A/N: What with temporarily banning me for posting script phics and real life suddenly catching up with me, I've found only little time for updating. This the result of weeks of re-writing and wondering 'Am I funny?' followed by 'Whoa, whaddaya mean "funny"? Funny like a clown? Do I amuse you?' and so on, Mob-style, till I started snickering and accidentally deleted half a page.

To read this phic you must love Philippe. Or be successfully converted after reading a few chapters of this and/or Tam Lynne's 'Philippe's Terrible Horrible No Good Very Bad Day' which is extremely well-written, coherent, and funny, much more so then this. Thank you.

Usual warnings: Very OOC. Has little or no direction/plot. Random. Fop-bashing.

Raoul found Christine in her dressing room, brushing her hair in the mirror. He stood in the doorway for a moment, looking at her, before Christine noticed him and turned.

"Oh hello, dear...I just needed to get away from all the excitement for a while." She laughed, then noticed the look on his face. "Raoul...what's wrong?"

Raoul flopped himself on a chair, his lip stuck out. "Erik doesn't like me."

Christine thought about this for a minute. She thought that saying, "Well, duh," was not the most sympathetic thing to say.

"Raoul," she said kindly, "Erik's never liked you. Because you're in love with me -"

"I thought he'd get over that!" Raoul burst out, looking melancholy. "I mean, I don't really like him either but at least I tried to get us to be at least cordial! I pop around to see him sometimes so he won't feel so lonely and bring him my favourite cheeses (1) to sample –"

"That's right, Erik told me about that," Christine replied, trying not to laugh at the memory of Erik desperately attempting to scrape gouda off his organ keys, "He was...rather upset about it. I don't think you should visit him at all..."

"That's what Philippe says," Raoul remarked, "but then again, he says a lot of things." He beamed happily, all previous unhappy thoughts vanishing in the pink clouds of foppy, blissful naivety that passed for his mind. He blinked. "I don't know where he is now...and I haven't given him his birthday present yet!"

After a minute, he looked under one of Christine's perfume bottles, to see if his brother was under there. Nope, he wasn't. Silly fop.

(A/N: I love fop-bashing. Can you tell?)

"Er...will you help me look for him?" Raoul grinned sheepishly.

Christine smiled at his expression. "Of course."

He took her hand eagerly and they disappeared into the hallways.

Philippe walked silently along the corridor, head down, thoughts gleaming and vanishing through his mind like quicksilver. Ballet rats surrounded him, front and back, in a solid mass. He had no idea they were so many of them. The dimly lit corridor echoed with their giggles and whispers, most behind his back. They'd taken so many turns he had no idea where he was.

"We've got our own little common room," Meg said brightly, poking him in the side. "There are so many unused, little-known rooms in this big Opera House, we decided we should have headquarters or something...ok, company halt!"

The girls stopped, looking expectant.

"Right," Meg announced bossily, "this, Monsieur le Comte, is the Point of No Return. Our common room is very near, and we're sworn oaths of secrecy not to divulge where it is, or show any outsiders its location. So: on your knees."

"Why?"

"No questions!"

"But –"

Meg sighed. "You force me take measures I don't want to take, Comte." She promptly kicked him in the shins. Philippe went down on his knees, cursing.

"Tut, tut. Such language for an aristocrat. I'll try and remember it." She giggled. "Ok, nighty-night!"

"What- mmmph!" A hand snaked around from behind, clamping a rag to his face. The Count had just enough time to register it was chloroform before the world dissolved into shades of gray, and finally, nothingness.

"Did we have to do that?" Jammes whined, looking down at Philippe's fallen form. "I mean, he's about six foot three. He's heavy."

"Stop complaining. We swore we would never show anyone where it is, the secret lair of the Ballet Rats!" Meg attempted an evil laugh, which, in all honesty, needed improving.

"Fine." Jammes peered at Philippe, poking him. "Gosh, he's really out."

"Yeah. Heehee...he looks cute, with his eyes closed like that."

Meg snapped her fingers. "Ok, girls, enough mooning! Help me drag him in."

