JS movie universe

The phantom watched in despair as his love rode away in the boat with her lover. He glanced down at the ring he held in his fist. Briefly he wondered, since the ring originated with the vicomte, if it meant that he was now engaged to the young dandy himself. He shuddered, and drew his hand back to fling the ring out into the lake.

He stopped himself at the last minute, with a shrug. If nothing else, he might be able to pawn it. He dropped it into his pocket and went around gathering a few things to take with him. He didn't know what he was going to do next, but he knew he couldn't stay here.

The pictures of Christine that he had drawn, he was able to sell to a couple of her adoring fans outside the opera house. He brought along the creepy little monkey toy that Christine had seemed so enamoured of, and sold the patent for the specialized musical box it contained. The creepy little monkey toy itself, he kept.

As he went about the city finding buyers for all the operatic junk he'd collected over the years, he finally decided what he was going to do. The opera house hadn't burned nearly so badly as he had thought, and the managers were talking about re-opening with a light operetta a few weeks from now.

The phantom snapped his fingers suddenly, as it came to him what he would do. Then he caught his monkey, which had nearly fallen out of his hands. He had enough money saved up to go on an extended holiday… so he was going to follow Christine. Just in case that arrogant little whiner she preferred over him didn't treat her well, he wanted to be around for her to come crying to afterwards.

Pride? What was that? No, the phantom had no pride. He loved Christine and was willing to take her any way he could get her.

So now he pocketed his giant scads of cash with a satisfied smile, and clutching his monkey with both hands, made his way toward the Chagny estate...

…where all hell was breaking loose.

"What do you mean, you're marrying her?" Philippe de Chagny yelled at his little brother, aghast. "You're marrying a little opera tramp? You're giving our family name to this little guttersnipe of an orphan who was an opera dancer? You'll make a laughingstock out of us!"

"She wasn't just an opera dancer!" Raoul defended his fiancée hotly. "She was an opera singer, too! She played the lead in Hannibal, in Il Muto, AND in—"

"Don't even mention that 'Don Juan' piece of filth to me," Philippe warned him. "So, she had three chances to make something of herself, and every time something dreadful happened."

"Nothing bad happened in 'Hannibal'!" Raoul cried. "She sang beautifully, and that's when I fell in love with her!"

"And yet you say nothing bad happened," Philippe mocked. He sighed. "All right, Raoul… marry the girl if you must, but promise me something."

"What is that?"

"Bed her first."

"WHAT?"

"You heard me. Take the girl to bed first, before you marry her. If you still marry her afterwards, it won't matter if you anticipated your vows at all… but who knows? Something may happen to change your mind about marrying her, and solve all my problems."

"B-bu-but, Philippe…" Raoul was puzzled.

"What's the matter? Don't you want to bed the girl? I know you're in the navy and all, but I've heard that even naval officers prefer girls when they're on land."

"What? Oh, no, no… I mean, of course I want to bed her. I just don't know if she'll go for the idea… before marriage and all."

"You're a Chagny. You'll figure out how to convince her. Good night!" He saluted his little brother with his wineglass, and headed out.

With the beginnings of a smirk on his face, Raoul began mounting the stairs to Christine's room.

"But Raoul, it wouldn't be proper!" Christine protested.

"Christine, we'll be married in just a few weeks. What's the harm? You know I love you," Raoul assured her.

"Well… let me think about it. I'll let you know tomorrow, all right?"

"Smashing!" Raoul bent to give her a heartfelt kiss, and left the room with a light heart and a heavy tread. His boots were navy-issue, and were a size and a half too big.

The phantom finally found the de Chagny estate and stationed himself down by the stables, where he could still see the front door and some of the goings-on in the house. The windows were open, and he heard some of Philippe's fight with Raoul.

When Raoul started climbing the stairs, the phantom turned away, heartbroken. Not only would Raoul probably get Christine into bed that night, but would marry her in a few weeks as well. And all the phantom had ever wanted was to marry her himself, and be like other men, and take her for walks in the Bois.

Although the fact that he didn't know his own last name would certainly have complicated the matter of marriage.

Unbeknownst to either the phantom or the de Chagnys, a new singer had arrived at the Opera Populaire. Her name was Christine Daae, and she was currently auditioning for the chorus.

