#rhythmthiefsecretsanta2016

It’s more than a bit odd, waiting in such a grand corridor in such a beautiful manor, embossed and embroidered with delicate floral prints and high thread counts, and in that soft morning sun, the shining satins and matte upholstery had their colors elegantly highlighted. In that mock-sitting room, with its excessive amount of antiquated couches and mahogany side-tables covered in both pricey and priceless knick-knacks, it gave about that definite air of living the high life, not having to worry about money troubles much, and the prissy pouts of someone who never had anyone other than a maid dress them. To Marie, it was certainly shocking in its regal complexity and decor; especially since she was oh-so used to the now seemingly shambled estate of where she had grown up. …Not that the convent was a bad place, per se, but after seeing this, it was certainly less astounding in its measure of grandeur. But she still sits there, on a well-stuffed armchair with her feet swinging and her thumbs twiddling, waiting for what was to come next. She watched maids scurry through the halls, readying beds and dinners and trays of wine for guests, them not offering her a glance, as if she were just another piece of furniture. She wonders who else could possibly be staying in her mother’s manor. A foreign duke, perhaps? Maybe a relative? Diplomat? She had no way of knowing, and, while it was none of her business, that fact in on itself irked her. After all, her mother had made plans with her and her only for the entirety of the day.  She had made sure of that. They were to spend time together, roaming the city in a casual introduction to familial bonding, and actually learn a bit about one another. If her mother had planned to bail on her wish… She would not be above pettiness. Especially if it concerned business. But, before she could ponder further, a door from the upstairs hallway whines open, and somehow, all the action around her halts. Marie cranes her neck to look up to the upstairs corridor above and behind her. The high railings make it difficult to see their entire person; all she can see coming from it is grey hair, wrapped tightly in a bun, bobbing its way to the giant staircase that lay in the hall’s center. The slight click of high heels echo every movement it takes, further enhancing the effect of the expanding ego flooding the room. It walks in its silence for a few moments more, with the whole household waiting in bated breath, until the railings open to form the mouth of the stairwell, and the full identity is revealed. Marie slips off the chair and stiffly stands out of habit. After all, that is what one does when someone of higher status graces the lower folk with their appearance. Marie’s mother is no exception. And so, she joins the rest of the household in their open-mouthed staring at the Duchess Elisabeth, standing at the top of the stairs, dressed down to a modest and mature dress shirt and pencil skirt, accompanied by both pearls and pearly-white kitten heels, with a clutch purse and much-less-regal gait. That ensemble was most certainly not to be expected. The Duchess, having noticed the lack of commotion and growth of silent surprise surrounding her, straightens her spine and barks with practiced authority, “Enough with the fish-mouths, back to your duties!” And the hustle and bustle strikes to a start once more.

…It’s honestly kind of scary, that display of power. …It’s honestly kind of scary, her mother’s display of power. …It’s honestly kind of scary, now realizing this as her mother descends the stairs and maneuvers her way to stand proudly in front of Marie.

Elisabeth meets her eyes briefly. They reflect a chilling steely blue, Marie notes, much more muted than her own, almost as if they had been drained of their pigment. The moment only lasts a second before the Duchess hastily darts her eyes to the side, breaking the sliver of what could have been intimacy between the long-separated mother and daughter. The latter doesn’t let it pierce her too deeply, and instead puts on a gentle smile. “Hello,” she says. Elisabeth is frozen for a hot second, fluttering her eyelids in a softened surprise. “…Hello to you too,” she retaliates. “We-” her voice wavers ever-so-slightly. She masquerades it with a cough, and continues. “…We should be off soon. I just need to touch-up a few things before we can go.” How strange. The powerful Elisabeth, nerve in front of a commoner such as herself? She thought her mother was above that sort of thing. Nonetheless, Marie says,“Of course. Take your time.” “Thank you.” and she scurries off, gradually regaining her stature, to give directions to a nearby butler to relay to Alfred and whoever was deemed relevant. Marie takes her seat with the barest of huffs, and off sets yet another round of the waiting game.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

