Title: Help Me Say Goodbye

Rating: M

Word count: ~86k

Characters: Erik, Christine, Meg, Madame Giry, Raoul, André, Firmin, Reyer, Piangi, and sundry members of the opera company, some of which belong to me and some don't.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise from 'Phantom of the Opera' does not belong to me.

Erik sighed, a ripple of tension through his body, and he nodded. "Very well," he said. "You must not be late, of course."

"Erik, you do believe I will return?" Christine demanded, refused to let him pull away from her, grasped his shoulders firmly to keep him kneeling before her. "I won't go if you don't believe me!"

"You have rehearsals," was his answer. "And I think we both know that you must not…draw attention." A curl of his lip, and Christine shivered.

"What – what do you mean?" she asked, a little nervous, relaxing her grip on him so he was able to stand. Did he know of Raoul's foolishness? Did he know what the managers thought of her? But surely he couldn't, surely he would be so much angrier if he did.

"I know you have not profited from your association with me," said Erik, smoothing his jacket. "And your absence no doubt caused complications."

"Well – yes," Christine had to admit, grateful that he turned away for a moment, long enough for her to conceal any relief that she felt. He did not know – and she would not tell him. Not unless she had to, anyway. Things might change, after all. Madame Giry was right; she had been working so hard, and had been well-reviewed. If Don Juan was a success, surely any scandal would be buried?

"I have been thinking of retirement," said Erik then, glanced at her, and Christine tilted her head slightly, curious. Erik lifted his eyebrow, shook his head. "Do not be so foolish as to think the managers will take no further action after the premiere," he said, almost a warning. "I do not for one moment believe that they are equipped to run the opera house, but…"

"But?"

"But I will have you," said Erik plainly. "I think I could suffer any ineptness if I have you."

Christine smiled faintly, rose and shook out her skirts. "I doubt that," she said. "But it would be safer – for both of us, perhaps." She reached out a hand to him; after a moment's hesitation, he took it. "You're right," she said. "I don't think they would give up so easily." She didn't think Raoul would give up so easily, even if Erik did fade into retirement. Even if the notes and threats ceased entirely, she thought Raoul might still pursue him.

But not everything could be made simple just because she had made her choice. What was it she had thought last night? That happily ever afters belonged only in stories. They had no place in the real world. The world was messy and complicated, and her life with Erik would not be simple just because they loved one another.

Perhaps if this were the end, she thought suddenly, perhaps then things would be simple. But this was not an ending. This was the beginning of something new, for them both.

"But we can speak of this later," said Erik. He took his watch from his pocket again, glanced at it and scowled. "We must leave, or you will not reach the practice room in time," he said.

"Yes," said Christine, letting him pull his hand from hers. "I must go up to the dormitories, first," she added. "For my music."

Erik nodded. "I will take you there," he said. "Or as close as the hidden passages allow. Much closer than the dressing room, at least." He went around the room, extinguishing candles until only the fire still gave any light, sending shadows skittering around the room. The darkness made the room strange, almost unfamiliar. Christine was used to darkness in Erik's home, but for a moment she almost felt as though she wasn't sure where she was.

Then Erik took her hand, anchored her, and she smiled at him, smiled as the firelight flickered across his mask.

"Are you ready?" he asked her, and Christine nodded. "Come, then."

He took her from his home, across the lake and back into the maze of hidden passages and tunnels that he knew so well. Christine followed, her hand clasped in his. They did not hurry; although time was pressing, neither of them wished to hasten the moment of parting.

Up they went, through disused cellars and cramped spaces, and Erik was more cautious in the light of day, stopped her several times as he listened to something she could not hear, motioned for her to be quiet. She tried to model herself on him, made her footsteps light and kept her lips pressed together to prevent any sound escaping.

It would not do for him to be seen – or for her to be seen with him.

At last they stopped, in a passageway barely wide enough for a person to pass down – the ceiling so low that Erik had to bend his head – and he turned to her, squeezed her hand gently.

"This is as close as we can go," he said. "Beyond me there is a ladder, and a trapdoor. It leads into the box room where the dancers store their trunks. You know your way from there."

Christine nodded. She rarely had cause to go to the box room stuffed full of trunks and suitcases, but she knew where it was, passed by it almost every day. She knew her way.

"Shall I meet you in the dressing room, after rehearsals?" she suggested, and was rewarded by a brief flash of a smile from Erik. "We should finish at five," she went on. "Because of course there's the ballet tonight."

"Of course," he echoed. "I…I will wait for you, then." He looked a little hesitant, as if he didn't quite believe she would come back to him. There was nothing more she could add, no way to persuade him. But she lifted her hand, cupped his cheek, gave him a gentle smile.

"I will think of you all day," she promised. "Every minute, Erik."

"And I shall think of nothing but you," he said. He turned his head, kissed her palm. He was as reluctant to part as she, and she stepped closer to him, leaned against him in the cramped passageway and rested her head against his chest.

She could not hear his heartbeat. The sounds of the opera house around them were muffled by brick and wood, by the walls and floors that separated them from those who moved and worked and lived here, but it was enough to drown out the sound of Erik's heart, even when she closed her eyes to try to concentrate on it.

