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Chapter Text

"You three!" Captain Treville called from overhead, glaring down at the group in the courtyard. Athos and D'Artagnan looked up from where they were leaning casually against the stairs, watching Porthos and Aramis do their best to bash the other into pieces in what was meant to be a friendly fencing match. Aramis paused at Treville's call, and with a shout of victory Porthos slashed at his head, neatly slicing through the feather in his hat. As it wafted to the ground, Aramis howled in outrage and physically threw himself on Porthos, who tossed his sword to the side with a laugh. Treville swiped a hand across his face with a groan. Children. I'm the captain of a bunch of children.

He gave it a few minutes before he dared look down again. Porthos was now sitting squarely on Aramis's back attempting to push his face into the mud, which wasn't really surprising. No one beat Porthos in a fistfight. Though looking at Aramis, Treville noticed a distinct grin on his face. They're all mad.

"You three! My office, now!" he called again, and as Porthos clambered up Treville noticed he was missing his hat, which Aramis was pulling out from beneath him, covered in mud.

As they sauntered up to his office, Treville could hear them bickering happily. "You ruined my best hat!"

"Well, that feather was a gift from a dear friend of mine!" Aramis cried, his tone wounded.

"You mean it was from one of your mistresses," Athos interjected calmly as they entered the office. Aramis grinned easily at him while Porthos scowled. D'Artagnan brought up the rear.

"I thought I said you three," Treville said in a tone of great exasperation. D'Artagnan shrugged. Deciding it was best to pick his battles, Treville ignored him. He was a Musketeer now, after all. And a damn good one.

"I've got a job for you," he said gravely, and Aramis and Porthos finally stopped shoving each other to look at him, grins sliding off their faces as they adopted more professional attitudes. "I need you to go up to Calais. The Cardinal has been receiving reports from his contacts there that are… disturbing."

"Why are we helping the Cardinal, after everything that happened?" Athos asked blandly. "He's no friend of the Musketeers." The others nodded their agreement.

Treville sighed. "Believe me, I know. But from what his spies are telling him, this may be a matter of the king's safety." He could see that they were all listening intently now, determined to protect the king. "Some time ago, one of the Cardinal's most trusted scribes turned traitor and ran off with some maps of the palace, maps that showed the secret passages leading to the king's chambers and the Cardinal's rooms, among other things. We never found him. Now there's word that he may be in Calais with some unsavory, criminal underworld types, trying to sell the plans to the highest bidder. I need you to go find him and retrieve those plans. His name is Philippe Aubert. It's a week long journey to Calais. You leave at once."

"Can't you set a guard on the secret passageways?" Athos asked.

"Yes, and reveal their existence to even more people in doing so. Even if we did set guards on all of them, the risk to the king remains too great to condone. Aubert and the plans must be found."

The four men nodded and turned to leave. Before they were out of sight Treville called after them, "And try to bring him back alive! We need to know if he's sold any other secrets to our enemies." Down in the yard, he could hear the bickering begin again. At least they waited until the briefing was over, he thought mournfully.

They left as soon as they were packed, traveling light so they could make good time without killing the horses. It took them a couple of days to reach Calais, and when they arrived it was already dark. They clattered into the courtyard of an inn, hoping for a good night's sleep before beginning the search for Aubert. While Athos went straight to the corner to start drinking, Aramis went to find the innkeeper.

"There're only two rooms with a bed apiece," the older gentleman told them. "You can sleep in th' stables, or you can share." Behind him, he heard D'Artagnan yell something about not wanting to sleep with horses, while Porthos just shouted, "I'm staying with Aramis!"

He ducked his head so the innkeeper wouldn't see the flush of pleasure that rose to his face with those words. Naturally Porthos would share with him. They both knew Athos would be tossing and turning all night and hell in the morning. They never bunked with him unless they had to. D'Artagnan, though… he didn't know about Athos's restlessness yet. Porthos caught his eye and grinned wickedly, clearly thinking along the same lines. Again Aramis had to fight to keep the blood from rising to his cheeks. It had become much more difficult lately to keep his thoughts hidden.

"That's settled then," he said, trying to sound jovial so no one would notice his momentary silence. "D'Artagnan will share with Athos, and Porthos will stay with me." The others nodded and moved into the bar, calling for drinks. Aramis followed, trying not to think about Porthos at all.

It was late when he and Porthos finally left the bar and headed up to their room. D'Artagnan had gone up some time before, and no one cared to guess when Athos might leave off his drinking. Aramis wished he was drunk, but he didn't want to risk it tonight. Strangely, Porthos wasn't either. They were almost to the room when Porthos spoke suddenly, making him jump. "I'm surprised you didn't bring that pretty barmaid up with you."

He managed to smile as he replied, "My friend, that would have been most unfair. Had I taken her to bed, you would've had nowhere to sleep until she left. And besides," he added with a wink, desperately hoping Porthos wouldn't push the issue, "We'll be staying here again tomorrow night, I believe."

"Love will be the death of you, my friend," Porthos told him, shaking his head. "At least you have given up on the Queen." The words sent a stab of pain through Aramis, but he forced a laugh., fighting the urge to grab her gift where it still hung about his neck. Porthos could not know about Anne.

Porthos chuckled as he pulled off his shirt, getting ready to go to sleep. Aramis's mouth was suddenly rather dry. The thoughts he was trying desperately to contain sprang back into his mind, driving the memory of Anne away.

Stop it, you fool, he thought furiously. You know how the world works. Stop wanting what you can't have! Trying not to stare, he glanced away, towards the corner of the room. And then he drew his sword, discomfort forgotten. "Who are you?"

A figure stepped from the shadows, wearing a hooded cloak. He could hear Porthos drawing his pistol behind him. The figure stepped forward, raising its hands in a gesture of peace. Aramis almost dropped his sword when a woman's voice issued from within the hood.

"I'm not here to hurt you. I came to talk to Porthos." But Porthos was already striding forward, gun forgotten, to wrap the cloaked figure in an enthusiastic hug. "Flea!" he cried happily as the hood fell back to reveal the grinning young woman.

Aramis lowered his sword, feeling his stomach twinge at the obvious joy on Porthos's face and the way his arms were still wrapped around Flea's waist. "What're you doing here?" Porthos demanded, still grinning.

"I heard you were coming here. I followed you. I'm afraid I have some information to give you, and it isn't good," Flea said seriously. Porthos stepped back, smile fading as he looked at her curiously. "Just me?"

"Actually, it may concern all of you. Perhaps you should call the others." Porthos glanced at Aramis, and he knew what they were both thinking: who's fetching Athos? Porthos was staring at him pleadingly, clearly hoping for a few moments with Flea alone, so Aramis sighed and said, "I'll get them," trying to ignore the feeling in his stomach as Porthos grinned and hugged Flea again.

Down in the bar, Athos was still drinking, but he didn't seem to have reached the unmanageable stage yet. Athos was a highly functional drunk, probably because he spent so much time in that state. It only took a few minutes to explain to him what was going on and send him up to the room, and a few more to wake D'Artagnan, who promptly punched him in the face for his troubles.

"I thought you were a thief!" the boy exclaimed as he rushed to collect his clothing.

"A thief that says D'Artagnan, please, you must wake up?" Aramis asked, wincing as he prodded his cheekbone. "That's a very polite thief." D'Artagnan apologized sheepishly and they both headed down towards Aramis's room.

Inside, they found Flea and Porthos sitting together on the bed while Athos slowly dunked his head in a bucket of water that he'd found somewhere in an attempt to sober up. D'Artagnan and Flea both stared at him until Aramis assured them that this was perfectly normal behavior. After shaking out his hair like a dog, Athos gestured for Flea to speak.

She glanced at Porthos, who gave her a broad smile, before standing up and looking around at them. "You all know that I'm Queen of the Court of Miracles now," she began, and Aramis winced internally at the reminder that he had killed Porthos's childhood friend, leaving the power vacuum that Flea had filled. "And lately, there's been some whispers on the street. Not the normal kind," she added, glancing at Porthos.

"There's talk of English spies, and murders covered up, and some kind of secret plans. It's like nothing I've ever heard, and I've never heard as much from the folk of the Court. We're too poor to get mixed up in big things, and this sounds big. I didn't think much of it until I started hearing the king's name, and then I thought I should tell Porthos, just in case, but when I went to your lodgings you were gone. The landlady said you were off to Calais. And once I got here, it was a simple matter of asking the beggars at the gates where the Musketeers had gone."

"Have you anything for us other than rumors?" Athos asked, voice steady. "You wouldn't have come all the way out here for that."

Flea nodded. "I did some digging in the Court. The talk was all of secret plans, and English spies who wanted them for some Duke or another that wanted to make a move against the king. I couldn't get much information, because few knew and even fewer would talk about it, even with the Queen."

"You did good, Flea," Porthos rumbled reassuringly. Athos was nodding.

"I'll give you a letter for Treville. You can pass your information along to him. We've already got an assignment," he said. Aramis moved to fetch some paper and ink as Athos asked, "Are you sure there's nothing else?"

"No, I don't think so… wait. There was a name. Aubel? Auclair?"

"Aubert?" D'Artagnan asked urgently.

"Yeah, that's it," said Flea, nodding. "Something Aubert. He's in league with the Renard Noir."

"The who? What good is a fox going to do him?" D'Artagnan asked, looking confused.

"The Black Fox is the king of thieves among the northern ports," Porthos explained, looking thoughtful. "It's said he can gut a man faster than you can blink. If he's working with Aubert to sell secrets to the English, it's not good."

"We need to get to work as quickly as possible. Thank you for your assistance. You should return to the Court now," Athos said to Flea, turning to leave.

"Wait a moment," said Flea angrily, moving to block the door. "I came here to help you! You can't just go charging off, devil-may-care, into the mouth of the Black Fox. How exactly do you intend to get to this Aubert if he's being protected by a king of thieves?"

"We'll think of something," Athos said dismissively.

"Well, I've already thought of something," Flea said, her voice determined. "If you're going to go running off into the underworld of Calais, you'll need a guide, someone with you who speaks the language. Someone that can go where Musketeers can't."

"If we just take off his badge, we can send D'Artagnan," Aramis pointed out, earning a withering glare from both Flea and the boy in question.

"He's got Musketeer written all over him, badge or no. You need a real thief. Porthos, you know I'm right." She glanced back at him.

Porthos rubbed a hand along the back of his neck before sighing and looking up at Athos. "Flea's right. If Aubert really is with the Fox, we'll need some way to infiltrate his court without arousing suspicion. Flea could do it."

Flea and Athos stared each other down for a few long moments before at last he sighed. "Fine. But if you slow us down, we leave you behind. And you'll obey orders same as the others." Flea nodded and stepped aside, her face grave. As soon as Athos looked away, however, she grinned broadly at Porthos, who smirked in response. Aramis's stomach dropped sickeningly and he turned away, unwilling to watch their happiness consume his own.

Chapter Text

Athos outlined a plan that was relatively simple: Flea would find out where the Black Fox held court, probably in a tavern somewhere, and would enter disguised as prostitute. All agreed men would be less careful with their words around such a woman. Porthos and Aramis would accompany Flea as far as possible and wait nearby to provide support if something went wrong. Athos and D'Artagnan would check in with the local guards and see what they could learn.

Athos told them all to get some rest so they could begin early in the morning. In a fit of chivalry, Porthos had insisted that Flea take the bed, so he and Aramis made themselves comfortable on the floor. Aramis seemed off somehow, but Porthos chalked it up to exhaustion. It had been a large journey. And perhaps, he thought sheepishly, Aramis had been looking forward to sleeping in a bed.

He shrugged to himself. Aramis was always insisting on courtly treatment. He couldn't possibly begrudge Flea the bed. Something else must be bothering him.

Breakfast the next morning was a hurried affair, everyone bleary from the late night meeting. Athos and D'Artagnan left first, while Porthos and Aramis had to wait for Flea to get dressed in her disguise. They sat quietly, and the silence felt oddly strained, but Porthos was still too tired to think much of it. At last, Flea came down and they departed.

As they walked through the streets, Porthos noticed that Aramis was still being unusually quiet, but every time he started to say something Flea would ask a question or brush against him and he would forget. She was very distracting in her low cut dress and swaying hips, but he couldn't account for the fact that while he desired her, the emotional connection he had felt the last time he had seen her seemed to have faded. If he'd had to say it out loud before, he would've said he was in love with her, but now the feeling seemed to be gone. But Porthos wasn't much for complicating good things, and so he talked to her, and laughed with her, and tried not to think about it.

They walked by a hat shop and he nudged Aramis playfully. "Don't you think you should replace my hat?" he asked, grinning at him. Aramis smiled but didn't laugh.

"I seem to recall it was you who ruined mine first."

Porthos glanced at his friend, feeling slightly concerned. Something was clearly wrong. Normally a comment like that could've started a battle of good-natured insults that would've lasted for some time, but now Aramis wasn't laughing and his smile looked more like a grimace. Before he could ask if everything was okay, Flea stopped at the entrance to an alley.

"The Fox holds court in an inn down this way." Porthos saw the sign of the tavern swaying slightly in the breeze. The Fox. Not exactly subtle.

Porthos nodded, pushing his concern for Aramis to the back of his mind. "You go in. We'll wait here. If you run into trouble, just scream." Flea looked up at him, nervous but determined, and stretched up to kiss his cheek. "Be careful," he murmured as she turned and walked down the alley, swaying her hips outrageously to get into character.

"Pretty, ain't she?" he said with a grin, hoping to cheer Aramis up, but his friend merely gave another pained smile and looked away. Miffed, Porthos moved to lounge against the wall, waiting for Flea to come back.

Of course it couldn't just be simple, Aramis thought, shooting a long suffering glare at the back of Porthos's head. "What happened to waiting outside?" he hissed as he pushed through the throng of bodies into the tavern, trying not to catch anyone's eye. They might not be wearing their shoulder guards, but any good thief could smell a Musketeer a mile away.

"It's getting late," Porthos told him, moving through the crowd with the ease of long practice. "I want to make sure she's okay." He seemed completely at home among the tavern scum, smiling dangerously at them when they came too close. Aramis counted at least three so far that had turned tail and headed pointedly in the other direction when they saw Porthos's face, which seemed unusual to him, but he didn't have time to dwell on it as Porthos clamped a hand to his shoulder and dragged him towards the bar, knocking a couple of drunks out of the way.

Porthos rapped smartly on the bar, trying to attract the barkeep's notice. Aramis was about to point out the futility of the gesture in the crowded room when the man turned around and caught sight of Porthos. His eyes widened and he immediately hurried over, bringing with him a bottle of wine far finer than anything Aramis had expected to see in such a place. Porthos grinned at him and nodded his thanks as he passed over some coins. To Aramis's great surprise the barkeep gave a Porthos a nod reminiscent of a bow as they backed away, heading for a table in the corner.

"What was that all about?" he asked, trying to keep his voice low despite the noise level in the tavern.

Porthos shrugged easily. "No idea what you're talking about." He took a swing from the bottle and pulled out a knife, twirling it in his free hand. "You see Flea anywhere?"

It took them a moment to spot her across the bar. She sent Porthos a saucy grin and winked, letting them know all was well. She was sitting with a large group of brutish looking men. As they watched, a smaller figure in the midst of them grabbed her around the waist and hoisted her into his lap. He was excessively well-dressed all in black silk and had silver hoops gleaming in his ears. "That's him," Porthos said, nodding at the man. "The Black Fox."

Porthos was watching Flea intently, so Aramis took the opportunity to observe his friend. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but something had changed since they'd entered the tavern. He had thought they'd be recognized as Musketeers because of their bearing and habits, but Porthos didn't look like a Musketeer now. He looked perfectly at home, just another expert thief or lethal assassin of the Fox's Court.

It struck Aramis then that Porthos had once belonged to this world, this underbelly of society. He seemed at home here because he was raised in places like this, and every tavern-dwelling lowlife here recognized that in him and steered clear. He couldn't help feeling like perhaps they recognized more than just the walking hurricane that was Porthos, but before he could consider the idea further Porthos slipped his knife back into its sheath and stood up.

"Let's go. Flea says she'll be out soon."

"How do you know that?" Aramis asked him, surprised. Porthos grinned.

"She told me. Thieves' code. All hand signals," Porthos explained, pushing his way out towards the street once more. "We used it in the Court."

There was an odd tone of longing in his voice that made Aramis's stomach clench as he followed Porthos into the alley, wondering why it was that the crowd seemed to part before them.

Porthos could tell that Athos was not happy. He had his eyebrows raised in a look that said at the same time I cannot believe you were that stupid and you have jeopardized this mission and I am surrounded by idiots. Porthos merely waited him out.

"And you went into the tavern why?" Athos ground out at last, glaring at him.

He shrugged. "Flea was taking an awfully long time. Wanted to make sure she was alright."

"Did it occur to you that the Fox or his men might notice you are a Musketeer? You have endangered the entire plan!" Athos wasn't shouting, but to those who knew him his even tone of voice conveyed more anger than the King's screams.

"No chance of that," Flea piped up from beside him. "They were all too busy betting among themselves about whether or not he really was Porthos the Pirate."

"Porthos the Pirate?" D'Artagnan repeated in a scandalized tone. "Why would they think that?"
Porthos glared at him. "Why the note of skepticism, mate?" he demanded. "I'll have you know I'm a legend!"

"All the more reason you should not have entered that tavern!" Athos cut in.

"I disagree," Flea argued. "I think Porthos coming in was the best thing that could happen. We want the Fox distracted, yes? Concerned with something other than the security of Aubert? So why not let him feel threatened by the presence not of Musketeers, but a rival king?"

"What is she talking about, Porthos?" Athos asked grumpily.

"She can speak for herself," Flea said sharply. "Porthos is right. He was, and still is, something of a legend among the criminal underworld. Before the old king died, there was a huge betting pool on whether Porthos or Charon would be the one to take over. The old king was very fond of Porthos. Most people had their money on him," she said, smiling at him. "Then the king died unexpectedly and there was no one to fill the gap. Normally things like that are settled quickly but no one wanted to go against Porthos if he wanted the crown. Porthos and Charon took care of everyone while we waited to see which one was going to take over. It was sort of like he was our Prince. Then he left and Charon took the position."

Porthos blinked at the title, remembering whispers in the alleys in those final weeks. The Prince of the Court, they'd called him. He hadn't wanted it, had known he had to leave, but something inside him had swelled with pride every time he heard it.

Flea was still talking, a proud note entering her tone. "He was famous among the poor. Stronger than a bear when crossed but kind to the people of the Court. They said he was unbeatable in a fight. Tell me, Porthos, did you ever lose a match?"

He ducked his head humbly but couldn't stop the smile that spread across his face. It had been years since anyone had reminded him of that. He saw Aramis frowning at him out of the corner of his eye.

"If the Black Fox realizes you're in Calais, he might get nervous and think you've come for his title," Flea went on, staring pointedly at Athos. "If he's nervous, he might make a mistake."

"Won't he know Porthos left the Court to become a Musketeer?" Athos asked, but Porthos could see the gears turning in his mind.

Flea shrugged. "Probably not. Most people outside of Paris assumed he died or something when Charon took control. Criminals preferred to spread the legend of Porthos the Pirate rather than Porthos the lawman. I guarantee no one here knows what became of him."

"But what's all this Porthos the Pirate business?" D'Artagnan asked, looking thoroughly confused.

"The nickname was originally based on the earring and the bandanna," Flea explained. "Those who believe he's alive think he's sailing the seas. Though whether or not he ever did anything in keeping with the nickname…"

"Ah, ah, ah, that's enough," Porthos interjected hastily. The boy didn't need to know about Porthos's less than savory previous career.

"So how do you propose we use this to our advantage?" Athos asked thoughtfully.

"You actually want to send him back in? As bait?" Aramis asked, sounding rather alarmed at the prospect.

"We have to assume, if he is truly as famous as Flea says, that he has already been recognized. It's too late now to ignore it. So we'd best use it to our advantage. Are you sure you haven't been recognized too, Flea?"

"She hasn't been queen long enough," Porthos pointed out, and Flea nodded in agreement.

"Good. Then I suppose we'd best send you into the tavern as well, Porthos. Though perhaps not every day, and not for very long. I don't want to goad the Fox into attacking, merely put him on the alert. If he's watching for an attack from his own side, he'll be too busy to worry about much else. That will work to our advantage." He outlined the new plan to the others, but Porthos was only half-listening, thinking about what this would mean

He couldn't deny that he had enjoyed being in that tavern. The respect on the faces of the men, the way they moved aside for him… it was something he hadn't experienced in years. He couldn't find that in Paris, not anymore. He was looked down on outside of the garrison for the color of his skin and his upbringing, and the underworld of Paris saw him as a traitor. There had been a time when those inside the garrison had doubted him too. It had died out eventually, and Aramis might have had some quiet chats with the more vocal of those who spoke against him, but Porthos had never asked. He didn't want to draw more attention to the fact that he did not fit in.

But here, he was a legend again. He was respected, idolized… feared. He found himself wanting to go back to that tavern, back to that world, just for a while. Flea caught his eye and grinned at him while Athos was asking D'Artagnan something. He knew she understood. Then he noticed Aramis was watching him with a queer expression of foreboding on his face. When Porthos turned his head to look more closely, the expression vanished, replaced seamlessly with a smile that seemed too brittle to be real.

Chapter Text

Aramis hated this plan. It was risky, rash, idiotic, and he hated it. He hated anything that would tempt Porthos back to that world. Flea showing up was bad enough, but now Porthos would be given more than just a taste of his old life. What if he chose to leave?

Aramis's only comfort lay in the fact that the mission was already progressing well. Hopefully they wouldn't need to stay in Calais long. Athos and D'Artagnan had learned very little other than what they already knew; that Aubert was in the city; that he'd taken up with the Black Fox; and that he had valuable information for sale. Flea, however, had done splendidly. After they finished discussing how Porthos would infiltrate the Fox's court, Flea revealed that Aubert was staying with the Fox himself at his court and that something big was going to happen sometime in the next few days. At the end of the meeting, Porthos was especially vocal in his praise of Flea, and Aramis had to fight to keep the bitterness out of his expression.

Why shouldn't he love her? Why shouldn't he be with her? She can make him happy. They can return to the Court together and rule side by side. She can love him. They wouldn't need to hide. He looked over at them, now sitting by the fire, just as Porthos pulled Flea into his lap. Porthos was laughing at something she had said, and she turned to kiss him. Aramis winced and looked away. He can never be mine.

The pretty barmaid came over and refilled his tankard. He looked at her, at her youth, her beauty, and felt empty. He didn't want her, and he knew why. He looked away, ashamed. I am an affront to nature, he thought despairingly, remembering the accusations against the Comptesse de Larroque, the pyre burning beneath her, ready to send her soul to Hell. What have I become?

His only comfort lay in the knowledge that Porthos didn't know, would never know. That was good. Aramis didn't know if he could bear the rejection. Though rejection wouldn't be the worst outcome. No, the worst thing would be for Porthos to reciprocate, though thankfully that seemed unlikely. There was too much risk, too much danger if he felt the same way. Aramis wouldn't be the cause of Porthos's death. He couldn't. Porthos would never burn for him.

He heard Porthos laugh from across the room and realized with a jolt that he was sitting in the corner, drinking alone. Just like Athos. Except that tonight, Athos was sitting near the fire too, playing chess with D'Artagnan and, from the boy's expression, beating him soundly. Why not me? he asked silently, looking around the room, seeing smiling faces everywhere. Do I not deserve happiness?

He didn't know how long he sat there, staring into his tankard and downing the wine whenever the girl refilled it, drowning in his hurt, but he knew he had drunk far too much when Porthos sat down across from him. For a moment he saw such concern in his friend's eyes that he wanted to confess everything right then. He saw Porthos open his mouth, knew he was about to ask are you okay when Flea called from across the room. "Coming?"

Porthos glanced around and smiled at her before turning back to Aramis. "Listen mate, Flea and I are gonna be needing the room tonight, would it be alright…"

The rest of his words trailed away as Aramis stopped listening. He couldn't do this. He rose to his feet unsteadily and turned away, ignoring Porthos as he called after him.

Porthos didn't know what to do. In his head it had been a simple request. He'd vacated rooms so that Aramis could see his mistresses many times. All he could imagine was that whatever was bothering Aramis must have him distracted and not thinking clearly. Either way, he was gone now, heading in the direction of the stables. Porthos had assumed he'd simply sleep on the floor of the other room, but if he preferred the stables so be it. They'd both slept in worse.

He wanted to see Flea tonight because of the way that the Fox himself had taken a particular interest in her during her time in his tavern. Porthos wasn't especially bothered by competition, but he saw no harm in reminding Flea just what he was capable of. It's not like he had much else to do at night around here, and Flea was more than willing. Maybe he should have tried to tell that to Aramis?

Somehow he didn't think that would've helped.

His blood was still racing with the remembered thrill of the respect on the faces of the Fox's court, and he was too eager to head upstairs to worry overmuch about Aramis. The others would look after him. Still, he couldn't keep himself from wondering what was bothering his closest friend. Perhaps he hadn't liked the reminder of where Porthos came from?

He shut that idea down immediately. Of all the people he had met since leaving the Court, Aramis had cared the least for his background, defending him adamantly against those who sneered and spit at him in the streets. More than one covert duel had been fought on his behalf, though Aramis would never admit to it.

The reminder of his friend's loyalty gave him pause, and he wondered if he should go and talk to him before joining Flea, just to make sure everything was alright. After all, hadn't Aramis done the same for him many times over?

He was just standing to go after him when Flea called from the stairs, excitement mingling with impatience in her voice. He hesitated, torn, then decided Aramis had probably just had too much to drink. He could talk to him tomorrow. It would be fine.

He turned back and slapped a smile on his face in answer to Flea's questioning look, but as he followed her towards the stairs he couldn't help thinking it wasn't her he wanted to follow anymore. He wanted to go to the man who had left with the stricken expression in his normally smiling eyes.

"Should we… should we do something?" D'Artagnan asked quietly as Porthos and Flea disappeared upstairs. "Aramis didn't look well."

Athos glanced at him, his face unreadable. "There's nothing we can do for him," he said softly, and the way he said the word 'we' told D'Artagnan exactly who should be going after Aramis. But Porthos was clearly occupied and unconcerned, and D'Artagnan didn't think Aramis should be left on his own. He hadn't been himself lately, and someone should talk to him.

Coming to a decision, he stood up, but before he could walk out, Athos grabbed his arm. "D'Artagnan, there's nothing you can do for him," he said simply, but D'Artagnan shook him off and headed outside.

It had started raining while they were in the bar and it was coming down heavily. D'Artagnan ran across the courtyard to the stables, but Aramis was nowhere to be seen. Stepping outside, he sheltered under the eaves and looked around. He was at something of a loss. Where would Aramis go in rain like this?

He glanced down the alley that ran along the side of the stables and caught a glimpse of a figure standing beneath the edge of a roof which blocked the worst of the downpour. D'Artagnan braced himself and ran back into the deluge, stopping alongside Aramis beneath the roof.

"What are you doing out here?" he asked, raising his voice over the sound of the rain. "It's freezing and you'll be soaked in a minute! Come into the stables!" He grabbed Aramis's arm and dragged him unresisting towards the shelter.

Once they were inside, D'Artagnan took a good look at his friend. Aramis looked terrible. He was swaying on his feet and his eyes were bloodshot, with dark bags beneath them.

"Are you alright?" D'Artagnan asked carefully, not wanting to anger him. He'd never seen Aramis this drunk, not even at Porthos's birthday party. He wasn't sure how Aramis would react if he pried or pushed him too hard, and he didn't want to cross a line. He admired Aramis too much for that.

Aramis looked at him blearily, and D'Artagnan winced sheepishly at the faint bruise visible on his cheekbone. "'M fine," Aramis mumbled, swaying slightly. "Don' worry about me." And then he added, so faintly that D'Artagnan nearly missed it, "Porthos doesn't."

Athos might have been right; he had no idea what he was supposed to do to help. Clearly it should be Porthos standing here talking to Aramis. D'Artagnan was a poor replacement, but he had to try. "Has Porthos done something?" he asked, firmly pulling Aramis in the direction a pile of hay near the back of the stables before he fell over.

"Nothing, he's done nothing," Aramis muttered, waving one hand dismissively. "Not 'is fault, never his… how could it be? Doesn't even know, does he? Ha. 'E's happy with Flea…"

D'Artagnan felt utterly confused. Why did Porthos being with Flea matter? Aramis's tone, drunk though he was, sounded possessive, hurt. There was an edge to it D'Artagnan didn't understand. Was Aramis…? Aramis isn't jealous, is he? But why? Unless…

And then he knew. He wasn't sure how he had ever missed it. Part of him was horrified, but it was a very small part. The rest of him was crying out in sympathy for his friend, because he knew what it was like to love someone who was with another. At least he knew that Constance loved him back, even if they couldn't be together right now.

"Aramis?" he asked softly, catching the other man's eyes, needing to ask the question aloud even though he already knew the answer. "Are you… in love… with Porthos?"

For a moment Aramis said nothing, and then his face crumpled and he turned away, looking pale. "Hey, it's… fine. It's fine. I get it," D'Artagnan said, patting his shoulder awkwardly. "I'm sorry," he added helplessly, understanding that Athos had been right; there was nothing he could do to help Aramis in this. Athos knew, he realized suddenly. He knew about Aramis. Knew, and wanted to help, but couldn't. Just like him.

"How long?"

"I've known since the convent," Aramis whispered, his voice suddenly clearer, words no longer slurred. "Thought I might die without every seeing him again. Someone I cared about, I woman I once knew, she was there. She told me I was never meant for marriage. Struck me then that it was true, because I didn't want anyone but him, not like that." Aramis closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. "I still want women, but not for marrying, not for forever. What woman could take his place? There was one, only one more that I thought might be able to make me happy, but that was an idle dream. She is not for me. We can never be. Now I see he is all I have ever wanted." Aramis punctuated the last line with a drunken laugh that ended in a sob.

There was nothing further to say after that. D'Artagnan simply sat there beside his friend, pretending not to notice the tears rolling silently down his face, offering his support in the only way he could. In the back of his mind, he wondered… does Porthos know?

Chapter Text

The next morning, Porthos noticed Aramis was being unusually quiet again. He actually looked rather ill, and D'Artagnan kept casting concerned looks in his direction, so it might be more than a simple hangover. Flea had gone to get dressed for the day, and the four men were sitting near the fire waiting for her to arrive. They'd spent a very enjoyable evening together. They both knew it couldn't last, so why not have fun while they could? But he was beginning to feel a little guilty about kicking Aramis out; the man didn't look like he'd slept at all.

Porthos waited until Athos and D'Artagnan were busy discussing some detail of the mission to speak. Clapping a hand to Aramis's shoulder, he asked quietly, "My friend, what is wrong? You have not been yourself since we arrived in Calais." Aramis's eyes flicked up to meet his own and he smiled encouragingly. Aramis only sighed and looked away.

"Nothing is wrong," he murmured. "I'm fine." And with that he shrugged his shoulders, dislodging Porthos's hand. Porthos swallowed a feeling of hurt at the gesture. He was at a loss. Aramis had never hidden anything from him for long, nor refused his offer of comfort, and now he wouldn't confide in him at all. He sensed that D'Artagnan, and probably Athos as well, knew exactly what was going on, and it pained him to not understand. He would not let his friend suffer alone without seeking to help. He tried again.

"Aramis, I have eyes. Something is bothering you. Please, tell me what it is," he said, keeping his voice soft so the others didn't hear. Aramis glanced back at him, and there was an expression on his face that Porthos had never seen there before. It filled him with unexpected anger, sharp as steel and hot as fire. He wanted to hurt whoever had put that lost look in Aramis's eyes.

Aramis opened his mouth uncertainly, but whatever he was about to say was cut off by someone clattering down the stairs behind Porthos. Annoyed, he turned to see who had interrupted and found Flea picking her way through the tables towards them. He turned around, an apology for the interruption already on his lips, but Aramis had moved away and was talking to Athos. With difficulty, Porthos resisted the urge to put his fist through the table still struggling with the anger urging through him. Maybe he could talk to him while they were on guard duty later.

But as it turned out, Porthos wasn't paired with Aramis that day. When they were all gathered around a table, Athos informed them that they would all go with Flea and Porthos today to cover Porthos's first incursion into the Fox's court. Porthos was about to argue that Aramis could cover him alone without a problem and that there was no need for them all to tag along when he caught the look that passed between the other two Musketeers. Aramis looked… grateful? Confused, Porthos said nothing. Grabbing his hat off the table, he followed Flea out into the street.

Aramis kept his face shadowed by his hat as he leaned casually on the bar next to D'Artagnan. Athos had tucked himself into a dark corner. Aramis had a sinking suspicion he might be going against his own rules about drinking on duty. The serving girl had gone to the table at least twice. Still, it was necessary to drink something to uphold the ruse. He and D'Artagnan were sipping their drinks slowly to keep from over-indulging and jeopardizing the mission.

Porthos was standing in the center of a rapidly forming crowd that had begun to congregate around him a few minutes after he had entered the bar. Men and women were milling about, trying to get a good glimpse of his face. Already the whispers were running through the crowd. Porthos the Pirate has returned.

A glance at the Fox showed him watching Porthos's growing court with unease, Flea perched on his lap. As Aramis watched, he gestured to a burly man standing guard and whispered in his ear. The man straightened after a few moments and moved through the crowd, nodding to a few other thugs as he went. They were headed straight for Porthos.

"Heads up," he murmured to D'Artagnan, who made a discreet signal towards Athos. Porthos has explained what would happen once he was recognized on the way over. The Fox would set some goons on him in an effort to determine his identity, and when he won would invite him to join his court. It was the old adage of keeping your enemies close, and the Fox would want Porthos where he could keep an eye on him. Athos wasn't keen on Porthos becoming an official member of the court, but Porthos assured him he would have freedom of movement. The Fox wouldn't show his hand too soon, and he would not want to antagonize Porthos or let on that he thought of him as a threat until he knew more about his motives.

Porthos had told them he would win the inevitable fight, and while Aramis in no way doubted him, his stomach still twisted a little at the idea of his friend going into a fight without backup. He wasn't sure how he was supposed to watch men attacking Porthos without leaping to his defense. Of course, if it got to the point that Porthos needed defending, Aramis would step in, mission be damned. Porthos was not going to be injured on his watch.

The crowd around Porthos parted as the thugs pushed through. Aramis was too far away to hear what was being said, but he assumed it was something along the lines of the usual insults that began tavern brawls everywhere. Your father was a drunkard, your mother a whore, you have no honor, you mongrel, bastard, cur, etc.

Porthos grinned broadly at the giant man, who looked smaller when stood next to Porthos's own broad shoulders, and less than a second later had smashed his tankard across the man's head so hard that he fell to his knees.

Aramis blinked. No matter how many times he watched Porthos fight, he would always be awed by his reflexes and sheer power. Porthos was quick as a cat and far lighter on his feet than a man his size had any right to be. His muscles rippled beneath his shirt, his coat left at the inn, and Aramis was momentarily entranced by the movement.

Thug Number One's friends had recovered from their initial shock. One now stepped forward, launching a vicious roundhouse at Porthos's head. He ducked it with consummate ease and snapped an uppercut into the man's stomach that left him doubled over and retching. Another tried the same blow in an attempt that had more heart than skill behind it. Porthos dodged easily, grabbing the man's arm in a vise-like grip and swinging him towards the bar, the man's own momentum acting against him until an elbow to the face stopped him dead and shattered his nose. The whole thing took less than thirty seconds.

That took care of the three thugs, but this was a seedy tavern, and the rest of the scum had taken the lightning fast fight as an excuse to begin an mass tavern brawl. A chair shattered against the bar beside Aramis, making D'Artagnan jump. Aramis used his glass to deter an overly enthusiastic young brawler and knocked out another with a clean strike to the jaw. He saw Porthos surrounded by a knot of men, but he had a huge smile plastered on his face and was tossing them around like sacks of flour, so Aramis figured he was probably fine. One man lay prone at his feet with what looked like a soup spoon protruding from his shoulder. Porthos had always loved to improvise.

Athos waved a hand to get Aramis's attention and gestured towards the door. He grabbed D'Artagnan's collar and hauled the boy backwards. Porthos had passed the test, and he would enjoy the brawl immensely. They could wait outside until it was time to return to the inn.

They managed to shove their way through the brawling patrons until the made it out to the street, hunkering down beside a window where they could keep an eye on the proceedings. D'Artagnan's lip was beginning to swell and Athos was nursing bruised knuckles, but other than that they'd all escaped unscathed. They sat breathless for a moment before Athos glanced at him, raising an eyebrow. "Perhaps you should check on him?" he suggested.

Aramis glared, not thrilled by the idea of sticking his head up in front of a window during a tavern brawl. Still, someone had to, so he cautiously peered over the ledge.

He saw the danger just in time and dropped flat as the glass above his head shattered. A body sailed through it and flew almost the width of the street, crumpling to the cobblestones. Thug Number One had found his feet again. Aramis dared to look in, hoping Porthos was finished tossing men out of windows like birds. The crowd had gone still, staring at Porthos in awe. A perfect alley was formed between him and the window. Porthos was dusting off his hands with a smug grin. No one seemed inclined to continue fighting and gradually they began to drift back to their tables.

Porthos the Pirate was now more than a whisper.

"My master requests your presence at his private table, sir," a small, weasel-faced man said formally, gazing up at Porthos in a fawning manner. Porthos frowned at the title but shrugged, grabbing his drink and following the man to the Fox's table. His foot ached a bit where someone had stepped on it during the brawl, but other than that he was fine. He'd been relieved to see his friends had all escaped unscathed, though he thought he'd seen Aramis's head outside the window just before the tossed that great ugly blighter through it. He hoped he hadn't hit him.

"Come, my friend, have a seat!" the Fox cried jovially, waving a careless hand at a seat directly across from him. Porthos sat, catching Flea's eye. She smiled coquettishly at him, batting her eyelashes like the rest of the girls. One of her hands clenched and released in a familiar gesture. It meant, essentially, are you alright? Porthos winked at her and sat gracefully, feeling the eyes of the Fox upon him.

"Watching you fight was a great pleasure, friend," the Fox said, a pleasant smile on his face, but Porthos could see the intelligence that lurked behind his eyes. Fox was right.

"My thanks," he grunted, leaning back in his chair, "But I don't think we're friends. I don't even know your name."

"My apologies," the Fox cried at once. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am Marcel Chartrelain, though you may know me better as the Black Fox." He was watching Porthos, clearing expecting him to be impressed. Porthos was happy to let him down.

"Yeah, I might've heard of you once or twice," he said, scratching at his chin. "You in charge around 'ere, then?" He let his voice pick up its old accent, the one he'd fought so hard to get rid of after he became a Musketeers. The Fox spoke in an assumed aristocratic accent that sounded foreign in such a place, so Porthos deliberately made himself the opposite. The Fox fancied himself a noble; Porthos would be a man of the people.

"Well, I do what I can," the Fox said, a note of feigned modesty in his honeyed voice. "But you have not introduced yourself, my friend. Am I right in guessing you are the man known as Porthos the Pirate?"

Porthos cracked his knuckles idly, giving off an aura of boredom. "And if I am?"

"Well then, that would be simply marvelous!" the Fox exclaimed. "The tales would have us believe Porthos the Pirate is dead, and yet unless my eyes deceive me, here he stands! And my, do you live up to your reputation." The man's false flattery reminded Porthos of the way the Cardinal spoke to King Louis. Insincere but wary, attempting to stay on his good side and keep his favor even as he undermined him.

