Phantom of the Opera 1. New Arrival (Angelique)

(A/N: Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, phans everywhere, I proudly present...the sequel to "The Angel of Second Chances"! Now life is kind of busy, so I can't make any promises about how often I'll update, but Erik, Angelique, Pierre, and the others have returned.

I do not own the original _Phantom of the Opera_ characters. I can, however, lay claim to Angelique, Pierre, and the other new characters that appear.)

* * *

Why is it the days that change our lives forever start just like every other day? I mean, even the smallest difference would be appreciated just so we know that this day will change everything.

In my case, the day that drastically altered my life-well, Erik's and mine to be perfectly honest-started innocently enough. It started with our four-year-old daughter patting my face insistently.

"Mama, mama!" she kept repeating.

I blearily opened my eyes. "What is it, Marguerite?"

"Gaston and I are supposed to go to Aunt Gina's this morning, and I wanted to say bye," Marguerite explained. Her lower lip quivered in an attempt not to cry. I was often fatigued from my third pregnancy, which unfortunately meant I couldn't spend as much time with my children as before. Marguerite sometimes thought she'd never see me again whenever I had to sleep (which was frequent), so I used every moment I could to reassure her that her mama would always be there.

"Well, I certainly wouldn't have let you leave without saying goodbye," I reassured her, pulling her close and kissing her cheek. She giggled and threw her arms around me—which wasn't very far considering my stomach's current girth.

"Marguerite. What have I told you about waking your mother when she's trying to sleep?"

My daughter and I looked over to where Erik stood in the doorway, voice and demeanor intimidating. As usual, he was dressed and immaculately groomed despite the inhumanly early hour it was…if nine o'clock in the morning can qualify as inhumanly early.

Marguerite wasn't put off; she knew that, despite his occasional sternness, her father loved her more than anything. "But we were going to leave soon, and I couldn't leave without saying goodbye to Mama," she protested.

"Mama's up?" Gaston's voice questioned. It wasn't long before my eight-year-old son poked his head around the doorframe.

Erik sighed. "Yes, your mother is up."

"Good." Gaston then proceeded to climb onto the other side of the bed and sat directly opposite his sister.

"Mama, I want you to know that I will take complete responsibility for Maggie today," he informed me solemnly. "She'll do whatever I say, right, Maggie?"

Marguerite stuck out her tongue, never liking how Gaston seemed to take his position as the oldest a little too seriously.

"Don't stick your tongue out at your brother; it's impolite," I corrected her. "And, Gaston, try not to get into another fight with your cousins."

"But, Mama, they said Maggie looked like the picture of the witch in their fairy-tale book!" Gaston protested in shock.

It was, unfortunately, true—poor Marguerite looked exactly the way I had at that age, but at least her nose was correctly proportioned to the rest of her face. On a positive note, her skin was not as sallow as mine, so there was a chance—rather faint but present, nonetheless—that she would grow out of it.

"Just because someone insults our looks does not mean we strike back. Right, Erik?" I fixed my husband with a knowing look, remembering the times he had almost come to blows with members of my own family because he couldn't believe how they could be so dismissive of me.

Erik sighed and came over to crouch down by Marguerite. "Marguerite, you look like your mother, and your mother is the most beautiful and talented woman in the world," he told her seriously. "Your Aunt Regina and her children are blind imbeciles—don't give me that look, Angelique; you know I'm right."

"They're not blind. They see just fine," Marguerite remarked in confusion.

"He was speaking metaphysically, Maggie," Gaston corrected loftily.

"Metaphorically, Gaston." This time Gaston had to accept correction from his father.

"Whatever. Let's go, Maggie." Gaston slid off the bed and headed out the door, Marguerite struggling to follow his fast pace on her short, four-year-old legs. The sight caused me to chuckle—as much as Marguerite might protest Gaston's lording of the fact that he was her elder by four years, she would follow him anywhere; likewise, there was nothing Gaston wouldn't do for his sister.

"Is something amusing?" Erik queried.

"Those two. I wonder how adding a third child to the mix will affect them."

"Gaston will enjoy having two people to boss around, and Marguerite will appreciate having an ally," Erik summarized matter-of-factly, offering me his hand so he could pull me out of bed.

