Never and Always
Chapter 4
She doesn't come back the next day, though; instead, a message shows up in the early evening, delivered by a scrawny ragged child who keeps looking over at Porthos with undisguised awe. After the child has gone again, Athos breaks the seal and unfolds the note - two sheets, one blank and the other containing only the briefest of messages. Husband, she has written, I must beg your forgiveness for being unavoidably detained this eve, on account of a mutual friend. But if you meet me tomorrow at sundown at La Petite Chaise, I swear upon my soul to repay your kind indulgence. It's signed your loving wife, and while he's sure it's to throw off anyone who happened to open the missive, it makes his mouth twist and his chest ache all the same.
The second sheet confuses him, and so he folds it back inside the letter and tucks both into his doublet. When he rejoins Porthos and d'Artagnan, both give him quizzical looks. Athos receiving letters is rare enough; even after Pinon him reading them, much less immediately, is far less common.
"Just Anne," he says, by way of an explanation.
D'Artagnan's eyes narrow as he scowls. "I don't understand why you're trusting her - why the captain's trusting her. She's a snake."
It's not something he can answer readily, when he's still asking himself the same. Anne's changed since they forced her out of Paris last year, and though Athos can't point to exactly what it is that convinced him (perhaps that moment when Catherine had pushed, though he suspects that instant was only confirmation of things he had already decided but not admitted to himself), he believes that she truly wants to change. It's something he's wanted too, though not for the same reasons. Maybe he believes because he wants to think they both can.
"Captain's got his reasons," Porthos says though, before he can find a reply. "Both of 'em. Question becomes whether you can trust them, really, not her." When Athos glances over at him sharply, more than a little surprised, Porthos shrugs. "There's plenty of folk who can come from bad ends and still make good."
D'Artagnan subsides with a faint grumble. Athos can understand his reservations, particularly in light of Constance's interactions with Anne, but the decision is made, and if he wants to learn to be a good soldier d'Artagnan will have to accept it. "At least she got Aramis out," he admits, if grudgingly.
She had - even if it was because she knew what the man means to him (or some even more arcane reason) rather than because it was the right thing to do, the thought warms him. And yet she'd stood there and watched coldly while Treville was shot in the back. Sometimes he doesn't understand her at all.
He reaches back into his doublet, pulls out the letter and hands over the blank page. Better to steer the conversation away from this subject. "Any guesses as to what this might be?" And truth be told, he's genuinely unsure.
"Besides something to drive us all to confusion?" d'Artagnan mutters, but he takes the page and studies it closely. After a moment he frowns, dipping his head to sniff the paper. "Huh. Did she start using orange blossoms instead of forget-me-nots?"
Athos thinks back to that exchange in the stables, the familiar floral perfume filling his senses when she'd forced him back against the wall, and can only shake his head. Even after five years he'd recognised its distinctive scent; he has no doubts he'd notice if she'd changed it. The observation means more to Porthos, though, who snatches the paper out of d'Artagnan's fingers and makes for the stairs.
"It's an old trick," he explains when they catch up to him. He finishes lighting the candle on the desk before taking the paper up again, holding it a careful distance away. Both Athos and d'Artagnan watch, baffled, as he shifts it carefully, closer and closer in minute increments, until he seems to find the correct distance. Minutes pass in silence before he gives a gleeful, "Ha!" And, when d'Artagnan makes a questioning sound, "We used to use onions for this, when I was a kid, but the man who taught us showed us with lemon. It's for passing messages so no one can read 'em easily." As he speaks, he continues to shift the page, working slowly from the top down to the bottom. "Looks like it's in code?"
"Probably," Athos concedes; after all, she'd mentioned using the cipher for her summaries.
"So you'll deal with that, then. And I suppose that means she's keeping her end up, so all's good." A little frown of concentration knits his brows together. "How much longer before we move out, Athos?"
It's not any of the questions he might have anticipated. D'Artagnan looks over at him, an eager gleam in his eyes, and Athos fights the urge to sigh. Of course their pup is restless; he hasn't seen the true depths of war. That enthusiasm makes him suddenly feel decades older. "Treville wants to move the infantry out first, with the scouts as support. The artillery still needs another week to be completely ready; the heavier pieces will go with the infantry, but supplies are going to have to come in a second group. That'll be us and the cavalry as escort. Ten days at the earliest, two weeks at most."
The other two exchange a glance; this time it's d'Artagnan who speaks. "We're missing someone."
He's been wondering when the subject will come up. "Aramis made his choice. It's not our place to judge him."
The younger man's hands fist at his sides. Porthos snorts. "How can he make a choice if he doesn't know the things he's picking between?"
There's a point there, and while Athos means what he said, not judging doesn't make him miss his brother any less. Looking at the other two, he's well aware they feel the same. And Porthos has a point; Aramis made an oath to defend his country before he ever contemplated the holy orders. It's not their place to decide, any more than it is to judge. "Four days," he says. "With him or without him. I can't spare you both any longer than that. Pack tonight and get on the road at first light before I regret my decision."
~ x ~
He's already there when she gets to the tavern just past sunset, ensconced at a corner table with a good view with a good view of the door, turned so his back is to the wall. It makes her smile despite herself; soldier or spy, some habits are clearly the same. He rises as she picks her way across the busy common room, takes her hand and bends over it briefly before letting her slip past him and onto the bench opposite. The gesture, especially the brush of his lips against her gloved fingers, confuses her for a moment until she remembers the tone of yesterday's note. Of course; only a deception would make him openly demonstrative now.
