Summary: AU rework of original storyline in under 6,000 words. Erik/Christine H.E.A.

Disclaimer: I own the Phantom of the Opera. Public Domain my Fanfiction brothers and sisters. Public Domain.

~Special thanks go to D3adlyG33k as well as UnwittingVictimB for beta testing. You guys rock!~

And as always, any grammatical, textual, factual, and existential mistakes I have made are my very own!

Enjoy!

DGM

A Thousand and One Roses

Erik stood up from his crouch near the garden row he had just finished tending, absently wiping the dirt on his ancient work trews, his thoughts filled with Christine. Making his way outside the garden entrance, he went to wash and change in anticipation of this evening's performance.

Don Juan Triumphant had been a rousing success, running for an unprecedented five months to sold out audiences. Reyer and the managers were positively beside themselves. Erik smirked cruelly.

Even if Piangi's performance did leave something to be desired, Christine's performance was phenomenal, and it was her that the audience came to see: such corruption of innocence, such youth be spoiled.

The demimonde could hardly resist.

Erik grimaced in disgust and donned his cape. Yes. They were making quite a tidy sum off his creative endeavor. It was best to remind them, however, who held the strings. Tapping his jacket pocket to make sure he remembered them, Erik made his way quietly to his box above.

Feeling herself blush anew with remembered sensation, Christine held cool hands up to her flushed cheeks and looked at her reflection in the floor-length mirror. Had things changed so much in so little time? Had she? The run of the Phantom's Opera was drawing to a close.

Tonight was, in fact, the last performance, and although she would be sorry to see the part of Aminta go, she wouldn't mourn it.

The tale had always seemed so sordid and distasteful; the corruption of innocent beauty for corruption's sake. She smiled softly remembering the argument that had taken place when she had first voiced her thoughts to her maestro.

The music, as always, was perfection itself. It suited the mood brilliantly.

But the subject matter.

Christine absently blew a stray piece of hair away from her face as she began to don her stage makeup. That was another story. It was nothing if not distasteful pandering. And oh how Erik had railed when she had told him so. She smiled softly at the memory.

That was the night.

That was the night everything had changed between them.

Before that night, he had just been her tutor. Christine grimaced slightly in chagrined remembrance. His anger at her and the critique she gave made him forget himself, forget the mirrored wall between them. He had charged into her dressing room like an avenging Angel and yelled at her quite forcibly.

To say she had been shocked was a bit of an understatement. For up until that moment, she had believed him to be celestial.

And well, if not celestial, then otherworldly at least.

She remembered how he had yelled at her, berating her for her opinion, and all the while she had stood there trying to reconcile her Angel of Music with the irate masked man in front of her screaming in artistic fit of pique. Once she had overcome the initial shock, she had blinked and then very politely held out her hand, years of Momma Valerius' and Madam Giry's training in etiquette coming to the fore.

"It is quite the honor to formally meet your acquaintance, maestro." she had stated almost coolly with barely a tremble in her voice. She was quite proud of that. She remembered his surprise at finding himself in her dressing room, standing before her. His cat-like eyes had widened in shock as he looked around the room.

His ranting had come to an abrupt halt as his gaze landed back to her and the hand she held out to him. He had stood there for an interminable moment startled. And she had felt herself grow bold in the face of his shyness. "Come monsieur, will you not shake hands with me?" Christine had been surprised to hear the slightest note of teasing in her tone.

Apparently, he was as well for he overcame his start with a blink, and grasping her hand with the gentlest of pressure, bowed low over it. Christine felt herself blush anew at the memory of his breath just ghosting over her hand. "Mademoiselle, it is indeed quite the honor." For months, his voice had wound itself deep inside her: lulling her, guiding her, seducing her with its mystery and power. And now, when she was face to face with the Voice, its impact only served to increase the mystery and power it had over her.

Christine closed her eyes in remembrance. They had talked for many hours that night, and many nights after. Her Angel was always so reluctant to tell her about himself, and yet, for Christine, it was not hard to surmise. The Opera Ghost and her Angel were one and the same it seemed, and he was nothing but a man—a wickedly clever man—but a man all the same.

