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Chapter Text

“The escapees of Craigivare Prison…” The news reporter, a middle aged blond woman with light grey eyes, stared straight into the camera. The seriousness of the situation pulled at the edges of features, tugging her face into strained expression, “Are to be considered armed and extremely dangerous. The public is being urged not to approach either man if spotted and to contact the police on the emergency number.”

The video feed was replaced with two mugshots. Both men were dark skinned, one with cropped hair and glare which suggested the photographer was personally responsible for all of life’s problems. The other’s hair was longer, dark and curled tightly to his scalp. His stare was guarded, a shield surrounding his gaze to ensure nothing away.

“The police are doing everything possible to bring these criminals to justice. However any information which could lead to the capture of Charon Vincente and Porthos du Vallon should be called into the tip line which is on screen below.”

A string of numbers began to flash on the screen below the Musketeer’s arrest photo.

Two weeks earlier

“He was not this good before!”

“Jealous?”

Porthos blew out a frustrated breath as he flopped down to a spare practice mat next to the Unit two leader. Athos allowed himself the smallest of smirks, but didn’t let his eyes waver from d’Artagnan and Aramis as they sparred, dancing across the floor, both with practice knives clutched in a hand.

“I don’t get jealous of pups,” Porthos mumbled. He stretched out, knee raised lazily with his arm propped on top. A breath whistled out of him as d’Artagnan swiped with the fake blade, missing Aramis’ throat by centimeters. The older man was on the defensive, dodging more shots than he blocked. His arms stayed raised, but as cover not attack as d’Artagnan continued his relentless enslaught.

“Tell me I’m not imaginin’ this…”

“No…” Athos shook his head, tensing slightly as d’Artagnan lunged again. Aramis ducked down in escape, but d’Artagnan was already there. His foot slammed out and smacked Aramis’ own away with enough force to knock the marksman off balance, “…Definitely not imagining it…”

d’Artagnan offered Aramis no respite as he fell to the mat and swooped down onto the body. His actions weren’t new exactly but… More somehow. Quicker, more instinctual. d’Artagnan’s over active mind had always been his worst enemy, Athos had told him that time and time again during his apprenticed year. The moments he lost was those where he second guessed himself, which left him open for an enemy to steal the upper hand. It was this, not a lack of skill, which had often seen d’Artagnan cursing as he lay flat on his back. But that hesitation was now gone. Whatever Richelieu had done to him over his year captive… That had gone.

“It’s instinctual now…” Athos noted. Porthos made a noise of agreement, flinching as Aramis’ attempt to roll away was thwarted as d’Artagnan flung his knee against Aramis’ arm to keep him pinned. He raised the plastic knife and shoved it against the thin skin against of his throat.

The heavy double thump of Aramis tapping out exploded from his one free hand. d’Artagnan didn’t move. Instead, the plastic metal was pressed harder against the markman’s throat.

“Shit… Not again…” Athos shoved himself up from his spot, eyes narrowed in on the man who hadn’t budged from his spot on Aramis’ body, despite the man tapping out a second time.

It wasn’t the first time d’Artagnan had got lost inside his own mind – but it had been a while. The fights had no doubt triggered memories from all over the map of d’Artagnan’s life. From Russia and the Ukraine and the Musketeers and…

“d’Artagnan!” Athos prepared to tackle the man, he might not have a real knife to Aramis’ throat but he could still do plenty damage, when suddenly the younger man’s body went limp. He drew the knife away and he rolled off Aramis’ body, who gave a few coughs but offered a thumbs up to show their leader he was no worse for wear.

Athos gave a silent nod at the signal and crouched down next to d’Artagnan’s still body, “Hey…”

The younger man crouched on the floor with his arms wrapped tightly around his knees. When d’Artagnan didn’t seem to react Athos placed a careful hand on his friend’s shoulder, the other gently prizing the knife from d’Artagnan’s grasp. He didn’t resist. “You with us?”

Slowly d’Artagnan nodded and Athos let out a breath which had been stuck in his lungs.

Athos gently placed the knife to the side. “Good man…”

It had been over a month since d’Artagnan’s last flashback. When they’d first begun his light training they’d been lucky if a day went by without their friend loosing himself in vicious memories, drowning when the waters of his emotions became too violent. Athos had become adept at catching the flashbacks early on, and more often than not had been able to talk d’Artagnan back down to reality. It had been months since Athos had needed to use that skill and was all too happy it wasn’t needed that day.

“Did we lose you there?”

d’Artagnan stilled for a moment as if thinking before, “No… No I didn’t but I… I felt the pull…”

“Look at me, come on now…” Athos murmured, offering d’Artagnan a little smile as he looked up at him. His eyes were the same dark brown, wide and shaken but still him. Athos’ smile became a little easier. It wasn’t so long ago that he’d looked into d’Artagnan’s eyes and seen a stranger looking back at him, he wasn’t sure he could cope with seeing that again.

“Are you sure?”

d’Artagnan shook his head, eyes ducked low to avoid Athos’ gaze. When he finally spoke his voice was low, an admission. “No, I mean yes… No I didn’t completely go. It was like the darkness was pulling me back in. I knew it was Aramis, that I didn’t want to hurt him but… For a second I wasn’t so sure…”

A savage breath hissed out of d’Artagnan, shooting a glare at a spot on the practice mat as if it was somehow responsible for his most recent set back.

“I thought I was passed this. I… I thought…”

Athos reached out and pushed the escaped dark strands of hair from away from d’Artagnan’s eyes, so he couldn’t hide behind it.

 “You can’t let one little nudge topple your progress. You felt yourself slipping, but you anchored yourself. You didn’t get lost, you didn’t have an attack… That’s progress in itself. Don’t beat yourself up, not when you don’t deserve it.”

d’Artagnan’s self-depreciating nature was nothing new. The man was his own harshest critic. He pushed himself too hard and fast in his recovery as if to prove how little his year under Richelieu’s control had affected him. When he didn’t progress as much as he felt he should, the frustration exploded from every pore. He wanted to be better, wanted to prove he was better and when he couldn’t d’Artagnan would threaten to crumble again. That was where Athos came in. In those hard moments when d’Artagnan could see only darkness, it was Athos job to remind him to look for the stars. Even if d’Artagnan couldn’t always appreciate just how far his healing had come, he had plenty of people to remind him of every success he had already experienced.

When d’Artagnan didn’t answer Athos pressed just a little bit more, as if to prove to his friend he was still improving.

“You pulled yourself out of the attack, didn’t you? You remembered to use your anchor, even within the middle of a panic attack.”

d’Artagnan finally nodded, a small smile tugging at the edges of his tense lips, “All for one, right?”

All for one… d’Artagnan’s new mantra. His new hook which kept him grounded in reality even as the darkness tried to draw him back into drowning.

“That’s the one,” Athos squeezed d’Artagnan’s shoulder as the tense angles and lines seem to seep out of the young man’s body, leaving him lighter.

“Can we have another go?”

Athos paused, hesitating, “I think you’ve had enough for one day.”

“I need to keep going,” d’Artagnan shook his head, reaching up to retie his bun which seemed to have more hair out of it than in, “Please.”

“I don’t think…”

d’Artagnan shook his head, pushing himself unsteadily to his feet, “I can’t leave that as the last memory of trying to spar. This has to end more positively. Please.”

Athos, against his better judgement, sighed and nodded. Raising an expectant eyebrow, he offered up his good hand. d’Artagnan smiled and pulled him up onto his feet.

 “Fine… One more bout, but only because I like how much you’re making Porthos sulk.”

Treville let himself into the practice gym around twenty minutes later, but didn’t announce himself right away. He’d been out of the country for going on eight weeks, accompanying the Prime Minister on first his family holiday and then to the UN summit on international security

He stood in the doorway, arms crossed loosely over his chest, as he watched his second in command get, well there wasn’t really another word for it, pulverised into the mat. d’Artagnan had the Unit 2 leader in a head lock, leg curled up and across the older man’s throat to keep him pinned to the floor if he wanted to keep breathing. Athos was flailing punches, unwilling to give in and tap out, but they rarely landed and had no real power behind them. Treville realised with a silent chuckle that Athos, one of the most highly trained agents in the whole garrison, looked rather like a fish on dry land flapping desperately to find water.

“If you break him, d’Artagnan,” As much as Treville was finding the fight amusing, he knew he had to cut it short, “You’ll have to buy him.”

The moment he their leaders voice rang through the gym d’Artagnan loosened his hold, allowing Athos to sit up. He was breathing harder than usual but did offer a nod of hello. There was a red mark on the pale skin on his neck but he looked no less for wear. d’Artagnan, Treville observed as his eye slid over the man, seemed to be improving. The heavy steroid was working on his facial scars, changing the appearance of the burns which hooked around his eye and trailed down his face, onto his throat. The marks would never disappear, that just wasn’t realistic, but they had lost their angry red colouring. Instead they had taken on a brown colour, a few shades darker than d’Artagnan’s tanned skin. They looked… They looked good. Sadly, the same could not be said for his arm scars. While Lemay had been positive about those on his face, the damage on his arm remained minimally changed. He still had full movement of it, even if the scarred skin proved tight, but the feeling was mostly gone. Lemay had said the nerves were too damaged. Treville knew that the scarring was still alarming, if not limiting, which was why d’Artagnan wore a long sleeve exercise shirt even in the stuffy gym. Treville hadn’t seen the man in short sleeves since his return from the dead.

Still, if Treville had to choose between a d’Artagnan with nerve damage and no d’Artagnan at all? Well that wouldn’t even be a question.

“I had him on the ropes,” Athos coughed as he rubbed at the red mark, causing a huff of laughter from the onlookers next to them.

“Sure,” Aramis smirked, nudging Porthos to his left, “You were just about to turn it round.”

Porthos nodded, eyes dancing with amusement, “Pup didn’ see what was abou’ to hit him.”

“Athos was about to unleash the fury.”

“Make the boy beg for mercy!”

Athos shot his friends a glare and flopped back down onto the mat.

“I hate you both.”

Treville wondered, not for the first time, whether he had hired children instead of highly trained professionals, and turned to the only agent who wasn’t currently grating on his nerves.

“How are you feeling?”

d’Artagnan, having learned early on in his return to the Garrison that the answer ‘fine’ would receive a look vague irritation and a repeat of the question, actually thought about the answer.

“Sleeping a lot better now I’m home, Sir.”

Treville nodded, he’d already been told as much, “It’s amazing what a difference your own bed makes.”

d’Artagnan nodded, although they were both fully aware that his sleeping had nothing to do with the bed and everything to do with who was in it with him.

“How was your trip?” Aramis flopped onto his stomach and propped himself up on his hands, like a teenage girl talking about her crush. All he’d need to do was start kicking his legs to complete the look.

“Tedious. Two months with Monsieur Royaline is about seven weeks and five days too long, but all in all it was pretty uneventful.”

Porthos snorted, agreeing with the sentiment all too well. He slid down onto the mat, using the small of Aramis’ back as a pillow, ignoring the man’s half-hearted protest. Aramis put up a show of annoyance, wriggling under his friend’s head, but settled again in defeat when Porthos refused to move.

Once Aramis had given up Porthos glance back to their Captain, “How’s unit 7 shaping up?”

After all that had been why Treville had accompanied France’s power couple on their travels. Unit 7 leader needed signed off. Treville would normally have sent Athos to do it, but considering the events over the last year the Captain had shown his second command a kindness and not sent him away from his friends. Perhaps that was just proof he was going soft, he wasn’t sure, but after the year that Unit 2 had lived through it didn’t seem right to split them up again.

“Eager, proactive. Clemount takes his leadership role very seriously, if I’d allowed it he would have stayed on duty for the whole eight weeks.  I had to take a few shifts myself with there only being the three of them.”

“He’ll burn out if he keeps that up,” Athos snorted, knowing all too well how heavily the responsibility of leadership could weigh on a man’s heart. He’d spent plenty of sleepless nights planning and re-planning assignments during his first six months in command of Unit 2.

“Everyone’s the same in the beginning, even you,” Treville reasoned, catching Athos’ eye, smirking for a moment. He doubted he’d be able to count the amount of times he’d marched Athos out of the Unit 2 office at stupid o’clock and forced him to sleep.  “It’s like a rite of passage. They will make a great team once they find their fourth.”

“He’ll learn…” Aramis mumbled towards the mats.

“But anyway,” Treville looked out over his Unit 2 team, “I didn’t come here to talk about Clemount.”

“No, you came because you missed us,” Aramis muttered again, although was ignored by their Captain, who’s eyes fell on their target.

“Actually, Porthos, I need a word.”

The big man frowned, blinking up from his spot on his Aramis pillow.

“What, now?”

“No, of course not,” Aramis wriggled more, “After you have a nap on me, please take your time!”

With one more twist Aramis successfully deposited Porthos from his back into the mat, the bigger man giving out a puff of annoyance. Athos rolled his eyes at his friends, but propped himself up on his good elbow. He fixed the Captain with a curious gaze.

“What’s going on Captain? Is something wrong?”

Treville hesitated, which sent Athos’ interested spiking.

“Captain?” He prompted. Treville didn’t answer.

Porthos shoved himself to his feet, frowning slightly with a nervous glance to Athos.

“Am I in trouble?”

Treville frowned, “Of course not. I-“ He sighed, narrowing his eyes in thought. “Is there much point in talking to you privately when you’ll just tell them the moment you leave my office?”

Porthos, at least, did have the decency to look a little embarrassed.

“S’not good for teams to keep secrets…”

Oh for the love of… Treville sighed. Say what you wanted about Unit 7, but at least they listened to their captain.

“Well then you may as well all come. My office. 30 minutes.”

In the end it only took 23 minutes for the four men to be sat in front of the Captain’s desk. At least, Treville considered as he walked into his office, that the men had changed out of their training gear and were looking more like the adults he’d recruited in various levels of work attire. Aramis was the most crisply turned out as always, the only one with who subjected himself to a tie, with a grey suit and black shirt which had been pressed to within an inch of its life. Porthos, by contrast, wore dark suit trousers and a half buttoned white shirt which had definitely not seen an iron that morning. Athos and d’Artagnan fell somewhere in between the two extremes, Athos rumpled yet still professional and d’Artagnan looking strangely lopsided with one sleeve rolled to the elbow and the other to the wrist.

They all nodded in greeting as Treville took his seat. Without any preamble the Captain leaned forward, letting his eyes roam across each of his men in turn.

“I received an email this morning from the Henri Michaud – “

“The Defence Minister?”

Treville glared at Aramis, who made a mime of zipping his lips. The Defence Minister was one of the few people within the government who were aware of the Musketeers existence and although he wasn’t considered Treville’s boss per say, no one in the room was under any delusion of the man’s power.

“Yes, the Defence Minister, if you would let me finish a sentence, Aramis.” Treville broke off for a moment. He plucked a printed email from his desk, “I’ll spare you the majority of the back and forth, which is a great deal of political horse shit, but he has received a request and seemingly granted it without my knowledge.”

The twist of Treville’s lips made it clear to the other men just what their leader thought of being told what to do with the men under his command.

Porthos shifted a little uncomfortably in the chair. “And I suppose this request has something to do with me, Sir?”

“You are correct, Porthos. I’m afraid that, with immediate effect, you are on loan to MI5 in London.”

And as Treville had predicted, his office exploded in chaos.

Chapter Text

Athos and Aramis both sprung from their seats as if scalded.

His second in command at least had the decency of ranting in French, while Aramis words descended into a Spanish tirade. d’Artagnan didn’t say anything, but his hand did reach out and clamp had onto Porthos’ forearm as if daring anyone to take his friend away. Porthos, more than anything else, just looked surprised.

“-We aren’t horses to be traded!” Athos finished of his furious monologue. He snatched the email out of his commander’s hands and scanned it with a frantic speed. When he didn’t find the loop hole he was obviously hoping for he tossed it back on the table, offering the Captain a near murderous glare. “Well do something about this!”

Athos’s tone left Treville bristling but only offered a half-hearted glare. His agent was definitely out of order, but Treville knew he’d have said just as much during his time as a team leader. Separating a team was not protocol, but the decision had been taken well out of his hands. It had been 11 months since d’Artagnan had returned, 11 months of healing, but he hadn’t been the only one with wounds. Athos was never going to be happy with his team being split apart again.

“And if you don’t think I’ve already tried then I wonder how well you really know me,” Treville’s gaze slid from Athos to Aramis, who looked about moments from beginning his pacing habit, “Sit down. Both of you, now.”

The tone left little room for someone to assume it was a request and slowly the pair slid back into their seat. Aramis crossed his arms over his chest while Athos leant forward stabbing his finger against the offending email.

“What the hell is this even about?”

“I was about to tell you,” Good god, why did Team 2 never allowed him to finish a sentence? He shot a firm look at Athos, Aramis and d’Artagnan, “Although you three are not hearing this – am I clear?”

“Crystal,” Athos confirmed while the other two nodded.

Porthos, now he had recovered from his initial shock, looked a little strained. “Captain, just tell me what the English want with me.”

Treville’s hand dipped into his desk and slid a brown folder onto the surface. Four sets of eyes swivelled down to the papers which they were hoping held all the answers.

With a sigh the Captain reached down and flicked the file open to the first page. A mug shot stared up at the group.

