Hello dear readers! Thank you so much for every one of you who reviewed or favorited my latest story, you brightened my days! I wish I could have answered anonymous reviews as well but anyway, I'm so happy you're all reading my stories. So here is another one: at first I wanted it to be a one-shot but then decided to turn in into a short story. I don't have any idea why it took me so long to finish six chapters, but they are finished now. I hope you'll like this story as well!

Ch01

She expected the first crimson droplets to appear on the snow with the loud cry of pain of her Angel but there was none of it. Hope was promising her that she'd just imagined the harsh sound but then her eyes fell on his still form on the ground, clutching at his shoulder, his face contorted with agony. Breathing became a struggle for her; his eyes were half-closed and his chest moved rapidly with his shallow breathing.

Someone grabbed her upper arm – Raoul was standing beside her. "Christine!"

When she didn't respond, he shook her lightly. "Christine! Come now! He can't follow us!"

But her eyes were still riveted on the lying form of the Phantom; his head rested on the snow, wheezing alone on the frozen ground while she was standing only a few feet away from him. A dark shadow appeared under his shoulder and it took Christine a few moments to register that it was the dreaded red liquid seeping from his wound.

"And what about him?" Christine whispered, never once looking at her fiancée who was holding her arm in his grasp.

"I don't care about him!" Raoul said and pulled her towards the awaiting horse but she struggled to free herself from his hand. "He tried to kill me and threatened you; his life is none of my concern anymore," he continued; when he reached for her again, though, she yanked her arm out of his reach and stepped back. His arm fell to his side and it seemed he took a small step back as well.

"Don't touch me!"

"What's wrong, Christine? You said you want to be free of him. What's the matter now?"

"Now you want me to leave him here to die as if… I can't believe you've just suggested that." She wanted to sidestep him and she saw how his face twitched when she did so. From the corner of her eyes she saw that he tried to follow her as she passed beside him but when she ventured a furtive glance towards his direction again, he was standing on the exact same spot.

"You're trying to save a murderer!" Raoul argued, sweeping one arm carelessly towards the unmoving figure in the snow.

"But he's also a person. I can't leave him here."

"That's why you didn't want our engagement to be announced in public, isn't it? You love him!"

The crimson stain under the dangerously still form grew with every passing moment

"I don't!" She cried and threw an offended look at Raoul before rushing to the side of the Phantom and fell to her knees next to him. He didn't even stir and her heart dropped; she immediately leaned closer to make sure he was still breathing. The soft sound of the breezing air gave her hope.

"I'm sure you not," Raoul growled and took a step back, taking the reins of the horse. Christine looked up at him; of course she didn't expect him to help but still…

"So you're leaving?" This time her voice wasn't as confident as before and it wasn't even steady, it wavered against her will.

"Yes. You don't need me."

"But…" our engagement…"…what we agreed upon…"

"It seems it was as hurried indeed as your guardian thought."

Christine inwardly winced. Last evening, when they informed Madame Giry about their future wedding she greeted it with a polite smile and expressed her best wishes to the two of them, but later she asked Christine whether it was not too hastily arranged. She felt deeply offended by the question but now that she thought about it, Madame Giry had a point. It was based on memories and her fear of her former teacher - not very well founded start for a marriage.

The unmoving form in front of her was shook by a long shudder but he showed no signs of trying to move on his own. Something was squeezing Christine's throat, making it impossible not just to speak but to breathe as well.

Raoul would not help her, she was sure of that much. Alone again. Or was she? He didn't say that their engagement was over but continued to stand beside the horse, watching her – or rather them – with some expression she didn't want to name, nor acknowledge. Her Angel had betrayed her, her fiancée likewise, and now the Phantom was slowly bleeding to death right in front of her.

The man in front of her gave away the softest moan and since she knew nothing better to help him in his desperate state, she touched his hand - he stilled immediately but did nothing else. The first, warning quiver of sobs ran down her spine.

"So this is it? You consider it all over?" Her voice was steadier than she had imagined it would be, though she couldn't bring herself to look into her fiancée's eyes before the last word.

"Is it not?" He retorted, motioning with his eyes to their entwined hands.

Why won't you just say it? "Yes, it is!" She snarled, watching how Raoul mounted the horse and left without another word. She had no desire to figure out who was at fault. It wouldn't change a thing.

