. She had not seen the damage to her skin yet, and he did not feel like touching her at all, let alone all over.

He had broached the subject the night before in one of their scarce, brief conversations. It would hurt to move so much, but the ointment needed to be layered on again.

"You must have been through this before, if you're so sure of what to do." She had regained her voice after a few days of tea with generous spoonfuls of honey. It was almost a challenge, a challenge that made him freeze for a moment in his deft grinding of medicinal plants.

"I have…studied this subject sufficiently." They were in his living room by the fireplace, which crackled and gave an ominous, shadowy cast along with its merry glow. "Of course I know what to do." She almost thought he was reassuring himself, not her.

He started with her fingers. They were healing well, and would have full range of motion in a few weeks. Now they and every other part of her was beginning to ache under the first layer of her flesh. Erik told her it was her nerves regrowing where they could, though she would never feel as much through her skin as she could before. She kept her eyes down. He focused only on the task, reapplying the salve and wrapping the clean bandages.

It seemed like forever before he was done with her arms. He was especially tender on her legs, as the worst of the burns were there.

"Ow!" Erik looked up at her.

"Did I hurt you?" She shook her head after a moment's hesitation.

"No, it's not you, it's the skin," she justified. She hated it when he blamed himself.

There was momentary awkwardness when he had to redress her torso and back, but he set his jaw and she looked away, forcing herself to trust his touch. He cared, but showed nothing but a doctor's concern for his patient.

…

"I'm going out." That was Erik's only announcement. Christine was curled up in her corner of the couch, staring at the black and white of a book just to hear the pages turn. A week's silence was wearing on her nerves. Music had been absent, not a note sung or played. I would hum, but it would disturb him, maybe make him snap.

He looked back at her and opened the door. "Wait!" Her soft robe rustled as she opened a side closet next to the kitchen. She returned holding a heavy coat and held it out to him. He only looked at it, suspicious. This is like trying to kiss-feed a wounded panther! "I didn't want you to be cold."

"I never get cold," he said, but his black-gloved hand reached out to grasp the garment anyway. "You should lie down again. Your scabs will crack."

"I don't have any scabs!" Christine huffed and stomped a linen-wrapped foot, wincing as she aggravated her toes, proving his point. If I'm going to kiss-feed a panther, I might as well do it with gusto! "Erik, I've done nothing but sit and lie down for- for ages, it seems! You saved my life, and I'm grateful, but any longer doing nothing and I'll die of boredom! And you won't let me into my old room, and there's no music anymore, and-" She was cut off by a sharp hiss and a cold index pressed against her balm-coated lips.

"Erik has his reasons. Now be a good little angel and sit." He turned his back to her and left without another word. He is more broken than I thought if he has lost the will to make music.

…

The Phantom roamed the streets again, invisible in the shadows. It is hard to think when Christine is near. What if she started to sing again? He knew himself too well. It will be agony to push her back into the world if she sings again. Her voice is my enchantment. By keeping himself unattached, he hoped to help her restart her life, though her choices would be limited by the burn scars.

As indifferent as he acted towards her, his heart kept pulling him in. She only trusts me now because she has to! he insisted to himself, but still, he could not help but hope. Love existed on the basis of trust, that he had learned the hard way.

Every attempt she'd made to converse with him as in the old days had slid off his cold veneer, but also pierced his chest with regret and distrust. How could her words be true when they had been false to even her Vicomte?

An empty bottle rolled behind him. With reflexes born of the kill, he grabbed the man behind him around the throat, knowing immediately who it was. He'd held this neck many times before, and it had always escaped his wrath, one way or another. "Nadir, you're getting soft. A few years ago, you could have at least hit me once before I caught you." He released Nadir's windpipe.

The disgruntled Persian harrumphed and straightened his collar. "I am not getting soft. And we need to talk."

…

The unsweetened tea steamed in the cool air of Nadir's little house, but Erik only felt it on about a third of his face. "I know you didn't bring me here just for the tea, Daroga. What is it you want?"

Nadir took a seat opposite him and sipped the hot drink appreciatively. "This European cold does not suit my old bones," he muttered. Erik's visible eyebrow raised a fraction.

"Old? You're barely forty." The man only sniffed.

"Exactly. Forty is old. At any rate, how is Christine?" Erik stiffened.

"She's as well as can be expected. A bit bored, perhaps. She's blistered mostly on her legs, some on her back, and face. Her front suffered less, but only slightly." The Persian's eyes narrowed.

