A Robin Sings At Midnight
Title: A Robin Sings At Midnight
Rating: PG
Characters: Peter, Claude and Angela.
Warnings: Gen noir-ish fic? Oh, the horror.
This... Well, this is inspired partially by that micro-fic AU I did (not necessary to understand this. It was only ten words long). It didn’t do what I intended and ended up spawning an arc that’s already giving me a headache. The one-shot still seems impossible for me.
But happy belated birthday englishmuffin2 . I hope you like it anyway.
It’s raining.
Of course it’s raining.
The evening is drenched, summer sliding wet and new. It’s laughing against windows, street-lamp halos barely glimpsing through. They’re dirty little lines that follow dirty little floors; jump from scandal to scandal, the open legs and greedy tongues of every city secret. Until they finally reach him---trudging through photographs, sipping stale-piped water since he forgot the necessity of caffeine, frowning at every revelation that comes from mediocrity. Another affair, another collection of kisses and shadow to shadow breaths. They moved and he watched, caught their sentiments. He’d think himself a voyeur but that has too much meaning. This is no perversion. It’s simply paid for.
He once printed that on a business card. He threw it out the same day.
And now he shuffles proof into a drawer, keeps it safe until tomorrow. When he’ll face the common devastation of a wife: the threats, sobs and pleadings. He’ll try to remember to smile. He can call it an expense. And he would wonder if it’s wrong to consider this survival but philosophy has never been his strength. He prefers the tangible. The weight of coins and paper.
And that’s what makes him willing when there’s a knock at the door; when he sees a pretty silhouette against the glass. It obscures lettering: Walker Investigations. He stole this from the previous owner, couldn’t spare the cost to change it. A dollar is easier to save than an explanation (even if he is tired of reminding that he isn’t related to them. Twenty two and on his own. He prefers it that way).
Claude straightens, pokes the brim of his hat; he’s long since stopped taking it off. A fedora is too much a symbol here and he likes the mystery. “Come in.”
A handle twists; a door opens; and a woman steps inside. She’s pristine, despite the weather. Trench-coat belted tight, shoes fashionably practical. No excess of jewelry or color. Clever features are aged graceful. No strand is hanging wild.
The child beside her, though, is strange; a lacework of curiosity and rainbows. Bright cloth, bright eyes, hair swept from the night. He waves shyly with one hand. The other is clutching a small bear. He keeps it close as he’s led forward, paused finally in front of a desk.
“I assume you’re Mr. Rains?” says the woman. Every sound is precise.
His isn’t, drawls. “I am.”
“Good.” She sits in a chair positioned wobbly, crosses her ankles. Demure. She peels off her gloves and places them in her lap. The boy tries to follow. She gently reprimands him with, “No, Peter, not here.” She nods instead toward a couch shoved against the wall. “Go over there and play, dear.”
He does, shuffling over and crawling up. He chirps to his bear, lost instantly in a world of his own.
She stares at him, fond, before turning back. She offers Claude no such affection. “I need your help.”
“Most do,” he replies, pleasant.
She’s unamused, waits until his expression wilts before continuing. “I’ve heard you have certain... skills.” The word is diplomatic. “Certain uses?”
“I do,” he admits. “Though, funny thing... most people introduce themselves before they ask about ‘em. Makes it a bit easier for me. Keeps me from havin’ to yell out Hey, you! all the time. Unless you’d rather me make somethin’ up? I’ve done that before. Think I’m leanin’ toward Mrs. Robinson for you. You’ve got that bouffant thing goin’. Could be persuaded to do somethin’ else, though. I’m flexible.” He’s irreverent when he’s nervous. And he’s always nervous when faced with a hawk that’s pretending to be a dove. Who is protecting a little robin.
And she sighs then, as if he’s tedious, as if she regrets they share the same seconds. Frowns, “I’m Angela Petrelli.”
“See? That wasn’t so-- It--” He blinks. “Did you say Petrelli?”
