For a few moments, all Meg sees is black, and Erik very nearly reaches out to steady her, looking as if she were about to faint.

"Meg," her mother says gently, stepping forward to grasp her shoulders. "Let's sit down on the sofa."

She guides the blonde to the furniture, placing her upon the makeshift bed, and her heart breaks as she sees tears gather in her daughter's eyes.

"I was there," she whispers, fingers shaking as she folds them against her chest. "I should have said something. I should have something. I should have intervened." Her voice trembles wildly. "It could have been me, couldn't it?"

Erik steps forward before Madame Giry can get a word out, coming directly in front of her line of sight. "It could not have been you, Marguerite Giry, because I was there. And it won't ever happen. You will never be in harm's way, and any blood spilled tonight was not on your hands. Am I clear?" His voice was fierce and promising, and the mother was almost startled by his passionate admission.

His features soften when a tear escapes her eye, and he wordlessly bends down to fetch her forgotten bag, and places it near her things. She watches his hands, his fingers, his lips, the edge of his mask, and then suddenly she can't breathe and she's gasping and her mother is reaching for her but no, she has to get away, has to get away . . .

Meg grips the railing outside tight, squeezing her eyes shut, trying to process the horror and the guilt. But no matter how hard she tried, the scream from the ship ricocheted in her head. So much death was about her.

The door opens behind her slowly, perhaps hesitantly, and then she hears the voice of her mother, "Leave her be. She'll talk when she needs to. Give her a chance to breathe."

And why was he worried? He was the one who had left her and discovered death! Is that why he had left her behind? Knowing they'd made a crucial mistake leaving? Meg felt as if it were her fault, since she had been the one to beg him to leave. Perhaps, she realizes, she should have encouraged him to follow the couple.

She eventually makes her way to the roof, where Erik seemed to spend his days, and in a lonely moment, she realizes why he does. The air was easy and crisp at the top, and stars leered brightly above her. It was cold, almost blindingly so, but she ignored it.

The blonde hears footsteps behind her, and she wonders if it's her mother. She lays back, shivering, and wipes the cold tears from her cheeks, gazing upwards. After a moment, however, his silhouette appears in her line of sight, and she quickly realizes it's Erik.

He awkwardly stands, looking over her before sprawling outside beside her. She feels his fingers inch alongside hers, and in a push of confidence, Meg tangles her fingers with his.

His touch grounds her, and though her heart now beats rapidly, she feels stronger.

"Your mother is devastated," he tells her quietly, and she frowns again.

"I'm sorry," she says suddenly, feeling her lower lip begin to tremble. "I shouldn't have made you leave. We should have stayed."

"Perhaps," he replies, and she feels her stomach drop, closing her eyes against the stars as more tears well in her eyes. "But there was no way of knowing, Meg. I'd simply dismissed your idea, as I didn't think any skilled stalker would be so clumsy in letting you see him freely. So if anything, the fault lies with me."

"No it doesn't," she argues, bolting upright and glaring down at him, but his thumb runs over her own, and she shivers, not from the cold. She quietly sinks back down to the ground, all the fight in her draining. "Perhaps no one is to blame, then."

A beat, and then, "Aside from nearly ripping my head off after she found out, Fleur is worried about you, too. She asked me to check on you, and if I refused, she promised to toss me over the railing herself."

"And did you?" Meg grins, reaching up to brush an escaped tear away.

"I'm here now, aren't I?" He chuckles, and her grin widens. She inches all the closer to him until their entwined hands rested snuggly between their thighs.

They lay together for a while in silence, and Meg eventually finds herself drifting off alongside Erik despite the cold.

He awoke sometime later to a nest of blonde hair in his face, and found that she'd placed her head upon his shoulder and curled toward him. Her knee has risen to rest atop his own, as if cradling him, and Erik nearly reached down to glide his hand over her calf.

His mind warred against him, whispering that she would be horrified if she woke to find them in this position, and she'd simply drifted over because she was cold. Not for any other reason than that. Why else would she have done so? He questions. Yet he couldn't find it within himself to let her go.

His arm was wrapped beneath her, holding the blonde to him. Tapered fingers curled into her nightgown, and his other hand rested on the crevice of her bent knee.

