'Tis A Meeting We Must Have And Then A Friendship Bold
Title: 'Tis A Meeting We Must Have And Then A Friendship Bold
Rating: PG
Pairing: Peter/Claude (mild)
Other Characters: Bennet, Izzie, Ando
Spoilers: None
Warnings: None
This is for the Plaude Bingo (Pets Square). I actually wrote this a long time ago after talking about Around the World in Eighty Days with englishmuffin2 , but never posted. It's steampunk-gen, with a dash of slash. Go figure.
There are shadows on the hill. There is smoke in the sun. And the city of York wakes to a dirty summer, the slow spin of steam and clockwork, coal-tongued braggarts sharing stories and black coughs. It's hot and the streets are bubbling--cobblestone lined to rivers of alchemy and stable stench, the metallic splashes. Sparrows come sailing toward the water, trying to salvage occasional trinkets, the glass and ribbons tossed without care from spat-shoed men and their courtesan companions. They pluck them out like triumphs and fly away.
Claude can see them now, those sparrows. They're weaving through the gray, seeking out the empty air that lingers beyond the city-center: the miles made clean by cog-heavy towers that siphon wind and filter out the ash, strip away the hazy industry. They stand as sentinels for the wealthy, shielding them from the the wheeze of pipes and weakening systems. All hours are made bright. All breaths are made easy. It’s the gift of lungs stuffed with cigar traces instead of soot.
And Claude... Claude will curse the injustice of it later, when he's back among the row houses and cadmium bursts, the storms of rust that shake down from the monorail tracks above. Now though-- He revels in the zephyrs and soft heat, the delicate breezes. He's among the nobility, shaded in the rise of magnolias (usurped from wet climates, commanded to bloom instead in concrete). There are brick homes, standing in elegant lines; lace and iron and roses. They mask their obscenities prettily--the exchange of wealth and alliances, the tobacco confessions. He can see ghosts inside, wavering beyond parlor curtains. He must seem like such an intruder to them, ambling about in a wrinkled shirt and mud-hemmed trousers, his favorite clumsy coat. He is an ugly contrast to the parasols and bustled indignation. He is poor.
And that, he thinks, is a sin no church could forgive.
Well... Never was one for religion anyway...
He prefers to buy his prayers and find his own absolution. Whiskey is faster than incense--and he’s certain he’ll need a bottle later when he arrives finally to the end of the lane, is met by a stone... thing. It’s meant to be a house, he’s sure, but it’s instead a broken game: a puzzle pieced from towers and balconies, with transformers looming in the yard and spitting currents. There are conductors on the gables and conveyor belts strung along the walls, looping in and out of windows. Weather-readers are mounted along the fencing (offering numbers he can’t understand), with little flashes of light peeking out from the cellar glass. They crackle and creak.
And that...
Is worrisome.
But not entirely surprising.
“There's something you should know. About your new employer.” Noah Bennet steeples his fingers, a gesture chosen for its deliberation, not its nervousness. He then offers a timely pause, waiting for the clock to chime noon (its song a steady waltz, familiar) before continuing. “He’s... eccentric.” The word is offered as a secret.
Claude hates secrets.
“That so?” he drawls. “And what exactly makes him eccentric? Likes to play with dolls? Has a fondness for sheep? Married his sister?”
“No.”
“His brother?”
“No.”
“Sounds like any other job then. Especially since there aren’t any sheep involved. Don’t care to repeat that little incident again. I'm still havin’ nightmares about it. Don’t even get me started on how--”
“Claude!”
“Yes?”
“No more sheep stories.”
“Fine, fine. I’ll keep ‘em to myself.”
“Thank you.” Noah pushes up his glasses, flickers of gas-lamps catching in the reflections. “Now. As I was saying--” He stands then, walking from behind a sturdy oak desk, Gaiter boots tapping against a just as sturdy oak floor. There are no velvets to soften it, no brocades. The room is without excess or interest. “Many believe your employer to be... unusual. This has caused several of our men to be reassigned.”
“Reassigned?” he scoffs. “You mean they quit.”