"Then let me rephrase that: how are you, really?" The cup in Erik's hands was launched into the fireplace, wetting ashes and diminishing their heat source.

"Damn you Daroga! I don't have time for this!" He stood up and made to leave.

"Well, that was a waste of my good tea, and my good china. Erik, wait!" he called, just as his friend was putting on his coat. "You're not well and you know it."

"Why should you concern yourself? You owe me nothing," the Phantom snarled back. Nadir's expression softened.

"No, I owe you everything." He knew Erik would stop then. And he did owe Erik everything, for the Angel of Death had saved his life repeatedly.

He paused, hand resting on the cold metal of the doorknob. "Then what makes you think you have to interfere now?"

"Because I know when you're hurting."

He returned to the table and sat. "There's something wrong, Daroga. She doesn't realise that she will destroy me when she leaves again."

"What makes you think she'll leave? As far as I know, you've shown her nothing but kindness for the past week." Nadir took another small draught of his tea. "Take your own advice and drink up, before you catch a fever."

"I don't get fevers," he replied evasively.

"As you like. Again, why do you think she'll leave? She has nowhere else to go." It was irritating, the way Nadir could remain calm while Erik struggled to maintain composure regarding the future. "Answer me honestly, Erik: do you still care for her?"

"Are you mad, man?" he seethed. "Do you still love your wife and son? Of course I care for her." The hot porcelain of the kettle brushed his knuckles as his hands twitched with agitation.

"Then pursue her," Nadir said, as if the answer were obvious.

"You are mad!" Erik confirmed. "The last time I tried that, I lost control and started making death threats! I will not go through that again!"

"Then don't!" The other man stood suddenly and leaned over the table. For the first time, he seemed almost intimidating to the Phantom. "You have better control over yourself than any other man I've met. This time, I expect you to pursue her properly, with the modicum of good behaviour I know you have!"

"Be careful where you step, Persian. If this ends badly, you will be responsible." He stood. "I must be going. Christine will want a meal at this hour."

…

Christine sat carefully at the piano. Erik would be less than pleased should he find her 'injuring herself' with too much strain. The sheet music before her was too complex for her to play, so she settled for tapping a starting note and singing softly. She was painfully out of practice, so she settled for an easier song, one Erik had written. Hope was meant to be danced to, but in a fit of inspiration, he had added lyrics.

Why did he write this the way he did? Hope is not something he feels, ever. And why did he keep this music? I likely destroyed all hope he ever had.

"You are far out of practice." She jumped and turned around. Erik was standing in the doorway. "Your support is lacking, and if you are going to sing, do it well." His eyes met hers, and betrayed affection. "Otherwise, your voice is as beautiful as ever."

If her face had not been mostly bound, she would have blushed and smiled. "Thank you, maestro." His expression shifted.

"It's been a long time since you called me by that title."

"…By your own doing. There has been no music here but this little song," she dared say. "I miss the music."

Silence. Then: "Christine. If you think my feelings for you have lessened, they have not. If-" Here his voice trembled. "If you wish to leave, you may, once you are healed. I cannot make you stay."

He is letting me go… But do I want to? There is nowhere else to go. "I… I want to stay," she said. "With you," she added. She couldn't let him think he was unwanted, because beyond all the hurt and indecision, she wanted him. I do. He can be tender, and he loves me still. He knows my heart.

She could see the surprise in the slight intake of breath. "You won't be able to perform now you realise. If you stay, let it be because of me, not because you want the stage again." He is looking for an excuse to crush his own heart!

"I… I know I won't be able to perform, but I couldn't anyway, not after what happened." They both knew what incidents she spoke of. "But it is better to stay with you. I know you, and I know you will care for me." She looked up at him. He bent and kissed her hand through the bandages. She looked like a mummy, and would look worse still after the wrappings were removed, but he loved her still, even though she had wronged him repeatedly. Her eyes stung with heartfelt happiness.

…

She opened her eyes and found them partly blocked by the familiar gauze. Something smelled nice, though what could smell so good at this hour- Oh. A rose sat on the dresser, not red like obsession and the infatuation Erik had held for her months back, but white and pink. Like tenderness. Something I'd send to a dear friend were they ill. The drastic change in his attitude towards her was not alarming, for it was certainly better than the cold indifference he had shown the previous day.

She sat up and rolled off the bed (slowly, so as not to open her wounds), and sniffed the pink flower. It smells like springtime. Then she remembered that it would be Christmas in a few weeks. Springtime was after the holiday. He must have paid a lot for a rose out of season. Perhaps this is one from the East, imported.

