#the disaster hubris in these bitches is IMMENSE

[essektheylyss]

This has zero bearing on the bracket and is not actually relevant, to be clear; it's only because I'd forgotten I was playing a wizard today while I was making the bracket and thought it was funny as hell when I remembered, and these two are simultaneously the same and polar opposites on the chaos fey wizard spectrum.

[kikyozoldyck]

i. catch me if you can

PAIRING: diego hargreeves x reader SUMMARY: you’re really going to put the Kraken behind bars. you mean it this time.  WARNINGS: mentions of shooting people, also diego being a fuckboi extreme

-- “I will shoot you, you know.” You say with only half a sigh, pointing your pistol at The Kraken. The alley you’re in is secluded, the only possible witness being the two deceased crime bosses whose blood is staining your shoes, you could kill the Kraken now and finally put a permanent end to this hair-pulling cat and mouse game you’re always playing.

“You say that every time officer.” He laughs, and he actually sounds fond.

“Well, maybe tonight is your lucky night.” You reply, making a show of clicking off the safety. You line the barrel to his head; you could very easily shoot him in the forehead and get a medal from the city.

The Kraken does not look impressed.

“I’ll dodge.” He informs you like this is the first time you’ve ever tried to shoot him. You can almost see him winking at you from behind his tacky tuxedo mask.

“I’ve got seven bullets left.” You say, and the Kraken grins. He’s got a very nice mouth, you think for a moment, all lush lips, white teeth, and wickedness. It’s pretty enough to carry romcoms and sell Colgate, and you’re not sure why he wastes it on vigilante justice. And you’re pretty sure that it just gets prettier every time you see it, which is far too often. “You can’t dodge them all.”

“You’d be surprised.” The Kraken remarks casually, and it’s your turn to grin. He yanks one of his knives out of a victim, gently wiping it clean of blood before stashing it in his breast pocket, “I’m very nimble.”

“You’re such a douche.” You huff, as he dislodges his blade from the second crime boss’s sternum, “Hubris. Pride cometh before a fall.”

“Hubris.” The Kraken muses, “look at you, Detective Dictionary.”

“Don’t call me that.” You snap, firing a warning shot to the left of his head. The bastard doesn’t even flinch, “we’re not friends.”

“What would you call us then officer?” The Kraken asks, and for a moment you swear he sounds offended. “I mean, we see each other all the time, I know your coffee order, and I bring you gifts.” He nods towards the dead kingpins, “we sure sound like friends, unless, of course, this is more of a booty call situation.” You choke on air, and it seems to please the Kraken immensely because his grin widens. Sadistic bastard.

“I hate you.” You say with feeling. “And, for the record, I would call us a trigger-happy criminal,” you point towards him, “and the cop who’s going to bust his sorry ass.” You touch your thumb to your chest. “Because that’s all we are to each other.”

“Don’t act like I don’t catch you checking my ass out every time I run away.” He replies, tipping an eyebrow at you from over his mask.

“Fuck you.” When the Kraken opens his mouth, you hurry to add, “Don’t you dare make a joke about that, or I swear on my life I will shoot you!” You glare. And this seems to tickle the bastard pink. He actually bounces on the balls of his feet.

“You already said that part.” He teases.

“This time I mean it.” You warn. “Seriously, hands up.” The Kraken tucks them behind his back. “What are you, five? Stop being so immature.” The Kraken sticks his tongue out. “Dick.” The Kraken nods agreeably.

“So I’ve been told.”

You’re about to say something to the effect of ‘go to Hell,’ probably accompanied by a bullet in his toned ass because you’re going to do it this time, you are. You’re going to stop the Kraken, and it only took you two years, three months and twelve days (but who’s counting?). 

You don’t even have to shoot fatally, although you’re pretty sure everyone in your department would want you to. You can aim for one of the Kraken’s very muscular arms, or maybe his long, lithe legs. It will be fine, and the Kraken really deserves it for all the trouble he’s put you through over the years.

Only, you can’t make yourself pull the trigger.

You hear the sirens, and watch as the Kraken pulls his hands out slowly from behind his back. He’s already scaling the side of the building, and this is the shooting part, this is where you suck it up and do your fucking job, where you catch a criminal.

