Title: The Details
Fandom: The Musketeers, BBC
Author: gaelicspirit
Characters: d'Artagnan, Athos, Porthos, Aramis, OCs – GEN
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Nothing you recognize is mine. Including the odd movie line; I tend to work familiar quotes in where I can.
Summary: Set S1, directly after Episode 8, The Challenge. Each man has his demons. Facing them separates the brotherhood; overcoming them takes a united front.
Author's Note: I wrote this basically because I wanted to see the impact losing his farm had on d'Artagnan, but then found out that I had to unravel each of them a little bit. This could be considered a sequel to my story, Broken Places, even though it takes place several months later. It's not necessary to read that story to understand this one; however, it does return the characters of Luca and Talia Thibaut briefly to the mix. I've worked to frame up their involvement so that you need only read and enjoy.
I was originally trying to get this finished before S2 premiered in the US, but, well…life. And then, because I have a thing about completing the whole story before I start posting in this fandom, I started to get worried I wouldn't have it done before S2 ended! Seriously, this one blew up on me a bit in length, but it's been a great journey for me as a writer. Hopefully it will be for those who read as well.
This one is for the readers who enjoy some plot with their h/c. I hope you're entertained.
A very sincere thank you to my dear friend ThruTerrysEyes who willingly gives my stories a sanity read before I post. You're my safety net.
"Every man's life ends the same way. It is only the details of how he lived and how he died that distinguish one man from another."
Earnest Hemingway
Day One: Paris
It was the stillness that caught his eye.
d'Artagnan stood in the center of the arena motionless, eyes fixed on nothing, a palm resting on the hilt of his rapier, as though he were carved in stone. Athos couldn't even see him breathing. He simply stood, as if waiting for something. Or someone.
Porthos and Aramis had wandered off, presumably to bid farewell to Porthos' patroness, Madam Clerbeaux. Athos didn't miss the sadness in the big man's eyes, or the mischievous glint in the marksman's. That was an encounter he welcomed avoiding. As d'Artagnan had so aptly declared, he no longer put his trust in love.
Treville was in a fair amount of pain, though he managed to maintain his stoic façade through the remainder of the competition and parting of the royals. It wasn't until he'd retreated to the Musketeer tent, Athos as close as his shadow, that his legs weakened, his knees vanishing. Athos had guided his Captain to a seat and summoned the physician, waiting while Treville was examined, the broken clavicle set and bandaged sufficiently for the journey back to the garrison.
"I will summon a carriage to take you," Athos told his Captain, noting the tight lines around the other man's eyes.
"That won't be necessary," Treville replied, voice haggard. "I can ride."
"With a broken shoulder?" Athos scoffed, arching his brow. "I think not."
"I'm still your Captain, Athos."
"Yes, and as your Lieutenant it is my responsibility to ensure you are safe," Athos retorted. He'd softened his tone as he took in the pallor of his Captain's features, recognizing the need for a show of strength. "At least this once."
Treville had stubbornly pushed to his feet in protest, gone alarmingly white, and nearly pitched forward into Athos' arms. After being settled once more in the camp chair, he'd agreed to a carriage. It was only when Athos left the tent to summon the ride that he spied d'Artagnan still in the center of the arena. Calling to one of the pages busy dismantling the stands, Athos charged the boy with securing a carriage for Captain Treville, then ventured toward the young man, his boots sinking into the loose, churned-up dirt.
d'Artagnan didn't react to his approach; he was in a world of his own. The sweat generated from his battle with LeBarge had dried, but his dark hair still stuck to his forehead and cheeks in places. His lips here slightly parted, his eyes down, and Athos could see a slight tremor in his arms once he drew close enough.
"d'Artagnan?" he called, halting his movement when the lad started violently, pulling his sword free from its scabbard in a motion so fluid it was clearly driven by instinct.
Athos stayed where he was, holding his hands out in the universal gesture of please don't stab me, and dropped his gaze to catch d'Artagnan's eyes.
"d'Artagnan."
"A-Athos," d'Artagnan replied, blinking rapidly as if surfacing from a dream. He glanced down at the sword in his hand, frowned momentarily, then sheathed it. "I'm sorry."
"What are you still doing here?" Athos asked, not yet dropping his hands, his eyes pinned to d'Artagnan's face, watching as lines of weariness climbed across his features to replace the vacant, stunned expression of earlier.