“Porthos, do you know a Charon Vincente?”

Athos’ eyes slid to his friend, watching with slight surprise as Porthos plucked the photo and scrutinised it. The man was early to mid-thirties with dark skin and bright brown eyes which glared into the camera which had taken his mugshot. The flash shone against his cheekbones, which stood high and pronounced on his face, even if a few wrinkles were beginning to appear around the edges of his features.

“I…” Porthos frowned and tried again, “He got old…”

Treville raised an eyebrow, “So you know him?”

The big man nodded, “As kids. I got moved to his foster home when I was, what, ten? We were best friends until were fifteen.”

“Well there goes my hope that they’d got it wrong…” Treville sighed, “What was he like when you knew him?”

“We were both little shits…” Porthos let out a humourless laugh, “Bunking off school, scrawling graffiti… Nothing major, just… Kid stuff, ya’ know? Nothing to get us banged up. What did he do?”

“He just got sentenced to seven years for carrying an illegal firearm in the middle of London,” Treville read from the second page of the file, which accompanied a line of finger prints, “But that’s only the latest. Common assault, minor drugs charges, possession and distribution of forged IDs…”

“He went from small time to guns pretty quick,” Aramis frowned, “The UK has some strict gun laws. Are all of those arrests in England?”

“After the age of 18, yes,” Treville laid the paper down, his eyes settling on his agent, “All before were in France. It’s the first one the English are interested in. Never brought to court but he was placed on probation after tagging a police car with spray paint. He was arrested with a young Mr Porthos du Vallon…”

Porthos suddenly felt his face grow hot as his teammates’ eyes found him, each with their own questions. He shifted uncomfortably on his chair and rubbed a hand over his strong jaw.

“We were fifteen and stupid,” He muttered, as if that was a defence, “My one and only time being arrested. We were let off with a caution and our group home thought it best to split us up. Charon stayed there, I was sent to live with a foster family. Best thing that could have happened to me, Mara and Cossette never took any of my crap and they straightened me right out. Still get their Christmas card…  When I moved in with them it was in another city and they weren’t happy about me seeing Charon so after a while we just…” Porthos trailed off with a shrug.

Treville nodded slowly, “Well this is certainly making more sense now.”

“Well Captain, I’m glad you understand but I’m in still in the dark,” Aramis looked between other men, brows creasing in confusion. He turned questioningly to Porthos, “What does any of this have to do with you?”

“I… I don’t…”

Luckily, Treville took up the question. “British law enforcement have been following Vincente for some time. Since his move to London at twenty-one he’s been a strictly small time annoyance, right up until his latest arrest and incarceration.”

Athos frowned, “They were interested in the gun?”

Their Captain nodded, “When examined the serial number matched a crate of military grade weaponry which was stolen in a transport blitz attack just outside Bagdad. Three British servicemen were killed and the crate containing that weapon disappeared.”

“So how did he get it?” Aramis asked.

“Over the last six months British intelligence has built up a trail between the missing crate of weaponry and the street gang the ‘Court’. The gang is well known in London and across England for prostitution rings and narcotic distribution, although it seems they have now branched out into weaponry.”

“Charon’s not,” Porthos cut Treville’s words off. He lent forward and stabbed a strong finger down on his childhood friend’s forehead, “He’s not capable of orchestrating anything this big. Not that he’s stupid but Charon was always rash, he wouldn’t be able to manage all of this.”

“You’ve not seen the man for the best part of fifteen years,” Aramis pointed out, “Realistically, can you be so sure?”

Porthos looked like he’d found insult inside his friend’s words and opened his mouth to retaliate. Treville, however, got there first.

“I don’t think they are suggesting he is the facilitator,” He shot a withering look to Aramis, who held up his hands in his defence, “But they do have evidence that he is involved. He could have information which could lead to the arrest of the major players within the organisation. Vincente could hold the key to the location of those missing weapons before they all end up on the streets of the UK.”

A beat of silence circled around the room as each man digested the information. Treville looked at each man in turn before finally finding Porthos. The man’s face was tight with as he tried to make sense of this barrage of information over his old friend. After a moment he swallowed. He picked up the photograph again, a finger running along the edge of the paper. Finally Porthos glanced back up to his leader, a question on his lips.

“So I’m to… Interrogate him?” Porthos guessed, “They think I can use our old friendship to what… Find the information they want?”

Something flared in Treville’s gaze, irritation which bordered on anger, “Not exactly.”

“Sir?”

“They don’t believe interrogation to be the way forward. Their plan is to place you inside the prison. They want you two to reconnect in the hopes of Vincente letting some prudent information slip.”

“Wait!” Athos spoke up. All eyes in the room snapped to the Unit 2 leader. “They want to insert Porthos, as himself, into an English prison? No cover story? No alias?”

Treville nodded, resigned to the fear which was only just dawning on Athos.

“Captain you can’t! That’s – that’s-“ He broke off, a hand savagely shoved through his hair.

Whatever Athos had just realised was lost on d’Artagnan. He glanced to his leader, questions swirling around his expression.

“I don’t understand?”

“They want him to go in as himself. They’re sending a former police officer into a prison with no back up!” Athos spat, looking back to Treville, “That’s what they’re planning, isn’t it? To send one of our agents into a snake pit in a vague hope that some childhood friend will trust him. Captain they can’t be allowed to do this.”

“Athos, I have tried!” Treville sighed, “I have been on the phone all morning. Apart from anything else I wanted to know how the hell anyone knew about us in order to request him. Apparently the lead agent on the investigation found Porthos’ namewhile researching Vincente’s past. They requested his criminal record from INTERPOL but was denied after a demand for level 3 security clearance. I don’t know who screwed who for information but eventually the request was put to and approved by Henri Michaud. There’s nothing I can do.”

Despite the news, Porthos seemed surprisingly calm.

“When do I have to leave?”

“You are not going anywhere!” The words exploded from Athos. His fist slammed down onto the table, the objects on Treville’s desk jumping at the sudden movement. “You’ll have a target painted on you back the moment anyone realises you were a cop. You might, but I won’t send one of my men into a –“

“We have no choice, Athos!” Treville spat, his patience finally waning. He could understand the anger, but he wouldn’t be accused of not caring when he had tried everything to get Porthos’ out of this mess, “I done everything I can but the decision is not mine to make - or yours. Now you can calm down and listen, or you can leave my office. Decide, now.”

For a second Athos just glared at the world, but then did sit back in his seat, fingers digging into the leather of the chair arms to keep control of his tempter.

Once Treville was convinced that his depute was in control of his emotions he continued.

“Porthos, I want you to know that I tried. For the record, I wasn’t happy with what was being asked of you. I eventually managed to speak to the agent in charge of the case in London, a Blake Abernethy, who did listen to my concerns and agree to one of my suggestions.”

Porthos raised an eyebrow, “Oh?”

The Captain nodded, “I suggested that one of our team be used as a handler during the insertion.”

Aramis blinked in surprise, “He agreed to that?”

“She did,” Treville emphasised. He might not have ever met Blake Abernethy, but he doubted that she would appreciate her gender being confused. “She agreed to take a transfer of one more agent. A male agent can be placed within the prison as part of the guard staff. It’s not ideal but it’s better than nothing and I’d feel a damn sight better having a Musketeer watch your back rather than some random English agent.”

“Well that’s something at least,” Athos nodded, “It should be me. I’m the leader of this team, I don’t want him out of my sight in the field.”

Aramis snorted, “You’re English is about as eloquent as a 10 year old’s. I’m better at languages, Treville I should be the one who –“

“My English is just fine thank you.” Athos shot a hard look at his friend. Aramis was perhaps the linguist of the group but Athos knew his skills were quite capable of functioning in the UK, “Aramis, you’ve never acted as a handler on an undercover mission and there’s no way your first can be in some foreign country which –“

“Actually,” Treville silenced the squabbling man with a flick of his hand, “It can’t be either of you. Abernethy agreed to my terms of a handler, but she added her own stipulation.”

Athos frowned, “Which is?”

And, for the second time that day, Treville braced himself for uproar.

“She’s worried about Vincente smelling something rotten and getting spooked. She said that if I was going to demand a handler she would honour my request, but they couldn’t be French. We only have one agent who fits that criteria.”

It took a moment for realisation to dawn on the agents. Technically speaking there was a few agents who hadn’t been born within France. Aramis for one, but that was only a technicality. The rule wasn't about birth as much as ties. If Abernethy stuck to her demands and insisted the agent inserted being connected to France? Well there really was only one option.

Four sets of gazes swivelled and pulsed hot against d’Artagnan’s face.

Chapter Text

For a few moments the office was filled with a sufficatingly, sickening, broken only by the five heartbeats which pulsated from the men. Treville watched his second in command, waiting patiently for him to explode. There was no way he’d let his youngest teammate back out into the field without the team by his side, not after last time. It didn’t matter that no one blamed Athos for d’Artagnan’s abduction, not even the boy himself, it would take him a long time to ever forgive himself.

This? This was Athos’ worst nightmare.

But it wasn’t Athos who eventually broke the silence. d’Artagnan shifted in his chair, a single unmarred finger reaching up to trace the scar which hooked around his eye.

“I’ve not been approved for active duty, Sir.”

Not that d’Artagnan hadn’t made progress the 11 months since his resurrection. When compared to his starting point, the progress had been astounding. There was, however, was no yardstick for a recovery such as this. The road back to active duty was long; a year, two, maybe never.

Treville nodded, “I realise that, which is why, if you are willing to work as Porthos’ handler, I have arranged for your final psych eval to take place this afternoon. d’Artagnan, this is not an order; you know your own recovery. I have no choice but to send Porthos but if you aren’t ready, I will not demand it of you.”

The young man’s finger continued to rub along the raised scar as he processed the words. The Captain realised ideally that it seemed to help the boy think, as if it served as a mechanism to centre his thoughts. Well good. If d’Artagnan had found a positive way to use those marks from his time in hell then he had a stronger spirit than Treville had thought – and it wasn’t as if he’d had a low opinion of the boy before.

“And if I fail the evaluation?” d’Artagnan asked finally. He turned his attention back to Treville, “Is there no one else?”

“I considered Samara, her accent parody is excellent and I doubt anyone could link her to France if she didn’t want them to, but Abernethy was adamant on wanting a male agent. There are no female guards employed at Craigivare Prison, a woman would apparently draw too many eyes…” Treville had considered Aramis too, who’s English was excellent but (unlike his Spanish) was accented. He doubted Abernethy would allow it. “d’Artagnan I wouldn’t ask you if there was another option, I wish I didn’t have to. If you aren’t ready then we will have to make it work.”

“The only other option being some English agent who’s a complete stranger…” d’Artagnan shook his head. Did he feel ready? No. But there was a part of him, deep in the recesses of his mind, which worried he might never feel ready again. Maybe the only way to truly be sure was to, well, try.

“What time is the psych eval?”

“You’re… Quieter than I thought you would be…” d’Artagnan shot a look side ways to Athos. He shifted on his seat, the cheap plastic squeaking under the shifting weight. The door ahead of them was shut tight, a red ‘please wait’ sign illuminated above the door. The ‘please enter’ sign next to it remained darkened, indicating the psychiatrist was not yet ready for him.

Athos didn’t say anything for a moment. His eyes dropped to the floor, hands dangling aimlessly between his legs as he leant forward. A breath expelled from his lungs, a slow constant exhale of a man who’s thoughts refused to stay silent.

“I can’t decide if I’m a terrible person for wanting you to pass.”

D’Artagnan cocked his head in a silent question, so Athos just continued.

“I mean… Don’t get me wrong, independent of whatever Treville said this morning I want you back with us, in the field not just the office, but with Porthos being sent off like a lamb to the slaughter I… I want one of us there…”

D’Artagnan nodded, “I do too.”

But Athos wasn’t done. He pushed upwards, his hand rising and tugging threw his hair as he thought. “And then I remember what happened the last time we sent you undercover and I realise I’m a bastard for wanting to do it again…”

“It’s my job, Athos-“

“And you are more than capable of doing it,” Athos rubbed a finger along his brow bone, “But this feels like I’m being forced between your wellbeing and Porthos’ safety and it feels like I’m choosing him.”

The idea drew a humourless chuckle from d’Artagnan, just as the light above the door switched from red to green.

“Well… Maybe Dr Greer will still think I’m crazy and put a stop to the whole thing…”

Athos shook his head, although did offer a small smile, “Do you want me to wait for you?”

But d’Artagnan shook his head no, “Don’t you have some shouting at Treville to do? Something about ‘sending your team members on assignment without your knowledge?’ that’s a great rant. Or how about the old classic ‘why have team leads if we’re left out of decisions?’”

d’Artagnan side stepped Athos’ half-hearted swipe to his shoulder.

“Brat. I’ll be in the office when you’re done.”

He watched d’Artagnan disappear through the door. The light switched from green to red. For a moment, Athos remained in his seat, watching the closed door as he imagined what might be going on in the next room.

d’Artagnan was better. He wasn’t the same, but Athos knew that would likely be impossible. A year of torture in captivity was not something which could forgotten, but Athos believed his friend was capable of overcoming. d’Artagnan had the toughest moral character and deepest reserves of strength of any man Athos had ever met. He didn’t want to send d’Artagnan back into danger but if he said that he was ready then Athos had to believe that.  He’d tried to second guess d’Artagnan’s actions with the Fire with Fire assignment and Athos still wondered if it had been the man’s desire to prove himself to his mentor which has gotten him captured. He’d never asked the question directly, unsure of what hearing the answer would accomplish, but he’d learned the lesson the situation had brought.

He had to trust d’Artagnan’s judgement. If he thought he was ready? Well then Athos would believe him.

But it wasn’t Dr Greer waiting for d’Artagnan on the other side of the door. Greer, d’Artagnan’s normal psychiatrist, was a man in his mid-fifties. He was short, with salt and pepper hair, glasses permanently perched on the tip of his nose and a patterned sweater no matter what the weather. d’Artagnan had been seeing the doctor consistently since his return to the living, at first daily during his time in the medical wing, then weekly after his move to out with the Garrison. Most recently Greer had decided d’Artagnan’s progress meant they could drop their sessions back to every fourteen days. They weren’t due to meet for another 10.

Instead of Greer welcoming him into the counselling room, was a stranger. The figure, a woman, stood with a smile as d’Artagnan shut the door behind him. She was young, not as young as d’Artagnan but perhaps in her thirties. Her hair was wild and dark, the curls filling the space around her face and softening the intense features. Not that they were sharp per say, but piercing, eyes wide and intense against her dark skin. d’Artagnan doubted they missed much.

She smiled and held out her hand which d’Artagnan took. Confusion spread across his features.

“Good afternoon. I’m sorry but, where is Dr Greer?”

“I’m afraid final evaluations for non-active agents cannot be carried out by their regular psychiatrist. Normally Dr Greer would have spent explained and prepared you for this in his own session, however, due to the time constraints, that has become impossible.”

The doctor indicated an empty chair and d’Artagnan sat and fidgeted. The change of doctors had thrown him off his stride, put him on edge.

“My name is Dr Evanno, but please call me Sylvie.”

“Pleased to meet you, Sylvie.”

The woman smiled. She leant forward and picked up a sleek leather binder from the coffee table.

“Before we begin, I want to make you aware that Dr Greer shared the notes from your past meetings with me. Did he explain ever explain that this would be a possibility?”

D’Artagnan nodded, “He always said our sessions were confidential, that he would only share information during my reclassification to active agent, should that ever occur.”

Sylvie smiled, “Good. I just needed to make sure, I didn’t want to start spouting secrets and for your to wonder if I was some kind of stalker.”

The woman toed off her shoes and tucked them up at her side. The action surprised d’Artagnan but, taking a second look, Sylvie didn’t strike him was the psychiatrist type. Instead of some kind of office attire the woman wore a floor length black skirt and loose white shirt which billowed out from the elbows. A scarf of blues and greens was wound loosely around her neck, semi hiding a variety of pendants and chockers. Gold bracelets of varying thicknesses slid up and down her wrists as she flicked the ledger open and scanned the contents.

“I need to you understand that, while Doctor-Patient confidentiality usually means our conversation is private, due to the nature of this meeting I will need to report my decision back to the Captain,” Sylvie watched d’Artagnan careful to ensure he understood. When he nodded she continued.

“So, Captain Treville has scheduled this evaluation because he wants you back in the field. He only told you this morning - that must have been quite a shock.”

She glanced up at d’Artagnan. When he didn’t make a move to speak she continued. “How do you feel about that?”

Well… This wasn’t going to work if he didn’t speak. d’Artagnan reached up and ran a hand through his hair. A few strands were tugged from his bun and fell in front of his face.

“It was a surprise,” d’Artagnan admitted, “I knew that was the end game for my recovery, I just didn’t expect it to happen so fast?”

Sylvie’s thumb ribbed along a bangle’s edge as she watched d’Artagnan, “Do you think it’s too fast?”

He shook his head. “I never said that. I was just surprised, that’s all.”

“Surprised is a completely reasonable reaction,” Sylvie agreed. Her eyes glanced down to her notes, narrowed quickly as if reading something, then flicked back up to d’Artagnan. She smiled.

“You spoke to Dr Greer about some of your fears surrounding your return to active duty, could you tell me about them?”

