I actually had this story up on Fanfiction before, but I accidentally deleted it when I tried to delete one of my OTHER stories. It is new and improved!!!

(Although, I still fail to see how if something is 'brand-new' it can't be 'improved'.

Disclaimer: I OWN IT ALL!!! MUAHAHAHAHA!!!

A/N: Ok. Well, to start, flames will be greatly appreciated. I'll put 'em on a stick and hold them over my giant marshmallow.

Summery: A Cute lil E/C Phluff Phan/Phiction phor your enjoyment. Hope you likey. (Raoul is not in this story!!!) Takes place during the time Erik 'kidnapped' Christine for the first time.

In accordance to some questions, no, I didn't write the 'Strawberry fable'. I did alter it quite a bit, though.

Strawberries

Erik stood in the shadow of the doorway and watched Christine work. She was chopping something up on a cutting board.

He stepped into the kitchen and resisted the urge to put his arm around her. "What are you making?" he asked.

"Strawberry shortcake." She answered.

"And you're chopping up...strawberries?" he asked, peering at them. It didn't require an answer.

"Yes." She said, anyway.

Christine remembered the fable her father used to read to her. When she was little, he would haul out the book of "Why so" stories at her request, and read her favorite, correctly and obviously titled: "Strawberries".

When she was older, her father when then take her into the kitchen, and they'd make strawberry shortcake together. Growing up, her favorite food was strawberries.

Adolescence changed her point of view. Taste buds changed, and soon other things replaced the fruit, things that showed how much she was trying to grow up. She grew to like coffee, biscuits, steak, and soon grew a fondness for wine.

Her father watched her grow sadly, knowing his little girl was growing up. After a few years, the sweet nectar of her childhood was forgotten.

But she still remembered the story her father used to read, in his soft, patient, soothing voice: "Long ago, in the very first days of the world, there lived the first man and the first woman.

They lived together as husband and wife, and they loved on another dearly. But one day, they quarreled. Although neither later could remember what the quarrel was about, the pain grew stronger with every word that was spoken, until finally, in anger and in grief, the woman left their home and began walking away – to the east, toward the rising sun."

"The man sat alone in his house. But as time went by, he grew lonelier and lonelier. The anger left him, and all that remained was a terrible grief and despair, and he began to cry. An angel heard the man crying and took pity on him.

The angel said, 'Man, why do you cry?'

The man said, 'My wife has left me.'

The angel said, 'Why did your woman leave?'

The man just hung his head and said nothing.

The angel asked, 'You quarreled with her?' The man nodded.

'Would you quarrel with her again?' asked the angel.

The man said No. He wanted only to live with his wife as they had lived before – in peace, in happiness, and in love.

'I have seen your wife,' the angel said. 'She is walking to the east, toward the rising sun.'

The man followed his wife, but he could not overtake her. Everyone knows an angry woman walks fast. Finally the spirit said, 'I'll go ahead and see if I can make her slow her steps.'"

"The angel found the woman walking, her footsteps fast and angry, and her gaze fixed straight ahead. There was pain in her heart. The spirit quickly spotted some huckleberry bushes growing along the trail, so with a wave of his hand, he made the bushes burst into bloom and ripen into fruit. But the woman's gaze remained fixed. She looked neither to the right nor to the left, and she didn't see the berries. Her footsteps didn't slow."

"Again, the angel waved his hand, and one by one, all of the berries growing along the trail burst into bloom and ripened into fruit. But still, the woman's gaze remained fixed. She saw nothing but her anger and pain. Her footsteps did not slow. And again, the angel waved his hand, and, one by one, the trees of the forest – the peach, pear, apple, and the wild cherry burst into bloom and ripened into fruit. But still, the woman's eyes remained fixed, and even still, she saw nothing but her anger and pain. And still her footsteps didn't slow."

"Then finally, the angel thought, 'I will create an entirely new fruit – one that grows very, very close to the ground so the woman must forget her anger and bend her head for a moment.' So the angel waved his hand, and a thick green carpet began to grow along the trail. Then the carpet became starred with tiny white flowers, and each flower gradually ripened into a berry that was the color and shape of the human heart."

"As the woman walked, she crushed the tiny berries, and the delicious aroma came up through her nose. She stopped and looked down, and she saw the berries. She picked one and ate it, and she discovered its taste was as sweet as love itself. So she began walking slowly, picking berries as she went, and as she leaned down to pick a berry, she saw her husband coming behind her."

"The anger had gone from her heart, and all that remained was the love she had always known. So she stopped for him, and together, they picked and ate the berries. Finally, they returned to their home, where they lived out their days in peace, happiness, and love."

"And that's how the world's very first strawberries brought peace between men and women in the world and why to this day they are called the berries of love."

Erik watched Christine stand there with an odd look on her face. She looked like she was in another zone altogether, but she still automatically sliced the delicate strawberries.

"Christine?" he asked softly. She snapped out of her trance and faced him.

"Yes?"

