Work Text:
It’s not often that the Rust Syndicate crosses paths with former members of Team Flare, but it’s not entirely unusual. No, it’s not as if they’re trying to “avoid” their brethren uplifted by the same hand — only that the majority of their numbers are now behind bars, and those leftover have done their best to keep a low profile, lest they warrant the already-scornful attention of Kalos’ law enforcement once more. However, every now and then Philippe and Corbeau like to check in on who they can get in contact with. For instance, they try to frequent Nouveau Café when the opportunity arises, see how Grisham and Griselle are doing.
Philippe has noticed that if there’s anyone who can draw the empathetic side out of Corbeau, it’s those two. They, just like Corbeau, were practically raised by Lysandre. They were children of his philanthropy, siblings under the same savior. He was their hero, their idol, their role model. To them, Lysandre had been everything — now, to the world, he was nothing.
Mable sometimes joins them, on the rare chance that she can step away from her increasingly busy work. Any outsider observing this small group as they gather outside the food truck might semi-reasonably suspect that remnants of Team Flare have sought out funding from the Rust Syndicate to reignite the flames of their mission. Those within this gathering know otherwise. This is a collection of people who were helped by Lysandre just as much as they were hurt by him.
They don’t talk about him. They never do.
Instead, Corbeau favors prattling on to Grisham and Griselle about the Z-A Royale, something Philippe hardly cares for himself, having joined only once Corbeau strongarmed him into it. The two are just a little younger than Corbeau, and a lot more spunky. Philippe finds it easier to nod along and listen. He’s not being unfriendly, there’s just… little common ground between them. He’s never been much of a talker, anyway. Maybe that’s why he’s always so relieved whenever Mable is able to join them. Someone who is closer to his age and a little more level-headed about the things that have happened to them in the past five years.
While the younger folk sit at once of the benches and talk strategy for their upcoming promotion matches, Philippe and Mable stand a bit further away, lingering beneath the shade of a tree. She bums a cigarette off of him as he lights up his own, and he makes idle conversation by asking about her research. Moments like these? Candid, casual, no strings being pulled or politics being played? Existing without the definition of who they are, who they used to be? They’re hard-earned and rewarding.
Relaxing would have been amongst those descriptors as well, had Mable not chosen to open her big fat mouth (Philippe’s brow furrows at his own internal thoughts, silently chastising himself. He should never think of a lady like that).
“It’s been years, you know,” Mable says idly. Philippe would have thought she was talking to herself if not for the sidelong glance she casts at him when he doesn’t answer, raising a quizzical blue brow his way. “Are you ever going to say anything to him?”
“What’s there to say,” Philippe postures back. His tone is flat in a way that is less indicative of disinterest and more of a warning. Unlike Corbeau, Philippe doesn’t have shockingly brilliant eyes to signal to those around him that one wrong move might be their last. Instead, he has to verbally put up the yellow caution tape.
Mable calls his bluff. “You’ve stood beside him for how long, Philippe? Don’t you think it’s worth trying to make a little more…” She purses her lips, absentmindedly waving a hand through the air as she tries to find the right word, “Official?”
“We’re business partners, Mable,” he deadpans. “How much more official can it get?”
“Not in the way you want it to be.”
Philippe chokes on his next drag, fumbling not to drop his cigarette and coughing out wispy plumes of smoke. Cheeks reddening, his face steepens into a frown. To make matters worse, he notices that Corbeau, situated not too far away from them, is now looking their way, expression knitting into subtle concern. Philippe holds a hand up dismissively, communicating a brief It’s fine as he shakes his head. The last thing he needs is for Corbeau to saunter over to them both and go poking for problems. He heaves in a deep breath, then straightens up, shooting Mable a thankless look.
“I don’t—” He pauses, awkwardly clears his throat, “—like to engage in speculation.”
He’s not expecting it when she smacks his shoulder, her expression grim. “Will you cut the shit? Too close and in earshot, is that it? Fine, then let’s take a walk.” Her hand drops into the crook of his elbow, insistently tugging him along while she begins to walk. Arceus, Philippe forgot just how feisty these Team Flare Admins could get — especially Mable, now that the city had her eating out of their hand, docile and domesticated.
Together, they walk a little further down Vert Street, taking a seat on one of the benches just outside Wild Zone 2. Beyond the veil of green holo-tech barriers, a group of three trainers can be spotted eagerly hunting down the newest member of their teams. It’s good that they’re having fun, but… is this really the Lumiose that children like them should be growing up in?
“Ahem.” Mable’s arms are crossed. Philippe turns around to see her impatiently tapping one of her feet against the cobblestones as if she were expecting Philippe to suddenly spit his heart out on a silver platter for her to dissect. He sighs, rubbing one of his palms against his face and wondering just what the hell he’s gotten himself into here.
“I get that you’re tryin’ to be a good friend, Mable. Really, I do. This kind of thing just doesn’t—”
“The point, Philippe?”
Philippe gives her one last long look, a blithering attempt for mercy that even Corbeau would call him out on. When she doesn’t falter, his shoulders slump. He draws in another breath of smoke from his cigarette, then says, “A beautiful world.”
