In Which Kat Is Scary

Here's your daily fan fiction, dearies. I'm so proud of this, so Goddamn you, you'd better read it, or I will rip out your bloody throat. No, I'm not tempermental.

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Erik is dead.

"Of all the news to get on a Sunday morning." Raoul let out a deep, shuddering breath and took another pull of gin. He grimaced at the taste and reached for a glass of water which lay across the desk he was sitting at.

His old friend, Edouard, son of an English father and a French mother, not to mention owner of the aforementioned desk, looked at him with a measure of sympathy. "Poor Ro. What's the ballet rat done now?"

"My God, Ed!" Raoul exploded, jerking his arm recklessly and knocking over the water glass. "You call her that one more time and I swear, I truly will do something that I will regret later and repent for terribly!"

Nonchalantly picking up the shards of glass, Edouard asked casually, "Hand me a rag, would you, Raoul? Or your hankercheif, yes, that'll do wonderfully…" Raoul stared at him, almost unbelieving, and fell back down into the chair, staring at his friend, who sighed and said lowly, "Look, mon ami. I don't know you lately. Dashing about with divas, yapping about opera ghosts…"

"Excuse me?"


"Don't be so demonic, chum. Here. Ring for the butler, would you? He's named Henrietta or Rabbit Ears or Fluffy Feet or something. We've had him for four years and I haven't been home in France long enough to learn the fellow's name…" Ed said. He had been unsuccessful in his attempts to mop up the water with his coat tails.

"Shut up." Raoul snapped. "I've gotten married, my brother's died…my brother's died, and all my dearest friend has to say about it that I've been acting odd lately. Oh, well." He groused, taking a moment of self pity.

Leaning back in his chair, Edouard rang for the butler and yawned. "Well -" he began, his voice fuzzy with the yawn, "well, suppose you tell me really what happened down there, underneath that house of high pitched squeaking misleadingly called Opera. I absolutely do not believe that story about you pushing Phillipe into the lake -"

"I beg your pardon?!" Raoul's face dissolved into horror. "My God," he murmured, "is that what they're saying?"

"More than that. They're saying you were fighting over the ballet ra - Mademoiselle Daaé." Ed watched his friend's face as this was processed.

Raoul wanted to cry, but then the sound of the butler, whose name was Chipmunk Tail or Arabella or Bald Squirrel, announcing something cut through all this. They barely heard and did not answer. Spotted Deer or Ferret Rump let their guest in, and in a moment they were Ed and Ro, the roguish pair always in trouble, caught in another one of their scrapes. The broken glass and water trickling over Ed's important papers suddenly seemed terribly noticeable.

A trickle of water dropped off the desk in the silence.

Nadir Khan, their guest, bowed shortly and said in his deep, clipped, precise voice, “Hello, Monsieur le Vicomte. Monsieur Edouard Verioun.”


“Hello,” Raoul said automatically, turning to the Persian. And then, “Hello!” As he recognized the small dark man. “The Persian!”

“Er. Yes. I am the Persian.” Nadir nervously twisted his thumbs in his sleeves. “And I need to talk to you about Erik.”

“Erik? But why –“

“Because he’s dead.”

“Well, I knew that.”

“That’s all very well for you!” The Persian burst out angrily. “I know, I put the advertisment in –“ He stopped suddenly, calming. He shut his blue eyes and said in a low voice, “I’m sorry. I am much distraught.” The eyes opened again, and now they seemed clearer, more focused. “I’m afraid Erik was a friend of mine.”

The effect on Raoul was electric. He stood up sharply, nearly knocking the desk over. “How can you stand there and just say that!” He yelled, lunging aggressively in Nadir’s direction. The daroga jumped nimbly out of the way, and Edouard grabbed Raoul around the waist. Nadir watched the two men scuffle with an expression of increasing alarm, before edging to the bell, ringing it, and calling for the butler.

The butler, whose name was not Henrietta, Fluffy Feet, or Chipmunk Tail, but Moncrieff, came in promptly, the expression of supreme apathy that marks all good butlers on his face. “What is it that you need, Monsieur?”

“It would appear,” said Nadir politely, “That the Messieurs –“ he gestured at Raoul and Edouard, who looked as though they might seriously hurt each other, “are having a disagreement. Perhaps you could –“

Moncrieff looked coolly at the Persian. “No,” he said shortly. “This happens more than you might think, Monsieur Khan.”

The daroga looked on helplessly. Moncrieff left.

Eventually, Raoul won the struggle and charged towards Nadir, looking furious. “How can you profess to be a friend of a man who nearly killed me, and who scarred my fiancée for life, and who killed my brother? How can you, Monsieur? Even when you, yes, you sir, betrayed him? The man who killed Buquet and terrorized Messieurs Moncharmin and Richard, and –“

“And killed my son, and caused me to spend five years in prison, and murdered more times than I can count or know? Oh yes, Erik did those things too. But how can you be friends with this man?” The Persian gestured coolly at Edouard. “Monsieur Verioun is, if you’ll forgive me Monsieur, a well known gentlemen of pleasure. He has gotten more women with child than I can count, he has not paid his Opera bill in fifteen years, and he has, at present, three mistresses. Not to mention a wife. You think he is a good man? There are no good men, Monsieur de Chagny. You propose to call Erik a villian. Well, he is a villain, and I am a villain, and you are a villain, and Monsieur Verioun is a villain. We are all villains here.”

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Quotes of the Day

"What a frighteningly addictive little phrase."

- Ben

"Mustard! Don't let's be silly! Lemon, now that's different."

- The Mad Hatter

NOW HEAR THIS!

We're playing a game in the comments. Yayness. It goes like this. I'll post five questions. The next person will answer them, then post five of their own, and so on. We'll carry on until it just gets too silly and we spontaneously combust.

1. Who let the dogs out?

2. Who the hell do you think you are?

3. WTF?

4. What would you do-oo for a Klondike bar?

5. How many licks to get to the center of a Tootsie roll pop?

I remain, gentlemen, your faithful and obedient servant,

J.G.