Author's Note:

This story takes place in the same vague AU as Here Comes The Rain Again, where Christine is on good terms with her teacher and Raoul and Meg know of Erik's existence.

HAVE YOURSELF A MERRY LITTLE CHRISTMAS

"Oh, do say yes, Christine! You know how much having you there means to me!"

Christine sighed, turning away from Raoul as she continued packing the basket that stood on her dressing table. He had come running to her after rehearsal, proffering flowers, and breathlessly invited her to the Christmas celebrations at his father's chateau. Though flattered, she could have laughed aloud at the idea of herself, a chorus girl with aspirations, amongst all the wealthy, titled guests. She supposed that they could have gone and hid in the attic, telling each other scary stories as they had done as children, but the absence of his son would be immediately remarked upon by the old Comte de Chagny. Christine had only seen Raoul's father once, but even from a distance she had decided that he had no discernable sense of humour.

"Raoul, you know I can't," she said now.

He looked frustrated. "Whyever not? You're just as good as any of them, were they to but see it."

"Your mother does not think so. You know she doesn't approve of me, and your sisters whisper about me behind their fans. I think they see me as some kind of exotic zoo animal."

"They do no such thing. And anyway, Victoire and Amelie are little more than children – what do their opinions matter?" Raoul asked. His lower lip jutted in a pout, making him look for a moment like a small child himself. He tried again, this time in a wheedling tone. "Oh, do come, Lotte. How will I bear it without you?"

Christine reached up and kissed his cheek. "You will manage perfectly well. A glass or two of that punch you told me your cousin makes and you will not even notice I am not there."

He pulled back, raising an eyebrow. "Mademoiselle Daae, are you suggesting I drown my sorrows in the punch bowl?" he enquired.

"Not suggesting, no," she said with a wicked little smile. "I know you will. You never could summon the courage to dance without a little help."

"Minx." Raoul sighed heavily. "Oh, very well. I can see your mind is made up. But what will you do? I don't like to think of you alone on Christmas Day."

"No need to worry, I won't be alone. I will be here until quite late on Christmas Eve – Monsieur Reyer has organised the annual seasonal show, and I am to play one of the Babes in the Wood."

"I would have cast you as Cinderella," he interjected. "But only if I were allowed to play the prince."

Christine shook her head. She had made it clear to him months ago that though she still loved him dearly, it was as a friend and brother and not as a potential suitor. They had both changed since their time together as children, and she knew that even if she did care for him in that way his parents would never allow him to marry the penniless daughter of a Swedish violinist. She was well aware that she was regarded as mistress, rather than spouse, material. Unfortunately, Raoul refused to see the obstacles and continued to behave as though they were courting. And there was also the matter of her teacher...

"Oh, Raoul," she said. "You already are a prince; there would be no need for any acting." He puffed up like a peacock at the compliment, and she added, "After the show I will be going to visit a friend."

"A friend." Raoul's eyes narrowed. "Christine, do you mean that you will be spending Christmas with... with him?"

"He has a name, and yes, I shall. Would you like to be all alone, down there in the cold, over Christmas?" she asked. Erik and Raoul had each known of the other's existence for some time, and neither of them liked it one bit. It was tiresome for Christine to be caught in the middle, especially when she was still unsure exactly what her feelings for her Angel of Music actually were. They were each possessive of her in their own way; if they ever met, she had a feeling that she would have to throw cold water over them, as one would a pair of squabbling cats. "It is not a pleasant prospect."

"It seems to suit him the rest of the year," Raoul muttered.

"Well, for once I want to make it a little more hospitable. After all, it is the season of goodwill." Picking up her basket, she slipped past him to the door, blowing him another kiss as she went. "Enjoy your party, and do try not to trip down the stairs again, won't you? I really don't think the Marquise de Rochefort appreciated breaking your fall last time."

It was cold down in the fifth cellar, cold and damp.