Well, d’Artagnan knew that question was coming. His eyes dropped to his hands as he wound them together until they cracked.

“Being in the field, part of a team…” He broke off, wondering how to put his thoughts into words, and in such a way which wasn’t going to have his file rejected for field work, “It’s not just me I’m responsible for. Teams are only as strong as their weakest member. My short comings could get my friends hurt… I guess that’s what scares me.”

“So you had no short comings before your abduction?”

d’Artagnan frowned, bristling slightly. What was she expecting? “Of course not.”

“Well then…” Sylvie smirked and d’Artagnan realised she was playing devil’s advocate. He relaxed slightly in the chair as the doctor continued. “Did you manage them before in a way you can’t now?”

“They’re different now.”

“How so?”

“I was brash and hot headed. My team lead used to say that my heart overruled my head, which I don’t think anyone else would disagree with…”

“And now?”

Should he admit it? Or would that make everything worse. He wanted to pass, but d’Artagnan knew better than to attempt to play the system. In the end d’Artagnan shrugged, “I’m sure it’s there in my file…”

Sylvie nodded. If she was irritated by d’Artagnan’s sidestep of the question she didn’t show it. Her eyes flickered back down to the file.

“Well Dr Greer gave you a diagnosis of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder which has mainly manifested in nightmares and flashbacks. You haven’t, however, been diagnosed with any other disorders which often stem from PTSD. No ASD, OCD?”

d’Artagnan shook his head.

“And these notes seem to suggest your flashbacks have been getting fewer and further between. Can you explain that?”

“They have, well they had…” d’Artagnan sighed savagely, more hair tumbling out of the band holding his hair in place.

Sylvie’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, “There is nothing about that in your notes. According do these your last flashback last month when an agent lit a cigar. After that you began to work on desensitizing yourself to fire with Dr Greer, according to these notes he believes it is going excellently. Has there been something since changed?”

Briefly d’Artagnan considered lying, but doubted Sylvie would buy that.

“This morning… Kind of…”

Sylvie tugged a pen from behind her ear - d’Artagnan hadn’t even noticed it her hair was so wild. She jotted something down on the paper.

“What do you mean by ‘kind of’? How did this come about?”

So d’Artagnan relayed the story of that morning, of sparring with Aramis and the weight of the knife in his hand and the edges of his vision slipping into the dark spaces of those painful memories.

“It was like I felt the panic rise… I felt like I wanted to slip into… Into that… But I didn’t. I pulled myself back on my own, didn’t lose any time…”

So there it was. There was no way this Sylvie would pass him now. Something twisted inside d‘Artagnan’s stomach. He’d failed his team, failed Porthos who would now be facing the unknown alone.

But then… Maybe that was for the best. Maybe knowing no one was there to watch your back was better than expecting someone to be there only to be let down.

What was the point even finishing the evaluation when he knew the outcome?

“And your nightmares?” Sylvie continued on with the interview, dragging d’Artagnan back to the present. 

d’Artagnan took deep breath and began his answer. The sooner this was over, the better.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

Porthos glanced up. The stocky figure of his Unit leader stood in the doorway. All unkempt hair and scruffy beard. He wondered ideally how much longer Treville would suffer the dishevelled man before he ordered him to the barbers, certainly before Athos was sent on bodyguard detail. The little interlude of thought was a welcome break, but he couldn’t keep his mind busy for ever. He sighed in frustration and dropped the file he’d been reading to his desk.

“You’d pay me to take them back…”

“Oh?” Athos let the door shut behind him and took a seat behind his own desk, “Why’s that?”

With a sigh Porthos shoved back from his desk and covered his hands with his eyes. A groan bubbled from his somewhere deep in his chest as he pressed the heels of his hands against his eye sockets. It elevated the pressure, if only for a moment.

Athos waited patiently for Porthos to collect his thoughts, watching his friend with in his impassive, nonjudgement way.

With another sigh Porthos’ hands dropped back down and as he looked back to Athos.

“You know what’s really getting to me?”

Athos raised an eyebrow, an invitation to continue.

It took Porthos a few moments of careful thought, rolling potential words across his tongue before he chose them carefully. “This isn’t an undercover mission…”

“Oh?”

“I mean, I know undercover work, I mean I’m good at it-”

“You’ve got a scar on your stomach that may disagree.” From someone else that might have been an insult, but the ghost of a teasing smile on Athos’ lips told Porthos that his leader was anything but serious. It wasn’t even as though Athos had a point really. Shit might have hit the fan the undercover mission after the late Prime Minister’s assassination, but that had been nothing to do with either agent’s skills. People had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time. That had just been bad luck. Their skills had nothing to do with it.

Still, their team would never pass up a chance to tease.

Porthos decided to just ignore the comment and continue. “I’ve been undercover on and off since I went into the police. This whole thing ain’t new to me, but… but what the English want me to do isn’t undercover.”

Athos waited. He knew Porthos wasn’t finished, so just gave him space to collect the rest of his thoughts. There was no rush. If Porthos needed time to process his new orders then Athos would give him it.

“It’s… I’m not acting, it’s not someone else’s life I’m taking on. This is playing myself, but myself if shit went wrong…”

Porthos, for lack of a better description, flopped. His forearms hit his desk, his chin on top with a sigh. He nudged the folder towards Athos, who rolled his eyes but did stand up to retrieve it. He flipped it open just was Porthos began to speak again.

“I’m going in as myself. Charon needs to recognise me, but that means a basic Google search will bring up my work history ‘til my recruitment here… So as we speak some tech head is adding some fake articles online about Detective du Vallon’s disgrace and arrest over bribery allegations and drug trafficking…”

Athos’ eyes slid over the briefing. A long breathe hissed out from between his teeth… “So… instead of being recruited into the Musketeers you were arrested, tried and found guilty for allowing a drugs ring to do business with your protection in return for a 30% cut. You received 6 years and lost your badge. Was denied early release, moved to London when you finally got out, where you lived for 2 years until you were arrested 9 months ago for more drug related charges. You were found guilty, yesterday?” Athos paused to glance up at friend, “Sorry about that. You’ll be moved to Craigivare prison on four days from now to serve your eighteen month sentence… Well shit.”

Porthos nodded glumly, chin still on his arms.

“But,” Athos frowned. He moved closer to Porthos and perched on his friend’s desk. “It’s a story? It’s not you, really you I mean…”

“It could have been,” Porthos sighed. Finally he sat back up, fingers rubbing over his eyes again, “This isn’t someone else, I’m playing me. A fucked up version of me, but me… I mean, I’m completely aware of how I could have turned out. How statistics say my life should have gone. Hell If I hadn’t been moved from that group home, hadn’t been split from Charon, I would probably be in some jail for real…”

“You can’t know that for sure…”

The big man shrugged, “No one seemed to believe I was capable of much until I moved in with Mara and Cossette. They refused to take any of my shit after I arrived... I mean I expected just to carry on as I had in the group home but they weren’t having it. They pushed me, it’s because of them I applied for the academy. Without them…” Porthos’ eyes narrowed on the brown folder Athos held. He reached out and flicked the corner, the crack of the papers snapping away from his fingers only minimally satisfying. “I mean my life wouldn’t be exactly the same as that file but I bet it would have ended up in the same place…”

There was a certain sadness which flickered across Porthos’ eyes which made Athos’ heart ache. There was something very honest in the recognition of just how wrong life could have gone without another’s intervention. For Athos, that someone had been Treville, for Porthos it seemed to be his foster mothers. It was humbling, and a little terrifying, to realise just how precariously close your life had been to spiralling out of control. Athos knew the feeling well enough to recognise it as it swam in Porthos’ eyes.

“You had someone put you on the right path, but what you built after that is your own. You earned your place here as much as any one of us,” Athos leant forward and pressed a comforting hand to his friend’s shoulder. Porthos… Musketeer, agent of France, the best fighter the agency had ever seen… One of us. Of all the labels the world forced upon him that was the most important. “The fact MI5 want to use you because of who you were is of little consequence to who you’ve made yourself to be.”

Finally, finally, a ghost of a smile twinged across Porthos’ lips. It wasn’t his normal grin. That smile was one so bright it bled colour into even the most dire, bleak of situations, forcing those even in the darkest of night to see the spark of cautious optimism. No it lacked its normal, easy warmth, but it was a start. It was something.

“I hate you sometimes…”

Athos offered the bigger man a little shove in the shoulder. The wall that was Porthos barely moved.

“Do I get to ask why?”

Porthos offered his friend a shove back, not overly hard but Athos still had to brace himself so he wasn’t pushed from his perch on the desk.

“You’re right all the time and it’s getting old.”

Athos snorted.

”Well if that’s all I’ve done I suppose I’ll find a way to cope.”

He slipped from his perch on Porthos’ desk with the intent to go in search of coffee, when the door to the office opened.

d’Artagnan stood in the doorway, eyes blank with a gaze reminiscing of shell-shock. He blinked a few times in an attempt to focus of his friends. Athos frowned, coffee forgotten in the presence of the younger man.

“d’Artagnan?” Athos prompted when the boy made no move to speak, “Is everything okay?”

The younger man’s eyes darted down. Athos followed his gaze and noted the white paper clutched in his hand for the first time.

Slowly d’Artagnan blinked, as if truly mulling the answer over in his mind.

“I…” His voice trailed off, so d’Artagnan swallowed and tried again, “She passed me, Doctor Evanno – Sylvie. Looks like I’m an active agent again.”

Chapter Text

The pair were on English soil within 48 hours. Porthos, without a back story to memorise for himself, had spent his time helping d’Artagnan learn his. Olivier Ivanov – a new undercover name had been necessary after the last under cover attempt - was a Russian living in the UK who, after two failed attempts to join the police service, had taken a job at Craigivare to gain some experience.

“Your scars?” Porthos glanced up at his friend, who was shrugging on a fresh white shirt which had only been minimally creased from it’s time in the suitcase.

“Car accident when I was 19 in Russia. 6 months before I moved to the UK.”

Porthos buttoned up his own shirt. He wished there had been a chance to shower after their flight, but Abenethy was due at their little motel room any minute. “Anyone else involved?”

“Ex-girlfriend. I was driving, took a corner too quick and hit a tree.”

“Good. What languages do you speak?”

“Mother tongue Russian,” D’Artagnan grabbed a tie and looped it round his neck, “And English. Spoken mostly fluent but with an accent. Never been to France, can’t speak the language, never even –“

“Eaten a baguette.”

D’Artagnan snorted, “Funny. Just need to make it believable, else Abenethy will bounce me off this operation. Athos said not being fluent makes for a better story, but that’s hard to keep up under pressure.”

Now they were both dressed, Porthos could finally realise what was throwing him off about d’Artagnan’s appearance. He frowned.

“Where’s your ring?”

“Hmm?” d’Artagnan ducked down, pretending to fiddle with the lock on his suitcase.

“You had it on that chain. Where did it go?”

D’Artagnan had worn his wedding ring round his neck since his return from the dead. Actually, before, since it had been under his shirt throughout their time in Fire with Fire. It had become a part of him as much as his new scars or his long hair. Seeing him without it left him somehow incomplete.

“Put it on,” Porthos encouraged, “We can work it into the back story.”

Silence.

“d’Artagnan?”

“I don’t have it with me.”

“Why?”

Porthos, sick of talking to his teammate’s back, stepped forward and touched his shoulder. What he hadn’t expected was for d’Artagnan to shrug it off.

“Don’t.”

“d’Artagnan? What is –“

“We had a fight, okay?”

What? D’Artagnan hadn’t mentioned that. Not on their flight or in their time at the hotel. They had spent hours going over his back story, yet he hadn’t once mentioned…

“She was upset. Upset about all this.” d’Artagnan gestured between Porthos and himself. “She said she was worried and I took it… Well I took it badly. Said that if she didn’t think I could do this I –“

D’Artagnan flopped down onto one of the unused beds, “- I asked her if she thought I was still fucked up.”

“d’Artagnan –“

“I didn’t mean it!” He spat at the floor. “But it was like she was putting a real voice to the one in my head that says I shouldn’t be here anymore.”

“And you know that’s shit.”

“Hmm…”

“You know that is shit.” Porthos shoved gently at his friend’s shoulder until finally looked up. “So you have a past. You had one before. You have worked harder than anyone I know to earn your place here and there is no one else I’d rather have watching my back.”

He paused for a moment to let his words sink in.

“How did you leave it with Constance?”

“Bad. I was already late for the airport. We were shouting and she was crying and I… I said that if she thought I was fucked up then she should find someone who wasn’t.”

Porthos hissed out a breath. Not great. But he tried to rationalise it for his younger friend, “You were angry…”

“I didn’t mean to leave my ring. I’d taken it off clean it and I… I wasn’t thinking straight. If she thinks I left it on purpose…”

“Constance knows you better than that. Yes, you’re an idiot but you’d go to hell and back for her. She knows that, she’s seen that. This isn’t going to be forever, you’ll be back, have time to sort it out.”

“If she doesn’t take my advice before I get back…”

“For that she’d have to listen to you,” Porthos shoved good naturedly at d’Artagnan’s shoulder and was relieved to see a glimmer of a smile.

“It will be alright. Gives you both a chance to simmer down and –“

The rest of Porthos’ words were cut off by two quick raps followed by three more snatched his attention.

He caught d’Artagnan’s eye and gave a small nod.

“Right, show time. Game faces on, yea?”

“Bring it.”

Athos, as predicted, wasn’t happy. His fingers drummed on his desk, tapping out a tune of irritation as he attempted to read some de-brief report. The Unit 2 office was too quiet, his three neighbouring desks empty of his teammates. D’Artagnan and Porthos would be in their briefing by now, and Aramis had been poached to put some new cadets through their paces on the firing range. It felt like Athos was losing control of his team, like they were slipping way from him and away from each other’s protection.

He didn’t like it.

Knowing that trying to complete the report was a loosing battle, Athos clicked his emails open and drew up d’Artagnan’s phyc eval from Sylvie.

Athos had been at her mercy before and could speak to her effectiveness first hand. There was no bullshitting Doctor Evanno, she may be gentle but she was good at her job. She put you at ease, lulled you with comfort until you spilled all your secrets. Nothing got passed her. There was a lot of it was legal and medical jargon which he skimmed past, but he paused at the final concluding comments.

‘Agent de Lupiac’, Athos read for the fourth time that day, ‘displays a clear, honest understanding of the lasting effects of his abduction and abuse. He can articulate his triggers and openly discusses coping mechanisms he can use to manage his PTSD. He can give examples of when these strategies have been used.  In my professional opinion, Agent de Lupiac is ready to recommence active duty, although I do recommend that he continues his sessions with Doctor Greer on a semi regular basis.

The computer chime indicating a new email pulled him from his own grumbling thoughts. Athos minimised the report and clicked on the dancing envelope icon.

Jtreville: Leave Request ID 3421D

What?

Leave Request ID: 3421D

Duration: Unspecified

Status: Granted

What leave? Athos couldn’t remember the last time he had requested leave. As a self-diagnosed workaholic with no family (or at least non currently out with jail) Athos had never had the need. That aside, unspecified duration was unheard of. The Musketeers were not exactly hard pushed for agents, but with only the best of the best even being offered a position, there were hardly enough of them for people to be offered unspecified amounts of leave.

Athos scrolled down the in the email for to the comments added at the bottom.

Athos. I am sorry to hear that the condition of your arm has continued to deteriorate. Your request of leave to attend physical therapy rehabilitation has been granted. I have heard positive testimonies about the work carried out by the New London Road Clinic. I look forward to hearing that you are back to full health.

Treville.

Athos blinked at the screen. He hovered the cursor over the reply button, ready to ask the Captain what on Earth this was about, when the door to the office bounced open.

“My grandfather just died.” Aramis, looking rather chirpy for someone making such a declaration, kicked the door shut behind him. He sat himself on the edge of his team lead’s desk, one leg crossed over the other. “Which is strange, considering the man died while I was on my first tour of Afghanistan.”

Athos could only assume the world had finally gone mad. “My condolences?”

Aramis held up his iPhone which displayed an open email on the screen, eyebrow arched in mischief, “My leave request to attend his funeral in England has just been accepted.”

The penny finally dropped. Athos spun the monitor round to face Aramis.

“I think our dear Captain has been scheming.”

Aramis scanned the email quickly, a smirk sneaking its way onto his face.

“It seems he has… Athos, my friend, how do you fancy a trip to England?”

Blake Abenethy may not have been exactly who Porthos was expecting, but that didn’t make her any less commanding. A slight woman with narrow shoulders, she had her hair tugged back in a tight bun which made her already pointed features more severe. The two men she had arrived with, who hadn’t spoken than to introduce themselves as Tan Shettleston and Lachlan Turner, stood behind her while she looked the two Frenchmen over.

“I assume we have no problems if we conduct this meeting in English?”

“Fine by me,” Porthos glanced at d’Artagnan who nodded.

“Well excellent. First of all, I want to offer our appreciation for your support in our investigation. Although I have to admit my surprise that a handler was found who fit my criteria.” Her eyes narrowed slightly as they settled on d’Artagnan, who sat up a little straighter in defiance. “You are not French?”

“Are you suggesting our Captain was dishonest?” Porthos worked hard to keep the bite out of his voice, though wasn’t sure he was entirely successful.

