A/N: After suffering from a writer's crisis for so long, I am finally back! Haven't you ever written a story, and suddenly thought that it is pointless, terrible, and...well, trash? That's what happened to me with Black Death. But I have not abandoned it. In fact, I should be posting the next chapter up soon. I just needed to get this little oneshot out of my system--I'm quite proud of it, actually. You see, I realized that my Erik in Black Death was NOT Leroux!Erik--not at all. I wanted to try writing a slightly fluffy fic with Leroux!Erik, just to make me feel a little better.

Christine and Erik are recently married in this fic. Just assume that Christine had to go through with her promise, and don't ask any more questions. You can imagine that it is an unrecorded scene in bwayphantomrose's fic, Mingled Tears: Tales of a Living Wife. Fantastic story, by the way.

Disclaimer: I do not own anything original to Phantom of the Opera. My humble possessions merely consist of the book, film, soundtrack, and Susan Kay's Phantom.

It was silly to be remorseful of such a thing now, but Christine found herself regretting her younger self had ever told the "Angel of Music" that Christmas was her favorite time of year. Her masked teacher recalled all his conversations with his pupil with uncanny precision, and apparently took her words to heart.

Only a few months had passed since Christine had pulled the scorpion and had consented to become Erik's living bride. Her husband was constantly trying to express his eternal gratitude for kindness of such caliber.

Now that the holy season was approaching, to say he overdid things was a laughable understatement.

As impossible as it seemed, Erik's gifts were becoming more extravagant by the day. Christine gazed at the gaudy necklace—with a diamond pendant that reminded her of one of the garish ornaments Carlotta wore on her corsage—before directing her horrified stare to the basket of flowers beside the velvet jewel case. Fists clenched, she repressed the urge to shove the basket away in disgust. Oh, how she hated those flowers! They were so—so civilized, neatly trimmed to perfection and tied together with a prim silk ribbon.

She set the jewel case down on a growing stack of such boxes and veritably tossed the offensive basket to a corner, where it joined others of its kind. Glaring at the countless trinkets cluttering the Louise-Philippe room, Christine thought, Soon there won't be enough room to reach the door! Her gifts disposed of, she went to her wardrobe and deliberately donned her plainest gown, ignoring the dresses fit for the fashion of Marie Antoinette.

Erik, home from a day full of "errands befitting his ghostly office," was waiting for her in the parlor. Upon beholding his wife, he frowned behind the mask—if that wrinkling of flesh above his eye sockets could be called frowning. He was at her side in the blink of an eye, carefully avoiding any physical contact.

"What's wrong, my dear? Are the new gowns I bought you unsuitable for your tastes? Erik only purchased what he thought would most please his darling wife, who has been so kind to him." He did not notice (or chose to ignore) the look of defiance on Christine's face. "Not that your current gown diminishes your beauty in the least," he assured her.

"Erik, must I tell you every day not to get me such gifts?"

"Nonsense," came the expected reply. "My wife deserves only the best. Erik will grant his Christine anything and everything she wishes for, so that she will be happy." Today, Christine refused to yield to her husband's stubbornness, determined to get her way.

"Erik, she began patiently, "do you think I would have been happy as a Countess?"

Though startled at the sudden change of subject, Erik controlled enough of his mental faculties to immediately think of Raoul de Chagny. "No!" he instinctively countered.

Still with that practiced calm, Christine asked, "What makes you say that?"

Because you belong to me, Erik thought. Still, he lapsed into silence as he thought of a more convincing response. First, he imagined Christine leading a life without music. Then, he pictured her at the de Chagny chateau, suffocating in the splendors of material wealth, cosseted and pampered, dressed up like a doll…

Inconceivable! Her honest, humble nature would balk at such artificiality. Erik confidently voiced his thoughts.

Holding back a frustrated sigh at her husband's hypocrisy, Christine said, "Darling, why don't you take a look into my bedroom and tell me what you see." Erik did as he was told, a dog obeying his mistress. Opening the door to the Louis-Philippe room, he peered inside.

Erik surveyed the room and its contents. After a few minutes, he closed the door.

Christine looked up when her husband reentered the parlor. Anxiously twisting the gold band on her finger, she attempted to descry the expression behind the black mask. He was so…quiet.

Finally, Erik spoke, his toneless voice as revealing as his face: "Perhaps you should retire now, my dear. You must have had a trying day." Christine wanted to retort that it was impossible to have a "trying day" when he never let her do anything, until she realized he might be referring to the presents. Not wanting to offend him, she opened her mouth to protest. But Erik was already entering his music room—how had he moved without her remarking?—and the door shut behind him with a definitive click.

Well, that certainly didn't go as planned, thought Christine. Had she affronted him? He had seemed rather piqued, and he had never been so cold in her presence. She had only wanted to explain that she was content without his immoderate spending on her account—especially if he was using his ill-gotten monthly salary of twenty thousand francs to defray his purchases.

