Notes:

Welcome to the last chapter of Blood Spilled! Thank you for all the wonderful views, kudos and reviews! They mean so much.

Anyway, on with the chapter. I'll see you in the notes at the bottom!

Blood Spilled

Chapter 7

The hall was packed. The room, a small Catholic chapel with beautiful stained glass windows and old wooden pews, was hushed. Men and women created a sea of black suits and jackets, broken up only by pin pricks bright silver which adorned every agent's chest. Even Constance, flanked by Aramis and Porthos, the former holding her hands and later's arm curled around her shoulders, had a Fleur de Lis pin attached to the front of her black dress. It had been d'Artagnan's pin, left in his desk before the undercover assignment. It had only seemed right for her to have it.

The little trio sat in the front pew, a spot which had been left for them as a sign of respect. Constance's hands had clutched Aramis' in a death grip since they had stepped foot over the church's door step, not that the man had complained once. Aramis was aware that Constance was holding onto her composure by mere threads, and such a miracle was only possible due to the close proximity of the two men. There was only one empty seat in the whole sanctuary, in the front row, next to group. Aramis had noticed, as had Porthos when they'd shared a knowing look over Constance's head.

He wasn't there. Aramis had hoped he would have shown up, but wasn't all that surprised…

"d'Artagnan," Treville's voice rang out over the hundred strong congregation. Porthos felt Constance flinch at the name under his arm and pulled her a little tighter to his side. She resisted only for a moment before sinking into the big man's warmth.

"Was a good agent. But, more importantly, he was a great man."

Their Captain stood tall in his dark suit, his own pin sat proudly on his lapel. His fingers curled against the lectern as he looked over the crowd. If he had notes, he hadn't glanced at them once. To his left sat a poster board, the smiling face of their young agent shining out over the crowd. He looked so, Aramis couldn't think of any word for it, alive. His eyes gleamed out from the card, his lips curled in a smile which was just beginning to tumble into a laugh. It felt like, if Aramis waited long enough, the laugh might still come.

"He was a man who refused to be defined by his past. Refused to let it dictate his future. So many people, people without the same strength of character, would have allowed such events to destroy them. They would have given up and proclaimed it was too much, but our boy was strong. He rose back. When he joined our brotherhood he studied, learned and even occasionally listened-"

A ripple of heartbroken laughter echoed through the crowd. Aramis heard himself laughing along, saw Porthos' shoulders move, but the sound seemed forced, hollow…

"He grew with us, in skill and strength and character, into the man we knew and loved. When he arrived into our organisation d'Artagnan was a headstrong, stubborn, boy and I had the privilege of watching him transform into a brave, brilliant man, even if he kept up a headstrong, stubborn streak."

Treville paused for a moment as he expelled a breath slowly.

"I wish I could continue to watch that transformation, I wish we all could. d'Artagnan's life was not meant to end this soon. He was not destined to die in that explosion. Our friend, our brother was stolen from us. He was ripped from our lives by a madman who d'Artagnan had sworn to stop. Well he did that. d'Artagnan succeeded in his final mission. It is my one regret that it cost him his life."

Their Captain cleared his throat and stepped out from behind the podium. His hand raised up and touched his silver pin.

"But our bond does not end in death. Our kinship is not so easily severed. d'Artagnan is, was, and will always be our brother. His family-" Treville's eyes found Constance and gave her a small nod, "- are our family. Their problems are our problems. That promise is written in our constitution, written on our hearts. Please, if you are willing to make that commitment, stand with me now…"

There was a shuffling around the room as people rose. Unit 5 stood up, Ninon solemn in a black dress reached up and touched her silver pin, the rest of her team only a moment behind. Samara stood a little further back, surrounded by her own team as she pressed a tight lipped kiss to her own Fleur de Lis. Doctor Lemay stood on the other side of the congregation, tears in his eyes as a finger traced his own over the metal on his chest. The rest of his research team were by his side, each looking to their Captain on the platform.

