Chapter Text
Some nights, no matter how tired he may be, Philippe just cannot seem to fall asleep. It doesn’t matter how grueling his day might have been, or how little sleep he’d gotten the night before; his brain just will not settle.
Tonight is one of those nights.
He hadn’t expected it to be. It had been a long, but routine day at the office, and he and Corbeau had shared a lovely date night after. They’d enjoyed an excellent dinner together at Restaurant Le Wow, then nestled onto Corbeau’s couch afterward to watch a movie.
(It’s always a good night, in Philippe’s opinion, when he can coax Corbeau away from his work laptop long enough for a movie night, or even just a single episode from the smoking crater that has become of their watchlist.)
It was Philippe’s turn to pick the movie tonight, and he’d made a great choice: a movie about a botanist stranded alone on Mars. They’d both loved it. Afterward Corbeau, pent up from a long week spent hunched over his laptop into the wee hours of the morning, had practically dragged him to the bedroom, divesting him of his clothes along the way.
It was, by all accounts, a wonderful evening, spent with the person he loved the most in the world.
The trouble began as they were getting ready for bed. Philippe was brushing his teeth, and Corbeau was preparing to do the same when he abruptly sneezed while in the midst of a yawn, causing him to double over in pain and brace himself against the bathroom counter.
“Agh!” Corbeau hissed through gritted teeth as he clutched at his left side. “Fuck, I hate it when that happens.”
Philippe didn’t need to ask what was wrong.
“Has it still been hurting you, otherwise?” he asked, stroking Corbeau’s shoulder as the smaller man massaged away the ache in his ribs.
“No,” Corbeau shook his head, “it’s mostly back to normal, these days.”
Philippe wondered if Corbeau could sense the storm of guilt brewing behind his eyes, and his suspicions were confirmed when the smaller man stood on his tiptoes to plant a kiss on his cheek, then caught his chin in his deft, slender fingers.
“Hey, don’t start. I’m fine,” he said. “Having to watch how I sneeze isn’t such a big deal. That one just snuck up on me, is all.”
He hadn’t pressed the matter because he knew Corbeau didn’t want him to, and the moment quickly passed as they finished their wind-down routines and went to bed. But now, long past the time he should have fallen asleep, Philippe still finds himself wide awake, ruminating over an old failure that had nearly cost Corbeau his life.
When he closes his eyes, he can still see it: the overgrown courtyard in a forgotten corner of the Vert district, cobblestones slick with rain. The ambush. Corbeau slumping against him, a knife buried deep in his chest.
A knife that had been intended for Philippe. Their assailants that night knew that he was a much greater threat hand-to-hand, and had tried to take him out first with a quick strike in the back. Corbeau had thrown himself between Philippe and his attacker, and…
Philippe swallows thickly at the memory.
Instinct and rage and determination had carried him through the rest of the fight, of which he remembers very little after the fact. He remembers the screaming and the nauseating snap of bone breaking beneath his fists, and the slapping of dress shoes on stone as a handful of syndicate grunts rushed in to help. He remembers discovering in the aftermath that Scolipede, sensing Corbeau was in danger, had freed herself of her pokeball and was standing over his limp body, shielding him with her own.
And he remembers the heart-stopping realization that he couldn’t tell if Corbeau was alive or dead.
“No. No.”
Philippe closed the distance between them in two long strides, spitting out a string of curses that would make even Yveltal blush, and dropped to his knees at his partner’s side. Corbeau, he found, was still breathing, but in shallow, wheezing gasps that hitched unnaturally in his throat. He was lying in the fetal position with his eyes shut, his expression slack, and was drooling blood from the corner of his mouth. His face, naturally pale as it already was, was now deathly white, and his lips were turning blue.
Fuck.
Philippe felt his stomach tying itself in knots; if he was right about what was happening, the Boss would be dead in minutes. He turned to Scolipede, who was now pacing frantically as she watched them with wide, anxious eyes.
