Chapter Text
D'Artagnan: Brotherhood
D’Artagnan remembered waking up in a hospital bed on the most horrible day of his life. The room was empty safe for Tréville who was sitting at the foot of his bed, face hidden in his hands in the most emotionally revealing position D’Artagnan ever saw him in. This should have started an alarm in his head, but there was already quite a lot of ringing up there and he was a bit slow. At first, things were fuzzy and blurry, his memories were like mashed potatoes and it took some time and quite some effort to fight the weariness off and to rebuild everything. But then he remembered everything, vividly, and what he remembered would haunt his nightmares for years to come. The mission, the attack, the explosion, Aramis dragging him away and then darkness. Deep, deep darkness.
“Where are the others?”
He had to put all his energy in forcing the question out and it rose barely over a rough murmur. In the silence of the room, however it echoed like a sneeze would during an exam and Tréville jumped only then realizing he had woken up.
“Where are they?” Repeated D’Artagnan, dread coiling the pit of his stomach.
They were supposed to be in beds close by or sitting nearby, if well enough to stand but the room was as empty as the look in Tréville’s eyes. That look told him everything, but he did not want to believe it.
“They did not make it”
Suddenly, everything was too real and D’Artagnan longed for darkness again.
)0(
As soon as his broken ribs, concussion and gash in the leg were healed enough to stand, D’Artagnan was out of bed. The first thing he did was asked to see the bodies despite Tréville’s attempts to dissuade him- he would be better off with the memory of them alive and healthy, he said but D’Artagnan was convinced it would give him closure. It did not.
Standing alone in the morgue, the three bodies of his friends, his big brothers, pale and cold laid out in front of him, all Charles D’Artagnan felt was that he had failed them. Athos had twelve nasty stitches across the stomach (Aramis would have been offended by such work) that held closed a wound that would never heal- he had been gutted in one clean strike that probably left him bleeding in agony for a few long seconds. Porthos had three equally cringed worthy stitches at the back of his head- the knife, that same knife that had ended Athos, had been shoved into the soft part at the back of the cranium and twisted; destroying the whole length of the brain in the process. No one had bothered covering the hole in Aramis’ heart- a clean shot, a quick end unlike his two brothers but somehow, D’Artagnan doubted it had been any less painful.
Tréville found him staring numbly at the bodies when he entered and came to stand shoulder to shoulder with him. The two men stayed silent a minute to honour and grieve their fallen friends then Tréville handed D’Artagnan a sheet of paper.
“I have given in my retirement sheet. My last duty as your captain is to tell you, you have a similar option- as a soldier diagnosed with PTSD you may choose to follow therapy and return to your duties later on, or you can head home.”
D’Artagnan was lost and tired and home sounded like such a nice word. He left with Tréville.
)0(
They were buried quietly on a snowy day. There was a priest because Aramis would have wanted it, and they were buried like soldiers, with white crosses as headstones. D’Artagnan placed a bunch of chrysanthemums on the freshly overturned soil and Tréville hung their medals on the crosses. The captain- he would be called Captain, out of respect and habit- had quickly turned around to head back to his empty house leaving his soldier standing alone in the silent cemetery (D’Artagnan would later learn that it was on that day that he had discovered that Richelieu had just moved in next door and that the shock of it would save him from a night of drunken stupor). It was only then- alone in front of three lonely tombstone is a cemetery in the woods- that he noticed the petite figure, also dressed all in black, skirts and coat swirling around her, walking towards him. Constance Bonacieux gently placed her own bouquets of chrysanthemums next to D’Artagnan’s then turned to face him and leaned to kiss him gently on the cheek.
“I saw the names in the newspaper and I... I had to come”
The young man simply nodded silently; too numb to do anything else and so afraid that she was only another ghost of the graveyard in his heart. She seemed to understand because she didn’t say anything more and gently took his hands to stir him towards her car, away from the cold and the dead. Suddenly, death no longer was his only companion.
