Wrote this a while back and never posted. My site has been quiet for too long so I thought I'd share this.

She'd appeared in that ghost like way of hers, empty space one moment and the next she was crowding D'Artagnan against a wall and pressing a firm kiss to the corner of his mouth. He didn't even think about it before he turned his face to hers, lips sliding together with a familiar rhythm that needed no words or explanations.

It had been a hard few days and he was just looking to release some of his burdens if only for a moment and she was a warm weight leaning against him, soft and inviting in a way only a woman could be. They stayed like that for a long moment before she pulled away and smiled indulgently at him, wide eyes shining in the starlight like open doors to paradise.

"What captivates you so?" She murmured, her breath ghosting across his face.

"I've never seen a woman so beautiful," he replied just as softly and was surprised when the words didn't feel entirely genuine on his tongue.

She must have heard the slight catch in his voice and she pulled away further, drawing her head up regally to glare at him. Despite her intentions however, the movement merely drew attention to her slender throat and the ribbon wrapped around it. He remembered the scar, the words she had offered: "The man I loved tried to murder me."

At the time he'd just accepted it, not wanting to pry but in light of recent events he couldn't just accept that anymore. Athos had refused to speak of the fire or what had caused it, but D'Artagnan remembered with perfect clarity the words that had poured forth in drunken stupor: "I had her taken from the house and hung from the branch of a tree."

His hand rose of its own accord, fingertips ghosting over the ribbon before very carefully dragging it down, exposing the scar for him to see clearly. She didn't seem to be breathing anymore, holding perfectly steady as he examined her ruined throat, face pale as she gazed at him steadily.

"Athos," he muttered, almost silently. She heard nonetheless – of course she heard. She would have felt the words on her skin with the distance between them.

Her face darkened in an instant, eyes that had seemed to glow before now appearing as black holes that could drown him. "Do not speak that name to me," she snarled. "Why did you have to pry? You had such potential."

D'Artagnan didn't have time to process the words before she punched him in the stomach. No, not punched. There was a wetness spreading there, warm and terrible and he didn't need to look to know that he was bleeding badly. Uncomprehending, his eyes dropped to her fist, taking in the blade that was smeared with liquid that looked black in the darkness. Blood. His blood.

"Wha-" He managed to gasp out, only to stop short when the pain slammed into him, knocking the breath from his lungs and almost sending his legs out from under him. He sagged against the wall as fierce, aching fire raced across his stomach and up into his chest, clenching down hard on his lungs.

"I am sorry," she was saying, wiping the blood off her knife casually. "You weren't supposed to learn who I am. Not yet anyway. And I can't have you running back to the musketeers and telling them all about me now, can I?" He tried to reply but his throat couldn't let the words pass and he was left gaping helplessly as he slid to the floor.

His vision was fading in an out with every agonising pulse of his heart but somehow he still managed to see her face as she smiled down at him, her immaculate expression untouched by his plight. His eyes fluttered shut of their own accord.

When he managed to open them again, he was alone. His body was growing colder, shivering out of his control which only made the pain clawing at his torso worse and he sobbed miserably, choking on the blood in his throat. It was a cruel wound, one designed to make him bleed out over as long a period as possible, letting him suffer.

Athos' wife. His murderess. And now she'd murdered him.

His vision was all but gone but his hearing still seemed to be working, and over the pounding of his heart he could hear someone shouting his name, heavy footsteps thundering towards him. There were hands on his shoulders then, a palm against his cheek and around him he could feel the flustered movement of several people. He forced himself to focus.

"D'Artagnan, can you hear me?"

"Athos, we need to get him to a surgeon. This is well beyond my skill."

"He's losing too much blood."

"D'Artagnan!" There was pain across his face suddenly, though muted by the rest of his achings, and it took him a second to comprehend that he'd been slapped. He blinked, willing his eyes to focus on the three faces looming over him. "Thank god. You need to stay awake, alright?"

He wanted to reply, to ask them all what was going on but the words caught on something in his throat and he coughed painfully, his whole body contorting.

"Hold him still," Aramis ordered sternly before looking up at D'Artagnan. "Don't try to move. You're badly injured and every time you shift you lose more blood. Stay awake. Athos, talk to him. Keep him grounded."

Athos was the one with his hands on D'Artagnan's shoulders, eyes torn through with worry that he was desperately trying to hide behind that usually-untouched stoicism of his. There was something important D'Artagnan had to tell him but his mind wasn't able to focus sufficiently to recall what it was. Something about a woman…

The musketeer was talking to him, mumbling nothings into his ears in a desperate attempt to hold his attention but it was never going to work – D'Artagnan was half dead already. Athos swallowed, his throat bobbing with the movement and the motion somehow caught the boy's attention. He blinked.

A woman. Her neck, scarred. Athos.

