you're a king and i'm a lionheart | The Musketeers | Constance/Anne
t: you're a king and i'm a lionheart
f: The Musketeers
p: Constance/Anne (background/implied others)
r/wc: PG/2500
ch: femslash100 - AU drabble cycle
s: 10 little alternate universes for Constance and Anne.
n: [Title is from King and Lionheart by Of Monsters And Men] This is a full 10-prompt table for the AU drabble cycle over at femslash100, so basically it's 10 250 word drabbles of different AUs for our perf queens, Constance and Anne. There should be a sprinkle of something for everyone here. Also, you should just assume that whatever the universe, unless it's stated otherwise, Constance and Anne are just in a comfy bro-pile of friendship with the four Musketeer dudes, because this is all that I want.
001. Acting
They debated practicing the kiss beforehand, but Treville insisted they’d be better off just going for it on the day.
Now, though, Constance is nervous; more nervous than she was expecting, even considering the horrible debilitating crush she’s had on Anne since basically their first day working together, four - BAFTA-winning - series ago. Fans will be delighted for their characters’ slow-burn flirtation to finally culminate, but knowing this doesn’t help.
Treville is running around shouting orders, and in a minute she and Anne are going to perform this scene properly for the first time, confessing their love for each other and finally kissing.
“We’ve got an audience,” Anne remarks, beatifically placid, nodding to where apparently everyone from the cast and crew who haven’t got anywhere better to be have gathered.
Constance holds back a groan.
The scene goes by quickly; she and Anne have always worked well together, and despite Constance’s pounding heart, she doesn’t stumble over her words. And then Anne is cupping Constance’s face and leaning in to kiss her, and for a second Constance can’t breathe, can’t move. And then she does, and Anne is kissing her, and she is kissing back, and it isn’t weird or scary, it just feels… normal, like they’ve always been doing this.
“…I called cut five minutes ago,” Treville’s voice finally breaks in; Constance becomes aware there’s applause.
She starts to pull away, but Anne doesn’t let her, and, well. It’s not like this hasn’t been a long time coming, after all.
002. Dystopian
When Constance first met Anne, she was a scared-looking young woman, waist-length blonde hair, shaky hands.
She doesn’t think about that much these days, but it comes back to her suddenly as Anne grits her teeth, fighting to stay quiet while Aramis stitches closed the ugly gash across her ribs by shaky torchlight.
“Hold it still,” Aramis mutters to D’Artagnan, who tries to; it’s the first thing he’s said since Athos carried Anne into their bunker at a jog. Constance, on the other hand, is pretty sure she hasn’t been able to stop talking, a nervous babble of platitudes taking place in a whisper while she crouches over Anne, stroking her dirty shorn hair away from her face. Anne’s eyes are bright with pain, glittery in the edges of the torchlight.
Constance is dimly aware of Athos and Porthos telling Treville about the ambush they got caught in, the three of them poring over viewscreens and maps, trying to pinpoint if their location’s been discovered yet. It’s important, of course - they don’t want to have to move again, not when this bunker is significantly bigger than their last one - but Constance can’t think about that right now, can’t think about anything but handing Aramis antiseptic wipes when he holds his hand out for one, and watching Anne’s drawn pale face flicker.
“Done,” Aramis announces at last, sticking a bandage over the wound.
“Constance?” Anne rasps, shifting, and Constance immediately threads their fingers together.
“I’m here,” she says, “I’ve got you.”
003. University
“Athos is having a Crisis,” D’Artagnan explains as he lets Anne into their block.
Anne thought her flatmates were high maintenance - Louis’ ceaseless hissy fits, Marguerite’s constant boyfriends, and whatever terrifying things Rochefort gets up to that she just doesn’t ask about - but then she met Constance, and she met Constance’s flatmates.
“Is this related to the last Crisis?” Anne asks, as they walk into the kitchen.
“Yep,” Porthos, who’s holding a vodka bottle, says. “It’s that Plath-obsessed girl in his seminars, Duchess or whatever.”
“Milady,” Athos groans, his head on the kitchen table.