Better if she concentrated on the most burning questions at hand. What to do now? He couldn't stay there on the ground but she wouldn't even think to move him on her own. She tapped his face lightly: no answer. Frantically, she leaned over, listening to his breathing – he was still alive. She tried to wake him again, this time using more strength when touching his face.

"You need to wake up," she murmured under her breath and his eyes cracked open but it took him a second to focus on her face. She realized how his eyes seemed the lightest green in the morning light.

"What are you doing here?" He asked her, his voice rasp and cracking even in his whisper.

"You can't stay on the ground," she answered dumbly and he tried to comply before he hissed and fell back. Christine moved her arms to help him sit but he barked at her rudely.

"Don't!"

"You can't do it alone," she protested and tried again.

"Leave me alone!" No doubt his voice was meant to be dismissive and strong but in fact it was detached and weak, and along with his half-closed eyes he made a rather startling appearance. "Why waste your time instead of running away with your savior, now that you're free of me?"

"You would deserve to be slapped for that," she muttered then leaning over she slipped one arm around his shoulders and lifted him into a sedentary position. Even his coat was soaked with blood, not to mention the huge puddle on the ground. The blood made her fingers sticky and she felt ill.

"You need a doctor," she choked, seeing how he fought consciousness. His breath was shallow and rapid again, his face drained of color but his hand clutched at hers with inhuman force as he looked at her sharply.

"Don't even think it."

"I have no other idea! I don't know what to do but they'll know."

He strove to swallow before speaking again. "I can tell you. Go back… to the opera."

"You can barely speak! And I can't take you so far," she argued, tears finally creeping into her eyes. It was tempting to give in to her sobs but unfortunately there was no time for such luxuries. His life depended on her now and she didn't like the knowledge the slightest. It was as if by staying with him she took the responsibility for his life and it was frightening, it was like playing God but she knew she wasn't omnipotent. She wasn't even sure how her short engagement ended in breaking it in two minutes!

"I can go back," the man in her arms whispered and she would have laughed at him if she wasn't halfway to sobbing. He could hardly keep his eyes open.

"I'll help you to stand," she conceded, taking his uninjured arm and pulling him up. Sweat was beginning to form on his forehead and her legs almost buckled as she had to brace him when he swayed under his own weight.

It was a miracle how they got back to the opera house, really; Christine had no idea how this man, who couldn't stand on his own could get so far, even with her help. From time to time he motioned for the direction they should walk, and somehow they managed to get back to the opera house; when they were finally inside the building Christine didn't remember anything else from their route then the dirty cobblestones and his weight against her shoulders. They entered the catacombs through her mirror, and to her constant prodding he revealed bit by bit where to turn, but when he tried to open the mechanisms his weakened hands didn't have the ability to obey him, she had to press her blood-covered fingers over his, smearing his knuckles as well.

By the time they reached his home she was rather dragging than supporting his frame.

"Which way?" She asked once they were finally in the house. She had to listen very carefully to hear when he gave his answer.

"Left."

To her astonishment, the house didn't consist of only the two rooms she'd already knew of. There was a short hallway with a door in its end; she opened it without difficulty. It was a rather small but tidy room since there wasn't too much in it. Christine led him to the bed in the corner, yanking back the cover before allowing rest to her patient. He sank ungracefully to the bed, weakly reaching for the tie of his cloak then fumbling with the string; when it finally gave away he swept it from his shoulder and went to unbutton his coat. Christine was there to help him take it off, swallowing with difficulty when her fingers came in contact with the sticky material. But the worse was just to come: the parts of his shirt that weren't covered by the waistcoat were red all over his wound, and the metallic scent of blood filled her nostrils.

Quickly depositing the obstructive vest and tie she went to remove his shirt, not giving a thought to propriety, but when she was faced with the dark, red liquid dried to his skin and the still leaking lighter drops she felt bile rising in her throat. She should have braced herself for the sight way earlier.

"There is a box in the first counter," he managed to say, pointing at a door in the distance. Her eyes followed his finger, then she looked back at him worriedly. He wouldn't die in thirty seconds if he hadn't in the last thirty minutes, would he?

Rushing to the direction he motioned for she dragged out every drawer and opened every door she found until she came upon a rather large, rectangular box, containing medical necessities, syringes, bandages and who knew how many accessories. As an afterthought, she filled a pot with water and grabbed the towel next to the basin.

By the time she arrived back he took up a seemingly uncomfortable position while sitting on the bed – his good arm was held out and he doubled over it, taking shuddering, uneven breaths. Sickness rose in her throat but it had nothing to do with the sight of the blood anymore.

