Sat, May 19 2012
| TITLE: | The Talk |
|---|---|
| AUTHOR: | Cindy S. Roberts |
| CATEGORY/TYPE: | |
| RATING/WARNINGS: | PG-13, Gen |
| MAIN CHARACTERS: | |
| DESCRIPTION: | Write story summary here. |
| STATUS: | Complete |
| DISCLAIMER: | I'm doing this for fun, I'm not making any money off of this. All characters belong to Promark/Talisman. |
The young man paced back and forth before his father's desk; the feeling in the large study, tense. He cast a casual glance at the clock before gazing at the still closed door. He knew his brother and cousin would be on the other side of it, listening to the conversation; a conversation that wasn't getting him much closer to his goal.
He stopped in front of the desk, wishing that his father would look at him, and not the damned paper he held up like a bit of printed wall, protecting them from each other.
"Father, I wish, for just one moment, that you could put your own personal feelings about the British Secret Service aside, and understand *my* feelings on this."
The paper rustled slightly then lowered ever so slowly, until he could see his father's dark eyes peering at him from over the top.
"We've been over this quite enough. I should think," his father began, "that my feelings on this matter had been made quiteclear to you in the past."
"Yes, father. That's the point. You made *your* feelings quite clear, but you won't listen to mine."
The paper was lowered the rest of the way, exposing the man behind it to his son's full gaze. With a sigh, he lowered the "Times" onto his lap, his legs crossed at the knees.
"Your brother and cousin have put you up to this, that's quite evident," he stated flatly.
"No. It was my idea, and mine alone."
"Indeed?" His father quirked an eyebrow at the statement.
"I doubt that, very much." He cast his own gaze at the closed door, perfectly aware that the very instigators he spoke of were outside at that very moment. If he so wished, he could storm to the door, yank it open to watch the two scoundrels spill into his study. If he so wished.
Folding the paper carefully, he tossed it onto the desk between them, then rested his hands on the arms of his chair.
"Please, father, Phil's been in the service for a year now. I want to be a part of the Service as well."
His father cringed inwardly at his son's outburst. He had been right, after all. Those two had put him up to it, he was certain. He would demand a conversation with them later.
"Rass, you're too young and impressionable for this kind of business."
"Father, Phil was not much older than I am now, when he joined the Secret Service."
"Phil has a mind of his own, I'm afraid, and I could do nothing to stop him."
"And you can't stop me, either. I am eighteen now, father. It's time I decided for myself what it is that I want to do with my life. Whether it's to stay here at Shillingworth Magna, all safe and sound, or to be an agent in the Secret Service with Phil."
His father gazed up at him, his expression unreadable. Erasmus didn't think his father would go into fits of yelling, at least he hoped not. He often did when he and Phil talked, but not with him. Pulling himself up to his full height, standing on the other side of his father's desk, he folded his arms across his chest; eyes locked with his father's.
"Well, it seems you've thought this out thoroughly before you decided to seek my approval... or disapproval on this point..."
He'd tried everything he could to dissuade his sons from being a part of the Secret Service. He'd seen what the service could do to the best of agents; what it had done to him. But Erasmus was as stubborn as his older brother, and his cousin.
He should have seen it coming. And perhaps he had, but had hoped that he still had a few more years before he had to have this conversation again.
As he looked up at his youngest son, he wanted to scream out `no', to lock his son in his room. But Erasmus was right. He was eighteen and needed to make his own decisions regarding the course of his life. Much as he, himself, had had to do, against his own father's wishes.
Erasmus watched his father wearily. He knew his father well enough to know that his silence meant that he was thinking things thoroughly through. After all, his father was not known to jump into anything without thinking it through. A trait that had not been passed on to his sons.
But Erasmus had a feeling that it was there, inside the stoic man before him. Somewhere.
Both men turned to face the door as it opened slowly, his father's man-servant entering with the mid-morning tea. Erasmus nodded as the servant moved around him to his father's desk. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Phil peering around the edge of the door, Rebecca's long red curls indicating that she was trying to see around him.
He wanted to burst into laughter at the sight, but thought better of it. He gave Phil a slight shake of his head, and received a dramatic frown before they both disappeared once more.
"Thank you," his father said as the servant placed the tray before him on the desk, then he looked up at Erasmus. "I suppose there is no point in arguing with you, as it would be a waste of good air. I'm certain that you, like your brother, will do as you wish, regardless.
"Neither of you are strangers to the Secret Service, and you know what you're getting yourselves into."
"I just want your blessing, father. If you tell me `no' then I will not go against your wishes."
"No. I don't suppose you would. And as much as it pains me, I have to let you make your own mistakes, and pray that you learn from them."
Erasmus's face brightened, a smile dancing at the corners of his mouth.
"Thank you, father. I'll make you proud of me, I swear it."
He quickly moved to the open door, his big grin indication to those outside the door, that he'd won yet another battle of wills with their father. As he prepared to pull the door closed behind him, he was stopped by his father's sharp command from behind him.
"Wait! Rebecca, may I have a word with you, if you please." Erasmus stepped out of the way to allow his cousin by him, her full skirt swaying as she brushed by; a look of pure innocence plastered on her calm face. "Close the door, Rass."
"Yes, father." Rebecca watched as Erasmus gave her a quick smile before closing the door behind him.
"You were a little hard on him, weren't you?" she asked, taking a seat in the large chair before him.
"I think you and Phil have done enough already, without adding eavesdropping to the list," he stated as he took the offered cup.
"Oh come on. You're such a stuffed shirt. History is *not* going to repeat itself. You can put those worries away. They'll be fine."
"I am thinking the young masters are being more and more like their father as day passes," the servant stated, looking cautiously between the two.
"My thoughts exactly, Passepartout," Rebecca smiled, agreeing with him. "Philip and Erasmus are *very much* like their father." Passepartout handed her a cup of tea, then stood at her shoulder as if he may need use of her protection shortly.
"You keep out of this. You've done quite enough."
"Oh come on, Phileas. Do you think so little of my skills as an agent, all these years, that I'd let the boys go out on a mission completely unprepared?"
Phileas sighed and shook his head. It did no good to argue with her. He never won. But he was glad, nonetheless, that she was there after `the talk'. One of many he'd had over the years. First with Philip and now with Erasmus.
"There is no one I'd rather trust their training to, than you."
"Ouch. That had to hurt," Rebecca teased, sipping her tea.
"Nearly killed me, but I meant the words, all the same." He smiled before returning his attention to his cup, and the comfortable silence of the room.
He'd made it through yet another talk with one of his sons. It was not the first, and he knew it would not be the last. He smiled again, and turned to look out the window.
The End.