fredbassett (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
fredbassett) wrote2014-06-12 10:56 am
fredbassett) wrote2014-06-12 10:56 am
Entry tags:
Fic, A Dangerous Deceit, Athos/Treville, 18
Title : A Dangerous Deceit
Author : fredbassett
Fandom : The Musketeers
Rating : 18
Characters : Athos/Treville
Disclaimer : Not mine, no money made, don’t sue.
Spoilers : None
Warning : Contains a flogging scene.
Word Count : 5,791
Summary : When Athos returns from guard duty at the palace stinking drunk, Treville is forced to take action.
A/N : Originally written for a prompt on the Dreamwidth Musketeers Kink Meme that now seems to have been screened, so I can't link to it. Fits within my Dangerous Liaison series, but can read as a standalone.
In his time as Captain of the King’s Musketeers, Treville had learned that he had little to be concerned about when the men under his command were rowdy, hurling insults – and often sharp objects – at each other. It was when they fell silent that there was cause for concern.
The hustle and bustle of the training yard provided a constant backdrop to his morning routine of reading dispatches and catching up with paperwork prior to receiving reports from his men.
He’d heard Porthos’ voice, loud and filled with good humour, heckling two of his friends who were engaged in a noisy bout of unarmed combat, followed a short while later by Aramis’ more measure tones as he instructed young d’Artagnan in some arcane art involving loud bangs and sundry other causes of amusement. Of Athos, on duty the previous night at the palace, Treville had heard nothing as yet, but it was unlikely to be long before Athos returned and made his report.
The sudden silence in the yard brought Treville to his feet even more quickly than a cry of alarm would have done. He arrived on the wooden walkway outside his office just in time to see Athos walking slowly – and very unsteadily – through the archway into the garrison and across the courtyard. Treville knew from bitter experience that for Athos to be weaving on his feet as badly as that, a great deal of alcohol had to have been involved, and even he would have had difficulty in throwing quite that much down his throat in between coming off guard duty at the palace and arriving back at the garrison.
A hard knot of tension started to form in the pit of Treville’s stomach. His glance into the yard took in the barely-disguised looks of horror on the faces of Aramis and Porthos, and the stunned disbelief on d’Artganan’s more youthful features as the soldier the young Gascon made no secret of idolising continued to concentrate on putting one booted foot in front of the other as he progressed slowly across the yard.
Athos’ jacket hung open to the waist and wine stains bloomed like crushed blood-roses on his once-white shirt. His dark hair was limp with sweat and he looked like he was about to throw up onto his boots. Treville knew almost to the bottle how much alcohol it took to make Athos vomit but what he couldn’t fathom was why the best soldier in the Regiment had chosen that particular night duty to wallow in the self-destructive vice that had plagued him during all the time Treville had known him, instead of doing what he should have been doing and providing protection for the king.
The conclusion was inescapable. Athos had been drunk on duty.
Treville gripped the wooden railing hard, his knuckles white with tension. “Athos! My office, now!”
Athos came to a halt, his shoulders slumped over and his head hanging down like a blown horse ridden too hard and put away wet.
Not one man in the training yard moved or spoke, not even the two that were closer to him than any others. Then Porthos shook himself like a dog climbing out of water and took one step forward. “He’s ill,” the big musketeer said, in a voice redolent with disbelief, not willing to acknowledge the truth that was standing in front of him, looking like a vision of wine-soaked hell on earth.
“Stay where you are!” Treville ordered, speaking not only to Porthos but to any other who might dare to interfere. He watched as Athos put one foot in front of the other until he reached the bottom of the wooden steps. The hand that reach out to grip the rail shook slightly and would have been unable to hold either a sword or a pistol, incapable of protecting the man whose safety they were all sworn to protect.
A red heat spread through Treville’s body as he fought for control. For years he had turned a blind eye to Athos’s dependence on alcohol; he’d even gone so far as to exploit it for his own ends, using it as a means to make sure his subordinate – and occasional lover – found some release from the demons that plagued him. But never before had Athos taken refuge in drink whilst on duty.
He watched as Athos slowly lifted one foot and placed it on the bottom step. Moving with the careful precision of the extremely inebriated, Athos made his way, step by shaky step, to the upper floor. Before he reached the top, Treville turned on his heel and stalked back into his office, not daring to trust himself to keep his fists by his side when Athos came within arm’s reach of him.
Treville retreated behind his desk, leaning on it as he had done on the balustrade. Athos followed him into the room and did his best to stand to attention in front of the barrier that Treville had carefully placed between them. The stink of wine and sweat, as unsavoury as the miasma that clung to the streets in the height of summer, hung about the man he’d once counted as his finest soldier. The blue eyes that Treville knew so well were now as dark as the stained leather jacket and as unfocussed as those of a man who’d taken a hard blow to the head, but in this instance the only blow had been that delivered by the contents of a dozen wine bottles.
Treville drew in a deep breath and exhaled slowly, fighting for control. “Explain yourself.”
Athos did his best to fix his eyes on the wall behind Treville’s head, but his gaze wandered like a wayward dog.
“Explain yourself!” Treville barked. “Don’t make me ask you a third time, Athos.”
“I…” Athos met Treville’s eyes briefly, before his gaze slid away to one side. His voice sounded thick, as though his tongue had grown too thick for his mouth. “I… cannot…sir.”
“You cannot?” The words exploded out of Treville with the force of a pistol shot. “You roll back here stinking of drink, barely able to put one foot in front of the other and yet you have nothing to fucking say? No, Athos, that is not enough. That is nowhere near enough. I said, explain yourself!”
Athos hesitated, pushing his sweat-soaked hair back off his brow, revealing the drunkard’s pallor beneath. He appeared to be concentrating hard, and Treville dared to entertain the smallest of hopes that an explanation might actually be forthcoming. An explanation that might – just might – save the man’s commission.
“I… I cannot.”
And with those two simple yet damning words, Treville’s last hope withered and died.
* * * * *
As Athos made his way back down the steps into the courtyard, the silence wrapped itself around him like a shroud.
To anyone watching, it would have appeared that he was steadfastly avoiding meeting the eyes of his friends and comrades. But in truth, he knew that if he took his eyes off his route, even for a moment, he would no doubt end up face down in the horse-trough, or tripping over his own feet.
Around him, the red-tiled roofs swayed to music only they could hear, shifting up and down at the edge of his vision, and the sandy ground threatened every moment to rise up to meet him. Only by the most intense concentration did he manage to reach one of the wooden pillars on the far side of the yard. His sight was blurred, his mouth felt like a rat had made a nest in there then expired, and his stomach appeared to be home to several fighting cats. The only surprising thing was that he was still capable of independent movement at all.
The tremor in his hands made it difficult to unfasten the buckles holding his sword-belt in place, but eventually, Athos triumphed, and dropped his weapon to the ground at his side. It was followed by his dagger and his pistols. But if Treville wanted the small knives he kept inside his boots, he’d have to get them himself, as there was no way Athos could bend down without spewing the contents of his guts onto the ground. He shrugged his jacket off and let that fall as well.