"Christine," he murmured, one hand at her waist and the other stroking through her hair. "My Christine."

"Yours," she agreed. "And you are my Erik." She lifted her head, smiled at him once again. "My Angel."

"I am not –"

"No," she said quickly. "No, I am not a child to believe in fairytales any longer, Erik. But you are my Angel." He couldn't quite look at her, his gaze skittering away for long moments before he was inevitably drawn back. Wonder and awe in his eyes, love and desire. She wondered what he saw in her, what feeling was showing in her own expression.

Love. Desire. Longing, perhaps. She longed to stay with him, wished fervently that she did not have rehearsals – that the normal routine of her days might be disrupted to allow them time to become easy with each other, time to learn each other more thoroughly. Time to work through the many problems and issues that still must be dealt with.

But life must continue, and she must face her day without allowing herself to be overly distracted by thoughts of Erik, and thoughts of their future life together. She must perform more than adequately, she must throw herself into the rehearsals and prove to everyone that she had earned her place.

Christine must be the prima donna that Erik had always intended her to be.

She sighed, and he nodded, mouth twisted in a scowl. Displeasure, but not directed at her – rather, he felt the same as she. That the world ought to stop so they could be together without having to ignore her responsibilities.

"You must go," he said. "You will be late. It would not do for you to begin to assimilate Carlotta's bad habits."

It broke the slight tension that had formed, made Christine laugh. "Heaven forbid!" she said, pleased that Erik felt relaxed enough to tease her a little. It was a good sign, she thought. A sign that he would believe her sooner rather than later, that he was beginning to believe that she loved him.

"Kiss me," she said. "Kiss me before I go, Erik." She thought he would hesitate, thought he would give her that amazed look once more, but she was wrong. Erik lowered his head, pressed his mouth to hers. Pressed her against the wall and covered her body with his own, kissed her with such passion, such possession, that Christine could barely comprehend it.

Warm and loving, and Christine was filled with heat, filled with desire. She clutched at his shoulders, lifted a hand to his face – found herself wishing that his mask were not in her way, and marvelled at her own transformation that she could think such a thing without even the tiniest flicker of disgust or horror at what lay beneath.

Erik had asked her to see beyond the mask, she recalled dimly as he pressed her against the wall, learning all the ways to kiss her, to make her knees weak. He'd asked it of her, and she had done more than that. She had seen beyond the mask and beyond his face, had found beneath all external features the inner beauty of the man.

It was not all beauty; he had darkness in him, and she would not be blind to it. But she loved him.

She loved him.

They parted, and Christine lifted a hand to his mouth, traced the swollen line of his lip.

"I must go," she said softly. "But I will be with you tonight, Erik." He nodded, kissed her fingertips.

"At five," he agreed. "I shall be waiting."

"Don't be anxious if I'm late," she said, and she pulled away from him, lifted a hand to make sure her hair was still presentable. "Rehearsals do run late sometimes. It isn't because I won't be coming. Promise to remember that?"

"I give you my word," said Erik, a slight smile curving his mouth once more, softening his features. "I shall remember."

"And remember that I love you," she said softly. "Remember that, Erik."

He nodded again, and helped her carefully slide between him and the wall. It was a tight squeeze, but in moments she was by the ladder. She looked up at the ceiling, saw the trap door Erik had mentioned. She couldn't remember ever seeing it from the other side, hoped nothing had been moved on top of it – but she knew Erik would not have brought her this way if the route had been closed, even temporarily.

The trapdoor was a little beyond her arm's reach, but it was not beyond Erik's, and as she put her foot on the first rung of the ladder, he reached up and lifted the door.

"I will make sure it is closed behind you," he assured her. "Wait at the door of the box room for a moment, to listen for anyone passing by."

"Alright," she said, and she glanced over her shoulder at him, tried to speak but couldn't find the words to express all she was feeling. Erik seemed to understand though, gave her a nod and another brief smile.

"Go," he said. "I will see you later."

He believed it, and that belief was enough for Christine. She grasped the ladder, climbed it easily, pulled herself through the trapdoor and out into the room above. Erik climbed up a rung, reached for the door to close it again.

"I love you," he said, and Christine smiled.

"And I love you," she said. A flash of happiness crossed his face – such a novel emotion for him, but it was there and she could see it even though the mask concealed so much.

Then he closed the trapdoor, shutting himself away from view, and Christine straightened, brushed dust from her skirt. The temptation to open the door again was strong – to return to him and forget all her responsibilities.

But he would not thank her for doing so.

She touched her lips for a moment, remembered the feel of kissing him. Thought about how her life would change now. She wondered, briefly, what she would say to Raoul when he tried to see her next, for she had been honest with Erik – she knew Raoul would seek her out again, and whilst she would of course discourage him, she could not see how to avoid him altogether.

Raoul would know, of course, what it meant when soon – oh, hopefully it would be soon! – there was a wedding ring on her finger. Christine knew he would suspect Erik of threatening her, would assume she had married him because she had no choice.

It was something to think of later; for now she dwelt for a moment more on the memory of Erik's mouth on hers, his arms around her.

And then she went to the door, listened for a moment for any passing footsteps, and then went to face the day.

To face her new life.

Finis.

Thank you for reading :)