Porthos leans over to tip more vodka into the fresher’s week mug by Athos’ limp hand.
“Hi,” Constance whispers, kissing Anne’s cheek quickly. “Sorry, I’ll be ready to go in a few.”
“Don’t worry,” Anne replies, taking a seat next to Aramis, who is looking intently at his phone and occasionally helping himself to Athos’ misery vodka. Constance’s flatmates are high maintenance, but she likes them much more than her own - at least they’re lovely with it.
Glancing over, Anne notes that Aramis appears to be sexting with large amounts of emojis; there’s a lot of aubergines going on.
“I think Milady might be sleeping with Louis,” she offers, because someone should rip off that particular plaster.
Athos makes a miserable noise into the table, and d’Artagnan flinches.
Constance sighs, and brings over a couple of mugs before settling down comfortably on Anne’s lap. “I suppose date night’s off,” she says, and reaches for the vodka.
004. High School
It surprises no one when Aramis decides he’s going to join the drama club.
“I’m going to get to date all the girls,” he announces.
Porthos flinches a bit, but Constance is pretty sure she and Athos are the only ones who notice.
Porthos is already on half the sports teams, and D’Artagnan does tai kwan do, and Constance has her feminism and LGBT+ clubs, and Athos’ version of extracurricular activities mostly involve smoking behind the gym block and trying not to knock his whatever-Milady-is up, so no one’s free to join Aramis. He doesn’t seem to mind.
A couple of weeks later, Aramis shows up at lunch with a blonde girl Constance vaguely knows from her year eight Spanish class, but who is much, much prettier now.
“This is Anne,” Aramis announces, and: “she’s not my girlfriend.”
Constance has no idea who that information is actually meant for, but: good to know. Aramis and Anne start running lines - they’re doing The Crucible; Constance is pretty sure it’ll be a carcrash - and Constance focuses on the essay she should’ve done for history by now. Well. Mostly, anyway.
After Anne has flitted off with her script and a wave of delicate fingers, Porthos turns to Aramis. “Well?” he asks.
“I’m matchmaking,” Aramis replies, with an elaborate eyeroll.
“Okay,” Constance says, “but Porthos is too gay, D’Artagnan is too young, and Athos has Milady.”
“Yeah,” Aramis says, expression deliberate. “I know.”
Constance blinks a couple of times. “Oh,” she says faintly. “Right.”
005. Magic/Witchcraft
“Love spells don’t actually work, you know,” Aramis tells Anne, “they pretty much just blow up in your face. Sometimes literally.”
Anne continues paging through her book anyway, because witches the world over are always accidentally finding spells scribbled in margins and changing the face of witchcraft, so it can’t hurt to keep searching.
“That’s just a myth so we won’t all go around manipulating each other,” Anne tells him. “I read a study on it.”
“And I used six on Porthos and absolutely none of them worked, and two of them got him girlfriends,” Aramis replies. “Can’t you just use tinder like a normal person?”
“No,” Anne snaps, “and you and Porthos worked out okay in the end.”
“Not because of magic,” Aramis shrugs, “Athos just got us drunk and yelled at us and we snogged on the bus home, it turns out I didn’t need magic, I just needed to be less oblivious.” He snaps his fingers. “Hey, I know four different awesome lust spells though.”
“You’re not helping,” Anne says, sighing, and turning back to the index in case there’s a euphemism for love that she’s missed.
“I’m not actually trying to,” Aramis replies, sprawled out on her sofa. He waves his fingers and a shower of pale pink rose petals trickle from the ceiling.
“You’re cleaning those up,” Anne replies.
“You could give them to Constance,” Aramis offers. “You could try talking to her, you know? Like a person?”
Anne ignores him, and carries on searching.
006. Musicians/Bands
Watching from the side of the stage, Constance lets out a sigh. “This is why I do this,” she says.
Aramis, wearing jeans so tight it’s a wonder they don’t split when he bends like that, is howling the chorus to One For All at a screaming audience, who are singing it back so loudly it almost drowns him out. Porthos has broken three sets of drumsticks already, the bandana around his head soaked with sweat, and d’Artagnan has the fans shrieking every time he gets a guitar solo. That’s not water in Athos’ Evian bottle, but his bass playing is impeccable; he hasn’t missed a note.
