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Ever since Corbeau has known the man, Philippe has, without fail, reserved his Saturdays for the care of his Skarmory.
The bird rusts easily, so he’s learned. So much as a layer of humidity or timid drizzle and the armour would tarnish. Let it sit too long, and you’d have yourself a nasty little blemish. But Corbeau bears the unfortunate knowledge that it goes much deeper than just a surface patch. Those poor creatures start to lose their ease of movement, and a pitiful, squeaking whine follows whatever they can manage. Eventually, much like how arthritis deteriorates its close-warm-blooded relatives, a rust afflicted Skarmory will shut down like a failing clock whose corroded gears have slowly come to a standstill. It’s the exact kind of fate Philippe expressly avoids with his own darling bird. When he was cautious of Philippe’s intentions in the infancy of their partnership, it was that persistent routine that opened Corbeau’s eyes to the kind of man he was beneath all those brutal layers of punkish stoicism. Ultimately, it had been what won him over, too. That and the fact that his Skarmory had been given the oddest of names a man like Philippe could have given her; Lady.
Friday had passed in a manner eventful, but not uncommon. That meant a late-night trapped behind the keyboard, burning his eyes into a laptop screen while Philippe toiled away picking up the pieces Corbeau couldn’t from behind his desk. They’d worked so hard and for so long that he’d pardoned Philippe and any of his helpful grunts that would decide to come in the following day for a late-start. There was no rest for the wicked, but Corbeau knew the value of weekends and how important it was to catch your breath.
That said, it came as no surprise that come Saturday morning, Philippe was as dutifully on track as ever. It’s never necessary. Technically, they’re the only ones on the clock today and that’s only due to the fact their duties consist of menial work. But it can’t be helped that the pair of them are early birds. For all that has changed within the last decade (and perhaps most notably, the last five years), that instinct borne from their youth to wake up and snatch the worm has yet to dull.
Philippe brings a pot of tea and a bag of cleaning supplies. The blend is an Alolan almond rooibos, and they share it hunched over tedious paperwork and contract revisions. Lady gets to be something of a tea pet on washdays (since she’ll be taken care of later, anyways), and she happily delights under the first and only steep Philippe allows her. Corbeau has consistently found it comical that a creature so susceptible to damage by both heat and liquid somehow manages to find enjoyment in both hazards. Later on, an unexpected but helpful array of hands join them, and their work speeds along soon enough that by noon, Philippe and Lady are comfortably excusing themselves for their scheduled maintenance.
A tedious collection of documents takes Corbeau a while longer. He makes sure to dismiss the remaining grunts for their lunch (and probably for the rest of the day), before making sure he wraps things up tidy. Though the assistance had been nice, some things are just done quicker on his own. The remaining half hour of work smells like nutty vanilla fading beneath his nose, and passes more comfortably than not. It all packs away neatly into compact folders and binders he maneuvers with practiced ease. Simple tasks if compared to the typical day-to-day of running the Syndicate, but by the time he’s cleaned up, his fingers are aching from the miniscule weight of his pen and his shoulders are protesting sorely against the slump of his sofa-slouch. Easy mornings spent staring at a slew of numbers and legal drivel will certainly make his head ache, too.
Walks have always done him well. The weather hadn’t been bad this morning either. He’d probably check up on Philippe, who was certainly wrapping up himself by now, and then head out together to make some rounds.
The elevator isn’t the most inconspicuous way to get around the building. Should one wish to move quietly, they’d take the stair-well instead. His descent to the lobby is announced with a timid ding, and chaperoned by the buzzing thrum of electricity pulling the steel doors open. Without the plethora of grunts standing guard, the clicking of his heels against the marble echoes freely off every pristine corner of the room. Forget the stairs - all the ensuing clickclacking would sooner render that furtiveness pointless. It’s a good thing Corbeau likes to give his guests a subtle reminder of who they answer to the moment they step foot into his foyer.
