Chapter Text
Come pick up your boss. He’s ruining the vibe. Old RB ring. Now!
The text came through just after midnight and Philippe shot up out of the chair he’d been dozing in. He’s out the door within two minutes flat, still throwing on his blazer, knotting his tie and barking orders down his phone before he can even think to close it.
Corbeau could be in any number of trouble.
And at the Brotherhood’s old battling ring, no less.
It couldn’t come at a worst time, Philippe half-asleep after a week of non-stop disasters... Multiple clients had done a runner, there seemed to be a brewing civil war between the new-blood and old-guard, and to top it off the anniversary of the weapon was fast approaching. It had been unending.
Safe to say, he was in a foul mood, as he climbs into the car that pulled up in front of him his anxiety only continues to rise.
Philippe has been in the field everyday, leaving coordination, meetings and paperwork to Corbeau, alone. Unsupervised.
What had he done? Who had he crossed?
He reads the text again, he seemed alive at least. If anything the message seemed annoyed, not overly threatening or malicious.
Maybe it was something else... Not work related.
He should have been more attentive to his boss, Philippe knew he would likely do something reckless... But it was a week away. He’d thought he had more time.
Apparently, Corbeau thought differently.
But after a small rampage around the office—by Corbeau’s standards at least—Philippe had stupidly believed it was staved off for another few days.
He was a terrible second, he couldn't keep his boss safe.
“Drive faster damn it!” He growls at the poor grunt, slamming a heavy hand on the dashboard. His usual cool slipping.
“Sir, we can’t. This area is crawlin’ with cops. We still got a few minutes.”
He bumps his head against his headrest, and starts firing off a series of texts, preparing for damage control.
And dread sunk deep into his bones as he wondered just what state he would find Corbeau in.
They arrive at their destination in under ten minutes, a couple of his most trusted joining up him on the way. They enter together, at the Brotherhood’s—his—old battling and fighting ring - a warehouse in the Vert district. Now the Rust Syndicate technically owned the place, but leased it out to others. Philippe had been out of the underground fighting game for a good long while, but the space always felt familiar, homely—but a home you’d rather not return to.
They are escorted to a rundown office, one Philippe knew well, and the grunts dutifully wait outside. Obeying every word he barks out.
True loyalty right there.
He entered with his head held high, fingers curled tight... Ready to slip into old routines should it save his boss.
He takes in the scene, gritting his teeth hard enough to hurt.
Corbeau - the boss of the Rust Syndicate himself - sat in a chair with two men twice his size pinning his arms down onto the armrests as he thrashes and snarls at them... Animalistic and feral. Another stood behind him, pressing their hands into his bare shoulders and cooing quietly in his ear– moving every time Corbeau tried to headbutt him.
And Philippe very much wanted to break every finger that touched his boss. Listen to every single echoing snap in a beautiful cacophony.
Corbeau appeared to be in a terrible state. One of his eyes swollen closed with ugly bruising, his lip busted while his gnashing teeth are stained red. Philippe dreaded whatever patchwork of bruises linger under his clothes.
The fact it’s taken three to hold him down is rather impressive and he would be in any other circumstance.
But right now, it’s taking all his control to not crush the throat of whoever gifted those unsavoury marks into his boss' ivory skin. He would need to find out just who did them first, however.
He thanks Arceus that Corbeau had the sense not to turn up in uniform, he’s forgone it for an over-sized black hooded jacket, a simple black tank-top that does not cover all of his back piece and gym shorts. Bloodied strips are wrapped around his knuckles and his glasses which have fallen around his neck have specks of blood on them. Thankfully, they aren’t broken either. Small blessings.
“Oh, looky here, Mr Corbeau. Your number two is here. Very prompt too.” The man behind his boss calls, tone perfectly friendly despite the circumstances. Philippe recognises him, and very much wished he didn’t.
Old and unwanted acquaintances back to haunt him.
“Good evenin’, Raph. Boss...”
His boss blinks slowly, stilling completely. “Philippe...?” His voice was wrecked—it’s not good at all—and he squinted in his direction, vision likely too blurry to focus.
Someone might just have to die, Philippe decided.
“I’m here, boss. You okay? Did any of these guys hurt you?” He scanned the room, taking everything in just in case his negotiation skills were rusty.
He gets a slow shake of his head.
How lucky for them.
“Oh, look at you, still playing guard dog, huh? I remember when you were top dog, Phil.” Raph chuckled from behind Corbeau and claps his hands, clearly amused. Toying with them both.
“...Would you rather I be attack dog instead?” He growled his warning.
“Nah, anyway. Thanks for coming, Philippe. He’s a real scrappy bastard, I’ll give him that. But we dragged him out when we recognised him. Last thing we need is your lot throwing your weight around.” He patted the Syndicate leader on the head like a kid and Corbeau started to writhe again.
