The more he tried to avoid her, the more he saw of her. The more he pushed away, the stronger he felt the pull. The more he tried to forget her, the more he remembered. It was like battling an infection, cutting it away, only for it to come back. She was a poison, killing him from the inside, yet being away from her felt worse than withdrawal from wine. He spewed venomous words at her, and then longed for her as though she was a cool breeze on a hot summer day. In her presence he pulled his eyes down so as to not look at her longer than he had to, longer than he could, without looking like a fool in love. He wanted to remember Anne, and forget Milady de Winter, even if he knew they were the same person. She tried to pretend that Anne was dead and Milady was the only thing left, they both knew that she was neither. The real woman, that was his wife, was not sweet like Anne, or cold like Milady. She was the woman that came galloping into the Garrison and helped them save the King, the woman that helped defeat Rochefort, she was the woman who almost got him to leave France behind. She was wild, cunning, witty, and alone.
He saw the hopelessness in her eyes when the King banished her from court. He saw how her attempts at grasping wealth crumbled. And like a wild animal trapped, she snapped at anyone who tried to help. She didn't trust anyone. And he was at fault for that. Her hanging had been the utmost betrayal. He killed them both that day, and destroyed any chances of either of them being happy. He saw the fear in her eyes when Catherine placed a noose around her neck. He saw how she relaxed when he wrapped his hands around her and pulled her to safety. The moment the danger had passed she regained her composure in seconds as sarcasm once again filled her words.
Catherine must have been right about him being attracted to Anne's cruelty. Because how else could one explain his relationship with Anne? It made him muse. In some twisted way, it turned out that he did keep his promise. Nothing will ever come between them, because no matter what happens, for some unknown reason they are still drawn to each other. It's a curse and a blessing at once, knowing that even after the many attempts on each other's lives they still feel attraction.
But then she left for England, and he left for War. And for four long years he thought that that would be the end of it. He made himself believe that they would never meet again. He forced himself to think that this was some sort of sign for him to move on from his wife, to leave their perverted feelings in the past, to get rid of the constant tug. Then he met Sylvie, and for the first time since he ordered his wife's execution, he allowed himself to consider an attempt at happiness. Yet he kept that small silk glove. That small dirty secret. Hidden in a small pocket, it lay close to his heart, replacing the locket and filling the vacant feeling its absence brought.
He didn't dare mention his wife to Sylvie. She would ask questions and demand an explanation for the answers he was willing to give. Because knowing himself, it would be a miracle if he gave her crumbs of the truth. Most likely he would close into himself as the desire to drink would return. It was better if Sylvie didn't know about Anne, their past, and what kind of man he actually was. Distant, bitter, and cruel. And he could practically hear his wife's voice in his head adding the word "arrogant" to that list.
Having turned down Sylvie's invitation to a quiet dinner, he sat in his office running his fingers over the smooth white fabric of his wife's glove. He remembered how their gazes crossed. They were in the middle of the street, surrounded by a large crowd, he was holding Sylvie up trying to cover the whip marks, and she was hiding behind a corner. The shock of seeing her once again was so immense that he had almost dropped the hurt woman, half expecting that it was a trick of his mind. But then the loud screams of the crowd pulled him out of his thoughts, and when he looked up again, she was gone. He doesn't know what she felt then, he was too far away, but he suspects that it was something akin to jealousy. After all, he hadn't saved her. He watched as the rope was tied around her neck and made no move to help. And hoping that the situation with Catherine would somehow rectify everything was futile.
Putting the glove away, he was about to head to bed, ready for another sleepless night, ready for Anne to come to him. But as he stood up and turned towards the door, he wasn't met with dimly lit wood, but his wife. And for some reason she looked just a little bit broken tonight. Her hair was down, dark curls swinging by her shoulders, her dress very simplistic, nothing like the ones she wore in the presence of the King. But it was her eyes that caught him by surprise. The usual spark, that ever present glint of mischief, was not there. Before he could even pick up his slackened jaw, she was already speaking.