“Catch you later.” You say instead, cocking the safety back on and shoving your gun back into your pants.

The Kraken laughs and disappears into the night.

*

The thing is, you’re a good cop. You’re amazing at your job, and you’re the youngest ever to make detective in your precinct. You’ve got dozens of successful arrests under your belt, some of them pretty high-profile stuff.

You’re a good cop, but you’re a little slow on one case, and no one can seem to forget it.

It’s mostly teasing, and you can take it because the majority of it is good-natured. Friendly ribbing is just a part of being an officer, and you know when it comes down to it these guys will have your back. It’s not the teasing that gets you.

It’s the sympathy.

“C’mon hun, don’t look so down,” Flo from reception tells you, plopping a chocolate covered pity donut on your desk, “you’ll get the son of a bitch next time.”

“Yeah,” agrees Eudora, not bothering to look up from her pile of booking reports, the same way she has a million times before this, “you’ll get the bastard.”

And you don’t tell them that you  already got the bastard. That you’ve had him completely cornered a dozen times, but the Kraken’s always close enough to getting away that you would have to shoot him to stop him. And you can’t do it. You can never do it.

And you don’t tell them that the Kraken always laughs when you tell him you’ll shoot him or that he sounds so delighted when he does. It’s like he thinks it’s a game. Maybe he does—the asshole’s crazy.

“Yeah, sure.” You say tepidly, mostly to wipe that sad smile off of Flo’s face and take a large bite of your pity donut. 

After an hour, you realize you’re too disappointed in yourself to get any actual work done and go home early to wallow in privacy. It takes all the strength in your body not to scream when your captain tells you that “you’re getting close” to catching the Kraken on your way out.

--

Your apartment is still a disaster from last night. You’d had your sister over for dinner, which quickly turned into her talking about the hot new CPA at work, and drinking a dent into your surplus of boxed wine.

You were only half interested honestly, the rest of your focus going to psyching yourself up to put a bullet in the Kraken the next time you saw him (a plan that clearly failed). You did offer to break the lady’s kneecaps if she hurts her, but your sister just giggled and told you in a syrupy voice that she can do that herself, thank you very much. You laughed, although you know she hadn’t been joking. You honestly think you might have to cover up a murder for her in the future.

You toss your bulky Police Department coat on a chair and check your answering machine. One from your mom, one from your neighbor, and one from your sister. That is the extent of your social life at the moment —your family calling to see if you've met a nice boy and your senile neighbor asking if you’ve seen her cat.

“So, I talked to Donna.” Your sister drawls from the machine. Donna, the hot new CPA at work. “And she has got a friend that is an honest to god millionaire. Told him all about you. You call me; you get his number. Take him to that one club you like, show him all your moves. He’ll marry you like, tomorrow.” She laughs. ��And then, you’ll be able to afford better wine.”

“I didn’t know you liked to dance.”

“Holy mother of god.” you yelp, going for the light switch.

The Kraken is sitting in your favorite armchair, his long legs crossed on your new ottoman and his annoyingly perfect lips formed into a smug smile.

“Hi.” The Kraken waves and you reach for the gun on your belt. “No, come on. I haven’t committed a crime this time!”

“You’re breaking and entering!” you exclaim, gesturing wildly to your darkened apartment, “you are committing a crime right now, and anyway, you have been committing crimes for the past two years!”

“Your window was unlocked. I thought it was an invitation.” The Kraken says easily, reclining in your armchair, “Simple misunderstanding.”

“My window is triple-bolted.” you grit out, and go to check, “You—actually, how did you do that?” You can’t help but be a little curious, because all of the bolts are still in perfect condition, open, and they were on the inside of the window. You turn back to stare at the Kraken accusingly, just in time to see him shrug.

“Secret of the trade.” He chirps, grabbing your remote control off of your coffee table, “So, as long as I’m here, how has your day been?”

“Did you seriously pick three locks and wait in my dark apartment for who knows how long just to ask how my day has been?” The Kraken nods easily. You laugh a little hysterically. “Awful. My day has been awful because no one can stop talking about what a failure I am for not bringing you in.”

