They must have drifted off to sleep on the sofa, because Constance wakes up with a stiff neck and her phone told her that it was the early hours of the morning.
"Come on, let's move to bed. This is not comfortable for me, so it certainly isn't for you," she tells d'Artagnan, shaking his shoulder. He stirs at her touch and she helps him up and into the bedroom.
He's half asleep as she sits him on the edge of the bed and tugs his sweater and t-shirt over his head, leaving him bare-chested. She runs her finger tips over the bandage on his torso and she feels him shiver at her touch. His eyes are still closed, but he shifts backwards onto the bed, pulling her down onto his lap, her legs astride him. She eases his tracksuit bottoms off, leaving him in his boxers, before pulling off her own top. He runs his hands up and down her sides, tickling her with a feather light touch, before undoing the catch of her bra and removing it. She bends her head, kissing the hollow of his neck, and whispers in his ear, "Are you sure you are ready for this?"
"I'm pretty sure I'm not ready to stop," he whispers back, laughing, pulling her closer to him.
They make love gently, carefully, slowly. She tries not to lean on his chest or make sudden movements, but in the end she loses control, sitting on top of him, head thrown back with passion and relief, as she guides him inside of her. And afterwards, she collapses beside him, dragging the covers up over them both, and falls into a dreamless sleep in the crook of his arm.
The morning sun wakes her, many hours later, and she twists around to find him looking at her.
"I know daytime TV is terrible, but watching me sleep can't be much better," she mutters, sleepily.
He just smiles at her and plants a kiss on her forehead.
It's a few moments before he speaks. "Did you mean it, what you said last night?" he asks.
"Of course I did you idiot. I wasn't that drunk. And today I am working the late shift, so we have hours of virtual flat hunting ahead of us. But first, I need to shower," she tells him, kissing him one more time before leaving the warmth of the bed.
For the first time, she doesn't pull her clothes back on and go up to her own flat to shower, but instead, poking out her tongue, takes his towel and pads into the shower. Sticking her head back out, she calls to him, "You better have some decent conditioner down here mister, all my hair will be all tangles!", before disappearing again.
D'Artagnan lies back on the bed and listens to the sound of the shower, reliving the night before in his mind. He thinks how strange it is that what started out as the worst birthday of his life has become the beginning of a new start. He isn't foolish enough to think that he can shake of the feelings of grief and loneliness from the previous day, but he does feel a growing kernel of hope in his stomach.
Constance reappears wrapped in his towel, hair dripping, trying to tug his comb through her locks and heads to the kitchen. She returns a few minutes later with two steaming mugs of tea and toast on a tray.
"Come on then lazy bones, eat up. We have things to do," she instructs him.
"Yes ma'am," he answers, cheekily, ginning at her, pushing himself up and taking a long drink from the tea.
As he bites into the toast he notices her scrutinizing him closely.
"What? Are you worried about me getting crumbs in the bed? Because to remind you, this was your idea."
She shakes her head. "How are you feeling? Really?" she asks, "I think your breathing sounds a little labored."
"I'm fine! Out of doctor mode please. You can do that all you want tonight," he replies.
"Sorry," she says, looking down, "can't help it. I just hope you didn't make yourself ill last night. It was cold out and your lungs are already weak."
"Shh. Everything is okay," he tells her, stroking her cheek, "Except… this toast really needs some strawberry jam…."
"Fine," she snorts, "I'll go get it. Don't say I never do anything for you!"
Wearing one of his sweaters, she snuggles back into bed with another cup of tea and the laptop. They spend a while looking at flats, before boredom sets in and they look for a show to watch.
"No hospital dramas. They are always so inaccurate!" says Constance.
"And no spy shows, they remind me how un-glamorous the work really is," he replies.
"How about costume drama?" she suggests, "you did literature at university, you must like that kind of thing".
"That kind of depends. There is no way I am watching Downton Abbey. Good old Pride and Prejudice you might be in with a chance."
"I was thinking swashbuckling. I love that stuff. It is so sexy."
"Okay, duly noted, when I get this cast off my leg I will learn to fence," he chuckles.
He drifts off to sleep during the show, and she takes the opportunity to place a hand on his forehead, check his temperature, and listen to his breathing in the quiet. He feels a little warm to the touch, but she tries to push her worries aside, not wanting to drive him crazy with her mother hen act. Instead she goes up to her flat, gets some supplies and makes them lunch. She also grabs a set of clean scrubs and some other essentials.
She wakes him up to eat, and he apologizes profusely for falling asleep on her, like some old man. As much as she reassures him that it's fine, it's what his body needs, and the medications he is on make him drowsy, she sees the doubt in his eyes, the need to please, to be sure she won't think him weak and run away. And she wants so much to show him that she'll never think that, so she captures his mouth with hers to shut him up and then trails kisses all along his chest and stomach until she reaches his groin. When he bites back a moan of pleasure she begins to make her way back up again, before climbing on top of him and placing him inside of her, where she is wet and ready in expectation.
Afterwards, she helps him wash, which is still a bit difficult with the cast on his leg and bandages on his chest. She pulls on her scrubs and gathers her hair into a ponytail.
"I'm taking the spare key, is that ok? I'll be back late, or early, whichever way you look at it and I don't want to wake you," she asks, kissing him goodbye.
"No, you're taking your key, not the spare key," he tells her, and she feels her stomach flutter at their newfound intimacy.
"Be good. Don't do anything I wouldn't!" she instructs him.
"Uh huh," he nods, "I might just watch a hospital drama – does that count?"
She pokes out her tongue at him before leaving.
D'Artagnan is contemplating how to drain the pot of boiling pasta over the sink without losing his balance when the doorbell rings. Aramis had texted him earlier telling him to get himself decent because they were coming over with the captain. He's made an effort to tidy up and prepare something to eat.
"Something smells good," comments Porthos as he enters.
"It's just pasta and sauce," he responds, self deprecating as ever, although he is pleased to see the look of approval in Athos' eyes, "although it won't be anything much if someone doesn't help me come and drain the bloody spaghetti. I can't quite figure out how to do it while staying upright," he continues into the kitchen and the others follow him to lend a hand.
"We got you a belated birthday present," Aramis informs him, "although since Porthos chose it I think it is more for him than you" He thrusts the package at d'Artagnan, who opens it to reveal a new video game. He smiles at the gesture.
"Hey, you told me what to buy!" Porthos cries, earning himself a prod in the ribs from Aramis.
"And I brought beer," adds Treville, who has been quiet until now, placing it on the table.
Aramis and Porthos quickly slink off to try out the new game, leaving Athos and Treville with d'Artanan to set the table. Treville puts his hand on his youngest recruit's shoulder.
"Pleased to see you up and about," he says, the closest he'll get to intimacy.