She was beautiful like this, asleep and under the moon. Meg's face was serene, lips parted slightly, warm breath blowing against his neck. Erik removes his hand from her knee, skimming his fingers up her body and brushing away the golden hair that had fallen over her face. He gently curls the flaxen strands behind her ear.

His breathing deepened as Meg nuzzled into his neck, lips brushing against the sensitive skin there. Without thinking, he drags his finger over the bridge of her nose, the arch of her eyebrow, and then skims the back of his fingers down to her jaw. It was intoxicating, feeling the moist breath against his skin. His thumb brushes against her mouth, and he shivers, feeling invasive.

"Alright. Come on, then," he mumbles, lifting the girl into his arms. He'd carried her before, he remembered, in the same way he'd once carried Christine. Yet when he closed his eyes to remember chocolate ringlets, a halo of golden instead remained.

She remained limp in his arms, her head lolling into his neck, and he held her close to him, nudging her arms so they'd curl against his chest. Erik shivered, standing still, gazing up at the stars.

There were no thoughts, no words, no melodies. There was a tugging in his chest, and his fingers shook as gazed back down at her. "Oh, Meg," he murmurs, close enough to see the freckles dotting her nose and under her eyes.

He felt something so deep, so affectionate for her in that moment that it was painful. It was a passionate agony, so alike to what he felt for Christine that it frightened him.

The masked man descends the stairs quickly, keeping the blonde tucked safely against him. Her skin was freezing, and a pang of guilt struck him at the sight of her bare feet.

Carefully opening the door, he was shocked to find Madame Giry staring at the two, a look of surprise painting her features.

He avoided her eyes as he moved to set Meg on the floor, slipping his arm out from beneath her. Erik cradles her head in his palms, setting her upon the pillow.

His large frame hid most of the scene, but Madame Giry swore that she saw him tuck the blanket oh so carefully around her, pulling it up to her chin, and brushing hair back from her forehead with his palm. He detracted himself from her, as if burned, and backed away until he sat in the chair he occupied often.

It was an uncomfortable feeling that settled over Madame Giry then. From knowing them both, she'd been worried they wouldn't get along, being at each other's necks constantly. She had hoped that they would find some layer of peace, even if that meant ignoring each other completely, perhaps even growing friendly eventually. The former ballet mistress never considered the possibility that Meg would grow fond of him, or that he would latch onto her. Was that what was happening?

"My boy," she murmurs, coming to stand by him, brushing her fingers against his shoulder. "Go lay on the sofa for a while. Even in the darkness I can see the circles beneath your eyes."

"I'm fine," he replies stubbornly. "You sleep there. You shouldn't have to sleep on a chair."

"I took a nap earlier today, and all of this excitement has rather woken me up. Go lay down, Erik," she persuades.

He gives in, exhaustion weighing his shoulders down. Toeing his shoes off and sliding his overjacket away, he makes his way toward the sofa, careful to avoid the sleeping blonde. Though it was uncomfortable, the mask was to remain on. Though he suspected she'd already gotten more than enough view of his ravaged face, he didn't like curious eyes on his deformity. It reminded him too much of the circus, too much of his childhood.

Erik turns away from her, laying on the bare side of his face, stomach pushing into the cushions. He was much too long for the furniture, to his dismay, so his legs dangled off the end.

Madame Giry watched as his breathing deepened, and his arm sling over the edge, the tips of his fingers skimming a crown of blonde hair.

Perhaps a stubborn, compassionate girl was what he needed. Though she loved him dearly, her brain waged war against her motherly affections, reminding her of what he'd done to Christine. How little of a taste he had in healthy relationships. It hurt the Madame immensely to know that perhaps she was the only person who loved it, and had ever loved him.

Meg sniffed violently in her sleep, her knee jerking before turning to face Erik, his fingers now drooping across her forehead. The blanket slips lower on her chest and she settles onto her side, curling her hands beneath her chin.

The black onyx was still on his pinky, the ballet mistress saw, and it pulled painfully at her heartstrings. How awful it had been, outing him to Raoul, but she had feared greatly for Christine in that moment. Worried that he'd take her, and come to his senses all too late. It was a decision that nearly tore her in half, but in her heart, she knew it was the right thing to do. Still, that decision remained a great source of guilt for her, and she suspected it always would.

