Disclaimer: I don't own POTO.

HAHA! 1,000 reviews! (throws a massive party)

Thank you to you all for contributing. Gerry kisses are on the house. And an extra special Gerry moment of her choice for xxXGoddessXofXdeadXloveXxx for being reviewer 1,000. Choose wisely, my dear.

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RED, WHITE, AND BLACK

Rehearsals for Romeo and Juliette were in full swing. Despite the reassurances the managers had put in their letters to the patrons, nothing was running smoothly. Ever since Joseph Buquet had been removed to his brother's farm, the stagehands had fallen into disarray.

Then there were the frequent and violent fits of La Carlotta, who happened to look like her 2004 movie counterpart because the Authoress thought Minnie Driver and her poodles were hysterical.

Erik regularly contributed to the chaos, sending a barrage of notes to the managers' office, demanding that Christine be cast as Juliette in place of Carlotta and dropping backdrops and sandbags. Secretly, Andre and Firmin were beginning to think that it might be better to follow the Opera Ghost's "suggestions" in the long run. Of course, any us, dear readers, could have told them that.

Today, the Raven and the Spirit were on hand to pay their insanity tithes. And it promised to be the best yet.

The two pranksters had holed themselves up in a little compartment near the top of the massive crystal chandelier. Peering through a cleverly disguised porthole, they could easily watch all of the proceedings on the stage below. At the moment Carlotta and Piangi were practicing the wedding night scene.

"They suck," Brooke muttered.

"Suck donkeys," Anna said. She reached down to disentangle the legs of her trousers…or rather Erik's trousers. The girls' jeans were still drying on the wash line, leaving them with only one other alternative and that was to borrow some of Erik's clothes. Naturally, he did not know a thing about it.

Brooke turned to struggle with her own trouser legs. "Too bad the legs on these things are too long, otherwise they fit quite well."

"Kind of sad, isn't it? That the waist band on Erik's trousers fits us," Anna mused.

Brooke pondered, "Of course, you have to wonder: is it an insult to him that we can fit into his pants, or is it an insult to us that a man wears the same size as us girls?"

"Hmm, I don't know. Both maybe. Hey, there's Christine."

The stage below had erupted into a state of mild chaos. Carlotta was throwing another king-size tantrum, arguing with M. Reyer about the timing of his orchestra. The rest of the cast had emerged from the wings to observe the proceedings and Christine was among them.

Anna turned her masked face to her cousin, brown eyes sparkling wickedly, "Ready to lock and load?"

"Oh, yeah!" Brooke sniggered. The cousins readied their weapons: two paintball guns loaded with red balls only. They waited for the opportune moment to fire.

Carlotta screeched at M. Reyer, "You want-a to replace-a meh, too, eh?"

"No, no, Signora, I do not wish that in the least. I am merely—"

"Aha! You want-a the Ghost's little mouse sing-a instead?" the towering diva snarled.

"No, I—"

"Fine-a! See how she does now!" Carlotta grabbed Christine and shoved her forward. It was probably not the brightest idea Carlotta ever had, but the prima donna was banking on the idea that the managers and maestro would prefer her seniority and fame to Christine's talent in any case.

Christine stumbled forward, pretending to be demure and nervous.

Overhead, Anna snorted quietly, "She's a sensational actress; I'll give her that."

M. Reyer could see no way out of this. The object was, of course, to (figuratively) kiss Carlotta's butt at all costs. The diva shrieked at him to make Christine sing.

"Very well, very well, from the beginning of Juliette's part, please Mlle. Daaé," the frazzled, skinny old man said, readying the orchestra.

Christine shyly took center stage. Anna resolutely took aim. The soprano's lips parted, her bug-eyed face lifted with an expression of sweet innocence, and the first crystalline note began to fly from her throat—

CRACK!

The thundering clap of a gunshot shook through the auditorium. To everyone's (except Carlotta's) utmost horror, Christine staggered backwards, a huge, angry blot of 'blood' on her forehead. She raised a trembling hand to her face, wiping some of the gooey liquid onto her fingers. One look at the red stains and Christine dissolved into hysterical screams. Everyone else dissolved with her, namely the ballet rats.

CRACK! CRACK!

