For every mile of ocean crossed ☆ (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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thingwithfeathers2012-12-30 02:08 pm
outstretched) wrote in thingwithfeathers2012-12-30 02:08 pm
Entry tags:
Pomona (Pokémon, PG, Ariana/Petrel)
Title: Pomona
Rating: PG
Word Count: 5,050
Genre: Character study, drama, romance
Fandom: Pokémon
Pairings: Ariana/Petrel
Warnings: Implied pokémon killing and exploitation (it's a Team Rocket fic, what do you expect), strained mother-daughter relationships
Summary: Over her first winter break spent at home, Ariana's life changes trajectory completely. Or: the story behind how Ariana was responsible for Petrel's recruitment to Team Rocket.
Author's Note: For Rosejailmaiden as part of tumblr's Secret Stantler exchange. The idea of the Rocket party is taken from this fic. A million, billion thanks tokuruk/dragoplateau, for this fic would be nothing without him.
Cross-Posts: AO3.
“How was your first semester at university?” Williams asks, holding Ariana's coat as she slips out of it.
“Boring,” she replies. She doesn't look at the butler as she walks across the grand atrium, her heels clicking on marble before being muffled by the thick carpet on the stairs. Her fingers trail lightly on the banister as she ascends, the wood frictionless against her skin.
Her room is the same as it always is. Her four-poster bed is draped with the dark red organza she chose when she was seven years old, and a fire has been started in the hearth in anticipation of her arrival. She walks to her desk and takes an experimental swipe at the surface. No dust. She frowns, feeling cheated somehow.
She pulls her clips out of her hair and tosses them onto the desk before crossing to the window. She brushes the heavy drapes out of the way to stare down at the garden. The hedge maze directly below is covered in a thin layer of snow, as are the gardens and grounds that extend to the edge of the estate. For most of her childhood, this carefully manicured landscape had been her whole world.
Supper won’t be for another hour at least. There isn't much to do in her room, so instead, she wanders. She doesn't bother with the darkened wings of the manor that belong to her mother and father, both of which stand empty. The kitchen's warmth is enticing, but she knows from experience that she'll only be shooed out if she tries to step inside and told that she's not a little girl anymore, but a lady. She's in no mood to play the piano in the drawing room, or read her father's dusty books in the library.
Ariana takes a familiar route—outside into the cold, not bothering with a coat or gloves. Her breath plumes in the air, and she's thankful she took her hair down. It’s drawn around her shoulders, where it acts as a makeshift scarf. The snow crunches beneath her boots as she walks swiftly up the path. Ahead of her is a large glass building that stands a short distance away from the main house and the stables.
The richly humid air inside the greenhouse wraps her up, and her light shivering stops almost immediately. She's surrounded by lush vegetation on every side, flowers forced to bloom out of season for her family's pleasure, and her nose wrinkles at the heavy scents that linger in the air. She forces herself to breathe in deeply, adjusting as she has since she was young.
Her steps are slower now as she walks on the straight path, searching for the flowers' caretaker. Eventually, she finds him. "Piotr!" she calls.
He stands slowly from where he's pruning a few orchids, holding a fist against his lower back as he straightens. The gloom beside him turns at the sound of her voice and trills, waving at her. "Ah, young miss," he says warmly, his Russian accent sharp and familiar. His eyes nearly vanish into the creases of his smile, and he touches his fingers to the brim of his old fisherman's cap in deference. "I did not realize you were home."
"I've just arrived," she says. "How is the garden?"
"Oh, is okay," he says, spreading his hands to encompass all the plants that surround them. "In the winter, it is easier. Everything is sleeping. And you? Tell me about your university days. I would like to hear."
So Ariana does, sitting on the low bench with her ankles crossed and her back ramrod straight. She tells the old gardener about her classes ("I'm in advanced courses and it's still so easy, Piotr, I don't understand why the other students have any trouble at all"), her roommate ("Rather simple, but quiet, which is a blessing,") and her general life ("The food is terrible—")
She pauses when Piotr starts to cough. Her flash of annoyance changes to concern when the older man hunches over, a fist covering his mouth, shaking with the force of it. "Are you all right? Should I get you some water?"
Gloom leans close to him, making soft worried noises. "Is nothing, miss," he says, waving both her and his pokémon away. "Continue, please."
She glances at her watch. "Actually, I should probably be getting inside," she says.
The smile he gives her is watery. "Go, then," he said. "I see you tomorrow?"
She assures him that she'll come again, and leaves. The sound of his shears gently trimming another plant soon fade from her sharp hearing.
--
It snows again that evening, and Ariana spends hours curled up in her bay window, holding a cooling mug of tea as she and her murkrow watch the flakes fall through the sunset. When she was younger, she wasn't allowed to have drinks in her bedroom, and she had a little more room to wriggle comfortably into the cushions and press her cheek against the chilled windowpane—but she doesn't squirm anymore, and the tea is half-forgotten in her hands anyway.
Returning to her family's estate is like returning to an old storybook: stagnant and picturesque, not a hair out of place. Neither of her parents are home, and the only signs of life in the large house are the sounds of the help that seep through her cracked-open doorway. That, too, is coldly familiar.
She'd received the finest education from the finest tutors. Her father often told her that she was an only child because they'd never needed to have another: she was everything they'd hoped for, exceeding all expectations. Most days, Ariana chooses to believe him. University is a step down in some ways, a step up in others, and she uses her good breeding and arrogance to hide how out-of-place she feels. In its own way, it's just as frustrating and stifling as it is to be home, where everything follows patterns prescribed generations ago.
In her free hand, she flips a piece of paper between her fingers, stopping occasionally to stare at the neat handwriting there. There's a neat row of numbers, and the words Call me. -A. It's a curiosity, something she hasn't managed to bring herself to throw out since she received it a month ago. It didn't take long before people on campus learned to leave Ariana alone, and the note's existence is an anomaly.
She studies it with a cool, clinical eye before tucking it back into her pocket and returning her gaze to the window. She stays there until she hears the quiet click of a maid pulling her door shut, and only then does she go to sleep.