She remembers how heartbroken he had been when they'd found him, nearly drowned, three empty bottles of whiskey drank and cracked against walls. He'd lain there, in the lake, higher than a kite, barely conscious.

Sleep evaded the mother for the rest of the night as she worried, staring out at the open window, wondering if she'd see the same silhouette that seemed to follow Meg. One more misstep towards her daughter, and she'd wring his neck herself.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Exhausted eyes flutter open as the late afternoon sun brightly shines through the window, awaking the blonde. She lazily stretches, curling her toes beneath her, ankles popping deliciously. Her eyes flutter open, just barely, enough to see that the couch was empty.

She crawled onto the cushions, which were much comfier than the ground, and her spine and neck immediately felt relieved. As she settled in, she found a blanket, almost pearl in the sun, and she buried her nose inside of it, blocking out the sun.

It smelled of something masculine, like the outdoors, like soap, and it reminded her almost immediately of her father. She allowed herself the longing and sadness that came along with him, and she curled around the blanket tightly.

"Would you like the leather shoes as well? They go quite nicely with the shirt," a voice drawls above her, and Meg slowly turns over, opening her eyes nervously.

"If you wouldn't mind," she groans, her gaze beginning at the hand extended out for her, and then finding his upper half to be bare once more.

Meg realized then very quickly that the blanket she held was, in fact, not a blanket, but Erik's shirt. Blushing deeply, she ducks her head, tosses the shirt at him, and pushes past his shoulder.

"Did Maman go out with Fleur again?" She questions, and he nods, buttoning up his chest.

"They went to attend church. Your mother thought it best to let you sleep in," he explains.

"They didn't happen to leave any food, did they?" She questions, looking around for something to eat. Nausea pooled in her stomach and the bottom of her throat, caught somewhere between being hungry enough to be sick and feeling too sick to be hungry. She groans happily when she finds the other half of his supper that he'd offered the night before.

Her eyes follow him discreetly as he sits beside her, almost nervously, and a private grin crosses her face as she stuffs a large piece of croissant into her mouth.

"After you're done stuffing your face, I'd . . . I'd like to show you some of my new designs," he explains, straight-forward and clinical, though she saw his finger drum against his knee, a nervous tick for him.

Meg is absolutely ecstatic, pressing herself against his side, leaning over his arm, and studying his new ideas. This time, they were colored, and Meg noticed that each model was drawn with golden locks, as golden as she was, and a deep blush once again returned to her cheeks.

"Are these of me?" She asks, her voice awe-filled, and he nods, his lips twitching in a half smile as a large one crosses her own.

"They're beautiful!" She exclaims, placing a hand on his upper arm, grinning widely. Erik was all at once shocked that something he had done had caused this much joy in the blonde, and that he was capable of bringing happiness.

"I've never had anyone do anything like this for me before," she grins sentimentally, running her index finger over the drawings.

He decides to leave out the fact that he had been the one to make the costumes for his Don Juan, including hers.

"Oh, thank you, Erik! I can't believe you made these — and with me in mind! I'm beyond honored," she exclaims, turning back around to face him. And without another thought, she wraps her arms around him, burying her head against his shoulder.

"You truly didn't know these costumes were for you? Even when I'd show you them before?" He questions seriously, and breath escapes her lips when his arms come to encircle her in return, albeit hesitantly and lightly.

"Maybe one of them, but I figured they were for anyone to wear," she replies honestly. She felt giddy, nearly shaking from excitement, and he chuckled above her.

"And the pink one? Did you think that was for just anyone?"

"Well, I do have a particular affinity for pink. It's my favorite color."

"I know."

She pulls away, only slightly, to smile up at him and thank him again, but when she does so, it was only moments until she recognizes that they are only a breath away. Meg's breath hitches when his eyes drop to her lips, her tongue darting out to wet them, a habit she'd developed when she was nervous. His eyes darken almost wickedly, and confident fingers wind around the ends of her hair.

She'd never kissed a boy before - or a man, she corrects, either. The blonde had certainly imagined it in her mind with the other boys she's fancied. Her mind reels back to the first time she'd seen the Vicomte, and how handsome he'd been. He'd been so sweet to her, offering her one of the flowers in Christine's bouquet. She blushes at the memory, especially now that she was in the arms of a much, much different man.

