A/N: I'm supposed to be working on my slightly delayed chapter of A Perilous Journey to Lórien, but this story jumped out at me and demanded to be told. I've always wondered why Constance was so sure Athos was an honorable man. Such firm knowledge seemed to imply a deeper relationship than mere acquaintance. There are many scenarios that could explain how these two came to be acquainted, but far fewer that explain her certainty that Athos could not have murdered d'Artagnan's father. Set directly before Season One.
*Trigger warning*
Honestly, I'm hesitant to display a trigger warning at the beginning because I feel like it takes something away from the story, however, there are themes in this story that some will want to avoid. Specifically, miscarriage. It is not presented in an extremely graphic way that would warrant a high rating, nor is it referred to with a polite euphemism tucked into a single sentence. Please read with caution if you find this subject upsetting.
Honorable
A slight headache, for once having nothing to do with heavy drinking the night before, pounded behind Athos' eyes as Captain Treville dismissed his musketeers from the morning muster. The former comte squinted expectantly up toward the captain's office, but no call was forthcoming. His commanding officer merely regarded him with a pointed glare, which undoubtedly meant he was being gifted another day to recover from the head injury that had been plaguing him all week. One unlucky blow to the head, and he'd been mothered and fussed over and coddled to the point of extreme agitation—all without a drop of wine to soothe his increasingly frayed nerves.
Aramis and Porthos, once assured he was on the mend, had been given a mission some days away, giving Athos a bit of space to deal with the dreadful monotony of recuperation. Even this, he suspected, had been engineered by the watchful captain who knew from experience that a smothered Athos tended to get a bit…flighty. That he was expected to remain sober for the duration of his recovery was left unsaid, and Athos thought it better to endure a bit longer than to have his brothers and his captain breathing down his throat. He would just need to keep his mind distracted in other ways.
The streets beyond the gates bustled merrily with the business of the day, and he thought, perhaps, that today he was well enough to venture out. His shoulders tensed as he walked nonchalantly to the gates, and he waited for Treville's terse reprimand. None came. With a relieved sigh, he side stepped the wayward hen that currently patrolled the garrison archway and continued on into the crowd.
Grateful for some modicum of freedom, Athos meandered through the nearby square, determined not to return until he was well and truly exhausted. He found the day pleasantly warm as he threaded through vendors' stalls, dodging the strange mix of street urchins and middle class shoppers, but he did not stop to examine any of the various wares being hawked.
He was rounding a corner after procuring a fresh croissant when he almost knocked her over, his eyes catching the floral pattern of her skirt as he wheeled his arm a bit in the struggle to keep his feet. Apparently, Aramis was right about his balance taking its time to return. The seller, a balding and portly man in a stained apron, protested loudly as the girl Athos had collided with stumbled into his stand, knocking off several bundles of vegetable.
Drawing back to apologize, his keen eyes first took in chestnut curls, and then striking gray eyes set in a pale face. Too pale, unless he missed his guess. He didn't fail to observe the way she leaned against the stand for support, either not noticing or ignoring the large man's outrage. Before the man could draw even more attention to them, the musketeer stooped down and retrieved the vegetables in question and handed the man a sous. Mollified, the seller fell silent, crossing his arms and waiting for them to leave.
"My apologies, miss." Athos said finally, tipping his hat with a polite bow, "I hope I have not caused you any harm."
A mask of sorts descended over her face, and she let go of the stand and straightened.
"You really should watch where you're going—but no, there was no harm done. And it's Madame," she replied, glaring at him imperiously. She softened ever so slightly as her eyes noted his pauldron. "Madame Bonacieux."
He recognized the name—if he wasn't mistaken, he was the pompous little man who supplied Treville with cloth for new recruits' uniforms from time to time.
"Athos, of the King's musketeers," he introduced himself, hesitating just a moment as he noticed the lines of pain on her face before asking, "Is there any way I might assist you, madame?"
She dithered for a moment, wringing her hands a bit before coming to a decision. "It seems I was foolhardy to venture out today. Perhaps you could walk me home—I find myself feeling a bit," she paused, as if searching for the correct word, "ill."
Athos acquiesced with a dip of his head. Judging from her complexion, she felt more than a bit under the weather.
For having accepted his help, he was surprised to find her so fiercely independent, but it was this independence that made him want to help her all the more—if she would allow him. As they wove through the alleys back toward the garrison and continued past it a bit further, Athos found himself hovering somewhat uselessly at her elbow, ready to catch her when she stumbled. So far she had managed under her own power, though she walked in a hunched sort of way that suggested she was in no little amount of pain. Certainly more than a jostling in the market could cause—he was in quite a quandary as to what might be ailing her.