You wouldn’t know that Constance spent the afternoon yelling at Porthos and Aramis for that semi-public sex they had in front of several fans with cameras yesterday, dragging Athos out of bed and under a shower spray until he agreed to wash his hair, and tracking d’Artagnan down from where he’d vanished into the city in the name of sightseeing.
“I’m not really a manager,” she explained to Anne during soundcheck, when Aramis was busy making eyes at Porthos and Athos was draped over an amp like a dying swan, “I’m a babysitter. I swear to God.”
You wouldn’t know it now; they look amazing out there. Anne’s opening set was well-received, and she’s still glowing with it, but the venue is shaking.
“Want to dance?” she asks.
Constance considers her for a moment, and then grins. “Yes,” she says, “yes, I do.”
007. Neighbours
“Have you worked out which one she’s dating yet?” D’Artagnan asks.
“No,” Constance replies. She’s not morose. She has no reason to be morose. It’s Friday, her BFF came over and even brought cheap wine.
“Maybe she’s dating all of them,” D’Artagnan muses unhelpfully, passing Constance a glass of rosé filled right to the top. D’Artagnan is such a good BFF.
“I thought of that,” Constance says, “but I didn’t think Aramis would be up for it; he wants to be everyone’s one and only.”
They only sort-of know Aramis, because he and Porthos have this thing going on where they might be fumbling their way towards best friends or soulmates, and it’s best to leave them to it. Athos, once he heard Aramis was involved with Constance’s new neighbour, absolutely refused to get involved, just rolled his eyes heavenward and handed Constance a beer.
“They might not know about each other,” D’Artagnan suggests. He’s almost as invested in this as Constance is, except that he doesn’t fancy Constance’s neighbour with the golden hair and the delicate wrists and the pots of homegrown flowers on her balcony and the abnormal number of men who flit in and out of her flat and Constance really, really does.
They’ve ruled out prostitute, but that’s about it.
“You could ask her,” d’Artagnan says, “maybe she just has a lot of bloke mates, and is just waiting for a lesbian meetcute.”
Constance whacks his arm. “Athos is right, you really are shit at this.”
008. Noir
Anne pretended to turn a blind eye, even let go the first couple of times Louis left bruises on her cheek, always penitent by morning, but it’s far too late for that now.
She tugs at her collar, keeping her gaze on the wet pavement beneath her boots. It’s hard not to flinch at every pair of car headlights, every pool of a streetlight, every time someone passes her. If she weren’t so recognisable it wouldn’t matter so much, but her face has been splashed across the newspapers, and even with her hat pulled low and an old coat from the back of Louis’ closet might not be enough to protect her.
Rochefort has his claws in Louis’ administration, and Anne’s marriage was never particularly happy, but with her husband now the mayor and so deep into the mob’s pockets there’s no extrication possible; all she can think of to do is run.
Porthos du Vallon runs a speakeasy and there’s rumours about what he and his friends can achieve; Rochefort spits their names like they’re bitter on his tongue. They’re the only people Anne can think of who don’t belong to the mob.
She’s not expecting the woman in the doorway, a man’s hat tilted over her face, her mouth a slash of bright lipstick. Light and music spill into the air behind her as she studies Anne’s face.
“Athos said this would happen,” she says, and holds out a hand. Anne hesitates a moment, but she takes it.
009. Space
Milady’s latest message arrives late afternoon by the ship’s clock, though this planet has three suns and never seems to fit exact times.
Anne has replied and set the coordinates by the time Constance gets back to the ship, their rickety hover-buggy weighed down with merchandise and supplies.
“Milady’s found us a buyer,” Anne announces as she closes the cargo bay doors. “It’s in the Fére system again.”
“I bloody hate the Fére system,” Constance says without heat, tugging off her tinted goggles. “Tell me it’s not that place with the twenty-five moons and the angry tides.”