“That’s irrelevant.”
“Then why is that little vein poppin’ out of your forehead? Seems like somethin’ relevant to me.”
Noah gives a bland scowl, refusing to offer the profanities Claude can easily imagine whirling through his thoughts--all in languages lewd and exotic. He is a learned man, Bennet, but not a bold one. His expressions are precise; his words are calculated. He seeks never to offend. He wishes never to excel. He is a happy mediocrity.
Claude... is not.
Happy.
He is, however, one of the middling masses: a purchased companion, forced to trudge behind those who can afford him (the cost, he's discovered, is not so high). He is a valet, trained to be of good service--however unwilling. however spiteful. It's a tedious career, positioned on a rickety hierarchy. But it offers steady pay and lodgings beyond the train tunnels, the copper shadows of the sculpture parks. It's money in his pockets and a certainty of days. He'll accept it. For now. "So what's wrong with this employer then?" he asks. "If he's got some many of us quittin' on him?"
"Nothing is ever wrong with the employer, Claude," reminds Bennet. "The previous men simply didn't meet his needs. But you might. You're less prone to hysterics."
"Hysterics?"
"Histrionics," he corrects, smooth. "Now-- Let me give you that address."
"Some address..."
And he opens the gate, noting the little pin-wheel gears tucked inside that keep it from clattering. He shuffles up the walkway, climbing the slate stairs and finally reaching the door. It's massive and cherry-stained, with a silver tassel hanging beside it. Claude tugs it idly, hearing the rumble of a bell beyond, the tick-tick-tock of music.
"Well that's not extravagant. At all."
It is, however, shocking when the door is suddenly flung wide. It reveals none of the expected white gloves and stiff bows, but instead a man--with frantic eyes and wild hair, carrying a hastily packed case (clothes peeking out like patchwork panics between the clasps). He lunges past Claude, jumping down the steps and hurrying away. There is a tear in his pants and a button missing from his cuffs. "I'm free! I'm free!" He opens the gate and rushes out. "I'm free!" His exclamations carry down the street.
"Well.... That was different."
There's really nothing else to say.
And Claude slowly moves inside, expecting a tragedy to greet him, some little horror. There isn't one, however. There’s only a sprawl of marble and brass, pendulums counting off times across the world. Tapestries adorn the walls, telling of philosophers stones and failed transmutations; and a double staircase rises up like a helix (eclipsed only by the dome that rests above it, swirls of midnight and jade, the golden curls. Seraphic). He stares, fascinated by the delicacy, the constellations drawn faint and eternal. They're beautiful. They're unfamiliar. They're--
Suddenly turned crooked as he's knocked to the floor.
What the--
He blinks, dizzy, tries to understand how the world has tilted.
The answer comes in the creature that pounces suddenly onto him. A heavy, hectic weight.
What--
It’s a... dog. A clockwork dog. It’s made of gears and pistons and metal fur (a black-painted tin). Labradorite eyes peer at him, while a spring-coiled tongue peeks out. Ears perk, mechanical. And, when it barks, there’s the echo of a phonograph, the slow drag of a needle hidden in a belly.
That--
“Izzie! Izzie, no!”
And the creature is suddenly gone, leaping away from him to skid across the floor--hinged joints offering an uneven gait, a rough squeak, squeak, squeak. She finally steadies herself, only to jump up and smear oil-prints against a white lab-coat (and his shirt, Claude realizes, peering down. He’s covered in little marks).
“Izzie,” comes the chide, forcing him to glance back up and see a slant-mouthed youth in goggles and gray waist-coat standing before him. There are ink stains on his cheek, the alkaline linger at a collar. He’s pale, with hair curling like gorgon whims; a pretty profile and prettier grin. “You know better than that. Guests are not to be tackled.” And he peels off a glove then, extending a palm toward Claude. It’s elegant even with its calluses. “My apologies,” he says. “She gets excited sometimes.”
“And a tidal wave is just a puddle,” he deadpans, even as he accepts a hand, hefts himself up. “Should put that thing on a leash. Whatever it is.”
