Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“New guy quit. Again.”

Wriothesley flicks his eyes up from the report he’s reading to glare at Estienne, who is sprawled against the banister of the stairs. Very slowly, Estienne pulls out a series of papers, dropping them on Wriothesley’s desk without even as much as an ‘excuse me’.

“Petit?” Wriothesley asks, hoping that he’s at least going to be able to promote the guard that he should have pushed for last time.

“Martin. The one the Phantom sent.” Estienne scoffs. “Petit wanted to stay. Remember?”

“Damn. I was hoping at least we wouldn’t have to write to the Palais.” Wriothesley sighs. “Ok, I’ll send the letter and approve his dismissal. Hope everyone’s ok with their schedules getting jacked for the next couple weeks.”

“I’m not staying late.” Estienne quips.

“Of course not. When have you ever made my life easy?”

Wriothesley files the letter of resignation, sends the paperwork he needs to to the Palais Mermonia, and moves on with his life. It’s not uncommon for members of the Marechaussee Phantom to quit a month or two into their rotation at the Fortress of Meropide, but it is a massive pain in the ass for Wriothesley to get them replaced. Nevertheless, he submits his request to start another guard on rotation, and hopes it won’t take forever like last time.

That’s the end of it for about two weeks. Life continues in the Fortress, and everybody moves on, business as usual. Wriothesley doesn’t even blink when the paperwork for his new guard crosses his desk, and in fact loses it rather quickly to the growing pile of unsubmitted invoices. He doesn’t remember it’s there if he can’t see it.

He really should have looked at it.

Estienne knocks on his door, shouting something or other about a kid. Wriothesley almost asks if it’s Lanoire before he remembers that the Traveler helped get her out a couple months ago. He calls back down for Estienne to come up, and is instead met with a young man he’s never met before. The kid’s about 25, if Wriothesley had to guess, and relatively small and unimposing– he almost looks like he’d be a better fit for the Melusines’ special squad. Still, he’s got a pep in his step and a fire in his eyes, so Wriothesley’s sure he’ll last longer than a few months.

“I’m guessing you’re my guard?” Wriothesley asks, scanning his desk for the paperwork that he definitely meant to fill out.

The young man frowns, tilting his head in a manner that seems very familiar to Wriothesley, even if he can’t place why.

“Didn’t you receive my paperwork? I sent it in last week.”

“I’m sure I did, but my desk ate it.” Wriothesley snatches out an envelope, then tosses it aside. “Nope. That’s a letter from Neuvillette. Uh, this one? Ummmm… Nope, that’s a letter from Navia… People have got to stop sending me so much damn mail.”

“If you need me to resubmit it–”

“No, no, I’m sure I have it. I just need to clean up.” Wriothesley sighs. “Why don’t we start with introductions, then we’ll worry about your paperwork?”

The kid bites his lip, staring at the now incredibly messy pile of papers on Wriothesley’s desk. The kid does at least have the sense to keep his mouth shut, nodding when Wriothesley clears his throat to get things moving.

“Right then. I’m Wriothesley, Fortress administrator and your boss for the foreseeable future. You are?”

“Toulouse Santelle, at your service!”

Wriothesley feels his heart stop.

“I’m so sorry, I don’t think I heard you correctly. Did you say ‘ Santelle ’?”

“Yes, I did.” Toulouse sighs. “A lot of people had that reaction when I first joined up. I’m guessing you know about the murders?”

Wriothesley has to bite back a laugh. Toulouse has no idea who he’s talking to right now. Of course Wriothesley knows about the murders– he committed them . For some ungodly reason, fate has conspired to send Toulouse here, standing face to face with a person he shouldn’t know exists. And if Wriothesley is incredibly lucky, he can keep it that way.

“Yeah, I don’t know a single Fontainian my age who doesn’t know about the murders. It was completely unprecedented. Nobody had ever seen anything like that done, not in all of Fontaine’s history. It was…”

It was a freak show. The press had made a spectacle of the trial, Wriothesley had been on the stand for all of five minutes before the verdict was given, and nobody had even bothered to confirm his name past what he had told them. The whole thing was a disaster, and that wasn’t even touching on how the murders actually happened. Or why they happened.

“Nasty stuff, lemme tell you. You’d do well to leave it alone.” Wriothesley suggests, hoping that Toulouse will agree and drop the subject.

“Everyone keeps telling me that. I just… I don’t know, I guess, I just think I have a right to the truth.” Toulouse sighs. “But that’s not what we’re here for, so let’s leave it aside for now. My paperwork needs to be filed before I can get to work, so unless I’m getting paid to stand here and gossip all day–”

Wriothesley does laugh at that. Toulouse is quick to the point, at least– a very Santelle trait to have.

“Hey, here’s an envelope we haven’t checked yet. Let’s see if…” Wriothesley flips the envelope over, grinning when he sees the words ‘Official Transfer Paperwork’. “Well, look at that. There you are!”

“Oh, thank god .” Toulouse groans. “I was worried I’d have to go home early.”

“What, you don’t want the day off?”

“No, I’m trying to save up for my wedding.”

“Oh, you’re engaged? Who’s the lucky person?”

“Her name is Elsie, and we’ve been dating for a few years. She’s really the breadwinner between the two of us, I just do this for fun.” Toulouse pauses, then adds; “The extra Mora doesn’t hurt, though.”

“Heh, I hear you.” Wriothesley teases. “I couldn’t expect you to work for free, anyway. Anyone who comes down here deserves a million Mora just for putting up with me.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’re not that bad. You can’t be worse than my brothers, in any case.”

“Oh, right, you’ve got siblings. I don’t know where I’m getting this, but you strike me as the youngest?”

“Yup, you’ve got it. Youngest of five, baby of the bunch, and family favorite. At least, until I turned thirteen.” Toulouse makes a noise that’s sort of like a scoff. “They spoiled me rotten.”

“Well, as long as you’re not still spoiled.” Wriothesley finishes reviewing the paperwork, bubbling in Toulouse’s name on the schedule for the next week. “What are your hours, Toulouse?”

“Anything before 8 in the evening. My girl gets off work around that time, and I want to be able to walk her home.”

“Fair enough. Well then, how does 11 to 7 sound? I needed a guard to take the mid shift anyway, and one of my folks, Grainfield, has been begging me to move to nights for months now. We can have you start tomorrow, get Grainfield to train you up.”

“I think that sounds perfect.” Toulouse sticks out his hand, smiling warmly.

Wriothesley shakes it. What other option does he have? He can’t exactly deny Toulouse’s application without putting himself in a world of trouble, and he’s not about to get back into the whole mess that is the Santelle murders. So he shakes Toulouse’s hand, and watches him bounce down the stairs after telling him to talk to Estienne. Except for the part where three minutes later, Estienne comes upstairs and glares at him.

“What?” Wriothesley asks.

“You spooked the new kid.”

“I did not . I put his paperwork down on my desk and it got absorbed. We found it.”

“He said you seemed nervous. You’re never nervous.”

“Yeah, well, he’s different.” Wriothesley huffs. “What about it?”

Estienne glares at him, then glances down at Wriothesley’s desk. In one swift snatch, he has Toulouse’s paperwork in his hands. Wriothesley tries to snatch it back, but finds himself knocking down all the other papers on his desk. Estienne moves back in the chaos, his eyes flicking across the page in a practiced move Wriothesley’s seen him do dozens of times. Then, right there, in the middle of the page, he stops. Wriothesley holds his breath, hoping that somehow, impossibly, Estienne has missed the crucial detail that Wriothesley knows is just sitting at the top of the page.

“Santelle.” Estienne says plainly.

Wriothesley sighs, deflating as Estienne turns to face him fully. For a few moments, they engage in the world’s worst staring match, and Wriothesley loses. Estienne sighs, tossing the paperwork back onto Wriothesley’s desk, where it lands with an unceremonious thud. The silence stretches on, growing until the whole room is swallowed in it. Estienne is still glaring at the floor when Wriothesley is jolted out of his trance by the whistling of the kettle. He takes a moment to pull the kettle off the stove in the back room, bringing it out and pouring a cup of tea for himself. Estienne declines, shaking his head when Wriothesley lifts the teapot in his direction.

“Does he know?” Estienne eventually asks.

Wriothesley shakes his head.

“I don’t think so. At least, if he does know, he didn’t let me know that.” Wriothesley sighs. “It’s none of my business, anyway.”

“Well, you did kill them.” Estienne helpfully reminds him. “I think that makes it plenty your business.”

“It doesn’t matter. What’s done is done, and there’s nothing we can do about it. It’s in the past, and for all our sakes, it ought to stay there.”

Estienne doesn’t say anything for what feels like an eternity.

“He’s your brother , Wriothesley. You can’t tell me you aren’t the least bit curious.”

“It doesn’t matter what I want.” Wriothesley insists. “I did everything I did so they’d never have to deal with what happened in that house ever again. I became a villain so they could be rescued by heroes. I can’t go dragging that mess into his life. Not when I did all that so he could be free of it.”

He’s not looking at Estienne. He knows he can’t. Estienne is one of the few people that knows the full truth behind Wriothesley’s incarceration, one of the few people that knows why he’s down there and why he’d do almost anything to make sure no one else found out. And he also knows, even if Wriothesley will try his damnedest to convince him otherwise, that Wriothesley is scared.

“I haven't been a Santelle in a long time, Estienne. I don’t belong to them anymore. It’s better for everyone if I stay out of it.” Wriothesley sighs. “Besides, it’s not like he’ll ask. I have no reason to tell him.”

“The secret won’t die with you. You know as well as I do that all secrets see the light of day eventually.”

“Yeah, and if I’m very lucky, I’ll be dead by then.” Wriothesley groans. “Did you just come in here to scold me?”

“No, actually, I came in here to remind you that you have a dinner date that you’re going to be late to if you don’t finish your invoices on time.”

Wriothesley scrunches his nose at Estienne, who doesn’t flinch, because of course he doesn’t. Wriothesley briefly considers being dramatic about it, but decides it’s not worth it to piss off his best guard right this very second. With a sigh, he dismisses Estienne, waving him out of his office with a dramatized shooing motion that has Estienne rolling his eyes.

“Go, shoo. I have things to do.” Wriothesley grumbles.

He hears the door to his office close with a click, and frowns at the mess of paperwork still piled on his desk. Sitting on top of the pile is that damned piece of paper, with scratchy cursive that reads “Toulouse Santelle”. His handwriting looks almost identical to Wriothesley’s.

“Well, shit.” Wriothesley utters as he glares at the paper. “How the hell am I supposed to get out of this mess?”

Maybe if he finishes his paperwork right now, he can get to the Pankration Ring before he explodes.

Chapter Text

“___, what have you done?”

“___, is Daddy ok?”

“___! What have you done!”

“Lock the door. And make sure he doesn’t remember me.”

Wriothesley wakes up choking on tears, gasping and sobbing into his pillow as he scrambles to find the little night light he hasn’t used in almost 2 years. His hand wraps around something small and pointed, and he plugs it into the wall with enough force to crack it in half. Thankfully, it still works, the little beetle shaped light glowing a soft purple as he kneels on the floor.

It’s a very specific nightmare he’s woken up from, one he hasn’t had in a few years at this point. Even calling it a nightmare feels disingenuous, since Wriothesley knows a nightmare when he sees one. This, though, this is a memory. A bad one. And he’s seen this one plenty of times. It could be worse, of course– when he first got to the Fortress, he had that dream every night. He's gotten used to it by now. Not that it stops his heart from aching when he wakes up from one of his worst memories being played out in his head.

He’s not getting back to sleep tonight. He knows that. A part of him still hopes he can fake it. He stares at the bug light and feels his body sag under the weight of his own despair, but he can't sleep. He wants to sleep so badly. He’s not getting back to sleep tonight.

“Wriothesley?” Sigewinne’s voice reaches him well before he even realizes what’s happening. It must be well into the morning by this point– it's not uncommon for him to lose track of time after a nightmare– and he feels a pang of guilt when he realizes that he’s probably worried her.

“Sigewinne, hey. What time is it?”

“About 3 in the morning. I couldn’t sleep.” Sigewinne lays a hand on his shoulder, her eyes full of concern as she leans over to look at him. “Looks like you couldn't either, could you?”

“Bad night. Should've expected it.” Wriothesley replies, his words clipped and short like they so often are after a nightmare. “Tea?”

“If you want. I don't think either of us should have any caffeine this late, but I know that's not going to stop you.”

Sigewinne leaves his side for a moment, and then the lights flicker on, blinding Wriothesley momentarily as his vision adjusts. Sigewinne is still in her night clothes, fidgeting with her hands and slowly swaying. She approaches him nervously, laying a hand on his shoulder as he aggressively rubs his eyes. He slowly gets to his feet, almost tripping as he does so.

“Can I have a snack?” Sigewinne asks quietly. “I mean, can you please make me a snack?”

“Yeah, sure. What kind?”

“Some bread and butter?”

“Ok. Sounds good.”

Wriothesley ends up getting his own snack while Sigewinne enjoys her buttered toast, looking over files as he picks at a bowl of Inazuman noodles he got a while back. Sigewinne helps him review the inventory for the medical wing, detailing how her records may have differed from the overall inventory.

They look an odd pair, sitting in the dingey kitchenette at 3 in the morning and talking about socks and medical tape. But Wriothesley keeps odd hours, and Sigewinne doesn't need as much sleep as a human. So it might be an odd sight, but it's an odd sight the two of them are used to. Sigewinne eventually sits next to him, telling him about this insanely disrespectful patient. It's a long rambling story, the kind she uses to put people with weaker wills to sleep. While Wriothesley appreciates the attempt, it soon becomes clear this tactic won't work on him.

“Your turn. What kept you up tonight?” Sigewinne suddenly asks.

“Mhh, nothing special. Just a bad dream.” Wriothesley tries to deflect with a quip, but the joke dies in his throat when he sees the look on Sigewinne's face.

“Wriothesley. You pulled out the bug light. You never pull out the bug light.”

“I overreacted. It’s just a nightmare.”

“A nightmare so bad you reached for the bug light?” Sigewinne huffs. “You only use the bug light when you dream about your siblings.”

Wriothesley has no argument for that, so he keeps quiet. This is unfortunately proof enough for Sigewinne that she's guessed correctly, because she immediately hops down from her chair and grabs the kettle.

“I'm making you a cup of tea.” She says bluntly. “While it's brewing, you can tell me about what happened.”

“It's really nothing to worry about.” Wriothesley insists.

“Do not lie to me.” She hisses.

So Wriothesley keeps his mouth shut again. He glares at the wall, thinking about nothing in particular, until he starts to doze off a little. Sigewinne is in the back of his mind, with the clatter of dishes occasionally reminding him where he is.

It takes him a minute to recognize the cup of tea for what it is when it's finally set down in front of him, but he gratefully drinks down the hot liquid, warmth spreading through his core as he slumps against the wall. He refuses to look Sigewinne in the eye, mostly because he knows what he'll see is a load of worry.

“I had a dream about the murders.” He admits. “The aftermath of it all. Telling them to leave. The usual stuff.”

“What do you think brought it on?” Sigewinne asks. “You usually only dream about it on the anniversary. That's still months away.”

“Toulouse. My youngest brother.” Wriothesley sighs. “He works for the Marechaussee Phantom. He just started his rotation here.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

The awkwardness that fills the room smothers all other attempts at communication. Sigewinne kicks her feet back and forth, the heel of her slippers clicking against the metal frame of her chair. Wriothesley remains slumped against the wall, too tired to get up and too uncomfortable to fall asleep. If Wriothesley listens very closely, he swears he can hear the ticking of his clock in his room.

“I should go back to bed. Try and get some sleep.”

“Are you sure you want to? We can listen to music instead.”

“...I should go to bed.”

“Ok.” Sigewinne says, cleaning up the table. “I think I'll stay up tonight. I don't feel very tired.”

Wriothesley frowns at her. She doesn't do it very often, but he can still recognize an attempt to manipulate him when Sigewinne starts pulling her tricks. He's determined not to fall for it, and goes back to bed.

When he's still awake an hour later, he throws in the towel on preserving his pride and goes out to find Sigewinne.

She's asleep on the couch, curled up under a blanket that Wriothesley is sure was a gift from someone they both care about. She stirs a little when Wriothesley picks her up, but stays asleep the whole time. Even as Wriothesley turns out the lights and starts up the phonograph, he can feel her heartbeat– Melusine hearts are bigger than most people would think, almost too big for their tiny bodies. Neuvillette likes to claim that it's because they are so full of love, but Wriothesley knows that's just his favoritism showing.

The record on the phonograph skips, and Sigewinne jolts awake, her ears twitching violently as she scans the room. Wriothesley can feel where her tail is smacking against his wrist, twitching as she looks around.

“What made noise?” She asks.

“Just the record. It's scratched.” Wriothesley huffs. “I liked that record. I don't think they make that one anymore.”

“Is it the old songs with the piano and trumpet?”

“Yeah, that one. ‘Melodies of Dancing Halls’, I think it's called.”

“It's nice. I like it.” Sigewinne sighs happily. “You're still up.”

“You knew I would be.”

“Yeah. It's you, silly. Of course you can't sleep. You're an insomniac on a good day.”

“Rude, first of all. Second, um, rude.” Wriothesley huffs again. “If I wanted my sleep schedule to be insulted, I would have spent the night with my girlfriends.”

Wriothesley nudges Sigewinne’s door open with his hip, hoisting her up like he’s going to toss her and laughing when she smacks his arm in warning. He sets her down on the floor, pulling the covers back so she can scramble in. Sigewinne snuggles in as Wriothesley starts up her own record player, selecting a set of piano songs that he knows she likes. As he gets up to leave, Sigewinne grabs his sleeve and pulls him back.

“Something wrong, little bean?”

It slips out before he can stop himself, and the immediate look of worry on Sigewinne’s face is almost enough to shut him up for good. He glances away, his face growing warm with embarrassment.

“Wriothesley…”

“Just get some sleep, Sigewinne. I’ll see you in the morning.”

It won’t stop her from worrying, but nothing he says right now is going to fix that. Still, it’s been years since his homesickness got the better of him like that. Part of him wonders if it has to do with Toulouse. The rest of him knows it does. 

He closes the door, and sits in the kitchen reading for the rest of the night. Sigewinne doesn’t join him again until about 7 in the morning, but she looks almost as bad as he does. With the promise of morning having chased away the overwhelming dread he woke up with, he almost feels better. Almost.

“Did we get breakfast yet?”

“Not yet. I didn’t want to cook, so I sent Galvaryet for it a while back.” Wriothesley admits. “She should be back soon.”

“Mhm, good.” Sigewinne sits across from him, fidgeting with her fork. “Were you up all night?”

“Yeah. I told you about Toulouse?”

“You’ve told me a lot of things about the murders. About your siblings.” Sigewinne looks him dead in the eye. “If it’s going to be a problem, why not just deny his application outright?”

“Because, 1, I am not dealing with the nonsense of getting the Palais to send down another guard in the space of a month, 2, Toulouse will have access to the rejection and I would literally rather die than have him find out like that, and 3, I don’t technically exist. There’s no guarantee that the Palais would even accept my rejection.” Wriothesley sighs. “It’s just 6 months, what’s the worst that could happen?”

“He finds out.”

“Ok, well, that’s not happening. What’s the second worst thing that could happen?”

“He likes it down here and wants to stay.”

Wriothesley opens his mouth to argue, then shuts it when he realizes he has no defense. Sigewinne watches him, glaring harder the longer he stays silent.

“You cannot tell me you hadn’t considered that as an option.”

“I really didn’t.” Wriothesley admits sheepishly. “In my defense, I was kind of panicking about the fact that he’s here.”

“I’m guessing Estienne already got to you?”

“You two are not allowed to gang up on me. I will deal with it.”

“And when the secret comes out?”

“It won’t.”

“It will! Wriothesley, you’re not stupid. You know he’s going to find out eventually-”

A knock at the door grabs their attention, and Sigewinne begrudgingly puts a pin in her argument. Wriothesley answers to find Galvaryet, holding their breakfast– pancakes, with extra whipped cream and strawberries. Wriothesley happily takes the food, organizes for Galvaryet to get her vacation that she submitted for ages ago, and heads back to the kitchen. Sigewinne stabs her pancakes, which is a bad sign, because if she’s mad enough to be explicitly showing her frustration, she’s mad enough to cause some serious problems for Wriothesley. Wriothesley digs into his own pancakes, finding that he’s actually really hungry and feeling his mood turn around so quickly it makes his head spin.

“You should talk to him.” Sigewinne growls when she’s about halfway through her pancakes. “I think it’d be good for you.”

“I would literally rather drown.” Wriothesley mumbles around a mouthful of strawberry. “Besides, what good would it do? It’s not like I’m a good influence, Sigewinne. I’m a convicted murderer.”

“Everyone deserves a second chance.” Sigewinne snaps. “Regardless of their sins or flaws, everyone deserves a second chance. No exceptions.”

Wriothesley only realizes he’s seething with rage because he can feel a thin layer of frost forming on his hands.

“That’s not fair.”

“It’s your rule.”

“That’s exactly why it’s not fair. I got my second chance, Sigewinne. I’m using it right now! And I’m not about to throw it away for someone who doesn’t even care about me!”

“And how do you know he doesn’t care?”

“Because–” Wriothesley sighs, forcing himself to be calm. “Because I made a promise to my siblings. Toulouse could live his whole life, like what happened there never existed. They would keep him away from all that, and I would never reach out to them.”

“And this is a deal you have in writing? Or is it something you assumed?”

“I crossed a line, Sigewinne. I’m not dragging him over it just because I’m lonely.”

Wriothesley feels the ice on his hands shatter, digging into his palms and cracking his skin. He flinches, if barely, but pulls his hands away when Sigewinne tries to look at it. She huffs, but he still refuses.

So obviously the next logical step is for her to throw a glass of water in his face. He splutters in shock, staring at her as she glowers at him.

“You are taking such huge steps backwards, it’s a wonder you haven’t started fighting people in dark corners for looking at you funny.” Sigewinne snaps. “Seriously, Wriothesley. I know this is a difficult topic for you to talk about, but if you can’t handle him being here, then you need to cut him from rotation.”

“You threw water in my face.”

“You are being an idiot. You don’t have to talk to him– even though I think it would be better for everyone if you did– but if you start neglecting your health because he’s triggering your trauma, I will kick that boy out of the Fortress myself. And then I’ll go to Neuvillette about it.”

“Of course you would.” Wriothesley sighs. “Ok, fine. What do you want me to do?”

“I want you to talk to me, first and foremost. If you are having a hard time, you can come to me about it. And I want you to talk to him. I know you aren’t willing to tell him the truth, so instead, I want you to figure out if you want a relationship with him.”

“Of course I want a relationship with him, Sigewinne! That’s exactly the problem!”

“Well, you have your chance.” Sigewinne points out. “Finish your pancakes before they get cold.”

With few options left, Wriothesley begrudgingly finishes his pancakes. At least he’s prepared for the day ahead.

Chapter Text

Wriothesley manages to go a week without seeing or hearing of Toulouse, which is almost long enough for him to forget that Toulouse is down there with him. That doesn’t save him when Toulouse pops into his office unexpectedly in the middle of the day, fidgeting and not looking Wriothesley in the eye. Wriothesley is working on some important paperwork, so he doesn’t even realize Toulouse is in the room until he hears a small cough.

“Toulouse. Is something wrong?”

“I… listen, I’m really sorry to do this, but my fiancè’s dad had an accident, and she’s freaking out right now. Is there any chance I could leave early?”

“Oh, yeah, no problem. Solange is on call to cover people for the next hour, just talk to her before you leave.” Wriothesley pulls out a folder from his desk, thumbing through it and trying to find what he’s looking for. “Are you going to need an emergency leave of absence?”

“No, no, it’s not that severe. He’s just never… he’s never gotten hurt this bad. She sent a mutual friend of ours to tell me, and he said she’s freaking out a little. I’m really sorry–”

“Seriously, kid, don’t worry about it. Family is important, and family getting hurt is a whole other level of stressful. Take your time, I won’t hold it against you.”

“Thank you so much.” Toulouse sighs. Wriothesley doesn’t even have time to get a “You’re welcome” out before Toulouse bolts down the stairs, the front door of Wriothesley’s office slamming shut barely 20 seconds later. Wriothesley goes back to his paperwork, and by the time he goes for lunch, the incident has almost left his mind.

Which is why it’s such a shock to see Toulouse and Solange arguing in front of the Coupon Cafeteria, both of them equal amounts of pissed off. Solange is so red in the face that Wriothesley is worried she might burst into flames, while Toulouse looks like he might faint. Wriothesley keeps an ear out, hoping to figure out why they’re so upset.

“I don’t see how any of this is my fault!” Solange barks. “You left–”

“And it’s not my fucking fault I was lied to! I really do appreciate you covering me–”

“Yeah, well, these are my hours now, so go home!”

“How is that fair?”

“Kid, you’re new, so I’ll let your audacity slide, but you abandoned your post–”

“OH, FUCK OFF WITH THAT!”

Whelp. Time for Wriothesley to get involved. He turns around sharply, whistling at Bran and getting the clunky little mech to bump into the warring guards before they decide murder is a good option. Solange handles the impact gracefully, but Toulouse falls over and lands hard, swearing liberally as he hits the floor. Wriothesley steps in front of Solange, extending his hand to Toulouse to help him up.

“Not that we’re not happy to have you back, but what are you still doing here?” Wriothesley jokes. Unfortunately, Toulouse pulls a face that indicates that Wriothesley should have kept his mouth shut.

“He’s trying to steal his hours back!” Solange butts in.

“Solange. We’ll get there.” Wriothesley sighs. “Though, I just happened to be lucky enough to miss the first half of your incredibly loud conversation, so you’ll have to start from the top.”

“Archons, this is embarrassing. So, remember how I said a mutual friend told me about the accident?” Toulouse sighs, glowering as he stands. “I got up there, and turns out Elsie has no idea what I’m talking about. She was actually having lunch with her dad as I got to the house. So, obviously, since everything’s fine, I decided to come back and finish out my shift. It’s only fair.”

“Yeah, except for the fact that you gave me your hours for the day!” Solange huffs. “You can’t just take your shift back!”

“And why not? I get you’re pissed that I made you take my shift–”

“Oooooh, I know what’s happening. Solange, he’s on rotation. The Phantom does time-on-time-off differently, remember?”

“And that’s my problem somehow?”

“No, Solange, I’ll send him home. Just calm down, please? The whole Fortress can hear you two fighting.”

Wriothesley steers Toulouse away before either of them can say anything else about it, quickly ushering him to the side. Toulouse protests slightly, but doesn’t outright try to get away. Once they are a sufficient distance from Solange and her rage, Wriothesley spins Toulouse around to face him.

“I could have sworn I told Estienne to tell you this. I might have forgot, in which case, it’s on me, but I really hope not. So, emergency coverage works like this; Solange comes in for two hours just in case somebody needs to leave early. If someone does need to leave early, they give the rest of their hours for the day to Solange. We have the guards rotate through this duty, because they only get paid for the hours they work, and most people don’t like having to get short hour days when they could be working a full shift.”

“Oh. So, she’s upset because she won’t get paid if I come back?”