She put on another nightdress, though a nicer one than her robe from the day before. Wait…I'm back in my old room. She smiled to herself. He must have carried me here after I fell asleep on the couch last night. Does this mean he has forgiven me, a little bit?

She looked about for a mirror to check that the gown wasn't crooked, but found none. I could have sworn there was a mirror in that corner before. Maybe he thought it wasn't necessary. He had probably given up on her return and smashed the thing to bits, for reflective surfaces were the enemy. I won't need a mirror either, even when I am healed. The thought saddened her more than she thought it would. She would never be beautiful again, never tempt Erik's eyes.

Then she shook her head. I shouldn't be thinking such things. They are unbecoming of a young lady. He said he still loves me, she reassured herself. She wasn't quite convinced.

Another layer of delicious scents assaulted her nose as she exited her quarters. The underground was always dark, and always lit with lamps and candles, but breakfast smelled like sunshiny mornings with her father and fresh country air.

Christine walked as quickly as her complaining skin would allow and sat at the long table, in her usual place at the end. On her plate was a cup of the usual broth, but this time accompanied by sausage, cut small, and fluffy eggs, and a biscuit.

"Excuse me miss, would you mind if I took a place next to you?" She turned, barely startled anymore by Erik's sudden comings and goings. He was smiling behind his mask, eyes dancing with mischief and a hint of nervousness.

"Erik, you know you can sit anywhere you like. This is your house!"

"I know, but I ask because while there is a young lady in it, this is her house. May I sit?" She smiled as best she could, hoping he could see it behind all the linens. They'd have to change them in another day.

"Of course you may," she said, and lifted her fork with clumsy fingers. Eating was now awkward for them both now, as she dropped her utensil many times, and each time refusing his offers to spoon-feed her. However, she was just grateful that she could eat solid food again, thanks to his care.

#

An attitude of peace prevailed for the next few weeks. They made some music together, but mostly he performed for her, all the greatest tenor arias of past and current writers. When she sang, it hurt her skin, but it was worth it to hear their voices together. She could almost feel their hearts mending, slowly, like the edges of skin creeping back over her burned self.

In the evenings, Christine listened as he read the greatest stories from his time in Persia, curled up as best she could in a blanket to stave off the cold. If not for his rigid schedules, she would have lost her perception of day and night.

It was on a night of reading that she decided she'd had enough of the blanket's scant protection. She had avoided complaining about it, for she didn't wish to seem ungrateful after his lifesaving endeavours, but her feet, arms and face and feet were still frigid.

She removed her weight from one side of the couch and promptly draped her torso against Erik's shoulder. He stopped his reading to look at her incredulously. She tucked her feet closer to her body, ignoring the twinge that came from stretching the healing skin on her back and legs.

He was still staring at her as if she'd turned to stone, though she rather thought that if anyone had been transformed by Medusa, it was he.

"What is it?" He wet his lips momentarily.

"Am I warm?" She stifled a laugh as what could be seen of his face warred between elated confusion and anger at his suddenly ineloquent tongue. It warmed her to know she could still affect him.

"You are, far more than this blanket."

"Shall I fetch another one?" She hummed and hooked one slightly stiff arm around his, and rested her head against his shoulder. His body heat seeped through the fabric.

"No, this is good."

He went on reading. She smiled and closed her eyes. I am beginning to fall for him, I think; and it's not unpleasant at all.

#

"Erik, have you ever celebrated Christmas before?" He smirked.

"Once, a long time ago, with Nadir, who celebrated solely for my mental health. He thought it would be good for me to get drunk once in a while, despite his being nonalcoholic."

"Well, now you have me to celebrate with. Did you get drunk?" She put down her fork with a clink and went to place her plate back in the kitchen.

"Not completely," she heard him say from the dining room. She turned and squealed. He was right behind her, eyes alight with mischief. "I remember quite clearly that I woke the next morning with much less of a headache than he had."

"I thought you said he was nonalcoholic!" He chuckled.

"And he said, 'a little wine never hurt anyone!'"

Erik washed the dishes, something he seldom would have done two months prior, while Christine chatted from the sitting room about all the things they would do during the holiday season. He filed them away and noted that Christmas seemed to require an inordinate amount of decorations.

She is just as happy as she used to be before the boy came. Dare I hope that she will love me?

If only love were as clear to me as it seems to be to that blasted Daroga!

#

The next morning, Erik announced that it was time to remove the bandages. When they had changed them, Christine had only seen small pieces of her skin at a time, and preferred not to look when it hurt.

