Let's Get Down to Business

[ifwebefriends]

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

Comments

[serptichore]

Harry emerges from the elevator looking in the usual business suit he wears when on the clock, although today it's dressed down slightly by a t-shirt rather than dress shirt. He's also wearing sunglasses. If forced to speak on the subject, Harry would admit that his eyes are still adjusting from the grey skies of London to the sun here in New York; he would dismiss with a snort any suggestion that it's a calculated choice for the creation of a brusque, impersonal, and slightly-intimidating persona.*

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 fair, more for the New York staff's sake than for Rory's. Harry has some house-cleaning to do.

[fey_fire]

Harry's laconic self-intro is barely needed; Rory recognizes the man quickly enough from Cait's description. "Sandy-haired, boxer type. Built like the proverbial brick house. I have fun trying to get him to blush, though." Though she neglected to mention whether or not she'd ever succeeded.

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.

[serptichore]

Harry shoots the young musician a quick glance at the mention of Cait, then gives him a second critical look, his eyes behind the shades flickering from the dark hair down to the man's shoes and back up to his face.

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.

[fey_fire]

"My sister," Rory cheerfully confirms. "She also wanted me to pass on her very belated congratulations on Man U's double."

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.

[serptichore]

"Mmm," Harry says eloquently at the congratulations. Good match, that had been.

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."

[fey_fire]

It's Rory's turn to "Mmm," as he contemplates the idea of being a "new prospect." The new no doubt most appeals to Robin, mercurial spirit that he is. He finds his fingers twitching in time to a snippet of tune that arranges itself in his mind, one that tries to capture the flavor of the Puck's frenetic nature, and stifles himself.

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 the elevator car arrives, Rory's staring at his toes, brow furrowed.

[ifwebefriends]

Harry leads him through the offices and to Robin's door without further conversation. His knock earns a drawn out "Yes, yes, have him in, thank you Harry, that'll be all, shut the door if you would--"

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."

[fey_fire]

Rory smiles back with his usual relaxed charm. Hard not to smile at the picture of the sharp, fashionable record producer, scotch in one hand, wand in the other and surrounded by a drift of gradually descending bubbles. Still, he doesn't miss the edge to that gleaming smile or the glint in those blue eyes. This is Robbie Fellowes on business, not his indulgent "uncle", and Rory knows he'd better not underestimate the difference.

As he folds himself into the chair opposite Robin, he nods his acknowledgment of having met Harry, then directs a nod at his host's glass. "Actually, I will have a drink if you don't mind, Robin." Alcohol has no more effect on him than on the rest of his family, and scotch isn't on his list of top ten favorite potables. But the sharing of food or drink carries a deeper meaning for most cultures than simple easing of hunger or thirst.

In short, he accepts the offer out of courtesy, which has always been more than just a social lubricant to fey like him and Robin. At the start of a possible new venture with the Puck, Rory figures that a small edge of politeness can't hurt.

[ifwebefriends]

Robin arches an eyebrow in answer then grins. "Very well!" A second glass is produced from one of the desk drawers, filled with a flourish, and Robin gets up and circles the desk to proffer the drink to his 'new prospect.' He sits against the edge of his desk and regards, not Rory, but his own glass-- turning it in his fingers, admiring the rich color of the liquid inside. Then he holds it up to Rory, to invite a toast.

"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?"

[fey_fire]

With Robin, telling the difference between flourishing gesture and calculated chess move can often prove impossible, especially when the one could also be the other. Rory considers, then lifts his own glass.

"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."

[ifwebefriends]

"I will toast to that," Robin says agreeably, and lifts his glass to Rory's. "To the successful future of both our happy little amusements."

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.

[fey_fire]

Rory's swallow is a little healthier than Robin's, a byproduct of not having to worry about being knocked on his arse by strong liquor. His lips quirk slightly at the older fey's question, but his posture and expression remain tranquil, contained.

"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.

[ifwebefriends]

"Alright then." Robin shrugs and circles back around his desk to plop down in his chair. There's a folder on top of his otherwise almost-pristine desk, prepared by Bernard as per Robin's instructions during the flight over; Robin flips it open. He rifles through the papers contained with a certain childish disregard for their legal sanctity that would probably have his attorney wincing to see it, finally pulling out a few and scrutinizing them.

"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 that. As far as your bandmates are concerned, Rory, you haggled hard for every red cent and other such similar rubbish as occurs to you to sound good."

Robin drops the paper and leans back in his chair, regarding the ceiling and lacing his fingers over his chest.