“Basically. The system is a little more complicated because I have to submit the hours to the Palais to make this arrangement valid, but you got the gist.” Wriothesley says. “I’m guessing you lost a friend today?”

“Um, pardon?”

“You said a ‘friend’ told you about Elsie’s situation. I’m guessing you’re not–”

“I genuinely thought that asshole was helping me. He’s always been a bit of a dick, but ever since I reported him for unprofessional behavior, I swear he’s been worse. It’s mostly shit like stealing my lunch, but this…”

“This crosses a line.” Wriothesley hums. “What’s his name?”

“I already reported it, don’t worry.”

“Oh, I know. I’m asking for me.”

Toulouse sighs, glaring at Wriothesley. Wriothesley grins at him, and Toulouse scrunches his nose at him. It’s such a familiar move that Wriothesley can’t help but laugh.

“Just because you live with a bunch of criminals doesn’t mean you have to act like them.”

“Bold words. I’ll have to disagree, seeing as–”

Seeing as I’m one of them . Wriothesley has to stop himself from blurting out the very secret he’s worked so hard to keep. Toulouse gives him a weird look, but Wriothesley shakes it off, smiling at him.

“Nothing. ‘S a stupid joke.” Wriothesley glances away. “Just forget about it.”

“Ok.” Toulouse raises an eyebrow at Wriothesley. “Just so you know though, I have, according to my fiancè, the worst sense of humor known to mankind.”

“Oh?”

“I like puns. And dad jokes.”

“Ah. Well, can’t fault you there. Humor is humor, no matter the method.”

Toulouse hums, nodding in response. Wriothesley walks with him in silence, but it isn’t oppressive or smothering like the silence of two people who don't know each other. It’s warm, and comfortable. Wriothesley feels the loneliness hidden deep within him start to flare up, but instead of beating it back like he’s used to, he soaks up the silence.

“You’re a good kid, Toulouse. You’ll do good down here.”

“You think so?” Toulouse asks.

“I know so. The old generation of guards, the ones down here when I first got here, they weren’t good for the Fortress. For the people down here. You, though, you put effort into your environment. And that’s just from what I know about you. I can tell you’re gonna be good for this place.”

“You’ve known me a week.”

“Oho, he doubts!” Wriothesley laughs. “I’ve been doing this a long time, kid. I know the merits and makings of a good guard, and you’ve got them. Besides, if I’m wrong, Estienne will never let me live it down.”

“Speaking of Estienne, I had a question for you.” Toulouse nudges Wriothesley with his elbow, though Wriothesley’s sure it’s not on purpose. “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to, I understand it’s personal information, but… Is it true you were an inmate?”

Wriothesley feels his rage wash over him, then sighs. The conclusion he’s come to is that Estienne told Toulouse he was an inmate, but he has no proof towards that, and Estienne of all people doesn’t seem like the kind of person to spill that secret. Besides, Wriothesley could always just lie about it… except he made a very strict promise to himself that he would never lie about his incarceration. Nevertheless, if that promise interferes with his promise to not to get Toulouse involved in the Santelle bullshit, he’s at a bit of an impasse.

“Yes.” He decides on the truth. “I was an inmate here. And I technically still am. My sentence has been suspended so I can perform my duties as administrator, but I am still functionally a criminal in the eyes of the law. I’m just a criminal with a heck of a lot of freedom.”

“Whoa. Can I… um, nevermind. That’s an invasive question.”

“You wanna know what I did?” Wriothesley chuckles. “Are you sure? I have no problem telling you, I just want you to understand that it will change how you think about me.”

“No it won’t.”

“Kid. I’ve done this a lot. It will change how you think about me. It’s not my problem, but I really don’t want to have to replace you.”

“Alright, alright. If you’re ok with telling me, then I’d like to know. No, actually, I bet I could guess.”

Wriothesley laughs, then shakes his head.

“That’s a challenge, I hope you know!” Toulouse grins. “Theft? No? Assault? Breaking and Entering? No, Possession of a Controlled Substance with Intent to Distribute!”

“Murder.” Wriothesley answers. “Specifically, Double Homicide.”

Toulouse looks shocked for a moment, then looks away. Wriothesley feels his heart sink, but he knew this was a possibility. Toulouse is disgusted with him, like their other siblings.

“Why?”

“ Why ?” Wriothesley repeats.

“Why did you kill them?”

“Because they were shit people. Because they treated me and my siblings like something to be bought and sold. Because I was sick of them using us. And because I didn't think that reporting them would save the people I cared about.”

“Was it worth it?”

“Oh, absolutely not.” Wriothesley laughs. “It was traumatizing and embarrassing and I got stuck down here. Plus, taking a human life is… it's certainly not something I'd wish on any decent being.”

“So you regret it?”

“When did I say that? No, if I had to, I'd do it all over again.”

Toulouse is silent, and the elevator doors open to the warm evening air, the scent of the ocean washing over the two of them as they stand there. Wriothesley steps out first, fidgeting with the control panel as Toulouse follows him.

“Did they deserve it?”

“No. No person deserves to die, no matter how horrible their sins.” Wriothesley sighs. “I do think I deserved to kill them, though. I can have a little murder, as a treat.”

Toulouse snorts loudly, and by the time Wriothesley has turned to face him completely, is on the floor in stitches. Wriothesley rolls his eyes, extending a hand to help Toulouse up. Toulouse grabs his hand, and Wriothesley hauls him to his feet.

“A little murder as a treat?” Toulouse quotes.

“I said what I said. You know how much bullshit I deal with on a daily basis? I absolutely deserve a treat.”

“Alright, I believe you.” Toulouse sighs. “Thanks for being so patient with me.”

“Of course, kid. Anytime.”

The journey back to his office is filled with a cold, sterile silence that makes his skin itch. He says nothing to the guards manning the boat, says nothing to the people guarding the release desk. He barely even notices when he walks past Estienne, his shoulder brushing past as he retreats to his office. He has a lot on his mind, and he's distracted enough that he can barely get his paperwork done.

Estienne drops a stack of papers on his desk, and Wriothesley damn near jumps out of his skin. Estienne raises an eyebrow, but doesn't say anything about Wriothesley's newfound skittishness. Instead, he leans back at pushes a paper out of the pile– Solange's time sheet.

“Toulouse clocked out early.” Estienne grumbles.

“I know. Kid was freaking out because some little shitstain that he trusted told him his fiancè was freaking out.”

“You can't make him special.”

“I'm not trying to make him special! I didn't give him any perks!”

“This time.” Estienne groans. “You've been acting off all week.”

“Yeah, I know. I'll be ok.” Wriothesley sighs. “Did you tell him I was an inmate?”

“What? No, it's none of my damn business. And you'd kill me.”

“That's what I thought. Just checking.”

“Don't tell me he knows.”

“He knows I killed somebody. Two somebodies, technically. And he knows why, or at least he knows the short version.” Wriothesley huffs. “ Somebody told him I was an inmate. Nobody learns that fast unless they're looking for something.”

Estienne sits on the couch, pulling out a packet of cigarettes. He tosses the pack from hand to hand, then opens it. Wriothesley watches him, trying to figure out what he's doing. Eventually, Estienne fishes a single cigarette out, twirling it between his fingers.

“No smoking in my office.” Wriothesley scolds. “Sigewinne will have my head if she catches so much as a whiff of that.”

“Oh, right. You quit.” Estienne sighs. “Well, I guess I won't get to smoke tonight.”

“You could go up top.”

“It's pouring buckets up there. I'm not going out in that unless I'm going home.”

“It's raining?” Wriothesley perks up. “Huh. Do you know if we're caught up on paperwork for the quarter?”

“Except invoices, but we don't have Sigewinne's budget yet. Why, what are you thinking?”

Wriothesley pulls on his coat, switching off his lamp as he ushers Estienne out of his office. He hops down the steps, humming lightly under his breath.

“I am thinking that I should go see my boyfriend.”

Chapter Text

“Can I get a–”

“Dozen Rainbow Roses, white vase, ribbon in a traditional two loop bow.” The florist behind the counter rattles off, rolling her eyes at Wriothesley. “Gold or purple?”

“Blue, actually.” Wriothesley snarks. “See? You don't know everything.”

“Monsieur, you're in here every two weeks. You get the same thing every damn time. Rainbow Roses just because, Lakelight Lilies for special occasions, international assortment for anniversaries. At this point the only thing I don't have pinned down when you walk in the door is which partner you're picking them up for.” The florist sighs. “Two–”

“Two hundred and eighty-three mora, thank you for my flowers!” Wriothesley drops the mora on the counter and bolts before the florist can smack him with a pair of shears.

The gentle pattering of the rain hitting his umbrella is soothing, but as he winds through the streets, he finds himself wishing he'd just left it down in the Fortress. He sneaks past a group of people huddled in the entrance of the Aquabus terminal, the lot of them hiding from the rain. A trio of Melusines stumbles past him, eager to be away from the packed crowds of people. Wriothesley nudges one of them upright when they trip, sneaking a candy out of his pocket and pressing it in her tiny hand.

“Don't tell Neuvillette.” He whispers, and the Melusine giggles.

The elevator ride up to the Palais is him and one other person, a nervous looking clerk with their hair in a tight bun. Wriothesley isn't looking at them, but he can hear their knees knocking together as they shake. Nearly the second the doors open, they bolt out into the rain, not even bothering to open their umbrella. Wriothesley frowns– that poor clerk is running in heeled shoes, and is very clearly unused to them. What if they fall?

He pushes open the door to the Palais and gives a quick nod to some Phantoms walking past, then ducks into the hallway. Fumbling his keys, he gets the elevator open, then hits the button for the apartment. His keys are color-coded, depending on which partner's apartment they go to. Navia's key is a bright gold, whereas Clorinde's is a gorgeous purple, courtesy of her favorite nail polish. Neuvillette's key is a deep blue, almost the same color as his robes.

Speaking of, Wriothesley almost trips over Neuvillette's robes when he stumbles into the apartment. Clothes are strewn everywhere, starting with Neuvillette's robes and gloves on the floor, and ending at Neuvillette's bedroom door, his boots haphazardly thrown across the threshold. Neuvillette himself is facedown on the bed in his undergarments, snoring softly into the pillows. He stirs when Wriothesley sits on the bed, but stills again when Wriothesley rubs his shoulders.

“Mmmh, there we go. Nice and easy.” Wriothesley murmurs. “I know how hard it is for you to just sit back and relax, but don't worry. I'm gonna take care of you, baby.”

Wriothesley sets down the vase of flowers and starts unfastening his boots, kicking them to the side before he crawls under the covers and snuggles against Neuvillette. This has the unfortunate side effect of waking Neuvillette up, startling him awake as Wriothesley scoops him up in his arms. There's a few seconds of silence as Neuvillette squints at Wriothesley, and Wriothesley can't tell if he's still just tired or pissed off that he was woken from his nap.

“Did I miss anything important?” Neuvillette mutters.

“Well, the Palais is still standing, nobody is freaking out, and I'm pretty sure we don't have another dinner date scheduled for a month. So I'm gonna say no.” Wriothesley jokes. “Rough day?”

“You have no idea. I had eight trials today, one of the defendants tried to fistfight the prosecutor, we had to lock down the building because one of the Gardes snuck off to, ah, “get busy” with the prisoner they were supposed to be escorting…” Neuvillette sighs. “Humans fascinate me. So contradictory.”

“Yeah, sounds like a time.”

“Oh, and that's not even touching on what my personal guard did today. I swear, everytime they rotate out my guards, they get worse.”

“What happened?”

“Some hooligan jumped on my table while I was trying to have lunch, and my guards decided the best course of action was to tackle me to the floor. I got out of my last trial late, so it was distressing enough to have that happen.” Neuvillette grumbles. “I was looking forward to that lunch. That soup is limited edition.”

Wriothesley threads his hands through Neuvillette's hair, sighing as Neuvillette burrows against him. Slowly, Neuvillette starts to relax, until he practically melts into Wriothesley's embrace all at once. Wriothesley gives a satisfied hum, petting Neuvillette until he hears the rain slow to a trickle. Now is the perfect time to focus on dinner.

“Did you get to eat anything for lunch?”

“No. My lunch ended up on the front of my robes, so I came back to change. I must have fallen asleep.”

“Yeah, that makes sense. What do you want for dinner?”

Neuvillette frowns, stretching as he sits up.

“I want Navia's cooking.” He mutters.

“Well, I can't help you there. Guess you're stuck with me.” Wriothesley jokes.

“Contrary to what you may believe, I am not, in fact, “stuck with you.” Neuvillette huffs. “You are very dear to me, and your presence brings me joy, whether or not you are actually present.”

Neuvillette turns and smiles at him, but the smile is quickly overpowered by a sudden look of shock. Wriothesley sits up quickly, concerned by the sudden change in expression, but he's hardly opened his mouth to ask what's wrong when Neuvillette cups his face, and Wriothesley suddenly feels very fragile.

“What's wrong, love?” Neuvillette asks, his voice soft and full of worry.

“I don't know. I haven't figured it out.”

“Oh, darling. It's alright. Come here.” Neuvillette scoops him up. “Was your day also difficult?”

“No, it was pretty normal. Bit tougher than usual, but I should have expected that. There wasn't anything that…”

Wriothesley trails off, suddenly realizing what might be causing distress Neuvillette is sensing.

“Shit. I have something to tell you, but it can wait.”

“Darling. You've been fretting since you walked in the door. What's wrong?”

“I don't wanna bother you with it. Your day has been bad enough–”

“And I want to listen to your troubles. Equal measure, love. We both give and take.”

Wriothesley sighs, pulling away. He feels very small right now, and he hates how it feels. Neuvillette rubs his shoulders, pressing kisses into his neck.

“Did I ever tell you about Toulouse?”

Neuvillette frowns– Wriothesley can feel it through the back of his shirt– and shakes his head.

“That name isn't familiar to me.”

“Well, it'll sound a lot more familiar as his full name. Toulouse Santelle.”

Wriothesley waits for the moment that Neuvillette puts it together, holding his breath until it hurts. He sighs, more in an effort to remind himself to breathe than anything else. That seems to shake Neuvillette from his silence, as what follows is a sharp hiss.

“Santelle.” Neuvillette repeats. “Santelle as in–”

“As in the youngest child of Louis and Danielle Santelle, yes.” Wriothesley confirms. “He's my little brother. And he just started his rotation at the Fortress.”

“I see.” Neuvillette hums. “Is he aware of the circumstances surrounding your incarceration?”

“He knows why I got sent down. But he doesn't know who I killed. He has no idea.”

The silence that hangs over them is suffocating. Wriothesley feels like he can hardly breathe. Neuvillette is silent as he rises from the bed, collecting one of his more casual outfits and walking to the bathroom. Wriothesley follows him, watching him get dressed and tie up his hair with a ribbon. Neuvillette turns and smiles tiredly at Wriothesley, scooping him up in a tight hug. Wriothesley awkwardly returns the hug, burying his face in Neuvillette's shoulder.

“I'll have one of the Melusines fetch us dinner. What would you like?” Neuvillette asks as he pulls away.

“Honestly? You put the idea of Navia's cooking in my head and now I want that.”

“I'll have them fetch her, then.”

“Oh, Neuv, don't bother her. She's probably tired.”

“That will be her decision to make, then.”

“Neuvvvvvvv. I don't wanna bother her.”

“I think you deserve a nice treat. You've clearly had a rough day.”

Wriothesley whines, but Neuvillette simply picks him up bridal style and drops him on the bed. Wriothesley can't even fight him on this, he's so tired. Wriothesley starts to fall asleep as Neuvillette scratches his head. He feels the blankets get pulled over him and decides to just rest for a moment. Surely just a moment of peace won't do any harm…

He wakes up to the sound of pots and pans clattering in the kitchen. Slowly, he forces himself to get out of the warm bed, shuffling to the door and propping it open.

Navia's laugh smacks him in the face like a ton of bricks. He stumbles into the hallway, leaning against the wall as his vision blurs. Golden swirls fill his vision, and he collapses into the waiting embrace of his girlfriend.

“Hi, puppy. Rough day?” Navia scratches his head as she ruffles his hair.

“You came.” Wriothesley whispers. “That makes it all better.”

Navia plays with his hair, helping him to the couch and sitting down with him. He realizes all at once that he's crying, and he holds her tighter when she hugs him. He feels so small, so fragile, and even with Navia and Neuvillette holding him, he feels like he's about to fall.

He starts to settle somewhat when the scent of food hits his nose, grounding him and bringing his mind back to his body. Which kind of sucks, because his body needs a lot of things right now and he's too tired to make decisions. He tries to figure out what he wants and gives up after his stomach growls at him for the second time.

“Is the food ready?” Wriothesley mutters.

“Almost. It's in the oven.” Navia replies. “You wanna tell me what happened?”

“No.” Wriothesley sighs. “I will anyway, but not until Clorinde gets here, because I don't want to think about it.”

“She'll be here in about five minutes. She's showering right now.” Neuvillette chimes in. “Does Navia know anything about the case?”

“No, I think she would have been too young.”

“I'm 27, boys, that'd be a heck of a case if I didn't know it.” Navia jokes.

“Yeah, well, I'm not surprised that the Court was so eager to put it behind them.” Wriothesley sighs. “What do you know about the Santelles?”

Navia is very quiet. For a moment, Wriothesley thinks that she didn't hear him, but when he sits up to ask, she very gently kisses him on the forehead and turns away.

“You're right. We should wait for Clorinde.”

Five minutes is an hour when you're staring into the face of doom, and Wriothesley only gets more antsy the longer it takes Clorinde to join them. When she eventually steps out of Neuvillette's bedroom, she's in her pajamas and a set of slippers that Wriothesley is pretty sure belong to him. She locks eyes with him, then immediately turns around and starts digging around in the cabinet.

“Neuvillette, where's your whiskey?” She asks.

“I don't have any.” Neuvillette replies with obvious disgust.

“Your wine, then?”

“How about we have this conversation sober, honey?” Navia chimes in.

“The booze isn't for me.”

“No, Navia's right. We should have this conversation sober.” Wriothesley stands up and hugs Clorinde. “Thanks for trying, though.”

“What happened?”

“What do you know about the Santelle case?”

Clorinde hisses through her teeth. Wriothesley flinches at the sudden noise, then curses at himself for being so jumpy.

“Don't tell me… no, actually, we're having dinner first. I'm not making you do this on an empty stomach.”

“Think Navia might lose her dinner if we make her listen to that.”

“Better that than not have an appetite.”

The timer on the oven dings, and the choice is removed from Wriothesley's hands. He sits down, hardly paying attention as the table is set and dinner is put down. There's quiet chattering as Navia, Neuvillette, and Clorinde catch up on their days. Try as he might, Wriothesley can't make himself join in on the conversation. It's more distressing to him that he feels so shaken than anything that's happened this past week.

“Wriothesley? Is the food not to your liking?” Navia asks.

He realizes with a start that there's lasagna in front of him. He's not hungry. He should eat something.

“I'm just tired.” He explains, and takes a small bite.

Flavor explodes in his mouth, shocking him back to reality. Within a few minutes, his plate is clean, and he's helping himself to seconds. Navia jokingly scolds him, and he sticks his tongue out at her. He hadn't realized how hungry he was. Thirsty, too– his glass is empty about halfway through his second portion. He almost knocks over the pitcher of water while trying to grab it. He realizes about halfway through his third piece that he's full, and Clorinde teases him incessantly until she realizes the same exact thing about herself.

He almost forgets why they're all gathered in the first place. He's full and tired and just wants to cuddle up with his partners and get some sleep. But, of course, he still has to tell them about Toulouse.

“So…” Wriothesley clears his throat nervously. “I should probably start by mentioning, for those who may not know, that I was incarcerated for the murders of Danielle and Louis Santelle. My foster parents.”

“Oh my Archons, I thought Clorinde was joking.” Navia mutters not quite under her breath.

“Yeah, no, I killed them. The exact details of that are messy at best, so we're not getting into it tonight. All you need to know is that they had it coming. I'm honestly surprised they weren't killed sooner.”

Wriothesley waits for a response, but the silence only seems to cause more words to sprout from him.

“I'm only mentioning this because… shit, this is hard. I'm only mentioning this because of my siblings. I knew it wouldn't be good for them to associate with a known murderer, so I cut contact. Mostly to protect Toulouse, my youngest brother. I haven't spoken to any of them in… God, almost 20 years now.”

Wriothesley feels himself gasping for air, struggling to breathe as the wright of what he's about to say settles in his throat.

“Toulouse is a member of the Marechaussee Phantom. He just started his rotation at the Fortress of Meropide last week. And he doesn't know anything about the murders. He doesn't know anything about me.”

The silence in the room is deafening. Navia rubs his shoulders quietly, holding Wriothesley as he finally deflates, the pressure holding him together suddenly gone.

“I'm so scared that he's going to find out. Obviously the goal is to not have that happen, but I should start preparing for if it does. And it's like every time I try to think about it, I can't.”

“I'm not surprised. My father used to say the Santelles were evil, and the darkest kind of it.” Navia mutters. “What did they do, if you don't mind me asking?”

“I…” Wriothesley sucks in a shaky breath. “I really do want to tell you. I just… It's so much, and I try not to think about it.”

“It's ok. You don't have to.” Clorinde says. “I know this is a difficult subject for you.”

“Those people… the Santelles… I don't want to think about it. And you know, for years, they got away with it. The Court thought they were saints.” Wriothesley laughs wryly. “I don't know any saints pimping out their foster kids for mora, but perhaps the Court simply has a skewed perspective.”

The room goes deathly still. Wriothesley feels the blood drain from his face as he realizes he said all of that out loud. Navia very slowly buries her face against his shoulder, and Wriothesley feels tears well up in his eyes. He hasn't thought about the Santelle house in so long, and he feels his stomach twist as he remembers the night of the murders.

“They'd done it for years at that point. They always made the oldest kid escort the younger ones to their “new homes”. What a fucking joke. They knew we'd have to lie to those kids. And then there were the lucky ones. The ones they kept. Kids like me, and my siblings. The ones they trained. The ones that performed.”

Neuvillette makes a small choking noise, and his grip on Wriothesley's hand tightens.

“They were supposed to keep Toulouse. But a few weeks into having him, Louis told me to start training him for distribution. They never made us train the kids, so that was weird enough. But I when I asked him, he only said that they'd found a late buyer for Toulouse. I… I don't remember exactly what he said, but I just… snapped. Slammed his head into the desk until he stopped moving, then went and did the same to Danielle.”

“And they sent you to prison for that?” Navia whispers.

“I killed two people. It doesn't matter why. I pleaded guilty, and they gave me a sentence in the Fortress. They did also give me a chance at parole, which I think I would have taken if things didn't work out the way they did. But I did kill them. I won't ever excuse that.”

“Well, I think you shouldn't have gone to prison for that. I think you should have gotten a second chance.”

“I did.” Wriothesley insists. “The Fortress was a place for me to start over. New name, new friends, new me. As ridiculous as it sounds, I got my second chance. And I'm using it. I'm using it as much as I can.”

“So.” Clorinde interrupts. “Toulouse.”

It's not a question. It doesn't have to be.

“I don't know what I want.” Wriothesley admits. “On the one hand, it's not fair to him to drag him into that. Especially not when I went to prison specifically so he would never have to deal with that. On the other hand… I can't lie to him. If he asks questions, I will answer them. If he wants to know, I'll tell him. I just really hope he never wants to know.”

It’s such an unsatisfying end to the conversation. Unfortunately for Wriothesley, he’s not sure there is a good way. And that’s almost more frustrating than the situation that got him here in the first place.

Chapter Text

Wriothesley grumbles, glaring at his desk. Between him and freedom stands a pile of paperwork the thickness of a dictionary, due tonight at 7 pm sharp. And for the life of him, he can't seem to focus. He groans, glances at the clock, then gets up and heads downstairs, grumbling as he stomps up to the Coupon Cafeteria to pick up his kettle from Wolsey.

Wolsey isn't paying attention to his line, so when Wriothesley comes up and knocks on the counter, he jumps nearly three feet in the air and swears liberally.

“Wolsey, are you done with my kettle? I can’t focus without tea.” Wriothesley mopes.

“Aren’t you supposed to be working on your invoices?”

“....Noooooooooo. Maybe. I need tea.”

“...HEY, ESTIENNE?” Wolsey yells out. Wriothesley glares at him, shushing him to no avail.

Estienne joins them, takes one look at Wriothesley, and raises his eyebrow in questioning. Wriothesley stammers, not quite finding the words to explain himself. Estienne sighs, turning to Wolsey and grabbing the kettle back. Wriothesley gratefully opens his hands, but Estienne pulls the kettle away. Wriothesley grumbles again, glaring at Estienne.

“Did you at least get started?” Estienne asks.

“Can I have my tea now?” Wriothesley growls. “Estienne, I need that to focus!”

“Did you start your invoices?”

“If I answer your question, can I have tea?”

“Wriothesley. Did you–”

“No, I didn’t start my fucking invoices. Give me my kettle back before I punch you.”

Estienne sighs, shoving the kettle into Wriothesley’s hands. Wriothesley sighs in relief, checking over the kettle for signs of damage. Estienne rolls his eyes, then catches Wriothesley by the elbow and starts dragging him back to the office. Wriothesley grumbles again, but makes no attempt to fight back. He usually has to be pushed around when it comes to his invoices.

“Can you do this, or do you need a guard?” Estienne asks.

“Honestly? If we can spare a guard, that’ll do wonders for me. The pressure helps.”

“Alright then.” Estienne shoves Wriothesley into the middle of the walkway– probably as revenge for Wriothesley being a whiny little shit– and Wriothesley almost trips over Toulouse. “Hey, new kid! Duke has a task for you!”

“Estienneeeeeeeee.” Wriothesley groans. “He’s been here a month.”

“Oh, please. I have things to do. Plus, he’s actually got enough spine to stand up to you.”

“Uh.” Toulouse stammers. “I’m missing some context.”

“Ok, here’s the deal.” Wriothesley hums, then waves his hand dismissively. “Nevermind, it’s too much to sum up. I’m ordering you to keep me in my office. I am not allowed to leave until my invoices are finished. I will not lie to you about whether or not I am finished. And no other order will override this one. Clear?”

“Ummmmm… sure?”

“You literally just have to sit in front of the office and keep me from leaving. It’s not that hard.”

“But… I have things to do.”

“And I will do my best to get this done quickly so you can go about your usually scheduled day. But for now, you stay put. And that’s an order.”

Wriothesley darts into his office and slumps against the door. He hates doing his invoices- it's boring and slow and he just hates having to sit and stare at papers for an hour straight. He's still grumbling when he stumbles up the stairs, taking the time to start the kettle before sitting down in front of his paperwork. He fidgets and fusses, then starts reviewing the paperwork. There isn't a lot of it, it just takes forever. Maybe he should wait for his tea to be ready first...

The kettle screeches from the kitchen, inviting him to go get a cup of tea. He gratefully takes the opportunity to make himself a cup, then sits back down at his desk. He fidgets some more with his pen, day-dreaming about heading to the surface for a quick walk around. Maybe if he just slips out for a few minutes, nobody will notice he's gone.