Every agent in between got to their feet, ready to make the pledge to their fallen brother. Quickly the little group at the front were only three people sitting in the whole chapel. Constance, because it wasn't her oath to take, and Aramis and Porthos because they couldn't bare leave her side.

"And as one voice," Treville's voice rang out over the crowd, "We make our oath. We make our vow to our fallen brother, to his family left behind. You are not alone, you will never be alone. All for one and one for all!"

"All for one and one for all!" Every voice in the hall echoed out their repeated vow. The words filled the area, the promise swelled into every inch of the room. Constance heard them all, but none more so than the two promises whispered into either ear.

There was one more oath, offered by someone who only Treville could see. Through the sea of agents, of the familiar faces of the men and women he would lay down his life for, Treville focused on one. He shouldn't be there, in the back row. There was a seat reserved with the rest of his team in the front row, but then, perhaps he would rather be alone. Perhaps that what he felt he deserved. His mouth moved along with the others, making his own oath secretly as his hand pressed to his pin.

But by the time Treville had motioned the crowd to be seated, and looked back to the spot, Athos had disappeared.

The wake would be going on, but Athos slipped from the church. He should go, he was expected to go, but Athos fled down the steps. He wasn't needed, wasn't wanted. Constance would be in good hands. In fact, the best hands.

Aramis? He would know the right things to say. He'd stick by Constance's side, murmuring gentle words of encouragement in her ear. He might even remind her of better times, of her husband's smiles, so even through the tears her lips would twitch with the slightest happiness.

Porthos? He would know what to do. Without words he would envelop the little woman in a hug, wrap his strong arms around her body and squeeze just tight enough so she knew her world wasn't falling apart, even if it felt like it was. Even without hugs he would maintain physical contact. An arm round the shoulders, her hand on the small of her back. It would just be little touches, but they would remind Constance she wasn't alone.

They were there, they would be there for her. What good would Athos be? Why would Constance want to look at him? The man who had, in so many ways, caused her husband's death…

Athos barely registered the walk back to his apartment, ignored the world around him as he let himself in with key. He hadn't been back to the flat since his first night released from the hospital, 48 hours after his friend's death. Aramis had driven him there that morning, the car wrapped in an awkward silence. Athos hadn't been surprised that his friend had hardly looked at him. Why would he when Athos couldn't even look at himself?

"Do you want me to come up with you?" Aramis had asked as they'd pulled up. A hand had attempted to come and rest on Athos' shoulder, but he'd shot away before it landed.

"I'll be fine… You should get back to, Porthos." He'd muttered, before escaping the confines of the car.

The empty bottle of wine and the glass still sat on the table from that day, his bag from the hospital on the chair. Athos glared at it as he walked past. His hand savagely loosened his black tie and tossed it on the counter top, quickly followed by his suit jacket. For a moment he vaguely considered changing out of his white shirt and dress trousers but, Athos reasoned, that could be time better spent drinking.

It had taken Athos a good ten years to trust himself to drink again after his near overdose. Ten years to prove to himself alcohol wouldn't revert him back to the teenager who chased numbness in a bottle of wine or canister of pills. He'd really believed that he'd overcome those weaknesses of his character, but now, as dark voices screamed murder inside his head, Athos suddenly wasn't so sure.

You did kill him… the voice sneered. You ordered him to his death.

Athos flinched. He scrubbed his hand through his hair and over his tired eyes.

d'Artagnan had wanted to go, he'd wanted to go undercover.

To impress you! He wanted to prove he was good enough and he ended up dead because of it!

Athos ignored the shake of his hands as he reached up and tugged down a wine bottle from a high shelf.

Constance would still have a husband if it wasn't for you…

Cork screw… Where the hell was the cork screw?

He'd be alive if it wasn't for you!

Anger flashed for a moment and Athos sent the object nearest to him flying. The wine bottle shot from his grasp and ricocheted against his abandoned bag. Both went crashing to the tiled floor. Athos cursed as the bottle shattered, the dark wine oozing over white kitchen tiles, staining the grout and the spilled contents of his bag.

