Poodle-Shaped Egg Dribbles

by Cherusha

Summary:Oh noes! Raoul has just woken up from the worst night ever! Meanwhile, Erik has just woken up from the worst night ever!
(humor; no pairings, really)

Raoul woke up to a champion Hungarian wrestler spiritedly hacking away at his cranium with a very dull axe.

At least that's what it felt like.

What the devil was he doing last night…he remembered going to a dinner party – one of those patrician social obligations he had been pressed to attend, hosted by none other than France's most notorious socialite: Haris Pilton. Raoul screwed up his face in distaste at the memory of Haris, drunk off his rocker, crooning in screechy falsetto to Act II of Hannibal, all the while wearing nothing but a bustle. A more wretched hive of decadence and depravity you will not find. Well, that was one night he was never going to get back.

But why is it so dark in here? thought Raoul, trying to feel for his nightstand. He sat up to get a better reach of things and immediately regretted the action as a nauseating sensation of tiny gypsies dancing a merry jig on his head sprung forth with a vengeance. His stiffened joints throbbed painfully as he moved, and he groaned – a deep, booming groan.

Hmmm, that was odd. I don't remember my voice sounding quite this way. Raoul twisted and turned in his sheets. I don't remember my room being quite this drafty either.

He coughed as angry dust mites assailed him. Eugh, or this musty!

And then it hit him like a practiced soprano hitting a chord high enough to shatter fine glass. This ISN'T my room! What was this? Another one of Haris's sick jokes?

"Haris!" he shouted, his booming voice echoing off of…cavern walls?

Oh no, oh no, oh no. Just what had he been drinking last night? The last thing he remembered was watching a band of traveling gypsies performing "Hide The Monkey" when all of a sudden he had been overcome with queasiness and ended up collapsing into a corner somewhere.

Raoul jumped off the bed, howling as his toe stubbed on to something hard and pointy. Swearing, he limped over to a table – of some sort – to try and find a flint or something to light the candles with.

Ah, a match. Finally.

After several strikes and mumbled curses later, candle finally lit. He spun around, darting looks this way and that, to ascertain where in the blazes he was. Just then, he caught a glimpse of a tall figure at the opposite end of the room. Disheveled, shirt open, pristine white mask covering one half of his face…

"Aaack!" Raoul screamed.

The Phantom screamed back. In fact, they both screamed at the exact same time.

Copycat.

In fact, even as Raoul jumped back and fell into a fighting stance, the Phantom did so as well. In fact, they seemed to be separated by some sort of glass partition.

In fact…

"Aaaaaack!" Raoul screamed as he had never screamed before.

"Wakey, wakey!"

What the…? Erik squinted open an eye only to find the world's oddest looking man (himself excluded of course) staring down at him with a goofy grin plastered clownishly onto his overly powdered face. Oh God, what had he been drinking last night?

"Begone, evil specter of the night!" he commanded in his most intimidating voice. Funny. It doesn't sound nearly as threatening as before.

The specter just giggled at him. "Oh darling, I do so love it when you tease."

Erik flashed him his most evilest of evil eyes.

But that only produced another bout of ridiculous giggling, more stupid than the last, and the specter leaned down to tap Erik's nose with his finger. Erik would have strangled the impudent twit, evil apparition or not, with his bare hands at that moment – except that at that moment his whole body felt like it had been weighed down by a lead block. Erik suspected he would even have difficulty lifting a finger, much less calling upon enough physical strength to crush that sorry windpipe.

"Well, I have to be off soon," announced said giggling imbecile. "I must get ready for Mother's luncheon with the emissary from Algeria. Frightful bore it's going to be, but I don't suppose you'd be willing to keep me company."

With that, the imbecile sashayed from the room, and only then did Erik made a startling realization. The man was wearing nothing but a bustle! "I've really lost it this time," he moaned despairingly, rubbing his tired face.

Discovery number two: What used to be hideously deformed, what used to be twisted with fleshy protrusions and sunken lesions, was now smooth and flawless and pleasantly soft to the touch.