Her house was right next door to Tréville’s, he noted as she pushed him in, took his coat off and sat him down on the couch with the gentle authority D’Artagnan always remembered she had. The last time he had seen Constance was the day before he returned to duty (he and the others had had a two-week permission and had spent it in Athos’ hometown). On that day when she had told him everything was over between them because her husband had threatened with suicide should she leave him. He remembered pleading with her, offering to leave the army to stay with her, but she was too afraid and had refused.
“Is Monsieur Bonacieux still around?” he asked, voice rough, as Constance started preparing tea in the kitchen. Mentioning Monsieur in the very first words he addressed her was maybe not the best idea, but D’Artagnan was tired.
“He is, but less and less” She answered seemingly not disturbed. Her answer was not surprising, the man always believed he was important which resulted in him working long hours. The house itself was Constance’s more than it was his, not only was she the owner but the way it was decorated screamed her name. D’Artagnan liked it. She came back with two cups of tea, handed him one and sat next to him on the couch.
“I can’t believe they are gone” She said. He shook his head.
“They didn’t deserve to die like this. They were still young, they still had their wits and energy.... they did not deserve to die like this!”
She placed a hand on her shoulder and simply answered “I know”.
That was enough for D’Artagnan. His head fell on her shoulder and, for the first time, he sobbed. She simply held him.
)0(
By the time the night of the uprising came, Monsieur Bonacieux was out of the picture and D’Artagnan had moved into her house. That night, they were celebrating their one week wedding anniversary, one week where happiness didn’t seem so impossible, one week where the nightmares were kept at bay.
The couple was enjoying a quiet glass of wine while watching The Notebook when they heard a commotion at their door. It was past midnight and in this almost boring town everyone was already asleep. D’Artagnan barely had time to make the decision to go check when their door crashed open and in stumbled the very first rabid of many they would encounter. The zombie saw them and immediately jumped towards them, catching D’Artagnan by the waist and dragging him to the floor. Still on the couch, Constance screamed, then ran towards the kitchen as her husband tried wrestling the thing off of him. It had just gotten a grip on his hair when she ran back in and stabbed him clean through the head. It fell; dead once more and D’Artagnan shoved the uncomfortable weight off him.
“How did you that?” he asked, breathless.
“I’m not sure” She replied equally shocked, “I did like in all those movies...”
D’Artagnan turned the body around to take a look at its face and Constance gasped
“My God, this is Monsieur Lemieux. He died last year of cardiac arrest!”
The man had an extremely pale skin that was turning green at some places, his eyes were white and glossy with two small dots as pupils, hair was falling off and black goo was spilling out of the stab wound inflicted by Constance and by the mouth.
“Well, he’s dead now” answered D’Artagnan.
At that moment Tréville barged in holding a long sword that had apparently belonged to one of his ancestors in one hand and his gun in the other. He seemed relieved for a moment to see them alright then signaled them to hurry
“They are everywhere, grab a weapon, we’re going to find a place to hide”
They spent the entire following year in Constance’s and D’Artagnan’s basement. Whilst the young man had wished for something to distract him from his own self-destructing feelings, this was a bit much. They took turns at night to stand guard but often found themselves all wide awake to the sound of groaning, fighting and screaming outside. When needed, all three of them got out to search for food and this quickly became a competition between others who were fighting for their lives. Constance, who had never held a weapon in her life quickly became one of the best fighters in town and more than once saved a life, and the sight of her holding a weapon was something that D’Artagnan loathed and admired at once. After two months of hiding and seeing it was not about to wind down, the trio finally managed to summon the courage to go check the cemetery. Athos, Aramis and Porthos were no longer in their graves.
“Do you think...”started D’Artagnan
“...That they are out there? I don’t know lad, I don’t think I want to know” Cut in Tréville
“I don’t understand what is happening” Stated Constance “This is one twisted test of fate. Why bring your loved ones back if it’s to make them into killers and beasts?”
