inthewildwood | fanfiction: all you've been allowed

Title: all you've been allowed
Fandom: The Musketeers (2014)
Characters/Pairings: Constance Bonacieux, Constance/d'Artagnan
Summary: Constance makes her escape.
Rating: T
Warnings: Emotional/psychological abuse

Constance doesn’t go to the market anymore- not for fun, anyway. It used to be that when she didn’t have things to do at home (a rare occurrence in and of itself) she would take herself off to browse through the market stalls, admiring the new goods that had been brought in since she was last there and occasionally purchasing something small- a bunch of flowers or a cheap ornament- to decorate the house. It was a bit of fun for her, a bright spot in a dreary day-to-day existence. For a while, she stopped doing it because she was too busy- there was the house, of course, but also d’Artagnan and the others crashing through her door at all hours with some new adventure to drag her off on. Who needed the marketplace when there were battles to be fought?

Now, she avoids it for a very different reason. Oh, she still goes- when there’s something that truly needs buying that can’t be found in the shops near her house. But there’s a reason she’s stopped spending time at the market for fun. It distresses her husband, to have her gone for longer than she needs to be. And she can’t see him distressed. Not after-

Well. After what happened.

“You’re late,” he says one day, after she went to fetch bread from the baker’s. There was a longer line than she’d anticipated, and it had taken nearly an hour to get back. She stands in the doorway, fingers wrapped around the handle of her basket to keep her hands from shaking. He might shout this time; but more often, he resorts to chilling silences or unbroken streams of words. Words about how she’d worried him, about how he only feared for her safety. About how he wished he could trust her. About how he knew she disliked frightening him. The unspoken threat always there, never spoken: you don’t want to force me to do something drastic, do you?

“There was a-“ she starts to say, but he cuts her off with a gesture. “My dear,” he says, “I would never ask for you to account yourself to me. “ He sighs heavily, and she bites the inside of her cheek. Here it comes. “I do hate not knowing where you are. You know, Paris can be dangerous for a woman alone.” His eyes bore into her. “I don’t know what I’d do if you went missing.”

There is it. “I- I could take Mme. Clairvaux with me next time, to make sure we were both safe-”

He makes that same cutting-off gesture again. “Don’t be silly. Is she to be your bodyguard? What an idea.” He stands and walks around the table; Constance nearly trips over her skirt backing towards the door. “Perhaps we could find vendors closer to the house, so you won’t need to walk so far. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” He brushes a curl away from her face, and Constance feels the trap spring shut.

“It would make things easier,” she says. He nods, satisfied, and she knows he’s won another battle. It will keep him content for awhile.

One of her ornaments- a silly affectation, she knows, especially on their budget, but she needed something in the house she could call her own- was a little china cat, bought for ten sous from someone who had probably taken it from their own possessions to sell. It's little and cheap and patterned with flowers. Constance puts it on the mantlepiece. She'd like to keep a pet cat, but they make her eyes run, so she contents herself with this one. Privately, she calls it Minette.

One day, she is out for a walk with her husband- his idea- when she sees a flash of black hair, a leather uniform, and her breath stops in her chest. It's not him- she can see that, once she blinks and her vision clears- but she can't stop the tremble in her shoulders. She quickens her pace, hoping her husband didn't notice her pause. But he leans down to her shoulder- he's taken to wearing shoes that make him taller, and she can't tell whether or not it's because he likes the sensation of looking down at her- and murmurs in her ear "did you see someone you recognized?"

"Not at all," she says brightly, praying she can convince him. "Just a shop I thought we could visit."

His breath is hot against her cheek. "Show me."

They end up spending fifteen minutes looking at crockery, which they don't need and couldn't afford anyway- "of course I want to see what has you so intrigued," he says, grasping her upper arm. The shopkeeper nods at them, smiling. Constance wants to scream.

When they get home, she goes upstairs to splash water on her face and try to calm down. Moments later, she hears the sound of something shattering, and bolts down the stairs to see what's happened.

Her cat is lying in pieces on the floor, her husband standing regretfully above it. "I'm so sorry, my dear," he says. Constance has begun to hate being called my dear above all else. "I was attempting to dust it off, and it fell. I'm sure I can find you another one."

Constance kneels, and gathers up the broken pieces in her apron. The cat's half-shattered eye stares up at her, impassive. "That won't be necessary."

He brings her one a few days later, anyway. It's heavier than the one she had- solid instead of hollow. "I hope you weren't charged for that old one as much as I was for this," he says, handing it to her. "It couldn't have been very good quality."

She swallows her bile, thanks him, and puts the new ornament on the mantel. Its eyes seem to follow her when she moves around the room.

He throws something. Once.

He came home and she was crying and when he tried to take her in his arms, she pushed him away. It was cruel, foolish- but she couldn't bear being touched, not by him, not then. He raises his voice. "Do I disgust you? Is that it?"