“She is not an it. She is a dog. Named Izzie.”
“And you’re a strange one. Named Peter.”
The boy--not yet a man, too earnest still in every expression--stares, confused. “Have we met?”
“Can’t say that we have,” he remarks. “Because we haven’t.”
“Oh.”
When no other word is offered a man forces a smile, polite. “I’m Claude Rains," he explains. "I was sent by the Company to be your valet.”
“That can't be right.”
“... Pardon?”
“I already have a valet. Ando.”
“That little twitchy fellow?”
“I wouldn’t say he’s--” Peter pauses, reconsiders. “Well... yes. That’s him.”
“He’s gone,” offers Claude. “Just saw him runnin’ away. Dashed off toward destinations unknown but most definitely not here.”
“Again?”
Again?
“I lose more men that way...” He gives a labored sigh and then pouts down at Izzie, who is wagging her tail, happy in her unrepentant ways. “It was your fault, wasn’t it? You just had to keep chasing him, didn’t you? Just like all the others. I don’t know how many times I told you to leave him alone... Forcing him up the tree was bad enough. That bird thought he was trying to steal her eggs and nearly pecked his eye out.”
Izzie bows her head at that, offers a grinding little whine. Contrite.
And a boy immediately relents, leaning down to stroke her head (the wires beneath warming with the touch). “It’s alright, girl. I know you don’t mean it.” He then reaches into his pocket, pulling out a small ball. He tosses it, smiling as she skitters after it, bounding from the room. Her feet carve scratches along the floor. Peter just laughs.
Nutter...
“Now, Mr. Rains,” he begins, turning suddenly serious.
“Claude,” comes the interjection. “Mr. Rains was my father. And I’m not too keen yet on being compared to him.”
“Oh. Of course. Well then-- Claude. What exactly where you told? About what I do? About what I’ll need from you?”
“Not much, ‘m afraid.”
And don’t I just have to thank Bennet for that?
“That seems to be the trend... Your Company doesn’t like giving details to anyone.”
“I imagine that’s because it’s hard to describe robotic attack dogs.”
“Izzie is not an attack dog.”
“Could’ve fooled me.” And there’s an argument stirring before him, the words bubbling up, ready to pounce from beneath a crooked mouth. He can imagine their intentions, can predict the dangers of disappointment, displeasure and the all too imminent dismissal. A boy is fickle in his sense but not in his sentiment; and his pet is all too loved to ever be insulted.
New strategy then...
“Don’t think there’s anything wrong with her being one, of course,” Claude adds. “Just means she’s protective of you. Loyal. That’s a good quality to have in a dog.” His tone is soft and mollifies, allows a scowl to wilt. He’s safe. For now. “I’ll be trying to offer some good qualities of my own. If you’d tell me what it is I’m meant to be doing here.” He needs this position. He does. He’s no longer young enough to tempt the bored debutants, with their open skirts and open legs; and he’s not quite old enough to please their worried fathers (who demand creaking bones and sagging bellies to keep their daughters from scandal). There are few willing to accept him now in his middle-age. Most would instead brand him invisible.
And that... That’s an ugly word and a far uglier ideal.
“I need an assistant,” says Peter, breaking then through the self-loathing. “A helper.”
“That so?” Claude mutters. “And how exactly would I be helping?”
“Setting up equipment. Monitoring results. That sort of thing.” The boy gestures broadly with his hands, wriggling his fingers at the marble. “I don’t need someone to set out my clothes or cook my meals or to schedule a masquerade ball on my birthday in hopes of introducing me to society.” An expression darkens briefly then, petulant, and there’s a memory that will have to be questioned later. “I just need help with my experiments. That’s all.”
“You make it sound simple.”
“It is,” he insists, kneeling then as Izzie returns, carrying the ball in her clanking jaw. Peter takes it from her, leaning down to press a kiss to her nose. “Good girl.”
And this, Claude thinks, is not simple.
It could, however, be... interesting.
Especially when a boy glances up at him and smiles. Sweet and small and a little hopeful.