--
Her father arrives the next day, greeting her with a kiss on each cheek and a hug that smells strongly of his cologne. Ariana's smile is thin-lipped and reservedly genuine. He waves his daughter into his study, where he reclines in his old armchair and she sits across from him on the leather couch. Williams, ever the attentive butler, brings him a carafe and a lowball glass half-filled with ice.
The version of her semester's experiences that she gives to her father is slightly different from the one she gave to Piotr. She loves her classes, though she wishes she could take harder ones next semester instead of following the normal course ("Of course, darling, sign up for whatever you like"). Her roommate is polite and quiet, but she looks forward to having her own room next year ("I did say that you should have gone to an institution closer to home"). Her classmates are friendly, and she is fitting in quite well ("Make sure you welcome the McKenzie's son next semester, he's transferring there").
Her father beams at her from over the rim of his glass of scotch. She smiles back and folds her hands in her lap.
"Are you glad to be home, Ariana?" he asks her.
"Of course, Father," she replies, and for that exact moment, it's true.
--
A few days later, she finds her father in the garden on her morning walk, scolding Piotr. The old man's posture is hunched, his hands clutching his fisherman's cap as he ducks his head.
"Father?" she says, and the two men turn to look at her. Her dark wool coat is a striking counterpoint to her pale skin, and her fiery hair is pinned back by earmuffs. "Is something wrong?"
"Nothing, miss," Piotr says. She looks at him sharply—his voice sounds different, off somehow—but her father doesn't seem to notice.
"Actually, Ariana, I'm glad you're here," he says, beckoning her closer. "It's good for you to start learning the more difficult parts of running a business. Or a household." She looks between them as she steps closer. "Piotr didn't come yesterday. I know it's the off season for you," he says directly to the gardener, "but you at least have to give notice if you're going to do something like that. Isaac isn't prepared enough to take care of everything on his own like you forced him to do yesterday."
"I am sorry," Piotr says quietly.
Ariana's father turns to her. "What should we do about this?" he asks.
She lifts her chin and turns to examine Piotr, feeling the weight of both men's stares on her. Piotr hides his nervousness poorly, shuffling his worn shoes in the melting snow.
"I apologize," he repeats, "it will not happen again."
"My father was not addressing you," she says, just to see Piotr snap his mouth shut, just to keep her father's eyes on her. She cocks her head, looking at the gardener's weathered hands, the old coat he's worn every winter for as long as she can remember. Something about him seems unfamiliar, but she can't put her finger on it.
At last, she turns to her father, speaking clearly. "I would tell Williams to handle it. When running a household, I don't have time to micromanage every detail," she says. "I would trust him to mete out a proper punishment."
"The head gardener is a detail?" her father asks.
"The head gardener was only gone for one day," she says. "Hardly enough to fire him over—" at this, Piotr's posture relaxes slightly—"and therefore, hardly worth my attention. Let Williams take care of the rest."
Her father looks at her for a moment; then he smiles. "A wise decision," he announces, extending an arm to pull her in and tuck her against his side. She flushes with pleasure. "Though of course I'd expect nothing less from you, my dear."
"Thank you, Father," she says, and gives Piotr a tiny smile. As she and her father turn away, she sees him don his hat again and touch his fingers to the brim, his smile wan but thankful.
--
Ariana spends her vacation riding her ponyta sidesaddle through the frostbitten fields, her murkrow flapping hard to keep pace overhead. The mare's fiery mane and hearth-warm body keep the winter chill at bay, and when she turns to look behind them, the pokémon's hoofprints have melted through the snow, tracing a clear path over the rolling hills to her house in the distance.
She stays out for hours, longer than a lady should spend in the fields, but there's only her father to scold her, and he was a hunter himself in his youth. She leaves the vulpix and rattata alone, though, and instead eats the sandwich she'd asked the kitchen to prepare for her that morning.
She tells herself she's not lonely—that the ponyta beneath her and the murkrow that rests on her shoulder, waiting for her allotment of crumbs, are company enough. Still, when she returns her ponyta to the stables in the late afternoon, she always stops by the greenhouse. Piotr welcomes her in, commenting with happiness on her flushed cheeks and windblown hair. He tells her how the cold is good for young people, how the weather here is a summer day compared to back home.
His legs are more bowed than she remembers; he's getting old, she thinks to herself. He keeps his back turned to her, never stopping in his duties, but stays nearby as Gloom brings her a cup of hot cocoa to drink. She doesn't say anything, and he doesn't either, each comfortably resting or working in the humid silence.
--
Her mother arrives a week before Christmas. Ariana stands at the top of the stairs, watching as her mother arrives in a rush, dropping her bags on the floor for the staff to pick up and shucking off her heavy winter gear faster than Williams can catch it. She sweeps up the stairs with her ekans draped sleepily around her neck, still pulling off her gloves. She nearly passes Ariana before she stops and turns her head. Ariana doesn't bother to smile.
"Your semester?" her mother demands.
"Top marks," she replies.
Her mother's expression smoothes to one of disinterest. She gives her daughter a cursory once-over before saying, "Fix your hair, it's a mess," and breezing down the hallway to her side of the house. "Call me when dinner is prepared," she calls, and it's unclear whether she's saying it to Ariana, the maids, or both.
Ariana retreats to her room after that, clenching her hands into fists to stop them from trembling. She stares sightlessly around her for a moment before her eyes focus on the red rose held by a thin one-flower vase on her dresser, and her expression softens minutely. "Piotr," she whispers.
She walks over to it and reaches to pick it up. Thorns bite into her skin, and she drops the flower with a yelp of surprise, her fingers flying to her mouth. The rose is a splash of red on the cream-colored rug.
She sinks her teeth into her fingertip, fury bubbling up inside of her. She bends down and picks the rose up carefully before marching outside, half-running through the cold to the greenhouse.
"Piotr!" she demands the second she's through the glass doors. He doesn't respond. "Piotr!"
Finally, he comes into view, one hand on his gloom's head. "Ariana," he says with surprise, and the sound of her name couched in his accent only infuriates her more; he never calls her that, ever.
"Miss Ariana," she corrects him sharply.
Piotr blinks and draws himself up, his expression cooling. "Young miss," he amends, and she breathes out a hiss of air. "What is the matter?"
She holds out the rose mutely. He shuffles forward, his gloom trailing behind, and takes it carefully from her fingers. Gloom cranes its body upwards to see as he examines it.