"Thanks sir. It's good to see you," D'Artagnan replies.
"Stop scaring him captain," chimes in Athos, "in a minute he'll start to worry that you care."
"Of course I….. ahh, the famous Athos humour…. Or not." Treville shakes his head and goes to join the others hard at work with the game.
"Seriously though," Athos asks quietly, "how are you?"
D'Artagnan raises an eyebrow at him, questioning this sudden show of affection from the quietest member of their group.
"Better. Not the best. But better. And that's good for now."
Athos nods, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
"Oi, did someone say something about food?" shouts Porthos.
D'Artagnan just rolls his eyes, feeling pleased to be surrounded by his friends, his makeshift family.
"Not bad for a one-legged cook," comments Porthos, shoveling pasta into his mouth.
"Where are your table manners?" asks Aramis, poking at him.
"I'm 'ungry!" he complains, his mouth full of food, "It's been a long day."
"On that I will agree," comments Athos, "which is why this is in order," he says, raising his beer.
"I don't know, I think we need something stronger to celebrate." Says Treville.
"Celebrate what?" asks d'Artagnan.
"We pulled in a guy called Gallagher, Russian agent," Aramis tells him.
"He sounds Irish, not Russian," d'Artagnan objects.
"Well, that is kind of the point," Athos notes, drily. At which d'Artagnan just pouts.
"Anyway, we are pretty sure he has info on a mole, he's high up in the food chain, so hopefully we'll finally get to the bottom of all this mess," Treville tells him.
"There's scotch in the cupboard," says d'Artagnan, "and probably some Baileys for Aramis."
"Hey! Just because I happen to like alcopops does not mean I am a complete girl," he complains, taking a long, manly, swig of beer, which causes him to splutter and cough. The others burst into laughter.
Richelieu is pacing angrily when she arrives, all perfect makeup and high heels, leather jacket and straight black skirt. She sits herself on the park bench and he joins her soon after.
"How much does he know?" he cuts straight to the point.
"Enough," she answers, quietly.
"Damn," he exclaims, "I told you to be careful."
"I was," she purrs, "Gallagher wasn't."
"We can't let him talk. We need to either get him back or shut him up."
"I may have a plan…." She says, placing her hand on his arm.
She is waiting in the car for him at Heathrow. Jack slides in beside her and passes the envelope to her from the pocket of his suit jacket. She smiles at him, that enchanting, bewitching smile.
"The boss will be very pleased," she tells him, running a finger down his cheek, "Well done."
He's incredibly turned on, and he knows that is what she wants, as he is also aware that she won't let it go any further. She likes to tease, and then to remind him that she is way out of his league.
She shakes her dark curls as she turns her attention to the steering wheel and begins to pull out.
"Now, I have something to show you." She tells him.
"Do you feel up to going out for lunch?" asks Constance. She has woken up in the late morning, famished, and found nothing to entice her in either of their flats. "The Italian on the High Street does good lunch deals."
"Sure," he answers, ignoring the slight tightness in his chest, putting it down to the healing stitches, and the fuzziness in his head, which must be the painkillers.
It's a five minute walk away from the flat but by the time they get there d'Artagnan is exhausted. Constance looks concerned.
"I'm sorry, this was a bad idea."
"No, it's fine, just give me a couple of minutes. It's good to get out. I am kind of fed up of my place. And the physio said I need to rebuild lung capacity."
"Ooh, look at that, learning the medical talk. Soon we'll be able to have a proper conversation!" teases Constance.
"Mock as you please…. It may work against you later," he laughs.
She reaches over the table and takes his hand in hers, running her thumb over his palm, caressing it.
"Jack is due back tomorrow," she tells him, changing the tone. "I'll tell him straight away."
"Do you want me to be there?" he offers.
"No, I need to do this on my own. He needs to understand that it isn't you. This has been a long time coming. Much more scary, is going to be telling my mother!"
"Well, if she's anything like you, she must be a pretty intimidating lady," he chuckles.
"You have no idea… just wait and see."
She drives him home, passing through the High Street on the way, slowing down by the little Italian place that Constance has been badgering him to take her to for ages. As they stop at the lights, he spots the tell-tale sign of his wife's hair in the window of the restaurant, and sees her holding hands with d'Artagnan, the bloody idiot who rents out the basement flat.
He clutches his hands into fists, when he sees Constance stroke the other man's cheek.
The woman beside him places a hand on his, calming. She smiles at him, "Don't worry, I can help," she offers.
Back home, Constance ushers d'Artagnan into bed before going upstairs to get some supplies. She can feel that he is feverish and exhausted.
"'m sorry," he is mumbling again, when she returns.
"Enough sorry," she tells him, placing the stethoscope in her ears and pulling up his t-shirt, "now, deep breath please."
He does as he is told, finding it difficult to take in the breath and coughing as he lets it out.
"Your little Buffy stunt has gone and made you ill," she tells him, "and I don't suppose I've helped by dragging you out. Again."
"Wasn't a Buffy stunt," he protests, in between wheezes, "would've needed wooden crutches for that," and she can't help but laugh, although she stops when his coughing gets worse.
"You need a chest x-ray," she informs him.
He turns to her with puppy dog eyes. "Please, no more hospital," he entreats.
"You know what, fine, it's not severe yet, I might be able to get it under control here," she rifles through the plastic box of medicines she keeps at home, looking for antibiotics. "Take these for now, and I'll write a prescription for something stronger at work and send it over with the boys. I might have Aramis give you some fluids as well. And here's some paracetamol for the temperature. If you get any worse, I will take you to hospital though. Clear?"
"Crystal," he replies, lying back against the pillows and taking the pills she gives him.
"Now rest. I'm going to get changed and go to work. I'm not going to call you, because I don't want to wake you up, so you text me, ok?"
"Yes mum," he answers, his eyes already drooping.
"Kinky," she laughs as she leaves.
He texts her a few hours into her shift, asking whether Call the Midwife counts as a hospital drama. She can't help but smile to herself, replying that she'll make him watch period spy movies as soon as she gets home. He sends her back a smiling face.
Athos, Aramis and Porthos stop by on their way home from work, and she piles them up with supplies and instructions. She hands them a spare key so they can let themselves in.
"Aramis, if he isn't drinking use the fluids, ok?"
"Stop fussing, he knows what he's doing," says Porthos, "before we had you he was in charge of all medical issues."
Before we had you, she kind of likes that.
The boys look exhausted. "What's wrong?" she asks.
"A trying day," Athos tells her.
"I could tell you where I hide my secret chocolate stash if that would help," she offers.
A text message from Aramis a few hours later tells her that they have eaten (Chinese takeaway), he has taken his pills like a good boy, they have checked his temperature, and tucked him in with a bedtime story. He sends her a Whatsapp image of d'Artagnan asleep, with one of her teddy bears tucked under his arm. She knows they will be using this for nefarious purposes one day, but can't help but laugh.
