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The sun hung low in the sky, casting a warm, honeyed light across the hard stone buildings and turned the dust in the air into a haze of gold. Paris was alive, its people swarming the streets, laughter and chatter mixing with the distant ringing of bells. Phoebus, high on his horse Achilles, watched over the square with a practiced gaze. Patrol was dull work—any soldier worth his salt would say the same—but Phoebus knew well enough that boredom was a small price to pay for the peace they managed to maintain here, especially after the havoc Frollo had unleashed.
As he passed the fountain in the square’s center, he spotted two familiar figures standing at their post—Frederic and Olivier. Frederic looked up as Phoebus approached, offering a slightly nervous salute, his young face flushed. Frederic was one of the newer soldiers, all earnest energy and boyish looks, his messy blond curls hidden under his helmet and a faint dusting of peach fuzz on his chin. Olivier was practically a fixture of the guard, thick-set and short, with an overgrown mustache that made him look perpetually surly. Olivier, he’d learned, was best endured rather than engaged. He had the unfortunate charm of a drunken street pug and none of the skill to back it up. Olivier saluted, too, but there was a glint in his eye, almost mocking, and Phoebus barely nodded in response.
Just ahead, a small crowd had gathered around a street performance. Phoebus reined Achilles to a halt, his interest piqued. In the center of the crowd was a tall, pale man, balancing a wooden chair on his chin, its leg pointed skyward. The performer didn’t look like one of the Romani; his skin was fair, his hair trimmed neatly—a Parisian through and through. Yet here he was, performing alongside the Gypsies, laughing and playing to the crowd as if he belonged with them. He thought immediately of Esmeralda—what she would think of this man, especially since he clearly didn’t come from her camp. She would know, he figured, if this man was simply a tourist drawn into the performance or someone actually earning his keep alongside the Gypsies. He also wondered if she knew how to do such a trick herself; she was always full of surprises, after all.
“Think the Gypsies stole him, too?” Olivier’s voice cut through the crowd.
Olivier was certainly never the subtle type. Frederic, to his credit, shifted uncomfortably, a faint blush spreading across his cheeks. The kid didn’t have the stomach for this sort of cruelty; he was young, earnest, and more decent than Olivier by leagues. And as much as Phoebus wanted to tell Olivier to shut the fuck up, he knew he had to maintain his composure. Olivier was the type of soldier who saw power as permission, not responsibility, and nothing Phoebus could say would ever truly change that.
Phoebus turned his head just slightly, his voice calm but pointed. “Olivier, last I checked, you are a soldier, not a poet. Maybe focus less on telling stories about people, and more on keeping order. This crowd isn’t getting any smaller.”
Olivier scowled but said nothing, muttering something incoherent under his breath that Phoebus chose to ignore.
The performance finally ended with the chair-balancer’s dramatic bow, the man beaming as he announced to the crowd, “Fear not! Pierre will return with his chair—and a cat—tomorrow!” Phoebus chuckled softly to himself, tossing a coin toward Pierre as he dismounted Achilles to stretch his legs.
But as the crowd began to thin, a new scene drew the Captain’s attention. A finely dressed man—one of the wealthier types, by the look of his elaborate robes—was speaking heatedly with a young Romani boy, barely fourteen by the looks of him, and the boy’s eyes darted around with an unmistakable look of panic.
Phoebus caught Frederic and Olivier’s attention with a subtle nod, indicating the two arguing figures. Before he could say anything, the boy turned and bolted, weaving through the crowd with impressive speed. The wealthy man let out a shout of indignation and hurried after him, though his heavy robes tangled around his legs, slowing him down.
Olivier reacted instantly, stepping forward and roughly grabbing the boy by the arm, his grip so tight the boy winced in pain. “Where do you think you’re going?”
Phoebus frowned, his sense of unease growing. Olivier’s brand of justice had always been heavy-handed, to put it mildly, and the longer he observed him, the more Phoebus found himself regretting the man’s continued presence on his patrol. “Is there a problem here?” the Captain asked, attempting to keep his voice gentle but still filled with authority.
“This little thief cut my purse!” the gentleman spat. “Gold and silver pieces—gone!”
Phoebus turned to Frederic and gave him a quick nod, a silent instruction to search the boy. Frederic approached, his movements careful and almost apologetic, as he patted down the boy, who seemed more frightened than guilty. After a moment, Frederic straightened, shaking his head. “Nothing, sir.”
“Well, of course he doesn’t have it on him. He probably handed it off to one of his little friends. That’s how they work, you know—in pairs,” Olivier huffed.