She follows Constance through to the cockpit. It’s a small craft, easy to slip under radars, but big enough for the two of them. “I think it’s probably the one with Milady’s unstable ex-husband,” Anne replies. “It usually is.”
Constance grimaces. “I suppose we should be glad it’s not the one with your unstable ex-husband,” she says at last.
“Or yours,” Anne replies, sitting in the pilot’s chair and strapping herself in, Constance mirroring the movements in the copilot’s seat.
Constance rolls her eyes. “Yours is royalty.”
“So was I,” Anne points out.
“As if I forget,” Constance says.
Anne does, sometimes; it seems a long time ago that she was queen of half the United Planets, desperately miserable and drowning by degrees. Now she lives in a battered little ship with her new wife and smuggles black market goods for a living.
It’s a very different existence, but she’s never been happier.
010. Superheroes
The cape drops by the window; by the time Constance reaches the bedroom she’s ready to tug on the washed-out t-shirt from Aramis’ uni days left out for her.
Anne hums, half-asleep, when Constance slides under the duvet. “Long night?” she asks, body curled like a question mark, ready for Constance to curl around it, hair tickling Constance’s face.
“They’re all long nights,” Constance replies, smiling with her mouth against the back of Anne’s neck where she can feel it even in the dark.
Anne huffs a breath, part amused, part frustrated. “I didn’t hear you get the first aid kit,” she says.
In the early days, she used to sit up every night until Constance got home, hands full of plasters and antiseptic, but it didn’t make either of them feel better. She goes to bed now, but they both know she doesn’t truly sleep until Constance is in, the window safely locked behind her.
“I’m fine,” Constance assures her. “Well, I broke a nail.”
“Poor you,” Anne replies drily. “D’Artagnan?”
Constance hadn’t been sure she wanted a sidekick when she first met D’Artagnan, especially not one who seemed much too overexcited by capes, but after a few months and a couple of sets of broken ribs, she’s starting to think he might actually be okay at this after all.
“He’s fine too,” she says, and kisses the back of Anne’s neck. “And now: let’s sleep.”
“My hero,” Anne mumbles drily, but she curls tighter into Constance, already drifting.
f: The Musketeers
p: Constance/Anne (background/implied others)
r/wc: PG/2500
ch: femslash100 - AU drabble cycle
s: 10 little alternate universes for Constance and Anne.
n: [Title is from King and Lionheart by Of Monsters And Men] This is a full 10-prompt table for the AU drabble cycle over at femslash100, so basically it's 10 250 word drabbles of different AUs for our perf queens, Constance and Anne. There should be a sprinkle of something for everyone here. Also, you should just assume that whatever the universe, unless it's stated otherwise, Constance and Anne are just in a comfy bro-pile of friendship with the four Musketeer dudes, because this is all that I want.
001. Acting
They debated practicing the kiss beforehand, but Treville insisted they’d be better off just going for it on the day.
Now, though, Constance is nervous; more nervous than she was expecting, even considering the horrible debilitating crush she’s had on Anne since basically their first day working together, four - BAFTA-winning - series ago. Fans will be delighted for their characters’ slow-burn flirtation to finally culminate, but knowing this doesn’t help.
Treville is running around shouting orders, and in a minute she and Anne are going to perform this scene properly for the first time, confessing their love for each other and finally kissing.
“We’ve got an audience,” Anne remarks, beatifically placid, nodding to where apparently everyone from the cast and crew who haven’t got anywhere better to be have gathered.
Constance holds back a groan.
The scene goes by quickly; she and Anne have always worked well together, and despite Constance’s pounding heart, she doesn’t stumble over her words. And then Anne is cupping Constance’s face and leaning in to kiss her, and for a second Constance can’t breathe, can’t move. And then she does, and Anne is kissing her, and she is kissing back, and it isn’t weird or scary, it just feels… normal, like they’ve always been doing this.
“…I called cut five minutes ago,” Treville’s voice finally breaks in; Constance becomes aware there’s applause.
She starts to pull away, but Anne doesn’t let her, and, well. It’s not like this hasn’t been a long time coming, after all.