"Well, I'm not dead," he said simply. The Fox's smile broadened at the confirmation.

"Indeed you are not. What brings you to Calais, friend?"

"Just passing through," he grunted. Then, in a fit of inspiration, he added, "May be looking for a ship soon." Couldn't hurt to play up to the nickname.

"Ah, of course!" the Fox cried happily. "I do hope you will join us here until you decide to move on, friend. I keep a court of sorts in this very tavern. It's comprised of a few close friends and acquaintances. We would love to have you."

"Yeah, might do," Porthos told him, draining his tankard. "Maybe I'll be back tomorrow Got things to take care of tonight." With that he rose and nodded a farewell to Flea, ignoring the Fox's invitation to remain longer. He would be followed the moment he set foot outside the door, which meant he would need to actually visit the docks before losing his tail on the way back to the inn. If he were seen at the docks, the Fox would have no reason to doubt his story.

Outside, he could make out the shapes of his friends standing around the tavern. Athos and D'Artagnan were down an alley behind him, and Aramis was lounging casually against a wall, chatting with a pair of washerwomen. Porthos caught his eye as he walked past, nodding to let him know that he and the others should wait for Flea before heading back to the inn. He would meet them there. One of the women laid a hand on Aramis's arm and Porthos felt the familiar bite of fire in his stomach. He swallowed it with the ease of long practice and continued on his way.

Chapter Text

Aramis sat beside Athos in the corner the next day, trying to keep himself from yawning. He hadn't waited for Porthos to ask him to leave last night, slipping out before the larger man had even finished his dinner, claiming he was overly tired. He had slept terribly, and he certainly didn't want to call attention to it by yawning.

Porthos was sitting at the Fox's table, laughing and drinking with some of his lackeys. The Fox himself had disappeared upstairs with Flea some time ago and had yet to return. Aramis glanced up as an old man plopped himself down at their table with a friendly smile. Behind him, he felt D'Artagnan tense and then relax as he decided the man was not a threat.

Athos gave the man a polite nod before turning his attention back to Porthos. They sat in silence for a moment or two until the man suddenly spoke. "You've come to see him, then," he said knowingly.

"What?" D'Artagnan asked from the shadows.

"You've come to see the Pirate," the old man explained, giving the boy a smile that was missing most of its teeth. "I c'n see you watching 'im. He's a legend. Who wouldn't want ter see 'im? He just goes to show a body that even the lowliest orphan with not a penny to 'is name can make hisself a legend. He is what you're 'ere for, right?""

Athos had apparently decided that this was the best explanation for the fact that they were watching Porthos so closely, for he simply nodded. The old man smiled. "I knew it was 'im the moment he walked in yesterday. The size is a clue, and so's the earring, but it's the scar that tells the story."

"How so?" D'Artagnan piped up, voice suddenly alight with curiosity. The old man smiled at his eagerness. Aramis guessed he enjoyed telling tales.

"They say it happened years ago, when he was little more'n a lad hisself. It was out in the Court of Miracles. He was born there, you know." They all nodded dutifully. "I've 'eard tell he was only a baby when his mamma died and left 'im all alone. He's a street rat, born and raised." There was a queer pride in the man's voice. "Slept in the streets, stole in the streets, earned some money by brawling in the streets. Most o' those lads and lasses die in the winters, even with the help o' the older ones who try and feed 'em, but not 'im. He's too tough. He's a self-made man, and no mistake."

Aramis pictured a small, dark skinned child with Porthos's tight curls, sitting in the snow with stolen bread. It made his heart ache. Even when they'd gone to the Court, he'd never really connected it's poverty to Porthos. Now he could see its influence on Porthos, how much it had shaped him. What would his life have been like if Porthos had starved or frozen before ever they met? The thought was like ice in his heart.

D'Artagnan was speaking behind him. "I thought you were going to tell us about his scar?"

"I'm getting to it!" the old man said impatiently. "Well, ypu know they take little'uns very serious-like in the Court, and they's always watching out for them as can't watch for themselves. So one day, these soldiers go a-tearing through the Court, no warning. There's a child in the street, and it's deaf, see, so it can't hear 'em coming. And the soldiers ain't slowin'. They's about to trample the little thing when out he comes, bold as brass. Just walks out in front o' them horses like it was nothing, made 'em all stop dead in the street, rearin' and snortin'."

Aramis could picture a younger Porthos, standing defiantly in front of a group of Red Guards, protecting a dirty child.

"Well, the captain o' the group, 'e didn't take too kindly to the interruption, no he did not. Jumped down off his horse and went after the lad like he was the world's worst criminal. 'Ad his sword out and all. And the lad just ducking and weaving and making him look all kinds o' foolish. And while that's going on, some friends o' his are grabbing the child away to safety. Once the kid was gone, the rest of the Court scrammed, but not him. He stuck around to teach that captain some manners. Knocked him right on his bum, won fair and square, and 'im with no weapon in his hand!"

That didn't surprise Aramis at all. Treville often used Porthos to teach new recruits that a sword in your hand did not equal victory, not even against an unarmed opponent.

"Ah, but the soldier didn't take well to that. Grabbed a knife and went for 'is eye, the scoundrel. Missed, naturally, but left that scar. Everyone knows the story. It was a few years later, when the old King o' the Court died, that people started spreading it around, saying what better man to be king then one who would risk all that for a little'un? One who could beat a man in a swordfight with no sword o' his own? That was the day the legend began. He's been famous ever since. A real Prince o' thieves, if you ask me. Porthos the Pirate." There was a tear in the man's eye when he finished. An awed hush fell over the table for a moment.

Suddenly the old man started up, dashing the mist from his eyes. "Look! Ah, look! We're in luck! He's going to fight!" And sure enough, Porthos was rising to his feet, grinning lazily at a large, muscular man with one eye across the table, who was already standing. The crowd was already clearing a space for the brawlers. Aramis and the others rose, pushing through the gathering crowd behind the old man until they had a clear view of the makeshift ring.

Porthos and One-eye were circling one another like sharks, watching for the telltale ripple of muscles that proceeded an attack in most fighters. But Porthos was not most fighters. He didn't have tells. He struck without warning and danced away before his opponent knew what had hit him. One-eye looked like he knew what he was doing, but Porthos never lost.

Now began the game. One side would feint forward, trying to goad the other into attacking, and vice versa. Only Aramis could tell Porthos was just playing with One-eye, prolonging the fight to please the crowd. He lunged in suddenly, one foot connecting solidly with One-eye's chest in a high kick that sent him reeling into the watching crowd, who howled and shoved him back in only to meet Porthos's fist. He staggered back again and grabbed a working girl for support.

"What's the matter, friend?" Porthos called, grinning. "Hiding behind a woman won't help you!" Nevertheless, when One-eye reentered the ring, Porthos was careful not to send him back into the crowd. No sense in hurting innocent people. Aramis knew he wouldn't want that. Instead he grabbed hold of One-eye's jacket and lifted him straight off the ground despite his size, flinging him down with a crash.

He was playing with him, that was all. Aramis had seen it dozens of times. His thoughts wandered as he watched Porthos toy with the massive thug.

He thought of his own childhood and compared it in his head. His family had not been wealthy, but there had always been food on the table, a roof over his head, a fire in the hearth. He had never gone hungry or slept in the rain or snow on a cold dirt road. He'd never drank water from a puddle like the children he'd seen in the Court. He'd had parents that loved him and cared for him. Athos and D'Artagnan were essentially the same. He couldn't fathom a life like Porthos's must have been, but what he really didn't understand was how that world had produced someone like Porthos.

Porthos, who would risk his life for a child; who was loyal to his friends to his last breath; who always knew how to make anyone smile, even bloody Athos; who enjoyed the little things in life with a sincerity that was incredible. It occurred to Aramis that perhaps the reason Porthos valued small things, simple pleasures, brotherhood, was because he literally came from mud and dirt and lonely roads. He took nothing and made it everything, made a name for himself that was apparently respected throughout all of France. It was unimaginable, and yet here was the proof.

Aramis had never thought of Porthos like this, and it left his head spinning as he realized there was so much he didn't know, so much he had never even considered. He wanted to ask Porthos about his childhood, his friendships, his mother. Then he remembered that being around Porthos was too painful right now, and his wonderment shattered like brittle ice just as Porthos tossed One-eye to the floor and roared his victory.

Aramis leaned forward into the candlelight, and Porthos frowned as his suspicions were confirmed. In the tavern during his third fight of the evening he had caught a glimpse of Aramis in the crowd and thought he saw dark bags around his friend's eyes. He had passed it off as a trick of the light but here, in the inn, he could see they were there. Was Aramis not sleeping? Maybe he should see about finding another room for Flea and himself so Aramis could take the bed. He sighed, knowing there were no vacancies in the inn. He opened his mouth to ask him if he was alright when Athos suddenly appeared, flanked by Flea. D'Artagnan, who had been nodding off in his seat, straightened with a snort.

"Do you have anything of interest to report?" Athos asked, glancing at Porthos as he poured himself a generous amount of wine and shoved the bottle at D'Artagnan.

Porthos shrugged. "Not really. The Fox was gone most of the time I was in there today. I fought three of his guys, one of which will definitely not be a problem for the foreseeable future." Unless his broken leg healed overnight. He'd been pressing himself on the barmaids all night. Porthos had relished the match. "Didn't get anything useful though."

"You mean bashing in skulls isn't a good way to collect relevant information?" Aramis asked with a smirk. His voice was light and the smile looked real, but Porthos couldn't shake the feeling that something wasn't right. He couldn't be sure, though, so he simply grinned back.

Athos did not look amused. "We need information to find Aubert," he said shortly. "Did you learn anything, Flea?"

Flea smiled, a sly, secretive smile, and Porthos felt his mouth turn up, because he knew that look. Flea had found something good.

"The Fox decided he wanted to show me his private chambers," she said, smirking. "Led me all through them, bragging about the furnishings. Only I noticed that the gold leaf on his chandelier was flaking," she rolled her eyes at the excess, "And I pointed it out. He got all flustered and started saying how soon he'd be rich beyond my wildest dreams and how he would fix the chandelier and buy me silks and gems and all sorts of flowery trash. I proposed a toast to riches and drugged his drink. He was out in minutes."

Athos, D'Artagnan, and Aramis were all staring at her. Porthos smiled proudly. Everyone in the Court was well informed on the uses of such drugs, but Flea was exceptionally skilled in their application.

"While he was out I searched his rooms. I found this." She slid a crumpled letter across the table. "I can't read much, but that right there, that says Aubert, doesn't it? I grabbed it and stuffed it in my dress. I yanked his trousers off and messed up my hair. When he woke up, I told him he'd passed out after we'd had sex. He was drunk enough to believe he'd forgotten." She gave a scornful laugh.

Porthos glanced at the paper over Athos's shoulder. It was a brief note from someone named Sauville. It simply said that the goods had been delivered and were waiting to hear from the Fox about where to meet him and Aubert.

Athos was looking at it thoughtfully, eyebrows drawn together. "What do the goods refer to?" D'Artagnan asked.

"I don't know," Athos said slowly. "But I do believe we need to find out. Tomorrow, you and Aramis will begin searching for this Sauville. From the note, I would imagine he is a merchant, or more likely, a smuggler. See what you can learn from him. I will accompany Porthos and Flea to the tavern."

Part of Porthos wanted to argue that Aramis should remain with Flea and himself. He was worried about his friend and would feel better if he could keep an eye on him. But Aramis was a Musketeer. He did not need Porthos's protection, however much he wanted to provide it. And Aramis seemed fine with the plan as Athos had proposed it.

Athos sent them on their way a few moments later, retreating to a dark corner with a bottle of wine. D'Artagnan moved as if to follow him, then hung back, looking uncertain.

"Aramis? Would you like to play chess?" he asked, glancing between him and Porthos. He didn't quite meet Porthos's eye, and his tone indicated the throwing of a lifeline to a drowning man. Porthos frowned. He had wanted to speak to Aramis. He hoped Aramis would refuse, but…

"Very well. Let's see if you do better against me than you did against Athos." Aramis's smile seemed strained as he rose and followed D'Artagnan to a table nearer the fire. For a moment, Porthos debated just waiting for Aramis to finish, but he had known him to take three hours at chess before, and he was already tired from brawling all day. Flea's soft touch on his arm decided him. Aramis was busy tonight, but Porthos would speak to him soon.

I need to know he's alright, he thought as he slowly followed Flea upstairs. What would I do if something happened to him?

Chapter Text

Aramis sighed as they entered their fourth dingy tavern of the afternoon. They'd been roaming the slums of Calais since dawn, searching for the elusive smuggler Athos had learned of from an informant. Apparently, this Sauville was the man to see if one was looking for foreigners, especially spies; the man specialized in smuggling human cargo. It was little surprise the Fox might have hired him to sneak in English spies. But the man was apparently impossible to find. If no one here knew his whereabouts, they'd have to give up for the day. Athos had wanted to meet back at the inn before dinner.

D'Artagnan glanced at him before pushing through the early crowd to get to the barkeep. Aramis knew the boy was worried about him, and that he had stepped up when dealing with the tavern scum that inhabited these dives so that Aramis wouldn't have to. He knew the boy meant well and he appreciated it, but he wasn't thrilled that everyone was treating him differently. It made it much harder to keep the situation from Porthos when his friends went round acting like he was a poor heartbroken schoolboy. It was hardly the first time he'd been less than lucky in love. Granted, those other times hadn't been Porthos, but still… He was handling it.

D'Artagnan was already walking back to him, shaking his head irritably: no luck. Suppressing a groan of annoyance, Aramis turned and headed back out into the alley. He and D'Artagnan were walking by a smaller side alley, a mere crevice in the wall, when a hand shot out a grabbed his sleeve. He had his gun out and cocked before he registered that it was merely an older woman. Still, it didn't hurt to be cautious.

"Heard you were looking for Sauville," the lady said, glaring at him with hard eyes. "I c'n take you to 'im." He glanced at D'Artagnan, who shrugged. He was just as impatient with the lack of information as Aramis. Lowering his gun, Aramis nodded at the woman. "Lead on, good lady."

It was hours later when they finally made their way back to the inn. Athos and Porthos both leapt up at their arrival. They had clearly been debating whether or not it to go looking for them. Aramis gestured them to sit and grabbed a hunk of bread from the table, his appetite restored for the first time in days by the progress they had made. Beside him, D'Artagnan all but dove into a bowl of stew as he told Athos about their day between bites of bread.

"Are you sure the source is reliable?" Athos asked when he was finished. It was D'Artagnan that answered. "Once the lady explained what kind of information we were looking for, that Sauville fellow told us he knew where to find the English spies and led us to them!"

Athos raised an eyebrow. "Just like that?"

D'Artagnan wilted under Athos's gaze, and Aramis took pity on him. "Well, not exactly. We left with our purses a good deal lighter." He tossed his mostly empty purse on the table to illustrate the point. Porthos chuckled at the joke and his stomach clenched, but he ignored it.

"Why would the man betray his clients, even for a hefty bribe?" Athos asked, clearly not convinced. "Surely he has a reputation to uphold?"

D'Artagnan shrugged. "Said he didn't care one way or another."

"What he said," Aramis injected before Athos could come back with a cutting remark, "Was that once they get off his boat, they are no longer his concern. How did he phrase it, D'Artagnan? Oh yes. 'What do I care what happens to 'em? Once they're off my tub, they're hides are their own. I don't owe those smug English pigs nothing.' Then he spat on the ground and swore rather colorfully before robbing us blind and leading us to the spies' hideout." When Athos still looked unconvinced, he added, "I believe him, Athos. He seemed to harbor no fond feelings for his former cargo."

Athos nodded decisively. "Very well. Flea's told us that there is something big going down in the Black Fox's court very soon."

Flea nodded. "He's been bragging again, and he's getting ready for something. He's nervous. Something is happening, and soon I would say."

"Porthos says the Fox spent all day watching him like a hawk whenever he entered the tavern, so all is going well there. He took down about a dozen fresh opponents, some in double combat, so he's certainly got the Fox in edge. And his mens' pockets considerably lighter." Athos frowned slightly, and Aramis guessed he thought Porthos might be drawing a bit too much attention to himself. His stomach twisted again at the thought that Porthos was enjoying his time undercover. What if he wanted to make a permanent change?

"For now, you and D'Artagnan will watch the spies, and Porthos and I will continue to watch Flea and the court." Rising, Athos added, "We should all get some rest. We may be very busy soon."

Out of the corner of his eye, Aramis saw Porthos glance towards him. He didn't know what he was about to ask, but he didn't want to stay to find out. If he wanted time alone with Flea again, Aramis didn't want to hear it, and if he wanted to know what was wrong, he didn't have an answer he could give him. He slipped away, heading straight for a pretty barmaid. He would flirt with her until Porthos left with Flea. It would be more convincing if he followed through with her, but he didn't have the heart for it. Not tonight.

"Porthos, my friend!" came the now familiar jovial cry. Porthos set his wine down with a sigh, plastering a smile across his face as he turned to face the Black Fox, who was grinning from ear to ear as he approached. "It is so good to see you! I have been missing you when you are here, it seems! My men have been telling stories of your amazing feats!"

The Fox was still smiling, but a dangerous glint had entered his eye. Porthos recalled that he had perhaps been a bit too enthusiastic in his brawls the previous day, excited at the idea that Aramis and D'Artagnan might bring back information on Sauville. He had attracted more notice than was strictly healthy, and it seemed the Fox was concerned at last.

"They say you cannot be defeated. But I say bah! All men can be defeated, don't you agree? It's just that some fall harder than others."

"That's very wise," Porthos grunted, doing his best to sound appreciative. He was having trouble maintaining the façade of camaraderie at the moment. Aramis had dodged him again last night, and he and D'Artagnan had slipped off this morning before Porthos had even come downstairs. He was sure now that his friend was avoiding him, and the knowledge sat like a lead weight in his stomach. He hated that this mission kept him from knocking the truth out of Aramis before it ate him up inside, and he hated the gnawing feeling that he might somehow be the cause. He didn't have the time to contemplate how at the moment, and it was driving him mad. His acting abilities were faltering in the wake of the internal conflict.

The Fox seemed to notice his lack of sincerity, eyes narrowing further even as his grin somehow broadened still further. "Exactly, exactly! You and I are not fools, eh? We know we must someday lose." The Fox looked around with exaggerated furtiveness, leaning in to whisper. "My men haven't had this much entertainment in a long time, my friend. But what do you say we give them more?"

Porthos raised his eyebrows, trying to channel Athos. "I'm listenin'."

"In two days' time, you and I should participate in a match ourselves," the Fox said, sounding like a child telling a forbidden secret. "We can show this rabble what real fighters can do. Why we deserve their respect."

"Sounds fun," Porthos grunted. "What do I get if I win?" And there was the flicker of fear again, the uncertainty that made the Fox oh so dangerous. He was afraid of Porthos, and more than that, he was afraid of losing before his men. He did not want to surrender his crown, and Porthos doubted he would play fair.

"I don't think we need prizes, my friend, do you?" he asked, recovering smoothly. "This is just a friendly exercise to entertain our friends and acquaintances. We'll even promise to fight cleanly and limit injuries wherever possible. Sound fair, my friend?"

Porthos considered it, staring into his glass contemplatively. He knew Athos probably wouldn't like it, but they had wanted to distract the Fox, and the prospect of what amounted to a challenge to his throne would certainly distract him. "Yeah, alright," he said, smiling at the older man. "It'll be fun."

The Fox's smile didn't reach his eyes as he called for another round in celebration. Not long after he disappeared upstairs with Flea, calling a farewell. Porthos guessed she would be gone all night. Maybe he would finally have a chance to talk to Aramis.

He had drank more than he should to keep up with the Fox and stayed later than he was meant to. The light was already fading when he finally ducked out of the tavern. Athos met his eye from across the room, looking exasperated. They would be late back to the inn, since Porthos still had to make his trip to the docks before rendezvousing with Athos. He ducked his head in a silent apology and strode purposefully toward the docks, feeling somewhat lightheaded.

The tails the Fox had set on him fell in behind him at once, and Porthos smiled. It was predictable as clockwork. He strolled past the wharves, making a show of examining newly arrived ships and chatting with a few of the hands before turning down an alley to lose his pursuers.

It wasn't until a man stepped out and blocked the far end that he perceived something was off. When he noted the men now filling in the alley behind him he realized something was very wrong. Then one lunged for him and he stopped thinking in terms of right and wrong and went on the defensive.

There must have been a dozen of them, all in black, all silent as the grave. He took three down with his bare hands before there was a long enough lull to draw a blade. Even then he only managed his knife before they were on him again. He ducked and dodged, bobbing and weaving through the mass of attackers with less than his usual grace, cursing all the while his excessive drinking earlier. He was too slow, and these men were well trained.

He took out three more and used a fourth as a shield for a moment to catch his breath. He'd lost the knife in the back of the last one, and he didn't dare fire a gun for fear it would draw the wrong kind of help. He was stiff and his muscles burned, but no opponent had landed more than a few good punches yet.

He snapped the neck of the man he was using as a human shield and tossed him into another attacker, sending them down in a flurry of limbs. A fresh opponent came at him with a sword. He batted it away with one gloved hand and cracked a fist into the man's nose with enough force to send bone shards straight into his brain.

The three men still on their feet came at him en masse. The fight was short and brutal, like things were in the worst parts of the Court. When it was over, Porthos stood amid a pile of bodies with limbs bent at unnatural angles. Not one had connected steel to flesh.

He allowed himself a small smirk of victory and turned away, intent to escape back to the inn before guards showed up, but as he moved something thudded into the back of his left shoulder. Pain radiated out and he spun to see the opponent that had fallen beneath one of his fellows on his feet and coming at him. Porthos didn't have time to think, so he went with his first instinct: he closed his hand around the blade in his shoulder, tugged it free, and sent it sailing in one fluid motion. It embedded itself in the man's throat.

Porthos quickly looked around, checking that all the others were dead. A mark on the hand of one of the fallen caught his eye and he crouched down to take a closer look. An eye was tattooed on the man's hand. It was the same tattoo one of his new drinking buddies bore. The man worked for the Fox. He should have known the criminal overlord wouldn't have the guts to face him.

He rose to leave but paused, gazing at the figure contemplatively. The man was only slightly smaller than he, and he wore a dark leather jacket. Porthos yanked it off and shrugged it on, hissing as the motion pulled at his shoulder. It was a tight fit, but it would keep the wound concealed until he made it back to Athos.

Chapter Text

D'Artagnan sat back with a heavy sigh, slumping against the wall. His face was the picture of misery. "Are we even sure they're in there?" he asked, a slightly whiney tone in his voice. Not that Aramis could blame him. They'd been watching the spies' location all day and had yet to see so much as a shadow. It was boring, but it was necessary.

"We have no other leads," Aramis informed him patiently, adjusting his hat to better block the light from the setting sun. D'Artagnan heaved another sigh but settled. Not a minute later he was back on his feet.

"Oh, for God's sake, lad-" Aramis began, patience finally used up, but D'Artagnan was staring at something behind them. Perplexed, Aramis turned too and saw a child running silently towards them, a note clutched in a dirty fist. It ran straight up to them, seemingly undaunted by their stares.

"You Aramis?" He couldn't tell if it was male or female beneath the dirt. He nodded. The child thrust the paper into his hands and fled.

"What was that all about?" asked D'Artagnan, but Aramis was already reading the note. He felt his heart stop as he read words he had been dreading.

"Porthos has been injured. Athos needs us to return at once."

"But the spies…" D'Artagnan began.

"Damn the spies!" Aramis grabbed his things and took off running, relieved when the boy joined him without hesitation.

It took them twenty minutes to reach the inn, and Aramis was sure his heart would simply fail before they made it. He was trying his hardest not to picture all the ways Porthos might have been wounded that would require his attention. Most could have killed him in however long it took Athos to send that message.

All he could allow himself to think was he will be fine, he will be fine, he has to be fine… It became a mantra, running through his head in time with his pounding feet.

They burst through the door and he stopped dead, knees going weak with relief at the sight of Porthos sitting up on the bed, arguing passionately with Athos. He was pale and the tight skin around his eyes told Aramis he was in pain, but it must not be life-threatening if he was still conscious.

"I told you it wasn't that serious!" Porthos cried when he saw them. "You could've handled it, Athos, it's just a plain old knife wound!"

"Nonsense," Aramis chimed in, relief making him giddy. "You don't want him anywhere near you with a needle. What seems to be the problem?"

"Some of the Fox's men jumped him by the docks," Athos said, eyebrows pulled together disapprovingly. "Apparently he thought it was a good idea to accept a challenge from him."

"It's not a challenge, it's just a fight," Porthos told him sullenly, allowing Aramis to look at the wound. It was deep but it was in the muscle of the shoulder. It had missed everything vital and was even now bleeding only sluggishly. Aramis sighed in relief and gestured for D'Artagnan to bring him his supplies.

"It's a terrible idea!" Athos snapped.

"Perhaps this is a discussion for later, when one of you is not bleeding all over the bedclothes?" Aramis pointed out archly. "Athos, prepare the patient."

"I swear to God, if you punch me-" Porthos began, but he was too late. Athos's fist connected solidly with his head and he slumped back against Aramis.

Athos shook his hand, wincing. "There's got to be a better way to do that."

"So what was it he was doing, exactly?" D'Artagnan asked, looking over to where Athos sat in the corner with a bottle of wine. Aramis had finished stitching Porthos up and was busy trying to clean the dried blood from around the wound. There was an intent expression on his face as he focused, but D'Artagnan remembered the terror in his eyes when they had read the message and the way he had run through the streets like the devil himself was chasing him.

Athos sighed and put down the bottle. "I gather he was by the docks, maintaining the ruse of being an actual pirate, when he was jumped by a group of men all in black. He managed to take them out but one got him with a dagger before he got away. Porthos thinks the Fox sent them."

D'Artagnan watched as Aramis straightened, frowning. "What was it you said about challenging the Fox?"

Athos shook his head. "The Fox challenged him," he clarified. "Said something about the men needing entertainment and how it was just a friendly match. Clearly his idea of friendship is very different than ours."

They all sat in silence for a moment. D'Artagnan thought about just how close Porthos must have come to being murdered in a back alley.

"But why try to kill him?" he asked at last. "Wouldn't it be better to beat him in a fight?"

"Would you want to fight Porthos?" Aramis asked. There was a note of pride in his voice. D'Artagnan considered the idea and immediately rejected it.

"Ahhh, no. I see what you mean."

"The Fox likely shares your sentiments, D'Artagnan," Athos said. "We can't be sure, but he's probably well aware that Porthos is younger and stronger than he is. The challenge was likely issued out of pride and to prove to his followers that he is not afraid. But I doubt he's eager to truly face him. He would lose all respect if he lost the fight. So by that reasoning, knifing him in an alley makes sense."

"This is going too far, Athos." Aramis spoke softly, but there was an edge to his words. "He was never supposed to get in this deep. It's dangerous."

"I agree, but it's too late to pull out now." Aramis glared at him, and for a moment D'Artagnan thought he would argue further, but he turned away.

D'Artagnan sensed his worries ran deeper than theirs and tried to offer reassurances. "He'll be alright. You heard that old man. He was born to this. He can manage."

"That's what I'm worried about," Aramis murmured. Before D'Artagnan could ask what he meant, Athos spoke again.

"D'Artagnan, I need you to go back to the tavern. Make sure Flea is still with the Fox. If it looks like she'll stay the night, you can come back. Aramis, you'll stay with him tonight?" Aramis nodded, giving Athos a look that said clearly, why on earth would I not?

"And what about tomorrow?" Athos pressed. "He can't be allowed to return to the tavern tomorrow. Someone will have to stay here and keep him in bed." Aramis said nothing, simply gazed down at the unconscious man. D'Artagnan sensed his reluctance. He did not want to be alone with Porthos.

"I'll do it," he offered. Aramis shot him a grateful smile and D'Artagnan nodded back.

"Very well. I would like to go see the spies' hideout for myself. Aramis, will you accompany Flea to the tavern?" Aramis nodded. "That's settled then. I am going to bed."

He rose and departed, taking the wine with him. D'Artagnan lingered. Aramis glanced over at him inquiringly. "What did you mean, when you said you were worried about Porthos having been born to this life?" he blurted out.

Aramis looked back at him, his eyes shadowed. "He loves this life. The fighting, the respect. Can't you see it?" D'Artagnan nodded. He had seen it. Porthos was filled with a new kind of confidence that was unlike anything D'Artagnan had seen in him before. He walked like a king.

"What if the allure of it all is too much?" Aramis asked softly, eyes finding Porthos's face. "What if he wants to go back to it?"

D'Artagnan could think of nothing to answer the pain in his voice.

"You should go," Aramis said with a sigh. "You need to get some sleep, and the sooner you leave, the sooner you will return."

D'Artagnan nodded and turned to go. He walked slowly to the doorway. Some instinct made him pause and glance back.

Aramis was standing by the bed. As D'Artagnan watched, he reached out and laid one hand on Porthos's cheek, bowing his head as if in pain. D'Artagnan felt suddenly that he was intruding upon something sacred. He left.

Athos could hear D'Artagnan cursing softly as he tried to find the bed in the dark. For goodness sake, the room was not that large. It was only when he heard the lad stub his toe for the third time that he took pity on him. "Over here."

D'Artagnan was just visible in the faint moonlight. Athos saw him freeze. "Athos?" he asked cautiously.

Athos snorted. "Who else would it be?"

"Did I wake you?"

"No, you did not," Athos told him firmly, hearing the guilt in the boy's voice. Honestly, he could be guilty about anything. "I wasn't sleeping. Did you find Flea?"

"She was still with the Fox." D'Artagnan had found the bed at last. Athos felt it dip under his weight as he scrambled in. They lay in silence. Athos thought the boy had drifted off when suddenly he spoke.

"Athos, do you think he'll want to leave and go back with Flea? Be King of the Court?" D'Artagnan's voice was small. Athos was forcibly reminded of Thomas. As a child, he had always come to Athos with his fears, seeking comfort and reassurance. Athos had always been able to fix those problems, but he couldn't fix them for his newest brother.

"I don't know," he answered honestly. "It's clear he is enjoying himself. And there were times before when he considered leaving. Bonnaire, before we knew what he was. And that widow."

"Alice," D'Artagnan supplied helpfully.

Athos grunted. "Yeah, her." He fell silent, thinking. "I met that old man again today." He felt D'Artagnan roll on the bed to look at him. "I asked him more about what it would have been like for Porthos, growing up in the Court."

He shook his head at the memory. Accounts of rapes, murders, children starving, trampled by horses, stolen by slavers… "His childhood must have been horrific. I can't even imagine it." He had felt guilty listening, recalling his own privileged life before he joined the Musketeers. He had never known hunger, or cold, or fear. Nor had D'Artagnan, and he found himself absurdly grateful for that fact.

He had known his share of darkness, of course. He had been consumed by his demons for years. But Porthos was a different story. While Athos had let the darkness drown him, Porthos fought free of it and found the light. He was a better person than Athos could ever hope to be.

"And yet he told of wonderful things too. Of the bonds formed between the members. How they look after their own. How in the Court, it matters not what a man is born, but what he can make himself into. And Porthos rose farther than any of them. In the Court, no one would call him the Musketeer's dog, the scum Treville pulled from the gutter that's unfit for polite society."

D'Artagnan made a noise of outrage but said nothing. They had all heard the comments made against Porthos. When he was there, he stopped them doing anything rash, but Athos knew Aramis had taught a few of the nastier ones some manners with the point of his sword.

"My point is that in the Court Porthos had a respect he will never have with us. But he will never find this kind of brotherhood there. So I honestly don't know what he will do. I hope he does not choose to leave us when this is over, but if he does, we must let him go, and be happy for him."

"I can do that," D'Artagnan said softly. "It would be hard, but I could do it. If it was what he truly wanted." They both lapsed into silence. There didn't seem to be anything left to say.

"It would break Aramis's heart though," he added, so quietly Athos nearly missed it. He closed his eyes and pretended to be asleep rather than respond. He did not want to contemplate what would be left of Aramis if Porthos walked away.

Aramis sat alone, watching Porthos sleep. He knew that this was probably considered creepy and obsessive, but after his terror earlier the simple rise and fall of his friend's chest was reassuring to him. It told him that they had once again cheated death. All of them knew they could not escape that final sleep indefinitely, but Aramis was fiercely glad that today was not the day Porthos would succumb. Selfishly he hoped he himself would go first, so he would never have to live with the knowledge that Porthos was dead.

D'Artagnan and Athos had returned to their room to sleep hours ago. D'Artagnan had run back to the tavern to check on Flea only to find she and the Fox were still in his rooms. Aramis doubted she would return tonight. He was vaguely relieved.

So here he sat, keeping vigil over his dearest friend. It wasn't strictly necessary. Porthos was going to be fine. The wound was sewn and would heal cleanly. Porthos would wake with an aching head and little more. But he couldn't seem to sleep. He had tried, stretched out on the floor, but it hadn't worked. He could feel the nightmares looming behind his eyes. So he stayed awake, watching.

He wasn't entirely sure how it began. One moment he was watching Porthos in silence, and the next words were pouring from his mouth in a flood.

"I know you're worried about me. I don't want you to be. It's okay. There's nothing you can do to help, and none of this is your fault. I'm the one who had to go and fall in love with his best friend." He smiled sadly at the sleeping form. "Can't blame yourself for that. And you're happy enough not knowing. You want to ask me what's wrong, but I wish you wouldn't. I won't be able to lie to you if you ask, not forever. I never could hide anything from you. But I wish, just this once, you would let it go. Nothing but pain lies down that road."

He sighed deeply, curling his hands together in his lap. "It's better you never know. What good would knowing do? It would just make you uncomfortable if you did not reciprocate and put you in danger if you did. You saw what they were willing to do to the Comtesse, what they accused her off. I wouldn't want to put you in that position. It's better this way."

"I won't blame you if you walk away now. If you go with Flea. I want you to be happy. If that would make you happy, then I will smile and come and visit you and your future children and teach them to shoot and you will never, never know how much it pains me. I can give you that. You deserve to be happy. That's another reason you can never know. It's better this way."

He wasn't sure how long he spoke for, pouring his heart out. It was so much easier when he knew Porthos couldn't hear him. After a while, he realized he kept coming back to the idea that it was better Porthos did not know. It's better this way. He believed it. He had to believe it. And yet a small voice in his head asked him who it was he was really trying to convince.

Chapter Text

Aramis sat alone in the tavern. This early in the morning, it was almost empty, but he had needed to arrive before Flea left so she would know to stay for the day. He sighed into his glass of wine, fighting off exhaustion. He had fallen asleep a few hours before dawn, but his rest had been fitful and colored with nightmares. He would be glad when this mission was over and they returned to Paris. Perhaps there he would find something to distract himself.

"Come t' see the Pirate again?" a voice at his elbow asked. He jumped slightly and turned to see the same old man from a few days before, grinning his near toothless smile. He sat down without waiting for an invitation. "You's a bit early. 'E won't be round until noon at least. The likes of 'im have important business to do, you see." He tapped his nose in what he clearly thought was a knowing gesture.

A moment before, Aramis would have said he was in no mood for company, but now he found himself alight with curiosity. This was a man who knew stories of Porthos from before he became a Musketeer. They were exaggerated, surely, but they would provide a glimpse into a past Porthos kept mostly hidden.

"Tell me more about him," he suggested, sensing the garrulous old man would need no more prompting. He was right.

"Ah, there's one story that I always did love," the old man said with a happy sigh, settling back in his chair. "From when the old king was dead, and them in the Court thought he might be their new one. There was this noble, see, who'd fallen on hard times. His mansion was near the Court 'cause that was all 'e could afford. And he was tired o' the beggars and thieves and children allus underfoot. So he went to the king sayin' there'd been murders there, too many murders, and askin' for permission to dole out 'is own personal justice. Now the king, 'e didn't care none, so 'e gave him free rein."

Aramis nodded sadly. It was only too believable. "So that noble, 'e decided to kill the king, to make an example, like. Only problem was, there was no king! 'E said they handed over their king or his soldiers would shoot up the streets. Now everyone's running about, panicking, like, and Porthos, 'e steps up and says I'll go to 'im. Now, the noble wanted the king dead, but he wanted it on his terms. Hanging's too quick, choppin' off 'is head too unpleasant, so he decides he'll make it like the Col-uh-see-um. King wins, 'e lives. Simple. So Porthos shows up and first thing the noble does is stick a brand to his neck like a common thief, just 'cause 'e can."

"What?" Aramis asked, startled. He managed to stop himself from saying but he doesn't have a brand on his neck. Instead he asked, "Are you sure? I've didn't see it when he fought."

The old man waved a hand impatiently. "It was a long time ago, and 'is skin is dark. It's probably faded." Aramis stared at him doubtfully. He'd stitched Porthos up a dozen times and never seen a brand. Though he did tend to wear high collared clothing…

"Then 'e makes him fight. One soldier after another, armed with nothin' but a shoddy old sword, thinking he'll get tired eventually an' fail. But 'e doesn't fail. 'E wins again and again, and all the Court is watchin'. Noble starts to look bad. Watchers are gettin' bored, leavin'. So the noble stepped it up. Set ten men on 'im at once. Five men down and the sword breaks in two. Two men left, noble's panickin', one man gets a lucky shot. Right above 'is heart. But then-"

At that moment, there was a commotion near the door as the Black Fox entered the room, looking livid. All across the tavern, men slunk away, trying to get out of his path. Aramis turned back to his table only to find the old man had disappeared.

He sat for a long time, staring at the old man's empty chair, thinking furiously. Porthos did have a scar on his chest. It was one of the few major injuries he'd ever sustained that Aramis hadn't stitched himself. He'd never asked about it, and Porthos had never volunteered the story. A chill went down his spine. Could the story have been real? But Porthos had no brand; he was sure of it.

He had seen more of Porthos's old life in the last week than he had ever been privy to before, and it left him stunned. He'd never known how much respect the poor and the crooked had for Porthos, never known he was a legend, was nearly a king. Every day, it seemed more and more likely to him that Porthos would want that back. That life where he wasn't singled out by friend and foe alike for the color of his skin and where he had been born. Where he wasn't the first one attacked in every skirmish with the Red Guards. Where he could be a king with Flea at his side and have the love of his people. What could Aramis offer, compared to that?

Porthos woke late the next morning to a throbbing pain in his shoulder and a splitting headache. His dreams were bouncing around in his skull. He kept thinking he had heard Aramis's voice talking of love, and one phrase: it's better this way. But he couldn't remember waking up, so it must have been a dream. Right?

He sat up and looked around. It was already daytime, judging by the light streaming in the window. He was surprised to find he was alone. Normally after he had been injured Aramis slept in his room that night. He could see a chair pushed against the wall where it had a clear view of the bed. He wasn't sure how, but he knew that Aramis had slept in that chair last night, watching over him. The thought filled him with a pleasant warmth.

Just then the door opened and D'Artagnan trooped in, bearing a laden breakfast tray. "You're awake," he said, smiling brightly.

"So it appears," he replied, taking the tray with a smile. The motion sent a twinge through his shoulder, but it wasn't too bad. He could still fight the Fox tomorrow, if necessary. "Where're the others?"

"Aramis volunteered to go to the tavern and guard Flea," D'Artagnan explained. "Athos wanted to go and look at the spies' hideout. They ordered me to make sure you stay here and rest. If you're going to fight, you'll need your strength."

Porthos felt hurt slice through his belly. Aramis had volunteered to leave? He never left when Porthos was injured. He forced himself to take a bite of a piece of toast, but his appetite had deserted him.