In this deserted corridor, no one noticed a troop of girls struggling to drag a body through a door...

"Well, this has been wonderful day," Erik grumbled, stalking through the Opera's many corridors with Nadir in tow, "First, Christine's singing lesson is interrupted by that foppy little puppy. Then he wrecks my private Box- you know how I like to keep my Box neat and tidy!" He aimed a kick at the shadows.

Nadir decided not to comment. Sometimes, when Erik was in his one of his moods, it was best not to say anything. He could've said 'Well, you did give him those chocolates on purpose,' but his brain voted on keeping all his limbs intact. Also, he had been the one who made them.

There was the soft sound of ballet shoes behind them.

"Monsieurs!" a female voice called from behind them, "Monsieurs!"

Erik turned, raising an eyebrow. La Sorelli bore down on them, fanning herself with a lady's fan. She patted her bun and glared at the Phantom, prodding him in the chest with her finger. Erik flinched.

"What have you done with my Philippe?" she uttered in a near-growl.

"I?" Erik straightened. "I've done nothing. He just rushed out of his own accord. Good day, madame." He then unwisely turned his back on La Sorelli, prima ballerina, armed with a fan.

WHACK!

"Ow!"

"Now you listen to me, M. le Opera Ghost," Sorelli stated, prodding Erik again, who was rubbing his head, "I know your comment about the Viscount made him dash off to find those chocolates again, so you can help me find him or...or else!"

Erik thought it was time to assert his authority as the Phantom of the Opera. "Or else what?"

He wilted slightly as Sorelli burned her green eyes into him. "See this fan? I will personally –"

"Ah. That or else."

"Yes indeed."

"Of course we'll help you," Erik said smoothly, his arm shooting out and gripping Nadir's sleeve as he tried to sidle away, "Whatever we may do for a lady."

"Good. As you know, there's a little more chaos then usual in the Opera House right now...I just saw Carlotta steal some bananas from the kitchens, and I'm warning you, she has a deadly aim with a peel. Firmin and André have barricaded themselves in their office. Gabriel and Lachenel are arguing over the best way to clean up the chandelier, with Rémy trying to calm them down, and it might go all fisticuffs if Gabriel keeps shouting at Lachenel like that: you know how dangerous he is with that riding-whip." She nodded appreciatively as both men flinched.

"So...what's missing here, gentleman? Opera House in shambles, people shouting, stagehands hiding in the cellars..."

"No ballet rats around screaming and running everywhere," Erik said dryly.

"Exactly. It's that worrying. And Raoul did say that they were last seen with the chocolates...and I know where they are. They think they're secretive, but have you ever seen a subtle ballet rat?"

Nadir and Erik looked at each other.

"It's a highly dangerous mission, gentleman," Sorelli said in the tones of one who knows she'll get what she wants and is milking it up for what it's worth, "Two men and a lady against a ballet rat horde...of course, if the Phantom of the Opera is with us, it shouldn't be that hard..."

"That's right," Nadir spoke up brightly, "All the ballet rats live in mortal terror of him..."

"Why, they'll probably flee on sight!" Sorelli said happily.

"Excuse me –"Erik began, but was overrode.

"All he has to do is laugh that laugh of his and they'll go away."

"And I'll have my Philippe back with me," Sorelli sighed, her eyes dreamy.

"If I may –"

"Probably won't even have to flourish his lasso..."

"That's right. Of course, I'll make them sorry they ever crossed this prima ballerina!"

"Excuse me," Erik growled, making Nadir's smile disappear and Sorelli raise a bored eyebrow, "but may I have a say in this?"

Sorelli brushed a curl out of her face, tilted her head and pouted her lips, pretending to think.

"No."

And with that, she grabbed them both and frog-marched them in the direction of the cellars.

"...Nghh...."

"...Did he say something?"

"...Aaghll..."

"I think he's waking up."

"Me too."

"Me three."

"Hellooo? Comte Philippe?"

"Wha..."

"Ooh, he's awake! Kisses now!"

