Notes:
Well Constance is back! Hope you're all ready for what's coming next...
Blood Bond
Chapter 12
Athos just looked at the young woman for a moment. He attempted to collect his thoughts which were currently running riot.
Constance could suddenly feel her stomach twist, her mind searching for what this could possibly be about.
"We…" Athos scrubbed a hand through his hair, blowing out a frustrated breath, "Constance, I swear to you we didn't know. We didn't lie, we didn't… We just didn't know…"
Constance could feel her heart begin to thud, to hammer against her chest.
"Athos, Athos just tell me. Please."
Athos was many things, but Constance had never seen the man tongue tied. Athos was never flustered. His hand slipped from his hair downward, rubbing across his forehead with a sigh.
"Athos!"
"Just –" He turned, grabbing the door knob and tugging the heavy door open, "- come here. Please." He beckoned her through the gap, into the observation room. Athos kept his hand pressed into the small of her back, guiding her forward towards a large window which took up half the long wall. She looked up at Athos questioningly, who just nodded, walking her forward.
The two figures beyond the glass came into focus as they approached. A doctor in a white coat, asking questions and writing various notes on a clipboard. The patient sat on the bed, his back against the hospital wall, a hand anchored in his dirty, dark hair. The pair were talking, Constance couldn't hear the words but could tell by the way his shoulders moved up and down. Constance stepped forward, this time of her own accord. Athos' warm hand left the small of her back as he let her go. Constance reached the glass. The man's face was hidden by his hair.
But the way his shoulders slanted forward, the way the figure brought his leg up and rested his chin on his knee… It reminded her of…
Suddenly Constance's knees could no longer support her weight.
It couldn't be.
There was no way.
A year. It had been a year of tears and mourning and visits to the grave and –
Constance would have hit the ground if Athos' arms hadn't caught her around the waist.
"It's him…" He murmured, his mouth close to her ear, "It's really him."
Athos held onto Constance without complaint, even as his bad arm protested, until he was sure Constance was ready to stand on her own again.
"It's okay…"
"He's dead… Aramis, Captain Treville… They said he was killed in the explosion!" Constance murmured, her eyes still glued to the figure on the bed. He offered up a horrendously scarred arm to the doctor, who began poking and prodding at the angry skin.
"We thought he was. That was the point, we were supposed to. They left a body for us to find, made us think d'Artagnan was dead so we wouldn't look for him, wouldn't search…"
"Who?" Constance's mouth felt dry.
Athos hesitated a moment. The man who was behind this wouldn't be a simple name to Constance. She'd know the man, know the legacy of what he was capable of. Part of Athos was tempted not to tell her, but then, he reasoned, Constance had been lied to enough.
"Richelieu," Athos admitted finally, "The Guard had him…"
The sound which tore from Constance was a whine crossed with a howl, a heart breaking cry of a woman who knew full well the implication behind those words. Constance knew what that man was capable of, had seen the after effects of torture which Richelieu had handed down. Not often, but enough. Once one of the whores in the Silver Room had been caught attempting to contact the police… Richelieu had made every girl in the brothel watch as he'd, disciplined, the poor girl. Constance could still hear the scream as Richelieu had put a bullet through a knee cap.
She didn't realise she was being hugged tightly until Athos spoke again. His deep voice vibrated in his chest, tickling along her temple.
"We got it wrong," Athos admitted, "We swallowed the lies we were fed. We believed it all and d'Artagnan paid the price. But he's alive Constance… He's alive."
Once Constance was sure she could breath again she pushed back from Athos, wiping a hand firmly under her eyes. Despite a sizable part of her worrying that d'Artagnan would disappear if her looked away for a second, she glanced back to Athos. A question formed on her lips, her stomach curling uncomfortably at what the answer may be.
"How long have you known?"
Athos hesitated, "At first I couldn't have been sure, and then there were complications so we couldn't –"
"Athos," Constance's current mood held no patience for anything but the truth, "How long?"
Air whispered out of the older man as his hand rubbed tiredly over his brow.
"I've suspected for 4 days but –"
The sharp, swift crack of a slap against Athos' face shattered the tense silence in the little room. Athos took a surprised step back, his hand reaching up to cover his cheek which was fast becoming a heated pink shade.
"Am I supposed to have deserved that?"
"4 days and you tell me now!" Constance hissed, her gaze hot and piercing against Athos' blue eyes.
