The Silliest PhanFiction Ever Written

by Lord Kristine

After the events of fanfics prior, the Phantom once again finds himself in a volatile situation. But this time, he’s not alone.

10. Covid

The Phantom cocked his head when he heard humming in the bathroom. It was the theme from JAWS.

"Hm-hm, hm-hm . . ."

Then, silence. He swallowed.

"Christine, are you done showering? . . ."

He was afraid that she'd shimmered and passed out. The phenomenon usually made a noise, but it was getting quieter lately. She hadn't yet shimmered while showering, but they'd already taken steps to avoid an awkward situation. She was currently wearing a bathing suit, for example (and just cleaned around it, he assumed). But there was always the terrifying possibility that she'd go unconscious while changing. He wasn't keen to deal with that, especially if she was covered in vomit. And given her Covid, it was twice as likely to happen. He stared down at the carrots he was chopping and wondered if he ought to feed her something less chunky.

The bathroom door clicked open. He sighed with relief, then went back to chopping the carrots. He had taken the knives back from Pierce (after insisting that he not provide Christine with any more gummies), but he still kept them hidden, just in case.

"Hm-hm . . ."

He frowned, turning away from the bathroom, since Christine might not be fully dressed yet.

"Okay, I see what you're doing, but-"

"HmhmhmhmhmhmhmhmHMHMHMHMHMHMHM-"

A sudden cutoff. That wasn't good. He put the knife down on the counter and moved toward the bathroom. The light was off. He frowned.

"Christine, are you-"

"SHARK ATTACK!"

He yelped as she made a grab for him over the couch, then glared at her when she rolled onto her back laughing.

"Hahaha! I can see why you like scaring people so much!"

She burst into a fit of coughing, but ended in a chuckle. The Phantom smoothed out his pants casually.

"I wasn't scared. Just startled. It's not the same thing."

"Sure."

He rolled his eyes.

"I should have never let you watch that movie."

She coughed some more, then started combing her hair.

"Why not? Sharks are my second favourite animal now, next to elephants."

He sighed.

"Why couldn't you pick bunny rabbits or unicorns?"

She huffed with irritation.

"I'm talking about real, living animals, like dogs, whales, or Tasmanian Tigers."

"Oh, Christine, I have some bad news . . ."

She dried her hair with a towel.

"Unicorns aren't real, right? Not here?"

"No, this world is like ours, just many years in the future. I mean, there are some key differences, but-"

"Like what?"

"Well, there was no Phantom of the Opera here."

"Then why is there a show about you?"

"Because none of it is real. I explained this."

"But it makes no sense. How can we even be here if we're not real?"

"Because- Look, it makes sense. You just have to ignore the parts that . . . don't make sense . . ."

She gave him a look. He threw up his hands.

"I don't know! Stop asking questions."

"Why?"

"Because . . . I don't have the answers to everything."

"Well, a lot of things have simple answers. For instance-"

She coughed into her arm.

"For instance, you should have told me that everyone here is infected with a deadly disease when I asked if I ought to know anything about this place."

"Well, you sure are chipper, for being sick."

She gave him a hesitant shrug.

"The shower helped, but I'm not feeling well. Shame. I wanted to see more of this world, now that I'm not afraid to go outside."

"You're not afraid after one night of being out?"

"Well, I'm afraid of getting sicker than I already am, but all in all, this place suits me just fine. More so than Fiction, anyway."

She cocked her head.

"Do you ever get that feeling that you're exactly where you belong, finally?"

"Nope."

". . . Oh."

He shrugged.

"I mean, I know where I belong. I'm supposed to be with my grandmother, back in Fiction."

Christine gave him a look that was somewhere between pity and nausea. He grumbled.

"Don't you stare at me with those doe eyes."

"I can't help it if Trista Moldovan has doe eyes."

"You're doing it on pur- Hang on, you're behind."

"Behind?"

"I counted the shimmers. You should be on Sierra Boggess by now."

"Not accounting for understudies, I shouldn't."

"Understudies?"

"Yes, they don't always appear. Haven't you noticed?"

"There are dozens of you to keep track of. I'm learning, but give me a break."

"It's not hard."

"There are literally forty-six of you!"

There were actually forty-seven, but neither of them knew this yet.

Christine sighed with defeat.

"Well, at least you recognize some of them. Say, did you ever meet any of the actresses in real life?"

"Outside of just watching the show? Yeah, I saw one once."

"Which one?"

"Not important, but I almost threw up."

". . . So the one from the movie?"

"No! I almost threw up because I was nervous."

"Ah. I know exactly who it was, then."

She had a coughing fit that lasted a bit longer than usual, then shimmered. The screeching metal sound was particularly loud this time. It took her a few seconds to recover.

"NOW I'm Sierra-Christine."

"Noted."

"Perhaps it's best that I can't go outside," she croaked, "Populated as this city is, it would not be impossible to run into one of the actresses who played me, and I don't want to have to explain why I'm identical to them."

The Phantom shrugged.

"I wouldn't worry about that. Julia Udine is running a marathon in Guatemala, and nobody's seen Emilie Kouatchou in weeks."

This was true. Due to an unfortunate misunderstanding, Emilie had been wrapped up in the hollow elephant set piece and shipped to a remote storage facility. She was currently chewing her way through approximately thirty layers of protective plastic wrap, and was making good progress. Fortunately, she was as skilled at chewing as she was at singing. She was also very good at defusing bombs, but that never came up in press interviews.

"I hope she's alright," Christine muttered.

She was not alright. She was trapped in an elephant.

"But regardless, I have a request."

"Yes?"

"I'd like to see the show. Not in person, of course, since it's closed, but a recording."

". . . Are you sure you wouldn't rather watch another JAWS movie?"

Her face lit up.

"There are more?!"

"Four in total."

"Are they all as good as the first?"

"Um . . . Yeah. Why don't you-"

"You're getting worse at lying. That, or I'm getting better at recognizing it."

He gave a sheepish smile.

"No, I just feel bad lying now, so it's harder to hide."

"Then don't lie."

"I . . . Fair enough. But I'm concerned about your reaction to the show."

"Why?"

"Well, it might open up some old wounds."

"So you're relying on me having forgotten specific details instead of addressing the problem directly?"

". . . No. And don't play therapist."

She coughed.

"I'm sick, so I can do what I want. Perhaps I'll diagnose you with something. Do you often feel like you've lost the ability to enjoy things that once made you happy?"

"I don't have to answer that."

"Fine, then I'll just make observations. Hm . . . high irritability, inflated sense of self-importance, refuses to make eye contact . . ."

"Christine, you don't want to watch the show."

"I do. And you should too."

"It'd be too awkward."

She stared at him with tight lips.

"Fine, I didn't want to do this, but last night, I learned how to connect my phone to the blue-toothed speaker."

He didn't like the way she said that.

"Christine, what's going on? . . ."

"Well, I was doing research about the show on the inter-net, and I found out that it has a sequel."

