armedagainstlove | (no subject)

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He has been drinking for some time.

Apparently, in this city of bright lights, gold coins go a very long way. Athos hadn't travelled very far from the door, sitting himself upon a stool and beginning to make his way through as much wine as he possibly could. Two bottles in, he has made a great friend of the bartender, who does not mind that Athos has little to say to him. There are gold coins for the taking and Athos has no care for money. He has plenty of money. He is a Comte living in a hovel. He has more money than he knows what to do with.

The wine of the future tastes empty, though, as though it lacks in strength. He has been given many odd stares for his weaponry, but Athos will not dismiss them, knowing that he is not so dangerous when he is drunk. After all, he can still shoot from five paces away and if Porthos can shoot a melon off Aramis' head when drunk, then Athos can wear his weapons.

When he looks up, after another glass, he now realizes that he is not alone. "How long have you been here?" Athos asks of the beauty beside him, puzzled and rather worried that he is lapsing time.

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"Selective amnesia weird." Because she isn't sure I forgot a friend who was made from magic is the best way to go.

The words come with a shrug, but Faith knows she's probably going to have to give up more than that. "I'm the only one in my, uh, group that forgot a friend entirely. Things got complicated."

"And alcohol wasn't to blame in that instance? Because it's helped to rob me of many incidents," Athos says helpfully, gesturing between them. He'd give an example, but true to his words, he's handily forgotten about the majority of what he yearns to ignore. "There are people I would very much like to forget. What is your secret?"

"Jacked up magic," she replies, not without a chuckle. It's the easiest response, the one sitting right up on the top of her head. She looks a little surprised after she says it, and eyeballs her glass accusingly.

"But I'm working on the alcohol part, now. And reminders that it could be worse from someone who looks like you doesn't hurt, either."

Athos tips his head to her in thanks for such a compliment, knowing that perhaps he has never been frightful of the face, but he has certainly been rough. "Magic," he echoes. "I never much believed in magic. The devil, yes, and hell and all its demons, but not magic."

"You know, I prefer hell and demons over magic at this point. At least it's something to hit." She hates games, and most definitely prefers a more direct and blundering solution.

Which means rough is par for the course for Faith. She's never had much luck with the pretty ones, who break way too easily. Faith smiles and holds up her glass to clink against Athos'. "So, we're drinking to guilt, then. You conveniently avoided spilling yours, I notice."

Hell and demons. These seem to be things Athos is well-acquainted with and when she mentions guilt, he lifts his drink with a steady hand after saluting to her. "Spilling my demons or my drink? I can assure you I am well-practiced in spilling neither without a great deal of coaxing," he says evenly, given how fresh the hell is, in his mind.

There's a few seconds as Faith realizes Athos did not say cokes in, and makes out the real words.

"Aww, c'mon. I showed you mine. Pretty sure there's a law that says you gotta show me yours. If I gotta work for it, where's the reward?" Faith has never been truly adept at subtle persuasion. Given the right arena, maybe, but she's not getting idiotic flirt off of her drinking buddy.

Her drunken logic doesn't quite follow through, either. Even Faith's face goes slack as she registers her words. "Can't be that bad. Can't be worse than my baggage, anyway."

Athos has told remarkably few people of his sins. In fact, no one has been outright told so much as Remy had been there during the act of murder, and since then, he has been atoning through as much red wine as possible. Yet, it seems as though the life is not truly forfeit. D'Artagnan knows, he realises, a split second after he thinks he has hid it so well.

"I killed my wife," he says, the words strange out loud, even buried under so much wine.

Faith stiffens at that. Four words, and no context. Not that she's even thinking about context at the moment.

She had been tracing patterns in the condensation that had made its way from her glass to the surface of the bar, but her finger stills, the point of it in the middle of a tiny lake.

"'Scuse me?" Did she hear that right?

"She was a murderer and a thief," he continues, realizing belatedly (as he winces) that perhaps he might have started with that or perhaps even finished the thought rather than abruptly finishing it. "It was my duty to have her sentenced properly." And he had killed her, or he'd thought he had. "She's still alive," he says darkly. "She seduced the hangman. She escaped."

That's it. Faith waves at the bartender to just bring that whole bottle over to them. She haphazardly adds to his glass before adding to her own and thunking the bottle back on the bar.

"Damn. You're all messed up." He showed her way more than she showed first. Faith's got catching up to do, she knows. She reaches forward to clink their glasses again and then gets herself a refill after she downs the rest. "You some kinda cop, then?"

Cause being technically a fugitive might hinder the way she goes about her turn at show and tell.

"I'm a King's Musketeer," is Athos' reply, given that he's unsure how much she actually knows of such things, but he is too drunk to give proper historical context and information. "I protect and guard the King's interest and France's. We are not police," he clarifies, given that the police and the Red Guards do their own work. "And yes, I believe 'messed up' is quite the right term," he says, happy to drink far more than he's already had.

His explanation is acceptable, for the most part. Sounds as old school as might be expected of someone that dresses and speaks the way Athos does.

"No offense, but your wife sounds like a real jackass," she finally says, after mulling it all over. After the words are out, Faith can't help but chuckle a little. "I mean, I've done some shit but-- sounds like your wife kinda didn't deserve a King's Musketeer. You're better off."

