A/N: To all my lurkers, wonderful readers though you may be, indulge the review junkie/whore/lover and leave a short message, at the very least, if you would be so kind.

Thank you...um, kindly.

Cheered by her e-buddy's previous appearance, Heather bounced over to Erik like a particularly energetic puppy.

"Proof time," she said, grabbing the Phantom media and arranging it in chronological order atop his organ (er, pipe organ). "Allow me."

Erik's swollen lips twitched. He felt slightly sick.
I never knew female company could be so…excruciatingly nauseating.

"I want you to leave," he began, but Heather ignored him, jamming the earphones on his head with such speed and force that he was paralyzed in shock.

"What…what are these?" he asked nervously.
"They're earphones," Heather said long-sufferingly, giving him a sideways glance. "Silly."

Erik ripped them off his head. "What is their purpose?" he demanded, shaking them in her face. One of them swung too far and smacked her squarely on the nose.

Heather yelped and jumped backward, rubbing ruefully at the offending olfactory body part. "Jerk," she sulked.

Erik flinched. "Jerk what?" He looked at the earphones dubiously. "Jerk them?" He pulled at them experimentally.

"You're a jerk."

"I'm…what?" he asked in confusion.

Heather sighed. "You're nasty. Despicable. Callous. Unkind. M…"

"I take your meaning quite clearly," said Erik sullenly. "It was an accident, by the way."

"Right," said Heather. "And you're my mother."

"Insolent wench," he snapped.

"Self-pitying wretch," she shot back. "At least I don't crawl on the floor begging expressionlessly bug-eyed persons of the opposite sex to give me their undying love…"

Erik, once he had digested every particle of that particular sentence and realized that the insufferable whelp was not only insulting him, but Christine as well, snarled. "How dare you—" he hissed, long white fingers spasming for his lasso. "How dare—"

"I didn't mean it!" Heather yelped, jumping backward as he found what he was looking for. "I didn't mean it…okay, I did mean it about her buggy eyes and total lack of expression, but….oh, damn…"

He threw the lasso with surprising dexterity considering his highly-strung emotional state, and it hit its mark quite admirably.

Unfortunately for Erik's nerves, not to mention his already fragile ego, Heather's phannish reflexes were just as sharp as ever, and as every phan knows, one is a fool not to raise one's hand to the level of one's eyes when one is clearly about to be the object of a first-class Punjabbing.

Erik moaned and dropped the taut end, feeling a headache coming on.

Heather unwound the lasso from her wrist and throat irritably. "Temper," she said, shivering a bit at her close brush with death. "You know, I think you've got an overdeveloped sense of vengeance. It's going to get you into trouble someday…"

Erik grabbed the hardcover novel bearing the title Phantom. "I suppose if I read this, you'll go away."

"I doubt it," said Heather. "But if you're going to read the novels, you might want to start with the original." She handed him the paperback copy of The Phantom of the Opera.

Erik took it dubiously, staring at it as though it were a poisonous snake. "Indeed," he said weakly. "When was this written?"

"1910," said Heather. "And I quote, 'The events do not date more than thirty years back…'"

Erik sighed. "How much is correct?"

"For your version, some things. But your real clincher will be that." Heather pointed to the Original London Cast. "You might want to brace yourself. You're going to be hearing what sounds like your voice…"

"Excuse me?" Erik whispered.

"Never mind," Heather sighed. "If I tell you any more, your brain will explode."

"Quite," said Erik with a touch of sarcasm. "It's amazing how deftly you read my emotions."

Heather smirked smugly.

Erik rolled his eyes.

"Erm…" said Heather. "Where will I be staying?"

"You won't be," he said shortly.

Heather's lip quivered again.

"But…but…" she whispered, her large brown eyes going limpid with tears. Oh dear Punjab, please don't let me turn into a Sue over this.

Erik snorted. "You…" He stopped. She did look rather pathetic.

"You…" he began again, and stopped, once more, looking at her. A fat tear had spilled from its confines within one large brown eye and rolled mercilessly down the feminine cheek, making carefully applied mascara begin to smear precariously.

Heather sniffled. Oh, great. All the writers in Christendom and beyond are going to flame me for being so blatantly Sue-ish…

Erik sighed. "It would not be proper for you to stay…" he began.

"Oh, but it was proper for the bug-eyed fish, was it?" snapped Heather before she could stop herself.

Erik's eyes darkened, widened. "Bug-eyed fish?" he hissed dangerously. "If, by that charming epithet, you mean who I think you mean, you are…"

"I mean," said Heather quickly, "the lovely, talented semi-diva, whose hair curls like…"

"Stop," said Erik, sighing. "No more, please…"

Heather finished the sentence in her head. …like the Poodle Ringlets of Doom…

"I wish to avoid any more unpleasantness," said Erik shortly, "and I have no wish to kill a woman, much less a half-grown specimen such as yourself…"

Heather wondered, suddenly indignant, if he meant her tiny chest. She fought the urge to cover it defensively, racking her brain for an equally scathing retort.

Erik looked about for a suitable place for the wench to sleep. Besides the Louis-Philippe room.

It seemed there was no alternative. He couldn't simply make her sleep in the boat…

Well. He could. But he was ever a gentleman, even if the female in question was a pain in the proverbial buttocks.

He sighed. "You may sleep," he said, "in the Louis-Philippe room. Over there." He pointed.

Heather, once she got over her initial glee, grimaced a bit, wondering briefly if Christine's frilly and no doubt floral-scented underthings were still haunting the premises.

"It's going to be a long night..." she sighed.