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fredbassettTitle : A Dangerous Death
Author : fredbassett
Fandom : The Musketeers
Rating : 15
Characters : Athos/Gallagher (Athos/Treville)
Disclaimer : Not mine, no money made, don’t sue.
Spoilers : For Episode 1.9
Word Count: 6,046
Summary : Not evertyhing is as it seems and Athos has unfinished business in the convent.
A/N : 1) Set within my Athos/Treville series ‘A Dangerous Liaison’ but can be read as a standalone. 2) Written for the very lovely![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
evilmaniclaugh with thanks for all the pleasure her wonderful fics have given me!
“Tell me who hired you and I’ll spare you the hangman’s noose.”
Athos kept both his voice and his pistol level, never taking his eyes off the other man.
“What kind of a soldier would I be if I broke a confidence like that?” Gallagher sounded equally calm, his eyes unwavering in the flickering light of the tunnel.
“One who’s not ready to die yet.” Athos watched as the mercenary’s hand edged closer to the pistol struck through his belt. “Don’t.” He made sure there was no mistaking the threat in that one word. It was the only warning he would give.
Gallagher snatched at the weapon, but a heartbeat later Athos’ pistol shot sounded deafeningly loud in the confines of the narrow, vaulted passageway. The Irishman dropped the pistol, falling back against the brick wall as he crumpled to the ground, his arms held tightly across his body.
Athos closed the distance between then and dropped to his knees. “You fucking idiot! You never could do things the easy way, could you?”
“Not lost your touch, Musketeer…” Gallagher’s eyes started to fall shut and his breathing became more laboured.
Athos stared down at him. This wasn’t going to take long.
* * * * *
“Eternal rest grant him, oh Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon him…” The mother superior made the sign of the cross over the mercenary’s body and bent her head in prayer.
There was nothing more to be done.
* * * * *
“I’ll be back by nightfall the day after tomorrow.” Athos swung up into the saddle and gathered in his horse’s reins, whilst around him the other occupants of the garrison continued the organised brawls that passed for training and practise.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer company on the ride?” Aramis enquired.
“And risk drawing attention to the Queen’s generosity? I think not. A lone musketeer will excite little interest, but more than one? No, not on this occasion, my friend. There is work enough for all of you here.
Aramis raised his hand to pat Roger’s flank. The big horse turned and blew snot noisily from his nostrils.
“Your nag shares your sunny disposition.”
“He’s an animal of taste and discernment. Can I rely on you to behave with discretion in my absence?”
Aramis met his eyes, a sober look on his face. “You can.”
Athos inclined his head. “Good. Keep Porthos and d’Artagnan out of the Cardinal’s way, they both wear their hearts on their sleeves. Bad enough that I deliberately provoked him, but I would not have his revenge fall on their heads.”
“Occupational hazard, my friend.”
“Maybe so, but indulge me in this.”
Aramis met his eyes again, but his hand went also to the cross around his neck. “I am yours to command.”
Athos quirked his lips into a half-smile. “You’re a lying bastard.” He touched his heels to Roger’s sides, leaving Aramis standing behind him in the cobbled yard, hand raised in farewell.
* * * * *
The journey back to the convent was uneventful, provided you didn’t count the woman who nearly gave birth by the side of the road. Fortunately, the local cunning woman arrived from the village before Athos’ midwifery skills could be put to the test, for which he was profoundly grateful. He left the new mother with enough coin to reward the woman and the driver of the cart, and continued on his way.
With the afternoon sun fading fast, Athos rode into the convent courtyard.
The nun who ran to take Roger’s reins smiled at him and bobbed her head, but didn’t speak. He remembered her from the siege only a few days ago and smiled back at her with genuine warmth. It had been her idea to deploy the beehive.
The mother superior arrived moments later to greet him. She’d been a staunch ally during the running battle with Gallagher and his mercenaries, and his respect for her knew no bounds. He would happily have her load pistols for him in a fight any day.
He swept his hat off and gave her a slight bow. “I bring gifts from the Queen in reparation for the damage done in her defence and in recognition of your bravery in her service.”
“You would be welcome without any gift,” she declared, sweeping him off to her rooms for a glass of their exceedingly good grape and honey brandy. He was pleased to discover that their stocks had not been wholly depleted due to its unorthodox but effective use during the siege
The Queen had sent enough money to pay for repairs to the convent and more besides. His hostess was talking in an animated fashion about what they would be able to achieve with the gold when she saw, and correctly interpreted, the look on, his face.
“Forgive me,” she said, standing up and smoothing down her homespun robe. “There’s been some fever, but I think Monsieur Gallagher will live.”
Athos followed her to a small room high in the tower. Gallagher lay propped up in a narrow bed, his chest swathed in a mass of clean linen bandages, a pillow behind his head and a blanket covering his nakedness. His clothes, clean now of the blood that had stained them at their last meeting lay neatly folded on a chest beneath the window. The man’s hair looked damp with sweat, although the room itself was cool. His hands, loosely linked together, rested on his stomach and he appeared to be asleep, but Athos knew looks could deceive.
“Monsieur Gallagher, you have a visitor.” Without waiting for a response, the mother superior turned and left the two of them alone, closing the door behind her.
Gallagher opened his eyes and stared back at Athos. “Come to finish what you started, Musketeer?”
“If I’d intended to finish it, you would have died like a rat in a drain beneath these walls. You’re a stubborn bastard, Gallagher.”
“And you’re a damned fine shot, even if you do favour a sword as a weapon. Have you come to take me to Paris?”
Athos pulled a chair close to the bed and sat down. “And if I’d intended to take you to Paris I wouldn’t have gone to this much trouble to save your worthless hide.” He paused a moment and then added, “I know who bought your contract, but I want to know who she was working for.”
“I’ll not testify, Athos of the King’s Musketeers, you know that full well.”
Athos also knew full well that the man whose life he’d spared in the tunnel beneath the convent was sick and weary, despite his brave words. He’d worked with Gallagher five years ago on his first solo mission after gaining his commission. They’d been united in a common aim to retrieve a packet of letters that had fallen into the wrong hands and could have destroyed the marriage of a powerful woman at court. Athos had been acting on the King’s orders, His Majesty anxious to avoid a scandal at court. Gallagher had been employed by the woman’s lover.
The Irishman had proved himself to be a formidable ally: brave, resourceful and honourable. To a point. And that point had been reached when they’d finally got their hands on the package. They’d then fought over possession of the letters. They’d been evenly matched and both had sustained injuries, but neither had been willing to withdraw in favour of the other. Eventually, a compromise had been reached and they’d split the letters between them, returning to their respective employers the letters they had written, able to state with confidence that they had carried out their orders, so far as lay within their power.
When Athos had seen who was in command of the mercenaries sent to kill the Queen, he’d known the defenders of the convent, and their royal charge, would be lucky to escape with their lives.
“You were working for a woman named variously Milady de Winter or Madame de la Chapelle. I learned that much from the money box, as you expected I would. What I want to know now is the name of the person who hired her.” Athos allowed a slight smile to quirk his lips. “For old times’ sake?”
“We had a drunken fuck after nearly beating each other senseless or is that not what you meant?”
