Mr. & Mrs. Solo

Oh, My Lover

"What the hell did you do?"

The question echoed through the walls in his mind, a daunting and vile reminder. He could still hear the click of the trigger, the dull thud of a bullet sinking through flesh and muscle. It shook the walls of his conscious, unable to be drowned out by the roar of his vehicle as it sped down a half deserted road. His heart slammed with the miles he left behind him, dust kicking up in the back wheels.

Already it felt as if a million years had passed, stretching endlessly until it snapped like an elastic band. The recoil would kill him, this he was certain of. It would shatter him into a thousand pieces until he was nothing but a broken pile on the floor, just like--

Napoleon came to a halt in front of his home in Milan, sent so far into rage-induced shock that he wasn't aware of his body in autopilot. Hours had passed by in what felt like seconds, but his hands remained at the steering wheel. He could feel the permanent indents he had made with his grip, feel the blood caked to his forehead slowly seal his eye shut. It was ruining the upholstery, and in a normal day he would have cursed himself for being so careless. Let him bleed for today, bleed out onto the leather seats and pass out from it in the car he couldn't give a damn about anymore.

One hand slammed against the dash in a rage, bright blue eyes turned dark from the anger and pain of loss. Adrenaline was surging through his veins, muscles taut and chest heaving as he tried to force air into his lungs. It was near midnight, and sitting in a car outside of his home bleeding would warrant nothing other than the police being called.

She had always teased him about his inability to be genuine, to show his real feelings around the person they were directed to. She'd prod him about never being ferally angry, always smooth to the touch and cool in every situation. He'd joked one day that he only showed emotion after the person was dead.

No. He needed a drink before he thought about that.

Pulling himself out of his car, Napoleon slammed the door and jogged up the front steps, half collapsing against the door as he unlocked it with shaking hands, missing the keyhole a few times before he was able to push it open. It was embarrassing, really, that one of the best thieves in the world couldn't get one damn door unlocked. His keys were thrown against the wall with disinterest, suit jacket and tie lost to the couch as he made his way towards the liquor cabinet in search of the strongest bottle he had. Vodka seemed to be the highest proof he owned currently, yet he was still slightly convinced it wasn't going to be strong enough.

Clear liquid splashed outside of the glass as he poured, but he was to far gone inside of his own mind to care as he downed the glass in a single gulp and sat through the burn. It tugged at his throat, forcing him to want to cough as he held his breath. No, that wasn't good enough. Napoleon reached for the bottle, taking and pouring a larger glass for himself when it slipped from his hands and shattered onto the ground. It felt as if his body was moving without him as he hurled the glass tumbler at the wall, not caring how loud it was or how it stained.

Anger that had been pent inside of him released like the rapid change of tide, knocking things off of shelves and pushing the china cabinet to the ground. It was like he craved for nothing but destruction, to destroy everything she had ever touched until all traces of her were lying in heaps on the floor. Break every dish, burn every chair and blanket she grazed against. His heart hammered in his ears, and for a brief second in the midst of destruction, he wondered if this was what Illya felt.

Rage, blinding white rage that sent his head pounding and his heart racing. Blood stained the surfaces he touched, but nothing could distract him from the war that raged inside of his own mind.

He'd done it all. Napoleon had killed men with his bare hands, shot mothers at point blank and stepped over them while children weep. He'd tortured, snapped necks, skinned, and stabbed. He'd stolen the hearts of thousands of women for nothing other than the hell of it, leaving them alone and crying for the loss of whatever alias he had given them. With all this, he had been able to sleep at night. Knowing that he was a murderer, and that some part of his soul craved the final look in a man's eyes. Knowing that he was a thief who stole what he could and would never give back.