by Kaite

Giry is really quite attractive. Nothing to her dancing girls, of course, but it does get wearing after a while, to have to flatter fragile egos and promise a better role in the next production when all you're after is a quick tussle in the office.

Sometimes you think you just do it to stop her talking about that infernal opera ghost. And she makes it very, very clear that should you come within an inch of her daughter or Christine, your arrangement will be at an end. Really, that's all it is - a business arrangement. At least with her you don't have to worry about losing another dancer to a swelling stomach and morning sickness. Her expression grew hard, when you said that to her. You both have needs, and if she stalks into your office with her head held high and her lips in a tight line every time Christine disappears, you never ask why. Superstitious woman, probably scared out of her wits and just needs some comfort. Probably lonely. Aren't you all?

You watch as she unplaits her hair, as it tumbles around her shoulders, falling to her waist. It's dark, greying only slightly, making the white of her corset and shift look even paler in the candlelight. As you lift her petticoat, you discover a fading bruise on the inside of her thigh that you don't remember leaving. But then, things get a little...frantic, sometimes. Not rushed exactly, but when a man gets to this age, time is of the essence. Madame Giry is a woman of the world, she understands. And you don't think she minds.

She holds your head to her, because no matter how many times you mutter that you hate doing this, she still finds a way to convince you. Her fingers dig into your scalp, and you hurry to finish her off before she does any damage. When you rise, she has that tight little contemptuous smile on her face that you hate so much. Instead of looking at it, you just turn her around, brusquely, until she isn't facing you anymore.

As you button up your shirt, you glance back at her, flushed and trying to get her breath back as she pulls up her underwear and straightens her skirts. You smirk.

"Could your opera ghost have done that?"

She merely smiles, distantly as she sweeps by you (as if she wasn't bent over your desk five minutes ago). Beneath the creaking of the door and the rhearsal in the distance, between the rustle of her silk dress against the wall, you think you hear her whisper "Yes."


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