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anyways when will i stop beating up my characters? idk but here's some drugged up meg and worried erik
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Swearing loudly enough to wake the Madame, he places a palm over her forehead, the expanse of scarlet skin slicked with sweat and burning hot.

"Antoinette!" He yells, rousing her, though she was already awake, horrified at the sight of the feverish blonde. She immediately jumps off of the couch, moving with inhuman speed toward the door with Fleur and George, the two of them also awake from Erik's vulgar surprise.

"Injured and now this? Good Lord, Meg," he murmurs, lifting the groaning dance into his arms, and she groans at the movement. "My apologies," he grunts as she writhes, uncomfortable from his body heat and moving to clutch her stomach.

The bedroom door is flung open for him as he lays her on the bed, still not familiar with her weight on his limbs though it was becoming rather routine. He watches as she curls into herself, arms wrapping around her abdomen and tears forced from her eyelids squeezing closed. He wondered, then, if this was her monthly, and he felt rather foolish for a second, but it couldn't be this bad, could it? And the way her mother reacted was rather frightening. No, he suspected, it was something else.

"Fetch a damp towel," Madame Giry orders, pointing toward the door, and though he was loath to leave, he did so, gathering a bleached towel and running to the public bathrooms, running the towel under the cold faucet. He returns quickly, his mind a rare, blank expanse.

George was holding Robin in the main room, casting a sympathetic look at Erik, though the masked man doesn't stop until he's in the doorway. The man could barely see the girl, with the two older women standing around her, and he saw the soaked dress being removed from her shoulder and slid off of her body.

He offers the mother the towel, almost stunned to see the ferocity and desperation in her actions as she snatches the object from him, gently but frantically wiping her heated skin. His chest was a heavy pain, jarring and excruciating as he stood there, rather helpless and almost useless. He moves to the other side of the bed, wanting to watch her, to reassure himself that her chest was still rising and falling.

She wore very little, though it was difficult to focus on anything but her curled form, hands pressed tightly against her stomach. Golden hairs stuck to her forehead and cheeks, thick moisture under her nose and wetness under her eyes.

What had she done? Had someone done something to her? Had Fleck done something? No, he thinks. Though it wasn't unlikely that she could have caught the flu at the factory, it was strange how she held her stomach.

His eyes widened at that realization, rushing up to the bed and batting hands away, ignoring the angrily flung wet towel at him. Leaning a knee against the bed, looming over her, he grabs her chin, fingers on her side of her mouth. She whimpers, arching away from his touch, and he loosened his grip around her jaw. "I'll be gentle if you comply," he promises softly.

"Oh, how kind of you," Fleur hisses. "You will not touch her harshly!"

"Open the window," he says, running his shirt sleeve over her cheeks to remove the sticky tears and under the nose for the thicker moisture there. Fleur and the Madame stare at each other, and Erik raises his face, and angrily bellows, "Need I repeat myself again? Open the window!"

"Respect, boy!" Madame Giry chastises, but runs over to open the pale curtains anyway, light pouring into the room. As he suspected, there was a redness around her lips, and with a shocked sniff, he recognized them as burns. He leans down further, their faces close, and detects something heavy and metallic on her breath, like chemicals.

Like poison.

Once, a long time ago, he'd found himself in a similar situation, writhing and feverish in bed from poisoning. Nadir had stayed with him, tending and medicating him, nursing him back to health. With a racing heart, he remembers how close to death he had been, barely hanging on, and he nearly broke at the thought of this feisty ballerina dying, regardless of whatever temper she'd had the night before. He suspected he wasn't entirely blameless either.

So she'd been poisoned. But where? When? How? Had it been at the factory? Had Felicity given her something, or had any of the other women? Had she mentioned anyone else? Was it their stalker? Had she said anything strange or alarming yesterday?

He grits his teeth. Was this a warning to him?

"For God's sake, Erik, what's wrong with her?" Her mother asks desperately, angrily, tears running down her cheeks. He looked up at her, then, frowning.

"Poison, Antoinette." What had Nadir used, then, to heal him? "We need charcoal."

