A/N: I actually do have an excuse for this being late. I did NaNoWriMo. I didn't get the 50k done, more like 26k because real life stuff happened, but I did accomplish some writing and I'm proud of that. Anyhoo, enjoy the next chapter of Constant Angel. I'm hoping to get this done before the year is out... We'll see.

Before even he was quite aware what was happening, André was on his way out the door, hat clapped angrily to his head. He stifled a cough, something which had been bothering him all day. He would have tea before bed, that would sort it out. Personal health was not his primary concern.

Said primary concern went more along the lines of wondering how well he would contain himself in the presence of the man who had taken his daughter's heart and smashed it in much the same way she had smashed the frame.

André coughed again, straightening his jacket resolutely afterward. A deep frown creased his brow.

"Good afternoon, Monsieur Leroux," a voice exclaimed from behind him, full of merriment. He paused momentarily, turning to see Monsieur Blanc, the manager of the Opera.

"Good afternoon, Monsieur Blanc," he nodded curtly, "It's nice to see you, but—"

"That daughter of yours, Juliet," he continued as though André had not tried to protest he was too busy for pleasant conversation, "I am pleased with her. The progress she's made in her singing, even since being here, is incredible. Due, I'm sure, to natural talent and that man of hers, Erik."

A cracked tooth would be in his immediate future if André clenched his jaw much further. "I thank you for the compliment, but I really must—"

"Monsieur Leroux, is everything quite all right?" Monsieur Blanc inquired with a concerned expression. "If you were a spring, you'd be in danger of popping from being too tightly wound."

Even not being a spring, he wasn't certain of not popping. He mustered the best smile he could give and clasped the older gentleman's hand firmly. "I'm all right, thank you. But I really must be going. Good day to you."

Once he was out of sight, the smile melted off André's face. To his mild concern, his cough persisted. Now was not the time to be sick.

Angry footsteps made for a short journey, and soon he was outside Erik's flat and pounding upon the door with a clenched fist. Had he been a stronger man, the door might have been in danger of acquiring serious damage. The sun, which he would have enjoyed against the back of his neck, was insignificant in comparison to the hot twist of anger at the pit of his stomach.

"May I—oh," Erik faltered upon opening the door and encountering André's thunderous expression and raised fist.

"'Oh' is right," he growled, shouldering his way rudely into the flat. "I suppose you know why I'm here?"

"Yes, Monsieur," said Erik heavily, no protest given at the blunt invasion of his home. He merely closed the door behind Andé and attempted to show him into the sitting room, an offer which he refused with a sneer and showed himself in. "I believe I do know why you're here."

An armchair, the nearest to the door, was the place in which he decided to situate himself. A ball of gray and white fur leapt into his lap with a purr. Annoyed and not in the mood for distractions of the feline sort, he pushed it down. An irate yowl and needle-sharp claws swatting at his leg came in response. He winced, rubbing his leg and glaring in the direction in which the cat had vanished.

"Monsieur, when I allowed you—" A quiet scoffing noise from the masked man nearly sent him past the tipping point of his anger. "—Yes, allowed! I allowed you to continue seeing my daughter because I felt you made her, for some inexplicable reason, happy, and that you were not likely to hurt her. I see now my assumption was incorrect."

With affected calmness and solemnity, he folded his hands in his lap and turned and expectant stare on Erik, who sat down opposite him in another armchair. Childish satisfaction coursed through him when he noted a small amount of unease in Erik's face. He had, even if it was just a little, managed to intimidate the infamous Phantom of the Opera. He guessed few others could claim as much.

With a heavy, long sigh, Erik ran a hand over his hair. "I cannot tell you how sorry I am for the misunderstanding which has occurred between Juliet and myself."

It was André's turn to scoff, which turned into a tickle in his throat. "A misunderstanding, as you say," he retorted, "would not have caused her the level of upset she is experiencing. What have you said to her?"

Erik's back straightened as though someone had placed a rod against it lengthwise. "I believe," he said, the calm of his exterior a thin cover for a thick, tumultuous boil of emotions just beneath the surface, "that is a topic which should stay between the two of us, Monsieur. I hope you'll do me the honor of understanding why I say this."