At her gentle questioning months into their odd friendship, he had clinically explained the nature of the deformity that lay behind the mask in bitterest detail. She had listened, hearing what he was saying, but also hearing what he wasn't.

The man was an absolute genius. Of that Christine had long been certain. But whether he was Angel or Demon, she did not know. To find out he was human—and deformed at that. Well, it was at once intimidating and altogether disappointing. That otherworldly Voice, that talent belonging to such a man was bitterly cruel.

Over the months through learning his opera and long talks that ended well into the early morning, she got to know the man behind the mask. And the man—not the demon, nor the angel—was the one that began to hold her heart.

Christine smiled widely as she remembered the first time she had dared to touch him of her own volition. They had just finished the first successful run of Don Juan, and she had gone back to her dressing room knowing she would find him there. Giddy with triumph, she had knocked on the mirror to let him know she was decent, (they had worked out a system many weeks before) and the moment he had opened the door, she had launched herself at him, hugging him and laughing.

Definitely not used to such spontaneous behavior, he had her pinned and dangling to the wall before she could even draw her next breath. It took him but a moment, a second to realize what he had done, and he had immediately gentled his hold. He had then tried to removed himself altogether telling her he would not trouble her again with his presence.

In thinking back, Christine realized it was times such as those that poignantly illustrated what his life had been like. It had taken her the better part of an hour to convince him that she did not, in fact, hold him in contempt for his instinctual actions towards her, and another hour after that for her to convince him to let her show him what a real embrace between friends was about. That was the night he had confessed he had never been hugged, never been embraced willingly by another. Christine's heart hurt anew with the memory.

Every evening after, they had greeted and parted with a hug, always initiated by her but always more than welcomed and now reciprocated by him. It was such a revelation to know that casual contact—a brief touch of the hand, a small touch on the arm—was one thing she had previously taken for granted and one thing her maestro could not. For who, in his existence, she thought, had willingly touched him?

Shaking off her sudden melancholy, Christine finished applying the final touches to her stage makeup and costume. It was best not to dwell on these sad thoughts. She could change nothing of his past, but she was bound and determined to change his present and future. Biting her lip, Christine chided herself for the action and reapplied her rouge, removing the greasy stuff from her front teeth.

If only she could convince him to let her see beyond the mask.

She rolled her eyes and sighed. Thus far, she had met a brick wall of absolute refusal. She had hoped through time, he would grow more comfortable and secure in their most peculiar friendship. But if anything, the passage of time had sat them back a step. For now, she suspected, he believed that if she were to see beyond the mask, their odd friendship would end. And there was ever so much for him to lose.

Dusting powder from her nose, Christine wrinkled it in displeasure. If their relationship was anything to go by, it had always been very unequal.

She knew she had only to say the word, and he would move heaven and earth for her.

He already reordered his entire nightly routine to be with her. Oh yes, through these months of getting to know him, she listened and listened well.

It was quite frightening to realize that he held her in so much esteem. Sometimes she grew dizzy at the heights to which he vaunted her. But she was no Angel on a pedestal and quite often she would remind him so.

Whether it be a missed note or even a casual touch of another that sent him into a dark mood, she would have to talk to him, let him wind himself up and back down, and then tell him in no uncertain terms that she was not perfect and, as such, was entitled to make mistakes. And she would laugh lightly, for to break down and cry was out of the question, and she would tease him until he relented. And they would begin their night in earnest either in practice, spent talking, or touring the city.

Constantly, she was amazed at his immense knowledge, and he had no qualms in sharing it with her. Currently, he was reading her the love poems of Ovid, translated simultaneously by him from the ancient Greek. She did not feel shy in asking him to explain a particular passage that was beyond her kin, and he did not mind explaining it to her in the least.

As the curtain began to draw up for the first act, Christine centered her thoughts on becoming Aminta for the final time, feeling the innocence and the folly of youth surround and then permeate her very being. Suddenly, she was unwittingly naïve, completely gullible, and unwilling to listen to wiser council as she set her sights on bewitching Don Juan. As Aminta, she felt her heart shatter then break as she awoke from love's bower to find herself alone in the third act. A quick costume change later found her despoiled and penniless, wandering the streets while Don Juan set his cap for another such as she.

