From Bitter Memories to Sweet Havens
Synopsis: D'Artagnan makes a dangerous self-discovery at the same time in which Athos prepares for a new change in his own life. Along the road, revelations between them both leads to something that may or may not have been present since the day they met. Mature audiences for later chapters. Slash references and content.
Author's Notes: This story takes place about ten years after the first novel/movie-however you want to look at it. This is a bit of an Alternative Universe and I'm not sure how far off the mark I'm going to wind up, but that's what's fun about writing fanfiction, the adventure and experimentation that comes with it. I will however stick as close to historical canon and purposes as possible. When I fudge, I do it with love, and there will probably be a lot of fudging in places. It will likely be a long multi-chaptered story and on the slow-burn side of things for a while as I explore characters and setting. I'm basically letting the muses take me where they will on this. Make sure to read the warnings and enjoy if you choose to read on.
Warnings: This is an adult fic therefore I expect adults to be reading this. It is a SLASH romance story between Athos and D'Artagnan. The sections that warrant the rating/warnings will be clearly marked beforehand. Don't like, don't read, don't review, just ignore and look the other way. Otherwise any flames or abuse will be laughed at, NOT deleted, and kept up for all to see and judge for the future.
Disclaimer: The Three Musketeers and its characters rightfully belong to Alexandre Dumas. I'm just a serial borrower.
Chapter One
D'Artagnan woke in a lazy sort of haze, not wanting to move for all the weariness he still felt from the night before. Instinctively, he stretched out, seeking that comforting warmth of another body, but found nothing. He cracked open his eyes and confusion gave way to the beginnings of a terrible disappointment. At first he thought there was no note, but when he dragged himself to rise and stop drawing patterns in the sheets with his fingers he moved one of the pillows by accident and beneath it, the very same one where his lover's head lay hours prior, was the piece pf paper.
He opened it and read the contents without any preamble.
He didn't even pull on his breeches when he got up and crossed to the dying fire. He carefully stoked it back to life and held the note to the hungry flames, watching it blacken and crumble with disinterest. That's all it was, disinterest. Maybe that's all he hoped it could be, but that's all he was determined to feel at the moment. Dawn hadn't even broken yet on his day off from duty and he was up at the same hour he was used to. Nothing would ever change that, and nothing would change the listless feeling in his chest. He had the sudden urge to run by the barracks and ensure that the recruits and those officers under him were operating as they should, but if word got back to Monsieur de Treville about his presence there he would never hear the end of it.
What was wrong with doing his job, his duty? He enjoyed it. It gave him something to do. For what else was there in its absence? His friends had long since retired and moved on in their lives to different occupations. Aramis to the church. Porthos to marriage and baronhood. Athos to a well-deserved retirement. D'Artagnan simply wasn't there yet, and hoped not to be for years to come. He still had things to do, responsibilities to take care of, his mother to support. There were a lot of men he was accountable for and that required him to be on call for anything, even at the expense of his own leisure.
"Leisure," he scoffed to no one but himself. "Where have you flown?" D'Artagnan sighed and ran a hand along his tired face and down past his small goatee that was in need of another trim. But what was the point? It wasn't as if he needed to keep up appearances to anyone today. And the dark bags under his eyes were the one tell he could never hide, trimmed facial hair or not.
He envied his friends. They were out of the corps now, free to do and pursue what they wanted. But the more D'Artagnan thought about it the more he realized that here was the only place he could think of being for the years to come. Even if he left for an indefinite amount of time, he would miss it. He would come crawling back like a disillusioned cheater to his faithful lover's side. He'd been told more than once that he was working too hard, and a small part of him wanted to admit that those officers and superiors were right, but nothing else could occupy his thoughts and properly distract him from things and moments like this, when the world seemed too heavy a thing to think about.
If D'Artagnan were honest, he would admit he was lonely and lost.
