Phantom of the Opera 1. Introduction With Destruction

"Perfect."

Erik watches from the black Hummer, his eyes fixed intently upon his target. He is leaning against cool metallic surface, his arms folded across his chest. His black hair slicked back into the traditional gangster style (that makes this author sigh with delight). His dress jacket sleeves are rolled up to the elbows and the top button of his white shirt is undone and if the rest were done is the same fashion, a chest would be revealed that would gain many a woman's stares. A gentle breeze stirs up the dust around his polished shoes but he fails to notice it's presence, just as she misses his. She turns her head away from the bright stars, casting an uninterested glance towards the vehicle he has placed so carefully beside the rusting wire fence. The eyes which had only moments ago been glazed over as she listened to her music, lost in her own world, now narrow themselves. She swivels them first to the left, then to the right, as she checks to see if she is alone. She senses no danger from prying eyes, although she should do, and steps forward, closer to the car. A small smirk is playing across her light lips, her eyes shining with knowledge that she believes only she knows as she removes the headphones from her ears. She first reads the license plate, twice, just to be sure. It is indeed her car. The Gold 2006 model Sedan could be no one else's. Satisfied, her hands quickly slip into her back pockets, there's a slight pause and moments later, they emerge, each wearing a pair of knuckle dusters. Erik swallows, it's a mixture of fear and desire that he is forcing down his throat. This is the part he's dreading, the part where his plan begins. This is the most dangerous part, and yet, the most vital.

Christine draws a quick, deep breath and lunges forward. The glass shatters mostly inwards, while a few shards fly her way. She seems unaffected though, and continues with her mission, brushing the glass from her jacket. By this time, the alarm is blaring loudly, desperate to catch the attention of a passer by. But this lot was long ago abandoned by anyone who would care and the scream goes unnoticed. Her arm snakes inside and her hand flips the switch that will allow her entrance. Her movements are fast and deliberate as she yanks the door open and sits down in the drivers seat. Erik stares as he watches his beloved's nimble fingers pull out wires and join them together with sharp twists. Her eyes dart rapidly and her lips occasionally mumble sentences which would leave your average house hold sparkly at a loss. Within ten seconds, silence falls. He frowns. He knows the crowd she hangs out with are no good, but hot wiring a car? This is not impressive. She seems to think otherwise though as she grins, reaching down into her boot

Erik's eyes widen slightly and he quickly punches in the number on his cell phone, not taking his eyes away from her. He holds the device to his ear, gritting his teeth in impatience. "Yes, hello, I would like to report an act of vandalism, occurring presently." He relays the address and hangs up, cursing his own stupidity. It will take a good five minutes for the police to get here, he should have rung earlier. This could and most likely will get ugly. He follows her as she removes the familiar weapon from its hiding place and he watches as a near by street light reflects against the metal, shining brightly into one eye and revealing it's evil intentions for the rest of the world to see.

The switchblade is one of high quality and the value is most certainly within the 4 digit range. He has joined in with her many a times in eyeing that blade, silently appreciating the dedicated and skilled craftsmanship which had been needed to produce it. The stainless steel handle is designed for a woman's hand like hers, slightly shorter than the weapons he is used to working with. It's blade is longer but thinner than the average and this both serves as an advantage and a hindrance. And it is this size and specific design that enables her to have no worries if another ever dare tried to use it. against her. It could take a well trained expert such as himself a few moments to get used to that weapon, a few moments which would give her the chance to gain the blade back into her possession. But not only is it a practically important instrument, having saved her skin on more than one occasion, but it's emotionally important to her. It is a gift from a man long gone. (Only, Erik is not aware of this.)

He blinks rapidly at the sudden sound of leather screaming with pain, clearing his eyes of day dreams and memories. Her breaths are short and angry as she expertly slices the leather that covers the seats. She has moved to the back by now and Erik curses as his worse fear is suddenly confirmed. She is usually so calm and collected, he had underestimated how angry this car would make her. In her rage her expertise is being to be lost to recklessness and a slight turn of her hand means her wrist is suddenly torn open. This is enough however, to remind her to keep up her image of ice and she returns the blade to it's home. There's a brief pause as she tears off one sleeve and wraps it around the cut, applying pressure, just like the many first aid courses have taught her. She is lying across the shredded upholstery and she slowly lifts her legs, bringing her feet back. Silently and effortlessly, she sends them flying forward, her military boots protecting her small feet. The rest of her body follows after wards and she stands up, dusting of her jeans. Unsatisfied with the damage already inflicted upon the vehicle, she straightens her jacket collar and calmly walks towards an old piece of hose pipe that lies near the fence.

Erik frowns slightly in confusion. This isn't part of the plan. She was meant to break a few windows, kick a few dents on the bumper maybe, not make the car look as if a nuclear bomb had been dropped on it. He has barely handled the switch blade, he dare not think of what action she is going to take next. His eyes glance down again at her wrist. It is bleeding rather heavily and the thought that she has cut open a vein occurs to him. His bites his tongue, glancing at his watch as the rage bubbles within. The one time he wishes the police to grace him with their presence and they decide to stand him up? What is wrong with the world today? She has opened up the fuel tank by now, sticking the piece of hose down there. Her mouth goes around the opening and she takes a sharp breath inwards. Seconds later, as she directs the flow of fuel into the car, she spits out any excess liquid that has entered her mouth. After a minute, she tears off the other cuff of her shirt and dips it in the strong smelling substance. "No!" Erik hisses, knowing what she is reaching for inside her jacket pocket.

The Zippo. This item is irreplaceable to her. Priceless by all accounts and tied with the switchblade for first place on her list of items she cares for. She carries the cold, metallic box where ever she may go, keeping it near her heart literally and metaphorically. It has been with her through the best and worst of her life, silently observing the mistakes and decision it's owner has made. Like the blade, the Zippo was already a possession of hers when Erik found her and he has been unable to discover the reasons as to it's preciousness She flicks it open, lighting the flame in the same fluid motion. The rag is suddenly engulfed in the dancing fire and without a second glance, she throws it inside the vehicle.

Her chuckle is a slightly evil one as she steps back from the heat. The flames are raging, licking higher and higher, as though they are trying to reach the stars which she had been admiring only minutes ago. "I Fell Into A Burning Ring Of Fire. I Went Down, Down, Down. And The Flames Went Higher. And It Burns, Burns, Burns The Ring Of Fire, The Ring Of Fire" She chimes softly, so softly that the only way Erik can tell she is saying the words at all, is by lip reading. She cocks her head to the sudden sounds of sirens and a roaring engine. Turning slightly, her eyes meet with his. She doesn't need to shift that gaze to see the cell phone in his hand. But nevertheless she frowns with slight confusion. and nearly drops his phone when she murmurs two words. "Erik Vestiere?"

But before he can step forward and ask how she knows his name, the siren which had seemed so far away, is suddenly punishing his ear drums. The police car leaves a trail of dust behind it as it brakes through the gravel. The first officer steps out quickly. "Alright, I want you to put your hands –" He begins but her hands are already placed carefully on her head, blood running down her arm. Although the flow hasn't stopped, it has slowed. The second cop now exits the car. "You have the –"

"Right to remain silent and I can refuse to answer any questions. Do I understand? Yes. Anything I do or say, can and may be used against me in a court of law. Do I understand? Yes. I also have the right to consult a lawyer before speaking to the police and to have a lawyer present during questioning now or in the future. Do I understand? Yes. If I cannot afford a lawyer, one will be provided for me at the government's expense, if I wish. Do I understand? Yes. If I decide to answer questions now without a lawyer present, I will still have the right to stop answering at anytime until I talk to a lawyer. Do I understand? Yes. Knowing and understanding my full rights as you have read and explained them to me, am I willing to begin answering questions without a lawyer present?"

She states calmly and slowly. The two are silent, the first with his mouth slightly open, staring in amazement and slight fear. The second, glaring at her. "Sure, why not?" She shrugs at the men. She laughs at their stares, shaking her head, her hair catching the moon light. They glance at her bleeding wrist, eyes widening. "Shit Frank, we need a medic!" The first yelps, reaching inside for his handset. but the second waves a dismissive hand. "Let her bleed, Steve, maybe it'll teach her a lesson not to be so cocky next time." Frank snarls, sitting back inside the car as Steve carefully approaches Christine to clip the handcuffs on. She takes the lead back towards the car, slipping behind the drivers side, leaning her head against the wire mesh that separates criminals from law enforces. She shifts her head in Erik's direction and gives him her famous two fingered salute. He can't help but smile at the signal. In this case, it's her way of saying, 'you got me'. her eyes then gaze back to the driver of the car and she patiently waits as Frank shifts the gear into reverse and backs up, eager to leave the downtown lot far behind and rid himself of this troublesome teen. Erik clenches his fists, glaring at the back of Frank's head as the car drives off. "Don't tell me I have to start working on my weekends too."

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A/N: A very boring chapter, I'll admit. And not a lot makes sense. But if I get enough interest, I'll reveal all in the next chapter. And I know that Vestiere is an Italian name and Erik is not Italian, but actually French, but in this fan fiction, he's Italian, or at least of Italian descent. And as for the name Vestiere, it has been borrowed from my favourite book, 'Gangster' by Lorenzo Carcaterra. And of course, I don't own any of the characters, well, maybe Steve and Frank. But definitely not Erik and Christine.


	2. Motive

Christine rolls her shoulders as she tilts back in her chair. She's doesn't lift the seat off it's four legs, but stretches out her body as she swaps her feet over. Her boots are resting quietly in the corner of the stainless steel table which matches her stool. Her eyes are intently trained upon her hand as she clenches and unclenches it, ensuring that she did no nerve damage. It's not her writing hand anyway. Only minutes before a medic had entered and applied the necessary antiseptics and bandages, giving her a disappointed and disgusted look every so often.

Now she's sitting alone, at home and quite comfortable in the sterile environment of the interview room at the local police station. Satisfied that her hand will be scarred only visibly, Christine flicks her gaze to the fluorescent lights which light the room brightly. But half way in between her careful examination of the dead moths which lye in the bulbs cover, her attention is quickly caught by the sound of foot steps. She swivels her eyes downwards and fixes them on the door. The seven foot high piece of moulded steel is the only thing standing between her and freedom.

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Detective Garrison Smith attempts to close the door quietly behind him, but in the silence, the clicking of the lock by the guard outside echoes throughout the hollow room. He glances at the girl before him, because that's all she really is, a child. A few months shy of her 18th birthday, she's a sight to behold. Her jeans are barely sitting on her hips and attempt to do her figure justice but fail miserably. They're torn and faded around the knee and cuff area but that doesn't seem to bother her as casually flicks off a piece of glass, not caring to look down as to where she's discarding it. Her denim jacket, the right sleeve tinted dark red, is slung over the back of her chair. This reveals that she is wearing a freshly bloodied dress t-shirt, now sleeveless, that is unbuttoned to expose the tight black singlet underneath.

The low neckline is where Smith's gaze lingers for a moment, his eyes narrowing in an attempt to read the names on her dog tags, but sensing the raised eyebrow, he blinks and shifts his eyes to meet hers. Her eyes are ice blue, the kind that can either melt or freeze a person. In this case, he feels the combination of the two. His blood freezes but he can feel a heat begin to warm him lower down. Quickly checking himself, he examines the silver blonde hair that has been literally tied into a bun at the back of her. Random strands are sticking out and catching the light. A few stray bits that she missed when tying it up have shaped themselves around her cheeks and she even casually blows a few strands away.

The gaze chooses it's final resting place to be her shoes. The military boots are far from cheap and have a fresh coat of polish on them. Well, they did until she scuffed them while committing the act of vandalism. One final once over and he concludes she is the true rebel without a cause. He can all too easily imagine her beating up the posers at her school, spitting on their defeated bodies and telling them to go home and get an image they can truly dedicate themselves to.

He throws the heavy manila folder on to the table and a small grunt escapes him from the effort. He gives her one more disappointed look before he takes his seat opposite her. She has so much potential. These school marks are amazing. Her future looks promising. But she's going to lose whatever chances she has of going to university if she carries on with reckless acts such as these.

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Erik growls from behind the one way mirror as the detective's gaze wanders over his Christine. It begins as a policeman's typical gaze. Examining the scene, the suspect. But soon it turns into the gaze of just another man, undressing her with his eyes. His free hand clenches itself while the other brings the cup of tea to his lips. The steaming liquid slides down his throat silently and attempts to calm his nervous stomach. The fist slowly uncurls itself as Christine's eyebrow quickly deters the stare and she silently sets the man straight.

The manila folder hits the table with a thud and Erik watches as a few papers escape the thin piece of cardboard which is attempting to hold the stack of papers together. They scatter across the desk, one even falling to the floor. Christine politely removes her shoes and bends down, picking it up off the ground and adding it to the others. Without hesitating, she collects them and straightens them out, opening the lid and slipping them back inside the folder.

Garrison takes the only other chair, thinking he suddenly has the right to give her a parental look of disappointment. Erik rolls his eyes darkly at this. He wishes he had chosen someone else now. Someone who he could perhaps trust a little more. But it's too late now. Smith had been the first to offer his assistance, in serious need of money to pay off that drug debt of his. Another three days and the loan sharks will be around to break his legs with his own sledge hammer. But then again, no normal man can afford the 13.5 weekly interest rates they include with your loan.

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Christine gives the drug addict before her a once over. The body is skinny and unfed, the bones that give hi his shape, prominent. The skin is slightly lose, as though he had once been a healthy weight and suddenly lost it in the space of a few months. His sunken eyes are slightly blood shot and the black, bottomless pits he calls pupils are diluted. Maybe his last hit was just over five, six hours ago. There's a nervous twitch in his right hand, half clenching itself periodically. So, he's obviously earning some cash for his no doubt enormous debt. The only question is, who's paying him?

Her thoughts, and head, turn towards the one way mirror. No doubt the man behind there. But who? It can't be them, this isn't their style. If they had been involved, she'd already be on the flight to the place they call home.

The cough tears her away from her memories of a past life and she refocuses her attention on the task at hand.

"Looks like you know the procedure pretty well. Guess that will save us some time." Smith begins. His voice reminds her of her boots scraping across the gravel earlier at the forgotten lot. "All past charges have been dropped." She quickly points out, nodding to the papers. He nods in agreement, opening up the folder and flicking through the former cases. "Yes, apparently you have a great lawyer. May I inquire as to their name?" He ponders, his skittish eyes trying to hold still and read the name on the paper.

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"Christine Daae." She states calmly. He smirks at the news. "Well, that's good. Reckon you wont have to waste your one phone call." There's a brief pause as he attempts to read some of the past trails, trying to see what's so special about this teen. But nothing, apart from the words, jumps out at him. He sighs, giving up. That shot of heroin wasn't worth stuffing this up. Instead, he decides to stick with the verbal technique. He opens his mouth but she beats him to it.

"Motive?" Her tone is casual, as though she's inquiring as to the time of the day. "Yeah, they sometimes come in handy." He admits and he tries to read her emotions. But her face is only revealing a bored expression, slightly sarcastic even. "Do you have any idea who that car belongs to?" She reverses the situation, demanding answers from him now. He shakes his head. "We're going to run the license plate through the system once the fire department manage to put out the flames. But maybe you can save us some more time?" "Stephanie Mitch." She spit's the name in total disgust and loathing. The sudden tone widens Garrison's eyes even further. Cool, calm and collected one minute, snarling names with contempt the next. Maybe there is more to this girl.

"Mitch. As is Mitch recording studios?" He thinks out loud. "Yes, Barry Mitch is her father." She mutters, waving a dismissive hand. She is in no mood to go into a discussion about Barry Mitch's highly successful company that has allowed him to be a position that ensures his daughter can get a recording contract. "Ok, so she's the daughter of Barry Mitch and she's therefore a millionaire's daughter. I mean, with you being an orphan, I can understand how you could be a bit jealous of that. But I don't think-" But Garrison doesn't get the chance to finish his sentence as Christine suddenly lunges forward, grabbing him by is t-shirt and yanking him up roughly. Now they're only inches apart. "Never, and I mean never, suggest that I am jealous of that slut! Understand me?!" She snaps, shaking him forcefully. Her eyes are dangerous slits and her teeth are bared. He swallows, and his nod hasn't even finished when she drops him like he was acid and he lands back inside his welcoming chair.

"Ok, so, she's Stephanie Mitch. I still don't see why you did what you did." He gruffly mutters, running a hand through his thinning brown hair. "I think the fact that she has thwarted almost every attempt I have made for the past year and a half to improve my CV for university, and therefore my future, a good enough reason. But then again, that might just be my personal opinion." She quickly explains, not attempting to hide her sarcasm.

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Erik nods his head slowly in agreement as he listens to her excuse. This is true. The girl has been a pain in the ass for too long. Ever since Christine has arrived at that school, and refused to bow down to the Prima Dona's reign of terror and fashion, she had made it her personal goal to ruin the girl's only hope, her future. She has exploited her position in society, using her contacts to their full extent. Awards have been lost, jobs denied and certificates rewritten. All thanks to that little viper. But then again, her father did come in handy, Erik must admit. Had the idiot not owed him a favour, Erik would not be where he is now. When he had requested the car, the keys had practically been shoved into his hand, the rich man all too eager to be rid of his debt. But as he stands here now, he believes it was a favour well used.

"So what are my options?" Christine wants to know, her eyes flicking back to the mirror. They remain there for only a moment. But Erik swears that for that moment, her ice blue mirrors are locked onto his glowing amber orbs. But he blinks and suddenly, her gaze is back on Smith who hasn't even noticed its absence. Erik freezes as he listens intently to Garrison's answer, eager to know if the man has learnt his lines off by heart.

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"Blunt, I like it." Garrison admits openly. Even though Erik has told him to remain unemotionally attached to this task, the girl has hit a soft spot. Not only parentless, but also persecuted by some of the highest people in society, all because she stood up for what she believed in. But the true pity comes from the fact that he knows she will spending the rest of her life with the man behind the mirror. That is one fate even she doesn't deserve. However, maybe this feisty vixen will teach the famous Phantom a thing or two.

"Option number one. Go to court again, relive the whole procedure. At the most, you're looking at 6 months to a year in a Juvenile Detention Centre. On the other hand, you may escape with only 4 months community service. But since Mitch is involved, I'd place my money on Juvie." He sighs wearily, placing a piece of crisp white paper in front of Christine.

"And option two?" She murmurs, her eyes scanning the sheet in a few seconds and gaining the just of it's words. "Option number two, be adopted." Detective Smith places a new paper beside it and at the top of the two, a black fountain pen.

These five words seem to shove her into a sudden mode of alertness and paranoia. "Juvie." She states, reaching for the pen hastily. She's well prepared to sign the first sheet and it is only Smith's quick and bony hand which manages to stop her in time.

"Need I remind you Miss Daae, that if you choose option one, what ever hopes you had of getting into university, will be lost?" Smith can't keep the tone of triumph out of his voice. Christine's head snaps up at his words and the reality of it all has finally sunk in. Jesus Christ, what has she done?

"Not only that, but your school has yet to be alerted as to your most recent crime. And if you were to choose option two, they would never need to know." This smug tone is really starting to chew away at what ever patience she has left and it shows as she grinds her teeth.

"Look, kid, why don't you just take the sensible option. Sign the second paper. You're eighteen in a few months, a couple months after that, you'll be out of school. Then you can leave the guy, bugger off to university and continue with what ever plans you had." Garrison encourages, feeding her with lies. And she knows it. Suddenly the rage and fury that has been building up becomes too much and she bolts up out of her chair. In one swift motion she yanks up the chair, spinning 180 degrees, and throws it angrily at the one way mirror, letting out a small cry of emotional pain. The chair ricochets sharply off the mirror and hit's the ground with an echoing clatter. Smith hadn't seen in coming, but behind the mirror, Erik is smiling.

Turning sharply on her heel, she marches towards the desk. The scrawny man is all to quick to back away, fearing for his own safety now. But she is blind with rage and cannot possibly see his insignificant form in front of her. "Fucking dirty cops!" The curse is spat in contempt at the silence all around her. Without another word she snatches up the pen and within a few seconds, her signature is lying on the small dotted line.

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Before the ink can have a chance to dry, Garrison grabs it and scampers out of the room, watching over his shoulder in case she tries to follow. But as he closes the door, the last image he sees is of her sending her fist into the wall with frustration.

Without knocking, he enters the room to be greeted with an unusual sight, Erik Vestiere happy. The tall man approaches his servant in two long strides. The paper is taken away and examined. No false signature. Good. Ensured he has completed the task correctly, Erik places the wad of cash within the thin man's hand.

"You have served me well, Smith. Now get out of my sight before I vomit in disgust at the grin of pure happiness which has just crossed your face."


	3. Turn And Face The Change

"What the hell Christine?! Take the Juvie!" Paul Hillside insists angrily. Christine gently places the last three books inside the box before whirling around to face her friend. "You don't bloody well think that was my first choice?!" She snaps, sick and tiered of the boys whining. He steps back slightly, looking quickly to the ground in a feeble attempt to hide his embarrassment. Silence falls within the small room that, for only a few more hours, is Christine's bedroom. She picks up her switchblade and tape, and begins to sticky-tape the lid shut. Seconds later, with one last flick of the blade, the job is done. Paul has finally plucks up the courage to continue. "I have no doubt it was your first choice." He begins. "But it's always your first and last. There's never been any other. Especially never adoption." He admits, leaning against the box before she can pick it up.

Christine Daae cocks an unimpressed eyebrow at her best friend and sighs, knowing this is impossible to explain. "Well, things are different now." She mutters, casting her best friend a weary eye. _And things truly are different_. She thinks as her eye runs the length of the boy before her. Two months older and a good five inches taller, Paul is the typical girls rebel dream. He's mysteriously lacking in the ravenous hunger that most guys his age seem to possess, which explains his skinny frame. The skin that covers him is ever so slightly tanned, the result of walking thirty minutes each day in the sun to school. The hair is ruffled and chocolate coloured, brushed only by a weary hand in the morning. His eyes are a ones which belong on a three week old puppy, large and brown. His feet are covered by tattered sneakers, his faded jeans require a belt to be worn and his Metallica t-shirt is preventing Christine from seeing those abs he's been working on for the past year or so. Quickly realising her stare is too long, she bends her knees and lifts the box slowly. Paul removes himself, knowing he shouldn't strain her and carries on while she places the second box beside the first that sits contently in the corner. "How, how on earth are things different now?"

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"Think of it this way Paul, how many kids do you honestly think can boost that they graduated not only from Harvard, but before that, they spent six months in Juvie? Hmm, how many?" Her sarcasm cuts deep and he flinches ever so slightly at the emotional pain. Christine is oblivious though as she has her back turned to him, beginning to fill the third and final box. The first was for clothes and noticeably the smallest. The second, for her own personal collection of books. And this one will be carrying her most important possessions, her school books. Noting the lack of a retort, Christine glances over her shoulder as she approaches her pitiful excuse of a bookshelf. She sees the hurt before he can hide it and sighs regretfully. Knowing that she best settle this now, rather than deal with it at school, she crosses her arms over her chest. "Paul, look. If I'm honest, I'm lucky I got this far. For the past five years, I've been on thin ice. Back in the days, it wasn't so complicated. Back then I didn't have to worry about my future waiting just around the corner. University's don't just look at marks anymore. They look at personality in a candidate as well. You know that."

And he does know that. He just doesn't want to accept it. But he has this nagging feeling that he has no say in the matter. Paul casts his friend a glance as she returns to her work, stacking up text books into her arms and squeezing them into the cardboard box. Her hair has been pulled wearily into a pony tail and she tucks a few strands behind her ear as she continues. She's dressed only in a thin cotton t-shirt, today's jacket hanging over the back of her chair. The shirt is a vintage Rolling Stone's one, the huge red tongue gaining her a few stares from the musically uneducated orphans and pupils at school. Today's jeans are black and hug her curves, and are once again, scuffed at the cuffs. Her creamy white skin highlights her eyes, or at least in Paul's opinion it does. She feels his gaze and cocks a confused eyebrow, but there's a small smile on her face. He adverts his stare as the heat rises to his face. He decides to agree with her. Things have changed. With a defeated sigh, he stands up properly and opens the top draw of her desk.

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"Well, do you at least know who's adopting you?" Christine has been waiting for this and manages to finally decide between the two choices she has. Option one, lye. Option two, be honest. She goes with a combination of the two. "I have a faint idea." This way, she's not fully claiming she knows the man, but then again, she's not admitting she has no idea either. "A faint idea?" It's Paul turn to cock an eyebrow, only this one is unbelieving. "Well, excuse me if I can't see through one way mirrors. I forgot I was talking to Superman himself." She defends quickly. "So, let me get this straight." He pauses, beginning to count things off on his fingers. "The conveniently placed car of your arch enemy. A dirty cop drug addict. And now a mysterious adoption. It all sounds a bit odd to me, Chris." She rolls her eyes and his pointing out the obvious. "It may be odd. It may be creepy. It may go bump in the fucking night for all I give a shit, Paul. But unless you've suddenly got an idea so cunning, you could pin a tail on it and call it a weasel, I've got to go along with it." For the third time in the past twenty minutes, silence falls like a dead weight.

Minutes later, Christine discards the last box with the other two, breathing a sigh of relief and regret. Paul suddenly speaks. "Have you told Jamie?" He inquires. She pauses, thinking about lying again. But many years have taught him well and he instantly picks up the hesitation. "Chris, you can't just leave. I mean, I don't like the kid, granted. But that doesn't mean that you can just up and leave. The kid practically worships the ground you walk on. He'll probably break down and -" "Point duly noted, Paul." She snarls. He takes the hint. This is clearly one topic that is off bounds and is to remain that way. Christine clenches her fists, resentful of her behaviour towards her best friend.

The two have known each other for nine years, ever since Paul came into the system. Christine had seen his potential and taken him under her wing, teaching him the way to survive not only in school, but in the orphanage way of life. He had been a quick and easy learner and since she first made him the offer to help him, the two have been inseparable. They share all the same classes and are constantly in competition. Her grinning when she receives a better mark and him gloating whenever the tables are turned. They can even be heard having intent discussions about problems and raising their voices on how best to solve it. The two are often mistaken for a couple when they walk down the orphanage corridors together and when Paul leaves her bedroom at 1am on a Friday night.

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Paul swallows as he observes Christine gazing out into nothingness. He shifts his eyes to the window. It's early autumn, yet surprisingly warm. People are taking advantage while they still can. Young couples walk by, hand in hand. While the older ones each hold a hand of a child or two that giggles happily between them. The birds are even chirping happily as they dance in mid air. The leaves amongst the trees are a mixture of those who are still vainly clinging to spring and remain green and those that gave up hope long ago and are already orange and red.

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_Just like fire. _Christine thinks as a rogue leaf falls slowly to the pavement below. The mere thought brings back memories of the night before. Damn her! Why did she have to be so selfish? Why?! She is meant to be setting an example here! Not only for Jamie, but Paul as well. How can she possibly expect for him to remain out of trouble and focus on his studies if she herself is out slashing leather and setting alight bonfires. Talk about the bloody pot calling the kettle black.

_But Paul can handle himself. _She assures herself. His 17 for Pete's sake, a month older than her even. Besides, she'll see him at school. And then there's their study sessions in the library on the weekends. No, Paul will be fine. It's Jamie that complicates things.

Jamie Sutherland. Still what the orphans like to call, a recent addition. He's been located here for just over a year. Only nine years old, but he's got a promising future in both the home and the school. Christine had decided to take on one more student before she left and just thinking about the boy now, she knows that she made the right choice. She had thought that finding Paul had been a mere fluke and that he was a one of kind. But Jamie has proven himself to be at least equal to his competitor, maybe even better. He's just as eager to learn and is careful to take mental notes on the lesson's she teaches.

Turning away from the painful sight of a boy with a wide smile as he steps on the leaves outside, she remembers the first day the two had met.

"_Give me your Gameboy." Harry Portman demands, holding out a chubby hand expectantly. Jamie Sutherland blinks, snapping his head up from the small, flashing screen in front of him. He's leaning casually against the wall of his bedroom, his bags lying around him, still unpacked. Before him stands a group of four boys. The overweight one is clearly the boss of the three other scrawny ones. "Get your own fatty." Jamie spits in disgust. The eyes of the others widen and they shake their heads in knowing. Harry frowns slightly, but this turns into a grin of delight. "I'll tell you what. You're a newbie here, you don't know the rules. Knowing this, I'm going to give you the chance to hand over that Gameboy right now and you can walk away with only one black eye." He growls the small boy before him, cracking his knuckles menacingly. _

"_Oi! Portman! How many god damn times do I have to put you into your place?" A bold voice wants to know. The group steps aside nervously, to reveal a girl casually leaning against the door way. Jamie squints, but the shadows mean he can only see her outline. "Don't you have a test you've got to be studying for, bitch?" Harry sneers, looking her up and down, unwilling to admit he likes what he sees. He likes it a lot. "How on earth am I meant to study when I know that only down the corridor, some fat lump of lard is trying to make a move on my turf?" She questions, quickly striding forward. He's a few inches taller and a few pounds heavier, but that doesn't seem to deter her. She doesn't wait for an answer and the first punch lands straight into Harry's eye, sending him down along with his pride. She stands still. "Get up." Her voice is sharp and quick, demanding response. But Harry remains on the floor. "Now." She adds and this seems to do the trick because Portman scrambles to his feet. But it's all in vain as the next punch which breaks his nose, sends him back down. "Get him out of my sight." She orders the others without looking at them. Her gaze is fixed intently upon the boy in front of her. They nod their heads feverishly and haul his fat ass out into the corridor, closing the door behind them._

_Jamie takes a good look at the girl now that they're alone. The silver blonde hair is let down, reaching down to her chest and she casually flicks it behind her. Her glassy eyes catch his grassy green ones and within them, he swears he can see his own reflection. The top is tight and low cut but the jeans and bomber jacket make her seem so out of place. Her military boots are silent as she takes two steps closer. He hugs the device closer to his chest. _

"_You can't have it either." his voice betrays his fear and he internally curses himself. But she merely smirks. "Relax kid, I don't want your game." She assures his disbelieving eyebrow. He nods in understanding and relaxes slightly. Silence fills the room and he finally inquires. "What do you want then?" She turns her head away from the photo of Jamie and his family, taken only four weeks the car crash which left him as the only survivor. Her face softens and he can see the regret in her eyes._

"_You can never give me what I want, kid." She admits, shaking her head free of unwanted thoughts and memories. Thinking that her instincts had been wrong and that her work here is done, she turns to leave. But his voice and hand interrupts her. "Wait!" She pauses as he lunges forward, grabbing on to her wrist tightly. "I…I never got to thank you." He stutters. She remains silent and he interprets it as a sign to go on. "Thanks." She shrugs, as though she was just doing her job. In one swift motion, she yanks her arm up in an attempt to be free. But Jamie comes up with it, clinging on tightly. He has this feeling anyone else would have let go by now, but he's done with letting things go and remains hanging in midair. A small chuckle escapes her. And she returns him carefully to the ground. _

_Maybe she was wrong. Maybe she needs to put more faith in those instincts of hers. "Will you…" He swallows his fear. "Will you have dinner with me?" Cute. By dinner he means the meal that the nuns serve at 6.00pm sharp every evening. She ponders this. "Sure, I don't see the problem with dinner." _

_And since then, the boy has attempted to never leave her side again. _

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_A/N: Criticism is welcome. Ideas. Plots. Characters. Etc, etc. Reviews. All that junk. I know the story's slow, but I hate to rush these things. Details are what I believe enable the reader to create an image in the mind's eye. _


	4. Bullet Holes

"Think of the Devil."

