A/N: Thanks to everyone who continues to read and review! Hope the wait has been worth it!

Eight

Of Monsters and Men

If ever there were a time for Athos to curse his damned vampiric nature, it would have been right then and there, in that dark alley, with Emile Bonnaire at his feet and d'Artagnan ten paces away, eyes wide and terrified.

Not that he blamed the boy in any way, of course. He knew the stories about vampires – likely, the tales he'd heard as a child, seated at the feet of his nursemaid, of the cruel, murderous, bloodthirsty ways of vampires were the same tales that d'Artagnan had been raised on out in the Gascony countryside.

And now, not even two weeks after being attacked by a werewolf, d'Artagnan was now finding out that one of the men who had looked after him during his recovery was a vampire.

Athos's eyes darted around, desperately seeking an escape route. Something. Anything to get away quickly. He knew there were some vampires who could glamour their victims, or those who had seen them. Make them believe that the vampire they'd seen had never been there at all. Athos, however, was not one of them – he was too young, had not spent enough years condemned to its life to reap any real benefits from it. At his feet, Bonnaire groaned, looking up at the young farm boy who had wandered into the alley.

"Go boy!" he gasped out. "Go!"

D'Artagnan ignored the slaver, attention still fixed on Athos. He was pale, eyes unnaturally large in his face. His sword had fallen from his hand and was now lying at his feet. Athos was waiting for him to pick it up, for him to charge him…the inevitable tearing pain of the blade piercing his chest. Would it kill him immediately, he wondered, or would the death be slow, prolonged…agonizing? Would it even kill him at all? The blade d'Artagnan owned was worked with silver, he recognized the gleam - silver did not have nearly the same effect on vampires as it did on werewolves. For all he knew, it could be that a sword through the chest wouldn't kill him so much as it would simply piss him off. And then what?

An image flashed before him: D'Artagnan, driving the blade into his chest, to no avail. That red haze descending over his vision, the one that had led him to pin Bonnaire against the wall and drink from him. The horror on d'Artagnan's face as Athos's fangs sank into his neck…his struggling steadily coming to a stop…

"Athos?" d'Artagnan whispered again, taking a step closer.

Athos shrank back. "N-No…"

"Athos…what's going on?" d'Artagnan asked, voice shaky but words sure. He reached down, reclaiming his fallen blade; Athos shrank back from it, waiting for the strike, the inevitable strike.

"No…"

"I'm…I'm not going to hurt you." It appeared to have dawned on the boy that having his blade out might have frightened Athos, because he hastily sheathed it. "I promise."

You still don't get it, do you? Athos wanted to shout at d'Artagnan. He wasn't afraid of being hurt by the boy. He was afraid of hurting him. Afraid of what he could do, in this state. He'd fed, put the bloodlust at bay, but…it wouldn't take much to make that resurface.

"Please, Athos…"

His teeth in d'Artagnan's throat, that browned skin giving way under the sharpness of his fangs…

"I just want to talk to you."

The sound of a heartbeat, strong and steady, pumped blood through his body, to where Athos's teeth were. Blood for Athos to lap up, greedy and wanting…

"Athos?"

D'Artagnan, limp in his arms. Drained of blood.

Dead.

He couldn't stay a second longer. D'Artagnan reached for him, his eyes full of questioning, of wanting to understand what was going on. Athos shoved away from him, nearly falling on his ass for his troubles, desperate to hastily put some distance between him and the boy before something bad happened.

"No, Athos, please don't go!"

He scrambled away on hands and knees, until he was out of reach and could get back on his feet. D'Artagnan stood, too.

"Athos, please!"

He turned, bolting down the alley, blindly running. He didn't have a specific path in mind, he just needed to get away, as quickly as he could. Behind him, he could still hear d'Artagnan calling after him.

"Athos!"

"Athos, wait! Wait, I..." d'Artagnan sighed, realizing that the Huntsman was long gone. "Damn it."

He had, in no way, shape, or form, been prepared for what he had found. A mistress, that would have been nothing. A male lover, well, it would have been a bit of a surprise, but d'Artagnan could have handled that. Even something extreme, such as some sort of clandestine meeting revealing Athos to be some kind of assassin or spy or the like, even that would have been easier to make heads or tails of than this.

