Phantom of the Opera 1. Chapter 1

**Yup, a new one. First of...No! I am not abandoning An Eternity of This! I'm getting the next chapter ready to go in the next couple days right now! **

**But this particular story has been in my head for more than six months now and I just had to get it on paper--so to speak! It was originally to be a one-shot entry in a contest between Scarlett Rat (A Feast for Crows and Pale Horse), but it just took on more of a life to be just a one-shot.**

**Not quite a retelling...but defintely has a POTO theme.**

**My wonderful friend and co-author, Musique et Amour betaing!**

**Please enjoy!**

* * *

_**To live and not to breathe  
Is to die in tragedy  
To run, to run away to find what to believe  
And I leave behind this hurricane of fucking lies  
I lost my faith to this, this town that don't exist**_

_Tales of a Broken Home, American Idiot, Greenday_

**Chapter One: To Live and Not to Breathe**

_His boots._

He kept his eyes focused on his boots. The steady flash of worn black leather, ragged about the soles, the thud they made against the pavement under his feet the only sound he allowed himself to hear. His strides were long; sure. He knew exactly where to turn, when to stop for the pedestrian signals and when to begin walking again. All without looking up. He'd walked this path many times, nearly ten years now. It was as familiar to him as the sight of those boots, which had belonged to him even longer than this journey had.

If anyone found the sight of this masked man, dressed in nearly all black, the edges of his duster flaring behind him, a violin case in one hand, the other jammed into his pocket stalking through the streets of Indianapolis without looking at a soul or even acknowledging the world around him a strange one, they didn't give evidence to that fact. He wouldn't have been bothered to care anyway...They were nothing to him...just he was nothing..._to everyone._

Another nearly homeless eccentric person in a city of nearly homeless eccentric souls. What did they care about this dark shadow in their sunlit world, swirling in and around them, passing them without even a sound besides the lonely swirl of that coat? They didn't. He couldn't care less.

In fact, many of them were familiar with him. There were some, mostly newspaper vendors and shop-keeps, that saw him everyday, and even looked for him. He passed them at the same time every morning, appearing out of the crowd of commuters in business suits and pastel three piece skirt sets, his head far above most of them, a large dark crow among pale doves and sparrows. The violinist was a familiar sight along Madison Boulevard.

But they were not familiar faces to him. He never bothered to meet their eyes. Didn't want to see the questions, the curiosity, that moment of fear when they tried to pretend that they hadn't been staring at the mask and the false glibness that followed. So similar to the vulgar stare than avoidance of eyes that those in wheelchair and with _visible_ flaws received. The mask hid a multitude of sins...a reminder of what he had done and what he was. He didn't want to see himself reflected in their glassy eyes.

His steps took him to the corner upon where he played every morning. With a weary sigh, he lowered to a crouch, long black clad legs spread and flipped up the latches on his violin case, then slowly opened the beaten, battered, hardened leather. Long pale fingers reached for it, curling about the neck and cupping the body. He lifted it gently, almost reverently. A singular caress was given to smooth, glossy wood, faded now from years of use. But other than that sense of age, the violin was perfect in every way.

A Stradivarius, nearly fifty years old, fifteen years older than himself...He'd found it in a dumpster of a townhouse in Lockerbie, discarded when a new one had been purchased for the wealthy student of music that lived there. He'd found much of the furnishings of his own dingy one room apartment in that dumpster. Clothing, lamps, a toaster, a chaise lounge, even a DVD player that he'd hooked up and found faultless. It had been months since he'd been able to afford to watch a movie, or afford cable. The stash of discarded DVD's not deemed worthy of a church rummage sale had been watched over and over that night...

But nothing was as precious as this violin. It was cruel...the discarding of such a precious, precious thing.

Another hand lifted the bow carefully from its groove within the case. Rosin had been added just this morning, something he took the utmost care in doing. This instrument was his most prized possession, as vital to him as the mask. Opposites they were. The faded, white silk covered the evil, shielded the world from the demons within his being and visage. The violin released the good, what little there was, within him, and gave the world a taste of the angel weeping in his soul.

A ragged toe of his boot shifted the case out in front of him as he stood. By the end of the day, that worn velvet lining would hopefully be scattered with a modest pile of dollar bills and a good bit of change. On a normal day, he earned as much as twenty dollars...not much, but enough to put away and save for his rent, guaranteeing at least another month of a roof over his head, even if that roof was a canvas of moldy patches of ceiling and cracked drywall surrounding the one room and the tiny kitchenette. Enough that the small refrigerator that listed precariously to one side would have electricity to greet him with light each morning when he reached for the milk that the earnings also bought him. Enough to buy him several bags of generic brand cereal – the counterfeit Fruit Loops were his favorite. Enough that he could have water to bathe and cook with, even if he didn't have enough to afford the repairs that the landlord refused to make to the water heater to make that water welcoming. But a freezing shower with a bar of dime-store soap was better than being filthy and unable to even have access to toilet paper. He'd survived those conditions for nearly five years...he wouldn't go back to that...

And no one would hire a masked man...or a man who had betrayed his own country and spent half a decade in a North Korean prison camp as punishment for his crimes...

For a brief moment, he was there, in that mere hovel in the ground...his hands tied behind his back, long, blood caked blonde hair hanging in his swollen eyes, his mouth so badly ripped open on either side from the torture methods that he couldn't even speak for near fainting with pain.

_They'd already done so much to him...how did they expect him to answer their questions if he could not even swallow past the blood clotting in his throat from a collapsed lung, punctured by a broken rib when they had beat him with canes for over an hour, methodically taking their time, never letting him get used to the pain in any certain area of his body. How many bones in his body were broken? He couldn't even tell. There was just...so much pain. It wracked him, consumed him. He couldn't even hear them for the screams issuing forth in his brain, the blood pounding in his ears. If only he could fall unconscious...but they denied him even that, using a bucket of ice water to dump over him every ten minutes, at exactly the same time, rousing his senses. _

_And their questions were pointless...rhetorical. "Do the other soldiers know you are here? Do they know that we have you? Will your commanding officer send scouts for you?"_

_His platoon knew he was here...After they had found him with that prostitute, directly disobeying an order to not bed any of the country's women, and had learned that she had drugged him and gotten him to confess their route through the jungle that would lead them to the rebel camp they were to commandeer and destroy, they had no longer called him one of their own. By then, it had been too late. The whore had already sent word...their convoy was attacked that night, everyone slaughtered...all but his officer and himself. The medics had rescued his commander...and left him to die as a traitor._

_"Answer the question!" He'd raised his head, but could only gurgle in the back of his throat. The man before him had reddened with anger. "You won't speak?"_

_He'd finally mumbled. "Blood...smells.." and then slumped again, moaning at the pain in his ribs, the pain _everywhere.

_"It smells, does it? Well, let's fix that problem, shall we?" _

_Erik had only seen the glint of a knife already coated with his blood as it sliced down, and begun to saw back and forth._

_He'd fallen unconscious._

_When he'd woken, he'd been forever changed..._

With the onslaught of memories, his eyes sunk closed. There was no pain...the pain had long ago gone numb, gone dead inside of him with the passage of time. After that first moment outside of that prison camp, when he'd first caught sight of his bare face in the rear view mirror of the medic truck...that horror, disbelief, raw anguish that _this_ was him...the pain had been nearly crushing. He'd lain in that hospital room for weeks and had cried. They hadn't even attempted surgery to correct the damage done to him. He had been dishonorably discharged that day before his capture, he had no longer had the benefits of being a U.S. Soldier...and the cost for reconstruction and a prostheses had been astronomical. His only choice had been to simply...deal with it.

And he had.

After nearly a year in a rehabilitation center, preparing him to step back into the "world", he'd come to grips with what had been done to him. And what one stupid mistake, one moment of lust, had cost him. He could still see his friends' bodies littered across the blood-soaked jungle floor, their innards laid bare with the rapid fire of high powered assault rifles and machine guns... The simple, elemental desire to be inside a woman after months of not having one had done this to him.

Lifting the violin up and into position, angling his masked chin into the lacquered rest, he raised the bow, and set the rosin coated rod to the strings. Ironic really, he mused numbly. Wanting to fuck a woman had guaranteed he'd never have one again...

A slow slide of arm, the pressure of one slim pale wrist, and the subtle sway of his long body, and the notes of _Libera Me_ lifted, drifting through the morning air, a haunting refrain heard along Madison Boulevard. The sound of a man weeping without words.

Before he had ever stepped foot into that Korean jungle, music had been a pasttime of his, nothing more than simply an expression of himself to give vent to his inner feelings.

Now it was all he had left.

* * *

"Kris?"

Kristen looked up from the book she'd had her nose firmly buried in.

"What? Oh...Sorry, Mareka." A soft laugh in her throat, she held up the copy of _Jewels of the Sun_, then slid it back in between two other volumes of Nora Roberts. "Haven't read that series yet. Thought I'd take a peek. Won't happen again." She cast an apologetic look toward her friend and employee.

Mareka gave her a bemused look, propping one slim brown hand on her hip, the other curled about a book truck. "Kris, you own the place! You can read all day and I can't say one thing about it!" She gave a little shove to the truck and wheeled to next stack to shelf a handful of Sidney Sheldons, the wine colored linen of her peasant dress lapping at her ankles. Turning back to cast another look at Kristen, the waist length plaits covered by her white headscarf struck up a small shower of sound as glass beads threaded throughout struck one another. "Besides, you look worn out. A little coffee break in the backroom with your feet up would do you some good."