His hand is on the door handle before he even realizes he left his desk. He cracks the door open– no Estienne, good– then yanks it wide as he prepares to sprint for the exit. Instead of getting the attention of Estienne or Grainfield, though, he's met with the glaring face of Toulouse.

“Did you finish your invoices?” Toulouse asks with a slight snark.

“Uh.” Wriothesley stammers, because he definitely wasn't prepared for that. “I'm just gonna take a quick walk-”

“Your Grace, I have explicit orders to keep you from leaving your office until your invoices are finished.”

“ What ?” Wriothesley feels his brow furrow. “And who gave you such an order?”

“You did, Your Grace.”

Wriothesley opens his mouth to protest, then closes it when he remembers he did, in fact, do that. He briefly considers trying to order Toulouse to let him leave, but that probably won't work.

“Hey, what's that thing?” Wriothesley points over Toulouse's shoulder, then sprints for the exit.

He makes it all of three feet before he's yanked back by his coat. He flails a bit as he's tossed backwards, landing hard on his ass and swearing liberally. Toulouse stands over him, glaring as he crosses his arms. Wriothesley grumbles, eventually glaring back since he has nothing better to do.

“Go finish your invoices.” Toulouse commands.

“I don't wannaaaaa.” Wriothesley whines, mostly to be annoying.

“Oh? I'm sure Estienne and Sigewinne will have something to say about that.”

“Nghhhhhya, you bitch!” Wriothesley grumbles. “Bringing Sigewinne into this, I can't believe you.”

“You are being very childish right now. If I promise you a cookie, will you behave?”

“Archons, kid, I'm already down! Don't kick a man at his low point!”

Wriothesley hauls himself to his feet and slinks back into his office, grumbling the whole time. When he sits down to get started on his invoices, he reviews each page, then completes it, and before he knows it, he's done. With a satisfied sigh, he packages up all of the papers, seals the envelope intended for the Palais Mermonia, and skips out of his office. He passes Toulouse on his way out, but doesn't think much of it until Toulouse yells his name.

“Huh?” Wriothesley turns, glancing down at Toulouse. “Did you need something?”

“Are your invoices done?”

“Yeah, got ‘em right here. Why, did you need to submit something?”

“No, I just couldn't let you leave until you were finished.”

“Oh, right. Did I assign you to that?” Wriothesley frowns. “Meh, whatever. It'll come back to me. In any case, yes, they're done, thank you for babysitting me, remind me to give you an extra 5,000 credit coupons for your troubles.”

“Whoa, what?” Toulouse laughs nervously. “You want to–”

“You don't live on-site, right? I guess I should have said mora instead of assuming you'd do the conversion. So, I owe you 5,000 extra mora for your troubles.”

“That's really not necessary–”

“It's the standard bonus for whatever poor guard has to babysit me while I do my invoices.” Wriothesley insists. “Just take the money, Toulouse. It's not like the Fortress is hurting for it.”

“I just… that's a lot of mora. Are you sure?”

“Hell yeah I'm sure.” Wriothesley snorts a laugh. “Kiddo, you're acting like I just paid your rent for the month.”

“You did!” Toulouse says. He then quickly slaps a hand over his mouth. “I mean–”

“Where the hell do you live, Toulouse?”

“East block. Off of 17th.” Toulouse mutters. “You know… The Gutter.”

“Yikes.” Wriothesley hisses through his teeth.

The Gutter is one of the least forgiving places in the Court of Fontaine, and it isn't made much better by the fact that the sewers are a cheaper and safer place to live. Granted, the Fleuve Cendre has it's quirks and only the disenfranchised are truly supported on that level, but the fact that The Gutter is still kicking when the Fleuve Cendre is up and operating is concerning. Granted, The Gutter took a turn for the worse after the Santelles were killed– without them pouring money into the neighborhood, the good people probably had no reason to stay.

“The Gutter costs you 5,000 a month? I would've thought it's less expensive, considering it's… well, The Gutter.”

“Elsie and I were saving up for a house, but that's been pretty slow going until recently. We found a place, own it outright, we just can't move until our lease is up.” Toulouse sighs. “I swear, our landlord hates us. I wouldn't be surprised if we got evicted just because.”

“Sounds like it's been on your mind quite a bit.”

“It's… well, it's not “fine”, obviously, but it's not a problem. Just stressful.”

“Still. Stress is never fun to deal with.”

“No, it's not.” Toulouse pouts. “I shouldn't be bringing it to work, though. My mind needs to be here.”

“Yeah, being visibly distracted is a good way to get stabbed by some upstart who doesn't know better yet.”

Toulouse stops dead in his tracks, turning around only to look at Wriothesley with utter shock. Wriothesley tilts his head with a confused hum, unsure of why Toulouse looks so surprised.

“What?”

“I might get stabbed ?” Toulouse asks.

“Kid. You work in a prison. What did you want me to say?”

“Well, I mean– Surely there's rules–”

“Yeah, “Don't stab the guards” is pretty high up on that list. Right next to “Don't escape” and all those other pesky things getting in the way of freedom.” Wriothesley sasses. “It's a prison, kiddo. There's criminals living down here. And not all of them play nice.”

“I– Well–” Toulouse huffs. “I'm not saying I expected this job to be safe. I just…”

“Forgot?” Wriothesley takes a guess, and Toulouse's pout gets even more prominent. “Archons, kid, you weren't joking about being spoiled.”

“Oh, fuck off.” Toulouse growls. “I worked hard for my position, and I worked hard for my reputation. I hardly think the actions of 13-year-old me should have any bearing on who I am today.”

“No, no, that's fair. I wasn't trying to discredit that. You're just very… expressive.”

“This is coming from Mr. “I have to be locked in my office or I won't do my invoices”? Hilarious.”

“HEY.” Wriothesley huffs. “You can't do that.”

“Why not?”

“Um… ‘Cuz I'm your boss.”

Toulouse pauses, seeming to think about that. Wriothesley feels a smirk growing on his face, until he notices a smirk on Toulouse's face, even more devilish than his own. Toulouse leans towards Wriothesley, standing on his tiptoes so he's closer to Wriothesley's face.

“Bullshit.” Toulouse whispers, and Wriothesley feels his jaw drop.

“Oh! So that's how it's gonna be!” Wriothesley laughs. “You're a menace, kiddo.”

“I'm just following your good example.” Toulouse teases. “Have fun on the surface, I'm gonna do my rounds.”

Wriothesley forgets he has to watch where he's walking when he's talking to Toulouse, and as a consequence, bonks his head on an extruding valve attached to the closest gardemek. Toulouse snorts, pressing his fist against his mouth as Wriothesley swears under his breath.

“Yeah, I'm fine, don't check on me or anything.” Wriothesley jokes.

“Are you ok?”

“I'm fine. I got a thick skull.” Wriothesley pauses, then very quietly adds; “That probably wasn't the best choice of words, huh?”

“I won't say anything.” Toulouse chokes on his own laughter, even as he tries to promise he won't tell about Wriothesley's blunder.

“I'm starting to get the impression that you're not being honest with me.” Wriothesley chuckles. “Shoo, go do your rounds.”

“Yes sir!”

The elevator ride to the surface is blissfully silent, giving Wriothesley the time to think about whatever he wants. Despite having that freedom, his mind keeps coming back to Toulouse. He's so easy to talk to, and he isn't scared of Wriothesley. He's got a good heart, and he's right there…

“Stop it.” Wriothesley hisses to himself. “You promised. Leave that boy alone.”

Toulouse deserves better. He deserves better than being shackled to the Santelles’ twisted legacy. He deserves better than having a murderer for a brother. He deserves better.

Wriothesley pushes away the ache in his heart and turns his attention elsewhere. He ends up focusing on a beetle meka that somehow got into the elevator, like that will somehow fix everything. Now that he thinks about it, though, how did the beetle get here? Surely it didn't tumble in through the surface elevator? But they aren't waterproof, so where else could it have come from? It's definitely not one of his.

“Where did you come from, little guy?” Wriothesley laughs as the beetle crawls up his arm. “You're not supposed to be down here.”

The beetle chirps quietly, skittering into Wriothesley's coat. Wriothesley chuckles as he steps out into the warm sunshine of Erinnyes. It's a hop, skip, and a jump back to the Court of Fontaine, but he takes his time, strolling through the gardens and enjoying the fountains. His little beetle friend skitters about, climbing up his hair and sitting on top of his head. It's still up there when he gets to the aquabus station and takes the only open seat next to the world's most judgemental lady. She scoffs at him when he sits down, and spends the rest of the wait refusing to look at him.

“Ok, I guess.” Wriothesley mutters under his breath. His beetle friend skitters down to his shoulder, and he playfully rolls his shoulder to toss it into his hand. It doesn't work, and the beetle continues to cling to his shoulder.

A shriek pierces his ears, and he looks up just in time to see a handbag swinging for his face.

Chapter Text

“Puppy, why am I bailing you out of jail?” Navia sighs.

“Well, you see, it’s quite simple. Somebody smacked me with a handbag in an attempt to kill a poor, defenseless subdetection unit, and being as I didn’t want to be smacked in the face, I grabbed the handbag and threw it across the room. So obviously the next logical step for this woman is to slap me across the face.”

“Yes. The black eye made that obvious.”

“I tried really hard not to lay hands on her. I honestly didn’t even hit her. She was out of control, so I picked her up and dropped her in the waterway. And then Gracie from the Phantom “arrested” me.” Wriothesley explains. “So it’s less “bailing me out of jail” and more “bitch was crazy”. Got it?”

“So you can leave?”

“Yeah, I just figured I should get someone to pick me up.” Wriothesley groans. “I have an invoice to submit, so it’ll be nice to get out of here.”

Navia rolls her eyes, then kicks the door so it swings open. Wriothesley chuckles, offering a grateful smile to Navia. As they leave the cell block, Gracie pulls open the door for them. Wriothesley gives her an enthusiastic thumbs up, and Gracie rolls her eyes.

“Let's not go chucking Fontaine's socialites into fountians, shall we, Monsieur Wriothesley?”

“Hey, she calmed down, didn't she?”

“She most distinctly did not.” Gracie grumbles. “Did you want to press charges?”

“What? Press charges?” Wriothesley laughs. “I think we missed a step.”

“Well, she hit you first. Without provocation. That counts as assault. It'll be a quick civil case, so over and done in a few weeks.”

“That's a lot of paperwork though. Doubly so if it's ruled she needs to pay out.” Wriothesley scrunches his nose. “Yeah, I'm good.”

“Ok…” Gracie sighs, turning around. “I only asked because we're charging her with assault of a civil servant already, so if you wanted in on that–”

“Assault of a civil servant? Who else did she hit?”

“You do realize you count as a civil servant, Your Grace?”

“Since when?”

“You run a prison, Wriothesley. Of course you count as a civil servant.” Navia giggles. “Anyway, tell me this bitch is in a cell.”

“Uh, well…” Gracie hisses. “We’re still taking her statement.”

“Ok, well, as long as I don’t run into her.” Wriothesley huffs.

Navia hangs off his arm the whole way to the Palais Mermonia, giggling at his stupid jokes and teasing him. Wriothesley loves the attention, and he keeps the jokes coming so he can make Navia laugh. He happily drops the packet of paperwork on Neuvillette’s desk, even though Neuvillette isn’t there, then slides back out into the hallway and wraps himself around Navia.

“Hello, gorgeous.” Wriothesley giggles. “What do you think about a spar session?”

“A spar session, or a “spar session”? The answer is yes either way, I just want to know.”

“Don’t… don’t put ideas in my head. I am easily distracted.” Wriothesley sighs. “Ok, now I just want cuddles. I genuinely wanted a spar, but now I’m tired and want cuddles.”

“Fair. Should we break into Neuv’s apartment?”

“No, let’s break into Clorinde’s.”

“Oooooh, naughty boy!”

They race to Clorinde’s apartment, sneaking inside and crashing onto the couch. Wriothesley sheds his coat and shirt quickly, but as he’s standing there, he’s hit with an overwhelming wave of loneliness. Navia slows down the second she notices, rushing over and scooping Wriothesley up in a quick hug. Slowly, Navia pulls him over to the bedroom, pulling back the covers and cuddling with him as the day turns to night.

“We should get something to eat.” Navia eventually whispers. “Do you want anything special?”

“Mondish food?” Wriothesley asks. “I really want meat pie.”

“Ok. There's a place nearby that does to-go orders. I'll get some.”

Wriothesley buries himself under the covers with an affirmative hum. Navia chuckles, then leaves the room, shutting the door behind her. In the suddenly dark and empty room, Wriothesley feels exhausted, and all at once he can't take it anymore. He sits up, blinking as he looks around.

There's a light coming from the corner. He's not sure that it was there before. And wasn't the bed in the middle of the room? No, he's not in Clorinde's house anymore. He's not sure where he is.

He shuffles towards the light, kneeling and pushing aside the boxes obscuring it. It's a glass Onikabuto, plugged into the wall and glowing a soft purple. The horn is jagged from where it broke off when he dropped it after a nightmare. This is the original bug light, from his teenage years.

Wriothesley's stomach drops. He knows exactly where he is.

The lock clicks and the door swings open. Wriothesley scrambles to his feet, gripping the bug light in his hand so hard that he feels it slice through his palm. The shadow in the doorway is looming and ominous, and even though he can't see the face, he knows it's glaring at him. He knows that face. He doesn't need to see it to know that the thing behind it is angry.

“___, why the fuck are you still up.” The shadow growls.

“I couldn't sleep.” Wriothesley answers involuntarily– the dream has taken on a mind of its own, and won't let him free. “Why does it matter? It's not like you need me tonight.”

The shadow approaches, and Wriothesley flinches. The smell of cheap wine floods the room, nearly overpowering him.

“What's in your hand?”

“It's nothing. Go to bed, you reek.”

“Show me your hands.”

“Fuck off.”

The shadow slaps him. Hard. Wriothesley drops to his knees, cradling his cheek as the shadow spits on him. The bug light timbles into his lap, then onto the floor as Wriothesley gets slapped again, hard enough to knock the breath from his lungs.

“Ungrateful brat. We should have sold you.” The shadow slurs. “What the hell is this thing?”

“It was a gift from a regular. It's mine.”

“Not anymore.” The shadow steps on his precious bug light, shattering it in mere seconds. “Go to sleep, you little bastard.”

Anger flares in Wriothesley. There's nothing he can do to fix this situation, but as he regains control of his body, he finds himself vibrating with rage and fear. Isn't it enough that he suffered the first time around? Why is he subject to such torment from his own mind? Why does he have to relive it again?

“You fucker.” Wriothesley snarls at the shadow. “I hope you rot in hell.”

The shadow turns and kicks him square in the stomach. Wriothesley tumbles to the floor, and suddenly he feels the sharp sting of a belt smack him across the face. he curls in on himself, but taht does little to protect his back and arms from the bite of his attacker's makeshift whip. He finds himself crying out as the barrage against him gets worse. He's sobbing and begging to any god that'll listen for a moment's reprieve. He gets hit again, and again, and again–

“Wriothesley!”

He jolts awake, holding very still as somebody shakes him, still calling his name. The sheets smell familiar, nothing like the house he grew up in, and his back doesn't ache from the fresh whipping his mind convinced him was real. The bed is in the middle of the floor, and barely big enough for two people. This isn't his room. He's safe. He's with someone he trusts.

“Clori?” Wriothesley guesses, his voice shaky and soft.

“Oh, thank goodness you're awake. You were having a nightmare. Are you ok?” Clorinde rubs his shoulders and ruffles his hair.

“Yeah. I'll be fine.”

“Wri. You're shaking.”

“Yeah, that's normal. I mean, not “normal”, obviously. It tends to happen after my nightmares.” Wriothesley sucks in a shaky breath. “Can I have some tea? That helps.”

“Yeah, Navia's got the kettle on. Can you walk to the kitchen, or would you rather stay put?”

“No. I wanna go with you.” Wriothesley stutters a bit– he always has trouble speaking after nightmares. “People help. Light helps.”

“Ok. Here, hold my hand, I'll walk with you.”

Wriothesley grips Clorinde's hand, shuffling behind her as they walk to the kitchen. Navia is bopping around, bustling about as she cleans dishes, dries them, and puts them away. Wriothesley spots the bag of food on the table and happily grabs his plate, scarfing down the still warm meat pie. The rustling sound must get Navia's attention, because the next thing Wriothesley knows, she's draped over his shoulders and kissing him on the cheek.

“Hey, puppy. You feeling ok?” Navia hugs him, draping herself over his shoulders.

“Better now. I needed food so badly.” Wriothesley mumbles. “I think I forgot to have lunch.”

“Oh, puppy, you shouldn't do that. I can pack you a lunch–”

“Navia. It's fine.” Wriothesley insists. “I'm not going to ask you to go out of your way to fix my mistakes. It's not like I forget every day.”

“Ok.” Navia says. “Can I ask what your nightmare was about?”

“You can ask.”

“Will I get an answer?”

Wriothesley scrunches his nose, glaring at Navia. She continues to stare innocently at him.

“Stop knowing me.”

“Never. Answer my question.”

“No, you will not get an answer if you ask. At least, not yet.”

“Well, then, that's answer enough.” Navia sighs. “You scared me. You didn't mean to, I know that, but you were thrashing like a madman in your sleep.”

“Sorry.” Wriothesley mutters. “I wasn't expecting it either, if that helps.”

“Was it Toulouse again? I've only ever seen you that distressed on the anniversary.”

“No. I don't know what it was. But it wasn't Toulouse.” Wriotheslsy sighs. “I don't think it was Toulouse. Usually, when it's him, I dream about the aftermath.”

“Does he know anything about the murders? I mean, he had to have seen the bodies.”

“Well, if he did, he doesn't remember.” Wriothesley sighs. “Or he just didn't tell me. It's not like this comes up in casual conversation.”

“But he trusts you?” Clorinde asks.

“Well, he has to. I'm his boss.” Wriothesley sighs. “If this is all I get, that's fine.”

“Is it?” Clorinde asks. “Clearly you're losing sleep over it.”

“I… Well… I can't just…” Wriothesley sighs. “It's complicated.”

“That’s a bullshit answer reserved for teenage drama and cheating husbands.” Clorinde snarks.

“Well, what the hell else am I supposed to do?!”

“You could talk to him?”

“Geniunely, I want to know how you think I’m supposed to start that conversation. “Hey Kiddo, sorry to drop this on you, but I killed your parents and also I’m your surprise older brother!” Yeah, right.”

“Well, then, at the very least admit you’re being whiny about it.” Clorinde sasses. “If it’s fine, it’s fine. If not, then we’ll help you think up solutions.”

Wriothesley groans, slumping in his chair and picking at his food. Clorinde sighs, exasperated as Navia finishes up the dishes and sits across from Wriothesley. Slowly, Wriothesley sits up, ready to admit his girlfriends are right, that he is being whiny about this, that he made his choice and should stick with it.

He doesn’t even get a single word out when one of the dishes loses the fight against gravity and falls to the floor. Wriothesley flinches when it shatters, immediately getting up to help pick up the pieces.

“I’m sorry.” He mutters. “You’re right, I’m being whiny. I’m not looking for solutions, I just want to complain. I’m sorry for–”

“Puppy. We aren’t mad.” Navia gently takes his face in her hands, pulling him away from the shards of broken glass. “It hurts us to see you like this. Obviously, this whole situation is hurting you, and we aren’t quite sure how the best way to help is. Now, we’ve all said some inflammatory things tonight, so why don’t we all apologize and go to bed?”

“I’m sorry for picking fights.” Wriothesley murmurs.

“I’m sorry for calling you whiny, and trying to have you lean on me when I definitely wasn’t in the headspace to be helpful.” Clorinde responds.

“And I’m sorry for breaking into your apartment, Clori.” Navia finishes. “There, better?”

“Yeah, a little bit.” Wriothesley sighs. “I’ll make you a deal. If I’m asked, I will tell him the truth, to the best of my ability to do so. In return, just let me cry about it a little?”

“Yeah, that’s fair.” Clorinde agrees. “Want us to tell Neuvillette, or…”

“Yeah, could you? That’d be great.”

Clorinde kisses his forehead, and Wriothesley forces himself to relax. His heart is still pounding from the nightmare, and he needs to calm down if he wants any hope of falling asleep later. But even as he pushes away the fear and anguish, he knows he is only setting himself up to confront a different monster later. He only hopes he can make it that long.

Chapter Text

For two weeks, Wriothesley’s interactions with Toulouse are blissfully normal. He almost starts to forget the weirdness of Toulouse being down in the Fortress. Toulouse is adjusting nicely to the Fortress, and Wriothesley is starting to get used to him being there– it’s gotten to the point where Wriothesley can go about his duties without getting jumpscared by Toulouse’s presence.

It doesn’t last. But in the weirdest twist possible, that’s neither Wriothesley or Toulouse’s fault.

He’s grocery shopping with Sigewinne, trying to find that one very specific ice cream that she likes, when somebody glomps onto his arm with a loud, “There you are, darling!”, which would be fine, except that this person is not one of his partners.

“Um–”

“Play along?” The girl whispers, her eyes wide with fear and panic. Instantly, Wriothesley knows what’s happening– there is a creep following this poor girl.

“Oh, there you are, Hon. What do you think about this soup?” Wriothesley sees the creep right as he drops his arm over the girl’s shoulder. The creep in question huffs, then walks behind them, glaring daggers at Wriothesley.

The girl stiffens as the creep turns the corner, then relaxes when he doesn’t come back. Wriothesley immediately removes his arm from her shoulder, stepping back and sizing her up. The girl seems scared of him, which, fair– Wriothesley knows that he looks scary, and while he’d usually count that as a benefit, right now it’s causing more problems than fixing them.

“Do you need me to crouch? I can’t imagine it’s comfortable for you to crane your neck like that.”

“Oh, shush, I’m like 5’7.” The girl snarks.

“And I’m 6’6.” Wriothesley grins. “I’m Wriothesley, and you are?”

“Elisia Sinclair. Most folks call me Elsie.” Elsie sighs. “Thanks for getting that creep off my back. I lost my boyfriend to a mini-mek showcase outside and I figured you could help.”

“Yeah, scary dog privilege. My girlfriends use it all the time. I’m surprised you weren’t spooked by me.”

“I mean, I saw you with your kid. I figured you’re good with kids, you’re probably an ok human.” Elsie grumbles. “I am absolutely going to lord this over my fiancé.”

And that’s the exact second that Toulouse comes sliding around the corner, nearly careening into Sigewinne. He damn near trips trying to make sure he doesn’t knock her over, landing solidly on his ass after his course correction causes him to crash into a shelf full of nut butter. Elsie snorts a laugh into her palm, and Toulouse whips his head around, glaring at Elsie.

“He’s beauty, he’s grace–”

“Don’t you dare. I’d like to remind you of the celery incident.”

“That was not my fault. I didn’t leave that in our bedside drawer.” Elsie points at him. “Also, how was your mini-mek time?”

“It was ok. Would have been better with you there.” Toulouse sighs. “I won a mek in a game! Wanna see it?”

“Oh, absolutely. First though, I have to introduce you to my new best friend.” Elsie pulls Wriothesley over towards her, giggling when Wriothesley quirks an eyebrow at her. “New best friend, meet Toulouse. My fiancé.”

“Oh, we’ve met.” Wriothesley chuckles when Toulouse’s eyes go wide. “Kiddo, you have got to stop ending up on the floor. It’s a bad look for everyone involved.”

“Oh, Archons, not in front of my wife.” Toulouse groans. “I don’t know how you two met, but I’m sure it;s going to end badly for me.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Elsie giggles.

“I’m his boss.” Wriothesley laughs.

“Oh!” Elsie scrunches her nose. “Wait. That means…”

“I’m the administrator of the Fortress of Meropide, yes.”

“Can you arrest the creep?”

“Unfortunately, no. I didn’t see him doing creepy shit, so there’s no legal precedent. I’d suggest filing a report with the Gardes.”

“What creep?” Toulouse shoots to his feet, glancing around. “Elsie, what creep?”

“One of my regulars. I didn’t think he’d be back in Fontaine yet.” Elsie sighs. “Just a few more months and I can quit my stupid job. This license training could not go any slower, I swear.”

“Seriously, Elsie, if anyone hurts you–”

“Baby, I’m glad you’re willing to go to prison for me, but maybe don’t start in front of your boss?”

Toulouse looks Wriothesley dead in the eye, then turns back to Elsie. With full seriousness, he looks her right in the eyes, and smirks.

“I can have a little murder. As a treat.”

Wriothesley nearly chokes on his laughter, wheezing as Elsie looks at both him and Toulouse with the most incredulous look. Toulouse is also holding back giggles, snorting into his fist as Elsie sighs.

“I don’t know what’s worse; the possibility that he picked that up from you–” Elsie points at Wriothesley, who is practically on the floor at this point, “–or the possibility that you picked that up from him.”

“Hey!” Toulouse protests between giggles. “I’m not that bad!”

“You are terrible.” Elsie insists. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“Terrible reason to have a partner, just cuz they’re cute. I think, mayhaps, you should teach him a lesson.” Wriothesley snickers.

“What the fuck, Wriothesley?” Toulouse protests.

“I am using my menace points.”

“Oh, so it didn’t count as using your menace points when you made me lock you in your office so you–”

“Ahp! Shush!” Wriothesley points at Toulouse. “Zip! Shush! Shhhhhhush!”

“But–”

“SHUSH!!”

“Why are we yelling?” Sigewinne pops up next to Wriothesley, spooking both him and Toulouse. “Oh, hey, Toulouse.”

“Good afternoon. So, everyone, now that we're acquainted… what are you doing here?”

“I need groceries. And Sigewinne bites people if she doesn't leave the Fortress regularly.”

“WRIOTHESLEY!” Sigewinne hisses.

“It's true!”

“Yeah, but you don't have to say it!”

Elsie starts cackling at that, crumpling against Toulouse as Sigewinne hisses at Wriothesley. Toulouse rolls his eyes, muttering something under his breath about “and my sense of humor is awful”. Wriothesley chuckles, hoisting Sigewinne up on his shoulder and spinning her around as she giggles.

“What if I just throw you into the sun. What then? What would you do?”

“You can't throw me into the sun! Neuvillette would be sad.” Sigewinne huffs matter-of-factly. “And then he'd break up with you.”

“Damn. Guess I'll just have to keep you around.”

“Damn straight.” Sigewinne smirks.

Toulouse wheezes, cackling as Sigewinne subtly flips him off. Elsie gasps, glaring at Wriothesley. Wriothesley just shrugs, tipping Sigewinne off his shoulder and carefully dropping her to the floor. Sigewinne starts running circles around him, sticking her tongue out at Toulouse. Toulouse responds by sticking his tongue out at Sigewinne. They continue to sneer at each other while Elsie pulls Wriothesley to the side.

“I cannot believe you taught her how to swear!” Elsie giggles.

“Ma'am. She is 10 times my age. She taught me how to swear.” Wriothesley snorts. “You can't tell anyone that, though. They'll call you a liar.”

Elsie cracks up, and Wriothesley hears Toulouse sigh wistfully. When he looks over, Toulouse is gazing at Elsie with a dopey look on his face.

“Oh, you're whipped.” Wriothesley chuckles. “Not a bad thing, of course.”