Athos groaned, unsure if it was due to the mess or the wasted wine, and stepped forward to inspect the damage. The grabbed his medical discharge papers, now stained a deep crimson, and began to ball them up when something else grabbed his gaze. A small orange cylinder lay in the wine puddle, red drips flecking the label. Due to the curve of the bottle Athos couldn't read the stamped type of his own name, but could read the name of the contents.

Acetaminophen-Codeine.

Damn it. Damn it, damn it!

He'd refused that medication. His damned file was supposed to be marked as unsuitable for oral pain relief. Treville had 'suggested' (instructed) Athos do that when he'd first enlisted into the Army.

Why had that damned doctor even asked?

"No," Athos had continued to stuff things into his bag, ignoring the twinge of pain his side and shoulder. "Thank you." He'd added as an afterthought.

"Mr Alexander, you had quite the fall," The doctor shook the little canister of pills at him, clearly unwilling to take no for an answer. "If you are insisting to be discharged against medical advice you must take some kind of pain management with you. Right now you have residual effects of morphine in your system but I assure you that will not last beyond midday. You need to have some time of medication with you to deal with the pain."

He'd refused, again and again, because knew his limits. Alcohol was one thing, but tablets were quite another. Athos hadn't taken anything stronger than an Aspirin since Treville had found him passed out cold on the floor of his parent's basement. He didn't trust himself.

And now the Codeine was in his house.

For a second Athos just crouched there, wine soaked paper dripping from his hand.

He should call Treville, or flush them, or call Treville then flush them. Whatever he did he should get them out of his house and out of reach.

But he didn't. Athos scooped up the canister, ignoring the damp sticky patches. He grabbed the corkscrew (which sat beside the empty bottle), found a fresh bottle of wine, and swept from the room.

Athos ignored the hammering on his front door, just had he had been doing for the last 15 minutes. His fingers gripped the neck of the dark green bottle and tipped it back over his open mouth. His other hand twirled the, as yet unopened, canister.

The heavy knocks on the door finally ceased. Athos' head fell back against the hallway wall he sat against as he let out a sigh of relief. Finally, it had seemed the unwelcome visitor had gotten the message.

Or so it had seemed.

A couple of quiet scratches were his only prior warning. The wine induced fog inside Athos' mind dulled his senses. By the time he realised that those noises meant, what was happening, it was too late. Athos clumsily stuffed the orange canister behind his back, just as the door opened.

Ninon stepped forward into the room, tucking the hair pin back into her curls. She was still wearing her black funeral dress, a modest knee length garment with lace sleeves to the elbow. The woman took in the sight before her. Athos, in his black trousers and crumpled white shirt, collapsed in his hallway against a wall, drinking wine from the bottle with a good third already gone. Surprisingly, the woman didn't so much as raise an eyebrow.

"Your door is a joke. The lock took me less than a minute to pick. You should see to that."

Athos' head rolled, listening to the sound of his own neck cracking.

"A closed door is usually an indication of someone not wanting to be disturbed, Ninon…"

"I have hardly made a habit of listening to you," Ninon stepped into the room and let the door click shut behind her, "It would be a shame to break such a useful habit."

Athos normally was more than willing to spar, verbally or otherwise with the towering blonde, but today he just sighed. "What do you want, Ninon?"

"I didn't see you at the funeral." Ninon stepped forward, until Athos was looking straight at her shins. His gaze dropped down to the wine bottle in his hand, deciding that it was a better view. "But seeing how you're dressed, I suppose you were there."

Athos nodded, "I went."

Ninon's eyebrow shot up, "And not the wake?"

"Why would I?" Athos shrugged clumsily, his finger running around the lip of the bottle.

"Why would you – Athos, d'Artagnan was your friend!" She bent down to down to look him in the eye. Athos ducked the gaze, instead he took another swig from the glass bottle.