He didn't feel like admitting to her that he had never had a strawberry before. "Never mind."

She took another strawberry out of the bowl by her. "Look!" she said eagerly, practically shoving it in his face. "It's two strawberries stuck together! It's distorted!" She began to laugh merrily at her joke, but stopped as soon as she saw his face. She cleared her throat and looked down. "Sorry."

"Let me see it." He said, holding out his hand for the strawberry. She gave it to him. He put it in his mouth. And chewed. Christine waited for his reaction.

"That's got to be the best strawberry I ever had." He said, not admitting it's the only one too. It WAS surprisingly good.

Christine smiled. "Good." She stated. She spent the next minutes slicing up most of the strawberries. She put them in the bowl and put it aside for a few minutes as she got out another bowl, whipping cream, and an eggbeater.

Erik watched in amusement as she spooned a lot of the whipping cream into a bowl, and tried to beat it. The eggbeater slipped out of her grasp several times, landing in the whipping cream. She smiled sheepishly, licking her fingers. "I always had to ask my father to help me with this part."

Erik took the eggbeater, wiping off the handle. Christine watched him as he whipped the cream. He broke the silence. "You used to make this with your father?"

"Yes." She said softly. He took the eggbeater out of the bowl, removed the whisk and handed it to her. She took it, surprised at the act so much like what her father used to do when she was little. She licked the whipped cream off the whisk, not caring that she was a grown woman. When she was done she set it in the sink.

Christine took out two shortcake 'shells'. They were fairly large. She set them both on plates, and got out the strawberry bowl. She spooned strawberries onto the shortcake, then slathered them with whipped cream, just the way her father did.

While she was preparing them, Erik left the room. He had something nagging at his brain, something that sounded familiar. He scanned the bookcase until he found it: a book of Just So stories. He skimmed the story names.

"How the leopard got its spots", "Why the rhinoceros has a thick skin", "How the elephant got a long trunk", "Strawberries – The berries of love", "How the kangaroo got its pouch"...Wait, Strawberries?!

Erik flipped to the story and read it. A fable about how strawberries were made. Why would Christine make a dish for him with the berries of love in it? Maybe it was because she was trying to tell him something...Erik immediately chided himself. It was useless to dream, and it couldn't be true. How could Christine love him – a monster? He imprisoned her in this dark horrible place he called home. There was no way. He was being stupid. Maybe she didn't know.

He heard Christine calling him. "Erik?" He closed the book and exited the room, his cape swirling behind him. He preferred not to take it off, even indoors. Christine had even set places at the table. Erik was touched by all she had done today. She was standing expectantly by the table, waiting for him. He pulled the chair out for her, and pushed it back in as she sat down.

He sat down at the head of the table, and they both started eating. It was really very good. He complimented her a few times and they sat at the table in silence.

Erik finally broke the silence. "You said your father taught you to make this?"

Christine felt her throat close up at the mention of her father. The fork clattered against the plate as she dropped it and brought her hands up to her face. Instantly Erik was there, kneeling by her side, the expression in his eyes showing concern.

"I'm sorry Christine, I won't mention it again." He could see this was a touchy subject for her.

"Don't be." Christine straightened up, as if trying to look confident. "It's been years. I need to get over it. I know my father would have wanted me to get on with my life. I've always wanted to be a famous singer, and I know he wouldn't want his death to get in the way of that."

Erik nodded as Christine gave a quavering smile. He resumed his seat.

"So would you or wouldn't you like to talk about it?"

"I would."

"Tell me about it." Erik said softly, "Tell me about him."

"It's hard!" she sniffed. "I don't know where to start!"

"It's ok," Erik soothed her.

Christine gave a hiccup and nodded, tears running down her face.

"Tell me some of the things he did." Erik said, "What did he do that you particularly liked about him?"

"Well," Christine started, wiping her face, "When I was little he used to read a story – a fable – about strawberries. Then when I was older, he used to take me in the kitchen, and we'd make strawberry shortcake together. He always used to let me lick all the whipped cream off the whisk." She blinked back the tears at this memory. "Then we'd eat it when it was ready. He always used to give me too much than was good for me. Half the time I would get sick afterwards, but it was always so fun...I could hardly sing I was so bloated. Then next month we'd go and do it again." Christine smiled.

Over the course of two hours, the shortcake lay forgotten while Christine recollected her fondest memories of her father.

"He seems like a wonderful father," Erik said softly. Christine stared at him for a moment.

"Erik...what about your father?"

"What father?" he asked bitterly. "I never knew my father. I'm almost glad. He would have loathed me with one look. How can he not? I'm glad he just remembered me as the perfect child he was promised."

Christine glared at him, "Erik, don't talk about yourself that way! Your father would have loved you, regardless. You always put yourself down, and I'm tired of it!"

She spun out of her chair, almost knocking it over as she stomped off to her room.

"Christine - !" Erik exclaimed.

"Yes?" she asked coldly.

He sheepishly smiled and held out his hand. "Strawberry?"

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