Athos did not have a lover. He was not an assassin, or a spy.

He was a vampire.

D'Artagnan had heard the stories, growing up in the Gascon countryside, where the fear of the creatures that lurked in the night was even greater than it was in the cities. Vampires – they crawled out of tombs and caves by night, thirsting for human blood. They were strong, fast, beautiful but cold creatures with no mercy for their victims and no remorse for the things they'd done. Sunlight was their weakness, eating away at their skin – as were holy relics, even the simple carved wooden crosses at the tiny church in Lupiac, the priest had once assured a very young Charles d'Artagnan. His mother always said that lavender would keep them away, as well, but he couldn't say how well he'd believed that.

The fact that Athos was a vampire was almost startling. He'd always believed vampires to be charming and charismatic creatures – how else would they lure prey? He hadn't been at the Huntsmen's garrison long, but he'd been there long enough to know that 'charming' and 'charismatic' were not two words he'd use to describe Athos. 'Sullen' and 'prone to drinking' were more appropriate.

But…in some ways, it did make sense. Explain why he'd never seen Athos milling about during the day, as he'd seen Porthos and Aramis occasionally do – sure, most of the Huntsmen slept during the day, but occasionally, one or two could be found milling about the courtyard, half-asleep but needing to move about. Athos, however, never emerged from his room until sundown. He had been the first one to shy away when Aramis changed d'Artagnan's bandages following his attack, which had struck the young man as strange, for someone as seasoned a Huntsman as Athos. And, for as much as his two friends claimed he drank, he'd never shown any signs of it: He was clear-headed, steady in his stride, and never stank of wine.

The man he'd fed from moaned in pain on the ground, trying to crawl back to the wagon parked at the entrance of the alley – presumably, it was his wagon. D'Artagnan reached down to help him up, pulling the man to his feet. The man looked at him, eyes wide and fearful in his pale, sweaty face.

"You'll go and stop him, won't you?" he asked, voice sounding stronger than he was acting, which made d'Artagnan wonder if the man was playing it up to earn sympathy. Upon closer inspection, the bite wasn't terribly deep, hadn't punctured anything major, and had already mostly stopped bleeding.

"Yes…yes, I will," d'Artagnan said vaguely, stepping away from the man, grabbing the jacket and cloak that Athos had discarded near the mouth of the alley. "Don't worry, I'll find him…"

The man murmured some send-off, but the young Gascon didn't hear him; he was already sprinting out of the alley, trying to figure out where Athos might have gone. His face had had blood on it, his beard was smeared with it…he'd have wanted somewhere he could wash up, and without being noticed too much, for even at this late hour, there were still people to be found wandering the streets of Paris. Thinking Athos wasn't likely to dip into someone's courtyard to clean up from their fountain, d'Artagnan headed, almost instinctively, towards the Seine, knowing that, if anything, there was water and privacy there.

Hopefully, Athos would be there, too.

The banks of the river were steep, and muddied from a recent rainstorm. D'Artagnan slid his way down, nearly to the water's edge, scanning up and down as best as he could in the pre-dawn darkness. It was fairly quiet; aside from the rushing of water and the occasional rattle of a late carriage passing on the road above, it was quiet.

At first, he almost missed it as he squelched along the river's edge. And then, he caught it – a sound of someone giving an almost-panicky exhale, followed by a quiet, anguished moan. He perked up, scanning the darkness. It seemed unlikely that those noises belonged to anyone but Athos, but…where was he?

Finally, he spotted him, hunkered down near the water's edge, staring out into the dark waters, hands fisted tightly into his hair. D'Artagnan approached, trying to be quiet, and succeeding…until his boot sank into the mud with a very loud sucking noise. Athos stiffened, looking around warily; when his eyes fell on d'Artagnan, he recoiled, looking as though he was about to get up and bolt. His entire face was wet, as was his hair and the front of his shirt, as though he had eschewed washing his face clean for merely sticking his entire head into the river. D'Artagnan held up a hand, hoping to stop him from running.

"Please, don't go!" he called.

"D'Artagnan…" Athos croaked.

"I just want to talk to you…" He took a step closer. Athos shied away, but he hadn't bolted…yet. "Please. Are you okay?"