“Sir. Look at her.” Toulouse huffs. “Take one good look and tell me you wouldn't be head over heels.”

“No, no, she's very pretty. I'm just… grateful, I guess? Too many people aren't obvious with how much they like their partners. A few people I work with actively make jokes about hating their partners. It's concerning.”

“Oh, yeah, no. I hear it all the time. “Oh, you're young, the honeymoon phase will wear off.” NO! If I'm not just as in love with her as the day I met her, then I don't deserve her.”

“Kiddo, I hear you. People ought to learn to treat their loved ones with respect.”

“It's crazy, the way neglect and stunted communication run rampant.” Toulouse grumbles. “Hell, my own family does it!”

That catches Wriothesley's attention. He can understand his siblings being hesitant to let Toulouse in on the “family secret", as it were– Hell, he basically guaranteed that Toulouse would never even know his name. But refusing to talk to him at all? That's a step in the wrong direction.

“Not big talkers, your siblings?”

“Ugh, that's the understatement of the century. I know basically nothing about them before the murders. Any time I ask, no matter the question, they clam up.” Toulouse looks genuinely hurt. “Sometimes I feel like I grew up with strangers. I mean, I basically did! I knew more about Leo and Danny, and they died when I was 17.”

Leo and Danny. The names are close enough to Louis and Danielle that Wriothesley reacts, before he can even try and stop himself.

“Who?”

“Oh. My foster parents. My siblings had some, uh, issues to deal with. After the murders, I mean. Which reminds me, I have to ask you a question later. But yeah, my siblings had some stuff to deal with, so I got taken away for a little bit.” Toulouse sniffles quietly. “Leonara and Daniel Leroy fostered me while they got help. They went by Leo and Danny. They were great.”

“Yeah?” Wriothesley nudges Toulouse with his shoulder. “I'm glad they treated you right.”

“Me too.” Toulouse sighs. “I miss them.”

“Honey, why are you sad?” Elsie interrupts, startling both Toulouse and Wriothesley. “Oh! I'm sorry, boys.”

“No, don't be. I had it coming.” Wriothesley makes a small stabbing motion, which gets a small snort out of Toulouse. “You laugh now, but when it happens to you–”

“ When ?”

“When it happens to you, you're gonna be cussing yourself out for a month.”

“Um, boys?” Elsie plants herself in front of them. “Context?”

“No.” Wriothesley grins, and Elsie mimes punching him in the face. “Whoa, violence! Do you have a permit for that, miss?”

“Have my permit of “fuck your rules”, how about that.” Elsie scrunches her nose at Wriothesley.

“Hey, hey! Language!” Wriothesley gestures at Sigewinne, barely keeping a straight face. “There's a baby present!”

“Oh, fuck you, Wriothesley.” Sigewinne groans. “Can we go home yet?”

“I'm trying to find that ice cream you like.”

“They stopped making it last year. I told you this.”

“I'm sure you did.” Wriothesley sighs. “Alright, let's pay for our goods.”

“Pssst, Winnie.” Toulouse whispers something in Sigewinne's ear, giggling when she whips around and gapes at Wriothesley.

“Uh oh.” Wriothesley says under his breath.

“YOU LOST HIS PAPERS?” Sigewinne glares at Wriothesley, planting her fists on her hips.

“I'm about to be in trouble, aren't I?”

“About to be” is the understatement of the century! You lost his paperwork!”

“We got it back! I found it!” Wriothesley grumbles. “I don't know why I'm getting yelled at.”

“It's disrespectful. Also, you owe me mora.” Sigewinne grins.

“No! Nuh uh! That happened after–”

“You owe me mora! You owe me so much mora!” Sigewinne starts running victory laps around Wriothesley. “I want ice cream!”

“Toulouse, you snitch.” Wriothesley grumbles.

“How is this my fault?” Toulouse protests.

“Cuz now I have to buy her ice cream!” Wriothesley is trying so hard not to laugh. “I'll admit, I shouldn't have made the bet with her–”

“What bet?”

“The bet where he said he wouldn't lose anything important for a month.” Sigewinne snickers. “He knew he was gonna lose.”

“Ah. I see.” Toulouse nods solemnly. “Whelp, I'll leave you to it.”

“Wait–” Wriothesley protests, but Toulouse is already leaving.

Sigewinne tugs on Wriothesley's jacket and offers up a tub of ice cream. Wriothesley takes it, not really paying attention as they pay for their groceries and start their walk back to the Fortress. Wriothesley is still thinking about Toulouse as they get on the aquabus.

It's so… easy, with Toulouse. The conversations feel so natural, the moments they spend together feel so right. It doesn't make any sense, the way Wriothesley would give anything to have him by his side, and yet he knows he can't keep running from the truth. He feels his heart thump strangely in his chest– even his body is protesting the choices he's making.

“Wriothesley. Can you freeze the ice cream again?” Sigewinne asks.

“Sure, little bean.” Wriothesley has half a second to realize what he's saying before it comes out of his mouth. “Ah, goddammit.”

“Wriothesley…”

“It's fine. I'm fine.” Wriothesley insists.

“No you're not.”

“Winnie. Please. Let me suffer in peace.”

“I don't think you understand how suffering works.”

Wriothesley grumbles, but he freezes the ice cream for Sigewinne and rubs her back when she lays down on his lap. He tries to ignore the strange thumping of his heart in his chest and instead focuses on his to-do list for the next few weeks. He’s got to do some schedule shuffling to get Ardene some time off, plus the twins are coming back from Snezhnaya soon, and–

“Did you remember to tell Toulouse he has Pankration duty?” Sigewinne blurts.

Wriothesley freezes. Slowly, he casts his mind back to Toulouse’s schedule, running the dates over in his head. Toulouse is scheduled on the 7th, so Wriothesley still has time to notify him. He thinks.

“Isn’t today the 28th?”

“No. It’s the 1st.”

“Ah, sonuva–”

Chapter Text

 “–bitch!!” Toulouse swears, followed by some clattering noise that Wriothesley can only pray isn’t thousands of moras worth of equipment crashing to the ground.

“And that’s why you don’t poke the subdetection units.” Estienne grumbles. “Now pick up the parts you spilled.”

“How do these little fuckers keep getting in?”

“That one is probably the Duke’s. He fixes up the faulty ones, you know. Keeps them in his office.”

“What are they even for? I thought they just measured atmospheric data.”

“That one does.” Wriothesley laughs when Toulouse rockets to his feet. “And to answer your other questions, my subdetection units are mostly tracking devices to locate and secure contraband and escaped prisoners, and I’ve been standing here for about two minutes.”

“Stealthy son of a bitch.” Estienne grumbles. “You opening the ring for the night?”

“Not yet. I'm waiting on Leo to get down.” Wriothesley plants himself against the wall. “You boys having fun playing with the beetles?”

“Ask him.” Estienne gestures vaguely at Toulouse. “He's the one goofing off.”

“For shame, Toulouse.” Wriothesley teases.

“Gods forbid I do anything.” Toulouse mutters. “Hey, Leo.”

“Evening. Your Grace.” Leo saunters in, sizing Toulouse up. “You sure about him? Think you might have picked the one male Melusine in all of Teyvat for this job.”

“I'm literally 5’6.” Toulouse whines.

“No, I'm 5’6. You're just a liar.” Estienne butts in. “Goodnight, everyone.”

“Night, Estienne. Wriothesley replies. Then, to Toulouse and Leo: “Boys, boys, you're both pretty. Let's go, yeah?”

“Is the ring open yet?” Leo asks.

“No, I was waiting for you. Took your sweet time, didn't you?”

“C'mon, man, cut me some slack. My sister just got back from Inazuma.”

“Is the border open again?” Toulouse asks.

“Yeah, I think they opened it back up last year.” Wriothesley answers. “Alright, boys, get Peter and go talk to Roussimoff.”

“Are you in tonight?” Leo asks.

“Maybe. We'll see how the night goes.”

“I need to know if I'm betting on you.” Leo whines.

“You're not allowed to bet on duty. Also, your buttons are undone.” Peter joins them at the door, spooking Toulouse. “Evening, Your Grace. I've got them from here.”

“Right. Have fun, boys.”

Wriothesley hauls himself onto the windowsill, checking the lights behind the fan and making sure that he has a good view of the ring from his seat. He has a good vantage point on all his guards from here, plus a pretty good view of the ring itself. He watches as Peter and Leo walk Toulouse through the various protocols and rules of the ring, then laughs when they try to trick Toulouse into going under the ring. Toulouse, to his credit, doesn't fall for it, but he does get roughed up a little when Roussimoff opens the ring for the night. Pretty soon, the place is jam packed with people, and the fights kick off with a bang.

It's maybe three rounds before Wriothesley decides that he's itching for a fight. He slides down from his spot, slipping through the crowd. He saunters up to Roussimoff, tapping him on the shoulder as the crowd cheers wildly.

“Slot me in.” Wriothesley tells him, and rolls his eyes at the wild grin he gets in return.

“About damn time! I was wondering when you were gonna fight!”

“Don't you mean if ?”

“Said what I said, Your Grace. It's a rare night when you don't get in the ring!”

“Yeah, yeah, just slot me in.”

Wriothesley ends up tagging in for a fighter who got hurt in the first round. No complaints there, he's just ready to fight. As he climbs the stairs and steps into the ring, he takes a moment to center himself. Breathe. Focus. Nothing else matters right now except the fight.

Then the bell sounds, and he rushes his opponent. A few sharp uppercuts later, he has them pinned against the side of the ring. He can see the gears turning in their head as he approaches, can see them trying to figure a way out. They won’t get one. Wriothesley primes his gauntlets as he stalks forward, grinning when his opponent steels their resolve. A few more blows are traded between them before his opponent is down for the count.

“Give it up for your current champion, Duke Wriothesley of Meropide!!!!” Leo shouts from somewhere overhead.

Wriothesley rolls his eyes as the crowd surges, cheering as he helps his opponent back to their feet. He walks slow circles in the center of the ring, grinning wildly at the faces all around him. He loves being in the ring, the thrill of the fight.

“Friends and Foes, I have one question for you; WHO'S NEXT?” Wriothesley booms.

And his next opponent scrambles into the ring as fast as they can. Wriothesley primes his gauntlets and smirks as his opponent charges.

He loses track of the rounds, but happily takes his break once provided to him. Wriothesley parks himself on a supply box and accepts a small serving of fish and chips as a snack. He's worked up a good sweat at this point, and Roussimoff is once again trying to bribe him into taking his winnings.

“I'm not hurting for coupons, Roussimoff. Just put it towards upkeep if you need to use it up so bad.” Wriothesley mumbles around a mouthful of chips. “Who made these, by the way? This is not Wolsey's cooking.”

“We got a new chef, I think.” Roussimoff says. “How you boys holding up?”

“Huh?” Wriothesley mumbles, turning around and almost smacking Toulouse. “Oh, hey. How's your night been?”

“Fine, mostly. It's interesting to see you fight.” Toulouse sits next to Wriothesley and steals a chip. “I owe you a chip now.”

“Kiddo. There's a snack shop.” Wriothesley frowns. “Get your own chips.”

Toulouse freezes, then looks at Wriothesley. He drops the chip and quickly stands, clearly flustered.

“I'm so sorry, I genuinely wasn't thinking!” Toulouse stammers. “I am so sorry.”

“You're tired, huh?” Wriothesley laughs as Toulouse tries to fight back a yawn. “I forgive you, Toulouse. Don't touch my fucking food.”

“Yes sir.” Toulouse responds. He's still standing though.

“Kid. Just sit. You've been on your feet all night.” Wriothesley pats the space next to him on the box. “I'm not mad, honestly. I'm kind of impressed you had the balls to do that.”

“It's a bad habit, if I'm being honest. I shouldn't have done it.” Toulouse sighs as he drops down onto the box. “I'm notorious for sneaking bites of people's snacks. I should try to kick the habit.”

“I think it's funny. Except when it's my food.” Wriothesley grins. “I'm glad you like it down here, Toulouse.”

“Yeah, about that…” Toulouse rubs the back of his neck. “I know I've only been here a couple months, but I genuinely love this assignment. Is there any chance I could… stay? After my rotation is up?”

Wriothesley's heart starts pounding. Toulouse… wants to stay? Here? Toulouse wants to stay in the Fortress, with him. How is he supposed to answer that? This is his worst nightmare come true!

“That's a hell of a commitment, Toulouse. I'm not opposed to taking you on permanently, but why don't we revisit the conversation in a few months, when you've have more experience behind you?” Wriothesley says solemnly.

“Yeah, I figured that's what the answer would be.” Toulouse huffs. “I really do like it here. I'm not just saying that.”

“No, I believe you. There's just, you know, protocols and rules and all that shit.” Wriothesley laughs. “Ask me again in a few months, yeah?”

What the hell is wrong with him? Having Toulouse down here for good is going to drive him insane. He should be shutting this proposal down right this second. There's no way in hell any of this is a good idea. Sure, he doesn't have a valid excuse to deny Toulouse, but he could make some shit up. There has to be a smarter way to handle this.

Wriothesley feels a sharp twinge in his chest. He instinctively starts rubbing his chest, grimacing when the pain doesn't fade immediately.

“You ok?” Toulouse asks.

“Fine. I think I shouldn't have eaten those chips so fast.”

“Oof, heartburn. That's the worst.” Toulouse grimaces. “You're getting… wait, how old are you?”

“Excuse me?”

“Aren't you, like, 57?”

Wriothesley flinches for real at that. Toulouse starts cracking up, and Wriothesley swats at him incessantly. 

“You little shit. I can't believe this. 57?? I do not look 57!”

“Was I off?”

“Were you– Kiddo! I'm 37!” Wriothesley stands, crossing his arms in a huff. “57. Archons kill me now.”

“You do not look 37.” Toulouse mutters. “Alright, how old did you think I was?”

“25.” Wriothesley answers honestly.

Toulouse shuts his mouth with a sharp pop. Wriothesley snorts loudly, turning away and trying to keep his giggles to a minimum. He turns in his used food tray– Wolsey is always kicking up a fuss about recycling them, which Wriothesley agrees with most times– and stretches quickly. That's about when Roussimoff pulls him aside and whispers in his ear that somebody in the hall got shanked.

“Shit.” Wriothesley mutters. “Any suspicions as to who did it?”

“Heard it was one of our fighters for the night. He's lined up with a level 3. Clynes.”

“Double shit.” Wriothesley groans. “I'll take him. Put Ardene on stand-by.”

“You're gonna get stabbed. On purpose.” Roussimoff shakes his head. “Alright. Don't say I didn't warn you.”

Wriothesley whistles sharply through his teeth, and Peter and Leo come running right over. It takes Toulouse a second to catch on, but he does figure it out in time to catch up with his fellow guards. They push against each other for a few moments before they finally figure out how much elbow room they need.

“Ok, listen up. We have a category 1 party crasher hanging out in the hallway. They struck once, they'll probably do it again. The original target was a level 3 inmate. That's since been changed, and with any luck, they'll take the bait. Ardene is on stand-by, and remember, you don't jump into the ring until after they've stabbed me. Got it?”

“Whoa, what?” Toulouse blurts as the others reply with “got it!” and continues to look confused when Peter and Leo depart to get into their positions.

“Level 3s are inmates that have been successfully turned into informants or full on employees for the Fortress. Clynes is one of those lucky folks, and I'm proud of him for the work he put in to actually be worthy of that position.” Wriothesley explains. “But not everybody understands that second chances are meant to be used for the better. And that's how we get some inmates thinking it's a good idea to attack level 3s, which is bad for everybody involved.”

“Okay. How does that come back around to “it's a good idea to let them stab me”? Because I'm very confused as to how you got there.” Toulouse questions.

“Well, the simple answer is I can handle being stabbed a lot easier than Clynes. The longer answer is that I have a feeling I know who it is, and this actually opens up precedent to change how this inmate perceives their incarceration. It'll also help them get access to medical treatment that we couldn't guarantee before.”

“I see.” Toulouse hums. “Well, you’re the boss. Who am I to question your choices?”

“There's a good man. Get in position, I'll take care of the rest.”

Wriothesley breezes through his next few fights. His mind is elsewhere, and he lets his body take over as he takes down fighter after fighter. It's almost too easy, the way he can bring them down so quickly. He's so lost in the fight. He feels himself edging closer and closer to the line, until he's right on top of it.

Very abruptly, his arm locks up. He looks down and sees a very thick needle attached to a very thick syringe sticking out of his elbow. The liquid in the syringe is dribbling out of the hole in his arm. Poison, if he had to guess.

“Really, dipshit?” Wriothesley chuckles. “Should've aimed for the face.”

And then he sucker punches the asshole right in the face. The dickhead drops like a sack of bricks, and Wriothesley starts to pull the syringe out of his arm. He stops very quickly when he hears a sharp snapping sound. This is followed by a grinding sound when he raises his right arm to take a closer look at it.

“Shit.” Wriothesley sighs. “Ardene, can you get Clynes for me, please? I need some help disengaging the lock on my arm.”

He sits down as he says it, pulling at his sleeve in an attempt to get his arm off without removing his shirt. He fails.

“Yes, Your Grace. Any flesh injuries?”

“Nope, all good.” Wriothesley huffs as he pulls his shirt off. “I just fixed this thing, goddammit.”

“Your Grace, are you alright?” Toulouse kneels next to Wriothesley. “I don't know if–”

Wriothesley pops his arm off, pulling it into his lap and opening the protective casing hidden under the bandages. Toulouse visibly pales, and Wriothesley abruptly remembers that Toulouse doesn't know about his arm.

“So, I owe you an explanation. This is gonna seem kinda all over the place at first, but it's the fastest way to explain.” Wriothesley hisses through his teeth as the ball bearing in his elbow cracks. “So, you know how Arkium is, like, super volatile?”

Toulouse nods slowly.

“Ever wonder why the abandoned production zone is abandoned?”

“Um… wasn't there an Arkium explosion that…” Toulouse's eyes go wide. “...No.”

“Yup. Back when I was an inmate, they used that shaft to mine Arkium. I didn't learn this until after I became administrator, but the way they were doing actually made it worse.” Wriothesley explains. “One chip too many, and boom! Wriothesley, minus most of one arm.”

“Holy shit.” Toulouse gasps. “Does… How… Who even knows about this?”

“Sigewinne. Estienne. Most of my guards, actually. A few inmates. It's kind of a “don't ask, don't tell” situation.” Wriothesley shrugs. “It's safer that way. Plus, it's pretty funny to watch people hurl when I take my arm off.”

“I don't think it's funny!!” Toulouse whines. “I was scared shitless!”

“I think it was funny. Can you hold that, please? I'm trying to get the joint out.”

Toulouse gingerly taps the outer casing, jumping back when it snaps shut. Wriothesley rolls his eyes, prying the casing open and carefully snaking the joint out. The tiny Ousia block at the center is dim, fizzling as he pulls it from its housing. Wriothesley grumbles, trying to reactivate the Ousia block, but instead it disintegrates. Right then, he was injected with liquid Pneuma. That would be annoying enough, having to make a new core for his arm, but it’s worse knowing that they were trying to kill him.

“Well, shit. Time to get more processed Arkia from Estelle.” Wriothesley grumbles.

“You sure you're ok?” Toulouse fidgets with his hands, glancing around.

“Of course, Kiddo. It's fine. Go home, yeah? I'm gonna be up all night fixing this shit anyway.”

Wriothesley doesn't watch Toulouse leave, mostly because he's too focused on his arm. Wiring the arm to run off of his natural alignment always takes a while, so when he finally looks up again, he's alone in the pankration ring. And it's cold as shit down here, so he hurries back to his office for some much needed rest.

Chapter Text

“Attention, all personnel. The Fortress of Meropide is now on lockdown. Please refer to personnel code E-778 for further instructions.”

Wriothesley sighs as the broadcast blares for the 8th time that night. The lights flicker as he rises from his desk, then go out completely right as he opens the door to his living quarters. He groans loudly, the sound echoing through the halls as he opens the control panel hidden in the wall. He glares at the keyboard as the terminal boots up, watching as the buttons flicker to life.

“Home Office to Power, go for check.” Wriothesley grumbles.

“Power to Home Office, check. We just lost our backup generator. The local source mini generators are still working, but we're in the dark until the engineers get our main source back online.” His guard responds. “Where does the Research Institute find these kooks?”

“Probably the same place they find their Arkium. Work on getting us back online, I'll check in with everyone else.”

The whole week has been a mess of engineers tripping over themselves trying to help the Fortress adjust to the power change. Now that Indemnitium is gone, Pneumousia is the only real option to power large structures like the Fortress. And the engineering team is doing a fucked up job of changing them over. Never mind the fact that the Fortress has its own backup power sources that don't need to be tampered with, or the fact that they've been running off Pneumousia for years– all the engineering team had to do was uninstall the conversion pump that changed Indemnitium into Pneumousia. But nooooooooo, they just had to do things their way.

Wriothesley doesn't know enough about the generators to complain directly to the engineers, but his own team has been in a foul mood for the past week, and has in fact been trapped down here for the past three days… along with everyone else in the Fortress.

“Fucking hate lockdowns.” Wriothesley grumbles. “Home Office to Main Floor, go for check.”

The line is eerily quiet. Wriothesley fidgets with his pockets before he flips on his broadcaster again.

“Office to Main, go for check.” Wriothesley repeats. “Estienne. Respond.”

The line crackles to life, and Wriothesley hears shrieking and cackling in the background. Estienne sighs tiredly, snapping at the shrieking individuals in Fontainian before responding to Wriothesley with “Go for Main. You're gonna wanna see this.”

“Don't tell me. The off-duties got into the whiskey.”

“No. They got into the firewater.” Estienne's “obviously” goes unsaid, but Wriothesley hears it anyway. “Come over here and scare them straight for me?”

“How many drinks have you had?” Wriothesley jokes.

“Enough.” Estienne hangs up the line with a sharp click.

Wriothesley, after checking in on every other station, briefly considers drinking his own liquor cabinet dry and just going to bed. But, as is so often the case, his curiosity gets the better of him and he decides to go check on Estienne. He grabs an illumination device from his desk and starts heading downstairs, only tripping on the stairs once on his way down. He feels his way out of the office and into the main hall, swinging the beam of light in his hand across the walls. He treks blindly towards the guards’ quarters, the sounds of music and laughter getting louder with every step.

The room is illuminated only with a string of fairy lights plugged into a small generator by the door, and the vast majority of guards are laughing and chatting as Wriothesley wanders into the room. Someone hands him a cup filled with what looks like fruit punch, and Wriothesley realizes about halfway through drinking it that he can’t tell if there’s alcohol in it. So either the punch is fine or it’s extremely dangerous and he’s going to be drunk very soon. He takes a seat on the couch, glancing around and waiting for people to notice he’s there.

“I'VE GOT A KNIFE!!” Somebody yells, running past Wriothesley before tripping and slamming into something. Wriothesley is on his feet in an instant, but the problem is already dealt with– Toulouse has the knife in his hand, blood running down the hilt as the blade digs into his palm.

“First of all; Bitch. Second of all; what the hell are you doing? Running with a knife? Really?” Toulouse slurs lightly as he lectures the guard. “Do you understand the words “weapons safety”? Do you know what that means?”

“Um, Toulouse?” Wriothesley taps his shoulder. “Maybe put the knife down first?”

“Hmm? Oh, yeah. Sorry, boss.” Toulouse puts the knife down on a nearby table, then seems to notice his hand is covered in blood. “Uhhhhh…”

“Yeah, that's why I wanted you to– oh, Archons!” Wriothesley catches Toulouse as he swoons. Toulouse is completely out by the time Wriothesley gets him back upright, and he starts to crumple again, unsupported by his own weight. Wriothesley heaves a sigh, then tosses Toulouse over his shoulder.

“Anybody else need immediate access to Sigewinne?” He barks.

The room is deathly quiet. Wriothesley huffs, throwing a dirty glance at the dumbass who was running around with a knife as he leaves.

“Right, then. Let's get you patched up.”

Toulouse isn't as heavy as he looks, which makes Wriothesley wonder if he forgets to eat breakfast in the morning. He's seen Toulouse inhale his lunches on some days, seen the ways he's come in with a snack in his mouth. Poor kid always seems to be rushing, no matter what he's doing. He'll have to have Toulouse over for breakfast sometime. Or at least give him some extra time to eat. Maybe he could ask him to start helping him with the time punches? That was one of Grainfield's previous duties, so it wouldn't be too out of place…

“Winnie! Toulouse cut himself! Can you stitch it up?” Wriothesley calls out.

“Is he conscious?” Sigewinne yells back.

“Uhhhhh… No!”

“Ughhh. Ok, put him on the couch.”

Toulouse wakes up about halfway through Sigewinne putting stitches in his hand. Wriothesley pulls his face away from the wound, wanting to keep him conscious for the remainder of the procedure. Toulouse flinches, pulling away from Wriothesley with a huff.

“Don't look at it. You passed out last time.” Wriothesley commands. “What do you remember?”

“Um… I think I grabbed a knife?” Toulouse mutters. “I don't feel so good.”

“Yeah, that'd be the firewater. Did you eat anything before you started drinking?”

The question meant for Toulouse is a sudden and startling reminder that Wriothesley hadn't eaten dinner either, and the pleasant buzz in his head has likely been there for a while. Great. So there was firewater in the punch. Wriothesley sighs, standing and wobbling to the kitchen.

“What can you eat? Any allergies?”

Toulouse shakes his head, and Wriothesley sighs again.

“Right then. Garlic bread for you, and whiskey for me.”

“You should not be drinking this late!” Sigewinne protests.

“There's a lot of things I shouldn't be doing, and I'm not facing the rest of tonight sober.” Wriothesley grumbles. “I'm already tipsy and don't feel like riding out the buzz on an all-nighter, so whiskey it is.”

“This is a terrible decision.” Sigewinne scolds.

“Oh, I know.”

Sigewinne goes to bed, and Wriothesley drags Toulouse into the kitchen. Toulouse mutters something into Wriothesley's shoulder, and Wriothesley has to pull Toulouse's face up so he can hear it when Toulouse repeats himself.

"What was that, bud?"

"I want to find the guy that killed my parents. I want to talk to him. Can you help me?"

Wriothesley's stomach does flips, and his heart pounds in his chest. It's possible- of course it is, he committed the damn murders. But is he really willing to risk all that? Is he really going to put the truth on the table like this? Toulouse is drunk. He doesn't have to say anything. It's not like he'll remember anyway.

"You submitted for the Palais to give you the court records, right?"

"Yeah." Toulouse slurs. "That was 2 years ago, though. They take forever."

"They really do. When you get your approval, hand it over to me, and I'll get you the file."

And on that cheery note, Wriothesley reheats the garlic bread from dinner, watching the oven warm as he slams back a glass of good whiskey. The instant warmth that spreads through his chest encourages him, and he carefully constructs a snack for himself so he doesn't wake up queasy. Half the bottle later, he pulls out Toulouse's garlic bread, sneaking a piece for himself as he juggles the hot loaf onto a plate. He hears a snicker and turns to see Toulouse in the doorway, giggling at him.

“You… shush.” Wriothesley stutters, the whiskey having made his tongue heavy in his mouth. “This is your fucking bread.”

“Nuh uh.” Toulouse giggles. “Ever heard of oven mitts, genius?”