No one had an answer. The following days, they saw no sign of them and tried to forget. Despite that, killing became slightly harder because it was someone’s loved one they were slaying like dogs, and someone out there could be slaying their own. Tréville decided not to hope, D’Artagnan clinged to that hope and Constance simply waited.
It became almost a reflex. You saw the thing run towards you, raise the gun, shoot. Stab the head, twist. And repeat.
When no governmental help came and the FHV was created the three considered joining but seeing it was more of an offensive corps, led by Richelieu, they decided out, the thought of their friend’s empty grave at the forefront of their minds. When finally, the existence of a cure was announced, they were amongst the first to capture and sent rabids to treatment centers. Two years after the uprising, walking in the streets was relatively safe again.
)0(
Finding Tréville still in his pajamas and out of breath on his door step was a sight to behold. D’Artagnan would always remember it even if it didn’t involve the happiest news of his life (Right after Constance saying ‘yes’ to his proposal, of course).
“They found them” He said “They were found, captured and treated at the nearby treatment center. They’re fine and they are coming home”
There was no need to say who ‘they’ were.
)0(
Constance had work that day, but he had called in sick to go spend the day at Tréville’s. He was slightly surprised to see a young blond women walking out of Tréville’s house (Tréville did not have a habit of seeking companions, male or female)
“Who was that?” he asked
“Help.” Answered Tréville.
D’Artagnan watched him shove a Taser in a drawer with barely concealed surprise but didn’t get to ask any more: the captain went back to his kitchen. D’Artagnan shrugged and entered the living room where his three friends were sprawled over the couch. Porthos was sitting propped up against the armrest, one leg dangling off the couch, the other stuck between the back of the couch and the bodies of his two friends. He had his hands in Aramis’ hair whilst the man was lying between his legs. Athos was on the other side, facing them, legs tangled in a mess of limbs, head on the armrest and reading. He was slightly surprised about the lack of makeup or lenses, but had no time to dwell on it: upon his entry, Aramis sat up.
“D’Artagnan! Come here, my friend, I have plenty of things to ask you!”
His smile was slightly too excited for D’Artagnan’s liking but he sat down nonetheless. Porthos grabbed Aramis by hair and dragged him back down.
“Careful D’Artagnan” he grunted playfully. “You’re in for an interrogation.”
Aramis swatted at his hands and briefly looked up, offended, at him before settling down in a more comfortable position and turning a calculating stare towards the youngest of his brothers.
“So. Constance?”
Of course.
“Well, we’re married.” The Gascon answered.
“Yes I know that!” Aramis waved his hand dismissively, knocking Athos’ book with the gesture which earned him a glare that he completely ignored. “Last I knew, however, marriage was a distant plan since she was already with someone. This uptight and rude man- what was him name?”
“Jacques” said Athos.
“Yes! Jacques Bonacieux! I have to admit, I am impressed, D’Artagnan. You went from having an affair to getting married! I feel so proud”
“It was her decision really” Answered D’Artagnan, cheeks slightly red from pride.
“Of course it was.” Laughed Porthos. He grabbed one of Aramis’ curls again and twirled it around his fingers, the other hand lightly wrapping itself around Athos’ ankle. “Constance would never have done anything she wouldn’t want, although it did take her a while to kick that wimp out.”
The four friends nodded thoughtfully and D’Artagnan was reminded that Athos and Porthos were just as noisy and curious as Aramis- they just let him do the talking because he generally managed to gather more information.
“What happened to him anyways?” Asked Athos, finally abandoning faking disinterest. “Left on a holy mission to sell his fabric elsewhere?”
D’Artagnan grimaced at that.
“No, actually, he’s dead.”
There was a second of silence, then:
“Please don’t tell me you killed him? I taught you better than that” moaned Aramis.
“Don’t be a fool” The four ex-soldiers looked up as their captain entered the room. “He died in a car accident. Well, that’s the official statement anyways.”
