A new E/C fic! It's completely different from "Chandelier," so I hope you all enjoy it.

This will be a multi-chapter fic that takes place immediately following the musical. It's heavily based on the 25th anniversary PotO performance by Ramin and Sierra with only a smidgen of Kay canon thrown in.

Right now, this is rated T. Later chapters will most definitely turn to Mature.

As always, feed the author! :)

The choices that define us

Chapter 1: the immediate aftermath

"Christine."

The heel of her right ankle throbbed. She was sure these shoes had caused a blister, their unbroken black-stained leather rubbing up and down across the bone as she walked.

"Christine!"

He had given her exactly one minute to change from Aminta into his bride, his rage swirling on the other side of the curtain as he spit every second of his countdown at her. She had broken a nail, torn more than one button on her costume, in her haste to change. There had been no time to switch from Aminta's black boots to the white silk slippers he had left, but he had paid her feet no mind, latching onto her elbow with cold, iron-hard fingers and jerking her into the main room of his home.

"I say, Christine!"

She snapped her eyes upward. Lost in memories, she half-expected to meet the dark brown eyes of the Phantom, their depths swirling with a range of emotions. Instead, Raoul's blue sky eyes – they almost looked green in the glow of the torch – looked down at her with concern.

Concern and more than a little annoyance.

"Yes?" she said in a choked whisper.

"I have been calling your name for several minutes, Christine." He puffed a breath. She realized he was still holding her hand, only remembering because he squeezed her fingers. "You are limping."

"I have a blister." Her voice sounded far away, her mouth moving on its own. "I am fine." Raoul's hand was large and warm around hers. His hands had been large too, broad-palmed and long-fingered, but so cold beneath her touch, colder than the bite of the metal ring she passed to him. She had pressed a kiss to his knuckles and for a brief second, his skin had heated beneath her lips.

Pressure around her fingers, and she gasped, jerking back her hand. She turned the defensive motion into a gesture meant to sweep the damp bangs from her forehead, ignoring the look in Raoul's gaze.

"I will not leave you here," he said in a clipped tone. "I shall carry you if I must."

The red marks along his throat shifted as he spoke, and shame welled up within her. "No, I can walk." She moved forward again, and they continued their trek through the winding tunnels of the Phantom's domain.

How long had they been walking? Their journey seemed long enough that they should have found the exit by now, but the mob had forced them to venture down other paths to avoid them. Christine had known these people for years, had performed alongside them, broken bread with them, but their voices echoing off the rocky caverns now seemed foreign to her. Raoul had also seemed to sense the danger in crossing paths with the frenzied group, for he had not protested when she insisted they avoid them.

Christine, I love you.

She had thought he might be gone, when she dipped back inside his residence to return his ring. She hadn't asked Raoul for permission, and thought that was probably why he had not let go of her hand in the time since, instead slipping away when his back was turned in a sudden urge to see her angel one more time.

No, not her angel. A man, just a man, and a man she hoped would not still be there, but he was, on his knees next to his music box. She had heard his weeping before she saw his slumped form. When he had noticed her, he had straightened, half-heartedly trying to readjusted his rumpled clothing, and his eyes… oh, his eyes.

Christine, I love you.

Staring at Raoul's back and holding up the front of her dress – her wedding dress – with one hand, she pressed her other to her mouth to stifle a sob. Falling apart now would do no more than hinder them in getting free of these wretched tunnels.

They climbed. And before long, the mob's shouts fell behind them until they could hear only their own footsteps. At some point, Raoul took her hand again, and she didn't protest. Exhaustion was seeping into her very bones, and she stumbled more than once, needing his firm grip to remain on her feet.

Finally, they exited out of an open panel in a wall and stepped into an empty closet backstage. Raoul seemed to know where he wanted to go, and though her thoughts flitted to her regular clothes and belongings tucked inside her dressing room, she dared not suggest they go and fetch them. He tugged her down a hallway and out a side door. The damp cold of a wintry night hit her face; she was already chilled from the cellars, and now her half-bare arms began to shake from the increased chill.