"Don't…"

"He was your friend, Athos – no…" Ninon's hand enclosed around the neck of the bottle over Athos' fingers, preventing him knocking any more back. The action finally forced Athos to look up, pain etched deep into his gaze as it locked with Ninon's.

"Please, please, don't..."

The crack in Athos' voice made the woman pause. She had seen Athos angry, she seen him stressed, even once she'd seen him scared, but never this… Never hopeless…

"Well you aren't going to just sit here alone and drink yourself into oblivion," Ninon breathed, her second hand trying to coax Athos into releasing the wine. Stubbornly, Athos' fingers refused to relent ownership.

"And you plan to stop me?" For a second, the smallest of seconds, Ninon thought she saw a flash of the old Athos in his eyes. Defiant humour, a spark of challenge… But with a blink it was gone.

Decision made, Ninon lowered herself to the carpet and settled next to Athos. He frowned, looking as if Ninon had grown an extra head as she kicked of her black court heels and stretched her legs out next to Athos'.

"What are you doing?"

"I said you weren't drinking alone," Ninon arched an eyebrow and tugged a little more forcefully at the bottle, "Now are you going to share?"

Athos released his hold on the wine and watched, dumfounded, as Ninon threw her head back and downed a few mouthfuls of wine. He blinked. Ninon. Stiff upper lipped, old money, disrespect me and I'll chop your balls off, Ninon, was drinking wine straight from the bottle on his hallway floor.

Perhaps he should take a picture….

Ninon wiped a stray wine drip from the corner of her mouth, holding Athos' gaze with defiance.

"What?"

Athos just shook his head, "Nothing, I - Nothing…" He took his bottle back and gulped down a mouthfuls.

With a smirk Ninon nodded.

"Good."

So they drank. The first bottle was drained quickly, replaced rapidly by Athos with another. For the second Ninon had insisted they move to his living room sofa, although didn't mention the need for glasses. They passed the bottle between them and talked little. Ninon, honestly, had been shaken by the emotion she had seen in her fellow agent's eyes, so hadn't brought up the funeral again. But by the last quarter of the second bottle… Common sense was not prevalent.

Ninon, a little unsteadily, leant forward and set the bottle on the coffee table, out of reach. Athos frowned, his eyes following the wine as it was removed from his presence.

"I wasn't done with that…"

"And you can have it back once you've answered my question…" Ninon ran a hand through her hair. Athos watched the way the golden curls broke free from the regimented bun and fell in ringlets around her face. Their addition seemed to soften her features. Still, Athos regarded her warily. He had a sneaking suspicion he knew where this was going.

"And if I don't want to?"

"Athos…" Ninon turned carefully on the sofa so she could face him. "I want to help you…"

Warning bells began in Athos' mind.

"Don't."

Carefully Ninon reached out a hand towards his own. Athos pulled back and out of reach. The movement drew a sigh from the woman.

"Athos…"

But Athos didn't want to hear it. Before Ninon could finish her sentence he was already moving. He shoved away from the sofa and stumbled, a little unsteadily, towards the room's window.

"Ninon, stop. I don't – I just can't."

"What can't you do?"

She watched Athos' shoulders hunch as his forehead came to rest on the cool glass.

"I can't deal with your sympathy."

Ninon blinked in surprise. She had expected… Well not that. She watched tension ooze across his body and spread out across his shoulders, watched as his breath misted up against the window pane.

"I don't… I don't deserve it."

"Don't deserve-" Ninon shook her head and slid from the sofa into a standing position, "Athos this isn't sympathy, it's empathy! You are mourning, but we all are too. We loved d'Artagnan. We all did!"

"I know you all loved him!" Athos spat, anger suddenly bubbling up throat and bursting red hot out of his mouth. His hands curled into tight fists at his side. "I loved him! He had a wife and a dream and a future and I STOLE THAT!" The muscles along Athos' arm strained with pressure. For a second Ninon feared Athos might put his fist through the window but then Athos seemed to drain. His body slumped against the cool glass, beaten.

