A/N: Friends, Romans, countrymen, fellow disappointed phans, lend me your ears. Many years ago, under a different screenname, I was known as the Portal Guardian of the Fanfiction Realm because nearly every phic published went through me. A fellow authoress told me that she didn't think there was any phangirl alive who knew canon better than me. However, after constant parental restriction of my Interwebs access essentially removed me from the phiction community, I took a hiatus from phiction to stalk Ashwinder and my new obsession of hg/ss Potter fic.

Still, I took my reputation as the ultimate canon authority seriously. Despite it having been approximately five years since I held that title in anything more than my own mind, I still felt drawn to obsessively "research" Love Never Dies, since it was likely that it would become a part of official Phantom canon.

Like many of you (hopefully) were, I was disgusted with the trash ALW dared to link with my beloved Phantom. The plot was flimsy at best, the fabled love triangle was insipid, the music was clunky, awkward, and even more repetitive than ALW's usual, and the fact that Erik was played by a former Raoul was both obvious and vomit-inducing. And, seriously, Madame Giry? Really?

As I lay in my bed at two this morning, completely unable to sleep due to my disgust, I decided that even I, who was always a far better beta than authoress, could do better, so I would. I'll make an attempt to stick to that awful construction ALW calls "the plot," but my disgust might cause me to veer wildly off into the realm of AU.

Canon-wise, I'm going to be playing with the warm, muscle-y Erik of the (good) ALW musical and 2004 movie, the movie version of what happened at the Populaire/Garnier, and the dates of Love Never Dies. I'll freely admit that I'm not a good enough authoress to even begin to portray Leroux Erik. However, I'll draw his past primarily from Kay-verse, since that's the only place where his past is discussed in more than two sentences. So, basically, I warp everything to suit my own twisted needs. In case y'all were wondering.

I confess that I haven't seen Love Never Dies, but as I currently have sixty-five dollars in my bank account, a jaunt across the pond to the theatre isn't going to happen any time soon. Anyway, on with the show!

Disclaimer: I own nothing. I'm making no money. I just borrow the characters to make them do dirty things to each other…but I attempt to return them with a minimal amount of scarring. Mostly.

Paris, 1897

He had never felt more physically battered in his entire life. Not even his first few shows as the Living Corpse could compare to the aches he felt now. Javert's beatings were fierce, but he was just one man. Nothing compared to the attentions of a blood-frenzied mob. They had tracked him through his tunnels, dragging him back to the house on the lake to extract their vengeance, making him watch as they laid ruin to his home before turning to him. He had been left for dead, halfway in the lake, his blood slowly reddening the waters around him.

He had resolved to succumb to the death he had been dodging since childhood, and willingly gave into the blackness.

Opening his eyes after an interminable amount of time, he found himself in the bed of an ordinary Parisian flat, the pain of his various hurts muted but still very much present. Not the afterlife, then, he thought. Were he in Hell, he would doubtlessly be in far more agony. So I'm alive. Whom do I have to thank for that dubious pleasure?

He sat up in the bed, and his injuries twinged but none screamed in pain. He was momentarily thankful that he wasn't an invalid. If he had to suffer the indignity of continued life, at least he wouldn't be trapped in a prison of his own flesh. At least, no more than he always had been. Reaching up to feel the source of all his life's agony, he found the bared, maskless flesh tender and even more twisted than he remembered. The damned mob had worsened his deformity, apparently. At least they hadn't taken his eyes…or his tongue. That is, since he had been denied his rightful death.

Looking under the covers, he saw that his torso was a collage of bruises of various colors and healing lacerations. Again, he was thankful to note that all parts were accounted for, though he would no doubt have many new scars. However, so many already adorned him that it was a matter of little consequence. Finished with cataloging his injuries, his mind was in grave danger of skipping back to what happened. He viciously squelched the memories, knowing the heart-shredding pain they would bring. He needed something to occupy his overactive mind, something completely unrelated to the past, to music, to her…

There was a bookshelf across the room. Only fierce determination to escape the strangling hold of his memories gave him the strength to stagger to the shelf on disused legs.

He had only been reading for a short time when the identity of his rescuers was revealed. A blonde head poked through the door, saw him sitting upright, and quickly disappeared.

"Maman! Maman!" Meg Giry screeched, "He's awake!"

The Girys. Of course. Who else would take him in and nurse him back to health? Christine would have, the traitorous voice of his memories whispered. No, she wouldn't have! He snarled back, ignoring the fact that he was arguing with his own mind. She's with that boy now. I'll never see her again.

Oh, God…I'll never see her again. Against his will, the tears welled up. Only the knowledge that Madame Giry would soon enter made him compose himself.

"Hello, Erik."

Intimidation was difficult when he was naked and maskless and had just awoken from an unknown period of unconsciousness. He settled for cool formality. "Madame."

Her eyes blazed. "After all we've been through, you 'Madame' me? Erik, I am Antoinette…and I thought I was your friend."

"Erik has no friends…but I do believe you are a close approximation…Antoinette."

She inclined her head, knowing that that was the most he would ever admit.

"Thank you for healing me."

