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charleygirlTitle: The Garish Light of Day 7/?
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 1845
Rating: G
Genre: General, Drama
Characters Involved: Erik the Phantom, Christine Daae, Meg Giry, Madame Giry
Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera is the creation of Gaston Leroux but probably these days copyright to Andrew Lloyd Webber.
Summary: Roses are red...
A GIFT HORSE
Meg met Christine at the door, pulling her quickly inside and saying in a hurried whisper, “Erik has something to tell you. He shut Maman and I in the kitchen and has been pacing up and down the living room for half an hour, muttering to himself. I think he might be preparing to... well, you know!”
“Surely not,” Christine murmured, hanging up her cloak. She couldn’t believe that Erik would be ready to propose so soon, but then she remembered the wax doll in his home, the one frighteningly like her that wore a sumptuous wedding gown and veil. Would he really decide to jump in now when she had ended her engagement to Raoul barely two months before?
Excited, Meg placed a hand in the small of her back and gave her a little push towards the sitting room door. “Go on,” she hissed, a huge smile on her face, “he’s waiting for you. And remember that I want to hear every little detail!”
“Of course. I wouldn’t dream of depriving you!” Christine waited, and after a moment Meg scurried off down the hall, vanishing into the kitchen with a flick of her golden curls. Shaking her head and smiling, Christine hesitated for a moment before knocking lightly on the door in front of her. She heard footsteps, and then Erik clearing his throat before bidding her to enter.
He was standing in the middle of the room, on the slightly threadbare rug, hands folded behind his back, a striking figure in black which took up most of the space. Christine thought absently that they would have to get him some new clothes; wearing a dress suit and white tie away from the Opera looked rather incongruous, even if the exquisite cut did flatter him. As she entered he looked nervous; she could see his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed hard and wondered whether Meg could actually be right for once.
“Christine,” he said, and his usually smooth voice emerged with its tone rather strangled. He coughed and tried again. “You are looking particularly beautiful this afternoon, my dear.”
“Thank you, Erik; it’s very kind of you to say so.” She moved to take a seat on the sofa, but he hurried forwards, resting a hand on her arm to stay her.
“No, please, not just yet. I have something else I would like to say.”
“Very well,” Christine agreed, and stood before him, smiling encouragingly.
The smile only served to fluster him. He took two steps away, turning and walking to the window, running a hand over his hair, smoothing the already neat strands. His fingers were trembling ever so slightly, she realised. After staring down at the street below with a gaze which could have caused the next person to cross beneath it to burst into flames, he whirled back around to face her.
“Christine, I - ” he began, but his voice faltered once more and his features creased in frustration. “I would like to – I would like - damn and blast it, I have been practising for the last half an hour and I still have no idea how to say this to you!”
She tried not to laugh; his temper flaring was so much more typical of him than the tongue-tied gallant he was trying to be. “Just say what you feel,” she told him.
He glanced at her suspiciously, and she hid her traitorous lips behind her hand; the last thing she wanted was for him to suspect her of mocking him. “Christine, you must forgive me; I do not wish to seem less of a man in your eyes, but I have never done this before,” he confessed.
“Why should I think that of you? Everyone must start somewhere,” Christine said. “I am not all that experienced, either.”
“Yes, but you must have had suitors before you like this dozens of times, enough to know how to receive them.”
That was a strange remark to make. Christine frowned. How many proposals of marriage did he imagine she might have had in her short life? “I have experienced fewer than you might think,” she said carefully.
“Still more than I, I fear.” Erik took another turn about the room, wringing his hands as he dithered. She had never seen him so unsure of himself before, and it unnerved her. Just as she was thinking that it might be easier for both of them if she proposed, he stopped walking and stood, eyeing his reflection uncertainly in the glass doors of Madame Giry’s china cabinet. He took a deep breath and said quickly, almost as though he feared if he paused he might not get all the words out, “Christine, I... I would be honoured and gratified if you would accept this token of my affection.”
She steeled herself as he turned once more, barely daring to breathe, and it took her a moment to process the fact that in his hand was not a ring box but a huge bouquet of brilliantly red roses which he had apparently produced out of thin air. Such a fuss over a bunch of flowers! Christine wasn’t sure whether she felt disappointed or relieved. As she hesitated, Erik’s sweetly hopeful expression began to fall, his visible features crumpling, and she jumped forwards quickly before the perceived rejection could crush him.