The day dragged by agonizingly. Porthos let D'Artagnan prattle on for as long as he could bear before at last pushing himself up and heading out to the courtyard to exercise. The boy had badgered him about resting for a while but eventually joined him.

At dinner the others finally returned. Flea and Aramis were first. Flea threw her arms around him as soon as she walked in. Porthos barely caught the expression that flickered across Aramis's face, but it was enough to make him gently pull away from Flea, who didn't seem to notice. Aramis looked awful. His face was haggard and dark, puffy circles surrounded his eyes. He looked thin. Athos followed a few moments later, interrupting Flea's scolding about Porthos's idiotic lapse in situational awareness. He called them all to the table to report.

"I have news," Flea announced as soon as she sat down. "The Fox is meeting Aubert and the spies tomorrow."

They all stared at her in shocked silence for a moment. "He can't be," Porthos said at last. "He's meant to be fighting me tomorrow."

Flea shook her head. "That's just a diversion. He wants the eyes of his court fixed on the tavern, betting on the match and not paying attention to anything else. He'll slip away in the chaos."

"If the fight's a diversion, why'd he try to have me knifed in an alley?" Porthos asked skeptically.

"He wanted you dead because you're a threat," Flea explained, shrugging. "But when he found out you survived he figured the attack would only make you more likely to fight. You'd want revenge. So either way it works in his favor."

"Clever," Athos commented. "Are you sure about this?"

"Absolutely. He couldn't quit bragging about it all last night, telling me the riches would be in his grasp tomorrow and he'd make my dreams come true and other such nonsense. He was proud as a peacock strutting about. He loved getting me to stroke his ego. Never even stopped to consider that telling me all about his plans was a bad idea. Men are idiots."

"That is why we sent you," Athos pointed out dryly. "This is excellent. Tomorrow, Aramis and D'Artagnan will go to the hideout and follow the spies to wherever they are meeting the Fox and Aubert. Flea, Porthos, and I will go to the court as usual. We'll let the Fox see that Porthos has come. I assume he will wait until he sees him to make his escape?" Flea nodded confidently. "Will you be able to accompany him?"

"He's already invited me," Flea told him smugly. Porthos shot her a proud smile.

"Good. When you depart, leave a sign of some sort telling us where you are headed, or if possible signal Porthos the information. We'll follow and rendezvous with the others at the location. There we will determine our next step."

Everyone nodded. A gleam had entered their eyes at the prospect of some action at last. Athos ordered them all to get a good night's sleep. Aramis rose at once and turned for the barn without so much as asking to see Porthos's stitches. He was on his feet to follow in a heartbeat when Athos laid a hand on his arm.

"If necessary, you may need to stay behind tomorrow to maintain the ruse. I hope it won't come to that, but you must be prepared for the possibility."

Only half listening, Porthos nodded his understanding and shrugged him off, determined on following Aramis. Flea called his name, but for once he ignored her, intent on having it out with his friend and finding out just what it was that was eating away at him.

Aramis tried to make himself comfortable on the pile of hay, wondering if it was worth seducing the young barmaid from the night before. Perhaps if he slept with a woman it would help him straighten out the mess in his head. But he knew he couldn't do that. To sleep with that girl now would be disrespectful. He wouldn't make love to her while thinking of someone else.

At least the mission was moving forward. Aramis attributed most of his problems at the moment to the crawling pace of progress over the last few days. He had always found missions to be a great distraction when dealing with unpleasant situations. He could usually throw all his energy into the task at hand, resulting in the temporary return of his normal self-assurance and confidence. Usually. But the prolonged inactivity had failed to provide the stimulation he required.

It was driving him mad and leaving him far too much leisure time to contemplate Porthos and his own conflicting emotions. Porthos grew happier with each day he spent in the court, and as Porthos's joy increased Aramis felt himself losing focus, growing irritable and withdrawn. He couldn't shake the feeling he was going to leave. And so he tried to avoid the other man as often as possible.

Except, apparently, tonight. He could hear the door creak as someone entered. He glanced around and froze. Porthos was striding towards him between the stalls, a determined expression on his face. Shit. He knew that look. Porthos wanted answers, and Aramis had none to give.

He said nothing as Porthos reached him but got reluctantly to his feet, moving to lean against the stable wall. As he expected, it was Porthos who broke the silence.

"Aramis," he began, clearly making an effort to sound normal but failing to hide his concern and frustration, "What in God's name is going on with you? You've been behaving oddly since we arrived, you aren't sleeping, and you hardly speak to me! Tell me, have I angered you in some way?"

"How do you know I'm not sleeping?" Aramis asked, trying to smile in an attempt to lighten the situation. Judging by the look on his friend's face, he did not succeed.

"All of us know. You look like you've been punched in the face all the time and you've turned faintly gray. And from what I've seen, you're hardy eating. So tell me, what is wrong? Please, if I have hurt you in some way, tell me so I can apologize."

Aramis could see the honest worry on Porthos's face and sighed. The obvious concern for him made it all much harder. There was no way he could tell him the truth. This had been so much easier when he was unconscious.

How do you tell your dearest friend that you are in love with him against the very will of God? That watching him with others is killing you inside? That you don't care if loving him means you'll go lose God's love and go to Hell, because you know he is worth it? Worth being burned at the stake, worth everything. How do you tell someone that?

Of course he couldn't tell him. But he knew his friend: he would not give up. And lying to Porthos was the most difficult thing for Aramis to do. There was only way he could think of to prevent Porthos from wringing the truth from him. Steeling himself, he said brusquely, "It is none of your concern," wincing internally at Porthos's hurt expression. He had to anger him enough that he would drop the inquiry.

Porthos rallied. "Of course it is! We're friends, being concerned is part of the damn job description! Why are you hiding things from me? Please, Aramis, let me help you!"

Aramis felt all his frustration and pain welling up inside him, turning into bitter anger. His fear of discovery was fueling it. He wanted to lash out, to hurt Porthos as he himself had been hurt. The small, rational part of his brain was arguing that Porthos didn't deserve this, would never deserve it even if he had caused the pain intentionally, but it was too late: something within him was baying for blood and burned bridges.

"You can't help me. I'm surprised you've even noticed," he hissed sullenly. "I suppose I should be honored that you've taken time away from your precious Flea to notice the goings-on of us lower beings. The call of your old life, is it? Longing for the days of being seen as a king? I suppose Flea is your queen."

Porthos looked as if he'd been slapped. For a moment it seemed like he wouldn't retaliate, but Porthos had the worst temper of any of them, and it didn't fail him now.

"What's Flea got to do with this?" he asked belligerently, voice a low growl. "I thought you were angry at me for something. Leave her out."

Aramis laughed bitterly. "I was under the impression she had become involved in every aspect of your life," he spat. "She's certainly receiving your undivided attention. You spend all your time with her these days. Any time you don't spend brawling in the dirt, that is."

"So what if I've been fighting? It's for the damn mission. And if I'm sleeping with Flea, what does it matter? You've been caught up with women before. Have I ever said a word about it?" Porthos asked angrily. "Is this all because I made you sleep in the stables? Because I've spent my fair share of nights making do while you were with God knows who. I wouldn't think it would be a problem for you. You can get women to do wherever you want them to. I'd imagine a bit of hay wouldn't bother them. How many have you had in here, huh?"

"What are you suggesting?" Aramis shouted, fuming. "I do not sleep with every woman I meet, and my lady friends were not born in the gutter!" Porthos bristled. Aramis hadn't meant it as an insult to Flea, but if Porthos chose to take it as such, all the better. "I would never bring an honorable lady to a barn! I respect the women I love too much to bring them to such a place!"

"Love?" Porthos repeated the word incredulously. "What do you know of love? You've a new woman every week! At least I'm consistent! If I love a girl, I stick with her. I don't leave when someone prettier comes along! Love! You know nothing of love." Porthos laughed, and Aramis thought suddenly he had never looked so cruel. His anger flared, and then died away to embers. He couldn't stay here, sleep be damned.

"Nor do you," he said softly. He didn't wait for a response, pushing past Porthos to leave the stables. Porthos was yelling at him to come back, but all Aramis could think about was getting away. He could see D'Artagnan hurrying toward him from the open door of the inn, but he shook his head violently and turned down a nearby alley. As he strode away, he thought how convenient it was that it should start raining now.

Chapter Text

"What did you do?" Porthos felt his head crack uncomfortably against the door of the stables as he walked into the path of an irate Athos, who shoved him back. Growling, he tried to shove Athos off, intent on going after Aramis and demanding an apology to Flea and an explanation of what he'd meant by his last comment.

Porthos was still furious, but the desire was motivated as much by guilt as by anger. He could sense that something had gone very wrong at the end there, and he had a sinking feeling he himself might be at fault, despite the apparent insults to Flea. He was also conscious of the fact that he'd gone in intending to help Aramis and ended up accusing him of being a whoremonger. He was meant to be his best friend, and two minutes into what was supposed to be a supportive chat he'd been shouting at him. Some friend I am, he thought in disgust.

But where did Aramis come off insulting Flea? Porthos had never known him to act less than chivalrously towards any woman, ever. Had it been retaliation, not against Flea, but Porthos himself? Maybe he really was angry at him for something, and it was worse than he had first thought.

He was beginning to feel truly ashamed of himself but was still too angry to process his own emotions. He was operating on rage because it was his first means of defense in uncertain situations.

Athos shook him, hands still fisted in the collar of his jacket. "I didn't do anything!" he shouted. "Aramis insulted Flea and he wouldn't tell me what's been going on with him. We had a row, that's all!"

"So you decided shouting at him would be a good way to make him open up! He's never run off after an argument before! For God's sake, Porthos, what did you say to him? D'Artagnan said he looked nearly in tears!"

The last line broke through Porthos's rage and he felt suddenly cold. "But I didn't… he wasn't really… it wasn't that bad…" he managed, no longer sure about his own position in all this. The guilt that his anger had been keeping somewhat at bay slammed into him like a battering ram.

"What. Did. You. Say?" Athos asked again, punctuating each word with a shove.

"I thought he was angry at me, so I went to see what was wrong. He wouldn't tell me and started making rude comments about me and Flea. I thought he was upset that I made him sleep in the stables, so I told him I'd done it many times, and besides he could still get women to join him there. He said his women were too high born to sleep in a stable," Porthos explained, feeling angry again. The burn of it pulsed through him, warming him despite the rain.

"How could I let him make such suggestions against Flea? He crossed the line. Then he said he respected the women he loved. So I told him he knew nothing of love. He stormed out. What?" he asked uncertainly, for at his last words Athos had dropped his hands and turned away without another word, heading back to the inn. "Athos, wait! What did I say?"

Porthos followed him to the bar, where D'Artagnan was waiting. When he saw him, D'Artagnan leapt to his feet, looking angry, but Athos pushed him back into his chair, still studiously ignoring Porthos's demands for answers. Bewildered, Porthos left them and headed upstairs. Flea was already asleep, so he was able to lie awake and think about what had been said, wondering where exactly he'd gone so wrong and why Aramis had been so upset.

He'd never been any good with words, but perhaps things would have gone better if he had practiced what he was going to say. If he hadn't been so pushy, maybe Aramis wouldn't have grown defensive so quickly. He groaned, fighting the urge to bang his head against the headboard. He was a terrible friend.

He tried to push the image of Aramis's face as he'd walked away put of his head. He needed to sleep. But even as he drifted off at last he couldn't help from thinking that he had just succeeded in making everything much, much worse.

D'Artagnan wasn't sure who he was angrier at: Porthos, for behaving so callously towards Aramis in the first place, or Athos for refusing to search for their missing friend after he disappeared. He'd simply said there was no point in looking because they wouldn't find him. D'Artagnan had found himself wondering if Aramis had ever done anything like this before.

Athos had grown tired of his demands that they search after a while and told him shortly to go to bed. Aramis would be sure to show up at the stakeout location the next morning as they had planned, according to Athos. And so that's where D'Artagnan was heading, hoping that Athos was right.

He was. Aramis was leaning just inside an alley near the spies' hideout, close enough to watch the house without attracting suspicion. His face told D'Artagnan that he hadn't slept at all that night, and the fact that he wouldn't meet D'Artagnan's eyes told him he didn't wish to discuss it. This was good, for he was at a total loss.

Since the day he'd met him, Aramis had been the epitome of cool, calm, and collected, exuding charm and confidence, scarcely ruffled by danger or difficulty. D'Artagnan had seen him like this only twice before: the night after Porthos was wounded while they were escorting Bonnaire and Aramis had stayed up to watch him as he slept, and after the incident with Marsac and Treville. Now Aramis looked like Athos had the night D'Artagnan pulled him from his burning mansion. This was worse, somehow. At least Athos had been drunk and dealing with the fact that his crazed wife was not dead. Aramis was not drunk, and so the look in his eyes was all the more cutting.

And so D'Artagnan said nothing, and the silence stretched between them.

It was long past noon when D'Artagnan worked up the nerve to break the silence and ask Aramis if he wanted him to fetch some lunch. But he'd barely begun to speak when Aramis suddenly hissed for him to be silent, staring intently at the door to the rundown warehouse being used by the spies. There were shadows passing behind it where there'd been no sign for days. Aramis grabbed his sleeve and dragged him back deeper into the alley just as the door opened and a group of men slipped out and passed noiselessly down the alley. It had begun.

Aramis and D'Artagnan glanced at each other as the thrill of action took over at last, lighting their eyes. Moving silently as shadows, they slipped into the maze of alleys, following their marks.

After a lengthy journey through the streets, the eight men slipped in a small door set in the back of a warehouse even more dilapidated than their original hideout. There was no sign yet of the others. D'Artagnan guessed only one or two of them were actually English spies. The others were likely hired protection.

D'Artagnan jumped slightly when Aramis spoke in his ear. "Did you get a glimpse of their faces?"

He frowned. "No, they all had their hoods up," he told him. "Think they're here to meet the Fox?" He could almost see the pull of the mission plastering up the cracks in Aramis's façade. His eyes gleamed with their old confidence as he whispered, "Well I hope it isn't to meet their mistresses. It would be awfully rude of them to have all the fun."

D'Artagnan grinned at him, his heart lighter than it had been all morning. He knew Aramis was still upset, but the fact that he could push it down a recapture an echo of his usual high spirits gave D'Artagnan hope; perhaps everything would turn out alright.

Porthos sat alone at a table, glaring at anyone who came near him. He was in no mood for company, especially not that of the Fox's miserable cronies. He'd woken early that morning and gone looking for Aramis, only to find he hadn't returned at all last night. That hadn't happened since he'd killed Marsac and refused their company every night for a week until Porthos had simply knocked in his door. Before that, it had been Savoy that kept him out all night. Whatever was going on had upset him greatly. Any time Aramis was suffering from extreme emotions, he had terrible nightmares, flashbacks to Savoy and other battles. If he wasn't sleeping, Porthos was willing to bet that was why.

But what could possibly have upset him so much? Porthos had deduced he was somehow the cause, but for the life of him he couldn't figure out his transgression. It was driving him mad. All he wanted to do was help, but it seemed like he was the problem. What had he done wrong?

The thought that he was somehow causing Aramis pain made him feel like his stomach was churning with acid. He was having trouble focusing on the mission. He really hoped Flea was right and the Fox wasn't about to show up and challenge him. He was pretty sure he would lose.

He could feel the eyes of the tavern on him. Money was changing hands as people placed bets on a match they would never get to see. Porthos wanted to fight a few of them just to burn off some of his pent-up energy, but he didn't dare, not when they might need to leave at any time. He certainly wasn't going to risk missing the signal and leave Aramis and D'Artagnan to deal with the Fox and the spies alone. No fucking way was that happening.

It felt like he had been sitting there for hours when at last he heard the noon bell ring. The Fox had wanted to fight at half past. He looked around, trying to catch Athos's eye, and froze as he saw movement at the door to the Fox's chamber. A flash of blond hair. Flea.

She looked harried as she flashed him a series of signals so quickly he almost missed them. He gathered the Fox was about to leave and head through back alleys towards the docks. She vanished back into the room as soon as she was finished.

Porthos felt adrenaline course through him at the prospect of action at long last. He let it sweep away his worries about Aramis. If they were lucky, the mission would be over by tonight and he would have plenty of time to talk to his friend.

He stood and the men around him surged back with the instinctive fear prey feels towards a predator. He ignored them, using his height to his advantage as he searched the crowd. Catching Athos's eye, he jerked his head toward the back, where a door led outside to the privies.

In the shadow of the doorway he relayed Flea's message in quick whispers and waited while Athos decided what to do. If his leader told him to remain in the bar to maintain the ruse, he knew he would disobey and follow anyway. To his relief, Athos seemed to decide that wasn't going to be necessary.

"What's the best way to the docks?" he whispered, gesturing for Porthos to follow him out of the yard.

"If one wishes not to be seen, the back alley off the street on the left," Porthos told him, pointing.

"Then we hide somewhere we can see both the tavern and that alley and wait for the Fox and his party to pass us. We can follow them to the spies. It will have to be soon, since you were meant to fight in less than half an hour."

Sure enough, hardly had they found a concealed location then a group of hooded men slunk out from an alley just behind the tavern. The Fox was immediately recognizable, wearing a ridiculous black silk cloak with silver fastening. Porthos could tell the one on his left was Flea, and he guessed the one on his right might be Aubert. All the rest were clearly just thugs. There were over a dozen in the party altogether.

He and Athos slipped out behind them silently as wraiths. They followed them through dingy back alleys, past seedy taverns and brothels until they reached a part of the city that looked ready to fall down. Here the group slipped into a building on the verge of collapse.

Athos tapped his arm and nodded toward a shadowy alley across the street. If he squinted, he could just make out the outline of two men hidden in the darkness. He followed Athos down another alley and around a building that let out in the same lane where the others were hiding. He found his eyes drawn to Aramis before the other man had even turned around. He could tell from the set of his shoulders that he was experiencing the same thrill as Porthos, glad to be active once more.

Then Aramis turned at D'Artagnan's hushed call, stiffening as he noticed them, and Porthos fought not to wince. Even in the shadows he could see the dark bags beneath his friend's eyes, the unhealthy pallor of his skin. He suddenly didn't care about the action. He just wanted this mission over so he could apologize and make everything better. He couldn't stand seeing Aramis like this.

Athos spoke first. "The spies have already gone in then?" he asked, positioning himself between Porthos and Aramis.. Porthos was trying to catch Aramis's eye, but the other man was pointedly ignoring him.

"Yeah, a few minutes ago," D'Artagnan told him. "Was Aubert with the Fox?"

"We believe so," Athos replied. "The Fox was the one in the black cloak with silver clasps. We saw him just before he put his hood up. We think the smaller man walking beside him was Aubert, but he never removed his hood. Flea is with them as well." The others nodded.

"Should we watch and see what happens, or storm the gates?" Aramis asked, smirking. His mask of confidence was impeccable despite his somewhat sickly appearance, but Porthos knew it was just that: a mask. Aramis had never been able to hide his feelings from him, even if he refused to discuss them. He felt frustration surge through him as he wondered why Aramis would not confide in him. What had he done wrong?

Athos shook his head, looking thoughtful. "We can't risk there being another way out. If we wait too long, they could conclude their business and slip out the back. We need Aubert and those plans, and I wouldn't mind getting my hands on those spies and finding out just what brings them to France."

"It'll be what, twenty, twenty-one to four? Five if you count Flea. Not great odds," Aramis pointed out.

"I can count," Athos said with a scowl. "We'll search for a side entrance, but if we don't find one, it'll have to be a frontal assault." He motioned them back further into the alley to discuss a plan of attack.

Chapter Text

Aramis crouched in the alley with D'Artagnan and Athos. Just behind them, he could hear Porthos stretching, preparing for what was to come. Their quick search of the building had revealed that it connected to the ones on either side, so they couldn't be sure which doors would lead to the right area other than the one the group had entered by. So they would have to take the frontal assault, dangerous as it was, and hope their sudden appearance caught the enemy unaware. Surprise would be everything.

Since they were forced to operate under the assumption that the door was barred or locked, it needed to be smashed in quickly and efficiently. Porthos would need to break it down in one hit for them to have the element of surprise still on their side. He would have to run into the door and knock it clean off its hinges.

Mercifully, this was something he had done many times, but it was always nerve-wracking. A man with fast reflexes could get a shot off before Porthos could find cover, and then Aramis would be left trying to sew him back together while a firefight raged around them. Unfortunately that, too, had happened many times before.

A grunt from Porthos told them he was ready. The three of them stood aside to let him pass. Aramis was careful not to look directly at him, keeping his mind fixed on the mission and nothing else. Athos glanced around at the others, and then nodded to Porthos, who grinned recklessly. "Ready, boys?" he asked, and was flying toward the door before they could answer. The three men leapt to their feet and followed close on his heels.

Porthos smashed through the door with the force of a battering ram. The others piled in behind him, instantly seeking opponents. The room they had entered was large, with several hallways leading out of it. Enemies were diving behind tables and around chairs, trying to find cover, and several had flipped their hoods back up as soon as they charged in, making everything more difficult. Someone cried out over the shots, "The Pirate!"

They couldn't tell which one was Aubert in the chaos. They were hoping to capture one spy if possible and kill the others, though they weren't sure how many spies there were and if some of their men had been guards or mercenaries. Athos had ordered D'Artagnan to take the extra guns and shoot until he ran out of pistols before joining the fight, hoping to reduce their numbers quickly. He'd offered the job to Aramis, but he'd declined, eager for the adrenaline of one on one combat.

Aramis saw Flea dart over to the doorway as the room erupted. She grabbed Porthos's spare knife and spun it with practiced ease before engaging one of the men in a vicious knife fight.

Aramis took out a man with the look of a hired thug with a well-placed shot. Dashing over, he grabbed the unused pistol off the man and used it to take out an opponent trying to creep up behind Flea. She shot him a grateful glance as she plunged her knife into her opponent's eye socket. What a woman, Aramis thought, momentarily impressed. Then a gunshot shattered the wall near his head and his mind returned to the battle.

The others all seemed to be doing fine. D'Artagnan had run out of pistols, having taken Athos's and Porthos's to provide cover, and was now dueling a man not even close to his equal. Athos was searching for a new opponent. Porthos was yanking his sword from a man's belly.

Aramis glanced around and saw several men fleeing the room. He tore off after three who ran down a side hall. The men had clearly been in the building before and after a series of dizzying twists and turns down narrow passages ran out through a back exit, where Aramis at last managed to catch up. He tackled one from behind, feeling him go limp as they landed. He'd broken his neck.

One of his friends leaped on Aramis with a cry of anger. Aramis twisted beneath him and managed to throw him over his shoulder to the ground with a move he had learned from Porthos. He would've shouted at him if he'd seen the shoddy execution, but it was effective.

The third man had drawn a sword and was lunging at him even as he turned. He dodged the blade, freeing his own rapier. The man was an adequate swordsman, but Aramis was more than his match. He parried and blocked, waiting for his opening. The man's blade dropped an inch, moving a heartbeat too slow, and Aramis thrust forward, running him through neatly. The second attacker was still groaning on the ground. A sword at his throat convinced him to come quietly.

Athos ducked as a bullet whizzed over his head. He looked around the room, searching for his brothers. He always worried when they had to go into a situation where they were badly outnumbered. Something could easily go wrong, and he knew he couldn't bear to lose any more of his family. He didn't see anyone in the dim room except Flea, standing over a small pile of corpses. He called over to her.

"Flea! I need you to watch the door! They may have reinforcements somewhere!" The girl nodded and moved to the doorway. Athos breathed a sigh of relief as he caught sight of D'Artagnan behind her, only to have it turn into a hiss of rage as the boy took the hilt of a sword to the side of his face. He went down hard.

Athos swore colorfully, adrenaline fueling him. Leaping over a fallen table, he blocked the next blow and engaged one of D'Artagnan's attackers. To his relief, he heard the boy get up behind him and parry a blow from the second opponent. He spared a prayer of thanks for his hard head and redoubled his attack. His sword caught his opponent across the cheek and he fell back, faltering for a moment. That was all the time Athos needed to lunge in and finish him off.

He fell back then, watching as D'Artagnan dueled with the last man standing. The boy had improved dramatically from when he had first shown up at the garrison and challenged Athos to a duel. They'd all been teaching him whenever they had time, and the lessons had not been wasted. He felt a sense of pride as he watched the boy efficiently dispatch his opponent with a blow Aramis had taught him and turn to look for more.

A sound from nearby made him turn. It was a whimper, not of pain but of fear. He glanced around, but he didn't see anyone. The sound came again. Understanding suddenly, he leaned over to look beneath the only table still standing.

Small, watery eyes peered back at him, wide with terror. He reached under the table and grabbed a fistful of the man's shirt, pulling him out. He was short and scrawny and put up no resistance. "Give me one good reason not to kill you."

"I- I have v-v-valuable information," the man stammered, pulling a sheaf of papers from within his jacket. He stunk of fear. "The king would want it-"

Athos smiled grimly, watching the way Aubert's eyes focused on his mouth. He had been reliably assured that he looked like a skull when he used that smile. "I'm sure he will… Aubert." The man's face whitened further at the sound of his name. "The king will be very pleased we have found you at last."

He glanced over at D'Artagnan. "Guard this, will you?" he asked casually, pushing the sniveling man away. D'Artagnan's lip curled in disgust as he pushed the man into a sitting position, sword trained on him. A bruise was blossoming across his face, but he didn't seem disoriented. He had been lucky.

"Where are the others?" D'Artagnan asked, looking around. Flea was still standing in the doorway, but Aramis and Porthos were nowhere to be seen. Panic flooded Athos momentarily, but a quick search showed they were not among the fallen.

Flea called over to him. "I saw some men run off down the corridors," she said, gesturing at the dark opening in the walls. "Porthos went down that one after a group." She pointed to one doorway. "Aramis must have done the same."

Athos nodded, his panic receding. They would be fine. They'd done this dozens of times. But it only takes one time for something to go wrong, a voice in his head whispered maliciously. He squashed it. "Flea, I need you to go back to the inn. Fetch our horses and gear and lead them to the abandoned barn due south of the city. I'll send D'Artagnan to help you once the others return."

"Wouldn't it be better to stick together?" she asked.

He shook his head. "We can't risk staying in the city longer than necessary. We have Aubert and the plans, but I don't see the Fox here. If he got away, we can expect retaliation. I would rather be far away before he has time to arrange anything."

Flea nodded and ran out. Athos turned to survey the shadowy doorways, praying silently that his brothers were alright.

Aramis might be lost. He had led his man back into the warehouse, but he wasn't sure he was following the same path they had taken on the way out. The man was resolutely refusing to help no matter what Aramis threatened him with. Finally, fed up, he stopped dead in the middle of the corridor where it branched into two hallways. "Athos!" he shouted impatiently. "D'Artagnan!"

He cocked his head, listening. A moment later an answering shout came from his left. He took that path, shoving his prisoner before him. A minute later they emerged back into the first chamber.

D'Artagnan was guarding a man who sat with his head in his hands. Aubert, Aramis hoped fervently, or this had all been for nothing. A bruise spread across the side of the boy's face. A nasty cut graced his cheek, but he seemed hale enough, scowling down at the prisoner. Several bodies lay on the ground, but Aramis couldn't get an accurate count with all the furniture. Athos turned around as he walked in. There was blood on his clothes, but he looked uninjured. Two brothers safe.

"We've got Aubert. He has the plans on him. We lost track of the Fox though. We think he may have gotten away. Flea's gone to fetch our gear and horses from the inn. She'll meet us outside the city. Porthos went off after a couple of men and hasn't returned yet. Who've you brought?"

"Not sure," Aramis said, feeling restless as a sudden sense of misgiving turned his stomach. "Which way did Porthos go?" Athos nodded towards a different side passage. "Right then." Aramis shoved his prisoner at Athos. "I'm going to find him."

He didn't wait for an answer. This passage was more straightforward than the one his other targets had fled down, and he quickly reached a large room that had the look of a storage space. There he stopped dead in the doorway.

Porthos stood in the center of the room, facing off against the Black Fox. Aramis froze, not daring to make a sound for fear of breaking his friend's concentration as he fought.

The Fox lunged in and Porthos ducked to the side. Porthos moved like a dancer. The Fox was smaller, and it looked like he might actually be quicker, but he did not have Porthos's grace and skill. The Fox had short knives in each hand, while Porthos was unarmed, but they seemed fairly evenly matched.

Aramis watched the Fox dart in, blade aimed at Porthos's ribcage. The larger man spun out of the way, one hand flashing out to knock the blade from his hand before pulling back. No one watching would ever guess that his shoulder had a knife in it not two days before.

The two men circled each other warily. There was no yelling of insults, no mocking taunts. This was deadly serious. Aramis could see even from this distance the fear on the Fox's face. He knew he was going to lose.

He feinted to the left, trying to bring his blade around at Porthos's head, but Porthos was too clever and managed to disarm him neatly. The Fox landed a powerful blow with his fist, but Porthos just shook it off like it was nothing.

Aramis would have been content to just sit back and watch Porthos take down the Fox, but something glinted in the corner of his eye and he turned. Two men had emerged from a parallel hallway. Both had pistols out, aimed directly at Porthos's back. Aramis saw the Fox nod and leap to one side just as they cocked the weapons.

"Porthos!" he cried frantically, throwing himself at the nearest man and knocking him back. The second man got off the shot, but Porthos had moved at Aramis's shout and it missed him. He saw the Fox dart away as Porthos launched himself at his attacker, sword flying clear of its sheath.

Aramis fell through a doorway, still grappling for the loaded gun. He managed to roll so he was above the other man, who was trying to get the gun at an angle to shoot him. Aramis pushed desperately against the man's arm, trying to throw off his aim. He couldn't get any leverage against the uneven ground with the man squirming beneath him.

Without warning, the pistol went off in his face and a burning sensation raced across his neck. He hesitated, stunned, and the man beneath him gave a cry of victory and wrapped his hands around his neck, pinning him to the ground.

Chapter Text

Porthos made quick work of his attacker, clubbing him in the head with the hilt of his sword hard enough to crack bone. He turned back to look for the Fox, intent on finishing him off, but he'd slipped away in the confusion. "Damn," he swore aloud. He was about to run after him when he heard a gunshot from outside and a triumphant cry that made his blood run cold. That wasn't Aramis.

He burst into the alley to see Aramis pinned beneath the second thug, fighting to get the man's hands off his neck. With a savage growl, Porthos grabbed the man's shoulders and bodily hauled him off Aramis, running him through in one clean motion. To his relief, Aramis was already pushing himself up, coughing and massaging his neck.

"Where's the other one?" he choked out, but Porthos had noticed the blood on his gloves and stopped listening. An ugly cut, long but shallow, ran along the side of Aramis's neck. The gunshot. Porthos felt ill. An inch to the side and Aramis would be bleeding out in his arms. The sheer relief of knowing that Aramis was alright, that he hadn't been too late, overwhelmed him, and instead of the happiness he was feeling, anger came out of his mouth.

"What were you thinking?" he asked harshly, adrenaline still coursing through him. "I almost had the Fox!"

"They were going to kill you," Aramis said in amazement, voice raspy with coughing. "Was I meant to let them take their shots for the sake of finishing one criminal?"

"That criminal is going to come after all of us now! You've put everyone in danger! You shouldn't have interfered! Why did you come after me?" Aramis didn't answer, staring at Porthos as if he'd grown a second head.

Porthos knew he was being unreasonable, but he couldn't get the image of Aramis dying out of his mind, and so he spun on his heels on stalked back to the front room, relieved to hear Aramis following.

He stopped long enough to check the man he had taken down for signs of life, but his blow had been fatal. He scowled and pushed past Aramis to get to the proper hallway.

Half of him wanted to grab the other man in a rib-crushing hug and apologize until he was blue in the face, and the other half wanted to break his nose for putting himself in danger. The two sides were warring with one another internally, and he fought down the insane desire to break Aramis's nose while hugging him. He felt oddly disconnected from the situation. He'd thought, for a moment, when he'd heard that gunshot…

But no. Aramis was fine. He was alive. Porthos knew he should apologize, for his words now and for last night, but he couldn't yet. Once he stopped hearing the gunshot and that horrible cry of triumph he would apologize. Until then, he wouldn't let Aramis out of his sight. He wasn't sure what this feeling was, but he knew he couldn't lose the man he had treated so terribly over the last few days.

When they reached the main room once more, Porthos still hadn't spoken to him, radiating anger with every step, stalking into the room like an angry bear and glaring at everyone who approached him. He wouldn't even look at Aramis, and hadn't since the alley.

It hurt, but not as badly as it would have in other circumstances. Porthos had always been like this; he hated when anyone put themselves in danger for his sake, especially a friend. Any time one of them risked their life for his, he reacted in one of two ways. Sometimes, he became overtly affectionate, following the person in question around and keeping them within his sight at all times. Often he would find a way to maintain physical contact with them, as if to prove to himself they were alright. Other times, he would become sullen and withdrawn, refusing to speak to them for varying periods of time. The latter was usually the case with very close calls.

Aramis knew from experience he'd work through it in time, though admittedly he'd never seen him this furious before. Normally it passed like a cloud over the sun, fading quickly once the initial shock was gone. It might last a few hours at the most.

D'Artagnan was explaining to Porthos where Flea had gone when Athos called over to them. "We need to get moving. Now. We've got Aubert." He gestured to the man sitting behind him on the floor, hands tied, whining about discomfort or some such nonsense. "And this other one was working for the Englishmen: hired muscle. We'll take him along for now until we can question him. We need to get out of the city."

They all nodded their assent. Athos yanked Aubert to his feet and pushed him towards Porthos, instructing the bigger man to keep an eye on him. He told D'Artagnan, who was the fastest, to run back to the inn and help Flea with the horses. He would also lead her to the agreed upon meeting place. The others would sneak through the city to avoid attracting attention. They didn't want to offer the Fox an opportunity for revenge, not when he knew several of their number by sight.

The sun had long since set when they finally made it out of the city and it took them another hour to reach the old barn they had passed on the journey in, where D'Artagnan and Flea were waiting with their horses and supplies.

There Athos gave them leave the rest if they wished while he questioned the captured guard. Normally, Aramis would have stayed up to take part as well, but his lack of sleep the last few nights was catching up with him. Porthos and Flea also elected to sleep- separately, Aramis noted. After checking D'Artagnan's head and cleaning and redressing the wound on his own neck, which thankfully didn't need stitches, Aramis settled down. He offered a prayer of thanks to God for the safety of his brothers and threw in one commending the hardness of the Gascon's head for good measure before dropping off. For once, he was able to fall asleep without depressing thoughts of damnation or Porthos.

The next morning, Aramis woke to find two very nervous prisoners watching Athos fearfully. Neither one had a mark on them, and yet their yes followed his every movement as if he were a lion and they the helpless lambs. D'Artagnan seemed to find the whole thing very funny.

Athos himself was pacing, clearly thinking about something, and called everyone together as soon as he saw they were awake. As Aramis walked by Aubert, he realized the man's mouth was covered with a ratty strip of cloth. "Wouldn't stop complaining," D'Artagnan explained in response to his raised eyebrow. "It annoyed Athos."

Athos informed them that the guard knew very little about his employers' plans, but what he did know was worrying enough. He'd heard mention several times of the Duke of Buckingham, a man who rivaled the Cardinal for power in his country. Apparently the plans were to go to this duke. From this, Athos surmised that assassination had been the likely goal. For the king to die with no living heir would throw France into chaos, leaving it ripe for an invasion. The unborn baby would not be a strong enough promise to hold the country together, not when it could easily be female. And not even the king's.

They needed to return to Paris immediately and warn the king of the danger. They might have the plans in their possession, but the threat of the duke would not be so easily thwarted.

It took them some time to figure out what to do with the guard. They couldn't afford to bring him with them. One extra person would slow them down enough, and they needed to make haste. Porthos was in favor of killing him, while Aramis thought it too cold-blooded to murder an unarmed man. The argument turned coldly vicious, despite the fact that Porthos was refusing to speak directly to him, instead using D'Artagnan as a kind of mediator.

Athos was swaying in favor of Porthos when D'Artagnan suggested they simply tie the man up and leave him there. He would be able to free himself eventually, but it would give them plenty of time to get on the road before anyone received word of their whereabouts and prisoner. All agreed this was the best plan, and they executed it swiftly before heading out.

Throughout the whole debate, Porthos had been coolly polite to Aramis, while Aramis himself had done his best not to let Porthos see how much the treatment bothered him. He'd expected more anger, or perhaps had secretly hoped that it would have run its course by now, but this detachment was unexpected and worrying. He wasn't sure what to make of it or how to react, and it unbalanced him.

They rode until the sun set, then made camp in the nearby wood. D'Artagnan had managed to find a mostly concealed clearing that offered them cover from the road. Flea wasn't used to such hard riding, and her body ached all over.

Her horse hated her, she was convinced. It seemed determined to make the ride as bumpy as possible, and had managed to dump her neatly off as she rode into the camp. Porthos had roared with laughter, and even Athos had cracked a wry smile.

Only Aramis had failed to share in the amusement, and not for the first time Flea found herself wondering about him. She'd met him only briefly before, when he'd sewed up her bullet wound after killing Charon. He'd seemed cheerful and lively, asking to hear stories of Porthos's youth, and she wondered what had happened since then to darken his mood. He barely spoke to her, and she got the impression that he disliked her, or perhaps even feared her, but she had no idea why.

After dinner, she was sitting quietly with Porthos on a fallen tree outside the circle of firelight, just listening to the forest. D'Artagnan had implied that she should cook dinner, being a woman, but she'd just stared at him coldly until he'd quailed beneath her gaze and went to prepare the Musketeers' travel rations himself. The boy was actually not a terrible cook, she mused. The stew he'd cobbled together from their stores hadn't been half bad. After they'd eaten, Athos offered her their thanks for her assistance in a manner so formal she'd fought not to laugh.

Now as she sat gazing into the trees, leaning comfortably against Porthos's broad side, she found her thoughts drifting again to Aramis. Why does he dislike me? she wondered. Have I done something to offend him?

Twisting her head around, she glanced back at the fire, and nearly fell off the log when she realized the man in question was staring right at her. He glanced away as their eyes met, face reddening slightly. She turned back to the forest quickly and stared into the darkness, thinking hard. Things were falling into place.

In the brief moment she'd looked into his face, she had seen something she knew very well. It had been on Charon's face every time he saw her with Porthos. Pain, frustration… jealousy.

That couldn't be right. If she hadn't seen it with her own eyes, she'd never have believed it. What did Aramis have to be jealous of? She was no threat to him. She had no designs to steal Porthos back to the Court with her. She was just enjoying her time with him while it lasted. But she knew that look, and she knew that somehow, for some reason, Aramis felt threatened by her. Why? It wasn't like he was in love with Porthos…

And in that moment, she knew. It was blindingly, glaringly obvious, once you knew to look for it. She wondered how it had escaped her notice the first time she had met him. His obvious concern for Porthos had been written all over his face, despite how he tried to hide it. She'd been too caught up in her own fun to notice it during the mission, but she felt shame creeping into her heart, chilling her. She cared deeply for Porthos, but now that she could see Aramis's feelings for what they were, she felt a vague sense that she had encroached on his territory. His claim to Porthos, though more recent, was nevertheless stronger than her own. She knew she didn't love Porthos, not like that, not for years. She'd realized it when he had left after Charon's death.

She saw nothing wrong with Aramis loving Porthos, though she knew it was forbidden by the Church. The Court was a common refuge for such men, and women, who loved in ways the Church deemed sinful. They found acceptance there. The people of the Court were too poor to care whether their neighbors slept with a men, or women, or both. Moreover, she knew Porthos didn't care. There'd been as much tension between him and Charon when they were younger as there was between him and herself. And then of course he'd been a sailor and- well, she'd heard the stories.

