"You ran away again, didn't you?"

He allowed his eyes to close for a second as he stopped in his tracks, not daring himself to turn around in fear that this was nothing more than a hallucination, a nasty trick of his mind. But what followed the quiet words was the unmistakable sound of a familiar set of footsteps on the dirty cobblestone. He was tempted to snarl at the person standing behind him, but snapping at them wouldn't change the bitter truth, nor would ignoring them. So he was left with the last option, which, to his misfortune, was also the right one considering how he ended their last meeting.

Taking his time, he slowly turned around to face his wife. She stood in the shadows of the building, reminding him much of when she came to him at night and asked why he still wore her locket. Moonlight sparkled on the silk skirt of her dark blue dress as she stepped forward out from the darkness. Her hair was in a simple braid, and her lips colored blood red. She looked just as he remembered her, just the way she looked in his dreams. He watched her devious eyes look him over, most likely trying to see if he had changed since they had last seen each other.

He thought he had changed in the past three years, but when their eyes locked and he was met with a familiar glint in her eyes, he realized he hadn't changed at all. To his physical appearance, the few years hadn't done anything, if the mirror was anything to go by, but he thought that he had become calmer, more peaceful. But seeing her here, with her cunning green eyes, her bare shoulders, and the ever-present smell of lavender, made his blood boil with anticipation. It made him realize to what extent he had missed the adrenaline, the thrill, the excitement of the life of a soldier. Perhaps that was the reason why he found himself in Paris once again. Because only a large city like Paris could provide him with the adventures he craved so much. Even if those adventures were nothing more than tavern brawls and illegal duels in dark alleys.

As always, her mere presence made him a different person. A more passionate, a more violent, a more humorous, and a more reckless man, instead of the aloof and unapproachable man he was known to be. Now, standing slightly more than a meter away from her, he could already feel something he had not felt for over a year. Desire. Desire to fight. Desire to love. Desire to live. Desire for something other than wine. Gone was the dread of seeing a familiar face, and gone was the pull towards the bottle of wine that lay under his bed at the inn. They were replaced by the sudden urge to be near her.

But he had no right to be anywhere near her. Even if her beauty could make him forget about anything, it didn't mean that she could forget or forgive what he did. Fortunately that line of thought was stopped when she raised her eyebrow and made another step in direction.

"Imagine my surprise, when I walked out of a tavern and saw you walking by. Last I remember, you're supposed to be in some far away village living with your daughter and Sylvie. So what is it that you're doing here?"

Tilting his head slightly to look her straight in the eyes, he let out a quiet huff. By the look in her eyes he knew that she knew that her first assessment of him was correct. But he would not give her the satisfaction.

"Perhaps I'm simply visiting."

It was a poor attempt at lying. A lie that neither of them believed. But it was better than voicing the truth, which would hurt his already damaged pride. And what was the point of saying something as obvious as his reason for being in Paris?

His blatant lie elicited a small chuckle from his wife.

"If you were here for a visit, then your friends would have already been aware of your presence, and consequently so would the Queen."

He groaned and glared lightly at her.

"If you already know the truth, then what is the point of asking?"

Her lips pulled into a smirk as her crossed arms fell down to her sides and she stepped even closer to him.

"I am simply making conversation."

He let out a heavy breath and also took a step forward in an attempt to demonstrate that her presence had no effect on him. Of course it wasn't the truth, but once again, he didn't want her to have the satisfaction of being in control of the situation. He didn't want to admit that she still made his mind go mad with desire.

"I have never known you to be one for small talk."

Now her lips pulled into a full smile.

"And I have never known you to be one to consider running away from your family a topic for small talk."

The words hurt. She hit her mark with those words, and knowing that it was nothing but the truth did nothing to appease the pain. He clenched his fists in anger as he stared at her seemingly indifferent eyes.

The truth was that he was not made for a quiet life. It wasn't the life of a commoner that bothered him, because even when he was comte, peace and quiet made him bored. His life seemed empty without all the danger, his duty to his country, and the push and pull relationship he had with Anne. And he didn't even realize as he started filling that emptiness with wine. It started as it always did, one cup, then two, then a bottle, then two, and then he was passed out near the tavern murmuring Anne's name while Sylvie was trying to drag him back home.

When he woke up, his shirt covered in red wine stains, smelling as though he hadn't had a bath in days, and saw Sylvie's disappointment as she was trying to put their daughter to sleep, he did the only thing he could. He ran away like the coward that he is.

He ran from his duties as the Comte de la Fere when he couldn't deal with what he had been forced to do in the name of duty, then he ran from his feelings for his wife when the war had begun, then he ran from the Musketeers when Treville was killed. And now he ran away from his family because he didn't know how to be anything other than a soldier and a drunk. Now, being forced to hear the truth, hurt him. But what right did he have to be hurt? He supposed it hurt because it came from his wife, the only person who knew him to such an extent.

"There is no point in speaking of this. Sylvie doesn't need a drunk."

She tilted her head slightly and raised her eyebrows.

