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hey everyone! i hope you're having a wonderful day or evening! here's the next update :). i hope you enjoy!
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"Here, I have a few slices left," the blonde says, pushing the plate of bread and cheese over to him. "I haven't seen you eat a single thing in the past two days."

"I'm fine," he says, continuing to scribble frantically in the notebook. His right hand was poised over the table, as if faux chords were being played beneath them. It seemed something simple, a phrase of quarter notes soon paired with chords of simple major thirds, but nothing much more than that.

She didn't want to interrupt his flow of thought, but nonetheless, it worried her how his eyes appeared bloodshot, and navy circles drew beneath his eyes, darker than her own.

"Maybe some tea? It will take a moment for the stove to warm, but Maman left the rest of that English stuff behind, that Papa brought us last Christmas," she says, almost sadly, as if reliving that Christmas in her mind. "He's going to live - I just know it. And I think he'll like you."

That severed the line between his mind and work, but he found frustration was the farthest thing from his thoughts. "I hardly think your father should like his daughter entering a courtship with the Phantom."

She places her hand on top of his, and laces her fingers through his. "Perhaps there's a few things we should leave in mystery, but he'll adore you. You've both traveled around the world, speak many different languages, learn so many new things that I can only wish to someday understand."

"Is he the one that taught you to read?" He questions, closing the cover of the notebook and twisting toward her. The motion places a significant amount of pressure on his cracked ribs, so he slung his leg over the bench to fully face her.

Erik saw the blonde melt at this, giving her his full attention, and she grabbed both of his hands in response, mirroring his position, her knees on either side of the bench.

"That's quite unlady-like," he grins, lacing his fingers back, because he can do that now, can hold her hand, as tightly as he wants, can touch and feel her fingers.

"My mother taught me to never listen to any man that says a woman can't do something," she replies, lifting her chin proudly. "And to answer your question, yes, my father taught me to read Plato and St. Augustine, but I always preferred Mary Shelley and Emily Dickinson. Though he is not quite as progressive as my mother, he believes every person should have equal opportunity to learn."

"I quite agree, Meg. Anyone should have the right to opportunities, regardless of physical characteristics," he acknowledges, and she smiles, resting a hand against his heart. Erik's free hand chases hers, tracing the fingers pressed against his chest, though his shirt was buttoned now, and sleeves now adorned his arms. "And I rather like Mary Shelley and Emily Dickinson, as well. Though I think I like you the most."

She blushes deeply, and Meg scoots closer so their knees touch. His hand closes around her wrist, to hold her there, and the other trembles as it reaches forward to brush hair from her eyes. Her eyes close as Erik makes contact, and with a breath, he draws his fingertips over every contour, every bit of skin on her face, and admires the artistry of what he felt. As an artist, he couldn't dream of painting something as perfect as her. To him, she was art itself.

His thumb skims across her lower lip, and her mouth parts, and he feels warm breath against his fingers. Erik cups her jaw gently before drawing her closer to him, forcing her to lean forward as their legs blocked Meg's path to him. She stands, then, and leans a bent knee on top of the bench, now looming over him, and he pulls her down then, connecting their lips.

The blonde's fingers caressed him, lacing into his curls as they kissed, and he pulled her all the closer, bold with affection, hands planted on her hips. Erik felt softer curves there, softer than on the ship, and he shivered as her lips pulled against his experimentally.

And when she pulled away, cheeks reddened and panting, he pressed his face to the underside of her jaw, planting kisses there as Meg caught her breath, fingers tightening around his scalp. He found a sensitive spot behind her ear, causing her to giggle, and as he wrapped his arms around her, heart thumping wildly with the fact that he was allowed to kiss this woman, the door opened.

"Oh!" Fleur says, eyes wide as the couple turns with a fright, still wrapped in an embrace, Erik's head level with her collarbone and the blonde's hands against his shoulders now. "I'll . . . come back later?"

"That would be best," Erik replies at the same time Meg says, "No, it's alright!" He glares up at her, and she grins, patting his upper back before pulling away from his arms. She then heard a strangled moan from behind her, and turned to see him facing away from Fleur, hands covering his deformity and his shoulders hunched over.

Fleur, almost confused, watches the strange reaction from him, and then Meg launches into a flurry, darting around the tenement before finding his mask. She watches as the blonde kneels in front of him, prying his hands away, and helping him unbend the wires as his fingers follow hers. Erik's hands then bunched into the cloth at his thighs as he whispers, "I forgot . . . I forgot I didn't have it on." The blonde shushes him, standing to straighten the mask before walking over to the older woman.