Raking back of the chin length black curls from her face, Kristen raised one brow, then narrowed blue-green eyes at Mareka's dark ones. "Mmhm, _you_ just want me to go to the Abbey and get you a latte and a donut since you were probably too busy giving Lucas his goodbyes this morning to make yourself any breakfast."

The other woman had the good grace to flush slightly, then lift one elegant shoulder. "Maybe, maybe not..." A giggle erupted from her throat and she crouched to shelve some more glossy new paperbacks into place. "Mm, that man...God, he can..." She cast a look at Kristen, then bit her lower lip. "Maybe I better leave those details for someone who's actually got some recently."

"Oh, shut up!" Kristen hurled a Karen Robards at her and snickered as Mareka ducked, the book tumbling harmlessly down the stairs and into the cashier's lobby. "You know, it's a _little_ hard to have a date, let alone take a man home when you have a nine year old who wants to know everything that goes on and barely gives you room to breathe."

"You love it, though."

Her smile softened, and an affection shone in her eyes that another mother, a_ good_ mother, would have recognized immediately as pure, unwavering devotion. "Yeah, I do."

Mareka gave her an affectionate grin, then trotted down the stairs to gather the offending book, calling over her shoulder as she bent to pick it up. "Is that why you look so worn out this morning?"

Sighing heavily, Kristen finished off her shelving cart of new product, then leaned one hip upon the stairs' railing, rubbing a hand over her face, paler than usual. For a brief moment exhaustion slumped her shoulders and made her eyes droop. _Damn, I'm tired..._With a nod, she crossed both arms under her breasts and absently plucked at a loose thread of the robin egg blue turtleneck. "Yeah. Seth had a science project due for the Fair today in the gym and _didn't_ bother telling me about it until the last minute. A volcano, Mareka, a damn volcano. In one night. If I never have to look at clay and toothpick trees again, it'll too soon." Smiling despite herself, she shook her head, then nudged the empty truck back into its space with the other three waiting to be taken to the backroom for restocking later. "My kitchen was a disaster. By the time we got done last night...well, Seth was in a funk and just wanted to go watch wrestling and I had a migraine from the smell. Took me four hours just to clean up."

Mareka waltzed back up the steps, book in hand, which she promptly shelved. "What! Didn't you make that little bugger help you?" Clucking her tongue, she gave her now empty as well truck a good shove with one sandaled foot into the group of the others.

Stifling a yawn, Kristen grinned then lined up the trucks and pushed the lot of them back to the curtained stock room, looking back over her shoulder at Mareka. "No...poor kid fell asleep with _Smackdown_ still on the television. He needed the sleep. I just let him spend the night on the couch with the dog draped over his feet. He looked so sweet..."

"Seth or Bozo?"

"_Gizmo_, 'Eka, Gizmo. Oh, both of them." Watching her son sleep had never grown old for her. When he'd laid in his crib those first months, she'd rushed into the room several times a night just to make sure his chest still rose and fell. SIDS had seemed so overwhelmingly scary to her. Then, even as he'd grown from crib to toddler bed to the twin he now had in his room, she'd slipped in, at least once a night, to watch the lanky boy who'd surely tower over her in a few years rest, the shock of black hair over his brow, his freckled face in the soft lines of a child's sleep. She'd never tire of looking at her baby...

Covering a yawn, she blinked back the slight sting of tears, then pulled the curtains back shut over the stockroom as she moved back into the carpeted circle of the Children's Reading Ring, tapping a toe against a grinning cow leaping over the moon. "Hm, yeah, maybe I ought to go get some coffee." Moving to the back of the shop and the tiny employee lounge between the Mystery and Science Fiction stacks, she disappeared for a brief moment, then returned, shrugging into a light, black velvet jacket and draping her purse over one shoulder. "Medium non-fat latte with a shot of French Vanilla and a cruller?"

"Sweet music to my ears!"

"I bet. Okay, I'll be right ba–"

"Hey!" Mareka held up one slim, ringed finger to her lips and turned to the door, which they'd left propped open to allow in the crisp October breeze. "Listen..."

Kristen went still, poised on the stairs descending to the lobby and the visible street through that door and stained to hear what Mareka had heard.

Carried on the morning air, lifting down Madison Boulevard and into the front door of Turn the Page, the lonely, haunting, and beautiful strains of a violin drifted up and wove about her, seeping into her senses.

"It's him." She said simply, eyes that she hadn't realized she'd closed slowly re-opening. Turning and looking back over her shoulder to Mareka, she smiled softly.

"I'll be right back."

* * *

There was a bite in the air that morning, though Erik could no more feel it though the thick worn wool of the duster than he could through the silk covered paper mache of the mask. Only his chin and lips left bare by the covering could feel the chill, but they were warmed by the intimate press of the violin beneath his jaw and the silent mouthing words that he created to fit the melancholy piece.

His body swayed slowly with each draw of the bow over strings, dark blonde hair escaping the loose tail he wore it in and ribboning gently about his face and shoulders with the breeze's direction. The steely gray eyes behind the mask were shut tight, blocking out the sight of the city around him and the curious glances of pedestrians and commuters. Bowed over the violin, he played on, completely oblivious to any and all who came across him.

There were many glances cast his way. This silent man who never spoke, never even said a thanks when money was dropped into the violin case, but merely nodded, eyes still closed. Some of the looks were filled with curiosity for the mask, other with pity for the obviously shappy and worn clothing, and many simply that all too familiar scorn for someone they deemed "too lazy to get off their ass and get a real job." It was those looks he hated the most. Didn't they think that he _had_ tried? Jesus Christ...He'd applied anywhere and everywhere, but a dishonorable discharge was almost a guaranteed, emphatic "no." Even worse, sometimes, than a felony on a record. It meant that even in the conditions of rigid and strict discipline, with your directions clear cut, and no gray area, you fucked up...big time. The employer does a little background work and they find out that you disobeyed direct orders and compromised an entire mission. He was as good as being a murderer.

He _was_ a murderer.

The guilt weighed as heavy as the sorrow, as the anger that what looked him in the mirror every morning was now _him_ and he could never change it. There were nights that he could barely sleep but for seeing their bodies, torn and gutted and maimed by bullets...

He pushed the images away and lost himself in the music, in the way the notes shimmered on the morning air, in the way they carried through his body, a vibrant hum over his skin and down into flesh and bone, as intimate as a woman's caress, as painful at times as a physical blow. But the pain was sweet, a warmth of release that sometimes bordered on the physical, _always_ on the spiritual.

He heard the soft thump of several large coins, probably quarters, hit the lining and gave a nod, eyes still closed and heard an elderly female voice murmur, "Lovely playing, dear."

He cracked open one slate gray eye at that and met the faded green eyes of a tiny woman clutching her bamboo purse to her, her hair, which surely should have been white, died an outrageous blue. She came by everyday at the same time, always left exactly a dollar-fifty in quarters. He didn't know her name; he never asked. And neither did she know his; she never asked. She gave a trembling, fragile smile with overly painted lips.

He found himself doing what he'd never done before on this street corner. His lips – one of the few features that still gave hint to the lean, handsome face he'd once possessed – shifted from their usual grim, straight line and curled into a slow smile that once had been able to charm the pants right off the ladies. The other eye opened and he gave the nod again, one leg casually bending to prop a booted foot back against the concrete wall behind him.

His little lady gave a small coo of appreciation, and pressed one wrinkled, tiny hand to her chest, a pleased smile playing across her mouth. "Oh, _my..."_

His deep, rolling chuckle echoed down the street, mingling with the contrast of haunting notes.

* * *

That was how she saw him as she emerged from the doorway of Turn the Page, wrapped in her coat.

His deep, vibrant laughter reached her first, a thoroughly male sound of enjoyment that had her own lips lifting into a smile as she raised her eyes to see where such a resonant, bass chuckle had come from. She had always loved the sound of laughter. It never failed to spark her own.

A soft chuckle in her own throat, she spotted the duo upon the street corner and stilled, her smile fading to an expression of curiosity. Brow furrowed, she continued down the sidewalk, the high heels of her loafers clicking quietly on the pavement as she headed to the Abbey, located directly across the street from where the musician and the small, elderly lady stood.

They made quite a picture; the little woman clutching a hand and her purse to her chest, blue hair sparkling with dried hairspray in the early morning light, a delighted smile on her wrinkled face. The black clad man, long and lean, towering over her, bowed with his playing and his propped foot against the wall like a large raven, dark blond hair whipping about his masked face, just as his coat whipped about his legs.

Above his uncovered chin was one of the most devastating smiles she'd ever see on a man, a slow, sensual curl of thin, but firm lips, settling back into that cool, but gentle expression after recovering from that deep, traveling laughter.

She would recall later that though the sound had been genuine, it had been tarnished, hoarse, as if it had been many years since he'd last laughed.

The small woman gave his arm a pat, which Kristen couldn't help but notice that he glanced down to as if she'd painted his coat yellow.

"See you tomorrow, dear." Her tiny, faded voice carried across the street just barely to Kristen's ears as the older woman shuffled away, and about the corner, most likely headed to the Rx on Ilinoist Street that offered 45 off on Medicare prescriptions. The violinist watched her go, arm still slowly moving the bow across the strings, the song still carrying on the air. He shifted, leaned back into the wall once more, the eyes behind the mask beginning to slowly drift back closed.

