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blondie makes a decision, and grumpy maybe isn't so grumpy anymore :)

hello you lovely people! it's pretty late right now but hey fic is to be read either under your desk during a lecture or squealing under your blankets ya know

anyways! i hope you enjoy :).
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Meg awakes feeling more alert than she had for nearly two weeks. With great struggle, she swings her legs from under the blankets and off of the bed, nearly tripping over the blankets, pillow and sleeping trousers scattered there. She only wore a silken robe - Erik's silken robe - and minimal underthings, and the thought of him attending to her with her state of undress caused her to blush.

After a shower, her mind still pleasantly numb, she returns to her mother, who had tears in her eyes as she was embraced.

"My dear girl. My dear, dear girl," she murmurs, holding her daughter tightly. "I love you so much, ma choupette."

"I love you too, Maman," Meg replies, a small smile on her face as she squeezed her mother back. Her hair was dark and stringy and wet, and rested snuggly against her neck and back, utterly freezing, but she didn't have the heart to pull it back when her mother sat her down and began to run a comb through, working out the knots.

After much conversation, mainly consisting of her mother holding back tears and constantly asking if she was feeling alright, Meg asked the question that had been weighing on her mind. "If you don't mind me asking . . . where is Erik?"

She regrets it almost immediately, seeing the knowing suspicion enter her mother's gaze. "And why would you like to know?"

Meg shrugs nonchalantly, popping a raspberry into her mouth. "Oh, no reason. He . . . he promised me the last croissant, since he ate them all last time, and I saw they were all missing. I rather wanted to give him a good glare before he was off, but looks like I just missed him."

"Meg, I think we need to have a conversation," Madame Giry begins, but is interrupted by a loud voice talking frantically, and then a tall, broad shadow that Meg had grown to know next to a smaller shadow, still rather tall.

"Fleck?" Meg questions, standing just as the door swings open, and the ginger flings herself at Meg, wrapping her arms around the shorter blonde. Meg hugs her tightly back, squealing as they embrace each other.

"I was so worried about you, blondie! You didn't come in for days, and then your husband sends a letter that you've fallen ill and will no longer be working at the factory . . . Dear Lord, Meg, I was terrified," she rants, and Meg giggles, shaking her head.

"Well, as you can see, I'm quite alright now. Well, I am starving, but other than that, quite well," she replies, and the red-head hugs her tightly again before releasing her. Before that, however, she opens her eyes and glances at Erik, who was still standing at the door, and smiles widely at him. In response, he tips his hat, giving her a little bow. "Thank you," she mouths, and in rare form today, apparently, he winks at her cheekily before closing the door behind him and making his way onto the roof.

Now, Meg began to tear up, and she affectionately held Fleck's hands within her own, gazing at her, tears welling in her eyes. "I missed you, so much, my darling friend. I don't think I'll ever get enough of you and your horrid French accent."

"Don't you start crying! Or I will too!" She laughs, tears forming in her own eyes in return. "And don't worry! Me and my 'horrid French accent' plan on sticking around for a while."

"Is this your friend you've spoken over before?" Her mother asks, and Meg nods, chuckling at the tears running down her cheeks and wiping them away.

"Yes! Maman, this is Fleck. Fleck, Maman," she introduces, and they both smile at each other, shaking hands. The dancer notices her mother's gaze sweeping over her features, as if judging them, and realizes that she may be suspicious of Fleck being the one to poison her.

"Would it be alright if I kidnapped your daughter for the day? I'd love to spend some time with her. I missed her terribly," Fleck asks, and her mother's gaze flicks to Meg's, and she shakes her head rapidly, excitedly.

"Alright, Meg. Be home by dinner, please. I want you to stay safe, okay?" Her mother whispers to her, and Meg grins, nodding.

"I promise I will. I'll see you later, Maman. And please make sure Erik eats something today before he does whatever he does. He's working now, isn't he? Make sure he brings a lunch," she replies, hugging her mother before bouncing off to Fleck, weaving their arms together.

And though Madame Giry was glad to see the two girls together, and even gladder that Meg had found a friend, the sudden idea rose in her head that, once Meg married, she'd be alone. She'd worried, for a while, that Meg would be unable to find a husband, as she was a dancer with too many opinions, and Madame Giry would be loath to dampen any of them.

