In response to a fic challenge issued a while back. The idea came to me suddenly, and I didn't want to pass it up and have the story fly away.

Chapter 1- Nowhere to Run

Jacques felt trapped. She didn't know whether she should be on the offense and fend off the "predator" before her, or whether she should just go with the situation. There was no way she could draw her sword on him; it was an impossibility, for she had no desire to truly harm. She always found herself in such strange situations since she was a woman dressed in the garb of a musketeer. But leave it up to the childish offspring of one of France's greatest legends to put her in such an odd position.

She kept her expression calm, but it felt like her nerves were biting her skin. Her heart beat rapidly, making the tight binding around her chest uncomfortable. She met his eyes, and kept them locked in his gaze, hoping to stare him down. Her brow rose in curiosity when she realized there was a tiny scar just above his right eyebrow.

Since she came to the musketeer garrison, she had bonded strongly with an odd trio. A mischievous child personified in a man's body, a curious and insatiable inventor, and a passionate poet gifted with the art of language. In a short amount of time, they had shared much together.

Till the day she died, Jacques would always remember the bouts they had with Mazarin's henchmen, the days they spent cleaning the dungeons as punishment for disobeying Duval's orders, the appreciative smiles they received from the citizens of France when the musketeers came to their rescue. But none of those memories or lessons could have prepared her for this. This was just… awkward.

Though they have gone through much over the last several months, she never had much time to observe her new friends in a physical manner. D'Artagnan, of course, made it a point to invade her personal space whenever he could, but she was so busy prying him off of her that she could never see more than a man with dark hair and brown eyes that always danced with amusement whenever she was irritated. Siroc was the only musketeer in the whole garrison that didn't wear his uniform a whole day through. The sandy haired musketeer was always locked away in his lab if he didn't have high prioritized duties. And Ramon was the only one out of the four of them that had facial hair. Other than the obvious features, Jacques never took the time to take in the smaller traits that each man had. She reminded herself that it wouldn't be very manly if she was caught staring at her comrades for a long period of time. It might give off the wrong impression.

His face came closer to hers, and she tilted her head back instinctively. Now her eyes traveled to his cheeks. He smiled then. She didn't realize that he had dimples when he smiled. It was such a different smile than what she was used to seeing on his handsome face. It was warm and friendly, oddly very sweet and sincere. A wave of shivers spread throughout her body, and she tried to move out of the way, but she was at a dead end. She could not back up anymore; a cold wall pressed against her backside. He crossed his arms over his chest, and leaned forward, keeping his mouth just barely an inch away from hers.

She swallowed hard and closed her eyes, waiting for what was to come. "D'Artagnan," she whispered before she felt Siroc's lips pressed softly against hers.