"I, uh…." d'Artagnan looked around, as if only just realizing that everyone had left, the arena slowly being dismantled. "I don't actually know."
It hit Athos then, how exhausted his young friend appeared, how much had transpired for him over a short span of time. He couldn't even be sure the lad had slept more than a few hours since Treville had announced the inception of the contest. Athos approached, clapping a hand firmly on the unblemished pauldron that now graced d'Artagnan's shoulder.
"Come," he implored. "We'll return Treville to the garrison and celebrate your commission."
d'Artagnan blinked again, looking down at his shoulder, at the fleur-de-lis just above Athos' hand. "It's real. It happened."
"It's real," Athos assured him. "You have earned this, d'Artagnan. You defended your Captain."
d'Artagnan swallowed, frowning as he looked up to meet Athos' eyes. "It was more than that," he said softly. "LeBarge…."
"You avenged your home," Athos stated, thinking back to the fear that had stabbed through him when he found d'Artagnan inside the Bastille at the mercy of LeBarge, the young man's thirst for vengeance having gotten the better of him. "Your father would be proud of your actions today."
Emotion once more finding a home in the young man's dark eyes, d'Artagnan rolled his bottom lip against his teeth, catching it in a bite clearly meant to hold back an exodus of some kind. Athos waited, watching as the young Gascon worked to bring himself under control. With a low, shuddering breath, d'Artagnan lifted his head in a half-nod, giving Athos a ghost of a smile.
"Right, well," he nodded. "It's over."
"Are you ready for what follows?" Athos asked, arching a brow. "For the life of a Musketeer?"
"Haven't I been living that life in all but name?" d'Artagnan asked, pride bringing his chin up in a gesture of defiance.
"Indeed," Athos replied, offering him a small smile of approval. "You have at that."
Looking around once more at the growing shadows, d'Artagnan tilted his head. "Where are the others?"
"Knowing Porthos," Athos sighed, "a tavern. With a card game."
d'Artagnan was uncharacteristically quiet on the ride to the garrison. He sat next to Athos on the bench seat, their horses tied to the rear of the carriage and Treville safely ensconced inside. Never one to initiate conversation, Athos was content to leave the lad to his thoughts. There was clearly more going on behind those dark eyes than being overwhelmed from winning his commission.
When they pulled into the garrison, d'Artagnan hopped down first, and Athos frowned as he saw the lad sway slightly, reaching out a hand to the side of the carriage to balance himself. He gathered the reins, tying them off at the side of the bench seat and by the time he'd climbed down to join d'Artagnan, the lad had opened the door and was easing Treville to the ground. Athos said nothing about his young friend's momentary weakness, simply following his Captain into the infirmary.
It didn't take Treville long to dismiss them, as Athos suspected. They turned as one to leave when Treville called him back.
"I would not ask this of you, except…," Treville began, then looked away, glaring slightly at the physician as the man waited to treat his Captain. "There are some affairs that require seeing to, and I do not believe I will be able to fulfill. I am going to need your assistance, Athos."
"You have it, Sir," Athos replied immediately.
"Take your leave tonight. Be with your men," Treville glanced toward the door where d'Artagnan had exited. "He did well today. Your faith in him was rewarded."
"That it was," Athos nodded, still watching Treville.
"There is something troubling him," Treville looked back up at Athos. "I would have thought receiving a commission in the Musketeers would not be regarded as such a solemn event. Not only that, your provocation in the garrison the other day was hardly enough to have elicited the response you received."
"I did find him in the Bastille, if you'll recall," Athos reminded his Captain. "Near to getting his neck broken."
"When I told him of the loss of his home," Treville said, adjusting stiffly on the bed and shaking his head at the physician, forcing the man to wait, "he seemed…ashamed. Not angry." Treville looked up at Athos. "Ashamed and afraid."
Athos frowned. "I'll talk to him."
"Perhaps just keep an eye on him," Treville advised. "If it were you, I doubt you'd open up about something so personal."
"d'Artagnan is not me," Athos replied, though he felt irony scatter the words in the space between them.
"He's more like you than either of you realize," Treville replied, unknowingly repeating Athos' own sentiment, not one day prior.
"He'll have one of us watching him until this melancholy passes," Athos promised.
"Thank you," Treville sighed, nodding as the physician approached once more. "Report to my office in the morning."