“Hey, you’re not a failure.” The Kraken tells you earnestly. And you’re still not reaching for your gun. You tell yourself it’s just because you don’t want to get blood on your new ottoman. It’s a lie. “You’re a great detective.”

“How do you know that?” you ask bitterly. “Your only contact with me has been when I’ve failed to capture you.”

“No, your arrest records are amazing.” The Kraken argues sincerely. “Seriously, I mean, you took down the entire Corelli crime family by yourself.”

You take a deep breath, close your eyes for a moment and clench your fists. The information about the Corelli family has been under tight wraps in the police department, and the only people who know who arrested them are the other officers in your precinct.

And there’s no way the Kraken could be one of the officers you trust your life with. No way in Hell.

“Have you been stalking me?” You ask, narrowing your eyes at him.

There is a long silence.

“No?” The Kraken  says unsurely, flipping idly through the channels of your television, “does Google count?”

“Just Google?” you press, suspicious. Google wouldn’t tell him about the Corellis and it sure as hell wouldn’t tell him your address.

Another long silence.

“Maybe the police database too...” He admits, sounding a little sheepish. He turns the volume down on the television and turns towards you with a little shrug, “know your enemy?”

“Right.” you sigh, running a hand through your tangled hair, “Fan-fucking-tastic. I’ll just add stalking to the list of crimes I’ll eventually need to arrest you for. It’s a pretty long list. You actually have your own drawer in my filing cabinet.”

“Wow, uh, thanks.” The Kraken says, and he doesn’t even sound like he’s being facetious. He sounds honestly thrilled at the thought. “So, want to sit and talk?” He gestures grandly towards your other chair like he’s doing you a huge favor by allowing you to sit on your own furniture.

“I need food.” you mutter, shuffling towards your fridge. “Leftovers. I need wine and cold pizza.” You glance over your shoulder at The Kraken. “Do you want some cold pizza?”

For the first time since he’s arrived, the Kraken actually looks a little surprised.

“Uh.” He says, shifting a little in his chair. “That, that sounds good. Thank you.”

“You’re not a vegetarian, are you?” you ask distrustfully, carrying the various boxes over to the coffee table before collapsing on the free, though marginally less comfortable than the armchair, loveseat. “Because this is pepperoni.”

“Pepperoni’s fine.” The Kraken says, with this weird little laugh. You nod and take a slice before handing the plate over.

“So, that’s it? We’re just going to sit and eat?” He asks as you pour yourself a hefty glass of wine. He doesn’t sound disappointed, exactly—more confused, and little… no, that’s not hope. It’s not, because that would be crazy.

“Well, I’m not going to shoot you because I’m a wuss when it comes to you, apparently.” You shrug, taking an ungraceful gulp of wine, “Plus, I’ve seen the way you move, so I probably couldn’t even move to get to my gun without you breaking my hand, or throwing one of your knives at me.”

“I left my knives in my other crime-fighting pants.” The Kraken  frowns, biting into his pizza slice, “and anyway, I would never hurt you.” He actually sounds serious. You consider, you’ve met each other at least fifty times before now, and the Kraken hasn’t attacked you once, even when you’ve pulled your gun on him. He just dances out of the way, and laughs, and disappears.

And you’re not sure why. Especially, when you think about the damage, the Kraken’s done to the others that cross his path. Most of the people he hurts are criminals—no, all of them are. They’re all criminals, and they’re always left hogtied somewhere you or another officer can find them, like wrapped presents on Christmas morning. The Kraken doesn’t hurt people who haven’t committed a crime, but that doesn’t mean he’s not going to start doing it in the future. You would be a prime candidate, considering all the time you spend together, and the fact that he knows where you live.

“Fine, you would neutralize me effectively without causing extensive harm using your awesome ninja skills” You amend, and the smile he’s wearing warms a few degrees, “Still doesn’t sound like a fun time. Besides, I don’t want my apartment to become a crime scene. The second I see you out on the streets though—bang bang, I swear.”

“I wouldn’t mind you banging me.” The Kraken chirps, and you gape at him for a second.

“Please, I’d destroy you, like, sexually.” You say over the lip of your wine glass once you’ve recovered, “You’re not prepared for this. Not to brag.”