And thus ended the opera Don Juan Triumphant to thundering ovations and applause. Bowing low in a final curtsy, Christine looked down to see a blood-red rose tied with a black ribbon and de-thorned at her feet. Picking it up, she inhaled its familiar fragrance, and curtseyed once more, the silken petals caressing her cheek.

Nodding a go-ahead for dropping the final curtain, she held attitude until the fabric swept the stage. With a roar, the backstage erupted, and she was swept into a spinning embrace by Piangi himself. He began to kiss her cheeks in overenthusiastic joy. "Bravisimma, Bella! Bravissima! Lo abbiamo fatto!"

He spun her around once more and began the kissing ritual again. "Signore! Signore! Put me down this instant!" Christine tried for stern but ended up laughingly shouting at him and tugging at his greasy black pate for emphasis. He looked at her with bemused chagrin, but did as she bid, and sat her on terra firma once more.

Gesticulating wildly, he stated in heavily accented French, "Forgiven me, Signorina. You, I have under—oh, what is the word?—under-valued, yes? At first, I doubt and I test. But I see now. You have the strength in you, yes! And you have this talent. Oh so much! I am happy and ….honor-filled… to work with you again." He looked at her earnestly, and Christine felt herself blush under his regard. "Yes?"

Disentangling herself as much as she could from the Signore's embrace, she patted his hand slightly and smiled, "I would be honored, Signore." His answering smile lit up the room as he once more took each of her hands and very showily place a kiss on each. Christine could only hope that Erik was not watching this, but she had a deep foreboding feeling that he very much was.

She was suddenly spun into another embrace, this time from Meg. "Oh Christine! You were absolutely breath-taking!" The little blond bounced up and down in her toe shoes to emphasize her point. "The managers are already talking about a revival for next season. And you'll never guess what? They want you to be the lead in—"

"Faust." Andre and Moncharmin came up to her and each grabbed a hand, bowing over it politely, all but shoving the little ballerina away. "Faust, Ms. Daae. That is if you'll accept?" Andre pointedly looked at Meg and stated, "That will be all, Ms. Giry." Meg, wincing and looking slightly crestfallen, turned away. However Moncharmin gave Andre a look and elbowed him slightly, "—Oh, alright! And, Ms. Giry…" Meg looked back over her shoulder, "You danced beautifully tonight." Christine could have seen Meg's blushing smile from the rafters. The managers turned their intense focus back on her. "Well, what do you say, my dear? It seems the Opera Populaire has a new Prima Donna."

Christine bit her lip, but who was she fooling? Yes, these men and their ilk had treated her abysmally for months leading up to the premier of Don Juan, but after its obvious triumph, their respect for her had grown. And who was she to continue to hold a grudge?

Besides, she really, really wanted to play Marguerite! "Of course I accept!" The two managers beamed, nodding at her and then each other, they fell away as they began making plans. Feeling a snag on her wig, Christine began to try to untangle it before she took it off.

"Christine Daae, as I live and breathe!" Looking up, Christine placed the voice before she turned around.

"Raoul? … …Raoul de Chagny?" She spun to face a very tall, very handsome and well-appointed gentleman. She was laughing and being twirled in his arms before she could even process it. "Raoul! How are you? What are you doing here? I cannot believe you remember!" She stated this rapid-fire. He put her down gently, smiling and caressing her cheek.

"Ah, Little Lotte. Still so full of questions I see. Of course I remember! Who could ever forget Little Miss Daae and her amazing voice! Well, hardly little anymore." She swallowed at the gleam of male appreciation she saw in his eye. "Say, you don't have any red scarves in mortal peril, do you?" She laughed delightedly as he looked furtively around.

"No. I'm afraid I left the scarf at home."