Edited 2014-06-05 02:16 (UTC)

"I lived five years bearing the guilt thinking I had killed the only woman I could ever love," he speaks the words and knows them to be true, but knows it is more complicated than that. "And I hated her as much as I loved her. I do not know what she does now, why she does them, or why she would deceive me." He fears she has done much to harm him, has plotted against him.

"I thought her to be a ghost. Instead, she is merely a devil."

"Hate and love... far as I've gotten? Same coin, just different sides." Faith knows an observation like that doesn't help. "Though-- guess that's just preaching to the choir, huh?"

Hate is something Faith's pretty familiar with. Love, on the other hand? She craves it, and yet she pushes it away. With punches, kicks, and sometimes stabbing.

"For all that I love her, there will never be any forgiveness given," Athos is sure and clear about this. He feels as though he needs to drink more because it is something that is utterly a difficult topic. "She killed my brother and she was a thief and a murderer," he pronounces, as if that will somehow make it any better.

He breathes shakily, unaware of how to make himself steadier. "And yet, I love her still. Do you know how that feels?" It is not a rhetorical question, he truly wants to know if he is not alone.

"Uh." Faith pauses, trying to swim through memories of people she did the hurting to. Often, they were the ones she loved.

"Never been married, but I guess yeah. For a while-- well let's just say I can't blame 'em for backing away quickly." She shrugs. Even though it was a long time ago, Faith probably shares a lot more in common with Athos' wife than Athos himself. Murderer and thief. Include a little torture and straight mayhem, shake and stir. "How can you still love her?"

Cause Faith is pretty sure she's mostly unlovable. And she keeps trying to come to terms with it.

"I ask myself the same question," Athos admits, because he would rather it be easier. If he were to simply stop loving her, stop loving Anne, his life would surely be better. Now that she isn't dead, though, dangerous and out there, he has no idea what to do. "I don't know what she's doing, now. She must have a patron, but I cannot imagine who. She is dangerous, immensely so, and she is alive."

He has been saying that for days and it is still a shock to hear.

Blinking out of his drunken revelry, he stares at his companion as if for the first time. "You have been listening to my troubles far longer than anyone should," he says. "I apologize for my rudeness."

At first, all Faith can do is chuckle, short and surprised. Her hand reaches out to clap him on the shoulder, firm.

"Look around, Athos. This is the alter of dumping your problems on strangers. Besides, yours seem a little harder hitting than what I got these days." Not that Faith wasn't pretty rocked by some of the revelations she's had in the past months. "I mean, your wife turned out to be the worst person ever. Me, I was that person. Now I'm just dealing with all the consequences."

The touch is surprising and unexpected. Athos does not allow many to touch him outside of his own brethren Musketeers and even they give him a wide berth unless he is so drunk that he cannot manage to walk straight. "And how, precisely, do you atone for such sins?" he asks, not quite believing that she can be the same as Anne.

"You can't." Which is the first time she's ever spoken her feelings on the subject out loud.

"I mean, don't get me wrong. You gotta try. But no matter how many people you save, how many apocalypses you avert? Doesn't make up for it, not ever." Faith never liked apologies, never though they were worth anything, and certainly wasn't about to give up hollow ones in exchange for the lives she managed to ruin all by herself. "Atone is just a word people like me use to make themselves feel better. And that's not really the point, is it?"

She shrugs then, because she knows she's the idiot who's going to keep trying anyway.

"I want to atone for killing my wife," Athos says steadily. "Unfortunately, it seems I can only really drown myself in the remorse of it." He's become something of an addict, and he's utterly aware of it, but he cannot stop himself. "And I do not believe that Anne is in the habit of stopping any apocalypse." He makes a face, draining the remainder of his drink. "Perhaps starting them. That would be the sort of chaos she appears to like."

"You didn't really kill her. You just attempted, technically. Not a huge deal if she's such a crap person." Not that Faith wants to brush his guilt under the carpet or anything. She's going to carry her guilt around with her forever. She thinks she can understand, having her own monkey on her back.

"Then again, I've never been married. That part of the deal? You take on her crap?"

He thinks he might kill her again if it comes down to her or him. He thinks he might be the one to pull the trigger rather than give the orders to the hangman and Athos is hardly sure how to feel about that. "I believe part of our vows was until death do us part. Given that she is alive, I do think I owe her some of my suffering. And perhaps I bear her sins, as well. Never get married," he instructs.

She laughs, a loud and sharp noise that seems to practically fight its way out of her throat. Faith stands and opens her arms, to give Athos the ease of taking a real look at her.

Faith stands somehow more male than her form should allow. She takes up space in the opposite way she's supposed to, with legs splayed apart shoulder-width and ready to take any hit that might come her way. Her red low-cut tank top shows off the dangerous parts of her: muscled arms, plenty of cleavage, and a curved torso down to thick legs wrapped in torn denim. For all intents and purposes she is what the kids these days might call trailer trash, from the top of her unkempt hair to the worn combat boots that cover her feet.

"Do I strike you as the marrying type?" And the culmination of all that armor and facade: her words drip out with sarcasm. Faith Lehane is made for cutting. Not for taking home to dinner with mom, dad, and little brother.