That... That...
“What d’ya need me to do first?”
.
Rating: PG
Pairing: Peter/Claude (mild)
Other Characters: Bennet, Izzie, Ando
Spoilers: None
Warnings: None
This is for the Plaude Bingo (Pets Square). I actually wrote this a long time ago after talking about Around the World in Eighty Days with englishmuffin2 , but never posted. It's steampunk-gen, with a dash of slash. Go figure.
There are shadows on the hill. There is smoke in the sun. And the city of York wakes to a dirty summer, the slow spin of steam and clockwork, coal-tongued braggarts sharing stories and black coughs. It's hot and the streets are bubbling--cobblestone lined to rivers of alchemy and stable stench, the metallic splashes. Sparrows come sailing toward the water, trying to salvage occasional trinkets, the glass and ribbons tossed without care from spat-shoed men and their courtesan companions. They pluck them out like triumphs and fly away.
Claude can see them now, those sparrows. They're weaving through the gray, seeking out the empty air that lingers beyond the city-center: the miles made clean by cog-heavy towers that siphon wind and filter out the ash, strip away the hazy industry. They stand as sentinels for the wealthy, shielding them from the the wheeze of pipes and weakening systems. All hours are made bright. All breaths are made easy. It’s the gift of lungs stuffed with cigar traces instead of soot.
And Claude... Claude will curse the injustice of it later, when he's back among the row houses and cadmium bursts, the storms of rust that shake down from the monorail tracks above. Now though-- He revels in the zephyrs and soft heat, the delicate breezes. He's among the nobility, shaded in the rise of magnolias (usurped from wet climates, commanded to bloom instead in concrete). There are brick homes, standing in elegant lines; lace and iron and roses. They mask their obscenities prettily--the exchange of wealth and alliances, the tobacco confessions. He can see ghosts inside, wavering beyond parlor curtains. He must seem like such an intruder to them, ambling about in a wrinkled shirt and mud-hemmed trousers, his favorite clumsy coat. He is an ugly contrast to the parasols and bustled indignation. He is poor.
And that, he thinks, is a sin no church could forgive.
Well... Never was one for religion anyway...
He prefers to buy his prayers and find his own absolution. Whiskey is faster than incense--and he’s certain he’ll need a bottle later when he arrives finally to the end of the lane, is met by a stone... thing. It’s meant to be a house, he’s sure, but it’s instead a broken game: a puzzle pieced from towers and balconies, with transformers looming in the yard and spitting currents. There are conductors on the gables and conveyor belts strung along the walls, looping in and out of windows. Weather-readers are mounted along the fencing (offering numbers he can’t understand), with little flashes of light peeking out from the cellar glass. They crackle and creak.
And that...
Is worrisome.
But not entirely surprising.
“There's something you should know. About your new employer.” Noah Bennet steeples his fingers, a gesture chosen for its deliberation, not its nervousness. He then offers a timely pause, waiting for the clock to chime noon (its song a steady waltz, familiar) before continuing. “He’s... eccentric.” The word is offered as a secret.
Claude hates secrets.
“That so?” he drawls. “And what exactly makes him eccentric? Likes to play with dolls? Has a fondness for sheep? Married his sister?”
“No.”
“His brother?”
“No.”
“Sounds like any other job then. Especially since there aren’t any sheep involved. Don’t care to repeat that little incident again. I'm still havin’ nightmares about it. Don’t even get me started on how--”
“Claude!”
“Yes?”
“No more sheep stories.”
“Fine, fine. I’ll keep ‘em to myself.”
“Thank you.” Noah pushes up his glasses, flickers of gas-lamps catching in the reflections. “Now. As I was saying--” He stands then, walking from behind a sturdy oak desk, Gaiter boots tapping against a just as sturdy oak floor. There are no velvets to soften it, no brocades. The room is without excess or interest. “Many believe your employer to be... unusual. This has caused several of our men to be reassigned.”
“Reassigned?” he scoffs. “You mean they quit.”
“That’s irrelevant.”