No matter how high he built the fire, or however many draughts he managed to stop, it still managed to seep through. Erik huddled in his chair under a mound of blankets and shivered. He had lived in these blasted catacombs for over a decade, and the weather had never bothered him before. Illness never really seemed to affect him either, probably, he reasoned with a cynical smile, because he had only the minimum of human contact; he had never considered the fact that his isolation from the majority of the human race was a contributory factor to his usually good health, but he supposed it had to be beneficial in some way.

Now, however, he was beginning to wish he had not come out of his self-imposed seclusion, even if it was only to tutor Christine and have an occasional (and awkward) cup of tea with Madame Giry. He had picked up a nasty bug from somewhere, and for the past few days had barely been able to summon the energy to crawl from his bed to the library. Lighting a fire in an attempt to warm the house was such an effort that only this morning he felt himself nodding off and almost overbalanced into the grate. Thankfully he jerked upright at the last minute - the fuel there had just begun to smoulder, the coals glowing red, and the last thing he needed was the good side of his face to match the one behind the mask.

It was difficult to keep track of time down here, even with the ormolu clock which ticked steadily on the mantelpiece above him. He had spent so much time in a feverish half-sleep that he was not even sure what the date was any more. The sounds from the Opera House were no clue, as there had been peculiar hammering noises and shouting at all hours; quite what they were doing Erik could not imagine, for Handel's Rodelinda was scheduled to play until Christmas. There would be no need to strike the sets or build new ones before the New Year, so what in the world had all that sawing been for yesterday evening?

A particularly loud shriek, which he knew immediately could only have come from Carlotta, made him wince. That woman would make any headache worse, even five floors down, and his was pounding. Reaching for the brandy decanter, he poured himself a generous glass and decided that next year he was going to block up all the entrances to the tunnels and spend the entire winter alone. At least then he could be sure of avoiding any germs.

After all, it was unlikely that anyone would actually want to spend the festive season with him.

Meg ran past Christine, pulling off her wig and headdress.

"Thank goodness that's over! Now we only have to survive mass and we can finally relax!" she exclaimed, wriggling and stretching in an attempt to get at the laces on her costume. Christine took pity and helped her, ushering her into the dancers' dressing room as she did. With food and wine waiting it wouldn't help the already slightly inebriated stagehands to see Meg in the corridor in a state of undress. The little ballerina shucked off her tutu with a lack of inhibition born of years in a theatre; Christine had never quite got used to dressing in front of other people and did not know how Meg could be so casual about it.

"You will have to excuse me from church tonight," she said, holding out Meg's day dress for her. A small hand took it and in a moment her friend's curly blonde head poked out from the collar, eyes wide.

"Does that mean you won't be coming to the feast, either?" she demanded. "Christine, you promised me that you would stop shutting yourself away!" Then a thought occurred to her and a sly smile turned her lips. "Would this have anything to do with a certain handsome vicomte? Has he swept you off your feet and is coming back to carry you off to his castle for Christmas?"

Christine pulled the hem of Meg's dress down to hide her legs and began to methodically fasten up the back. If left alone, her friend was likely to go running off to mass with her corset laces bobbing between missed buttons. Madame Giry often despaired of her. "Meg, don't be so ridiculous. And anyway, Raoul doesn't live in a castle."

"Ah, so you've been there!" Meg declared triumphantly. Her face fell when she saw Christine frowning. "Well, if it's not Raoul, then who are you spending Christmas with?"

"I'm going to spend it with Erik. Oh, Meg," Christine said before her friend could protest, "he's never had a proper Christmas, and I can't bear to think of him in that cellar, all on his own, while we're having fun up here. Even if he comes out for a while, it's not as if anyone will invite him to join in."

"And why would they? He's the Phantom of the Opera! He can hardly sit at the head of the table!"

"He's still a man. Your mother knows that," Christine pointed out.

"Yes, but she doesn't invite him to have Christmas dinner with us," countered Meg. She shook out her hair and preened a bit in front of the mirror before being knocked aside by the rest of the ballet rats as they came rushing in, all talking at full volume, to get changed for Le Revellion, the traditional feast after mass. Taking Christine's arm, she steered her out into the passage. "I know he's your maestro, but you will be careful, won't you?"

Christine laughed. "Erik won't hurt me! Why would you even think such a thing?"