"It offends you?" he asks.
"It has thorns," she snaps.
His eyes widen, and he shares a quick glance with gloom.
"What's the meaning of this?" she asks, folding her arms. "First you miss a day of work, and now you're not even bothering to make sure the flowers are properly trimmed before placing them into the rooms? What if we'd had a guest, and she'd pricked herself?"
"Then I would apologize," he says. His voice is quiet and humble, and she hates it, hates the shift in his voice that she can't place, hates how easily he folds. "As I do now to you. I'm sorry, miss."
"I don't know what's wrong with you," she says, "but whatever it is, fix it."
He touches his fingers to his cap, eyes downcast. "Yes, miss."
She turns on her heel and storms all the way back to her room, where she stands with the door at her back and forces herself to breathe, slow and deep, the way she learned to do years ago.
--
Her family's annual Christmas party is something Ariana's been dreading since November. Her mother had spent the week prior preparing for it—double-checking the decorations and food supplies, chastising the maids for how they've cleaned the guest rooms, and finalizing the guest list. More than one member of the staff is a nervous wreck by the end of the week, and both Ariana and her father spend most of it holed up in their parts of the house—her father with paperwork for the family's trading business, and she because her mother frowns upon long outdoor excursions without a chaperone.
Piotr sends her a dozen roses, neatly trimmed, the day after her mother comes home. She stops Murkrow from pecking at them, distracting her pokémon with bits of tinsel or the flash of a mirror, or opening the window and smiling at the looping aerial acrobatics Murkrow performs.
For Ariana, the day of the party passes in a blur of dresses, makeup, and hair-pulling. She only recognizes the girl in her dresser mirror because she's attended these sorts of parties before, but she feels naked without the feel of her hair brushing the nape of her neck. She descends the stairs gracefully on her father's arm, and the two of them greet the guests as they arrive. "Welcome," she says, "I apologize, my mother will be along in a moment."
A few hours later she's on her fourth glass of champagne and not nearly tipsy enough to tolerate the gaggle of brightly chattering girls that surround her. They're childhood friends of hers, supposedly, and going to universities as prestigious as hers, but everything out of their beautifully primped mouths makes her want to roll her eyes. She's been sipping from her glass steadily as an excuse to keep her mouth shut, and wishes she could be somewhere, anywhere else.
She could, she realizes. It wasn't like it would be hard to do.
"Excuse me, I just need some air," she says, and sweeps across the floor to the balcony doors, downing the rest of the glass as she goes and passing it to a nearby waiter. She nearly trips over the rocky path in her stilettos, and hisses in annoyance as she catches herself.
This late at night, the greenhouse lights are off. The warm darkness presses close to her skin, but the place is quiet. Part of her feels slightly disappointed.
"Koffing," says a foreign voice to her left, and she whirls to face it.
"Who's there?"
"Is okay," she hears a nearly familiar voice say, and Piotr's silhouette rises out of the darkness. The koffing vanishes with a flash of light, and she covers her eyes. When she looks up again, she sees Piotr's old, tired face before her, gently lit by the full moon that streams through the glass walls. "Young miss," he says, and he's smiling, but warily so. "Merry Christmas. You come from the party?"
"I was tired of them," she says, stepping closer to him.
"Ah," he says, reaching out a hand to steady her. "And you are not tired of me?"
His light tone juxtaposes the serious look in his eye, and she bites her lip, feeling ashamed. "No," she whispers.
He escorts her to her favorite chair. "Since when do you have a koffing?" she asks.
"He was a present," he murmurs, taking a seat beside her. "And you? Did you receive present?"
"This morning, yes," she says. "Diamond earrings and an eevee from Father and hair brushes and a linoone fur coat from Mother." she frowns. "Mother was an hour late to the party, and the girls are so boring. All they talk about are boys and perfume."
Piotr nods, but doesn't say anything. She tolerates the silence for a moment, but then bunches up her dress in her clenched hands. "Everything's boring," she says.
"Everything?"
"Yes! Everything." She pauses, then, and Piotr turns to her, waiting. "Well," she says. "Not everything."
"What is it that is not boring?"
"I met...a boy. At university." He cocks his head, looking at her faint blush. She shakes her head. "It's not like that," she rushes to say. "He just. Have you ever heard of the Rocket party?"
Piotr shakes his head.
"They're...a group who plans to 'level the playing field,' he said," she whispers. "Give everyone a fair chance, without the limitations society places upon us now. He said I could come to a meeting...meet their leader, if I wanted to."
"And do you want to?" Piotr's voice is almost kindly, but there's a live curiosity in his voice.
She leans her head to rest on his shoulder. "I don't know," she whispers.
He lifts his hand to rest on her hair, gently stroking. "Do you remember," he says, "What I always tell you, when you are a little girl?"
He smells different than she remembers, from when she was still young enough to rest her head on his lap. Ariana can't bring herself to care right now, though, and she closes her eyes, resting her full weight against him. "Follow your heart," she whispers.
"Yes," he sighs, with a low chuckle meant for her ears alone. "Exactly so."
--
After the party, her days return to monotony. She idly plays with her new eevee, teaching it to play fetch and smiling as it licks her hand, tail wagging. Murkrow becomes jealous of it soon enough, however. She returns it to its poké ball and places it on a shelf in her room beside all the other pokémon her father has given her over the years.
She visits Piotr as often as she can. After another snowfall, she finds him shoveling the pathways with the strength of a younger man. "Gloom? Is too cold, she is inside," he says, breathing hard as he leans on the shovel, smiling at her.
"So make your koffing help," she says. His eyes flicker before he makes a clicking sound.
"He has no arms, what good can he do?" he says. "You are trying to trick old Piotr, yes?"
"Not so old, maybe," she says.
He reaches out and pinches her cheek gently. "I remember when you were born," he says. "Is old enough."
The more time she spends with him, the more she notices things that don't quite add up, and the closer she watches him. If he notices her scrutiny, he never reacts to it, but it doesn't dampen her curiosity in the slightest. The gardener becomes the mystery she's determined to solve. She turns it over in her mind as she lies in bed, wondering, wondering.
--
Insomnia draws her steps to the greenhouse one night, wondering if Piotr's still there and if Gloom can give her any sleep powder. He tends to stay later than he used to, these days; perhaps he's slower in his old age, perhaps he's forgetting things.