OH GOD NO.

"H-how much do you know?"

"Well, I stopped reading the plot summary after a certain point, but I think I know a song that will get you to change your mind about watching the first show."

"Oh god, is it Bathing Beauty?"

"No, I didn't read that far."

"Then what- OH, NO."

The first few notes of Beneath a Moonless Sky blared over the speakers in the apartment. Christine gave him an icy stare.

"You look troubled."

"Christine, why."

"I want to watch the show with you. But we can do this instead, if you'd prefer it."

"This is evil."

"Why? Do you find this awkward? Well, just remember that this Christine is a Sierra-Christine too. You know. The Christine I am right now. Anyway, I'm going to make prologued, judgmental eye contact with you now."

He squeaked a bit, then slammed his head against the counter.

"Fine, we can watch the show," he muttered into his arms.

. . .

The Phantom had made a big bowl of popcorn, mostly because he was doing everything within his power to delay the task at hand. Christine was adamant that they watch the show, and he had to oblige her, but he wasn't happy about it. Mostly, he was scared. Scared because he'd seen the show enough to go on autopilot, to think about the performances, the mishaps, and any other variables. But the show itself, he knew so well that it simply existed to him. With a pair of fresh eyes, he dreaded what he'd learn, what he'd remember about his life, and how it all made him feel. Christine was seeing this for the first time after living it, and he was certain that she'd hate him for what he'd done. He prepared himself for the shame, as much as he could.

"Alright, here we go."

They had set up the laptop on the coffee table in front of the couch. His finger hovered over the play button. Christine frowned.

"Well?"

"Last chance to-"

"Just do it! My god, it's been an hour since you promised!"

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. You understand why I'm nervous, right?"

"Yes, but this isn't easy for me, either. It's strange to watch other people's lives."

"Not for me. I did a lot of it, back in our world."

"Hm."

As she stared at him, he sighed with defeat and pressed play.

"Sold! Your number sir? Thank you."

Christine frowned.

"I don't remember this."

"You weren't there."

"Why not? You said I was in this show."

"This part takes place in 1905. So you were . . . gone."

"Oh."

She stared at the screen blankly, then suddenly perked up.

"Oh! Raoul . . ."

"Yes. He's in this part."

"He's so old . . ."

The Phantom burst out laughing. Christine glared at him, and he quieted down. After a beat, she looked concerned.

"Oh! Your monkey!"

"Yeah."

"They ought not to have sold it without asking- Oh! Madame Giry is here too! She must have been so lonely after . . . Well, anyway."

She stared at Raoul, almost as distant and pensive as he was. The Phantom wondered what precisely was going on in her head. She sat quietly, looking at her hands, which were folded in her lap. The Phantom bit his lip.

"You okay?"

"I didn't realize he thought about me, after I was gone."

"Of course he did. He loves you very much."

"Hm."

The overture started. Christine jumped, then stared at the screen with wide eyes.

"Oh! This is magnificent!"

After a bit more listening, she frowned.

"Wait, why is everything changing?"

"We're going back in time, metaphorically."

"Oh. I suppose that makes sense. But it's all ropes and sets and such, right?"

". . . Yes."

"Just checking. Oh, Carlotta! . . . Hm, was I this dramatic when I performed?"

"You were completely natural."

She stuck out her tongue.

"I hated holding that ghastly head."

The dancers ran onstage. Christine searched their faces, then relaxed a bit.

"This must have been one of the days you made me late."

The Phantom felt a twinge of familiarity. He'd seen the show so much that he almost forgot what it was like to live it. But it was fresher for Christine.

"Piangi is there . . . You're still on the hook for his murder, you know."

"Isn't he alive now?"

"Yes, but that doesn't matter. When you killed him, there was no way of knowing what would happen. So I'm going to hold you accountable."

"How?"

". . . I'll figure something out."

She pointed.

"Oh, Mr. Lefèvre! I must have introduced myself to him a dozen times, and he always forgot me. And André and Firmin are here too!"

"Christine, if you point out every single person you know, this is going to be a long watch."

"Unfair! I didn't name any of the ballerinas or stagehands."

"Do you even know their names?"

". . . Well, some of them."

And then it happened. Christine stared at the screen with wide eyes.

"Oh, it's me!"

It was true. She was wearing a different face at the moment, but it was still her. The Phantom wondered what it was about her that made her understand who she was, made her recognize herself across dimensions. Of course, he saw her that way too, and he couldn't explain it any better. She simply WAS Christine, no matter what she looked like, how she sounded, or how she acted. There must be some cosmic thread holding her self together.

"So this is me. In the show."

Christine looked unwell for a moment, then promptly ran to the bathroom to throw up. The Phantom followed to hold her hair, but she called out to him.

"Hit pause! BLE-"

He paused the video, then ran after her. He tried to keep his composure, but he was gagging a bit too, near the end. They definitely should not have had spaghetti for lunch.

Christine shimmered mid-vomit, then wiped her mouth with toilet paper.

"I'm sorry. It's just stressful, seeing myself. I don't know if I can stomach this."

"Great, we-"

"But I must."

She rinsed her mouth, then waddled back to the couch. The Phantom sighed, then sat down beside her. She coughed.

"Are you sure you can't get sick, being around me?"

"Not with Covid, no. I got really paranoid when the show closed down at the start of the pandemic, so I had César bring me a magical artifact from-"

"Okay, I don't actually care about the circumstances. As long as you're sure."

"As sure as I am that I never want to take that thing again."

"So you just . . . got rid of the item that prevents diseases?"

"It was single use."

"How do you know?"

"It was a magical suppository crafted by unicorns."

". . . Alright, let's get back to the show."

As they continued to watch, he noticed her discomfort at seeing herself. He didn't want her to feel bad, so he elbowed her.

"Hey. Guess what?"

"What?"

He pointed to the corner of the screen. Her face lit up.

"THE ELEPHANT!"

The Phantom smiled as Christine clapped her hands excitedly, bouncing up and down. She shook him a bit.

"Oh, this is so exciting! Does that set piece exist here, in this world?"

"Yes."

"Might I be able to operate it, someday?"

"Well, we'd have to find it, first."

He was unaware that at that very moment, in a remote storage facility, Emilie Kouatchou had just chewed through the plastic encasing her, only to realize that the elephant was inside a steel crate. She sighed deeply, then went back to chewing.

Meanwhile, the backdrop had fallen in the show. Christine huffed.

"That was a wicked thing to do!"

"Well, you got the job, didn't you?"

She lifted her chin.

"I would have rather made it on my own."

He hummed.

"Christine, the theatre world is very insular. Do you really think you'd have been able to make it on your own?"

She looked upset. The Phantom scrambled to find a suitable clarification.

"That is to say, you had the skill for it, but-"

"I'd like to drop the subject entirely."

". . . Yeah, okay."

"Most people think before speaking. That might be something worth practicing."

He shrunk, embarrassed. Christine, too, was flinching.