Her brow furrowed suddenly as they crossed a courtyard filled with clean laundry on the line and ascended up the back steps to a modest town house. It was there that she faltered, and Athos lunged forward to brace her by the upper arms. She leaned heavily against him, her expression flickering between agony and mortification. Athos could only hold her up in bewilderment-unsure what was required of him in this situation.
"Madame Bonacieux? Is your husband home? Shall I fetch him?" She shook her head against his collarbone and replied in a strangled voice, "He's away…probably shouldn't be telling you that, though."
"Probably not," he replied drily, "Is there anyone else I can fetch?"
She shook her head again. "Just—give me a moment." After an interminable amount of time, she pulled herself together and straightened, though she looked even more pale than before. She looked at him, biting her lip before finally asking, no more willingly than if she had a pistol held to her head, "Perhaps you could help me inside…there are quite a lot of stairs."
Athos offered her a gentle smile, hoping it reassured her and did not come across as lecherous. He was, as Porthos noted frequently, a bit out of practice with smiling. "You have nothing to fear from me, madame. It would be my honor to assist you in any way you require."
This time, she took his offered arm and allowed him to help her inside. Her home was simple, but tidy, and did, indeed, have a copious number of stairs. Madame Bonacieux gripped the bannister in white knuckled determination, letting it hold her weight instead of him, as if to avoid as much of his touch as possible. Once she'd hobbled across the threshold to her room, she all but slammed the door in his face, dismissing him like the stranger that he was with a firm, "Thank you very much, Monsieur Athos."
He stood for a moment, disconcerted, and stared at the closed door. "Are you certain there is no one you for which you would like me to send? Your serving woman, perhaps?"
A scoffing laugh, full of pain, caught his ear before the reply came, tight throated and muffled by the door, "I'm quite sure, thank you."
Well and truly dismissed, he sighed. He could not force her to accept his help, and perhaps, if she was as independent as he, she preferred to lose her breakfast—or suffer whatever ailed her-without an audience.
"As you wish, madame. Please send word to the garrison if there is any way I can further assist you."
He tipped his hat out of habit before remembering she couldn't see through the door, and slowly descended the stairs. The last time he'd met a person who so disarmed him, he'd been introduced to Porthos. He thought perhaps he needed a drink after all—just enough to take the edge off and still be able to call on her in the morning. This decision soothed the sense of duty that was currently screaming for him to stay regardless of her wishes. He felt inexplicably uneasy about leaving her alone, but couldn't pin point exactly why that sixth sense of his was screaming at him. This wasn't a battle and she wasn't an enemy.
His hand had just closed around the ornate door knob on the back door when a great thud sounded resounded from above, causing the chandelier in the entryway to rattle, and muffling what sounded like a cry of pain. His eyes followed the sound, scanning the ceiling before he turned and took the stairs two at a time.
"Madame Bonacieux!" He knocked on her door, a sinking feeling in his stomach, "Are you quite well?"
No answer came-only an ominous silence, broken only by the ticking of the clock in the hallway. A moment's indecision paralyzed him before he tried the door. Locked. He called again, and still she did not answer.
Well, he reasoned, taking a page out of Aramis' book, if she did not require his assistance, he would tender his sincerest apologies and pay to have the door repaired. He shouldered it open with perhaps more force than was strictly required. His heart sped up at the sight that greeted him. For a moment, he saw Thomas, lying in a pool of blood, and then it was Anne, her skirts stained with Thomas' blood, and finally, rationality descended, bringing him back to the present.
He crossed the room in two long strides and knelt next to the woman crumpled on the floor. Fresh blood was smeared on the rough floor, and on her skirts. He averted his eyes as he realized she'd been trying to undress—her bodice discarded on the four poster bed. He was very much out of his depth, but as he looked between the bed, the floor, and her bloodstained skirts some dusty corner of his mind came to life and he remembered the years before Thomas had finally been born, alive and healthy…all the many physicians that had some in the years prior. Sights he'd thought he'd forgotten. A cold sort of knowledge filled him, and he placed a hand on her shoulder.
She was breathing evenly, he noticed in relief. "Madame Bonacieux?" He shook her gently let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding when her eyes fluttered open, taking in his face with confusion before they drifted back closed.
"Let us get you to bed." She moaned as he hauled her upright, but did not protest as he all but carried her to the bed, pulling back the covers with one hand and swinging her legs underneath with his other. She followed him with her eyes as he paced in front of the bed, his fabled calm coming undone as it suddenly occurred to him that he might have caused this.
"Madame, please allow me to send for someone to help you."
"No," she said softly, then cleared her throat and repeated more forcefully, "No!"
