Notes: All I could think when Robert did his whole mirror routine in Thursday's episodes was that it was a shame he didn't have a moustache to twirl, just to hammer the point home some more. Superhero/supervillain AU thus ensued.
This is very loosely inspired by/a fusion of the Venture Bros. setting, in that Robert belongs to the Guild of Calamitous Intent (which here has various local branches, it's worldwide on the show, as far as I can tell), because I love the Venture Bros. approach to superheroes and, especially, supervillains. The Guild is an organisation of supervillains, who seem to largely treat villainy as a regular day job, and there's tonnes of bureaucracy, and lots of rules and regulations governing their behaviour. The Guild also approves superheroes to be assigned supervillains, and provides benefits, support etc. to the villains. (No Venture Bros. characters involved, though, just Emmerdale.)
The heroes on the show don't seem to have an analogous organisation, but they have one here: the League.
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The crunch of footsteps approaching across the gravelled garage forecourt distracts Aaron from his reading, and he looks up from his magazine as an unfamiliar man draws near: tall and slim, with a mop of wind-swept blond hair.
"I'll be with you in a minute," Aaron calls out as he searches around for a patch of space amongst all the random papers and assorted car parts piled on top of the counter beside him that might be large enough to safely set down his mug.
"You go ahead and finish your tea," the man calls back. "No need to rush."
Aaron cranes his neck until the full sweep of the forecourt comes into view. As he'd suspected, he sees only the car he'd been working on before taking his break and no sign of the man's own vehicle, either there or – he cranes a little further – on the street beyond.
And the man certainly doesn't appear as though he's troubled by thoughts of sticky brakes or that strange screeching noise that his fan belt's making every time he turns a corner. He wanders back and forth, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of the slightly too-tight trousers of his expensive-looking blue suit, examining every inch of the garage with a careful eye. He looks more like a tourist taking in the sights, though Aaron can't imagine that Dingle and Dingle Automotives has ever been touted in any guide to Yorkshire as one of the Dales' must-see attractions.
As Aaron downs the last, tepid dregs of his tea, the man finishes his inspection and then strides towards him, coming to a halt only when he's so close that Aaron can smell his aftershave – something light and faintly spiced which probably cost just as much as his fancy suit – and hear that he's breathing a little more heavily than his gentle strolling about would seem to account for.
Aaron takes a couple of steps away from the man, putting a more comfortable distance between them. "Can I help you, mate?"
The man rocks back on his heels, glances around once more with a small smile. "I used to work here," he says.
"Yeah?" A nostalgic tour makes a little more sense.
"About ten years ago now."
"Bit before my time."
"Didn't think you'd remember me, but you'll have heard of me," the man says, his smile broadening. "I'm Robert Sugden." He gives Aaron a significant look as he says the name, as though it should mean something to him.
Which it does, though nothing so profound as to merit the portentous tone of Robert's voice. "Vic and Andy's brother, right?" he says. "You visiting them?"
"No, I've moved back here. My fiancée's family's bought Home Farm." Robert sidles towards him again. "And, you know, I've been assigned as your Arch."
"My what?" Aaron asks, puzzled.
"Your Arch," Robert says slowly, because, of course, repeating the same thing at half the speed explains everything.
"Sorry, you've lost me, mate."
"Archenemy?" Robert blinks at him, head canted at a quizzical angle. "You are Aaron Livesy, right? The mechanic?"
Aaron nods. "Well, I'm a mechanic," he says. "Was it the garage or the coveralls that gave it away?"
"I didn't mean..." Robert pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, suggesting he may have a headache building. "Are you The Mechanic? The" – his voice drops, barely more than mouthing the last word – "superhero?"
"Oh," Aaron says. "That."
His mum had urged him to join the League when he was a teenager, thinking that taking part in the organised thuggery of superheroing would help keep him out of trouble; that he could work out his frustrations with state-sanctioned violence.
Aaron had stopped a few muggings in Hotten, attended a couple of meetings, but after the League higher-ups began pressing him to choose a costume, carry a grappling hook and wear a fucking cape, it got a bit too ridiculous for him and he gave it all up as a bad idea.
He still pays his dues, though, makes sure he stays on the their roster, because League membership can be very useful. Say, just by way of example, your uncle's garage mysteriously catches on fire, then one flash of a League card and a vague mention of supervillains later, and the police are shaking your hand, thanking you for your service to the country, and the whole thing can be safely swept under the carpet, no threat of prison sentences for best mates or anyone else.