"Given my extraordinary generosity on that front, I preface these next bits with the information that they are non-negotiable. I don't intend to argue with you on these points.

"Options: I normally sign a three-option contract, with one year per option and a year for the first album. In Breaker Street's case I will be insisting upon a five-option contract. Six albums, in other words. Per standard, live albums do not count towards your six albums.

"Exclusivity: I have it. Your music, your likeness, the band's name, blah blah blah, I own all that for the duration. Interviews and publicity likewise: should I call you lads-- and ladies-- up one fine morning and inform you you are being interviewed on such-and-such show at such-and-such time, you say, 'how high?' on your way over, especially since it's all for your own greater exposure and whatnot.

"Creative control regarding the artwork and all promotional materials: I have that too, blah blah blah good God I'm glad I have lawyers to write this nonsense up... what else-- oh yes, on that front: I have control of format release."

Robin sits upright at that again, lacing his fingers on the desk and peering at Rory. "Electronic media release, free downloadable albums, that sort of thing, if and when I feel like it. Your bandmates may not like that bit, soothe them with big bloody gobs of cash....

"What else, what else... oh, yes, Serptichore doesn't pay royalties, we split the gross profits. Standard policy. You can insist on royalties if you like but it's a raw deal, ask anyone. Mmmmm I'm forgetting something-- ah--" he snaps his fingers. Smiles warmly at Rory and adds in the sweetest of voices, "It should go utterly without saying but any outside work the band, and most especially you, do for other labels must be approved by me, and it will go utterly without being said outside this room that I will not be granting that approval."

Robin slides the stacks of paper Rory's direction across the desk. "Now then. Your turn to talk. And ask questions, I suppose."

[fey_fire]

Rory's eyes narrow in concentration as Robin lists his terms. The Puck is effectively insisting on a minimum of six years' creative indentured servitude for Breaker Street, since Rory's quite certain that the older fey will exercise all five of those options. By the time the singer/songwriter starts leafing through the sheaf of paper himself, he's already mentally bumped up his requirements for both pre-recording advances and the band's split of the profits. It's common industry practice to get as many records out of a new act at as low a payout rate as possible, but if Breaker Street won't be able to sneeze musically without Robin's approval for a full six years, Rory damn well intends to make sure they get compensated handsomely--

--until he reaches the relevant section of the contract and finds that Robin has already exceeded his expectations in that department. Generous advances indeed, and that percentage split will be sure to give some poor accountant an acid stomach, if not an outright ulcer. Or is Emma, Robin's clockwork amanuensis, still doing all the books?

Rory works his way through the contract, sipping his scotch thoughtfully as he considers the implications. Robin wants Breaker Street, wants all of their output to remain under his control for as long as he can arrange, but he's more than willing to keep them financially happy in the meantime. If, as he's said, he doesn't care about the money ...

He wants me. He wants a share in this whatever-it-is that my music and performances generate from an audience. Well, good. If I could find a way to offload the lot to him, I would do.

Ignoring the faint, taunting voice in the back of his mind saying oh really?, Rory keeps sorting through the papers in front of him. Sifting through all the minutia will happen later and with help, but he does run across one clause that triggers a wince.

"A ten-year lockout on top of a six-year contract, Robin? You're telling me we won't be able to do a damn thing with any of the music on our first album for sixteen years without your say-so? Which, as you've already stated, will not be forthcoming."

[ifwebefriends]

Robin's back to blowing bubbles. He picks up the wand as Rory skims the contract, and lazily sends soap spheres at the large windows with their stunning views of Manhattan. The cleaning crew may grumble about that tonight, but then again, they've had to clean up far worse in his office than streaks on the glass.

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 worst, when there's that half-inch left in the bottle and you have to try and tilt it on its side and hope enough liquid pools to get the wand coated) "--of the numbers you've got there."

Robin sighs heavily, a sound of deep gloom for Breaker Street's prospects with another label, and jabs at the intercom. "Emma, love? I need another bottle."

Alright, perhaps the sigh wasn't for Breaker Street.

[fey_fire]

Rory has to wonder whether Emma will interpret that plaintive statement as a request for more bubbles or more scotch. Or, indeed, more of any of a number of things Robin might keep in a bottle. He smiles at the possibilities.

"You're quite right, of course," he says, mellow humor restored. "Financially we can hardly do better with anyone else. And as you mentioned, you do have that particular understanding of my situation."

He idly leafs through a few pages, running a finger down the contents. "So it seems there are only a few more details for us to address before I take your offer back to the band."