This idea would not unlatch itself from my mind until it was fully realized into this story. So my apologies that you've also unwittingly come along for the ride. Unless you find yourself enjoying it! In which that case, thank you for your patronage.
"Brake! Brake!"
"This has brakes?!"
"Duck!"
The young boy ducked down, only to have his companion, his father, reach over to swerve the red machine out of the way of a family of ducks. Feathers went flying as the birds fluttered out of the way and they skimmed the top of the Central Park late at nighttime.
The WABAC skidded and groaned out of the park and into the busy street. Sherman's early birthday present, to take a few driving lessons in the machine, now resulted in a shower of sparks as it skated over the concrete, cars honking their horns and swerving out of the way of the red globe.
"This is going be terrible on the insurance…" Peabody muttered, having leaned over to take control of the time machine. It'd been hard enough to even find someone to insure the thing… Now with this… He cringed at the thought.
"What was that, Mr. Peabody?"
"Oh, nothing, nothing Sherman! Just wondering if we'll still make those dinner reservations still! It will take some time to arrive in 1953, after all."
"I think I remember a quick way, Mr. Peabody!" Sherman gasped, veering the WABAC a sharp right. A sharp right into a building, resulting in a very round hole.
"That… Wasn't it…" the boy murmured, sitting back up in his chair and adjusting the glasses that had fallen off of his face.
"Ohhhh, dear…." Mr. Peabody was the first one to climb out to look at the damage—The WABAC itself was still in good enough shape, in spite of a few scratches and dents that could be repaired easily. The residence, however, hadn't been so lucky.
Drywall and wires hung down from the ceiling. Paintings had all toppled to the ground or had been crushed. The same went with dozens of statues and pieces of pottery.
A voice in the back of Peabody's head reminded him as he stood amongst the destruction—Don't yell. No matter how much the artwork was worth… Don't yell. Keep. Focused.
They were alerted to, along with the sirens in the distance from the oncoming police officers, the sound of the door of the apartment creaking open, followed by too-loud music blaring from a pair of headphones, and an off-key harmony joining along in the form of dreadful singing.
Then there was the sound of keys dropping and the singing suddenly coming to a halt.
The owner had returned home, it was clear.
"That's really nice of you not to be mad!" Sherman as he stood in the refuse of the apartment along with Mr. Peabody, several police officers, and the owner. Aside from a reckless driving charge, they had gotten off fairly easily, much to Peabody's relief. He took the ticket and sighed outwardly, rubbing his forehead
"Well, the good news is I own the building as a studio," the owner sighed, looking about. "So no landlord to really contend with…"
"How convenient…" Peabody murmured.
The owner had kept the same grin. The owner was a bit smaller than either of them, dressed in a green sweater and with a messenger bag still slung over one of their shoulders. And there was also the fact the was a cat. Maine coon, Peabody had told Sherman. Black and white, with bright green eyes, almost mint-colored. A black tail with a white tip moved back and forth slowly while making conversation, always with the Cheshire grin.
"You know… I couldn't help but notice the water damage on the wood floors…" Peabody mentioned off-handedly after the cops moved away, surveying the damage. "And the copper wiring's all out of code. It'd be very nice for insurance to cover it…"
"Probably good that it's the people from the claims office who decides it then, huh? …"
"Oh, no, not at all…" Peabody glanced up towards the ceiling. "Are those wooden beams? They look a bit old. This is a turn of the century building, from what I can see."
"So where are you gonna be staying Mr…"
"Rigby," the cat answered with a tilt of the head. "Just Rigby. No title needed."
"The artist?" Peabody turned, raising an eyebrow.
"Yeah… Although I think I'm going to be going on hiatus after all of this…."
"Hrm. Well, we'll be sure to sort out the damage we caused."
"Hey, you paint just like Mr. Pollock!" Sherman noted, glancing down at what remained of a painting at his feet.
"What sort of a kid knows about Pollock?" Rigby asked, having overcome the surprise out of the left field compliment. "And what's this thing you guys drove in here, anyway? It looks Swedish."
"Why wouldn't I know about him?" the boy returned with a laugh.
"Well… I tried to go more the Louis Wain route for a while, but everyone thought I was just being full of myself…" Rigby murmured.
"M—Erm, Rigby. Here is our information—We'll be certain to be in touch with you," said Peabody, ripping off a sheet of paper from a notepad. "Let us be off, Sherman."