“Oh, Erik, they’re the most beautiful roses I’ve ever seen,” she said, taking the proffered flowers from his wilting grip. There were a dozen, large, full blooms, interspersed with delicate white gypsophila, and their scent was quite intoxicating. She had occasionally been sent bouquets like this by admirers at the Opera, and she had an idea from which florist they came and how expensive they were. “Did you buy these yourself?”
He nodded. “Yesterday evening. Antoinette has looked after them for me since then. Do you... do you like them?”
“I love them. Thank you.” Christine stood on tiptoes to kiss him. “Thank you so much! It means even more to me that you went out to get them; I know it can’t have been easy for you.”
“In the end it was easier than I imagined,” he replied, a frown touching his forehead. “I was afraid they might not be to your taste; for a brief moment you looked as though you were expecting something else.”
“Oh, no, no, no! Not at all. You just took me by surprise,” she assured him, and he looked relieved. Before he could respond there was a muffled sneeze from the other side of the door and then the pattering of footsteps in the hallway. Erik arched an eyebrow in query. “Meg,” Christine clarified, and he nodded again.
“It seems that the days of our having time alone together are gone,” he remarked with a trace of annoyance. “She should know better than to listen at doors.”
“She’s curious. And a hopeless romantic.”
Erik sighed. “I suppose there are worse things to be.”
Christine looked at the flowers in her hands and rearranged a couple of the blooms. “I should ask Madame for some water to put these in.”
She found the Girys in their cosy kitchen, Meg buzzing around with ill-concealed anticipation while her mother quite calmly made tea. There was a vase sitting on the sideboard, obviously waiting for the roses, and so Christine arranged them in it, wondering whether she had anything large enough to hold them in her own apartment. From the corner of her eye she could see Meg hovering, chewing on her nails, until the tiny ballerina finally abandoned all control and exclaimed,
“I thought he would ask this time, I really did!”
“It doesn’t matter, Meg,” Christine told her, amused by her friend’s antics. “I can wait.”
“You mustn’t expect too much of him,” said Madame Giry, sliding the tea cosy over the pot and adding it to the tray of cups and saucers on the table. “It took him nearly twenty four hours to pluck up the courage to give Christine the flowers. He was shaking more than an ingénue stepping on stage for the first time.”
“I honestly thought he’d slipped out to buy a ring last night,” Meg said, earning herself a roll of the eyes from her mother. “It was so strange to come home and find him gone!”
Christine listened to them disagree, admiring her roses and considering whether Madame would allow her to borrow the vase. She would have to leave the flowers with the ballet mistress while she made her trip to the cemetery in any case; they would be awkward to carry and she did not want them to wilt. Her father would have loved them too, she reflected, and made a mental note to stop and buy more to lay upon his grave.
She sighed as she thought of her darling papa. It was six years today since she lost him, and the pain had not lessened in that time; they had been together for so long, just the two of them against the world, that even now she could sometimes feel a cold draught at her side where he used to stand when they performed. A thought would often occur to her, something that would amuse him, and she would turn to tell him, only to find that she was alone. In the little apartment they had shared she could still smell his tobacco if she sat in his chair. She still missed him terribly, and would give anything to have him with her once more.
Above all, she wished that she could introduce him to Erik. Gustave Daae held no prejudices, never judged by appearance, and though he would definitely not approve of the manner in which the Phantom had at first gone about becoming acquainted with his daughter, Christine knew that he would have nothing but sympathy and understanding for Erik’s plight. Her father was no paragon, but he had dragged himself up from poverty and obscurity to play in some of the most glittering venues in Europe, his talent mesmerising the great and the good from Paris to Budapest. His career had been short, and it brought them no lasting wealth, but Christine remembered the beatific expression on his face when he played and knew that as long as the music was within him he was happy. Erik would recognise that feeling better than anyone.
Christine twirled one of the roses between her fingers thoughtfully as Meg opened the kitchen door and her mother carried the tea tray through into the sitting room. Through the doorway she could see Erik seated beside the fireplace, legs elegantly crossed and his head bent over a copy of Le Figaro. He glanced up as Madame Giry approached and leapt to his feet to relieve her of her burden; as he caught sight of Christine standing at the kitchen table, a red rose in her hand, he smiled and she knew that, however silly it would seem, she wanted her father to meet him.