So why had he not acted on it? Was it possible he didn't realize? She couldn't imagine he wouldn't return the regard. She felt suddenly that he needed to know. Life was short, especially with the dangers he and Aramis faced daily, and it would be terrible if either died alone because Porthos was a blind idiot who couldn't work out his own feelings. He'd never been excellent with emotions. But how to begin?

"Porthos," she murmured softly, making sure her voice didn't carry to the fire. "What's bothering you?"

Porthos jumped slightly, clearly lost in thought. "Nothing," he said, and then he seemed to remember that she knew him too well to ever believe that. He sighed. "Aramis almost got himself killed trying to protect me in that alley."

Oh. This would be simpler than she'd thought. "Is that why you're treating him as if he broke you favorite sword? Fine way to thank him," she said dryly.

Porthos rubbed a hand across his jaw. "I really thought he was gone that time," he admitted quietly. "I heard the gunshot and…" He swallowed visibly. "He shouldn't have done that. It was stupid."

"Would you have done any less in his place?" Flea asked. "Have Athos or D'Artagnan never done as much for you before? Do you always treat your saviors so coldly?"

"Yes, I'd have done it, and yes, they have, but this is different. He's… it's not… I don't want him putting himself in danger for me! Ever."

"It sounds like you don't want him in danger at all," she pointed out, careful to keep her voice casual. If Porthos really didn't see it yet, she didn't want to push him too hard.

"I'm not sure why this bothers me so much," he confessed, looking down. "It's not like it's the first time he's done it. Never bothered me so much before. He just… he scared me. I don't like that feeling."

"I'd imagine seeing you about to get hurt probably scared him too," Flea pointed out. "Perhaps instead of treating him like he's done something wrong, you should talk to him about it. And before you do, figure out why the thought of him in danger bothers you so much."

Porthos's mouth twisted unhappily but he nodded, recognizing the merit in her suggestion. "You're right. I'm being a bastard, aren't I?" She nodded, grinning. He chuckled, but his face grew grim again in a moment. "I was terrible to him the other night."

"I'm sure he'll forgive you. You need to talk to him, Porthos. Work things out. You'll feel better if you do, and I'm sure he will too."

He sighed but nodded wearily. "I'll think about it. For now, I'm going to bed."

She kissed his cheek as he stood up but made no move to accompany him. As he walked to his bedroll, she felt a faint tinge of regret. Once he realized how Aramis felt, and that he felt the same, she would lose him for good. Part of her was saddened by that, but a larger part was happy for his happiness. Hopefully, it wouldn't take him forever to see what was right in front of his eyes.

Chapter Text

The following night Porthos stood in the shadows of the trees, twirling a knife between his fingers in a casual way that would make the younger Musketeer recruits back home sick with envy. It was a nervous habit he'd picked up years ago in the Court. When his mind was racing, he found it helpful to keep his hands occupied too and well, he'd always been good with a blade.

They were camped tonight in a thickly wooded area. Visibility was poor, which had everyone slightly on edge. He knew Aramis would be suffering more than the others; the crowding trees would bring back Savoy. He wouldn't sleep tonight. Normally, Porthos would stay up with him at these times, drinking and laughing and offering him the comfort of a familiar presence through the long night, leaving Athos to whack them with the flat of his sword the next day whenever they fell asleep in the saddle.

On one memorable occasion Aramis had slid clean out of his saddle in the afternoon and landed in the middle of the road, which had woken Porthos from his own doze. Athos had shouted at them both for their irresponsibility, saying King's Musketeers could not stay up all night like fools, but afterwards he had taken to setting easier paces after nights spent in forests, and calling for them to rest earlier the next night. Athos might not openly show affection, but it was there for those who knew where to look.

Aubert had spent the first hour of the day's ride complaining of stiffness. His high pitched voice was like the incessant buzz of an insect in one's ear: Porthos had wanted to squash him. Athos had eventually turned in his saddle and stared so menacingly at him that the smaller man had gone white with fear. He hadn't uttered a word since, even when he'd fallen into a puddle of mud as he'd dismounted. He was currently sitting beside the fire, staring longingly at the food that was being prepared. Once everyone had eaten, D'Artagnan would most likely tie him to a tree for the night.

Flea had actually volunteered to cook dinner, and he wondered if she meant to encourage him to talk to Aramis by depriving him of her company. He couldn't think of any other reason: he knew for a fact she was a terrible cook. He'd been thinking about what she'd said yesterday all during the ride, and while he still felt confused every time he looked at his friend, his anger had faded. He realized it had been unfair to react with such fury when Aramis had just saved his life.

He sighed, flipping the knife through the air neatly and catching it with ease. How did things get so complicated? Porthos was a man of action, not emotion. That was Aramis's forte. Nevertheless, something needed to be done. Perhaps he would stay up with him tonight and talk about what had happened. They'd have privacy: Athos knew full well Aramis wouldn't sleep, and so wouldn't bother setting a guard.

From his position beneath a large willow tree, Porthos could see Aramis get up from the fire and wander over to his horse, Chevalier. There seemed to be no purpose behind the movement: he simply stood there, absently patting the handsome stallion. Then, with a furtive glance back towards where Athos was lounging against a tree, he stealthily produced an apple. Where he'd found it out here, Porthos had no idea. Aramis seemed to have a superhuman ability to produce fresh apples for his horse on demand.

Now might be a good time to break the two day silence between them. It would be less awkward to join him later if they'd spoken briefly beforehand. Just enough to let Aramis know he wasn't angry, and perhaps that he was sorry. They could work things out. He knew it in the same way he knew the sky was blue. They would survive whatever this was. But that didn't mean the healing process wouldn't be painful for them both. Much had been said, and he knew they both needed to apologize and forgive.

He approached cautiously, not sure what Aramis's reaction would be. Aramis stiffened slightly as Porthos neared, tension tightening the line of his shoulders, but when he turned around his face was smooth, a question in his eyes.

"You spoil that horse." Porthos offered the private joke as an olive branch, and the small smile that flitted across Aramis's handsome features told him it was accepted.

"Which is why he never throws me into streams," he retorted. The simple happiness in his tone raised Porthos's spirits. He chuckled at the rather embarrassing memory of their first mission outside of Paris together and Aramis's smile grew slightly. For a moment they stood there, saying nothing, allowing the small sense of accomplishment to mend the brokenness between them.

Porthos spoke again. "Thought I might stay up with you tonight," he said, trying to sound casual.

He was gratified by the smile that Aramis failed to suppress entirely. "Oh?" The hope contained in that one word made Porthos's chest ache, but it as a pleasant sort of pain.

"Thought maybe we had some things to talk about," he mumbled, feeling suddenly awkward.

"Yes," Aramis said softly. Porthos could feel his gaze upon him. There was the promise of a resolution in his voice, as if he had made a difficult decision. "I believe we do."

They both fell silent again, but for the first time in days the quiet was not oppressive. Porthos could hear the crackling fire, Flea bustling about, D'Artagnan laughing at something Athos had said. There was a feeling of peace finally returning.

"There's something I have not told you, my friend." Aramis's voice was almost resigned. "I was afraid of what it would bring. But I think I am ready to let go now. It was not right to hide it from you and leave you lost and confused." Aramis paused, as if weighing his next words.

"Whatever reasons you had for concealing this from me, I am sure they were good ones," Porthos offered, unease creeping through him at the trace of defeat in Aramis's voice. He glanced down, swallowing his apprehension. "Though I'll admit, an explanation would be appreciated."

He glanced up at Aramis and was shocked to find an expression of alarm on his face. He was about to offer reassurances when the other man suddenly lunged at him, knocking him off his feet. At the same moment, the sharp retort of a musket cracked through the air. Then it sounded again.

"We're under attack," he shouted to the others as he yanked Aramis back to his feet. He seemed fine at first glance, and then Porthos was too busy fighting to look more closely. Men were pouring in from the surrounding forest, clad in black. Porthos flung the dagger he had been twirling neatly into a man's eye before drawing his sword. Nearby, Aramis killed a man coming at Porthos from behind with a well-placed shot from his pistol before unsheathing his own rapier, whirling to take on two men at once in a dizzying exchange of blows.

They were badly outnumbered, and the enemy seemed endless. For each one Porthos cut down, another sprung up in his place, and they were beginning to lose ground. From somewhere to the side of him D'Artagnan cried out as an enemy's sword found its mark in his leg. Athos swore and moved to cover him, trying to keep the enemy at bay. Aubert lay dead beside him. The second shot had met its mark.

"Porthos," Athos shouted, dispatching a man neatly with enviable ease. "Get the plans and get out of here, now! You know where to meet!" His last word cut off as he ducked a bullet, which shattered a branch above his head. He was dragging D'Artagnan towards their horses, clearly intending to get away. They were badly outnumbered and needed to regroup somewhere safe before they were overwhelmed.

Porthos could see Flea across the clearing fighting a man twice her size. If he took the plans and fled to the safe house, he couldn't go to her aid. He was torn between doing his duty and saving his friend. Suddenly Aramis was at his shoulder.

"I'll get Flea," he shouted hoarsely, and that was all Porthos needed to know. He knew Aramis would protect her with his dying breath. Porthos barreled through the enemies between himself the fire, grabbing the satchel containing the maps. He ducked a flying knife and smashed a man's skull with the butt of his pistol. Another man was blocking his path to the horses; he lowered his shoulders and charged him like a bull, knocking him clean off his feet and several meters back into the thick brush.

Porthos grabbed the nearest horse and swung himself up. It was Aramis's stallion Chevalier, trained for battle: he reared up and crushed a man's skull beneath his hooves, screaming a challenge. Porthos held on grimly, snaking his arm past the horse's plunging neck to slash at an enemy. Then he was flying from the clearing, getting the plans far away from their attackers. He prayed the others all got away safely.

Flea was terrified. She wasn't bad in a fight, but this was like nothing she'd ever seen. Men came from all directions at once. For every enemy she cut down, another rose, and she was getting tired. She fought ruthlessly, taking down those enemies who thought a woman was a safe opponent, but she was only human, and these men had swords.

A mountain of a man managed to knock the knife from her hands. She thought this was the end. She was offering up a last prayer to God when someone slammed into the side of the giant, who collapsed like a puppet whose strings had been cut. Aramis yanked his sword free and grabbed her hand, pulling her towards the dark forest. Their attackers had cut the last three horses free, and so they fled through the trees, dodging the men who tried to stop them.

Aramis lost his sword in the body of one of his opponents, and there was no time to recover it. They fled through the brush, tripping over roots in the darkness. A musket cracked behind them and Flea cried out, unexpected pain shooting through her arm. She was amazed they'd managed to hit her with only the moonlight to see by.

She swore but didn't slow, sensing their only hope lay in a rapid escape. She and Aramis raced through the forest, the sounds of pursuit following them closely. It faded slightly as they ran, their opponents losing their trail among the trees, but she knew they wouldn't escape. There were too many and she was too tired. Aramis alone might have escaped, she thought, and guilt flooded her.

They burst out of the trees into a small clearing bounded by a wide, fast-flowing stream. With no other option, they splashed across. In the middle the water reached Flea's chest and she nearly lost her footing. If Aramis hadn't caught her, she would have been swept away. She suppressed a shiver at the thought of being pulled into the icy water: she couldn't swim.

On the far side she paused to catch her breath. Her clothes were soaked and the breeze was cutting through her like knives. There was no sound from behind them, but it wouldn't take their pursuers long to catch up. There were simply too many to outrun. She pulled on Aramis's arm to tell him she was ready after a moment, but he didn't move. "What are you waiting for?" she asked impatiently.

"We can't escape like this," he told her. There was something dark on his shoulder. Flea reached out with her good arm and touched it. Her hand came away red in the moonlight, her fingers warm where the fresh blood coated them. "When were you hurt?" she cried.

"It doesn't matter. We don't have long. Flea, listen to me: you have to get back. I have a plan. Hide in the bushes. I'll wait here. When the men arrive, I'll pretend to be searching the stream for you. I'll tell them you were injured and fell in. Once we've gone, you can escape."

"I can't do that," Flea said, horrified. "I can't let you hand yourself over to them." She thought of what Porthos would do if she returned alone. She would rather face the enemy's blades than his grief if Aramis was lost.

"There is no way we are both getting out of here," he said forcefully. Raw determination was written on his face, and he looked stronger than he had in days. "If they find you, they will kill you. You're worthless to them. But I'm a Musketeer. Whoever they are, they'll want to keep me alive until they find out if I know anything important. I may have a chance to escape. But you need to survive. Get back to Porthos."

There were shouts in the distance. The enemy was closing in. Aramis pushed Flea firmly into the bushes. "Tell him I want him to be happy and that I am so sorry." A shadow crossed his face as he gazed at her, and she saw agonized regret warring with love. He thought he was doing this for Porthos.

She wanted to shout at him, tell him he was wrong, so wrong, that Porthos would never want this, never, but the shouts were closer now, and Aramis did not wait long enough for her to speak. He turned and ran back across the stream, splashing loudly and crying out, calling her name as if searching for her.

Across the clearing, men burst from the forest. They dragged him out of the water roughly, angry voices calling out. She heard them ask where she was, and saw him gesture towards the water, heard him demand they go back for her. The leader spat in the direction of the stream and clubbed him across the face. He dropped like a stone.

Two men grabbed him. Carrying him between them, the group returned the way they had come. Not a man among them looked back.

Flea wanted desperately to go after Aramis, but to do so would render his sacrifice meaningless. She would stay hidden and do as he had ordered. At least she would know where to begin searching. Once she found the others, they would return together for Aramis. Porthos would never leave him in enemy hands.

Chapter Text

Porthos was pacing frantically. He had arrived at the safe house nearly an hour ago, an abandoned garrison in the country re-commissioned by Treville to serve as a Musketeer way station. Few outside the corps knew of its existence. He'd been followed closely by Athos and D'Artagnan, who had been unconscious in the saddle. Together they'd managed to patch the Gascon up well enough for now, but he needed a doctor, and soon.

Athos had escaped unscathed except for a few shallow cuts, but Porthos's injured shoulder had been grazed by a bullet and ached abominably. He also had a nasty gash along the inside of his arm that he hadn't even noticed until after they'd finished with D'Artagnan. It was long but shallow and thankfully didn't need stitches, though it stung like the blazes. Nor did the graze, which was lucky because only Aramis could stitch neatly, and he was not here.

Porthos was ready to tell Athos to take the plans and D'Artagnan and head for the nearest town if the others didn't arrive soon. He couldn't bear the anxiety of waiting. He needed to do something.

He felt immensely guilty. He had rescued bits of paper instead of Flea, and allowed Aramis to go after her in his stead. Now both were missing. His mind was imagining them, especially Aramis, dead in the forest, or perhaps dying alone, unable to get to them. He needed to get back there, but Athos had convinced him to wait a little longer to decide on a course of action. He was worried their location would be compromised if Porthos left too soon. They were certain the attack had been orchestrated by the English spies in an attempt to retrieve the plans, likely with the aid of the Black Fox.

Another image of Aramis bleeding out in the dark woods, so like Savoy, filled his mind, and he turned to the door. He was through waiting; he was going back, danger be damned. But just as he reached for the handle, it turned of its own accord. He drew his sword. Had they been followed? Reaching out, he yanked the door open suddenly, and Flea fell into his arms.

"Flea!" he cried, dropping his sword in surprise. He took in her bleeding arm before raising his head to search the darkness beyond her. "Where's Aramis?" Flea looked up, pain in her blue eyes, and his heart froze. "He wanted me to escape."

No.

No no no.

He let go of Flea and staggered back. Athos led Flea over to where D'Artagnan lay, finally awake and clearly worried. It was Athos who asked Flea what happened. He heard her explaining about the flight in the woods, and her injury, and crossing the stream. He heard it all, but didn't speak, not sure what would happen if he opened his mouth. When Flea mentioned Aramis's injury though, he spoke up. "What do you mean he was injured?" he asked numbly.

"His shoulder was wounded. Looked like he'd been shot," Flea told him. Athos was wrapping a bandage around her arm. "It happened before he came to me."

Porthos remembered that first gun shot, Aramis knocking him to the ground. He'd assumed the bullet missed them both, but now he realized it had been meant for him, and Aramis had taken it in his stead. He thought he might throw up. He sat down heavily.

"He told me to hide in the bushes. Said when the men caught up, he'd pretend I'd been swept away. Told me I had to survive. He wanted me to tell you he was sorry," Flea said, staring sadly at Porthos. "And that he wanted you to be happy."

Aramis had saved Flea because he thought Porthos was in love with her. He remembered Aramis's words in the barn. The call of your old life, is it? Longing for the days of being seen as a king? I suppose Flea is your queen. Aramis thought Porthos wanted to leave with Flea. That was why he had been so upset. He thought Porthos was leaving them, leaving him, for Flea and for the Court.

He almost laughed at the idea. It was that or cry. It was Aramis who had left.

"So where is it?" he asked, his voice sounding strange in his ears.

"Where is what?"

"The body." He couldn't bring himself to say Aramis's body. It would make it real.

"Body-? Porthos, he isn't dead!" He stared at her uncomprehending. "They took him away. He said they wouldn't kill him, that they would want things from him, information. That they'd take him alive, and he'd have a chance to get away. One of them hit him on the head and they took him away!"

'Well that's good, right?" D'Artagnan asked, voice tight with pain. "He can escape!"

"Escape?" Porthos bit out, fury rushing in to fill the cold void in his chest. He knew what those men would do to learn what Aramis knew. "He won't escape. They'll want information, certainly, and they'll torture him until he tells them. Then they'll kill him and toss his body in the sea!" D'Artagnan's face paled further.

Where before his mind had insisted on playing out scenes of Aramis dying, he now saw him bloody and broken, tortured for information he would never reveal. Floating face down in the ocean as his body rotted away. His heart clenched painfully.

Not him. Please, God, not him. Anyone but him.

Porthos had accused Aramis of knowing nothing of love. Aramis, who had sacrificed himself for Porthos's happiness. If that wasn't love, then what the fuck was?

Ever since he'd spoken to Flea, he'd had an inkling of something he'd never acknowledged before, but now was not the time to do so. He refused to admit, even to himself, that he might be in love with a man who could already be dead. And so he fought the feeling desperately, terrified to open himself up to that kind of hurt.

Then he realized it didn't matter. Whether he admitted it or not, he wouldn't survive Aramis's loss, and so something must be done.

He stood up suddenly. "I'm leaving," he announced. Athos jumped up. "If you try to stop me, I will knock you down."

"I will come with you," Athos said seriously. "Flea and D'Artagnan can take the plans to Paris." For a moment, Porthos wanted to accept the offer. He knew Athos would come if he said yes. Together they just might pull it off. But he couldn't allow it.

"You can't," he said dully. "The plans need to get to the king. Someone needs to warn him about the Duke of Buckingham. And D'Artagnan and Flea are both injured. They need a doctor and they can't travel alone." He could see pain in Athos's eyes, but they both knew he was right.

"You can't go alone!" D'Artagnan cried, aghast. "It's suicide! There were dozens of them!" Neither Porthos nor Athos responded to him.

'Take his horse," Athos said roughly. "Flea can ride with D'Artagnan." Porthos nodded. "I will bring them to Paris. And then I will return. We will find him, Porthos," he said resolutely, gripping Porthos's arm tightly. Porthos merely nodded, knowing that there was little chance of Athos finding him again in a week's time or more but welcoming the brief warmth the statement brought. He hugged Flea, mindful of her injury, and nodded to Athos and D'Artagnan.

Then he took the reins of Aramis's stallion and walked into the night, knowing there was very little chance he would ever see his friends again. He would find Aramis or die trying. And when he did, he would tell him everything.

Aramis was faintly aware of the motion of a horse beneath him. It made his head ache sickeningly and sent pain pulsing through the hole torn in his shoulder. He managed to lift his head enough to look around.

The world was upside down. It took him a few moments to realize his head was hanging down at this unsettling angle because he was slung across a horse's back like a carcass, wrists and ankles bound tightly with coarse rope. He thought suddenly that this was what a deer felt like after being hunted and had to suppress a giggle. He wondered if he was concussed.

The horse stumbled and the motion jarred him, sending a wave of nausea through his stomach. He couldn't fight it and ended up retching against the horse's side, causing the beast to shy away and send him sliding ungracefully into the dirt. His head spun dizzyingly as he tried to sit up.

The sound of several sets of hooves clattering to a stop beside him told him that there were several enemies with him still. Heavy footsteps approached and he saw dirty boots clomping towards where he lay. He tried to push himself up again, unwilling to face his captors flat on his back, but his stomach rolled and he thought better of it. There was more pride in lying down then in vomiting on his captor's boots.

Rough hands pulled him upright and he almost vomited anyway. He tried to focus on the man's face. His vision was badly blurred, but he felt the man was familiar somehow. He was hauled over to one of the horses and shoved unceremoniously into the saddle, his hands tied tightly to the horse itself so he wouldn't fall again. Riding tied to the beast was slightly more dignified than being hauled like a fresh kill, at any rate.

They set off once more at the same brutal pace that left him breathless with pain. It took a great effort not to pass out again, and his thoughts grew scrambled and confused. One of his captors took pleasure in riding too close to him, making his horse shy away nervously, jarring his injuries into fresh agony.

He found himself idly wishing Porthos was here to wring his tormentor's neck. It took only a moment for that thought to snap him back to some degree of clarity. He was glad Porthos was not here with him. Whatever suffering was in store for him at least he had the comfort of knowing the man he loved had escaped, was far away where these men could not hurt him. Aramis prayed he was safe and that Flea found his way to him. He wanted Porthos to be happy.

A small voice in the back of his head was trying to tell him Porthos would never have wanted him to do this, would not have traded his life for Flea's no matter what his feelings, but the pounding in his head drowned it out. As the noise in his ears reached a crescendo he slipped back into unconsciousness, praying that God would keep his brothers safe and make them see there was no point in following after him. He was as good as dead already.

Porthos rode without stopping until he reached the wood where they had been ambushed. He hardly cared if there were enemies still about. In fact, it might ease some of the anxiety currently eating into his stomach if he were able to tear down some of the men who had ripped Aramis away from him. But, luckily for them, none appeared to block his path.

He found their campsite easily enough. The bodies of the slain littered the ground, proof that their attackers were men of no honor: they hadn't even taken the time to bury their dead. Aubert lay among them, his clothes ripped as if his corpse had been searched. Porthos allowed himself a momentary smirk of triumph at having thwarted their attackers, but the feeling quickly vanished. The price they had paid for victory was too high.

Stepping over corpses, Porthos began searching for the trail left by Aramis and Flea when they attempted to escape. He needed to find where Aramis had been taken if he was to have any chance of rescuing him from his captors.

He found Aramis's sword in the body of one of the slain. He pulled it out and thrust it through his own belt. Aramis's engraved pistol lay near the fire, covered in mud. It was a dispiriting sight to see the normally spotless weapon so besmirched. He took that as well, praying he had the chance to return it.

At last he located the trail. Porthos picked his way through the forest, leading Chevalier, noting that the path had been effectively tramped down by the men who had pursued Aramis and Flea. This was lucky. Porthos was a city man through and through. What time he hadn't spent in the city had been spent aboard a ship. He was no tracker, and had worried the trail would be too difficult to follow. Every so often, he would notice a smear of blood shining darkly in the strong moonlight. Each time it made his heart clench with pain as he wondered if it was Aramis's.

Eventually he came to a clearing bordered by a stream. Flea had said Aramis enabled her escape by claiming she'd fallen in a stream and been swept away. This must be the place. In the center of the clearing there were signs of a scuffle. Tracks milled around confusedly, and then led off into the woods slightly to the left of where they'd entered from. There was more blood among the tracks.

Porthos followed this second trail closely. It was less clear than the first, and several times he nearly lost it in the darkness. But traveling through thick woods dragging an unconscious man was never easy, and there were several places where branches had been broken away, acting as beacons for Porthos to follow. He moved as quickly as he was capable of while pulling a horse through heavy brush, refusing to waste a single moment. The longer the enemy had Aramis in their grasp, the more he would suffer before Porthos could find him, and Porthos couldn't stomach the thought of that.

Eventually the forest thinned. He found himself standing on the edge of a badly maintained road. Here the men had procured horses. The number of horses made it easy to see that they had traveled north, back towards Calais. Porthos mounted Aramis's stallion and turned to follow, praying he would not be too late.

Chapter Text

Athos was leading his horse into the yard when he heard D'Artagnan coming. The boy wasn't even supposed to be out of bed, let alone putting weight on his injured leg. He'd been instructed firmly to stay put or he risked damaging the limb further and developing a permanent limp. Nevertheless, here he came, injured leg dragging behind him, face pale. Flea flitted behind him like a shadow.

"What are you doing here?" Athos asked him with a sigh, knowing the answer before it was given.

"I want to come with you," D'Artagnan told him, chin jutting out stubbornly.

"We discussed this. You cannot ride quickly with your injuries, and I cannot afford to travel at a pace slow enough to accommodate you. Every moment wasted is another moment Aramis is in enemy hands. I need to get back to Calais."

When they'd finally arrived back in Paris the night before, Treville had taken one look at the sorry group and known immediately something was wrong. He'd called a doctor to take a look at D'Artagnan's wound, which had been treated inexpertly by a midwife in a town on the journey back. She was the only one Athos could find with any experience. She had also taken care of Flea's wound.

D'Artagnan had been nearly delirious by the time they had arrived, though Athos thanked God his injury hadn't festered. Under normal circumstances he would have stopped at an inn to allow the boy time to rest, threat to the king be damned, but D'Artagnan himself had insisted they make all possible haste back to the garrison. They had completed the week long journey in just five days.

Athos had left his friends in the capable hands of the doctor and reported to Treville, giving him only the most pertinent information in his haste, covering the threat to the king from the Duke of Buckingham and where Aramis and Porthos were, but leaving out the actual mission process. He also informed Treville in no uncertain terms that he was leaving as soon as physically possible. Treville, sensing his determination, had not argued, though he had ordered Athos to remain until the next morning and get some rest.

Not that Athos had really slept. He'd sat in a chair in D'Artagnan's rooms and stared at the wall for hours, going through it all in his head, wondering what he could have done differently. The thought of Aramis in enemy hands and Porthos hunting for him alone made him feel like his lungs were slowly filling with water, driving all the oxygen from his body.

I'm the leader, he'd thought bitterly, too distraught to drink. I was supposed to protect them!

The failure sat in his stomach like a lead weight. It didn't matter that logic told him there was no way he could have predicted the attack. His heart cried out that he should have done something more, that he should have been the one taken.

I was supposed to protect them.

Now he stood in the stables and gazed sympathetically at D'Artagnan's pleading expression. He knew the boy felt intensely guilty about the whole situation. He believed if he had not been injured then Athos would have been able to go after Aramis with Porthos while he took the plans to Treville. While this was true, D'Artagnan's injury was in no way his fault. Athos hated having to leave him behind, well aware that he was desperate to do something, but it simply wasn't possible to take him.

D'Artagnan saw the answer in his eyes. His face fell. Athos reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder. "I will find them," he vowed, meeting the boy's miserable gaze. "I will bring them back." He glanced past D'Artagnan to meet Flea's searching look. Her eyes burned into his own. Whatever she found there seemed to satisfy her, for she nodded, an unreadable expression on her features.

He wondered even as he promised if it was a vow he could ever keep. For all he knew, both his brothers were already dead. And if Porthos found Aramis too late, it would amount to the same thing. Part of him still couldn't believe Aramis had acted as he had. It made sense, in a ruthlessly logical sort of way, but it stung of abandonment. He imagined it must be far worse for Porthos.

"I must go now." He removed his hand from D'Artagnan's shoulder. After a moment's hesitation, he grabbed the boy in a rough embrace, motivated by the wetness in his eyes. He felt D'Artagnan's hand clench in his shirt before he released him.

"The second you find them, send word," D'Artagnan told him, his voice thick with emotion. Athos nodded, mounting in one fluid motion. He managed what he hoped was a confident, reassuring smile of farewell as he spurred his horse from the yard, praying he could keep his vow and bring his brothers back in one piece. He couldn't lose any more of his family.

Aramis spat out a mouthful of blood, allowing himself a triumphant smirk when it met its mark. The man leering down at him leapt back with a snarl of outrage, cursing. It was worth the blow to the head he received to see the outrage on the smug bastard's face.

He had no idea how long he'd been here. He'd spent most of the journey unconscious, but he assumed he was now in Calais. He was fairly certain he'd only been in this miserable little basement for a day or two, but there was no way to be sure. He'd been given some water but no food, so he couldn't use that to track the time.

His bullet wound had been treated, presumably so he wouldn't bleed out or die of infection before they got their answers. Well, perhaps 'treated' wasn't the right word. Brutally cauterized with a rusty knife might be more accurate. He'd been unconscious for hours after that, and the smell of charred flesh had lingered for far too long.

Aramis had been dragged out for questioning three times so far. This mostly consisted of the smug man with the atrocious French accent who he assumed was an English spy asking him questions he wasn't going to answer while his thugs used him as a punching bag.

This was extraordinarily unpleasant and painful, but thus far Aramis was handling it rather well he thought. It helped that the pounding in his head had receded once he got off that infernal horse. There was also something to be said for knowing you were going to die. It really took the edge off the fear and anxiety that normally accompanied imprisonment and torture.

Aramis knew he might be intentionally goading his captors, hoping they would see sooner rather than later that interrogation was pointless and just kill him. His body ached everywhere and his wrists were bloody where the ropes had torn his skin away. Blood and dirt formed a layer on his skin so thick he couldn't even see his bruises, though he could see his ribs.

Knowing he was going to die hadn't stopped him from trying to escape. He'd recovered his wits sufficiently to realize that his actions had probably hurt Porthos more than they had helped him, and for his sake he did make an effort to get away. He'd been beaten so viciously afterwards that another attempt simply wasn't feasible, especially as hunger and abuse gradually weakened him.

And so here he sat, trying to antagonize his captors into killing him. So far he'd only succeeded in pissing them off, if the blows now raining down upon him were any indication. Blackness was creeping into the corners of his vision when at last they stopped.

"Why don't you just tell us what we want to know about your king, and this will all be over?" the man asked. His face was still smeared with blood that his handkerchief had missed.

Aramis just glared at him with the eye that wasn't swollen shut. Only once in his life had he ever betrayed information under duress, and that was because a man had held a gun to Porthos's head. Besides, he'd shot that one afterward Athos rescued them, so it didn't really count.

"You just make this worse for yourself," the man sneered. He motioned for the thugs to continue, but before they could move there was a sound in the hallway and another man scrambled in.

"M'lord wants to see you," he panted. The reason for his haste was immediately apparent as the Black Fox followed him into the room.

"What are you doing here?" the spy asked rudely, and the Fox glared at him.

"I do believe you would not be here, with this bounty before you, if not for me," he said archly. The spy scowled and looked away. "I thought so. I need to speak to your prisoner for a moment. Alone."

A ferocious glare from the Fox's bodyguard sent the spy and his thugs scurrying from the room, followed by the bodyguard himself.

The Fox stalked forward, cruelty lighting his dark eyes. He smiled amicably at Aramis, but even in his slightly dazed state Aramis sensed the threat. He sat up straighter, ignoring the pain.

"My associates tell me you are refusing to cooperate," he said, sliding into a chair across from Aramis. "That's very noble of you, my friend, but surely you know it is futile. No one is coming for you. Your friends, they have abandoned you, even that fool the Pirate."

He smirked, and Aramis knew the words were meant to wound him, but all he felt was fierce joy. He was glad his friends had not returned. The thought of any of them in this position was worse than the pain of his injuries. He prayed the others stayed far away, though he knew it was unlikely they wouldn't search for him, Porthos especially. He changed his prayer, asking instead that they simply be unable to find him. And he prayed, too, that Porthos learn to forgive him for leaving him alone.

The Fox pouted as he realized his attack had failed. "So you will not betray your king," he said, voice pouring out like silk. "I appreciate loyalty. To king and country and all that. But what about loyalty to your friends? I'd imagine the bonds between you and your fellows are very strong, yes? That's what I'm counting on, my friend."

Aramis frowned, trying to figure out what the Fox meant. "I'm eagerly awaiting the arrival of your brothers-in-arms," the Fox told him with the air of one confiding a great secret. "Particularly your large friend Porthos. He made me look a fool in front of my court. I must hurt him for that."

Aramis stomach twisted, but he kept the far from his expression. "Porthos knows your world as well as you," he hissed. "You will not catch him."

The Fox laughed jovially. "Ah, but my friend, I don't need to catch him to hurt him, do I? Imagine the pain he will feel when he finds your broken body and realizes he as too late to save you. It will be quite tragic, I hope. If I manage to catch him after, well, that's just a bonus." He smiled charmingly.

Aramis felt sick. He hated the thought that he would be used as a tool to cause Porthos pain. He knew that if Porthos did find his body, he would throw himself after the Fox in a reckless rage and get himself killed, and it would be all Aramis's fault.

The Fox must have seen the anguish on his face, for he smirked cruelly and called in his bodyguard. He gave the man some instructions, but Aramis was not listening, too wrapped up in thoughts of Porthos dying at the Fox's hands.

He jerked back to the present when the bodyguard grabbed him roughly, dragging him over to the wall. A ramshackle sort of ladder leaned there, and the man shoved him against it, cutting his bonds and retying him so that he was pressed face forward against the coarse wood, wrists tied to a rung above his head. His shirt was cut away and he realized what was going to happen even before the Fox called the spy back in, berating him for his lack of imagination and offering him the use of his bodyguard, who he claimed was well versed in the art of pain.

The first lash drove the air from his lungs and he bit back a cry. He offered a frantic prayer to God that Porthos would never, never find him. Then he fixed Porthos's face in his mind as the lash cracked across his back once more.

The chair splintered against the wall with a crash and Porthos sat down heavily on the bed, biting back a howl of despair. He'd arrived back in Calais after two days of heavy riding, following the trail left by Aramis's captors. That had been three days ago. Since then, he had run up against dead ends at every turn. He couldn't find anyone who had seen them arrive; at least, no one brave enough to cross the Fox. That, indeed, was all he had managed to learn. They'd been attacked by a group of the Fox's men, which he had loaned to the English spies in an attempt to regain some credibility after their raid on his meeting.

The Fox was sheltering them somewhere even now, Porthos was sure of it, but no one dared talk for fear of bringing his wrath down upon them. Porthos was hiding out in the seediest inn he could find, the Musketeer insignia ripped from his shoulder, wearing old clothing he'd scrounged to prevent any of the Fox's men from recognizing him.

Three days! he thought savagely. Three days and no word, not a whisper as to where he is. He'd used every trick he knew, but nothing worked. And every day he failed to find him was another day Aramis endured torture at English hands.

I have to find him. I have to find him. He stared dully at the broken chair, mocking him.

I love him.

For he knew it now. He could see what Flea had seen that night by the fire. He was in love with Aramis, and Aramis had been suffering silently all this time because he believed his love would never be returned. And what irony, to realize his own feelings when the man might even now be bleeding to death alone.

In his darkest moments, a savagery rose within him that said Aramis deserved suffering, had chosen to abandon him and sacrifice himself needlessly. The thoughts made him feel physically ill, but they rested in his brain like parasites, feeding his desperation. He couldn't bear the idea of Aramis in pain, and yet part of him cried out that it was justified. He couldn't believe Aramis had willingly left him behind, whatever his reasons. He had been left behind too many times before.

A scrabbling noise outside the window interrupted his thoughts. Drawing a knife, he rose silently, positioning himself to one side of the opening. Then, with one fluid motion, he leaned down and dragged a small boy through the window and into the room.

He stared at the boy, nonplussed. He was a ratty thing, covered in dirt and clothed in rags. The boy stared back at Porthos, undaunted, and he felt a flicker of respect for the brave street urchin, so like himself. "What are you doing sneaking around outside my window?" he asked, his voice harsh.

The boy was unimpressed. "Heard you was lookin' for some Englishmen," he said, shrugging. "Them as has a Musketeer with 'em. I know where to find 'em."

Porthos nearly dropped his blade. The sudden surge of hope crashing through the darkness of his mind nearly brought him to his knees as he gaped at the boy before him. Such an unassuming package for such miraculous news.

"Where?" he croaked, not caring if this was a trap, not caring at all if it would get him to where Aramis was, or at least to the men who had him. When the boy didn't answer immediately, he managed to say, "I'll pay you whatever you want. Anything. Please tell me." This seemed to satisfy the urchin.

"I'll lead you there. I show you the door, you pay me. Fifty sous." He sounded nervous at last, asking for more money than he'd likely ever seen in his life. Porthos could count his ribs through his threadbare shirt.

Porthos put a hand on his shoulder and said seriously, "Boy, if you get me there, I'll give you a hundred." The child's eyes widened in shock. "But we leave now."

The boy nodded and Porthos grabbed his sword belt and pistol from the room's remaining chair, strapping them on as the silent child watched. Checking that everything was secure, he gestured to the window, barely able to contain the hope bubbling in his chest. "Lead on."

Chapter Text

Porthos crouched beside the boy behind a broken down cart, staring intently at a door across the alley. They were in the slums of Calais, ruled by the Fox with an iron fist. They boy had seen several men come this way three nights ago. They'd been dragging another, who looked to be unconscious. He'd heard one of them speak in a language he hadn't understood, but thought to be English. As far as Porthos was concerned, it didn't matter. This was the only lead he had, and he'd be damned if he wasn't going to take it.

He shoved a fistful of money at the boy and stood up. The rational part of his brain told him to wait, to plan, but all he could see was Aramis bleeding, in pain, and rational thought deserted him. Nothing was going to stop him from getting Aramis back, and God help any man foolish enough to get in his way.

Though of course, the voice in the back of his mind whispered, It isn't like you really plan to get him back, is it? This isn't a rescue. You swore once to die at his side.

He strode to the door and pushed it open. There were two men sitting at a table against the far wall, playing cards and drinking. They were dead before they fully registered his presence. He really hoped this was the right place and he hadn't just killed two innocent gamblers. He passed through the half-collapsed doorway beside the table and found himself at the top of a long flight of stairs. A damp, rotting smell came from below, and he wrinkled his face in disgust as he descended silently into the darkness. He had to find Aramis.

You don't think you'll be able to save him, the voice was whispering. This isn't about that. This is not letting him die alone. You just want him to know he isn't alone. It's not a rescue, it's suicide. You really think he would want this?

With a silent growl Porthos quelled the insidious voice, unwilling to recognize the truths his mind did not want to accept. It no longer mattered why he had come. All that mattered was finding Aramis.

At the bottom of the stairs he found another man, this one more alert and obviously acting as a guard. Porthos slit his throat from behind and carried on down the dim passage. After a minute, he saw flickers of brighter light ahead. He padded noiselessly nearer until he could hear voices coming through a doorway off the main hallway. He couldn't understand what was being said, but he knew it was English. The lad had been right. Maybe there really was a chance he could save him and survive.

Hope burned through him again, this time tempered by fear. Was Aramis even still alive? And if he was, what kind of condition would he be in? Would he hate Porthos for taking so long to find him? Or would he hate him for almost throwing his life away too?

Did he even want to be saved?

Please, God, just let him live, Porthos prayed as he crept through the shadows towards the doorway. He can spit in my face and never speak to me again. I will survive that. But let him live.