Athos tipped his hat in acquiescence, then turn and left the room, surprised to find d'Artagnan waiting just outside in the growing darkness. His breath turned to small clouds against the twilight, the courtyard prematurely darkened by low-lying clouds threatening rain to wash away the day's toil and blood. Athos drew up next to him and paused, head tilted in question.
"I thought it best to wait for you," d'Artagnan explained.
"You are tired," Athos replied, noting the sag of his young friend's shoulders. "Perhaps you should rest."
d'Artagnan dropped his gaze from a vacant stare toward their horses to rest on the muddy ground. "I have no place to go," he confessed quietly.
Athos nodded, realizing how layered that sentiment truly was. Whatever had transpired between the young Gascon and the Boniceaux, Athos surmised by the lad's comment in the arena earlier that day he wouldn't have been staying there any longer, commission or no commission. Not that he would have returned to Lupiac, but the fact that he now could not added weight to his words.
"You do," Athos told him, resting a hand gently on the shoulder bearing the new pauldron. "You belong here, with us. The quartermaster will see to your lodging while we seek out our friends."
d'Artagnan's mouth pulled up in a small, but grateful, smile and he nodded, following Athos toward the archway of the garrison and the Paris streets beyond. Athos called to the stable boy who sat at the large table with Serge and told him to see to their horses and carriage when he was finished with his supper.
They stepped out into the streets and Athos felt himself enveloped by a familiar discomfort of the city. The tension that had eased from his shoulders within the walls of the garrison coiled through his muscles once more and Athos registered d'Artagnan absorb it from him like an impact.
Paris never really fit Athos; he walked the streets wary and watchful, on guard for any attack or surprise encounter. The city caused him to feel both suffocated and exposed, surrounded by dangers he might not be able to defend himself – and others – against. He trusted no one outside of the men he'd pledged his loyalty to, and he was perpetually convinced that death waited for him within each alleyway or around every corner.
d'Artagnan, he'd noticed, was a bit of a chameleon. Athos had yet to discover how the young man felt about the city because each time they ventured out, d'Artagnan took up the mantel of the man nearest to him. He was wary and watchful when close to Athos, he ran the rooftops with Porthos like one born in the embrace of the streets, and he'd nearly perfected an imitation of the sly, secretive smile Aramis let slip from beneath the brim of his hat.
As they made their way to the Grey Wolf – the one place besides the garrison he knew they could all meet up when separated – Athos wondered at this boy who'd morphed into a man before his eyes and somehow made himself such an integral part of their number he couldn't imagine the Musketeers without him.
Even with the time they'd spent together, he wondered how much they truly knew about d'Artagnan.
"Ah, there he is! The man of the hour!"
They were greeted by Aramis' triumphant shout the moment they walked through the doors of the Wolf. Athos hung back in the shadows cast by multitudes of candlelight and hung lanterns, watching as Porthos and Aramis reached for d'Artagnan, pulling him toward a table already laden with decanters of wine and mugs of ale. d'Artagnan stumbled forward with a slightly dazed smile on his face, accepting the cup Porthos thrust into his hand, wine sloshing over the lip to stain the sleeve of his tunic.
Athos didn't bother concealing his smile as he watched his friends pull d'Artagnan into the controlled chaos of their celebration; the lad needed to forget whatever it was that weighed him down. Just before he stepped forward to join the fray, however, Athos caught movement from the corner of his eyes: the swing of a skirt, a flash of red, and a scent – detectable over even the sweat of men and tang of wine – of forget-me-nots.
With a quick glance toward his friends, inadvertently catching Aramis' jovial gaze, Athos darted to his right, following what might only be his imagination. But he had to be sure. He knew she was in Paris, knew she could find him anywhere, but was she looking? What would she want except to cause him more pain?
He stepped out through the side door, looking either way down the side streets of Paris, the energy of the city and her patrons shifting from day to night, capes and cloaks turning dark to hide or protect, carts pulled indoors, lights being lit. The stench of the streets masked any scent he might have thought he detected and the only swirling skirts he saw nearby he'd have to pay a few sous to approach. Frowning, he slumped against the side of the building, staring resolutely toward the west for no particular reason other than it was away from the garrison.
"Everything in order?"
Athos suppressed his instinct to draw his sword at the sudden voice at his elbow. He should have realized that Aramis would have followed him; the man missed nothing. Especially not momentary panic captured in a furtive glance from a friend.
