Title: A Pink Haze of Confusion
Summary: The Phantom finally goes off the deep end, just in time for Valentine's Day, and Christine reaps the consequences.
Author's Note: Usually I like to use a mix of Erik's for my version of the Phantom. This time, it is ALL Gerry. Also, I don't actually celebrate Valentine's Day, but I thought it'd be fun to stick it in here.
It had been, as usual, a marvellous performance. Christine was inordinately pleased with herself as she left the stage after the final bows. There would be an after party, of course— there always was— the occupants of the Opera House took any excuse to break out the wine—
Any excuse.
They'd had an absolute ball the first time Carlotta quit—
And the second time—
And the third—
Christine sighed deeply and pushed the diva out of her mind. It shouldn't bother her so much, she knew, and it wouldn't— if it hadn't been for Carlotta flirting with that cute Raoul de Chagny—
Raoul.
What kind of a name was Raoul, anyway?
Happily, Christine fell to thinking about this, and pretending he was in love with her, as she walked to her dressing room. She'd finally been given her own when the girls she shared with complained about her singing in her sleep. Christine was happy about this— after all, if she didn't have her own room with her own huge mirror, how would the Angel of Music teach her to sing? On top of which the other girls had snored.
Loudly and out of key and in tandem.
Almost as though they wanted Christine to leave—
She didn't need to think about that. She was just paranoid and insecure. Of course the people in the Opera wanted to be around her! Why should they not? She was a nice girl, if a little simple—
Behind her back, a few passing members of the ballet corps pointed at her and whispered.
"That's the one who says she takes lessons from the Opera Ghost!"
"Christine?" One of the girls snorted. "She is so weird."
"Like, yeah."
Christine didn't hear them. She had reached the door of her room, opened it— she stepped into her dressing room and caught her breath. Dozens— hundreds— of pink roses surrounded her, all their thorns still intact. She fought her way through them, her clothes getting caught, her hands scratched and nicked. Finally she made her way to the mirror, which was cleared for a few feet and which she welcomed as an oasis. The smell of the roses was overpowering— she was smothering— she was going to die here in the bower of roses—
"Ooh, candy."
Yes, there was a heart-shaped box of chocolates on the small heart-shaped table, along with a heart-shaped card with lace on it and her name written in curly, loopy cursive. Christine suppressed a squeal and jumped on it—
She read it—
She frowned slightly—
Next to the table was a chair. A floofy pink dress was laid across it, with a note pinned to it—
Please Put This On Immediately
Christine picked it up and looked at it warily. It had more ruffles than anything else, and the whole thing looked like it'd fly away if you threw it in the air. Shaking her head, she glanced once more at the card, then obeyed the note.
He wanted her in his lair—
Well, that sounded a bit more serious than she had intended it to.
He wished her to descend to his lair.
She slid open the mirror and blanched, because there was— oh God— more pink roses. And little candy hearts that said— oh horror— "Be Mine," and "Love Ya!" and "Angel!"
Christine grew worried.
But gamely she walked on, down the corridor, down the stairs— also strewn with roses— and found the gondola— which had been painted—
Christine wasn't sure whether to be pleased or frightened.
Pink.
It was pink.
What madness was at work here?
She poled her way through the underground labyrinth till she reached the lair of the Phantom. There, she found—
Candles.
She thought there had been candles before, but now—
Candles candles candles candles candles candles candles. The Phantom must have bought out an entire store. An entire three stores. Christine nearly fainted from the heat.
"You're here!"
The Phantom's voice echoed around the caverns, and there he stood— he'd opened the door that led, presumably, to his kitchen, and let clouds of steam billow out, along with a lovely scent—
The Phantom was baking. He was cooking. He was fixing a meal. He was playing Susie-homemaker.
Christine's mind reeled.
He was wearing—
—an apron—
—with a sign on it that said Kiss the Cook—
—and a hand-scrawled addition to it underneath that said Or He'll Punjab You.
Christine herself reeled.
The Phantom strode towards her, his powerful frame moving with none of that seductive intensity that made her mind weak— he was— well, there was no other word for it. He was skipping. And he had a whisk in his hand. Christine feared for her life and sanity.
The Phantom skipped over to her and bent over and brushed her cheek with his lips. Christine shuddered— somehow she thought he would have been cold— she didn't expect him to be so—
Before she could quite finish the though, he flung his arms around her and crushed her to his chest.
"This is more like it," Christine thought, but then she felt his hand on her head—
His fist, rather—
The Phantom gave Christine a noogie, then danced away, giggling to himself.
