Poison Immunity Can’t Save You From This
Title: Poison Immunity Can’t Save You From This
Ship: Corbeau/Phillipe
Fandom: Pokemon
Word Count: 3,375
Rating: T
Warning: None
Tags: Pre-Canon, Light Whump, Wound Tending, Mutual Pining
It was no small feat for Corbeau to have defeated Phillipe that fateful day.
Though not strictly a Poison Type aficionado, the type match up against Steel was unforgiving. He had to go all out and then some to take that win and he did. The way he and his Pokemon battled was brutal. Phillipe was enamoured with it.
Brute strength and high defence could only take him so far. He may as well have been knocked over with a Light Feather as Corbeau and his Pokemon, particularly his Venipede, outmaneuvered with grace and agility, the likes of which Phillipe had never seen before but couldn’t get enough of.
“Take me in, why don’t you?” Phillipe growled.
“Hah?” Corbeau sneered.
To say he was taken aback by the absurd suggestion would be saying the absolute least but Phillipe could feel it. This was where he was meant to be: by Corbeau’s side as his number one and second-in-command. And so, Phillipe stood his ground against the twilight that ensued around them.
It was so cliche. The orange that burned, the indigo that sank deep into the sky behind Lumiose City’s skyline. A breeze swirled and Phillipe stared, gruff and with his bottom lip chewed as fine. Corbeau relented.
“Do as you want.” Corbeau said. He made a flippant gesture. “Just don’t drag me down.” His hand returned inwards and he adjusted his glasses.
“I promise. I won’t.” Phillipe replied and he had to suppress how giddy he was inside to have successfully plead his case.
And so began the beginnings of the Rust Syndicate as they knew it today.
Corbeau was the brains and Phillipe was the brawn. They made an excellent team as they brought the best out in one another. Competition, reliability, and more. Together, they made a formidable pair which allowed them to accrue more and more in the shadows as they walked a path which strayed from the usual lights of Lumiose City.
They looked through its shadows and its alleyways, unafraid. They made acquaintances. They made enemies. They recruited underlings and even grew the group so big they had to acquire personal premises for themselves and had even begun to decorate it as the ranks of the wild side began to take notice of them.
Through it all, thick and thin, side by side, they faced it all. If the streets were tough but they were tougher. Of course, they sharpened their teeth and honed their claws all the same as anyone else.
Poison and Steel were unnatural together and that’s what made it a good combination. Doubled down on their strengths as much as it did their weaknesses. Poison couldn’t touch Steel and Steel could hardly touch Poison. They posed a challenge and every so often, they did go at it for a rough house.
During one such round, Phillipe and Corbeau taught each other more than lessons of the type match up chart.
Skarmory was still Phillipe’s ace. His longest standing partner with long claws and sterling feathers. Corbeau’s wily, little Venipede had evolved into its second stage as a Whirlipede where its defences became yet more indomitable. Even against a partial Flying Type.
They went at it in their personal court. It was kind of a garden but nothing planted had grown yet. It was hard work and not overly important, even if it was conducive to beautifying the city of its grime.
They had been waging war on each other all day. From dawn until now, dusk. They were battered and bruised but neither of them could say they were beat yet. Not when there were forces bigger and uglier than them out there that they needed to be able to go toe to toe with so neither were going to go down just yet.
Even as the sun got in their eyes over the chainlink fence around the garden. The sky, splintered by the cityscape, burned a bright orange in the distance as an autumnal wind blew. They sweated under that sun, worked hard and fought harder as yet another match came down to the wire.
“Go, Wing Attack!” Phillipe commanded his partner Skamory.
Its wings unfurled and it chirped a great noise. It wasn’t going to give up. It was a dependable partner, it had won and it had lost and it wasn’t about to lose again. It swooped on Phillipe’s Whirlipede who dodged masterfully.
“Excellent response,” Corbeau praised his Whirlipede, his arm swung out forcefully, “retaliate with Rollout.”
“Pede, pede!”
His Whirlipede’s carapasce turned rock hard as it threw its body at full force at Phillipe’s Skamory. They tangled in the middle, Skarmory tried to squivel out the way but the whole of Whirlipede’s body came down on it like a boulder. It cried out and took a critical hit.
“Ack, hang in there, Skarmory!” Phillipe cried out with more emotion than he meant to.
“End this with Poison Sting!” Corbeau instructed, taking the opportunity.
