Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It’s a fine, blue-sky June day, and Aramis is sulking.

The other three Inseparables have been assigned to accompany the king on a hunting trip. Aramis, naturally, has been excluded from the task at Rochefort’s advisement. It’s growing suspicious, really, how even within his hatred for and scheming against the Musketeers as a body he seems to reserve an especially vicious piece of his rancor for Aramis. There’s no way, there’s no possible way Rochefort could know about his affair with the queen, but despite weeks of soul-searching Aramis cannot for the life of him figure out what else he might have done to aggrieve the man so.

The marksman leans against a post in the courtyard with arms crossed and face carefully schooled into neutrality while his three comrades saddle up to ride out to the Louvre and begin the journey to the royal hunting lodge. Apparently not fooled by his affected nonchalance, d’Artagnan gives him a sympathetic sidelong glance as he finishes adjusting his stirrups. “Really, you aren’t missing anything. I’d much rather stay here and follow Guard patrols than babysit, if you ask me—”

“Watch yourself,” Porthos says, warningly but also glumly— they’re all aware the comparison, while lacking tact, doesn’t lack a seed of truth. “And I know why you really want to stay behind, you’re not fooling us. Patrols my arse, there’s someone else you’re thinking about following around the palace like a lost little puppy—”

In a rather impressive feat of horsemanship, d’Artagnan swings himself up into the saddle and punches Porthos in the arm in one movement, spurring himself away before the bigger man can get out more than a shout of protest. He does follow out of the garrison posthaste, though, leaving Aramis rolling his eyes and Athos shaking his head as he takes his time evening out his reins. Takes… more than enough time. Ah. He’s stalling, isn’t he. Aramis turns to him pointedly. “I think those are as evenly matched as you and I by now. Best not to leave the king waiting, no?”

Athos moves one hand to the pommel, but pauses again and faces him, studying him closely. “You really don’t know why—”

“No!” Aramis tosses his hands in the air, then glances around to ensure the courtyard’s cleared out before leaning in to hiss, “I’ve thought through it again and again, there’s no reason I can see why he’d be trying to keep me from the king and the– the queen. And it’s certainly not that .”

Athos gives him a level stare, and the building frustration he’d been doing his best to direct away from his friends finally stokes his temper too hot to control. Aramis jabs him hard in the chest and growls in his face, “ Don’t look at me like that. I know the dangers, and despite what all of you seem to think, I do have some control over myself. I won’t risk her reputation as well as my own head and you know it. There is absolutely no way he could have figured it out.”

The other man’s hands come up in defense and apology as he backs away, pulling himself up onto his horse. “Alright, alright. I believe you. It doesn’t seem below a man like Rochefort to develop an unreasonable grudge against a man over some kind of petty nonsense. I only wish we knew why. d’Artagnan is starting to miss your joyous company.”

Aramis removes his hat to rub his forehead for a moment, hiding his face briefly before he reaches out to pat the horse’s neck, eyes still downturned. “d’Artagnan’s missing me, huh? Suppose the rest of you have had enough of my moping and shouting for a lifetime.” It’s as much of an apology for his outburst as he’s going to give, but when Athos looks down at him fondly, he knows his intent was understood. The man is only trying to look out for him, he knows, the same as how the rest of them prod him about his drinking and his fits of melancholia. Another pat to her neck and then a firm slap with his hat to the horse’s flank starts Athos off after the others. “Ride safe, brother. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“And don’t you go doing anything foolish when we aren’t around to rescue your fool hide,” Athos calls back. “I want to be sitting at that table trading brief, pointless anecdotes of just how bored we all were when we return.”

Aramis just raises a hand in response, then sighs heavily once he’s disappeared around the corner, letting the last pretenses of cheer fall away. Not bothering to hurry, he wanders past the straggling cadets and stable boys to find his leathers and prepare for patrol. It’s going to be a long, slow few days.

Chapter Text

[Stuff happens I can’t be bothered to write at present, Aramis follows sounds of a disturbance while on patrol and catches a Red Guard harassing a woman for daring to like. drop something at his feet and confronts him]

“She’s a thief and a whore, and I’m tired of filth like her thinking they own the streets of my city!”

The rifle cocks.

Mierda.

Before he can think twice, Aramis throws himself forward, shoving the shaking woman out of the way as the crowd begins to erupt in panic at the guard’s erratic, infuriated behavior.

There’s a crack and at first he thinks, oh, thank God, they’re just as terrible shots as he remembered. “She’s an innocent woman!” he hears himself biting out at the guard as he regains his footing, though the words sound strange in his own ears. A glance to the side tells him that someone’s helped her up and is hurrying her away down a side alley. Good. “Whatever your captain’s favor with the king, you have no right to execute anyone w-without a fair—”

And the horizon spins in front of him and he notices he’s dropped to his knees. And then his hands rise to clutch at his side, and when he pulls one away it’s shaking and stained brilliant red in the afternoon sun. And finally, finally the pain rips straight through to his fingertips like nauseating lightning as he falls forward, twisting just enough to avoid planting his nose straight into the dusty street. His throat hurts, and he realizes the hoarse cry he heard rise above the growing din of the crowd must have been his own.

Air shudders through his prone form as he tries to catch his breath, groaning through clenched teeth as a too-deep inhale sends another jolt of sick agony through him. He feels like he might throw up, but that would only risk rupturing something even more severely. He’ll have to do his best to keep it down. With most of his brothers gone, who knows when competent help might find him, if ever.

It’s difficult to discern what’s happening around him when the world feels to have narrowed to his flushed face, his pounding heart, and the now-excruciating pain in his abdomen, but he can hear voices as if through water, shouting and boots pounding. The ground thunders beneath him as he drags himself up onto one elbow, then one knee, inching forward. Towards the guard, that rogue. He has to keep him from— Someone knocks into him and he falls again.
“Aramis!”

The voice is distantly familiar, but it’s not one of the ones he was hoping to hear— one of his remaining brothers in arms. And his name notwithstanding, the words being spoken are lost in the rushing of blood in his ears.  As quick hands tug at his arms and roll him onto his side, however, the face that swims into view brings his spirits up somewhat. Capable help indeed.