“Scolipede, go find Doc. Tell her to get her ass over here now.”
The massive bug pokemon took off like a shot, galloping across the courtyard and out of sight as Philippe directed the nearest grunt to call an ambulance. He then placed a broad hand on Corbeau’s shoulder, rolling him carefully onto his back. The front of his clothes were soaked through with blood, which dripped off of him in rain-diluted rivulets to pool between the cobblestones below. Philippe tugged off Corbeau’s tie and then ripped his shirt open by the lapels, sending buttons scattering in his rush to assess the damage.
A heavy knot of dread settled in Philippe’s gut at the sight of the entry wound—a deep puncture between the ribs on his left side, near his sternum—as he realized the blade might have pierced Corbeau’s heart. If it had, he was sure the window to save him had already closed.
“Damn it, Beau, don’t do this to me,” he whispered, unable to hide the waver in his voice. “Not you. Please.”
Still unresponsive, Corbeau drew in a shallow, labored breath…and then did not take another. Philippe, almost dizzy with panic, slapped him hard across the face, smearing a bloody hand print on his cheek.
“No, damn you! Wake up!”
Partially roused at last by the force of the slap, Corbeau’s hands twitched, then drifted to his throat, clawing frantically for the collar of his shirt as though that was the source of his slow suffocation. But his shirt, long since peeled away, was not the problem.
The air seeping into his chest cavity was.
Corbeau’s eyes fluttered open, and he took another breath at long last…though it was hard-fought and much too shallow. Philippe placed a hand upon his cheek again—gently, this time—and stroked him tenderly with his thumb.
“I’m here, Boss,” he said, doing his best to sound calmer than he felt. “I’m right here.”
“Ph…Philippe…? C-can’t…breathe…” Corbeau rasped, his voice barely a whisper. “I can’t…”
“Help’s coming, Beau,” Philippe said, his voice wavering despite his best efforts. “Just stay with me, alright?”
“N…not…like this…” Corbeau’s eyes were glassy, his gaze unfocused. “Please…”
“They’ll be here,” said Philippe, tenderly caressing his cheek. “Stay with me. Please. I need you.”
Corbeau, seeking comfort, curled his fingers into the leather of Philippe’s jacket, and Philippe carefully scooped him into his lap, cradling him against his chest. Corbeau nestled his head against neck, and Philippe’s heart broke at just how fragile Beau felt in his arms, trembling like a leaf and struggling hard for every breath…as every breath put more pressure on his heart and lungs, hastening his end.
Philippe felt something solid shift between them, and looked down to find that Corbeau was clutching Scolipede’s pokeball against his chest.
“C…can’t find…Scolipede…” he wheezed almost inaudibly. “N-not…here…”
“She’s okay. I sent her to find Doc.”
“Oh…g…good…”
And then, almost as if she had been summoned, Scolipede was skidding to a stop beside them with a passenger on her back.
“Philippe!” Doc’s voice, at last.
Thank the gods.
Doc—the nickname of an austere woman named Clemence—was a tough cookie who tolerated no bullshit from anyone, regardless of rank or renown. She had once been one of the best paramedics in the city, until she was fired for taking weed gummies in her off-duty hours. The Rust Syndicate had snapped her up immediately, and she had been their in-house medic ever since. If anyone could keep Corbeau breathing until the ambulance arrived, it was her.
“What’s wrong with him?” she demanded, springing from Scolipede’s back and materializing at Corbeau’s side, medical bag in hand. Her dark brown curly hair, shot through with grey, was tied up in a tight bun at the base of her skull, though the strands that typically framed her face were matted to her cheeks from the rain. She swiped them away with the side of her forearm, not wanting to contaminate her hands.
“Punctured lung, and m-maybe also his heart.”
“Lay him down,” she said, snapping on a pair of gloves and plunging her hand into her bag.