Gratitude was unexpected. In all their years of acquaintance, she could never remember one instance in which he thanked her for anything, simply accepting her services as his due, believing his favor to be repayment enough. She blinked, then slowly replied, "It was the least I could do."

"Yes it was," he snapped, some of his old menace returning. "Since you denied me the death I desired, healing me was certainly the least you could do."

She drew back, but this Erik she could deal with. She had been wrangling with him for many years. And, really, she was foolish to entertain the thought that the maturity he had developed—the maturity necessary to let Christine go—had rendered him toothless. Yes, Madame Giry knew what had transpired in the house on the lake. She had spoken to Raoul, and after a few drinks, he was quite vociferous. She composed her face into the unyielding iron necessary to handle Erik without having her soul trampled on.

"Tell me, Madame, how long have I been…here?"

"You are in my home, Monsieur. You have been asleep for eleven days. Much of the furor has died down. Rumor says you were killed. Meg and I have fanned those flames."

"And what do you plan to do with me now? Keep me confined here forever? I would rather you had left me to die."

"In two weeks time, some old…acquaintances…of mine will smuggle us to Calais. From there, we may go wherever you wish."

" 'We'? You will be chaperoning me, then?"

"Of course," she replied dismissively. "How else could I ensure that you didn't return here and murder the poor children on their wedding night?" As she watched something break in Erik's eyes, she knew that those could very well have been her last words.

Remembering his vow to never again remember, never again succumb to the mania that the mere thought of her lit in his soul, he viciously tamped down his emotions, again adopting the cold detachment that had allowed him to perform countless murders for the Khanum's amusement. It had been much easier with a mask, but he still refrained from crying or tearing the aging ballerina limb from limb. "So, they are to be married, then?" he forced out.

"Yes, and soon."

"Leave me. Now."

"Of course, Erik."

After she had gone, he tried to cling to his vow, but could not stop the tears that streamed down his face.

"Here we are, dear! Are you excited?"

"Oh, you know I am, Adrienne, but I'm also so nervous."

"There's nothing to be nervous about, Christine. You will look so beautiful, and I know my brother loves you more than anything."

"Oh, I know he does," Christine sighed, "It's just the usual sort of bridal nerves. Surely you were nervous before you married Philippe?"

Adrienne grinned. "Of course. But I had the excuse of never having met Philippe before my wedding day! Now, let's get you fitted."

Today was the final fitting for Christine's wedding dress. She would be marrying Raoul in just two more days. Still, through all the whirlwind preparations, she had dreamed of him, her Angel, and had woken gasping with a desire her fiancé had never made her feel. She had initially dismissed them as remnants of his mind control that would soon fade, but instead of fading, thoughts of him grew more intense and more frequent as her wedding approached. They tormented her, chewing up her soul. There was no one in whom she could confide. She hadn't seen her dear friend Meg since her last night at the Opera, and neither she nor her mother had replied to Christine's notes. Raoul and she were trying to put the events on the lake behind them and focus on the future, and she couldn't bear to hurt him by confessing that she still longed for the man who was his rival and nearly his murderer.

Christine had grown quite close to Raoul's sister-in-law Adrienne during the wedding preparations, but that was nearly inevitable, since the two women spent nearly every moment together. Christine adored Adrienne, who was both motherly and sisterly to the younger woman, but knew that at the end of the day, she was still a de Changy. Even if Adrienne did not share her secret dreams with Raoul, she hadn't been present at the Opera—she would never understand the magnetism of her Angel's personality.

As the seamstress pulled the laces of her bodice tight, Christine miserably wondered what to do…again. She had no confidante, but if she didn't excise her demon—for that's what he was, even if he did have the most angelic voice ever to grace the world—it would poison her love for Raoul, dooming her marriage before it could even start. She had a dinner engagement with some of her new high-society acquaintances that night, but the next evening she resolved to go see her former ballet mistress. Though Madame Giry had clearly indicated her lack of desire to have contact with Christine, she doubted that she would be turned away if she arrived at the woman's door. She would be able to unburden her conscience to either one of the Girys, especially the elder, without fear. After all, Madame Giry had spent years fulfilling the Opera Ghost's every whim. She had no right to judge Christine for her feelings. And her old teacher had always known more than she let on.

Though she had only been there a few times, Christine easily remembered where the Girys resided in the Opera's off-season. Her brisk knock belied the nervousness she felt that she was wrong and Madame Giry would just slam the door in her face. The door opened, and Christine steeled herself for welcome.

"Christine! My dear, do come in!" Madame Giry exclaimed warmly. "What's wrong, child?"

"I just thought that…after you rejected all my notes…that you never wanted—"

Madame Giry cut Christine off with a flurry of questions about the impeding nuptials, and Christine replied automatically as she was led to the kitchen, growing more and more bewildered.

After nearly thirty minutes of small talk initiated by Madame Giry, Christine finally took a deep breath and stated, "Madame, it has been lovely catching up with you…but that's not why I'm here."

"Very well," Madame Giry replied, face growing stern and stiff. "Why did you come?"

"I need…I don't know what I need…closure, I suppose. I need to know what happened that night. After I left."

