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Black Angels	By : Provocateur Category: M through R > The Phantom of the Opera > Het Views: 12725 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own The Phantom of the Opera, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 13
- 14
- 15
Chapter 14: Inebriated Confessions
A/N: I almost wasn’t going to update today because I woke up with a serious sinus headache that made me feel nauseous all morning. I ate some fruit and felt much better, so much better in fact; that I decided now was time for a new chapter!

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If resentment were tangible it would most certainly be hideous to behold. Like a large, lumbering ogre it coloured the room with its wrath. Raoul would not take the blame for this horrid turn of events. He would not!

Philippe’s cold gaze permeated Raoul’s senses as the frozen blue eyes burned holes in his back as he sat at the oak table scribbling furiously, his pen creating angry indentations in the brown paper as ink leaked through the thin parchment, staining the wood beneath it. The words were almost illegible, muddled and crooked, looking as angry as the creating hand’s owner felt.

He had not felt so indignant since the day he received that petulant and arrogant letter from the infamous “Opera Ghost” telling him to stay away from Christine. He remembered how those angry red letters caused him to go from fear to anger in mere seconds. Who knew that the heart and mind were capable of such volatile transitions when faced with torment? He had hated feeling so helpless. He was simply told what to do, as though he were not deserving of choice. He was but a mere a puppet in a maniacal game led by an invisible, malevolent master.

Now the control he held over his destiny was once again pulled from his grasp. Oh, Christine would be so angry! She had not wanted him to leave. He had not wanted to leave. Both had felt the gnawing deep within the pit of their stomachs warning them, but they did not heed those silent threats. He did not heed them. He would pay for it now.

“What are you writing?” Philippe set his brandy glass down on the table, a slick clear stain creating a dark circle on the wood. His formal dress looked silly on his tired body. He had removed his cravat but had yet to divest himself of his waistcoat or unlink his cuffs. Raoul had long since done both.

“A letter to Christine, explaining my extended absence.” He did not look up as he continued to scribble on the page. Philippe’s response was a brutish grunt.

“You sound terrible when you make that noise.” Folding the note, he placed it inside the envelope and quickly wrote Madame Giry’s address on the surface. He had thought of sending it home, but he doubted Christine would be there. If the Madame opened the letter she would see it was not intended for her and give it to the rightful recipient. Besides, if she did read it, it mattered not. There was nothing of secrecy hidden in the jumbled and exasperated words.

“Do not take your anger out on me.” The inn that they were staying in was quite drafty and dark, it would seem that their Uncle could not even put them up in decent lodgings for their troubles. Philippe intended to search for finer ones tomorrow, this simply would not do for the next three weeks.

“It is not as though you are not doing the same.” The blue wax seal began to cool and harden.

“I have reason to, you do not.” The air became colder.

“It would seem the winds of bitterness are as vicious as ever.” Colder still was the night that enveloped them in its cruelty.

“How could I let this happen…” Sinking into the chaise, Philippe rubbed his forehead; his eyes closing as he roughly pressed the skin of his forehead into tight wrinkles of distress.

“Let what happen?” Raoul did not know why he even asked. He knew the answer. There was no answer, just silence. Unspoken truths often remained just that, unspoken.

‘You know, Raoul…” Philippe’s voice seemed to drift away, sounding both wistful and hopeless. “If you had never found her, this would not be happening to us.”

“The man needs money, he would find a way…”

“No! He would not have! He can do this because he is the thread that keeps us attached to our name, in order to keep that thread from being cut, we must comply. This is shameful!”

“I am aware that it is shameful!” Raoul stood up then, turning to face his morose brother. “But it is wrong to blame her for all of this.”

“I do not blame her.” Philippe looked out the window. The moon was hidden behind the clouds; the gray English skies were preparing to pour their essence on to the world below at any moment.

“So you blame me then?” More silence. More unspoken truths.

“I blame a lot of things.”

