A/N: Another one-shot, furthering the fine art of Raoul-bashing. I apologize for the amount of commas in this one, but as I was reading Douglas Adams again and he always has that effect on me, they couldn't quite be avoided.

The Uncontended Title

It was a day like any other, except for the fact that it was hailing, which didn't happen often. And, of course, allowing for it being Thursday, which means that a day like it only came along once a week. Other than that, it was a remarkably common-place and average twenty-four hour period, full of the usual joys and sorrows and trials and trivialities and meals and teeth-brushing and dog-walking.

On this particular day, at about the noon hour, or perhaps slightly afterwards to make room for lunch and a short nap, which has long been held to be the chief aid to digestion known to man, especially if you're eating French food, which, this being France, was nearly unavoidable, a carriage pulled up in front of the Opera Populaire and a young man got out.

He was not staggeringly handsome, or staggeringly charming, or staggeringly intelligent, but he was staggeringly wealthy, and this fact alone made up for a whole host of other ills, such as his tendency to snort loudly and repeatedly while laughing, his frequenting half the call-girls in the city, and his possession of one of the most mousy ponytails this side of Colonial America. He was the Vicomte de Chagny and was waiting, mostly patiently, for his brother to die so that he might inherit the title of Count, which, he thought, sounded much more impressive. He had a large house with a stable full of fine white horses and a nominal girlfriend named Angelica who had secretly been seeing her own housemaid.

He tripped on his way out of the carriage and managed, just barely, to regain his balance after stumbling for a few feet. The doorman watched him impassively. The Vicomte de Chagny stood up straight, took a deep breath, and tugged his jacket down over his chest— it was a stretch. Then he headed steadily for the huge double doors were the main entrance to the Opera House. After rebounding off them a few times he finally figured out the admittedly rather complicated handle, and gained entrance.

The Opera House was undeniably impressive, if you like that sort of thing. There had apparently been a sale on gold paint— everything was dusted with gilding, including stairs, the attendants, the floor, the ceiling, and the obligatory statues of naked women. Raoul breathed in deeply for a few moments, smiling to himself, before coughing on the lungful of gold dust that he'd inhaled.

The managers came bustling up to him, cheerfully and zealously trying to impress their heterosexuality on everyone in sight and failing rather miserably.

"We're in the middle of a rehearsal—"

"A rehearsal with girls."

"Girls, lots of girls."

"We love girls."

"Yes, indeed."

"I see," said Raoul, though he didn't. "Is it possible that I might be able to meet some of them?"

"Well, we would introduce you except—"

"We want them for ourselves."

"Yes, that's it."

"Girls."

"We love girls."

"I see," said Raoul again because, as has elsewhere been mentioned, the chief function of a fop's mind is to make his mouth repeat everything several times. This leads to embarrassment sometimes when they can't remember what it was they said last, and this is how lines like, "Clearly, madame, genius has turned to madness," get written. "Is it possible I might be able to meet one of them?"

"One of them?"

"Just one. I don't ask much."

"Which one?"

"Any one, I don't care. I came here to inspect the opera house, monsieurs, and an opera house is only as good as the girls in it. Or, at least, that's what my father told me."

Firmin and Andre exchanged glances. The late Comte, whose name had been Hurlbert or Francois or something equally regrettable, had had a certain reputation about town. However, the present Vicomte was blinking at them in the pleasant manner of an innocent who is none too intelligent, and in their kindness they decided not to enlighten him.

"Right this way," said Firmin. Each manager took an arm, and in this manner they led him to the stage, chatting amiably all the way.

"They say there's a ghost here, you know," said Firmin.

"A ghost?" said Raoul.

"Yes, a ghost."

"A ghost," affirmed Andre.

"Huh," said Raoul, "a ghost."

"Yes, a ghost."

"A ghost, yes."

"Huh."

"Huh."

"Huh."

"And, er, how do you know he is a ghost, then?"

"Sorry, didn't catch that, what did you just say?"

"How, er, do you know that, er, he's a ghost, then?"

"Oh, that's easy. He wears evening dress all the time."

There was a slight pause in the conversation and then Raoul said, frowning as he tried to comprehend, "Evening dress?"

"Yes, monsieur."

"But I thought ghosts were known for appearing all in white, or something like that— sheets, you know."

"Sheets?" said Andre.

"Sheets?" said Firmin.