Two more red blotches burst upon Christine's torso. She collapsed on to the stage floor, writhing in panic. Everyone stood staring her in shock.

"Ha! Seems the Ghost don't like-a you after all!" Carlotta sneered, as the others jostled around in useless activity.

"Should we mess her up worse than Christine?" Anna asked her cousin.

"Why? Then Christine will get the part of Juliette," Brooke replied.

"Exactly."

Brooke whirled on her best friend, her green eyes bright with surprise within the white mask. "Have you gone crazy!"

"No, it's just that…it would make Erik happy," Anna mumbled.

"Wow. You must really, really love him."

"Yes…it's almost depressing…" Carlotta's nauseating giggles floated to the auditorium ceiling. "Besides, she's obnoxious."

CRACK!

Carlotta's high-pitched shrieks joined Christine's wails as a red paintball pelted smack dab in the middle of her cleavage.

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

The cousins mercilessly targeted the screaming prima donna, covering her in red paint so that she looked a victim of the Texas Chainsaw Massacre. Once Carlotta was sufficiently wounded, the Raven and the Spirit trained their guns on Piangi, the ballet rats, and anybody else who happened to be in the way.

The stiff, but regal Mme. Giry called out to the frenzied crowd, "You see, they know! They always watch. Take heed of my words." Her voice floated above the din like the hollering of a street-side preacher.

Brooke huffed irritably, "What does she know?" And promptly shot the ballet mistress in the rump. It was in the midst of the anarchic tumult that the managers and Raoul de Chagny entered stage right. They halted in their tracks, gaping at the 'bloodied' cast and crew.

Anna spotted the Vicomte immediately and trained her sights on his smooth, pale forehead.

"MWHAHAHAAA!" the creepy giggle rang out through the theatre, turning the opera peoples' real blood to ice.

Brooke lunged to stop her, knocking the muzzle aside so that the shot missed its intended target and hit Firmin in the gut instead. The grown man dissolved into absolute terror, bawling and shrieking like a cat in a clothes dryer.

"Nice shot," Anna muttered to her cousin.

"Don't hit Raoul!" Brooke hissed.

"Fine…" But the little redhead found a loophole in her cousin's command and began to fire at the ground near the nobleman's feet. He squeaked in fright, dancing from foot to foot before realizing that the stage floor was spurting blood as well. He frowned, bending down to probe one goopy red lump and bringing a smearing of it to his nose.

Raoul puzzled a moment longer before the light of revelation illuminated his handsome features. He threw back his head and laughed heartily, calling out above the frantic screaming, "It's just paint!"

The chaos skidded to a halt.

"Excuse-a meh?" Carlotta snarled. "Does this look-a like paint to you-a?" Her thrust her entire vermillion body at him.

"With all due respect, Signora, if you were truly as bullet-ridden as you appear to be you would be face-to-face with the Almighty and not me," Raoul replied coolly.

Carlotta blinked. Everyone blinked and then examined their bodies for any oozing bullet wounds, but found none. Instead, their limbs and torsos and heads were peppered with swollen pink knots. Christine dragged herself to her feet and limped to Raoul.

"My darling, you've come at last!" She threw her self into his reluctant embrace. "What kept you away so long?" A blop of paint dripped from the tip of her nose. Overhead, Brooke considered shooting her again.

"Um…er…business?" Raoul answered weakly as he pried her clinging hands from his body. So much for hunting out the Spirit, Raoul thought with a disheartened sigh.

As Andre and Firmin surveyed their painted, lumpy cast, it occurred to them that opening night may need to be postponed, since they did not think the gentry of Paris would appreciate paying good money to see a cast that looked it had caught the Bubonic plague.

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Erik returned to his house via the Rue Scribe entrance. He had spent all morning and a good part of the afternoon arranging some business things with Jules. Stripping off his mask and tossing it onto the sitting room table, Erik sauntered into the master bedroom where he finally discovered exactly what the cousins had been up to for the last few weeks.

"My lord, what have they done?" Erik whispered in horror.

Gone were the purple tents and velvet cushions. In their place the girls had erected a glorious homage to Galadriel's ethereal kingdom. Instead of heavy violet curtains, there was a sheet of white cotton strung up like a pavilion; the excess draped here and there, all tied with simple gray twine.