I lurched against him awkwardly, and he held me steadily until my dizziness had passed. This third pregnancy had been far from easy on me; doctors couldn't say why. Erik, who read every medical textbook he could lay his hands on when I was first pregnant with Gaston, had been unable to find an explanation, either—and that worried him to no end. Truth be told, it worried me as well, but I tried to focus on ensuring that our newest baby—Erik kept insisting it was another girl—would be strong and healthy when she entered the world.

Erik, God bless him, had changed so much in our ten years of marriage. There were still occasional hints of his mad genius, but they were better controlled. He could interact in society without losing his temper or strangling anybody (although there were times I had to do some serious convincing to not do either of those). He finally had the normal life that had eluded him for so very long. And I was glad that I had been able to help him gain that life.

But I had benefited from our marriage, too. After spending most of my life being resigned to the fact that I was unattractive and that people would never tell me otherwise, it was something of a shock to hear Erik tell me every day how I was beautiful. Even when I felt sick and bloated from pregnancy, he would say I was beautiful. And hearing that constant reassurance made me see myself differently.

When I was younger, I would look in the mirror and hear the different names people called me. Now when I looked in the mirror, I would hear my husband telling me how wrong those voices were.

I must have been staring thoughtfully at Erik as I pondered this. "Now what are you wondering?"

I smiled at him. "I was just thinking about how lucky I am to have a husband like you—a family like this. You know, when I was younger, I was convinced I was going to wind up in some loveless arranged marriage."

"No, instead you got stuck with me," Erik agreed.

"Trust me; despite all of your flaws, you were a much more attractive potential husband than some of the others my parents were trying to get," I told him. "Now help your fat, bloated wife down the stairs so she can have breakfast."

The rest of the day was supposed to pass calmly—since pregnancy #3 frequently left me tired, Erik had suggested letting the children visit their cousins for a few hours every day, giving me some much-needed relaxation time. Relaxation never amounted to much more than sprawling on the small sofa Erik had in his study and reading to myself while he worked with his music, an arrangement similar to the one we had enjoyed (well, I had enjoyed) back when we were just master and pupil. Sometimes, though, I had enough energy to sing with him...and I would find our song to be much more beneficial than three days straight of napping.

Today was one of those days when I did have enough energy for our music, and our voices twined with long familiarity. I never love Erik as much as I do when we sing together.

It was in the midst of this euphoria when a sharp pain in my lower back sent me to my knees. Immediately Erik halted his playing and came to help me.

"Angelique?" he ventured.

"Erik…" I struggled to keep my voice steady, "…I think I've gone into labor."

"That's impossible," he stated flatly, his eyes betraying his rising panic. "You're not due for another two months."

"Tell—that—to the baby," I groaned through gritted teeth. Why was this hurting so much?

Things swirled woozily, and the only thing I was really aware of was when Erik gathered me into his arms and practically dashed back upstairs, laying me gently on the bed.

"I don't want to leave you, Angelique," he whispered, pressing a kiss to my cheek, "but I've got to get Robert. I'll be back as soon as I possibly can."

I nodded, too shaken to speak. Erik kissed me again and sped out the door, and I was left to wait for my doctor brother's arrival. I took the time to try and get as comfortable as I could, but the pain was distracting—and frightening. I wondered if I was going to die.

But I couldn't die, not now! Although I had every confidence in Erik when it came to raising our children, I knew he would blame my death on himself…and I wouldn't be around to convince him otherwise.

_I love him, Lord. Give me more time with him_, I prayed.

"Angelique?"

"Right where you left me," I called out as strongly as I could.

Erik entered, looking more flustered and disheveled than I had ever seen him before. Robert wasn't with him, though. Instead he was accompanied by a young woman with hastily pinned brunette hair.

"Robert was with another patient; he'll come as soon as he can," he explained. "In the meantime, Collette will have to help."

Collette was a new midwife and had recently joined my brother as an assistant of sorts. She was a pleasant, capable woman, so I relaxed slightly—but only slightly; I would have felt infinitely better if Robert had been there. My brother had delivered my other two children; he would best know how to handle any emergencies.

Erik turned to go as Collette prepared to deliver the baby, but I called him back. "Please stay," I begged.

He hesitated. "Normally you"—

"Not this time," I shook my head. The first two times Erik had been irrevocably banished from the room, but this time was different. I was scared—really, truly scared, and I wanted, no, _needed_ him with me.

He must have guessed my thoughts because he climbed onto the bed gently and propped me up against him.