Raph was really pushing his luck.
“Release me, y—you filth!” Corbeau shouts, though the words are somewhat slurred.
If only Philippe had a less volatile employer... Prone to illogical choices.
Or at least, when outside the office.
On company time, Corbeau couldn't be a better boss.
“One moment, Mr Corbeau.” Raph cooed instead. “I’m catching up with an old friend.”
Philippe merely takes a slow, controlled breath. Inwardly muttering calm down as mantra.
Get his boss to safety first, plan revenge afterwards.
“So... He just happened to take a punch to the face, hmm? Was that before or after you realised this was the leader of the Rust Syndicate?” He challenged, hand slowly slipping into a pocket, thumbing the Pokéball inside before deciding the knuckle dusters underneath might be a better option...
“Before, obviously. Who would want to hurt that pretty face really? Ha...But since we did get him out before he was mauled to pieces. I think we should get a li’l leeway on our next payment. Don’t you think, Phil?”
Devious as always, seemingly holding all the cards.
But Philippe had played this many times over. Elude, never agree.
“Fuck no. You pay what you owe... Don’t you—" Corbeau appeared to have lost all his decorum. They would be having words later.
“—Respectfully, boss, I need you to shut the fuck up. I’m the one negotiating here.” He interrupted, shocking almost everyone in the room going by their gormless expressions... Corbeau very much included, as his mouth snaps shut with a click.
“We can discuss any changes to payment plans, or favours, next time you come in, Raph. We always repay our debts, even if it’s the detriment to ourselves or others... Now, you will release Mr Corbeau. I’d hate to show you why I was reigning champ back in the old days...” He flexes his fingers, clicking his neck with a crooked grin.
Throwing threats may not be his best play, but it was one he thought would work. Showing nonchalant confidence when outnumbered and in the worse position sometimes unnerved others.
The man gives a chalky laugh and the men beside him stiffen, their eyes flicking between the man they were restraining and the man who wanted to smash their faces in very, very much.
“Oh, you think you still got it, yeah? But of course, Philippe. But if you ever wanna get back in the ring... You let us know.” Raph waves a hand and the tension lowers instantly.
And just like that Corbeau is released and pulled to his feet. He stumbled his first step before straightening up, pushing his crooked glasses back up his nose and sneering at the men. But Philippe can only see it as an action of wounded pride. He takes his rightful place by his second’s side, though likely a little closer than usual. Philippe ends up half-shielding him.
Always protect the boss.
Raph leaned against the chair-back, grinning like a Litten that got the cream. “Oh and Mr Corbeau? I recommend you go elsewhere next time. Your guard dog looks ready to kill us. Leave the fighting to him next time, ay?”
Philippe considers swinging then, his safety be damned, his patience almost evaporated completely... And he would enjoy making the man’s face a mirror of Corbeau’s own. A painful painting of red, yellow and purple.
But that would put his boss in further danger and they needed to get him away...
Even if there was blood in the water and he really wanted to let loose.
“Just watch yourself. I’ll remember this, Raph.” He calls instead.
“Be sure that you do, Phil.”
He will make sure they pay, just not today.
Then Corbeau opens his mouth to speak, bloodied lips stretched wide and snarling, however Philippe seizes him by the arm before he can do anything else disastrous, dragging him out of the office.
They don’t talk at all they exit the building, Corbeau shrugs up his hood to hide his face so the grunts can barely see the marks covering his skin.
A caustic air wrapped around them as the car pulled out front and it only grows as Philippe drove his boss back to his apartment. Any attempts to catch his yellow eyes in the mirror are pointedly ignored.
He followed as a silent shadow up to the door, and when it seemed like Corbeau dithers on if to let Philippe in, he pushed through regardless.
The door clicked shut slowly. Surprisingly loud for such a simple sound.
No words are exchanged, no one moves, and the younger man still hasn’t looked his way. Eyes hidden under his hood. Only split and worried lips visible, pulled into a pouting frown.
“Tell me why you were there, sir.” Voice low, a fury he’s trying to calm underneath, an instinctual anxiety beneath that.
He needs to know why...
But he only gets a shrug in response.
“You didn’t go back to my old ring for no reason, boss.” He pressed, stepping closer... He expects a retreat. The man does nothing. Says nothing.
Another shrug.
It’s simply not good enough.
Philippe grabs Corbeau by the front of his jacket, pulling him into the bathroom and pushes him onto a stool as he rummaged around the medicine cabinet. There is no struggle, he goes rather willing, allows himself to be manhandled.
It’s worrying that he doesn’t fight back.
Not after his feral display in the office.
“Strip, sir. I need to see what we’re working with.”
Corbeau complies, slowly shrugging off his jacket with merely a wince. His tank top comes next, with a bit more of a struggle. It's pealed away slowly, each inch of bruised skin revealed serves to anger Philippe more.
