Work Text:
You stumble out of the battle zone with your tail between your legs, clutching your satchel tight as you hurriedly make your way to the nearest Pokémon Centre. Hot wet tears streak down your flushed red cheeks. You honestly don’t know what’s worse, the taunting jeers from the pretentious SBC trainer or the fact that Jacinthe would most definitely be hearing about this come morning. Whether or not she brought it up was an entirely different matter, and hopefully she would be kind enough to never speak of it, but you didn’t like to bet on the kindness of the elite.
God, how could you lose so badly? You had been on a winning streak for months, honestly. But really, you had been on a winning streak for years. You were the fucking champion of Galar. Sure, no one knew, which took away some of the sting of being beaten during the Royale but still.
You shouldn’t be taking defeat so personally, really. You were better than this, but maybe due to the lateness of the hour or your lack of sleep, or more likely a combination of the two, your emotions jumble around your chest in a painful dance. Guilt and shame and dread all tugging at different parts of your body. You feel the clamminess of your hands, the way your heart beats just a little bit faster with every step of what should have been a short, easy walk to the Pokémon Centre, and you find it just that much harder to swallow air.
You fight the sensation, familiar as it is, that fluttering in your stomach that usually tells you something bad is about to happen, but you can’t help the way it puts you on edge, like every fibre of your body is gearing up for a fight that you know isn’t going to happen. You’re out of the battle zones, and there is no present danger. (And even if there was one, your Pokémon would have been strong enough to take them on, having taken on Legendries in Galar that would have been enough to make any normal man shit their pants, which really made all this anxiety even more fucking frustrating). Your body, of course, loathe as it is to listen to reason, does not understand this, so you struggle to make the walk to the Centre and at this point, you notice that the lights are blurring at the edges somewhat. Your head feels both lighter and heavier, and the satchel in your grasp certainly weighs like lead in your hands now. It feels like a Herculean effort to even carry the bag that you’ve been carrying since the start of your ‘vacation’, even though you know you haven’t packed anything different to your normal wares. You have to actually stop, embarrassingly at the side of the street when you realise your legs are shaking underneath you and the walk has felt longer than usual because you’ve barely been moving.
Some tight clawing sensation grips at your chest, where your heart might be, and it feels infinitely more and more difficult to gasp for breath. Your eyes water as your chest burns for oxygen and you can’t fight the gasping, tearful sobbing that escapes you.
This is by far the most embarrassing display you’ve ever put on, and you would be so embarrassed to be losing it in public if you even understood remotely what was happening. You lost a battle, so what? Were you really losing it over losing a fucking Pokémon match? Are you this fucking pathetic?
You don’t notice the black sedan pulling up on the road beside you or the man getting out of the passenger door, overwhelmed as you are by the sudden onslaught of emotion and the avalanche of self-doubt and hatred blanketing every coherent and rational thought in your mind with just the paralysing, numbing sensation of not good enough.
It isn’t until someone calls your name, a gentle hand weighing on your shoulder that you turn to see Corbeau, blurry in your misty-eyed vision. His expression hardens when he gets a clear view of your face, eyes sharpening at the edges as his mouth tightens in a line.
“What happened? Who did this to you?” His tone is dead serious, and you understand from the intensity in his gaze that the dead of his seriousness might not be metaphorical if you did name the trainer from tonight. Except, it wasn’t even his fault. Not really. You were participating in the Royale, the both of you. It wasn’t his fault you weren’t good enough, sharp enough, smart enough. It wasn’t his fault you were lacking.
Devoid of any answers, or really any energy for any sort of response, you shake your head, unable to even so much as move your mouth to form any word that isn’t a choking sob. It’s embarrassing that a woman in her adulthood is behaving like a child deprived of a toy, but you quite literally can’t help how your body decides to shut down on you, frustrating as it is. You can of course continue to mentally berate yourself for your incompetence and it eases the humiliation, just a little, that you still have most of your mental faculties even if your control over the physical aspects of your personage seems to be lacking at the moment.