Slowly, partly in awe, Erik approached the new tent. He pushed back the folds of fabric and saw the two mattresses bedecked with new white comforters and soft, goose down pillows. To the left of this, the girls had put up a folding room divider, made of pale birch. Behind it, arranged against the walls, were a wardrobe, two trunks, and a vanity table. More sheets of cotton provide a roof for the little alcove and strings of blue electrical lights gave it a misty, glowing atmosphere. A few cushions and plants potted in silver containers decorated the corner.

Most of the furniture had been given to the girls by Erik him self, but the birch vanity table was new. A white sheet, embroidered in silver and gold, was strung across the mirror. Erik starred at it for a moment. Without knowing why, he reached out one long, elegant, sexy hand and pulled the covering away from the mirror. A twisted, ugly death's head returned his steady gaze.

Erik looked at his loathsome reflection, self-hatred shaking him to the very core. For one moment, his rage almost boiled over and he nearly smashed the mirror to pieces. How dare they bring a mirror in here! he thought. But then he remembered the cloth in his hands. The cousins were females; of course they would want a mirror with which to examine their pretty faces, yet they covered it up. Erik knew they covered it up for him.

A long time ago, he would have found the gesture insulting. However, knowing that the cousins never batted an eyelash at his appearance, Erik now felt strangely touched by their thoughtfulness. As if you could call renovating a room without permission thoughtful, Erik thought as he replaced the cloth over the mirror and left the corner. At least they hadn't touched his coffin or the organ. Seeing the ghastly funeral things in contrast with the white pavilion, Erik fancied it looked as though heaven and hell had met on earth. Being one for metaphors, the Phantom decided that he approved of the change. Besides, he couldn't blame Anna and Brooke for getting fed up with the purple velvet.

Suddenly, a soft, beloved voice called his name. Stepping lightly, Erik walked through the house, replacing his mask on his face as he went, and opened the front door. Sure enough, the voice came again and Erik knew it was Christine. He leapt into the gondola and poled his way to the opposite side of the lake, where a shivering white figure stood waiting for him.

"My child, I did not expect you…MY GOD! What happened to your face?" Erik yelped. His sunken blue eyes grew wide with shock as they settled on the goose-egg sized lump in the middle of Christine's perfect, white forehead.

"Your precious little companions are what happened to my face!" Christine snarled.

Erik blinked at her. "What do you mean?"

"They shot me! That's what I mean."

"But what did they shoot you with? Surely, you'd be dead if it had been a pistol or rifle."

"Of course, I'd be dead!" Christine screamed, her voice echoing off the walls of the stone caverns. "I don't know what they shot me with, I only know that they did, in fact, shoot me."

At that moment, Anna and Brooke emerged from the stairs leading into the fourth cellar. Their giggling whispers preceded them. They stopped dead in their tracks when they saw a lumpy Christine and a silent, menacing Phantom glaring at them from a feeble circle of lantern light.

Erik took a step towards them. The cousins swallowed hard, cowering beneath their cloaks.

Erik pointed one long finger at Christine as he addressed the girls in a low, ominous tone, "Did you do that?"

"No!" came the hasty lie. Anna hid her paintball gun behind her back, pushing it at Brooke, who stood behind her. The brunette snatched the weapon from her cousin and quickly tossed both pieces of evidence into the shadows, though she knew perfectly well that Erik had eyes like a cat's.

He stepped closer. The tension was so thick Anna thought she would suffocate. All at once, Erik snapped. He lunged at the girls. With shrieks of terror, the cousins scattered, Brooke flew up the stairs and Anna ran toward the lake. The furious Angel of Music dove for the redhead. Anna squeaked and scrambled across the slippery, mossy rocks. Erik caught the edge of her cloak and used it to spin her into his grasp. Had he not been so obviously angry, Anna might have enjoyed it, but as it was, she was terrified. She wished they hadn't decided to play such a nasty trick on Christine.

"Why did you do that?" Erik roared. "Now she unfit to perform!"

"Let her go!" Brooke cried. She threw herself at Erik's back knocking Phantom and Raven into the icy lake. "Oops."