And afterwards there had been some unexpected tenderness in a flea-infested shepherd’s hut when they’d dressed each other’s wounds and spent the night together to drive out the cold, but Athos knew he didn’t have to remind Gallagher of that. Neither of them had been drunk enough to induce memory loss, just drunk enough to loosen habitual inhibitions.
“It was a good drunken fuck,” Athos said, passing the mercenary the cup of honey brandy he’d brought with him from his hostess’s rooms.
“That it was.” A grin quirked Gallagher’s lips he took a mouthful of the brandy and then passed the cup back with a gesture that seemed strangely intimate.
Athos took another drink. “Do you regard your contract as at an end?” he enquired. If that was not the case, he knew he’d have to set aside past sentiment and kill the mercenary. Gallagher was too skilled an assassin to leave on the loose if he still had unfinished business with the Queen.
“Some of my men had families. The woman’s coin will go to pay blood debt for them.” He held Athos’ gaze steadily. “Those who survived know where it was hidden. I have no doubt they’re long gone by now.”
“That was not the question I asked. “Will you make another attempt to fulfil your contract?”
“My contract holds good until the turn of the moon. That, I believe, is in two days time. Do I look capable of tying up loose ends before then?”
Athos took another drink and handed back the brandy. Gallagher made no effort to disguise the tremor in his hand as he raised the rim of the cup to his lips. He was as pale as dough, with dark smudges under his eyes. He was certainly not capable of sitting astride a horse or firing a musket. And his blue eyes held no shadow of a lie. Athos let out a long slow breath and leaned forwards, his fingers closing around Gallagher’s on the cup.
“If truth be told, you look like a man who would find it hard to hold his cock straight to piss.”
“Is that an offer of help, my friend?”
“You still haven’t told me who the woman’s employer was.”
“No, but I have told you when my contract will be at end.”
Athos stroked his fingers lightly over Gallagher’s cold hand. To stay until the turn of the moon would delay his return to Paris and no doubt incur the wrath of his friends, but the Irishman had information they needed, and despite Gallagher’s apparent weakness, Athos was not prepared to take any rash chances.
“Then I will soothe your fevered brow until then.”
“And hold my cock while I piss?”
“Maybe. It would not be a fitting task for a woman in holy orders, so I expect I owe them that courtesy.”
Gallagher laughed, grimacing with pain. Athos’ shot had taken him in the side, not the chest, but any gunshot wound was dangerous, even if the ball passed through the flesh without striking and splintering bone. It had been a tricky shot and Athos had been by no means certain he’d avoided damage to any internal organs.
“You know little of my countrywomen, my friend. She has already done that and more… though I wish she’d chosen something other than a dead hedgehog to wipe me arse with.”
That surprised a rare bark of laughter from Athos. From what he knew of their formidable ally, she was more than capable of exacting retribution in unlikely and inventive ways.
“Finish that,” he told Gallagher. “I imagine more can be found for medicinal purposes.” He looked around the sparsely furnished room. “I’ll bring up my bedroll.”
“I snore when I sleep on my back.”
“I know. So I’ll find another dead hedgehog and fasten it behind you. That should cure any tendency to snore. It’ll do for wiping your arse as well.” Athos plucked the now-empty cup from Gallagher’s fingers before he spilt what was left on the blankets. “Get some sleep. I’ve seen healthier-looking corpses. I’ll be back with some food for you later.”
* * * * *
When Athos returned to the tower room with his bedroll and saddlebags, Gallagher was deeply asleep. He looked down at the mercenary and gently brushed a sweat-soaked lock of hair off his forehead. Faking the man’s death had been a risk, and he had been by no means certain of the mother superior’s cooperation in view of the damage to the convent and the death of Sister Hélène but he’d placed his faith in the fact that the Irish were, in his experience, a sentimental bunch, and both the mercenary and the nun were a long way from their homeland.
Fortunately for his commission, he’d been right.
Athos had not dared involve any of his friends in the deception. If his subterfuge failed, it would only be his neck that would feel the executioner’s noose. But now it seemed that all he had to do was keep Gallagher away from the Queen for the next two days and all would be well. By the time his friends started to ride to the rescue, he would be on his way back to Paris, pleading an excess of alcohol. If he was lucky, he might even have discovered whether anyone other than Richelieu had been complicit in the plot against the Queen. He very much doubted that the absurd Count Mellandorf, with his excruciating accent and vapid daughter, had played any part beyond that of unwitting pawns in a bigger game.
Athos laid out his bedroll, threw down a pillow and some blankets and then went in search of food and something to drink, being careful to take all his weapons with him. Even with Gallagher half-dead with wound-fatigue and fever, he knew better than to underestimate the Irish mercenary.
Down in the cavernous refectory, the nuns served a plain meal of roasted chicken and bread, followed by hunks of hard, tasty cheese. After the evening meal, one of the women brought him a bowl of chicken broth for Gallagher and furnished him, without being asked, with a bottle of the grape and honey brandy and a bottle of rich red wine.
Gallagher was awake by the time Athos returned but one look at the man’s shaking hand when he reached for the bowl demonstrated that he could not easily feed himself. Hauling Gallagher upright enough to be spoon-fed caused the sweat to break out again on the Irishman’s forehead, but there was no sickly smell of puss coming from the bandaged wound, which Athos took as a good sign. He did not have Aramis’ skill with wounds, but he’d seen the aftermath of enough conflicts to know when a man stood a good chance of surviving an injury.
The pistol shot had carved a bloody furrow through Gallagher’s flesh, but it had not been intended as a killing shot and if the wound had not festered by now, Athos was sure the man would live to fight another day.
“You make a good nursemaid, Musketeer,” Gallagher muttered, after Athos had deftly caught a drip with the spoon and told him to lick it clean.
“I’m still not holding your cock while you piss.”
“Then will you hold the pot?”
Athos sighed loudly. He put the bowl down on the floor and reached for the chamberpot the nuns had left under the bed. Next to it was a box of old water-softened pine cones, for other needs. The mother superior had no doubt found a still-hard one with which to demonstrate her displeasure at the damage done to her convent and its occupants, which would explain the reference to a dead hedgehog.
Gallagher was naked under the blankets except for the bandages would around his stomach and chest. It took some effort on Athos’ part and a considerable amount of fluid cursing in Irish on Gallagher’s for the mercenary to manoeuvre himself into a position where he could use the pot. When he’d finished, Athos lifted Gallagher’s legs back onto the bed and drew the blankets over him again, but not before he’d rubbed his thumb lightly over a scar on Gallagher’s shin, a legacy of their fight for possession of the incriminating letters.
“Aches like the devil when the weather is cold,” Gallagher remarked. “You have a kick like an angry mule”
“As I recall, you were attempting to throttle me at the time.” Athos pulled the blanket up around Gallagher’s shoulders. “Go back to sleep. If you need to use the pot again in the night, try not to wake me.”
Gallagher stared pointedly at the bottle of honey brandy on the top of the wooden chest. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”
As darkness gathered around them, Athos sat on the narrow bed, sharing a cup of brandy with a man who might, in other circumstances, have been a friend as well as sometimes an ally or sometimes a foe. By the time they’d finished drinking, the moon was riding high in the sky, only a thin sliver away from its full diameter, casting a slivery light through the narrow window, which lent Gallagher’s face an almost ethereal fragility that belied the true nature of the man.
