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

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[fey_fire]

Ah, but before he ascends in that elevator, Rory has his rangy form leaned against a chair back in the lobby as he chats with the receptionist. Her name is Natalie, as it turns out, and she was hired when her predecessor apparently decided to switch coasts and moved to Serptichore's LA office. Robin's tendency to play musical staffing has not abated.

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.

[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."

[ifwebefriends]

A-ha, he's sorted the right angle for the bottle to get the wand soapy for one last go. Robin blows the stream of the final few bubbles in Rory's direction, smiles happily at him, and only then appears to process his words.

"Mmm? Details? What, they're all they're in the papers," he says in unenthused tones that suggest details are something the help, namely Bernard, has to worry about. Robin frowns, then sets about carefully pouring his remaining drink into the bubble bottle, in the name of stretching the remaining liquid. Whether alcohol will provide a suitable base for soap bubbles remains to be seen.

"What further details?"

[fey_fire]

Two mental pictures combine to distract Rory for several seconds: one of the possible after-effects were Robin to drink his sudsy cocktail, and the other of the face Nil would make if he could see what Robbie Fellowes just did to what is probably a high-end single malt. A bubble chooses that moment to pop on his forehead, bringing his attention back to the discussion.

"Just a few stray concerns," he murmurs soothingly. Leaning back in his chair, he spots another descending bubble and blows delicately to send it wobbling back in Robin's direction.

"The first would be Morrie Dubrowsky, our sound technician. He's been as much a member of the band as any of us musicians. If we can negotiate some kind of position for him, be it in-studio or touring, I can assure you he'd be an asset."

[ifwebefriends]

Robin scowls as he attempts the first bubble with his new mixture. The sputter of liquid is not encouraging. He sighs and watches the sphere Rory blew drift haphazardly back his way

[fey_fire]

Rory's lips quirk, both at Robin's bubble-balancing and his slight mangling of Morrie's name, but he doesn't bother to correct his fellow fey. With a foot in the door, the wiry sound tech will be on Serptichore's payroll soon enough. "Fair enough," he replies.

Collecting one of the fresh bottles, he pulls out the soapy wand and blows not a stream, but a single bubble that grows larger and larger until a slightly stronger puff of air sets it drifting. Satisfied with the result, the púca indulges in a trick that he and Tadhg used to play around with: humming a silken, unearthly tune, he sets the pale rainbows on its surface dancing in time with his voice. Lissome figures form and dissolve in the swirls of color, cavorting and chasing each other playfully until the sphere bursts on the hilt of a letter opener on Robin's desk.

"Concern the second," he continues as if there'd been no interruption, "would be concert schedules. I assume that they'd be part of the publicity and formats of which you've claimed control?"

[ifwebefriends]

Robin wrinkles his nose slightly when the oversized bubble bursts, sending a fine mist of soapy microdroplets over his desk. Why yes, he is a snot who is unappreciative of pretty swirly colors, unless they're his own doing.

Rory's question drags his attention back. Robin's gaze tracks from tiny pinprick spots of wetness on his desk to the younger fey's deep brown eyes. "You assume correctly," he says airily, and resumes once more toying with the bubble on his hand. "I mean, I will give you concert schedules months in advance of course, and if there's a date that's an utter absolute problem or something we can sort it out, but-- yes. I decide where and when you lot go to, more or less."

[fey_fire]

"Mmmhm." Rory slouches a bit in his chair, the very picture of relaxed equanimity. Robin's answer contains nothing he didn't expect, after all. He'll dig for certain other details a little later.

Smiling slightly, he lets his eyes follow the bobs and bounces of the bubble the Puck manipulates, the delicate globe now held together solely by a casual exercise of Robin's will. He exchanges the bottle he holds for his glass of scotch and takes a slow sip, letting the fiery liquid roll around on his tongue much like the bubble on Robin's fingers.

"Third concern," he says, his voice light and casual, "involves the matter of my compensation as a songwriter, over and above my share as a performer."

[ifwebefriends]

Robin pauses the bubble's bounce mid-air with the same effort he might pause a DVD, and gives Rory two slo-w-w-wly arched brows.

"Compensation?"

He flicks the bubble with a finger again, sending it back into a lazy drift towards the desk, and leans back in his chair.

"You are monetarily compensated for that; I can't think you want more money, given that it's just dollars. So very useful to our kind. And what else shall I pay you in, Rory?

"You are doing this to 'make it big', aren't you? To have more people listen to your music. Well. You're getting that. Fame and all that comes with it. The nights on stage, the crowd at your control. Oh yes, you're getting that."

Robin gestures for the bubble to come to him; it does, floating from where it lies on the desk to his hands. The Puck poises it again on one finger and then spins it, peering into the shimmering rotating depths as if at the future itself.

"And you are such a very virtuous boy that I'm not sure what else appeals to you. Sex? You have a girl, and you love her, which

[fey_fire]

Millennia older than your father, Rory, he reminds himself as he watches the other fey's smile take on a certain hardness. He dances a delicate dance here, and one that he knows is not entirely safe. He wants Robin's understanding, not his anger, and so he eases back, letting his tone and attitude become a shade more suppliant.