Wriothesley throws a towel at Toulouse and misses by an embarrassingly huge margin. Toulouse cracks up, stumbling into the table when he overshoots his exaggerated gestures. Wriothesley slowly moves to the table and has a seat, pouring himself another glass.

“I might be drunk, but at least I'm pretty.” He mutters into the warm liquid.

Toulouse giggles, reaching for the half-empty bottle of whiskey. Wriothesley snatches it away from him, shaking his head wildly. Toulouse pouts, which gets a snort out of Wriothesley, but he keeps the bottle away from Toulouse. He feels warm and heavy, the weight of the whiskey settling in him and slowly dragging him towards sleep. He would probably let himself doze off if it wasn't for Toulouse fidgeting in front of him, just as drunk and clearly not as tired as Wriothesley.

“You know what's weird? I really like you. Like, reeeeeally like you. Not in a sex way, cuz that'd be gross.” Toulouse slurs. “But, like, sometimes I think that I have to make you like me. If you didn't like me, I'd cry.”

“It's normally to seek approval from the people around you.” Wriothesley mutters. He barely prevents himself from muttering I do like you under his breath.

“But it's not! Something about you specifically makes me want to… makes me… makes me want to be a better man.” Toulouse stutters. “I want to make you proud.”

“You do make me proud.” Wriothesley says louder than he expected.

Toulouse suddenly looks as though he might cry. Wriothesley panics, unsure of what he said wrong to cause this reaction.

“I make you proud?” Toulouse whimpers.

“Oh. Yeah. Yeah! I'm so proud of you, kiddo.” Wriothesley nods. “You do good work. Of course I'm proud.”

“God, I needed to hear that.” Toulouse wipes his face as if to catch the falling tears before they show up. “I don't hear it nearly enough.”

“Don't you have family?” Wriothesley slurs.

“Well, I mean, Elsie tells me she's proud of me. And her parents love me, but I'd like to hear it from my siblings more.” Toulouse groans. “They can be so frustrating sometimes. They don't talk to me. I always have to find stuff out the hard way with them.”

“Really? I know you said they aren't big talkers, but I would have thought they'd at least tell you they like you.”

“They don't, though! And it's not just stuff like that. They won't tell me important things either. I didn't know Clare was allergic to grapes until I was 17. I didn't know Stephen broke his arm rescuing me from the canal when I was 8. I didn't even know Jacques had gotten married until last year! He has a kid! He's been married 6 years, and he didn't even tell me! It's fucking exhausting!”

Wriothesley has to grab Toulouse's hand before it smacks him across the face. Toulouse seems to suddenly become aware that he was shouting, and slumps back in his seat.

“They're so frustrating. They don't talk to me. They rarely talk to each other. I don't know anything about them.” Toulouse sniffles. “I feel like I grew up with strangers. Hell, the literal strangers that did raise me felt more like home than my siblings ever have.”

Guilt blooms in Wriothesley's chest, thick and suffocating as he tries his hardest not to apologize for not being there, for failing Toulouse. He can't open his mouth lest his secrets come spilling out, dooming them both. Toulouse doesn't need to know about the Santelles. And Wriothesley doesn't need the heartbreak of Toulouse hating him. Still, he grabs Toulouse's hand, holding it in his own.

“I'm sorry.” He whispers. “You deserve better than that.”

“I wish you were my brother.” Toulouse mutters, slumping against the wall. “You tell me shit, at least.”

Wriothesley can't restrain the laugh that bursts out of him, loud and just a little manic as he folds against the table. Toulouse has no idea– the things Wriothesley has done to keep his secret, and here he is, openly wishing Wriothesley was his brother. And even if Wriothesley can't say anything, Toulouse has gotten his wish.

“No, you don't.” Wriothesley eventually manages. “Toulouse, I'm… I'm not the kind of influence you want to be inviting into your life.”

“Does it look like I give a shit?” Toulouse mutters. “If you hate the idea, then shut it down.”

Wriothesley can't. He knows he can't. Instead of speaking, he reaches for the bottle of whiskey, draining it in a matter of moments. Maybe he can't solve his problems with booze, but at least he feels a little better. Heavy warmth spreads in his chest as he slumps against the wall. Toulouse perks up, squeezing Wriothesley's hand as he leans forward. Wriothesley chuckles, patting Toulouse's head as he starts to fall asleep.

“You remind me so much of my little brother.” Wriothesley says against his better judgement.

“You have a little brother?”

“I have three. I… don't really talk to them anymore.” Wriothesley sighs. “I stopped reaching out after I got sentenced. Figured it wasn't fair to them, having to be related to a murderer.”

“They don't deserve you.” Toulouse snarls.

“Oh, sure, that totally makes sense.”

“No, I'm serious. You said the people you killed hurt them too, right? Well, in that case, they should be thanking you for putting it to rest. Especially if the Phantom couldn't be trusted. You did it for them.”

“And I wouldn't ask them to carry that burden with me. Not for anything.”

“Don't you miss them?”

Wriotheslsy feels the tears sting in his eyes, feels his chest get tight with the kind of anguish he thought he left in the dust 20 years ago. He reaches for Toulouse's hand, clasping it in his own and desperately trying not to break apart. Toulouse maneuvers around the table to sit next to Wriothesley, laying his head against Wriothesley's shoulder. Wriothesley does cry then, unable to restrain the sorrow hiding deep within him.

“I would have given anything to be part of your life.” Wriothesley whispers. “I miss you so much.”

Wriothesley wakes up slowly, keenly aware of the presence of another person in the room with him. An experimental test of his surroundings reveals someone asleep on his shoulder, and possibly drooling on his shirt. He shrugs, dislodging the person and sending them face-first into the table.

“OW!” Toulouse barks, sitting up and knocking Wriothesley in the face just as he opens his eyes.

“Kiddo, why are you in my kitchen?”

“I don't know!” Toulouse whines, burying his head in his arms. “Can we turn off the sun, please?”

“Ain't no sunshine down here, kiddo.” Wriothesley grumbles. “I guess those Research Institute nuts got their heads out of their asses and finally fixed the generator.”

“They fucked it up that bad? Aren't these people supposed to be smart?”

“You'd think.” Wriothesley snorts a laugh. “Do you remember why you're in my kitchen?”

Toulouse shakes his head, and Wriothesley sighs.

“Well, that makes two of us. C'mon, let's go bother Wolsey for some breakfast.”

Chapter Text

At this point, Wriothesley should just be prepared for weirdness every other week. Lynette snuck into his office earlier today, and is unsuccessfully hiding under his desk with copious amounts of stolen tea. She grumbles when Wriothesley leans over the desk and steals back a box, shaking his head with disapproval. But Lynette doesn’t fight him too hard when he drags her out from under the desk.

“You’ve been back for like, 2 days.” Wriothesley rolls his eyes when Lynette sneers at him. “And the first thing you do when you get back is come steal tea from my office.”

“I’m happy to see you too, asshole. I got you something.” Lynette tosses him a small glass bottle, labeled in Snezhnayan and filled with an almost clear liquid. “Don’t drink it all in one go.”

“Firewater?” Wriothesley guesses. He is rewarded with a single, quiet nod. “Damn. Thanks, kiddo.”

“Of course.” Lynette says, and then she darts down the stairs. 

“Whelp. Start the clock, something weird is about to happen.” Wriothesley mutters, mostly to himself.

20 goddamn minutes. That's how long it takes before Lyney slinks into the office with a grin a mile wide. He stalks around the desk, stands directly next to Wriothesley, and flicks his ear. Wriothesley only looks up from his paperwork to glare at Lyney for a brief moment before giving up on getting an answer.

“Fuck your guards.” Lyney whispers. “Fuck your guards, and your rules, and–”

“Kiddo, do you need something?”

“Nope!” Lyney smiles brightly, kicking his feet as he looks around the room. “Just… couldn't help but notice… you seem to have a new guard down here.”

“Yeah, that's Toulouse. He's on rotation from the Phantom. Don't bother him.” Wriotheey grumbles when his math turns up short on his invoice for the third time. “How was Snezhnaya?”

“Fine. It was cold. Snowed every day, seemed like.” Lyney sighs, sprawling across Wriothesley's desk. “It was super boring. We couldn't do anything without an escort. Frem got to be personally tutored by this one Harbinger, though.”

“Really? Sounds fascinating.”

“Nah, not really.”

Wriothesley continues working on his invoices, occasionally glancing up and catching Lyney in the middle of an attempt to get into his safe. It's almost a game at this point, with how often they do it. Wriothesley sighs a tired sigh, beans Lyney in the head with a wad of paper, and goes back to what he was doing before. Lyney whines, but continues to wait patiently for the moment Wriothesley lets his guard down.

“Did you tell your new guard about us, Your Grace?” Lyney asks suddenly.

“Uhhhhh… probably not.” Wriothesley leans back, stretching with a loud groan. “Why, did you prank him or something?”

Lyney is uncharacteristically quiet. Wriothesley glances over and finds him looking away, his mouth a thin line as he looks everywhere but Wriothesley's eyes. Wriothesley plants a hand on his desk to get some leverage in getting up, and Lyney damn near jumps out of his skin.

“What did you do?” Wriothesley groans, pulling his hand down his face in pure exasperation.

“In my defense, it was a perfectly reasonable reaction. I would have done it too.” Lyney purses his lips after the slip-up. Clearly, Wriothesley wasn't meant to hear that.

“Ah. Who did it? Lynette, or Freminet?”

“I'm under no obligation to tell you that, Your Grace.”

“Frem, then.”

“Dammit.” Lyney hisses. “How do you do that?”

“You have the worst lying face in history and also it's a fifty-fifty success rate. There's only three of you.” Wriothesley grumbles. “What did Frem do?”

“Don't freak out–”

“You dodging the question is not helping.”

“The guy is still alive, don't worry about it, but Freminet–”

“Furina and all her judges, what did you three do?” Wriothesley stomps down the stairs before Lyney can finish speaking. “You're coming with me, by the way. I'm not leaving you unsupervised in my office.”

“Understood, Your Grace.” Lyney snarks.

Lyney vanishes the second Wriothesley locks his office door, but that’s the furthest thing from his mind as he makes his way to the medical wing. The journey is slower than he’d like, but that’s only because the elevator doesn’t go as fast as his overthinking mind. As he storms past Freminet– hiding under the stairs and mumbling that he’s sorry– he sees Sigewinne wrapping Toulouse’s leg in bandages. Toulouse is swearing liberally, while Sigewinne admonishes him for not holding still. Toulouse, to his credit, is trying– not very well, but he’s trying.

“It hurts!” Toulouse whines.

“That's because you got shot. Hold still so the stitches don't tear.” Sigewinne bonks Touliuse on the head with a roll of bandages. “What part of “hold still” is unclear to you?”

“The part where it includes unnecessary pain.” Toulouse grumbles. “Hi, Wriothesley.”

“So… what happened?”

“These kids–” Toulouse cuts himself off with a pained yelp. “These kids decided to throw a bucket of water over my head, and when I chased them down, I was… knocked over the ledge by a mechanical penguin.”

“Riiiiiiiiiight.” Wriothesley nods solemnly. “Frem. You're up.”

“Lyney and Lynette pranked him and when I saw they were getting chased, I threw Pers at him.” Freminet fidgets with Pers as he steps forward. “I didn't mean to hurt him. I'm sorry.”

“I haven't been wronged, kiddo. I'm not who you need to apologize to.”

“Sorry, Mr. Guard.”

“...My name is Toulouse. And you're forgiven.” Toulouse smiles at Frem, but it looks a little more like a grimace.

“Toulouse, do you want some painkillers?” Wriothesley asks.

“No, I'm fine.” Toulouse whimpers. “I just need to ride it out.”

Wriothesley sighs– obviously, Toulouse's pain tolerance is shit. Why he won't just take the pain meds is beyond him. Still, his attempt to pretend he's not suffering is diminished by his constant whining whenever Sigewinne does anything to his leg. Decisions, decisions. How does Wriothesley want to handle this?

“Winnie. Stick him.” Wriothesley tosses her a vial that he's pretty sure has low-level painkillers in it.

“Not with liquid potassium, I won’t.” Sigewinne pockets the vial and sticks Toulouse with a different drug. “There. Those are painkillers, and you need to get out of my medbay.”

“Winnie, please. Let me figure out what happened?”

“How about I just get some sleep!” Toulouse whines as Frem sits next to him. “You good, kiddo?”

“I’m fine. Are you ok?” Frem asks. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I’m sorry.”

“You're forgiven…” Toulouse mutters, crashing into Wriothesley as he finally loses consciousness.

Freminet startles, tears welling up in his eyes as Wriothesley lays Toulouse down to get some rest. He pulls Freminet over to him, drawing him into a hug and gently reminding him that Toulouse is fine, just worn out from the pain, and he’ll probably wake up in a few minutes. Frem calms down a little when that’s confirmed by Sigewinne, and calms down a lot when Toulouse wakes up.

“Frem, deep breath. He's ok, see?” Wriothesley sighs. “Where are your siblings? Aren't they supposed to be here?”

“They're probably breaking into your office. Father has been pushing for more information on you. I don't really want to give it to her, but we might not have a choice.”

“That's ok, kiddo. You have the backup info still, right?” Wriothesley ruffles Frem's hair. “Just give her that.”

“What is up with these kids? What's going on?” Toulouse asks blearily.

“They're Fatui.” Wriothesley has a split second to realize that statement might be misleading, but it's too late.

“They're WHAT?” Toulouse yelps, sitting up quickly.

“Shhhhh! Shh shh shh. It's fine. They don't have anything they're not supposed to.” Wriothesley hisses. “Most guards know to keep them away from my office if I'm not in there, but they can come and go as they please. Call it a mutual understanding with their dad.”

“What the fu–”

“You know Father hates that.” Frem mutters. “When you call her “Dad”, I mean.”

“Yeah, well, she can fight me about it.” Wriothesley mumbles. “Toulouse, seriously, it's fine. They're harmless– mostly. Mostly harmless.”

“I stabbed a grown man while I was in Snezhnaya.” Freminet says bluntly. “He was creeping on Lynette, so I stabbed him. I think he lived.”

Toulouse has the most “I–told–you–so” look on his face. Wriothesley is almost surprised he hasn't said anything about being vindicated. He’s fully prepared to explain the situation, but Toulouse is smart enough that he beats him to the punch.

“So, they're baby Fatui who can come and go as they please because otherwise it'll turn into a turf war with their superior, who is definitely powerful enough to cause problems.” Toulouse summarizes. “Am I close?”

“You're dead on the mora, actually.” Wriothesley catches a glimpse of Estienne dragging in the twins and huffs a quiet laugh. "Well, speak of the devil! Looks like they've been caught again."

Estienne has never been one to half-ass anything, and his humiliation of the twins is no exception. With Lyney thrown over his shoulder and Lynette under his arm, the twins look like a couple of sacks of potatoes. They're both pouting and bitching under their breath in Snezhnayan, but for the most part, they don't seem too mad. Suspicious– they’re always mad about getting caught, even if it’s just dramatics.

“How far did they get this time?” Wriothesley asks.

“I’ll tell you how far they got; time to change the damn safe code.” Estienne gruffs in response. “Evening, Freminet. Here's your siblings.”

“You are no fun.” Lyney whines.

“Absolute drag.” Lynette seconds.

“What did they get?” Wriothesley presses.

“Tea.” Estienne shrugs, dropping the twins to the floor as gently as he can. “And a couple criminal files from two decades ago. Nothing important.”

“You're boring!” Lynette groans.

Wriothesley rolls his eyes at the dramatics. They might be Fatuus in the making, but they're also still kids. It's refreshing to see them act their age for once. Even Frem is giggling at their shenanigans, scrunching his nose when Lyney flops on the floor with an exaggerated groan. Wriothesley contemplates throwing them over his shoulder and carting them out of the Fortress like they're a couple of misbehaving chickens, but decides to let them have their dignity. This time.

“I'm gonna walk the kiddos out. Estienne, as soon as Toulouse is cleared to go home, clock him out and send him up.”

Wriothesley hauls both Lyney and Lynette to their feet, laughing when they both go noodle limp and start making faces at him. Frem scuttles around behind them, darting back and forth as Wriothesley walks the kids to the front door. Lynette starts telling Wriothesley about Snezhnaya, with Frem and Lyney interjecting with various anecdotes about things that happened. Wriothesley listens intently, following along with their stories as he hops in the elevator with them.

“So, what's the deal with Toulouse?” Lyney asks suddenly.

“Ah–” Wriothesley startles; he wasn’t expecting that. “There’s no deal with– Toulouse is fine, or whatever.”

“Ok, so why are you acting weird about him?” Lynette butts in.

“I’m not.”

“That’s a lie. Why are you lying to us?” Freminet murmurs.

“I’m not– You know what? I don’t owe anyone any explanations about anything.”

“So you wouldn’t care if we shoved him again?” Lyney tests.

“DO. NOT.” Wriothesley growls.

The twins stare at him as though he’s grown a second head, and Frem looks equally startled. Wriothesley growls– more in frustration with himself than anything else– and starts anxiously running a hand through his hair. Frem approaches him gingerly, hugging him delicately and murmuring something into Wriothesley’s coat. Wriothesley sighs, hugging Frem back as guilt flares in him.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell at you. I… You’re right, he is special. But he’s not supposed to be. So you’re gonna leave him alone, and I’m not gonna yell at you anymore. Ok?”

“I said, we forgive you. And we’re sorry for pushing you on this.” Frem repeats. “We have our secrets too, and you leave those well enough alone. We should be able to take “no” for an answer.”

“Yeah, we’ll leave it.” Lynette promises.

Lyney nods once, and that’s the end of that.

Chapter Text

“Why didn’t you just send the Phantom to take care of this?” Toulouse sighs.

Wriothesley stays quiet, glaring at the floor of the elevator. He never talks on the way to and from these kinds of pickups. He sits there, stewing in his own rage until it almost boils over, then forces himself to calm down. Anger will not help him here. Rage will not help him here. He needs to keep his cool.

They arrive at the ground floor of the Aquabus terminal, and Wriothesley steps out, flanked by his guards– Toulouse, Peter, and Anaïs, all of them ready to take down this guy if they really have to. But the closer they get to the house, the more Wriothesley is sure he won’t need the backup. The anger thrumming in his veins is more than enough to remind him of why he does this.

He knocks sharply on the door, two sharp taps to let the person know he’s there. The door opens, and Wriothesley finds himself looking down at a small girl, no older than 7. She stares at him with big, wide eyes, tears brimming around the very prominent bruise on the left side of her face. She wipes at her tears, doing her best to look Wriothesley in the eye.

Wriothesley feels his features soften. He’s always had a soft spot for kids, and this girl is no exception. Kneeling down, he extends his hand for a handshake, which the girl gladly provides.

“Good afternoon, Mademoiselle. My name is Wriothesley. May I speak with Lawrence Pierre?”

“Mhm.” The girl nods before turning back into the house. “PAPA! SOMEONE HERE FOR YOU!”

Shit. She’s his daughter. Well, that complicates things. Between the fact that she’s still here and the fresh bruise on her face, Wriothesley is certain that Monsieur Pierre is not ready to leave without a fight. He snaps at Peter, nodding swiftly in the direction of the kid.

“Get her out of here.” Wriothesley growls quietly. “Hello? Monsieur Pierre? My name is Wriothesley, I’m the administrator of Meropide. My colleagues and I are here to escort you down.”

A bullet whizzes past Wriothesley’s ear, and he groans. So, Monsieur Pierre won’t be coming quietly, then.

“Anaïs, Toulouse, circle around back. I’ll take him from the front.” Wriothesley primes his gauntlets, huffing and puffing as he ducks into the house.

The floors creak underfoot, and Wriothesley places a hand under his nose to slow his breathing. He sneaks through the house, shuffling his feet as he takes agonizingly slow steps. Monsieur Pierre is screeching and howling, and more gunshots sound as Wriothesley presses his back against the wall. The door opens into the room, which doesn’t give him much space to hide, but he waits quietly for a chance to strike.

Toulouse rounds the corner quickly and slides into view of the open doorway. Monsieur Pierre notices and fires a few quick shots in Toulouse’s direction. Toulouse dives out of the way and Wriothesley has to haul him back to his feet, cursing under his breath the whole time.

“Toulouse, did they teach you nothing about stealth in Phantom training?” Wriothesley hisses. “Alright, we rush him on three. One, two,... THREE!”

Wriothesley leaps into the room and tackles Monsieur Pierre to the floor, grabbing his hands and clasping them behind his back. Monsieur Pierre growls and curses, but Wriothesley has him cuffed within the minute. He hauls him to his feet, shoving him a little harder than necessary. Toulouse steps in, grabbing Monsieur Pierre’s other arm and guiding him out the door.

“Again. Why did we just let the Phantom handle this?”

“Nobody fucks with kids. Nobody.”

“Oh, he fucked with kids.” Anaïs hisses through her teeth. “Yeah, no, he’s fucked.”

“I’m so confused.” Toulouse mutters.

“Do you want me to explain, Your Grace?”

Wriothesley huffs, shaking his head as he marches Monsieur Pierre out into broad daylight, in front of many waiting kameras and just as many reporters. How they found out about the arrest, Wriothesley may never know.

“I’ll tell him. Later. When I’m not so pissed.” Wriothesley growls. “ANYBODY WHO WANTS A PICTURE OF THE PERVERT, COME GET IT!”

The press backs off a little, which helps ease some of Wriothesley’s anger. Not all of it, but enough. Wriothesley tightens his grip on Monsieur Pierre’s forearm, pushing him towards the aquabus station so they can just get back to the Fortress. Monsieur Pierre is kicking and screaming, yelling about how he’s innocent, how he hasn’t done anything wrong. Wriothesley entertains notations of pushing him to the floor and stepping on his throat until he stops talking.

Instead, he hands Monsieur Pierre off to Anaïs. Better to just have someone else handle it if he can’t.

“I didn't do anything wrong.” Monsieur Pierre mumbles.

“Tell that to your daughter.” Wriothesley snarls.

“Boss.” Anaïs warns.

“Right, right. Plenty of time to deal with him later.”

“What did I do that was so bad?” Monsieur Pierre laughs.

Wriothesley feels himself snap. His hands start shaking as he forces himself to stay put, to not wrap his fingers around the asshole's neck and squeeze until something pops. His nails dig into his palm, and he grits his teeth to hold back the growl welling up in him.

“Anaïs. Remind me to register him before you leave. We're opening the ring early tonight.”

“You didn't have to come.”

“Yes, I did.”

Anaïs sighs, tightening her grip on the inmate as she drags him to the aquabus. Peter runs up to them, having taken care of the little girl, and sits directly next to the inmate, placing himself between him and Wriothesley.

“You're gonna hate this.” Peter says dully. “He touched the kid.”

Wriothesley primes his gauntlets, more out of instinct than anything else. The inmate jumps, a startled laugh escaping him. The aquabus takes off, and Wriothesley spends the whole trip glaring at the new inmate. He feels himself stewing in his bad mood, feels it getting worse, feels himself getting angrier, until he’s storming into his office and banging his hands on the desk in a fit of pure rage.

“FUCK!” He roars, yanking his coat off and tossing it aside as he heads down to the ring.

The whole way there, he’s seething. This fucking pervert has the audacity to get caught fondling multiple kids, then Social Services doesn’t show up to get his fucking daughter, then he’s found in the house with a live weapon, then he’s revealed to have touched his daughter? To say Wriothesley is pissed is the understatement of the century.

“Hey!” Toulouse steps in front of Wriothesley, glaring daggers at him as he stands firm in front of him. “Are you gonna tell me what the fuck is going on?”

Wriothesley briefly considers bowling him over and continuing with his journey into the ring, but instead he stops and takes a seat on some nearby crates, gesturing for Toulouse to sit next to him. Toulouse takes his seat, glancing at Wriothesley with a concerned expression on his face.

“So… I have a… special rage, I guess, reserved for crimes against children. Because of what happened to me and my siblings. I like to handle the pick-ups for those special scumbags personally, because I want to be for those kids what I never had.”

“Right. Makes sense.”

“I hate it when kids get hurt. It isn’t right, knowing what they’re going through, knowing how it’s going to affect them.”

“Right…”

“I know I shouldn’t keep doing it. I know I shouldn’t. But it’s just so… I can’t help it. I just… I see my brothers and sisters in each child I talk to. And when their parents hurt them… I just can’t stand it. They deserve better than that.”

“And that’s why you were so rough with the guy?”

“Two dozen dead kids. All of them violated, sodomized and bound and left for dead in the middle of the ocean. And his own daughter… that poor girl. When he couldn’t hurt anyone else, he started hurting her. Hell, maybe he never stopped. Maybe what we saw was the first time it came to light that he was touching her.” Wriothesley grumbles. “I can’t stand people like that.”

Toulouse visibly deflates, looking more and more dejected as the silence goes on. Wriothesley huffs a sigh– not everybody has the stomach for working with the worst scraps of humanity, and certainly not everybody has the stomach to do it after believing in the best parts of it.

“Hey. I know it’s a lot. You can get some real scumbags, working this job.” Wriothesley sighs. “If you… you know, can’t do it anymore… I’ll be happy to cut you loose.”

Toulouse shakes his head, wiping away tears with the back of his hand.

“No. I want to do this job. It’s a job that needs doing, and I know I’m really good at it. It’s just…”

“Really shitty?”

“Yeah.” Toulouse laughs ruefully. “I don’t know how you do this.”

“It’s hard.” Wriothesley admits. “But I do it anyway. Like you said. Job needs doing, so I do it.”

Toulouse sighs, bonking his head against Wriothesley’s shoulder. Wriothesley laughs, ruffling Toulouse’s hair as he takes a deep breath, calming down further with every second. They chat about a few more things before Toulouse sits up abruptly, slamming his fist into his hand with a sharp “Oh!”

“Before I forget, I got my approval!” Toulouse smiles brightly. “I’ll bring it by on tomorrow.”

“You’ll… hang on. What?”

“When we were on lockdown, I asked if you would be able to get me information on the person who murdered my parents. You said that once my application was approved, you’d give me the file.” Toulouse responds. “Do you not remember?”

“I… don’t think so. But I believe you.” Wriothesley nods. “Yeah, ok. Bring in the application, I’ll give you the file.”

He and Toulouse part ways shortly after that conversation, and Wriothesley can feel his heart pounding. Why the hell is he agreeing to this? Why does he think any of this is a good idea? This is terrible! He can’t do this. He shouldn’t do this. His second chance isn’t worth the guarantee that his baby brother will hate him for everything. But at the same time… he doesn’t have that guarantee. He doesn’t know for sure that it will go badly. And that little sliver of hope is dangerous. Too dangerous. He has to shut it down.

“Duke.” Estienne mutters quietly next to him. “You’re pacing. In front of your office.”

“Shit.” Wriothesley glances up, noticing the small crowd that has gathered. He snarls, storming into his office and collapsing onto the couch.

“You good?” Estienne asks.

“No. Apparently, I promised Toulouse my criminal file if he could bring in the approval from the Palais for the court records on the Santelle case.”

“That’s… a lot of words. Should we try that again?”

