Summary: “As I’ve made very clear, Detective,” says Treville, strained, “I don’t make it a habit of getting involved in my employees’ love lives. But considering this precinct’s utterly abysmal and somewhat dangerous track record, you really cannot fault me for being concerned when you walk into work with a split lip that was not present the night prior.”
“Track record?” asks Constance weakly, and God, this really has just been the weirdest conversation.
“Athos’s wife is a wanted criminal in twenty-two states who only last week evaded arrest yet again, d’Artagnan’s spent the better part of the past year pining after you, and Aramis has gone and fallen in love with the very married wife of a European nobleman who has somehow gotten himself accidentally involved with the Spanish mob!”
“At least Porthos is doing alright,” offers Constance lamely.
“Yes,” says Treville, looking harried. “There is that.”
I wrote a shameless fic for @hansolosbutt‘s modern detective b99 au about the circumstances surrounding the day after constance leaves bonaciuex, which we decided were basically exactly like that one post where that personal trainer’s students all commiserated and went together without telling her to retrieve her things from her asshole ex boyfriends house. a good post, friends. a very good post. also, constance’s last name is baudin bc fleur, her niece (?) had that last name and i needed a maiden name for her. also also, trigger warnings for very brief mention of domestic violence. anyways, here’s this thing. this truly is like … my favorite au on the planet, right now,
Constance has always thought that Captain Treville’s office is somewhat spartan in decor. The desk is almost always immaculately clean, the commendations on the wall completely aligned and straight in their frames, and the clock above the doorway minimalist on charitable days. Aside from the small rainbow flag sitting among his pencils (all perfectly sharpened, all neatly arranged), fitted into his favorite fleur-de-lis-patterned mug at the edge of the desk, there really isn’t anything in the office that makes it particularly warm or welcoming or personable. Constance remembers only a few months before when the poor guy Deputy Commissioner Richelieu had sent down from human resources came to discuss Porthos and Aramis’s (convoluted, nonsensical, wildly work-inappropriate) email chain; he had entered Treville’s office looking apprehensive and left looking somewhat concerned. Constance, who had been privy to The Email Chain only once over Aramis’s shoulder, knew that it had somehow devolved from its benign origins of subject line: check out this guy’s suspicious-looking mustache to classic French literature-related memes. Quite frankly, unless one was particularly well-versed in the minds of Detectives d’Herblay and du Vallon, any poor fool tasked with reading through such an atrocity would likely as not emerge somewhat traumatized.
Joubert’s apprehension, however, had been surprisingly directed towards Treville himself; he had meekly suggested on his way out of the captain’s office, fiddling nervously with the bottom of his tie, that maybe he might consider putting a couch with earth-toned upholstery in the corner, just to make the place feel more welcoming?
Trevill had blinked at him, uncomprehending.
Aramis, who’d been trying to distract Athos from where he had his nose buried in case files by flinging paperclips at him across the room, had said, “Flower-patterned would make it even more welcoming, don’t you think Captain?”
Porthos had choked on his own laugh. Athos, engrossed in his case files, had tried to drink out of the communal bullpen pushpin mug and started spluttering in a most undignified manner.
D’Artagnan, bless him, had been the one to finally take pity on the aggrieved Joubert, leading him out of the bullpen and straight into the elevator with a comforting pat on his shoulder and a cheerful, “Come again soon!”
Constance remains standing in front of Treville’s desk, now, noticing that he never did take Joubert’s advice into consideration and get an earth-toned couch installed in the corner.
(There is, however, a small framed photo of the squad from last year’s Christmas party, the lot of them grinning like doofuses at the camera and more than one of them with their eyes half closed, perched neatly on the far right of Treville’s computer, and Constance feels a trickle of warmth expand in her chest despite everything.)
The door to the office clicks shut behind them and Treville comes to stand behind his desk in front of Constance, looking uncharacteristically apprehensive.