Chapter Text
Gen clears her throat, again, but the secretary is still doing an admirable job of pretending she can’t see her standing right there in front of her.
Gen sighs. She slaps her palm down on the desk, loud and abrupt, and smiles politely at the wide-eyed attention she suddenly now has. Slowly lifting her hand off the desk and maintaining eye contact, she adjusts her blazer.
“Genrika Zhirova, here to see Claire Mahoney. She’s expecting me.”
The secretary nods wordlessly and picks up her phone, shooting Gen a wary look out of the corner of her eye.
“Claire, there’s a… a woman, here to… Alright.”
Eyeing her apprehensively, the secretary says, “Go right ahead,” and Gen grins and strolls past her.
Taking a moment to look down the well-decorated, but somehow stark looking hallway, which appears only to connect the elevators and reception desk to a single office at the end, Gen wishes again that she’d had enough time to collect more information on FM Consulting, Inc., prior to showing up here.
Smoothing her hair down (ineffectually), Gen knocks on the tall, translucent glass door.
She feels like she has no idea what “creative troubleshooting” really means, which is what her cursory search had turned up by way of a description of what this firm does.
For probably the umpteenth time since she’d started her one-woman PI company last year, Gen wishes she’d let Root teach her more about hacking and other sneaky technology things. In lieu of being armed with pre-existing information, she resolves to make sure she leaves no detail unnoticed.
“Come in,” a voice calls.
Walking in, Gen can’t help but gape, a little bit. She’s no stranger to well-furnished surroundings, after eight years in a private prep school, but this is some next-level luxury.
Making a mental note to look into the zoning license of this building, she’s pretty sure that’s an entire apartment tucked away at the other end of the floor… office… this space. She cranes her neck, a little, and sees what looks like a half-open sliding door, partially masquerading as a wall, and what definitely appears to be a living space behind it.
As far as the rest of this disgustingly elegant and fancy office up front goes, Gen comes to a preliminary conclusion that she probably won’t care for the brand of spoiled, entitled show-off that this new client will undoubtedly turn out to be.
“Claire Mahoney?” Gen asks, stepping forward with her hand outstretched, trying not to roll her eyes at all the simple, but clearly expensive furnishings she’s walking past.
Claire (or a petite, well-dressed, dark-haired figure Gen assumes to be her) is standing behind her desk, looking out the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Gen stops short when she finally gets a glimpse at a face that seems vaguely familiar, as the (disarmingly pretty, Gen tries to note with indifference) woman turns around and stares impassively at the hand she’s holding out.
Claire tilts her head, studying Gen much in the same way she’s being studied (if not more intensely), and pointedly ignores Gen’s offered hand. There’s something a little unsettling about the way Claire is peering at her, and Gen tries hard not to let a flush creep up her neck.
“Well,” Claire says, and Gen really can’t help but feel like she’s reminded of someone else’s tone of voice, she just can’t remember who, “You’re not what I was expecting at all.”
Gen drops her hand, irritated.
Because she knows it’s a failsafe to get a rise out of wealthy people everywhere, she walks over to the pristinely white couch and sits on the arm, shoes lightly kicking against the side and leaving faint smudges.
Instead of getting a reaction, Gen’s disgruntled to note a small smirk appear on Claire’s face, as she walks over to perch herself on an adjacent couch.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Gen asks, when it’s clear Claire won’t be expanding on her (frankly, rude) greeting.
Claire raises an eyebrow, and for a second, Gen thinks she looks almost taken aback, as though Gen was supposed to have reacted another way.
Gen’s never been one for fake smiles and acquiescing deference, and so she crosses her arms and meets Claire’s stare head-on. Sure, Gen can use all the cases she could get, but her tolerance meter is nearly topped out already, and it hasn’t even been five minutes around this woman.
There’s a silence stretching out, fraught with an energy she can’t quite identify, and Gen itches to break it, but instead decides to play along for at least a little while with whatever game this icy rich lady seems to want to play.
Examining Claire’s features again, Gen thinks she recognizes a hint of defiance in the backbone of Claire’s posture, after the fashion of other stubborn and short people she’s known.
Eventually Claire ends whatever silent re-evaluation process she was undertaking, because after a moment she folds her hands in her lap and smiles pleasantly. It’s a stark contrast to the unfriendly, assessing look from before, and Gen scratches her nose bemusedly, in an effort to do something to buy some time to figure out how one person’s expression could change so dramatically, so quickly.
