bbcmusketeerskink

Welcome to the BBC The Musketeers kink meme

The lowdown: You post your prompt, anon or not. Someone else will hopefully fill it (also anon or not). Not for profit, just for fun. And in this case, for king and country.

Anon is on, IP logging is off.

Rules:
No wank
No kink-shaming
Be respectful to everyone
The mod is not your babysitter
Use the warnings
No prompts with characters under the age of 16 in sexual situations, please.
Please keep the discussions in the prompt post to a minimum. We have a discussion post

Mandatory trigger warnings/warnings for both prompts and fills:
non-con/dub-con
abuse (physical and mental)
issues such as racism, sexism, homo-/trans-/-bi-/ace-phobia etc
character death
suicide
self-harm
eating disorders
extreme physical or mental illness
substance abuse (alcohol, drugs, medication)
bullying
gore and horror

If this list misses anything, do let me know, though please understand that if absolutely everything is added this list will never end.

You are encouraged and advised to add additional warnings at your own discretion.

Please make use of the subject line.

If your prompt alludes to the book or any of the other adaptations, please let us know which one.

Lastly, prompt freezes (which I have to say I’m really not fond of) etc will be at the mod’s discretion. I will decide on a prompt cut-off point for prompt posts once I know how fast the meme moves.

Archive:
https://delicious.com/bbcmusketeers

Discussion post:
http://bbcmusketeerskink.dreamwidth.org/557.html

Official fill post (I strongly suggest you use it for better visibility of your fills):
http://bbcmusketeerskink.dreamwidth.org/418.html

Mod contact post
http://bbcmusketeerskink.dreamwidth.org/1356.html

New updates:
- Extras fill post for the free for all rounds (as much as I hate dividing the meme even more.)
http://bbcmusketeerskink.dreamwidth.org/1823.html

- To answer a question going around in the discussion post, here's a small guideline: If you're unsure about something, either decide by yourself how you want to fill it and see if OP likes it or not or communicate with OP via aksing questions.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From: (Anonymous)

Four times Aramis asked his friends not to leave him and one time he doesn`t even have to ask.

From: (Anonymous)

Seconded!

From: (Anonymous)

Is this somebody other than me seeing Aramis with abandonment issues? Or am I looking into this prompt with too much of my own head canons influencing me? (But people do keep leaving him so… it’s just my sister tells me I’m looking into it too much so now I’m unsure if it could actually be or not).

Whatever the case, yes please!

From: (Anonymous)

OP:
One doesn`t have to look too much to see this! I am deeply convinced that all Aramis` fucking around is happening only because in the depth of his heart he`s too afraid to be alone, but even more he`s afraid to be abandoned. And that`s why he always the first to leave, so no one could leave him. And when I think about Anne attracts him so much, it seems to me, that it`s not just because of her beauty and sweetness, but because Aramis knows he would never really have her.
Nice to know that somebody thinks the same :)

From: (Anonymous)

Okay-- I might tackle this.

Give me a bit of time to ponder 4+1 scenarios, and I'll see what I can come up with.

From: (Anonymous)

Sure, take your time :)

From: (Anonymous)

Four Times Aramis Asked His Friends Not to Leave Him, and One Time He didn't Have to Ask

I.

Early on in Porthos' career with the King's musketeers, Aramis had described this to him as one of the perks of the job-- standing around on guard duty at the nobility's social events, looking dashing and attracting the amorous attention of the fine ladies in attendance.

He wondered if Aramis was currently rethinking those sentiments, hemmed in on two sides as he was by the notorious Lasalle sisters. Porthos restrained his chuckle manfully, but allowed his smirk free rein as he noted the hint of desperation beginning to play around Aramis' eyes.

The Lesalle sisters-- fifty years old if they were a day-- had a bit of a reputation at court. Both married young; both were widowed within a few years, with no children. Since then, it was said, no soldier was safe. One was very short and fat. The other was very tall and thin. While some ladies of a certain age were described with phrases like "noble features", "faded grandeur", and "autumn beauty", Porthos had never heard such words paired with either of the women currently flashing wrinkled decolletage at his fellow soldier.

Of course, that wasn't enough, in itself, to curb Aramis' silver tongue and rakish smile. Porthos had seen Aramis charm stooped and wrinkled innkeepers' wives and plain farmers' daughters, flirting outrageously but harmlessly and later claiming with perfect equanimity that all women deserved to feel appreciated and desirable upon occasion. Indeed, if he were being perfectly honest with himself, his charm and generosity of spirit was one of the things that had drawn Porthos to Aramis in the first place.

