A/N: I can't believe I'm doing this. Look, after this, if I say it's a one-shot and then try to lengthen the thing, just shoot me, okay? The first chapter was conceived like a late-in-life child— with a great deal of fuss, caffeine, and little pleasure. Why am I continuing it? Why? You know what, you guys will have to answer that for me, because right now I can't seem to find a point. /fatalistic mood

Chapter Two: Death of Raoul

"Christine, would you like some tea, dearest darling?"

No answer.

"Christine, I'm making some tea, shall I cause there to be a cup for you too?"

Still no answer.

"Christine, I'm going to murder some tea leaves and I will hold you morally responsible."

Again, no answer. Figuring she was confused by my admittedly peculiar turn of phrase, I backed up some and started from the beginning.

"Christine. I'm making tea. That is what. I am doing. Would you. Like some."

When even this got no answer, I confess I got rather annoyed, and nudged her inert body with the toe of my boot, several times, with increasing force, until I came to the conclusion that she was, that she must be, asleep. Whereupon I picked her up, carried her to the bed, placed her gently upon it, and apologized profusely for having banged her head into the doorway on the way.

No answer.

I scrutinized her. It had been some hours since she had run into the wall and I, caught up in my avid fan-fiction reading (I was halfway through Musique et Amour's "Music That Burns" and I was still waiting for the music to, you know, burn, and also midway through Mandy the O's "An Eternity of This" and was all pins and needles and cold-showerish from the sex scenes) hadn't paid her any attention in that time. It bothered me slightly that her skin now had a greenish tone and she was stiff as a board.

"Christine, are you— dead?"

No answer.

This frightened me.

I poked her, gently, lovingly, and yet still she did not stir. This frightened me even more. I've never had her not respond to my poking before. It was inconceivable.

At least, I think it was inconceivable.

I made a mental note to look up the word "inconceivable" the next time I was within striking range of a dictionary. Then I made a mental note to buy myself a notebook so I wouldn't have to keep making mental notes all the time.

I decided to leave Christine to herself for a while, and went back the computer. Thirty minutes later, having absolutely devoured Adison's "Sanctification" and sent Random Battlecry a very nasty review for that piece of crap known as "Terms of Endearment," I went to check on her again. She still hadn't moved.

I took this as an encouraging sign.

It meant she hadn't yet been turned into a zombie. Zombies, I must admit, are more frightening to me than anything. Except perhaps peacocks. Oh, and people named Paul. People named Paul are just scary. They have such big teeth. And the one I knew had a wooden leg, which he was fond of showing off to people, often by unscrewing it and placing it on the lunch table. This, I believe, is wrong. As well as distinctly unhygienic.

Recovering from my Paul-oriented mental tangent, I made another mental note to buy milk.

Christine still hadn't moved, and at last I finally began to suspect the truth— that she was, in fact, sleeping. I tried poking her again, and again, and again— all to no avail. She was dead to the world.

Once again the though niggled at my mind that she might, in fact, not only be dead to the world— that she might, in fact, be just plain and simply dead.

I rejected it as an opium fantasy called up by my unpredictable mind, then realized that I hadn't had opium in weeks, so I rejected it as a caffeine-induced fantasy, before recalling that Christine had broken my coffee grinder some days earlier, so I decided to call it a Pink Haze of Confusion, though it took me a while to realize why that phrase had cropped up in my mind, and when finally I did realize it, I went back to the computer to fire off another irate review to Random Battlecry, in which I called her a talentless purveyor of trash, garbage, hazardous waste, and recyclables to an unsuspecting public. By the time I finished with this I was chuckling so hard I had to go lie down for a while.

When I awoke Christine was positively cold, though the stiffness had lessened somewhat.

I decided it was time to call in an expert.

I went to find Raoul.

It took some time, because usually when he knows I'm coming, he hides. I can't explain this, as when I confront him about it, he always says of course he likes me. Usually the excuse he uses is that he's afraid he owes me money, but this time he couldn't stop sobbing.

I shook him.

"What? What is it?"

"I had a nightmare about you last night—"

"You had a dream about me?" I said, pleased. "Aw, Raoul—" Reaching one hand up, I tousled his hair. He did not react well to this.

"I dreamed you killed me!" he squeaked.

"Did you? But that's silly. Why would I kill my little fop buddy?" I did the tousling thing again. He shut his eyes and his teeth chattered.

"P-please put me down, Mr. Erik."

I did.

"Thank you," he said, and brushed himself off. He's a good foot shorter than I am, and I suppose I can be forgiven for treating him like a child. He is one, after all.

I don't care what Christine says, sixteen year olds shouldn't be allowed to be engaged.

"Raoul, I need you to come with me."

"W-where?"

"To view Christine's body."

He tensed up, but I had anticipated him and grabbed at his arm as he tried to run away. Gently but firmly, bravely ignoring his squeals of pain, I towed him down with me to the lair, made him swim the lake, and finally conducted him into the bedroom, where Christine lay.

"I fear," I said, "I very much fear, that she may get turned into a zombie, Raoul."

"What? Why?"

"Because that seems to happen quite a bit in fanfiction."

"But this isn't fanfiction, Erik— this is reality."

"Is it? Could have fooled me."

"And there aren't any zombies. There's no such thing. It's a story my mother made up to frighten me."

"Why would she want to frighten you?"

"My mother is a strange and complex woman, Mr. Erik."

"Ah. Anyway, don't underestimate zombies. Being dead concentrates the mind wonderfully."

"Mr. Erik—"

"Yes, fop, lad?"

"I don't suppose I can use your restroom?"

"Of course, Raoul. Down the hallway, first doorway on the right."

He nodded, bobbed me a curtsey, and took off. I returned to gazing at Christine, only half-hearing the sound of his footsteps pad away. After a few seconds I realized that I had made a dreadful mistake, and turned to yell.

"No, second doorway—"

But it was too late. Poor Raoul had walked straight into one of my ingenious, if I do say so myself, traps.

Now that I muse over it, I suppose there really should be a warning sign on the door to the alligator pit.