Disclaimer: These characters certainly are not mine and they can go back where they came from when you're done. This is an alternate universe work, based solely on Andrew Lloyd Webber's film, The Phantom of the Opera, and purely my way of escaping the tragedy of the film, which, while brilliant, broke my heart so badly that it was either write this, or seek professional help. No money was made from this story, unless you count what was saved on therapy and medication. A most sincere thank you to my beta readers, Beth, Kristin and Alina, any remaining mistakes are mine alone. I hope you enjoy it.

"Angel, Oh Speak, What Endless Longings Echo in This Whisper!" Christine

Perfect

Christine loves it best when he sings to her, wrapping his arms around her. She can feel the notes deep in his chest, forget her worries and be safe in his embrace, just as her father kept her safe. He even smells reassuring, and she burrows deeper into his arms where they lie together on the phoenix bed. In the oasis of breast created by his open linen shirt, she listens to his voice, rubs her cheek against the warm silky texture of his skin, padded by strong muscles and adorned with just the right amount of hair.

She breathes in his scent, clean and masculine and uniquely him. He is always meticulously groomed, impeccably dressed, and she relaxes into him as a kitten into a warm lap. He holds her with an intensity bordering on scary, fierce love in his heart burning through the lace and ruffles to squeeze her tight. Her father promised he would send the Angel of Music to her, and her Angel was there, is here, holding her, watching. Always. She is never alone. All is just as it should be. Perfect.

When he sings to her softly, she snuggles into him, her long hair trailing over him while he cradles her close. When he sings to her with power, standing in front of her, her heart beats faster as he fills the air with magic. And when they sing their duet, she is straight as an arrow, her throat open and wide and the power racing through them both, and it seems they will soar up into the air with the joy of it.

It does not matter that half his face is twisted by some curse visited upon him in the womb. It does not matter, so long as he sings to her, watches over her and guides her through this life, this labyrinth of false friends and hangers-on who love her only for her fame. When some young man makes advances toward her, she smiles and says she is flattered, but that she is married to her Angel of Music. The young man leaves, his feelings spared, and she is free once more to retreat to the safety of her secret, her life, her Muse. It would not be wrong to call him that, this man who taught her everything, who made her a star and protects her interests, approving silently as she signs yet another contract, as yet another attempt to upstage her goes awry from some seemingly innocent mishap. Christine Daae is Diva in her own right, the Opera Populaire her absolute domain, and nothing can change that while her Angel lives.

She remembered the first time she knew he was real, not some bit of dream. She was nine, and had gone far below the dormitories to the levels where the workmen slept, their jobs to run the machines that gave life to the Opera House, creating the scenery and props for the performances. She was not allowed down here, but was at loose ends, and exploring the House was exciting. Too late to run away, she caught the eye of Joseph Buquet, a scenery worker, and found herself trapped between his dirty, ragged body and the wall behind her. She did not know what he wanted, but whatever it was it made her heart pound with fright, trying to get away.

Buquet's rancid breath was hot on her face, his greasy nose too close to hers, when a familiar man's voice rang out behind her captor. "Get away from her!" it roared, and a tall hooded figure grabbed Buquet's arms and flung him hard against a railing, knocking the wind out of the man. The figure stepped close to Buquet where he lay on the ground, trying to breathe. "Come near her again, and I shall kill you," it snarled, the menace in his tone leaving no doubt as to his sincerity.

She stood against the wall, paralyzed. The hooded man held out a gloved hand to her. "Come, you must go back," he demanded angrily. She took the hand and went.

As they climbed up the levels to the dormitories the man turned to her, the dark hood still low over his face. She recognized him now; he was the voice in her dreams, the one who sang her to sleep when she first came to the House and cried every night for a month. He sang to her still, a disembodied voice in the chapel or dormitory, whenever she found herself alone. She thought him her father's spirit, or else the Angel of Music her father promised her; she had no idea he could take on human form, but did not question it. Worriedly he asked, "Have I not warned you away from here? How can I look after you if you will not obey me?" Christine burst into tears, no words coming to her defense. Madame Giry had warned her, and she had not done as she was bid. The man's voice gentled then, and he ran a hand over her braids. "Christine, you must promise never to disobey again, yes?" Christine swallowed hard, nodded.