Nonetheless, that hadn't stopped Porthos warning his friend on numerous occasions that the liberal application of what Aramis called his "courtly behavior" (and Porthos called his "blatant innuendo") would get him into trouble one day.

Today was apparently that day, and Porthos shook his head slowly as Aramis, in his doomed attempt to maintain some degree of personal space in the face of the Lasalle Assault, bumped solidly against the wall behind him, leaving him trapped and at the mercy of the shuddersome pair of harpies who were eyeing him up like a prime bit of roast.

The whole effect was not dissimilar to witnessing a gruesome road accident, and Porthos found himself drifting closer to watch the wreck-- though with a keen awareness of the zone of safety necessary to prevent being drawn into the fray himself. So it was that he ended up with a clear view from half a dozen paces away when Athos arrived on the scene to inform Aramis that his shift on duty had ended.

"Oh, how divine!" fluttered the taller sister upon hearing Athos' proclamation. "My dear Aramis, now that your duties have been fulfilled for the evening, you simply must accompany us to our carriage for a more-- ahem-- private audience. We've heard so much about your reputation as a man of the world!"

During this little speech, the lady's hand had migrated stealthily southward from Aramis' shoulder, disappearing coyly toward the small of his back, and lower still. Athos' single raised eyebrow communicated his opinion of the situation in which Aramis found himself perfectly, but aloud, he merely offered his excuses and began to move off, toward Porthos.

"Athos, my friend," Aramis said quickly, his eyes glazed slightly with genteel panic. "Surely you needn't rush off just yet. Won't you stay awhile, and enjoy the party?"

"Would that it were possible," replied Athos in a tone completely without inflection, and Porthos felt his admiration for the man swell at the perfectly delivered bald-faced lie. "Sadly, however, I am called away on the King's business. Fear not, though, ladies-- I am sure Aramis will prove a diverting enough companion for both of you."

Athos turned to catch Porthos' eye, the picture of professional deportment. "Porthos? Your duty for the evening is complete, as well. You are relieved."

At least one of us is, Porthos thought, watching the flush rise on Aramis' face.

"Porthos, my friend," Aramis said quickly. "Perhaps you would care to join us, instead?"

Porthos only grinned. "So sorry," he said insincerely, "but you heard what Athos said. Important business for the King, and all that. Have a lovely evening, you three."

As the pair turned and left, Porthos heard an audible gulp from behind him, and could no longer contain his low rumble of laughter.

tbc

A/N: We're starting light, but, needless to say, future installments get darker.

From: (Anonymous)

Hee, loved this :) Looking forward to those darker bits (though hoping they're not too dark!)

From: (Anonymous)

Thank you! As for the other parts, I would call them... variable. Part 2 is up, and it's about as dark as things will get.

From: (Anonymous)

*Sniggers*

I love Athos's straight-faced mockery and Porthos not even trying to hide his amusement.

From: (Anonymous)

Well... you know the Musketeer motto, after all-- every man for himself!

;-)

From: (Anonymous)

OP:
What a lovely start^^ Poor Aramis, though)))
Thank you, author, I can`t wait to see what comes next!

From: (Anonymous)

Glad it's working for you so far, OP! Next part is up now. :-)

From: (Anonymous)

lol. Love Athos's expressionless deadpan. I enjoyed the light start immensely, but will be looking forward anxiously to this getting dark!

From: (Anonymous)

Athos' superpower is the ability to make you feel two inches tall by raising one eyebrow. Well, that and consuming ridiculous amounts of wine. :-)

And if you're after darkness, Part 2 should fit the bill!

From: (Anonymous)

wonderful. more please.

From: (Anonymous)

Ask and ye shall receive! Sorry for the slow pace...

From: (Anonymous)

Great beginning. Love the humor. Can't wait for the deeper and more serious ones.

From: (Anonymous)

Thank you! Part 2 is up, and is far, far darker.

From: (Anonymous)

II.

Treville was taking a long and boring report from Etienne and Pierre when the messenger boy entered his office.

"Yes, what is it?" he asked, brusque in the face of yet another interruption during an afternoon which had already been fraught with them.

"Sir," the lad said breathlessly, "I'm to tell you that there has been a massacre at Savoy, on Good Friday. Twenty dead and two injured."

Pierre made a noise like an injured bird, and Etienne paled noticeably, but Treville scarcely noticed, such was the depth and breadth of the chasm that opened abruptly in the space between his own heart and lungs.