“Is that a challenge?” The Kraken asks thoughtfully, taking a generous bit of his pizza. You wonder for a moment how he’s going to get the grease stains out of his gloves. He must have a great dry cleaner, considering how much blood he must get on his outfit. Or does he just have a dozen of those at home? Can you order tuxedo masks and leather harnesses in bulk?

“You live here alone?” The Kraken asks, pretending to focus on the HGTV program on the screen.

You roll your eyes, “you know I do. You probably watch me brush my teeth from the window across the street.” There is a guilty silence, and suddenly you’re a lot more self-conscious of all the time you spend dancing around your apartment in your underwear. “Seriously, you have problems,” you tell him bluntly, “and it’s not fair, because I can’t return the favor.”

“You’d stalk me?” The Kraken asks, tilting his head and looking entirely too flattered at the thought.

“Know your enemy.” You repeat to the Kraken, and he actually laughs. He does that a lot, and oddly enough it’s never mean, never gloating. He sounds like he thinks you’re funny.

“So, you going to call Mr. McSexy Millionaire?” The Kraken prompts, and you sigh, running a hand through your hair.

“I am not going to sit here and talk boys with you like we’re having a sleepover.” You inform the man harshly, and then completely ruin it by adding, before you can help yourself, “And just for the record, it doesn't matter to me whether he’s rich or not.” You don’t know why it matters when you’re going to arrest him one of these days anyway, but you don't want the Kraken somersaulting around town thinking you’re some gold digger.

The Kraken nods sagely.

“Waiting for the right person.” He guesses. “I can respect that. You should date someone you think you can love for the rest of your life. A connection is important.”

“Seriously?” you ask incredulously. “You’re giving me love advice?” You pause to consider for a moment. “Wait, are you happily married? Because that would really fuck my game up. I did this whole criminal profile on you to give to the Feds, and in it, I described you as an emotionally stunted, lonely bachelor who lives in, like, a boiler room -- or something.”

Something about the idea of the Kraken being married makes your stomach hurt a little. It must be from pity for the poor soul who would marry this schmuck — nothing else.

The Kraken rears back a little, frowning.

“I’m not emotionally stunted or lonely! I have a full, rich life, and I don’t need a relationship to validate my self-worth.” He snaps, sounding genuinely offended, “and for your information, I live in the in-law apartment of the gym, not the boiler room! ”

“In-law, huh?” you take a cheerful bite of pizza. “Guess who’s going to start investigating every gym with an in-law tomorrow.”

“How do you know I wasn’t just lying to throw you off?” The Kraken asks taking an intentional bite of his pizza, but you’re not buying it.

“An emotionally stunted, lonely bachelor living in a gym. Shouldn’t be too hard.” you tease. You’re actually pretty excited about this. There are a ton of gyms in the city, especially boxing ones. Still, how many gym owners are left are there that look quite like the Kraken? It’s not like he’s got a lot of skin showing, but honestly, you know his body by heart. Because you’re a cop, and you only note details that might lead to IDing a perp. Obviously. “I’ll be at your place by noon.”

The Kraken grimaces, and you get the distinct impression he’s glaring at you through his mask. “You won’t.” He says, and he sounds certain. “Because then you’d have to arrest me, and you won’t do that.” He takes a vicious bite of his pizza to emphasize his words.

“I will arrest you.” You glare, swallowing the last bite of your pizza and leaning forward in your seat, gripping the armrests tightly, “Just because I don’t want unnecessary bloodshed doesn’t mean I won’t do my job.”

“Okay.” The Kraken says easily, rising to his feet after placing the plate gently on the coffee table. The glutton ate three pieces. “You can arrest me next time, okay? We’ve just had a lovely meal, and we shouldn’t ruin that with fighting.”

“Uh, no. I’m arresting you. Now.” You move to stand up too, but the Kraken’s already at the window. Damn, he’s fast. You don’t even bother pulling your gun, because the guy’s got one foot on the ledge. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.” The Kraken agrees, and then he leans forward and kisses you on your cheek. “Thanks for the pizza. Let me get dinner next time. I know this amazing donut place!”