“Then why is that little vein poppin’ out of your forehead? Seems like somethin’ relevant to me.”
Noah gives a bland scowl, refusing to offer the profanities Claude can easily imagine whirling through his thoughts--all in languages lewd and exotic. He is a learned man, Bennet, but not a bold one. His expressions are precise; his words are calculated. He seeks never to offend. He wishes never to excel. He is a happy mediocrity.
Claude... is not.
Happy.
He is, however, one of the middling masses: a purchased companion, forced to trudge behind those who can afford him (the cost, he's discovered, is not so high). He is a valet, trained to be of good service--however unwilling. however spiteful. It's a tedious career, positioned on a rickety hierarchy. But it offers steady pay and lodgings beyond the train tunnels, the copper shadows of the sculpture parks. It's money in his pockets and a certainty of days. He'll accept it. For now. "So what's wrong with this employer then?" he asks. "If he's got some many of us quittin' on him?"
"Nothing is ever wrong with the employer, Claude," reminds Bennet. "The previous men simply didn't meet his needs. But you might. You're less prone to hysterics."
"Hysterics?"
"Histrionics," he corrects, smooth. "Now-- Let me give you that address."
"Some address..."
And he opens the gate, noting the little pin-wheel gears tucked inside that keep it from clattering. He shuffles up the walkway, climbing the slate stairs and finally reaching the door. It's massive and cherry-stained, with a silver tassel hanging beside it. Claude tugs it idly, hearing the rumble of a bell beyond, the tick-tick-tock of music.
"Well that's not extravagant. At all."
It is, however, shocking when the door is suddenly flung wide. It reveals none of the expected white gloves and stiff bows, but instead a man--with frantic eyes and wild hair, carrying a hastily packed case (clothes peeking out like patchwork panics between the clasps). He lunges past Claude, jumping down the steps and hurrying away. There is a tear in his pants and a button missing from his cuffs. "I'm free! I'm free!" He opens the gate and rushes out. "I'm free!" His exclamations carry down the street.
"Well.... That was different."
There's really nothing else to say.
And Claude slowly moves inside, expecting a tragedy to greet him, some little horror. There isn't one, however. There’s only a sprawl of marble and brass, pendulums counting off times across the world. Tapestries adorn the walls, telling of philosophers stones and failed transmutations; and a double staircase rises up like a helix (eclipsed only by the dome that rests above it, swirls of midnight and jade, the golden curls. Seraphic). He stares, fascinated by the delicacy, the constellations drawn faint and eternal. They're beautiful. They're unfamiliar. They're--
Suddenly turned crooked as he's knocked to the floor.
What the--
He blinks, dizzy, tries to understand how the world has tilted.
The answer comes in the creature that pounces suddenly onto him. A heavy, hectic weight.
What--
It’s a... dog. A clockwork dog. It’s made of gears and pistons and metal fur (a black-painted tin). Labradorite eyes peer at him, while a spring-coiled tongue peeks out. Ears perk, mechanical. And, when it barks, there’s the echo of a phonograph, the slow drag of a needle hidden in a belly.
That--
“Izzie! Izzie, no!”
And the creature is suddenly gone, leaping away from him to skid across the floor--hinged joints offering an uneven gait, a rough squeak, squeak, squeak. She finally steadies herself, only to jump up and smear oil-prints against a white lab-coat (and his shirt, Claude realizes, peering down. He’s covered in little marks).
“Izzie,” comes the chide, forcing him to glance back up and see a slant-mouthed youth in goggles and gray waist-coat standing before him. There are ink stains on his cheek, the alkaline linger at a collar. He’s pale, with hair curling like gorgon whims; a pretty profile and prettier grin. “You know better than that. Guests are not to be tackled.” And he peels off a glove then, extending a palm toward Claude. It’s elegant even with its calluses. “My apologies,” he says. “She gets excited sometimes.”
“And a tidal wave is just a puddle,” he deadpans, even as he accepts a hand, hefts himself up. “Should put that thing on a leash. Whatever it is.”
“She is not an it. She is a dog. Named Izzie.”