"I'm here, Angie," he murmured. "Everything will be fine."

And I believed him…up until Collette shrieked and backed away to the door, her cries mingling with those of my new baby.

"What's wrong?" I demanded worriedly. "How's the baby?"

Collette didn't answer, her mouth working convulsively as she tried to speak. Eventually she gave up and fled as though she were on fire.

Erik started after her, but I clutched his sleeve. "Let her go, Erik. It's not worth it. Just make sure the baby's all right."

Erik gave me one of his old Opera Ghost looks but reached for the baby, determined to finish the unpleasant job of cleaning. But now his eyes widened in shock, and an inhuman howl of grief came from the same mouth that so frequently emitted a voice to rival the angels'. The next thing I knew, Erik was on his knees and sobbing into his hands.

"Erik, what's wrong?" Why was everyone being so uncommunicative?

"Forgive me, Angie. Forgive me," he moaned.

Frustrated, I pushed myself up so I could see. There, laying squirming on a towel, was my new daughter.

A daughter who had inherited her father's face.


	2. Aftermath (Angelique)

(A/N: So...not much to say this time around. I'll just post the chapter. Oh, but Almost an Actress gets a special award for being the first person to review "The Face of Genius"!)

* * *

For a minute all I could do was stare, trying to process the sight before me. Erik's worst nightmare had come true; he had been afraid all along that our children would inherit his face. I had to persuade him that everything would be fine, that it was nothing to worry about, that at the very worst they would look like my unattractive hobgoblin self.

My daughter's screams broke my revere, and I grabbed a towel and started scrubbing. Seeing as Erik was not being useful, I lobbed a pillow at him.

"Don't just stand there; get something to cut the umbilical cord!" I snapped.

He stared at me in confusion for a moment, but my message eventually sunk in, and he went off to find a pair of scissors. Meanwhile, I worked on cleaning our daughter-who actually didn't look too bad once the worst of the blood was off. But no amount of scrubbing could wipe those marks off her face.

"Angie?"

That was not a voice I had expected to hear. "In here, Pierre," I called out to my brother.

His voice preceded him up the stairs. "What in the world is going on; Collette was screaming her head off, and Erik is wandering around downstairs moaning about how something is his fault…" Pierre trailed off as he entered my room and saw my daughter for the first time. His eyebrows shot up, and he attempted to speak several times.

I decided to speak first to make things easier for him. I could talk and clean a squirming baby at the same time; I had done it before. "What brings you here? It's not that I mind seeing you; it's just that I wasn't expecting you."

The normal conversation seemed to relax him. "I'm returning a book," he explained, bringing the volume from behind his back.

I squinted at the title. "Do I really want to know why you borrowed _The Art of War_?"

"Can't I read it for the sake of reading it?" Pierre countered. "Besides, you didn't have a reason to read it, either."

"Yes, I did-it's called I had no friends, and Erik had a library to die for." I finished scrubbing and surveyed my results. My daughter's crying was lessening, too.

"Pierre, find Erik and tell him that our daughter can't remain attached to me like this for the rest of her life," I sighed.

"I can fix that." It was Robert's turn to enter.

"Finally! What took you so long; your niece couldn't wait." I held her up so he could see.

His face paled when his eyes rested on her face, and I knew Erik's nightmare was about to become mine.


	3. Hideous (Erik)

(A/N: Okeydokey, here's chapter 3! To answer newbornphanatic's question, this is supposed to be the musical Erik-I find it a little easier to write from the musical than the book. And as an aside, yes, their daughter's name is a not-so-subtle nod to _Les Miserables_, specifically that so many actors from one wind up in the other. If this were _Doctor Who_, it would probably result in some seepage between the universes.)

* * *

I hunched over the desk in my study, the tears flowing wildly down my pitted face. I knew Angelique was waiting for me, but I couldn't face her. I might never be able to face her again.

She had given me everything-_everything_! She had given me the most normal of lives; she even made me _feel_ normal! And what did I do? I gave her a freak of a child.

Oh, I knew she wouldn't complain. She would make protestations of how dearly she loved this new daughter, how it didn't matter what her face looked like, how just because she looked like me did not mean she would suffer the same things I did. But it didn't change that I had failed her…and that I had ruined our daughter's life before she was even born.

"Go away!" I snapped to whomever knocked on the door.

