Summery- What makes a monster and what makes a man? And who, if anyone, has the right to make the judgment? ((Sorry I know it's a crappy summery but I swear the story's good! rated pg13 for multiple reasons, PLEASE R&R!))

Disclaimer- The Phantom of the Opera belongs to ALW, Leroux, and…well some other ppl too I guess but unfortunately I am not one of them! As far as I know…hmm shakes herself out of it oh…yeah, well…carry on…

A.N. Ahah cookie! steals and eats YUM! Thank you so much for the reviews; they are honestly my favorite part of posting my junk on And thank you for your suggestions; they're always welcomed and appreciated, on that note Juliana I usually prefer to keep my writing to myself until posted but just for you I've brought two very dear friends of mine aboard the good ship Woodie (no wise cracks please tarts!) and they're going to edit this story from now on (shout out to Tears and Squish!). Remember I did call myself on wordiness you guys I know it's one of my flaws lol; anyway you should have seen my grammar/spelling last year. It was atrocious! I'll try to break up my paragraphs more in this one…funny someone who reviewed a different one of my stories said that my paragraphs were too short shrugs Oh and as for the pronunciation thing…that's the way I was saying it…but I wasn't sure how to explain it lol, ty very much again to everyone hugs

-Woodie

Of Monsters and Men

By: Woodstock

For Lulu, Squishy, Shibby, Tears, S.B. Lass, Dawn, oh geez it's for all the tarts!

My tartie little darlins… I adore you!

2

Flaws

"Pitiful creature of darkness, what kind of life have you known?" Christine moved toward him slowly, almost as if she were floating rather than walking, her words piercing him to his very core. Every word, every second and every step she drew closer, his heart seemed to race and stop at the same time, "God give me courage to show you, you are not alone…!" All at once she was so close to him; he could feel the heat of her body, smell her sweet fragrant scent. He could do nothing but stare at her, waiting, for what he didn't know but he felt as though he had been waiting an eternity. Of all the things he'd imagined her doing, what she did was the last thing he expected; what he most longed for, and exactly what was needed… she kissed him.

Gently at first, a chaste kiss and he was so surprised he didn't readily comply, he felt himself soften too and time seemed to stand still; passion and a feeling he couldn't place ran through him stronger than he'd ever felt any emotion before. She pulled away slightly, locked her eyes with his and then kissed him again, deeply, reflecting his passion with hers, her hand gently resting on his cheek. It was a lover's kiss, the kiss he had always known they would share and then… then he knew what he must do…He broke away from her abruptly and she could only stare, tears coursing down both their cheeks…Joy, that was it the unrecognized sensation. But such emotions were not meant for blackened souls like his, no. He would let her go, she and the boy. He had to…he loved her.

Erik awoke abruptly to such pain that he cried out in pure agony, his head throbbed as though someone were pounding against it with a smith's hammer, his whole body ached, nothing made sense. He tried to open his eyes and found he couldn't; he tried to move and a pain shot through him so intense he cried out again; he tried to speak but nothing escaped from between his dry lips excepta groan. "My god…" he thought desperately. Perhaps he was dead. Yes, that was it. They had killed him and this…this was hell. God knows he deserved it.

Ange awoke with a start; something had woken her. Just what it was, she wasn't sure but she was certain it had been something. It must have been late morning judging by the sunlight streaming through the window. Why had she slept in so late? And why had she fallen asleep in an extremely uncomfortable chair in the spare bedroom? When she saw the man in the bed, it all came flooding back to her with horrifying clarity. The Opera, the fire…she had found this man, brought him back here, nursed him, and… He was awake! She bolted from the chair and moved to the side of the bed, sitting down on the edge of it, "morning," she said quietly, unsure, "um…how are you feeling?"

Erik heard the voice, soft, not melodious like Christine's, but feminine…and just now it was the voice of an angel, he forced his eyes open.

The man's eyes fluttered open and he gazed up at her with a look of such pleading and pain that her chest ached, "that good, huh?" She lifted the bottle of brandy once again to his lips, he started to take a sip but shook his head slightly. "No?" she questioned.

