Summary: Christine is sick and tired of being Vicomtesse. Desperate, she escapes to the arms of her forgotten Angel.

Characters: Christine, Erik

Verse: Any

Titles. People said they described everything. Vicomtesse. That was hers. She hated it. Vicomtesse this Vicomtesse that. It was cruel. All a lie. She was no Vicomtesse. She was a ballet rat, a chorus girl. That was where she belonged. Among the bourgeoisie, not the first class. She wanted to go back. She did all the things a proper Vicomtesse should do, but, she did them sinfully. She especially hated that one aspect of herself. She drank poison on a regular basis to keep herself sick, to prevent children, to keep her own husband away from her. It had only been a week after the "events" at the Opera. She and the Vicomte had been married the next morning and she had done her wifely duties, drinking poison the next. He would not have wanted that. But he was the one who caused this mess in the first place. She hated Vicomtesse-ing. She wanted to return to him. She would, she was determined. But, poison came at a grave cost. Her voice. It was lost to the poison eating at her vocal cords. No one knew about the poison, no one knew she could no longer speak. She stayed in her room, meals brought there regularly.

She opened her eyes that fateful night. She dressed in deep blue taffeta, quickly for a change. She reached under the bed, pulling out a small basket. She pulled up her unruly hair with bows and opened the basket. This basket was filled with food, a canteen of water, and finally, a knife. She slit both her wrists, refusing to make a sound, not that she could anyway. She let the blood drip all over the white carpet, stains that would last lifetimes. She smeared blood on the bed frame and the mirror, the windows, and the drapes. She cut parts of the silky drapes and wrapped her wrists before throwing the basket on her arm and jumping from the balcony.

The landing was rough. She had jumped down about five feet and, thankfully, was unharmed. She crawled through the bushes and made her way into the forest undetected by the guards. She crawled until the lights of the mansion dulled. She stood and took her bearings, finding a path she had made nights before that would lead her back to Paris.

The walk was long and grueling. She had forgotten shoes, of course. She took a break just outside Paris to eat and rest. She sat down against a tree and ate some of the bread which she had brought. She took a sip from the canteen and continued on. Just as she made it to the back entrance of the burnt out Opera a hand covered her mouth and spun her around. It was him! She smiled against his gloved hand and kissed the cold leather. He looked down at her then pulled away his gloved hand. She smiled and hugged him, feeling his chest constrict. She felt tears and cried against him. "What are you doing?" He whispered, his voice just as mysterious and velvety as she remembered. She cried harder, sad that she had given up her voice to come back. She pulled gently away and pointed at her throat then cut her hand through the air. He tilted his head. "What?" She tapped her chin thoughtfully. She opened her mouth and then shut it again, thinking carefully. "If anything is wrong just tell me." She looked sadly at the ground. She pointed to her throat and mouth again and shook her head 'no'. He was still confused so she dug a notepad and pen from her pocket and scribbled down a few words. "You drank poison to keep the Vicomte away but it cost you your voice?" She nodded, sadly. "Why?" She took the paper and pen back.

I am not fit to be Vicomtesse. I staged my death and ran away. I came back here because of you.

"Really?" She nodded. He noticed the silk on her wrists and she flinched when he unwrapped them. He gasped when he saw the gashes and soaked silk. He lifted her up, bridal style, and they disappeared into the Opera house.

Christine sat up and found herself in her old bed below the Opera. Her wrists were perfectly wrapped and aided to and a cup of steaming tea sat on her nightstand. She reached out and sipped the warm liquid, picking up on the sweet honey. According to Erik's pocket watch, it was almost nine at night on the next day. A newspaper sat on the stand and she lifted it...


Christine was last seen only days ago by her husband, Vicomte, Raoul de Chagny. In her room, blood was spilled everywhere and bottles of an unknown poison were found below her bed. If anyone knows of her location, alert La Surete. The Phantom of the Opera is still at large and Parisians are worried they could find each other again.

Christine giggled at the last sentence though she should not have. It was quite true, they had found each other again and this time, Christine would convince him to marry her.

She found Erik at the organ, as usual. She sat down next to him. He stared at the keys, his eyes not moving when she sat next to him. "Stand up and get into singing position," he commanded. Christine stood and straightened her back. His fingers danced over the keys. Christine felt warmth spread from her toes to her fingertips, finally reaching her vocal cords. "Think of me, think of me fondly when we've said 'Goodbye'! Remember me, once in awhile, please promise me you'll try! And when you find that, once again, you long to take your heart back and be free! If you ever find a moment, stop and think of me!" For those brief seconds, she didn't even realize she was singing. Erik stood from the organ and lifted her around the waist, spinning her around. His plan had worked. "Erik!" She giggled. "My voice!"

"I knew that my plan would work, for not even I, myself can resist the power of music." Christine looked down at him and kissed his hair. Then she took off his mask and kissed his cheeks. He set her down and she kissed his lips, his mask forgotten on the floor.

Christine rolled on her side and was met with Erik's glowing eyes. She traced the scars on his chest and felt something tugging at the comforter. She rolled back over to see their daughter trying to hop up on the bed. Her black curls bounced and her eyes glowed, just like her father's. "Do you need something, dear?" Christine said as she rubbed her eyes.

"Saint Nicholas came!" The five-year-old squealed.

"You go and change and we will meet you downstairs, alright," Christine said before the girl bounced off.

Christine changed into a blood red dress and Erik changed into his usual black except for a red vest. They headed downstairs after Erik adjusted his mask. Chrissy sat on the sitting room couch in front of the Christmas tree. The trunk of the tree was invisible behind presents, boughs, ornaments, and popcorn strings. The girl wore the same dress as Christine. Erik went off to cook breakfast and Christine sat next to the girl. The girl jumped off and went for the presents. The first one she grabbed was wrapped in green paper with a few holes punched into it. The girl set it down in front of Christine and pulled at the paper, eventually opening the box inside. The kitten jumped out excitedly and Chrissy grabbed it before it could run off.