It is no less intentional when that command fizzles the moment he exits through the front door. Prowl the public sector with the discreet cunning of a Haunter, strike with the destructive force of a Nidoking in private.
Philippe is in the courtyard, as he is every Saturday at about this time. Lady of course, is here too. Really, the location had been her idea ever since the Syndicate went up. Right at about noon the sun would hit directly overhead, bathing their entryway in warm gold. That rascally bird would find endless delight rolling about beneath it, and though Corbeau had initially teased Philippe by attempting to goad him into begging for permission, he eventually allowed use of the courtyard for bathing purposes (because Philippe had been desperately fighting against his pride, and Corbeau wasn’t that cruel a man - at least not to his own people).
Direct sunlight and steel was a horrendous combination, however. With how polished Philippe kept her coat, the sheer radiance of the light reflecting off Lady’s armor had the wildly effective drawback of blinding any living thing with an eyeball or two who stepped even remotely into her - as Corbeau had aptly named it - ‘stun zone’. Except for - somehow - Philippe, who seemed to have as much as a resistance to the literal overwhelming ferocity of the white sun as his Skarmory did to Scoliopede’s poison.
That ridiculous resilience had gone so far as to taunt Corbeau into unyieldingly staring down that blazing luminosity himself. Now, he wears his hard-earned lesson from that incident in the preemptive hand-to-forehead-squint he steps out with.
What he unexpectedly finds this time is that, for perhaps the first instance in the history of this tradition ever, there is a significant lack of glare being sent in his direction. Rather, as he hesitantly makes his way around the looming statues of Weezing and Kingambit, he makes two shocking discoveries. The first of which is that instead of enjoying a gentle scrubbing with her typical laissez faire attitude, Lady is chittering in the cast-shadow of the Croagunk statue guarding the pond. The second being that Philippe - stripped of his vest, blazer and tie - is bent on his knees and utterly drenched, with his dress-shirt soaked flush to his skin. His mountain of a back is to Corbeau, and his arm is moving with a ragged frequency upon an object he cannot see past his shoulders, the kind Philippe only ever exhibits on the cusp of urgency. The strangest creaking whine follows every movement, like the sort of sound Philippe’s rust-bucket of a bike would make when they were younger, and putting food on the table was of higher priority than keeping the pipes well-oiled.
Lady is the first to notice him. She swivels the torpedo of her head right in his direction, then comes skittering over across the manicured yard with a frenzy more comparable to beast than bird. He was smart to not have let his guard down. The instant she finds herself outside of Croagunk’s shadow, her blinding glare is attempting to flashbang him. Up-close, and through the slits of his squint, he can see the partial wash-job lingering on her armor. A lathered paste is clinging to the underside of her wings, leaving behind the frothy interrupted swirl of the cloth that had been tending to it.
“What’s goin’ on, girl?”
He extends his palm to the tip of her upward-seeking snout, fingers smoothing against the shine of metal. Her head pushes against the touch, then pushes again up toward his wrist - then snags one of the razorblades of her teeth into the cuff of his suit-jacket.
“Eh-?”
Before he knows it, he’s stumbling over his feet as Lady backpedals with the explosive speed of an Electrike. It’s a miracle he manages to rescue himself from tripping over the gravel. She pulls him ruthlessly to the pond platform where Philippe still kneels, scratching at something. Lady dislodges her tooth with a worried cry once Corbeau finds his balance. Finally, Philippe bristles.
“Boss.” There’s a twinge of shakiness in the way he greets him that puts Corbeau on edge immediately.
The problem becomes apparent as Philippe shifts to look just over his shoulder. Tiny against the backdrop of his broad chest and cradle of his olympic arms is a Skarmory, head wearily wedged in the crook of Philippe’s elbow. Corbeau takes a step forward seeking for a better angle and has to hide the sharp shock of air he breathes in. The poor thing is absolutely riddled with rust. There’s no sheen to it’s armor, no polish or care. Where Lady proudly gleams a brilliant white, this wild Skarmory cowers in dour gray. Bronze orange is crawling up it’s neck and splotching over it’s belly like fungus. It has just enough strength to tilt its head up at him, glassy eyes vacantly drooping. A soft cry scratches out it’s throat and as it sags it’s head back down, Philippe runs a hand along it’s back with a gentle hush of reassurance.