"Water," he said with great effort. God, for an angel she certainly was daft! "Water you fool! Not brandy! Water!" he screamed at her in his head, the ability to speak had once more escaped him.

She rose from the bed, left the room, and returned a moment later with a glass of water, she lifted it to his lips, he drank it thirstily and when it was gone, he looked as though he wished for more. "You must be hungry." she said aloud, although it was more to herself than to him. "Are you hungry?"

Erik was about to nod but stopped, evidentally this wasn't hell. Yet, if this was heaven why was he in so much pain? No, no, this wasn't heaven, and perhaps this girl was no angel… What if it was all a trick? What if…? But the girl was already gone to fetch him food. Erik had never had much of an appetite, at least not one befitting a man of his size and build. In the months he'd spent working on Don Juan, he didn't remember eating at all although he supposed he must have eaten something. Mme Giry had probably at one point forced some food upon him. Forthe entire weekpreceeding Don Juan's opening, he found that food didn't mix well with the nervous state of his stomach. Yet, this morning the thought of food made him ravenous. "No," he told himself sharply. He was being foolish again, allowing his emotions to control him, "don't trust her," he told himself, even as he watched the doorway, waiting for her return. "Trust no one," the only words of advice he'd ever been given in his childhood, probably the only words that hadn't been spit at him in disgust. "Trust no one…" he repeated firmly.

He wouldn't be so weak again, his years beneath the opera had been the best of his life. He had been alone, yes, and in the dark, but he had been safe, hidden away from the world that hated him so. He had been able to grow, learn… He had found his music, the thing that so invaded him, stole away his soul and changed him. It made him who he was, the artist, the architect, the voice… the genius, as Mme Giry called him.

Yet no matter what he learned, what he did, no matter how he changed, he was still the monster he had always been. And the world still despised him, shut him out; they wouldn't listen. He had thought Christine—but no, the angel's voice that had come to him, seeming to understand, to care, had been false. He thought she heard him, his music, he had seen in her a kindred spirit and he'd thought she'd seen the same in him. Yet, his voice had fallen on the deafest of all, she had seen nothing in him but a monster, she was as blind as the rest of them. The world only wanted to betray him, just as they always had and he would not let them, not again.

Ange was at a loss, "why me?" she cried aloud, "why do things always happen to me?" Why couldn't someone else have found the man in the alley? Why did she have to be responsible for everything? "You stupid twit, you brought this up yourself!" she scolded as she raided the cupboards for something that seemed right to feed to a sick wounded man, "you could have just left him, or informed the authorities, but no, you had to take it upon yourself to bring him home!" Ange had never been one for strays; she simply didn't have time to waste tending to others affairs! She had much more important things to worry about, and now just look at her, a walking contradiction!

She set a slice of buttered bread on a plate along with a bit of cheese and stared at it, her nose wrinkling. Even a street rat, which he surely was, probably was accustomed to more than this. "Well," she thought picking up the plate and heading back to the room, "this isn't a bed and breakfast. Beggars can't be choosers." The thought never occurred to her that he'd never actually asked for any of this.

Erik watched the girl re-enter carrying a miniscule amount of food on a plate. He merely glared at her. Maybe she would get the idea and leave him alone. The last thing he truly wanted was to be alone, but neither did he want the company of one of them. She was one of them, he could tell, even though her hair was disheveled and her clothes were wrinkled and covered in mud. She walked with her nose tilted ever so slightly up and there was that cold superior look in her brilliant blue eyes. Yes, she certainly was the kind to shun him with swift unbridled prejudice.

Ange crossed the room, trying to ignore the look, almost a look of disgust, in his eyes that so unnerved her. Sitting down on the edge of the bed, she placed the plate on the bedside table, "can you…sit up?" she questioned, her voice shaky, betraying her. The look on his face changed from dislike to ridicule. Sit up? Was she completely dimwitted?

"Of course he can't sit up you dolt." She thought, clearing her throat nervously, "no, I suppose not well, I'll help you…" she moved to do so but he didn't seem particularly keen on the idea. "Come on don't be foolish you have to sit up, you can't eat lying down."