“If I wanted things repeated, sir, I would’ve gone to a parrot.”
He snorts. “Bet you’d treat a bird better.”
“Undoubtedly.”
And there it is: the fire he’s glimpsed rare across the social pages. He remembers her now. Sepia-harpy in pictures; even more of one in truth.
“If you’re finished gawking, Mr. Rains, we have work to do.”
“So sorry,” Claude quips. “Just don’t get a lot of your kind here.”
“My kind? Meaning clean?” She glances pointedly toward the circles of dust and coffee-stains, the papers scattered frantic.
“Yeah... Told the maid to take the last few months off.”
“That’s something of an understatement.” Quickest flash of humor and then-- It’s gone, replaced aristocratic. “Is your passport in order?”
“It always is,” he huffs. “In case I need to get away from bill collectors. But-- What is this? Why are you here?”
Angela peeks at her son then; he doesn’t sense her desperation, merely grins. She can’t quite return it. Instead fixes Claude with dark eyes (Peter’s, he thinks, are the kinder kohl. These are vicious). Wonders, “How long have you had your power?”
It’s a calm, calm, destruction. He startles, panic unfamiliar and unwanted. No one meant to know of him, of a curse he made efficient. And denials come immediate, sewn rough and worried.
She unravels each and exposes the lie. “I don’t blame you for trying to convince me now but I don’t have the time to play along. You’re not normal. Neither am I. I promise that we’re not so different.”
“’M guessin’ you’ve never--”
“I’d rather you didn’t finish that,” she interjects. “Language so... interesting isn’t good around young minds.”
He stops, stares. “How’d you-- I didn’t even--” A spectacular curse had been forming. Now it’s wasted. He’ll use it later. “I didn’t say anythin’.”
“No, but you were going to. And, before you accuse me of being a regular ol’ witch,” she begins, wrinkling her nose at a conversation she’s now rendered futile, “I’ll skip right to the point. I dream things. The future. It’s how I knew how you would respond. It’s how I knew where to find you. And--” She clicks her tongue, fumbling sudden through her purse. She finally draws out a bandage.
“What’s that for then?” Suspicious of something so insignificant. It’s the little terrors that are the worst.
“Three, two, one,” counts Angela before--
There’s a horrified squeak from the couch. The man whirls, expecting tragedy. He’s met instead with a child’s assumption of it. A bear sprawls on the floor. Peter hurries to pick it up, cradles it tender as he hops down. “Mama, mama,” he whimpers. “I dropped her. She’s hurt.”
Claude doesn’t remember being that young.
“She’s fine, dear,” Angela assures, gently pressing the bandage to fur. It’s stark against the brown. “There. All better.”
The boy breathes, instantly soothed.
His mother merely hugs him. Adds, “I saw this all a few nights ago. So it’s best if you just agree with me now and don’t make me go through all those attempts of showing you.”
He nods, stunned. Chokes, “What-- What d’ya want?”
She kisses a giggle-wide cheek and whispers, “I need to get him out of here.”
---
Midnight sprawls slow, drifts through remnants of rain, the waves of heat still swaying. He watches them, tugging nervous at the tie he’s forced to wear to make himself seem older. His reflection shimmers with every scowl, with every distant little mewl behind it. Peter is curled on the couch, Claude’s coat pulled against him. He fell asleep hours before.
Invisibility envies that. Wishes he could’ve collapsed into fantasy, not this reality too absurd. Because Angela Petrelli wants him to take her six-year-old son away, to hide him for days unknown. His father is dangerous, she claims, filled to intentions vile. Dissections, tortures, summoning abilities before they’re meant to rise.
I can’t allow that, she told him. I won’t allow it.
He isn’t certain how she can challenge Arthur; but the idea he has makes him ill.
“Are you going to help me?” She interrupts him, tone too careful. She’s afraid but won’t confess it.
Neither will he then. “Can’t you already guess?” He turns to peer at her.
