I don't own anything.

Relation

When he first laid eyes on her it really hadn't been the first time. After all, she had lived in the Opera Populaire her entire life-all sixteen years of it. But for some reason, he had never really noticed her. Sure, she was Madame Giry's daughter-his friend and savior, if one would call her that-and she was much more prominent then the other ballet rats, but he never thought twice about her.

Until now.

He watched her, silently, as she mauraudered around his little home. Her eyes were wide with wonder and curiosity. In her hand she held onto something cold, hard and white-his mask. He sighed. Well-there wasn't anything he could do about it now. The mask belonged to the Phantom and the Phantom was dead. Dead and buried next to Erik. Now he was a nameless, wandering soul, finally giving into the world's harsh prisonment, in his own mind.

"Hello...?" she asked her voice soft and whispery. He shook his head. Why was she still looking for him? Didn't she just tell that mob-that angry mob-that he was nowhere to be found, and that it was possible that he could have been trapped up above and burned? Didn't she just tell that mob that, unless they wanted to face the same fate as the Phantom might have, they ought to take their leave? Her boldness and cleverness impressed him. She was just like her mother; unafraid to face what many others would fear.

"Why did you lie to them?" he asked. She turned and looked at him with a surprised look in her eyes. She hadn't expected him to come out. It was obvious to her that he wanted to die and be alone-so why had he come out and decide to take on a little small talk?

His question finally registered and brought on more an element of surprise. Why had she turned that mob away? After all, the Phantom was a murderer and a maniac that had kidnapped her best friend. Shouldn't she want him dead?

"I-I'm not sure, Monsieur. I had thought, maybe, that...you'd rather not be killed by the French police and a mob of angry Opera condentants." It was simple and somewhat cheesy, but it worked. He looked at her, his eyes red and puffy-he had been crying. She did not think he was capable of crying, but then again, she did not know much about him. He was so different from what she had expected. True, he was a bit frightening-but that was only because of his presence, haunted by scary stories shared between the corps de ballet.

'The stories are so far fetched. Look at him-the way they spoke of him, he was to have no eyes, no nose and yellow skin. But just look at him!' It was true. He looked nothing like the way she had been told. He did, in fact, have a nose and it wasn't so small it was a sad excuse for one-but a normal, every day nose. His eyes were beautiful, although two different colors. And on the left side of his face-he was easily the most handsome man Meg had ever laid eyes on. Arched brows giving him an eternal mysterious look and a firm chin. The other side, however, seemed to taunt his naturally good looks.

The right side of his face, truth be told, was horrific. His beautiful tan seemed not to exist there-instead it was red and pink and huge ghastly scars crossed over his cheek. His right eye-which was brown-was dilated and the skin beneath it seemed to gather up. Nearer to his ear, the skin went from disgustingly red to almost albino white. It almost made Meg's stomach turn over, but one look into his eyes and all disgust was lost.

They had to be the most gorgeous and most intoxicating eyes she had ever seen, and were coated with a blanket of pain and sorrow that melted her heart then and there.

Suddenly she noticed he had caught her staring at him and that transfixed glare-that look that she had been so wrapped up in-seemed to mirror some odd affections. Her face then redened as she tore her intent looks from his.

"Je regrette...I didn't mean to stare. It was awful rude of me." He only shook his head indifferently.

"Ne vous en faites pas. I'm used to curious stares. I'm used to horrified glances. I'm used to it all. So, you diffidently have nothing to worry about." Meg frowned at this. He was telling her not to worry-but she could tell her wide eyed staring session hurt him.

A small smile appeared on his face after a few moments of silence.

"You were a friend of Christine's, were you not?" he asked. The moment he said her name, his voice shifted, filling with sorrow and pain. Meg's eyes drifted back to his and she nodded bravely.