"I got d'Artagnan killed," The admission was barely above a whisper, a few choked out words of honest which broke the man in two. "I let him go on that mission. I let him stay in that building alone. He should have never been there, he wouldn't have been in that blast if it wasn't for me."

"That's not…"

"Not what? True?" Athos shook his head. Ninon's stomach twisted in discomfort, watching as Athos' face warped in bitter self-loathing. She could only see half of his face and even that was covered in shadow. A humourless laugh fell from his lips. "I left him in that warehouse. I didn't check everyone has been incarcerated… It was my op, my responsibility and he died on my watch…"

Athos trailed off into silence.

There it was. The truth, or at least Athos' understanding of the truth. Ninon knew it wasn't important whether his truth aligned with the rest of the world's or not, it was his reality.

She let out a sigh as Athos' eyes slid shut. Slowly, so she couldn't be accused of an ambush, Ninon's bare feet padded across the small room to Athos. She raised her hand, second guessed herself only for a moment, before she gently found Athos' shoulder. She provided just enough pressure to encourage the man to pivot, which he did with minimal resistance.

"Look at me…" Ninon's voice was soft, but her words were not posed as a request. She waited as patiently as she could, but was on the verge of repeating the instruction when Athos finally opened his eyes. Still blue, still bright, but broken. Moisture welled in the edges which, had they been sober, Ninon was sure wouldn't have been there.

"I can't live with this…" Athos confessed, "I can't. Not knowing what I caused. How am I meant to look at my team, look at Constance, knowing that d'Artagnan's death is my fault? "

"Athos…"

"How can you look at me?" Ninon could smell the wine on his breath, see the intoxication dance in his features. Athos stepped forward, his hand clumsily reaching up to brush ringlets of hair out of her face. "How can you be here?"

"Because," Ninon held Athos' gaze, pausing to ensure she had his full attention, "this isn't your fault."

It seemed like Athos was ready to argue again but instead he just sighed.

"I just don't want to think about it," Athos withdrew his hand, as if only just realising it had likely lingered beyond its welcome. "I just… It hurts too much…"

Had the pair not been alone? It wouldn't have happened. Had they been sober? It wouldn't have happened. Had they both not been emotionally raw in need of comfort? It wouldn't have happened.

But they were.

Ninon took a step forward, a hand sliding up to cup the back of Athos' head. A little sound clawed out from the man's throat at the contact, which only spurred Ninon on more.

"You don't want to think about it anymore…" Ninon repeated gently, "Do you… Need a distraction?"

Athos swallowed, blowing a breath out around his teeth.

"Yes…"

Ninon's fingers tightened ever so lightly in Athos' hair which drew a hiss from between his lips.

"Do you want me to distract you?"

For a second all Ninon could hear was Athos' shallow breathing. She worried she'd made a mistake, read the scene wrong. It was possible. Over all the years she'd known Athos, Ninon had never seen him out of control, never seem him in a situation he didn't command just by his presence.

But perhaps this was what Athos needed right now. Perhaps he needed to be out of control, to hand it over to someone else and, if only for a little while, allow his mind to close down. Still… There was no guarantee Athos would allow himself to let go.

But then his eyes slid closed. Athos' head leaned back feeling the tight hold of his hair. Ninon watched his Adam's apple bob up and down as he swallowed.

"Please…"

Ninon's continued to apply pressure to with her hand as she stepped forward. He felt her breath traced over his lips, over his cheeks, it made air hitch in his own throat. She was close… So close.

"Please what..?"

"Please," Athos swallowed. He wanted this. He needed the distraction. He needed to stop thinking and making decisions and hearing the voices screaming murder inside his head. He needed this." Ninon?"

"Good boy…" Ninon nodded. Her free hand reached up and gripped onto Athos' crumpled shirt. She tugged his body firmly towards her own as her lips found his.

"I can't… Sir, he needs pain relief," The Doctor supressed a flinch as the patient writhed and shuddered on the thin mattress in front of him. Second degree burns covered much of the slim figure's left side. Angry red blisters covered his chest, shoulder and across his stomach. The typically tanned skin was angry and enflamed, shiny blisters swelling until they burst and the body seemed to weep.

