Chapter Text
She was the first thing he got for his office: before the mahogany desk, before the shutters, before that stupid carafe he had placed on the bookshelf — where he could keep an eye on it.
In the depths of winter, when nights stretched out and rain battered the city, he would entertain silent conversations with her. Contemplating the familiar face, he would drown in a sea of lapis-lazuli; always reaching for the surface, for the golden glow that had been hers and hers alone.
Most days, though, he would avoid her entirely. Her gaze burnt him still, inquisitive and bright: always questioning, always blaming. She and he were alike that way.
“Hey, nitwit! Are you listening to me???”
Felix peeled away from the poster, staring daggers at his impromptu guest. Chloé could not be bothered to call ahead, and his newly-hired assistant was much too nice to shove her out the door.
“Does Adrikins know you keep a picture of his mum in your office?”
“He works here,” the detective reminded her, quirking an eyebrow. “All evidence, as well as my professional intuition, points to the logical conclusion that yes, he does.”
“Well, I find it weird and creepy.”
“She was my family too, Chloé. I think I’m allowed a hint of nostalgia.”
Aunt Emilie was one of a kind. Over the years, she had acquired her own projector, as well as endless scrolls of the strangest, most obscure films in existence: yet she never missed an opportunity to sneak out of the mansion and into the nearest theatre, to drown her nephew in popcorn and ice cream and all kinds of sweets. She would cower and gasp at all the right moments, squeezing his hand tight; he would reassure her that the monsters were trapped behind the screen, that they would never catch them.
Felix saw right through her game, and Aunt Emilie saw right through his bravado. Still, they had kept the play going — even as her bedside became their projection room, even as he learnt to change the rolls himself.
Of course, Chloé did not know about their escapades. Even Adrien was not privy to his secret, to these precious moments that should have been his.
“Urgh, whatever. As long as this… neuralgia of yours doesn’t impact my case.”
“Which is what, exactly? Can’t find your ridiculous credit card in your utterly ridiculous handbag?”
This was not a fair fight, and Felix knew it: Chloé would have taken her business elsewhere, anywhere, had she thought she had a choice.
Still, she made him wait — tracing her mouth with pearlescent lipstick, glubbing like a carp as she held the miniature mirror of her compact. Eventually, she got bored of her own game, and snapped the lid shut.
“Something was stolen from me,” she confessed, nails sharp and knuckles tight. “I want it back.”