“Thank you for your expert knowledge,” Phoebus said dryly, his patience wearing thin. He turned to the wealthy man, offering a sympathetic nod. “I’m sorry about your loss, truly. I’ll make sure to look into it—”
But Olivier wasn’t finished. Without waiting, he pulled a pair of iron cuffs from his belt, snapping them open with a loud clink as he reached for the boy’s wrists. Phoebus held up a hand, his voice a hard edge. “Olivier! There’s no evidence. We don’t have grounds to arrest him!”
“Is my word not enough?” the gentleman demanded.
Phoebus’ lips pressed together, but before he could respond, Olivier chimed in with a smirk. “Exactly. Isn’t that enough?”
Frederic looked increasingly uncomfortable, his gaze darting between Phoebus and Olivier, unsure of where his loyalty should lie.
“Are you questioning me, Olivier?” Phoebus asked, his tone deceptively calm, though his gaze was anything but.
“And if I am? What are you going to do about it?”
Phoebus felt his temper flare, and it took everything he had not to let it show. He took a slow, steady breath, feeling his nostrils flare against his will. He’d left Frollo’s regime behind him for a reason— and yet men like Olivier continued to embody the worst parts of it. Still, Phoebus knew he couldn’t let himself lose his composure. “Frederic,” he said in a voice steady and controlled, “please escort this gentleman here to the Palace of Justice. We’ll look into this properly before it gets out of hand.”
The gentleman muttered in annoyance but allowed Frederic to lead him away, casting one last suspicious glance at the boy. Olivier, however, remained rooted to the spot, his face twisted in disbelief. “And what about him?” he demanded, jerking his thumb at the Gypsy boy. “You’re just going to let him go?”
Out of the corner of his eye, Phoebus saw Frederic pause. “Frederic, keep moving. Olivier, silence.” His voice was like ice.
“Unbelievable,” Olivier muttered. “I question orders once, and suddenly I’m the bad guy. But when you questioned Frollo, you were a hero.”
“There’s a difference between Frollo and me, Olivier—a very large difference.” Phoebus didn’t wait for a response, instead turning to the Gypsy boy, who still stood, wide-eyed and tense. He gently guided the boy closer, his touch light, reassuring. “Olivier, finish your patrol and leave me to handle this.”
They were just about to move away from the scene when Olivier’s final barb cut through the air.
“Is letting criminals roam free how you plan to keep your Gypsy whore, Captain?”
The barely controlled fury he’d kept in check exploded, and before he knew it, his fist connected with Olivier’s face. Olivier stumbled back, his hand going to his jaw, eyes wide with shock, but Phoebus wasn’t done. His anger surged through him, and he struck again, punctuating each blow with a venomous growl. “Say.” Punch. “That.” Smack. “Again.” Strike. “You’re done.”
Olivier’s head snapped back from the force of the final blow, a smear of blood appearing beneath his nose. He staggered but managed to stay on his feet, his own fists clenching as he took a defensive stance. He was tougher than he looked, Phoebus had to give him that, but his eyes held a flash of fear as he realized this time, Phoebus was not holding back.
With a hoarse chuckle, Olivier straightened, spitting a smear of blood onto the cobblestone. “Are you sure it’s not the other way around, Captain?” His response was more of a wheeze, but his words still stung all the same. He wiped his mouth and took a clumsy swing, landing a glancing blow against Phoebus’ cheek. It wasn’t much, but the impact sent a spark of fresh pain across his jaw.
Phoebus tasted copper on his tongue and his fists flew with relentless force, each hit an answer to every insult Olivier had ever thrown, every injustice he’d ever seen him commit. The crowd that had thinned earlier began to gather again, whispers and gasps filling the air as the scene unfolded. Olivier’s breath came in shallow, desperate gulps as he staggered backward, falling down to the cobblestones. Phoebus’ focus had narrowed, and for a moment, it was just the two of them.
The others would never understand why Phoebus was really doing this—they’d see only a captain overstepping the line. But Phoebus felt as though this fight was for every innocent Olivier had snarled at, as if cruelty was his birthright.
By now, a few other guards had gathered, eyes wide as they watched their captain—the man they’d always seen as composed, unshakeable—lose control. They rushed forward, grabbing Phoebus by the arms, struggling to pull him off Olivier. Phoebus resisted, thrashing in their grip, still burning with fury as Olivier staggered to his feet, his face smeared with blood, a twisted smile on his lips.