“So, Toulouse submitted an application to view the court records for the Santelle case. I told him that if he brought me the approval, I’d give him the relevant criminal file.” Wriothesley groans. “He got his approval. He’s bringing it tomorrow.”

“You know this is a terrible idea, right?”

“You’re telling me?”

Wriothesley groans, throwing his face into a pillow. He hates the situation that he’s put himself in. He has no one to blame but himself. And yet he knows he’d do it again, just to have Toulouse at his side. He didn’t realize how badly he missed them until Toulouse was right there.

“I might be an idiot.”

“I think you’re probably tired. You’re definitely not an idiot.” Estienne huffs. “It’s okay to miss them, you know.”

“Ughhhhhhhhh.” Wriothesley groans. “Well, it’s not like it matters anymore.”

“You’re sure about that?”

“Yup. One way or another, it’s all over tomorrow.”

Chapter Text

Wriothesley barely sleeps that night. He doesn’t eat much of his breakfast, and he fidgets through all of his morning meetings. The one thing keeping him going is the promise of an after lunch meeting with Neuvillette, but even that is eclipsed by the fear pounding in his heart. Toulouse is going to see his file. Toulouse is going to see his laundry list of crimes, everything he’s worked so hard to keep out of his hands. And yet… he wants to do this. He really does.

“Hey boss!” Toulouse chirps as he hops up the stairs. “Got the approval!”

He smacks it down on the desk, and Wriothesley picks it up slowly. He reads over the text, confirming that Toulouse does have authorization to look at the court records. His heart pounds harder as he reaches back and grabs the file he’s had out since last night. Toulouse takes it with a smile, and skips down the stairs.

Wriothesley tries to go back to his work. He tries to ignore the way his heart is hurting, almost unusually so. He tries to finish his work, tries and tries and tries so hard to do his job.

Estienne knocks on the banister, and Wriothesley jumps half a foot out of his seat. His heart thumps wildly in his chest, and he grips the edge of his desk as his head reels. Estienne gives him a strange look, but says nothing as he approaches Wriothesley’s desk.

“Are you ok, boss?” Estienne asks quietly.

“I’m fine. Just feeling a bit skittish.” Wriothesley sighs. “What’s up?”

“Toulouse has your file.”

“I know. I gave it to him.”

“On purpose?”

“I told you I was gonna do that.”

“Why? Why would you do that?”

“Because I–” Wriothesley is cut off by a knock at the door. “Come in! Because it was the right thing to do.”

Toulouse appears at the top of the stairs, glaring quietly at the floor. He momentarily flicks his eyes up at Wriothesley, but almost immediately looks away. Instead, he turns his attention to Estienne, looking him right in the eye in the way he failed to for Wriothesley.

“Es, can I borrow the Duke for a second?” Toulouse asks.

Estienne raises an eyebrow at Wriothesley, a clear question on his face. Wriothesley nods, allowing Estienne to leave him and Toulouse alone in the room. Toulouse waits for Estienne to leave, then slams the file onto Wriothesley’s desk. Wriothesley jumps again, clutching his chest as his heart aches inside him. His breath comes in short, and his head feels fuzzy.

“Toulouse…”

“You knew.” Toulouse growls. “You knew, this whole damn time!”

Wriothesley feels his throat get tight, and he reaches for Toulouse, his hand shaking just before he catches himself.

“Kiddo–”

“No! NO, DON’T YOU “KIDDO” ME! YOU KNOW HOW IMPORTANT THIS IS TO ME!” Toulouse roars. “YOU KNEW! ….You knew. You knew this whole damn time. You killed them .”

“I did.” Wriothesley’s vision blurs. “I want you to know–”

“I’m not going to listen to you! You killed my fucking parents!”

Anger flares in Wriothesley. Toulouse doesn’t know. He has no idea what is going on, no idea what Wriothesley went through for him, what all of them went through because of the Santelles. He refuses to respond with anger, but even he isn’t sure how much longer he’ll have that control for.

“They hardly deserve that title. They weren’t good people.”

“I can’t believe this. Everybody tells me they deserved to die! Nobody tells me why! I thought you at least be honest with me!”

“It isn’t something you were meant to know–”

“THEY WERE MY PARENTS!”

“THEY WEREN’T ANYBODY’S FUCKING PARENTS! THEY WERE CHILD MOLESTERS AND PERVERTS!”

Wriothesley bangs his hands on the desk as he rockets to his feet, panting as he turns his gaze up to Toulouse. Toulouse stumbles backwards, panic clear on his face, but before Wriothesley can apologize, Toulouse steels his face and draws his musket. He cocks the pistol in his hand and points it at Wriothesley, leveling the barrel with Wriothesley’s chest.

“Sit down and start talking. You want me to trust you? Make me trust you .”

Wriothesley feels the sharp sting of betrayal deep in his chest, but he remains standing, tears blossoming in his eyes as he raises his hands in silent surrender. Toulouse remains cold, even as his hands start to tremble.

“Toulouse. Please. Everything I did, I did for you, I did for us. You have no idea what they were like. You have no idea what those monsters did to us. You don’t understand–”

“Then help me understand! Or is it too much for you to confront your crimes?” Toulouse snarls. “Did Jean-Luc die for nothing?”

Wriothesley’s heart surges in his chest, and rage surges in his veins. He slowly turns his eyes to Toulouse’s face, barely holding back the growl welling deep inside him. He hasn’t heard that name in…

“Where did you learn that name?” Wriothesley snarls. “WHERE DID YOU HEAR THAT NAME?”

Toulouse shoves the barrel of his musket in Wriothesley’s face, hands shaking visibly. Wriothesley realizes that he’s leaning over his desk to yell at Toulouse, and draws back abruptly.

“Jean-Luc is dead. He died in a fire.”

“That’s not what my brother told me. I’m sorry, that’s not what Jacques told me.” Toulouse spits, the venom in his voice so potent Wriothesley can feel it poisoning him. “In case you forgot your brother’s name while you were rotting down here.”

“Jean-Luc is dead. He died with the Santelles, right after he smashed their fucking brains in.” Wriothesley snarls. “Or did your brothers forget to mention that little fact when they told you the one thing I asked them to keep from you?”

Toulouse’s face flickers with an expression Wriothesley can’t place, but he forces his expression back into steely indifference.

“They didn’t mention that you and Jean-Luc were one and the same. They didn’t mention anything, if you care to remember.” Toulouse growls again. “You killed them.”

“They wanted me to train you. So you could be sold to a client. I told Louis no, and he got mad at me, all but told me they wanted me to take over for them when they gave up the ghost. I saw red, smashed Louis’ head into his desk until his brains came out. Did the same to Danielle with a frying pan so she couldn’t hurt anyone else.”

He’s saying too much, but at this point, he doesn’t care. Let Toulouse know all his dirty secrets– Gods know he’s asking. Toulouse is right about one thing; he does deserve answers.

“We were the lucky ones, the ones they kept. The ones that got to stay in the house until adulthood. The “Performers”. They made us work about 3 or 4 nights a week, unless you danced. Dancers were too broken to work.” Wriothesley sighs. “I was a dancer.”

“And you killed them because you were sick of it?”

“I killed them because they were predators and I couldn’t stand the thought of another one of my siblings getting hurt. Jacques and the others were supposed to take care of you. I can see now that they failed.”

“YOU HAVE NO–” Toulouse cuts off. “You have no right to say that. Not when you’ve been down here, away from us. Away from me.”

“We made a deal. Jacques and I. I would stay away from you, all of you, and they would raise you to be a normal kid. The childhood we never had would be yours. And somehow, they still failed.”

“They failed me? YOU FAILED ME!”

“I FAILED A LOT OF PEOPLE, BUT YOU WEREN’T SUPPOSED TO KNOW!” Wriothesley roars through tears. “You weren’t supposed to know. You weren’t supposed to know.”

Wriothesley slumps back into his seat, his heart aching and squeezing unnaturally in his chest. The pain is indication enough that something is wrong. Tears blur his vision, and hiccuping sobs escape him despite his best efforts to smother it. Toulouse looks visibly uncomfortable at this point, and has finally put his musket down. Neither one of them has the strength to look the other in the eye.

“I think I’m gonna quit.” Toulouse says after a moment. “I’ll drop my papers off in the morning.”

“Just… take the week.” Wriothesley whimpers. “I’ll see you Monday.”

“Ok.” Toulouse whispers.

He turns and clomps down the stairs, and Wriothesley listens for the slamming of his office door. Once it comes, he breathes a sigh of relief. It’s over, and even if it did blow up in his face, at least he never has to do that again. He should get up and get started on Toulouse’s dismissal paperwork, but he can’t seem to move. He can’t even lift his arms. His breath comes in short, and his heart is still pumping that odd rhythm in his chest. No… it’s not beating at all.

He needs to get up and get help. He forces himself to stand, but his legs turn to jelly under him and he collapses to the floor, clipping his forehead on the corner of the desk on the way down. A strangled cry escapes him, but he’s in too much pain to make much noise. He reaches out, tears flowing down his cheeks even as his vision fades to black.

The last thing he hears is Sigewinne screaming.

Chapter Text

Toulouse doesn’t mean to slam the door when he comes in, but Elsie still jumps and he still flinches. He flops onto the couch, groaning into a pillow as Elsie sits next to him. She pets his shoulder, no doubt wearing that nervous smile that comes when she’s concerned about him and his work. Toulouse pulls his face out of the pillow, smiling ruefully at Elsie.

“How did it go? Wriothesley didn’t give you any trouble?” Elsie asks.

Toulouse feels his stomach twist with guilt as memories of the day’s events come flooding back to him. He yelled, shouted, raged– hell, he fucking pulled his musket on Wriothesley.

“I did something I’m not proud of today, and I need to apologize.” Toulouse sniffles. “I got the file. …Turns out Wriothesley is my older brother.”

“What? I thought…” Elsie’s eyes go wide. “Jean-Luc!”

“Yeah. I thought it was strange that Jacques would just suddenly bring up an extra name when I told him I was working in the Fortress. But to just have that laid out for me… it was a lot.”

“I can imagine. You must have been very angry.”

“I was. I realized that he knew this whole time, and I… Gods, Elsie, I pulled my fucking musket on him.” Toulouse sobs. “I don’t know what I was thinking. I had no right to do that. He should have grabbed that stupid thing right out of my hands. I don’t know why he let me do that.”

“Breathe, baby. Tell me about what happened.”

“He gave me the file. The file said that he was the one who killed the Santelles. I just… snapped. I stormed into his office and demanded an explanation, and when he lost his temper with me, I drew my weapon on him. …I got my answers. But I don’t know if it was worth it.”

“Well…” Elsie pats his shoulder. “Take some time to cool off. Apologize. And don’t forget, you want me around.”

“I’m so lucky you love me.”

“Damn straight you’re lucky. Now, rest up. You have that interview to look at the court records tomorrow, right?”

“It’s on Friday, so in two days.” Toulouse corrects. “I'm serious, Elsie. Anyone else would have taken one look at the drama surrounding my life and run for the hills.”

“It helps that I'm crazy about you.” Elsie quips. “Come eat dinner, ok? I have work tonight, so I won't be home until late.”

“Oh? Are they gonna make you wear that outfit again?”

“No. I'm working the bar tonight.” Elsie smiles. “But I heard from a little birdie that you like that outfit too.”

“Was it Casey? Snitch.” Toulouse grumbles.

His Wednesday comes to a close after Elsie leaves for work. He spends a few hours drafting apology letters, but somehow, none of them sound right. He needs to apologize in person. He shouldn't have pulled his weapon like that, no matter how angry he got. It wasn't even that he felt threatened, he was just mad.

Groaning again, Toulouse slams his face into the pillow on his bed and drifts off into a fitful sleep. He can briefly hear the sounds of children playing in the street as he drifts off, chasing his dreams in circles down the dark paths of his mind.

“Frère Jacques, Frère Jacques, dormez-vous, dormez-vous. Sonnez les matines, sonnez les matines, ding, dang, dong, ding, dang, dong.”

“What are you singing, Jean-Luc?”

“A song about a lazy monk. He stayed up too late and overslept for Mass. Which reminds me, little bean, you should be in bed.”

“Noooooooooo!”

“Yes. Bed, little bean. You can stay up when you're older.”

Toulouse sits bolt upright, not quite sure if he's entirely awake yet. His dreams have always been strange, but this is something entirely new. This felt more solid, more like a memory than anything else. He slides a hand across his chest, searching for his heartbeat and finding it nestled in his ribcage.

Elsie stirs next to him, grumbling and groaning about the early morning light in her eyes. Toulouse laughs at her, ruffling her hair as he rises and gets ready for his day. Shave, shower, uniform, breakfast, and–

“Where are you going?” Elsie comments as he opens the door.

“Um… work?” Toulouse laughs nervously. “Elsie, where else would I be going?”

“Baby. You’re on leave for the rest of the week. Remember?” Elsie rolls her eyes as Toulouse groans. “Yup, I knew it. You forgot.”

“I totally did.” Toulouse sighs. “Alright, time for a normal outfit, I guess.”

Elsie has her bartending class today, so Toulouse will be left mostly to his own devices. He gets groceries and stops by the library to pick up some books, briefly contemplates getting some tickets for the opera that Elsie mentioned she wanted to see, and picks up the new uniform he just… ordered…

“Fuck.” He grumbles.

Uniforms are usually taken out of your paycheck, but if he’s quitting the Fortress– scratch that. Forget quitting, he is fired beyond belief. Not just from the Fortress but probably the Phantom as well. There’s no way he’s still hired on after pulling his musket on his boss. He should just abandon the order. The money will be taken anyway.

“Hey, Toulouse!” A voice calls out right as a hand is slapped on his shoulder. “Long time no see!”

Toulouse jumps and reflexively elbows the guy, putting his arm in between himself and the person as he steps backwards. He straightens himself as his hand goes for his nightstick. The nightstick he doesn’t have. Because he’s not on duty.

“Aaron. Hey.” Toulouse groans. His old coworker from the Phantom– Aaron DuPointe– is standing in the middle of the road, grinning like a labrador. “You scared me, man!”

“Sorry. Just haven’t seen you since you started working the Fortress.” Aaron chuckles. “Speaking of, they scheduled me to start there next month! Can you believe it?”

“Everybody’s gotta do their turn.” Toulouse reminds him.

“Yeah, but it still sucks. I mean, Meropide is fine or whatever, but I heard most guards don’t even last a month!”

“Yeah, a lot of the Phantom folks quit early. They can’t handle the work.”

“Did it ever get really bad for you? I mean, you wanted to do the whole rotation, right? How’s that working out?”

Toulouse bites back the urge to say “It’s not” and instead responds with “It’s been fine so far.”

“You’re a braver man than I am.” Aaron laughs. “I heard that after a month, the criminals get used to you, and they try to attack you way more.”

“The correct term is “inmates”, and no. Most of them are actually very polite, and a few of them are even contracted to work for the Fortress.” Toulouse corrects him. “The work is certainly different from our duties with the Phantom, but it isn’t harder. Same “protecting the people” type deal, just with different context.”

“Holy shit, man, you actually like it down there!” Aaron guffaws. “You’re crazy, you know that?”

“I like the work. The hours are good, the pay is good, and the boss is good. I might just transfer as soon as–”

As soon as his rotation is up. But he can’t. He absolutely burned that bridge. Besides, does he really want to keep working for Wriothesley, knowing everything he knows now?

“Never mind.” Toulouse dismisses the thought. “I’m being stupid.”

“Hell yeah you are. You don’t get enough sun down there, it’s fucking with your brain.” Aaron pats Toulouse’s shoulder. “Well, I’m on the clock, so catch you later, yeah?”

“Whatever, man.” Toulouse barely notices Aaron leaving as drops of water start to fall from the sky.

He forgot an umbrella, so he walks home in the rain, not even bothering to stay dry. What kind of horrendous fuck up did he create for himself? He must be the biggest idiot in Teyvat.

“Stop that.” Toulouse sighs as he locks the door behind him. “What’s done is done. You can’t fix it. You can only make it right.”

Monday is his deadline. He has until Monday to figure out how he wants to apologize to Wriothesley. And he is going to apologize. Even if he feels betrayed, even if he’s not sure he ever wants to see Wriothesley again, he knows he owes him that much.

Does he want to see Wriothesley again? Toulouse wrestles with himself as he prepares dinner, chopping potatoes and onions and frying up some meat. On the one hand, Wriothesley is a convicted murderer and killed his parents , keeping the secret the whole time Toulouse was there. On the other hand, he made a promise to keep Toulouse away from the horrors of the house, which must have been bad if Wriothesley won’t even give him the full story. And on the other other hand, Wriothesley has been the only person to actually tell Toulouse anything .

He smells iron, and looks down to find that he’s accidentally carved off a decent chunk of his hand while chopping potatoes. Cursing under his breath, he grabs a towel and slams it down on his hand, abandoning his dinner prep in favor of patching himself up. Thankfully, the cut isn’t deep, just wide and in a sensitive area. He manages to get the bleeding to stop fairly quickly, then bandages the wound and packs up the first aid kit so he can head back to clean up the kitchen.

“Toulouse? Did you cut yourself?” Elsie calls from the kitchen.

“I wasn’t paying attention and the potatoes fucking bit me!” Toulouse jokes back.

“Very funny, love. I hope you know it’s on everything.” Elsie holds up a bloodstained cutting board as she saunters into the bathroom. “It looks like somebody got murdered in there.”

“Wouldn’t be the first murder in this family.” Toulouse snaps.

The sudden spike of anger takes both of them off guard, and Toulouse feels guilt slap him across the face. Elsie didn’t do anything wrong there. She didn’t deserve that.

“I’m sorry, Elsie. I shouldn’t have said that.”

Elsie kneels next to him, her face solemn and grave. She isn’t happy with him, but she’s not letting her anger win. Not tonight.

“I’m going to let that slide for right now, because I know you’re going through a tough time. But if I hear anything like that again tonight, I’m going to stay at my parents’ until you can get it together. Understand?”

“Yes, Elsie. It won’t happen again.”

“Good. I forgive you.” Elsie kisses his forehead gently. “Now come help me clean up. Neither one of us is fit to cook right now, but we can’t just leave the kitchen a mess.”

“Yes, Ma’am!”

They clean up and go out for dinner. Toulouse listens as Elsie rants about her day, then tells her about his and how it went. He starts crying into his soup as he tells her about how distraught he was to realize he would probably be fired, but Elsie doesn’t hold any of it against him.

“It was a bad situation. I’m sure Wriothesley won’t fire you. He seems a good man, not accounting for the murders.”

“I just… I really like this job. I’m not even kidding, I’d go back if I had the chance.” Toulouse sucks in a trembling breath. “I never expected things to go so wrong.”

“Toulouse. Honey. It’s ok.” Elsie clasps his hand in hers. “We’ll figure it out, ok? Together.”

Toulouse’s dreams that night are once again fitful and incoherent. He dreams of faded ballgowns and torn curtains, of spacious and dusty dancing halls, and of faces he doesn’t recognize… save for one.

“Somewhere… Beyond the sea… Somewhere, waiting for me…”

“Jean-Luc? How come you sing so much in front of us, but not for Maman and Papa?”

“Well, Toulouse, that’s because I don’t like singing for Maman and Papa. But I like singing for you.”

“But why don’t you like singing for them?”

“...You’ll understand when you’re older.”

Toulouse wakes with tears streaming down his face. He recognized Wriothesley in the dream, recognized him as Jean-Luc, but his face looked so sad, so pained. Toulouse has only ever seen pain like that one other time, when he pulled out his musket in Wriothesley’s office. It was a kind of betrayal so raw and unexpected that even the sky weeps, rain hammering against the window.

Elsie isn’t home yet– She had the closing shift last night, so she won’t be home until about 8 in the morning. Toulouse’s appointment for the records viewing is at 9, so he’ll need to leave at about 8 if he wants to get there on time– Fridays are terrible for trying to go anywhere in the Court. It’s likely he won’t even see Elsie until tomorrow, because she works another closer tonight.

Shave, shower, regular clothes , breakfast. He picks up his copy of the Steambird off the front step and snorts at the headline; The Fortress of Meropide: A Tried and True Classic, or the Last Bastion of the Old Ways?

Wriothesley would probably roll his eyes at that. “Just rumors. You know how Fontainians get when they’re left to their own devices”, he’d say. And Toulouse would agree and laugh at the obviously untrue facts printed in the second paragraph of this watered down thinkpiece. And then they’d go on with their day, doing the work nobody thinks about when they send off inmates to the Fortress of Meropide.

Toulouse forces the thoughts from his mind. He's not in the Fortress right now. He needs to be here and now.

His trip to the Palais doesn't take anywhere near as long as he expected, but the Palais is in uproar. From what Toulouse can pick up, Monsieur Neuvillette took some emergency leave yesterday and hadn't said when he's going to be back. Toulouse doesn't much care what Monsieur Neuvillette is doing with his time, so long as it doesn't get in his way.

He finds the records hall after a bit of wandering, and checks in with a young girl who doesn't look used to the job. She tells him to have a seat, but no sooner than he's sat down she calls him up again.

“Monsieur Santelle?” She calls after him.

The silence that overtakes the hall is deafening. Toulouse swears he hears a pin dropping in the next room as he shuffles back to the counter.

“Yes, Mademoiselle?”

“I forgot to have you sign this. Please sign this stating the Palais is not responsible for mental damage caused by accessing these records.”

“Oh, that's comforting.” Toulouse mutters.

He signs the paper, and an older lady takes him by the arm and guides him to a private room. She pulls out a huge box of papers, laying them out on the table.

“Before I moved to the archives, my first job was as an assistant attorney with the Court prosecutors. My first case was the Santelles. Their poor kids…” The lady sighs. “That poor boy. He looked so scared up there, all on his own. His siblings didn't even come to the trial.”

Toulouse picks up a paper, scanning it quickly.

Name of Deceased: Louis Santelle

Age: 48

Date of Birth: 10/17/2597

Cause of Death: Repeated Blunt Force Head Trauma(acceleration of the head into an immovable object[re: Case File 29-8A])

Name of Deceased: Danielle Santelle

Age: 53

Date of Birth: 4/25/2591

Cause of Death: Repeated Blunt Force Head Trauma(bludgeoning with oblong flat bottomed object[re: Case File 29-8B])

Deceased were husband and wife, listed as the legal guardian to 6 children; [name not found](17), Jacques Marc Santelle(17), Marie Lynn Santelle(16), Stephen Louis Santelle(15), Clare Renee Santelle(12), and Toulouse Peter Santelle(6). Eldest child is in custody as suspect in case, and has testified to [See attached case file 22-3F], and has admitted to this under witness while in custody at St. Ann's Mercy Hall(Hospital code 188711).

The rest of the file is an autopsy report, but Toulouse is far more interested in these attached files that keep getting referenced. One of them is the actual court records, but he has a lot of sifting to do before he can get there.

“You’re looking for the court transcription? Here, I think it’s.. Yes, this one.” The lady hands him a paper.

Toulouse ignores the way his hands are shaking. He takes the paper, and starts to read.

Monsieur Neuvillette: For the record, please state and spell your name

Defendant[Hereafter referred to by recorded name]: Wriothesley. W-R-I-O-T-H-E-S-L-E-Y.

Monsieur Neuvillette: …And your surname?

Wriothesley: I don’t have one.

Monsieur Neuvillette: I see… Wriothesley, you have been accused of the second degree murders of Louis and Danielle Santelle. Do you understand this accusation?

Wriothesley: Yes sir.

Monsieur Neuvillette: Do you accept the charges?

Wriothesley: Yes sir.

Monsieur Neuvillette: And how do you plead against these charges?

Wriothesley: Guilty.

Monsieur Neuvillette: …Guilty?

Prosecutor Ann Eline: Guilty? We don’t have an argument for guilty!

“I remember my boss saying that in the box.” The lady interrupts Toulouse’s reading. “I don’t think the recorder was supposed to pick it up. But she was right. We were expecting him to plead innocent, or plead defense of the defenseless. His lawyer didn’t even try to stop him.”

Toulouse nods around the lump in his throat and continues reading.

Monsieur Neuvillette: Very well. Let us proceed with–

Wriothesley: We aren't done yet?

Monsieur Neuvillette: Pardon me?

Wriothesley: I pled guilty. Isn't that it? Send me to the Fortress of Meropide or wherever I'm supposed to go now. Why bother keeping me up here any longer?

Monsieur Neuvillette: …Monsieur Wriothesley, am I understanding correctly that you wish to waive your right to trial?

Wriothesley: Yeah, sure. Whatever gets me where I'm supposed to go.

Monsieur Neuvillette: Young man…

Wriothesley: I DID IT, DIDN’T I? JUST SEND ME AWAY ALREADY!

Monsieur Neuvillette: …[unintelligible]

Court Clerk Lonnie Barks: Monsieur, repeat that for the record?

Monsieur Neuvillette: If the prosecution has no further questions, we may proceed to sentencing.

Prosecutor Ann Eline: No further questions, Your Honor.

Monsieur Neuvillette: Very well. Wriothesley, I find you guilty of the murders of Danielle and Louis Santelle. We now turn to the Oratrice Mecanique D'Analyse Cardinale for determination of the sentence.

SENTENCE RETURNED: GUILTY. LIFETIME SENTENCE IN THE FORTRESS OF MEROPIDE

“Wait. That's not right. His sentence was listed as completed in Meropide's records.” Toulouse blurts out.

“They changed it, I think. After the nasty stuff got out.” The lady says.

“Nasty stuff?”

“See, the boy told them about what the Santelles were doing. But it was so outlandish that nobody believed him. Not until about 3 years later, when his sister went to the press and told them everything. That poor girl. She did an interview about how they used to beat the children, how they broke them in for clients. I have a copy of it here, I think.”

Toulouse frowns. “Broke them in”? That sounds suspiciously like rape. Taking a paper from the lady's outstretched hands, Toulouse tries to push down the feeling that he really shouldn’t be doing this.

THE HOME OF LIES: FORMER SANTELLE CHILD SPEAKS TRUTH ABOUT THE MURDERS

3 years ago today, tragedy struck at the heart of our community with the brutal murders of the Santelles, beloved proctors of The House of Angels. The House of Angels was a foster home and orphanage run by Louis and Danielle Santelle, which ran for 30 years in the Court of Fontaine. Many people described the Santelle family as quaint, polite, and model citizens. Their brutal murder at the hands of one of their own foster children shook the community to its core. Thankfully, the child was, despite wild claims that he only acted because the Santelles were dangerous, swiftly brought to justice by the court, and the remaining Santelle children were remanded to Social Services.

But a few months ago, Marie Santelle, the eldest daughter of all the foster children, reached out to this publication to confess the truth. Below is her interview, detailing all that she and her siblings suffered at the hands of the Santelles. We recommend anybody faint of heart ignore this section.

Interviewer Lisa Corman(LC): Now, Marie, I understand if this is… a bit much.

Marie Santelle(MS): it's fine. This has been a long time coming. I just can't stay quiet about it anymore. I can’t stand to hear about how they were saints for a second longer.

LC: I see. Now, it’s my understanding that you’d like to admit your brother–

MS: That man is not my brother!

LC: My apologies. I didn’t mean to presume.