"I realise you feel like we should have-"
But Constance was done listening. She turned back to the glass, taking in the man in front of her all over again. "I want to see him."
Athos nodded, rubbing at his still warm cheek, "And you can. Soon. But first I need to explain some things, they're important."
"Then do it." With d'Artagnan so close, she wasn't willing to wait a moment longer than necessary.
"d'Artagnan…" Athos let his eyes flicker from Constance's face to the face of d'Artagnan through the window, "He's been to hell and back. The last year has left its mark. d'Artagnan is back and that's a miracle, but he's not unscathed…"
"Here?"
"Minimal…"
Lemay's finger tips slid down the scarred skin, from his elbow onto his forearm.
"Here?"
"Minimal…."
And onto his wrist.
"And here?"
"Nothing."
Lemay nodded sadly. He withdrew gentle hand from his the younger man's wrist. d'Artagnan watched as the doctor noted something down on his chart.
"The scarring is extensive," Lemay murmured, but of course d'Artagnan already knew that, "Your mobility is excellent considering, but the sensitivity will likely never return. There are therapies which may help any area which still retains over fifty percent of nerve endings but…"
d'Artagnan shrugged, withdrawing his arm. He tugged his leg a little higher and rested his chin on the kneecap.
"I figured as much."
Lemay settled his clip board on his lap, "Your shoulder wound, however, is healing well."
d'Artagnan just nodded, "What's one more scar..?"
The doctor, suddenly, seemed to be very interested his observation notes. d'Artagnan thought he should feel guilty, but couldn't summon the emotion.
The swish of the observation door was a grateful distraction for both men. They turned their attention to Athos, who stood in the doorway with a tight smile. His eyes lingered on d'Artagnan for a moment, before they slide across to Lemay.
"Forgive the interruption, Doctor. Is there any way I can borrow our friend here?"
"Of course," To be honest Lemay looked relieved to be excused. He gathered his clipboard, offered a kind smile to d'Artagnan and slipped from the room by the door opposite.
d'Artagnan frowned at his friend, confusion creasing his brow at the curious expression on his friend's face.
"Are you feeling up to a visitor?"
Suddenly d'Artagnan's mouth felt dry. His fingers tightened on thin air, his skin, even the unburned, suddenly feeling impossibly tight.
"Is… Is she…?"
Athos nodded slowly. He watched as d'Artagnan's hand traced nervously along his scarred arm, eyes flicking back nervously to the one way glass. To where Constance would be…
"I think she'd like to see you."
There was a part, a surprisingly sizable part, which urged d'Artagnan to tell Athos no, to change his mind and send her away. Because refusing to see her would hurt less than a rejection. Hurt less than watching the love he remembered that angel's eyes die as she took in the man he was now. How broken he was now. She had promised to love the man he had been, not the monster he'd been turned into.
But… d'Artagnan wasn't a coward. He'd faced Rochefort and gun fights and fire and Richelieu… He could face this.
"Okay…" d'Artagnan forced the word out of his mouth, dropping his feet off the bed and onto the floor. His elbows rested on his thighs. He couldn't help but look back down to the thick, angry skin which covered his arm. Now or never… "I'd like to see her."
Athos nodded. He moved back, carefully as not to let the door shut behind him and muttered something. There was a pause and then d'Artagnan watched his friend and mentor step back, making room.
His heart hammered, threatening to explode against his chest as the squeak of trainers on the tiled floor approached.
d'Artagnan knew he wasn't ready, there was no way he'd ever be ready, but he realised just how ill-prepared he was as the small woman appeared in the doorway.
She was more beautiful than d'Artagnan remembered. Pale, with wild dark hair which curled, framing her face and tumbling down past her shoulders. She was slight and graceful, even in dark wash jeans, a thick knit sweater and converses. Her light eyes caused an explosion of memories inside d'Artagnan's mind, of smiles and kisses and promises and…
Love.
This was going to hurt so much more.
For a moment d'Artagnan just swallowed, eyes stuck on the woman in front of him. Words he could say, wanted to say, were swirling in his head, English words mixing and swirling with Russian, rolling together until he it was difficult pick individual thoughts apart.
"Can we…" Constance swallowed, her hands twitching the edge of her sweater, "Can we have some privacy?"
But Athos shook his head, "I'm sorry… Treville's orders."