Despite the inky blackness of the water, Anna swam out farther, putting distance between her and Erik. However, he was a much more powerful swimmer and soon caught her again, cornering her in an alcove where they were out of sight of the others. Back on shore, Brooke panicked, pacing frantically as she tried to find a way to better assist her best friend. She could try to throw rocks at Erik, but she knew Anna would rather Erik strangle her than have him hurt.

"Why, Anna? You knew it would displease me!" Erik thundered, his mighty voice ringing through the caverns. He shook her hard, sending showers of droplets into the air.

"It turned out for good!" Anna gasped, pulling at his iron-like grip on her throat.

"How is that good?"

"Because…we got Carlotta so bad she won't be Juliette. Christine got the part instead…and Andre and Firmin…postponed…the…opening." The Phantom's fingers tightened, garbling her words. Without warning, Erik released her and Anna fell with a yelp and a splash back into the water.

The Phantom pondered for a moment. "You shot Carlotta?"

"Y-yes," Anna replied, struggling to stay afloat, with the weight of her soggy cloak dragging her down. The trouser legs had come unrolled and tangled about her ankles, preventing her from treading water easily. The water came to Erik's midsection.

"Did you kill her?"

"N—" The answer was cut off by a mouthful of black water. Sighing with exasperation, the Ghost hauled the drowning girl against his own body, thereby giving her permission to hold onto him.

"Answer me," he commanded.

Anna snuffled and sniffed and sneezed, then said, "No, we didn't kill her. It was only a gun that shoots balls of paint. It's not meant to kill."

"Pity. Why are you wearing my pants?" Erik exclaimed, noticing Anna's trousers for the first time.

"Our jeans are still drying and we can't very well wear dresses while we haunt."

"But you've soiled them now!" Erik whined.

"What do you care? We do the laundry anyway."

"Do they actually fit you?"

"In the waist, but not the legs. You're tall."

"So I've been told. Anna, I shall pardon you two for the moment, but we will be talking about this after everyone is settled in the house," the Phantom said, sounding for the world like a parent disciplining a bratty child. The redhead, certain that all was safe once more, happily clung to Erik's waist.

"I appreciate what you did to Carlotta. Apparently, it was more persuasive than my notes," Erik said, squirming in her arms. He was becoming uncomfortably aware that Anna's wet body was pressed so close to his that he could feel her feminine curves…and, even worse, he rather liked it.

"It's called aggressive negotiations."

"Indeed, but why do you torment Christine so?"

Anna looked straight into the shadowed blue eyes, her face becoming very serious. "Because she's so mean to you."

Erik stared at her. He didn't know what to make of her explanation. No one had ever really defended him like that before. Yes, Nadir had spent five years in a dirty Persian prison to help him escape from the shah's evil plans, but no one had ever viciously attacked another person for his sake. It reminded him of Ayesha's possessiveness, only to have it come from a human—a woman, no less—was something extraordinary in Erik's mind. He wasn't sure how to take it.

His thoughts were interrupted by a wild thrashing sound from the entrance to the alcove.

"Erik, don't hurt her! It was my idea!" came Brooke's frightened voice. The brunette floundered into view, having discarded her cloak so she could swim better. She paused to cling to an outcropping of rock, gasping for breath. Her green eyes came to rest on the Phantom and her cousin, looking very much like a couple of high-schoolers who had just been locked in a serious game of tonsil hockey.

Brooke quirked an eyebrow, "Oh, don't let me interrupt."

Anna flushed and pushed away from Erik, "Shut up." The redhead barely got those words out before her cloak dragged her back into the water. The Phantom pulled her up, forcing her to hold on to him as he swam out to Brooke.

Anna gave her cousin a lop-sided grin, "We're gonna get a lecture once we're inside. By the way, Erik, how'd you like our redecorating?"

"Surprisingly, I actually approve of it," he said. "How did you get it done in one day and still have time to terrorize the opera cast?"

"The Poppins Bag helped us."

"I should have known," Erik muttered, pulling Anna's arms around his neck so she would not sink again.

"Apparently, we worked the poor Bag so hard that it has to take a vacation," Brooke said.

"Will you two survive without it?"