“As do I. I blame the foolish rules of this ridiculous world that makes us a slave to our pocketbooks and our names.” Despite Philippe’s misgivings about Raoul’s maturity, he found the statement profound.

“All of us live by codes, not all of them are honorable or good, but live by them we must.”

“I suppose there is nothing but pain no matter the choices we make then?” To love was to be damned. To not love was to be damned as well.

“Ah, you have become a man at last!” Whether or not the words were meant as praise or sarcasm Raoul did not know. It was now his turn to grunt.

“Such an unbecoming sound, I agree.” Acknowledging his brother’s indifference, Philippe poured himself another glass of brandy and sat down once more.

“I suppose we shall just have to make the best of being robbed blind and kept from our homes, now wont we Philippe?”

“Indeed we will.”

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Christine ran outside, tearing after the young man who walked rather quickly for a boy his size. It was amazing how fast little legs could carry the young on their purposeful and imaginative journeys to lands unknown. Or in this case, to the nearby market.

If she had known his name she would have called out to him, but alas, she had no such knowledge. It was quite difficult to run on such hard and uneven ground, but run she did until she finally caught up with the blissfully ignorant young man.

He turned around when he felt the hand upon his shoulder. Expecting to see his mother, he was most surprised to see the flushed face a young woman with curly brown hair and the largest brown eyes he had ever seen.

“Oh, I am sorry if I startled you!” Christine felt her heart leap as it tried desperately to calm itself after the unexpected sprint towards the wandering boy. “I figure that you are going to the market, and I would be eternally grateful if you could stop by the bookstore and pick something up for me.” She held out a small change purse and he took it hesitantly.

“Oh! You probably are wondering who I am.” She laughed to herself, hoping to appear calm and friendly to the perplexed child.

“Oh yes, Mademoiselle, I was.”

“I am Christine, I’m staying at the house over there.” She pointed to her quaint dungeon. “You see, I foolishly ruined something and it needs to be replaced. If it is not too much trouble you would mind terribly purchasing a copy of “Notre-Dame de Pairs” for me? It would mean so much! I would go myself but I do not know the way to the market and…”

“Of course Mademoiselle. I do not mind in the least.” A large smile crossed the small brown-haired boy’s features.

“Oh thank you so much…”

“Maurice. Maurice Renault.” The boy reached out and Christine offered her right hand, which he clasped gently but shook forcefully. His enthusiasm was adorable. For a brief moment she was sure he would kiss her hand, but his boyish pride kept him from becoming too affectionate or formal.

“Thank you Maurice, this is very kind of you.” He had to be the son of the people who owned the house two miles up the road. The people who allowed the Phantom to take up residence on their property. Either they were very strange or very ignorant; she knew not which one was true.

Without answer Maurice tipped his hat to her and continued on his merry way to the market.

Despite Christine’s anger at the man-with-no-names indifferent treatment after bringing her to his home under the guise of mending broken hearts and troubled minds, she did feel guilty at unwillingly damaging something he owned and seemed to enjoy. She may have been angered, but she would not be rude. Replacing what was broken would make for civility, something they desperately needed between them to make this fortnight-long farce bearable.

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Night descended quickly as the hot sun disappeared, leaving the sky in darkness. An entire day had passed once again, and she and the Phantom had yet to speak. She actually had not seen him all day. He was probably off doing whatever it was that Phantoms do. The absurdity of the thought made her laugh silently to herself.

Where had that man gone? That man with the vicious temper and strong hands. Where was that man with the beautiful voice and tortured eyes? Who was this stranger who pulled her from muddy waters and dismissed her as one would a silly child? Who was the man who nearly assaulted her in her yard then nearly broke apart with hurt when she asked for a lock on her door? Who was the man with passion in his voice and undying love in his heart for a broken and lonely child and a confused yet passionate woman? Who was the violent and murderous monster that doomed his unwilling subjects to torture and death? How could all of these men be one and the same?