Could it be? wondered Erik as he caressed the fleshy plane of his cheek. Could it be that I am actually healed? Is that farcical human in the bustle actually a fairy come down from heaven to grant me my wish? Are we all actually part of some divine plan and not merely insignificant nothings running wild into the vastness of space? Could it beeee?

While Erik was reflecting on this new twist of fate (as well as further metaphysical ruminations on the meaning of life, the universe, and everything), the "fairy" in question "bustled" in again – only this time without a bustle. De-powdered and sharply dressed in an expensive looking dinner suit, he transformed into rather a handsome young man.

"If you need anything, just ring for the servants. I'm sure Gerard will give you a ride home," said the young man, snapping on a pair of riding gloves.

He paused at the entrance and smiled slyly. "You know, it's a shame you're still only into birds, Raoul. We would've had fun."

And that was most definitely a name Erik had least expected to hear. The dreaded wheels turned in his head even as his mouth formed the words. "What…did…you…call…me?"

"Your name, silly! My, you really did drink one too many of my mixers last night. I'll have to keep a closer eye on you next time." And winking conspiratorially at Erik, he mouthed, "Fare thee well, ma cherie."

Alone once more, Erik did not know whether to laugh or to cry. Oh, to be granted a second chance, but to be granted one with none other than the body of his sworn enemy! Ah, Fate is a cruel mistress!

A small voice in the back of his head told him he was being a big drama queen again, but he metaphorically punjabbed it into silence. Quality brooding time was what had longe sustained Erik from cracking completely. He liked to call it "Erik's alone time," upon which he spent hours and hours torturing himself over Christine, and more recently, over Christine's idiot boyfriend.

A boyfriend who he now was…!

The small voice in his head "hrmphed" quite smugly. Yesss, thought Erik ignoring its self-satisfied jab. Perhaps it IS time for me to live a little.

With a now not-so-great roar, he lifted himself off the couch – and promptly fell to the floor with a girlish scream. Apparently one's legs had to be de-wobblefied first before one can start "letting loose with life," so to speak. But Erik was all about the baby steps.

Somewhere behind him a servant snickered at his expense.

"Aha! Success!"

Raoul (erstwhile a respectable vicomte, now a psychotic masked madman bearing a slight limp) pushed open the mirror and hobbled his way into the dressing room of Miss Christine Daae. The poor sod had literally spent hours wandering around in circles, trying to figure a way out. He couldn't see a thing in that mask.

Nearby sounds of instruments screeching, stage managers shouting and divas tantrum-ing meant some sort of rehearsal was in progress, which meant Raoul would be safely alone in this room for a while at least. He checked off his mental checklist. Let's see: Escape from dungeons. Okay got that done. Now, freak out first or go find what'shername first and then freak out? Tough choices.

During his hours of acquainting himself with the walls and corridors of the Phantom's manifold passageways, Raoul had vowed to bide by a set of self-initiated guidelines:

Thou shalt remain sane for as long as possible.

Thou shalt find a way to possess own body again.

Thou shalt avoid Christine at all costs.

Thou shalt seek help from the wise.

Thou shalt seek revenge on the sonofabitch who thought up this very funny joke by skewering him to pieces and roasting him over a large open fire!

Raoul had no idea where he summoned up the rage to pencil in that last rule.

But never mind that (not yet at least), first he needed help. Desperately. Being, until recently, a sheltered aristocrat living for the most part under the tender but overly protective care of his friends and family, he didn't know the first thing about repossessing one's body. And since what'shername the ballet mistress seemed to be in tune with all sorts of mystic mumbo jumbo, well it sounded quite logical to seek her help. Well, she'd be the closest weirdo he could find anyway.

And, oh God, what OF his body at this very moment? The natural conclusion would be that the Phantom was currently possessing his body and wrecking murderous havoc on the general Parisian populace. Immediately, his blood froze to ice. They would have him – well, his body – locked away in an asylum and then he'd be stuck with this godforsaken body for the rest of his life. He could just imagine the piles of bodies strewn like decorative art over Haris's lavish living room. Oh, and Haris himself! Given Haris's nature and given what he knew of the Phantom's nature, it was almost certain that a meeting of the two would erupt like Mount Helena on a very bad day. It's a shame, too. I always liked Haris. He was a good sort, even if he was the fruitiest fig tree in France.

