Hello dear readers! I planned to upload this story before Christmas but I only managed to finish it now. Edited by me, so please excuse the mistakes in it. I hope you will like it, though. Happy holidays everyone!

Edit: I just learnt I can still enter Not A Ghost3's annual Christmas story competition, sooo this is also a belated entry to the 3rd Annual Phantom's Christmas One-Shot Challenge.

She pressed down on the handle and the door to the underground house opened.

There you are.

Stepping in Christine closed the door behind herself, the familiar scent of their second home strangely prominent after the cold air of the tunnels.

Her ears were ringing again, and so she concluded that the house must have been completely silent. It seemed that the cacophony of the voices of the guests and cast combined took its toll not just on her nerves but on her hearing as well.

This year the management decided to mark the beginning of the theater's short winter holiday with a gala performance, and since Erik didn't object M. Firmin's idea of enticing more patrons to the theater, the night of the gala was also accompanied by a small soirée.

Possibly that was what had caused it all.

Regular patrons were present at the event, of course, and some of them arrived with benevolent friends who came to be admitted to the circle of the priviledged few who have a way to visit behind the scenes. Many a new patrons were won in a mere hour – but some of the old acquintances paid their respects as well.

She hadn't even seen him until the very last minute, when she literally bumped into him as she had tried to sneak away with her husband as inconspicuouly as possible, past the loud group of celebrating people.

A shiver hitched the next breath in her lungs.

Erik had seen him, too, and after the seemingly endless minute of the two men staring at the other she had recovered enough to quickly retreat to her dressing room, dragging her husband with her before...

She didn't like to think about what might have happened.

Avoid scandle.

Certainly, with her separating her two used-to-be-suitors immanent doom had been averted, but upon reaching her dressing room she had also realized that if she hadn't talked to Raoul at all, tomorrow's newpapers would be again full of the story of Christine Daaé, who had pretended not to recognize her rejected lover – and was later seen on the arm of her mysterious husband.

She had told Erik that much – and he hadn't protested against the idea.

In fact, he had said nothing.

He had only nodded and turned around to light a lamp and she had been in too much of a hurry to think about it for too long.

She had only noticed the building uneasiness around her stomach after she had left her dressing room, already on her way back to the soirée. Ever since that pained conversation almost four years ago when she had told Raoul she couldn't marry him, this was the first time she saw him. Hiding at home for a week or two until the scandal died away had seemed definitely preferable to the meeting she had been intending to partake only a minute ago.

All along the short journey back to the celebrating guests had been spent in a growing dread of facing the lingering resetment that might be still simmering beneath the polite and cordial surface – but in the end her fears had been proved wrong. There was no trace of resentment is Raoul's manners; but her relief had been quickly replaced first by confusion, and then: indignation. Raoul had not changed in the nearly four years she hadn't seen him, he was the same, polite gentleman she had come to know back then – but at the same time, she also realized how naturally she returned to the manner she used to speak with when she was talking to him: refined, cautious, and disturbingly artificial.

But, despite her best efforts, she still erred against the sophisticated style of the upper classes: his face had coloured when he had noticed that the awful woman standing close to them had been staring openly because she had addressed him informally all along their conversation. His posture had immediately stiffened, and soon, his behaviour, too. It was impossible to miss the slight twitching in his eyes when she bowed her farewell to him and how measured his response was.

No matter.

He was kind enough, and hadn't seemed to hold grudges against her, although it would have been quite understandable after all that had happened.

Scandal was most probably prevented, and she was soon free to forget about the whole cumbersome affair.

Except that when she had returned to the dressing room, her husband was not waiting inside as she had expected.

The erratic beats of her heart chased her along the way to the underground house, but the grip around her stomach refused to cease even now that it was obvious he had not left the theater without her.

Her knees buckled for a moment and she reached out to the wall for support.

She had made such a panicked journey before. Not exactly four years had passed since then.

Once more, she turned to the left, as she had done back then, but now instead of the darkness, it was a small globe of light that greeted her – and the tall shadow of his frame.