Silence replaced the usual conversation, but this silence was anything but calm. She was in equal parts happy to be able to take off the restricting linens, but afraid to see herself. It is good that there are no mirrors in this house. Erik had given her a full report of the damage. She knew she would be scabby in places, and that necrotic skin had been removed by his careful fingers to reveal raw and bleeding flesh. That was to protect from infection, though it was painful.

She had seen the pieces of her in a steel bowl, foul enough to make her retch. Would she look as charred and leathery as that discarded skin?

After replacing the dishes, he sat her down on the couch, the place she had spent most of the last few months.

"Ready?"

Christine swallowed and closed her eyes. She fumbled for the end of the cloth tucked over her arms and pinched it tight, ready to pull it off. "As ready as I'll ever be." She felt his hand on her ankle.

The unwrapping went slowly. A few times she thought Erik trembled as he undid the soiled wrappings, and a few other times, she trembled as she felt the cloth catch on the sharp corners of dry scabs. He is so gentle with me.

At last, after what seemed like an eternal mental torment, it was done. He laughed his sardonic, hoarse chuckle. "Merry Christmas." He handed her one of her old nightgowns to cover her most necessary places. She opened her eyes at him, unwilling to look at her damaged body. It was clear to her that she was no longer pleasing to look upon, no longer stirred Erik's passions. "Do you… Would you like a mirror?"

She shook her head. "If I looked, I couldn't live with myself." Erik smiled. It was an odd smile, laced with tears.

"I'm looking, Christine. And I can live with you, if you would permit me." Christine grasped his hand, resenting the leather that separated their scarred fingers.

"No, Erik. It is you who must permit me." She knew the extent of her marring, knew she was not pretty, and Erik loved beautiful things. I am not beautiful.

"Then I will beg, and do now: stay." Tears clogged her throat and leaked down her smarting cheeks.

"Of course I will stay, Erik. I will always stay."

…

Christine had always been a wonder to Erik, and she was now. Christmas had not been as happy as he would have liked, but it was satisfying. Now he knew that his love to Christine could not be shaken. He would never get rid of it, and it would never be diminished.

Now he knew that Christine would have to accept herself as he accepted her, loved her, wanted her.

She had to see herself. She could sing and ignore it all she wanted, but there was no ignoring the damage, just as Erik could never ignore his own scars.

So he took off his mask and lived without it. He lived with Christine.

…

Christine walked through a hall of mirrors. There was no end to this hall, it just went on into darkness. On either side, rows and reflected rows of her reflections spanned out into eternity. She did not look to her left or to her right, for fear of what she might see. She could feel her customary nightgown brushing against her skin, skin that had felt nothing for the longest time.

Am I real? Can I bear to look?

She turned and touched the mirror, and felt nothing. This is not real. Then she steeled herself and twisted to see her reflection.

A bright white light flashed from the end of the hall.

…

She jolted awake with a gasp. From her bedside clock she found that it was still late at night. "Erik…" She whispered his name like a prayer. Her feet darted out of the covers and she made for the door, but sensibilities held her back. Her fingers searched over her scalp, fearing her hair was a mess, but there was nothing to be messed. She remembered that her hair and its roots had been burned away by cinders. She was as bald as her caretaker now.

Her fingertips travelled lower, down her scabby forehead and twisted nose, across her cheeks, grazing her eyelids. Surely…he would not want to see me now. But she also remembered that he had held her hand, begged her to stay. No, perhaps he is still awake. She rubbed her arms in the cold and felt bumps and cords, dry scales and places that still stung and itched.

She was caught between running to Erik's room and stopping altogether. Her cold toes settled for treading slowly. When she reached his door, her hand trembled as she knocked.

The door opened. "Christine?" His mask was off, his gold eyes hooded with tiredness and only a little sleep. Maybe he doesn't think it matters anymore, not when I am like him. She went to him and sat on the edge of his bed.

Then she saw the mirror.

It was the only mirror in the house, and full-length, like the one in her dressing room. Not my room anymore, she thought absently. She stared at her face, at her legs and arms, at everything that could be seen across her body.

The skin looked withered and warped, pink and tender in some places, reptilian and leathery on others. Her neck would never be soft again, nor her earlobes, nor her cheeks. My face…

She trembled, fighting the urge to retch.

I barely look human. Erik startled her out of her horrified staring by hesitantly gripping her hand.

"Look at me, Christine." She closed her eyes against tears and shook her head vigourously. "Look at me," he said, more firmly. She turned to gaze at his equally warped face.

