Work Text:
Paris, February 1796.
One hand shielded Napoleon’s eyes from the piercing midday sun while the other remained clenched behind his back, keeping his shoulders straight as he strode along the Seine. It was the first sunny day in weeks after nothing but downpours and snow for the last three months. While the cobblestone ground was still slick from rain and the smell of damp earth lingered in the air, it was an otherwise pleasant afternoon. Vibrant blues and pinks and yellows replaced the grays and browns and whites of winter. Painted roofs and shutters glistened from the lingering dew. Sprouts of green poked out of crevices in the broken cobblestone. Slowly but surely, from the dreary months of rain and snow and bloodshed of the Revolution, color was returning to Paris.
Napoleon could barely recall the last time he visited Île Saint-Louis. September, perhaps? If memory served him correctly, his last visit to the isle and its café ended with a bottle of wine thrown at his head, glass shattering around him and wine staining his officer coat. It took him weeks to rub the stain from his coat (and his pride). He recalled storming off and cursing the drunken shell of a man who owned the café, only to meet him again a month later in Franciade.
Wincing, Napoleon brushed the thought from his mind as he neared the Café Théâtre. Franciade had been nothing but a wound to his pride and ambition, but it was of no consequence to him. He moved forward, as he always had, and was soon to be declared head of the Army of Italy, to which he would report in less than a month. In the meantime, lured by the nostalgic aroma of coffee and the lively cheers from a finished play, Napoleon sought a visit with an old friend before his campaign.
His heels clicked against the pavement as he stood in front of the packed café. It was just as he remembered it: vulgar, loud, and yet, charming. Stepping inside, Napoleon removed his hat and laid it upon his chest. He shuffled along the walls of the café, narrowly avoiding a coffee spill as a particularly boisterous man tossed his cup into the air with a cheer. He wrinkled his nose and huffed, turning away and walking to the coffee counter.
“Bonjour citoyen!” The waiter greeted with a warm smile, drying a cup as he spoke. Napoleon nodded his head curtly.
“Bonjour,” he replied dryly, standing at attention as he scanned the salon. “Is Citizen Dorian home?”
The waiter’s smile faltered as he tossed the dish towel over his shoulder. “Ah… and who asks?”
Napoleon hesitated. “An old friend.”
Before the waiter could reply, a young maid stumbled behind him, carrying with her a bucket of water and a mop. “He is with le petit maître,” she interrupted breathlessly, offering a tired smile. “You can find them in the courtyard just outside.” She pointed to the open, white doors on the opposite side of the café.
Napoleon nodded his thanks, tucking his hat under his arm as he walked toward the doors. He ignored the sharp sets of eyes lingering on him from the corners of the salon. Members of his Brotherhood, no doubt, Napoleon decided. He glanced over his shoulder before stepping outside.
The first thing Napoleon noticed was how much brighter the courtyard appeared than his last visit to the café. The ivy-covered walls offered a pop of green to the grays and browns of the cobblestone, as well as solace from the bustling street outside. Water cascaded down the once empty stone fountain and glinted in the sunlight. Fresh paint covered the exterior doors and window shutters. The black and red carriage by the entrance appeared refurbished, with new axles and polished windows. Even the small trees adorning the enclosure, though barren, seemed to stand taller as they loomed over the courtyard’s walls.
Below the tree by the carriage was the second thing Napoleon noticed: a child. A boy, no older than nine, with tightly coiled dark curls, tan skin, and freckles. He stood at attention in front of the tree, a wooden sword in his hand as he attacked the trunk. His form was laughable, but his focus and perseverance were admirable. There was a hint of familiarity in the boy’s stern expression, though the general could not pinpoint where he would have met such a child.
Beside him stood the Assassin. Napoleon had not seen nor heard from Arno since their encounter in the catacombs under the Basilica of Saint Denis. When they crossed paths, Napoleon mistook him for a ghost wandering the tombs. He could barely recognize the Assassin. His cheeks had been gaunt, covered by a scruffy, untamed beard. His tangled, greasy hair had framed his paled face beneath his torn cowl. Even beneath Arno’s thick mercenary clothing and tattered cloak, Napoleon could see the evidence that the man had done nothing but drink, fuck, and sulk for months. He did not dare ask why, partially in fear that Arno’s aim would be much better sober. The last thing Napoleon needed was to remove glass shards from his own skull.
The man standing beside the boy was a drastically different Arno. He stood taller, adjusting the boy’s frame and murmuring advice on how to best strike the tree. His beard was trimmed to a neat stubble, his dark hair recently washed and tied neatly behind him. Arno wore surprisingly casual attire, dressed only in a loose blouse, tight gray trousers, and black boots. Having visibly worn off some of the alcohol centered around his middle, Arno looked lighter, with a new shade of color in his cheeks that Napoleon had not seen in years. His chest tightened.