"Who sent word? Who were the survivors?" he forced out, while thinking I will kill the Cardinal, I will run my sword through his scrawny abdomen and gut him like a fish.

"I don't know, sir," said the boy. "Sorry, sir."

"Etienne, Pierre, you're dismissed," he said in a hoarse voice, feeling as if the words were coming from a long distance away, through a tunnel. "Pierre, pay the boy on your way out."

His actions mechanical and without thought, Treville donned his cuirass, cloak, and sword belt in moments, and rode for the palace as if the hounds of hell were upon his heels.

* * *

The Cardinal was in an audience with the King when Treville forced his way in, unannounced, to the fluttering dismay of several servants.

"Ah, Captain," the urbane First Minister greeted. "We've been expecting you, though I admit to some surprise at your ill-mannered method of entrance."

Treville strode up without pausing and grabbed Richelieu by the front of his ornate leather jerkin.

"I will kill you slowly and painfully, you spineless bastard, but first I want the King to know what you've done," he said, his face inches from the other man's.

"Stand down, Captain Treville!" the King ordered, looking mildly shocked by the threat of violence between his two advisors.

"Not until this snake answers for the death of twenty of my men, sire!" Treville shouted, punctuating it by giving Richelieu a sharp shake.

Richelieu looked down at Treville with a sneer of disdain. "And these would be twenty of the men whose position you gave away to the Duke of Savoy, I presume?"

A red haze drifted across Treville's vision. "After you told me to do so on the King's orders, you lying devil!"

"Enough!" Louis ordered. "Release the Cardinal this instant, Captain. He was telling you the truth; those orders did come from us."

Treville physically stumbled back a step as the ground seemed to disappear from beneath him. "Y-your Majesty?"

"That is what we were discussing, Treville, before your needlessly melodramatic entrance," said Richelieu. "News of the, ahem, unfortunate incident reached the palace only an hour ago."

"Yes," said Louis in his vague drawl. "Terribly sad, but quite necessary, I'm afraid. We needed a diversion to pull the Duke's troops away from his capital, you see. His advisor Cluzet was in possession of sensitive knowledge about our sister, the Duchess; he was about to expose her as our principal spy in the region. Fortunately, our operatives were able to capture Cluzet while the Duke and his forces went after your men, and I'm pleased to say that he is on his way to a French prison even as we speak."

Treville felt as though the foundations of his world had been turned upside down. Of all the questions clamouring for his attention-- How could you betray my faithful service in such a way? How can I possibly command these men if they discover that I sent their brothers to their deaths for a ruse?-- it was the least important one which spilled from his lips.

"Why would the Duke attack King's musketeers on a peaceful training mission?"

King Louis had the good grace to look faintly abashed. "Ah. As it happens, our contacts may have implied that the company was there on a mission to assassinate the Duke and place his infant son on the throne. I imagine he was quite put out when he heard that."

Words deserted Treville, leaving him gaping in silence for an awkward few moments.

"I must go," he said eventually, lacking anything to say which would even begin to address the reality of what he'd just been told. "I must see to my men."

He vaguely realised that he must have turned and started walking away without deference to his monarch when he heard the King exclaim "How rude!" to his retreating back, and Richelieu reply, "We must make allowances for the man, sire. After all, he has just received a nasty shock...".

* * *

It was completely inevitable that the news would have spread through the garrison like wildfire in his absence. Therefore, it was no surprise to find Athos and Porthos-- the two remaining Inseparables-- readying horses in the courtyard when Treville rode in.

The pair moved forward to intercept him as soon as they saw him.

"Aramis was with the company in Savoy," said Athos in his usual level tone. "We're going there immediately, sir, to bring him home. Do not attempt to stop us."

"I'm not stopping you," Treville replied grimly. "I'm going with you. Serge!" The old cook poked his long face out from the kitchens. "Get rations for three days' hard riding. Renauld! Fetch me a pack and a bedroll from the quartermaster. We leave in ten minutes!"

* * *

Treville was confident that he had never in his forty-seven years covered as much distance in as short a time as he and his men did in the following two-and-a-half days. They stopped every few hours to trade their exhausted mounts for fresh ones, using Treville's own coin to pay. In this way, they had managed not to actually kill any horses on the frantic journey, though it had been a near thing on the outskirts of Lyon when Porthos' mare pulled up lame and blowing, sweat dripping from her flanks like rain.