Philippe shook his head and looked around muzzily. There was definitely the Opera's whole orchestra going on inside his skull. His mouth felt dry and cottony. And he was still tied up.

Meg poked his sides. "Do you want me to splash water on you?"

"No!" Philippe sat up, head spinning.

Meg looked like she was seriously considering it, just to see what he would look like wet, then shrugged and set the glass down.

The Count ignored her for the moment, letting his eyes travel around the room. It might have been a storage room: props, sheets, mouldering costumes, furniture, a cracked mirror. What looked like a Venetian Carnaval mask lay on one corner, its wide grin made jagged from a crack sliding down the hooked nose. It leered at him with empty sockets and Philippe felt his pulse speed up.

"You're not listening to me!" Meg poked him. "I said, once you kiss all of us on the lips you're a free man, and you can go marry Sorelli or whatever...oh, and you can have your foppo brother's chocolates back too. They tasted quite nice..." She licked her lips. "Except that some had a funny chemical-y taste."

Philippe sat up, his fear cooling to be replaced by righteous anger.

"Untie me at once. I'm not going to play slave to your childish games!" He struggled against the ties on his wrists.

"Janette tied those quite tight!" Meg said cheerfully, barely hearing him.

"I demand that you let me go."

"Demand, huh?" Meg grinned. "Who do you think you are?....Oh yeah, you're a Count. Well, you're in our Opera house now, in the Ballet Rat lair, and what I say, goes."

"Organised ballet rats?" Philippe said sarcastically, "This is a surprise!"

"Shush," Meg said cheerfully, "Now, tell me what you think of this name: Countess Meg Giry. Or, wait for it, The Comtessa Meg Giry nee dancer Meg Giry..."

"What??"

"Nothing. It was just a little fantasy of mine..." Meg sighed, then perked up. "Kissing time! Pucker up!"

"Kiss! Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!" the other ballet girls chanted, their voices echoing. "Kiss! Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!"

Philippe leaned his face back, terrified, as far as it would go, until he was lying down. Meg's face was coming nearer and nearer...

Their lips touched...

CRASH!

Sorelli, face flushed an inviting crimson, rolled into the room like an angry she-bear. Apparently, Sorelli had decided that most dangerous person in the Opera House was not Erik, but her. Especially after some had stolen her ex. She had her lady's fan in one hand, and set about swatting ballet girls right and left. They dove, squealing, out into the corridor.

"GET YOUR HANDS OFF MY MAN!" she shrieked, flailing with her fan. "You little RATS!"

Meg stood up, scowling at the fact that her special moment was interrupted. She stood her ground. "You can't have him all for yourself!"

Sorelli put the fan in her face. "I'm the prima ballerina here, little Mlle. Giry: if I want a man to myself, I shall!"

"Finders keepers!"

WHACK!

"WAAAAAH! THAT HURT!" Meg dived out, an enraged Sorelli on her tail. Sounds of massacre and shrill squeals echoed in the corridor.

And suddenly, Philippe was alone. Well, not quite.

A shadow loomed up and Erik stood in the middle of the room. He swept his golden eyes over the Count's helpless position and smirked. "She is quite a demon with a fan, isn't she?" He walked around Philippe. "And how did the patriarch of the de Chagny family manage to let himself fall under the little hands of the corps de ballet?"

"I'm not in the mood, M. Erik," Philippe snapped, trying to move his wrists. God, ballet rat fingers were all out of proportion to their strength...

Nadir stuck his head in. "Erik? Sorelli's committing infanticide, I'm pretty sure."

The Phantom waved a careless hand. "Who cares? I never liked the little sods anyway."

"Erik –"

"Oh, Daroga, she can't do much harm with a fan," Erik snapped, then rubbed his head. "...Go and calm her down, will you? The Comte and I...have much to discuss..."

Nadir nodded. Erik had that certain gleam in his eyes that made other people standing opposite suddenly want to be very, very far away. "Of course." The door shut.