Christine murmurs as there's a knock on her bedroom door. She knows that knock from anywhere, and sure enough, Jamie enters only seconds later. Regret suddenly grips at her insides and proceeds to squeeze them tightly as the boy approaches, grinning. She turns sharply to Paul. Her eyes say it all. Leave. Now. With a quick nod of understanding and a slightly smug glance towards Jamie, he exits.

Christine glares at his retreating figure. The only bloody reason he's so smug is because he's not truly parting with her. He'll see her five days a week, minimum. But Jamie is only nine years old and although smart, it's very unlikely he's going to skip a few grades into high school. Christine knows that if given the chance, Paul would have easily just told Jamie, right here, right now. He'd be blunt, sarcastic and uncaring. Paul has never fully trusted Jamie and has resented him the moment he sat down beside Christine at dinner that night.

"I got 97 on my maths test!" The boy exclaims waving a paper triumphantly. Christine blinks and examines the boy. His sandy blonde hair, that reaches just down to his eyebrows and to the tips of his ears, is ruffled from a wind outside. His eyes are bright, grassy green and right now, are wide with happiness. He's grinning, revealing his growing white teeth proudly.

"Christine?" His young voice inquires. She forces a smile, trying to share in his happiness. Taking the paper, she examines it forcing the bile of guilt that is desperately rising in her throat. "That's awesome, Jamie." She nods, handing him back the sheet of numbers and variables she has been unable to read properly. "Christine, what's the matter?" There's no pulling the wool over this kids eyes. And Christine can't help but smile proudly as she gestures towards her bed.

"How about you sit down?" But he steps away with a quick shake of his head. "No, I'm alright standing. What is it?" She sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose. "Is it that Paul? What did he do this time, Christine? I swear, if he's done anything, I'm going to-" "It isn't Paul, Jamie." She quickly assures him in mid threat. "What is it then?" She opens her mouth but the words are somehow stuck in her throat. She wishes more than anything that she could just choke on them and die, because this is just too hard.

But she's got to be strong. She's the one who's meant to set the example. "Jamie. I…I'm leaving." She finally blurts it out. She watches his reaction. Initially, his eyes widen and the fear is clear in them. But just as quickly as they widen, they return to their normal size and he breaths out. "That's great, you deserve a break." He's going into denial as his eyes flick to the boxes in the corner. Sweet Jesus. Why does he have to make it harder than it already is. How is that possible even?

"Jamie, I'm not coming back. I've been…" But this is one sentence that she can't bear to finish. She never thought that she'd have to say it. This is one day she assumed she was smart enough to avoid. Apparently not. Jamie seems to share her opinion on the subject. "Adopted?" He spit's the word in question. "You've been adopted?!" He's shaking his head sharply in disbelief as she confirms it with a small nod. "Why on earth did you agree to leave? You said you never wanted to be adopted. You can't just turn around one day and say you've been adopted!" He's ranting raving now, anger bubbling up within him. In his eyes, she's lied to him. "I had to agree to Jamie, I didn't have a choice." She quickly inserts, defending herself. "Then talk to the nuns, I'm sure they'll get you out of this. I mean, Mother Superior is always talking about how your grades help boost the government grant for the orphanage." Now he's grasping at straws. She can almost see the tiny clogs turning in his head, trying to form a cunning plan.

"Jamie, she can't stop me from being adopted. In fact, she's happy." At this, the boy's mouth drops open. "She seemed to be enthralled that I've found someone that I like." This is muttered darkly to herself as her eyes narrow at the woman's incompetence. "You found someone you liked?" Jamie demands. "No!" She growls. "Then why did you sign the paper, Christine? They can't adopt you unless you sign." He's accusing her now, attempting to interrogate her and admit her to tell her this is just all some sick April's Fools joke. "I had to Jamie, I didn't have a choice." Her own temper is running short now, he's being a stubborn child.

"Sure, sure you didn't." He scoffs, folding his arms across his chest, mimicking her stance. "I'm sure they held you at gun point and forced you to sign the paper, right in front of Mother Superior." Her fists are clenched tightly and she's praying to god that the boy will simply just turn around and walk out the door, leaving her to wallow in undeserved self pity and well deserved self hatred. Silence falls as the two eye each other up.

Jamie points a finger at her, almost aiming it like a gun. "You're not the Christine I know. You're a fake. No doubt about it. She'd never let some idiot trick her into being adopted." Bang. He just fired a bullet right through her heart. The wound cuts deep, not because he's insulting her intelligence, rather that he's declaring her an impostor. He turns on his heel and is about to leave the room, placing a pivoting hand on the door frame. His head is hung low and he mutters the last bit. "Let me know when the real Christine gets back."


	5. Walking The Greenmile

Christine glances around her room one last time. Her shaking hand runs through her hair, tugging on it sharply as she reaches the ends. She's assuring herself this is real and that this is truly the last time she'll stand on this old floor boards. A calculated shift to the right and a familiar creak fills her ears. She allows a small smile, maybe it's a smirk, to play across her pale lips. There's a cough from the doorway. Without turning her gaze from the window, she knows her friend is poking his head around the wooden frame. "Your cab is here."

The sentence is short and simple and it's funny how it somehow reminds her of a judge slamming down the hammer in one swift motion and declaring the defendant guilty. She rolls her shoulders, adjusting the duffle bag strap as she turns to walk out the door. She nods in thanks and makes her final walk down the corridor. All the along the stair case and hallways, the other orphans are staring, wide eyed. Some are grinning with happiness, glad to be freed of the girl who has stopped them from becoming tyrants of the playground. Without her hindrance they are free to do as they please. Lunch money, valuables, anything and everything can is theirs for the taking.

However, numerous are frowning with concern. Until now, Christine had always kept the peace. She had stopped those who stepped out of line, but she was fair in her punishment. Without her, chaos will surely ensue. There'll be fights to take over her former position, but no matter who succeeds, they wont be able to quite match up. Some cast Paul a glance. Being her right hand man, it's assumed by many he'll try his best to fill her boots. But will his best be enough?

But no matter what view they hold for the future, none are able to hide the emotion that is held by all. Awe. For the past 10 years, the girl before them has ducked and dodged the bullet of adoption. Using all her cunning and wit, she's managed to out smart the system. They all knew she would leave, but they were positive it was going to be on her own accord, turned 18. Apparently she hadn't seen, out of the corner of her eye, the stabbing in the back that had arrived. The attacker had also twisted the blade ruthlessly by not allowing her to see him before hand.

As her military boots pad heavily against the floobaords, she breaths in deeply, inhaling the familiar scent of the burning candles combined with the nuns' home cooking. As she breaths out her eyes close brieflyas shelocks away this memory in the back of her mind. Granted, it may not be the five star hotel many would love to live in, but for the past few years of her life, it's been her one and only home. Yet she hasthis feeling as she walkscloser and closer to the oak door, that she is a dead woman walking. An expression comes to mind as shecasts the on lookers glares and stares._I'm walking the Greenmile._

She reaches the front door. The nuns are wiping away tears of happiness and sadness. They're happy to think she's finally found someone she can trust. They're sad to the governments money for the unfortunate others that she must be leave behind, go out the door with her. Being as polite as she can, she gives the group of church goers a small nod of appreciation for all that they've done for her in the years gone by. They nod feverishly, waving dismissive hands as though it's nothing really. She arches an eyebrow at the modesty, but says nothing.

Instead, she turns to the small figure leaning against the wall. Jamie. His eyes flicker upwards and catch hers. She swears that blade has just been twisted once again. She opens her mouth to say something, anything. But he quickly returns his gaze to the floor. He doesn't want to hear his excuses. She goes to step forward but Paul places an interfering hand on her shoulder. She whirls around, about to demand what he's thinking, but the look of soberness on his face stops her and she knows this isn't the time or the place. Her hand grips his free one and she gives it a firm shake, before breaking the grip he has on her shoulder and walking to the waiting cab.

With a shrug of her shoulders and what she hopes appears to be a casual indifference, she raises her hand and gives the building and it's audience one final two fingered salute. She frowns in confusion as many raise their hands and give her a small wave. One minute they hate her, the next they're missing her. She really wishes they'd make up their minds. Jeez.

Without another word, she slides into the cab and slams the door shut. The cabby nods to her reflection and starts the engine. The lurch of the vehicle pulling away suddenly makes her want to vomit and she has to swallow it down as they begin a slow drive down the street.

There's a sudden cry that pierces the silence. Christine twists her body entirely as just before they turn the corner, she has enough time to see a running Jamie. He stretches out his hand, trying vainly to reach her. Paul is hot on his trail and is about to yank the boy back when he randomly stops. Realising it's hopeless, Jamie falls to his knees, a strangled cry filling Christine's ears.

The cabby hesitates but Christine waves a quick hand. "Don't even think about it." It's a low warning be he hears it clearly and actually quickens his pace, applying more pressure to the gas pedal. Men, it's always easier when they're already well trained.

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_A/N: Rather boring I know and very delayed. My apologies to the…counts three, maybe?, people who read this. I'm just sorting out some very difficult internals (important assignments). Will try to write another chapter in Easter break, which is in one week. Will be focusing on Erik. Oh, btw, whole reference to men being trained thing, don't take it personally guys. Tis only a joke. (I'm anti feminist, come on)_


	6. Noise Control

Erik flicks his eyes to his window and his quick pacing comes to a halt. A yellow taxi is easing to a halt outside his apartment block. Before the door can even open to reveal the passenger, he knows it's her. The sudden jolt in his stomach gives him a very strong hint. One boot steps out, followed by another. Soon her figure is leaning against the side of the cab, giving the driver a quick nod of thanks before slamming the door and glancing up. 

Erik is already well hidden behind the curtains. Sweet Jesus the things this girl can make him do! Chances are, he wouldn't be nearly half as nervous, had she actually not said his name the other night. Now his mind has been spending the remaining hours pondering over how she knows his name. And if she knows his name…she may know what he does, what kind of a monster he truly is. Yet, her eyes, they held no confusion as she had murmured his name. No, the only emotion he had been able to read was confusion…and, dare he even hope it, admiration?

He tilts his head and listens. Silence for the first five minutes. She's clearly taking her sweet time to get up those stairs. And he can't blame her. She has no idea as to who waits behind that door for her. It could be anyone. Friend. Foe. A past acquaintance. She is clueless. He can hear as her footsteps become audible. They're slow and hesitant. It's as though she's barely lifting them off the ground, a habit which drives her crazy. 

They come to a stop at his door and there's a slight pause. He can all too easily imagine her mentally preparing herself for this. She's probably run a hand through her hair and is already wearing her best casual glance of indifference, as though she's fine with this situation. There's a quick intake of breath and a sharp knock follows. 

He smirks now, his fear dissolving. She's here now, his turf. And with that being the situation, she has to play by his rules. Knowing this, he quickly marches to the front door, prepared to finally put the next phase of his plan into action.

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97 steps. That's how many she had to make before reaching the floor that will no doubt change her life in ways she can only hope are good. "Number 13..." She mutters, internally laughing at the pathetic cliché. To her confusion, there is no other door beside his, but two face oppositely. He must have joined two together. The man likes space, that isn't a crime. The two brass numbers aren't too inviting and she's half tempted to go for a long walk and consider her other possibilities. 

_But there are no other possibilities. You made sure of that, remember? _The little smart ass voice in her head reminds her. She glares at the teasing tone that taunts her unrelentingly. However, no matter how evil and unforgiving the voice may be, it has a point. She dug herself this hole and she's got to start digging her way out. 

Christine gives herself a quick once over in the reflection on the nearby elevator. The stainless steel reflection reveals to her the fear that is all too obvious in her eyes. Blinking rapidly and reminding herself that she's dramatizing the situation, she replaces the pair of clear water orbs with cold, hard ice. This brings a smirk to her face as she raps on the door. Three quick strides and the barrier is pulled away. 

"No fcking way."

It escapes her lips before she can check herself. She bites her tongue and sharply whacks herself across the thigh, reminding her not to let her big mouth not to get the better of her in future. Her eyes roam the figure before her, examining him with great detail.

His feet are slipped into comfortable loafers which lead up to a pair smart, black dress pants. His white dress shirt is tucked in at the bottom, but the sleeves are informally rolled up, reminding her of her of many of her favourite characters from the 80's movies she loves to watch. His Rolex watch catches the light and only adds to his impressive and expensive look. Her eyes shift to the inviting area of chest he has managed to reveal by unbuttoning the first two buttons of his shirt. A scar at the base of his collar bone pauses her stare and her hand reaches to her own neck, running an unconscious finger across her own, much thicker, reminder of a past injury. 

A black mask covers the right side of his face. The curve traces along the middle of the face, until it reaches his luscious - she clenches her fist in anger at noticing - lips, then it slowly turns and heads towards his ear and back up again. On an estimate, she would say it covers a good 1/3 of his face. But the 2/3 that are revealed, are enough to let her see his handsome features.

The thick black hair on his head is slicked back, but a few strands have come loose, as though he has been running nervous hands through it. It's been freshly cut, she swears, and it just reaches down to his ear tips. And finally, those eyes. Two glowing orbs of amber. The two pairs lock on to one another and starting gun within Christine's head goes off, signalling for the staring match to begin.

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Silence, pure silence as the two remained focused on one another. Each occasionally blinking, but neither breaking his or her stare. Erik decides to try a tactic. He leans forward, extending his hand. She doesn't hesitate and her own hand meets his half way. They clasp. 

"Erik-" "Erik Verstiere." She cuts him short, just as he planned. And just like he planned, she quickly breaks the grip and adverts her stare to the floor beneath her. Just the look in her eyes tells him she's dealing herself a good dose of mental abuse. Two slip ups in the space of three minutes, she's losing her touch. 

But not her dignity apparently, as she raises her head again, lifting the gaze back to his. He remembers his manners and takes a step back, gesturing his arm in one sweeping, welcoming motion. She obliges, bending down and untying her shoelaces as fast as she can. 

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The boots lay discarded and he clears his throat and takes her first to the lounge. A 42 inch flat screen television is suspended against a textured chocolate coloured wall. The other three are Spanish white, creating a calm feeling. A three seat leather couch is opposite the rarely used device, a surround sound speaker is on either side. Two remotes are balanced casually on the arms on the chair. A small, wooden rack is filled with DVDs. A brief eye along the spines, and she notes that most are musicals of some kind.

The next room is the kitchen. He opens up the cupboards, while she leans against the granite worktop, following his actions with her stare. "Just help yourself whenever you need to. It's your kitchen now and all I ask is that you clean up any mess you make." He explains, casting a glance over his shoulder, to see if she's taking this in. He assumes her nod is an affirmative and continues, walking past the stainless steel appliances. 

"This is the laundry, I expect you to clean your own things. Unless, you really want me to." The last sentence is one that quickly makes him thankful he is wearing a mask that hides his reddening cheek. He turns his head to hide the other, but his comment is greeted with a smile. "I'm sure I'll manage." She chuckles, adverting her gaze to the washing machine and drier, so to give him an opportunity to regain his composure. 

"This is the only room in the house that I ask you not to enter." He explains, rapping a knuckle against the door which hides his secret. Behind the door are the tools of Erik's trade. Weapons of miniscule and mass destruction. He prays her curiosity never gets the better of her and the door remains untouched. Should he discover his…job…he's not too sure what course of action he'd take. No doubt it would be unpleasant for both. She seems unfazed however, and gives him a thumbs up. "Sounds fair enough."

This sentence encourages him to proceed on. The walls of the next room are painted in the same fashion as the others around the house. Three of Spanish white and one of colour, this one being a deep red, almost crimson. This is room is slightly larger than the lounge, this is what he's done with some of that extra space. A fire place is ready for the harsh winter ahead. In the corner, a tall Cedar bookshelf scrapes the ceiling and reaches from one end of a wall, to the other. The fact that it is overflowing with books, makes Christine lick her lips in anticipation of reading. Walking the length of it, she ticks off famous titles, some she has read, most she hasn't been able to get her hands on. 

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Erik watches as a smile forms on her face at the mere sight of the bookshelf. An avid reader himself, he can understand her fascination. It's a rare moment to meet someone with the same book tastes as yourself, let alone someone with a whole wall full of books you have been unable to read yourself. A title catches her attention and a daring hand shoots out. She's lucky enough to stop it and turns to him, for his permission first. He nods. "They are yours to read as you wish." 

"Thank you." She gushes, not embarrassed as she joyfully, yet carefully, pries the book out. A thumb runs itself over the golden lettering on the cover. _A Killer's Guide To Life - How To Fit In Amongst The Unknowing._ Erik thinks back to finding the book and remembers how he had been willing to pay double the price to simply add it to his collect of others. The grin on her face is enough to bring a smile to his own. Her happiness has that effect on him. 

There's a slamming of pages and she drags him back to reality. Placing the book back, she blushes. "Sorry, continue." He frowns slightly. Only now has the sudden change in personality dawned on him. One minute she is lighting cars on fire, swearing at dirty cops. The next, she is politely returning a book back to it's home, apologising for her apparent rudeness. 

But nevertheless, he continues. "The Piano is yours to use as are any other instruments you find in the room, a violin, guitar, you are free to play them all until your heart's content." He shrugs to the other half of his life, his music. Her eyes flick to the instruments and for a moment, he sees them light up with a slight longing. But as soon as they land upon the violin, her gaze turns cold. 

He curses himself and offers for the showcasing to go on. She eagerly accepts as he opens the next door. This is his bedroom and he is careful to watch her reaction. 

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The music room is amazing. Books and music, two of her passions - one alive, one forcefully killed long ago by herself - in the same room. The conflict that bubbles up within her is immense. He tells her the books are hers to read, this is no problem. But the instruments? Does he know? A weary eye examines him, but he seems to be clueless as to her past. So, knowing this, she allows herself the pleasure and pain of checking out the tools of the past she's attempted for so long to forget. 

The Piano stands proudly, the ivory keys catch the light rays and cast them off at different angles. One hits her eye and she flinches in imagined pain. She has to turn away, but she can't. They're teasing her. Laughing at her. Mocking her and her pain. And if she's not careful, she'll march over to them right now and teach them a lesson. But the thought of angering her new host stops her and she forces her shaking pupils to look at something else. 

Bad idea, they quickly sweep over the others and land upon something that is possibly worse. The violin. Unwelcome images and memories resurface. In the distance she can hear the familiar tunes of her father. Happy ones, sad ones, ones he had taught her. She has to fight the urge to cover her ears, in some feeble attempt to block it all out. But Erik saves her, asking to continue.

She gratefully accepts the offer and allows him to move on. 

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Even before he opens the door, she knows it's his room. His manner and her logic tells her that. She hides all emotion as he pushes the door open, revealing a sight to behold. 

All four walls are the same blood red colour as the one in the music room. Black curtains are pulled back to allow the dying sunlight to warm up the double four poster bed that sits in the middle. Black satin covers encase the soft mattress. A mahogany dressing table is situated near by. On top is a white mask, identical to the one he's wearing, for formal events maybe? It is of no concern to her. 

A closed door is near the bedside table and her assumption is proven to be correct. "My bathroom, you too have your own. I find, it makes life easier for the both of us." He explains as her touring stare finishes on the final item. A small, yet no doubt loud, organ is pressed up against the wall, opposite the foot of the bed. Sheets, upon sheets of music are stacked up on the floor beside it. Years and years of work, clearly. Private work. She cocks an eyebrow at the organ itself. "You never have problems with noise control?" It's a sarcastic comment that she has to ask. He shakes his head. "Once taught how to use ear plugs, the neighbours know better than to complain."

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The final room is hers. All the previous rooms have impressed her, but this is the one he worries about the most. It becomes apparent that he needn't have any concerns about pleasing her. 

"Whoa."

It's a small sigh, but that's all he needs to hear and his hands stop shaking. Clearly the deep purple pleases her and the midnight blue curtains are to her liking. Her bed is the same size as his, but her sheets are the rich blue that frames the sides of the window. It's curiously tucked into the corner, the way she likes it. This way, she has a corner is curl up into, literally. The sight of it is most certainly welcoming and she can't wait to try it out this evening. 

Her own bathroom is cleaned and waiting, just as he had promised. The dresser is slightly larger than his own, as though he's expecting her to be the typical girl, wanting new clothes everyday. As she opens up the wardrobe doors, she raises an eyebrow at the sight of three dresses already hanging inside. Her face says it all as she turns to him. Explain. "I am required to attend formal functions occasionally, and I would be delighted if you accompanied me to some of them." He coughs, knowing she hates the thought of wearing a dress, let alone wearing one. She says nothing as she closes the doors, knowing this is one discussion that can wait.

Her three boxes from earlier are waiting, stacked up besides a desk, which is one of those clever corner ones. She spins the wheelie chair lightly and runs a hand over the desk lamp. Giving the room one final look, she turns back to Erik. "A pathetic way of showing gratitude, I know. But all I can really say is thank you." She admits, shrugging, showing this is truly all that she is capable of. "You're most certainly welcome. I'll leave you to unpack and get comfortable, move things around to your liking perhaps. Dinner will be ready at 7.30, please, don't be late."

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_A/N: Ok, so I really like my bed tucked up into the corner, but hey. My story, my rules, I suppose. Read and review. Criticism is welcome. Compliments (if any exist) as well. Ideas are always wicked as well. salutes_


	7. Annoying

As soon as the bedroom door shuts, Christine lets out an involuntary sigh. She shrugs the duffle bag off and places it gently on the bed. Casting a quick glance to the gap between the door and the floor, checking to see if there's no shadows of unwanted feet there, she pulls out a cell phone. Flicking through the contacts, she suddenly presses the call button and brings the device to her ear. There's three rings and she's pacing around the room randomly after the first. She ends up resting against the window, glancing down to the streets below.

"Chris." It's not a question, it's a statement from Paul on the other end. Christine is blunt and eager to get to the topic. "Did you get him inside afterwards?" She can feel Paul roll his eyes in anger at the attention that the child receives. "Hi, how are you Chris? Me, I'm doing great myself." He fakes his enthusiasm. "Paul! Now is not the time to hold a petty grudge against Jamie. I am trusting him in your care. I knew it was going to be a big responsibility, don't give me any doubts about your maturity right now!" She snaps at his rudeness and she knows he's flinching slightly with each cold word.

There's a slight pause as they both take a moment to regain themselves. Christine, to calm herself down. Paul, to build up the courage to carry on. Finally, the void is filled. "It took a bit of work, but I got him in. The little guy scraped his palms slightly on the fall down." Christine opens her mouth but he beats her to it. "I cleaned them up and made sure they were covered. I was fresh out of lollipops though, sorry." This last comment can't help but make Christine laugh briefly.

"How was dinner?" "Well, personally, I thought the potatoes were a bit undercooked. But the chicken was just beautiful. Overall, I'd say-" "Paul." She sighs, but it's a playful sigh nevertheless. "I know, I know, be serious. Well, he refused to come down." "What?" "He refuses to leave his room. And I'm worried Chris." The sudden tone of concern is clearly a shock and Christine sharply pulls away, checking that she rung the right number. Apparently so.

"He blames himself for you leaving. He told me plain and simple Chris, that he's the reason you ain't coming back." Christine catches a reflection of herself in the window and finches away, standing up sharply and resuming her walk about. "How the fuck did he deduce that?!" She wants to know. "He was crying his eyes, sobbing and all, I couldn't understand much of it. But there was something about him being sarcastic and rude, something like that." Christine groans and rubs her temple.

"I'm worried Chris." He repeats the line from earlier. "I can't leave him alone for five minutes. I'm freaking out that he's going to hurt himself or something like that. I've been staying in his room, doing my homework, watching over him. I'm standing outside, half of me listening for any weird sounds." The smirk that crosses Christine's face is a proud one and a knowing one. Despite what he says about the 'little bugger', Paul cares. This is just more proof for her argument.

"Pass the phone to him." She finally decides, mentally preparing herself for the discussion that lies ahead. "You sure Chris, I mean-" "I'm sure Paul, now hand him over before I ain't." She orders. There's a sigh of defeat, a shuffle of feet and a creaking of a door opening. "Jamie, it's for you." Paul grunts. "Who is it?" The little boy is cautious. "Just take the goddamn cell phone, will you? Before I come to my senses." It's gruffly added at the end, Paul is clearly not happy about the situation. He sees the best solution to this particular problem is to cut off all communication with the boy, let him live the rest of his life and hope he forgets she ever existed. Christine is more realistic in what needs to be done.

"Hello?" It's a blocked up sort of voice, no doubt a side effect from the tears he's been needlessly shedding. "Jamie-" "Shit!" He drops the phone and she hears his retreating footsteps. Paul is quick to act apparently and there's a brief sound of struggling. "She wants to talk to you, kid. Be grateful." "I can't, Paul!" He insists and no doubt he's trying to punch the teenager with all his might. "Ow!" Is exclaimed before the phone is picked up.

"You taught him how to knee properly? Why didn't you tell me?! I thought we had an agreement, you'd tell me whatever you taught the little brat, so whenever he gets stupid enough to pick a fight with me, I know what to expect. I was not expecting a bloody knee in the bloody balls! Seriously Chris, that can have serious consequences-" "Paul…" She's sniggering though. "I mean, it's not made of steel you know-" "Paul…" She rolls her eyes now, this is getting stupid. "He could have done some major damage there-"

"Paul!" "Alright, but you owe me. Here Jamie, she wants to talk to you. Why is beyond me, but hey, this Chris is we're talking about." Christine cocks an unimpressed eyebrow. He will pay for that later. "Hello?" A tentative voice inquires. "Jamie, listen-" There's a sudden sob. Christine's instincts get the better of her and she's quick to react. "Oi! Half pint! Listen to me!" This is received with silence but she knows the boy is listening attentively. "Good, now what is this I hear about you not eating?" The boy swallows and turns himself away from the mouthpiece. "You told her?!" "Tell me something Jamie, have you ever lied to Chris? I didn't think so."

Paul is quick to snap back, even being so bold as to clouting the boy around the head. Christine hears the thump. Sweet Jesus, what is it with the men in her life? "Ow! That hurt!" "No shit Sherlock!" Paul growls. Christine rolls her eyes and decides to end this. "Both of you! Stop it!" She barks loudly, then casts a quick glance back to the door. No, no unwanted feet. With this reassuring her, she returns to the task at hand. "Now Jamie, I want you to pay attention, got it?" "Got it." And she knows that he's nodding along with his word. "First of all, after this conversation, you're going to go downstairs, look straight into the face of Mother Superior and tell her you were sick at dinner but now you think you can hold it down. Secondly, it ain't your fault."

He goes to speak. "But-" "No buts Jamie, I got myself into this. I got to face up to the consequences." "But adoption Chris! Adoption?!" "I don't make the rules Jamie, I only break them and receive the punishments, and I don't make those either. Point is, it's too late to fix it now. Isn't it?" He hesitates. "Isn't it?" She repeats. "Yeah, suppose so." "You suppose so?" He sighs. "I know so." "Damn straight. Now go downstairs, I've got to say a few words with Paul." "Ok, and Christine?" "Hit me." "Thanks."

There's the sound of scurrying feet. "Where's he off to?" "Kitchen." "You never cease to amaze me, Chris." Paul admits suddenly. "Well, I'm just so persuasive, must be my lovely personality." She jokes and the two have a quick laugh, breaking the tension. Paul finally sighs and speaks up. "Will I be seeing you on Monday?" "Paul, this is me we're talking about." "Yeah, I know. Just humour me for a minute." "Yes. Yes, you will be seeing me at school on Monday." She assures him and he can't disguise that sigh of relief for a yawn.

"So what's he like?" Paul brings her back to reality. Christine pauses. Paul would have no idea who the man was if he said his name, few people would. And even if he did, it would be one more reason not to say it. "He's…" She gestures with her free hand, as though Paul was in the room in front of her. Suddenly words seem to fail her. Christine knows that Paul wants to hear some slander about the man who is now her legal guardian, supposedly. But to be honest, she can't yet state anything of the kind. And this annoys her.

"Annoying." She growls in sudden realisation of her predicament. Never before has she been unable to point out a single bad thing about a person after only five minutes of knowing them. "Annoying?" Paul echoes in the silence. "That's it? Annoying? I mean, that's pretty mild coming from you Chris. Are you sure-" "I got to go. Unpacking and all that." She quickly inserts, cutting him off from his demands for more. "But-" "No buts. Talk to you later." She interjects and hangs up. She the proceeds to thrown the phone onto the bed, as though it had burnt her.

--

Erik leans against the wall next to her bedroom door. There is a frown on his face as the conversation proceeds. The worry in her voice is clear and it only furrows his brows further. She frets unnecessarily for these two imbeciles. She succeeds in persuading the reluctant Jamie of his innocence and manages to convince him he needs to eat. With that task accomplished, she is forced to talk to the biggest problem of them all, Paul.

Erik knows of the closeness between the two and it clenches his fist at the mere thought of all the years they've shared together. She will always have something with the boy that she hasn't had with him, a childhood. The conversation suddenly halts. She's thinking…

"Annoying."