Athos set the cup down and started to unfasten his leather jerkin and remove his boots. Naked and weakened, Gallagher was unlikely to prove much of a threat, but Athos was careful to lay his weapons on the other side of the bedroll. Stripped down to his shirt and underclothes, Athos pulled the blankets up over the other man’s chest. Before he could move away, a surprisingly steady hand curved around the back of his neck and drew his head down.
The taste of brandy was sweet on Gallagher’s lips. The kiss was light, almost chaste, but it was enough to bring back memories of another night, almost forgotten for the past five years.
“I owe you my life, Musketeer. And for that you have my thanks. When the moon is past its height, ask me your question again.”
* * * * *
The mother superior wasted no time in putting the Queen’s gift to good use.
Athos spent much of the following day directing workers from the nearby village who had been employed to stop up the various rat-holes Gallagher’s men had dug in their attempts to tunnel beneath the convent. The masons knew their business well, and soon the walls would once again be able to repulse all but a determined siege.
By mid-afternoon, the sun was blazing in a cloudless sky and Athos had stripped down to his shirt and leather breeches, but was still sweating freely, his hair plastered to his head, and his hands rough and scratched from helping to carry stone for the works. When a halt was finally called to their efforts, he dunked his head in a bucket of cool water drawn from the well, accepted a flagon of wine and a jug of cold, fresh water with heartfelt thanks, and staggered up the winding steps to the tower room.
Gallagher was awake, and looked less fevered than he had done the day before. His wound had been freshly-dressed and, according to the mother superior, who insisted on treating him more like an errant child than the man who had threatened to kill everyone who remained with the convent, it showed no signs of having turned festerous.
“You look worse than I feel,” Gallagher pronounced, eyeing Athos’ damp and dishevelled state. “Not used to honest labour?”
“I was always rather better at taking things apart than putting them back together again.” Athos pulled off his sweat-soaked shirt and deposited it on the floor. Fortunately he had a spare in his saddlebag. “You’ll no doubt have to sweep this place from top to bottom before she’ll allow you to leave.”
“So I’ve been told.” Gallagher mustered a grin, although he still looked tired. “Are you going to feed me again tonight?”
“Since when did I become your own personal nursemaid?”
“Since you blew a bloody great big hole in my side and then came back to pump me for information.”
Athos sat down on the wooden chest and tugged off his boots. The resulting smell was none too pleasant, but the Irishman hadn’t demonstrated much in the way of delicate sensibilities in the time Athos had known him. He took a long swig of the wine, the cool liquid going some way to slaking his thirst.
“A gentleman would share.”
“Unfortunately for you, I’m no gentleman.”
“Is that so?” Gallagher’s eyes were shrewd and calculating. “That’s not what I’ve heard, Monsieur le Comte.”
Athos’ eyes narrowed in response to the mercenary’s words. “And where did you hear that? The woman who bought your contract, perchance?”
Gallagher looked genuinely puzzled for a moment before he schooled his features into a bland expression again. “I was interested to know more about the man I’d shared a bed with. You’d covered your tracks well, Musketeer, but your fancy manners told their own tale, and it wasn’t hard to find the truth when I went looking. What’s the woman to you?”
“Nothing,” Athos countered swiftly. “Less than nothing, if truth be told.”
“You’re lying, my friend, but I’ll not press you for the truth. Now are you going to be a selfish bastard or are you going to share that wine?”
They shared that bottle, and then another brought to them by a young nun who also provided two large bowls of thick vegetable broth, accompanied by more bread and cheese. This time, Gallagher was able to feed himself, but by the time he’d finished, his hands were trembling and he looked exhausted. Athos took the bowl from him and said nothing, but he did cut the bread and cheese into small manageable chunks. When they’d finished the food, Athos took the tray back down to the kitchen, returning with more wine. He would need to offer recompense to the nuns for the board and lodgings.
When he suggested as much to Gallagher, the Irishman simply shook his head, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “You really do know nothing about the women of my country, do you? But I’d like to be there when you try offering her money. You could drink their cellars dry and she still wouldn’t take a penny off you. Besides, your Queen probably sent enough coin to cover the booze they rained down on us from the walls, let alone anything we might get through.”
“Waste of good alcohol,” Athos muttered. “But it made things difficult for your men.”
“If I’d known this place was under the thumb of an Irishwoman, I might have thought twice about my plans.” Gallagher held his hand out for a cup of wine and Athos obliged.
They drank in companionable silence, Athos sitting on the wooden chest, enjoying the feel of the cool stone wall against his naked back, Gallagher propped up on the pillows. This time, when it came to ridding himself of the fluid, Gallagher was able to hold both his cock and the pot, so all Athos had to do was throw the contents from the window, after first ascertaining he wasn’t about to drench a nun in the process.
This time there was no kiss to end the evening, but even in the dark, Athos could feel the other man’s eyes on him as he removed his breeches and settled down on the thin mattress.
The following night, the moon would reach its maximum diameter and Gallagher’s contract would be at an end.
When that moment came, Athos would no longer have to contemplate the need to finish what he had started.
But he would have to make excuses for lateness to his captain and his friends.
* * * * *
By evening of the following day, the repairs to the fabric of the convent had been completed. A new statue of the Virgin Mary had been commissioned for the chapel to replace the one blown apart by a musket ball and a simple carved stone would mark Sister Hélène’s grave.
Their meal that night consisted of a rich stew from the carcass of a wild boar brought in by men of the village. The women of the convent were, it seemed, held in high regard by the villagers. The nuns tended the sick, assisted women in child birth and prayed for the souls of the departed. Athos has a sneaking suspicion that there had been prayers said for his immortal soul on several occasions, and there’d no doubt be more if their hostesses suspected the past nature of his relationship with the Irish mercenary they were currently harbouring.
The mother superior had supplied Athos with fresh bandages for Gallagher’s wound, and after they had eaten, Athos insisted on carefully removing the old bandages and inspecting his handiwork with a pistol. The shot had carved a bloody furrow through the mercenary’s side, but the wound had scabbed over now and there was neither sign nor smell of it turning bad. The redness around the edges that the nuns had reported seeing had now faded and Gallagher’s slight fever had abated the previous night.
“You’re lucky,” Athos commented, pressing a folded linen pad to the wound and starting to wind the bandages around the man’s side.
“The man who shot me knew his business well,” Gallagher countered. “But I will confess to thinking my end had come.”
Sitting beside Gallagher on the narrow wooden bed, Athos ran his fingers lightly over the Irishman’s skin and watched a slight shiver of reaction greet his touch. After tying off the bandage, Athos rested his hands on the man’s strong shoulders and massaged gently with his fingers and thumbs, kneading out the knots he could feel in Gallagher’s muscles.
“What will you do when you leave here?” he asked.
“Take advantage of being dead to settle some old scores, maybe,” Gallagher said quietly, relaxing under the probing fingers.
Athos brushed Gallagher’s hair away from the back of his. A memory of their previous encountered surfaced in his mind and he leaned forward to nuzzle at the sensitive skin, remembering that their original encounter had not entirely consisted of demanding hands and hard thrusts. In the dark of the night there had also been soft lips, warm breath and the scratch of beard and stubble on tender skin. Gallagher leaned back against him and allowed Athos’ arms to slip around his waist.
