Note I: This phic will be closer to the movie, as I am more familiar with it than the book.
Note II: The usual amount of fop-bashing is to be expected, as I am an EC shipper and Raoul and his hair annoy the beejezus out of me. (shudders) those sideburns.
Disclaimer: I do not own POTO or any of the associated actors/music/characters. If I did, you'd be seeing a lot less of Gerard Butler, now wouldn't you? ;)

Think Of Me

Christine

"It's over now, the music of the night!"
"Christine?" Christine woke sharply, torn from the soul-wrenching voice. Raoul gazed at her with fond regard. "You were dreaming." Her lips twitched, the motion more a grimace than a smile. "Yes." Her eyes glistened strangely. One month, and I can't get him out of my mind for even a night. He'll always be there, singing songs in my head. The Phantom's intensely blue eyes pierced her from behind the white mask. He had seemingly disappeared from the Opera Populaire, restored to its former glory by the Vicomte. Christine had gone back to the Opera, very much against the wishes of her fiancé. She admitted, every time she was in her dressing room, she looked for the familiar red rose. And every time that it was not there, she felt a plunge in her stomach. Of course she could not expect him to come to her again so easily. Her affection for 'the fop' that the Phantom so despised, and her subsequent betrayal, prevented him. He would watch, but he would not intervene. She felt his eyes upon her in the theatre, a presence behind the walls that would not reveal itself. Regret washed over her for her hasty choice. For affection was all that she had for Raoul, she was more sure of that with each moment that passed. And her own cruelty had driven away the only man she could have loved, forcing him into the shadows, confirming his own belief in his mind that he was a monster. "Christine." She flinched, brought out of her musings. Raoul's eyes were intent upon hers, his face betraying his irritation. "I thought we'd agreed to forget about him, Christine." The dark eyes were flat, with no light in them. She could not help contrasting them with the shining brilliance of her Angel of Music. But Raoul expected some sort of answer. "He was a part of my life for ten years, Raoul." She stared into the mirror on her vanity, not really seeing the reflection. "I cannot forget him in a mere month"

He snapped back, surprised, apparently, that her mind had not changed since their last argument. "I see. As always, you are torn between us. Is that why you stall the wedding? Do I not measure up to your Angel of Music?" His mouth was tight, hands curling. "Raoul." Her face was set. I can't keep lying to them both. "I don't-"

A muscle in his jaw twitched. "I'm beginning to dislike your tone, Christine. Have you forgotten that I too, am a part of your life?" A rare fire sparked in her at the words; fueled by long nights of arguing. "Where were you when I was orphaned? Did you shelter me in the Opera House? Did you tutor me so I could rise to a position where no one would harm me? Where were you those ten years when I was here?" Her cheeks were flushed, eyes shining with anger. Raoul was momentarily stunned, but quickly recovered. "Christine, you're under a lot of stress, I understand." His tone became that of a parent toward a errant child. "Perhaps you'd best go lie down. I'll leave you alone to think this over."

Erik

He could scarce credit the moment, as he stared out of the mirror. Christine arguing with the fop? What had she meant to say before he had cut her off? "I don't-"
The Phantom's eyes narrowed from behind the black mask he now wore, hands itching for his Punjab lasso as the fop tried to pacify Christine in the most patronizing tone he had ever heard, treating her like an petulant child and leaving her without even listening to what she had been trying to tell him. Little Lotte indeed. The Phantom thought, seething. His Angel of Music stared blankly at the door, seemingly unable to move.

The Vicomte was under no such constraints. The Opera Ghost knew exactly where he had gone. The affair had developed after the fop no longer found the responses he wanted in Christine, responses he would never get unless they were married. And Christine did not seem at all desirous of a wedding. The Phantom almost laughed at the irony of it. He, shunned and alone all his years, read people better than a fop socialite! The fop's condescending manner sickened him. Rather than discussing the matter with Christine, the fop had gone elsewhere to slake his desires. His current ballet rat, Celeste, and he were probably in the storage room by now. The insult to his Angel of Music had brought him close to wringing the fop's neck. He had kept out because of Christine. She had made her choice quite clear. "I gave you my mind blindly."

But now- seeing her bury her face in her hands, the slight quiver in her shoulders, the droop of her head, the glimmer between her fingers.

A small, barely audible sob escaped her and made up his mind for him. He swept back, his route taking him toward the door to the dressing room.

Christine

A whisper of sound drew her back from the cold places in her heart. Her heart leapt. And fell, as she realized that it could not have been the rustle of that familiar cloak. Still, drawn to the door, she opened it. Outside, she saw nothing.