"Christine, he's creepy. He pretends to be a ghost, sneaking about the theatre and dropping pieces of scenery on people. He could be anywhere – he could be watching us right now!" Meg gave an over-dramatic shudder. "Imagine if he was watching us getting dressed..!"

"Oh, Meg..." Christine glanced at her friend and shook her head, smiling. Somehow, she couldn't see Erik hiding behind that particular mirror, leering at the ballet chorus as they changed. That was more in Joseph Buquet's line. "I don't think you need to worry about that."

"It's true, though, he could be anywhere in the theatre, doing whatever it is phantoms do. Do Opera Ghosts even celebrate Christmas?" wondered Meg.

It was very late by the time Christine had collected her basket of provisions and let herself through the mirror in her dressing room.

A chilly wind was blowing down the tunnel and she was glad to have put on her cloak for the relatively short journey to Erik's subterranean home. He had shown her a quicker route some time ago, one which bypassed the lake and removed the need for her to try and steer the gondola; he had not wanted her running the risk of being caught by the current and dragged further into the hidden waterways when he was not there to fetch her. The path required her to find concealed catches that moved sections of false wall, and which caused her some trouble to begin with, but before long she was making her careful way along the edge of Lake Averne and knocking on his front door, a door which was so ingeniously angled that one could only see it if they knew it was there.

After three knocks and no answer, Christine began to feel a little worried. She had sent a note two days ago via Madame Giry to let him know that she would be coming; surely he had not gone out? The Opera House was empty for the moment, but for the night watchmen, the cast and crew at church for Midnight Mass; it would be the ideal time for him to have gone above, to have the place to himself. However, she did not think that he would have ignored her message, and so she reached into her purse for the little gold key had had given her. She did not like to use it when he was at home, for letting herself in seemed like an imposition, but now she fitted it into the lock and opened the door, tiptoeing into the darkened hallway.

"Erik?" she called. "Erik, it's me, Christine. Are you there?"

Still no reply, but there was a light burning in the music room, spilling out beneath the door. Entering, she found the gas lamps turned down low and the fire almost dead. The air was frigid, making her shiver despite her thick cloak. In the huge wing-backed armchair before the hearth she found a bundle of quilts and blankets which she realised with a start was Erik; he clutched the coverings to him with long, spindly fingers and his head nodded to one side in an uneasy sleep. There was a pink flush across his visible cheekbone and Christine sighed, laying a gentle hand on the exposed side of his forehead to feel his temperature. It was slightly elevated, though thankfully nowhere near enough to be dangerous.

"Oh, Erik, why didn't you tell me you were ill?" she asked him softly.

He shifted slightly in the chair but did not wake and so she took up the poker, prodding the fire back into life and adding more fuel until there was a magnificent blaze roaring in the grate. She set the fireguard in place and turned to her basket, unpacking the various foodstuffs and other festive odds and ends that she had brought with her. The great marble mantelpiece lent itself perfectly to the arrangement of holly branches, their fat red berries picked out beautifully in the warm yellow light of the lamps. She lit candles, and laid out bowls of nuts and fruit, breathing in the delicious smells.

By the time she had finished, he was stirring. Gradually his eyes fluttered open and he stared around the room in confusion. His fuddled gaze fell on her and he frowned.

"Christine? What... what day is it?"

Christine brushed gently at the silken wings of the angel she had set upon the richly-pattered cloth which covered the piano and turned to him. "It's Christmas Eve. Did you not get my note?"

He rubbed a hand over the left side of his face. "Forgive me, my dear. I have not been upstairs since last week."

"It's all right. You should have told me you weren't feeling well – I would have come down before. You missed the Christmas performance."

"I'm sorry, I didn't realise. I've not been keeping track of time very well. And it is nothing. A slight indisposition, that is all." Erik looked faintly embarrassed at having been caught when he was not at his best.

Christine watched him unconsciously draw the blankets closer around him and cocked her head on one side. "It looks like more than that to me."