"Apparently, you've been signed up for six or seven years without picking yourself an Arch, so one had to be appointed for you."
"Which would be you."
"Which would be me." Robert frowns. "Didn't the League get in touch with you about this? I'm sure they should have sent you a welcome pack or something."
Aaron does dimly recall a thick envelope arriving week or so back that bore the League's logo, but he'd filed it in the bin without opening it, just as all their emails go straight to spam.
"Must have got lost in the post or summat," he says.
"Which means that you won't have filled in the proper Guild forms, either." Robert sighs heavily. "Look, why don't you come up to Home Farm this evening – let's say around seven – and we can get all the paperwork sorted out together. I won't be able to start arching officially until we do."
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Aaron had fully intended to sack off the meeting with Robert, but after digging out his battered copy of the League handbook and reading the section on archenemies – which states in no uncertain terms that his membership would be forfeit should he refuse the services of a League-appointed Arch – he has a reluctant change of heart.
Robert's 'around seven' was obviously supervillain code for 'seven on the dot', because Aaron's twenty-past arrival at Home Farm is met with glowering disapproval at the door, and thereafter an offer of a drink made through gritted teeth.
Directed by a brusque hand gesture, he goes through to the living room whilst Robert fetches them both beers, and amuses himself as he waits by studying the various ornaments and pieces of artwork on display.
Most of them are ugly enough that they must be antiques – he can think of no reason why anyone would give them house room, otherwise – and the only thing that holds his interest for more than a split second is a photograph in a plain silver frame set on the mantelpiece above the fire.
"My fiancée, Chrissie," Robert explains when he returns with their drinks, motioning towards the brunette woman with the neck of one of the bottles. "She's a level five supervillain already; probably going to make level six by the end of the year. And the old bloke's her dad, Lawrence. Level ten. Word is that he'll get a seat on the UK's Council of 13 next time one opens up.
"Supervillainy's just as much the family business as farm machinery."
"Right," Aaron says, nodding sagely even though he had had no idea that supervillains had levels before now, and still has no idea what the Council of 13 may be. It all sounds like nonsense. "And the kid? What level is he?"
"Lachlan? He hasn't joined the Guild yet. He's just freelance weird. Okay" – Robert presses a bottle into Aaron's hand then starts to head back towards the door – "you take this and sit yourself down, I'll go and get your file."
He reappears a moment later clutching a thick ring binder that he lays out open on the coffee table before joining Aaron on the sofa. "The Guild's really old fashioned," he says. "They insist everything's still got to be done on paper."
The first page in the binder is topped by a picture of Aaron; a headshot that he doesn't recall having been taken. It looks recent, even though he's never supplied a new one to the League to replace the original taken when he joined up at seventeen.
Beneath the picture is a list which outlines his vital statistics, which Robert reads aloud for him to confirm – date of birth, height, and a weight that is scarily accurate, down to the last pound – and following that, his superhero attributes.
"No powers?" Robert asks when he reaches them.
Aaron shakes his head.
"No costume?"
And again.
"No secret base?"
And one last time.
Robert looks crestfallen. "I don't suppose you've picked up a sidekick in the last few years, have you?"
"No," Aaron says. "There is a bloke over in Robblesfield who's got all that crap if you're into it. Cape, boy ward, powers an' all."
"What sort of powers?" Robert asks, perking up a little.
"He can float rocks, I think."
"And then what does he do with them?"
"I don't know." Aaron shrugs. "Chucks them at people, I guess?"
Robert deflates once more. "In that case, I think I'll stick with you. So," he says, turning to the next page, "it's a standard Guild contract: no lethal weapons, no endangering each other's family members, proportionate violence, et cetera, et cetera."
"Proportionate violence?" Aaron asks.
"Well, seeing as though we're both level ones so it'll be nothing more than mild peril. I'll probably just tie you up every now and again." Robert's eyes meander down Aaron's body, and then take the scenic route back to his face again. "Threaten you a little."
Heat rushes to Aaron's cheeks, his throat scorching bone dry. "Right," he rasps out distractedly. "Sounds great."
"Glad you think so," Robert says, giving him a bright, sunny grin. "All you have to do is sign here..."
He hands Aaron a pen, turns to another page in the binder, and Aaron scribbles his signature on the dotted line there, equally as distractedly.
"Good," Robert says. "Now everything's official." He holds out his hand to shake. It engulfs Aaron's own. "I look forward to working with you, Aaron."