A/N: I. Am. So. Sorry. I realized I haven't updated this in forever just today as I haven't really worked on it at all in the last couple months. It got away from me and I wasn't really motivated to do it. Star Wars came out and I wanted to do a fic for that (which I also need to work on) and then school started up again and so did all the stress that comes with that. Anyhoo, here's the next chapter that ya'll waited a month and a half for.

Chapter 5 - Une Famille qui Vous Aime

(Translation: A Family that Loves You)

"Father!" Damien shouted as he docked the boat they traditionally used to reach the outer catacombs at the shoreline of their abode. He jumped out of the gondola and propped the single time-worn oar against a post and tying to boat to the same post. It had become muscle memory over the years to tie it up. Especially after one too many incidents involving the boat drifting away down the canal-like lake and his father having to chase it down.

He was anxious to tell his father the news of the world above. The new patrons and their unwitting trickster of a daughter. Though he hadn't been able to expel her from his mind, his anger spiked when he thought of her like that. She had fouled his plan up in more ways than one. First of all, he hadn't even been able to carry it out, man of his word that he had been taught to be. And second, she now had the impression that the Opera Ghost was generally made of fluff with a hard exterior. His mouth formed into a grim line of determination. If she didn't stop thinking that, he'd have to set her straight. Possibly in the worst of ways.

"Father, I have news!" He called again into the lair, his voice reverberating off the stone walls and gothic-style furniture of the space. "Father?" He looked back and forth in the space, the older man nowhere to be found.

Blast! Where could he be? I wasn't even gone for two hours, he thought, putting his hands on his thin hips and turning about the room. Obviously, he would have to make a deeper search. He strode off into the recesses of the house, looking first in the kitchen and dining room, then moving to the cellar, and lastly his father's room.

Understanding his father's preference for privacy, he rapped on the doorframe before entering. A quiet "come in" was heard and Damien grasped the brass doorknob and turned it to open the way in. His father was sitting on the bed, mask on the red sheets next to him, and a book in his hands.

"I haven't so much as looked at this since I was your age," he said, his voice reaching Damien. The younger man marveled at how strong and young it sounded despite his age. He had been in his mid forties when he had found Damien as a child. And now, he was in his late fifties. Fifty-eight to be exact. He hadn't been shy about his age, not with Damien.

Likewise despite his age, as much as it opposed his voice, he was feeling the years wear on him. That he would never admit to his son, though Damien knew it. The man who had raised him since he was little more than a baby was slowing down. He wasn't old, no. It had nothing to do with a lack of fitness either. His father had spent decades climbing up and down stairs and fighting and running and riding. No, it had nothing to do with fitness or age.

Simply, it was his choice of home that had gotten to him. Their underground abode was dank, and without natural light, algae had infested the area, murdering one's lungs over time. Though after he had found him, his father had made sure to get Damien fresh air at least once a day, the younger man knew his father too well. Prior to finding him, he was certain that the older man had rarely, if ever, left the confines of the Opera House.

Dropping the thought, Damien answer his father. "What is it?" He inquired, his voice soft as he turned his oceanic eyes on the dusty but untouched pieces of leather bound parchment. His father smiled and Damien flickered his eyes to look at his face. A face that so closely resembled his own in its way.

His father's face was more rounded, looking slightly more squarish than Damiens. As time had passed and Damien had grown more into a man, his face had grown longer. It wasn't much thinner, not to the point of being gaunt, but he now had a jawline. According to Madame Meg, she would have found him handsome if she were 20 years younger than she was. It had taken Damien time to consider that. He had needed to ask his father what she had meant.

His father had laughed and told him that the older Madame Giry had said something similar to him in his younger years. Simply put, if their faces had not been scarred and fate had been a bit kinder, their countenances would have been desirable in society.

It was thoughts like these that had kept Damien locked away in his room for a week.

His father knew him all too well. A laugh from the other man brought him out of his split-second musings. A calloused hand landed gently in his dark hair and ruffled the already untamable black and brown strands.

"It matters not. It's simply an old memory from a time of pain. I want you to have it when you're old enough," his father said, dropping his hand back to the book and running it over the dark scrawl on a yellowed page. Damien skimmed over the page with interest, but he couldn't make out most of it.

"Besides, I have news for you," his father said in his 'I have a surprise for you' voice. Damien snapped his head up, his attention instantly diverted to his father. His blue eyes sparkled in excitement as he watched the older man's sea-green eyes light up with his own anticipation. "We're going out to the country for a week. The fresh air will likely do us both some good. I contacted Madame Giry, she says that the horses are well if you wish to better your riding skills."

Damien all but leapt off the bed in excitement. They hadn't been out to the country in years. Not since Damien was still small. He wondered why they would be going now. There had to be something more.

"Father, I have a question," he started. The older man looked up at him to show he had his attention. "We haven't been out to the country in years. Not since Madame Giry retired. Why are we going now?"

His father grinned and he knew that he had been right in his presumption that there was something more to this than just a holiday. Judging by his father's expression, though, it wasn't something bad.