"My lady," he murmurs, but his gaze is focussed on the wine he's pouring for her and she can't begin to guess at his thoughts. By the time he looks back up, his eyes are opaque again. "I trust your meeting was worth the delay?"
She strips off her gloves before accepting the mug he slides across to her, takes refuge in drinking to give herself a moment to frame her thoughts. He's setting the tone for tonight's interaction; it's not quite what she'd expected, so she's having to recalibrate - and god knows he's proving adept at putting her off-balance, intentionally or otherwise.
"Well worth it," she says finally. It's nothing less than the truth. "She had a great deal on the newest fashions from abroad - I shall have to show you the sketches later, so you can help me decide which will suit best." Coquettishly lowered lashes and a slightly wicked note in her voice will leave any listeners with no doubt as to her reasons for wanting him alone later - but Athos being Athos, she's certain he'll register the excuse for what it is.
They banter through the meal, which is perhaps a little faster than is altogether seemly - but after all, who can fault a couple reunited after time apart? She flirts a little more than strictly necessary, just to watch his jaw tighten, because she's determined to enjoy this while it lasts and he deserves it for throwing her off at the start. She's no fool; this interlude, pleasant as it's proving to be, will end all too soon when France marches for war. Best to get as much as she can out of it. That's always been her course for surviving.
"I trust you're not intending to abandon me right away," he says as they head out into the street, and she slants him a sharp look. His eyes are on the street rather than on her, his expression as bland as ever. "We've a great deal to discuss, after all."
The innuendo is only for the act, only because of the framing of this conversation. It shouldn't make her think of sunlit fields or cramped hidden rooms when she should be focussed on whether anyone is watching them. She takes a steadying breath, laughs soft and low and not trembling in the least. "Why would I run, my lord?" she replies, careful non-answer clothed in easy words. They both know her response isn't just about fooling the people around them, though.
They both know she's not - never has been - the one who ran. If she had, she wouldn't have come back to Paris, not in the spring and not now.
Nearly back at the garrison, she realises there are still eyes on them. It seems one of their tails isn't convinced by the act, perhaps knows too much to be fooled. She tightens her fingers where they're tucked into the crook of his arm in wordless warning and steers him to one side of the street, ostensibly to peer at a carved chest displayed behind an iron grate.
"What -?"
"Watcher," she hisses.
His mouth tightens further for an altogether different reason, and then he murmurs an apology. Before she has time to ask why, he's backed her into the shadows at the mouth of an alley, one hand braced beside her head and the other cupping her jaw as he kisses her.
It's a shock, unexpected even with the tension spawned from tonight's interplay. She knows why he's doing it - lending credence to their seeming may drive the last eyes away, or at least convince them this is nothing more complicated than a reunion between lovers - and yet she can't help responding, mouth opening to his, body pliant where he leans into her, fingers coming up to delve into his hair. It would be too easy to forget it's meant as a sham, especially with the attraction that crackles between them in every moment, but god, now is not the time -
He tears his mouth from hers, presses it to her neck instead, asks, "Still there?" in a low tense voice that vibrates against her skin.
Her head falls back against the stone, half-lidded eyes scanning the area. There's a flicker of shadow above, a faint scrape of foot against slate. "Leaving," she whispers against his lips as she tugs his head back up to hers, leaving just enough room to speak. "Not quite gone."
Another kiss; she forces herself to concentrate on the signs even as the warmth of his body and the scent of leather and gunpowder threaten to fill her senses. It's sound alone now, scarcely audible as the footsteps recede, but when they fade into silence she uses the fingers wound in his hair to pull his head back. She's pretty sure they're not still being watched, but she's not entirely willing to trust her senses right now. It's important to frame what needs to happen within the context of this encounter, and so she just meets his eyes (ignoring, because she can't afford to notice right now, the way they've darkened). "Not here," she says firmly, this time at a more normal volume.
He steps back, rakes a hand through his hair to restore some order to the tousled locks. For a moment she can see him thinking, no doubt weighing what just occurred against the hypothetical information she has for him and the possibility of watchers still there, and then he offers her his arm again. "Forgive me, my lady."
She doesn't look at him at first, studiously intent on setting herself back to rights. The words are weighted with deeper meaning; how can she reply? But pretence demands she respond, and so when she looks up it's with a smile curving her mouth, softness and sharp edges. "We can discuss that later," she murmurs, and tucks her fingers back into the crook of his arm.
Endnotes: La Petite Chaise is an actual Parisian restaurant, originally opened in 1680 as a wine merchant's tavern . Partner in crime found it for me when I asked for a name for an inn or tavern, and given Athos' drinking habits I couldn't pass it up. So it'll just have to open a bit earlier (or lend its name to the place here) ...
Orange juice (or any other acidic juice) is an actual invisible ink (I think d'Artagnan can be forgiven for confusing it with the flowers by smell alone). It's far from the most secure, but that plus a cipher seemed good enough, and it's more to be unobtrusive than truly secure. It's also something Anne could obtain readily and without arousing suspicion.
Bonus amusement: in this time period, orange blossoms would've been used as a flower for brides, stemming from an older association of them with innocence, purity and chastity. Just as well Aramis isn't around when d'Artagnan asks about it, since if anyone would snicker knowingly it would be him. (That was entirely accidental; I didn't know that association until I looked it up afterwards.)
I have a thing for Milady referring to Athos as 'husband', something that's half epithet and half stealth endearment. (It also seems like something he wouldn't quite know how to react to, which would be an attractive fringe benefit.)
This one ... didn't go where I had expected, and I'm actually pretty nervous about posting it. That's always fun.