Small fingers drift up to his neck, pressing against his shoulders as the masked man's gaze traveled her features, which she was sure were tinged pink. As he loomed close, he saw a light dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose and under her eyes, so light that only closeness revealed them.

"Oh," she breaths, clutching onto the collar of his shirt as he tilts his head, their lips nearly skimming, when an eruption of voices chatted vibrantly outside. They quickly jump apart, Meg gasping and holding a hand to the front of her neck. She doesn't even glance toward the door as it opens, already so accustomed to the weight of her mother's footsteps.

"Ah, Meg. I wanted to speak with you about some new arrangements, in order to ensure your safety. And Erik, dear, why are you on the floor? No need for your clothes to be dirtied."

Erik avoided Madame Giry's eyes as if she were a plague, and quickly darted out of the door behind her, graceful footfalls of his italian leather shoes echoing until he reached the top.

"Is he alright?" Her mother questions worriedly, and Meg nods quickly, wishing the flames under her skin would extinguish.

"Yes, yes, he's fine. He, uh, forgot something on the roof," she lies, twiddling her fingers nervously together in her lap. "Yup. He forgot his notebook on the roof."

"But his notebook is right there, Meg," she questions, giving her daughter a curious look, pointing toward the evidence on the table.

"Oh, yeah. Um, he forgot his other notebook."

"His other notebook," the older woman deadpans.

"Yes! His other notebook. He . . . he composes in the other one." Okay, Meg, enough, she tells herself.

"Did he say something to you, ma choupette?" She asks gently, sitting beside the blonde. "I rather feel as if you are lying to me."

"Oh, you know how he gets, Maman. It's only been a month and I've already cycled through all of his moods, I suspect," she tries, attempting to banish the blush away and crack a smile.

Madame Giry gives Meg a pointed look, but then softens her gaze. She wanted to press more, worrying about the extent of their relationship, but she trusted her daughter with life itself. So trust her, she did.

"Are you still comfortable working, Meg? I'm sure you know how I feel about it, but I understand why it's important to you," she murmurs, brushing her daughter's hair away from her shoulder.

"I promise, Maman. And didn't you say Erik would be with me, too? I'll be completely fine," she promises, grabbing her mother's hands.

"Oh, Meg, my little one," she says, cupping her cheeks. "I was absolutely terrified when Erik told me what had happened, and what had nearly happened to you. I can't believe he took you back out!"

"Maman, he was only trying to help," the blonde defends. "If we hadn't have gone back out, then perhaps we wouldn't have known a thing about the murder. Erik was only trying to keep us safe."

She was silent for a moment as she gazed down at her daughter, before Meg buried herself into her mother's arms, immediately feeling better.

"And you are okay? From what happened last night?" She questions, rubbing her back. "You gave us all quite the fright, my love."

"I wish we could have helped that woman," Meg whispers into her mother's shoulder. "And it was certainly the man that's been following us?"

"Erik wrote an anonymous letter to the police detailing the crime, but apparently, someone had already admitted to the crime through another letter," she explains.

"I'll be careful, Maman. It will be alright," she promises, smiling as the Madame runs fingers through her hair.

Meg's heart skips a beat at the idea of Erik walking her in the mornings and evenings. Had he been the one to suggest it? Or had it been someone else? She felt prone to argument, wanting to fight for independence, but there wasn't much left in her in terms of opposition toward him. In fact, a secret smile slid across her face at the mere thought of Erik.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Madame Giry and Meg spent the day together, sitting outside, sipping a strange sort of concoction. It was sparkling water, Fleur had called it, and though it was elegant, Meg rather thought it should be called stale water instead.

Their neighbors were pleasant - especially the ones that offered the blonde croissants and macaroons - and Meg felt a sense of community building within her, like when she was at the opera house. It helped that their neighborhood was compiled of French people, and she rather figured no one would recognize her. It was almost too easy to be vague or lie about her past, and it chipped away at her resolve, one-by-one.

At last, the sun had begun to sink beneath the city, and though she was tired and her voice hurt something awful from talking all day, it pained her to leave, not ready to sleep yet.

"It was wonderful meeting you," she says to the boy she'd been speaking with, kissing her hand. She grins at him, and he returns it. "You'll have to show me your paintings some time."

"There may just be one of you, then, Mademoiselle," he flirts, and Meg blushes.