Fleur realized she hadn't even noticed.

"Thank you," Erik whispers to Meg though his arm wraps around the front of his ribs, and he lowly moans. The dancer places a comforting hand on his shoulder before looking up at Fleur, addressing her.

Despite the tremor in his fingers from being unmasked in front of someone that wasn't a Giry, his heart still felt light, and Erik closed his eyes, savoring the dizzying numbness of his lips and mind. Secretly, he reached up to press his fingers against his lips, and they felt swollen.

What did people who were together call themselves? Does he call her his lover? His partner? His sweetheart? His beloved? She'd once called him her best friend, so perhaps it was wise to start there.

He felt calmer now, almost steadier, and grounded himself in that, and was able to breathe evenly.

"I must be quite honest," Fleur begins. "I've seen you both embrace, but nothing beyond that between the both of you. I was beginning to think you both were feigning a marriage!" She exclaims, and Meg is quick to laugh, though it was forced and faked.

"Well, I'm sure you know that isn't true, now," Meg smiles widely, though pink dots the apples of her cheeks.

"After such a kiss, and the way that man looks at you, I'd be a fool to assume anything else," Fleur states, almost matter-of-factly.

The blonde blushes deeper, and she sees Erik whirl around in a fright, eyes wide and face beat-red. He seemed embarrassed, and wouldn't meet Meg's eyes, but she gave him a shy, affectionate smile. How many clues of his feelings had she missed?

"Well, regardless, I brought breakfast," she says, and Meg's eyes light up, her emotions going straight to her stomach. It was with no hesitation that she turned, climbing back onto the bench beside Erik, and prepared to eat the equivalent to the Empire State Building outside their window.

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"You've still failed to mention exactly where we were going, Felicity."

"For the last time, Mister H, just called me Fleck. It's fine!" The red-head grabs his forearm, glancing around themselves before pulling him into an alley.

"If I am to call you Fleck, than you must call me Oscar-"

"Shhh! I'm going to tell you a secret, and you must promise to never tell this to another living soul. Well, you can tell our friends, but not right now. I think this would kill them on the spot, so perhaps not before they've at least gotten adequate sleep." Her voice was hushed, and she'd pushed Hammerstein against the brick wall. "And definitely not Meg. She's strong-willed, but I can tell you that she has not been sleeping, nor eating well," the red-head says matter-of-factly. "And I will not contribute to the crippling change, nor will I tell Erik and force another person behind her back."

"Agreed, but if it has anything to do with this man's identity, or if you are in any way tied to this . . . this monster, I will not hesitate to report you and anyone else to the authorities. Understood?" He instructs, voice low with warning, and she nods, though an uncomfortable grin spread across her mouth. Something lopsided and unsure.

His eyes flick down to her hands that were pinning him against the wall, despite him being taller than her, and her eyes widen before pulling away, an apologetic look on her face.

"In all honesty . . . although I have nothing to do with this, I can't help but feel I've contributed in some way. I've been so frightened to seek help, so afraid that fingers would be pointed my way when I've done nothing directly wrong . . . but if I have done so, indirectly, then I hope breaching the boss's trust will make up for it."

"And is this your boss's place? Is he the culprit?" He whispers as she tugs him into the small brick door in the alleyway, darked in the shadows of night, the gentle, moonlit haze just falling short of whatever lie just beyond their sight of vision, and soon, the place beneath his fingertips as he found a doorknob.

"No. I don't think Mr. T has much to do with this, other than sending me to this man's place. He was a new client, one that privately paid, and gave the strangest address . . . 'the place between where the east sun hits the city, intersecting where the Empire bites the brick'. And then, of course, next to Zillow's Pizza Place, which is just up the street," she explains.

"If not for the serial killer hunt, I'd say this is a mighty fine place to live," he comments, and Fleck rolls her eyes, though a humored smile crosses her face.

"You'd fit right in! And I'm sure the neighbors would love you, pounding that piano all night long and driving them practically insane," she snorts, and he chuckles, a small smile gracing his face.

"It would be lonely, but that is an isolating fate for any artist. I suppose I may as well get used to it."

"Ah, what a positive contribution. Anyway, shall we?" She props the door open with her hip, and he walks inside, eyes skirting around the small place.