"No." The voice possessed the same stubborn qualities as Angelique's, but it was masculine in tone-Pierre. "At the very least, let me return your book."

I sighed in resignation-there was no point in arguing Pierre away; he couldn't be swayed once he had set his mind to something-and replaced my mask and wig, which I would normally wear until retiring for the evening. No one in Angelique's family had ever seen my real face; not even my children knew what I really looked like. It galled her that I refused to show Gaston and Marguerite my face, but I wanted them to have normal lives as well, and that meant having a normal father.

But for this new daughter-Angelique and I had decided on Eponine, but I wouldn't blame my wife one bit if she chose another name-there would be no normal life. And I imagined that Pierre was about to criticize me for this.

Surprisingly, he was criticizing something entirely different. "You should be with Angie. This isn't easy on her, either."

"No, accepting responsibility for an infant monster is never easy," I agreed sardonically.

Pierre smacked my arm. "That's not what's tough on her, and you know it. Robert arrived shortly after I did, and…well…he's full of questions. And now Mama's arrived, and you _know_ Angie will get an earful from her."

"So why did you let her in the house?"

"She's my mother. I never would have heard the end of it."

I didn't pretend to understand as my own experience with mothers was considerably more limited. I wasn't concerned about that with Angelique and Eponine, but my wife had been through so much already that I hated to have caused another burden for her.

Pierre's voice softened. "Go to her, Erik. You're the best thing that ever happened to her-apart from me, that is. But…well…you understand her better than I ever will. And this is one of those times when a woman needs her husband, not her brother."

"But I've ruined everything for her," I whispered.

"But that doesn't mean she's stopped loving you."

"So you're saying I have ruined everything for her?" I flared.

"No, but you seem convinced you have, and I don't have the same capacity for arguing with you that Angie does. I'll let her persuade you otherwise." Pierre placed his hand on my shoulder and pushed me out the door. "Now go. I'll put the book back where I found it, I promise."

"Just don't mess up my system," I warned him menacingly.

Part of me wanted to stay to ensure Pierre did not cause damage, inadvertent or otherwise, to my library, but the rest of me knew he was right-I had to face Angelique, no matter how painful it would be.

As I returned to our bedroom, I could hear my mother-in-law's raised voice although I couldn't make out anything she was saying. Just from her tone, though, I could tell she was blaming Angelique for this.

I had no great love for that woman after learning how poorly she thought of her daughter, so I had no patience for her now. "I know you wish to see your daughter and granddaughter, Madame," I interrupted, "but Angelique should be resting now."

"Oh, certainly," Madame Descartes acquiesced. "I was about to leave anyway." She bent down to kiss Angelique's head…but I noticed she ignored Eponine. On her way out the door, she paused and whispered in my ear, "Don't be too hard on Angelique. She can't help being the way she is."

"I assure you, Madame, that I in no way hold Angelique responsible for this," I answered frostily. My mother-in-law was of the opinion that I was a much better husband than Angelique deserved-if only she knew that Angelique was a much better wife than I deserved.

"Thank you for handling that," Angelique spoke drowsily, shifting the bundle in her arms.

"She's your mother; she should be offering you support, not blaming you for your daughter's looks," I mused angrily.

"Yes, well…" Angelique shrugged and changed the subject. "I hope you don't mind, but Robert is staying for the next couple of days. He wants to be close by in case Eponine develops any complications."

So she did stick with our original name. "Did he find any now?"

"No, he said she's healthy, but he wants to keep an eye on her because she was born so soon. He also suggested that Gaston and Marguerite should stay with Regina until we know Eponine is stable." She flicked her bangs out of her eyes and gave a weary yet joyous smile. "Come see her, Erik."

"I-no." How could I explain to Angelique that the last thing I wanted to see was my twisted visage on the face of an innocent child? Upon seeing her hurt expression, however, I knew I would have to make an effort. So I took our daughter in my arms and studied her more closely.

Eponine was small, much smaller than either Gaston or Marguerite had been when they were born. Every mark, every crevice on her face was identical to what plagued mine. She even had the same yellow eyes that I had, which would have been striking had they been on a normal face.

_She's hideous_.

I must have spoken my thought aloud without realizing it, for the next thing I realized was Angelique standing by my elbow. "Are you saying you don't love her?" Her voice was sonorous and full of melancholy-I hadn't known it meant so much to her.