“No dilly-dallying then. What needs to get done?” Corbeau is already pulling off his suit-jacket. He can get the story later.
Philippe’s stern brow eases - just by a bit, “He needs to see a specialist, but their medicine’ll only be effective once the rust comes off. I’ve got the tools on hand, and it’s a simple enough process, but,” He clears his throat and nods his head toward his hand, whose fingers gripped the handle of a wire-brush, “it happens to take a while when the build-up is this bad…I still gotta’ take care of my own girl, too.”
“Don’t keep her waiting, then.” Practiced and elegant, his blazer has found itself folded in his arms, “I’ll take over here.”
His hand stretches out. Philippe shifts the grip he has on the wild Skarmory, pockets the wire-brush, then reaches up to grab it with his own. Through no easy effort, Corbeau helps to pull him off his knees.
“...And make sure you put that shirt off to dry while you have a chance. It won’t do you well to impersonate a sponge.”
Philippe looks down at himself dumbfounded, as if he hadn’t even realized the fabric was clinging to his skin. The powerful line of his jaw softens as his mouth purses an ‘O’, “Ah. Thank you, boss. I’ll see to it.”
There’s a brief moment of quiet where rumination creeps onto Philippe’s brow. He turns his head just behind him, then exhales slowly, “I’ve gotta’ put down a towel for him. Got so wrapped up in trying to help, I was just holding ‘im, but that’s not any comfort…”
Unexpectedly, Philippe turns to him. In the most bewildering sequence of events, he pushes the Skarmory in his arms toward Corbeau, “Could you hold him for a second, boss?”
His brain lags just enough that his arms lift up ever so slightly. He manages to catch himself before they get anywhere near the bird, mind flashing with a vision of him being smooshed Stunfisk flat.
“Now just a moment, Philippe,” Corbeau coughs, “Let me get the towel, why don’t you?”
There’s enough brain-lag to go around, apparently. At the realization of his mistake, Philippe’s eyes widen and an apology has already formed at the tip of his tongue, “Shit - sorry, boss,” His arms pull Skarmory back to his chest, “I’m not quite sure where my mind has gone. The towels in the bag, if you don’t mind laying it out by the grass.”
He hardly tries to hide the snort that escapes him. The weight of a Skarmory might as well be as insignificant to him as holding a pen. It’s a value he certainly likes in Philippe, and while he tends to be quite conscious of his strength, Corbeau isn’t too surprised it slipped his mind given the circumstances. There’s a bit of laughter underlying his words as he stoops to grab the bag by the pond-ridge, “Can’t be helped that you’re a big guy. I’m sure you’ll keep that in mind before you crush me, next time.”
“Right you are - I will, sir,” Philippe rumbles behind him. Though it's hardly there, Corbeau can hear the little lilt of embarrassment he always finds to be so cute. He isn’t at all looking at Philippe’s face with his eyes turned toward the ridge, but he can picture the bashful heat blanketing his cheeks.
Corbeau collects the bag, and with both Philippe and Lady in tow, brings it over to the small bamboo clearing by the pond. He takes a moment to set his blazer and the bag on the flat-top of the rock nearby, then, after a moment of consideration, his tie as well. Before reaching for the towel, his fingers dip beneath the cuffs of his sleeves and roll them to his elbows.
It’s a black colour that rolls out strikingly against the maintained green. Corbeau makes sure the corners are all laid flat before gesturing for Philippe to lay Skarmory down. Antsy, Lady teeters on her talons as she watches through the gaps of their bodies.