“A sister in arms. Lovely.” His voice is slurred and he winces as Constance Bonacieux prods at the hole through his doublet and his body, her face pinched with worry. “Gently, madame, else I—”

Another probe and the spike of pain has his eyes rolling back in his head as sparks explode across his vision and then fade into nothing.

Chapter Text

Oops.

Constance grits her teeth as the musketeer goes limp in her arms, handsome face relaxing from a pained grimace to something almost peaceful as his hat tumbles off from its sharp angle against her arm. At least she’s ascertained that the lead ball went straight through, so there will be no poking around in the man’s gut tonight, thank God.

Which isn’t to say he’s at all in the clear, as she’s well aware that shots to the abdomen tend to lead to long, slow deaths unless one is very, very lucky.

Well, she’s never been one to believe that fate comes from luck alone. One can always weight the odds in one’s favor. With a quick breath and muttered prayer to fortify herself against the general unpleasantness that’s making her legs weaken, she gets her arms under his and starts to drag him out of the way. It’s only a dozen meters to her husband’s home from which she’d watched this whole mess unfold. The musketeer’s hat will just have to stay in the street until she remembers to collect it, and hopefully it won’t get trampled in the meantime.

“Hey, you! Halt! That man has obstructed the execution of justice!”

Oops oops oops oops—

The guard shouting at her in a rough, booming voice is unable to reach her through the crush of people, but he’s cutting a path in her direction and brandishing his pistol indiscriminately just like that first nasty piece of work who called himself a Red Guard. Constance ducks down below his sightline, which has the added benefit of offering her more traction to pull Aramis across the dusty Paris street, though knees keep knocking into her arms and back and there’ll certainly be bruises later. Fast as she can she gets him up her step and the door shut behind her, hoping the guard has lost the trail.

Fortunately, Monsieur Bonacieux himself isn’t in town at the moment, having gone to purchase some fancy-sounding sample bolts in Lorraine. Which is why Constance is even back in the house at all, because she has no intentions of returning to the place when the only soul in it is her husband’s. d’Artagnan lives at the garrison now, and while she misses the early morning glimpses of him before he’d had time to fully wake up and slip on his dutiful musketeer persona, the quiet and unsupervised moments they can sneak when he’s at the palace or she can get away to the garrison all but make up for it.

Which is all to say, Aramis is quite lucky in both the location and timing of his little stand for justice, she thinks as she leaves him slumped and bleeding at the top of the cellar stairs and hurries down to clear off one of the spare bedframes that have been gathering dust there since her brothers’ last visit. d’Artagnan had told her of the king’s hunting trip with an almost-teasing and mostly-sincere warning to keep an extra close eye on the queen, as much of the regiment would be attending His Majesty or on another mission Rochefort had ordered. The queen, of course, had little interest in being fussed over, and had readily agreed with Constance’s plan to return home briefly.

And if Constance had to make a guess, she’s pretty sure Anne would much rather she be tending to Aramis than to Her Majesty right now. Not that she’s in the business of gossip or anything of the sort. Certainly it’s a purely professional royal interest in the wellbeing of her musketeer. Her musketeers. Whatever.

There’s a spot for Aramis in the basement now, but getting him down to it will be a trick. After a moment of biting her lip and considering, Constance tugs off his pauldron, his doublet, and his weapons belts, carrying them down to dump in a pile at the foot of the cellar stairs. She finds a sheet of canvas and wraps him in it before hoisting him up again and backing down the steps with his dead weight pulling at her arms, wincing every time his feet fall from one stair to the next with a jarring thunk. The heels of his boots leave twin trails across the dusty floor as she drags him to the bed and awkwardly arranges his limbs on it before removing them. As she does, Aramis finally starts to come around with a low groan, face contorting and eyes flicking under their lids.

“Monsieur? Monsieur, I need you to hold still, you’re still very injured. You’re safe, though, you’re in the home of M. Bonacieux and I’ll tend to your wound in a moment.”

His eyes open a crack, revealing irises so dark they briefly make her feel like she’s falling into them. Ah. Well, she understands why that gaze has entranced so many women, then. But right now he’s too confused and hurt to back up his fine looks with witty banter or attractive smoulders, so the effect is rather wasted as he tries to focus on her face without much success. “Const’nce…”

“Yep, it’s me,” she says brightly. Just at that moment someone falls on the outward-facing cellar doors and they both flinch, causing Aramis to whine softly with discomfort. Much quieter, she finishes, “Alright, alright, let’s see what I’ve got—”

“Not safe. Need to… home…”

His mumbling is barely audible over the building discord outside, but she’s glad she wrapped him up fairly tightly as he struggles weakly to get up. “Now don’t go causing yourself more problems over there,” she says sternly as she finds the cabinet that holds the few herbs she’d kept around for various pains too small for a doctor. “You’re testing my abilities as it is. Unless you can wake yourself up enough to help me out…?”

No reply. Probably not, then.

“In that case, the least you can do is hold still while I go see what alcohol my husband’s got lying around. Understood?”

Another moment of silence, and then a soft chuckle. She looks over her shoulder to glare at him, but he’s stopped wriggling and seems to be concentrating on breathing with his brow furrowed, so she supposes she can take a little insubordination. “Right. I’ll be back, then.”

By the time she finds a bottle of wine and another of brandy, some fabric shears, and a needle and thread and has returned to his side, Aramis’ eyes have fallen shut, but he’s still awake if his tight expression is any indication. Constance tuts sympathetically as she unwraps him so he’s laying on the sheet before cutting his shirt open to reveal his bare chest. “Bet it hurts, doesn’t it. Think you can hold a drink down? Got something strong for you.”

His face is drawn and damp, but after a second’s consideration he nods jerkily. She smiles though he can’t see it and holds the bottle to his lips, which he drinks from obligingly before letting his head fall back with a wheezing exhale. “Good job. I’ll… start cleaning this out, I guess. Thank God Lemay had me stay to watch the operation on Treville or you’d be straight out of luck, yeah?”

Which, she can’t help a nervous giggle at the apprehensive face he pulls as he braces himself. He squints one eye open to glare at her, mumbling, “ ’s unladylike to mock an injured man.”

“It’s also unladylike for a married woman to secret a known libertine into her husband’s basement and divest him of his shirt, but here we are,” she says primly, dousing a rag in wine. “Now hold very, very still.”