Philippe did as he was instructed, carefully cradling Corbeau’s head so it didn't hit the ground. From her bag, Doc produced a wide tube with a thick needle to match, yanking the cap off the business end with a sharp pop!
Philippe shuddered, well aware of what was about to happen.
“Sorry, Boss,” Doc said with a softness she reserved only for the dying. “This is gonna suck real bad.”
She lined up the needle against his side and pushed it through the tender space between his ribs, eliciting a strangled whine from his throat. There was a sudden hiss of air as the needle sank home, and Corbeau drew in a sudden, desperate breath, gasping and coughing like a man nearly drowned. Philippe stroked his forehead, doing his best to comfort him through it.
“Good, Beau. Good. Deep breaths.”
“Aah…! Gods…” Corbeau gasped, clutching his chest with trembling hands. “F-fuck.” Still, despite the agony in his side, he too understood what she had done. “Th-thanks, Doc…”
“Don’t thank me yet; you’re still bleeding like a stuck Lechonk. Need to get you to a hospital yesterday.”
“Nngh…” Corbeau groaned at the premise.
“No bitching. You need it,” she said firmly, shooing his bloodied hands out of the way as she examined the entry wound on his chest. After a moment’s investigation, she added, “You got lucky, Boss. That knife missed your heart by only centimeters.”
“Oh, g-good…” he said with a weary half-smile. “That’s good.”
But he was still breathing shallowly, and now much too quickly…almost hyperventilating. Philippe looked anxiously to Doc, who did not spare a glance away from her patient.
“He’s in shock. Blood loss. Internal’s the worst of it. Hard to tell what stage from here,” she said as she packed the wound with gauze, speaking in the typical clipped manner she adopted while deep in concentration. “Not good, though.”
“H-heh,” Corbeau wheezed, pausing every few syllables for breath, “someone sh-should’ve…told that guy I’ve…a-already had top surgery. Don’t need…another one…”
“Save your jokes, Boss,” Doc scolded him, softly.
“W-well I thought…it was f-funny…” Corbeau rasped, eyelids fluttering as he struggled to keep them open.
“It was,” Philippe said, soothingly. “Just please, focus on your breathing.”
And then, at long last, Philippe could hear sirens approaching in the distance.
“The ambulance is here, Beau,” he whispered. “They’re gonna get you to the hospital.” He tensed himself to stand, intending to go wave them in, but suddenly Corbeau’s icy hands were cupping his face, rooting him to the spot.
“C-come with me,” he whispered, faintly. Philippe could tell, by the tremble in Corbeau’s voice, that he hadn’t phrased it as an order. He was pleading with him. “N-need you…”
“Of course I will.”
He could hear shouting in the adjacent alleyway as one of the grunts directed the ambulance crew into the courtyard, followed by the slapping of shoes and the rattle of gurney wheels on cobblestone.
Scolipede, who had resumed her anxious pacing nearby, lumbered in close and nosed Corbeau’s shoulder with her snout. Corbeau, dazed though he was, was soothed immediately by her presence, and stroked her neck lovingly as she pressed her face into his cheek.
“Th-there’s…my girl,” he said, faintly. “Be g-good for…Philippe…while I’m gone. L-love you…always…have...”
And then Corbeau went still, his hands falling limply to his sides as he lost consciousness. Scolipede let out a soft, mournful whine, then dutifully retreated to her ball as the paramedics swept in to tend to her trainer. Philippe took charge of Corbeau’s team, tucking their pokeballs safely into his jacket, then stood back while the paramedics got to work.
Doc wasted no time filling them in on Corbeau’s current state, using words like “tension pneumothorax” and “hemorrhagic shock” and “cratering blood pressure” that made Philippe feel like he was going to throw up. Once they were up to speed, she stood back next to him, her gloved, bloodied hands hanging limply at her sides as they watched the team work.