Philippe struggled into a sitting position. Erik sat himself down on a crate and looked at his fingernails. "So, Comte. You come in here dragging your brother behind you like some small, excitable hurricane and in less then a few hours my chandelier is smashed, and Opera employees are running amok. Plus your dimwit brother thought I was his teddy bear. What do you have to say to that?"

"I've already paid for half the cost of the chandelier."

"Not the point." Erik tapped his mask. "I've been generous...I gave you that very tasteful suit, and you know the cost of good clothes in Paris. Yet you had to come here with Raoul and ruin everything..."

"He wanted to come and visit Christine," Philippe said icily. "I wasn't going to deny him his happiness."

The Phantom gazed at him for a moment. "No...you never do...do you?"

Pause.

"I never spoilt him. Raoul has character."

"Hah! And access to all your family's money."

"I can't help that."

Another pause.

Erik leaned forward. "I've personally had enough of this mayhem, Comte...mostly because it's not caused by me. I'll cut you a little deal. Leave now with the chocolates...and I'll make sure the managers never put your good name in the papers to be dragged through the mud. After all, I wouldn't want to lose the Opera's richest patrons and you'll not want your honour soiled. Yes?"

"Yes."

"Good man." Erik leaned back. "So...where are they?"

They looked around.

They looked back at each other.

Sorelli swanned in, beaming happily, fluttering her fan. Philippe was surprised it didn't have blood on it. Nadir followed cautiously behind her.

"So nice to be rid of them! Just you and me, Philippe...oh you're still here, Phantom."

"Where are the chocolates?" Erik leapt to his feet. "Tell me where they are, woman!"

Somewhere, a clock ticked.

"Woman?" Sorelli repeated, clicking her tongue. Erik shied away as she raised the fan. "Er, no...I meant La Sorelli...don't you hit me!"

Sorelli paused, her arm raised. "Well, I don't know. Meg and her little horde have run off...shame, really, I was getting into my swing..."

Erik groaned. "I need those chocolates! And Comte, you're to help me find them!"

Sorelli walked over to Philippe and yanked him up. "No he is not! Can't you see what you've done to the poor man? He's been through enough! You can sort out your own..." she blinked at Erik, "...diet problems..."

"La Sorelli," Philippe said heavily, "the sooner I find those chocolates, the sooner Raoul and I can leave...and not have my name mentioned in the papers about the chandelier incident. Please, Sorelli."

Sorelli looked into his blue eyes. "...Oh all right. But only because you asked. And also because he –" she waved her fan at Erik, who flinched, "– really needs to gain some weight. Ok?"

"Yes," Philippe replied gratefully, "I'll thank you later..."

"You will." Sorelli kissed him on the cheek, making him flush. "I'll make sure you don't forget."

Erik slipped behind them and withdrew something from an inner pocket. There was a gleam of metal, and Philippe's bonds slid to the floor. He rubbed his wrists, trying to coax circulation back.

The Phantom slipped his dagger away. "Shall we, Monsieur et Madame?"

Raoul and Christine wandered through the backrooms of the Opera, Raoul asking several people if they'd seen his brother. Most said no. The others said things along the lines of 'Why are you wearing teddy bear cufflinks?' which wasn't very helpful. Raoul leaned against a prop door dejectedly.

"He could be anywhere –agh!" The fake door swung in on his weight, making him crash into a hidden room. There was a sudden hubbub of voices that abruptly ceased.

The Viscount slowly lifted his head. There were tables, and figures at them, and at the side, a bar. Props were piled in corners, and masks hung from the wall. He got to his feet, pulling Christine protectively to his side.

"Er...we'll just... be leaving, then..."

"It's Vicomte Raoul de Chagny, isn't?" came a mild voice. "Weren't you on top of the chandelier?"

Raoul turned, meeting Rémy's gaze, who was standing a few feet from him, holding a wine bottle and a few glasses in his hands. He looked only slightly surprised. When you're the private secretary of the Paris Opera House, working for André and Firmin, you'd better be used to surprises.

"Yes." Raoul blinked, confused.