She watched him shake his head, "Well that's such a shame. Now how else am I going to get reacquainted with this ravishing beauty I see before me, hmm?" Christine blushed to the roots of her fake blond wig. He snapped his fingers and said stage left in a whisper, "I know! I will invite said beauty to dinner to make up for lack of scarf." Turning to her once more, he stated, "What say you, beauteous and fair maiden, do you accept?" Christine hesitated looking down at the blood-red rose she held, and in that one moment of hesitation, she considered exactly what she would be doing and to whom.

"No, Raoul. I cannot." She saw disappointment grace his fair features, but he drew breath to refute her reasons why. She headed him off before he could start. "I am seeing someone, Raoul; a man that I've grown to care for very much, and we have made plans this evening." Never mind that this was a slight falsehood. Christine had just assumed after the previous set pattern that she and Erik would.

His handsome face had grown mulish, "But surely he would understand, Christine. After all, when there's such friends to be met and with which to become reacquainted?" His eyes were pleading as was his voice, and he took her hands once more. "It has been years, and I am only here in Paris for such a brief time. Say yes, Mademoiselle." His eyes as blue and enchanting as the sea were impossible to deny.

But deny them she did.

Disentangling her hands gently from his, she stated firmly, "I cannot, Raoul. I am sorry, but I cannot. Now, I must be going, or I'll be late." She smiled gently and made to move past him.

"Is it so serious then?" She looked back at him. He looked so much the self-possessed man, and yet, the tow-headed youth she knew that she couldn't help but smile.

"More than." she stated gently as she looked down at the rose.

She saw him accept her words with chagrin as he rubbed the back of his neck, "How to have just missed the chance to woo Christine Daae? I'm afraid my poor heart may never recover." He smiled at her with a twinkle in his eye as he rubbed said organ in mock distress. After a breath, he looked at her seriously, "But you listen, Little Lotte. If for one second, one moment, he treats you ill, I will be waiting to sweep you away." His eyes held the fires of passion as well as their shared history. He whispered quietly, "That, Christine, is a promise." She swallowed audibly, suppressing a shiver, as he doffed his hat to her and whistling tunelessly, swept away from the stage.

Looking around, she was shocked to discover she was the only one left on stage. Slowly, she made her way to her dressing room and to him.

What would he say of this final performance? Would his words be filled with accolades or censure? Did he hear the exchanges between her and Raoul? The managers? Piangi? Would she have to deal with a jealous fit of pique tonight? Gathering tranquility around her as one would a shield, Christine opened her dressing room door, bracing herself for harsh words sure to come.

Instead, she was greeted by the sight of a thousand roses. Literally, there had to be a thousand. All red. And the perfume was staggering in such a small space; it was making her eyes water. Her thoughts of dread gave way to delight as she laughed, "Erik! Erik, did you do this?" she smiled as much as she could through the cloying mass, her senses much overwhelmed.

Slowly, the mirrored passage opened, and her masked maestro stepped into the packed room. She saw him smirk slightly, embarrassed, "Admittedly, I did. However, I am rethinking the wisdom of such a grand gesture in such a small space." She laughed heartily, and wading through the mass as carefully as possible—and then giving it up for the bad job it was and just trampling over the damned things—she finally reached him for their nightly embrace of which he returned after but a moment's hesitation.

It was heart-warming to see him slightly laugh at his own expense. A few months ago, none but the most perfect of reactions from her would send him sulking in a fit of insecurity that could last for days. She hugged him to her more fiercely, breathing in the musty-masculine scent of him rather than that of the roses.

Lifting her face slightly, she stated, "Come on, let's get out of here. Perhaps the roof? I need some fresh air." With a caped flourish, he led her through the mirrored passage, and up, behind-the scenes, to the rooftop entrance. Opening the hatch, he went first and then steadied her as she drew herself up and over. She was always in awe of the splendor of Paris at night. Drawing a deep breath, she flung out her hands and laughed at the giddy joy of it all. Spinning around, she caught Erik's hands and bounced up and down in childish glee. "We did it! Can you believe we did it, Erik?" She giggled and twirled once more, virtually vibrating at the joy she was feeling. She placed his arms around her, and laughingly sang, "La Vie En Rose" as she led them along the rooftop in impromptu waltz. By the second stanza, he had picked up the song as well as the lead, and graceful and sure, he twirled them both in the moonlight.