"I hope you'll understand when I say I am her father and I cannot. She is deeply hurt and she will not speak to me. I am due an explanation for what you have done to cause her to retreat from me like this."

Erik stood abruptly, the sudden intensity of his stare and the way he towered over him sending André shifting to the back of his chair uncomfortably. "Perhaps, Monsieur, you should not be looking to me for answers as to why she has retreated from you and refuses to speak with you," he said, a slow, hot fire simmering just beneath his words.

"How dare—" André cried, leaping to his feet, but the man with the porcelain mask was not finished with him.

He raised an imperious hand, silencing him instantly. "I take full responsibility for the hurt she feels now," he admitted. André thought he saw a glimmer of a tear in Erik's eye, but it was gone so fast he questioned the existence in the first place. "I will say that is entirely my fault. However," he added, the dark shadows of his anger falling upon him once again, "you may consider that perhaps she is withdrawn from you because you have always put the priority of fatherhood behind the importance of something else and she feels you will always do so."

André opened his mouth, more feebly this time, but received another silencing gesture. "My mother was repulsed by me," he murmured. "I never knew my father, at least not the one related to me by blood. As a young child, I was never shown the love you no doubt showed Juliet, even if it was somewhat distracted. It was not until later in my life that I met people who would help me to be even the small amount of a good man that Juliet has managed to see behind this."

Erik's fingers hooked beneath the lower edge of the mask concealing the right side of his face and pulled upward, drawing with it a sharp gasp from André. The twisted, marred, sallow skin made his stomach invert itself several times. Try as he might, he could not keep his eyes facing forward and looked away. A humorless chuckle came from Erik's direction. He could hear the mask being pulled back on. An involuntary wave of something which felt very close to shame coursed through him.

"You are not the first, nor will you be the last to turn away from my face," said Erik softly. "I will not deny it hurts me when people look away in discomfort, but it not longer causes me to be angry."

"Why?" seemed to be all André could manage.

"I assume you are asking why I showed you," he replied, sitting down once again. "It is not something I do willingly or often. My point was that Juliet did not look away the first time she saw my face except for out of respect. Despite your occasional negligence, you raised a fine woman, one who I must make serious amends to. I suggest you do the same."

André left Erik's flat feeling a combination of a clearer head and a more muddled head than ever keenly. As he walked back toward home, stifling yet more coughs, thoughts bounced off the confines of his skull, attempting to become coherent thought.

~OoOoOoOoOoOoOoO~

After his meeting with André, Erik spent a long time pacing about his flat. A ceaseless yowling from Ayesha started up after he had been pacing for twenty minutes. His unsettled movements caused her unease. In the end, he only stopped so she would stop her noisemaking before his neighbors grew irate. He had already received one complaint two weeks before after a particularly spirited session of piano playing and was not eager to receive another.

He sank back into the sofa, the slightly worn maroon fabric welcoming him like a familiar embrace. Ayesha slunk into his lap, purring and offering her ears for scratching. Despite having given André food for thought, he found his own pantry to be woefully empty. In theory, he knew he must apologize and beg for her forgiveness. However, he had no idea even how to do so in a manner in which she would find him convincing and actually hear him out. What he had said to her had reopened an old insecurity she had had since nearly the first day she had met him. It would take time and soothing words to get her to bury it again. He doubted it would ever fully go away, even if the thought pained him.

How to do it? He had no inklings. He hadn't even the first idea where to begin. The thought of going straight over and trying to apologize face to face was appealing, but he dismissed it with a sigh. She wouldn't see him. It was likely she wouldn't even answer the door.

A possibility struck him and, pausing only to get his hat, Erik left his home and started in the direction of Nadir's house. He had more experience with most things relating to human interaction than did Erik and he hoped to get some advice. Not, he knew, without some form of chastisement. Talking to Nadir about a problem rarely went without one. It was a bit, he imagined, like having an older brother at times. One with much more life experience than he had.