By the end of her shift she is both exhausted and itching to get home to check on him and to hold him in her arms. She hasn't felt this desire to leave work for a long time, hasn't had something waiting for her at home. She finishes up her last few patients and then goes to change her clothes.
Coming out of the staff changing rooms, she is shocked to find her husband waiting for her, a big bunch of flowers in his hand.
"Surprise!" he exclaims. "I made the deal, and I got back early and wanted to surprise you." He leans in to kiss her, thrusting the flowers at her, like he doesn't quite know what to do with them.
"Great," she says, unenthusiastically, "that's great news."
"Shall we got somewhere, get a drink?"
"At 3am?"
"Sure," he says, "places are open."
"I'm exhausted," she protests.
"Come on, it'll be fun," he says, linking his arm in his and leading her out of the hospital onto the streets of central London.
In a pretty seedy bar, she nurses a coke, while he has a beer, trying to fight her exhaustion.
"Look Jack, we need to talk," she tells him.
"Yes, my love, I know. Now let me go first. It has been difficult lately, I admit. I have been so busy working. But I closed this deal and we're made now. We can get that big house you've always wanted, with a garden. We can settle down. You don't have to work so much."
"I've never wanted a big house, that's your dream. And I love my work."
"We can talk about IVF again, or adoption, I know you want a child."
"Now you want to talk about that?" she is incredulous.
"I don't want to lose you, Constance, I love you." He tells her. For a moment she feels guilty and her resolve weakens.
"I'm sorry Jack, but it's too late. It's gone too far. I don't think we have a future together anymore," she tells him.
"It's that stupid boy isn't it? Give him up, forget about him, we'll move on, start afresh." He pleads.
"It's not him, it's us. We haven't been happy for a long time."
"So you go and shag the lodger?"
"Like you haven't slept with each one of your secretaries and anyone else who will spread her legs for you," she retorts.
"I wouldn't have to if you weren't always working!"
"Right, blame me and my work. You are not the man I fell in love with. You always knew I wanted to be a doctor, since high school. And I thought you had dreams as well. We were going to do things, good things, but all you seem to care about is money. What happened to you?"
"I grew up, Constance, I saw the world for what it is. Maybe you should too," his words are meant to be cutting, but they don't hurt.
"We've both changed, Jack, it's time we admitted it and moved on. We'll both be happier this way."
"You're all I've ever wanted, Constance," he says softly, raising a hand to her cheek, "you're mine and always will be."
"This isn't 17th century France you know! I don't belong to anyone. All you want is a trophy wife to host dinner parties. It was nice for you, at first, to show off about your wife the doctor, but now it's a problem, it's annoying, that my schedule doesn't always fit with cocktail parties and lunches. You don't want me, you want the idea of me," she says, standing up, "Now I'm going home. I'll be staying in the basement flat until we can figure something out about the property."
"Constance –" he calls to her.
She turns and looks back. More softly now, she tells him, "I'm sorry Jack, I never wanted to hurt you, and I will always care for you, but this is for the best." She knows it sounds like a Hallmark card, but it's the truth. He was her first love, until d'Artagnan she had only ever been with him.
"Don't be so quick to believe that. I have friends in high places now," he replies, his eyes hardening, revealing the new Jack, the one she really doesn't like, "I can make things difficult for you."
And now she has no qualms about turning on her heel and walking out of the bar, the flowers lying discarded on a chair. She is gone before he takes his phone from his pocket and checks his messages. The last one received, just ten minutes earlier, tells him "It's done".
Sighing heavily, Constance walks up the path way to the basement flat, rifling through her bag for the key. She is already at the door when she finds it and when she raises her head, ready to put it into the lock, she is shocked to see the door off its hinges, hanging open. Fear rises in her throat as she dashes into the flat, running straight for the bedroom. She finds the room empty, the bed a mess of tangled sheets, with blood marks on them and the pillows. She's panicking so much by this point that she can't find her phone and tips the entire contents of her bag onto the floor, searching for it wildly.
Her fingers are shaking as she dials Athos' number, and by the time a sleepy voice answers she can barely breathe.
"Constance? Constance?" hearing her distress he is immediately awake, alert, "Constance, calm down and tell me what's happened," he tells her, already up and out of bed, pulling on his trousers, phone cradled between his ear and shoulder.
"He's…gone…." She gulps out.
"What do you mean gone? Done a runner again?" he asks.
"No!" she cries out, "Door's off the hinges, blood on the bed, someone's been here!"
"Ok, I'm on my way. Just…just…." What can he say to her, to stay calm? It won't help, so he skips the stupid comments, "don't touch anything. I'll be there as soon as I can."
It's actually Porthos who lives closest, and so gets there first, taking Constance into his strong arms for a few moments before he starts looking around, gloves on his hands as he pokes, so as not to disturb any evidence.
Aramis is next, disheveled in yesterday's clothes, with a lipstick mark on the collar of his shirt, hair in disarray. He leads Constance to the kitchen and puts the kettle on to make them all a cup of tea (or coffee in his case). Athos' arrival is followed swiftly by Treville. Aramis sits at the kitchen table with Constance, holding her hand, while the others talk in hushed tones from the bedroom.
They find no fingerprints, no clues, so it looks professional. "What can anyone want with him?" asks Porthos, "he's still a trainee and he hasn't clocked up so many enemies."
Treville shakes his head in despair, "Maybe it has nothing to do with the office? Something in his past?"
"Come on, sir, we did all the background checks and nothing showed up," replies Athos, "he's a kid with a literature degree who didn't even smoke pot at university."
Treville can't help but agree. But that doesn't do anything for their present situation.
The silence is broken by the beep of Treville's phone, signaling an email. He takes it out and looks at it. "No CCTV footage for this road. One on the High Street has a black van turning right from the street onto the main road at 2 am, but we have no evidence that there is anything suspicious about it. The techies are checking it out anyway with DVLA."
The phone then beeps again and Treville opens the new message.
He holds the phone out so the others can see. The email is from an anonymous address, probably making it untraceable. When he clicks on it, a picture opens up, of an unconscious d'Artagnan lying on a concrete floor. There are no telling markers that can indicate where he is. The text of the email includes one word: Gallagher.
"Well," says Treville, "now we know. I am going to have to go to the PM and probably Richelieu. They want an exchange," before promptly turning and leaving.
"We don't do exchanges," says Porthos, worriedly.
"There have been exceptions," Athos notes.
"What do we tell Constance?" Porthos asks his friend.
"As little as is humanly possible." Athos replies, shaking his head.