Resting his head on the man’s shoulder, Athos wondered what madness was prompting him to this intimacy. He had only rarely sought any such contact with others since he’d discovered the treachery of the woman he’d called his wife, and he’d never once been tempted to seek solace in the arms of any other woman. Instead there had been the occasional coupling with his captain, comfort given and taken, but with no words to bind. And if the men who were by now even closer to him than his own brother had been, suspected there was more to the relationship than that of captain and subordinate, they’d kept such thoughts to themselves.
The bond between fighting men was often close, and after combat not everyone wanted to be alone. Blind eyes were frequently turned to behaviour that the Church roundly condemned, and the Regiment knew how to look after its own. No questions were asked and privacy was given when needed. Despite that, Porthos and Aramis preferred the company of women, and it was well known that the latter’s tastes were wide and varied, but even Athos had been surprised by what he’d seen only a few days ago in the convent. Anger had swiftly been followed by acceptance. He just hoped his friend would have the good sense not to repeat his treason.
“What occupies your thoughts, Musketeer?”
“Counting the time until the height of the moon,” he lied, without a second thought.
If Gallagher was aware of the lie, he gave nothing away as he guided one of Athos’ hands down to where his hard cock was covered by a fold of the blanket. Athos pushed the material away and ran his fingers lightly down the hard length. It was easy to pleasure another man, simply applying what he knew of his own body’s reaction to such touches. He gently tugged Gallagher’s foreskin back to expose the reddened head and then rubbed a small circle around the slit where a drop of moisture was already beading at the tip.
A hiss of indrawn breath greeted his actions and Gallagher’s back arched against him. Athos continued to nuzzle at the back of his neck while his fingers worked in long slow strokes from root to tip. This time there was no urgency to the encounter, no panted breathing, fumbling hands or sudden, gasping release. There was just the gentle slide of a calloused hand over silk-smooth skin, accompanied by equally slow breathing that fell naturally into the same rhythm.
Athos’ own cock was hard in the confines of his leather breeches and he had to use his left hand to undo the fastenings to allow himself an additional measure of comfort. When his cock finally sprang free, Gallagher reached behind with his left hand and took him in hand. Athos felt a spike of pleasure low in his belly at Gallagher’s touch. They worked each other’s flesh with the same steady, slow movements they would use to whet a blade or clean a pistol. Athos let his mind drift, surrendering to the simple pleasure of another’s hand on his cock.
The moonlight filtered in through the window shining on the beads of moisture leaking from Gallagher’s cock. Athos used it to slick the passage of his hand, just as Gallagher was doing the same to him, as he worked his hand up and down, causing Athos’ breathing to quicken as the pleasure intensified.
Outside the window, the moon hung low in a cloudless black velvet sky, perfectly round and almost impossibly large.
Athos felt pleasure start to dance like sparks along every nerve in his body. He was close now as the movement of their hands speeded up in perfect synchronicity, each knowing exactly what it would take to bring the other to climax.
Gallagher came first, thrusting up into Athos’ hand, a gasp of pleasure falling from his lips as his cock spurted thick fluid onto the bandages around his body. The hand on Athos’ almost painfully hard flesh lost its rhythm for a moment, but then Gallagher tightened his grip and brought Athos off in half a dozen tight strokes. He buried his face in Gallagher’s hair and scraped the back of his neck with his teeth as he thrust through his own climax, feeling the other man’s fingers become slick on his cock.
His arms tightened around Gallagher’s waist drawing a small gasp of pain to mingle with the low murmurs of pleasure. With a muttered apology, Athos loosened his grip as he fought to bring his breathing under some semblance of control. Gallagher twisted around, stifling another gasp of pain and pressed his lips to Athos’. The kiss was far from chaste on this occasion. It was open and wet, tongues sliding together as he tasted the brandy in Gallagher’s mouth.
With some awkward adjustment, they were able to lie facing each other on the narrow bed, trading lazy kisses as the moon finally passed its height.
“She said she was working for the most powerful man in Paris,” Gallagher said eventually, as his fingers traced small circles on the skin of Athos’ back.
“She did not name him?”
Gallagher shook his head and pressed another kiss to Athos’ lips. “She did not.”
Athos sighed.
As ever with the woman who had done so much to destroy his life, nothing was straightforward.
* * * * *
His horse's hooves clattered on the cobbles of the garrison yard, in time for him to see Porthos hoist his opponent in a wrestling bout over his shoulder before dumping the man unceremoniously onto a pile of straw and horseshit.
“You’re late,” the big man commented without rancour.
“I’m often late,” Athos countered. “That’s why you always leave an extra day before coming to find me. Have you behaved yourselves in my absence?”
“Depends on what you mean by behave. There were a few Red Guards ripe for plucking in the bar last night. It would have been churlish to refuse to play against them”
“They tried to recoup their losses later,” d’Artagnan added strolling over to join them. “There might have been a brawl. Just a small one.”
Athos rolled his eyes. “And you might just have been involved? And Aramis?”
“Acting like a monk,” Porthos offered. “Turned down three of his women in as many days. Must be sickening for something.”
Aramis, leaning against the wall of the yard watching two of the men sparring, raised his hand in greeting.
Athos inclined his head in return.
His friend was not the only one who had left secrets behind in the convent but Athos knew now that secrets could be perilous. He was not ready to bare his soul on all counts, but on one matter at least, he could take steps to salve his conscience. He threw Roger’s reins to Jacques and made his way to the steps to Treville’s office, gesturing to his friends to follow him.
Treville heard his confession in silence, a frown on his face, but no anger in his eyes. “That is all she told him?” he asked, when the story of Athos’ deception was at an end.
Athos nodded. “She said he would be working for the most powerful man in Paris.”
Porthos looked horrified. “The King?”
Aramis patted the big man on the shoulder. “The Cardinal.”
“So we know no more than we did before?” D’Artagnan said, looking troubled at Athos’ revelations. He hesitated and then added, “Can you trust the mercenary to have told the truth?”
Athos met his captain’s searching eyes and nodded in affirmation, answering his unspoken question as well as the one d’Artagnan had just voiced. “Gallagher is not without honour. I trust him to have told the truth. He has also pledged not to take any further contract against the Queen.” On impulse, Athos spoke as though only he and Treville were present, “You do not appear surprised by any of this.”
“You’ve been under my command for five years, Athos,” Treville said calmly and without rancour. “I have learned that letting you have your head can sometimes be the best course of action. And I have been a soldier long enough to know when a man is only feigning death. But if there is anything else you would like to make a clean breast of, I suggest that now would be a good time.”
Athos drew in a slow breath. He very much doubted that Treville was referring to his dalliance with Gallagher, that matter could wait until they were alone, but there was another tale that needed to be told, one that he could not put off any longer.
“I need alcohol for this,” he said quietly. “There is a bottle of grape and honey brandy stowed in my pack...”
“And I suppose d’Artagnan the trainee musketeer has to be the one to fetch it…” his friend grumbled, but there was no heat in the words.
Porthos and Aramis both clapped d’Artagnan on the shoulder, smiling broadly, and the boy staggered slightly.
Athos allowed affection to wash through him like a cleansing tide.
He was amongst the truest friends a man could have, and he knew that it was now time to lay the ghosts of his past to rest.