Erik glared at her, who did this insolent little tart think she was? Apparently someone infinitely important in her own little world, well, he was far too used to being the one in command to let this little nymphet treat him this way…

It was at this very moment that realization struck our young hero; he was struggling to sit up, intending to leave this place and leave this retched girl in peace when he found he couldn't. Helpless, the word hit him like a bucket of ice water in the face, he was completely helpless. It was like being in that damned cage all over again only this time there were no bars holding him in, but his own body. He was a soul trapped within the limitations of his broken physical state! This feeling he hated above all else, he could bare pain, hate, even loneliness, but helplessness? No! He had sworn the day he'd escaped that he'd never be vulnerable to the whims of man again and now…

"Mousier?" He blinked and looked at the girl, "Mousier, are you alright?"

"No, you dunce I'm not alright, do I look alright?" he thought exasperatedly.

She seemed to read his thoughts for her face became suddenly stern, "Don't look at me like that...come now just--" He struggled, but putting weight on his right arm sent a shot of pain like fire through his shoulder and down his arm until his very fingertips ached. "Stop, you're going to hurt yourself, don't be a fool, let me help you." He sighed heavily, resigning to the fact that whatever he might wish at this moment, it was physically impossible for him to sit up on his own. He consented at last and she put an arm behind his back, lifting him until he was at last in an upright position, leaning against the headboard.

It was over breakfast that Erik begun to feel the weight of curiosity begining to overpower his will to have as little to do with this girl as possible, "Where am I?" was his first question as he took the bread from her hand, insisting on feeding himself.

Ange, expecting the inevitable interrogation answered, "My home."

"Who are you?" He said rather sharply, for someone who hadn't been able to speak moments before he had found not only his voice butthe bite in his barkwith remarkable speed.

"Ange Marriott." She replied, waiting to see if her name meant anything to him. It did not, he must not be a performer then, everyone in the Opera Populaire knew her name.

"How is it that I came to be here?" None of it made sense, the last thing he remembered…it was all a bit hazy but he certainly didn't remember coming this place or meeting this girl.

"I brought you."

"You?" he ran his eyes over her, making her uncomfortable, there was something about those eyes that seemed to see right through her, his voice was disbelieving.

"Well I had help of course, Christine—"

He gave a start, "Christine?" What about Christine!

Ange raised a brow, "Yes, Christine Daae you know her?"

Erik's blood ran cold, "fool," he thought, "do you have a death wish?" he seemed to stare hard at the girl although it wasn't her he was seeing. "Yes," he told himself, but he didn't. If he were to be truly honest, no matter how bad he hurt, from his shattered heart to throbbing head more than anything he wanted to live, live freely, or as close to free as he could, and if this girl hadn't recognized him immediately then… "I…I know of her." He said quickly.

"So…then you must have worked at the Opera?"

"Something like that, yes." He didn't like the way this conversation was heading, she was getting to personal, to close to the truth…. "Why have you brought me here?" he asked, turning the questions back to her. How could it be that this girl didn't know him? It had to be a trick. What person who knew Christine didn't know of her damned angel of music or the phantom?

Ange blinked as if she hadn't heard him correctly, why? She was still trying to figure that out herself…"I…you were wounded and so I…" she rose quickly, scooping up his pile of dirty laundry, "I have many things to do and I haven't time to waste on the likes of you, as for why I brought you here… You were, you are, severely wounded. What respectable person, finding someone in the state you were in when I found you wouldn't do the same?" With this, she turned sharply on her heal and left Erik in a slight state of shock and bewilderment. Who on earth was this girl!

Ange flew from the room as though the devil was at her heels. No man, ever, had this effect on her. She'd met royalty, been courted by handsome wealthy nobleman, conversed with some of the greatest artists of the day and she hadn't so much as blinked. Yet this man, this nobody, this mere nothing, hardly what you could even call human laying helpless in a bed, made her positively quiver! How could this be?