The streets of Paris were still filled with stragglers leftover from the botched performance, some show attendees standing in groups and speaking in hushed voices, while others wandered around as though they were not sure if they should go home or not.

Raoul tried to lead her to the front of the opera house, but she shrank back. Already, she had been noticed, her white dress stark against the nighttime.

"I can't go there, Raoul," she said, hating the panic that made her voice shrill. "Please, let me stay here. I will wait right here until you find a cab."

He hesitated, then nodded and kissed her knuckles. Then he was off in a flash down the street and around the corner.

Christine could not bear the whispers that were now being directed her way. She ducked back inside the side door, breathing easier now that she was away from everyone else. She rubbed her arms in an effort to warm them.

The moment of freedom was upon her, but beyond the walls of the opera house lay an unknown world. She had been used as bait to lure her Maestro into a trap of guns and death, and instead he had turned the tables against them once again. Even though he had yanked her between the walls of the opera house too quickly for her to see what had happened on stage behind them, the echoes of the ballerinas' screams, Meg's rising among them, and the shrieks of the audience, had stayed with them as they plunged into the darkness. What had he done to give them time to escape? How had he seamlessly switched places with Monsieur Piangi?

These questions began to consume her. Christine lifted a hand to her chest to feel the rise and fall of her chest that began to quicken, her fingertips centimeters from the sore spots on her neck where he had unwittingly choked her in his rage. Why hadn't she just gone with Raoul instead of waiting here? She could brave the gossip of the crowds, had dealt with that and more in the weeks leading up to Don Juan Triumphant.

When the door sprung open, she jumped, her heart racing, but it was only Raoul once again.

Her face must have been white in the dim light because he hurried to her, grasping her upper arms. "What is it? Did something happen?"

"No, nothing," she assured him. "Please, may we go now?"

His arm was a solid weight around her shoulders as he guided her out the door once again. She had no cloak and he was merely in his shirtsleeves, but a black stagecoach was pulling alongside them and they were able to climb inside. She did not ask where they were going. What did it matter as long as it was away from here?

They rode in silence for a long moment before Christine whispered the question lingering on her heart: "He murdered Ubaldo Piangi, didn't he?"

"Yes," was Raoul's reply.

She thought the tears would come now, but they did not. Not yet. Before long, she sank into the sound of horse hooves upon cobblestones, one of her hands clasped between Raoul's warm palms, and tried to ignore the glow of her white dress in the night.

Christine awoke to gentle prodding as Raoul slipped free of her head upon his shoulder. A footman opened her side of the carriage and offered her a hand to step free; she did so in a half-asleep daze, blinking in the light of a gas lamp held above her.

One-half of double doors were opened to them, and they stepped into an elaborate foyer. A young girl arrived to take their coats and seeing that they had none, stood to the side looking like she had just awoken. An older man also appeared, straightening his jacket as he approached them.

"Monsieur de Chagny, shall I wake your father?" he inquired. He also quickly coughed at the woman who then curtsied and moved to Christine's side.

"Yes, I should think so," Raoul said, stabbing his fingers through his blonde locks. "The whole affair at the opera turned into a mess, and I should speak with him before any police arrive. Some tea, too, is much needed. Perhaps ready the brandy as well."

"As you wish, sir." The butler waved a hand at the footman and maid, who both began to scurry off to do their duties.

Christine stepped over to Raoul and grasped his sleeve. "Please, Raoul, I am dreadfully tired and… these clothes." Tears threatened to well up, and she refused to let them fall just yet. Every part of her was weary, and her wobbly legs threatened to let her topple over. "Can this wait until morning?"

"Afraid not, my love. The quicker we act, the more likely the scoundrel might be caught, if he hasn't been already." He patted her hand. "Go and change, and have some tea in the meantime."