Night and day they rode, stopping only for an hour here and there when one or the other of them was in danger of slipping from the saddle due to exhaustion. It was a ragged company indeed which rode into the little town of Les Avenières on the morning of the third day, a full hundred and fifty leagues from Paris.

Treville's joints and muscles reminded him with every stride of his advancing years, but he welcomed the pain as a distraction from his circling thoughts. There had been far too much time to think on the journey.

No doubt his soldiers' thoughts had been dedicated to grief and worry over the probable fate of their friend, and the sharp loss of twenty valued comrades. Treville's, however, spun in a storm of sick, impotent rage. The Spanish would no doubt be blamed for the massacre. Treville's loyalty to France, and the crown, prevented him from naming the Cardinal as the instigator... for to name the Cardinal would be to name the King.

Impossible. Unthinkable.

Even if his own role as unwitting traitor came to light-- which was unlikely-- there would be no punishment... except, perhaps, the loss of all respect from the men he led. The dead would never see justice. Never. He would have to carry the guilt and anger inside, unseen, for a lifetime. Never again would a day pass where he did not see the ghosts of twenty good men when he closed his eyes at night.

Now, though, it was time to deal with the aftermath. Eight days had passed since Good Friday. Two had survived; did they survive still?

Ragged or not, their uniforms caused whispers and sidelong looks as the three men entered the town. Making immediately for the inn, Treville summoned the landlord and asked the man if he knew of a massacre of King's musketeers in the woods nearby.

"Aye," said the man. "'Orrible business. All dead except one deserter who came through 'ere like the flames of hell were licking at 'is back, and another who's lost 'is senses, attacking anyone who tries to come an' clear away the bodies."

Porthos growled, and Athos looked as strained and pale as Treville had ever seen him.

"Thank you," he told the innkeeper. "We'll take care of him."

* * *

It was Aramis.

Whatever relief and joy Porthos and Athos must have felt upon discovering that their friend had survived the odds was quickly replaced by horror when the pale figure wrapped in dirty, blood-soaked bandages charged the three of them with a drawn sword, screaming hoarsely.

Fearing that the others were too overcome to react, Treville drew his own blade, ready to defend them from their deranged brother if necessary.

"Aramis, stop!" Athos' voice rang out, strong and commanding.

"It's us!" Porthos cried.

Whether due to his friends' voices or sheer exhaustion, Aramis' knees gave out beneath him and he crumpled into a heap on the cold, wet ground. The other two rushed to him, but Treville's gaze was drawn against his will to the scene behind the collapsed soldier.

Twenty dead men lay in neat rows at the edge of the trees, their cloaks covering their faces and upper bodies. Dead horses lay scattered around the clearing; one had been butchered for the meat of its haunch.

Eight days, Treville thought to himself, bile rising in his stomach. Eight days the lad has been here, surrounded by this hell of your making.

He dragged his eyes back to the living by force of will. Porthos was approaching Aramis as one might approach a wounded animal. The smaller man shuffled backward across the ground, weakly, shaking his head in violent negation and muttering a litany of "No, no, please, God, no". Athos stood frozen in place a few steps away.

"Aramis," Porthos pleaded.

"No, no, you can't be here; you are supposed to be safe," Aramis whispered. "Dear God, must I be haunted by your ghosts as well as the others? I cannot bear it!"

Porthos dropped to his knees next to the overwrought man, reaching out to grip his shoulder. Aramis flinched violently at the touch of solid flesh.

"How--?" he asked, wide, dazed eyes locking on Porthos' face. "H-have I finally died as well? Have you come to take me with you? If all of my brothers are truly dead, then I go willingly." Tears filled his eyes. "Forgive me! I tried to save you-- all of you, but I was too weak..."

Athos made a small noise of pain and moved to join his friends, crouching down as Porthos clasped Aramis other shoulder as well, shaking him once, lightly.

"Aramis, no," said Porthos. "Stop."

"We're not dead, and neither are you," Athos said in a hoarse voice. "We've come to take you home." Athos took one of Aramis' hands in his, lifting it to press against his chest, beneath his doublet and over his heart. "Feel that?"

Aramis gaze flickered from Porthos' face to his.

"You're... you're really here? Oh, God! Oh, God," he sobbed, undone, "is it over? Please let it be over..."

Porthos gathered Aramis into his arms as the injured man began to weep uncontrollably. "It's over," he said, his own voice none too steady. "We've got you. Shh... we've got you now."