Whirlipede obeyed but at what cost.
Steel Types were immune to Poison Type moves after all but Whirlipede didn’t know that. It had complete faith in Corbeau’s order as it spun forth and when it sprang up, he spat a poison barb forwards.
Skarmory crooned, long and tired but barrel rolled out of the way. It dodged expertly. It gracefully rolled to the left but Phillipe stood directly behind it. Perfectly aligned to Whirlipede whose head chucked forward with eyes clenched close. All its might concentrated in the Poison Sting that it flung.
Phillipe’s eyes widened. He could feel the arrow of the barb all the same as a bullet from a gun.
In a split second, Phillipe managed to muster himself. He raised his arm to cover his face in defence. He cringed as he took the attack. Low powered but with a chance of poison. It ate through the fabric of his jacket’s sleeve and into the skin. It dug and it stung.
Phillipe suppressed a whimper. It turned into a grunt or groan. Highly undignified but had nothing on Corbeau who went into panic mode: something he never did.
“Return, Whirlipede.”
He zapped up Whirlipede quick as he could with his PokeBall then ran across the basketball court. His eyes slitted, his arms flailed. He hadn’t a lick of good posture for this kind of thing since he was all books and no balls, it honestly put a smile on Phillipe’s face as he let Corbeau fuss over him.
Phillipe chuckled nervously, “‘M fine, boss.”
“Inside. Now.” he commanded Phillipe all the same as his ace Pokemon.
Phillipe obliged. He cringed as he lowered his arm and he went inside. He did his best to stay calm and upright but there was a hobble in his usual, headstrong march. Corbeau forged ahead, however, and got everything they needed. Chairs, a first aid kit, ice and more. He wasn’t taking any chances and that stirred something within Phillipe’s core.
Their premises wasn’t much to look at. He pulled up a stool and Corbeau sat across from them. They had grand plans, once they had enough money, ideally made off their own backs but maybe Lysandre wouldn’t object to their plans to renovate. It was basically a warehouse for now with some attempt of looking professional.
But for now?
It was draughty and dimly lit. The furnishings were the most basic aluminium they could afford. Phillipe hunched over and offered up his arm to Corbeau. He folded Phillipe’s sleeves back and was appalled to see the state of Phillipe’s arm.
Corbeau’s eyes keened as he took this care to move aside the sturdy fabric of Phillipe’s jacket. He swallowed at the shape of Phillipe’s wrists – thick, bulky – and the swell of his forearm that matched the size of his bicep. In between was where the injury had been sustained, next to some veins and even a mole.
Phillipe might have had an affinity with Steel Types but his body was flesh and blood all the same as anyone else.
As such, the wound that had opened in even the few short minutes it took to evacuate the battle had worsened. There was a semi-deep gash from where the barb had to be removed, the flesh around it had congealed and looked nasty. It had a purplish tinge.
Corbeau got to work. Phillipe chewed his lip. He was dabbed and swabbed at, spritzed with alcohol-based sanitiser. No precaution was ignored as Corbeau did his best as first aid.
He shook his head though. Phillipe was uncertain if the palpable disappointment was aimed at though. Corbeau gave no hints as he remarked at long last as he finished up the wound care.
“I’m sorry about this.” Corbeau said.
Toe to toe, he and Phillipe sat together, Phillipe’s free hand in Corbeau’s as Corbeau attended to him more like a miniaturist before a project than a doctor meant to be mending him. Phillipe, for as tough as nails as he was on the outside, whimpered as Corbeau poked and prodded, he sanitised the area and cleaned up.
“It's fine. These things happen.” Phillipe shrugged.
“It's not fine.” Corbeau retorted.
His brow twinged and Phillipe realised he should drop it.
Now was not the time to harden up, knuckle down, and act like he was immovable. So, he softened. He let Corbeau have his worries because in it, Phillipe noticed something about Corbeau.
He cared for him deeply.
Their devotion to each other went both ways. It might have been more apparent on Phillipe’s end given that there was neither measure nor length that he would not go to in Corbeau’s name but it was mutual. He was simply a private man: he could not show weakness for fear of creating an opening that could be exploited.
This was true unto strangers as much as it was Phillipe. Corbeau was guarded. The goodness that he had within was small and prickly. Even so, he was nothing less than dedicated to the cause that he had found himself the shadowy champion of.