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 1845
Rating: G
Genre: General, Drama
Characters Involved: Erik the Phantom, Christine Daae, Meg Giry, Madame Giry
Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera is the creation of Gaston Leroux but probably these days copyright to Andrew Lloyd Webber.
Summary: Roses are red...
A GIFT HORSE
Meg met Christine at the door, pulling her quickly inside and saying in a hurried whisper, “Erik has something to tell you. He shut Maman and I in the kitchen and has been pacing up and down the living room for half an hour, muttering to himself. I think he might be preparing to... well, you know!”
“Surely not,” Christine murmured, hanging up her cloak. She couldn’t believe that Erik would be ready to propose so soon, but then she remembered the wax doll in his home, the one frighteningly like her that wore a sumptuous wedding gown and veil. Would he really decide to jump in now when she had ended her engagement to Raoul barely two months before?
Excited, Meg placed a hand in the small of her back and gave her a little push towards the sitting room door. “Go on,” she hissed, a huge smile on her face, “he’s waiting for you. And remember that I want to hear every little detail!”
“Of course. I wouldn’t dream of depriving you!” Christine waited, and after a moment Meg scurried off down the hall, vanishing into the kitchen with a flick of her golden curls. Shaking her head and smiling, Christine hesitated for a moment before knocking lightly on the door in front of her. She heard footsteps, and then Erik clearing his throat before bidding her to enter.
He was standing in the middle of the room, on the slightly threadbare rug, hands folded behind his back, a striking figure in black which took up most of the space. Christine thought absently that they would have to get him some new clothes; wearing a dress suit and white tie away from the Opera looked rather incongruous, even if the exquisite cut did flatter him. As she entered he looked nervous; she could see his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed hard and wondered whether Meg could actually be right for once.
“Christine,” he said, and his usually smooth voice emerged with its tone rather strangled. He coughed and tried again. “You are looking particularly beautiful this afternoon, my dear.”
“Thank you, Erik; it’s very kind of you to say so.” She moved to take a seat on the sofa, but he hurried forwards, resting a hand on her arm to stay her.
“No, please, not just yet. I have something else I would like to say.”
“Very well,” Christine agreed, and stood before him, smiling encouragingly.
The smile only served to fluster him. He took two steps away, turning and walking to the window, running a hand over his hair, smoothing the already neat strands. His fingers were trembling ever so slightly, she realised. After staring down at the street below with a gaze which could have caused the next person to cross beneath it to burst into flames, he whirled back around to face her.
“Christine, I - ” he began, but his voice faltered once more and his features creased in frustration. “I would like to – I would like - damn and blast it, I have been practising for the last half an hour and I still have no idea how to say this to you!”
She tried not to laugh; his temper flaring was so much more typical of him than the tongue-tied gallant he was trying to be. “Just say what you feel,” she told him.
He glanced at her suspiciously, and she hid her traitorous lips behind her hand; the last thing she wanted was for him to suspect her of mocking him. “Christine, you must forgive me; I do not wish to seem less of a man in your eyes, but I have never done this before,” he confessed.
“Why should I think that of you? Everyone must start somewhere,” Christine said. “I am not all that experienced, either.”
“Yes, but you must have had suitors before you like this dozens of times, enough to know how to receive them.”
That was a strange remark to make. Christine frowned. How many proposals of marriage did he imagine she might have had in her short life? “I have experienced fewer than you might think,” she said carefully.
“Still more than I, I fear.” Erik took another turn about the room, wringing his hands as he dithered. She had never seen him so unsure of himself before, and it unnerved her. Just as she was thinking that it might be easier for both of them if she proposed, he stopped walking and stood, eyeing his reflection uncertainly in the glass doors of Madame Giry’s china cabinet. He took a deep breath and said quickly, almost as though he feared if he paused he might not get all the words out, “Christine, I... I would be honoured and gratified if you would accept this token of my affection.”
She steeled herself as he turned once more, barely daring to breathe, and it took her a moment to process the fact that in his hand was not a ring box but a huge bouquet of brilliantly red roses which he had apparently produced out of thin air. Such a fuss over a bunch of flowers! Christine wasn’t sure whether she felt disappointed or relieved. As she hesitated, Erik’s sweetly hopeful expression began to fall, his visible features crumpling, and she jumped forwards quickly before the perceived rejection could crush him.
