Work Text:
August, 1794.
"All is well, Andoche," he had said.
"Do not worry, Andoche," he had said.
Ridiculous.
Napoleone should have let him help! Had he given the word, he and Auguste would have rescued him from this terible position he found himself in. He didn't care if they had to live in Africa for the rest of their lives! Napoleone deserved to be free. After everything he'd done for France!
But, no! Napoleone insisted on staying here. Kept under house arrest, under threat of execution...
And apparently now ill.
Junot was certain he had not been intended to see this. Napoleone had probably not expected visitors at this particular time of the afternoon; most people were rather busy, but Junot had nothing more important than ensuring Napoleone's well-being.
And, well... there he was.
Junot had been able to talk his way past the guards for a visit, but Napoleone apparently didn't hear him — and neither did he hear the door opening, otherwise he surely would have tried to look a bit more dignified.
He was turned away from the door, lying on his side in bed. Junot had briefly thought that he might be asleep, but he was so tense. He was curled in, his arms folded over his midsection, his shoulders hunched.
Junot approached him with concern, but Napoleone — apparently finally hearing the sound of his footsteps — suddenly jumped up, turning around to face him. Junot swore he could see him wince slightly at the movement.
"Ah— Andoche, apologies, I didn't hear you. One moment, I was resting—" he said hurriedly, trying to collect himself. His hair was tousled on one side, like he'd been lying there for quite a while. He did not look to be groggy from sleep, but rather tired from suffering.
"Napoleone," Junot said gently, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Are you alright?"
"Of course, I am fine," he said, a bit too quickly. He was clearly not well, but what exactly was wrong? Was he nauseous? In pain? Both? Neither?
Junot tried to guide him back toward the bed, but Napoleone stubbornly stood up. He seemed... a bit unsteady. And Junot quickly noticed that he was still a bit hunched-over, and he could hear the slight hitch in his breath when he moved.
Oh, for Christ's sake...
"Napoleone," he said insistently, taking him by the shoulders, "you are in pain. Why?" What if he wasn't ill but injured? He could just see those wretched guards kicking or punching him for being disobedient, or even just for the fun of abusing someone. His concern became tinted with anger; no matter what Napoleone said, Junot didn't know if he could let someone get away with harming him on purpose.
"Andoche, I am fine, there is—" he inhaled sharply, suddenly stumbling forward into Junot's arms. Junot immediately wrapped around him, holding him close, afraid he would collapse.
"Napoleone?!" he panicked, trying to keep his voice low enough to not alert the guards. He guided Napoleone back to the bed, and this time he obeyed. The two sat together, Napoleone curled against him, breathing unsteadily as Junot held him up. He could see Napoleone's hand twisted harshly in his coat. "Napoleone, what's wrong?" he worried. His heart ached at the sight of his love clearly in pain, and he tried rubbing his hand over his back to comfort him.
"The things they feed me are terrible," he mumbled into Junot's shoulder. "My stomach does not take well to it."
"Oh, Napoleone, I am sorry...." he said softly, reaching his hand up to run his fingers through the General's hair. He pressed his lips to his temple. "I will kill them all," he promised.
"No," Napoleone groaned.
"There is only so much mistreatment you can endure before I will refuse to stand by and watch it happen," Junot told him, pressing another kiss to his forehead. Napoleone was still there for a moment — until Junot again heard his breathing stutter from what was most likely a renewed wave of pain. He winced in sympathy.
They rearranged themselves until Napoleone was once again on his side, Junot at his back, rubbing over his arm. The General quickly returned to his earlier position, his arms folded over his stomach, his whole body curled inward.
"Is there anything I can do?" Junot asked sadly. This brilliant, incredible man— his brilliant, incredible man was just being abused, for no good reason!
Napoleone hummed inarticulately, reaching one of his hands over to grab Junot's and guide it to his stomach. He placed his own hands over it and pressed down to demonstrate exactly what he wanted. After a long moment, he moved his hands away and allowed Junot's to rest there. Junot held the pressure just below his ribs. He couldn't quite tell if he was doing it properly, but Napoleone did not complain. He looked more relaxed, in fact.
They lay like that for several minutes, Napoleone's eyes quickly falling closed. His expression remained tense, and every now and then he would shift just slightly and his breathing would change — another wave of pain, Junot inferred.
It was heartbreaking. His poor Napoleone.
Eventually, Napoleone's hand returned to cover his once more, his eyes remaining shut as he guided Junot's hand in slow, circular motions over his abdomen, keeping a rather consistent pressure. Junot followed his guidance, continuing the movements after Napoleone let him go.
He adjusted his position a little, his other hand coming up to again begin running through Napoleone's hair, scratching gently at his scalp. Hopefully the additional sensation would help to distract him from the pain.
Slowly, Napoleone's breathing began to even out, the tension gradually fading from his body. Junot was not entirely sure what to do — wouldn't the guards come in at some point to tell him to leave? Could he even detach himself from Napoleone without waking him? Should he keep his movements consistent, or gradually slow them down so that he can leave without rousing him? But if he stopped, would the pain come back and wake him anyway?
Junot deliberated this as he watched Napoleone slowly melt into the bed, his breaths deepening. He looked so small like this.
Junot began to slow the movements of his hand on Napoleone's scalp, continuing to rub over his abdomen. He waited.
And waited.
And waited.
Finally, after he was certain the guards outside must be getting suspicious of how long he'd been in here, he started to let up on the pressure on Napoleone's stomach, little by little until his hand was still and barely resting against him. Napoleone still remained soundly asleep.
This, though, was perhaps going to be the hardest part.
Junot very carefully began to pull away from the General, trying not to shift the bed too much. Once they were no longer touching, he turned and cautiously rolled off the bed into a standing position. He winced and bit his lip, certain that the shifting of his weight off of the bed had to be noticeable.
But when he looked, Napoleone was still. His breathing remained deep and undisturbed, and he looked incredibly peaceful. Junot had the thought that he most certainly would kill someone if they walked through that door and awakened this poor man.
He tried to step as quietly as possible toward the little desk that Napoleone had been given. He picked up a sheet of parchment — which, of course, made a terrible scratching sound as it was moved. Carefully setting it on the desk, he reached for Napoleone's quill and dipped it in the nearby ink, writing in his neat and deliberate hand:
Sleep well. Will return tomorrow.
— J.
Making his way to the door as quietly as possible, Junot turned to look back at his love once more.
A warm fondness filled his chest, a small smile nudging at the corners of his mouth.
And then he turned to leave.