He continued to be gentle with Phillipe. With the wound cleaned, Corbeau bandaged him up. Phillipe watched studiously. He couldn’t help but be a touch enamoured with the tautness of the material, the beige shade of it and how precise Corbeau was.
Corbeau believed in tough love, of course. He tied it perhaps too tight but Phillipe was not about to complain. His beloved Steel Types might have had Poison immunity but he did not. He couldn’t be saved from this. That’s what Phillipe thought to himself as he was weakened by Corbeau’s care: the strongest poison that he could fathom and the rarest one, too.
But it wasn’t just an overly tight bandage that Corbeau portrayed his tough love through, though. It was his words, too. He couldn’t take this injustice lying down. He blamed himself for the misfire of his Pokemon’s move: he had a lapse in judgement and as a result, he had responsibility to take.
“I’m done.” Corbeau said.
“Thanks, boss.” Phillipe mumbled.
He remained seated. He had a feeling that he would be scolded if he got up too quickly – and honestly, he knew that if he tried, he would get light-headed on his own means, too. Unfortunately, this made him a helpless audience as Corbeau disciplined his subordinate properly.
Corbeau produced Whirlipede’s PokeBall. He clicked its central button and he called forth Whirlipede silently.
Whirlipede cooed and bounced. It was carefree as it vied for Corbeau’s attention. A pat, a caress, anything but Corbeau kept his hands to himself. They slid behind his back as he turned on Phillipe to address Whirlipede. Phillipe had no doubt that Corbeau’s expression would be fearsome. His stomach churned as he listened to the lecture that ensued.
“I told you, Whirlipede,” Corbeau sneered as he wagged his finger pointedly at his ace Pokemon, “we do not hurt our allies like that. Bad! Whirlipede!” From behind, his arm jerked sharply.
Phillipe flinched as he watched Corbeau come down so hard on his partner Pokemon like that. He approached and placed his hands on Corbeau’s shoulders – difficult as they might be to do given that his right arm was patched up like a mummy’s.
“You don’t have to be that harsh.” Phillipe said. “I know Whirlipede didn’t mean anything by it. Training jus’ gotta out hand is all.”
He rose up from his seat. He stumbled forward and placed his hand on Corbeau’s shoulder.
Corbeau prickled at the touch. He closed his eyes and suppressed the initial surge of disgruntlement that would otherwise control his behaviour and reactions. No one ever touched him so casually as Phillipe. No one certainly berated him like that either. This was a privilege that only Phillipe had with him.
“I’m sure Whirlipede already feels bad enough about it.” Phillipe said.
Corbeau sighed. This voice of Phillipe’s, as he defended Whirlipede, was soft. He displayed such fondness that Corbeau found alien.
“I know, but it will never learn if I don’t have strict rules and boundaries.” Corbeau said.
He sighed through his nose and opened his eyes. His Whirlipede was in front of him and it looked… more scared than it should of its Trainer. It looked up at him with such an ache in its insectoid eyes, anyone would feel guilty to have caused such pathetic ire. So, that hit Corbeau’s side like a Poison Sting, too.
He crouched down, took a knee so that he would be at Whirlipede’s level. Phillipe stepped back. He watched as Corbeau apologised to Whirpede.
“I’m sorry.” Corbeau said in a soft voice. “I was angry and spoke out of turn. We’re partners, okay? We have to work together. We can’t do that if we’re lashing out our…” He glanced at Phillipe out of the corner of his eyes. A subtle micro-expression that didn’t mean anything - that shouldn’t mean anything - and yet. He overcorrected. He closed his eyes. “Just, save your attacks for our actual enemies. Not our second-in-commands.”
Phillipe nodded. He knew he shouldn’t expect too much of such a guarded heart as Corbeau’s but still. It stung. He held his bandaged hand in his other and it weighed a tonne with this second blow. It possibly hurt more than the injury.
Corbeau got up again, “Let’s call it here.”
He turned around and faced Phillipe. Their eyes met ever so briefly. He stepped towards him. This time, he reached out. He placed his hand on Phillipe’s shoulder.
“Roger that, boss.” Phillipe agreed.
Corbeau patted him and kept on walking. Whirlipede followed and Phillipe was left in the dust. He held his own hand and took a breath. It was time to take their leave and have a rest. They had fooled around long enough for one day.
But it had still been a tremendous day of excellent results.
Whirlipede learned from its mistake. The bond between Corbeau and Phillipe deepened. Just as Corbeau had been the one to wrap Phillipe in those bandages, he had been the one to remove them too and to his not so secret relief, Phillipe healed just fine.