"Poisoned?" The Madame gasps, hands covering her mouth in horror as she reels.

"The neighbors below us are doctors. Perhaps they'll have charcoal to treat her," Fleur says, warily glancing at Erik, though her eyes mainly focused on his fingers wrapped around her jaw.

"Then there's no time to waste!" He quickly wraps the girl in the blanket, handling her until she was wrapped in it, and lifts her once again into his arms, nearly trembling.

In the next moment, he was flying out of the tenement, hurrying down the stairs, Madame Giry and Fleur close behind. Adjusting Meg in his arms, he lifts his fist to knock on the door, and a tired, middle-aged couple answered the door.

"My wife . . . poison," is all he can get out before their eyes widen and open the door farther for the group.

"Maman," the girl in his arms wheezes, more tears blurring her vision, and he shushes her.

"Don't speak, Meg," he murmurs lowly, moving to lay her on the bed before moving to the arm of the furniture, kneeling down behind her. She seemed worse, perhaps from the movement and from the chilled outside air. He glanced up just in time to see the doctors flying toward them, but his attention returned back to the blonde as she began to dry-heave.

"Turn her on her side," the woman announces, eyes drifting over his mask briefly before returning with a bucket. Erik comes to kneel beside the girl, drifting a hand beneath her and one of her side before flipping her so she rests against her hip.

She became sick in the bucket after that, and Erik backed away as Fleur and Madame Giry ran to attend to her. Though she was much calmer than he, he saw tears in the mother's eyes, and that same, overwhelming panic began to swirl.

"Have her drink this. The whole glass," the man told him, offering water in a metal cup, and he grabs it, once again kneeling behind the girl as her mother hurries to gather another damp towel. Everything goes quiet around him as he focuses on her again, moving to be more beside her and once again sliding an arm beneath her neck.

"Alright, come here, just like that," he murmurs, propping her up against him and easing the lip of the cup between her own. At first, she squirmed away, but after a dribble ran down her chin, her mouth opened wider to allow more water in. Trembling hands covered his one holding the cup as she gulped it down.

"Good girl," he says, shifting to press a cool hand against her neck. Her lips part as she settles back down, though she whimpers again, clutching her stomach as she begins to dry heave once more.

"She's not keeping it down," he worries loudly, turning toward the two doctors, still frantically searching through their medical cases. "Do something!"

"Monsieur, you need to calm down," the woman says gently, now pulling something wrapped in parchment from a black case. "I believe it's right here."

Though he had a small knowledge of medicine, he knew the longer the poison remained untouched in her system, the closer to death she would be. He didn't know if he believed in God, found it simply easier to doubt His existence than to hate Him, but for the first time in nearly two decades, he prayed. If Meg came out unscathed, he would be good. He promised he would be good for the rest of his life, only if Meg survived and their horrid stalker left her alone.

Both the man and the woman now came upon them, telling Erik to move. The woman wiped away the sick from Meg's mouth before forcing her jaw open, shoving a small capsule into her mouth. The brunette runs a finger gently down the front of her throat, forcing her to swallow. The girl moans, rolling toward the other side, facing away from the group, and Erik comes to her aid once more, pulling the blanket back up to her shoulders. Madame Giry murmurs something about getting Meg clean clothes before promptly leaving, swiping at her eyes. Fleur follows her out, and with their disappearance, he gazes back towards Meg, kneeling.

"Monsieur," the woman says behind him, and he turns, glancing over his shoulder. She handed him a small pot of something, smelling strong and minty, even when closed.

"Ointment?" He questions, and the woman nods, crossing her arms as he retrieved the medical substance.

"Rub it in circular motions on her stomach once to twice a day, preferably before she eats in the morning. I would suggest using the entire thing, even if she begins feeling better before it's out. Also, morphine -"

"No. No morphine," he interrupts, turning back to Meg, returning to neatly arrange the blanket about her.

"Now, Monsieur, I understand your worries behind it, as it is an extremely addictive substance, but when used in careful portions and for medical reasons-"

"Absolutely not," he argues, his fists clenching around the pink blanket. "Nothing of the sort will be allowed near her. Am I understood?"

