Title: Vice and Redemption

Fandom: The Three Musketeers

Author: debchan

Date: September 24, 1999

Archive: Allslash & RareSlash, yes. Anywhere else, ask first.

Web page: http://homepages.go.com/~debchan/deb1/slashiness.html

Disclaimer: Not mine.

Rating: NC-17 for sexual interaction I suppose

Spoilers: Rather vague ones for both movies

Summary: Takes place shortly after the end of The Four Musketeers. The influence of certain events regarding Milady deWinter on Athos. Notes: Not beta'd, written, in fact, over my lunch hour, so blame any mistakes on hunger. Oh, and please don't mistake this for the Disney version. If you haven't ever seen the Richard Lewis version with Michael York, Oliver Reed (as Athos) and Richard Chamberlain (as Aramis) do yourself a favor and rent it.



Vice and Redemption
by debchan

Alas, human vices, however horrible one might imagine them to be, contain the proof (were it only in their infinite expansion) of man's longing for the infinite; but it is a longing that often takes the wrong route. . . . It is my belief that the reason behind all culpable excesses lies in this depravation of the sense of the infinite. Charles Baudelaire

It only happens when he is particularly upset. I watch him, brooding alone in the corner and can almost always tell when he's let his self-loathing brew and simmer and fester until it must have an outlet or it will destroy him. And then he comes to me. For comfort, for ease or just as another step on the road to his self-destruction. Perhaps for all of those reasons.

I wasn't surprised to wake to find him next to me, his hands already loosening my trousers, his eyes dark and wild as they stared at me, waiting for me to refuse him. This last week had been bad, perhaps the worst of his life, even worse than the day he lost his innocence and honor.

I nodded, just as I had the first time he'd looked at me and asked without words, and silently assisted him until clothing was pushed aside and he was deep within me.

He takes me in the same way he fights, with detached abandon. I think there's always a cold, distant part of his mind that observes the movements of his body with derisive amusement. Perhaps it has something to do with the terrible sadness he carries; I don't think he can allow himself one moment of pure pleasure or happiness. His humor is always tinged with bitter mockery and his few indulgences are only ones he knows will ensure damnation. Like this one.

His face holds the same expression as it does when he's in battle. His brutally handsome features are sharper, harder, his full mouth curls in snarl and I wonder if he's going to fight me or continue fucking me. His temper, uncertain and quick to ignite at the best of times, has lately been as fast and as sharp as his swordplay. Even the boy, who he's so indulgent of, hasn't been immune.

And now, now as he furiously drives into me, his dark eyes snap open. I'm pinned beneath his feral stare and I can see all of him, all the sadness and need and self hatred and pleasure and I know if he even guessed at what his eyes revealed at these times he'd never come to me again.

He gasps and then shudders when he feels my release, making a faint sound that might be my name. For a few moments he rests his forehead on my shoulder, then rolls to his back and quickly restores his clothing into a semblance of respectability and makes as if to rise.

"Stay." I speak quietly, as one might to nervous horse. "Just for a moment," I continue, not speaking the word 'please' because that one word, with its inference of favors granted and debts owed would make him bolt faster than a visit from the Cardinal.

Nevertheless, he hears it, cocks his head to the side, considers and without looking at me, slowly reclines back on the bed. After all, its not as if the four of us haven't all tumbled into bed like a litter of puppies after a night of dissipation. But at those times of course, we merely slept the sleep of the profoundly intoxicated, having thoroughly debauched ourselves and several tavern wenches beforehand.

"I didn't think you'd be here tonight." His voice, always low, is almost inaudible.

"And where else would I be?" I pulled on and fastened my own clothes and drew the quilt over us.

"The others are out celebrating. I thought you'd be with them. Or visiting one of your coterie of mistresses."

"The word mistress implies a certain amount of ownership. I do not provide for anyone's care and feeding but my own, good sir."

"Paramours."

"Perhaps. However, that word indicates a certain emotion I don't believe is warranted."

"Semantics. What do you call them, then?"

I silently wonder at his questions, why he, who almost never asks anything personal should suddenly broach this topic of conversation and how I should answer.

"Wenches," I answer honestly. "Warm bodies in the night to keep the cold away. A momentary diversion, a pleasure like a tankard of ale or a well roasted chicken; quickly partaken of and enjoyed then easily forgotten until the next time one is hungry or thirsty. None of them anymore mine than the ale or chicken."

He took a deep breath and abruptly rubbed between his eyes. "Why?" he finally asked in a low growl.

I nestled closer and put my head on his shoulder since he'd taken over my pillow.

"I don't know. Perhaps because unlike our young pup, I don't need to believe I'm in love to enjoy the pleasures of the flesh."

"Why?" he asked again, his voice harsh.

And of course I knew what he meant the first time he asked. Why did I allow him in my bed? Why did I let him take me like a woman? Why did I, a man who planned to join God's holy order of priests, let him use me in a manner that would assuredly mark me for eternal damnation? Perhaps even, Why did I enjoy it?

"Because you are my friend," I answer gently, knowing that breaking our silence on this will most likely mean its death. Easier to pretend it doesn't exist in the cold light of day, better to forget about it in the company of others, essential that it never be spoken of, lest it turn real. Yet it was his choice to start this and it is also his to end if he so wishes.

"Because you are my comrade, my brother. Because you've saved my life and I've saved yours. Because I've held your head when you've been ill and you've bandaged my wounds when I've bled. Because I only need to look at you to know what you're thinking and you need only one gesture of my eyes to have my response, be it in battle or in bed. Because I want to."

His shoulder was rigid beneath my head and I could hear the harsh workings of his throat as he swallowed.

"Athos," I murmured. "Any of us would die for the others. Surely this," I gestured at the bed, "is rather inconsequential compared to that."

"Is it?" He shifted and turned his head, muttering into the darkness, "Would they, if they knew?"

"About this, or about her?" I ignored the dangerous tensing of his muscles and continued evenly, "Neither matters. Do you imagine you're the only with a past? With a secret? The only one who holds your past against you is yourself, Athos. You were a youth, a boy with an outmoded sense of honor, duped by a beautiful woman and your own blind love. Let the past die. Haven't you punished that boy long enough? Stop despising him, forgive him and yourself. God already has."

"I don't believe in God."

"Of course you do. Why else do you try so hard to make him punish you?"

He is silent and I wonder if he's gone to sleep until I feel his arm tentatively curve around me and draw me closer. He sighs and slowly begins to relax under me, turning his head to rest his cheek against my forehead.

"Aramis. I don't think of you that way," he murmurs, his voice thick with near sleep.

Ah. Suddenly I understand his questions earlier. In a deliberately placid tone I say, "While I'm relieved to not be comparable to a chicken dinner, I must say I do not care for the term paramour in regards to myself."

"No," he agrees seriously.

"Comrade in arms?" I suggest and feel him smile, can't help a smile of my own. Perhaps, I muse as I drift toward slumber, perhaps this is the end. It feels like an ending and a beginning. We shall see what God delivers.



~~finis~~

Notes: I did a search on the Richard Lewis version of the Three Musketeers to do some quick fact checking and stumbled over a press release from May, 1999 stating that Oliver Reed (forever Athos in my eyes) died. He was a truly remarkable actor, bringing a caged ferocity to his villains that still sends shivers down my spine. I will truly miss him.