Chapter Thirteen

Extinguished

That evening, Athos gets blindingly drunk. He does so in a tavern across the Seine, not frequented by the other Musketeers or - God forbid - the Red Guard. A seedy, twilit place where no one recognizes him, the other guests avoid Athos who perfected the simmering aura of a dangerous drunk years ago and slips back into his old skin with unsettling ease. The wine tastes awful, a cheap, sour farce of a burgundy, but Athos isn't here for a treat; he's here for oblivion.

His plan seems to work, since, waking up the next morning, he doesn't remember how he got home, although he seems to recall the sensation of studded leather against his face as he's being lifted and slung over someone's broad shoulder; the foul vinegar stench as he heaves in the darkness, into a bucket that's come out of nowhere.

Head throbbing, swallowing bile, he lifts a hand to his neck, surprised to find it freshly bandaged. Another fractured memory: Hands wrapping an icy cold, wet cloth around it; his own wheezy protest; soft Spanish swear words; something cool trickling down his throat.

When he opens his eyes to the assault of bright, God, too bright, daylight, a familiar face swims into focus, a fake smile pasted over the exhaustion of a long night. Athos sighs.

"Aramis."

"Good, you're alive!" There's an edge to the marksman's customary cheerfulness. "And you're talking, which means you're breathing, which none of us were certain you would continue doing a few hours ago."

"Aramis…"

Athos closes his eyes again, swallowing hard. Aramis is angry, and Athos cannot, will not put up with that now. He hears his friend slap his thighs as he rises from whatever he is sitting on and hears leather creak when the marksman slips into his uniform.

"And since you are and I had to be at morning muster half an hour ago, I will leave you to your hangover and hope you enjoy it."

Groaning, Athos scrubs a hand across his face. "I didn't ask you to stay."

Aramis huffs loudly. "No, you didn't. Not that you would've been able to articulate such a request when we found you in the Three Arms. Or later, when your throat was swelling shut. Or when you almost choked on your own vomit. No, you didn't ask us to stay. But we did."

Bloody hell.

"Porthos?"

"Porthos was here too, yes. How do you think you got here?"

The studded leather.

"And we had to place d'Artagnan under guard, otherwise he would've been here too. Athos, you-"

Aramis breaks off.

"Look at me, Athos!" Loud.

Cautiously rolling his head, Athos peers through his fingers.

The Spaniard, hands on his hips, flashes dark eyes at him, and Athos knows it takes a lot to make him this mad.

"You are going down a rabbit hole that you promised you would never go down again," he rants. "Milady played you. Treville bit your head off. You feel guilty about it. Fine." He wags a finger at Athos. "But you didn't get fired. Not yet. And none of this is reason enough to behave like this! You're wallowing in your guilt, you're endangering yourself, and like it or not, we're not going to let you!"

"Are you quite done?"

Gingerly, Athos has pushed himself up and is scowling at Aramis through puffy lids. The marksman is glaring at him, face flushed, and Athos knows that he should care about the fury and the worry that has his friend so deeply upset. He would have cared, yesterday. But there is still enough alcohol coursing through his veins to numb his feelings - a welcome state, a state he'd been aiming for - and, right now, all he wants is to go back to sleep and continue not caring.

"Then leave me alone."

"Pfhh."

The incredulous huff is accompanied by Aramis tilting his head back and blinking at the ceiling.

"All right," he finally says, willfully composed. "All right, you know the drill. We all know it. Porthos and I will take turns looking in on you after our shifts."

Athos groans.

Aramis holds up a hand. "That is non-negotiable. We can't be here all the time, but we will when we can. Try not to kill yourself in the meantime."

Grunting, Athos rolls on his side, to the wall, facing away from Aramis. He hears a sigh and the clinking of Aramis' spurs and then the door opens and falls closed.

XXX

Time passes. Athos isn't sure how much. The days blend into nights, into hours of semi-awareness when it's either dusk or dawn or something in-between.

Athos drinks. Aramis was right: They can't watch him all the time, they have duties to perform, missions to fulfill, and for all of Treville's apparent leniency, they can't keep him from marinating himself in alcohol as soon as he's sober enough to find his way to a tavern. Athos drinks, and his friends carry him home and pay for broken wine jugs and broken tavern stools, and the more he owes them the deeper he sinks into his cups.

One day, a letter from Treville arrives. He's almost too drunk to read the captain's neat, familiar hand, but he gleans from it that he is not losing his commission. He's demoted permanently, there is a fine to pay that he has no money for, and Porthos comments that he'll have to muck out the stables and clean the latrines until Judgement Day, but he's supposed to report back for duty the next morning. He doesn't. Whatever Treville says: He's no longer a Musketeer.

Porthos grabs him by his shirt collar and pushes him up against a wall that day. Spittle flies into Athos' face as the big streetfighter goes at him, hard, and shouts curses and then pleas at him that don't register.

Aramis implores him to reconsider, that Treville, after listening to Aramis' side of events, went out of his way to keep him in the regiment, that he owes this to their captain, to all of them. It pearls off Athos like rain off steel.

To break the silence, they tell him stories from the garrison. That d'Artagnan is doing well and will be able to resume his duties in a few days. That they've identified the prison guard who poisoned the governor and his wife (his name is Galliard, Athos has seen him before) on Milady's behalf. That he's on the run. That there is no trace of Milady. That Serge must be in love, spoiling their food with too much salt lately, it's disgusting!

They may as well talk to a wall.

Athos drinks. The only thing that heals is the bruise on his neck.

XXX

And then comes a night when, finally, they seem to have given up. Athos lurches out of the Grey Swan, not as drunk as he should be for lack of funds and a miserly bar keeper. No hands steady him as he sways in the moonlit alley. No mother henning. No reproach.

Athos makes his way towards Pont Neuf, the cool night air mercilessly clearing his head. But not enough for him to step aside in time when a figure rushes past him, clipping him in the shoulder.

"Oi!" he shouts indignantly, making the man turn his head.

The face under the hood looks familiar. Pockmarked, the nose once broken and never fixed. Something tingles in Athos' brain, and his fist, on instinct, grabs the man by the coat.

Galliard.

"How dare you-" The man protests, trying to shove Athos off.

"Galliard," Athos hisses, pulling his dagger from the back of his belt. "I think someone's looking for you."

He'd meant to press the blade to the man's throat. He'd meant to be fast enough. But the wine has dulled even Athos' quick reflexes, and - worse - he didn't see the second man stepping out of the shadows. Athos' dagger clatters onto the cobblestones as Galliard blocks his arm and twists his wrist. Before Athos can even think about reaching for his sword, still strapped to his side, a knee to his back knocks the breath out of him. He hears the hiss of a sword being pulled from its scabbard.

And suddenly, too late, he thinks that he's not ready to die.