"Monsieur, the treatment and the ointment will help with the healing process, but if she does not get adequate sleep, even if it's induced, then she will not recover quickly. In fact, she may even take a turn for the worse," the woman explains calmly.

Erik knew she was right, and he felt foolish for arguing with the doctor, but the fear he had for Meg following down his path was even more frightening.

"One week," he compromises, finishing the blanket and resting his hands against the edge of the couch, near Meg's.

"That will be more than enough. I was going to suggest four to five days, and only small doses in the evenings after she's eaten," the woman concludes, and Erik nods reluctantly.

"I'll gather the materials for it. I sincerely believe your wife will be fine, Monsieur. You're lucky you found out so quickly what had happened."

"Yes . . . . Yes, I suppose so," he replies, softly. At that moment, Madame Giry and Fleur enter, holding one of Meg's nightgowns. Though he's already seen the girl in her undergarments, he turns to give her privacy, now feeling burdened and heavy with the past and the present.

"Monsieur, if you don't mind me asking," the male begins, stalking closer, but Erik sends him a withering gaze.

"If it's about the mask, then I assure you, I will mind."

"Etienne," Madame Giry says, glancing at the couple before coming up behind him, placing a hand on his arm. "I asked if he would look at your deformity."

"It would be rather pleasant, Madame, if you would stop betraying me," he hisses, pulling away, but she holds fast.

"There may be options, my boy, for your face," she says quietly, and Erik spins on her, curious eyes searching hers before finding the man's.

"Must you look? Can't you offer me options without studying my face like some sort of science experiment?"

"It's alright, Etienne. Let them look," the mother says, patting his back and leading him toward the dining table. There, they sit, and when he's asked to remove the mask, he flinches away, but a motherly hand grabs his own.

"They aren't going to hurt you," she promises gently, and at last, he gives in, shakily removing the mask and squeezing her hand tightly.

He closes his eyes against the stares, but after a moment of silence, his eyes open, surprised not to hear screams and curses flung at him.

"You are not disgusted?" He whispers, shocked, and the woman standing before him arches an elegant eyebrow.

"To be frank, I've seen much worse. And it seems your hair has hid most of it. I suspect there is a significant deformity around your scalp area, and it seems to travel even farther back than that," she observes, bending down to observe him more closely.

A trembling hand reaches up to brush the ink curls away from the side of his head to reveal a crumpled, misshapen ear. He didn't seem to have an earlobe, and the entire shape was pressed, resting nearly flat against his scalp. The top half was folded down, just barely revealing allowing an entrance for sound.

"And your hearing is intact?" She says, coming around to his side, and Erik began to slump his shoulders, uncomfortable with the questions and being so bared and vulnerable. Especially with Meg only a dozen feet away.

"I believe so," he mutters, letting go of his curls and allowing them back into their place. She doesn't ask to see the gaping hole near the top of his forehead, where skin seems to be missing. After a thorough observation and many more questions, she stands back up straight, and Erik hurriedly returns the mask to its rightful home.

"Unfortunately, I don't believe there is much to do for your ear," she admits, which Erik shrugs off. He kept his hair long, to hide some of the deformity near his hairline and forehead, though it certainly didn't hide most of it. It did, however, do an excellent job concealing his disfigured ear.

"There may be a way to remove the skin beneath your lip, but the scarring will be significant and permanent. The same with the rest of your deformity. There's a method used with skin grafting, removing skin from elsewhere on your body to cover some of your deformity. That, however, will be painful and expensive. There will still be significant scarring left behind, but there will be an improvement."

"And my eye?" He says, touching the cheek of his mask. Beneath lay the drooping eyelid, skin missing around the socket. It still functioned as an eyelid did, but the crease was nearly flattened and wrinkled, almost like it had been burned and melted.

"It could be lifted, but I wouldn't recommend any procedure around your eyes," she suggests, clasping her hands.

It was strange to him how she could be so clinical, so simple about it. His face had been something to be jeered out, to be yelled at, to be feared. Before he could reply, however, a pained moan filled the air, and the attention returned to Meg.

"Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow, ow," she winced as the man gently led the needle into her elbow before injecting her, to which she winced, curling her toes. "Ow, ow, ow, oh! OW! Could you not?" A beat as the needle is removed from her, and the effect is almost immediate, her eyelids beginning to droop.

"Not so bad, was it?" The man chuckles, and she grunts in reply, pulling the blankets higher, albeit weakly.

"Erik?" She murmurs, and his eyes lift to her body, and Madame Giry notices the immediate lift in his shoulders.

"Etienne, dear," he calls back, and she smiles serenely, giggling.

"Oh yeah, I remember!" She exclaims, turning onto her stomach, her eyes closed. "Don't get that silly procedure," she slurs, her words beginning to run together. "You don't need it."

He laughs, almost mockingly. "And why do you think that, dear?"

"Ilikeyoujustthewayyouare . . ." she says, her voice low and relaxed, before falling asleep a few moments later, her breaths deepening.

"Well that's certainly very sweet of her to say," Madame Giry blurts out, her tone tight and sickly sweet, almost accusing. "Wouldn't you say so, Etienne?"

"Yes, yes, very sweet," he stammers, standing quickly and releasing her hand. Something warm and sweet spread in his chest at her words, and he struggled to think of anything but. "Anyways, we should be heading back. Thank you Madame . . . ?"

"You can call me Natalie," she smiles, and her husband comes up behind her with the ointment pot he'd forgotten and the morphine kit. "Free of charge. I certainly don't think she asked to be poisoned."

He clears his throat, hastily shoving the ointment into his back pocket and grabbing the morphine. "Thank you," is all he says before hurrying over to Meg, placing the morphine on her stomach before reaching his hands beneath her, cradling her figure to his chest. He hurried out the door, wanting to be as far away from the Madame as he could possibly be for perhaps the rest of his life. If there was anyone to be frightened of, it was her.

After he'd set her on the bed, he'd nearly sprinted from the room, toward the roof, and stayed up there for the remainder of the day.

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The next time she woke, she was comfortable and warm, though not in the bed or on the couch. It was difficult, focusing on one thing and even bringing feeling to her limbs, but she eventually concluded that she was laying on pillows, swaddled in blankets, on the floor. Oh, if only she'd thought of this before! She wouldn't wake with aches and pains in her back and neck. She wondered if it has been Erik's idea, and a lazy grin spread over her face.

"Hello, dear," a voice says beside her, and she turns her head with difficulty, only to find Fleur smiling softly down at her.

"Hi!" She exclaims, frowning at how difficult it was to form words. "Where's . . . Maman?"

"She's outside with Erik right now. They were having an argument, though I suspect it wasn't something they wanted you to hear. Nor me, I fear."

"He's so smart! Did you know he's a genius? He draws, and composes, and he made me costumes!" Meg gushed. "And he smells wonderful, too. Don't you think so? But his home smelled like . . . like the factory, but worse. He almost smells like Papa, but Papa always smelled like the sea." She gasps as a memory enters her thoughts. "Did you know that, one time, when Papa was visiting grandmother in London, he got me a wonderful book? It's called 'Frankenstein'. Have you ever read it? Erik likes it. Do you think Erik would like to kiss me?"

"I'm sure he would, dear. And while that's all very interesting, you do need to eat and take your medication," Fleur says gently, patiently, and Meg groans, falling back against the pillows.

"Can I have pasta?" She asks, pouting, and the woman chuckles, shaking her head.

"I'm afraid all we have is bread, though today, we were also given butter. Your husband seemed to enjoy it just fine, so I suspect it isn't poisoned." Meg gasps at that, jaw unhinging.

"How terribly rude! Who would want to poison us?" But just then, a very annoyed Erik and angry Madame Giry enter the tenement, and an ear-splitting smile crosses Meg's mouth.

"Erik! We were just talking about you!" Meg gushes, trying to sit upright, with Fleur's help.

"I hope nothing too horrible," he grumbles, and Meg giggles, watching as he collapses against the couch.

She continues to ramble about memories of her Papa and of Erik's skills, to which the same warm feeling as before returned. After eating, Madame Giry comes over to lay a wool blanket over her, and she falls asleep quickly.