"It is," Athos sighed. "I thought I saw…someone." He glanced over his shoulder. "I was wrong."
"Come inside," Aramis implored, resting a hand on Athos' shoulder. "Help us toast d'Artagnan." His fingers tightened, effectively turning Athos back toward the Grey Wolf. "Or get him too drunk to wallow."
Athos stepped back into the room, smoke curling up from the fireplace and lanterns and sliding secretive veils around the clientele. "You see it too, then?"
"See it?" Aramis scoffed. "It's rolling off of him."
"Any ideas?"
"None," Aramis shook his head, then nodded toward where d'Artagnan sat next to Porthos, his lips turned up in a placating smile that didn't reach his eyes. "But I'm nothing if not tenacious."
"That you are," Athos agreed, moving to the table and dropping heavily into a chair opposite Porthos.
He wasted no time grabbing an empty cup, filling it, then draining it, and allowing Porthos to refill it. As the wine hit his system, he let himself relax a bit into the languid sensation of loosening limbs and dulling mind. It was only then that he realized how bright everything had been to that moment. Every word sharp, every movement illuminated first by the perceived truth that Treville had been after glory followed by the actual truth that his Captain was once more protecting his men.
He raised his cup. "To Treville."
The men followed suit, d'Artagnan's cup the highest.
"A Captain without measure, who stood in our place against a monster," Aramis stated, his eloquence capturing what Athos felt.
"To Treville," Porthos echoed, and they drank.
No sooner had their cups hit the table than Porthos spoke once more.
"To d'Artagnan," he said, his free hand gripping the younger man's shoulder. "For slaying the monster."
d'Artagnan's brows folded in as if in denial, and Aramis picked up the toast.
"Agreed. Few men have arrived in our ranks with nothing and found a toe hold in our brotherhood. Fewer still have picked themselves up from the dirt time and again when we've bested them in battle. And I can think of none who stepped forward to defend their brothers' Captain – at the risk of their own life – and defeated an opponent twice their size." He lifted his cup and nodded at d'Artagnan. "You are my brother, Charles d'Artagnan of Lupiac in Gascony. Our brother. And a Musketeer."
Athos watched as d'Artagnan's eyes never left Aramis' face, bright with captured tears at the marksman's closing words.
"A Musketeer," Athos echoed, nodding toward the young man across from him.
They drank to him and d'Artagnan smiled; this time it hit his eyes. The night wore on, the wine flowed and Athos watched as incrementally d'Artagnan relaxed, the warmth of the tavern, of his friends, surrounding him like an embrace. The peace that filled Athos sitting among his friends was unlike any he'd felt before. It was more than just the comfort of companionship; it was home.
Athos let the wine slip through his own system, settling him as nothing else did while he watched his brothers laugh. Porthos was open and raucous, laughing as he lived: with his whole heart, holding nothing back. Aramis was a careful enigma: his smile giving nothing away, his eyes entreating one to look closer. d'Artagnan seemed to alternate between the liberty of youth and the burden of reality, his head tipped back, eyes twinkling until he seemed to realize he was too free with his emotion and he swallowed it down, filing it away somewhere inside as though to bring it back and light a darkness in his future.
It was after several hours spent amid quicksilver tidal shifts of mood that Athos detected a definitive layer had been peeled away from each man, revealing a truth only wine and the trust of brotherhood could expose. Their conversation had slipped from the complex irony of the contest to sharing stories of past battles and conquests, ending with Porthos admitting to the appeal of Alice Clerbeaux and a life outside of the Musketeers – the idea of which, Athos noted, troubled Aramis greatly if the teasing he flung the big man's way was any indication.
The tavern had almost emptied; only three other patrons aside from themselves remained, and those men were heavily ensconced in a game of cards. Athos was slightly surprised Porthos hadn't departed their celebration to try his hand at what appeared to be a battle of wills.
"You're wrong, Athos," d'Artagnan said into a silence that had wrapped around them in the past minutes.
Athos brought his focus back to their group, staring curiously at d'Artagnan. The lad was slumped against the wall, one foot up on the bench so that his bent knee offered support of his arm, the opposite hand clasping his wrist as if that grip was the only thing keeping him together. He was quite drunk, Athos could see by the bleary gaze and loose limbs, but by the scowl darkening his features it was not a pleasurable inebriation.
