A/N: Hey everyone! I couldn't decide what fandom to write my next fanfiction for: The Producers, or The Phantom of the Opera. I decided to do a crossover with elements of both. :) It's VERY different from my other crossover. Please enjoy and tell me what you think.

And I must give credit to Vampira of Stalking for the premisses of what happened between Leo and Ulla. Don't worry, I changed it a little, but it was inspired by that. ^-^

I entered our office, early as usual. Before going too far in, I sheepishly looked around. When I saw no one, I quietly shut the door and ventured further in. With my suitcase pressed closely up to my chest, I inspected my surroundings one last time. It had been a few months, but I still couldn't forget when Max had jumped out from behind the couch, scaring me half to death.

Max wasn't anywhere in sight, though, and he probably wouldn't get here for another half an hour or so. Instead of getting straight to work as usual, I decided to plant myself on the couch and take a quick nap. I had received so little sleep the night before. Ever since Ulla left me a month ago, leaving nothing but a quick note, I had been drained of all my energy. The thought that she had been having so many affairs behind my back and that she had run off with someone else was unbearable to think about. Just having it enter my mind now makes me want to cry.

I curled up on the sofa and closed my eyes. If it wasn't for the fact that the door burst open a few moments later, I probably would have drifted off to sleep.

"Hi, Leo," Max said. I reopened my eyes to see him hanging up his coat and hat on the coat rack.

"I'm sorry. I should be working, shouldn't I?" I asked, jumping off of the couch and heading over to the desk.

"It's okay. You're tired. I can tell." He gives me an understanding look, which I return with a weary smile. "I don't mind if you rest a little while longer."

"No, it's fine," I assured him, searching the top drawer of the desk for the script to our new musical: 52nd Street. It was our first musical since Prisoners of Love and completely breaking free from our prison lives. Even if the memories still haunted us on a daily basis.

"It's not like there's much to do."

I shook my head. "There's still so much to do with the script before we start rehearsals. It still needs so much editing."

"Leo, if there's anything you want to . . ."

"It's fine!" I snapped, and then noted Max's shocked expression. What had gotten into me? I would have never done that before. "I'm sorry."

Max put a hand on my shoulder. His touch was surprisingly calming. "It's okay. You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to. I shouldn't be invading. Now, back to the script." He picked up the script and flipped open to the first page, but before he could comment on anything a knock at the door sounded.

"Come in," Max said. I assumed it was Roger and Carmen, or maybe even Franz. The person who we saw barely resembled either of them, though. A young boy, maybe in his teens, entered. He was dressed all in black, and seemed very confused.

"Bonjour. Parlez-vous francais?" he asked in something that sounded like French. We just stared at him in complete confusion. "English?"

"Yes," we reply.

"Where am I?" The boy came further into the office. I could feel my legs starting to shake, and my hands fished their way into my pocket in order to retrieve my blue blanket. I twiddled it in my fingers as the man came closer.

"You're in New York City." Confusion lined Max's brow. The boy seemed seriously lost.

"New York City?"

"Why? Are you from some place else?" My business partner stood up and guided the boy over to the sofa. His eyes darted about, inspecting all his surroundings.

"I'm from Paris."

"Paris?"

"Yes. My name is Serge."

"Alright, Serge. How old are you?"

"Sixteen."

As the conversation continued, Max seemed more and more befuddled. I got up from my chair and made my way over to him. "Would you like something to eat, Serge?" I ask the boy.

"No," he replies simply. "I'm not hungry. I want to go home. I want my grandparents."

"Are your grandparents in America?"

He shook his head in the negative. Max and I shot each other concerned looks. I couldn't be sure if the story this boy was creating was a hallucination, or if it was the truth and to be taken seriously. "They're in Paris," he told us. "Or at least I think they are. I live with them."

"Then how did you get here?" I asked.

"On a ship."

"And how did you get on the ship?"

"I . . . I don't know." Serge casts his eyes to the ground. "I just remember blackness. And then I was on a ship."

Max and I nod, trying to grasp all that he was explaining to us. "What are your grandparents names?"

"Raoul, Vicomte de Chagny, and Christine, Vicomtess de Chagny."

From the sounds of it, they were both prominent individuals in France. The fact that their son was missing would probably attract a lot of attention. And lucky us. We just happened to have him on our hands right now.

"Well, for now you can stay with us. I'm Max Bialystock, and this is my associate Leo Bloom. We're Broadway producers, and this is our office."

"Broadway producers?" Serge asked, his eyes lighting up. He reminded me of myself when I was first introduced to Max. I showed him my ticket stub and everything, hoping he would offer me some kind of advice. "That must be exciting!"

"Yeah," I said, grinning at the boy's enthusiasm. "It has it's ups and downs, but overall I enjoy it." Better than the accounting firm.

"Well, if you need to get back to work, don't worry about me," Serge assured us. "I can take care of myself. And if you need me to do anything, I'll do it for you."

"Okay," Max replied, smiling back at him. The two of us began to head back to our desk to continue working on the script when we heard Serge's voice sound again.

"I remember one more thing, too. A man in a white mask."