002. Dystopian
When Constance first met Anne, she was a scared-looking young woman, waist-length blonde hair, shaky hands.
She doesn’t think about that much these days, but it comes back to her suddenly as Anne grits her teeth, fighting to stay quiet while Aramis stitches closed the ugly gash across her ribs by shaky torchlight.
“Hold it still,” Aramis mutters to D’Artagnan, who tries to; it’s the first thing he’s said since Athos carried Anne into their bunker at a jog. Constance, on the other hand, is pretty sure she hasn’t been able to stop talking, a nervous babble of platitudes taking place in a whisper while she crouches over Anne, stroking her dirty shorn hair away from her face. Anne’s eyes are bright with pain, glittery in the edges of the torchlight.
Constance is dimly aware of Athos and Porthos telling Treville about the ambush they got caught in, the three of them poring over viewscreens and maps, trying to pinpoint if their location’s been discovered yet. It’s important, of course - they don’t want to have to move again, not when this bunker is significantly bigger than their last one - but Constance can’t think about that right now, can’t think about anything but handing Aramis antiseptic wipes when he holds his hand out for one, and watching Anne’s drawn pale face flicker.
“Done,” Aramis announces at last, sticking a bandage over the wound.
“Constance?” Anne rasps, shifting, and Constance immediately threads their fingers together.
“I’m here,” she says, “I’ve got you.”
003. University
“Athos is having a Crisis,” D’Artagnan explains as he lets Anne into their block.
Anne thought her flatmates were high maintenance - Louis’ ceaseless hissy fits, Marguerite’s constant boyfriends, and whatever terrifying things Rochefort gets up to that she just doesn’t ask about - but then she met Constance, and she met Constance’s flatmates.
“Is this related to the last Crisis?” Anne asks, as they walk into the kitchen.
“Yep,” Porthos, who’s holding a vodka bottle, says. “It’s that Plath-obsessed girl in his seminars, Duchess or whatever.”
“Milady,” Athos groans, his head on the kitchen table.
Porthos leans over to tip more vodka into the fresher’s week mug by Athos’ limp hand.
“Hi,” Constance whispers, kissing Anne’s cheek quickly. “Sorry, I’ll be ready to go in a few.”
“Don’t worry,” Anne replies, taking a seat next to Aramis, who is looking intently at his phone and occasionally helping himself to Athos’ misery vodka. Constance’s flatmates are high maintenance, but she likes them much more than her own - at least they’re lovely with it.
Glancing over, Anne notes that Aramis appears to be sexting with large amounts of emojis; there’s a lot of aubergines going on.
“I think Milady might be sleeping with Louis,” she offers, because someone should rip off that particular plaster.
Athos makes a miserable noise into the table, and d’Artagnan flinches.
Constance sighs, and brings over a couple of mugs before settling down comfortably on Anne’s lap. “I suppose date night’s off,” she says, and reaches for the vodka.
004. High School
It surprises no one when Aramis decides he’s going to join the drama club.
“I’m going to get to date all the girls,” he announces.
Porthos flinches a bit, but Constance is pretty sure she and Athos are the only ones who notice.
Porthos is already on half the sports teams, and D’Artagnan does tai kwan do, and Constance has her feminism and LGBT+ clubs, and Athos’ version of extracurricular activities mostly involve smoking behind the gym block and trying not to knock his whatever-Milady-is up, so no one’s free to join Aramis. He doesn’t seem to mind.
A couple of weeks later, Aramis shows up at lunch with a blonde girl Constance vaguely knows from her year eight Spanish class, but who is much, much prettier now.
“This is Anne,” Aramis announces, and: “she’s not my girlfriend.”
Constance has no idea who that information is actually meant for, but: good to know. Aramis and Anne start running lines - they’re doing The Crucible; Constance is pretty sure it’ll be a carcrash - and Constance focuses on the essay she should’ve done for history by now. Well. Mostly, anyway.
After Anne has flitted off with her script and a wave of delicate fingers, Porthos turns to Aramis. “Well?” he asks.
“I’m matchmaking,” Aramis replies, with an elaborate eyeroll.
