Hey guys! So… For any of my lovely readers of Guarded Hearts who are wondering what I'm doing posting a new story when that one has sat dormant for the past year… I'm sorry? No, really, I am sorry for being a lazy writer, but I've just been struggling so much to come up with the inspiration to finish it. I started that story when I was still in high school and there's a lot about it that bothers me now that I'm an adult and I feel like my writing style has matured somewhat. So I'm honestly not sure if and when that story is going to get updated.

BUT! I have shamelessly plagiarized myself in this new story, so anyone dissatisfied with the lack of resolution to Guarded Hearts should hopefully find some satisfaction in similar, though not identical, characters and situations in here.

This story started off as a shamelessly self-indulgent little exercise to get over my writer's block, where I basically found all the ways I could be horrible to poor, virginal Erik and pile on the UST. I never intended to share this publically. But it seems to have spiraled away from me, somehow, and I now have a number of chapters already written, and a pretty clear path forward to the resolution. I promise, this time, I will actually finish what I started. Anyway, I hope you enjoy! And reviews would be most appreciated!

The sign for Madame Giry's Burlesque Club cast a lurid red glow onto the street in front of it. Erik stood at its edges and stared at the heavy double doors with a feeling of resignation that bordered on dread. He knew that his employer owned a number of other properties, but as this one seemed to be his de facto center of operations, it was the one Erik always had to return to.

When he finally worked up the resolve to enter, it was to a room filled with leather sofas and lounge chairs, with pool tables and dart boards scattered around the perimeter. A bar stretched along the expanse of the back wall, its countertop carved out of mahogany and its shelves stocked with high-end liquor. And the patrons, who were a fairly even mixture of men and women, were all dressed in expensive suits or cocktail dresses. In fact, the only real testament to the fact that this wasn't just an upscale bar was the large stage at the front of the room rimmed with red velvet curtains. At least until someone took a closer look at the wait staff and noticed that all of the employees' garb, male and female alike, ranged from provocative evening wear to upscale lingerie.

A cursory glance at the stage revealed a pouting redhead in a slinky scarlet evening gown performing a rendition of Why Don't You Do Right. But while Erik quickly jerked his eyes down to avoid watching her, he couldn't quite keep himself from listening to and mentally critiquing her performance. Though the woman had obvious technical skill, he felt his mouth tightening in distaste at the lack of finesse to her performance. She seemed more concerned with showcasing the power of her voice than with matching the feel of the song, and the effect made the lyrics seem more petulant than sultry.

A movement out of the corner of his eye distracted his attention from the mediocre performance, and he glanced down the dark hallway leading towards the club's backstage area just in time to see a woman stumble and lurch to the ground, the heel of her shoe having snagged in the carpet. Erik guessed her to be an employee, given that her current outfit consisted of nothing but stockings and a vintage bra and skirt slip in matching pink silk. He studied her carefully for signs of injury, forcing his gaze not to linger anywhere inappropriate, but didn't move to her aid. He knew by now what sort of reception his offer of assistance would bring.

Despite the force with which she had hit the ground, the woman seemed more embarrassed than pained. She quickly rose to her feet, darting a glance around to ascertain how many people had noticed her fall. She seemed pleased to discover that no one seated at the nearby tables had turned from their conversations to look, but then her gaze locked with his.

Erik waited with bitter resignation for her to fully register his appearance and shrink back in fear or suspicion, as so many before her had done. He was understandably shocked, then, when she instead responded by hiding her face in her hands in apparent shame before peeking out to gift him with a sheepish smile.

Despite himself, he felt a smirk tugging at his lips, which caused her smile to widen in response as they shared the joke between them. Erik's breath tried to leave him at the way the expression lit up her features. She held a finger up to her lips, as if to swear him to secrecy, and then headed in a more cautious manner down the hallway.

Erik watched her go with a strange tightness in his chest. Had a woman ever really smiled at him before? Not with forced politeness or cruel disdain, but actual warmth? He searched his memories and couldn't think of another occasion.

He felt a sudden urge to wait by the hallway until she emerged, notions of catching her attention with some playful quip as she passed him flashing through his head. A quick glance at the suspicious looks he was earning from the nearby patrons, though, was enough to bring him back to reality. With a disgusted scoff, he continued his path towards the roped off staircase at the back of the club, only to stop in his tracks as the object of his thoughts suddenly stepped onto the stage in front of him.