It's a growl of frustration. Annoying. He smiles at this. This is the best she can produce to her demanding audience? He can hear Paul's quick protest at such a mild verdict. She cuts him short and seconds later, a gentle thump indicates that the mobile has been discarded onto the bed.

Cocking his head to the side, he hears the gentle click of a switchblade locking into place and he grimaces. He had hoped the slash to her delicate wrist would be enough to put her off that wretched thing. Apparently not. There's three quick slices and it is immediately closed and joins the phone on the bed.

Ah, let the unpacking begin.

With a resigned sigh of relief and full knowing of the months of earning and resisting temptation that lie ahead, he silently pushes himself away from the wall and slips into his own bedroom.

His hand runs along the keys on the organ and he feels the sudden urge to write…music, that is.

He takes his seat, automatically removing the watch that has been known to pester him in times like this. There's the sound of rustling as he searches for a pencil and a fresh sheet of paper. Finding one, he pauses. Tapping the pencil against his temple, he hesitates to start this new piece. A title…a name…that's what he needs.

Suddenly, it comes to him.

There's the scratching of lead against the common product of trees. Then, a long scratch as he underlines it.

Pulling back, he smiles at the simplicity of the title which just hit his head. It is obvious, stating all too clearly what this is about. This is what he has reached now. His scrawled words spell out for him the part of the plan that he has been waiting for so, so long.

"_Past The Point Of No Return"_

--

_A/N: So Erik finally got her in his house, what will happen next? The first confrontation, of course. But what will it be about? But before that can happen, Erik is going to learn a lesson in never to assume with Christine. _


	8. HitWhat?

Erik slices the sushi quietly, enjoying the classical CD he has playing in the background. The notes are like drug to his system, feeding his addiction. He places the knife down, arranging the cold pieces of dinner on the large plate in front of him. Sushi, one of her favourites. Healthy, yet filling and perfect in taste. A good combination of meat and vegetables. He approves. There's far too many teens shoving vomit inducing food down their throats these days, he swears. There's the sound of a door being slowly closed and he shifts his gaze to the right.

Christine stretches, her t-shirt riding up as her finger tips attempt to reach the ceiling. Erik's eyes cannot help but stray to the strip of exposed creamy flesh, there's an animal stirring within himself and he sharply bites the inside of his mouth in a form of punishment. He watches as she gathers up her hair and half heartedly ties it up, not bothering to fix it when the strands manage to escape. She finally lifts her gaze from admiring a painting on the wall to his longing one. Instantly, his eyes cloud over with self abuse as he purposefully turns himself a 180 degrees to search for something in the cupboard. She cocks an eyebrow, but decides it is best to stay silent.

He silently brushes past her as she leans against the dining room table, placing the platter and a bottle of soy-sauce down beside it. "I trust everything is to your liking." He finally speaks up, tracing his steps back to the kitchen to retrieve plates and cutlery. Small talk is the first step. She needs to feel comfortable. She nods. "Everything is better than expected, I can tell you that much." She admits, not unwillingly either. He smirks at the honest compliment, revelling in it's true meaning. She is happy. And that means, he is happy.

"What were you expecting?" He inquires, laying a plate in front of her and one in his own place. They both pause, each standing behind opposite facing chairs, neither willing to sit down first. "Truth be told, not you, Verstiere." She sighs, gesturing to the man in front of her. He glances at his reflection, misunderstanding the comment. _See? _The image taunts him. _No one wants you, let alone Christine!_ He flinches slightly and turns his head away from the lies of the glass and returns to the real world.

"Ah, my name. We have still yet to discuss the issue of how you came to know it." Erik warns her, signalling that he hasn't forgotten the matter. But she is casual in her manner, as though she is talking to an old friend. Her mood is relaxed but, like his, still highly alert. They are both focusing on the actions of each other, trying to interpret them. "Don't worry, I can explain my knowledge, as soon as you explain what a hit man wants with a 17 year old orphan."

The comment has the opposite effect of the desired one. His eyes widen and his mouth drops open. His composure is lost for a second, but quickly dragged off the ground. "Hit-what?" He wants to know, gripping the top of the chair tightly. But she remains silent, studying him. It tries his patience and he approaches her, admiring her bravery as she holds her ground. Any normal and sane person would take a step or at least raise their hands up in some feeble attempt to stop him. But Christine knows when she is the weaker person and is clever enough to not resist.

"Come on Erik, cut me some slack. You've done your research, you know I'm Organized Crime obsessed, how can this possibly come as a surprise?" Now she is the one confused. Clearly, she assumed he remembered, but…he doesn't. How could he not though? Then again, it was many years ago…they were both young, especially herself… She can't help but allow a sigh of relief to pass her lips and she straightens up with the weight lifted off her shoulders. She folds her arms across her chest and he mimics the action as they draw nearer to each other.

"I don't appear in any common books, any news papers, nothing." He assures her, stopping her before the lie can leave her. "I'm not dumb enough to have the tabloids splash my name everywhere." "I can still have links, can't I?" She tries, shrugging. "Links?" "I have my sources, I keep my radio tuned to the Crime Channel, so to speak. It's good to know the true story, not just what the media tries to force feed me." She explains. He nods his head in understanding. This is something he can believe and she hopes he does.

"So, you know." He finally sighs, seating himself. "What you want with me, no." Christine is just as determined as him to get the matter settled. He looks up at her, studying her. She deserves some truth. "Company." It's a one worded answer that does little to satisfy her hungry for honesty. "Company?" She scoffs, the eyebrow reaching new heights. "The company of someone I thought might be an intellectual equal, perhaps." He carries on. They both know that flattery wont work with her, she sees through such lies. But this one appears to be genuine and she takes the seat next to him.

"What else?" She inquires, taking a piece of sushi and chewing it slowly. He watches the action, considering how much to tell her. He decides on not too much. The truth needn't be spoken of now. He couldn't possibly explain it in words. And even if he tried, they would only succeed in pushing her away. _I love you. I'm obsessed with you. I want to make you mine and mine alone_. Yeah, that should go down well…

"That, you shall discover along the way." He slowly explains, joining her in devouring the meal. She doesn't pause and he knows she is unhappy with the answer, but she's too smart to press the matter. Christine must simply wait and see. Granted, patience is not one of her strengths, but he's sure she'll managed. But there is something he must know, it is a foolish question and no doubt he will get a laugh in the form of an answer, but he must calm his nerves on the subject.

"You are fine with my profession then?" She freezes, a piece of sushi held steady by her hand, just about to enter her delicate mouth. "Huh?" She grunts, showing teenage boys world wide she can speak their language. "Me being a hit-man, it doesn't trouble you?" Her mouth twists into a smile and she chuckles. "If it was Erik, do you think I would be sitting here, eating sushi right beside you?" "Fear can make people do stupid things, I mean-" But she quickly and sharply cuts him short. "I don't do fear, it ain't my style." Her tone is a growl. He's hit a tender issue and he knows it.

"I'm just saying-" "I know what you're saying and I can assure you, Verstiere, that fear is not the reason I am sitting here. Far from it, in fact." This comment freezes both of them. Realisation sinks in and she glances towards her bedroom door. He wastes no time in placing a firm hand on her shoulder. "You can't leave the table until you've finished your meal." This causes her to scoff and she arches an extremely sarcastic eyebrow. "I'm not trying to amuse you, Christine. It's come to my attention that you're prone to lacking at least one, sometimes two and maybe even three, meals a day. I wont have such a thing go on under my roof." He states calmly, he's laying down the rules and his voice is firm in his orders.

--

Christine shakes her head in disbelief. He can't possibly be serious. Sure, she has the tendency to skip breakfast and on occasion, lunch, but still, she's alive. _I'd like to see you check on me for school lunches. _She silently snorts, hiding her smirk. "Do not think that I haven't considered school. I will make sure you eat there as well." He cuts her victory dance short. _Oh, really? How the hell are you going to manage that?_ She doesn't need to say it, because he continues. "Don't worry, I will explain the details tomorrow." He shrugs causally and she clenches a free fist. _This guys got balls, I'll give him that much. _

Noticing that he too has stopped eating, she resumes the meal, rolling her eyes but remaining silent. He smiles, no doubt glad to have this victory to notch into his tally. Let him think what he wants to, he has no way of controlling her. No way whatsoever.

Twenty minutes later, Christine stands up, stacking the plates into her hands and carrying them over to the dish washer. He doesn't protest and returns the sauce back to it's home. She glances over, making sure everything is clean, out of instinct, and noting that it is, begins to walk towards her bedroom. Erik is too fast and stands, wanting to know where she's off to. His feet are planted firm and one arm is stuck out, blocking off the exit.

"Study." She's being totally honest here. Study awaits her and although she dreads it, every night she puts herself through it. He shakes his head. "What day is it, Christine?" "Do I even have to answer that?" Christine sighs, unimpressed. Thinking that he's going to make her eat three square meals a day is one thing, but even considering the idea that he could come between her and her future - more so that he already has - is too much. She draws the line. "What day is it?" He repeats. "Saturday." She states, playing along with this game. "Exactly. And you finish your homework last night?" She narrows her eyes, partially seeing where he's going with this. "Correct. Hence, why I said study." "Do you have any tests next week?" She plays with the idea of lying, weighing up the pros and cons.

"Honestly." Erik adds sharply. "Well, no, but-" "But nothing then. You have no need for study." She cannot, and will not, believe this. "That's not the point, I need to-" "You need to do nothing. Studying for something unnecessarily only increases your nervousness, hence, stressing yourself out needlessly. You'll find that your marks will actually get better if you balance you're life out." He quickly adds. This perks her ears up and keeps her silent. She's heard it before, but it's only ever been from guidance councillors from her school who know jack shit. "Just eat three meals a day, study one or two nights in advance for a test, not three weeks and spend the right amount of time relaxing, and you'll notice an improvement. I swear."

This last bit causes her to laugh and she sighs, looking at the man before her. _Let him have this one night, Daae. Go on, let the man think he has the upper hand. _"And what do you propose I do instead?" She inquires, interested to see what has in store. "Spend your time following another one of your passions." He states, as though it was obvious. He takes her hand and leads her to the music room. And suddenly, her stomach is twisted. Her muscles instinctively tense. He notes this and his grip only tightens as he nearly drags her within.

He's faces her towards the bookshelf and now, she is internally laughing, cursing her own stupidity. _He doesn't remember_. She reminds herself. He is clueless to the pleasures and horrors this room presents to her. Keeping her gaze firmly on the books, she runs a finger down a row of spines, pondering…With a flick of her wrist and a sharp tug, a 800 page hard back is in her hands and she calmly takes a seat on the couch. He nods in approval for her choice of book and quickly seats himself at the piano. He rolls up his sleeves and places the watch on the side. Her eyes dart from the first page to him, curious. _What is he up to now?_


	9. One Note

_A/N: I've decided to apologize. Re-reading my last chapter, I've decided it wasn't all that great. And for the few readers I have, I'm going to have to say sorry. Sorry. I mean, when I make the effort to read my favourite fan fictions, I at least like the author to make an effort. And I think I rushed the last chapter. I lost track of the characters for a bit. Hope this one is better. _

_And thanks for the reviews ( I know they're not great in number ). But they are helpful, very helpful. So let me know what you think._

_-- _

Erik doesn't bother to shift his eyes. He knows full well that his holds her attention. He also knows that if he so much as glimpses her, he will lose all his nerve. He's got to stay focused, don't lose track of the task at hand. He swallows and places his fingers in just the right position. There's a pause. Silence. Pure silence.

She's staring and so is he. She at him, and him at the keys. _Work! Damn it! _He orders his body and for once, it doesn't betray him, and the fingers sink down into the ivory water below. He smirks, knowing the hardest part is over. Once the music has begun, they will both be entranced, it is simple.

_--_

His fingers are nimble and quick, playing the keys skilfully as he plays what she assumes is one of his own pieces. The tune is low but fast. The notes are almost angry, snapping at the air and biting it. As his fingers press harder, a chill runs down Christine's spine. It demands attention and that is exactly what it receives. Her book is by her side, forgotten. Her fingers twitch and itch and she quickly clenches her fists and shoves them into her pockets. The music that he has surrounded her with has gripped her stomach and squeezed tightly.

She's never heard playing this…angry…this….upset…this…beautiful, from another person before. There are others out there who are impressive but this is something better than that. This isn't impressive, this is passion, dedication. A trail of Goosebumps travel up her arms and she inhales sharply as the cold hits her chest.

But no matter how magnificent the music is, she knows something is missing. He designed this not only to hypnotize with music but with words as well. She opens her mouth, a part of her longing to strum her vocal chords and complete the piece. Somehow he instinctively presses even harder, drowning his fingers in the rushing current.

--

One note.

That's all she lets out but that is enough. Both freeze at the same time. Christine sits with a look of horror and disgust on her face unable to believe she has just done such a thing. Erik, has turned around completely, a smile of triumph on his face and glowing eyes.

Her eyes had formed gentle pools of water, melting in the moment of weakness. But suddenly they now freeze over, creating a solid wall of ice. He can't wipe the smile off his face, even when she goes and commits the next act.

Christine's body stands and takes three steps, three lightning quick steps. Erik knows from the look of rage on her face he should be concerned, but he's far too busy self congratulating himself. _You did it! It took only one bloody evening and she couldn't resist. _

This smug look does nothing to help the man and Christine snaps, lunging forward and snatching him by his shirt. She yanks him close, a growl in her throat. "What the fuck do you think you're playing at?!" She wants to know and she wants to know now. "Why, my dear, just playing some music-" She shakes him, interjecting his innocent tone. "Don't lie to me you bastard." Christine hisses, she is in no mood for games nor to be called pet names.

"I have no idea what you're trying to imply." "I don't know how the fuck you found out, and to be honest, I don't care, but let this serve as a warning to you. I never want this to happen again. Whatever ideas you had of 'helping' me, lose them. I don't need help. I don't need you. And I don't need music!" She barks, her voice getting higher and higher. Erik opens his mouth to say something but she doesn't let him have a chance.

It's a back handed slap, the kind a drunk husband gives his wife on a Saturday night after 'a couple of drinks with the guys'. But her aim and strength aren't impaired by alcohol and the sound of flesh on flesh cracks through the air. She had purposely whacked his exposed face, meaning the mask stays firmly in place. A red mark quickly forms but both know she hasn't truly hurt her. The stinging will fade.

But not the memories of tonight. And she quickly shoves him away in disgust, throwing his against the piano. His hands go out to support him and a mixture of high and low notes shatter the silence, her mood reflected. With a quick mutter in a language he can't understand, she whirls around and walked away.

"You can't deny yourself forever, Christine."

He calls out to her retreating form. She spits something again in the language but it's more of a self aimed comment and she doesn't bother to even look back. Her bedroom door slams and he frowns. Maturity is one of her key attributes, he must have pushed a very sensitive button to make her lose that.

_Perfect._

--

Christine cannot and will not sleep. Her heart is beating rapidly, the pounding against her rib cage has started to ache. She silently paces the room, trying to make herself tired, to induce some form of sleep. But it's useless. Her mind is fixated on the scene that unfolded the few hours before hand. Jesus…what has she done? It had only been a piece of music, one simple tune. Yet she had felt compelled it succumb to it. Years of resisting temptation have amounted to nothing, off of that hard work, lost in one night.

But the question of her sudden weakness is not the most urgent one. It is the question of how the bloody hell he knows. Of course she had insisted she didn't care, it is in her defensive nature to fool others, try to make them think she doesn't give a damn. But how can she not?!

He knows! It's not possible. No one knows. No one except for her and a rotting corpse that lies miles away. Or so she thought…How though…how? She knows he has been watching her frequently, but she's never mentioned the subject aloud, never written any notes, nothing. And when she had been bold enough to fulfil those urges, she had ensured she was alone…Obviously not.

And the domino effect continues as another question presents itself. How much? How much does he truly know? He may know the disease, but does he know the cause? The symptoms and side effects are allowed to be common knowledge to him, so long as he is clueless to the molecular biology of it all…

"Of course not!" She hisses out loud, assuring herself. He may be good, but he's not perfect in staying hidden. Then again, neither is she as tonight has proven. She moans, tilting her head back as she covers her shameful face with her shaking hands. This can't be happening. The secure world she has spent so many years building, this new life that she was just adapting to and becoming accustomed to, it's all falling apart. Piece by piece. Brick by brick.

With a resigned and quick growl, she flicks her head back forwards, her blonde hair coming forward with it and covering half her face as she glances at her reflection. The hair is a mess, her clothes wrinkled from the random grips as she attempted to keep control and her pale skin is looking worse than usual. She shrugs off her jacket, hanging it on her desk chair.

With a final sigh, she falls face first onto her pillows. She yawns, telling herself not to worry. "He'll learn soon enough." It's a muffled promise, but a promise nevertheless. Grabbing the blanket and curling up under it, she drifts into a fitful sleep, unprepared for the trials which await her tomorrow.

--

Erik holds his breath, knowing that a mere breath could drag her out of her nightmare. The bright lights of the Bronx are filtering through her windows and he marvels at her ability to sleep through this.

One step.

There's a sharp in take of breath from the bed and she yelps something in the foreign language from earlier.

Two step.

She now pleads to the person in her nightmare, obviously begging for something or someone to be spared.

Three step.

Suddenly, she whimpers. There's a gasp of pain and the sound of her upset tears him to pieces. He wants nothing more than to enclose her in his arms and assure her it is only a dream, but he has a task to do.

He's within arms reach now and his hand sneaks expertly into the jacket. He searches, once again resuming his non breathing status. After a slight pause, his nimble hand encases a slab of cold metal and he smirks triumphantly. He drags the Zippo out and slides it into his back pocket. The easiest part is done.

The glowing amber orbs float as he steps closer to the bed. His target is obvious. It glints in the night. The handle, sleek and smooth, is inviting his hand. The finger grooves beg for his warmth and he can't deny the switch blade as he reaches out for it. She groans in her sleep and now that he is closer, he can see how her body is shaking. He forces his gaze back to the issue on her bedside table. He grabs it and he swears a shock runs up his arm. Finished.

Ensuring that he doesn't look back, he hastily retreats. The door remains silent as he closes it and he listens. But she's too deep within her dream. Too deep to notice that her most precious belongings are no longer her own. Too deep to even begin to imagine the power that this man now holds over her.

Erik Verstiere chuckles darkly as he splashes the ice cold water on his face. For once, his life is going just the way he wanted it. And he is proud to say that the reason for it all is sleeping in the room next to him. He then pauses, looking at his reflection.

"Now even I have to admit. That was a bit melodramatic."

--


	10. Your Wish Is My Command

Christine's eyes tear themselves open, causing her to hiss at the sudden light, and she stares at emptiness. She lurches forward, slamming a hand down on the space that she knows her blade was sitting on. She wastes no time as her thoughts turn to the only other truly important thing and she snatches up the jacket in a flurry. "No, no, no!" She moans, patting the pockets and searching them aimlessly. Panic grips her and she whirls around, her eyes wildly scanning her surroundings. But she knows damn well where the items are.

She quickly shoves herself into some clean clothes, throwing the slept in ones into the laundry basket provided. With a half hearted glance at her reflection in the mirror, she yanks open the door. The slam breaks the silence of the morning and sends vibrations through the floor. As the echo dies out she hears the soft sound of the piano and her glare narrows further. God he's got some guts.

--

Erik doesn't pause at the bang of the door, a small smile forms on his features, but he simply continues the piece. His rhythm is steady and calm, settling his nerves. He closes his eyes, not needing to see the all too familiar keys. He doesn't hear her footsteps, she's too quiet for that, but he is fully aware that she is narrowing down the distance between them at a rapid pace.

Sure enough, six seconds later the door bursts open, the whole piece flying back and the handle leaving a lovely large dent in the wall. He opens his eyes, frowning with disappointment as he turns to greet her. He opens his mouth to remind her that although she is a valued guest, she cannot and will not go around wrecking the place. But before the words can even grace his tongue, both her hands grip and twist his shirt, pulling him close to her. He's now up close and personal and the damage he's done is obvious.

Her eyes may be held icy and firm, but within the whites are two shaking irises. It's the fear that's shaken her to the core. No one has ever been this bold. Her arms are twitching slightly and her breaths are short and shallow. Her blood is no doubt boiling and he toys with the thought that she'll begin foaming at the mouth. Her teeth are clenched and he can tell that she's fighting back the urge to spit some nasty and impolite words his way. Obviously, this whole thing is clearly not amusing to her.

"Good morning my dear, I trust you slept well." He inquires, acting completely innocent. She pulls him even closer at this, not in the mood for games. "Cut the crap, where are they?" She demands, trying to read his expression, hoping in vain for a clue to appear. Erik sighs, hoping they could be quiet and mature about this. Discuss it like adults. He delivers a sharp blow, breaking her grip. She allows him too, her hand quickly clenching into fists as she steps away. He stands up, examining her with interest.

"They are safe, that's all you need to know." Erik explains slowly and but this far from good enough for Christine. She quietly and quickly throws a punch but they know he holds the upper hand on strength and training. And as predicted, he catches it, relishing the chance to hold her hand within his own again. "Where?!" She wants to know now. "Where is not for your knowledge. You will have them returned to you, once you have completed your half of the bargain, and only then, not a moment before." He is cold now, his words perfectly serious. "This isn't a game Verstiere, those items are irreplaceable, if anything happens to them-" "I know the importance of those items Christine. And I promise you, nothing will happen to them, so long as you do what you are told to do." He swears and they both know he'll stay true to his word. This is one deal which he cannot go back on. She licks her lips, her eyes darting around the room, trying to focus on something but they come back to him.

"What is it that you want?" Her tone is a defeated one, and it doesn't suit her. Clearly she hasn't been forced to use it in many a year. "Obedience." He states it like he had his excuse the night before, simple and in a matter of fact way. "Go fuck yourself." Is her immediate reaction. He arches an eyebrow. "You are not in a position to argue. Be logical, make the punishment no worse than it need be." She suddenly drops to the couch, a growl rising but dying in her throat. "Fine, you command and I obey. Anything else?" Her contempt could be picked up by a deaf, dumb and blind man. Erik nods as he makes his way towards the door. "Try your best not to hate me."

--

Christine stares at the spot where he had stood. His words are ringing through her ears, as though he had shouted them in pure anger at her. _Try your best not to hate me. _She cups her head in her hands, closing her eyes and releasing a sob combined with a chuckle. This can't be happening. How could she have been so careless?! Seventeen years of being alert and cautious and she manages to slip up twice in the space of one night. How can this man have such a bloody effect upon her.

"He doesn't. It's just you letting your guard down. He isn't that great, you've just gone soft." She takes the blame instantly, standing up once more. She swallows and a plan in her mind already begins to formulate. He's one the battle, but the war has just begun. "You can do this Daae, just, play your cards right, bluff your way through his game, then present him with a royal flush and he's gone."

"Christine, I'd appreciate your company for breakfast." A voice breaks her chain of thought and she glances up, seeing her reflection in a glass cabinet. She runs a hand through her hair, making herself more presentable. She rolls her eyes sarcastically, doing a curtsey and allowing a murmur to pass her lips. "Your wish is my command."

--

_A/N: A very short chapter, I know. But bare with my people. And throw me some more feedback, come on, you know you want to. Even if it's "You should have both your hands chopped off for writing such a piece", I'd still appreciate it. You guys are the ones reading it, you should tell me what you want and I'll do what I can to cater for your every whim and fancy. __Your__ wish is __my__ command. _


	11. The Most Important Meal Of The Day

Erik places the kettle back on it's stand and lays her coffee cup beside his own. He glances around at the breakfast he's prepared. Fresh fruit, yoghurt, juice and the most important substance of them all, black coffee. Christine cautiously approaches. She pauses, her figure half hidden in the shadows. There's an inner conflict, but it's quickly solved as she straightens her posture slightly and continues the walk forwards. She glances at the spread and smirks. Now she knows damn well why he was so cocky the night before. He had this all planned out, for how long though?

He gestures for her to sit and rolling her eyes, she does so. She helps herself before he can tell her to do so, picking up the closest mug of steaming liquid. She swallows three quick gulps, before placing the cup down and allowing a sigh of relief to escape her lips. Coffee is an addiction that the two share and Erik follows suit, starting his second cup of the day.

Christine slices the apple quickly, wasting little of the flesh. Her hand is steady and calm, a sure sign she's used to handling blades of all shapes and sizes. Erik cuts open a juicy orange and can feel his stomach growl. He can only imagine how her body can manage to go through such hunger, day in, day out. When he's hungry, he's got to eat, simple as that. It must be self discipline of the harshest extent.

"So who needs their head removed from their body today?" She casually inquires after swallowing the second mouthful of fruit. It catches him off guard and he splutters slightly. She smirks at this but says nothing. He washes down the orange with some more coffee. "No body has earned a place on my hit list this weekend. No one is important enough to be shot on a weekend." He explains with a shrug. Truth is, he'd made sure every customer he has or will have, knows that this is one weekend they are not to disturb.

She ponders over this as she finishes her apple. There's a sudden buzz and they both know the noise. Gazes shift from each other and to her pocket. She yanks the phone out and reads the message. Erik goes to snatch it away and she holds it out of his reach, pushing him away with the other hand. She leans in closer and glares. "There are some lines that even you shouldn't cross, Erik." His eyes flick to the phone and he can read the sender. Paul.

"At least do the polite thing and keep it off at the table, in future." He warns her. She nods in understanding, before turning the phone off as she returns it to her pocket. His gaze lingers there for a moment, but he calms himself. Things would have just been easier if he'd - "Erik." She repeats angrily and he looks up at her. Her impatience is clear and he arches an eyebrow. She chooses to ignore it and repeats her question. "So if you have no work, what are you plans?"

--

Christine peels off a lid of a yoghurt and licks it, waiting for an answer and hoping to annoy him with her lack of manners. But she knows not to push it too much. Erik stares and she looks at him innocently. His hand suddenly shoots up and she can't help but follow instinct and kicks herself away. Her head is just out of his grasp and her eyes are watching his hand intently. He loops a leg around one of the legs of her chair and pulls her back. His thumb strokes her bottom lip and he brings it back to his own lips, licking the yoghurt off instinctively. There's pure silence as the two try to comprehend what just occurred.

Christine is having an internal conflict. Half of her hopes he's removed all the yoghurt and will keep his hands to himself for the remainder of the day. The other half is hoping, praying in fact, that there is still a slight smudge on her that he missed and that he'll remove it in the same way.

--

Mean while, Erik is staring at his hand. He is a man that follows instincts, but he's meant to be able to control them. He's beyond being animal, is he not? But then again, this girl brings out the best and the worst in him.

Christine seems to get over it first and quickly pushes herself away from the table, tilting her head back and drinking the yoghurt in three quick gulps. Erik watches as she calmly cleans up her mess, acting as if nothing had just occurred. He frowns slightly as she carries on cleaning. She can't just shrug it off every time something like this happens. First at the dinner table. Now, at breakfast. He stands up, placing his hand over hers as she grabs her empty coffee mug. Her head snaps up and she narrows her eyes, challenging him to say or do anything.

He smirks and yanks her close. She puts her hand up in time, pressing it against his chest and keeping some distance between the two. He glances down at her glare and his heart beat quickens with desire. How one simple look manages to do that to his body is beyond him. But his smirk can't be rubbed off his face and she stands up on her toes, bringing herself closer to him. He can feel her hot breath on his neck and his muscles quiver, his arms aching to suddenly lash out and crush her against him. But he refrains.

"Something you wanted to say?" She whispers in question. Her ice blue eyes are examining him intently, trying in vain to read his emotions through his amber pools. He tries to form a sentence in his mind but the closeness of her body is distracting and he fails miserably. "I didn't think so." She sighs, pushing herself off and resuming her distraction. He watches her briefly, and she does her best to ignore the gaze. It unnerves her, he can tell and this knowledge only seems to intensify it.

She finally turns around, hands on hips. "I'm finished, so, if you're quite done being useless and require me no longer, I'll be off." Her voice snaps him out of his dream reality, where they had been once again in that position, this time their lips locked around each others. Erik shakes his head. "I wanted us to start singing lessons today." He explains, gesturing towards the music room. Her eyes widen and her fists soon clench white.

--

"What?!" Christine spits, knowing full-well that this isn't probably the best tone to use with the man who's holding your two most precious possessions hostage. But she cannot help it. Honestly. He's got some nerve. First he shoves breakfast down her throat. Then he attempts to read her personal messages. Third time was the charm as he just stood there, watching her clean up. And now he's demanding music lessons? Surely he's joking?!

But his facial expression is one of complete seriousness. "Singing lessons. I know that your voice is good, great in fact, but even you must admit that you haven't used it in many years and it could use a little fine tuning. No one is perfect." He reasons, as though they're having a polite little discussion. "Erik, I don't sing." She finally states, purposely leaving the reason out. "Why ever not? You have a gift! Why do you insist on not sharing it with the world?" She groans, turning away from him and looking out into the busy street. He wouldn't possibly understand. He couldn't understand.

"Exactly! You lack a decent reason. So, quit trying to ignore it and simply accept it." He barks the order, pointing to the door. "But-" "No buts." He cuts her short and she growls, bringing a fist down sharply onto the granite work bench. They both hear the cracking of knuckles and bones but the expected moan of pain doesn't follow. Christine merely shakes the hand, the clicking of the bones shifting back into place echoing through the silence as she makes her way towards the music room.

_Son of a bitch…_

--

Erik winces as soon as her back is turned to him. The sound of self abuse is not one foreign to him, but every time this girl inflicts it, he can't help but cringe. And knowing that he just caused that particular blow, only makes it worse. It doesn't help when he realises that the next few hours aren't going to be easy for her either and he half considers backing down. But he knows fully well that that would be a sign of weakness and he marches forwards, mentally preparing himself for the hours of anger and frustration which await them both.