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She awakes next to yelling, and the shushing of a woman. She tries to open her eyes further, but it proves to be much too difficult of a task.

"I'll tear him limb from limb, mark my words, Giry!" He shouts, and at the rich, resonant timbre, she recognizes it to be Erik. The woman shushes him again - her mother, she realizes - though she suspects he won't calm.

"Keep your voice down, young man!" She ridicules, and she hears a heavy breath leave him, and then the slumping of a body against a chair.

"She won't be returning to the factory, Erik. We'll find something else to keep her out of harm's way," Madame Giry promises. "But could she have been poisoned in the factory?"

"Did she share any food or drink with anyone? Perhaps it was her friend, Felicity," he growls, bunching the cloth of his trousers.

"Perhaps, but I don't think so, Erik. Meg may remember something when she's fully conscious and sober, but we must be patient. And if it is Felicity, it will be crushing to her," her mother explains gently.

They continue to debate on the origin of her poisoning, but heaviness weighed on her mind again, and she was deep asleep once again.

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The next time she awoke was to soft sobbing, muffled and shaking, and this time, she forced herself to peel her eyes open. It was difficult to process the scene, but after a few moments, she found that her overall vision and focus improved.

Erik was crumpled on the floor, face buried in his hands as he weeped, and Madame Giry knelt beside him, rubbing his back. A letter was clutched in his hands, crisp and new and fresh, and from this angle, she could tell it was written in French. After a few moments of coaxing, he eventually releases it to her mother. The blonde watches her mother's eyes skim over the letter, and her face drops, nearing the end.

"Oh, my boy," she murmurs, and Erik snatches it from her, his face full of grief and anger, and Meg was terrified by the expression on his face. He rips it in half before crumbling it, throwing it harshly against the closed door, still on his knees.

"Who sent it?" He whispers, shaking. "It was forwarded to you . . . who forwarded it?"

"The Vicomte de Chagny, through the explicit instructions of Christine," she explains, and it seemed to make him whither all the more.

"So she knows, then."

"Yes, Erik, she does. She sent a personal letter along with it, but it was addressed to Meg," she replies. "She does not know you are here, if that's what you're wondering. It was rather bold of her to assume I would know how to contact you, or that you were even still alive."

"May I see it?" He asks, his voice hoarse and quiet, but her mother shakes her head.

"I respected your privacy by not opening the letter addressed to you. Give Meg the same," she replies gently.

He's wracked with sobs again, and Madame Giry embraces him tightly, crying into her shoulder.

Meg desperately wanted to comfort him, wanted to ask what had happened, but exhaustion won out again, and she drifted.

A couple of hours later, deep into the night, she woke to hear her mother and Fleur whispering rapidly to each other, almost heatedly, though neither sounded mad. They both sounded worried, though she wasn't sure as of why.

They left after a few minutes, and Meg groans, rolling over with great effort, only to nearly land on Erik's head. In the darkness, as she opens her eyes, she can make out the mask sitting on the nightstand, the deformed part of his face pressed against the mattress. She sees trails of fresh tears on his cheek, though he was asleep. He couldn't have been comfortable, bent over, half-way in the chair and half-way on the bed, but somehow, he seemed to have dozed off.

Meg hums, reaching for the back of his hand and curling her fingers around it, before closing her eyes once more.

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"Meg, wake up," a scratchy voice says, gentle hand shaking her shoulders, and she wakes with a cry. She pries her eyes open, a white mask looming above her, and she latches onto his shirt sleeves.

"The same dream . . . I was dancing with Papa, but you and Maman were in red and I was in yellow, and then you were gone, you jumped off the side and I couldn't find you . . ." She inhales deeply, pushing her fear down now that she was awake.

"The one with the clock?" He questions, his voice stripped, as if he'd been crying. She nods, and he sighs, moving to sit perpendicular to her on the bed.

"Your body is beginning to become accustomed to the morphine," he murmurs, reaching to retrieve the kit. "But mind you, I'm not increasing your dosage, regardless of your progress." He seemed so drained, so tired, and her heart wept for him.