“I have no control over what you do or don’t do.”
Right... And I won’t expect a bullet in my back if I say no then.
“’M considerin’ it... But there’s somethin’ I gotta know first.”
“Of course.”
“Why me?”
A mouth thins, puzzled. “I thought that was obvious, Mr. Rains.”
“Humor me, Duchess.”
She blanches with a sobriquet but doesn’t correct it. She learned long ago how to bend to lesser minds. “I need him to disappear and who better for that than you?”
“Oh, I get that part,” he dismisses. “But why me?”
There’s a moment between them, an almost respect. It fades as soon as she shrugs, delicate. “Because I can buy your loyalty. The others, the ones who I would like to trust, I can’t. They’re too busy trying to please Arthur. He’s very generous to those who submit to him, as you can imagine.”
“Yeah. Bet he’s a right prince to those who don’t, too,” Claude deadpans.
“Indeed...” She taps idle against the arm of her chair, continues: “But you’re nothing like them. You’re not wanting to climb social ladders or stuff your bank account. You want to exist, not succeed. In fact, you have no real ambition at all.”
“Tryin’ to flatter me?”
“No.”
“Ah.”
“But it’s for those very reasons that you become the best choice in the world for Peter. Because you won’t betray him for something else. You’ll just do your job. You don’t want more than that.” She accesses him coldly. “I don’t believe you want anything. Beyond being able to make your rent.”
It’s the honesty that breaks him, has him glancing away. She understands too much. And he lets his focus wander instead to the ceiling. The plaster is chipped, forms awkward helixes where it sags. He’ll need to fix that soon. Or not.
“I believe I’ve answered all your concerns, Mr. Rains. Now won’t you answer mine?” It’s the first hint of impatience, concern.
And this is madness. He’s no hero, comfortable with his cowardice, his unimportance. Those can be satisfied with a beer. With a cheap date that begins at her place and ends with him stumbling home. But this-- This--
He lets his tongue choose his path.
He’s surprised when it agrees.
“When do we leave?
Figures.
.
Rating: PG
Characters: Peter, Claude and Angela.
Warnings: Gen noir-ish fic? Oh, the horror.
This... Well, this is inspired partially by that micro-fic AU I did (not necessary to understand this. It was only ten words long). It didn’t do what I intended and ended up spawning an arc that’s already giving me a headache. The one-shot still seems impossible for me.
But happy belated birthday englishmuffin2 . I hope you like it anyway.
It’s raining.
Of course it’s raining.
The evening is drenched, summer sliding wet and new. It’s laughing against windows, street-lamp halos barely glimpsing through. They’re dirty little lines that follow dirty little floors; jump from scandal to scandal, the open legs and greedy tongues of every city secret. Until they finally reach him---trudging through photographs, sipping stale-piped water since he forgot the necessity of caffeine, frowning at every revelation that comes from mediocrity. Another affair, another collection of kisses and shadow to shadow breaths. They moved and he watched, caught their sentiments. He’d think himself a voyeur but that has too much meaning. This is no perversion. It’s simply paid for.
He once printed that on a business card. He threw it out the same day.
And now he shuffles proof into a drawer, keeps it safe until tomorrow. When he’ll face the common devastation of a wife: the threats, sobs and pleadings. He’ll try to remember to smile. He can call it an expense. And he would wonder if it’s wrong to consider this survival but philosophy has never been his strength. He prefers the tangible. The weight of coins and paper.
And that’s what makes him willing when there’s a knock at the door; when he sees a pretty silhouette against the glass. It obscures lettering: Walker Investigations. He stole this from the previous owner, couldn’t spare the cost to change it. A dollar is easier to save than an explanation (even if he is tired of reminding that he isn’t related to them. Twenty two and on his own. He prefers it that way).
Claude straightens, pokes the brim of his hat; he’s long since stopped taking it off. A fedora is too much a symbol here and he likes the mystery. “Come in.”