And he’s gone. Once you snap out of the frankly shameful haze the Kraken put you in, you smack your forehead once with your palm and pick up the plate to wash it. 

Next time you pull your gun and pull the trigger. No more talking.

--

PREV | NEXT

this is going to be like a 4 part serious so buckle up kids !

taglist: i don’t have a series taglist yet but hit me up if you want on it @gwendolyns

[bewarethewolfarmy]

Wanderings in the Dark

(Bitch you thought that was the only chapter? Nah son i don't play like that

I kid, I kid. I'm tired and it's late...

Summary: Erik has many regrets following his actions at the Opera but a chance memory causes him to find himself on the way into a strange new situation, in a strange new place, with a familiar person...

Prologue

Divinity in the Library )

This whole thing had devolved into a madhouse and a disaster and Erik knew that it was entirely his own fault. Hubris and madness, that was it; he was too proud, too arrogant, too certain of his abilities and unaware of the truth staring him in the face. Or maybe just purposefully acting as if he was somehow blind to that which was obvious.

Christine loved Raoul, Christine did not love him; it did not matter how many times he tried to lure her to his side, it did not matter what he did to try to assure her a shining place among the stars, it did not matter if their voices together were heavenly and to him they fit so much better than that fool slave of fashion. His face, his actions, his soul so rotten to the core, he was a monster and Christine didn't want a monster...didn't deserve a monster. Her fear of him, he deserved that. Her hatred and revulsion, that too he deserved. That kiss, that cruel sweet kiss, that he coerced, that he forced; he held the man she truly loved hostage and begged her to be his and she was for a second but he knew the truth. He supposed he always had. She was not his and never would be; all she could be was a beautiful memory, the heartbeat in his chest, an angel he very nearly ruined by his selfishness and anger. It was not right to keep her, it was not his right to keep her.

Yet the loneliness was immense and he could not deny that either. Shaking through his body, he was overcome with a mixture of all sorts of emotions. He wanted to cry, he wanted to scream, he wanted to beg her to come back, he wanted her to run away as far and fast as her legs could take her. He wanted to kill and wanted to be killed; his whole world, a place he had built up for years, was falling apart and this too he would acknowledge was a result of his own actions but it did nothing to bring comfort to a soul that felt so hurt and scarred. Self preservation overcame and by way of trickery and genius he found himself in the catacombs, not quite running but certainly not walking.

The idea of what to do now did strike him though the answer floated somewhere he couldn't quite reach. He could not stay there, this much he was sure of, but he had been under the opera house for so long that a life outside seemed even less welcoming than it had been when he first arrived. Thoughts of those years, time that had passed in both a blink of an eye and at a snail's crawl, brought about old things, dreams he had not had in years.

Or maybe just one dream in particular.

He hadn't had it in many years, since long before he knew Christine, when he had only been dreaming of the potential of finding someone who might understand him, love him; he had dreamed it one night and for days felt it clinging to his bones, filling him equally with a sense of longing and of sadness. But dreams were but dreams, and it only ever visited him once; over time it faded and he realized that he'd forgotten it entirely, lost to some corner of his memory alongside all others that meant nothing. The song it centered on remained alone and even in singing it he never remembered before. That it returned to him now felt strange but as he continued forward, he found that lovely song returning to the forefront, the one he sang to Christine, to ensnare her, to please her. But this version was different, the words more ethereal, and each brought with it memory; the dream returned clearer with all it's sensations and emotions. The feel of the rain against his skin, the cold that nipped away at him, the darkness of that night, the strangeness of those sights; her voice calling to him, melting into his, harmonized and clear. Warmth that radiated from her fingertips, softness of a smile, kindness of a sensation, and those eyes. Red, a bright color, staring into him, unafraid of the truth. Unafraid of his face.