"I recently heard from your godmother that there was a small estate available for purchase not far from her home. Since our salary has more than added up to the amount the owners wanted for it, I sent the money to Antoinette and had her purchase it in my name. I thought perhaps it might be a nice winter home. For when the opera is closed for the season and there's no one there to bother," he explained.

Damien felt himself, despite all his eighteen years, vibrating with excitement. Anyone from the outside who did not understand how the two emotional faces of both father and son could alternate so quickly would have marveled at how two thoroughly dangerous men, one of them a murderer, were as gentle kittens in each other's company.

Indeed, theirs was a strange family. Nevertheless, there was a deep seated love between the two. A trust that had weathered many a storm and had only grown in strength to weather many more. Damien didn't have many people in his life, but those he did he could always trust. He had been broken and hurt far too early in his life. If not for his father, he would have grown up to become a cynical and hateful creature.

But, he had been shown love. Shown kindness. Shown trust. It had taken time and each of those feelings had been tentative and shy at first, but his saving grace had been his father's faith and patience.

Not once had his father shown great anger with him, and he had always been stern yet kind when Damien had been in need of discipline. It had taken surprisingly several years to find out why. But once he saw, Damien knew.

Erik Destler understood his pain.

He cared enough to do something that would have seemed uncharacteristic of the terrifying and indomitable figure he posed. He had taken Damien into his care, made sure he was safe, taught him to protect himself.

Damien supposed this was the cause of his unflinching loyalty to the older man. He owed him his life in more ways that one.

And now, the man had committed yet another act of kindness for the boy he had come to call his son. He could barely contain his excitement at the thought of visiting the outside world in a safer environment than the streets of Paris.

"When are we leaving?" He inquired, opening and closing his fists in unspent excitement.

"Well, I just found out today that the previous owners have packed up and left, so I thought this afternoon would be quite nice," he said, raising his hand to rub his chin. "Of course, if there are matters upstairs to attend to, we could stay here for a while."

"No!" Damien all but shouted, completely forgetting about his news. He wanted to leave as soon as possible. "We can go today!" His father laughed.

"You still have much growing to do, my son," he said, ruffling the boy's hair yet again.

Damien grinned. "Well, if the man raising me didn't raise me with an enthusiastic nature, then where would we be? I may have grown up too fast then."

His father's smile never faltered. "Hurry and pack your things. I'll have a wagon commissioned by the time you're finished," he told him, giving Damien's head a gentle push in the direction of the door.

The younger man laughed and did as his father said, shaking his head to shift the soft short hair. He darted out of the room and moved one over, his own quarters.

He grabbed a suitcase his father had gotten him for their last trip out of the opera house and dropped it on the bed in the center of the room. He dodged the footboard, a large carved wooden dragon. His father had told him once that it had once been a swan, but he had reshaped it for Damien.

The teen darted from place to place in the room, his armoire, his dresser, his bathroom gathering his things and dumping them in his bag.

After about twenty minutes, he had everything together and was double-checking his things. He had shirts and pants enough for a weeks, he had his toilet trees and other small things. He frowned. His boots were missing.

He looked around, spotting the place he normally kept his shoes by the door. His dress shoes were present as well as the house shoes he never wore. That left one place he could have left them. He looked down at his feet. A flustered smile crossed his lips.

He was wearing them.

There was something else he was forgetting. He wasn't sure what though.

His train of thought was derailed when his door opened and his father appeared. "The cart is waiting upstairs. I see you're set to leave," he said, grinning somewhat. Forgetting again, Damien smiled back and resolved not to let it bother him. It would come to him later.

~oOo~

Charlotte squinted in the light as she followed her parents out of the entrance to the opera house and moved down the steps to their carriage. The driver opened the door and her father helped her mother in and then her before getting in himself. Shutting the door, the driver climbed into the seat at the front of the carriage and opened the window into the cabin.

"Anywhere else in mind, sir? Or shall I return to the estate?" He asked. Her father looked at them both and seemed to ask her mother mentally if she would like to stay before he answered the driver.

"I don't think so Henri. Let's make the trip home," he replied.

"Yes sir," the other man said before sliding the tiny window shut again and cracking the reins, telling the horses to get moving.

Having a window seat, Charlotte stared out the thin pane of glass at the city beyond. They had visited Paris perhaps twice as a family in her entire life. This was the more memorable visit. Her heart was still thundering in her chest as she quietly took deep breaths so as not to draw attention to herself. Propping her elbow up on the arm of the leather seat, she cupped her chin in her hand and continued watching the outside world pass by, now hardly more than a blur of color and figures as Henri sent the horses into a fast trot. Once outside of the city limits, he would ask for a canter. And then as they moved deeper into the country, nearer their house, where things were surprisingly well kept, he would have them gallop for a ways before slowing again…

The phantom of the opera…

Charlotte closed her eyes and went over the experience for possibly the seventh time in five minutes. It wasn't hard, not much actually transpired in the time she had walked with him. She could still feel the cool leather on her hand.

