A/N: Thanks to everyone who reads and reviews! Enjoy this chapter - this was a fun chapter to write!

Seven

Red-Handed

"Athos?"

"Hmm?" He shook his head, trying desperately to clear the fog that had been looming. Ten feet away, d'Artagnan stood, head cocked to the side and staring at him, his sword held out and ready in his left hand.

"Are you ready?" d'Artagnan asked. "I thought we were dueling."

"We were." How long had he been standing there, lost in his own head? D'Artagnan's arm was shaking – a sign that he'd been waiting for a few minutes, and his partner was getting tired from the effort of holding his sword aloft in a hand that wasn't used to the weight of a sword. Athos scrubbed a hand over his face, taking a deep breath and trying to focus. Then, he drew his sword and lifted it, left hand close against his chest and ready to protect while his right arm dealt damage with his sword. "Sorry, I'm ready."

"Good." D'Artagnan raised his sword a bit higher – and then lunged, taking advantage of the fact that he was left-handed against a right-handed man, aiming for a jab under Athos's extended right arm. Athos jumped back, dropping his sword to block the attack with the guard, hearing metal ring as the two blades collided. The sound was like someone ringing the bells of Notre Dame inside his skull; he gritted his teeth, trying to keep his focus. Disengage…parry…thrust, then redouble when his attempt to catch d'Artagnan under his sword arm failed. Despite his still-healing wrist and lack of experience with his left hand, d'Artagnan was doing well. He was fast, and strong, and skilled…but Athos was faster, stronger, with more skills than the Gascon farm boy. He pressed that advantage, circling fiercely with the boy, his blade fast and furious and nearly enough to disarm d'Artagnan entirely.

The pain in his stomach felt like he'd been punched. His head swam, and, for a moment, everything went red, as though it had been drenched in blood.

Blood. His mouth watered, teeth aching in his gums. Under the smell of mud and sweat and horse shit that filled the courtyard was the sweet smell of blood. God, he wanted it so much, it was awful…

He shook his head, trying to clear it and get back into the fight. Unfortunately, he was half a second too late. D'Artagnan's blow went wild, and, the next thing he knew, the hilt of his sword was rushing towards his face faster than he could get out of the way.

Everything went black and quiet briefly, and, for a moment, Athos found himself at peace for the first time in a week. Unconscious, the hunger wasn't there, wasn't tearing him apart inside, making him feel like his insides were being ripped to shreds.

It didn't last long.

"Athos!"

He opened his eyes. Somehow, he'd gone from standing to lying on his back in the courtyard and staring up at the darkening sky. D'Artagnan stood over him, face pale beneath his natural tan and eyes wide. Aramis, Porthos, and Treville had joined him; Aramis was the closest, suggesting he was kneeling next to Athos while the others were standing. D'Artagnan's face was pale beneath his tan.

"I didn't mean to hurt him!" the boy blathered, looking to Porthos and Treville nervously, as though he expected a telling-off from the latter and a thrashing from the former. "We were sparring – he, he stopped moving, and I was still going, and I swung a little too wide…I was only aiming for his shoulder, I didn't mean to hit him in the head…"

"Athos, can you hear me?" Aramis asked quietly, giving him a gentle shake. Athos groaned, lifting his head slightly, only to find that the motion sent the world spinning under him. There was a tangy scent in the air, and he had to press his lips together quickly to hide the visceral reaction the smell brought forth. Blood. His own blood, but blood none the less. Aramis frowned, taking out a handkerchief and dabbing at his temple. It came away smeared with red.

Athos groaned, trying to roll onto his side and get back to his feet. Aramis's hand on his shoulder stopped him.

"Easy, easy," he warned. "You got clipped in the temple by d'Artagnan's sword. Easy. Not too fast."

"God…" he groaned, raising a hand to his temple, finding the spot that was tender and sticky with dried blood. Sure enough, there was a gash there – a gash that, under ordinary circumstances, would have been gone already and leaving him to make a half-assed explanation as to why it was gone. But, with him having gone without feeding for a week now, his rate of healing had gotten so slow, it was like being human.

"Athos, I'm so sorry!" d'Artagnan apologized. "Are you alright? Have I hurt you?"

