Easy As A Candy Theft (And Much More Satisfying)
Title: Easy As A Candy Theft (And Much More Satisfying)
Rating: PG
Pairing: Peter/Claude
Spoilers: None
Warnings: None
This was inspired by several late night conversations with englishmuffin2 about Plaude, Leverage and how to combine the two. So... I did. I also squeezed in the Bingo prompt of 'stuffed animals'. It's con-man fluff, if such a genre exists.
His name is not Ethan Campbell.
He is not from Texas. He is not the son of a tycoon and his Alabama bride (whose lilting little voice brands her still an outsider among the whiskey drawls). He did not travel the world, losing his inheritance to unseemly characters with kind expressions and wicked intents. He did not shame his family, forcing them to honor debt after debt after tragic debt. He was not threatened with exile. He was not given a warning, told to invest his final dollars into a worthy cause and prove himself more than a fool.
His name is not Ethan Campbell.
Except it is.
And he climbs up the steep lines of stone steps, pushing at the glass doors that wait above. He blanches when it's revealed they must be tugged instead. He hopes no one saw his mistake, trying to shove the blush away. He fails. And he hurries beyond, entering a sleek series of offices and gold exchanges, the confusing rise of exotic tongues and their slanders. He bows his head against them, not wishing to earn their disapproval, their scorn. He needs their favor now.
And Ethan shuffles down corridors he's seen only thrice, trying not to lose himself in the maze of bureaucracy. It's an efficient tangle; with clocks singing times from across the world and marble casting reflections, bright. He is overwhelmed by it. But he tries not to falter, offers a weak stare and a steady pace instead--moving on, on, on.
Until he finally reaches the end of the hall, where a small room waits. It's dressed in chic contempt. The white walls and chrome mirrors dazzle in their simplicity. And he feels ridiculous standing at the threshold, in his scuffed boots and formal denim, a simple jacket. He's a contrasting futility. He hopes he'll be allowed inside.
He is.
Because Mr. Thompson waves at him from behind a desk, with false cheer and slick-tooth grin. He's subtly devastating in his black suit and fake tan. Ethan thinks he must look so small in comparison. He wonders if Mr. Thompson will even speak to him.
He does.
"Mr. Campbell," he slithers. "Sit down, sit down." He motions to a chair crafted to impossible angles. "I was just thinking about you."
"You were, sir?" comes the question, soft and surprised. Ethan perches tentatively down, trying not to offend with his unruly hair and crooked tie.
"Of course. I'm always thinking of my favorite client."
"Oh," he says, blushing again. The stain might become permanent. "Thank you."
"No need to thank me, my boy," Mr. Thompson replies. "No need at all. Now-- I take it you're here to finalize our little arrangement?"
"Yes, sir."
"Excellent." A mouth turns high and eager. "I have the paperwork all ready for you. We'll be able to get this matter settled today without any trouble."
"I'm glad to hear that, sir."
"I thought you would be. You're going to be a very wealthy man when this is done, Mr. Campbell."
"My daddy will be happy about that."
"Yes. Your... daddy." He stands, nodding. "I'll need to get the papers from my secretary first, but it won't take more than a minute. And then we can get you all of your wonderful money."
"Thank you, Mr. Thompson."
"Of course. Now-- Wait right here."
"Yes, sir." And Ethan watches as a man strolls out, every motion purposeful, every glance sincere. He is powerful. He is capable.
He is a victim.
So certain he's making the perfect deal--one of all reward and no risk, a client left with nothing but the meager profit.
He's wrong.
Because the roles have been reversed, tailored to a game that won't be recognized until its rules are finished. The land Thompson believes he's buying, meant to be soaked in oil and promise, does not exist. It is a false field, its beauty manufactured (documents forged, accreditation borrowed from those who owed him favors. They played their roles perfectly, affected all the necessary tones and gestures. Scientists were Hiro and Ando. They convinced in their whispers to Thompson, their assurances of secrecy). It's meant to be a crude Eden--one Ethan wishes to sell since he can't comprehend the value, thinks instead it's to be developed for construction. It's supposed to offer millions.
It won't even bring a tin nickel.
But, of course, Thompson won't realize that until he's signed away his reputation--and a hefty slice of his company's fortune. The Odessa Fund is a corporate assassin, siphoning acres from unsuspecting farmers, stealing homes from aging widows. They barter lives and land, caring nothing for the anguish. They're pinstripe mercenaries.
And Ethan is going to break them.
The ruse he's crafted will bring a heavy price, one far more than money. It will destroy names, careers, futures. Thompson will be branded incompetent, sent away. The Odessa Fund will be mocked. And no business will consider partnering with such gullible men; ones who surrendered their coins to a child--all for a barren mile and ash-dry horizons.
All in a day's work.
He would allow himself a leer if it wouldn't ruin his character.
And it's such a good character.
