d'Artagnan turned away from Milady as he heard Constance's approaching footsteps, and she felt some of the tension in her chest ease.
"What did she want?" she asked, trying, and failing, to keep her voice light.
d'Artagnan noted it: "She just gave me the money. So I can compete."
The tension rose up again, now ten times its original potency. "You shouldn't have taken it."
He raised a brow, wrapping the drawstring of the bag Milady had given him tightly around its opening.
"Don't worry I can handle her."
"You sure about that?" Merde. The doubt in Constance's voice was as evident as the midday sun. She wished she could take back what her mouth had said – and the way the offending facial feature had said it – the moment she saw her love's eyes shift.
Those damnable dog-pup eyes softened, and d'Artagnan reached out a hand to caress her cheek. "Ehhh, there's no need to be jealous…"
Constance would have none of that. "There's no need to be an idiot!" she snapped, and she batted his hand away. The tension and the fear that had been swelling in her since she'd seen d'Artagnan talking with Milady on the street had been splintering inside and rising up. Constance regretted it the moment she let it escape her.
d'Artagnan looked off down the street, then back to her, the softness in his eyes eaten up by hurt. "Who else is just going to walk up and hand me thirty livre?" he demanded.
Constance felt all those little splinters sink into her stomach and reform into something heavy. As heavy as the cold and worn coins she had clasped by her side in a fist.
"No one," she conceded. It was better than conceding that she would have happily scrounged up forty, sixty, ninety livre for him if it meant he was one step closer to achieving his dream.
d'Artagnan stalked away with a frustrated flick of his arm. Constance held the coins out in front of her, hardly able to look at them. She had been so looking forward to giving them to her love – she wanted to demonstrate how much he meant to her, how much his dreams were her dreams for him, how much she believed in him – but what did she have now that Milady DeWinter had gotten there first? Who could she gift the difficultly-acquired coins to now, now that her jealousy had made it impossible to show them to d'Artagnan?
No one.
"Flirtation? I love you…"
"But I don't love you." Constance felt the pain behind every word she said as if it were ripping through her innards. d'Artagnan's confused, taken aback, and disbelieving face made it all that much worse.
He balked: "If this is about Milady DeWinter…."
"You should go to her." She forced the words out. "You'll be needing a rich mistress now." She didn't know how, but she managed to keep them coming. "You've got nothing." Breathe, Constance, breathe. She held his gaze, even as everything within her cried out in protest. "Perhaps Milady will look after you."
"I don't want her! I don't want her, I want you…" he took a step forward, looking all the world like a man whose small world was coming down about his shoulders. Constance felt just the same and more. She was, after all, the one supervising the deconstruction.
She flinched away from d'Artagnan as he stepped closer. "I was tempted, I'll admit that. But I can't risk my future for you." He looked down and away. God spare me, Constance begged, as the tears began to well in d'Artagnan's eyes (those melty eyes that she loved so well.) She too had to break her eye contact. Water was pricking behind her blues at an alarming rate. "I have far too much to lose." Constance was unable to keep control of her voice any longer either; it betrayed her as she thought of all she was actually losing right this minute.
d'Artagnan nodded brusquely, still gazing at the floor. "I'm sure you've made the right decision." She nodded as well, once, swallowing the tears that threatened in the face of his own, and the tough act he was desperately trying to maintain. She knew him well enough to see through his efforts. But Constance had to make sure no one could see through hers, not even her love.
The young man continued on, and Constance wished he wouldn't. "What use is love compared to money?" She thought her legs might give out from underneath her, and slightly swayed, but maintained her upright position. Surely this is what a slow death feels like. She somehow managed to stare blankly at him and not blurt out her pain.
d'Artagnan clenched his eyes shut in an effort to stem the tears. "Thank you for helping me see things more clearly," he breathed, then strode out the room before Constance could see him break down.
Her sobs finally rose, and she threw a tight hand over her mouth lest they should call d'Artagnan back to her. She could not have d'Artagnan come back for her, because she would not be strong enough to send him away again. She could not have her would-be soldier return because that would spell imminent danger for him.
She could not have him hear her cries, so Constance clamped her hand over her mouth. She re-covered her mouth even when the cries took over more and she had to release it for a moment to breathe.
Who would hear her? Who could she dare afford to have hear her?
No one.
Why do I do this to myself?
Anyway, this is my first quick foray into BBC's The Musketeers fandom. This is not a submission for any competition or challenge, nor is it my best work (far from it actually.) But, I was inspired last weekend as I was watching the episode in question - a personal favourite of mine even despite all the pain, and I thought I would post this quick insight into Constance's thoughts throughout the ep. I adore her, and she and d'Artagnan are too precious for this world.
So here's a little angst for y'all on this fine Sunday morning. Hope you enjoyed it. Reviews are always appreciated, even if you didn't enjoy it - I would love to hear how you feel I could improve.
Ciao!