Work Text:
Okay, so—vacation. Whatever that meant in his line of work.
Corbeau wasn’t one to impose upon himself free days, since more often than not he would end up too paranoid about whatever he had left half-finished to properly enjoy a day off, and storming into work in his casual outfit, barking orders until the Syndicate was working like the well-oiled machine he liked to keep it as. Philippe, however, was not as flexible when it came to his boss’s well-being as he was with the rest of his eccentricities, and it had only taken a few stern words and a raised, thick eyebrow to let Corbeau know he wasn’t stepping foot on the building until the end of his forceful sabbatical.
“If you won’t take care of yourself,” Philippe had said as he guided him out of the building, hands on his shoulders, “then I will. I’ll take care of tomorrow’s negotiations, and you’ll take a day off.”
“A day off,” Corbeau parroted sardonically. “And what am I supposed to do?”
“Dunno. Go for a walk, eat outside… enjoy the city you work your back off for, boss. If not for yourself, then for me. How about that, eh?”
And there’d been no arguing with that.
When he sat up in bed, he found the back thing had not at all been metaphorical. Having his schedule cleared meant he could focus on how cramped he was after the whole Prism Tower fiasco, and needless to say his body was not thankful of how much he’d exerted himself, and having had a woman in his twenties step on his shoulders multiple times certainly did not help. This was, admittedly, one of the reasons he so thoroughly despised days off. They forced him to focus on him and only him, and whatever ailments he could have easily ignored if it meant making sure the work was done on-time. Nothing his chiropractor couldn’t have fixed within a few hours, or so he mused as he slipped out of bed and made himself some coffee to at least try and enjoy his morning.
As he stared daggers at his too slow coffee machine, he thought of all the things Philippe needed to nail to get through the day with the same efficiency as him, and felt suddenly compelled to call the office and make sure everything was fine. He didn’t, though, because he knew he wouldn’t pick up, and because Philippe had not failed him once.
With a book in one hand and a coffee mug in the other, he dragged himself to the balcony to brainstorm ideas of what the hell to do, since staying home would only feed his paranoia. The gentle cold of a springy morning was just stimulating enough to aid the caffeine in waking him up, barely covered as he was by the purple robe he used to parade around the house and having made of the tallest apartment of a luxury building his makeshift nest. He watched from his crow’s eye viewpoint as the city slowly woke up and the buildings around him began to bleed people and Pokémon—tiny dots en route to their jobs, schools, and whatnot—and he wondered with a sense of healthy envy if any of them had any real idea how close they had been to total annihilation.
Fuck. Even actively trying to relax only managed to get on his nerves.
He clicked his tongue at his own neuroticism and proceeded to examine the book Philippe had lended him, which had allegedly brought the man to tears, and found it could not have clashed more with his sensibilities. It was some fashion of self-insert supernatural story by a ghost-type trainer who doubled as a novelist, promising a steamy and slow romance between a woman and her two love interests that mastered different types and who both oh so happened to be vampires. The overedited picture on the cover was so cheesy it made him want to call Philippe again, though this time to ask what kind of enjoyment a man like him could derive from what was barely disguised teenage wish-fulfillment, and what made him think he would find it in any way enjoyable.
Then again, none of his go-to relaxing plans were available at the moment. Philippe was the only man in the city who could stand being his drinking buddy, and even then it was much too soon to even think of that. Too soon, too, to go out and enjoy some good old-fashioned Pokémon combat without causing a ruckus, and Scolipede was not a morning centipede so a simple walk by her side was also out of the picture. His own internal clock was not nearly as merciful, so even if he had planned to sleep for longer, he was doomed to roam his apartment until lunch gave him a good excuse to make a public appearance.
The novel, cheesy as it looked, was currently his best door into escapism.
“Screw it,” he muttered, and cracked the book open on his lap, setting aside the ribbon that served as its bookmark. “If anything, I’ll get a laugh out of it.”
***
Philippe could feel the throbbing headache fizzle away as he took the few sips of his drink. In a short eight hours with only a lunch break in between, he’d been reminded of the many reasons he’d been glad Corbeau agreed to take charge years ago. As satisfying as it was to slowly make Lumiose a better place, there were too many moving parts for him to keep track of on his own, and he could only wonder how his boss could coordinate the actions of his reformed subordinates without breaking composure once.
What remained of his headache dissipated when he saw the man in question approach the counter. He looked somewhat odd in casual clothes, lacking the poise that characterized his every motion during work hours, and even his sempiternally furrowed brow seemed to lack its usual steely edge as he sat down next to him and ordered a drink, though for some reason he seemed to be avoiding his eyes.
“So,” Philippe asked, nudging his shoulder, “how was your day?”
“Fine,” Corbeau spat with practiced nonchalance. Still not looking at him, he sighed and added, “more than fine, actually.”
Philippe cocked an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“As it turns out, I really needed that,” Corbeau confessed slowly.
“Ha! See? Even a man in your position can make use of a day off.”
“Please, spare me the I-told-you-so’s.” His boss scoffed. I’m not even going to ask how today went, because I trust you took good care of our Syndicate while I was away.”
“I think I did, but fair enough. We don’t need to talk about the job.” Philippe cleared his throat. “How was the book?”
“It was fine, whatever. Didn’t think much of it.”
It was then that the waiter finished mixing Corbeau’s very particular cocktail request, and no sooner had he gotten a hold of it, he lifted it in the air for Philippe to toast with. When the corpulent man shifted to do so, though, he noticed his boss’s eyes were glazed over with something unusual, and their piercing yellow was surrounded by a reddening that didn’t appear to be from lack of sleep.
Philippe’s lips curled into a knowing grin. “That good, eh?”
Corbeau just scoffed again, and swallowed his drink in one long sip.