She pushes open the door and calls out softly, "Piotr?"
She sees sudden movement in her peripheral vision. To her right, there's a bump and a muffled curse, and what sounds like a tear.
Ariana hurries into the greenhouse and sees him bent over, clutching at the side of his face. "Piotr! Are you hurt?"
"I'm fine," he says, and then his accent deepens, "No worries, please—" but she's already standing before him before he can turn away, her hands seizing his own.
"I can help, let me—" and as she pulls his hands away, it seems like his own face pulls free with them, a long strip of skin that reveals a young man's chin, a young man's mouth.
She leaps back with a shriek as he huddles into himself, but it's too late. "Who are you?" She screams, and he jumps at that, reaching out his hands pleadingly. She backs up, "Where is Piotr? What have you—don't come any closer!"
He stops, then, lifts his hands to show they're empty. "Let me show you," he says, and reaches up to peel away the rest of his face.
She winces, then blinks as his face is revealed. He looks familiar, somehow—then her eyes widen. "Petrel?"
He cringes. "The one and only," he mutters. "Please—please don't scream anymore."
"What are you doing?" she hisses, starting towards him. They'd once played together as children, but she hasn't seen him in years. He jumps back, blundering into a planter behind him, and then lunges to catch it before it can fall to the floor.
"I'm helping," he says. "Sort of."
"'Sort of,'" she echoes sarcastically. "Where is Pio—where's your father?"
He scratches the back of his neck, and grumbles as he pulls another piece of his disguise free. "Let me explain, all right?"
--
"Piotr fell ill?" she asks, later, after the two of them are sitting in Piotr's rarely-used office with cups of tea. "But why—you could have just told us."
"Your parents aren't exactly the nicest people," Petrel tells her. He, too, has an accent, though it's nowhere near as pronounced as his father's. "They probably would have just fired him, and then where would my mom and baby brother be? Besides, your parents didn't even notice the switch." He sighed. "I forgot you were back home from university."
"What about you?" She asks. "Aren't you supposed to be working towards becoming an actor?"
His laugh is bitter. "Working how?" he asked her. "Training where? University?—With what money? The local theater, maybe? Yeah, that'd be a big help. Besides, they think I'm wasting my talents as an actor. They wanted me to be their costume designer."
"I can see why," she mutters, staring at the clothes he's wearing. Without his makeup on, it all seems far too big for him. She wonders how many layers he had to wear to bulk up properly.
Petrel fidgets, drumming his fingers against his cup. "Not a lot of opportunities out here," he says. His tone tries for humorous and ends up bitter. "I did what I thought I had to do."
"You followed your heart," she murmurs—then stops. "Wait. Petrel, how did you know that your father used to always say that to me?"
His smile is crooked. "Is simple, young miss," he says, sliding easily back into his father's voice. "Because he tells his son the same thing."
--
The gardener doesn't show up to work the next day, or the next. Her father is livid, calling Piotr a "doddering old fool," and her mother tells Williams to start looking for another gardener to hire. Ariana asks Isaac for directions and rides her ponyta to the edge of the village, where Piotr and his family live.
It's barely more than a hut; their fence is heavily patched, and chickens mill about on the frost-hardened ground that makes up their front yard. She feels out of place with her thick coat and fur mittens, but knocks on the door anyway.
Petrel opens the door, his koffing hovering in view behind him. His sleepy eyes blink open at the girl standing there, her expensive boots sinking into the mud. "Ariana?"
"Why didn't you come?" she demands.
His brow furrows briefly before his lips quirk up in a patronizing smile. He spreads his hands, shrugging. "There's no point in continuing now that you know. The jig, as they say, is up."
"I didn't tell anyone!" she says, and he leans back, eyebrows lifting. "I would never tell anyone. What kind of person do you take me for?"
Petrel just looks at her, and she blushes.
"You—we spent a lot of time together," she argues. "You were....kind to me. I owed you. Besides, where else are you going to work? What about your family?"
His smile has a sharp edge to it. "My family is nothing to worry your pretty head over."
"Piotr is my—" she stops, then, biting her lip. Petrel's expression shifts back into placidity, waiting for her to finish. "He's my friend," she finishes, somewhat lamely.
His hands slide into his pockets as he leans forward, scrutinizing her. She folds her arms and turns away, frowning. "Just—come back," she says. "The flowers need you."
Petrel smiles slightly as he looks at her, head cocked. "The flowers need me," he says. "What about you, princess?"
"I'm not a flower," she says. "Don't be ridiculous."
"Yeah, you're definitely not a flower," he says, sounding thoughtful. For a moment she's offended before he finishes, "You're much more."
--
"I am sorry," he says, and he really does sound convincing. "I fell sick. It will not happen again."
"We're only allowing this because you've worked for us for so long," her father says, "but three times and you're out, do you understand?"
Petrel bows his head. Ariana turns away, wordlessly frustrated.
She finds the gardener a few days later, arranging a bouquet of flowers on the main table. She stands back for a moment, watching Gloom hand him another flower to put into the vase, before asking him, "Why are you doing this?"
He looks over his shoulder and raises an eyebrow. "I told you," he says in his father's voice. "Is only temporary. My father should be—"
"That's not what I mean," she says. "You're—incredible. What are you doing here?"
His eyes dart nervously to the windows and doors, but the house feels empty; her parents are out visiting a neighbor, and the help have scattered to the outer wings of the house to work for the day. Assured of his safety, he replies as himself. "We've talked about this," he says. "I don't have many options."
"You might," she says.
--
Packing for her return to university is easy; she didn't bring much back with her from school in the first place, so Williams only has two bags to bring to the taxi for her. She follows after him, frowning. She hasn't been able to find Petrel all day.
She stops short, seeing the gardener trimming the tall hedges that line the front steps. "Pe—Piotr," she says.
He looks at her. "Enjoy your university, little miss," he says, touching his fingers to the edge of his cap. His eyes twinkle with amusement, or maybe bitterness. With Petrel, she had learned, it was often hard to tell the difference.
She takes a step towards him, then stops. "Piotr," she says, and waits until she feels the full weight of his attention. She lifts her head beneath it, used to the regard of intelligent men, and meets his eyes. "I'll send for you."