The phantom arrived home just in time to hear her sing. He nearly dropped his monkey – it was her voice! It was Christine's voice! And yet, it was subtly different; it sounded more like Christine had, before he'd started training her. He made his way up to Box 5 so he could see the young woman as well as hear her.

She looked remarkably like young Christine, except that her hair was blonde instead of chestnut. She had the same huge dark eyes, the same huge dark mouth (the phantom had never told Christine that when she sang, her mouth closely resembled the caverns he frequented), and the same look of dreamy innocence that Christine had.

Andre and Firmin looked pleased, but confused. The girl sounded good, but how could her name really be Christine Daae?

"I'll ask her," Firmin decided. "It may be that she's just trying to cash in on the notoriety of the last Daae who worked here."

"But how does that explain the striking resemblance between her and the other one?" Andre wanted to know.

"That, my dear Andre, is what I plan to ask her!"

Hearing them, the phantom resolved to be present for that conversation!

They decided to hire the girl for the chorus, and with an evil glitter in his eye, Firmin assigned her the dressing room that had belonged to the former Christine Daae. The phantom heard him and smiled, petting his monkey with satisfaction.

Back at the Chagny estate, Christine and Raoul were having an argument. "But Philippe says we have to!" Raoul pleaded.

"But I'm not going to! My father always wanted the best for me, Raoul, you know that. And the 'best' certainly didn't involve spreading my legs for some uppity young vicomte who hasn't even put a ring on my finger!"

"I did give you a ring! It's not my fault you jammed it down your cleavage where that lecherous monster would be sure to see it!" Raoul shoved his hands in his pockets and paced angrily. "And where is that ring, anyway? Oh yes—you gave it to the aforementioned lecherous monster!"

"Well, I had to give him something, didn't I? The man was my friend and companion for years, gave me a whole new wardrobe, and taught me to sing, gratis! It wouldn't be very nice for me to just say 'hey, it's been fun, but I'm running away with a guy who's better looking and richer than you—oh, and he has a title, too,' would it? Even if that's what I did?"

"You'd already given him two kisses! Wasn't that enough?"

"Oh, right—two kisses were really going to make him feel better after all the time, emotion, and energy he had tied up in me. Years of effort, followed by heartbreak, all repaid by five seconds' worth of mashing lips? I kissed you longer than that, all those years ago, when all you had done was fish my scarf out of a puddle!"

"So if you're willing to mack on a stranger for that long, why aren't you willing to sleep with your fiance?" Raoul demanded hotly. "Especially when my big brother is demanding it of us!"

"How is he going to know?" Christine asked. "Is he going to be under the bed? Why can't we just tell him we did it, and then just wait until we're married before we really do it? We could do that, couldn't we?"

"I… suppose so," Raoul said slowly, feeling that somehow or other, he wasn't getting the better end of this deal.

"You wouldn't want me dishonoured before I'm wed, would you, Raoul?" Christine asked him sweetly, batting her eyelashes at him. "Wouldn't it be better to wait until I can be yours in every way: emotionally, physically, AND legally?"

"I… guess… so," Raoul answered, sitting down heavily beside her. He should be glad, because they'd stopped fighting, but instead he felt vaguely depressed and didn't know why.

"There, now! It's all settled, then!" Christine chirped with a big smile. A very big smile; the girl's mouth was the size of the Grand Canyon.

At the Opera Populaire, the phantom was indulging in his favourite pastime: spying. He had settled himself in behind "Christine's" mirror with a bowl of popcorn, and was quite contentedly watching her glide around the room, acting out scenes, singing little snatches of songs, and putting her things away.

He tried not to crunch too loudly.

Firmin came and knocked on the door. "Miss Daae? It's M. Firmin; may I come in?"

"Why, yes, monsieur!" Christine said brightly.

"Miss Daae, I'm afraid I have a few questions for you," he began.

"Of course, sir, but first, would you like a lemon drop?"

The phantom pricked his ears up. He loved lemon drops!

Firmin apparently didn't, though, and brushed the offer aside. "I am wondering," he began again. "Whether you were aware that you're not the first Christine Daae to come and sing here at l'Opera Populaire?"

"Sure I am," she said confidently.

"Alas, no," Firman replied. "Haven't you heard of the strange affair of the phantom of the opera?"

"A mystery never fully explained?" Christine clarified. "Yes, I have."

"Then you're aware of the young singer who was involved?"

"I am."

