Chapter Text
Snow clung to their boots like a curse as Murat paced back and forth in front of a battered map, his pelisse hanging open despite the cold, boots cracking uselessly against the ice. He was talking — no, he ranting — and had been for a good ten minutes.
“Of course,, ” he growled, “Of course I’m the one they send to cover the rearguard. Always me. Always the cavalry. Always chasing contradictory orders while His Majesty the Emperor plays chess with armies that don’t exist anymore.”
Davout, motionless as a pillar of salt, barely lifted his eyes from his papers.
“You complain a lot for someone who keeps charging under the imperial eagle.”
Murat stopped dead.
“Pardon?”
Davout folded the map slowly — very slowly — with that infuriating precision that made you want to shake him.
“I’m simply saying that you spend your time claiming the Emperor sacrifices you, humiliates you, fucks you — using your vocabulary —”
“Oh, there it is.”
“—and yet you still wear the uniform. You still ride under the French flag. So I’ll ask you the question, Murat.”
He finally looked up. “Do you still believe in him, yes or no?”
A thick, almost religious silence fell, before Murat burst out laughing — dry and joyless.
“Because I’ve got a French flag behind me, you think I believe in Napoleon?”
Davout frowned. “That’s not what I said.”
Murat took a step forward, a predatory smile, eyes gleaming:
“I’ve got a French flag behind me, Davout.
And a faggot in front of me.”
“WHAT DID YOU JUST CALL ME? ”
“Oooh, relax,” Murat sulked. “You’re the one pedaling away with principles stiff as bayonets!”
“You dare—”
“You dare lecture me on loyalty when you spend your life pretending not to see how he uses us?”
“I do my duty.”
“You do his will. Subtle difference.”
“And you throw tantrums in your polished boots!”
“AT LEAST MY BOOTS ARE GOOD FOR SOMETHING!”
Voices rose, words overlapping.
“You think the army stands because of your feathers?”
“And you think it marches because of your sermons?”
“Without discipline—”
“Without panache we die frozen like dogs!”
An officer tried to back away discreetly.
“DON’T LOOK AT ME LIKE THAT, DAVOUT!”
“LOWER YOUR VOICE, MURAT!”
“I’LL LOWER MY VOICE WHEN THE EMPEROR STOPS TREATING ME LIKE DECORATIVE CANNON FODDER!”
“ THAT’S ENOUGH! ”
Berthier burst in, livid, arms full of crumpled reports, his gaze wavering between the urge to scream and the desire to collapse.
“By the grace of God, the Devil, and every saint in headquarters, what do you think you’re doing?”
Davout straightened at once. Murat rolled his eyes and muttered a discreet “he started it”, which earned him an incredulous — and frankly disapproving — sideways glance from Davout.
Berthier closed his eyes. For a long moment.
“Murat, rein in your ego.
Davout, rein in your rigidity.
And if either of you calls the other anything that isn’t his rank, I’ll have you march side by side all the way to Paris. On foot.”
Silence.
“Good,” Berthier went on wearily.
He sighed.
“Now… could someone explain why I heard the word faggot through three layers of military canvas?”
Murat smiled. Davout raised a hand, hesitated for a fraction of a second, then sharply tapped the back of his head.