Her hand steals inside her pocket, and the note crinkles between her fingers.
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Rating: PG
Word Count: 5,050
Genre: Character study, drama, romance
Fandom: Pokémon
Pairings: Ariana/Petrel
Warnings: Implied pokémon killing and exploitation (it's a Team Rocket fic, what do you expect), strained mother-daughter relationships
Summary: Over her first winter break spent at home, Ariana's life changes trajectory completely. Or: the story behind how Ariana was responsible for Petrel's recruitment to Team Rocket.
Author's Note: For Rosejailmaiden as part of tumblr's Secret Stantler exchange. The idea of the Rocket party is taken from this fic. A million, billion thanks to
kuruk/dragoplateau, for this fic would be nothing without him.Cross-Posts: AO3.
“How was your first semester at university?” Williams asks, holding Ariana's coat as she slips out of it.
“Boring,” she replies. She doesn't look at the butler as she walks across the grand atrium, her heels clicking on marble before being muffled by the thick carpet on the stairs. Her fingers trail lightly on the banister as she ascends, the wood frictionless against her skin.
Her room is the same as it always is. Her four-poster bed is draped with the dark red organza she chose when she was seven years old, and a fire has been started in the hearth in anticipation of her arrival. She walks to her desk and takes an experimental swipe at the surface. No dust. She frowns, feeling cheated somehow.
She pulls her clips out of her hair and tosses them onto the desk before crossing to the window. She brushes the heavy drapes out of the way to stare down at the garden. The hedge maze directly below is covered in a thin layer of snow, as are the gardens and grounds that extend to the edge of the estate. For most of her childhood, this carefully manicured landscape had been her whole world.
Supper won’t be for another hour at least. There isn't much to do in her room, so instead, she wanders. She doesn't bother with the darkened wings of the manor that belong to her mother and father, both of which stand empty. The kitchen's warmth is enticing, but she knows from experience that she'll only be shooed out if she tries to step inside and told that she's not a little girl anymore, but a lady. She's in no mood to play the piano in the drawing room, or read her father's dusty books in the library.
Ariana takes a familiar route—outside into the cold, not bothering with a coat or gloves. Her breath plumes in the air, and she's thankful she took her hair down. It’s drawn around her shoulders, where it acts as a makeshift scarf. The snow crunches beneath her boots as she walks swiftly up the path. Ahead of her is a large glass building that stands a short distance away from the main house and the stables.
The richly humid air inside the greenhouse wraps her up, and her light shivering stops almost immediately. She's surrounded by lush vegetation on every side, flowers forced to bloom out of season for her family's pleasure, and her nose wrinkles at the heavy scents that linger in the air. She forces herself to breathe in deeply, adjusting as she has since she was young.
Her steps are slower now as she walks on the straight path, searching for the flowers' caretaker. Eventually, she finds him. "Piotr!" she calls.
He stands slowly from where he's pruning a few orchids, holding a fist against his lower back as he straightens. The gloom beside him turns at the sound of her voice and trills, waving at her. "Ah, young miss," he says warmly, his Russian accent sharp and familiar. His eyes nearly vanish into the creases of his smile, and he touches his fingers to the brim of his old fisherman's cap in deference. "I did not realize you were home."
"I've just arrived," she says. "How is the garden?"
"Oh, is okay," he says, spreading his hands to encompass all the plants that surround them. "In the winter, it is easier. Everything is sleeping. And you? Tell me about your university days. I would like to hear."
So Ariana does, sitting on the low bench with her ankles crossed and her back ramrod straight. She tells the old gardener about her classes ("I'm in advanced courses and it's still so easy, Piotr, I don't understand why the other students have any trouble at all"), her roommate ("Rather simple, but quiet, which is a blessing,") and her general life ("The food is terrible—")
She pauses when Piotr starts to cough. Her flash of annoyance changes to concern when the older man hunches over, a fist covering his mouth, shaking with the force of it. "Are you all right? Should I get you some water?"
Gloom leans close to him, making soft worried noises. "Is nothing, miss," he says, waving both her and his pokémon away. "Continue, please."
She glances at her watch. "Actually, I should probably be getting inside," she says.
The smile he gives her is watery. "Go, then," he said. "I see you tomorrow?"
She assures him that she'll come again, and leaves. The sound of his shears gently trimming another plant soon fade from her sharp hearing.
--
It snows again that evening, and Ariana spends hours curled up in her bay window, holding a cooling mug of tea as she and her murkrow watch the flakes fall through the sunset. When she was younger, she wasn't allowed to have drinks in her bedroom, and she had a little more room to wriggle comfortably into the cushions and press her cheek against the chilled windowpane—but she doesn't squirm anymore, and the tea is half-forgotten in her hands anyway.
Returning to her family's estate is like returning to an old storybook: stagnant and picturesque, not a hair out of place. Neither of her parents are home, and the only signs of life in the large house are the sounds of the help that seep through her cracked-open doorway. That, too, is coldly familiar.
She'd received the finest education from the finest tutors. Her father often told her that she was an only child because they'd never needed to have another: she was everything they'd hoped for, exceeding all expectations. Most days, Ariana chooses to believe him. University is a step down in some ways, a step up in others, and she uses her good breeding and arrogance to hide how out-of-place she feels. In its own way, it's just as frustrating and stifling as it is to be home, where everything follows patterns prescribed generations ago.
In her free hand, she flips a piece of paper between her fingers, stopping occasionally to stare at the neat handwriting there. There's a neat row of numbers, and the words Call me. -A. It's a curiosity, something she hasn't managed to bring herself to throw out since she received it a month ago. It didn't take long before people on campus learned to leave Ariana alone, and the note's existence is an anomaly.
She studies it with a cool, clinical eye before tucking it back into her pocket and returning her gaze to the window. She stays there until she hears the quiet click of a maid pulling her door shut, and only then does she go to sleep.
--
Her father arrives the next day, greeting her with a kiss on each cheek and a hug that smells strongly of his cologne. Ariana's smile is thin-lipped and reservedly genuine. He waves his daughter into his study, where he reclines in his old armchair and she sits across from him on the leather couch. Williams, ever the attentive butler, brings him a carafe and a lowball glass half-filled with ice.
