I did a re-watch of the Series 2 finale yesterday, and in the evening, this came along. A tag, or 'missing scene' as some would call it: Constance has a favour to ask of Athos. Should take place sometime between Aramis's goodbye and the wedding.
VI. Constance's Request
"You're a difficult man to find."
Bleary eyes lifted to her face, blinking once, twice, otherwise, not a single muscle moving on his face.
"It appears not. You're the second woman to tell me that in as many weeks." He took a sip from his cup. "I must try harder."
A look of affront crossed from Constance's face, but it was gone so quickly that one might have imagined it in the dim light of the room. Her lips curled down, brows knitted together and her eyes darkened, as if she regretted even seeking him out in the first place. Ashamed, Athos lowered his eyes to the table.
"Well, I'm glad I found you," Constance soldiered on, squaring her shoulders as she slid in on the bench, "I have something to ask."
"Ask away, then."
"Athos." Exasperated, she reached out to pull the wine cup away from Athos's unresisting fingers and waited until inquisitive eyes rose to her face, one eyebrow arched in silent remonstration. Constance released a sigh. Perhaps she should try this another time.
Her hesitance must have shown on her face because Athos pushed himself back from the table and straightened himself, running a hand over his haggard features and pinched the bridge of his nose, visibly rallying himself. When he looked at her once more, Constance was relieved to find his expression carefully schooled, blue eyes clear as if all it took for him to dispel the effects of alcohol was his willpower. Which, considering him, was probably the case.
"My apologies, Madame," he muttered, speaking quietly and towards the bottle that stood closer to Constance's side of the table before raising his eyes to her, "How can I be of service?"
Constance found herself grinning at that, leaning over the table with eyes shining like an excited child. "You could walk me down the aisle!"
Athos blinked. Constance watched as the entire expression on his face transformed, the news enwrapped in her request chasing away the lingering shadows, diffusing the ever-present melancholy from his brow. The corner of his mouth wriggled, curled, ever so slowly, he might either be struggling with it, or savouring it.
"I must warn you, Madame," he said, with a flood of impossible warmth in his eyes, "if the man waiting at the altar is another than a certain friend of mine, I fear your day would be at risk of going in a very different direction."
"Well then," Constance said, sitting up and attempting to school her expression into solemnity, feeling two spots of heat high her on cheeks, "then I have nothing to worry about."
Athos leaned forward to grasp both of her hands and smiled with such unbridled affection and joy, Constance felt something flutter pleasantly in her belly.
"I am delighted," he announced. "For both of you."
Constance really liked this look in Athos's eyes.
"Thank you," she returned with a smile of her own, "It appals me to think that it took nearly being executed to make me come to my senses!"
To her utter surprise and embarrassment, a sob on a hiccupping laugh bubbled from her chest at the last word, as if only at that moment it was dawning on her that she was nearly beheaded, the utter terror she had struggled to contain as she'd waited for the blade to fall, that impossible tightness in her stomach which threatened to stop her breathing even before the executioner could severe her neck and her own blood would spill and join the long-faded stains on the block, mixing with the-
"Hush. It's over now."
Just when had Athos moved, stood and walked to her, and just when had she buried her face in his chest – her, seated, him, standing, cradling her head to himself as she trembled in this dark, quiet corner of a dingy tavern while the sun outside still had hours to set - how very absurd! - and the thought sent another ripple through her, laughter or sob damned if she could discern.
"I'm sorry," she muttered, making no move to pull away from the comforting smell of Athos's leathers, "Sorry, I'm just -"
"Hush," was the reply she received again, something so damn fatherly in the way it was intoned, in the gentle hand that cupped the back of her head, the arm around her shoulders tightening a bit, "You have endured unspeakable things. You would not be human if you did not react."
"Oh, God," spilled from her lips, as the acknowledgement prompted a renewed surge of memories, the trembling turning into shivers as she recalled those wooden steps, the thud of them under her heels at every single step she'd taken closer to death, and how grey the sky had seemed, and how, looking around the courtyard and seeing how many men surrounded her, she had desperately sought to see one friendly face, for one last time, but if she couldn't, well, she'd had d'Artagnan's memory to take along with her, his cries in her ears declaring his love and she loved him, how she loved that man with all of this heart that was soon to be stopped, how she wished it would burst before that-
"It's all over now," came the rich, rumbling comfort from above, "All in the past."
