Author's Note: First off….Sorry for the long wait. Life happened and I will only put out quality. Second…well, These Two didn't want to talk to each other sooooo…, that took much effort to work through.
Also… I have an exciting One Shot(A pre-courser fic as it were…) Coming up soon and an update to Ghost Story, so, if you're interested in those, keep an eye out.
Last, thank you to all who showed support for Erik's past. It was a risk, I know, but it is my head-canon for him to explain certain things that I like in how Some actors seem to play him. (The scared to touch Her Ones and the Flinchy Ones.)
The Break
Valen liked noise. Loud, obnoxious noise. There existed a strange peace in the cacophony of discourse and the hum of idle chatter amongst the bar's patrons. The various voices struggling to talk over the din and the jazzy tune being plucked out on the piano created a chaotic buzz that encompassed everything and allowed him to relax to comfortable static. With errant thoughts entertained by the rhythmic pulse of the lounge's nightlife, Valen focused on skimming through two journals before him, while jotting down his ruminations into a third whenever epiphany struck.
He took up a stool in a corner where he could keep an eye on the rest of the crowd as needed while tending his work. A half-empty glass of rum sat before him, his second one of the night and possibly his last for the evening. At most, he might indulge with a third, but he would rather keep his wits sharp and not become overtly clouded or numbed by the drink.
No need to repeat the sins of his father.
Where Liam was a staunch opponent of drinking for the same reason, Valen still liked to loosen up with a good beverage. He was sure to keep their parents' affair with alcoholism in mind, choosing to remain conscious of every drink he had and limiting that number. As such, he never suffered the ill effects of being drunk and was rarely even tipsy. The thought of falling into such a stupor was not an appealing one. Take the edge off? Sure. But, being black-out drunk or cradling a pail was not something he wanted to experience.
Besides, who would want that acidic taste of bile and stale booze coming back up? Not him. He only had a brief experience of that when a beer hit him wrong or there was a bad mix of liquors, Valen could not imagine the sourness of that if he drank in excess. Vile.
Upon catching the door to the lounge open and shut in his peripheral vision, Valen glanced over with a raised brow as he peered up from his work, but did not lift his head.
The newcomer stood out amongst the crowd by his fine-tailored suit, puffed chest, and aura of pretension about him that Valen recognized without a second thought. A high-class, holier-than-thou, titled prick. The twist of his mouth and the scrunch of that polished nose, crinkled in apparent disdain for the venue and crowd he walked into. Yet, he remained with his gaze scanning over the crowd, searching for someone.
That annoying prickle of intuition began tugging at the back of his mind, whispering that this man was looking for him. Great.
Valen never lifted his head to make eye contact and wondered if that pesky sense tapping at his thoughts might be wrong, just once. Instead, he closed two of the three journals before him and downed the remaining rum in a long drink.
"Another?" asked the nearby bartender, Maurice, polishing a glass tumbler with a clean-ish rag.
"We'll soon see," Valen muttered with a pointed glance to the polished aristocrat who might as well be a cat in a den of dogs.
Maurice followed his and offered a chuckle, "Right. I see what you mean."
"I'll signal."
He gave a nod and wandered away to tend to another patron.
Valen looked back to his journal that held all the notes he gathered over the years that pertained to his wayward sibling who, unlike many who wore a mask for various reasons, was a harder man to follow. The best way to track him was through the notoriety of traveling carnivals with a taste for exhibition of oddities. Erik might be years removed from willing participation, but he became something of a legend in that community, which always loved a bit of speculation and rumor.
While the stories were ever-changing, there seemed to be core facts that never differed. Yet, Valen took everything he learned with a heavy dose of skepticism, neither believing nor disbelieving any detail. Rather, he preferred to absorb what he learned and look for evidence and facts to inform his beliefs.
Regardless of his intentions to study those many lines of fact and speculation, he was aware of the newcomer's approach with heavy footfalls that further emphasized his apparent pretentiousness. When the steps stopped and a hand came to rest on the bar top at the edge of his peripheral vision, Valen continued to ignore him.
"Monsieur LeMaitre?"
Valen snapped the journal shut and looked over at the younger man. "The office is open if you are looking to hire our firm."
"I was just at your office, and despite your predilection for hiring discombobulated dolts for staff, they managed to direct me here."