“And you’re a strange one. Named Peter.”
The boy--not yet a man, too earnest still in every expression--stares, confused. “Have we met?”
“Can’t say that we have,” he remarks. “Because we haven’t.”
“Oh.”
When no other word is offered a man forces a smile, polite. “I’m Claude Rains," he explains. "I was sent by the Company to be your valet.”
“That can't be right.”
“... Pardon?”
“I already have a valet. Ando.”
“That little twitchy fellow?”
“I wouldn’t say he’s--” Peter pauses, reconsiders. “Well... yes. That’s him.”
“He’s gone,” offers Claude. “Just saw him runnin’ away. Dashed off toward destinations unknown but most definitely not here.”
“Again?”
Again?
“I lose more men that way...” He gives a labored sigh and then pouts down at Izzie, who is wagging her tail, happy in her unrepentant ways. “It was your fault, wasn’t it? You just had to keep chasing him, didn’t you? Just like all the others. I don’t know how many times I told you to leave him alone... Forcing him up the tree was bad enough. That bird thought he was trying to steal her eggs and nearly pecked his eye out.”
Izzie bows her head at that, offers a grinding little whine. Contrite.
And a boy immediately relents, leaning down to stroke her head (the wires beneath warming with the touch). “It’s alright, girl. I know you don’t mean it.” He then reaches into his pocket, pulling out a small ball. He tosses it, smiling as she skitters after it, bounding from the room. Her feet carve scratches along the floor. Peter just laughs.
Nutter...
“Now, Mr. Rains,” he begins, turning suddenly serious.
“Claude,” comes the interjection. “Mr. Rains was my father. And I’m not too keen yet on being compared to him.”
“Oh. Of course. Well then-- Claude. What exactly where you told? About what I do? About what I’ll need from you?”
“Not much, ‘m afraid.”
And don’t I just have to thank Bennet for that?
“That seems to be the trend... Your Company doesn’t like giving details to anyone.”
“I imagine that’s because it’s hard to describe robotic attack dogs.”
“Izzie is not an attack dog.”
“Could’ve fooled me.” And there’s an argument stirring before him, the words bubbling up, ready to pounce from beneath a crooked mouth. He can imagine their intentions, can predict the dangers of disappointment, displeasure and the all too imminent dismissal. A boy is fickle in his sense but not in his sentiment; and his pet is all too loved to ever be insulted.
New strategy then...
“Don’t think there’s anything wrong with her being one, of course,” Claude adds. “Just means she’s protective of you. Loyal. That’s a good quality to have in a dog.” His tone is soft and mollifies, allows a scowl to wilt. He’s safe. For now. “I’ll be trying to offer some good qualities of my own. If you’d tell me what it is I’m meant to be doing here.” He needs this position. He does. He’s no longer young enough to tempt the bored debutants, with their open skirts and open legs; and he’s not quite old enough to please their worried fathers (who demand creaking bones and sagging bellies to keep their daughters from scandal). There are few willing to accept him now in his middle-age. Most would instead brand him invisible.
And that... That’s an ugly word and a far uglier ideal.
“I need an assistant,” says Peter, breaking then through the self-loathing. “A helper.”
“That so?” Claude mutters. “And how exactly would I be helping?”
“Setting up equipment. Monitoring results. That sort of thing.” The boy gestures broadly with his hands, wriggling his fingers at the marble. “I don’t need someone to set out my clothes or cook my meals or to schedule a masquerade ball on my birthday in hopes of introducing me to society.” An expression darkens briefly then, petulant, and there’s a memory that will have to be questioned later. “I just need help with my experiments. That’s all.”
“You make it sound simple.”
“It is,” he insists, kneeling then as Izzie returns, carrying the ball in her clanking jaw. Peter takes it from her, leaning down to press a kiss to her nose. “Good girl.”
And this, Claude thinks, is not simple.
It could, however, be... interesting.
Especially when a boy glances up at him and smiles. Sweet and small and a little hopeful.
That... That...
“What d’ya need me to do first?”
.