Philippe is careful. Despite his size, Corbeau has observed his assiduous nature with even the most delicate things. His thick, calloused fingers have undone wire knots the size of a pea with the same meticulous precision of an Ariados spinning it’s web.
He lays him out slowly, and Skarmory settles like a toppling display of empty cans.
A cringe echoes between the two of them. The plates of Skarmory’s neck screech as he stretches along the towel. Philippe has to hold his hand out to stop Lady from barging right through. Turning to Corbeau, he pulls the wire-brush back from out his pocket and clears his throat, “You should have everything else you need in there, save for the brush. How’s about a trade for one of those washcloths?”
“Bartering for your own tools, eh?” He sits back to reach for one of the cloths in the bag, and holds it out for Philippe. As was his proposition, he hands over the wire-brush as he takes in the washcloth. The ‘transaction’ concludes with Philippe’s soft nod and ‘thank you’.
A soft whine from Skarmory puts them both back on their toes.
“Enough chit-chat,” Corbeau says with the wave of his hand, “Go take that shirt off already, and let’s get to work.”
“On it, boss,” Philippe addresses him for the last time, before standing with a grunt. Lady takes her cue, however reluctantly, to turn and follow her ‘boss’ as he stalks away. It’s uncharacteristic - how alert she seems to be. Everything about her seems to be jittering with anxiety. Corbeau watches just a while longer to catch Philippe reaching down to comfort her. He tears his eyes away the moment he spots those large hands reaching up to start un-doing the buttons of his shirt.
Poor thing, Corbeau frowns back at Skarmory, that sweet girl must be worried sick. Brush in hand, he feels his resolve swell with his sympathy, “Time to get all that gunk off ya’.”
It’s not the first time he’s been on cleaning duty for a problem like this. The wire-brush is comfortably familiar in his hand because of that. Philippe has a knack for finding Pokémon in peril, and the Rust Syndicate seeks to help both creature and man alike.
Skarmory whines at the first spread of rust solvent Corbeau applies to his coat. He’s reapplying it to the tender spot Philippe had been hard at work on beforehand, and though the blemish is certainly thick, he can see the fruits of his labour through glimpses of buffered steel. There’s a part of him that wishes he had asked how long Philippe had even been at it before he decided to take over - but then again, he doubts it would matter. Corbeau will be at this for as long as it takes to sharpen the bird up, and if not him, then Philippe. Carefully, he comes to a kneel and brings the brush to Skarmory’s back.
The first few rotations of the wire are smooth, resounding with a soft chkchkchkchk each time it circles the metal. The repetition of it easily slides into the background, and he settles into a routine effortlessly. What certainly helps is the pleasant warmth of the sun at his back, lightly kissing him through the border of his shirt. Carrying his thick blazer on his back all the time usually tends to feel a bit more vicious under the heat. It’s a pleasant change of pace.
Before he knows it, soft shadows are lying over him from the bamboo shoots and the nasty patch of rust has been carved away. There’s a soreness clawing where his hand moulds to the shape of the wire-brush, but he pays it no mind. Skarmory is purring with a scratchy croon, eyes shut peacefully. A smile carves itself into his lips - but satisfaction doesn’t yet find him. Plenty of work is still due to be done. Focused eyes find the jutting grime clinging to the plates of Skarmory’s talons and he seizes on it mercilessly.
Chkchkchkchkchk, his arm is a well-oiled machine-piston moving back-and-forth, back-and-forth. His tongue draws between his teeth as he maneuvers about the fine cracks of steel. He’s got an elbow saddled on his knee and his other leg outstretched in the grass in a lopsided lean, foot loose in his shoe with his heel hanging right above the sole. It’s doing absolutely no wonders for the aching back he came out here with, but it’s the last thing on his mind. When Corbeau sets himself to eradicating filth, there’s very little to stop him in his tracks.