"It's probably for the best…" d'Artagnan muttered, his eyes finally dropping to his hands. They balled themselves into fists, "Wouldn't want me to attack someone again."
Constance would find out anyway… Why wait? Why prolong the inevitable?
"d'Artagnan…" Athos voice was hard with warning. d'Artagnan ignored it.
"What Athos? Didn't you tell her about how I held a knife to your throat?" The words were spat at the floor. Once they started d'Artagnan found it impossible to stop. "What about how Porthos had to shoot me to get me of you? Or about how Richelieu turned me into his pet? How about how I would have killed you if I hadn't been tazzered?"
A bitter laugh filled the room and it took d'Artagnan a moment to realise it was his own.
"I'm not to be trusted – "
"d'Artagnan that's enough!" Athos snapped, ready to usher Constance from the room and put a stop to this whole thing. Perhaps d'Artagnan wasn't ready, perhaps this was too much, too soon, but then Constance stepped forward.
"Stop it."
D'Artagnan snorted, "Stop what? He ruined me. He broke me. I can't be trusted anymore, not by Athos, or the Musketeers or you! Anyone!"
"Stop," Constance's eyes narrowed on the man on the bed, watching him do his very best to implode his oldest relationship. She wasn't going to let that happen.
"You shouldn't have come," d'Artagnan kept his eyes focused on his hands and the clenched into fists over and over, "You wouldn't have come if you knew who, what, I was now. I'm not the man you married. Richelieu killed him –"
"Stop it!" The Russian words cut across d'Artagnan's self-loathing, pausing his mouth mid flow. Silence, thick and heavy filled the room. Athos wondered for a second if Constance was going to spin on her heels and flee the room. But that girl was no coward. Slowly, carefully Constance's feet picked her way across the floor, towards the bed. d'Artagnan didn't flinch. His eyes stayed on his hands, knuckles turning white as the muscles clenched.
Well, Constance decided, if he wouldn't look at her…
She knelt down carefully, reaching up and covering d'Artagnan's fists with her own hands. He flinched at first but Constance kept a gentle hold. Her thumb rubbed across the touch scarred skin of the back of his hand. The scars were alarming, there was no denying that. But Constance had allowed herself a breakdown before she entered the room. There was no time for that now. One of them needed to be strong… If it couldn't be d'Artagnan then…
"Don't push me out…" This time Constance's Russian words were gentler. Constance kept up her gentle touches, expecting d'Artagnan to relax like he would have a year ago.
The boy remained just as tense.
"It didn't work when we first met…" Constance chewed along her lip, waiting for d'Artagnan to look at her, "It won't work now…"
When d'Artagnan didn't look up she pressed forward. If he didn't remember then… Constance swallowed… Then he needed reminded.
"Your first day at the group home.. Do you remember?" Constance's thumb continued its gentle strokes of the back of his scarred hand, "The day you picked a fight with half the boys there…"
Constance heard the commotion before long before she saw it. Shouts and curses were hardly uncommon for a group home which housed twenty-two teenagers, but the sheer volume of the yelling coming from the social room got her attention. As she shoved the door open the incoherent shouts formed into words. Angry, biting words.
"You want a fight? Fine! I'll take you too!"
"The new boy is crazy!"
"New boy's got some fight!"
Constance stumbled into the room, staring round the room wildly. Three of the older boys were crowded around the furthest corner, a flash of sleek, dark hair at the centre.
"Yasha enough!"
At Constance's shout the biggest boy turned around. Yasha was a broad seventeen year old with dark close cropped hair and an easy smile. He held up a hand in surrender.
"Common Constance, we didn't start it!" Yasha stepped away, revealing the kid she hadn't met for the first time. He was younger the boys surrounding him, maybe her age or little younger, with tanned his and dark hair which fell into his eyes. Blood welled under his nose and collected onto his top lip.
"The boy's crazy!"
Constance just shot a glare and Yasha held up his hands in defeat.
"Fine, fine! Was boring anyways…" With the jerk of his head the three boys drifted away, leaving the boy slumped alone in the corner. He balled his hoodie sleeve into his hand and dabbed at his face. Constance winced. She stepped forward and dug into the pocket of her jeans. He pulled out a tissue and held it out.
"Here…"
The boy looked up, his dark eyes glaring at the white material like it was a trap. He kept the materiel pressed to his face and shoved himself back to his feet with his other hand.