It was black as pitch before Fleck lit a candle in complete darkness, shrugging when Hammerstein looked over at her in confusion. "I've been told I have a gift of observation," she reasons, and he shrugs in off, following her around the room.

"So, what exactly are we looking for? Clues?" He questions, and he watches as she makes her way toward the back of the small apartment, as if something called her back there.

"What is it?" The musician questions, and he watches as she lifts a folder, the only thing not dusty on the entire desk, smooshed underneath a stack of books. None so significant, only seeing the most well-known and popular classic, 'Frankenstein', 'The Count of Monte Cristo', and 'The Hunchback of Notre Dame'.

"So our killer is a reader . . . how very interesting! Oh, this one is one of my favorites," he says, reaching toward the smallest book, an auburn, orangey one on top, but she slaps his hand away.

"This isn't a time to read about monsters! Although, I can see what drew you in. Hammerstein? Frankenstein? Perhaps you are some ungodly creature," she says, uncharacteristically flustered, and he punches back with, "And perhaps you are the bride, who only lived a few mere minutes."

"Birds of a feather, then." She faces away, purposefully tilting her head away from the light of the candle, and he grins, despite their shared, sardonic humor.

"Glad you agree," he finishes, but before he can speak again, she nearly drops the candle, and he barely has enough time to steady it with his own hands before she dashes off.

"Fleck . . . Fleck, stop!" He yells at her, but she doesn't turn until they reach the theatre, and they rush inside, the woman closing the door tightly behind him.

"What . . . was all that for?" He pants, out of breath, and she, somehow, breathes perfectly normal.

"I . . . I have the folder," she announces, though the ginger looks over her shoulder, as if expecting to see someone there.

"What's wrong?" He says, running fingers through his blonde strands," and she gives a stuttering breath, clutching the folder to her chest.

"There was a man, standing right behind you, in the shadows, the entire time."

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"Erik?" Meg questions, and he looks up from his work to gaze up at her.

"Yes?"

"Do you remember when you said you would teach me? To sing?" She asks, and he nods, feeling warmer in his clothes.

"And you said you'd teach me how to speak English?"

"Those two things will rather go hand-in-hand," he agrees, and she grins.

"It's been nearly seven months since you promised me those two things, Erik. Can't we start? I'm so very anxious to learn!" Meg gushes, and the corner of his mouth ticks upward, following the gleam in her eye.

"I rather think you do your best singing in the evenings, so we will wait until then," Erik replies, and she nods, lacing her fingers in front of her in excitement.

"And English? Where will we start?"

"I've rather heard the beginning is a good place to start," he chuckles, flipping to an empty page in his notebook. "Let's begin with vowels. English is different from those in French, as it is more opened, more relaxed. We'll start with the letter 'A'. There's a hard A, and a soft A." He demonstrated both, and she followed, struggling with the hard A.

"Look at my lips and the shape of my mouth. Do you see where my tongue is?" He does the same, this time with her eyes glued to his mouth, and when she produced a similar sound, he reached forward to cup her jaw, the tips of her pointer fingers pressing against the corners of her mouth.

"You're very close, my dear. Try it again," and she did so, nearly trembling against his hold, and he couldn't help but swoop forward and steal whatever she was about to say into his own mouth. A delightful giggle spills forth from her lips, pressed against his own, fingers against the sides of his knees to avoid touching his ribs.

Kissing was strange and wonderful to the blonde, but she thanked Christine for hiding their horrid romance novels they poured over so well. Though she worried she'd do something wrong, it seemed her and Erik were learning together. Although the novels had all described kissing to an obscene level, the similarities between the words and the one she was locked in now were startling. She shivered, and sucked in a gasp against him.

His hands shook, though he didn't seem as nervous, and the pressure of his lips parts hers, and he groans, fingers curling into her flaxen strands. She missed the cold press of his ring, especially against her scalp, and she wondered what it would feel like against her cheeks.

Meg rather thought she liked the English lessons.

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"Finally," Erik murmurs, draping the blanket over her sleeping figure, breathing deeply on the couch, jaw slack and lips parted. Leaning over her, he draws the curtains closed, bathing the room in darkness, though opens the kitchen window to stream light directly onto their small dining room table.