"We've been friends since her first arrival. Maman put her in my care, although I believe that she was really my roommate to keep an eye on me. I happened to be a very curious child." There was no denying it. As a child she had been rather nosy and curious, always venturing up the catwalks and what not, despite the scary rumors of the Phantom. She remembered Little Jammes saying once,

"That's his territory. He rules everything up there-that's why everyone but the bravest of men are afraid to cross those rafters. Joseph Buquet may be crazy-but he certainly must be brave too."

Rumor also had it that the Phantom's territory also exceeded under the stage. Christine had once claimed that everything beneath their feet-all that could not be seen was the Phantom's. That was, of course, after her angel proclamation. Meg remembered exactly what times like that had been like. Times when Christine's Angel of Music was all that mattered.

"He talks me to sleep and sings the nightmares away. He is all I could ask for..." Meg remembered how romantic and perfect the Angel sounded. She was almost jealous at times because he seemed so wonderful and he was obviously Christine's. But jealousy in her and her best friend's relationship was driven away by their years of friendship and trust.

Meg snapped back to reality when she heard her name being called out. Her eyes immediately turned towards the Phantom.

"What? I'm sorry...I dozed off...I do that occasionally." Meg mumbled blushing slightly. Erik looked at her but shrugged indifferently.

"You must have been a good friend. She mentioned you often." Meg smiled at the thought but then felt it wear off as she remembered how Christine went on and on about her angel. And Raoul.

"I try..."she murmured, looking down at her soaking wet clothes. The baggy brown slacks she had hurried to place on before chasing after the Phantom, were now sticking to her legs and she blushed when she realized that her white poet shirt was slowly watering too. Meg folded her arms across her chest just to be sure he wouldn't see anything. Modesty was not usually a key element in someone who lived in the Opera House their whole life, but with that, Meg did not care.

"Your mother will be looking for you.'' The black haired girl looked up, startled at the man's voice. Erik stared at her long and hard-finally getting the chance to take in all of her features. She had long dark hair that fell messily over her shoulders and prettily tanned skin. She was very pretty-of course, not even her beauty could compare to Christine's. What with Christine's luscious curly brown locks and milky white skin, who could?

Meg's cats like green eyes were probably the most prominent thing about her. They glared into his like none he'd ever seen. Something about them sent shivers up his spine. Christine's brown eyes were wide and adorable. In fact, never had Erik seen two best friends that were so different. From seeing what he had of Meg, she was clearly a dominatrix, spiteful, challenging and headstrong. She knew what she wanted and did it or worked for it no matter how much pain would be endured.

Christine, however, was much different. She was very subtle, and shy. She was one of those who had to be given love and cared for carefully. Erik found that about her to be the most sensual. Christine was the pretty girl that one had to watch out for, where Meg was the girl who watched out for herself.

There was something interesting about her though. He'd seen her all frilly in dress, and had found her quite attractive, but here she stood in pants and a shirt-men's clothing, no doubt-and he found her attire much more satisfying. Christine was never a 'man's clothing' kind of person.

"My mother...yes, she probably would. I guess its best for the both of us if I leave...you may be the Opera ghost, Monsieur, but my mother is the ballet mistress." Meg said in a way of warning that brought a smile to Erik's face. How true this was! Even a disfigured theater ghost had a right to be afraid of Annette Giry.

"Come, then. I'll show you a dryer way back." Meg looked at him for a moment, possibly contemplating whether or not to trust him. Erik didn't care at all.

"Alright...perhaps through Christine's mirror?" she asked. His head shot up as he looked at her with wide eyes.

"How did you know about that passage?'' He asked softly and dangerously. Meg imminently regretted letting it slip. She had just grown so comfortable talking to the man that she had forgotten that he was a dangerous murderer.

"Oh, I...stumbled across it when looking for Christine the night of the premiere of Hannibal. I noticed her mirror was open...oh, how silly does that sound? Opening mirrors!" Meg smiled sheepishly, running a hand through her dark hair.

Erik looked at her with his mouth slightly open, but he closed it and gave her a weak, untying smile.

"No, doesn't sound silly at all. Yet, you ought to have watched your curiosity...times were dark then...I don't know how nice I would have been had I found you."