"Sheets," said Raoul. "And isn't evening wear rather popular at the opera? I know my dressing gown is rather trend-setting, but I haven't been here long enough for it to catch on."

"Oh, is that a dressing gown? I was going to say, what a smashing frock you have on," said Firmin pleasantly.

"Ooh, yes, simply lovely," agreed Andre.

"Er, thank you," said Raoul uncomfortably. "But it is a dressing gown. I forgot to put on my trousers and shirt, you see."

"Yes, yes, of course, perfectly understandable," said Firmin. "But," he urged, "don't you find that skirts are simply more comfortable? Much less confining."

"Much," said Andre definitely.

"Er, about this ghost," said Raoul, anxiously trying to change the subject. "I don't suppose you've ever confronted him?"

"No, no, as a matter of fact we personally have never seen him."

"And I suppose where he lives is a well-guarded secret."

"Oh, no," said Andre immediately. "Oh, no, we know that. To reach the ghost's home, you go through the looking glass in Miss Daae's dressing room, down the creepy corridor, down the winding staircase, take the first horse on the left, hop into the gondola, pass under the archway, count the frightening statues on your right and then take the first left after you reach the tenth one, and there you are at the lair beyond the lake."

"Er— lake?" said Raoul, who was utterly unable to assimilate more than three words at a time, a time-honored trademark of the foppish mind.

"Oh, yes, the entire basement's flooded."

"Sorry, but isn't that terribly unhygienic?"

"Oh, we pulled the dead bodies out last week and we've kept the water squeaky clean ever since."

"Well, doesn't that make things a bit— damp?" Raoul went on, flustered.

"Of course, you silly-billy," said Andre, patting his arm. "Its water. That's what water does."

"You see, they didn't tell us that the cellars were flooded until after we'd signed the contract," explained Firmin. "The weasels."

"Weasels!" agreed Andre in a kind of explosive squeak.

"Anyway, tell us about yourself, monsieur. All we know is what we saw in your advertisement."

"Well," Raoul began, "like I said in the advert, I was looking for something to spend some money on so I felt like I was doing something with my life. A purpose, so to speak. I'd already been contacted by a few people before you two— one was this nice man, Mr. Gates, who wanted to talk to me about computer technology, but I had him thrown out of the manse, you see. He was talking crazy talk. And then there was this Mr. Cowell, who wanted to talk to me about a scheme he had for auditioning singers and making fun of them. It sounded interesting, but I didn't see how it would be interesting to anyone else, so I had him fed to the crocodiles. And, let me see, who else— ah yes, a few different people wanted me to finance their political careers, and a young woman, Mademoiselle da Shea, came and begged me to make an appearance in a story she was writing, which I didn't think was quite possible, and so I handed her off to my chief torturer. She was beginning to scream rather loudly as I left, and I am anxious to get back and watch proceedings."

The managers had gone rather pale by this time and were gulping nervously like anxious fish.

"Well," said Firmin, faintly, "I'm glad you approved of our little venture."

"Quite," said Raoul easily. "You know, I feel compelled to tell you, gentlemen, as I came here this morning— a trip which, incidentally, took me past Ye Olde Pub and reminded me that I really must send my brother in to pay my bill— and then I saw a butterfly and, in trying to catch it, fell out of the carriage— and then I was nearly run over by a drove of sheep— is it a drove? perhaps it's a herd— anyway there were a bloody lot of them— and one of them ate the butterfly— and I found a penny— and as I was bending over to pick it up my hair got caught in the spokes of the carriage wheel and I was tugged along and forced to do a series of undignified somersaults before the driver finally heard my screams and stopped— oh my, was that only this morning? It seems so long ago. Good times, good times—" He shook himself out of it and went on. "Anyway, as I was saying some time ago, as I came here this morning I was driven by a chauffeur. And also by this strange feeling that I would meet someone here who would change my life forever."

Both Firmin and Andre looked outrageously pleased, and then just outraged at each other.

"Why would he be talking about you?"

"Well, it makes more sense than him talking about you! I'm younger."

"I'm prettier."

"I play the flute."

"I invented the aerosol spray can!"

"What? You did not! You liar!"

"I am not a liar, you twit!"

"Hobo!"

"Hoodlum!"

"Diva!"

"Slut!"

"Girls! Girls!" said Raoul.

"Raoul!"

