Just something that came to my mind yesterday after rewatching Musketeers. Set somewhere after season one.
In London at night
She came in the evening, just when the wine he drunk made him relax, but not yet sluggish and incoherent. She found him in one of the hundreds of the London inns, looking just like any other, where the inside air was thick from smoke and people, where the food was cheap and equally poor quality, and where the storerooms were ruled by rats.
When she sat down by his table, so freely as if she had left a moment ago and was returning now, playing with her dagger, at first he thought he had drunk much more than he acknowledged, or maybe the local wine was stronger or poisonous. Because it couldn't be true, it wasn't happening. She, he, them - they were never to see each other again.
"We're not in Paris," she said freely, smile playing on her full lips. The dagger, pointed against the table, swirled between her skilful fingers. "Shall we have a temporary truce? I stay away from Paris and France, just like you asked."
He kept silent. He couldn't understand why she came here, why she had found him. If she could move around London like she used to know Paris, then she could easily learn about the musketeers' visit in the city. By why would she fatigue herself to meet him? Just so she could torment him?
"Won't you say anything?" Not a disappointment yet, just a flirtation, a frolicsome smile, a sparkle in her eyes, something he had so much missed in his dreams, when he dreamt of her as a murderer and an assassin. God, why did he still love her so much? And now... Now she was sitting here and talking so naturally and openly, as if he had just came home from the fields, as if they had seen each other this morning, had breakfast...
His glass was empty, the liquid gleamed at the bottom of the bottle, but he couldn't force himself to move and reach it, pour his glass and break the spell. Because if he were sane and sober, he wouldn't be able to just sit there and look at the woman who had destroyed his life, would he? Could he?
"You're silent. Don't you really have anything to tell me?" A hint of disappointment, the swirling dagger stopped in its movement. "You don't have my locket." Disappointment, hurt, the corners of her lips dropped, she's not smiling anymore.
He doesn't know when he reaches for her narrow hand, placed casually on the handle. Her long, pale fingers, so warm and alive, so much missed...
"Ann..."
Her name is a prayer and a curse. One move, the dagger falls and hits the floor with a clatter, somewhere in the corner a rat runs behind the barrels, frightened by the noise. The fingers stick together, her little hands disappearing in his desperate grip, the bottle rolls on the table, their lips meeting in a kiss...
"You know it won't work," he whispers, leaning back for a moment. "There is no future life and peace for us," he says that out loud, though the words barely manage to escape his tightly knotted throat. He wants to forget, to hide memories, to enjoy this moment...
"Just for tonight," she answers and draws him closer, her hand reaching his chest, looking for the locket. She doesn't find it, just plays with her fingers, as if in hope that she would find the long abandoned paillette. "Tomorrow you will go back to your musketeers. The truce, just for tonight," she proposes, begs, demands.
He lost that battle, he knows it when their lips meet again. The glass joins the dagger on the floor, in thousands of pieces spreading around, shining in the wobbly candle light. The other customers in the inn look at them with understanding and indulgence. But they don't exist, like there is no inn, no regiment, no France. It's only her, in the scarlet so different from the blue of her forget-me-nots, so familiar and foreign, so much loved and hated.
He doesn't know when they make it to the room, how they make it, bounded, weaved, surrounded by the scent of jasmine and non-existent forget-me-nots. The truce for one night, that's all he gets, that's what they give each other. And only so much.
The inn is dirty, with rats playing in the storeroom and cockroaches running by their feet. The bed in the dingy room has never been so good and comfortable.
He wakes in the morning, numb and cold, alone in the bed, with a large cockroach attached to the pillow by a familiar looking dagger. A truce for one night.
He throws the insect on the floor, kicks it under the bed. The dagger he takes and hides under his belt.
The night was only a dream. Tomorrow brings oblivion.