"I hate the sound of my own voice."

The Phantom caught himself right as he was about to challenge her on that.

"You . . . Well, everyone hates the sound of their own voice."

"You seem to love hearing yourself talk."

Normally, this would have been a dig, but she said it with a smile, so he decided to play along.

"Well, maybe you should shut me up more often."

She laughed.

"I might have to."

He cocked his head.

"Can I ask you a question?"

"Yes."

"Do you feel more distant from your face and your voice when you're another Christine?"

She shrugged.

"I suppose it's like looking in the mirror when you're flushed or pale. You know that you usually look different, but it's still you."

"That's interesting."

"Is it the same with you, when you change?"

"I don't do it often enough to be able to tell."

She winced as the show played on.

"I'm a bit pitchy. Or at least the Marni-Christine is."

"I don't think so."

"It's a hard thing, being so many of me. Sometimes, I don't know whether or not I can call myself beautiful, or skilled, or just anything for certain."

He wisely held his tongue, though it was killing him. Christine flattened out her dress.

"But I suppose that's how it is for everyone. We all have good days, and we all have bad days."

"Yeah. Sometimes, you catch a bad performance. But that doesn't mean it's the norm."

And suddenly, he failed to hold it in.

"But I know for a fact that Marni did very well most days."

Christine's face turned stoic.

"I hope it's understood that I'll never sing for you again."

A pause.

". . . I know. That's okay."

"Okay."

Things were a bit tense, but Christine seemed to forget when she saw Raoul. She held herself together for a moment, then burst into tears. The Phantom paused the video, and she waved her hand quickly.

"Keep going, keep going."

He pressed play. Because they were sitting so close to each other, he could feel the cushions shifting as she convulsed with silent sobs. She froze, however, when she heard his voice- the Phantom's voice- like a deer seeing the glint of a rifle. But then Meg appeared, and she smiled.

"Oh, Meg . . . She must be so worried about me."

She watched her for a long while, reminiscing, then shimmered again. She held her head.

"Agh."

"Do you need medicine?"

"I'm fine."

As she recuperated, she focused on Meg. Then, she pointed.

"That's not what Meg said . . . Er, wait, maybe she did. It's so odd, having overlapping memories."

"It must make things confusing."

"Yes . . . Doubly so because I can remember many things through even a single Christine."

"I don't follow."

"Well, some of me recognize you even outside of Marni-Christine, except I also remember you being different. So I suppose every performance is in me, not just every Christine. It's confusing. The sooner I get rid of these shimmers, the better."

"You think it's curable?"

"I know so."

"But just a few days ago, you said-"

"Well, sometimes it feels hopeless, but I know that I can do it."

"Okay, okay."

Raoul was back. She started crying a bit, though there was less shaking this time. That only started back up when she heard the Phantom's voice. He swallowed.

"Are you okay?"

"You need to work on your anger issues."

"This was hundreds of years ago. Even more for me than you, given the weird time dilation in Fiction."

"You yelled at me over a Pop-Tart a few days ago."

"Withdrawn."

A pause.

"How did you open the mirror?"

"A good magician never reveals his tricks."

Seeing her face, he shrugged.

"It was just wheels and such. Nothing complicated."

"Oh. Interesting."

She seemed comforted by this demystification. He took note.

"And the same goes for the candelabras."

"What about the candles? Did you have a machine to light them?"

"No, I did it by hand."

"All of them?!"

"Well, yes. It helped with the smell."

"I only ever smelled old theatre in your lair. I suppose I saw what you wanted me to see. And I guess that's how you got me."

They were both quiet for a while. Soon, however, the Phantom realized that she was succumbing to his recorded voice, a little. He waved his hand in front of her face.

"You okay?"

She blinked.

"Perhaps we ought to watch with the sound off. Or maybe we can play something at the same time, just to keep me grounded."

She typed on her phone, then to his horror, the sound of Jingle Cats blasted from her speaker. As he stared at her aghast, she shrugged.

"Well, it's working, isn't it?"

"I suppose."

For her, it was. But as he watched the show, even with the shrill meows blasting in his ear, he couldn't help but feel mournful. There was a time when she'd let him touch her, let him hold her. And he'd ruined everything.

"So what was up with that bride in the mirror?" she asked quite loudly.

"I found it one day."

"But why did it jump?"

"It did that a lot."

"Huh. So why'd you put it in the mirror?"

"I don't know, why did you wake up to a music box and not a blaring organ?"

"I don't know!"

They both laughed, only it wasn't long-lived, because they both knew what was coming. Christine turned to face him, looking uncharacteristically apologetic.

"I shouldn't have removed your mask. I'm sorry."

He didn't know what to say. He swallowed, then sunk back into the couch.

"That's okay."

"No, it's not. Kidnapping and murder is worse, mind you, but I'll own up to my mistakes. Even if you ought not to wear a mask, it was still wrong."

"It was probably worse for you anyway."

"Don't say that."

"Why not? You were probably traumatized."

"By the kidnapping and murder, but not by your face."

"You screamed."

"I was frightened because I didn't know any better, but people really shouldn't be afraid of facial differences-"

"Christine, you're overcompensating."

"I am not! You have the right to feel comfortable with your face."

"And I also have the right NOT to."

"Yes, but that's mostly just internalized bigotry speaking, no?"

"Well, I'm sure you're very proud of being Christine, the little activist-"

"Excuse me?!"

"-but maybe I know more about this than you."

She threw up her hands.

"Fine. Don't fight for a better world. What do I know?!"

She crossed her arms and sunk into the couch. It wasn't a big argument, but he could tell that she was frustrated. He was too. But there was already a lot going on, so he decided to focus on the show.

They were silent for a long time.

Until-

"Oh, those managers make me so angry! How dare they gossip like that! I've never even slept with Raoul!"

The Phantom nodded.

"Well, yeah, you wouldn't have had time- Wait, did you say 'I' or 'I've'?"

"Nevermind."

As he stared at her, she shifted a bit.

"What I'm saying is that I hadn't at the time slept with Raoul."

"Well, yes, that's a given, but you specifically said-"

"He had an accident, so he said it wouldn't be proper, since he couldn't conceive a child. Not that it's any of your business."

"Well, shit. Now I really feel bad about making a dick joke when I saw him again."

"Don't cuss- You WHAT? Oh, I'm not at all surprised. Immature, that's what you are!"

"A little, yeah. But was I wrong?"

She backhanded his chest gently.

"Shush!"

After a pause, she frowned.

"Hey, didn't you say that you had a child?"

"Well, listen, you know about Love Never Dies already, so you can probably figure out the rest."

Her eyes went wide.

"OH."

"I know it's a bit awkward, but you deserve to know. Anyway, it doesn't matter, because none of you align with that universe, and besides, he's gone."

"Gone?"

"Andrew Lloyd Webber dropped him off a roof."

"That must have been hard for you."