She sighed, smoothing out the creases in her dress. It was no use knocking on the door of the music room now and demanding his attention—particularly if he was composing. She would try bringing up the issue again later.

Perhaps next time she would be more straightforward about it.

--

Erik sat on the piano bench, head in his hands. Oh, he was a fool! he thought miserably. He didn't know—he hadn't made the connection while purchasing the gifts, caught up as he was in the euphoria of his love. He was not better than that bumbling idiot of a de Chagny. Erik had prided himself on understanding his wife, had pompously assumed he knew her every thought and desire. All he had proven, however, was that he knew nothing about being a proper husband.

He had only wanted to make her happy! Oh, he supposed that he knew she would not appreciate such extravagant gifts—Christine had always been so modest! And she had long since tired of his magic tricks—he had ventriloquized and performed legerdemain to the best of his ability in a futile attempt to entertain her. Despite living for over half a century on this godforsaken earth, Erik had virtually no experience with the fair sex, and was beginning to despair.

It was almost Christmas! Although he had never bothered to celebrate it, he knew how much the holiday meant to Christine. He wanted their first Christmas together to be memorable…but he was at a loss for gift ideas. He had tried asking Madame Giry, the box-keeper, for advice. She had suggested jewelry or flowers—and look where that had gotten him! Who else could help him with this dilemma?

Erik scowled.

He may be the scum of the earth, the lowest of the low—five cellars down is a long way, after all—but he did possess some sense of honor.

So there was no way in hell that he would jeopardize his dignity by turning to the daroga.

--

Christine was getting worried.

What could he possibly be doing in there? She wondered a little resentfully. He couldn't have been working on Don Juan Triumphant; otherwise, he would have quarantined himself instead of occasionally going aboveground to do god knows what. Though fully aware that she was being hypocritical, Christine wished Erik would go back to showering her with gifts. She really couldn't blame him for his misguided efforts to please her. At least it was better than—than—than ignoring her like this! She was a performer, for goodness' sake—she thrived on attention!

He had even been forgoing her singing lessons. Christine would never admit it, but she missed the sound of his magnificent voice. Nowadays, when he came home, he would barely glance at her, much less speak—indeed, he hardly registered her presence! Sometimes, she would hear him mutter, "Damn you, Daroga," under his breath before he locked himself up in that infernal music room.

It was all very exasperating.

Before long, Christmas was upon them. Christine was somewhat ashamed that she had not bothered with a present for Erik (as a young girl, she would embroider little handkerchiefs for her angel as a testament to her devotion—not that the noseless "angel" had ever used them). At her confession, Erik assured her that she was already blessing him with her presence. Had she not taken umbrage at his recent aloofness, she would have thought his remark rather sweet.

Erik hesitated before timidly taking his wife's little hands in his cold ones. "Come, my dear," he said, pulling her towards the music room. "Erik has a surprise for his darling wife."

At these words, Christine's annoyance instantly vanished to be replaced by a feeling of dread. What if—what if the past two weeks had merely been leading up to one massive, horrific climax? She pictured a dress large enough to harbor the entire Palais Garnier under its umbrella-like skirt, a huge bouquet of flowers of every species known to man…

Christine involuntarily shuddered as Erik seated her on the loveseat. Snapping out of her nightmarish daydream, she watched in confusion as her husband sat at the mahogany piano. The music stand supported several sheets of a composition Christine had never seen before. After a few moments of studying the childlike scrawl in red ink, she realized the score was titled, "Merry Christmas, Christine."

The strains of music wrought by Erik's magical hands seemed to fill her soul with indescribable warmth. When words of love poured out of Erik's lipless mouth, they no longer sounded dissonant and wrong to her ears. Although Christine would fain lose herself in the wonder of Erik's voice, she made a conscious effort to comprehend the song's lyrics.

Erik sang a pastorale about a poverty-stricken farmer who was courting a noblewoman. He wished to send her a token of his love, but possessed nothing of value. The farmer's despondency brought tears to Christine's eyes as he wistfully lauded his lady's superior merits. Is this what Erik thinks of me…?

The pastorale ended on a hopeful note, with the poor farmer hoping his lady would accept his love for itself rather than any corporeal tributes. Christine was openly weeping now. The piece was so simple, surely not the level at which Erik was accustomed to composing…yet there was perfection in its simplicity.

At the conclusion of the song, Erik moved to the loveseat, took off his mask, and placed the softest of kisses at the hem of Christine's dress. His head was bowed in contrition, but his golden orbs glowed with enlightenment.

"Erik is sorry, Christine," he said, the words so soft and melodious they sounded like a lullaby. "But all he has to offer is his music…and his love."

A small but genuine smile lit up Christine's face, one that overshadowed the overly bright simpers of superficial gratitude she usually bestowed on him. Placing a feather-light kiss on Erik's wizened cheek, she whispered,

"That is all I ever want."

Fin.