Disclaimer: I do not own Kim Possible or the Phantom of the Opera. Sadly.
A Note from the Authoress: Yeah, I did it. I quit my NaNo. Well, as a NaNo. Simply because I don't have time and I am stressed and uninspired. But I'll finish it for you eventually, promise. And so here is the result of me being inspired in another way. Last Saturday, I finally saw my favorite musical, Andrew Lloyd Webber's Phantom of the Opera, live, for the first time. I wanted to incorporate it into one of my fics, or write more phic, but as soon as I sat down to do so, well, on came Rewriting History. And I got caught up on a fairly cliched phic plot and thought, but Mim would be much more adept at this, because she's a journalist, and . . . well, this is what happened!
For the record, the plot here is not the musical or Susan Kay's novel and most certainly NOT the 2004 movie. It is the original novel by Gaston Leroux. Any strikes on my command of Phantom canon will most likely be ignored for this reason (unless, you know, Christine or someone catches me on something I totally missed), sorry and no hard feelings!
I'd like to thank my dear friend Christine Persephone for supporting me in this and helping me with the title. If you like Phantom, go check out her stuff, she's one of the best out there. Love you, dear!
I hope you all enjoy, and I really hope you had a wonderful Thanksgiving!
Erik est mort.
The winter of 1909 was by far one of the coldest France had ever seen, or at least as far as John Stoppable was concerned. He'd always wanted to go to Paris, and now, on the path to clear the name of Miriam Possible, he'd finally wound up here, wandering what he'd just found to be the Rue Scribe, somewhat lost.
He glanced around, shrugging his jacket more warmly about his shoulders, grumbling when he noticed it was beginning to snow. "Damn," he muttered, staring up at the opera house. The Opera Garnier was truly one of the most fantastic sights in the city. It was the social apex of Parisian life, and full of history . . . and mysteries. Just what he was accustomed to.
In all honesty, he knew even now that he'd reached a dead end in Paris. He'd followed a newspaper article speaking of a strange item found in the bottom of a crate in the Louvre. He'd hoped and prayed for it to be the Electrostatic Illuminator: the one thing guaranteed to free Mim and bring her back to him. But when the French authorities had denied its existence, he'd retreated to the streets of Paris to brood, wandering until he'd found himself in his present state: lost and cold.
He sighed. It had been five years since the incident with the Electrostatic Illuminator, and every spark of opportunity only seemed to light a dead end. So here he was in Paris, alone, wandering the road that went behind the opera, unsure of what to do or where to go next.
The night hung heavy about him, and he looked to the others floating around the Rue Scribe, some obviously natives, others probably opera goers, chattering about the spectacle they'd just witnessed, and some probably just tourists like himself, a little lost, but not ready to admit it.
His thoughts were interrupted by a flash of red hair from across the way.
He shook his head to clear his mind; it wasn't Mim, as much as he wanted it to be, the woman wasn't Mim and never would be.
But they looked so much alike . . .
He saw her glancing around guiltily as she made her way toward the Opera. There was a little gate there, locked it seemed, leading to a subterranean chamber.
He approached her.
The closer he got, the more the woman reminded him of Mim: the way she carried herself, the little notebook and pencil she clutched in one hand. And what was in the other? A key? He caught a glimpse of her profile and stopped, blinking for a moment, almost certain that the woman before him was Mim Possible. "Mim?" he whispered, unsure.
She didn't seem to hear him, now at the gate, pulling a large metal key from the folds of her dress, and slipping it into the misused lock. She turned it with a loud clang, and when she pushed the bars forward, the hinges cried out, allowing her entrance.
He followed her, thankful that she had not closed the gate behind her. For some reason he could not grasp, his subconscious would not allow him to call to her again. Perhaps he feared her reaction, or worse, the possibility this woman was only some clever look-alike, his troubled mind fooling him in his obsession with his long lost friend's innocence. In the last moments of light from the outside world, he could see she kept a hand on the wall to guide her, and he noticed she did not carry with her a lantern or candle. He kept as quiet as he could, but his breathing betrayed him, and she stopped in the darkness.
Hearing the cessation of her footsteps, he froze, staring blindly into the darkness before him, holding his breath.
"Who's there?" she spoke confidently. He heard the rustling of her dress as she turned around.
He considered fleeing; running right back out the gates and into Paris, but his feet would not answer his summons, frozen where he was.
It was Mim.
There's no way he could forget that voice, the confidence shining therein. It had always been such a relief before, knowing Mim was much stronger willed than he, and would always take his side, no matter the situation in which they'd found themselves. Then why was he so frightened now? He felt a pull at his gut, that premonition of a strike or a fall that he'd felt so many times before.