"We don't hire dolts. However, we do favor hiring the tenacious and intelligent. Louis's 'discombobulated' demeanor hardly impacts his ability to solve a case for the Sûreté, Prefecture, or our little firm," Valen snipped in defense of their staff. Louis was a fidgeter, whose inability to keep still served to highlight the buzzing activity of his mind. "It also serves to help weed out ornery clients whose money we'd rather not have in our pockets."
The fop's face grayed a moment before a fresh flush of pink steamed forth. "You may have little use for my money in your pockets, yet your office and payroll would benefit."
"We've no issues in getting clients."
The nobleman gave pause but his flared temper was squashed. "Can your current clientele help restore your badge? Or your brother's?"
Valen quirked his brows. "No. But we are not looking to dirty our slates either."
"It will be perfectly legal and those slates would be unmarred."
"Perhaps not. But we have a terrible habit of looking a gift horse in the mouth, as it were. Can't help ourselves, really... In our line of work, everyone is wanting to compromise you to their benefit and leverage. We are disinclined to oblige. — Might destroy convictions, you know, on both counts."
"It shouldn't be a problem. I rather favor being above board. As you say, the moment someone catches wind of anything that tarnishes your integrity in this city, you might as well be sunk. My family has many good friends in the Conseil d'État, I'm certain something could be arranged, in all proper legality of course."
Valen gave a sardonic chuckle, "You could be friends with Minister Ricard himself, and it would change nothing. Regardless, if you were so well connected, you would have the Sûreté running investigations for you instead of coming to me."
"They will not, because there has not been a tangible crime, yet. Which leads me here," he cast a disdainful look about the lounge and the constant fog of tobacco smoke that hung in the air before returning his hazel gaze back to Valen. "I need a private investigator, and you and your brother are said to be the best, which I believe this situation merits."
"You're assuming I will take your case."
"I don't see why you wouldn't."
Valen tilted his head and popped his brows, not at all surprised by the presumption. "Is that so?" he asked and rippled his fingers on the pitted wood of the bar for a single rap. "People are creatures of habit. You and I are no different in this. It is rare when someone deviates from the norm. For example, you,"
"Me?" he asked, amused, then sat on a neighboring stool.
Valen gave a knowing smirk. "There are few reasons why someone like you would come to someone like me. Many might mistake you as a well-off businessman, tidy, well-groomed," he glanced at the man's hands. "Polished hands, but not completely soft, fine tailored suit with the most expensive fabrics, not to mention the way you carry yourself. Nobleman? I'm assuming Vicomte or Baron, as anyone of higher standing wouldn't step a foot in here personally. They would have me brought to them. They are also likely to perform military service as a way to maintain tradition and become more personable to the masses. Also, it's a fair way to make connections with the right people before they can angle to a political career.
"As such, I doubt you aim for office, and you mentioned that no crime has been committed yet, though you expect one, meaning you want me to follow someone. Gather information and report back to you. Hopefully, with a modicum of damning information, yes? Trying to create a more favorable outcome be it a business deal, handling rivals, or something of a personal nature."
The other's face remained guarded, but Valen knew he struck a nerve by the way his eye twitched. "A bit broad," he remarked.
"But accurate," Valen smirked. "I could go on."
"Spare me," came the biting reply as the boy ran a hand through his dark blonde hair.
His hair was interesting at that. Were it summer, light brown hair bleached into a lighter shade by sun exposure was common. In winter, however? That was a more curious result, with a mere handful of possibilities. The slight bronze on fair skin narrowed the field of prospective careers further.
Valen's smirk stretched into a grin. "Baron or Vicomte?"
"Vicomte," he granted after a moment. "I am Raoul de Chagny. The man I want you to investigate claims to be a voice teacher. Yet, I can find no record that he even exists. He is only known by a pseudonym: Chantseur."
"Not very imaginative, is it? But surnames are not always the most clever in their origins, are they?"
"Are you always this petulant?" de Chagny sighed.
"Most of the time, especially when I am waiting for the grand reveal of why you would care about a singing teacher," Valen responded, purposeful in his intent to perturb the Vicomte. By the flash of red that skimmed the boy's cheeks, it was working.
To the Vicomte's credit, his voice remained cool, though clipped, "It concerns me when this man wears a mask and is giving lessons to my dear friend. I fear he means to take advantage of her trusting nature. He has been leaving her notes and flowers, yet she will speak little of him and refuses a more credentialed tutor."