Before she’s done with the sentence, she’s started cleaning the area around the entry wound, wincing at the way he hisses and his spine curves but not allowing herself to hesitate. It’s only a moment’s work before the dried blood is gone, and she gives him a second to breathe before saying quietly, “Now your back.”

The look he gives her is verging on that of a cornered, hurt animal, but he squeezes his eyes shut and takes a few shaky breaths before inhaling and pushing himself up onto his side with a long, low groan. Quickly, she catches his shoulder to support him and cleans away the blood and bits of trapped canvas fibers. Under him, the fabric is stained dark brown, and glossy red reflects the dim light where it’s trapped in the folds. Swallowing hard, she looks away, trying to escape back into the professional dissociation she’d managed to find before while her fingers fumble for the needle she’d prepared.

This is more than she’d ever imagined having to deal with when she listened to the old wives in her town recommending their herbs and steam and all their more gruesome remedies with morbid interest.

“I’ll stitch the back one first, and then you can just relax while I finish the other.”

“Relax, will I?” His voice is choked and tight with pain, shudders running through his exhausted body. She pauses to smooth some of the sweaty, dirt-caked hair out of his face, but he recoils, one hand coming up to swat clumsily at her. “Just do it, then, don’t drag it out—”

The edge to his tone barely hides the panic and strain. She hastily pushes her own fringe out of her eyes with the back of her wrist, murmuring, “Alright, alright, I’m sorry. Here we go.”

She’s never been the most creative seamstress, but she’s fast and neat even on an… unfamiliar medium, and before he could even get the breath to start complaining she has the hole closed and the thread tied off and is lowering him onto his back again. There are still tremors wracking his entire form, his eyes screwed tight shut, but as she rinses the needle and replaces the thread he slowly blinks them open, gradually focusing on her again. It seems like he might be gathering himself to speak, but when she holds up the needle in warning of starting the second set of stitches he just nods and closes his eyes again.

When she’s finished those as well, she drops the needle aside and finds the roll of bandages that had been tucked into the back of the cabinet after d’Artagnan’s first dramatic arrival into her home. “Sorry, but it’s time to sit up again. And then I’ll finally stop bothering you, alright?”

He’s brought a shaking hand up to cover his face. “Can’t. Gonna be sick.”

And now she can see it, the tension in his bared stomach and the convulsive bobbing of his Adam’s apple as he swallows over and over. “ Don’t, ” she commands, gripping his wrist and leaning over to cup his cheek. “Don’t, Aramis, you know it will only cause more problems. You’ll rip your stitches or give yourself an infection, or at worst, get your sick all over me. I forbid it.”

“Well, if you forbid it,” he mutters.

But after a second he grabs onto her wrist in turn and hauls himself upright, breathing fast and harsh through his nose like an overworked horse. Quick as she can, Constance places a pad of bandages on each side and winds the length around his stomach, around and around before finally snipping it off and tucking the ends in. She finds another stretch of canvas and places it under him, keeping him from having to lay in his own blood. Then, as gently as possible, she lowers him back down with twin, soft oof s from each of them.

There’s a moment of relative quiet as he keeps doing whatever he’s doing to keep the bile down and she clears away her supplies, setting aside the needle and shears to be thoroughly cleaned later. She rinses her hands in the bowl of water she’d brought down and then drops them all in, watching the water swirl dark and eerie.

His voice, rough with dust and shouting and pain but steadier, drifts across to her, almost drowned out by the cacophony outside. “Constance? I didn’t mean to be rude. You’ve done me a service I can never repay, and I am forever in your debt.”

Face softening, she comes to crouch by his side, taking his hand in hers and pressing a kiss to his knuckles. “You were in pain. It’s only reasonable to be a little short. I only hope I did a good enough job, but…” A deep breath and she locks him into her gaze, his glassy, dark eyes struggling to focus but holding fast to her light ones. “You can repay me by surviving and doing an even better job next time d’Artagnan gets himself into a situation like this, do you understand me?”

He nods, a fleeting look of sadness crossing his face at the mention of his peer. Constance doesn’t have time to consider what that might mean before he’s suddenly near-dry heaving, curled on his side with his head over the edge of the bed, spasms rippling through his overtaxed muscles. Alarmed, she clings to his hand to support him and runs her free hand over his sweat-sticky back. “Shh, sh, that’s alright, you’re alright, breathe through it, come on…”

Eventually the fit passes without any real vomiting and she helps him to recline again, smoothing his hair and wiping at the saliva that had gathered at the corners of his mouth with a cloth. When she goes to try to peek under the bandages, he shakes his head— the stitches hadn’t ripped out. She supposes he must know what that feels like to be so confident, though the thought makes her sad and a little nauseous herself. Their previous conversation is clearly over, as he can barely keep his eyes open and his grip on hers is lax.

“Rest,” she murmurs, wiping away the single tear that finally trails unbidden down into his hair. “I’ll be here. You rest, Aramis. You’ve done so well today. Our boys would be proud.”

Chapter Text

He sleeps for a long time— well into the night. Constance occupies herself with cleaning the tools and thoroughly searching the house for anything else that might be of use in such a haphazard practice of medicine as the one she’s learning, but as she works she becomes increasingly aware that the unrest outside is only growing.

While she’s in the sitting room poking through a chest for a packet of lavender, the sound of shattering glass in the next room scares a yelp from her. When she gets herself unfrozen enough to peek through the doorway, there’s a hunk of charred wood sitting in the middle of the floor surrounded by a halo of glass and many people rushing by the empty windowpane, but it seems it was an accident and not an attempted entry.

Heart pounding in her throat, she scurries back into the basement. Aramis is still out, though he looks troubled even at rest, brow furrowed and fingers tangled in the blanket she’d draped over him. Understandable given the surroundings are hardly soothing.

Marginally less worried, she finds the pistol that she’d secreted away behind the cupboard the table linens were kept in, reasonably certain her husband had no purpose to be poking around there. She doesn’t have much powder or shot, but hopefully the appearance and, if it comes to it, the heft will be enough to discourage anyone who might try her.

With pistol now in hand, she creeps up the stairs. It sounds like there’s no one else in the house. Good. Her pulse is still pounding fast enough to make her lightheaded. Well, sitting around feeling frightened won’t protect either of them from the furor of the people or the vengeance of the Guards. Quick as she can, she braids her dirtied curls back, pins them up under a scrap of fabric, and gets to her feet. Time to get to work.

