Archive of Our Own

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Alain, despite not really needing to anymore, quite likes to pop into the offices on occasion.

His role at the paper had not quite become defunct, Monaco was always going to be Monaco and thus would always be in need of individuals with his his unique knowledge.

It had been nearly 30 years now that he had given up most of his mafia ties, had moved away to Switzerland where he couldn't be bothered, and had hoped he would be lucky enough to live the rest of his days in peace.

But luck has a way of running out on him, most things do. And truthfully the quiet life wasn't well suited for him anyhow.

so sue him—he got bored some days of sitting at his computer and fielding questions from the new journalists on what all they can report on without making too much of a stir among the syndicates. Alain was unfortunately very much the social creature, and his old age didn't help that.

He liked to know what was going on, liked to stick his fingers directly onto the pulse of the city. Ayrton says he works too much, but it is said with a tone of such endearment Alain never lets it stop him.

so yes— every once in a while Alain likes to drive into the city. He likes to visit with friends old and new. He chats with Niki in his office, he grabs a drink with Charles at Nigel's bar, and in his time in the city he likes to wander in to the offices of the Monaco Chronicle and see how the world stops turning to gawk at him for a moment.

The office is mostly a younger crowd now, so its not as bad as it had been when he started, but still he enjoys listening to the trail of whispers as they follow him down the hall and to the elevator that leads to his office.

The office overlooks the city, a beautiful view of the Monaco skyline. Alain takes quiet joy in the fact that it is the exact same level of mess he left it in. Ayrton is always so neurotic about having a clean and organized house— any of Alain's curated mess is quick to get cleaned up much to his chagrin.

He settles his coffee on top of a stack of folders as he slowly descends into the chair, knees making far too much noise and reminding him fitfully of his age. He lays his laptop out on top of some other papers and settles in to doing what he likes to call work.

He only gets about 30 minutes into it before he is interrupted by a knock on the door.

He doesn't really mind it at all. There is something exciting in the sociability of the office that he craves.

"Come in" he calls out.

A young woman pops her head through the door. Alain doesn't recognize her.

"Sorry, do you have a moment?" She asks. Alain smiles lightly as he waves her in.

"I have got all the time in the world. How can I help you?"

The woman steps inside, balancing a notebook and an audio recorder on her knees as she sits in the chair opposite him. The desk is slightly too cluttered for her to even attempt to put her things there.

"I'm doing a small article for Valentine's Day. A quick piece on different love stories from our editors—" she explains as she settles. Alain nods along, so she continues. "I was curious on if you could tell me about the first time you fell in love?"

Alain laughs slightly, memories rolling over him.

"Oh dear— that isn't much of a story. Not a good one at least. Would you mind if I told you about the last time instead?"

The woman perks up slightly, leaning in closer as she turns on her audio recorder.

"Okay. Go on."

From The Editors Desk:

Love Stories from the News Room - Crime Editor Alain Prost

by Nicole Fauxnom

My first impression of Alain Prost is that he doesn't have the stature of a man as talked about as he is. I had never met him until the day I walked into his office to do this interview, and it was only after i would realize the man is a treasure of stories of Monaco's history. Having severed as the crime column editor for over 30 years, I didn't expect to meet a man with such a kind smile, a wool cardigan, and a mess of an office befitting a teen— but never the less here he sits.

N: You said before, that the first time you fell in love isn't much of a story—

A : Not a good one. It was a far different time in those days— I lost many friends. I don't recall it too kindly. But life moves on— and I was luckier the next time around.

N: Tell me about it? The next time around— how did you meet?

He laughs slightly at the question, head tilted back in the recalling of a memory.

A: It was 1985— The gala at the Hôtel de Paris. He was in the most ill fitting suit I've ever seen in my life. It wasn't love at first sight or any of those cliches but— something of a spark. Maybe an infatuation building. I do recall the first words he said to me— chastising me over a dreadful smoking habit I picked up in my youth. Normally I would have argued or rebutted it but— something about him made me hesitate.

N: So you have been in love since 1985? wow that's such a long time!

A: In love? no— but something like that I suppose— He would say that some things are fated but truthfully— I think I just got real damn lucky.

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