"Well, HER name was Christine Daae as well, mademoiselle. And you bear a strong resemblance to her. I would like an explanation, if you please."

"So would I," Christine agreed. "Whom would be a good choice to give us one?"

Firmin stroked his moustache in bewilderment, puffing for a moment.

Christine smiled. "I am teasing. I will tell you what I know, but I warn you, it isn't much."

She began to sing.

It's a strange and sordid tale that my father used to tell me
That there were assorted males who wanted him to sell me!
But the worst thing that they wanted happened when I was a child,
(We were young, we were undaunted, we were innocent and mild,)
And I had a little brother, just eleven minutes younger,
And he sang just like our mother, till he made a major blunder.
He performed like Farinelli and it piqued the interest of
An old man stooped like Kokopelli but who came to fall in love
With the thought of stealing that poor lad and making him into
A Castrato who needs healing – it was soon too late for glue!

My little brother's life was over; he couldn't see what lay in store,
But I could tell he was in clover: when he sang, they wanted more!
The Castrati singers are passe, modern people like their balls--
but here was one whose name was Daae! Who always got 10 curtain calls!
We two talked and we decided he would first come here to train,
So at home, my time I bided, till I heard he sang in vain—
They made him into a dancer; I don't know just how he did it.
Those costumes show off the prancer—I'm surprised he even fit it!
When he ran away I followed, then I heard him singing here
Tell me why his pride he swallowed—vocal lessons are so dear!

Sitting there behind the mirror, the phantom nearly dropped his popcorn. He did drop his jaw in amazement at hearing both the singing and the story the song told. He began to weave some plots and plans in his head as he listened and munched quietly.

"That's… uh, quite a tale, Miss Daae. So what you're telling me is that the previous Miss Daae was actually…"

"My brother, the Castrato. Yes. His name is Christian—I had no idea he'd borrowed my name to come here and work as a woman. But yes, he's my twin brother. What I want to know, though, is how he learned to sing like that? He couldn't have afforded voice lessons, and he was much too proud to beg."

"Uh, that… is a fascinating story… which… M. Andre will be happy to tell you at a later date," Firmin replied in a rush. He opened the door and ran out.

Christine shrugged. "Strange man," she remarked to herself. "I'll have to find out where Chris has got to, and give him a good talking-to at some point. Masquerading as a woman, indeed!" She shook her head in bemusement, and then gave up and laughed.

The phantom's head spun violently at the news that the "woman" he had given his heart to, and subsequently had it broken for him, wasn't really a woman at all, but a eunuch! Christine, a Castrato! He clapped both hands to his head to stop it from whirling, but he'd forgotten about the bowl of popcorn in his hand. It clattered to the floor and scattered the popcorn all over the place. He cursed.

Christine gasped. "Who's there?"

The phantom sucked in a noisy, panicked breath. She'd heard him!

She went to the door and opened it, but no one was there. She glanced around the dressing room, but it was empty except for herself. "Come on, I know I heard someone!"

The phantom tried to take a stealthy step backwards, but the popcorn crunched loudly under his boot-heel. Christine was at the mirror in an instant, staring into it. "Are you behind my mirror?" she asked. "Who are you?"

The phantom cleared his throat, resigned. "I am the angel of music, sent by your father to teach you," he rattled off tonelessly. "I am your angel of music, come to me, angel of music."

Christine broke out into a delighted laugh. "Oh, how lovely! I haven't heard that story since I was a child! Who are you, really? And what are you doing behind my mirror?"

"I'm…" the phantom had no idea how to respond to this. He cleared his throat again. "I'm the phantom of the opera. I haunt this dressing room."

Christine grinned. "Well, you'd better get used to me, then, because I'm going to be hauntingthis dressing roomfrom now on, too! It's just as well ghosts don't take up much space. I must say, though, you sound real enough to me. Especially all that throat-clearing. You sound kind of like a regular man to me. A nervous one, actually. So tell me, phantom, what a real, live man like you would have to be nervous about?"

The phantom gave in. She was obviously not going to be fooled by the same tricks he had used on Christine… uh, Christian. He grimaced for a moment, remembering their kiss, and absently wiped his mouth with his sleeve. This was a whole new person, and he had no clue how to relate to her. Might as well be honest.

"I'm not."

"You are so. You're nervous."

"Yes. I am nervous. What I'm not, though, is a regular man."