"Fine, I'm fine," he insisted, managing to roll over onto his side and prop himself up on one elbow. A brutal cramp of hunger hit him hard, and he had to resist the urge to grip his stomach, instead biting the inside of his cheek to distract from the pain.

"You'd say that if you'd just been shot," Aramis told him, grabbing him under his arm and gently helping him to his feet. Athos cut him a glare, to which his only response was a shrug. "I dare you to deny it."

"Are you all right?" Treville asked, peering at him, disapproval in his eyes. He knew. Athos knew that he knew, knew he hadn't been keeping himself fed since Treville's stores had been destroyed. He couldn't say anything, not in the yard, not in front of Porthos and Aramis and, especially, d'Artagnan…but he knew.

Athos nodded. "I'll be alright."

"You should go lie down, though," Aramis said. "You look unwell."

"I'm fine…"

"I suggest you listen to Aramis," Porthos said, raising an eyebrow at him. "Don't make me carry you back to your room."

Athos sighed. "Alright. Fine. I'll go lie down – and I will go willingly, no need to carry me."

Porthos didn't pick him up, but even Athos's insistence that he was heading to his room to lie down didn't stop his two friends from accompanying him there – and d'Artagnan from following, holding both of their swords and looking ever the more like a kicked puppy. It wasn't even accompanying, really – it was more like Aramis and Porthos dragged him bodily back to his room and deposited him onto his bed. All the while, the hunger kept gnawing at him, feeling worse than it had all week, though he couldn't say exactly why.

"There," Porthos said, once they had settled him onto the bed. "Rest, you damn fool."

"I'll rest," Athos grumbled, rolling over onto his stomach and glaring balefully up at his friends. Concern crossed Aramis's face, and he knelt next to the bed.

"Athos, are you sure you're all right?"

"As alright as any man is after taking a sword pommel to the temple," he grumbled, hoping that would be enough to send Aramis on his way.

It wasn't. Aramis shook his head. "Yes, but…no offense, but you look awful."

"Thanks," he said – though he knew Aramis was telling the truth. He knew he had to look awful. Hunger did funny things to him, made him feel weak and disoriented, sparked that single-minded interest in blood, wherever he could find it. He'd asked Treville about replenishing the stock, and Treville said he was calling in all the favors he could without rousing too much suspicion, but even still, it was likely to be close to another week before he could get his hands on enough to start rebuilding the supply.

A week.

Athos didn't have a week. By then, he'd be too far gone.

"You been feeling okay?" Porthos asked. "You haven't been yourself all week."

"It's nothing, I'm sure," Athos insisted, rolling over, so he didn't have to stare into Porthos and Aramis's worried faces, so they couldn't see the pain on his face as another gut-wrenching pang of hunger hit him. "Just a small ague or something. If you lot shove off and let me rest like you insisted on me doing, I'll be fine."

"I'll stay," d'Artagnan offered, setting the swords down with a loud clanging. Athos nearly jerked upright in bed at the boy's words. He'd been counting on them all to leave, so he could suffer in silence. But if d'Artagnan stayed…

"It's not necessary."

"Actually, I'd feel better having someone looking after you, at least for a little while," Aramis said. "I'm sure Treville would feel better having you looked after, as well."

"We'll be heading off to the palace shortly, anyways," Porthos said with a shrug. "Guard duty again. You know. We'll tell Richelieu you're ill."

"And I'm not really allowed to do…much of anything," d'Artagnan said. "Since I'm not a Huntsmen or anything."

"Then it's settled," Aramis said, in a tone that booked no argument. "D'Artagnan will stay with Athos. In case he needs anything."

There was no getting out of it. Athos huffed, thoroughly annoyed. "Fine."

"Good." D'Artagnan took up residence in a chair near Athos's bed, while Porthos and Aramis departed, calling back over their shoulders for Athos to get plenty of rest and to recover. The door closed, and, even with his back to the boy, Athos could still feel d'Artagnan's eyes on him. "Do you need anything?"

"Yes," Athos grumbled, pulling the blanket over him. "For you to quiet down and let me sleep."