	12. Lesson Number One

Christine taps her foot lightly against the wooden floor as she waits beside the piano. Erik enters but she deliberately keeps her eyes firmly fixed upon the keys. Mentally she is dishing out abusive comments and punching that half masked face to a pulp. _Hidden talents? I possess none Erik. My voice was cute when I was five, I've since learnt the harsh reality that parents say you sound like an Angel when in reality, their ears are bleeding._

He seats himself on the bench, his hand reaching to the floor and he sorts through some music sheets. Her eyes flick towards the language that she had tried to forget long ago. But she can see that reading music is like glaring to her, once you learn how to do it, you can never forget. The notes begin to sound in her head and she turns herself 180 degrees, pretending to hold a sudden interest in the bookshelf. Seconds later, Erik murmurs. "Here we go."

She glances over her shoulder at the music sheet, her eyes skimming the title and picking up the tune along the way. _Think Of Me…? _"Come, sit down." He insists, shifting down the bench. "I find my vocal chords work better when I stand, something about posture and deeper breaths." She shrugs, remembering her lessons as a child. He nods in acceptance, knowing not to push his luck either. "Right, the piece I have chosen-" "Is perhaps a little too advanced for a beginner?" She arches an eyebrow, turning to face him. "Well, yes. But you are not a beginner-" "And shouldn't every lesson begin with scales?" She continues, suggesting ideas that he already had. She knows that he was going to make her do scales well before he played the tune, but he was hoping to explain it to her before so. He breaths out through his nose in exasperation and Christine scratches one under her tally.

"You remember the procedure, I'm impressed. It was, how many years ago…ten?…when you gave up singing and attempted to discard your talent." She snaps, her hand instinctively whacking down the piano lid and narrowly missing his fingers. The bang echoes throughout the room and they both feel the vibrations of the ill-treated instrument. She leans forward and breaths out the next few words. "I warn you Erik, don't talk of things you know nothing of." Clearly his finger has pressed a button that is big, red and sets off something very similar to a nuclear bomb.

He lifts the lid up once again and straightens himself out. His fingers launch straight into scales but she remains silent. After twenty seconds, he looks up at her, unimpressed. "Christine, I thought we had a deal, obviously those items can't mean that much to you, since you wont even practise a few scales for them." He sighs beginning to stand up. She sticks an arm out and pushes him firmly down. "You never gave the signal." She protests, unable to hide the fear in her eyes. He rolls his own eyes but remains seated. "Alright, shall we begin then?"

--

Erik watches her as she closes her eyes, her memory fuelling her body. The notes seem to escape her with ease, lifting up into the sky, one at a time. She seems at peace some what, as though this is a form of meditation for the poor girl. Feeling his stare, she tears open her eyes, not stopping for a second and him neither. They continue, each attempting to pause or hesitate the other but to no avail. Her voice never wavers and despite the fact that it sends chills down his spine and causes a stirring lower within him, his fingers are working on autopilot.

The scales eventually die out into nothingness and the two stare. Christine, desperate to have this over and done with. Erik, desperate to hear that voice again. And so desperate is he, that he willingly turns away first, throwing away the staring contest to switch the music over. Christine steps up behind him, to read the words over his shoulder. His heart quickens but he controls the urge to shake as he begins the tune.

His eyes stay focused on the notes that he knows like the back of his hand, but he also knows damn well that his gaze will go back to her, should he not stare at something almost as beautiful as Christine, music. He voice is at the beginning slightly unsteady, the nerves and something else stripping her of all confidence.

_Think of methink of me fondly, whenwe've said goodbyeremember meonce in a while, pleasepromise me you'll try_

She inhales deeply and clenches her fists, concentrating on dredging up lessons of years past. He's revived her competitive streak and the urge to impress. She knows that he is listening intently, examining her voice with the ear of a trained expert. And this knowledge destroys all former ideas of faking a terrible voice and compels her to show him that the only lessons she needs are in managing her temper.

_When you find,that once again you longto take your heart back,and be freeif you ever find a moment,spare a thought for me_

There's an instrumental solo and she takes the moment to regain herself. He tilts his head up slightly, catching her gaze in the reflection of a glass cabinet door. His eyes are glistening with triumph and her have melted into gentle puddles of lukewarm water, swirling gently. Music appears to have both an temper inducing and calming effect on the complicated teen.

_We never saidour love was evergreenor as unchanging as the sea...but if you can still remember,stop and think of me_

Her mind races with why he chose this song, but no logical idea can come to mind. Surely it was simply to annoy her by making her sing such a pathetic love song. Yes, that was it. He knows her music tastes attempt to stay far away from this sort of thing. And now he's shoved her amongst the love ballads which send all the other hearts of teenage girls fluttering. She seems unable to grasp the obvious hint of his emotions for her in his choice.

_Think of all the thingswe've shared and seen,don't think about the thingswhich might have been_

She chokes randomly on the last line and Erik flicks his eyes back to the glass, only to discover that her eyes have moistened with some memory and are gazing wistfully out into nothingness. _The things might have been…_She thinks, as the images flash before her shining eyes. Pictures that are tattered and worn. Photographs of the mind which she'd tried to tear up into pieces and chuck into the fire of forgetfulness. The flames seems to have risen and danced, re-enacting the scene just for her.

_Think of methink of me waking, silentand resigned...imagine me, trying too hard toput you from my mind..._

Oh how hard she's tried, he'll never truly know. There is not a singly bloody day, when her mind doesn't think back to him. His own sea-blue eyes. His slight smirk. The way his hair looked as though it had never met a brush. None of it can ever be left behind, not for a single moment. He's both a blessing and a curse. It is him that keeps her alive, and yet, it is him that has made her want to dye so many times before. She can't even sing a simple song without him intruding upon her.

_Recall those days,look back on all those times,think of the thingswe'll never do...there will never be a day whenI won't think of you_

And all those things they'll never do? Smile together, sharing a joke. Embrace each other beside the warm log fire. Tell ghost stories that end up causing laughter instead of fear. Reading book, while he showed her the beauty of sound. Her happy memories will play over again in her mind on occasion. But it is the terrible ones which will haunt the nightmares and cause her to awake, screaming and shuddering. Almost every night she'll carry the burden of remembrance and relive the worst day of her life again and again…and again.

_Flowers fade, the fruits of summer fade_

_They have their seasons, so do webut please promise me,that sometimesyou will think of me_

For the final lines, she reaches higher and higher, her voice is trying to surely reach the heavens from which it came from. Erik closes his eyes and allows her sweet melody to echo throughout his head. His breathing is quick and uneven, his lungs crying out for air. His heart pounding, desperate to be released from the prison of his rib cage. And his mind…his mind is clouded over with a longing desire to whirl around and encase those beautiful lips within his own. And he goes to, finally scrapping the courage from the floor, where he had left it after she had begun the performance. But…she's gone.


	13. He Doesn't Exist

Christine smashes her hand through the glass pane and twists her arm, reaching for the door knob. She turns it frantically, ignoring the searing pain that shoots up her arm with every slash that is created from the broken glass. She throws her weight against the door and the thin wood gives in, sending her falling to the ground outside. She glances around the roof top, making sure she's truly alone. Her lungs are on fire and she swears she'll start snorting smoke out of her nose any second now. Her eyes sting with the whipping wind and the held back tears. 

She slowly eases herself up, crawling up against the door. A low moan escapes her and she shakes her head, warning herself silently, not to cry. "Don't you dare." Her voice orders herself, barely above a whisper. A single tear manages to leak from the dam that she had built up so many years ago and she inhales sharply. It seems to run down her cheek like a river, clearing the pathway for more to come. Her head instinctively snaps back and there's a crack. 

A shower of glass covers her head but she fails to notice as she snaps her eyes shut and murmurs quiet prayers in Gaelic that she remembers. Long ago she had deserted the church, it had proved to be only a mere amusement as a child and she could never believe in a God after what had happened. No, no lord, no protector over the innocent, would ever allow what had occurred to go on, unpunished. But he had and therefore, quite logically, he could not exist…

_But he wasn't innocent, was he? _Christine's own mind argues against her, dragging herself to her feet and beginning to pace. "No, but no lord could ever stand by and let it happen. And what of myself?" She pleaded her case to the nagging part of brain which emerged at such a time. _You're not dead, are you? _"No, but what about the -" _It served as a warning. A message to not become what he had, to do what he did. _"He regretted his actions, he repented, he confessed to the lord night after night, after night. I saw it with my own eyes. I heard it with my own burning ears! He repented and the still, the lord did not forgive him! AND THAT IS BECAUSE HE DOESN'T EXIST!" 

She shouts the last sentence to the uncaring and deaf rooftops of Brooklyn, the pillars of denial and regret which she built since that day now crumble beneath her and she falls once again to the cold ground. Her knees hit the surface and as the shock waves rock through her, she wishes no more than to simply be swallowed up by the grey gravel. To be consumed by nothingness and exist no more. 

But what about the devil? Oh, yes, he is most certainly real. Is the man several floors below not proof? How he blackmails and taunts her. The demands he seeks from her, that clearly cause her pain. The simple fact that he has taken her away from the two she loves. The evidence is piling up against him. But not only him. Others in her life. Shamus. Kirk. The whole bloody clan! They stand as proud statues, an exhibition of the devil's power. And the most satanic of them all…the hired gun. The man who stripped her of a father and so much more, all at the tender age of seven. He, he is perhaps the devil himself.

Then again, maybe it's merely her imagination playing tricks on her. The way his eyes glow the hot coal red in her nightmares. The laughter that rolls like thunder, reaching all four corners of the room then reverberating back to him. Bony hands, with sharpened nails, she can swear grip her tightly, eventually sinking into her flesh and leaving ten smalls scars. All he needs in those terrible dreams is a pitch fork to poke her with and he's complete.

She cups her head in her hands, twisting her hands and tugging fruitlessly at her own hair, trying to both wipe the images out of her mind and yank some sense into herself. Occasional sentences are muttered, assuring herself that it's safe again, that she'll never have to relive that experience only in her nightmares. The tears are sudden and for the first few, she doesn't even notice them. Only when there's a piercing sting in her arms, does she look down to see them mingle with the open wounds. Her state of vulnerability and random pathetic-ness dawns on her and she groans in disappointment, not hearing the sound of feet pressing down against broken glass. 

--

Erik's legs ache as he races up the last few steps, but he ignores the pain, refusing to give in. His sudden stop at the sight of her ends up becoming a stumble. He rests an arm on the door way, leaning against it for support, as he breathes in heavily. She's oblivious to his presence, and seems only aware to memories of her past. He swallows and steps forward, his feet forcing the shards of glass into the ground and destroying them even further. Her hair is whipping in the wind and small trickles of blood are streaking her pale arms. He continues to step closer until he stands over her.

Still, his normal piercing gaze has no effect and is faces blankly by her back of her head. She lurches forward and places her hands palm down to the ground. A strong sob shaking her and he notes, for the first time, tears. They fall to the concrete and turn it to a dark shade of it's former colour. He steps back, not quite believing the sight he's seeing. She can't cry, no, she's beyond this. He fell in love with not only that voice, but that ability to never crack…didn't he?

He takes another step and suddenly freezes. _Look at yourself! _The inner voice is sharp and accusing. _You're walking away, just like the rest. How do you think she became what she is? People turning their backs on her whenever the situation got too tough, whenever emotions escaped her. _He shakes his head, cursing himself. He's not beyond the occasional mental breakdown, so why should she be?

He joins her on the ground and wraps two arms around her and pulls her close. She pushes him sharply away, spluttering in surprise. "Get off of me!" She hisses, glaring sharply at him through those overflowing eyes. They harden and freeze over, but she can't stop the tears. "Just go Erik! Go!" She orders, knowing she hasn't got the force to fight both him and herself, pointing meekly to the trampled exit. He pauses for a moment, letting her know that they're leaving this roof top together. 

Erik once again embraces her, holding her tighter this time. But she doesn't resist. By the contrary, she clutches his shirt, yanking him to her. He remains silent. Most girls would need quiet murmurs of reassurance, not this one. All she needs is an anchor, someone to hold her to the ground and ensure that she doesn't drift away. 

Eventually, her sobs fade into nothingness. Her body stops shaking and the tears have left her eyes dry. But he remains silent. Any words, any comments, they could only make a terrible situation, worse. She sighs in a defeated manner. A lack of energy and motivation to go on causes her to slump against him. He closes his eyes and leans in closely to her ear. A sweet melody escapes for just the two of them to hear. He sings it just loud enough for her to hear it above the wind, yet he is still fairly quiet. His throat vibrates and her eyes narrow shut, wanting to preserve the sound and nothing else about this event. She tilts her ear closer, eager to hear more of the devil's song. 

And there they sit. A man abandoned by society, a girl abandoned by god, alone on a rooftop. Both entranced by the other. Lost in their own little world of both the current heaven and the past hell. 

--

_A/N: A fairly short chapter, my apologies. But if possible, could you please read and review. It would be much appreciated._


	14. Late Night Visit

_Christine groans, rubbing her temple as her eyes wrench themselves open. She rolls over but too far. There's a heavy thud as she hit's the floor, groaning even more. "Fuck me." Her voice is hoarse and she glances up to the glass of water, sitting on her bedside table, waiting for her. She grabs it and downs half of the cool liquid in two gulps. Her eyes flick to the two pills beside it and a laugh escapes her as she scopes them up and throws them into a near by waste basket. She'll eat his food, but she sure as hell ain't taking his drugs. _

_Memories of the morning swirl around in her mind and she slowly pieces together the jigsaw together, bit by bit. There had been breakfast. A un-replied text from Paul. A sky blue tea-towel had been in her hand as she wiped down the table. Then…the music room. He had dropped a bomb before that though. He wanted to teach her to sing…to be her music tutor. And with the way he had played those sweet notes, she was willing to learn a thing or two after the scales. But that song, the one he had either chosen unwillingly or carefully…it was terrible. Both lovely and horrible at the same time. And suddenly, images of a glass and gravel flash before her eyes. She blinks, rubbing them quickly as Erik swarms into her line of vision. And just as the world goes black, there's the sound of a angel banished from heaven, in her ear. _

"_He sings?" She wonders out loud. _

_After downing the rest of the water, she forces herself up, leaning against the desk. A glance outside lets her know that she's been out for a few hours. The sun is setting and the lights of the city are beginning to flick on. She promised Paul she'd visit before dinner, yet another promise broken. Her eyes fall to her own hands. They're clenched in instinctual fists. She wills herself to open them, but for some reason her body wont obey her and the sudden pressure causes the bandages which Erik has wrapped around her right arm begin to tint red. Finally, letting out a sharp gasp, she throws them onto the desk and they open, allowing her freedom. _

_She grabs her keys and mobile, shrugging on a warm jacket and stuffing the items into her pockets. Christine treads carefully as she leaves her bedroom. She pauses, listening intently for any sounds that would prove of Erik's presence. But silence greets her and lulls her into a sense of security. Seeing her boots at the door, she doesn't dare to breath as she approaches them. Her feet slide in and she gives the hallway another once over, before shifting her eyes to the floor to tie up the laces. _

_Afterwards, she swallows before standing up. She sees no shadows before her, but she knows that Erik is a master magician and could all too easily hide such things. A smile plays on her lips as she reaches full height without bumping into the muscular chest of her keeper. Quickly, seizing the moment while she can, Christine slips through the front door, closing it quietly behind her. _

_Her descent down the stairs is suddenly out of place as her trampling boots echo through the empty corridors. But sensing that Erik is truly gone, she smirks in victory. It's all too simple. She sneaks out, sees the boys, says her hellos and good byes and then races back here. Erik has no doubt gone out on some job and will not return until the early hours of the morning. Hey, maybe she'll even wait for him. Then complain that he walks through the door too nosily and had woken her up. Or maybe she'll be kind, and curl up in bed, just like he would want. _

_--_

_Erik glances at Nadir, his eyes clearly displaying his anger. "Look, Erik, I know that you said no calls, but-" "No fucking buts Nadir! I said no calls. Full fucking stop. No exceptions. No nothing!" He snaps, pounding his fist onto the table. A near by glass of water topples and spills it's contents. "Erik, I was going to bleed to death! What would you have me do? Call an ambulance?" The sarcasm cannot help but creep into the middle age man's voice. But it only adds fuel to the fire. "No, but you shouldn't call someone who doesn't give a shit!" _

_The words ring out and Erik bites his tongue sharply. Nadir has been a dear friend to him, through out his entire life, there's never been anyone Erik could ever trust, except Nadir. He had seen Erik's potential when he was just fourteen and had easily taken him in, raising him to become the harden criminal he is today. Nadir was the young man's mentor and teacher, almost perhaps a father figure…ok, let's not go that far. He had, after all, been unable to teach him wrong from right. From the very beginning, Erik had made it clear, he would never change his views about life. _

_Erik had been a willing student, a dedicated one at that. He had one more than one occasion, saved Nadir's life. And for all of that, Nadir was grateful. And it had been his gratitude which had forced him to sign those adoption papers the other day. Erik had simply knocked on his door one day, needing a favour. Confused and concerned, the middle eastern man had gestured for his pupil to enter. Erik needed a favour? Surely that was a sign of the apocalypse. _

_--_

_Christine grunts slightly, gripping the sides of the guttering tightly. In the emerging darkness, she uses her hands to guide the way. This situation is all too familiar and she carefully runs her hand up the pipe as she climbs. Sixteen clamps. That is the number of grips which hold the white pipe to wall, until she reaches Paul's floor. The slight throbbing which had begun earlier, has now erupted into a merciless assault on her senses. No doubt those pills were pain killers to stop such an event occurring. No doubt also, that Erik had not foreseen her climbing up the drainage system of her old home. Well, what an idiot._

_She glances to her left and using the near by street lights, reaches for the window ledge. Stretching closer, her fingers now slide between the centimetre gap which she's always told Paul to keep in his window. She smiles, glad that her friend had listened to her. Ignoring the pain, she awkwardly lifts the window, one arm wrapped around her makeshift ladder, the other pushing up the old window. She allows the gap to grow until she feels she can slide through. Now comes the hard bit._

_Her hand lifting the window returns swiftly to gripping the ledge tightly and silently, she forces her other hand to do the same. Now she's stretched between the pipe and the window, a rather comical position, could anyone else see it. Christine then loosens her legs and they swing to the left, scraping the brick wall slightly. Straining her wounds, she grits her teeth and slowly pushes herself up and manages to get herself halfway through the window. A sudden moment of weakness however, her arms aching and demanding for release, and she falls the rest of the way through. _

_--_

_Erik sighs. "I didn't…I didn't mean that Nadir." His friend nods in knowing. Far too many times has the tongue of Erik spat out insults to all the wrong people. Nadir has learned to simply turn his shoulder to the man and pretend the blows don't hurt. "But you know, now is not a good time for me." It's as though the masked hit-man is trying to come up with an excuse for his sharp words. However, Nadir knows it isn't a good time._

_He silently recalls Erik had paced his den, explaining his story. There was a girl. A beautiful girl who had somehow wordlessly insisted and required Erik's attention. He had followed her and discovered her to be without parents. Needing to know more, his curiosity had led to an obsession. Christine was her name, and as Erik spoke it, Nadir saw his eyes burn brightly with both love and lust. She was a brilliant and hard working student. Striving to be the orphan who got into Harvard, she had given up living a normal teen life and thrown herself into studies. But the nerd seemed to have a split personality disorder, or something of the sorts, for she hardly looked the part and dealt threats out like Santa dishes presents. _

_But then, the antisocial rebel had sealed her fate. Erik had stumbled across her singing one day and that was it. Apparently, right then, right there, he had to have her. There was no doubt about it, she was made for loving him and he was made for loving her. The plan was quick to formulate and now it would all come together, if Nadir would just sign along the dotted line. "I need you Nadir, you're the only one I can trust who wont pry into my business with her." His voice had risen as the story had been told, the passion accumulating. And the look within the young man's eyes had forced Nadir to nod his head without another thought. _

"_How is she?" He decides to cautiously question. The multiple emotions which cross Erik's face confuse and concern Nadir slightly. Erik's eyes turn to the direction of his apartment, several blocks away. "I…I can't really say Nadir. It truly is complicated." Nadir expects this to be the answer but suddenly Erik can't stop himself. _

"_She seeks to avoid me like the plague. I can see it in her eyes. But it's not disgust at my mask or my profession - which she somehow already knew! - but far beyond that." Erik admits the truth more to himself. "Christine doesn't even want to be in the same goddamn room as me and whenever she growls one of those sweet threats, there is no jest in her voice. She would kill me, if given the chance. I don't doubt it." The thought of being dead however, is one which Erik Verstiere is quite accustomed to. _

"_You did steal her most prized possessions." Nadir's voice chimes lightly and Erik glares before rolling his eyes and accompanying them with a scoff. "A lighter and a blade. They cannot be that precious that she sacrifices her freedom for them." "You have no idea behind their history Erik. No idea at all. And perhaps she wants it to stay that way." "And it can stay that way, as long as she stays. If she could see that all I'm doing is out of love and obsession, then maybe, just maybe, she'd stop resisting." "Then tell her your feelings!" Nadir insists, to him, and most, this is the most obvious thing to do. Erik shoots him a glance before bursting into laughter. This is something rarely witnessed. "Nadir, poor delusion Nadir. You don't quite understand." "Then enlighten me." The two are each stepping on the others' toes with this discussion. Nadir doesn't support Erik being a thief and a basic kidnapper. Whereas Erik is driven mad by the fact that Nadir seems to be at a loss and is of no apparent use to him. _

"_As soon as I mention the word love, she'll either laugh or run. She fears emotional relationships for some goddamn reason. I can't wrap my disfigured head around it. Granted, she is an orphan, but even that does not lead to such damage. And I can't see anything in her record which would indicate to it. Her parents died when she was seven in a car crash, nothing scarring, nothing sinister. What am I to do?!" He cries sentence with urgency. Nadir has helped him solved problems in the past, now should be no different._

"_Well, what does she respond best to?" Nadir shrugs, not too sure what Erik wants from him. Since when does he had love guru written under his job description? Cause the last time he checked, all it said was killer. Erik pauses, looking up from the fireplace. "Do whatever has been working best for you so far." Nadir elaborates. "Of course! Nadir, you're a genius!" Erik's eyes have lit up and are glowing brightly at Nadir from the other side of the room. Suddenly, the Persian's stomach clenches tightly and he has a strong suspicion that he's just made life a whole lot worse for the teen he is now the legal guardian of. _

_--_

_Christine feels the knife pressed against her neck and she is glad that the dark night is hiding her proud smile. "Paul, you don't know your own best mate when she sneaks into your room?" Her voice whispers. The blade is dropped and she catches it, lucky to grasp the handle and not the blade. "Holy shit! I didn't hurt you did I?" He hisses, rushing forward and pressing a hand to her neck to check for a wound. His touch is suddenly unwelcome and fighting the urge to shove him roughly away, she simply eases herself to the right, creating a gap between the two._

_She stands and his arms wrap around her tightly. This is certainly unusual, a simple handshake usually suffices. A hug usually requires a moment. She coughs slightly, patting him awkwardly on the back. He remembers himself, pulling quickly away and running a hand through his hair. He's wearing a white singlet and a stain pair of boxers and she can see even more of the muscle which he's packed on over time. He's got to be bench pressing 25kgs on each side by now. There's a pause "So, how are things going?" It's a casual mutter, as though they hadn't seen each other for a week or so. Christine's mind wanders back to the memories. How are things going? Let's see…she's living with a hitman, who believes he has some god given right to steal her belongings and then blackmail her into singing lessons which remind her of the past which she tried to forget…"Not bad, I've had worse." _

"_Paul?" A young voice inquires. The two whirl around. "Damn you're getting good at sneaking up on people, Jamie." Christine admits gruffly to the sleepy boy before them. Jamie is standing, shivering slightly in a over sized t-shirt and a pair of boxer shorts. His eyes widen and he races up to the shorter of the two shadowed figures. She embraces him tightly and marvels at how big he's getting. He inhales deeply, trying not to forget her scent of well worn denim and leather. "When are you coming home, Christine?" He mumbles into her softly. But the older pair hear the question and exchange glances. _

"_Jamie, you know I can't…" Her voice is gentle but firm. There's no need at all for another argument over this. "I know, I know…but…You'll visit, right?" He inquires, his tiny hand finding one of the newly made holes in her jeans - a memorabilia from this morning. He circles the outside, trying to keep himself focused on something, anything, to simply avoid looking up into her eyes. He'll crack else, and her jeans will all too quickly be damp with tears. Christine lets out a breath and talks to Paul, not taking her eyes off of the youth at her feet. "Paul, give us a minute. There's some things me and Jamie got to discuss." _

"_But Chris-" "Not frigging buts! Get outta here." She hisses sharply at the teenagers whining voice. "You gonna be here when I get back?" "No, I'm gonna magically turn into the Pope, come off it already! Leave!" Her voice is rising and if she's not careful the nuns will recognise it from a mile away. Grumbling and muttering darkly to himself, Paul exit's the room, casting a glare to the smirking Jamie. "He's going to kill me one of these days." The boy admits as his enemy closes the door. "Not if you kill him first." Is the reply and the two laugh lightly._

_After the sly joke, Christine bends down to Jamie's eye level. "Jamie, I know this is hard on you. Believe me, it isn't in the slightest bit easy on me. But I need you to just try and get on with your life. I can't always be there for you Jamie, we both know that. We've always known that." She remembers the many times she had warned him when he got into a sticky situation. Some times she had simply left him stuck, letting him solve his own problems and finding out the hard way that she couldn't and sometimes would choose not to, be there to help. "That is the difference between you and Paul, Jamie. Paul's got one weakness. He cares about me. And I guess, it's my fault. I was always there for him when we were younger, we stood side by side, trying to take on the world. It was too late when I realised that what I had done was wrong. I've tried not to make the same mistake with you."_

_Jamie swallows, barely breathing as he takes in the words of his teacher and mentor. "Christine, I…I can't just forget you!" He argues, trying to make __her_ see sense. She shakes him slightly. "I'm not asking you to forget me, I'm just asking you not to care. Don't care about anyone Jamie. No one. Not a soul in the world is worth your love. Trust me on this one. Me and Paul, we care. And that's why we've ended up in this whole mess, we let emotions get the better of us. You look out for yourself, and yourself alone, understand me?" She's earnest that he comprehend this one important lesson. "But-" "Who are you going to worry about? Who is the most important person in this world?" She interrupts him, bombarding him with questions. 

"You are." He defies her and it's a bad move. She clouts him across the head lightly. "Wrong answer, try again. Who is the most important person in the world?" He remains silent as the light of a passing by car catches his glare and her intense gaze. "Jamie! Please! I need you to do this for me. Do what Paul couldn't, you've always wanted to beat him, this is your chance. You do this, you'll grow up to be twice the man he'll ever be. And that's because he cares. It's going to hold him back in life, just you wait and see. Now, please." She's cunningly mentioning Paul, knowing of the rivalry between the pair. Jamie will pounce upon any chance to defeat his older opponent. "Last chance, who is the most important person in this world?"

She waits on baited breath for his answer. This is crucial beyond his imagination. He may not understand fully now, but later, it'll all fall into place. 

"I…I am." He mutters, rolling his eyes nevertheless. She grins and ruffles his hair. "You, just made me the happiest person on earth, Jamie." The confession can't help but jerk the corners of the boys mouth up and he gives her a crooked smile. "So? You think I care?" He times the joke to perfection and she laughs, smiling genuinely at his quick wit.

--

Erik grabs his coat from the arm of the chair and slips himself into it quickly. His smile is one of cunning and Nadir can almost see the cogs in his mind spinning wildly into action as he formulates a plan. "Wait, Erik-" "I can't stop now, Nadir. I've got to go." His eyes are determined as he slides down his sleeve to glance at his watch. 11.23pm. Hopefully, she'd be in bed by now. Perhaps fallen asleep with a book in her hands.

"You didn't tell me though," Nadir comments, blocking the masked man's way to the front door. "What does she respond best to?" Erik dives under the spread arms of his friend and straightens the collar of his jacket. "Erik!" Nadir finally snaps, causing his student to laugh lightly as he opens the front door. "There's only one thing to which a girl like Christine responds to, Nadir." There's a pause as the blaring sound of cars honking and tyres squealing fills the air. "Force." 