"How are you different?"

He cleared his throat again, and then felt sheepish. He WAS nervous. "I… have a facial deformity. I have to wear a mask, to cover it up. But I really am the phantom, and I really do haunt the opera house."

"But you're a flesh-and-blood man, though."

"Yes."

"Come out, then. Let's be introduced. You don't have to hide behind my mirror; I don't bite." Christine's smile and voice were warm and inviting, and without thinking, the phantom flipped the switch that opened her mirror.

"Wow!" she said as he stepped into her dressing room.

"Yes, I designed the mechanism myself," the phantom replied modestly.

"The…? Oh, the mechanism. Right." She had actually been admiring him, not the machinery, but hey, the poor man was nervous enough. No need to make it worse by telling him so.

"I'm Christine Daae," she said. "The real one, this time."

"A pleasure, Miss Daae," the phantom replied, bowing over her hand. "I'm Erik."

"How long have you haunted this dressing room? Did you know my brother, then?" she asked.

He nodded. "I was her—his voice teacher. I taught him to sing like an angel… or at the very least, like a woman! But then she—he went away and deserted me…" He frowned. These pronouns were going to take some getting-used to! "I was his angel of music, but the music of the night is over now."

Christine raised her lovely, sceptical eyebrows. "You were making music of the night with my brother? Somehow I wouldn't have thought you swung that way."

Erik scowled. "No, not like that! And keep in mind, I thought he was a woman the whole time!"

Christine grinned. "Now, see, I grew up on a farm. We were taught how to tell the difference right away!"

"No!" Erik retorted. "I know the difference! It's just that we… never got that far. There was this viscount, you see…" and before he knew it, he was telling Christine Daae all about his obsession for her dark-haired twin brother.

At the end of his recitation, Christine was silent, watching him steadily. Her eyes were blue, he noticed, but still very dark. "So are you frightened now?" he forced himself to ask.

She shook her head. "Seems to me like Christian got what he deserved. Pity you didn't kill the viscount, though. And speaking of him… do you have any idea where I can find my brother?"

Erik started to smile. "As a matter of fact… yes!"

It was Raoul and Christine's wedding-day. He had dutifully informed his brother that he had indeed bedded his fiancee, and still wanted to marry her two days hence.

Erik and the real Christine arrived at the church a little late. "You'd better let me go in first, my dear," Erik told her, patting her hand. "They know me here. I'll call for you when I need you."

"All right, Erik," Christine replied trustingly.

Erik smirked with satisfaction—this Christine seemed to be just as trusting as her brother had been! He opened the back door and sneaked in, closing it behind him. He waited until the minister asked if anyone present had any lawful impediment why the wedding should not continue; when Philippe groaned and raised his eyes heavenward but then remained seated, Erik spoke up.

"I have a reason!" he declared, injecting just enough mocking scorn into his voice. If he played his cards right…

Ah, sure enough! Raoul scowled and shouted, "He's the phantom! He has no legal objections—throw him out of here!" Raoul's friends hastened to obey, and Erik was unceremoniously tossed out the door into the street. The men went back in.

Christine hurried over. "Erik! Erik, are you all right?"

He got up and dusted himself off slowly. "It would appear," he said, "that the vicomte wishes his wedding to continue, regardless of what I might have had to say."

"Huh," Christine mused. "I remember Raoul. I guess I shouldn't be so surprised at his preferences." She smiled brightly up at Erik. "Well, no one can say we didn't try! We can always visit Christian later. Let's go back to the opera—you said you had a song for me to try?"

"Yes, indeed," replied Erik agreeably. He tried to contain his glee; the scene at the church had played out exactly as he had hoped it would! He hadn't actually wanted to stop the wedding at all; it would serve that pansy little vicomte right, to get a nasty surprise on his wedding night!

Meanwhile, the real Christine Daae was beginning to intrigue him with her openness, her affectionate manners… and her voice. The untrained voice she was starting with was already better than Christian's had been; if she gave Erik enough time, he might really be able to make something of her!

Meanwhile, they were both enjoying their association very much. Christine never bothered finding a flat in the city; on her first visit, Erik had invited her to stay with him as often as she wished. Intrigued by his musical skills, his talent as a composer, and his booty-licious body, she took him up on the offer nearly every single night. This arrangement suited them both very well, as it saved Erik having to go all the way up to her dressing room to get her for her voice lessons.