Sleep, at least, might bring some distraction from his insatiable thirst.

Though he doubted it.

Sometime before dawn, Athos awoke again to the insistent pain of hunger in his stomach, surprised he had even slept at all. The room was so silent that, for a moment, he thought d'Artagnan had left – but no, there was the boy's heartbeat, slow but strong. Promising.

Tempting…

He groaned, rolling over. D'Artagnan had pulled up a chair next to his bed and was dozing, long legs stretched out in front of him and his head lolling to one side, dark lashes resting against his cheek. Athos's throat went tight at the sight. He was asleep. Wouldn't notice.

Easy prey.

He gripped his mattress so tight his fingers went white. His heart was thudding in his ears – or was it the sound of d'Artagnan's heart, the promise of healthy, hot blood in those young veins? He let go of the mattress, gripping handfuls of his hair instead, trying to distract himself with the pain of him pulling his hair, nearly tugging it out by the roots. Anything to make it stop. Anything to make him stop thinking about it…

This was bad.

Athos hadn't gotten this bad in years. Once, he had let it get this far, and farther…starved himself for a week and a half, when he'd taken a leave of absence from the garrison, right after Treville had found out. Convinced that he would be executed for what he was, he'd fled the garrison as soon as the sun had set, heading as far into the countryside as he could. He hadn't been entirely sure what he was going to do – whether he was going to wander, or flee to England. A part of him considered returning to his family's home; there was alcohol there, and he carried a flint, it would be easy to make it stop once and for all. And some part of him had always been wondering, in those two weeks, if he would be hunted down by Treville and the other Huntsmen before he could even figure out what he was going to do. A week in, and he was ready to tear into anything he could find, but, by then, he was so far out into unfamiliar territory, so weak from hunger and clumsy that he couldn't catch anything to feed himself. A week and a half in, he had dragged himself into an abandoned hut before dawn, vision going black, convinced he was going to fall asleep and never wake again.

It was starting to get that bad again. The hunger was becoming insatiable. He needed something. Anything.

Anything but d'Artagnan.

He staggered out of bed, thankful he had not been stripped of his boots before Aramis and Porthos had left. The hunger tore through him, the pain that it brought making him unable to stand up straight. He had to hold his breath crossing the room, trying not to breathe in the smell of the young Gascon boy, realizing that he was going to have to hold his breath just to get out of the garrison, lest he turn on one of his own brothers. He grabbed his coat and his cloak at the door, shrugging them on as best as he could with uncoordinated hands, opening the door and slipping out – though when the door closed loudly behind him, he took off, hoping that, if it did wake d'Artagnan, he could be gone before the boy figured out where he'd gone.

He headed towards the gates of Paris, hoping he might find something that he could grab and feed on – a stray animal that had broken away from its master, or the odd game that sometimes wandered too close to the city walls and somehow got in through one of the gates. Pickings there would be slim, however, and he knew that his best bet was to go outside of the city gates instead.

He was so distracted by his thoughts, by trying to figure out where to go and what to find, that he almost didn't notice the wagon until he walked headlong into it. For the second time that evening, he hit the ground – he didn't black out this time, though he would have been lying if he were to say he didn't feel disoriented after walking into the wagon.

"Oh, terribly sorry, terribly sorry." A man appeared in front of him, small and well-tanned from traveling, his clothes dusty from the road but otherwise suggesting some measure of money, judging by the cut and the cloth. He smelled like the sea, salt and sweat; he offered a hand to Athos to help him up. "I didn't see you there."

"It's fine," Athos murmured, hoping that the man would be satisfied once he saw that Athos wasn't hurt, just a bit dazed. "I was careless."

"True, but I still should have paid more attention. You're not hurt, are you?" He spotted the pauldron on Athos's right shoulder and grinned. "Ah, a soldier, are you? Red Guard?"

"No…" He shook his head, silently begging for the conversation to end. The man still had his hand, and he could feel the steady thrumming of the man's pulse in his wrist. "No…Huntsmen…"

"Ah! I've heard of your regiment. Still having problems with things that go bump in the night, eh?"

