Chapter Text
Christine always made it a point to arrive at the Garnier’s dance studio well before her fellow ballerinas. Dawn had just begun to streak the sky with pale pink and orange when she slipped through the doors, more than likely the only soul in the opera house as she divested herself of her heavy cable-knit cardigan and traded out her worn sneakers for her champagne pointe shoes. The few hours of quiet and focus that she managed to squeeze in each morning before the cacophony of gossip amongst the ballet rats and Mme. Giry’s endless criticisms were priceless to her.
Bit by bit, she shed the lingering late-autumn chill that had followed her inside as she stretched the sleep from her lithe form, letting herself sink into the silence around her as she did her barre rises, sucking in long, slow lungfuls of air with her butterfly stretches. While ballet hadn’t been her first choice, it was therapeutic; something that forced her to be more present within herself and her body, all of her focus going to the fluidity of her movements while her daily anxieties fell to the wayside, no room in her mind for them as she danced. While it couldn’t set her soul on fire in the same way that singing did, it was still a passtime she enjoyed (and that also just so happened to be her career).
Having become determined to learn Giselle’s Variation after a particularly impressive performance she had seen nearly a month ago, she scampered over to the bag she’d left discarded by the door and to her phone, unlocking it and putting on the music for the variation as she got into position. The routine had finally started to stick after slaving over it every morning for weeks, muscle memory serving her well as she reminded herself of a piqué arabesque here, a renversé there, and the two passés she had been struggling to remember. The first few times that she ran through the routine went smoothly enough, uninterrupted and focused on her work as she danced, losing herself in the music and forgetting the world around her. And so, immersed as she was in the variation, she did not notice the tall, willowy frame assessing her from the dim light of the doorway.
The voice, she felt all but certain, had come from the walls themselves. “Stunning, but your pas marche is sloppy,” it called out, timbre deep and rich as she faltered, losing balance with her bewilderment. Attempting to right herself, she stumbled backward, dizzy and disoriented as she landed sharply on her ankle, ultimately making everything worse as it rolled and twisted beneath her weight. In an instant, she was careening to the floor with a dull thud and a sharp yelp that she had no real control over as it was forced from her lungs, her once-tight bun sliding down the back of her head into a tangled heap at the base of her neck. She hit the studio floor on her back and scrambled to at least try to get up, bracing herself on her elbows and trying desperately to collect her thoughts.
The owner of the voice was at her side then as she processed her fall, a steady hand at her shoulder and an apology on his lips. “Pardon my intrusion, I didn’t mean to startle you. Are you quite alright?” Gathering her bearings enough to look up at the man talking to her, she was only able to chance a quick glimpse at the flash of a white mask and the blur of raven hair before he was darting out the door. “Of course you’re not, that was a stupid question. I’ll get ice for your ankle.”
She thought for a moment as she sat alone and reeling that she had seen a ghost, that the man had been some wraithy thing sent from the catacombs beneath the opera house– and then he was back, a being of flesh and bone and breath tangible before her as he ran an anxious hand through that mass of black hair. Clutched in his palm was the ice he had promised to fetch wrapped tightly in what she rightly assumed to be his handkerchief; a makeshift ice-pack for her injury. “It uhm…” he knelt once more at her side, gesturing for her to give him her leg. Tentatively, she obliged the wordless request, rapt as she watched him ramble and fuss over her. “I apologize, the ice is from my water bottle, I’m not quite certain where everything is yet– I happened upon the studio and thought that I might stay for a bit to watch you rehearse.” As though she had never stopped dancing, she kept her toe pointed in his grasp.
Cradling the arch of her foot through her pointe shoe with one hand and holding the ice to her ankle with the other, his eyes flickered up to hers. Still shocked, she made no effort to speak as she held his gaze, allowing herself the reprieve of a short silence as she studied his face– the half that she could see, anyway. He didn’t miss the way that her eyes lingered for a moment longer than necessary on the edge of his mask, nor did he miss the softness of her expression as she took him in, the panicked stupefaction he had instilled in her subsiding and giving way to a docile curiosity.
Feeling the need to fill the space between them with conversation, he cleared his throat and listened for a moment to the music still emanating from where her phone lay forgotten in her bag. “Giselle’s Variation?” he asked, letting slip a small smile at her timid nod. “Lovely piece, you danced it beautifully.”
“Save for my sloppy pas marche,” she agreed, finally finding her voice, though it was barely above a whisper.
He breathed a laugh at that, the tension in his shoulders alleviating with her playful response. “Yes, save for your sloppy pas marche,” he murmured, shifting to properly sit on the dance-studio floor with her. “I’m terribly sorry for giving you a start, Mademoiselle…?”
“Daaé,” she supplied, moving from where she supported herself on her elbows to her palms, able to take in more of the man before her at the new angle, taken with the high cheekbones and piercing eyes, the sharp contours of his jaw and defined brow. “And it’s alright, truly, I just wasn’t expecting the company; it’s not often that I have an audience this early in the morning.”