"Hello dear husband."
She walked slowly towards him, her body slightly swaying. And for a second he allowed himself to remember how she would have looked without the dress, each curve of her body glistening in the candlelight. Leaning onto his desk, she clasped her hands together.
He kept quiet. He had nothing to say. No. He had too many things to say, to ask. And he didn't know what to start with. She must have sensed his hesitation, because she spoke again.
"It seems that you found yourself a mistress."
The words made his gaze snap up. He wanted to growl out something less than kind, but stopped himself, reminding himself that she was antagonizing him. Probably because he got caught up in staring at her body instead of her face. He let out a heavy breath.
"It seems that you haven't changed in the past four years."
She raises an eyebrow and a hint of a smile finds its place on her lips.
"And you think you have?"
He stopped drinking. He wanted to tell her that. But what purpose did it serve? He changed his life, but he doubted something inside him had changed. So he simply hummed quietly and kept looking at her. Kept trying to find what it was, that changed in her green eyes.
Suddenly she put her hands on his shoulders and pushed him down onto his chair.
"Sit down for God's sake. I have no desire to be looking upwards all night."
He didn't bother protesting, too tired to fight with her. Instead he leant back into the chair and looked up at her.
"What do you want from me?"
She tilted her head to the side slightly as she seemed to contemplate her answer for a moment. Then she straightened her neck and moved closer to him.
"Is a wife not allowed to see her husband? Believe it or not, I missed you. I did not know if you survived. But when I heard rumors of the Musketeers returning to Paris… I had to come and see for myself."
She missed him. What a preposterous prospect. Yet his heartbeat quickened.
He crossed his arms on his chest and clenched his jaw. He would not allow her to see to what extent he missed her. He would not let her see to what extent he missed their love. The thought of what their relationship was made him sick, but the lack of it brought on a sorrowful empty feeling that reminded him of what he felt when he believed her to be dead by his hand.
She had left early at the crossroads, and part of him wanted to make her feel what he felt then. He wanted her to feel what he had felt when he was forced to watch her whore herself out to the King. She had missed him, but he wanted her to hate him. Because hating was easier than loving. Because being with Sylvie was easy, and being with his wife was terrifying. He feared the overabundance of feelings Anne made him feel, he feared what she could make him do.
"Sylvie has nothing to do with us."
She crossed her own arms over her chest and mirrored his position.
"So there is an us after all?!"
Her victorious smirk made his anger flare. Seconds ago he was thinking of how much he missed her, and now he was ready to force her out of his office. This is exactly what she made him, unstable.
"Does it actually bother you that I found someone else?"
She rolled her eyes and pushed herself up from her leaning position.
"You do know that she is a prominent member of the revolutionary movement? She'd have you nailed to a wall if she knew you were a Comte."
She walked around his desk to his other side and sat down with her back to him, ignoring the numerous papers laid out on the wooden surface. He glared at her, even if he knew that his facial expression would go unnoticed.
"You haven't answered my question."
She turned her head slightly to watch him out of the corner of her eye. She then proceeded to pick up one of the papers on the desk to read it.
"Neither have you answered mine."
He scoffed and stood up from his chair. Walking over to where she sat on his desk he took the paper out of her hands, and tossed it on the floor.
She had succeeded in antagonizing him. The problem was that he didn't know why. She came in with a broken gaze, but their banter seemed to bring her to life. He didn't understand what the purpose of this visit was. She said she had missed him, but he was having a hard time believing that. He opened his mouth, ready to throw accusations, because that seemed to be the only way to make her leave him alone. But before he could speak, she placed her fingers over his lips.
"So do you love your poor little Sylvie, dear husband?"
He grabbed her hand, rougher than he expected, and pulled her hand away.
"Does it matter to you?"
Her shoulders rose for a second before she dropped them. She didn't try to pull her hand away from his. She brought her other hand up to his cheek and ran her thumb over his cheek bone.