Then- a flicker of movement caught her eye. Heart beating faster, she moved to follow it. After three twisting hallways, she heard soft murmuring. Flushing, she began to back away. But before she could turn, she saw what she had been longing to see for so many nights. A red rose, tied with a velvet ribbon. The sight of the crimson petals was too much. She was there in the space of a moment, fingering the petals, the feel of them causing the tears that had welled at the sight of the rose to spill.

"Celeste..."

Why Have You Brought Me Here?

Christine

Christine froze, tears forgotten. Could that have been...? No. She began to turn, half-afraid of what she might interrupt if she was wrong. Her imagination was running wild, Raoul would not be down here. He was probably sulking at his house with his cronies and nursing a glass of wine.

"Vicomte!" A playful titter. Christine went still-but only for a moment. Boldly stepping forward, she felt herself blazing with a strange emotion as she wrenched open the door. Two faces, blank with shock, blinked at her.

Raoul and a half-clad chorus girl, nude to the waist- his hands on her body, lips just above her neck, hers twined in his hair. Her body pressed up against the wall, his molding against hers. Eyes lined with garish shadow stared at her, lips reddened with carmine were open in shock. "Oh." the girl said, a nervous giggle escaping her. She attempted to wriggle out of Raoul's grasp, toward the door. He would not release her. His eyes were strangely triumphant on Christine's as he raised his head. "How does it feel, Christine? One betrayal for another. Only fair, don't you think?" His fingers dug into the girl's flesh and she jumped. Christine's eyes blazed. "How dare you-"

"You've spent time with him, Christine, since you came back here. Did you think I wouldn't notice"

"I never!" Christine stood tall, rigid with fury. "I would never have betrayed you so, Raoul!" Her voice became suddenly chilly. "But now that you show me what you think of me, I see that the only one I've betrayed is myself." Very melodramatic, Christine. She thought.

His lips twisted in a cynical smile. "Don't play the innocent, Aminta, it doesn't suit you anymore"

Stung by the reference to her performance in Don Juan, she lashed out. "I don't love you, Raoul, can't you see?" She halted his words with a look. "And while I never loved you, I never betrayed you either. You've lost whatever affection I had for you, Raoul, with this little stunt"

Raoul's mouth tightened, he released the ballet wench to stride over to her jerkily. His movements were a far cry from the Phantom's deadly grace.The girl took the convenient opportunity to scamper past. Christine steeled herself, willing her eyes not to waver as she glared back at him. He took her wrist, she tried to shake him off, mistaking the gesture. With a sharp jerk, he pulled her to him, her wrist aching. "Vicomte!" She glared up at him.

He slapped her. She froze, the left side of her face stinging. "Enough, Christine." His tone was icy. "Stop being so childish. You've brought this upon yourself." He brought his hand back to strike her again. Christine braced herself, squeezing her eyes shut as her wrist screamed a protest. The pain did not come. She opened her eyes, and was paralyzed. She could only stare in wonder.

The Vicomte's wrist was held tight in a Punjab lasso, and behind him- behind him blue eyes blazed out from behind an unfamiliar black half-mask. The voice of the angel, deep and awesome, came out of the shadows. "Get away from her."

The Vicomte flinched. Christine saw his hand jerk toward the short, decorative belt-knife he had begun carrying after Christine went back to the Opera Populaire. The Phantom flicked the rope, causing the Vicomte's face to blanch. Than, after a long and uncomfortable moment, he freed the lasso. "Get out." Raoul eyed Christine venomously and moved toward her. The Phantom strode forward. "I warned you once, Vicomte." He spat the word as though it were a disease. "Now go"
Raoul glared back over his shoulder as he passed the door. "This isn't over, Christine"
The Phantom answered him with a mocking half-bow and the Vicomte stormed off.

Erik

He took Christine's wrist gently, hesitantly. When the expected resistance did not come, he inspected the purpling ring around her wrist. "Did he break anything?" His bright eyes searched her face, lingering with disapproval on the red mark on the left side of her face. Momentarily captivated, as she always was, Christine whispered. "No." Her own eyes sought the Phantom's. The distance was suddenly too close. Beautiful and frightening. He stepped back, dropping her wrist. The intoxicating touch had been, for him, too much, too soon. How could he think to touch her after she had rejected him? He almost regretted his interference, but for him, there had been no choice. No. He thought, the image of the fop debasing his angel coming back. I could not have stood idle. That step appeared to snap her out of her comatose state. She sat down abruptly on an upturned box. "Why did you show me that?" Her voice was thick, eyes beginning to glisten. Now, with that boy out of the room, her anger began to dissipate into anguish.
He would not deny that he had led her here. He would not make this gentle on her. If he did, she would go right back to that undeserving fop; her damnable, pacifistic, conscience would demand his forgiveness for her harsh words, no matter how true they had been. "I never thought you would enjoy living a lie, Christine? Was I wrong?" His eyes were direct, challenging.