So intent on watching him she was, fascinated by the gleam of light upon the dark gold and tawny strands slipping free of his hair tie, the sway of his body, the span and stretch of his pale fingers, and the lips that slowly faded once more into that grim, stern line, wishing she could see that smile again, she didn't even see the man in a three piece suit hurrying out of the Abbey, a coffee cup in hand.

Not until their bodies collided and a scalding slosh of hot liquid hiccuped out of the lid's lip and struck her cheek, burning the pale, delicate skin beneath her eye.

With a sharp cry of pain, she stumbled back, fingers pressed tight to the throbbing spot, eyes tightly shut.

"Why don't you watch where the hell you're going!" The man snarled at her, then glared down at the spot of staining brown upon the gray lapel of his fine suit. "Fuckin' suit cost four hundred dollars..." He shoved past her, grumbling, then continued on his way, not once asking her if she was alright.

"_Damn_, that _hurts."_ She whispered fiercely to herself, then opened watering eyes to shoot a deathly glare at the retreating back of the jerk. If she'd not been surrounded by onlookers, boy she would have...

"Are you alright, miss?"

With a gasp, she turned and found herself in the shadow of the violinist, his head bowed over hers, his hair falling over his masked face, his eyes within the holes of the mask lit with concern, his mouth a grim line once more. Swallowing, wondering how he could have moved so fast, she took an involuntary step back and met his gaze. She'd always seem him from across the street, never this up close. The steely gray was rimmed with a circle of a shade very near charcoal, it was a slate so dark.

Cheek still painfully throbbing, she raised two fingers to press against the red patch of skin and nodded, her eyes dropping from his then shifting to the back of the man who had very nearly lost his entire cup upon her face. "Yeah, I'm fine...thanks." She looked back up to him, then winced as even the movement of blinking shifted the scalded skin.

He frowned, reached out a hand, long pale fingers lifting to her cheek.

Kristen drew back without thought, not so much in fear of him, but of having the tender area touched by another.

The eyes behind the mask blanked, lost every ounce of concern in them, and the taut line of his lips grew even more grim, if that was possible. Body straightening from the bow over hers, he stepped back, posture ram-rod straight and unbending. Kristen could feel the chill of his gaze even as the October air bit at her cheeks.

"It's alright, I'll ju–"

But before she could even finish the sentence, he had whirled, leaving her looking at the flare of coat and the whip of his hair as, without even looking, he crossed the street in long, graceful strides, hands fisted at his sides, cars slamming onto their brakes and horns blaring in an attempt to avoid him.

"...just put ice on it," she murmured, air rushing from her lungs as he made it safely across the street, scooped up his violin, pocketed the coins, closed the instrument up into the case, and disappeared around the corner, just a dark shadow heads above the other commuters.

For several moments she stared after him, a puzzled and concerned frown on her face, then the tolling of the Scottish Rite's Cathedral bells rang sonorously on the morning air, announcing that nine o'clock had come.

Time for the shop to open.

"Damn!" Brushing fingers once more over the burned cheek, she picked up the pace and hurried into the Abbey to get hers and Mareka's orders.


	2. Chapter 2

**Thanks for all the reviews!**

**As for the questions about time frame, I did some research and there has been a great deal of North Korean rebel uprisings in recent years and in the mid 90's. They were mainly handled by U.S. Special Forces, which I get into in this chapter. Also, it's fiction, so if the timing is a little off, please forgive me. If you will, suspend disbelief for a little while. :)**

**Much thanks again to Musique et Amour and all the squeers on PPN! Love you guys!**

**Monj--the cheese toastie is for you!**

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_**What do I get to get me through this sleepless nights?  
And what do I have to hold when no one's there to hold me tight?  
And what do I see the only thing that gets me through this?  
That's what I feel and I feel you.**_

_I Feel You, Away From the Sun, 3 Doors Down_

**Chapter Two: That's What I Feel**

_Women._

They'd always played a role in his life. He'd been taught from an early age that women were to be respected, treated courteously, and dealt with gently because they were the weaker sex. His own mother had been a living example of that.

Magdelena DeLauter had been petite, beautiful, and fragile as their Sunday china. And just as easily broken. Her feelings were hurt at the drop of a hat and nothing was more pitiful than tears rolling down her porcelain face, cornflower-blue eyes wounded, and cherub-bow lips trembling. She'd had hair like spun gold and when the light had struck her at a certain angle, it had formed a brilliant halo about her. An angel, everyone had called her. And as distant and unattainable as one.

For the short while that she'd been a part of his life, until his sixteenth year when a fast-moving cancer had taken her with only a six-week warning, he'd regarded her as something that could be admired, appreciated, enjoyed, but not touched. She'd never been physically affectionate, preferring timid pats on the head to a hug, or a faint squeeze with one small hand to a goodnight kiss. It wasn't that she hadn't loved either her husband or her son. Just that she didn't know how to show it and neither man had the heart to try to force anything out of her that she wasn't willing to give.

His father had instilled that respect of females into him. With his own wife such a delicate and vulnerable creature, he'd had no choice but to teach his son to handle her just as carefully. In fact, to treat all women as he would treat Magdelana: like a priceless piece of china.

Charles DeLauter had passed away only two years after his wife, only a week after Erik had left for the U.S. Army Ranger's boot camp. He'd left behind a gentle legacy, one which Erik had taken to heart and that the military had both instilled and beat out of him. In the presence of one's superiors, a soldier was to be the epitome of respect and discipline. Regarding women, he was to be _only_ a gentleman and a protector.

However, when the commanding office was no longer present and the co-eds and local girls about the base made themselves available and willing, it was a completely different story. Then, they were just there for the sweet, hot paradise between their thighs. There to make him feel like a _man_. Erik had been both a gentleman and a hungry, passionate lover. He'd had no qualms with availing himself of what they offered to him and took as many as were willing and caught his interest to his bed. Yet he'd treated each with respect and made certain, before they ever hit the sheets, that they knew there were no strings, no commitments. He'd never broken any hearts and certainly never had his broken. He'd left each woman content, satisfied, and with their feelings intact.

Even the first prostitute that had ever taken his money had been treated as nothing less than a lady by him...only for having her to be the one choice to destroy his life, the life of his friends and any chance for him to ever have another woman.

It was because of that ingrained respect for women that he'd crossed the street without thought to make certain the woman was alright when that ass had spilled coffee upon her face. The man hadn't even apologized after nearly knocking her to her feet. That was no way to treat a lady.

He'd never seen her before today.

Of course, that was certainly no surprise. He rarely looked up from his playing, never bothered to categorize a face or acknowledge any around him. His elderly lady was truly the first he'd even vocally responded to besides those who might ask the time or directions and even then they often received no more than a point or a few grunted words.

However, if he'd been an observant man, as he'd once been, and took willing notice of those around him, he would have never forgotten her once he might have caught a glimpse of her face.

It wasn't until he'd stood directly before her that he'd noticed she was anything but the ordinary, unremarkable woman that she'd appeared to be from across the street. From that distance it was impossible to tell that the short, dark curls were such a rich ebony that they caught the light and sent it gently glistening back. Or that the pale face was a rose-tinted cream with a delicate smattering of freckles across her nose and the tops of her cheeks. Or that the blue eyes were not merely blue at all but the color of the waters of the Caribbean; shifting shades of aqua and sea-foam green ringed by a fringe of dark, thick lashes. Or that her figure was not thin, yet not heavy, but directly between the two, a fascinating combination of soft curves and firm lines, as if she was used to hard work.

She was beautiful, yet...not. The traits that made her beautiful were, on their own, attractive and enticing. Put together with a mouth that was a little too wide for her face and a small nose that was slightly crooked, as if it had been broken one too many times, and those generous curves upon a body perhaps too short in stature to carry them off well, she was merely a mismatched puzzle, imperfect upon first glance, yet charming in the same moment.

The small burn had stood out starkly against her skin. He'd reached to touch and assess before thinking.

Now, as he stalked the six dozen or so city blocks back to the decrepit side of town and the abandoned Nehi factory-turned apartment building that he called his home, he cursed under his breath, berating himself for even making the move toward her. _Of course she didn't want you to touch her, you stupid fuck! _Not just because of the mask, though that was reason enough; either she thought him a freak or some lunatic for wearing such a thing on the street in broad daylight. But because a woman like her wouldn't appreciate a complete stranger putting his hands on her, especially a stranger who was obviously a homeless or very nearly homeless street musician making his money off of the hand-outs of others. Her jacket had been of high quality material and cut, as were the cream-colored slacks and soft blue sweater she'd been wearing underneath it. Someone like her didn't want someone like _him_ touching her.

Never had he willingly touched or attempted to touch another since he'd been released from the rehabilitation clinic. He didn't _want_ to touch anyone and didn't want anyone to touch _him_. After some of the things that had gone on inside that P.O.W. camp...

He shoved that away, out of his mind, before he could think about it too much and let it take him into the depths of depression again.

But why, why today, why _her?_ Why had he pushed himself past that restrictive barrier and crossed that street to check on someone he didn't know from Adam and Eve and actually _want_ to touch her?