He didn't expect an earnest response. He realized just how quiet it was. Christine had paused the show at some point. But he wished she hadn't.

"I . . . Well, I didn't have much time to think about it, because he killed me too."

Christine's face was solemn.

"You died? Well, I suppose that's something we have in common. Why didn't you say so earlier?"

"Not much to say. I came back right away with a fresh set of wings."

"You did?"

"Yes. It was because of The Star. Do you know about The Star?"

"No."

"Oh, well it was- Um, I don't really know how to explain it. I guess it was this crystal thing that created everything. Elkay had it for a bit, then Ellie, then Claire- Um, you don't know any of these people. A-anyway, it's this whole big thing, but it was a good thing that I died, I guess, because I got magic out of it."

"And wings?"

"And wings."

"As a dragon, you mean?"

"No, I already had those. They were more like feathery bird wings."

"Like an angel."

". . . Yes, like an angel."

"But you don't have them now."

"No."

She stared at him for a moment, but he didn't elaborate. He turned back to the screen.

"Well, let's keep watching."

He hit play.

"I'm still pissy that they gave you the silent role."

"Because I'm worth nothing without my voice, right?"

"Christine-"

"I again request that you think about what you're about to say before you speak."

He sighed, but nodded in defeat.

As the show went on, they remained quiet. It was less tense when they talked over it, but they couldn't keep it up forever. The Phantom did, however, laugh at Carlotta's croak. Christine flicked his shoulder.

"Hush, it's not funny."

"It's a little funny."

"And how did you do that one?"

"I threw my voice. It's quite an easy trick. You just have to . . ."

He went into autopilot, explaining it as quickly as he could to fill the silence. But then the dead body of Joseph Buquet dropped above the stage, and Christine shrieked.

"It's okay. It's just a dummy."

"Not in our world!"

"Well, no, but-"

"You killed him. You killed him and you're not even sorry!"

"Christine, he was about to catch me."

"That's no excuse!"

"No, it's not, but I did have a reason, if-"

"What about Piangi? You killed him in cold blood."

He didn't reply. Christine's scowl deepened.

"And you're not even sorry."

He gulped.

"This, uh . . . This seems to be a sticky subject."

"Yeah."

"But you know I'd never hurt you, right?"

"What does that matter?"

"Well, when you were running up to the roof, you said I'd kill you. But I'd never kill you, Christine."

"That doesn't matter."

"It matters to me."

She weakened as she heard her own voice on the recording.

"I . . . I'm sorry. Your face isn't 'hardly a face'. That was an awful thing to say, and I regret it deeply."

"So? It doesn't matter."

"It matters to me."

"Hm. Touché."

After a pause, he sat up a bit.

"Christine?"

"Yes?"

"I know it doesn't make anything right, but I'll never kill again. No matter what."

"I should hope not."

She looked to the side.

"But thank you for promising."

He nodded.

They were quiet for a little while longer, but hearing her duet with Raoul, Christine suddenly burst into tears. She sobbed louder and harder than ever before. The Phantom tried to offer words of comfort, but stuttered over a dozen phrases without much helping. Soon, he was crying too. Christine sniffled.

"Why are you crying?"

"Because I don't like to see you cry!"

She wiped her nose.

"I think I may need tissues."

He stood up to grab them, then held the box for her as she sobbed. After a while, she quieted down.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. It's okay to cry."

"Do you cry a lot?"

"Well, you're about to see me cry."

"In the show? . . ."

She gasped.

"Oh my god, you were watching us the whole time!"

"Yes. I was."

"I mean, I always suspected, but . . . Oh, that's why you crashed the chandelier."

"Yes, but it wasn't your fault."

"It felt that way. I remember standing in the rain with everyone else as we evacuated, wondering if it was all because of me."

"You're not responsible for my actions."

"I know. But a part of me doesn't."

He gulped.

"Do you want a drink? This is intermission."

"Yes, please. One of the brown sparkling beverages."

"You mean a Coke?"

"Yes, that one."

He stood up to pour the drink, feeling a little sick to his stomach. Christine spoke to him from the couch.

"There's one thing I don't understand."

"Is it the goddamn mirror-bride again?

"No. You said there'd be a disaster beyond imagination, but the croak was based on Carlotta's remark, the murder was improvised, and the chandelier came after all of that. So what was the disaster?"

"Well, it was a disaster beyond imagination."

"And?"

"I hadn't imagined it yet."

She tightened her lips.

"And to think we were all so afraid of you . . ."

When he returned, Christine held up her phone.

"Is this the man who killed your child?"

He flinched at the photo of Andrew Lloyd Webber.

"What- Yes, that's him."

"Are you sure?"

"I mean, yeah. I remember pretty distinctly."

"So you think that renowned composer Andrew Lloyd Webber just threw your child off a roof? I'm not denying he sounds terrible, but are you sure that it was him and not someone else?"

"Whom else could it have been?"

"Was your grandmother there with you?"

After a long silence, he narrowed his eyes.

"I don't appreciate the insinuation."

"Dragons are magic. They can conjure things. Could it be possible-"

"If she were deceiving me, I'd know it! She wasn't exactly subtle. I always knew when she was trying to take advantage of me."

"And you still stayed with her?"

"Yes! Now shut up so we can watch the damn show!"

She flinched, and he immediately regretted his choice of words, but she seemed more worried than hurt. He quickly calmed himself.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean that. I'd just rather get this over with."

She nodded. When he sat down, she scooted closer to him. He found that odd.

Throughout the second act, they remained mostly silent, except when Christine asked questions.

"Why did so many of the party guests not move?"

"They're mannequins."

"How did you disappear?"

"Trap doors."

"They locked you in a cage? How did you escape?"

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"You're not more monster than man. You know that, right?"

"Hm."

"I didn't want to perform. It was Raoul's idea."

"It's okay. I know you wouldn't choose to hurt me. It's not in your nature."

Notably, she did not correct her past words as she sang, "He kills without a thought." Maybe he ought to prove her wrong on that one, for a start.

He was deep in thought when Christine caught him off guard again.

"Do you think you could put this music on my phone?"

"Sure, that's easy enough. Which version?"

"Well, the one you had us perform."

He blinked.

"Oh, did you mean Don Juan Triumphant?"

"Yes."

"I thought you meant the show."

"No, I can find that easy enough on my own. But I can't find your opera anywhere. I looked."

He swallowed.

"Oh. Well, you won't get anything aside from what's portrayed in the show."

"You don't have a recording, after all this time?"

"Well, it was only performed once . . . and not in full."

"That's so sad. Well, we'll just have to make one. Do you have the libretto?"

"No."

"Can you make a new one?"

"Why?"

"Because I want the music on my phone, in the Apples-Music. I remember my part, but the rest-"

"Why would you want to relive that experience?"

"I don't! I just want to listen to it upon occasion! Stop being weird!"

"Fine, okay, I'll whip something up later."

"Good. Now, be quiet. I see my father's grave."