"I-" she began. She slumped. "But why this way?" Tears began to fall, tears that he would not wipe away for her, as much as it gnawed at him to see his angel crying.

"Would you have believed me if I told you"

"I was ha-" She halted, blinked.

"You were not happy, Christine. I watched you cry. I heard you mourning for it. 'A sacrifice- and all for nothing. For a man I do not even love'. Do not tell me, Christine, that you loved that boy; do not lie to me." Christine's tears slowed, her face pensive and pained. "No." She whispered. "I won't lie to you again." Her face shone softly as she looked up at him with a light in her eyes that terrified them both. "Not to my Angel of Music."

Angel Of Music

Erik

He flinched. "Do not call me that. I am, as you know, no angel. My face, my soul, are as twisted as you told me"

"They are only as twisted as you believe them to be." She stood. "You are the only one of us that has not lied to the other."

He raised an eyebrow. The simple gesture was more eloquent than any thousand words another man might say. "How do you come to that conclusion, Christine? I pretended to be your Angel of Music for ten years."

Christine raised her head, stepped toward him. He was drowning in the soft brown eyes. Before he could retreat, she said simply. "You were my angel."

Trying to stay cold toward her was damnably hard with the innocent brown eyes gazing at him, no matter what she had done to him. He tried to raise the cool facade that had served him in the past. "But not anymore, Christine, am I correct?"

She came closer still, ignoring the chill tone that had once kept her at bay. "I told you I wouldn't lie to you again. You are still my angel, whatever you believe yourself to be." A lissome hand reached up to his face. He tensed, the memory of a similar gesture one month ago freezing him. Don Juan Triumphante indeed. His heart pounded under the cool face he presented, both fearing and longing for her touch. He raised a hand to hers, intending to remove it, found that he couldn't. "Christine-" he began. He relaxed marginally when her hand touched smooth skin and not the black mask. His breath shuddered as she gazed at the mask. The red flames of Don Juan seemed to flicker around him, in a moment he would flee, every instinct told him that disaster was imminent. "Black?" She inquired, startling him for the briefest moment, before he tasted bitterness in his mouth.

His lips twisted. "Black for mourning. Black for night. Black for hell." Her eyes were suddenly pained. "I'm so"

He recoiled. "I don't want your pity, Christine." No, I don't want it; I ache for it. I long for anything of you.

"It's not my pity I'm offering, Angel"

His breath caught in his throat at the bald statement. He fell back on the old defense. "I told you not to call me-"

"Than what am I to call you? You gave me no name." Her eyes were frank, almost amused. He lost himself momentarily in the way the light reflected off her auburn curls, the soft luminescence of her skin, those warm eyes. It was the impassioned Aminta gazing at him again. 'Past the point of no return...'

I can never deny her, can I? He thought ruefully. But did he want to? "Erik." He said softly. His voice caught over the last syllable, the velvet cadence strained.

"Erik." She repeated, equally soft.

It was beautiful.

Christine

She stepped closer almost instinctively, blood thrilling. His simple presence was a quiet exhilaration. Her hands crept up to his shoulders. She felt his firm on her waist, one cupping her cheek lightly, as though she were made of glass. "Why did I ever let you go?" Her soft voice was tainted by bitterness as she looked up at him. Had she said it alound?

His lips twitched into a small smile. "Far be it from me to guess your mind, Christine."

"Enigmatic as ever, Erik." She reveled in the sensation of his name upon her tongue. Tilting her face up as a flower to the sun, she allowed a slight smile to cross her features, enjoying the warmth in the blue eyes above her, like thawed winter. He lowered his face to hers. "Naturally, Christine." He pressed his lips to hers gently, delicately. Her body flushed with heat, tingling with electricity. Unconsciously, her hands tightened their hold on him. He broke the light touch, she buried her face in his neck, surrounded in the aura that was uniquely his, protective and potent. He rested his head on hers, lightly kissing her hair. Christine marveled that they should have been reunited thus. In her Angel's presence, her world became safe. She sighed into the warm skin against her cheek. Why? Why didn't I tell him sooner? A flurry of voices broke them from their reverie. Erik's arms tightened protectively around her. "He thinks to chain us, that boy, you to him and myself to a prison wall." Christine felt the heat of anger in him. "Follow me." Trusting him without a second thought, she followed when he tugged gently on her unhurt wrist. "Where are we going"

Erik looked amused. "Why, to your dressing room, where you've been all along."