She sat down at the table, admiring the soft wood and running her fingers across the smooth surface. No doubt he created this himself, molding and shaping the wood to suit his vision. Was everything like pliant wood to him? Needing his touch to grow and become strong and beautiful?

“I never thought wood could be so interesting.” He was there. The first words he had spoken to her in more than a day startled her, causing her to jump violently at their invasion.

“It’s rather lovely.”

“Thank you.” Tonight she looked beautiful in her soft green dress, the dark shade complimenting the smoothness of her skin and the deep, rich brown of her hair.

“Does the opera ghost have a name?” Her voice shook slightly when she spoke, but she could no longer stand the silence that pervaded the atmosphere.

“He does.” He had realized then that he had never told her his name. He was her angel and her Phantom. A spirit and a presence that followed her, tempted her, threatened her. He never could be just a man to her; a mere mortal could never make a woman love him when he was as scarred as he.

“Care to share it?”

“His name is Erik.”

“Erik…” She tested the word; letting it roll across her tongue. Never had she imagined him as a human common enough to warrant a name.

“Yes, Erik.”

“Does this Erik have a last name?”

“He does not.”

“Everyone has a last name.”

“Clearly that is a myth.” The bitterness in his voice caused his tone to become more of a bark than a smooth baritone.

Reaching onto the seat besides her to retrieve the wrapped parcel she reflected upon the new knowledge that was swimming through her mind. He really was a man, nothing but a man.

“I bought you something.” Holding the package out to him she met his eyes. Some of the distance in them seemed to fade away, the coldness melting into curiosity and surprise.

“Why?” He held the package gingerly in his hands, seemingly afraid to open it.

“It's nothing exciting, I’m just replacing something that I destroyed. I’m sorry about that, by the way. You see, there was this spider and…”

“A spider caused you to fall into the river?” He raised one eyebrow and stared at her, his expression showing both amusement and annoyance.

“Yes.” For a moment, she almost thought she saw his lips turn upwards in what could have been a smile. Yes, it was Erik who smiled. The Phantom never smiled, he was far too dramatic and dark. Could she ever separate the man from the Phantom? Could he?

“They can not hurt you.” He unwrapped the package and held the book in his hands. He had been planning to purchase a new copy in time; he would not have to now. Yet he knew he would need to purchase her something in return, it was not proper for a lady to spend such money on a man. She would think him a lout. Not that it mattered what she thought really. How easily one lied to themselves!

“What can’t hurt me? Spiders? I know, but they are horrid creatures!”

“It is complete silliness that something the size of your fingernail could cause you to hurl yourself into a river.”

“Actually, it was at least the size of my eye. You did not see it, therefore you do not know how large and frightening it was.” The look of indignation that crossed her face was more endearing then he would have liked to admit.

“I have seen enough spiders in my day, many more then you have, I assure you. Never have I felt the need to plunge into icy waters to escape one.”

Could it be? Christine thought to herself. Could she and the Phantom be bantering with one another playfully?

“I did not plunge, I fell.”

“In a fit of irrational hysterics! Why did you go all the way over there, anyhow?”

“I just felt like it would be an ideal place to read. You were being quite loud, and I did not want to disturb you, for you were still angry with me.” She decided not to mention that the sight of him working without a shirt was most unsettling.

“I have spent too much time on anger, let us not speak of it tonight.” He felt an odd sense of serenity overcome him as he placed the bread and cheese on the table. Never before had he the chance to talk with Christine as the man who was Erik. No longer a ghost, an angel, or a demon, he was as much a man to her as he was that fateful night on stage. He could hate her for her betrayal, but she could hate him for his deception and madness. It was time to put hate aside and rebuild what he destroyed from the moment she first removed his mask so many months ago.

Pouring them both wine, he sat down before her and listened to the soft sounds of peace. Neither felt awkward nor frightened, there was no need to.