Drawing in a long, slow breath, Athos gripped the linen of his wine-stained shirt and pulled it over his head, dropping it on top of the pile of weapons at his side. The sun was starting to rise in the sky and he was dimly conscious of its warmth on the naked skin of his back. He reached out with hands that even to his own eyes looked unsteady and gripped the wood of the post in front of him at shoulder height, shuffling so that his feet were apart and he was braced on his forearms.
Only when his arms were locked into position did Athos allow himself the luxury of letting his eyelids fall closed. His world started to revolve gently around him and for a brief moment, he almost felt at peace, able to block out the shocked eyes that were all riveted to the spectacle unfolding in the training yard.
The first blow of the whip landed across his shoulders, hard and hot, the fibres of unravelled rope dragging harshly at his flesh. Athos kept his eyes closed and continued to brace himself against the next blow. Treville’s arm was strong, although not through frequent applications of the lash. The captain preferred to use his tongue to instil order in the unruly bunch of men under his command, only very rarely resorting to more physical methods of discipline, and then – as now – only under the very greatest of provocations. The second blow fell slightly lower, the third, lower still, so that soon the whole of Athos’s back felt as though a burning brand had seared into his flesh.
Very quickly, the pain started to drive the fog from his brain, leaving him open and exposed as it seared his nerves, making his whole body shudder and jump under the onslaught, but still he managed to remain upright, the muscles in his arms and shoulders corded with tension. Treville had not suggested restraining him and, even in that state, pride would not allow Athos to shrink away from the blows or try to avoid what was his due.
His mind, unshuttered now, allowed the sensations to rip through his body as rope met flesh. The cats in his stomach had stopped fighting and were now attempting to claw their way up through his throat. Athos swallowed hard, knowing he was losing this particular battle. The next blow – the sixth, maybe, but he had now lost count – fell across the base of his back. The end of the whip curled around his belly, its sharp caress on the sensitive skin in place of the lover’s fingers he’d so recently felt there, was too much.
Sour vomit exploded from his mouth, splattering against the wooden pillar. Athos coughed and gasped for air, making the first noises since his punishment had begun. He heard similar intakes of breath amongst the watchers, the wall of silence broken now. By force of will, Athos kept his arms locked in place, his shoulders straining with the effort as he retched and spat. The next two blows followed in measured succession, Treville never pausing, never varying the pace nor the weight of the blows.
The world had stopped spinning at the same moment he’d spilled his guts on the ground, leaving him feeling as weak as a new-born kitten, his back on fire and his head pounding, braced for another blow that never came.
“It is done,” he heard Treville announce, in a voice as cold as the Cardinal’s heart. “If you value your commissions, you will leave him to stew in his own vomit. Aramis, Porthos, d’Artagnan, do not cross me in this, I warn you.”
With those words ringing in his head, Athos finally gave in to the darkness that had threatened to claim him since he had first set foot back in the garrison, and slumped to his knees, his head resting against the wooden pillar, his hands clenched before him.
The last sound he heard was the heavy tread of Treville’s boots as the captain marched out of the courtyard.
* * * * *
The palace, normally bustling with life and energy, was uncharacteristically subdued.
Servants hurried to and fro, eyes downcast, making themselves as inconspicuous as possible. Treville saw a huddle of the queen’s ladies, some with red-rimmed eyes that betokened weeping. The king’s courtiers stayed further away from them than was usual, but appeared equally downcast.
Treville was acknowledged with courteous gestures, but no attempts were made to engage him in conversation, those he passed no doubt correctly divining the cause of thunderous rage that sat heavily on his shoulders alongside his blue cloak. The king must have been apprised of Athos’s indiscretion, he could not imagine that the Cardinal would have let such an opportunity for mischief pass him by, but Treville hoped to be able to avert some of the king’s wrath and salvage something of the honour of the Regiment with a speedy and heartfelt apology.
He would not have been overly surprised to have been greeted by a detachment of Red Guards demanding the return of Athos to the Chatelet. Drunk on duty was a charge that had never before been levelled at any of Treville’s men, and despite Athos’s past indiscretions, Treville had never in his worst nightmares expected him to sink to such a depth.
The First Valet de Chambre was standing outside the king’s bedchamber, deep in discussion with the Cardinal. Richelieu, resplendent in his black robes, turned at the sound of Treville’s approach, his expression as hawk-like as ever.
“By the grace of God, the king is sleeping now,” Richelieu said without preamble. “I trust your man returned safely?”
Treville’s face must have betrayed his confusion.
Richelieu stared at him, one eyebrow raised slightly. “Ah, I see the news has not yet reached you. Forgive me; if the stories of the night’s excesses bear even a remote resemblance to the truth, it is to be doubted that your man would have been capable of much by way of coherent report.”
“You are not making sense,” Treville said, unable to stop his eyes narrowing as he tried to fathom the cardinal’s intent behind words that, try as he might, Treville was signally failing to rearrange into anything that he could understand.
“You are unaware of the nature of the queen’s indisposition.” It was a statement, not a question.
“I am unaware of any indisposition, let along its nature.” The sudden shift in the conversation had left Treville floundering. When he had seen Queen Anne, the previous day in the palace gardens, the Queen had been in high spirits, throwing a ball with her ladies in waiting and even running with them between the high hedges of the formal garden.
Richelieu closed his eyes for a moment as if in pain and fingered the gold cross that hung around his neck. “The queen tripped in the garden after you left yesterday afternoon. During the late evening she experienced some pain. Her physician informed the king late last night that she had lost the child she was carrying. Your man was with him when he received the news. The king is inconsolable. He called for wine to blunt the pain and bade Athos remain with him.”
The anger Treville had carried inside him since his first glimpse of Athos weaving his unsteady way into the courtyard dissipated like mist in sunlight, leaving behind a horror that he had not felt since news had reached him of the massacre in Savoy. He had acted rashly and had made an error of judgement of monumental proportions.
“Those were not words you expected to hear, were they?” Richelieu said, his eyes stripping away Treville’s defences, laying bare the shock he felt. “It is unlike you not to give your men the benefit of every possible doubt, my friend, but do I divine that on this occasion, you may have been – how shall I put it – a trifle hasty in judgement?”
Treville ran his hand through the stubble on his jaw, feeling as though he’d taken a mailed fist to the gullet. “I have wronged him,” he said simply.
“An easy mistake,” Richelieu said lightly. “Athos does, after all, have a certain reputation. His practice in matters of the bottle no doubt stood him in good stead when it came to deflecting much of the wine that His Majesty called for into his own glass, saving our beloved king from an even worse head than the one that his physician will no doubt be treating before too long. But I am sure it will ease your mind to know that Athos provided some much needed solace for the king.” The Cardinal paused, no doubt for effect, then slipped his final barb with ease beneath Treville’s ribs. “I believe His Majesty would like to bestow a small token of his thanks on your man when he awakens. Perhaps you would be so kind as to bid Athos return to the palace for short while. That is unless he too is… indisposed?”
“And you did not see fit to send word to me of the queen’s loss?” Treville demanded fighting hard for control and ignoring Richelieu’s words.