Three hours later she’s aching in parts of her body she didn’t even know existed, but all the entrances and most of the windows have been blocked with chairs, worktables, as well as the shutters and tightly pinned cloth to at least catch any glass if they break. The fragments on the floor have been cleaned up, the debris removed. And she spent a while just sitting at an upstairs window, watching with a sinking heart as Guards chase citizens both panicked and angry down the streets.

She’s been fortunate enough in her position both by birth and by marriage, but she can empathize with them, these people who have been ignored in their poverty and harassed when they lash out in desperation, as if they were nothing more than vermin and pests to the ruling class. Like mice to cats. It’s a disgusting way to treat fellow humans. And her heart aches, exhausted mind slowly working around her various skills and connections to think if there’s something, anything, she can do. Maybe with the queen, or Lemay, a kind ear that trusts what she has to say… Or she could donate some of her small stipend, or attempt to set up some kind of collection— some of the more sheltered rich do love a charity…

She’s broken from her reverie when a more purposeful movement cutting across the melee catches her eye. Someone in a large hat is weaving through the throng directly towards her door. Inhaling sharply, she ducks out of sight, then risks a peek. He’s looking towards her window. She ducks again. When she finally dares raise her head, he’s tugging at all the shutters and trying to see past them like he’s looking for light. Carefully, keeping low, she tracks him from room to room as he continues his mystifying search. Finally, finally, he seems to give up and jogs off in the direction she knows the Red Guard barracks to be, glancing furtively over his shoulder as he vanishes around a corner.

Constance releases a breath she didn’t even know she was holding. Well, hopefully, he’ll pass his nonexistent findings on to his colleagues and there’ll be no more investigating.

By now, the sun has all but vanished behind the buildings, and as she moves down the stairs every shifting shadow makes her jump. When she gets back to the cellar and lights a candle, the slightest breath of a draft would probably have her swinging the pistol, but it’s still in the dank space and the noise outside is somewhat muffled by the ground and the shuttered windows.

Aramis’ forehead is beaded with sweat in the flickering light, and his breathing is a bit labored. God, she hopes it’s just nightmares and not infection.

Fortunately, when she comes to wipe his brow with a damp cloth, it’s more clammy than burning up. He hasn’t bled through his bandages either, and though he doesn’t fully wake, she gets him to drink some water. Deciding that’s good enough for now, she settles into the chair beside him with her now-loaded pistol in her lap, ready to sit vigil until something about this situation changes.

Chapter Text

A soft hiss of pain wakes Constance in her chair on the second morning. Aramis, who had spent most of the previous day in and out of consciousness and almost never fully lucid, is sitting mostly upright doing something that is probably very inadvisable to his bandages.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

It’s gratifying that her outburst and tight grip on his wrist make him jump, but less so that his face twists and his muscles go taught under her fingers at his sudden movement. Muttering apologies, she scrambles up to find the now-cooled tea she’d gotten him to half-finish the night before and press it into his hands while he controls his breathing, eyes still screwed shut.

Once he’s finished the drink in silence and is sitting half-propped up with a face like he wishes he’d never bothered to wake, she starts again, “What were you doing, though?”

He shoots her a long-suffering look and lets out a sigh. “The stitches itched and I kept getting shooting pains, so I thought it might be prudent to examine it. And you seemed exhausted, I didn’t want to wake you.” More petulantly: “And I’m a medic , after all.”

“They say surgeons make the worst patients, I should’ve assumed the same would be true for the likes of you,” she muses. “You should have just woken me, dear, I’ve slept plenty.”

That gets another disbelieving glance. “Excuse my indiscretion, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen you look quite this rumpled, and I’ve seen you through a kidnapping, a murder trial, and more fights than should be allowed near a woman as pretty as you.”

“I’m sure plenty of women would say the same about your lovely face, mon beau, but I’ve seen your scars and I’m sure you’d argue they only add to the allure,” she says with a pat to his exposed bicep. “And you look a sight yourself even though you’ve been sleeping for absolutely ages.”

“If you were so inclined, I’d give you a tour of my many marks of valor,” he shoots back with a puff to his chest that immediately makes him wince as it pulls at his stomach. She only feels a little bad for having to hold back a laugh. “And I—” The rest of her sentence sinks in and he lapses into silence with a worried frown. “How long have I been down?”

A shrug. She hasn’t been keeping careful track of time. “Two nights. You were pretty much out for the count yesterday—”

New peals of yelling and running feet erupt outside and Aramis looks to the cellar doors, startled. Constance inhales sharply, grip tightening on the heavy curtain rod she’d exchanged for the pistol when she got nervous about holding the loaded thing in her lap, but the sounds fade into some other part of the neighborhood.

When she turns to him, Aramis is held perfectly still and taut like a bowstring, narrowed eyes betraying his concern. Right. He’d probably not been particularly aware of the situation until now.

“The people are still rioting,” she tells him quietly, glancing back at the covered window. Beyond it, the cries and running feet and the occasional heart-stopping gunshot have barely abated even in the early morning hours. “They’ve come to understand even more acutely than usual that the Red Guard has no imperative to protect or serve the residents of the city. We see it in their actions day-to-day, of course, but it’s quite something else for one of them to declare it so loudly—”

Another gunshot, much closer than before, has her flinching away from the window. Aramis reaches for her, but the skin around his eyes tightens immediately with pain and frustration as he’s forced to drop the hand to his stomach. “I should be out there. I started this mess. The musketeers can help protect them from the Guard—”

“You’re in no state,” she says sharply, recovered quickly and pushing him back down. “You’re wanted by the Guard for daring to threaten their authority, and besides, do you think the people would really trust you either? I know you’ve no lust for power or control, nor do most of the musketeers, but you are still sworn to serve the king, not the people.”

“But we do serve the people!” he shoots back. “They know that we take their protection seriously when the Guard will not, that they can always come to us and we’ll do what we can.”