The answer, the shake of your head, as expected, does nothing to ease the tension in Corbeau’s shoulders, but he doesn’t push further. Instead, he picks up your satchel and handing it off to Philippe, who you suppose must have been standing there for some time now, unnoticed as he had been a moment ago. Corbeau sighs as he stands, dusting his trousers off before he offers you a hand. You stare at him just a moment, feeling even more pathetic than you already feel.
In any other scenario, any other context, perhaps even if it was any other person in your position, the gesture might have seemed sweet, romantic even, but Arceus did it fill you with a fresh dose of guilt. The ache in your chest that had dulled sharpens again, for a split second, just enough that you find it a little difficult to breathe for a short moment. You reason that Corbeau is simply trying to help, that he sees a friend in distress and wants to quite literally offer a hand, but the shame that runs through you doesn’t see that. All you can see is a pathetic miserable excuse for a Pokémon trainer, who was so horribly distracted during a battle they lost a fight they had a type advantage for, and is such a fucking nutcase they can’t hold it together long enough to make it to a Pokémon Centre without completely melting down in the middle of the sidewalk. And now the man you respect, who you’ve worked hard to gain the respect of in return, has to watch you absolutely lose your shit in the middle of the street at three in the fucking morning.
“Stop overthinking it, and just take my hand, kid.” Corbeau says, not even trying to hide his exasperation, his hand still outstretched to you.
You take it, with every amount of shame a single human being is capable of feeling, because the alternative, you realise very quickly, is trying to help yourself up on feet that feel like jelly and hands that feel like death.
Corbeau clearly feels it too because the exasperated line of his mouth quickly disappears into a concerned frown when your hand meets his, and he immediately switches tactics from pulling you up to supporting you with his other hand on your other arm.
“Arceus, what happened to you?” He whispers, mostly to himself, seeming to immediately understand that you are in no shape to communicate in any known human language at the moment.
He ushers you into the car with nary a protest, all the energy draining from your body the moment you get in close proximity with the man. It’s another bullet point to add to the tally of your embarrassing moments for the night, but you really can’t help the way you lean into Corbeau’s touch as his arm wraps around your waist, draping your arm over his shoulder so you can rely on his weight and support more easily. It’s a level of thought, of intimacy that would mortify you on any normal occasion, but the meter for embarrassment your body is able to take for the night has broken and you have nothing in you to go against the instinct, so you lean in. Your eyes flutter shut as Corbeau guides you to sit next to him, and you don’t realise you’ve fallen asleep until you wake up, groggy and disoriented in his office.
The first thing you notice are the lights. The normally bright LEDs have been dimmed to a soft muted warm orange, the kind that doesn’t strain your eyes when you blink them open. The next thing you notice, when you turn your head, is the soft pillow underneath and the blanket weighing down your chest and your arms. It’s a plush, soft lavender and even though you don’t really understand what’s going on or where you are, you pull it close and the weight of it grounds you.
You sit up slowly, blinking owlishly as you take in your surroundings. Corbeau sits on the couch across from you, his face contorted into a tight, worried expression that eases when you lock eyes with him, as bewildered as yours must still look.
“Good, you’re finally awake.” He leans his weight on his knees as he says this, the corner of his lips softening a little. He pushes a glass of water carefully in front of you.
“Drink, you must be dehydrated after all that.” You don’t really know what he means by ‘all that’ but you follow his lead, brain foggy from sleep and the effort of deciphering the jumbled pit of whatever it is that’s taken residence in your chest from the moment of your waking.
The water on your tongue helps calm the frayed edges of your nervous system a little, or maybe a lot, because it seems like only a moment later, maybe a little more than a moment really, but the bundle of nerves that have taken root in your chest unravel slowly, just enough to let you breathe. Just enough to give you space to think, to process, to act like a rational human being.
