If you ain't got no money they will put you out Who: Luke, Tuck, and NPC serving wench Molly (narrative-ish, but it's open to folks at Antoine's if you want!) What: You can't fire me, I quit When: Sunday evening/Monday evening Where: Stables at Belmont/Tuck's drawing room/Antoine's Rating: Some slight NSFW-ness at the between Luke and Molly at the very beginning
"Luke!"
The youngest Fox brother grinned up from between Molly's thighs. There was lot of ways to say his name, but of all of them, that particular gaspy little giggle was his favorite, no anger or annoyance or (worst of all) disappointment in it, just pure happiness. Well. The happiness would get purer in a couple of minutes, Luke reckoned. And way less intelligible. Which was gratifying.
He took his time, as usual. Luke was rarely slow or steady in anything, but he did have an eye for thoroughness for stuff that interested him, and fooling around with Molly was never uninteresting, and those pleasant hours after services melted swiftly away.
"You're so good I should tip you," Molly purred, picking hayseeds from his hair. In truth, the whole business would've been warmer if they were inside, but, well, the new hay smelled sweet and it was soft enough, and neither of them ever particularly minded the dirt.
"Don't let the bedmates hear you sayin' that," he joked, nuzzling under her chin. "Don't want 'em knowing they got competition, 'specially with the tax and all." Molly's red curls fell generously over Luke's bare chest, and he pulled her a little closer, partially for warmth. The sun was beginning to set, by the look of the light through the slats in the barn.
"I'm surprised your fingers are so quick today," she teased. "Figured you'd be sore from the Fade."
The fingers in question circled one of Molly's nipples idly as she talked, and he couldn't help but grimace a little at that. "Didn't go this morning," he said. "Marshall left, so I slept in this morning." Molly knew about Luke's deal with the old Town Marshall to arrive early for injections, but upon the news of her leaving, Luke had chosen to sleep in, arriving at services just in time. In protest, he reasoned, to the Marshall's sudden retirement. "There's time yet."
"Luke," Molly said, curling up from her position against his chest, and that time the tone in her voice wasn't at all to his liking. Too much urgency in it. Too much anxiousness. His stomach dropped before she even said the words. "No there's not."
*
Tucker sat in the drawing room, engrossed in the piano. He'd just had it tuned again and the nocturne he played on it sounded slightly better today than it had the day before. He'd been practicing for hours each day, with no particular audience, but the music focused him, calmed him, helped him think. Or, in some cases, not to think. There was certainly reason enough for both, in recent days. And besides, music was as good enough thing as any to fill his time with. He preferred to work in the lab at night, when the house was considerably more quiet (and his brain was considerably sharper), so the early evening was the perfect time for practice.
It was also, Tucker had found, the perfect time to give unruly servants a talking-to, and he'd been waiting for the the younger Fox's presence for the length of the song. He didn't falter, much less stop, when he sensed the servant's presence behind him. He'd asked, particularly, for Mr. Fox to come visit him in the drawing room, a place where he knew that still-green footman rarely trod.
Tucker wanted him off-balance. Truly, he didn't believe that the stupid boy was any sort of threat, even a day off of Faidoux. Tucker was generally paranoid, yes, but there was something so aggressively nonthreatening about Mr. Fox the Younger, that even the relative strength of his Gift didn't particularly phase him. He took his sweet time finishing the nocturne, and smirked a little when he heard the footman clapping (however tentatively) when he turned to face him.
"Ah, Mr. Fox," he said coolly, rising from the bench. "Thank you for joining me. Please do sit down."
"In the... chair, sir?"
Tuck's smirk sharpened. Off-balance. "Or the settee. Wherever you like." He was pleased by how clearly uncomfortable the footman looked in the chair, how he sat on the edge of it, as if a snake might spring out of it if he leaned too far back. Excellent. "Do you know, why I've asked you here, Mr. Fox?" he asked, settling into a high-backed chair opposite the footman.
"I... is it." The footman gulped. "Perhaps. Because I missed my injection yesterday? Sir?"