Upon knocking at the door, Corbett answered it. A bright grin spread across his face. "Papa!" he called down the short hallway behind him. "Uncle Erik is here!" Erik still didn't know when the boy had decided to start calling him that, but he found he didn't mind too much. It made his heart take a little skip and a leap. Being part of a family was not something he was used to.

Nadir appeared behind him, a warm smile creasing his face. "So I see. Corbett," he chided in a teasing tone, "what have you done in your lessons to facilitate this visit?"

The attempt and failure to laugh along with them didn't go unnoticed by Nadir. With a quiet request that he go amuse himself for the time being, he ushered Erik inside. The door swung gently shut behind them.

If home had a specific smell, it would smell a lot like Nadir's house. It defied explanation; something about the combination of scents with filled the air brought a secure sense of peace and belonging with them. Smelling it reminded him of a faint, fuzzy memory of time spent in Italy. The furnishings were sparse and the amount of food was little, but Erik couldn't remember being more content.

Well, until recently, but he was becoming worryingly certain that those memories were also becoming a thing of the past.

"What is it, Erik?" Nadir inquired in a hushed tone, escorting Erik into the kitchen and closing the door behind them. Out of habit, he set a kettle on the stove to boil. "Has something happened?"

Unsure of how to begin, Erik stalled for time. He took a seat in one of the sturdy, wooden kitchen chairs and set his hat on the table with undue care. "Must something be wrong for me to pay you a visit?" he asked at last, watching Nadir move about with measured movements.

The Persian man chuckled, not necessarily with humor, but more in a knowing way. "Erik," he said, turning around and leaning on the counter beside the stove. "I've known you long enough to be able to tell when something is bothering you. You like to believe you keep a straight face, but you have a tendency to wear your heart on your sleeve, mon ami." Had someone else said so and had he not been distracted by other thoughts, Erik would have felt a rise in his ire.

He sighed, clasping his hands over the table. It bore several small rings left from moisture and excessive heat. Corbett was the likely culprit. "I made a mistake, Daroga," he expelled in one breath, reverting momentarily to the nickname Nadir had had in Persia due to his position. "A very big mistake."

Waiting for the kettle to boil, Nadir sat down across from him and mirrored his position. An expression of inquiry prompted further elaboration. "People make mistakes, Erik," he shrugged. "It's a part of life. I'm guessing you made a mistake concerning Juliet, given your state of disquiet."

"I..." he trailed off, clenching his fists to steady himself. "Blast it all, Nadir, it was such an asinine mistake on my part, and yet it has cost me so much..." The words tumbled forth in a frustrated onslaught.

"What was it you did?" Nadir asked, the whistle of the tea kettle stalling the conversation momentarily. He got to his feet and began to prepare the tea. "Juliet is an understanding young woman. Have you considered talking to her about whatever it is?" He came back to the table, two cups of tea in hand. One, he kept for himself. The other, he gave to Erik.

He took a sip of the tea, wrapping his hands around the warmth. "It would do no good," he muttered, staring into the shallow depths of the cup. "She would not see me."

"Mon ami," Nadir sighed, a slight note of humor in his voice, "that Phantom of the Opera business was truly your calling. I've never yet met anyone more dramatic than you."

He fixed him with a thoroughly unamused stare.

"All right, all right," the Persian waved a hand, an apologetic look on his face. "Honestly, Erik, what was the mistake you made? I get the feeling you'll never tell me at this rate."

"I—she—some of my actions caused her to believe I consider her a replacement for... for her." Despite the vague nature of his statement, he could barely get the words out for the shame and remorse they caused him.

Nadir's eyebrows leveled with his hairline. "What was it exactly that you did to make her think such a thing?" he asked sharply. "It's not true... is it?"

Erik squirmed under the piercing scrutiny. "No!" he protested immediately. "No, of course not! I couldn't—I haven't—no. It matters little now, the point is that I have allowed myself to make this mistake out of jealousy and I haven't the faintest clue how to make it right with her."

A long sip of tea provided Nadir the ability to take his time in responding. "Jealousy is a dangerous thing," he said, an eyebrow lifted. "It has destroyed the lives of many, not just men. However," he continued, getting to his feet and resting a hand on Erik's shoulder, "each instance is unique and requires a unique approach. I can't help you with much, I'm afraid, save to tell you that, given Juliet's personality you may need to get creative. It is not a problem you cannot solve, Erik. Please believe me when I say this."

