solo (soloing) wrote in valarlogs, @ 2019-03-30 23:50:00 |
|
|||
The anomaly that was the Orange County dreams was something that Napoleon was still working out -he'd accepted them, following the deep seated understanding that he was not a spy from the Cold War, and yet his memories were firmly woven together with his new understanding of race for nuclear weapons and the tensions between Russia and America in an entirely new light. It settled somewhere in his bones, this feeling that there was more there, more to who he was at this stage now.
His early thirties in present time and his early thirties in what had to be the early 60's within the dreams, were entirely different creatures.
As much as Napoleon may have been able to balance his career path, convincing himself that stealing from rich people for other rich people was hardly the worst thing in the world to be doing with himself, the slow understanding of a life never lived was making even his own stress relieving habits somewhat hollow.
He'd never thought too much about what life could've been. Paths that he could've taken, roles to fill, ambitions never realised. He certainly knew that he would've never been a spy, not for America or anyone else. But then, it wasn't like the dreams had been a choice either, he'd been a thief first, drafted for the war before finding a way to make money while giving the Nazi party a middle finger before anyone really knew what a middle finger could mean. And that had led down the path to the CIA, primarily because he was that damn good.
There was no desire in any of Napoleon's potential paths to follow that specific one, least of all with the understanding of how the CIA treated someone like him, without discipline or respect for authority, because what had that authority ever done for him?
Dreaming of Berlin, of the binding contract that had him there in the first place, where he would undoubtedly be tortured before killed should he be caught for any reason, it opened Napoleon's eyes to just how futile it was to put any kind of trust in any kind of authority for any reason. Moving pawns in a board game was all that truly led to, and Napoleon had long shaken off the strings of any kind of master.
But Berlin, and Gaby Teller, and escape left him with a clawing itch under his skin, as the Californian sunlight spilled into his hotel suite, and last nights stress relief lay soundly asleep in his bed, Napoleon considering the newspaper for something else that may, potentially, hopefully add a balm over his anxious nerves. He needed to blow off a different kind of steam, needed to flex his talents just a little bit, even if he was meant to be laying low, keeping a low profile, avoiding too much attention. The alternative was, most likely, to screw his way through the hotel employees, and that would likely just make it somewhat awkward to remain in the suite.
Folding his newspaper over, finishing his mug of coffee while contemplating the next move, Napoleon heard the telling noise of his bed partner stirring.
He could always swing back through New York, pick up a job, visit his mother, hit up an old contact. But the chance of that leading to yet more attention and drama that he did not need was too high. As the shower clicked on, Napoleon knowing that heading east was just not an option and Europe would likely be worse rather than better, he set his mind to a local job -nothing that might upset anyone within the County, and left his mug on the table.
There was nothing to be done at the moment, other than shake these memories out of his head a little, and the best way to do that was most definitely with a long, hot shower. After all, what kind of host would he be to leave his partner to shower on their own? Getting some tension out of his spine would do him good for when he had to find his next job.