Chapter Text
By mid-afternoon, the ration carts had finally reached the camp. Sacks of flour, bread and salted meat had been unloaded and stacked along the low stone wall, and the line that formed for them bore no resemblance to the one Marchaux had assembled a week ago: no ledger, no purses of coin exchanged for a son’s name, only families collecting what was theirs. Athos watched a woman break a loaf in half before she had even stepped away from the table and hand one piece to the boy beside her. He tore into it so quickly that she laughed.
The recruits had been put to work alongside the Musketeers. Jacques had somehow appointed himself responsible for counting the bread and was taking the duty with alarming seriousness, calling out numbers to d’Artagnan while Porthos carried sacks two at a time simply because he could.
“No— Not there!” Jacques told them. “Come on! I’m trying to prevent a logistical disaster here.”
D’Artagnan lifted a brow. “You’re counting loaves.”
Aramis, passing with an armful of folded sacks, gave d’Artagnan a sympathetic look. “You see what command does to a man.”
“Disturbing,” d’Artagnan said. “Though it does explain Athos’s steady decline in temperament.”
Athos shot him a look. Nearby, Théa snorted as she passed another loaf to Jacques. Then she leaned across the table toward Claire. “I must say,” she said, “the Cardinal may have tried to get you killed, but at least he keeps his promises.”
“A glowing recommendation,” Claire said dryly.
Porthos put down two sacks and shook his head. “All joking aside,” he said, placing a hand on her shoulder, “you did a good thing here. That part still counts.”
“Well, now you’re making me look bad,” Théa groaned.
Claire laughed at that — a quick sound, gone as soon as it had arrived. Athos noted that it hadn’t reached her eyes at all.
He had been watching her on and off since she returned from the Louvre. She had come to them clipped and pale, told them what had passed with Mazarin in short, flat sentences that gave them the facts and nothing of what they had cost her, and waved off Porthos’s offer of punching Mazarin with a joke about surviving worse company. She had been doing that all afternoon: offering just enough of herself to keep the conversation moving, and no more.
Now she stood with one hand resting against the edge of the table, watching a mother tuck two apples into her daughter’s pockets, and her expression had, at least, softened by a fraction.
Athos crossed to her, keeping his gaze ahead. “You seem less inclined to murder a Cardinal than you did an hour ago,” he said evenly.
Her mouth moved, almost a smile, before she looked back toward the camp. “I suppose it is difficult to stay furious while watching people carry home food,” she said. “And at least Marchaux has lost his leverage.”
A group of children hurried past them, each clutching something to eat. Claire watched them disappear between the tents, then ran a hand over her face. “I am tired, though,” she murmured, more to herself than to him.
For a long moment, Athos simply looked at her. The dark circles under her eyes. The way she seemed to hold herself upright by sheer force of will. The bitter curve of her smile.
Something tightened low in his chest.
“Come,” he said at last. “I’ll walk you home.”
Claire turned to him then, surprised enough that he almost smiled. Her gaze moved instinctively toward the ration tables. D’Artagnan was now trying to persuade Jacques that one missing loaf did not constitute the collapse of military discipline.
“They will survive without us,” Athos said. “You, on the other hand, require wine and a distraction, mademoiselle.” He offered her his arm and tilted his head, the ghost of a smile at the corners of his mouth. “As it happens, I find myself in a position to offer both.”
Claire hesitated only a moment. Then something in her expression softened. This time, her smile was real.
“All right, Captain,” she said. “Walk me home.”
She placed her hand on his arm.
Claire let out a breathless laugh as Athos bent down to catch her mouth with his again.
“Well,” she murmured against his lips. “Consider me distracted.”
A quiet huff escaped him. Then he rolled onto his back and let himself fall heavily into the pillows, one forearm flung across his eyes for a moment as he caught his breath.
The room was in a pleasant state of disarray, with clothes strewn on the floor and a bottle of wine, now empty, lying near the foot of the bed without either of them having bothered to pick it up. Outside, the afternoon had turned to dusk, then to evening. The quay had quieted at last.
Claire turned onto her side to look at Athos. Her body felt heavy, warm, spent; the sight of him in her bed — for the first time since Spain, she realised — eased something in her chest that she hadn’t known was there.
As though feeling her gaze on him, Athos lowered his arm and opened the other toward her without a word.
She went easily, tucking herself against his chest and settling her cheek beneath his collarbone. His arm closed around her at once, his hand tracing idle patterns on her back, and she let one leg slide between his beneath the sheets.
For a while, neither of them spoke. Then Claire glanced toward the open window. April was nearing its end; the evening air drifting into the room was no longer cold.
“I imagine you’ll have to leave soon,” she said quietly against his skin, though she did not feel inclined to move from her spot. Or to move at all.
His hand stilled against her back. Athos seemed to consider. “Not particularly,” he said after a beat.
Claire’s head snapped up. She propped herself on an elbow and met his eyes — steady, tired, and faintly amused. “Come again?” she said.
“I can be back before the morning drills.”
For once, words seemed to desert her. Her lips parted, then closed again as she searched his face, as though she expected to find some qualification there.
“And what of Tréville’s order?” she managed to ask at last.
Athos simply looked at her, that trace of mirth still in his eyes. “I remember his order,” he said.
Then his hand slid to the nape of her neck and drew her down to him. He kissed her slowly, and Claire felt the smile still lingering against her mouth.
“Call it a temporary lapse in obedience,” he murmured.
An unsteady laugh escaped her. Athos’s hand moved from her neck to her shoulder and gently guided her back down until her cheek rested against his chest once more. “You said you were tired,” he said. “Then rest.”
Claire opened her mouth, though once again she had no idea what she meant to say. Athos’s arms were heavy and warm around her. Beneath her ear, his heartbeat was slow and steady, and his fingers had resumed their idle path along her back.
She closed her eyes and let herself sleep.