Tucker's smile widened. Perhaps not quite so stupid as he'd thought, then. "Very good, Mr. Fox," he said, in the same tone that one might use with a particularly ill-behaved puppy. "Yes. That is exactly why you're here."
"Are... you going to fire me, sir?" The footman asked, straightening up even further in the chair.
"I sincerely hope not," Tucker drawled. "Though there is the matter of the fine. Or the imprisonment, but I suspect that neither of us want that. You can't work if you're in jail. And of course." Tucker casually plucked a medicine bag from the endtable next to his chair and reached in for a syringe. "There's the little matter of the injection itself."
The footman sucked his teeth as he looked at the syringe. Tucker wondered if the boy was astute enough to notice the the rebranding. Tucker certainly had, the syringe slimmer and sleeker in his fingertips. It was largely cosmetic, at least on the outside, but he'd seen some of the smarter Aurellians notice.
Tucker beckoned, forcing the boy to not only rise from the chair he'd just sat down in, but also awkwardly crouch near Tucker, who declined to rise from his own chair, waiting patiently for the footman to roll up his sleeve. Truthfully, it was a little more difficult to get the angle right from this distance, but he'd done it before, and the footman didn't wince too much. He was privately glad that the Fox boy hadn't made a fuss about taking the injection. From his cursory knowledge of him, the footman was just forgetful, not actively resistant. At least he wasn't that stupid.
"There," Tucker said, when the injection was complete. He waved fingers dismissively to indicate that the footman was allowed to take his uncomfortable seat on the edge of the chair again, and continued, "Now then. The fine. Given that you were late a few weeks ago," (another smile, at the sudden panic on the footman's face. Clearly Mr. Fox the Younger didn't think he'd noticed) "The fine is significantly higher this week. Three gold, I believe."
"Three gold?" The footman swallowed hard. "I don't... I don't have that." Tucker waited the several seconds it took the footman to remember to say, "sir."
Then, he said, "Well that's a shame, Mr. Fox--"
But the footman was already talking, was already interrupting him. "It's just, our wages already went down, sir, and it's been so hard to save any--"
Tucker's smirk faded into an exasperated frown. "As I was saying, Mr. Fox," he said stiffly, "I believe I can give you a compromise. You may continue to work here, and I will take the apportion some of your biweekly pay to this... debt of yours. You'll get less per-week, of course, but you won't have to pay it all up front."
A smattering of deep lines appeared in the footman's brow. "Aren't I... supposed to pay the fine to the Marshall's office? That's what I had to do before."
"Yes, Mr. Fox," Tucker said. "That's what you did before. But this is the opportunity I'm presenting you with now. So as it stands, you have three options." He counted them out on his fingers, so the simpleton would better understand. "I can give you until the end of the day to put together the enough gold to pay the fine to keep you out of prison." He held up a second finger. "You could allow me to garnish your wages every month, as we've discussed. In either case, you may keep your job, so long as you never miss your injection again. Or," he held up a third finger. "You may immediately collect your things and cease employment at Belmont Manor." Tucker leaned back in his chair. "So, Mr. Fox. What will it be?"
The second option was, of course, the best, and Tucker was surprised (and honestly the tiniest bit impressed) that the footman had been clever enough to catch on to the scheme of it. He'd offer the new Marshall a cut, of course, if the new Marshall arrived in time to find out (or care) about the arrangement. But either way, the second option was clearly the most convenient for the footman and the most profitable for Tucker. It was a win-win, really.
Which is why it flabbergasted Tucker so much when the footman said, "I think I'll take option three, then."
Tucker looked up sharply. "You mean, the option where you're fired," Tucker clarified. "And immediately get your things and vacate the premises."
"Yeah," the footman said, with rather more determination than Tucker had expected, as he rose from the chair. "That one."
"You won't get another offer this generous," Tucker warned. "And I certainly won't allow a someone who's been delinquent on his injections to work in my house."