Aramis and Porthos had matched the lad drink for drink, but they were clearly better suited to such endeavors. Both sat upright, arms resting on the table, shoulders bowed, eyes on a middle distance that spoke of the direction of their thoughts, not of their faculties. At d'Artagnan's declaration, both turned to look at him.
"Am I?" Athos replied mildly.
d'Artagnan nodded, but didn't look up. "He would not have been proud of me."
"What's all this, then?" Porthos muttered, his scowl darker than d'Artagnan's. "Who's 'e talkin' about?" He looked over at Athos.
Athos frowned, trying to catch up with the young man's thoughts. He saw Aramis sit back in his chair, an expression of understanding crossing his features as he reached up to tug at his beard.
"He hated violence. Soldiers. Anything to do with battle," d'Artagnan continued.
And then Athos knew.
"d'Artagnan," he began, leaning forward.
"He would have hated that I killed LeBarge – no matter what he did to our home, our farm."
Athos closed his mouth, exhaling slowly, waiting him out. Aramis caught Porthos' eye and shook his head once, almost imperceptibly.
"He wanted to protect the people of Gascony from such violence," d'Artagnan informed them, his voice gone hollow with pain and grief. "It's why he brought me with him. Because I would follow him through anything. I'd do anything for him." He sniffed, looking up as though just remembering he wasn't alone. "Do you know it was supposed to be my uncle? A man I barely knew. Hadn't seen for years. He was supposed to travel with Father to Paris."
The others at the table sat quietly, letting the words unspool before them, watching as their young friend bled out emotion that had been trapped inside for far too long.
"Instead, I traveled with him. And I let him die." His words were chosen like shards of broken glass, selected for impact, cutting each of them with a prism of memory. "I killed the man who killed my father. And I killed the man who destroyed his farm. And none of it makes a damn bit of difference. Father's dead. And the farm's gone."
The expression in the young Gascon's eyes seemed to suck all the air from the room. Athos felt suspended, helpless in the face of such raw emotion.
"I expected it to feel different, killing LeBarge," d'Artagnan uttered in a low, warbling voice. "I wanted it to…. I wanted to be able to breathe again. I didn't want my father to be right, that killing only brought more pain, but…," he looked up, directly at Athos. "He was."
Athos opened his mouth, a need to find words that offered some sort of comfort tugging impatiently at his heart, but before he could speak Aramis leaned forward, the leather of his coat creaking with the motion.
"d'Artagnan, listen to me." He spoke quietly, but his tone captured their attention. "You are not your father. Your choices are yours; your life is yours." Athos watched as d'Artagnan's heavy eyes tracked to Aramis' face, the tears held at bay threatening to spill as he listened. "You did not avenge your father, your home, to appease the memory of your father or offer his soul peace. You did it for yourself."
Athos frowned at that, but watched as d'Artagnan nodded ever-so-slightly.
"Every choice we make in life must be for ourselves or it will be reflected in false actions. We defend each other, we protect each other, and we do it for ourselves. We do it because it defines us. It is all we can do. Do you understand me?"
Athos wasn't sure he did, but saw d'Artagnan nod again, either responding to the sentiment or Aramis' soft, impassioned tone. There was something arresting about the way Aramis spoke when his whole attention was focused. Athos was certain that was how the man brought many a woman to her knees. Just now, his sincerity and intensity was reflecting in d'Artagnan's liquid eyes and whatever the logic behind his words, the lad was absorbing the implication.
"You fought bravely, with honor. No loss can take that from you."
Aramis laid his hand on d'Artagnan's forearm and Athos shifted his gaze to Porthos, noting how the big man was not watching d'Artagnan, but Aramis. Something in what Aramis was saying seemed to trigger Porthos' interest because he was looking decidedly less inebriated than he had moments prior. Before Athos could inquire, however, Aramis took his sage advice one step too far.
"Now, perhaps we should call it a night and return you to the Boniceaux for your last night—"
He hadn't finished the proposition before d'Artagnan's eyes flared with something indecipherable and he reached for his cup of wine once more. As Athos looked on, blinking in astonishment, the lad finished his cup, then poured another, downing it like water. As he reached for a third, Athos called out and Porthos caught his arm.
"Leave it," Porthos all-but growled.
"Let me go," d'Artagnan pouted, trying to wrench his arm from Porthos' grip.