“I was in the chapel, offering up prayers for the king and queen in their time of trouble.” Richelieu’s smile was bright with malice and a shaft of sunlight gave his black attire the sheen of a raven’s wing. “I had assumed – wrongly, it appears – that bad news travels at speed. My apologies.”
The Cardinal had, Treville presumed, seized the opportunity to even old scores and had, no doubt, expressly forbidden any word of the unfolding events in the palace reaching the garrison ahead of Athos’s return. And Athos, noble fool that he was, had kept silent.
Treville turned on his heel and strode away, before the desire to smash his fist into Richelieu’s face became a bone-crunching reality.
* * * * *
“Fetch water!”
Treville’s voice cut through the pounding in Athos’s skull as he lay sprawled in his own vomit, his head pillowed in the crook of one arm. He’d tried, without much success, to clamber to his feet and it had taken all that remained of his rapidly-diminishing composure for him to summon a vicious enough string of invective to convince his friends that if they so much as laid one finger on him by way of assistance, that they would forfeit his friendship as well as their commissions.
“I have wronged him. This was not what it seemed.”
Treville’s words sounded as though they had been spoken from the end of a long tunnel, far away from the world of pain that Athos currently inhabited. Wondering idly what had happened, Athos made another effort to rise from the ground. A strong hand gripped his arm and another gently pushed his sweat-slicked hair back from his forehead.
“You fucking idiot!” The naked pain in Treville’s voice hurt Athos even more than the whip had done. “For once, couldn’t you just have taken the easy way out and told me the truth?”
Athos looked up, squinting into the morning sun. The pain in Treville’s voice was nothing to the distress written large on his face, scored in deep lines on his captain’s forehead. Athos drew in a shaky breath around the decomposing rodent in his mouth and did his best to articulate his shattered thoughts.
“It was not my place to discuss such matters. I… I presumed the Cardinal had sent word, but when it became clear you had no knowledge of… events at the palace, I assumed the king had ordered silence to be kept.”
Treville took a cup of water from Aramis’s hands and held it to Athos’ lips. “The Cardinal was, as ever, playing his own game, and you and I were both his pawns. I am sorry, Athos, more sorry that I can ever express. I should have trusted you. ”
Athos felt the pain in his head recede slightly as cool water eased the fire in his throat left behind when he had finally finished expelling the contents of his stomach.
“Captain, let me.”
Athos recognised Porthos’ voice at his side. Treville must have yielded precedence to the big musketeer, and Athos felt himself being lifted gently to his feet. Supported on one side by his friend, and on the other by his captain, with Aramis and d’Artagnan hovering closely like mother hens watching over a wayward chick, Athos found the strength from somewhere to put one foot in front of the other as he was steered and assisted up the steps and into Treville’s own rooms.
Nimble fingers that he presumed belonged to Aramis tugged off his boots and started to strip him of what remained of his soiled clothing. A cool, damp cloth was dabbed carefully at the bruised welts on his back and after an unequal struggle to retain some dignity, Athos simply gave up and allowed them to do with him what they wanted.
The same quick, clever hands spread soothing salve on his back, and he heard Aramis’s voice urging him to drink the draught that was being held out to him.
Athos blinked at his friend and frowned. “It’s going to taste vile, isn’t it?”
A swift smile lit Aramis’s face. “Of course it is. And don’t bother trying to throw it up. If you do, I’ll only make you drink some more, and you know how persistent I can be.”
To Athos’ surprise, it didn’t taste vile. In fact it tasted like honey, which made him deeply suspicious, but whatever was in the concoction made the sickness in his stomach recede with surprising speed. When Porthos clattered into the room brandishing clean clothing, it was even possible for him to stand, unaided, to pull on underclothes to cover his nakedness.
As his friends had worked to clean him, he’d heard hushed exchanges between them. Treville, in terms of excoriating self-loathing, had told of what he had learned at the palace, from which Athos presumed that knowledge the queen’s misfortune had now been shared.
“Did I hear you say I am needed to return to the palace?” he asked, surprising himself by not slurring his words.
“That is out of the question,” Treville retorted.
Athos met his lover’s eyes for the first time since he had set foot in the garrison, blind drunk after a long night commiserating with the king. “The cardinal has already played both of us for fools. Would you hand another victory to him?”
“You are in no fit state to go anywhere!”
“Someone bring me a bucket of cold water.”
Athos could see from the helpless look in Treville’s eyes that this was one argument his captain was not expecting to win.
When d’Artagnan placed a bucket of water beside the bed, Athos slid to his knees and dealt with his hangover in the usual manner by repeatedly plunging his head into the water. It had the added benefit of ridding his hair of the vomit that had collected there when he’d sprawled in the dirt of the courtyard. He drank a large mug of water and then repeated the process again, feeling the swollen skin on his back stretching painfully as he bent over. After three more mugs of water and several more duckings, Athos was able to climb to his feet unaided.
Porthos had managed to find clean leathers for him, and d’Artagnan had carefully cleaned any traces of vomit from his weapons. A simple linen shirt felt cool against his heated skin and fortunately, his old jacket was sufficiently supple that, provided he moved carefully, it did not dig into his abused flesh too much. Treville fastened his belts around him, returning weapons to their accustomed places, even down to the knives in his boots.
Aramis produced a blue cape, settled it on his shoulders and knotted the cord across his chest. “How do you feel?”
“Like something I last saw on a slab in the mortuary,” Athos said truthfully.
His friend reached out and combed his fingers through Athos’s hair. “I will admit to having seen prettier corpses but, with luck, the king will be in no fit state to judge your lack of sartorial elegance.”
“Catch!” Porthos said without warning, sending Athos’ hat spinning at him across the room.
Seemingly of its own volition, Athos’ hand shot out and plucked the hat out of the air. He settled it on his head, pleased to note that his hand hadn’t shaken.
Negotiating the steps was easier this time and, as he crossed the courtyard, his fellow musketeers swept their own hats off their heads in deference. Athos acknowledged the gestures with a brief nod and then, flanked by Treville and his friends, he marched out of the courtyard, hoping that the walk to the palace would put the finishing touches to his carefully crafted illusion of sobriety.
* * * *
Even from a distance, Treville could see the look of disappointment on Richelieu’s face when he saw Athos on his feet, walking in a straight line. The cardinal’s sour expression was obvious, even down the length of the corridor that led to the King’s bedchamber, but by the time they had reached him, Richelieu had schooled his features back into their habitual disdain.
“Athos of the King’s Musketeers, reporting to His Majesty, as ordered,” Athos said, his cultured voice studiously neutral.
Before Richelieu had chance to respond, the First Valet de Chambre appeared at his side and opened the tall doors, gesturing to Treville and Athos to follow him into the king’s bedchamber. Numerous courtiers were already present, attending the king’s rising as they did every day. Louis was sitting on the edge of his bed, looking like a man who had seen the chance of eternal happiness dangled in front of him and then cruelly snatched away.
The king looked up as Athos approached, staring at the musketeer out of heavily-lidded eyes.
Athos swept his hat off and went to one knee in front of Louis with a fluid grace that belied the fact that his veins were running with red wine rather than blood. Treville took off his own hat and bowed deeply to the man whose safety meant more to him than his own life.
