all_inclusive | Grief is the price we pay for love

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Grief is the price we pay for love

Athos doesn't even realize what's happened, at first.

Ever since Milady had arrived insisting that Athos had been on his way to meet her, ever since he had returned back to Paris and discovered Aramis' treason with the Queen and the result of such a coupling, ever since Rochefort's rearrival on the scene caused him to slouch back to the Nexus, he has been drinking like he hasn't since right after his wife's supposed death. It is in this state that he'd fumbled through a well-known door that he'd thought harmless to him.

Intoxicated with the red wine, he does not notice the shift of gravity in his body, nor the length of his hair different, swept up by the hat. All Athos knows is that he has drank two bottles and is eager for a third, lest he fall into the eager pit of grief and the other complicated affections that lie in wait for him, all coaxed on by the woman whose locket he no longer wears.

When he arrives at the bar for his usual, he's met with confusion. The bartender states that she hasn't been around enough to have a usual. Athos smacks his palm against the counter, his rage brought forward with the incense of it all. "Wine," he snaps, calming himself before his demands grow angrier and more frustrated. "Just bring me wine," he mutters, voice hoarse from the drink.

He slumps into his seat and peers down for the first time, unsteadily taking account of how his clothes now seem to sag and slump on him. Sighing with the inevitable realisation, he lifts an elegant long-fingered hand to the bartender. "Make that two," he adds, before allowing his forehead to collapse against that waiting hand.

How could he have thought this would pass him by forever?

He grasps both bottles of wine greedily when they arrive, eager to trudge back to his room and escape the prying eyes of the public.

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It's when Athos is coming from the tavern that their paths cross. Milady stops at the sight of the familiar clothes clothing an unfamiliar form and she looks more closely.

She has heard of this door - this door that turns women into men and men into women. Perhaps that explains this. Or perhaps it is that someone has stolen Athos's clothes, which will leave her no choice by to take them back.

And that is what she is weighing when their eyes meet. Gender aside, she would know those eyes anywhere.

"Well."

Athos clings the bottles somewhat possessively tighter against his unfamiliar chest, feeling at odds with himself. Usually, Milady does this to him, but now he cannot entirely blame such a thing on her, not when the hotel has done it for him. His hair is a mess beneath his hat, his eyes bloodshot, but he supposes that he must look somewhat like himself.

"Are you going to stand there and judge or let me pass?" Athos demands bluntly.

"Are you able to walk on your own?" she asks, somewhat archly, though she doesn't move away. They're nearly the same height now, it seems. "You seem to have had quite enough without those two."

The icy glare that Athos points in her direction could freeze mountaintops. It's almost as if his ice powers have returned along with his new womanhood, but he knows that is not the case. He avoids stumbling too much, only staggering a few inches to the side. "I'm fine," he mutters. "If you wish to stay and mock me, carry one of my bottles of wine."

That is Milady de Winter rolling her eyes. She doesn't reach for his elbow or try to stop him if he wishes to fall on his face, but she does take one of the bottles. "When did this happen?"

"An hour ago? Twenty minutes ago?" Athos surmises, unsure as to when this change had happened. After all, he has been burying his sorrows because of this woman before him and he has become a woman himself. It is almost a universe's joke upon him. He does not think he will be as deadly as she, but perhaps he might have been.

"I was drinking," he mutters. "I can't be expected to keep track."

"No, of course not. Come on."

Under the veneer Milady wears like a cloak, one of indifference and lack of concern for anyone but herself, she's watching Athos closely. "Where is your room? We'll go there."

"This way," Athos mumbles, pointing down one of the endless hallways with the wine. He has to adjust the hat on his head more than once, frizzy, untamed hair spilling every direction. He is sure that he does not make half the handsome woman that his friends do, hardly not the same as his wife, and he grimaces to think of being like this for very long.

He feels dizzy, now, as if the wine is growing too much for this form, but he soon finds his door, fumbling with the key as he trips into the room, heading straight for the washroom and slamming the door behind him as he falls to his knees before the toilet.

That's not surprising. Milady sighs to herself as she closes the door to the room and sets down the wine, taking the moment to look around, perhaps open a drawer or two, see what there is to see in Athos's room.

She glances at the bed and away again, getting a glass of water for him instead.

When Athos is through, he slumps back against the tiled wall and reaches for a wet cloth, wiping his mouth before throwing it into the tub, reaching for another to slide over his face. He throws his hat to the side, kicks his boots off, and slumps even lower for a moment before he rises. He swallows a touch of water before using the antiseptic they keep for him, spitting out the last of the taste of sick before stumbling into the main room in bulky clothes, nothing feeling right.

Nothing ever does feel right with her here, of course. "The wine, please," he murmurs, extending a hand without making eye contact.

