Chauvelin drinks to excess, and Sir Percy only knows it from counting the glasses and how quick he is to sleep, breath evening out almost immediately. A notable improvement: he'd known the man to fuss half an hour with the angle of a pillow, then strike a light to compose one of those hopeless missives to Paris.
He sleeps more soundly than he should, with so many deaths to his credit. Falling down on the job, those scores of innocents. But then, the French aristocracy were never known for their effectiveness - it would never have come to revolution if they were, and no doubt the revolution would have been better-conducted too. So the Terrorist sleeps, back firmly, unfailingly turned on Sir Percy. Bad tailoring at that, he's not having his shirts fitted properly, or else the man himself has altered. The Republic wearing him away. (If his tailor isn't a Suspect, he ought to be.)
Perhaps the regime's worst crime - not the men or even the children it sent with good hearts and clean souls to their Savior, but these men who learned to hunt, and betray, and murder for the so-called glory of their country.
Marquis de Chauvelin, this one had been: one aristocrat beyond hope of rescue.
Citizen Armand Chauvelin, even - a government agent with his reason infected by the same madness as the ghouls 'round the guillotine. And suddenly - it's never felt less like a game.
"Armand," he says, sits up. "Armand." He pulls his shoulder until Chauvelin stares up at him - asleep and unguarded. "Armand," he repeats, "let this go, this - you're a rational man, you must see what chaos this is leading to." Whispering against his cheek, not trying to hold his eyes.
And Chauvelin's laugh again, so black, as he reaches up. Fingers light at the back of Percy's neck, where the blade would touch first. Percy thinks of it, wonders if Chauvelin has, and kisses him.
Chauvelin responds - his breath matching Percy's, but his hands, grasping at Percy's shirt, slipping and tightening as though he's lost strength and feeling both.
"Stop being Agent Chauvelin," he whispers, "and I'll - "
"Win." Chauvelin still suddenly, completely, eyes shadowed. A moment like that, then he shoves Sir Percy back with more force than he usually manages. He turns away, placing himself at the very edge of the bed. "Go to sleep, Blakeney, and stop bothering me with your morbid fancies."