An affectionate lampooning of those 'everyone wants Christine' fics that crop up so often in the Phantom fandom. The Phantom wants her, Raoul wants her, half a dozen minor male OCs want her to inevitably cause friction in her 'OMG star-crossed squee!' relationship with the Phantom...
Disclaimer: Doctor Who belongs to the BBC, and Phantom of the Opera belongs to Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber and a heap of other people.
Soubrette Seeking Perennial Propriety
(or, How To Snag A Phantom With Help From A Time Travelling Alien And A Well-Meaning Shop Girl)
Christine Daae was positively disturbed.
She had never been in a situation like this before and it was utterly unfamiliar to her. And yet, despite her lack of familiarity with the issue at hand, she had to face the truth. Everyone she met, strangers or friends, it didn't matter, was in love with her.
Most of the time people just ignored Christine. With her rather vacant expression, devout religiousness and bland prettiness, the vast majority of people failed to notice Christine quietly going about her life, and if she was honest Christine rather liked it that way. She could get on with her singing and her dancing and no one would interfere.
Now Christine, despite some opinions to the contrary, was nobody's fool. Yes, that little bit of Angel of Music nonsense had thrown her for a loop, but really, who would have thought the alternative to an angel of heaven was a deformed lunatic singing to her from behind a mirror? Preposterous. Now she had a vicomte hanging about like the stench of an old sock and the lurking presence of the Phantom around every corner. It was, to be honest, very strange. And it was getting worse.
Christine had noticed people watching her. Which was to be expected considering the size of the Opera and the amount of people that inhabited it. But they'd been watching her almost... amorously, if she dared say it. Christine was far more accustomed to people's eyes sliding straight past her. The lingering made her nervous. And it wasn't just looks, either! Monsieur Andre had waggled his eyebrows at her! Meg had blown her a kiss - well, never mind, that was usual behaviour for Meg. Monsieur Firmin had... winked at her this morning! Winked! The very height of indecency! And Raoul...
Well, Raoul.
Raoul was positively a madman.
Forget the Phantom, the disfigured Opera genius had nothing on her fiancé. His hands had been everywhere as he escorted her back from lunch, and when they arrived at her rooms he had pressed her back against her door forcefully and ground his hips hard against hers.
"Raoul!" Christine had squeaked in shock. He had not responded, desire twisting his face into a grimace she did not like, his hands suffocating on her skin. She had done the only sensible thing a girl could do in such a situation; kneed him hard between the legs, slapped his cheek, and pushed him out into the hall and locked the door after him.
This was getting terrifying. It was time to call in an expert.
"Angel, Angel, are you there? Please, I need you!"
The mirror opened quickly, a rather disturbing indictment of the amount of time the Phantom spent hovering back there if she'd ever seen one. Christine pushed this to the back of her mind, curtailing her protracted begging. Thankfully, the Phantom did not stride across the distance between them, throw her over his shoulder, and take her down below the Opera for a good ravishing. Although, she wasn't entirely sure she would mind if he had. He, out of all of them, was the only one she had ever imagined touching her in such a... well, such a blatantly inappropriate way. She told herself it was because he was a disfigured madman with no principles and as such he was the only one likely to take advantage of her, but after today she wasn't so sure. And he made no move to touch her, merely watching her with those unfathomably eyes, the strong line of his jaw taut.
She was so thrilled that he did not show the alarming behaviour of everyone else she'd met that day that she ran to him and kissed him on his unmasked cheek. "You are not affected!" she exclaimed in raw relief. The Phantom did not answer, his burning eyes slipping from her face and down her body. Christine crossed her arms over her breasts self consciously, feeling a faint flutter in her belly from the masked man's scrutiny. The others, even Raoul, had looked at her as though they did not understand why they were so drawn to her. The Phantom, though...
The Phantom gazed as though to tear his eyes away from her would be the greatest crime imaginable. That was very him, though, she considered, high drama all round.
For a moment it seemed as though time itself had stopped, and then the Phantom stalked back through the mirror, muttering about a cold shower and brandy.
Christine sighed. Probably no help from that quarter, then.