“Tell me a little more about your business,” Claire says. Her tone is professional, if cool, but Gen feels as though she’s being interviewed for something more than one stupid case for one stupid firm.
Gen’s not in the habit of being this unprepared when she meets with new clients, and she’s certainly not in the habit of jumping through hoops to impress snobby rich people (she got enough of that during her school years), so she just shrugs and tries to look bored. “I’m a private investigator. Pretty self-explanatory. I investigate. Privately.”
The side of Claire’s mouth twitches.
“Why don’t you tell me more about your business?” Gen asks, turning the question around. She pulls out a pad and pen and resolves to act as though she’s already got this job, and also to power right through it so she doesn’t need to spend a second more with this woman than absolutely necessary.
Leaning back, Claire’s eyes flick upwards from beneath dark lashes. “Isn’t that something you could have… investigated?”
Gen bites her tongue to keep from retorting stop wasting my time, you rich little shit, and also well, you called and demanded we meet only an hour and a half ago. Instead she tries her best not to react. It’s clear to her now that Claire is intentionally provoking her, although Gen has no idea why.
She makes a small little note in her pad, careful to keep it out of Claire’s view (“What’s her damage??”).
“FMC is a consulting firm,” Claire says, after a while. She hasn’t taken her eyes off Gen for a second, and so she probably didn’t miss Gen making a note. “I’ve got about eleven employees—”
“Where are you hiding them?” Gen asks dryly.
Claire pauses, clearly not used to being interrupted. A small wrinkle in her forehead appears, before it’s quickly smoothed out. “—working across two floors of this building. We mostly take on problem-solving cases, divided into Efficiency & Strategies or Risk & Impact. A lot of companies pay us a lot of money to be able to come up with unusual methods that work.”
Gen hasn’t made a single note.
Claire stands, and begins pacing slowly in front of her. Gen’s not convinced it isn’t just an excuse for Claire to see if Gen’s gaze will drop down to her (admittedly, well-shaped) legs in (stupidly expensive) heels.
Gen crosses her arms, making sure to leave an undeniable impression of the sole of her shoe on the side of the couch, exceedingly darker than the last few smudges. She’s gratified to see narrowed eyes and the first crack, so far, in Claire’s unflappable demeanour, in reponse.
“This is the third quarter where financial irregularities have started adding up, but there’s no immediate indication of the gap in the system to explain where the missing money has come from, much less where it’s going," Claire says, eyeing Gen's sensible closed-toe black shoes. "Believe me, among the many things I excel at, following a digital trail is one of them.”
Gen rolls her eyes, but begins making notes.
“If I had the time, I’d probably be able to solve this entire matter myself within a few days. But I have a company to run, and this sort of grunt work is the kind of task that gets farmed out.”
Gen rolls her eyes even harder, not even caring that Claire is starting to frown. She was rude first.
“Questions?”
Gen doesn’t even need to think before her question comes tumbling out. “Yeah. Where did you even hear of me?”
Claire smiles down at her, a little patronizingly, and just says, “Oh, I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“From who?” Gen presses, not satisfied in the slightest with that non-answer.
Claire tilts her head, and she might be imagining it, but Gen thinks she sees a shadow briefly flit across Claire’s face.
“Any other questions?” Claire asks, apparently deciding to ignore Gen’s question altogether.
Gen squints up at her, detecting something incredibly fishy in the air, then decides two could play at this game. “Do we know each other? From somewhere?”
“You can talk to my assistant outside, she has the case file with all the information you’ll need.”
“Have you always lived in New York? Where are you from?”
"If you need anything else, feel free to contact her with your questions."
"How old are you?"
“If there’s nothing else,” Claire says, resolute, but she’s clearly at least a little amused at Gen's tenacity.
Gen sighs, acceding... for now. “Do you have any security feeds I can start with?”
Claire shifts her weight from one heel to another and blinks. The shadow passes over Claire’s face again, but this time it’s a little more twisted and harsh, until it gets literally shaken off as Claire shakes her head. “We don’t do surveillance.”
Swallowing past a sudden lump in her throat, Gen is reminded quite strongly of Shaw, staring up at her from underneath a sharp, disapproving brow whenever she would mention anything to do with spying on other people, and she wonders if…
“If that’s all—”
“You know what?” Gen says decisively, trying to quash her mounting curiosity. “I don’t think we’re a good match. Thanks, but—”
Inhaling sharply, Gen’s too surprised to immediately jerk back from a finger landing on her lips to shush her. And then a small slip of paper is being dangled in front of her face, and Gen’s eyes nearly cross as she makes out the exorbitant amount of money written on it.