His gold eyes never left hers. "You look at me without fear, without disgust. What makes you think I look at you with such feelings?" His hands were cool against her face.

"You have always been…this way. But you know what I looked like when I was pretty." Her hands gripped his, but did not dare move them. "I had hair, and a face, and a body. And when you took me in, I knew I would lose them, no matter what." She buried her face in his thin, bony chest. "…and I love you, I do, and I want to stay here…but how could I possibly, when you cannot love me anymore?"

He ripped her away from himself in dismay. "Not love you? That is a thing I am incapable of doing! I cannot stop loving you, and trust me," the words felt heavy on his twisted lips, "I have tried." His eyes brightened with saltwater. "And now you say you love me. That is more than I deserve." He kissed her wrist. His lips were wet with said saltwater. "I love your kindness, your inherent compassion, your eyes, your smile…"

"Erik…"

"Love me."

"I do!"

"Marry me."

"Yes."

They embraced for a long time, until all tears were wiped away.

…

Erik dropped a sandbag down into the midst of the cast from the rafters. Beside him, Christine hung onto a support beam and tried desperately to stifle her chuckling. "Now I see why you enjoyed playing ghost so much. They are positively hilarious!" she whispered to him. Her now bald head was covered with a soft hood, and bright blue eyes winked out from under the shadow.

He checked her harness of trick wires to ensure the canvas it was attached to never cut her skin. "Secure?"

"Quite, thank you." She shot him a nervous glance.

"Keep your eyes straight ahead. Pretend you are the moon." She felt the harness pull tight under her clothes.

"Would now be a bad time to kiss you?" she wondered aloud.

"Well- I mean- no time is a bad time, but…" Christine imagined him blushing under his mask, and pecked him on his chapped lower lip. She wished they had more time to explore each other's mouths, but there was a confused cast below to frighten.

She stepped off the beam and was held suspended for a terrifying moment. Then she looked at Erik. His hands were on the pulleys. She nodded at him, and he began to lower her, slowly, onto the stage.

An awful gasp sounded from the cast, whose regrouping session had failed rather miserably. Christine smiled inwardly as a few of the more excitable people shrieked and fainted.

"It's the ghost!"

"No it's not, the ghost wears a suit!"

Her feet touched the ground without a sound. She kept still as a statue.

"It's…dead?"

At that moment, she brought her arms up with a hiss. The black robes and cloak made her look a bit like the Ghost of Christmas Future. The few that had stepped forward leapt back again, scared witless. She flipped her hood back to reveal a mask of her own, one that covered her like a skull helmet. The jaw was missing from its hinge, revealing her scarred chin and lips.

From her sleeve she drew a small scroll, writ in blood red ink. To her surprise (though she did not show it), one of the ballerinas tiptoed forward to claim the note.

"Th-thank you, gracious gh-ghost… Um… W-we'll read it," she assured, shaking like a leaf in a hailstorm. "You may go," she said in a rush, and scurried back to her group of friends.

Erik took the cue and began to pull her up, farther and farther, until it seemed she had melted back into the shadows, invisible.

Down below, a startled cry: "It's for Meg! Meghan Giry, you're cursed!"

Someone read the meticulous lettering by the seal. "No she's not, anyone who opens it except her is cursed!" Christine giggled.

"They really believe that, don't they?"

"Well, it wasn't me who gave the performance down there a moment ago…" She swatted Erik's arm.

"You're terrible, do you know that?"

"And it wasn't my idea to send the note to Meg, either." Christine sighed.

"I just need to tell her that I'm happy where I am now. She knew I left Raoul, and the opera's employ, but I never told her where I was. She's probably been inventing wild stories about conspiracy and murder."

"And you think a ghostly woman floating down from the rafters is a better way to deliver the message?"

He chuckled as she swatted him again. "That was your idea, not mine!"

"I know, cher, I'm just teasing. Kiss me?" he wondered.

She complied most tenderly, but drew back after a moment. "Erik, let's go home."

He looked at her, confused. "We have a bit more watching to do, don't we?"

"I know we do, but I can't kiss you very well with your mask on. Or mine, for that matter." He laughed softly and held her hand, lacing their fingers together. Life was bliss.

…

Nadir came to visit them a few days later for New Year's. He knocked on the door, anxious for his old friend. Had things been reconciled, or had they been broken?

A death's head opened the door, and Khan jumped back and shrieked like a cat with a bruised tail. Resonant, full laughter poured out from the doorway.