You look down at the cup of ‘water’ in your hand that you aren’t quite sure is water anymore, now that your nerves feel less frayed and more stable, and you look up at the man across from you, leaning on his knees as he watches you with a Corviknight’s fascination. The matter is dropped before you can even consider bringing it up. Whatever the case, he helped you, brought you to his office, and watched over you while you were defenceless. There’s a whole slew of other reasons why you trust Corbeau, but the vague tender touches you can make out from your brief unconsciousness flickers in your mind’s eye and you know he wouldn’t do anything to hurt you.
Though, even if he did, it’s not like you would mind. Really, it’s not like you fear death. What is there to fear about someone potentially killing you when they would be doing you and the world a favour really? If anything, it would be an honour to die by Corbeau’s hands. You’d let him kill you, if he asked.
You don’t say any of this out loud though. You know, logically, these thoughts should scare you, but they feel more like old acquaintances. Not quite friendly, but neighbourly. Something you’ve had to deal with for most your life, that’s only worsened since your quite sudden rise to fame after Rose nearly wiped Galar off the map. Just because they are your burdens to bear, doesn’t mean anyone else has to shoulder them, so you keep quiet. You don’t want to scare Corbeau off any more than you might have with your not-quite-little meltdown just hours ago? How long had it been really?
“How are you feeling?” Corbeau asks quietly, and you realise that you haven’t spoken since you’ve woken, haven’t spoken really at all since he found you.
You force the words to come out of your mouth and swallow the lump in your throat in the process.
“Better.” You croak, in your best attempt at intelligible human speech. You try again, with a small smile this time.
“I’m feeling a little better, thanks.” You sound gravelly, like you’d just swallowed rocks for dinner or perhaps like you’d been a chain-smoker of fifty years (despite being only in your twenties and never having smoked even once). Your smile comes off more of a chagrin, and the frown in between Corbeau’s brows tell you that your attempts at reassurance don’t actually do much to reassure, so you drop the façade that was barely there to begin with, and slump forward, careful to place the glass back on the table before you bury your head in the blanket.
To his credit, Corbeau is being infinitely patient with you when you’ve barely spoken a word and surely look like absolute hell.
You take some deep breaths, focusing on the softness of the blanket in your hands to ground you in the moment when your mind wants nothing more than to detach from your body and become a secondary observer to your life in this moment.
“I don’t want to rush you, of course.” Corbeau says slowly, evenly like he’s negotiating a hostage situation. You sit up slowly, movements matching his tone, and look at him, blinking owlish and more than a little dazed, still flickering the sleep out of your eyes.
“But could you tell me what happened tonight? Why did I find you in such a state?” He doesn’t elaborate any further on the state he found you in, but the way his lips turn down, the worried edge of his eyes, tells you how rattled he must have been to see you that way. Bile forms in your throat from the shame of having someone see you like that, but you force it down.
It's then you notice Scolipede (yours not Corbeau’s, you can instantly tell just based on how fucking massive it is compared to the average bug horse) curled in a roll next to the coffee table between you and Corbeau, its watchful gaze carefully trained on you. Scolipede doesn’t approach, sensing perhaps the still fraying edges of your nerves that are slowly calming, but still very much unsettled.
You hold your hand out, sending a silent apology to your beloved bug horse at the lacklustre battling you did tonight and how your scatterbrained strategies cost her and the rest of your team their deserved win.
Scolipede, ever alert to your moods, approaches instantly, uncurling itself to march behind the couch you’re perched on to drape over you, butting heads with you gently before it settles to loaf behind you, head resting on the back of the sofa, within reach of your arm. You rest your hand on the crest of her snout, and the solid familiar mass grounds you further.
Your head turns again to Corbeau, still watching you like a Hawlucha, and sigh. There’s not going to be an explanation that makes sense, that will save your dignity, but it’s not like you have much left to save in front of this man in particular, so you mentally shrug off the rest of your embarrassment, enough to explain at least a little bit.