“You need to look where you are aiming, little man,” Arno instructed, “else you’ll keep hitting everywhere but your target.”
“I am looking!” the boy insisted. “You’re distracting me!”
“And how, pray tell, am I doing that?”
“You keep breathing too heavily!”
Arno scoffed. “Oh, pardon me, monsieur.” He stepped back and dramatically held up his hands. “I was unaware that breathing was such a criminal offense.”
“It is when you do it,” the boy muttered. Napoleon withheld a chuckle.
The noise was enough to alert the Assassin and the boy. Their heads both quickly snapped up from the tree trunk. Almost instantly, their brows furrowed in an identical scowl. Arno surged forward, sliding his arm in front of the boy. The child promptly stepped back, half of his body hidden by Arno’s frame as he glared daggers at the commander. Napoleon was used to fallen expressions when he entered a room, but this was ridiculous. With his hat still tucked under his arm, he stepped forward and cocked his head.
“Is that how you greet a friend?” Napoleon questioned with a raised brow. Arno straightened, and the general suddenly remembered just how much taller the Assassin was compared to him.
“To what do I owe the pleasure, Général?” Arno answered tersely, his brows still narrowed.
Napoleon said nothing, instead looking down at the boy. “And who is this… little soldier?” He offered a weary smile.
The boy’s face soured. “You’re one to talk, when you’re nearly as little as my–!”
“Léon!” Arno hissed. Napoleon’s nose wrinkled until his brows rose in realization.
“Léon… where do I know that…” His eyes widened. “You’re the little trespasser! From the catacombs, no?” Napoleon glanced between Arno and Léon. Arno said nothing, his brow furrowing. Léon, on the other hand, had much to say.
“Come to capture more orphans?” Léon mocked. “Or hire a stupid, snuff-sniffing captain to do your dirty work?” The boy grinned cruelly, his hand on Arno’s arm as he leaned forward. “How did that work for you last time?” Arno shoved him back, shooting him a deadly look.
Napoleon snarled. “I did not come to be mocked by a child, so watch your tongue, boy.”
“You can watch my–!” Arno promptly covered Léon’s mouth with his palm, turning around and muttering something that only Léon could hear. While the Assassin’s back was turned, Napoleon snarled at the boy, who in turn stuck his tongue out at the general. When Arno turned back to face Napoleon, he glared down at Léon.
“Why don’t you see what chores Madame Gouze has for you?” he spoke through gritted teeth.
“But I–!” Léon protested.
“Now,” Arno sneered.
The two stared at one another for a long moment until Léon finally scowled, marching inside the café. He made sure to bump into Napoleon, sending the commander several steps back. Before Napoleon could even snap at the child, Arno shouted the boy’s name, scowling and storming forward. But the boy was long gone, now in the clutches of the café’s doting workers. Arno groaned and pinched his brow, inhaling sharply and glancing at Napoleon.
“I think a drink is deserved for such a greeting,” Arno offered. Napoleon almost smiled.
“It is the middle of the day,” the general reminded.
“And yet, I have already lost my patience.” It was enough of an olive branch for Napoleon to accept. The Assassin sighed heavily and gestured for him to follow.
Once the pair entered Arno’s quarters, Arno poured two glasses of brandy from a flask in his cabinet. He slid Napoleon his glass and gestured for the man to sit. The officer obliged, lifting the glass to his lips as he ignored the memories of tangled limbs and scattered sheets that flooded his mind. Arno seemed to do the same.
“So,” Napoleon started, sighing and shifting his weight. “How long has it been? Four months? Five?”
“Not long enough,” Arno muttered under his breath, taking another gulp of his brandy. Napoleon frowned.
“You did not answer my letters,” he spoke.
Arno quirked a brow. “I was not aware I had the obligation.”
Napoleon ignored the jab. “I see you have a new obligation.” He smirked and leaned back, setting his glass on the side table while his fingers lingered on the rim. “I never took you as maternal, Arno.”
Arno bared his teeth into a smile. “Better than letting your underlings kill a child in cold blood, Napoleon.”
The general squinted and glared. “You know I did not give such an order. It was that fool, Rose. I asked for the boy to be escorted to the surface. Nothing more, nothing less.”
“Regardless,” Arno waved his hand in dismissal. “He is under my care.”
“For how long?” Napoleon asked curiously, leaning forward.
