5th August, evening - Casa Augustin

"Oh." She hadn't realized the letter was for Dominic. Why was he writing a letter to Dominic? Or perhaps the officer had received some letters that included one for Dominic. It didn't really matter. She nodded and was about to leave when Don Augustin came up the stairs, the forgotten cup of water in his hand.

"Laudanum?" he asked simply, holding out the cup.

Laudanum? Oh. He shoved the letter back in his pocket and pulled out the little bottle, unstoppering it carefully and holding it out to the carpenter.

The carpenter took the bottle and moved toward a little table in the hall where there was a candle. He carefully counted drops of the medicine into the cup and swirled it around. Then he handed them to the Frenchman, first the bottle to be corked again, and then the cup. "Drink all of that. And then sleep will make you feel better."

Paol hesitated, staring down at the cup in his hand. He still needed to talk to Charcot, and he'd need what was left of his wits for that. But-- Hell, what difference did it make? He could barely think straight as it was. And the last thing he wanted to do just then was argue. He swallowed the water and handed the cup back. "Thank you."

Augustin nodded.  "Good lad.  And now good night.  Good night, Manuela.  I told your Tia Carla.  Until tomorrow."  He looked to see if she was going to follow him and then he turned and began walking down the stairs.

"Good night, Don Augustin," she answered, and then looked at Paol to see what he was going to do. She pointed at the open door to remind him that he could - and should - go to sleep in the other room, but she knew he wanted to speak with Dominic.

He nodded to show he understood, then stepped back towards the room he shared with Charcot and Bright. His hand was on the latch when he stopped, hearing her steps retreating behind him. He turned suddenly, moving back to the stairs. "Manuela?"

If they were leaving tomorrow, he might not get another chance to talk to her. Properly talk. If one could call it that when they barely understood one another. "Thank you," he started, faltering and awkward and desperate for her to understand. "For everything. You-- you've been kind to me, to all of us, and you'd no reason to be. And -- and you gave me a-- a bit of peace. Like--like the way things used to be. And that--I...." His face was burning and it had nothing to do with the fever, and he drew in a shaky breath. He didn't know how to say what he wanted to say, and half of it he shouldn't say and most of it he didn't even understand.

She frowned and leaned forward slightly, listening as carefully as she could, but she could not make out anything beyond the initial "thank you." When he seemed to be finished, she smiled, though the puzzled frown remained on her face. "I don't understand," she admitted. It probably wasn't too important. He was grateful, and she was glad she had been able to help a little bit. But he was also obviously in great need of sleep, and perhaps the medicine was already making him groggy. "It's all right. Give your letter to Dominic and go to sleep. Good night."

"Goodnight," he said quietly, watching her go, then turned back to the door, trying to ignore the sudden, odd ache in his chest.

As quietly as he could, he unlatched the door and slipped inside. "Dominic?" he called softly, but there was no answer. Asleep, then.

He would have fallen asleep imagining the French were still coming. Paol shut his eyes and leaned his head against the door frame, thinking. Maybe it would be kinder just to let him sleep. Maybe the first real, peaceful sleep he'd had since they'd been captured. God knew he was going to need it in the coming days.

They'd been so close. The way Charcot had been before Paol had left for the letter, he was almost starting to sound like his old self. And now... Paol blinked, his eyes stinging. He pulled the letter from his pocket and, shifting a few steps closer, slid it inside the open breast of Charcot's waistcoat. The blanket was starting to slip down onto the floor and he tugged it gently back into place, before moving to the door again and out into the hallway.

Manuela was in the hall again, tip-toeing to the other room.  She started and then laughed quietly as she realized it was only Paol himself emerging from the room.  She held up the jug and cup she was carrying.  "More water.  You should drink lots of water for your fever."  She ducked into the room and set them on a table.  "There.  Good night.  Sleep well."  It felt as if she were bidding good night to a guest, some visiting friend or cousin.

She'd come back. For a perfectly practical reason, but he didn't care. She was there and smiling and laughing. He moved toward the other room, but the world had gone soft all of the sudden and he half expected his hand to push through the wall as he reached out to steady himself, only to find it reassuringly solid.

He reached the door just as she was slipping back out. "Thanks. Gracias... noches. You--ah..." He frowned, grasping at the words, but his thoughts were clumsy and slow and they kept slipping away. He looked down at her, the candlelight lifting the shadows on her face just the barest bit, like a veil. "You're beautiful."

That was not, he was fairly certain, what he'd meant to say. But that didn't seem to matter so much just then. It was true.

She laughed again. "Go to sleep. Good night, Paol!" And she stepped away quietly down the stairs.

She just laughed at him, but he didn't mind. He watched her disappear down the stairs, then turned into the room. It was small and it took only a few swaying steps to cross it. The bed was against the far wall and he did not so much sit as fall onto it.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd slept in a bed. Usually he was lucky if he could find enough straw to soften the floor of wherever he was quartered. He brushed his hand against the sheets. They felt cool and clean, smooth -- much too fine for the likes of him. Perhaps he should sleep on the floor... Why was his head so heavy?

Everything was drifting out of focus and his thoughts were growing increasingly slow and muddled. Even the pain in his arm seemed to blur until it was almost possible to ignore. He had no memory of removing his shoes, but he had just enough presence of mind to strip out of his waistcoat and shirt before he finally gave in.

He curled onto his side, the soft mattress cradling his aching body, and pressed his face into the sheets. He could have wept with relief. But exhaustion and the bleary warmth of the laudanum seemed to wrap round him like a blanket and in the space of a few heartbeats he was fast asleep.