3rd August, late night indoors

It was night, not yet early morning, and probably dark. Charcot could hear all the sounds of night, and even the sound of his companions sleeping. Paol had been restless for ages, but at last it sounded like he was asleep on the floor. He was sleeping in front of the door, of course, which prevented Charcot from leaving the room, and probably those riflemen were on the other side of the door anyway. He had thought about slipping out on the pretense of needing to relieve himself, but Paol would never have let him go alone with a rifleman, and the old woman had provided a bucket for the purpose.

But perhaps Bright would help. He despised Bright, and probably the feeling was mutual, but that might work in his favor. He reached his arm across the space between their two beds. "Bright," he whispered, quietly as he could.

It was as much learned habit as not, but Bright was a light sleeper. He could rouse to nearly-complete wakefulness in a moment and that was a trait he had begun acquiring almost as soon as he'd taken the damned King's shilling.

The light brush of fingers against his arm was as effective a wake-up call as a musket shot. Moreso, in fact, given the present situation. It took a second or two for him to realise there was no immediate danger. It was only Charcot. Damn the boy.

"I," Bright hissed irritably, "was sleeping."

"I know. Is Paol sleeping?" The answer was evident though. If he had been awake, Paol would have stirred immediately at the sound. Charcot had not been oblivious to how nervous and hypervigilant his friend was. It was the reason he had not yet been able to escape from his care.

"Don't wake him," he added quickly.

"Aye. He is." Bright made his reply without troubling himself to look. "I don't plan to wake anybody. Go back to sleep."

He closed his eyes again and shifted a little on the bed, getting comfortable in readiness to go back to sleep himself.

"No, listen," Charcot whispered. "What kind of injuries have you got? Your side is cut up, but not your arms?"

For the love of God. Bright groaned quietly. What the hell business was it of Charcot's, the blind bastard?

"I'm all bed-ridden," he replied in a brusque whisper. "Both my legs and arms are broke. Can't move a thing." Idiot. "Of course it's just my side. So what?"

"All right, all right, keep it down!" Charcot hissed back. "I'm just asking." He had gone about it all wrong the first time. With Bright, a different approach was needed. "Now, you don't like me, and I sure as hell don't like you. You're a traitor to your own country and I think you're a complete bastard."

Bright grimaced at the darkness. This was no surprise to him in any way.

"Good for you. Now shut your face and let a lad sleep."

"And what's more," Charcot continued as if Bright had not spoken, "I've a good mind to tell them grasshoppers all about it."

That had the effect of causing Bright to stiffen and both his hands to curl into fists. The bastard wouldn't dare. "And you reckon Kerjean'd let you, eh?" The question came out through gritted teeth.

"How would he stop me?"

"Let's wake him and ask, shall we?"

"No!" That would ruin everything. Time to backtrack a bit. "Never mind Paol, this is about you and me. You don't need him as a bodyguard."

Was it, now? That was interesting. "No," Bright agreed. "I don't. And you and me got nothin' doing. Unless you want to go flyin' through that window there."

Charcot was silent for a moment, completely caught off guard by the threat.

"That's what I thought," muttered Bright and he rolled over toward the wall.

Charcot's voice was mild, thoughtful. "How big is the window?"

"Big enough to pitch you out of it. Now for God's sake go back to sleep."

"No. Now listen, Bright. I'll trade you my life for your miserable life."

He breathed a curse in English. "That's not much of a trade," he snarled in French.

"No it ain't," Charcot agreed, only a touch of bitterness in his tone. "Neither one of them is worth much, and I figure... I'm through with mine."

"What the hell are you on about?"

"I mean I'm.. I want..." It was hard to say it in words now, and to Bright of all people. "I don't want to live like this. I want to be dead."

Sweet suffering Jesus. And what did Charcot think he was going to do about that?

"You ain't half daft," said Bright, as he rolled back over. "You're right, I don't like you, but sure I ain't gonna bundle you out the window just 'cause you want it. Defeats the purpose and all."

"Well why not? It doesn't have to be the window. It's probably not high enough anyway. But you could break my neck, easy. It's the only way to make sure I don't tell the English about you."