“Not at all,” Abenethy spread her hands wide in mock surrender, “I am just crossing every ‘t’ and dotting every ‘i’. I am sure you understand.”

“I was born in Russia,” d’Artagnan spoke up. His back was already up, as was Porthos’, but rocking the boat seemed like a really good way of getting thrown out the country. If that happened Porthos would be alone, and he’d be damned if that was going to happen. “Moved to Ukraine when I was 19, then to France when I was 21. French is my third language. Mother tongue Russian, then Ukraine. My English is accented but not with French. There is nothing to link me to the country.”

D’Artagnan reached down and fished out his forged Russian passport and British Driver’s licence. Abernethy turned them over, examining them.

“Fakes?”                                                                                                                      

“Technically yes, but I’m sure you understand the need for an assumed name. Those documents will pass any checks law enforcements can carry out.”

“Funny thing about your requirements. We actually had two agents who fit your demands,” Porthos pointed out, “But the other was female. Apparently you did not think that a female was capable of this assignment.”

He took more pleasure than he cared to admit watching Abenethy’s eyes narrow in annoyance.

“That is not what I said. However, we are not here to discuss my personal specifications. I am here to provide a briefing for you both.” She passed the documents back to d’Artagnan.” Agent Shettleston, if you could?”

The larger of the man, dark haired with a nose like a boxer, stepped forward and handed both Frenchmen a tablet. As he leant forward d’Artagnan couldn’t help but notice the concealed revolver strapped on his waist. Since when did Brits carry guns?

He looked down to the shiny tablet in his hands and touched the home button. Immediately it lit up, a bright picture of a grey granite building filled the screen.

“The photograph in front of you is Craigivare prison,” Shettleston began, “Built in 1994 it was initially meant to house 250 inmates. Right now the roll is closer to 300. The next photograph –“ Both men flicked to the next page – “ is the floor plan. As you can see the building is made up of 4 wings. Wing A houses your minimum-security male prisoners, most of whom have less than 6 month left on their sentences. Wing B is your female prisoners. C is prison admin, laundry, kitchens and canteen. Finally, D is the rest of our male population, along with our segregation cells. Cameras should cover every inch of the common areas, but with budget cuts around 30% are broken and haven’t been replaced.”

“Comforting…” Porthos muttered but was promptly ignored as Shettleston mimed them flicking to the next photograph. The picture looked as if it could have been taken out of any prison film. Grey walls and floor, red benches and tables which looked bolted to the floor. A TV sat high on the ceiling, far to high up for anyone to get a hold of. Cell doors lined the walls of the room and a heavy dark door with an illuminated key card reader stood at the end of the room. It took a lot from Porthos not to react. The room looked hellish.

“This is where you will both be stationed,” Shettleston continued after a beat, “Male inmates in Wing D have free use of the common area between 8am and 10pm. Meals are served between 8 and 9, 1 and 2, and 7 and 8. Inmates have yard time for 2 hours a day, 5 days a week. The prison aims for a ratio of 10 to 1 prisoners to guards, but with recent budgetary issues it is more often 13 to 1.”

Unsure of what else to do, Porthos nodded.

“What’s behaviour like on the whole?” d’Artagnan asked, looking up from his own tablet.

“No worse than any other prison,” Shettleston stated, which didn’t particularly fill the men with confidence, “The men share 2 or 3 to a cell, which can cause frictions. Guards carry batons and CS spray, and segregation is used as a punishment.”

Porthos continued to flick forward and came face to face with the picture of Charon from his most recent mess. There was very little left of the kid he had known. The line of his eyes were harder, colder… Porthos tried to ignore uncomfortable knot in his stomach.

“What’s Charon been like as a prisoner?”

“Vincente flies under the radar on the whole. In the 8 months he’s been incarcerated there’s been a handful of fist fights, but nothing more serious.”

“Right…” Honestly Porthos wasn’t sure what else to say.

“New inmates get are transported in twice a week,” Abernethy took over from behind him. “We missed yesterday’s window. Next bus is set to arrive in 4 days, our plan is to have you inserted at that point. You however,” Abernethy looked up at d’Artagnan, “Are beginning tomorrow. We lucked out that 3 other guards are beginning at the same time. You will slip in under the radar and be imbedded by the time Porthos joins you.”

Shettleston collected the tablets from the men and stepped back.

“Your mission here is to restablish your friendship with Vincente.” Abernethy began again. “We need information on those missing firearms. Names, addresses, plans, anything you can get to further our investigation. I’m sure we do not have to explain to critical nature of this operation.”

Porthos nodded. “Understood.”

“And you,” Her gaze turned on d’Artagnan, “Your job is to handle. You oversee safety, pass information to us. Have you chosen an extraction word?”

“Whiteout.”

“Very good.” Abernethy looked between the men, “Well if there are no questions? Porthos you will stay here until we are ready implant you. Ivanov?”

She looked to d’Artagnan, who made sure he was ready to respond to his fake name.

“We will take you to the flat which had been rented under your alias. It has been outfitted with everything you could need, including your uniform and transport.”

The woman stood up, signalling it was time.

Time to go. Right.

D’Artagnan stood, eyes on his friend and teammate. A show of emotion would be seen as weakness by the English, so instead he stuck out his hand. Porthos rose to his feet and took it, his grip solid and unwavering.

Sure it would irk Abernethy but unbothered, d’Artagnan leaned forward and grasped his friend’s shoulder, speaking low in French.

“I have your back. All for one. Right?”

“All for one,” Porthos agreed, “Thanks for doing this… d’Art I – I’m glad it’s you.”

d’Artagnan forced a smile, the words hitting home. “Like I would trust anyone else to cover your sorry ass…”

“If you’re ready?” Abernethy’s tone made it clear the question only had on correct answer.

d’Artagnan dropped his friend’s hand and stepped back. He picked up his duffle bag and with one final nod to his friend, turned to the trio of law enforcement.

“Ready.”

Chapter Text

It was hardly the Musketeers, d’Artagnan mused as he slammed his locker door shut, but the work could be worse. He looked round the locker room, 3 other men struggling into the black and white uniform. He reached up and clipped his radio to his lapel and straightened his white name badge.

He had been glad of the three shifts to get his feet under him before Porthos arrived, though it turned out he had a certain aptitude for this line of work. Perhaps the facial scar helped, but the moment d’Artagnan had walked into the prison he had been met with quiet reserve from inmates and staff alike. He was sure there were rumours circulating about their origin but it didn’t bother him much.

Today though was the big day. Prisoner transfer. Show time.

“Officer Ivanov?”

d’Artagnan looked over his shoulder to see the shift supervising officer, Lee Angus, looking at him from the door way.

“Sir?”

“You’re with me. I want you shadowing to see how we handle prisoner transfers here. Every day’s a school day. Lets go.”

D’Artagnan nodded, “Sir.”

He liked Angus. In a lot of ways he reminded him of Treville. He commanded respect from those below him because of work ethic and fair nature. After working in the prison service for almost 20 years, there wasn’t much the man didn’t know.

He followed the older man out the door, his hand resting on his belt as they walked through the corridors.

“How have you found your first week here, Ivanov?”

“Good, Sir.” d’Artagnan nodded. “Never bored, is how I like things.”

Angus chuckled, “You are a quick study. And you have more than one lonely braincell in that head. If all my recruits were like you, I’d be a happy man.”

It was impossible not to feel a little guilty lying to such a man, but d’Artagnan had to remind himself it was for the greater good.

“So, prisoner transfers. Indulge me and risk assess the situation.”

D’Artagnan, who had covered prisoner handling during his year’s apprenticeship, pretended to consider the question.

“Items from the outside are a danger. Weapons, phones, drugs… We need to stop those at the door.”

Angus nodded, “Good, keep going.”

“Emotions are running high. Men might be still coming to terms with their sentences. Tempers need to be monitored.”

“Anything else?”

“Might see this as their last chance for freedom. Runners might be a problem.”

“Almost completely comprehensive. Good.” They came to a stop next to some heavy outdoor doors. d’Artagnan looked through the reinforced glass, to see a yard beyond and another pair of heavy gates.

“The bus will pull up here. Outside doors close and lock before inmates are taken off the bus. All are handcuffed for the journey. They enter through this door,” Angus indicated in front of them, “And are led through this corridor to the booking area. Take a look in there and tell me if you want to add anything to the risk assessment.”

d’Artagnan stepped into the booking area. Curtained areas for strip searches, a bank of rusty showers, caged area of prison uniform and miscellaneous objects inmates were given on arrival.

Finger printing machine.

“Need to verify identities. Make sure the man we have is the man we are meant to have.”

Angus nodded, a small smile directed at his young officer.

“Good man. Now, I just want you observing today. I oversee the song and dance, 3 other prison officers will carry out the actual processes. Of course, if there’s any trouble feel free to step in, but it doesn’t actually happen often.”

As d’Artagnan nodded the door opened and the other officers arrived, just a moment before a buzzer sounded and the outside gate slid open to allow the prison bus through.

“Here we go!” Angus indicated that d’Artagnan take a step back as he stepped up to the door. “Let’s make it a smooth one.”

D’Artagnan didn’t see his partner immediately. Six men stepped off the bus in total, all dressed in grey sweatshirts and tracksuit bottoms. Porthos was the last in line. d’Artagnan hadn’t expected the twist in his stomach, seeing his friend with his hands cuffed in front of him. He looked up at the big building front of him and d’Artagnan was sure he noticed a flash of fear in his eyes.

“Welcome to Craigivare!” Angus called out as the prisoners filed past him. “You will listen to instructions of all staff. You will address them as sir. You will have your identify verified and you will be strip searched. You will shower and collect your uniform. You will not complain. You will not talk back. You will follow our rules and we will all get along. You, you and you –“ he pointed to the first 3 in line –“Line up in front of the desk. The rest of you line up against the wall.”

Porthos stepped past d’Artagnan without a hint of recognition and took his place against the wall without a word. Bile churned in his stomach. He had attempted to prepare himself as best he could but nothing could quite prepare you for the sound of the outside door slamming shut behind you, for the smell of disinfectant and sweat mingling with simmering anger.

He kept his eyes glued straight in front of him, jaw set and clenched in an effort to keep his face passive. When the first three were finished Porthos stepped up to the desk. A bored looking guard with ‘Officer Davidson’ on his name badge picked up his left hand and places his fingers on the finger print reader. There was an electronic whir, followed by a beep.

“Inmate Du Vallon, yep that’s you all right.” Davidson broke off, scanning the computer screen. He let out a low whistle. “My, my Officer you have been a naughty boy.”

“Davidson,” Angus spoke the name as a warning, “Keep the line moving.”

Porthos moved on without a word, passing through strip search and shower without incident. He changed into the navy uniform and threadbare trainers, realising that to all the world he looked no different than the other 200 men held here.

“Right…” Angus stepped forward once all six men fully processed, “Inmate Bridle and Clark, you are following this officer to Wing A. The rest of you are with me. Let’s go. Ivanov, bring up the tail please.”

d’Artagnan fell into step behind Porthos and, against his better judgement, brushed a touch to the man’s elbow. Against protocol as it may have been, Porthos was incredibly grateful for the tiny touch. Not alone… He reminded himself… Never alone.

“Welcome to your new home.”

Porthos’ eyes roamed round the common area of Wing D.

Fuck.

The common room was teaming. Men shouted and laughed and whistled and – was that singing? – all while the TV provided a constant low-level babble. Three quarters of the cell doors were open, only adding to the noise. The room was a sea of blue sweatshirts and white t-shirts, the room reeking with unscented testosterone.

Well, Porthos thought again, Fuck…

“Du Vallon, Smith, you’re in 2. No fighting over the top bunk.”

A white guy with close cropped blond hair stepped forward and slouched towards a closed over door, so Du Vallon followed. By the time he made it in, Smith had already lain himself across the bottom bunk, looking to Porthos as if daring him to challenge. He had to be impressed.

He raised a single finger and pointed it straight up, a clear indication.

Brave guy.

Porthos quickly weighed his options. He could go in all guns blazing, that would probably be the advice he would have given the rest of unit two. Mark your territory, stake your claim. Go in hard or be walked all over. But Porthos was different. His bulk did that for him. He was tall, a ‘brick shit house’ if you listened to Aramis. To go in hard right in this moment could put a target on his back as a challenge to the Alphas in D wing. That wasn’t the aim here.

Porthos shrugged and tossed his toiletries onto the top bunk. He turned to leave the cell, but not before kicking swiftly at the metal leg of the bunkbed, making the frame wobble.

“Don’t touch my shit.”

The common area was only vaguely better than the cell. Bigger yes, but just as loud. He found a spot against a wall with a good vantage point of the room. There seemed to be four main groups of inmates, with a few of loaners and couples thrown in about. Two separate groups of mostly white faces were in either far corner. If Porthos had to guess, at least one of them would be made up of Eastern Europeans. The third group, the closest to him, was the only one Porthos could hear clearly. He was 90% sure they were speaking Arabic but wouldn’t swear to it. The final group was the only one which seemed an Ethnic mix. Mostly white faces, but a few middle eastern too and one dark skinned man with closed cropped black hair.

Bingo…

Could hardly wander up and introduce himself though, so he stayed by his wall to watch.

Not for long though.

The first thing he noticed was some nudging and looks. A kid, because he was barely more than a kid, who had been processed with him that morning, sat next a bruiser of a man who looked like his nose had been broken a handful of times. The kid was hardly subtle in his pointing, looking straight at Porthos as he did so.

Here comes trouble.

It didn’t take them long. Mister Broken Nose didn’t move himself, but the kid and another muscle ambled their way over to Porthos’ spot.

“Sticks says he arrived with you today.” Muscle said.

“That’s right.”

“Says you’re a copper.” Don’t blink…

“Does he now?”

“That Turnkey Davidson checked your prints and called you ‘Officer’!” Sticks blurted, more an excited kid with news rather than hardened criminal. “You’re a copper.”

Porthos, if he ever got hold of Davidson, would bounce him up and down the exercise yard for being such an idiotic fucker. If he had just fucked everything up he’d be –

But Porthos just stared the kid down, making the smug face take on a bit of a tense edge. Porthos bet he was glad to have Muscle with him.

“Seems like you got it all figured out.” Porthos straightened his back and crossed his arms.

“So you are a Copper.” Muscle (clearly not going to win any brains awards) raised his chin.

“Right now I’m not anything,” Porthos pointed out, “Right now I’m, what’s that English phrase, banged up?”

“You a Copper here?” Muscle looked him up and down. It took a great deal of control not to let his irritation show.

“France.”

Muscle, without much else to say, turned away without a second look. The kid, apparently Sticks but who knew his real name, offered one gleeful look and scuttled after the larger man. Porthos watched the pair return to the group, to relay their findings.

Well… Porthos thought at he pushed off the wall and headed back to his cell, Off goes the rumour mill.

Smith, clearly having heeded the warning, had left Porthos’ stuff untouched. He lay on the top bunk, biding time to give rumours time to circulate. Little moved faster in prisons than stomach viruses and rumours. Sure he’d have preferred for the whispers to be about him being ‘French’ rather than a ‘French copper’ but it couldn’t be helped.

“When can we get some books round here?”  Porthos directed the question to Smith. He couldn’t see the man, but he hadn’t left the room.

“Library trolley comes round Fridays. Books are free so long as you give them back.”

“Huh…” Porthos nodded. He stared straight ahead, considering for a few questions. “How many times you been here.”

“This is three,” Smith’s voice drifted back up from the bottom bunk, “They keep my bunk open for me.”

“Good of them…”

A little more silence and then.

“So what did you do?”

Porthos knew the question was coming, so was prepared.

“Drugs.” Sometimes it was better keep things short.

“First time inside?”

“Nah.” The lie came easily. “Did six years in France before this.”

“Cool.”

Silence, if there ever could be silence in this place, descended back in the cell. Smith decided that conversation time was over, because no one spoke again until there was a thump on the cell door.

“Where’s the keufs?”

Porthos froze at the French slang for Police. Had news really travelled that fast?

“Keufs?” Smith questioned whoever was hidden by the door.

“The Copper, Smithy? Where’s the Copper?”

“What Copper?”

“Missed the news, there’s a new –“

Porthos kicked his feet over the edge of his bed and jumped to the floor with a thunk.

“He means me, Smithy.”

He straightened up, coming eye to eye with the man he hadn’t seen in ever two decades.

“Jesus Christ –“ Charon’ mouth stayed open but didn’t seem to know what else to say.

Porthos faked shock, knitting his eyes together as if in confusion.

“Sticks said the name was Du Vallon but – Jesus, Porthos, what the hell are you doing in Craigivare?”

With dinner served not long after, the pair had taken their trays and sat together at a canteen table to swap their stories. Porthos noticed d’Artagnan with another guard on canteen duty, the man didn’t register any emotion as the two prisoners passed by.

“Good to know prison food is worse here,” Porthos poked something that was supposed to be lasagne with his plastic fork, “Would be a travesty if the British were eating better than the French.”

Charon snorted. He stabbed a soggy potato cube to shoved it into his mouth. “Food in this country never gets better… How long you been in England?”

“Two-ish years?” Porthos paused as if he was thinking, “I just needed to get out of France. Public disgrace wasn’t a good colour on me.”

“How long were you taking the bribes?”

The lasagne suddenly turned sour in Porthos’ mouth.