The version of her semester's experiences that she gives to her father is slightly different from the one she gave to Piotr. She loves her classes, though she wishes she could take harder ones next semester instead of following the normal course ("Of course, darling, sign up for whatever you like"). Her roommate is polite and quiet, but she looks forward to having her own room next year ("I did say that you should have gone to an institution closer to home"). Her classmates are friendly, and she is fitting in quite well ("Make sure you welcome the McKenzie's son next semester, he's transferring there").
Her father beams at her from over the rim of his glass of scotch. She smiles back and folds her hands in her lap.
"Are you glad to be home, Ariana?" he asks her.
"Of course, Father," she replies, and for that exact moment, it's true.
--
A few days later, she finds her father in the garden on her morning walk, scolding Piotr. The old man's posture is hunched, his hands clutching his fisherman's cap as he ducks his head.
"Father?" she says, and the two men turn to look at her. Her dark wool coat is a striking counterpoint to her pale skin, and her fiery hair is pinned back by earmuffs. "Is something wrong?"
"Nothing, miss," Piotr says. She looks at him sharply—his voice sounds different, off somehow—but her father doesn't seem to notice.
"Actually, Ariana, I'm glad you're here," he says, beckoning her closer. "It's good for you to start learning the more difficult parts of running a business. Or a household." She looks between them as she steps closer. "Piotr didn't come yesterday. I know it's the off season for you," he says directly to the gardener, "but you at least have to give notice if you're going to do something like that. Isaac isn't prepared enough to take care of everything on his own like you forced him to do yesterday."
"I am sorry," Piotr says quietly.
Ariana's father turns to her. "What should we do about this?" he asks.
She lifts her chin and turns to examine Piotr, feeling the weight of both men's stares on her. Piotr hides his nervousness poorly, shuffling his worn shoes in the melting snow.
"I apologize," he repeats, "it will not happen again."
"My father was not addressing you," she says, just to see Piotr snap his mouth shut, just to keep her father's eyes on her. She cocks her head, looking at the gardener's weathered hands, the old coat he's worn every winter for as long as she can remember. Something about him seems unfamiliar, but she can't put her finger on it.
At last, she turns to her father, speaking clearly. "I would tell Williams to handle it. When running a household, I don't have time to micromanage every detail," she says. "I would trust him to mete out a proper punishment."
"The head gardener is a detail?" her father asks.
"The head gardener was only gone for one day," she says. "Hardly enough to fire him over—" at this, Piotr's posture relaxes slightly—"and therefore, hardly worth my attention. Let Williams take care of the rest."
Her father looks at her for a moment; then he smiles. "A wise decision," he announces, extending an arm to pull her in and tuck her against his side. She flushes with pleasure. "Though of course I'd expect nothing less from you, my dear."
"Thank you, Father," she says, and gives Piotr a tiny smile. As she and her father turn away, she sees him don his hat again and touch his fingers to the brim, his smile wan but thankful.
--
Ariana spends her vacation riding her ponyta sidesaddle through the frostbitten fields, her murkrow flapping hard to keep pace overhead. The mare's fiery mane and hearth-warm body keep the winter chill at bay, and when she turns to look behind them, the pokémon's hoofprints have melted through the snow, tracing a clear path over the rolling hills to her house in the distance.
She stays out for hours, longer than a lady should spend in the fields, but there's only her father to scold her, and he was a hunter himself in his youth. She leaves the vulpix and rattata alone, though, and instead eats the sandwich she'd asked the kitchen to prepare for her that morning.
She tells herself she's not lonely—that the ponyta beneath her and the murkrow that rests on her shoulder, waiting for her allotment of crumbs, are company enough. Still, when she returns her ponyta to the stables in the late afternoon, she always stops by the greenhouse. Piotr welcomes her in, commenting with happiness on her flushed cheeks and windblown hair. He tells her how the cold is good for young people, how the weather here is a summer day compared to back home.
His legs are more bowed than she remembers; he's getting old, she thinks to herself. He keeps his back turned to her, never stopping in his duties, but stays nearby as Gloom brings her a cup of hot cocoa to drink. She doesn't say anything, and he doesn't either, each comfortably resting or working in the humid silence.
--
Her mother arrives a week before Christmas. Ariana stands at the top of the stairs, watching as her mother arrives in a rush, dropping her bags on the floor for the staff to pick up and shucking off her heavy winter gear faster than Williams can catch it. She sweeps up the stairs with her ekans draped sleepily around her neck, still pulling off her gloves. She nearly passes Ariana before she stops and turns her head. Ariana doesn't bother to smile.
"Your semester?" her mother demands.
"Top marks," she replies.
Her mother's expression smoothes to one of disinterest. She gives her daughter a cursory once-over before saying, "Fix your hair, it's a mess," and breezing down the hallway to her side of the house. "Call me when dinner is prepared," she calls, and it's unclear whether she's saying it to Ariana, the maids, or both.
Ariana retreats to her room after that, clenching her hands into fists to stop them from trembling. She stares sightlessly around her for a moment before her eyes focus on the red rose held by a thin one-flower vase on her dresser, and her expression softens minutely. "Piotr," she whispers.
She walks over to it and reaches to pick it up. Thorns bite into her skin, and she drops the flower with a yelp of surprise, her fingers flying to her mouth. The rose is a splash of red on the cream-colored rug.
She sinks her teeth into her fingertip, fury bubbling up inside of her. She bends down and picks the rose up carefully before marching outside, half-running through the cold to the greenhouse.
"Piotr!" she demands the second she's through the glass doors. He doesn't respond. "Piotr!"
Finally, he comes into view, one hand on his gloom's head. "Ariana," he says with surprise, and the sound of her name couched in his accent only infuriates her more; he never calls her that, ever.
"Miss Ariana," she corrects him sharply.
Piotr blinks and draws himself up, his expression cooling. "Young miss," he amends, and she breathes out a hiss of air. "What is the matter?"
She holds out the rose mutely. He shuffles forward, his gloom trailing behind, and takes it carefully from her fingers. Gloom cranes its body upwards to see as he examines it.
"It offends you?" he asks.
"It has thorns," she snaps.
His eyes widen, and he shares a quick glance with gloom.