Author : fredbassett
Fandom : The Musketeers
Rating : 15
Characters : Athos/Gallagher (Athos/Treville)
Disclaimer : Not mine, no money made, don’t sue.
Spoilers : For Episode 1.9
Word Count: 6,046
Summary : Not evertyhing is as it seems and Athos has unfinished business in the convent.
A/N : 1) Set within my Athos/Treville series ‘A Dangerous Liaison’ but can be read as a standalone. 2) Written for the very lovely
evilmaniclaugh with thanks for all the pleasure her wonderful fics have given me!“Tell me who hired you and I’ll spare you the hangman’s noose.”
Athos kept both his voice and his pistol level, never taking his eyes off the other man.
“What kind of a soldier would I be if I broke a confidence like that?” Gallagher sounded equally calm, his eyes unwavering in the flickering light of the tunnel.
“One who’s not ready to die yet.” Athos watched as the mercenary’s hand edged closer to the pistol struck through his belt. “Don’t.” He made sure there was no mistaking the threat in that one word. It was the only warning he would give.
Gallagher snatched at the weapon, but a heartbeat later Athos’ pistol shot sounded deafeningly loud in the confines of the narrow, vaulted passageway. The Irishman dropped the pistol, falling back against the brick wall as he crumpled to the ground, his arms held tightly across his body.
Athos closed the distance between then and dropped to his knees. “You fucking idiot! You never could do things the easy way, could you?”
“Not lost your touch, Musketeer…” Gallagher’s eyes started to fall shut and his breathing became more laboured.
Athos stared down at him. This wasn’t going to take long.
* * * * *
“Eternal rest grant him, oh Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon him…” The mother superior made the sign of the cross over the mercenary’s body and bent her head in prayer.
There was nothing more to be done.
* * * * *
“I’ll be back by nightfall the day after tomorrow.” Athos swung up into the saddle and gathered in his horse’s reins, whilst around him the other occupants of the garrison continued the organised brawls that passed for training and practise.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer company on the ride?” Aramis enquired.
“And risk drawing attention to the Queen’s generosity? I think not. A lone musketeer will excite little interest, but more than one? No, not on this occasion, my friend. There is work enough for all of you here.
Aramis raised his hand to pat Roger’s flank. The big horse turned and blew snot noisily from his nostrils.
“Your nag shares your sunny disposition.”
“He’s an animal of taste and discernment. Can I rely on you to behave with discretion in my absence?”
Aramis met his eyes, a sober look on his face. “You can.”
Athos inclined his head. “Good. Keep Porthos and d’Artagnan out of the Cardinal’s way, they both wear their hearts on their sleeves. Bad enough that I deliberately provoked him, but I would not have his revenge fall on their heads.”
“Occupational hazard, my friend.”
“Maybe so, but indulge me in this.”
Aramis met his eyes again, but his hand went also to the cross around his neck. “I am yours to command.”
Athos quirked his lips into a half-smile. “You’re a lying bastard.” He touched his heels to Roger’s sides, leaving Aramis standing behind him in the cobbled yard, hand raised in farewell.
* * * * *
The journey back to the convent was uneventful, provided you didn’t count the woman who nearly gave birth by the side of the road. Fortunately, the local cunning woman arrived from the village before Athos’ midwifery skills could be put to the test, for which he was profoundly grateful. He left the new mother with enough coin to reward the woman and the driver of the cart, and continued on his way.
With the afternoon sun fading fast, Athos rode into the convent courtyard.
The nun who ran to take Roger’s reins smiled at him and bobbed her head, but didn’t speak. He remembered her from the siege only a few days ago and smiled back at her with genuine warmth. It had been her idea to deploy the beehive.
The mother superior arrived moments later to greet him. She’d been a staunch ally during the running battle with Gallagher and his mercenaries, and his respect for her knew no bounds. He would happily have her load pistols for him in a fight any day.
He swept his hat off and gave her a slight bow. “I bring gifts from the Queen in reparation for the damage done in her defence and in recognition of your bravery in her service.”
“You would be welcome without any gift,” she declared, sweeping him off to her rooms for a glass of their exceedingly good grape and honey brandy. He was pleased to discover that their stocks had not been wholly depleted due to its unorthodox but effective use during the siege
The Queen had sent enough money to pay for repairs to the convent and more besides. His hostess was talking in an animated fashion about what they would be able to achieve with the gold when she saw, and correctly interpreted, the look on, his face.
“Forgive me,” she said, standing up and smoothing down her homespun robe. “There’s been some fever, but I think Monsieur Gallagher will live.”
Athos followed her to a small room high in the tower. Gallagher lay propped up in a narrow bed, his chest swathed in a mass of clean linen bandages, a pillow behind his head and a blanket covering his nakedness. His clothes, clean now of the blood that had stained them at their last meeting lay neatly folded on a chest beneath the window. The man’s hair looked damp with sweat, although the room itself was cool. His hands, loosely linked together, rested on his stomach and he appeared to be asleep, but Athos knew looks could deceive.
“Monsieur Gallagher, you have a visitor.” Without waiting for a response, the mother superior turned and left the two of them alone, closing the door behind her.
Gallagher opened his eyes and stared back at Athos. “Come to finish what you started, Musketeer?”
“If I’d intended to finish it, you would have died like a rat in a drain beneath these walls. You’re a stubborn bastard, Gallagher.”
“And you’re a damned fine shot, even if you do favour a sword as a weapon. Have you come to take me to Paris?”
Athos pulled a chair close to the bed and sat down. “And if I’d intended to take you to Paris I wouldn’t have gone to this much trouble to save your worthless hide.” He paused a moment and then added, “I know who bought your contract, but I want to know who she was working for.”
“I’ll not testify, Athos of the King’s Musketeers, you know that full well.”
Athos also knew full well that the man whose life he’d spared in the tunnel beneath the convent was sick and weary, despite his brave words. He’d worked with Gallagher five years ago on his first solo mission after gaining his commission. They’d been united in a common aim to retrieve a packet of letters that had fallen into the wrong hands and could have destroyed the marriage of a powerful woman at court. Athos had been acting on the King’s orders, His Majesty anxious to avoid a scandal at court. Gallagher had been employed by the woman’s lover.
The Irishman had proved himself to be a formidable ally: brave, resourceful and honourable. To a point. And that point had been reached when they’d finally got their hands on the package. They’d then fought over possession of the letters. They’d been evenly matched and both had sustained injuries, but neither had been willing to withdraw in favour of the other. Eventually, a compromise had been reached and they’d split the letters between them, returning to their respective employers the letters they had written, able to state with confidence that they had carried out their orders, so far as lay within their power.
When Athos had seen who was in command of the mercenaries sent to kill the Queen, he’d known the defenders of the convent, and their royal charge, would be lucky to escape with their lives.
“You were working for a woman named variously Milady de Winter or Madame de la Chapelle. I learned that much from the money box, as you expected I would. What I want to know now is the name of the person who hired her.” Athos allowed a slight smile to quirk his lips. “For old times’ sake?”
“We had a drunken fuck after nearly beating each other senseless or is that not what you meant?”
And afterwards there had been some unexpected tenderness in a flea-infested shepherd’s hut when they’d dressed each other’s wounds and spent the night together to drive out the cold, but Athos knew he didn’t have to remind Gallagher of that. Neither of them had been drunk enough to induce memory loss, just drunk enough to loosen habitual inhibitions.