She'd been nearly about to drop before he finally coaxed her into laying down on the couch. The girl had been wandering around the apartment all day, finding things to do and furniture to clean. It was a nervous tic, something derived from the horror she'd faced, yet so unlike the woman he'd come to know. He was the clean one, the organized freak, and she was the messy one, throwing clothes and things about, leaving dishes scattered and books messed everywhere. He'd never been one for clutter, but he didn't mind picking up after her, especially if it offered her a distraction.

He watched as she curled further into the blanket, as if cold, and at the spotting of the first flurries of snow outside their window, he peeled the cape off from the bottom of the clean laundry basket, and draped that over the blonde as well, which she seemed to immensely appreciate. His heart skipped as she tangled her fingers unconsciously in the fabric, burying her nose there, and he could smell the fruity orange scent of her soap wafting up to his nose.

He saw two figures outside of their door, and he loomed closer, standing next to Meg, his heart quickening at the thought of trouble close at hand. However, as he squinted, he saw the familiar green of Hammerstein's hat, and released a breath of relief.

Erik quickly rushed outside, glancing at the sleeping girl one last time before exiting, and softly closing the door behind him.

"Keep your voices down, please. She hasn't . . . Well, as I'm sure you could have guessed, she hasn't gotten a minute of sleep, and she finally has fallen asleep." The deformed man shivered in the cold, but feigned complete comfort in the freezing temperature.

"It can't have been too terrible . . . One eventually has to pass out from exhaustion," Hammerstein comments, which Fleck soon delivers an elbow to the side for.

"I completely believe Meg could run off of coffee and sheer force of will and spite for days if it came down to it," Erik says. "Her sleep problems truly aren't surprising." A warm feeling fills Fleck at the sight of a pink blush crossing Erik's cheek and nose before at the mere thought of Meg before adjusting his mask. "Anyway, what brings you here?"

The story quickly spilled from Fleck's lips, how she had found this strange place some time ago, and how she'd long wondered if it was a part of the case. Erik remained silent, despite his expression becoming bony and hard, and then, when she offered the folder to him, he snatched it, immediately opening it.

Inside lay two small pictures, one of what appeared to be Meg's father, and on the right, two side profiles of Erik, one boasting his mask and the other his bare cheek. Both persons were circled in red, and a nervous shiver ran through him.

Would they both be fatally targeted? He and Meg's father?

Had her father already been targeted? With this realization, his stomach dropped. If anything happened to Meg's father, especially if it was related to Jack . . . Well, he worried about Meg's overall health immensely. And he'd made a promise to protect her.

"Where did you find all of this?" His voice was low and quiet, and he seemed eerily calm, though Fleck thought she saw a hint of malice and something utterly terrifying behind his eyes.

Not for the first time, she wondered exactly why this man was evading the police, and how fighting in a war left everything untouched but half of his face. She'd never seen beyond the mask, but she wondered how a bloated lip would constitute such an injury by explosives.

"I'd once walked a woman to a client's meeting place, as it was a strange location, and I was worried for her. Once we'd arrived, all was empty, except for these pictures, hanging by mere strings on the wall," Fleck explains, lowering her gaze from his piercing ones.

"They were in your office before, Hammerstein," Erik says calmly, eyes flirting up to the man's, only a mere few inches shorter than himself. "Why have they suddenly moved, undetected?"

"If you are moving to accuse either of us, I'm sorry to say we've had nothing to do in this case," Fleck says, arms crossed. "Though my sex is no lesser than yours, I could not have orchestrated this, much less Mister H. There's no motive here, we only bring you information. And it isn't so obscure as to believe that there are more copies, Monsieur! We've long known multiple people are involved. Who's to say someone hadn't planted those pictures in Mister H's office, to make him seem guilty? It's a logical jump."

"Fair enough," Erik replies, flipping the papers over, only to find a picture of Madame Giry, with red X's over her eyes, and her left hand cut off from the picture. His heart skips as he finds forged certificates, each labeled 'Marguerite Giry', each boasting of being British-born, one stating the graduation from a Swiss-finishing school, another stating her acceptance into the Royal Ballet. His jaw nearly shook with unbridled rage when he saw one divorcing a 'Nicholas Y'.

He knew about the fake papers. Erik had torn each one shreds, except for their marriage document, folding it neatly into a small square and hiding it between the ruined pages of Meg's first copy of 'Frankenstein'. Their citizenship was already assumed, but in order to financially support Meg, he'd need proof of their union.