Mable’s nose scrunches up. “Excuse me?”
“That’s what Team Flare — what he — wanted, isn’t it?” The Nouveau Café isn’t that far from the empty shell of what was once the Lysandre Café. “The pursuit of a better, beautiful world. That’s how he got the likes of you and me to follow him, and that’s what he raised Corbeau and the twins on. Team Flare is… he’s gone, but that desire has never faded or faltered in any of us. It’s what we’re all still working toward.”
Mable tilts her head, but her scrutiny doesn’t let up. “O-kayyy,” she drawls out, “but what does that have to do with you and Corbeau?”
Philippe falls silent, gnawing on his lower lip. He tucks his free hand into his coat pocket, twisting the heel of his shoe against the ground. He doesn’t want to admit to being embarrassed or shameful or anything of the sort. That’s not how he feels about his reasoning. More or less, it’s that he thinks Mable won’t understand. She’ll scoff in his face and call him a twat and do something to irritate him like flip up his collar or muss up his hair and she’ll be half-right to do so. If there’s anyone who has the ability to make Philippe feel like a little kid caught in a blatant lie, it’s Mable.
“Corbeau—” he starts, then shakes his head. “He’s—” and no, that’s not it either. Not that the increasing weight of Mable’s intense gaze is doing anything to help him find the right words, thank you very much. His tongue feels numb and fat and useless in his mouth, uncooperative with every word he tries to shape. “Corbeau’s beautiful world deserves better than me,” is what Philippe finally manages to grit out.
As expected, Mable levels him with a dangerous stare.
“You’re kidding,” she says, looking astonished, as if she wants to chew him out for having the gall to say such a stupid, childish thing like that. Philippe shakes his head. She plants her palm against her face, groaning. “Philippe! What the hell kind of excuse is that?”
He doesn’t like being chastised. His line of thinking isn’t wrong. He huffs on his cigarette unhappily. “Corbeau is a good fella, Mable. One of the best, even. I’d be blind not to see that he’s gonna outgrow me one day.”
“You’re as much of a gentleman as he is,” Mable bites back. “People like you two are as much a diamond in the rough these days as they were ten, twenty years ago.”
“I wasn’t always,” Philippe says in a low voice.
“Neither was he,” she counters, quirking a brow.
Philippe narrows his eyes, his jaw tensing. Saying that kind of stuff about Corbeau seems that much more unfair when he was just a kid on the streets trying to survive. “He was never like me, though,” he quips back. His tone is growing sharper than he’s comfortable with, but he can’t find it in him to stop himself.
“The Rust Syndicate needs the both of you to function, just as much as you need him and he needs you.”
“He can — and will — do better.”
“And what if he doesn’t want better, Philippe? That kid might as well be just as nuts for you as you are for—”
“You think I don’t know that?!” Philippe snaps. Right as those words leave his mouth, he catches himself reaching for her, hand poised like talons now frozen between them. For a long moment, he stares at it hovering in the air, a creeping sense of horror and disgust starting to dawn on him.
But Mable has never been one to flinch away, brave even in the face of someone like him. Instead, she reaches out, her palm floating above his. She’s about to take his hand in her own when he comes back to himself, clenching his jaw and ripping his hand away. He turns away from her slightly, glowering down at his hand as it closes into a fist.
“This,” Philippe breathes out shakily, praying his next drag will ease his fraying nerves, “is exactly why he deserves better than anything I could ever give him.”
“You’ve come farther than you know.” Mable’s tone is exceptionally soft, softer than he’s ever heard from her before. Softer than he’s earned after an outburst like that.
“Not far enough.” That same fist returns to his pocket. “Believe me when I say that I’ve thought this through. Kids like him deserve a second chance. A chance for something better.”
“Then what about people like you and me?”
The question catches him off guard. Glancing over his shoulder, he finds sincerity in Mable’s expression. He doesn’t know what to do with it. In turn, she approaches him, slowly looping her arms around his waist from behind and pressing her cheek against his shoulder blades.
“Don’t we deserve second chances, too?”
Wearily, he encloses one of her hands in one of his own, dwarfing it in his palm. “I’m a helluva lot older than him, Mable. He’d be better off with someone his own age.”
“Now you’re just looking for excuses,” she huffs, but there’s a lilt of amusement in her words. “And hey, I’m just a few months older than you are. If you’re gonna call yourself old, then what does that make me?” She pulls away from the hug so that she can round his side and stand in front of him once more. She lifts his hand to her face, placing a gentle peck between two ruggedly-scarred knuckles. Knuckles that have never known gentility like that. Softening, she adds, “Really, Philippe. I’ve never seen that punk happier than when he’s with you.”
His chest feels tender and his heart feels raw, so he chooses not to answer her. Mable reaches up to give him a pat on the shoulder.
“Let’s get back to them before Corbeau throws a fit about you wandering off, alright?”
Philippe grunts, disapproving of her poor characterization of Corbeau, and tails her back to the food truck.