Work Text:
He watched d'Artagnan sleep. He watched each breath. In out, in out, as his chest heaved up and down. He was alive. Athos would have to be satisfied with that, for now. D'Artagnan was alive, and his wife was dead, as she was supposed to be.
She was really gone now, but he couldn't bring himself to care much. She had had a stranglehold on him for too long. For five years the very thought of her had choked him. She had always been cold and calculating, made sure he was too close to her to realise her true nature until it was too late. She was gone now, and he could breathe. Was such a thing ever love? Athos did not want to ponder it for too long.
But then there was d'Artagnan, like a bull in a china shop, rushing head first into danger, always ready to back up a friend, always ready to lay down a life for a brother - or, in Athos's case, a lover. He was wild and he was reckless, and rarely gave much forethought to his actions. He was loyal to a fault. He would bleed gladly if it meant that Athos was safe.
And there was the difference - where his wife killed, d'Artagnan bled. Whilst she was the noose around Athos's neck, d'Artagnan was what kept his heart beating, what was flowing through his veins, and made him, for the first time in five years, feel free.