Annoyed, she roughly bats Claire’s hand away (and tries not to dwell on the fact that the scent of lilac is lingering now) and stands.
If there’s one thing she can be grateful for, it’s the fact that Claire is built in the same way Shaw was, and appears to take to being towered over about just as well.
Gen bends down a bit, aware of the fact that her hair is falling over her shoulder and wisps are falling into Claire’s face. “If you think—”
And that finger comes up and shushes her again, but this time Gen grabs Claire’s wrist, and not gently, either.
She’s not sure what to make of the look on Claire’s face at all. It’s taunting, and a little surprised, and haughty, and something about it makes Gen wary.
It might be the way there always seems to be something weighty, permanently clinging at Claire, even for that brief second that she was pretending to be coy and sweet. Or it could be the barely concealed resentment written all over her every word, look, and movement since the minute Gen had stepped through her door.
Whatever it is, Gen finds herself wanting to find out why. She’s never met anyone as volatile as this woman – the closest she can come up with is a hazy image of Root, from stories of who she used to be – and Gen’s stupid, paranoid, nosy brain is telling her that she needs to know why.
She catches Claire’s gaze dropping to her lips, unashamedly lingering and unmistakeably...
Immediately, Gen drops Claire’s hand.
She doesn’t move back, though, and can’t decide if she wants to headbutt that infuriating smirk off Claire’s face, or—
“I think you’ll find it interesting,” Claire says quietly.
“Working with you?” Gen asks. Her voice is rough.
The smile on Claire’s face rings false. It mocks her, and Gen takes a large step back, away from this physically small yet almost chillingly imposing woman.
“This case,” she clarifies. “If it turns out that someone in my company is responsible, it won’t be easy finding them. It’s not like this will amount to all having been general clerical errors. Anyone who works for me is far cleverer than most other people.”
It’s not like Gen isn’t aware of the tack Claire’s taking now. Struggling briefly with herself, Gen tries not to let herself get goaded into this, but she really can’t help it. “Yeah? Well, so am I.”
“I know,” Claire says, as she walks back to her desk, effectively dismissing Gen from her office (and also apparent living space). “You’re far blunter, too. It’s refreshing.”
Gen doesn’t know what to make of that, so she just walks out the door without another word.
She knows she should have started immediately looking through FM Consulting’s employee roster, but it’s been about two hours since Gen had gotten home and she’s still working on digging into the firm’s history.
Among many, many other questions and suspicions she has, Gen has a feeling that if “M” in “FMC” is Mahoney, she might have an idea who the “F” was.
Which is how she ended up crouching half inside her closet, pulling out half her things, trying to look for one specific box marked "Harold." Her hands still as they come across a different large box, buried in the corner, filled with things she’d scavenged from Shaw and Root’s apartment after their funeral.
She keeps telling herself, every time spring cleaning rolls around and every time she runs into this box, that she’ll open it next year. And every time she ends up hiding it away again, leaving it untouched, and she always tells herself it’s justifiable because next year just hasn’t arrived yet.
Next year, she’ll sift through the memories she took from their place (even though she can barely remember them any more), and the pieces of Shaw and the pieces of Root that had seemed important enough to differentiate from everything else.
Everything had seemed important at first, especially the first time she’d come back to their apartment and set her diploma on the front end table. That's where she'd always left things, for Shaw to see, then grumble about, and then quietly tuck away wherever it was supposed to go.
All of it had still seemed important when Harold found her standing there again the next day, staring at her diploma left untouched on the table, before he’d cleared his throat and sat her down.
He’d said, “There’s something you’re old enough to know, now,” only she’d already known. And then the only thing that was important was that he’d chosen then to remind her that for all the impatient comments and snippy remarks, Shaw had always tried to make sure she was prepared.
And if there was one thing she took to be important, borne from Shaw’s incessant complaining and nagging and needling over the course of her formative years, it was a practical sensibility.
So she’d let Harold tell the movers to throw everything away, except for what she’d managed to get into this box.
Pushing it to the other back corner of her closet, Gen stacks some of her other things on top, hiding it from view.
She resumes her search for that other box she’d never opened, containing all of the things that Harold had left her. Things that he had specifically told her were important for her to keep.
She figures next year can come for his box, at least.