The strength of her voice surprised him, though she gazed at out the window to avoid looking at him. "There is nothing that will truly be able to help. I should not have ventured out this morning. I thought I had time to make my purchases and return, but I…miscalculated." Though she could not know it, her words brought absolution and he sat down heavily in the high-backed chair beside the bed. Her words held a fragile sort of knowledge he did not wish to contemplate too deeply. It took him a moment to realize she was still speaking, "I will be able to handle this from here. I appreciate your help, monsieur." She pulled the blankets up over her shoulder and rolled onto her side, facing away from him as she brought her knees toward her chest.
Athos raised an eyebrow, though he kept his voice gentle, "Madame, I do not wish you to come to harm—surely you should not be left here alone? If you will not permit me to call for anyone, I shall wait outside the door. Please give me your word you will call for me if you have need of me."
There was a long pause, and just as he became certain she would send him away again, she nodded her ascent.
Athos paced. For hours, he paced back and forth in front of the bedroom door that now would not quite latch all the way, his left hand twitching reflexively for a wine bottle he did not have. The deafening silence was punctuated by the occasional scrape or creak of furniture, or the padding of her feet as she, too, paced inside her room. As time passed the whimpers and groans from within came more frequently, and he stilled, leaning against the opposite wall, straining to hear some clue of her welfare, but not knowing what she needed, or what to do, or really anything at all about what was happening, or why it mattered so much to him. All these muffled sounds seemed to come to a crescendo, and then there was nothing. Minutes passed, and he was ready to take matters into his own hands when at last she called through the door, her voice weak and uncertain, "Monsieur, if you are still there, could you please…"
Not waiting for her to finish, he stepped quickly into the room. She had returned to the bed, and was leaning heavily against the headboard. Her hair had fallen down and a sheen of sweat glistened on her translucent skin. She'd drawn the blankets up high to preserve her modesty, though her reddened and puffy eyes regarded him with a trust he didn't entire feel he'd earned. He crossed to the bed and perched gingerly on the edge of the room's sole chair, suddenly mindful that he was in the bedroom of a respectable woman.
He had no idea what to say, or how to comfort her, so it relieved him when she seemed to snap out of it and asked suddenly, "Would it be too much trouble to heat up water for a bath? I'd happily pay you."
He resisted a glare at the affront. "There is no need for that," he managed to reply softly, feeling a bit unhinged by the entire experience, "I shall take care of it."
She rested, staring vacantly out her window while he lugged bucket after bucket to the hearth to be heated and then up the stairs to the tub across the hall from her room, ignoring the headache that threatened to return. Somehow, though, he did not think Aramis would scold him for this. When he returned, she had donned a thin robe, and though she refused to meet his eye, she allowed him to help her wobble to the tub. He hoped desperately that she would not need further assistance, and to his immense relief she shooed him away and then shut the door.
While she bathed, he returned to her bedroom. The least he could do was to take care of all this for her. Somehow, he knew that, weak as she was, she would still try to do it all herself if someone else didn't step in to do it, and there was no telling when her husband might return to help her. He wondered why it was that Monsieur Bonacieux did not employ a serving girl to help his wife, and wondered what the man would say if he knew his lack of provision had caused a musketeer to do his laundry.
As a musketeer, he was no stranger to blood. There wasn't a lot of it, at least by the standards to which he was accustomed, just streaks here and there on the floor, and much more on the bedding. His eyes followed them to a chamber pot that had been shoved underneath the edge of the bed. He pulled it out, the porcelain scraping on the wood floor, to reveal a tiny bundle on the floor behind it, folded in an embroidered handkerchief. Refusing to look more closely, he got to his feet and went to empty the pot's contents. He knew Aramis would have comforting words or prayers to say, but Athos felt unequal to the task. Pot emptied, he returned it to its place beneath the bed and stripped the bed linens, carrying them downstairs and past a room full of fabric to the kitchen, where he set them to soaking before returning to the bedroom and remaking the bed with military precision.
Madame Bonacieux was almost asleep when Athos was finally able to tuck her back into her bed. He pulled the door shut behind him, though it creaked almost immediately ajar. His boots echoed hollowly as he crossed the hallway to deal with the cold bathwater and to retrieve the last of the soiled clothes from the floor. He carried them downstairs and added them to the barrel of soiled laundry before gathering up it all up and leaving quietly out of the back door, silently wishing the home's sole occupant well. Trudging back to the garrison, he stopped along the way to drop off the soiled laundry and continued on, his bones weary, his purse several sous lighter, and his mind elsewhere.
If you liked this little story, please review and let me know! I have a few ideas for subsequent chapters, so I'm leaving this story open-ended for now.