You knew this was coming…

“3 years, maybe just over. I was raking it in until some little drugs runner flipped on me for immunity. I was looking at a maximum of 15 years so in the end I took a plea to avoid a trial.” It scared Porthos just now convincing he sounded, how flippant about he could be about betraying the oath he’d taken and followed since he was 21. Even after his recruitment into the Musketeers, Porthos lived to help others. That was why he had become a police officer, why he had put up with long hours for mediocre pay. Pretending to disregard all of that so quickly was harder to stomach than he expected.

Charon hummed in consolation around a spoon of food.

“How did you survive 6 years inside with the bullseye like that on your back?”

“Protective custody.” Athos had suggested this point and Porthos had agreed. Not only was it plausible, but on the off chance any inmates had been in jail in Paris, it would explain them not recognising Porthos.

“Why not this time?”

“Never been a copper in England, have I? Just another asshole here. If it wasn’t for Davidson, no one would have known.”

“But he’s a proper asshole if ever I saw one. One of those folk who should never be given more authority than a whistle.”

“Like half the turnkeys here, I bet…” Sure he was fishing a little. Sure d’Artagnan couldn’t have made a bad name for himself that quickly.

Charon shrugged, scraping up the last of his meal, “They’re all much the same really…  Some are fairer than others but you can’t trust them as far as you can throw.”

So it seemed d’Artagnan was flying under the radar. Good.

“But Porthos, mate, with your dirty little secret being out, you have a target on your back.”

Porthos made a dismissive gesture with fork but Charon leaned forward.

“I’m serious. There is a pecking order here, and the only people lower than cops are child killers and pedos.”

Porthos’ nose wrinkled, pushing his tray away with half the contents untouched, “Great company to be in.”

“You need some protection, people in here will not like a cop-“

“Ex-cop,” Porthos pointed out.

“Ex-cop,” Charon corrected, “I’ve got some friends in here. Give me some time to smooth things over, pave the road, right? Tomorrow during yard time we can…”

Porthos listened and nodded as Charon laid out his plan, deciding that their reintroduction could definitely have gone worse…

“Did you hear ‘bout him?”

d’Artagnan looked at his guard partner, a red headed Scot called Shaun Lewis. He nodded towards Porthos and d’Artagnan played dumb.

“Who?”

“See the two black guys?”  With a nod from d’Artagnan, Shaun continued. “Well the bigger of the two. Apparently, he was a police officer in France. Name’s Du Vallon. Davidson pulled his file to get the whole story.”

“Are we allowed to do that?”

Shaun shrugged, “Depends on if you get caught. Anyway, he was a police detective in Paris, well respected and up for some promotion, when it turned out that he’d been running a protection racket in his area. Let these drug traffickers and dealers work under his nose, right? Took a cut and ignored whatever they were up to.”

“Probably paid better than his police salary…” d’Artagnan fained only half interest.

Shaun, not taking a hint, continued with a snort, “Too right! So he gets out, moved over here, and is banged up for drug trafficking again! Just didn’t take the hint. Now he’s our problem…”

“Great…” d’Artagnan sniffed.

“Don’t see why need to deal with him though. Why should we deal with other countries trash? These immigrants– “

He broke off with after noting d’Artagnan’s pointedly sharp expression.

“I didn’t mean all immigrants. I mean you’re an immigrant but not like –“

“I am going to do a walk around,” d’Artagnan was firmly done with this conversation. He left Shaun on his own as he started his lap around the canteen.

What was it Angus had said? Prison officers needing more than one braincell?

---

Porthos had known Charon was right about the prison peeking order. What he hadn’t known, was just how quickly his old friend would be proven right. There were plenty of stereotypes about showers and prisons, some more specific than others, perhaps Porthos should have taken them more seriously.

Even in the empty room of the shower block it wasn’t quiet. The canned laughter of the gameshow filtered through the doorless room, along with the shouts and calls of answers to the questions.

“82% of women admit to feeling addicted to this…”

“Vibrator!”

“Weed!”

“Cheating!”

“And the answer is their phone.”

“Bullshit, only 82% what a –“

But Porthos stopped listening. He ducked his head under the water and enjoyed the warmth as it hit his skin. For a moment he could forget where he was and could pretend to be back in his apartment in Paris.

A change in the air, Porthos wasn’t sure how else to describe it, was his only warning. One moment the hairs on the back of his neck prickled up and the next something slammed hard into his right kidney from behind.

Pain erupted and exploded through Porthos’ side as he staggered forward, shoulder hitting against the cracked tile. An average man would have crumpled, but Porthos was hardly average.

“Someone smell bacon?”

The voice came behind his right shoulder so Porthos threw an elbow back and up. It connected with a satisfying thud and crunch. His soap covered leg kicked out as he spun, knee connecting into someone’s groin.

“Fuck – get him -urgh!”

The mass infront of him crumpled with a mix of cries and curses, but it wasn’t over. Porthos caught a punch flying at him in the corner of his eye. He dodged back and crouched drown, missing the fist by millimetres as it swung passed his ear. Without regard to the man on the floor Porthos stormed forward, foot stamping on something squishy, and his shoulder connected full force to attacker’s gut. The bulk crumpled as Porthos knocked the wind from his lungs and something plastic clattered to the tile along with the body. It was the first time Porthos had got a look at the men's faces; Muscles from earlier and another thug from the group. With a sickening turn of the stomach, Porthos noticed the white plastic of what had been a tooth brush, sharpened to a point next to the second man. Hand clutched to his throbbing side, Porthos kicked the plastic into the middle of the room and out of reach.

Feet pounded on floor and a moment later two guards burst into the shower area. Porthos breathed a sigh of relief to see d’Artagnan’s face.

Porthos sagged against the shower wall, attempting to ignore the throb in his kidney. He only half registered the fact he was now naked in front of 4 men.

For a moment the only sounds were the background tv and Muscles crying about his ‘fucked hand’.

“Can you uh,” Porthos gestured vaguely at the towel which was hung up out of his reach. Now that his adrenaline was fading, the pain was getting worse, “Pass me that?”

“Bruised, not ruptured,” The prison nurse pronounced, tucking Porthos shirt down and back into place, “You’ll have some tenderness around the area but I think its cartilage rather than any organs. I can give you some paracetamol for the pain and swelling. You’ll be sore with one hell of a bruise but I don’t think there’s any cause to panic.”

Porthos nodded. His eyes flickered to d’Artagnan and back as the nurse stood up and unlocked a pill cupboard. She was a pretty woman, even in navy blue scrubs. She was petite, with dirty blond hair scraped back into a messy pony tail. If the bags under her eyes were anything to go by, she could use a good night’s sleep.

“Ah… I’m out of paracetamol… We have some in the store, do you mind if..?” The nurse gestured from d’Artagnan to Porthos. The Musketeer shrugged, as if baby sitting the prisoner was an effort.

“No problem.”

“Thanks,” She looked to Porthos as she slipped from the room, “Won’t be a minute.”

d’Artagnan waited a beat, listening to the squeak of her trainers down the corridor, before clearing his throat.

“Don’t...” Porthos groaned as he swung his legs over the examination bed, “No jokes.”

“Can’t joke when it’s not funny,” d’Artagnan kept his eyes straight ahead of him, mindful of the camera high up on the wall. Maybe it was one of the ones which didn’t work, but it wasn’t worth the risk. “Porthos you almost got stabbed in the showers on night one.”

“Never say I don’t make an impression…”

“Athos was right. This isn't safe."

“I knew this wasn’t going to safe,” Porthos spat, his tone harsher than he had intended. He didn’t need to have this conversation.

“There’s not safe and then there’s suicidal,” d’Artagnan realised his voice was louder then he meant, so made an effort to lower it back to an acceptable level, “No one would think less of you for changing your mind.”

And didn’t Porthos know that. The English weren’t his people, what allegiance did he have to them? Why should he stick his ass on the line for people wouldn’t give him a second thought? In the moments right after attack, dripping in the shower cubicle, he’d considered safe wording out. Considered saying one word and letting d’Artagnan arrange his extraction.

So why hadn’t he? Pride perhaps… Porthos had never walked away from a fight and now seemed a pitiful place to start, but more than that, it was guilt. If he walked now, if he gave up and threw in the towel, then every time he turned on the news and saw a murder or armed robbery in Britain, he would wonder if he could have stopped it. That would tear him up for more than any prison brawl ever could.

When put like that, he had no choice.

So, in the end, he didn’t answer his friend. Instead Porthos reached up and stretched to crack his back.

“What damage did I do?”

D’Artagnan rolled his eyes, knowing full well he wasn’t going to get his answer. He knew better than to push Porthos so gave up on the subject for now. “Well you made your point clear. McCrea is just bruised up but you broke Matthew’s hand. He’s being put in a cast as we speak. Both will have time segregation for having the shiv.”

“Thank fuck…” Porthos groaned. He wasn’t naive enough to think that that would be the end of it, but maybe it would make the next person think twice before attempting to kill the cop. “What are you still doing here anyway?”

“Picked up an over time shift. I finish at 6. Wanted to be on first your first night and it’s just was well I did… I saw you speaking to Vincente though. First meeting go well?”

Porthos offered a tiny shrug, “As could be expected, meant to meet his mates in yard time tomorrow…”

“Think they could be involved in the –“

But d’Artagnan was cut off by the return of the nurse. She popped two pills out of the packet and offered them to Porthos with a bottle of water.

“Take these, if you’re sore tomorrow you can have some more after breakfast.”

Porthos took the pills without complaint and swallowed them down.

If he survived this, he deserved god damn medal.

Chapter Text

By breakfast Porthos could tell the word had done its rounds. He hadn’t seen Charon that morning, so sat alone to eat slab of concreate which was meant to be breakfast. Dozens of eyes pricked his skin until Porthos couldn’t take it anymore and sloped back to his cell to wait for yard time.

He had only just settled back on his bed, half propped up on his pillow, when a pair of eyes appeared at the end of his bed.

Smithy propped himself on his elbows at the end of Porthos’ bed, eyes fixed on him with a curious gaze. After a moment of uncomfortable staring Porthos broke the silence.

“You after somethin’?”

“You do know everyone out there is talking about you?”

Porthos raised an eyebrow, “My good looks?”

Smithy snorted, “You took out D wing’s biggest heavy weights last night.”

“Huh…”

When Porthos didn’t say anything else, Smithy continued.

“McCrea and Matthews the biggest bruisers in here. Nobody crosses them, they’re both in here in attempted murder. They’ve put more fuckers in medical than I can count and you beat them both to a pulp in the fucking shower.”

“That what they’re saying?” It wasn’t a surprise to Porthos just how quickly rumours morph and warp into completely different stories, “Bullshit. McCrea’s got a broken hand but Matthews is just bruised up. They’re not here because they’re in seg, not because they’re ‘pulp’.”

Smithy looked like he was up for continuing the conversation but was cut off by an alarming buzzer. With a smile he thumped his hands against the mattress and pushed himself up.

“Yard time, you coming?”

Yard time seemed to be the one saving grace of this place. It was bigger than the inside communal area, with bars for chin ups and a running track down one side.  Under foot was mostly tarmac, but there were strips of grass around the edge. Prisoners gathered in the same groups as the night before, although a game of football had broken out at the far end.

Porthos noted the back of Charon’s head. He was leaned against the fence at the very edge of the yard, looking deep in conversation with another other man. With tense shoulders and jerky movements, Porthos decided it wasn’t the moment to interrupt. Instead he walked over to a chin up bar and jumped up. He grasped the bar, still cool in the morning air, and hung for a moment. His bruised side complained at the sharp movement, but Porthos ignored it as he began to pull himself up.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Up and clap.

Six.

Seven.

Eight.

Nine.

Up and clap.

As he worked the familiar burn in his chest and muscles felt like an old friend. Many jokes had been made over the years about Porthos’ deep and meaning relationship with the gym, first in the police force and then in the Musketeers. They probably had a point. Aramis thought it was down to vanity, which was certainly a perk of his hard work, but that wasn’t what drove Porthos. He didn’t blame his friend not understanding. He and Aramis were the best of friends, had been since Aramis had been forced to join Unit 2 close to 6 years ago, but they had lived very different early lives. Aramis had a family, a mother and step-father and 2 half-sisters. He’d had a home to go home to, knew there would be food in the fridge and the lights would always turn on. He’d never had to nick bread from a shop or sleep in gloves and wolly hat because the heating bill hadn’t been paid. Aramis had felt safe. Porthos hadn’t had that luxury.

It hadn’t all been bad of course. For every memory of his mum passed out drunk on the sofa, he had ones of them building a blanket fort, spooning together for warmth. For every night spent curled up alone on the sofa of their one bedroom flat, there had been moments of giggles and hugs and... Then gone.

Porthos had only been 10 when his mother had been killed. By all accounts it had been an accident. She hadn’t meant to leave him for long. A quick run to the local shop for enough wine to see her through the night. She had never been good at crossing roads. When she hadn’t returned the next morning, Porthos had got himself ready for school and walked there on an empty stomach. He’d been on his own for 6 days before anyone realised.

Then there had been lots of sad looking adults and whispered conversations and trips in strange cars and Hillhead House with 11 other children running about.

And Charon.

It had been them against the world.

To take on the world you had to be strong, stronger than the person going toe to toe with you. Even if you didn’t start the fights you had to be able to knock those who did out so they wouldn’t get a second punch in. That was why he trained, why he worked himself so hard. He had been weak once. He wouldn’t feel that way again.

Thirty-three.

Thirty-four.

Up and clap.

Thirty-six.

Thirty-seven.

“I have to say I’m impressed.”

The voice broke into Porthos’ inner thoughts. He looked to his left to see Charon standing with an older looking white man. He released his grip and dropped back to the tarmac with a thud, enjoying the ache of his muscles which proved his hard work.

Porthos wiped his hands together and took in the new man in front of him. He was perhaps in his late 40’s with arms which had once been thick, covered with sagging tattoos.

“Last night you took out two of biggest muscle heads in this wing and today you’re out here no worse for wear.”

“I didn’t start anything,” Porthos wiped the sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his jumper, “I just prefer to take my showers alone without getting stabbed.”

“A reasonable request,” The man stepped forward and held out a hand which had a spider’s web tattooed on the back, “Call me Wells. We should talk.”

“I’ll be honest with you, Porthos…”

The trio of men wandered the yard’s perimeter, ideally watching as the other men milling around the outdoor space.

“I wasn’t keen on the idea of you. I might trust Charon and he’s willing to vouch for you, but I wasn’t up for some bent copper. I figured I’d leave you to get eaten alive in this place, but it seems like you’re the one that’s done the eating.”

“You need to trust me more,” Charon nudged the man, “My judgement is sound.”

“As long as you ain’t thinking with your dick, I agree with you. Apparently your taste in scrappers is pretty solid.”

Porthos shook his head, “I ain’t a scrapper anymore. Just defended myself.”

“See that’s what I like!” Wells smiled, an act which made Porthos quite uncomfortable, “Modest and all. A rarity. Might even be willing to look past your unfortunate line of work, if you were interested in coming to an arrangement?”

“That depends on the kind of arrangement you had in mind.”

“Well you see Porthos, our wing is a balancing act. Lots of big personalities, big egos. Every fucker wants to be King pin.  I like to have men I can trust on my side, people who will fight on the right side if things get heated. You scratch my back, I scratch yours, you know? You’ll have lots of enemies in this place, no one wants a turncoat in their cells. I can help with that, if I can count on your help if I need it?”

The idea of being someone’s over sized bouncer wasn’t appealing, but if it meant being one step closer to the answers he needed then he’d have no choice.

“Sounds like we can come to an agreement.”

Athos hated England. It rained constantly, the people were rude and the food was terrible. And now, to top it all off, they had stolen his teammates. It had been 5 days since Porthos and d’Artagnan had left the France, which was 4 days too long.

“I hate England,” Aramis muttered as he pulled the hired car into the side of the road, “Why do they drive on the wrong side of the road.”

Athos’ added it to his mental list.

“So that’s it..?” Aramis asked.

Athos looked up at the gates on the other side of the road, H.M.P Craigivare. Set back from the heavy gates he could catch a glimpse of a grey granite building. Barbed wire topped the circumference of the perimeter, along with a good few cameras for good measure.

“Seems so…” Athos snapped a few quick photos on a convert camera before motioning to his friend, “We shouldn’t stop for too long – I’ve got what we wanted…”

With a nod Aramis indicated and pulled back onto the road. 

“Had any bright ideas on getting eyes on the inside?” Aramis asked as he merged onto the motorway.

“Actually yes…” Athos nodded, “When you were getting coffee this morning I called Ninon to –“

“I’m sorry, you called who?”

Athos couldn’t help but bristle. “We are still professionals, Aramis, we –“

“Bull. Shit.” Aramis darted a look at Athos and was met with a flat stare of disapproval, “That woman has never forgiven you after you ripped her a new one in the medical wing. You’ve not been able to be in the same room since. I’m surprised she even took your call.”

There was a beat of silence.

“She didn’t take your call, did she?”

Athos raised his nose, fixing his gaze out of the window.

“Well no. So I called Treville and had him pass me over.”

Aramis, for lack of a better word, cackled.

“It’s not that funny,” Athos rolled his eyes, “Now do you want to hear the idea or not?”