Athos fisted a hand in the loose material of Aramis' shirtsleeve, curving his body over the other two protectively, and Treville felt another stab of pain in his already guilt-riddled heart that he should be a witness to such intimacy in the aftermath of his own unknowing treachery. Athos' eyes were tightly closed, but opened when Treville cleared his throat softly.

"I'll fetch men and carts from the town. Look after him," he told his lieutenant softly. Athos nodded once in acknowledgement, and Treville fled the sight of two of his strongest soldiers crying like babes in each others' arms, while the third hovered over them as if he could somehow shelter them from all the world's hurts.

* * *

Three hours later, when he returned with teams of draught horses pulling a motley assortment of wagons, and strapping boys from the town and neighbouring farms, Porthos and Athos had Aramis cleaned up and freshly bandaged, wrapped in blankets and propped in front of a warm fire with a cup of broth in his trembling hands.

The townsfolk made short work of loading the bodies and packing up everything worth salvaging from the camp. Porthos led Aramis to the last cart, and he and Athos lifted the injured man into it. Aramis clutched at their sleeves as they leaned back, his face pale.

"Don't leave me," he said. "Please, my brothers. I cannot face riding back with only the ghosts for company."

"Of course not, brother," said Athos, as Porthos covered Aramis hand with his own. "We won't leave you."

As one, Athos' and Porthos' eyes sought Treville, and he nodded, calling for two of the young men.

"Clear the back of this cart," he said. "Load it on two of the riding horses instead."

Once space was cleared, the two men climbed up, arranging their friend between them in a nest of blankets and canvas. As Treville approached to make sure they were settled, Aramis looked up at him.

"I'm sorry I failed you, Captain," he said. "I tried, but I couldn't help them. I couldn't even stop Marsac from leaving, after he saved my life. We should have gone back to fight, but I was injured and Marsac was trying to hide me. I should have stopped him..."

It took all of Treville's strength to hold Aramis' gaze and be the commander he needed, steady of voice and firm of resolve.

"It was not your fault Aramis," he said. "None of this was your fault. You behaved honourably, and with courage. You treated your fallen comrades with dignity. You protected them and stayed with them until help arrived. That you have survived is the one spot of brightness in this unimaginable tragedy. I am deeply proud of your actions."

Aramis' eyes skittered down and to the side, and Treville knew he was not ready to hear the words. With a final, meaningful look at the other two, he turned an mounted the driver's seat of the cart, shooing the boy who was sitting there off to one of the other wagons.

Treville would drive this cart and its precious cargo home himself.

tbc

From: (Anonymous)

OP
Definitly this part is far darker. And I love every word of it. Poor Aramis, poor Trewille *weep* Thank you so much, author!

Re: FILL: BroT3/4, Aramis Asks His Friends Not to Leave Him 2/5 (TW: PTSD, miscarriage)

From: (Anonymous) - Date: 2014-05-08 07:55 pm (UTC) - Expand

From: (Anonymous)

Oh, my- I loved Atgos hovering over his friends, the endless patience and understanding. And Treville's pov was wonderful- you really made his terrible position very real and poignant. Beautiful.

Re: FILL: BroT3/4, Aramis Asks His Friends Not to Leave Him 2/5 (TW: PTSD, miscarriage)

From: (Anonymous) - Date: 2014-05-08 08:00 pm (UTC) - Expand

From: (Anonymous)

Marvelous! Lovely, dark, and deep.

Re: FILL: BroT3/4, Aramis Asks His Friends Not to Leave Him 2/5 (TW: PTSD, miscarriage)

From: (Anonymous) - Date: 2014-05-09 02:30 pm (UTC) - Expand

Re: FILL: BroT3/4, Aramis Asks His Friends Not to Leave Him 2/5 (TW: PTSD, miscarriage)

From: (Anonymous) - Date: 2014-05-09 10:58 pm (UTC) - Expand

From: (Anonymous)

This story is awesome! :D I hope you'll continue soon. :)

Re: FILL: BroT3/4, Aramis Asks His Friends Not to Leave Him 2/5 (TW: PTSD, miscarriage)

From: (Anonymous) - Date: 2014-05-09 02:32 pm (UTC) - Expand

From: (Anonymous)

III.

It was, Constance thought, just possible that the four men riding next to her had come to know her better than was proper for men to know a respectable married woman who wasn't otherwise related to them.

Baby Henry was safe. So was his mother-- off to a new life; a fresh start. That was a happy ending, surely? Certainly the musketeers seemed to think so, given the way they were currently debating where to go and how to celebrate. Well... all except Aramis, that is, who seemed uncharacteristically quiet and withdrawn.

