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my name is Victor Trevor, son of James Armitage.
That is who I am.[Independent rp blog for a modernized ACD's Victor Trevor. Message or follow if you would like a starter. Important information in the links to the left about who he is, and his journey here. Please tag as 'mrtrevor'.]
He leaves in the early hours of Saturday to beat the traffic. He has to rent a car; he does so under one of his many false identities he still has from when he created a variety for a fallback, should anything go awry. Victor supposes he doesn’t need those, but he doesn’t know what else to do with them, these men-shells lying about.
So he wears one, under the name of Eric Bianchi, and rents an unassuming black coupe, a bit blocky, but sleekness wasn’t part of his criteria. This he drives home, waiting for a bullet or a police car that never comes and makes him twitchy with its absence. Before long he is up the stairs and into the flat for the last time for whoever knows how long. He takes one last look around and rests his hand against the wall. It isn’t filled with this best of memories; many of them in fact he’d prefer to forget. But it had still become a home, some place to rest his bones when they ached.
Victor turns over the note he left for Paul on the coffee table. He had thought about calling or visiting, but neither seemed appropriate. He was going entirely against Paul’s wishes, after all. But Victor didn’t think he would stop him. Paul would caution, yes, but not order him. Of this from their time together Victor was confident. He’s going to miss him, Victor realizes with a jolt as he skims over the letter again.
Paul had become a confidant without Victor having to tell him much and his caretaker without coddling, a nurse and even, daresay, a friend. The note includes that along with Victors deepest gratitude a sincerest apology for the suddenness of it all. All Victor offers in lieu of explanation is that he has to try this path, see where it might taken, because he’s missed too many paths insofar to lose another one.
Taking a breath Victor sets that down as well and picks up Gloria’s leash as well as his bag that includes only a few shirts and trousers and the like. There isn’t much he needs, or much he wants to carry that isn’t heavily saturated with the past. He did decide to take his piano music with him, though it isn’t as though he’s going to pass some abandoned piano on the side of the road. It just feels wrong, leaving it here. His books, save two, he leaves behind; he shoves his old gun into the base of his bag, in case of emergency, and hates its presence.
He lingers only to leave a voicemail for Fiona, telling her he’s going away for some time and might not be easy to contact as she has been for the past few weeks with one or two questions about the business she now owned and is already molding, or just to tease about deciding to marry him or to take his last name and add it to her list of many. Then Victor carries his bag down to the car carefully, places it in the trunk.
When he looks up to whistle for Gloria he sees old Mrs. Scott on the front doorstep, watching. He smiles at her, but she just gazes sombrely back, and he feels a surge of affection for this slightly deluded elderly woman who had never questioned him or his living decisions and had biscuits dropped off for him in the hospital by her sheepish looking son. He crosses the yard and wraps her frail form up in a hug, murmuring a sincere thank you. Mrs. Scott stares up at him and then reaches up and gives him two prompt little light slaps on the cheek, a gesture he’s seen her offer her son countless times. Victor chuckles and steps away, waving once more as Gloria catches up.
Victor opens the side door for her to hop in, then climbs in the driver’s seat himself, running his hands over the wheel with a deep breath to still his nerves and steady his grip.
Then he shifts into drive, and leaves London’s gray skies behind.
Come Fly With Me - Frank Sinatra
The doorbell’s ring echoes around the flat and Victor turns down the jazz that fills the flat, grabbing a nearby towel and giving the counter a quick wipe down. As he passes he also slips his fingers around the knob of the stove and turns off the flame with a click, steps over Gloria twice as she weaves below her feet as always, and opens the door.
“Afternoon,” he smiles, eyes creasing up. A dark, shapely brow raises and the bottle of sparkling cider is pressed into his hands, which he accepts, stepping aside so Gloria can rush forward and shower their visitor in affection.
“Afternoon, yourself,” Elizabeth gets in past laughter as her past housemate eagerly paws at her knees. She crouches and ruffles Gloria’s ears, pressing a kiss between her ears before glancing up at Victor, gazing at him curiously as he places the cider on the counter and picks up the lid on the pot on the stove, peeking inside for a moment. When Victor turns he catches her eyes and blinks, before raising his eyebrows.
“Pardon my suspicion, but…what on earth did you pop now?”
Victor chuckles softly and shakes his head, opening the closest cupboard and removing two plates, one for each of them. He gestures for her to properly enter, and she stands and removes her heels, slides off her cardigan and drapes it over the back of one of the chairs at the table, eyes drifting over the flat. “Always the tone of disbelief. I invited you over for lunch, Liz. So.” He gestures. “Lunch.”
She’s still watching him like he has two extra heads, but she appears to like those spare faces, because she slowly, helplessly smiles. “You can’t cook,” she reminds, drifting over to wash her hands and peek up into his face. He just laughs.
They eat and share small talk. She asks after his health, him after her work. She doesn’t comment on his very small portion, but she does joke about how this clearly was pre-made and just warmed by Victor. She laughs when he says she’s right. The whole time, she watches him, waiting for the switch in his mood, for the paranoia or the aggression. She knows him better than anyone.
When they wash up the plates she speaks, her elbow gently jostling his side.
“You’re leaving again,” Elizabeth states. She doesn’t ask. Victor pauses in rinsing off his glass, and quietly finishes before turning off the tap. He turns and meets her eyes, noticing not for the first time how short she seemed now, how much she had to look up into his face. He can count her dark eyelashes from here.
The radio begins to crackle with a new song, sweet with violins and pianos, and Victor dries off his hands and takes a step away from the sink, holding out his palm.
“May I have this dance?” he asks, tilting his head a little with a curl of his lip. Elizabeth shakes her head disbelievingly and lets a giggle slip, and sighs before focusing on his hand. She stares as it for some time before finally taking it, and he pulls her into an upbeat waltz even though she keeps bursting into helpless, almost nervous little laughs, disbelieving giggles. He makes faces at her while his fingers lace in hers and she purposefully steps on his feet with her own stockinged ones.
Soon they slow, falling off the beat. Elizabeth’s arms slip absently around his neck and his arms cross over her waist, and they’re just turning more than anything, holding each other and swaying. He can count her breaths against his sternum, the pitter-patter of her heartbeat if he concentrates hard enough.
“Goodness, you’re warm,” she murmurs, and he chuckles.
She has her answer.
She doesn’t try to stop him, this Peter-Pan-man, never quite grown up, always searching for a star to call home.
once I get you up there where the air is rare-fied
we’ll just glide, starry-eyed…