It was when they were walking back to the WABAC they heard the bellow of, "What do you mean 'condemned'?!" come from Rigby, who was balking at the police officers standing over to the side. "Where am I supposed to go, this late at night?! I don't have any family here!"
Sherman looked to Peabody. Peabody looked to Sherman. Sherman's eyes were pleading.
"…You should know very well that puppy boy eyes don't work as well on me, Sherman…" said the dog. "Sherman… No. Sherman. Absolutely not."
But he wasn't totally immune, it turned out. Within the hour there was a backpack lying on the floor of the WABAC, and a cat sitting in between the two, allowing for an already larger ego to be sated by the young boy seated to the left.
"I think it had to be the brushwork," Sherman's legs swung back and forth against his seat, and Rigby took this in, having leaned forward to listen.
"How does a kid know so much about painters like that, anyway?"
"Mr. Peabody told me all about Mr. Pollock!" Sherman was quick to keep himself from telling the total truth—The fact that they'd spent an afternoon lunching with Mr. Pollock, once long ago, followed by a talk about baseball.
"Peabody… I think I know that name from somewhere…"
Mr. Peabody began, "Well, if you were ever a Knicks fan, you would know for certain that the defensive guard three years ago—"
"Oh! Did you happen to work at the diner off of 150th and North Conduit?!" Rigby asked with a snap of the fingers.
"No. No I did not," Mr. Peabody answered sharply, lowering the altitude down to the front doors of the tower. "Sherman, I'll meet you upstairs. Please see that our guest is comfortable."
"This place… It's huge!" Rigby muttered, raising up on tiptoes to try to see the very top. "I must have been away while they finished building it…"
"Oh, when did you go?"
"When?"
"Where! I meant where…" Sherman replied with an almost nervous chuckle as he opened the front door of the building and led Rigby to an elevator at the end of the hall.
Rigby watched floor after floor on the buttons pass by them with awe, finally opening up to the large penthouse with the sprawling wooden floors and tall white walls.
"Come on! I'll show you a room you can use!" Sherman excitedly motioned over the painter down one of the halls, and Rigby, having nearly lost track of the very reason for being there, scurried while lifting up a lone bag of belongings and followed after, sliding around on the wooden floor a bit.
"Why would a dog have all-wooden floors?!" the artist grumbled while attempting to gain traction, finally doing so on four legs and with claws out and dug into the wood, not minding the scratches that had now formed in the expensive wood. Sighing in relief after regaining composure, Rigby made the casual walk down the hallway, mouth hanging open at the sight of the large guest room.
"Woah… Is… This a Degas?" Rigby's eyes fell upon the painting hung on the wall opposite a flat screen television.
"Sure! Mr. Peabody loves all sorts of artwork!"
"Hel-lo, patronage…"
"Huh?"
"N-Nothing… So, you live here with him and your parents?"
Sherman snorted a laugh, "Well, yeah… It's Mr. Peabody's place, and he's my dad."
"…What?"
"Ah! There you both are! I was just about to start on dinner!" Mr. Peabody appeared in the doorway of the guest room, his hands clenching on the doorframe as he attempted to push the scratch marks on the otherwise spotless floor from his memory.
Rigby perked up, "Were we doing Chinese or pizza? It's a little late for anything else, isn't it?"
"We like to try a little bit better than takeout. Sherman, why don't you show Rigby around?"
"Are you sure, Mr. Peabody?"
"I think you know what to do," Mr. Peabody said with a smile that said "you know this because you already learned what not to do in this instances".
"Want to see my geodes?" Sherman sighed, his shoulders slumping a bit. With so many legitimately interesting things to look at… Geodes. Geodes were the topic of discussion.
After a lengthy lecture about rocks, Rigby's mind became a swirling mess of sediment, crystals, and stratification. The pounding headache from all of the knowledge that followed was gone as soon as they were called out to dinner and Rigby saw the feast laid out before them.
"I figured since, as you indeed said it was late, we would stick to something light. Broiled fish, a Cobb salad, and Pavlova with blackberry jam for dessert," Peabody pointed to each of the items, a carving knife still in hard and a pleased tone in his voice.
Sherman cringed at the sight of the fish, while Rigby seemingly needed no excuse to start diving in.
"I've never heard of Pavlova before, Mr. Peabody," Sherman said through a bite of one of the meringue desserts, having quickly coursed his way through the salad and fish.
