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Entry tags:
Musketeers - Reparations
Title: Reparations
Fandom: The Musketeers (BBC)
Genre: Gen
Rating: PG
Length: ~750 words
Synopsis: He cannot rest until justice has been sought.
Author's Notes: For the prompt "sick/injured" at![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
ushobwri.
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters and am making no profit from this.
Also available at AO3.
"They need me." His breath was a gasp that sounded wrong to his own ears.
"No, they really and truly do not," Constance countered. She pushed against his shoulder and he flopped down against the thin mattress without even knowing why or when he had sat up in the first place.
The thief. That was why. He saw him. He saw where he was headed. He knew where he would run to ground as he had seen him there before. "I know where to go," he tried. "I know where I need to be."
Constance nodded, the firelight a gleam against something small and silver in her curls. "You need to be right here, getting well, so that you can carry on your suicidal adventures with the other idiots soon enough," she told him.
He pushed upwards again, straining against a resistance he knew was not really trying that hard. Then again, the wet cloth across his brow seemed far too heavy to be made of anything save for lead, so perhaps his perception was addled after all. "They don't know where to go," he said, insistent. They would try and they would fail and they would be caught in a trap and endanger themselves solely because he was not there to guide them. They would fight well, and they may even chance a survival, but that chance would be all but certain were he to be there at their sides.
The cloth was removed and a fresh one slapped into place with a decent amount of force. "They know where to be because you all but drew them a map, you fool," she reminded him. Then, quieter now, "I did that part. Work long enough with designs and cloth and deliveries of such and you pick up a talent or two, you do."
A new voice sounded now, a scuff of boots and a wry, "You do and you do very well, my dear." A pause, and D'Artagnan focused his eyes enough to watch as Monsieur Bonacieux lightly kissed the top of his wife's head before focusing his attentions his way. "And how is your patient?"
"Stubborn and petulant," Constance replied readily enough. She wiped her hands on her apron and sighed. "He will not rest until he hears word the thief has been caught, and said word must be from the Musketeers themselves."
"Will you take my word in their stead?" Bonacieux inquired. He unbuttoned his cloak and Constance stood to take it from him. "I have returned from a meeting with Captain Treville and can report the brigand is in custody, though other matters detain your compatriots. You may rest well this evening knowing justice has been sought and that they will undoubtedly shade our doorstep soon enough."
D'Artagnan sank back against his pillow and let out a breath of relief. "Good, that is good," he mumbled, the need for sleep not just a tangible thing, but a beast with claws and teeth sunk deep within his flesh.
"Rest," Constance ordered. She twitched his blanket just so before she turned to leave, cloak draped over one arm and the plate of dry bread she had tried to feed him earlier propped with the other.
"Yes, Madame," he yawned.
He let his eyes drift closed and listened as the door squeaked open and shut behind his hosts. He also listened as bits and pieces of their continuing conversation threaded through the cracks in the wood to his very tired ears.
"Did you really see them?" Constance asked. There was a shuffle, likely her taking care of her burdens.
"I saw Treville and his troupe of men, that is no lie," Bonacieux confirmed. "As to whether the three he prefers the company of were present, I cannot be certain. They spoke of a thief captured though, and uncovering something new - I did try not to pry."
"Of course, my dear," Constance replied. "Any sign of my shawl?"
"Not that was returned of me, though they may be waiting to return it in person. If nothing else, I can make you a new one in a day's time and we can pretend if it makes that fool boy actually stay in bed and heal."
The rest of the words faded away and made about as much sense as the first, which is to say not much at all. D'Artagnan took comfort though in that the Musketeers had and would always catch their man, and that dear, sweet Constance shall have reparations for the wrong affronted her.
End.
Feedback is always welcomed.
Fandom: The Musketeers (BBC)
Genre: Gen
Rating: PG
Length: ~750 words
Synopsis: He cannot rest until justice has been sought.
Author's Notes: For the prompt "sick/injured" at
ushobwri.Disclaimer: I do not own these characters and am making no profit from this.
Also available at AO3.
"They need me." His breath was a gasp that sounded wrong to his own ears.
"No, they really and truly do not," Constance countered. She pushed against his shoulder and he flopped down against the thin mattress without even knowing why or when he had sat up in the first place.
The thief. That was why. He saw him. He saw where he was headed. He knew where he would run to ground as he had seen him there before. "I know where to go," he tried. "I know where I need to be."
Constance nodded, the firelight a gleam against something small and silver in her curls. "You need to be right here, getting well, so that you can carry on your suicidal adventures with the other idiots soon enough," she told him.
He pushed upwards again, straining against a resistance he knew was not really trying that hard. Then again, the wet cloth across his brow seemed far too heavy to be made of anything save for lead, so perhaps his perception was addled after all. "They don't know where to go," he said, insistent. They would try and they would fail and they would be caught in a trap and endanger themselves solely because he was not there to guide them. They would fight well, and they may even chance a survival, but that chance would be all but certain were he to be there at their sides.
The cloth was removed and a fresh one slapped into place with a decent amount of force. "They know where to be because you all but drew them a map, you fool," she reminded him. Then, quieter now, "I did that part. Work long enough with designs and cloth and deliveries of such and you pick up a talent or two, you do."
A new voice sounded now, a scuff of boots and a wry, "You do and you do very well, my dear." A pause, and D'Artagnan focused his eyes enough to watch as Monsieur Bonacieux lightly kissed the top of his wife's head before focusing his attentions his way. "And how is your patient?"
"Stubborn and petulant," Constance replied readily enough. She wiped her hands on her apron and sighed. "He will not rest until he hears word the thief has been caught, and said word must be from the Musketeers themselves."
"Will you take my word in their stead?" Bonacieux inquired. He unbuttoned his cloak and Constance stood to take it from him. "I have returned from a meeting with Captain Treville and can report the brigand is in custody, though other matters detain your compatriots. You may rest well this evening knowing justice has been sought and that they will undoubtedly shade our doorstep soon enough."
D'Artagnan sank back against his pillow and let out a breath of relief. "Good, that is good," he mumbled, the need for sleep not just a tangible thing, but a beast with claws and teeth sunk deep within his flesh.
"Rest," Constance ordered. She twitched his blanket just so before she turned to leave, cloak draped over one arm and the plate of dry bread she had tried to feed him earlier propped with the other.
"Yes, Madame," he yawned.
He let his eyes drift closed and listened as the door squeaked open and shut behind his hosts. He also listened as bits and pieces of their continuing conversation threaded through the cracks in the wood to his very tired ears.
"Did you really see them?" Constance asked. There was a shuffle, likely her taking care of her burdens.
"I saw Treville and his troupe of men, that is no lie," Bonacieux confirmed. "As to whether the three he prefers the company of were present, I cannot be certain. They spoke of a thief captured though, and uncovering something new - I did try not to pry."
"Of course, my dear," Constance replied. "Any sign of my shawl?"
"Not that was returned of me, though they may be waiting to return it in person. If nothing else, I can make you a new one in a day's time and we can pretend if it makes that fool boy actually stay in bed and heal."
The rest of the words faded away and made about as much sense as the first, which is to say not much at all. D'Artagnan took comfort though in that the Musketeers had and would always catch their man, and that dear, sweet Constance shall have reparations for the wrong affronted her.
End.
Feedback is always welcomed.