And she never did disobey again. Terrified of her Guardian Angel's disapproval, longing to please, she did exactly as she was told. In time, she forgot the gloved hand, the dark hood, all but his voice, which never seemed very far away.

Later that evening, Buquet found a surprise waiting for him in his bed. A Punjab lasso lay just beneath his pillow.

Years passed, and with each one Christine longed even more to see her Angel of Music, her Guardian and now Teacher. Something odd happened when he sang to her; the rest of the world seemed to suddenly become unimportant, her Teacher the only thing that mattered. A Guardian Angel, indeed, for who else could do that? Always with her, yet unseen, he tutored her in voice, guiding her to wider ranges than she thought possible. Their duet was her chance to please her ethereal coach, her voice rising higher as he commanded, "Sing for Me!" If she did well, he would reward her with a rose tied with black ribbon. If not, she heard the disappointment in his tone, and regretted her lack of talent. Music scores would appear at the foot of her bed, sometimes the same ones as the performances running at the House, sometimes not. She would study them intently, bent on learning them before her next lesson. Her diligence was not lost on her Teacher, and there were roses for her preparation as well as her performance.

Then came the day when the unthinkable happened. The Phantom, a creature of dread and danger, drove La Carlotta away, and with no one to take her place, Madame Giry had Christine sing for the new owners. That night she was a star, and the audience cheered for her alone, Christine Daae. It was a brilliant night, complete with Raoul coming back into her life, ripping open a treasure chest of feelings long buried, and she could stand the mystery no longer. She had to ask, had to see her Master, her Angel, sent by her father to watch over her. She was now sixteen.

Not wings, but a cloak and mask instead, as her Angel of Music proved to be the selfsame Phantom of the Opera, appearing before her for the first time in seven years. He looked very different now, the hood replaced by a white leather half-mask, the work shirt and breeches by elegant evening attire. Singing to her from the dressing room mirror, where she thought no one could see, he reached right through the glass to admit her to his world. Eagerly taking his black-gloved hand, she followed him far below the Opera House, to a fantasyland no one knew existed, where a labyrinth of mist and lake carried them to his realm carved out of solid rock. Red velvet and lit candles, rising out of the lake by themselves, greeted her arrival as he brought the boat to a stop and helped her out. His hand was steady and strong, and the familiarity of their duet kept the panic at bay, the disappearance of all that she knew for this sumptuous and sensual place, all alone with the man responsible for her performance tonight, a man at once known and unknown, the formless voice given form.

Such form. He is beautiful, her Angel, and she strokes his chest lightly as they lie together. He craves her touch, her hands on him gentle, caring, so different from what he grew up with, knowing only beatings and pain. The tiny white scars on his torso prove it, and she revels in touching him now without fear of him shying away. It had taken time, his skin remembering what his mind tried to forget. Only one real flaw mars his perfection, one mask keeps him from becoming known in public as well as private. Sometimes she is glad of it; he does not belong to the world at large, but to her alone.

As her Angel showed her his underworld for the first time, he began to sing to her again, weaving a story of love and longing for her, Christine Daae. How he needed her, wanted her, longed for her touch and trust so that she could be his. It seemed a dream, Her Angel declaring his love for her like some fairytale knight in shining armor. Only this was real, and her senses were struck by this magnificent, seductive man who asked her to let her fantasies fly. His gloved hands on her were intimate, arousing, urging her to give in to the scenes that now came to her mind, his erotic presence crowding out all other thoughts. Seeing the replica of herself, life sized and wearing a bridal gown, was too much to take in after the night's exertions, followed by this unimaginable strangeness. She fainted, and slept.

She awoke to the chiming of the curious little music box, so like the one she was given on her eighth birthday. Rising, she remembered where she was, and tried to recall the night's events. Some things were unclear, but as she saw the masked man at the pipe organ, she was certain of one thing—this was her Angel of Music, and he loved her deeply. He sat pensively on the bench, scarcely breathing as he saw her, hoping she would come to him. The songs he'd sung to her pulled her toward him, warm and enticing. Not simply her Teacher now, her Master, he wanted her, needed her, and desperately wished for her to feel the same. He did not move as she came toward him, asking in song, "Who was that shape in the shadows? Whose is the face in the mask?" fascinated by what she saw. The white mask covered the nearer part of him, and he closed his eyes as she caressed the far side of his face, the one not covered.

