Eloquence in Pick-up Lines

It all started one fine afternoon, when he found a note in the pocket of his coat. It was written with a curvy hand, one that would almost undoubtedly be a woman's, on a strip of paper.

Are you religious? Because you're the answer to all my prayers.

A short note indeed. And it would seem, a...pick up line?

~.~.~.~

D'Artagnan had been troubled as of late.

On most Wednesdays, he would travel to the local marketplaces of Paris to get a view of Parisian life. It was also an opportunity to detach himself from the cynical beliefs at the palace, him preferring to have an off day to maintain of not his sanity then his morality as a human being. The people at the palace are just plain wolves in sheep's clothing.

Another reason, perhaps one which hit closer to home, was his reluctance to see Constance. The fair beauty had captured his heart the moment he arrived in the capital, what with her innocent looks and snarky attitude, coupled with that unbelievable figure. D'Artagnan was a romantic at heart and as the romantic fool he was, he gave up almost everything for her, only to have it thrown back at his face.

When he saved her that day, and when she kissed him, it was pure bliss. He had never felt anything like it before. In his heart, he promised to let no harm come upon her and decided to spoil her for the rest of her days. And spoil her so thoroughly he did that the poor girl was either disgusted or bored with him. She grew colder by the day, refusing to speak to him at times or even look at him.

In short, Constance had left him.

The matter had left D'Artagnan more than broken hearted, for it was his very first love. He drunk himself silly in the taverns, picked fights with whoever he could, brawled until his own fists were stained with blood. If it had not been for his three good friends, Athos, Porthos and Aramis, he would have continued destroying his own life.

The elder musketeers constantly dragged their younger counterpart, usually drunk, back to their humble abode after a fight. They understood what it felt like to have your heart torn, for they each had their own experiences. Athos' more particularly, after Milady had willingly jumped ship. So the responsibility of waking D'Artagnan out of his stupor fell to the eldest musketeer.

Athos lectured D'Artagnan for a new record of four hours. Porthos and Aramis kept count. Planchet had kept up a steady supply of drink (only tea) for them both, with Athos growing more enthusiastic in his speech and D'Artagnan growing more ashamed.

For now, D'Artagnan can safely say that he no longer wished to get drunk and cross swords with whosoever who crosses his path. Except maybe, sometimes. After all, it was in his hot-headed nature to fight.

D'Artagnan was young, brave and undeniably had good looks, this he knew it himself. The maidens of Paris would whisper about him through their kerchiefs, subtly shoot glances at him as he passed by or daringly wink at him behind their fans. They fancied him, but none would be so bold as to directly slip notes into his pocket. None would be able to without him at least noticing something, wouldn't it? He was a musketeer for Christ's sake! How could he not have felt someone slipping a note into his pocket?

If he told this to his friends, they would surely laugh at him for being such a "young idiot" as they so finely put it. And he would not, for the life of him, allow himself to be ridiculed by those whom he held in such high regard, whom he put on a pedestal.

So, he willingly hatched a plan. He would catch whoever was slipping notes into his pockets red-handed, if not his name was not D'Artagnan!

~.~.~.~

His name shall be changed to something worse soon enough, faster than anyone could say "Merde!"

For five consecutive Wednesdays he had strolled into the grimy marketplaces of Paris, for five consecutive Wednesdays he had waited with baited breath, full of purpose to catch his sneaky little admirer, for the lack of a better word. He kept his baby blues peeled the whole time, never letting anyone out of his sight and keeping on his toes at every encounter.

And for five consecutive Wednesdays he had five more notes slipped into his pocket with no one to show for them.

I must be a snowflake, because I've fallen for you.

Do you want to know what's beautiful? Read the second word again.

Fascinating. I've been looking at your eyes all night long, because I've never seen such dark eyes with so much light in them.

Of all the beautiful curves on your body, your smile is my favourite.

I will stop loving you when an apple grows from a mango tree on the 30th of February.

He was this close to pulling all his brown locks out! Who could it be, so stealthy and silent to place notes in his pockets? Who could do so five, no, six times without him noticing?! Who would be so bold as to write such lines of declaration, lines which would make a grown man blush with flattery!... Possibly.

The person who wrote this may have been quite eloquent with her words, but she was especially talented in curling her talons around the young Gascon's heart. As the days pass him by, he found himself pining for love once again, being the same romantic fool he was, but not for the enchanting Constance, oh no. He was quite enamoured with his newest admirer, the one who wields words as well as he wielded a rapier.

Who was this admirer of his? He could not wait to find out.

