Straight from the airport to the office, Harry in his wake for once. Normally he leaves his head of security in England, but more and more business is being done on this side of the pond now (as Serptichore becomes more established in America), and for the next three foreseeable months Robin intends to be Stateside. Enough staff has been left in
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Rory takes the upcoming meeting seriously and has therefore actually opted to wear a suit for once. No tie though. He reserves those for weddings, funerals and other solemn occasions, and the word solemn isn't often associated with the man he's about to see.
Natalie dimples prettily at him as she enthuses about how she just loves working for Mr. Fellowes, because she gets to meet such interesting people. Fortunately the elevator chimes its arrival just then, sparing Rory the need to reply. He straightens, smoothing one hand down his jacket.
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Harry is a better liar than people think.
He homes in on the young man immediately and strides over; does not offer his hand, stopping instead with his hands behind his back. "Rory Stone? 'm Henry. If ye'll follow me."
Harry knows nothing about this 'Rory Stone'-- nothing of his and Robin's previous acquaintance-- and so treats hims exactly the same as he does all Robin's new musicians: detached distance. It's just another part of the job, and not really his favorite. He turns on his heel, leading the way back to the elevator.
*To be ( ... )
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As he follows the head of security to the elevator, his brief internal debate over whether or not to mention his connection to the head of Serptichore gets quickly resolved. After all, Harry will find out sooner or later anyway, likely sooner if he's as good at his job as reputed. And Rory's not particularly worried about the opinions anyone might form as a result of knowing that Robin's an old (hah) family friend. If they think that favoritism is the only reason his band has been offered a contract, Breaker Street will prove them all wrong soon enough.
So as Harry punches the button for the top floor, he brings it up, but obliquely. "Cait asked me to say hello." His smile shifts to something not exactly mischievous.
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Wouldn't have guessed it at first glance, he supposes, but now that he's looking for it he thinks he can see a certain something in the smile, maybe in the cheekbones. The coloring, yes...
"Yeh family?" Harry asks.
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He leans back against the rear wall of the lift, working his shoulders a bit, trying to relax. Trying to relax, the eternal contradiction. A pensive look slips across his face as he watches the numbers on the digital display flick closer to their destination.
"Should I ask what kind of mood His Nibs is in today?" he asks in a tone that's almost offhand.
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Another brief silence descends. Rory had as likely try and draw blood from his stage namesake as try and get much idle conversation from Harry Potter. When he asks another question, Harry contemplates the sleek panel of elevator buttons for several seconds as the lift pulls them higher, nearer the thirteenth floor where Robin holds his haphazard court. If Mr. Fellowes was, well, normal-- human-- he'd be jet-lagged and exhausted, as Harry himself is although he doesn't show it, soldiering on through it with stolid endurance. But Mr. Fellows is his usual energetic self, maybe a touch more cheery than normal.
He shrugs. "'e's 'avin' fun, reckon. 'e likes new prospecks."
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Best not to compose music about your producer before you're even sure if he'll be your producer, after all.
Or is he? Rory has to admit, if only to himself, that his nerves are probably stemming from a sense of the inevitable approaching. Robin is so damn used to getting his own way, one way or another, plus he can't stop thinking about the intense flares of hope in the eyes of his bandmates--
Stop it. You're not going to fob responsibility for what does or doesn't happen here onto everyone else. Your life, your decision.Which thought of course brings to mind everything he really needs to discuss with Robin, and the question of whether or not he can get answers out of the older fey. By the time ( ... )
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And then it's just Rory and Robin, staring each other. Robin at least is smiling, a smile that lingers a bit beyond what you give someone who's just come in the door, a smile that seems half a baby's thoughtless glee and half a fox's sharp-toothed maw. He is motionless, glass and bubbles still in hand, feet on the desk-- then abruptly sits upright, gesturing with the alcohol.
"There you are! Rory Stone. Ruairí MacEibhir," he tacks on, giving the name the slightly more complex inflections than its Anglicized version. "Sit down. Drink? Ah no, you and the family don't, of course, silly me. We just got in from London and we're all very loopy from the plane. Did you meet Henry? Isn't he lovely? Has the charm of a rock, and quite a few more useful applications. Sit, Rory. I'm quite happy to see you."
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"Is it presumptuous of me, do you think, to drink to Breaker Street's profitable future?" he asks Rory, smiling. "Should the toast wait until we've done all the tedious paperwork?"
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"Let's drink to the successful future of both Breaker Street and Serptichore," he replies, flashing his own smile. "And then we can figure out what's to be done if we're to merge the two."
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The clink of glasses, and for Robin at least the enjoyment of alcohol's burn and the anticipation of a coming buzz. "Now then," he says, setting his glass down on the desk and crossing his arms, "ethically it behooves me to ask if you've an agent. You know, someone to watch out and read the fine print for you and ensure I'm not going to royally screw your rock band pooch."
There's still a smile on his face as he says this, and to the uninformed observer it might be one of pure self-deprecating humor-- after all, Serptichore's known for being relatively generous in its contracts with its musicians, a fact Robin uses to his advantage, a fact Rory's no doubt aware of. But here, now, between the two of them, the smile also addresses the knowledge that there are many sorts of ways to screw someone in a deal, and for two fey the considerations go beyond the merely financial.
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"We don't have," he replies. "I've handled Breaker Street's contracts myself, with Cait as backup. Of course I'm still a youngster by your lights--" Hell, Da's still a youngster by your lights. "--but I am experienced enough to unravel the fine print in a standard contract."
Rory's slight emphasis on standard indicates that he knows their situation is anything but. He fully intends to have that fine print vetted by older and more mystically trained heads before he signs anything.
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"Right," he says after a few seconds. "A few words that shan't leave this room, Rory-- for your ears alone, dear boy.
"Imprimis: I obviously don't give a bloody damn about the money. I doubt you much do either. But for your wonderfully human bandmates who must pay bills and so forth, it is no doubt a concern. Ergo, if the numbers quoted aren't what you think is fair for their work, then you and I can sort that out to your satisfaction before you go bringing them anything on paper.
"Essentially I'm telling you that I'll pay them whatever the ruddy hell they want, but they don't need to know ( ... )
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Rory's indignant question earns a shrug in answer as Robin watches an especially large bubble pop halfway to the windows. "Yes, that's about the sum of it," he says, then swivels to face Rory again.
"Naturally I can't make you accept such a deal. You and your friends are welcome to go elsewhere. The fact that you had a contract offer from me would probably get you at least an appointment with someone else." He twiddles the wand in his fingers, peering into the bottle to check the level of the soapy liquid remaining.
"Mind you--" a jab of the wand into the bottle, "--I doubt--" ah, it remains stubbornly soap-free, "anyone else would offer you--" Robin sloshes the bottle around, tries again, "--a fraction--" (This is the ( ... )
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