With the spotlight illuminating details that had previously been hidden in the gloom of the hallway, he found himself cataloguing her appearance almost against his will. She had honey blonde hair styled into wide curls, blue eyes, and porcelain pale skin. Her fair coloring, along with her high, striking cheekbones, made him suspect that she was of Scandinavian or Eastern European descent.

When the band struck up the introduction to Diamonds Are a Girl's Best Friend, which would explain the large amount of costume jewelry she had added to her ensemble since he saw her last, Erik found himself desperately hoping that she proved to be a terrible singer. Poor musicianship was an unforgivable offence in his eyes, and he was sure that it would be all that he needed to crush this strange, breathless feeling the woman was conjuring in his chest.

So of course it would be just his luck that she was sweetness incarnate as she sang, her voice gliding easily along the simple melody. Although the song was hardly strenuous enough to showcase her full potential, the sweetness of her tone and the playful sultriness of her performance were enough to have him utterly enraptured. And, god, the choreography wasn't helping. The rhythmic sway of her hips to the music, the flexible kicks of her long legs, the slide of her hands down her body…

The surge of lust that hit him felt like a punch to the gut, robbing him of breath and making his body harden painfully in response. And suddenly not even her singing was enough to hold him in place. Erik forcibly ripped his eyes away and practically ran across the room, to the staircase that led to the suite of VIP rooms upstairs.

The bouncer positioned in front of the stairs recognized Erik and ushered him through without comment. In the stairwell, he took a moment to compose himself, then continued down the hall to one of the lavishly furnished balconies, where several men were currently seated around a table in the midst of a game of poker. He determinedly kept his eyes from straying to the stage below them, but could do nothing for the siren song that continued to purl in his ears.

The man at the head of the table glanced up and smiled broadly upon seeing his visitor. He was Middle-Eastern, with dark hair that was graying at the temples, keen brown eyes, and a broad frame encased in an impeccably tailored pinstripe suit.

"Ah!" the man exclaimed jovially. "I was wondering if you would make it tonight."

Erik merely inclined his head in response.

"Why don't you have a seat and play a few rounds?" He gestured to an empty chair beside him and reached for the deck to deal Erik in.

"That won't be necessary. I just came to give you proof of completion." Erik reached within his leather jacket and pulled out a manila envelope, placing it on the table in front of him.

"Always so professional… You need to learn to have a little fun, my friend. What's the point of all this money I'm giving you if you never allow yourself to put it to good use?" Despite his admonishment, the man pulled an envelope of his own out of his jacket and tossed it to Erik.

Erik nodded his thanks, depositing the envelope within his pocket and heading back the way he had come.

"There's a bit of a situation developing, and I may have need of your services again very soon. I'll be in touch," the man called to his retreating form. "In the meantime, try to let loose a little, my friend." His voice took on a decidedly malicious tone as he continued, "Why not stay in the club for a while and let one of my girls show you a good time, eh?"

Erik descended the stairs to the sound of snickers from the rest of the men. Evidently, his discomfort around the club's employees had not gone unnoticed.

With fists clenched, he marched towards the exit, desperate to get out of this place, but had to stop short when he almost collided with the very woman he had been so entranced with earlier. She seemed to be working as a server now that her performance was over, and he couldn't help but to keep her in his gaze as she sauntered over to a table to deliver a drink.

"How about a private dance, sweetheart?" the man at the table asked in what was no doubt supposed to be a suggestive tone, though his attempt was impeded by the obvious drunken slur to his words.

The woman smiled at him, but shook her head apologetically. "Sorry, handsome. But we actually don't do those here."

Erik scoffed under his breath at her chosen moniker. The man was dressed in a rumpled, ill-fitting suit, with his hair hanging lank and greasy down to his shoulders and his beard growing in uneven patches. While Erik knew he certainly couldn't cast aspersions to someone's genetic appearance, there was no excuse for poor grooming.

"What, so you'll dance and tease up on the stage for everyone to see, but a guy can't pay for a little special attention?"

"Teasing is kind of the point of burlesque. We can't pay you too much attention or it'll ruin all the fun," the girl joked with a wink, though she was starting to look uncomfortable.

"Aw, c'mon, baby. How much is it gonna take to get you to play along?" the man asked, pulling his wallet from his pocket with one hand while the other wrapped around her waist to pull her forward.

Any hint of a smile slipped from the woman's face, and her stare turned icy. "Let me go."

"Hush now, I'm just tryin' to have a little fun," the man purred into her neck, resisting her attempts to push him off of her.