This face that torments him, she found by casually taking off the mask, unwittingly sending him into a blind rage. Instantly shoving her away from him, he jumped up fast as lightning, covering the exposed flesh with his hand, whirling so quickly she was not sure of what she saw. Threatening her wildly he stormed over to a mirror, ripping down the cover, but she saw only indistinct shapes before he turned back to her, continuing his tirade. She stayed where she fell, dumbfounded and afraid.

Love him, yet never be free? Was she to have no choice, be his like some leashed animal? These things fought in her mind as he sang, his tone changing now from punishing anger to his own pain and dread, his lyrics begging for love and acceptance. Through her shock she began to understand, hearing in his song her Angel's own hellish agony. How often had she imagined him, clothed in light, his only concern her welfare, and now to find her Angel mortal, flawed, and suffering his own trials was a revelation of the highest order. His pleas for her love and understanding despite his loathsome appearance were heartrending. She felt tears start as she tried to make sense of it all.

"Oh, Christine." His last words were spoken, not sung, as his voice ran out. The set of his shoulders was louder than any shout as he sank down on the ground, near her yet worlds away. His right hand still covering his ruined face, agitated and unwilling to meet her eyes, he stretched out his left, and she knew what he wanted.

Her heart went out to him as she slowly picked up the mask, the smooth white leather cool under her fingers, gave it to him without touching. Just as slowly he turned away, replacing it. Here was her Angel who sang to her in her dreams, who taught her from hidden places, whom she had known and trusted since she was a little girl, and she had cut him to the quick with her thoughtlessness. She did not know whom she cried for

now, herself or him, as hot tears brimmed over and spilled down her cheeks. He had trusted her enough to reveal himself and his abode to her, and she repaid that trust by wounding him terribly. She would give anything to take back her recklessness.

Of course she knew the rumors of The Phantom—his face was distorted, hideous, although no one could say they had seen him. She thought it a ruse, a device to let this Phantom interfere with the workings of the House. She did not think it could be true, that the beautiful face on one side was not, in fact, matched by the other. But the evidence was before her own eyes, and she pitied him, this strange man who was neither ghost nor angel but very real, very human in his need to hide behind the mask. Perhaps that was why he sang of her belonging to him; he desperately wanted to belong.

She knew grief all too well; it hurt beyond bearing that she was now the cause of his. She dearly wanted to salve his wound as he had done for her so many times. Her tears flowing, she tried to find her voice as she inched closer, reaching out to touch his sleeve. He shifted slightly as her hand settled on his arm. "Please, forgive me." She lowered her

eyes, contrite. "I didn't know." She made to withdraw her hand, stopping as he placed his bare hand over hers.

Quietly, defeated, he told her, "No, of course you didn't." His hand gripped hers, squeezing lightly. "I frightened you. Now I ask your forgiveness." He turned toward her, filled with regret. "It's been more than twenty years since anyone has done that to me." Her eyes widened at that. "Please…stay. I should have known…tell me, are you all right?" She nodded, and he closed his eyes, sighing in relief. "You are my Angel…I wanted my introduction to be perfect."

Her voice steadied as her crying slowed. "But there's no need for an introduction, Master. You've watched over me since I was little, you sang me to sleep every night," she added, wonder growing in her voice, "and you have been teaching me all this time." She stopped. "I know you." Her tears began to dry as she engaged him.

Releasing her hand for just a moment, he gestured toward the air between them, unable to meet her eyes. "Yes, but then you were a child, and now…" he paused, swallowed. "You are a woman."

And you are a man, she thought, but did not speak it aloud. She was shaken by both his caring and his violence. His bearing, his manner, his hand that kept hers on his arm—he was no longer a supernatural figure fleeing the daylight, but a man, flesh and blood and

hurting from the wound she'd ripped open without thinking. She wanted to know more, the anxiety of the past days spent rehearsing with her unseen Teacher crowned with her triumph tonight, his triumph. With her debut, as much his accomplishment as hers, they entered a new era between them. Gathering her courage, she dared to question him now as she would never have dared before. Sliding her other hand up his arm toward his shoulder, she asked, "That last piece—did you write that for me?"