They’re in the middle of the shopping district when Elisabeth’s efforts become apparent. With the flash of a platinum credit card and a nerve-wracking determination inlaid in her eyes, it’s obvious that her mother was trying to please her in the only way she knew how- extensive pampering with the assistance of hordes of moolah. They had been window shopping down the streets of Paris when it happened, when a wonderful designer dress had caught Marie’s eye. It was glamorous, exquisite, reminiscent of the ballgown she had worn during her escapades with Phantom R, but somehow even more impressive to the eye of the beholder. She breathed out a soft sound of awe. Her eyes were glued to it, ravaging every lacey trim, every delicate jewel sewn on so carefully, every stitch that marked its subtle embroidery… But with a sudden and soft call of, “…Marie?” her fantasy shredded itself. “Oh, um, yes?” She scrambles to sputter to whoever had prompted her. Ah, her mother, she determined from the other’s parted lips and intense gaze in her direction. “…You like that dress, do you not?” Elisabeth says flatly, almost as if it were rhetorical. “Um, yes, I guess… It is incredibly pretty. But-” She cuts herself off with a chuckle, “something like that is way out of my price range, but whatever, a girl can dream, right?-” “I’ll get it for you.” Elisabeth states, already heading in the direction of the store’s entrance, leaving her daughter in her wake, her last syllable still lingering on her lips, dumbfounded and frozen in her place. It takes her a moment to start herself back up again, and the second she is able to move, she dashes to follow her mother. “Wait, no! You don’t-” But the deed was already done. Marie walked out of that shop with a six hundred Euro dress. The next one she walked out of, she had a velvet-lined and leather violin case. The next, a pearl-studded barrette. Then an avalanche of that season’s pop-up fashions, a porcelain Victorian marionette, red-bottomed heels, diamond earrings… The unfortunate truth was that during the frivolous spending, the Duchess had sold every chance she had to actually look at her daughter. And that was what Marie had bargained for the most.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

           She crashed to the ground, chair overturned and tea staining her dress. A rough tongue bathed her face and neck and Charlie grunted as she tried to push the dog away, cursing internally. A wagging tail hit her knees and she scowled, knowing that her dress was positively covered in paw prints. Charlie shoved the dog off her, long enough to get a good look at it, but it took no offence and returned to attacking her face with spit. Her eyes widened. She recognized this dog, its white fur with a spot over its eye and that neckerchief…

           “Fondue, bad dog!” A pair of hands dragged the dog off of her and Charlie looked up to see a familiar head of red hair and brown eyes hidden behind round glasses. He continued to ramble as he pulled Fondue off her. “I’m so sorry, miss, he’s usually not like this; I’ve never seen him react like this before—” Finally, he looked her in the eyes and his jaw dropped. Several emotions flashed across his face—surprise, wariness, fear. “Merde…” he whispered, unable to keep it in.

           Charlie narrowed her eyes and handcuffed him. “Phantom R, you’re under arrest for the appropriation of cultural artifacts.”

           Phantom R flinched back, holding up his hands as he stammered out, “P-Phantom R!? I’m sorry, miss, but you must be mistaken! Y-Yes, you see, we’ve never even met before! Yeah, that’s right!”

           Charlie wasn’t fazed by his pathetic excuse. She hauled him to his feet, the handcuff secure around his wrist. “There’s no use trying to fool me, Phantom R. Not only did you think I wouldn’t recognize your mutt, but you thought I wouldn’t see through such a flimsy disguise!?” she said with a scoff, snatching the glasses off his face and looking through them. As she thought, the lenses were just glass!

           People were giving them odd glances. Charlie didn’t care much; she was apprehending a criminal. But Phantom R’s eyes flickered around the café veranda, panicked. “Could we perhaps do this somewhere else, miss?”

           “Worried that someone will reveal your identity, Phantom R?” she accused, quietly enough so that no one else could hear them. She wasn’t sure why. “Don’t worry; you’ll have plenty of time to reveal it yourself at the Constabulary.”

           “Now, now, Charlie, there’s no need for such hostility,” he whispered back, finally dropping the pretense of a normal person and slipping into the persona of her rival. He pulled her close, his customary smirk stretching his lips. “I didn’t intend for you to see me, after all. Can’t a thief check in on his favorite detective?”

           “Are you sure you have to check on me? It seems you’re the one most likely to get a football to the face, connard.”

           “Such language! Do you kiss your father with that mouth?” Charlie’s glare hardened her hand curling into a fist. “But we shouldn’t dance around the issue, should we?”

           “You’ve been arrested, but you still have time to make stupid ballet puns?”

           Phantom R looked genuinely hurt. “Interpretive jazz.”

           “Fine.” Charlie ground out. “What do you want?”

           “Just what I said. I wanted to check on you.” His eyes softened as he looked her up and down. Charlie felt her cheeks heat up. “I haven’t seen you much after everything that happened.”

           “I’ve tried to arrest you several times since that happened,” she reminded him.

           “True,” he said, inclining his head. “However, you’re not exactly one to complain if you were hurt, especially not in front of your enemy. And I wanted to be sure. But then Fondue…”

           “Well, I’m perfectly fine, not that it’s any of your business…” she grumbled, glancing away. “If that’s all, I’d like to get back to our normal routine cat and mouse.”