He looked away, drawing his knees to his chest. It was a strange sight to see: Athos, the proud, steady Huntsman, best in the regiment, curled up on himself like a hurt child. It made a strange ache settle into d'Artagnan's chest, to see him looking so defeated. He managed to close the distance of the last few feet between them, taking a seat next to Athos gently.

"You should go," Athos said quietly, not looking at the young man.

"I won't. Not until I know you're okay."

"It's not safe for you to be here. With me."

"I think I'll be the judge of that." He reached out, putting a hand on Athos's shoulder. "What happened back there?"

"What do you think happened?" Athos asked, a note of bitterness creeping into his voice. "You have eyes, d'Artagnan. I know you saw what happened." He turned to look at d'Artagnan; to his surprise, Athos's eyes were not their usual stormy blue-gray, but instead a shade of cerulean as bright as the midday sky. "You know what I am, don't you? A monster."

"A vampire," d'Artagnan corrected gently.

"There is no difference." He looked away, back towards the river. "I'm the thing that I swore to protect the citizens of Paris, of France from. And look at what I've done."

"He's still alive, you know," d'Artagnan supplied, thinking that might ease Athos's guilty conscience a little. Instead, Athos groaned, burying his face momentarily into his hands before raking his hands through his wet hair.

"That doesn't help matters. In fact, it makes them worse. He saw my face. Knows I'm from the King's Huntsmen."

"I doubt Treville will believe him if he goes to Treville. I mean, it'd be your words against his, and you're his best soldier."

"It's not Treville I'm worried about," Athos said quietly.

"Not..?" D'Artagnan's brow furrowed, thinking over Athos's statement for a moment before it fully made sense. "Wait…Treville knows?"

Athos nodded, once. "He found out on accident. I…I ran off, but I came back. He accepted me back into the regiment. Acted as though nothing had changed. Told me that so long as I kept my nature in check, he would not do away with so fine a soldier."

"What about Aramis and Porthos?" he asked. "Do they know?"

"No." What little color there was in Athos's face drained away when d'Artagnan brought up his two comrades. He felt bad, to see that his comment evoked such a visceral reaction from Athos.

"Treville's the only one, then?"

"Treville and yourself, yes."

"So when you say it's not Treville you're worried about, you mean…it's the others?"

Athos nodded, lips pressed tightly together.

"But they wouldn't turn on you, would they? Just from the word of one man? You're their brother…"

"If they found out Bonnaire was telling the truth, though…" Athos shuddered, clearly imagining what the other Huntsmen would do to him if they found out about his vampiric nature. D'Artagnan put a hand on his shoulder again, giving what he hoped was a reassuring squeeze. Athos looked to him with wide, desperate eyes. "Well?"

"Well what?" d'Artagnan asked.

"Aren't you going to kill me?"

"What? Why would I kill you?"

"For pity's sake, d'Artagnan, I'm a vampire. A monster. I drank blood from a human – shouldn't you hate me? Want to drive a stake through my heart? Something like that?"

"First off, I'm not actually a Huntsman, remember?" d'Artagnan said. "I'm just living at the garrison. Second…I wouldn't kill you. You haven't done anything to deserve it."

"I attacked a human. Doesn't that deserve it?"

"I…" d'Artagnan faltered. Some part of him wanted to say no – he understood Athos to be an honorable man, a man who wouldn't normally do this. A man who wouldn't do what he had done, at least not on a regular basis. He figured feeding from humans was not generally in Athos's nature, given the guilt that he seemed wracked with. But…at the same time, Athos had attacked a human. Had fed from him. There had to be some justice for the man he'd attacked. He looked up at Athos and instantly regretted it – the look in Athos's eyes told him that he knew what the younger man was going to say. And that he would not attempt to rebuff it, to defend his actions. That he knew he was a monster.

Athos looked away again, back out to the river, watching the dark water rushing by. "I tried to hold on as long as I could…Treville said he was going to get more blood for me, but…it might have taken him a week. I didn't have a week, d'Artagnan. A week, and I would have torn the entire garrison apart."

"What…what do you mean?"

"They call it a blood rage," he said. "When a vampire doesn't feed long enough, they'll go into a blood rage. Vampires are strong, fast…they're stronger and faster in a blood rage, and they won't stop until they get their blood. No matter who gets in their way."

