Probably should have left the alcohol to Athos, really.

[at_your_side]

Intoxicated. Yes, that was- that was the word she was looking for. Intoxicated was just the very thing she could use to describe herself...or her state...the state of herself?

While the details of it had become increasingly fuzzy with each of the delightful, oh so colorful cocktails the bartender sat in front of her (how many had she had again?), Constance was fairly certain the day had begun well enough. There had been a bath, a bath! One with an endless supply of hot water piped right into her room so she might lie in her tub with the dawn light filtering in through the glass of her colored windows and wiggle her toes in easy contentedness.

But then there- ah! There had been the issue of dressing. Or, rather, not of dressing but of what to dress herself in when her only...dress, yes, had been worn already for the day before. She could have made do with it if she had had to, had even pulled it on while not pulling too much of a face, but had been all too grateful upon meeting the lovely Ruby in the hallway not far from her door.

Never had she seen a woman who wore so little out in public. It had left her gaping in the second before she had recovered herself, to see so much skin on display with not so much a flicker of concern in the other woman's expression as she had smiled and introduced herself. Somehow - now here the details were particularly fuzzy at that moment - they had gotten onto the subject of Constance's singular dress and somehow further the conversation had become one of the other woman, still a stranger, but so earnestly friendly, had volunteered her help.

All of which led to her sitting there at the bar of the Smoking Room, wearing pants of all things while Ruby slid a drink in front of her. She was certain there had been sense behind the action, and no, she did not feel the least bit overexposed with the buttoned shirt she wore beneath her corset or the coat she wore that hung down to her knees (she tried not to giggle at the thought of needing to cover her bum, but was only partially successful). What was even more certain was that these - those little cocktails, they were delicious.

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[at_your_side]

It eased a degree of the tightness in her chest to know she was not alone in knowing of her husband's murder. The Queen had already too many of her own worries to allow her to comfortably add to the weight her friend bore. She could not ask for advice on a matter that seemed so trivial in the face of Rochefort's attack, particularly in knowing the damage the man could do if he could prove the Queen's infidelity.

She might have drained her glass entirely had he offered any condolences then.

"Should I also explain that I had thought he had had a hand in it, until he told me otherwise?" The beautifully icy cocktail was less than comforting when she paused to drink it than she had hoped. "Perhaps I should tell him what cause he had had to swear to do exactly that that very day?" Shaking her head, Constance gave him a sad smile. "I could not do that to him, Porthos."

[praiseandglory]

"I haven't either," Porthos told her, hoping the simple words would assure her that he understood. It would have been much more simple for him, as he would have glossed over such things, and yet it still seemed too cruel to his friend.

They were briefly interrupted by the arrival of the tavern wench, from whom he asked for a glass of red wine, with a small friendly smile.

"But you're no longer in mourning," he added as he turned back to Constance, his countenance grave once more. Or, at least, open, attentive.

[at_your_side]

Although she could remember no occasion she heard him speak at any great length, her memories more full of his communication in the sound of his laughter, in pulls of his expression or shifts of his broad shoulders, Constance allowed herself to be soothed by the rich, deep timbre of his voice. The understanding did better than the cocktails already drunk had, and she let out much of the tension that had wired through her in place of the pleasant lack of sobriety with a release of her breath.

Had she thought of it, she might have pointed out that the other woman's name was Ruby. That for all that she looked half-dressed (when generously described by their standards) she had offered her help and bits of advice with a thoughtlessness the world could use more of.

Instead she was grateful for the privacy the waitress gave them to speak, and nodded her thanks before they were left again alone. "Not even three days," she told him, finding a thin thread of humor in a subject that was so empty of it, her lips twisting into a fraction of a smile. "Might be a record."

[praiseandglory]

"Whatever feels right for you," Porthos says, and means it. He's thinking of Alice, and the way it hadn't felt like she was dishonouring her husband at all, but he doesn't even know if the man deserved much honouring. He knows for a fact that Constance has always deserved a better husband than Bonacieux. She gave him three days more than some might have and, knowing her, they were genuine.