“I… lost a battle at the Royale tonight.” You start, and the furrow in Corbeau’s forehead only deepens with his confusion. “I don’t know why I didn’t take it well, but I guess I’m tired or something. I just, don’t really know what I’m doing wrong. It’s like I’m not making progress or anything, I guess. I don’t know.”
You shrug, fixating on your hand patting Scolipede lightly on her head, so you don’t have to look at Corbeau’s eyes. You don’t really want to see the confusion or disappointment or judgement. You don’t want to see the moment he decides you’re too pathetic for his company.
Corbeau sighs, and you hear the rustling of his clothes as he stands, hear the soft footsteps, but refuse to look at anywhere apart from Scolipede’s snout now resting on your palm. The motion both grounds and distracts you from the weight of something building in your chest as you wait for the other shoe to drop, for Corbeau to laugh at your misery and have you escorted out for wasting his time.
It doesn’t come.
Instead, he sits next to you on the couch. You scoot over to make room, and you feel more than see his arms circle you. You don’t fight it when he pulls you close and holds your head against his chest. The tension building up in your chest unravels in that moment, enveloped in Corbeau’s hold, and the tears flow freely from your eyes. You grab onto his suit jacket desperately, no longer caring whether or not you look pathetic.
“You’re being too harsh on yourself.” He whispers, gentle fingers running through your hair. The tenderness of it, the repeated motion makes your eyes feel a little heavier, your chest marginally lighter even as you continue to cry into his shoulder.
“You lost one battle. No one’s going to give you shit for that, do you know how many battles I’ve lost as a trainer? A lot of them. Mostly to you.” He huffs, and you can’t help the small, watery smile that tugs at your lips when you meet his eyes. His hand unravels from your waist to wipe the tear tracks from your face.
“You’re not taking care of yourself, kid. You made a mistake tonight because you’re tired. How can you expect yourself to help this city when you’re barely getting any rest?” He chides, frowning as his eyes study your face, but the hand on your cheek is warm and soft.
You look down, swallowing to force yourself to speak.
“I hate losing control like this.” Your hands ball up the fabric of his jacket, but Corbeau doesn’t pull away. Instead, he pulls you closer until you’re kneeling on his lap. “I know that losing is normal, that it’s expected even, when you’re a Pokémon trainer, but.”
But you remember the way Leon fell during the Darkest Day, the way the air left your lungs when the Master Ball that had entrapped Eternatus had somehow failed and it came out of its ball roaring in a swirling red of dynamax energy. You remember the way Hop gripped your arm, frozen in shock as his brother collapsed at your feet in a final attempt to protect the both of you that had failed.
You see it in the rogue mega Pokémon now, in the alpha Pokémon escaping their wild zones. Whatever is happening here in Lumiose is going to be big. You can feel the wrongness of the situation in the rapidly spreading mega crystals all over the city, not in the least reminiscent of all the dynamax crystals that had popped up in the Wild Area right before Eternatus reared its ugly head out of Hammerlocke stadium.
You can’t afford to falter, not now. Not again.
“How am I supposed to protect this city if all it takes for me to lose is one lousy SBC trainer?” You know it sounds whiney to say it that way, but it’s hard to explain to Corbeau the exact nuances of the situation when you haven’t even told him of your champion title. The reminder of what you’re ignoring back home in Galar makes the guilt of your loss weigh all the more, but you don’t say it.
“How am I… Team MZ is counting on me to help them when we have to calm rogue mega Pokémon. Quasartico is counting on us to help figure out what’s going on with the rogue mega evolving and all the Pokémon coming into the city, but how am I supposed to do all that and help them when I can’t even win one lousy Royale battle?”
You can’t help it now, the anger and frustration you have with yourself seeping out, and you pull away from Corbeau to run your hands across your face, groaning.