Except for, maybe, the knowledge that Philippe is shirtless somewhere about the courtyard. He has to allow himself just a few over-shoulder peaks to keep his drive from waning. The big guy is saddled over in the gravel clearing beneath Croagunk’s shadow, polishing Lady who glints in the sun just outside of it. Philippe’s focus is invigorating, the way his brow darkens over the hood of his eyes and how his jaw sets firm. The roll of his muscle is certainly tantalizing as well. His large hands are working fine circles into Lady’s armor, and each stroke does well to show-off the ripple of sheer muscle bulking his bicep. Each time Corbeau glances over, he finds a new little detail to capitalize on.
He doesn’t let the ‘distraction’ disturb his flow. The shadows grow a bit longer, leaves silhouetted on the thick locs of his hair and sharing the bridge of his nose with his glasses. A bit of sweat drips down his chin, and hits the grass as he finishes off Skarmory’s talons. With another pleased scratch of a hum, the bird delights in wiggling it’s toes. The movement is still accompanied by the slightest screech of metal, but there’s a definite improvement Corbeau can hear. He can see it, too. Even before he’s gotten to polish, that sad gray is lifting from Skarmory like the afternoon wills away the morning fog.
His sights have already set themselves on that final, encompassing stretch of orange on Skarmory’s belly. Before he can begin, however, a much larger shadow than that of the bamboo stalks falls over him.
“He’s lookin’ good, boss.”
Corbeau’s eyes snap up. He finds Philippe looming over him, at the perfect angle to ogle the swell of his chest. Blinking, he tears them up to find his face, instead.
“I take it you and Lady have about finished up?” He says, tucking the praise away for later acknowledgement.
As if to answer in his stead, Lady shows herself in a glamorous halo of sparkling light. Without the sun directly overhead anymore, the polish isn’t quite as blinding - but he still has to squint to see her, even in the sanctuary of Philippe’s shadow. Her hide is reflecting every spectrum of colour perceivable to the naked eye as brilliantly as always, and from her spot next to Philippe’s calf, Corbeau can find his face mirrored perfectly.
There’s no need for any response after Lady’s display. Corbeau hums, “As expected, another excellent job. I’d have had an illustrious career in Poké-care with you as my star employee - had I ever thought to invest in it longterm."
Philippe cracks a smile, “Thank you, sir - though the praise is hardly necessary. I’m only doing what any partner should.”
“Eh, but none quite as diligent as you.”
Inch-by-inch, the shadow moves downward as Philippe lowers himself toward the grass, and Skarmory. The palm of his hand reaches out to the smooth dome of it’s dull head to gently rub over the cool metal. Delighted, he opens the slits of his yellow eyes and squeaks into the touch. Lady allows herself in, too, dazzling snout brushing against the other’s.
And what a sight that is. Philippe, eyes soft with a smile, caressed by the shade of bamboo leaves and warmly outlined by the sun. Lady by his side brightens him up entirely. The curve of his belly swells over the band of his slacks, and Corbeau’s eyes longingly traverse from his navel back up to his sternum, following the flow of ink all the way. It’s a beautiful tattoo that not many get to see. The Steelix coiling around his arm, the razors of Skarmory’s wings hugging his breast, the masterful coil of black forming negative space…Corbeau’s favorite fixture, however, has to be one of the newer editions; the elegant bloom of Baby’s Breath along his neck, collar and chest.
“I can take it back from here.” Philippe says, fixing him with a gaze that snaps Corbeau right out of his thoughts, “Go and take a break, boss. Didn’t mean to bother you with this right after you finished up your work, anyways. Your back must be killin’ you.”
Well, now that he mentions it…He sits up with a hiss. However long he had been splayed out in his bizarre triangle of a lounge, it had been long enough a time to settle an ache between his joints. His back is faring worse than it had when he stepped out here, too. The discomfort on his face shows, because Philippe is gesturing for the wire-brush and container of solvent before Corbeau has even given an answer.
“Now, now, no need to be hasty, Philippe,” He straightens up with a soft grunt, “Don’t go worryin’ about me when Skarmory here is in the most need of our attention. What good is a leader if he can’t put in a little elbow grease?”