~.~.~.~

He had never felt so frustrated before. Perhaps when he was battling with Rochefort, but not like this. Not this sort of tingling sensation whenever he stepped into the markets on Wednesdays, not this sort of ache in the heart when he knew that he had failed again, not this feeling of impending doom that said admirer might leave him like Constance did.

D'Artagnan managed to borrow different clothes from Porthos every week to go into the markets, most of it a cut or two oversized, and a disparate hat as well. He hung around in alleyways where the urchins thrived, next to grocers where gossip was abundant, sat in bars where ale flowed freely as long you had the money, crouched near the horses where he finally knew what Aramis meant about horses pooping everywhere.

If stars would fall every time I would think of you, the sky would soon be empty.

Another one of those slips, another one of those notes, another piece of his heart being slowly stolen.

~.~.~.~

"Lover-boy's found a new toy to play with, and she's playin' hard to get!" boomed Porthos as he swung down another glug of wine.

Athos rolled his eyes at his long time companion's lack of eloquence before taking a gulp of his own. At least he could keep the wine from dripping down his chin. "I don't assent to this entirely, D'Artagnan. It hasn't been long since your last escapade."

"Oh please Athos!" the jug impacted with the wooden table, momentarily startling Aramis who was on the other end. "I admire your judgement immensely, as you know. You always manage to get us out of those really bad situations!" Porthos then pointed to D'Artagnan whose head was hung low, touching the table. "But clearly our young Gascon here is madly in love!"

"Look here Porthos," said Athos in a dangerously low voice. "you may be extremely popular with the ladies in the streets, but I know I am superior to you in the court!" He took another swing of his wine. "With that said, I think I should know better when it comes to matters of the heart, rather than a quick shag in the bushes."

At this, Porthos slammed his meaty fists on the table, effectively rattling everything on it and spilling some of the red wine. D'Artagnan however, remained motoinless. "Just a quick shag? Come now, you know not how much I loved those women! They were all mighty precious to me!"

"Of course they were!" retaliated Athos. "They paid for most of the fancy clothes on your back and gave you fine steeds!"

Porthos ground his teeth together. "Are you implying that I need women to pay for my clothing?!" he roared. At this, Planchet was seen scurrying in like a mouse, quite confused to what was happening but not a stranger to it. After all, the musketeers did get like this when drunk.

"Oh dear Porthos, I am not merely implying it!" cried Athos. "I can prove it!"

Before they continued their argument, by some weird synchronisation of like-minded people, they both turned to the one man who was much more experienced than any of them.

"ARAMIS! DO YOU THINK D'ARTAGNAN BEING IN LOVE WITH THIS GIRL IS A GOOD THING?!" shouted both at once.

The previous abbe slowly turned his dark eyes to his companions from the transparent stem of his wine glass. "I think," he began slowly, tongue loosened by the alcohol in his system. "I think our young Gascon should make his own choices, rather than have his friends make it for him."

At this, D'Artagnan finally lifted his blue eyes from the table, only to find them staring into two black holes, deep of wisdom. "You... you really think so, Aramis?" Somehow his voice was softer, weaker, less certain than usual. Somehow, he had a weird sensation when he locked eyes with his very handsome friend... whoa! Did he really just go there?

"Of course, D'Artagnan." the voice was sonorous and just so pleasing to the ears. "You are young, you are impulsive, but that is the beauty of youth. You are allowed leeway to do whatever you want, and you should, for when you grow older that freedom is taken away from you." Aramis took a sip of wine, rolling the contents in his mouth. "If you want to pursue your admirer, you shall need to do it properly. Perhaps learn a few tricks from our esteemed Porthos here. But, you have just recovered from being with Constance and are in a delicate position. Maybe you should take our wise Athos' words to heart, ponder over them a while."

D'Artagnan was listening, he really was. He tried to absorb everything the other musketeer said but he was more mesmerized by the shapes his lips made and the sound which reverberated from that pale throat... he needed some air and less wine.

"And you Aramis? What of your personal opinion?" asked Athos, who had more or less sobered down.

Aramis stopped to contemplate this question a while before answering. "He should take a chance. If he doesn't, then he won't know what he's missed."

And for a moment, D'Artagnan could have sworn he saw a twinkle in those dark orbs.

~.~.~.~

Thank you for reading!
Just a heads-up, I'm sorry but this story is discontinued. I wrote this a long time ago and have lost the romantic spark between these two. Because of that, I don't think I could continue writing for this pairing.
So, if anyone would like to adopt this story please drop me a pm (I would love reading!) and do as you wish!
Again, I apologise for not being able to complete it.