A handle twists; a door opens; and a woman steps inside. She’s pristine, despite the weather. Trench-coat belted tight, shoes fashionably practical. No excess of jewelry or color. Clever features are aged graceful. No strand is hanging wild.
The child beside her, though, is strange; a lacework of curiosity and rainbows. Bright cloth, bright eyes, hair swept from the night. He waves shyly with one hand. The other is clutching a small bear. He keeps it close as he’s led forward, paused finally in front of a desk.
“I assume you’re Mr. Rains?” says the woman. Every sound is precise.
His isn’t, drawls. “I am.”
“Good.” She sits in a chair positioned wobbly, crosses her ankles. Demure. She peels off her gloves and places them in her lap. The boy tries to follow. She gently reprimands him with, “No, Peter, not here.” She nods instead toward a couch shoved against the wall. “Go over there and play, dear.”
He does, shuffling over and crawling up. He chirps to his bear, lost instantly in a world of his own.
She stares at him, fond, before turning back. She offers Claude no such affection. “I need your help.”
“Most do,” he replies, pleasant.
She’s unamused, waits until his expression wilts before continuing. “I’ve heard you have certain... skills.” The word is diplomatic. “Certain uses?”
“I do,” he admits. “Though, funny thing... most people introduce themselves before they ask about ‘em. Makes it a bit easier for me. Keeps me from havin’ to yell out Hey, you! all the time. Unless you’d rather me make somethin’ up? I’ve done that before. Think I’m leanin’ toward Mrs. Robinson for you. You’ve got that bouffant thing goin’. Could be persuaded to do somethin’ else, though. I’m flexible.” He’s irreverent when he’s nervous. And he’s always nervous when faced with a hawk that’s pretending to be a dove. Who is protecting a little robin.
And she sighs then, as if he’s tedious, as if she regrets they share the same seconds. Frowns, “I’m Angela Petrelli.”
“See? That wasn’t so-- It--” He blinks. “Did you say Petrelli?”
“If I wanted things repeated, sir, I would’ve gone to a parrot.”
He snorts. “Bet you’d treat a bird better.”
“Undoubtedly.”
And there it is: the fire he’s glimpsed rare across the social pages. He remembers her now. Sepia-harpy in pictures; even more of one in truth.
“If you’re finished gawking, Mr. Rains, we have work to do.”
“So sorry,” Claude quips. “Just don’t get a lot of your kind here.”
“My kind? Meaning clean?” She glances pointedly toward the circles of dust and coffee-stains, the papers scattered frantic.
“Yeah... Told the maid to take the last few months off.”
“That’s something of an understatement.” Quickest flash of humor and then-- It’s gone, replaced aristocratic. “Is your passport in order?”
“It always is,” he huffs. “In case I need to get away from bill collectors. But-- What is this? Why are you here?”
Angela peeks at her son then; he doesn’t sense her desperation, merely grins. She can’t quite return it. Instead fixes Claude with dark eyes (Peter’s, he thinks, are the kinder kohl. These are vicious). Wonders, “How long have you had your power?”
It’s a calm, calm, destruction. He startles, panic unfamiliar and unwanted. No one meant to know of him, of a curse he made efficient. And denials come immediate, sewn rough and worried.
She unravels each and exposes the lie. “I don’t blame you for trying to convince me now but I don’t have the time to play along. You’re not normal. Neither am I. I promise that we’re not so different.”
“’M guessin’ you’ve never--”
“I’d rather you didn’t finish that,” she interjects. “Language so... interesting isn’t good around young minds.”
He stops, stares. “How’d you-- I didn’t even--” A spectacular curse had been forming. Now it’s wasted. He’ll use it later. “I didn’t say anythin’.”
“No, but you were going to. And, before you accuse me of being a regular ol’ witch,” she begins, wrinkling her nose at a conversation she’s now rendered futile, “I’ll skip right to the point. I dream things. The future. It’s how I knew how you would respond. It’s how I knew where to find you. And--” She clicks her tongue, fumbling sudden through her purse. She finally draws out a bandage.