"What's the meaning of this?" she asks, folding her arms. "First you miss a day of work, and now you're not even bothering to make sure the flowers are properly trimmed before placing them into the rooms? What if we'd had a guest, and she'd pricked herself?"
"Then I would apologize," he says. His voice is quiet and humble, and she hates it, hates the shift in his voice that she can't place, hates how easily he folds. "As I do now to you. I'm sorry, miss."
"I don't know what's wrong with you," she says, "but whatever it is, fix it."
He touches his fingers to his cap, eyes downcast. "Yes, miss."
She turns on her heel and storms all the way back to her room, where she stands with the door at her back and forces herself to breathe, slow and deep, the way she learned to do years ago.
--
Her family's annual Christmas party is something Ariana's been dreading since November. Her mother had spent the week prior preparing for it—double-checking the decorations and food supplies, chastising the maids for how they've cleaned the guest rooms, and finalizing the guest list. More than one member of the staff is a nervous wreck by the end of the week, and both Ariana and her father spend most of it holed up in their parts of the house—her father with paperwork for the family's trading business, and she because her mother frowns upon long outdoor excursions without a chaperone.
Piotr sends her a dozen roses, neatly trimmed, the day after her mother comes home. She stops Murkrow from pecking at them, distracting her pokémon with bits of tinsel or the flash of a mirror, or opening the window and smiling at the looping aerial acrobatics Murkrow performs.
For Ariana, the day of the party passes in a blur of dresses, makeup, and hair-pulling. She only recognizes the girl in her dresser mirror because she's attended these sorts of parties before, but she feels naked without the feel of her hair brushing the nape of her neck. She descends the stairs gracefully on her father's arm, and the two of them greet the guests as they arrive. "Welcome," she says, "I apologize, my mother will be along in a moment."
A few hours later she's on her fourth glass of champagne and not nearly tipsy enough to tolerate the gaggle of brightly chattering girls that surround her. They're childhood friends of hers, supposedly, and going to universities as prestigious as hers, but everything out of their beautifully primped mouths makes her want to roll her eyes. She's been sipping from her glass steadily as an excuse to keep her mouth shut, and wishes she could be somewhere, anywhere else.
She could, she realizes. It wasn't like it would be hard to do.
"Excuse me, I just need some air," she says, and sweeps across the floor to the balcony doors, downing the rest of the glass as she goes and passing it to a nearby waiter. She nearly trips over the rocky path in her stilettos, and hisses in annoyance as she catches herself.
This late at night, the greenhouse lights are off. The warm darkness presses close to her skin, but the place is quiet. Part of her feels slightly disappointed.
"Koffing," says a foreign voice to her left, and she whirls to face it.
"Who's there?"
"Is okay," she hears a nearly familiar voice say, and Piotr's silhouette rises out of the darkness. The koffing vanishes with a flash of light, and she covers her eyes. When she looks up again, she sees Piotr's old, tired face before her, gently lit by the full moon that streams through the glass walls. "Young miss," he says, and he's smiling, but warily so. "Merry Christmas. You come from the party?"
"I was tired of them," she says, stepping closer to him.
"Ah," he says, reaching out a hand to steady her. "And you are not tired of me?"
His light tone juxtaposes the serious look in his eye, and she bites her lip, feeling ashamed. "No," she whispers.
He escorts her to her favorite chair. "Since when do you have a koffing?" she asks.
"He was a present," he murmurs, taking a seat beside her. "And you? Did you receive present?"
"This morning, yes," she says. "Diamond earrings and an eevee from Father and hair brushes and a linoone fur coat from Mother." she frowns. "Mother was an hour late to the party, and the girls are so boring. All they talk about are boys and perfume."
Piotr nods, but doesn't say anything. She tolerates the silence for a moment, but then bunches up her dress in her clenched hands. "Everything's boring," she says.
"Everything?"
"Yes! Everything." She pauses, then, and Piotr turns to her, waiting. "Well," she says. "Not everything."
"What is it that is not boring?"
"I met...a boy. At university." He cocks his head, looking at her faint blush. She shakes her head. "It's not like that," she rushes to say. "He just. Have you ever heard of the Rocket party?"
Piotr shakes his head.
"They're...a group who plans to 'level the playing field,' he said," she whispers. "Give everyone a fair chance, without the limitations society places upon us now. He said I could come to a meeting...meet their leader, if I wanted to."
"And do you want to?" Piotr's voice is almost kindly, but there's a live curiosity in his voice.
She leans her head to rest on his shoulder. "I don't know," she whispers.
He lifts his hand to rest on her hair, gently stroking. "Do you remember," he says, "What I always tell you, when you are a little girl?"
He smells different than she remembers, from when she was still young enough to rest her head on his lap. Ariana can't bring herself to care right now, though, and she closes her eyes, resting her full weight against him. "Follow your heart," she whispers.
"Yes," he sighs, with a low chuckle meant for her ears alone. "Exactly so."
--
After the party, her days return to monotony. She idly plays with her new eevee, teaching it to play fetch and smiling as it licks her hand, tail wagging. Murkrow becomes jealous of it soon enough, however. She returns it to its poké ball and places it on a shelf in her room beside all the other pokémon her father has given her over the years.
She visits Piotr as often as she can. After another snowfall, she finds him shoveling the pathways with the strength of a younger man. "Gloom? Is too cold, she is inside," he says, breathing hard as he leans on the shovel, smiling at her.
"So make your koffing help," she says. His eyes flicker before he makes a clicking sound.
"He has no arms, what good can he do?" he says. "You are trying to trick old Piotr, yes?"
"Not so old, maybe," she says.
He reaches out and pinches her cheek gently. "I remember when you were born," he says. "Is old enough."
The more time she spends with him, the more she notices things that don't quite add up, and the closer she watches him. If he notices her scrutiny, he never reacts to it, but it doesn't dampen her curiosity in the slightest. The gardener becomes the mystery she's determined to solve. She turns it over in her mind as she lies in bed, wondering, wondering.
--
Insomnia draws her steps to the greenhouse one night, wondering if Piotr's still there and if Gloom can give her any sleep powder. He tends to stay later than he used to, these days; perhaps he's slower in his old age, perhaps he's forgetting things.
She pushes open the door and calls out softly, "Piotr?"