Yes. Yes, it was all in the past and she was making a fool of herself; she hadn't come to Athos to speak about the past, but of the future. With effort, she made her fingers unclench from where they had somehow curled around Athos's doublet, leaving wrinkled imprints on the material and pulled away from him, Athos unresisting as he let her go. She kept her eyes on the scorched surface of the table as she tried to compose herself, taking the pristine handkerchief Athos offered with a look of thanks. This wasn't exactly how she had planned this to go.
Then again… she hadn't planned anything. There hadn't been time to think.
"I didn't come to you seeking a shoulder to cry on, just so we're clear," she warned with a sniff as Athos retook his seat. He dipped his head, acquiescing the point.
"I assure you, Madame," he said, "Mine is hardly a shoulder anyone has sought for that purpose."
She chuckled, chastising herself for unravelling like this. Then again, she supposed, she could have lost it in worse company.
"So," she asked, back on track, "Will you do it? Walk me down the aisle?"
Athos did not immediately reply. He regarded her with those opaque eyes and Constance found herself wondering what he was thinking. She didn't expect him to refuse, but frankly, she didn't look forward to making an explanation either. She could, of course, ask any one of her own brothers to do the honour, but the fact of the matter was, as soon as the implications of d'Artagnan's proposal had sunk in, Athos had been the first person she had thought of. She didn't want to waste time; she'd went directly to the garrison in search of him.
It took all of two seconds for her to think all of this.
"Constance," Athos returned, "It would be not only my honour, but my utmost pleasure and joy."
She grinned from ear to ear.
She was getting married! Getting married again, but this time to a man she loved; getting married tomorrow.. whilst she'd been on the block yesterday...
"You linger," Athos noted, filling a cup he'd procured out of nowhere and pushing it towards her, "It is not like you."
Constance looked at him. Her gaze got caught on the blue of his eye and the strangest thought occurred to her, out of that blue - hadn't Athos had the same experience with her? Hadn't he, as d'Artagnan and Porthos and Aramis had later told her, been snatched from being shot to death by a firing squad in the nick of time, the king's pardon arriving with not a second to spare to still the dozen eager fingers on musket triggers?
Was he not the only person she knew who could truly understand what it had been like; to be sentenced to death for crimes they did not commit, to await death for that longest of nights and to long for and dread the dawn at the same time, and the fear and the courage it took to just keep breathing through it—
Athos reached for her hand again, clasped it firmly with his to keep her in the present.
"Dwell not on death. You have much to live for, my friend - you and d'Artagnan. Think only on that."
Constance nodded. Giving in to Athos was so easy.
But something about him today...
"Doesn't everybody?" she asked him tentatively, a slight fidget of her shoulders betraying her concern of overstepping a boundary.
It was a misstep, indeed.
Athos retracted his hand, and the cloud that had been hovering over him ever since Constance had found him fully descended over. His expression closed, darkening as if a curtain had been drawn. She shouldn't have done this, dared to turn the tables. She'd found him drinking in a tavern at three o'clock in the afternoon; he had to have reason to be here - but Constance was happy, too happy and happiness was hard to contain, it was infectious and she'd wanted to say something to dispel that sadness in his eye and now she regretted it, immediately regretted it.
She could read nothing from his expression as Athos stared into a spot just over her shoulder. Something, there was just something beneath the surface of him today, just under his skin, puzzling, bothering, torturing him.
Then his eyes steered back to her and a wounded smile graced his lips.
"Not quite, Madame," he returned, with a sort of infinite kindness, as if to spare her from some phantom hurt that only he knew the depths of.
It left Constance feeling all of eight years old.
Protected and pacified. Just a touch teased, and curious to learn more - but all the wiser to try. Athos pushed himself up.
"May I?" he asked.
And held out his arm to her.
With the brightest of grins suffusing her face, Constance rose and hooked her arm with his. Between yesterday and tomorrow, Athos anchored her. Pleased with life more than she had ever been, now when everything was set back on track, the world – their world – righted again by the King's Musketeers, she was going to marry one of them and Athos was going to give her away.
"Thank you," she whispered up to him. He patted her hand, and they walked out of the tavern together.