“But in the end, your loyalty must be to the king. And more than once, the king’s wishes have forced you to go against the will of the people.” There’s a grim finality to her voice, a steely quiet. She knows she’s verging on treason, but she also knows that Aramis must and will listen to her in this dim, quiet cellar with only the two of them to hear the words— and that he knows she’s right. They both love the queen in their ways, after all, and their access to her gives them unique insight into the royal life. “They cannot trust you’ll always act to their benefit.”

“Just today, I have proven that I will side with them. And then I ran and hid like a coward! I have to return out there, prove that we won’t flee from this fight.”

“You didn’t run anywhere, because you almost died.” Her face has gone hard, and too late he realizes that he’s implied she’s injured his reputation by saving his life, and that he’d rather she had left him to make his doomed stand. “We are hiding so the Guard can’t finish the job they so gladly started.”

He ducks his head, chastised. “I am sorry, Constance. I don’t mean to sound ungrateful. I am so very glad you were able and willing to rescue me.”

“Yes, well, prove it to me by not martyring yourself the first chance you get. You’ll do much less good by Paris if you’re dead,” she says. “And besides all that, you’re far too injured to be fighting any Red Guards today, monsieur.”

And with that, her tone has lightened again, a forgiveness so swift he only recalls the moment her affect shifted well after she’s made up her mind. She’s patting his shoulder and standing, checking the shutters, adjusting the candle to be less visible from the outside and gathering supplies to check his dressings.

A little disbelieving, he watches for a while as she moves around the space— every motion so much more assured than just a few short months ago. The palace, the queen, the responsibility vested in her, and the distance from her arse of a husband have clearly done her much good.

Good, he thinks, a small smile tugging at his mouth. The woman who was fully willing to charge in and stop duelling musketeers, slap him for an offense on her lover, attempt to escape a vicious kidnapper— a woman like that is done incredible disservice by a husband and a city that wants her to doubt her every step. d’Artagnan occasionally seems blinded to her true strength of character and will and common sense by his love, which is a shame, but at least he would not reprimand her for daring to have thoughts of her own.

Though at present, those thoughts have been decided that he is not to leave this house, no matter if his honor and the honor of his entire regiment is at stake. And he’d lost his chance at winning her over directly, the conversation ended with his misstep. Aramis sighs silently, careful not to let his stomach move too much. If he wants to escape her care and resume his sworn duty, he’ll have to be more cunning.

But God, he does love a woman whom one has to outwit and escape. His smile grows. She turns to face him and he quickly hides it behind innocent, wide eyes. Her clear, light ones narrow right back. God, what a woman.

Chapter Text

“Constance? I lost my hat, Constance. I’m nothing without it. They’ll all make fun of me.”

She gives him a fond look from her place by the flickering candle, like one might offer a small child who won’t stop asking for sweets. To be fair, he’s been awake for a few hours now and his attempts at getting her to leave him unattended have been growing increasingly transparent. “I’m not running out into a riot to find your hat, sweetheart.”

“Please, Constance? You know I adore you.”

He reaches for her hand to press a kiss to her knuckles without breaking eye contact, but unlike most people he’s turned that gaze on, she just continues to look amused and a little exasperated. A spark of affection glows in his chest, right alongside the embers of his increasing frustration. “You know, if it were anyone but you, I’d be worried this was fever setting in.”

“Ah, you wound me again, madame.”

If he were in a better state he would lounge back dramatically on the canvas-covered pillow, but as is he has to carefully ease himself down and she hurries to stand partway and help him to his reclining position, which somewhat ruins the effect. He must have gotten some kind of a look on his face, because she snorts.

“I think your pride will survive, monsieur. It’s certainly taken worse blows, hasn’t it?”

To her mild surprise, his expression shutters at that, eyes flitting away from hers and his ever-present charming smile dropping away.

“I’m sorry, that was—”

“No, you’re right.” His voice is quiet and laden with contempt that seems directed entirely into himself, the rather ridiculous attempt at distracting her all but forgotten. “I’m hardly a model for dignity, am I.”

After a moment of flustered silence, she offers, “Well, actually, I-I’d say quite the contrary.”

A quiet scoff. His face is turned to the wall, though if she had to guess, his attention is focused less on the packed dirt and more on whatever imprudent acts are playing back across his mind’s eye.

“Is this what’s been weighing on you? Why you want to run back out there so quickly?”

No response.

“I’ve heard many stories from d’Artagnan of your exploits, and it seems to me you always conduct yourself with honor. Especially where people more vulnerable than yourself are involved, and in my mind, that’s what matters most, yeah? I mean, I saw what happened yesterday. You were right to step in, and it almost cost you everything. You were willing to sacrifice yourself for someone you didn’t even know, just because she was needlessly in danger. I can’t think of anything more noble.”

His expression remains shadowed from her, body still and tense in a way that sits strangely on his usually loose frame. She lays a hand on his arm. “Aramis. I have heard of your more… ah… personal exploits as well, but they don’t seem like those of a man without honor. More of a man who wears his heart on his sleeve and in his eyes and is prone to getting hurt because of it. d’Artagnan is much the same, I think, though he shows it differently.”

Finally, his eyes turn to her, and to her relief there’s a bit of mirth in them. A small smile, and she wouldn’t have thought of his usual as cold or guarded, but this one is so fond and open it makes her heart ache. “He is, isn’t he. And Porthos as well. Fools, the lot of us.”

“Maybe so, and I can’t say I’m much better. Always running my mouth when I shouldn’t, especially around court,” she replies, the corner of her mouth twitching. “We all deserve each other, don’t we.”

“And Athos deserves us. It’s good for him, I think.” The thought of his friends has made a stark change in his countenance, though he’s still drawn and pale from bloodloss. “He needs us around to remind him that showing a few feelings every once in a while won’t cause him to drop dead on the spot.”

“It certainly causes us plenty of trouble, though, doesn’t it? These bleeding hearts of ours.”

She only realizes she’s gone wistful when he turns his hand to grip her arm gently in return, and the look of wisdom behind his eyes is no longer one she’s surprised by. “Would you have it any other way?”

After a moment’s hesitation in which all she can see is d’Artagnan’s warm gaze and soft smile, the hold on her arm transformed into one far more familiar, she whispers, “No. I wouldn’t.”

