Archive of Our Own ^beta

(Athos)

He feels his hands shake ever so slightly as he pushes the door closed, leaving his office, an unfamiliar feeling for him. Letting his hands rest on the rough wood as he hesitates - not sure where to go. But he knows he has to leave this damn office because all he can see is how tightly he gripped Anne’s neck, spitting hateful words and accusations. And why? All because the stress of Sylvie being taken finally got to his head, and instead of dealing with it like any sane person should do, he let himself take it out on someone who in no way had anything to do with this situation.

In some way she did. She always did. She was his wife after all. His heart and mind realising that with her back, nothing would remain straight forward. (As though it was before). So he let his anger take control, and hurt Anne again.

And there it is again - calling her Anne, something he hasn’t done in years, but the realisation of what he had done was taking its toll.

She had been so beautiful that day he thought she was a vision at first. Her dress - a work of art as usual, flattering, elegant, revealing just enough for a man’s mind to wonder, and just enough for his mind to remember what is underneath. But then everything fell apart.

The pain in her eyes, the mild look of betrayal before the usual look of disappointment set in. She had always known he was a cruel man, but for some reason she expected something different this time, and he hates himself for proving her past words right.

The smell of jasmine, that still lingered in his office days later, or perhaps it was once again his imagination seeing as he had a few glasses of wine.

Sylvie was now back, and he was supposed to feel relieved, but instead he felt even worse knowing he now had no excuse to keep acting like that.

He had to apologize to Anne. Athos knew that. But how could he? When he had never even apologized for trying to hang her all these years ago. Never apologized for never believing her. Never apologized for anything. Surely now she would simply laugh in his face.

No. She wouldn’t laugh. She would slap him hard and he would let her. It is what he deserved. And it’s what he preferred, considering the alternative was that she would never utter a single word to him ever again. And as much as he wanted to deny it he knew he would not be able to live with himself if that were so.

Truly he was prepared to crawl on his knees and beg her for forgiveness, and perhaps after enough wine he would, but he was the Captain of the Musketeers, he was even a noble man once, he had to have at least some dignity left. So he would play his usual game and hide behind the cold mask of indifference (and perhaps some day the people around him would finally believe that he actually didn’t care). It was easier than trying to explain why he had to apologize to Milady, why he had tried to strangle her, why she was even here in the first place.

As he walked out of the gates of the Garrison, he pretended not to see his friends’ concerned looks after they spent the better part of a minute watching him standing in front of a door, hands shaking, as though he was alone in the world.

Stumbling closer to the shadows, pulling his hat lower over his eyes as though at this time of the day anyone would even want to look him in the eyes. He sees Sylvie standing on the balcony looking at him confused - after all they just celebrated her safe return, then he disappeared into his office to get another bottle of wine, and apparently had a change of heart while at it and decided to leave the party altogether. If only she knew.

Athos was sure Sylvie was intelligent and perceptive enough to understand that he clearly had some issues in his past, considering he hadn’t mentioned it even once, and he didn’t have the decency or the desire to speak about his current problems. Sure he would sometimes talk with his brothers, but they left him no choice, while Sylvie was still not acquainted with the full extent of his stubbornness, and stupidity as some people would call it. She gave him space, and he was grateful for it, even though it would not change anything, and she would soon understand that as well.

There was one woman he truly opened up to, and here he was now, thinking of ways to apologize for trying to kill her a second time.

The sun was setting lower, the wind was getting colder, but the wine he drank earlier kept him warm as he wandered aimlessly through the streets of Paris. He was by no means drunk, because if that had been the case he would have been locked in his office with three bottles of good wine, sprawled on the floor, seeing Milady running through the endless fields of Pinon.

And then he’d get a good knock upside the head from all three of his friends, and Constance too.

No, he’d rather get slapped by his wife. If only he could actually find her.

And only then it hit him what he was actually trying to do, walking through the busiest taverns of Paris, seemingly aimless. Perhaps he was drunker than he thought because this was a new low for him. He ought to return to Sylvie, apologize for his drunk behavior, and spend the evening by her side.

But he was not that kind of man. He could pretend he was, he could tell himself he was, but he would never be, because as much as he liked to think the war changed him, at the very bottom, underneath everything he was still the same man who begged his wife to kill him as he watched his ancestors' home burn.