A slight smile curved Louis’s lips, although it did not reach his troubled eyes. “Your presence last night was greatly appreciated, Athos of my musketeers.” One of Louis’ valets put a black velvet pouch into the king’s outstretched hand. “Take this as a token of my esteem.”
Athos looked up, his face sombre. “It was my privilege, Your Majesty. No reward is necessary.”
“Be that as it may, I insist.”
Athos bowed his head obediently and took the offered purse. “Your Majesty is too generous.”
“It would have been a boy,” Louis said sadly. “My son and heir died last night.”
“My deepest condolences, sire,” Treville said quietly.
Louis met his eyes and Treville could see the genuine pain and loss there. The king’s marriage to Anne of Austria had not been without its turbulence, but there was no doubt in Treville’s mind that in his own way, Louis loved her, and it was a cruel trick of fate that had for so long denied him the heir he desperately wanted to present to his people.
“Your musketeers do you credit, Treville,” Richelieu said, clapping a heavy hand to Athos’s shoulder.
Treville nodded, not taking his eyes off Athos’s face. The musketeer might have been carved from marble for all his expression gave away, even though it was obvious to Treville that the cardinal was digging his fingers into bruised and lacerated flesh. Athos remained on his knees, ignoring the abuse, keeping his head slightly bowed and contriving to remain still.
“Is there anything more we can do for Your Majesty?” Treville asked, hoping to be able to bring the audience to an end before what little resilience Athos had left was exhausted.
Louis raised a slight smile. “Your man remained by my side during some dark hours, Captain. I believe he has earned his rest. Rise, my man, and take with you my thanks.”
The king also looked like a man in desperate need of rest and solitude, but Treville knew that he was unlikely to be granted even a brief respite. For all Louis could act like a spoiled brat at times, he was also a man who did not shirk the demands of duty.
Athos came smoothly to his feet, bowed deeply again and backed towards the door, holding a remarkably straight line. Treville followed, murmuring his thanks for the king’s beneficence. Once in the corridor, Treville shot Athos a searching look but his lover’s face gave nothing away. A moment later, a rustle of black robes alerted them to Richelieu’s presence.
With a smile that failed to reach his eyes, Richelieu clapped Athos hard on the back. “Take care not to drink the contents of that purse in one night.”
“I will bear your advice in mind, Your Eminence,” Athos drawled, his face still betraying no hint of pain.
“By your leave, Cardinal,” Treville said, keeping both hands firmly clasped behind his back. “I have matters to deal with back at the garrison.” With a curt nod, he turned away and strode down the corridor, with Athos matching him step for step.
* * * * *
On the journey back from the palace, Athos was clearly trusting to his blue cloak and grim expression to keep anyone from coming too close, but even with Treville staying close to him, it was impossible to avoid all jostling from the crowd. A youthful pickpocket found himself on the wrong side of Treville’s ire, and retired, nursing a sore head after failing to acquire the pouch that still dangled from Athos’ fingers. After that, they were left to their own devices as much as was possible on the streets of Paris.
When the door to his lodgings finally appeared, Athos allowed himself a small sigh of relief. Without asking his leave, Treville accompanied Athos up the stairs and into the austere room that the musketeer used as a place to sleep, store his few possessions, and drink himself insensible.
Treville saw the look of surprise on Athos’ face. The usual mess of empty wine bottles had gone from the floor, there was fresh linen and clean blankets on the bed, and the place looked like it had been thoroughly swept. The clothes Athos had worn on guard duty the previous day had been cleaned and hung to dry over the back of two chairs.
A pitcher of water sat on top of the wooden chest of drawers, next to a small jar of ointment, no doubt left there by Aramis.
“They’re good friends,” Treville commented.
“Better than I deserve.”
Treville made an exasperated noise in his throat and gently turned Athos to face him. “You are a self-destructive fool with more nobility than sense, but be that as it may, you are still the finest soldier under my command, and I would have done well to have remembered all those things this morning. I allowed anger to rule my heart and for that I beg our pardon.”
A half-smile lit the habitual darkness of Athos’ handsome face. “No pardon is necessary. I returned from guard duty stinking drunk and refused to explain my actions. What else could you have done?”
“I could have thought longer before acting on my anger.”
“If wishes were thrushes, beggars would eat birds.” Athos pushed his hair back from his face with a hand that only shook slightly. “It is over. But I would count it a signal act of friendship if you would help me remove some clothing again.”
Treville ran the tips of his fingers down Athos’ cheek, stroking through his beard and tracing the curve of his lips, lightly touching the scar that bestowed a slight quirk on his rare smiles. He recalled using similar words to Athos after his encounter with Labarge, doing his best to make light of his injury, much as Athos was doing now.
With careful hands, Treville unbuckled the belts that held various weapons and their accoutrements, laying each one down on top of the old wooden chest. When that was done, he unlaced the leather jerkin and drew it down over Athos’ arms, then lifted the linen shirt over his head, noting with a sharp intake of breath the spots of red blood on the shoulders and back. The flesh beneath was stretched taut over the darkening bruises that covered his shoulders and his back, with one set of angry red marks marring the skin of his stomach. Treville failed to suppress a wince.
“I said it’s over,” Athos said softly.
He sat down slowly on the edge of the bed, and allowed Treville to pull off his boots, undo the hidden straps and place the knives in their leg-sheaths on top of the other pile of weaponry.
“Will you let me dress your back, or would you prefer me to send for Aramis?”
“Aramis has colder hands than you, but I believe you told the cardinal you had matters to attend to at the garrison.”
“Naturally, I lied,” Treville countered. With the barracks under the watchful eyes of Aramis and Porthos, he knew there was nothing there that could not wait and at that moment, wild horses would not have dragged him from Athos’ side. The man was hovering on the brink of collapse from an unhealthy cocktail of alcohol, exhaustion and pain.
Athos shot him another of his knowing half-smiles before standing up, unfastening his trousers and letting them fall to the floor, leaving him dressed in nothing but his underclothes. They soon followed the other garments to the floor. Athos, in common with most soldiers of Treville’s acquaintance was wholly unconcerned by his nakedness. Moving slowly and carefully, Athos manoeuvred himself down on his stomach, resting his head into the soft goose-down pillow with a barely-suppressed sigh.
Treville sat beside him and, as gently as he could, spread the soothing salve over the welts, bruises and lacerations that now jostled for prominence with the older scars on Athos’ back. He had become all too well-acquainted every thin white line and puckered scar during their time together and it pained him to think he had added to that particular rich tapestry.
By the time he’d finished, sleep had smoothed out the lines of pain that the day had etched on Athos’s face, leaving him looking younger and more vulnerable. Treville settled beside him on the narrow bed, content simply to watch and wait.
And with memories of this day indelibly etched on his mind, Treville would not in future be so hasty to pass judgment.
Author : fredbassett
Fandom : The Musketeers
Rating : 18
Characters : Athos/Treville
Disclaimer : Not mine, no money made, don’t sue.
Spoilers : None
Warning : Contains a flogging scene.
Word Count : 5,791
Summary : When Athos returns from guard duty at the palace stinking drunk, Treville is forced to take action.
