Chapter Text
December had settled over Paris with a thin veil of frost.
The cold came first at night and seeped through stone and shutter, clinging to the skin long after a man had stepped indoors. It hardened sounds, lowered voices, made every breath visible.
Athos had chosen a tavern that did not care who he was.
The fire was low, the ale thin, the room crowded with bodies seeking warmth rather than company. Someone laughed loudly near the door; someone else retched in the alley outside.
The year was ending, and the city felt tired of itself.
He sat slumped over a rough wooden table, one arm folded beneath his head, the other slack at his side. His cup was empty. So was the bottle beside it.
He drifted in and out of a shallow doze. His thoughts blurred at the edges; his memory had dissolved into something mercifully dull.
A hand brushed against his coat. Careful. Testing. Fingers slipped toward the pouch at his belt.
Athos’s hand snapped up without thought.
His grip closed around the thief’s wrist, iron-hard, and twisted just enough to freeze the man in place.
“I wouldn’t do that,” Athos said, his voice low. “Unless you’re prepared to lose your hand.”
The thief went pale. He nodded quickly, and Athos released him with the same disinterest with which he had caught him. The man backed away and disappeared into the press of bodies.
“Glad to see the alcohol hasn’t dulled your senses entirely,” a familiar voice observed. “That’s reassuring.”
Athos lifted his head.
Aramis stood a few paces away. His mouth curved in something that might pass for amusement if one did not know him better. Porthos loomed beside him with his arms crossed. D’Artagnan lingered just behind them; his eyes flicked between Athos and the empty bottle.
“How long have you been here?” Athos asked.
“Long enough,” Porthos said. He glanced at the bottle. “How long have you been here?”
Aramis stepped closer, reached for Athos’s cup, and turned it upside down on the table. “You’re coming with us,” he said, as though this had already been decided. “We’ll put your head under the pump. Hopefully cold water will restore you to something resembling lucidity.”
Athos let out a slow sound that might almost have been a laugh. “An enticing prospect,” he slurred. “May I ask the reason? Or is this simply your idea of a night’s fun?”
“If it were, we’d have drowned you in the Seine already,” Porthos said. “Faster than the pump.”
D’Artagnan did not smile. “Tréville has sent for us,” he said. “Urgently.”
That word cut through the fog more effectively than cold water ever had. Athos straightened and pushed himself to his feet. The room swayed for a moment, then steadied. He pulled his coat closed against the cold, his fingers finding familiar edges, familiar weight.
Aramis clasped a hand on his shoulder. “Come,” he said quietly. “There is work to do.”
The task was simple enough, but no less dangerous in its simplicity.
“A clandestine meeting of Spanish agents?” Porthos said, his breath misting in the air. “It’s been a while since we’ve had one of those.”
“Hm. And the last time, the information wasn’t quite so vague,” Aramis agreed.
Athos said nothing. The intelligence was imprecise by design: an anonymous tip delivered to the garrison that evening, the kind of source that protected itself by leaving no name to question. It suggested espionage, but stopped short of certainty. There were too many unofficial channels moving through Paris these days, too many conversations that existed in the grey space between diplomacy and treason.
Tréville’s orders reflected that uncertainty.
Observe. Verify. Arrest only if hostile intent was confirmed. Nothing more.
“This is the place,” d’Artagnan said, stopping in front of a dingy tavern near the river. It was not so different from the tavern where Athos had drunk himself into a stupor: narrow and unremarkable, the door barely hanging from its hinges. The sort of place that did not invite questions.
They entered separately and gathered in the darkest corner of the room. They sat with their backs to the wall, their faces half-lost in shadow. The fire was higher here than in the place Athos had left behind, but the air was no warmer for it.
“How quaint,” Porthos muttered, grimacing as he tasted the ale. “Are they here already?”
Athos’s eyes scanned the room in one slow sweep. The tavern was only half full, and relatively quiet. A couple of scantily dressed women drifted between the tables, trying to elicit a response from the drunkards slumped over them. Three or four men were clustered around the counter. Athos ruled them out quickly: dirty hands, ragged clothes. Workers.
“No,” he said at last. “We’re early.”
Just then, the door opened. The man who came in moved with casual confidence as he took a seat at a table near the fireplace. Soon after, another joined him. And then another. They ordered wine, sat, and did not look at one another for long.
Athos watched hands. Posture. The way their eyes tracked the room without appearing to do so. “Here we are,” he murmured.
Aramis lowered the brim of his hat and leaned back in his chair, listening.
“Spanish?” d’Artagnan whispered. Aramis barely nodded. After a moment, his brow creased.
“They’re waiting for someone who has not yet arrived,” he murmured.
“Not unusual,” Athos replied just as quietly. Agents and intermediaries were cautious by necessity.
Time passed.
“I’m getting impatient,” Porthos huffed. He glanced toward the Spaniards’ table. “And so are they, by the looks of it.”
At once, the door opened again, letting in a blade of winter air. Athos lifted his gaze.
A cloaked woman stepped inside. She paused just long enough for her eyes to adjust, then moved with purpose toward the table where the Spaniards sat.
Athos felt as though something had closed around his lungs. The sounds of the tavern dulled at once as cold dread creeped into his bones.
Claire d’Arville lowered her hood and greeted the men in fluent Spanish.
He did not hear the rest.