Chapter Text
Lycaon swipes a hand against the slick surface of his fogged up mirror until he no longer looks like an abstract cloud, his eye searching for his reflection. Passive, indifferent, the kind of face reserved for the privacy of his bedchambers. Get it all out now, he reasons, because there won't be another chance once he steps out of his room.
Not while he's undergoing Victoria Housekeeping’s staff assessment.
Even with his status as the company's head butler this is a process Lycaon is not exempt from. All staff are expected not only to cooperate, but to pass the test with flying colors, a way for each employee to individually showcase their abilities and prove their worth within the company. Given their esteemed reputation anything less is unacceptable. Maybe not to the mayor, seeing how accommodating Mr. Mayflower has been, but certainly to Lycaon's own standards. His co-workers always do their best to bring back satisfactory results — he suspects they partly do it for his sake, hopes he doesn't come across as nagging as that makes him feel — so Lycaon has vowed not to let them down in turn.
… That being said, a man can still lament the woes of a tedious job in the solitude of his own bathroom, can he not? His gut feeling has scarcely been wrong, this is going to be one long week.
With a hairbrush in hand, Lycaon exits the humid bathroom and makes himself comfortable on his bed instead. A slow process starts, methodical strokes that card through his damp fur starting from the top and moving downwards, following the direction of his hair growth in search of potential knots. Unlikely to find any with how particular Lycaon is about his coat, but one can never be too safe. He pays extra attention to his tail; the sight of the brush gliding so smoothly over it is almost therapeutic.
Lycaon has always taken great pride in the pristine shape of his fur. His innermost desire to impress his client slash evaluator won't let him move on with his routine until every last strand has been groomed, thoroughly blow-dried, and brushed to perfection all over again. He will be serving a new face, after all. The evaluator's name imprinted on the dictum sent to him by the company was unfamiliar on his tongue, and if there's one thing Lycaon has learned in his long years of housekeeping services, it's that first impressions matter. They matter more than he thought once upon a time, when grace and class were still concepts he struggled with.
About roughly an hour of diligent grooming and idle musings later Lycaon puts his tools down, at last satisfied with his work. Now for the arduous part.
The uniform he'd picked out last night hangs from his closet, steam-ironed, wrinkleless, challenging him to handle it with the precision of a surgeon. First comes the harness; sleek and tight against his fluffed up fur, its restraint so integral by this point that Lycaon no longer feels safe without it. Slipping into the shirt and vest is like a memorized dance for his fingers, how they find each button without the need to look. He sits down for the pants, removes the casual pair of his prosthetics to replace them with those heavy weapons and waits for the slow whir, the sharp hiss of them locking in place. With a stretch of his neck, Lycaon stands back on his feet and gives one final adjustment to his cravat.
A pleased hum falls from his lips as he observes his reflection in the full body mirror. Everything's in order, except…
His pocket watch glimmers under the first rays of sunlight that spill through his window. Approaching the vanity on the other side of the room in four heavy steps, he throws a quick glance at the brightening sky and flicks the watch open. Only 7:27am. His meeting with his client is not until nine sharp.
Once the watch returns to its rightful spot in Lycaon's breast pocket he reaches for the dictum under it, letting deft fingers unfold it for his eye to scan the contents one last time:
The client he's been assigned to goes by the name Isaiah Corvus, an entrepreneur who plans to host a display event six days from now, and whose request for Victoria Housekeeping's assistance was deemed appropriate to serve as Lycaon's assessment test. The instructions he'd been given seemed direct enough; provide adequate housework care, aid in the event's preparation, meet whatever needs the client might have. Successfully fulfilling all points until the end of his term will result in a flawless pass.
Granted, his evaluator has to be satisfied with Lycaon's services first — a piece of cake under normal circumstances, but he's treading uncharted waters here. Hopefully Lycaon's welcome gift will set their affiliation off to a good start.
Ah, speaking of, that should be ready by now.
After pocketing the paper and spraying himself with a sensible amount of perfume, Lycaon departs from his bedchambers and heads to the manor’s kitchen. He finds his colleagues, Corin and Ellen, sitting there at the table while Rina brews everyone some tea. Lycaon's blueberry scones sit beside her on the counter arranged in expensive porcelain, their sweet smell beckoning him to get closer. Rina meets him with an equally warm smile when he stops next to her.
“Excellent work, Sir Lycaon. These turned out wonderfully.”
