A Woman's Devotion (Phantom Of The Opera x Reader)

4. Under the Lamplight

(A/N: This chapter's being published on my birthday, so if nobody likes it, I will be severely disappointed in all of you and delete this fic from the face of the internet. Much love, Beth.)

Christine's POV:

Emotional comfort. It was the one thing I yearned for after the incident at the opera. Shouldn't this be a moment of emotional comfort? Snuggled next to Raoul, with my back nestled into his chest and our legs intertwined, was a sure way to attain it. 

Or it should have been comfortable. It should be. It had to be. My fears wouldn't allow that, even as sheer willpower demanded I make it so. Comfort had become painfully elusive after the opera. It was easy to step into such feelings, yes, especially with Raoul, who endlessly supplied it, perhaps even unconsciously. But remaining in those moments without intrusive thoughts proved nearly impossible.

I needed to stop, to fall asleep, to forget the thoughts plaguing me.

But I couldn't, not when those two reddish-yellow eyes blinked at me from the fireplace. Logically, I knew the truth. Those balls of light were the final two embers dwindling in a long-dead fire. It was only coincidence that they smoldered right beside each other. Embers. Not eyes. I repeated this to myself constantly, probably losing a half hour to the task.

Still, the memories they evoked were unavoidable. My angel, the Phantom, that ghost- whatever he was- glared at me from the fireplace. Those sickening yellow eyes burned into mine again, and I felt it all afresh. The lingering anxiety, which had aged me far faster than my years, and my own anger, sometimes destructive in its intensity, flooded my senses. Because I was angry. I was furious over the internal peace and the innocence that my angel had robbed from me. And I had every right to feel that rage.

All because of those winking embers, I was fully awake, as tears rolled off my face, onto my neck, and tangled in my hair.

I fancied my cries had been silent. Perhaps they truly were, but Raoul had a sixth sense where I was concerned. Often, I was grateful for it, though it now became an inconvenience.

 "You're crying."

He sat up in bed, as if the sudden realization woke him faster than anything else could.

 "No, I just..." There was no sense in contriving an excuse, particularly since none would be believable. As I spoke, my voice returned, and a sob tore out of my throat. "His eyes, Raoul! I can see him!"

I buried my face into my pillow and unleashed the pent-up tears. Raoul was silent at first, which wasn't surprising. He always was after those sudden remarks that made it sound like I'd lost my wits.

Finally, smoothing down masses of my tangled hair, he said something.

 "Where is he, Christine? Show me."

His words were not filled with the alarm my comment deserved, but Raoul knew the truth. The 'eyes' were an illusion in my head. It always was, and during the times his own fear didn't conquer him, he handled such situations calmly. But he did not invalidate me. He never asked where I thought the eyes were. Instead, he always asked his questions like my delusions were real. I responded better that way, and he could guide me out of the panic faster.

In reply, I pointed to the fireplace, my face still smothered by the pillow.

 "Do you see him? The two blinking eyes in the fireplace, Raoul. He won't go away, and oh, the eyes burn!"

Immediately, Raoul swung out of bed and, using the nearby poker, jabbed at the eyes until they blinked their last.

 "All gone," he said, returning to bed, "has he left, my dear?"