Finally he was close enough to glance through the doorway, still hidden by the long shadows of the hallway. In the room, lit by a roaring fire as well as several torches, were eight men. Two were sleeping on mats near the doorway. The other six sat around a rough table, eating. Two were talking, still speaking English. Porthos could smell the strong liquor from his hiding place. Only eight. By God, he could kill eight men. He might just pull this off.

He shifted, trying to see further into the room, searching for any sign of Aramis. He couldn't see the far right corner from this angle, and just as he was about to move the conversation switched suddenly to French.

"It shouldn't be long now," one of the men said in an atrocious accent, turning to include the other men in the conversation. "I'd say we'll have what we need by tomorrow evening, or the following evening at the latest. The Duke will be very pleased. This one's a strong one, I'll give him that, but they all break eventually." The others laughed as the man glanced back towards the area Porthos couldn't see, and he felt his blood freeze and burn at once as he realized Aramis was there.

A second man rose to his feet, his French much better than the first's. A hired thug, then. "And if he still doesn't talk, well, at least we've had our fun with him." The Englishmen scowled but the others laughed as the speaker groped himself suggestively. Porthos felt something snap deep within him at the implication. He was frozen in place.

They hadn't… they wouldn't… He'd heard of such violence among the crueler breed of torturers, but surely these men hadn't raped Aramis?

The speaker sauntered over to the corner, and Porthos shifted unconsciously to keep him in his sight. That was when he caught sight of a crude ladder leaning against the wall, and tied facing it was an unmoving man clad only in loose breeches, so covered in blood and filth that for a moment Porthos's mind failed to process that it was Aramis. And then all he could think over the roaring in his ears was oh thank god thank god he is breathing I'm not too late.

The foul man had sauntered over while Porthos was frozen and was now standing just behind Aramis's still form. He reached a hand towards him, as if to touch the frayed edges of the breeches, and Porthos moved.

In less than three seconds, the threatening man was pinned to the wall by a long dagger that Porthos had flung clean through his shoulder. The two sleeping men were dispatched even as they bolted awake at the man's screams. The remaining five fell like saplings before Porthos's savage fury. His sword had a life of its own as it cut through the men who had dared touch Aramis. In less than a minute, he was face to face with Aramis's tormentor, who was struggling feebly to remove the dagger in his shoulder.

"Did you touch him?" Porthos roared, his face inches from the spy's. The man stared back in uncomprehending terror. "Did you touch him?" Porthos twisted the dagger viciously, allowing the tip of his sword the prick the man's groin. The man paled further as he understood the question.

"No," he gasped out fearfully, eyes locked on Porthos. He pressed the blade harder. "I swear, we didn't! Not yet!" The final words echoed in Porthos's ears. Not yet.

"I believe you," Porthos said gravely, and slit the man's throat cleanly even as something within him roared for a crueler death. He hadn't the time for that now. He then spun around and rushed to where Aramis was bound. He drew a knife and began sawing through the ropes, checking Aramis for injuries as he worked.

It wasn't a pretty sight. Long gashes, as if from a whip, stretched down Aramis's back, some still bleeding sluggishly. The bullet wound in his shoulder was swollen and red, burned nearly black where it had apparently been cauterized. The same shoulder appeared to be dislocated. Black bruises wrapped across what Porthos could see of his chest, suggesting broken ribs. Blood pooled around the base of the ladder. There didn't seem to be an inch of him that wasn't bruised.

The knife sliced through the last of the ropes, which were nearly sealed to Aramis's wrists by dried blood from where they'd chafed. Porthos caught him before he fell and lowered them both to the ground, settling Aramis in his lap and noting how frighteningly light he was. His face was bruised, with old blood staining one side from a wound on his scalp.

Porthos lay a hand gently on the less injured side of Aramis's face, feeling the faint pulse in his neck. "Aramis?" he murmured softly, voice breaking. "Aramis, wake up. You're safe now." He stroked his thumb tenderly along his jawline. There was no response. He felt fear grip his heart in an icy grasp. He closed his eyes.

"Aramis, please," he gasped out, feeling like he was drowning. He had lived, so Aramis had too as well. It was all the logic his stricken brain was capable of producing.

The body in his lap shifted ever so slightly, and his eyes snapped open in time to see Aramis open his own.

As if from far away, Aramis could hear laughter. It rung in his ears and sent fresh pain pulsing through his head. He tried to lift it, turn to look around him, but he couldn't seem to muster the energy. Moving was so hard.

His whole body hurt to the point that he could no longer determine where the individual pains were coming from. It all blurred together like running ink. He was made of pain.

And yet he was oddly calm. He felt, somehow, like he ought to be worried, or frightened, or angry, but he didn't really feel anything at all. He couldn't open his eye and he could barely hear past the ringing in his ears, and it left him with a feeling of floating, drifting on a placid lake. Even the pain seemed to be lessening.

Some part of his mind grew more alert at that thought. The voice in his head spoke for the doctor in him, clamoring that lack of pain was likely a terrible sign, that he should fight the beckoning darkness, but the voice was weak and lacked the necessary conviction. He was just so tired…

The laughter echoed through his mind, but somewhere along the way it changed to a memory of laughter, of sitting at a table and feeling a sense of belonging, of brotherhood. Athos's face swam in his mind, followed by D'Artagnan's. They would want him to fight, but he just couldn't. I'm sorry, he whispered as their smiling faces dissolved back into darkness. I tried.

But now the memory was changing into something so brilliant it made his chest ache with a new kind of pain. The memory again was of laughter, of a broad smile that lit up a room, a booming laugh that could shake the rafters and bring a smile to even the grimmest countenance.

Porthos. The name cut through his mind like a sword through silk, and he fought not to cry out. It was as if the name itself had woken him from a deep sleep, and suddenly he could feel the pain again.

He wanted to weep. It wasn't fair, it wasn't fair. Why couldn't it just be over? He wanted it to end so badly.

But his newly alert mind supplied the answer. It couldn't be over because he simply couldn't give up. He might want to, and oh, how he wanted to, but he couldn't do it.

It had nothing to do with will or determination and everything to do with a promise made one dark night years before, when after Savoy when he had begged God to take him, let him join his fallen brothers. Porthos had heard him, and with tears in his eyes had begged him to never again pray for death. To fight until the breath left his body no matter how dark things seemed. And Aramis, fool that he was, had promised and recovered.

And now that promise kept him alive, kept him suffering, because whatever else he might do he could never betray Porthos. He had done enough damage by leaving him, even if he had done it for his own sake. He could not break this promise, not when he could still see the tears, still hear the thickness in his voice as Porthos begged him not to invite death. Porthos might never know he had held on, might already despise him for abandoning him, but Aramis would not break his oath. He would fight death until he no longer could.

It was at that moment that he realized the laughter had stopped. The ringing of steel replaced the ringing in his ears, and then there were hands on him, fiery pain coursing through him as someone pulled him to the floor. He prepared for more torture, but the hands were gentle. Something warm and heavy rested on his face, and he swore he heard his name being said in a voice full of a different kind of pain than he was experiencing.

Something buried within him rose up and ordered him to open his eyes, cutting through his sluggish thoughts like the unexpected crack of a rifle. It took more effort than anything he had ever done, but he managed at last to open his one good eye, gaping with disbelief at the sight before him. Maybe he was dead after all.

"'thos?" The word was barely a whisper. Aramis's left eye was open a crack, gazing blearily at Porthos, but his right was swollen shut. He swallowed weakly. "P'rthos?" Aramis's voice was barely there, lacking its usual richness and vigor, and yet it was the most beautiful thing Porthos had ever heard.

"Yes, I'm here," he said when he was able to speak past the lump in his throat. He wanted to clutch Aramis to him and never let go, but he had to be mindful of the man's extensive injuries. He needed a doctor, fast. "I came to bring you home."

To his surprise, Aramis shook his head slightly, closing his good eye. Porthos leaned closer when he realized Aramis was muttering something softly. "Can't be," he mumbled, turning his head away. "Can't be 'im. He's wi' Flea. On'y thing I did right. He'll be happy."

Porthos felt his heart crack. "No, Aramis, I swear to you, it's me," he said, straining to keep the despair from his tone. He placed his hand on Aramis's cheek, gently turning his face back towards him. "I would never abandon you." He fought to keep a note of accusation out of his tone. Now was not the time.

Aramis shook his head doggedly, still refusing to open his eyes. "Loves her," he whispered. "Doesn't need me." He sounded so broken that Porthos wanted to shake him, force him to understand that he would always need him.

"I don't," he whispered back, bending until his forehead rested against Aramis's. "I don't love her, you fool." But Aramis said nothing, and Porthos realized he'd slipped back into unconsciousness. As gently as he was able, he gathered the smaller man in his arms and stood. He needed to get back to the inn and summon a doctor to tend Aramis's wounds. There was a dry heat rising off his skin that made Porthos's stomach knot with fear.

He managed to get Aramis up to the room where he'd slain the dicing guards, but here he paused, uncertain. Carrying Aramis through the slums of Calais covered in blood was asking for trouble, and Porthos couldn't risk being attacked. What he needed was a horse. Then he could sling his cloak around Aramis's shoulders and ride double. But he'd left Chevalier stabled at the inn.

Pulling off his cloak, he laid it out on the ground, trying not to jostle Aramis as he did so. He placed him gently on the cloak, pushing Aramis's dark hair back off his forehead, and moved to the doorway. Opening the rickety door, he glanced out and sent a brief prayer of thanks to God. Across the street, the boy still sat, watching the building with interest. When he saw Porthos, his eyes widened and he darted out from behind the cart, slipping gracefully through the doorway.

"I thought you was dead for sure," he said in an awed tone. "There was half a dozen of 'em!" Then he caught sight of Aramis. He paled. "Is that your friend?"

"Yes, and he needs a doctor. I must get him back to the inn where you found me. Will you do me one more service?" The boy nodded eagerly. "Run back to the inn and fetch the big black stallion in the stables. Don't let anyone stop you. Bring him here as quickly as you can." The boy nodded once and dashed off.

Hoping he'd encounter no difficulty, Porthos turned back to Aramis. Sitting with his back against the wall, he gently pulled Aramis back into his lap, wrapping his cloak around the still form like a blanket. There he sat, praying the boy would come through and that he would be able to find a doctor to tend him. Maybe, just maybe, this would all turn out okay.

But of course his life could never be that easy. Not ten minutes later, the Black Fox walked through the door, a vicious smile on his face.

Chapter Text

The Fox's smile was one of sickening delight. He looked like a child in a candy store. Two thugs stalked in behind him as he clapped his hands together in glee.

"Porthos, my friend, how wonderful to see you again! I did so hope you would come!" The Fox stepped lightly until he reached the center of the room. There he paused, sensing, as Porthos did, that the fragile peace would shatter the instant he stepped closer. The Fox loved the sound of his own voice: he wouldn't want the fight to begin too soon.

"Ah, but how is your friend?" the Fox asked, a look of blatantly false concern crossing his features. "He appears to be in rather a bad way."

Porthos couldn't help himself: he growled, his hands tightening where they gripped Aramis, who was still deeply unconscious. The Fox smiled broadly, clearly amused by the reaction. One hand fell to rest at his hip, and Porthos fought the urge to growl again: he was wearing Aramis's sash.

"I do hope he enjoyed his time with my associates. Can I safely assume they will not wish to see me?" Porthos just glared. The Fox glanced over at the bodies lying in the corner where Porthos had left them. "They were all poor company anyway. Not like you, my friend." His voice had taken on an oily quality that made Porthos's skin crawl. As gently as he could, he began to shift Aramis onto the floor, readying himself for the coming fight.

The Fox noted his movements and smiled. "He really doesn't look well at all, my friend. Perhaps it would be a mercy to simply free him from his pain? I'm sure my boys would be happy to oblige." He beckoned one of the men forward, gesturing at Aramis. Porthos's vision went red around the edges at the imminent threat.

The man made it one step across the invisible line between Porthos and the Fox before Porthos slammed into him viciously. His sword entered the man's side and exited the other in one smooth motion. The man gasped and choked, falling to his knees. The motion nearly wrenched the weapon from his grasp, but he managed to hold onto it, keeping himself between the two threats and Aramis.

The Fox was still smiling at him, but he no longer looked fully human, a brittle edge to the expression making his face resemble that of a serpent.

"So this is how it is to be, my friend?" he asked, drawing a slim rapier from a sheath at his waist. Porthos said nothing, mentally cataloging the man's concealed weapons. He counted at least three knives in hidden sheaths and two worn openly alongside his sword sheath. He would be at a serious disadvantage: he himself had only one knife left, his main gauche belted at his back. Though he allowed himself a faint smirk: the Fox was eying the massive sword in his hand with trepidation. His rapier looked like a toothpick next to Porthos's schiavona with its broad blade.

The remaining thug shifted forward slightly and Porthos snarled at him, the sound foreign in his ears. He felt as if something feral had been loosed inside him, something that had lain dormant since his days in the Court. He wanted to attack, to rip these men to pieces with his bare hands, but he didn't. Aramis's life was on the line. He had to be smart and let the Fox attack first.

He sensed it coming a moment before the other man moved. A flicker in his smile, a shift in his stance, and suddenly a dagger was flying towards his chest. He whirled out of its path, careful to keep himself in front of Aramis. He stilled, watching the Fox intently, twirling his sword in his hand to emphasize his strength and hopefully intimidate the much smaller man.

The Fox gave him a sardonic smile and saluted, his dark eyes mocking as he carefully withdrew a second dagger, holding it loosely in his left hand. "My friend, you are truly a master at what you-"

The next attack came before he had even finished speaking, but it was an old trick, and Porthos was prepared. He darted forward to meet him rather than dodging, wary of letting the man anywhere near Aramis's still form. They met with a ringing crash as steel scraped against steel. The Fox crossed his dagger and rapier to catch Porthos's blade, stumbling back a bit with the force of the blow. Porthos used his body weight to push the Fox's sword towards his chest, but the other man was quick. Ducking slightly back, he managed to bring his left hand around in a vicious sweep aimed at Porthos's ribcage.

He dodged but failed to force the dagger from the Fox's grasp. It grazed his collarbone as he crowded in, forcing the Fox back with his bulk. He brought his sword crashing down on the Fox's again, shoving as he felt the blade make contact. The Fox stumbled back a step but recovered almost at once, lashing out with the blade.

He was cursed quick, and Porthos knew he was too slow, tired from his sleepless nights and fighting the men who had Aramis. Part of him wondered if he might lose, but he squashed it brutally. A man who thought he would lose almost always did.

He managed to lunge out of the path of the dagger, catching the Fox's wrist with his free hand as his momentum pulled him past and twisting viciously. The man was too quick for him to break it, but he was able to force him to drop the dagger.

As it clattered to the ground he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. He was prepared to disregard it, unwilling to risk distraction, when the Fox gave a snarl of triumph, gazing past Porthos's head. He spun without stopping to think and launched himself at the thug kneeling above Aramis, a short dagger raised over his heart.

Porthos slammed into him so hard they nearly crashed through the wall behind. Porthos smashed a fist into the side of the man's face, knocking him out before shoving off. He was reaching for the sword he dropped when he felt a sharp pain in his side. He glanced down and swore. He had fallen on the dagger.

He pulled it out and was reaching for his sword once more when he sensed movement behind him. He rolled in the opposite direction as the Fox's sword clanged against the ground where he had just been lying.

He rose to his feet cautiously. His sword was now on the other side of the room. He pulled out his own dagger, praying he could beat the Fox before he passed out from blood loss. He had no idea how bad the wound was, and he couldn't stop to look now. "Attacking a man when he's down?" he growled as he closed the distance warily. "Where's your honor?"

The Fox merely smirked. "No one left to see," he said, gesturing around the room. "Once I'm done with you, I'll toss you and your friend into the ocean. The story of this will be whatever I want it to be."

The thought of the Fox getting his slimy hands on Aramis made his blood boil. He growled savagely and darted in. The Fox had underestimated his speed, it seemed, for he failed to draw another dagger before Porthos was upon him. He blocked the blow but fell back under the flurry that followed. He was skilled, but Porthos was willing to bet this was the first real challenge he had faced in years, and it showed.

In a desperate move, Porthos lunged forward and grabbed the blade with his left hand, feeling it cut into his skin: he had taken off his gloves. He flicked the dagger forward and sliced across the back of the Fox's sword hand. He let go with a yell but slammed his shoulder into Porthos's chest, knocking the wind from him long enough for him to drop the sword, which he kicked away from the Fox's searching fingers.

The Fox backed away, panting, cradling his injured hand to his chest. Porthos bet that was the first time he'd seen his own blood in a long time, too. A desperate look had entered his eye, and Porthos knew before he began that now had come the part of the fight where the Fox would try to goad him into making a mistake.

"He screamed for you!" the Fox hissed as he backed away. Porthos shifted to make him change direction, keeping him from the fallen sword. "When the lash tore the flesh from his back, he cried for you to help him! I wonder what he would have done when we dipped him in the ocean and let the salt into his wounds? He told us everything we wanted, and would've told us more too, just to stop the pain. Your friend is a coward!"

At the last word Porthos faltered, just for a moment. No, Aramis was no coward. A coward wouldn't have sacrificed himself for another's happiness. The Fox was the coward.

As if to prove his musings true, the Fox suddenly dived to the left, towards where Aramis lay. Porthos darted after him, but he was too slow. The Fox's hands closed around the hilt of Porthos's sword, and Porthos braced himself for the killing blow that surely must be coming. Then he stepped back slightly, smirking. The Fox couldn't lift the heavy blade.

He watched him struggle for a moment. The Fox got the sword to about waist height, but it was clear he couldn't handle it. Porthos stepped in, ready to end this, and the Fox scurried backwards, putting Aramis between them. Porthos froze, recalculating how to do this without injuring Aramis. The Fox, sensing the temporary respite his position had brought him, leered down at the unconscious man.

"He really is quite a pretty one, isn't he?" he smirked. "It's too bad you came today, my friend. I was just on my way to have a little fun with him." The lecherous look in his eye told Porthos all he needed to know. His blood froze and time seemed to slow as he stepped forward.

He would never know if the Fox saw him coming or not. The sword in his hands lifted feebly, but Porthos was already upon him, knocking the blade aside with his shoulder. He let the dagger clatter to the ground. He didn't need it for this.

His hand closed around the Fox's throat. He pushed the man back against the wall, barely aware that his feet were dangling almost a foot above the ground. His eyes were bulging slightly as his hands scrabbled at Porthos's fingers. One arm dipped and came back with a dagger, but Porthos knocked it aside contemptuously, squeezing harder. He felt the beast within him roar in satisfaction as he slowly choked the life from this man who had tried to take Aramis away.

And then he lessened the pressure. He couldn't do this. He wasn't that man anymore. He let the Fox fall to the floor. He would take him to a guard station and have him sent to Paris to face justice. He couldn't kill him like this, no matter how badly he wanted to.

He turned away, intent on going to Aramis, when he heard the scrape of steel behind him. He whirled in time to catch the Fox's hand, Porthos's dagger clutched in his grip. The Fox was light, but he had his full body weight behind him, and Porthos found himself falling backwards. He rolled as he fell and made it back to his feet in time to see the Fox charging towards him, madness in his eyes.

He met him with a crash, allowing the Fox's own momentum to carry him up above Porthos's head, his arms locked on his shoulder and knee. Clearly the man couldn't be safely taken in. If a Musketeer couldn't subdue a dangerous prisoner, they had only one choice left. With only a moment's hesitation, Porthos dropped gracefully to one knee, bring the Fox's back slamming down on his other.

The audible snap made him gag, and he tossed the body aside like a rag doll, unwilling to look at it. Part of him was disgusted by his own savagery, but a bigger part said he wouldn't lose any sleep over this. This man deserved it.

The Fox had fallen too close to Aramis, so Porthos stooped and lifted his friend in his arms, carrying him away from the carnage. As he walked, he felt faintly lightheaded. Right. He'd been stabbed. Probably ought to do something about that.

He set Aramis down against the far wall. After checking to make sure he was still breathing, Porthos rose and stalked back towards the Fox's body. With jerky motions he removed the sash from around his waist before returning to slump against the wall beside Aramis. The wound in his side was bleeding, but it could be worse. He used the sash as a makeshift bandage, muttering an apology to Aramis as he did so. Aramis's injuries were worse, but Porthos would be no good to him if he bled out.

Nearly an hour later the boy returned. Aramis had just begun mumbling without regaining consciousness, flinching when Porthos touched his face, and Porthos was ready to carry him through the streets despite his own injuries and risk attack when he heard hooves on the cobbles outside. He lifted Aramis gently and walked swiftly to the door, trying to ignore the wave of dizziness the motion brought. The boy stood outside, holding the reins of Aramis's stallion. The horse had no saddle, which irritated him until he realized the boy couldn't possibly have known how to saddle a horse anyway.

Mounting was difficult because he didn't want to jar Aramis's broken ribs, but eventually he got them both onto Chevalier, Aramis leaning back against his chest. He searched his purse for something for the boy, but he had very little money left. He might not be able to afford a doctor if he gave the boy anything more. To his relief, the boy shook his head when he held out the coins.

"I couldn't, sir. You'll be needing a doctor, and they's not cheap." He glanced pointedly at the sash knotted around Porthos's middle, stained red with blood. "You gave me more'n enough." Aramis's breath hitched and he groaned faintly. The boy glanced at him. "Should I run for a doctor? I could send 'em to your rooms."

"Only if you know one who can keep his mouth shut," Porthos told him seriously. The boy nodded and whipped off a passable salute as Porthos turned and trotted down the alley, one arm wrapped securely around Aramis's waist.

Chapter Text

To his immense relief, they made it back to the inn without incident. He ignored the innkeeper's incredulous look, marching past him to the stairs and straight to his room. He set Aramis down on the bed and pulled a sheet over him before turning to the shocked innkeeper, whose stream of complaints cut off when Porthos shoved a handful of coins at him, hoping he still had enough for a doctor. If not, he'd have to try to get Aramis to a guard station, where an army doctor could treat him for free, but the nearest one is halfway across the city, and it looked like it might storm. Also, he would probably pass out from blood loss before that.

He asked the inn's sole serving girl to boil several buckets of water for him, which he had to leave to fetch. Each time, he was afraid Aramis would worsen while he was out of the room. He was frighteningly pale and a cold sweat has broken out on his brow. It had been a difficult journey for him with his injuries, but it couldn't be helped. Porthos ripped up the bed linens to use as bandages and set about cleaning Aramis's wounds as best as he could, deciding his own could wait for a time.

He started with his face and worked his way down his body. The worst wounds were to his wrists, shoulder, and back. The last would almost certainly require stitches. Porthos fought the urge to vomit when he saw the true extent of the damage. Large sections of skin had been torn away, bloody lines crisscrossing what was left. He wasn't sure it could even be sewn. He'd seen whippings before, hell, he'd been whipped, but never with this level of brutality.

Aramis's back wasn't what worried him the most, though. The bullet wound in his shoulder was clearly in the early stages of infection despite the cauterization, and Porthos could only hope the bullet had been removed, since he could find no exit wound. Porthos bandaged his raw wrists and wrapped strips of cloth firmly around Aramis's chest to support his injured ribs, trying to leave as much of his back uncovered as he could so the bandages wouldn't need to be removed by the doctor. If one ever came.

Aramis also had a broken collarbone and his injured shoulder was definitely dislocated, though judging by the bruising these were the most recent injuries he had received. Porthos snapped the joint back with the ease of long practice, wincing as the strain pulled at his own injuries. He spared a moment to be grateful for his strength: setting dislocated joints normally took two people.

Once he'd cleaned Aramis up, he sat down in chair drawn beside the bed, at a loss. He ought to see to his own injuries, but he was so exhausted, and still too worried about his friend to think of himself. Aramis needed stitching and medicines, neither of which Porthos could provide. Technically, as a Musketeer he could sew a wound, but his lack of precision with a needle was nigh on legendary, which was why Aramis had quickly become the de facto surgeon among them. Aramis never liked letting anyone else near his wounds, preferring to sew them himself whenever capable. He would know what to do in Porthos's place.

I would change places with him if I could.

He leaned forward with a deep sigh and rested his head on the bed. They'd been here for nearly a half hour and the boy hadn't come. Perhaps he couldn't find anyone willing to help, or he had given up with no motivation of reward. Either way, Porthos needed to think of a new plan, and quickly.

He felt his eyelids growing heavier and sat bolt upright. Now was not the time to catch up on the sleep he'd missed these past few days. Aramis needed him, and Porthos had let him down enough lately. Leaping up, he began to pace the room. He was just deciding to take Aramis to the guard house at first light when someone knocked on the door. Drawing his sword, he strode over and yanked it open, only to find himself confronted by the boy and an elderly woman carrying a large basket.

"I brung the doctor," he squeaked.

Porthos paced the hallway, anxiety gnawing at his belly. Once the lad had explained the lady was the best healer in the slums, Porthos had let her in, though he kept a close eye on her. She'd examined Aramis's back and shoulder, clucking disapprovingly, but she'd nodded to him when she caught sight of his well-bandaged wrists. She'd then announced she needed to treat his shoulder and sew the gashes on his back and ordered Porthos from the room. Bewildered, he'd found himself in the hallway before he had a chance to argue.

Logically, he knew the woman would be better able to help Aramis without him breathing down her neck, but that didn't make his exile any easier. He had spent too long already separated from Aramis, and he didn't look kindly on anyone who would extend that pain. Nevertheless, he remained in the hallway. He'd sent the boy downstairs with the young serving girl, who'd been instructed to give the boy an enormous meal and a bed for the night, courtesy of the Musketeers. Now he had nothing left to do but pace and try to ignore the pain radiating from his side.

Halfway down the hallway he paused, foot hovering uncertainly in the air. He listened intently. He was sure he'd heard something. Then he heard a cry of pain and the old lady's voice calling to him, and he burst into the room in seconds flat.

The healer woman was attempting to pin Aramis to the bed on his stomach, clearly trying to get at the cuts across his back, but Aramis was twisting under her frantically, struggling to free himself.

"Help me hold him," she ordered when she saw Porthos. "He'll hurt himself." Porthos leapt forward and placed his hands on Aramis's shoulders, trying to force him down to the bed. The other man simply fought harder.

"What happened?" he shouted over another cry of pain.

"It's the fever," the woman shouted back. "He's delirious. Awake enough to fight but not enough to know friend from foe."

Porthos caught sight of Aramis's face. His good eye was open and darting frantically around the room. He swore as Aramis wrenched his shoulder from his grasp. "This isn't working," he called out. "Leave us a moment. I can calm him down, but not like this!" The woman nodded and exited the room, shutting the door behind her.

Porthos eased the pressure on Aramis's shoulders but didn't relax his grip. Instead, he climbed awkwardly into the bed with Aramis and hauled him half into his lap, maneuvering so that Aramis was lying on his side and able to see Porthos's face. His energy was fading fast, though he still batted at him weakly, one hand slamming into his injury with enough force to make him gasp, but he fought through the pain.

"Aramis," Porthos called softly, running a hand through his hair, stroking gently. "Aramis, stop fighting. You are among friends." Aramis stilled, tilting his head to look up at Porthos. "You must not fight," he said gently.

"Porthos," Aramis said, breath coming in quick gasps. It was not a question but a benediction, and Porthos smiled sadly at Aramis's faith in him, made whole again in his delirium. This Aramis didn't think Porthos had run off with Flea and abandoned him. He spoke his name with a conviction that took Porthos's breath away. How had he missed Aramis's feelings for so long?

"I'm here," he murmured. "We're at an inn. You've been badly injured and you need stitches. Do you understand me?" One fever-bright eye met his own and Aramis nodded weakly. "A woman will come in and sew you up. You must not fight. Please, Aramis, for me."

When Aramis nodded again, he called to the healer. As he made to leave the bed, intending to offer his assistance, Aramis's fingers closed around his wrist. He was surprised at the strength behind them. "Don't leave," Aramis whispered, almost begging.

Porthos immediately settled back on the bed and pulled Aramis to him, offering what comfort his presence could give. When the healer entered, she said nothing about their position, merely instructed Porthos to hold Aramis in such a way that she could reach the wounds in his back. Aramis passed out moments after the needle entered his skin. She stitched what she could and did her best with the rest, wrapping bandages around Aramis's back, shoulders, and chest once more when she finished.

"He needs to drink these in a tea twice a day," she said brusquely to Porthos, thrusting a bag of herbs into his free hand, the other still tangled in Aramis's hair. "Morning and night. And get him to drink as much water as you can. His shoulder is infected, but it's not as bad as it would've been had it not been cauterized. If we're lucky, I've staved off the worst of the infection before it had a chance to take hold, but we'll have to wait and see." She stopped and looked at him, hands on her hips. "Now you."

For a moment, Porthos just stared at her blankly. Then he remembered his own injuries and felt a wave of nausea roll through him. "Right," he mumbled, trying to push himself from the bed only to find he barely had the strength to move. In the time he had been lying with Aramis the adrenaline had worn off.

"Don't be an idiot," the woman said, pushing him down with a stern glare. "You stay there. Just shift a bit so I can get to your side." She pointed at the bloody sash. Porthos obeyed, trying not to jostle Aramis as he moved.

The woman bustled over with a fresh cloth and a bucket of water and shoved a bottle of wine into his hands. "Drink that. Am I allowed to ask what happened?" she asked as she unwound the sash and began cleaning the wound.

Porthos grimaced and took a hefty swig of the wine. He hated people poking at his injuries, especially when they weren't Aramis. "It's probably better you don't know. Though I'm sure you'll hear about it soon enough." Her sharp eyes flicked up to meet his, but she didn't inquire further.

"You're lucky," she told him after a few moments. "It didn't go deep, and it didn't hit anything you really need. You'll live. You've lost a lot of blood though. You're going to feel quite ill for a bit. You should've let me take a look at it sooner."

Porthos shook his head stubbornly, watching her thread a needle. "Aramis needed it more."

The woman looked at him sharply. "That, young man, is debatable." She leaned over him, needle poised over the wound. "This will hurt," she warned.

"Won't be the first time," Porthos grunted, gritting his teeth as the needle entered his skin. He hated being awake for this. The urge to move, to get away, was almost overwhelming. There was a reason Aramis or Athos knocked him out before he got stitched up. He hadn't grown up thinking any kind of pain could possibly be good for you. Where he came from, if something hurt you, you got away from it fast.

But he couldn't get away, and even if there were someone here capable of knocking him out, Porthos would not want to be unconscious. He needed to be awake to watch over Aramis, and if that meant enduring this damned needle, then so be it.

It seemed to take an eternity, but at last she was finished. But when he tried to move away, she rapped him smartly about the head. "I can see the others, too," she told him archly. Resigned to his fate, he offered his left hand, which he'd wound his bandanna around as a bandage. The woman looked it over, clucking to herself. "Well, it doesn't need stitches," she told him to his immense relief. She washed the long cut on his palm as well as the grazes to his shoulder and collarbone that the Black Fox had managed to inflict in their fight.

Despite it all, Porthos couldn't entirely quell the small sense of pride that grew in his chest. He'd beaten the criminal king of Calais with only a few scratches. The dagger to the side didn't count, since the Fox hadn't done that. He'd been worried he might have lost some of his old skills since joining the Musketeers, but the last few weeks proved he hadn't.

Aramis's breathing hitched and his pride vanished instantly. What did it matter that he had won his fight, when Aramis might yet lose his?

The healer had finished bandaging his injuries and stood up stiffly. "You'd best keep those clean or you'll get an infection too. Should I dispose of this?" she asked, holding up the bloodstained sash.

Porthos shook his head. "Nah. He'll want that back. I'll have to try and get it clean." It was a daunting task, but Aramis was quite attached to that sash.

"I'll take it for you. You can have it back in the morning when I come to check on your…friend." The last word sounded more like a question, and Porthos realized how this might look to her, but he didn't care anymore and she didn't seem bothered, only curious. "Keep it," she added as Porthos tried to press some money into her hands. "You've done enough already for the boy." She gathered her things and departed.

Porthos rearranged himself into a more comfortable position on the bed and lifted his shirt, peeking down at the fresh stitches. To his gratification, they were as neat as Aramis's own. That healer was quite skilled.

Belatedly, Porthos realized he didn't even know her name. He sighed, gathering Aramis in his arms gently and pulling him closer until he could feel the beat of Aramis's heart against his own chest, reassuringly steady. He fell asleep listening to it.

Chapter Text

Aramis's pained cry tore him from the wings of sleep. He'd dozed off on the bed with Aramis pressed against his chest, sleeping soundly. But now he had rolled away from Porthos, thrashing weakly and whimpering. Porthos frantically gathered him up and pulled him into his lap, noting his flushed face and sweat-soaked brow. His fever was worse, much worse, which meant the infection had indeed taken hold.

Porthos felt cold, despite Aramis's too hot body against his. Infected wounds were usually deadly to all but the strongest men, and Aramis was greatly weakened by his ill treatment and torture.

Was this his punishment for failing to see what was before his eyes? That he should get the man he loved back, only to have him die in his arms? Perhaps it is Aramis's punishment for leaving, the voice in his head whispered. Shut up, he thought at it fiercely.

When the healing lady returned, she found a red eyed Porthos clutching a shivering Aramis. It was the work of a moment to determine that his bullet wound was indeed infected, the skin puffy and red around the pace where it had been seared shut. She ordered Porthos off the bed and sent him for fresh water. When he returned, she ordered him to wipe Aramis's brow with a wet cloth while she attempted to get some of the healing tea down his throat. She also bathed the wound in cool water, though she admitted it wasn't likely to help now the infection had already set in.

Throughout the whole process, Aramis tossed his head and cried out weakly. Sometimes his calls sounded almost like words, but they were never distinct enough to understand. Sometimes he spoke in rapid, panicky Spanish. Once Porthos caught his own name. The healer, whose name he'd discovered was Laurette, brewed the herbs and enlisted Porthos to help force Aramis to swallow them along with some water.

At last she sat back, face red from exertion. "There's nothing more I can do. Keep the wound clean, flush it with alcohol, and keep a wet cloth in his brow. Get the herbs in him, they may help yet." Porthos nodded and worked up the courage to ask the question he'd been avoiding.

"What are his chances?"

Laurette glanced sharply at him. Whatever she saw in his face softened her tone as she spoke. "I will be honest. They are not good. His injuries alone he could survive, but an infection must run its course. It will pain him, but you must keep him lying on his back. Pressure on his ribs could cause them to shift. He may yet survive if he is strong and desires to live, but I would not hope too much. He is in God's hands now. I will try to return tomorrow."

Porthos nodded dumbly, unable to speak as she took her leave. Aramis can't die. Not like this. If Aramis died, it was to be on the battlefield, falling alongside Athos and himself, a glorious death, not cut down by an infected wound. Aramis couldn't leave him like this.

He stared down at the injured man, noting the bandages that swathed most of his chest. The bullet wound on his neck was still visible, a thin red line along the curve of his throat. It would scar. Aramis would hate that. Of course, he would bear many scars from this. If he survived.

The memory of how terribly Porthos had treated Aramis the day he had received that injury burned within him. He'd been scared of Aramis dying. It seemed such a petty fear, when confronted with the reality of it.

In Porthos's mind Aramis was immortal. He was always there, an extravagant presence in Porthos's life, smirking and carousing and forever at his side. He was injured less often than the others because he was more cautious, and he had a confidence to him that said nothing could stop him, nothing could touch him. If only that had been true.

As Aramis gasped and tossed beside him, Porthos found himself wondering if all this could have been avoided. If this would have never come to pass had he only recognized the depth of Aramis's feelings sooner, or given the slightest hint of his own. He had always been attracted to Aramis, but he had always assumed the other man would never reciprocate, and as a result had rarely thought about it, never realizing he'd crossed the line from desire to love. He should have looked more closely, paid attention to the unnecessary touches and lingering glances. He should have known, and then maybe Aramis wouldn't have been so quick to sacrifice himself.

Although if Porthos was being entirely honest, he knew he wasn't the only one to blame. Aramis could have given him some indication of his feelings, rather than hiding them and pushing Porthos away. He should have known Porthos would not reject him, even if he hadn't reciprocated his feelings. Porthos felt the now familiar flare of anger in his belly. Why hadn't Aramis just said something? Why had leaving seemed like the better option?

Laurette had said Aramis might live if he desired to, but did he? Before this mission, Porthos would have said yes with utter surety. But now? As far as Aramis was concerned, the man he loved did not feel the same way and loved another in his stead, and even now was with her. Aramis had thought him in love with Flea and so he had saved her, choosing Porthos's happiness above his own. What did he have left to fight for? His world had been burning around him. Maybe death would seem a release.

No. Porthos would not allow that to happen. Not for so pointless a reason. He didn't know if Aramis could hear him, but he damn well wasn't going to let him go without a fight. Aramis needed a reason to live? Porthos would give him one.

He drew the chair closer to the bed, catching up Aramis's hand in his own. The other he stroked through Aramis's hair in what was already becoming a habitual gesture. He wasn't sure where to start, so he just began speaking randomly, pouring out prized memories of better times shared with Aramis, of how precious he was to him, about how he could not bear to lose him. It was easier speaking like this, knowing his audience could likely not hear a word he was saying. It was freeing, and soon he was telling Aramis everything.

"I love you, you know," he said with a sigh, resting his head against Aramis's cold hand. "You're an idiot if you didn't see it. Though I didn't see that you loved me, so I guess we're both idiots. It was Flea who made me see it, would you believe it? I know you think I love her, but I don't really, not like that. Not like you. She's my past, and she's a pleasant diversion, but we both know it isn't to be, and I don't want it to be anyway. I couldn't want her like that. She isn't my future. I'd like you to be, if only you would wake up. I don't want to be here alone, Aramis. I spent so long wanting you, thinking you would never have me, and now I learn you will, and you're going to leave me? Again? Don't you care about me?" His voice broke and he felt a lump in his throat. He went on.

"I can't do this without you, Aramis. I don't want to. If you leave now, you'll take everything I've built for myself, all my happiness, and drag in into the grave with you. Please don't do that to me. I love you too damn much to go on without you now. I don't know how. So please, for my sake, wake up. Live. Love me. Please, Aramis."

And now he was crying, crying like he hadn't cried since he was a child and his mother died. He didn't speak again: he had nothing more to say. Instead, he offered silent prayers to a God he didn't believe in, had never believed in. But Aramis did, and maybe that would be enough. Porthos could believe for Aramis's sake.

He had bared his soul, and God would decide now. Priests said to love Aramis was a sin, but Aramis's God was all-loving, and he couldn't believe he would condemn Aramis to death for loving Porthos. He wouldn't take him away. God would decide if he was worthy of the man before him. He prayed that God would see in him what he himself could not, because he knew he could live a hundred years and never deserve Aramis. But he was selfish, and so he prayed that God would let him keep him.

What followed were the worst thirty six hours of Porthos's life. Aramis's fever increased steadily, leaving him burning like a flame. It was like watching him waste away before his eyes. After a while, Aramis weakened to the point where he lacked the energy to cry out or move, lips moving wordlessly as his lay shivering beneath all the blankets Porthos had been able to find in a desperate attempt to sweat out the fever. He'd sent the boy, who'd stuck around, for more several times, but nothing seemed to help.

Laurette returned twice, shaking her head worriedly in response to his questions. He could see that in her eyes Aramis was already dead.

He'd spoken until his throat ached, begging Aramis to stay, begging God, bargaining his own life in exchange. Nothing helped, and Aramis's fever slowly climbed, each breath shuddering in his chest. Porthos sat and stared at the rise and fall, wondering if each breath he took would be his last.

He didn't know what more he could say, anyway. He'd poured his heart out, and now he just felt empty, like his body was grieving already for the man his heart stubbornly refused to let go of. He would not accept that Aramis was going to die until he saw it for himself, and oh, how he prayed he wouldn't have to.