Nodding, he sang a phrase from it. Singing was easier than speech. "Fear can turn to love, you'll learn to see, to find the man…" his voice choked, and he fell silent, his jaw working as he tried to fight his own tears. Here was his Angel, whom he loved more than life itself, who had finally asked to see him, and he had nearly ruined it all with his outburst. Of course she didn't know, would want to know. She had come to him, but she had unwittingly gone too far, and in the comfort of his fantasies he had never imagined her doing such a thing. Except it was exactly what a young woman would do with such a strange suitor. He tried to control his breathing, tried not to let on how close he was to being completely undone, but knew he was losing. Christine was too important to him. The prospect of losing her now, when he was so close, was terrifying.

She saw a tear reflected by the candlelight. A night for tears, then, for emotions running high. She had tried so hard to please her unseen Teacher; she could only imagine what he

must have gone through, hiding his deformity from her not just these past days, but all these years. What had happened twenty years ago? Why had someone else ripped off his

mask, and why exactly did he need it? She would get no answers without asking questions. "If I'm to see the man, may I know his name?" she asked softly. Her hands remained on him, the cool texture of the black velvet sleeve contrasted with his warm hand, large and strong where it lay on top of hers.

"Erik," he whispered past the constriction in his throat. His normal side was toward her, and he flinched at her touch, the brush of her fingers wiping the tear from his cheek. Afraid to hope, he risked glancing at her directly, uncertainty in his changing eyes. Perhaps all was not lost, then, and he felt his chest begin to loosen as he took heart at her tone. Still she saw only his unmasked side.

"Erik," she repeated, trying out the name like an exotic costume. How strange, to finally have a real name for her Angel, her Teacher: her Phantom. "Erik…?" she inquired, naturally assuming there was more.

A wounded look crept into his gaze as he met hers. It took him a moment to speak. "Yes, just that. I can't remember any other." He retreated back into himself, turning away from her and releasing her hand. She might want nothing to do with him, a man with only one name, no claim or ties to family or lands. Not compared to that dandy,

Raoul, the Vicomte de Chagny, who had the audacity to come charging into his Theater, trying to take Christine away from him.

Christine grew uneasy as her Angel, no, Erik, she reminded herself, said nothing, wondering what was behind his disconcerting comment. Could not remember? What had his life been, then, that he did not even remember his family name? She placed her hand back on his velvet sleeve, but this time it remained there alone. She waited, but he added nothing more. She was in a quandary, not knowing what to say that would not injure him further.

Here was her Angel before her; he had a name, and he was real, not some ethereal being. She studied him. The rumors were exaggerated. True, half his face was covered, but it was only half his face, certainly not anything like she had heard. What lay under the mask she did not know, but she knew him, had known him almost all her life; he was her anchor, filling the empty place in her heart her father left when he died. An orphan did not have much chance in life, and her Angel had seen to it that she became a star. She would never have thought it possible, and it was because of this one man, Erik. All this time he had kept his own counsel, never speaking of love or longing to her. It was she who had sought him out, asked him to reveal himself to her. Now at last he showed his true feelings, and she searched her heart to determine what her course should be.

Then…yes, she realized. Music could succeed where words failed. With her other hand she caressed his cheek lightly, ignoring his tiny jump. He hadn't seen her hand approaching. And now she sang to him, filling her voice with tenderness. "You were that shape in the shadows, yours is the face in the mask…Now may I look on your visage? That is all I ask…" His shoulders eased, and she let her vibrato rise, filling the space of stone and lake. "Angel of Music! Guide and Guardian, grant to me Your Glory! Angel of Music, hide no longer, come to me, Strange Angel!" and with the last line, she slid her hand all the way under his jaw, turning his full face back toward her. Her eyes glowed warmly into his. She began tracing his features with her fingertips, and this time he did not flinch, watching her keenly. She was careful not to touch the mask, resting at last over his soft lips.

He caught her delicate fingers in his hand, kissing them reverently. Waiting for her reaction, he feared she would pull away. She did not. Relief so strong he was glad of the ground underneath went through him. Searching her eyes, he found welcome there, and…could it be..? Love. His whole body softened, and he smiled, melting into her brown eyes joyfully.

He sang, "I am your Angel of Music…come to me, Angel of Music," and she picked it up, rejoicing together. "I am your Angel of Music…Come to me, Angel of Music!" and Christine leaned in toward her Phantom.

It was then that she kissed him for the first time, a simple kiss full on his mouth, startling him in her boldness.