I hated what came out of my mouth next, and I knew she hated it, too-but I had never lied to her before, so she was going to hear the truth of my thoughts whether she liked it or not. "How can I love her, Angie? I look at her, and all I see is what I hate most about myself. Besides, how could she love me? When she's older, she's bound to find out that her father did this to her before she was even born? Haven't I ruined her life enough?"

The sorrow in Angelique's eyes made me regret every word I uttered. Her lower lip quivered as she tried not to cry, and she stood up on her toes to kiss my cheek. "Love her for my sake, Erik. At least try."

I would do anything in the world for Angelique, but I wondered if this was beyond even my limits of endurance.


	4. Rumors Fly (Angelique)

(A/N: To answer Eponine Sparrow's question, I chose the name Eponine because I think it's a neat name, but you don't see it very often outside of _Les Miserables_.

Updates might get a little sluggish after awhile-the characters seem to want to go on strike, and standard methods of persuasion aren't working. I've even threatened to unleash some really stupid _Star Trek_ stories onto the interwebs if they don't cooperate, but they don't want to accept the resulting havoc on readers' sanities as being their fault-well, Erik won't accept it, and the others tend to follow his lead, so until he decides to cooperate, I'm stuck.)

* * *

It was the worst day of my life when Erik asked how he could love a child who looked like he did. He had doubted my ability to love a child who had inherited his face back when we were first married, but I had convinced him I could. Never once had I thought that _he_ would be incapable of it.

As least Gaston and Marguerite accepted Eponine. Much to my surprise, they didn't ask about her face-Marguerite gushed in her four-year-old way about how pretty Eponine's eyes were while Gaston grumbled about having another sister. They accepted Eponine without question-she was family; what questions were there to ask?

I pointed this out to Erik in the hopes of drawing him out of his shell.

"But people will ask questions when they're older," he foretold ominously, "and they'll come to resent her for putting our family under a microscope."

Erik, needless to say, was still having trouble accepting Eponine. He didn't treat her any differently than he had treated her siblings when they were born, singing lullabies and the like, but there was always a certain aloofness about him when he was around her. Whenever I tried to confront him about it, he always managed to change the subject in such a way that I wasn't able to stop him.

The sheer frustration it all made me want to stamp my foot and scream at him. It was as if I was his student again-the stubborn, strong-willed protégé of the Phantom of the Opera who refused to back down from his unreasonable demands.

But soon enough I had to forget my anger with Erik and seek his help. Eponine's face attracted attention as I had known it would-but it was also starting rumors.

"People at the Opera Populaire are starting to talk," I began hesitantly one afternoon. It was three months after Eponine's birth, and I had agreed to sing at the opera house that had once been the center of our lives. I did this every so often at Erik's insistence-"I did not spend all that time perfecting your voice for you to abandon the stage!"-but things were slowly starting to change.

"They always talk about something. What is your point?" Erik remained seated at his organ, keeping his back to me.

I approached him cautiously and placed my hand on his shoulder, to reassure myself and to ensure he stayed calm. The words were choking me, but nothing would be solved if I said nothing-if anything, they might get worse. "You know I've taken Eponine with me a few times-where is she, by the way?"

"With Gaston and Marguerite-Gaston's helping Marguerite with her reading and claimed Eponine would benefit as well." He brought his hand up to mine. It was just as cold and skeletal as when we first met, and somehow that one unchanged fact comforted me. "What is the matter, Angelique?"

Much to my dismay, tears began to trickle down my face. "There are rumors, Erik-they're confined to the opera for now, but I'm sure it won't be long before they're all over Paris, and I know it's my fault, and"-

"Angelique." Erik finally rose from the bench and grasped me by the shoulders, willing me to calm down. "What are the rumors?"

I swallowed my tears as best I could. "They say that Eponine is hideous and that only one man could be her father…but not a man, a monster, their monster…oh, Erik, they're saying she's the daughter of the Phantom of the Opera! And now they fear me because they think I've borne the Opera Ghost's child, and it's my fault! I shouldn't have taken her there, but I've been trying to get people used to her face, and I never thought they'd think of you when they saw her because they all think you're dead, and"-

I was crying more fiercely now and was starting to hiccup. Erik crushed me against him and shushed me, and slowly I calmed down.