There was light at the end of this tunnel and it occurred to him that that should not be. That the catacombs were lit best by candlelight but this was something far too clear to be that. And the stagnant sense of the air was getting less so, hinted by something different, something musky but not rotten; he ran a hand along the wall, brick and mortar, and felt it smooth out, eventually turning more even and less ancient. He knew not what was happening, he knew not why, but the words kept coming and he sang them still, aware after time that he could hear that voice again, answering him, calling to him, singing alongside him. The path ended in what seemed to be a cellar but nothing made sense in this; the catacombs led to no simple cellar, and this place bode no remembrance in the man who had traveled them so many times, over and over and over again, that he could walk them in his slumber if need be. Above his head was a door, half cracked open, the source of the bright light that he had effectively been following to this place; wooden stairs stood before him and a mixture of curiosity and apprehension joined with the confusion to make himself feel uncertain.

A hand going up to his face made the choice for him. He had left with such speed and urgency that he was left behind his mask, he had ventured into the darkness with the expectation of either finding some place to hide before finding a way to rebuild what was lost or dying, one or the other. Not finding himself in a place that smelled of old wood and cinnamon, surely nowhere near where he had begun but at the same time impossible to be so far away. He could not move forward, he could not go through that doorway and to wherever that familiar voice was coming from, not like this, not seen. Even remembering that dream, how they'd seen him already, known his face, touched it even, this did not dispel all the years of hatred and disgust from others, the knowledge of fear in others and fear in himself. He could not go, he could not follow; he leaned against the wall and clenched his fist, knowing that he could not dare enter that light.

But the voice. It was just too sweet, too familiar, and he could not stop himself singing with it still. As he had done so long ago, as he remembered; those memories filled his view instead, the way the girl had looked at him, the way the angel had smiled. And her tears as that song had come to it's end, his hesitation and fear to let it only for the dream to end with his regret. He had been unwilling to properly answer her then but that was when he was so lonely the idea of anyone being by his side had been like water in the desert. Erik had now lost his love, the woman he wanted more than anything, his beautiful and wonderful Christine; to let her go so she was safe, to give her back to Raoul who she loved so much, to disappear into the shadows like the unwanted monster he was. He had no reason not to let himself give in, even if this too was only a dream; if so, then at least he could come back from this one without the same regret.

“You alone can make my song take flight,” he sang, closing his eyes as he left himself melt away into the dream, certain that as then this time too he would wake to more familiar, colder surroundings.

“Help me make the music of the night.” He did not realize immediately that more light had filled the cellar, nor did he note that the voice he could hear, far away before, was now much closer. But both things occurred to him at about the same time and his eyes shot open, looking up at the entry to the cellar to see the door open and someone looking down at him.

With so much light behind them it was hard at first to make them out and for this his flight instinct took immediate control; the phantom flew towards the nearest hidden space, scrambling to cover his face even just with his hands. Self consciousness, self hatred, defense and uncertainty; he closed his mouth to try to keep from making a sound or even to breathe. Footsteps down the steps came and that voice, no longer singing but still appealing, spoke out, echoing through the darkness of the cellar. “Hello? Please don't hide, I'm not going to hurt you or anything.”

Listening he realized the voice was more mature than he remembered; the one he knew had been young, sweet as honey and hovering on the edge of death. It was fundamentally the same voice but it sounded slightly older and far less sad; the words were clear and there was a tinge of something similar to curiosity to them. He dared not give into such a thing, that accursed ideal known as curiosity, and he ducked between wooden shelves filled with cobwebs, away from the light, away from the voice. He looked for the darkest corner, the best place to hide, and hope she'd give up; being seen after what he had gone through, to be reviled once more so soon after what he'd done and had to give up, he was not sure he would be able to handle such a thing.

He found such a spot within a section where one broken bookcase leaned against another, enough of a space for even him to hide behind and he was quite good at such things. Footsteps echoed through the darkness and it occurred to Erik that she hadn't turned on the lights; strange if she was trying to find him, wouldn't it make more sense to want to see? It was so dark and cold within this place and while he was used to such things, darkness and night were his domain, the only things in which he felt comfortable to be himself and not someone else, but she came from the world of light and those from the world of light shouldn't be so comfortable in the world of shadows. Yet the footsteps moved with such ease and he found himself half curious to watch from his hiding spot, trying to see if he could catch sight of her, get a proper glimpse of her.

