Author's note—This short story is one of the Night Encounters stories, a series of unrelated vignettes based on the ALW musical and set during the fortnight Christine spent underground with Erik, when she was uncertain of her feelings for him. These stories follow the Red Rose timeline. This one is set after the unmasking, but before she begins to fear him.

Disclaimers-All characters used in Night Encounters belong either to Gaston Leroux, Susan Kay, Andrew Lloyd Webber, or the Really Useful Group. In regard to the French language, Paris, history, certain songs, the Opera Charles Garnier—all errors and liberties taken are mine, and for that, I do apologize.

~Riene

The Opera Roof

Copyright 2008, 2016 by Riene

She had never been to the roof of the Opera before. Tours could be taken up here, if one was bold enough, but Christine had had little bravery in her soul in these last few years. Tonight, though, was different. Her silent guardian would allow no harm to befall her while she was safe in his care.

They had climbed to the highest level of the Opera, and now the twilight city lay spread beneath them. The gaslights that lined the streets of the avenue de l'Opera and the boulevard des Capucines spilled a soft golden glow into the hazy gloaming that always signified impending rain in Paris. From here it was possible to discern some of the city's many landmarks, the churches of Notre Dame, La Madeleine, and St. Eustache, the Palais du Luxembourg, the Palais de l'Elysée, the Place de la Concorde. Above them the shimmering canopy of stars was hidden tonight by pressing low gray clouds, so close one could almost seem to reach up and trail a hand through them.

A few steps away from her stood the cloaked and masked figure responsible for her current perspective on this city. Erik stood near the edge of the roof gazing out across the dusk-softened capital, one hand outstretched to the base of the statue beside him. He had told her this hidden viewpoint of the city was one of his favorite places, and she was unaccountably pleased that he had chosen to share this tiny part of himself with her.

She did not dare follow him to the edge of the roof. With his customary disregard for his own safety, Erik stood poised on the edge of the parapet, the wind gently lifting and rippling his old-fashioned, heavy black cloak in the breeze. He looked out over the twilight city in silence, perhaps listening to the call of voices that sounded so faintly to her ears, perhaps watching the people who lived in the world of the light returning home from their evening activities. How often had he stood on the edge of shadows, she wondered, watching the living from his world of silent pain and unendurable loneliness? Had he finally been able no longer to still his craving for human companionship, for human…love?

"Erik?" she questioned, determined to have an answer to this question that had been puzzling her for so long now. Instantly he turned from the Opera roof, his attention solely on her, making her the center of his world.

"My angel?' he questioned softly, and Christine shivered at the underlying caress in his words.

She swallowed once, but continued doggedly on, determined to have an answer to the question that had plagued her now for weeks. "Erik, why did you let me believe you were the Angel of Music, for so long?"

Something flickered in his eyes. Whatever he thought she was going to ask, this was not it. He turned away again, slowly forming his answer as he spoke. "Christine, I had watched you for some months; you seemed so lost, so alone. I, too, know what it is alike to be alone," he added, so softly she almost didn't catch the words. "I only wanted to stop your tears. I never had any intention of deceiving you. I thought I could stay hidden and sing to you, talk to you, that it might ease both our loneliness."

He walked again to the edge of the parapet, looking out across the city. "You needed the fairy tale then, Christine, and I wanted to be your Angel; for once not a monster, not a man. As time went on, I…felt I needed to come to you more and more. You needed your lessons, you needed a friend, and…I found I could not stay away. You wanted to hear my stories, listen to my music. You became my reason for existence, those weeks, and for a while you made me so happy." He gave a short, bitter laugh. "Believe me, I had no intention of ever revealing myself to you. For you could have responded only one way, the way everyone has."

He raised his head, looking directly at her, his voice weary, sad. "You fell in love with your Angel of Music, Christine. I tried to stay away; I knew I was not good for you, that what I craved could never be." Erik hesitated, then reached toward her face, stopping just short of her cheek, then retracted his long cold fingers. "I failed you, Christine. I am so sorry. I ought never to have spoken to you that first time, never let you know of your Angel of Music."

The resignation in his voice pulled at her heart, and Christine felt the sting of tears behind her eyes. She thought suddenly of the times he had told her stories, distracted her from her grief with tales of his far-away travels, the lovely room he had prepared for her, then endless hours of lessons and training that she might sing.

"Don't be sorry, Erik," she whispered.

He stared back into her impossibly blue eyes. In their depths he saw only friendship, and the acknowledgement of his unspoken yearning. Erik closed his eyes, lest she see more than that, the hope which refused to die still lingering in his soul.

Against her face, the mist deepened, tiny droplets that gathered and drenched the wool of her dress, making the tendrils of her hair loosened in the breeze curl about her face. The roof was coated now with a thin sheen of ice. He did not dare walk her across the rain-slick crown of the Opera; she had not his balance and experience up here. If she should slip… No, they must find some temporary shelter until he could safely escort his precious Christine back inside the building.

He drew her into the shelter of the lee side of the arched roof, and circled her protectively with his cloak. He did not allow his hands to touch her, not even through the smooth layers of her dress and shawl, and Christine rested her hands protectively up, against his chest, preventing the contact of their bodies.

Her hands, where they lay against him, were so cold. Erik felt her tension at his nearness and began to sing to her, a soft lullaby from Persia that he had heard the women of the harem and the peasants of the desert sands sing to their children. In the unexpected comfort of his careful embrace, gradually, she relaxed against him.

Around them the church bells rang the hour for Compline, the sounds washing over them softly through the rain. The downpour had subsided, no more than a soft patter on copper cornices, whispering now as it ran through the leaded pipes. She leaned against him, utterly content and trusting, her soft hair tickling his cheek. Tentatively, so cautiously he never knew if she felt it, he dared to brush his scarred lips across her forehead.

"Come, my dear…it is time to take you home."

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