Disclaimer: No, I don't own any of them. If I did, do you think I'd mutilate them so? Also, I apologize for another Meg's Diary reference, but it was too perfect not to use . . .
Hugs and cookies to all my reviewers – without you, I rather doubt that this fic would be continuing. You are all deities, every one.
After fighting his way through the army of stampeding ballerinas, Philippe's butler's uniform was in something less than pristine condition. This was a major factor in Philippe's decision not to return home just yet – there are few things more terrifying than a disdainful butler. After all, he was here, and he had a permanent reserved box – he might as well stay to face the music, as it were. Besides, if he went home, he'd have to deal with Raoul – and after the day's adventures, Philippe did not feel up to a prolonged chat with his brother.
However, there was a slight problem.
"'Ere," said the usher suspiciously. "You're wearing a butler's uniform, you are. With a sleeve ripped off."
"Yes," said Philippe, trying to remain patient. "Yes, I am. But I am Philippe de Chagny, and I have several people to vouch for me -" He looked around for someone who would know who he was. In the box across the way he spied the insane ballerina who had thrown the book at him earlier. She was eating popcorn. "There!" he said triumphantly. "She knows who I am. Admittedly, she's crazy as a loon, but simple pattern recognition -"
"Yeh," said the usher, "and she's sitting in the Ghost Box, and none of us are mad enough to try and fetch her out of there. And she's skipping off a performance." He glowered. "Little Meg's just lucky she got some daft chap to fill in for her -"
"Some daft chap?" asked Philippe, curious. "What's her role?"
"Nothing a chap ought to be doing," said the usher darkly.
Philippe blinked. A horrible suspicion seized him. "This chap," he said slowly, praying to all the gods he could think of at the moment that he was wildly off-track. "Who would he be?"
"Some posh lad," said the usher carelessly. "He's always hanging around the Daaé girl, and she happened to know he wore the same dress size as Meg, so when she skipped off, he got pushed into the part . . ." He squinted.
Philippe buried his head in his hands. "I can't look," he said, "I can't look . . ."
"There he is!" said the usher cheerfully.
Philippe, unable to resist, slowly looked up. A Gypsy dancer who looked suspiciously like Raoul de Chagny was doing an 'exotic dance' onstage, in a minimum of clothing, and female clothing at that. All the female performers looked about to collapse from happiness. The rather overweight Don Juan just looked like he was about to collapse.
"Now, this I call entertainment," said the usher in satisfaction, pulling out a popcorn box of his own. Then he stopped, remembering Philippe's presence. "Here, you – you've still not showed me you've any right to be in here -"
"Never mind," said Philippe. "I have to go rescue my brother."
"That's your brother?" said the usher, and began to guffaw.
"Thank you for your sympathy," said Philippe, through clenched teeth, and started to run.
He found himself backstage just as Raoul left the scene, to triumphant applause. "Oh!" said his brother, in guilty surprise. "Philippe! What a pleasant -"
"What," growled Philippe, all patience used up, "the bloody hell do you think you're doing?"
"I wear the same dress size as Meg, and she skipped off the show because the Phantom stole her dress," explained Raoul, as if it was the most reasonable thing in the world. "Some disembodied voice told me to take the part – said it would make Christine smile, and she always looks so depressed these days."
Philippe glowered.
Raoul wilted. "I just wanted to cheer her up," he said mournfully. "Is that a crime? To love my girlfriend so much that I'll sacrifice all human dignity for her?"
"You sacrificed all human dignity a long time ago," said Philippe, with a sigh. "Raoul -"
"Excuse me," said a cultured voice, from a few steps away. "Monsieur? I could use a little help -"
Philippe turned around and blinked. A man all in black, wearing a face mask, was standing in the shadows a few steps away. He was currently straining under the weight of an unconscious Don Juan.
"Good lord," said Philippe.
"I think Piangi had a heart attack after that little fool started doing the Macarena," said the man in the mask. "And I have to admit that although I might be strong, my arms aren't quite up to supporting him for this long -"
"It was in the script!" protested Raoul, as Philippe hurried over to grab the unconscious tenor's feet. Then his eyes widened. "Hey – you're the Phantom of the Opera! We put police at the doors to look for you!"
"Obviously, you twit," said the man in the mask, breathing a little easier.
"Wait -" said Raoul, excitedly. "And – and aren't you the same person who told me to take Meg's part!"
"Yes," said the man in the mask wearily. "Yes, I did. Honestly, you'd think after all this you'd recognize my voice when you heard it, but no . . . Where should we put him?"
"Perhaps over on the bed?" suggested Philippe. "Raoul, don't go anywhere until I have a chance to talk with you."
"An excellent idea," said the apparent Phantom of the Opera. "Hopefully he'll recover before the seduction scene. He might find it rather difficult to perform in this state." Together, they lugged him over and deposited him on the bed. Neither of them noticed when the scarf wound around Piangi's neck caught on the Philippe's buttonhook.
The Phantom sighed and started to walk away. "Well, thank you for your assistance," he said to Philippe. "I'd better leave before the fop gathers enough of his wits to call the policemen he ordered -" He turned and started to go.
"Philippe told me not to go anywhere," protested Raoul. "So I can't call the policemen." Nobody paid much attention to him.
"That fop does happen to be my brother," said Philippe mildly. He tried to follow, but could only take a few steps before something pulled him back. He turned around to see what was happening – and his eyes met a horrible sight.
Piangi was dead, accidentally strangled by his own scarf.
"Oh, dear," said the Phantom. "They're going to blame me for this one too, I suppose."
"Hold on a minute, Raoul." Philippe turned to the Phantom. "Shouldn't we tell someone he's dead? I mean, he's the lead in the show, and -"
The Phantom drew himself up to his full height. "There is no way," he proclaimed, "that we're interrupting my opera, just because some tenor had the bad taste to die in the middle of it."
"The show must go on!" cried Raoul, caught up in the excitement. He saw his brother's warning look, and blushed. "Sorry."
"Well, it's a little hard to perform Don Juan without a Don Juan," said Philippe, in some exasperation. "And Raoul, you've done quite enough goings-on for one day, thank you."
As far as Philippe could tell, the Phantom looked worried. "His cue's in a few seconds – oh, just hand me that mask there, and I'll go on instead. You'll take care of the body like a good fellow, won't you?"
Philippe started to protest, but the Phantom of the Opera had already gone onstage.