“Yes, I should have guessed as much,” he sighed, catching the way that her jaw tensed when he shifted again, the pressure he applied to her ankle increasing as he moved. “Are you hurt?” She opened her mouth to speak, quickly shutting it again when he shook his head and scoffed at his own question. “Another stupid question, I’m sorry. I think I meant to ask you how hurt you are.”
Christine heaved a sigh, wiggling her foot in his grasp to gauge her own reaction, determining just where exactly she had taken the brunt of her fall and assessing the severity. He tensed at the movement, unsure of what to do with himself when she flexed and arched her foot every which way through her pointe shoe and into his hand. “I’ve sustained worse injuries, It’ll put me out of routine for a few days– a week at most –but I’ll be alright,” she decided, trying her best to make certain that the man before her wouldn’t feel too terribly guilty about his lapse in judgment. “...Thank you for your concern, monsieur…?
“Destler,” he murmured, perplexed when she flushed, wide-eyed as realization dawned on her.
“You’re the new director, aren’t you?” she sighed, now thoroughly humiliated by her blunder. Professionality had been heavily stressed to her her entire working life in the corps, which had been from the ripe age of sixteen onwards, and now– as she sat on the floor disheveled, deep brown curls tangled and a thin sheen of sweat coating her from head to toe with her superior holding ice to her ankle –she felt small and doltish.
“Yes, this is the first opportunity I’ve had to actually be in the opera house, hence my not knowing where everything is quite yet. Mme. Giry set aside the time to give me a tour, it sounds like she’s been here the longest out of anyone– but anyway, I thought that it might do me good to do a little exploration of my own,” he explained, pretending that he didn’t notice the way that she was shifting uncomfortably, figuring that it would be best not to draw attention to her embarrassment.
Her breath caught in her throat at the mention of Mme. Giry, feeling that she would never hear the end of her disappointment if this exchange made its way back to her. “Yes, of course, that’s…yes, of course,” she mumbled incoherently, suddenly much more aware of the throbbing pain in her ankle.
The buzzing coming from her bag was sent by some grace of God, she was certain it was. “Should I grab your phone for you? It sounds like you’re getting a call,” M. Destler offered, tilting his head towards her bag.
“Oh, no, I can get it mysel-” she cut herself off, remembering the searing pain she was in and doubting that she would be able to walk. “...Actually, that would be wonderful, thank you.” Wordlessly, he gingerly released her foot and ambled over to her bag, fishing out her vibrating phone and kneeling at her side to hand it to her. Meg’s contact lit up the screen, and, thankful for the distraction, Christine answered without hesitation.
He could make out the first few words from the other end of the phone as the girl before him adjusted to hold it to her ear between her shoulder and cheek, hesitantly complying when he motioned for her to give him her leg again. She flinched at the sensation of the ice on her ankle, the silk of his handkerchief damp and frigid against her skin where it had started to melt. He caught blips of what the girl on the other end of the line was saying, a quick call of ‘Christine’ and ‘are you already at the studio?’
“Yes, I got to the opera house at about 5:00,” she confirmed, pausing as her friend said something that Erik couldn’t interpret. “...Yes, I heard…” another pause. “Oh really? How closely do you mean– like is your mother going to run a few errands for him here and there or is she going to co-direct, you saying that she’s going to be working with him leaves a lot of room for interpretation.” He quirked a brow at the sheepish half-smile she gave him, slowly piecing together that he was the topic of their conversation. “...So you mean to tell me that he gets autonomy over who gets cut from the corps?” If he didn’t pity her evident anxiety, Erik thought that he might have laughed. “Listen, Meg-” he could hear the staticy jabbering coming from her phone but couldn’t make out a word of it, wholly incoherent as it met his ears. “Meg, I should really go…ok…no, I twisted my ankle while I was practicing Giselle’s Variation, you probably won’t see me in the studio today…love you too, bye.”
Cheeks a deep crimson, Christine hung up and mustered the core-strength to support herself without the help of her hands, burying her face in her palms in mortification. “I’m going to get fired,” she grumbled, heaving a deep sigh and smoothing her little fingers through her hair, pins and hair ties falling to the floor with little clinks. He bit back a laugh at that, knowing very well that she would be fine, and applied more gentle pressure to her ankle.
“Is that your name? Christine?” he asked, ignoring her remark in an attempt to coax her back out of her shell and alleviate some of the awkward tension in the air.
“Yes, how did you– nevermind, that was a stupid question,” she murmured, soothed by the soft smile that M. Destler offered her in return.
“So we’re even then,” he decided.
Christine raised a brow and breathed a short laugh, eyes breaking from his to look at where his spindly fingers curled around her ankle and arch of her foot. “No, I need to ask another stupid question to make it even, you asked two. And, to be even in every sense, I’d need to know your first name, too.”
He cleared his throat, taking the comment as a question. “Erik,” he answered, watching as her eyes flickered back up to his. “My name, I mean– it’s Erik.”