“This is not good, Erik.” She stared down at the ruby liquid in her glass, seeing her distorted and wavering reflection on the surface.

“I have more wine in the cellar.”

“No. The wine is fine. This, us, us together, is not good.” Setting down his glass he looked at her struggling with her words. He doubted even she knew what she meant.

“What exactly is not good?”

“Why are we not strong enough to burn our bridges?” Perhaps the wine was talking more so then she, but the thoughts that gnawed at her were now being released in a torrent, both were helpless to stop them.

“We are. Yet, when we see one another on the other side of the fire, we cannot help but run into it. Call it weakness if you will, but know that it is not what it is.”

“To feel the pain of being burned should teach us our boundaries, should it not?”

“Are you being burned right now?” He gently ran the tips of his fingers down the stem of the glass. The room was dark as the candles fluttered in the gentle breeze; a gentle glow caressed her face as she fretted with her skirts.

“I do not need to be to know that it will come in time.” The melancholic look on her face rendered him speechless. How had she become so old?

The same silence that was present before returned. She began her fourth glass of wine, the delightful weightlessness that coursed throughout her legs spread to her belly. It lingered there before reaching her face, causing it to blush pleasantly.

“Hmm, this is wonderful.”

“What is?” He was not sure if she meant the wine, or the calm silence between them.

‘This delicious wine. I feel so warm, all over. My skin just feels so glorious, does yours?”

His eyes widened in harsh understanding. Her melancholy musings were now replaced by drunken ones. He had not been paying any attention to how much she imbibed. It was strange really, how one would poison their body to escape their own mind. He had done it many a time.

“My legs feel so weak!” She giggled girlishly. “I would ask you to carry me to bed, but that would be wrong.”

“Oh, would it now?” Stop it! His mind screamed at him.

“Why, of course!” She opened her eyes wide in a look of such sweet innocence that he almost laughed. Laughing was something he seldom did. He had not much to laugh about.

“Why would it be wrong, Christine?” Stop this madness now! His mind screamed at his unruly tongue.

“Because.” She hiccupped loudly and quickly slapped her hand over her mouth, embarrassed by the squeaky sound emerging from her throat. “You are not allowed to touch me, when you do, I feel like I am on fire. That, and you are an animal!” Her laughter faded to a look of condemnation. He would never, ever be forgiven for the night in her yard. Never.

“Well, the animal who makes you burst into flames is taking you to bed regardless of rules.” If it were possible for her eyes to widen further they would surely have popped right out of her head.

“No…”

“Yes. Oh, I will not do anything to you, I simply want to make sure you do not tumble on your way to the bedroom and break your neck.”

“No. You want to do sinful things to me!” That giggle started again. His pants began to tighten uncomfortably so.

“Come.” He gripped her elbow tightly and began to walk her towards her room. It would seem that women were not able to hold their liquor. Or tolerate insects. Or climb out of muddy rivers. Oddly enough, he felt a deep sense of pride that he could chase away the spiders and lift her from the water.

Once inside the room she sat upon her bed, her eyes moving back and fourth wildly, trying to adjust to the sweet feeling of intoxication as it blurred her vision and spun the room about her prone body.

He stepped outside of the room, sighing heavily as he thought of her inside, removing her clothing and slipping beneath covers. Stop it! Stop it! Stop it! She will never love you as you love her.

Why? Why could he not hate her? He had hardened his heart to many things, but not to her. Not to his angel. Could he ever truly burn the bridge that called to him? That same one that begged him to cross it and promised him nothing but agony should he do so? His brooding thoughts were interrupted by the sounds of retching coming from inside the room.

Throwing open the door, he saw his angel bent out of the window, the back of her dress open to her waist, vomiting into the garden below.

Without a second thought he ran to her and gently caressed her back over top of her tightly laced corset as she sputtered and chocked on the wine and cheese that were no longer safely contained inside of her body.