He thanks the tavern wench with another quick smile when she sets his glass down in front of him. "Here's to your future, Constance," he tells her, reaching to (gently) tip his glass against hers.

[at_your_side]

How long might she have languished in mourning black had the Queen not interceded. It had been guilt rather than grief that had driven her. A guilt born of the circumstances of her husband's death. Of the fact that the first emotion that had swamped her once she had learned of d'Artagnan's innocence in it had been relief. Where Bonacieux had made certain that he had stamped out every last feeling she might have had for him, his had been a life cut short and so, surely, had deserved a grief she had not been able to feel.

It should not have surprised her to discover how much it mattered to be told that that decision belonged to her. Where she never could have discounted the Anne's (she was drunk enough then to allow herself that intimacy of friendship she doubted could ever be said aloud, at least within the safety of her own mind) offer to receive d'Artagnan and herself at Court to cut off any hint of scandal when she had urged Constance to find her happiness where she herself could not, Porthos' confidence in her felt no less important. Strange as it was to realize that she could decide the path of her own life, perhaps for first time in the whole of it, she could not say that it was not...empowering? frightening? what she had dreamed of for so very long?

Her smile was bright as she lifted her glass to meet his, "To the future."

[praiseandglory]

Porthos's eyes twinkled warmly as they drank. He did not know Constance very much, certainly not well enough to warrant calling her Constance by most people's standards, but he did feel a great deal of affection for her regardless. It was not even just that d'Artagnan was so clearly in love with her, but what Porthos had seen of her - her courage, her temper, her skill with a sword, her capacity to slap Aramis and threaten to continue with him in the same breath - they were all things that had endeared her to him. She wasn't cowed by Musketeers, and she had welcomed them in her home time and again, whenever they had had need of it.

So he was glad if she could find her happiness at last. Bonacieux had never deserved her.

"What are you drinking?" he asked, amused, as he peered at the oddly coloured drink in her hand. He had mostly stuck to wine, ever since coming here; it was too good and too strong to pass up on, the sort of wine one only expected to have at court, here readily available to anyone with a little coin.

[at_your_side]

Little in the world was prized so highly in her eyes as being treated like an equal. To being not simply accepted within the room or allowed to speak, but listened to, her opinions weighed just the same as any other person for their judgement, their sense. Perhaps to someone else the request might have seemed trivial, but as she had known all her life and been reminded forcefully, at times painfully, it was entirely too rare in the life of a woman. In her life.

She could not, would not view the Musketeers without being aware of the fact that they were not flawless, untouchable creatures. Perhaps had she not met Athos on a cool, fall night and found him having drunk himself into such a stupor he bedded down for the night on a pile of straw as if he might not freeze if left there all night, she might have found more awe for the company of the Musketeers than she had. What mattered to her was not the position they held in the King's esteem, or the respect they demanded with their blue cloaks and leather pauldrons, but that Porthos and the others had always met her eyes evenly when they spoke to her. That they had brought a warmth, a spark into her life she had not realized she had been missing until they had bulldozed their way right into it.

She would never not be grateful to them for that.

"It is," she began, lifting up her drink to better show him (as if he could not see it already). "A mango daiquiri." Her brows drew together a moment in trying to remember exactly what was in it, having quite enjoyed hearing the descriptions as well as the tastes, for all that most of it was nonsense to her. "There is...mango...lime juice..." there she struggled, finding the answer she was seeking only after a moment. "And rum! Have you met rum yet?"

[praiseandglory]

Porthos laughed at her phrasing, as always not one to hide his reactions or feelings. "I've met rum, yes. And I've met mango. Separately, though." And now he was curious, obviously, since he had quite liked them both. He caught the attention of the tavern wench with a smile. "Can I have one of what she's having?" He wasn't going to try and say that word; he was sure he'd make a mess of it. "Thank you."