But he was still the stubborn proud person he'd been in his youth. And he was a Lieutenant of the Guard now, the real kind of leader he'd dreamed of being since he was a boy. He was living that dream. He had made it happen for himself, and picked up treasured friends and acquaintances along the way. It hadn't been without its price, but he had done it. Was it selfish of him to want more? Perhaps. But maybe that came from the realization of all he'd lost along the way.
Constance.
His friends.
His father.
D'Artagnan stood up and dressed once the note was fully consumed. He ran a quick hand through his hair and wished the room had a looking glass, but trusted that he looked put together enough to make the trek home. He opened the door as quietly as he could and wasn't surprised to see a certain little maid waiting for him, her curly brown hair put into a loose mop on top of her head. She winked at him with hints of a smile, and also with sad apprehension everywhere else.
D'Artagnan smiled at her because he had to. "Thank you Lotte," he whispered.
She cocked her head to the side and studied him. Lines around her eyes betrayed her real age, though she did an excellent job of hiding it to everyone else. "You know he won't come back, don't you? He's a wanderer, that one."
He nodded. "I know."
"Why don't you stay for breakfast," she offered, laying a gentle platonic hand on his arm. "The master won't wake for a few hours yet."
He shook his head a few times and took her hand in his in apology. "I'm all right, thank you."
"I don't think you are…"
D'Artagnan kissed her on the forehead and slipped a small pouch of coins into her laundry basket.
She caught his hand, took the pouch from him, and slipped the money down the front of her dress instead. "Sneak," she whispered with a smile. "Come back for a drink in a few days. We're getting some southern wine from your part of the country."
"Perhaps I will," D'Artagnan said politely before making his exit.
He descended the creaky stairs of the inn and threw on his cloak and hat before braving the cool dampness of early morning. Halfway home it started to drizzle rain, but he didn't quicken his pace for keeping his steps stubbornly even, because without that the pain became something more than an annoyance. The farther he walked the more he thought about pushing his visit to the barracks back until at least a few hours past dawn. If he couldn't walk properly that would invite too many questions he was unwilling to answer.
When he reached his apartments he snuck in on light feet, even though he knew the old landlord and his wife were both practically deaf. They were a sweet old couple who offered affordable housing and dinner with them more than a couple nights a week. And D'Artagnan took them up on those offers only when he felt badly about using work as a recurring excuse. It wasn't as if they were bad company, far from it. But every time he and Planchet left to return to their rooms, their ears rang and their throats were sore. He didn't know how the neighbors could stand them, and at first he didn't know if he would be able to when he had finally found an available set of rooms for their needs. But Treville had personally mentioned the lonely couple and that they had rooms on the third floor that were both hospitable and more soundproofed than the second story rooms that no sane person would want.
Needless to say, that second floor remained empty to this day.
Climbing the stairs aggravated his physical state, but he didn't make a sound, not even for relief when he mounted the last step. He slipped the key into the lock and pushed the door open, surprised to find the rooms warm and somewhat brighter than what they normally were at this early hour. D'Artagnan didn't need to look any farther than the settee for the culprit. He sighed and frowned down at Planchet who was half-curled half-splayed across the comfortable piece of furniture, snoring softly. He walked over to the fireplace and put another log on to keep the rooms warm. D'Artagnan couldn't complain because it was getting more miserable by the minute outside. And this was supposed to be their start to a warm summer?
The servant shifted on the settee and blearily tried to get up. "Master-"
But D'Artagnan pushed him down again. "Go back to sleep, Planchet. It's early yet."
Planchet shook his head. "What about-"
"I am going to do the same. Rest."
The servant needed no third bidding and went out like a light. Probably waited up nearly all night, D'Artagnan thought. Exactly like I told him not to, blasted man! Sometimes he wondered whether Planchet or his mother worried after him more. It was a close race, especially after his mother had surprised him and Planchet both by coming up from Gascony to stay with him for a week. He knew well and good that Treville had been behind it, and he promised the man swift retribution with an open glare behind his dear mother's back. And damn him, the captain only smiled back at him!