A/N : Originally written for a prompt on the Dreamwidth Musketeers Kink Meme that now seems to have been screened, so I can't link to it. Fits within my Dangerous Liaison series, but can read as a standalone.
In his time as Captain of the King’s Musketeers, Treville had learned that he had little to be concerned about when the men under his command were rowdy, hurling insults – and often sharp objects – at each other. It was when they fell silent that there was cause for concern.
The hustle and bustle of the training yard provided a constant backdrop to his morning routine of reading dispatches and catching up with paperwork prior to receiving reports from his men.
He’d heard Porthos’ voice, loud and filled with good humour, heckling two of his friends who were engaged in a noisy bout of unarmed combat, followed a short while later by Aramis’ more measure tones as he instructed young d’Artagnan in some arcane art involving loud bangs and sundry other causes of amusement. Of Athos, on duty the previous night at the palace, Treville had heard nothing as yet, but it was unlikely to be long before Athos returned and made his report.
The sudden silence in the yard brought Treville to his feet even more quickly than a cry of alarm would have done. He arrived on the wooden walkway outside his office just in time to see Athos walking slowly – and very unsteadily – through the archway into the garrison and across the courtyard. Treville knew from bitter experience that for Athos to be weaving on his feet as badly as that, a great deal of alcohol had to have been involved, and even he would have had difficulty in throwing quite that much down his throat in between coming off guard duty at the palace and arriving back at the garrison.
A hard knot of tension started to form in the pit of Treville’s stomach. His glance into the yard took in the barely-disguised looks of horror on the faces of Aramis and Porthos, and the stunned disbelief on d’Artganan’s more youthful features as the soldier the young Gascon made no secret of idolising continued to concentrate on putting one booted foot in front of the other as he progressed slowly across the yard.
Athos’ jacket hung open to the waist and wine stains bloomed like crushed blood-roses on his once-white shirt. His dark hair was limp with sweat and he looked like he was about to throw up onto his boots. Treville knew almost to the bottle how much alcohol it took to make Athos vomit but what he couldn’t fathom was why the best soldier in the Regiment had chosen that particular night duty to wallow in the self-destructive vice that had plagued him during all the time Treville had known him, instead of doing what he should have been doing and providing protection for the king.
The conclusion was inescapable. Athos had been drunk on duty.
Treville gripped the wooden railing hard, his knuckles white with tension. “Athos! My office, now!”
Athos came to a halt, his shoulders slumped over and his head hanging down like a blown horse ridden too hard and put away wet.
Not one man in the training yard moved or spoke, not even the two that were closer to him than any others. Then Porthos shook himself like a dog climbing out of water and took one step forward. “He’s ill,” the big musketeer said, in a voice redolent with disbelief, not willing to acknowledge the truth that was standing in front of him, looking like a vision of wine-soaked hell on earth.
“Stay where you are!” Treville ordered, speaking not only to Porthos but to any other who might dare to interfere. He watched as Athos put one foot in front of the other until he reached the bottom of the wooden steps. The hand that reach out to grip the rail shook slightly and would have been unable to hold either a sword or a pistol, incapable of protecting the man whose safety they were all sworn to protect.
A red heat spread through Treville’s body as he fought for control. For years he had turned a blind eye to Athos’s dependence on alcohol; he’d even gone so far as to exploit it for his own ends, using it as a means to make sure his subordinate – and occasional lover – found some release from the demons that plagued him. But never before had Athos taken refuge in drink whilst on duty.
He watched as Athos slowly lifted one foot and placed it on the bottom step. Moving with the careful precision of the extremely inebriated, Athos made his way, step by shaky step, to the upper floor. Before he reached the top, Treville turned on his heel and stalked back into his office, not daring to trust himself to keep his fists by his side when Athos came within arm’s reach of him.
Treville retreated behind his desk, leaning on it as he had done on the balustrade. Athos followed him into the room and did his best to stand to attention in front of the barrier that Treville had carefully placed between them. The stink of wine and sweat, as unsavoury as the miasma that clung to the streets in the height of summer, hung about the man he’d once counted as his finest soldier. The blue eyes that Treville knew so well were now as dark as the stained leather jacket and as unfocussed as those of a man who’d taken a hard blow to the head, but in this instance the only blow had been that delivered by the contents of a dozen wine bottles.
Treville drew in a deep breath and exhaled slowly, fighting for control. “Explain yourself.”
Athos did his best to fix his eyes on the wall behind Treville’s head, but his gaze wandered like a wayward dog.
“Explain yourself!” Treville barked. “Don’t make me ask you a third time, Athos.”
“I…” Athos met Treville’s eyes briefly, before his gaze slid away to one side. His voice sounded thick, as though his tongue had grown too thick for his mouth. “I… cannot…sir.”
“You cannot?” The words exploded out of Treville with the force of a pistol shot. “You roll back here stinking of drink, barely able to put one foot in front of the other and yet you have nothing to fucking say? No, Athos, that is not enough. That is nowhere near enough. I said, explain yourself!”
Athos hesitated, pushing his sweat-soaked hair back off his brow, revealing the drunkard’s pallor beneath. He appeared to be concentrating hard, and Treville dared to entertain the smallest of hopes that an explanation might actually be forthcoming. An explanation that might – just might – save the man’s commission.
“I… I cannot.”
And with those two simple yet damning words, Treville’s last hope withered and died.
* * * * *
As Athos made his way back down the steps into the courtyard, the silence wrapped itself around him like a shroud.
To anyone watching, it would have appeared that he was steadfastly avoiding meeting the eyes of his friends and comrades. But in truth, he knew that if he took his eyes off his route, even for a moment, he would no doubt end up face down in the horse-trough, or tripping over his own feet.
Around him, the red-tiled roofs swayed to music only they could hear, shifting up and down at the edge of his vision, and the sandy ground threatened every moment to rise up to meet him. Only by the most intense concentration did he manage to reach one of the wooden pillars on the far side of the yard. His sight was blurred, his mouth felt like a rat had made a nest in there then expired, and his stomach appeared to be home to several fighting cats. The only surprising thing was that he was still capable of independent movement at all.
The tremor in his hands made it difficult to unfasten the buckles holding his sword-belt in place, but eventually, Athos triumphed, and dropped his weapon to the ground at his side. It was followed by his dagger and his pistols. But if Treville wanted the small knives he kept inside his boots, he’d have to get them himself, as there was no way Athos could bend down without spewing the contents of his guts onto the ground. He shrugged his jacket off and let that fall as well.
Drawing in a long, slow breath, Athos gripped the linen of his wine-stained shirt and pulled it over his head, dropping it on top of the pile of weapons at his side. The sun was starting to rise in the sky and he was dimly conscious of its warmth on the naked skin of his back. He reached out with hands that even to his own eyes looked unsteady and gripped the wood of the post in front of him at shoulder height, shuffling so that his feet were apart and he was braced on his forearms.
Only when his arms were locked into position did Athos allow himself the luxury of letting his eyelids fall closed. His world started to revolve gently around him and for a brief moment, he almost felt at peace, able to block out the shocked eyes that were all riveted to the spectacle unfolding in the training yard.