"Not bloody likely," Porthos replied, standing and hauling d'Artagnan up with him.
Athos knew it was coming, but seeing the alcohol hit d'Artagnan was jarring. The moment d'Artagnan was upright, the hooded, emotion-filled eyes went distant and unfocused and he sagged against Porthos as though someone had struck him. The big man caught him easily, shaking his head and looking over at Athos.
"Shoulda stopped two bottles ago."
Blinking in surprise, Athos surveyed the table. He felt relatively sober; he hadn't realized how much they'd consumed.
"'e got 'is quarters yet?" Porthos asked, hefting d'Artagnan's limp form against him so that the lad didn't slide to the floor in a heap.
Athos shook his head, rising to move around Porthos and grasp d'Artagnan from the other side. "I don't know."
"What did I miss?" Aramis asked, blinking owlishly at the trio, his dark eyes a bit blurred around the edges.
"Clearly something has transpired with Madam Boniceaux," Athos said, dragging one of d'Artagnan's arms across his shoulders and balancing the lad's weight with Porthos. "He's been walking in a cloud of gloom since before the competition."
"I thought it only the loss of his farm," Aramis, lamented, tossing coins on the table and grabbing his hat.
"We'll take him to my room," Athos stated as d'Artagnan slumped further, not quite unconscious, but not anywhere close to coherent. His feet were dragging as he made a somewhat half-hearted attempt to keep up. "It's the closest to the entrance at the garrison."
"Where will you sleep?" Porthos asked as they exited the tavern.
"I don't believe I will," Athos sighed as d'Artagnan groaned, his head lolling against Athos' shoulder. "He'll need looking after."
Aramis strode next to them, bringing up a fist to his mouth. "Such an opportune moment for a comment as to your expertise in these matters."
Athos arched a wry brow in his direction. "Your restraint is appreciated."
They entered the garrison four abreast, Aramis waving off the concerned looks shot their way as the Musketeers in the courtyard caught sight of d'Artagnan hanging limply between Athos and Porthos. Once deposited on Athos' bed, the young man succumbed to the pull of oblivion, his mouth agape, his breath heavy from alcohol. Athos sighed, shaking his head.
"Tell me I don't look as pathetic when you drag me home from the tavern."
"I could," Aramis replied, his thumbs hooked in his weapons belt. "But I would be lying."
"We'll see you in the morning, yeah?" Porthos tugged on the brim of his hat, making his way around the bed and toward the door.
"You're going back there, aren't you?" Athos asked, not looking at his friend.
"That card game was just gettin' started," Porthos replied, a grin evident in his tone. He left the room and Athos glanced askance at Aramis.
"Not to worry," Aramis sighed. "I'll make sure he returns in one piece."
Athos nodded, then closed the door behind Aramis' departing form. Turning to the bed, he carefully removed d'Artagnan's boots and weapon's belt, rolling him to his side to pull the dagger sheathed at his back free. d'Artagnan muttered something unintelligible, burying his face deeper into Athos' pillow. As he did, he brought his left arm up and Athos caught sight of a rust-colored stain on the lad's shirt, just where the sleeves of his doublet fastened.
Dimly, he recalled LeBarge getting in a strike that had made them all react with drawn breath. Unlacing the ties of d'Artagnan's doublet, he maneuvered the leather from the lad's shoulder, pulling the pauldron free, and setting both the jacket and shoulder guard to the side. Throughout all of this, d'Artagnan remained limp and unresponsive, the wine having smothered any awareness to Athos' manhandling.
Lifting d'Artagnan's arm, Athos parted the slice in the shirt and saw a shallow cut along his upper ribs, thanks to the edge of LeBarge's sword. It didn't appear to require needlework; the bleeding had long ago stopped, but it would probably sting for some time, and was a reminder to Athos that the fight had been close. It had been damn close. He wet a cloth and cleaned off the dried blood, then folded the parted pieces of cloth back over d'Artagnan's exposed skin. The lad could change shirts in the morning.
Digging out a bottle of wine from his personal stash, Athos settled in for the night at his small table, feet propped up on the end of his bed. He tipped his head back against the wall and sipped at the wine, studying the cracks in the ceiling above his head and listening for d'Artagnan.
d'Artagnan was a restless sleeper; it was something they'd all noticed the first mission he'd accompanied them on that had taken them out of Paris. He never seemed to relax fully, as though he felt the need to be always on guard. When he did sleep, he had nightmares, often times waking those who weren't on watch with a shout or a swing of his arms. Tonight, however, he slept like the dead, his breathing heavy and regular, his lanky body still.