She struck a match that had been tucked into the binding of her book.
There they stared at each other in the dim light of that tiny flame, both speechless, too much in that almost joyous state of shock to reach out and make any form of connection between one another.
She was still beautiful; that's all John's thoughts could possibly occupy themselves with. Her hair was still that vivid red, her sort of signature, tied back in that stylish, yet still vaguely conservative, bun. Her eyes shined at him in green luminescence . . . was that a tear?
But she'd changed, too. Where once there'd been perfectly smooth skin, now were the beginnings of little premature wrinkles. She'd endured a lot, and he knew she must have been leading a hard life, although she'd never contacted him . . .
. . . not even a little note.
It was obvious she was struggling a bit, as he recognized the dress she was wearing; it had been one of her favorites. But now, it had been torn, ripped at the seams, and later mended, with care and expertise, obviously, but still not quite up to the Mim Possible Standards he'd known her to keep. The bottom of her skirt was stained with mud, he noted.
"John," she whispered, her tone betraying the overwhelming emotions apparent on her face. She spoke evenly, deliberately.
However, his own voice caught in his throat, his own emotions prohibiting him from saying even the single syllable correctly. "Mim?" He reached forward, as if to embrace her, or at least clasp her hand, touch her face . . . but no, she moved back, away from him.
She shook her head slowly, only very slightly.
"It's really you," he said softly, his hand still outstretched. "Oh, how I've missed you so . . ." But she still recoiled when he moved to touch her. "Mim?"
"Hush," she snapped, glancing around nervously again. "Come, John, come with me." She promptly extinguished the match, and he felt her take him by the hand.
She led him, guiding herself with a hand, still clutching her little volume, gliding along the walls.
They'd been walking forever, past sounds of water, up numerous staircases, all equally dark as the chamber they'd first entered. He noticed the change in air when they apparently passed from the labyrinthine cellars into some back corridors of the opera itself.
There was a sliding of stone, a burst of crisp air, and her hand releasing his, pressing his chest so that he sat down. He sank into the soft velvet seat.
She lit a nearby lantern.
He glanced around and found that they were in a box in the opera, a very nice box at that. It seemed as if it weren't used very often, though, with a thin layer of dust covering the various surfaces. Why any management would allow such seats to go unused, he'd never know. The curtain was closed behind them, and he noted the pillars on either side of the entrance.
Mim sat down in the chair beside his own. "It's been a long time, John," she said with a tired, weak smile.
Her sudden change in demeanor disturbed him a bit, but he was glad to see that she was happy to see him. "Too long." He hadn't meant it to sound that accusing, and he instantly regretted it.
She lowered her gaze, staring intently at the cover of her journal. "I'm sorry," her voice was barely audible.
An uncomfortable silence fell over the inhabitants of the box.
"What brings you to Paris?" he ventured cautiously, shifting in his chair so as to look at her from a different angle. It had been so long since he'd seen her in person, not in some wrinkled old photograph he kept tucked inside his own journal. Her beauty still consumed him.
She looked up at him, smiling a bit sardonically. "I could ask you the very same, monsieur." Her eyes sparkled with her wit and contrived French accent.
He raised an eyebrow before shuffling around in his pockets for the newspaper clipping. He handed it to her, carefully.
She skimmed its contents intently, then looked up at him in a quizzical manner.
"I thought . . . maybe it was the Electrostatic Illuminator." He glanced away, embarrassed.
What he missed was the warmth that consumed Mim's eyes, so long held in that bitter stance. She was truly touched by his caring. She didn't know what she'd done these past five years without him . . . mourned, it seemed. She was happier in this moment than she'd been since that fateful night.
"Thank you, John," she said sincerely.
His cheeks reddened beneath that god-awful mustache. "After all you've done for me, Mim . . . it's the least I could do. And I won't stop until I have cleared your name."
She smiled, handing him back the article. Their hands touched briefly, and they stayed like that for a few extra moments, neither willing to end the contact, nor to further the embrace. Finally, they both let their hands fall.
"But you never answered my question," John pointed out. "How did you wind up in Paris?"
In a similar way as he, she handed him her little leather bound book.
He glanced at her briefly, before opening the small volume to the first page. He read aloud, "The Phantom of the Opera; Gaston Leroux." He raised his eyes to her once more. "Gaston Leroux? But Mim, this is your handwriting . . . I don't . . ."