The best part was that at the end of the first week, Christine saw his face and shrugged. Erik had been so very careful for the first few days, never to appear before her in less than his formal best: black evening dress, black wig, white mask carefully in place. Then one night they stayed up too late drinking wine and talking, and the next morning she snuck into his bedroom and saw him asleep.

Unmasked and unwigged, he had a Janus-like sort of attractiveness, and she blinked a couple times and then just shrugged. She'd seen worse. And from the neck down… ah. Shirtless, and with his top two buttons undone on the flies of his trousers. She gulped.

"Erik?" she called his name quietly. No response.

"Erik?" she repeated, a little louder. Still no response.

"Erik, honey, you're looking entirely too delectable to be allowed to go on sleeping! Wake up, now, before I'm forced to do something that might embarrass me later!"

Erik blinked his eyes open sleepily. "What did you say?" he murmured.

"Me? Oh, uh, nothing! Just trying to wake you up!"

Erikstiffened suddenly, slapping his hand over his face. "Christine! No, not again!" he moaned. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat up, burying his face in his hands. He started rocking back and forth. "Oh, no, oh, no!"

"Erik! What's wrong?" Christine knelt beside him to look up at him, but he turned his face away.

She reached up to touch him, to try and turn him back to look at her, but he tore his hand away from his face and glared at her.

"There! Now! See! Look your fill at my accursed ugliness!" he howled. He grabbed her head and roughly pulled her closer so she could have a good stare at him.

"Oh! Well, all right," Christine said amiably.

She looked for several minutes.

Erik frowned as he stared down into her dark blue eyes. Why wasn't she trembling in fear? Why wasn't she fighting him, trying to run away? Why wasn't she weeping in terror the way her brother had?

"Um, Erik?" she said at last in a quiet voice.

"Yes?"

"Do you think you might let go of my head? It's a little uncomfortable on my neck."

Startled at her calm, he nodded and let go of her. "Oh. Sorry."

"That's all right." Settling back onto her heels, she leaned her head against his thigh and looked up at him. "Listen, I'm a little headachey after last night. I was wondering if you had any wine or something around here, that might help. Hair of the dog and all."

Frowning in bewilderment, Erik nodded slowly. Her head was on his thigh. Absently, he moved his hand to brush her blond curls. She purred.

Her head was on his thigh.

He cleared his throat. "Yes. I, ah, I'm a little hungover as well." Suddenly he smiled at her. Her head was on his thigh. "It was rather an enjoyable evening, though, wasn't it?" Her head was on his thigh!

She nodded, smiling. Her head was moving.. On his thigh! Oh, he never, ever wanted to stand up. And suddenly realized that he couldn't anyway; after all, her head was moving. On his thigh. He cleared his throat again.

Too soon, she stood up and sat down beside him. Tentatively, she touched the blemished side of his face. "You know, it's really not that bad," she said... and then she leaned in to press her lips to his ridged and sunken cheek.

Her lips were on his face!

He turned to look at her, and for the love of all that was holy, he could swear that he saw the words "Kiss me, please!" flashing clearly from her blue eyes.

What was a man supposed to do?

He kissed her, and oh, it was so much better than kissing a man! Even if the man was a eunuch passing as a chorus girl--there was simply no comparison to kissing this divine creature who shrugged as if his face were of no importance, and who made impertinant remarks about his attractiveness when she saw him half-unclothed. She clung to him, kissing him for all she was worth, and before long they had both forgotten about their headaches.

He eased her down on the bed and lay beside her, still kissing her. She rolled to face him and then broke the kiss, frowning. "Erik, what's this?" she asked, poking at a lumpy thing that was poking her in the hip.

"That?" he looked down and blushed. "Oh. Sorry. It's just my monkey."

She looked mystified. "Your... I'm sorry,I thought you said it was your monkey!"

"Yes." He drew it from underneath the coverings and showed it to her. "It was the only thing I escaped with, when I got away from the gypsies. I used it for a model to make the musical box. Do you like it?"

A/N: All right, I know it's quite a departure from my usual fare... but everyone else was writing movie fics, so I had to jump on the bandwagon. Please, R & R and let me know what you think. Is it okay as it is? Is Christine's little song too stupid to be allowed? Should I portray a de Chagny wedding?

In other words, "FEED ME!" --Audrey II