Ethan Campbell is the creation of Peter Petrelli--who in turn is the creation of too many circumstances to remember and too few worth admitting. But what can be admitted is the easy truth: Peter Petrelli is a shadow. He does not exist, except when he does; and the consequence is a defiance of all expectation. He is a thief but never a villain. He is a liar but never a rogue. He is sinner, saint and ambiguity. And the contradictions are as wild as they are understood. By him.
And only him.
Peter Petrelli is sought by twenty seven countries. Ethan Campbell will soon raise the tally.
What’s one more? I’ve still got plenty left.
So does Ethan.
This is his sixth appearance and, like the ones that came before, it will be a success.
Nobody ever suspects the Texan.
And he sits quietly in his chair, waiting for Thompson to return. The papers will be signed soon; the transaction will be complete; and he'll have enough money to repay Odessa's most recent tragedies.
It's going to be a good day.
It always is.
---
Someone was in his room.
Was. Not is.
The distinction is as vital as it is frustrating.
Someone was in his room... and Peter frowns, certain that he knows who. The possibilities are endless but the truth is far less compelling.
And that's proven when he spies the bed, finds a companion sitting new on the pillows. It is a bear, velveteen and gray; with blue button eyes and black stitched smile, a ribbon tied charming against his neck. A note sits beside him, folded into a crane.
Peter plucks it up, unfolding the wings with an ease he doesn't wish to consider. And the bird opens to a tease. It's expected:
New accent, Pete? How unexpected. I thought you could only handle French aristocrats or Italian gigolos. I'm still having dreams about that one, pet. It's one of my favorites.
I might make room for the Texan, though. He seemed like he needed a tumble or three. What is it you Americans say? Spare the horse, ride a cowboy? Clever, that. You lot are always good for wordplay.
Seems you're also good at taking money from not so innocent companies. Nice work on that one, Pete. I'm thoroughly impressed, even if I can't be there to show you. I only had time to watch part of your little performance before I had to leave. Shame, that, but duty called in the form of a certain diamond in a certain museum with a certain lack of security. You understand. I now need to get out of the States for a bit. Got some sight-seeing planned, among other things. Should be interesting. I decided to leave this fellow with you, though, so you won't miss me too terribly. He’s called Clarence. I think the two of you will get along just fine. Give him a squeeze when you get lonely. I won't tell.
Claude
P.S. I hear Monte Carlo's nice this time of year.
He lets the letter flutter to the sheets, reaching instead for a bear. Clarence (and it’s such an absurd little name) fits familiarly between his fingers and offers no judgment when Peter hugs him.
“Monte Carlo is nice,” he murmurs, considering. “And I was thinking about a vacation...”
And, of course, Ethan’s never seen the Riviera.
Well...
That settles it then.
.
Rating: PG
Pairing: Peter/Claude
Spoilers: None
Warnings: None
This was inspired by several late night conversations with englishmuffin2 about Plaude, Leverage and how to combine the two. So... I did. I also squeezed in the Bingo prompt of 'stuffed animals'. It's con-man fluff, if such a genre exists.
His name is not Ethan Campbell.
He is not from Texas. He is not the son of a tycoon and his Alabama bride (whose lilting little voice brands her still an outsider among the whiskey drawls). He did not travel the world, losing his inheritance to unseemly characters with kind expressions and wicked intents. He did not shame his family, forcing them to honor debt after debt after tragic debt. He was not threatened with exile. He was not given a warning, told to invest his final dollars into a worthy cause and prove himself more than a fool.
His name is not Ethan Campbell.
Except it is.
And he climbs up the steep lines of stone steps, pushing at the glass doors that wait above. He blanches when it's revealed they must be tugged instead. He hopes no one saw his mistake, trying to shove the blush away. He fails. And he hurries beyond, entering a sleek series of offices and gold exchanges, the confusing rise of exotic tongues and their slanders. He bows his head against them, not wishing to earn their disapproval, their scorn. He needs their favor now.
And Ethan shuffles down corridors he's seen only thrice, trying not to lose himself in the maze of bureaucracy. It's an efficient tangle; with clocks singing times from across the world and marble casting reflections, bright. He is overwhelmed by it. But he tries not to falter, offers a weak stare and a steady pace instead--moving on, on, on.
Until he finally reaches the end of the hall, where a small room waits. It's dressed in chic contempt. The white walls and chrome mirrors dazzle in their simplicity. And he feels ridiculous standing at the threshold, in his scuffed boots and formal denim, a simple jacket. He's a contrasting futility. He hopes he'll be allowed inside.
He is.
Because Mr. Thompson waves at him from behind a desk, with false cheer and slick-tooth grin. He's subtly devastating in his black suit and fake tan. Ethan thinks he must look so small in comparison. He wonders if Mr. Thompson will even speak to him.
He does.
"Mr. Campbell," he slithers. "Sit down, sit down." He motions to a chair crafted to impossible angles. "I was just thinking about you."
"You were, sir?" comes the question, soft and surprised. Ethan perches tentatively down, trying not to offend with his unruly hair and crooked tie.
"Of course. I'm always thinking of my favorite client."
"Oh," he says, blushing again. The stain might become permanent. "Thank you."
