The stench of smoke still hovered in the air, as bitter and acrid as it had been when they left Pinon. Athos had expected inurement as they rode, close proximity slowly but surely diminishing it until the familiar smell of leather and gunpowder supplanted it, but it clung. The world's ceaseless tendency to prove his convictions incorrect probably shouldn't have surprised him - especially not immediately after Anne's revival from a grave she'd never occupied - but it did nonetheless.
It was fitting, he supposed, for all it was cruel; how like the past to persist even against the onslaught of time and distance.
As he and d'Artagnan re-entered the Garrison, however, he couldn't help a flare of apprehension about reconvening with Aramis and Porthos. If the past were any indication, they were bound to notice the smell within seconds - or, if not that, the still-stinging burn mark on his temple from Anne's torch, or the pallor of exhaustion he no doubt bore, or the light singes on his jacket from where the fire got a touch too close - and begin anew their attempts at well-intentioned interrogation. Swearing d'Artagnan to silence helped, but it wasn't as though the lad were the weakest link; after the events of the last few hours, Athos wasn't sure he himself had the fortifications to resist.
As it turned out, he needn't have worried. He didn't see them again until after their trip to the palace, when he'd had enough time - after dealing with the Spaniard, of course - to shove the past as far under the proverbial rug as he could get it. Neither Porthos nor Aramis had asked why he'd traded his usual leathers for training garb, and he didn't feel the need to clarify that it had been his only recourse after too long of ineffective scrubbing to get out the stench of a fire the others couldn't know had happened. If he threw himself a little more strongly into the training even than usual - fighting as though his demons had rendered themselves mortal and were standing in front of him - nobody seemed to notice.
He was reasonably sure, however, that they wouldn't have noticed even if he hadn't taken precautions.
He could hardly blame them. Even at his most self-pitying, he could recognize that it was little more than he deserved. Indeed, given how abominably he'd lost control of himself earlier, it was far less than he deserved. He certainly couldn't fault the easily discernible edge of distrust that had slipped its way into his interactions with Porthos, or the thinly veiled anger from Aramis' quarter. His actions merited the rebukes from the second he hesitated - guilt and fear and pain temporarily outweighing the brotherhood that should have come an indomitable first - to bring them back to Pinon.
And yet, once Bonnaire was safely - or, hopefully, not-so-safely - stowed aboard the ship to a Spanish prison and Athos was deep in his cups, he couldn't help dwelling on it. On the coldness he was sure he could perceive amongst them, even in normal conversation. On how their (treasonous) plotting had been a matter of brusque, no-nonsense simplicity and not their usual companionable, irreverent bantering. On how he'd done that, all on his own, and he neither could nor would shift the blame to anyone else.
Mostly, though - self-pitying though it might have been - he found himself unexpectedly tormented by the fact that they hadn't noticed.
Hadn't asked.
Hadn't cared.
Well, no… No, that was unkind and unfair. They were distracted - rightfully so - by Bonnaire and all that he'd done, by dealing with him and making sure he never hurt another person again, by trying not to get caught in treasonous negotiations with the Spanish. They needn't be concerned with the ghosts of his past even if they had been rendered much more capable of acting in the present than he'd anticipated. And he'd never been one for wound care anyway.
What he was far more concerned about - far more than any paltry concerns about his own health - was the ease with which Aramis had seized upon the idea that Athos simply… didn't care. Had no regard for Porthos' wellbeing, or the brotherhood they shared, or even the years they'd spent side-by-side in the King's regiment.
What's the matter with you?! Don't you care about Porthos?
It had been simple questioning, and said far more than even Aramis seemed to know. For Aramis, it was just a sentence. Something said in the heat-of-the-moment and forgotten. Something insignificant. A rhetorically convincing statement and little more. He didn't see what lingered beneath. The festering implications that would never be spoken but could never be forgotten. The distrust. The expectation of apathy. The disgust.
In some ways, he appreciated having new sins to add to his ever-growing list. He'd come dangerously close to complacency - to trusting that his brothers-in-arms would always be there, by his side with their easy words and swift, nonverbal understanding and (undeserving, perhaps, but nonetheless appreciated) care. Temporarily discarding the trees and nooses and forget-me-nots of the past in favor of gruff voices and blood was painful, yes, but it was the wake-up-call he needed. The reminder that getting close to anyone - or letting anyone get close to him - was sure to cause nothing but harm to all parties involved. That even the most constant companion could be taken away with a single act of chance or malice or self-destruction, and that he'd be the root of the problem regardless of which path were taken.
It was a lesson he'd learned, once from a pool of blood soaking into the hardwood of his floor, and again by the coarse fibers of a hangman's noose not intended for him but leaving scars behind nonetheless. It was a lesson he'd never been able to bury, not even at the bottom of a bottle like the one he was drinking. It was a lesson he couldn't allow himself to forget, and he was half-grateful for the reminder stored in the smoke still ingrained in his Musketeer's uniform.
It wouldn't be gone by morning, but he couldn't bring himself to care too deeply. If anything, he was grateful. It was a lesson and a reminder and he needed both.