In doing so he got a chance, once his eyes fully adjusted, to get a look at his surroundings. It was clearly no ordinary cellar, filled more with shelving and cabinets than it was anything else. Dust and spiderwebs were all about and there seemed to be documents scattered about. The air held the scent of old paper and cinnamon, of something ancient and barely hidden; his skin tingled and he didn't quite know why, what sensation or emotion was trying to speak to him in that moment, simply that it did and was and he was drawn towards it. Taking a breath it filled him and the same itch that drove him to want to sing filled his mind again but the anxiety and paranoia of being found held it back and he clenched his chest with one hand, feeling the contradictions pain him.

“Hello?” And again there was her; she spoke and he tried to search for where she herself was at the moment. He could make out her figure moving some good feet away and this master of the art of people watching, if not sometimes a novice in understanding them, took note of the way she moved. It had it's own kind of grace though different than that of a dancer or performer; it was certain enough in it's knowledge of it's environment, comfortable even in the darkness, but she hesitated once or twice. This he attributed to her trying to find him, locate where he was and try to get him to come out. Erik had no intention of doing so and chewed lightly on his lower lip as he kept his eyes on her, just in case she did get too close.

The tug upon his pants leg went unnoticed for the first few times it happened, and then he was certain that it had to be some kind of trick of his mind; he could not put it past his stressed and still reeling mind to imagine things, even this whole situation, though for what reason he couldn't begin to understand. But it slowly got more....insistent perhaps? It was hard for him to describe; he glanced down, half expecting to find some sort of animal trying to chew on him. It would not be the first time, nor the last, and Erik did not truly mind the company of animals who didn't judge him or know his crimes. Even rats could be preferable to humans though he liked the stray cats who sometimes found their way down into his lair far more.

What he found instead was just more darkness, pure darkness, darkness that seemed to be wrapped around his leg and some human part of his mind knew to panic, to let out a sound that broke the silence as he tried to pull himself free. Imagine him, the Opera Ghost, Phantom of the Opera Populaire, startled and unwound by such a thing; it took only a split second after he had started for a more rational portion to declare how foolish he was, screaming like some child in the darkness, like those fools he had left behind in the opera. What had he to fear of shadows and darkness, he who thrived in them, he who lived within them, he who sang of the music of the night and shunned the light. This was ridiculous, childish, and he felt such for his reaction.

Moreso as he took note of the footsteps quickly moving towards him and he did not have the time to attempt to hide again; he instead tried to bury his face in his hands, make his lanky form as small as possible, lanky and tall and thus hard to succeed in.

“Are you alright?” her voice asked and realizing how close it was he only gave a groan, uncertain what else to do; he felt pitiful, utterly pitiful.

“You see what you've done, shoo, shoo.” Her tone turned sharper and he wondered who she was talking to, who she could be speaking to; there hadn't seemed to be anyone else and no one responded to her admonishment, the silence of the cellar. Maybe him, why not him, but it felt in conflict with the gentler tones she used when she seemed to be talking to him.

Something touched his shoulder, he had to guess it must be her hand, and he jumped, stiffening at the touch. Her voice lowered to something softer, more careful, as if she expected she was speaking to a child, “I'm sorry about that, I didn't mean to startle you. I didn't expect anyone to be down here and when I heard you singing....”

He wasn't a child, he didn't know why he was there or how he got there and now he was sitting in a dark cellar without his mask and someone that he swore he remembered from a dream; he peeked at her through his hands and though nothing else was easy to make out clearly in the shadows and the darkness, he did see two scarlet eyes stared back at him and he remembered seeing them once before.

“Don't look at me.” His own voice felt hoarse and quiet, he hated the uncertainty that crept through him when without his mask in front of someone else. When hiding he could be as confident as could be but when exposed he knew he was nothing more than a monster and he didn't want to be stared at and reviled more.

She was silent for a moment, prompting him to wonder what might be going through her mind, what she may be thinking about. Erik would acknowledge that it was a strange sort of thing to say in response to her words, though he could not help it either; he was uncomfortable and had gone through both a great trauma, of his own making, but also a strange experience that he still was unsure about. He had wandered here with only the clothes on him now and nothing more, he was unsteady and yet the first thing he could think to say to her inquiry was to say that he did not want her to look at her. He feared those eyes staring at him, he feared any eyes staring at him.

