"Don't move," the Phantom snapped irritably. "I will get it for you." Christine stilled herself on the little couch and watched his retreating back. He had entered the room this morning in a dark mood, and she couldn't imagine why. Four days had passed so peacefully. Perhaps he was growing weary constantly tending to her? She lived in her bed and on the red couch. He had restricted her movements severely, and she, too, was growing restless. When he returned and handed her the hair ribbon she wanted, she took it with a small 'Thank you,' and he stalked off to the organ, where he sat but did not play.

"I'm sorry that I tire you," Christine said finally. "I know I am not much for conversation. You are so clever; you must be endlessly bored with me."

"You don't tire me," he said, not looking at her. "You never have."

"What's wrong, then?" she asked.

"Nothing," he said stiffly. "Play with your ribbon."

Her temper flared suddenly. "Has it ever occurred to you that I am a real person in whom things can be entrusted? You have always wanted us to be closer, and yet you keep us apart."

"Why?" he hissed, finally looking at her. "Why would I tell you things? You will be leaving soon, anyway. Why should I trust you, only to have you go?"

"Who says I am leaving?" she said. "Do you want me to leave?"

"Why would you stay? There is nothing for you here. I can offer you nothing. Nothing, except an excuse for an existence, crouching under tons of earth and stone, yet you could have everything you wanted from someone else."

"I am staying for you, Erik. You have been my Angel for ten years, but now that you are real, things have changed. I want us to be friends."

"I want more!" he shouted suddenly, leaping from the small bench. It fell noisily to the ground. "I want more, and that is why you cannot stay, Christine! I will always want something from you. You will never have a moment's peace if you stay here longer than needed! No, it is better for you to leave me and go someplace where you will not be forced to handle me and my tempers and my pure selfishness."

"Angel – " she began.

"Don't!" he barked. "Don't call me that! You know I am not an angel."

There was silence. "Come sit by me," Christine said unexpectedly. Jerkily, awkwardly, he walked over and took a hesitant seat next to her, watching her suspiciously.

"I'm not condoning your actions, Erik," Christine said seriously. "You have hurt many people, and I find myself feeling responsible…" She reached out and placed a hand gently on his white mask. He wanted to pull away quickly, but the look in her eyes told him not to move. "This part of you should not make you feel this way. This does not lessen you. It does not make you inferior or debase you in any way."

"You have never lived with it," he said abruptly. "You do not know."

"I know I don't. This has caused you to do horrible things, but I don't want you to do them anymore. Please…just accept this part of you."

He stared at her. Her hand went to the corner of the white mask, and, instinctively, his hand flew to grab her wrist.

"Stop," he hissed dangerously. "Do you think you can simply talk me out of this? This is the reason for everything that I am! I cannot simply forget it. Why do you think I live here? Do you think I actually enjoy being a ghost, a Phantom? I hate it! I want to leave here and never come underground again. But I only want to do that with you, Christine." Now he was the one to reach up and touch her face. His fingers were long and cold against her cheek. Quickly, he took his hand away and stiffened angrily on the couch.

"Please," she finally said, her voice soft. "Let me see it."

He sighed heavily and muttered, "Perhaps this is for the best."

Slowly, so slowly, as if handling something incredibly delicate, he reached up and pulled off his white mask, exposing his ruined face. It was still as horrible as when Christine first saw it, and she had to steel herself not to flinch or look away. Seconds ticked away, painful and silent, and Erik sat with his eyes closed, breathing heavily. With trembling fingers, she reached up and gently laid them against his rough, damaged skin. A gasp escaped him, and his eyes flew open. Christine, however, did not look at him. She was studying the deformity, running fingers over it, feeling the skin under her fingers, collapsed and ruined beyond all repair. Like a child, she wanted to feel and understand, and she knew that her fears could be conquered if she knew.

With a shallow groan, he pulled away. "No more," he said hoarsely. "I beg of you."

She allowed him to replace his mask, his hands, for the first time, shaking. Suddenly, he looked at her, his eyes glowing.

"I want to tell you something," he said. "Perhaps it will not make any difference to you, but perhaps it will."

"Well, what is it?" She managed to smile encouragingly.

"That night," he said, "when you were at Renard's, you had lost so much blood. So much blood…everywhere, staining everything. And the doctor recommended an unusual procedure that had been successful in the past with substantial blood loss. It was a transfusion. Do you know what that means?"

She shook her head, watching him intently.

"Christine, he…he transferred some of my blood into you. Without it, your blood loss would have led to your death. Do you understand? My blood runs through your veins."

There was a deep, contemplative silence. Erik watched her nervously. Christine slowly took in the fact that they were physically connected. His blood was being pumped through her heart, traveling and touching everything inside of her. She stared at him. Even if she left, they would always be together. Finally, she said something.

"Thank you," she whispered, "for saving my life."

Raoul paced nervously, his thoughts scattered. Tonight, Christine was scheduled to return from having her stitches removed. A week after their last conversation – their last argument. What had happened?

He knew she would hardly be interested in hearing what happened to him. Raoul had sat around his house, thinking, moping, becoming morose then insanely excited, then sinking back into a thoughtful silence. His brother tried to get him out a few times, but Raoul was not much for company, and Philippe decided that it was, perhaps, better for Raoul to snap out of his strange mood before going back into the public view.

He was not thinking about how much he loved Christine. He was simply thinking about her. Raoul spent entire days analyzing her, trying to see things how she saw them.