And then, that troubling thought of Erik and Meg. She'd felt awful afterwards, accusing Erik of toying with Meg's affections to replace what he had with Christine, and he'd adamantly refused that, saying nothing was happening between them that she needed to worry about, and he wouldn't ever manipulate her feelings like that for his own advantage. She'd felt horrid afterwards, seeing how deeply her words had cut him, but she'd felt her concerns were fair, especially since she suspected their relationship was something beyond friends, if not lovers. She'd apologized after, but still wasn't convinced.

She sighed, grasping Meg's rosary for comfort, which Madame Giry had removed while she'd been sick so she wouldn't lay uncomfortably on top of it.

"Antoinette?" Fleur asks, almost hesitantly and hurriedly, and her gaze flicks up, landing on the other woman.

"Yes? Is something the matter?"

"That will be the understatement of the century, I assure you," she says, unrolling a newspaper and throwing the wad on the table.

"What's this?" She questions, and then her eyes widen at the title. A hand comes to cover her mouth as her eyes skim the article, tears welling in her eyes.

"It has to do with you, Antoinette."

"You are not to tell Meg or Erik," Antoinette pleads, crumpling it back up. "Please, rid this place of it. I don't want them finding out about this. This . . . this certainly changes things."

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"The violet one, or the navy one?" Meg questions, holding both of the dresses up to her, switching between them as Fleck gazed at her, judging between the two.

"The violet one, I'd say. It would look lovely with your cape, though coats are rather in fashion," Fleck suggests, but Meg waves her off, jiggling her small bag of change, coins clinking together with soft clicks.

"You forget that I can barely afford bread," she chuckles, shoving the small, pink thing back into her dress pocket, and she realizes that her rosary was missing. She realizes her mother must have removed it, which eased the panic of possibly losing it, but she still felt quite naked without it.

"I thought the husband had gotten a well-paying job?" She'd asked, crossing her arms.

"Only for a little bit, I suspect. I don't really remember when he started - I was probably either higher than a kite or asleep - but at this time, it certainly wouldn't amount to much," Meg explains.

"And if you don't mind me asking, what's the mask for?" She says, almost carefully, and the blonde inhales, placing both of the dresses down on a silken chair.

"He fought in the Crimean War, and sustained terrible facial injuries because of it," she lies. "He is rather sensitive about the topic, so I beg you not to mention it to him, or even stare at the mask for more than a few seconds."

"Oh," Fleck breathes, her eyes becoming downcast and serious before stepping forwards and grabbing the girl's hands. "You must be so proud, to be married to someone who fought for good. How glad you must be, too, that he came home in one piece - well, two, I suppose - and not in a million."

"So you understand why it bothers me none. I ask that you show him the same kindness and same compassion as you would anyone else," Meg says, and she hates herself, for lying through her teeth, but at least this part was truthful. And though much time had passed since she'd seen his face, she rather hoped simply knowing who he was and his character would be enough to overcome whatever horror lay behind the mask, at a more careful glance. If he ever removed it again.

"Of course I do, Meg. Now, don't you dare get that money bag out again - today is my day, so my treat. I'll purchase the dress for you. And your boots look something horrid, so I suppose we'll get you something nicer," Fleck reveals, and Meg's eyes widen, shaking her head.

"Oh, no, Fleck, that's completely all right. I was planning on coming back here when I have more saved up and purchasing a dress then," she explains, but she's cut off by the red-head.

"Nope! Sorry, I'm already convinced. I'm buying you the dress, the boots, and lunch," she stubbornly states, refusing to hear any of Meg's arguments.

"If you are truly comfortable with purchasing these things for me, then I beg you to let me take you out one day when I've more saved," Meg bargains, and Fleck agrees, though as she turns, purses her lips in a disbelieving way. "Thank you very much, Fleck."

"Don't thank me just yet! We've still to find lunch. I shall treat you to the very best of American cuisine! I suspect you've only had whatever the Mister brings home?"

"My mother would bring home much of the food, here. She's more a man of the house than he is," she giggles, and Fleck grins, placing their items on the counter to be wrapped and bagged.

"So I suspect you haven't even had Pigs in a Blanket? Or a Blushing Bunny? Oh, don't tell me you haven't had any Eggs in Prison! Despite the name, they are simply delectable!" Fleck exclaims, struggling with translating the names quickly, but Meg understood them plenty fine.

