Fanfiction: Some Kind of Wonderful
Some Kind of Wonderful
Show: The Musketeers, BBC
Pairing: Constance and d'Artagnan
Rating: M - Explicit
Spoilers: End of Season 2
Author's Note: Takes place two months after d'Artagnan and the boys depart for war. Constance finds a perfect way to see her husband, and has some news for him. The song "Some Kind of Wonderful" by Grand Funk Railroad was on the radio while the plot bunnies were forming in my brain for this story as I'm driving to work. It's an oldie, but It kind of fits how d'Artagnan feels about Constance. I've also borrowed a bit from a fic I wrote years ago to fill in some gaps on this one. o.o
She begs the queen to send her. After all, it’s not uncommon for women and children to travel with their fighting men. And she’ll return as soon as her mission is complete. No one will suspect a woman, she reasons. She can be trusted, she’ll be careful. Her Majesty doesn’t like the idea; she considers it reckless at first. There are couriers available to handle this kind of mission, but the queen knows that Constance has more reasons than one to travel to where the Musketeer regiment is encamped near the Spanish border. Minister Treville thinks she’s gone mad. But even he has to smile inwardly at her gumption. He’s witnessed her courage first hand, and he’s well aware of how stubborn she can be. He gives his begrudging approval. The queen has entrusted Constance before with sensitive information. This is no different.
Constance packs lightly. The secret missives are tucked neatly away. She’s not certain what they contain; she only knows they must reach the hands of her old friend Athos in three days’ time. She’s given a map, and checkpoints where trusted allies will put her up for the night, offer protection, and guide her way if needed. She has a gentled gelding for companionship, and rations of food and water. Gone are her palace dresses, traded for a nondescript peasant woman’s drab brown skirt and cloak. Two muskets, and a dagger in her boot complete the ensemble. She carries little money. What she does carry is news of more than one kind to deliver, and precious cargo that has nothing to do with wartime strategy, or military orders. Perhaps she is reckless, and though they’ve communicated through letters these last two months, she feels so strongly about seeing her husband again, that she can’t contain herself. Seeing d’Artagnan has become an imperative, as though her very life depends on it.
* * * *
When she reaches the camp three uneventful mornings later, she’s stopped by the guard. Most of the Musketeers know her, and she shows them a letter from the king, granting her an immediate audience with the captain. Two of the guards escort her to his quarters, and leave to care for her horse. She enters his tent.
If Athos is surprised to see her, he doesn’t show it, though he does take in her poorly-dressed, somewhat disheveled appearance. “You’ve traveled a long way, come, sit. This must be important.”
“I have information from the palace,” she says, digging into her pack, too anxious to sit. She fishes out the sealed letters and hands them to him.
While Constance waits anxiously, Athos opens and reads the documents. They contain information about enemy camp orders, thanks to the Duchess of Savoy, as well as the amount and type firepower they possess. He raises his head, eying Constance curiously. “This was a dangerous undertaking Madame.”
Constance swallows nervously, waiting for more scolding. But all she can think about is one thing. “d’Artagnan?”
“Soon to return from a scouting mission.” Athos steps toward a makeshift desk where he pours them each a glass of wine. “It seems the queen has given you a gift,” he says, handing her a glass.
“A gift?”
“d’Artagnan has, by the queen’s orders, been given leave to escort you back to Paris.”
“Oh…. I… she has?”
Athos hands her one of the pages from the documents to view.
Constance skims it. “I had no idea…” Detailed in the note are not only permission for d’Artagnan’s leave, but apparently arrangements have been made for them to spend three days in Comtesse de Larroque’s former summer retreat in a quiet rural area just outside of Paris. Her heart feels as though it will burst with gratitude for Her Majesty’s thoughtfulness and generosity.
“I’m sure we’ll make do without him for a few days,” Athos deadpans.
When Constance meets his gaze, she sees that he’s teasing her. Her shoulders relax, and she gives him a watery smile. He’s not angry. She even thinks he just might be smiling back, just a little. “Thank you.”
“It will do him good to see you,” is all he says.
Constance sips her wine, and waits for her husband’s return.
* * * *
Sometime later he bursts into Athos’s tent, having been told by the others that his wife had arrived. At first he’s elated, then angry, then worried. When he sees her, he sweeps her up in his arms. Even as strong arms envelop her, Constance can’t help but notice he feels a bit thinner. His handsome face is a bit drawn and tired. But he’s alive and well, and she’s in his arms again, and that’s all that matters. She breathes deeply taking in the scents of horse, and leather, and d’Artagnan.
Wrapped in her embrace, his first words are uttered in between kisses. “Why have you come? It’s too dangerous here, Constance. Are you all right? Why are you dressed like this?
