14Something More
DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by: Gaston Leroux, Susan Kay, Andrew Lloyd Webber, and including but not limited to various publishers and companies associated with The Phantom of the Opera since its first French publication in 1909/1910 and its first English publication in 1911. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Chapter 1
Christine stumbled through her dressing room door, cursing as she tripped over the edge of a small, square fabric-covered ottoman, and tumbled into a heap of pale pink skirts onto the carpeted floor. She didn't recall leaving the footstool at such a precarious angle to the door. The satin laces of her right toe shoe had unraveled and caught on its wooden leg. The rug gave her brush burns on her elbow and knee as she skidded down on her side, her hair a tangled mess in her face. The wind was momentarily knocked out of her from her graceless fall.
Groaning, she spit out a curl in frustration and glanced at the mirror, hoping he was not there to see her make such a spectacle of herself.
No such luck! Of course not! Not after the week she had endured.
She saw the mirror turn on its pivot just as she heard his concerned voice.
"Christine, are you all right?"
No doubt he'd been a witness to her disaster of a week, the worst she'd had since she had come to the Opera. She could add embarrassment to the long list of emotions she'd felt that week.
Erik was assessing her with his eyes for injuries, but he made no move to help her up as he crouched over her. Contented that nothing was broken, he backed away from her. She twisted around, her hair still in her face, and let out another low curse. She moved her mop of curls out of her eyes and glared at him. His mouth twitched slightly and there was a gleam in his golden eyes, but he said nothing.
It was irrational to be angry with him. It was not his fault she had fallen; it was not his fault she'd had a terrible week, that every silly and ridiculously annoying little thing that could have happened to her had happened. Still, she wanted to snap at him. She wanted to take her frustration out on someone, and he was currently the easy target.
"Be a gentleman, will you?" she asked bitingly. She held out her hand, indignant, as he continued to stare at her in amusement.
"You know, for a dancer, you can be alarmingly clumsy," he said thoughtfully.
"Is that your attempt to make me feel better?" she asked. She felt like sticking out her lower lip and pouting but doubted such tactics would work with him.
"No," he said, and before she could think of a witty retort, he was hoisting her to her feet. His strong arms held her steady, his body surprisingly warm against hers. His eyes met hers from behind the mask for the briefest second, slightly mischievous. There was something in that golden gaze that made her uncomfortable before he plopped her down onto the ottoman that had caused her so much grief. He was slow in releasing his hands from her bare arms before kneeling in front of her. When he finally did, she shivered and crossed her arms over her chest, her hands moving to the places where his had been, rubbing them up and down as gooseflesh rose on her skin. Thinking she was cold, Erik pulled a shawl off a nearby chair and draped it around her shoulders over her chorus costume.
"Seriously, Christine, are you hurt?" he asked quietly, his eyes sincere once more.
She shook her head. "I just scraped my elbow is all."
"May I?" he asked tentatively, reaching for her arm but not touching her until she nodded. She turned her elbow slightly toward him to show him the abrasion.
"It's just a scratch," she said dismissively, but he would not allow her protests. He held her arm steadily and tilted her elbow closer to him.
As he carefully examined her arm, she took the opportunity to study him, from the white mask to the impeccably embroidered waistcoat down to his shiny black shoes. She didn't mention her smarting knee, fearful of him asking to see it as well. She could pretend all she wanted that he was only a father-figure to her, her mentor, her teacher – but when it came down to it, the intimacy of their acquaintance hinted at more. He may speak to her as if she was a child at times, but there was no mistaking his smoldering gaze when he looked at her, or his loving glance when she sang for him. He wanted more from her; she could sense it, even when he did not say it. And she could act like a child in return, but it was difficult to ignore her pounding pulse or the tremors in her belly when he touched her – even fleetingly as he was now. When he looked at her with passion, her insides felt like molten lava. She did not even know if he knew when he was doing it, but her reaction to him was not that of a girl, but of a woman – the full-grown twenty-year-old woman that she was, even if she did not feel like it at times. Sometimes it scared her; other times she realized she wanted something more from him as well. Just how much more, she didn't quite know – yet.
Abruptly, he stood up and said, "Wait here."
He disappeared into the adjoining washroom. Before she could register he was gone, he returned in a graceful swirl of black cloak with a small medical kit.
"I like to be prepared for all possible situations," he mumbled by way of explanation.
He gently grasped her arm and began his ministrations with his cool fingers. He applied moderate pressure with a clean cloth, washing the small amounts of blood away.
"So, tell me about your week," he said, seeking to distract her from the sting of her wound. He dabbed at her elbow with some ointment.
She laughed half-heartedly. "I know you've been busy working, but it can't have completely escaped your notice what a debacle this week has been."
