Author's Note: I know it's a bit late for a Christmas Fic, but this came to me when watching It's A Wonderful Life for the first time. It's been a while since writing but the combination of Exams, Family Commitment and a lack of inspiration has barely left me any time.
Regardless, this is my muse! Enjoy!
Summary: Athos faces the darkest Christmas Eve of his life, coming to wish that he'd never been born. Then, he is visited by a Guardian Angel who shows him what life would be like had he never existed.
Genre: Friendship & Hurt/Comfort.
Rating: T, just in case.
Disclaimer: I do not own the Musketeers or any books/films/songs/characters that are featured or referenced in this Fanfiction.
Twas the Night...
Chapter One, The Darkest Night:
"I knew somethin' were troublin' him. Troublin' him more than usual, I mean." Porthos said, as he and his Companion walked briskly through the chilly evening streets of Paris, their boots crunching in the freshly fallen snow.
"So did I." Aramis sighed, "He's always distant this time of year, but ever since...Milady...it's like he's been hardened somehow. I had hoped that being rid of the damned locket of hers would finally free him from the burden of guilt he's been harbouring all these years."
"Aye, me too. Looks like we were wrong." The Big Musketeer said, as he and Aramis exchanged grim looks.
It was Christmas Eve.
It was a time of merriment and joy. Porthos had just come back from his last patrol, before his three days off to enjoy the Yuletide, and had frolicked into the Garrison in a burst of 'God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen', when Aramis had come hurtling into the Yard, grabbed the Big Musketeer by the arm and proceeded to hiss in his ear; "It's '25 all over again!"
To anyone else, they might have been confused. To Porthos, it was code for 'very, very bad.' You see, it had been on Christmas Day of 1625, when Athos had faced the darkest hours of his life. It had been on Christmas Day of 1626, when Aramis and Porthos had got him through it. So when Aramis whispered those five words in his ear, Porthos did not hesitate to follow after him at quick pace as they fled the Garrison.
Which was how they came to stand outside a dark and rather dank looking Tavern. Aramis pushed the rickety door open and the two Musketeers stepped inside, coming to find what would've been a fine merry mood, if not for their fear for Athos. And it did not take long for them to find the Man in question.
He sat in the darkest corner, glass discarded and drinking straight from the bottle. D'Artagnan stood by the bar, watching the Man he saw as a Mentor with concern. Naturally, Porthos and Aramis approached him.
"He told me to leave him alone, else he'd shoot me in the foot." The Gascon told them, with his brow furrowed. "After the last time he shot me when drunk, I decided I wouldn't take the risk."
"Good decision..." Aramis murmured, leaning against the bar.
Porthos gazed over at Athos with big sad eyes, the worry and the anxiety barring his forehead and adorning his face. "You were right about it being like '25 all over again...I haven't seen him so lost in a long time."
D'Artagnan shook his head; "I've never seen him like this before."
And it was true. Certainly, he had seen Athos in such a state of vulnerability and pain, back at La Fere. But, this was different. He was not vulnerable, in the sense of fear and hopelessness. He was angry. It was more like when Athos had caught Milady in the market and put his pistol to her neck, except ten times worse.
"Come on, let's get him home before he starts a fight because he's drunk all the wine." Porthos stated, and Aramis gave him a nod. The three of them set off across the Tavern to where Athos had just cracked open another bottle.
"Don't you think you've had enough?" Aramis inquired, as they arrived.
"As I am very aware of you still being here, I think not." Athos retorted, coldly. This would've usually been quite the wry comment, which at another time would've summoned a chuckle from his Comrades. Right now, however, it sounded deadly, even with the slight slur on his tongue.
"Is that your Gentlemanly way of tellin' us to piss off?" Porthos joked, in an attempt to lighten the mood.
Did it work, however?
No, of course not.
"Leave me be." Athos growled, before tipping his head back as he brought the bottle to his lips. The red substance burnt his throat, for drinking was not a comfort, but almost a punishment to him.
"You've been trying that on us for 5-years, my Friend. It hasn't worked then, it won't work now." Aramis replied, simply. He reached for the bottle, only to have Athos pull it away and glare at him.
"I have been asking for 5-long-years for you to leave me be, yet you still insist to bother me!" He angrily snarled at them.
"Well, we ain't leavin' without you." Porthos stated, as he put his hands on the table and gave him a long gaze. Athos met the Big Man's gaze with a cold glare of his own. Aramis and D'Artagnan looked between Athos and Aramis as the staring-match continued, before looking at each other with concern.
"Porthos?"
A gentle voice broke through the glaring-battle, making all four heads turn. One of the Barmaids stood before them, clad in a simple skirt, chemise and bodice. She was mixed-race, like Porthos, with a round face but high cheekbones. Her eyes were a roundish almond shape, with thick eyelashes, and the colour of her irises seemed almost like like a violet shade in the light. Her dark hair was pinned up into a messy bun, with little ringlet curls escaping it.