"You've been extremely generous financially, Robin. I do appreciate that, and I'll have no problem accepting monetary compensation for those songs I'll write for Serptichore in the future. But for the ones I've already done--" He pauses for another sip of scotch, wishing briefly that he could find courage in a glass as so many can. Enough.

"I need answers," he says at last, meeting Robin's gleaming blue gaze once again. "A few honest answers to a few straightforward questions. Questions about me, not about you."

After some seconds of silence, Rory lowers his eyes to the liquid still in his glass, hoping to conceal just how unsettled he is by the question Robin asked him.

What is it you want, Rory

[ifwebefriends]

Robin, in response, yawns. Deliberate and casual, stopping the spinning bubble with the gesture.

The boy wants honesty from him. What a silly dangerous thing to ask for. To ask him for. Robin taps the bubble with one finger, tap tap tap, then pokes that finger through it and regards the skewered bubble with studied indifference.

"I doubt," he says lazily, "that I am such an expert on your person as you seem to think. What you mean to say is answers about the music, about what you feel when you're on stage; let us speak plainly, my dear dear boy. And, frankly, for you to try and say those questions therefore aren't about me is patently absurd. Your interest may be discreetly within the bounds of yourself, but nevertheless

[fey_fire]

Well. Rory draws a slow and careful breath. He's gotten what he asked for, even if he's increasingly certain it isn't what he really wants. But then small children don't want to eat their vegetables, or go to bed early, or do any of a number of things that are actually in their best interests. Sitting here in front of one who was already old when the Romans invaded Britain, Rory feels like a small child indeed, his own century-plus on this planet a mere drop in that bucket

[ifwebefriends]

Ah yes, what indeed. Robin sinks a little lower in his chair, attention still ostensibly on the bubble-Rory he's shaping but his eyes drifting half to shut...

He remembers-- the lights, the stage, the sounds. The feedback of the speakers as they warm up for the night, the resonance of the first chord, out over not just the stage, but out over the people. One hundred or one thousand, it both matters and doesn't matter. They are a sea of shadows in which the pinprick gleams of cigarette lighters or eyes-reflecting-stagelights gleam like stars. The true believers are there in the front, crowding the stage, their faces upturned like the devout to their gods. An apt metaphor.

And all of them his, his for the taking, his for the using, his to both rule and serve, because he owns them for the duration of the performance but ah yes, they own him too, by their existence they justify his own and perhaps the best term is not master or servant but lover

[fey_fire]

Jesus. Rory takes another swallow of scotch in an attempt to summon saliva back to his suddenly dry mouth. He'd tasted the intensity of a crowd's focus, certainly ... but worship? Can the phrase rock god actually be that literal? He wants no part of that. None whatsoever. He grimaces slightly when he finds himself repeating the words in his head.

And existentially programmed. Robin makes it sound as if Rory's own will is as insubstantial and malleable a thing as the bubble he's still shaping. Does his fey nature really make him that -- that vulnerable to his audience?

Was Robin just as vulnerable, during his brief flirtation with stardom?

You know better than to ask that one, boyo.Speaking of asking ... he sees Robin watching him through the bubble-replica with half-lidded eyes. The thinning of his lips reminds Rory both that he has two more questions and that the Puck hates having his time wasted by anyone but himself. Extremely eloquent lips, those, even when they're not shaping words

[ifwebefriends]

Robin snorts, expressively. "Did he really say that? My. More caution than I generally associate with Tadhg. Here I thought he was all for throwing himself into the deep waters of his heritage and finding out whether or not he can swim. But perhaps he thinks he can handle that where you can't."

That's not an answer yet, and Robin sighs. Rory's terms dictated honesty. "I don't know," he says bluntly. "I don't know if his concerns are justified; I don't know if he even has the right concerns."

Robin purses his lips, considering his next words, then continues, "Those weren't how I would have phrased my concerns. And before you ask just what my concerns were for your third question, allow me to say that, yes, I am bound to answer you honestly and therefore I will-- but such a question will not endear you to me, Rory. Not at all."

Robin smiles thinly. "Isn't this honesty thing wonderful?"

[fey_fire]

Careful. Careful breaths, careful silence. Rory sits very still as Robin talks, body outwardly quiet and composed, mind anything but. He says nothing about Tadhg; if Robin isn't privy to the reasons why little brother is so unrelenting with himself and cautious with others, Rory's not the one to enlighten him. As for the rest, as for Robin's concerns ...

He wants to ask, to know. He doesn't want to ask or know a damned thing. He's stepped out onto the knife's edge in this conversation, feels it beneath him, forcing him to decide whether to topple off on one side or the other or continue on and risk being sliced open. Metaphorically, at least.

Though he's heard a fair number of stories of what happened to those who spectacularly failed to endear themselves to Robbie Fellowes, or Robin Goodfellow for that matter. Cleft in twain might well be the cleaner fate