“Fine, fine go ahead,” Aramis waved, his laugh calming down, “What did the ice queen say?”

“Well the short of it is there is no way to hack in from the outside. The CCTV is stored on a closed intranet system. Since it’s not connected to the outside world we can’t hack in. If we want access to the images we have two options… Sneak in our own cameras or plant a virus.”

“Well how are we supposed to do either?”

“Our own cameras are too risky,” Athos had thought out all angles and couldn’t see any way without risking being caught, “But Ninon thinks the virus is doable. All we would have to do is get the thing onto a computer which is part of the intranet. It will connect that computer to an enclosed network with our own – apparently it will be as if we are part of the network…”

Aramis digested the information as he pulled into the car park of the run-down motel they had booked into purely because of the location. He turned the engine of and sat for a moment, considering.

“I assume Ninon is getting the code to us?”

Athos nodded, “She said she’d get it to us by mid-afternoon.”

“So I guess just leaves us with the problem of how to get it onto their system…” Aramis rubbed a finger over his goatee.

“Well actually, I have an idea,” Athos dug into his pocket and pulled out a European driver’s license with Aramis’ picture and the name ‘Rafael Flores’, “How do you feel about a little undercover work?”

 “Du Vallon!”

Porthos looked up from his spot against the wall with the rest of the members of The Court. One of the Guards strode towards him, talking into his radio.

He pushed himself off the wall, “That’s me.”

“Lawyers here. Let’s go.”

Lawyer? That wasn’t part of the plan.  Porthos kept his face neutral as he glanced back to the men and shrugged.

“I’ll catch you at lunch I guess.”

He followed the guard back through the yard and through heavy metal doors. The corridor they found themselves in was one Porthos hadn’t seen before but supposed they had to have rooms for meetings with council.

A second door was opened to reveal a small room outfitted with a table, two chairs, a fan, and –

Holy shit.

There, in the corner pretending to read a poster about human rights, was Aramis. He stood in one of his best suits, crisp and sharp, with a fake pair of thick black glasses perched on his nose.

“Door will be locked,” The guard explained but Porthos was barely listening, “Press the button on the left when you are finished.”

And with that the door was shut and locked with a swift click.

Porthos just stood there.

What in the name of God almighty was –

But then Aramis moving. His arms were suddenly around Porthos and it was like suddenly being home again. All the pent-up energy and stress which had churned inside of him seemed to seep out in that moment.

“You have no idea how good it is to see you…” It felt good, so good, but it still didn’t make any sense. He pulled back, looking at his best friend’s face.

“What are you doing here?”

“It’s a long story…” Aramis pulled back and guided Porthos to a chair. Seeing his friend in prisoner blues had shocked him more than he would ever admit. Porthos didn’t need to hear that just now. “Treville’s been planning, wants us in England in case you need us. Apparently, he got these made up for me before we left.”

He produced a fake drivers’ licence and barrister credentials from his suit pocket. Porthos picked one up and scrutinised it.

“Who the hell is Rafael Flores?”

Aramis shrugged, ‘Beats me, but it worked just fine. We wanted access to the cameras so this little thing – “ he pointed to the drivers’ licence, “- has a clever little code programmed in. They swiped it at reception, Athos should have access to the cameras any minute now.”

Porthos’s head was reeling from the information. A covert operation within a covert operation. Complicated.

“Have you told d’Artagnan you’re here?

Aramis shook his head.

“Tried… We hoped he’d have his undercover phone on, we know he has one, but it went straight to voicemail. It was too risky to leave a message, so he’ll have to wait. When did you last see him?”

Porthos opened his mouth to retell the story of the shower brawl but decided against it. It wouldn’t stay quiet forever, and Aramis would kill him when he found out, but he couldn’t face another conversation like that of last night.

“Finished at 6am today, not sure when he’s back in.”

Yes, Aramis was definitely going to kill him when he found out.

Chapter Text

Porthos’ life began to find a new pattern. Since Wells had stamped his approval on Porthos’ forehead, he’d been left well alone. He got up, ate breakfast, spent his time on the yard with Charon and the rest of The Court, watched TV… It was strange how quickly things became normal. He was careful over those first 4 days to keep his questions on the surface. There hadn’t been an opportunity to speak with d’Artagnan again, but since there was nothing to report it wasn’t hugely problematic.  

While they hung out, he and Charon swapped stories of their time apart (some of his true, some fictitious) and revelled in stories of their shared childhood. The repour was easily established, built on years of friendship and trust.

Trust that Porthos was exploiting.

There was a part of him which felt guilty, a sizable part of him if he was being honest with himself, but he had to remind himself that the whole charade was worth it. The stakes were too high and, regardless of the reason, Charon was firmly mixed up in it.

On the morning of his 5^th day, Porthos knew something was different. Charon paced alone, hands stuffed in his pockets and shoulders rolled with tension. Weirdly, Wells was nowhere in sight.

“What’s up?” Porthos asked as he fell into step with Charon, “Who pissed in your cornflakes?”

“Don’t.” The cold edge to Charon’s voice surprised Porthos. “Now is not the time for jokes, Porthos.”

“What’s happened?”

“It’s fucking turned to shit, that’s what’s happened!”

One of the lower Court men stepped forward, ready to ask Charon something, but the look of pure fury made them scuttle back. The fact that Porthos hadn’t received the same treatment made him press forward with questions.

“Charon what is going on?”

“What’s happened,” Charon growled out, shooting a glare at the two guards who stood a little ways off, “Is I’m meant to have an appointment tonight and Wells has got himself thrown in bloody seg.”

There was a hell of a lot to unpack in that sentence, very little Porthos understood. He wasn’t all that sure where to start. Unsure of else to do, Porthos wheeled to a stop in front of Charon. He grounded the man with hands on his shoulders, forcing Charon to focus on him.

“How the hell are you meant to have an appointment when you’re banged up?”

Charon shuffled, clearly indecisive about letting Porthos into the inner circle. Normally Porthos knew that he would have a lot more trust winning to do, but without Wells Charon was clearly unsteady. Maybe it would just take a push to…

With a huff of decision Charon grabbed Porthos’ arm and dragged him back against the chain link fence. With a cautious look around for listening ears, he started.

“There’s a deal going down any day now. New shipment coming in from the middle east. They’ll only deal with me, me and that’s it, I’m meant to be there and Wells got caught with Spice in his fucking cell! He’s in seg and I’m fucked! We’re all fucked!”

“But how were you planning on even getting to a meeting when we’re stuck in here?”

“There was a plan.” Charon ran a hand over his jaw. “We had a plan! We were supposed to – But now it’s all fucked! He’s stuck in there for at least two weeks and by the time he’s out it wont even matter because they’ll sell to someone else.”

“Charon,” Porthos flicked his eyes to friend before back to the yard, “Are you telling me you’ve been planning a prison break?”

“Oh don’t act so hurt.”

Porthos wasn’t hurt. He was impressed. Morbidly impressed, but still impressed.

After a beat of silence Porthos supposed that Charon thought he was annoyed him, because he softened.

“I couldn’t tell you, mate. Less ears hear then less mouths to blab. But it’s all fucked now, ain’t it, so what does it matter?”

“Well what’s the shipment?”

“Weapons.” Charon spat bluntly at the floor, “High quality in bulk. We buy them cheap and sell them at a premium. We can make more money in a month than we would selling drugs for 10 years. But now it’s all –“

“Fucked. You said.”

Porthos’ head whirled with possibility. More weapons, more guns. This was what he had been waiting for, what the English had stuck him in here for. He was so close, but not in the way anyone had expected.

But what he was considering as not part of the plan. Not part of his remit. He should signal d’Artagnan, brief him on his plan, and get him to get permission from Abernethy. That, at the least, would take at least 24 hours. By the sound of Charon there wasn’t for that.

So it was decision time. Porthos’ decision…

“This plan, it’s meant for two people?”

Charon nodded, “Impossible alone…”

“Well then,” Porthos had a lump the size of a golf ball in his throat. He couldn’t believe what he was about to suggest, “You better fill me in.”

The pictures were grainy at the best of times but seeing his teammates settled Athos’ nerves in a way he hadn’t thought possible. He wasn’t glued to the screen as Aramis feared he could be, but to be able to check was enough to reassure him that his men were safe.

Who wasn’t so safe, however, was Aramis. Being stuck a rundown hotel with a man who couldn’t sit still was going to cause a suicide… or murder. Athos just hadn’t decided which yet.

“Will you stop bouncing your leg,” Athos said through gritted teeth, “The floor is shaking.”

Aramis did at least look sheepish, freezing his jittery leg.

“Sorry.”

Athos pinched the bridge of his nose with a sigh.

“I should know better than to expect you to sit in enclosed room… Why don’t you go for a run or something? Shake the energy out of yourself.”

“You sure you’ll be okay on your own?”

Athos waved the man’s worries away. He obviously convinced Aramis who scrambled under the bed for his trainers.

“Go. Take your phone. Anything shakes I’ll let you know.”

After disappearing into the bathroom, Aramis reappeared in shorts and a t-shirt.

“I’ll bring back coffee.”

Athos snorted, “If you don’t, I’m not opening the door.”

The sound of the shutting door allowed Athos to sag. He’d lay down his life for that man, without a second thought, but that didn’t mean he didn’t want to kill him sometimes.

Unsure of what else to do, Athos booted up the lap top and scrolled through the cameras until he caught sight of the rest if unit 2. He spotted d’Artagnan first, who was stationed on the wall in the communal area. He looked at ease in the uniform, as if he’d been on the job for years instead of weeks.

Lazily, Athos kept flicking on, looking briefly at the canteen, hallways and yard without finding his other friend. Of course, if Porthos was in his cell then Athos wouldn’t be able to find him. He could be there, but in the middle of the day it was unlikely. He flicked through another couple of frames.

Wait…

Frown…

He clicked back. Then forward. Then back again.

It took him a few moments to work out what was bothering him. There was a door on the edge of the first camera angle of the hallway, but the next it was gone. A blind spot. What kind of prison had blind spots? Athos scrolled back in time, feeling more than a little paranoid, but was proven right when Charon and Porthos passed through the first camera but not the second. The slither of door seem to twitch ever so slightly. Had the pair gone inside?

Porthos what the hell are you up to?

An uncomfortable feeling settled at the bottom of Athos’ stomach. He fished his phone out of his pocket and typed a text out to Aramis.

Might want to cut the run short. Something weird on the cameras.

“Where the hell did this all come from?”

The cleaning cupboard Charon shoved him into instead of just explaining the plan was cramped. The key had been ‘borrowed’ from one of the inmates on the cleaning crew, and at first glance it looked untouched. Then Charon ducked down and tugged a duffle bag out from under a shelf out of sight. Porthos cringed at the metallic clang.

“Do you know the average IQ of these guards?” Charon dropped to his knees and tugged the zip open on the duffle to reveal a glint that sent Porthos’ heart racing, “The Court own this town. Nothing illegal happens without us knowing about it. It didn’t take long for someone to slip up. A bit of dirt and convincing is all we needed.”

“Who?”

“Davidson. Got a thing for prostitutes. Not really much of a problem, until he went for one of our girls. Photos aren’t great but they did the job.”

Davidson was a bastard, no doubt about that, but it surprised Porthos that he was so scared of embarrassment that he was putting his position here at risk. Hell, prostitution wasn’t even illegal in the UK. Was saving face really worth risking a hefty stretch in prison himself? Something wasn’t adding up, but Porthos didn’t have time to ask before Charon was shoving a knife into his hand.

“Brought sewn into his gym bag lining. All the guard bags are searched but they didn’t have to go through a metal detector. It wasn’t even difficult.”

Carefully, Porthos turned the knife over in his hand. It looked like a hunting knife, with a glistening blade the length of his hand and a heavy dark plastic handle.

“Guns would be better but they’re too big.”

“You said…” Porthos was having trouble talking, his mouth suddenly dry, “You said no one was getting hurt.”

“And they shouldn’t, just for insurance.” Charon glanced up, “You not backing out now, are you?”

The temptation was there. The deeper Porthos got into this, the further he strayed from the original brief… Porthos was precariously balancing on the line of what could be considered reasonable in the line of duty. If some guard got killed because of this..?

“Nah, of course not. So what’s the plan?”

Charon smirked and tossed him a plastic bag. Porthos looked in the bag and frowned.

“What am I meant to do with this?”

At first d’Artagnan thought he was imagining it. His heartrate began to spike and sweat broke out on his temples and uninjured hand. No… No, no, no….

Smoke. He could smell smoke…

Where was smoke coming from?

Memories began to crowd in around his eyes, pushing in the panic around the edges.

d’Artagnan, with great effort, pushed the traitorous thoughts back as he looked around the communal area of D Wing. There weren’t any inmates milling around, most had taken the opportunity to use their 2 hours of yard time. The buzzer signalling the end of that time should be going at any moment.

So where…?

The bang of a metal cell door being forced open made d’Artagnan stagger a few steps back. Flames, angry red and orange tendrals, licked at the open door, searching for something, anything, to consume.

Panic gripped around d’Artagnan’s chest and squeezed, constricting his breath until there was nothing in his lungs.

Hot.

Pain.

Burning.

Screaming.

Who do you belong to?

WHO DO YOU BELONG TO?

Falling.

Darkness.

Who do you belong to?

It was the buzzer, signalling the end of yard time, which dragged d’Artagnan back to reality.

All for one. All for one. Move… Move!

“Fire in D Wing!” d’Artagnan almost yanked the wire from his radio as it was pulled from his shoulder. “Fire! Don’t let the inmates –“

But it was too late, he could already hear the laugh and shouts of men heading towards their cells.

Finally, the alarm wailed into life, causing the sounds and calls from the inmates to swell in alarm.

This was going to bad.

Even in the little cleaning cupboard, the sudden siren was exceedingly loud.

Porthos flinched away from the noise. “What the hell is –“

“Got one of the Court grunts to start a fire.” Charon tucked the knife into the waist band of his trousers and hid it with the uniform jacket. “Distraction.”

Porthos just stood there, horrified. Fire. Fire with d’Artagnan on shift. d’Artagnan in a fire. Again. No. No!

In a flash, Porthos had Charon against the wall of the tiny room, arm pressed hard into his neck and other hand on Charon’s knife. Porthos’ anger was fenced in but held in place by a toothpick.

“You said. No one. Would. Get. Hurt.”

Charon’s eyes bulged in his head, shocked at the situation he suddenly found himself.

“Yard. Time.” He choked out, “No. One. There. Let. Me-“

But Porthos released him before he could finish the request.

“Jesus Christ, Porthos!” Charon rubbed his throat.

But his friend had turned away. Porthos shrugged on his uniform guard jacket and stuffed knife into his belt. “Let’s get on with this.”

If d’Artagnan… No. He couldn’t think about that. d’Artagnan was a professional, a man who by all rights should have crumbled. He was strong and he had been cleared for duty. Porthos had to trust him.

And, he added privately, kill Charon if anything did go wrong.

“We go in the chaos. We slip out the deliveries door in the kitchens.”

Charon, perhaps a little shaken but recovering quickly, jammed a baseball cap onto his head threw one to Porthos.

“But they’re locked and guarded.”

“Locked yes, but they won’t be guarded in this. We need to go!”

Charon cracked the door open and slipped through. Porthos followed and could hear the chaos even from so far away. The siren still shrieked on along with shouts from guards and inmates. The hallway connected the cells of D Wing to the canteen and kitchens. Outside of meal times and cleaning, the corridor was empty.

Good.

He followed Charon down the corridor, attempting to look like he belonged on the of chance of being seen.

For a moment, it looked like this would work. They had let themselves into the kitchens before started to go wrong.

Aramis was practically sitting on Athos to stop him running to the prison. In some ways, he reflected, the cameras were a bad idea. To see what’s going on any yet be so far away? For their leader it was torture.

“This wasn’t the plan.”

“We don’t know that.”

“Treville never mentioned an escape attempt.”

“Treville never had the whole plan.”

“But,” And Athos was up and pacing again, “If he gets shot –“

Aramis rubbed the bridge of his nose, “The English don’t carry guns.”

“Their armed responses do!”

Aramis, realising he wasn’t winning this argument, looked back to the computer screen. The grainy figures of two men, dressed in guard uniforms, snuck down the corridor.

Oh Porthos, what are you doing?

A flicker at the other side of the screen caught Aramis’ attention.

“Fuck.”

Athos wheeled back, “What?” In two strides he was back at the computer, looking over Aramis’ shoulder.

“d’Artagnan. He’s following them!” 

Now that the alarm had been raised and inmates had been rounded up, d’Artagnan had noticed the missing faces. Other guards hadn’t, after all why would they, but with Porthos and Charon missing d’Artagnan knew something was up. It was too convenient. With the inmates gathered in the yard and the firefighters on the scene, d’Artagnan slipped back into the building. They weren’t in D wing during the explosion, nor were they in the yard. There wouldn’t go towards the front of the building, where they would be met with multiple locked doors, so there was only one other option.

Kitchens.

He jogged up the corridor, stopping briefly by an open door where he found two discarded prisoner uniforms.

Porthos what are you doing..?

It wasn’t long before he heard voices up ahead. Silently, he drew his baton and crept forward through the side kitchen door.