"Surely you've read the papers, girl?" her former teacher snapped. "You left, and the mob came. They laid waste to everything…and everyone in their path."

"Of course I've read the papers!" exclaimed Christine. "But they have certainly reported events inadequately in the past. So…there's no doubt then? That he's dead?"

Madame Giry's lips compressed. "Even if he were alive, and even if I knew where he was, I would not let you see him."

Christine may not have been Marie Curie, but she had known Madame Giry since she was seven years old, and knew how to read the older woman. "You do know where he is!" she exclaimed. "I must see him! You must take me to him!"

Madame Giry sighed, and she seemed to age ten years. "No, my child. I will do no such thing. Do you have any idea of what it would do to him, to see you again, only to have you shamelessly use him to settle your past before marrying another?"

"But, Madame Giry…I must—"

"No, I said!" Madame Giry interrupted, more sharply than Christine had ever heard her. "What you will do is turn around, go back to your home, marry your Raoul, and forget all about him."

"But I cannot do that! Surely you know I cannot!"

"You will do that. You have no choice. And I have nothing left to say to you."

"But—Madame—!"

"I will not let him see you."

"I fear it's a bit too late for that, Madame Giry."

Christine's heart screamed with ecstasy at the sound of that smooth, masculine voice. She whirled to find the source of the Voice, and as soon as their eyes met, she was caught like an animal in a hunter's trap. She could not have looked away if the building were burning down around them. Internally, she winced, remembering that in the past, she had done just that. She had always taken him for granted, right to the very end.

"Angel…" she murmured, slowly standing up from the table and crossing the small kitchen to where he stood outlined in the doorway. He stood, tall, regal, and immaculate in his evening clothes. His black hair was smooth and gleaming, contrasting sharply with the customary white mask adorning the right side of his face. Power and nobility swirled around him like a cloak.

Madame Giry tried to separate them, trying to shove Christine forcibly out of their flat, but he quelled her with a single look. "Leave," he commanded.

"And where am I to go?" she asked, irritated at being thrown out of her own home.

"Somewhere. Else," he stated keeping his eyes on Christine, his beautiful, divine Christine. As he had done all those months ago, he held out a hand, inviting her into his soul. Much to his surprise, she took it immediately. He had thought that he would have to sing to her to make her malleable enough to follow him. He led her back to his room, shutting the door and locking the entire world out. Only then did he look away from her, breaking the spell.

"Christine," he said, looking out the window, leaving her to contemplate his back. "Why are you here?"

"I had to know, don't you see?" she asked him, desperate for him to understand. "I had to know what happened—whether you survived. …I've dreamed of you."

"Have you, now?" he asked coolly, still staring into the night.

"Yes, Angel! Yes! But I couldn't tell anyone. No one would understand…and they'd all tell Raoul."

He spun to her, dark eyes blazing fiercely. "Do not mention his name to me!" Taking several deep breaths, he managed to compose himself. "So, my Christine, you don't want your dear fiancé knowing that you still dream of your poor, deformed Angel?"

"Of course not! I couldn't bear to cause him that kind of pain—"

"Oh, yes," he cut in. "You would never subject that boy to any sort of pain. That's a fate reserved exclusively for me, is it?"

"How could you—? You let me go!"

"Did you think that because I released you that I stopped loving you? Or did you think that a bloodthirsty monster with a twisted soul could not feel pain?"

Christine wanted to weep. Nothing was going the way she wanted it to. How could she have possibly forgotten how angry he could get? How vindictive? How he could twist her words and use them against her like a weapon? She rushed to his side, frantically grabbing his hand and pressing it to her heart, desperate to make him see. "Angel…please…"

"Please what?" he mocked. "Please let you use me for your closure and then leave again?"

She inhaled, and the words slipped free before she could stop them. "Please…Angel…make the ache go away."

As he processed her words, she saw him shudder, saw his fiery eyes widen, the pupils visibly dilating. He did not respond.

"Angel…?" she prompted.

"Ssh, he said. Tonight, I am no angel. I am a man. Erik."

"Erik," she whispered, testing how his real name sounded on her lips. With that one word, she lost all chance she had to escape that night. They held that tableau—gazing wide-eyed into each other's souls, she pressing his hand to her racing heart—for one more torturous second, before his fingers speared into her dark curls and his mouth swooped down to claim hers, branding her as his forever.

The next day, she awoke alone, abandoned, and disguised her tears as those of joy when she swore to love, honor, and obey Raoul for the rest of their lives.

A/N: I debated whether or not to write the sexin' scene in full detail, but in the end I decided to give the lovers some privacy. And, also, I didn't get further than the disrobing before I began giggling helplessly. When I was younger, I always chalked up my inability to write anything erotic to my utter lack of experience in such things, but now that I've got some (experience, that is) and still can't write erotica, it becomes apparent that I'm simply not built for it. Besides, sexin' scenes are all remarkably similar—insert boy rod A into girl slot B, repeat vigorously—so if you're really desperate for some pr0n, there's plenty of it lurking around this website and the Interwebs in general. Just change the names.

Hope you enjoyed! More to come soon.