A/N: Inspired by a headcanon discussion I had with rjdaae, and also written for the prompt Lalochezia which she sent me off a prompt sheet.
Lalochezia - The use of abusive language to relieve stress or ease pain.
Cover by drawnby27emilys on Tumblr, because this ficlet inspired her and it is wonderful!
The string of curses that rips through the air beneath the Palais Garnier is less than gentleman-like. If it were not a matter of extreme stress he might almost be ashamed of himself. As it is he has no remorse, no shame, no problem at all at hurling a hundred merdes and a thousand putains at himself, the Vicomte, and the world at large.
Oh, but he is getting old. Ten, five years ago, even! it would not have happened. He would have twisted out of the way in time, the bullet whizzing by him, and instead it has scored a line along the outside of his ribs, and it will be at him for weeks! Stiff and sore and making it awkward to play his violin and all because he was too slow and too foolish, damnably foolish!
If he were younger, he would go back there and assist the Vicomte's head in parting from his shoulders. He had not planned on killing him, had not planned on hurting him at all, in fact, merely wished to observe him and learn his habits, just to be prepared, just in case. And now look at what's happened! He's only gone and gotten himself shot! He left his blood behind him, probably left a trail of it back the Rue Scribe, but they'll be too, too stupid to follow it and that is his only comfort now.
He swipes the swab of alcohol along the wound, a string of Arabic curses echoing now off the walls around him. How many times did he do this in Persia, tend to his own wounds and not make a sound? And now his swearing is a veritable symphony echoed back at him over and over again, but it does help and when he hurls another merde almost sharp enough to shatter the vase in the corner the pain feels a little duller, a little more bearable.
He takes the roll of bandage from the table, and studies the wound in the mirror, steadfastly not looking at his face. He has not used the mirror in years, has always been quite used to not looking at himself, but it is of undoubted benefit now, and he sucks in a breath, twists to view the full-length of the wound better. It will be difficult to bind it, he knows, and though he has been taking care of his wounds for decades, he knows that a second pair of hands would be invaluable tonight.
Thankfully Christine is not here tonight, is unaware of his escapade. It would trouble her, upset her, and he could not have that happening, no. The wound throbs at the very thought. He could go to the Daroga and ask for assistance, but he would ask far too many questions and his blasted manservant would frown irritatingly over the blood dripping on the carpet. No. He must deal with it himself.
He takes a mouthful of the wine, and feels it bitter on his tongue. Truly not one of the better vintages he has, but if it was he would not be wasting it on wound treatment.
Well, there is nothing for it but to take a breath and fortify himself. He does so, and unrolls the roll of bandage, presses it tight against his back with one hand and strains it against the wound.
A sharp Putain! cuts the air, and this time he is past caring.