--

_A/N: Sorry for the very late update. Damn my last year of high school and damn to the depths which ever god created writer's block._


	15. Spiderman Wannabe

_Christine lifts herself up off the thinly carpeted floor. Jamie mimics her actions and, as if one cue, the door handle twists. "Stall him." Christine encourages the boy as she quickly makes a bee line for the open and welcoming window. Jamie grins evilly and slams his body against the door. "Oi! Pipsqueak!" Paul growls lowly as he finds himself somehow struggling against the opposing force of the lightweight boy. Christine winks at the lad as she clambers silently out the window, she hears his chuckle of delight. Despite the fact that Paul has been working out, Jamie too has hidden strength…but he won't be able to hold him off for long. As she attempts to stretch her tired body onto the white pipe once more, she listens to the conversation in the room across from her._

_Apparently Paul has finally given up trying to stay quiet and quickly kicks the door, sending Jamie stumbling backwards as his older counterpart enters. "Where is she?!' Paul demands and the sudden scuffle indicates that he has snatched the boy up by the shirt. There's silence. "Don't fucking shrug at me, where is she?" Paul's tone is an acidic one as he spits the words at Jamie. Christine learnt long ago of this side of Paul. The side which only exposed itself when he was left alone with Jamie. It had shocked her to discover it and since then, she's always been hesitant to leave him alone in the room with him. But just like she said, she can't always be there. Besides, the kid hasn't died yet. "I'm sorry, do I have psychic stamped across my goddamn forehead?!" Jamie spits in retort. Not only that, but he can hold his own. _

_Christine shakes her head in despair. At first, she'd believe that the distrust would dissolve between the two, but it'd has only grown worse. Paul didn't enjoy what he'd somehow perceived as competition. And Jamie couldn't understand why Paul just couldn't move on, his training was done. If it weren't for Christine loving them both, one would have surely killed the other long ago. And it worries her, if she's honest. But at least she can thank god that the two have never demanded her to choose between the pair. She doesn't play favourites, they both know that. _

_--_

_Erik increases his pace as he nears the orphanage. His coat billows behind him and he hears a nearby hobo comment about slashing his throat open to steal it. He yanks out a gun, thinking nothing of it as he pulls the trigger. It is simply another gun shot amongst so many others in a city that rarely naps, let alone sleeps. His thoughts are too tangled up with Christine to careless anyway. She can't be anywhere else. This is still the place she considers as home, and despite himself, he can respect that decision. No amount of new furniture or room space can change that. But that doesn't mean she can simply leave the house at whatever goddamn hour she chooses and go wandering back here!_

_His drive back from Nadir's had been a slow one, full of intent thought and precise planning. He's decided on a lethal combination of force and proving to her that not only is he her equal, but that he is her soul mate. There is no doubt in his mind that by keeping her by his side and showing her that the two are undeniably similar in likes and dislikes, he'll gradually break down her barriers and her, his. _

_But as soon as he'd stepped into that hallway, he knew she wasn't there. He didn't even have to check her bedroom, nor the music room. The apartment felt dead and alone, just like it always had done before her arrival. She'd made the living area warm in a way and now, silence greeted him, as it had done in this house for the past five years. _

_He rounds the corner and the sight that greets him is far from comforting. Christine is clinging to that same godforsaken pipe which he had watched her climb night after night for so many painful months. There's hushed words coming from the window across from her and she's listening intently. _

_--_

"_What's the matter, Paul?" Jamie taunts loudly. "Can't handle rejection." There's a crack and she knows that her best friend has just reached his all time low by slapping the boy across the face. A thud follows as he's dropped to the floor. It takes all her self restraint to not climb back into that room and beat the shit out of the guy who has stood by her side for so many years. But she can't. This will serve as a lesson to Jamie, not to rely upon her anymore._

"_Listen, you little piece of shit. I love that girl. Ok? And I hate to see her beating herself up over your problems. She was fine until you came along, we were both fine! You ruined it all. Now I can see the worry in her eyes whenever you shed those fucking crocodile tears and it drives me insane. You do Christine a favour and stay out of her life." Paul edges his voice with condemnation. _

_This is far too much for Christine, the kid's tough, but he shouldn't have to sit there by himself and be fed lies from an ignorant bastard, and she rushes to climb back inside. But her weakened muscles collapse under her and her grip slips as she tries to grab the ledge in a swift movement. The air rushes beneath her and she braces herself for impact against the evil invention known as concrete. But she needn't have any concern._

_--_

_Erik had seen the fall coming and had positioned himself at the ready. She isn't well enough to be climbing brick walls, she's no Spiderman. And he'll bet twenty bucks she didn't take those pain killers he'd left out for her. She falls into his waiting arms with a gentle thump. Her eyes widen slightly and a small, thankful smile forms on her face before being taken over with a frown of dread. _

"_Get me out of here." She pleads sharply and with a sudden urgency. "Drag me home before I climb back up the fucking pipe." Erik goes to obliged, all too willing to take her home before they discuss the punishment, but another voice breaks the night. "Is someone there? Hello?" It's the voice of an elderly woman and Christine inhales sharply and Erik has no chance to react to the next decision she takes. She grabs the lapels of his jacket and yanks him close, her lips crashing against his. "Who is that?" The voice continues and Erik is briefly aware that someone is rounding the corner. But he all too quickly looses himself within the kiss._

_Christine has her head turned away from the Nun and closes her eyes in a prayer, begging not to be recognised. Erik does his best to help, pulling her closer as she clings to him. Her tongue is warm and inviting as it flicks his, almost daring him to engage in a good old mouth wrestle. This is a man who never backs down and this is no exception. He quickly takes the offensive and he can feel a smile form on her mouth. "Bloody couples, get going you two, it's far too late for you to be up at this time of night!" The voice hisses, waving a hand for them to get their rears into gear. _

_Erik flips her the bird and she lets out a gasp. Christine realises what he's done and reaches one hand behind her, grabbing his. "Erik." She whispers lightly in warning. He rolls his eyes and silences her once again, resuming the kiss. "Well, I never!" The greying woman hisses before turning on her heel and walking back from where she came from. _

_--_

_Christine relaxes as she hears the footsteps move further and further away, but the two still don't break the kiss. It seems that both have grown a slight fondness for the activity. Instead, Christine releases his jacket and slides her arms around his neck, lifting herself up higher. One of his hands finds her hair tie and wastes no time in removing it and running it's way through her blonde mane. She presses herself closer and is amazed at how well their bodies seem to fit. His is rigid and firm, whereas her soft curves just melt around his frame, eliminating all space. _

_She can feel his heart beat and it seems to go only faster and faster. A thought that it may burst out of his chest frightens her for a moment, but she quickly dismisses the idea. She isn't too sure about her own heart however as she swears she can hear its rhythmic beat growing stronger and stronger with every passing second. The blood is pounding in her head and she realises that one of them is going to need air soon, and chances are, it'll be her. _

_Erik is a gentleman and slowly pulls away, allowing her to intake much needed oxygen. She inhales deeply and licks her lips, savouring his taste for what is most likely to be the last time. The words of an apology begin to form in her mind. Surely he'll understand that she didn't want the old lady to recognise her and that she had acted out of instinct, rather than desire._

_But had it been instinct?_ Christine wonders to herself as he carefully places her on the ground. She cannot deny that the man she now lives with holds a sexual appeal. How can he not? Any girl her age would kill to live with a sex god in his early twenties. But for her, the appeal comes not only from his looks, but the monster which so many fear. He's deadly and cunning. He can kill men with a single blow. His reputation has caused many a men to soil themselves at the sheer mention of his name. Erik Verstiere is detached from emotions of all kind and is something of a mentor to her. No, the kiss hadn't been out of instinct to protect herself…but hey, at least she has that excuse to fall back on. 

She nods in thanks and brushes her clothes absentmindedly. "Look, Erik, I'm-" But he cuts her short, pressing her up against the brick wall with a swift movement, placing his hand at the back of her head, protecting her from impact. His mouth is on hers for the third time. She moans slightly, understanding that the kiss had been quite welcome from his side. His hand travels down to the base of her neck and his rough grip sends a shiver through her body. He pulls away and fear grips her. But it quickly vanishes as he begins a trail of kisses down her neck, reaching to the hem of her v-neck. His hand lifts to pull her shirt down but there's the sudden sound of which both are familiar with. They glance up but it's too late.

--

Erik hears the blade before he feels it. And as they both look up, they see two glints. One is that of the blade, flying through the air. The other is that of Paul's glare as he looks down at the couple. But the look of pure jealousy on the young man's face, wipes away all thoughts and sense of pain for Erik as the steel sinks within his flesh. Christine lurches forward, staring up in amazement at her friend. But words can't emerge from her slightly swollen lips. Paul gaze shifts from Erik to her shaken state and his eyes soften. However, the girl's look is murderous and she slowly reaches for one of her own blades.

Erik cannot hide his smirk of glory as he stops her with a few quick words. "Let him have his moment. After all, I just had mine." "But-" She begins, staring at the knife lodged into Erik's upper right arm. "But nothing, trust me. Leave it." Erik insists, placing a hand on her shoulder. He winces slightly and Christine growls, not hesitating any longer. Erik stares in amazement as with one fluid motion, her hand reaches to her belt, yanking out the blade tucked within. In the same motion, she flicks the switch blade open and throws it to the window. The blade whizzes past Paul's head and he stumbles back in surprise. "Next time, I won't miss." She hisses in warning before turning back to Erik's wide eyes. 

"What? You thought all I could do was slash leather?" She scoffs, reaching to the other side of her belt, which no doubt harbours another blade. "Come on, Christine. I'd appreciate your help with cleaning this up." He sighs, placing his hand over hers and looking her straight in the eye. She snarls but allows the man to lace his fingers with hers. "Alright, but only because you're the one with the booboo." 

--

Christine wraps the bandage around the cleaned and covered wound once more. With a slight sharp tug, she ties it securely in place. "I'm sorry about this Erik. About the kiss and the blade. I just…when I heard the footsteps…the last thing I need is the Nuns finding me snooping around the place. They've done a lot for me, and despite what they say, they were glad to see the back of me. I don't want to look like I'm expecting more." She explains, sitting down with a sigh beside Erik. The sight of him topless is not helping her to stay focused, but she's putting her desires behind her explanations.

"Christine, really-" "And what Paul did?! What did he do? I mean, I'm not letting him get away with that. Neither are you. He knows better than to mess with guys like you...what drugs is he on…? I don't know what's gotten into him, but I'm gonna beat it out of him by Friday." She mutters, punching her own fists down on her thighs. Erik frowns slightly, something's confused her but he doesn't know what. And until she figures things out, it'll bug her and drive her insane. Nothing annoys this girl more than being left in the dark.

"Christine, honestly, I don't mind-" "I do! Just, promise me, seriously Erik, promise me you won't let him get away with it." She's gone into a bit of a rant now, pacing the lounge. He can't help but laugh at this and she whirls around, her eyes glinting dangerously again. "You think this is funny?" "No, I don't. What I find funny is that for a moment there, you actually thought that I would let him off the hook. Christine, I have-" "Killed better men for less. I know. I don't know what I was thinking either." She admits, resuming her place on the couch, still warm from her momentary absence. 

"Now, if I may speak without being interrupted." He begins slowly, watching her blush slightly from realisation that she had just been a bit irrational. She relaxes, sinking further into the couch. "Knock yourself crazy. Well, more crazy than you are already…if that's possible." The last bit is a murmur and Erik can tell she still considers him mentally challenged for adopting her. He'll be the judge of that. "I want you to know that that kiss was one of the most enjoyable things I've ever experienced." 

"I know, I know. I crossed the line, invaded the personal bubble. I won't let it-What?!" Her amazement can't be hidden as she rounds on the masked man. He's careful not to break the stare and decides that blinking would not be an option here. She clearly has forgotten that the third kiss had been started by himself. "Erik…are you on drugs too?" She wants to know. "Christine, what was my reason that I gave you for bringing you here?" He hints, knowing this will help her understand. 

But it backfires drastically as she quickly stands, fists clenched. "You want some little whore to fulfil your desires? You go looking for Stephanie Mitch. Cause you're not getting anything out of me." There's flames in her eyes that are threatening to leap forth and devour him. "Shit, no! Christine, that's not what I meant!" He insists, defending himself and desperately trying to dig himself out of this hole. "Oh, it's not?" Her sarcasm is matched with raised eyebrows. 

"No! Christine, that's not what I was trying to say-" "And what were you trying to say?" Her arms have folded themselves across her chest and she awaits an answer impatiently. "That when I said company, I wasn't being entirely honest…I…I would like more-" He's stumbling across his words, pathetically trying to fix this. Had it not been her that he had spoken to, she would find this hilarious. "You're really crap at this, you know that?" "Fine! I want a relationship, there! Is that how you want me to say it?!" He spits, standing over her. She glares up at him. "Well my life would have been a whole fucking lot simpler if you had just said that from the goddamn beginning!" She exclaims as his reddening face. "Oh, and I suppose if I had just come up to you at the orphanage and laid down my deal, a relationship for a quiet place to study and a better lifestyle, you would have just said yes?" It's his turn now to lay on the insults thick an heavy. 

"No fucking shit Sherlock! I don't like people who bullshit with me, Erik! I don't enjoy games. You gotta tell me things straight up front in the future." She warns and they both instantly realised that she's implied they have a future together. A small cough escapes her throat and she looks away, her eyes falling to the ground, pretending that her bare feet are of great interest to her. "The future?" Erik's voice echoes her own. "Yes, the future." He nods now, taking the situation into his own hands and deciding that now is time to apply that force that she responds to so well. "If we don't kill each other first." She mumbles, scuffing her foot against the floor and choosing her words carefully.

"But yeah, if you want to give it a go, I don't see why not. I mean, you've got my most precious possessions, I don't really have a choice. But if you're stupid enough to want to try… " Her voice tries to sound casual as though they've got nothing to lose from this experiment. He stares down at her head, the previous anger being replaced by excitement and realisation. "Christine, I swear, you wont regret this-" But she shoots a hand up sharply in the air. "Erik, you are mixing a girl who listens to no one but herself and a man who has to have everything his way or the highway. I could get a smaller explosion if I doused a gas station in petrol and lit a match. Trust me on this one, there will be regret, on both sides."

And with that, she turns away, exhausted from the days events and wanting nothing more than her warm and waiting bed. Her eyes flick to him as she rounds the corner towards her bedroom. "And do me a favour, we may be in a relationship now, but, uh, try to stay out of my room in the middle of the night." Her tone is joking but Erik picks up the serious warning behind the banter. She has no desire whatsoever to relive the pain of losing yet another possession that has many hidden meanings. 

He nods in understanding and hesitates. Surely he should wish her a pleasant sleep? "Good night, sweet dreams…?" There's a slight hint of question at the end of his sentence and she laughs with her back still to him. "I don't think we're quite up to the bit where we care how the other sleeps, not just yet at least."

--

_A/N: Read and review, would be much appreciated. I do my end of the bargain, you do yours…please._


	16. Trump Card

Erik feels the arms from around his waist loosen and sighs in regret. It had felt so good to feel her cling to him in such a manner, to have those thin arms wrapped so tightly and securely around his muscular abdominal. He lifts up his visor and glances as the girl swiftly steps off the machine and removes her helmet. With a rough hand, she ruffles her own hair, returning it to it's normal state. "Thanks for the ride, you want me to walk home or catch a bus?" She inquires, holding the helmet under her arm and adjusting her school bag strap slightly.

People entering the busy high school are peering and whispering amongst each other. But Christine either doesn't give a shit, or fails to notice it, Erik is betting on the first one. "Nah, I should be back in time for three. I choose my hours and my…clients." She smirks at this, the two sharing the joke amongst all the unknowing students. "Knock them dead for me." It's a terrible pun and they both know it but it doesn't wipe the smiles of their faces. The voice of an unwanted person does, however.

"Well, well, not longer an orphan, but now a call girl." A voice sneers and Erik's eyes dart to the figure standing behind Christine. Stephanie Mitch has her arms folded across her surgically enhanced chest and the grin across her face makes Erik clench a free fist. His eyes go back to Christine but her face is a picture of pure calm and that only sends him into a wave of confusion. She nods from him to go. "See you at three." And with that she turns around abruptly, almost slamming herself into Mitch, who stumbles back. "Jesus Daae! Watch where you're fucking going!" She squeals. Christine remains silent, only giving the girl a pair of quickly raised eyebrows before walking off.

Stephanie blinks, utterly confuzzled (Yes, I can use this word). The usual taunts and high pitched whiney voice hadn't worked. By now, the natural blonde would be grinding her teeth and looking to dish out a couple of eye twitching threats. But her demeanour is calm as she steps away, not even a clenched fist as her best friend seems to jump out of nowhere to greet her. She turns her head towards him and heated words are exchanged between the two. Erik watches on, getting himself ready to ditch the motorbike and introduce Paul to one of his friends, pain. But Christine beats him to it, slamming the young boy into the brick exterior, her arm pressed up against his wind pipe and cutting off his oxygen.

This freezes the whole student body as they stand on in amazement. Only last Friday had the two been inseparable, now they're at each other's throats? "This is too good to be true." Mitch suddenly whispers excitedly, as she imagines all the possible reasons why this might be occurring. "Hell must have melted over." She ponders stupidly, watching intently as Christine yanks herself away, letting Paul slide to the floor, spluttering for air. Erik can't help himself and chuckles as Christine shakes her head in disgust. But the next action is not foreseen.

Her hand injects the air sharply, offering itself to him. He doesn't hesitate and eagerly takes it, wrapping his own around the much smaller one. Christine only offers help once, you don't take it the first time, tough shit. She helps him up and waits while he brushes himself off. He leans forward, wanting to finish this conversation. The words 'I'm sorry' are read by Erik on Paul's lips. But Christine shakes her head and mutters a few words, pointing to the observing hitman. Paul's eyes go wide and his voice loud. "What the hell?!" He booms, pointing too at the man who's caused him so much trouble. "You heard me." She growls, before pushing the door open and walking inside. Paul whirls around completely and marches silently towards Erik, who's completely off his bike, standing at the ready.

Stephanie goes to wave her hand and bat her eyelashes at him but he sharply pushes her to the ground. He doesn't even stop as she wails and her people surround her to help. Erik removes the helmet and places it gently on the sport-bike's leather seat. "I guess you don't approve of me as Christine's new boyfriend?" Erik sighs, not caring an ounce what this brave young suitor thinks…that's if he thinks at all. Paul freezes, the breath trapped in his lungs. His puppy dog eyes have turned into those of an angered Pit-bull and his muscles have tensed. "Boy what?!" He spits in demand. "Oh, so she didn't tell you about us. Well, what do you want then?"

Erik ensures that his voice is as drawled as possible, irritating the boy to no end. "Apparently, I have to apologise and answer to you about Saturday night. I thought she was just mad, now I see that she's fucking pissed off. She must be if she's trying to make me jealous by dating you." Paul too knows well the game of insults and stinging words. "Let me be blunt with this. Don't get comfortable. You'll be gone in a couple of days, a week at the most. She's mine. I know it, you know it, everyone at this fucking school knows it." "No, you think it, everyone in this fucking school thinks it…except for Christine. Stop living in denial, kid." He knows the kid comment will piss Paul off to no end. "We've got 8 years of friendship and 13 months of relationship behind us, don't you even dare think that for one minute, you can just walk in and ruin that…cause you can't." Paul brings out a trump card that Erik had no idea about. But the hitman hides his emotions discretely as Paul gloats. "I'll have a few words with her, and you'll be gone, and life will go on, as though you had never existed." He spits and retraces his steps to the main building. Erik rams his helmet on and kick starts the bike, leaving the staring teens in his wake.

--

Christine approaches the motorbike with caution. There's something wrong. Her eyes wander his body and she notes the tensed muscles, the tight grip on the handle bars. She bet if she could see through that tinted visor, his teeth would be clenched and his eyes set in a cold glare. Christine stops two steps away and places her hands on her hips. She's not stupid enough to approach an angry Erik. Especially when she has no idea as to why he's pissed.

He lifts one hand and holds it out for her to accept or reject. There's an internal struggle for control of her body. Her instincts are victorious and she thrusts her own hand into his. He grabs her wrist tightly and yanks her sharply towards himself. Her feet try to plant themselves on the ground as her emergency brakes, but they fail and she holds up her other hand to prevent the two slamming together. He releases her but she doesn't move and watches intently as he flips up his visor.

"Yes?" Her voice is innocent and he scoffs at the light, playful tone. "We'll discuss it when we get home. Put that godforsaken helmet on already." He mutters, shoving the black piece of reinforced plastic into her waiting hands. She blinks and looks down at it briefly before shrugging her shoulders and shoving it over her head. She straddles the bike, pausing before she wraps her arms around his waist. They first place themselves on his hips, but he leans back slightly, letting her know he wants them all the way around. She obliges him and resumes the position that the two held this morning.

Twenty minutes motorcycling minutes and one quiet elevator ride later, the two are waiting impatiently for the other to speak first. Christine shrugs her shoulders and decides to go do her homework. She's got more important things to do than help Erik with his temper tantrums. Just as she begins to rise from the couch, Erik marches past and slams her back down with a quick shove to the shoulder. "When were you going to tell me? Were you even going to tell me?!" He demands, adding hand gestures for emphasis. Christine raises fake eyebrows of realisation. "Oh, that. Well, tell you what. I'll let you know, as soon as I fucking know!" Her voice is getting louder to match his. "Don't play fucking dumb with me, why didn't you tell me?!" He wants an answer, now. And Christine would love to give him one, she always does, but she has no idea what the hell the masked man is rambling on about. "Honestly, Erik, I am clueless as to what you're talking about!" She defends herself quickly. But it's hard to protect one's self from the unknown.

Erik's temper hit's a high note and he lunges forward, yanking her roughly up off the couch, holding her by her jacket. "WHY?!" His voice booms, echoing through the house. Her eyes narrow into that cold glare of pure hatred as her instincts control her. She sharply head-butts him, making contact with that soft nose. He grunts with pain and despite himself, drops her, quickly yanking out his handkerchief out of his pocket to stop the steady flow of blood from reaching the carpet. She stumbles slightly but keeps herself standing as she lands. "I swear, on my father's grave, that I have no idea what you are babbling on about. And I am not going to discuss this matter any further until you pull your head out of your ass and treat me like a partner and not some bloody hesitant informant!" She spits at him, laying down her rules, before turning away sharply and leaving the bleeding fool to his own devices.

--

Erik splashes the cold water on his face and watches the once clear water, tinge an all too familiar red. His eyes flicker upwards to the mirror. His black mask lays to one side, and he can see his face for the true horror it really is. The normally covered flesh is red and twisted, reflecting too well the warped hitman's mind. It looks rough, but it surprisingly smooth to the touch as he places a hand against the marred flesh. It almost looks burnt and if he had not known he was born which such scarring, he would have assumed that someone had thrown a pot of boiling water over his head as a child. Wincing slightly, his eyes direct themselves to his tender nose. The bleeding has stopped but the drying blood reminds him that this time, he'd come worse off. He had crossed the mark, he knew that now. But he shouldn't have let himself get carried away. For Christ's sake, he had treated her like some sort of prisoner and he was playing the bad cop/bad cop routine. Looking back now, Erik realises that she had shown she cares by letting him get away with just a nose bleed.

He silently removes the war paint and snatches up a near by towel. Drying himself quickly he steps sharply out of his room and towards the door of hers. He grabs the handle, knocks lightly and waits for the response. "Enter at your own risk." She warns and he inhales deeply, ready to deal with this calmly. Maybe she truly does have no idea what the man is on about. He begins to push the door in and just as he glimpses her back, leaning over her desk, scribbling away, he slams the door shut in his own face.

His eyes widen as both his hands shoot up to his unprotected face. "Jesus!" He hisses to himself as his hands explore the tainted face. He almost…and she would have…He stumbles backwards into his bedroom and grasps the mask tightly, ramming it onto his face and letting out a relieved sigh. Leaning against the doorway, he slides downwards to meet the ground without a sound. His heart is pounding ferociously, trying in vain to escape the prison of his ribs. But the bars hold strong against the wild beating and the vital organ remains firmly lodged in it's cell. He shakes his head in confusion. He is truly a hypocrite. He demands the truth from her, physically trying to shake it from her, yet at the same time, he wont even allow the woman he loves to see the man behind the mask.

But of course not! Christine may not be shallow, but this man is truly hideous. At least he can admit it. She'd take one look at his face and hide her disgust as she internally vomits. Her eyes would never fall upon him in the same way again, if she saw his true self. And he cannot blame her. Every time his own eyes catch his revealed reflection, they glare in hatred. There is no place in nature for such distasteful things. In reality, ugly beasts such as himself, die out because they cannot find a mate. The only reason he has managed to defy nature is because of his cunning.

There's the sound of a door closing and he lifts his tired skull upwards. A quiet knock on his door lets him know she wants in. He nods at first, then realises that she can't see through walls and calls out in a raspy voice. "Enter." Christine wastes no time and strides towards him, her eyes shining with an emotion that he has only ever seen directed at those two idiots she calls friends. Concern. It is etched clearly only in those eyes, but that is plenty for him and he feels the happiness begin to build within himself. She's abandoned her homework and studies, the most important part of her daily life, just to see if he's ok. Before he can rise, she kneels, placing a firm hand on his unwounded shoulder to hold him down.

"You ok?" It's two words and to most it wouldn't gain a response. But she says them with a hint of worry and confusion. But there's an underlying tone of suspicion. She has her ideas as to what just occurred, but wont say them out loud. He blinks. "I forgot my mask." He blurts out honest and open. She pauses, thinking he's messing around with her, and then realises he's serious. A murmur in that foreign language passes her soft lips and her gaze shifts to the window where the sun is setting. "What is that tongue?" He inquires. Perhaps he'll learn it. "Gaelic." A voice that is not hers, replies. "Gaelic?" He repeats, not understanding where the girl had picked up such a random speech.

--

Christine suddenly realises what she just admitted and her throat constricts. Shit. "So, you want to talk about earlier?" She inquires, eager to change the subject. He examines her and she gives him a gentle squeeze of reassurance. That discussion can wait a while longer. "Yes, I do. I mean, I'm sorry. I over stepped the mark and went off the rails. I'm really sorry." He mutters but she shakes her head. "It's a hard adjustment for both of us, Erik. We forget that we are dealing with lovers. For us, there's only ever been one kind of person, enemies." A pearl of wisdom from a young mind. He nods in agreement but still wants her to know he needs forgiveness. "I know, but-" "Forget about it. We both made mistakes. You don't usually play the game of Gestapo with the ones you like, and I don't usually respond with a head-butt. Let's just put it behind us." She shrugs, standing up and helping him up as she goes. They take a seat on the edge of his bed, both staring at the orange sky, avoiding eye contact.

"Spit it out then, what's pissing you off?" Her manners are back to those before, casual and in a hurry. It never ceases to amaze him how she can change so quickly. A true chameleon, her colours can alter in a flash. He remains silent, marvelling and hating her ability to simply forget the moment they just shared. "Come on, you got me here. You got my attention. Hell, you got me. Now, don't waste it. The suspense is killing me." Christine doesn't falter, even after admitting that she is his. In reality, she is. His prisoner technically, but for now, she can forget that detail. "Paul. Why didn't you tell me you two had dated?" A look of pure and honest confusion crosses that heavenly face and the guilt hits him. She hadn't known what on earth he was going on about.

"I didn't think it important." She shrugs as her eyes tilt to the ground and she is remembering something. It is the same look at last night. One of puzzlement and deep thought. "Well, it would have been nice to know, to prepare me for it when he brings out the trump card." This catches her attention and the look quickly turns to one of anger. "Is that what he told you this morning?! I thought the bastard looked a little too cocky when he waltzed into chemistry." She snarls as Erik nods his head in explanation. "Thirteen months apparently." He adds, purposefully rubbing salt into a wound which Paul has created for himself. Christine balls her pale hands into those powerful but tiny fists. "I'm not going to lie. We were an item. It was thirteen months long. And it was serious." Her voice is slow and she is choosing her words carefully. "And you ended it because?" Erik knows too well that it had been Christine to end the relationship. Paul wouldn't have let such a fine woman slip between his fingers and he surely put up a fight when she finally said 'no more' - this explains how the guy is still under the impression the two belong together.

"That was the problem. It was serious. I mean, I was a few months past sixteen when it began. Sixteen for Christ's sake. And I wasn't out for any long term commitment. But just over a year later - about five, six months ago - we're at the one of those school dances. He'd begged me for just one night of formal shit and I gave in. Bad move. It's the last dance of the night, things had been going fairly well up until that point. Next thing I know, he's whispering in my ear about moving into an apartment together, getting married in a year or so, settling down and having children! I mean, excuse me for being a bit of a logical bitch here, but kids?! I'm seventeen and he's talking about CHILDREN." She hisses the last word and flops herself backwards onto the soft mattress. He watches her carefully. "Have you ever considered-" "Getting back together? No. I knew right then, right there Erik, I had been right from the start. Me and Paul, we're only meant for comradeship. Nothing more, nothing less." This brings a smile to Erik's lips and he leans down, placing a gentle kiss on Christine's own sweet pair.

He begins to pull away but she follows him as her lips demand more. He is all too eager to assist and shifts himself, so he is lying on top of her. Her mouth is somehow cold and her breath refreshing against his own. The minty fresh taste she has is no doubt the result of the gum she constantly chews. He pulls away for a moment. "So, I don't have to kill him because he's a potential threat?" Christine looks at him. "The only thing Paul is a threat to, is my sanity. But since I lost that long ago, no, you don't have to kill him." She assures him, rolling her eyes. He grumbles in disappointment but is soon silenced by her gentle nibble on his lower lip. "How about just a little maiming? I mean, I could just chop off a couple of limbs…" Christine's bites down a little harder and cocks an eyebrow. "If I do it fast enough he wont even feel it…" His voice is playful, debating the pros and cons. "Well, that's a fucking waste of time. Why in earth would you bother dismembering him if he wasn't going to feel a thing?" She points out and he laughs, rolling over so she is on top. "Besides…" She whispers, leaning closer and closer to his ear. "Why waste your time removing his limbs, when you could be here, with me, doing this…" Her lips are quick but he's ready and waiting, pouncing on the chance to connect with her once again. "You make a very good point."

--

_A/N: I know, I know, it's been ages. But I have exams in counts two days. So, if you'd cut me a little slack, it'd be appreciated. It's not like you guys are addicted to the stuff, right?_


	17. Ambushed

Erik's fingers slam against the keys in frustration. For God's sake, it's a Saturday, why does the world continually deny him the pleasure of music?! Christine's eyes shoot up, following him with caution as he shoves himself upwards and snatches his phone from the side table. He practically stabs the answer button and thrusts the phone to his right ear. "Yes?" His impatience is so vividly expressed on that handsome face that Christine can't help but let out a chuckle. He shifts his amber eyes to her direction and it quickly turns into laughter at his fury. He rolls his eyes, but cannot hide the smile which has grown on his face. "Erik!" A familiar voice pleads and the smile quickly vanishes. "Nadir, what is it?" "Erik, they tricked me. I mean, they set me up for Christ's sake. I go up to the roof top to sniper one guy, and find it covered by about ten guys! THEY FUCKING SET ME UP!"

Christine can hear Nadir's words clearly, as if she herself had the phone to her ear. She frowns, her eyes hinting a secret fear. "Where are you? Where the fuck are you?!" Erik demands as he hears the not so distant sound of gun fire on the other end. "Um, the roof top on…shit…Clarkson Street! The shortest apartment complex on Clarkson Street." Nadir racks his brain for the information and yelps as a bullet ricochets near by. "Ok, I'll be there, just hold them off for ten more minutes, maximum. Just tell me who, I need to know who we're up against." "The mother fucking Whelan Mafia." There's a thud and Erik whirls around and discovers Christine on her feet. She turns on her foot quickly and making her way towards the door, letting out a growl of frustration and sorrow. Gritting her teeth and turning the corner, she glances at Erik. "Tell him we'll be there in five."

Erik hangs up the phone and races after his beloved as she marches into her room. She grabs her leather jacket and yanks open her top desk draw. Her hands dive in and emerge seconds later holding one of Erik's guns and five casings of bullets. "Christine, you can't come!" He snaps as she shoves the gun in the waist band of her jeans, at the base of her spine. Her hair whips past him as she slams him into her bedroom wall. "You listen here, Nadir has fallen for the old Rigged Rooftop trick and considering the fact that the Whelan Mafia is involved, you're going to need a minimum of three people to save his fucking ass, I can tell you that much." Her voice is harsh and doesn't match the fear in her eyes but before he can protest, she shoves him aside and sticks her left foot into the first military boot. "Erik, get moving, now!" She orders, not turning her head to face him. He splutters but quickly does as he's told, knowing he's not going to win this argument, she's caught him unawares.