The footman was silent for a few seconds, and then tilted his head and said, "But you would if I were paying you."
Tucker's expression hardened. "Get out, Mr. Fox. You have one hour, and then I will have security escort you from the grounds."
"All right."
Tucker watched as the stupid boy sauntered from the room, gritting his teeth. The imbecile. He waited until the Aurellian reached the door, but though he listened, he never heard Mr. Fox say, sir.
*
It didn't take Luke particularly long to pack his things. He didn't own much, for one thing, and it was all found in just the one room. The trickier part would be finding his family to tell them the news, but the fact was the he didn't really have time for that. He'd just... have to let them know later. Which would be difficult considering how he didn't know if Lord Belmont would even let him come back. But he'd manage.
First and foremost, though, he'd need a place to spend the night. Simon was his first thought, but he might not be easily findable, and besides, he didn't really want to tell him he'd quit. Not right now. He wanted to at least pretend he could do something on his own. Xavier was his next thought, but obviously he'd be working too, and really, he didn't particularly want his friend to know he'd left, either. He'd been so proud that time that they'd served dinner together at Rosier Manor. Luke didn't carry a lot of shame, generally, and he certainly was confident in his choice. But it was much easier to tell Lord Belmont no than it was to actually figure out what came after the no.
He could easily have spent the evening at Ceddon's, but he was honestly too worried that he'd forget his bag of worldly possessions there, if he was drunk enough. Besides, enough people there knew his work schedule that they could tell his family that something was up.
So, for the first time in years, his steps led him inexorably toward Antoine's Blues Palace. Despite his friend's hand in building it, he'd never much liked the place. That it was a brothel had never bothered him (how could it?). It was that it was, specifically, a Clovennian brothel. It hadn't used to be. It used to be one of his favorite spots for a drink, before Ceddon's had loosened his caste laws. Luke's name had been written in looping gold somewhere on one of the walls there, although now it was covered over with shadowy paint. Friend that he'd always been to Leese -- Antoine now, his brain reminded him -- the Palace had always been one of the few palace that Luke specifically avoided. He'd spent too many of his days (and nearly all his nights) in a Manor that was increasingly too Clovennian. He couldn't bear to spend his leisure time in a place like that, too.
But now, Luke had all the time in the world.
He shouldered the door open, heart rising to hear the music that poured out. He wasn't as fluent in the Clovennian style as some, but music was music, and that was a start. He wove through the press of bodies, swaying lightly in time with the bass. I should tip you for that, Molly had said just the day before. we're hiring, Leese had said a couple of days ago. Get me some money too. He closed his eyes.
...And was almost immediately knocked into by a drunk Clovennian girl. Definitely and out-of-towner. Luke's eyes flew open, and he flailed a little, off-balance for a couple of seconds before he regained his footing and reached out to steady the girl, too. She was pretty, dark haired (of course), her eyes wild and green. "Easy there," he chuckled, his Clovennian light and unsmoothed of its Aurellian accent. "You alright? Sorry I was in your way."
"Oh Clove, I'm so sorry, I'm not usually clumsy, I--"
"Hey, hey, it's alright sweetheart, you're downright graceful compared to me. Look." He swayed dramatically to one side, until he purposefully trip-danced, leaping up lightly to catch himself. It would've looked more graceful if he'd had enough air current to use, but the effect was good enough. And besides, it was supposed to look clumsy.
The girl laughed sweetly, the bridge of her nose wrinkling. "Okay, but I still feel bad for knocking into you like that." She drew her lower lip into her mouth. "I could. Um. Buy you a drink? I'm Genevieve, by the way."
"Oooh, that's a name," Luke said, whistling low "Real elegant. I'm just Luke."
Another giggle then, as she beckoned him toward the bar. "What are you drinking, just Luke?"
Luke grinned and pulled himself up onto a stool beside her. Maybe there were a few other ways he liked to hear his name. "Gin and tonic." He decided, because it was Leese's drink, and because this lady and a long, fancy Clovennian name. "Nice to meet you, Genevieve."