It had been a difficult day, and she sank down on the divan and wept into her hands for a few minutes. It felt as though nothing could be worse than this.
Hardly had she thought that statement than a blue box materialised in her dressing room. Wind howled and papers and music fluttered everywhere, and the blue box went from being a hazy image to solid, real wood right in front of her.
Christine was certain she had officially run mad. She was thankful she'd stopped crying before the box had appeared. If she was going mad, at least she was calm.
If a big blue box materialising from thin air wasn't enough to disturb her, though, the man who came out of certainly was. He was tall and thin, wearing a well cut brown pinstriped suit and a lighter brown long coat over the top. His hair was... interesting, to say the least, and his dark eyes lit up with childish glee at the sight of her.
Christine looked from him, to the box, and back to the man again.
"What are you?" she asked in shock.
"What are you?" he countered, waving a little silver stick around like a child's toy. "What am I, indeed! I'm not the one emitting so many pheromones it's a miracle no one's jumped on me and ravished me senseless yet."
Christine flushed a deep crimson and wondered what a pheromone was. "I'm a woman, Monsieur," she said coolly to the man, in blatant contrast to her flaming cheeks.
"Doctor, wot's goin' on?" asked a rough female voice from somewhere close by. The voice resolved itself in the form of a girl, around Christine's own age, who emerged from the little blue box. Her natural hair colour was quite obviously not blonde, Christine noticed with a hint of derision. And that accent - good Lord!
"You were both in that little box together?" she asked in outrage. Even more scandal! Honestly, was sanity and propriety too much for a girl to ask for?
"Oh, you're speaking French!" the man said in delight.
"So are you, Monsieur," she replied, but the man was already off on a wild tangent, circling around her madly.
"Way to go native - I mean, it's very impressive, aside from the fact it's completely wrong to be taking advantage of those poor people like that - "
"Taking advantage?" Christine asked, outraged. "Monsieur, they were not the ones with hands grabbing them all over and - and - " She was speechless. It had been a very trying day, after all.
"Yes, yes, I know, but they can't help it," the man jabbered on. "Which is why I have to stop you. You've taken on the guise of this young soprano, sweet and innocent and just a little bit simple - "
"I'm not simple!" Christine countered in anger.
"Of course not," the man replied in placating tones. "I'm the Doctor. Now, why don't we step into my ship and we'll have a little chat."
"I most certainly will not," Christine replied, and the Doctor - if that was truly his name - blinked in surprise. "The impropriety of it, you and I and - her - " She jerked a thumb at the girl.
"Oi!" she interjected. "Rose Tyler, thank you very much, mademoiselle." Christine noted the overstretching of the syllables of the last word. Mockery. This day just kept on getting better and better.
"Very well, then, you and I and Mademoiselle Tyler, all in that little box together? I think not."
"But what you're doing needs to be stopped - "
"What I'm doing?" Christine shouted in pure exasperation, finally at the end of her rope. "I've done nothing! I got out of bed this morning to find everyone in this damned place in lust with me! I'm sick of it! I just want things to go back to normal!"
The Doctor had watched her with dark, unfathomable eyes - he was more than a little like the Phantom, she had noticed, aside from the fact that the Phantom was considerably hideous and the Doctor was gorgeous. They had the same dichotomy in their natures, at times still and serious and others overflowing with energy. "Well!" he announced sharply. "Then that's what we're going to do!"
His mood swings were making her dizzy. "Go on," she sighed.
"Since it's not you, it must be something here in this room, close enough to - oh, of course!" he said, hitting himself on the forehead. "I'm so thick! A Salifraxan III pheromone transmitter!"
At least Mademoiselle Tyler looked as confused as Christine felt. "A what?" the English girl asked, with a tone of voice indicating this happened a lot. The Doctor didn't respond, buzzing the little silver stick all over the room until he stopped at Christine's pillow.
"Ah ha!" The Doctor exclaimed, pulling out a little metal box. "This is it!"
Christine rubbed her neck. No wonder sleeping had been so uncomfortable the last few nights. The Doctor was chattering on. "It'd had to have been here for a while to build up a level of pheromones and - "
"Hey," Rose whispered behind her. Christine raised an eyebrow. "He'll be at it like that for hours yet. Let 'im do 'is thing and let's go an' get drunk."