They have nothing to do but sit and wait for word from Treville. The silence around the table is unbearable. Aramis goes to turn on the television for background noise. Empty cups with soggy tea bags sit alongside the wrappers of almost a dozen chocolate bars.
The bang to the table shocks them all, as Constance stands up suddenly.
"I think Jack had something to do with this," she shouts, making for the door.
"Constance, calm down, you are grasping at straws. How could your husband be involved in this? He's away on business." Aramis tries to soothe her.
"No, he came back early. He came to meet me after work, which he hasn't done since my first year of work, with a bunch of flowers. He said he had closed a big deal. And then he told me to be careful because he has friends in high places."
Athos cocks an eyebrow. "I may not like the man, but I find it hard to imagine that he is involved in something like this. He doesn't exactly strike me as the type to…well frankly to be brave enough."
"I don't know him at all anymore. He is ruthless, cold, and he found out about me and d'Artagnan, I don't even know how," she replies.
"Ok, maybe we should go talk to him, man to man," suggest Porthos. Athos nods in assent, it can't hurt, after all, and will give them something to do.
"Go, I'll stay here," Aramis offers, guiding Constance to the sofa to join him in front of the TV, an arm draped around her shoulders.
He may have felt brave earlier, but confronted by Athos and Porthos before the sun has even come up, Jack doesn't feel very sure of himself at all.
"Sit!" commands Athos, pushing him into a chair.
Porthos stands menacingly behind his friend, glaring at Jack, and Jack gulps, trying desperately not to wet himself in fear. He's met these men that his wife speaks about a number of times, and he isn't sure exactly who they are, because she keeps her secrets these days, but he knows that they are pretty damn strong and scary. And he can see the bulge of a gun under both their shirts.
"I'm going to ask you this once, and you are going to tell me the truth," Athos says very clearly, enunciating every syllable, so there will be no misunderstanding. "Do you know anything about d'Artagnan disappearing from his flat tonight?"
Jack gulps again, more loudly this time, and his eyes flit between the two of them.
Porthos moves his hand to hover over his gun and after a few seconds of silence, Jack nods his head, once.
Athos pulls back his right arm, ready to punch, but Porthos stays his hand.
"No point knocking him out, we need answers," he points out.
"How do you contact them?" Athos growls.
"I don't. She always contacts me," Jack stutters his reply.
"Always? How long?" Porthos asks.
"She? Who is she?" Athos grinds out at the same time.
"A month or so ago. A woman comes to me, a beautiful woman, dark curly hair, perfect in every way."
Athos' look darkens, not unnoticed by Porthos, who places a reassuring hand on the other man's shoulder.
"And you have no way of contacting them at all? I find that hard to believe," Athos snarls.
"Okay, okay," says Jack, raising his hands. If only they were all this easy to question, Porthos thinks to himself, "there's a drop point, if I ever need to contact them. I leave a flower on a certain grave, then I get a message telling me where to go, a few hours later."
"Good, that's the way. Now get ready, you'll be needing to contact them tonight." Athos tells him.
The floor is cold and hard and he is shivering uncontrollably, dressed only in boxers and t-shirt, as he had gone to bed. His head throbs horribly and he knows that some, if not all, of the stitches in his chest have ripped. He should probably have gone along quietly, conserved his energy, but he is happy that he at least gave one of his kidnappers a black eye and a split lip. He puts his head back against the grey wall and closes his eyes. They'll find him, of course they will.
When his captors come in, they are talking Russian, and have no idea that he can understand them, that one of the things that made Treville take him on was his linguistic abilities and training. He hopes to use to his advantage, although they don't seem to be talking about anything more important than which one of them is going to buy more vodka and what kind it should be.
It's when she comes in that he realizes that he is in real trouble. The woman who tried to set him up for murder when he first arrived in London, the beautiful seductress; if she's involved, it can't be good, he muses. This woman is nothing but trouble. And she wasn't exactly happy with him the last time they met. He had just told her to get lost, after all.
She crouches down next to him.
"I have missed you, my sweet," she says, stroking his chin with a perfectly manicured finger. He flinches at her touch. "Oh, don't be like that. I thought we had something good together."
"You had a good way of getting away with murder you mean," he snorts.
"It wasn't just that, not with you, it's such a shame you chose her over me," she shakes her head.
"Yes, a difficult choice, murderer or a wonderful talented, caring woman. Can't think how I made that decision?" His remark earns his a slap and his head hits the wall painfully.
"Watch your tongue, whelp!" she orders him.
Her phone beeps then, and she takes it out, looking at it in annoyance. She quickly texts a reply then turns to the guards and speaks with them in Russian. He hears mention of the name Gallagher and it sounds familiar, he just can't figure out why right now. She sounds like a native speaker, d'Artagnan thinks. She gives one of them instructions to leave and go to meet a man and bring him back here. She shows him a picture of the man on her phone, but from his position, d'Artagnan can't see it. After the man has left, she crouches down in front of him again.
"Any chance of a blanket? It's a bit nippy in here?" he asks, giving her a cheeky grin.
"I'm sure I'll find a way to warm you up, my sweet," she replies, tracing a finger down his chest.
Jack is pacing the clearing nervously, the morning sun filtering between the trees. He knows that Athos and Porthos are not far away, but that doesn't reassure him that he will get out of this alive.
A jogger runs past him, before circling and returning to him.
"Walk with me," the man says, in heavily accented English.
"Who are you? I asked to see her!" Jack says.
"She is busy. You see me." The man tells him.
"I need to talk to her…it's important." Jack pleads.
"You tell me, I tell her. Now talk. Not have much time," the man is getting angry, glancing around suspiciously.
"The police came round, asking me questions, I'm scared," he says in response, as they have agreed
"And what you tell them?"
"Nothing, of course, but they didn't believe me, I could see it. I need to get away for a few days. I need help."
"Yes, you need lot of help," says the man, before taking out his gun and using it to knock Jack over the back of his head. He swings his limp body over his shoulder before running off into the trees, towards the waiting car.
"The PM didn't give us the go ahead for the exchange. Apparently Richelieu was all for it, but the PM wasn't having any of it. If we'd have gotten anything out of Gallagher it might be different, but the PM wants to know who the mole is. As far as he's concerned, d'Artagnan is collateral damage. So it's up to us," Athos tells Porthos as the other man drives the car, following a flashing GPS point on the electronic map.
The Russian had found the first tracker in Jack's coat pocket, and the second one in the lining. After a quick frisk of the rest of him, he'd then thrown him in the back of the car, not looking for the third, which they had made Jack swallow. Porthos smiles remembering the look on Jack's face, and Athos' comment of "Don't worry, we'll give you a laxative afterwards".
