Work Text:
Philippe looked past his reflection in the glass. Everything was where it should be. A gang couldn't run without proper organization, after all. The boss knew that well.
A glass-faced cabinet held the vials. The single-use syringes occupied a velvet-lined drawer. The needles rested in another drawer just to the right, in smaller and larger gauges. Philippe retrieved one lone square of an alcohol wipe from a large glass jar, and obstructed the shine of the nearby silver tray with one of each item needed for this weekly ritual.
He prepared the goods in an innocuous corner of an otherwise dreadful room. Laboratory-white and stainless steel surrounded. A stark contrast from the comfortable dark hues of the rest of the Rust Syndicate office.
The substance within the vial Philippe had plucked from its cabinet was by far the least threatening of the boss's morbid collection. He understood why the boss stored it in the same secret place as the rest, but it still unnerved him, conceptually, that a simple hormone was housed just one shelf above a toxin that could debilitate even a large man like himself with just a pinprick.
Philippe picked up the tray and silently exited the little deadly museum.
The sterile lighting gave way to the warmth of Corbeau's own living quarters. The door closed itself silent as a shadow, appearing from this side as a normal shelved wall.
Philippe crossed the room just as silently, as the boss was currently taking a phone call.
Perched on the edge of the enormous bed, clothes in a state of partial removal, Corbeau addressed his Rotom phone as sternly as if he were seated at his great wooden desk surrounded by intimidating finery. Admirable of him to work so hard. If only he would take more time for himself after-hours.
Philippe stopped in front of his charge, presenting the tray's contents for inspection without getting in the way of the hovering phone. Corbeau checked every item in an instant before returning focus to his phone call, speaking as if nothing else were in the room with him.
"I won't repeat myself. My demands are set in stone. Whether you're able to meet them or not is your problem. Not mine. Either you get your act together and give me what I want, or I call this whole thing off and you can kiss your future goodbye. I'm generous for even entertaining your stupid pleas for mercy."
Unbothered by the terrifying aura pouring off his boss in waves, Philippe set the tray upon a nearby dresser. The plastic packaging crinkled softly. First, that of the narrow syringe, then of the larger gauge needle. One quick twist, and the two were paired.
It wasn't a necessity to prep the boss's shot in the same room as him. Corbeau had told him before that he trusts him to do it correctly. It was just that Philippe's pride made him happy to demonstrate over and over that he cared to do things the right way.
The vial was the correct vial. The only substance in the syringe was testosterone. No room for sabotage, no possibility for any material or tool to be compromised—Philippe included.
"...Is that so?" Corbeau's smile dripped with venom. "You think you're being awfully cute. Whatever makes you feel better about being in such deep shit." The glare fired into the phone was enough to make even Philippe's heart accelerate for a few exhilarated beats. "The only reason I haven't sent my men to take what's mine is because I've been in an extra good mood these past few days. Do you really wanna be the reason that changes?"
Savvy as always. Philippe smiled to himself as he drew the plunger back to the correct dose of air. Popped the plastic cap off the vial with his thumb, made sure Corbeau could hear that it was brand new and untampered with. He pierced the rubber cap and pressed in the air, tipped the vial until the clear liquid within smothered the slanted steel tip. One smooth draw, a little back-and-forth to expel the bubbles, and he'd extracted exactly what the boss needed for the upcoming week. A steady number. Never changed. At least, it hadn't in the time Philippe has been trusted with the medical knowledge. The boss had his ideal dose all figured out.
He swapped the needle for the thinner one, the spindly thread of steel that got the privilege of piercing the boss's flesh. Just the one tiny bubble that wouldn't make it into him anyways. Good.
By the time Philippe approached with the prepared dose and tray, the phone call had ended. Corbeau sat still on the edge of the bed and pinched at the lines creasing the bridge of his nose.
"Tough customer?" asked Philippe.
Corbeau shrugged his shirt the rest of the way off and tossed it aside with disgust. "Stubborn one."
"Not much difference, you'll find."
He placed the tray upon the bed and knelt before his superior. Despite the luxurious rug, his aged knees complained every time he pressed them to the floor for his boss's sake.