Making turn after turn, looking through the windows and doors of every tavern that was even partially considered civilized, he made his way through the city, telling himself he would sober up sooner or later and return home, knowing he will most likely end up in one of those taverns if he doesn’t find Milady by the time his legs start to tire.

He stopped counting the taverns at some point, and he was no longer sure he wasn’t just walking in circles. She could be at home, taking a warm bath, plotting her revenge alone, or taking some younger man to bed knowing Athos would find out sooner or later. But for some reason he kept going, hoping that he knew her well enough to know when he hurt her enough to push her to drink.

And considering the way her broken voice called out to him that day asking him to stay, he was willing to run through every tavern of Paris to find her. But Paris was too big to do that. And Milady would surely stay away from the most crowded establishments.

Then rain started pouring, reminding him that he had no cloak on his back, not even a doublet.

Stopping his feet from carrying him further he pulled himself against a wall and leaned back underneath a small roof. He could always return to the Garrison. Or he could open the nearest door and find himself in a well stocked tavern. Which is what he was about to do, not wanting to be questioned by his friends, something that was sure to happen after his earlier behavior.

Grabbing the door he pulled it open, the strong smell of alcohol, sweat, and vomit hitting him instantly, as he took a step closer. The stench was unfamiliar after four years of sobriety, but it would not deter him.

And then he heard a quiet sniff, almost too quiet to be heard over the sound of rain. Still holding the door open, his instincts forced him to turn around, only to be met with something worse than this tavern.

If going inside had been a bad idea, following Milady into the next one was even worse.

She did not see him, or perhaps she did and simply didn’t care, or perhaps she wanted him to follow. Either way she was there, walking into the tavern across the road.

Was this not what he wanted? It was, but he was a coward at the end of the day and would never admit it.

Milady had a dark cloak wrapped around her shoulders and a hood covering her head, but to him even her smallest movements were recognizable. Closing the door he was still holding onto, he hurried towards the other tavern. The dirt under his boots was slowly turning into mud, threatening to make him slip. Using it as a further excuse to follow Milady, he quickly opened the door and closed it behind his back before he could change his mind.

The tavern was dark, most candles already burned through, and most customers sitting alone in dark corners. As his eyes slowly adjusted to the lighting he turned around looking for her, he was starting to think she left through the back door the moment he opened the door, until he saw her near the furthest wall.

The worst lit corner of the tavern, with dirty tables and empty bottles on the ground, and her in the middle of it all, wearing an expensive cloak, and jewels at her scarred neck, sitting with her face turned away from him.

Walking up to her was hard. But leaving would be even harder.

She didn’t bother turning as he sat down by her side. Neither did she say anything.

He was not sure how much time passed, but she made no attempt to move or speak, looking away from him as though it would make him leave. And he would be right to leave. And he would, but only if she asked.

As water dripped off his hat he tried to take a look at her face, but the dark hood did a good job of hiding her from his gaze. And even if not for the hood, he wasn’t sure he would see much in this dim light.

Letting out a heavy breath he grabbed the bottle of wine she had ordered for herself, hoping to get at least a couple sips before he was forced to talk, but she stopped his hand.

“What do you want?” she whispered, still looking away, followed by a sniff.

There was no usual venom or snark in her voice. There was nothing.

“I wanted to talk,” he said, pulling his hand away. “After our last meeting.”

Milady grabbed the bottle herself and took a few sips. “And what if I don’t wish to talk?”

Her voice was quivery, and was followed by another sniff, and he realized she was crying.

And suddenly he didn’t know what to say.

The last time he saw her cry was when his guards were pulling her away from his dead brother as he told her to prepare to die. But this was different. She wasn’t begging and screaming. If last time she wanted his attention, this time it was the opposite.

Athos turned his head away from her to look straight at the wall.

“Then don’t talk,” he told her quietly. “But I have to apologize.”

He could see her shake her head slightly, but he knew how nonsensical his words sounded. And he knew she wouldn’t believe him, and even if she did she would never forgive him. But tonight was not about forgiveness, it was about giving what was long overdue and letting her decide what happens next.

“What happened that day, in my office, was unforgivable, and you had done nothing to deserve it.” he said, turning towards her once again.

She took another sip of wine, letting him sit in silence for a few moments, most likely trying to make it as uncomfortable as possible for him. “Then why?”

He wanted to look away, but he kept his gaze on her. “Because I was afraid. And I let my anger cloud my judgement.”

“As always.” Milady huffed.