The clanking of the metal chain pullies told d’Artagnan all he needed to know. The kitchen delivery entrance had two levels of security. The outer door was locked, key held by the warden. The inner door was a horizontal rolling grate. It took two people, on either side of the large door, to open the heavy metal shutters. The grunts and clanking of chains told d’Artagnan they had already gotten rid of that barrier. But how were they going to get through the second..?

“I told you – it’s locked!” Porthos’ voice called from up ahead, along with the rattling of the locked outer door, “What are we even doing here, Charon? What’s the plan?”

“They’re late… Those useless –“ The rest of the sentence was drowned out metallic bang and footsteps. d’Artagnan scrambled back, attempting to find a place to hide but the figure turned the corner before there was a chance.

For a moment Charon just stood there, staring. Then suddenly, he lunged.

“Porthos, get here!”

d’Artagnan stepped back to avoid the slow punch, then left to avoid a second. After all the training he had taken part in, all those times Porthos had pulverised him into the mat during his apprenticeship year, it didn’t even cause a sweat. When Charon made another clumsy lunge he ducked, ready to grab the flailing wrist and twist it up and around to incapitate him.

But then he caught sight of Porthos. Time, just for a moment, paused. The shake of the head was small, silent and definite.

For whatever reason, Porthos didn’t want him to fight. D’Artagnan didn’t understand but he didn’t have to. His teammate said stop. So d’Artagnan froze. He took a blow to the head a moment later.

Pain sent stars across his vision and the following punch to the stomach knocked the wind from his lungs. Remembering one of Porthos’ tricks, he dropped to his knees to fain being beaten. It hadn’t worked for Porthos last time and, d’Artagnan realised as a silver knife was brought to his throat, it hadn’t worked for him either.

“Charon don’t!”

A hand threaded itself into d’Artagnan’s hair and wrenched his head back, cold metal pressed against the hollow of his throat. His muscles burned, itching to fight back and take control, but he held still. Even the rise of panic didn’t override the trust he had in Porthos.

The bigger man stepped forward, eyes fixed on his fellow inmate.

“No one gets hurt, remember?”

“Shouldn’t have followed us then, should he?”

Yank.

Press.

Breath. Trust.

d’Artagnan kept his eyes fixed on Porthos, being careful not to react to the French words spoken around him.

“Kill a guard and that’s it. You’ll be in seg for the rest of your life.”

“They’d have to catch me for that.”

“Don’t take that risk. We can still get out of here, right? No blood.”

Silence.

Trust. Breath.

“You better take his radio off him.” Charon said with decision, “And his baton and spray. Gag him and use his cuffs. By the time he’s found we’ll be long gone.”

Thank God.

Porthos stepped forward to follow the instructions. He kept his eyes fixed on d’Artagnan’s the whole time, stripping him of his weapons belt. He drew his own knife and pressed it to d’Artagnan’s abdomen.

“I’ve got him, you go wait for whatever’s meant to be happening. I’ll lock him in the store room.”

“Fine,” Charon let go of d’Artagnan’s hair and finally removed the knife from his throat, “Be quick.”

Chapter Text

“It happened too quickly,” Porthos muttered.

d’Artagnan offered up his wrists without complaint and allowed Porthos to lock the cuffs around them. He linked the cuffs around a metal struct of a metal shelf and clicked the other bracelet around his friend’s wrist.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t warn you.”

“It’s okay…” d’Artagnan muttered back, “But if this is meant to be real you need to make those tighter.”

“Masochist…” But Porthos did click the cuffs a few notches further. D’Artagnan grunted in discomfort.

“Was meant to be Wells, when he was thrown in Seg. I saw my opportunity and took it,” Porthos looked around for the least disgusting thing to gag his friend with. With everything being rancid, he decided on d’Artagnan’s own tie. “I think Charon is more involved in the Court than anyone originally thought.”

He went to tie it round his mouth but d’Artagnan drew back. Porthos frowned and raised an eyebrow.

“All for one, right? Good luck.” d’Artagnan forced a nervous smile, then offered his face for the gag.

“All for one.”

Porthos wound the tie round his head, ensuring it was tight enough to stay put but not to risk suffocation.

“Just one more thing-“

“Porthos time’s up!” Charon’s voice came from the main kitchen area, “Let’s go!”

“- Athos and Aramis are here in England. Look for them.”

Porthos left d’Artagnan wide look of a surprise and jogged back into the into the kitchen. A gold glow shone through the middle of metal door and it took him a moment to realise what it was.

“Are they –“

“Welding torch, should be any second and…” A small hole fell from to the floor with a clatter and Charon squeezed through, followed quickly by Porthos. A figure stood, welding torch in hand and mask in place, next to him a dark grey van.

“Quick!” The surprisingly feminine voice spouted from under the mask. She opened the back door and the men piled in. Charon threw a blanket at Porthos, before wrapping on over the top of himself. The engine roared to life and Porthos held his breath as they pulled off.

“Where’s Wells?” That female voice was back again. She spoke French, but definitely as a second language. If Porthos had to guess she was English, maybe London?

“In Seg.”

“Well who’s that?”

“A friend, now will you just drive so we can ditch this thing?”

“There’s a change in the back for both of you. I suggest you get busy.”

Porthos rummaged and found two bags, shoving one towards Charon. He tugged stolen uniform off, with little regard for modesty, and rummaged in the bag. T-shirt, jeans, hoody, trainers. As he began changing, he glanced over at the other man. Charon was busy with his own changing while trying not to be thrown about in the back of the van.

“How far?” He asked towards the front seat, “They could have found the guard by now.”

“What guard? Jesus Charon, did you do any part of the plan?”

“He’s not dead,” Porthos offered as his head popped out the head of his hoodie, “Walked in at the wrong time and incapacitated.”

“And you are who exactly you?”

“Flea, enough! How far?”

“Aaaand –“ With a screech of breaks, Porthos and Charon were thrown forward into a heap, “Here!”

The doors were thrown open the moment they came to a complete stop. They clambered towards the bright light of the day and out onto the gravely ground. It was an empty country road, the likes you could only find in England. A man, so tall he could actually look Porthos in the eye, stepped back and towards a nearby dark blue Nissan.

“We need to be quick,” he muttered in English, “Torch the van and let’s go.”

“Got everything you need from in there?” The woman’s voice came again before she appeared from the other side of the car. Without the welding mask to hide her face, Porthos was taken a back. Younger than he thought and, god why was he noticing it now, pretty. She wore a plain dark hooded sweatshirt and jeans, with Doc Martins which looked like they could give a bruising kick if needed. She looked to Charon, who nodded.

The woman turned back to van and dragged out a petrol can. A few splashes around and a match later, the van they had been in was engulfed in flames.

This time, the nameless man drove with Charon up front with Porthos and Flea in the back. After a few minutes of silence, she glanced back to him again.

“So why are you here?”

“Plan needed two people,” Porthos said evenly, “I was the last-minute addition after Wells was put in seg.”

“Right… You got a name?”

“Porthos.”

“Weird name.”

“Thanks.”

“Have we heard anything about the meeting?” Charon ignored the conversation going on in the back and looked to the man driving, “The time frame is closing.”

“Nothing yet boss,” The man shook his head, “I suggest we just go back and sit tight until the phone rings. It’s in the glove compartment.”

“Excellent,” Charon twisted round in his seat and smiled at his old friend, “Better get comfy, it’s a bit of a drive.”

“I will have him arrested! He’s gone too far - this is WAY beyond the scope of his rights!”

D’Artagnan stood, still dressed in his crumpled uniform, in front of Abernethy. As far as the prison knew he had gone to the hospital to be treated for shock, when in reality he had headed straight to update the leader of this botched operation.

“He said it all happened too quickly. It’s clear that Vincente had the escape planned well in advance, Porthos had to make a snap judgement.”

“I did not ask for your opinion.”

“Well I was the only one there!” d’Artagnan’s fuse was short. He’d been met with a fire, had a knife to his throat, allowed himself to be tied up and didn’t feel like being shouted at in that moment. “Porthos knows what he is doing. He is one of the best agents I know. If he thought it was important to stick with Vincente, then I trust him and you should to.”

For another, the glare that Abernethy offered might have made them wilt, but d’Artagnan had been trained by two of the best glarers in history. He didn’t even blink.

“You brought us in on this operation. Porthos never asked, you did. You need to trust him to the job that you asked him to do.”

Abernethy drummed her fingers against her desk, clearly furious but at least willing to listen.

“So what do you suggest we do? He’s got no back up, no way of contacting us. What’s your suggestion, Ivanov?”

Well, at least she wasn’t discussing arrests any more. That was a plus. d’Artagnan leant forward and picked up the phone connected to Abernethy’s office line. He wondered ideally if what he was about to reveal would cause four arrests instead of one.

“My name’s d’Artagnan, and my first suggestion is that I make a call…”

Less than thirty minutes later there was a knock at the door. d’Artagnan stood, ears still ringing from Abernethy’s shouting when he’d explained what he had done. If this went well? Well then perhaps all could be forgiven. If this went wrong? d’Artagnan didn’t want to think about the potential consequences.

“d’Artagnan!” Athos was first through the door, grasping his best friend by the shoulder and looked as if he was moments away from dragging him into a hug.

Aramis at least had the decency to acknowledge the woman, quietly seething behind the desk.

“Ma-am,” He stepped around his friends as Athos let go and offered out his hand, “I wish it was under better circumstances but it’s good to meet you.”

Abernethy looked at the hand and ignored it.

“So this is the famous team? Tell me, do you flaunt your own commander’s orders so blatantly or have you made a special exception for me?”

“Well, actually –“ Aramis began but Athos cut across him. MI5 didn’t need to know just how often the Musketeer bent the rules.

“We are sorry for the deception. It was not our intent to purposefully defraud you. Our intension was to watch and only offer our services if something went wrong. In d’Artagnan’s defence, I don’t even know how he knew we were here.”

“Porthos told me.”

“Ah,” Athos decided that that made sense.

“So, you are Athos?” Abernethy looked him up and down. It wasn’t the first time Athos’ slightly scruffy appearance caused people to underestimate him. If she did it would be her mistake. “The only reason I’m not having you two arrested is because your colleague has promised me of your useful nature. But from now on all your plans go through me. Are we clear?”

“Of course,” Athos’ tone was oh so reasonable. “This is your operation; we are only here to support.”

“Right.” It was clear Abernethy didn’t believe him. “So how do we contact Porthos?”

Athos dug into his pocket and drew out an ancient looking flip phone.

“I have my men memorise this phone number when they go undercover. Porthos knows we are here. He will call when he can. Unless he has a way to contact you?”

Athos watched as Abernethy set her lips into a tight line.

So that was a no.

“We didn’t think he had any need to. It was an unnecessary risk to send him in with a phone. Ivanov – rather - D’Artagnan was supposed to be the go between.”

That was an oversight which Athos would never have allowed, but there was no point in starting a debate on undercover safety nets. In the end he just nodded.

“Well, we’ll have to wait for this to ring.” Athos leant forward and set it down between him and the British agent. “In the meantime, can we trouble you for some coffee?”

Porthos wasn’t sure what he had been expecting, but the non-descript terraces house on a quiet street hadn’t been it. The car pulled up at the kerb and slotted itself discreetly into a parking space.

Porthos opened his mouth to ask where they were but Charon had already disappeared from the car. 

“He’s stressed,” Flea offered as she cracked her own door open, letting her and Porthos out into the street, “Apparently nothing has gone right today.”

Don’t I know it… Porthos added in his head as he followed Flea up the steps and through the door of building. It was surprisingly big on the inside, with a wide hallway, and stair case which lead to the upper floors. Where hallway table should be stood a hat stand and desk, a red ledger placed on the top.

“I have some calls to make,” Charon tugged off his hoody and tossed it to Sam, “Flea can show you somewhere to shower and chill. You don’t have to stay ‘course, but if you fancied sticking around, I could use help later. Can’t ever have too much muscle, right?”

Later, the deal, it had to be the deal.

“Well after busting me out like that I think I can spare you a night or two.”

“Excellent! I appreciate having a friend on my side. Flea?” Charon slapped him on the shoulder, before catching Flea’s eye with a nod, “Make sure Porthos gets everything he needs, yea?”

Something flickered for a second across Flea’s face, but almost as soon as Porthos noticed it, it was gone.

“Of course. I’ll see you later. This way Porthos.”

Flea headed to the stairs and with a nod to his friend, he followed. There were a couple of creaking footsteps above his head as they walked.

“Who else is here?”

“People who can be trusted, don’t worry,” Flea opened a door at the top of the staircase to reveal a sparse room with a double bed and tiny shower room to the side.

“You can sort yourself out in here. Towels in the dresser and other bits and pieces if you don’t like the stuff you’re in.”

“Thanks.”

One question to ask now. Breath in. Out. Nonchalant.

“One thing I could do with is a phone though. There are people I need to contact, don’t want the first they hear of this is to be on the news.”

“Oh right, of course,” Flea dug in her pocket and pulled out a clunky looking Nokia from the turn of the century, “I don’t need it back, was only using it as a burner for the break out. I can get a better one arranged but will you cope without SnapChat for now?”

“I make no promises, but I’ll try,” Porthos took the phone with a small grin, “Thanks Flea.”

Flea turned and was half out the door before she turned back, “Shower, you stink of prison.”

Porthos couldn’t help but snort. “Thanks.”

The moment she was gone, Porthos stepped into the shower room and, after twisting a few dials, had to jump out of the way to avoid being soaked. He stripped off the clothing and ducked under the water for a few moments, only enough to wet the skin. With that done, Porthos wrapped a towel round his waist and sat down on the closed lid. Phone. Right. He looked at the phone in his hands. There was only one person to call. Porthos had been resistant to having the number drilled into him, but now he was supremely grateful.

He punched the number in and held his breath, though it was answered before the second ring.

“Tuscan Funeral home for all your –“

“Athos,” Porthos breathed in relief, “Thank God.”

“Porthos! Hold on,” There was a pause, a click and then, “Right, Porthos you are on speaker phone. There’s me, Aramis, d’Artagnan and Abernethy here.”

“Abernethy?”

“Yes Mr du Vallon.” Porthos cringed at the female’s voice. “What do you have to report?”

“Are you all right?” Athos corrected, “And what do you have to report?”

“Fine, I’m fine.” Porthos slumped back against the toilet cistern, there was something about hearing his leader’s voice which could always calm him. “We dropped the van from the initial break out and toasted it, then switched to a blue volvo, registration AB14 YL2. Not 100 percent sure where we are but no more than 90 minutes from the prison.”

“Did you mean what you said?” It was d’Artagnan, “Do you really think Charon is deeper involved?”

“Definitely,” The idea hurt, but it was true, “There’s a meeting to happen any time soon. Apparently, the sellers will only deal with him. I don’t have an exact time yet, but he’s asked me to stick around for some extra muscle.”

“Good.”

Was that actual praise from Abernethy?

“Well done du Vallon. Will you be able to stay in touch? Who’s phone is this?”

“An old burner. Seems like it’s mine for the time being but don’t call it back, just in case. I’ll try my best to be in contact when I’ve got more information.”

“Do that du Vallon. We’re in the home straight. You’re almost there.”

“Right…” It certainly didn’t feel like that. Then something flashed into mind, something important. “Oh, Shit. Abernethy. There’s a mole in the prison.”

“What? Who?”

“That bastard of a guard Davidson. I didn’t get the whole story, but the Court have something on him. Apparently he likes prostitutes, the Court had proof. Regardless, he was the one who got us two Guard uniforms and 2 knives into the prison.”

“How the Hell did he get knives into the Prison?”

Porthos opened his mouth but it was d’Artagnan who answered Athos’ question.

“Wouldn’t be difficult. Guard bags are searched but no metal detectors or x-rays.”

“Exactly,” Porthos agreed.

“He’s a total bastard, he’s-“

The sound of a door opening close by made Porthos jerk.

“Got to go,” He hissed over d’Artagnan, “All for one!”

He stabbed the end call button but was sure he heard the beginnings of his teammate’s responses. After deleting the call history he reached in and snapped the shower off.

“Hello?”

No reply.

Porthos tugged the towel tighter round his waist and hooked the door open with his foot.

“Hello?”

Flea blinked back at him, but not the Flea who had left a little over ten minutes ago. Her jeans and hoodie had been replaced with a dark bra, skirt and fishnets. The hair which had been tugged into a scraggily bun was now down loose around her shoulders. Before, during the escape, Porthos had needed to focus on the escape but now…

Jesus. Christ.

… She was… Porthos swallowed. For a moment everything bled from Porthos’ mind. The undercover op. The weapons. The guns…

She smiled and stepped forward, a finger tracing down the Porthos’ chest. Porthos’ adrenaline suddenly spiked, heart hammering like the moment before a fight.

“Charon said I was to make sure you got everything you needed.”

Wait.

What?

Porthos’ hand snapped up and caught Flea’s wrist just before it ducked underneath his towel.

“What did you say?”

Flea frowned slightly, as if it as obvious, “I’m here to make you feel good…”

When her other hand wasn’t released, Flea reached forward to attempt to remove the towel. Porthos caught that one as well.

“He sent you here?”

“Porthos you heard him downstairs… What’s the problem?” Flea stepped forward and, out of hands to stop her, pressed an electric kiss to the underside if Porthos’ jaw. A groan constricted inside Porthos’ throat.