“Ang…Erik, go away!” She continued to retch, her pain clouded with embarrassment at having him see her in such a state.

He answered with soft shushing noises and continued to stroke her back gently, comforting her as one would a sick child. His heart felt torn at the sight of her suffering even the smallest distress. She was just so small, so delicate. The violent spasms seemed as though they would tear her body in two.

“I…please, don’t touch me.” Embarrassment turned to mortification as she gagged one last time. The soft hand on her back did not relent.

She turned swiftly, sprinting towards the bed and collapsing gracelessly on top of it. Letting out a sigh of harsh relief, the terrible feeling in her stomach and throat finally faded away.

The bed sunk beneath his weight. Her humiliation vanished; he had seen her at her worst, now she wanted nothing more then for him to sit with her until she slept. She hated being alone when she was sick. It had always frightened her as a child.

She gasped when she felt fingers begin to gently tug the dress down her arms, but she did not resist. Her body froze and became limp beneath his fingers.

“You should not wear restrictive clothing when you are ill, it is dangerous. It compresses the lungs and constricts the abdomen.” He spoke formally and clinically, much like a doctor. She could only groan in response as he lowered the dress and slid it down her body.

His fingers moved to the laces of her corset and he felt his breath catch in his throat. No, he would never take her in such a state. He was in control. He was in control.

One by one he pulled the laces open, hearing her let out relieved breaths as the contraption opened, allowing her to take much needed air into her lungs. Once it opened he lifted her and dragged it off of her body, throwing it into the heap of discarded clothing on the floor.

He went to pull down her left stocking when her hand grasped his wrist weakly.

“Don’t leave.”

“I thought you wanted me to.”

“I lied.” Her head fell back again, her eyes closed once more.

He continued to pull the soft material down her leg while trying to keep his eyes away from the smooth flesh of her thigh.

“You shouldn’t be doing that.” She rolled onto her back, one arm resting across her forehead.

“You will be more comfortable if I do.”

As if his words were prophetic, she sighed in relieved comfort when he pulled the tight fabric off of her body, leaving her in a thin chemise and drawers.

His body burned with desire. He wanted to take the thin garment that covered her body and tear it down the middle, leaving her naked and defenseless beneath him. The drawers would no doubt suffer the same fate. His breath quickened when he thought of pinning her under him and touching every part of her, making her completely and utterly open to him.

Instead he lifted the covers over her. He had felt like this before. The night she had fainted after seeing the doll he lovingly created in her honor, how he wanted to take her in the swan bed. He wanted to plunge into her and until she could no longer breathe, until walking and standing was impossible for them both.

He sat up and felt a tiny hand clutch at the white fabric of his shirtsleeves.

“Please don’t go.”

He lay down again, facing her and gently touching her hair as she began to drift off to sleep.

“Erik?”

“Yes?” He had to fight to urge to press a comforting kiss to her forehead as it furrowed in thought.

“Are you still the Phantom?”

“Not if you do not want me to be.”

“Why did you pretend to be my angel?” Whether or not she would remember the answers come the morning did not matter to him. Only now mattered. Tomorrow she would not let him stroke her hair or sleep in her bed. No, tonight was his one chance to lie close to her. The seduction of his angel could not begin yet. No, she was not ready. He was not ready.

“I wanted to mean something to someone.”

“Why did you hurt so many people?” Tears slowly began to seep out of her closed eyelids. He longed to kiss them all away, but he would not.

“Because I loved you so much I thought I would die if I could not have you.” He whispered it softly, his breath tickling the shell of her ear.

“But angels cannot die.”

“Yes they can. They fall Christine, they fall everyday.”

“Thank you Erik.”

“Whatever for?” Letting his restraint slip he pressed a soft kiss to her knuckles, but he doubted she felt it, she was drifting in and out of unconsciousness rapidly now.

‘For loving me when I was forever alone.” With that sleep took her, but it never came for him that night.
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Black Angels