His own mouth curls in response, a slight wag in his tail that he hopes will go unnoticed. “Thank you for keeping an eye on them. I was afraid I'd end up running behind schedule,”
“You're like, the last person who should be worried about that.” Ellen's tone is a special kind of monotone that comes on schoolday mornings only. Lycaon’s ears droop sheepishly when he turns to her, but they still don't miss Rina's stifled giggle from behind him. At least Corin does a commendable job in trying to keep her face neutral. Clearing his throat, he picks up the platter and moves it at the center of the table.
“You all haven't had breakfast yet, have you? Please feel free to take as many as you like, I'll only need a couple for the client's gift.”
“How considerate of you, Sir Lycaon.” Nimble fingers graze Lycaon's shoulders then, disarming if not for the near threatening grip they suddenly slip into. Before he could think to turn around, Rina had already shoved him down on one of the free chairs. “However, I don't recall you having any breakfast either. Please join us.”
Corin nods readily, pushing the platter closer to him. “Mhm! You have a long day ahead — or um, long week… Y-you should take care of yourself too, Mr. Lycaon!”
Even with all the belt straps, his wagging tail has got to be impossible to deny now. A fond smile greets the girls, and with the tension in his shoulders slowly etching away, he indulges them by being the first to reach for a scone.
The rest of their breakfast is spent leisurely despite the chaos Drusilla and Anastella cause in the nearby halls, accompanied by Butler's fleeting tap taps and distressed cries; a telltale of his own morning suffering. Perhaps it'll be a good change of pace for him to tag along? If not to serve as Lycaon's backup, then at least for a small break from his companions’ whims.
The sun is fully out by the time everyone has gathered at the manor's entrance for Lycaon's departure. He takes his colleagues’ good luck wishes in stride, and with the promise that he'll be back early to prepare dinner himself he waves Rina and Corin goodbye. Ellen meanwhile, has forgone all sense of etiquette while she drags her feet beside him on their way to the company car. Since her school happened to be on the way, she had agreed to let Lycaon drive her there. Butler more than makes up for her lack of enthusiasm, however. He tails after them with the client's gift in his stubby little hands, and jumps in the passenger seat after Lycaon graciously opens the door for the both of them.
After entering the car himself, Ellen tries for small talk with enough interest to match her energy, or lack thereof. Most likely just to be polite, but Lycaon appreciates her effort nonetheless. “So. New client?”
He glances at the girl through the rearview mirror, a pointed look she now recognizes as his request to wear a seatbelt. She does, but not without an eye roll. His reply comes only when he hears the latch clicking.
“Yes, so I'm going to need all the good luck I can get.”
“I don't remember a single client who has left a bad review about you. You'll do fine, Boss.”
And Lycaon smiles, offers another, fonder glance through the mirror that Ellen doesn't catch while she's gazing out the window.
“Thank you, Ellen. I shall do my best.”
“Yeah, yeah. Just make sure to come back before Rina decides to handle dinner herself.” An unseemly huff of a laugh slips through his nose that he quickly recovers from and the conversation ends there, casting the rest of the car ride in pleasant silence until Ellen's school comes into view. “Thanks for the ride.” She gets out of the car with her backpack hanging on one shoulder and throws Lycaon one last look, a rare hint of a smile on her lips. “And good luck, I guess. Not that you'll need it.”
His tail sways over his lap as he watches her enter the school grounds, how fast her friends swarm around her. He only tears his eye away once they disappear into the building, his attention now on Butler.
“How long until the scheduled time?”
“Ehn-nah. Ehn-nuh. (Twenty minutes. We'll be there in fifteen if traffic doesn't spike.)”
Lycaon hums to himself. No time to waste, then.
At exactly 8:56am he parks outside of a rather modern building. Two stories, with the ground floor adorned in a sleek glass door entrance and walls that do little to cover the interior; a large foyer leading deeper into the hall that should host this gallery's events. The top floor is designed more privately in comparison; a penthouse, likely the owner's living quarters. Overall an obviously prized establishment, but not one Lycaon's had the honor of working in before.
It's when he double checks the address in his pocketed paper that his ears twitch, that the scent dancing around his nose no longer comes from the scones in Butler's hands, but from a person. The words on the paper fall apart, their meaning momentarily lost to Lycaon as his brows furrow the stronger this scent grows. His tail flicks, his hackles raise. And when the glass door swings open to reveal his so-called evaluator Lycaon asks himself: did he truly wake up this morning, or is he dreaming still?
“Punctual as ever, my dear.”
No, this has to be a mistake, an error with the address, or perhaps a wrong turn he took without realizing. His eye keeps jumping between the written name and the man it should belong to and each time a new question fires off in his mind, because this isn't Isaiah Corvus that stands before him —
It's Hugo Vlad.