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"I'm cold."
Corbeau took his familiar position: swaddled under layers of blankets, swallowed in an enormous sweater that was not his. Stationed on the bed, too sick to enjoy the bed's comfort. His Pokémon encircled him, worry in their eyes.
Corbeau hated this about himself. He never outgrew the scrawny, scrappy street kid he was -- always getting sick, never regaining the nutrients he evidently missed out on when he was young. Often, he wondered how he made it out of his childhood, considering his frail, sickly state. At least now, he did not have to handle the frailty alone.
Strong hands, appearing from nowhere, scooped him up. A low grunt, then sturdy arms surrounded him. A room passed by, then a hallway, and suddenly Corbeau found himself placed on a pile of blankets on the floor in the living room, trailed by his Pokemon. They effortlessly arranged themselves back around him, nuzzling into every possible nook and cranny. They were used to this cuddle pile; it's how they all stayed warm in the old days.
The roar of a fireplace starting pulled Corbeau out of his restless thoughts. Arbok nudged him closer to the fire.
Then, movement. Murmured apologies to the Pokemon, who cleared a path on the floor, sweeping some blankets away with them.
"Pardon, boss. Wouldn't want to leave you all on your lonesome."
Philippe crouched, then sat, next to the heap of cloth that Corbeau had become. He pulled Corbeau into his lap, and Corbeau nuzzled into his embrace.
"Careful, Philippe," Corbeau croaked out. "This may get you sick. One of us needs to run the Syndicate."
"Respectfully, boss, it is my primary duty to take care of you."
Corbeau didn't have the energy to argue with that. He allowed the fireplace and Philippe's warmth to seep into his veins. And the last thing he remembered was Philippe murmuring, "I'm here, Beau," before he fell into a warm, dreamless sleep.