Porthos blinked at the Girl.
"Noelle?"
"Porthos!" The Barmaid laughed, a beautiful smile adorning her face, as she placed the tray she held onto a table. Porthos' booming laugh erupted from him and he opened his arms wide to embrace her small body.
"Do my eyes deceive me; Noelle Maurice! My word! How have you been! Let me have a look at ye'!" He laughed, pulling back to enough to look her over, his great wolfy grin on his face. "You look beautiful!"
"Oh, nonsense." She said, with an embarrassed smile.
Porthos laughed and wrapped an arm around her shoulders, turning to face his comrades; D'Artagnan looking bemused, Aramis looking politely charming and Athos having retreated back to his drink. "Lads, this is Noelle. Me and her grew up together, we did!"
"Ah, so you know our Porthos, well then?" Aramis asked, politely.
"Everyone in the Court of Miracles knew Porthos well!" Noelle chuckled, with a smile. "The Gentle Giant, we used to call him."
"Noelle, this is Aramis, and this D'Artagnan." The 'Gentle Giant' introduced, gesturing to first the Romantic and then the Gascon. He then turned to the Comte De La Fere. "And this is Athos."
"It's nice to meet you all." She said, as she shook hands with Aramis and D'Artagnan. She then turned to Athos, but found herself only ignored. She turned back to Porthos.
"So, I heard you were a Musketeer from Flee." Noelle said, with a kind smile. "I'm glad you've found your place in the World, I always knew you were meant for more than just the Court of Miracles! I've managed to escape that place myself."
"Fine words coming from a Barmaid."
The dry and spiteful comment came from Athos, muttered just loud enough for her to hear. She turned her gaze to stare at him, a gleam of hurt streaking through her eyes.
"And what is that supposed to mean?" She asked, pointedly.
Athos brought his bright blue eyes, dulled by wine, up to meet hers as he took a deep swig from the bottle he was already three quarters of the way through. "Only that you talk as if you have made some kind of elevated amendment to your quality of life, however I hasten to point out that you have come from the scum of the Streets, to the scum of the Taverns. And I imagine that although you now have a roof over your head, your role is still the same; using your beauty to persuade your Patrons into forfeiting their money from their pockets."
Something flashed again in her eyes, this time it was not only hurt, but anger. What happened next was so unexpected and so fast, that it shut Athos up real good, if only for a moment.
Noelle pulled back her hand and brought it around to slap Athos around the fast, hard. He choked the wine he had just been swallowing, bursting into a coughing fit.
"How dare you speak to me as if I am some kind of Working Girl! You have no right!" She yelled, angrily. With that, she turned and whisked away, without even giving him a second glance.
"Noelle!" Porthos called after her. Anger contorted his face and he turned back to Athos, seizing the front of his doublet and dragging him to his feet. "What is the matter with you! She's the most decent Woman I've ever known, you can't speak to her like that!"
Athos tore himself away from Porthos' grasp, stumbling back to hit the chair and send to falling onto the floor. His own eyes burned with rage, his jaw was set tight and his fists were balled into fists.
"My apologies, did I offend your little Friend?" He hissed, his voice was like it was laced with venom. Porthos growled as he pulled his fist back, but before he could throw the punch, Aramis caught his arm.
"Don't." He cautioned, carefully. "He's trying to taunt you into fighting him."
"And it seems to me that it's working." Athos stated dryly, from behind him, taking up the bottle again and taking another long drink from the contents. Aramis shot him a dark look, but kept his eyes, otherwise, trained on Porthos.
"Don't rise to it. You know he doesn't mean it." He calmly reasoned. Porthos dropped his fist, giving Athos one last glare, before stalking off in search of his old friend. Aramis let out a deep sign and then turned to Athos.
"That was uncalled for, she hadn't done anything wrong." He said, gently. Athos put the bottle to his lips and drank again, turning his cold gaze to him. D'Artagnan looks between them, uncertainly.
"Always one to fall to a pretty face." Athos sneered, harshly.
"Athos-..." Aramis murmured, moving to take a step closer. Very suddenly, the elder Musketeer threw the bottle to the ground, where it smashed loudly, and drew his pistol, pointing it directly at Aramis.
"Leave, Damn it!" He yelled, anger evident in his voice.
Aramis eyed the barrel of the gun, warily. He knew that Athos would never shoot him, never. But that didn't mean that Athos would hurt himself. He caught D'Artagnan's arm and pushed him toward the door.
"Go. We're only making him more agitated." He whispered to the Gascon, and the two of them left.
Athos holstered his gun back when he saw that Aramis, D'Artagnan and Porthos had gone. He picked up the last of the bottles from the table, pulling the cork from it's top with his teeth and spitting it aside. He gulped it down heavily, letting it burn his throat.
They deserved better than me. He thought with despair.
TO BE CONTINUED...
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