"More than you know…"

"Well, Huntsmen, since I nearly ran you over with my cart – which I'm sure is far from the dignified and exciting end you had hoped for – let me at least buy you a drink. Consider it my apology. And my thanks, for your duty."

"It won't be necessary, Monsieur – "

"Bonnaire, Emile Bonnaire," the man offered. "And I insist, Monsieur Huntsman."

Clearly, there was no getting out of this. The man half-dragged Athos onto the wagon with him, and Athos, too dazed by his hunger and too busy trying to find a way out of this situation before it went from bad to worse, allowed himself to be dragged onto the wagon. Bonnaire flicked the reigns, continuing down the street, chattering away about some recent explorations to God only knew where. Athos was only half-listening; he sat hunched forward slightly, gripping his knees so tight to stop the shaking in his hands that his whole hands were white from the effort.

At long last, Bonnaire stopped his wagon at a tavern located somewhere along the walls of Paris, hopping down. Athos clambered down shakily; the explorer must have noticed, for his brow furrowed in concern.

"Are you sure you're all right?"

"I'm…I'm fine, I…" He couldn't stay. Hoping the Bonnaire had the sense to leave him be, he staggered off, into an alley adjoining the tavern. His gums ached, hands trembling violently as he staggered down into the alley. He was burning up, it felt, from the hunger; he tore off his cloak, then his jacket, breathing a sigh of relief at the coolness of the November air on his skin. Footsteps behind him, however, told him that Bonnaire was either overly concerned or exceedingly stupid.

"Monsieur! You're not well, are you?"

He couldn't wait any longer. The alley was dark, quiet, the only people there were him and Bonnaire. A week's worth of hunger was coming to a head; a cramp like a punch to the gut hit him, doubling him over. His vision swam with red, the pounding of Bonnaire's heart as he approached like a drum in his ears.

The man laid a hand on Athos's shoulder.

And he snapped.

In an instant, he had straightened up, grabbing the front of Bonnaire's coat and shoving him against the rough wooden wall of the tavern's exterior, making the man gasp in pain. A snarl curled Athos's lips, flashing a pair of fangs in the low light. The explorer's face went pale, eyes wide in fear.

"Dear God…"

Pinned to the wall, Bonnaire was helpless, unable to struggle as Athos sunk his fangs into the explorer's throat, groaning as his mouth filled with the taste of blood. His blood told a story – Bonnaire was an explorer, yes, but also a slave trader, a man who saw no shame in taking men, African men, from their homes and packing them onto a tight, smelly ship for a hellish journey across the Atlantic. A man who profited from the suffering of others.

He couldn't help but feel, as he lapped at the blood streaming from the punctures on Bonnaire's neck, that the man was due for a little suffering of his own.

D'Artagnan had woken to the sound of a door closing. He started, catching himself before he nearly fell out of his chair, sure that Porthos or Aramis had come to check on Athos and they probably wouldn't be too happy to find he'd fallen asleep. After all…he was supposed to be watching Athos, not taking a snooze.

But the room was empty, no one was standing at the door. Frowning, he turned back to the bed, about to ask Athos if he had heard the door close as well, only for his heart to drop.

Athos's bed was empty. The covers were strewn about, as if someone had been there recently, but the bed itself was empty.

The sight of the empty bed made the pieces come together in his still sleep-fogged brain. The door closing. Athos's empty bed.

Athos.

Athos had left. That was the door closing, was Athos leaving.

Cursing, d'Artagnan scrambled to his feet, making sure his sword belt was still buckled securely around his waist before tearing out of his companion's room, eyes scanning for any sign of where the older Huntsman might have gone. There were a few Huntsmen still milling around, but most of them were gone, now, out on assignments for the night. He did, however, see a head of dark hair heading for the garrison's gates, hastily pulling a cloak around him.

Athos.

He hurried after him, trying to keep him in his sights as the man left the garrison, into the streets of Paris. The crowds were far smaller now, at such a late hour, but that didn't mean the streets were empty. And Athos seemed to be determined, to make sure no one could follow him to…wherever he was going.

