(A/N: This isn't a sequel to "The Angel of Second Chances"; I just missed writing for Erik and Angelique and turned out this little oneshot. It is set during "The Angel of Second Chances", so if you haven't read that, this might not make much sense.
And hopefully this got my writing juices flowing again to where I can write that sequel-I make no promises, though!)
Angelique would be an ideal student if she weren't…Angelique. That sounds paradoxical, but it's the only way to describe her. She is stubborn and full of questions, but that voice of hers is so full of potential that I can't abandon it. I never leave a project half-done.
Still, I don't know why she has to talk so much—or why she has to ask questions especially while I'm trying to compose.
"Why do I have to call you O.G. all the time?" is her latest query.
I don't look up from my music. "It's short for Opera Ghost—which I am, in case you've forgotten."
"Never," Angelique assures me. "I guess I just want to know what your real name is."
"Monsters don't have real names," I tell her with a sigh. Hopefully she'll recognize the sigh as a hint that the conversation is over.
"Monsters don't have real names," she echoes mockingly. "You know, sometimes I think you just enjoy feeling sorry for yourself." She situates herself next to me on the organ bench. "Seriously, though, you must have a name."
I turn to look at her, not liking how close that sallow face is to mine. "Even so, I have no reason to tell you what it is. And get off the bench; you're not allowed to sit next to me."
Angelique folds her arms and doesn't move. "Why do you do this to yourself? Why do you push everyone away? Why are you pushing me away; I haven't done anything to you."
"You slapped me that one time."
"You had it coming, and you know it." She places a cautious hand on my shoulder. "I just want to know your name. Is that so much to ask?"
"Why do you want to know?" I challenge.
"People have names," she shrugs, "and I have yet to learn yours. And maybe it will help you to realize that you're not so very different from the rest of us."
A harsh laugh escapes me. "How delusional are you, girl?"
"All right, then—you're not so very different from me."
As cynical as I want to be, I can't deny the honesty in her eyes. She's different, yes, and can understand what that means. Suddenly I find myself taking a leap of faith—I find myself trusting her with something I have tried to forget because I have had no reason to remember it.
"Erik. My name is Erik."
"Erik," she repeats. "It's a good name. It fits you somehow."
"I'm glad you think so."
She gives me a look. "You're just saying that; you don't care what I think at all."
"No, I am," I protest. "It means you'll finally drop the subject."
Angelique laughs, and to my astonishment, I feel a smile forming on my face as well. Angelique has that effect on me; I'm never sure why. But the part of my heart that is secretly glad she is my pupil has grown just a little bit larger.