A/N… Well… I don't own Erik (ALWAYS SPELL WITH A K!) or Christine, or even that useless prat, Raul. Nor do I own anything remotely Phantom or Phantastic. I just wanted to write this PhanPhic Phor Phun. Is that okay with you!

"Wait, Raul, I… um… I need to give him his ring back. Yeah."

"Oh, Christine, he stole that from me in the first place. No need to return it."

"But… um… I will be right back, I promise." Christine struggled across the shallow, rank waters of the subterranean lake beneath what had been the Paris Opera in the wedding dress that made her look like a creamy confection and headed toward the man who would always own her heart. She reasoned that he actually would be better for her than the wealthy VisComte for the following reasons: He looked strangely like the actor Gerry Butler, but with a severe sunburn on one side of his face, he pulled off Mysterious Emo-guy who lives underground with flair, and basically, Gaston Leroux's original concept for this story just sucks, so Christine was going to do whatever the heck she wanted to anyway. On with the story.

Christine walked into the creepy room with the swan bed and saw Erik listening in rapt attention to his creepy monkey box, which was playing Masquerade in a tinkling, music-boxy way that made his eyes light up like a child's. "So, here's your ring back."

"Oh… thank you. But isn't it Raul's?"

"Oh," said Christine, smiling sheepishly, "My mistake… but… don't you want it? I mean… for like, sentimental reasons…"

"Oh, I suppose so." Erik took the ring from her and sang in a rather pathetic, ill-trained tenor, "Christine… I LOOOOOOOOVE YOUUUUUUUU!"

"You do, eh?" asked Christine. "Well, I suppose I'll stay with you, then… Just, you have to promise me something."

"ANYTHING!" said Erik, leaping up with the elegance of a antelope completely covered in butter. "Name it. I will be yours. I will make you breakfast, lunch, dinner, even desert! I will do your laundry. Heck, I'll even stop killing people!"

"But…" said Christine, faltering like a mother giraffe who wasn't quite sure if it was time to go into labor. "Will you…"

"Yes?" said Erik with the impatience of a well-fed and watered child who was last in line for the bathroom.

"Promise to stop picking… that's never going to heal otherwise."

"Oh, this?" asked Erik, touching the hideous, melty mess that was the right side of his face. "This is just makeup. I can remove it whenever I want to."

"You… you can?" asked Christine, brightening as though someone had just told her that she WAS getting the little red wagon for Christmas after all.

"Sure," said Erik, beginning to peel of the right side of his face, releasing an aroma of slightly old cucumbers. "I only wore it to see if you REALLY loved me. Now that I know you would have stayed with me regardless of my deformity, I can show you the real me." Finishing the process, Erik revealed that he was indeed a Gerry Butler look-alike, causing Christine, like most women of her time-period, to go into a fit of swooning.

"Oh, dear," said Erik, "I must get the smelling salts.

Meanwhile, in the boat in the underground lake, Raul was balancing the punt to the boat on the end of his extraordinarily straight nose. "She'll be back AAAAAAAny minute now…"

Fin.