He smiles faintly, then slowly leans back again, taking on a more familiar smirk as he closes his eyes. “You know, I think it’s those damn pauldrons, they trick you into thinking they’ll protect your heart if you put it out on your sleeve but they never do—”

The front door to the house bangs shut and Constance jumps, eyes widening. Aramis’ own fly open, locking with hers. As silently as she can, she slides the pistol out from under the other mattress, watching as his brow draws together but shaking her head at the implicit question in his gaze. Not now . Light-footed, she gets between him and the cellar door, turning the gun so the handle is out, ready to bludgeon anyone who enters.

“Wh– Constance?”

Oh, no . Thank God she’d removed most of the makeshift barricades earlier when the unrest had died down. She shoves the pistol under Aramis’ bed, pressing a finger to her lips before hurrying up the stairs and slipping into the hall. “Yes, dear?”

Bonacieux appears from the foyer, confusion turning to suspicion at her hand still on the cellar door handle. Her shawl, abandoned on the bench in the foyer when she’d arrived, is in his hands, and he turns back to eye the upended hall table that stands in front of the window by the door. “What are you doing here? I thought you were still with the queen’s retinue.”

“I am, darling,” she says with a smile that would only look forced to someone who’d ever seen a true one from her. “I remembered a comb I forgot that would match one of my new dresses perfectly and dropped by to get it. I thought I’d do some cleaning up while I was home, and then the riots started, and, well, you can imagine, out here all by myself… But! The cellar is looking much better.”

Never mind that this place has long since stopped feeling like home if it ever did, or that she’d actually come to search for old jewelry to pawn, or that there’s a severely injured musketeer well known around town for his penchant for sleeping with married and otherwise claimed women hidden in said cellar.

She had also forgotten a comb, which was her planned excuse if Bonacieux returned from his trip while she was still there, and it works well enough now. His acute wariness gives way to something else and he steps forward to rest a heavy hand on her neck and press a (rather clumsy and forceful, she can tell now she’s had… others) kiss against her mouth, which she just barely reciprocates to an acceptable level.

“Did you travel alone? The streets have been dangerous of late, full of rough elements. The guards are barely keeping a handle on things.”

She manages another tight smile. “No, I had a musketeer accompany me. Not d’Artagnan,” she hastens to add. “One you haven’t met.”

The disgust that bloomed on his face vanishes just as quickly, though he remains vaguely disdainful. Apparently, d’Artagnan has poisoned him against the regiment as a whole. “Well, it is good to see you. It’s been lonely here without you. I nearly thought you’d forgotten me.”

“Never,” she says, which is, in a way, honest. “I could never forget you.”

He seems to straighten, his worldview once again reassured. She’d feel bad about the deception by omissions if her cheek didn’t ache whenever she saw him these days, if any too-quick movement from him didn’t make her flinch. Looking down, she takes the shawl from him to hide the flash of discomfort and anger that crosses her face at the memory. He turns toward the kitchen. “In that case, it’s good of you to also remember your wifely duties every once in a while. I can’t run my business and my household at once, Constance, it’s simply too much. You must see if you can get leave from the queen to return more often.”

“Yes, dear,” she says, aware her voice has slipped into the false-cheerful affect that’s sometimes all that stands between her and bouts of angry tears. “I’ll just finish up in the cellar, then, before I head back to the palace.”

“Will the musketeer be here to accompany you, or shall I do it myself?”

“Oh, he’ll be back, I’m sure you’re very busy,” she calls, already halfway down the stairs. She stops short on the last one, taken aback by Aramis’ stormy expression. “No need to…”

Bonacieux’s voice is muffled through the floor. “I need to return to market with my shipments in any case, and perhaps we’d even run into the king!”

Collecting herself, she replies, “He’s on a hunting trip and won’t be back for some time. Really, I can manage on my own, and it’ll take a while before it’s cleaned up down here.”

Aramis looks ready to speak, but she presses a finger to his lips this time to ensure his silence. Wait .

“Well, maybe I should help you, then, if it’ll take so long!”

No! She and Aramis look at each other with mild panic, but she manages to keep it out of her voice. “Darling, really, you should get back to work. I’ll be fine, and the Guard doesn’t like it when people with no business there hang around the palace.”

“Is it hanging around to deliver my wife who has been forced to work there without my consent?” he asks irritatedly, and Constance can feel Aramis’ mouth tense under her fingers.

“ Please , Jacques.”

A moment of tense silence, and he sighs. His footsteps creak across to the foyer, and both in the cellar relax as he apparently passes the door. “Alright. But they cannot keep me away always, nor keep you locked up there. I have rights, you know.”

And before she can reply, the front door is closing again. Constance exhales hard as she goes to stack some fabric scraps with the intent of making it seem like she’d really done some work down here, rolling her eyes like she’s entirely unaffected by the whole exchange in hope that it will defuse whatever comment Aramis is about to make.

His tone is light, but forcibly so. “You know, if that is what marriage turns a man into, I think I’d much rather my way of things.”

“And what does marriage turn a woman into, pray tell?” she replies, too tired to give it much bite.

“Long-suffering and too good for any of this, I think,” he says.

She turns to him, surprised at the gentleness with which he’s spoken. “I do not need your pity, Aramis, nor your underhanded attempts at guidance. My affairs are mine to manage, not yours.”

His eyebrow quirks at the turn of phrase before he can catch himself. Face burning, she huffs and bustles off again. “And for that, you get a change of dressings and no brandy to dull it.”

“Ahh, madame, please,” he groans, delicately throwing an arm across his brow. “Is it my fault I have my mind in the gutter? It gives the best view of the heavens.”

That pulls a full laugh from her. “You use that line on all the women who find you tossed out in the street, do you?”

He grins back, though it only serves to emphasize the weariness in his eyes. “Only the ones who bother to pull me back out.”

It’s quickly followed by a wince. Whatever strength he’d gained over the past hours is drawing to its end, and when she returns to him with bandages her face has softened. “Any day, love. Now let’s get you cleaned up, and do you think you can stay awake long enough for me to gather a meal?”

A light scoff. “Of course I can.”

“Mhm.” She eyes him suspiciously as she folds down the blanket. He’s the picture of innocence, and also of utter exhaustion. “So you won’t mind if I wake you, then.”

“Of course not.”

Another roll of her eyes that quickly turns to concentration when he flinches under her too-quick unwrapping of his bandages. Despite her threats, she has no real intention of causing him any discomfort, and her touch stays light as she tends to the wound, checking stitches and reapplying salve and replacing the bandages. “You have very steady hands,” he murmurs, watching her work through eyes already half-lidded.

