Author's Note: This is based on the televised version of the Kopit/Yeston "Phantom," which starred Charles Dance in the title role, along with Teri Polo, and some pretty faced-guy as the Raoul character (called "Philippe" in this film for some reason).

The story so far is that, though Christine and Philippe had been children together and have been reunited, Philippe is a womanizing lech who's had affairs with every single dancer in the chorus. Christine has been taking singing lessons from a mysteriously masked instructor (after Philippe asked Carlotta to teach her, and Carlotta refused) and has recently sung with great success at the bistro, amazing everyone and showing up Carlotta. That night she and Philippe ran off together and smooched a lot, but when Christine made her debut as Marguerite in "Faust," Carlotta sabotaged her and humiliated her on stage. Her masked teacher (guess who?) abducted her off the stage to his house below.

Once there, she meets up with the former opera manager, Gerard Carriere (who is actually Erik's father) who tells her of Erik's past. She's already half in love with him, but her heart melts completely when she hears Erik's story. The next day Erik invites her on a picnic, where she begs him to remove his mask in the name of love. She says that she knows she can look at his face, because she loves him.

With much trembling hesitation and fear, Erik takes his mask off. Christine faints in horror, and Erik runs off heartbroken and howling in agony. Christine wakes up and runs from Erik, and he catches her and locks her in a cage. It all goes downhill from there.

This story picks up with her waking, and she behaves the way I wish she had in the movie. Warning: it's fluffy. Very, very fluffy. If you prefer angst, well... stop reading in the middle, then.

Denouement

Denouement: The events following the climax of a drama or novel in which such a resolution or clarification takes place.

Christine woke up, disoriented for a moment. She blinked, wondering where the music was coming from, and then she remembered. It was more of Erik's "magic."

Thinking of Erik made her gasp in horrified recollection. It had been his terrifying face that had caused her to faint in the first place! She had begged him to remove his mask, begged him in the name of love, and trembling, he had done so.

He had trusted her, trusted her love for him. He had been terrified of her reaction, but had done it anyway to please her.

And she had fainted.

Tears welled up in her eyes now, realizing how she must have made him feel. She had begged for his trust, and when he had finally bestowed it, she betrayed it. The thought made her feel ill now, and she glanced about to see where he had gone. Their picnic things were still out, but there was no trace of him.

Frowning, Christine gathered up the rest of the picnic and stuffed it all back into the basket. His hat, which had given him such a dashing appeal, lay trampled and broken-brimmed in the dust. She crammed it into the basket as well, and then stopped, listening.

She heard a crashing sound from off in the distance, and she followed it. Her slipper-clad feet made little noise on the stone floor, and she was able to get close enough to see what was making the noise without being heard herself.

It was Erik.

He was in a rage.

He was magnificent.

His loose white shirt billowed with his furious movements as he broke, threw, and smashed everything he could find. His black mask made him look like a vengeful demon, bent on destruction. As she watched, he pushed over the wardrobe in the room with a roar of enraged fury, and her hand flew to her mouth in shock.

Was this her gentle teacher? Her caring and devoted maestro? With a pang, she realized that her reaction to his face had turned him into this… this monster bent on wanton destruction. He bent over and picked up pieces of broken wardrobe, smashing them against his knee before tossing them aside.

Did she dare approach? Would he harm her?

Heart pounding, Christine watched him for another moment. Such force, such power—she hadn't known her kind, gentle maestro had this sort of passion pent up within him. It quickened her breathing and made her pulse race.

Not letting herself question her actions too much, Christine carefully set down the picnic basket and took a step forward. Then another, and another, until she was just a few scant feet away from him. He hadn't heard her yet; she took advantage of his brief pause while he looked for something else to break, and said his name.

He whirled around in shock and anger. He strode over to her, but even in his wrath he did not touch her. Voice dripping with scorn, he asked, "Come to finish me off, have you?"

Christine shook her head, eyes downcast. Instinctively knowing what she must do to calm him (for hadn't she seen the village dogs interacting with each other throughout her whole childhood?), she slowly sank to her knees before him. "Maestro, I am so sorry," she told him softly. Show the dominant dog your belly and he won't hurt you.

Something in her submissive posture and tone must have touched him even through all the layers of pain and ire that she had inflicted on him, and he sighed. "Sorry," he repeated dully.

"Yes, sir," she said. Hanging her head even further, she continued, "I can only imagine your pain, and I am deeply sorry that I hurt you."

He took a deep breath and slowly came to his knees in front of her. He reached out and, not quite touching her chin, lifted it so he could search her face.

Christine flushed red when she met his tormented eyes. A moment ago they had flashed in fury, but now showed only pain. Erik had beautiful eyes, she noticed: smoky grey, with flecks of clear white in them. They were shadowed at the moment, and she marvelled at how much emotion he could express from such little things as his eyes, the twist of his mouth, and the set of his shoulders. She could tell when the last of his anger left him, and he began weeping. He buried his masked face in his hands and crouched before her, shoulders shaking with silent sobs. He tore off his angry black mask and threw it as hard as he could; Christine could see the edge of his usual white mask under it.

Breathing a guilty sigh of relief that he'd put it back on, she edged closer to him. "Maestro…" she breathed. She laid a hesitant hand on his shoulder, and when he did not shrug it off, she slid it around his neck and pulled him closer. "Erik," she whispered. It was the first time she had called him by name, and she was pleased by how natural it felt. "Erik, I am so sorry." His head had by this time come to rest on her shoulder, and she stroked his hair as she held him. She felt the ribbons holding his mask on and for just a moment she was tempted to tug them free.