           “Just one more thing.” A hand cupped her cheek and tilted her head back up to look Phantom R in the eyes. He smiled at her and its sincerity blew her away. “Thank you for saving my life, Charlie.” Leaning down, he kissed her hand, a quick brush against her knuckles and her blush became redder, going up to her ears. “There are no words that can describe my gratitude and, unfortunately, I must continue to take advantage of your kindness.”

           Those were the words that snapped her out of her trance. That and the realization that the hand on her cheek was the one she had handcuffed. “Why you…” Charlie lunged forward, but Phantom R danced away, his smirk having returned. Charlie wanted to punch it off.

           He laughed at her efforts, fluidly twirling out of her grasp time after time. “See you next time, Charlie!” Phantom R called out before darting into the crowd, weaving into it so seamlessly that he disappeared.

“Fancy meeting you here, mon detective.”

“Oh, bugger off now.” Of course, the thief didn’t bugger off. He never did, unless there was a good chance that the constables were hot on his heels. He’d appear at random intervals, like at her football matches or at the art galleries when she was trying to take some downtime from her hectic schedule. Instead of a break, she saw more and more of his pesky mug.

In the end, she didn’t seem to mind too much in moments like these, when he would take the seat across from her at the little café. With the snow falling outside, Charlie liked to watch the white peacefully drop before blanketing all of Paris.

“Any particular reason you decided to follow me to the café today?”

“Maybe I felt like something warm to offset the cold winter. Like your smile—“

She groaned, trying to make it visible just how annoying his puns were, “That was terrible.”

However, the redhead didn’t seem swayed in his enthusiasm, his signature grin spreading that just seemed to make her anger rise, while simultaneously calming her. Maybe it was because, no matter how terrible his jokes and puns were, Raphael was good company when he wasn’t trying to steal all of Paris’s prized works of art.

That grin rose to a peak before cracking into words, “You know you like my puns, secretly deep inside.”

Nope, the calm is gone.

“Shut up and order, idiot.”

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Once both of their orders had been placed, and a long good bicker about the state of Fondue’s name – “What do you mean you named your dog after a terrible pun?!” – the two drinks arrived at their table. A peppermint hot chocolate for Raphael and a white hot chocolate with extra steamed milk for Charlie.

The steam from his drink rose, fogging up the glasses before he could take a sip. They weren’t real glasses, but… Honestly, it would be almost embarrassing to admit these were fake disguise glasses to the detective.

“Er…” Raphael started, hesitantly taking his glasses off to wipe them on a napkin.

Staring for a second, the laughter bubbled up as the scene progressed, “Y-You’re an idiot, you don’t use NAPKINS to clean glasses, are those even real?”

Oops. Blushing a bit, Raphael shook his head and shakily placed them on the table, “Do they really fool people?”

“Well, the only time I’ve seen you without is when you’re in your… Despicable suit.” Spitting the words, she pulled her drink up to hide her smile behind the cup. Really, the suit wasn’t bad. More often than not, the private eye enjoyed her time fighting with him.

Not that she’d ever admit to having fun with him… No, that’d just make him cocky.

Raphael, on the other hand, seemed practically offended by her statement, a hand clutching his chest in faux anguish. “Despicable? You wound me, dear Charlie! My suit is of the upmost quality, I’ll have you know…”

There’s another snicker and a sip coming from the blonde, no retort however. She was satisfied with his reaction.

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 “Your dog is awfully nice today.”

“It’s because you aren’t trying to decapitate me with a football.”

“That would explain a lot.”

“Speaking of, how do you… You know, light them on FIRE when you’re kicking them at my face?”

“Good question… I’m not entirely sure.”

“So you just… Kick flaming plastic, a definite safety hazard… at my face. Because you can.”

“Yep.”

“Astounding. The leader of personal safety for detectives, Charlie Vergier, everyone.”

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 As their drinks dwindled, so too did the jabs at each other’s egos. Maybe that was a side effect of the snow silencing the city, or maybe some sort of holiday cheer infecting the two of them. Or maybe, just maybe, it was because they enjoyed the time together.

Not that either of them would admit that much.

Standing up softly, Raphael gave Charlie a smile and a nod. She returned the gesture with a sigh, trying not to feel too down about it.

Shelling out a couple dollars for his drink, he cleared his throat— Only to be interrupted by her voice, tight and rushed, “When are you going to visit again, Phanto—I mean, Raphael. When are you going to come back?”

A shrug, he tried not to giggle. “Guess I never really know. I try to be mysterious.”

“And I hate it.” She pouted, crossing her arms as Fondue rubbed against her legs.

“I promise, this isn’t the last you’ll see of me. I’ll see you again soon.”

They both nodded softly, Raphael motioning Fondue towards the door before mumbling over his shoulder.