Head over heart. That is what he had always told D’Artagnan.

The advice he once again failed to follow himself.

“As always…” he repeated her words knowing she was right. “But you of all people should know and understand.”

Because who else could? Who else knew him as well as her? Who else knows them as well as they know each other? Isn’t that what she told him before she left for England?

This time she sobbed.

She was still facing away from him, so he grabbed her shoulder trying to get her to turn around. She tried to push him away, turning even further away, but he didn’t let her.

Athos reached for her chin, forcing her to turn her face as he pulled her hood down with his other hand before placing his hands symmetrically on her cheeks, stopping her from pulling away.

He could see the tears running down her cheeks and he could feel them drop onto his hands. Without second thought he used his thumbs to wipe the tears away. She used it as an opportunity to grab his hands to try and pull them away, but he held on to her.

He couldn’t let her go.

Not when she was crying.

Especially when it was his words and his own hands that hurt her.

She kept her eyes down, avoiding his gaze.

“Milady…” he wanted to look up at him - he needed to look her in the eyes.

But only more tears ran down her cheeks and she shut her eyes desperately trying to hold in the sobs.

“Anne.” he whispered quietly, and suddenly she looked up at him. He wasn’t sure if she was angry or simply surprised, but she stopped struggling against him and stared him straight in the eyes. Her green eyes shining in the candle light was almost enough for him to forget what he was here for.

To apologize.

Pulling her face closer to his he ignored the way her hand gripped his thigh. She was still crying, and he still hadn’t properly apologized.

“I’ve never said it but I am sorry. And I will beg for forgiveness if that is what you want.” he said, keeping his eyes on hers, hoping she would see he means every word.

She closed her eyes and let her forehead fall against his. “And what if I ask you to leave?”

He let out a shaky breath and closed his own eyes. “Then I would leave,” he whispered, knowing he would, only to spend the rest of his days praying to a God he doesn’t believe in to see her again.

Many times he told himself he would never see her again, many times he begged for her to disappear, but every time she would reappear, and he was not prepared for the possibility that this may be the last time, not after what he had done.

They sat like that for a couple minutes, not moving, not speaking, just breathing in each other’s air. Slowly her breathing evened out and tears stopped rolling down her cheeks. Then she moved her hands away from him. “Leave.”

It was so quiet he hoped he was just imagining it. But she had said it.

He let her pull herself away.

She avoided his gaze once again as she moved away from him and stood up from the wooden bench they were sharing. Waiting for him to get up as well she pulled the hood back over her head and turned away.

Athos was not prepared to move.

He wanted her to hit him. Maybe even stab him. It was all better than asking him to leave her, because they both knew this was final, and even if they would see each other on the streets or at the palace, everything would change. She was asking him to leave her life.

And he was not prepared for her to leave his.

He stood up, leaning slightly over her, searching for her gaze, and the moment he found it, he did the only thing that came to his mind - he kissed her.

If he had to leave, then he would leave with a kiss. One last kiss.

Anne stumbled back slightly, but he wrapped an arm around her waist to hold her in place. She let him kiss her but it seemed as though her lips were pushing his away, trying to force him away, and he bit her lips, trying to pull her closer.

Like every other time it was a battle, between love and hate. It was a battle between wanting to stay and having to leave.

Athos wasn’t sure how long it lasted but he knew it lasted much longer than it ought to considering he was with Sylvie now. But what would it change? One more, one less - one didn’t matter much after everything else that he and Anne had been through.

Too soon Anne pulled away and placed her hands on his chest to keep him away.

“Goodbye Olivier D’Athos.” she said as she looked up at him trying to hide how uneven her breathing was.

“Goodbye Anne D’Athos” he said in return, watching as her eyes slightly widened before narrowing again in something akin to anger. He was claiming her as his own, reminding her that no matter where she went, or how many men she lay with, she was his.

He could leave. But according to law they were still husband and wife.

Before she could look away, he did so himself and strode towards the door trying to keep his composure, knowing the moment he walked out he would find himself back in that foul smelling tavern, to spend every last coin he had on himself, on wine, or maybe something stronger.

His hands trembled as he opened the door, or perhaps he was imagining it, and took a breath of cold air. The rain was still pouring, but he couldn’t be bothered. He wanted to look back at her, but knew it would break him even further, and since he was already planning to drink himself to death, additional incentive was not necessary. So he stepped out into the rain and closed the door.

