A/N: I failed to mention on here, though I did on the DBCA, that this Erik is, astoundingly, a Merik… (that's Michael Crawford!Erik, the original ALW stage Phantom, for those of you who aren't abbreviation-savvy)…since there are way, way too few of those kind of phics floating around these days, and I wanted to be unique. There are a few Leroux-ish references, but overall this Erik is completely MC's version.
ON a perfectly random note: Jordie gave me an ad. The dear.
So now I shall give her an ad.
Her phic is called A Phangirl's Guide To Pestering An Erik and it is hi-la-ri-ous. Read it. Now.
And, in case you didn't know, I am a review junkie. I love reviews. See the widdle button at the bottom? Push it, please, and deposit your two cents, for it would make me ecstatically, delightfully, positively happy.
THANK you.
P.S. This chapter is rather stupid, even though nearly half of it was completely re-written and revised before I decided to be a brave girl and post the darn thing. (The DBCA girlies seemed to like it, so maybe it's not so bad...)
The girl stared at the apparition, self-conscious of the ruined candelabra and the plethora of wax dripping from both it and her clothes onto the cold stone floor.
"I can explain," she said, staring oddly at the shape of his fedora in the concealing shadows that masked his form.
"There is nothing to explain," he said in a rather deliciously menacing—and disturbingly familiar—voice that made her shiver. "You came into my home. You knocked over my candelabra."
"But…" she said.
"I would be delighted," he hissed, "to hear a most excellent reason as to why you are…"
"About to wet myself?" she asked.
"Invading my privacy," he said shortly.
There was silence for a moment.
"Well," whispered the girl. "I think I'm having a dream."
"I can assure you that you are not," said Erik brusquely. "Shall I prove it to you?" He hefted his Punjab lasso in his hands, caressing its length almost erotically.
The girl twitched a little. "Where…" she began to ask.
"Begin," said Erik abruptly. "Begin to explain yourself, and perhaps I shall spare your life."
The girl scrutinized his shadowy, dark form, hidden in the shadows. "You seem somewhat familiar…" she said cautiously. "Have you threatened me before?"
"EXPLAIN!" he roared.
The girl slipped and fell amidst the sticky, coagulating wax and fell squarely on her bottom.
"I can't," she gasped. "I don't even know what happened. I was staring out my window, see…"
"What?" snapped Erik.
"Let me finish!" snapped the girl, looking for all the world like a bristling, cornered cat. She bared her teeth.
Erik blinked.
"I was staring out my window…and I decided to go for a walk in the rain without a slicker, because I don't have one," babbled the girl, noting the menacing lack of movement that reminded her of one of Anne Rice's vampires. "And…"
"Mam'selle," said Erik, very softly, "get to the point or you will feel the loving embrace of the Punjab lasso 'round your throat."
"Threatening me because I'm explaining something?" the girl bit out, more from fear than anything. "You sound like my…"
She froze, her lips slack, parted. "Did you say…Punjab?" she whispered breathily, staring at the shape of his fedora and shivering.
Erik blinked again. No one in all his roughly forty-five years had ever expressed a look reminiscent of predatory sexual desire when threatened with the Punjab lasso before.
"Ah…" he began.
The girl let out a most undignified giggle.
Erik jumped back a step. "What is the matter?" he asked uneasily.
The girl held out a hand. "I'm Heather," she said dizzily, "and you are…" Just to make sure…
"A man who wishes not to be named," he said, regaining his composure and his stance.
It's time to end this ridiculous banter.
"Haven't you heard?" he said grandly, menacingly. "I'm the Opera Ghost!"
He raised his arms and made his cape billow terrifically, intending to get a rare laugh out of seeing what he now thought must be an oddly dressed ballet rat get up from her highly undignified position on the floor and run slipping and sliding and screaming back through whatever passageway she had managed to find to get here in the first place.
He would close up said tell-tale passage then, of course, and then…
His attention was focused suddenly on the fact that the oddly dressed ballet rat was not running out of his lair screaming through whatever passageway she had managed to find to get here in the first place, but was in fact grinning stupidly.
His first reaction was to gape.
His second reaction was to wonder whether or not the oddly dressed ballet rat was… deficient in some way.
It's Erik.
It must be.
What a lovely dream this is turning out to be…
But do I dream?
She pinched herself.
I'm…awake…
A heart…full…of love…
She shook her head irritably.
Enough with the Les Mis, honey-cakes. Time to see which incarnation of Erik you've stumbled upon.
He's not a Gerik…he can't be. The fedora…and the voice…
Although there was a momentary crushing blackness of disappointment, she reflected that it was actually for the best. Had he been a Gerik, then abstinence, decorum, and lots of other big words would have taken a flying leap out the metaphoric window and gone soaring with the birds.
Well. Not that they wouldn't with any other Erik. But it would have happened much more quickly.
Heather paused.