"No," Milady replies just as bluntly, holding out the water as well, her head to the side, looking at the state he's in. "You will only make yourself sick again." And that's just foolish; she has little tolerance for fools (unless they gain her something).

Athos is sure that she is right, but is unhappy about this much. He reaches out for the water and takes a long sip of the glass, pushing off the doublet and throwing it aside to the bed, scowling when his new form is so much easier to see now. He reaches for the blanket on the bed, swathing it over his shoulders to cover himself, collapsing in the thick, velvet-clad chair in the corner of the room. "You've seen me home, you can leave now," he says dismissively.

It's true; there is no reason for her to stay. But even in this form, she cannot dismiss Athos as easily as she would like to, as it would be better for the both of them if she could.

"You need clothes."

"You say that as though I will be stuck like this," Athos remarks with a scowl, tugging up the blanket higher around his shoulders, burying himself in the comfort of the warmth while the room spins around him. The alcohol has always lowered his tolerance and he finds himself stuck pining for the woman before him as much as ever, breathing out with longing and need to see her standing so close and yet, with all their history looming in the shadows.

What a mess he is, indeed. "Do you intend to give me yours? I'm not as small as you."

"Those clothes are nearly falling off you and only make you more clumsy. You need to move more easily than you can like that."

She can break into someone's room and take something, of course. Or knock someone over and take their clothes.

"Unless," she adds, "you plan on staying buried in your blankets for the duration of your time as a woman."

Athos sighs heavily and rolls his eyes for the implication that he will remain like this. "No, I don't," he finally concedes, pushing the blanket off and leaning forward to stare her down, unwilling to look away from the woman in his bedroom, when at one point in their lives, it might have been their bedroom. Unbidden, memories flood his mind and he flushes pink when he thinks of their history.

Of fields and white dresses and forget-me-nots and Athos' mouth between...

He clears his throat and looks askance to avoid eye contact now. "Something of d'Artagnan's might suit me. He's slight," Athos remarks.

There might be the slightest smirk that crosses Milady's face; she can still read him, though perhaps a little less accurately like this. That expression and the blush, however, is hard to miss.

Now, Athos? Really? She doesn't look away. She remembers too. Sharply and well.

"d'Artagnan," she drawls. Won't that be fun. But she shrugs. Why not. "Where's his room?"

Athos gestures wildly in the direction of the hallway. "Out, and then three down," he says, trying to think about anything but Anne's soft skin and her kisses, but his drunken mind is betraying him and allowing him to think of little else. "Don't hurt him," he warns her.

That earns Athos a leveled gaze. She has no reason to hurt d'Artagnan.

She slips into the hall and down. She knocks first, listening at the door. It would seem d'Artagnan isn't in. And while these doors are somewhat more complicated than the ones she's used to getting into, they are not impossible. She is able to get inside, poke around just for a moment, the come away with a tunic and some very interesting smallclothes (smaller and lighter than she's seen), as well as a pair of trousers. She returns with them to Athos's room and hands them over. "Do you need help?" She asks, eyebrow arched.

Athos leans forward to take the clothes from her hands, knowing that he'll have to apologize to d'Artagnan later for the theft of his clothing. He pushes to his feet and walks into the washroom to start stripping away the normal set of clothes, kicking them out into the main room. He doesn't answer when she asks if he needs the help, though he's still swaying more than he'd like as a result of the drink.

After a moment, Milady follows, leaning on the doorjamb to make sure that Athos doesn't fall and crack his skull wide open. "I assumed his boots would still be too big for you," she notes, almost idly. "Do you wish for a corset?"

She might be smirking a bit when she asks that.

"Why, do you wish to see me in one?" Athos retorts sharply, giving Milady a long look as he tugs on the smallclothes, scowling as he reaches for the tunic to yank over his head, tousling the hair even further before he sets himself to rights.

Milady shrugs, amused. It might be interesting, if nothing else. But for the moment, she points to the rat's nest that is Athos's hair. "Shall I?" she asks, taking a step closer. "Or do you wish to go about looking like a crazed woman in man's clothes?"

Athos says nothing in turn, tugging on the trousers without breaking eye contact. When he is bare-foot, but clothed fully, he gestures to the hair as he slouches and slumps against the chaise that lies in his spacious bathroom, a room not quite like the one at La Fère, but reminiscent in the right lights. "You might as well try, else I fear I will leave it to disarray and nesting."

Taking the two steps closer so that her hip brushes Athos's shoulder, Milady reaches up, carding her fingers through his hair.

She had always liked his hair. She moves behind him to face the mirror, gazing at the both of them in the reflection.

Even like this, being close to him affects her; it's behind her control.

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