She was quiet for the majority of the song, though she did cry. As she sniffled, he handed her the tissue box dutifully. She blew her nose.

"I'd give anything to get him back."

He didn't know what to say to that, so he just nodded. After a while, he reached for the popcorn. He was about to eat some, but seeing Christine glowering in her seat, he sighed. Whatever he'd done this time, he ought to get a head start on fixing it.

"I'm s-"

"I told him not to go after you, and he didn't listen to me."

"Uh-"

She grabbed the bowl of popcorn and started shovelling it into her mouth with rage. She looked something like a chipmunk mixed with a baler. She spoke through a mouthful of food.

"He's so wude. I dumnow whah he dovn't lissn."

"Christine, are you okay?"

"I'M NOT OKAY! NOTHING WENT THE WAY I WANTED IT TO!"

"Oh, um-"

"I hate this show! I hate that my father is dead and that Raoul is gone! It's unfair!"

"Life's unfair, but-"

"WOULD YOU PLEASE BE QUIET, I'M DEALING WITH MY OWN THING!"

"Okay, okay . . ."

She stood up, pacing.

"Why couldn't he just tolerate the shimmers?! He ruined everything!"

"Uh . . ."

"I loved him so much, but did it matter? No!"

"Christine, I probably shouldn't be hearing all of this."

"So what if he didn't like every Christine? There's plenty I don't like about him! I hate his family and his hobbies and his horrible, horrible dog! But I put up with it nonetheless, did I not?"

"I assume so?"

"AND ALL FOR NOTH-"

She jumped at the sound of a gunshot, then shrunk a bit.

"Right. Sorry. We were watching the show. Give me just one second."

She screamed into a pillow.

". . . I'm fine."

She sat down and smoothed out her dress, blinked, then reached forward and hit the pause button.

"I am not fine. I need a moment."

She got up and grabbed the pillow from her bed.

"Was this expensive?"

"Not really. Would you rather have-"

She slammed it against the wall repeatedly. He watched with wide eyes as it tore down the middle, littering the ground with goose feathers. Christine blew one away from her lip, then nodded.

"Okay, I'm done."

She sat down again, pressed play, then smiled.

"Oh! We get to see your opera."

He was still staring at her. She rolled her eyes.

"Oh, like YOU'VE never gotten angry before."

He couldn't help but laugh a bit. Christine did too, then elbowed him and nodded to the screen.

"Pay attention."

"I am."

And then, the thing he dreaded most. For the rest of the show, the two of them fell into silence. The Phantom wanted to fill the void with idle chitchat, but he could see that Christine was thinking hard. She sat with her finger curled over her lip, staring intently at the screen. She shimmered several times, not due to anything in particular. They were fairly evenly spaced. She'd cough a bit every now and then, but otherwise remained motionless.

And then it was over. The Phantom slowly closed the laptop and swallowed.

"So that's the show."

She said nothing. That was the worst possible outcome. After a long silence, he stood up.

"Right, I'll get started on dinner."

He walked away, but wheeled around before making it far.

"I'm sorry."

And then he continued on his path. When he made it to the kitchen, he grabbed whatever was in front of him and moved it around. After a few seconds of fumbling, he realized that he'd put a banana in the toaster and quickly removed it. He placed it back in the fruit bowl and sighed. Then, he noticed Christine standing in the middle of the room. They were separated only by the counter. He shrunk under her gaze, but she didn't change her expression.

"Hey."

"What?"

"Come here."

He slowly shuffled around the counter, standing in front of her. He fiddled with his fingers.

"I'm s-"

"Hey."

"What?"

"It's going to be okay."

". . . It is?"

"Yes."

She spread her arms. When he didn't move, she waved her hands. He inched forward, and she wrapped him in a gentle hug. After a moment, she gave him one last squeeze, then walked into the kitchen.

"I thought I'd try baking. Do you mind?"

"Not at all. Do you need anything?"

"I think I'm all set."

She noticed her reflection in the oven as she walked by, then laughed awkwardly. The Phantom gulped.

"Do you want me to tell you when you're Marni, in case you forget?"

She smiled.

"No, it's okay. It shouldn't matter."

She ducked down and reemerged with a bowl.

"You're equally weird around all of me."

"I am NOT- Oh, that was a joke."

"Yes, it was a joke," she laughed.

She reached for the flour, then unexpectedly, met his gaze.

"Thank you, by the way."

"Thank the person who filmed it. I just searched it up."

"No, not for that, although I'm glad I saw it . . . I'm thanking you for treating me like one person."

He snorted.

"Oh, don't thank me for that. I thought it was a given that you were."

"Yes. It should be . . ."

She sighed.

"Not everyone holds that opinion, though."

A silence. The Phantom put his hands behind his back.

"Christine-"

"Sometimes I wonder. I always feel like me, no matter which me I am, but then I think about the others and . . . Well, I know we all act differently, so what is it about me that makes me . . . me?"

"Well, I'm not sure, but I'm sure there exists some intangible quality that makes you Christine."

"You really think so?"

"Absolutely."

She smiled.

"I hope you're right."

. . .

About four hours later, Christine pulled a set of lemon meringue tarts out of the oven. Four hours after that, she made a second batch because the Phantom ate a good majority of the first round despite trying his best to be polite. She was very good-natured about it, though, and mostly seemed to be glad that she wasn't imagining their disappearance. But when the second round was done, she wasn't her normal cheerful self. She dropped a plate in his lap without much care, then stormed away.

"Christine, are you mad at me?"

"NO!"

"I can stop eating them if it's upsetting you. Though I only had three . . . at most."

He had had sixteen.

Christine scowled.

"Go ahead and eat them! It's not like anyone will judge you for it, but apparently I'M NOT ALLOWED TO DO ANYTHING!"

"I don't underst-"

"MAYBE I'LL EAT THEM ALL, SINCE THEY'RE GOING TO JUDGE ME FOR IT ANYWAY!"

She started shoving tarts in her mouth. The Phantom stared at her. She glared at him, cheeks full. He stood up.

"You seem tense."

She threw up her arms.

"The internet is a vile, hateful place and I will not tolerate this abuse any longer!"

"Christine, what happened?"

"I saw what these so-called fans are posting. I do not approve."

"Can you be more specific?"

"They're being judgmental."

"Really? They seem like a nice bunch."

"Well, of course YOU think so! They seem to love YOU. But have you seen the way they talk about ME?!"

She ran across the room and held her phone in his face. He took it from her after a bit of fumbling.

"Oh. Yeah, they're kind of mean-"

She fell beside him on the couch.

"Amazing! You can do all the horrible things you want, and they still sympathize with you because you cry a little! Meanwhile, I go through hell, and it's apparently all my fault!"

She crossed her arms.

"It's unfair."

She looked down.

"It's no wonder you went to see the show so much. Everyone comes out of it liking you. But not me. My pain means nothing. It was all for nothing . . ."