D'Artagnan reached up with bloodied fingers and pressed lightly against Athos' throat, smearing red across the bearded skin. The darkness was pressing in on him but he fought to catch enough breath to say something, to explain everything that had happened and to apologise – he hadn't known, of course he hadn't known – but his lungs felt as though they were filled with oil.

In the end he was able to gasp out one word, barely discernable after it battled its way past the blood: "Wife."

The darkness claimed him.

Athos watched as D'Artagnan's eyes fluttered closed, freezing fingers still curved in the pool of his collarbone until he pulled the hand away. It was limp in his grasp.

"Aramis."

"I know. Not much we can do about it. We have to get him out of here – back to the barracks. It's not far."

"Can he survive that?"

"If we're exceptionally lucky and he keeps fighting, then we might have a chance. If we stay here then he's dead for sure."

Athos could see from the tightness in his comrade's face just how much luck they were relying on. D'Artagnan's breathing was growing more and more laboured, aching in and out of his chest like a dying animal. His skin was growing paler by the second and he was trembling violently, like every muscle in his body was fighting this. It was no way for a musketeer to die.

"Porthos, take his legs. On three. Three, two, one."

D'Artagnan didn't expect to wake up again. In fact, finding himself alive and somewhat functioning was more than a surprise.

He blinked blearily in the bright sunlight that was pouring into the room, wanting to raise a hand to block it out but finding that he was just too tired to attempt the movement. There was someone beside him – he could hear them breathing softly – but he wasn't quite ready to acknowledge them yet, more content to get his bearings first.

He could remember the stabbing, the feel of a blade inside his skin and he could vaguely remember something of great importance he had to tell… someone, but the details escaped him. As for how he came to be wherever he was, it was a mystery.

That probably meant it was time to find out who was in the room, he realised. Turning his head was proving to be something of a challenge so he resorted to just peering out of the corner of his eye, instantly recognising the dishevelled hair and beard, as well as the piercing blue eyes between them.

"Athos," he croaked. His throat scratched uncomfortably, as though he hadn't spoken in a long time.

"It's about time you woke up," the musketeer replied easily. "You've been sleeping for far too long." D'Artagnan couldn't do a whole lot more than frown in confusion, until Athos poured some water into his mouth carefully. He nodded in thanks. "It's been just over a week if you were wondering. You've not missed much, with the exception of at least two angry tirades from Madam Bonacieux about how we don't protect you well enough."

"I think I'm glad of that."

"You should be. You should also know that Aramis has now promised to accompany you whenever you decide to wander around Paris after nightfall alone." D'Artagnan gaped for a moment, unsure as to whether the older man was joking or not – when it became clear he wasn't, he rolled his eyes.

"I wonder how long that will last."

There was a long silence then, easy and comfortable and the young musketeer felt the weight of inactivity settling into his bones, leaving his muscles weak and sleepy. It would take a lot of work to recover from this injury and he was already dreading it.

"D'Artagnan," Athos said eventually, sounding uncharacteristically hesitant. "Before you passed out… You said 'wife.' I need to know what you meant."

That was all it took for the memories to crash into him; a scar, a ribbon, a fire. They flickered behind his eyes too fast to follow but enough for him to see the bigger picture.

"Oh god," he murmured.

Athos stirred then, reaching for his shoulder in concern as the young man's face paler alarmingly. "Calm down," he ordered. "Just breathe."

"I'm so sorry," D'Artagnan gasped out, panic flooding his veins. "It was your wife, I think, but I didn't know, of course I didn't know, I'm so sorry-"

"D'Artagnan! Stop. Start at the beginning."

It took him a few moments and several deep breaths but he managed to get himself under control. "I met her before I met you. The first day I came to Paris. We… spent the night together." D'Artagnan winced but Athos seemed unaffected. "I've seen her a few times since then – she just sort of appears and then vanishes again. I didn't realise who she was until…"

"Until she stabbed you."

"There was a scar around her neck. When I asked her about it before she said that the man she'd loved had tried to kill her… I didn't even think about it again. When she realised I knew who she was she attacked. She said something about not wanting you to know she was here."

Athos was quiet for a long time then, staring at the bed sheets as though they held all the answers he was searching for. When he spoke, he was calm. "You have nothing to apologise for D'Artagnan. It is I who must ask for your forgiveness. If not for me, you would not have been wounded."

There wasn't time to reply to that before the door burst open and Aramis strode in, quickly followed by Porthos, both of whom brightened considerably when they saw that the patient was awake. They greeted him with warm words and smiles, comforting pats on the shoulder and D'Artagnan spent the time basking in the warm glow of friendship. Athos was silent at their side, face clouded with uncertainty.

It wasn't until he smiled at the musketeer and mouthed 'it's alright, I'm alright' to him that he dropped the frown and seemed to relax. Something had definitely changed but maybe, it hadn't broken.

It's really hard to characterise with only three episodes okay? I did my best. I'm sort of in love with this series.

And yeah, as per usual, the ending is absolute shite. My sincerest apologies.