Dear readers, I'm so exhausted these days I can hardly turn a "scrap" into a "snack", let alone pick up my Whumptober series. In the name of trying to keep some kind of posting momentum -for I fear I am close to dropping out of this fandom if I don't- here's another something old I tried to make legible: a pre-series piece of writing in which Athos shares something precious with Aramis and Porthos.
(Also - fourteen snacks. Look at that!)
Any recognizable lines are directly from the show; in this case, from Series 1, Episode 1.
XIV. Of Trust and Precious Starts
They're in a secluded corner of a dimly-lit tavern. It is very late and Athos is deep in his cups.
He's gotten more and more silent, more and more morose with each sip, gulp and bottle, but he is well aware of the unvoiced curiosity regarding his locket, and some sober part of him appreciates that Aramis and Porthos have the decency to not ask him about it. It is one of the many things that he appreciates; one more thing added to his pile of accumulated appreciations about Aramis and Porthos, and it is this grateful part of him that yields, bends a little, and offers an opening - just a little, just a little.
"I was married," he murmurs, cold and removed and staring resolutely down, as if that's the only way he can ever speak about himself.
Aramis and Porthos exchange a long glance.
They both know that there's only one probable answer to the question they have now, but voicing it nevertheless, at this point, has less to do with this particular conversation than it has with the snowball they had nudged at the beginning of this acquaintance, which has long gained its own momentum, rolling steadily downhill towards the valley of friendship and brotherhood that is its final aim.
So the question itself comes quickly and easily: "What happened?"
Athos fixes his gaze on Aramis as he raises his glass to his lips, and keeps it there while he takes a long, slow sip. Then he puts the cup down, closes his elegant fingers around the stem and looks up.
"She died."
The words are like a sudden sword thrust. The opening, snapping shut.
And Athos's eyes flash over them as if daring the two men to come closer.
Smart men as they are, they don't.
Porthos shakes his head from side to side even as Aramis runs a hand through his hair, feeling his own heart bend a little for the broken, mourning man before him. That is what it is - the mood that Aramis hasn't been able to name so far – mourning. What has just been revealed (a piece of Athos's heart, pierced, swung wildly at the tip of a blade in a maddened craze of bottomless despair) is more than enough to explain the dark moods that haunt the swordsman, the despair that clings and drips from him like black tar. Surely Athos cannot have been married for many years - unless he'd been wedded very young indeed - but the death of a beloved wife explains his search for a new way of life, a foothold on a steady piece of ground. Aramis feels something in his chest open up even more towards Athos, welcoming him even more warmly into the comfort of the brotherhood that has been his home for so long; for he sees the need, the desperate need to be loved again, even if it would be the last thing Athos would understand or admit, least of all to himself.
They don't ever broach the subject again, until a young man from Gascony casually observes the Musketeer lieutenant he's just helped save from execution in one of their usual haunts, and quickly notes the third of Athos's most recognizable traits after his nobility and swordsmanship – the viscid melancholy with which he drinks.
"What's wrong with him, anyway?"
"Mm, woman trouble." Porthos's reply is so off-handed, one might think Athos's woes are the talk of all Paris anyhow; what is remarkable though, is the way he and Aramis fall into instinctive rapport without even needing to share a glance.
"'There was someone special once; she died,'" Aramis supplies promptly, "that's all he ever said." Better to stop the Gascon from the start than risk him going around bringing this subject up.
"I better stay behind," Porthos muses, "'e'll need someone to carry 'im home." Now a brief look passing between them - nicely handled- and the marksman pushes himself to his feet and picks up his hat.
"Do you need somewhere to stay?"
"Nah, I have a place."
"In the arms of Madame Bonacieux?"
And the subject is expertly changed.
What little information Aramis has just divulged, enough of the little Athos had trusted them with years ago while retaining the part of it that only Athos has the right to share, is more than satisfactory for the young Gascon for this time.
None of them can know, of course, that in a matter of mere weeks, Athos's past will rise from the ruins of his ancestral home, and pull them all into a twisted web that's woven around broken souls and tortured hearts.