The first blow of the whip landed across his shoulders, hard and hot, the fibres of unravelled rope dragging harshly at his flesh. Athos kept his eyes closed and continued to brace himself against the next blow. Treville’s arm was strong, although not through frequent applications of the lash. The captain preferred to use his tongue to instil order in the unruly bunch of men under his command, only very rarely resorting to more physical methods of discipline, and then – as now – only under the very greatest of provocations. The second blow fell slightly lower, the third, lower still, so that soon the whole of Athos’s back felt as though a burning brand had seared into his flesh.
Very quickly, the pain started to drive the fog from his brain, leaving him open and exposed as it seared his nerves, making his whole body shudder and jump under the onslaught, but still he managed to remain upright, the muscles in his arms and shoulders corded with tension. Treville had not suggested restraining him and, even in that state, pride would not allow Athos to shrink away from the blows or try to avoid what was his due.
His mind, unshuttered now, allowed the sensations to rip through his body as rope met flesh. The cats in his stomach had stopped fighting and were now attempting to claw their way up through his throat. Athos swallowed hard, knowing he was losing this particular battle. The next blow – the sixth, maybe, but he had now lost count – fell across the base of his back. The end of the whip curled around his belly, its sharp caress on the sensitive skin in place of the lover’s fingers he’d so recently felt there, was too much.
Sour vomit exploded from his mouth, splattering against the wooden pillar. Athos coughed and gasped for air, making the first noises since his punishment had begun. He heard similar intakes of breath amongst the watchers, the wall of silence broken now. By force of will, Athos kept his arms locked in place, his shoulders straining with the effort as he retched and spat. The next two blows followed in measured succession, Treville never pausing, never varying the pace nor the weight of the blows.
The world had stopped spinning at the same moment he’d spilled his guts on the ground, leaving him feeling as weak as a new-born kitten, his back on fire and his head pounding, braced for another blow that never came.
“It is done,” he heard Treville announce, in a voice as cold as the Cardinal’s heart. “If you value your commissions, you will leave him to stew in his own vomit. Aramis, Porthos, d’Artagnan, do not cross me in this, I warn you.”
With those words ringing in his head, Athos finally gave in to the darkness that had threatened to claim him since he had first set foot back in the garrison, and slumped to his knees, his head resting against the wooden pillar, his hands clenched before him.
The last sound he heard was the heavy tread of Treville’s boots as the captain marched out of the courtyard.
* * * * *
The palace, normally bustling with life and energy, was uncharacteristically subdued.
Servants hurried to and fro, eyes downcast, making themselves as inconspicuous as possible. Treville saw a huddle of the queen’s ladies, some with red-rimmed eyes that betokened weeping. The king’s courtiers stayed further away from them than was usual, but appeared equally downcast.
Treville was acknowledged with courteous gestures, but no attempts were made to engage him in conversation, those he passed no doubt correctly divining the cause of thunderous rage that sat heavily on his shoulders alongside his blue cloak. The king must have been apprised of Athos’s indiscretion, he could not imagine that the Cardinal would have let such an opportunity for mischief pass him by, but Treville hoped to be able to avert some of the king’s wrath and salvage something of the honour of the Regiment with a speedy and heartfelt apology.
He would not have been overly surprised to have been greeted by a detachment of Red Guards demanding the return of Athos to the Chatelet. Drunk on duty was a charge that had never before been levelled at any of Treville’s men, and despite Athos’s past indiscretions, Treville had never in his worst nightmares expected him to sink to such a depth.
The First Valet de Chambre was standing outside the king’s bedchamber, deep in discussion with the Cardinal. Richelieu, resplendent in his black robes, turned at the sound of Treville’s approach, his expression as hawk-like as ever.
“By the grace of God, the king is sleeping now,” Richelieu said without preamble. “I trust your man returned safely?”
Treville’s face must have betrayed his confusion.
Richelieu stared at him, one eyebrow raised slightly. “Ah, I see the news has not yet reached you. Forgive me; if the stories of the night’s excesses bear even a remote resemblance to the truth, it is to be doubted that your man would have been capable of much by way of coherent report.”
“You are not making sense,” Treville said, unable to stop his eyes narrowing as he tried to fathom the cardinal’s intent behind words that, try as he might, Treville was signally failing to rearrange into anything that he could understand.
“You are unaware of the nature of the queen’s indisposition.” It was a statement, not a question.
“I am unaware of any indisposition, let along its nature.” The sudden shift in the conversation had left Treville floundering. When he had seen Queen Anne, the previous day in the palace gardens, the Queen had been in high spirits, throwing a ball with her ladies in waiting and even running with them between the high hedges of the formal garden.
Richelieu closed his eyes for a moment as if in pain and fingered the gold cross that hung around his neck. “The queen tripped in the garden after you left yesterday afternoon. During the late evening she experienced some pain. Her physician informed the king late last night that she had lost the child she was carrying. Your man was with him when he received the news. The king is inconsolable. He called for wine to blunt the pain and bade Athos remain with him.”
The anger Treville had carried inside him since his first glimpse of Athos weaving his unsteady way into the courtyard dissipated like mist in sunlight, leaving behind a horror that he had not felt since news had reached him of the massacre in Savoy. He had acted rashly and had made an error of judgement of monumental proportions.
“Those were not words you expected to hear, were they?” Richelieu said, his eyes stripping away Treville’s defences, laying bare the shock he felt. “It is unlike you not to give your men the benefit of every possible doubt, my friend, but do I divine that on this occasion, you may have been – how shall I put it – a trifle hasty in judgement?”
Treville ran his hand through the stubble on his jaw, feeling as though he’d taken a mailed fist to the gullet. “I have wronged him,” he said simply.
“An easy mistake,” Richelieu said lightly. “Athos does, after all, have a certain reputation. His practice in matters of the bottle no doubt stood him in good stead when it came to deflecting much of the wine that His Majesty called for into his own glass, saving our beloved king from an even worse head than the one that his physician will no doubt be treating before too long. But I am sure it will ease your mind to know that Athos provided some much needed solace for the king.” The Cardinal paused, no doubt for effect, then slipped his final barb with ease beneath Treville’s ribs. “I believe His Majesty would like to bestow a small token of his thanks on your man when he awakens. Perhaps you would be so kind as to bid Athos return to the palace for short while. That is unless he too is… indisposed?”
“And you did not see fit to send word to me of the queen’s loss?” Treville demanded fighting hard for control and ignoring Richelieu’s words.
“I was in the chapel, offering up prayers for the king and queen in their time of trouble.” Richelieu’s smile was bright with malice and a shaft of sunlight gave his black attire the sheen of a raven’s wing. “I had assumed – wrongly, it appears – that bad news travels at speed. My apologies.”
The Cardinal had, Treville presumed, seized the opportunity to even old scores and had, no doubt, expressly forbidden any word of the unfolding events in the palace reaching the garrison ahead of Athos’s return. And Athos, noble fool that he was, had kept silent.
Treville turned on his heel and strode away, before the desire to smash his fist into Richelieu’s face became a bone-crunching reality.