"It's never your fault, Angelique," he murmured. "Oh, my love, it's never your fault."

"But what will we do if they learn you're still alive?" I sniffed miserably.

He remained silent, and I wasn't sure how to take that response. And for the moment, I didn't care; all I could think about was how Erik's secret was so close to being discovered…and it was all because of me.


	5. The Confrontation, Phantom-Style: 1 (A)

(A/N: This chapter features the return of Christine and Raoul-and, as expected, things don't go as well as they might.

As an aside, the story so far spans about 22 pages in Microsoft Word. The completed "Angel of Second Chances" is 39 pages. So by the time this is over, I'll probably be beating the previous length by a considerable margin.)

* * *

The talk around the Opera Populaire was bad enough, but things were destined to get even worse. And, once again, I blamed myself. After that fateful casting of _Faust_**, **Christine de Chagny had become a friend-against my better judgement, a good friend. I was always afraid she would discover my husband was her old mentor, but somehow I managed to keep it hidden. When people began to whisper that the Opera Ghost was not dead, that he was the father of my daughter, I honestly expected Christine would confront me about it-truth be told, I expected a confrontation as soon as Eponine was born. But Christine had been mourning a baby lost in miscarriage, so perhaps Eponine's face hadn't been a big issue for her.

I was naïve to believe she would be oblivious forever.

"And they all lived happily ever after," I concluded, closing the book I had been reading the children.

"They always live happily ever after," Gaston remarked with some disappointment. He shifted Eponine in his arms.

"Well, they can't live unhappily ever after," Marguerite argued. "It wouldn't be a good story if they were unhappy."

"Papa says some of the best stories have sad endings," Gaston countered.

Marguerite grimaced. "What does _he_ know? He's not a girl. Girls are smarter than boys, right, Mama?"

I thought about Erik's melodramatic moods and the times I'd had to deflate his ego and snap him out of stupidity. "I'd say about 90% of the time," I agreed. "Now get to bed, you two. And no groaning about it."

My admonition didn't stop Gaston from grumbling as he handed Eponine over to me and stalked back to his room. He detested being told to go to bed.

After tucking Marguerite into bed and placing Eponine in her crib, I headed for Gaston's room to make sure he was actually in bed and asleep (or at least pretending to be so). The sound of voices emanating from downstairs attracted my attention, though-it was awfully late for visitors, and we didn't have many visitors anyway, mainly Pierre or the daroga…and sometimes Christine and Raoul, of all people, would come over and bring their two children…Christine and Raoul…_no_!

I almost broke my neck in my haste to get downstairs-although if I had broken my neck, it would have been an ideal distraction. Once I was at the bottom of the stairs, I paused to peer around the corner to see what was happening. True to my suspicions, our visitors were Christine and Raoul…and I never felt sicker in my life than I did at that moment, especially once I saw that Raoul had Erik's mask clenched in his fist. Erik had his hand up to the right side of his face and was turned away slightly.

_Stay calm. Stay calm. Breathe, remember to breathe_, I kept telling myself. What I really wanted to do was hyperventilate from the sheer panic, but I knew that wouldn't accomplish anything. What I did instead was straighten my posture, smooth my dress, and glide into the room as if nothing was wrong.

"Christine. Raoul. Is something wrong?" There was a pleasant smile on my face as I began, but the barest hint of hesitancy crept in at the end. Acting oblivious was the only thing that could possibly salvage this situation. And fortunately for Erik, I have always been a consummate actress.

Their reaction was not what I expected. Christine darted over to where I was standing, grabbed me by the arm, and dragged me back over to Raoul, who stood in front of us protectively.

"What the-what are you doing!?" I yelped as Christine dragged me from where I stood.

"You don't have to worry, Angelique; he can't hurt you," Raoul assured me. I probably would have felt better if I had known why I was being assured. "Can you, monster? It was bad enough what you did to Christine, but to entrap a sweet girl like Angelique…"

Erik remained turned away. He was probably trying not to cry.

I sighed loudly. "Raoul, please refrain from shouting and hurling insults at my husband. I don't like it, and it makes me want to hit you. And let go of my arm, Christine," I added, finally freeing myself. I never knew she had such a strong grip. "Now would _someone_ please tell me what in the world is going on!?"

"I'll tell you what's going on, Angelique," Raoul returned through gritted teeth. "Your husband has been lying to you all of these years, tricking you into believing he is someone he's not."

