Author's Note: Thanks to Soignante, Lady Winifred, Dragonsdaughter1, Lothiel, KyrieofAccender, mikabronxgirl, terber, jtbwriter and Busanda for their latest reviews.

Well, here's the second half of the double update as promised. I was hoping to make it a bit longer, but the direction I was taking it just isn't going to work any time soon, and I'm tired. However, to make up for the recent lengths of chapters (or lack thereof), I have done some editing you may be interested in. In response to a number of comments, I have rewritten Chapters 46-49, and no longer lean on the ALW dialogue. So if you sent one of those comments, or you're interested, they've now been updated, having been just about approved by my wonderful Beta (who hopefully won't be too cross that I posted without warning). No major plot changes, just (hopefully) better writing. Thanks again, and enjoy! Nedjmet.

Disclaimer: The characters and plotline of the Phantom of the Opera on which this story is based are – to the best of my knowledge – the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. Nor do I own any of the songs or music used or referred to within this story. No infringement of copyright is intended nor is this story written for profit as I have the greatest respect for their work.

Chapter 58

He awoke to the strangest sensations.

First, he was lying on something so soft and smooth; it could only be the swan bed. But he never – or at least very rarely – slept there. Having been 'brought up' in the harshest of circumstances, sleeping on a soft bed was not something he was accustomed to. Even when he had found the means to have a proper bed, he had never been able to get any real rest, and so didn't often sleep there. It was more a sign of his wealth and better circumstances that he enjoyed its presence, rather than for its use. That, and the rare times he actually needed sleep, he would usually find himself waking up at the organ or in his workroom.

Secondly, something was lying on him so soft and smooth, it could only be . . . Slowly, he opened his eyes and saw a mass of golden hair spread out across his chest, the locks on his skin where his shirt had fallen open slightly were finer than the silk sheets. He looked further down and saw the shapely, petite body he held. And he saw the badly scarred arm.

He couldn't believe it. Was there anything his rose had not been through? That she felt the loss of her beloved father keenly was evident enough. To lose him in such a way, and be forced to face a reminder of it each time the sun set, or a flame was ignited: it more than explained the sorrow that she had worn in that first couple of months of silence. Where had she acquired the grace she had borne it with though? There was much of it he could understand, having experienced it for . . .

Why had she done it? She had lived through horrors not unlike those that littered his own wretched existence. Why had she removed his mask, his protection from the world's degradation and scorn? Was it to mock him in return for being lied to, for being manipulated by him? Or like most, was it simply to satisfy her own curiosity?

Surely it could not be the case. If she sought to hurt him, why did she seek him for comfort? Because her father was gone, and he was her father's promised 'angel'. He was a teacher, a comforter, a guardian. Nothing more.

As she stirred, he froze. There were worse fates than being solely her mentor. He had lived enough of them to know that. Just as long as he was not denied for another, perhaps he might be able to bear it. And so long as she did not wake to think he had taken advantage of her. There had been too many occasions already where he had risked losing her. He racked his brain to think of something to say that would calm her as she slowly lifted her head and turned it to him, her face filled with confusion.

She was having the most wonderful dream.

Her angel could see her scars, and she still felt beautiful. There were flames and darkness all around, yet she felt safe and secure. Neither was reaching for her, because the arms of another were wrapped around her. She felt herself waking and frowned, not wanting such wonderful sensations to end. Shifting a little, she tried to make herself more comfortable. Her leg brushed against silk, her arm moved along something soft to the touch, yet firm underneath. And her head was resting on something warm and solid.

Opening her eyes, she saw white. Looking around a little, she saw candles, red silk, and a pair of black-clad legs.

She was lying on top of a man.

Without moving, she looked around as much as she could; she recognised the now familiar bedroom. It hadn't been as much of a dream as she thought. Then, did that mean . . .? She lifted her head and turned to find her angel staring back. It was true. The confusion lifted from her face, and raised a smile with it.

"Good morning, my Angel." A great weight seemed to have lifted, for his face lightened and he seemed to relax as he replied.

"Good morning, my dear. Although I believe 'afternoon' would be more accurate."

