An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Corbeau's phone rang, and he glared at it, the sound aggravating his rapidly-worsening headache. He ignored the drop in his stomach when he saw who was calling.
“Taunie,” he said shortly.
“Mr. Corbeau, I think—I think you need to get here. I can't wake him up, I can't—”
“Stay there,” he snapped, already rising from his desk and gesturing for Philippe to follow. “I'm coming.”