"I'm back," she addressed him and only the slightest drop of his head signed that he indeed nodded. Unceremoniously, she placed everything on the floor.

"I've brought water," she said and realized that mostly she was talking for herself, not for him – most probably her act wouldn't go unnoticed nor would he answer, but she needed to break the sound of his ragged breathing, that constant remainder of his painful state for she began to feel the same distress that he did.

The material of her dress tangled between her legs as she knelt beside him, dipping the towel into the water.

"Let me see it," she asked him while wringing the towel and he straightened his body as best as he could.

"You have to… wash your hands first," he rasped and she hastily left without a word, returning in less then a minute.

"You can finish it alone, right?" He asked her as she wringed the towel again and began wiping away the dried blood from his skin.

"No! You said you'd help me!" Meanwhile she reached the tender area right next to the cut and he could barely suppress a hiss of pain.

"There's not much left to say," he heaved. "You clean it with the antiseptic and close it. It's simple… You just have to bind the stitches separately."

"I'm not a surgeon! I'm not even a nurse! I told you to go to a doctor!" But now it was too late, she wanted to add; now it was only the two of them. And most probably she had to do the rest all alone; he was slightly swaying even in his sitting position. "You'd better lay down," she choked, trying to swallow back that something in her throat; at her words he took a deep breath and turned to his side, finally leaning back on the bed where he released a shuddering sigh. A chill ran down her spine.

"Which bottle is the antiseptic?"

"Green…"

Rummaging through the content of the box she pulled out a white cloth, pouring a good amount of liquid from the bottle on it – she felt its smell on the back of her throat. But what was worse, it reminded her of another negative attribute of that liquid…

A loud grunt of pain was torn from his throat as she applied it on his skin.

…it hurt like hell.

As careful as it was possible she cleared the damaged area, wincing every time she heard a sign of being in pain from him. Her eyes were burning but not from tears, her arms were shaking but not from fear but the worse was that wordless silence that was filled with his labored breathing. All she could hear was his breathing.

"I should have called for Madame Giry at least," she murmured and his half-closed eyes snapped open, staring at her widely as his previously limp fingers closed around her forearm with surprising strength.

"No! Don't let anybody come down here! Anyone!"

"I won't!" She promised defensively and felt her control slipping away. There was no real knowledge behind his words anymore, his sight, though focused, was not seeing anymore – his delusional state was way more frightening than the thought of him being unconscious. She tried to convince herself that he still had some control over his actions but deep inside she knew he hadn't.

You can't leave me alone…

Forcing calmness on herself Christine reached into the box again - this time without any kind of help from him; whether he was sleeping or passed out she had no idea. It wasn't very difficult until she slipped the thread in the strange, C shaped needle but air left her lungs in one, short sigh when she fitted the edges of his wound together with her left hand. There really was no one else who would do this for her and he obviously didn't heal on his own in the last two minutes, either.

When she finally pushed the needle into his skin she wanted to scream and retch at the same time, and the man beneath her hands made a feeble attempt to move away from her but fortunately he gave no sound. She would have screamed if he did.

Without any kind of further guidance on how one was supposed to sew a cut, Christine finally decided to do little knots on every stitch – it was the closest to the short instruction he had given her. The thread became red from white with the first pull and she had to look away.

Wax pooled at the bottom of the candle and she tried to concentrate on nothing else but the growing white puddle while taking a deep breath.

She swallowed.

I can't be ill right now.

Momentarily she closed her eyes and drew another deep intake of breath before turning back to her task again.

I can do this.

But it was worse and worse with every stitch: the needle was slippery between her fingers and it wasn't easy to find the right strength for her task, finding the skin far too thick to consider it a special kind of fabric she was working on. Now she was perfectly aware of the reason why the needle was curved but she wished she could have remained unknowing of that fact.

Her eyes returned to the little table again. Wax… There is a growing puddle of wax under the candle…

When the long cut was finally sealed she dropped the needle into the box with relief.

It's over… It's over… It's over…

For moments she stared at the damaged skin of his shoulder – now covered with stitches and still red from blood. It's over.

But it wasn't. After taking some calming breaths she wiped it again with antiseptic; then took a good amount from the bandages and placed it to his still bleeding injury, securing it with some more gauze. His chest rose and fell with his heavy breathing.

Oh, tell me what am I doing because I don't know it anymore.