The slight downturn in Philippe’s smile tells him that was far from a satisfactory answer, “This was my problem. I won’t insult you by telling you you’ve done ‘enough’ - but that means you can’t insult me, either. You’d be putting a notch in my pride if I let you finish up for me.”
Ah, pride. What a funny thing to hide his care behind. Though Corbeau knows a part of Philippe actually means it. He takes a glimpse at Lady, eyes smiling, and gives with a sigh. He gathers up the solvent container and wire-brush, then hands it over to Philippe as he makes to stand.
“Very well, then. But I won’t just stand idly by,” And Arceus, does standing straight up feel good, “I believe you said he needed specialty care? I’ll take care of putting that in order.”
The displeasure on his face doesn’t really ease up, but Corbeau knows that Philippe knows that he won’t cede for a break. Not to mention, he’d simply look bad denying him, anyways. If Philippe’s true concerns lay in Skarmory’s care, he wouldn’t care if Corbeau took it on himself to expedite the process. At the lofty exhale Philippe heaves, victory moulds smarmily on Corbeau’s lips.
“That would be much appreciated,” He hears practically grated out, “I’ll be here then, boss. You know how to reach me if you need assistance.”
Gloatingly, he pats Philippe’s kneeled shoulder with his hand as he steps back out into the clearing, blazer and tie in hand. He doesn’t forget to give Lady her own farewell pet - though that one is much more sincere.
“Keep up the good work now, Philippe!”
He attempts to take one last peak at the man before he leaves, but instead of getting an eyeful of Philippe’s powerful back, he gets a battering of powerful glare. In more ways than one, because Lady is (un)helpfully bouncing a flash right off the sun to join her partner’s steely vendetta. Fine then. He had places to be, anyways.
Corbeau swings the thick of his blazer back on, draws his tie back to his neck, and exits the Syndicate’s grounds with one final wave over his shoulder. Unsurprisingly, he feels Philippe’s eyes hot on his back all the way out the door.
They regroup under the setting sun. Corbeau himself had already worked his arm into the late noon before Philippe swapped in for him, and setting up the appointment at the Pokécenter had taken much longer than he had planned for (not to mention, in the bizarre absence of his shirt being dry, Philippe had to make a detour to his apartment to find a suitable replacement). Turns out, most on-site nurses are only trained for general care. They had to call a number on file for a nurse who ‘didn’t work weekends’, an excuse that didn’t last long after Corbeau pulled some strings. It never ceased to amaze him what a few targeted words could get people to do.
“Well, now seems more apt than ever to get into the details. Debrief me, Philippe.” Corbeau addresses him in the lobby of the Pokécenter, legs and arms crossed in one of the rigid waiting chairs.
Ridiculously large in comparison to and slightly hunched to fit the seat, Philippe looks like an Ursaring trying to squeeze onto the branch of a tree it’d lazed on as a Teddiursa. His deep voice rumbles in his throat, heavy with the weight of their day, “It didn’t happen too long before you came out. I’d just finished wrapping up Lady’s protective coat when he showed up. Heard him first, you can almost always hear them coming when they’re sick like that.”
Corbeau nods his head, with the basest of acknowledgments.
“Naturally, I turned my head up. He must’ve seen me taking care of my girl, since next thing I knew, the poor guy was taking a nose-dive into our pond.” Philippe shut his eyes, and shook his head remorsefully, “I don’t mean to remind you of what you already know, but they can’t control themselves too well when they’re afflicted. The rust messes up their joints, makes them heavier and slower. He scuffed his landing, and ended up drenching me in the splash.”
“So that’s how that happened, then.”