She pressed her lips together to still their trembling, and she nodded. The ladies maid appeared at her elbow, and she followed the girl upstairs to a spare bedroom.

The girl bustled about, first lighting a lamp near the door and then filling the basin with water. She paused, giving Christine a long once-over. "I'll find you a change of dress, mademoiselle."

Christine murmured a thank you. As soon as the door had closed, she began to unbutton the bodice herself, her fingers shaking a bit as she flicked the buttons. In her panicked haste to get dressed, she had skipped a button near the bottom which had created an odd pucker in the material. Suddenly, she needed to get the garment off. The last button slipped free, and she peeled the fabric back from her shoulders, tugging it almost violently from each of her arms.

She went over to the washbasin to scrub her face and arms. She felt sweaty from her multiple treks across the labyrinth beneath the Populaire. When she peered into the mirror above the basin, she almost gave a cry at her reflection – her stage makeup ran down her cheeks, and her eyes were bloodshot. It took several tries, but she finally scoured her face clean as well.

The maid reappeared with a lavender-colored frock, which Christine knew would look hideous on her, especially considering how red she had just made her skin. She wanted nothing more than to go to bed right now, but she could hear several male voices on the floor below, and she knew she would not be allowed rest until she cooperated.

She let the girl help her into the garment, waving away the bustle and offer of extra petticoats. She was already wearing two, which she knew was enough, and she hoped this would not take long anyway.

As she suspected, more members of the household had been awakened. A fire in the sitting room had been lit, and for a moment, she pondered just how much money a log of that size had cost in the middle of winter. Raoul sat in an armchair next to a man she assumed was his father – an older gentleman with thin but carefully combed hair and a walrus mustache the same shade as Raoul's honey blonde locks.

They both rose when she entered. Raoul set aside the brandy he had been sipping and took her hand, presenting her to his father. Pleasantries were exchanged; Christine had never met the man, despite their secret engagement. She didn't miss his father's thinned lips, nor the way his eyes roamed over her. How much longer would she have to play along tonight? She could deal with judgement much easier if she was well rested. It was not anything she hadn't suffered before.

Raoul and his father discussed what had happened, with Raoul filling in details about Christine and her involvement with the Phantom. How did Raoul's family not already know all of this? Hadn't he told them anything about her?

A china cup was pressed into her hands by someone, she didn't notice who, and she was grateful to now have something to do. The hot liquid scorched her tongue but she did not mind; the warmth began to permeate throughout her frigid body.

Finally, after what seemed like ages, a bell rang in the foyer. Two police were ushered into the sitting room. They rose again, more pleasantries were exchanged, and Christine abided it all. Raoul knew everything that had happened – what was the point of her being here?

"Mademoiselle," one of the officers stated, leveling a stern gaze upon her. "We need to take your statement about tonight's events, if you please, from the beginning."

She repeated much the same of what Raoul had said. Even though she felt her lips move, her voice seemed too rough to be hers, too far away to be connected to her. She told them about her performance, about the moment she had suspected her partner on stage was not Ubaldo Piangi but the Phantom himself: when she had felt the mask upon his face. She had thrown back his hood to reveal him to the audience, and to see for herself that it was him.

When he had broken from the script of the opera and asked for her hand in marriage, she had reacted by revealing his deformed face to the audience. Why had she done such a thing while knowing of his instability? Christine replied that she had simply not known what else to do.

This was a lie.

He had dragged her to his home beneath the opera and made her change into the wedding gown. They had argued, exchanging harsh words, most of which she did not remember –

Again, another lie –

And then Raoul had arrived. The Phantom had threatened to kill Raoul with his lasso, but when the mob started to grow closer, he decided to let them both go. She and Raoul had escaped. She did not mention the kiss to the police, and she had avoided Raoul's gaze when glossing over that detail. Admittedly, she was a bit surprised he did not interject to correct her. Perhaps there were some things best left to the secrets of the crypt.

"Were you injured at all?" one of the men asked as he scratched upon his paper.