He didn't even have the energy to feel angry anymore. Instead, a wry amusement was forming within him. He could see the irony: he'd gone to find Aramis intending to die alongside him, and instead he had rescued him only to be forced to watch him die slowly. What kind of God would be so cruel? What had either of them ever done to deserve this?

For the first time in his life, Porthos had something he never wanted to walk away from. He had walked away from everything: his old life, his friends in the Court, Flea, Charon, even his mother's dead body, and he had survived. But he didn't want to walk away from this, and now it was being stolen away before his eyes. He'd abandoned so much, and been abandoned so many times. Was it really too much to ask to be allowed to keep just one person he loved? Just the one he loved the most?

Please, God, just this once, he begged silently. He had ever believed in miracles, but he would believe now if that would save Aramis. There were no more bargains, no more prayers, just that one all-consuming desire. He would never ask for anything again.

He found himself unable to sit still after a while. He rose and paced the room, always keeping Aramis in his line of sight. He wanted to do something, but what could he possibly do here? His eyes fell on the bundle in the corner that had sat untouched since he'd first arrived back in Calais.

He strode over and picked it up, carrying it back to the bed. He sat down and unwrapped the cloth slowly until he had uncovered Aramis's rapier and pistol, still stained with dirt and blood from when he had found them in the woods. Well, Aramis cleaned his weapons when he was anxious. It seemed as good a way to pass the time as any. He reached for his things, finding the rags, grease, and whetstone, and set to work.

Porthos went through the motions mechanically, first scrubbing the blood from the rapier's blade, then honing it to a lethal edge. The work made his injured hand ache, but it calmed his mind. The blade seemed to shimmer in the light when he finished. He set it aside and reached for the pistol, hands hovering uncertainly over it. He felt a hesitation within him. Aramis's guns were like an extension of himself. He hated other people touching them, and he never allowed another to clean them. But he also never allowed them to gather even the slightest speck of rust or dirt, and the pistol in Porthos's lap was in a sorry state. Aramis would want it taken care of.

He was more alert as he cleaned the weapon, his motions less methodical and more purposeful. He felt somehow as if he were laying hands on something sacred, and a reverence touched his motions as he carefully wiped down the handsome weapon, paying careful attention to the custom engravings down the side. Athos had called them frivolous, but Aramis had been proud as a peacock the day he had returned from the gunsmith.

He wasn't sure how long he spent cleaning the weapon and oiling the barrel, but when he at last set it down the sun had vanished, darkness beginning to creep through the room. He placed the weapons carefully on the floor beside the bed and leaned forward, resting his head wearily on the mattress beside Aramis's hand. What more could he do?

Porthos had hardly slept since that first night, and he couldn't keep himself from dropping off where he sat. When he woke, something was different, and at first he didn't know what it was. At last it hit him with the force of lightning bolt: Aramis's harsh, labored breathing no longer filled the room.

Porthos refused to move. He would not look up at Aramis's still form. If he didn't acknowledge it, then Aramis wasn't dead. He couldn't be. But for all his attempts to convince himself, Porthos could feel tears slipping down his face, and he buried his head against the bed to stifle his sobs. His hair brushed Aramis's still hand and he recoiled, not ready to face that reality. He didn't want it to be true. He didn't want to live in a world where it could ever be true. It was too much.

I loved him, and he is gone.

Porthos's heart nearly stopped when something nudged gently against his head. He jerked up to find Aramis staring back at him blearily, his good eye too bright in his pale face. "Did someone die?" He actually sounded worried.

He looked even more so when Porthos laughed wildly, tears still cascading down his cheeks. He couldn't speak, and so he did the only thing he could think of; he reached out, took Aramis's face in his hands, and kissed him fiercely, a prayer of thanks on his tongue.

Chapter Text

Aramis made a weak sound of shock but didn't pull away. When Porthos at last broke the kiss, Aramis's eyes were tightly closed. He kept his hand clasped against Aramis's jaw, afraid to let go. The pulse beneath his palm was proof Aramis was alive, despite everything. "Aramis?" he asked hesitantly, wondering if he'd made a mistake, been too hasty.

Without opening his eyes, Aramis said weakly, "I'm dead, aren't I?"

"Of course not!" Porthos said, aghast. What on earth could he possibly mean by that?

"Dreaming, then," said Aramis, eyes still firmly closed.

"What? No, you're not!" Porthos insisted, not sure what to do. He hadn't expected this. Aramis had to be delusional, and yet he sounded perfectly normal, albeit very weak.

"Must be," Aramis said calmly, looking up at last and peering curiously at him. His eyes looked glazed, gleaming in the firelight. "That certainly doesn't happen in real life. I've obviously gone insane and have imagined this whole scene. Though," he added, grimacing, "You'd think I'd have the good sense to dream myself in one piece."

Porthos didn't know whether to laugh or cry. "Aramis, it's me. I'm really here. I killed the men who had you. You've been unconscious for two days."

Aramis was shaking his head. "You can't have," he explained evenly, resting his head against Porthos's hand, which he still hadn't moved. "Porthos is with Flea. I saved her for him. They'll be happy together. Don't look so sad," he said, a note of sincere concern entering his voice as he caught Porthos's distraught expression. "This is an excellent dream, as they go." With that, he closed his eyes and promptly passed out.

Porthos sat frozen, staring at him in shock. He let his hands lip from Aramis's face to rest lightly on his chest, just above his heart. The steady beat helped him gather his newly scattered thought.

This was not what he had expected. Between the relief at Aramis's fever breaking and the shock of speaking with him, Porthos has gone numb. How could Aramis think it was a dream? Did he truly believe Porthos cared so little for him? Even if he had been in love with Flea, he would ever have left Aramis to die. Never, never, never. How could Aramis not know that?

Anger stirred dully in his chest, burning away some of the numbness. Aramis had misjudged him, it seemed. He hadn't trusted him enough to tell him how he felt and he hadn't enough faith in him to realize that Porthos would always come for him. He had left, and expected Porthos to simply carry on with his life as if he had never existed. Porthos had some things to say about that. Somehow, he would get it through Aramis's thick skull that he had been a complete idiot, and force him to see that if he ever tried a stunt like that again, Porthos was going to kill him himself.

Satisfied with his plan, he sat back, the anger draining away. Regret was creeping in to take its place. Had he really never given Aramis any reason to hope that his affections might be returned? Had he seemed so aloof that even when confronted with what should have been concrete proof Aramis still couldn't believe it?

Maybe ambushing him the moment he woke up like that hadn't been the best idea, but Porthos had not been entirely in control of his actions. Nevertheless. When Aramis awoke again he would take it slower, make him understand how things were. Whatever it took, he would convince Aramis that this was real.

Athos slipped into the tavern silently, tipping his head down to keep his eyes shadowed by the brim of his hat. He'd decided the Fox's tavern was as good a place as any to start looking. Glancing around, he wondered if he hadn't been mistaken. The room was nearly empty. What few patrons there were sat alone, drinking steadily and not making conversation. There was an air of unfulfilled expectation.

Athos stalked to the bar and ordered a bottle of wine before making his way over to the corner. He didn't actually drink, merely went through the motions, intent on deciding who to confront with his inquiries. He got the sense that he only had one shot at this. Once the others realized he was asking questions, they would disperse. He had to choose correctly the first time.

His choice was made for him when someone slid into the seat next to his own. He glanced around, muscles tensing in case it was an enemy. He didn't know whether the Fox had identified him as being in league with Porthos, but he had to be prepared for anything.

It wasn't an enemy. A gap-toothed smile was sent his way and he relaxed, recognizing the old man who had been so keen on telling stories. "You're back," the man said, reaching uninvited for the wine bottle. Athos did not stop him. "The Pirate's not 'ere, you know. 'E left town, I 'eard."

"He's not the only one who's left, it appears," Athos said cautiously, indicating the Fox's vacant table. "There is a story there, I presume?"

The old man's grin widened. "You c'n bet there is!" he said eagerly. "Would you be wantin' to 'ear it?" Athos nodded his willingness, try not to seem overly curious. It wouldn't do to seem too interested this early in the game, not if he wanted to have any chance of finding Porthos or Aramis.

"Well," the old man said, lowering his voice conspiratorially as he leaned in, "All I've 'eard so far is whispers, but near as I can tell, the big bad Black Fox is no more."

"No more?" asked Athos, unable to hide his surprise. "What happened to him?"

The man glanced around, as if checking for unwelcome listeners, but no one was paying them any mind. "There may be no truth to the matter, but from what I 'eard, he crossed blades with the Pirate, and only one of 'em walked away." He glanced significantly at the empty table.

"Dead?"

The old man shrugged. "So I've 'eard. No one will confirm it, see, 'cause it's not the way things are normally done round 'ere. Whoever kills the head must take 'is place. But from all accounts, the Pirate scarpered. Didn't want the job. No one's seen 'im since."

"Then why kill him?" Athos asked, desperate for answers. "Are you sure he even survived?"

"Oh, he's alive," the old man said, a proud smile splitting his face. "That Fox was never a match for 'im. Listen, mate," he said, lowering his voice still more. "I 'eard it wasn't a power struggle, right? Some say the Fox made it personal. Took a friend of 'is, tortured 'im, like. So the Pirate, 'e went mad with rage. Tore the Fox to pieces with 'is bare hands, they say. Fox couldn't touch 'im. Then 'e just vanished."

"What about his friend?" Athos demanded, forgetting to sound casual. The old man didn't seemed to notice his urgency.

"Dunno," he shrugged. "I 'eard the Pirate went mad at the sight of 'is mangled body. Others say he rescued 'im. No way to know for sure. You alright?" he asked uneasily. Athos had the feeling his face had gone white in the dim light.

"Where did this all take place?" he asked, feeling disconnected from his body as he tried desperately to drown out the images his mind was conjuring of Porthos kneeling beside Aramis's body, eyes dead.

"Down by th' docks," the man told him uncertainly. "Some warehouse or another. Hey, where're you going?" he called after Athos, who had risen and was already making his way to the door. He would go to the docks and see if anyone there had seen anything. Porthos, at least, was alive, and Athos was going to find him. He should never have left him to come on his own. Though if Aramis was dead, he wondered how much of Porthos there would be to find.

Half an hour later, Aramis's eyes fluttered open again. Before he could speak, Porthos put a hand over his mouth and said, "No, this is not a dream and you are not dead." Aramis stared at him in confusion. Porthos noted that his eyes looked clearer this time. Perhaps he didn't remember what he said before.

Cautiously, he removed his hand, letting it slip to rest against Aramis's neck. "Porthos?" Aramis asked, voice full of pain. "What are you doing here? You shouldn't be here, it isn't safe!" Aramis was breathing heavily, eyes darting around the room.

"Aramis, it's alright, I'm fine," Porthos murmured reassuringly, lifting his hand to run his fingers through Aramis's thick hair. He kept the other out of sight, not wanting Aramis to see the bandage wrapped around his palm that he'd forgotten to change. It was probably fine, but he didn't want to worry him. Not when he'd just assured him he was fine. "There's no one else here. I killed the men who took you. We're at an inn." Aramis calmed slightly at this, but his eyes still flitted restlessly.

"Why are you here?" he asked eventually.

Porthos stared down at him in bewilderment. "Why wouldn't I be?" he cried. "You can't honestly believe I would've left you to die?" Aramis's eyes dropped from his, and Porthos realized that was exactly what Aramis had expected. He'd thought as much, but it hurt like a knife to the ribs to be proved right.

"You shouldn't have come back for me," Aramis said hoarsely. "It was dangerous. Why bother?"

"Why bother-?" Porthos spluttered, but Aramis was still speaking.

"I saved Flea. You should have left me and gone with her. You'd have been happy. Though I suppose she doesn't mind waiting for you."

Porthos found his voice. "No one is waiting for me," he said firmly. "And if you thought I'd be happy with Flea and leave you to be tortured to death, you're a bigger idiot than I thought."

"Why wouldn't I think that?" Aramis asked tiredly. "You love her. You shouldn't have bothered coming after those men. You could've been killed. You should go back to Flea. She'll make you happy."

"Why wouldn't you?" Porthos fought to keep from growling. He didn't want to upset Aramis when he had just woken, but the man's cavalier attitude about what he perceived as his lack of worth was agonizing to witness. "Perhaps because I expected you to think better of me than that! How could you ever think I would just leave you there? I went after them because I would never leave you alone, Aramis! I would never, even if it meant I was going to die too. I would never abandon you!" He heard the weight of accusation in his own words. Aramis looked stricken, as if the air had suddenly been crushed from his lungs.

"How would it have felt," he went on mercilessly. "If it had been me to be captured, and just before I turned to you and said, 'Go to your latest mistress. I want you to be happy.' What the hell would you have done in my place?" He spat the final words. Aramis's face was white as a sheet, and he saw suddenly he had gone too far again. This was meant to be a joyous reunion. He was beyond elated that Aramis was awake. The accusations could wait. He took a deep breath, calming himself with great difficulty.

"I don't need Flea to make me happy," he said at last, meeting Aramis's searching gaze. "I don't love her, you idiot. Not like I love you."

Aramis's mouth dropped open and he stared at Porthos in utter shock. Taking advantage of his confusion, Porthos leaned in and kissed him full on the mouth. It was not fierce like the first kiss had been; it was gentle, inviting. He wasn't good with words, and he didn't know how to tell Aramis everything he felt. So he tried to convey it all through this kiss.

After an agonizing moment, Aramis responded, one hand pulling Porthos down to him. When Aramis's breathing hitched, Porthos pulled back, noting the pain written across the other man's drawn face.

"Are you alright?" Porthos asked worriedly. In his rush to convince Aramis of his feelings, he'd momentarily forgotten his injuries. He fumbled for the tankard of water sitting beside the bed and held it to Aramis's lips, allowing him to drink before laying back weakly.

"Are you sure I'm not dead?" Aramis asked, attempting to smile. His eyes met Porthos's own, searching for answers to questions he hadn't asked.

Porthos reached out and placed a hand against his cheek gently. Aramis flinched for a moment before pressing his face against it, eyes closing. Apparently he'd decided that whether he was dead or not didn't really matter to him anymore.

"I'm sorry," Porthos whispered, voice breaking as it all caught up to him again. All his anger was temporarily swept away as he saw how close he had come to never having the chance to say all the things he wanted to. "I'm sorry for everything you endured. I didn't know. Somehow I didn't see. I should've seen…" he swallowed hard, bowing his head. "I should've known. And all the things I said… I should not have said those things, Aramis," he said desperately, needing forgiveness he didn't feel worthy of. "And I was starting to grasp it but then we were attacked, and you were captured, and I realized I couldn't lose you, not you, and D'Artagnan said it was suicide but I didn't care, I had to tell you how sorry I was, and then I found you and you almost died anyway and-"

"Porthos," Aramis said as forcefully as he could, cutting off Porthos's panicked apology. Porthos glanced up at him fearfully, relaxing slightly at the expression of amused bewilderment in Aramis's eyes. "Take a deep breath," he instructed. Porthos obeyed, feeling slightly less anxious, even though the motion pulled at his injured side. He suddenly felt rather ridiculous, being taken care of when he was not the one injured. Well, badly injured, he amended as his side burned again. "This story sounds rather long, and I am tired," Aramis said. Porthos wanted to kick himself. Aramis should be resting, not listening to him blather on!

Aramis waved off the second apology, wincing as he moved his arm. "It's fine. Besides, I seem to have grasped the important part of it all." He looked uncertain for a moment, a rekindled hope shining in his eyes, and Porthos on impulse leaned forward and kissed him again.

"Yes, that," Aramis said somewhat breathlessly as they broke apart. "The rest seems rather unimportant right now, compared to that." Porthos chuckled and Aramis smiled weakly up at him. He looked exhausted.

"You must rest now," Porthos said gently, and Aramis nodded.

"Porthos…?" he began, looking nervous. Porthos looked at him curiously. Aramis glanced at the space beside him on the bed, and the unspoken question hovered in the air. Smiling, Porthos carefully climbed into the bed beside him, ignoring the protests from his own injuries. He wrapped his arm gently around Aramis's shoulders as the smaller man dropped off to sleep, feeling at peace for the first time in days.

Chapter Text

Porthos was woken by a hand on his shoulder. Looking around, he noted that Aramis was still sleeping peacefully, his breathing even and steady, looking better than he had since he found him. He turned his head the other way and found himself face to face with the boy, whose name he still hadn't asked. He swallowed a desire to shout at him. That was the first time he'd slept dreamlessly since he'd found Aramis.

"What is it?" he whispered, trying not to wake Aramis.

"Someone's been asking around about him," the boy muttered, jerking his head at Aramis's sleeping form. Panic gripped Porthos's heart. There could still be men loyal to the Fox looking to recapture Aramis. Or perhaps he hadn't killed all the English spies. It wasn't like he'd bothered to ask their nationalities. He carefully disentangled himself from Aramis, aware of the boy's watching eyes and wondering what he was thinking about, finding Porthos clutching Aramis in his arms. Then he decided he didn't really care.

He motioned to the hallway and the boy exited the room. Porthos glanced back at Aramis before he left, making sure he was still sleeping soundly, before closing the door quietly.

"What can you tell me about this man?" he asked the boy.

"He showed up yesterday, asking questions in the slums, asking if'n anyone's seen some Englishmen around with a prisoner. Asking after Porthos the Pirate. That's you, ain't it?" Porthos nodded, thinking furiously. "'E looks dangerous," the boy added.

He'd have to eliminate this threat before he found them. "Do you know where he is now?" he asked the boy gravely.

"Down by the docks, askin' around still," the boy replied promptly. "I could take you there." Porthos nodded and moved to reenter the room, but the boy stopped him.

"Wait! I have something 'ere, think it might belong to your friend," he told him, rummaging in his threadbare breeches. A moment later he withdrew his hand, gold glinting between his fingers.

The cross Queen Anne had given Aramis.

Porthos took it gently, feeling a confusing mix of jealousy and joy. He found in that moment it wasn't the idea of Aramis with a woman that bothered him, but the idea of Aramis caring for the Queen. What if Aramis actually loved her? What would he do? Nevertheless, he knew Aramis would rejoice to have the cross returned to him, and felt a rush of gratitude to the boy for returning it.

"I found it down with all them bodies," the boy said by way of explanation. Porthos knew he must have gone down to loot the corpses he had left behind. He didn't blame the boy; there was a time when he'd have done no less.

"Thank you," he said simply, slipping the chain about his neck and tucking it into his shirt for the time being. "Now we've got to do something about this stranger." He noted the way the boy's eyes lit up when he said 'we.'

"Run for Laurette," he instructed, thinking quickly. The healer, as it turned out, lived only a short distance away. "Tell her there's something I need to deal with and I need her to stay with Aramis. And tell her his fever broke," he added as the boy darted away. Really ought to learn his name, he thought wearily as he reentered the room and began buckling on his sword belt as he waited for the healer to arrive, steadfastly ignoring the way his fingers fumbled at the clasps. Exhaustion was creeping up on him.

Once he was sure Aramis was safe in her capable hands, he followed the boy out into the streets of Calais. Before he'd left, Laurette told Porthos that now the fever had broken there was every reason to expect Aramis would make a full recovery. This knowledge merely bolstered Porthos's resolve to protect him.

It wasn't long before they stood concealed together in a shadowy alley, sheltered beneath an overhang from the pounding rain. "He'll pass by 'ere soon," the boy told him confidently. He grunted an acknowledgment and settled in to wait.

"What's your name, by the way?" he asked eventually. The lad turned surprised eyes on him. Porthos bet this was the first time anyone had asked him that in ages. "It's Gerard," he said at last. Porthos reached over and offered him his hand, smiling when the boy's eyes widened further.

"Nice to meet you, Gerard," he said, shaking his hand firmly. The boy flushed with pleasure as he turned his attention back to the street.

Soon after, Gerard hissed a warning and Porthos felt himself tense in preparation. A man in black, wearing a sodden hat than hung over his eyes, was tromping through across the mouth of the alley. At Porthos's nod, Gerard ran out and bumped into the man, who turned as he ran away, likely assuming the boy had cut his purse. That was all Porthos needed to grab him and haul him into the alley, a knife to his throat.

He hadn't really expected resistance, so the elbow that nearly broke his nose was a surprise. If he was in better condition, the man would never have managed to get a blow in. He staggered back, momentarily stunned, but leapt back in before the other man could draw a weapon, shoving him against the wall with all his strength. The man groaned but managed to drive his fist into Porthos's side, just missing his recently stitched wound. It still hurt like the devil, though, and Porthos slammed the man against the wall again, driving the air from his lungs. Before he could recover, Porthos was upon him, knife once more pressed to his throat.

"Who are you and what do you want?" he growled into the man's ear.

'Porthos?" asked a familiar voice. Stunned, Porthos lowered the knife and shoved the hat back to reveal Athos's relieved expression. "I thought I'd never find you!"

"You're the one who's been asking questions?" Porthos asked dumbly, still rather shocked.

"Never mind that," Athos said impatiently. "Have you found anything? People say you killed the Fox, but that's all I could find!"

"Yeah, I found something," Porthos said slowly, noting Gerard had returned. Athos was staring at him, anxiety written on his normally blank features. "I found Aramis. He's at an inn." Porthos pointed back in the direction they'd come from.

For a moment, Athos didn't respond. He closed his eyes and then asked, voice tight, "And? Is he… how is he?"

"Healer says he'll be alright," Porthos said softly. Athos didn't open his eyes, but he broke into the brightest smile Porthos had ever seen on the grim man's face.

The first thing Aramis was aware of when he woke was pain. It felt like his entire body had been lit on fire, and with every breath more fire was drawn into his lungs. Most of the agony seemed concentrated in his back. After a minute, the pain eased and he could breathe more easily, though it did not go away entirely. It was then that he realized he was in a bed, and it all started coming back to him. The forest, the torture, Porthos cutting him free, telling him he loved him, kissing him.

Porthos kissed me.

For a moment, as he remembered that, the pain couldn't touch him. It crashed back as he realized the other man was not in the bed with him, though he was sure he had been when he'd fallen asleep. He didn't want to open his eyes and look around, worried that he'd find it had all been a dream. So he lay quietly until he became aware that there were voices speaking softly nearby. He listened, curious, and caught Porthos's deep tone, sounding grim. Another voice answered and Aramis's eyes opened in shock. That sounded like Athos.

It was Athos. Aramis could see him standing in front of the window, listening intently to Porthos and occasionally asking a question. They were speaking too quietly for Aramis to hear them, but he imagined Porthos was filling him in on what had happened.

It was Athos who noticed him watching. To Aramis's surprise, a broad grin stretched across his friend's face as he pushed past Porthos towards the bed. Aramis blinked, nonplussed. He couldn't recall ever seeing Athos smile like that in all the years he had known him. Maybe he was still asleep.

"Aramis!" Athos had dropped into the only chair in the room, pulled up right beside the bed. A pile of splintered wood in the corner indicated that there had once been two, but Aramis decided not to ask questions he didn't wish to know the answers to.

"Athos," he said, smiling back at the abnormally cheerful man.

"It is good to see you, my friend," Athos said, clasping his hand briefly. "How do you feel?" The question reminded Aramis of the pain burning through his body, and he struggled not to groan aloud. His back felt as if he had been flayed. Which, oh wait, he nearly had been.

"I've been better." That sounded less worrying than 'I feel like a herd of horses trampled me under their hooves and then left me for the wolves.' His face must have given him away though, for Porthos grabbed something off a table and walked over. It was some sort of tea. He held Aramis's head and helped him drink, ignoring his protests that he was perfectly capable of holding a damn cup. It tasted perfectly foul. Still, he was grateful for Porthos's assistance. It would've been humiliating to find he wasn't actually capable of holding a teacup.

When he was finished, Porthos placed the cup on the table beside the bed and stood awkwardly for a moment. With Athos occupying the chair, the only place to sit was on the bed or the floor. After a second of indecision, Porthos shot an oddly defiant look at Athos and sat down on the bed, close enough that he was pressed up against Aramis's less injured side. A small voice in Aramis's head sounded it's appreciation. Athos raised an eyebrow at their proximity but said nothing.

Porthos had apparently been in the middle of explaining Aramis's rescue, so as he continued the story Aramis dozed lightly. The tea had taken the edge off his pain and Porthos was warm against him. He thought he heard something about Porthos fighting, or being injured, and he tried to force himself to pay attention, but he was beginning to suspect the tea contained some kind of sedative, and he couldn't focus on the words.

Suddenly he realized Athos was speaking to him. He jerked awake to find Athos standing beside the bed with his hat on. "Are you leaving?" he mumbled tiredly. He hated how exhausted fevers made a man. He struggled to stay awake, cursing the damn tea.

Athos gave him a small smile. "D'Artagnan was worrying himself sick when I left, and Treville and the others will want to know how you fare." And that you found me alive, Aramis thought wryly. "I'd best return with the good news before D'Artagnan tries to ride out here and splits his stitches."

"Bet I could've done them better," Aramis murmured drowsily. He felt Porthos's laugh rumbling through the bed and smiled.

"I don't doubt it, love," Porthos said, and the bed dipped as he leaned over and kissed his temple. Aramis's eyes blinked open in surprise at the endearment and the open display of affection. He glanced nervously at Athos, who merely smiled again. Well, he guessed long ago.

Athos pressed a pouch into Porthos's hand. It clinked. "For expenses,' he muttered. He tipped his hat to them and was at the door before Porthos could protest. "Once D'Artagnan is well enough, we will return to fetch you. Stay here until then." He glanced around the dingy chamber. "Well, perhaps not here," he added with a meaningful look at the bag of coins.

Porthos chuckled and rose to his feet, clearly intending to manhandle Athos into a farewell embrace. He made it two steps across the room before his face paled noticeably and he swayed. Athos stepped forward with a look of concern, grabbing his arm before he could fall to his knees. Porthos twisted in his grip and glared fiercely at Aramis. "Don't even think about it," he snarled.

Aramis froze in his attempts to fling himself out of the bed. The effects of the tea were a thing of the past. Adrenaline was coursing through him, fueled by a desperate fear. "What happened?" he asked, deciding to obey the order only because if he kept trying to rise from the bed he'd likely pass out himself. Blackness was already creeping across the edges of his vision as he tried desperately to fight through the pain. "Are you injured?" Terror had coursed through his stomach when Porthos had faltered, chilling him from within.

"It's nothing," Porthos said evasively, shrugging Athos's hand off his shoulder. He was standing straight and tall once more, his stance giving no indication that anything was wrong, but Aramis would not be fooled again. He could see by Athos's narrowed eyes that he was not the only one worried.

"Porthos…" Athos said quietly. He didn't speak again, waiting for Porthos's explanation.

"I'm just tired, that's all," Porthos muttered. "Haven't been sleeping well."

"Have you been eating?" Athos asked evenly, but his sharp look belied his calm words.

"I am fine." Porthos glared at Athos challengingly. Athos met the glare with composure, refusing to look away. It was Porthos who broke first, letting out a heavy sigh and glancing at the floor. "Fine. I'll eat more, okay? And I'll get some sleep."

Athos raised one eyebrow and nodded his head toward the bed. Aramis forced his body to move to the side so Porthos would have room. Porthos rolled his eyes towards the ceiling and muttered something about 'interfering idiots,' but consented to climb into the bed. Athos watched until Porthos was settled before finally turning to leave.

"Look after him," he said gravely. When Porthos opened his mouth to reply, he shot him a withering look. "Not you."

"I will," Aramis promised, though his words were less forceful than he had meant them to be. The tea had made a vicious comeback and he could barely keep his eyes open. Athos nodded at them both in farewell and swept out, closing the door securely behind him.

Aramis shifted slightly to curl into Porthos, intent on staying awake and demanding he take better care of himself, but he failed to suppress a soft groan as the motion pulled at his injuries. Porthos leaned his head forward until his cheek rested by Aramis's, his beard tickling Aramis's neck. Porthos's hand was stroking gently through his hair. "Sleep, love," Porthos murmured fondly. Aramis remembered how tired he was. But there was something he had to do first.

"You too," he managed to get out. Porthos nodded, still running his fingers across Aramis's scalp. Soothed by the motion, he fell asleep.

Chapter Text

When Aramis next awoke, he found the pain was more endurable. It still felt like he was lying on a bed of hot coals, but at least he was able to keep himself from groaning aloud and the urge to vomit had subsided. Small victories.

Porthos was no longer in the bed with him, but he could hear him moving about the room, so he didn't feel there was any urgency in approaching full consciousness. It sounded like he was changing clothes from the rustling noises. Then his heart jumped to his throat as he heard Porthos's breath hiss out of him in a way that told him instantly the other man was in pain.

Conditioning kicked in. He was the doctor: his reactions in such situations had long since become habit. He tried to sit bolt upright, ready to go check Porthos for whatever injuries he had been concealing.

Of course, habit failed to take into account his own injuries, and he barely made it off the bed before he felt something pull in his back. He fell back with a choked gasp, trying in vain to discern whether he'd torn his stitches. He couldn't feel any fresh wetness to indicate bleeding, but his vision darkened around the edges at the sheer degree of the pain the simple motion had caused him. It took until the pain began to subside for him to realize Porthos was kneeling beside the bed, worry etched on his features.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" he growled when Aramis finally looked over at him. "You're torn half to hell and you think sitting up is a good idea. Christ, Aramis." He lifted one hand and ran it through his curly hair distractedly. Aramis noted a scabbed cut on his collarbone and recalled the reason for his aborted attempt at rising.

"You lied. You said you were just tired, but you're not. You're injured!" he said, managing not to gasp the words out. He was still breathing heavily from the unexpected pain.

Porthos stared at him like he'd gone mad. "So are you!"

Aramis rolled his eyes. "Obviously" he ground out. "But I wasn't aware you were as well. You told Athos it was nothing. Let me see."

"It's taken care of," Porthos said dismissively. "There's nothing to worry about."

Aramis tried not to let the words bother him. He knew Porthos was worried he would strain himself, but he'd never kept Aramis from a wound before. His hurt must have shown in his expression, for Porthos's face softened and he rose to sit on the bed. "You'll just fret until you get a look at it, I suppose," he said with an exasperated expression, unwinding a bandage wrapped around his side. Aramis took some comfort in the fact that the bandage was clean and white. Clearly the injury was no longer a danger.

Porthos got the bandage off and Aramis stared at the neat row of stitches just below Porthos's ribs on his left side. The injury had been cared for, but Aramis could see where the dagger that had caused it must have landed and fought a fresh urge to vomit. Half an inch up or down and Porthos would be dead. Where had this come from?

"Laurette did almost as good with the stitching as you would've," Porthos said, but there was a nervous edge to his tone like he could guess exactly what Aramis was thinking.

"When did you get this?" Aramis asked quietly, trying to recall if Porthos had been injured in the ambush. But no, he said the healing woman had stitched it. Which must mean that the wound had been inflicted while Porthos was trying to rescue him.

"I fought the Fox," Porthos admitted sheepishly, though Aramis could hear pride lurking in his tone.

"And you let him land a blow this serious?" he asked, dismayed. He hadn't thought the Fox good enough to injure Porthos this badly. He noted the other man's eyes flick away self-consciously. "The Fox didn't do this, did he?"

"Not exactly," Porthos confessed. Aramis raised an eyebrow at him in his best Athos impression until he continued. "While I was fighting the Fox, one of his henchmen decided to be a treacherous swine and I had to take him out. I may have, ah, fallen on the dagger during the fight." He grimaced self-deprecatingly, but Aramis was not appeased yet.

"What did this treachery consist of?" he asked, sensing the answer before it was given.

Porthos looked away, annoyance flitting across his features. "He tried to kill you while I was distracted, alright? I had to stop him."

Aramis didn't know how to respond to that. He felt immensely guilty at the thought of Porthos putting himself in danger for his sake, and then even guiltier when he realized Porthos had probably felt the same way when Aramis gave himself up. What a pair they made.

He reached out tentatively to touch the healing wound and hissed as pain shot through his arm and shoulder. Why was every part of him useless?

Porthos caught hold of his arm and laid it gently back on the bed, annoyance gone. "You broke your collarbone, idiot. Keep your hands to yourself." He smirked a little at the last comment, reaching past Aramis for something on the table beside the bed. Aramis wanted to make some witty retort, but he was worried he would throw up if he opened his mouth.

"Drink this." Porthos had another cup of tea in his hands. Aramis decided it was worth risking opening his mouth to protest.

"I don't want it," he said mutinously, glaring at the innocuous cup. "It tastes foul and it will put me to sleep. You're just trying to avoid talking about what happened. You drink it."

He'd expected Porthos to be irritated, so the rumbling laugh that shook his friend threw him. "I'd forgotten what a terrible patient you are," he teased, and faced with that blinding grin Aramis found himself unable to resist smiling back. "Just drink it. Please?"

Aramis stared into laughing brown eyes and sighed reluctantly. "Alright. Only because you asked nicely." He allowed Porthos to lift his head and help him drink, despising his own helplessness. "But this conversation is not over." He glared significantly at Porthos's side and Porthos raised his hands in a conciliatory gesture.

"Let's agree to continue when you're in better condition than this," he said reasonably, and Aramis nodded, already feeling sleepy. The tea might taste foul, but it was powerful stuff.

"Promise we will talk about it," he asked, aware that his words were already beginning to slur. Porthos smiled fondly and ruffled a hand through is hair.

"Cross my heart," he said solemnly, eyes twinkling, and Aramis nodded his satisfaction, eyelids falling shut. He felt Porthos's lips against his forehead as he drifted off.

Porthos lay still for a long time after Aramis fell asleep. He seriously considered drinking some of Aramis's tea himself, but he was worried it would put him into so deep a sleep that he couldn't wake himself up.

He shifted gently, careful not to wake Aramis. He didn't want to remember the last time he had slept. Flashes of blood, light catching on blades, Aramis crying out in pain…

He shook his head, trying to dislodge the images, but they remained. The nightmare was never the same, but it always ended the same way: him watching, helpless, as Aramis died painfully. He couldn't stay asleep longer than an hour without being woken by the horrible visions. The second time he'd woken in a panic and nearly lashed out at Aramis's sleeping form before he remembered himself. He couldn't risk sleeping if there was a chance he could injure Aramis.

The man in question stirred in his sleep, a frown creasing his face as he shifted restlessly. Porthos moved one hand soothingly across his arm until he settled once again. He wasn't happy that Aramis had found out about his injury. There was no need for the other man to worry about him, and he surely would.

He was glad Aramis had drunk the tea when he'd offered it. Privately, he had to confess it might have been motivated at least in part by his desire not to discuss things. He knew Aramis would want to talk about everything that had happened, and he knew in the long run it had to happen, but he wasn't ready to have that conversation just yet. He could still feel anger stir in his stomach if he thought about it all for too long, and he didn't want to get into a serious argument before Aramis was recovered enough for it. He didn't want to say anything else he might regret. The last argument was still too fresh in his mind.

He supposed he ought to go to the kitchens for some food. He didn't want to eat, wasn't hungry at all, but he also didn't want to worry Aramis further. The food tasted like ashes in his mouth, but he would force himself to eat if only to care for Aramis. He couldn't afford to nearly collapse again like he had when Athos left. That had been irresponsible on his part. He might not dare sleep, but he could eat.

Warmed by the sleeping body in his arms, he accidentally drifted off.

Blood on the walls, on the floor, on his hands… so much blood. Whips cracking, the smell of burned flesh in his nostrils, a man leaning over Aramis's limp form, bloody dagger in his hands…

Porthos woke with a cry and lashed out blindly, missing Aramis by a hair's breadth. He jerked away from Aramis before he could hurt him with his thrashing about and staggered from the bed to collapse into the chair, head in his hands. This was precisely why he couldn't sleep.

Porthos didn't understand what was going on. He wasn't normally prone to nightmares. Aramis had terrible nightmares sometimes, but Porthos wasn't accustomed to having his sleep haunted by gruesome visions. He reached out a trembling hand and laid it against Aramis's chest just to feel the reassuring beat beneath his fingers. Watching Aramis die over and over in his dreams was too much to bear. He would do whatever was necessary to keep himself awake, and to keep Aramis from asking too many questions just yet. At least he had plenty of tea.

Over the next few days, Aramis spent much of his time asleep, recovering his strength. Waking up always brought with it waves of pain that were almost unendurable. He tried to keep it from showing, knowing it would just alarm Porthos, but he failed more often than he succeeded.

During this period, Porthos was extremely attentive. He always seemed to be touching Aramis in some way, and Aramis nearly always fell asleep and woke in his arms. It was gratifying and more than welcome, but a little unexpected. Porthos was not the type to be so clingy, but Aramis was far too exhausted to think much about it.

He also consumed rather alarming quantities of tea. Porthos pressed it upon him every time he so much as winced, and he suspected it was to keep him quiet. But the large man seemed so anxious and worn that he drank the tea without question, hoping Porthos would get some rest when he did.

Gradually, as the pain became more manageable and he spent more of his time awake, he began to notice that Porthos looked unwell. Dark circles surrounded his eyes, and his skin was pale. Whenever they ate, Porthos seemed to force the food down his throat while insisting that Aramis eat as much as he could. He'd lost weight and Aramis doubted he'd been sleeping at all. He looked far worse than the day he'd nearly fallen seeing Athos out, which told Aramis he had seriously downplayed his condition.

About a week after he'd woken from his fever, Aramis determined that he must stay up that night and find out why Porthos wasn't sleeping. He felt more alert than he had in days, and so when the time came to sleep he allowed his breathing to even out and deepen, lying utterly still in Porthos's arms. After about ten minutes, he felt Porthos relax as he, too, fell asleep, and Aramis opened his eyes. He would find the cause of Porthos's deterioration.

Barely twenty minutes later, Porthos awoke with a start. His wide eyes flicked urgently around the room and his breathing sped up. When he noticed Aramis watching him he frowned in confusion. "What are you doing up?' he asked, voice heavy with exhaustion. "Did I wake you?"

"No, you didn't," Aramis said, frowning at him in concern. "Does that happen every time you fall asleep?"

Porthos shifted beneath him, sending a sharp pain through his collarbone, but Aramis ignored it. "It's nothing," Porthos said, injecting a note of false cheer into his voice. "Just bad dreams, that's all. Go to sleep."

He reached out to pull Aramis's head to his chest, but Aramis batted his hand away and pushed himself into a sitting position, ignoring the aches that sprang up all across his body. Porthos sat too, looking at him in concern.

"Please don't lie to me, Porthos," he sighed, shifting as he tried to find a less painful position. "It's obvious you aren't sleeping well, and you've hardly eaten anything. Are you trying to make yourself sick?"

"I won't get sick," Porthos scoffed.

Aramis raised his eyebrows. "I hope not," he said seriously. "For I'm in no state to go running for a doctor if you do." Porthos blanched with fear at the thought of Aramis trying to care for him in his condition.

"It won't come to that." His voice was quiet and sure.

"It will if you don't take care of yourself," Aramis pointed out, allowing his concern to color his voice. "If something is bothering you, we should discuss it. You shouldn't let it fester inside until it makes you ill. Do you not trust me?"

Porthos's eyes shot up in horror. "Of course I do," he said, aghast at the suggestion. Aramis raised his eyebrows questioningly. "It's just, just- I don't know where to begin." His voice sounded small, almost childlike. "Can't we… can't it wait until morning?"

There was hope in his eyes as he looked at Aramis, who eventually nodded. "Very well," he said. "But I believe this is a conversation that must be had, Porthos. It can be delayed until morning, but no longer. I won't watch you waste away."