MS: He was right though. He was right. The Santelles… they sold us. Every other night, for me. I was the favorite of so many of their regulars. And we were the lucky ones. The ones they kept. We at least knew we’d get to live to adulthood. The others, the ones that were “Adopted”... we don’t know where they went.

LC: That’s…

MS: Yes, well. We had each other. You know, the Santelles were so mad about how close we were. But they couldn’t break us. They couldn’t beat it out of us, couldn’t whip it out of us, couldn’t fuck it out of us. They used to… “fix” us. Teach us how to be good for clients.

Toulouse has to put the paper down, but even as he does, he catches sight of more gruesome details. He feels sick to his stomach. Wriothesley was telling the truth. The Santelles were monsters. They… they raped his siblings.

Toulouse suddenly feels the weight of everything he’s learned bearing down on his shoulders. He needs to get out of here. He needs to go home.

“This is a standing order, right? I can come back and look at these files any time?” Toulouse asks with a quivering voice.

“Well, you need to make an appointment, but, yes. Any time.” The lady confirms.

“Good. I think I should go home.”

Toulouse runs home, sprinting through the streets as he sobs. His heart feels like it’s breaking. His family suffered at the hands of those monsters. His brother was sentenced to prison for the crime of protecting his family. Toulouse feels lost and confused and isn’t sure what to do.

He’s so distracted that he bowls over some poor lady in the street, her blonde locks soaked from the rain. He turns back to say he’s sorry, but her purple haired friend glares at him and helps her up, rushing away as soon as they’re both on their feet.

Toulouse drags himself back to his house, pulling himself inside and collapsing against the door as soon as it shuts. He’s exhausted, and if this is how he feels after one day of secondhand exposure, then he can’t even imagine how his siblings must feel. How Wriothesley must feel.

God, Wriothesley. Toulouse feels an inhuman wail claw out of his throat as guilt stabs him through the heart. He sobs into the emptiness of his home, trying to rip the knowledge he’s gained out of his head, trying desperately to go back to the blissful ignorance he had earlier that day.

He falls asleep like that, pressed up against the door to his house, tear stains on his cheeks as he stares at nothing.

“Jean-Luc, what you done?” Jacques asks.

Toulouse rounds the corner and peers into his daddy’s office. Jean-Luc is standing in the middle of the room, holding a frying pan covered in spaghetti sauce. Jean-Luc is also covered in spaghetti sauce, and so is Daddy. Toulouse has never seen spaghetti sauce so… red.

Something is wrong.

“Jean-Luc, is Daddy ok?”

“JEAN-LUC! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE!” Jacques shouts.

Jean-Luc turns around, and something is wrong with his eyes. They aren’t… bright. Not like when he tells Toulouse stories, or cooks dinner with Marie. They seem almost… dead.

“Toulouse!” Stephen grabs Toulouse suddenly, covering his eyes. “Jean-Luc, what the hell?”

“Get him out of here. Lock the door. And make sure he doesn’t remember me. If you’re lucky… He’ll never know what went on in this house.”

Chapter Text

Wriothesley is dying. He should be alarmed by this, but honestly, he knew this was a long time coming. He’s made his peace with it, maybe faster than he should have.

He’s also comatose and the stupid dying thing is taking fucking forever.

“Ok, floating in the void was fun for the first five minutes, but it’s kind of boring now. Can whatever god-sovereign-entity in charge of death get on with it please?”

Nothing happens. Typical. Wriothesley pouts, still laying on the–

“Hang on a second. Since when is there a floor in here?”

Wriothesley sits up– that’s also new, but who is he to judge his own coma dream– and finds himself on the floor in a random hallway in the Fortress. No, not random… He won his first fight in this hallway. It was the first time he really felt like Wriothesley, and not some poor imitation of someone else wrapped around whatever was left of Jean-Luc.

“Ok. That’s probably symbolic.” Wriothesley huffs. “Anything else my subconscious wants to throw at me?”

Ironically, tempting fate results in Wriothesley’s subconscious manifesting the sounds of a record player and the chattering of people, the smell of cheap cigars and the specific brand of cheap wine that Louis liked best. He’s back in the pleasure hall, in the basement of that house.

“No. NO.” Wriothesley recoils. “Not back there. I won’t go back there.”

The music of the night starts to play, and Wriothesley no longer has the choice. He’s on stage, under a spotlight, and he knows he has to sing. If he doesn’t sing, he’ll be wearing some nice welts across his back tomorrow evening. Just a little something to go with the fake diamonds and sparkly satin dress.

A swell of voices surges in his mind as he climbs up the stage. Memories from his past viciously attack him, ripping him to shreds as they circle and swirl.

“Jean-Luc. Is something wrong?”

“Jean-Luc, don't freeze up.”

“Jean-Luc, don't try to be a hero.”

“Jean-Luc…”

“STOP!” Wriothesley cries out. “Please, stop. Mercy, please.”

He's standing in front of the Palais, his wrist chained to the ground. Most of the chain is weak and cracked, but one link in particular is solid. He knows that if that link breaks, he'll be free. But he isn't sure that he wants that freedom.

“Ok, more symbolism. My favorite, thanks.” Wriothesley drawls. “What does this one mean?”

There is absolutely no change to his immediate surroundings, which means that he either did something right or did something very wrong. Wriothesley sighs, then experimentally tugs on the chain. He's expecting a little bit of resistance. He's not expecting for the whole thing to shatter in his hands. He tumbles backwards, losing his balance as the majority of the chain crumbles to dust.

“Uh.” Wriothesley utters. “Ok. Not that kind of chain, apparently. Not that kind of binding.”

He's still laying on the floor. He should get up. He sits up slowly, balking at the one remaining chain link on the cuff around his wrist.

“Ok then, what's your deal?” He glares at the singular chain link. “What do you represent? Am I supposed to learn something from this?”

Briefly, the chain changes into a child's hand, wrapped around his wrist. Toulouse's hand.

“Oh-kay. That's important.” Wriothesley grumbles. “Why is Toulouse a chain? I like Toulouse! I want him around!”

Nothing happens. Typical.

“How many times have I done this already? Huh? Am I just gonna loop until I wake up?”

Wriothesley frowns at his cuffed hand, glaring at a little mole on the back of his hand. Something about it stands out to him, but he's not sure why. Maybe it's because he hasn't drawn it on in a while? His prosthetic doesn't have–

“Wait a second.”

Wriothesley grips his upper arm, feeling around for the latch that detaches his prosthetic from the rest of his arm. He encounters nothing but solid flesh and muscle. This is his real arm. Not even in his dreams does he have his real arm. Not unless he's dreaming about the Santelles. Not unless he thinks he's still Jean-Luc.

“Ah. I think I get it now.” Wriothesley stands, turning back to the Palais. “Well, I'm not dying. That's… kind of a relief.”

The world around him feels more solid now. More like he can control the narrative. Good, time to explore his mindscape.

He takes a tentative step forward and immediately falls, tumbling forward into nothingness and landing in his bed. His old bed, in the Santelles’ home. The bed he spent so many nights crying in, the bed he hid in when Louis got too drunk, when Danielle would try to drag him into a room with a client.

He’s wearing wool flannel pajamas, his favorite set. He’s just put them on, just gotten ready for bed. If he remembers correctly, then today is…

“No. I don’t want to do this.” Wriothesley sighs. “But I don’t have a choice, do I?”

The world wavers, then steadies.

“Huh. Is that a yes?”

The world wavers again. Wriothesley sighs, then pulls himself out of bed. Having successfully made contact with his subconscious, he knows what he must do.

“Fine. I’ll go kill Louis.”

He slinks down to the office, his bare feet shuffling against cool tile and oak stairs. He knocks on Louis’ door, waiting for the drunken slur of “Come in!” before he opens the door. Louis is working on some papers, half a bottle of whiskey sitting on his desk next to his pens. Wriothesley knows what happens next, but he still doesn’t want to do it.

“Hey, Louis, you said you had a job for me?”

Louis flicks his eyes up, glaring at Wriothesley.

“Yes. Danielle wants Toulouse trained. I’m too busy for it, so you’ll be doing it instead.”

And here’s where the memory takes over, because Wriothesley flinches, even though he knows what to expect. He takes a step back, then two steps forward. He isn’t in control anymore, and he knows it.

“What? Why? I thought we were keeping Toulouse?”

“Found a late buyer. Don’t ask stupid questions. You have a week to get him ready.”

“That’s not a lot of time–”

“Furina and her judges.” Louis grumbles. “I don’t keep you around to ask stupid questions, brat. Come here.”

Louis pulls his belt off and places it on the table. Wriothesley flinches again, but he approaches, watching Louis stand. It would be so easy to kill him. He’s so drunk that Wriothesley could probably slap him across the face and it would take him five minutes to respond.

“I can’t believe Danielle wants you to take over. She keeps saying you’d be good at it, but you’re stupid as shit.”

Wriothesley freezes. He knew it was coming, but he still freezes.

“You want me to what?”

“I admit, you have an eye for business. If you weren’t such a pussy, I might even agree with Dan–”

Wriothesley grabs Louis’ head and slams it into the desk. Louis scrambles to grab his belt, screaming obscenities the whole time, but Wriothesley just keeps slamming his head into the desk. There's a loud bang, and Wriothesley slams down again, and again, and again, and–

Louis’ head hits the desk with a wet squelch, blood splattering against Wriothesley’s face as he lifts the head and shoves it down again. His hand aches from how he’s grabbed Louis’ head, but even as he lets go, he can’t help but feel relief.

A knock at the door, and Wriothesley shuffles over and unlocks it. He didn’t realize the door was locked. Was it locked in real life, or is this him changing the memory?

“Jean-Luc? What the… Whose blood is that?”

Jacques looks horrified. Wriothesley remembers that he looked horrified, that he was disgusted with Wriothesley for what he did. But he did what he had to do. For them.

“Is Danielle still upstairs?” He mumbles, wiping blood from his mouth.

Jacques keeps his mouth shut and doesn't say anything. Wriothesley narrows his eyes, glaring sharply at Jacques. Jacques remains steadfast, saying nothing.

“Fine, then.” Wriothesley turns– he was going to get a knife from the kitchen. That was the plan at the time.

“Jean-Luc, perfect! I was just looking for you. There's this really stubborn stain in the frying pan and I need help getting it out.” Marie steps in front of him, but she doesn't see the blood. She wouldn't be so calm if she had.

“Give it here, I'll deal with it.” Wriothesley mutters. His voice feels far away, dangerously quiet.

“MARIE! COME UP HERE!” Danielle roars from upstairs.

“Ugh, what does she want from me this time?” Marie groans.

“I'll deal with it. Finish the dishes.” Wriothesley says.

“But she asked for–” Marie cuts off sharply as Wriothesley turns the frying pan in his hands. “Jean-Luc? …Why are you covered in… Is that blood?”

“I'll deal with Danielle. Go call the Gardes.”

Gods, he really said that, didn't he? He knew from the second he did it he wasn't coming back. He saw the line and took a running leap over it. And he doesn't regret it in the slightest.

“Jean-Luc, what did you do?” Marie shakes her head. “What have you done?”

“What I had to.” Wriothesley responds.

And he stalks up the stairs to Danielle's room, his footsteps thudding in time with his heartbeat. Blood rushes in his ears as he opens the door to Danielle's room, approaches as she fiddles with the decorative comb she's placing in her hair.

“I didn't ask for you, Jean-Luc. Go get Marie, and clean that filth off your outfit. I didn't raise a slob.”

Wriothesley doesn't waste his breath on her. He lifts the frying pan and swings. His first swing misses and hits her in the arm. She yelps in pain and turns on him instantly, swiping at him with her comb. It rakes across his throat, tearing open the soft skin as he skitters backwards.

“You fucking traitor.” She hisses. “I vouched for you. I KEPT YOU ALIVE!”

Wriothesley swings again, and this time, the blow connects with her head. She lunges at him, screaming and flailing, scratching his eye and hitting him again and again. She eventually hits him in the gut, where pain blossoms in a sharp spike against his ribs. He vaguely remembers seeing Louis’ gun on the desk and wishes he'd grabbed it. It would have been faster.

She doesn't deserve fast, a little voice inside him whispers. She deserves to suffer .

Wriothesley wraps his hand around her throat and squeezes, jumping a little when her neck snaps with a sharp crunch. He stands slowly, wobbling to his feet as he wraps his hand around his own throat, trying to stop the bleeding.

“Jean-Luc? What are you… Is Danielle…” Stephen mutters from somewhere behind him. “Is she… dead?”

“Go get Toulouse and wait outside for the Gardes. I'll take care of everything else.”

He has to burn their files. The friends of the Santelles can't be allowed to get to them. He has to burn them.

“Jean-Luc? Wh– Oh, Archons, you're bleeding!” Clare gasps.

“I'm fine. It's not mine.”

He's pretty sure it's not his. Most of it isn't.

“What do you mean it's not… Oh. OH. OH MY GOD!” Clare breaks off with a harsh retching noise. Poor kid has always been squeamish.

There's a bullet in his ribs. He can feel it moving as he stumbles down the stairs, slamming into the wall when his knees give out. He forces himself upright, forces himself to wobble back to Louis’ office and wrench open the file cabinet.

There's no good accelerants around, so Wriothesley upends the rest of Louis’ cheap whiskey into the cabinet and lights a whole pack of matches in the middle. He slumps against the liquor cabinet, laughing when an entire bottle of merlot falls in his lap.

“Right. Go out on a high note.”

He cracks the seal and chugs the wine, the sour taste of it settling in his stomach as he starts to black out. Warmth spreads through his limbs, making his body heavy and his eyes flutter. He waits for the sweet release of unconsciousness to overtake him, but instead, he feels more awake, more alert, more afraid.

“Don’t leave me here. Please, I just wanted to save them. I served my time. I took my punishment. Isn’t that enough?”

The silence of his mind is almost enough to drive him insane. He feels like he’s dying. He wants to wake up. He wants to dream forever. But mostly, he wants to be held. To be loved.

“I know I fucked up. Can someone please just be in my corner for once?”

And he cries until he can’t anymore.

Chapter Text

“I’m an idiot, I shouldn’t be doing this, I can’t believe myself–” Toulouse cuts off as the door swings open, revealing the six year old behind it. A toothy grin fills her face, and she surges forward to wrap around Toulouse’s leg.

“UNCLE TOULOUSE!” She whoops.

“Sammi Grace, my favorite niece!” Toulouse smiles warmly, ignoring the way his stomach flips inside him. “Where’s your dad?”

“Papa is talking to Maman. I think they’re fighting again.” Sammi wrinkles her nose. “Can I stay with you and Aunty Elsie tonight?”

“That depends on your father.” Toulouse sighs. “JACQUES! I’M HERE!”

“Come in!” Jacques calls back. Toulouse steps inside.

Two weeks ago, when he set up this dinner, he hadn’t thought the first half of his Saturday was going to be spent sobbing incoherently into his fiancé’s arms. He certainly didn’t think that his “man-on-a-mission” mindset was going to be shot down by the horrifying revelation that the answers he deserved were as simple as “Shit was shitty and we didn’t like what your brother did about it”. It was unpleasant to think about, but Toulouse can’t change the past. The only thing he can do is confront his siblings with the truth and hope they finally see reason.

Jacques is standing at the stove, stirring something that smells delicious. His wife, Annemarie, smiles at Toulouse, but doesn't say anything as she takes Sammi by the hand.

“Come on, Samantha. We're going for a walk.”

“Awwww.” Sammi whines. “But I want to stay with Uncle Toulouse!”

“Uncle Toulouse and I are going to have a talk, Samantha. Go on your walk.” Jacques says sternly.

They leave, and Toulouse leans against the counter, watching Jacques work. Thousands of ideas and thoughts swirl about in his mind, tumbling and twisting as he stares at nothing.

“You’re quiet today.” Jacques notices. “Something on your mind?”

Fuck it. If Toulouse is going to burn his bridges, he may as well start here.

“I met Jean-Luc.”

Jacques goes very still. He doesn’t turn to look at Toulouse, doesn’t yell, doesn’t even say anything. He just sets down the spoon he’s using and stares at the wall for a moment. Toulouse isn’t even sure that Jacques heard him.

“I’m so sorry, Toulouse. You must be mistaken. I don’t know anyone by that name.” Jacques replies quietly.

Oh. So that’s how it’s going to be. Ok then.

“You’re right, you wouldn’t. Especially since he goes by Wriothesley now.”

Jacques slams the spoon against the counter, and Toulouse jumps. Cursing under his breath, Jacques turns and glares at Toulouse. The pure vitriol in his gaze is almost enough to send Toulouse running for the door. He’s never seen Jacques this angry before.

“What is the one thing I asked you not to do?” Jacques growls.

“This is my family too! I have a right to know our history!” Toulouse protests.

“WHAT IS THE ONE THING I ASKED YOU NOT TO DO!” Jacques repeats, slamming his hand on the counter. “I ASKED FOR ONE THING, TOULOUSE! ONE! GODDAMN! THING!”

Toulouse flinches as Jacques steps forward. Yelling has never been a good sign, but Jacques raises his voice so rarely that it’s actually scaring Toulouse. He’s never seen Jacques this violent.

“I have a right to know. Even if it’s too painful to speak of, even if it hurts to remember, I deserve a better answer than “They’re dead now, so it doesn’t matter”. I deserve better than having to wait two years to access files on events from 20 years ago. I deserve better than getting an explanation from the person who killed them!”

“I asked for one thing, Toulouse! It’s a sordid tale, and it has no business being dragged back into the light simply because you can’t take “no” for an answer!” Jacques grits out, his jaw visibly straining from where he has it clenched. “Leave it be. You wouldn’t understand.”

Oh. OH. So that’s how it’s going to be. Fine then. Toulouse is used to fighting for his answers. What’s one more battle?

“I wouldn’t understand?! I wouldn’t understand?!? Jacques, of course I don’t understand! YOU DON’T TELL ME ANYTHING!” Toulouse roars. “WHAT ABOUT THIS DOESN’T MAKE SENSE TO YOU? I HAVE BEEN BEGGING FOR ANSWERS ALL MY LIFE, AND NOW THAT I HAVE THEM, YOU’RE ANGRY WITH ME?”

“I SAID LEAVE IT, TOULOUSE!” Jacques snarls. “IT’S NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS!”

“My own family history is none of my business?” Toulouse presses– yelling be damned, he is getting a straight answer for once. “Or is it that I’m not family in your eyes? Since I never suffered?”

Jacques flinches, then turns his gaze away from Toulouse. He refuses to look Toulouse in the eye, instead turning his attention back to dinner, muttering only “It’s going to burn” as explanation.

“Oh. I see.” Toulouse feels tears stinging in his eyes, the sharp cut of betrayal hot on his heels as he turns and stalks from the room. “I’ll see myself out then.”

“Where do you think you’re going?” Jacques calls after him.

“I thought you made it clear enough; you no longer have a baby brother. Perhaps you never did.” Toulouse huffs. “It’s fine, I understand. Really, I do. You don’t trust me to be a part of your fucked up family dynamic.”

“Toulouse, you’re being childish. Stop being selfish and come eat.”

“Selfish? SELFISH?” Toulouse whirls on Jacques, his hands shaking with rage. “WAS IT SELFISH WHEN I LET MYSELF BE SEPARATED FROM YOU BECAUSE YOU HAD A NERVOUS BREAKDOWN AND COULDN’T CARE FOR ME? WAS IT SELFISH WHEN I STOPPED WRITING TO STEPHEN BECAUSE SEEING HIS LETTERS MADE YOU ANGRY? WAS IT SELFISH WHEN I HAD TO LEARN HOW TO COOK AT AGE 9 BECAUSE MARIE COULDN’T GET OUT OF BED FOR WEEKS AT A TIME? WAS ANY OF THAT SELFISH?”

“I’ll admit, we didn’t do our best–”

“YOU DIDN’T DO ANYTHING! LEO AND DAN TOOK CARE OF ME! LEO AND DAN ENROLLED ME IN SCHOOL! I DIDN’T KNOW HOW TO DO MATH UNTIL I WAS 10, JACQUES! I DIDN’T KNOW HOW TO TIE MY SHOES OR COMB MY HAIR, BUT I KNEW HOW TO COOK AND DO LAUNDRY AND CLEAN UP AFTER YOU AND MARIE WOULD GET DRUNK!”

“We did some things wrong, but we made it better! We fixed ourselves for you!”

“YOU DIDN’T FIX SHIT! YOU NEVER EVEN APOLOGIZED!”

Toulouse wrenches open the door and slams it shut behind him, nearly bowling over Annemarie and Sammi in the process. Through tears, he can see Sammi’s blurry smile twist into an expression of worry.

“Uncle Toulouse? Is everything ok?”

“No, Samantha. I’m afraid your father and I had a bit of a fight.” Toulouse wipes his eyes as he kneels in front of Sammi. “I might not see you for a bit, but I want you to promise me something. If anything happens, and you need help, come straight to me and Aunty Elsie, ok?”

“Ok.” Sammi promises. Toulouse smiles ruefully, then turns to Annemarie.

“The same goes for you. Our door is always open.”

“He must be furious if you’re this worried about me.” Annemarie sighs. “What happened? I could hear the yelling down the street.”

“What happened is I’ve been watering a dead plant in the hopes that it’ll flower, and I’m sick of it. I’ll come round to see Sammi once in a while, but…” Toulouse shakes his head. “I don’t know that I can forgive Jacques.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Annemarie says. “You know he loves you, don’t you?”

And that stings worse than anything Jacques ever said or did to him. Because he doesn’t. He doesn’t know that Jacques loves him, isn’t sure that he ever did. If anything, the fears he had as a child are becoming more and more solid now that he’s an adult, with more and more evidence making it clear that he didn’t come out unscathed. It’s a different type of breaking than the one his siblings went through, but it’s just as destructive.

“I think I’m going to head home now. Goodnight, Annemarie. Goodnight, Samantha Grace.”

His walk home is both shorter and longer than he expected. His mind whirls with a million unanswered questions, and just as many doubts about the family he grew up in. Is he really so foolish as to believe he wasn’t loved? But at the same time, was he loved?

“Hey!” Elsie calls to him, and he realizes with a start that he’s sitting at the table in the dining room. “You’re home early. Did something happen at dinner?”

Toulouse opens his mouth to answer, and a strangled sob claws its way out of his throat instead. Elsie reaches down and hugs him, lets him cry as much as he needs. He feels so lost, so confused. He doesn’t know what to do at all.

“It went that badly, huh?” Elsie asks after a minute.

“I… I’m not sure he ever considered me family. I think he might have never loved me.” Toulouse whimpers. “I feel like it should hurt more? But in a way, I’m just relieved.”

“I’m sorry, baby.” Elsie rubs his back, pushing slow circles of comfort into him as he sobs. “Is there anything I can do to fix it?”

Toulouse shakes his head. He doesn’t even know what to do.

“I just really need someone in my corner right now.” Toulouse sobs. “I don't know what to do.”

“Well, dinner would probably help. My parents will be here soon, and I made extra. How do you feel about shepard's pie?”

“Better than I should.” Toulouse sighs. “When did this situation get so fucked up?”

“Do you want an answer to that question? Because I'm pretty sure I know the answer.” Elsie jokes.

“No. Shush.”

Toulouse ends up letting in Elsie's parents when they show up, greeting them with a smile. Azriel and Laura are quick to hug him, both of them hanging off his arm as he guides them to the table. Laura takes her seat next to Azriel, laughing at some story she's trying to tell.

“Oh, you know, that reminds me of the bug kid!” Azriel butts in.

Laura and Elsie both groan.

“Daddy, not tonight! Can we please just have a pleasant dinner?”

“The… bug kid?” Toulouse asks.

“ Don't .” Elsie and Laura both warn him. But it's already too late.

“Oh, Toulouse! You know, I used to be part of the Marechaussee Phantom, back when I was younger. This was back when they randomized your Meropide rotation, so you never knew when it was coming. I got sent down with this younger guard, he must have been 25? I don't remember his name, but he stayed behind after our rotation.”

“I see!” Toulouse smiles. “Did you like Meropide?”

“Not in the slightest. But there was this one inmate. The bug kid. I guess it'd be more accurate to call him the boxing kid, what with the big old gloves he had, but the thing I remember most was the beetles. Subdetection units, I think they're called. He used to steal them and fix them so they'd only listen to him. He was a good kid. Almost couldn't believe he killed his parents!”

Toulouse chokes on his water. That's one coincidence too many for him to ignore.

“Do you, ah, remember his name?”

“Who, the kid? No, I'm afraid I don't. His name was spelled strangely, I remember that.” Azriel laughs. “Say, Toulouse, you're in the Phantom. When's your rotation?”

“I’m, uh…” Toulouse hisses through his teeth. “I’m in the middle of it right now.”

“Oh, wonderful! I’m sure you’ll enjoy it. The work there seems to suit you better than normal Phantom work. Just you watch, you’ll be one of Meropide’s special guards in no time!”

“Yeah… Sure I will.”

Toulouse goes to bed early, and doesn’t fall asleep until Elsie is already snoring away beside him. He’s not sure what to do with himself. He won’t really be able to rest until he makes it right between himself and Wriothesley.

“Jean-Luc?” Toulouse whimpers as he pushes the door open. Maman and Papa will be very angry if they find him in here.

Jean-Luc is asleep, but when Toulouse crawls onto the bed with him, he turns over and snuggles Toulouse, muttering in his sleep about purple cows eating his bread. Toulouse giggles, snuggling up against his big brother.

“I had a scary dream. I had a dream that Maman and Papa didn’t love me anymore, and they tried to give me back to my Momma. But you saved me. You told me that it was just a scary dream, and I could wake up. And I did!”

Jean-Luc moans in his sleep, and Toulouse slaps a hand over his mouth. He didn’t mean to wake Jean-Luc.

“I’m sorry. I will be quiet now.”

“You better be, shortstack. I’m helping Papa with a project tomorrow.” Jean-Luc grumbles. “Shouldn’t you be in your own bed?”

“I had a bad dream. Can I stay here?”

“Of course, kiddo. Stay as long as you want.” Jean-Luc says sleepily. “Nothing bad is gonna happen to you as long as I’m around. I promise.”

Toulouse wakes to tears on his cheeks and Elsie wrapped around his waist. Clearly she had a better night than him, because her face is buried in his stomach. Toulouse makes no attempt to pry her off of him, mostly because he doesn’t care that much. It’s Sunday, they can sleep in for a little.

He strokes Elsie's hair, wondering to himself how he got so lucky to have such a beautiful, strong, creative woman to be his partner. He marvels at her, watching her sleep in his lap. He has the best family he could ask for right here in his bed with him.

Elsie sneezes and startles herself awake, slapping Toulouse's thighs as she whines.

“You woke me up!”

“I did not! You woke yourself up!” Toulouse laughs. “You sneezed yourself awake.”

Elsie wrinkles her nose at him, slipping out of bed and tying up her hair.

“Whose day is it to make breakfast?”

“Uhhhhhh…. Flip you for it?”

“Oh, you're on.” Elsie grins, grabbing a coin from the dresser. “Heads me, tails you.”

The coin comes up tails. Toulouse pumps his fist, jumping out of bed so he can beat Elsie to the kitchen.

“NO! Dammit!” Elsie squawks. “Wait! I demand a retrial!”