She would accustom herself to that face! She must!

But at the last minute she realized that even if he did forgive her for making him take off his mask, he would never forgive her if she did it without his consent.

Slowly Erik's trembling hands came up to hold her in return. She could feel his hesitation, his trembling touch, and she rested her head against his hair and held him closer. "I don't know why you'd even want to be close to me now," she murmured. "Oh, Erik! Can you ever forgive me?"

He gave a sigh, a long, shuddering sound, as he began to gain control again. "Oh, Christine," he whispered. He lifted his head and gazed into her eyes.

She could not meet his gaze, and looked away in shame. "I wonder how you can stand to be near me now," she murmured, "after what I did."

Erik shook his head, the faintest of smiles quirking his lips for a moment. "I should have known better." He withdrew and rose gracefully. He extended a hesitant hand to help her up. He cleared his throat. "I should take you back up."

She nodded dully, accepting his help and standing up. "You want me to go. I don't blame you."

"No, it's—just that I've put you through enough already," he said. He opened his hand, but she didn't let go of his. She looked up into his eyes.

"Erik," she said, her voice a little unsteady but her tone extremely determined, "I swear to you: someday I will look at your face with love."

"Christine," he said, his voice weary. "Christine, please don't make promises you can't keep. I should have known better than to believe… that anyone…"

"No, Erik," she cut in, still resolute. "I will keep this one. I swear it."

He smiled sadly, clasping her hand. "Thank you, my dear. If nothing else, I do appreciate the sentiment." He cleared his throat. "Come, we must be off. They must be worried about you."

They walked a while in silence. Erik had tried to release her hand, but she stubbornly held on. Finally he tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and covered it with his other hand as they walked.

Christine couldn't tell what he was thinking. The muscles under her hand were tense, but his touch was warm and gentle. "Erik?" she asked hesitantly after a long time. "Can… can I come back at some point?"

He stopped, turned, and faced her. "You want to come back?" he asked in disbelief.

She nodded, a trace of fear showing on her face. "If you leave me up there and then just disappear, how do I know I'll ever see you again?" She flushed. "I know it is selfish," she admitted. "After what I put you through today, I wouldn't want me back if I were you… but even so," and here she gave a little half-laugh, "I'm not sure I can do without you. If you can ever bring yourself to forgive me, I would very much like to come back."

The expression in his grey eyes softened, and the line of his mouth eased a little. "I… would like very much to have you come again, Christine," he said in his rich, dark voice. Then his eyes hardened again. "If you think your precious Comte Philippe can spare you."

"Are you jealous of Comte Philippe, Erik?" Christine asked. She gave him a timid smile. "You needn't be." The smile faded, leaving her looking earnest. "It's true I spent an evening thinking myself in love with him… but really, any feelings for him that I thought I still had have faded into friendship—and the fond memory of his connection with my father. He has grown up… differently from what I expected, and what my father had hoped." Feeling daring, she extended a tentative hand up to trace the line of his jaw, left uncovered by the mask. "I only wish my father could have met you."

He shivered at her touch, and caught her hand in his. "Would he have approved of me, do you think? A monster, a grotesque, hiding behind a mask?" His voice was quiet, belying the rancour in his words, but he gripped her hand almost had enough to hurt.

"He would have approved very much of a musician with your skill… and a man with as great a spirit as yours." Bright colour suffused her face as she confessed, "My father was not so shallow as I have shown myself to be. He was always able to look past the external appearances and see the heart of a man." She hung her head. "He would have loved you, Erik."

He relented. Knowing that he would have had her father's approval (and Comte Philippe did not) pleased him. Especially with Christine's having been so close to her father—that had to mean something. And she had made him a solemn vow, to someday be able to look upon his face. He didn't expect her to be able to keep it, but the feeling behind it was nice. Maybe, just maybe, there might be hope for him after all.

All the same, he was going to have some words with his overly talkative father. Gerard had no business telling this girl his entire history! Although he had to admit, he was glad Gerard had told Christine his name. He rather liked the sound of "Erik" coming from her lips. The fact that she was calling him "Erik" instead of "Maestro" was also hopeful; it pointed towards her desiring a more equal relationship than mentor and protégé.

Erik was all for that, even though he harboured little hope that she would ever be able to keep the vow that she had made in so determined a fashion. He smiled a little to himself, walking along with her. She'd been so adorable in her resolution that he'd been hard-pressed not to take her in his arms right that moment! But he knew, didn't he, that he didn't deserve her. She may protest her feelings towards that skirt-chasing comte, but Erik had seen him. He was young, handsome, vibrant—how could Christine ever come to prefer his company to that of such an Adonis?

Erik had no way of knowing that even now as they walked, her mind was dwelling on the way he had looked in his rage—shirt rippling, muscles tense, his entire frame alive with passionate fury—and feeling a frisson of frightened, excited pleasure at the thought.

Author's Note: It's just a scene, what I wish had happened in that movie. It won't ever be more, I don't think. If anything more comes, I'll certainly add to it, but at this point I have no idea where to take it. Anyone who has seen the Kopit/Yeston film or play have any good ideas? Please feel free to tell me them in your reviews. You are planning to review, aren't you? It's just not worth writing if you don't review:)