Oh, but that had been ruined, hadn't it?

He'd been so scattered it hadn't even dawned on him.

He quickly entered into the tenement, lowering himself by Meg's bag, and lifting the old, wrecked copy into his hands. A pamphlet fell out, but he ignored it, flipping to the back of the book, where he'd stuck the document to.

The entire page was gone.

"Erik?" Her voice was tired and husky from sleep, but anger and fear still stirred in him. "Erik, what's wrong . . ." A pause, and then, with more strength, "Why are you going through my things?"

He drops the book back into the bag and throws the folder against the wall sharply, sending photographs and certificates around the room, and bunches his fists by his side. Hammerstein and Fleck burst in, frightening Meg, who recoils from the group and backs harshly against the wall, smacking her head.

As she cries out, they all turn to her, and she groans, rubbing her head. Before she can ask why everyone has suddenly burst in, she spots the photographs on the ground, and her eyes widen.

"Meg," Fleck says, reaching forward to grab her friend. "Don't look, please-"

"I am not some China doll who will break at every fall!" She exclaims, breaking away and walking toward the mess, bending down by Erik's feet to gather the pictures. He says nothing, does nothing, only watches as her shoulders slump.

She does not cry. Even as she sorted through the documents, her face remained hidden from everyone.

Extending a hand out to her, the masked man helps Meg to her feet, whose face was drawn low and solemn and almost expressionless.

"You failed to mention the part where I am married to a Chagny," she murmurs, revealing one of the forged documents to be a marriage one, and she saw Erik's eye twitch. "Yet to my knowledge, all the Chagny men are dead or married, and far away in Italy. Christine wrote me a letter, and the entire family is there. She'd have said so if any one of them were traveling, especially alone."

He snatched the paper from her, tearing it in half, and crumpling both pieces in his hands. "It's those pathidious Chagneys! Oh, I'll kill those drunken fools! Have they come to take revenge? Have they come to take away what I have in return for what I've taken from them, though it's already been returned?"

"Do not speak of Christine as something to be possessed, Erik," Meg says carefully, and he shakes his head, throwing the balled-up papers to the ground.

"That's not what I'm referring to, Meg," he grunts, and the blonde has the thought to back away, but instead, grabs his hands with hers, and presses her lips to them.

"Do not become so lost in your rage that you forget who you are, darling," she whispers to him, soft enough for only his ears. She doesn't look up at his face, but feels the rigidness leave him until his fingers are unfurled and soft in her hands.

"It's not them, Erik. If Christine or Raoul ever caught wind of this type of conspiracy, they would put an end to it. Though they may be angry, they would never, never hurt you, Erik, nor me. They are good people, and his sisters are some of the sweetest people I know." She glances up at him, cupping his cheek, tone just as gentle as her touch. "And we, too, are good people, which includes you. The Phantom is composed of anger -- Erik is not."

He felt uncomfortable being touched like this in front of others, preferring this type of thing to be in privacy, but he relished it all the same, and felt the lightness of anger fleeing him. He still felt frustrated, still felt frightened, but he no longer felt any destructive urge.

He managed a nod, and she gave him a small grin, thumb brushing against his jaw before lowering back down to her side, and turning to face the odd couple across from them, who suddenly seemed enthralled with the color and texture of the ceiling.

"Where did you find these things?" Meg asks, accepting Erik's robe that he gathered for her, needing a moment to breathe in the hallway. He came back a few moments later as Fleck was explaining, and handed the garment to her.

"Then we go straight to your boss. Surely he must have more information on this client," Meg decides, slipping her feet into boots.

"You're in pajamas," Hammerstein points out dumbly, and Erik glares at him as Meg slips a heavier coat on.

"And this man has threatened my very life. I shall wear whatever I please. Besides, my curiosity shall keep me warm," Meg says, unbothered. "Are your bandages fine, Erik?"

"Changed them this morning, dear," he replies, slipping his own coat on.

"Then I see nothing wrong. Now, shall we continue?"

She winds her arm with Fleck's, exiting the tenement, and Erik moves to follow her before Hammerstein stops him, an arm holding his elbow.

"Erik, are you certain you want her gaining further knowledge of this? Hasn't she been through enough?"

Silence, and then, "Though I appreciate your concern, Hammerstein, Meg can handle herself."

The blonde, only a few paces ahead, grins.

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don't mess with meg or erik will mess you up lol
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