“Okay,” Constance says, “but Porthos is too gay, D’Artagnan is too young, and Athos has Milady.”
“Yeah,” Aramis says, expression deliberate. “I know.”
Constance blinks a couple of times. “Oh,” she says faintly. “Right.”
005. Magic/Witchcraft
“Love spells don’t actually work, you know,” Aramis tells Anne, “they pretty much just blow up in your face. Sometimes literally.”
Anne continues paging through her book anyway, because witches the world over are always accidentally finding spells scribbled in margins and changing the face of witchcraft, so it can’t hurt to keep searching.
“That’s just a myth so we won’t all go around manipulating each other,” Anne tells him. “I read a study on it.”
“And I used six on Porthos and absolutely none of them worked, and two of them got him girlfriends,” Aramis replies. “Can’t you just use tinder like a normal person?”
“No,” Anne snaps, “and you and Porthos worked out okay in the end.”
“Not because of magic,” Aramis shrugs, “Athos just got us drunk and yelled at us and we snogged on the bus home, it turns out I didn’t need magic, I just needed to be less oblivious.” He snaps his fingers. “Hey, I know four different awesome lust spells though.”
“You’re not helping,” Anne says, sighing, and turning back to the index in case there’s a euphemism for love that she’s missed.
“I’m not actually trying to,” Aramis replies, sprawled out on her sofa. He waves his fingers and a shower of pale pink rose petals trickle from the ceiling.
“You’re cleaning those up,” Anne replies.
“You could give them to Constance,” Aramis offers. “You could try talking to her, you know? Like a person?”
Anne ignores him, and carries on searching.
006. Musicians/Bands
Watching from the side of the stage, Constance lets out a sigh. “This is why I do this,” she says.
Aramis, wearing jeans so tight it’s a wonder they don’t split when he bends like that, is howling the chorus to One For All at a screaming audience, who are singing it back so loudly it almost drowns him out. Porthos has broken three sets of drumsticks already, the bandana around his head soaked with sweat, and d’Artagnan has the fans shrieking every time he gets a guitar solo. That’s not water in Athos’ Evian bottle, but his bass playing is impeccable; he hasn’t missed a note.
You wouldn’t know that Constance spent the afternoon yelling at Porthos and Aramis for that semi-public sex they had in front of several fans with cameras yesterday, dragging Athos out of bed and under a shower spray until he agreed to wash his hair, and tracking d’Artagnan down from where he’d vanished into the city in the name of sightseeing.
“I’m not really a manager,” she explained to Anne during soundcheck, when Aramis was busy making eyes at Porthos and Athos was draped over an amp like a dying swan, “I’m a babysitter. I swear to God.”
You wouldn’t know it now; they look amazing out there. Anne’s opening set was well-received, and she’s still glowing with it, but the venue is shaking.
“Want to dance?” she asks.
Constance considers her for a moment, and then grins. “Yes,” she says, “yes, I do.”
007. Neighbours
“Have you worked out which one she’s dating yet?” D’Artagnan asks.
“No,” Constance replies. She’s not morose. She has no reason to be morose. It’s Friday, her BFF came over and even brought cheap wine.
“Maybe she’s dating all of them,” D’Artagnan muses unhelpfully, passing Constance a glass of rosé filled right to the top. D’Artagnan is such a good BFF.
“I thought of that,” Constance says, “but I didn’t think Aramis would be up for it; he wants to be everyone’s one and only.”
They only sort-of know Aramis, because he and Porthos have this thing going on where they might be fumbling their way towards best friends or soulmates, and it’s best to leave them to it. Athos, once he heard Aramis was involved with Constance’s new neighbour, absolutely refused to get involved, just rolled his eyes heavenward and handed Constance a beer.
“They might not know about each other,” D’Artagnan suggests. He’s almost as invested in this as Constance is, except that he doesn’t fancy Constance’s neighbour with the golden hair and the delicate wrists and the pots of homegrown flowers on her balcony and the abnormal number of men who flit in and out of her flat and Constance really, really does.
They’ve ruled out prostitute, but that’s about it.