"And here I thought that after the war you didn't drink."

He clenched his jaw as he glared at her once again.

"And here I thought you didn't work as a spy after England, but here we are."

She glared back at him.

"Indeed here we are."

They stood there, under the moonlight, alone on this empty street that was bustling during the earlier hours of the day, staring at each other. Green met blue in the dim light, and the frustration they felt towards each other slowly subsided. She was the first to look away.

"What do you want from me, Athos?"

What he wanted from her? Many things. He wanted her love, her trust, and maybe even her anger. But before he could get any of those things from her, there was something he wanted more, something he needed more at the moment.

"I want your forgiveness."

Something akin to surprise flashed through her eyes before she regained her composure. She looked down at her hands instead of meeting his eyes when she spoke next.

"Whatever for?"

He could hear it in her voice, the attempt to sound nonchalant.

"Many things. Starting with hanging you, and ending with what happened in the office at the Garrison."

She let out a humorless chuckle as she crossed her arms on her chest. He could see the hurt in her eyes, the way she bit her lip slightly when he mentioned the hanging, and the way her hand went up to her choker-covered neck when he mentioned the office. He still remembered how he had grabbed her neck, the force which he used to push her against the desk, the fear in her eyes, the betrayal. He still remembered the silky smooth skin of her neck, which he usually covered in kisses, was now covered by the imprint of his grip. He had no right to ask her to forgive him. She had every right to hate him, to even kill him.

And just like all those years in the chateau, he wouldn't mind it.

"It seems that the life of a peasant hasn't taken the arrogance of a comte out of you."

He scoffed as he watched her eyes twinkle with amusement.

"If you can never forgive me, then say so plainly, I will leave you alone."

This, he knew, was another lie. He would never be able to leave her alone, because he could never forget her, could never stop loving her. It seemed that the more he tried to forget her the more he remembered. Of course love wasn't the only thing he felt towards her, but at the moment it seemed like the most prominent feeling.

He watched as she closed the distance between them and placed her hands on his chest. Looking up from beneath her eyelashes, she looked so much like the woman he had married all these years ago.

"How can I forgive you Athos? I forgave you, and asked you to come with me to England. But then when we met again, you tried to strangle me with your bare hands. And I could forgive you, but how can I do that when you're not even here?! The question is not if I can forgive you, but rather if you can earn my forgiveness."

Standing so close to her was such a natural position for him, even after a decade, that he didn't even realize when he put his hands on her waist.

"And can I earn your forgiveness?"

She frowned slightly and tilted her head up so that now their faces were on the same level.

"You'd have to stay in Paris for that."

He found himself smiling at the confirmation that there was in fact a way.

"Then I'll stay in Paris."

She opened her lips slightly to say something, but before she could utter anything he pulled her as close as he could and captured her lips in a kiss. Her hands quickly found their way to his neck and then his hair as she pulled him closer. He smiled as he continued to kiss her and she did the same.

It wasn't long before he had her pushed against the nearest wall, his hands roaming over any part of her body that he could reach, his lips on her neck, silently begging her to forgive him for the way he choked her three years ago. Her head was tilted against the wall and one of her legs was around his waist. It felt good, familiar, new and thrilling all at once as they rediscovered each other's bodies. Trailing his kisses up her neck and all the way back to her lips, the kiss continued with a renewed fervor.

When he finally managed to pull himself away to look at her now disheveled hair and smudged makeup their eyes met, and he allowed himself to believe that this could last forever. He pressed his forehead against hers and quietly murmured against her lips.

"Anne."

Then darkness engulfed him as he found himself on the ground. A bucket of water was splashed on his face, which caused him to wake up with a loud gasp. As he sat up and pushed his wet hair away from his face, he took in his surroundings. He was sitting on a familiar patch of dirt. He looked up and squinted as the bright rays of sunlight shone right down at him. Sylvie was standing over him with an empty bucket in her hands.

The unmistakable look of betrayal and anger on her face instantly made him realize what happened. She shook her head and walked away briskly, leaving him alone. He looked down at his dirt and wine covered shirt that had once been as white as his wife's dresses in some of his dreams. He stood up shakily. Aramis and Porthos were no longer there to drag or even carry him home from the taverns, they were no longer there to help him stand on his feet, no longer there to make sure he didn't get into a fight.

He closed his eyes as the world around him spun. When he usually woke up in such a state, Sylvie would already be gone with their daughter, so he could have the house to himself to clean up. By midday he would already look like himself, he'd spend a few hours practicing with a sword. He'd have dinner with Sylvie in awkward silence as she glared at him while he looked down at his food and wallowed in self pity. Then they'd go to sleep. And by midnight he'd already be at the nearest tavern finishing his first bottle of wine. But today he didn't want to do that, he would break the cycle. Sylvie and their daughter deserved better.

So when Sylvie left, he put on his old leathers, grabbed his sword, and by midday he was steadily galloping towards Paris. Towards where, he hoped, he could find the woman he loved. Towards the place where he could regain part of his old self. Towards his friends. Towards the adventures. Towards home.