After a beat, she crumpled over and wept into her hands. The Phantom bit his lip, then typed on her phone. He started playing a video. Christine lifted her head at the sound of a horrible wailing.

"What's that?"

"Someone trying to sing."

"Oh. Who?"

"Just some girl. Here's another one."

That one was less awkward. After a moment, he switched to another video, then another. Slowly, Christine stopped sniffling.

"They're singing my songs. The songs from the show."

"Mhm. There are hundreds of these, and they're only the ones that got posted. Think of all the people singing in the shower, in the car, at work. Millions of people, young and old, sing these songs."

"They do?"

"Mhm. And you want to know why?"

"Why?"

"Because deep down, the vast majority of people on this planet wish they were you."

"They do?"

"Yep. Every performance, someone sees their first Christine onstage, and it changes their life. These girls grow up wanting to be you."

"And the boys want to be you?"

"Mostly the gay ones- But anyway, you should know that people love you. Every one of you."

"Even the bad ones?"

"Christine, there are billions of people on this planet. Only a handful get to be Christine's. None of them are bad. Not really."

"Well, bad comparatively, I mean."

He shrugged.

"Every Christine is someone's favourite."

She nodded slowly.

"That makes me feel better."

He returned her smile.

"I'm glad."

She stood up.

"Anyway, since you ended up eating all the lemon tarts-"

"Three!"

"Since you ate three lemon tarts, and the rest disappeared, I'll make sure to save the recipe. There are still ten left-"

She turned around and blinked.

"They're gone. THEY'RE GONE."

She held out her hands.

"How?! I was watching you the whole time."

"A good magician never reveals his tricks," he said through a mouthful of crust.

. . .

Christine was coughing more. And when she coughed, she shimmered. Worse still, it looked like it was hurting her more than usual. She often passed out after it happened. But then she'd cough again. She hadn't slept more than a few hours at a time, and it showed. Every Christine looked visibly worn, every one more frazzled than the last. And she was only getting worse.

"Hmmmgr."

She shimmered, rolling over.

"I can't breathe through one nostril."

"Which one?"

"The other one, since yesterday."

"I can get you more nasal rinse."

"That'll only help for a few minutes."

"Tea?"

"No, thanks."

"Medicine?"

"I've already taken it."

"I could make soup or get a hot water bottle or sing you to sleep-"

"NO!"

She jumped so fiercely that she shimmered. He held up his hands in response. She pointed at him.

"No singing! Not now, not ever!"

"Ever, ever?"

"NE-VER. Promise me."

"I promise, Christine. But-"

"No but's! I can't trust you not to manipulate me again."

"You know I wouldn't."

"Do I? I trusted you once. And I was wrong. Why did you ruin what we had? . . . Why . . . Anyway, I don't want you to sing anymore."

He frowned.

"Fine, then YOU don't get to sing either."

"I haven't been. At all. I was sure you'd noticed."

He had, but he was hoping that it wasn't deliberate. Honestly, he was more hurt by her lack of trust than the fact that he might never hear her voice again, which he supposed was progress. He had come to accept that sometimes, he had to feel a little worse for Christine to feel a little better, also known as putting her needs before his wants. He had been worried that this would make him miserable, but not so. When he respected her needs, he found that she did the same in return. She was quieter in the mornings so he could sleep (aside from the coughing and shimmers, which she couldn't help), which made life a lot easier. She even took to toasting his Pop-Tarts to the perfect level of darkness right before he woke up, which he hadn't asked for, but appreciated nonetheless. It was almost as if being kind to others made them kinder in return, which he supposed made sense, but it hadn't been his experience until that point. All this to say, if Christine didn't want either of them to sing, he ought to listen to her.

"I'm sorry, Christine. I promise, I won't sing."

"Okay."

She shifted uncomfortably in her bed.

"I'm sorry for snapping at you. Being sick is having a bad effect on my mood. How long will this last?"

"Not much longer. Do you feel any better?"

"A little."

Fifteen minutes later, she was harping like an elephant seal. Or elephanting like a harp seal, whichever is more miserable. She lay in bed and moaned.

"I'm dying."

"Don't say that, Christine."

She made a sound like "hornkpherw", then squeaked.

"I'm DYING."

She pointed at the ceiling.

"That spider is going to outlive me. In a few hours-"

He swatted it down with a magazine. She shrieked.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING?"

"He was bothering you."

"You said no killing!"

"Spiders count?"

"Every living thing counts!"

"What about the shrimp in the New York tap water?"

She narrowed her eyes, unsure of whether or not he was joking. He shrugged.

"Look it up."

She tapped her phone, then sighed.

"You can ingest the New York tap water shrimp. I suppose."

He gave her a sad smile.

"But I promise not to kill any more spiders. Or cockroaches. Or mice or rats or snakes-"

"Snakes, you can kill."

This caught him off guard. He frowned, and she gave a shrug.

"They're dangerous."

"Hm . . . Well, if I see one of those famous New York vipers, I'll give it a whack."

"Don't be sarcastic."

She coughed again.

"Do you think you could pop out for a bit? There's something I need to do."

"Oh?"

"It's a secret."

"Okay. Nothing bad, I hope."

"I promise, it isn't."

"Alright. Do you think you'll be okay if I leave you?"

"Yes."

"I'm a bit worried."

"That one time was an isolated incident, since your grandmother showed up unexpectedly."

"Suppose she comes back?"

She gave him a sad look.

"I'm going to be honest. I don't think-"

"Nevermind. If you're sure that you're okay, I'll leave."

He put on his cape, then jumped as he reached for his hat. Christine had crossed the room in silence. She'd make a good ghost, he thought.

"Truthfully, I am certain that I will be okay," she said, "I can't tell you why, but I know it. Regardless, I'm thankful that you care about me enough to worry, and that you respect me enough to go when I ask you to."

He nodded.

"Of course."

He put on his hat, and to his surprise, Christine adjusted it a bit. When he gave her a questioning look, she shrugged.

"It was crooked. Don't be weird."

"I won't be weird. As I go out dressed like this."

"You dress nicely. Hush."

He smiled at her. Her eyes darted to the side, then she nodded to the door coyly.

"Go on."

He chuckled and closed the door behind him, still feeling the glow of Christine's presence. It had been a long time since he'd been this happy. Probably the last time was back in his own world, before everything went wrong.

He thought about how he'd felt when she called him an angel. That feeling of being special, being adored was something worth holding onto . . . if only it hadn't been a lie. Christine had asked why he'd ruined what they had. Truth be told, he was asking himself the same question.

. . .

When he got back, Christine was holding a disc. He blinked.

"What's that?"

"Don Juan Triumphant. Well, only Aminta's parts. I still need you to give me the rest."

"You sang?!"

"Yes."

"The whole thing?!"

"I shimmered through a full cycle, but I finished it. Might be a bit strange, hearing forty seven different voices-"

"Forty-six."

"Oh. I must have miscounted."

She hadn't, but neither of them knew it yet.