Erik was halfway across the room before he even realized he had moved.

"You have exactly five seconds to get your hands off of her, or I will remove them for you. And I mean that quite literally."

The threatening proclamation caused everyone to jump, but while the woman's surprised gaze fixed on Erik, the man barely spared him a glance, keeping his arms clamped around the woman's waist and snorting scornfully.

"And just who the fuck asked you?" he spat dismissively.

"One," Erik began to count, somehow imbuing that single syllable with deadly promise.

The man finally deigned to look over at him, paling noticeably once he took in his towering frame, glaring golden eyes, and masked face. But, noticing the attention they had gathered from nearby patrons, he quickly pasted an expression of false bravado to his face and let out a snort.

"What the fuck are you supposed to be?" he asked, gesturing to Erik's face. "Some sort of masked vigilante? You've been reading too many comic books, man."

"Two," Erik continued icily. When he brought his arm behind his back to reach for the knife that he kept sheathed at the base of his spine, the man yanked his hands back as if they had been burned.

Erik quickly stepped forward to place himself protectively between the man and the waitress, who was still staring at him in shock.

"If I ever see you back here," he remarked coldly. "I promise to personally insure that you will never be capable of laying a hand on a woman ever again."

"That won't be necessary," a stern voice declared from behind him. He glanced around to see Madame Giry, the club's manager, flanked by two of her bouncers. "Should Mr. Buquet be foolish enough to return to this establishment, my staff have been instructed to prevent his entry. Now then, sir, I believe it is time for you to settle your tab and go."

Buquet's face twisted in resentment, but even in his drunken state he seemed to realize he was outnumbered, so he complied without protest when the bouncers grasped him by his biceps and led him from the building.

With him gone, some of Madame Giry's cold elegance softened, and she turned to the blonde employee to straighten a few of her wayward curls and peer at her in concern. "Are you alright, my dear?"

"I'm fine, Madame. He's not the first drunken creep I've had to deal with here. And usually I don't have tall, dark strangers swooping in to rescue me," she added, darting a glance to Erik with a slight smile.

Erik could only stare mutely in response, suddenly desperately uncomfortable and unsure of how to proceed in this situation.

"Ah, yes, it seems I owe you a further debt of gratitude, Erik. Thank you for looking out for my employees."

"Think nothing of it," he deflected, his eyes darting towards the door as he contemplated his escape.

"Well at least allow us to offer you a drink for your troubles." Madame Giry inclined her head towards the waitress, who nodded in understanding and turned to look at Erik expectantly, as if awaiting his order.

Erik couldn't help but notice how much bluer her eyes looked this close … God, he needed to get out of there.

"Actually, I'm afraid I must be going." With a polite incline of his head, he turned and started towards the exit.

"Wait!" the blonde woman called out suddenly, rushing forward to intercept his departure. "Please don't go before I've had a chance to thank you properly!"

Erik turned around to give her a startled look. Was she truly requesting his continued presence?

"C'mon. Your chivalry at least earned you one free drink," she continued earnestly.

Ah, of course. She was just trying to be polite and repay him for his good deed. He fought back a bitter smile and shook his head.

"That's quite kind of you, but really it's not necessary."

"I know it's not necessary," she countered, rolling her eyes at him playfully. "But surely you've got time for one little drink. Please? It's the least I can do."

Against his better judgement he found himself relenting.

The woman shot him a beaming smile and beckoned for him to follow her over to a table.

"And what will my gallant rescuer be drinking tonight?"

"Vodka tonic, I suppose." He waited uncomfortably until she returned, setting a drink in front of him and shooting him a dazzling smile.

"I'm Christine, by the way. Erik, was it?"

"Y-yes," he returned, the word coming out less even than he would have liked. Would he ever get used to someone smiling at him like that?

Christine excused herself for a moment when she noticed a couple being seated in her section, and Erik found himself downing his drink rather quickly in his hurry to finish it and escape. To his chagrin, as soon as Christine had finished checking on all of her other tables, she returned to his and placed a refill before him.

At the questioning and slightly accusatory look that he shot her, Christine merely gave him a devilish grin.

"What?" she exclaimed with feigned innocence. "I said at least one. I never set a maximum."

Erik felt a grin twisting at his lips in spite of his best efforts to stifle it. The answering smile that she gave him had his heart picking up several paces.

"You have a beautiful voice."

It took Erik a few seconds to realize that it had been him who blurted the statement out, and he inwardly cursed himself.