Where was he going? Ordinarily, d'Artagnan might suspect that it was a late-night visit to a mistress, but…that seemed so unlike Athos, the stoic, solemn, secretive man who seemed to delight in little more than sorely humiliating d'Artagnan while they were bouting with swords, taking his usual guard patrols with Porthos and Aramis, and then retiring to his room to drink and sleep the day away.

But then again, he knew so little about Athos's personal life that there could very well have been a mistress that he didn't know about. If that was the case, then he'd turn around and head back to the garrison, never speak a word of it to anyone. But if that wasn't the case…

Unfortunately, he lost sight of Athos while wandering through the merchants' quarter. He stopped, turning in circles, trying to figure out exactly where he had gone, when he heard a familiar voice call out to him.

"D'Artagnan?"

He turned around to face the speaker. He hadn't realized it, but he had ended up outside of the Bonacieux household and shop. Despite the late hour, Constance was out, bringing out one last load of laundry to hang from the line in the tiny courtyard at the front of the house. She frowned at seeing d'Artagnan.

"Constance!"

"Shouldn't you be back at the garrison, resting?" she asked, looking him up and down. "What are you doing?"

"Constance, have you seen Athos?"

She frowned. "Athos? Is he out on patrol?"

"No. I…I think something's wrong with him," d'Artagnan said. "I don't really have time to explain, but I think something's happened and I just want to make sure he's all right."

"Well…I don't think I've seen him…" Constance said, shaking her head.

D'Artagnan's heart sank in his chest. Constance hadn't seen him, and he had lost visual on him – and Porthos and Aramis were at the palace patrolling with Treville, leaving him with literally no one who might know where he could find Athos. And Paris was not a small city; if Athos was hurt, or had been taken, it could be hours before d'Artagnan would be able to find him, if he even found him at all.

"But…"

His head jerked up. "But?"

"But I know that there's a tavern by the city gates," Constance said, voice small but sure. "Him, Porthos, and Aramis go there frequently. I've seen them staggering their way back from it many a time. I don't remember the name of it, but there's a sign above the door, with some kind of sword or the like stuck into it. You can't miss it. He may be there."

"Bless you, Constance." He rushed forward, grabbing her hand and kissing it. She stared at him, stunned, but before she could reply in any way, he hurried off down the road, heading for the city gates and keeping his eyes peeled for the tavern that she spoke of.

He was nearing the city gates, only about three blocks or so away and skirting around a large cart that someone had left parked in front of yet another tavern, when he heard a soft groan that stopped him in his tracks. He wouldn't have been surprised; he'd heard that Paris was, in addition to being a glittering jewel of a city, a place where notorious appetites could be satisfied, and those seeking to satisfy them were not always shy about where and when they did so. But this was not a groan of pleasure. This was a groan of pain. A man's groan of pain.

"Athos?" he called softly, wondering if that was, in fact, the man he was looking for.

There was no response. He stepped into the dim alley, drawing his sword, wishing he had a torch to provide him better light; he could barely see at all in the alley. He stumbled over a pile of some sort, just barely catching himself before he hit the ground. Looking down, he found it to be a pile of clothes; lying on top was a very familiar-looking jacket, hastily removed and thrown on top of a cloak. He recognized the pauldron on the shoulder of the jacket instantly.

"Athos!"

There was a broken-off cry of pain, a hefty thump, and the sound of heavy breathing. D'Artagnan wasn't alone in the alley. Ahead, he could see the silhouettes of two men; one was standing, the other, crumpled in a heap on the ground, moaning softly. He took a step closer, then another, eyes finally adjusting to the dimness of the alley enough to see.

The man lying on the ground was no one that d'Artagnan knew: A gentleman in his early thirties, with dusty, travel-stained clothes, clutching at his neck and whimpering. Blood trickled from between his fingers; when he saw d'Artagnan, he waved his other hand, trying to send the boy back.

"N-No…n-no…" he gasped, clutching at his neck.

D'Artagnan looked up, to the man who was standing, stripped to his shirtsleeves and trousers, blood dripping from his lips and eyes glowing pale blue in the darkness. A pair of fangs gleamed in the gloom, sharp and ready to tear his throat out. He swallowed hard, his words leaving him in a whisper as his sword fell from his limp hand.

"A-Athos?"