Gapfill for the 2nd act of The Terbuf Affair. If I drank as much slivovitz in one go as Illya does in this episode, I would be deceased, and I think the world needs an explanation of why he isn't at least severely tipsy throughout the rest of the episode.
It was a waste of good slivovitz, and he hadn't even had an expense account to put it on.
Illya had no categorical objection to binge drinking on holiday. Under other circumstances, he would have enjoyed himself. He appreciated the atmosphere in the dimly lit bar, its mingled scents: strong liquor, drying sausages, men's sweat.
He didn't imagine he could have convinced Napoleon to join him in a dive like this; nothing of the sort had featured in their original itinerary. Still, they could have found a quiet taverna, sipped amaro until time turned slippery and the city lost its shape and they stumbled together back to their hotel. Napoleon wasn't exactly withholding when it came to touch, but it would have been nice, Illya thought, to lean against each other when neither was injured, to feel a strong hand on his shoulder, steering him through the Roman night.
Enough. Illya shook himself. He had a job to do. He didn't take orders from that woman, but a life was at stake, a man whose only crime was in having been born with the misfortune of a conscience in a world of corruption.
Beyond enough. If he was getting philosophical already, he'd clearly put his task off too long. His window of opportunity was rapidly closing. He drew a breath, savoring the flavor of plums on his tongue. A damned waste. Illya sighed and reached a finger toward the back of his throat, braced himself for the taste of acid.