Triplet stares turned back at him and D’Artagnan swallowed. Interrogation indeed.
)0(
Two weeks later, D’Artagnan could no longer avoid work without risking getting fired. That morning, he was getting ready to go to the police station and face his boss when he was startled by a knock at the door. Expecting to see the mailman or the grocer, finding Athos standing on his front porch was definitely a surprise.
“Athos? What are you doing here?!” The Gascon grabbed his friend by the arm, and dragged him inside worried to see he wasn’t wearing any of his makeup or lenses and glancing outside to make sure no one else had seen him. That’s when he noticed Aramis and Porthos, joyously waving at Monsieur Mauvoisin who was glaring at them from the other side of the street. They didn’t have any makeup either.
“Relax, D’Artagnan” Said Athos from behind him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “The good Monsieur has been glaring at Aramis and Porthos since the very first summer they spent here with me.”
In the street, the two men laughed as Monsieur Mauvoisin disapprovingly shook his head and stalked back to his own house. They calmly made their way to the house, still laughing, but were quickly grabbed by a nearly panicked D’Artagnan who hurriedly closed the door behind them.
“Congratulate Constance on the interior decoration for me, would you? She truly did an amazing job!” commented lightly Aramis, looking around, impressed.
D’Artagnan barely heard him, too busy looking out his window waiting to see an angry mob coming towards his house.
“We made sure Richelieu was no longer home before getting out, lad” Interrupted Porthos. “We are not that suicidal”
The young man left his spot at the window and turned around to face his three friends who were watching him, undisturbed.
“WHY, would you come out without your makeup?” he asked almost pleadingly. The trio seemed to tense slightly.
“Does it bother you?” Asked Aramis.
“Me? No, of course not. Constance and the Captain neither, but the rest of the town? Yes. Definitely. They see you and they’ll be at your door ready to send you back in your graves!”
“That is not reason enough for us to hide.” Said Athos.
“What’s that?”
“We stay coped up inside all day and night and when we want to get out it takes us half an hour to put the damn makeup on our faces and it still doesn’t look like we’re properly alive! That’s not the way we want to live our second life.” Explained Porthos.
“We are aware” interrupted Aramis before D’Artagnan could reply, “That the Captain, Constance and yourself want to keep us safe. But we can take care of ourselves and we are still being careful, despite what you may think.”
D’Artagnan looked at them one by one and sighed.
“There really is no way I can convince you to put the makeup?”
“It’s stuffy and restrictive! And the lenses! My eyes would itch all day if I could feel anything!” declared Aramis
Porthos and Athos nodded in agreement.
“What does the captain have to say to this?”
“He agrees”
“Does he now?”
“Yes.”
“Have you actually told him about you brilliant little plan.”
“We have. Implicitly.”
Back in his house, Tréville swore loudly when he saw the bathroom garbage full of the makeup and contact lenses his men were supposed to be currently wearing.
)0(
D’Artagnan was fidgeting nervously in his plastic chair, eyes constantly darting towards the clock in nervous apprehension. A firm and gentle hand gripped his knee, stopping the jackhammer routine of his leg.
“Calm down” murmured Constance in his ear. “This will be good for you even if you may not think it.”
“I do not need to go to a therapy session supposed to help me cope with the return of my three dead best friends!” he hissed in reply.
The hand gently tapped his knee and a kiss was deposited on his ear.
“No, but you need to see that you are not alone.” His wife eased back in her chair, cutting all his protests with a look. At that moment, Ninon entered the room and smiled at the small assembly reunited in front of her.
“Welcome everyone” she said. “I am glad to see so many of you could make it; I hope this session will of help to us all.”
For the first time since he entered the room, D’Artagnan turned around and was left slightly chocked to see so many of his fellow townspeople. Constance smiled at him and leaned back further in her chair as the session started.
“At first, I was afraid of my own son. How is that even possible? How could I be afraid of the little boy I gave birth to and raised? It took me a few days, but eventually I noticed that death had not changed him. He is still my little boy.”