She sighed, and it was enough to cut him off. "I . . ." she began, trying to find the right words. "I'm a journalist at heart, John," she said. "You know that. And more than that, I can't help but be curious . . . I'm the annoying kind of reporter, I suppose." This provoked a little, fond smile from him. "And . . . I couldn't bear to become a seamstress or a maid or anything in order to hide from Barkin. So I came here." She became distraught. "Oh, John, I would have written to you if I could, but you see, I couldn't bear to put you on the spot . . . if the chief had intercepted one of our letters . . . what would become of you?"
His voice was low, and, despite the severity of his words, she knew them to be true. "Mim, I would have died just to know you were still alive and well." His voice held no blame, only sincerity.
She looked away, trying not to let her emotions get the better of her. "And I, you, John." She was silent a few moments, gathering her thoughts. "I heard this . . . this story," she explained. "About the opera here, this very opera, about how it was haunted. Now, now, I'm very well aware of theatrical superstitions, and that just about every theatre in the world has a 'ghost' of some sort. But this one was real."
"Mim, I think you–"
"No, John," was her fierce reply. "I'm serious. He really did exist." She gestured to her little volume again, and, taking this order correctly, he began to read.
"Prologue. The Opera Ghost really existed. He was not, as was long believed, a creature of the imagination of the artists, the superstition of the managers, or a product of the absurd and impressionable brains of the young ladies of the ballet, their mothers, the box-keepers, the cloak-room attendants or the concierge. Yes, he existed in flesh and blood, although he assumed the complete appearance of a real phantom; that is to say, of a shade."
She looked at him expectantly.
"Quite lovely," he commented. "But I really don't see what this–"
She simply began to tell the story. "There was a man, living beneath the opera, down where we first ran into one another, on the other side of the lake." His eyebrows quirked in confusion at the mention of a lake that obviously had to exist underground. "He was a genius, John. He'd once designed a torture chamber of mirrors for the Shah of Persia, but he was hideously deformed, accounting for his years spent in a traveling circus. He was called the Living Corpse, for he smelled of Death itself. He wore a mask to cover the abhorrence that was his face . . . he helped to build the opera, and soon settled under it, in a house in the fifth cellar.
"He fell in love with a young chorus girl, named Christine Daaé, and he taught her to sing. He adored her to the point he would take measures to be certain the reigning diva could not perform, and his dear Christine would take her place.
"But she had a suitor, the Vicomte de Chagny. They had been childhood friends . . . and when his brother, the Comte, brought him to the opera the night of Christine's debut, well, needless to say old flames were rekindled.
"Our ghost was furious. A series of events occurred, resulting in the falling of the chandelier onto the new concierge, several deaths, including that of the Comte de Chagny himself, and Christine's and the Vicomte's disappearance."
She sighed, wondering whether or not she should delve into the details of the tale. "It's all in there," she said. "Erik's story."
"Erik?" he asked, leafing through the pages. She assumed he was skimming bits and pieces, but really, he was losing himself in her handwriting, something he loved dearly about her, and had always offered him comfort. In these past five years, he'd spent much time reading through old letters for that very reason.
"Yes," she shifted a bit uncomfortably. "That is his name." She looked around at their surroundings and laughed softly. "This even, this is Box Five; the Ghost's private box." She looked at him seriously. "They still don't sell these seats, even though he's left this opera, for now, at least."
He closed the book and looked up at her. "I see," it took all his control to keep himself from dropping these formalities and celebrating their reunion the way in which he'd always imagined it, something notably less than virtuous. "But I still don't understand."
That familiar, disobedient lock of hair finally fell out of place, and Mim was forced to tuck it behind her ear in a disgruntled manner. "John, I know my name will never be cleared." He seemed to sink in his seat. "Not that I don't have faith in you," she quickly amended, then continued, "But I know Barkin will never admit he's wrong. One day, though, I will get that nefarious Lipsky and Miss Go to confess to their crime. I have gotten close on occasion, too. But, until then, I decided to start a new life for myself."
He looked up at her sadly. "This?" he said, gesturing to her torn and soiled dress. "This is your new life?"
She looked away, a little hurt. "You don't understand, John," she said. She pointed to the little leather book. "That is my chance, don't you see? No-one will accept this as fact, though, so I'm selling it as a novel. A friend of mine has agreed to translate it into French for its initial publication, actually. But once it's finished, I'll publish it, and I will have made a name for myself."
He chuckled bitterly. "A name?" he said, a sarcastic smile twitching his mustache upwards. He looked at the first page again. "'Gaston Leroux'? Why, it's not even your name!"
Her voice was quiet and reserved. "But it's all I have left." She gave into a little sad smile. "Don't you see? I can't be Miriam Possible any longer."
He felt a burning in his chest, and he spoke, not even comprehending the significance of what he was saying. "What about Miriam Stoppable?"