She laughs and holds his face in her hands. “I’m here to deliver information. I know it’s dangerous, but I had to come. And I’m completely fine… more than fine now,” she says, stroking his cheek. “I’m dressed this way so as not to draw attention.”
They pull apart slightly, heads turning at the sound of Athos’s voice. “As soon as you’ve given me your report, you two can be on your way.” A rare Athos grin appears as he places his hat on his head and exits the tent.
* * * * *
A servant and a stable boy greet them at the doors of a grand estate. Constance thinks they must be mother and son. As the boy takes their horses, the woman gives them a small tour of the home. She explains where things are located, shows them where food, water, and wine have been stored, and says that she’s been instructed not to disturb them. Before she takes her leave, she lets them know where she’ll be if they need her, and they watch her walk down a path to a smaller cottage not far away.
As soon as the servant is out of sight, d’Artagnan grasps his wife’s hand and with a mischievous grin, pulls a laughing Constance down the corridor that leads to the bedroom. They’re like children, their laughter and footfalls echoing through the unoccupied estate.
They don’t make it to the bed. As soon as they enter the main sleeping chambers, they undress each other, eager hands seeking to rid one another of the coverings that impede them, taking every opportunity to touch and caress as they do so. Skirts, smallclothes and leather pants land in a heap on the floor. They stand together naked, the caress of bodies brushing against one another. He doesn’t want to wait. He wants her now. He takes her face in his hands, and lowering his head, he closes the distance between them, his lips capturing hers, gently covering her mouth, slowly devouring the softness of her lips.
He raises his head, his lips a mere inch away. “I’ve missed you,” he whispers, then recaptures her mouth with his, this time more impassioned, telling her with his kisses, and the pressure of his body against hers, exactly what he wants.
Instinctively, her body arches toward him, her hands sliding and skimming over the muscles of his back, her soft curves and skin, and breasts, pressed against his lean body. “I know,” she smiles, her voice a silky murmur against his lips.
“You drive me mad with desire,” he breathes desperately, as he kisses around her mouth and jaw line. The closest piece of furniture is a wood-carved table. d’Artagnan lifts her slightly, and sets her on the smooth table top, his hands grasping her knees, separating them. His mouth creates a tantalizing trail moving lower, kissing, licking, and nipping his way down her body until his lips and tongue are working amazing magic between her thighs.
“Oh!”
She rests her weight on the palms of her hands, leaning back slightly to give him better access. She wants this, but she doesn’t. She wants him. Inside her. She lets him know without words what she wants. His fingers graze her thighs, sending tingling sensations through her, as he stands up and moves between her legs, his erection almost immediately seeking entrance, the tip of his manhood probing and rubbing against her wet slit.
“It feels like it’s been forever,” he whispers. His lips find hers once again, his passion rising. “Can’t wait any longer,” he pants lightly, his lips brushing against hers.
It had been two months since she’d felt her husband filling her, hot and hard inside her, and the way he’s kissing her and touching her, and whispering his need in her ear, drives her, the passion in his voice reverberating deep into the soft core of her body. His need becomes hers. His hands on her body cause shivers of delight to follow his every touch. How she’d missed his hands, and his mouth, and his skin against hers. Constance surrenders to him completely. She threads her fingers into his dark hair pulling him toward her, drowning in his kisses as she tips her hips to welcome his body.
Increasingly urgent sighs and moans mingle and fill the room. d’Artagnan flexes his hips, gathering her against his body, hands grasping and sliding beneath her bottom. His fingers dig into her soft flesh, as he pushes himself further inside her, then partially withdrawing, entering again, easing his way into her slick warmth further with each rocking motion of his hips, inch by inch until she envelops and surrounds him completely. He shudders.
“Oh God,” her voice quavers, trailing off as he begins a slow, delicious rhythm, plunging deeper, harder each time, filling her, overwhelming her, until there is nothing else that exists in the world but him. His movements quicken, his arduous pace increasing, mounting with every thrust. “d’Artagnan…” his name becomes a long whispering moan.
A torturous, guttural sound escapes his lips in answer to his name, and he stills himself momentarily, deep inside her, resting his forehead against hers. They breathe each other’s erratic breaths. He licks his lips, wetting them. “Damn,” he pants. He has to stop, or he’ll spill himself too quickly. He’s been too long without her.
