Corbeau

You were asleep in the bed, finally surrendered to exhaustion, one hand loosely curled near your chest. Corbeau sat in the chair beside you.

And in his arms was his son. Small. Swaddled. Dark hair already visible at the crown. Corbeau held him with surprising ease, one hand supporting the baby’s back, the other cradling his head with careful precision. His expression was soft, reverent, and awe.

There was a soft knock, and Philippe stepped inside. He stopped just past the threshold.

Corbeau looked up at him. “He is sleeping,” he said quietly.

Philippe approached slowly, as though entering a sacred space. “He is… very small,” he murmured.

Corbeau glanced down at the baby, then back at Philippe. “Of course he is. He's a newborn.” There was something almost disbelieving in his voice.

Philippe stood beside him, looking down at the child in silence. His large hands hung awkwardly at his sides, as though unsure what to do with themselves.

Corbeau noticed. “Would you like to hold him?”

Philippe blinked. “I—” He hesitated. “If you are certain.”

“I would not ask otherwise.”

A beat.

“I trust you.”

Philippe nodded once and quietly excused himself to the bathroom. The sound of running water followed. Corbeau allowed the corner of his mouth to lift faintly.

When Philippe returned, he dried his hands carefully and approached again.

Corbeau stood.

The transfer was slow. Intentional.

The baby shifted slightly as he was passed over, tiny hand curling instinctively into the fabric of Philippe’s shirt.

Philippe inhaled softly.

The child looked impossibly small in his arms, his broad hands nearly spanning the length of the baby’s torso. He adjusted his grip with meticulous care, supporting the head exactly as he had observed Corbeau do.

The baby’s eyes fluttered open briefly, unfocused and new, then settled again.

Philippe’s expression changed. Softened.

“He's strong,” he said quietly.

Corbeau huffed a faint breath of amusement. “He's not even a day old, Philippe.”

“He comes from your blood, boss, and theirs,” Philippe insisted, gesturing to you with his head. "With the Rust Syndicate behind him, your son will grow up to be very strong."

Corbeau watched the scene. Watched Philippe, the man who enforced discipline, who mediated conflict, who stood as his right hand in all matters, holding something so fragile with absolute gentleness. His gaze shifted briefly to you, sleeping peacefully in the bed. Then back to his son.

“Would you mind watching him for a moment?” Corbeau asked quietly. “I intend to acquire food for them. The hospital’s offerings are insufficient.”

Philippe nodded immediately. “Of course.”

Corbeau walked over to your bed, leaned down and pressed a brief, lingering kiss to your temple before stepping out.

Philippe stood in the soft hospital light, rocking slightly without realizing it.

The baby stirred. A small fuss at first. Philippe adjusted instinctively, lowering his voice.

“You are quite vocal for someone so small,” he murmured.

The fussing eased, for a moment. Then it returned, louder this time. Philippe tried shifting him, adjusting the blanket, soft murmurs. He was calm. Steady.

But the cries built. Not frantic, just insistent. Before he could worry further, your voice drifted from the bed.

“It’s okay.”

Philippe turned immediately. “I'm sorry. I didn't intend to wake you.”

You smiled faintly, still drowsy. “I was awake since the first complaint.”

He stepped closer. “I believe he has a grievance.”

A soft smile graced your face. “He’s hungry," you said, lifting your arms slightly in silent request.

Philippe approached carefully and lowered the baby into your waiting hands. His movements were slow, respectful, deliberate. You shifted your hospital gown and brought your son close. Philippe immediately turned his head away, posture straight, eyes respectfully fixed on the opposite wall.

You noticed. “It’s alright,” you murmured gently. “I don’t mind.”

He hesitated. "That may be so, but it's still—"

“I trust you,” you added softly. "Corbeau and I trust you."

He turned back slightly, not staring, simply present.

The baby latched, quieting almost instantly, and the room softened again.

After a moment, you looked up at him.

“There’s something we wanted to ask you,” you said quietly, your eyes watching your son nurse from you.

Philippe straightened slightly. “Yes?”

You smiled, tired but warm. “Corbeau and I would like you to be his godfather.”

For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, carefully, as though accepting something weighty and sacred, he nodded.

“It would be my honor.”

Your son made a small contented sound.

Philippe’s gaze softened again.

And in that quiet hospital room, with you nursing and the world paused outside, he looked every bit the protector he had always been.