“One step closer to being even, then,” she sighed, feeling more comfortable than she rationally thought she should with a man she just met. There was no way for her to pinpoint what exactly it was about him that pacified the anxiety that she carried with her more often than not, but she had a pretty good guess that it was something to do with his velvety voice and gentle smile. There was a stretch of silence, nothing mattering outside of their eyes as they roved over one another, taking one another in without feeling the need to speak. She decided, as she looked him over, that she quite liked his turtleneck, the shade of burgundy contrasting nicely against his pale skin and complimenting his slender frame. When she spoke again, it was absently, thinking aloud as her eyes returned to his. “I’m not quite sure what I’m going to do with the rest of my day, I can’t dance like this– I’m not even sure if I can walk quite yet.”
There was a beat of silence, Erik weighing the options for what he could say in return and Christine glancing down at her phone to check the time, displeased to see that the ballet rats would be trickling into the studio in no less than thirty minutes. “I could drive you home, if you’d like,” he finally offered, pausing to nervously chew at the inside of his cheek. “Stop somewhere to get you coffee,” he tacked on, anxiously awaiting her response.
“That sounds lovely, but I couldn’t put you out like that,” she declined, feeling guilty enough just for keeping him in the studio.
“No, it’s the least I could do, no imposition at all,” he insisted. “Consider it an apology.”
Tentatively, she nodded in approval, eyes skeptical and tinged with a hint of reluctance. “...Alright,” she agreed, gathering her hairpins, hair ties and phone in hand. “We should leave sooner than later, the rats come in to rehearse at 8:00 and it’s 7:30.”
“Do you need help getting up?” he asked, slowly and carefully relinquishing his hold on her foot so as to not aggravate her injury. Wordlessly, he extended a hand to her when she nodded and pulled her up and off of the cold, glossy studio floor, handling her as though she were made of glass. The arm supporting her around her waist was wiry, and she appreciated the steady, warm feeling of it as she reached up and around his shoulders to further support her weight.
“Thank you,” she whispered, taking the moment of quiet that he gave her to adjust. “You really don’t have to do all this, you know. I could easily hail a cab or try to walk, my flat isn’t too terribly far from here.”
“That raises the issue of finding someone else to help you to your door or walking on your own with your ankle in the state it’s in,” he sighed, walking her over to her bag and slinging it over his shoulder. “Really, I’d much rather escort you myself than put you in the hands of someone that’s going to charge you for a quick trip or let you go out into the streets with an injury.”
Equal parts flattered by Erik’s consideration and wholly foreign to this kind of kindness from strangers, Christine felt ill-equipped to do anything other than offer him a small hum in acknowledgement and tighten her hold on his shoulders in a gesture of trust. He understood what she meant to convey and led her through the studio doors, attentive to her every step and shift as they made their way out of the building.
The first thing that Christine felt inclined to comment on as he led her to the street was the sleek black car parked haphazardly by the curb, a foot from where it ought to have been and at an odd angle. “Oh God, do you see that?” she exclaimed, unable to help the bout of laughter that rose from her throat. “Wonder what kind of a maniac parked that car over-”
She stopped when Erik fished his keys from his pocket, the bleep emitted by the car a clear indicator that said maniac was, in fact, him. “Me,” he sighed, helping her to the passenger side door. “I know I can’t park for shit, you wouldn’t be the first to point it out,” he paused to open the car door, feeling her arm slip from around his shoulders as she ducked into the Renault, “and I suspect that you won’t be the last.”
He did not miss the rosy flush in her cheeks as he sank into the driver's seat beside her, the way that she anxiously bounced the knee of her uninjured leg to distract herself from her own embarrassment. “I’m sorry, that was terribly rude of me,” she mumbled, casting a quick glance to him before fixing her eyes on her delicate hands in her lap.
“You aren’t even the only person that’s commented on it in the past twenty-four hours,” he replied, starting the car and pulling out into the road. “Where did you say you wanted your coffee from?”
At that, she forgot her humiliation. “Don’t worry about that, it’s more than enough that you’re taking me home,” she assured him, offering up a small smile when he flashed her a look, brow raised as if to ask if she felt certain of her answer. “I don’t even like coffee all that much,” she lied, not wanting him to go out of his way for her more than he already had. “Really, it’s alright.”
He gave a hum in acknowledgement, eyes only leaving the road to chance ephemeral glimpses at her fidgeting. Nadir had picked up the rental car early the previous morning, the windshield still perfectly clear and untouched by spattered bugs and things of the like. “Let me know when and where to turn,” he muttered, reading signs and street names as they passed them by.
“I’m over on the Rue de Rivoli,” she replied just in time for him to swerve to make the turn onto the street, gripping some ridge in the door for fear that she’d knock against a window or lurch into his shoulder otherwise.
“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” he apologized, each ‘sorry’ running into one another in his mild panic. All but certain that her heart had dropped into her stomach, she clutched at her chest and shot him a wide-eyed glance.
Disoriented, she shook her head and cleared her throat, hoping to God that he would stop the car sooner than later. “No, no, it’s alright,” came her shaky reply, voice lacking the conviction she had aimed to exhibit. The relief that she felt at the sight of her apartment complex drawing closer was staggering. “Right up there, that’s the one.”
“Small world,” he murmured, coasting to a stop and doing his damndest to park the Renault. “We’re in the same building.”