“A bit of sewing work will do that.”

“I’ve seen Athos mending his shirts, and I can assure you that’s not true,” he replies, shifting again with a soft sigh as she finishes. “You’d make a good medic.”

The assessment, so like Lemay’s, catches her off-guard and she’s silent for a moment as she gathers the supplies up and tucks them away again. Finally, as she starts to the stairs, she says simply, “Thank you.”

“Constance.”

The uncharacteristic solemnity to his voice has been building, and she turns back slowly with a wary expression. “Yes?”

His eyes don’t open as he speaks. “He can’t really be fooling himself that you’d rather be here instead of living your own life in the palace, where people actually respect you and your skills and wit.” Before she can wave off the second compliment in as many minutes, he barrels on. “Why do you let him maintain this fantasy he has of you, of a perfect subservient little girl who’ll attend to his every need? It’s not you. And you hardly hold back with your thoughts in court— which you know I find incredibly gratifying,” he finishes quickly. “So I don’t understand why you’d let him treat you like that.”

She’s quiet for a long moment, marveling at the similarities between him and his brothers in their misunderstandings of her situation, their high praise of and respect for the women around them while entirely missing the nuanced difficulty of what it is to be a woman in this world. Eventually, he cracks an eye, clearly confused by her lack of response.

“What should I do instead?” she asks softly, meeting his gaze. “Would you have me do as d’Artagnan wishes, run off and start a new life, never mind the consequences for a woman who abandons a perfectly respectable husband? Or tell him my desires and have him cast me out himself, or strike me for my dishonor? Or—” There’s something approaching disgust in Aramis’ face, and she finds she can’t bear knowing he can likely see the fading scar on her lip, turning away to fold more bolts of fabric as she continues. “He is not usually a violent man, but he is lonely and jealous and somehow full of both self-loathing and self-aggrandizement. If he sees me as outstepping his reach, I don’t know what he might do to get me back under control.”

She can’t help spitting the last word, and Aramis breathes out a laugh. When she whips around to glare at him, though, leery of him mocking her desire for independence or her temper, his gaze is turned thoughtfully to the ceiling, though a hint of a smile plays at his lips.

“And as long as you’re in the queen’s employ, you don’t have to spend so much time worrying the situation. Unless you’re dragging handsome injured men into his home behind his back, of course.”

“Which I do try not to make a habit of doing,” she says pointedly. “Despite your lot’s best efforts at putting me in situations like this, collapsing in front of me practically every time I leave the house.”

He inclines his head, not quite apologetically. “Understandable.”

Sighing again, she sets down the last bolt and returns to the stairs, but once again he speaks before she can ascend. “Constance.”

“ What, Aramis. I’m beginning to feel a bit starved.”

Once again, he’s chastened, but not stalled. “My last question, I apologize.”

“Well, go on, then,” she replies, a bit of affection sneaking into her voice even as she tries to keep it stern.

“...d’Artagnan mentioned, once, that the two of you had… that your husband knew of your relations. And then you went missing, and he thought— I think I remember—”

It’s not a question she was expecting, and her stomach drops at the unwelcome reminder of one of the worst moments of her life. Face going carefully blank, she says to the wall somewhere behind Aramis’ head, “My husband tried to kill himself, yes. If that’s what you’re getting at. Because he thought I’d left him.”

To his credit, the man can walk the line between teasing and serious quite well when it’s most needed, and he looks suitably sobered at the confirmation. “I’m sorry for the impossible situation life has handed you,” he says. “It holds you back severely, and that’s a disservice to us all, but to you first and foremost. And you’ve done well with it regardless, which is more than many can say.”

Once more she finds herself at a loss for words, staring at her own hand where it rests on the stair rail. Finally, she rallies herself and starts determinedly up the steps. “If you think you can pay me back in compliments alone, Monsieur Musketeer, you’ll have to keep laying them on just this thick until you’re well and recovered.”

His only response is another quiet laugh as she escapes to the kitchen.

Chapter Text

Sure enough, Aramis has fallen into a fitful slumber by the time she returns. He doesn’t seem particularly comfortable, but that’s only to be expected a few days off a bad injury, she supposes. And she isn’t really going to wake him, threats to the contrary aside, so she just sets the bread and cheese beside the bed and settles in with the pistol at her side.

Things have quieted down outside, but not to the degree where she feels comfortable leaving him alone and undefended. Eventually she’ll have to go back to the queen and hopefully fetch Lemay to get Aramis properly cared for, but the logistics of that set of maneuvers escape her frazzled mind at the moment. He can wait another day.

Probably? Or would it be better to risk it to get him proper medical attention (and out of her cellar)? If the wound becomes infected and he cannot be moved, there is no way to avoid her husband finding out, and that is something she would like to avoid at all costs…

As it turns out, the choice is made for her. It’s not long before there’s a series of quick, sharp raps on the door upstairs. Startling out of a light doze with her heart already racing, she checks to see that Aramis is still out and then climbs the stairs as quietly as she can, smoothing her sleep-ruffled hair. Another string of knocks. Pistol hidden in the folds of her skirt, she strides up to the door with much heavier steps, calling softly, “Hold your horses out there, I’m coming, what do you—”

And when she opens the door, d’Artagnan is staring back at her, the tense look on his sweet face immediately giving way to relief when he sees her. Ignoring her furtive glances at the windows past his back, he pulls her in close to his chest. “Oh, thank God. I was so worried when the queen told me you’d gone and hadn’t come back after the protests started.” He pulls away, checking her over and running his hands down her arms. “You haven’t been injured…?”

His search finds the gun and wraps around it, lifting their joined hands with an amused cock of his eyebrow. “Yes, alright,” she mutters, tugging him inside. “I asked you to teach me for a reason, you know. Come in before someone sees you!”

Once the door’s shut he draws her in again for a kiss, which she grants with a bit of a sigh, the relief of not having to handle this all on her own anymore washing over her like sunlight from behind a cloud. After less time than she’d really like, though, she ends it with a chiding push to his pauldron. “That’s enough, I’ve got something you need to see.”