"I didn't know you would come all the way down here," she told him as she entered his room, then walked up to him where he stood next to the bedside table.

"I expected you would stay longer," came his low reply. He didn't look up at her, though, but his gaze was fixed on the simple movement as she placed the lamp next to its pair on the bedside table.

"We didn't really have that much to talk about. It was more like a formality – and with a bit of luck tomorrow the papers will not boast on front page to be privy to the reason why Christine Daaé shuns her used-to-be suitor."

He whirled around to look at her. "You haven't seen any of those blasted cameras, have you?"

She shook her head. "No. If there were any reporters at the soirée, they will have to rely on their notebook and memory."

He nodded, but said nothing; after a while he took a tentative step to the right and for a moment it seemed he was about to leave, but then he let his arm drop back to his side. He turned towards her once more, but averted his eyes before they met hers. His face twitched but she pretended not to notice it – her stomach made a sudden flip, though.

Taking a deep breath, she waited for her heart to calm its sudden frantic beats.

"Should we wait for a bit longer?" She asked when he still said nothing after a long minute. "For the guests to start leaving."

"Or we can just leave through the tunnels," he replied, walking slowly to the other end of the room, where he promptly turned and reached the door with a few frantic strides.

Then came to a sudden halt.

Whirled around and returned to his previous place.

Stopped again.

His wrist gave an involuntary twitch and seeing it, her heart too.

He turned again, marched past the door and stopped again at the opposite wall.

His left hand was now visibly trembling.

A laden grip sqeezed her stomach.

She wanted to speak but her voice broke on the word. She tried again. "Erik, I didn't know he would be here."

He hid his hand by pulling it in front of him. "I know," he replied softly but didn't turn back to her.

She swallowed. "And I merely spoke to him a few words," she added a moment later.

"I don't doubt your fidelity," came his soft reassurance, but his voice was guarded, cautious...

She swallowed again. "What is it, then?"

He whirled around. "I don't know!" His chest was heaving with the sudden outburst, and now she noticed that his shirt was slightly crumpled at the top and his tie was also askew. Running a hand through his hair he dropped his gaze to the carpet. "I haven't seen him since the night of the fire." His voice was eerie, detached, as if he was talking to himself rather than to her, and she shifted on her feet. "It all came back in a moment," he continued, raising his eyes at last, but then he quickly looked away when her eyes met his.

Her heart dropped and for a few breaths it seemed to be beating in the pit of her stomach.

Something shifted around her although no movements was made; a sudden surge of energy twirled around her, as if the very air resonated with his haunting memories.

She shuddered, but he didn't see it: he was staring at the two lamps on the nightstand.

After a few heartbeats of silence, he continued. "The screams, the smell of smoke, the fear in your eyes... I was the cause of your terror." He closed his eyes for a moment, and the visible side of his face contorted. "I almost relished it." His words scraped the sudden silence in the room.

Her throat tightened.

"Stop it," she managed to force out and he finally opened his eyes, then slowly walked to the small, round table in the corner of the room. "I forgave you long ago and yet you keep torturing yourself about what had happened."

"It is certainly well deserved," he murmured, and straightened the stack of papers on the tabletop. "Despite all that transpired, after all that I had done – you came back. And stayed." His hands stilled and were now resting on top of the pile of sheets, his head bent low.

She saw the exact moment when he set his shoulders, and it was quickly followed the quiet sound of his shaky breath.

"Even when last year the gendarmes had treated you as a suspect," he muttered, his palms pressed to the tabletop until the point that the pads of his fingers turned white.

He came to his full height so abruptly that she almost took a step back. "But to think that he was standing only a few feet from you, was talking to you..." he voice disappeared in a sudden growl and he turned away.

His arm shot out in an enraged gesture, but despite the fury she also saw the imperceptive tremor that shook his wrist.

She tried to take an even breath.

Then promptly closed the short distance between them.

The sound of shallow, shuddering breaths met her ears and he wouldn't look at her.

"Forgive me," he wheezed, turning his head only slightly to steal a glance in her eyes. "It shouldn't matter. He shouldn't matter. You chose me."