"I'm still a bit delirious from Covid, I suppose."

"And you sang the entirety of the opera while sick?!"

"Yes, I magically stopped feeling sick for a few hours."

He could tell by her tone that she wasn't lying or being sarcastic, but that made no sense. Before he could question her words, she placed the disc in his hands.

"Here. Put it in your computer and make the opera again."

"You said you didn't want me to hear you sing."

"Recordings are different. Otherwise, I wouldn't have watched the show with you."

"Wait, how is a recording different?"

"I don't know. It just is. I'm sure if you heard me sing in person, it would be a disaster."

"Why?"

"Because that's what happened last time!"

"Well, that wasn't entirely to do with your singing. More my bad life choices . . ."

"Still, I worry . . . Anyway, I would like to hear your opera again. I've recited everything I remember. The rest is up to you."

"Christine, it's been a thousand years."

"No, more like five hundred."

"Christine, it's been a lot longer for me because of the way time works in Fiction."

"Well, what's the difference? After the first few hundred, it's all the same."

"I haven't thought about Don Juan Triumphant for years. I don't know if I'll even remember all of it."

"But you can try, can't you? For me?"

He sighed.

"For you, I will try. But I don't understand why you want it so badly."

"Well, suppose something happened to you. We couldn't allow it to be lost forever. It's art."

She shooed him away.

"Now, go!"

"I'm going!"

Boy, she was acting strange. He wanted to blame the sickness, but he had a bad feeling that he was wrong. He felt as though he had all the pieces to a puzzle and just couldn't fit them in place. That, or he was just too naïve to understand what was going on.

. . .

He wrote all day, then all through the next day. He wasn't even sure that he'd fallen asleep or eaten in all that time. But that was all it took for him to finish. He emerged with a printed libretto.

"Done! Note for note, I've- Christine? . . ."

She looked very unwell. He placed his work on the counter and approached her with worry.

"Christine, are you alright?"

"I'm dying. Truly."

His heart caught in his throat.

"Surely not . . ."

"I am. It feels like last time."

"That doesn't mean anything. You're just sick."

"So were the people who died from this disease . . . millions . . . I looked it up . . ."

"But most people recover. Um, except the people with long Covid, I suppose-"

He gasped.

"Shit!"

"Don't . . . cuss . . ."

"Christine, what if you lose your voice?"

She slammed her hand against the mattress.

"Because that's all I am to you, right?!"

He flinched at her words, but she was already rolling over. She jumped as a pigeon landed on the window above her.

"That settles it. The vultures are circling. I'm done for."

"Not at all. He's just here to wish you well."

"I doubt it."

Suddenly, a voice came from the pigeon.

"Feel better soo-oo-oon, Christine!"

She shrieked, then stood up and pressed herself against the window.

"Bird! Do you come to me with news?!"

It pooped.

"Speak to me, bird! Tell me what-"

She caught sight of the Phantom out of the corner of her eye. He was trying his best not to make a sound, but when she turned to face him, he burst out laughing. Christine rolled her eyes.

"Fine, you can throw your voice. We're all very impressed. I expect you to teach me how to do that, by the way. Assuming I live."

"You'll live, Christine. You just need to not think about it. Why don't we play a game?"

"A card game? I don't know any."

"I can teach you. But I only know Solitaire."

"I'll bet I'd be good at that."

"I've no doubt."

She smiled.

"Just watch! By the end of the day, I'll beat you at Solitaire."

"Well, actually it's more of a . . . Hm, how do you feel about Go Fish?"

. . .

Eventually, they got bored and took to throwing cards in a bowl. Christine cheered when she finally got one.

"I did it! Ha! I'll have to play this with Meg. She has terrible aim."

"You don't know the half of it."

He sighed and leaned back against the wall. Christine did the same.

"Are you tired of throwing?" she asked.

"I just feel bad. This is my fault. You're sick because of me."

"Yes. But I'll get over it. I always do."

She blinked.

"Well, except for that one time."

He swallowed nervously.

"So, uh, what do you wanna play next? Poker? Hungry Hungry Hippos? Would You Rather?"

"What's that?"

"Well, you're given the option to choose one of two horrible things."

"Oh, like whether I'd rather watch my fiancé die or live in a sewer with a murderer for the rest of my life."

". . . How do you feel about Truth or Dare?"

"Could you mean Questions and Commands?"

"Yeah."

"That's not too bad. I'll start. What was the worst thing that ever happened to you?"

"Christine, I should be allowed to choose 'Dare'. The more you know about me, the more you'll regret asking."

"Okay. Then I dare you to take off your mask."

"You're being difficult on purpose."

"I am."

She smiled and bumped her shoulder against his.

"Do you think you ever will?"

"Will what?"

"Take off your mask."

"No."

"That's so sad. You should really-"

"Why don't we play Cat's Cradle? I remember a solid three steps, but then we're stuck."

She smiled sadly.

"You know, you can always talk to m-"

She shimmered. He was glad for the interruption. When she saw her reflection, she grumbled.

"Great."

"What?"

"Meg always hated Dale-Christine. She complained a lot."

"Why?"

"She says that I'm creepy and weird."

To clarify, Meg meant Dale-Christine specifically, not Dale Kristien. Though the same was also true of Dale Kristien, whom she hadn't met.

The Phantom laughed.

"Like I said, every Christine is someone's favourite. In fact, Dale Kristien was Michael Crawford's favourite."

"Who?"

"The first Phantom."

"Oh. Is he one of you?"

"Yeah, he's in there somewhere."

"You know, I still haven't seen you change."

"Well, let's fix that."

He became Michael Crawford. Her eyes went wide.

"I know you! Well, I mean, I already know you, but I remember this you in particular."

"Do some Christine's not recognize me?"

"We all recognize you, to some degree. I think there might be something intangible that makes you . . . you."

He changed back.

"Maybe. But I'd still rather be the me I started as."

She looked down. He swallowed.

"I didn't meant to-"

"No, it's okay. I just . . . I wonder, you know?"

"About what?"

"Who I am, what it means, where I go from here . . . If he would have loved me, had I stayed the same."

"Well, everybody changes. That's just part of life."

"And you?"

He shrugged.

"I've changed too. A little. Maybe not as much as I should have, but . . ."

He sighed, then forced a smile.

"So, do you want to learn more card games?"

. . .

By night, Christine was very unwell. Her eyes were unfocused, and she was glistening with cold sweat.

"I'm going to die."

"You've been saying that all day. You'll be fine."

"Mph."

It was dark out. The only light came from the lamp Christine had set up near her bed. She had been trying to read, but she was too sick to make out the words. She squeezed Pieds against her chest.

"I think I need to go to the hospital."

"Christine, I don't have any documents for you. We can't go to the hospital here."

He stood up.

"But if it's really that bad, we can take you back to Fiction."

"We can't go."

"Why not?"

"I didn't tell you, but I came here illegally."