Arno lifted his glass. “Till I die, I suppose. Though, he may send me to an early grave.” After emptying his glass, the Assassin stood, and Napoleon hated how his eyes lingered on Arno’s back. It was an all too familiar (and though he would never admit it, welcome) sight.
“I suppose congratulations are in order,” Arno interrupted, pouring another glass of brandy.
Napoleon swallowed his drink and cleared his throat, straightening his posture. “Ah, yes. Thank you.” He tapped the rim of his glass in thought. “Though, I will not officially have the title of head of the army until the second. I leave for Nice on the eleventh.” He paused when he heard a laugh, focusing back on Arno. “What is funny about what I’ve said?”
“I meant your engagement, Général,” Arno hummed. He moved to Napoleon’s side, offering the flask. Napoleon blushed and laid his palm over the glass, to which Arno shrugged and placed the drink back in its cupboard. “To Rose de Beauharnais, I heard.”
“Joséphine,” Napoleon corrected rather intensely. Arno made a face.
“To Joséphine,” he corrected with an eye roll. “When are you to wed?”
“The ninth.”
Arno sputtered. “You are to leave your wife two days after you wed?”
Napoleon clenched his jaw. “If I wanted your advice on my marriage, I would have asked.”
Arno’s face hardened as he sat up straight, placing his glass down before he crossed his arms. “Then why else have you come? You are to be head of an army and a husband. What purpose could you possibly have here?”
Napoleon stared at the Assassin intensely, eyes narrowed as his nose wrinkled, mouth curling in a snarl. The two stared at one another, and for the first time, Napoleon noticed just how similar Arno’s murky, dark eyes were to Joséphine’s. After a few moments of silence, Napoleon tapped his glass impatiently and abruptly stood. He clasped his hands behind his back and paced toward the window.
“I have a proposition for you,” he stated plainly. He heard Arno snort behind him. “Come with me to Nice.”
Arno chuckled. “Perhaps I’ve poured you too much brandy.” When Napoleon did not flinch, Arno blanched. “Oh god, you’re serious, aren’t you?”
Napoleon walked toward him, leaning over Arno’s seated form as he balanced his palm on the arm of the chair. “You are a demon with a blade,” he said, eyes locked with Arno’s. “You are a strategist unhindered by rank and order. You are an invaluable advisor and leader. The army would benefit from your expertise and guidance.” I would benefit from your guidance went unspoken as Napoleon’s eyes lingered on Arno’s soft lips.
Arno stared back as he rose from his chair, expression unreadable. “Are you asking for my help, Napoleon?”
“I am asking for your guidance,” Napoleon repeated, tilting his chin. “You would not need to answer my letters if you were beside me.”
“You have a wife for answering letters,” Arno argued.
“That is not the point,” Napoleon replied.
Arno’s eyes traced Napoleon’s face, and the general hated how easy it was to fall under his gaze. He despised it. Their faces were far too close, only a breath apart. Neither moved.
“You know I cannot,” Arno whispered in an uncharacteristically soft voice. Napoleon pursed his lips. He thought of the boy just downstairs, whose unabashed, rebellious spirit had brought such light, such vibrancy, such color back into the Assassin’s life. He clenched his fists behind his back.
“I will not take no for an answer,” the general muttered. His eyes fell to Arno’s mouth.
“You will,” Arno breathed, his jaw clenched, “because I will not leave that boy behind.” He puffed his chest. “He is the one truly good thing in my life. I will not leave him.” Not even for you.
Napoleon’s heart clenched, but he did not say a word. While anger bubbled in his stomach, the officer stepped back, staring up at the Assassin until perhaps he would turn to stone. He did not. Napoleon breathed before finishing his glass of brandy.
“Thank you for the drink, Citizen Dorian,” he nodded, turning to the door. “I can see myself out.” He adjusted his coat and walked toward the door. His hand lingered on the door frame as he tilted his head. “I will send for you soon.”
“I will not come,” Arno replied matter-of-factly, resting his hip against the table. The general smiled, then turned away.
Savona, April 1796.
“A letter for you, Général.”
Napoleon did not glance up from his desk, head in his palm as he scribbled his signature on another piece of parchment. “From my wife?”
“No sir,” the soldier replied. Napoleon snarled and inhaled sharply, locket heavy against his chest. Of course. “It’s from one ‘Citizen Dorian.’”
He snapped his head toward the informant. “Bring it here.”
The soldier nodded and obliged, placing the letter on Napoleon’s books. The general promptly reached for the letter and tore it open, snorting at its contents.
“Capitaine,” he called, to which the young man stood at attention. “Gather two cots for my tent.”
“May I ask why, sir?” The soldier wondered.
A smile tugged at Napoleon’s lips as he rolled up the letter. “We will have company.”