Valen tilted his head, "I fail to see the issue. Many will wear masks to hide scars or an advanced stage of syphilis, especially in this city. You might not see one every day, but it's a regular occurrence."
"This is different. He has two masks," de Chagny protested. "At the Garnier, he wears a full-faced one on the pretense that he doesn't want to be recognized," he spat the word. "But I have seen him with her outside of Opera just last night, wearing a half-mask."
Valen kept his features nonchalant, refusing to lift even a brow, although his interest spiked. Instead of focusing on the descriptors of the subject, he focused on other aspects to merit his reason for declining the job. "Who is the girl?"
"Christine Daaé."
Valen gave a slow nod, committing it to memory for the biggest lead he'd had in years. "I assume she is very pretty."
"I don't care for your insinuation, Monsieur," de Chagny bit, his already heavy brow falling lower, as if weighed down by the gray stone his features became.
"I don't care for jobs where I'm following someone the client would consider a romantic rival— unless you are already engaged or married this Mademoiselle Daaé."
Silence greeted him there.
Valen rose from his seat and pulled a billfold from his jacket's breast pocket. "As I suspected. These cases rarely go the way the client wants it to, Vicomte," he stated and placed a suitable amount of centimes on the bar to pay his tab.
"He dangerous. I am certain of that."
Oh… he is that… Valen admitted to himself, if de Chagny's man and his brother were one in the same.
Collecting his journals and tucking them under his arm, Valen turned to de Chagny. "Rest assured, Monsieur, my nature is to ensure the safety of others where I am able. I will look in on Mademoiselle Daaé and Chantseur to ensure her safety. However, should I find nothing amiss, I–we– shall refuse this case. Do I make myself clear?"
The Vicomte's jaw clenched. "Perfectly," he gritted.
"Splendid," Valen chimed and turned to take his leave. "Good-day, Monsieur."
Valen felt the Vicomte's blistering gaze on his back as he maneuvered his way through the throng of people that flocked to the lounge for a night of revelry. Let the boy be salty, it made no difference to him, it happened so often that he long became impervious to its heat.
The moment he stepped outside, a beaming grin plastered itself across his face.
He did not need to second guess his next action. A brisk twenty-minute walk later, Valen was at his brother's door, knocking thrice before using his key to enter without further announcement. Upon entering, he grinned at the sight of his sister-in-law Natalie as she stepped into the small entryway with a damp towel tossed over her shoulder.
"Nettles!" he beamed, giving her a brief hug and a pecking kiss on each cheek in their usual greeting.
Natalie chuckled, "You're in a good mood this evening."
"Yes! Where's Liam?"
"Where do you think?"
Valen bobbed his head as he was already heading towards the study, where the couple spent most of their time.
"Will you be staying for supper?" she called after him.
He paused, two steps from the study's threshold, "Uh…you're cooking?"
The response came in the form of a towel being hurled at his head. "You're staying, and you will like it!" Natalie scolded, trying to hide a grin. "It's fish stew. You'll live."
Valen caught the flung fabric by instinct, though his mind mulled over the possible dangers of such a meal cooked by Nettles. He glanced at Liam, whose desk was within his sightline.
Liam issued a small, disgruntled look and a helpless shrug.
"I suppose that can be managed," Valen hummed, though he did not bother to hide his hesitation. After all, he had to vex his sister, if nothing else.
Natalie maintained her good humor, but wagged a finger at him before vanishing toward the kitchen.
Valen slid into the study with a long stride. "You'd think cooking would be easier than performing surgery."
"She insisted," Liam's attention was on some little contraption on his desk that he was assembling, but Valen was not about to venture a guess as to what it was yet, or spare it more than a glance. "I don't think it's a matter of trying and failing. I think she gets bored with it and starts pondering on how best to treat one of her patients and…well…dinner."
"Sandwiches. Always safe, if you buy the bread." Natalie was a brilliant Doctor, but her attempts to manage the kitchen instead of a clinic were adequate at best.
Liam's right brow arched as he began screwing a bracket onto a small wooden box. "You didn't come here all excited to talk about my wife's cooking."
"No, I didn't," Valen agreed, stepping closer to set his journals down on the empty corner of the desk. "I think I know where he is."
Liam froze for a long breath and then looked up.
"Erik," Valen clarified. "I know where we can find him."