They could whine all they want. Philippe wouldn't. This act had only ever been a privilege.
"Tomorrow morning I think I will send some men over," Corbeau contemplated. "I can't let him think my good mood means he's got any room to breathe easy."
"I doubt he feels any leeway after those threats."
Corbeau dismissed his opinion with a wave, crossing a leg more comfortably. He flicked his discarded tie farther away, the thing pooling like a white snake on dark silken sheets.
Philippe took a moment to appreciate the boss's tattoos in plain, sprawling view. Not many people got to see the full piece like this. Vivid colors, perfect symmetry, a masterclass. Symbolic of power, and their owner's determination to lead the Rust Syndicate until his own life left him. A heavy thing for such a young man to bear, but bear it well he did. Bore it beautifully, in all senses.
His belt was still on, Philippe noted. That limited the spots he could choose from. Still, he tore open the alcohol wipe and sanitized a small general area on his boss's stomach. Corbeau flinched slightly at the coldness swiping over his skin, but didn't otherwise acknowledge Philippe's actions.
"Certain types of desperate people," Corbeau began, as if lecturing the room at large, "take any reason they can to feel like things are still fine. That they can get away with ignoring their problems for just a little while longer. They're the dodgiest ones, swimming in their own denial." The cap of the needle popping off punctuated the point. "The sooner I crush that delusion the better."
Philippe chuckled. He couldn't ask for more in the man he'd chosen to follow.
"Atta boy."
A scoff. "Speak to me like that outside this room and I'll suddenly find you dispensible."
It only pleased him that Corbeau completely meant it. He wouldn't have ceded his position as the Rust Syndicate's leader over to anybody else in Lumiose.
Gently, Philippe pressed a clean finger and thumb to his boss's stomach, lightly enough that he wasn't pressing into the hard-won muscle underneath. Good thing he ran warm. Corbeau appreciated that his hands were never cold while touching him.
The elaborate tattoo made it easier to remember the whereabouts of recent past injections, and therefore pick a new spot. It was good to shift the location around, he'd learned. Prevented potential scar tissue from building up. He was always careful to only aim for skin untouched by ink, too. Not only would it be criminal to scar the boss's body beyond what it already bore, but it would be the ultimate shame to damage such a beautiful work of art.
Philippe glanced at Corbeau's chest as he raised the prepared injection. The thin lines along the man's pectorals defined scars already formed. They were hard to see thanks to the ink (and perhaps that was the intention of the design—the tattoo even included two subtly inked areolas and nipples, realistic as could be). Corbeau had gained those scars willingly. If Philippe could have his way, those twin slashes would be the last to ever mark his boss's body.
Hence his care with these weekly injections.
Philippe dutifully lined up the needle at its optimal angle, embracing temporary discomfort rather than ask his superior to scoot forward or twist his torso just a little to make things easier.
He no longer asked if Corbeau was ready. The best thing to do was just do it.
Corbeau exhaled. The needle slipped in.
Smooth as butter.
Philippe held steady as steel as he pressed the testosterone into the body welcoming it. Not too fast, not too slow...
Corbeau's eyes were closed, focused. The boss wasn't frightened of needles—the sprawling color over his chest and back and arms declared otherwise—yet he always closed his eyes the moment his favorite subordinate broke the sanctity of his body one way or another.
The rubber of the plunger seal kissed the mark of zero. Job well done. Philippe waited a long moment, then slipped the needle free of his boss's flesh and immediately guided the contaminated tip into the hard plastic cap on the tray. Once it snapped closed, no risk of pricking anything, he inspected the injection site. No bead of toxic blood like there sometimes was. Perfect.
Philippe's old knees cracked on his way upright. Corbeau sighed a satisfied sigh, and he fixed his hair, adjusted his glasses.
"Thank you, Philippe."
"Of course, boss." He took the tray away, ready to dispose of everything appropriately. Cleanup had always been one of his jobs, no matter what it entailed.