"You are going soft, Khan! Christine, come here, he's functional, I assure you. He's been through much worse than that little scare."

Nadir returned to neutral (as opposed to crouching and hiding his face) and scowled. "Is this your sick idea of a joke, Erik?" His good humour was returning, though, upon seeing his old friend happy for once.

"Oh, no sir, it was mine." The death's head stuck out one gracefully thin, very scarred arm. The tip of the arm's pinkie was missing. Behind the rough bone, bright blue eyes glinted. "Erik told me to expect company."

"Christine… You're looking…" He searched for the right word, "…happy."

"I am." She glanced behind her adoringly. "Erik takes wonderful care of me. And you are M. Khan?"

"Please, you may call me Nadir. So, is a skull normally the garment with which you greet company?"

"It is, Khan, now stop distracting her and come inside," Erik called. "The food will get cold." This brought a delighted chuckle from the daroga as they all went back inside where it was pleasantly warm.

"Ah, so you've gotten him to eat regularly!" To Erik: "I see you've outfitted her with your old Red Death mask!" Christine laughed, but the Phantom growled.

"I warn you, Christine, this man will make you think badly of me. You mustn't listen to a word he says." This only brought on a fresh bout of laughter.

"You two bicker like an old married couple! Just how long have you known each other?"

Nadir sat and looked down, wanting to avoid this topic. Had Erik told her of his past with the shah yet? Apparently, he had, though, for he answered Christine with a simple, "Since Persia."

"Oh. Well, let's eat!"

There was a rather grand spread set out, a two roast ducks (and all its offal), an apple and chestnut pie, champagne (which Nadir abstained from, though he spied both Erik and Christine pouring a second glass), radish sandwiches, a celery root and potato gratin, and a pot of hot chocolate. The table was a smaller one that had been set out, for their dinner was for only them.

The meal was spent regaling Nadir with tales of all that had occurred, including Christine's new status as Phantomess and Erik's new ideas for a new opera: a man driven insane by loneliness meets a poor young woman, and though everyone around them disapproves, they remain together. Eating was a bit awkward for the masked man, but his masked woman had no trouble; her jaw was free.

"And what happens then?" Nadir asked. "Does the couple stay together in a happy ending, or does someone persuade the girl to leave?" He meant the question as a test, which Christine promptly passed. She feigned a swoon and Erik caught her, chuckling at her antics.

"The poor man dies, and the girl remains with him, fasting until they both are lifted up to the heavens!" The resident 'ghost' set her upright again. The Persian began to suspect they were holding hands under the table. He decided to change the subject.

"So, I hear the story among the ballerinas is that since the Phantom was vanquished, his mate has come to take her vengeance."

"Really? I thought it had more to do with my supposed death," the girl commented, taking a mouthful of the gratin.

"So some of them believe it is you, Christine, risen as a spirit from the dead?" Erik asked. Nadir could tell he was rather amused.

"Mainly Jammes, though only Meg knows the truth. I'm surprised she managed to keep my secret with all the rest of the girls pestering her so!" she giggled.

The conversation went on and on, until most of the food had been cleared from the table and it was nearly midnight. Erik called for a toast (with hot chocolate; the one bottle of champagne had been finished) to the new year.

They stood, spirits high but a bit tired.

"To my wife," he said, looking down at her affectionately.

"To our love," Christine sighed, holding Erik's arm.

"To life! And to my wife up in heaven," Nadir added, lifted his mug skyward, and took a gulp of the chocolate. "I never celebrate a holiday without her. My, this is delicious. Christine, you are a wonderful cook." She blushed.

"Thank you, but Erik did most of the cooking. I did make the chocolate, though."

"Yes, she insisted I was deprived for never having tasted the stuff," Erik said with a bit of an eye roll.

"Speaking of deprived, I have a late Christmas gift for the both of you. Go on, open it." They took the little box from Nadir. Inside were two gold bands, one with an onyx and one with a diamond.

Erik shook the daroga's hand, as did Christine. "Thank you." He slipped the diamond ring onto Christine's left hand, and the onyx onto his own. Nadir smirked as he noticed the customary leather gloves were missing. Just then, the clock in the hallway stuck midnight. The girl pulled her husband under the doorway to the kitchen and moved their masks aside to kiss him rather giddily.

Nadir smiled and looked away not out of disgust, but out of respect for the couple. He looked towards the heavens. "You see, Rookheeya? I told you everything would be alright. Now you just wait for me, I'll be there after I'm done babysitting these two for another few decades."