“You could ask her,” d’Artagnan says, “maybe she just has a lot of bloke mates, and is just waiting for a lesbian meetcute.”
Constance whacks his arm. “Athos is right, you really are shit at this.”
008. Noir
Anne pretended to turn a blind eye, even let go the first couple of times Louis left bruises on her cheek, always penitent by morning, but it’s far too late for that now.
She tugs at her collar, keeping her gaze on the wet pavement beneath her boots. It’s hard not to flinch at every pair of car headlights, every pool of a streetlight, every time someone passes her. If she weren’t so recognisable it wouldn’t matter so much, but her face has been splashed across the newspapers, and even with her hat pulled low and an old coat from the back of Louis’ closet might not be enough to protect her.
Rochefort has his claws in Louis’ administration, and Anne’s marriage was never particularly happy, but with her husband now the mayor and so deep into the mob’s pockets there’s no extrication possible; all she can think of to do is run.
Porthos du Vallon runs a speakeasy and there’s rumours about what he and his friends can achieve; Rochefort spits their names like they’re bitter on his tongue. They’re the only people Anne can think of who don’t belong to the mob.
She’s not expecting the woman in the doorway, a man’s hat tilted over her face, her mouth a slash of bright lipstick. Light and music spill into the air behind her as she studies Anne’s face.
“Athos said this would happen,” she says, and holds out a hand. Anne hesitates a moment, but she takes it.
009. Space
Milady’s latest message arrives late afternoon by the ship’s clock, though this planet has three suns and never seems to fit exact times.
Anne has replied and set the coordinates by the time Constance gets back to the ship, their rickety hover-buggy weighed down with merchandise and supplies.
“Milady’s found us a buyer,” Anne announces as she closes the cargo bay doors. “It’s in the Fére system again.”
“I bloody hate the Fére system,” Constance says without heat, tugging off her tinted goggles. “Tell me it’s not that place with the twenty-five moons and the angry tides.”
She follows Constance through to the cockpit. It’s a small craft, easy to slip under radars, but big enough for the two of them. “I think it’s probably the one with Milady’s unstable ex-husband,” Anne replies. “It usually is.”
Constance grimaces. “I suppose we should be glad it’s not the one with your unstable ex-husband,” she says at last.
“Or yours,” Anne replies, sitting in the pilot’s chair and strapping herself in, Constance mirroring the movements in the copilot’s seat.
Constance rolls her eyes. “Yours is royalty.”
“So was I,” Anne points out.
“As if I forget,” Constance says.
Anne does, sometimes; it seems a long time ago that she was queen of half the United Planets, desperately miserable and drowning by degrees. Now she lives in a battered little ship with her new wife and smuggles black market goods for a living.
It’s a very different existence, but she’s never been happier.
010. Superheroes
The cape drops by the window; by the time Constance reaches the bedroom she’s ready to tug on the washed-out t-shirt from Aramis’ uni days left out for her.
Anne hums, half-asleep, when Constance slides under the duvet. “Long night?” she asks, body curled like a question mark, ready for Constance to curl around it, hair tickling Constance’s face.
“They’re all long nights,” Constance replies, smiling with her mouth against the back of Anne’s neck where she can feel it even in the dark.
Anne huffs a breath, part amused, part frustrated. “I didn’t hear you get the first aid kit,” she says.
In the early days, she used to sit up every night until Constance got home, hands full of plasters and antiseptic, but it didn’t make either of them feel better. She goes to bed now, but they both know she doesn’t truly sleep until Constance is in, the window safely locked behind her.
“I’m fine,” Constance assures her. “Well, I broke a nail.”
“Poor you,” Anne replies drily. “D’Artagnan?”
Constance hadn’t been sure she wanted a sidekick when she first met D’Artagnan, especially not one who seemed much too overexcited by capes, but after a few months and a couple of sets of broken ribs, she’s starting to think he might actually be okay at this after all.
“He’s fine too,” she says, and kisses the back of Anne’s neck. “And now: let’s sleep.”
“My hero,” Anne mumbles drily, but she curls tighter into Constance, already drifting.