His arm though? That was a different matter. The burns of the figure's left arm had drilled down to the bone, destroying every layer of skin on the way. The skin was a dark red and only time would tell if it would turn black. If it did? Well the skin would be dead. In any hospital in the country that would lead to a skin graft but now? In this bare room with only the most basic medical supplies? Amputation would be a more likely option.

The figure twitched, his blistered shoulder knocked against the bed and a whined, features etched with pain. The Doctor actually flinched this time. As gently as possible he continued to care for the man's broken body. Two fingers gently applied which antiseptic cream to the worst blisters, giving them a disconcertingly chalky appearance.

"I've not employed you to keep him comfortable, Doctor Deniau," Richelieu's eyes slid over the shaking form on the metal bed. Precautions had been taken. When the man had been brought to the room his uninjured arm had been cuffed to the bed frame, but that seemed a little redundant now. The man may be conscious, but with fifty percent of his body burned from the waist up? He wouldn't be going anywhere.

"I've charged you with keeping him alive."

"And if he goes into shock from the pain that may not be possible." Deniau carefully tugged the man's long dark hair away from his burns. He had shaved the areas closest to the facial burns, up his neck and over his left ear, but the rest of the strands seemed intent to become stuck in the blistery mass. The man was lucid, at least partly. His eyes were at half mast, lips mouthing silent prayer Deniau didn't understand.

"There will be no pain relief until I hear what I need to hear." Richelieu's eyes shot back to the squat, balding, middle aged man, "And you will do as I say, unless you want those photographs to end up on your wife's doorstep."

Deniau shuddered. One mistake. One drunken night. One stupid decision. The CCTV images of him fucking the prostitute in The Silver Room would be held over his head for the rest of his life.

This whole thing was wrong. To keep this man awake and without morphine was nothing short of torture, but what could he do? In the end Deniau just nodded, ignoring the sick feeling in his stomach.

"As you wish, Sir."

"Good," Richelieu carefully circled the figure in the bed, taking in the man. Deniau watched the body on the bed stiffen, the man's lips freeze mid mantra. The old man' crouched down with surprising dexterity, right at the figure's ear.

"Say it. Tell me who you belong to and I will order him to make the pain go away."

The body on the bed twitched away from the voice. A groan followed quickly as the skin was bumped yet again.

"Four words…" Richelieu taunted slowly. His hand reached up and pressed into on the blisters in his neck, drawing a howl from the man's cracked lips.

"Four words. Say it. 'I belong to you.' Say it and this all goes away."

The man remained silent. Deniau found himself begging in his mind, pleading with the broken figure on the bed to just give the madman what he wanted. Just give in.

But there was only silence.

"Fine." Richelieu said finally. He drew himself back to full height, towering over the charred man. "Fine. Enjoy your night. Enjoy the pain. We'll try this again in the morning…"

With one more careful press to the man's neck, one more scream of pain, he left the room.

Deniau began his work again. More antiseptic cream. More heavy duty moisturiser. More mutterings.

The man's lips began to move slowly again which didn't escape the Doctor's notice.

"If you're praying," Deniau said with a sigh, "I hope whoever's up there is listening."

d'Artagnan wasn't praying. His mantra played, over and over, a CD skipping in his mind. He clung to the words, clung to their truth in an attempt to ignore the white hot pain which ignited his body.

My name is d'Artagnan de Lupiac.

My wife's name is Constance de Lupiac.

My teammate's names are Aramis Herblay and Porthos du Vallon.

Our leader's name is Athos Alexander.

We are Musketeers.

All for one and one for all.

Notes:

I hate to end the story here, but it seemed like the natural end.

The next story has been started, although I cannot promise when it will be posted. Be assured it WILL be posted, an it will be worth the wait - promise!

Until then, thank you SOOO much for enjoying the story and sharing your thoughts!

Love love!

Lat ^^