"Eponine's face should have warned me," Christine spoke quietly. "But I didn't make the connection right away. Angelique, I'm so sorry; I should have recognized it; I should have warned you."

I took a deep breath to calm myself. Otherwise, I probably would have said things I would later regret. Once I was calm, I walked over to where Erik stood but faced Christine and Raoul. I placed my hand on his should just to let him know I was there; I hope he would take comfort in my presence. "Erik has not lied to me. He has never lied to me. I know he was the Phantom of the Opera-your old tutor, Christine. And I have seen his real face." Gently I lowered his hand and brought his head up so I could look him in the eyes. Instantly I saw such pain, such sorrow-I wanted to take it all away.

But we had to resolve this situation first. It was probably wrong of me, but I took great delight in the shocked looks on Christine and Raoul's faces.

Raoul was the first to get his vocal chords working again. "You _knew_!?"

"Yes."

"For how long?" Christine's voice managed to return as well.

"From day one."

They continued to look shocked. I decided to press my advantage.

"Look, it's late, and I think we would all discuss this more rationally when we're more awake. Why don't we postpone any awkward conversations for later? We'll let you decide the date." I smiled as pleasantly as possible; all they managed to do was nod numbly and stumble in the direction of the door. Before they left, though, I grabbed the mask back from Raoul.

I sighed and stumbled backwards, bumping into Erik. He wrapped his arms around my waist and sank his face into my hair.

"Thank you," he murmured.

"Don't thank me yet," I cautioned, turning to face him. "We'll have to face them later, and I can't think of a day I've dreaded more."

"We can always move to the lake permanently," Erik suggested. I wasn't sure if he was joking or serious.

"Tempting," I admitted, "but you know we couldn't do that to the children." It was something Erik and I had half-joked about in the early days of our marriage, that we would eschew society and live under the Opera House. Although I managed to persuade him otherwise, our cellar had a passage that connected to the lair, and we would still visit sometimes. It was the route I normally took to get to rehearsals, and it was where I led Erik now so he could tend to a few small cuts on his face with a low likelihood that one of the children would wake up and see him.

"Raoul didn't hit you, did he?" I checked as I brought him a bowl of warm water.

"No-he was just a little rough when he tore off the mask," Erik answered.

"My actions led to this," I sighed as I helped him clean his face. "I am so very sorry, Erik."

It was Erik's turn to sigh. He reached for my hands and looked at me solemnly. "None of this was your fault, Angie. If anything, I brought this on myself."

I furrowed my brow. "How? I'm the one who wound up becoming friends with the woman you almost forced to marry you."

"Yes, but it's my fault that Eponine looks the way she does, and it was her face that started this," Erik countered calmly.

My husband may have been calm, but his self-deprecation about our daughter irked me to no end. "Would you stop that already? I don't blame you for anything; why can't you accept that!?"

"Because you deserve better!" he shouted back. Softening his voice, he continued, "You do. You have made me want to be a better person, Angelique, and I have tried…for you I have tried so very hard."

"Not just 'tried', Erik. You've done so much more than try…unless you've been killing people and not telling me." After receiving an injured look, I answered, "Just checking. But please just tell me what is wrong." I placed my hands against his face. "Please, my love. You know that nothing you say can possibly make me stop loving you."

His hands came up to mine-after all this time, he still couldn't quite absorb that I could touch his face without fear. "Why, Angelique?" he whispered, gazing down. "Why do you love me? How can you love me after the life I've lived? I was never worthy to be your husband, but that hasn't stopped me from trying. And now, right when I thought I had finally escaped my past…my daughter is born with my face." His eyes finally came up to mine. "I have tried to forget everything that came before-but Eponine makes me remember."

"It doesn't have to be like that," I told him gently. "Did you ever stop to think that your past is what eventually brought us together-that if it weren't for you, I would be so alone and unloved right now?" I rested my head against his shoulder. "Your face is a mark of your genius, Erik. Sometimes-sometimes I think that _I'm_ the one not worthy of _you_."

My words seemed to finally convince Erik that he was not a monster, that Eponine's life was not ruined because of him, and that I really, truly loved him. I was glad, for I knew that Erik was going to need confidence in my love if his sanity was to survive having to face his old love and his rival.


End file.

Phantom of the Opera, Drama, Family