Philippe

Corbeau’s office was quiet for once. Midday light filtered through the tall windows, catching on the edges of paperwork spread neatly across the desk. Corbeau sat in his chair, reviewing documents with his usual sharp focus while Philippe stood slightly behind and to his right, posture composed as ever.

Then, there was a knock, and you stepped inside with the baby in your arms.

Philippe’s composure softened instantly. He crossed the room in three long strides and bent to kiss you first, before brushing a careful kiss against the top of your daughter’s tiny head.

“It's nice to see you,” he murmured quietly. "Thanks for coming."

You smiled and transferred the baby into his waiting arms. She settled naturally against him, small and secure.

Philippe turned toward the desk.

“Sir.”

Corbeau had already set his pen aside. His gaze moved first to Philippe, and then to the child in his arms.

Philippe stepped closer and adjusted the blanket slightly so Corbeau could see her properly.

For a moment, Corbeau said nothing. Just watched. Taking in the tiny face. The small fists. The slow rise and fall of her breathing.

Then—

“Will you allow me to hold her?”

Philippe paused and looked to you first. You smiled and nodded. He stepped forward and passed her carefully down to Corbeau, who accepted the baby with surprising care. And somehow, despite his shorter stature, she looked impossibly small in Corbeau's arms. His hands supported her with deliberate precision, as though he were handling something both fragile and important.

Corbeau studied her with quiet intensity. “She is… acceptable,” he said at last.

Philippe huffed a quiet breath that might have been a laugh.

You snorted. “High praise, from the Rust Syndicate Boss.”

The baby stirred. A tiny stretch, one fist emerging from the blanket. Then, her eyes fluttered half-open.

Corbeau froze slightly, and something in his expression shifted. The sharpness softened.

“…Hm.”

He adjusted his grip by half an inch, suddenly far more careful than before.

“You will permit me to be her godfather.”

Philippe chuckled outright this time. “Of course, boss.”

You raised an eyebrow. “That your way of asking?”

Corbeau did not look up. “It was my way of informing you.”

“You're lucky Philippe and I already discussed this,” you said, rolling your eyes.

Then, the baby fussed. A small sound at first. Then, another.

Corbeau shifted slightly, and Philippe stepped forward intending to take his daughter back, but Corbeau turned away slightly.

“I can calm a baby,” he told the larger man.

You folded your arms, watching, as the fussing increased. Corbeau tried adjusting the blanket. Then, he re-positioned her. And then, a careful bounce.

“I've got this,” he said calmly.

The baby disagreed, as her cries became louder.

Philippe reached again. “Sir—”

Corbeau shifted away. “I said I have it, Philippe. Or, don't you trust your daughter's godfather?”

The cries grew more insistent.

Corbeau let out a frustrating sigh, eyes closed, and jaw clenched. “She...is escalating. I don't know what she wants.”

You watched your daughter’s head nudge instinctively against his chest. Then again.

You laughed softly.

Corbeau looked up sharply. “What?”

You stepped forward. “Give her here.”

“I'm managing,” he insisted.

You stared at him. "Corbeau," you started, "I guarantee that neither you, nor my husband, can give her what she wants right now.”

Philippe handed you the nursing blanket from the baby bag without needing to be asked.

Corbeau blinked once. Then looked down, as your daughter tried rooting against him again.

“…Ah.”

You lifted her from his arms.

Philippe helped guide the blanket around you as you settled onto the couch, adjusting it carefully while you positioned the baby. His hands were steady, practiced, making sure the blanket covered you comfortably.

After a moment, the crying stopped, and the room was quiet again.

Corbeau watched for a long moment. Then said calmly:

“You don't need to use a cover in my office.”

You looked up. Touched, briefly, then suspicious.

“That’s very progressive of you.”

“It is practical.”

You tilted your head. “Uh huh. And not because you want to see my boobs?”

Philippe made a small choking sound.

Corbeau stared at you, expression perfectly flat.

“I assure you my interests are entirely respectable.”

“Uh-huh.”

He adjusted his cuffs. “My office is a secure environment,” he continued smoothly. “No one will disturb you.”

You smiled faintly.

After a while, the baby finished. Philippe stepped forward and lifted her gently from your arms. She looked even smaller against his broad chest.

He rested her carefully against his shoulder and began to gently pat her on the back. A tiny burp, and a satisfied sound followed.

Corbeau leaned back in his chair and watched them both like a man quietly approving the newest member of the Syndicate.

Or perhaps blessing her.

Either way, the decision had already been made.