She showed him her neck where a few red marks still lingered. In the face of Raoul's purplish scratches, she hated to even mention them. "Here as well, but they were made, I believe, accidentally. They do not hurt." She also showed the red fingerprints along one of her wrists from where he had dragged her through the cellars.

"Is that all?"

Four pairs of eyes focused on her. What were they searching for? Yes, the Phantom had treated her roughly, but he had also been spurned by her, driven by his own despair and rage.

"Yes, that is all."

"Do you have any notion of where he might have fled?"

The question took her aback. The teacup tattled upon the saucer in her hand, and she set them upon her lap. "What do you mean? He- he was not captured?"

"Afraid not. The best we can estimate is that he made it into the catacombs, but we know not beyond that. We have hounds tracking him as we speak."

Her Maestro… not captured, not yet dead. Had she expected to hear to hear the worst tonight? When she had left him, he had been standing there among the wreckage of possibilities, tears coursing down his naked face.

"Do you have any idea where he might have gone?"

So he hadn't stayed there and simply waited for the mob to surround him. He had taken flight just after she had left his side. If her presence had not prompted him to rise from the floor, would he have ever found the will to flee?

"Christine?" Raoul called out to her. She had forgotten for a moment that he was in the room.

She made her lips move. "No, no idea."

Many lies she told that night, but that answer at least was true.

Finally, she was allowed to go to bed. Finally, she trudged upstairs and allowed the ladies maid to pull off that horrible lavender gown, which she would no doubt have to put back on tomorrow. An audible tsking came from her maid's mouth at the sight of her black corset and stockings, as well as the too-short petticoats edged in black lace.

"My costume, if that matters" Christine said, not caring if she sounded snappish. "Unlace my corset, and I can dress myself, thank you."

The girl did as asked, curtsied, and hurried from the room. Christine might find a hair in her tea in the morning, but she was too tired to worry about being polite. After what she had gone through tonight, what did it matter if she had manners to someone who couldn't be bothered to have them back?

"First, kindness." Her father's words drifted across her memory, and she winced. She would have to apologize tomorrow.

She tore off the rest of the Aminta costume, bundled the garments into a ball, and stuffed them into a corner of the room, not caring what happened to them. She changed into a plain white chemise left out for her and climbed into the bed.

She was asleep before she even realized her eyelids were closing.

Too soon, Christine heard rapping upon her bedroom door. Her eyelids peeled apart, and she pulled her hands from the warmth of the blankets to rub the crust from her eyelashes. She expected the ladies maid to come in and open the curtains, but they were already open. Had the other girl already been in here? What time was it anyway?

The door opened, and Christine watched with bleary eyes as the maid came in with a tray and removed one that was already there. Her body heavy and stiff, Christine sat up and smoothed down her wild hair.

"Afternoon tea, miss," the girl said when she returned. She laid a dressing gown upon the bed and proceeded to lay out an arrangement of underclothes.

Christine tried to speak and grimaced at the broken sounds that emerged. She cleared her throat and tried again. "What time is it?"

"Two o'clock. I have been asked to see that you are dressed. You have visitors."

Visitors? Christine swung her feet across to the edge of the bed, thanking the maid when she presented a pair of slippers and offered to help her into her robe. "I am sorry for my harsh words last night. I was tired, but that is no excuse."

The girl offered a wisp of a smile at that. "No matter, miss. My name is Annette, if you have need of me while you are here."

"Thank you, Annette." Christine sipped her tea while the girl brushed her hair. Annette tried to lift all of Christine's heavy brown curls upon her head, but Christine stilled her with a gentle hand, asking instead that only the front pieces be pinned up.

She ate two of the delicious lemon scones, and after that, she began to feel a bit more herself. The events of last night seemed like such a distant dream that she could almost pretend that they had never happened. She was here in Raoul's home as his fiancé and nothing more - not because she had fled the opera house in the dead of night, but simply because they were in love, and the move made sense.