And yet, it had taken d'Artagnan all of two seconds to notice the minute hesitation as Constance settled Henry in Aramis' arms, and to call her out on it, gently teasing. It was as well that he couldn't see any deeper into her thoughts; to the place where her mind constructed daring fantasies of running away with him, fleeing to a new land with Henry. Pretending to be a family.

No one would be able to tell... one infant looked like any other, as far as men were concerned. They wouldn't connect a young family moving to a new place to make their fortune with a supposedly dead heir to the throne. How could they?

It was a nice dream.

Of course, she could never do that to poor Agnès; not really. The woman had already suffered more in the past few weeks than anyone should have to suffer in a lifetime. And d'Artagnan would not leave his friends... nor would she want him to, really. They were also her friends, of a sort-- if you stretched the definition of the word "friends" to include "people who brought chaos to your doorstep on a regular basis".

Not that society would approve of a woman having such friends, mind you.

The rocking canter of the great hulk of a gelding the others had found for her to ride was soothing, bringing back childhood memories of sitting on Old Charlotte as Papa drove her back from the fields in the evening, pretending alternately to be a knight charging into battle or a princess being kidnapped by villains, awaiting rescue by a dashing prince.

If only her life now could be as simple as it was when she was a lass, before she was promised to a man she did not love, and who seemed to have no interest in giving her a child who might help to fill that empty place in her heart. Instead, she was left mostly to her own devices, succumbing by degrees to the temptations offered to her by her husband's lodger and his comrades. Things would, she reflected, be far easier if succumbing didn't feel so right.

Fields and farms gave way to roads and buildings as Constance remained lost in her own thoughts, until finally Porthos pulled up, indicating a tavern with a reasonably respectable looking clientele coming and going.

"This is the place," he said, smiling one of his big smiles like the sun coming out from behind the clouds. "Safe enough for a lady to stop for a meal, and yet the drink is not too dear for the rest of us."

"Perfect!" d'Artagnan exclaimed, and Athos gave a small nod of assent as they all dismounted and began tying up the horses.

"Wait, what?" asked Constance, looking from one to the other for a clue as to what she had missed after the men's voices had faded to a drone in the back of her mind. D'Artagnan laughed softly at her.

"You really were a thousand miles away, weren't you?" he asked, eyes sparkling. "Your husband won't be back for hours yet, you said. Come share a meal and a drink with us. Help us celebrate."

A thousand reasons why it was a bad idea crowded into her mind. What if someone recognised her? What would people think of a woman carousing with four soldiers? What if Jacques found out? What if--

"I shouldn't..." she began. "I ought to get home. It's only a few more miles. I could--"

"Don't leave," Aramis interrupted, surprising her. "This is as much your victory as ours. You deserve to celebrate it."

"But--" she protested.

"Constance," Aramis said, effectively stilling her lips. "No one knows you in this part of Paris. All people will see is a fine lady being escorted by a company of King's Musketeers. Why, we'll even make sure that Porthos doesn't get involved in any duels while we're here... or card games, for that matter."

"Hey!" Porthos objected, the severe frown not quite reaching his eyes.

"Me, a fine lady-- in this dress? Not likely," Constance grumbled for form's sake. "Oh, all right then, I suppose it would be rude to refuse such nicely delivered invitation. Though I would like to point out that the last time I listened to you lot, I ended up unlacing my corset in front of Marie de Medici. So if this goes wrong, somehow, I'm blaming all of you, and you--" she pointed at Aramis, "-- are getting another slap."

Aramis swept his hat off and pressed it to his chest with a smirk, bowing faintly to her.

"As long as it's not a blade through the heart, My Lady Defender," he said, a light entering his eyes for the first time since they'd left for the rendezvous with Agnès. "Which reminds me, I have yet to regale the others with tales of your fine swordsmanship."

"Her fine what?" yelped d'Artagnan, his voice rising to a squeak on the last word as Constance blushed. Even Athos raised an eyebrow.

"And you never did tell me where you learned to fight like that," Aramis continued. She could not prevent her eyes from flickering back to d'Artagnan, and Aramis nodded once, a silent "Ahh" forming on his lips. He placed a gentle hand between her shoulder blades, guiding her towards the door of the tavern. "I should have guessed. It's actually frightening how well-suited the two of you are to each other, you know. Nonetheless, dear lady-- details. I shall need all of the details..."

Despite herself, Constance couldn't stop the happy flush that suffused her body as she allowed Aramis to escort her into the building, the others following at her back.

tbc