"What is this place?" Christine asked, running her eyes over the tables. She recognised many minor employees, as well as several dancers, actors, singers, administrative staff, and a few hunched shapes that might have been trap-door shutters. At the bar, the Ratcatcher was showing the bartender what you could do with a rat and a slice of lemon. (A/N: Don't ask.)

Rémy sighed. "You might guess, mam'selle: you've worked in this madhouse long enough. Sometimes you want somewhere private to get away from it all, yes?"

"I suppose so." Christine blinked, she was having a blonde moment. "Have you seen Philippe de Chagny, Rémy?"

"No..."

Raoul remembered what he forgot. "Have you seen my chocolates?" he asked brightly.

"What...? Oh, those. Yes, all too recently." Rémy turned and walked through some tables, Raoul tagging along after him with Christine.

"Company, gentleman," the secretary announced as he stopped at a low table in a corner, setting down his load. The men talking around it looked up.

"Good show, Rémy," Gabriel said amiably, reaching for a glass. "Sauvignon, anyone?"

But the Viscount saw what he'd been looking for all along, lying in the middle of the table amidst newspapers and cards: his chocolates!

He reached for them.

The air cracked.

THWACK!
"Ow!"

Raoul danced around, eyes bugging, wringing his smarting hand. It was like being rapped across the knuckles with a metal switch.

"What do you think you're doing, man?" Lachenel said coolly, withdrawing his whip. "Taking without asking politely? Tsk, tsk. The things they teach young aristocrats these days – "

"Nnngh! Those – are – my – chocolates - sir!" Raoul groaned, but politely.

"Don't see the de Chagny crest on them."

"No need for that, Lachenel, old boy," Gabriel mumbled, swilling his glass. "It's not like we want them..."

"We were walking along, minding our own business, when we were suddenly trampled by ballet rats," Rémy put in, "Little Meg Giry threw this in our direction...well, at my head."

"And I've heard stories about these chocolates: rumour spreads fast through the Opera." Lachenel the riding-master flicked his whip across his knee. "Dangerous. Very dangerous. Can't be had, letting them fall into – "He glanced at Raoul, "– such well-manicured hands."

There was a barely audible snicker from Gabriel.

"And –Gods, Rémy, I wanted vermouth, not wine!"

"Well, you said – "

"But they're mine," Raoul whined, forgetting that a coarse-haired horsewhip was a foot away from him, "they're my birthday present. Christine, tell them!"

"Um," Christine said nervously as Lachenel steepled his fingers, "they were a present, Monsieurs...and, um...you didn't eat any, did you?"

"Yes," Gabriel said, sniffing his glass, "there weren't a lot left. I ate the hazelnut fudge and -"

"And wasn't it funny?" Lachenel smirked. "Gabriel thought he was a small, nocturnal marsupial. We called him Gabber. He wouldn't stop chittering and trying to hide under the table. Or trying to stuff peanuts into his-"

"That was before we knew what they were," Rémy mumbled, sitting down.

"Bad taste, Lachenel," Gabriel snapped. He flinched as Lachenel lifted his whip. "Anyway, I got better!"

"I really, really want my chocolates –"Raoul began plaintively, when muffled voices were heard outside.

"Oh, here. Well, of course I know about this place. I'm a prima ballerina...and they make such lovely champagne cocktails, too." Sorelli's voice could be heard through the door. "I'm sure the Vicomte's precious little sweets are in here...after all, I have a woman's intuition."

The door swung open. La Sorelli glided in, Nadir and Philippe trailing in after her. The dancer looked around confidently.

"Well, I do believe –"

Erik stepped through the doorway.

"The Opera Ghost!" some singers shrieked, and fainted dead away. Erik crossed his arms, looking smug.

"Philippe!" Raoul called excitedly, seeing his somewhat more haggard brother. He waved his hand frantically. "Philippe! I've found the chocolates! Isn't that wonderful? I think – "

Philippe stopped Erik from diving towards Raoul. "I'll get them myself, thank you, Monsieur!" He eased him back. Everyone in the bar was watching them keenly. This promised to be good entertainment.