"You know, you really could kill me if you wanted to, Philippe." The man's polished shoe bobbed in the air, his legs crossed snug, contemplative. "All those poisons in that room. The needles I let you stick in me."
This again.
"...I'm aware of my position, boss. I would never dare."
Corbeau smiled, observing him with those venom-yellow eyes. "Yeah, you wouldn't. Poisoning someone just isn't your style. You've got a more hands-on approach to taking care of people."
"I'd rather hand you my Rotom and let my Skarmory drop me off a building than ever raise a hand to hurt you, boss."
"I know. I'm just teasing you." Corbeau chuckled and leaned back where he sat, casual as can be. "You'd never harm a hair on my head. I wouldn't let you do this otherwise."
Philippe allowed himself a moment of pride. Trust was a fragile thing, but the boss made it seem like the trust he held in Philippe was inviolably ironclad.
The boss's crossed leg lifted, extended. It took a wag of the ankle—Philippe cursed himself for being slow on the uptake—for him to heed the summons. Not exactly as professional subordinate, either, the way Corbeau was beckoning him.
The moment he got close enough, the sole of Corbeau's shoe rested flatly against the front of his thigh. Knee bent slightly, the boss's body relaxed in partial repose upon the bed. Philippe looked down at the point of contact. So small compared to the massive leg it pressed against... yet every inch of Corbeau oozed command. Strength difference or not, size or age or experience difference or not, only one man was in charge here.
One thing Philippe had always admired was that Corbeau's presence loomed tall as Prism Tower even as the man had to tip his head back to glare anyone in Lumiose into submission.
No glaring needed to get what he wanted from this loyal underling.
Philippe bent over just enough to grasp the shoe properly, thinking of future dry cleaning for his pants, and held the leather heel in place for Corbeau to slip free from its confines. One, then the other, set neatly upon the floor afterwards. He was no Kalosian maid, but you wouldn't catch him complaining when Corbeau acted like even taking his own shoes off was an act unworthy of his time.
Positioned as they were, Philippe took a moment to sweep his gaze over his superior's state of partial undress upon the bedsheets. Tattoos, muscular chest, relaxed arms. Short legs still trapped in dress slacks.
He was being observed right back. Like Corbeau was waiting for something.
Hm.
Just how lazy was the boss going to be tonight? It was getting late. They both had to sleep.
Philippe stared at Corbeau's belt buckle just firmly enough for the subtle reprimand to be caught: not this time.
Corbeau's teeth showed in a wider, more wicked grin.
"Yeah, I can get the rest myself, old man. You're dismissed for tonight."
Philippe adjusted his tie, felt that touch of relief as the tension passed.
"Of course, sir. Have a good night. Call me if—"
"I need you, I know, I know." Corbeau suddenly rocked off the bed and sauntered to his wardrobe, undoing his belt far more pointedly than necessary. Philippe tactfully looked away, hiding his fondness for the boss's rare displays of childish pettiness. "Now get out of here, Philippe. It's late."
No more goodbyes necessary. Philippe gathered the silver tray emptied of the boss's needs, tucked it underneath an arm. One bow given, unseen, but Corbeau sensed his respect regardless and provided a casual wave over his shoulder that no normal subordinate deserved.
Philippe had meant it when he said he'd rather fall fatally off a building than allow harm to come to Corbeau. Plenty of others felt the same, from the most powerful lieutenants of the Rust Syndicate to the lowliest of new-blooded grunts.
Come next week, he'd return for the same. It was a good feeling, to be allowed this little act of service for the man he viewed as the strongest around. At this point, he'd do anything that young man commanded of him no matter how mundane or bloody or personal, and he'd do it with his head held high.
...Within reason. Naturally. It was dangerous to follow blindly. Corbeau was a man who wielded temptation as finely as he trained with that blade in his office; Philippe had to be careful to not become as worshipful as the rest of the Syndicate, lest he become less useful to Corbeau with the dulling of his rational edge.
Arceus forbid he become less useful. He intended to serve this man for the rest of his life. Had to stay sharp for that to happen. Sharp as a blade, sharp as a needle. As reliable a tool as could be.