"It's an Australian dessert, Sherman. I'm not shocked that—"
"They wouldn't ring a bell?" Rigby asked through mouth full of salad. "Pavlov? Bell?"
Mr. Peabody blinked. Twice. His mouth twitched. Once.
"I… I don't get it…" Sherman raised an eyebrow. He shrugged off this, as well as the quick look his father shot his guest, and continued to eat the dessert; anything to get the fish taste out of his mouth. "You're not having dessert, Rigby?"
"I can't really taste sweets, but… Ohhh this was more than enough!" Rigby grinned, leaning back in the upright chair. "I forgot what anything that wasn't takeout tasted like!"
Mr. Peabody's eyes narrowed as he watched the cat wipe off residual fish with a paw, and continue with moving the paw upwards, towards an ear. This finally reached a head when Rigby noticed the stare. Slowly Rigby lowered the paw to the table, and Mr. Peabody gave a nod of approval.
Almost as if switching gears, Peabody turned to Sherman, a grin across his face, "Now we've had a long day—Let's say we get some rest."
"Already?" groaned the boy.
"Yes, already… It's nearly an hour past your bedtime as it is, Sherman," Peabody rose from the table the same time his son did, and he led the boy towards his bedroom. "We've had a full day and you still have school in the morning."
And Rigby was left alone with only natural curiosity to keep the cat company. It wasn't long until this urged the artist to explore the seemingly expansive household, starting with a wall filled with photographs, all of the strange, enthusiastic boy with the love of art and geodes.
A news clipping caught Rigby's attention—The cat didn't read all of it, but skimmed through most of the details.
"…And I thought the Littles and that Seville guy had a rough time…" Rigby muttered.
"Ah! I see you've found "the Wall of Sherman"," Peabody walked out, his arms folded behind his back and took in the numerous framed pieces. "All of his accomplishments so far. Not Pulitzers as of yet, but there's no need for that sort of pressure. And there's always middle school."
"You're that Peabody?" Rigby turned his head as the dog returned. "I always thought you'd be…."
"Taller?" Mr. Peabody chuckled.
"I thought you'd have better hair," Peabody's smile fell.
"…Let me pour you a drink…" muttered the dog as he walked past the cat.
"So… He's your son…."
"Correct," Peabody said as Rigby took a seat at the bar, a tumbler already spinning about in his hand.
"I guess what's what you get with being raised by humans…" Rigby chuckled.
"On the contrary, I wasn't. Sherman and I were both left to fend for ourselves. I took it upon myself to make sure that he would have a proper upbringing. I take it you had a family of your own?"
"Well, my mom… We traveled a lot when I was little, after she adopted me. I think that's why I didn't recognize you at first. It sounds like I was in Tibet for a lot of this."
"Tibet? Ah, what a marvelous place…" Peabody sighed a far-off sigh as he slid the over the dark green drink in the tall glass over to Rigby. "The last time I was there I was taking Sherman to meet the Dalai Lama. Wonderful man—Much better tennis player than anyone would expect!"
"She… She photographed sheep migration," Rigby downed the drink quickly, shuddering at the strength of it. "Thanks for the drink—We'll talk about the insurance tomorrow I'm guessing? My people should have the number for the beams and wiring replacement by then."
"The what now? Rigby, I agreed we'd pay for any new damages…"
"Those were damaged. And you can't just put copper and new wiring together."
"Of course you can. I can show you how to do it myself! I wrote a book on the very thing. I have an online Web series on it!"
"I'm not interested in that, I'm interested in getting my building back up to code after a joyrider trashed it. I'm not even including the artwork that you wrecked," Rigby's voice had raised a bit by now, and the grip around the clear glass tightened.
"Very well, we'll cover that, however much it might be…. But we're still not covering the wiring. Or the beams," he finished off in a mutter while pouring his own drink.
"It's going to take twice as long then. I can't stay in a hotel, I work from home!"
"Then we will see to it you have a spot. As you said, we'll finish this tomorrow."
"You're worse than my vet when it comes to bills…" Rigby grumbled before hopping off the stool in front of the bar.
"And if we really want to split hairs, we could bring up this…" Peabody muttered, wandering over to the scratch marks on the wooden floor and sighing with disdain as he finished off his drink with a shudder. Less rum, next time. Just a bit less.