“What’s that for then?” Suspicious of something so insignificant. It’s the little terrors that are the worst.
“Three, two, one,” counts Angela before--
There’s a horrified squeak from the couch. The man whirls, expecting tragedy. He’s met instead with a child’s assumption of it. A bear sprawls on the floor. Peter hurries to pick it up, cradles it tender as he hops down. “Mama, mama,” he whimpers. “I dropped her. She’s hurt.”
Claude doesn’t remember being that young.
“She’s fine, dear,” Angela assures, gently pressing the bandage to fur. It’s stark against the brown. “There. All better.”
The boy breathes, instantly soothed.
His mother merely hugs him. Adds, “I saw this all a few nights ago. So it’s best if you just agree with me now and don’t make me go through all those attempts of showing you.”
He nods, stunned. Chokes, “What-- What d’ya want?”
She kisses a giggle-wide cheek and whispers, “I need to get him out of here.”
---
Midnight sprawls slow, drifts through remnants of rain, the waves of heat still swaying. He watches them, tugging nervous at the tie he’s forced to wear to make himself seem older. His reflection shimmers with every scowl, with every distant little mewl behind it. Peter is curled on the couch, Claude’s coat pulled against him. He fell asleep hours before.
Invisibility envies that. Wishes he could’ve collapsed into fantasy, not this reality too absurd. Because Angela Petrelli wants him to take her six-year-old son away, to hide him for days unknown. His father is dangerous, she claims, filled to intentions vile. Dissections, tortures, summoning abilities before they’re meant to rise.
I can’t allow that, she told him. I won’t allow it.
He isn’t certain how she can challenge Arthur; but the idea he has makes him ill.
“Are you going to help me?” She interrupts him, tone too careful. She’s afraid but won’t confess it.
Neither will he then. “Can’t you already guess?” He turns to peer at her.
“I have no control over what you do or don’t do.”
Right... And I won’t expect a bullet in my back if I say no then.
“’M considerin’ it... But there’s somethin’ I gotta know first.”
“Of course.”
“Why me?”
A mouth thins, puzzled. “I thought that was obvious, Mr. Rains.”
“Humor me, Duchess.”
She blanches with a sobriquet but doesn’t correct it. She learned long ago how to bend to lesser minds. “I need him to disappear and who better for that than you?”
“Oh, I get that part,” he dismisses. “But why me?”
There’s a moment between them, an almost respect. It fades as soon as she shrugs, delicate. “Because I can buy your loyalty. The others, the ones who I would like to trust, I can’t. They’re too busy trying to please Arthur. He’s very generous to those who submit to him, as you can imagine.”
“Yeah. Bet he’s a right prince to those who don’t, too,” Claude deadpans.
“Indeed...” She taps idle against the arm of her chair, continues: “But you’re nothing like them. You’re not wanting to climb social ladders or stuff your bank account. You want to exist, not succeed. In fact, you have no real ambition at all.”
“Tryin’ to flatter me?”
“No.”
“Ah.”
“But it’s for those very reasons that you become the best choice in the world for Peter. Because you won’t betray him for something else. You’ll just do your job. You don’t want more than that.” She accesses him coldly. “I don’t believe you want anything. Beyond being able to make your rent.”
It’s the honesty that breaks him, has him glancing away. She understands too much. And he lets his focus wander instead to the ceiling. The plaster is chipped, forms awkward helixes where it sags. He’ll need to fix that soon. Or not.
“I believe I’ve answered all your concerns, Mr. Rains. Now won’t you answer mine?” It’s the first hint of impatience, concern.
And this is madness. He’s no hero, comfortable with his cowardice, his unimportance. Those can be satisfied with a beer. With a cheap date that begins at her place and ends with him stumbling home. But this-- This--
He lets his tongue choose his path.
He’s surprised when it agrees.
“When do we leave?
Figures.
.