Though, it did take time.
Fine by them as they continued to take the underworld in stride. Their headquarters evolved. They finally got around to doing renovations to transform their warehouse into a proper office space and they did work in the gardens. The basketball court was torn down for a more dignified entry way inspired by the zen gardens of Johto and Sinnoh. Bamboo grew and they rolled out the finest carpets for their boss’ ambience.
Years went by and their combination only turned more lethal. There was nothing more deadly than the Rust Syndicate’s Boss and their second-in-command. It caught both the eye and ire of those who lived their life in the light they shunned.
Which made it all the more curious as one day, Phillipe found something amongst the general mail. It was shuffled in amongst the bills, death threats, and spam that they normally got and yet, stood out like a sore thumb. Phillipe whistled as he admired it: it was addressed directly to Corbeau, too.
So, he took it upon himself to deliver it. Being second-in-command sure had a lot in common with being a secretary. He took the elevator up and when the bell dinged, he stepped out with a smirk.
“You have mail, boss.” Phillipe said.
He walked from the elevator up to Corbeau at his desk. His boots thudded as Corbeau looked up from his pre-existing paperwork.
Phillipe offered him the singular letter he had come with, “Its from Quarsartico.”
Corbeau regarded that with suspicion: an arched eyebrow, an incredulous twitch along the thin lines of his lips. He reached across and accepted the letter.
It was in pristine condition, with gold ink lettering the faint embossing of the company’s logo and motif. Corbeau looked it over once or twice, as though assessing it for a trap or even the possibility that it was an incredible forgery. Once satisfied with its veracity, he took his penknife from his stationary holder on his desk.
Corbeau opened the envelope with grace. He sliced through it gracefully with his penknife, then coaxed out the contents. He unfolded them and read thoroughly, though his eyes skimmed at a fast pace. One which boggled Phillipe’s mind, he had never been good with that sort of thing. Literacy.
“What’s it say, boss?” Phillipe asked.
“There will be big changes to Lumiose City soon, there will be new technology going up throughout the city to facilitate an all-out battle experience for those who wish to tread in these locals.” Corbeau reiterated what he had read.
Phillipe nodded, “Good. Keeps the kids busy.”
“Us, too.” Corbeau agreed.
“What do you mean?” Phillipe asked.
“We have been personally asked to join and what’s interesting is that Quastartico promises a wish to anyone who conquers the challenge posed.” Phillipe said. “This is as much a courtesy call for us to be mindful of when and where we conduct business as it is a writ of challenge.”
Phillipe smirked. He cracked his knuckles, “Me and my crew could do with a little stretch, I guess.”
“Mine, too.” Corbeau smiled.
He set the envelope on the desk and swiveled in his office chair. He pointed away from straight on, away from Phillipe’s eyes which gleamed with determination. He knitted his fingers together and tapped his chin in thought as he pondered what a “wish” could entail.
Phillipe, meanwhile, was not as interested in a wish. He was satisfied with what he had. He didn’t dream big, he was happy where he was with his meaning tied to Corbeau so whatever Corbeau wanted, he was content to want to. It was precisely because he was the big ideas guy that Phillipe was so attracted to Corbeau to begin with.
A smirk split across Corbeau’s face. His eyes glinted in the twilight that they caught in the dim window of their office.
Corbeau hummed thoughtfully as his musing culminated, “Yes, this Battle Royale of Quarstico’s is sure to be interesting.”
He spun around in his chair again and he met Phillipe’s eyes. A spark. Then, he reached across for the letter again. His movements were enigmatic and yet exact. He toyed with the letter of invitation between the fingers of his right hand. A paper letter in of itself was novel in this digital age. He danced it in between his fingers, turning and spinning it so he could muse over it. He had his head, however, perched against his left hand's knuckles: both elbows on the flat of his desk.
“I don’t trust Quarstico’s CEO as far as I can throw her,” he continued, “so there must be something up with it. Especially with the carrot that it dangles. A wish. As if.”
“A shrewd assumption.” Phillipe agreed.
Corbeau slapped his hand down. He trapped the letter between his palm and the desktop. He got up, turned around. Now it was he who twisted and spun rather than the letter.
He let go and his hand plunged through his coat’s pockets. “Let’s go all out in this brawl, what do you say, friend?”
Phillipe smiled, “With pleasure.”
