Somehow Milady/Marguerite snuck into this. Also, Treville's first name is now Jean. Please enjoy!
Chapter warnings: Torture, violence, (off-page) character death, angst, discussion of alcoholism.

F O U R

… But when it's all said and done I'd rather surrender to you in other ways

"I advise you to let me go right now," the man – hands and feet bound to a chair, blood trickling from his temple, lips split, veins standing out like thick cords on his neck, pulsating just a tick too fast – hisses, "or I will have you tortured to death." He tries not to sound afraid, but his eyes, his pale blue killer's eyes, give him away. Milady touches his dirty blond hair, the pads of her fingers prickling with tension. She gives him a cutting smile; the urge to rip, hit, choke, scratch, hurt, kill builds up inside her, letting her blood run cold and hot in quick changes, but she reigns it in. For now.

Dying light is seeping into the hotel room, through the sheer curtains, and floods the exquisite white marble floor with glowing shades of yellow and orange and red. It's almost as impressive a sight as the canopy bed that dominates the room. Whatever Rochefort had thought was going to happen here, it sure wasn't him being strapped to a chair (in such an unsexy way, tsk), at her mercy. Mercy. There is no mercy in her anymore, only hatred. And he is to find out soon. First-hand.

Luring Rochefort here had been easy, almost too easy. A pleasant smile going with a pleasant face and body – she'd made sure she was his type, blond and pure-looking, a damsel - and he'd been oh so willing to follow her. He'd even paid for the room, ironically, not knowing that he wouldn't leave it alive. She doesn't think that he knows, even now. But he's not the first one to have underestimated her. He won't be the last.

"Listen, you little bitch, if you-"

Milady clicks with her tongue, cold laughter bubbling somewhere in the back of her throat, and strikes him across the face. Hard. He flinches, pain visible in his features, clenching his teeth, and something inside Milady feels sated. Something else craves more, more.

"Here's the deal, Rochefort," she says calmly, as a calmly as the need to punish him allows her, "I will give you a swift death, if you give up your employer. If you don't... well, let's say you inspired me and I will torture you to death." The smile gracing her face is acid.

"You have no idea who you're talking to, do you?" Licking his bloody lips, he smiles, and looks at her, suddenly not irritated anymore. The way his fear is overshadowed by smugness makes Milady want to kick him, crush him like the vermin he is, squeeze his throat until the self-satisfaction fades into deadness. Until his eyes are broken. Unseeing. She wants to tell him that she knows who he is, that she knows that he'd murdered Aramis on that godforsaken ship, that he'd sent Marguerite, that it'd been his game, his set-up all along, but that she also knows that he's the blade and not the brain. She knows.

Milady steps closer, so close that their faces almost touch. She feels his breath, smells it, and something in her chest twitches, falls into place. With a low voice she says: "I don't care who you are, Rochefort. I know what you are. I know what you did to get into this position. I know what you do to keep it." Briefly, Marguerite's desperate face flashes through her mind. "It will be my pleasure to kill you."

"You won't kill me."

Milady laughs, it's loud and careless, and it scares herself in its rawness. "You are dead, Rochefort. You might as well accept it now, and it make it easier for yourself. I'll even let you choose: A single bullet or a clean cut. Whichever you prefer. But first... tell me. Who ordered you to set up my team?" Who will pay next?

Rochefort snorts. "Ask your Captain."

She hits him, then, not thinking twice about it. He laughs. Of course he'd use this tactic, of course he'd try to distract her that way. She won't be diverted. She will find out who did it and she will kill them. There's no other option.

"Who are they?" And when he doesn't answer, she repeats: "Who?"

"Let me go and I will deliver a message."

"Your dead body will be message enough."

"I'm no use to you when I'm dead. Let me go, and you will find answers. Kill me and you're dead next."

Milady's smile is sharp: "Are you threatening me?"

"I'm merely negotiating."

"You are in no position to negotiate."

"And you're in none to make me a traitor. A perfect stalemate, we have here."

Milady turns around, feeling her hair sweep around her shoulders, and picks up her purse. What looks like a spectacles case contains a lightweight knife with a thin blade. Silent, unexpected, deadly. But not today. Dawn's breaking, time flows slowly now, the beat of her heart setting the pace. It's not rushed, it's steady and determined. The soles of her bare feet connect with the marble and she feels more down-to-earth than she has in months. This is it, then.

"I want you to know what it feels like," she tells Rochefort as she takes off her silk scarf – it's as weightless as the knife, fluid and airy at the same time -, and gags him. The thought of cutting his vocal chords has crossed her mind, but she doesn't want to take the risk to cause a wound that would kill him quicker than she intended. They won't hear him anyway. Nobody will hear in time.

