A/N: For some reason, my first "phiction" attempt ended up as a humor story, not the melodramatic angst story that I've been toying with. Not that the other one isn't going to probably make an appearance at some point. This story focuses on Erik…and a kitty. Okay, so it doesn't really sound all that interesting but I'm not a very interesting person. This Erik is a random mixture of Leroux, ALW, and Mary Poppins. At least, that's what I say to keep you off of my back if I don't stay true to character. Don't take the latter one seriously.

It was a beautiful spring day that broke over Paris. The brilliant sun was rivaled only by another equally brilliant (but in a different way, you know) chorus of bird song. Outside people stopped mid-stride on the streets to enjoy the refreshing feeling of a cool spring breeze. Of course, since Erik was not on the streets, or outside, or even at ground level he quite missed out on all of the fun. There really is no weather five levels under the ground besides "cold" and "damp."

Instead, Erik was angsting. Something he did quite well. He angsted about his poor misbegotten face. He angsted about Christine's betrayal. He even angsted about how the number of hotdogs in a package never matched up with the number of buns, which just went to show how good he was at this considering hotdogs hadn't even been invented yet.

But even Erik had to get tired of sitting around being depressed all the time so, for a change, Erik decided to take a walk along his lake and be depressed. Which, some may argue, is not much of an improvement but you take what you canget, eh? So where were we? Ah yes, Erik. Lake. Depressed.

So as our friendly neighborhood Phantom took a stroll along the shore he contemplated dark things like the eventuality of death and the quality of the environment under most people's sinks. These, of course, were very engrossing thoughts so when he happened upon a rather squishy bit of the stony shoreline that screeched he did what any other red-blooded male would do: he screamed and flailed like a levitating octopus. Squishy bits of shoreline were commonplace in the cellars and so really no matter but squishy bits that made noises when nearly trod upon were definitely worth a fight or flight response.

Erik was a master with his Punjab lasso. He'd Punjabbed loads of people in his time and loads of other things as well depending on how he'd felt that day. But since he'd been caught unaware, and since the object he wanted to Punjab was pretty much a small glinting wet spot on the floor, he missed. This disconcerted him enough to allow the small squishy thing to utter another noise, this time plaintive and weak.

"Mreew."

The squishy wet thing was actually a cat.

More of a kitten, really. Erik thought, peering at it with narrowed yellow eyes. It was a small tawny yellow feline with bright blue eyes. He leered over it for a moment but when it became apparent that it was not going to run away screaming nor foppishly leap at him with sword drawn, he decided that it was the best visitor he'd had in ages. His mother hated animals but since he'd had a bit of a fallout with his mother a while back he felt in no way accountable to her if he brought the little creature home with him. So he did.

Bringing it home was the easiest part. Once he got it home, though, he wasn't sure what to do with it. So he laid it on a nest of towels by the fire and resolved to check back on it after he'd banged a few discordant things on his organ. He figured the worst it could do was catch fire and that was most unlikely given how saturated it had been.

For an hour, a day, for…he did not know how long he sat before the great instrument channeling the other world. But in the midst of his frantic musings, long bony fingers flying skillfully over the keys, a single, terrible wrong chord reared its ugly head. He froze, peered in disbelief at his fingers, and then heard it again. Whirling he found himself staring down into the serious face of the now dry kitten, which sat comfortably upon about five keys of his organ. He picked it up roughly by the scruff of its neck and roared straight into its face for about five minutes.

The kitten blinked. Erik blinked. The two of them, fantastically, blinked in unison. Finally, Erik sighed, closed his eyes, and dropped the kitten on the ground where it immediately became hopelessly enamored with his right trouser leg. As irritating as this was, the disfigured man found it hard to dislike a creature that so obviously loved him despite his masked face, his tempers, and his completely healthy misanthropic tendencies. Erik decided he wanted a snack.

The kitten followed him into the kitchen, or what he called his kitchen, where he sought out a chair and then decided he wasn't hungry after all. The kitten, however, felt otherwise and spent its time boring holes into Erik's heart with its wide, hungry, blue eyes. He frowned at it. It continued to stare. He returned its stare but lost that game as well. He hissed fierce words at it. It continued to goggle with the same innocent adoration. Somewhere a tendril of familiarity tickled the back of his mind. Erik suddenly decided to name it Christine. Along with that decision came the sudden inexplicable urge to buy things for her. He also decided to feed her. (A her now because the name implied femininity, which, thankfully, was actually the case.)

"Now, my little dear, you are carnivorous, I am sure." She did not move. Erik found this strangely distressing so he continued talking.

"There are fish in the lake." She still did not move.

"Okay, well, I'm going to go fishing then." And he did.

A few fish later found Erik reclining comfortably with a book with Christine curled just as comfortably in his lap nibbling at his shirt. The kitten Christine, not the real Christine as much as that would have delighted Erik and probably any E/C shippers reading this story. Alas.

Erik hummed lightly to himself, as it is a well-known fact that all phiction Eriks must hum to themselves at least once in every story. Erik's deep and profound (was that redundant?) thoughts were torn away from whatever deep and profound book he was reading by a queer feeling in his stomach. Surprised, he glanced down at Christine who sat purring and kneading gently at his abdominal area. (The cat, once again, but if you want to imagine the human Christine then you're welcome to go ahead. Really. I won't tell anyone.)

His reaction escaped from his lips as a low hiss of exhaled air. Emotions ranging from fear to anger to adoration whirled through him like small insects stuck in a vacuum cleaner before finally settling on quiet amusement.

He timidly extended a single pale finger towards the animal, which was now practically vibrating. He gently drew his finger down her spine and she arched into his hand. She was soft, warm, and pleasantly rumble-y. He smiled.

"I think," He murmured to her, "That I like you."

A/N: Possibly to be continued. It all depends on how stupid people think this really is because when you get down to it, this story is painfully simple.