The ambulance crew moved quickly, starting a transfusion and preparing him for transport, then transferring him to the gurney and whisking him away toward the ambulance with Doc and Philippe hot on their heels. He hadn’t dared to ask her if Corbeau was even going to make it to an operating table, not while he was still conscious, but now Philippe looked to her for an answer, bracing himself for the worst.
“Do you think he’s going to make it?”
“I don’t know,” she said, grimly. “He’s always been a survivor, but if they can’t get his blood pressure up soon, then…” she paused, clearly considering her words carefully, “well, after a certain point, shock becomes irreversible.”
Philippe felt like his entire world was teetering on the brink of collapse.
When they reached the ambulance, the paramedics loaded Corbeau inside while Doc argued with the team lead.
“The city’s been discouraging us from allowing ride-alongs, Clem,” said the team lead, stripping off his gloves and dropping them in the bio-waste bin in the back of the rig before hustling to the cab and sliding into the driver’s seat. “They really want us to stop the practice altogether.”
“Tell them to fucking fire me a second time, then,” she snapped, “because you’re taking him. It’s what the patient wants. It may very well be his final request, given the state he’s in.”
“F…fine. Good work, by the way. He’s lucky you were here,” said the team lead as he shut the door and fired up the engine.
“Thanks,” Doc said to the closed door, then sprinted back to Philippe and waved him into the ambulance. “I’ll hold things down at the office. Whatever the result…call me when you know.”
“I will. And…thanks.”
“Don’t mention it,” she said as the doors slammed shut between them.
The rest of the night was, without a doubt, the longest of Philippe’s life.
Halfway en route to the hospital, Corbeau’s heart stopped, his pulse dropping off to nothing as the paramedics struggled to get his blood pressure back under control. He was dead, and there wasn’t a gods-damned thing Philippe could do about it except stay out of the way and watch them try to get him back.
He couldn’t even hold Beau’s hand. He could only look on in stony silence as the paramedics alternated between chest compressions and shocking his heart as he twitched lifelessly beneath them.
Philippe felt Scolipede’s pokeball trembling in his pocket, and pulled it free and held it against his chest, trying to comfort her amidst the wailing of the siren and the screeching alarm of Corbeau’s heart monitor. If he felt like the world was ending, he could only imagine what she, Beau’s oldest friend, must be feeling.
The sight of Corbeau’s lifeless body jolting beneath the paramedics’ ministrations was too much to bear; he closed his eyes, trying to shut it out long enough to calm himself, but the scene before him was seared into his brain forever. He wished that someone would tranquilize him, knock him out until this was over, one way or the other…and he hated himself for wanting it.
What a cowardly wish, he thought, when Beau is dead because of me.
All because he failed to watch his six. All because he had failed to do the most important part of his job. He could not help but kick himself over everything he could have done differently, as though he could unwind the events of the evening like an old roll of film and snip off the frames where it all went wrong.
If only he could.
And then…something. The heart monitor stopped screaming, replaced first by silence, and then a beep. And then another, and then—
“Sinus rhythm,” one of the paramedics said, an older Black woman with greying hair at her temples.
Philippe took a breath for the first time in what felt like an eternity, and only then did he process that there were tears streaming down his face.
When they arrived at the hospital, Corbeau was swept away immediately, taken to an operating room where Philippe could not follow. His feet carried him to the waiting area in a daze, where he stood awkwardly among a small crowd of people also awaiting news of their loved ones, oblivious to the horrified glances they cast his way. He knew he should sit, but was so keyed up with nervous energy that he couldn’t fathom doing so.
With Beau’s life now in the hands of the surgical team, there was nothing Philippe could do but wait, and ride out the storm of regrets and what-ifs raging inside his mind. He could not help himself from replaying the ambush over and over in his memory, still picking away at it as though he could rewind time itself and do things differently—correctly, this time—if he just berated himself hard enough.
And then, as the adrenaline coursing through him finally began to wane, the waves of nausea he’d been holding at bay all night came crashing down on him all at once. He sprinted for the nearest bathroom, barely managing to shut the stall behind him before he was doubled over the toilet, retching violently as his stomach emptied itself of its contents.