_Because you're too much of a fucking gentleman, DeLauter, that's why._

Well, he thought as he shoved the key into the single lock on the peeling door of his apartment on the seventh floor, no more. He'd be damned if he'd show someone else concern again. Especially someone like that little rose under glass. He wasn't good enough to touch someone like her.

The little, rickety card table that served as a work space, a dining table, and a writing desk was cleared of the handful of staff-lined paper there that he'd carefully drawn out himself with pencil and ruler and neatly tucked away back with his other music situated in a folder on top of the century old piano he'd bought for ten dollars at a rummage sale down the street. It had taken _hours_ to get that thing up the stairs and he'd nearly been trembling with exhaustion by the time it had found its home in the small room. Pulling up a seat at the solitary chair, he flipped open the locks upon the violin case and lifted it free. Long fingers dipped within the compartment that supported the neck and he pulled loose a rather worn cloth and a small bottle of oil. Spreading a dish towel out upon the surface of the table, Erik placed the violin upon it, then uncapped the bottle and dipped the cloth within, tipping both about to faintly wet the rag.

He bent over the table to begin gently waxing away the fingerprints and any harmful particles the downtown Indianapolis air might have deposited upon its surface, when he heard the shift of coins in his pocket. He needed to get those tucked away first...

But after shrugging off the trench and hanging it on the coat rack listing precariously to one side, then retying back his hair to fall between his shoulders, he remembered that the coins striking each other merrily in his jeans pocket only added up to a grand total of a buck-fifty.

"God _damn it_..."

If he hadn't crossed that street to check on that princess' precious little burn, then he would probably have a hell of a lot more money earned today than just that pitiful amount.

Or if he hadn't turned tail and run.

"Too much of a _fucking_ gentleman."

With a heavy, worn and frustrated sigh, he settled back down at the table and began carefully waxing the violin.

* * *

"Mom, I _want_ Beefaroni and a cheese toastie."

Kristen stilled in the open door of the refrigerator, closed her eyes, exhaled slowly, and counted to ten backwards.

"Seth," she began patiently, "you had a cheese toastie and Beefaroni _last_ night. I really do think you need to at least have some vegetables tonight."

"Vegetables suck."

"No, make that you _are_ going to have some vegetables tonight." With a determined set to her shoulders, she bent and pulled a bundle of carrots, an onion, a stalk of celery, and a bottle of tomato juice out, bumped the fridge door closed with her hip, then turned and faced her son, whose face was downright belligerent; black brows furrowed over sea-green eyes, a shade or two lighter than hers.

Amusing how those expressive eyes betrayed his horror as she also added a can of corn, a few red potatoes, and a bag of frozen peas to the counter top as well.

"Oh shit. Vegetable soup?"

"Seth Michael Dresden!"

He had the good grace to flush guiltily then quickly look down to his untied Adidas cross-trainers.

"Sorry, Mom."

She cast a look at him through her lashes as she laid out the produce on a cutting board and began shucking off the papery layers of the onion, flicking them into the sink to be later consumed by the garbage disposal. It was hard to miss the roll of his eyes or the disappointed droop of his thin shoulders. With a soft laugh, she ran the peeled onion under the faucet and set it aside to be diced and started unbanding the bundle of carrots, catching them in the spray as well. Okay, maybe since he _had_ brought home an impressive _A-_ on that science fair project she could compromise a bit. "And...maybe a cheese toastie to go with it?"

It never failed to bring a warm glow of pleasure through her to see her son's eyes light up, a gap toothed smile bloom on his freckled features, then that careless shrug and little smirk to follow, as if he was just too cool to get excited.

"S'cool." And with that, he pushed away from the counter, leaving her preparing the dreaded vegetables, and loped away, so tall for a boy his age. So thin, no matter how much she fed him and no matter how he ate that food with gusto. Long and lean. He took after his father in that department. But in every other aspect, he was Kristen made over. That simple fact pleased her to no end.

If you looked at the man who'd helped her conceive him – and often she felt that was _all _the help he gave – then looked at her son, there wasn't the slightest resemblance. He had her glossy black hair, but straight rather than curly, her blue-green eyes, but more green than blue, and even those damned freckles she'd never been able to Oil of Olay away. He had her wide mouth – and smart enough to make good use of that mouth, and silly enough to let it get him in trouble too – her slightly crooked nose, and he got a bad case of the hiccups when he cried or got too excited.

She'd been one day past seventeen the day they laid him in her arms, red, wiggling, little face scrunched up into a grimace, and setting up an unholy, shrieking rucus. Six pounds, four ounces, and small enough to fit right into the crook of her arm. He'd been so unreal to her until that point, so much just a silent presence that weighed heavily upon her heart because that little life inside her had been the reason why the boy she'd thought she loved with every fibre of her being had up and left her, four stuttered words of "I can't do this," and a football scholarship to Notre Dame. He'd wanted to be free and as much as he'd promised her he loved her _and_ the baby that they'd made together from a night of young, spirited passion in the backseat of his Monte Carlo, it just hadn't been enough to keep him there.

He called on September 18 every year like clockwork, told his son 'Happy Birthday', sent the expected card and check on that occasion, and every Christmas a package filled with all the things that a young boy liked to have, but with not a hint of the love that should have existed for that young boy. Kristen received child support checks without fail; Raymond had been young and scared, but he didn't shirk his responsibility.

He just liked to forget that he had child when he wasn't forced to remember.

Well, it was his loss. Seth was a beautiful, wonderful child. He was a little rough around the edges, always would be, but what healthy young boy wasn't? He was...everything to her. He was her world, her reason for living.

As she emptied the bottle of V-8 into the bubbling kettle of water and began adding the cubed, diced, and defrosted vegetables she'd prepared, then shaking in just enough seasoning to appeal to her son's juvenile palette, she realized that she almost...pitied Ray.

He'd never held his newborn child, touched that soft, downy skin of such a fresh, innocent little life, marveled at the unbelievably tiny fingernails and eyebrows. He hadn't been there to hear that first word, see that first step, or watch a little gleaming raven haired head cross that tiny podium when he'd graduated kindergarten. He had missed the late night feedings, diaper changes, and hours spent agonizing when Seth ran his first fever and Kristen had bawled right along with her sick baby. He had missed that hour before bedtime, when her boy was clean and fresh from his bath, wrapped in his pajamas, snuggled against her side in his little twin bed, and heavy with the oncoming of sleep as she read to him, his soft hair nestled under her jaw. Something that was more precious to her than anything.

Yes, she pitied Ray Chesney for his distance from his son. Pitied him that he'd even protested the giving of his name to Seth, because if he became a NFL recruit, he didn't want any "legalities" keeping him down.

_It was alright_, she mused to herself as she set out thick slices of Texas Toast and smeared them with butter for the toasties. They'd made it fine, just Seth and her. First in that little one bedroom apartment as she'd worked her way through an MBA and Library Science degree during the day, her mother sitting for the baby, then, once she'd graduated and got the grant for Turn the Page, the three bedroom, white and blue shuttered little colonial in historic, lovely Lockerbie that suited them just right. Mainly a downtown community for artists, musicians, and gay couples, the neighborhood had held open welcoming arms to her and her son, even if they didn't quite fit in. Yet somehow...they did.

That heaviness in her heart had become her deepest and greatest joy.

With the hot kettle of soup placed on a trivet and a plate of freshly grilled cheese toasties set on the dining room table, she wiped off her hands on the legs of the jeans she'd changed into and moved into the living room, following the sounds of swords clanging, men grunting, and points being tallied up based upon how much blood was shed. Seth and his Playstation. Devoted and passionate was that relationship.

She knocked on the doorframe.

"Dinner. Slaughter then save, baby. You've got homework to finish up after you eat."

"Yeah, yeah, I know." Grunting the words, he lopped off one last Samurai's head, then saved his progress and hopped up. As he passed her, he raised baleful green eyes to her. "Did you _really_ make vegetable soup?"

"Yes."

"Can I just eat a toastie?"

"Not a chance, bubba."

* * *

Later, after night had fallen, Seth had taken a bath and Kristen had read the latest chapter of _Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire_ to him, then kissed him goodnight, she checked to make sure the kitchen was once again spotless. It was more than that, it _gleamed_. She just couldn't tolerate messiness or filth.

Swiping up her own book, a particular Maeve Binchy that she'd begun last night and hadn't been able to put down, she turned off most of the lamps, save for a small night light plugged into the hallway for Seth's benefit, then moved eagerly to the little painted screen door that led to her second floor balcony. By the frame sat a large basket that held a pile of quilts and she gathered a particularly thick, soft one into her arms and headed out.

The night was chilly, a sharp October bite, but it didn't bother her as she settled into the wide, ancient wicker chair and drew her legs up, the quilt wrapped snugly about her shoulders and body. She briefly longed for a cup of hot chocolate, but...mmno, it was simply too perfect a comfort she'd achieved to get up again. She flipped open her book to page 157 where she'd left off, then simply stilled, and tilted her eyes up to the sky overhead.

Black, lit with a thousand stars and washed the pale gold of the city lights, and framed by the other roofs about her, it was her little patch of heaven. A gentle breeze struck up, ruffled her hair and the string of pale gold Christmas lights that she and one of her neighbor's kept strung between their houses all year round and she smiled. Her eyes drifted over and across the city.