Consuming your weight in wine will do that to you, Athos mused.
Though the hour was late, this was the time when Athos felt most at peace. He personally rarely slept a full night, preferring, instead, to sort through the many categorized and compartmentalized thoughts that he never let himself spend too much time exploring during the day.
It had been Anne in the tavern earlier. Actually, physically present; he was certain of it. Primarily because the flash of skirt he'd seen had been red. Whenever he'd seen her since the night his chalet burned, she wore white. Like the day he'd watched her hang.
Swallowing another mouthful of wine, Athos closed his eyes.
He suspected that she hadn't been more than a city block from him since she revealed her presence back in Paris. He had been so rocked by the realization that she wasn't dead, that he'd been living with false guilt for so many years, the implication of what she might be planning had been lost on him. For those five years, he'd lived only with the guilt of his actions; now he lived with the ghost of her memory.
A very real ghost, walking among the men at the garrison, stepping in front of his sword during training, standing over his bed at night, staring at him with silent accusation.
It mattered not that what he saw couldn't be real, that the visions were a product of his haunted mind. He saw her just as real as d'Artagnan lying sprawled on his bed. He saw her and each time he felt the pain that had stabbed through him when the rope snapped taut with her weight.
Opening his eyes, Athos stared once more at his worn ceiling and thought back to when he'd first met Anne, how intoxicating it had been just to be near her. How once he'd kissed her he'd craved more, never satisfied with one taste. She's been air to a drowning man, freedom to a captive. She'd been his light, his escape, his anchor all in one. He'd lost himself to her, turning a blind eye to everything – everyone – that wasn't her.
She had once been his home; his world. And that world had turned dark and twisted into something unrecognizable without her.
d'Artagnan stirred restlessly on the bed and Athos glanced over, watching carefully in case the wine turned on the young man, looking to make a reappearance. d'Artagnan rolled to his back, his neck arching slightly as a troubled frown drew lines across his young face. One hand pressed against his chest, over his heart, the other curling loosely in the bed linens. Athos watched, bothered, as whatever nightmare gripped his young friend held tight.
"Can't see his face…," d'Artagnan mumbled. "Gérard…I can't see him…."
Athos puzzled at the unfamiliar name. They accepted d'Artagnan nightmares as part of package when it came to the young Gascon. When traveling and taking turns keeping watch, they shared an unspoken understanding that each would wake him should the dreams take hold.
He didn't move to wake him this time; he knew from experience that it would be a near-impossibility for d'Artagnan to shake the vestiges of the dream until he'd slept off the effects of the wine. Instead he kept a watchful eye that the dream didn't send d'Artagnan thrashing to a point where he injured himself and listened for the name once more. He couldn't remember anything in what the young man had shared with him about his past that had included someone named Gérard.
A low moan escaped d'Artagnan's lips, but after a moment, he relaxed, sleeping deeply once more. Athos simply watched him sleep, using the vigil to shake the memory of Anne from where it always caught on the corners of his mind. If he didn't allow himself to relax, to let down his guard, he could keep her away – the memory of her, anyway.
The real woman who had been in the tavern that night – waiting for him, he was sure of it – would be harder to avoid.
As the night wore on, it was clear that Athos wasn't the only one haunted. The dream that twisted something inside his young friend captured d'Artagnan twice more before allowing him to rest once again. Each time, Athos heard him call for this Gérard, the anguish in his tone almost enough to force Athos' hand and wake him if only to smooth the lines of remembered pain from d'Artagnan's face. Something always stopped him; a resistance to sympathy, a denial of affection, or perhaps fear of allowing someone to mean too much to him.
As the night sighed, the hold of the moon slipping away and dawn clawing across the horizon, Athos felt himself nodding off, his head bouncing from his chest to bring his eyes level once more, determined to keep watch, to stand guard. Night held more dangers inside one's mind than outside in the world. It was Athos' job, as he saw it, to ensure his men weren't taken by the devils they kept locked inside.
The sun brushed the sky with gold and the garrison began stirring outside Athos' window when d'Artagnan finally opened his eyes. Athos tipped his chin forward, watching carefully. This was going to be a rough reentry.