* * * * *
“Fetch water!”
Treville’s voice cut through the pounding in Athos’s skull as he lay sprawled in his own vomit, his head pillowed in the crook of one arm. He’d tried, without much success, to clamber to his feet and it had taken all that remained of his rapidly-diminishing composure for him to summon a vicious enough string of invective to convince his friends that if they so much as laid one finger on him by way of assistance, that they would forfeit his friendship as well as their commissions.
“I have wronged him. This was not what it seemed.”
Treville’s words sounded as though they had been spoken from the end of a long tunnel, far away from the world of pain that Athos currently inhabited. Wondering idly what had happened, Athos made another effort to rise from the ground. A strong hand gripped his arm and another gently pushed his sweat-slicked hair back from his forehead.
“You fucking idiot!” The naked pain in Treville’s voice hurt Athos even more than the whip had done. “For once, couldn’t you just have taken the easy way out and told me the truth?”
Athos looked up, squinting into the morning sun. The pain in Treville’s voice was nothing to the distress written large on his face, scored in deep lines on his captain’s forehead. Athos drew in a shaky breath around the decomposing rodent in his mouth and did his best to articulate his shattered thoughts.
“It was not my place to discuss such matters. I… I presumed the Cardinal had sent word, but when it became clear you had no knowledge of… events at the palace, I assumed the king had ordered silence to be kept.”
Treville took a cup of water from Aramis’s hands and held it to Athos’ lips. “The Cardinal was, as ever, playing his own game, and you and I were both his pawns. I am sorry, Athos, more sorry that I can ever express. I should have trusted you. ”
Athos felt the pain in his head recede slightly as cool water eased the fire in his throat left behind when he had finally finished expelling the contents of his stomach.
“Captain, let me.”
Athos recognised Porthos’ voice at his side. Treville must have yielded precedence to the big musketeer, and Athos felt himself being lifted gently to his feet. Supported on one side by his friend, and on the other by his captain, with Aramis and d’Artagnan hovering closely like mother hens watching over a wayward chick, Athos found the strength from somewhere to put one foot in front of the other as he was steered and assisted up the steps and into Treville’s own rooms.
Nimble fingers that he presumed belonged to Aramis tugged off his boots and started to strip him of what remained of his soiled clothing. A cool, damp cloth was dabbed carefully at the bruised welts on his back and after an unequal struggle to retain some dignity, Athos simply gave up and allowed them to do with him what they wanted.
The same quick, clever hands spread soothing salve on his back, and he heard Aramis’s voice urging him to drink the draught that was being held out to him.
Athos blinked at his friend and frowned. “It’s going to taste vile, isn’t it?”
A swift smile lit Aramis’s face. “Of course it is. And don’t bother trying to throw it up. If you do, I’ll only make you drink some more, and you know how persistent I can be.”
To Athos’ surprise, it didn’t taste vile. In fact it tasted like honey, which made him deeply suspicious, but whatever was in the concoction made the sickness in his stomach recede with surprising speed. When Porthos clattered into the room brandishing clean clothing, it was even possible for him to stand, unaided, to pull on underclothes to cover his nakedness.
As his friends had worked to clean him, he’d heard hushed exchanges between them. Treville, in terms of excoriating self-loathing, had told of what he had learned at the palace, from which Athos presumed that knowledge the queen’s misfortune had now been shared.
“Did I hear you say I am needed to return to the palace?” he asked, surprising himself by not slurring his words.
“That is out of the question,” Treville retorted.
Athos met his lover’s eyes for the first time since he had set foot in the garrison, blind drunk after a long night commiserating with the king. “The cardinal has already played both of us for fools. Would you hand another victory to him?”
“You are in no fit state to go anywhere!”
“Someone bring me a bucket of cold water.”
Athos could see from the helpless look in Treville’s eyes that this was one argument his captain was not expecting to win.
When d’Artagnan placed a bucket of water beside the bed, Athos slid to his knees and dealt with his hangover in the usual manner by repeatedly plunging his head into the water. It had the added benefit of ridding his hair of the vomit that had collected there when he’d sprawled in the dirt of the courtyard. He drank a large mug of water and then repeated the process again, feeling the swollen skin on his back stretching painfully as he bent over. After three more mugs of water and several more duckings, Athos was able to climb to his feet unaided.
Porthos had managed to find clean leathers for him, and d’Artagnan had carefully cleaned any traces of vomit from his weapons. A simple linen shirt felt cool against his heated skin and fortunately, his old jacket was sufficiently supple that, provided he moved carefully, it did not dig into his abused flesh too much. Treville fastened his belts around him, returning weapons to their accustomed places, even down to the knives in his boots.
Aramis produced a blue cape, settled it on his shoulders and knotted the cord across his chest. “How do you feel?”
“Like something I last saw on a slab in the mortuary,” Athos said truthfully.
His friend reached out and combed his fingers through Athos’s hair. “I will admit to having seen prettier corpses but, with luck, the king will be in no fit state to judge your lack of sartorial elegance.”
“Catch!” Porthos said without warning, sending Athos’ hat spinning at him across the room.
Seemingly of its own volition, Athos’ hand shot out and plucked the hat out of the air. He settled it on his head, pleased to note that his hand hadn’t shaken.
Negotiating the steps was easier this time and, as he crossed the courtyard, his fellow musketeers swept their own hats off their heads in deference. Athos acknowledged the gestures with a brief nod and then, flanked by Treville and his friends, he marched out of the courtyard, hoping that the walk to the palace would put the finishing touches to his carefully crafted illusion of sobriety.
* * * *
Even from a distance, Treville could see the look of disappointment on Richelieu’s face when he saw Athos on his feet, walking in a straight line. The cardinal’s sour expression was obvious, even down the length of the corridor that led to the King’s bedchamber, but by the time they had reached him, Richelieu had schooled his features back into their habitual disdain.
“Athos of the King’s Musketeers, reporting to His Majesty, as ordered,” Athos said, his cultured voice studiously neutral.
Before Richelieu had chance to respond, the First Valet de Chambre appeared at his side and opened the tall doors, gesturing to Treville and Athos to follow him into the king’s bedchamber. Numerous courtiers were already present, attending the king’s rising as they did every day. Louis was sitting on the edge of his bed, looking like a man who had seen the chance of eternal happiness dangled in front of him and then cruelly snatched away.
The king looked up as Athos approached, staring at the musketeer out of heavily-lidded eyes.
Athos swept his hat off and went to one knee in front of Louis with a fluid grace that belied the fact that his veins were running with red wine rather than blood. Treville took off his own hat and bowed deeply to the man whose safety meant more to him than his own life.
A slight smile curved Louis’s lips, although it did not reach his troubled eyes. “Your presence last night was greatly appreciated, Athos of my musketeers.” One of Louis’ valets put a black velvet pouch into the king’s outstretched hand. “Take this as a token of my esteem.”
Athos looked up, his face sombre. “It was my privilege, Your Majesty. No reward is necessary.”
“Be that as it may, I insist.”
Athos bowed his head obediently and took the offered purse. “Your Majesty is too generous.”
“It would have been a boy,” Louis said sadly. “My son and heir died last night.”