Really, it had been haunting.

But not that kind of haunting, she thought. No, it wasn't the kind of haunting that she had heard about in the fairy tales that her mother and maids had told her as a child. This was more a haunting interest. Her curiosity was piqued to the highest extent; more than it had been when she had first come across her mother's old dressing room.

She wanted to run into him again. This time, though, she wanted it to be on her own terms. She wanted to be prepared. The only problem with that was she doubted this "ghost" would allow her to summon him. He wouldn't come when she called. Judging from their conversation, he was very standoffish and quiet. A haunt, indeed.

"...Charlotte?" a voice called, snapping her out of her reverie. She whipped her head around to look at who the voice originated from. Her father. "Charlotte, did you hear what your mother said?" Charlotte shook her head, embarrassed that she hadn't been paying attention.

"The managers asked me if I would like to come perform at the opera for the fifteen year anniversary of Hannibal. They also offered you a chance to shadow myself and Madame Dupont, as well as a chance for you to sing in the chorus," her mother stated, a small smile gracing her lips. She was obviously pleased at these events, as was Charlotte who nearly stood bolt upright from her seat.

"Mama!" she cried in excitement, bouncing up and down in her seat and rocking the carriage. She steadied herself when she heard the driver call out to the horses to calm them. "Really? The managers really said I could?" It was her dream to work in the opera as a singer if she could and a dancer if she had to. "That's amazing! That's wonderful!"

It had been her dream ever since her mother had started sharing stories of her days growing up in the Opera Populaire with her Aunt Meg and Godmother Madame Giry. Her wishes had only increased when her godmother had begun to tell her her own tales of her life as a ballet dancer and choreographer.

She could hardly contain her excitement, forcing herself to refocus on the city outside the window. Suddenly, she didn't want to leave. Being a young lady not yet of age to step out from her family's care meant that she had to stay with them, though, and it also meant she was made to put on a brave front and act like she didn't mind. But she did. She wanted ever so badly to leap out of the carriage and run as fast as she could for the opera house.

No. Much as she loved Paris and the Opera, she loved her parents even more. Besides, if the managers liked her work in Opera, then she might be asked to stay and her parents would have to bid farewell to her then. Well, at least for a little while. It would be a nice break; her parents would have some time to themselves and she would have a chance to spread her wings and become a part of society on her own.

She sighed contentedly as the carriage pulled up to a stop to allow crossing traffic to have their turn. A moment later, her view of the vendors and shops adjacent to her window was obstructed by a cart. She had an easy view of the contents of the wagon; suitcases and personal items mostly, as though someone were moving. Nothing about the cart seemed at all out of the ordinary.

The drivers on the other hand, were what roused her suspicions to such a degree as they were. They were both entirely cloaked in black, dark hats on their heads with the brims shadowing their downturned faces. Both were hunched over slightly, as though being battered by an unfelt autumn wind, their broad shoulders curling inward. They looked like they would be better fit for a hearse than a moving wagon, and she couldn't help but wonder based on their cargo.

Were they thieves? The possibility wasn't unreasonable. Still, on a closer inspection, they weren't acting like thieves. From what she knew - and had at one point seen first hand - thieves were jittery. There was always some part of their body that was in motion. A finger tapping on a surface, a knee jogging up and down, any number of things really. But these two were motionless as statues; entirely undisturbed by the commotion of the city.

Then one of them shifted, lifting the reins high and cracking them down to urge the horses pulling their wagon forward. Charlotte peered beyond the window's frame watching them until her world began to move again. She looked away for a moment before turning her gaze back to where they had been only to find them gone.

She cupped her chin in her hand and stared back out the window at the passing scenery, but her mind would not absorb it. She was too busy thinking on other things.

Such as, why, in retrospect, did those figures seem at least partially familiar?

It didn't make sense. She was certain she had never met anyone of that caliber before. But the more she thought on it, the more she couldn't believe that. She had forgotten so quickly the events of the last hour. Her meeting with the phantom of the opera. The dark figure.

Well, the broad shoulders were a match.

But why would he leave the Opera Populaire? If he were a ghost, wouldn't he confine himself to the massive structure to haunt? And, if he were a ghost, why would he need a horse and cart to carry his belongings?

Charlotte knew well without the answers to those questions that he was no spectre. She may have only seen him in shadow, but she knew he was tangible. She'd felt a hand beneath that glove. She'd felt him there in the way one feels a presence once it has been located and is known.

She shook the thoughts off as her mother called for her attention again.

It was going to be a long ride.

A/N: Sorry if it doesn't flow very well. I just got back to this today (2/29/16) after leaving it here for roughly a month, so I'm going to have to go back and fix things at some point. If you have any comments on things that need fixing, just PM or review to let me know and I'll get it done when I can. I'm going back to the document to start work on the next chapter, which should be shorter unfortunately unless my brain decides to pull another twist with this chapter like it did with the one before this one and make it longer. T_T Anyway, have a nice night all of you! Hope you'll hear from me again soon.

~IMSP