"Philippe," he asked once, "if you had a friend for ten years, and someone else came along who you loved, what would happen to your friend?"

Philippe looked at Raoul, his eyebrows raised. "What's this about?" he asked.

"What would happen?" Raoul pressed.

"Well…well, I suppose the friend couldn't simply disappear out of my life," said Philippe blunderingly. "Ten years is a good time for a good friendship to come about." He suddenly laughed. "What's this about, Raoul?"

"Nothing," Raoul muttered, slouching off to his bedroom.

Ten years of music! Years of singing and talking…and how was he, Raoul, supposed to compete against that? By reminding her of a few precious weeks spent at the seaside when they were young? He sighed angrily and flung himself down on his large bed. The clock was ticking away and, with a moan, he stood and made his way to the Opera House.

No matter what happened tonight, he wanted to remain the gentleman that Christine knew. Christine deserved nothing less than absolute civility from him. He would simply see how she was, see what she wanted, and try to give her that. Raoul knew that he only wanted Christine's happiness, whatever that ended up to be.

He waited restlessly for her at the Opera House, ignoring the music that came from the large theatre. Something was playing tonight, something of Meyerbeer's, but he couldn't force himself to be interested in it. How could he comprehend her need for music? He, although not tone deaf, had never paid attention to music theory or simply music in general. He couldn't tell one note from the next. And yet Christine and the Phantom craved it like an intoxicant. Together they satisfied their needs, and Raoul could only stand aside and hope that Christine would be happy with the music she would have as his wife: an occasional Opera House visit, a piano for her, and an expensive gramophone.

His ears picked up footsteps, and his heart raced frantically. He heard her voice, laughing, and a low rumble of a male voice, unintelligible. Suddenly, he wanted to cry; he had never wanted to really cry about all of this before, but, now, all he wanted was to return home and never emerge.

"Over here, Erik," said Christine, a definite smile in her voice. "He should be…"

They came into view, her walking, gripping his hand. The Phantom's eyes narrowed at Raoul, who somehow couldn't bring himself to care anymore.

"Good evening, Raoul," said Christine warmly. "You look well."

Did he? He hadn't bothered on appearances before he had left his house. He nodded tightly.

Christine turned and whispered something to the masked man, who dropped his gaze to hers. The warmth between them was obvious. Their bodies were close, turned to each other, her hands pressing his, and something in their gaze suggested the affection shared. He nodded once, and she quickly hugged him before he disappeared, swallowed up by the shadows and walls.

Raoul watched her beckon to him, and they entered her dressing room once again. She sat down on a little overstuffed chair and motioned for him to take a seat. He refused politely, fumbling with his hat clutched in his hands.

"I take it you are well?" he finally choked out. "Everything went smoothly?"

"Oh yes," she said happily. "Doctor Renard is such a sweet man. I'm very well now, though he should like me to come back in two weeks, just to be safe." She looked more closely at him and now, under the better light, could see his real expression. "What's wrong?" she asked. "Raoul?"

"Nothing," he said hastily. "Tell me how your week was."

There was a small pause. "It was very nice," she said lamely.

Another bout of silence passed between them, and he asked softly, "Have you kissed him?"

"I – " Her cheeks flushed dully under the light, and she sighed. "I suppose it wouldn't be wise to lie to you and tell you that we have not kissed, because we have."

He studied her intently. "Are you happy?"

"Yes," she said quietly, staring down at her hands. "I don't want to deny it any longer."

"I understand," he said. He approached her slowly, and then bent down to press a tender kiss against her cheek. "I hope you will continue to be happy, Christine," he said after he had straightened. "You look happy, and I expect you to look the same in twenty years."

"Raoul…?" she said softly, watching him.

"I know you love him," he murmured. "Everything about you says that: the way you look when you speak about him…or think about him. And I…I do not want to be in the way. How could I still be part of your life? I love you, Christine." His voice choked suddenly, and he swallowed the tears that threatened to come. "If you ever need anything, please come to me first. I would be happy to help you…and him."

Christine stood and wrapped her arms around him, the moment soft and reverent. She pressed her lips against his smooth cheek, whispering, "Thank you, Raoul. You will always be my dearest friend."

He smiled weakly when she stepped back. "The only thing I ask is that you send me an invitation," he said.

She blushed again. "Raoul!" she laughed lightly. "Nothing is set between us."

"I'm sure," he said, a gentle teasing manner creeping into his voice. He put his hand on the doorknob and looked at her sadly. "Goodbye, Christine." Then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him.

Christine was grateful that Erik said nothing as they made their way down to his peculiar little home. His hand was comfortable around her waist. Since the accident, Christine had not been able to wear a corset. Erik was highly aware of that fact – he could feel the real skin beneath the few layers of her cotton dress and chemise. All of its smooth, gentle softness was under his fingers; real, warm skin, no longer the hard, cold touch of her corset restricting her. As he moved his hand to her back to help her into the little boat, he nearly shivered.

When home, Christine quietly sat down in the sitting room and stared at the wall, her eyes vacant and blank.

"Christine?" Erik finally asked, his voice uncertain. She turned to him and saw fear in his eyes. Perhaps Christine felt pity for the boy. Perhaps she would leave him and go with the Viscount. Erik was not so sure he could be as dignified or courageous as Raoul de Chagny in letting Christine go.

Without a word, she wrapped her arms around him, and he, gratefully, returned the embrace, folding against her easily.

"Are you in pain?" he asked quietly.

"I was," she said, tightening her grip, desperate to not let him go. "I'm not anymore."