"Now, Raoul –"Philippe spoke in the careful tones a person uses to persuade another person to drop a loaded gun, "- I want you to give me those chocolates. And then we're going home, so I can find something for my headache." He paused. "And you're de-decorating the kitchen."

"Why?" Raoul burbled, happy that things were going along so well at last, "We can all have a drink here and I can try this crème de menthe –"

"No." The Count passed a hand across his face. "Just. Please. Do what I say. Raoul."

If Raoul had been a bunny – which he might have been in some previous carnation – his ears would've drooped. "Oh...all right, then." He held them out.

Sorelli swept over and snatched them away. "Finally!" She walked back and shoved them into Erik's hands. "There! I never thought you for a chocoholic – eat them, though, because you're definitely a bit peaky."

In the stunned silence that followed she tilted her head and sighed happily. "I love worrying about other people's diet problems, don't you?" She patted Erik on the shoulder. "Come in here on Friday nights – it's Roast Night. And free drinks six till eight. If you ever need any advice – well, don't go to Carlotta -"

"Er, Sorelli," Christine began timidly, as Raoul went a funny colour, "they're not Erik's. They were Raoul's and maybe he'd like them back..."

Erik put the chocolates in Philippe's hands. "There. The Comte has them. Now remember our deal? You leave right now with Raoul and I'll pay a visit to the managers – "

"I have a better idea!" Sorelli announced, who was not a woman to let her opinions go unnoticed, "Raoul and Christine can go toddle off back to the de Chagny estate with the chocolates and...whatever. And Philippe and I –"here she put an arm around his waist, "- can go for a nice birthday dinner, to have enlightened discussion, delicious food, and an enjoyable evening all around...and if I end up taking him back to my dressing room for a special birthday gift, so be it..."

"Sounds good," Nadir said cheerfully, winking at Philippe and digging him in the ribs with an elbow. Erik rolled his eyes and Christine looked blank.

Raoul was immediately cheered. He had the chocolates, and most importantly, Christine. Well, Christine and then most importantly the chocolates. Either way, it was a win-win situation.

"Fine," Erik spat, seeing Raoul give a triumphant smirk in his direction, "Fine...except for one minuscule detail." He strode over to the couple, authority in every step. "Christine is coming with me."

He and Raoul looked at each other. Sorelli whistled, Christine and Nadir looked terrified, and Philippe clapped a hand to his forehead in annoyance, then started wincing as his concussed head complained. Everyone else in the bar brightened: at last, a fight! Now this was theatre!

"Twenty francs on Raoul," Gabriel muttered sidelong to Lachenel, not taking his eyes off the two men, "Fear can make you edgy."

"I'll take that. Thirty says the Opera Ghost wins – he has that lasso. Rémy, write this down, will you?" Lachenel flicked his whip. This was promising to be most interesting.

Philippe slumped in a chair and put his aching head in his hands. Why couldn't he have a normal birthday...?

(1) This is a rather long story. So here we go. Phantomessrose1881 knows this from our roleplays :D Once, Philippe and Raoul went to Siena, Italy, to visit some aristocratic friends of the family and generally have a jolly good holiday, don'tcherknow. Philippe won a rather large sum of money betting on the local horserace that takes place in Siena, and despite his protests, Raoul decided to spend it all on Italian cheese. He loves cheese. He blew all the winnings on it. He went on a cheese-eating binge and was copiously sick on Philippe's shoes. To make a long story short, Raoul brought all the extra cheese back to their estate in Paris so he could eat the rest when he felt better. Cheese, being cheese, is smelly and eventually stunk out the whole estate. Everywhere Philippe and Raoul went, they smelt of matured Italian cheddar. No one wanted to walk on the same side of the street as them. It took ages to air everything out. Now Philippe goes twitchy if he even sees a bit of cheese, while Raoul will happily scoff it all up. Here endeth the footnote.

A/N: I feel soo guilty now. Don't worry, things will get better...eventually. :D Please review!