"I haven't a clue what any of those things are! Though they all frighten me, a bit," Meg reveals, grinning, and the red-head laughs, handing coins over to the cashier.

"Oh, nothing too terrible, I promise! Come, let's go!"

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It was only after they'd eaten everything Fleck had said they would - including a delicious drink called Dr. Pepper, syrupy sweet and a bit bitter at the end - that a strange man approached them, perhaps in his mid-forties, pristine white teeth poking out from behind is lopsided smile.

"Meg, I'd like you to meet a friend of mine," Fleck introduces, pulling out the chair next to her for him to sit, directly across from the blonde. She immediately began to feel uncomfortable, and a little upset that her friend had invited someone and not told her, but she trusted the woman. "He speaks French, Meg, so you should be alright."

How strange that so many people here speak French, Meg wonders.

"Of course," the dancer greets, holding a hand out. "I'm Marguerite Y."

"Just Y?" He asks, taking her hand and kissing her knuckle, a chilled shiver running down her spine at the tone of his voice.

"Yes," she replies. "You'll have to ask my husband about that one - I, unfortunately, haven't any of its origins, though he is French as well." She carefully emphasizes 'husband', wiggling her ring fingers slightly to draw attention to it. Something felt off, and she nearly looked at Fleck accusingly.

"A sort of a mystery, then! I'm sure you are as well, the lady of the hour," he grins, and the full effect of using 'Mr. Y' as a pseudonym hit her, and she nearly laughed out loud as she realized it was supposed to reflect 'mystery'.

"Yes, I suppose he is," is all she replies with, withdrawing her hand and placing it back in her lap. She felt nervous and wanted to reserve herself, wanting to dart at the strange look in his eyes, especially when they crawled down to her chest.

"Mr. Thompson, if you don't mind me asking, why are you here? Why did Fleck invite you?" She asks, her voice wavering, and she gulps back her anxiety. Though they were still inside, his hungry eyes found her bosom, so she drew her cape back over his shoulders. Who was this man?

"You friend here tells me you're a dancer, is that true?" He asks, and Meg fiddles the ring nervously, her gaze dropping to the table.

"I'm afraid I've just recovered from an . . . illness, and I haven't been practicing my craft for a few months now." Her voice was tight and pained, and Fleck immediately recognized it as longing, for something she'd lost, and her chest pinched.

"Well, I'm certainly sorry to hear that. However, I'd like to invite you to my . . . dance studio, per se," he suggests, and Meg's eyebrows arch, and Fleck turns to him, as if surprised.

"Now, Frederick -"

"No, no, Miss, let me have a conversation with the nice young lady," he says, staring at Meg the entire time he spoke and holding a hand up to silence the red-head.

"I-I'm sorry, sir, but I'm not interested -"

"I rather think you will be after I tell you this, my dear," he says, leaning forward on his elbows, and Meg leans back, startled.

"How much do you need for your husband's amusement park?" He asks, and she shoots a glare at Fleck, who merely shrugs.

"I haven't a clue, sir. I only know he wishes to bridge the gap between New Jersey and New York City, and wants it to be near the water. He describes it to me as a circus," she explains carefully, wondering how much to give away.

"Why, that's simply wonderful! A very fine investment indeed. It would be a shame if you didn't sign this contract," he says, almost nonchalantly, pulling a paper from his coat pocket. Fleck's hand darts forward, catching his arm with a glare, but with a clear warning in his eyes, she backs off with a cower.

"Sir, this is in English," she points out almost ashamedly. "I don't know much of the language."

"That's quite alright! I can explain to you what's written," he begins. Meg leans back, skeptical, but misses the intentionality behind the language choice, and the smirk drawn across his face at her words.

"I suppose," she murmurs, twisting the ring around her finger. She hated feeling dependent on him, but she desperately wanted Erik's advice, though she was rather certain he would tell her to walk away from the proposal, and perhaps even add a fist to the nose for her troubles. Despite that, the investment had a rather nice ring to it.

"If you agree to become one of my dancers for six months, I will give you half of the funding needed," he says, and Meg nervously ticks her fingers together.

"What kind of dancing is it?" She questions, weaving a strand of pale gold around her finger. Though it was an innocent action, his eyes followed with excitement.

"It's . . . exotic. It's wild, and it's free," he explains, leaning forward. "And I believe you are just the type."