"I don't need your help."
Constance's eyebrows shot towards her hair line, "Oh really? Because from where I was standing it looked like you were about to get beaten to a pulp by the three biggest guys in this place if it wasn't for me."
"What are they? Your bodyguards?"
"No," Constance frowned, "Why would you say that..?"
The boy shrugged, "Seemed to do what you tell them…"
"Me and Yasha arrived here within a week of each other… He likes me. It's good to have friends here," Constance sighed and pushed his hand away from his face, "You'll ruin your sweater. Please."
The boy glared for a moment longer, before giving in and taking the tissue. Reluctantly he began to blot at his face.
"I don't need a friend," The boy said, still glaring as if Constance had personally ruined his day.
"Fine," Constance settled herself down on the arm of one of the threadbare sofas, "I'm Constance."
The boy's eyes narrowed.
"I said I didn't want to be your friend."
Constance shrugged the as the boy finished cleaning his face. He looked up and for the first time Constance saw his eyes. There were a dark brown, creased with the anger she had expected, but there was something else… Pain. Grief.
Constance felt her heard hurt.
"I know…" Constance shook herself out of her thoughts, "that doesn't stop me from being Constance though… Doesn't stop you from having a name either..?"
When d'Artagnan didn't reply she leant forward deciding to press a little more.
"Do I get to know your name?"
There was a pause. Constance wondered whether she was going to be rebuffed again. Maybe she was wasting her time… And then…
"d'Artagnan… My names d'Artagnan…"
Constance waited, stomach twisting as d'Artagnan remained a statue. Athos had said d'Artagnan's memories were… Sketchy at best… It wasn't that Constance hadn't believed him but seeing it was something completely different.
What if he didn't remember her, or them? What if his memories of his life before France never came back? The idea sat heavily in her throat. Could he really forget their friendship which had grown into something more? About how they'd run away from the group home and crossed the border into Ukraine in pursuit of a fresh start. Of their ill-fated pact with Rochefort and their months in hell under the Guards control…
Constance didn't know if she could cope with the love of her life forgetting their beginning.
But then she felt d'Artagnan's hands relax ever so slightly.
"I didn't want to be friends…" The Russian murmur of a memory sent a soft smile across Constance's face. She squeezed his hand a little tighter. "You didn't give me much choice…"
"You remember…"
d'Artagnan offered a little shrug.
When he spoke again it came out a little bitter, "It's… It's foggy, like everything else."
"But you've remembered so much all ready. You've come so far…" Constance had meant it like a compliment, but she wasn't sure d'Artagnan took as such. With a defeated sigh he withdrew his hands from Constance's grasp. "Don't…"
But d'Artagnan was already moving away, shuffling away from Constance. She attempted to keep the hurt from her face, but she couldn't quite keep her eyes from creasing in sadness.
"d'Artagnan…"
"What?" Bitterness laced his words, slipping back into English without even noticing. "I can't remember half my life. Most of what I do have doesn't even feel like it's mine! That's meant to be, what? Progress? - "
Constance felt a swell in her throat. He was pushing again, pushing her away to see if she would leave. Maybe it would be easier for d'Artagnan to be able to say that he'd pushed Constance out rather than admit she left.
Well he wasn't going to get either.
"- What if this is it? If this is as good as it gets? What if I have to live this life now? Where my most vivid memories are of being chained and tortured in some cell instead of you and our life together?"
Tears welled up suddenly and, although d'Artagnan ducked his head, Constance caught sight of them. Slowly, giving d'Artagnan ample chance to pull away, she reached up. Her soft hands found d'Artagnan's face, her thumbs tracing his strong cheek bones, before sliding up and along the hooked scar.
Constance forced herself to smile, blinking back her own matching back.
"If that is the case… If those memories are gone or foggy or…" Constance swallowed, wiping a stray tear from her husband's eye, "Then we'll make new ones. New, happy, memories…"
d'Artagnan exhaled a long breath, his eyes closing themselves to avoid anymore traitorous tears escaping. He remained silent for a moment, although did allow Constance's gentle touch. Her thumb continued its gentle stroke of the raised scar which now framed one eye.
When d'Artagnan did finally speak it came out quiet, the broken voice of a young, terrified man.
"…Promise?"
"I promise…" Constance leant forward and pressed her lips to the new scar, the kiss offered just above his eyebrow, "We have a lifetime…"
