Simon & Emilien: a musing
I got inspired for a few days to write this and finally got to it. It's based on my main longfic on Ao3, and does hold spoilers for unwritten chapters but eh... sometimes you should let the muse fly. And if art isn't arting, then we write what comes to mind. (1 hr of writing, god knows how many of thinking)
The liquor sits bitterly on his tongue, thick like oil and teetering rot. It's not the fault of the brew per say, but rather the thoughts weighing on his mind.
Paris was stable. Barely. Discontent lingers in the air and the average Parisian is restless and annoyed and grouchier than usual. The people are on edge like horses spooked by distant thunder, thanks to the burning warehouses.
It's a loss of work. It's fear of death and uncertainty about what is next—for the last overt crime like this had been... almost two years now. And here in one week, three buildings have burnt to the ground. The latest one houses enough corpses to make its own cemetery.
Quiet footsteps draw Simon's attention from the half-full glass and the gardens below. He's wound tighter than the seams of ill-fitting clothes—a bad sensation for his work requires delicacy and coldness. He cannot be feeling so much with a vibrant beating heart.
His Papa leans against the balcony trim, hands grasping opposite elbows. Their gazes meet—both exhausted and lacking their whimsical glints. There's no joy in what they've learnt, the bodies they saw and the gradual requests for justice trickling in. A hundred is a lot to seek retribution for. Worse, when the perpetrator is someone he cares for greatly.
"Feels like these finer evenings grow more spoiled each day," Emilien exhales a long, weary breath of his own. "It was far nicer when we were sending off rule-breakers and removing vile monsters."
"... Your sources confirmed the same, then." Simon clasps the glass of whiskey tighter, his eyes tracing the garden path.
Emilien hums, the usual musical note absent. "Of all our city's artisans, I will say she ranked high on my list of concerning individuals. And of course, she had to exceed my expectations while she was at it."
"Clea isn't a killer." Simon flicks his gaze to Emilien, looking between both his eyes with a slightly straighter back. "She wouldn't kill so many."
"It was a stockpile dedicated to local Writing inventory. It's the same diesel and method of arson."
"A warehouse isn't responsible for Verso's death."
"You cannot anticipate someone acting with grief."
"Yet you advocated for her to rule as Head Councilwoman." Simon pushes off the balcony, setting the glass down beside it before he steps back to pace.
"It's far easier to watch a leader, and I thought it would keep her busy. Clearly not, since she also has criminal ties or figured out Renoir's connections." Emilien turns to lean his back on the railing, adjusting the ruby-embroided cufflinks on his sleeves. "Believe me, I'm not happy about this either. The chances of it being a set up, though, is minor."
Yet that's the instinctive thought Simon got when their sources inevitably trawled through the scandals and inspectors to bring this information to them. Burning two warehouses after hours, long after the foremen have left, and then escalating to a full, deliberate slaughter? No, something isn't right here.
"It's never zero," Simon says, his pace faltering as his mind works through his thoughts, feelings and teachings. "What are the chances someone would accept this severity of an attack after two tame ones?"
"Their steward bends backward for them. Renoir has a mix of moral crooks and disgusting fellows he can call upon. It's hard to know when she doesn't talk, and the parents still linger in a Canvas for whatever reason."
That had been a bizarre sight, to encounter during their brief surveil of the Dessendre estate—at least to ensure the parents are alive while the staff were limited in number. A mostly repaired place, still smelling of woodsmoke and the most powerful Painters oh so vulnerable. Any other crook would have taken the opportunity to eliminate them. That is not Simon's way nor Emilien's. The Dessendres' cause more good than harm, and perhaps Emilien and Renoir have an agreement to look past the other's business.
Their cold war has never been so calm as when Aline and Emilien rose to their perches..
"Despite the escalation, we do operate on a two-strike system." Simon slows to a halt, and faces his father, head tilted down enough to meet his gaze. "We can grab the steward and find out how involved he is... and Clea herself. I doubt she would lie if we pressed hard enough."
Emilien's gaze narrows, and he cocks his head to the side. "A daring consideration. Can your heart handle it?"
Everything in Simon wants to scream of Clea's innocence—not of the fires, but this particular set of killing. Though their interactions have been very scarce since the funeral... he knows her still. He knows the disciplined and dutiful Paintress, knows he can draw a laugh from her with absurdity or jest. He knows she will kill—her doodles attest to a darker mind and her grief is a roiling storm with no end in sight. Her hands will get wet with blood, but only through a personal encounter, and with the one responsible for tearing her family apart.
But he knows too that feelings are dangerous when they need a clear mind to kill their marks. To threaten and follow through when their mark thinks they bluff. Simon's jaw clenches tightly, and he fights the desire to curl his hands to fists. Instead, they're restless in grasping his coat instead.
Being a Hand of Paris... Simon knows inevitably he will hurt friends and allies while serving as a vigilante, and keeping Paris safe from the worst of humanity—or the artisans insane enough to bring Creation to life. His heart hurts when Clea injures herself accidentally—be it bumping something, or when her horse spooks and she cannot keep to the saddle. But better that guilt plagues his mind for a while, than letting someone else maim Clea.
"It will endure, as I've always managed to." Simon exhales a heavy breath, opting to move his hands behind his back and clasp them.
Emilien smiles, his teeth flashing but his eyes remain dull and unengaged with the gesture. He moves from the balcony to hold Simon's arm and squeezes it.
"Come now, I'll not send you alone to do it. And for your sake and hers, I do hope we're wrong."
Hollow as words can be, Simon musters a nod. A small, brief thing—for his mind dwells on the possibility they're right.