"No need to thank me, my boy," Mr. Thompson replies. "No need at all. Now-- I take it you're here to finalize our little arrangement?"
"Yes, sir."
"Excellent." A mouth turns high and eager. "I have the paperwork all ready for you. We'll be able to get this matter settled today without any trouble."
"I'm glad to hear that, sir."
"I thought you would be. You're going to be a very wealthy man when this is done, Mr. Campbell."
"My daddy will be happy about that."
"Yes. Your... daddy." He stands, nodding. "I'll need to get the papers from my secretary first, but it won't take more than a minute. And then we can get you all of your wonderful money."
"Thank you, Mr. Thompson."
"Of course. Now-- Wait right here."
"Yes, sir." And Ethan watches as a man strolls out, every motion purposeful, every glance sincere. He is powerful. He is capable.
He is a victim.
So certain he's making the perfect deal--one of all reward and no risk, a client left with nothing but the meager profit.
He's wrong.
Because the roles have been reversed, tailored to a game that won't be recognized until its rules are finished. The land Thompson believes he's buying, meant to be soaked in oil and promise, does not exist. It is a false field, its beauty manufactured (documents forged, accreditation borrowed from those who owed him favors. They played their roles perfectly, affected all the necessary tones and gestures. Scientists were Hiro and Ando. They convinced in their whispers to Thompson, their assurances of secrecy). It's meant to be a crude Eden--one Ethan wishes to sell since he can't comprehend the value, thinks instead it's to be developed for construction. It's supposed to offer millions.
It won't even bring a tin nickel.
But, of course, Thompson won't realize that until he's signed away his reputation--and a hefty slice of his company's fortune. The Odessa Fund is a corporate assassin, siphoning acres from unsuspecting farmers, stealing homes from aging widows. They barter lives and land, caring nothing for the anguish. They're pinstripe mercenaries.
And Ethan is going to break them.
The ruse he's crafted will bring a heavy price, one far more than money. It will destroy names, careers, futures. Thompson will be branded incompetent, sent away. The Odessa Fund will be mocked. And no business will consider partnering with such gullible men; ones who surrendered their coins to a child--all for a barren mile and ash-dry horizons.
All in a day's work.
He would allow himself a leer if it wouldn't ruin his character.
And it's such a good character.
Ethan Campbell is the creation of Peter Petrelli--who in turn is the creation of too many circumstances to remember and too few worth admitting. But what can be admitted is the easy truth: Peter Petrelli is a shadow. He does not exist, except when he does; and the consequence is a defiance of all expectation. He is a thief but never a villain. He is a liar but never a rogue. He is sinner, saint and ambiguity. And the contradictions are as wild as they are understood. By him.
And only him.
Peter Petrelli is sought by twenty seven countries. Ethan Campbell will soon raise the tally.
What’s one more? I’ve still got plenty left.
So does Ethan.
This is his sixth appearance and, like the ones that came before, it will be a success.
Nobody ever suspects the Texan.
And he sits quietly in his chair, waiting for Thompson to return. The papers will be signed soon; the transaction will be complete; and he'll have enough money to repay Odessa's most recent tragedies.
It's going to be a good day.
It always is.
---
Someone was in his room.
Was. Not is.
The distinction is as vital as it is frustrating.
Someone was in his room... and Peter frowns, certain that he knows who. The possibilities are endless but the truth is far less compelling.
And that's proven when he spies the bed, finds a companion sitting new on the pillows. It is a bear, velveteen and gray; with blue button eyes and black stitched smile, a ribbon tied charming against his neck. A note sits beside him, folded into a crane.
Peter plucks it up, unfolding the wings with an ease he doesn't wish to consider. And the bird opens to a tease. It's expected:
New accent, Pete? How unexpected. I thought you could only handle French aristocrats or Italian gigolos. I'm still having dreams about that one, pet. It's one of my favorites.
I might make room for the Texan, though. He seemed like he needed a tumble or three. What is it you Americans say? Spare the horse, ride a cowboy? Clever, that. You lot are always good for wordplay.
Seems you're also good at taking money from not so innocent companies. Nice work on that one, Pete. I'm thoroughly impressed, even if I can't be there to show you. I only had time to watch part of your little performance before I had to leave. Shame, that, but duty called in the form of a certain diamond in a certain museum with a certain lack of security. You understand. I now need to get out of the States for a bit. Got some sight-seeing planned, among other things. Should be interesting. I decided to leave this fellow with you, though, so you won't miss me too terribly. He’s called Clarence. I think the two of you will get along just fine. Give him a squeeze when you get lonely. I won't tell.
Claude
P.S. I hear Monte Carlo's nice this time of year.
He lets the letter flutter to the sheets, reaching instead for a bear. Clarence (and it’s such an absurd little name) fits familiarly between his fingers and offers no judgment when Peter hugs him.
“Monte Carlo is nice,” he murmurs, considering. “And I was thinking about a vacation...”
And, of course, Ethan’s never seen the Riviera.
Well...
That settles it then.
.