“It was a good drunken fuck,” Athos said, passing the mercenary the cup of honey brandy he’d brought with him from his hostess’s rooms.
“That it was.” A grin quirked Gallagher’s lips he took a mouthful of the brandy and then passed the cup back with a gesture that seemed strangely intimate.
Athos took another drink. “Do you regard your contract as at an end?” he enquired. If that was not the case, he knew he’d have to set aside past sentiment and kill the mercenary. Gallagher was too skilled an assassin to leave on the loose if he still had unfinished business with the Queen.
“Some of my men had families. The woman’s coin will go to pay blood debt for them.” He held Athos’ gaze steadily. “Those who survived know where it was hidden. I have no doubt they’re long gone by now.”
“That was not the question I asked. “Will you make another attempt to fulfil your contract?”
“My contract holds good until the turn of the moon. That, I believe, is in two days time. Do I look capable of tying up loose ends before then?”
Athos took another drink and handed back the brandy. Gallagher made no effort to disguise the tremor in his hand as he raised the rim of the cup to his lips. He was as pale as dough, with dark smudges under his eyes. He was certainly not capable of sitting astride a horse or firing a musket. And his blue eyes held no shadow of a lie. Athos let out a long slow breath and leaned forwards, his fingers closing around Gallagher’s on the cup.
“If truth be told, you look like a man who would find it hard to hold his cock straight to piss.”
“Is that an offer of help, my friend?”
“You still haven’t told me who the woman’s employer was.”
“No, but I have told you when my contract will be at end.”
Athos stroked his fingers lightly over Gallagher’s cold hand. To stay until the turn of the moon would delay his return to Paris and no doubt incur the wrath of his friends, but the Irishman had information they needed, and despite Gallagher’s apparent weakness, Athos was not prepared to take any rash chances.
“Then I will soothe your fevered brow until then.”
“And hold my cock while I piss?”
“Maybe. It would not be a fitting task for a woman in holy orders, so I expect I owe them that courtesy.”
Gallagher laughed, grimacing with pain. Athos’ shot had taken him in the side, not the chest, but any gunshot wound was dangerous, even if the ball passed through the flesh without striking and splintering bone. It had been a tricky shot and Athos had been by no means certain he’d avoided damage to any internal organs.
“You know little of my countrywomen, my friend. She has already done that and more… though I wish she’d chosen something other than a dead hedgehog to wipe me arse with.”
That surprised a rare bark of laughter from Athos. From what he knew of their formidable ally, she was more than capable of exacting retribution in unlikely and inventive ways.
“Finish that,” he told Gallagher. “I imagine more can be found for medicinal purposes.” He looked around the sparsely furnished room. “I’ll bring up my bedroll.”
“I snore when I sleep on my back.”
“I know. So I’ll find another dead hedgehog and fasten it behind you. That should cure any tendency to snore. It’ll do for wiping your arse as well.” Athos plucked the now-empty cup from Gallagher’s fingers before he spilt what was left on the blankets. “Get some sleep. I’ve seen healthier-looking corpses. I’ll be back with some food for you later.”
* * * * *
When Athos returned to the tower room with his bedroll and saddlebags, Gallagher was deeply asleep. He looked down at the mercenary and gently brushed a sweat-soaked lock of hair off his forehead. Faking the man’s death had been a risk, and he had been by no means certain of the mother superior’s cooperation in view of the damage to the convent and the death of Sister Hélène but he’d placed his faith in the fact that the Irish were, in his experience, a sentimental bunch, and both the mercenary and the nun were a long way from their homeland.
Fortunately for his commission, he’d been right.
Athos had not dared involve any of his friends in the deception. If his subterfuge failed, it would only be his neck that would feel the executioner’s noose. But now it seemed that all he had to do was keep Gallagher away from the Queen for the next two days and all would be well. By the time his friends started to ride to the rescue, he would be on his way back to Paris, pleading an excess of alcohol. If he was lucky, he might even have discovered whether anyone other than Richelieu had been complicit in the plot against the Queen. He very much doubted that the absurd Count Mellandorf, with his excruciating accent and vapid daughter, had played any part beyond that of unwitting pawns in a bigger game.
Athos laid out his bedroll, threw down a pillow and some blankets and then went in search of food and something to drink, being careful to take all his weapons with him. Even with Gallagher half-dead with wound-fatigue and fever, he knew better than to underestimate the Irish mercenary.
Down in the cavernous refectory, the nuns served a plain meal of roasted chicken and bread, followed by hunks of hard, tasty cheese. After the evening meal, one of the women brought him a bowl of chicken broth for Gallagher and furnished him, without being asked, with a bottle of the grape and honey brandy and a bottle of rich red wine.
Gallagher was awake by the time Athos returned but one look at the man’s shaking hand when he reached for the bowl demonstrated that he could not easily feed himself. Hauling Gallagher upright enough to be spoon-fed caused the sweat to break out again on the Irishman’s forehead, but there was no sickly smell of puss coming from the bandaged wound, which Athos took as a good sign. He did not have Aramis’ skill with wounds, but he’d seen the aftermath of enough conflicts to know when a man stood a good chance of surviving an injury.
The pistol shot had carved a bloody furrow through Gallagher’s flesh, but it had not been intended as a killing shot and if the wound had not festered by now, Athos was sure the man would live to fight another day.
“You make a good nursemaid, Musketeer,” Gallagher muttered, after Athos had deftly caught a drip with the spoon and told him to lick it clean.
“I’m still not holding your cock while you piss.”
“Then will you hold the pot?”
Athos sighed loudly. He put the bowl down on the floor and reached for the chamberpot the nuns had left under the bed. Next to it was a box of old water-softened pine cones, for other needs. The mother superior had no doubt found a still-hard one with which to demonstrate her displeasure at the damage done to her convent and its occupants, which would explain the reference to a dead hedgehog.
Gallagher was naked under the blankets except for the bandages would around his stomach and chest. It took some effort on Athos’ part and a considerable amount of fluid cursing in Irish on Gallagher’s for the mercenary to manoeuvre himself into a position where he could use the pot. When he’d finished, Athos lifted Gallagher’s legs back onto the bed and drew the blankets over him again, but not before he’d rubbed his thumb lightly over a scar on Gallagher’s shin, a legacy of their fight for possession of the incriminating letters.
“Aches like the devil when the weather is cold,” Gallagher remarked. “You have a kick like an angry mule”
“As I recall, you were attempting to throttle me at the time.” Athos pulled the blanket up around Gallagher’s shoulders. “Go back to sleep. If you need to use the pot again in the night, try not to wake me.”
Gallagher stared pointedly at the bottle of honey brandy on the top of the wooden chest. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”
As darkness gathered around them, Athos sat on the narrow bed, sharing a cup of brandy with a man who might, in other circumstances, have been a friend as well as sometimes an ally or sometimes a foe. By the time they’d finished drinking, the moon was riding high in the sky, only a thin sliver away from its full diameter, casting a slivery light through the narrow window, which lent Gallagher’s face an almost ethereal fragility that belied the true nature of the man.