With that said, he allowed Porthos to pull him against his chest and settle the, both back down on the bed. Tired and worried, he drifted off with the steady beat of Porthos's heart sounding in his ear.

Chapter Text

Porthos nearly jumped out of his skin at the sound of the door flying open. He had a gun trained on the intruder before he realized it was Gerard. He lowered the gun and almost smiled before he noted the boy's wide eyes and frantic expression.

"They've found you," he hissed urgently, looking behind him as if 'they' were about the burst through the door. Which perhaps they were.

Porthos wasted no time. "Who?" he asked urgently, leaping from the bed. Aramis woke with a groan, but Porthos didn't have time to worry about him. He grabbed his sword belt and pulled on his jacket as quickly as he could. After a moment's hesitation, he slipped the queen's cross into an inner pocket. He didn't want Aramis to see it just yet.

"Roland Tauzin, the Fox's second-in-command!" There was fear in the boy's voice. "He's on 'is way here. People are upset about the way you took out the Fox, sayin' it wasn't done right. So Tauzin's gonna kill you and prove 'e should take the Fox's place!"

Porthos swore violently as he scrambled to gather all the things he'd left strewn around the room. A glance at the bed showed Aramis had pushed himself up, a determined expression on his face. He made it to his feet but didn't seem able to get much further than that.

"Where are my things?" he asked breathlessly, looking around the room as he pulled one of Porthos's spare shirts over his head. Gerard ran over and gathered them from the corner, where Porthos had left them wrapped in his sash. Wincing, Aramis managed to buckle his sword belt on with Gerard's help, hooking his pistol on securely. He looked a tad ridiculous in his too-big shirt and missing his customary hat, but they didn't have time to worry about looking presentable.

"Is there anywhere we can go?" Porthos asked Gerard, slinging the hastily packed bag over his shoulder and moving to Aramis. He quickly fashioned the sash into a makeshift sling for his left arm to keep the injured shoulder from moving.

The boy nodded rapidly. "There's a place I know. I c'n take you, but we must leave, now!" Porthos hesitated for a heartbeat, loathe to let the lad out himself in any more danger on his account, but he didn't know where else he could go. Aramis was too injured still to travel far, and he wasn't in top condition himself.

"Alright," he agreed, pulling Aramis's right arm across his shoulder. Ideally, he would have simply carried Aramis, but in his weakened state he wasn't entirely sure he could manage it. He wrapped his arm around the smaller man's waist, taking most of his weight and trying to ignore the hiss of pain than Aramis tried to strangle. They didn't have time to worry about that.

They slipped through the inn and out the back door into the predawn light. They moved rapidly down an alley. Aramis's breath was coming in harsh gasps and Gerard kept glancing behind them fearfully. Porthos knew they weren't moving fast enough, but what could he do?

Gerard led them down a narrow street and into another alley. They were almost to the end when Porthos heard footsteps behind them. He spun, forcing himself to ignore Aramis's pained cry.

Five men stood in the alley behind him. Gerard was staring at the large one in the center with horror, so Porthos supposed that was Tauzin. The man smiled cruelly, watching him. He seemed to be waiting for something, and Porthos realized he wanted to fight him properly.

Carefully, Porthos shrugged Aramis's arm from his shoulders and moved until he could lean him against the wall. "I can help," Aramis hissed, his right hand shifting towards the pistol hanging on his belt.

"Not a chance," Porthos growled, not even trying to hide his fear at the thought of his injured friend going into battle. "And don't you dare shoot them. Your hand is shaking, for Christ's sake! I can handle it." Aramis opened his mouth to argue further, but Porthos didn't stop to listen, stepping forward to face Tauzin and his goons.

These men were smart, he could tell right away. They didn't come at him one by one, giving him time to breath in between. The four thugs came at him en masse, daggers gleaming dully in the dim light. Porthos had his sword, and he took one out quickly, but he was left parrying desperately as the other three tried to run him through. He managed to kick on in the chest and send him reeling into the side of the alley, whirling to take on the other two while that one was down.

He dodged an attack from one, his free hand darting out to close on the man's wrist. He twisted violently and shoved forward, sinking the man's dagger deep into his own belly. He dispatched the other thug with a slash of his sword and turned to face the man who had fallen before, only to find him on the ground, clutching his chest. Gerard stood over him, Aramis's sword clenched in his trembling hand.

Porthos wanted to comfort the boy, but he didn't have time. Tauzin was still standing, and he was tiring. He flung himself at the enormous man, desperate to end this quickly.

Aramis watched with his heart in his throat as Porthos warily circled Tauzin. He hated how useless he was, hated knowing he couldn't stand beside Porthos and guard his back. Watching him fight the others had been bad enough, but he could tell from the way this man moved that he was the real threat, and Porthos was slower than usual.

He fought not to simply throw himself into the fray, knowing he would be more a hindrance than a help. His back burned ferociously and he felt lightheaded from the pain. He wouldn't be able to lift his sword, let alone use it. But when Tauzin's dagger sliced a line across Porthos's chest, he knew he couldn't just stand there and do nothing.

His gun was in his hand before he fully realized what he was doing, the motion automatic after so many years as a soldier. It was loaded; he could tell from the weight. His hand was shaking slightly, but he ignored it, focused on killing the man now pressing his advantage, forcing Porthos to give ground before him. He lifted the gun and aimed it at Tauzin's chest, waiting for the opportune moment. He saw the shot and took it.

The gun fell from his fingers as Porthos's pained cry cut through the air. Tauzin's spun to look at him, leaving himself momentarily undefended, and Porthos took the opening to jam his blade between the man's ribs, his other hand pressed against a bloodstain spreading across his side. Aramis had missed.

Aramis swayed back a step and felt his back connect heavily with the wall, sending dark spots dancing across his vision. He saw Gerard pick up his gun and offer it to him, but he stared at it blankly, unwilling to touch it. It had shot Porthos.

No. I shot Porthos.

The thought echoed unpleasantly in his head. The man in question was in front of him, speaking urgently, but Aramis could barely make out what he was saying. He didn't snap out of his daze until Porthos stooped as if to lift him over his shoulder.

"I can walk!" The words burst from him like the crack of a gun. Porthos grabbed his arm and hauled it around his shoulders once more.

"We need to go." His voice was hoarse, strained. Aramis felt ill.

"I'm sorry, Porthos, I didn't-"

"Don't worry about it," Porthos said, cutting him off. His face was already pale in the faint light. "Not the time. But next time I say I can handle it, trust me, dammit!"

He said nothing else during the journey, following Gerard silently through the streets as the city awoke.

By the time they reached Gerard's 'safe place' Porthos had gone very pale and wasn't so much supporting Aramis as being supported. Aramis could feel Porthos's strength giving out and called on his own reserves as they neared the building. His breath was coming in rapid gasps and he was clutching Aramis's arm with enough force that it hurt. His side was entirely soaked in blood.

Gerard picked the lock and they pushed through the door. Aramis managed to shut it behind them just as Porthos's knees gave out from under him. He dropped heavily to the floor, Aramis too weak to slow his descent. Terror cut through him as he dropped to the ground beside the unconscious man.

"Where is the woman who healed me?" he cried to Gerard as he tried to maneuver Porthos into a more comfortable position, which was difficult with only one arm.

"Sh-she's out of town until tomorrow!" the boy said, eyes wide with worry. Aramis cursed, trying to take deep breaths to calm himself and coughing as pain shot through his broken ribs.

"Do you know where to find a needle? Thread?" Gerard nodded rapidly. "Then bring some here. And clean water, if you can find it." The boy ran off and Aramis turned his attention back to Porthos. The bigger man was out cold and his side was still bleeding sluggishly. Guilt rose up in his mind like a snake, but the doctor in him bashed it over the head and strode to the fore. He pulled back Porthos's shirt and examined the wound dispassionately. He couldn't afford to be crippled by guilt right now.

The wound had bled profusely, but all things considered it could have been much worse. The bullet had merely clipped his side, driving through muscle to leave a long slice just below the fresh scar he had received while rescuing Aramis. Two injuries I'm responsible for. He glanced over at the cut on Porthos's chest as well, but it was so shallow it wouldn't even need stitches.

The bullet wound was thankfully not deep, but Porthos had lost more blood than Aramis was comfortable with due to his refusal to bind it before continuing. The rapid pace had caused his heart rate to speed up, pumping blood out of the wound. Aramis mopped up as much blood as he could with his own shirt before using it to apply pressure to the injury. Porthos didn't wake.

It wasn't long before Gerard returned with a bucket of water and the supplies Aramis had asked for. He requisitioned Porthos's own shirt as a rag to clean the wound before grabbing up the needle. It took him a long moment to realize he couldn't thread it on his own.

"I need you to thread this," he said bluntly, holding the needle and thread out. Gerard took it uncertainly. After several tries, he managed to get the needle threaded and passed it back. Aramis looked down at the wound with a sense of foreboding. How could he sew with only one hand?

"Gerard," he said softly, wishing he didn't have to ask this of the boy. "I need you to do something for me. I can't hold the wound closed and sew at the same time. I need you to hold the skin together while I work."

The lad looked sick at the thought but nodded, his face determined. Aramis was struck by the lad's bravery and found himself wondering if Porthos had been similar at that age. He told him where to put his hands to best hold the wound together. Once he was satisfied, he hunched over Porthos's still form, willing his hand not to shake again.

He did the worst stitching of his life that morning, but all that mattered at this point was that it would hold and prevent the man he loved from bleeding out for his mistake. He sat back when he was finished, instructing Gerard to try and get Porthos to drink something. He glanced around, finally taking in the building they had fled to.

It was a homely sort of cottage. The building was dilapidated and looked ready to fall down, but the room was clean and cozy, the furniture worn but sturdy. A small bed draped in mismatched bedclothes sat against the wall and the empty hearth had a small pile of firewood beside it.

"Where are we?" he asked, exhaustion catching up with him at last. His back felt like it was splitting along the many scabs that covered it and his chest ached abominably. He supposed he should be grateful he wasn't spitting up blood.

"Laurette's house," the boy replied, looking sheepish.

Aramis stared at him. "You're telling me we just broke into the home of the woman who saved my life, and Porthos's as well?" he asked, aghast.

"No, it's all right," Gerard said hurriedly. "She said I c'n come 'ere if ever I'm in trouble. She'd have said the same to you, I know it!"

Aramis groaned, swiping his good hand across his face. "Well, we're here now," he said heavily. He glanced at the bed against the wall, wondering if he could manage to get Porthos onto it. He had to try. He wasn't going to leave him on the floor.

"Will you help me get him on the bed?" Gerard nodded. Aramis nearly passed out in the process, but eventually they'd managed to shove Porthos's bulk onto the small bed. Aramis dropped heavily to the floor beside it, since there wasn't enough room for them both.

Gerard was watching him hesitantly. "If you wanted to get some sleep, I c'n keep watch," he offered.

"I should stay awake until Porthos regains consciousness," Aramis murmured. The guilt was creeping back in, and with it a fierce terror that perhaps Porthos had lost too much blood and would never wake. Was this how Porthos had felt when he'd first found Aramis? If so, Aramis had even more to be guilty about than he thought.

But even guilt couldn't keep his overtaxed body awake after the excitement of the morning. It wasn't long before his head fell back onto the bed, resting against Porthos's shoulder. He drifted off to sleep with a prayer upon his lips.

Chapter Text

"For god's sake, sit down!" Constance snapped, pushing D'Artagnan into a seat. He stared up at her pleadingly, and she waved a rolling pin at him threateningly. "The Captain said you're supposed to be resting your leg!" she said sternly. "Sit!"

To her relief, he stayed where she had put him. His complete inability to sit still was almost enough to make her wish she hadn't invited him here. Almost.

She sighed and went back to her baking. When she'd heard from Treville that D'Artagnan had been injured, her recent resolution not to see him had gone out the window. His life was too dangerous for her to stay out of it. She didn't want to miss any of it, not even this terrible restlessness he was currently experiencing. Her husband was a cruel man, and she found she no longer cared what he or anyone else thought. When he returned from his trip, she would tell him she was leaving. She was certain he would not kill himself, recognizing it now as a ploy to control her. She'd waited too long to find happiness to give it up now.

Though she might hit happiness with a rolling pin if he didn't stop eating the berries meant to go in her tart.

"That's meant to be for dessert," she scolded, trying not to smile at the purple berry juice now staining D'Artagnan's mouth. "You know, the thing you eat after dinner?"

D'Artagnan grinned cheekily and the sight all but took her breath away. He caught her by the skirt, pulling her over and kissing her soundly. For a moment, she let him, relaxing against him as a wave pf happiness washed over her. Then she rapped his head smartly with the wooden tool and sat back with a smile. "You are a terrible assistant," she informed him fondly.

D'Artagnan smirked. "And your mouth is purple."

Constance laughed and clambered out of his lap. She had only invited him to help her cook because he fretted terribly when left to himself. He'd been told to keep his weight off his injured leg, which left him with very little to do but sit around and worry about Athos, Porthos, and especially Aramis.

Constance tried not to let him see, but she was worried too. She loved all the boys and hated the idea of something happening to them. D'Artagnan had told her everything and been very surprised when he learned that she'd suspected Aramis had feelings for Porthos for some time. She was only surprised he hadn't figured it out sooner. Honestly, men could be so oblivious.

She prayed they would all make it home safe. In the meantime, she would look after D'Artagnan and keep him from worrying himself sick. Today, that consisted of baking his favorite dessert.

He was especially disheartened this afternoon, for all he tried to hide it. Treville had led half the garrison on a mission to wipe out the English spies that the Cardinal had somehow managed to ferret out while D'Artagnan and the others were in Calais. She had to give the man some credit: when he wasn't undermining the Musketeers, he was good at his job.

D'Artagnan had not been allowed to accompany them because of his injury, and she knew it bothered him. He had risked his life to secure the information: he had wanted to be there when they finished the other side of the mission too. But his injury didn't allow it, and he was left behind. Constance knew he felt that completing the mission would be a way to honor his absent brothers, but the doctor had told Treville he was not yet fit for duty. And so he sat in her kitchen, hiding his disappointment and anxiety behind a smile and a mouthful of berries.

She caught a glimpse of his hand snaking out towards the berry bowl again. Only the clatter of hooves outside saved him from a whack with the rolling pin.

They both turned to look at the door. D'Artagnan rose to his feet warily, and for once Constance did not reprimand him, too busy wondering who had come calling. Very few horsemen came this way. She prayed it wasn't bad news.

It wasn't bad news. It was Athos, looking travel worn and exhausted, dust staining his dark clothing. He was smiling.

The first thing Porthos was aware of was that he was lying alone in a strange bed and Aramis was not there. The second thing he became aware of was a sudden need to be violently sick. That quickly took precedence and he scrabbled blindly out of the bed, searching frantically for a bucket.

Hands shoved something into his grasp and he doubled over, retching into the hastily provided bucket. A hand rubbed soothing circles across his back as he emptied his stomach. As last he sat back, head pounding. What had happened?

Aramis pulled the bucket from his unresisting hands. At least, he assumed it was Aramis. It was pitch black in the room. He could only make out a vague shadow next to him, but from the outline of the wild hair, he could guess it was he.

"Are you alright?" Porthos frowned at the question. Aramis's voice didn't sound right. He sounded exhausted and Porthos could hear his breath rattling ever so slightly in his chest.

"I'm fine. Are there any candles?" he asked, hoping he could find some water to rinse the foul taste from his mouth.

"I'll check." He heard Aramis moving, saw the shadow shift as he rose to his feet. He hadn't meant for Aramis to get up; it sounded like he'd strained himself in the rush from the inn, and even in the darkness he could see his stiff, constrained movements.

Oh. Right. It was coming back to him now. His hand dropped to his side, feeling the bandage wrapped around his midsection. He couldn't recall arriving here… wherever here was. Which meant Aramis must have got him here, and stitched him up. Shit.

He heard Aramis fumbling with something, and then a flash of light cut through the darkness as a flame caught. Aramis put the candle on the nightstand and reached for another, creating a small circle of light beside the bed.

Finished with his task, Aramis slumped back down beside the bed, his breath hissing out of him. He shoved a cup into Porthos's hands and he drank deeply, glad to rinse his mouth. He caught a glimpse of a crumpled blanket on the floor beside Aramis and noted his stiff motions.

"Were you sleeping down there?" he asked, appalled.

Aramis nodded, allowing his head to tip back and rest against the bed. Porthos reached out and grabbed one of the candles, casting more light on the other man.

Aramis looked awful. All the progress he had made over the last few days looked as if it had been lost. He turned his face from the light, wincing.

"Christ, Aramis, I'm sorry," Porthos muttered, guilt sweeping through him at the thought of Aramis hauling his half-conscious form through the streets in his condition.

Aramis began to laugh. It was a terrible sound that tore from his throat and made Porthos feel ill all over again. Aramis's eyes were too bright when he looked up at last. He looked near tears.

"You're sorry?" he choked out, the words echoing strangely. "I shot you!" His face wavered for a moment before crumpling completely, but he didn't cry. It would have been less disturbing if he had cried.

Porthos gaped at him, at a loss. He wasn't really sure how to handle this. His head had stopped spinning, he no longer felt nauseous, and his side was really not that painful. There was no real harm done. He would've been happy to simply drop the issue, but from the manic look in Aramis's eyes, that wasn't going to happen.

He reached out tentatively but Aramis yanked his arm back so fast it must have caused him considerable pain. Porthos noticed he had removed the makeshift sling. "Aramis…" he began helplessly. "It wasn't your faul-"

"Not my fault?" Aramis barked out a pained laugh. "Porthos, my dear, I shot you. It is the very definition of my fault!" He lapsed back into silence, staring at the floor. Porthos had no idea what to say about that, mostly because it was technically true.

"I thought you were going to die," Aramis croaked suddenly, squeezing his eyes shut. "Your blood would have been on my hands. Oh God, it would've been all my fault." He was gasping weakly now, nearly hyperventilating. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I should've listened to you, oh God, is that what it felt like for you? I'm so sorry."

Porthos could see Aramis trembling, his outline shaky in the shadows, and without thinking he reached out and pulled the other man towards him. He expected resistance, but Aramis allowed himself to be dragged forward until he was flush against Porthos, his face buried in the crook of his neck. He could feel the dry sobs that racked Aramis's frame and he wrapped his arms around him, hissing as his side twinged. Aramis stiffened at the sound and Porthos cursed himself. He wasn't trying to make him feel guiltier!

Porthos could tell Aramis had gone through the same hell he himself had when he'd rescued him, wondering if Aramis would live to see the next dawn. He wished Aramis had been spared that pain. He wouldn't have wished that on anyone, not even the Cardinal.

He sat there holding Aramis close to him until at last the smaller man lay still, exhausted. He waited a little longer just to be safe, then reached up and tipped Aramis's chin until the other man was looking at him.

Hey," he said, trying to catch his eye. Aramis grudgingly lifted his head until his red-rimmed eyes found Porthos's. "I think you need to work on your aim," Porthos told him with a gentle smile.

Aramis snorted and let his head fall once more, but the tension in his body eased slightly. He mumbled something against Porthos's neck, but he couldn't make it out. "What was that?"

"I said I'm still a better shot than you," Aramis repeated hoarsely. Porthos chuckled and ruffled his hair. Aramis's forehead felt warm under his hand, and he frowned. It wouldn't do for him to come down with another fever.

"C'mon, let's get up on the bed," he said softly, trying to lift Aramis up. The smaller man attempted to push himself away with arms that shook.

"Not enough room for us both," he said stubbornly. "You go."

"Oh, isn't there?" Porthos smirked. He clambered to his feet, grateful that his wound wasn't paining him inordinately, and hauled Aramis up as gently as he could. Twisting with the weakly struggling man trapped in his arms, he let them both fall onto the small bed in such a way that Aramis landed mostly on top of him. It sent pain lancing through his side, but he was careful not to let it show this time.

Aramis immediately tried to roll off. "I'll tear your stitches," he muttered anxiously. Porthos pinned him with a heavy arm.

"You'll only do that if you keep struggling. Lie still," he commanded. Aramis obeyed, probably because he was too exhausted to keep fighting. Porthos manhandled him until they were both lying comfortably, pressed together down the whole length of their bodies.

"I'm sorry I scared you," he murmured, pressing a kiss to Aramis's temple.

"I'm sorry I shot you," Aramis whispered, burrowing closer to him.

"All is forgiven, love. Go to sleep." He noticed Aramis frown and glance up at him. "What?"

"While you were unconscious, you were having nightmares," Aramis informed him, concern lighting in his brown eyes. "You thrashed and cried out. Is that why you haven't been able to sleep?"

Porthos looked away, unable to face the fire of Aramis's concern. He nodded.

"What is it you dream about?" Aramis asked softly.

For a moment, Porthos wanted to brush it off, claim it was nothing, but he knew the time for that had passed. He offered Aramis a half grin as their eyes met once more. "I'll tell you in the morning?"

Aramis chuckled faintly. "That didn't go so well last time," he reminded him, but Porthos knew he wasn't going to push the issue. He was obviously too exhausted to stay awake, pushed beyond his limits by the events of the day.

"Our luck can't be that bad twice," Porthos countered with a rakish grin. Aramis snorted but lowered his head, using Porthos's shoulder as a pillow.

"I really do want to know," he murmured sleepily. "Please say we can talk about it."

Porthos sighed heavily. "We can talk about it," he agreed. Aramis hummed his approval. Moments later, he was asleep.

Porthos stared up at the ceiling for a long time after that, thinking.

Chapter Text

When Aramis woke the next morning, Porthos was not in the bed. He must have slept for a very long time. He looked around curiously only to find the other man was not in the room at all. This had never happened before. Porthos hated leaving the room, especially when Aramis was asleep. He seemed to have an irrational fear that Aramis might burst into flames, spontaneously, were he not there, or have some other such mishap befall him. And he himself was injured and in a strange place. Where on earth would he have gone?

I know he hates discussing his emotions and such things, Aramis thought wryly as he managed to sit up, shaking the stiffness from his good arm, but surely he hasn't run away?

Thankfully the door opened at that moment and Porthos strode in, bearing a large wooden platter heaped with food. Aramis stared at it in delight. He hadn't been allowed any substantial food since he'd been rescued, forced to eat only broth and thin porridge. On the plate were eggs, sausages, bacon, and a baguette was tucked under Porthos's arm. He must have gone out specially to fetch it for him. Aramis felt a rush of affection. Porthos smiled broadly, and at last Aramis remembered the discussion they were to have. He gave him a look.

"I see what you are doing, Porthos. You cannot distract me with food. And you should not have gone out for that anyway. You're injured." He felt the guilt wash through him again at the thought. How dare he allow food to distract him from his terrible mistake?

Porthos's smile fell. As he set the food on the bed, he eyed Aramis as if he were a bomb set to go off. Porthos really hated talking about his emotions. He might have agreed to this, but Aramis would have his work cut out for him.

"Come now," he said gently. "We are going to have a discussion, not an Inquisition." Porthos looked no less alarmed and Aramis sighed. Getting Porthos to talk about his emotional state was like pulling teeth. He was worse than Athos. At least one could always get Athos drunk.

"You should eat first," Porthos pointed out. Knowing they'd never get anywhere until he did so, Aramis consented. He was hungry.

However. "You mean we should eat first?" he asked somewhat archly, and Porthos's mouth twisted in an unhappy line. Nevertheless, when the food was laid out, Porthos ate a little. It was far less than his usual heaping servings, but it was something. Aramis had to be grateful for the little victories.

When they were finished and the scraps taken care of, he checked Porthos's injury to make sure it wasn't developing an infection. The skin was neither swollen nor discolored. He sent a prayer of thanks to God, wincing at the terrible stitches which had been all he was able to manage at the time, one-handed and exhausted. He allowed Porthos to check his own injuries before turning to him with a serious look on his face. Porthos wilted. "Shall we talk?"

"Nothing to talk about," Porthos muttered sullenly. He looked so like a disobedient child awaiting punishment that Aramis fought an urge to laugh. Porthos was sitting on the far side of the bed, for once not touching Aramis. That probably wasn't a good sign. He would have to carry the discussion if he wanted to get anywhere.

"Did you sleep last night?" he asked. Porthos's grimace was sufficient answer. "Why can't you sleep?" he asked patiently, deciding it was best to get right down to the issue. Porthos scowled at the question, ducking his head.

"I told you, it's just bad dreams." Porthos was pointedly ignoring his gaze. Aramis didn't like making him uncomfortable, but if it stopped his steady descent towards illness then it was necessary.

"Bad dreams about what?" He'd been wondering what Porthos's nightmares could be about since the previous night.

Porthos shrugged uneasily. "Just things." His tone was evasive.

"Tell me about them." Aramis kept his voice gentle, but the words had the tone of a command.

"What's it matter?" Porthos asked, voice hardening. "They're just dreams, Aramis!"

"Dreams that are keeping you awake at night and making you ill," Aramis pointed out reasonably. "They seem to be stronger than the average nightmare if they're enough to make you sick. You're already injured. You need your sleep, my love." It was amazing how easily the last words dropped from his lips, as if they had always belonged there.

"I'm not sick! I can handle a few bad dreams!" The words came out harsher than was necessary, and he sensed Porthos was becoming frustrated, but not with him. With himself.

Porthos hated feeling helpless. He was the strongest of the Musketeers, famed for his power. But when faced with things he couldn't fight, couldn't control, he could get surly and defensive. Aramis realized that was happening now.

"Being affected by nightmares does not make you weak, Porthos." Aramis told him quietly. He had long wrestled with terrible nightmares himself, flashbacks full of blood and steel. He was a bit surprised he wasn't facing them now. It probably had something to do with the fact that he was falling asleep safely ensconced in Porthos's arms every night. "Did you think me weak after Savoy?"

Porthos looked up at him with a stricken expression. "Of course I didn't!" he said, horrified. He had been Aramis's anchor after Savoy, assuring him that the nightmares would pass with time and making sure he didn't fall irretrievably into himself. In darker moments, Aramis wondered what he would have become without Porthos's bright light to guide him. "But that was different!"

"Traumatic experiences can come from different events," Aramis said softly. "There is no one time when nightmares are acceptable. But the only way to get past them is to face them and allow others to help you past them, like you helped me. Is it so wrong that I seek to return the favor?" Porthos was silent for a moment, but his anger was bleeding away. Aramis could see it leaving his shoulders. "What is it you see that keeps you up at night, my love? What haunts your dreams?"

After an agonizing moment, Porthos looked up again, a stricken expression on his face.

"You," he whispered.

Aramis was staring at him, confusion written across his handsome features. Porthos wanted to laugh. Was it really so difficult for him to grasp? he wondered. What man wouldn't have nightmares after everything that had happened?

Perhaps Aramis truly didn't see it. Hell, Porthos had tried not to see it, not to think about it, because the pain of it almost crippled him.

How could Aramis know what it had been like for Porthos, coming up against dead ends everywhere he went, knowing that every moment he didn't find Aramis he was suffering? Every time he closed his eyes, he saw that room again, those men laughing about torturing the man he loved. He was back in those agonizing moments when he didn't know if Aramis was too far gone, if he was too late. The days that followed, sitting by the bed, wondering when the fever would kill him, begging God for a miracle. And that wasn't even the worst of it.

No, Aramis couldn't know all that, and Porthos did not know how to tell him.

Aramis seemed to grasp that he wasn't going to say any more. "How are they about me?" he asked gently. Porthos could feel his eyes on him, but he did not want to meet their tender gaze. He did not want Aramis's sympathy. He didn't deserve it.

Didn't Aramis understand that all he suffered might never have come to pass if Porthos had not been so blind? Part of Porthos was perversely glad Aramis had shot him. It was almost like penance, reparation for all that had happened. He wished Aramis wouldn't feel so guilty about it, wished he couldn't see the shame in his love's eyes every time he winced in pain.

"Porthos, please, talk to me," Aramis whispered, and the concern in his voice made Porthos's heart ache dully.

"Talk about what?" Porthos asked bleakly. "What is there to say? None of this would have happened if I hadn't been so selfish and stupid. So what exactly am I meant to say now? Sorry? Sorry I hurt you for so long? Sorry I let you go captured by English spies? Sorry I let them torture you for a week?" His voice cracked on the last word and he fisted a hand tightly in the bed sheet. "What good will talking do, Aramis?"

He didn't look at the other man, didn't want to see revulsion on his face as he realized that Porthos was right, that Porthos was to blame for all the pain that had befallen him.

"Porthos, what happened was not your fault!" Aramis's voice was unexpectedly fierce, and it melted some of the frost around Porthos's heart. "You did not know, and I do not blame you! I made my choices, Porthos, but they were mine. It was not your fault."

"You chose to die!" The words tore out of him, leaving him burning. Porthos was on his feet pacing the room before his mind caught up with him, his side aching dully. It couldn't match the pain in his chest. "You hid Flea and handed yourself over to be tortured and killed! You knew full well you wouldn't escape!"

His nails cut into his palms as he clenched his fists to keep his hands from trembling. "And that was my fault! I drove you to the point that you felt useless and unwanted. You were willing to die so I could be happy with Flea, because you didn't see any good left in your own life!"

He chanced a look at Aramis, who was staring at him with a stricken expression. Part of Porthos cried out to stop, to comfort him, but now that he had begun to speak he had to continue. "And as if that wasn't enough, you actually thought I would just leave you there to die! Just go my merry way with Flea and let those bastards torture you to death. You didn't care if you lived or died, so long as I was happy!"

Porthos choked on the words, feeling them cutting him down to the base of his soul. "I made you feel that! I loved you, and yet I did that! I was so blind! I don't deserve to love you! God should not have answered my prayers." Here Porthos stopped at last, panting as if he'd been in a fight. "I don't deserve you."

"Porthos," Aramis whispered, voice full of pain. He sounded on the verge of tears. Deep within, Porthos felt ashamed for berating him while he was still recovering, but Aramis had been right; it was eating away at him. "Porthos, I'm so sorry."

Porthos felt as if he'd been slapped. Aramis- Aramis was sorry? Had he even been listening?

Aramis went on, as if he did not realize how ridiculous his apologizing to Porthos for anything that had happened was. Porthos hadn't even wanted the apology for shooting him. What else could Aramis possibly have to apologize for?

"I did not think about how it would affect you. I didn't think at all. I was in pain, yes, and I thought you'd never have me, but that is no excuse for my behavior. It was reckless and would have brought grief to more than just you had you not intervened. I allowed myself to wallow in misery and self-pity with no thoughts of the consequences. Even if you hadn't returned my regard, you would have grieved."

"I'd never have recovered," Porthos said with brutal certainty. "I'd have gotten myself killed." Fury flared within him. "How could you have left, Aramis? You just- just left, just walked away. Why would you do that?" He'd gotten the guilt off his chest, and bitter anger surged to replace it, igniting within him. "You abandoned me." The words he did not speak lingered in the air. Just like all the others.

"It was never my intention to hurt you," Aramis said, looking distraught. "I thought I was doing the right thing. By the time I realized how it would seem, it was too late. I never wanted you to think I would abandon you."

"The right thing?" The words erupted from deep within him. "Getting yourself killed is never the right thing! How could you leave me like that? And telling Flea it was to make me happy? You made it my fault the moment you said that!"

"It was unacceptable on my part." Aramis's voice was a whisper. "And I will forever be sorry for it. But it was not your fault, Porthos." Aramis's voice grew stronger. "I am an adult. I am capable of taking better care of myself than I did. I allowed myself to slip into despair. You did not cause it." He paused, then added softly, "But you have saved me from it."

Porthos dropped heavily onto the bed. He felt as if his whirling emotions had all suddenly ceased at the same instant, leaving him empty and cold. Behind him, he felt the bed dip as Aramis moved closer, stopping inches away, as if unsure of his reception if he breached the gap first.

"Forgive me," Aramis whispered thickly. "For all I have put you through."

Porthos drew a shaky breath. His anger was spent, and it felt as if a weight was gone from his shoulders and he could breathe again. "Only if you can forgive me," he whispered in response.

Aramis gave a watery chuckle behind him and Porthos reached out blindly, finding his hand and grasping it fiercely. He heard Aramis's shuddering breaths and tugged gently on his hand until Aramis was brushing against him. "Never do that again, Aramis. Promise me that right this moment. I cannot lose you like that."

"Never," Aramis breathed. "I love you."

With that, Porthos turned and swept the other man into his arms, burying his face in his neck. Aramis made a small sound that Porthos would tease him about later and let his head drop onto Porthos's shoulder. They sat like that for a long time.

Chapter Text

Laurette found them like that when she arrived later that morning. She did not seem remotely surprised to find them in her home. Porthos supposed Gerard must have warned her. He had seen the boy in the street this morning and thanked him for all his help. The boy had courage; that much was certain. He wanted to do something for him.

Laurette said nothing about their entwined position. She merely shooed them apart so she could take a look at Porthos's side, clucking over the stitches in a way that made Aramis turn crimson with shame.

"He's normally much better," he said, moved to defend his lover's skill. "He was just ill and exhausted. I bet you couldn't do better!" Aramis ducked his head in pleasure at the impassioned defense. Laurette merely raised her eyebrows, looking for all the world like an old, female Athos. Porthos flushed and apologized as she moved to check on Aramis.

"This is healing nicely," she said as she poked at Aramis's shoulder. She sat back, ignoring Aramis's mumbled, "I could've told you that," which Porthos chuckled fondly at. "I don't think you'll be needing me again, boys. All that's left now is for the broken bones to heal, and that just needs time."

"Does that mean I can walk around now?" Aramis asked a touch petulantly. Laurette had forbidden him to get out of bed until his shoulder was pronounced fit, and he'd already had one impromptu race through the streets. Porthos felt a sliver of fear in his mind at the thought of Aramis on his feet too soon, but he would trust in Laurette's judgment.

"You already did quite enough of that, I hear!" Aramis's face fell visibly and she relented. "Fine. But only if you take it easy," she said sternly. "Don't go running about and overexerting yourself. You'll just take longer to heal if you do that. And wear this," she added, pulling a well-fashioned cloth sling from her bag. "That collarbone needs a good few weeks more to heal properly. No need to go jarring it."

She helped Aramis into the sling and he clambered eagerly to his feet, ignoring Porthos's proffered hand in his excitement. A moment later, he was standing by the bed. He was decidedly unsteady after two weeks of illness, but his smile was brighter than Porthos had seen in days.

"It's nice to be doing this at last and not have someone trying to kill me," he said with a laugh. He proceeded to stumble enthusiastically about the room, keeping one hand on the wall. "What?" he asked defensively when Porthos laughed.

"You're like a little kid," Porthos told him, shaking his head. "A little kid who's been stuck in bed with the flu."

"You try lying about for two weeks and we'll see if you don't leap at the chance to stretch your legs properly."

At this Laurette, who'd only been half listening, said sternly, "No leaping!" and Aramis and Porthos burst out laughing.

The comment itself had not been particularly hilarious, but it had been so long since either truly laughed that it quickly got out of control. The emotional release from their argument had left them both with frayed nerves, and the brief comment was all it took to tip them from leftover anger to hilarity.

At last Aramis held up a hand, gasping, trying to contain himself. "Ah, don't make me laugh," he said through his chuckles. "It hurts!"

Yesterday, Porthos's amusement would've died instantly at those words. But that weight had been lifted, and instead of worrying, he simply threw back his head and roared with laughter.

"It's all very well for you," Aramis accused, still smiling. "You've no broken ribs." Porthos just grinned at him as he dropped into a comfortable looking chair by the fireplace. Laurette was shaking her head, clucking at them like an exasperated mother.

"We should probably find somewhere else to stay," he said, looking at Laurette. "We are grateful for your hospitality, but we can't put you out. Is there an inn nearby?"

She gave them directions to an inn down the road and told them she'd already sent Gerard back with a note for their last innkeeper to give to Athos regarding the change in lodgings. "I also had him bring your big black horse over there and put him in the stables," she told Aramis. His grateful smile was infectious, and soon they were all grinning like idiots once more.

At last they stood to leave, Aramis leaning on Porthos. Laurette opened the door for them, offering to walk with them to the inn. They arrived without difficulty and had no trouble booking a room. Laurette saw them up and got them settled.

As she turned to leave at last, Porthos leapt up and pressed a fistful of coins into her palm. "What did I tell you the first night?" she said, glaring at him.

"Please take it," Porthos insisted. "I've had my funds replenished." He lowered his voice. "He would be dead if not for you. Don't think I don't know that." At last Laurette nodded, accepting some of the small fortune Athos had left them.

"You'll be leaving soon then?" she asked as she walked through the inn. Porthos had offered to escort her to the door in a fit of chivalry.

"As soon as our friends return for us." Porthos held the door for her. "He'll be fit to travel, I hope?"

"He'll be fine as long as you don't stick him on a horse anytime soon," she snorted. "Find him a cart!" Porthos smiled, bowed, and thanked her once more as she headed off. Then he walked to the front desk to ask the innkeeper if he knew where to find Gerard.

Aramis stretched contentedly in Porthos's arms, luxuriating in the fact that he could finally, finally, do so without feeling like someone was trying to flay the skin from is back. It still hurt, but he could move more freely at least. Smiling to himself, he flipped over so he was lying pressed up against Porthos chest to chest. Porthos gave him a smile, and Aramis noticed his eyes looked lighter than they had in days.

"Got your mobility back?" he teased gently, and Aramis hummed his agreement. He tried to move again to demonstrate the point, but the end of one of his bandages snagged on something and tugged. He growled and swiped at it.

"You look like an angry cat," Porthos told him, laughing. "I can probably take those off for you if you like. I think you've healed enough to remove them, or at least put on something lighter just for your ribs."

Aramis all but launched himself off the bed. He hated the bandages and the way they itched and pulled. He was fairly certain all the wounds on his back were now heavily scabbed over, so there was no need to keep them wrapped.

Porthos chuckled at his enthusiasm and clambered out after him. He had slept last night without a single nightmare, and Aramis could see the difference it had made already. "Come here, then."

Aramis managed to get his shirt off without assistance and stood quietly while Porthos carefully unwound the bandages that wrapped around his torso and stretched the length of his back. His excitement dulled when he heard the way Porthos hissed softly as the last bandage fell away, the way his hands dropped to Aramis's hips as if to offer comfort. In his excitement to get them removed, he had forgotten about the inevitable scarring.

He swallowed hard before asking. "How bad is it?" Porthos shifted uneasily but didn't say anything. Aramis glanced down at the bandages still wrapped around his wrists. Shrugging hastily out of the sling, he tore them off, letting them fall to the floor.

Angry red lines stretched around each wrist, thick and dark. He gazed at them, feeling his stomach drop. For all the others might say, he was not a vain man, but he had hoped to avoid such blatant and visible mementos of this terrible experience.

"How bad is it?" he asked again, more quietly this time. Still Porthos hesitated. "Is there a mirror I can use?"

"That's not necessary-" Porthos began, but Aramis cut him off.

"I want to see. Please." Porthos removed his hands and moved away. Aramis heard the sound of the door opening behind him and knew Porthos had gone to search for one. It had to be bad if he didn't even want to tell him the extent of the scarring.

While he was gone, Aramis gazed down impassively at his shoulder. An ugly scar now rested there too, courtesy of his captor's brutal cauterizing of his injuries. He felt almost monstrous. Anyone who saw him now would either fear him or pity him. He didn't know which was worse.

Footsteps outside announced Porthos's return. Aramis didn't turn around as he strode in, moving to stand in front of him with a dirty mirror borne in his arms. Aramis gazed at his own reflection for a moment before slowly turning his back, glancing over his good shoulder to get a glimpse of the damage.

