Erik Who?

Summary: Modern-day retelling. ALW/Kay-based/Gerard's Erik & most of my own creation :) ; Inspired by the premise of the television show "Samantha Who", and in the spirit of the movies "Regarding Henry" and "Overboard", although I have to admit I've never seen one episode of "Samantha Who". This fic is meant to be light and fun. E/C eventually. It takes place inside the movie. How does a head injury change the course of events in Erik and Christine's future? Please read and review!

Disclaimer: I do not own POTO or any of its characters or Kay's characters.

Chapter One- Who am I?

"Erik?"

The voice sounded distant, echoing faintly in his mind.

"Erik, can you hear me?"

His head was in a fog, and for the moment, he wondered if he might be dreaming. Maybe I am dead, he thought. Is this heaven…or…?

A strong hand shook his shoulders, and the faraway voice continued to call out that name, a name he did not recognize. He tried to lock onto the voice, mentally reaching for it, as though emerging from a cloud. His consciousness finally grasped it.

Blinking, his eyes opened, but all he saw was white, until the dimness of his surroundings finally came into focus. Shadows played upon the walls of the dark cavern, and an olive-skinned man knelt before him. The man's brows were furrowed with concern, and wisps of gray colored his black hair.

"Praise Allah," he breathed, "I thought you were dead when I found you lying here, Erik. What happened to you?" he asked with a thick middle-eastern accent, his gaze drifting to the top of the wounded man's head.

Blinding pain seized him, and instinctively his hand reached to the back of his head, his fingers meeting the crusty moistness of his wound. His teeth gritted, and his eyes darted around the lair. Nothing made sense to him as the concerned man grasped his elbow and raised him into a sitting position. It was hard to think of anything but the pounding of his head and the searing of the pain.

"Are you alright? Can you speak?"

His fingers moved back into his vision as he observed the crimson color that darkened his hand. Dried blood.

"I can speak." Well, barely. His voice sounded raspy and his throat felt like sandpaper.

The dark-skinned man raised three fingers. "How many fingers am I holding up?"

Looking up at the curious man, his gaze darted from his own hand to that of the man before him. "Three," he rasped, clearing his throat, his fingers touching the skin on his neck. "Water."

"I'll get some water and some bandages," the olive-skinned man said with an obvious look of relief on his face. "Stay there."

The man left him sitting on the hard stone floor. He felt as weak as a newborn kitten, and his legs were asleep. A smirk arose from his lips. It was with a small measure of relief that he began to have feeling in his legs and feet, he mused, wiggling his toes. As his concerned visitor wandered about in search of bandages and fresh water, he had no choice but to sit and do a visual scan of the rest of his body, wondering like a madman how he had come to find himself in this predicament.

His black suit, although dusty, was intact, a bit dressy for a cave, he thought. His fingers had done their own scan of the damp hairs that were matted to his head in a tangled mess, and explored the rest of his scalp until they finally arrived at the left side of his face, running along the smooth flesh down to some stubble around his cheek and chin. Normal. But as they wandered to the right side of his face, to his dismay, he found ridges and indents under his eye, next to his nose and just above his mouth. Alarmingly, there was no wetness to indicate blood from the cruel depressions on his skin. The injury to the right side of his face was not fresh, and seemed severe, and his heart began to pound furiously as he searched his mind for answers.

Gratefully, he accepted a glass of water and drank in three loud gulps, the cool liquid giving some refreshment to his parched throat. His visitor busily knelt behind him, examining the wound on his head. "This looks bad, Erik," he said, applying a damp cloth to the site of the gash.

Wincing in pain, Erik's hand flew to the wound, and turning around, his other hand snatched the cloth from the olive-skinned man, and dabbed gently at the sizable bump. "I need to flush the wound. Will you bring me a basin with water?"

Nodding, the man got to his feet and headed back towards the rooms. "You are in big trouble, Monsieur Phantom. The police are scouring the opera house looking for you. Everyone is in a panic about the death of Joseph Buquet. As usual, you are the prime suspect."

Phantom? That was only one of many puzzles plaguing his mind. Joseph Buquet...Police...opera house...none of it made any sense.

"You are very fortunate I found you before they did, my friend," he informed him, balancing a bowl with water and dipping a washcloth into the cool liquid.

Dabbing gently at the wound, he met the blackish-brown eyes of the man. "Do I know you?"

An amused smile cracked the man's lips. "I should say so. I can see that you haven't lost your dry sense of humor."

Erik shook his head. "I wish this were a joke, but I don't know you, or where this place is...or what happened."

The man let out a soft chuckle, his eyes twinkling with humor as he met the stark, serious blue eyes of the injured man, then his own expression changed and his mouth fell into a nice straight line. "You aren't kidding, are you?"

"No."

"It must be more serious than I thought. You probably have a concussion, Erik."

Erik generously soaked the cloth with more water, wringing out the crusty redness, and applied it again to the laceration, growling out in pain from the stinging sensation. "First, who are you?" he asked irritably.

Seriously disturbed by this new turn of events, Nadir began, "My name is Nadir...Nadir Khan..." he replied, expecting at least a flicker of recognition on his friend's face.

Blankly, Erik continued to stare up into Nadir's face.

"Remember," he continued, gesturing with his hand to recall a memory, "I was a policeman in Iran, I saved you from certain death on several occasions." Nadir had hoped that small bit would at least stir something, anything. It didn't. He bent over and grasped Erik's elbow to help him stand.

He felt a little unsteady on his feet, and shaking his head again, Erik's gaze moved to his surroundings, to the lavish decorations. His eyes fell upon the antique furniture, the dozens of candles, odd knick knacks, a miniature puppet theater, and finally fell to the piano. "Do you live here, Nadir?"

"No, Erik. I do not live here. You do."

At that moment, Erik was not sure what he was finding more disturbing; that he lived in a cave, or that he had no recollection of it. As his mind whirled from the realization, he felt the man's blackish-brown eyes fixed on his face; on the right side. Reflexively, his hand flew to cover the marred flesh.

Nadir tore his gaze from Erik's deformity, and glanced around the stone floor until he spotted the desired object. He walked Erik up some steps to the piano bench, sitting him down and quickly snatched the item up in his hand. He held it out to his friend. "I think you are missing this."

Erik's fingers stayed firmly plastered across his face as his deep blue eyes fell to the object in Nadir's dark hand. Thin and probably made of leather, the white half mask had a hole for an eye and appeared to be custom fitted for his face. "Do I... wear this?"

"I daresay you rarely go without it."

Gingerly, he took the mask in his hands, as though in it he might find the answers he was looking for, but to his frustration it did nothing to jog his memory.

"You really don't remember anything, Erik?"

Tears began to well in his eyes as he set the mask upon his face, pressing the form into his flesh. Hopelessly, the masked man shook his head in response.

"We need to get you to a doctor."

His deep blue eyes pleaded with Nadir. "I can't handle this. I feel like my mind is blank, and I don't know where I am, or how I got here, or how I know you..."

Nadir softened his tone. "Alright, calm down, Erik. We'll get you out of here. I know a good doctor we can trust..."

Resigned, he nodded. "Alright, Nadir," he began slowly. "But there is one thing I want you to tell me first."

His blackish brown eyes were filled with sympathy as he gazed down at the disoriented man before him. "What do you want to know?"

He raised his eyes forlornly to the olive-skinned man, who by now, Erik was certain was someone he could trust. "Who am I?"