"I don't know . . . " she replies. "I'm only trained in ballet, and I would need to talk to my husband and mother if I am indeed making any long-term commitments-"

"You don't need his approval, do you? From what Felicity has told me, you are fairly independent, Meg," he says convincingly, and even Meg began wanting to tell him yes.

In all honesty, though she was independent, perhaps far too much according to society's standards, her mind reeled back to when Erik had taken care of her. She remembered his fingers wrapped around her ankle and calf, and hands skimming over her hair and cheeks and holding her against him, and she fought back a blush. She'd never admit it aloud, but all those small acts of caring for her were some of her most precious memories, despite someone poisoning her purposefully.

"All due respect, Mr. Thompson, but this is a decision that certainly affects us three, especially my husband -"

"It's now or never, Mrs. Y. Take the money or leave it," he states, dropping a pencil down upon the English gibberish.

"I apologize, Sir, but no-"

"Now, Mrs. Y, it's only dancing. You'll also be receiving tips - what could truly be so bad about that? And you needn't tell your husband anything. In fact, many of my dancers are married and haven't told their husbands a single thing," he explains, and Meg cocks an eyebrow.

"Why haven't they told their husbands? What's so wrong with dancing?" She asks suspiciously.

"You know how men are. If women don't fit into the mold they provide, the women are left behind. I'm sure you wouldn't want your husband to do such a thing."

"He's not like that!" She argues, anger growing in her, both at the assumption that Erik would be like any other man - he certainly wasn't. He was both worse and better - and the reminder of women's role in society. Calmer now, she says, "Is it truly just dancing, Mr. Thompson?"

"Of course, Mrs. Y. Now, will you sign? I have a pamphlet to offer you, as well," he explains, pushing it in front of her as she hesitantly picks up the pencil. With a breath, and imagaining Erik's dream, how happy he would be once he achieved his Phantasma, she signed along the dotted line. What convinced her, however, was imagining herself singing in one of the costumes, entrancing all of the city.

"It was a pleasure doing business with you, Mrs. Y," he concludes, and bends down to kiss Meg's hand. When he turns to bid farewell to Fleck, she wipes her hand off on her dress. And when he finally left, the blonde began thinking she'd made a mistake. However, the red-head says nothing, and they begin heading home.

"I'll see you later, blondie," she grins, hugging Meg tightly before kissing her cheek.

"I'll see you soon as well, Fleck," Meg grins, shoving her hands into her pockets and feeling the pamphlet crumple there. And as she begins to wander away, Erik arrives from work, holding warm, steaming food in a basket. She gives a wary glance at his mask before hurrying away, the man paying little attention to her.

"I trust it was an enjoyable day?" He questions, and she nods, inhaling the savory scent. "Granted, I can simply tell that from all of your bags."

"It was! Thank you, Erik, for bringing her over. That was very sweet of you," she says warmly to him, and the corner of his lip perks up.

"Lord knows you've been through enough. Now, we shall only hope we have enough room to fit all of your new items in the tenement."

They enter in together, her mother and the family of three at the dinner table, Robin already napping in George's arms, the old man cooing at the child. Erik closes the door behind them, and places the food on the table, careful to avoid eye contact with everyone. Somehow, he felt tension with nearly every person in the room. Perhaps even Robin.

"How was your day, ma choupette?" Her mother questions, and Meg grins, dropping her bags to embrace her mother from behind.

"Brilliant, Maman. I hope you fared well today, as well," she replies, pulling away to sit between her and a newly grumpy Erik, whom she forced onto the bench beside her.

Dinner mainly consisted of conversation between her mother and the two others, but Erik and Meg remained quiet, sitting close together. He seemed to be burning with questions, and she wanted to ask it out of him, but rather hoped he would take the initiative on his own.

"Are you alright?" She murmurs, bumping his covered foot with her bare one, and he flinches at the contact, to which she frowns.

"Fine," he grumbles simply, and considers sidling up next to him to comfort the man, but instead playfully bumps his ankle.

"Did you miss me? Is that what's wrong?" She jokes, but he says nothing, and a secret warmth spreads in her. Did he truly miss her? Is that what had happened? If he had wanted to spend the morning with her sober self, why did he bring Fleck about?

"Nope," he says, and she huffs, turning straight forwards again.

"Fine. Live with your inner turmoil."

"I have for nearly my entire life, thank you very much," he says nonchalantly, and though it was meant to be more humorous than serious, she knew the comment to be true, and her heart sunk from it.