Meanwhile, the small voice that would normally have pointed out how Raoul might be exaggerating just a leeetle decided it was prime time for a lunch break, thereby leaving Raoul to fret with his own devices. Not being a master of stealth and agility, especially while also wearing a cumbersome cape, he stumbled through the door and right into an extremely frustrated stage manager who was rushing past.

Yelping, Raoul quickly stepped back and offered his hand. "I'm so sorry. Here, are you all right, monsieur?"

The irritable and deeply fatigued stage manager thwapped his hand away. "What are you doing out here, Man, when you should be in position on stage along with the rest of the chorus?"

"But…but, monsieur, I'm…"

"No buts! Now let's get a move on before someone has enough sense to fire you for your tardiness!"

And in the next second, Raoul was grabbed by the arm and led forcefully down to the stage.

"Uh oh," said Raoul, trailing after the stage manage. "I have a bad feeling about this."

From the inside of Haris's posh carriage, Erik instructed Gerard, Haris's Scottish driver, to deliver him to the Parisian Opera House instead.

"You sure, sir?" said Gerard. "Comtesse de Chagny mus' beh prehtteh worriehd by now."

She could use the break, thought Erik, rolling his eyes. He could just imagine what an exasperatingly perfect, good little boy his nemesis had been.

"Hehre weh are, sir," said Gerard as the carriage pulled up along the entrance to the opera house. Erik smirked evilly at the sight.

I return…Triumphant!

He then threw back his head and laughed (like someone trying to aim for the mighty roar of Ghengkis Khan and only succeeding with hyena-like cackle of a minor Bond villain).

Gerard, failing to stifle his snickering, ended up having to bend over for lack of breath.

I really need to work out this body's limitations, sighed Erik.

Monsieur Renee Merlot Cabernet Lilliputian de Pamplemousse (son of the famous boxer and drunkard Hans de Pamplemousse) was extremely agitated. Only a few seconds ago, he was merely mostly agitated, and within a few more seconds he would most likely be somewhere in the plane of want-to-snap-necks agitated. This was their thirty-third run through of the scene where dancers are supposed to imitate delicate flowers swaying with the wind, and the thirty-third time that tall doofus in the dorky cape had missed his step, bumped into the dancer beside him, and sent the whole chorus collapsing against each other like a line of dominos.

"No!" screamed the irascible M. Pamplemousse, tearing out fistfuls of hair. "You have disrupted my genius for the last time! C'est impossible that I continue like this. Step into the light, Monsieur! Yes, you, with the potato head!"

Someone in the very back row shifted embarrassedly. "Um…er…I, ahem, have an appointment with…head specialist this afternoon, so I should really…get going…"

"Not so fast!" shrieked Pamplemousse, at a pitch even sopranos would be envious of. "Come here this instant!"

Slowly, like a schoolboy facing the headmaster's discipline ruler, Raoul shuffled into the limelight, partially concealing his face with the ends of his cape.

Pamplemousse heaved a sigh of great suffering. "And why, are you shielding you face in that ridiculous manner, Monsieur? Come now, my good man, no need for embarrassment."

Raoul blurted out the first answer that came to him. "Bad sunburn."

"I see. And the fact that it's been nothing but fog over Paris for the past five days?"

"Sensitive skin." He paused. "Um. Really sensitive skin?"

Pamplemousse crossed his arms and remained unimpressed.

"Well…if you insist…" Raoul dropped his hands, revealing the pristine white mask, and closing his eyes and standing absolutely still, awaited the screams of horror that were sure to follow.

Instead he waited in silence as seconds ticked by. And waited. And waited. And then his leg started to itch. Well now, this is just getting awkward, thought Raoul.

Then came, in a voice much too calm (like one of those voices where the person is just seconds away from flying into a complete rage), "Monsieur. What. Is. The. Meaning. Of. This. Display?"