She stared at him in shocked silence for a second, watching as he inwardly berated himself for just blurting out something like that. She regained her composure and spoke quietly, trying to mask the trembling in her voice. "Is that an invitation, John?"
He responded in the same tone, cautious and hushed. "If you want it to be."
They gazed at one another for a moment, before she looked away, hurriedly, trying to hide the blush creeping onto her face. "I haven't finished it yet, though," she said, looking back just long enough to take the book from him.
"You don't have to, Mim," he said quietly. "I can keep you safe; I can take care of you."
She smiled slightly. "Yes, yes, I know, John." She looked at the book now nestled in her lap. "But this is something I need to do . . ." she lowered her voice to a bare whisper, "alone."
He looked away, wincing as if in pain. "And once you have finished . . ."
"I will be here waiting," she answered, already knowing the question.
"How will I know?" he asked, looking at her again. Her eyes were cloudy, the prelude to tears.
She thought for a moment, tapping her lower lip with her index finger. "I will send you my final manuscript," she decided. She sighed. "But I can't stay here forever," she explained. A little laughter spilled from her lips, "Ironically enough, I'm living in the house beyond the lake, but I cannot stay there for as long as the novel may take to finish." She thought for a moment, murmuring things like 'perhaps' and 'if only', trying to decide what to do. "I might write an epilogue," she said. "But, when you receive my manuscript, I want you to find the one before that, the last chapter. The very end is meant to detail Erik's current location, but I mean to change it to a bit more fictitious nature, after all, I'm sure he would be less than pleased with me if I disclosed such information." She looked at him intently. "That will tell you where to look for me."
Before he could respond, she had stood, and was standing before him, bent over, cupping his cheek in her hand. "I have always loved you, John," she said seriously. "Never doubt that."
"The feeling is mutual, Mim," he murmured.
She leaned down then, and pressed her lips firmly to his.
Pulling away, his mouth still but a breath from her own, she whispered, "I accept your invitation, John." She pressed her cheek to his own, only vaguely irritated by the sharp hairs of his mustache sticking into her skin.
For a moment, the box was devoured by darkness, and he heard that same sliding of stone.
"Mim?" he called softly, but when the lamp, seemingly by magic, relit itself, he was completely and entirely alone.
February of 1910 came, and John had not heard from Mim since that brief meeting at the Opera Populaire one year prior. But now, walking into his office, he noticed a little package positioned on his desk.
It was addressed to him, Jonathon Ronald Stoppable, however it was lacking any form of return address. He opened it cautiously to reveal a manuscript, tied together with red ribbon. It smelled of Mim's perfume. "The Phantom of the Opera; Gaston Leroux," the first page read. Anxiously, he flipped through the pages to the end, muttering something about the damn epilogue.
His heart raced as he came across the first page of the final chapter. "XXVI; The End of the Ghost's Love Story." With trembling hands, he turned to the last page of the section. He read intently, his thoughts too absorbed in Mim to worry about Barkin charging in and catching him.
"The monster resumed his mask and collected his strength to leave the daroga. He told him that, when he felt his end to be very near at hand, he would send him, in gratitude for the kindness which the Persian had once shown him, that which he held dearest in the world: all Christine Daaé's papers, which she had written for Raoul's benefit and left with Erik, together with a few objects belonging to her, such as a pair of gloves, a shoe-buckle and two pocket-handkerchiefs. In reply to the Persian's questions, Erik told him that the two young people, as soon as they found themselves free, had resolved to go and look for a priest in some lonely spot where they could hide their happiness and that, with this object in view, they had started from 'the northern railway station of the world'. Lastly, Erik relied on the Persian, as soon as he received the promised relics and papers, to inform the young couple of his death and to advertise it in the Epoque.
"That was all. The Persian saw Erik to the door of his flat, and Darius helped him down the street. A cab was waiting for him. Erik stepped in; and the Persian, who had gone back to the window, heard him say to the driver:
"'Go to the Opera.'"
At the site of those words, he thought he'd finally regained his happiness. He would go to Paris, collect Mim and bring her back here to Middleton and her family, so they could be wed.
But alas, what seemed to be a last minute addition was scribbled beneath those words. The ink was red, he saw, and, although the handwriting was Mim's, it was rushed. He imagined her now, bound and shaking, writing this final passage, the sneering faces of Bartholomew Lipsky and Miss Go leaning over her, granting her this one last wish.
He couldn't help but shed tears as he read.
"And the cab drove off into the night.
"The Persian had seen the poor, unfortunate Erik for the last time. Three weeks later, the Epoque published this advertisement:
"'Erik is dead.'"
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