"He's not here again," Flea leans against the door to Constance's cubbyhole of a workspace, eating her usual breakfast: a peanut butter sandwich and coffee. It's the second morning since D'Artagnan went AWOL and Athos made his little speech, and Nobody Is Panicking. Not even a little bit.
Constance's fingers freeze in the middle of sewing the torn border on a doublet. She drops the needle. Flea takes an unconcerned sip of her coffee.
"If you wanted to, y'know, do something about that," she goes on. Constance pushes away from her desk and stands resolutely.
"I'm going to get him," she announces. "I am going to drag him here by his dick if I have to." Flea guffaws.
"Yeah, you'd be the best person to get him by his dick," she snarks.
"What the hell's that supposed to mean?" Constance glares at Flea, crossing her arms defensively. She drops them a second later, realizing she's not helping her cause by being the very picture of 'the lady doth protest too much.'
"Come on, Connie," Flea rolls her eyes. "Everyone's noticed the way he looks at you. And you're looking at him too. You're just… missing each other."
"That's all very poetic," Constance says shortly. "But I'm living in the real world where people who are interested in other people ask those people out for drinks instead of sabotaging their careers."
"Bullshit, you live in the 'real world,'" Flea scoffs. "You work in theatre."
She hops up to sit on Constance's desk. "Tell you what, when you do go and retrieve his sorry butt from wherever he is instead of working, you ask him out for drinks like women do in this century. And then punch him in the nose for making us all worry."
Constance picks up her purse. "I'm going," she says. "His address'll be on file."
"Sure," agrees Flea, nodding vigorously.
"I don't care what Athos says. Someone has to go talk to him. Convince him to come back."
"Yep."
"We'll just talk. I'm not going to hit him, or kiss him or anything else. Just talking."
"Okey-dokey." Constance shoulders her purse and marches out the door, not looking back at Flea, who is grinning wickedly.
"Don't lock out your elbow when you swing!" she shouts down the hall. Then she giggles and takes a large bite of peanut butter sandwich.
D'Artagnan's place is a walk-up, because of course it is. When Constance at last arrives at Apt. 630, she is sweaty, red-faced, and far less inclined to be friendly.
The D'Artagnan who answers the door is sleep-mussed and shirtless. This does nothing to help Constance's breath come back, and she feels even angrier.
"Constance?" he says, looking bemused. "What are you doing here?"
He has such a punchable face, she thinks. She keeps her elbow nice and relaxed when she swings.
Three minutes later they are sitting awkwardly in his kitchenette while Constance holds an ice pack to D'Artagnan's face. She is calmer now, although still pretty low-level peeved. Anyway she's realized it's probably not a good idea to give the star of the show a black eye three days before opening night, especially when it's her who'll have to spend extra time covering it up.
"So," D'Artagnan begins. "I'm guessing, despite appearances, you're here to try and convince me to come back."
"Much as I hate to admit it," she says imperiously, "and as much as I think you walking out like you did was immature and unprofessional, we do kind of need you. A lot. A lot a lot." D'Artagnan grimaces and shifts under her ministrations.
"Tell that to Athos," he says irritably. "And if you know so much, tell it to Porthos and Aramis for not defending me. If they need me they should act like it."
Constance snorts. "You can hold a grudge, can't you?"
She removes the ice and gently turns his chin so he's looking directly at her.
"If you're asking them to choose between you and Athos," she says kindly. "They'll choose Athos every time. They'll choose Athos over any of us. That's just who they are."
"Why?" D'Artagnan snaps. "Sure, he's the best at what he does, but he's an asshole. There are plenty of other assholes in the theatre world who can do a good-enough job."
"First," Constance replies, "you don't really think that about him, because everyone can tell you admire the living daylights out of him."
D'Artagnan opens his mouth to protest, but she keeps talking over him.
"And he wasn't always this way. Aramis and Porthos... they've been friends a long time."