Christine was usually opposed to senseless public drunkenness, but after the day she'd had, it sounded like a wonderful plan.
"It's not always alien 'ormones and a 'appy endin'," confided Rose later. Christine was rather growing to like her; the bottle of red wine was definitely helping in that regard. "Sometimes it's scary. Sometimes I want to punch 'im in the 'ead." Christine could agree there. The Doctor could be a little intense.
They had chatted their way through music, men, and two bottles of wine. Rose had given her some interesting advice regarding the Phantom, and she in turn had taught Rose a thing or two about Paris and French things in general. Apparently Rose was from a very modern area in London.
"Christine!" she heard snapped out in an angry, male voice. She looked up to see Raoul and his brother heading her way. "What are you doing here?"
Rose raised an eyebrow at her as if to say, who's this idiot? Christine tapped her ring finger as if to say, my fiancé. Rose rolled her eyes.
"Listen, mate," Rose snarled, but the effect was ruined by a hiccup half way through. Raoul looked scandalised. "Just 'cause your girl is 'avin' a great time wiv out you doesn' mean you should get all up in 'er bizness 'bout it. Get what I'm sayin', yeah?" Christine was delighted. No one talked to the de Chagny family like that. Philippe's jaw was somewhere around his ankles from shock.
"Yeah," she echoed, utilising a wonderful new word learnt from Rose only a few minutes ago, "Sod off, Raoul."
Rose gave her a high five.
Somehow they made it back to the Opera, clutching one another and stopping at the occasional street corner to indulge in fits of laughter. Christine felt fantastic. Oh, the world was spinning around a bit, but she felt better than she had in years.
They giggled their way back to Christine's dressing room. As she unlocked the door, Christine was brought up short by the weird sight of the Phantom and the Doctor deep in conversation. It wasn't surprising that they got on well though, Christine considered. After all, they had the same first name: 'The'. Perhaps they were from the same place.
"Persia is fascinating, but you have to be rather careful about - you're back!" the Doctor exclaimed, his eyes on the blonde with her arm around Christine's shoulder. "I was worried about you," he muttered, and Rose patted him on the cheek fondly as Christine transferred Rose's arm from her own shoulder to the Doctor's. She plopped down on the divan beside the Phantom, who cringed away from her.
"What's your name?" she demanded, swaying a little and forcing herself to look way up to meet the Phantom's eyes. "Ev'ryone has a name."
"Erik," replied the Phan - Erik after a long pause.
"Erik," the Doctor said. "I'm going to take Rose home. You'll be all right to look after this one, then?"
Erik nodded, his dark eyes burning, and helped Christine to her feet.
She flung her arms around his shoulders. He really was much prettier with the mask on. "Errrr-ik!" she drawled happily. "How long shall we two wait before we're one?"
Rose grinned as the Doctor steered her back towards the little blue box. Erik looked stunned.
He put her to bed in the Louis-Philippe room in his house below the Opera, pulling off her shoes and tucking her in like she was a child. "Erik," she asked drowsily as the masked man sat beside her on the bed, "Do you love me?"
He must have thought she was half asleep. "Yes, Christine," he replied sorrowfully. "I do."
"Oh," she replied. Tomorrow, when the room wasn't spinning, she knew that would be important. "That's good."
He tilted his head sharply. "Is it?" he asked, and she captured one of his big hands to hold in both of her own.
"Yeah," she replied - it was a fabulous word.
Erik looked like he might say something else, but she fell asleep.
The next day her head throbbed and her eyes watered at the light. She and Rose met for strong coffee and mutual moaning about the agony they were in. The Doctor and Erik, accompanied by Madame Giry, arrived in Christine's dressing room just as she was starting to feel a little more human.
"You're all sorted," the Doctor said after buzzing his little stick at her a few more times. "The alcohol took care of the leftover pheromones in your system and they didn't replicate thanks to the transmitter being... shall we say... dimensionally transcendental right now."