Annette helped her into fresh underclothes, this time more suitable for daily wear rather than those of her Aminta costume. That blasted lavender dress waited for her again, but Christine didn't care. She was lucky to have anything to wear at all, especially considering she was having to borrow clothes from Raoul's sisters.

She could hear voices downstairs, speaking in hushed whispers. When she entered the parlor, Raoul sat in an armchair, his casual posture looking at ease. Across from him, on the couch, sat the Girys.

Meg squealed and jumped to her feet when she saw Christine, running over to envelop her in a fierce hug. Christine returned the embrace, thrilled to see her friend. Meg stepped back enough to grasp her hands and look her over.

"Christine! I am so relieved you're all right! As much as can be expected anyway. Are you all right?"

Christine managed a tight smile. "Yes, of course." She peered over at the man who had risen but kept himself from also approaching her. "Raoul, I am so sorry if I worried you. I guess I was more tired than I thought."

He beamed white teeth at her, seeming way too cheery after everything that had happened. "No matter, my dear Christine. Come and join us. We were just speaking of fresh news."

Her heart constricted at that, but she leveled a steady gaze at Antoinette Giry, who sat straight-backed, cane in hand, upon the couch. A small, sensible hat sat perched upon her tightly-bound hair.

"I have something to say to Madame Giry first," Christine said.

The ballet instructor met her eyes evenly. "Go ahead, child."

Child! She could no longer be a child.

"Madame, you have a lot of nerve showing your face here, in the home of the very man you almost sent to his death." She ignored Raoul's warning use of her name, and pressed onward. "You must know he would have not hurt me, but Raoul was very nearly killed!"

Antoinette's hand tightened around her cane. "How was I to know that? He had now murdered two people, including Ubaldo. He tried to send the new chandelier falling into the crowd, and only by the grace of God did the new supports hold. He had kidnapped you-"

"Again, he would not have hurt me!"

"How do you know that?"

Christine faltered a bit. She still held onto Meg's hands, and she was likely squeezing too tightly. She let go and pressed one fist to her chest. "I know."

Raoul stepped in, slipping an arm around her shoulders. "No matter now. What's done is done. Come now, Madame Giry brings us news from the police."

"The police?" She allowed herself to be led to another chair as Meg settled back at Antoinette's side. Christine didn't like the worry upon her friend's face, while Raoul's was stretched into an easy grin again. Dark purple bruises covered the underside of his jaw in contrast.

"Indeed," Antoinette said. "They have reason to believe he is dead."

Christine's dread had been right. She clasped her hands tightly in her lap, and her lips parted in an "O-Oh?" She was aware of Meg's eyes searching her face, but she could do nothing but stare at the floor.

Raoul took up the story, almost gleeful. "Dogs tracked him to the Pont de la Concorde, and blood was found at the top of the bridge. Police believe he was injured when he jumped into the Seine. The bastard took the coward's way out – my apologies for my language," he added, and Antoinette pursued her lips at him. "At least he saved us the bother of needing to hang him."

Christine felt sick. Her Maestro had fled on foot through the underbelly of Paris, and taken his own life when there had been no hope of escape. She had every right to be celebrating with Raoul, but she could feel only a heavy knot beginning to develop within her stomach. If she didn't flee now, she feared losing her meager lunch in front of everybody.

Christine, I love you.

Meg, sweet Meg, stood and pulled her to her feet. "Let us allow the grown-ups to talk further, shall we? In such a fancy house, I want to see your room! Will you show me?"

There wasn't much to show, but Christine nodded, grateful for an escape to escape. They climbed the stairs, and Christine dimly noticed that Meg carried one of Christine's own traveling bags with her. Inside the room, Meg shut the door behind them and set the bag on the chair near the vanity.

"Oh my dear friend, come and sit," Meg said, ushering Christine to the small divan in the room. "You went white as a sheet downstairs!"

That knot within Christine bubbled up into tears. "I can't bear to hear those awful words."

"About him?"