Lockerbie lay on the very edges of what could be considered the respectable section of the city. Directly across the from the small, old community lay the more decrepit side of town. But from where Kristen sat, the old Nehi Factory was a large shadow against the black of the horizon and lit by a hundred small rectangles of light of the apartments that now filled it, with the skyscrapers and display of the heart of Indianapolis behind it. So close...so close she could hear their televisions over the ebb and flow of conversation in the street below her and the houses next to her.

She could hear it...and it made her smile. Someone in that old factory had their window open and was watching _Edward Scissorhands_. She could hear the lifted voices of the Ice Dance playing, and closing her eyes, she could almost see Winona Ryder spinning in slow circles as ice fell in delicate flakes all about her.

The music settled over her and she slowly reopened her eyes and looked back up to the expanse of night and stars overhead. Curled up like this, the warmth of her own handmade quilt wrapped about her, her son sleeping snugly in his bed, and the people who inhabited this ciry living, loving, and just...being about her...she thought that, in that moment, listening to the haunting score, that she was happy. Wonderfully happy.

And the thought of him crept in unexpected.

Gray eyes flashing with pain for one brief moment, the wind tugging at his hair about his shoulders, the tense line of his body as he'd left her standing there, a misunderstanding between two strangers...

She hadn't meant to hurt him.

She wondered, now, where he was. Was he safe, warm, fed?

Was he happy?

* * *

Behind him, the movie played, and the familiar soprano voices of the _Ice Dance_ lifted over him and out the window where he stood. A half-eaten bowl of Campbell's Cream of Mushroom was cupped in one hand, a triangle of buttered toast in the other. Leaning against the peeling ledge, he dipped a corner into the soup, took a bite, then sighed faintly, watching a small string of Christmas lights sway in the gentle bite of the October night air.

He often stood here, the window open, no matter how cold it was and watched those lights sway. For some reason they were almost...comforting. All year round they hung there, moving, shimmering gently in the darkness, a whimsical touch against the more dignified facades of the Lockerbie historic houses. Sometimes he liked to think about who might live there. What kind of person would they be, that they would string those lights there and keep them up, no matter the season or the temperature? Someone who loved simple beauty he imagined. Someone who appreciated things and took nothing for granted.

Someone like him? It had been a _damned_ long time since he'd taken anything for granted, that was certain.

A rough breeze struck up, tugged some strands of his hair loose from the tail down his back and they whipped about his face. The lights across the way went wildly swaying.

Her face was in his mind before he even realized he'd let her in. That moment of slight confusion right before he'd turned away from her and stalked across the street. What had she truly expected? That he would stand there and watch her make pithy excuses of why she didn't want his hands on her?

But yet...he wondered about her. Where was she tonight? Was she loved, appreciated, taken care of?

Was she happy?


	3. Chapter 3

**Sorry for the delay on this chapter. The holidays were nuts! Absolutely insane! Took me three weeks just to write this, lol. **

**No Erik in this chapter, sorry. But some familiar faces.**

**Thanks as always to my most excellent beta and friend, Musique et Amour and all the folks at PPN for all their squees and encouragement!**

* * *

_**I woke up early this morning around 4am  
With the moon shining bright as headlights on the interstate  
I pulled the covers over my head and tried to catch some sleep  
But thoughts of us kept keeping me awake**_

_You'll Think of Me, Golden Road, Keith Urban_

**Chapter Three**

There were a number of things in a young boy's life that were paramount to everything else. Things that were to be appreciated, valued, enjoyed, and treasured. To be revered, to humble one, to leave one with a sense of joy that would carry one through the rough times.

One such thing was a day out of school.

And Seth was enjoying such a day.

School was canceled. _Canceled!_ Man, oh, man! How did he get so damn lucky!

From the corner of his eye he snuck a look up at his mother, just to make sure she hadn't heard the cuss word he'd been thinking in his head. Sometimes he thought that maybe she could. She seemed to know _everything_. Got on a guy's nerves! But she was too busy wrinkling her nose down at her cell phone as they hurried down the street and around the corner of Mass Ave. to scan his brain, apparently. It was cold, a lot colder than yesterday was and she had her fuzzy pink gloves on and her fingers were fumbling over the buttons on the phone.

"_Shit_!"

"Oooo, you said a dirty word." He wiggled his brows up at her, grinning in triumph that his mom had said a _swear_ word in front of him, then ducked, shrieking with laughter as she switched the phone to the other hand and aimed for the back of his head with her hand. She missed – deliberately – then pulled him tight into her side, growling.

"Shut up, you. I'm an _adult_. You're nine, bubba. No cussing."

"Yeah, but what would Grandma say?" He just loved throwing that up to her. He loved it when she rolled her eyes like the girls in his class when one of the guys farted really loud.

"Grandma isn't here, now is she?"

"Newp."

"Then hush it. I can't get the number in this dam-_darned_ thing." Pulling her bottom lip between her teeth and gnawing, she turned to him with a "Hey!" as he jerked the cell phone out of her hands and pushed # and 3, the speed-dial for Valerius Galleries, then handed it back to her.

"That's what speed dial's for, Mom." He smirked up at her, quirking one brow, a really cool, snarky expression that he'd practiced in front of the mirror in his room until he'd got it just right. The girls at school liked it. The guys thought it was tight.

She just scowled down at him, then put the phone to her ear. He grinned to himself. It was always friggin' neat when he got something over on her.

But _man!_ A day outta school and it wasn't even planned or nothing! Somebody had thrown a stink bomb through one of the third floor windows and stunk the whole place up. It musta been a hell of a stink bomb to close the school for airing out. Way he saw it, he owed someone a big thanks. He bet it was Andrew Benton.

Andrew Benton was eighteen and a senior at IPS 23, and he _smoked_, and he had a _band, _and a kick-ass _tattoo_ on his arm, and long hair dyed black and electric blue and a _van_ with a bed in the back, and once, Seth had seen him skip-out and pick up a sophomore in that van, and he heard the next day he'd poked at her in the back. Hey, he may have only been a fourth grader, but he knew what poking was.

Not that he'd ever do it. Sick, man, just _sick. _Why a guy would want to do _that_ was just...yuck.

"Mom? It's Kris. Hey, I have a big favor to ask you." From the corner of his eye, he saw his mom's bright blue-green gaze turn on him with what he could only describe as a maniacal gleam: he'd read that in a book once and thought it was a pretty cool phrase. "Actually...I'm going to do a favor for _you_. Want some cheap child labor for the day?"

"Aww, _man_!"

* * *

Valerius Galleries, located on Madison Boulevard and the next door neighbor to Turn The Page Bookstore, was owned and operated by Marius and Valerie Dresden. An art gallery that catered to accessible art – mainly photography – and the educating of the general public, it had existed on the corner of Madison Blvd. and Massachusetts Ave. for nearly twenty years now and continued to do a brisk business, continually luring new photographers and artists seeking a venue for their work.

Two stories high, set in the same chestnut brick and gray stone facade that made up all the businesses along Madison, the interior was as startling a contrast to the exterior as the jewel tones and mosaic touches that made up Turn The Page's decor. Here, in the gallery, it was all about simplicity. Glossy, stained oak floors, walls in a cool, soft white, furniture in an understated cool moss.

The photographs, some in brilliant, full-color, others in gritty, yet stunning black and white and the oils, watercolors, and sketches that hung upon the walls were the main focus of the open, airy rooms.

The gallery hadn't opened at this early hour, yet there she stood, a long coat of soft dove gray wool draped over her shoulders, her slender and elegant frame silhouetted in the double doors, a picture of perfect calm and equanimity. Some might say she looked cool and distant.

Kristen knew she was a rock in a storm.

"Mom," she said simply and pressed her cheek to the smooth, soft skin of the older woman, the scent of her light, floral perfume always a familiar comfort.

Valerie pressed a kiss back to her daughter's freckled face, then pulled back glancing at her grandson. She beamed a wide smile, lines appearing faintly at the corners of her pale, jade-green eyes, and pulled him tight for a smacking kiss against his lips. He colored, muttered an "Aw, Grandma," but squeezed her waist anyway.

"So, a day off school, hm?" She winked at him, then slid an arm about his shoulders, tugging at the slick blue material of his windbreaker. "Shouldn't you be wearing something warmer than this?"

"I told him to, Mom, but you know how he is. He's got a sweatshirt and T underneath." Compromises, she believed, made up motherhood.

The trio walked into the warm gallery, already scented with coffee and the freshly baked cinnamon apple fritters that Valerie had bought from the Abbey that morning and the older woman shrugged off the coat, then hung it neatly in the small closet of the sales office.

Kristen couldn't help but feel a small bit of envy for the way her mother could wear clothing. In the same soft green as her eyes and fitted to her lithe, elegant form perfectly, the pantsuit and matching cream silk blouse seemed to have been made to be worn just by Valerie Dresden. The neatly pinned up brunette curls shot with faint streaks of silver only added to that perception of cool, precise character.

Valerie had made many sacrifices in her personal life during those first few years of Seth's life. Both of her parents had. There had been disappointment in her becoming pregnant, yes, but never had there been disdain, anger, or insults. There had been support, love, and strength offered to get through when Ray had cut his losses and left. The Chesney's had claimed that she'd lied, that the baby wasn't his, that Ray would _never_ do anything of the kind, like get a sixteen year old sophomore pregnant when he was an eighteen year old newly graduated senior bound for fame at Notre Dame. So her parents had been..._everything_ during that miserable time in her young life. Her mother had baby-sat while her father had ran the gallery, and often visa-versa, if Valerie had photo-shoots for _Time_ or _Life_ or _National Geographic_.