“Get off me!”
But the guards held firm, murmuring urgent pleas for him to calm down. The other onlookers—those who hadn’t dispersed already—stood frozen, the street unnaturally silent as they stared at their captain, shocked by the sudden violence.
Phoebus took a deep, shuddering breath, feeling the sting of his scraped knuckles and the rush of adrenaline in his veins. His anger was a smoldering fire, but he knew he couldn’t let it consume him further. Slowly, he let his hands fall to his sides, giving the guards a small nod to release him. They hesitated, clearly wary, but eventually loosened their grip and stepped back.
“Big difference, huh?” Olivier sneered.
“Consider this your last warning. You cross me again, and you’re finished.”
“A soldier knows not to fight a battle he cannot win. You’re a fool if you think you can protect them all.”
“Then I guess I’m just a fool.”
~
His thoughts remained solely on Esmeralda as he made his way home.
Her face had come to him, unbidden, during the fight, her image burned into his mind even as his fists connected with Olivier’s smug expression. She was a maddening contradiction, an impossible force in a world that demanded conformity, and she had rekindled something he’d thought lost to the past—a need to fight for something beyond his rank, his pay, even his own safety. She had shown him courage, a fierce defiance in the face of cruelty that he’d never imagined he’d witness. And now he found himself driven by it, willing to throw himself headlong into danger for her without question. Because she wasn’t just a passing flame in his life; she was the fire that reminded him he was alive.
He reached his door, bruised and barely holding himself upright, his bloodied hand faltering on the handle. Her voice echoed in his mind, a bittersweet reprimand for his stubbornness and pride.
Phoebus had patched himself up—kind of. Rough strips of cloth were loosely wound around his torso, some soaked through with blood, others barely clinging to his skin. His hands had trembled too much to tie them tight enough. His attempt at first aid was little more than a stopgap, just enough to keep him from bleeding out on the dark mane of his horse and the cobblestone streets, just enough to get him home, to get him back to her.
The flickering light from the small hearth cast long shadows over the room, highlighting the bruises that marred his skin—each mark a testament to a day that had spiraled from bad to worse. For all his arrogance, Olivier had left him scraped, bloody, and… damn it all, tired. Phoebus slumped against the wood, barely holding himself upright, as if the weight of the armor still clinging to him was the only thing keeping him together.
Captain of the Guard—it sounded prestigious, but nights like these were cruel reminders of what he had to endure.
And even in the safety of his home, Phoebus could feel their judgment burning into his back, a familiar sting that now carried a bitterness he’d almost forgotten. That was the other thing about being the Captain of the Guard—when you strayed even a hair from perfection, people watched, they judged. He wasn’t a person to them. He was a symbol.
Great. Just what he’d always wanted.
“You’re late.”
Her voice was sharp, cutting through the quiet room like a knife, but he could hear the worry beneath it—subtle but unmistakable. Esmeralda stood by the fire, arms folded, her dark eyes blazing with frustration. She’d been pacing for hours, waiting, dread curling tighter with each passing minute. When her gaze finally settled on him—on his disheveled state, the blood, the bruises—her breath hitched in her throat.
“What the hell happened to you?” she asked, her voice softening, barely a whisper now. In three quick strides, she was across the room, her hands reaching out instinctively, fingers hovering above his skin but not touching—unsure where to begin.
Phoebus forced a crooked smile, wincing slightly as he straightened himself. “You should see the other guy,” he muttered, trying to inject humor into his voice, but it fell flat. There was no bravado left in him tonight. “Olivier needed a lesson in tact.”
“And you thought that lesson would sink in better if you delivered it with your fists?”
“I admit that I may have overdone it.”
He winced again as he tried to shrug off the rest of his armor, but her hands were already working at the straps, helping him shed the pieces with practiced ease. They’d been together long enough for her to know that even on days like this, he’d try to play it off.
“And I suppose you also thought wrapping rags around yourself would magically heal everything?” Her voice was sharp, but a tenderness underlay her words as she guided him toward the chair near the fire. “Sit.”
He obeyed—he really didn’t have any other choice—collapsing into the chair with a groan. Legs spread wide, elbows resting on his knees, he leaned forward slightly to take pressure off his bruised ribs.
She disappeared briefly, returning with a basin of water and a cloth. Esmeralda knelt between his legs, hands immediately going to the crude bandage around his midsection. “Just… hold still,” she murmured. Her hands worked with skill, each touch precise, but the feel of her so close, her fingers brushing his bare skin, sent a warmth through him that temporarily dulled the pain.