"I'll see you soon, Victor." And though his wide-lipped smile colored her cheeks, she hoped that the man on the roof would return soon.

Once they'd made it back inside and readied themselves for bed, Erik returned, holding his coat over his shoulder, and slipping his shoes off in the corner. She thought it must be rather uncomfortable to sleep in day clothes, but it didn't seem he had any night ones, other than the blue robe he occasionally wore.

She must have dozed off at some point, for she awoke a while later, a figure hunched over her, leather fingers brushing against her cheek.

"Erik?" She murmurs, curious as to why he was there, touching her. At first, she thought it was him, and very nearly questioned the rare affection, but then soon recognized that his body wasn't as tall, the shoulders weren't as broad, and the fingers certainly weren't as tapered. She screams, pushing the figure off of her, and he seems to disappear, almost as if in thin air.

Almost immediately, the real Erik was on her, scrambling to his knees and grabbing her arms. "Meg, what's wrong?" Erik says fiercely, and her gaze ddarts to the center of the room, and he turns his neck, finding the same place she was looking.

"There was someone here! He was touching my face, and . . . and he touched my face and then he was just gone!"

Madame Giry quickly lights a match, bringing it around the room, though everything was just as it was before. She casts a worried glance down at Meg, who shook underneath Erik's hands.

"It was him!" She swears, looking up at her mother. "I swear, he was here! It was him! He . . . he had leather gloves, and--and he wore a hood. It was him!"

There was a soft murmuring outside and lights began to illuminate through the window, and Madame Giry quickly swept over the room and went outside, reassuring everyone that her daughter had only had a nightmare, and everything was fine.

"Please believe me! It wasn't just a nightmare, Erik, he was in here!" She begs, beginning to feel light-headed as anxiety pulsed through her, and she anchors herself to him by grabbing his waistband.

"Meg, I know you're scared, but you need to calm down," he instructs softly. "Nothing is going to happen tonight."

She tries to steady her breathing, tries to focus on his hands, the cold of his ring pressing into her skin. "Okay," she whispers, squeezing her eyes shut.

"I'll go check in the hallway, alright?" He says, and she nods, watching him as he stands. Meg brings her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them and wiping escapedd tears away.

Her mother returns, and she immediately jumps up, curling into her mother's side. Out of her peripheral vision, she sees Fleur and George standing worriedly in the doorway of the bedroom.

At the sound of a door shutting, she looks up, finding Erik approaching them. "There's no one there," he begins, "and I don't think anyone ever was there."

"What if he escaped through the front door? He could be running away this very second! What if he took something!" She exclaims, tearing away from her mother and falling to her knees, quickly going through her bag until she found the small pink clip bag, opening it only to find every coin still there. She then begins to wonder if she's truly gone mad.

"If you can, go back to sleep, Meg," her mother encourages, and Meg flinches away from her touch, glaring up at her.

"You don't believe me."

"I believe you saw something, Meg, and I also believe that you are in no danger at this moment," she says gently, and Meg's resolve weakens, though she certainly didn't feel tired.

"Alright, Maman," she agrees reluctantly, moving to stand. She strikes a match from the pouch with shaky hands, lighting a candle, and Erik watches with a heavy heart as she places it near her pillow, too afraid to sleep in the dark.

From his chair, he watches as her breathing deepens, soon asleep, though she twitches occasionally. All seemed well until he spotted Meg's battered copy of Frankenstein on the floorr, shoved into the corner.

"You really did see something, didn't you?" He whispers, gazing down at her curiously before lifting his eyes to the hallway door, and quickly ramming the top of the chair underneath the door handle.

He retrieves the book, returning it to her bag, before sitting against the wall, which proved to be even more uncomfortable than the chair. However, he was closer to the two women, and eventually was able to fall asleep.

What he also missed was the smear of crimson across Meg's cheek.

✨🪄
and for erik and meg? ITS DENIAL TIME MY CHILDREN.

i hope you all enjoyed! and thank you for your comments! it's always the best part of my day when i get to read them, and they really encourage me to continue writing. if you have any more guesses for who the killer may be, i'd love to hear you thoughts!

(also, did anyone else freak out about that whole west end thing? it was the crying on my bedroom floor as i called a friend at 2am for me lol. i'm glad it was all a misunderstanding. thanking the broadway gods that it was just a big game of What If.)
✨🪄