The older woman made a sign of surprise in her throat when her daughter gave her a fierce hug from behind, then kissed her cheek again before backing out the office door. Shooting a look at her son, whose mouth was full of donut, she shook a finger.

"_You._ You behave. Mom, if he gives you any trouble, call me or come next door. I'll take him after lunch."

"Sure, hon, no problem. I've got some _lovely_ new raw wood frames that need staining and prepping. And I know just the man to do it."

"Grandpa?"

"You wish."

"Aw, _man!_"

* * *

Kristen left Valerius Galleries with a grin on her face. 'Child Labor Laws' he would cry out about later with much indignity. It never failed to amuse her how much he protested working in either shop...yet he bragged to his friends that he was on the payroll and the only guy in the fourth grade to have two part-time jobs.

Mareka was already seated upon the concrete stairs of the shop, wrapped in her vibrantly purple faux fur coat, a book in her hands. At the click of Kristen's loafers upon the pavement, she glanced up over the edge of her reading glasses – which were only for fashion, or so she claimed – and raised a brow.

"You're late."

Rolling her eyes, Kristen trotted up the steps and dug out her keys to unlock the two panels of green metal grate that barred the front door. Sliding both into the places with a rolling click, she unlocked the main doors, then held one open for her friend. "I'm not late and you know it."

"I know, but I had to reset my breaker box and I thought _I _was late so, ya know, I was just gonna accuse you of being late first."

"Am I to perpetually be surrounded by silly people?" She shut the doors, relocked them, then breathed out a sigh at the familiar and educational smell of books and old, polished wood. "Are you sure Seth's not yours?"

"Kid's not pretty enough to be mine."

"Oh, you're _so_ fired."

* * *

Mid-October meant one thing: Halloween.

Kristen had a strict rule when it came to major holidays: no decorating or putting out appropriate inventory until two weeks before said holiday. From her own experience it was just a bit annoying to wander through a store and see stock and decorations for a holiday six weeks in advance. Most people simply didn't begin to think about shopping and planning for those occasions until just about two weeks beforehand and doing so early just felt...too commercial. Holidays were about joy and the pleasure found in seeing children's faces light up with the wonder of it all, the anticipation. There was nothing commercial about that. And the last thing she wanted Turn The Page to be about was commercialism.

So it was that very morning that her and Mareka finally whisked down the boxes marked "Halloween" with little grinning pumpkins drew on them with Sharpies, and began opening them with childish glee to make the bookstore into a werewolf's cave, a vampire's castle, a witches's hut, or a ghost's haunted mansion.

It was another reason why she'd been all too willing to drop Seth off at her mother's gallery and let him spend the day performing "child labor". The fully decorated shop was one of his biggest thrill's of the year and she was looking forward to surprising him with it when she picked him up for lunch.

By noon, when an unsuspecting customer came wandering in, they were greeted by the eerie howl of a distant wolf, the rattle of chains and a witch that swooped down from the ceiling with a cacophony of cackles. She sincerely hoped that no heart patients happened to find that particular addition a little _too _surprising.

On every wall hung thick, milky-white cobwebs, complete with long-legged spiders. Coffins took up every corner, some half-opened with surprises lurking within in the form of paper-wrapped mummies and wax vampires. 'Monster Mash' played appropriately.

Changing into a black velvet dress that flowed about her ankles and cinched tight under her breasts with a faux deep purple corset, Kristen covered her short dark curls with a wig of crimson waves that swayed at her waist with every move. She even made sure to add a rivulet of blood dripped from one corner of a mouth fitted with Scarecrow brand plastic fangs. She wore the same costume year after year, but the kids never tired of it though she knew it embarrassed Seth a bit to see the other guys refer to his mom as a "hottie".

"So he just...left?" Mareka, garbed out in full Gypsy gear, even down to large gold coins that clacked about her hips, turned a glance over her shoulder as she rung a family of four up, then having finished, leaned against the counter. "And you weren't rude, were you? You didn't go all, 'Ew, don't touch me!' on him?"

She'd been telling Mareka about her encounter with the street musician the day before, still perplexed over his volatile reaction.

"No, I swear I didn't. You know me! I even hate the thought of hurting someone else's feelings. It's such a nauseating sensation...No, all I did was pull away and that was only because the spot was burning like hell and I just...didn't want anyone to touch it. I can't stand someone touching my wounds." She shuddered, then ran a hand along the back of her neck under the wig. "And he acted like...like I'd just shot him through the heart. It was...odd." And more disturbing than she cared to admit. She had dreamed about his eyes last night, how they changed in an instant before he walked away.

"Hm...you ask me, he was hard up."

"Mareka!"

"Well! He just...dives across the street to check on a complete stranger, then tries to touch you...I think he was hard up for something. Money, drugs, _you_." When Kristen's cheeks went pink under the make-up, she rolled her eyes. "He's all but homeless, Kris. Those people...you give them money, they spend it on their next fix. Maybe he wanted to get you alone and get his hands on you..."

"Oh just stop." It bothered her, deeply, to hear Mareka voice the very same things she'd woken up thinking about. Maybe it was foolish and sentimental, but after listening to the beauty that came from that solitary man's hands every morning and evening to and from her home had made her feel, in some way, that she _knew_ him. And it discomforted her to know that he could have meant her harm all along.

"It really bothered you, didn't it?" Her friend asked the question gently and quietly, setting a hand on her shoulder. Kristen simply shrugged, then being a horrible liar, sighed and nodded.

"I'm not used to people not liking me."

"Oh, sweetie. Get used to it."

* * *

Seth's reaction had been pure pleasure for Kristen. She'd gone to pick him up from the gallery in her full Wal-Mart vampiric glory, which he had, of course, been quite disgusted by, then led him back to Turn The Page, letting him enter first.

There was little she treasured more than her boy's childish giggles of delight – even if he quickly smothered them with a "Yeah, real cool, Mom."

* * *

Later that afternoon, when Seth was firmly put to work shelving in the children's area – which he claimed he was _far_ too old for – Kristen took a glance about the now quiet store and decided to straighten up a bit. The usual lull on a weekday between three and four o'clock was always a welcome respite for both her and Mareka. The other woman had decided to take her cup of afternoon coffee up to the cozy ring of chairs in the fiction stacks and keep an eye on her friend's son, more for the enjoyment of talking to a funny kid than for believing he might misbehave.

With the shop silent save for the murmur of woman and child upstairs, Kristen ran a dust rag over the long wall of classics in the lobby, took a moment to read a favorite passage of _Pride and Prejudice_, then, seduced by the late afternoon sun skittering through the trees that lined the street outside and the promise of a cool breeze, stepped outside, tucking her hands into the bell-like sleeves of the gothic costume.

Traffic was slower this time of day and the street mainly quiet but for the occasional bus traveling past or minor parking dispute for the much sought after meters. A dozen or so pedestrians and shoppers milled to and from the shops along Madison Boulevard, carriers in their hands full of purchases or a packed late lunch from the Abbey or Aesop's Tables across the street.

From down the boulevard she heard her name being called and stepped out further upon the walk to wave to Antonia George, Mareka's mother. The older African American woman ran her own franchise of Origins, a organic based cosmetic and bath line that Kristen adored – especially with her discount. With a smile, the tall, svelte woman disappeared back into her storefront and shifting her skirts aside, Kristen took a seat on the stoop, chin in palm, and studied the other shops that lined her home away from home.

On her own side of the boulevard, directly to her left, and the last shop on the corner, was Valerius Galleries, then her own humble place of business. Next to Turn The Page, easily identified from the constant barking, was Doggy in the Window, a pet shop ran by a former pest exterminator turned animal rescuer. Finkley Jones only sold the puppies and kittens of rescued pet mamas and reputable owners, something Kristen admired in this time where backyard breeders were a dime a dozen. Gizmo had been bought for Seth there when he'd only been a ball of fuzz and a pink tongue...

Origins and its powdery fresh scents stood next to Finkley's shop, then last was the Abbey, the proprietresses were two young women who had once been dancers but had left the stages of New York to take over for their father when he retired from the barista business. Jamie and Lyssie Sorell were good girls, if a little snobbish at times without meaning to be.

On the other side of Madison and directly across from Valerius Galleries sat Bouquets, a florist's shop. The flora and fauna were always crisp and dewy with perfection, the prices reasonable, and never a delivery made late and those were perhaps the only reason that the shop was as frequented as it was. It certainly wasn't for the proprietor, Jossamee Bouquet, who some described as a "dirty old man". Kristen herself had been stared at one too many times when she'd come in for some fresh blooms for the shop's displays and Mareka claimed he'd once copped a feel of her backside.

Next in line was Aesop's Tables, a small but quaint restaurant and sidewalk café – when the weather allowed – and just as well known for its poetry readings as it was for its Middle-Eastern and Asian-inspired menu. The owner, Orif Rin, was a small, white-haired man with startling green eyes and a quick grin but in truth, little humor. He was often rather detached in conversation, his eyes always drifting out to the street beyond when Kristen had a chat with him over ordering take-out for her and Mareka. He said little though one variable was constant: he always mentioned his son, a former Army Ranger who had disappeared in North Korea and never came home again. There was a picture of him behind the counter, a handsome young man in uniform, dark skinned, smooth hair on his brow, and the same jade green eyes as his father. Orif had held his son in great love and it never failed to raise a flare of sympathy for Kristen to see how he still held the belief that one day his boy would come home again.