“Stubborn ass he was, and stubborn ass he still is! I’m a bit bummed out that he can no longer hold his drink, but other than that...”
“Fear is the strangest of things. At first, I was afraid she’d turn rabid again and smash my skull to eat my brain, but.... recently, I realised that this was no longer it. Truth is, I’m bloody terrified to lose her again and the thought that... that one my fellow townspeople could be the one too... I don’t want to be a control freak, but I’m just so afraid...”
The testimonies were more relevant than D’Artagnan imagined they would be, and he understood why Constance had insisted for him to come. He had to make an effort not to cry. When the session came to an end, he grabbed Constance by the shoulder and landed a peck at her lips.
“Don’t wait up” he said against her hair as he hugged her, “there is something I have to do.”
His wife smiled in her usual understanding way, and he darted away. D’Artagnan found his friends sitting on Tréville’s front porch and they rose to their feet when they saw him approaching.
“D’Artagnan!” Called Aramis “how was the Therapy session?”
He didn’t answer and instead stunned them all by dragging them into a hug.
“We’re going to the pub” The Gascon simply said in response to their interrogative stares when he released them.
)0(
Porthos, Athos and Aramis were over at Constance’s and D’Artagnan’s house whilst Tréville had to spend the day out. The group was playing to LIFE on the floor of the living room when a banging at the door interrupted them. D’Artagnan opened to find Tréville soaked to the bone having obviously ran under the rain. The usually extremely courteous man pushed his way inside and to the living room.
“We need to hide them, quick” he said pointing at Athos, Porthos and Aramis. “Richelieu’s men got a tip and are heading for this street.”
D’Artagnan felt his blood run cold. Quickly, his protective instincts kicked in and he was ushering his three friends to their feet and leading them upstairs to the master bedroom.
“Stay there and stay put!” He told them, closing the door behind him.
He knew, of course, that they wouldn’t ‘stay put’ but it was worth the try. The only thought rambling about in his head as he helped Constance and Tréville collect a few weapons and placed himself near a window was ‘please, God, don’t take them away again’.
)0(
Instead of driving them into hiding, Richelieu’s showdown with the Mauvoisins broke down any precautions the three men had left. They no longer bothered avoiding Richelieu or his followers, spending as much time in town as any other person. They went shopping, drinking, walking in the park... All of which without makeup on. Aramis was ecstatic to realise he could smoke and took a special delight in telling passerby’s if they glared at them too long that ‘he was already dead anyways’, deliberately diverting their malevolent thoughts from his lovers. Porthos took extra care to drag his two friends on a morning jog even if it meant having them cycle next to him or having to pull them as they stood up on a skateboard. Athos often brought a book of poetry or his violin to the park and would read to his lovers or play them a song.
This tended to attract a lot of attention, yet nothing happened. Despite what Richelieu said, the three boys had once been admired and respected in this town and who they were left people enable to act on their cruel intentions. What did happen, however, was that other PDS sufferers followed on their lead and slowly made themselves known.
)0(
D’Artagnan was expecting to spend a lazy morning in bed, cuddling with his wife. The high pitch ringing of Constance’s phone was not part of the plan. He rolled around and groaned as Constance freed herself from his arms with a slight chuckle at his dramatic reaction.
“Good morning” She answered with a bright smile, one hand holding the phone and the other petting her husband’s hair to sooth him. The muffled voice of a lady was heard from the mobile. He hand froze. Her smile fell.
“Are... Are you sure about that?” Constance sat up completely and D’Artagnan turned around to look at her worriedly.
More muffled words came from the phone, Constance remained frozen, only nodding stiffly every once in a while, then finally, the conversation seemed to come to an end.
“Yes, of course…. When should I come pick him up?... Alright, I’ll be there.”
She hung up but didn’t move, her back still to D’Artagnan which was the final alarm bell in her husband’s head.
“What happened?” he asked slowly, a hand gently brushing her spine. She caught that hand in hers and turned to bring it to her lips.