"Haven't decided." They paddled out into the middle of the lake, moving toward the gondola and Christine who stood on the shore, fist akimbo, goose-egg knob throbbing with fury, obviously peeved that Erik hadn't murdered the cousins.

"I'm waiting!" she yelled.

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A/N:

The Gerry dragged a limp, wet, unconscious Misty into her bedroom and dropped her onto her mattress. Apparently, being locked in a spa house with some one as sexy as him self and a tub full of ice cream induces fainting fits. It also made for sticky messes because ice cream and steam don't mix well.

The Gerry sat at the desk and pondered the silent computer. He tapped the 'on' button and opened Misty's email account, which was bursting at the seams with reviews. He cast a glance at the slumbering Authoress. She wouldn't be waking up anytime soon. Grinning sexily to himself, the Gerry began to write out the review replies…

Joz-Dizturbed: I love the spelling of your name and happy 15th birthday!

Mademoiselle Phantom: A Raoul defender! I'm impressed. About Phillipe…he and Sorelli seem to be enjoying each other, but I'll let you know if they hit the rocks.

Beregond'sGirl: I'm sure Misty would be flattered to hear that you actually took her story with on your trip, which I hope you enjoyed. I believe she said she based Phillipe off a character called Tristan from All Creatures, Great and Small by James Herriot.

Music Angel no. 24601: So, they are letting people into Box 5 now, are they? No doubt Misty will be burning with jealousy when she hears.

garbage disposal: Welcome to the phamily. No need to reply to every chapter. As much as the Authoress appreciates the compliments, suggestions, and critiques, she knows it can't always be done.

Bethany M.: If you could get that Gerard what's-his-name for my part, I'm sure Misty would give your movie idea the green light.

Surrender: Christine gets on my nerves, too. And I agree, running into a naked fop in a dark alley would be a scarring encounter.

Nadiil: Lack of reviews is forgiven. I'm sure Misty would be giggling and grinning if she could read your generous compliments to her brilliance. And having met Erik myself, and being something of Erik myself, I feel at liberty to confirm your suspicions that he is a very difficult character to write.

Aurora: Misty will be pleased as punch to see your illustration as soon as it is ready. And I know she enjoys making people laugh.

Silvermasque: So it was you who gave her the spa house keys and that ice cream! I must say, mademoiselle, that that was the stickiest experience of my fictional life. Though I'm sure Misty won't be complaining.

Solecito: No, Andre and Firmin are straight, if that's your worry. I know plenty of gold-digging ballet rats who can testify to this. The pink envelops are simply more proof of their bad taste. As if Firmin's boufont wasn't proof enough.

Lenis Vox: I'm sure the fo—I mean, the Vicomte would appreciate your compliments. As for cherry lipgloss, I do believe the only time he'll ever wear any is after he's kissed a certain twenty-first century brunette.

Kanya 13666: (the Gerry spreads black roses around unconscious Authoress) I hope you don't mind if I take the credit for the roses, as it will appease her anger when she finds out that I took over the review replies.

Nameless Waif: A fortnight is two weeks. Ah, the Harry Potter perfume. I found dear Misty puzzling over that the other day. Poor thing was very confused.

Priestess of Anubis: (the Gerry holds bag at arm's length and wrinkles his nose) I'll be sure to deliver this to Misty. No doubt that twisted imagination of hers will find plenty of uses for it.

mrs. malfoy: Now, I'm not suppose to tell anyone this, but there will definitely be some EA romance in the next chapter…although I can't say what the romance will entail.

OneWhoSitsWithTheTurtles: I believe Misty was referring to the area of France where Christine and Raoul met. I'm not sure if she was entirely correct, but she was too lazy to confirm it. However, Brittany is indeed a part of France.

Marianne Brandon: (the Gerry stiffens possessively) Misty is an Erik…or, in my case, a Gerik girl, too.

Songwind: Yes, she did mention shorter chapters; though that was the first time she actually followed through with her threat. It seems that most people merely tolerate Raoul.

For anyone who didn't get the 42 reference: According to Deep Thought, the super computer from The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, 42 is the answer to Life, the Universe, and Everything. What the question is is another matter altogether.

"Gerry! What are you doing to my review replies?"

Oh, dear, the beast has awoken.