"Yes, him." Christine sniffed and rubbed away her tears while Meg stroked her hair. "I know I should hate him, I know I should, for all he has done. He has killed, I know that. He has terrorized me and the man I love. But, Meg, it is so difficult to explain what I am feeling. I can't in any way be glad that he is dead, and I know Raoul wanted me to be."

Meg passed her a handkerchief. "I can't pretend to understand, Christine. I am so, so sorry for not believing you soon about this Angel of Music you spoke of for so long. Maybe if I had, we could have prevented this whole mess."

"It is hardly your fault. I doubt I would have been able to believe myself. But he was real, and for several years, he was my Maestro, who taught me how to sing." Christine wiped away a new flood of tears. "How can I hate him for that, despite what happened later?"

For a while, Meg continued to stroke the ends of her hair in silence. Then she hopped off the divan and walked over to the window, peering out across the small balcony to the courtyard. "I have something to share with you. Promise you won't tell Maman?"

"Promise," Christine said, though she didn't need to. They had always kept secrets between them.

Meg turned a bit to look to look at Christine, blonde hair falling over one shoulder, a familiar glint in her eyes. "Do you know I went down there, to his home?"

"Meghan Giry!"

"Hush now, don't you chide me! I went with the first police, before the mob got there. I was looking for you."

"That was dangerous of you, even with the police. Does Madame know?"

Meg scoffed. "Of course not. Anyway, the place was abandoned when we got there. You and Raoul had already gone, and the Phantom had fled. Have I have to admit, dear Christine, that I have started to understand a bit of what you found so fascinating about that underground place." She gave a sigh and came to sit back at Christine's side. "Are you truly all right? You gave me a fright, sleeping the day away like this."

Christine shook her head. "No, I'm not all right."

"But you will be?"

Christine looked at her friend's hopeful face. "I think so, with time." With Meg's blue eyes in such earnest, Christine could not bring herself to lie to her face. "Oh Meg, I truly don't know. I… I kissed him."

Meg went a bit pink across her cheeks at the same time she leaned in closer. "Who?" She gasped. "Him?"

"Yes, him." She fiddled with the stiff fabric of her gown. "At first, I did it to save Raoul, my poor Raoul. I thought… if I could show him some kindness, he might learn how to return it. So I kissed him, and embraced him, and I- oh Meg, I kissed him again!"

It was the second kiss she could not explain, and so she buried her face in her hands and began to cry anew. She had not let herself recall the feel of his lips on hers. She struggled to push the memory of that stretched, dry, bloated skin on hers, and how instead of revulsion, she had felt something else entirely.

After a moment, Meg pried her hands away and wiped her face with a handkerchief. "We all do what we must," she said softly. "You have no reason to feel guilty. Christine, you have a fiancé who loves you despite everything that has happened. But…"

She trailed off, hearing the thud of a familiar cane upon the floor. The Madame beckoned. Meg stood, giving Christine's hand a squeeze, and offered a strained smile.

"In any case, I brought some of your things over from the apartment. I hope I'm not making a mistake, but you should check to make sure I wrapped your scarf as carefully as I should have."

What an odd thing to say. "Meg-"

"We will get together again soon, promise?" And then the ballerina was gone, quickly brushing her way out the door.

Christine listened to the sounds of the two women leaving downstairs. The front door opened and closed. She heard Raoul pad up the stairs.

"Christine? Are you all right?"

So many times she had been asked that. She called back, "Only tired from the activity. I'm going to lay down for a while."

If he sighed or responded at all, she did not hear him. She closed the door to her room and made her way to her traveling bag. Inside the bag, she found Meg had indeed packed most of her small belongings, including her toiletries and favorite brush. One of her scarves was wrapped tightly around itself near the bottom.

She pulled out the bundle of fabric, noticing the unusual weight and stiffness. On her lap, she unwrapped the scarf, revealing a shining, bone-white mask.

This is new for me! Please let me know what you think. :)