“I'm making breakfast and you can't stop me!” Toulouse crows. “My turn for breakfast!”

“I swear to god if you make pancakes–”

“Pancakes for my baby, and waffles for me!” Toulouse sings. “I know they're your favorite!”

“I have a figure to maintain, Toulouse! I can have pancakes when I finish getting this bartending license!” Elsie swats him with the sleeves of her sweater. “I need to fit in my uniform! No tummy allowed!”

“But I like your tummy.” Toulouse pouts.

“I like it too. I can have it back after I get my license.” Elsie groans. “Caring about my weight is hard.”

“So… pancakes?”

Elsie smacks him in the face with a pillow. Toulouse cackles wildly as he skids into the kitchen, bracing against the counter as Elsie descends on him. One flurry of kisses later, Toulouse has some bacon on the stove and Elsie on the counter, teasing her with various little flirts.

“Can’t I just have you for breakfast?” Toulouse murmurs against her neck.

“Oh, gods, ‘Louse, you’re gonna burn the bacon!” Elsie laughs. “Focus!”

Toulouse does not, in fact, burn the bacon. He also doesn’t get to eat Elsie for breakfast, but that’s not a huge deal. He loves his girlfriend. He’s so lucky, sometimes he can’t believe he gets to marry her.

“I get to call you my wife. How did I get so lucky?”

“I don’t know. How did I get so lucky to call you my husband?”

Toulouse laughs, nuzzling his nose against her cheek. They plan on going to the library later, so they really should get ready for the day, but Toulouse could spend forever snuggling with his future wife. Still, date night is date night, so they get ready and go out. Spending the day at the library puts Toulouse’s mind more at ease.

When he settles in for the night, he suddenly feels an overwhelming sense of dread. What if tomorrow ruins him? What if he fucks up all over again? What if he's fired, or worse, arrested?

“Baby. You're in your head again.” Elsie croons. “Try to rest, won't you?”

“I will.”

“Toulouse? Is everything ok?”

Jean-Luc wakes him with a touch to the forehead, his Vision gleaming brightly in his hand as he swipes it across Toulouse's brow. Toulouse feels himself burning with fever, feels cool Cryo in his veins as Wriothesley–

“Hang on a second. Something isn't right here.”

His dreams so far have been about Jean-Luc and the long forgotten memories attached to him. Why the sudden change?

“Wriothesley? Why are you… here?”

Wriothesley looks very sad, and very upset.

“Don't you remember? I promised to help you, no matter what. You're my baby brother, Toulouse. I'm not just gonna leave you to rot.”

Toulouse shakes his head, trying to push away.

“I don't deserve this.”

“I don't care about what you “deserve”. I love you. Now shut up and let me help.”

The shrill whine of his alarm clock cuts through his dreams, and he sits bolt upright in a panic. Chasing away the specter of his mistakes, he pulls on his uniform, eats breakfast quickly, and heads off to work.

This is fine. He can handle whatever comes next. Still, the aquabus ride to Erinnyes is painstakingly slow, and the boat ride from the intake center to the Fortress proper is almost worse.

Toulouse gets a few funny looks as he pops down to the break room, but he gets even more funny looks when he tries to clock in. The punch machine won't take his card, and for whatever reason, it also won't let him call for an override.

“Son of a bitch.” He swears lightly.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” A voice asks him.

Toulouse damn near jumps out of his skin. Estienne is leaning on the doorframe, glaring at him like the safety of Fontaine depends on it.

“I'm trying to clock in.” Toulouse explains. “Can I get an override? I want to speak to Wriothesley before I start my rounds.”

“Didn't you quit?” Estienne asks.

“No. It's complicated. That's why I want to speak to Wriothesley.” Toulouse sighs. “Maybe I should talk to him first.”

“That'll be tricky.” Estienne grumbles. “Go home, Toulouse. We'll send for you when we're ready.”

“Es, please. I know he's probably upset, and I definitely owe him an apology, but can I please just make it right? I need to tell him I'm sorry.”

Estienne gives him a strange look, pulling away from the wall and approaching Toulouse.

“What did you do? Why do you need to apologize?”

“We got in a bit of a fight…” Toulouse glances around, checking for prying ears. “Oh, fuck it. He's my brother.”

Estienne groans, smacking his face with his hand. Toulouse is marginally concerned by this reaction, because it's so far from what he's come to expect that he isn't sure what to do. Estienne grabs Toulouse by the elbow and starts walking him back to the elevator, cussing under his breath the whole time.

“Of course he fucking told you. Right, then, I'm guessing this fight was a massive fucking blowup?”

“I… Yes. Yes, it was. I owe him an apology.” Toulouse sighs. “You aren't surprised.”

“Kid. I'm fucking 47. I was 28 when the Santelles were murdered. I knew who you were from the second you introduced yourself.”

“You didn't say anything.”

“Wasn't my place to say anything.” Estienne shrugs. “Figured Wriothesley would eventually grow a pair and tell you, but I wasn't ever sure. Guess I know now.”

“Can I please talk to him?”

“You can fucking try. You probably won't have much luck, seeing as he's been at St. Ann's for the better part of the past week.”

Toulouse balks at that. He's got one foot in the elevator, but he stops right on the threshold, his mind racing.

“He's in the hospital? Why?”

“Dunno. Sigewinne said he was some kind of sick, found him on the floor of his office clutching his chest. Whatever the problem was, it was on the inside.” Estienne groans. “I've been too busy trying to keep things going here to check on him.”

And then the elevator door closes in Toulouse's face, and he's sent upwards without so much as another word. He’s silent the whole way back, fidgeting with his hands as he goes back. He’s still fidgeting as he gets on the aquabus, his mind racing as he heads back to the Court.

St. Ann's is always busy– situated right in the middle of the Court, it's probably the most high traffic hospital in all of Fontaine. Trying to find anything in the lobby is exhausting, but Toulouse manages to get to visitor check-in without getting trampled. The nurse stationed there looks to be on her last leg, but she still smiles brightly as Toulouse approaches.

“Good afternoon, Guardsman. I don't believe we have any pick-ups for you, but I can check if you'd like.”

“Huh? Oh, the uniform.” Toulouse shakes his head quickly. “No, no, I'm off the clock. I'm actually here to visit someone.”

“Oh! Alright then. Name of the patient, please?”

“Wriothesley–"Toulouse doesn't think he still has the name “Santelle”, so he doesn't say it. “Wriothesley. Duke of Meropide.”

“Wriothesley… D’Meropide.” The nurse shakes her head after a moment. “No, sir, I'm not seeing… Ah! …Oh.”

Toulouse frowns, his temper growing shorter by the second. His brother is unwell, and he apparently can't do a damned thing about it.

“What is the matter, if I may ask?”

“Um… I'm going to need to verify your name, sir.”

“Toulouse. Toulouse Santelle.”

The nurse checks again, then slowly lifts her eyes to meet Toulouse's. She shakes her head as she speaks, her voice low but clear.

“I am sorry, sir, but I cannot give you any information on that patient.”

Oh, fantastic. Just what he wanted to hear. Toulouse groans, dragging his hand down his face as he tries to figure out what to do next. More likely than not, because Wriothesley is so important, he's got a restricted visitor list, and Toulouse isn't on it. Why would he be? But he needs to talk to Wriothesley.

“Ma'am, I appreciate that you're just doing your job, but it is vitally important that I speak with him as soon as possible. If he has specifically requested not to see me, please just tell me.”

“Monsieur Santelle–”

“Excuse the interruption.” A voice next to them startles Toulouse and the nurse. Monsieur Neuvillette is standing next to them, staring directly at Toulouse. “Monsieur… Santelle?”

Oh, Archons, Monsieur Neuvillette probably knows. Of course he would, he's older than shit. Toulouse swallows hard, a cold sweat brimming on his forehead.

“Yes, Monsieur. I'm looking for my brother.”

Something in Monsieur Neuvillette's face softens, and he smiles ruefully.

“Come with me. I'll take you to him.”

Toulouse silently follows Monsieur Neuvillette down twisting hallways, his steps thudding in tune to his beating heart. They eventually come to a plain, unassuming door, and Monsieur Neuvillette opens it after softly knocking twice.

Two young ladies are sitting by the bed, holding Wriothesley's hands and murmuring softly. Wriothesley himself is unconscious, completely still on the bed as Toulouse approaches. A heartbeat detector beeps every few seconds, alerting the whole room to the wispy specter of life clinging to Wriothesley.

“Hm. Who's this?” The purple haired lady asks.

“This is Toulouse. Wriothesley's little brother.” Monsieur Neuvillette says.

The blonde lady whirls around, tears still sparkling in her eyes.

“Oh! Oh, you're so young! I didn't think you'd be so young.” The lady utters. “Oh, you poor dear.”

“I'm sorry for the intrusion.” Toulouse mumbles, not really paying attention to them. “Can I sit with him, please?”

The blonde nods, getting up from the bed. Toulouse sits down, tears brimming in his eyes. Wriothesley looks so… weak. His breathing is deep and even, but even in the depths of a coma, he looks restless.

“Toulouse?” The blonde taps his shoulder. “I know this isn’t an ideal time, but… I’m Navia. Wriothesley’s girlfriend.”

“I… didn’t know he had a partner.” Toulouse mutters. “I didn’t think he was… straight.”

“He’s not. He’s polysexual.” The purple haired lady interrupts. “Hi. Clorinde, Wriothesley’s other girlfriend. Since we’ve decided to get acquainted here and now.”

“Clorinde. Please.” Monsieur Neuvillette approaches her and places a hand on her shoulder. “I’m worried about him too. But we shouldn’t be taking it out on Toulouse. Why don’t we give them a moment?”

The others slowly filter out of the room, leaving Toulouse next to Wriothesley. Slowly, Toulouse takes Wriothesley’s hand in his own, holding it to his face and sobbing quietly. He did this. He’s not sure how, or how he knows, but he knows that this is his fault.

“I’m so sorry, Wriothesley. I’m so sorry.” Toulouse whispers. “For what it’s worth… I forgive you.”

Chapter Text

“Can I please be allowed to wake up now?” Wriothesley whines, pouting in the void. He’s had his crying fit, he’s had time to come to terms with what it means to be stuck, has started looking for ways out, and he got pretty close in the last… well, he’s not sure what this is actually. He’s been calling them “loops” for simplicity’s sake.

The void of his subconscious wobbles around him, bending and swaying as it shapes itself back into the dance hall. He feels the ground beneath him settle into something solid, then feels the memory of his mind turn into something twisted and hopeless. Grumbling, Wriothesley kicks a chair, swearing liberally when it actually hurts.

“Come on, this isn’t what I asked for!” Wriothesley sighs. “Seriously, let me out!”

The chatter of voices reaches his ears as he steps forward. His sleeve gets caught on something, as it has for the past 6 loops. Instead of just jerking away like he has previously, he turns back, catching sight of a pale hand clasped around his sleeve. His own hand.

Stumbling backwards, he yanks the other person into the light, and gets an eyeful of his own face, covered in blood and bruises. The cuts on his throat are bleeding profusely, and his eyes are soulless, almost dead. He recognizes this look on himself, even if he’s never actually seen it before. This is how he looked at the exact moment Jean-Luc died.

“Jean-Luc, please let go of my sleeve.” Wriothesley feels his voice quiver.

“Don’t go on stage.” Jean-Luc rasps.

“I’m trying. I don’t know what I’m doing wrong.”

“Don’t go on stage. Don’t go up there.” Jean-Luc whimpers. “I can’t take it anymore. I can’t do this again.”

“You won’t. That’s what I’m here for.” Wriothesley blinks as the sudden shock of his statement hits him. “Oh. Oh my god. Oh, that’s why I’m stuck. I’m not… you.”

Jean-Luc doesn’t let go of his sleeve, still crying silently as he pulls Wriothesley closer. Seemingly unaware of the crisis he’s triggered in Wriothesley, he sobs into his shoulder, whimpering quietly as Wriothesley wraps his arms around him.

“Hey, it’s ok. I’ve got it from here, ok?” Wriothesley assures him.

“I want to rest. I’ve told you everything I know.” Jean-Luc sobs. “Am I done yet? Are we finished?”

Wriothesley feels the floor under him start to crack, feels his mind falling apart again. He’s reeling from the revelation that he isn’t truly Jean-Luc, and apparently hasn’t been for a while. When did he stop being Jean-Luc? When he chose to be Wriothesley? Or is this something different than what he thinks?

“You’re not me.” Wriothesley says. It’s more a question than he meant it to be.

“No. You’re me, but I’m not you.” Jean-Luc says. “I couldn’t be you. Not even if I tried.”

“And that’s why we’re hurting so bad? Because I’m trying to be something I’m not?”

“No. You’re trying to make me like you. I can’t do that.”

Wriothesley frowns as the world around him swirls. He’s not sure he understands, and still isn’t sure what he’s doing wrong. He isn’t a different person from Jean-Luc, but he’s a different person than he was when he was Jean-Luc. And yet, something is still stuck. Does he have to be different from Jean-Luc? Is that the problem?

“I don’t get it.” Wriothesley admits. “You’ve been trying to tell me how to get out. Is it possible for me to see the problem from a different angle?”

Jean-Luc nods, then shoves Wriothesley backwards. Wriothesley tumbles through the void, hitting the ground with a thud and letting out a pained “FUCK” as the air gets punched out of his lungs. As he lays on the ground, he feels the sun shining on his face. He’s outside, laying on the grass, stretched out in the warm summer sun. He remembers this feeling, the feeling of freedom.

“Wriothesley?” Neuvillette's voice wraps around him, squeezing like a warm hug.

“Hey, I'm here!” Wriothesley calls out.

“Wriothesley, please wake up.”

He's closer to the surface than he's ever been before. If he could just break through, he'd be free. He's trying so hard to wake up, but even so close to the top, he can't push through.

“I don’t get it! What am I doing wrong?” Wriothesley rages. “Is it because I deserve this?”

He feels himself immediately start falling back into the void. Scrambling to keep himself from dropping back into the depths of his coma, he clings to the shreds of Neuvillette’s voice. He can’t go back to that feeling of being trapped. He manages to keep himself from going all the way back under, but he’s barely hanging on.

“Oh-kay! Let’s analyze what just happened.” Wriothesley says with a strained voice. “You got frustrated, you said something self-deprecating, and then you… almost died? I think?”

Wriothesley frowns, trying to figure out what all this means. He’s tired and frustrated and just wants to get back to his friends, his partners. He misses being awake, misses being alive. And apparently, the way out is to be nice to himself?

“If the only problem is that I’m self-deprecating… I’m not? I’m ok with myself, and what I’ve done. I have been for a while.”

Back to ruminating. He didn’t just end up on the cusp of an answer all by himself. Jean-Luc said it has something to do with him… Maybe it has something to do with how he feels about Jean-Luc? About how he feels about the person he used to be.

“I’m not… mad. I’m not mad at Jean-Luc.” Wriothesley says. “Is that what needed to be said?”

He’s pushed into a memory again, but instead of living it, he’s watching it from the outside. He remembers this, remembers stumbling into Stephen’s “training” session, remembers how he was chained to Louis’ desk. Guilt flares in him as he watches himself comforting Stephen, doing his best to calm him down despite the horror of being raped. Stephen twists against the chains, and Louis smacks him across the face, ordering Wriothesley out of the room.

“I couldn’t save him.” Wriothesley whispers. “He couldn’t fight that. We were children.”

“Exactly.” Jean-Luc reappears at his shoulder, sagging in defeat as he stares at the memory. “We were children. We were all children. We couldn’t have done anything.”

And now Wriothesley gets it. He’s been holding this against himself for so long, despite knowing that there was no other way. He has to forgive himself for “failing” his siblings, for failing himself. But it’s not just about him. “Wriothesley” has been ok with what he did for a long time, but it’s not “Wriothesley” he needs to forgive.

“I’ve been holding this against you for a really long time, haven’t I?” Wriothesley sighs. “I’m so sorry. I never meant to hurt you like this.”

“A lot of people hurt us. I know you were trying your best.” Jean-Luc sniffles. “I forgive you.”

Wriothesley feels a huge weight off his shoulders, feels part of his cracked heart start to mend itself. He’s sorry it took this long for him to actually see what he was doing to himself.

“I’m sorry too.” Jean-Luc murmurs suddenly. “I’m sorry I wasn’t strong enough to save them.”

Wriothesley is immediately horrified. They were children. They were children . He could never ask Jean-Luc to be held responsible for that. …Except he is Jean-Luc, and he’s been holding it against himself for years. Crying, he drags what’s left of Jean-Luc into a hug, holding him close.

“I forgive you, Jean-Luc.” Wriothesley whimpers. “Go rest. I’ve got it from here.”

And Jean-Luc is gone, leaving only Wriothesley. He feels the pain in him start to heal itself, feels himself let go of so much agony he didn’t realize he was holding on to. He’s finally ready to let go of the past, let go of the person– the victim– he used to be. He isn’t Jean-Luc anymore. It’s unfair to keep that name when it doesn’t mean anything anymore.

He rises to the surface, passing through generic nightmares and frivolous dreams, and awakens in a bed that doesn’t belong to him– or any of his partners, he realizes with a start. His hand aches in that special way that comes with having an IV in there for too long, and his muscles are sore in the way that comes with not using them for too long. Turning his head, he winces as sunlight hits his face. Turning the other way provides little relief, but he catches sight of a calendar that tells him it’s Tuesday. Great, so either he’s been out for almost a week, or he owes a whole bunch of people apologies.

Just past the calendar is somebody’s lap– not one of his partners, too small to be Chevreuse or Sigewinne, and there’s no way Estienne is visiting him. They have a Meropide uniform, but he’s sure his boys wouldn’t be allowed access. So who could it possibly be?

The answer smacks him in the face as he glances up and sees Toulouse, asleep with tear stains on his cheeks. He looks so young when he’s asleep. Wriothesley’s heart aches just looking at him. He looks exhausted, his shoulders sagging from where he’s fallen asleep in the chair. His hand hangs limply next to him, so Wriothesley reaches out and takes it.

“Oh, kiddo.” Wriothesley sighs. “Don’t tell me you were here all night?”

Toulouse groans, stirring in the chair and turning to blink slowly at Wriothesley. He glares sleepily at Wriothesley, clearly not fully awake. Wriothesley laughs– he looks so dumb with that sleepy pout on his face– and that seems to wake Toulouse up a little more.

“You’re… up?” Toulouse whispers.

“Hi, hello, it’s me. If you’re here to kill me, can I please say bye to my partners first? It’ll help ensure they won’t swear tortuous vengeance–”

Wriothesley cuts off when Toulouse dives into his lap, grabbing him and sobbing into his shoulder. Wriothesley scoops him up in a tight hug, very grateful and utterly confused.

“Kiddo, wha–”

“I’M SO SORRY!” Toulouse wails. “I know I was shitty, and I’m so sorry, I’ll do anything to make it right, I don’t want to hurt you, you’re my brother, I love you, I’m so, so, so sor–”

“Toulouse.” Wriothesley holds Toulouse’s face in his hands. “Deep breath, ok? I’m not angry. I knew that… that outcome was a possibility. I’m not upset. I love you very much, and I would like the chance to start over, if possible.”

Toulouse sobs, burying his face further against Wriothesley. Wriothesley feels tears leaking from his own eyes, holding Toulouse closer. He cares very much about his family, and seeing Toulouse making an honest attempt to make things right is heartening to him.

“I forgive you, Toulouse. How could I not? You’re my brother, my baby brother, and I love you so much.” Wriothesley sighs. “Now, can we try this again?”

“Yes. Absolutely, we can.” Toulouse sniffles as he wipes his eyes. “Hi, Wriothesley. Nice to meet you, I’m your baby brother.”

“Nice to meet you, Toulouse. I’m your big brother. I’m also kind of a pain in the ass, so get used to it!”

Toulouse laughs, smiling at Wriothesley. He snuggles up to Wriothesley, and Wriothesley gladly accepts being showered with affection. He relaxes himself, letting the world around him slowly filter back into his focus as his immediate attention is dissolved. After everything that’s happened, he deserves the rest.

“What did happen, by the way?” Wriothesley asks.

“Oh, right. Doctors said you had a heart attack. They caught it soon enough that it won’t be too much of a problem, but they’ll probably want you to take it easy for a few weeks afterwards.”

“I had a fucking WHAT?”

Chapter Text

The next few weeks are slow going. Wriothesley recovers from his heart attack with the help of the wonderful doctors and nurses of St. Ann’s, and his partners are quick to accept Toulouse as his brother. Toulouse also opens up to Wriothesley and his family, being quick to offer his sincere apologies to all of them. Wriothesley teases Toulouse incessantly, ruffling his hair and doing all the stuff older brothers do when they want to be annoying.

A few weeks after Wriothesley returns to the Fortress, Toulouse comes into his office, fidgeting and clearly nervous. He won’t look at Wriothesley, but he gravitates towards him, sitting on the couch as Wriothesley finishes his work. Wriothesley glances up at him occasionally, catching his eyes before he freaks out and looks away.

“Toulouse. What happened?”

Toulouse sighs, sagging in his seat.

“Don't freak out–”

“Nothing good has ever followed those words.”

“Don't freak out, but Jacques got a hold of my address, and now he's sending me threatening letters.” Toulouse glares at Wriothesley. “And before you get started, yes, I reported this to the Phantom, and yes, I'm being careful.”

Wriothesley is shocked. Jacques has always been an angry person, but it's incredibly upsetting to hear him accused of what Toulouse is saying. If he's doing something so blatantly harmful, who knows what he was doing when Toulouse was growing up.

“He, um, he wasn't like this when you were younger, was he?” Wriothesley asks quietly.

“Gods, if anything, he was worse. He used to drag me back home by the hair if he caught me sneaking out. I couldn't go anywhere without supervision, and he hated all my friends, so I could never see them if he was around.” Toulouse grumbles. “He still frustrates me.”

Wriothesley feels as though the floor beneath him has given way. He sways in his seat, struggling to come to terms with what he’s hearing. Jacques is– was? Is? He doesn’t know anymore– acting like Louis. Not just acting like Louis, acting abusive like Louis.

“Wriothesley?” Toulouse sounds worried as Wriothesley turns his head to look at him. “Are you ok?”

“Toulouse, do you know what he did to you?”

“Uh… He was shitty?”

No! Toulouse, that's abusive behavior!”

“What?”

“That's abusive. That's literally what Danielle used to do to us to isolate us.” Wriothesley shudders just remembering it. “He did that to you? That's horrible! I swear I’m gonna kick his ass.”

Toulouse is very quiet. Wriothesley wonders if Toulouse understands the implications of what he's saying, but doesn't say anything. Sometimes it's better to just let people process.

“I'm starting to think I had a bad childhood.” Toulouse finally says.

Wriothesley raises an eyebrow, but says nothing in response. He has a feeling his tendency to snark won't help here.

“I got a letter from Stephen, by the way.” Toulouse mentions. “He’s coming back to the Court. He wants to talk to me, says he has something important to tell me.”

“Alright. Do you want to talk to him?”

“I do, I really do, I’m just…”

“Scared?” Wriothesley guesses.

“I’m fucking terrified, Wriothesley.” Toulouse barks a wry laugh. “But what else can I do?”

“You can say no.”

“...But I don’t want to.” Toulouse huffs.

Wriothesley decides to leave it for now. It’s probably better to not push the subject when Toulouse is already dealing with so much.

And then he sees Stephen, not even a day later, chatting with some friends at the cafè. Wriothesley notices that he flinches as he walks past, but isn't sure that Stephen recognized him. Stephen eventually approaches him, taking a seat at the table with him.

“This seat taken?” He asks quietly.

“Help yourself.” Wriothesley responds. “Not eating with your travel buddies?”

“Nah, they're meeting family. I told them I'd get out of their way.” Stephen sips his coffee, not looking Wriothesley in the eye. “You look like my brother.”

“Yeah? That's kind of cool.” Wriothesley hums. “What did he look like?”

“He's dead. But you knew that already.”

“Explain that logic to me.”

“You said “did”. Not “does”. Past tense is a bitch sometimes.”

Well, so much for subtlety. Wriothesley rakes his hand through his hair, not daring to look Stephen in the eye.

“I can explain.”

“That's an excuse reserved for 7 year olds and cheating lovers.” Stephen snaps back. “I don't really care what you're doing here, I just want to know how you got out of prison, Jean-Luc .”

The name is wielded like a weapon against him, but the sharp sting is less than he expected. Wriothesley forces himself to relax, pushing his back against the chair as he slouches lazily.

“I go by Wriothesley these days.” He drawls.

“Wriothesley. Why are you out of prison?” Stephen sighs. “If you need to leave, I understand, I just… I thought you wanted to uphold the standard of justice.”

“I do. They let me out.”

“Double Homicide, Wriothesley.”

“Yeah, and the courts submitted an appeal on my behalf about three years later. Wouldn't take “no” for an answer. It passed, and I got my sentence changed to 10 years, three of which I'd already served.” Wriothesley explains. “Legally speaking, I've been a free man for 10 years.”

“...Three years?” Stephen asks.

Wriothesley nods, and Stephen hisses through his teeth. He won't look Wriothesley in the eye, but he mutters something in a language Wriothesley doesn't understand.

“Do you want to get dinner sometime?” Wriothesley asks to break the tension.

“...Sure. I…” Stephen sighs. “I missed you. My emotions are all over the place, and I don't really know how to handle all of this, but I have missed you.”

“That's fine. I don't expect you to figure it out right away. You can always change your mind.”

“Maybe I'll introduce you to Toulouse first.” Stephen laughs.

“About that…”

“STEPHEN!” Toulouse pops out of nowhere, tackling Stephen into a hug and nearly throwing them both into Wriothesley. “You're back!”

“Toulouse! Hey!” Stephen laughs. “Um, I’m glad you–”

“Oh, shit.” Toulouse notices Wriothesley suddenly. “Hi. Did you two talk already, or do I have to get involved?”

“We spoke. It’s ok.” Wriothesley confirms. “How's Elsie?”

“Um… I'm not supposed to tell you this, but…” Toulouse breaks into a giddy grin. “She's pregnant!”

“Oh! Well, congratulations!” Wriothesley hugs Toulouse. “You're gonna be a great dad.”

“God, I hope so.” Toulouse groans. “I wanna do right by them.”

“You will.” Stephen insists. “I believe in you, Toulouse.”

As Toulouse moves to take a seat, Stephen turns to Wriothesley with wide eyes and mouths “Who's Elsie?”

“Toulouse's fiancèe.” Wriothesley whispers back.

“Fiancèe?” Stephen gasps. “He's 26!”

“I'm also right here.” Toulouse huffs. “I'm not a child anymore, Stephen. I can get married.”

“He's very protective of Elsie, so please be kind. I don't want to have to hide a body.” Wriothesley jokes.

Stephen rolls his eyes, huffing a sigh.

“You haven't changed a bit.” He whispers.

“Oh, to the contrary!” Wriothesley insists. “Let me tell you all about my new job.”

“It can't be that exciting.” Stephen drawls.

Toulouse and Wriothesley exchange a pair of wicked grins, and Wriothesley can see in Stephen's eyes that he knows he made a mistake.

“Let me tell you a story, starting with this asshole who quit on me…”