Athos set the cup down and started to unfasten his leather jerkin and remove his boots. Naked and weakened, Gallagher was unlikely to prove much of a threat, but Athos was careful to lay his weapons on the other side of the bedroll. Stripped down to his shirt and underclothes, Athos pulled the blankets up over the other man’s chest. Before he could move away, a surprisingly steady hand curved around the back of his neck and drew his head down.
The taste of brandy was sweet on Gallagher’s lips. The kiss was light, almost chaste, but it was enough to bring back memories of another night, almost forgotten for the past five years.
“I owe you my life, Musketeer. And for that you have my thanks. When the moon is past its height, ask me your question again.”
* * * * *
The mother superior wasted no time in putting the Queen’s gift to good use.
Athos spent much of the following day directing workers from the nearby village who had been employed to stop up the various rat-holes Gallagher’s men had dug in their attempts to tunnel beneath the convent. The masons knew their business well, and soon the walls would once again be able to repulse all but a determined siege.
By mid-afternoon, the sun was blazing in a cloudless sky and Athos had stripped down to his shirt and leather breeches, but was still sweating freely, his hair plastered to his head, and his hands rough and scratched from helping to carry stone for the works. When a halt was finally called to their efforts, he dunked his head in a bucket of cool water drawn from the well, accepted a flagon of wine and a jug of cold, fresh water with heartfelt thanks, and staggered up the winding steps to the tower room.
Gallagher was awake, and looked less fevered than he had done the day before. His wound had been freshly-dressed and, according to the mother superior, who insisted on treating him more like an errant child than the man who had threatened to kill everyone who remained with the convent, it showed no signs of having turned festerous.
“You look worse than I feel,” Gallagher pronounced, eyeing Athos’ damp and dishevelled state. “Not used to honest labour?”
“I was always rather better at taking things apart than putting them back together again.” Athos pulled off his sweat-soaked shirt and deposited it on the floor. Fortunately he had a spare in his saddlebag. “You’ll no doubt have to sweep this place from top to bottom before she’ll allow you to leave.”
“So I’ve been told.” Gallagher mustered a grin, although he still looked tired. “Are you going to feed me again tonight?”
“Since when did I become your own personal nursemaid?”
“Since you blew a bloody great big hole in my side and then came back to pump me for information.”
Athos sat down on the wooden chest and tugged off his boots. The resulting smell was none too pleasant, but the Irishman hadn’t demonstrated much in the way of delicate sensibilities in the time Athos had known him. He took a long swig of the wine, the cool liquid going some way to slaking his thirst.
“A gentleman would share.”
“Unfortunately for you, I’m no gentleman.”
“Is that so?” Gallagher’s eyes were shrewd and calculating. “That’s not what I’ve heard, Monsieur le Comte.”
Athos’ eyes narrowed in response to the mercenary’s words. “And where did you hear that? The woman who bought your contract, perchance?”
Gallagher looked genuinely puzzled for a moment before he schooled his features into a bland expression again. “I was interested to know more about the man I’d shared a bed with. You’d covered your tracks well, Musketeer, but your fancy manners told their own tale, and it wasn’t hard to find the truth when I went looking. What’s the woman to you?”
“Nothing,” Athos countered swiftly. “Less than nothing, if truth be told.”
“You’re lying, my friend, but I’ll not press you for the truth. Now are you going to be a selfish bastard or are you going to share that wine?”
They shared that bottle, and then another brought to them by a young nun who also provided two large bowls of thick vegetable broth, accompanied by more bread and cheese. This time, Gallagher was able to feed himself, but by the time he’d finished, his hands were trembling and he looked exhausted. Athos took the bowl from him and said nothing, but he did cut the bread and cheese into small manageable chunks. When they’d finished the food, Athos took the tray back down to the kitchen, returning with more wine. He would need to offer recompense to the nuns for the board and lodgings.
When he suggested as much to Gallagher, the Irishman simply shook his head, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “You really do know nothing about the women of my country, do you? But I’d like to be there when you try offering her money. You could drink their cellars dry and she still wouldn’t take a penny off you. Besides, your Queen probably sent enough coin to cover the booze they rained down on us from the walls, let alone anything we might get through.”
“Waste of good alcohol,” Athos muttered. “But it made things difficult for your men.”
“If I’d known this place was under the thumb of an Irishwoman, I might have thought twice about my plans.” Gallagher held his hand out for a cup of wine and Athos obliged.
They drank in companionable silence, Athos sitting on the wooden chest, enjoying the feel of the cool stone wall against his naked back, Gallagher propped up on the pillows. This time, when it came to ridding himself of the fluid, Gallagher was able to hold both his cock and the pot, so all Athos had to do was throw the contents from the window, after first ascertaining he wasn’t about to drench a nun in the process.
This time there was no kiss to end the evening, but even in the dark, Athos could feel the other man’s eyes on him as he removed his breeches and settled down on the thin mattress.
The following night, the moon would reach its maximum diameter and Gallagher’s contract would be at an end.
When that moment came, Athos would no longer have to contemplate the need to finish what he had started.
But he would have to make excuses for lateness to his captain and his friends.
* * * * *
By evening of the following day, the repairs to the fabric of the convent had been completed. A new statue of the Virgin Mary had been commissioned for the chapel to replace the one blown apart by a musket ball and a simple carved stone would mark Sister Hélène’s grave.
Their meal that night consisted of a rich stew from the carcass of a wild boar brought in by men of the village. The women of the convent were, it seemed, held in high regard by the villagers. The nuns tended the sick, assisted women in child birth and prayed for the souls of the departed. Athos has a sneaking suspicion that there had been prayers said for his immortal soul on several occasions, and there’d no doubt be more if their hostesses suspected the past nature of his relationship with the Irish mercenary they were currently harbouring.
The mother superior had supplied Athos with fresh bandages for Gallagher’s wound, and after they had eaten, Athos insisted on carefully removing the old bandages and inspecting his handiwork with a pistol. The shot had carved a bloody furrow through the mercenary’s side, but the wound had scabbed over now and there was neither sign nor smell of it turning bad. The redness around the edges that the nuns had reported seeing had now faded and Gallagher’s slight fever had abated the previous night.
“You’re lucky,” Athos commented, pressing a folded linen pad to the wound and starting to wind the bandages around the man’s side.
“The man who shot me knew his business well,” Gallagher countered. “But I will confess to thinking my end had come.”
Sitting beside Gallagher on the narrow wooden bed, Athos ran his fingers lightly over the Irishman’s skin and watched a slight shiver of reaction greet his touch. After tying off the bandage, Athos rested his hands on the man’s strong shoulders and massaged gently with his fingers and thumbs, kneading out the knots he could feel in Gallagher’s muscles.
“What will you do when you leave here?” he asked.
“Take advantage of being dead to settle some old scores, maybe,” Gallagher said quietly, relaxing under the probing fingers.
Athos brushed Gallagher’s hair away from the back of his. A memory of their previous encountered surfaced in his mind and he leaned forward to nuzzle at the sensitive skin, remembering that their original encounter had not entirely consisted of demanding hands and hard thrusts. In the dark of the night there had also been soft lips, warm breath and the scratch of beard and stubble on tender skin. Gallagher leaned back against him and allowed Athos’ arms to slip around his waist.