She sees sudden movement in her peripheral vision. To her right, there's a bump and a muffled curse, and what sounds like a tear.
Ariana hurries into the greenhouse and sees him bent over, clutching at the side of his face. "Piotr! Are you hurt?"
"I'm fine," he says, and then his accent deepens, "No worries, please—" but she's already standing before him before he can turn away, her hands seizing his own.
"I can help, let me—" and as she pulls his hands away, it seems like his own face pulls free with them, a long strip of skin that reveals a young man's chin, a young man's mouth.
She leaps back with a shriek as he huddles into himself, but it's too late. "Who are you?" She screams, and he jumps at that, reaching out his hands pleadingly. She backs up, "Where is Piotr? What have you—don't come any closer!"
He stops, then, lifts his hands to show they're empty. "Let me show you," he says, and reaches up to peel away the rest of his face.
She winces, then blinks as his face is revealed. He looks familiar, somehow—then her eyes widen. "Petrel?"
He cringes. "The one and only," he mutters. "Please—please don't scream anymore."
"What are you doing?" she hisses, starting towards him. They'd once played together as children, but she hasn't seen him in years. He jumps back, blundering into a planter behind him, and then lunges to catch it before it can fall to the floor.
"I'm helping," he says. "Sort of."
"'Sort of,'" she echoes sarcastically. "Where is Pio—where's your father?"
He scratches the back of his neck, and grumbles as he pulls another piece of his disguise free. "Let me explain, all right?"
--
"Piotr fell ill?" she asks, later, after the two of them are sitting in Piotr's rarely-used office with cups of tea. "But why—you could have just told us."
"Your parents aren't exactly the nicest people," Petrel tells her. He, too, has an accent, though it's nowhere near as pronounced as his father's. "They probably would have just fired him, and then where would my mom and baby brother be? Besides, your parents didn't even notice the switch." He sighed. "I forgot you were back home from university."
"What about you?" She asks. "Aren't you supposed to be working towards becoming an actor?"
His laugh is bitter. "Working how?" he asked her. "Training where? University?—With what money? The local theater, maybe? Yeah, that'd be a big help. Besides, they think I'm wasting my talents as an actor. They wanted me to be their costume designer."
"I can see why," she mutters, staring at the clothes he's wearing. Without his makeup on, it all seems far too big for him. She wonders how many layers he had to wear to bulk up properly.
Petrel fidgets, drumming his fingers against his cup. "Not a lot of opportunities out here," he says. His tone tries for humorous and ends up bitter. "I did what I thought I had to do."
"You followed your heart," she murmurs—then stops. "Wait. Petrel, how did you know that your father used to always say that to me?"
His smile is crooked. "Is simple, young miss," he says, sliding easily back into his father's voice. "Because he tells his son the same thing."
--
The gardener doesn't show up to work the next day, or the next. Her father is livid, calling Piotr a "doddering old fool," and her mother tells Williams to start looking for another gardener to hire. Ariana asks Isaac for directions and rides her ponyta to the edge of the village, where Piotr and his family live.
It's barely more than a hut; their fence is heavily patched, and chickens mill about on the frost-hardened ground that makes up their front yard. She feels out of place with her thick coat and fur mittens, but knocks on the door anyway.
Petrel opens the door, his koffing hovering in view behind him. His sleepy eyes blink open at the girl standing there, her expensive boots sinking into the mud. "Ariana?"
"Why didn't you come?" she demands.
His brow furrows briefly before his lips quirk up in a patronizing smile. He spreads his hands, shrugging. "There's no point in continuing now that you know. The jig, as they say, is up."
"I didn't tell anyone!" she says, and he leans back, eyebrows lifting. "I would never tell anyone. What kind of person do you take me for?"
Petrel just looks at her, and she blushes.
"You—we spent a lot of time together," she argues. "You were....kind to me. I owed you. Besides, where else are you going to work? What about your family?"
His smile has a sharp edge to it. "My family is nothing to worry your pretty head over."
"Piotr is my—" she stops, then, biting her lip. Petrel's expression shifts back into placidity, waiting for her to finish. "He's my friend," she finishes, somewhat lamely.
His hands slide into his pockets as he leans forward, scrutinizing her. She folds her arms and turns away, frowning. "Just—come back," she says. "The flowers need you."
Petrel smiles slightly as he looks at her, head cocked. "The flowers need me," he says. "What about you, princess?"
"I'm not a flower," she says. "Don't be ridiculous."
"Yeah, you're definitely not a flower," he says, sounding thoughtful. For a moment she's offended before he finishes, "You're much more."
--
"I am sorry," he says, and he really does sound convincing. "I fell sick. It will not happen again."
"We're only allowing this because you've worked for us for so long," her father says, "but three times and you're out, do you understand?"
Petrel bows his head. Ariana turns away, wordlessly frustrated.
She finds the gardener a few days later, arranging a bouquet of flowers on the main table. She stands back for a moment, watching Gloom hand him another flower to put into the vase, before asking him, "Why are you doing this?"
He looks over his shoulder and raises an eyebrow. "I told you," he says in his father's voice. "Is only temporary. My father should be—"
"That's not what I mean," she says. "You're—incredible. What are you doing here?"
His eyes dart nervously to the windows and doors, but the house feels empty; her parents are out visiting a neighbor, and the help have scattered to the outer wings of the house to work for the day. Assured of his safety, he replies as himself. "We've talked about this," he says. "I don't have many options."
"You might," she says.
--
Packing for her return to university is easy; she didn't bring much back with her from school in the first place, so Williams only has two bags to bring to the taxi for her. She follows after him, frowning. She hasn't been able to find Petrel all day.
She stops short, seeing the gardener trimming the tall hedges that line the front steps. "Pe—Piotr," she says.
He looks at her. "Enjoy your university, little miss," he says, touching his fingers to the edge of his cap. His eyes twinkle with amusement, or maybe bitterness. With Petrel, she had learned, it was often hard to tell the difference.
She takes a step towards him, then stops. "Piotr," she says, and waits until she feels the full weight of his attention. She lifts her head beneath it, used to the regard of intelligent men, and meets his eyes. "I'll send for you."
Her hand steals inside her pocket, and the note crinkles between her fingers.
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