He blinked. It was bad; it was really bad, but not as bad as he had thought from Porthos's reaction. Neat stitches still covered many of the wounds, while those that had been too ragged to stitch were dark red scabs. His stomach turned just looking at it all and the memory of those wounds being inflicted made him cringe, but he wasn't about to slip into despair because of the mess that was his back. He would never be quite as handsome again, but he supposed it could have been worse.

Porthos was still watching him sadly and he turned back. He realized it was worse for Porthos even than it was for him, because Porthos had been forced to see those wounds newly inflicted and had assumed the guilt for too long. Aramis managed to flash him a shaky smile and saw Porthos's brow smooth in relief. He used the mirror to examine his other scars more closely. The one on his shoulder was the worst, but the ones that bothered him the most were still those on his wrists.

And, as he looked more closely, the thin red line that stretched along the side of his neck. He tilted his head to examine it more closely. It was the mark from where one of the thugs had nearly blown his head off in the alley. It filled him with a sense of deep irritation. Where it lay on his neck was completely visible. There was no way for him to hide it.

He turned away from the mirror and heard Porthos set it down. He heard something else, something lighter, fall to the floor as well, and then Porthos was moving in behind him to rest his hands lightly on his waist again. Aramis didn't move as Porthos wrapped his arms about him and pulled him closer, realizing it had been Porthos's shirt that had been tossed aside. He jumped when he felt Porthos's mouth against his back, right at the spot where the scars began to mar the unmarked flesh.

"I don't know what's going on in that head of yours," Porthos murmured, lips still pressed his skin, "But if you are thinking that these make you less attractive in any way, I may need to throw you out that window."

Aramis managed a smile even as he shook his head. "Be reasonable, love. I look a proper monster now."

Porthos growled deep in his throat and spun Aramis around to face him, crowding into his space in a way that made his heart stutter, palms cupping his jaw possessively.

"You are beautiful." Porthos spoke as if it were an incontrovertible fact, and Aramis blushed to hear the words he'd said to so many women come out of the larger man's mouth so naturally.

"These…" Porthos ran his thumb along the scar on Aramis's neck, bending to press a kiss against it that left Aramis feeling lightheaded, "Don't change a thing. Not one fucking thing. Don't you dare think that."

Aramis knew this was when he should come up with some witty rejoinder, but the fact of the matter was his mind was too focused on Porthos's lips to process words. Porthos's hands dropped from his face, skimming down his chest to his waist. One hand gently traced his fresh scar on the way and he shivered despite himself.

Then Porthos's hands were on his hips and his lips were on Aramis's, and he found he didn't give a damn about the scars anymore, not if Porthos could still kiss him like he was the most precious thing on the earth or the heavens.

As he kissed him, Porthos was shoving him back, gently but firmly, until Aramis felt the backs of his knees hit the side of the bed, and still Porthos didn't stop, carrying them both down onto it. Aramis couldn't prevent the hiss of pain as the motion jarred his broken collarbone, which he refused to keep bound, and Porthos pulled back instantly. Aramis tried to follow him up but Porthos put a heavy hand on his good shoulder, keeping him down.

"I swear to God, Porthos, if you stop now I am going to throw your sword in the Seine," he growled, voice rough, but Porthos just laughed.

"Patience, love," he said. "Wouldn't want to injure yourself." His eyes twinkled with mirth and Aramis groaned theatrically, knowing the fun was over before it had even begun. But Porthos wasn't done yet.

"That said," he continued, smirking. "I'm sure there are things I can think of that would require less, ah, exertion on your part." Aramis's eyes widened with delight as Porthos's hand moved south.

Chapter Text

Porthos woke to find Aramis curled catlike against his chest. His mouth hung open and he was snoring faintly. If Porthos tipped his head, he could just see the edges of the wounds still littering Aramis's back. He knew they bothered Aramis; hell, they bothered him. They acted as a permanent reminder of how close he had come to losing the man he loved. But he had meant it when he told Aramis he was beautiful, and he always would be.

Just then Aramis shifted against him and turned his head, blinking. Porthos smiled at the warm, contented look in his eyes. "How long have you been up?" Aramis mumbled, voice still thick with sleep.

"Only a few minutes," Porthos told him. "Your snoring woke me."

Aramis glared at him. "I do not snore!" Porthos snorted and Aramis lifted a hand to flick his forehead. Anticipating this, Porthos tightened his hold and rolled so Aramis was pinned carefully beneath him. Aramis let out an undignified squawk and Porthos laughed, letting the smaller man push him off until he was lying on his back, Aramis propped up beside him.

Aramis reached over and traced the messy, uneven stitches still visible in Porthos's side with gentle fingers. Porthos caught his hand, examining in the wound himself. It was healing nicely, but Aramis had that guilty look on his face again.

"Stop that," he told him sternly. "Most people wouldn't have managed it at all under those circumstances." Aramis sighed and glanced away.

"It doesn't seem right that we should both bear such ugly reminders," he admitted softly. "I would've liked to have left you a neater scar."

"I think the intention was to keep me alive, not leave me pretty," Porthos said lightly, earning a smirk. Aramis favored him with a smile and moved his hand along Porthos's stomach, fingers gently tracing each scar as he came across it. At last he reached the scar on Porthos's chest, just above his heart. He frowned suddenly.

"You never told me how you got this," he said softly. There was a thinly veiled interest in his voice and Porthos wondered what had prompted it. Nevertheless, he smiled.

"Is this the part of the morning after when I tell you tales of my bravery and make you swoon?" he teased. "Bit of a reversal for you."

Aramis chuckled, letting himself flop onto Porthos in a fair imitation of a swooning lady. He gazed up at him expectantly and Porthos realized Aramis was serious about hearing the story. There was a reason he had never told it. He didn't like talking about those days, but perhaps if Aramis saw he was not the only one to bear ugly reminders his own scars would bother him less.

"I was in the Court. There was a noble, he wanted to clean it out, get rid of us all if he could. King told him he could do as he pleased. He wanted to kill the King of the Court, except the king was already dead. He told us if the king didn't meet with him, he would start killing people. Since there wasn't a king, I went myself." Aramis lifted his head, frowning at him. "What?"

"I heard this story," Aramis told him softly, brow furrowed in confusion. "From an old man in the Fox's tavern. He said it was legendary. You fought the noble's men, dozens of them, and beat them all, only…" Aramis trailed off uncertainly and Porthos watched him, wondering what exaggerated version of the tale Aramis had heard. Though there really wasn't much to exaggerate. Porthos had intended to tell him a highly edited version of the story that downplayed the worst of it, but it seemed he was too late.

"Only what?" he asked, frowning.

"Only one of them got a lucky shot above your heart," Aramis whispered, hand reaching up to trace the ugly scar once more. It was the worst one he bore, a testament to the days before he had Aramis to stitch him up. Even Aramis's worst stitching was better than that which this particular injury had received.

"Most of what you heard was probably a tall tale," Porthos told him. "But that part is true, yes. It was a bad wound, but I finished off the last two. The noble might've been a right bastard, but he kept his word, and I walked out of there."

Aramis raised his eyebrows in surprise. "You walked out?" he asked incredulously. "With a wound like that?"

Porthos could hear the faint tinge of awe in his tone, and it warmed him despite the grim memory. "I kept it hidden until I got through the Court and made it to someplace private. People wanted to thank me, congratulate me. I didn't want to worry them. Collapsed when I got to a safe building. It was Charon who stitched it up. Flea gave him a right talking to later for making such a mess of it." Porthos chuckled at the memory, but Aramis had stiffened slightly at the mention of the man he had killed. "So I got this lovely memento." He gestured at the scar self-deprecatingly, hoping to provide Aramis with some peace of mind about his own scars.

But Aramis's mind seemed to be elsewhere. He was silent for a few long moments before he spoke again. "There was something else…" he began hesitantly, looking nervous. "The old man… he said the noble, well, branded you."

Porthos's heart sank. That had not been something he ever intended to tell anyone, especially Aramis, who would be furious on his behalf. "Is it true?" Aramis asked softly. Porthos sighed deeply and nodded, watching the concern flood his lover's eyes. "But I've never seen it!"

"That's because I didn't want you to," Porthos told him, sitting them both up. He knew Aramis wanted to see, and so with a heavy heart he raised his hand and rubbed fiercely at the side of his neck where it met his shoulder, feeling the grit scrape away beneath his palm. Aramis watched silently until Porthos moved his hand away: then his eyes widened with shock.

Porthos knew what he was seeing: a broad, oval burn slightly smaller than a man's fist. He kept it carefully hidden with the help of high collared clothing and a healthy smearing of mud and dirt anytime he got the chance, but he knew that uncovered like this Aramis, with his doctor's eye, would be able to see just how deep the original damage had gone. It had faded greatly with time, but it was still a daunting sight.

"What caused this?" Aramis asked at last, one hand reaching up to cup Porthos's neck thumb skimming the burn. "If he had you branded as a criminal," the word was spat out with a restrained fury, "shouldn't it be a fleur-de-lis?"

Damn Aramis's perceptiveness. "It was," he confessed uncomfortably. "When I joined the Musketeers, I took a brand to it myself until the symbol was gone." Aramis made an involuntary sign of distress, hand tightening against Porthos's neck.

"Why?" he whispered, voice on the verge of breaking.

Porthos fought an insane urge to laugh. "Because a King's Musketeer cannot bear the brand of a common criminal, Aramis. And before you ask, Treville didn't ask me to do it. He doesn't know I bear it at all."

Aramis was silent after that, his thumb still idly tracing the edges of the burn. "What are you thinking, love?" Porthos asked him after a few minutes had passed, reaching up and catching hold of his hand.

Aramis sighed. "I am thinking how different your life would have been had you stayed in the Court." Porthos blinked. That was not what he had been expecting.

"In the Court, you were admired, respected, loved," Aramis continued, meeting Porthos's eyes steadily. A sadness lurked in his gaze that made Porthos's heart clench. "And you gave that up only to meet disdain and hatred among those you seek to serve. It seems an unfair trade." He trailed off before asking, "Do you miss it?"

Porthos stared at him for a moment, thinking. It was a serious question, and it required a serious answer. "Yes," he said at last, choosing his words carefully. "I miss the admiration and the respect, especially when I hear the Red Guards talking about me in the streets. I was an orphan and it was my home, poor as it was, and I miss that. Sometimes I even miss the power, and the thrill of stealing. But I made my choice, Aramis."

"Do you ever want to go back?" Aramis's voice was soft, betraying no emotion.

"Sometimes," Porthos confessed, wondering if Aramis would be hurt.

Aramis's response was immediate and unhesitating. "I would come with you, if you wished to return to that life."

Porthos gaped at him. By God, he's serious. He had never expected Aramis to say that, never imagined Aramis would willingly leave behind his life to make Porthos happy. He held Porthos's gaze steadily. Aramis would sacrifice it all for Porthos. He was fervently glad he would never have to ask it of him, because such a depth of loyalty astounded him.

"I don't want to go back," he told him frankly. He expected a flash of relief, but it never came. Either Aramis had already guessed his response, or he was truly prepared to go to the Court and never look back. "I am happy with my life, love. The Court is my past now. I couldn't give up soldiering, and neither could you."

Aramis offered him a small smile at that, and Porthos reached out and pulled him closer. "Thank you, though," he murmured into Aramis's hair. "Thank you for offering to come back with me." He swallowed heavily, a bit overcome with emotion. "It means a lot. But my home is wherever you are."

Unable to say any more with words, he tipped his head down and captured Aramis's mouth in a fierce kiss.

Porthos broke the kiss first, pulling back suddenly with an excited look in his eye. Aramis stared at him, puzzled, as Porthos extricated himself from the bed and hurried over to the clothes resting on a chair in the corner.

"What are you doing?" Aramis asked him quizzically, still reeling from the overload of information he'd just been given. His mind kept trying to force him to picture Porthos bleeding out from a wound above his heart, Porthos holding a hot iron to his own skin and crying out in pain.

"I have something for you," Porthos told him mysteriously, and Aramis's curiosity managed to overcome the distressing visions for the time being.

"Oh?" Porthos was striding back towards the bed, one hand hidden behind his back. Aramis sat up straighter, watching him with a mixture of excitement and wariness. "What is that?"

"Gerard found it," Porthos said evasively, a proud smile lighting his features. "I thought you might like to have it back." He opened his palm, and Aramis caught the glint of gold.

The queen's cross lay curled in his hand.

Aramis knew he was meant to react with joy, but for a moment all he could do was stare. The coiled golden chain reminded him of nothing so much as a snake, poised to strike and steal away all the happiness he had finally found.

He could see Porthos's smile beginning to slip, so he steeled himself and forced a glad expression onto his own face, reaching out to take the jeweled cross. "Thank you," he murmured, and Porthos grinned happily.

Aramis slipped the chain about his neck. It hung like a lead weight.

He couldn't believe he had forgotten. With all that had happened in the last few weeks, he had allowed himself to forget his tryst with the queen, the child now growing her belly. He had forgotten.

But now it had come back with cold clarity, and it was like being dunked in icy water. How could he be such a fool? His own neck was already on the line if anyone ever learned of the queen's infidelity, and now he would risk Porthos's too? He would be hanged just for associating with him.

Aramis's heart cried out for him to confide in Porthos, tell him all that had happened and accept the support he knew would be offered. But he couldn't do it. The very nature of their relationship put Porthos in danger: he could never condone heaping further risk on his lover's head. No, Porthos must never know of the queen. He had to protect him.

"What's wrong?" Porthos's voice cut through the whirl of thoughts in his head. He was frowning down at him. "I thought you'd be pleased."

"I am pleased," Aramis told him, too quickly.

"You don't look pleased," Porthos pointed out bluntly. He stared at him for a long moment, and Aramis was suddenly afraid he would read the truth on his face. "Are you thinking about the queen?"

Aramis was sure the blood must have drained from his face, but he said lightly, "Why do you ask?"

"Well," Porthos said thoughtfully, "Perhaps it's not just the queen. Maybe women in general?"

Well, I have no idea where he's going with this. "Why would I be thinking about women?" he asked, confused.

"Let me ask you this: if a woman walked up to you tomorrow and offered herself to you, what would you say?"

"I would tell her no, naturally," Aramis said, horrified. Porthos's accusation in the stables came back to him. You know nothing of love.

Porthos appeared to realize how his question had sounded, for he held up a hand placating. "Maybe not tomorrow then. But in a week's time? A month's? How long would you be able to say no?"

Aramis wanted to protest at once, swear his fidelity and deny any future involvement with the fairer sex, but he couldn't, and they both knew it. He felt hot shame crash through his body and looked away.

Porthos's hand caught his chin and turned his face back. He was surprised to find a fond smile on his lips. "There's no need to be ashamed, love," Porthos told him, chuckling. "I know your ways. I don't mind if you sleep with half the women in Paris. You can have any woman you want, but you can only love me."

Aramis stared at him blankly. Could it really be that simple?

"Think about it," Porthos went on patiently. "If the great Aramis were suddenly to stop taking women to bed, don't you think people would talk? It would draw attention, and eventually people might figure it out. Thankfully, it isn't in your nature to forgo sex with beautiful women, so we need not worry."

Aramis offered a weak sort of chuckle at that. "It may be some time before I feel the need to sleep with any woman," he said frankly. Porthos laughed.

"But eventually you will, and perhaps I will too. We must make allowances for that. And we must promise, right now, to never fall in love with anyone else we may take to bed."

"I can promise that," Aramis replied, his voice husky. He couldn't imagine loving another now.

"Then that is settled," Porthos said, moving in close to Aramis once more. His fingers traced the edges of the golden chain hanging about Aramis's neck. "One other thing. Say you will never be so stupid as to sleep with the queen, Aramis. She is off limits."

Porthos's tone was playful, but Aramis felt ice form in his gut. "I will never sleep with the queen," he promised solemnly. Again.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Athos arrived accompanied by a fine carriage. Aramis saw it pull into the yard and whistled appreciatively. "Who do you think that belongs to, eh?"

A few minutes later, Athos strode into the room, accompanied by a limping, highly cheerful D'Artagnan. "Aramis!" the boy cried when he saw him, charging across the room and sweeping him into an enthusiastic hug. Porthos and Athos winced in sympathy.

"It's wonderful to see you too, D'Artagnan," Aramis gasped out, giving the boy a one-armed hug. His ribs were aching under the pressure. "But you should know, I did break several ribs."

D'Artagnan released him immediately and leapt back, looking sheepish. "Of course! I'm sorry, it's just so good to see you. And you!" he cried, charging at Porthos and hugging him too. Porthos laughed and pounded him on the back. Athos rolled his eyes at D'Artagnan's antics as he too moved to embrace Aramis, though thankfully far more gently.

"Wishing you hadn't brought him?" Aramis asked furtively under his breath. Athos chuckled dryly.

"And left him standing in Constance's kitchen like a lost puppy?" Aramis laughed as Athos stepped back.

"Whose carriage have we commandeered, by the way?" Aramis asked as he moved begin collecting their things. Porthos's boy, Gerard, had gone back to the criminal's hideout a second time and found Aramis's custom shoulder guard, which now rested with the small pile of Aramis's belongings. Porthos pushed him gently but firmly out of the way. Clearly, Aramis was not to be allowed to help pack.

"One of the king's," D'Artagnan informed him gleefully. Aramis raised an eyebrow.

"It was loaned to us as a thank you for foiling the plot against His Majesty's life and revealing the treachery of the Duke of Buckingham," Athos explained. "Thought you might like to travel in style."

He was looking askance at the cross visible beneath Aramis's collar, and there was a challenging, questioning look in his eyes. Aramis shook his head ever so slightly in answer to the unspoken question. He would not endanger Porthos by telling him about the queen. Athos blinked his understanding and turned away.

It didn't take long for Porthos to gather all they had in the small room. The innkeeper smiled at Porthos as he left and Aramis hid a grin behind his hand. The man liked them well enough now because Porthos had paid him extremely well, but his feelings might change when he found the large water stain on the floor of their room and the washtub they had requisitioned with Gerard's help. Aramis blamed Porthos for the incident. He hadn't been the one to initiate the war which had left them both soaked and breathless, despite the fact that Porthos had not actually entered the tub.

Aramis's stallion stood near the carriage, well-groomed and with tack gleaming. Gerard stood proudly by, holding the large horse's bridle carelessly when men twice his size had quailed before the handsome but fiery-tempered creature.

Chevalier whinnied a greeting when he saw Aramis, who moved to stroke his nose in greeting. He smiled a farewell to the boy and moved to the carriage, allowing Athos to help him in. D'Artagnan was already inside, reclining on the plush seats. He looked up in surprise as Porthos followed him in. "Aren't you going to ride Chevalier?" he asked, wondering why they had put the stallion's tack on if no one was going to ride him.

Porthos grinned. "Not exactly." Glancing through the window, Aramis saw Gerard swinging himself onto the stallion. "I asked him to come with us," Porthos said in response to Aramis's surprised expression. "I'd never have found you if it weren't for that boy. I owe him. He's got nothing here. I'll take him to Paris, find him an apprenticeship somewhere, maybe as a hostler or groom. He's good with horses."

"So I see," Aramis murmured, smiling. Not many could handle a stallion like Chevalier, but Gerard sat easily, grinning at them. "That was a wonderful idea, Porthos." Twitching the curtain shut for a moment, he leaned forward and kissed Porthos.

D'Artagnan groaned and flopped back against the seat. "Am I going to be dealing with this the whole trip?" he asked despairingly, and Aramis and Porthos laughed heartily as the carriage began to move, carrying them away at last from Calais.

Four days later they were about halfway back to Paris, or so Porthos gathered from the map Athos had shoved at him when he asked how much longer they would be. Athos had grown surly when they had failed to find an inn the previous night, as he had drank all the wine they'd brought and had been hoping to procure new supplies. Now he was riding a ways ahead, hat pulled down over his eyes. Porthos had debated mounting Chevalier and keeping him company, but Aramis had convinced him not to sacrifice himself needlessly. They'd even called Gerard to join them in the carriage.

They all knew what Athos was looking for: an inn to make an early stop at and rest for the night. He'd even led them on a shortcut through a forest in the hopes that there would be a lodging house of some sort on the other side. The carriage driver had protested weakly, but a glare from Athos had silenced him.

D'Artagnan was dozing on the cushions after telling them about his reunion with Constance for the tenth time. Aramis was lounging against Porthos's chest, absently fiddling with the sling he was still forced to wear. Porthos eyed the position of the sun and wondered whether he ought to order the driver to move faster. He could do with an early night in a building with walls that would keep his companions from knowing just what was going on, and he knew Aramis was in agreement with him.

He poked his head out of the window, but just as he was about to speak a crack split the air and the driver threw his hands up, falling from the seat. He landed in the dirt and the carriage trundled over him with a sickening crunch before the horses stopped, rearing nervously against their tethers. Another crack sounded, sending a chunk of the nearest tree flying away.

Athos had wheeled around, searching for the source of the gunshots. Porthos caught a glimpse of shapes slipping through the trees before hands dragged him back into the carriage.

"What are we dealing with?" Aramis asked grimly, already pulling his pistol from his belt. Beside him, D'Artagnan was doing the same, fully awake now. Gerard was staring at them, eyes wide with fear.

Porthos wanted to protest, pull the gun from Aramis's hands and tell him to remain inside where it was safe, but he couldn't. He knew from his brief glimpse that they were outnumbered. Aramis would be needed. He simply pulled his own pistol free and pressed it into Aramis's lap, ordering D'Artagnan to do the same.

"There are quite a few of them. We can't leave Athos alone out there," he said rapidly. "Gerard, you stay in here, all right?" The others nodded and D'Artagnan moved to the door, preparing to leap out and join the fray. Porthos caught Aramis's arm as he turned to follow.

"Shoot them from in here," he said, his voice low. "Please don't engage them, Aramis."

"I'll try," Aramis told him, his voice tight. "But I can't make any promises, Porthos."

Porthos nodded his understanding and reached out for the handle of the door. He met D'Artagnan's eye and the boy shot him a fleeting grin before pushing out of the carriage. Porthos leapt from the opposite side and collided with an attacker who was trying to pry the gilded decorations from the carriage's side. Bloody bandits.

Porthos yanked his sword from his scabbard and cut the man down before he had time to realize he was in danger. A second attacker fell under Chevalier's hooves before Porthos got to him, the tethered stallion as dangerous an opponent at close quarters as any Musketeer. He could hear D'Artagnan fighting on the other side of the carriage. Far ahead, Athos was surrounded by enemies. Porthos watched one dart in behind him and opened his mouth to yell a warning when a gunshot cracked from behind him. The man fell to the ground, dead. Aramis was a damn good shot.

There wasn't time to admire his handiwork now, though. Porthos ducked a blade aimed for his head and whirled to face a new attacker, trying to battle his way to Athos. He dealt the man a blow so fierce his sword snapped in two. The bandit looked up at him, terror written on his face, and turned and fled.

It became clear very quickly these were nothing more than simple country bandits, probably drawn by the ostentatious carriage with only one visible guard. They had little skill and poor weapons, but there were quite a few of them. Porthos watched D'Artagnan cut down three of them in his race to reach Athos's side, his limp vanished in the adrenaline of battle.

Porthos trusted his brothers to watch one another's backs and focused on defending the carriage and its occupants.

Aramis smiled grimly as he fired the second pistol into the heart of a man trying to drive a dagger through D'Artagnan's skull. The youngest Musketeer rolled to his feet and shot him a grateful look as he threw himself onto another attacker. Honestly, the boy was mad.

Inside the carriage, Gerard was crouching on the ground, face white with fear. Aramis had pressed a dagger into his hand in the hopes it would give him courage, and it seemed to have helped: the boy was clenching it tightly, eyes fixed on the door behind Aramis, watching for enemies.

Aramis lifted the final pistol, wondering if he ought to save the last bullet. He wouldn't be able to reload. He leaned out the door, searching for a good shot, but the others were all managing fine. He glanced over at Porthos, taking a moment to admire the effortless way he was dispatching his opponents.

Most of the bandits had either fled or were lay dead in the dust, but a few were still vainly attempting to fight. A large man squared off against Porthos, who merely grinned at him. Aramis allowed himself a private smile as Porthos closed in, knowing the man didn't have a chance.

They met with a ringing clash and broke apart, circling like sharks. The man lunged in and Porthos sidestepped neatly, dancing out of the blade's path. And then his foot caught suddenly on one of the many dead bandits and he stumbled.

Aramis saw the man raise his sword triumphantly, saw that Porthos wouldn't recover in time, and acted without thinking, stepping clear of the carriage and raising the gun as the man moved in for the kill. The shot echoed in his ears as Porthos and the man fell together.

For one horrible moment, he was sure he had missed again; hit Porthos instead of the enemy. Oh, God, no, not twice, please, it's not possible… then he saw Porthos rolling, shoving the limp body of the bandit off and clambering to his feet. He shot Aramis a relieved smile and Aramis echoed it, twirling the gun gracefully in his hand as Porthos moved to face the last remaining bandit.

A noise from behind made him turn to see a shape looming between himself and the carriage. Ahh. It seemed Porthos's opponent was not the last remaining bandit. A man was leering at him, rusty blade clenched in his slab-like fist. Aramis grabbed for his own blade but couldn't pull it from the scabbard one-handed. The man smiled cruelly and stepped in.

Then suddenly the blade fell from nerveless fingers as a dagger sprouted from his heart. He dropped heavily to reveal Gerard, staring at Aramis in wide-eyed terror, the dagger still clenched in his shaking hands.

Aramis moved towards him and dropped stiffly to his knees, pulling the dagger from his limp fingers. "You just saved my life," he told the boy seriously, noting the spark of pride that alit in his blue eyes at the words. Aramis offered his hand, and the boy shook it, smiling despite himself. "You would make a great Musketeer someday."

A heavy hand found his shoulder and he felt Porthos's reassuring presence behind him. "I knew taking you along was a good idea," he said, ruffling Gerard's hair. The boy smiled again as Athos and D'Artagnan trudged up to them.

Aramis clambered stiffly to his feet and checked them over for injuries. D'Artagnan was limping more heavily and Athos had a bruise on his jaw, but apart from that neither was harmed. He let them begin the process of cleaning up the bodies as he checked Porthos, turning his face with a gentle hand to examine a shallow scratch across his cheekbone.

His heart was still pounding from the horrible moment when he thought he had shot Porthos again and he knew he was probably pale. His suspicion was confirmed when Porthos frowned at him, batting his hand away.

"Are you alright?" he asked, concern in his voice. "You don't look well. Did you reopen anything meant to stay shut?"

"No, no, nothing like that," Aramis said quickly, wanting to allay the hint of fear in his lover's eyes. "I just…" he trailed off rather sheepishly. "I thought I'd shot you again," he confessed.

Porthos's face softened in understanding and he wrapped his arms about Aramis's waist, causing Gerard to squeal in secondhand embarrassment and run off to help Athos. "It's not like you to doubt yourself, love," Porthos teased gently, and Aramis knew he was trying to distract him from his momentary fear. He let him, relaxing into the embrace.

"Though," Porthos said, chuckling, "Perhaps I should tell D'Artagnan about your little 'accident.' He would never let you live it down."

Aramis whacked his shoulder. "Don't you dare," he warned, fighting the smile now pulling at his lips. Porthos ducked his head to kiss him just as D'Artagnan appeared around the corner of the carriage.

"Athos says we need to move before they come ba- oh, c'mon, guys, at least wait for the inn," D'Artagnan said, pulling a face. Porthos just laughed. "Athos wants to know if you'll drive the cart, since the driver didn't make it."

"Yeah, yeah, I'll do it," Porthos sighed, releasing Aramis. He called over to the boy clambering into the carriage. "Oy, Gerard, want to learn to drive a carriage?" Gerard's face lit up and he scrambled into the seat. Aramis chuckled.

"You'd best find an inn tonight," he told Porthos, pitching his voice lower intentionally and letting his hand trail slowly down the larger man's chest. "I do believe Athos needs some wine, and I would appreciate the privacy." He enjoyed the way Porthos's face flushed slightly as he turned to climb into the carriage.

"Tease," Porthos hissed, laughter in his voice, and Aramis smirked as he shut the door in his face, hoping they wouldn't encounter any more unexpected obstacles on the way home.

Chapter Text

Aramis was lying on the bed in his chambers, staring at the ceiling, enjoying the feeling of being home. Porthos had left briefly for his own lodgings to collect some spare clothing and other such necessities. He insisted on staying with Aramis until he was healed, and Aramis's chambers were more spacious and had a much larger bed. His landlady was an older woman who enjoyed the attentions of the younger Musketeer and turned a blind eye to his nighttime activities. He also had a washtub, which was likely to become the staging ground for a massive battle later that night.

A knock at the door jerked him out of his reverie and he sat up, marveling at the fact that he could at last move more freely. He was far from healed, and his arm was still firmly in its sling, but walking and breathing no longer pained him. He walked slowly to the door, still somewhat stiff from the long journey, and opened it to find Athos.

"May I come in?" Athos asked, sounding rather uncomfortable.

"Of course!" Aramis stood aside, allowing Athos to wander in. He wondered what was bothering him. He'd seemed his normal self on the journey home. "Is anything the matter?"

"I wished to apologize for my actions," Athos said rather formally.

Aramis raised an eyebrow. "Very well. Apologize for what, exactly?"

"Not aiding Porthos in your rescue," Athos said seriously. "I chose to return to Paris with the plans rather than save you. I am truly sorry."

"Is that all?" Aramis asked, laughing. "Athos, you did your duty. I do not hold it against you."

"Would you have done the same?" Athos asked, a touch bitterly.

Aramis thought for a moment. "Well, no, probably not," he admitted. "But that is why I am not the leader." Athos still looked grim. "Athos, my friend, please don't let this bother you. Porthos told me you offered to accompany him. If he had agreed, would you have?" Athos nodded. "Then that is what matters," Aramis finished gently.

Athos shook his head slowly, a small smile lighting his face. "Your capacity for forgiveness astounds me, my friend." Aramis clapped a hand to his shoulder. Another knock at the door cut off his next words, and he turned towards it curiously. Perhaps D'Artagnan had arrived with an apology as well?

To his amusement, his guess was correct. The young Gascon tumbled into the room, talking very fast about how sorry he was for getting injured and forcing Athos to take him to a doctor rather than go after Aramis and how he had wanted to say sooner but he'd thought it best to wait and he really was just so truly sorry and on and on. At last Aramis held up and hand to stem the flood of words.

"D'Artagnan, I do not blame you in the slightest for being injured in the attack," he informed the breathless boy incredulously. "How in God's name is that your fault? Honestly, the pair of you have guilt complexes." D'Artagnan suddenly noticed that Athos was in the room and blushed faintly. "There is nothing to forgive."

Athos rose to his feet and headed for the door, muttering something about needing to report to Treville. D'Artagnan waved goodbye to Aramis and followed on his heels like a puppy, probably off to find Constance. Aramis shook his head fondly as they went.

He had just sat down on the bed once more when there was yet another knock at the door. He frowned, doing the math. There wasn't anyone else he was expecting. His three usual guests were accounted for. Perhaps D'Artagnan had forgotten something?

It was not D'Artagnan at the door.

It was Flea.

He stared at her in shock, brain failing to register what was going on. She smiled at him and he found his voice. "If you are looking for Porthos, he is not here at the moment," he said, voice strained.

"Actually, I was looking for you. May I come in? I will be brief."

Aramis stood aside to let her in, wondering nervously if she had come to berate him for stealing her love away. For all Porthos swore Flea was the past, Aramis still felt threatened by the lively blond woman dressed in rags.

Flea looked at him and smiled. "Relax. I'm not here to bite your head off. I'm here to thank you, and to apologize." Aramis stared at her, surprised. "You saved my life in that forest. Twice. I would be dead if it weren't for you. So thank you. I'm glad you're alright. I don't know if I could've forgiven myself if you'd been killed. I couldn't watch Porthos go through that." She shook her head sadly. "And I'm sorry for taking so much of his time. I didn't see until the night before the attack how it was for you. I would've backed off if I'd known you had a claim." She grinned, and Aramis felt the knot in his stomach loosen.

"He's hardly something one claims," he pointed out, and Flea laughed. "Besides, he tells me you're the one who made him realize his feelings. I should be thanking you." He smiled warmly at her, and she laughed.

"Now that that's all settled, I hope we can be friends. I'd like to be a part of Porthos's life, and yours too. He's the only one left that remembers me from when I was small." They both laughed. "Well, I'd better be off. I just wanted to make sure I cleared that up." Aramis kissed her hand as she turned to leave, and she smiled at him. Then her face turned serious.

"There was one last thing," she said, looking suddenly anxious. Aramis nodded for her to continue. "I don't know what the nature of your relationship is at this point, but I don't know that Porthos will be able to give up on women for you. He'll try, if you ask him to, but it'll be hard for him."

"Ah, that," Aramis said, relieved. "We've already determined that neither of us will be doing that. It's not a matter of whether he could manage it, but whether I could. Porthos has told me in no uncertain terms that to give up women would make me boring and morose, and that I have his blessing as long as I don't go falling in love with them. He is not threatened by the idea of my future mistresses, nor I by his." Flea smiled at him. "Our hearts are secure, but are bodies are free to wander." He winked, and she giggled, shaking her head.

"Besides," he added more seriously. "If either of us were to forsake women, we would risk discovery. The Church would not look kindly on us."

"Sadly, that is true." Flea looked away, uncomfortable. "It is not so in the Court, but out in your world, you must be careful. I trust you will look after him," Flea added sternly, and Aramis placed a hand over his heart in a solemn vow. "He really loves you, you know."

"As I love him," Aramis told her sincerely. "I swear to you, I will never hurt him."

"You'd better not," Flea said, laughing. "I wish you both nothing but happiness." She smiled at him once more and took her leave.

Alone at last and feeling more confident than before, he flopped down on the bed to await Porthos's return.

Aramis was on the bed when Porthos pushed the door open, dozing in the patch of sunlight streaming in through the window. Porthos's mouth went rather dry at the sight. Aramis had been far freer in his movements on the journey back to Paris, and Porthos found himself wondering idly if he were healed enough for more… intensive... activities.

Aramis sat up slowly as Porthos dropped his things on the handsome table, blinking. "You missed the parade," he told him with a smile.

"Parade?" Porthos asked absently, trying to find an empty space in the wardrobe for his things. Aramis had far too many clothes, the peacock.

"Mmm, there have been a stream of visitors since you're departure. Athos and D'Artagnan both showed up to apologize, and after they left, Flea arrived!"

Porthos dropped his clothes in a heap on the ground and turned quickly. "And what did she want?" His mind buzzed as he tried to figure out why Flea might have visited Aramis. Had she changed her mind?

"She wanted to thank me for saving her life and wish us happiness," Aramis informed him, smiling at the memory. He seemed happy and self-assured, and Porthos grinned back at him, pleased that he did not feel threatened. "She said something about being part of our lives, so I suppose we may expect future visits. And she told me she'd gut me if I hurt you."

Porthos gaped at him, and Aramis laughed. "Kidding, I'm kidding. She didn't say that. Though she did say I'd best keep an eye on you."

Porthos breathed a sigh of relief and moved to sit beside Aramis on the bed, his things forgotten for the time being. "Well, someone ought to," he said with a rumbling laugh. "Who knows what sorts of things I'd get up to with no one to act as a chaperone?"

Aramis chuckled and leaned against him. "I hope I needn't always act the chaperone. That could seriously curtail our activities." His voice had roughened slightly, and Porthos found himself trying to remember if he'd locked the door.

"Well, we wouldn't want that," he growled, and Aramis's eyes gleamed in response. The horrors of the last few weeks seemed nothing more than a distant memory compared to the way the sun blazed in Aramis's hair. Faster than he thought possible, Aramis had shoved him back onto the bed and somehow managed to clamber on top of him, straddling his waist and smirking.

Porthos laughed, marveling that after years of desire this was at last his reality. Aramis placed his hands on either side of Porthos's head and leaned forward, kissing him firmly. When they broke, Porthos grinned up him in wonderment. "I love you."

Aramis's laugh was a beautiful thing. "I know," he smirked. "I love you too." Before he could kiss him again, Porthos neatly rolled him over so that Aramis lay on the bed. It wouldn't do to aggravate any injuries. Aramis rolled his eyes, guessing his reasoning, but then Porthos kissed him again and it seemed he no longer cared.

Later they would have to return to the real world, hiding from those who would see them burn for the simple act of love. Later they would work out the details of their arrangement in a rational, practical way. But that was later. Right now, all that mattered to Porthos was Aramis's lips on his own, heartbeat strong and speeding up beneath his hand. For today at least, the world could wait.

fin

Chapter Text

"No," Porthos ground out, eyes narrowing as he glared defiantly at Treville. "It's too soon."

Treville sighed, sitting back in his chair. He had expected no less from Porthos.

"Unfortunately the matter is not negotiable. The king knows who it was that discovered the plot against his life, and he trusts no others to track down the one assassin that escaped our rout of their base."

"How is it one managed to escape?" Athos asked quietly, his shrewd gaze meeting Treville's own. He knew Athos didn't like this mission either, but he wouldn't protest. Not that he could blame Porthos, of course.

"We're not sure. It's possible he somehow had word we were coming."

"Wouldn't that mean he was one of the men in charge of planning the operation?" Athos asked, raising an eyebrow.

"That's exactly what I'm worried about," Treville said heavily. "If one of the leaders truly did escape, he must be brought to justice immediately. We've had word that he's hiding out in Le Havre, waiting for a ship to carry him away."

He glanced at Porthos again. "It's a simple mission. Just find him and bring him back here. Whatever it takes."

"We've barely been back a week!" Porthos growled, arms crossed defensively across his chest. "He's not ready."

"I can speak for myself, thank you," Aramis said tartly, sitting forward and ignoring the baleful glare Porthos shot his way.

"You're not finished healing yet," Porthos protested angrily. Aramis raised an eyebrow at him.

"I'm perfectly capable of fulfilling my duties, Porthos," he said mildly.

"The captain promised us two weeks' leave," Porthos insisted, shooting a heated look Treville's way.

"I wouldn't be sending you if I had any other choice," Treville broke in at last, silencing Porthos with a stern look.

The trouble was that the big Musketeer was probably right. Aramis seemed to be back to his usual cheerful self, but there was a lingering stiffness to his movements that told Treville he wasn't ready to come off leave. Normally he would never drag him back in so soon, but after all that had happened the others would never go on a mission without him.

Which left Treville with no choice but to send them all.

"I'm sorry, Porthos, truly, but I cannot ignore the king's orders. He wishes his best Musketeers to track down the assassin and that's the four of you." He saw Porthos open his mouth to argue further and raised a hand. "My decision is final."

Porthos's mouth snapped shut and he glared mutinously at him, but he said nothing more. "When would you like us to depart?" Athos asked, breaking the tension.

"As soon as possible," Treville told him steadily, trying to ignore Porthos's simmering fury.

"Very well." Athos rose to his feet, gesturing for the others to follow.

For a long moment Porthos remained frozen in place, glare still firmly fixed on Treville, until Aramis laid a hand on his shoulder and he broke the fierce stare at last.

"Remember: whatever it takes," he called, rising to his feet to follow them out to the landing. Athos nodded but did not look around.

Treville sighed. He hated sending his men off angry or injured, but there wasn't much he could do. Being the captain was not something he took lightly, and he knew he would never forgive himself if something happened to Aramis, or any of them, as a result of his decision to send them too soon.

He watched the way Porthos seemed to hover protectively around Aramis as they left the courtyard and sighed again. He was not a religious man, but he offered a brief prayer that Porthos could keep Aramis safe.

It was all he could do.