He looks as much as expected, like a rookie's first time in the ring. Black and blue all over his chest and stomach. As well as marks on his arms.
Philippe shakes his head.
He should be angry, furious at Corbeau. He should scold the man. He should slap some sense into him... Regardless that he was the underling and not the boss. He really should, but he doesn’t. He feels sorry for him. He feels worried, has been high-strung the moment he received that message... Fearing the absolute worse.
The situation isn't great, but it certainly isn't the worst either. His boss was secured and safe now, there wouldn't be too much damage control.
Corbeau wasn’t made to take things like Philippe was, he's slender and lithe, he’ll be surprised if there isn’t a broken bone under all the bruising.
"Looks that bad, huh...?" He mutters, looking down at the mess of his own chest and to the fingertip bruises around his forearms. He doesn't seem all that surprised.
With how the other is being, Philippe can only think of one way to get answers.
“Tell me what happened, boss.” He grabs his chin, tipping his head up when he refuses to look his way again.
The man swallows hard, his eyes still low, avoidant. “Philippe...” It’s more whisper than word.
He leans closer, eye to eye.
“I’m trying to help here, but I need ta know what’s going on, sir.” His grip tightens, and thin shaking fingers wrap around his solid wrist, yet the man is going nowhere... Trapped. Not until Philippe had an answer anyway.
“I repeat, boss. Why were you there?” Barely a rumble between them now.
Captured for the second time that night, and unable to do anything, Corbeau finally slumps against him, defeated. Blurry eyes glance up for a moment and then away again.
“I...I just wanted—needed to.” He admits.
It’s a start, but not nearly enough to understand the machinations of his boss’ brain.
“Needed what exactly? A black eye, huh?” He brushes his thumb gently over their cheek, mindful of the yellowing bruise. Still caging him though.
He isn’t sure anyone else would be able to do such a thing, outside this room—in front of the Syndicate and the wider world—Corbeau was volatile but he was not overly vulnerable. He doesn’t just let anyone put their hands on him... Usually.
Philippe’s mind flits to earlier in the night, at how Corbeau squirmed and thrashed against those other hands. He grits his teeth.
He should have taught them a lesson. Another time now.
“To feel...To hurt. For things to be quiet.”
Oh... Oh. His mind slams back into the present.
Philippe knows that crux. He knows it very well. There was a time when he only lived when flesh split under his fists, when the taste of blood between teeth was life’s only flavour, cuts and bruises and broken bones were the only thing he could feel.
Looking down at him now, Corbeau looks lost. In need of help.
Not an interrogation. Not coldness. Not anger.
He releases him instantly, suddenly guilty.
“C’mere, boss.” He says instead, opening his arms, offering himself to be a lifeline. A thing to cling to in the storm likely in Corbeau's head.
And the man crumbles. Bloodied fingertips dig into Philippe’s arms as they grab on viciously. He holds on as though he doesn’t understand what a hug is. He holds on like Philippe is the only thing left in the world.
It’s a devastating privilege.
“You’re safe here.” He murmurs into that matted hair.
“Philippe...I don’t know why ’m like this...”
“That’s okay, Crow. We’ll figure it out.” Soothing, slow, as he would for a spooked Pokémon. His arms curl around the smaller man, being that anchor, holding him up as his legs buckle.
“I always end up hurting somehow. ‘T’s the only thing that works.” The admission is a breakthrough, even if Philippe had noticed the destructive pattern long before.
“You haven’t found the right outlet for your emotions, boss. I had urges like you once...” He mutters back, revealing his own sins in return.
“How did you solve ‘em?” He sounds so desperate now.
Philippe doesn’t say he still has them on occasion, his vice was violence and had been for so long... Not easily solved. Some days he wanted to sink back into it. He refused—most of the time.
Tonight had been the closest he was in a long while...
“I did somethin’, I went too far. I got help. You can’t go it alone, sir.”
Corbeau's face falls and his split lips twitch against him.
“Oh...Will you help me?”
His answer is instantaneous, no thought needed.
“Of course, Crow. Whatever you need. I’ll always be here. Just tell me.”
With that he collapses into Philippe’s hold, surrendering and letting go.
Two hours later, once Philippe and a doctor—that owed them a favour or five—looked Corbeau over, the two are lounging on the couch. The stiff cushions creak whenever one of them moves, it’s uncomfortable and cramped.
But Philippe doesn’t want to move, for Corbeau has his head leant against his shoulder and his hand wrapped around a bare bicep. Skin to skin, long fingers still clinging to him even in sleep. Those blurry yellow eyes are closed to the world, that thin mouth hanging half open as he snores quietly.
Finally at peace. Those racing, destructive thoughts quietened for a time. The darkness lifted from his heavy shoulders.
Safe at least. At Philippe’s side.
So he watches over his boss into the early morning hours until sleep claims him too.