Christine Daae stared at her reflection in the mirror. She stood poised before it as if waiting, and indeed she was.The foolish girl in her clinging to the idea that her angel…phantom…whoever he was, would be with her no matter where she went; that he would follow her into the very bowls of hell if need be. Surly then he would be with her even here, in the De Chagny manor outside Paris. She shook herself mentally, "let it go Christine."

He was not an angel, not a phantom, not supernatural but natural-- no perhaps natural wasn't the word… In any case he was mortal, with a mortal's limitations and she knew exactly where he was, he was with Ange in her townhouse, in the bed they had laid him in the night before.

Christine's mind wandered, over thoughts of the past and the choices she'd made, not only of Erik, although her heart ached to know how he was, "please God, let him be alright…he must be alright." She thought of her earlier life and the choices she had made. Had she been wrong? Becoming a dancer at the Opera had given her everything she'd ever dreamed of: fame, fortune, love like in fairytales… Yet, somehow those things weren't what they were cracked up to be.

She heard his voice in her head even now, even here, remembering when she was much younger and she had first heard the voice of her angel. He was suddenly with her, his voice, ethereal, beautiful, sang in her head once again. Her mind raced with memories that seemed to have been so long ago…The first time she'd heard his voice, the first time he'd sang for her, the first time she'd sang for him… she remembered the flaws in her underdeveloped voice, it almost made her smile. The voice, (for at the timehe was that and nothing more) had been so patient with her, surprising because patience didn't seem to be part of Erik's nature in later years. "Erik…" She whispered, a cry catching in her throat.

She shook herself mentally, would it always be like this! Would he always haunt her mind?Here she was in one of the finest houses in Paris with one of the most sought after young men in France downstairs waiting for her. It was a world of light and life, free from Erik's darkness and eternal solitude, yet her mind was still caged, firm and unshaken in the hands of her Phantom… why could he not just let her go! "Yes, Christine blame him," she berated herself, "as he lays helplessly in a bed probably near death… blame him!" She was shouting now, screaming at her reflection in the mirror, "who is the one who can't let go now!" She let her head drop into her hands, sinking to the floor, tears flowing freely. "How could you blame him when you are just as guilty? When your hands are just as bloody?" a voice said in her head. Not Erik's, not hers, but a voice that had been there all along, drowned out by music and fantasy, reason, conscience perhaps? She wasn't sure, but it was as clear to her as though it had spoken aloud. "How can you?"

A light tap on her door sent the voice away and brought Christine back to reality, "Christine?" The longing to fling herself into her lover's arms overpowered the shame of her tears. The door opened slightly and Raoul's blonde head appeared through the crack, "Christine?" The site of her on the floor sent propriety from his mind and he raced to her side, enveloping her in his arms, "It's alright Christine, he's gone, he can't harm you, no one can harm you…" He whispered comfortingly.

She pulled away quite suddenly, staring at him as though he'd cursed at her, "Oh god…" she thought, "How could he—. " Didn't he understand? Hadn't he seen…? When trying to describe the phantom, the words manic, grim and yes, even violent sprang to mind, but when describing Erik, Christine would call him unfortunate, lonely and… there had been moments when he had looked at her, like a beaten dog, so hungry for one friendly word or kind glance, and moments when she knew he would do anything, anything, to please her.

Yet she looked into the eyes of her fiancée, his beautiful warm blue eyes and she didn't care. She ran her hand along his flawless cheek and kissed him. He was perfect. No darkness, not a drop of sinister or grim in his entire being… "Christine, I love you," he whispered against her lips. Christine forgot to reply.

A.N.- Well there's chappie two! Sorry it took so long I got sidetracked! Isn't my editor teriff? Everyone give a round of applause for Squishybeer! claps and cheers loudly. Sorry if the R/C stuff made you a bit sick breaks into song "…you will understand in time!" trust me! smacks forehead oy that's in Poto too… "Touch me…trust me…" HEY HANDS OFF! There will be absolutely no touching of the Woodstock! cough um anyway… go, go review! NOW! Please? I'll…let you throw large objects at Raoul? Doesn't that sound fun! Tries to heave a large cinder block in the marvelous-magic-pansy's direction… teeheehee.