"It hasn't," he agreed, that little quirk returning to his mouth. His fingers felt soothing against her heated skin as he wrapped her elbow in gauze.
"I suppose you're going to chastise me," Christine sighed and waited for his onslaught of criticism. She was sure he was going to tell her that her posture had been bad during yesterday's rehearsal, which was why another chorus member had dropped her during a rather standard lift. She thought he might mention how her pitch had been so off-key she had caused distraction to the set manager, whereby he had misdirected the stagehands to place a backdrop in front of La Carlotta as she'd been singing instead of behind her. Of course, the woman had blamed that on the Opera Ghost and not on Christine, though he'd had nothing to do with it. She was sure Erik would point out every gaffe, every misstep, every wrong note that had plagued her week, but he didn't.
"Not at all," he said, securing the bandage and stepping away from her. "We'll have to watch that for infection."
He returned the little medical kit to the washroom and came to stand a few feet from her.
She suddenly felt guilty for not telling him about her knee. If he was this concerned over her elbow, what would he do if she told him her knee felt ten times worse and was currently throbbing under skirts?
"You're not going to lecture me?" she asked tentatively.
"No," he repeated, amused. "I daresay you learned your lessons this week. You don't need me to repeat every faux pas to your face. That would serve no purpose."
"I suppose you're right. I imagine I deserved what happened to me this week," she said sadly. She looked down at her shoes.
"That's not what I meant at all." His voice was reprimanding now. "I simply meant you're being hard enough on yourself without me adding to it."
"Oh!" she exclaimed. "But you can't know how sorry I'm feeling for myself."
"I'm an expert at self-pity, my dear. Believe me, I can well imagine what you're thinking," he said wryly.
He turned toward the mirror as if ready to retreat from the room.
"How thoughtless of me," she said, standing up and moving to stop him. Her knee was still smarting, but she gritted her teeth to hide it from Erik. "You must think I'm terribly selfish for behaving so."
She leaned against him ever so slightly, their reflections side by side in the mirror.
"Thank you for caring for me," she whispered to him, touching his arm lightly. He watched her fingers as they rubbed casually up and down the satin of his cloak.
"You are due back at rehearsal," he reminded her, his voice a bit raspy.
"I don't want to go back to rehearsal," she pouted. She had a legitimate excuse for skipping it, but she didn't tell him that. "Let's do something fun instead!"
"Fun?" he questioned, as if he'd never heard of the word. His eyes were full of doubt as they watched her in the mirror.
She couldn't believe she was suggesting such a thing to her strict teacher. He would never condone her missing rehearsal, especially after the week she'd had; she could use all the practice she could get. Still, she wondered if she might be able to persuade him otherwise. She leaned her head into his shoulder, eyeing him sweetly in the mirror. He appeared startled at her display of affection.
"I need cheering up, and I'm likely to break my neck if I go back to rehearsal now. Please Erik, I know you're busy composing, but can you think of nothing to make me feel better? I cannot bear to go back there. I'm tired of being laughed at," she told him desperately.
It was true. The other chorus members had been ruthless in their sarcasm this week. She'd been chewed out by every superior, Madame Giry included. Even Meg had laughed at her a little. La Carlotta had been the worst, of course. That woman was the cruelest female Christine had ever met. The thought of facing the prima donna after another disastrous day was too much for her.
Erik, as if sensing the direction of her thoughts, appeared as though he may take pity on her now. She wanted him to give in but didn't think it would be right to entice him in the wrong way. With Raoul, she might have flirted and teased. But with Erik, she had to be careful, subtle, so as not to alarm him. She gently squeezed his hand and waited patiently for his answer, peeking at him through her lashes when his silence lingered too long.
"Very well," he sighed in defeat. "Perhaps we can go to the Bois after dark."
"After dark? But what of now?" she asked him, trying not to sound too whiny.
She took a chance and laced her fingers through his. She heard his breath catch. She wasn't about to let him return to the bowels of the Opera House and leave her alone. She wanted him with her. She closed her eyes, enjoying the feel of his long fingers against hers, and waited.
"Hmm," his voice hummed. Even the smallest sound from him was musical.
She dared to open her eyes and look at him. He was considering her words. This enigma of a man was caving to her. The thought was empowering.
He eyed her steadily, not wanting to give her all the control. As usual, their relationship was a delicate balance, a push and pull to see who would win out.
"I have just the thing," he said mysteriously, after a moment.
He smiled at her, not a mocking quirk of his thin lips but a real smile. She needed to learn how to trigger that reaction in him more often. It made her insides go warm, like she was basking in the sun.
"Give me twenty minutes. I'll drop a little message from O.G. with the managers to explain your absence, and then I'll return," he said. Then he commanded in a firm voice, "Change into something warm."
To her surprise, he kissed her fingers lightly, then let her go and disappeared behind the mirror.