“Oh, Erik, they’re the most beautiful roses I’ve ever seen,” she said, taking the proffered flowers from his wilting grip. There were a dozen, large, full blooms, interspersed with delicate white gypsophila, and their scent was quite intoxicating. She had occasionally been sent bouquets like this by admirers at the Opera, and she had an idea from which florist they came and how expensive they were. “Did you buy these yourself?”
He nodded. “Yesterday evening. Antoinette has looked after them for me since then. Do you... do you like them?”
“I love them. Thank you.” Christine stood on tiptoes to kiss him. “Thank you so much! It means even more to me that you went out to get them; I know it can’t have been easy for you.”
“In the end it was easier than I imagined,” he replied, a frown touching his forehead. “I was afraid they might not be to your taste; for a brief moment you looked as though you were expecting something else.”
“Oh, no, no, no! Not at all. You just took me by surprise,” she assured him, and he looked relieved. Before he could respond there was a muffled sneeze from the other side of the door and then the pattering of footsteps in the hallway. Erik arched an eyebrow in query. “Meg,” Christine clarified, and he nodded again.
“It seems that the days of our having time alone together are gone,” he remarked with a trace of annoyance. “She should know better than to listen at doors.”
“She’s curious. And a hopeless romantic.”
Erik sighed. “I suppose there are worse things to be.”
Christine looked at the flowers in her hands and rearranged a couple of the blooms. “I should ask Madame for some water to put these in.”
She found the Girys in their cosy kitchen, Meg buzzing around with ill-concealed anticipation while her mother quite calmly made tea. There was a vase sitting on the sideboard, obviously waiting for the roses, and so Christine arranged them in it, wondering whether she had anything large enough to hold them in her own apartment. From the corner of her eye she could see Meg hovering, chewing on her nails, until the tiny ballerina finally abandoned all control and exclaimed,
“I thought he would ask this time, I really did!”
“It doesn’t matter, Meg,” Christine told her, amused by her friend’s antics. “I can wait.”
“You mustn’t expect too much of him,” said Madame Giry, sliding the tea cosy over the pot and adding it to the tray of cups and saucers on the table. “It took him nearly twenty four hours to pluck up the courage to give Christine the flowers. He was shaking more than an ingénue stepping on stage for the first time.”
“I honestly thought he’d slipped out to buy a ring last night,” Meg said, earning herself a roll of the eyes from her mother. “It was so strange to come home and find him gone!”
Christine listened to them disagree, admiring her roses and considering whether Madame would allow her to borrow the vase. She would have to leave the flowers with the ballet mistress while she made her trip to the cemetery in any case; they would be awkward to carry and she did not want them to wilt. Her father would have loved them too, she reflected, and made a mental note to stop and buy more to lay upon his grave.
She sighed as she thought of her darling papa. It was six years today since she lost him, and the pain had not lessened in that time; they had been together for so long, just the two of them against the world, that even now she could sometimes feel a cold draught at her side where he used to stand when they performed. A thought would often occur to her, something that would amuse him, and she would turn to tell him, only to find that she was alone. In the little apartment they had shared she could still smell his tobacco if she sat in his chair. She still missed him terribly, and would give anything to have him with her once more.
Above all, she wished that she could introduce him to Erik. Gustave Daae held no prejudices, never judged by appearance, and though he would definitely not approve of the manner in which the Phantom had at first gone about becoming acquainted with his daughter, Christine knew that he would have nothing but sympathy and understanding for Erik’s plight. Her father was no paragon, but he had dragged himself up from poverty and obscurity to play in some of the most glittering venues in Europe, his talent mesmerising the great and the good from Paris to Budapest. His career had been short, and it brought them no lasting wealth, but Christine remembered the beatific expression on his face when he played and knew that as long as the music was within him he was happy. Erik would recognise that feeling better than anyone.
Christine twirled one of the roses between her fingers thoughtfully as Meg opened the kitchen door and her mother carried the tea tray through into the sitting room. Through the doorway she could see Erik seated beside the fireplace, legs elegantly crossed and his head bent over a copy of Le Figaro. He glanced up as Madame Giry approached and leapt to his feet to relieve her of her burden; as he caught sight of Christine standing at the kitchen table, a red rose in her hand, he smiled and she knew that, however silly it would seem, she wanted her father to meet him.