One of these days…
D'Artagnan huffed and punched at one of the pillows on his bed to shape it into something more comfortable. As he pulled off his boots and changed into more comfortable clothes he hissed and had to grab onto the edge of the side table by his bed for balance. God, he hadn't thought it would hurt that badly afterwards. Granted it was only the first time he had given into those vices, and he had known it might hurt, but…in a way, it had been worth it just to know. He just wished he didn't have to face this morning by himself. Did that still make him naïve? He certainly couldn't call himself innocent in those matters anymore, but what did it really matter?
A bath would have been heaven, but since his eyelids were starting to pull themselves together of their own accord he decided he could wait. So he sank down onto the cool mattress, wincing as he turned over onto his side, and pulled the covers up over himself. He lay there with his eyes open for some time with nothing to do but think. When thinking quickly turned morose he turned over and pulled open a normally locked drawer in his small bedside table. Inside were a bundle of letters he'd received over the years. He pulled loose the one on the top and put the rest back in their proper place.
This paper he would never burn because nothing but fondness came to mind when he looked at Athos' comforting words.
The years had turned that innocent need for guidance into something richer, and while D'Artagnan had been ashamed of it at first, time helped him understand that friendship had many faces. What he still wondered was where friendship's boundaries ended and love's began. Was it possible to have platonic love for a friend? Yes. Was it possible to have a more intimate love in mind for that same friend and have it still remain a matter of friendship? If the answer was yes, D'Artagnan had long failed to understand how. If no, then that made matters much simpler. The only problem was the very same that most men suffered in various forms, a heart complicating matters for want of something more.
He finally understood why Athos abhorred any talk of romance.
It came years later, but he finally did.
And D'Artagnan couldn't blame him.
Planchet only slept another hour before he got up to make breakfast. The previous night had been a long one, and he had spent it willingly awake. Just in case. He thought he had spent it needlessly sometime close to the third hour past midnight, and was perfectly happy with himself about waiting up. For a small period of time, it looked as if things might not have gone as badly as he anticipated. But one look from his master when he did come home, kind words aside, confirmed his earlier suspicions.
He wanted to curse something but didn't know what.
That man for leading his master on.
His master's friends who left.
Himself for not having enough courage to deter his master from his rarely seen wants and needs.
Planchet sighed and shook his head. Maybe he wanted to curse them all and divide the blame equally. Either way, his master had still wound up with more unnecessary hurt that Planchet somehow had to figure out how to ease. He finished preparing breakfast and put a bowl over it to keep it warm before making his way to his master's room. He peeked inside first to see if he was actually asleep, and was surprised and pleased to find him so. Planchet left the breakfast on the side table and set to taking the laundry, emptying the chamber pot, and replacing the dirty water in the washbowl. As he did these things he did them quietly because his master was more of a light sleeper than he had been in previous years, and any lost sleep would show worse than what was already there.
Servants were by far not dumb or oblivious, at least the smart ones were. And Planchet liked to think he had some wit about himself. His master had certainly thought so and regarded him with a kinder disposition than his previous masters had. Monsieur D'Artagnan never thought him simple, and even trusted him with important matters that normally could have been given to some of his lower officers in the guard. It was something to be proud of compared to others in his occupation, but knowledge wasn't always power, and almost never a comfort when you were loyal and trustworthy.