"That's what Maman said...she kept muttering how I was a fool but a fool only like her." Meg couldn't suppress a laugh. Her mother was never foolish-that's what she loved about her. Her movements were so calm and perfect and she never seemed to have trouble sustaining life. She always knew which foot to place forward and when to open your trap and when to shut it.

That's the difference between Maman and I... Meg thought with a silent scoff. She turned her head and noticed the Phantom was looking right at her. It was strange, Meg had never had to deal with the uncomfort of having a man stare at her. Suddenly, she was plagued with a sense of pride that she had absent mindedly caught the Phantom's attention. He'd done plenty for her, and she felt the sudden urge to repay him.

She turned and looked at him, granting him a whole hearted, kind smile which seemed to shock him. Did he expect this sort of treatment? Her mother rarely spoke of the secretive, solitary monster that lingered beneath the fantastic stage she easily called a home, but whenever she did, it was only with the utmost kindness. Her mother bantered her about her curious rudeness towards the Phantom at an early age. She had no choice but to grow up with a yearning respect for him.

"You're shivering." he said pointedly, glaring at her shaking form. Meg laughed lightly, shrugging with mock indifference. Erik couldn't suppress a smile. She was a lot like her mother and yet, in some ways, a lot like him. He'd seen the way she'd reprimand herself and others at times, and her aggravating and ill tempered personality well matched his own blood thirsty one.

"Ah, you're right! No matter though, I've been upheld in far worse situations. Try prancing around Paris in a little tiny leotard in the cold just to get a carton of milk.'' The black haired girl laughed at the Phantom's look of confusion. "Christine and I were baking a surprise cake for Maman and we didn't dare go to the Opera chef. His mouth is bigger then mine if that is at all possible."

Erik smiled uncertainly, not knowing whether to laugh at her petty humor or growl with irritation at her childish statement. Meg was certainly no Christine Daae. She did not obtain that sweet, blissful innocence that Christine had, and Meg's rough and tyrant outlook on almost anything was the blockade that divided her from her best friend. They were like two different angels; one the precious and amiable, amazing Angel of Heaven that devoured Erik from the moment he first heard her sing-and the rather cockish Angel of Hell that he could totally relate with.

Erik laughed at this measly, story book quality like thought. Angel of Heaven and Angel of Hell? Were his thoughts really quite deluded? But the sensation that sponged through him when he thought of the two; beautiful and resilient Christine Daae, and timid and smart ass Meg Giry, was easily compared to that of a night of eternal morphine. Speaking of morphine...

Meg shuddered as he turned his glance from her, turning to look around his almost destroyed little home. His dark eyes seemed to scan for something important. Sorrow filled those beautiful peepers as they enveloped the disgusting mess the mob had unfeelingly made. Maybe she could finally be of some service...

"Monsieur," Meg started with pure bravery, "I was wondering if perhaps you'd allow me to be of service. Perhaps I could straighten up this mess..." The Phantom slowly turned to look at her, aggravation and confusion covering his dirt smeared face.

"Huh?" was all he asked, not looking at her properly. Meg frowned but took a hefty step towards him, choosing to replace her look of annoyance with a kinder, more feminine look.

"I feel horrible and responsible for that the mob did...I was hoping that maybe I could clean up what mess they made, at least." Erik raised an uncertain brow. Meg was defidently an interesting one for the taking. Without waiting for his reply, she began to scooter around his untidy flat, picking up various damaged object and placing them in carefully decided respectable places. Erik had never seen such a sight in his life as this. The stranger whom just trampled upon his territory was wordlessly cleaning up his ruined home, only humming to herself the tune of some unknown creation.

Megan Giry, with her ink black hair and dark eyes seemed like a distant dream to the man who was captive in her mere presence. He had the slightest inclination that this would not be the end of her immense surprises. There was more to this girl then the bratty, foul mouthed ballet rat that he'd once offhandedly overlooked. No, Meg was more. And Erik was determined to find out all he could about the stranger with no mask.

A/N: I hope you enjoy this as much as I do!