"Happy Valentine's Day, Christine! Did you like the roses?" he asked, bouncing excitedly.
"I thought they were from Raoul at first!"
The Phantom laughed. "Raoul? That silly! Of course not, they were from me! Who else?" He smiled fondly at her and patted her on the cheek. "Who loves you? Come on, tell me— who loves you—"
Christine stared at him. "You do?"
"I don't know, are you asking me or telling me?"
"Um, telling?"
"Aw, sweetie, you know it." Patting her once again, he giggled again and retreated to the kitchen, calling over his shoulder, "Dinner'll be out in a sec— sorry for not sticking around but if I don't tend to the mashed potatoes they'll be burnt—"
Christine clutched her arms to herself and stared at the opening where he'd gone. A swinging door— the Phantom had installed a swinging, saloon-style door to his kitchen—
She started as his voice once again wafted from the other room.
"Make yourself comfortable, hon, I'll just be a minute!"
Trembling, trying not to think, she crept over to the sofa in the corner and sat down on the very edge of it. What was wrong with him? Was it something she'd done—
Had he gone mad?
Quickly she reassured herself that, as the man in question lived several stories below an Opera House and wore evening dress all the time, he was quite mad to begin with.
Had he gone sane?
Wouldn't that be even worse?
No, no, there must be something wrong— some unlooked-for punishment would soon be meted out on her— perhaps he had read her thoughts of Raoul and was displeased—
Perhaps he'd read her thoughts of him and was displeased—
She knew enough not to give in to her desire to tell him how much she longed to hold him in her arms. She knew he could never love her, this Angel— no real flesh and blood woman for him—
There was a crash from the kitchen.
"Oh, dang!" the Phantom shouted.
Christine shivered. What could it possibly be?
He emerged from the kitchen once again, flushed and smiling, and removed the apron and hung it on a peg— a cute little peg— with a picture of a happy pig on it—
Christine suppressed a cry of alarm.
He was wearing—
What was he wearing? It was—
"Like it?" said the Phantom happily, and did a little twirl for her, holding his arms out to demonstrate.
"Lovely," said Christine, gulping past the lump in her throat.
"I had it specially made."
"Well, you'd have to, wouldn't you?"
The Phantom's head snapped up and he narrowed his eyes at her. "Whatever do you mean, my dear?"
"Well—" She meant that no tailor in their right mind would create such a bombastic monstrosity as the suit that met her eyes. It was wide-striped, pink and black, with huge lapels— his tie was lavender— "I mean, um, I thought you had all your suits specially made. Because of your— um— size."
"Oh. No, I meant I had it specially made for this occasion. For our—" He gulped and smiled. "Our first date. Our first Valentine's Day together, Christine—" He advanced on her and she shied back against the sofa cushions.
"Christine, I'm glad you came— I'm glad you wore the dress—" His stormy grey eyes swept over her. "I'm glad— um—"
There was a tense and silent moment and for just a second Christine thought, as they gazed deep into each other's eyes, that perhaps this new Phantom wasn't so bad.
Then he leapt back to his feet with a startled cry—
"My spinach puffs!"
And he was off back to the kitchens.
Christine forced herself to her feet and tried to get her breathing back under control.
Eventually he returned from the kitchen and invited her to sit at the dining table—
That was new, a dining table. Christine ventured as much.
"Oh, yes," exclaimed the Phantom rapturously, "Costcoux was having a sale, and I just couldn't resist. I've wanted one like this for ever so long. I'll tell you, I had a job, though, getting it back down here. Caesar absolutely refused to carry it, and then there was the hours it took me to put it together— you know, they really should alter that sign 'Some Assembly Required,' to 'Several Lifetimes Required.'" This made him giggle. Everything seemed to make him giggle. Christine smiled slightly and wondered if he'd been drinking.
The Phantom rushed back into the kitchens, this time returning with a few dishes which he placed on the table. "Dinner is served, mademoiselle," he exclaimed. Giggling.
Christine suppressed a moan of terror and took a bite of the food he placed in front of her. She chewed. She swallowed. The Phantom hovered over her, watching anxiously.
"Is it alright?"
"Of— of course, Angel, it is—" Christine choked on her bite and coughed and hacked for a minute before finishing, "lovely."
The Phantom wrung his hands. "Are you sure?"
No. "Yes."
"You are telling the truth, now, aren't you?"
No. "Yes."
"Aw, thanks, sweetheart." He pecked her on the head and went to his chair and sat down.
They ate.
It took a while.