"How long have I been sick?" She asks, and as she tries to sit up, dizziness overcomes her, and her stomach begins to spasm painfully.

"It's been nearly five days. This is the first time you've actually awoken."

"Erik, are you alright?" She asks softly, cautiously gazing up at him as he filled the syringe with the drug.

"This should be enough for tonight," he croaks, his fingers wrapping about her elbow, but she stops him, grabbing his wrist.

"Will you count down?" She asks, shivering at the feel of his ring pressing against her skin.

"From three?"

"From five," she says, and the small quirk of a smile lifts the corner of his lips, but only for a moment.

"As you wish," he agrees, and she nods, squeezing her eyes shut, her other hand fisting into the bedsheets.

"Five, four, three," he begins, but on three, he plunges the needle into her skin, and she moans in pain, nearly jerking away, but he holds her there, before removing the syringe.

"You agreed to five!"

"If you relax, it doesn't hurt as badly," is all he replies with, now toneless, and stares at the morphine strangely before hastily shoving it in the bottom drawer.

"You look awful," she murmurs. She could see the circles beneath his eyes and the red rings about them in the moonlight, and reached up to cup his cheek, but he pulled away.

"You'll have to be more specific, my dear," he says, a dark chuckle lacing his voice, and she shivers at the fear it sent through her.

"You look like you've been crying," she observes, and he turns away from her, facing the window directly.

"I'm fine," is all he replies with, but she can see the slight tremble of his fingers as they lace in his lap, his gaze lowering to the ground.

"You can talk to me, Erik," she says, groaning as she sits up, moving toward him. "About anything. Seeing you this way upsets me."

"Is that another characteristic of friendship?" He questions, and she nods, moving to settle behind him. Her knees cradle his thighs and she leans against him, wrapping her arms around his abdomen beneath his arms.

"What are you doing?" He asks, though he doesn't move away, so she lays her head upon his shoulder, now resting her full weight against him with a sigh. He was warm from sleep, and she rather wanted to rest for the night like this.

"Hugging you," she replies simply, pressing herself tighter against his back. "You're sad."

He doesn't say anything, but the longer that she holds him, the more his muscles seem to relax. She smiles, nuzzling his shoulder.

"Are you upset because of me? Because someone poisoned me?" She questions, her speech beginning to slur as the morphine entered her system.

"Don't flatter yourself too much," he jokes, though he does so humorlessly. "But you did scare me, my dear."

"Was it the letter, then?" She mumbles, and he stiffens, turning his head toward her own, his lips nearly colliding with her forehead.

"What do you know about that?"

"Or is it because I ate the last croissant?" She says, now giggling, and he sighs, his neck now forward again.

"I see the morphine is working again," he replies, to which she hums happily, inhaling his scent.

"I feel really good," she slurs, and he chuckles, craning his head to gaze at her again.

"I'm sure you do, Meg."

"Did I make you feel better?" She asks, eyelids beginning to droop, and she feels hands against hers on his abdomen.

"More than you know," he whispers. "More than you know."

She'd already fallen asleep at this point, and he turns just enough to capture her scalp with his hand, easing her back onto the bed. He moves from her knees, swinging the blonde's legs back under the blankets.

"G'night . . ." She hums as he pulls away, and he smiles sadly down at the girl. Again, he found himself overseeing her in the moonlight, the artist in him trailing through his veins and sparking in his fingertips. She was so beautiful like this, twisted in the blankets, golden hair fanned on the pillow, dry lips parted just barely. That deep-seated affection squirmed deep within him, and he had half a mind to crawl in with her.

Instead, he returns to his chair, laying his head back down against the mattress, tossing the mask back to the side. His last thoughts weren't of grief, weren't of pain, but were instead of soft touches and unspoken intimacy. Melodies drummed beneath his fingertips as he laid his hands on the bed, but soon succumbed to the same black touch that Meg had, chasing her into her dreams, dancing and singing and laughing with her there.

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i hope you enjoyed! and btw drunk & wholesome meg is my new fav

thank you so much for reading! and as a little teaser for next week, meg stumbles upon something she shouldn't 👀
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