A/N: I Looove my reviewers! Thanx to you all! Please continue, but no flames, I'm not supposed to play with fire since the. . . "accident". And again, ideas wanted. As always, I hope yall enjoy.

Your Obedient Servant,

SP

Disclaimer: I spent all of last week trying to get The Really Useful Group to hand over the rights to PotO, but then security threatened to get out pepper spray so I had to leave empty handed.

Chapter 4: A Rather Pointless Chapter

Nearly six hours after the movie incident, C.C. was sitting on the couch trying to think of a possible way to get an internet connection in the lair when she heard the organ music stop. She could feel Erik coming up behind her long before he spoke. Silently she counted down in her head: 3. . .2. . .1. . .

"Can you really fix it?" he asked almost pleadingly. (Bingo! Could she call it or what?)

'I could try." she offered turning around. "And probably succeed, it you'll let me."

Erik's face looked like he was afraid to hope. "But how could you? You saw. . ." His hand flew up to his mask.

"Okay, hurdle, but not as bad as you think." Why couldn't she have inherited her mum's speech giving skills? "I think she was more bothered by the terror and the killin' than by. . . anything else. Besides," she tried awkwardly, "even Jack Skellington got the girl in the end."

Oooooo! Tim Burton film! C.C.'s mental voice perked up and began to sing. This is Halloween! This is Halloween! La! La! La!

'No!' C.C. thought angrily. 'Bad mental voice! This is so not the time!'

Awwwww! It answered back, You're no fun!

"Fictional skeleton. Ruler of Halloween Town in the movie Nightmare Before Christmas." she answered even before Erik could ask the question. "Great movie, by the way. We'll have to watch it sometime."

Erik was beginning to lose what little patients he had to begin with. This was only the second time in his life he had admitted to needing help to anyone, and this time traveling little she devil was not going to take this lightly. "What would you have me do?" he demanded taking a step forward.

"Okay, personal space! Step out of the personal spubble!" After a moment she attempted to avoi. . . ehem, answer his question. "Well, if this were one of those parody phics I'd suggest you call Oprah, Dr. Phil, or Freud. But, since it's not, you're gonna have to give me a few days to, um, perfect my game plan."

"What?" Erik growled. "You mean to tell me that you have no idea what you are going to do?" this was getting to be too much.

"No, that's not true." she said, lying through her teeth. "I know exactly what I want to do. I just need to observe the main parties for a few days in order to make certain I don't get blind sided by some off the wall character trait." C.C. didn't know if Erik believed her, but at least now she had a valid excuse.

"Well, since you're going to be here a while to observe, I might as well get you some more proper clothing." he said as he eyed her outfit. C.C. looked down at her clothing for the first time that day. Erik kinda had a point. Maybe, just maybe, a pair of pinstripe pajama pants and a bright red, white, and blue British flag sweatshirt that exclaimed "The Sex Pistols" would get a few stares.

"Oh, don't worry about that." C.C. said with a dismissive wave of her hand. "In exactly one minuet and twenty-three seconds a carriage packed full of clothes exactly my measurements will crash right outside the Rue Scribe entrance. The driver will be so drunk that he will trade the entirety of the cargo for a ball of string, two bent paper clips, and some fishy crackers. After receiving his payment he will promptly pass out and remember absolutely nothing in the morning."

Erik opened his mouth to argue the possibility of such a crash, but then thought better of it. (See! He can be trained!) He settled for staring awkwardly at the ceiling for several seconds before the distinct sound of a carriage crash filtered down to the layer. C.C. flashed him an I-told-you-so grin and pressed a bag containing the drunk driver's payment into his hands. "Have fun! Oh, and do be sure to watch out for his south paw, he's a bit of a violent one."

"Now wait just a minute." Erik thrust the bag roughly back at the Authoress. "I am not going to go out and barter with this drunken fool for your clothing."

C.C. pressed her hand to her chest in a look of mock horror. "Monsieur! I am completely shocked! You mean to say that you would have me, a innocent and virtuous young lady, go out alone to handle a violent drunk of questionable morals? How could you? Where is your gentleman's honour?"

With a growl Erik grabbed the bag and stalked towards the Rue Scribe entrance (or is it exit if you're already on the inside of the lair?) mumbling something to the effect of "If I ever get my hand on you. . ." under his breath.

"Go me!" C.C. smirked. "Silent Phantasy: 6, Phantom:0!"

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Twenty minutes later C.C. was strewning the lair with petticoats and day dresses. Pausing momentarily she'd twirl with a gown squealing "Lovely!" or "Hell yeah, Baby!". Like every nineteen-year-old girl she had completely immersed herself in the new clothes experience. In fact, she was so caught up in her new wardrobe she didn't even notice the Phantom's gaze upon her.

Erik leaned against the wall of the lair and watched the young authoress gleefully flinging clothing about her. To his utter amazement he found a smile, his first genuine smile in many years, on his face. This girl, the Authoress she'd called herself, might be crude and infuriating, but she also had a certain something about her. It was something he couldn't quite put his finger on, like a powerful and smokey melody that flitted just outside his memory. Whatever it was, it gave him hope that just maybe she could accomplish what she had come to do. Maybe she could fix his life.

A/N: For those of you who don't speak compounded word gibberish, spubble is a combination of the words Space Bubble. So in plain and boring English I told Erik to step out of my personal space bubble.