She replaces the ice again; it's no good if his face ends up all puffy.
"Yeah, apparently," D'Artagnan says, sighing and submitting. "There's a whole thing with Milady from the Cardinal Company. I know all that."
"If you know things are more complicated then you're making them out to be, then quit being such a baby about it."
"He said – " D'Artagnan huffs and nudges the table leg with his knee. "He said I was nobody. Insinuated that I would never be anyone. And I mean I know I haven't picked the easiest of roads career-wise, but…"
"You're not nobody," Constances says fiercely. "You're just not. So that settles that."
She avoids his eyes, but she can feel his face moving under the icepack. The hum of the refrigerator is very loud. D'Artagnan doesn't have much furniture, but he's got dozens of books, stacked knee high in some corners. There are dishes in the sink and the windows are dirty, but there's a cactus on the sill. She wonders who got him that – his mother, a sister, a friend? Someone who didn't think he would remember to care for flowers or herbs? Did he buy it for himself, to spruce up the place? Suddenly she wants to know everything about his life: where does he go grocery shopping, does he have people over to watch movies on the weekends, what's his favorite author or ice cream flavor? But she forces herself to focus. The important bit of him right now is the bit she already knows: that he must come back with her, he will come back with her. He cannot be the type of person who walks away.
Constance stands, taking D'Artagnan's hand and pulling him up with her. "Come closer to the light, let me see how the bruise is developing."
"That was a hell of a hit you landed," he says, smiling crookedly down at her.
"Yes, and look what it's given me now," she replies, tapping her fingers lightly over his purpling cheekbone. "A hideously disfigured leading man. We'll have to get you a Phantom mask and all." D'Artagnan ignores her jibes.
"You're a costumer, a croissant connoisseur, you ride a motorbike, you can – ow – throw a punch like Muhammad Ali," he muses. "Is there anything you can't do?" Constance feels a tickle of pleasure in her gut and mentally shoves it away.
"Stop it," she says quietly. "I can't fix Athos. I can't save the Garrison all by myself, and I can't drag you back by your ears. I can't make the past not matter. I can't make the world work the way a musical does."
Her fingertips are still on his face as his grin fades. He doesn't say are standing close enough now she thinks he can probably hear her breathing getting shallow.
"If you won't come back for Athos," she murmurs, "come back for the rest of us. It's all of us who get hurt if the Garrison closes, not just him and Treville."
Constance steps even closer, and summoning her courage, moves her hands down to rest on his chest. It's completely impossible that she forgot he wasn't wearing a shirt until right-the-hell-now, but that's what it feels like. She tries not to remember that she knows the exact dimensions of his pecs. D'Artagnan is staring at her intently, his dark eyes roving over her features. He reaches up and lightly takes a few strands of her hair between his fingers.
"You should…" she continues, voice shaky but strong, " you should come back for me."
And then she has to throw a hand behind her and clutch frantically at the edge of the counter for support because he grabs her face and kisses her hard, lips hot and insistent on hers. She makes some kind of terribly embarrassing, desperate noise in her throat, and he backs her into the sink, pressing all the way down the length of her.
Before her knees buckle entirely, Constance manages to pull back for a second.
"Um," she pants, leaning away from D'Artagnan's mouth and trying to ignore the feeling of his thumbs skimming beneath the waistband of her jeans. "Um – wait."
He moves his hands immediately to a more chaste position on her waist.
"Sorry – sorry – shit, sorry," he says, shaking his head to clear it. This is unhelpful; his hair lands in a lovely disheveled state that makes Constance's hands itch to run through it.
"We have to – do something – maybe we shouldn't – I just thought – I mean this is – you wanted – " he makes a weak sort of gesture between the two of them, and Constance nods vigorously.
"No, of course I do – I have – it's just right now…" her eyes catch his again and she swoons slightly.
"Oh, screw it." Constance buries her eager hands in D'Artagnan's hair and drags him back down to kiss her again.