Aramis has joined them and is in the back of the car, Constance left in a fitful sleep on the sofa at the flat. They didn't want to leave her, but they also need to move fast and efficiently. They don't want to call in anyone else, take any risks at the information leaking, and they really only trust each other, it's why the others call them the three musketeers, after all.
The Russian turns into an industrial estate which is largely abandoned and Athos parks their vehicle outside. They go the rest of the way on foot. It doesn't take long to find the car, next to a black van, outside an old, disused factory. They take up positions from cover across the way, watching the place.
Treville is setting up a fake deal for this evening. If they can break d'Artagnan out before then, all well and good. If not, they need to spend the next few hours figuring out how many people and weapons the other side have, in order to bring them down.
D'Artagnan comes back to consciousness to the sounds of thumping and banging. When he hadn't been quite as co-operative as she might have liked, the remaining thug had been ordered to give him a roughing up. He was actually grateful for that alternative in a way. He didn't fancy the idea of explaining the other option to Constance.
Through blurry eyes he sees a person thrown down on the floor next to him, collapsed and unconscious. Inching across the floor for a closer look, he is shocked to discover the identity of his fellow captive.
"Jack?" he says, shaking the other man's shoulder. When he begins to rouse, looking around in fear with wild eyes, d'Artagnan's training kicks in. "Hey, it's gonna be ok. We'll get out of here," he whispers.
Jack looks at him, wide-eyed, and when understanding comes he flinches away, retreating from d'Artagnan's touch. He looks around the room until he sees the guards.
"Oy! You! I shouldn't be here. What are you playing at? I asked to see her!"
D'Artagnan is confused. "Who? Who are you looking for?" He's suddenly concerned that Constance is involved somehow. Have they also taken her?
A guard answers in broken English. "She come in a minute. Now shut up!"
D'Artagnan whispers to Jack, "What is going on? Is Constance alright? Why are you here?"
"I said shut up!" the guard shouts, looking menacing. Jack avoids his gaze.
And suddenly he understands who Jack wants to see. He is involved with her.
"I thought you were a bloody accountant! What are you doing working with Russian spies?" he hisses at the other man.
"And what do you do, that Russian spies want to kidnap you? And who the crap are those friends of yours?" Jack counters.
"Enough!" the guard approaches, pulling back his arm, ready to punch.
"Oh no, Dmitri, let the boys be," says a sickly sweet voice behind him. "Jack, so kind of you to join us."
Jack seems almost mesmerized by her presence and swallows hard.
"I said not to contact me unless it was absolutely necessary, did you forget that?" she asks, like she is talking to a child.
Jack shakes his head. "Two men, his friends," he inclines his head towards d'Artagnan, "they made me talk. I…" he hands his head.
"Which friends?" she asks, interested suddenly.
"I don't know remember their names, the big one and the grumpy one." D'Artagnan can't help but laugh, it must be Porthos and Athos then.
She looks worried by that. She goes over to the guards and d'Artagnan strains to listen to their conversation. She is clearly concerned that Athos and Porthos are on to her, which means she knows them, or knows of them. Suddenly he remembers who Gallagher is. They want to exchange him for the Russian agent MI5 is holding. Although he finds it hard to believe that Treville will agree to such a deal, or that he'll come out of it alive, after seeing his captors' faces.
"Hey! I'm on your side. What's going on here?" Jack calls to them, worried by their whispering. When they continue to ignore him, he burst out "They made me swallow a tracker!"
D'Artagnan wants to smack the man. He's practically signed their death warrants.
She turns, very slowly, and looks at the two men on the floor, licking her lips as she thinks. Her hand reaches to her gun, and d'Artagnan knows what she is going to do.
"Oh, Jack. I really thought we could make something of you," she mutters, shaking her head as she approaches, "but it seems you are becoming such a liability."
D'Artagnan is angry at Jack for so many things, but at the same time, he is training for these kind of situations, he is meant to protect civilians. So when as she is about to fire the gun he jumps on the other man, pushing him down. The bullet skims his shoulder, tearing the flesh and bouncing off the bone before entering the wall, and it's pure agony, causing him almost to black out.
There's shouting in Russian, and through the fog in his head he realizes how much they need him alive for their plan, so he makes his hold on Jack even tighter, making it clear that they'll have to go through him first.
Eventually, they seem to tire of it. "Fine, have it your way. We'll just kill him later then," she spits at them, before turning on her heel to leave.
And all Jack can think is that maybe, just maybe, Constance is right about this guy.
An initial survey of the factory has shown it to be large and well guarded, too much for the three of them to take on. Athos is reflecting on how best to proceed, when an elbow to his ribs rouses him from his reverie. As he looks up he sees a woman exiting the side door of the factory from between the boards that have been used to seal it, and he involuntarily gasps. Aramis looks at him, asking whether to shoot, and he shakes his head, as much as he would like to nod, to have her dead once and for all. But he knows that they need to follow the plan and a gunshot now could ruin everything. Plus he really wants to know what the hell she is doing back in his town, his country. He thought he had sent her into exile in mother Russia.
She climbs into the car gracefully and drives off. Aramis leans in to him and asks in a whisper, "Is that…"
"Yes. We'll talk about it later. I can't think about it now."
Knowing she is involved changes everything. Something much bigger is at stake than one low ranking Russian agent. And if they want to find out what, they have to let things take their course.
An hour before the meet is due, Aramis and Porthos leave to take up positions at the arranged point. Athos hasn't moved, is hoping, or not hoping (he isn't sure) that she'll come back, but she doesn't. He watches as night draws in, and men exit the factory dragging two forms, hands bound behind their backs, and place them in the back of the van. Athos makes his way back to the car and is ready to follow the tracker. There only appear to be four men, which he tells the others over the phone, although certainly others will be waiting at the meeting point.
For Athos every minute of the drive feels like an eternity. At least he knows that d'Artagnan is alive, although he cannot believe that it is their intention to let him out of it that way. He sees her face in his mind's eye as he sits at a red light, once loving, now cruel and mocking. What is her endgame?
From afar, Athos watches Treville waiting with a decoy, flanked by other agents at an abandoned lot down by the river. It's always by the river, Athos contemplates, so cliché. The decoy's head is covered; Aramis and Porthos are hidden away behind shipping containers, as Athos believes are a range of expert snipers from both sides.
They let the Russians, faces covered, exit the van and pull the two men out of the back. Two have guns stuck into the backs of their hostages, pushing them forward. Aramis winces as he watches d'Artagnan stumble unsteadily on his broken leg when he's prodded in the back. But his pride won't let him give up and he walks on. Treville urges his own decoy forward. The two other Russians stand by the van.
And then it happens. He sees a glint, a quick flash of something shiny, on the river side of the lot between two containers. It's brief and gone before anyone else saw it, but he knows what it is. It's meant for him. The glimmer of a torch on a beautiful diamond that was his mother's.