“Arceus, I had a type advantage! I should have fucking won that and somehow I didn’t, and —”
“Are we all so incompetent that all this responsibility has to be put on you?” The severity of Corbeau’s tone surprises you, and you physically have to stop yourself from flinching at it. You blink at him, eyes resembling that of a Noctowl’s.
He laughs with no warmth behind it. “Does that woman running Quasartico think there are no other trainers in Lumiose to put all this on you? You didn’t win even with your type advantage because you’re one person. You’re fucking exhausted! When was the last time you actually slept? How is anyone expecting you to work in these conditions?”
You flinch at his rising tone, at the anger in his voice, but the firm grip of his hands on your arms reassures you that this outburst isn’t directed at you.
He calms in the next moment anyway, and stands, pulling you up with him.
“Come with me.” Corbeau says with little explanation, pulling you to the elevators.
You follow wordlessly, relishing a little in the warmth of his hands around you, and the solid chest behind you. You don’t notice exactly how you’re tipping back into him, but he pulls you close anyway. The pitter-patter of Scolipede’s feet tell you that she’s following close by.
“Where are we going?” You vocalise, even if the way your eyes droop and how your head hangs low against Corbeau’s shoulder signal that he could take you anywhere at this moment and you could hardly care to know really.
“You, my dear, are going to sleep, and I’ll be making sure you do.” He whispers low in your ear, and his breath lingers just a moment. You nod, inattentive, closing your eyes and burying your head in the crook of his shoulder. You feel the way he chuckles at the gesture, feel the loss of proximity when he drops down for a moment, before his hands make contact with the back of your knees, and you feel the weight shift around you. You open your eyes to be met with Corbeau’s face looking down at you, a softer expression than the concern and anger he’d been wearing at alternate moments that night. It shouldn’t surprise you that he can carry you when you’ve seen him lift his Scolipede a few times, but it does. You can’t help the small huff of amusement that makes its way out your nose, and you stare up at him, at the violet-red tassels of his glasses that resemble a Scolipede’s shell, at the molten amber eyes that watch you with a competing softness and intensity.
“Thank you.” You murmur, leaning your head into his chest, eyes closing again, content to take in the pattern of his breathing, to listen to the erratic hammering in his chest.
He whispers something back, but you’re rapidly losing consciousness, a wave of fatigue washing over you now that you feel calmer, safer.
It feels like the blink of an eye that you were in the elevator. You open your eyes, tired and dazed, the cogs in your head turning slowly like someone poured warm honey into the machine that powers your brain.
The brush in your hair feels soft. You’re in softer clothes than you remember being in, plush violet sheets all around you. Corbeau’s legs encase your own, and you lean into the touch behind you.
“Are you awake again? Just relax and let me take care of you.” His chest rumbles behind you, the words coming to your ears like you’re underwater. You do as he says, bones too heavy to do anything else anyway. Your body feels like molasses, slow and thick and out of your control, but Corbeau’s hands in your hair are warm and tender, and you realise he’s humming something under his breath. Your mind is too syrupy to catch the tune, but it settles you, and you close your eyes, breathing in time with his own breath.
The rest of the night is a snapshot of a memory before sleep fully claims you. You’re only vaguely aware of Corbeau tucking you into bed, pressing a kiss to your knuckles before he pulls the covers over you, but you are aware enough to grip at his hand and ask him in quiet, slurring tones to stay.
When you wake up next, you know that it’s significantly later in the day that the few times you’d been conscious the night before because the light streams in a little through the curtains. What you don’t expect is the solid chest beneath you, or the arm wrapped around your waist.
Corbeau’s chuckle rumbles in your ear where it’s pressed against his chest.
“Good morning. I see you’re finally awake.” He smiles at you, the plain glasses and un-styled hair making him look much, much softer than you ever remember him being.