"He's still alive," she told him, and his shoulders sagged. "And unhurt this time," she added, and he shuddered.

"Indeed," he allowed, but his voice had a sharp edge to it despite the resigned tone, and he walked back to the nightstand.

The soft ticking of the clock in the drawing room drifted in through the slightly open door.

Reaching down he pushed at something on the nightstand, then picked up the lid of her handcream and replaced it. She had left it off the last time they had stayed the night here, because she had been far too tired to close the lid properly.

"What did he want?" He asked while putting down the small jar.

"He came to invite some of his friends to the ball his family throws in the first weeks of January," she replied, twirling the fringes of her shawl around her fingers. The room seemed to be rather warm now that she had spent some time in there. Was the fire started in the drawing room? She couldn't recall, although she had to pass the fireplace to reach his room.

"How considerate." He turned back a little and the lamplight slistened on the white of the mask. "Would he make an appearance at the New Year's ball as well?" He asked her.

She slipped out of her coat, then walked to his side and draped the garment across the bed. "No. I asked him." His eyes were following the movement but now he was looking directly in her eyes. "I think he knew exactly why I had asked."

"Should I arrive prepared accordingly?" Came his wary question.

"He would have had years if he wanted to take revenge," she replied and he nodded, but said nothing. "In fact, he wouldn't come at all as he would be busy organizing his own."

"I might be mistaken but he has never thrown a party of his own before. Is he ready to take over the management of his family's finances?"

"No. The ball would be in honor of his fiancée."

His head snapped up and his eyes were examining hers from behind the mask. "He's getting married?

She nodded. "In two months. Before Lent."

"Of course," he allowed, turning away until his eyes were roaming over her coat. "Wouldn't want to miss all the fun."

Glancing to the side she noted with a twist around her heart that his eyes were downcast, possibly still examining her coat; then shifting a little, his gaze flitted to some white garment at the headboard she hadn't noticed before.

There was a soft rustle next to her as his hand reached out to touch the ring on his opposite hand. Her throat felt dry.

"It could have been you," he said after a long moment's silence.

Light twinkled on the golden band as he turned it around his finger. "Who?" She asked.

"In whose honor such a lavish celebration was organized," he replied, twirling the ring again.

Reaching out she caught his hand before he could turn the ring once more. His movements stilled with a slight twitch of his fingers beneath hers."I'm not entirely certain his family would have agreed to draw such extensive attension to the heir's impending marriage to a penniless girl from the opera," she remarked bitterly. She had only met Raoul's mother once, about one week before the idea of the secret engagement was settled upon and the lady had treated her with respect, but nothing more.

It had been a sobering experience.

Meg, who had escorted her when calling on the Comtess, had been near tears by the end of the half-an-hour visit. Conversation had flown mostly between Raoul and her, Christine; the Comtesse de Chagny had merely interjected a few words here and there – but hadn't spoken a word to Meg after the intoductions had been made.

Christine had only noticed the cold demeanor of the noble lady after leaving, so engrossed she had been in keeping up conversation of a reality where the Phantom of the opera house hadn't existed. Dread of a repeated performance had begun to creep into her thoughts as soon as Raoul haad suggested a second visit to announce their engagement but then the various events following the misdeeds of the Phantom had prevented the second social call.

And then it was all over, no doubt to the great relief of the family.

The voice of her husband steered her thoughts back to the present and her chest immediately felt lighter as she let go of the past with a sigh. "They should have been grateful you were willing to grace their company with your presence," he told her, brushing his thumb across the back of her hand.

"Sometimes I believe you give me far more credit than I deserve," she smiled, resting her forehead on his chest, and felt the gentle weight of his hand on her back as he embraced her.

"Nonsense."

His reply ruffled the hair behind her ear, and it was soon followed by a kiss to her curls. She took a deep breath, trying to breathe him in without calling attention to the indignant racing of her heart; but then sunk into him deeper when his hold tightened around her nonetheless.