Six and a half minutes later, their seated in Erik's hummer and racing through the second pair of red light's they've encountered. Erik glances over at her as she slips on a pair of leather gloves. "Don't think you can get away with this. So help me god, if any thing happens to you-" "Nothing will happen to me Erik!" She cries with a knowledge that he doesn't possess. He wants to know how she's so confident but hasn't got time as his foot slams on the break and he kills the ignition. She sighs and grips his shoulder tightly before he can exit the car. "I know you don't want to, but I need you to at least try and trust me on this one." Her voice is resigned as he has this feeling she's trying to face a long fought fear. "I trust you, Christine, never doubt that. It's the other guys with the guns I worry about."

Slamming the door behind himself, he quickly locks the vehicle and follows her lead. "We'll take the lift." Her orders echo throughout the empty corridor before they can escape his own mouth. He nods in approval as they wait impatiently for the next lift. There's no point in racing up the stairs and exhausting yourself before you even reach the fight.

As the lift begins to jerk upwards, Christine turns to her partner. "There'll be four men assigned to the four corners, each checking for no unwanted attention from passers by. Three men will probably be watching on, interfering if they're needed. And the final three will be ambushing Nadir. I bet my money he's hiding behind the air conditioning unit. I'm also going to assume that the three best shots are about to ambush him. One to the left, one to the right and one on top." His mind is trying desperately to focus on saving his best friend, but it can't help but stray to the questions that he wants answers for. But before Erik can demand how on earth she'd know this, the cheery ding sounds and Christine's fingers wrap themselves tightly against the cool handle of the gun.

He takes the lead and edges up towards a window. A quick glance outside and sure enough, Christine's predictions are correct. He looks at her, his brow furrowed but she's already turning the door handle. He's hot on her tail as she steps out into the cold breeze. Taking steady steps, she ignores the four corner men, strides past the extra three and raises her gun to the first of the ambush group. She doesn't even hesitate and her hand is steady as she pulls the trigger twice. Although twice isn't necessary as the first shot hits him directly in the back of his skull. A quick movement and Christine falls to one knee, dodging the gun fire from the other two. Her hand is spared the scraping of the concrete floor and she snatches up the Hitman's gun. She pauses and listens for the pause of reloading. After a moment, she raises herself to her full height once more and aims the two guns with expertise. The men fall to the ground, never again to rear their ugly heads.

Erik turns away from his second corpse, just in time to see Christine grab Nadir's hand and yank him up. _How on earth…?_ The foreign man nods his head in thanks but she's already turning her attention to the three who are now busying themselves with weapons. She uses her new gun to nudge the man towards Erik, indicating that he should help his friend. Nadir doesn't hesitate and raises his own gun as he greets his partner in crime. "Erik, she's a killing machine!" Nadir hisses, sharply pulling the trigger. The man on the nearest corner, falls of the edge and down to the ground below. There's the heavy crash of dead weight on glass and the squealing of tyres. "Oops."

The final corner man looks up, fiddling with his jammed gun. He shakes his head, suddenly loosing his. "Please, don't I got a wife and kids." He pleads for mercy, trying to appeal to their non-existent better nature. Erik tilts his uncaring head to the side. "Tough shit." His voice causes the man to wince and stumble back. Bad move. There's a cry for help as he goes over the edge. And soon enough the snap of bones breaking can be heard as clear as a bell. Erik whines. "Well, that just took the fun out of it all. Jeez, what a jerk." Nadir shrugs, trying to look on the bright side. "Come on, least he saved you a bullet."

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Christine skids to a halt in front on the group. Her eyes examine them rapidly. _Oh crap. I knew things were going too well._ Two stare at her, wide eyed in amazement while the other raises his semi-automatic. But before he can pull the trigger, the older man beside him rounds on him, shoving his gun between his eyes. "What the fuck do ya think you're playing at?!" The heavy Irish accent demands. "Put you're weapon down, now!" He orders but no sooner have the orders left his mouth, Christine has pulled two triggers tightly and feels the loving release of high speed metal. The younger of the two is shot through the neck, while the older takes a slug to the gut. The third man tries to pick his jaw up from the ground. "Dylan?!" He mutters at first. Then, taking a step towards her, his voice is firm. "Dylan!" Christine steps back, shaking her head and swallowing slightly. "Put that fucking gun down now, and get your ass over here!" He shouts, pointing to his side. "No!" Her voice is weak as she fails miserably to hide her fear. "This isn't funny anymore, get here now!" She stumbles too far back and hit's the hard surface of Erik's body. With a yelp she whirls around, instinctively raising and aiming the weapon in the same movement. Quickly realising her mistake, she turns on the spot to kill the last man standing. But he's gone and so is the body of the second dying man.

Her mind freezes as she drops the gun. _Oh no, oh sweet Jesus, no!_ "Christine! Are you ok?" Erik demands, shaking her suddenly small frame. "We got to go after them, now!" She begs, gripping the man's dress shirt for dear life. "It's way too late, they're gone. And it's a waste of time anyway. They're not worth the effort." Nadir explains with a quick shake of his head. Christine lets out a strangled cry, running quick paced hands through her hair and tugging on it slightly. The sudden sound of sirens pierce the air. The police have finally gotten off their bribed asses, to drag their unwilling bodies down to the crime scene. When the public complaints reach twenty, you know you've finally got to step in.

Erik grips Christine's arm and begins to drag her as she remains fixated on the spot. Her eyes are wide with fear and she lets out a sharp yell. "FUCK!" The word seems to shove some sense into her system and it sends her racing towards the fire escape stairwell. The other two follow her example as she begins to clamber frantically, making up for lost time. Reaching the last level, she skips the steps and jumps over the railing. She lands with a gentle thump and without a moment's pause, steps out of the dark alley. Her nimble hands quickly rid themselves of the protective leather and she discretely pockets the gloves. Erik and Nadir casually trail behind her as she makes her way around the block.

Christine nods to the younger officers who cast her a hungry glance as she edges her way past them. "I'd like to bring you home for questioning." One offers and his friends nod their heads in agreement. She raises a playful eyebrow but says no more as Erik picks up his stride and wraps an arm around her shoulders. His glare causes the men to cough awkwardly and return to their work. "Much appreciated." Christine mutters as they turn the corner and near the black hummer. "Don't mention it." Erik states as he unlocks the thick and heavy doors. Nadir jumps into the back while the other two take their places in the front. Erik clicks his seatbelt in place and casts Christine a sharp look. "What you can mention, is what the fuck just happened up there!"


	18. You Think You've Got It Bad?

Erik storms after her retreating figure, quickening his pace and grasping her shoulder before she can open her bedroom door. "Just where fuck do you think you're going?!" He demands, whirling her around. "Not now, Erik! Not now!" She protests, shaking her head sharply. "Yes, NOW!" He booms, shoving her into the lounge roughly. Christine lets out a growl and clenches her fists. "No. I am not joking here, don't even ask me-" But he doesn't heed her warning. "What the fuck just happened?! Huh?" She groans and tugs at her silver hair harshly. "You're not leaving until I get a goddamn answer!" "There's nothing to tell!" She lies and they can both see how obvious it is. Erik inhales deeply and tries to calm the rapid beating of his heart. "Please, Christine, I will not accept lies-" "Then you're not getting jack shit, cause I'm fresh out of truth!" Alright, she had her once chance to do this the nice way.

"Ok then, you don't want to tell me, fine. But don't expect your possessions to survive the night!" He warns her and she pauses. _God he is just one son of a bitch…and why the hell do I find that attractive?!_ Seeing this hesitation as a sign to continue, he begins to walk away. Erik's feet manage three steps but he's stopped suddenly as she grips his jacket and plants her feet firmly in the ground. _Feet, don't fail me now…_Glancing over his shoulder, he asks a casual question. "Should I start with the Zippo or the switchblade?" "Ok! Ok! Just, calm down." Christine sighs, her voice showing the signs of defeat. Satisfied, he turns his body to her direction once more. "Well?" Her eye twitches at the demand. _One of these days…_

The look of impatience across his face sends Christine's mind reeling into less violent thoughts. _Shit! What the hell do I say?! Crap, crap…um…when in doubt, lie!_ "A mate of mine, when I was a few years younger, his dad was in the Whalen Mafia. And you know what the Irish are like, they love to brag. So, I wanted to know a bit more about tactics and all that, he indulged me. I've forgotten most of them but the Rigged Rooftop always stuck with me, because it's a pretty ingenious technique." She shrugs in explanation, as if to say 'shit happens.' _Just face facts Erik, I don't want to tell you the truth._ "I don't know which is worse, you're on the spot lying, or your practised lying." His voice drips with rich sarcasm and she glares. "You know what? There's shit you don't tell me, I deal with it. So why the fuck can't you learn to not be a hypocrite and leave my business as exactly that, mine?"

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Erik blinks. He hadn't seen that coming, a reverse attack amid defence. _What the hell does she think she's playing at? _"Don't change the topic! Now tell me what really happened back there. How did you know the hit?" His voice is firm, demanding the truth. "I know the hit, because I just do, got it?!" Thank god the walls are almost sound proof, or else they might have a problem. "I am going to ask you one more fucking time, Christine. Why did you know the hit?" His breathing is strained and he's desperately trying to deal with his anger. _Control yourself, Erik, control. _Christine is tugging at her dog-tags, almost contemplating strangling herself by the looks of it. There's a heavy pause, it seems to crush the pair's anger and neither moves.

"I had family in the business." She admits suddenly and he turns his mask covered face away from the setting sun outside, once more to the beautiful girl standing before him. The blonde hair needs to be washed and those ice blue eyes have heavy bags under them. There's a resigned look on her face and while he knows she isn't disclosing all the details, she still speaks the truth. "Family. But I thought-" "They are all dead. But before I scattered their ashes, they were members of the Whalen Mafia." She swallows, finding it hard to release such information. "That's why old Big Ben and Mad-Dog up there recognised me." Now the voice is bitter in resentment. Her hand has reached to her back and she's pulled out the black handgun.

Erik watches her actions carefully, ready to pounce, should she turn the gun upon herself. However, she tears the gun apart, methodically undoing the jigsaw of metal pieces. He watches, amazed. Despite the fact that she is obsessed with the Mafia world, he had never even considered that this fascination came from her family having connections. Finished, she glances over her handy work. She's trying to occupy herself, calm her busy brain with some mindless work. Without a single word, her nimble hands click the pieces back together in a matter of seconds. Clearly, she's been timing herself. A quick sigh and she begins to retreat, gun in hand.

"Wait a bloody minute!" Erik stops her at the doorway. "Yes…?" She leans against the wooden frame, not really in the mood for his little game of Gestapo. "What made you think you could start helping yourself to my weapons?" He wants to know, nodding to the widow maker in her hand. Christine suddenly laughs, a look of relief filling her eyes, she'd been expecting something else. "This little thing? I didn't think you'd miss it." And with that, she's gone.

Erik groans, he'd hadn't gotten all the information needed, but he'd gotten the just of it all. The rest would have to be explained tomorrow. For now, all he wanted to do was curl up in his satin sheets and sleep, dreaming happily of Christine.

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Christine blinks, momentarily breaking her intense stare the at the blackened ceiling. The curtains are shut tightly, the windows closed and the night is perfect for sleeping. But she can't possibly. Not after the hit. Her mind is going over and over what happened. What she could have done. What she should have done. _You should have gone for the three spares first! Then you wouldn't be in this mess. _That taunting voice explains. _But Nadir surely would have died._ Whatever conscience she has left has decided to join in and make it an argument. _What about him? What's he ever done for you? You don't even know the guy!_ She groans, slamming a pillow into her face. _Oh will you all just shut the fuck up!_

Silence falls. The strongest voice of them all, logic, has spoken. _What's done is done. Kapeesh?_ No one argues and her self smothering ceases. Finally…

_Two hours later…_

Christine shoves the covers back roughly and swings her legs over the edge of the bed. Without a pause, her hand dives under her mattress and retrieves a heavy, but not quite full, 100 page folder. Brushing past her desk, her hand skims the surface and grabs a pencil along the way. She's in stealth mode as she exits, padding down the corridor without a sound. Without tearing her eyes from Erik's bedroom door, she enters the music room. Closing the heavy door behind her, she turns her attention to the device that has drawn her here. The piano.

Pulling back the curtains to reveal the city, the room is suddenly illuminated. The lights from street lamps clash and ricochet off the black surface. Walking the length of the instrument, her pale hand runs over it smoothly, trying to get a feel for it. As if struck by lightning, she stops and takes her seat in the middle of the piano bench. The lid seems to be heavier than normal and this causes her to hesitate._ If that ain't a sign, then I don't know what is…_She glares at her own reflection. It's a good thing that Devil in her mind stays her, or else she's strangle him one of these days. After a pause, she lifts the lid and lets out a breath she did not know she had been holding. _Abort mission, I repeat, abort mission!_

But it's no use. It never is with Christine. Once she starts following those goddamn instincts, she's screwed. Fitting the pencil behind her ear, she begins to flick through the file wordlessly, her mind doing the talking for her. _Too soft. Too slow. Too weak. _No, she needs something fitting her mood. Something powerful. Loud. Violent. Raw emotion. And she knows exactly what piece she needs.

Removing the last score, she glances over the pages. It's been a while since she had this out. Quite a while indeed…

Her fingers place themselves over the familiar keys and she inhales deeply. Those ice blue orbs flick to the empty title place and she scoffs. There is no possible name which could explain the contents of this work. Slamming the first keys down, she involuntarily groans. This is going to be short, sharp but oh so needed.

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Erik's eyes snap open and his hand grips the gun under his pillow tightly. There's a moments pause and he exhales. It's not an enemy. Remaining frozen, he tries to decipher what exactly woke him up. It only takes a moment to realise it's the piano. Releasing the gun, he strides to the other side of the room, snatching up his black satin robe. Silently crossing the corridor, his hand grips the music room's handle and without a second thought, he opens the door.

The sight that greats him is both painful and wondrous. Christine is seated at the piano, her fingers crashing in multiple collisions with the keys. A slight turn of her head and he can see that her eyes are closed, as if she has this score memorized. Her breathing is ragged at her muscles quivering as she plays. There's a sense of urgency about her playing, it doesn't damage the performance, but merely adds to it. But the music itself, that is the painful part. The music is pure passion and it grips his insides tightly. She's telling him a story of agony and anguish as she proceeds. The pace quickens and the suspense builds. Things are only getting worse.

With one quick flick of her wrist, the sound instantly dies down and is replaced by the gentle tapping of the highest notes. The result is a tear jerking moment of nothing but sadness as her story reaches it's conclusion. And then, all sound ceases to be.

One second. Nothing. Two seconds. Silence still. Three seconds. Her head shakes but nothing more. Four seconds and she lets out a strangled cry, her hand lashing out and whacking away the score. The pages mock her, burning her sight and fuelling her anger and frustration. They scatter with a sharp rustle and float to the ground around her feet. Reaching up with those shaking hands, she wordlessly closes the lid.

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Bringing down that lid snaps Christine out of her trance. Her anger is still boiling away, threatening to engulf her, but she's now all too aware of her surroundings. In particular, Erik standing in the door way. Her brain seems to lock up, the cogs can longer turn and she even forgets how to breath for that brief pause. Building up her courage and slapping that usual casual smirk on her face, she stands and turns to greet him.

She can feel her own eyes widen as they are only centimetres away from his amber fire balls. They take a moment to stare at each other. Reading emotions is crucial in this situation. One false move and they both risk self combustion. But for two entirely different reasons.

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Erik's eyes trace those lips and he does what seems natural at that moment in time. Snaking an arm around her back and pressing her close, he places a gentle kiss atop her lips. As soon as she responds, he deepens the kiss and runs his free hand through her hair. Something's made her angry, and she's worried. Worried what will happen if she doesn't control her temper. The kiss was a brilliant way to distract her…but perhaps too brilliant. Her arms wrap around his neck, drawing them closer as she stands on the tips of her toes. He lets out a small moan, sliding both of his arms down around her waist and lifting her up. Stepping forward, he places her on top of the piano.

Tilting her back, she exposes her throat and he wastes no time, beginning a tender trail of kisses. His lips press themselves lightly as he thanks the Lord for blessing her with such a wonderful voice. He even takes the time to run his tongue gently over her scar. Once finished with her throat, without warning, he snatches up her pale hands and proceeds to pay just as much attention to each and every knuckle. All the while the same thought plays over and over in his mind. _She plays as well! Not only does she have the voice of an Angel, but she plays! _Kissing the inside of her palms, he glances up to her eyes that have yet to leave him and another thought occurs._ How could I never realise it? But when and where did she acquire such glorious talent? _

He decides to voice his questions out loud. "Where on earth did you learn to play so beautifully?" His voice is husky in his inquiries. This seems to spoil the moment entirely and she quickly slides off the piano. "I don't play beautifully." She insists with a sharp shake of her head. "Now, you, you Erik, you play beautifully - to say the least." _There she goes again, trying to change the subject._ "That I do, and being able to do so, also entitles me to say what music is beautiful and what isn't. And-" He grabs her hand before she can step back towards the exit. "-your music is beautiful." He swears, gesturing towards her self composed piece that lies discarded on the ground. "Look, Erik, it's late. I'm sorry I woke you, I really am, but we should get going back to-" "Not before you tell me who. Who taught you?"

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Christine simply cannot believe it. He had been going so well. He wasn't mad she had used the piano. He'd kissed her so fantastically. His arms had held her close. And she was so close to loosing herself entirely, anger and all. But he just had to ask. He had to let curiosity get the better of him. _Men! I mean, honestly. You were gaining some major fucking brownie points there and what did you do? You threw them away because you just have to know everything…_

His hand was clasped firmly around hers, not hurting at all, but most certainly making it's presences known. His final question echoes through her mind. _Who taught you?_ Narrowing her eyes, she observes the man before her. Christine's gaze unconsciously slips down his bare chest, past his black boxers to his very toes and then all the way back up, enjoying the view. But despite her most certainly horny gaze, he's not relenting the grip, nor the question. "Who?" His tempers starting to grow short and the fuse is almost gone. _My God, he doesn't remember…He hasn't got a clue…_ "My father taught me for a couple years…but nothing serious…then I sort of picked up a few things myself." It's a half truth, that's got to count for something. He steps forward and she tilts her head up slightly to meet his gaze. _Good evening ladies and gentlemen! Are you ready to rumble?! _The announcer in her head yells over her internal megaphone. _In the blue corner, weighing just under 200 pounds of pure muscle, the man behind the iron mask of hatred, Erik Vestiere! And in the red corner, weighing at approximately 110 pounds and containing very little muscle, Christine Daae!_

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Erik curses as a small smile twitches on the corners of Christine's mouth. "While it's obvious that you may find lying to me amusing, I warn you that there is nothing funny about it's consequences." He spits. At this, her gaze refocuses and it narrows to a harsh glare. "I don't know how things work in your little fucking fantasy world, but in my world, I don't disclose information without gaining some of my own. It doesn't work without co-operation. And by taking one look at us, it's easy to tell that co-operation isn't going to happen. You don't trust me to see the man behind the mask and like wise, I don't trust you to see the girl behind the dog-tags!" Her voice is accusing and it's his turn to form a slit with his eyes.

"You want to see the man behind the mask?! Is that what you want?!" He roars, marching forward and taking the literal - and wrong - meaning of her sentence. Erik's steps are fast and furious, leading Christine into a wall. His shaking hand tears away his mask and sends it flying into the glass cabinet. But the sound of glass shattering deters neither. Twisting his hands in her shirt, he lifts her up and slams her into the wall. Her neck snaps back and Christine's head whacks against the wood. That was going to smart tomorrow. Shaking her, he commands her attention. "Well, look at me, Christine! LOOK!" But her eyes have yet to leave his face. The red and torn flesh doesn't seem to faze her.

Following the bastard within himself, one hand reaches down and brings one of her own to his face. He makes her feel it and when she merely shakes her head, he is enraged. _Why can't she cower? Shudder? Even just look away for a second?! Why can't she be repulsed, be like everyone else? _Erik growls and digs her finger nails into that marred flesh. The blood begins to pour, releasing his pain both physically and mentally. "Are you satisfied Christine? Is the 'man behind the mask' what you expected it to be?" He sneers, raising a taunting eyebrow. With a short laugh, she rebuts him. "I've seen worse, a lot fucking worse." Christine's tone cuts deeper than her nails ever could. "That's not what my mother said when I was born." He assures her. She was petrified by the sheer sight of me and rightly so! After four months, she had to rid herself of me, she simply had to! And so I was sold for a small fortune, to a travelling circus. And every single day, for the first nine years of my life, I was beaten and mocked. Four months old, Christine, four fucking months!"

Tear are cascading down his face now, the ones on the right side mingling with his dripping blood. But it doesn't stop her from the next actions. Lifting her feet, she kicks him firmly back. He stumbles and ends up with his ass on the piano bench. "Four months? Four goddamn months?! You should consider yourself fucking lucky!" Christine's shouting now, matching his volume, word for word. "I was barely four hours out of the womb when my mother gave me this!" She exposes the thick scar along her otherwise flawless neck. "The woman detested me! She wanted me dead for merely existing!" The blue eyes are brimming with tears but she doesn't want them to fall. "My own mother slit my throat and wanted to watch me bleed out!" Christine whirls around, being a quick pace. "They said it was sudden post-natal depression…But it soon became apparent that she had actually bought her own blade into hospital with her…Maria had planned it…My mother had wanted me dead for all of the nine months that I was in her womb. And she would have got her greatest wish, had it not been for my father. Dragging me out of her arms, he saved me and watched on as she turned the blade against herself. That's right, don't look so shocked, Erik. Apparently if I wasn't going to die, she would."

Erik watches on with unbelieving eyes and listens with burning ears. Christine's body is racking with silent sobs and her voice is cracking. "I almost died that day, Erik. But my father saved me. And I couldn't do jack shit, when 8 years later, Billy Marley walked into my house and tied my father to a chair and beat the crap out of him. I was helpless as he made him watch the rape his only daughter. I couldn't do anything to stop the torture. Nothing to cease our tears. And I most certainly could not do a single thing to stop that final bullet from destroying his bloodied face." Christine finger points at Erik. "At least you could escape the circus. There's nothing I can do to escape the memories of those days, NOTHING, DO YOU HEAR ME?! I made my own mother kill herself and I made my father's death all the more worse. So, cut me the pity story Erik, cause you had a shit life, but if you had just listened to anything that I said, so did I."

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_A/N: Alright, another chapter. I hope you enjoy…despite it's rather depressing plot…Read and Review. Please and Thank You._


	19. Saved By The Knock

"Billy? Billy Marley?" Erik questions, a look of pure confusion stretched across that deformed face. _But he only does gang hits…_ "Christine, was you're father associated with a gang, a mafia even?" Her eyes flick to Erik as she steps closer to him. "You ever known Marley to kill someone who _wasn't_ in a gang?" Christine's tone of sarcasm is accompanied by a raised eyebrow. The cold balls of ice examine him with curiosity as he tries to process this information. _Does not compute, does not compute…_

"But, which gang? Which gang did he belong to?" Christine groans, as if he had just let her down. The disappointment is etched in her voice as she answers. "The Whalen Mafia, Erik. You know, the guys we had a slight dispute with this afternoon?" Erik shakes his head, denying it until the end. _Whalen? That's fucking impossible, has she got to lie about everything?!_ "Don't try to feed me that crap, there are - and have never been - any Daaes in the Whalen gang." He's confident in his knowledge, which is all too correct. But the look in her eyes is telling him he's wrong. "Uh huh." Christine's head nods slightly as she walks over to the piano. As she takes a seat on top of the cool surface, Erik rounds on her.

His eyes narrow at her cocky tone. "Christine?" Erik mutters but she merely remains silent, cocking her second eyebrow. "Christine, I know, for a solid fact, that there has never been a Daae in the Whalen Mafia!" Now he's unsure who he's trying to convince, him or her. Licking her lips, she parts them but before she can say anything, a sharp rap on the front door breaks the silence. Their heads turn towards the door way. "Leave it, we have some important things to discuss." His pale hand waves dismissively. "Erik, it's almost 3 in the morning, if someone wants us at 3 am, chances are, it's just as important."

Her words are accompanied by a quick march to the front door. Erik follows her closely, after grabbing one of his guns, stuck underneath his piano. (Hey, you can never be too careful…) Stepping onto the tips of her toes, she cautiously peers through the peep hole. With a gentle thud, she lands on the balls of her feet, casting Erik a quick glance. "Or, I could be wrong."

With a sudden flourish of her hand, the door opens it reveal a glaring Paul, holding up Jamie by the scruff of neck. Paul's hair is ruffled and heavy bags are visible under his eyes. Those hard earned muscles are tensed and his teeth clenched together, stiffening his stubble covered jaw. Jamie looks no better. One of his green eyes is swollen shut, while the other is bloodshot. His chubby face is streaked with drying tears and his split lip appears fairly fresh. Christine places her hands on her hips, unimpressed. Paul shrugs, dropping the boy without so much as a blink. The pair narrow their glares as Jamie scrambles up, rushing behind Christine's legs. Without breaking her stare, Christine's right hand nudges Jamie in the direction of Erik. "Erik, please could you make Jamie a hot chocolate, while I deal with Paul."

Jamie obeys, he's never been one to defy Christine, and he sure as hell ain't going to start now. Especially since it looks as if she's ready to murder. Ramming herself into a near by coat and tying up her military boots, she slams the door behind her, shoving Paul outside as she goes.

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Shoving her hands deep within her pockets, she begins the conversation. "Well?" The anger cannot and shall not, be hidden. "It's Jamie-" "Here we go again…" Christine mutters darkly, rolling her eyes as they begin to slowly descend the stairs, taking their sweet time. "Hey, I'm being serious this time. That little shit is getting into a lot of trouble." Paul defends his case. "Really? Well, with you wanting him dead, it's kinda hard for the guy to avoid trouble." They pause, turning to face each other properly. "Look, I don't like him, he doesn't like me. It's a mutual hatred. You experience the exact same thing with Mitch. But I don't want him dead. Out of our lives, sure thing, but dead? That's wasting a perfectly good death wish on someone I can eliminate myself."

With the cold truth stated, they continue their walk. "Ok then, what's he up to?" "Being the kid he is, as soon as you left and things no longer went his way, he started acting out. He's failing school, on purpose. His manners are non existent and he's now fluent in grunt. He's speaking swears that I didn't learn until I was 15!" "So he's a idiot, I don't see-" "He's picking fights with guys twice his size and age." "And this is your problem, how?" "Cause every time he gets his ass whooped, everyone looks to me, as if I should step in and save the rugrat. He's not my responsibility, Chris, but the nuns and almost everyone else, are under the misapprehension that he is." "Then explain to them the situation. Tell them Jamie ain't your problem…that shouldn't be so hard, considering it's the truth." The most obvious solution - that's what her face says. "Oh, sure, that's a great plan. And when the kid finally gets killed in a fight, what then Chris? Like I said, I hate the kid, but his death ain't going to build my self confidence." Don't you think that was my first idea? He silently asks and she groans, leaning over the edge of the stair rail. "Ok, ok, I'll have a talk with him. Satisfied?"

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Erik looks down at the boy. "What happened to you?" The child inquires, indicating the man's twisted face. Placing a hand to his cheek Erik tenderly touches the flesh and is greeted with the sticky sensation of drying blood. "Looks like someone burnt you real bad, then Christine got her claws into you." The voice of the boy is bold and he shrugs off Erik's stare. "Only saying what I'm seeing." _You'll be seeing my fist in a minute if you don't watch your words…_"Get in the kitchen, don't touch anything, I'll be out in a moment." Erik mutters pointing the boy in the right direction and swiftly retreating to his bedroom.

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"No, not really. But I suppose it will have to do. Probably the best I could hope for, considering the fact that you play favourites with that brat." Paul can't help but have his tone sound childish. "Oh for Christ's sake, Paul! Do you ever give up whining about that kid?! I swear, these days you don't want me for my company, all you want is another pair of ears to listen to your endless complaints!" Christine bravely turns to him, throwing him a dirty look. At this, Paul glares and jabs her with an accusing finger. "Oi! If you hadn't decided to add that little git to our group - without my permission, might I add - then I wouldn't have to keep bitching to you." Her mouth forms a small 'o' as she listens to him. "Excuse me? Our group? What group?! There never was a group! It was just me and you!" The defence is quick but he's waiting. "And that's the god damn way it should have stayed!"

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Lifting his eyes cautiously to the mirror, Erik examines the damage. There's three straight lines down his right side, each parallel to the other. He had been shaking, but clearly Christine had been in perfect control. The bleeding has ceased but the open wounds still sting as he cleanses them with antiseptic. "Dammit!" He hisses, wishing he had a bullet in his fucking knee cap rather than having to gently dap antiseptic on himself. (That stuff stings, seriously.)

After a careful dry, staining yet another towel red, he reaches for a mask and sits it carefully upon his face. A small sigh of relief escapes him. Erik feels once again safe under the cool surface of his mask. The black china protects his identity from the world, and the world from his deformities. Running a hand through his ruffled hair and shrugging himself into his robe, he exit's the room, eager to make sure Jamie

stays out of trouble.

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Christine grips the rail tightly, her knuckles would turn white, if they weren't already that colour. "You chose to stay. Your training was done by the time you were fifteen and I made it quite clear, you could bugger off. But no, you remained by my side. You can't expect me not to carry on with my life, because you want to stick around. Any problems you've got, aren't Jamie's fault, you cause your own troubles." Her tone is low and she's giving him a warning. "Christine, he ruined everything, you can't possibly deny it. Our life was great until he arrived and then everything went downhill." _Oh god, not this speech again… I'm sick of repeating this scene over and over…_

"Paul, what the hell is your problem?" Her voice blurts out suddenly. "I mean, why are you really here?" "You want to know what my problem is? You really want to know?" "No shit Sherlock, isn't that just what I asked?" "I'll tell you what's fucking bugging me. I am still in love with you and you don't seem to fucking realise it!" His voice booms, loud enough for the world - including Erik - to hear it. And he's done it on purpose. "I have loved you for three fucking years. I finally get a relationship with you, then that little bastard comes along and fucks us up. So what? I thought, we'll get back together once the kid gets adopted. No such luck. Not only that, but now I find out you're dating that masked freak up there!" His finger points as he projects his words.