The nod Philippe gives him is affirmative, and curt. But there’s a pensiveness to the furrow in his brow that makes Corbeau curious. He only ever gets that look when something has truly been bothering him - and not just for a day, or a week - but for an extended period of time. There aren’t many things that get to Philippe like that, not these days at least. Allowing a quiet moment of thought to pass by, he tunes into the predictable rhythm of Philippe’s breathing. Watching the rise and fall of his chest, Corbeau finds himself missing the bareness he’d been privy to earlier in the day. The vest and dress-shirt hug him excellently, but they don’t allow him to sink his eyes into delectable flesh.
“I wonder if they have a plan for all this.”
Corbeau blinks.
Voice contemplatively soft, at Corbeau’s confusion he clarifies, “Quarsartico. The Pokémon flocking here… Wildzones alone aren’t going to cut it.”
Ah. That particular, fresh subject. The first few had just gone up within the last couple months - alongside that tournament. He’s a little shocked that Philippe had been thinking about it all. He didn’t seem all too intrigued with what Quarsartico was up to, and had been wholly uninterested in talks of joining the Z-A Royale.
“Rare for that name to come out of your mouth,” He hums, “Whose to say? That president of theirs seems ‘earnest’ enough. Then again, so had…” Trailing off, he doesn’t really need to fill in the gaps for the two of them. Philippe just shrugs.
“It’s just…Giving them their own room isn’t how keeping them protected works.” Whenever his mouth closes around a new word, his jaw hardens around the next, “This isn’t the first Skarmory like this I’ve seen this month. I’ve had to fix up quite a handful, some nastier than what we had to deal with today.”
Corbeau furrows his brow, “This is the first I’m hearing of this.”
A bit of guilt crawls onto Philippe’s face, “Sorry, boss. You’ve had a lot on your plate these days as is, and I didn’t find it necessary to inform you when I was capable of handling it on my own. But what I’m trying to get at is that there’s been a steady up-tick in this sort of thing. Not just with Skarmory, either.”
That…Checks out, doesn’t it? Though he’s learned Philippe has already been dealing with several instances on his own, there were a degree that got brought to Corbeau’s attention, as well. In the months prior, he’d been assisting a similar case Philippe brought in. There were grunts doing their part in rescuing some worse for wear Pokémon themselves. He isn’t quite sure how the correlation hadn’t crossed his mind.
Philippe continues.
“There’s just too many Pokémon, and not enough room to subsist. When all the nesting spots get filled up, they’ve got nowhere else to go. In the case of Skarmory, they tough it out in the rain and rust up.”
Nowhere else to go, Corbeau thinks. “Too little supply for too gargantuan a demand. I suppose some things are no different for Pokémon here than there was for us when we were younger.”
The pause on Philippe’s face is telling enough that he had hardly considered the similarities. Something far-away reflects into the steel of his eyes, “Yeah. You’re certainly right about that, boss.”
His hand unfurls from the nook of his elbow, and he gently plants it on Philippe’s shoulder. The man doesn’t startle, but Corbeau can feel the slightest jolt beneath his touch. Unlike before, there’s no tease in his comfort, “That’s why we’re doing what we can. The Rust Syndicate’s here to keep Lumiose in equilibrium. We’ll keep an eye out, and do our part to keep the city clean, eh? People, Pokémon and all.”
The look in his eyes grounds.
From the back, the specialist emerges with Skarmory waddling in tow. The squeaking is insignificant, and what Corbeau can hear is the mere scratch of metal against the tile floor. Philippe is already moving to get up, and though he’ll miss the residual warmth, Corbeau lets his hand fall from the man’s shoulder as he uncrosses his legs to stand himself.
He’s fine, they learn. Most of the damage had been external, and the lady had been particularly impressed with their preemptive care. Still, she’d explained Skarmory had been loaded with a tracker to administer more medicine at a later date, just in case. It’d be handled by the Pokécenter, so things would be out of their hands henceforth.
Corbeau pays her a hefty sum, and in exchange, she allows them the honour of privately releasing him back out.
The sky is a sea of red, purple and blue by the time they make it to Magenta Street. Cumulus clouds drift steadily overhead, beginning their camouflage into the sky as day turns to night. Lady, outside of her Pokéball, bounces excitedly from talon to talon with her new, healthy friend at her side. Philippe and Corbeau trail just behind.