She rather felt than heared the low rumble of his next words. "Now you really have no way to go back on your decision."

With a soft squeeze, she stepped back to look at him. "I never wanted to."

Lowering his head he looked down and covered her left hand that was still resting on his chest. "You never regretted your decision? You could have had everything."

"What money and title can offer. Probably. But that was not what I wanted," she relied, and tried to ignore the crawling unease that started on her nape. Of course Raoul would have insisted upon his family treating her as a lady – but at the same time, he would have expected her to strive to act according to her improved situation. At the beginning of their short engagement she had attempted to earn his appreciation, but despite her best efforts she had often erred against the social rules that were so natural to him. He would then smile at her patiently but had never forgotten to correct her mistake. She cringed with the mere memory of it.

"Does your present reality live up to your expectations?" Asked the man in front of her, his eyes pleading with her from the shadows of his mask.

"In every aspect," she smiled, resting her free hand on the unmasked side of his face and he leaned into it.

One of the lamps on the nightstand flickered with a crackle and he pulled back, his eyes examining her face closely and she shifted on her feet.

"Are you very tired?" He drew a light caress just beneath the corner of her eye. "Or..." His hand stopped in mid-motion. "is it something he said?"

"No, no. He was the ever polite gentleman." His lips pressed together into a thin line but he didn't say anything. Yet. "I just didn't expect to be reminded to the past and of what might have been in such a telling way."

His whole pusture stiffened as he came to his full height. "If he offended you with anything..."

"He didn't mean to. He never does." Her voice tapered off but couldn't shake off the memory of the strange mixture of embarrassment and indignantion. The growing anger reflecting in his eyes didn't help, either. "He was brought up by the best tutors; it is only natural for him to notice anything that differs from the etiquette he has employed in his whole life."

"That is preposterous!" He broke free from her hold and took a step to the side. "There is nothing wrong with your manners."

"They are far from impeccable and our conversation reminded me how I used to strive to meet the expectations of appearing as a lady. And failing to do so. I dread to think how close I was to accept that for the whole of my life."

"Your present life employs quite enough pretence, nonetheless," he muttered, his eyes closing for a moment with the words.

Reaching out she took his hand and pulled him back to facing her. "But I have someonce with who doesn't mind me sitting often on the floor and practicing the scandalous craft of an actress even after my marriage."

His free hand lifted and swept a curl back behind her ear. "I like it when you sit on the floor; especially when you read in front of the fireplace. Your hair is even more mesmerizing in that light." Hair tickled her nape he let her curls fall from between his fingers. "And you worked hard for your success. You should enjoy it."

She caught his hand as it started a slow path from her hair to her cheek. "I love you so much," she whispered, pressing a kiss to his palm.

"As I love you," he replied, leaning forward to sweep his lips across hers before burying the unmasked side of his face in her curls.

They remained unmoving for a long minute, then it was him who pulled back first.

"We should leave. With a bit of luck we can still blend into the last of the guests."

Picking up her coat he helped her into it; she was still busy with fastening the clasps when she saw from the corner of her eyes how he reached for the white material she had seen earlier next to the headboard.

It was just a simple white piece of clothing, a shirt, or...

"Is that my chemise?" She asked and he froze, the white garment dangling in his hand.

"I was there when you picked it out this morning and I thought it would still carry your scent..." The unmasked side of his face seemed to grew darker, and he quickly looked away. "I wasn't thinking." He made a vague gesture with his free hand. "Don't go into the kitchen. I'll take care of it." It wasn't too difficult to figure out what had happened in the kitchen and she simply nodded in acknowdgement. Shards could be cleaned away any time when it was not near midnight.

She placed a hand over his in which he was clutching at her stolen undergarment. "I would really need that chemise to go get changed..." She trailed off, and didn't even try to stop the smile that started on her lips. "But you can have it back at home," she promised.

The white material was pressed into her hand in a heartbeat.

– o –

He did claim the promised garment an hour later – only to carelessly abandon it on the back of the sofa as he joined her on the blanket that was hastily thrown on the carpet in front of the fireplace.