"Why is it," Erik complained, rolling his eyes at Nadir, "that it always feels as though you have simultaneously helped me a great deal and not at all?"
Nadir smirked. "A magician never reveals his secrets." He tapped a finger to the tip of his nose.

He stayed awhile longer to enjoy the company of Nadir and Corbett. Despite his need for solitude, he found himself enjoying and, though he wasn't sure he cared to admit it, needing human company. It did all begin to be too much after extended periods of time, but he found he craved it every once in awhile. When he left, he did not go home immediately, but rather went for a bit of a walk around the edges of the town. Thinking about things which did not fall into his immediate realm of knowledge seemed to go better when he was in an unfamiliar place.

~OoOoOoOoOoOoOoO~

"Papa," Corbett started after Erik had left.

"Yes?" Nadir responded, ruffling a hand into his son's hair when he reached him.

"Did Uncle Erik make Juliet upset?" The blunt candor of a child, specifically, his child, never ceased to surprise him.

"Why do you ask that?" He couldn't help but be mildly amused.

"He came here without Juliet and he looked worried," he replied, eyes following a squirrel outside their window. He shrugged. "Uncle Erik is almost never worried and isn't usually here without Juliet."

Nadir sensed an unsaid continuance of his train of thought. "And?" he prompted, a laugh at the edge of his words."

"... And I was listening at the door," he admitted, hanging his head.

Nadir did laugh then, unable to bring himself to be angry or even the smallest bit annoyed, though he knew he perhaps should be.

~OoOoOoOoOoOoOoO~

After what was roughly around an hour of pensive walking, Erik had an idea. It was a long shot, but it had worked once before when she had been irritated with him. Granted, she was much more than just irritated now, but if it had worked before...

With purpose speeding each step along, Erik made a beeline for the nearest flower shop. He emerged some time later with a neatly arranged bouquet of red roses. How exactly the roses were going to help, he was not completely sure. He had planned on them being a slight ice breaker or talking point from which he could beg for her forgiveness and understanding.

Hope that André would not answer the door made his hand hesitant as he reached for the door knocker. The roses sat like a hopeful red beacon in his arms.

He would have said he was thankful it was indeed Juliet who answered the door if not for the immediate set of her mouth and narrowing of her eyes.

"What are you doing here, Erik?" she inquired bluntly, arms folded over her chest. A faint pink hue rimmed her eyes and flushed her cheeks. She had been crying. A little bit more of his heart shattered.

He cleared his throat, the words he had carefully rehearsed in his head in the space between the flower shop and Juliet's home having gotten stuck. "I came to apologize for the wrong I've done you and to give you these," he said, extending the flowers with a hopeful expression.

The twist in Juliet's mouth suggested he had tried to offer her something long dead. "Did you mean to apologize with flowers and nothing more?" she asked. Her words reached out with intent to bite his head off. He resisted the urge to duck. "To give me a pretty thing and think it would make everything all right again?"
"Juliet, I—" he protested. No, of course not! It wasn't just the flowers. Granted, he hadn't got much further in planning than what he'd already said, but—

"—You can't buy my forgiveness, Erik," she said. One hand reached for the door beside her. Eyes bright, she continued. "You might have been able to make good with Christine with a bauble and flowers, and there is where you find the difference between us if you can find it nowhere else."

Erik was left face to face with a closed door mere centimeters from his face before he had much more chance to defend himself. He left the flowers on the doorstep and walked away slowly. As the buildings, tall and short, stately and ordinary, passed by around him, they seemed to scorn him. You can't do anything right, can you? Can't keep her safe, can't make her happy, as an Angel of Music, you're—

Wait. Rather than be angry, he was struck with a sudden thought. Being an Opera Ghost was what he knew best, or had known longest, anyway. If it was the only way he knew how to communicate, then so be it. Maybe he had to be the Opera Ghost again to win Juliet's affections again.

A/N: Oh, Erik... Review?