Erik started whistling as flipped the eggs in the frying pan. Looking at them quizzically, he decided to add a pinch of salt, sprinkling it with a flourish before he laughed at himself for being so dramatic. After all, he thought, I am the Opera Ghost! He had finished with his eggs, plating them, and then sitting down to enjoy his breakfast when Jessica came in the room. Erik gagged on his mouthful of food.

"What?" Jessica asked, her voice gravely and rough; all the signs of having just woken up.

"You—you're—you're hair!" Erik started laughing. "You—ha ha—have the worst—ha—case of—ha ha ha—bedhead I've ever seen!" He dissolved in a fit of giggles as Jessica stuck her tongue out at him.

"It's your fault, you know," she chided. "You had me fall asleep at your piano. I woke up to see that you just threw a blanket over me! You could have carried me into bed!"

"Yes," Erik giggled, "but this way, I got my bed back." Jessica rolled her eyes, muttering something about men. She started to make herself some eggs as well, but stopped once she realized that she didn't know how to cook them.

"What's up with your stove?" she asked, looking for some way to turn it on. "It's really old. Oh, wait. Right." She had forgotten for a moment that she went "back in time". 'Either that, or I'm in a coma,' she thought. 'Probably in a coma.'

"Actually, it's the newest electric stove on the market," Erik said as he walked over to where she was and started the stove. "I've had to tap into the opera's electricity source though. What a pain! And I can't use an excess of electricity, otherwise those idiot managers will suspect something."

"Wait… we're underneath an opera house?" Jessica asked as she cracked her own eggs. Erik returned to his seat at the table.

"The Opera Populaire, the greatest opera house in all of Paris, if not all of France!" he boasted proudly. "And that's only because the resident Opera Ghost—O.G., if you will—built it himself! Well, with some help."

"Opera Ghost… No way!" Her mom's and her sister's favorite musical came to her mind. "You're the Phantom of the Opera, aren't you!" Erik nodded, pleased that—even if he was a little confused as to how—she knew. "My mom and my sister loved that musical!"

"Musical?"

"Oh, right. It was made in… I think the eighties? Nineties? I don't know. Mom loved it though. Her favorite song was something like 'Nighttime Music' or something. 'Music of the Night', I think. I don't know."

"'Music of the Night'?"

"Never mind." Jessica turned back to her eggs; she didn't know much about the musical anyways, though her sister said that the guy who played the Phantom in the movie was super hot. Somehow, Jessica didn't think Erik would appreciate her saying that.

Erik shrugged off his ward's words—that was how he had decided to think of her: his ward. She was most definitely not his daughter, but he knew that they would have to pretend to be related in order to not draw suspicion to themselves. His ward—it was rather humorous to think of her like that—sat down at the table across from him.

After several moments, Erik spoke again. "Your manners are atrocious. Take your elbows off the table." He turned back to his breakfast. Jessica took her plate and stood.

"Well, excuse me," she said. "If I'm disturbing you so much, why don't I just leave?"

"Sit back down," he commanded, thoroughly enjoying his role as master over his ward. "And sit up straight." Jessica huffed, but complied. Erik continued criticizing her. "I know you're an American, but still! That sort of behavior and manner is not tolerated here. Here, watch me." He demonstrated the table manners Giry had forced him to learn.

He could still see that day. It had been a week after she had saved him from the gypsies; he had been hiding in a room off of the opera's chapel. She was sitting crossed legged on the floor, pouring some tea into some china cups, motioning for him to sit down. The picture they made was of a nineteen-year-old sister playing picnic with her eight-year-old brother, though the little brother wore a mask he had fashioned for himself on half his face. Antoinette had had a ruler with her, and whenever Erik would not act civil she would tap him, none too gently, on the hand. If he became surly, she would merely remind him that if he wanted people to accept him, he would have to learn how to be civilized.

Erik was brought back to reality when he noticed Jessica crossing her arms and giving him a look that he must have given Antoinette a thousand times.

"What does it matter?" she asked. "It's not like I'll be here that long anyways." In truth, however, she had no idea how she would get home.

"Jessica," Erik sighed, "I am normally a reasonable man. I would not have you learn anything that I didn't find worthwhile; therefore, stop being a brat and just listen to me. You are not home at the moment, and I will not have you acting like a savage. Now, elbows off the table, and close your mouth—you are not a catfish."

Jessica's lessons had only just begun.

…

Jessica flopped on the bed, hot, tired, and dejected. The whole day had been a living hell for her. Erik had systematically started to teach her how to sew, how to draw, how to sing, and, most importantly, how to speak and read French. She failed miserably at everything he tried to have her do. He told her that she'll get better, and that it was only her first day at learning these things, but she felt so downhearted that she barely heard his words, and it didn't help that she could see in his eyes that he was only trying to be nice. She knew how much of a failure she was in his eyes; even dancing she failed, though not as terribly. She could keep the rhythm well, but he had to constantly remind her to not lead during the waltz.

Jessica felt a tear slide down the side of her face and hit the bedspread. She wiped it away and willed herself to stop crying; she hated the fact that she cried out of frustration! She absolutely hated it! All her friends would give her those sympathetic smiles and ask if she wanted some help. Of course she didn't want any help. She wanted to things right! She knew that no one could be a perfectionist, but that didn't stop the feelings of shame and humiliation from rising up to her throat. She was such a failure!

"Jessica." Oh, God, not him. Anyone but him! Erik sat on the bed as Jessica squeezed her eyes shut tight, willing him to go away. He had no intention of doing so, but instead watched her very closely. He knew it wasn't his fault that she was so artless, but he still felt guilty that she was so disappointed in herself. Gently, he laid one of his hands on her forehead, covering her eyes in case she decided to let a few more tears fall.

"It's alright," he cooed softly, then chided himself for trying to be nice to this girl. 'Why should I care about her so much? She's nothing more than a girl!'

"No it's not," Jessica hissed out, swallowing her tears. "I suck at every-everything." Her voice broke and she forced herself to be quiet.

Erik sounded like he was speaking to a small child. "No you don't. It's just the first day. I promise, everything will be easier tomorrow. You just need—" He stopped himself; he didn't know what she needed. "It will all be easier tomorrow."

"Yeah, right."

"It will." He raised his voice in earnest. "You've learned so much today. And tomorrow will be another adventure. In a week, you'll be ready for me to speak only in French to you, and—"

"A week!" Jessica sat bolt upright, then fell back down with a groan. How could she manage speaking only in French?

Erik smiled, glad that she had finished crying. "It won't be too difficult. I'll speak slowly, and I'll still speak English if you need clarification on something." On impulse, he bent down and kissed the very top of her forehead. Jessica's eyes went wide, but she said nothing.

"Now, get some sleep. You've had a busy day today and you'll have a busier one tomorrow." He stood and lowered the lace curtain. "Pleasant dreams."

Jessica waited until he was out of the room before she allowed herself to think about the fact that he had just kissed her. It was something her father insisted on doing every night before she went to bed, even though she had insisted that, at sixteen, she was far too old for goodnight kisses.

She would give anything to have another goodnight kiss from her dad at that very moment; anything at all.

Another tear fell down her face, and she berated herself for being weak. 'I'm better than this! I know I am! Don't cry. You can't cry. Don't you dare cry!' Her body didn't listen to her head though, and the next morning, she woke up with a tearstained pillowcase.

You are getting sleepy... your eyelids are getting heavy... you want to leave me a nice, fat review!

Special thanks to Keyra93 who has already done so! Erik will definately bake you massive ammounts of cookies!