He dared not move, savoring the golden moment he'd awaited so long: his love, his pupil, his Angel loved him. He had waited so long for her to come to him, had almost lost patience and revealed his feelings so many times, and finally the day had come when she asked to see him. It was perfect, just as Fleur had said it would be. Christine was old enough now for love--true, real love: and she chose him. Joy threatened to burst his heart. Her lips lingering on his, he forgot how to breathe.

Pulling back, Christine let them part, her eyes on Erik's perfect, soft lips. There was nothing wrong with them; she moved closer, kissing him again sweetly, his mouth, his cheek, his chin, along his jaw and down his throat, returning to his lips once again. His hands joined hers, clasped together between them, a bridge from heart to heart. She kissed the backs of his hands, weaving her fingers together with his.

At last she straightened to look into his eyes, seeing the stunned ecstasy there on his face. Slowly, he bent toward her, and his lips sought hers this time, opening just slightly, letting her decide what she wanted. She took his invitation, tenderly kissing him inside now, a true lover's kiss, long and deep. He made a low sound, so quiet she almost missed it, and committed himself to the kiss, devouring her mouth with his own. His arms going around her waist, they breathed life into each other as they delighted in their new bond, laid over the old.

An eternity passed in the moments it took to kiss. But it was also very late now, and he forced himself to say the words he hated—"Come, we must return. Those two fools who run my Theatre will be missing you." Gossip would run wild if Christine were not in her bed when the House awoke, and Madame Giry would worry if Christine were here all night. Still, Fleur knew full well where Christine was, and that she was perfectly safe with him.

Christine's face changed, filling with dismay.

"What is it?" asked her new love, concern shaking his confidence.

"Raoul came to see me; he wanted me to go with him to supper," she said uncertainly. "What shall I tell him?"

"Forget him! You are never to see him again," he stated harshly, his eyes flashing with anger. He would not allow Raoul to take Christine from him. Consciously he released her hands, afraid he would overstep his bounds in his temper.

"But we were children together, and now his family is supporting the House. Surely I must see him if he asks," she answered, conflicted.

"No, Christine, I forbid it!" he spat out. "He does not deserve you!" She shrank back at his tone, and he saw it, but could not stop. Viciously he asked, "Where was he these past nine years? Where was he when you were brought here as a mere child? When you spent your days around dangerous machinery and even more dangerous men? Where was he," he started, and his voice caught suddenly, shaking—"when you almost died last year?" he asked, horrified. He took her hands again, his anxiety plain. "Who do you think it was that took care of you?"

"I thought it was Madame Giry," she answered, doubt coming into her mind.

"No, Christine," he said faintly. "It was me," he told her, raising her hands to his good cheek, closing his eyes a moment against the remembrance of fear. He sighed, beating back the memories. "I was asleep, when something…a feeling of dread…woke me. It was very late. I thought I should see if you were safe, or else I could not rest again. When I came into your dormitory, all the girls were asleep, except you." He stopped a moment, putting into words the awful night. "You were in your bed, but you were flushed an unhealthy red, shivering even though your blankets were pulled up around you. I came near, and could feel the heat radiating from you. You were very sick with fever." Again he stopped, terror so thick he could feel his throat closing with it. He opened her hands and kissed her palms, as if kissing a sacred relic. She tried to calm him: pulling one hand free, she caressed his good side lovingly as he continued. "I woke Fleur." At Christine's questioning look, he added, "Madame Giry. She came out to you at once, waking the others. I watched, helpless, as she brought you medicines, water, stripping off the blankets to cool you down."

He knelt then, pulling her tight against him, the mask pressing against her cheek as he held her close, reassuring himself that it was over, she was all right now. She could feel his ragged breathing through his jacket. "All that night I stayed nearby. It was impossible to rest. Then daylight came, and the House awoke, leaving Fleur no choice but to continue the ballet work. She didn't dare leave you alone." He released her and sat back on his heels, once again taking her hands in his. "She did not even have to ask

I stayed with you." He looked her deep in the eyes, and the distress there made her heart turn over. "Of course you don't remember: you were delirious. I held you in my arms while you hovered between life and death." He watched her carefully now as he added; "That was when I first knew I loved you. Not as a father loves a child, nor as a teacher loves a student, but as a man loves a woman. I couldn't bear it if you were gone from the world. It was then I resolved to do all I could to inspire you to love me in return."