"Well not anymore, because you have me and Maman," she replies, and she shoves an orange slice into her mouth, not gauging his reaction.

They were silent after that, and when they all retired for bed, she saw him pull his chair as far away from the couch as possible, though instead of slumping on it, he instead collapsed onto the floor, removing his cloak from the back of it. She'd forgotten her blanket across the room, and she stands warily to grab her, a wave of exhaustion flowing over her. When she returns, however, she stops at Erik's figure on the floor.

Without much thought, she reaches for her cloak, and lays down beside him, his back facing her. He must have known she was there, because he stiffened something horrible.

"Meg, nothing now. Please." His voice was hoarse, but she made sure to keep space between them.

"Can I lay here? With you?" She whispers, quietly enough so her mother couldn't hear, on the chance she hadn't fallen asleep yet. He relents, his shoulder relaxing, and she pulls the blanket over herself. He mumbled something like "I haven't a clue why you would", but Meg couldn't be sure.

"Your neck looks terribly uncomfortable. You should put this underneath it, like a pillow," she suggests, tossing it over his face, and he reaches up to pull it off.

"Isn't this your cape?"

"Yes, but it's alright. I want you to be comfortable," she explains, pulling her own pillow under her neck. She was expecting him to refuse it, but he instead pulls it under his head. Her perfume stuck stubbornly to the cape, and he inhaled the rose and vanilla, a strange sort of calm filling him from the scent.

"Is everything alright, Erik?" She whispers, reaching out to touch his arm, but pulls back before she makes contact.

He wanted to ask her of what was happening within him, of why she'd mentioned a kiss, but the memory of a lifetime of rejection rises in him, and he remains quiet.

"I remember the letter, Erik, though I remember nothing but you being upset," she whispers, and he closes his eyes, fisting his hands together.

"Don't ask of its contents, Meg," he says almost harshly, almost pleading, and he hears her shift closer, and fingers touch his shoulder.

"It's okay. I won't. You don't have to tell me anything, but I'm here for you." He heard her shuffling behind him, and then the clicking of beads falling together. "You can borrow this, tonight. It's my grandmother's rosary, and holding it close always brings me comfort."

He turns toward her, and even in the near complete darkness, he sees her eyes light up. "Hello," she murmurs, smiling sadly.

She hands the rosary to him, and though the gesture was almost uncomfortably overwhelming, it was nothing compared to her close presence. It was difficult to decide whether he wanted to push her away, or pull her closer. Quietly, hoping it was too dark for her to see, he bunches it in his hand, and holds it against his chest, near his heart. He almost felt safer that way, holding an object closer to him instead of her.

"Thank you for taking care of me, Erik," she murmurs, laying her hand between their bodies. "You didn't have to, but you did, and that means more to me than I can articulate." She breathes shakily, and his eyes snap up to hers. "And in all honesty, I've never been frightened more."

Guilt welled in him, and he clutched the rosary tighter. "I'm truly sorry, Meg. It's my fault -"

"No, it's not. Don't blame yourself, Erik," she replies, and he goes quiet.

"You don't need to be frightened, Meg. I know you won't be thrilled by the idea, but it would be wise for you to avoid being alone."

"Though you're right, you should surely expect me to complain," she jokes, though serious, and his honeyed, low chuckle deliciously tickles her ears.

"I would be worried if you didn't, my dear." They both go quiet, but he nearly flinches when she reaches forward to grab his hand.

"Is this okay?" She questions. "I feel safer this way, but only if you're comfortable."

"Y-yes," he replies, and her fingers wrap around his firmly.

"Good night, Erik."

And after he was sure she'd fallen asleep, he brushed a strand of hair away that had fallen across her face. He remembered as a child, wishing his mother would touch him lovingly, as any parent would to their son.

Only Madame Giry had brushed his hair from his eyes, cut it when it became too long, washed it when he could barely breathe from nightmares and sobs, and embraced him in a motherly way. Still, she was a strict and stern woman, and the touches came rarely. With Meg, he felt as if she would welcome his touch anytime. He still couldn't understand why she could stand his fingers against hers, but he knew such a question would sadden her immensely.

"Bonne nuit, mon lutin."

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man this mr thompson guy is giving me bad vibes idk what do y'all think

if you enjoyed, don't hesitate to comment! i love reading all of your reactions! :) see y'all in the next chapter!
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