Work Text:
He takes no pleasure in it, or so he tells himself.
“You were absent without leave.”
“I acted on the Queen’s orders.”
“We are not the Queen’s soldiers, Aramis.”
It’s enough. Athos is the Musketeer’s Captain, it’s his duty to discipline his charges. Treville had done it on occasion, not often. In five years, Athos had never had to do it. There had been a war on; those who disobeyed orders were shot. This is kinder. Aramis deserves much worse.
Athos takes no pleasure in it. But then, he finds pleasure in so few things, these days.
“Better me than the royal executioner.” His voice is thick, and he hears himself echoing, as if he’s talking into a well. Or into a bottle. He drains the bottle in his hand and tosses it away into the straw in the corner. “You know what to do.”
Aramis does. His fingers fumble at the ties of his shirt. He is clearly in pain already; Athos hasn’t asked what the Spaniards did, nor does he care. Aramis can walk, ride, fight- whatever it was, it wasn’t the punishment he deserves. Athos waits in stony silence, lost in anger, shying away from the confusion and loss he would feel if only he allowed it.
“Athos-” Aramis folds his shirt neatly and looks for a place to put it, finally drops it to the floor. “You don’t have to-”
“I do. And you do.” This is not something a friend does, but nobody asked Athos whether he wanted to command his friends, with all that came with it, when Treville made him Captain. If he can be either friend or commander, well. Only one of those was a choice. It’s a choice Athos can now unmake, as he made it over ten years before. He barely feels the sting of it, knows it’s a betrayal, but what choice do either of them have? “You neglected your duties and disobeyed your Captain and your King. You associated with known enemies of France. You’re lucky to be alive.” Lucky twice over, now; Aramis has a track record with treason, after all.
“You know I was only following orders.” Aramis still isn’t in position, and Athos itches to punch him, quite suddenly. Why must he make this harder?
“You were following the wrong orders. Move.”
Aramis doesn’t try to argue further. He turns around, presenting his bare back to Athos, and tries to raise his arms to shoulder height only to stop with a curse. “I can’t. I’m sorry. They-”
“I don’t care.” The words drop from Athos’ lips like icicles. “Get into position. Now.”
Slowly, bit by painful bit, Aramis reaches up to brace himself against the wall. Athos says nothing, and picks up the whip.
He takes no pleasure in it. But he does.
Aramis, never there when he’s needed. Aramis, who ran away, when Athos couldn’t. Who succeeded in getting away, and was fool enough to return. Aramis, who hid behind a monk’s robe when cannon roared and men and horses died screaming in Spain and Flanders. Aramis, who had not lead a hundred men to war and returned with thirty. Aramis, who left. He deserves this.
Athos says nothing and he lands stroke after stroke, neat and measured. He takes his time. He can’t help thinking about Sylvie, and feels a cold, savage thing twist in him, giving power to his arm and shoulder. He knows he’s being unfair; it only makes him hit harder.
In a way, he might as well be punishing himself. The inseparables have been separated, and now Athos completes this separation, more than any abbey wall ever could. He does not expect Aramis to trust him, after this. He does not expect Porthos to forgive him. He does not think they should, either of them.
In a way, he might as well be punishing himself. Every failure, every moment of crushing doubt, every task he’s put away until later and forgotten about, every administrative detail he’s relegated to Constance, is taken out of Aramis’ skin. Every single time that Athos has proven to be less than the leader the Musketeers need and deserve, he makes Aramis pay for. Because he can.
Athos is a failure. He makes a mental list, ticks each item off in a stripe torn off Aramis’ back. Failed his command. Failed his King. Failed his friends. Failed to protect a woman he cares for and respects. Failed to free himself from the murderous, lying woman he’d married, back like a bad case of the pox and just as harmful to health. He is still attracted to her, even after everything, and his fingers clench on the whip’s handle, torn between lust and grief and fury and cold apathy. As usual, apathy wins.
He takes no pleasure in it. It must be done. Better him than the executioner.
Aramis doesn’t scream. If only he would, Athos could stop, but he doesn’t.
Finally, though, he does. Blood runs in thin trails from a dozen cuts where Athos was careless with the whip. He never bothered to be careful. The damage is superficial enough that he has no concern that Aramis might be permanently harmed, and Athos wonders, in a distant sort of way, whether he’d care if this wasn’t the case. The thought is dry and dusty, cold as a deserted tomb. Athos doesn’t want to know the answer. He wipes the whip on a wad of straw from the floor and hangs it on the wall.
“I’m sorry.” Aramis’ voice is strained, rasping and catching like rough wool on splintered wood.
“Sorry won’t buy back your reputation. Sorry doesn’t matter.”
Aramis is silent for several moments. “I am, all the same. Athos-”
“Captain.”
Now Aramis freezes, his head jerking up, then falling forward between his arms. He has not shifted from his position against the wall. Athos isn’t sure he can- and he doesn’t care. This too doesn’t matter.
Silent, Athos turns and leaves the room. He does not look at Porthos and d’Artagnan, waiting outside, as he leaves. He knows they’d only end up being insubordinate, and his arm is tired.
There is a fresh bottle of wine in his quarters, with a note in Milady’s elegant writing. He smashes it against the wall.
In that, there is pleasure to be found.