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Pour another round

There are many descriptors that can be applied to Milady deWinter. Perhaps the most important is the term survivor.

She will always do what she needs to do to survive. She's not surprised that things turned out how they did. Not really. She has learned to expect the worst.

But here she is back in this place. This strange, modern place where she can, if she wants, be anything she wants to be. Milady supposes now is the time to figure that out. Surely, it's only a matter of time before Athos lives through what she has. Will he still want her?

Someone will. Surely.

She sits at the hotel bar, draining one glass of sharp, bitter alcohol and signalling for another, her skirt - the finest Parisian silk - covering the barstool, the curve of her shoulder gleaming in the low light.

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He would recognize it anywhere. Even fraught with the war, dirt lining his wrinkles despite his attempt to scrub them out, he would know her anywhere. Cautious, he approaches and settles beside her, raising a brow as he regards what she's wearing. "Is there an occasion I missed?" he wonders, wondering how long it's been since she last saw him, how long it's been since they were last together.

[I'm only on episode 7, so be kind on spoilers!]

[of course.]

Just as he would know her everywhere, Milady - Anne? Was she still Anne to him? - knows that voice. Even if he is dirty from battle, she knows, his eyes, his voice. All of these things she knows by heart, just as she knows that what they are cannot be sustained.

Oh, how she wishes it could. Tilting her chin up, she shrugs, putting on the facade of nonchalance. "No," she says, looking down at herself, then back at him, feeling herself lean toward him instinctively. Her wardrobe is her armor and she knows he knows this.

He drifts closer to her to close the gap, reaching out to cup her cheek with steady fingers, the battle having evened out his drinking until he could manage himself without the bottles of wine. "You look lovely," he praises quietly, offering the glimpse of a smile if she knows where to look for it.

She does, of course, and her own smile matches his, more in her eyes than anywhere else, even as she leans into his touch. "You look as if you need a bath and a scrub brush," she says, her tone sardonic and fond in turns, feeling him out at the same time. "Where have you been?"

"Spain," is his response, thinking of the last campaign he'd been on. Luckily, there is no blood amidst the dirt and grime, so he is only dirty and not contaminated. "I don't know if you've heard, but there is something of a war on," he dryly remarks.

"So I've heard," she answers, her reply just as arid, looking him over even as she arches a brow. "And you came directly from the battlefield?"

There is some relief in knowing that. They have some time, then.

"Come," she says, sliding to stand. "Let's get you cleaned up."

His shoulders sag somewhat with relief and he gives a nod, both to her question and to her order. "I was here a few weeks ago, with Porthos, but I couldn't stay long. We had an assault to run," he says, thinking of the last two years and how wearying it's been. "Your room or mine?"

They've yet to talk about time. Perhaps Milady won't even bring it up. Something about, for a brief moment, anyway, ignorance being bliss.

"Mine, I would imagine," she tells him. Even as filthy as he is, she links her arm through his. "Just Porthos?" she asks, her tone idle only to those who don't know her. "Not d'Artagnan and Aramis?"

"Not that I've seen, yet," he clarifies. He has not seen Aramis in two years, now. Not since he walked away to Douai, leaving the brotherhood behind. He gives her a curious look. "Why do you care so much? Should I be worried?"

"I'm just curious how - what you've seen. What you and the other Musketeers have experienced," she tells him. Of course, she knows this to a degree, but she wouldn't be Milady deWinter if she laid all her cards on the table. Can she keep Athos close if she plays everything just right?

Perhaps.

"No, only Porthos has been here and he's from the war as well. Some battles forward, but the same war," he confirms, giving her a curious look as they walk the halls. She is hiding something, but the truth is that he's not sure he wants to know what it is. Not yet.

"Not yet" can perhaps be the catchphrase of their relationship.

"Time seems to be our adversary right now," Milady notes, still keeping her tone purposefully light. "Well, as much as Spain is."

Not that she's seen Spain as her adversary. But then, she's always been an opportunist in that way.

"Perhaps we will be able to take advantage of this time, then, here." He offers her a gentle smile, growing eager to touch her as much as he can. There will be time for it, though, if only he is patient. And besides, he is hardly in fit shape to be touching anyone now, as much as a mess as he is.

He's not - not that that is enough to stop her, either. But the baths in this place are a special kind of luxury and she'll indulge as is her will.

She leads Athos into her room. It's as generic a room in this place gets, seeing as she doesn't seem to linger much. She goes to the bath, though, starting the taps near to steaming before she pours in bath oils. "Shall we send your uniform for cleaning or would you rather we didn't?" she asks, watching him sidelong. For what, she doesn't know.

"It will be dirty within moments of returning to the front, but a few moments of feeling clean would be a wonder," he says, nodding in agreement to her suggestion as he begins to strip off the outer pieces of the armour, wincing as old aches begin to present themselves anew.

There are people to do that; Milady would not have suggested otherwise. But she does help him undress. She will touch his cuts and bruises, even revel in the smell of his sweat, taking in the new tone to his muscles, borne of fighting and less drink, she thinks.

"Come," she says, taking his hand to lead him to the tub, filling with steaming water.

Once Athos is bare, he follows after her with slow, trudging feet. Unfortunately, he is battle-weary and even less talkative than usual, which is a feat for someone like Athos. "Will you be joining me? Or simply nursing me today?"

The yearning she feels is nearly overwhelming; she feels herself lean toward him like a flower toward the sun. But she gives him a small smile first. "We shall see," she offers coyly, nudging him toward the bath. There, she can sit on the edge and soap a cloth to begin to urge him clean. It won't be easy; the dirt is deep-set, but it gives her a reason to touch him; she will gladly take it.

Athos allows her to bathe him, watching the dirt come off him in clumps, it seems. He will smell better by the end of her attentions, he knows, but until then he finds himself a disaster. "And what have you been up to in the meantime?" he wonders, half-wondering whether she will even tell him.

She doesn't meet his eyes, concentrating instead on what she's doing; it's a good thing there is endless water in this place; she pulls the plug to drain the dirty and start with the fresh. "I have kept my head above water, I suppose."

"I think you will always be able to do that," Athos assures her, for it is one of her greatest skills and one that he admires as much as he despises it. She will always survive, no matter what she must do. "I'm glad to hear that it has allowed you to stay here with me."

Everything in Anne softens when he says that and her movements pause as her eyes flick to his, searching for something - anything - to indicate that his feelings haven't dimmed.

"...are you?"

He wonders what must have happened to cause such a reaction in her, though he does not want to start prodding and causing a row, especially not when he is so comfortable and relaxed. "Of course I am. My feelings have not changed, Anne."

For a moment, there is nothing more than naked want on her face, making the dangerous Milady deWinter look entirely vulnerable. She leans over, cupping his wet chin to kiss him them, lingering there.

Athos tips his chin up into the kiss, letting it linger as he cups her cheek in order to keep tight to her, refusing to let her get too far away. The dirt is beginning to flake into the water and he watches it go with a great deal of satisfaction.

Eventually, he eases back from the kiss and gives her a tired look. "No one said being a Captain would be so exhausting."

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