Athos skirts around the periphery of the lot until he reaches the river side. A cold wind is blowing in from the water, bringing with it smells none to healthy. He takes out his gun, holds it ready, and approaches her from behind. She lets out a tiny gasp as she feels it in the small of her back, although it is more pleasure than surprise.
"Hello Anne," he whispers, "too cold in Moscow for you that you needed to come back to Blighty?"
She pushes against the gun and swivels around to stare him in the face, as if she knows he could never really pull that trigger.
"I have some unfinished business to take care of, darling." He flinches at the word. "Now be a good boy and let me watch what happens. We can talk afterwards."
She starts to turn back but he grabs her arm, stopping her movement, and digs the gun into her ribs.
"Oh, you have become more masterful. I like that in a man," she smiles, although he can see that her eyes are showing just a little worry.
"What do you want? Why are you here? I told you, if you ever came back I would kill you."
"And I don't believe you, dear. As I said, I have some matters to take care of. My employer needed something done, and I am the best, as well you know." She traces a finger down his cheek. He swats away her hand.
Their conversation is interrupted by the sound of gunfire. She moves so fast that it takes him by surprise, kneeing him in the groin and thrusting a knife into his abdomen. As he sinks to the floor, she whispers in his ear, "I'm so sorry," before running off into the night. He shoots off a whole gun at her receding form, and he thinks one might have hit her shoulder, but isn't at all sure.
The knife wound is not bad. It has missed anything important. The only thing he can think about now is getting to the others and finding out what happened. A hand pressed to his stomach, he limps over to where the sound of shooting originated.
As d'Artagnan inches his way forward painfully, a look from Treville tells him what is going to happen. He stumbles, purposefully, falling onto Jack, taking the other man down with him. At that exact moment, with perfect shots to the heads, Aramis and Porthos take out the two men forcing the hostages forward. A gun battle ensues over the two men's heads, as they plaster themselves to the ground.
D'Artagnan doesn't register that it's over until he feels a hand on his shoulder. Unfortunately, it's the one that caught the bullet earlier, and he can't stop himself from crying out in pain. And then hands are gently easing him up, and people are talking to him and covering him in coats.
"He's bloody hypothermic. Where's that damn ambulance?" he hears Aramis saying.
And it's only now that he registers quite how cold he is and that his teeth are chattering. Then he feels arms around, strong arms, warm, holding him tight, hands rubbing his bare arms to try and warm him up. And he knows from the smell that it's Porthos, and he sinks into the embrace.
A few moments later Athos is rushing to d'Artagnan, pushing the others away to get to him. He drops down to the floor beside his young friend, breathing heavily. D'Artagnan opens his eyes to look at him, and the sharp intake of breath alerts the others that something is wrong.
"Athos? What happened?" Aramis is asking, crouching down and looking at the blood seeping through his fingers. "Let me look."
"It's nothing. I'm fine. How is he?"
"F—f—fine," d'Artagnan retorts through his chattering teeth. Two can play at this game.
Aramis is inspecting Athos' stomach, undeterred, and then calling for bandages, cloth, anything to stop the bleeding. "Who did this?" he asks, but Athos' shake is the head is enough to tell him that they will talk about it later. Once he has something pressed down tight on the wound he turns back to d'Artagnan, only to see his eyes closing.
"Hey, no sleeping. That's quite a head wound," he instructs him, slapping his cheek lightly.
"You don't do anything by halves, do you kid?" asks Athos, reaching out to ruffle his hair, in a rare show of affection.
"Who you calling kid?" asks d'Artagnan, but trying to speak sparks off a coughing fit. From afar they hear sirens. "Here's your ride," says Porthos, "just a few more minutes," not sure if he is trying to calm himself or the others. D'Artagnan, eyes bright, takes a heaving breath and tries to control the coughing.
They've all forgotten about Jack, behind them on the ground, hands over his head. He hasn't moved. Now he raises his head and looks around, "Is it over yet?" he asks.
"Oh, this bit is over, but we are certainly not done with you," Athos informs him, grimly.
After the ambulance arrives, with the adrenalin rush receding, everything becomes a blur, a mixture of sensations. As he's moved onto the stretcher someone puts a hand on his shoulder in comfort and he screams out in agony, as hot white pain lances through him. He hears someone apologizing, he's not sure who, and he's mumbling that it's ok but then there's a rush of air on his face from an oxygen mask and the words are jumbled and nonsense. He feels a prick as an IV is started and drifts in and out of consciousness, every bump in the road causing him pain, hearing some of the words being spoken around him but not really understanding them. He's still shivering with cold, and his chest feels unbearably tight. But there's a hand in his, warm and strong, all the time.
Constance is waiting for the ambulance outside the hospital, rubbing her hands together in the cold, babbling away non-stop to the doctor next to her, trying to remember every detail of d'Artagnan's medical history. Eventually Dr. Macintosh rounds on her, places his hands on her shoulders and looks her squarely in the face. "How long have we worked together?" he asks her. She looks down at her feet. "Sorry," she tells him, "it's just…nerves."
"I understand, completely. But you have to trust me and take a step back, ok?"
She nods. Constance has never been good at taking steps back.
And then she hears the sirens and before she knows it relief is bubbling up inside her when she sees him, covered in blankets, deathly pale, oxygen mask over his face, gripping onto Athos' hand. Then Athos moves and lets her take over, and she feels his frozen fingers and knows he's real and alive. He cracks open his eyes and sees her, tries to take his hand out of hers to push the mask off his face, but she won't let him.
"Shh," she hushes, "I'm here. Everything's going to be fine," walking alongside him.
But before she knows it gentle hands are prying her away and she's telling him she'll see him soon and all she wants is to crumple into a heap on the ground as the doors close between them, a nurse murmuring platitudes to her.
It's Athos that pulls her out of her trance, a hand on her shoulder, and she grabs onto him, pulling him into an embrace, thanking him for bringing d'Artagnan back in more or less one piece. When the man recoils with a hiss of pain she notices the blood on his t-shirt.
"Shit! You're hurt!" she cries.
"It's just a scratch," he tries to calm her. "I've had worse paper cuts."
"Of course you have, and I've sewed them up. Come on, let's find someone to see to you."
She looks for a nurse, but it being a typical evening in an inundated London hospital, together with the casualties from the "incident" pouring in, a minor stab wound is not high on anyone's list of priorities. In the end, Constance decides to deal with it herself. She just needs to stop her hands shaking first.
So she finds a free bed, sits Athos down and orders him to strip. He moans and protests, but she insists, pushing him back onto the bed and pulling gloves onto her hands.
He winces when she prods around at the wound. "It's missed all the important bits," she tells him reassuringly, "in fact, it looks like whoever did this has a pretty bad aim."