There was the sound of rustling, movement, and he half expected that she was trying to get away from him, who would blame her for that either. But seconds later he felt something fall over his head and was hit was a scent he didn't recognize quite, similar to the cellar but more...personal. Human. He pulled it off his head and felt it; it seemed to be cloth, a cloak with sleeves and a hood and soft fabric. Confused as he looked over it he heard the person speak, “It might be too helpful but hopefully it will tide you over until we can find something better. I just hope it fits...”

“This...you wish me to wear this?”

“Just for a bit I promise; there might be something more comfortable or useful upstairs but I don't want you to feel uncomfortable.”

He wanted to ask if she had seen his face, seen what he didn't want her to. And he reminded himself that she had, so long ago, in the rain when she had seemed to be dying, or so he believed she had; the cloth in his hands felt so real, as real as that rain had and the warmth from her hands, but he wasn't certain that anything was connected nor that any of it or this was real. Even if she was still that person did she even remember either? He had forgotten after all; she might have too, she might have changed, she might have become like everyone else and if so then of course she couldn't have seen his face because then why would she speak so gently to him? Give him clothing? Try to check on him?

Erik clenched the jacket in his hands and did not answer or move more. He did not know what the right thing to do in this situation might be, or even what this situation truly was. Trust was such a difficult thing and he had had so little to begin with even before Christine had broken his heart. But a gentle small kindness like this may be so tiny it couldn't really be expected to affect anything and he felt tired after all he'd done, all he'd suffered both by his own actions and others. Slowly and carefully he pulled the jacket on, finding it slightly tight over his more fancy clothes but the hood came up and was large enough to be able to fall over his upper face. It didn't hide everything of course, the deformities going down his face, his ruined lips and nose, were still somewhat visible but he did feel himself feel at least a little less exposed and a little more at ease. He started to relax some and looked back at her, almost believing he could see a smile from the figure. But that was impossible of course.

“Where am I?” He decided to move onto other confusing things, like where this was, how it was possible he got here from the catacombs under the Opera Populaire, and why.

He heard a humming noise, it sounded somewhat amused, and a hand reached out to him, gently, an offering. “How about we go upstairs so I can show you properly? I think that will likely be better ultimately.”

Again came the uncertainty and more than a little suspicion. But something in that humming sound, in her voice, in the gentleness of the scent off her jacket and the calm of the shadows left him feeling rather....not quite hopeful but perhaps at least a bit curious. Carefully he took the hand and noted how warm it was, still so warm. Erik got to his feet, with some difficulty and some assistance from this stranger, and he allowed himself to be led back towards the door, towards the light. Anxiety hit but he tried to push it down, tell himself that it was okay; worse case scenario he was likely at least stronger than her and could kill her with ease, could run and hide back in the darkness as necessary. He found he didn't really want to but still this thought lived in the corner of his mind as she pushed open the door and they stepped upwards into the light.

Whatever Erik expected it was not the world he saw before his eyes. A grand view of shelves and books, surrounding them, encasing them; his first thought was perhaps a library, larger than any he'd seen before, but the ceiling above was less ceiling and more shining glass in finely crafted metal lattice through which the night sky could be seen, through which a glorious pale full moon smiled down upon them. It reflected in his eyes, wide as they were, and he was certain his mouth was open in awe; the hood started to fall back and he caught it just barely before it could completely fall, pulling it back over his face and turning back towards where the one who brought him up there stood.

It was her, he was sure it was her, though time had passed and she looked older, no longer a child, no longer so weak and dying. Her long black hair was in a messy braid over one shoulder and he took note of the small scar over one eyebrow, bright scarlet eyes staring back at him from behind her glasses. Her clothes were entirely unfamiliar, strange and unusual to his eyes; her arms were showing from her short sleeves and she wore tight pants that made him half want to look away. But she was so familiar to him and as he looked at her, she seemed to take notice and smiled back at him; he only remembered that his hand was still in hers when she let go of him and he pulled back quickly, furrowing a brow he knew she could not see.

“Welcome,” she said, tucking some errant hairs away from her face, “To the Library.”