“They found him.” She sighed. “They found Jacques, and he’s been considered fit to be released.”
A cold chill washed over D’Artagnan who stiffened.
“And you said… yes?”
She nodded.
“I’m sorry.”
“No… no, it’s not your fault. I just-”
“No matter what happens, D’Artagnan, I love you and only you, is that clear? I’m not going back to him.” She took a deep breath, “Plus, it’s only for a short while until he finds himself a proper apartment” Constance continued hastily. She kissed the crown of his head then curled back in his arms.
“I love you.” She added.
D’Artagnan smiled despite the clench in his heart and closed his arms around her.
“I love you too.”
)0(
D’Artagnan crash landed into a bar as soon as his work day was done. Constance still had two hours of work to go which unfortunately meant there was no one to scowl him. Half an hour later, he was drunk- D’Artagnan had not been drunk since the day Constance had found him rolling under the table in a filthy pub and had lectured him enough to sober him up. If she found him like that now…He didn’t even know WHY he was drunk! Yes, he wasn’t expecting Jacques to come back in the picture- the man had had his head smashed in that car accident- and he knew Constance would not leave him…. But the idea of having the person that had made him and Constance suffer so much in his carefully built sanctuary was unbearable.
The elusive reason of his presence in the bar disappeared completely, however, as he attacked his tenth drink. The world was seriously starting to spin.
“And I thought I was the drunk” Grunted a voice behind him.
D’Artagnan jumped as the stools besides him were suddenly occupied and a hand reached from behind him to confiscate his drink. He relaxed when he realized it was only Athos, Porthos and Aramis.
“You… You… g’t drunk…. More… oft’n.” he pitifully attempted to reply.
“Yes, I’m sure. But at least I keep some dignity.”
“Don’t be too harsh on him, Athos!” Porthos’ booming voice made D’Artagnan cringe. “I’m sure he has a good explanation”
At that moment, the Gascon’s stomach decided it was a convenient time for a mutiny and all the liquor he had consumed found itself on the floor, missing Athos’ feet by a hair.
“Perhaps later will be more appropriate to have this conversation?” murmured Aramis helpfully.
D’Artagnan didn’t hear any of the other two answer. His body sagged forward and he toppled towards the ground.
Before all went black, he felt two sets of hands grabbing him under the shoulders and lifting him off the ground. At least I didn’t fall in my own vomit he though.
)0(
In the end, he went with Constance. Of course he went with Constance. There was no way he’d let Jacques be alone with her for more than was necessary. The car ride to the treatment center was way too short- unlike the one he did with Tréville to get his brothers back- and once they finally arrived, he had to stop a few moments to collect himself. Constance was just as apprehensive as him, if not more, and she tightly gripped his hand for reassurance. D’Artagnan squeezed back, turned to smile at her, and together they marched inside the center.
Jacques was waiting with his bag on his lap. As soon as he was in sigh, D’Artagnan stopped again and grabbed Constance around the waist to drag her in a kiss. She smiled into it and gently caressed his face with the tip of her fingers.
“Try not to punch him” she murmured when he released her.
He almost did. Three times. The man was bearable the first five minutes but that quickly changed and D’Artagnan found himself considering not only punching him- but also leaving him right where he was. They eventually managed to get to the car; D’Artagnan shoved Jacques in the back seat and quickly turned on the music.
The ride back was much longer and so, so much more painful. Music did not fend off Jacques, who. Just. kept. Talking. By the time they were home- his precious home that would be stained by the presence of this man- The Gascon was on the verge of breaking the promise he had made to his wife.
His anger evaporated when they got to the living room. The first thing he noticed was Tréville sitting on the sofa, reading the newspaper in a completely detached manner. Then there was his brothers. All three were sat on the couch arms and legs crossed, makeup off, and smirks absolutely terrifying. Next to him, Jacques froze and gasped lightly.
D’Artagnan laughed.