Constance tips her chin to capture his mouth with hers. “Don’t stop, d’Artagnan. I don’t care,” she whispers between kisses. “We have all day, all night,” she breathes more kisses against his lips, and over his cheek. “Come for me,” she whispers in his ear. “Don’t stop. “
She begins to wiggle her hips against his, making him groan. His mouth covers hers hungrily, and he moves against her, meeting her over and over. Filling her again and again. Together they find the frantic tempo that binds their bodies together. “God…”
His raw sensuousness carries her to greater heights. He’d been worried about her pleasure, wanting her to be satisfied, but his concern is needless. She’s missed him just as much, and is just as close as he is to her own orgasm, a burning sweetness low in her belly, building with every thrust. Her desire for him consumes her as his passion swirls around her, reaffirming the knowledge that d'Artagnan is the only man she's ever loved, or will ever love. “Harder,” she urges.
His brows knit, then relax as his eyelids close over. “Constance…” her name is a moan of ecstasy slipping through his lips, groaning sounds escaping him as involuntary tremors shake him, an arc of electricity passing through his body to hers. Too long without her. Too long, and he wishes he didn’t ever have to be away from her again. d’Artagnan came for her, with her, shuddering in his release. His head falls forward against her shoulder, his breath fanning her heated skin, his hands stroking her thighs, sliding up over her hips, around her back, pulling her closer.
They relax against one another for a time, until he lifts his head, and his lips seek hers once more. He doesn't want to leave her body. Not yet. She's still spasming around him. Tiny, involuntary tremors, clenching along his length, like aftershocks. When he finally pulls away, they gaze at one another for long moments. He brushes the fringe from her eyes with a gentle touch. Her hands roam his body, soothing his heated skin. They can’t seem to satisfy the desire to touch one another. No words are needed between them. He rests his forehead against hers. They’re together again, for now, and it is everything.
Constance slides from the table, and pulls him toward the large, white four-poster bed. They fall upon the rich, pale blue embroidered bed covering, each pleasantly languid and drowsy, wrapped in each other’s arms. Mid-morning light filters through the gauzy draperies of the large main window, illuminating their bodies in a soft glow. He tucks her head beneath his chin. He thinks back to their honeymoon, and a short laugh escapes him. “This is much better than the garrison,” he muses quietly, as he takes in their more lavish surroundings. His hand continues to absent-mindedly caress her bare shoulder and back. He’s missed her so.
“It doesn’t matter where we are,” she says. “As long as I’m with you.” She squeezes him lightly around his middle, as a bit of nervous excitement fills her. She has to tell him. “I have wonderful news.”
“What is it?” He asks with a sleepy smile, shifting slightly to draw her closer. He presses a kiss to her forehead.
Constance grasps his free hand and places his palm over her abdomen, sliding his hand lower, just below her navel. “There,” she whispers. “Right there. Yours and mine.” He turns his head to get a better view of her features. She smiles at his dumbfounded expression and adds, “This is what happened at the garrison.”
d’Artagnan raises up on an elbow, and looks down at where she’s placed his hand. As realization dawns, brown eyes meet blue ones. There’s a husband’s question in his eyes, and a wife’s answer in hers.
d’Artagnan sits up. “You’re certain?” He asks, the amazement in his voice, evident. His eyes roam her body, as he moves his palm caressing the spot where his unborn child grows. He’s utterly speechless.
“Your aim was true, Musketeer,” she says quietly, as she watches his hands begin to stroke and caress and worship almost every part of her. d’Artagnan can’t seem to form any words. Instead, he places a soft, lingering kiss to her belly.
“My mother died when I was young,” he whispers finally, his hands still moving over her, as though discovering her for the first time. “My father…” his voice trails off, breaking.
“Would be proud of you,” she finishes for him, urging him back to her side. Seeing his pain at the thought of his father brings unshed tears to her eyes. Constance takes him in her arms, cradling his head to her breast, sensing that it’s what he needs, so affected he’s become by this turn of events. Her fingers delve into his hair, soothing him.
He’s still stroking her, palming a breast, as though testing its weight, he thinks he should admonish her for riding three days closer to the battlefield in her condition. She could have put her life in danger. But those thoughts are pushed aside by new ones. Amazing, frightful thoughts of impending fatherhood. “I love you, Constance,” his breath shudders, his voice so thick with emotion, she thinks he will break. He slides a slow hand down the curves of her body from breast to hip and back to the place where their child rests. “I love both of you.”
The remaining days are spent mostly inside the country estate. They’re inseparable. They eat together, bathe together, they make love. d’Artagnan realizes that his wife is right. It doesn’t matter where they are. They don’t need lavish surroundings. They only need each other. He has everything he could ever want at this moment. Their time here is too short, and they must return to the harsh realities, devastations and hardships of a country at war. But this time when they part, there is not devastating sadness. There is new hope.
Years later, when this conflict is long over, and there are more children, and d’Artagnan is a lieutenant of the Musketeers, he and Constance will remember these days fondly as beautiful stolen moments during a time of death and destruction; finding some kind of wonderful in the midst of horror.