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Erik places the mug of steaming hot chocolate in front of the patient Jamie. "Here." "Thanks." The boy murmurs, hugging the mug close. Erik takes the seat opposite the kid and makes sure he can see the front door. Neither speaks for a moment, uncertain of what to say. Jamie decides to take the honest approach. "I don't know whether to detest you for taking Christine away. Or to thank you for giving her a better life." He admits, lifting his eyes to the masked man. Erik smirks at the comment. "You got balls kid. And likewise, I don't know whether to like you because of it, or kill you."

Jamie knows the Hitman and is fully aware of how much truth the statement holds. Sipping his hot chocolate, they both listen as Paul suddenly begins to yell. "I'm still in love with you…you're dating that masked freak up there!" Jamie pushes his chair back and stares at Erik. "Are you just going to let him mock you like that?" Erik motions for him to sit back down. There's a sly grin on his face and his eyes glow with knowledge. "Trust me, Jamie, whatever Christine does to him, will be a thousand times worse than anything I could ever do." "How so?" "I can only hurt Paul physically. Christine can hurt him both physically _and_ emotionally. I could shoot him in both knee caps and he'd still be more hurt by Christine turning away from him." Jamie nods in understanding. "I could get involved, but I'm rather enjoying watching Paul destroy his own relationship with Christine. This way, he ends up not being a threat to me and Christine comes to me, thanking me for not interfering." "Wow, you've thought about this." "Thinking about Christine is all that I do."

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"You think he's going to just let you bugger off to university next year? Fat fucking chance, Chris! The guy went to all that trouble just to get you, he ain't just going to let you walk away!" Christine stares at the man before her. He's convinced that what he's saying is true, she can see it in his eyes. But she's too stubborn to believe it. "Paul. Erik isn't going to-" "Oh, so it's Erik now?" "YES! He has a goddamn name! And I'm telling you, he isn't going to stop me next year." "Christine, that guy has possessive bastard written all over him. He isn't going to let you move to Harvard, let alone Oxford or Cambridge if you decide to go there."

"I can handle myself. If he tries to stop me, I can deal with it." She's trying to wrap this up now, she's trying not to lash out. "No, you wont. I can guarantee it. So, if you plan on furthering your education, I suggest you take my hand, right now, and we both get the fuck out of here." He outstretches his hand and begins to wrap his fingers around her own, assuming her answer is yes.

Paul isn't expecting the reaction he gets. A small part had hoped for her to cry with realisation and run into his arms. Another part had foreseen an angry yell. But he receives neither. What he does get is a sudden whack to the face with a sharp hand. The rage is leaping like blue flames in her eyes as she slams him into the wall. "I'll tell you what's going to happen. You're going to walk away. Right now. You're going back to that orphanage and you're going to tell the nuns Jamie's staying with me for the night. Got it? And this discussion? Never happened."

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Erik quickly replaces his smile with a frown of concern as Christine enters, locking the door behind her. Both him and Jamie wait as she visits her room. Five minutes and a loud bang as she punches her desk later and she emerges in her own satin robe. "Erik, can I talk to you for a moment." "Of course." The man nods, quickly following her as she enters the music room. Christine closes the door quietly behind her and looks up at Erik. "I was wondering…If Jamie could stay here for the night?" Without pausing to think about it, he nods. "Of course, whatever you want." She lets out a deep sigh of relief and leans against his chest. "Thanks."

Erik wraps his large arms around her small frame. "Whatever I can do to please you Christine, just name it and it's yours." He promises her quietly. Christine pulls away slightly and he looks down at her. Her lips lift up in a lopsided smile. Erik parts his own lips to speak, wanting to ask about earlier but her eyebrow lifts. The mouth shuts tightly and she leans up, kissing him. "Finally, you've learnt to read my mind."

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_A/N: Her secret will just have to wait for another chapter, sorry, but Jamie's appearance is rather important for later events…_


	20. A Little Lesson In Maths

Christine glances down at the sleeping Jamie. "Kid couldn't even finish his hot chocolate." Erik sighs, in fake disappointment. "Kinda hard to when you drugged it." She rebuts, smirking at his shifty eyes. "I have this feeling you know a lot more about the ways of a Hitman than you're letting on." Erik steps forward to help her but she shakes her head as she silently picks up the little boy. Shifting his weight slightly she starts towards her bedroom. Glancing over her shoulder before she closes the door, she gives him something to think about. "And on the other hand, I'm begging to think you know a lot less about me than you should."

With a heavy sigh, she places the boy on the bed and turns to her dresser. Digging through the drawers, she emerges a minute later holding a huge t-shirt. Shaking it open, her eyes glance down at the front. _Bon Jovi - Keep The Faith Tour, 1998. _Christine rubs her thumb gently over the silver signatures, placed randomly around the logo. The concert is one of her vivid memories of her former life and the pristine condition of the shirt displays it's emotional value. "Christine? Can we turn out the lights?" A voice intrudes on her thoughts and she whirls around, surprised. "What?" "The lights, can we turn them off, please?" Nodding her head in understanding, she throws the boy the shirt. "Here, you can sleep in this tonight."

"Wow." Jamie breaths, wide awake all of a sudden. "Where'd you get this?!" He examines the artefact with caution, not believing it to be real. Hearing no reply, Jamie lifts his head up. Christine's gone. Stripping down to his underwear, he shrugs on the shirt, before investigating. The bathroom door is ajar and he takes a few steps closer. "Get yourself in the bed, Jamie." Her voice warns and he quickly bolts back to the centre of warmth.

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Christine glances at her topless body. The skins just as pale as that which is normally exposed, only this flesh is marred by several scars. Tracing a controlled finger over the raised mounds of memories, she releases a withheld breath. Without thinking, she dunks her head sharply into the sink full of water below. Dragging herself back up, her blurred vision runs across her torso one more time, slipping back to a time unforgotten.

"_You need five, you see," Billy explains to the crying child beneath him. Christine narrows those weeping shards of ice to a glare. Not liking the lack of fear, he slaps her sharply across the cheek. "Five." He repeats, running the tip of the blade along her flesh. There's a muffled cry from a near by corner and the pair turn their heads. Held in place by industrial duck tape, Dylan's father is sitting in a chair, shaking his head quickly, telling Billy not to do it. He tries to speak but the silver tape covers his mouth and kills his words. "What's that Desmond? Six, you say? No, give the poor girl a break, five is exactly what she needs." Billy laughs and the high pitched giggle causes Christine to wince. Looking down at the girl, his other hand runs down her cheek and she reacts on instinct, snapping her head around and biting down hard on those fingers which had only minutes ago, touched her in sacred places. _

"_Piece of advice, honey, don't bite the hand that holds the blade!" Billy spits, suddenly pressing down on the knife and letting the blood flow freely onto the bed sheets below. "One." Christine grits her teeth, trying to ignore the pain that has just emerged above her appendix. There's a clatter as Desmond desperately tries moving out of the chair he's taped to. Dylan tugs against the rope at her wrists, mimicking her father's actions. "Like father, like daughter. You two can't face facts that you're both fucked." Billy admits, shaking his head in despair. "I mean, most people know they're screwed once they're stuck to the chair, but not you, oh no Des, you've got to deny the truth to the very end." Billy argues, turning the blade over in his hand. "Hey, Billy, bet you twenty that you don't know what comes after one." Christine grins, subtly stopping him from taunting her father any further. Desmond shoots daggers at his only child and she can read his thoughts: 'stop angering him dammit!' Billy's happiness vanishes and he glances down at her stomach, looking for a place to set down the next mark. Finding a place just below her ribs, he lets the knife do all the work. "Two." _

_Christine's chest lifts as she breaths in sharply. There's a slight tingling sensation as a trail of warm blood travels down her side. The patch of sheet underneath her is wet and she squirms as he pushes her down against it. "Lets see if you can make it all the way to those big numbers." Her words are spoken with an Irish accent as she whips him with sarcasm well beyond her years. "I've got to say, Des, you've raised her all wrong. I thought the perfect Mafia daughter was trained to respect her elders." Billy snarls as the third goes diagonally through her belly button. This one is noticeably deeper and she twists in an attempt to lessen the pain but her movement only sends the blade on a zigzagging pattern at the end. _

"_Tsk, tsk, look what you did to number three." At this point, Christine is shaking slightly, trying to keep her calm demeanour. As she shuts her eyes tightly for a moment, the tears squeeze out uncontrollably. Opening them, the shaking blue orbs turn to Desmond. One eye has been swollen shut and bubbles of blood form as he breaths slowly through his broken nose. The autopsy would later reveal that six of his ribs were broken. His right shoulder dislocated. The left wrist, fractured. And all ten of his fingers broken, as Billy had chanted his way through "This little piggy…"_

"_Let's see, where to put number four…" But she knows its only a ploy to get her to look back at him. She keeps her eyes firmly fixed on her father. A small, encouraging smile forms on her mouth as she tries to calm him. The familiar pair of grey eyes relax slightly and he's proud of her strength. Any other girl would beg for mercy, scream for the pain to stop but not his kid. Christine has either been silent _

_throughout the torture or sneered at her captor. It is brave and although it doesn't help the situation, they both know they are well beyond saving. "Here!" _

_Billy's switch blade tears the flesh open over the area where her left breast would later develop. Granting him the pleasure to catching his eye, she pushes his button one more time. "Wow, I'm surprised you made it this far, Billy. You deserve a gold star!" And it's her turn to laugh. Christine can't help it as her body shakes from the action. Sharp pains are sent out from her wounds and she lets out a low moan. Better to dye laughing than crying._

_A growl emerges as he slices the weapon through the wound in her belly button in the opposite direction. "Five!" He claims. "X marks the spot." His hand motions to his art work. Christine follows his eyes and manages to crane her neck to where he's pointing. The five gashes are deep enough to leave scars but he's skilfully managed to avoid hitting any organs. The amount of blood surrounding her suddenly makes her dizzy but noting his smirk, she breaths in deeply, remaining focused. "Now, class," Billy turns from Christine to her father. "who can tell me why we needed five marks exactly? No more, no less." _

"_Now, I know you know the answer, Desmond, but how about we give the younger students a try. Any guesses?" But his mocking only arches a casual eyebrow from his younger victim. "Wrong!" He yells, slapping her with a sudden ferocity. First comes noise, then comes pain, then comes the blood from the split lip. Swirling the blood around her mouth, she watches and waits. "We need five, children, because we need one for each bullet." Billy gazes at her lack of reaction, this child's cool composure unnerves him slightly. He expected it from Desmond, but surely not a kid of 8. "One for each bullet that had today plagued Desmond's body." Her mind races as she notes his cocky tone. Have there been five? Racking her brain she tries to remember. _

_One in his left shoulder had been the welcome from Billy. One in the thigh, left or right, she can't remember. That had been to stop the man from running. A bullet in the upper right knee cap had been necessary to prevent Desmond's kicks as he was strapped to the chair. Number four had only grazed her father's stomach when he protested during her rape and now it lay embedded in his bedroom wall. But that only made four. There were no other bullets, she knew it. In one fluid motion, she lunges as far forward as she can and spits the blood from her mouth into his face. "I guess you failed maths, Billy." _

_Cocking back the hammer of his gun as he lifts himself off the bed, Billy raises his eyebrows in sinister question. Aiming his gun at Desmond's head, it all becomes too clear. "Did I, kid? Did I?" _

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_A/N: Review people, what do I pay you for?!_


	21. God's No Fun

Christine groans, propping herself up on her elbow. The other hand creeps up and checks the back of her skull. The area has gone down to it's original size, the swelling had only been minor, but it still hurts like a bitch to touch. A small blood patch on her pillow lets her know she's been rolling about in her sleep again. Jamie stirs gently beside her and she remembers last night. "Fuck." Her voice curses lightly as she knows that as soon as Jamie's gone, Erik's going to grill her. _Goody, lucky me. _"Christine?" Jamie sits himself up, rubbing his tiny eyes. "Yeah?" Her words are muffled by her yawn and the two laugh for a moment. "What time is it?" "Time for you to get dressed, we're going out." Christine explains, ruffling his blonde hair. Picking up the clothes off the floor, he calls out her name before she enters the bathroom. "Are we going back to the orphanage?" This question pauses her and without really considering it, she shakes her head. "Not at this moment in time."

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Jamie quietly peers out of Christine's bedroom, turning his head from side to side. His little eyes narrow as he checks for any signs of danger. Seeing none, he bravely steps forward. Dredging up memories from the night before, he finds his way back to the kitchen. Erik is sitting at the island and he pauses, the coffee cup half way to his mouth. _Well, well._ The Hitman ponders. _What do we have here…How bold of him to not wait for Christine._ "There's cereal in the pantry, bottom shelf. Milk's in the fridge. Clean up your mess." Nodding as he listens, Jamie helps himself quickly, but politely, to this stranger's food. Erik glances at his watch five minutes later. "Where's Christine?" Swallowing his mouthful, Jamie replies. "Having a shower, I think."

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Erik pushes the door open and checking the bed, he's surprised to notice a patch of dried blood upon Christine's pillow. Turning off the bathroom light, Christine enters, mildly surprised and fully clothed. For some reason today, her dress is tidier than usual. The shoes aren't military, but merely a pair of black sneakers. The jeans have no holes whatsoever and sit, like most of her jeans, nicely on her hips. The shirt is nothing more than a simply black v-neck. As she searches in the closet for a jacket, she finally speaks up. "What can I do for you?" "There's blood, on your pillow." Casting a glance back, she nods in confirmation, but says nothing else.

Tapping his foot impatiently, Erik rolls his eyes and shakes his head slightly. "How did it get there?" Pulling out a black leather jacket, she shrugs herself into it. "Oh, that. You nudged me into the wall last night." Christine motions to the back of her skull. It takes him a moment to remember. "Sweet Jesus, let me have a look-" Stepping forward as if she's already said yes, he reaches for her head. "Whoa! Chill Phantom. It's fine. A little split skin. I checked it out myself." Her hands fly up, grabbing his own. Erik's eyes narrow and the anger flows out of those tiny amber slits. "I've dealt with a lot worse without your assistance, and you know it. So don't try to cut me that crap."

But apparently, that's not why he's mad as he continues to shoot very pointy daggers at her. Letting go of his hands and ducking, as if she could avoid the look of death, she reaches around him, grabbing her keys and wallet from her desk. Rising slowly and comically, Christine groans when she discovers him still ready and pissed off. Placing her hands on her hips and sighing, she looks at him. "Yes?" "What did you call me?" Now she's really confused. "Phantom…" She has this feeling that letting that one slip wasn't a good idea. "That, is my code name. It is the name all my employers call me. It is my Hit name. It is not my real name. Do you not think we are close enough for you to call me by my first name?" He fires out the questions in the exact same way he fires bullets - quickly but with sharp and accurate aim. "I think you're reading too much into this. It just slipped out, seriously." At this, she turns and begins to exit the room. "Just make sure it doesn't 'slip out' again."

Jamie is drying up his bowl and spoon as Christine enters. Sticking a slice of bread into the toaster, she glances at her watch. "Go and grab your coat and put your shoes on. As soon as this toast pops, we're out of here." Not wasting time, the boy rushes past Erik and slips back into Christine's room. "Where are you off to?" "Thought I take him down to the museum, he loves the place almost as much as me." Her eyes glance at him, he's wearing his thick black coat, it reaches down a few inches above his knee. Erik straightens his mask in the reflection of a picture and picks up his keys. "You want to take the hummer? Or shall we walk?" He's invited himself along for the ride and there's nothing she can do about it. "We'll walk."

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Erik peers around the corner, watching Christine and Jamie intently. Their in the religious section of the large museum and Christine is lecturing the child in her favourite subject. _Apart from music, of course. _Erik tries to reason with himself, but despite his insistence, he knows fully well that Christine only persists in her lessons because he demands it. History is by nature her favourite subject, she lives life, learning the most important lessons from the mistakes and successes of people long gone. "So, they burnt them? Alive?!" Jamie isn't buying this. "Just because they had a different religion?" His innocence amuses Erik. With a casual shrug, Christine motions to the carvings in front of them. It's early modern England and the scene is set during Bloody Mary's reign. A line of three Protestants is depicted, all three struggling to break free of the thick ropes that have them tied to the stakes. All the while, the flames are licking higher and higher. "It was important to them. And you can't be one to talk. I seem to remember you were willing to take a thrashing just to keep hold of your game-boy." This causes the little boy to blush a deep crimson. "Yeah," He argues. "But we all know a game-boy is way more fun than God!" Christine's laughter echoes in the near empty room and Erik smiles at the sound. "Whatever you do, Jamie, please don't let the nuns catch you saying that."

Stepping out of the darkness, Erik approaches the pair. Christine turns her head and gives him a gentle smile. Apart from their earlier spat, the day has been good. He hasn't shut her companion out and allows him to feel mildly welcome - something they both find very hard with new people, so she can appreciate his effort. Erik had insisted, and obviously had his way, about paying for the museum and for the rest of the day that might follow. She's allowed him, let him have his moment of pride. He is trying to establish his dominance over Jamie and let the child know that he looks after Christine now.

Trying to remain as casual as possible, he takes the other side of her and his hand finds her. They lace fingers and she gives him a gentle squeeze. "Alright, that's enough Bible talk, let's go to the music section, and then we're done for the day." At her explanation, Jamie moans. "Aw, but its mostly classical music." He mutters the words darkly, pleading with wide eyes to Christine. Shaking her head, displaying her finality on the matter, they head towards the next exhibit. Erik can't help but frown at the boys comments. "You don't enjoy classical?" Scoffing and rolling his eyes, Jamie lets him know his true feelings. "Its boring, there's no going past it."

Nudging Jamie towards a tiny section on more modern music, Christine catches Erik's eye. As soon as he's out of ear shot, Erik drags her over to the area dedicated to well-known and occasionally overrated artists, like Mozart and Beethoven. "I thought you liked classical. And I also thought he liked whatever you liked." She sighs. "I do enjoy some classical, mainly the unknown stuff. But I knew as soon as I met Jamie, he'd only share some of my music tastes. Classical just isn't his style." With a humph, Erik's eyes wander over the words, but he's read them a million times. A sly smirk forms on Christine's lips. Lifting a finger up, she places in under Erik's chin and directs him back to face her, only this time, closer. "Come on. You win some, you lose some. Don't ruin a good day."

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Erik's eyes trace her features and he internally groans with desire. Her words are soft and she's asking nicely. _Christine's right, what does it matter to me if the jerk doesn't like classical? _She must notice his look of acceptance and she leans in closer. "Thank you." It's a gentle murmur and no sooner have the words left her sweet lips, he grabs them with his own pair. _Oh god, how does she do that? Just a couple of words, a simple 'thank you' and I want to be all over her…_And sudden exclamation breaks his train of thought and the two tears themselves apart. Jamie is watching them with his jaw on the ground. "Ewww!"

Rolling her eyes, Christine casts Erik a raised eyebrow. Standing on her tip toes and pulling him even closer to her, she reaches his ear, whispering: "Well, he may not have liked it, but I thought it was very enjoyable…" A shiver travels from his ear and somehow to ends up at his tingling tongue. "If that's the case, I'd love to help you experience such enjoyment later today." His voice explains, speaking his mind before he has time to properly think. "I thought you'd never offer." And she rests once more on the balls on her feet, her smallish hand still encased in his large one.

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"Thanks for the great day, Erik." The voice above him suddenly says in all seriousness. Erik's eyes flicker up to the boy who's sitting on his shoulders as they make their way back to the orphanage. Jamie licks his ice cream hungrily but he's not fast enough. A large glob of melted chocolate ice cream lands on Erik's cheek. Christine stares, stopping on the spot. At first, fear for Jamie grips her. _Crap, he's going to beat him to a pulp…Oh crap, oh crap!_ But realising her masked partner isn't going to harm the boy, she doubles over, almost dropping her own cold treat, laughing. _I don't get this guy, one minute he's busting caps, the next he's letting kids spill ice cream on him…_Jamie tries to stifle his laughter but it's useless. And Erik lets out a low growl. _This is why you hate children, Erik…and why I never let them on my head when they have any food what so ever…_ She reminds herself. But as the laughter finally ceases and Christine raises herself back to her normal height, Erik sees the tears of happiness in her eyes. To keep up whatever reputation he has left, he lets out a sarcastic remark. "Funny ha ha."

Christine sighs, letting out a huge breath. Raising her thumb, she wipes away the ice cream and licks it free from her limb. "Mmm…" And Erik's eyes seem to melt into a sticky sap as he watches her every move. _That is going to have some interesting results later…_Taking his hand, they resume the walk home. A few minutes later, Jamie licks his fingers, the last to finish his ice cream. "I pity the nun who has to help you clean up." Christine admits, the grin still on her face from the earlier incident. The very young man pokes out his tongue and wags it at her. "Oi, you show the girl friend of Erik respect, or else I'll teach you respect the hard way." Erik warns, half serious, half joking. Christine's happiness and smile remain in place and she can tell the Hitman is ecstatic at her indifference to being claimed as his. _Meh, I suppose he's right. And let's face it Christine, could you think of a better owner than Erik Vestiere, Hitman extraordinaire?_

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There's the sound of a whip cracking through the air and Erik feels a sharp tug and the light weight on the child instantly vanishes. He goes to grab Jamie's legs but it's too late, their gone. Whirling around, he discovers the child eagle spread on the concrete pavement. Blood is appearing from a hole in his upper stomach and staining the child's green shirt. Yanking out two guns from his jacket, he turns his head, examining the rooftops and near by buildings for the source of the bullet. Sensing the danger is gone, he ignores the screams around him and pockets his guns. Wincing, he quietly turns back to the drama playing out before him.

Christine has fallen to her knees and is gripping the kid's hand for dear life. Fumbling for his mobile, Erik quickly joins her on the ground and jabs numbers into the device, pressing it to his ear. He listens and impatiently waits. "I need an ambulance. There's been a shooting midway down Townsed street and the victim is a child." "Someone will be there within next ten minutes, sir." The dull voice replies. But Erik knows that's too long, far too long. "Ten minutes ain't good enough, make it happen quicker, or so help me god woman, you will regret it!" "Sir, making threats will not help anybody. I suggest you wait patiently, and keep as much pressure as possible on the wound, wherever it may be." And with that, the wench hangs up.

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Christine feels Erik's gaze on her and Jamie, as she keeps her hand tightly pressed but she can't look up. Her eyes refuse to leave Jamie's watering pair. She can only imagine the pain he's going through, she's been lucky enough to dodge all the bullets fired her way throughout her life. Opening his mouth, Jamie goes to speak but at first, only blood comes out. The dark liquid slides down his paling cheeks and she groans. Soon it'll be too late to save him._ Why? Why him? What the fuck did he ever do?_

"Chris, it hurts, it really hurts." His voice seems so weak as he struggles against the tide of blood trying to silence him. "I know, Jamie, I know. Just hold on, you're going to be fine." _Don't die on me, damn you kid! If you leave me, I'll go crazy, crazy I tell you…_And she can't help but marvel at herself. Here she is, on the ground, holding one of her most trusted friends, who might die of a bullet, and she still can't do it. Christine cannot simply express her true emotions. There's nothing more she'd love to do than tell Jamie how much she cares for him, and how if she lost him, she'd loose a part of herself. But the fucking words wont leave her throat and she quietly hopes she chokes on them.

"Can't you make it go away? Please, Christine. I'll be good, I swear, just make it go away." At this, she tightens her grips on both his hand and his stomach. "I wish I could, Jamie. But…there's nothing I can do." Christine whispers the last words, coming to grips with her sudden helplessness. There is absolutely nothing that she can do. She's trained this boy to put on a brave face, to never show the world what he's truly thinking, to become just like herself…And for what? So he too can sit by and watch his friends slip through his fingers? So he as well will be able to prove himself useless when the moment arrives to act?

_What on earth have I done?_

And for once in her life, Christine doesn't have an answer. Jamie coughs and she feels the blood fleck her face. But frankly my readers, she couldn't give a damn. "Christine…" His voice is trying to strengthen itself and instinct tells her to lean closer, listening intently. "Yeah, kid? What is it?" "I just…" He coughs again and this time, she's covered by a thicker layer of the despicable paint. "I want to say thanks, for all that you've done-" "Cut that shit out right now! That's pussy, quitter's talk and you ain't a pussy. I didn't raise you that way!" _And it's your 'raising'_ _that got this kid into this mess? Isn't it Christine? You just couldn't help yourself, you had to ruin one more life before you left the orphanage…_ Jamie's eyes roll to the back of his head and the tears of pain he's held back until now, slide down his face, mingling with the blood.

"Everything's going fuzzy, I can't see properly." And no sooner has he utters those words, Christine lets out a cry of anguish. _It's too late, no one can save him…_The sound of sirens challenges her yell and quickly smothers her complaints to god above. Inhaling sharply, she shakes Jamie slightly. "Hear that? They're playing our song, Jamie…They're playing our song…" But his tiny hand suddenly goes limp. His glassy eyes no longer move. The bubbles of blood that had been his main sign of breathing cease. _He's gone…he's…dead…_

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_A/N: Review…and if I don't get at least five, I'll do something drastic…like quit the story…? (Hopes her threats will work)_


	22. Let Him Have This

Erik breaths in sharply as the back of the ambulance opens. Two medics rush out, dragging a stretcher behind them. They try to push Christine aside, but she sits firmly in her place, her grip on Jamie's hand still present. The pair lean over him and the masked man's view of the child is blocked. They exchange fast words and he can see the sweat begin to form on their brows as they begin the unnerving task of attempting to save the child. After a couple of minutes, they both pull sharply away, shaking their heads and confirming what he already knows. There is no hope.

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Christine follows the stretcher as it carries Jamie's body away. She notes Erik trailing behind her, his eyes focusing on the medics, but she couldn't care less. Seating herself down the in the cramped van, a wave of claustrophobia washes over her. A plastic rustle fills her ears and her eyes snap open, she didn't even know they were sealed shut. One of the shaking hands of the medics is zipping shut the coroner's bag they have placed the small child in. As the zip reaches the neck, she lashes out, shooing them away. "Leave him be."

As the van rambles along, they pull to a sudden halt to stop at a red light. Christine, unprepared for the brakes, lurches forward and slaps her palms hard against the stretcher. Her eyes cant blink as she suddenly finds herself only centimetres away from Jamie's defeated and destroyed face. The sight is too much and she sharply pushes herself away, slamming back into the side of the ambulance but happy for the release from that dead-eyed stare. Those green eyes, they are practically glaring at her, accusing her silently. Even tho she hadn't wielded the gun, it is if the corpse knows this is all her fault.

But now isn't the time to beat herself up about it, not just yet. First, she needs to confront those who had pulled the trigger and she has a rough idea where to look…_Those sons-of-bitches! When I get my hands on them- _"Christine, we're here." Erik's voice cuts her threats short and she shows her displeasure with a sudden snap of her teeth. He remains steady, holding out his hand for her as they carry the body away. Christine slaps his hand away and hangs her head in shame as she follows the medics.

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The doors of the morgue swing to and fro as the pair trail behind the men who were unable to provide a miracle to save the child's life. "Give us a minute." Erik orders as the two wheel the corpse to a stop. They stare briefly at the man who is giving out orders and he snarls, letting them know their presence is unwelcome. Without another pause, they practically run for the exit.

Christine examines the tray of pathologist tools as she carefully wriggles her hands into a pair of latex gloves. "Watch the door." Her voice orders as her eyes finally spot the piece of equipment she's looking for. Erik obeys, but keeps one eye trained on her movements. Quick words of Gaelic escape her and he watches as she does the sign of the cross before unzipping the bag and sliding the tool inside the stomach wound. There's the vomit inducing noise of metal against organs as she shifts around, searching. Moments later, her bloodied hand emerges, holding on tightly to the clamp which bears the bullet. Walking over to a nearby sink, her clean hand reaches out and turns on the tap.

Erik approaches, forgetting his post, and joins her in staring. The blood slowly rinses away until the bullet stands alone in all it's metal glory. Dropping the tiny piece of evil into Erik's waiting hand, Christine returns the clamp to it's home and disposes of her gloves. Erik holds the bullet to the light and rolls it between his finger and his thumb. Seeing nothing there, he tilts the base and sure enough, carved into the bottom is a four leaf clover. "The Whelan Mafia?" Erik arches a eyebrow. "They never understood the art of being discrete."

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"Well?" Erik inquires with a casual shrug of his shoulders, as though all this hasn't phased him at all. "Well what?" Christine spits, knowing perfectly well what the man is asking about. "Christine, I am no fool, we both know that bullet was meant for me. A couple inches lower and my skull would have cracked open like a fucking piñata! The only reason I am still alive and Jamie is on that slab instead of me, is shoddy gunmanship. So why do the Whelan Mafia want me dead?" "What makes you think I've got something to do with this?! You're one of the best Hitmen that the underworld has to offer, there must be thousands who want you dead!" Her protests echo in the chilled room and her breath rises as a cloud of mist. "I have no quarrel with the Whelan Mafia-" "Are you forgetting the other day on the roof top?" "I have worked for the Whelan's for years, with not a single betrayal. You come along and they instantly want me and Nadir dead! Why?" "How should I know?" "Cut the fucking crap with me, Christine! I want answers and I want them NOW!" Erik booms, shoving himself down into a near by chair. Christine glances downwards, placing a piece of gum in her mouth. "Fine."