"Come into the light," she said softly, curiously, feeling a bit like Beauty and the Beast.
Aside from the fact that he had not just demanded that she promise to stay there forever—lamentably—and the fact that she did not have the over-proportioned and quite anatomically incorrect figure of all animated Disney heroines.
Erik paused, and then put one foot into the pool of light cast by the remaining candelabra, then the other, then, looming over her, revealed his full glory…
Unwieldy asymmetrical porcelain half-mask, dashing fedora, fake-looking wig, lovely silken cape, mismatched eyes, and all.
Heather gasped in delight. "You're Merik," she breathed dizzily, staring longingly at his swollen and misshapen lips.
She thought fondly of fellow Merik-lover Beth, for a fleeting second, who at that moment would have promptly fainted into his arms and no doubt made embarrassingly large drool-pools on his immaculate black sleeves.
Erik flinched. Surely she had just said his name—how in Punjab's name she knew that would be addressed in a moment—but…
He resisted the urge to dig his finger in his ear.
There had most certainly and inexplicably been an "M" at the beginning of it. Was it ear wax, or had she really said his name with an "M"?
"How," he said menacingly, disregarding the matter of the "M", "do you know Erik's name?"
"Ooh, so you're a LeMerik," Heather said, her dreamily delighted grin growing even ridiculously wider. "To quote the immortal Gershwins, ''S'wonderful'."
This time there was no doubt. It must be ear wax. Either that, or the wench was simply mentally deficient as he had first surmised.
His fingers twitched to dig themselves into his ears, but he resisted once again.
"What nonsense are you spouting, girl?" he snapped.
Heather bristled. "Never mind," she said. "It'd take too long to explain, and I unfortunately don't have any of the necessary materials that phans who fall through time and meet Erik always seem to have conveniently about their person."
"Pardon?" whispered Erik, wondering if he was going mad. Again.
"Don't worry, darling," Heather said kindly, "you're not going mad. You're confused, that's all."
Erik jumped as if he'd been poked with the tip of a Greek spear.
"Oh, if only Jordie was here to back me up and give you some proof…" sighed Heather. "Or any of the DBCA darlings, for that matter…"
Erik twitched a little. "D-B-C-A?" he asked cautiously, not liking the sound of it at all.
"The Dramatic Black Cloak Addicts," beamed Heather proudly. "I'm one of them."
Erik fought the urge to bolt to one of his trap-doors.
"Help me up, would you, love?" asked Heather plaintively. "I seem to be stuck."
Erik stared at her outstretched hand as if it were a serpent.
"Oi," said Heather, "aren't I supposed to be more afraid of you than you are of me? Or are you losing your touch?"
Erik's body stiffened. "With pleasure, mam'selle," he said softly through clenched teeth, grabbing her hand roughly and pulling her none too gently to her feet.
Her rear end, stuck tight, came abruptly free from the wax with a sucking, glopping sound, and inertia threw her straight into Erik's arms.
Erik staggered a bit, both from shock and the unfamiliar feeling of a female pressed against his body.
Heather smiled blissfully at him, patting his unmasked cheek with one hand and sighing.
"What…what are you doing?" he asked in a strangled tone, shivering at the contact.
"Hmm…" murmured Heather, in a daze of sorts. "Big lips…"
She reached up to touch them, but he swatted her hand away. "You're mad, girl."
"Maybe," she said. "But was Hannibal mad? Or Caesar? Surely Napoleon was the maddest of them all…"
"What?" Erik demanded, feeling more exasperated by this tormenting female enigma by the minute.
"Dreyfus," said Heather. "The Pink Panther Strikes Again. Herbert Lom kicks arse."
Erik blinked.
"That's it," he announced, pulling back and dropping her on the floor. "I've given up trying to make sense of your talk. I am convinced you are a hallucination."
"But I'm not," said Heather irritably. "There was no reason to drop me on the floor."
"Who are you?" pleaded Erik. "Why have you come to torment me?"
Heather picked herself up, brushing herself off a bit. Good question. He goes to the head of the class…but meanwhile, I'm stuck trying to dredge up an explanation as to WHY, in heaven's name, I have been dropped into a fictional universe like an errant potato.
"Maybe I'm here," she said, "to teach you how to live."
"Indeed," said Erik. "I think I'd rather die."
Heather's lip quivered, which made her immediately think of Ari.
"Or maybe," she said quietly, "I'm here because I need to learn something from you."
"Indeed," said Erik again. "I'm afraid my teaching days are over."
"Christine?" queried Heather softly, knowing it was a sore subject, depending on how early or late she'd come.
Erik flinched. "How did you know that?"
Heather sighed. "Got anywhere we could sit down?"
"The organ bench," he said, "though I don't recommend it. On such a small seat, two might be a very awkward number."
To Erik's immense disquiet, Heather grinned like a Cheshire cat.