“My deepest condolences, sire,” Treville said quietly.
Louis met his eyes and Treville could see the genuine pain and loss there. The king’s marriage to Anne of Austria had not been without its turbulence, but there was no doubt in Treville’s mind that in his own way, Louis loved her, and it was a cruel trick of fate that had for so long denied him the heir he desperately wanted to present to his people.
“Your musketeers do you credit, Treville,” Richelieu said, clapping a heavy hand to Athos’s shoulder.
Treville nodded, not taking his eyes off Athos’s face. The musketeer might have been carved from marble for all his expression gave away, even though it was obvious to Treville that the cardinal was digging his fingers into bruised and lacerated flesh. Athos remained on his knees, ignoring the abuse, keeping his head slightly bowed and contriving to remain still.
“Is there anything more we can do for Your Majesty?” Treville asked, hoping to be able to bring the audience to an end before what little resilience Athos had left was exhausted.
Louis raised a slight smile. “Your man remained by my side during some dark hours, Captain. I believe he has earned his rest. Rise, my man, and take with you my thanks.”
The king also looked like a man in desperate need of rest and solitude, but Treville knew that he was unlikely to be granted even a brief respite. For all Louis could act like a spoiled brat at times, he was also a man who did not shirk the demands of duty.
Athos came smoothly to his feet, bowed deeply again and backed towards the door, holding a remarkably straight line. Treville followed, murmuring his thanks for the king’s beneficence. Once in the corridor, Treville shot Athos a searching look but his lover’s face gave nothing away. A moment later, a rustle of black robes alerted them to Richelieu’s presence.
With a smile that failed to reach his eyes, Richelieu clapped Athos hard on the back. “Take care not to drink the contents of that purse in one night.”
“I will bear your advice in mind, Your Eminence,” Athos drawled, his face still betraying no hint of pain.
“By your leave, Cardinal,” Treville said, keeping both hands firmly clasped behind his back. “I have matters to deal with back at the garrison.” With a curt nod, he turned away and strode down the corridor, with Athos matching him step for step.
* * * * *
On the journey back from the palace, Athos was clearly trusting to his blue cloak and grim expression to keep anyone from coming too close, but even with Treville staying close to him, it was impossible to avoid all jostling from the crowd. A youthful pickpocket found himself on the wrong side of Treville’s ire, and retired, nursing a sore head after failing to acquire the pouch that still dangled from Athos’ fingers. After that, they were left to their own devices as much as was possible on the streets of Paris.
When the door to his lodgings finally appeared, Athos allowed himself a small sigh of relief. Without asking his leave, Treville accompanied Athos up the stairs and into the austere room that the musketeer used as a place to sleep, store his few possessions, and drink himself insensible.
Treville saw the look of surprise on Athos’ face. The usual mess of empty wine bottles had gone from the floor, there was fresh linen and clean blankets on the bed, and the place looked like it had been thoroughly swept. The clothes Athos had worn on guard duty the previous day had been cleaned and hung to dry over the back of two chairs.
A pitcher of water sat on top of the wooden chest of drawers, next to a small jar of ointment, no doubt left there by Aramis.
“They’re good friends,” Treville commented.
“Better than I deserve.”
Treville made an exasperated noise in his throat and gently turned Athos to face him. “You are a self-destructive fool with more nobility than sense, but be that as it may, you are still the finest soldier under my command, and I would have done well to have remembered all those things this morning. I allowed anger to rule my heart and for that I beg our pardon.”
A half-smile lit the habitual darkness of Athos’ handsome face. “No pardon is necessary. I returned from guard duty stinking drunk and refused to explain my actions. What else could you have done?”
“I could have thought longer before acting on my anger.”
“If wishes were thrushes, beggars would eat birds.” Athos pushed his hair back from his face with a hand that only shook slightly. “It is over. But I would count it a signal act of friendship if you would help me remove some clothing again.”
Treville ran the tips of his fingers down Athos’ cheek, stroking through his beard and tracing the curve of his lips, lightly touching the scar that bestowed a slight quirk on his rare smiles. He recalled using similar words to Athos after his encounter with Labarge, doing his best to make light of his injury, much as Athos was doing now.
With careful hands, Treville unbuckled the belts that held various weapons and their accoutrements, laying each one down on top of the old wooden chest. When that was done, he unlaced the leather jerkin and drew it down over Athos’ arms, then lifted the linen shirt over his head, noting with a sharp intake of breath the spots of red blood on the shoulders and back. The flesh beneath was stretched taut over the darkening bruises that covered his shoulders and his back, with one set of angry red marks marring the skin of his stomach. Treville failed to suppress a wince.
“I said it’s over,” Athos said softly.
He sat down slowly on the edge of the bed, and allowed Treville to pull off his boots, undo the hidden straps and place the knives in their leg-sheaths on top of the other pile of weaponry.
“Will you let me dress your back, or would you prefer me to send for Aramis?”
“Aramis has colder hands than you, but I believe you told the cardinal you had matters to attend to at the garrison.”
“Naturally, I lied,” Treville countered. With the barracks under the watchful eyes of Aramis and Porthos, he knew there was nothing there that could not wait and at that moment, wild horses would not have dragged him from Athos’ side. The man was hovering on the brink of collapse from an unhealthy cocktail of alcohol, exhaustion and pain.
Athos shot him another of his knowing half-smiles before standing up, unfastening his trousers and letting them fall to the floor, leaving him dressed in nothing but his underclothes. They soon followed the other garments to the floor. Athos, in common with most soldiers of Treville’s acquaintance was wholly unconcerned by his nakedness. Moving slowly and carefully, Athos manoeuvred himself down on his stomach, resting his head into the soft goose-down pillow with a barely-suppressed sigh.
Treville sat beside him and, as gently as he could, spread the soothing salve over the welts, bruises and lacerations that now jostled for prominence with the older scars on Athos’ back. He had become all too well-acquainted every thin white line and puckered scar during their time together and it pained him to think he had added to that particular rich tapestry.
By the time he’d finished, sleep had smoothed out the lines of pain that the day had etched on Athos’s face, leaving him looking younger and more vulnerable. Treville settled beside him on the narrow bed, content simply to watch and wait.
And with memories of this day indelibly etched on his mind, Treville would not in future be so hasty to pass judgment.
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Fantastic job.
xxxx
P.S. I had a hard day of meetings and a hot cycle ride home and to find that waiting for me was exactly the medicine I needed.
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Glad you enjoyed it! I'd been sat on this for quite a while, and after enjoying yours so much I had to get off my arse and post it!
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I am so happy you're writing in Musketeers fandom as well.
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Thank you for the lovely comment.
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Athos really should stop being so noble as it's not good for his health - but I did love how you gave us the merest glimpse of his vulnerability.
Lovely. Truly lovely.
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This line in particular really stuck in my mind ...pained him to think he had added to that particular rich tapestry - so poignant - as well as where you note the little gestures of friendship between the Inseparables. I love how in a Treville and Athos centric fic you still show such vivid snapshots of that friendship. Bravo!
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(Anonymous) 2016-03-29 10:21 am (UTC)(link)no subject