But it didn’t close.

As he snapped his head to look back at the doorway, he was tackled to the side, his head hitting the wooden side of the building. Disoriented from everything that just happened with his wife and the alcohol he drank earlier in the evening he almost lost balance, and as he was prepared to push away whoever it was he was met with Anne’s face inches away from his own.

“What…” he tried to ask what she was doing, but his question was interrupted by her answer as she pulled his face lower and kissed him.

Her hands snaked down to his shoulders, pulling him closer, as though she hadn’t just told him to leave, and her lips pressing against his as though she hadn’t just said goodbye.

His body reacted before his mind and he already had his arms wrapped around her by the time he realized what just happened.

He didn’t understand it.

But quite frankly he didn’t care.

Not when he could taste the salt from her tears along with the cold raindrops on her lips. Not when her hand pulled on the back of his shirt. Not when he could feel her body pressed against his.

This time it was her, biting his lips, drawing blood, pulling him closer.

But Athos knew he had to stop.

He had Sylvie. A kiss had already been a betrayal, but what this was leading to would be unforgivable. She did not deserve it. She deserved much better. She had been nothing but kind, she had been harmed because of him, and she had nothing to do with his and Anne’s past.

Yet here he was, throwing away his only chance at a fresh start because something just kept him locked in his wife’s arms.

“Anne,” he said as he pulled away, just enough to speak. “Why?”

She only smirked and leaned in closer towards his ear. “Tell me to stop, and I’ll stop.” she whispered, running her tongue over his earlobe.

So it was a game.

But she knew he wouldn’t be able to say no.

Not after she forced him to leave and he had to feel that familiar feeling of loss.

“Anne…” he tried saying her name more seriously, but her lips were once again on his, and it sounded more like a groan.

Still standing under the rain, their clothes were fully soaked through and he could feel the way she dug her nails into his shoulders. He couldn’t stop himself from running his hands over her body.

Perhaps she had planned this from the very start.

She was a good actress after all.

But then he remembers that he was the one that decided to seek her out on a random day, when by all means he should have been with his friends.

But then she starts pulling at his clothes more intently and he finds that he doesn’t really care.

He can smell the wine on her breath and remembers that she must have downed the greater part of the wine in that bottle, and it was showing with how eager she seemed. Pushing both of them off the wall he managed to pull her off himself and push her against the wall.

She dropped her hands and let her head fall against the wall. “What?”

“Do you really want to continue this here?” he asked her, staring at her lips, bloody red, and she only raised her eyebrow, perfectly shaped, distracting him from the realization of how deep his teeth must have sunken into her flesh.

Looking up at him she stepped away from the wall, closer to him. “So we are continuing this?” she asked smugly, once again putting her hands on his chest.

Athos responded by pulling her against his body, knowing she would feel just what she was doing to him, then leaned his head down to kiss her jawline. “Just tell me to stop and I’ll stop…” he murmured against her skin. “You want to play games, so be it.”

With his lips at her neck, careless enough for a bruise to form by morning, careful enough not to get too close to the scar, not while they are in this alleyway, standing outside some dirty tavern, his hand reached towards her skirts. Before he even got the chance to grab the skirt she shoved his hand away with her leg. He straightened his back and looked down at her. “No?”

Anne only huffed and took one of his hands, before pulling him in a direction he assumed her apartment was in.

The sound of their steps in the mud are muffled by the rain, and the incessant beat of his heart that seems to speed up with every turn, not that he notices it much when he feels the familiar metallic taste of blood in his mouth, unsure if it is his own or hers. He doesn’t have enough time to think about the Garrison, and his friends, and Sylvie, too focused on the warmth of her hand in his and the fear that it might slip out, leaving him stranded in the middle of Paris.

A couple times Athos imagines how she would stop, only to turn around pointing a gun at his head to ask if he truly thought she would let him get close again. Sometimes it’s a blade at his neck. And sometimes she strangles him with her bare hands.

In the end she does neither, and when she pulls him into the cold and dark apartment he forgets all about it. He can feel her shiver - her cloak and dress soaked through, and even her hair underneath the hood, and he is hit with the sudden urge to pull her into his embrace and wrap a warm blanket around her shoulders.

But unless she suddenly changed her mind, they would be warming up each other in a slightly different way.