"No, her aim was perfect I think," he muses.
"Her?" she asks, a little surprised.
"My wife," he says, looking down at his hands.
It takes a lot to shock Constance, but for the first time in ages she is totally floored.
"You're…married?"
"Is that so hard to believe?" he asks, something twinkling in eyes.
"Well…you're just…a man of few words," she tries to backtrack.
"And you need a lot of words to be married?"
"Communication is kind of important," she offers.
"As you yourself should know."
"Touché," she concedes. "So..um…you want to talk about it?"
"Not particularly," he replies.
"Okay then," she muses, and gets back to the job at hand.
After a few moments of quiet, Athos speaks very softly. "She worked for MI6. But she was a Russian mole. She killed my brother when he found out. And then she ran away to Russia, or I thought she did. But it appears that she is back in London, and was involved in this whole affair."
Constance considers for a moment. "Thank you," she says, at last.
"For what?" Athos asks, puzzled.
"For trusting me."
"There you are!" an exasperated Aramis says, pulling back the curtain on them, "we've been looking for you everywhere."
"Sorry, I got commandeered by the good doctor. She wanted to practice her needlework. How's the cleanup going?"
"Not bad. Treville will want to talk to you, but probably in the morning. He said you should get some rest." Athos snorts and Aramis shakes his head. "I told him that wouldn't be likely. We had a few minor injuries, all being treated. Nothing too serious. Some of their men are alive but severely wounded. We'll have to wait and see whether they survive and can tell us anything. Although it's doubtful, they look like hired mercenaries."
"Yes, the person pulling the strings was watching from a distance," Athos notes, grimly, "and is long gone by now I hope."
Aramis raises an eyebrow at that.
"It's fine. She knows." Athos sighs.
"Oh, speaking of troublesome spouses, Constance, you might want to see your idiot husband! He's down in cubicle 6," Aramis tells her.
"What?" Constance turns to him. "Jack is here? Would someone like to tell me what is going on?"
"I hope you have someone guarding him," Athos warns his friend.
"Of course we do! We're not completely incapable of functioning without you telling us what to do. Porthos is with him."
"How did he draw the short straw?" Athos asks.
"He lost at scissors, paper, stone," Aramis responds, with a shrug of his shoulders, "seemed as good a way as any to solve the problem."
"Would someone please tell me what is going on!" cries Constance.
"Certainly, although I don't think you are going to like it."
Jack now knows that the big one is called Porthos and he is mildly less scared of him having been held captive by much scarier Russian guys. He regards Porthos from n the bed and muses over what he had seen earlier that night. Even more than the gun battle, the deaths, what affected him was the relationship between those four men. He hasn't had that kind of friendship since high school. And for the most part he lost touch with his best mates, emailing once in a while and meeting up at major life changing events like weddings and funerals. What he saw tonight, that's a bond he can only dream of having. How the others worked in perfect synchrony, rushed to d'Artagnan, the look on Porthos' face when what was supposed to be a comforting hand on the shoulder caused a shriek of pain and his utter horror at the blood on his fingers. No, Jack isn't really scared of these guys anymore. He's in total awe of them.
However, he is scared of Constance. And when she appears, he understands what Shakespeare was referring to when he compared a woman's anger to hell's fury. Her hair is a mess, her eyes are wild and she looks like she would actually kill him, given half the chance. The furies can't have looked much worse.
"I think you've really done it now," comments Porthos.
"That may well be the understatement of the year," Jack mutters.
She begins by calling him a list of names so imaginative that even Porthos is impressed. When she's done, and a nurse has come in and asked her to keep it down, she plops herself into the plastic chair by his bed and looks at Jack.
"How could you?" she asks, quietly.
"I just wanted to make things right for you, for us…" he answers, pleadingly.
"With which bit? Getting involved with Russian spies or having d'Artagnan kidnapped? The man I married would never have done those things. I don't know who you are anymore." Tears are pouring down her face. Jack reaches over and takes her hand. She doesn't resist.
"I'm not sure I do either," he tells her.
It feels like forever until they get any news. Although Constance tries to get updates a number of times, she's fobbed off, told that they're doing x-rays and a CT. She can't fight with that, it's what she'd tell a patient's loved ones too. But as a scientist she needs hard facts. The unknown for her is the ultimate enemy.
Eventually, Dr. Macintosh comes to find her, next to Athos' bed, having stopped him from getting up for the twentieth time.
"His temperature is going up slowly. The CT shows only slight swelling in the head. The chest x-rays are pretty bad though. We've started antibiotics and taken cultures. We just have to wait and see how he responds to them. His shoulder is going to need surgery but we can't do that until we get the pneumonia under control." She nods. These facts she understands. "You can go up to intensive care and sit with him."
Constance circumvents the strict rules of intensive care using her friends and connections to make sure that she can sit by his side all night, along with Aramis, who gets put on protection detail. Only after she threatens to tie him up will Athos agree to stay in bed until morning.
It is probably one of the worst nights of her life, watching him feverish and fighting for breath. She has to agree when they suggest sedating him and insert a chest tube, although her medical knowledge is at war with her fear of seeing him sedated and lifeless.
She spends the next hours watching antibiotics drip through an IV into him, listening to the whirring and beeping of machinery, the minutes ticking by impossibly slowly. She badgers the doctors to change the antibiotics, sure they aren't working, and they try to pacify her, telling she is expecting progress too soon. Patience is not her strong point, which is why working in casualty is best for her. Patch them up, move them on. Now, stuck in the ICU, the minutes tick by painfully slowly and she's so exhausted that her eyes drift closed and she dozes off for short periods, her head leaning on the side of the bed.
When morning comes, Athos wakes to find Treville next to his bed, with a clean change of clothes for him. Not for the first time in his career, he is grateful for his superior's care and devotion.
"Thought you would be wanting to get out of that bed. And hospital gowns do nothing for your color," Treville smiles at him.
Athos tugs the IV out of his arm and starts getting dressed, while Treville updates him on what happened after he left the scene last night.
"Do you want to tell me how you came by that stab wound?" he asks finally, raising an eyebrow.
From the look on Athos' face, Treville doesn't ask anything else, but nods.
"Did you really think she'd stay away forever?"
"I had hoped she would," Athos replies grimly. "What are we doing with Jack?" Athos changes the subject, running a hand through his messy hair.
"We make him an offer. Would you like to join me?"
"I think I might even enjoy it," Athos smirks.
Treville's phone beeps just as Athos finishes dressing. "Shit!" he shouts. Athos has rarely seen his boss so ruffled. "Gallagher's dead. Someone got him a cyanide pill. You'll have to deal with this, Athos. I have to get back to the office."