"It's nothing," he repeated firmly, and struggled into an upright position in the chair. His eyebrow rose almost far enough to meet his hairline as he noticed the transformation she had wrought upon the room. Christine was rather pleased with herself. There was everything they would need for a comfortable, cosy Christmas together, even a sprig of mistletoe, which she had surreptitiously tucked into the lamp which hung over the piano.

"Do you like it?" she asked a little anxiously when he was quiet for some minutes.

"It's very... festive," Erik said. He got to his feet, shrugging off her help, and walked a little unsteadily to where the angel sat upon the piano lid. With one finger, he delicately traced the gold embroidery on her wings and dress. The candlelight glittered from her halo and the harp she held. "Beautiful," he breathed.

"She is the Angel of Music," Christine explained, coming to his side. "Papa bought her for me a long time ago. I thought it was appropriate."

A smile touched Erik's misshapen lips. "Should you not be above with your friends, Christine? They will surely be missing you. Little Giry, and the vicomte - "

"I have chosen to spend my time with you," she told him, returning his smile. He did not smile nearly often enough, she thought; it had the effect of softening his usually stern appearance. "I turned down two invitations to come down here. Now, I will go and make us some tea. Oh - " On her way to the kitchen she turned back. "Erik, do you have any porridge?"

She didn't think it was possible for his eyebrow to arch any further, but somehow it did. "Is it not a little late for breakfast?" he enquired, glancing at the clock.

"Oh, it's not for me, it's for the Jultomte." He just stared at her, and she found her smile faltering. "He's the Christmas Gnome; if you forget to leave out some porridge he'll bring you bad luck... I'll go and make the tea." She fled to the kitchen, feeling his baffled gaze on her back.

The chimes of midnight were just dying when she returned with a tray.

It was incredible to Erik just how much better Christine's presence could make him feel. He was still cold and there was a cough trying to make itself felt when he breathed too deeply, but at least he was now awake and alert and able to enjoy her company. He sat in his chair like a king on a throne, albeit one still swaddled in shawls and blankets, sipping the tea to which she had added a healthy measure of the Scotch whiskey he had been keeping for a special occasion.

"A Christmas Gnome?" he asked, and she flushed slightly before realising that he was looking at her in amusement over the rim of his teacup.

"A silly little superstition. He brings presents for the children and keeps the house and its occupants safe."

"Well worth the sacrifice of a bowl of porridge, I should think," Erik observed, glancing to where just such a thing sat upon the edge of the fireplace.

Christine giggled. "Are you hungry?"

He pulled a rueful face. "Ah. You will have to excuse my lamentable lack of hospitality. I have not been out, and the pantry is regrettably bare."

"That doesn't matter." She got up and went to her basket. "I have oysters, and there is some pâté, and bread, and I think this is a Simnel cake, Madame Giry sent it - "

Erik blinked in surprise. "Christine, please tell me you have not gone to such great expense purely on my behalf. I will not allow it - "

"It's all prepared, from the theatre kitchens. I had a word with the chef," she added when he opened his mouth to protest at the sudden thought she might have stolen it. For him to appropriate a few things here and there was one thing, for Christine to do the same was most definitely not acceptable. "Monsieur Etienne was quite happy to donate a couple of dishes to me."

"Yes, I observed that he had joined the ranks of your admirers," he said, relieved that he was not being a bad influence on her.

Tossing her hair over her shoulder with a bright smile, Christine went to fetch plates and filled them with food. Erik hauled himself out of his chair once more and returned with a dusty bottle of '71 Bordeaux, which they shared companionably over the delicious seasonal fare. Etienne was a genius, he reflected, and should be working in one of the best hotels in Paris rather than the Opera where his skills were hardly appreciated. Christine ate daintily, and very diplomatically pretended not to notice the occasional trouble Erik had with his mask. Though she mentioned more than once that she did not mind his face he still did not feel comfortable around her without the mask's protection. Maybe one day he would feel differently.

When at last they had had their fill and sat before the fire, each nursing a glass of wine, she said, "Would you like your present now?"

Erik's head shot up from where he had been contemplating the flames. "Christine, surely there is not more - you have already done too much!" he protested.