"Oh, thank you! So you saw my performance earlier?" she asked brightly, though his comment had obviously startled her.

"Some of it," he acknowledged, and then, because his mouth seemed to be operating at odds with his brain, continued with, "I was glad to see that you were well enough to perform, after your unfortunate altercation with the carpet on the way to the stage."

Christine let out a startled laugh, repeating her earlier gesture of hiding her face in embarrassment. "You know, with all the ballet lessons I've had in my life, you'd think I'd be better at walking in heels."

"I think the fault lies in the design, not the user. They seem terribly impractical."

Christine cast an assessing glance down at the vintage pumps she wore. "If you think these are impractical, you should see what Madame Giry makes us wear with our usual costumes."

"This isn't typical?" Erik determinedly kept his eyes from straying down to Christine's silky pink lingerie.

"We do theme nights every now and then to mix things up a little. You caught us during one of those."

"Ah. Classic Hollywood?" Erik hazarded, his glance darting to the stage where a willowy brunette dressed in tight black shorts, a backless black vest with a plunging neckline, and a bowler hat was performing Mein Herr.

"Hollywood Starlets, technically. I lobbied for Liza," she remarked, watching the performer on stage with an envious glint in her eyes. "But, well," and here she gestured from her blonde curls to her voluptuous frame, "Apparently I'm more of a Marilyn."

Erik took a generous gulp of his drink. "Your performance was lovely, but they were foolish to give the more strenuous number to that woman over you," he heard himself declare. "Her breath support is lacking, she's straining herself on the high notes, and she's clearly more focused on the choreography than the song."

Christine blinked at him, obviously startled. "And what makes you think I wouldn't struggle with these same things, performing a harder piece?"

"Your breathing was strong and controlled, even while you danced. And something tells me that the higher notes would come even more naturally to you than the register you sang in earlier. A soprano, yes? With some classical training?"

"I… Um, yeah, actually. I had lessons all through grade school, and I majored in vocal performance for a bit. But it's been a few years since I did any serious singing. How could you tell?"

Erik could only shrug, regretting his sudden outburst.

"I have some experience in this area, myself."

Christine's gaze roamed curiously over his black mask, leather jacket, t-shirt, faded jeans, and motorcycle boots. "Not the answer I would have guessed," she admitted.

Erik narrowed his eyes, feeling a stab of irritation at her scrutiny. "Do I not give off the air of a refined gentleman and connoisseur of the arts?" he asked caustically.

"Well, I mean, you did just threaten to cut a man's hand off in front of me," she replied. The playful tilt to her mouth soothed some of his defensiveness away.

"What? I can't enjoy dismembering letches and listening to opera?" he quipped, starting slightly when Christine burst into laughter in response.

If being smiled at was a novel experience, conjuring this delighted laughter was absolutely staggering. His was not a lifestyle that lent itself to friendship or socialization, and most people were too unnerved by his mask and his cold demeanor to ever attempt casual conversation with him. He had never before had a woman so relaxed in his presence, and the easy repartee that had just passed between them had him feeling light-headed. Or perhaps that was the vodka he was downing so quickly on an empty stomach.

He was given a few moments to compose himself as Christine once again had to slip away to check on her customers, but this time he found he had no desire to try and make an escape.

"On the subject of dismembering letches," Christine continued as soon as she was able to rejoin him. "I wanted to thank you again for helping me out earlier. It was really sweet of you."

"It was nothing."

"It was definitely something to me."

Erik ducked his head, almost grateful for once for the presence of the mask since it hid his embarrassed flush.

"And not just me, if I'm being honest. Buquet's been a regular at the club for the past month or two, and he gives all of us the creeps. If you ran him off for good with that, you're going to be a hero around here."

At this, Erik's eyes narrowed. "If he's been making all of you uncomfortable, why was he still allowed access to the club?"

Christine shrugged uneasily. "He's one of the Shah's men. Pretty low level, but still. Madame Giry has to be careful about how she treats them."

Erik was startled by her explanation, not having known how much knowledge the club's employees had regarding the less legitimate business dealings of its owner.

"But I somehow doubt he's going to show his face again after how you handled him, even if he hadn't gotten banned."

The smile that she gave him had Erik's heart picking up several paces.

They continued chatting for the rest of the evening, in brief spurts between Christine's work duties, until the last of the performances ended and patrons started to filter out of the club.

Christine strolled over to him with an apologetic smile on her face.