Kristen's eyes drifted over to the next shop and she grimaced as a tall, red-headed woman appeared, spitting out rapid-fire Italian and gesturing wildly to the sidewalk and stoop beyond the doorway. Behind Corinna Monticello rushed Piemo Monticello, her harassed and rather small husband, broom in hand, who leaped to sweeping the stoop as quickly as he could, arms flying. His wife stood over him, watching his every move, hands on her trim hips, raining abuse down on his head...or it could have been just random conversation – Kristen certainly didn't know Italian – but in that tone, she highly doubted it. But the proprietors of Monticello Diamonds weren't the happiest of people.

Located directly next to the Monticello's shop was Crackers Comedy Club. Well-known for hosting the best comics state and nation-wide, the brick front building, complete with a red, neon sign in the shape of Charlie Chaplin's face, housed a full bar and small restaurant. The owners, Richie Ferrar and Gill Anderson and their wives ran the popular entertainment club and had since the early eighties. It had even been the sight of a few touring comedic musicals, most recently _Menopause: The Musical_. Kristen had taken her mother and Mareka hers...all four women had came home stumbling drunk and Marius had maintained that it had been a _very_ good thing he and Seth had a "man's" night out that night.

Next to the comedy club sat what had once been a Rexall's Drug Emporium, but now simply sat abandoned, a _For Lease_ sign in one window and the iron grate rusted...and most likely forever locked. It was here where the street musician came to play upon his violin every morning until the sun began to set.

It was here where he no longer was...

Seated upon the stoop, Kristen frowned at that empty corner where he'd stood for so long and wished she'd handled things differently the day before. Where would he go now, she wondered? Madison Boulevard was located in the arts district of the city, one of the few places where the shop keeps and police would tolerate what were essentially pan-handlers. The term bristled her own fur immensely. When had playing in public, for free, simply for a few coins and others' enjoyment become such a crime?

What if she had drove him off? Perhaps...perhaps she was just attaching far too much importance to herself. It was damned conceited to think that something she had done had impacted a man's life so much. But...what if it had? Would he find another place to play? If he didn't, would he starve, lose his home? Would he wind up arrested for vagrancy and panhandling?

_I'll never see him again_.

The thought seemed to come out of nowhere and the sense of loss was so keen that she shook her head and quickly stood to her feet. She was letting this get to her far too much, she decided. A complete stranger's absence shouldn't bother her so badly!

Sighing quietly, she shook out the velvet skirts of the costume and moved back inside the shop. From the upstairs she heard Seth and Mareka having it out over who got the last bag of candy corn.

Now, here was something normal.


	4. Chapter 4

**Wow...so yeah, it's been a while and I must apologize for that. Muses have been defective, work gone crazy. Yeah, yeah excuses excuses! **

**Much thanks to my friend/beta Musique et Amour and to all those who have kept supporting me..even if I am lazy.**

_**What was it about that night**_

_**Connection in an isolating age.**_

_**For once the shadows gave way to light.**_

_**For once I didn't disengage...**_

**_What You Own, Rent Original Sountrack, Motion Picture Cast_**

_**

* * *

**_

**Chapter Four: Connection**

The grind of a hungry stomach and a throat thirsting for more than just tap water woke Erik...for the third time in a row in so many days.

Outside, watery sunlight filtered in through the ragged blinds and he carefully cracked open one eye, regarding the clouds drifting in a timeless fashion over the city, just touching the tops of some threadbare trees that clung to life just outside the crumbling edifice of the once Nehi Factory. There were no storms in the sky, but with years of gauging weather under his belt, he could tell that there will be some showers – perhaps even a downpour – in a couple of hours.

A downpour he'd likely have to be caught in.

It had been three days since he'd last worked and he couldn't waste any more time, not when his landlord had suddenly got a stick up his ass and demanded last month's rent due in a week. One week, one hundred dollars. He didn't have much of a choice but to return to the familiar street corner of Madison and Illinois and try to scrape up enough. If he saw her...then he'd simply ignore her. He had to.

Stifling a low groan in his throat, Erik gritted his teeth and rolled out of the small bed and to his bare feet. Bones that had healed ten years ago, some poorly, ached with the coming rain and sent a shudder of pain through his body. His spine especially, specifically the small of his back, where a large rope of scar laid across the skin, a botched surgery to set fractured vertebrae. That gave him the most trouble of a damp morning; the muscles and tendons that had at last re-attached to the bone protested, tightened and knotted without mercy.

Moving slowly, still not fully awake, he blindly turned on a burner of the decrepit stove, filled the tin percolator with water, and scooped Folgers into the metal filter, then set it on the heat. Until he had his coffee – which he purchased no matter what he had to give up in order to have it – he wouldn't be fit for anything. He rubbed a hand over gritty eyes, then gave the radiator in the corner a kick, nodding when it wheezed into life and began to slowly heat the room. While the percolator began to bubble, he stripped off the worn sweats, tossed them in the basket he'd have to take downstairs to the washing machines and made his way to the tiny bathroom – if it even deserved that name.

The shower/tub combination was spotlessly clean and only because Erik had a severe aversion to filth and grime, but all the scrubbing in the world couldn't hide the rust stains about the drain and faucet, or the showerhead. Or the large crack running from the drain to mid-length of the tub. It was a damned wonder that he never heard the downstairs neighbor complaining about a moldy ceiling. Of course in this place, that might have been a reality, regardless.

The only mirror was a rectangle covered in the same rust spots, that hung over the tiny sink and housed a medicine chest behind it. The sink was butted right up against the shower, the toilet butted right up against the sink, the wall butted right up to the toilet. If he stood in the center of the bathroom, he could touch from wall to wall, palms pressed flush.

As he tugged his hair loose of the elastic band and set it on the sink's ledge, he lifted his eyes to his unmasked face, stared dispassionately at the ruined, mismatched, and missing features, then scratched a hand through the dark blonde that hung long and ragged well past his shoulders. Damn, he needed a haircut. Remorse about his face didn't even rise. He'd just gotten too used to seeing it every morning in the mirror. It only bothered him when he contemplated the idea of seeing it through someone else's eyes...

His body was truly the only aspect of his physical appearance that he studied with a frown. Maybe if he focused more on his lower and upper back the next time he used the machines at the Y, it might help the knotted pain of the badly healed injuries. He made a mental note to stop in for an hour before he was forced to head to his familiar corner. It was fortunate the public gymnasium didn't charge vets a membership fee. The manager of the particular branch was a former Vietnam vet and saw it as his personal duty to screw "The Man" and the system by allowing his fellow forgotten soldier admittance without a blink. Otherwise, Erik would have been hard-pressed to keep his body as tightly and perfectly controlled as he did; he certainly couldn't keep himself as sun-bronzed as he'd once been. Why he took such lengths to insure his body stayed as lean and muscled as it had been the day he'd left Ranger School he had no idea...he just knew he _had_ to.

The spray hit him and he blinked at the opposite wall of the shower for several moments. It was _warm_. "Well, I'll be damned..." Had Swenson finally decided to spring for a new water-heater for the seventh floor? It'd be a fucking miracle if he had. But the water beating down on his back was hot, raising steam to the cracked ceiling and he decided not to look a gift-horse in the mouth and just take advantage. With a low moan, he tilted his head back, let it soak his hair and pour over his chest, careful to keep his forehead out of the rivulets. He'd learned the hard way that first ever shower after freedom that water in the nose was like acid down his throat and sinuses.

But he'd only just lathered up his body with soap when the spray sputtered, protested, and turned into bitter, ice-cold blades into his skin.

"Oh, _fuck_ me."

* * *

After he'd showered and dressed, Erik combed out his wet, snarled hair, affixed his mask, and swiped up hat, duffel bag, violin case, and coat headed out the door.

Today the hall smelled like someone's breakfast, greasy enough to leave of film on the air and the odor of onions permeating the walls. As hungry as he was after trying to ration out his cereal for a few more mornings, the smell did nothing but set his stomach to churning. Disgusted, he pounded down the stairs as fast as he could, but in a place like this, it was nearly impossible to escape foul odors for long. In one stairwell he caught the bitter whiff of urine and knew someone's kid hadn't been able to make it to the toilet in time...or another vagrant had wandered in and just didn't care if he peed in someone else's home.

On the final flight of stairs there was a body sprawled across the stairwell. Ragged clothes, a face that hadn't been shaved in months, a red, bulbous nose, veins broken across the surface. And a brown paper bag wrapped around a bottle, lying useless in the lifeless hand. Whiskey had struck the floor as he had fallen, splattered the walls, pooled grotesquely by the man's head. If it had been blood, it would have been an intense study for the crime scene investigators. The spatter would have illustrated how the man had came down, how the bottle had struck. But it wasn't blood and no one would care to investigate this death. The perpetrator in this crime couldn't be held responsible.

Jack Daniels couldn't be charged in the murder of a man who had drunk himself to death.