And as always, when he sang, she closed her eyes and was transported to a place far above where earthly cares were forgotten. Slowing the pace slightly, Christine just held his slight frame to her as he finished the beautiful song in a whisper of words and wind. Smiling, she lifted her gaze and found him looking at her, his eyes so warm and tender, it took her breath away. She gasped slightly as he lowered his head and dipped to her mouth, giving her the most chaste and tender-sweet of kisses.

He kissed her. He really kissed her!

She did not think he would have ever initiated such a forward act.

Her blood sang and pooled.

He pulled away almost immediately, and she let him for now. She was learning that with Erik, everything had to happen by degrees or not at all.

Choosing to not make a big production of it, she stated evenly, "Tell me, my maestro. What are your thoughts?" She drew away to look up at him and found him looking at her with altogether too much seriousness.

His hold still remained gentle, but his eyes held such sadness, and she knew that he had seen. "Who was the boy, Christine?" his voice tinged with sorrow. She closed her eyes and leaned into him, wishing for the hundredth time he was more secure in her and in himself.

Mentally girding her loins, she made herself look up and hold eye contact with him as she stated very gently, "The boy is Viscount Raoul de Chagny. And I knew him when I was eight because he saved my scarf from the sea." She held his hands in her own, steadily navigating them both through this particular minefield.

"You see Erik, we were much thrown together that one summer in Perros because his family was staying at the Chateau in which my father and I were performing. We were play pals of a sort and nothing more." Seeing his eyes narrow, she interrupted him before he could speak, "He is nothing but a piece of my past best forgotten, hmm?" Looking at him questioningly, she felt him tense and held her breath. If after all these months of careful trust-building, Erik could not take her word for it, then she did not know what she would do. Relationships were built on trust, and he had gone so long without trusting a single soul, she did not know if he could learn.

After a tense moment, she felt him give and nod slightly, and she could breathe again. "I did not care for the way he pawed at you, Christine. The boy needs to learn his manners." She smiled as she felt him relax, "And don't even get me started on that waste-about Piangi. I thought I was going to have to throttle him in order for him to let you go." Oh yes, his sense of ownership of her was a tangible thing that frightened as much as it intrigued.

Christine batted her eyelashes playfully, drawing his attention away from thoughts of Piangi and Raoul. She stated coquettishly, twirling an ebony button on his lapel, "Well yes. If you saw and heard all that, Monsieur Fantome, then surely you saw the managers as well?" She sighed to feel him gather her closer.

"Yes, Ms. Daae. The Fantome saw this as well. For what it's worth, I believe you will make a stunning Marguerite." His lowly uttered words went straight to her feminine core, and she gasped slightly. Looking up, she saw him give a knowing smirk. His eyes grew warm, and she swallowed.

In the next instant, his breath met the shell of her ear as he bent down low and whispered, "And you should know the managers chose to offer you the lead without any …assistance from me." She smiled brilliantly once her desire-laden brain processed his words.

The stigma of her somewhat abrupt rise to fame had faded somewhat with Don Juan's success, but at these words, it meant it was all but forgotten. To the managers, she had proved herself worthy of the lead, and apparently, La Carlotta and her rather dramatic departure, was a thing of the past as well.

"And so, what is it you wish to do this evening, my dear?" His clever, golden eyes looked down on her in interest, and she looked around the rooftop considering, and then burrowed herself closer into his embrace. "Erik, will— that is to say can you—" Christine bit her lip and then buried her head further into his lapel. "—never mind." she mumbled into his cape.

Erik raised her chin so she was looking at him, her gaze fastened obstinately to his collar. "…Christine..."

Her reluctant gaze met his. "Ask what you will, dearest."

She sighed and finally confessed, "I grow tired of only seeing you for a handful of stolen moments each day." She heard his quick intake of breath. "I want see you, Erik. Not the Angel of Music. Not the mysterious phantom. I want to be with you—always with you—oh, I'm not making any sense." She turned away from him in frustration but was startled when she felt him pull her back to face him. She clasped her hands in front of her and focused on her breathing to reign in her renegade emotion.