Planchet knew that his master was overworking himself on purpose. He also knew that the lieutenantship his master held was not the core of the problem that caused him lost sleep, lost appetite, and uncharacteristic sour moods on occasion. No, the very issue lay next to his limp hand on top of the bedding. It also lay in that locked drawer by his bedside. It hadn't been in that room his master spent his previous night in, and it also hadn't been with that nameless person who Planchet would have loved to put a name to for the promise that he would never appear again. Servants, after all, were not without their network of friends in all sorts of occupations…
Suggesting a holiday had been out of the question, but it was becoming more and more apparent that his master needed one. Desperately. Planchet paced in the front room and wrung his hands. Pride was a hard thing to deal with, even if it was his master's health that was at stake. But Planchet knew that if he didn't do something drastic soon something worse might happen. He had seen older stronger men fall down dead due to stress. And that kind of death just didn't fit his master's character, nor Planchet's future prospects. With his mind finally set he closed the front door to their rooms behind him and hoped he wouldn't be heard on the stairs exiting their apartments.
"D'Artagnan," someone called out in anger.
The person in question turned and was so surprised that he nearly pulled out his sword to put between himself and a storming Athos coming right his way. Part of D'Artagnan was so elated and overjoyed at seeing Athos, but the other part was terrified that he wouldn't get the chance to throw his arms around that beautiful dear friend of his. Athos pulled him into an alley off from the main street.
"Athos," D'Artagnan sputtered in greeting. "What-"
"I would beg your pardon for my temper, but it is more than a relief to see that you are not in fact dead as I had feared."
D'Artagnan blanched. "Dead? What would have given you-"
"Months of unanswered letters, boy," Athos growled, leaning in close. "What else was I supposed to think?"
D'Artagnan flushed. "Well…"
Athos tapped his foot and inclined his head for an answer, but D'Artagnan's mind was blank. All his traitorous mind could focus on was how…radiant Athos looked when he was angry. It was restrained anger, for certain, but a paler hint of what D'Artagnan had previously seen in their past exploits. Gone was the blind rage of the days past. Now the man just seemed to glow with life and purpose. And right now D'Artagnan was the focal point of that purpose.
"I'm sorry, Athos," was all he could find the words to say.
Athos narrowed his eyes. "You and I need to have words. Now."
Before D'Artagnan could protest, Athos gripped him by the arm again and pulled him towards the street and away from Treville's offices. But even when Athos sat him down and let him have it, D'Artagnan couldn't force himself to think or listen rationally. He was just too happy to care. "I've missed you," he said without thinking.
"As I have you," Athos relented. "Obviously."
D'Artagnan smiled and even laughed in relief. Those sparkling eyes were finally upon him again. They appraised him with concern, but their color and intensity only fueled his treacherous newborn love. His hand itched to claim Athos' on the table in front of him but he feared the consequences. As if sensing his train of thought, Athos reached forward and took D'Artagnan's hand, squeezing and testing its strength. D'Artagnan clenched his jaw shut and tried not to flush again. Instead he closed his eyes and latched onto that hand for all its worth.
"Are you well," Athos asked, worry lacing his words.
"Very," he whispered.
When D'Artagnan woke, he groaned out loud, not just at the loss of the dream but also at what time it was. Half the day was already gone! He hadn't thought Planchet would let him sleep that long, but then he turned over and spotted food and fresh water in the basin for washing. He pulled his aching body out of bed, unable to stay mad at the servant any longer. The food was thankfully still warm. After that he gave himself a much-needed shave and dressed in his uniform with every intention of stopping by the barracks for only an hour. He had just grabbed his hat and cloak when Planchet entered the room with a note from Monsieur de Treville.
D'Artagnan cursed at the vagueness of the message but had to comply when his presence was requested. He didn't even question why it came on his scheduled day off that Treville knew about. He just hoped nothing had happened in his absence that gave cause for this summons. Training replacement officers to act in his stead hadn't been easy at first, but the boys had come a long way since those early months of uncertainty and hesitation. He had complete confidence in his men, even when that note from his superior came.
Treville's office was unusually quiet, but the secretary still bustled about as if it were any other day, coming in and out from behind the mountain of paperwork on his desk. Once he stopped and caught sight of D'Artagnan he saw him in to Treville's rooms where the captain was waiting for him. The two men greeted each other and the captain invited him to sit with him by the window-which was D'Artagnan's first clue that something was amiss. His second clue was that the captain seemed perfectly content, a bit wary, but also without any sense of formality.
