Title: "Equity"
Author: monimala
Fandom: "Alias"
Rating/Classification: PG, Robin, future ficlet.
Disclaimer: Bad Robot!
Summary: A sequel to "Happy Accidents." Another day in the life of a
grown Robin Dixon.
There is an inter-office memo on her desk, telling her that a Russian
financier will be in at approximately 2 p.m. and he wants to speak to their
best officer about a home loan.
Robin preens a little at the thought of being the best loan officer in the
bank. That's what she's worked for. To be good at what she does. To be
valued. And then she wonders why the Hell an international businessman
would want a home equity loan. Usually, people who move into the upscale
Los Angeles suburbs from abroad have more than enough disposable income,
not to mention investments and offshore accounts, to facilitate buying a
nice place in the 3 mil' range without help from any paltry American
banking establishment.
The hairs on the back of her neck prickle. She grabs up the phone,
listening to the comforting echo of the dial tone and wondering if Dad has
the Bat Phone on. His private line, reserved only for calls from the
higher-ups at the State Department or family emergencies. Last
Christmas, Steve and Darrell started calling it the "Brat Phone" because
Alanna had just learned to make calls and she liked to dial Pops and babble
about nothing for minutes on end.
Going from a call with his four year old grandbaby to a call with the
leader of his nation...it's one of those simple joys in her father's life.
Most of the time, Robin revels in her own simple joys.
Her daughter's tiny feet in perfect little saddle shoes. Darrell
wandering down the stairs in the mornings in his faded, gray, Morehouse
t-shirt, scratching his stomach as he grabs the juice out of the
fridge. The smell of gasoline when she stops at the pumps. The first sip
and the last sip of a good glass of champagne.
The phone is whining at her now, telling her to put up or shut up, and she
drops it, wearily, back into the cradle.
It can't possibly be who she thinks.
He wouldn't dare. Although, maybe he would. Maybe he really does need to buy a house. Maybe he has a wife and 2.5 kids and an SUV with rocket
launchers on either side of the exhaust pipe and he's sick of living in the
Valley and commuting to the HQ of whatever evil spy organization he's
heading now.
She actually has to laugh at the thought of him with kids. A cross
between Hell's Angels and prep school killers, no doubt. Creaking black
leather suits. Silver briefcases for their lunches.
He'll come in and show her pictures, proud of his little, blond,
sociopathic, rugrats. "Nikolai is in fifth grade and can hit a bulls-eye
at forty-five paces. Dmitrina skins her own furry animals to make
coats. Precious, aren't they?"
Robin laughs, whirling her chair towards the expansive windows so she can stare out at the smoggy downtown skyline.
She hasn't seen him since she was a child.
Unless you count her nightmares.
Unless you count Alanna's eyes.
There is a gentle knock on her door and she smooths her sweaty palms down the pressed jacket of her suit as she turns back to her desk. "Come in,"
she says, crisply, looking for the file corresponding to the memo.
"Hello, Ms. Williams."
Yuri Petrov is a seventy-something man with a ruddy face and completely hairless head. He beams at her as he takes his seat, struggling to fit his impressive girth in between the narrow armrests.
"Zdravstvuyte, Mr. Petrov," she greets in her best Berlitz Russian.
She's, slowly, giving over to insanity.
It's the easiest transaction she's ever made.
--end--
April 9, 2004.