[at_your_side]

The seriousness of before slipped entirely away with another taste of mango and rum, her delight over the novelty of exotic fresh fruit and equally exotic alcohol, when paired together with Porthos' easy company, made such a thing too natural to resist. She grinned at him over her glass when he laughed, completely uncaring of what part of it all had amused him and was instead simply glad for the sound.

"It is amazing, innit?" She asked, picking up the little paper and toothpick umbrella she had discarded from her glass earlier and twirling it between her fingers. "This place. All the things they have. Have you-" she turned to look at him with an air of seriousness that did not at all match the tone of the conversation, "Have you seen their lamps? There's not even flame!"

[praiseandglory]

"Forget their lamps, I miss the shower when I'm back in Paris," Porthos retorted with a wide grin. It was by far the futuristic invention he liked most out of all of the ones he had met so far. Flameless lamps did not even come close, not when the shower gave him a fall of delightfully hot water whenever he desired.

He kept an eye on the tavern wench as she prepared his cocktail, for no real reason other than curiosity. Even after weeks and weeks spent in this place, so much of it felt foreign to him.

[at_your_side]

"A shower?" she asked, "As in a..." Alcohol let the words slip right out of her head and left her making a gesture with one hand that might've signified rainfall or snowflakes or even some strange meteorological effect that could be described with a wiggle of fingers half in front of her face. The discovery of a great bath that could be filled with no more than a turn of a knob had distracted her explorations of the cool, ceramic space of her bathroom before she had gone looking into the box made in one corner of panes of clear glass.

She followed the path of his gaze to watch a bit dizzily as the woman behind the bar used a strange, loud machine of glass and metal to finish the drink. Constance had been asked whether she preferred her daiquiris blended or not and had been left to shrug and leave it to the other woman's discretion before the thick orange treat had been set before her.

[praiseandglory]

Porthos frowned briefly at the use of the machine, but then looked back at Constance. "You haven't tried them? They're like hot waterfalls, for washing."

He thanked the wench with a warm smile when she set the glass down in front of him, and he picked it up and raised it at Constance. "Here's to new experiences."

[at_your_side]

The world seemed to have advanced far beyond them. In new strange ways, to be certain, judging by the amount of skin the woman behind the bar bared with no hint of self-consciousness, but as well with technology Constance had never thought to imagine before. The thought of water being piped right into one's room with so little difficulty that when she had mentioned it to Ruby, the woman had blinked in surprise that it would be spoken of at all. As if it and electric lights were too commonplace to even appear on one's awareness.

"That sounds..." she tried to find a word to encompass the idea of hot waterfalls, of bathing beneath one as if it were an everyday sort of thing. "Glorious. How do they do that?"

There was no difficulty in raising her glass to match his, "May they all be this lovely."

[praiseandglory]

Porthos took a drink, and immediately broke into a very pleased grin. "This one is lovely," he confirmed happily, then only went back to her question. "I've no idea how showers work. Much like anything in this place."

[at_your_side]

The introduction to the cocktails offered by the Smoking Room had done nothing if not impress upon her the breadth of this foreign world's variety of foods, alcohols, and particularly of delightful new fruits she'd never imagined. What was in their markets paled so entirely beside the tropical fruits and glorious array of vegetables she had only begun to explore. "This may be my favorite yet," she agreed, considering whether she would trade wine entirely for such deliciousness before deciding that no, wine would always be a staple and the colorful cocktails a treat.

"d'Artagnan called it magic," she told him, lifting up her glass to peer at its (delicious) orange contents before lowering it again to shrug at Porthos. "Whatever the reason, I cannot complain about so much hot water, and such, such delicious fruit."

[praiseandglory]

"I've heard people call it technology," Porthos answered. For him, that term covered showers and cocktails alike: every advance he could see, from their time to this. "Scientific progress, I suppose."

But everyone seemed nonplussed about the doors, which led him to believe that they were magic. Their ambivalence only lent credence to that belief; magic was never an entirely good thing.

Showers, as far as he was concerned, were.