“G’morning. What time is it?” You ask, trying to pull yourself up and away from him, but the task feels like a Herculean effort when you feel this cozy and Corbeau’s arms around you are too solid to fight against.
“11:29, are you hungry?” He asks casually, like you hadn’t just been doused with ice water in that moment. The panic in your nerves jolts you out of his grasp, and Corbeau sits up immediately alongside you, clutching at your elbows.
“I— it’s so late, Corbeau. Fuck.” You whisper, looking around for your things, trying and trying to shake off the disorienting feeling of having just woken up.
“I have to go, I have to go.” You keep telling yourself, but the go is unclear and the where is even farther from your mind at this point. Corbeau’s grip on your elbows doesn’t let up, and he pulls you closer with a sigh until you’re kneeling in front of him with his legs encircling you.
“Please take a moment to breathe.” He rubs circles with his thumb on your skin where his hands rest, and you focus on the gesture, doing as he says. There’s a frown creasing his forehead, and you can’t stop yourself from uncreasing it with your own thumb. Corbeau chuckles at the gesture before he focuses his attention back to you.
“I’ve had Philippe inform your friends that you’re here with me, so they don’t worry, and whatever else you need to do for the day can either be put off or taken care by the Syndicate. We don’t need our favourite do-gooder running herself to the ground before we figure out exactly what’s going on with all these Pokémon entering the city, now can we?” He explains the situation, almost flippantly, like he hadn’t just pulled the rug under your feet, like he hadn’t just taken Atlas’ weight and made it his own.
“You shouldn’t —” He stops you before you can help yourself to a protest.
“This is my city too.” He says firmly, the hands on your arms reflecting the resolve behind his words. “I’ve been taking care of it long before you were in the picture. I can handle a few days without your meddling.”
He says it like an insult, but you only feel relief and collapse into his arms.
“Arceus, thank you, Corbeau.” You respond, mostly as a reflex, even if the words are fully sincere. Corbeau’s arms wrap around you in a tight coil.
You realise given everything he’s done tonight that you might have to talk about some things regarding your relationship with the man and whatever feelings are there, but right now all you can do is revel in the warmth and comfort of his embrace.
“Say the word, and I will do everything in my power to take care of you.” Corbeau is a man of his word. You know this first hand. He is not one to make promises he cannot keep, and you relax into his grip, your own arms draping around his shoulders to return the gesture.
“I don’t think I’ve ever had anyone take care of me like this before.” You whisper because you can’t help it. The idea of receiving help, of asking for it feels so foreign to you because most often, you have no one to even ask. You’re the one who gives, the one who helps. No one ever expects you to need it because you’ve spent your life taking care of yourself. It shouldn’t be as comforting to hear someone offer themselves up in martyrdom for you, but Corbeau’s words are as firm as the hands now on your back, as the chest you find your head buried in at this moment.
“You have me now.” Corbeau states it like a fact, like an unwavering truth. The sky is blue, and Corbeau is here. “It’s a shame you’ve never felt like you could rely on anyone before, but you can rely on me.”
His arms wrap tighter around you to emphasize the point, and you let yourself melt into him, eyes fluttering shut for a moment before you decide to do something that might be absolutely stupid.
“Corbeau?” The man in question pulls away a little, humming inquisitively.
You press a soft peck of a kiss on his lips, and he smiles softly in return, leaning in.
“I really want to return the gesture.” He whispers, knocking your heads together. “But you deserve better than this, so let me take you out on a date when you’re more rested.”
The hand softly caressing your face affirms that it’s not a rejection, but a rescheduling. A soft grin tugs at your lips at his thoughtfulness, even now.
You nod, and your head lingers on his shoulder a moment longer, revelling in the warmth of his touch. The bundle of nerves in your chest still rattles to remind you that it’s there, that you will never be rid of it, not really, but Corbeau’s arms blanket the barbed wire of your prickling anxiety. For a moment, you can relax and the world can turn without you in it.