Christine had no idea what that meant, but in her painful brain something twigged. She turned to Rose incredulously. "What?" she demanded. "Was that the point of last night? I thought you liked me," she said sadly. "I thought we were friends. Was getting rid of the pheromones really the reason?"
Rose looked a little guilty. "Partly 'cos of that," she defended. "But come on, Christine, you're a great chick. I loved 'angin' out with you." Christine sighed. Rose's eyelashes were quivering pleadingly and she was offering a hopeful smile, pink tongue caught between her teeth. She reminded Christine unfailingly of Meg.
"Very well, then," Christine conceded with a sigh. "Bring me some more Chapstick next time you visit and we'll call it even."
"The only question left is how it got there," said Madame Giry gravely, and Erik cleared his throat.
"I believe I know," he said, and once again Rose looked like she needed assistance in standing up, this time for a reason other than the hideous sensations of what Rose referred to as a hangover. Christine had to admit Erik did have a very beautiful voice. "After some investigation around the Opera, I eventually acquired a confession from Carlotta Guidecelli." Christine wasn't surprised at the name, but she didn't think it had have happened exactly like that. At least it was an explanation as to why Carlotta had scuttled away like a frightened mouse from her in the corridors that morning. Ha. "She obtained it from a gypsy woman who claimed it would eradicate Christine's voice; obviously," he drawled, and Christine heard Rose sigh dreamily behind her, "it had a different effect entirely."
There was not much left to say after that; the Doctor embraced Christine quickly and shook Madame and Erik's hands. Erik looked rather surprised to be treated like an ordinary man for a change. Madame looked rather pleased. Rose hugged Christine and whispered they'd be back soon, and then as the little blue box faded away Christine turned to her guardians.
"I must return to rehearsals," Madame said, touching her gently on the shoulder. "Be kind to him," she whispered into her ear, and Christine only nodded. When the older woman was gone, she closed the door behind her and turned to her masked tutor.
"You probably think I don't remember last night," she began. The Phantom stiffened, his eyes wary. "What I asked you, and what you replied. Well, I do."
"And?" Erik asked dryly, crossing his arms. "What do you expect me to do? Apologise? Well, I will not. Not for that."
"I wouldn't want you to," Christine replied. "It's just that... what happened yesterday, when it was everyone else... they made me feel dirty. The way they looked at me, the way they touched me. But with you..." She drew in a deep breath, and cast her propriety away. What the hell, as Rose would say. It hadn't done her any good thus far. "With you it just felt right."
"Because I'm a monster?" the masked man asked darkly, and she shook her head.
"No," she replied, wishing she hadn't shaken her head because, ow. "Because I knew you'd never hurt me."
"But I will," Erik said softly, turning away. "One day, one way or another, by design or by accident, I will harm you. It is a given."
"Nothing is given," Christine replied, daring to touch his elbow. When he didn't move, she ran her hand up his arm to his shoulder, to turn him to her. "Whether we live to see another day is not given. All that we have is now."
"Now, Christine?" the Phantom asked, but there was a flutter of hope on his masked face. Christine gave up on words and pulled him down until their lips met. Damn the consequences. Erik shivered and then wrapped his arms around her; Christine decided she rather liked being held by him when she wasn't being abducted. And he was a good kisser, once he'd mastered the basics, of course. Christine herself was an excellent kisser. Rose had given her some pointers.
"You've grown up," he said when they parted for air. "When did that happen?" Christine thought for a moment.
"Probably when Monsieur Andre asked me if I'd like to meet his trouser python," she decided, and the Phantom barked out a laugh. "That was enough to make any girl feel like she'd truly left childhood behind."
"I'll throttle him tomorrow," Erik replied, sounding distinctly un-murderous as he reopened the mirror to escort her through to his home.
No. To their home. There was much to be done. She had to tell Raoul to sod off for good, convince Erik to tidy up his house a bit, and there was still Don Juan Triumphant to be performed. But hell. Christine had survived alien pheromones, an ill-wishing rival prima donna, and the hangover from hell to win the heart of her wayward, mildly psychotic Phantom. There would be no more hiding in the shadows for Christine. She was a woman on a mission. She could do anything.