"What?" She asked propping herself up on her elbows a little, though she remained above him and in his hold.

"It was a long evening for you, and difficult."

"Well, closing performances are supposed to be memorable." She offered, having considered it. "How do you know it's afternoon? I don't remember seeing a clock."

"The air down here changes, depending on what time of day it is."

"Oh."

He didn't mention that she was currently resting on his pocket watch, for fear that she would move. For her sake, he ignored that her current position made her vest top more revealing than it otherwise should have been, but he did not have the strength of will to do both that and ignore the closeness she seemed intent on prolonging.

Lowering her head, she returned to her previous position, unwilling to move and end this strange new delight. Somehow, it was even better that it the heartbeat she listened to was her Angel's instead of her father's. A small frown creased her brow, unwilling to take the notion that there was someone dearer to her than her father, but unable to deny it. The frown melted into a small smile as she felt a hand shift from holding her to softly stroking her hair.

"Christine?" She raised her head, concerned by the thickness in her Angel's voice.

"Why . . . why did you . . ." His hold on her seemed to have tightened as he tried to find the words. Searching his face, she realised what it was.

"Why did I take off your mask?" She whispered. He just looked at her. Clearly she had found the right question, and he was waiting for the answer.

"'Too long have we stayed in the shadows'." She answered at length, confusing him. This showed, so she explained.

"I thought you were letting me. When you lifted your head, I thought you knew about this," she said, raising her scarred arm from where it rested beside him, "I thought it was your way of trusting me. Angel, please believe me: I never would have taken it from you otherwise.

"When they released me from the hospital, before I came to the Ravelle, the scars had healed enough that I wasn't meant to wear the bandages, but they were still angry. I know what it's like, having someone you trust take the mask away. A supposed friend of mine did it to me. She was trying to find an article for the school paper and thought I'd be a good story, even though I was mute at the time."

"Did you forgive her?" He asked quietly.

"Not while I was there. I sent her a letter a few weeks ago, saying that I had."

"It took you that long?" What had happened to his gentle rosebud, or did she have thorns after all?

"Yes. That's why I was so surprised when you said you'd forgiven me." Smiling, she continued, "You really are an angel." Gently, he pushed her aside, sitting up with his back to her.

"I am no angel, Christine. Angels do not lie, manipulate or terrify those they claim to protect."

Putting a hand on his shoulder, she turned him to face her where she now sat.

"You are my angel. My father promised me the Angel of Music, but he sent me someone better." He stared at her, dumbfounded as she held the unmasked side of his face. "You have the gift of Music that can only be heaven-sent, and you know me. You know what I have gone through, you understand me in a way no-one has other than my parents, and you still watch over me, even after I hurt you. Man or Phantom, you are my angel."

"Christine-"

"You only terrified me when I thought I was losing you."

"And yet you were repulsed by me." He said bitterly, trying to turn away once more. Not that she let him. When she was certain that she had his attention, she finished what she had begun the previous night.

"It took me the longest time to look myself in the mirror after the fire. All I saw in the reflection was what had taken my father. But eventually I realised what these scars are. They aren't the mark of the flames: they're marks of love. They're a sign of the love I have for my father because I have them, and they're a sign of the love he has for me because they aren't any worse."

Lightly she brushed the back of her hand against his mask. By the time he realised and had caught her hand, it was resting against the leather cheek.

"It wasn't terror. You reminded me of Papa, of what he promised. He sent me an Angel who understood all that I am. He sent me an Angel who wouldn't just visit, like the Angel of Music." The last part, she said with hope, and as more of a question.

"Christine," he breathed in reverence, "I will not leave you. You honour me too much for that. But I do not understand all that you are. The devotion you show to your family is something I have never known." He ended slightly bitterly, thinking once more of Katie, of all that he had said and thought of her, even though she had kept her promise after all.

"Then let me teach you." His eyes snapped back to hers.

"What can you teach your mentor, Christine?" The humour in his voice was obvious, but she was not deterred. Rising a little, she wrapped her arms around him so that her head rested on top of his.

"What it is to be treasured." He returned the embrace, unable to recall a time when he had been such a willing student.