She presses her face to the wall and doesn't answer. When she hears the crash, she screams and throws her hands up to cover her head, but it was only a cup glancing against the wall several feet from her. It wouldn't have hit her. He didn't throw it that close.

Didn't.

Couldn't.

Wouldn't.

He's all apologies as soon as it happens. "My dear, I am so sorry," he says, hurrying to her side and putting an arm around her shoulders, drawing her close. She doesn't resist. "I don't know what came over me." He picks her hand up and kisses it. His mouth is wet. She resists the urge to wipe her hand off on her dress. "It's all right."

From then on, she saves her crying for when she knows he's asleep.

They haven't got many friends- her husband's business associates aren't the type to make house calls, and since she rarely goes out, she can't very well make new ones. She used to count Aramis, Porthos, and Athos among her friends, but- well. Her husband wouldn't take kindly to having them in the house. She sometimes sings to herself as she works, just for the sake of hearing a voice, until he catches her at it and mentions how he loves her singing. She stops after that.

Once, they have a visitor- her husband's cousin and his wife, who are visiting from the country. They have a new baby, and Constance spends hours sitting with the wife and exclaiming over the child. Regretfully, she thinks of Henri and Agnes and wonders where they are now. Somewhere better, surely. Still, the baby is warm and comfortable in her arms, and his guileless eyes as she coos and hums at him heal something jagged and sharp inside her. He, at least, expects nothing from her.

"I expect the two of you will have children of your own soon enough," the wife says, smiling at her. "You seem like a natural at it." When Constance looks up, her husband is staring at her with something that looks like contemplation.

Her blood runs cold.

She hands the baby back as quickly as possible, eliciting a squeal of protest. "Not just yet, I think." She tries to smile. "We are . . . busy, after all."

Her husband comes over and puts a heavy hand on her shoulder. "Something to consider, then. For the future."

"For the future," she agrees. She clenches her fist in her lap, covered by the folds of her dress. He can't see. She's grateful for that.

She's been responsible for her husband- since they were married, really, but especially so in these past six months. She's accepted it; it was her fault, after all, that he did what he did. She'd wanted to be happy. She thought it wasn't too much to ask. But her happiness couldn't be weighed at the cost of someone else's life, and so when he begged, she stayed.

Not now. She would stay, when it was only her husband's life in the balance- but she could not, would not bring a child into it. She was a woman with a sense of fairness, and while it might have been fair to sacrifice her own happiness for her husband's sake, it would be the cruelest thing in the world to subject a child to this household. Its soul would freeze. Her soul has been freezing, and starving for these long months, but she accepted that as her due.

Not this.

So she runs. She waits until her husband is away- he rarely goes on trips when he can help it, but one day he's called out to see to a fire at the warehouse where his goods are kept, and she seizes her chance. She's been keeping a bag of belongings- not much, just a spare set of smallclothes and what few sous she could secret away- in the front hallway, waiting for when this day would come. She bids him goodbye, lets him kiss her cheek, listens to him promise to be back by supper. She watches him walk down the street and vanish around a corner. Then she grabs the bag and runs.

There's only one place she knows she can run to- she has no family in the city, and even if they did, would they take her? With no bruises or claims of ill-treatment (you could do far worse, her father had reminded her when the betrothal was announced) she had no real grounds for divorce. She couldn't claim neglect or unconsummation. She couldn't claim adultery- on his part, anyway. He could claim it on hers', if he wished to be rid of her, and she hopes that someday he will. But for now, she only wants to get away.

So she runs to the musketeers' garrison. She doesn't know if they'll take her for more than a few hours, if they allow women in, or even if their leader will let her stay when he discovers she's run from her husband. But the only other thing she can think of is claiming sanctuary at a church, and what church will take an adulteress?

When she reaches the garrison, it is mostly empty- most of the musketeers, she supposes, will be out and doing whatever it is they do on a day-to-day basis. Porthos and Aramis are there, though, and she nearly weeps with relief when she sees them. There's no sign of d'Artagnan; she doesn't know whether or not she's grateful.

Aramis raises an eyebrow when she runs in. "Haven't seen you-" He falls silent when he sees the bag. "Are you going somewhere?"

She twists her hands around the neck of the bag. "I- I was hoping I could stay here. At least for a little while. Just until I find somewhere else to go." That's a lie; she doesn't know where somewhere else is, but what remains of her pride won't allow her to say that she's come to throw herself on their mercy.

"Your husband?" Porthos asks, climbing off the table he's been sitting on. He's always been the most perceptive out of the four of them, quiet as he is. Constance looks down at her hands, and notices that her wedding ring is still gleaming on the finger of her left. She hadn't thought to take it off. For some reason, this is what finally breaks her. She bursts into tears.

The two of them stop asking questions then; they lead her to a bench where she can sit, and Porthos pats her back gently while Aramis leaves for a few moments and comes back with a drink of water that he presses into her hand. One of them, she can't tell which, has taken the bag away and set it on the table. She tries to drink, but she's trying to do everything at once- stop crying, clean her face, drink the water- and what she ends up doing, after choking down a mouthful, is gasp "you have to close the gates, you need to do it now."