"Illegally?! Okay, but you still have that magic respawn thing all fictional characters get, right? So you're going to be fine regardless."

"I never got one."

He covered his mouth.

"NEVER GOT- Christine, this is a hell of a time to be telling me this! That settles it. I'm taking you back right now. We can't risk-"

"Don't bother."

"Why not?"

"I had a feeling this would happen, so I broke your portal thingy."

"WHAT?! BUT IT WAS-"

"Hidden in a shoebox in your closet, I know. You're not very good at keeping secrets. I shouldn't have done it. But I didn't want to go back."

"Christine . . ."

"I'm sorry."

He knelt beside her.

"Christine, are you serious? Do you think you might die?"

She didn't answer. He wrung his hands.

"Some Phantoms within me know what it means to see you die. I won't let it happen."

"What does it matter?"

"Christine!"

"It would be better for you, if I died."

"Don't say that!"

"It's true."

"Christine, I was so, so unhappy until you came back. I thought that was all there was in life. Sorrow and pain, nothing more. That's how the story always ends."

"I don't follow."

"Well, hardly any Phantoms get a happy ending. We all end up alone, heartbroken, sometimes dead . . ."

"Not in the show."

"Christine, I was alone at the end. You saw. Hell, you were there."

"But then the curtain comes up, you take a bow, and everybody loves you."

He remained silent for a moment, then shook his head.

"That's not part of the story."

"It should be. You think that you're destined for a sad ending, but here you are, and nothing has ended. We all keep going on . . ."

She coughed.

"Except if I die permanently."

She swallowed.

"Are you sure you can't fix this?"

He looked away.

"Christine, I can't give you my magic."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm running out."

"Why?"

"Because . . . she took it from me."

. . .

The night started off normal enough. The Phantom had made himself a Pop-Tart, and had beforehand made seven for his grandmother. She stuck out her tongue as he slid the plate across the table using one of his wings. He was getting good at using them. His grandmother seemed less than thrilled to find her food covered in feathers, however.

"Blech. The purple ones are the worst."

"Well, they may not taste great, but they're the prettiest ones. That's why I like them."

She took a bite, gesturing with the crumbling crust.

"You know, you haven't learned a damn thing."

"Meh, growth is overrated."

She laughed, but it trailed off.

"You got that right . . . Listen, you know why I'm here."

"To see the show? Yeah, that's always fun."

"They're making a new Jurassic World."

He paused as he rinsed off his dish, then lowered it into the sink slowly.

"I wouldn't know. I don't keep track of that stuff."

"I'll be needing more magic to bring them back. Magic from The Star."

The Phantom frowned.

"So ask that new Queen of yours."

"She's busy saving the world. Besides, she'd never let me have it. She doesn't like the way I go about things. They've all been keeping an eye on me, ever since . . . Well, that doesn't matter. The point is, I need you."

"And that's the only reason you're back?"

"Well, I always enjoy spending time with my favourite grandchild."

"Yeah, ever since your actual favourite died."

"Now, now."

"Don't deny it. And don't try to take my magic. I earned it. It's mine."

He spread his wings.

"Even YOU didn't get these. I guess The Star likes me better."

She was silent. There was a deadly calmness in her gaze. The Phantom sneered at her.

"You don't scare me anymore, come on. With this magic, I can do anything."

"You're not as strong as Ellie was."

"Oh, here we go-"

"But regardless, I need your magic."

He frowned.

"You can't have it."

"I'll take it, if I have to."

"No, you won't. You can't lay a finger on me. Not after you promised. And you can't break a dragon promise."

She curled her wings.

"Why'd I ever agree to that . . ."

"Because I would have told them what you did, otherwise."

"I was asking rhetorically."

His face softened.

"You know, I wouldn't have told them, even if you refused to make your vow."

"Sure."

"No, I mean it. Despite everything you put me through, everything you are . . . I care about you. I hope you know that."

"I do."

She stood up, sighing.

"So that's it, then? You won't give me your magic?"

He tightened his fists.

"Is that all I'm good for?"

"Don't be that way."

"Answer me. If you weren't beholden to your promise, would you take my magic from me, knowing how much it means to me, how much I need it?"

"You don't need it."

"Yes, I do. It's the only reason you're still in my life, otherwise I'd give you permission right now, that's how much I care!"

She rolled her eyes and moved toward the door. He followed.

"Fine, leave! You'll be back! I know you want my magic! That's all I am to you! Well, if it matters so much, go ahead and take it! See if I care!"

She paused. For the briefest of moments, he thought that he had gotten through to her. But then she turned around. Slowly. Smiling.

"Thank you for giving me permission."

His face fell.

"Wait-"

She grabbed him in her beak and tossed him on the floor. His wings flapped under her paw.

"Wait! Nonononono!"

He felt teeth digging through his feathers. He screamed.

"WAIT! PLEASE!"

A pain unlike anything he'd ever felt. She pinned him down as she ripped the wings away from him. He lay on the carpet, bleeding out, hyperventilating. He made a sound.

"Ah . . ."

It was barely a squeak, a prayer that this was just some terrible nightmare. He didn't know how long he stayed curled up in that spot, but a small box was dropped in front of him suddenly. He recognized the image of Pop-Tarts through his pain.

"You're out."

And that was how she left him.

Over the weeks that followed, he withheld from using magic. He knew that he had something left in him, but just how much, he couldn't say for certain. But as long as he had even a drop of magic left, she'd be back.

. . .

"And that's why I can't help you," he choked, "I can't choose between you and my grandmother."

"It sounds like you already have."

Tears welled in his eyes.

"If there was anything I could do . . ."

She lay there, breathing lightly. After a few minutes, her eyes opened.

"Ange? . . ."

"Christine?"

"Ange, je meure."

She was delirious. He held her hand in his.

"Non, Christine. Tu ne mourras pas."

"Je meure, je meure . . . Et père, aussi. Il était mor . . ."

"Oui, il est mort."

". . . du. Mordu. Quand j'était petit."

He squeezed her hand.

"C'est rien, Christine. Juste un rêve. Je suis içi."

"J'ai besoin de ta magie."

"Non, Christine . . . Un ange sans ailes n'est pas un ange. Et un ange sans magie . . . Je l'attend. Le dragon."

She closed her eyes.

"Je suis désolé."

A pause.

"Ange?"

"Oui?"

"Vous-"

"Tu."

"Tu aurais dû choisir quelqu'un plus belle."

"Non, Christine. C'est vous. Pour toujours."

She smiled.

"Mon ange . . . sans ailes . . ."

She struggled to get her words out.

"Mbrssm'ndrnrfwah . . ."

He wasn't sure if he'd actually heard it. But he held her against his chest. She was cold. Weak. She barely responded to his touch. He knew.

As she went limp in his arms, he summoned up every last bit of magic he had, letting it fill her, heal her. He could feel when it was gone, but just in case, he kept holding her. He didn't regret it one bit.

Un ange sans elle n'est pas un ange.