Raoul opened his eyes again to see Pamplemousse, redder than a tomato and with smoke practically coming out of his ears, staring down at him like he would see him pulverized to dust.

"Hunh?" he said, dumbly.

Pamplemousse clenched his fists and gritted his teeth. "Do you know how much money it took to repair this opera house? Do you even CARE, Monsieur? No. Of course you don't. You kids today, with your fancy, hippy folk musics. No respect for the great, classical opera! And dressing up like the Opera Ghost just to look cool in front of your friends! Have you no decency, sir?"

"No, no, no!" Raoul shook his hands wildly in an effort to quell the extremely irate Pamplemousse. "No. A THOUSAND times, no. I have much respect for the opera. I love the opera. I very much admire the opera. I-I would never think to insult the opera. I think that it's a fine institution…"

"Oh, for GOD'S SAKE!" someone yelled from the other end of the theater.

Funny, Raoul thought. That voice sounds exactly like mine.

For the past five minutes, Erik had been watching the scene unfolding in front of him and was getting angrier and angrier by the second. But it was when the imposter in his body started stammering away, all apologetic-like, that he couldn't contain himself any longer. He would not see this brat! singlehandedly ruin, in a matter of minutes, the reputation he had spent years carefully building up.

"Oh, for GOD'S SAKE! Can't you idiots see that this is The Phantom?"

There was an eerie moment of silence. Then everybody started screaming and pushing each other out of the way in an effort to get out of the theater. The oncoming sound was not unlike that of a herd of elephants stomping after the last bag of peanuts (or a herd of fangirls chasing after this one English chap called Bloom). As the land rush came barreling towards the back entrance, Erik primly stepped out of their way and smirked.

Still got it!

But the smirk was quickly wiped off his face when he saw who he – who the imposter – was left alone onstage with.

"Oh, Angel!" Christine was saying breathlessly, "You came back to Christine! Christine was afraid you might never again teach the ways of your voicey-voice music!"

"I can't believe you call that fiend – er, I mean ME – an angel!" Raoul's Erik-face looked extremely put out.

"But Angel! Isn't that what you wanted Christine to say whenever you appeared to watch me in my dressing room?"

Lech, thought Raoul. At least he didn't ask to be called the Scourge of Europe™.

"Christine, listen to your…Angel. You have got to stay away from me. I'm a bad seed. A terrible, lecherous seed. Stay far, far away."

Tears welled up in Christine's eyes. "But why, Angel? Why are you abandoning Christine?"

"Why do you keep referring to yourself in the third person?"

"Because she can! That's why!" said someone from the back of the theater, whose voice was at the same time commanding yet soft-spoken.

Christine gasped. "It's Rawl!"

"Rah-wooul," enunciated Raoul. "Believe it or not, there's two syllables." It still annoyed him after all these years that Christine could never pronounce his name correctly.

"Rawl! Have you come to visit Christine?" Christine said, smiling brightly.

"Of course, darling. Is that rude man bothering you?"

"Hey!" interjected Raoul. "How dare you call me rude in front of Christine, you rude, conniving, sick b------."

"Don't you start with me," retorted Erik. "You're probably the reason why we're in this mess in the first place, a------."

Christine clasped her hands to her ears. "Christine's virgin ears!" she screamed.

Raoul and Phantom both stopped mid-screaming match to blink at Christine who was currently hopping around on one leg, singing, "Cannot hear…cannot hear…I am in my happy land…"

"No look what you did," Raoul scolded, crossing his arms. "Just when she was getting saner."

Erik rolled his eyes and heaved a sigh. "Oh yes, and you have nothing to do with us getting into this mess in the first place."

"Me? Me? Oh no. You got me into this mess with your dark witchcraft and your macho head games."

"Look, can you just shut up for a minute and let me figure this out." Suddenly, being stuck in someone else's body (even if that someone else was not deformed and nicely-shaped) was getting to be too much of a chore for Erik. Plus, he missed his cool cloak.

"So, what do we do now?"

"Christine is a butterfly!" said Christine, flapping her arms.

tbc

a/n: Spot the Star Wars refs. Thanks for reading!