"Tell me Athos, do you love her because she is sweet, and innocent, or because she reminds you of the woman you believed me to be when we married?"
It took him a few seconds to realize what she was asking, to realize what she meant, to understand that they both already knew the answer to that question. It was like a slap upon his cheek, a bucket of ice cold water splashed on his face. Something clicked in his mind, and now there was no way back.
When he had met Anne, she had been easy to be with, she had been easy to fall in love with. Seemingly innocent, and sweet. His Anne had been much like Sylvie. And much like Anne, he would destroy all the light and hope in Sylvie. When he had bedded her, it felt good, it gave him hope for happiness, but now, thinking it all over, it felt as though he had used Sylvie's innocence, tainted her lightness.
He hated himself for not realizing earlier what his relationship with Sylvie truly was. And he hated his wife for making him realize it.
"Sylvie is nothing like you."
It was visible that she did not take offense. His frustration seemed to amuse her.
"Of course not Athos. I was never as innocent. I grew up in the streets, begged those who passed by for money and food, until I was old enough to become a whore. I had no time to go out to protest, I was too busy worrying over whether I would have a roof over my head for the night."
It was weird to hear her talk about her past. It was the first, and possible crumb of her story that he would get. He had already known she was a whore before they met, but hearing her admit it so openly… Hearing her reason for being a whore… Porthos had been a thief, and he had never judged him, because he knew what kind of gutter he grew up in. But he had never stopped to think about his wife's past.
As his silence drew on, she dropped both of her hands and wrapped them around her shoulders. He must have looked like a complete fool. Frozen on spot, gaping like a fish. It took him a few more moments to regain his ability to speak.
"I'm sorry..."
She huffed loudly and turned her head away from facing him.
"I don't need your pity."
He stood there, most of the anger gone, replaced by guilt. He tried to catch her gaze but she kept her eyes down.
"Then what do you need?"
She slowly turned her head back to him, her eyes still down. She sat there looking at the ground, while he stood there looking at her. Complete silence surrounded them, aside from the occasional sounds from the yard, and their breathing. He didn't dare move, not until she looked up at him.
"You."
Her answer was so short, so quiet, that at first he thought he imagined it. But it was not a figment of his imagination. His wife was there in front of him. Asking him for the only thing he was afraid to give her.
He knew that it was wrong. It was wrong to look at someone who you've tried to kill, someone who has tried to kill you, and feel such longing, such strong craving. And he was a weak man for giving in so easily. But there was no way that he could stay away. He couldn't pull his eyes away from hers, and he found that he couldn't take a step away from her. So he did the only thing he could. There was only one way this night could end, and so he gave in.
Half a step forward, and there he was, frantically kissing the woman from his dreams. Her hands were already pushing his shirt down his shoulders before he could even fully realize what just happened. And as her nails dug into his skin, he realized that he didn't have to think. He let his body do the thinking.
Reaching the ties of her corset he tried to push her down onto the table, but she pushed him back. She pushed him forcefully enough that he found himself bumping into the shelves behind his back. It brought a smirk to her face for a reason unknown to him. He took a deep breath and made his way back to Anne. Without breaking the kiss he dragged her to where his bed stood. She managed to strip him off his shirt before he pushed her onto the bed and followed her down. His hands once again found the ties of her corset. But before he could finish untying them, his wife flipped them over and sat up straddling him.
"I thought I already told you that I have no desire to look upwards all night."
He would have chuckled, but she leaned down and once again kissed him.
He stopped trying to resist. Because the more he resisted the more he craved her. Being with her was easy, no matter how many years have passed. It was talking that was hard. So instead of exchanging words they exchanged kisses, tender touches, and lustful looks.
And for one night he forgot all his hate, all his problems, all his common sense. He didn't have to be the Captain of the Musketeers, a Comte, a good friend, a good man. He could simply be Athos. She made him forget, like no amount of wine ever could. There were no dreams, no ghosts or mistakes to haunt him. Just the feeling of her skin on his, and love in his heart.