She lets go of his hand, but he doesn’t let her go, instead pulling her into a kiss. Their lips moved slower this time, but the fire was still burning. The familiar itch was still there, the one only she could scratch - a desire he had only ever felt for his wife - a craving stronger than his will to live.

“You should take that dress off”, he told her, keeping his lips close to her neck, as she smirked in response.

Anne pushed him away, seemingly ignoring his words, and disappeared into the other room with the words “I’ll get some candles.”

It gave him the time to take his hat off, leaving it on a nearby table, his weapon belt and doublet followed, and his mud covered boots were left by the door, away from the carpets he just knew she would be willing to kill over.

He turned around when he saw the slight yellow flicker of a candle with the corner of his eye. She used the small candle to light up the few that were already placed around the room, purposefully going around slowly, knowing it was driving him insane (always had). But he would not interrupt her for if he was about to spend hours rediscovering every inch of her body, he would not do it in darkness.

Lighting the fireplace seemed like a good idea, but such a move would imply a certain degree of familiarity that seemed almost inappropriate under such circumstances. Perhaps many years ago it would have been welcomed, but after so much pain, so much violence, so much death, domesticity was no doubt most unwelcome.

“You could offer to help. You know the faster it is done the faster this dress ends up on the floor.” A devious smile finds its place on her lips as she reminds him of what is at stake.

Athos glared at her and let out a heavy breath, but complied and took over the candle lighting, meanwhile she disappeared back into her own room.

He should be doing the same thing, but not here, not with her. He should be with Sylvie, getting ready for bed. She must wonder what prompted him to flee the Garrison in such a way. His only hope is that his friends told her about his prior problems with alcohol and she believes him to be wasting away in one of the nearby establishments, and not lighting candles while trying not to think of every possible way he could have his wife.

His thoughts of what to say tomorrow when he finally has the courage to show his face to his friends, or if he should bother saying anything at all, are interrupted when he feels Anne press her body against his back, wrapping her arms around his torso. He can feel every curve of her naked body through the soaked shirt on his back and having his way with her right there on the floor under their feet doesn’t sound too bad in his mind, but not tonight. Keeping his breathing as even as possible, considering his wife is standing behind him, he unwraps her arms and turns around.

The sight he is welcomed by is a familiar one, but memories, as accurate as they are, are no match to the breathtaking beauty that Anne’s body truly is. It may be the candle light that amplifies her smooth curves, but she looks like a goddess, standing with her shoulders back, her hair gracefully falling over her shoulders.

Most importantly she looks like his dreams.

Her neck is covered by a black ribbon, hiding his biggest regret and her biggest insecurity. And had this been any other day he would have let her keep it, but since they were being honest tonight, there would be nothing between them, not even this small choker that had become her trademark over the past decade.

“Take it off,” he tells her, his voice suddenly quiet but commanding.

Anne tilts her head and looks up at him, and acting confused asks “Take off what?” As though there was anything else left to take off.

Unfortunately Athos, as patient as he is, doesn’t like games, and just because he is willing to play his part when it comes to her games, doesn’t mean he won’t take matters into his own hands. Which is exactly why a moment later the ribbon is laying discarded on the floor after being ripped unceremoniously off Anne’s neck. She lets out a small gasp not having expected this roughness, but before she can protest his lips are already over hers as his hand gently runs over the red mark left by the ribbon.

His other hand is wrapped in her hair while she uses her hands to untie his shirt. He would have ripped it off himself the same way he did that ribbon, but going back to the Garrison without a shirt was something he could not afford to do. And so he lets her do it, enjoying the way her nails run over his skin, sometimes digging in, no doubt leaving red marks.

The moment the shirt is thrown to the floor, he takes control (only because she lets him, and he doesn’t mind admitting it). He has her pressed against the table where he left his things earlier, and had this been any other woman he would have been careful not to push her too hard against the jagged wood, but this was his wife - she made him lose control.

As his hands slid away from her neck and towards her waist making sure to go over every inch of her skin, she busied herself with his trousers. But by now he had already made up his mind (he was gonna make good use of that table). He pulled away from the kiss, threw everything off the table, before grabbing her waist and throwing her onto it.

As he stands between her thighs she pulls him back until she is on her back and he is leaning over her. Then her hands are buried in his hair and he’s forced to trail kisses down her neck, between her breasts, and down her stomach.

Somehow she’s the one in control.

He thinks that perhaps she had been since he walked into that tavern.

But he’ll take it back later.

This was just the beginning.