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Everything went smoothly– the mark died precisely when they were supposed to, and you got to deliver the famous Crow's exit goodbye while flying out the second story window down a handmade zipline pre-strung from the high ceiling's scaffolding.
All-in-all worthy of a reward, you'd say, so you beelined to the wine cellar upon returning to the villa. Viago didn't trust you to enjoy the finer things in an expensive vintage, so he would never break out the good bottles for you– you'd have to liberate one yourself.
He wouldn't be particularly impressed, but with you, when was he ever?
And really he wasn't wrong about you knowing nothing of wine— and you had no interest in discerning his organizational system— so you took an impressive-looking bottle off the first rack you saw, pulled a glass down from the chandelier where they hung, wiped the dust out with the inside of your hood like a peasant, slipped up to the roof, popped the cork, dropped it, and got comfy as you watched it roll off the edge.
You were a glass and a half in and swirling it around like you understood what legs were when the back of your tongue started to tingle in a dreadfully familiar way– familiar because Viago poisoned you on the regular to keep you sharp, not because you regularly got drunk on the roof.
You should probably get down now.
Get up. Legs, legs, move them.
Loss of circulation in extremities typically follows peculiar mouthfeel.
Now if only you could remember the toxin that phrase describes.
Goodbye proprioception, hello inelegant tumble off the roof and onto the balcony when your foot-gone-numb clumsily catches the gutter on the edge. Thankfully a tastefully-placed animal topiary broke your fall, and through the scratches and the scramble, you'd manually forced enough blood back into your limbs with the movement that you could make it back to your room.
Okay, hands, quit fumbling, what poison, get your cheat sheet... left downstairs? No, next drawer! Okay, system. Nervous? Mucous? Sir, circu, circle– vascular!
Check your vials, vials... er, vitals? But what good would that do, you already know you're poisoned!?
Drink that one, always drink that one– buys more time idiot, that's why, – what else, what else, where– oh uh, vision's... out, labels, foggy, thoughts? Just drink the- why haven't you- oh you already too–
Your hand came away from your face shaking with an empty vial and nose blood. Your sharp inhale was interrupted by the pain from your diaphragm failing to expand enough to inflate your lungs.
Oh, no, that's not better, that's bad, bad– Viago, no, just take the shelf, go to Viago, Viago. Go.
Your shoulders hit most of the corners on the way there and your steps were heavy and staggering.
Oh thank the Maker the door's open.
"Viago, please don't be mad, you've gotta, promise, not to be mad-"
You choke out the words in a hoarse whisper between shallow gasps as it gets harder to breathe. The armsfull of vials you'd clutched to your chest hit the surface in front of him with a clatter. You swat the two empty vials you've already taken his way to show him, but obviously if either was the right answer, neither was working fast enough to keep you oxygenated for much longer.
He stood so fast he knocked his chair back. You felt his eyes on you as he scanned for obvious symptoms, subsequently ignoring all the vials you'd brought to unlock a small cabinet out of your peripheral view. By the time you'd turned your head to follow him, he was already back and pushing you into a seat.
The most you could hold onto before you lost consciousness was a persistent whooshing sound– which was either your blood rushing past your eardrums, or Viago shushing you as he worked. In your dreams, you chose to believe it was Viago, who held you gently in the Fade until you woke from the pinching of a syringe spilling into your veins in the pit of your forearm held by a familiar pair of gloves. There was then the slap of him pulling the tourniquet from your upper arm before he noticed your eyes open.
He did not look particularly enthused to see you awake, but you could feel the underlying relief in the air.
"That was your second dose of the antidote. I would've expected your tolerance to be higher if you had been keeping up with your morning schedule, but I also would've expected you to know better than to waste time fumbling around your room trying to fix it yourself when you should've come directly to me upon completion of your contract to begin with."
Oh. Oh he thought you were poisoned on the job.
Oh no.
"So, about that..." You could see his nostrils flaring already, as if warning you to just keep your big mouth shut for once.
"And listen, I'm telling you this against my own instinct for self-preservation, because I care about you and want you to live— and I hope you will still feel the same for me— but I wasn't poisoned on the contract."
Viago closed his eyes and brought his hand up to rub at the throbbing vein in his forehead, slowly, as if he had expected something like this. He took an exceptionally deep breath.
"Go on."
"Job went well! So in the spirit of positive reinforcement and all, I picked out some wine as a reward!"
"You mean you stole a bottle of wine from m—"
"Yes, yes, always with the details... the important part here is that someone is trying to kill you. Shouldn't we find out who?"
"Tried to kill me, and got my idiot protégé instead."
"Protégé?"
"You took it from the fourth row, yes?"
"Uh, maybe? Yes, I think so."
"That's where I store the bottles I receive as gifts. The ones I typically test before drinking to avoid mistakes such as this." He says as if he ever lets anything pass his lips without a sniff and a reagent test.
"... Oh."
"Right then." He slapped his thighs before standing. "Do let me know when you feel better, so I can come back and make you feel worse."
You watched him go; the shiver of fear jumped up your spine after a delay. You rolled over onto your side, pulled your knees up, and brought the blanket with both hands snug against one cheek.
He took that rather well, actually.