He follows her easily down the hall. “Right. Right. Uh– Aramis. You haven’t happened to run across him? He’s been missing since his patrol a few days ago.”

“As a matter of fact, I have,” she says grimly as she rests her hand on the cellar door, heart panging as his eagerness at seeing her drops into dread at her tone. “He’ll be alright, but we’ll need to get Lemay to see to him, and we can’t stay here forever or my husband will find out he’s here. We’ve already had one close call with him. The Guard can’t see him, though, he’s wanted by them.”

A hint of amusement flickers under his worry. “What did he do this time?”

“They were going to shoot a woman in the street outside, he… got in the way.”

The amusement vanishes immediately. “When you say got in the way—”

“I said he’ll be alright, as long as he gets proper medical attention. Lemay might think I’m gifted in the art of healing, but I’m no battlefield medic.”

He presses a quick kiss to her temple before pushing past her through the door and hurrying down the stairs. “I know you’re not, cœur. Thank you. We’ll get him sorted.”

She takes a moment there at the top to steady her breathing. She did it. Aramis survived long enough to get help. He’ll be fine soon, she can return to the palace and they can turn their attention to addressing this untenable situation with the Red Guard. The weight of responsibility and fear and paranoia that she hadn’t even realized was settled on her shoulders starts to slip off, and she all but floats down the stairs to join the two musketeers.

d’Artagnan is kneeling at Aramis’ side with a familiar kicked-puppy look on his face as he studies the sleeping face of his fallen brother, and Constance can’t help a little smile as he seems to rouse himself and takes Aramis’ hand in his. The injured man’s brow creases as he returns to the world of the living, and he hisses softly as the pain must catch up with him. As his eyes flicker open, they find d’Artagnan hovering over him and his breath catches before his face splits into a grin.

“Morning again, sleepyhead,” Constance says as she bustles past, back turned to collect herbs for a fresh pain reliever and to give them space. “Look who I found! Or who found us, rather.”

“Oh, you were looking for her , weren’t you. What am I, a common garden slug?”

Aramis’ tone was wounded, but when Constance turns again with the tonic in hand he’s still smiling widely. Teasing, then. d’Artagnan, for his part, looks genuinely hurt at the assumption. “Of course we were looking for you, but I knew exactly where she was meant to be! You didn’t leave much of a trail, did you, for a slug! And the others have been searching since the moment we got back as well, I just happened to get lucky, it seems.”

“Both of us in one place, who’d have imagined,” Constance says, starting to help Aramis sit up. d’Artagnan takes the hint and they prop him up to drink, both murmuring apologies when he tenses with pain. She goes to lay him back down once the cup is empty, but he shakes his head. “All my tending and it’s just his presence that gets you feeling better? If I’d have known that, I’d have run to get him much earlier!”

Aramis tips his head to her. “Not at all, chérie, it’s only the logical next step. I’ve come far under your care.”

She notes as he brings her hand to his mouth and kisses her knuckles with lightly chapped lips that he’s careful not to linger too long, and the looks he gives her have lost even a playful air of flirtation. A pulse of gratitude and fondness hits her— d’Artagnan likely knows that Aramis would never try to steal the woman he loves out from under him, but nevertheless she appreciates the decidedly familial bent to his usual exuberant affection. It reminds her of her brothers, which warms her greatly. She does love these musketeers.

“You’re on the mend, then?” d’Artagnan asks, trying to get a peek at the bandages on Aramis’ bare torso under the blanket pooled in his lap.

“I believe so,” Aramis says, “and I’ve got important information for the captain. We should head to the garrison as soon as possible, we’ll need to—”

“Whoa there,” Constance cuts in disapprovingly even as d’Artagnan is nodding. “You’re in no immediate danger, but you’re in no way fit for duty. You can pass the information to d’Artagnan if it’s so urgent, or the two of you will wait until you’ve been given the all-clear by Lemay to be moved. Am I understood?”

d’Artagnan looks baffled, while Aramis manages to look reasonably chastised. “Yes, madame. Will d’Artagnan here stay with me, then, while you go and fetch the good doctor?”

She narrows her eyes at them as d’Artagnan brightens suspiciously. “Yes, that’s a great idea, Constance! You go get Lemay, and Aramis and I will– debrief!”

“I’ll do no such thing,” she scoffs, turning on her heel to clean up the herb packets. “I’ll not leave you two to crack some harebrained scheme to get him halfway across the city on his feet in the state he’s in, or I’ll be scraping you both up off the streets on my return.” They both look offended when she comes back to them with a dusting rag in hand, but she could care less. “d’Artagnan, go to the palace, tell the queen I’m alright and will be back soon, and have her fetch Lemay to here. You’d better stay there just in case, no sense risking getting followed back here if the Guard figures they might as well see if you just so happen to be going to visit your two missing friends. And I’ll stay here with Aramis. If we need assistance transporting him to the garrison discreetly, I’ll come to the palace and let you know.”

They both look at her for a moment, trying to find a flaw in her plan. “You aren’t tired of my company already?” Aramis offers feebly.

She smiles sweetly at him. “How could I be? You’re such a charmer.” Before d’Artagnan can offer another rebuttal, she snaps the cloth at him, making him yelp in surprise. “On your way, then!” Another snap at Aramis, or rather at the food at his bedside. “And you, eat. If we must move you, you’ll need your strength.”

d’Artagnan had jumped to his feet to avoid the crack of the rag, but he just stares at her for another moment, bemused and, if she were to flatter herself, admiring. Aramis leans forward silently and tugs the back of his doublet, making him startle again. “She’s got a tactical mind to rival the captain’s, eh? Maybe I should be recommending she get promoted over us both when I get back.”

The younger man just gives him a slap to the shoulder firm enough to jolt him forward, gives Constance a fast but passionate kiss, and vanishes up the stairs, shaking his head the whole way. When she looks back down to Aramis, ears burning, he’s rubbing his shoulder and still grinning. “You’ve got that lad good and entranced, haven’t you? Good thing he miraculously got his sense back and didn’t go running after Milady for too long. She’d have just left me to bleed out in the street, I think.”

“ Eat, ” she says exasperatedly, and goes upstairs to make sure the door’s properly shut and bolted and get more wine. And if she pauses at the window to watch her musketeer until he vanishes around the corner, well, no one’s any the wiser.