There are two men stationed outside the hospital room, and Porthos inside, playing on his i-phone. He smiles at Athos when he enters. Jack looks grim, sitting in the bed. He has had far too much time to think about what has happened and his conversation with Constance last night.
Athos doesn't bother with formalities. "Who were you working for?" he asks.
"The woman, I told you," Jack says.
"We know who she is. She doesn't interest me. Who was above her?"
"I don't know his name. I only met him once," he replies.
"Once is better than nothing. Describe him." And Jack does. An older man, fifties probably, grey hair, but good looking. Thin, wiry. He has a slight accent. And angry eyebrows.
Athos looks at Porthos. "Give me your phone," he tells his friend.
"But I'm winning this game….fine!" he throws it to Athos, who fiddles with it for a few minutes, before pulling up a picture.
"This him?" he asks. Jack nods. Porthos is staring over Athos' shoulder. "Oh shit!" is all he can say.
"Listen Jack, the people behind this, they are not going to let you just walk away."
"I don't know anything," he protests, "all I did was bring an envelope from Moscow!"
"But you've seen their faces. That's enough. You can identify them. We need to make you disappear," Athos is trying to be patient.
"No way!" he shouts, like a petulant child.
"You want to die?" Porthos chimes in. "You stupid or what?"
"I can't just leave everything!" Jack cries.
"That's what happens if you die, you do realize that right?" Porthos asks.
"I want to talk to Constance," he demands.
"Fine. That can be arranged." Athos tells him.
Up in the ICU, Athos rouses Constance with a tap to her shoulder. He hands her a Styrofoam cup of tea, steam rolling off it in waves. She cups her hands around it and looks at him gratefully.
"Take a walk with me," he tells her. When she looks worriedly at d'Artagnan, he nods to Aramis, sitting silently in the corner. "Aramis will be here. Come on. You could use the air." Aramis smiles his most charming and reassuring smile, before getting up to take her place by the bed.
Outside the hospital the air is crisp and refreshing. Athos is right, the fresh breeze does her good and, together with the tea, she feels revived.
"How are you feeling?" she asks, looking at his stomach.
"Fine," he replies. "You?"
"I've had better days."
He explains to her about Jack's predicament. "You need to talk to him. He's putting his life in danger. If anyone can stop him from being an idiot, it's you."
"I don't know. I doubt he'll listen to me. He hasn't for years. We wouldn't be in this mess if we'd been able to communicate," she muses.
"At least give it a try," he says.
But she isn't listening. She's looking at someone in the crowd of people milling on the street outside the hospital in the morning rush hour.
"What's wrong? What did you see?" Athos asks, concerned.
"I'm going crazy. I thought I saw someone… but it can't be. This woman. She came round looking for d'Artagnan once. Scared the hell out of me. Beautiful, brown curls, perfect make up…" but Athos is already gone, his tea cup thrown on the floor, he's running into the hospital.
When she first left, he would imagine that he saw her in all kinds of places: on a tube train, at a restaurant window, standing at a traffic light as he drove by. But now he knows that he isn't seeing things when he spies her dark curls in the same direction that Constance's gaze is fixated on, going into the hospital corridor. It's obvious why she's here and he's damned if he'll let her hurt anyone else. Elbowing people out of the way, hand already on his gun, he approaches her, and she lets out an involuntary gasp as she feels the gun in her back.
"Let's take a walk, darling," he drawls, forcing her to turn around and walk the other way.
"I see you are feeling better," she purrs.
"Yes, your aim was perfect, as always."
"Well, I wouldn't want to do you any real damage, now would I? Where would the fun be in a world without you in it?"
He forces her down a corridor, into a large, airy atrium where he pushes her over to some uncomfortable hospital chairs and makes her sit down next to him, the gun still pressing into her side inconspicuously.
"Nice touch, the doctor's coat. Where's the doctor it belongs to? Dead somewhere?"
"I'm not that ruthless darling. I just took it from a locker."
He uses his free hand to go through the pockets of the white coat, coming up with a few syringes and vials of something. "And the rest. Hand it over," he tells her. She does as she's told, pouting at him.
"Fine! But Gallagher's dead already. And we have other means for dealing with the rest. We never meant for anyone to get out of there alive last night. Not Gallagher, d'Artagnan or Jack. The added advantage was taking down as many of your little friends as possible at the same time."
"Bit of a cock up all round then," he snorts.
She stares at her perfectly manicured nails. "You just can't get the same standard of hired help anymore." It's surreal, he thinks, and so cold. She sounds like she's talking about her maid.
"Give me Richelieu and we'll go easy on you." He offers.
"Never going to happen darling." She raises a hand to his cheek, strokes it seductively. He pushes it away.
"I'll have to take you in anyway," he tells her, "Are you ready for what they'll do to you? Treville won't let me handle this, you know. He'll put his best people on it."
She actually has the decency to look shaken at the thought of interrogation. She knows enough to understand that it won't be pretty.
"You wouldn't, you couldn't." She strokes his cheek again and this time he doesn't push her away immediately. "You still love me, Athos. You know you do. You couldn't let them do that to me. Let me go. I promise I'll stay away this time…" she reaches in to him, so close that he can smell her scent. It hasn't changed. And then their lips are touching, before he jerks away, disgusted at himself.
"Just like I couldn't kill you last night, you can't be the end of me either," she says, planting a kiss on his cheek. "Goodbye darling."
And before he knows it, she's gone, disappeared into the crowd as suddenly as she re-entered his life.
Back in the hospital room, Athos hands over the vials to Constance, who looks at him in horror. "I believe those are hospital property," he says, meaningfully. It makes up her mind.
"Jack, you have to go!"
"But I'll never see you again!" he cries.
"You won't see me if you're dead either! Stop being so stupid. You got yourself into this mess. You should be thanking your lucky stars that there's a way out at all."
"Constance…I…I never meant for this to happen. You have to believe me. I'm sorry. I didn't know what I was getting involved in. I just wanted to make things right between us," his tone has changed. Instead of accusing, he's apologizing. "I can't face life without you," he admits.
She moves across to him, takes his hand in hers.
"You think I wanted it to end like this? I don't hate you. You were my first love, and part of me will always love you. And that's why I can't bear the thought of you dead. Please Jack. Do this for me. Don't make me have to mourn you."
"She's good," Porthos whispers to Athos, a little too loudly, gaining him an elbow in the ribs.
Jack chews his lip and thinks for a few moments. Eventually he nods. Constance lets out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. She reaches down and kisses him, chastely on the cheek, embraces him one last time, before turning to leave.
"Jack, take this second chance. You can do something with your life. You can meet someone, love again, have a family. Live. Please, do that, for me."
"Constance!" he calls after her and she looks back at him. "You always deserved better than me. And you have it now. He's a good man, Constance."
"I know," she says, quietly, before making her way back up to the ICU.