"Last call, I'm afraid. We'll be closing up here in a minute."

Erik nodded in understanding, telling himself that the sting of rejection he was feeling was utterly ridiculous. The bar was closing, for Christ's sake. "Of course. I apologize for having kept you so long." He rose slowly to his feet, digging in his back pocket for his wallet, but Christine waved him away.

"What part of 'free' did you fail to understand, mister? Put that away."

"Well can't I at least leave a tip? My service was exemplary."

"Afraid not. But feel free to tip as much as you like on your next visit."

Erik, who had already taken a step towards the door, halted at this statement. Next visit? Surely she couldn't mean…

"I'm here around this time most weekends, by the way," she added, almost shyly, barely glancing up from the table she was clearing. "In case you wanted to stop by some time."

Erik could only stare blankly at her for several moments. "I'll… keep that in mind," was all he managed by way of response.

Christine shot him one last smile before turning away.

Erik walked out of the club in a bit of a daze, stopping on the sidewalk outside and dropping his head into his hands, letting the quiet of the evening and the cool night air calm his jangled nerves.

Going into Madame Giry's was always a stressful excursion. Being immersed in an atmosphere that was meant to inspire lust and desire just seemed like an exercise in masochistic self-denial for him. But even so, he found the encounters tolerable, even on occasions when he caught momentary glimpses of the performers and wait staff. He had long ago learned not to pay much attention to things that he knew he could never have.

But today, when Christine had smiled at him. Such a simple thing, really, and yet it had been everything to him. Even as she'd gone on to do it countless more times before the evening was through, it had lost none of its potency. And god, her smiles, her laughter, her banter, every bit of it was intoxicating.

He knew, of course, that nothing would ever come of it. Knew every last item on the list of reasons why no woman could ever love him. But none had ever so much as befriended him before, and he knew that some of these feelings clawing at his chest were simply in response to another person seeming to have enjoyed his company tonight.

Taking one last deep, calming breath, he turned to head into the parking lot. He stopped in his tracks as what sounded like an aborted scream pierced the night air. Instantly his hand slipped into his pocket to withdraw a thin, catgut noose that had been coiled there, and he stalked silently around to the alley behind the nightclub.

His keen night vision was able to easily make out the sight of the man he had confronted earlier, Buquet, pinning a woman to the alley wall, one hand pressing a knife to her throat while the other fumbled with the button of her jeans.

Erik had his noose around the man's throat even before he recognized Christine's tousled blonde hair and terrified blue eyes, but the realization of the intended victim had him pulling the rope taut with extra fervor. He watched in grim satisfaction as the man clawed desperately at the cord cutting into him, his tongue lolling uselessly in his mouth and his eyes bulging and red from bursting blood vessels.

"I think that's enough," a shaky voice declared, accompanied by a gentle hand on his shoulder. Erik whipped his head around to find Christine standing right beside him. His hand fell slack in surprise, and the man at the end of the rope collapsed onto the ground, gasping in grateful lungfuls of air.

"Are you sure?" Erik growled. The rage still coursing through him was begging him to keep pulling on the noose until he heard a snap.

"He's not worth going to prison over," Christine declared, her voice unsteady but determined.

"Oh, I'm not so sure…" was Erik's dark reply. But then his eyes moved from the creature lying in the dirt before him to the woman standing beside him, noting the tears in her eyes and the arms wrapped around her abdomen protectively.

"Are you alright?" he asked, his voice gentling.

She nodded stiffly. "I'll be fine. Just get rid of this asshole so I can go home."

Erik blinked in surprise. "You don't intend to call the authorities?"

"I hardly think the Shah would appreciate it if I reported one of his men, or got his club swarmed with cops."

"Under the circumstances, that seems irrele-"

"Erik, please," she interrupted with a hint of desperation. "I just want him gone."

Erik's startled gaze met hers, and he sensed a fear beyond the lingering fright of her attack lurking there. "I… of course. As you wish." His eyes darted down as he noticed Buquet's attempt to surreptitiously remove the noose from his neck and crawl away. He yanked on the rope in warning, and the man gave a choked gurgle and fell still. "With your permission, though, I think he could use a lesson in manners before he goes."

Christine glanced at the man huddled pathetically at her feet, looking uncertain. Then her hand came up to press against her neck, where his knife had rested moments ago, and her eyes hardened. "I'll go wait in front of the club. Just make sure he's breathing when you're done with him."

"You have my word."