At length, she heard him say softly, "It is Christine's wish to know Erik better, yes?" She looked up sharply at his use of third person: the normally self-possessed man looked down at her in uncertain child-like wonder.

She blinked at the sight but then nodded, mumbling, "I'm just so tired of there being masks between us." She looked down at her folded hands.

Sensing rather than seeing him stiffen, he replied acidly, "And would the removal of Erik's mask help Christine stay with Erik?" She heard suspicion as well as veiled hope in that statement.

Christine bit her lip and, looking up at him, shook her head. "I—I don't know. I know that I do want to see what you look like." He drew a sharp breath. "But not tonight. I don't think either one of us are ready for that tonight." She saw him nod and then he visibly relaxed. "It's just…you're such a mystery. You must know that?" She looked up questioningly as she continued, "You have been my friend and confidant. My protector and tutor. My champion, Erik." She bit her lip, ravaging the flesh.

Drawing a deep breath, she decided to take the plunge, "…and now, I would very much like to consider you my suitor as well?" Looking up, she had discovered he was looking at her as if she were some rare and wondrous creature. She audibly gulped, and he blinked.

At length, she heard him say reverently with barely a hum of air and breath, "And if Erik asked Christine, would Christine accept Erik's suit?"

Her heart went to her throat, and vainly she tried to swallow around it. As steadily as she was able, she replied, "I—I would."

"But the mask—Erik's mask!" His gloved hands flew to the thing in hatred and self-loathing, and quickly, he turned away from her.

With a gentle touch, she stopped him.

"Erik—you are much more than your mask and what lay behind it. Yes?" She heard him moan and felt tears prickling her eyes. "I promise you that whatever lies beyond that mask, as long as you did not lie to me when you told me of what I would find, is something I can handle." He moaned again and moved to turn away from her. Gently, she put her hands on his head and brought it to face hers once more. "Do you believe me? … Erik?" He opened his eyes, and she saw the hell—the torment—of a thousand and one battles fought and lost. It came down to this—to trust.

Did he trust her?

Could he trust her?

She felt his hands begin to tremble and, lowering hers from his mask, she clutched and held them tightly to her; the both of them riding out this emotional maelstrom together. "I vow that I will not run away Erik. How can I when I —when you… when you hold my heart?" Christine's whispered confession was his undoing.

With a caped flourish, she watched as he lowered to one knee and stated trembling, "Ms. Daae, would you accept Erik Rien's suit of matrimony?" She felt tears fill her eyes and blinked them back.

"Of course. Of course I would!" She saw him smile—a real, true smile— and taking her left hand, he kissed her ring finger. As he pulled back, she felt something warm grace it, and looking down, she saw a beautiful and pure sapphire surrounded by a ring of diamonds. The ring was simple. Beautiful. Perfect.

Christine fought and lost against the tide of emotion sweeping over her. She felt Erik rise and then stiffen at her side, "But why does Erik's Christine cry so?" His tone was child-like again. Mystified. "Is she not happy with the ring? … …or with erik? " Looking up sharply, she saw the anxiety within him begin to take hold.

"NO! No. It's nothing like that! It's just—this is what I've wanted for a long time now. And these are tears of happiness I assure you!" She took his gloved hands, and kissing each one, pressed them to her cheeks, blotting away the last of her happy tears. She leaned into his lingering caress.

"Erik is—I am most unfamiliar with happy tears, Christine." he mumbled distractedly, "But you have made Er—me … … most happy." She looked up at him, his expression—or what she could see of it— was joyous, and her heart caught at the love she found there. "Would Christine like a long engagement, an elaborate wedding?"

She shook her head, "No, no. I just want you."

And so, when the masked man lifted the young woman and spun her around, the rooftop rang with her musical laughter. And when the man dared to press another tender kiss on the young woman's lips, the small sigh that issued forth from the young woman filled the masked man with a measure of contentment the likes of which he had never known.

The Beginning.