Resting his head on the man’s shoulder, Athos wondered what madness was prompting him to this intimacy. He had only rarely sought any such contact with others since he’d discovered the treachery of the woman he’d called his wife, and he’d never once been tempted to seek solace in the arms of any other woman. Instead there had been the occasional coupling with his captain, comfort given and taken, but with no words to bind. And if the men who were by now even closer to him than his own brother had been, suspected there was more to the relationship than that of captain and subordinate, they’d kept such thoughts to themselves.
The bond between fighting men was often close, and after combat not everyone wanted to be alone. Blind eyes were frequently turned to behaviour that the Church roundly condemned, and the Regiment knew how to look after its own. No questions were asked and privacy was given when needed. Despite that, Porthos and Aramis preferred the company of women, and it was well known that the latter’s tastes were wide and varied, but even Athos had been surprised by what he’d seen only a few days ago in the convent. Anger had swiftly been followed by acceptance. He just hoped his friend would have the good sense not to repeat his treason.
“What occupies your thoughts, Musketeer?”
“Counting the time until the height of the moon,” he lied, without a second thought.
If Gallagher was aware of the lie, he gave nothing away as he guided one of Athos’ hands down to where his hard cock was covered by a fold of the blanket. Athos pushed the material away and ran his fingers lightly down the hard length. It was easy to pleasure another man, simply applying what he knew of his own body’s reaction to such touches. He gently tugged Gallagher’s foreskin back to expose the reddened head and then rubbed a small circle around the slit where a drop of moisture was already beading at the tip.
A hiss of indrawn breath greeted his actions and Gallagher’s back arched against him. Athos continued to nuzzle at the back of his neck while his fingers worked in long slow strokes from root to tip. This time there was no urgency to the encounter, no panted breathing, fumbling hands or sudden, gasping release. There was just the gentle slide of a calloused hand over silk-smooth skin, accompanied by equally slow breathing that fell naturally into the same rhythm.
Athos’ own cock was hard in the confines of his leather breeches and he had to use his left hand to undo the fastenings to allow himself an additional measure of comfort. When his cock finally sprang free, Gallagher reached behind with his left hand and took him in hand. Athos felt a spike of pleasure low in his belly at Gallagher’s touch. They worked each other’s flesh with the same steady, slow movements they would use to whet a blade or clean a pistol. Athos let his mind drift, surrendering to the simple pleasure of another’s hand on his cock.
The moonlight filtered in through the window shining on the beads of moisture leaking from Gallagher’s cock. Athos used it to slick the passage of his hand, just as Gallagher was doing the same to him, as he worked his hand up and down, causing Athos’ breathing to quicken as the pleasure intensified.
Outside the window, the moon hung low in a cloudless black velvet sky, perfectly round and almost impossibly large.
Athos felt pleasure start to dance like sparks along every nerve in his body. He was close now as the movement of their hands speeded up in perfect synchronicity, each knowing exactly what it would take to bring the other to climax.
Gallagher came first, thrusting up into Athos’ hand, a gasp of pleasure falling from his lips as his cock spurted thick fluid onto the bandages around his body. The hand on Athos’ almost painfully hard flesh lost its rhythm for a moment, but then Gallagher tightened his grip and brought Athos off in half a dozen tight strokes. He buried his face in Gallagher’s hair and scraped the back of his neck with his teeth as he thrust through his own climax, feeling the other man’s fingers become slick on his cock.
His arms tightened around Gallagher’s waist drawing a small gasp of pain to mingle with the low murmurs of pleasure. With a muttered apology, Athos loosened his grip as he fought to bring his breathing under some semblance of control. Gallagher twisted around, stifling another gasp of pain and pressed his lips to Athos’. The kiss was far from chaste on this occasion. It was open and wet, tongues sliding together as he tasted the brandy in Gallagher’s mouth.
With some awkward adjustment, they were able to lie facing each other on the narrow bed, trading lazy kisses as the moon finally passed its height.
“She said she was working for the most powerful man in Paris,” Gallagher said eventually, as his fingers traced small circles on the skin of Athos’ back.
“She did not name him?”
Gallagher shook his head and pressed another kiss to Athos’ lips. “She did not.”
Athos sighed.
As ever with the woman who had done so much to destroy his life, nothing was straightforward.
* * * * *
His horse's hooves clattered on the cobbles of the garrison yard, in time for him to see Porthos hoist his opponent in a wrestling bout over his shoulder before dumping the man unceremoniously onto a pile of straw and horseshit.
“You’re late,” the big man commented without rancour.
“I’m often late,” Athos countered. “That’s why you always leave an extra day before coming to find me. Have you behaved yourselves in my absence?”
“Depends on what you mean by behave. There were a few Red Guards ripe for plucking in the bar last night. It would have been churlish to refuse to play against them”
“They tried to recoup their losses later,” d’Artagnan added strolling over to join them. “There might have been a brawl. Just a small one.”
Athos rolled his eyes. “And you might just have been involved? And Aramis?”
“Acting like a monk,” Porthos offered. “Turned down three of his women in as many days. Must be sickening for something.”
Aramis, leaning against the wall of the yard watching two of the men sparring, raised his hand in greeting.
Athos inclined his head in return.
His friend was not the only one who had left secrets behind in the convent but Athos knew now that secrets could be perilous. He was not ready to bare his soul on all counts, but on one matter at least, he could take steps to salve his conscience. He threw Roger’s reins to Jacques and made his way to the steps to Treville’s office, gesturing to his friends to follow him.
Treville heard his confession in silence, a frown on his face, but no anger in his eyes. “That is all she told him?” he asked, when the story of Athos’ deception was at an end.
Athos nodded. “She said he would be working for the most powerful man in Paris.”
Porthos looked horrified. “The King?”
Aramis patted the big man on the shoulder. “The Cardinal.”
“So we know no more than we did before?” D’Artagnan said, looking troubled at Athos’ revelations. He hesitated and then added, “Can you trust the mercenary to have told the truth?”
Athos met his captain’s searching eyes and nodded in affirmation, answering his unspoken question as well as the one d’Artagnan had just voiced. “Gallagher is not without honour. I trust him to have told the truth. He has also pledged not to take any further contract against the Queen.” On impulse, Athos spoke as though only he and Treville were present, “You do not appear surprised by any of this.”
“You’ve been under my command for five years, Athos,” Treville said calmly and without rancour. “I have learned that letting you have your head can sometimes be the best course of action. And I have been a soldier long enough to know when a man is only feigning death. But if there is anything else you would like to make a clean breast of, I suggest that now would be a good time.”
Athos drew in a slow breath. He very much doubted that Treville was referring to his dalliance with Gallagher, that matter could wait until they were alone, but there was another tale that needed to be told, one that he could not put off any longer.
“I need alcohol for this,” he said quietly. “There is a bottle of grape and honey brandy stowed in my pack...”
“And I suppose d’Artagnan the trainee musketeer has to be the one to fetch it…” his friend grumbled, but there was no heat in the words.
Porthos and Aramis both clapped d’Artagnan on the shoulder, smiling broadly, and the boy staggered slightly.
Athos allowed affection to wash through him like a cleansing tide.
He was amongst the truest friends a man could have, and he knew that it was now time to lay the ghosts of his past to rest.
no subject
Date: 2014-08-24 03:43 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-08-30 12:33 pm (UTC)Naturally I had fun with the pissing references.