He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t bear the thought of a future without Beau in it. A future without his best friend, his guiding star, the man who challenged him, who believed in him, who made him want to be a better person. Philippe had lost so many people over the years, each one taking a piece of his heart with them, but…
But to lose Corbeau would unravel him entirely.
When the nausea finally subsided, Philippe staggered to the sink to rinse out his mouth and was taken aback by the sight of himself in the mirror. He looked like an extra in a horror film; he had smears of blood on both sides of his face where Corbeau had held him, streaked from tears and rain and running down his neck in rivulets. His clothes too were soaked in blood, his silver eyes were sunken, dark half-circles lining them underneath, and his mohawk had collapsed and matted to his head.
What a sight he was.
There wasn’t a damn thing to be done about his clothes, but he washed his face and neck as best he could, scrubbing himself clean as Corbeau’s blood washed away down the drain. He tried not to think about that too much, and returned to the sitting area to wait.
It was many hours later, near dawn, when the surgeon finally called his name. Corbeau had survived, they told him, and had passed his cognition tests, but faced a slow and challenging recovery. It would take several weeks, they said, before he was able to return to a regular level of activity, and he would require months of breathing exercises to regain full function in his damaged lung. He would also be in pain for some time, they warned…possibly long-term, though it was too soon to know for sure.
But he was alive.
At the sight of Corbeau asleep in his hospital bed, Philippe felt his heart break all over again. With the Boss’s commanding presence, it was so easy to forget how small he really was, but now, tethered to an array of tubes and wires, surrounded by beeping machines…he looked so frail, so vulnerable, and Philippe couldn’t stop thinking about how close he’d come to losing him.
And he could have prevented all of this, if only he had—
—Philippe is abruptly startled out of his grim reverie by a cool hand on his cheek. His eyes snap open, and in the ambient light from the street below, he can see Corbeau blearily peeking at him from his little cocoon of blankets.
“What’s wrong?” Corbeau asks in a groggy voice, his fingertips ghosting softly over Philippe’s face. “...Have you been crying?”
“Wh…I…” Philippe stammers awkwardly. “How did you know I was awake?”
“I could tell by your breathing.”
Of course he could, Philippe thinks. Perceptive little shit.
“Seriously, what’s going on?” Corbeau asks, brushing Philippe’s tears away with his thumbs.
“Just…still thinking about it,” he admits, voice trembling. “Sorry. I know you don’t want me to.”
“Because you’re too hard on yourself, beloved,” Corbeau says softly, snuggling in close to place a kiss on his forehead. “You’ve got to stop beating yourself up over it.”
Philippe knows he’s right; they’ve had this conversation many times in the three years that have passed since then. And yet…
“The sight of you dead on that gurney is always going to haunt me, Beau.”
Corbeau bites his lip, and Philippe can see a flicker of guilt cross his face in the dark.
“...I know. I’m sorry,” he says with a quiet, regretful sigh. He rolls onto his back, taking Philippe by the hand. “C’mere.”
Philippe allows himself to be guided into Corbeau’s arms, where he nestles against him and rests his head against his lover’s bare chest. Corbeau’s slender fingers lace through his hair, and he closes his eyes, soothed by his touch and the calm, rhythmic beating of his heart.
“See? I’m right here, I’m alive, and I’m safe,” Corbeau whispers softly. “And no matter what else happens to us, nothing is going to change the fact that I survived that night because you were there with me.”
Philippe takes a slow, deep breath, relaxing into his lover’s arms.
“And don’t you start apologizing for bringing it up, either,” Corbeau continues, and Philippe cannot help but smile at how well the man knows him. “I know it’s a heavy burden to carry, and I’d take it away from you if I could.”
“I know you would,” Philippe murmurs, softly. “Love you, Beau.’
“I love you, Philippe,” Corbeau whispers, “and I always will.”