The voice came from to one side, and all three whirled around to see who it belonged to. She was young, and she was pretty, and her mouth gaped open widely in a manner that suggested it was used to the position and wasn't willing or likely to change anytime soon. Her eyes looked misty and slightly drugged, and she obviously recognized Raoul—

"Raoul!"

—because she kept calling him by name.

Raoul, however, didn't appear to recognize her. He glanced at her and frowned. "Do I know you?"

"It is I!"

"I?"

"I!"

"Who is I?"

"I is Christine Daae!"

"Is I?"

"Yes I is!"

"Not that this isn't fascinating," broke in Andre, "because it is, really it is. But could we possibly switch to something just a bit more grammatical? My brain is curling up in a fetal position in one corner of my skull."

"I am Christine Daae," said Christine Daae obligingly. "We knew each other when we were little. We did an awful lot of kissing under the old apple tree, so I guess you could say we were childhood sweethearts."

Raoul blinked at her blankly.

"Were we?"

"You rescued my scarf from the ocean."

Raoul frowned. "No. No, I don't think so, that doesn't sound like me at all. You must be thinking of some other Raoul de Chagny."

"But Raoul—" said Christine, her dark eyes filling with tears. "You told me you loved me."

"I tell that to all sorts of people," said Raoul dismissively. "I told that to my cleaning lady last week. You shouldn't assume that I mean anything by it."

Christine stomped her foot and fled in tears. In short order she was being comforted by a man in a mask, so that was alright.

Meanwhile, Firmin and Andre took it upon themselves to introduce Raoul to Carlotta di Pissi, the diva in residence. She responded in true di Pissi style, arching her neck and batting her eyelashes , sticking her nose in the air and unwittingly flashing some nosehairs which her personal stylist had overlooked in his rush to get out of the room before he threw up.

"Lovely to meet," said Raoul, giving an elegant bow with enormous dramatic flourishes of both hands, so much so that he lost his place and had to go through the whole thing again, backwards, before he finished, "you."

"Chaaaahmed," said Carlotta.

Raoul bent over her hand. She lifted it so he could kiss it and hit him in the mouth. He let out an unintelligible cry and clutched at the lower half of his face.

"He loves me," said Carlotta to the room at large, and the room at large said, "Uh—"

Eventually Raoul recovered, though tears were seeping out of the corners of his eyes, and turned a pained smile on the diva. "You're La Carlotta, are you not?"

"That'sa my name, signore, don't wear-a it out," she said, simpering from underneath elegantly curled eyebrows.

"Ah. I had heard that there was a Spanish diva here."

"That was in an-othah version, signore. For theese one, the powers that be decid-ed that Italian chicks trump Spanish ones. We are, 'ow you say, more zexy."

"Zexy?"

"Si, signore. Zexy."

"Zexy."

"Why you repeat-a me, signore? You don't understand perfectly good English?"

"I find it charming," said Raoul. This didn't really answer her question, and he knew it, but she didn't and so she just smiled and simpered some more. "Do you know, I think you could be the one."

"What one?"

"The one."

"Thee one?"

"Yes, the one."

"Thee one, as opposed to some othah one who is-a notta thee one?"

"Oui, signorina."

"'Ou 'ad me at 'hello,'" she crooned, batting her eyelashes again.

"Er— I don't believe I said hello."

"Well then you had mee at whatevah you said."

"I think we were meant for each other."

"I theenk so too. Look at us. You have two hands— I have two hands. You have a ponytail— I have a ponytail. You have a fake accent— I have a fake accent. You breathe— I breathe. You have money— I don't. It was-a meant to be."

"Of course," said Raoul, almost sincerely, and turned to the managers. "If you don't mind, I'm going to take the diva off your hands for a bit. Possibly for longer."

Andre and Firmin waved at him and made, "Isn't that nice," noises. Once Raoul and Carlotta had left, they turned to each other.

"Well that was fast, wasn't it?"

"This whole morning," said Firmin definitely, "has felt like one long run-up at a very short jump."

"I suppose that's what happens when there isn't really a plot."

"Yes, I suppose so."

There was a pause.

"Still," said Andre, "at least we have a benefactor, a diva-delighter, and a resident fop all in one."

"Yes," agreed Firmin with a sigh. "And I should think that title would go uncontended for a good long while."

"One can only hope," said Andre, and together they went to open a bottle of celebratory champagne.