It was the most rubbery food she had ever eaten, and she couldn't be sure what it actually was. But she also didn't dare ask.
They ate.
They chewed.
They chewed some more.
The Phantom smiled perkily at her. She smiled warily back.
After it was over, he jumped up and cleared the table, then returned to her and led her again to the sofa.
"I'm really glad you came tonight, Christine. I had something extra special I wanted to share with you."
Oh no. "Oh, really?"
"Yes. I mean, the food of course, that was specially cooked for you and me— but also I wanted to give you this." He pulled out a small, velvet-coloured box and held it out to her.
She took it.
"Shall I open it now?"
"Yes, yes, of course!"
She did.
It was a ring— an aquamarine stone, surrounded by diamonds. It was huge. It was beautiful. It was terrifyingly impressive. It weighed a ton, and it must have cost a fortune.
She studied the Phantom's face, what she could see of it. It alarmed her to notice that instead of the usual stark white mask he habitually wore, he now had on a pale pink one.
"Angel, did you— steal this?"
He pouted. He was good at it. He had the lips for it. She tried to ignore that.
"Of course not! Do you think I would do such a thing?"
"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—"
"I borrowed it."
"Oh." She didn't know quite what to say to that.
"I borrowed it," the Phantom went on, "off of your friend Raoul."
"My friend R— what?"
"Oh yes," he went on blithely. "Mind you, I had to pound him a bit first, and then tie him up in a punjab and threaten to stick a knife in his face, but he gave it to me quite readily after that. Very magnanimous, your friend Raoul. Very generous."
"Angel— you tell me this was in Raoul's possession? Raoul had it— Raoul intended— to give it to me?"
He cocked his head and looked at her. "To you? No, no, my dear. He was intending to give it to the diva— Dame Carlotta— he is in love with her, you see— no doubt they are themselves enjoying a little date tonight— even as we are—"
Shame flooded Christine's body. Raoul did not love her! Of course he did not! Who could love someone like her— poor as a churchmouse, with only her talent and incredible beauty to recommend her to social life—
The Phantom. The Phantom loved her.
It was but the work of a moment, and she had flung herself on him and showered him with kisses. He responded in surprise and a certain delight—
It was Valentine's Day, after all.
Eventually he found it necessary to disengage. He removed her hand from around his neck and patted it affectionately.
"There, there, my dear. I never go all the way on the first date. And we haven't even had dessert yet."
"Dessert? But, Angel—"
The Phantom sighed happily. "You know, I love it when you call me that. Come on, I've got Ben and Jerry's—"
Helplessly, she followed him to the kitchen. This was all so strange— he was so different—
He fed her some Cherry Garcia, stealing a kiss from the sweetness at her lips.
"You know, I was perhaps wrong about your friend having a date with the diva," he said conversationally. "It is entirely possible that he was somewhere else."
"Is it?" Christine murmured, her mind totally split. She reacted to Cherry Garcia the way most people would to— well, she had to keep herself from thinking about that.
"It is perhaps possible," went on the Phantom dreamily, "that he finds himself— divided— perhaps in his mind he is with the diva, and in his heart he is here with you— perhaps within in you—"
Christine looked at him and backed a few steps away. "Angel, after all you've done, the killing people and the showing up suddenly on the other side of mirrors, and the roses and the dinner— its this kind of talk that is really making me worried."
"Perhaps," said the Phantom, with a slight smile, "he is even— here—"
With a gentle finger he touched Christine on the stomach.
Christine froze.
The ingredients of dinner—
That horrible, rubbery, unidentifiable substance—
She screamed, a high and desperate sound, and ran away, ran from the man in the pink suit. He heard a splash as she launched herself into the lake and began to swim away.
Left behind in the kitchen, the Phantom fingered his chin and chuckled to himself. It had been an elaborate set-up— but totally worth it—
No doubt she would take care to obey his every order if she truly believed him to be insane.
He reflected on this. It wasn't enough, was it, for a man to live below an Opera House and wear a mask and be generally creepy, no. He had to resort to practical jokes and suits that even the fop would disdain.
Speaking of the fop—
He went to the pantry door, opened it, and looked down at him. Raoul stared back at him with wide, frightened, unblinking eyes.
"What have you done to her? Where did she go? What are you doing? Why are you dressed like that?"
The Phantom hit him on the head with a nearby turkey. The fop passed out at once.
"Happy Valentine's Day," said the Phantom, and closed the door.
Life—
Life was a funny thing.
And if you were stuck alone down in the cellars, with a lot of time on your hands, it was bloody boring—