He bled. To... to death. I think that's- He was bleeding out. D'Artagnan's voice, small and numb and breaking, faer eyes distant and lifeless. Porthos' devastated sobs. Athos' dead silence. Her heart turning into an infinite abyss.

"Have you ever wondered," she asks, "how long it takes to die from blood loss?" The tip of her knife dances down Rochefort's throat ever so lightly. "I'm not talking about slitting a main artery, though. You've lost that chance. I'm talking about... something that requires more impact."

Rochefort is struggling against the bonds. There's panic in his eyes – finally -, and this is everything she wished for. She wants him to suffer. She wants him to know that he'll bleed out and that there's nothing he can do to fight off his fate. She wants him to die alone, in the setting sun, in an impersonal hotel room. She wants him to feel what Aramis felt. What she's felt since his death.

Revenge screams in her head.

Stabbing Rochefort in the gut – twice, maybe hitting the liver, maybe not, it doesn't matter, he will suffer and die – calms the blazing hatred. The blade goes through his flesh easily, hot blood soaking his shirt, and he makes a noise of pain in the back of his throat. His eyes, swimming in unshed tears, accuse her of being cruel.

Her hands shake, yet her voice doesn't: "I will find your employer and I will destroy them. Isn't it comforting to know that your master will be reunited with you soon? Because it's the only comfort I can offer you, pet."

Rochefort's breathing is heavy, pained, and he looks at her like he wants to tear her apart with his bare hands. She takes it in, the sight of him dying in front of her, feeding the greedy abyss in her chest, before she proceeds to collect her things as if she has all the time in the world. She does, somehow. The room's rented for another 12 hours.

Milady walks out, putting on her sunglasses, hiding her face under the oversized hat, carrying her shoes and her purse in her hand. The door clicks shut. She leaves a last present for Rochefort, puts it carefully and with cool satisfaction on the doorhandle: 'Please do not disturb.'

Marguerite's body is warm, her touch soft, and her lips trace the shape of her neck. She whispers: "I'm glad you're alive and he's dead." And if her voice is any indicator, she's weeping. Tears that Milady doesn't have in her. After the rush of adrenaline and satisfaction... she's empty. She's so empty. But she lets herself fall into Marguerite's embrace, trying to push away Rochefort's allegations, trying to not doubt Treville's involvement – and failing.

Rochefort is – was - a puppet. There has to be a puppeteer. And if Treville's the key... so be it. She owes it to Aramis – to Porthos, d'Artagnan, Athos, herself – to find the truth.

It's too late to stop now.

She cut her hair short and dyed it back to a dark brown with Marguerite's help. Not that she'd needed help, but it was... nice. Like they got closure. Marguerite sparked something inside her that she'd thought dead, and wasn't that ironic after she'd initially sought her out to kill her for baiting them with the ship mission? Who she found was not a culprit, nobody who deserved death by her hands, but a companion. A lover. An almost-friend.

Marguerite who'd she told 'tu me manques ' and meant it. But she can't stay, restlessness keeps her awake at night and memories drive her to do something. To act. To move on. To leave.

And so she does.

As a parting gift, Marguerite gives her a golden cross on a golden necklace. An overloaded, ugly thing, an insult to the eye, honestly. Milady can't breathe, she thinks she'd cry, but she can't. It is Aramis' cross, the one he always gave to clients. 'For credibility' , he'd say with a wink, but what it actually meant was 'for faith, I promise you we will be back'.

Aramis' cross. His promise. She has it back.

After that, there are no words left. She kisses Marguerite, one last time, and takes a taxi to the airport.

Now she waits for her flight. She travels with hand luggage only, and somwhere in the depths of her bag are the things Athos left her. The temptation to go back... no.

Milady breathes in pointedly, closes her eyes, and sends the ghosts away. She doesn't miss home. She's her own home, she doesn't need anybody else, never has, because solitude is her second nature. This isn't solitude, a treacherous voice whispers, this is loneliness…

She picks at the skin of her thumb, angry at herself. So what if she's lonely? It will pass. It has always passed.

Treville's private home is on the town's edge, close enough to the city core to be convenient, far enough from it to live in 'peace and quiet', as he puts it himself. It's small and ordinary, the perfect place to pretend to be a lawful citizen. As if.

There is no obvious alarm as Milady trespasses and enters the house. The smell of freshly ground coffee fills the air. Coffee's for Treville what expensive liquor is for other people. What alcohol of any kind used to be for Athos. They're both prone to addiction, it must run in the family. Maybe it's better that she never had a child with Athos. Maybe it's better that she never had a child, period. Who knows what would've become of it. A criminal like her, like Porthos - or Aramis. She pushes the thought away, violently, and follows the blurred noise of either a TV or a radio.

The infamous Gentleman Thief (named so by the media that loved him and still does, even after his alleged retirement), called The Puppeteer by both colleagues and rivals, code-named Captain (by his team and his team only, which is a permanent sting in her chest), sits on the sofa and watches TV. It's a match-making show, something trivial Treville enjoys above everything else, but as he hears her, he turns it off.

