"Friends (Not Enemies)"
And so, without a word, without a note, Adele was gone.
Aramis rubbed his thumb over the mother-of-pearl inlay on the pistol, thinking that he would gladly throw it in a fire to have five minutes' talk with her. He wanted to ask her why. Ha! As if he didn't know.
Still. Still...
And he wanted to hear her tease him, as she always did, that if he had been born a women, he might have made a very fine courtesan—and if she had been born a man, she might have been a musketeer. She would twine his hair around her fingers even as she scolded him for not understanding what it was like to be born both poor and female... a tender gesture which made it difficult to concentrate on the lesson...
Aramis shook his head violently to banish those memories and hooked the pistol back onto his belt. He was about to drop the cloth in the mud at her doorstep when he stopped. It wasn't a handkerchief, but maybe the cloth had lain among her things...? He started to bring it to his nose, then, disgusted with himself, threw it down.
He wanted it back as soon as it fell.
Obviously, going home and staring at his four little walls was out of the question, but he didn't want to talk to anyone, either. Good thing he knew just the drinking companion for the job.
Or so he thought. When he joined Athos, setting a new bottle of wine on the table between them, his friend eyed him blearily for a long, calculating moment, then said, "You can love someone, and still fail them."
"It's easier to be angry, thank you," Aramis said shortly, pouring his first cup and topping off Athos'.
"Much easier," Athos agreed. He leaned back in his chair and considered d'Artagnan, who was playing cards with Porthos and a couple of other tavern regulars. "What's he like?"
Aramis thought back over the whirlwind of the last day and said only, "I think you'll get on."
"That's hardly a sterling recommendation," Athos muttered into his cup.
"I can't tell if you're insulting yourself or me and Porthos."
"Myself, Aramis. Don't you know by now? Always myself." Athos' voice was raw with unexpected emotion and cheap wine, and after that he lapsed into silence, allowing them both to concentrate on the task at hand. Perversely enough, Aramis thought he might have liked to keep talking... but no matter.
A few hours later, Porthos stood with his arms crossed and tsked down at his two insensate companions. Aramis sat with his head tipped back, snoring lightly, and Athos was pitched forward onto the table with his head resting on his arm. He was just... being Athos... and Porthos had some idea of what was bothering Aramis tonight, but it was inconsiderate of them to both need dragging home.
D'Artagnan came to stand beside him.
"Would you look at these two?" Porthos said, shaking his head. "I'll take this one, you take that one." He nodded toward Aramis and moved to hoist Athos out of his chair.
"Right," said the young Gascon. But as soon as he put a hand on Aramis' arm, his wrist was caught in a vise-like grip and he found himself meeting two very angry dark brown eyes. He froze.
The anger quickly faded and the grip eased, and Aramis said thickly, "Oh, it's you."
"The tavern is closing."
"Hmph." Aramis scrubbed his face with his hands and yawned hugely. D'Artagnan held out a hand and Aramis clasped it and pulled himself up—but a shooting pain in his ribs made d'Artagnan falter and lose his grip, and Aramis fell awkwardly back into his chair.
"If I wanted to fall on my arse, I'd have stood up by myself," he grumbled. But then he noticed d'Artagnan was hunched over, with an arm wrapped around himself. His tone softened considerably. "Are you alright?"
"I'm fine," d'Artagnan said, straightening. "Sorry, I didn't mean to—"
Aramis shook his head and then regretted the motion as the room spun. "No, stop. Wait." He blinked a few times, then eyed d'Artagnan suspiciously. "When we came to get you from Madame Bonacieux's house, she was... was she... doing something with a bandage?"
"You two coming?" Porthos asked. He was standing in the door already, half-carrying Athos.
"Our new duckling got himself hurt," Aramis told him.
"Gaudet?"
"No, before," d'Artagnan said. "I fell. Well, I jumped. Out of a window. Why is that funny?"
"It's not," Aramis snapped at a chuckling Porthos. "It's not funny. Are you cut? Bruised?" he demanded.
"Just bruises," d'Artagnan said. "Landed on my hilt."
"Ah, beginner's mistake," Porthos said. "Right, Aramis?"
Aramis ducked his head, rubbed his forehead for a moment, and looked up at d'Artagnan with a weary smile. "Probably cracked a rib, or a couple. Didn't feel a thing during the fight, did you?"
"Forgot all about it," d'Artagnan admitted.
"We'll try not to hit you there for a few days." Aramis pushed himself to his feet with a groan. He discovered that his new vantage point let him see which cups on the table still held wine. "Tell one of us if you get breathless or start coughing up blood," he added, draining one.
"I will."
Aramis looked skeptical, another cup in his hand. "Will you truly?"
D'Artagnan held up his right hand. "I promise."
Aramis reached over and ruffled d'Artagnan's hair—"Hey!"—and accepted the offer of his good shoulder for assistance out of the tavern.
"Aramis is our mother duck," Porthos explained as they walked.
"That's right," Aramis slurred. The last of his drinks had clearly made their way to his head. "Where would you be without me?"
"Dead."
"That's right."
They were not far from the tavern when Porthos called a halt to their little parade—after which Aramis remembered that this was his house.
"Right, right," he said. Fumbling for his keys, he asked d'Artagnan one more time, "Are you sure you're well?"
"Yes, I'm fine."
Suddenly Aramis wrapped a hand around the back of d'Artagnan's neck and pulled him in until their foreheads touched. "Even if you just start tasting blood, in the back of your throat, you say something, do you hear me?" he said earnestly. "I won't be angry." His eyes drifted closed, and his voice grew rough. "She could have just told me. I won't be angry. I won't."
"All right." D'Artagnan steered Aramis towards the door, which jogged Aramis' memory enough that he located his key and unlocked the door mostly without help. "Goodnight," d'Artagnan said as the door closed. He turned to Porthos. "What was that about?"
Porthos braced Athos up against a wall like a sack of grain. "Earlier, when he left, he was going to see a woman."
"I did figure that out."
"Yeah, but we shouldn't have seen him again until morning." There was a thump and a muffled curse from inside; Porthos winced. "Maybe it's for the best."
"How's that?"
"Remember when he asked if you and Madame Bonacieux were...?"
"Oh." D'Artagnan was young, and country-bred, but not stupid. "The woman in question is... also not at liberty?"
"Terrible habit he's got. As bad as Athos, in his own way."
Emboldened by the darkness, and the wine, d'Artagnan asked, "What's your vice?"
Porthos' grin flashed white, and he slapped his stomach. "Apple tarts." He pulled Athos away from the wall and tucked him firmly against his side. "We're going to the garrison. Can you find Bonacieux's house from here?"
D'Artagnan just said, "Good night, Porthos."
"Good night, duckling."