"I am putting you on an indefinite leave of absence," the captain said.
D'Artagnan paled. Had he done something-
"I'm not sacking you, D'Artagnan-relax! You of all people wouldn't have a chance in hell of making that list. I was hoping you would have known that but it seems not."
"I…there is always room for improvement, Monsieur. I hastily assumed-"
"Yes, you did. I often ask your opinion of who could do with improvement, do I not?"
"You do, Monsieur," D'Artagnan said after he cleared his throat. "But might I ask why you believe this leave is needed?"
"You are working yourself into the ground, young man," Treville chastised. "Many before you, even in my day, have done the same and succumbed to their efforts in needless ways. I won't see you bear the same fate, and not just because you're the son of a dear friend. I did promise your mother and father I would look after you but I also refuse to watch any of my officers do themselves harm in the name of good for the rest of our lot. You have done your part and I would have you continue to serve your best but not until you have had rest!"
D'Artagnan was silent. It was all true, but part of him was still reluctant to accept it.
Treville folded his hands together and rested his chin on them. "Bertrand's death was a hard blow. I won't pretend to know the kind of pain you bore and still do, but your father would not want you to continue on like this. Would he?"
D'Artagnan looked away for the first time since their conversation began and tried to ignore the water that gathered in his eyes. "No, Monsieur."
"He would be very proud of you," the captain continued, softer than before. "There is no doubt in my mind about that. And there should not be any in yours. Take some time in the country and clear your head. I received a letter from Athos yesterday and he enquired about your welfare. I told him in a letter I posted this morning that he'd be able to ask you in person. He'll be expecting you before nightfall."
D'Artagnan smiled, eventhough he wanted to give Treville a healthy glare for all this work being done behind his back. Secretly, he was overjoyed at having the opportunity to see Athos again. And this time it could be on his own terms, their own terms, almost. There was some small part of him that quailed at the very idea. Could he trust himself not to give anything away to Athos, the most perceptive friend he ever knew? Could he even stay under his friend's roof and live the same lie he'd been living for the past several years? The questions alone wanted to send him running in the opposite direction.
The circumstances just weren't the same anymore. He took a risk last night, one that put a ticking clock of doom over his head. He woke this morning with answers and truth, but also with a grim realization that he had traded one decisive risk for a lifetime of them that could come without warning. It was an inevitability that D'Artagnan argued with himself for months after he rounded up the will to even start searching for love again, or something like it. Now, the consequences were real. They were no longer vague and shapeless shadows of possibility. He had asked his friends to face danger with him before, but this was something entirely new and infinitely more frightening.
And he didn't have a right to ask them this time.
This was his personal crusade and fate.
The less anyone knew, the better.
Treville stood up and went over to his desk, folding a letter that stated D'Artagnan's 'orders.' "How, where, and with whom you choose to spend your leave is entirely up to you," Treville continued. "I don't mean to choose your time or guests for you, but Blois isn't that far out of the way if you were intending to travel south and visit your family. In return for this I'll want a letter from you every week about how you're faring. Your return date will be up to me, so expect a long and well-deserved vacation."
Treville handed him the letter and D'Artagnan reluctantly put it inside his breast pocket. He let Treville escort him out the door and was told to go straight home and leave the city within the hour under threat of his own officers showing up at his doorstep to do the job themselves. D'Artagnan stayed silent and smiled politely through it all and thanked his captain. One thing he would certainly do on this unexpected leave was plan his long in coming revenge on the man. He would have ample time for it, and with Athos' help on the matter he was sure to have a sound and satisfying plan under his belt when he returned.
A/N: I'm in the middle of writing this story as well, so repostings will come quicker than updates will. I've written a bunch of little one-shots for this universe as well, but I think I may hold off on posting them until I get a bit more of this story done just for consistency's sake. More to come soon.