"Milady."

"Jean."

He gets up, leaning visibly on his cane – made from dark wood, the handle silvery in the shape of a horse's head that could be pulled out and reveal a stiletto -, and his stance matches his gentleman persona. The wrinkles around his eyes and mouth deepen as he smiles. It's warm and seems honest.

"I'm happy you're back. How have you been faring in Argentina?"

"I'm not in the mood to exchange pleasantries."

"I see. Can I offer you something?"

"Actually, you can. Offer me the truth." Milady tries not to sound too accusing, too hurt, as she continues: "Why did Aramis' killer tell me to ask you about his employer?"

Her question seems to catch him by surprise – and it's either a perfect display of his acting skills or it's a genuine reaction, she can't tell -, and his face falls, darkens, shuts her out. His voice is even, when he speaks: "Are you implying that I worked against you to... get you all killed?"

"I'm not implying anything. I'm asking. Politely."

"And I have to tell you, politely, that I don't know what you're talking about. Who told you this nonsense, in first place?"

"A certain Rochefort. I caught him. I asked about his employer. He told me to ask, and I quote, my Captain. How does he know of your code-name? I thought." Her throat is tight. "Didn't only we know? Who else did you tell?"

"Milady..." Treville looks shocked, and like he's disappointed or angry. Or both. Hah, if anyone has the right to be angry, it's her. Not him. "You have to tell me what you did."

"What did you do?"

"This is serious! Stop playing games and tell me what you did. Do I look like I'm joking?"

Milady's heart beats too fast and fury makes her blood boil, and she comes closer to Treville. "How dare you treat me like a child who's behaved badly? Aramis is dead. You don't care. None of you cared. So I took matters into my own hands, and I found his killer. I let Rochefort bleed out in a hotel room and I'll do the same to anyone who was involved." Her chest hurts, it hurts. "And if you're involved, Jean, so God help you for I will kill you too."

"Anne-"

"Don't call me that. Don't . You might've been my father-in-law, I might've admired you, but if you betrayed us, if you..." If you got Aramis killed. "There's nothing in the world that can stop me from killing you. And if it's the last thing I do."

Treville pinches the bridge of his nose and shakes his head. "You're out of your mind. You should take your leave. Please, go."

"Don't worry, I won't stay. But I will know the truth. I will ." Fighting back tears, she turns around, and rushes out of the house. And you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free, says a voice that sounds like Aramis'. His cross weighs heavy on her skin.

She cries.

Call it sentimentality, desperation, hell, call it habit, but Milady finds Athos in rehab a few days later. She slips in through one of the back entrances (they're secured, but not well enough for someone like her), not drawing attention, looking for Athos among the strange faces.

She is exhausted, sad, unbearably sad, and too scared to go back to Porthos and d'Artagnan on her own. She's also scared of Treville. Of what he'll do, now that she pointed her finger at him and straight-up told him that she'd kill him if need be. This is what a hunted animal must feel like. She feels so helpless that she can't put it into words. And she hates it.

When she spots Athos, they are sitting in a circle with other people, looking at a fixed point at the wall, talking calmly. Milady knows it's their last day – the last of fourty in total -, and she feels like an intruder, but she also can't not listen to them.

"I came here because my partner asked me to. It was the right choice, I was spiralling down into... a mess. Again. I didn't want help, at first, but I was in dire need of it. My best friend... He died. I didn't cope. I've been dry for five years before it happened. My ex wife, she was the reason I went to rehab the first time. I didn't want to throw it away, but I wanted to be numb more. And alcohol always worked in the past." Athos shrugs. "I miss getting wasted. I know it's part of the deal, the craving, and I know it will be better eventually, but it's hard. I hope I can work it out, this time. If I fail again it's not for a lack of trying, this much I can promise, though."

Their little speech is followed by nodding, patting their shoulder, words of encouragement. Milady witnesses it, on the verge of tears, not quite following, and then suddenly the group breaks up, says goodbye to Athos. Then, they are alone.

She steps into their sight, and Athos looks happy, as if she hadn't abandoned them all, and they pull her into an embrace. "You have amazing timing."

"It's one of my better qualities," she whispers, smiling through her tears. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have come here. I was..." Desperate. Lonely. Hopeless. Pathetic. "I missed you."

"You're lucky, I'm about to check out of this establishment. There are some formalities I have to get done first, but then... I'm going home."

Milady bites her lip, silent, keeping her eyes shut.

"Can I take you home, too?", Athos asks softly.

And against her better judgment, against everything, she nods. They kiss, out of habit and affection and longing, and it's tender, welcoming, safe. For the first time since Aramis' death Milady doesn't feel the need to run.

She's going home.