She did not reply, simply standing and moving to the piano. Lifting the cover, she played a single note, which hung in the air for a long moment before she began to sing, her pure, perfect voice filing the room.

Oh, come, oh, come, Emmanuel,
And ransom captive Israel,
That mourns in lonely exile here
Until the Son of God appear.
Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel
Shall come to you, O Israel!

Christine's eyes were closed, her hands clasped and raised before her as the words soared, carried on the beauty of her clear soprano as though they had grown wings. Erik felt tears prickle against his eyelids and a lump form in his throat. He had heard her sing many different pieces, in many different styles and moods, but never before had her song stirred his heart so. Though not a religious man, there was something about the simplicity and haunting quality of the melody which touched his soul, and in that moment he knew that she had never sung this way for anyone but him.

Without really noticing, he was on his feet, drifting gently to her side. Wordlessly, he raised his own voice, weaving it in and out and around hers as she brought the beautiful hymn to a close. She looked so angelic and ethereal in the dim golden light that he could not bear to touch her, his hands skimming across her shoulders and over the luxuriant curls of her hair. Two voices entwined in the perfect harmony that he had always known was theirs.

Oh, come, Desire of nations, bind
In one the hearts of all mankind;
Oh, bid our sad divisions cease,
And be yourself our King of Peace.
Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel
Shall come to you, O Israel!

The final note seemed to remain, hovering in the air between them as though held there by some sacred magic. Christine opened her eyes to find herself staring directly into Erik's, his mismatched gaze overwhelming at such close quarters. Seconds seemed to stretch into hours as they just looked at each other, neither of them daring to move, and then he abruptly broke the spell, turning away and sitting down at the piano, trying to stifle the cough that had been threatening all evening. Christine blinked, her head feeling fuzzy, her eyes unfocussed. Perhaps she had had too much to drink.

She moved around the piano and leant upon the closed lid as Erik's fingers teased a melody from the ivory keys. He glanced up at her and smiled. "What did you sing this evening?" he asked.

"Nothing of consequence. I was sorry not to see you there, though I doubt if you would have enjoyed it," she replied, remembering Piangi's turn as Mother Goose, his enormous mob cap falling over his eyes and causing him to walk repeatedly into the scenery. Meg and the new tenor, Carlos, had been Harlequin and Columbine, much to Carlotta's annoyance as she had had her eye on the role of Harlequin's lover. Even when cast as a good fairy she was not happy, and spent much of the show cuffing anyone who was close by round the ear with her wand. By the end of the first act, Monsieur Reyer's head was in his hands and Madame Giry had been forced to fetch him a stiff drink. And that was before someone did something completely unmentionable with Colin, the papier maché elephant from Hannibal.

"Next year I shall not miss it, I promise, however terrible it may be," Erik said.

"You may regret saying that," she told him with a laugh. "It was a disaster."

His eyebrow arched slightly, and the tune he was playing changed, picking up on that which she had begun to hum almost unconsciously under her breath. She sang, lightly, "Pretty babes in the wood, Pretty babes in the wood, Oh don't you remember those babes in the wood?"

"Nothing could be a disaster with you in the cast, Christine," he said softly.

Christine looked up, at the mistletoe which hung just out of reach. Erik had turned his attention back to the piano, and she decided that if she did not take her chance now, she never would. Bravely, not caring that she might catch a cold from him, she bent her head towards his and kissed him, resting a hand gently on his shoulder to stop him instinctively backing away. His lips felt strange and bloated against hers, but they were soft and warm and not unpleasant at all. She withdrew slightly, so that she could see his face, and smiled.

"Merry Christmas, Erik."

He stared at her in amazement for a very long moment. Then his face cleared, and set determinedly.

"Merry Christmas, Christine," he said, and leaned in for another kiss.

Author's Second Note:

I don't know whether the French have ever embraced pantomime to the same extent as we did in England, but the idea of the company of the Opera Populaire performing one was too irresistible to ignore. :)

The Jultomte is a Christmas superstition in Sweden, and I believe that the elephant at Her Majesty's Theatre is known as Colin.

Merry Christmas everyone! :)