"Why?" She can't tell who's asking.

"Because he'll come looking for me," she says all in a rush, "and you- I- can't let him come in, if he sees me here-" Truth be told, she's not sure what he'll do if he finds her; she can't see him dragging her out by her hair- he's never been violent, except for once with the cup- but she knows in her bones that he won't let her go like this, and if he walks through those gates, this will all have been for nothing.

"All right," Aramis says, putting a soothing hand on her shoulder, "let's take you upstairs. We can't close the gates, but if he comes looking, we'll say we haven't see you, and he can't go into the buildings. You'll be safe in there."

She starts to say "thank you-" it's inadequate, but it's all she can come up with- but they both wave her off, and Porthos leads her gently indoors and up the stairs, to where there's a small bedroom. He takes a ring of keys off his belt and hands them to her. "You can lock the door if you want."

She takes the key and nods, still trembling. It's only when he's gone and she's closed and locked the door behind him that she realizes neither of them asked who "he" was.

She tries to sleep- she hasn't been able to for the past several nights- but every sound from her window makes her jump, thinking that he's come storming in to find her. When she hears footsteps on the stairs and a knock on the door, she backs towards the window- though she has no plans as to what she'll do when she gets there- until she hears d'Artagnan's soft voice. "Constance? It's only me."

When she unlocks the door, they stare at each other for a long moment, before she goes boneless all over and whispers "oh," and lets him take her into his arms. He leads her over to the bed, still not letting go, and pulls her down to sit next to him. "You're all right? You're not hurt?"

"No," she says, face pressed against his collarbone. He feels so good, so solid. It's been a long time since she felt anything solid. "He didn't- I'm not injured."

She's afraid he'll ask what did happen, because she doesn't know if she can piece it together- there are little things, like the china cat and that day at the market, but spoken out loud and on their own, they sound small and silly. Nothing worth running away over. There's the baby he wanted, too, but she doesn't think she can say that out loud. She doesn't want to think about his hands on her, him inside her, the feeling of a child (his child, she thinks, and hates herself for thinking it) growing inside her. She's escaped it, but just thinking about it makes her feel as if something cold and slimy is pressing all around her head. So it's a relief when he doesn't ask, just puts his other arm around her and cradles her close to his chest. "I'm glad."

They sit there for awhile, quietly breathing in tandem, until she hears raises voices from the courtyard and freezes, because she knows those voices. She doesn't know what to do- going down the stairs is unimaginable but so is staying there and listening- until she feels d'Artagnan's mouth at her ear, his hand rubbing circles on her back. "Talk to me."

"About what?"

"Anything you like."

So she starts to talk- babble, really- about everything and nothing, whatever verbal debris are running through her mind, fragments unconnected to each other but enough to keep her talking. When she begins to flag, the voices are still out there (have they been shouting for ten minutes? what are they saying?) d'Artagnan picks up the slack, telling her something silly and inconsequential that happened while he and Athos were out bringing a counterfeiter to justice. She barely hears a word of it, but his voice keeps her feeling anchored until she lifts her head and realizes that the courtyard is quiet.

d'Artagnan shifts. "Do you want to stay here?"

"No." She stands, straightening her skirts, and goes to the window. There are musketeers milling around outside, and she recognizes Aramis, Porthos, and Athos- but her husband isn't there. "I'm going to see for myself."

She thinks for a moment he might argue, but instead he just nods, his hand going to his sword belt. "I'm going with you."

When she emerges, blinking, into the sunlight, Athos is the first one of them to catch sight of her. A part of her tenses for a second- he was never friends with her husband, but he knows the man better than the other three, and she still fears going back- but he only claps her on the shoulder. "All right?"

"People keep asking me that," she says, with a tiny smile. She glances around, just in case. "Is-"

"He's gone," Porthos says, coming up behind Athos. "Won't be back."

She lets out a long breath she didn't realize she was holding. She looks at the four of them- d'Artagnan is still standing at her back, with a smile that matches hers', Porthos and Athos are on her right side, and Aramis is on her left. "I'm not sure how to thank you."

Aramis shrugs slightly. "What are friends for?"

She bites her lip. "I'll need to find a job, and a place to stay. I haven't got much money, and I wouldn't want to impose-"

"S'not imposing," Porthos breaks in. "We have plenty of spare beds."

"Still," she says firmly. For the first time in months, she feels like she can speak firmly again. "I'll find a job. Sewing or cooking or- something. I don't want to be idle."

"You'll find something," d'Artagnan says behind her. "There's lots of people who'd be glad to hire you." She smiles at him then, a full, open-mouthed smile. He grins back. "In the meantime . . . well, there's lots to be done around here. Fancy helping out with the weaponry?"

Constance looks around at them, then up at the sky. It's bright blue and cloudless. Her chest, which has felt tight and cramped for so long, is starting to loosen. She's starting to feel free.

"I'd love to," she says with a smile.