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"The Whelan Mafia only want you dead, because they want me dead." The statement is said in a sigh of relief. She's wanted to say this for years. To finally tell someone might be good for the soul. "Why-" "My name isn't Christine Daae, far from it." "Then it's?" Christine cocks an eyebrow and a smirk plays out across her perfect lips. "Dylan Devlyn. Daughter of Desmond Devlyn. Your former mentor-" "Impossible!" Erik insists sharply, cutting her short. Christine stares at him blankly. _No, it can't be her. She's dead. I know she is._ "Is it Erik? Is it impossible that you forgot the little girl to whom you taught piano?" "They told me Desmond and Dylan were both dead." _Look at her, she's smirking at you!_ "They wish. No. Desmond died. His skull became the new colour for the wallpaper in his bedroom. Dylan - myself - unfortunately lived. Got out of there before the police came." "Then why would Billy lie?" "Would you love to admit to a Mafia leader that despite being one of the world's top Hitmen, you were unable to defeat a mere child? No. Billy told them he dumped my body in a lake or something, weighed me down with some rocks and I was gone." "But why would the Whelan's want you dead? It doesn't make sense-" Now he's really starting to annoy her. There is an impatient parental tone with her words. "It was an inside job, Erik. It was a take over. Dad had suspected it for months, he was working on emergency flight details at the time it happened." _They had lied. For years they had claimed that the hit had been an unpreventable tragedy and that nothing could have been done. And for years he had believed it._ "I managed to contact a friend of Desmond's, a man I knew was loyal, the only man I could trust. He explained that Shaun had grown bored of a partnership, wanted the entire gang for his own. _Apparently _I wasn't meant to be harmed. _Apparently_, it was meant to Desmond's death day and not my own. _Apparently,_ Billy would be punished severely for his crime. I didn't care. I told him to book me on the first flight to the United States and to wish me luck, because I wasn't coming back. And the rest you know."

The pair both take a moment to reflect. Christine to ponder over the tale of her past. And Erik, to alter his perception of the girl before him and to question his own judgement. Despite his months of observation, he still couldn't realize whom this girl truly was. Now, it is far too obvious. Christine's looks belong to her mother, no doubt, but her stance, her clothes, her attitude - these all scream Desmond. A straight back, arms folded across her chest, no-nonsense pose. Casual but tidy clothes. One major attitude problem with the 'innocent' people of this world. Desmond. Desmond. Desmond. If she put on a wig now, he probably wouldn't be able to tell the difference. And now that he knows who she really is, does that change anything? _Don't be a fool, you love this girl regardless of your past acquaintance. If anything, your history together should strengthen your bonds. You two have both shared a common pain for years, without even realizing it. The death of Desmond links you, no tears you apart. _A sigh escapes him as his mind wonders back to his, and now their, past.

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"_You must be Erik Vestiere." The gruff voice of Devil Devlyn states, leaning against the doorway of his three story house. The awkward boy of 13 nods in confirmation as the older gentleman extends his hand. Erik's own bony limb rushes in to shake it and he instantly regrets it. The sharp sting of the blade causes a hiss to escape between his teeth. Glancing down at his palm, his sees blood begin to emerge from the short slit. The towering figure of Nadir grips the teenager's shoulder tightly, as if that will stop the easily aggravated boy from lashing out. Desmond Devlyn wipes the blade clean against the leg of his jeans and pockets the blade. "Lesson number one. The hilted handshake. Many of the men you meet in our line of business shake hands like I just did. So every time you go to shake someone's hand, approach fast and they'll get cocky, flip the blade open too soon, giving you enough time to stop and prevent a slit wrist. Now, get your ass in here, there's someone important you have to meet." Des's hand beckons him quickly. But Erik has learnt well and cautiously steps through. "Good, lad, quick learner, I like it." The pat on the back is gratifying and fills the lost cause with a small sense of pride. To please this man is to accomplish something great. "Nadir." The Irish accent acknowledges the Persian and likewise, the desert born man greets an old friend. "Desmond." _

_Taking his chance while the two talk, Erik takes in his surroundings, just like Nadir showed him. A glance here, a tilt of the head there. Nothing obvious, but all very vital. A stair case is to his left, turning a corner and blocking his view of the second floor. A kitchen lies directly in front of him and the smell of hot Irish stew taunts the hungry teen. (Teenage boys are always hungry) A living room is to his right. Three soft leather couches look inviting as they all face the large screen television. The fire place is lit, fighting off the winter cold and filling the room with a flickering glow. "Come on then, lets see if you pass the test." There's a smirk across his new mentor's face as he nods to the stairs. Erik swallows and places his hand beside his blade for quick access as they begin to ascend the staircase. Taking a sharp right at the second floor, the man gently pushes an ajar door open. Inside, a tiny figure is sitting at a workshop table, head bent, intently working away. But no sooner has Erik taken a step closer, the head shoots up. A gun is cocked and Erik finds himself staring at a small blonde girl but he can't find the gun anywhere. "Dylan, show a few manners before you start pointing guns at people." Desmond scolds his child and she nods in understanding, bringing her second hand up from under the table. Looking at the tools in front of the girl, Erik raises a slight eyebrow of concern. There's at least ten guns, seven of which are in tact, two are fully dismantled and the final one is clutched tightly in her delicate pale hand. _

"_Don't worry, she's only cleaning them. I mean, not to say she can't use them. But it's not nearly half as bad as it looks." The quick reassurance is followed by a short curse. "Be right back, I've left dinner on the stove." His footsteps slowly die away as he travels down the stairs. The strange pair are left alone, unsure of what course of action to take. "So, I hear you play the piano…" Her voice is light and it seems that her Irish accent isn't too heavy like all the other's he's met. "Yes, I do play. I've played for many years. Almost nine." He's glad to talk about something completely off topic and out of place. Her expression is genuine in awe. "Wow, that's pretty impressive. I'm learning a bit myself, it's not nearly as easy everyone thinks. I mean, shooting a bullseye, that I can do. But playing the piano and hitting the high notes, I'm lost." It's as though he's talking to a fellow teenager. Her eyes seem to display her vast amount of wisdom as she quickly jumps off the chair. "You sing?" Now she's caught his curiosity. "My father seems to be under the false impression that I have talent. He's kidding himself tho." _

_Just then, the very man in question pokes his head around the corner. "Dinner's ready. What are you two chatting away about?" Dylan shrugs her shoulders and throws her father a smirk that looks just like his own. "I'm a seven year old daughter of a Hitman, polishing a table full of guns, and he's a 13 year boy who's about to be trained for nine months in the art of assassination. We were talking about music, of course." _

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A loud crack sends Erik bolt upright standing and reaching for his gun. Christine resumes chewing her gum properly, now that she has his attention once again._ Honestly, you have to wonder about this man sometimes..._ "Why they betrayed Nadir on the roof is beyond me. They are traitorous by nature tho…They had no idea of my existence until then, that much I know. I took a chance going up on that roof. I figured that most, if not all, of the Hitmen would be new generation, men who have no idea as to whom I am. I was right. Only two recognized me. The two that got away." _When I get my hands on those two assholes, so help me god! There will be hell to pay._ Her eyes wander over to Jamie once more and his lifeless body throws another ice cold bucket of guilt over her. Oh yes, she will get her revenge and it will be gory. _I'll get a hacksaw and a blow torch... _ Erik interrupts her plans of mutilation. "And so now they know you're alive…" The puzzle pieces are finally starting to form the picture on the front of the box. "Exactly. Let's just say, they ain't got a family reunion planned." Christine mutters, still jabbing a bit of humour around despite their current circumstances. "But why? Not to be offensive but you are only a mere teenager. What possible damage could you do?" Christine groans, rolling her eyes and slamming her hands down on the draining board. "When they do a hit, the Whelan Mafia do a _hit_. I was meant to die. I _will_ die, Erik. It's as simple as that." Erik shakes his head, arguing otherwise_._ He doesn't want to even think about the death of his Christine. It can never happen, not while he still breaths. The mere thought sends his arms reaching out and pulling her close. Christine doesn't resist but merely sighs. "I hardly think now is the time for hugs." "Humour me, Christine. Erik has just discovered that the woman he loves is wanted dead by one of the most powerful Mafia's in the world. Let him have this."

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_A/N: I do apologize for the terribly written chapter, but I've been going through a very bad time for my writing. I want to write and I have the ideas but for some reason I just can't put them into words. Sorry once again. Review anyway if you can. _


	23. Burial or Cremation

The creaking of the door sends Erik into Hitman mode and in a flash, he hides Christine behind him. "Um, the Nuns at the Orphanage have been notified, like to you told me to, Mr Vestiere." One of the medics awkwardly explains, arching a curious eyebrow. "Leave." Erik orders the word sharply and the man quickly leaves. Christine suddenly shoves the Hitman away roughly. "You did what?!" "They were going to find out eventually, Christine." He sighs. "Don't fucking patronize me! As soon as they see me, they're going to-" But Christine doesn't get to finish her sentence as the morgue doors swiftly swing open.

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The two Sisters march through, their steps brisk and their shoes clacking against the cold floor. Christine's eyes flicker towards them but quickly dart back down as she begins to walk around the room. The pair glance at the boy laid out before them. His hair is limp and splayed out around him and the eyelids have been kindly pulled down, sparing them the sight of his dull eyes. The blood around his lips and nose has dried, the thick red layers hugging his skin tightly. Unconscious hands reach for their crosses around their necks and they murmur quick prayers. Their mouths harden into thick, straight lines upon finishing and lifting their heads, accusing glares stab at Christine.

"This is all your fault." The oldest mutters, jabbing a finger in the young girl's direction. Christine flinches but says nothing, stepping carefully around the bodies of others. "You ruined that boy's life from the moment you stepped into it. Do you hear me?" The woman of the church continues. But the orphan merely shoves her hands into her jacket pockets, with nothing better to do. "You killed him, understand? You may not have pulled the trigger, but there's no doubt about it, Jamie is dead because of you!" At this, Christine snaps and throws her arms back out. "Don't you think I know that?! From the moment that bullet entered his stomach to this very second, I have been plagued by guilt. Yes, for the love of Christ, I know that the blame is on my shoulders!" Her strained voice reverberates throughout the cold room and bounces against the walls, pushing at the two nuns. "And yet, I don't see an ounce of remorse on that stone cold face of yours. You didn't even care about that boy! Jamie was nothing to you!"

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Erik lifts his head from the corner. _Uh oh…_ Christine's eye twitches and she begins the short but steady march towards the foolish woman. "Don't you EVER accuse me of not loving that boy! DO _YOU_ UNDERSTAND _ME?!_" A fist raises itself and Erik emerges from the shadows, stealthily circles the pair and steps up behind Christine. But there's no need as the trembling weapon lowers itself. "I'm glad to see that fine education didn't go entirely to waste." The eldest nun taunts her, leaning in closer. The younger sister watches, unsure of what to do. No words escape Christine and she abruptly turns away, knowing a fight with this woman is useless. And it looks as if the pair are done and that all will be safe, but the aging spinster isn't finished and decides to throw one last dagger into Christine's already painful back.

"I don't want to see you at his funeral. You are not welcome there."

_What kind of drugs are these nuns on?!_

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_What did she just say?_

"Excuse me?!" "You heard me, when we bury him, I don't want you present."

"BURY?!" The cry stops a passerby but he quickly carries on, not daring to risk entering. "No! Jamie wanted to be cremated. You have to cremate him." "Christine, the boy was too young to care which way he was laid to rest. He thought he had a whole life ahead of him. We are burying him." "Listen to me for once, Sister, he did not want to be buried, he told me himself!" "He will be sent to the lord by the traditional method and you will not be there!" "I most certainly will!" "Not be there." Erik adds and the three women turn to face him. "As Christine's guardian-" "Mr Nadir Kahn?" The gentle voice of the young nun inquires, squinting to examine the man who had been foolish enough to adopt this lady. "As her care giver, I will ensure she is _not_ present at the funeral." Erik assures the two women, placing firm hands on Christine's tiny shoulders. She sharply whacks his hands away. "You three go ahead and do whatever the fuck you want. Because for all your praying and crucifixes, you know jack shit about that boy. You never did, you never wanted to, and you never will. You wouldn't even know Jamie's favourite colour, let alone whether or not he wanted to be buried or cremated! And so while you sit there and plan his funeral and shed some fake tears as they lower his body to the ground, I'll be out there doing something worthwhile. I'll be hunting down the bastards who did this to him!"

And with that, Christine walks away, her breaths coming out in short angry spurts. Her fists are clenched into tight white balls and her muscles are shaking with rage. She makes it to the morgue doors and is just about to push her way through when the old woman speaks up one more time.

"That won't be hard, just look in the next mirror you pass by."

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_A/N: Not a very interesting chapter, I know, but I've finally got a month of holidays, so hopefully I'll be able to update now. _


	24. Farewell

Erik watches from a distance, his amber eyes fixed on her trembling figure. The blond hair is limp and framing her smudged face. Her jeans are torn and ripped, as though she'd encountered a wild animal. And her tiny hand is gripping the neck of an expensive guitar...one of _his_ guitars. Erik tilts his head, continuing his examination. Christine has been missing for three days and he's glad to finally see that she's mildly safe. It's been three days of worry, fear, and guilt. No eating. No sleeping. No pauses. Erik had forgone the basic needs of humans just to keep searching. He'd find her eventually, it was just a matter of time. And watching the sun rise this morning, he'd known that his search had come to an end. She'd be here, she had to be. And he was right.

_Of course she wouldn't miss his funeral. She said she'd be here. She just failed to mention she'd be hiding amongst the gravestones._

Shifting slightly, making himself comfortable on the tree branch, Erik continues to watch from above.

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Christine sighs, feeling Erik's familiar gaze on her back. _It was fun while it lasted._ But she quickly shoves thoughts of the masked man away as she realises that the mourners are starting to leave. Her icy eyes narrow into a glare as she spots the oldest nun from the morgue. The urge to whack this guitar across her head begins to build up, but she manages to hold herself steady and still. Christine listens carefully as the footsteps retreat and begins to slowly weave through the crumbling gravestones.

Standing firmly amongst the rumble is a brand new stone. The words are freshly carved and the stone glints in the sunlight, mocking her. _Jamie Sutherland. 1999 – 2009. Taken from us before he even had the chance to live._ Christine's stomach heaves and she even steps backwards, the accusing words gripping her heart with an icy cold hand. Her hand reaches back as she stumbles into another headstone. Hitching herself up slightly, she sits on top of it, disregarding respect for the other dead. She opens her mouth, wanting to say something, but quickly shuts it, pausing.

"Jamie...I'm sorry. I know it doesn't make what happened alright, and nothing ever will make it alright. Nothing. But I need you to know that I did care about you. I didn't show it when I had the chance. And that's my biggest regret." She swallows, trying to keep her voice steady. "I'll get them, I swear. I'll find out who the exact bastard was and I'll make him suffer, I promise."

Not knowing what else to say, she quickly busies herself. Christine slings the guitar strap around her neck and begins to slowly tune the guitar. Tilting her head to the side, listening intently, a wave of blonde hair tumbles downwards, covering half of her face. After being frozen in that position for ten minutes, she finally returns her slender neck to a comfortable position. Normally a couple of minutes would have been fine but this most certainly isn't a normal situation. Christine wants this to be special. She doesn't care how long it takes, this has to be perfect. And we all know, you can't rush perfection.

Inhaling deeply, she gives the guitar one long strum before raising her voice in song.

_Well they built the Titanic to be one of a kind, but many ships have ruled the seas  
They built the Eiffel Tower to stand alone, but they could build another if they please  
Taj Mahal, the pyramids of Egypt, are unique I suppose  
But when they built you, brother, they broke the mold  
_

There is emotional strain in her voice and she hesitates ever so slightly, afraid she's going to choke on the words. _Brother._ Of course he hadn't been her real brother but whenever she closes her eyes, all she can see is that tiny face. All she can feel is the deepest sense of loss, as though someone has ripped away a part of herself. All she can think about is how this whole tragedy is her fault.

_  
Now the world is filled with many wonders under the passing sun  
And sometimes something comes along and you know it's for sure the only one  
The Mona Lisa, the David, the Sistine Chapel, Jesus, Mary, and Joe  
And when they built you, brother, they broke the mold  
_

She should have confronted them...and she would have. Had she known this was the price to pay for cowardice, she would never have risked it. But it was too late now. She'd ducked and dodged for too long. Hiding in the shadows. Changing her name. Her birth certificate. Her past life. Her parents history. Everything that made her who she was, gone in the blink of an eye. She'd built a new life. And now, it was crumbling around her. Her wretched past had caught up with her.

_  
When they built you, brother, they turned dust into gold  
When they built you, brother, they broke the mold  
_

By now the tears are racing down her cheeks, dripping onto the wooden frame of the instrument. _A past_. He's never get the chance to have one now. Never know the joys of childhood. The angst of puberty. The stress of high school. He'd never get the chance to escape the orphanage and live the life he deserved. And the cause of it all was brave enough to sit before his grave and sing him a farewell song.

_  
They say you can't take it with you, but I think that they're wrong  
'Cause all I know is I woke up this morning, and something big was gone  
Gone into that dark ether where you're still young and hard and cold  
Just like when they built you, brother, they broke the mold  
_

Something big _was_ gone. The kid was barely four foot but he'd taken up a huge part of her life. The thought of helping him had kept her going, pushing her along, giving her something to look forward to. Paul had been a huge mistake...dating him had made him a failure. She wasn't going to let that happen again. And it wouldn't happen with Jamie. But now...nothing would happen with Jamie because he wasn't there anymore. No more Jamie to wake her up at 3am with nightmares. No Jamie to help with his homework. No Jamie to train and to teach. No more toothy grins and childish laughter at he insults and jokes. No nothing.

_  
Now your death is upon us and we'll return your ashes to the earth  
And I know you'll take comfort in knowing you've been roundly blessed and cursed  
But love is a power greater than death, just like the songs and stories told  
And when she built you, brother, she broke the mold  
_

_Love_. It's a strong word. But looking at her relationship with him, Christine could find no better word to describe how she felt about the child. She'd loved Jamie, like a big sister loves a little brother. Sometimes he drove her insane and sure, she sometimes got a little bossy. They had their ups, and their downs. But she'd loved him, it was that simple. She wanted to be there, wanted to watch him grow up and become the handsome teenage heart throb. Then, the pondering university student, unsure what he wanted to do with his life. And finally, the family man, settled down and living comfortably, raising a family who would always have him. But her love for him has taken all that away. The blasted emotion is good for nothing and no-one. Love has only ever bought this girl is pain.

_  
That attitude's a power stronger than death, alive and burning her stone cold  
When they built you, brother..._

Erik places a hand on Christine's shoulder as the final word dies quietly. She doesn't shrug him off but her muscles tense. The hand gives her a gentle squeeze and she releases a breath she didn't know she was holding. Reading the headstone once more, a thought comes to mind. Erik has not only spent the last few days looking for her, but he would have found out the bastard responsible for all this mess. "Did you get a name?" Her voice is barely a whisper as she stands, releasing herself from the constricting guitar strap. "Yes. But I don't think-" "Who?" "Christine, I need you-" At this the girl whirls around and yanks him towards her by his shirt. "Erik. Who?!" There's a deadly glint in her eye and he knows he has to tell her or he may risk losing a limb.

"Billy Marley."

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There's the crunching of leaves as Christine's arms drop to her sides and she stumbles backwards. Erik watches, reaching out to grab her instantly. But she's just out of his grasp. Her blue eyes widen and her lips part, too shocked for words. He should have waited to tell her. But it's too late now and he can see the rage building up inside of her. He sees those eyes freeze over and those soft lips form a hard line. He doesn't see what's coming next though.

In one quick motion, Christine swings around, smashing the guitar into a near-by statue. The instrument shatters and wooden flies everywhere. There's an angry cry and Erik's eyes flicker down to all that's left, the slender wooden neck. Sensing his apprehension, Christine drops it to the ground. She turns on one foot and begins to walk away.

"Let's go home."

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_A/N: The song is called 'Terry's Song' by Bruce Springsteen. If you have never heard this song, you honestly MUST look it up. It's one of my favourites and is sure to relate to those of you out there who have lost a loved one. My Raoul character's coming up in the next couple of chapters. Cheers. _


	25. An Invitation

_A/N: This is set a few weeks after Jamie's death._

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Erik knocks on the door and pauses for a second. "Enter." Is Christine's answer, as if she could stop him anyway. There's a heavy sigh and Christine holds up her hand for a millisecond, signalling that she needs a moment. Between her pearl white teeth she's gnawing a pen, her eyebrows creased in deep concentration. The page in front of her is covered in equations and tiny chemistry notes. Shifting slightly in her chair she begins to tap the pen against her head. Her blonde hair catches the sunlight as she tilts her head, as though the movement might help her think. "Aha!" Apparently it does. And she leans forward, smiling, and begins pressing buttons on a scientific calculator (yes, those do exist, I have one). Scribbling down the answer, she turns, giving her full attention to Erik. Christine's eyebrows go from frowned in confusion to arched in curiosity. Those icy eyes travel upwards and downwards, assessing the item before her. And she once again, tilts her head, hoping to make sense out of this.

A dress.

A ball-gown to be precise.

"It's a dress." That's all she can say with a defeated shrug. Erik blinks and she suddenly tries to say something more encouraging. "It's a nice dress?" Not having worn a dress since her father's death, Christine is unsure whether or not the dress is actually pretty. The dress is a full length one. The material is a deep purple silk, covered by a layer of black patterned lace. The chest area is a purple corset with black laces, allowing the chest to hold up the dress, no straps necessary. But if she was to go out on a limb, Christine would say the dress looks nice. "I had it altered to your specific waist, bust, hips and height." He explains, laying the dress down on the made bed. Alarm bells now go off in Christine's mind. _Riiiiinnngggg. _"You've met someone who's my exact shape and size?" Erik sighs heavily and rolls his eyes. "Cause I sure as hell am not wearing that dress." Christine quickly adds with a shake of her head. "You are wearing it. And you are accompanying me to the Whelan Mafia Annual Ball this weekend." At this, Christine stands up angrily. Stepping closer, she jabs a furious finger into Erik's large chest. "Do you even know why they have that stupid event? Do you?!" Her voice hikes up an octave and her eyes narrow into tiny slits. "It's some tradition-" "It marks the day of my father's death and the day that the Whelan Mafia was taken over solely by Shaun. It's a celebration of my father's murder."

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Erik pauses a few beats, looking down at her. Her tiny frame is shaking with anger and her hands are clenched into fists. Short swallow breaths spurt from between her clenched teeth. And she's even standing slightly on tip-toes, trying to make herself look big and scary. "And need I refresh your memory about what happened three weeks ago? Do I have to remind you who was responsible for that?" Her words are all spoken in a snarl and she's inching closer and closer, daring him to challenge her. He'd hate to disappoint. Looking her dead on in the eye, he produces and envelope and letter. "You want revenge. We both do. This invitation is our ticket to it. That is why I accepted it."

Christine mumbles a series of Gaelic curses, shaking her head as she backs away to sit on her desk. Her face hides inside her right palm for a moment before she finally looks up. "Erik, I'm not the smartest person in the world, nor will I ever be. But I'm going to take a wild stab in the dark here and suggest that perhaps inviting us to the Ball is a trap. I'm not questioning you're ability as a Hitman, nor your strength and your precise aim, just your ability to think logically." Her voice drips with sarcasm and she even manages a small smirk. Erik decides to fight fire with fire. "Christine, where on earth would I be without your keen observation skills?" He gives himself a mock face-palm. "In a much better place." She admits quietly, looking out the window. As quick as it rose, her playful mood has died. Erik cups her chin with a large hand and forces her to face him. "You want revenge. This is where you're going to get it. Marley will be there." Erik swears, making a promise he wont break. "I can bring in all the weapons I can conceal. They never bother with security at these places, Mob Bosses wont enter a building without at least one gun on their person. We can slip in, our masks will hide our faces long enough for us to kill Marley, and then we leave." Reaching into his jacket pocket, he pulls out a purple and black mask. The glass beads glitter and match the evil twinkle in Christine's eye. "I don't care about the how and the when. I have all I need, a who, a what and a why. Billy Marley. Murdered. Revenge."

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_A/N: My Raoul character is coming up next chapter. If you have any Irish names that you'd like to recommend, feel free._


	26. Sharp Dressed ManAnd Woman

Saturday Night.

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_Christine sighs, standing in front of the bathroom mirror. There's a row of bobby pins inside of her mouth as her hands are messing around with her hair, yanking bits tightly and pushing and pulling others. There's are reasons she doesn't like making an effort, this is one of them. Twenty minutes and many eye rolls later she cautiously examines herself. The silver blonde hair has been securely fastened into an intricate bun with tiny parts sticking out like random shards of glass. Satisfied she's finished that task, she turns to her final challenge of this evening, a tiny black purse. Letting out a groan, she unzips the bag and dumps the contents onto the bench. _

_It's her worst enemy, make up._

_A wise decision is made to go with the basics...So only eye liner, mascara, blush, eye shadow, lip balm, lip stick. The entire contents of the bloody bag. Glancing over her shoulders, making sure no one is looking, she quickly throws the blush, eyeliner, eye shadow and lip stick back into the purse. That's better. Quickly she carefully covers her lips in balm and checks that they're presentable. She has to look just right for her revenge. Unscrewing the lid, she leans forward and slowly swipes on the mascara, praying she doesn't stab herself in the eye. Several blinks later, she pulls away and steps back, getting a full look of herself. _

"_It'll have to do I suppose." _

Clean shirt, new shoes  
And I don't know where I am going to.  
Silk suit, black tie,  
I don't need a reason why.  
They come running just as fast as they can  
Coz every girl crazy 'bout a sharp dressed man.

_Erik tucks his silk black dress shirt in slowly, casting a weary glance into the mirror. His murderous reflect grins back at him and he even pauses to think he looks reasonably handsome for a moment. The black suit matches his hair and personality perfectly, his pale skin standing out starkly against the outfit. Not taking his eyes off of the mirror, his hand reaches out for a near by comb. After running some cold water over it, he begins to attack his hair. And several minutes later, he's managed to comb his ruffled hair into a smooth, sleeked style. _

_Exiting the bathroom and retreating back to his room, he picks up his dress jacket from his bed. Shrugging himself into it, he reaches into the pockets and pulls out a knife. "Wrong pocket." He mutters, stuffing the weapon back inside. Feeling around the left pocket, his hand emerges with a gun. "Again, incorrect pocket." He grumbles. Opening his jacket, he starts to rummage through his inside hiding spots...Knuckle dusters. A small vile of poison. Another gun. A garrotte. "Dammit! Where did I f*cking put those things?" There's a snigger from the doorway and he lifts his head up. _

_Big mistake. _

_Erik suddenly can't breath and feels an invisible force whack him across the head, leaving him stunned. He'd chosen the gown specifically for her, but he had no idea she was going to look _this_ good. The dress clings to her every curve and it doesn't even make a sound as she slowly steps towards him. The corset forces her breasts upwards and he begins to worry about the worrying eyes of drinking men tonight, and sober ones come to think of it. Those heels have given her a couple more inches of height and she only has to tilt her head ever so slightly to display her smirk. Without being given an products she's managed to pull her hair into a unique and original style, typical Christine, always has to stand out._

_Leaning forwards, her hand dives inside his left trouser pocket and he holds his breath and he tries in vain not to look downwards at her chest. (He is only a man people.) Silently she pulls out the gloves and slaps them down into his palm. Erik seems to wake up and blinks rapidly. "Thanks." He mutters gruffly as he quickly puts them on, anything to distract himself. Turning away she rummages through his open drawer, searching for something. Moments later she pulls something out, triumphant. Whirling around, she almost bumps into his chest. The damn man moved forwards. He attempts to give her innocent eyes but she's not having any of it. "Erik." She sighs, pushing him backwards and wrapping something around his neck. A silver tie. Her nimble fingers make quick work of the garment and within seconds, he's complete. _

_Erik reaches past her and he can feel her shiver as his arm brushes against her bare shoulder. He grins at the reaction as he hands Christine her mask and quietly pockets his own. Offering her his arm, he raises a question and his eyebrows. "Shall we, my dear?"  
_  
Gold watch, diamond ring,  
I ain't missing a single thing.  
And cufflinks, stick pin,  
When I step out I'm gonna do you in.  
They come running just as fast as they can  
Coz every girl crazy 'bout a sharp dressed man.

_**Meanwhile, in another part of town...**_

_Aedan runs a cautious and critical eye over himself. Everything seems to be in order. No stains. No creases. Nothing's out of place. "Stop looking at yourself and hurry, the guests will be here soon." A deep Irish voice demands. Aedan answers his father with a mere flick of his metallic eyes. Shaun Whelan is standing the door way, hands on hips. But despite his firm stance, his mask hides his facial expression and makes him look ridiculous. "Yes father." The young man nods, picking up his own mask from his bedside table. The photo besides it catches his attention and he picks it up for what must be the hundredth time today. Christine is standing alongside Vestiere as they walk down an unknown street of the Bronx. His finger carefully traces her outline as he ponders how this night will play out. "Stop playing with that picture and prepare yourself to meet the real thing." Shaun growls, growing impatient with his only child. With a heavy sigh, Aedan pockets the picture and carefully places the mask over his face. "Yes, sir."_

Top coat, top hat,  
I don't worry coz my wallets fat.  
Black shades, white gloves,  
Looking sharp and looking for love.  
They come running just as fast as they can  
Coz every girl's crazy 'bout a sharp dressed man.

_Erik turns the keys and pulls them out. The Hummer falls silent and he looks over at Christine. She doesn't have to be asked and gives him a small nod. Without waiting for a reply, she opens her door and exits quickly. Erik follows suit, locking the doors and taking her arm once more. They've parked around the corner from the large building and take their time approaching. But no matter how slow they walk, their destination soon approaches. Hesitating for a moment at the bottom of the stairs, Christine breaths in deeply. _Ready or not Marley, here I come.

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A/N: Aedan is the Irish version of Aidan. Pronounce "aid + an". If you really hate this name, say so and I'll change it. But I felt bad giving him a nancy name, I mean, Raoul is a bit of a girls name, and this guy is definitely not a nancy boy. The song is "Sharp Dressed Man" by ZZ Top. It is an awesome dressing up montage song.


	27. Sorry Everyone

Hey everyone.

I just want to give a big apology to my readers for being the worst updater ever. Right now university is being a b*tch. But thankfully I've only got another six or seven weeks. Then, I have about four months of holiday. Trust me, my keyboard is going to hate me by the time summer is over.

I'm really look forward to starting up my story again and I think I'm going to be adding in some chapters from earlier, just to fill in several plot holes.

I'm really sorry and I hope you guys can stick with me on this.

Cheers,

midnight-lykos


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Phantom of the Opera, Romance