Erik studied the dead man, his mouth a grim line, his eyes focused on the threadbare BDU blouse the man wore under his stained trench. _Harrison_, _US Army_. Erik crouched down, flicking the tails of his own trench out of the way of the pooled whiskey and gently spread the blouse a bit, saw the glint of rusted metal underneath and gingerly pulled free the man's dog tags. _Harrison, Ronald B. 214-58-0939 A Neg Orthodox. _He let them fall back onto the man's chest. The man's rank was on his chest. He'd been a Lieutenant. Airborne Division. Vietnam. A man who'd fought for his country. Abandoned by the government that he fought for, the family that he'd supported, and the very country that should have honored him.

Erik lifted the tags again, set them gently on the man's lips, knowing they wouldn't part to fix them between his teeth as was fitting for a fallen soldier, then rose, leaving the body there to be found. Outside, the October air had a vicious bite, unseasonably cold for this month and he lowered his head, the hat taking much of the brunt and headed for the YMCA.

The sun was just rising, the sky a hushed purple, but a lighter coating of gold-licked pink lined the edges of the horizon, setting the city to gently flame against its backdrop.

At this time, on this route, his mind was usually consumed with thoughts of what he'd play, how much he'd hope to make, what he could afford to purchase at the grocery.

This morning was different.

All he could think, the only thing that played through his mind, over and over, like a mantra:

_That will be me one day._

* * *

A couple of hours later, he was trembling with exhaustion and dripping with sweat. Stripped to the waist in sweats, Erik swiped up the plain white t-shirt that he'd worn into the machine room and mopped the rivulets that soaked his hairline and chest. It left a glistening trail down his bare back, darkening the pulled back hair resting between his shoulder blades and he knew he was going to have to shower again in the locker room.

_At least it'll be warm._

As he walked through the upper level of the gymnasium, heading for the men's locker room, he was more than aware of the looks cast at him from both sexes, not all of them curious about the mask, but some with obvious appraisal of his body. He was used to it here or anytime he had the concealing trench off. Even now, shirtless and scars easily visible upon his skin, he knew his body was long and lithe, cut with defined muscles. He supposed it should have flattered him that others looked upon him and wanted him, regardless of the mask and the eccentricity of it. But all it raised in him was a bitter knot in his gut, a severe loathing for these people who would be more than willing to have him for a quick screw, but wouldn't want to even acknowledge his existence if they knew what he _really_ looked like under that mask.

In the lockers he stripped, stuffed his sweats in his bag, pulled free a towel and headed to the commune shower, unashamedly naked, but kept the mask in place until he stepped under the spray. Then the white leather joined the towel on the nearby shelf and he ducked his head, pulling the thick curtain of hair over his features as he scrubbed, both to keep water out of the cavity and prying eyes away from his face. He'd only had the mask grabbed from the shelf once in the years he'd been showering here and the nineteen year old kid who'd thought he was something big hadn't been quite so tough when he'd had his own nose broken and his throat sucker punched. The Y's manager had explained, patiently, to the choking and bleeding little sack of shit that he and Mr. DeLauter had an understanding about the mask and no, he wasn't going to call the police, but if he wanted to cry like a pansy and call the bacon brigade himself, to go right on ahead.

When he'd finished, he dressed in his street clothes once again and made his way out of the gym, giving the manager at the front desk a brief wave and nod, then it was out, back onto the concrete again.

It hadn't yet begun to rain, but the sky still held its promise that it might just do that. Moving in between pedestrians, Erik ignored the way his stomach rolled with hunger as he passed Le Peeps and the odor of freshly crisped bacon drifted out to him. A normal breakfast plate there ran close to fifteen dollars – there was no way he could ever get a hot meal there. Instead he waited until he reached a street corner vendor that had sausage, egg, and cheese burritos for a dollar fifty and handed over every penny that he'd made the last day he worked: a dollar fifty. Perhaps it did taste as if it had come straight from the freezer, but it was hot and it half-way decent. He wolfed it down in three bites on the way to Madison and Illinois.

Gray eyes fixed upon the corner immediately, and he noted with satisfaction that it was empty. Vagrants here were a dime a dozen and it wasn't unusual to find someone there before him if he woke too late.

Setting down his violin case, he flipped it open, pulled free the instrument, nudged the open case before him, then leaned comfortably against the brick wall behind him. Bow poised upon the strings, he blew out a long, slow breath, then opened his eyes, fixing them across the street at the coffee shop where he'd first seen her. She wasn't there, of course. Just a couple of businessmen with their steaming cups of latte heading to their offices somewhere uptown. He hadn't expected to see her. He didn't _want_ to see her. Repeating that harshly to himself beneath his breath, he began to play.

* * *

By noon he had close to thirty dollars. His gut was wrong about the storm for once, and the sun had decided to let itself be known afterall and it shimmered down upon the streets through the yet thick clouds. The occasional gentle sprinkle lit the buildings and passing vehicles like diamonds thrown asunder.

Pleased by what he'd made so far and soothed by the hours of solitude and music, Erik decided that he could spare five dollars of the money and buy himself something for lunch beyond just a bologne sandwich at the market two streets over. Packing up the violin, he looked up and down Madison Boulevard and decided to walk around the corner and grab a hot bowl of chili cheese crawfish etouffe at Yats, the well-known – and dirt cheap – Cajun/Creole restaurant.

The place was packed, as usual, but he managed to find a table for two tucked away in a corner, set his coat, hat, and violin case in one chair, then took up the other with himself and his meal. Nearly ravenous, he had the styrofoam plate cleaned in less than three minutes. He knew that some of the other customers were either giving him looks of pity at his obviously impoverished state or with the morbid curiosity that always came when someone was seen in a handicapped state. He had never thought of his mask as a handicap...but a surprising amount of people did. Speaking to him loudly as if he was deaf, opening doors for him when he needed no help, avoiding meeting his eyes when he was passed on the sidewalk. A mask implied that a deformity, whether mental or physical, lay beyond its barrier...and a deformity meant a lack of intelligence and helplessness.

Finishing his meal, he rose, disposed of his plate and fork, then took up his things to leave.

And she walked in.

* * *

It had been a terribly long day at the shop. With Christmas in only a couple of months, the holiday stock had to be ordered and Kristen had been upon the phone nearly all the morning and half the afternoon, placing orders and haggling for better prices with the distributors.

The main hitch had come when her guest author for the month's agent had called and cancelled...the day before she was to come for an hour of reading and a book signing promoting her newest young adult novel. The YA division was one of the fastest moving areas of her store. If she lost the business that came from haviing a constant carousel of authors through to promote that most popular of sections...it would hurt. Unfortunately it was very unethical for Turn the Page to still keep up the banners and two posters hung in the shop advertising Margo Keith's visit when the woman wouldn't be by...or to let those who had signed up for the workshop the author would lead afterward, labor under a false impression that she would still be there. So the round of calls she'd had to make, including printing up flyers to apologize for the cancellation of the afternoon had had to be handled before she could attempt to get anyone else to take Ms. Keith's place.

She hadn't found anyone.

The store had needed a visit from an author, something to draw others in, get sales up. A Barnes and Noble was located only four city blocks away and the massive chain that featured a multi-media department as well as its own Starbucks wasn't just a major competitor. It was a big bully with size fourteen feet and she the 80 pound weakling getting sand kicked in her face. There had to be _something_...

Lunch time couldn't have come at a better time. Ravenous, she pushed through the doors of Yats, Mareka at her side. What a pair they made...Mareka was in soft, yet vibrant lime green, complete with a corset top over the flowing skirt, also in that flattering shade, trimmed in black lace, her braids piled atop her head like a 80's acid bordello queen and Kristen the complete opposite in a pair of dove gray slacks and a dark violet sweater conservatively cut, her short curls pinned behind her ears. They couldn't have been more opposite if they'd tried to be, and yet those opposing personalities and even ways of dress complimented one another perfectly, especially in the shop where tourists appreciated an eccentricity like Mareka and the regulars someone understated like Kristen.

As she crossed to the artistically drawn up chalkboards, a faint grin couldn't help but pass over lips as almost every male head – and some female – in the place turned to watch Mareka stroll to the counter, the ripely curved hips beneath the thin linen skirt moving with a seductive sway that wasn't learned, but inherited, the dark, waist length plaits lapping at the bit of skin left bare by the bodice top, the gold glinting on mocha colored arms and even a flash at her small ankles. The woman was pure seductive grace, from her full, curved lips, down her sleek neck, over laced up breasts, elegant line of spine, to the curve of rear and the length of her legs. She was sexy without trying...and could be lethal when she turned that sensuality on another. Kristen should have hated her – she'd kill to be that alluring without thought – but the other woman was her best friend and she was crazy about her.

For those very reasons that made Mareka a tempting dish to every male in sight, she was shocked to find one pair of eyes in the small restaurant fixed unwaveringly on her. She felt the gaze even before she turned from the boards to order a plate of sweet corn etouffee. The lunch request were on her lips, but faded away into a indistinguishable murmur as she saw the dark shadow from the corner of her eye. A turn of her head and he was in her line of sight.

_Still waters run deep..._

It was the only thing that came to mind as she met eyes as a gray as a morning in the city when the sun is not yet up and every thing was tinged with the weight of the dusk. Quiet...that's what his eyes were...quiet. The muted gold of blonde that hung past his shoulders, that gentle light promised, spilled against black only added to the sense of reverent hush that reminded her so much of those pre-dawn mornings.

All that...in a matter of moments – mere seconds – and she felt the shock to her core. She'd crossed to him before she'd even realized it and tilted her head back, her eyes fixed upon his.

"Will you play for me?"


End file.