“Careful, I might start liking this.”
Her eyes flicked up to meet his, a smirk playing at the edges of her lips. “I could stop, if you’d rather suffer,” she whispered, though her hands never faltered in their care. She pressed a clean cloth to his side, and Phoebus winced at the sting, but her other hand rested on his knee, a silent apology in her touch. “So? What did Olivier say today?”
“What didn’t he say?” Phoebus wheezed as her hands fluttered over a particularly sensitive spot.
“Just tell me.”
“He called you—” He paused, swallowing hard as the word burned in his throat. “A whore. My… Gypsy whore.” The last word came out in a whisper, and he hated himself for even letting it cross his lips, even in repetition.
Esmeralda’s expression faltered, a flash of pain crossing her features before she pushed it away, her fingers momentarily tightening on his knee. But her gaze softened, and she reached up, her hand warm against his cheek. “I can’t say I wouldn’t have reacted the same.”
He didn’t respond—couldn’t find the words to. Instead, his fingers rested lightly on the back of her thigh, just below her hip, and she was acutely aware of how careful his touch was, how much restraint he used with her. He could feel the warmth of her skin through the fabric of her skirt, the pulse of life under his hand. He’d never been rough with her, never wanted to be. The world was brutal enough; with her, he always sought to be gentle, ensuring his strength didn’t leave bruises the way life had scarred him.
Esmeralda looked down at him, amusement dancing in her eyes as she caught the shift in his touch. “Hopeless,” she muttered, shaking her head with a smile, but her heart fluttered all the same. Her hands moved over his chest, cleaning the wounds, rewrapping the bandages with far more care than he had shown himself. “You’re no good to me half-dead, my love,” Esmeralda sighed.
“I’m starting to think I’m better suited to punching people than leading them.”
“Phoebus,” she said, her voice low, “you’re good at what you do because you actually care about the people. Not just the ones who look like they belong, or the ones who have money. The ones who need protecting the most.”
He watched her, a strange ache building in his chest—not from the bruises or the wounds, but from the sheer intensity of her words, the sincerity in her eyes. He wanted to—needed to—say something—anything. But he also didn’t want to think about Olivier and being Captain for a moment longer. Not when he had tomorrow to worry about that, and not when she was right there in front of him. So, his hand slipped from her thigh to her hip, fingers digging gently into the fabric of her dress, as if he could somehow hold onto her, keep her close in a world that felt increasingly uncertain.
Esmeralda’s hands stilled as she caught sight of a small, faded scar just above his heart, half-hidden beneath the fresh bruises, the fresh wrappings. She rested her palm over it, feeling the heartbeat beneath, the steady pulse reminding her of every dangerous path his duty demanded he take. It was moments like these that reminded her of how fragile their lives were, how the dangers of his duty threatened what they’d built. She wanted to be angry at him for risking so much, but she knew she could never ask him to stop being the Captain. Just like he’d never ask her to stop dancing.
Even after everything, they still lived quite dangerously.
When she was finally done, she leaned back slightly, surveying her work, and he could see the satisfaction in her gaze. The new bandages were clean and tight, far better than the mess he had created. “There,” she said softly, a hint of pride lacing her words.
She let herself be drawn in, her body pressing against his, hand resting on his chest, feeling the steady, heavy thrum of his heartbeat beneath her palm. He was so solid, so real, and despite the bruises, despite the pain, there was a power in him that called to her. He leaned in to press his lips against hers, soft and slow, as if afraid she might vanish if he pushed too hard. Her lips were warm, the taste of her sweet, and she drank him in, fingers sliding up to tangle in his hair.
When he pulled back, he whispered, “That’s for helping me.”
“Is that all that was for?” she laughed.
Phoebus chuckled, the sound deep and low in his chest. He pulled her closer, allowing his fingers to dig into the soft fabric of her dress, to test how far he could go tonight. When his lips met hers again, it was more insistent, more desperate.
“You’re going to undo all of my work,” she pouted between kisses. “You should be resting.”
“Later,” he replied, breathless and hungry, pulling her closer.
Now, he was holding her so tight, and she didn’t want him to stop. Part of her wondered if she’d be the one that was black and blue come morning, but right now, she didn’t care. If anything, she wanted him to hold her tighter, her body molding against his, her hands sliding down to the waistband of his pants, fingers tracing the fabric before slipping just beneath.
“Does it hurt?” she whispered softly, her lips brushing his ear as her fingers dipped lower.
“Not anymore.”