“Already dusk,” he mutters.
“At the very least, not quite as long a day as yesterday,” Philippe offers.
Corbeau only shakes his head at him, faint chuckle on the ghost of his breath.
Prism tower stands tall just ahead, beginning to light up against the darkening sky. It’s glow cascades into the waters of the Saison Canal below, and warps into the clear polish of both Lady and their accompanying Skarmory. He’s shaped up quite a bit, although his coat doesn’t have quite the same luster to it. That is a feat only achievable by Philippe’s particular care.
In the cooling fall air, Philippe’s breath puffs faintly along his words, “Alright, Lady. You ready to say goodbye?”
Her whine is immediate. She bumps her head into the neck of Skarmory, and glides the razors of her wings along his. When she turns to face Philippe, she snaps her sharp jaw at him. Corbeau can’t help his laugh.
“Why don’t you see him off, girl?” He supplies as his amusement trails off, “I’m sure you’ll meet again.”
That fickle bird. She finds Corbeau’s approach much more appealing, though Philippe was certainly about to suggest the same. Corbeau catches him mid eye-roll at her brightened behavior.
Neither of them get another word in before Skarmory is taking off, Lady right behind. The gust of wind they kick up leaving the ground blows past them, lifting the edges of Corbeau’s blazer and fraying the edges of Philippe’s hair. The speed at which Skarmory move has always been a wonder to him. To be so adept with all that armor was a miracle of biology.
Eyes turned skyward, they watch in silent reverence as the pair of birds coast along the clouds. Their polished bodies reflect the canal, the sunset, the tops of roof-tops and the beautiful city-line of Lumiose below. Colours weave between the warp and weft of their mirrored metal, turning them more into moving masterpieces than Pokémon. In one moment they are made up of rippling water and sky, the next they are a turbulent ball of freckling light. It’s the kind of sight Corbeau thinks of when he thinks of Lumiose, and all that it’s inspired. Living art, constructed from all that is around it.
The sun sinks lower. They walk under the guided circle of the birds flight path, trailing slowly. Lady cries into the blackening night, lit up entirely by Prism tower’s impressive light. They both look like comets, streaking against the dark. For the first time, Corbeau thinks to find Philippe’s gaze. When he draws his eyes down from the orbit of steel above, he discovers - with the faintest palpitation of his heart - that Philippe has already thought to find his, first.
In the mirror of his eyes, there is no recognition of ‘boss’. Just ‘Corbeau’.
“...What’re you lookin’ at me like that for?” He says, quieter than his swallow.
Philippe, calm and collected, smiles at him softer than a vat of downy feathers, “Just thankful, is all. Lumiose is lucky to have you.”
In the cold, Corbeau can hear his blood pumping just beneath the sound of commuting passerbys, “Ah, can it, Philippe. You’ll give someone the wrong idea if they hear anythin’. Then you’d just be embarrassin’ me, and you won’t have anythin’ to be grateful for, then.”
Under a cry that resonates through both Skarmorys, Philippe laughs - utterly unabashed. It’s a baritone harmony full of thick molasses and honey. It echoes in the shell of Corbeau’s ears, long after it leaves the air.
There’s a swoosh that cuts through the night. Philippe’s arm raises, and as Corbeau has seen many times before, Lady parks herself right on his forearm with a polite grip. Skarmory no longer follows her. Corbeau looks up, and sees a shooting star fading against the night sky.
Tired, Lady nuzzles her head against Philippe’s. He scratches his thick fingers under her chin, then draws her heavy ball out to invite her back in. She gives a chirp as farewell to Corbeau, then disappears into her abode.
Philippe turns to him, then, outlined by Prism tower’s light.
“You ready, boss?”
Corbeau breathes through his nose, relishing the moment just a while longer.
“Yeah. Let’s go home.”