"Oh God…"

"That man, Bonnaire…there are memories in the blood, and I saw his when I drank his blood." Athos's fingers curled into the knees of his pants. "He's a slave trader. He's done disgusting things, but…he didn't deserve what I did to him. No one deserves what I can do. What I have done."

D'Artagnan frowned – the whole issue of Bonnaire being a slave trader did quite a lot to sap his sympathy for the man. But clearly, Athos still felt terrible about what he had done. Expected d'Artagnan to do something. To end him.

"Athos…" he began gently. "Did you choose this life?"

He shook his head, slowly, fisting a hand into his hair.

"Who did this to you?"

Athos froze, eyes going wide, face so pale that it almost seemed translucent in the moonlight. He was shaking – it was almost impossible to see, only a tiny tremor, but it was there. A tremor of fear that made d'Artagnan regret asking the question. He reached out, placing a hand on Athos's shoulder; the older man flinched away, finally looking at d'Artagnan. His eyes were wide, the pale blue a stark contrast to his ashen skin and wet hair that looked black under the moonlight.

"Athos?"

"No…" he murmured, shaking his head. "I…I can't…"

D'Artagnan felt awful. This was more than just worry, this was honest, visceral panic from Athos, and he felt awful knowing that he had, in some way, caused it. He reached out again, though Athos flinched away. He drew back his hand, hoping that he could try to make up for asking that question on words alone.

"It's okay," he said, gently. "It's okay. You don't have to tell me. I shouldn't have asked. I'm sorry."

Athos looked away from him, back to the river, fingers curling into fists on the knees of his pants. For a long moment, there was no sound other than Athos's shaky breathing – which surprised d'Artagnan, he didn't think that vampires needed to breathe. Then, finally, Athos broke the silence with a long sniff.

"What will you do, d'Artagnan?"

"I'm going to take you back to the garrison," he stated, trying to sound calm and matter-of-fact. "And get you back into bed before Aramis and Porthos come back and discover you've left and wring both of our necks for it."

Athos turned to look at him, cautious, expecting a trick. "That's…that's it? You're going to take me back to the garrison?"

"It's where you belong, isn't it?"

"D'Artagnan, I'm a vampire," Athos said, slowly, as though explaining it to a dimwitted child. "You watched me feed off of another human and you want to take me back to a garrison full of Huntsmen. Human Huntsmen."

"I understand that," d'Artagnan replied.

"So why are you taking me back there? Why aren't you just leaving me here?" Athos ran a hand through his soaked hair, looking bewildered. "Why do you trust me?"

That made the Gascon farmboy pause. He had been wondering that himself – why was he so willing to trust Athos? For all he knew, what he had just seen could have been an act, and Athos might have been as unrepentant and vicious as every other vampire he'd ever heard of.

But something about that thought resonated wrong with him. Athos seemed so genuinely upset and disgusted with himself over what he had just done. He did not strike d'Artagnan as the type to fake emotions so genuine. He had only ever presented himself as stoic and quiet but trustworthy, ever since d'Artagnan had been brought bleeding and injured to the Huntsmen's garrison.

"Well," he said. "I figure, if Captain Treville knows and he trusts you, you can't be all that bad. Besides, you've had plenty of opportunities to kill me, and you haven't laid a finger on me. So I figure…I'd be all right with taking the risk of trusting you."

A sort of relief filled Athos's eyes, and he gave a sigh. "Thank you, d'Artagnan. Thank you."

He nodded, standing up and offering a hand to Athos. "Now, come on. Porthos and Aramis will be coming back soon, and woe on both our heads if we're not back in your room and you're not back in bed."

Athos nodded, taking d'Artagnan's hand and allowing himself to be pulled to his feet. He started off down the banks, but was stopped when d'Artagnan pressed a bundle into his chest. Frowning, he looked down, finding that the bundle was his jacket and cloak, which d'Artagnan had retrieved from the alley he'd been in. He looked up to the young man, who smiled.

"I figured you might need those."

Athos unfolded his jacket, shrugging it on over his wet, stained shirt, buttoning it to hide the blood that was still on his shirt, pulling his cloak over it. Dressed like that, he looked to be back to his old self again.

"Yes," he said with a nod. "I think I will."