Title: Paper Faces
Characters/Pairings involved: Christine & Erik, Meg & Raoul
Work in Progress: Yes.
Summary: “This is an AU, diverging from canon at the scene on the roof. How might the story have gone if Christine was just a little more self aware?”
Why do you like this fic?
A very well-written, sweet piece. The author works with the movie and does so beautifully. The interactions between characters is especially pleasing. A great little read.
"I went to the chapel,” Christine said; somewhere behind her Madame Giry’s footsteps were retreating. “Every day. I – I wanted to see you again. I missed you. You didn’t answer.”
“I was -” he tried to look around her; she stepped to the side, keeping herself in front of him, between him and all those cruel faces and pointing hands. His eyes settled back on her face. “My apologies,” he said finally, “I lost track of the time.”
“I can see that,” she responded carefully.
“You weren’t meant to!” he wailed, squeezing his eyes shut and bringing his hands up to his face. “I meant only to give you music – beauty -”
“You are a talented artist,” she offered. “Though I’m afraid I do not care for your subjects.”
He gave a strangled laugh that was half a sob.
“Madame Giry is right, you should sit,” she suggested.
“Leave the rags and the wash-water,” he said from behind his hands, still standing. “Go, find the library as she said, or go explore whatever you wish, what is mine is yours, but just go, and let me compose myself. You needn’t see this.”
“You’re wrong,” Christine said softly. Erik’s hands lowered from his face; his stare was incredulous and abruptly wary. “I did need to see this,” she went on, though his tense, watchful stillness frightened her. She remembered his mercurial change of temper up on the roof, and was very aware of how close they now stood.
“Why?” he demanded, in the dark tone Christine remembered as prelude to his last angry outburst. “Why should you need to see this?” His voice rose and he gestured in disgust at himself and the room around him, his movement sharp and violent. It was an effort of extreme will to stay where she was, when every trembling muscle in her body spurred her to flight. “So that you might bury your last shred of hope?” he suggested bitterly, taking half a step towards her. “To kill the last remnant of affection you might have felt for your angel?” He loomed over her, charcoal-streaked, wild-eyed and mad. Christine heard other footsteps re-entering the room and then stopping abruptly, some distance away, but Erik seemed to be aware only of her.
“Forget your angel, foolish child,” he sneered, and Christine flinched and closed her eyes at the cruelty of his tone. The hundreds of taunting, tormenting faces behind her flashed through her mind. Of course he can be cruel, she told herself sternly. He has had so very many teachers. “Your angel is dead,” he spat, “and this is his hell. You’d best flee while you can.”
She opened her eyes, making herself meet his gaze. “No,” she said simply, though she shook.