“I don’t normally kiss but for you I could make an exception.”

That did it. It was like a bucket of ice-cold water over the head. Porthos released the hands but stepped back into the bathroom and firmly out of reach.

If this had been in a bar back in Paris? Well his reaction would likely be very different. Flea was beautiful with a fiery spark which Porthos wanted to know more about.

But not like this.

“Am I not your type?” Flea, for a moment, looked a little unsure. She was a girl who knew the powers she had over men. The fact it had not it hadn’t work had taken her aback. “We don’t have guys here, but if that’s you’re thing, I can make some calls I guess.”

“I’m not gay.” But that wasn’t what Porthos’ mind focused one. Don’t have guys here… “What’s that meant to mean?”

Flea blinked, confused. “Porthos, where do you think you are? This is a brothel.”

Chapter Text

“I don’t sleep with prostitutes,” Porthos said as he gave Flea his top. He tugged his boxers on underneath the towel before letting it drop, and quickly followed it by his jeans.

“You don’t need to be high and mighty about it,” Flea seemed to consider the t-shirt for a moment before dropping it to the floor. She jammed her hands onto her hips, refusing to cover the bra which Porthos pointedly avoided looking at. “I don’t need to be judged by a bent cop like you.”

“Who said I was judging?” Porthos fished the top back up from the floor and pushed it into Flea’s hands. This time she grudgingly tugged it over her head. “Just not my thing.”

Memories of his childhood drifted back to the forefront of his mind. Memories of being curled up in the tiny living room while his mother had been – busy. Not that he blamed her. She had done whatever she needed to do keep a roof over his head. He hadn’t even really understood the string of men, not at ten. It wasn’t until years after his mothers’ death that he had fully grasped what she’d done to keep him safe.

After that paying for sex didn’t hold much appeal.

“How long have you worked here? Does Charon often use you as a getaway driver?”

The shirt engulfed Flea’s body, completely covering her skirt so it looked more strange dress. Unsure of what else to do, she leant back against the wall, watching Porthos as he sat, bare chest, on the bed.

“I do whatever Charon tells me to do. Though it is the first time he’s needed my skills with a blow torch. Should knock a good chunk off the bill.”

Bill… d’Artagnan’s face flashed into Porthos’ mind. This was a story which sounded all too familiar.

“How did you end up owing him?”

“My idiot of an ex-boyfriend. Got given coke to sell, except half went up his nose and the other ended up in police evidence after he got stitched up by an undercover cop. This is the quickest way I’ve got to get my life back…”

What a shit lot…

“Was it you that got the dirt on Davidson?” Porthos asked, although was surprised when Flea shook her head.

“I’m too old for him.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Flea blinked at him as a horrible, sinking feeling settled into the pit of his stomach.

“You know what it means.”

So this was what Charon had on Davidson. Porthos felt sick. His fist clenched at his side as the urge to punch something became almost overwhelming.

He’d been picked for this operation because he had known Charon, had been friends with Charon, but this man was a stranger. He was realising that now. The Charon he’d known had his faults but he’d also had boundaries.

Not anymore.

“How many kids are here?” Bile rose from Porthos’ stomach and into his throat at the words. Kids. Kids… Fuck.

But the look Flea returned him with was not one which he had expected. Guarded, yes. But there was definitely a flash of satisfaction too.

“There were never under agers here,” Flea explained, “That was two houses ago. Someone tipped of the police. They raided us and took in anyone who couldn’t prove they were of age. Didn’t you know why Wells was in jail?”

And the bastard had acted disgusted at Porthos being a Cop?

Porthos held Flea’s gaze for a moment, eyes narrowing ever so slightly.

“Someone tipped the police, eh? Any idea who?”

Amusement played on the edge of Flea’s lips, tugging at the edges.

“No idea. Though whoever it was would know better than to admit it. That would be a good way up chopped into pieces.”

Clever girl…

“You know…” Flea continued, crossing her arms over her chest, “For a bent cop you seem to have a lot of morals.”

Careful… Porthos, without realising, had danced into a dangerous position.

“I bought and sold in drugs. Not people.”

“That’s a strange morality line to draw.”

“Well that’s where I draw it.”

For the first time since his undercover assignment began, Porthos felt like he wasn’t fooling someone. Despite whatever jokes Athos might make, Porthos knew he was good at undercover work. He had been in more drug rings than he could count, a forger, money launderer, it had been a bit of a skill within the police force. The Fire with Fire assignment had been the first one to go pear shaped and that had been bad luck rather than bad training. This was his skill set. So why did it feel like Flea was looking straight through him? It was uncomfortable.

“Fair enough, I guess.” Flea gave nothing away.

This was a dangerous conversation. Porthos knew he had to shut it down. It didn’t matter that this was the first conversation he had had since his conversation with Aramis in prison which hadn’t felt like eggshells. The fact like it didn’t feel like that spoke of the danger he was in.

“Besides…” Porthos stood up and pretended to check over his one-day stubble in the mirror. “Doesn’t matter. I’m not here to critique your lot’s ethics. I’m only staying as a favour to Charon. Then I’m out of here.”

“Oh?”

“Well can’t stay in the UK can I?” Of course, he would be going back to France as soon as the weapons had been recovered. It was a truth wrapped up within fabrications. “My face is going to be plastered all over every news channel, newspaper and bulletin. If I want to stay out of jail, then I need to fuck off for a while.”

“Where are you going to go? Back to France?”

Porthos shrugged, pretending to think. “To start maybe. I have some friends, reckon I could get there without a papers. I’ll need a passport eventually but that can wait.”

Flea rolled her eyes, “Not really thought this through have you.”

“Well I didn’t know I was checking out early until,” Porthos considered when exactly that had been, “Jesus, was that only this morning?”

Porthos’ hands found the back of his head as he sighed. It had been a long fucking day…

“Don’t feel like you need to babysit me,” He glanced back to Flea, still impassive and considering against the wall, “You must have better stuff to do.”

Perhaps Porthos had expected Flea to be releaved at a chance to get out but, surprisingly, she didn’t move.

“I’m supposed to be working…” She shrugged, “Charon expects us to be up here for at least an hour.”

Right… Porthos hadn’t considered that.

“If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather hang out…”

Porthos shrugged, “Suit yourself, but you might as well sit down and stop propping up the wall…”

“Hey, Athos?”

And there it was…

The group had been quiet in their waiting game, all wrapped up in their own thoughts as they watched the undercover phone. Abernethy hadn’t likely noticed, but Athos had been waiting for d’Artagnan to crack. He had been tugging at his bun for the last 45 minutes, Athos had been surprised he’d even lasted that long.

“Yes?”

“Can I borrow your phone?”

So that was it… Athos had wondered ideally if there had been something going on which he hadn’t been party to. With he and Aramis here and Porthos undercover, there were only two people d’Artagnan would likely to call. Unless he’d been overcome with a sudden overwhelming urge to talk to Treville, there was only one person d’Artagnan would want to call in the middle of an active mission.

Athos dug into his pocket and found his personal mobile. Ignoring Abernethy’s surprised look, he passed it to d’Artagnan.

“Take it outside, I’ll send Aramis running if the phone goes.”

“Thanks.”

d’Artagnan stepped out into the empty hallway and sank to the floor.  He cradled the phone in his hand and thought back to the last words he and Constance had spoken to each other.

“I’m allowed to be scared. I’m allowed to worry about you!”

“Just say it, you think I can’t. You think I’m not ready!”

“d’Artagnan you almost died!”

“But I didn’t!”

“You can’t just ignore that!”

“You think I can ignore it?” d’Artagnan had slammed his fist against the wall, “I can’t forget it! I’m hounded by it every single day! Every time I look in the mirror or glance at my arm, I know what I went through! I don’t need you reminding me!”

“You don’t need to prove anything –“

“Of course I do! If I don’t everyone will think I’m broken beyond repair. Like you apparently –“

“I never said that!”

“You as good as did!”

“I’m just worried about you. What if it’s too fast and -”

“Tell you what,” d’Artagnan had grabbed his go bag, “You still think I’m fucked up why don’t you find someone who isn’t!”

Find someone who isn’t… What a fucking stupid thing to say…

D’Artagnan touched the phone to his forehead. What a stupid, stupid thing to say.

Before he lost his nerve, he scrolled through Athos phone and touched Constance’s contact. It rung three times before it was picked up.

“Athos, oh my God,” Constance sounded panicked, breathy and terrified, “What’s happened? Is d’Artagnan alright? I haven’t heard, I haven’t – I haven’t.”

Of course… d’Artagnan hadn’t considered the impact of calling from Athos’ phone.

“Hey,” His voice was quiet, “It’s me…”

Silence.

Breathing.

d’Artagnan swallowed.

“I’m sorry.”

Silence. And then…

“You left your ring… I thought…”

d’Artagnan’s head fell back against the wall as his eyes closed.

“I didn’t mean to. My head was a mess when I left. I forgot to pick it up and by the time I realised it was… I’m really sorry.” He swallowed, “Please tell me you didn’t listen to what I said.”

“I –“

For a moment d’Artagnan swore his heart stopped.

“No… Of course not… Are you coming home?”

“Soon, I promise.” d’Artagnan was fairly sure he wasn’t lying, “I’ve been pulled from undercover. We are waiting for Porthos to make contact, then we’ll move in.”

“And you’re okay?”

d’Artagnan felt like lying. Pretending this operation had been a breeze he was back operating at 100%.

But where had that gotten him last time?

“It’s been… Hard….” He admitted finally, “There was a fire in the prison. I wasn’t in it but, but it felt… Yea, it was hard.”

Immediately, d’Artagnan felt the coil in his stomach relax.

It felt good.

It was alarming, just how comfortable Porthos found Flea’s company. He could feel it, especially after Flea’s suggestion 20 questions. His answers were around 50/50 true, it was easier to remember lies when they are close as possible to the truth.

Flea, who’s turn it was to think of a question, suddenly grinned. She flipped over on the bed she had commandeered from Porthos who, to keep a reasonable distance between them, had gotten comfy on the floor.

“How many people you fucked?”

Porthos blinked, taken aback. Up until then they’d been asking about favourites and least favourites, this was a strict departure.

“What?”

“I’m just curious what a normal man’s number is. You know, a guy who doesn’t visit places like this…”

“Not sure I’ve ever been called normal.”

“You’re avoiding the question.”

Porthos felt a smile tug at his, “You caught me…”

“And you’re still avoiding.”

This time Porthos snorted.

“Why won’t you tell me?” Flea watched Porthos’ face carefully.

“Well it’s private, ain’t it?” Porthos shrugged, “But also it’s clearly annoying you. And that’s fun for me.”

Flea looked like she was going to continue the argument, but the knock at the door came before that. Porthos noticed the change instantly. Stress rolled back into her shoulders, the smile which had been only just teasing him disappeared. Flea sat a little straighter, lines a little harder.

“Get your clothes on!” Charon called through the door, along with another hard three knocks, “We’re on!”

“Hold on!” Porthos stood up from his place on the floor and a show of walking across the room to make the floor boards creak. His heart thudded.

We’re on…

Show time.

He tugged the door open to be met with Charon, eyes bright with the excitement of the news. The track suit and hoodie were gone, replaced with a rumpled suit which hadn’t seen an iron.

“We’ve had contact!”

Porthos felt a hand on the small of his bare back, closely followed by Flea. She pushed his shirt into his hand and stretched up to press a kiss to the hollow under his jaw line. He pretended not to notice the jump of his heart against his ribcage.

Get a grip, du Vallon!

He took a hold of his shirt, catching Flea’s flirtation which he couldn’t whether it was real or for Charon’s sake.

“I’ll see you later.”

She slipped past Charon without challenge, leaving Porthos to focus completely on the challenge at hand.

“We have our meeting place!” The smile Charon offered was electric as he pushed passed Porthos into the room.

“Amazing!” Porthos let the door bang shut. “Where?”

“Got an address of a warehouse downtown.” Charon passed across the note with an address scrawled hurriedly across it. Porthos committed it to memory. “Just got word.”

“So, when do we go?”

“Tonight. Soon. It’s going to be a good night!”

Charon cocked his head, indicating Porthos follow, as he continued to speak.

“To think, I almost missed this because if that idiot Wells… Well, they say everything happens for a reason. Got my best second in command back, right?” He looked back as he descended the stairs to the ground floor, then down again to a basement level. “I know you said you’d only stick around for a few days, but there’s plenty of space here for you.”

They reached a door and Charon paused for a moment to unclick the heavy coded padlock.

“You could do good here. Like old times.”

Like old times. Except it wasn’t. Back then it wasn’t even small-time stuff, it was only annoyances. They’d been teenagers, cocky little shits but teenagers. Graffiti and shop lifting were worlds away from this. Not that there were any truly victimless crimes but there were levels.

This wasn’t like old times.

They weren’t fifteen anymore.

Charon was destroying lives. No amount of brotherly bonds between them could ever make Porthos forget that. But this wasn’t time for honesty. Lying for the greater good.

The padlock fell to the floor and the door swung open.

One empty crate. Nineteen guns lining the walls on hooks.

Jackpot.

Back in Paris, Constance sat curled on the bathroom tiles. After d’Artagnan’s apparent death Constance had given up their first apartment, living with the memories and ghosts had become too difficult. Besides, with her job with the Royalines it made sense for her to live with them. But after d’Artagnan’s returned to them, after he had performed the miracle which she’d begged God for, they had found a new place. It was bigger than their tiny one bedroom flat, a terraced town house with two bedrooms and even a tiny garden, but the place felt impossibly big here on her own.

“I’m sorry…” She mumbled eventually into the phone.

The sound of d’Artagnan sighing down the phone made Constance rush on, worried that he would cut her off before she had said everything she needed to.

“I should have trusted you. When you said you were ready, I should have trusted you.”

“You did trust me,” She wished she could see d’Artagnan as he spoke, wish she could touch his face and sooth his anxiety, “I was feeling fragile. I was second guessing myself and just assumed everyone else was too… Please don’t say you’re sorry.”

For a moment there was a beat of silence.

Now was the moment.

Come on, Constance, stop being a coward.

“d’Artagnan… d’Artagnan, I – “

There were footsteps on the other end of the line, followed by low, quick voices.

“Constance, sorry I’ve got to go. Porthos’ made contact, we’re on the move. I love you.”

“I love you too,” She answered automatically but the call had already disconnected.

For a moment she sat still, staring at the plastic stick which sat at her feet.

She had suspected for a while, had her suspicions since the day d’Artagnan had left. She hadn’t been sure, and how could she drop something like that when he was about to go undercover. The fight hadn’t been planned, it had just snowballed and avalanched until it had been too much to take back. Then he’d been gone with his ring on the side and Constance had thought…

Well she had thought wrong.

The thick black positive plus blinked up at her, leaving no room for error.

Oh d’Artagnan… Constance pressed her hand to her now flat stomach and curled herself up in a ball. Just come home. 

Chapter Text

“We have a location?” d’Artagnan asked as he re-entered the room behind Aramis. He chucked the borrowed phone back to Athos as he returned to his seat. Head back in the game, that’s what his team needed just now.

Athos leaned forward and passed a piece of paper to d’Artagnan.

“Not just one, two.”

“Two?” d’Artagnan scanned the page and, like Athos said, there were two separate addresses.

“It seems,” Abernethy, plucked the addresses out of d’Artagnan’s hand, “That Porthos has located the original cache of weapons at his current location but there’s a second deal going down tonight. We’ve located the secondary getaway car and that’s where Porthos has found the original stolen artillery. He, Vincente and some other associates will be on route within the hour. We need to get a team there first and in position, once we get confirmation on the second shipment we can take down both operations together.”

“Would be easier if Porthos was micced,” Aramis rubbed his hand over his goatee, before seemingly coming to a decision and digging out his phone, “We should Google map the warehouse. If it’s a proper industrial area there will be plenty of high vantage points we can provide cover from. We should hurry, we’ll need to be out of sight before anyone starts arriving.”

It wasn’t until he looked up and noticed Abernethy’s bemused expression that he realised his mistake.

“I mean, that is if you want our input.  Of course, we have no jurisdiction in England. We are here as a purely, advisory, roll…”

He offered a winning smile, hoping it would ingratiate him back into Abernethy’s good books.

“As jumped up as he is, he makes a good point,” Athos pointed out. “Do you have enough personal for two simultaneous raids.”

Silence.

So no.

Abernethy shook her head. “I have 10 men here for deployment. If I had more time we could requisition more but not if we want to beat Vincente to the drop.”

It was clear she was thinking, considering. Athos stayed silent, leaving her to wonder how many rules she could break and still get away for it.

“If you three attend with me,” Abernethy began, “You will be ghosts. Support but you let my men do the arrests. Agreed?”

“Excellent,” Aramis beamed and bounced out of his seat, “How do you feel about signing me out a rifle?”

“You handled one of these before?” Charon asked as he picked up a handgun from it’s place on the wall. Nineteen according of Porthos’ last count. The missing crate had contained 22. Not bad…

Despite his copious hours of gun training (partly Musketeer sanctioned and partly Aramis peacocking), Porthos took the gun gingerly with a shake of his head.

“Was never in armed response. Fired air riffles before, but that’s about it.”

“They’re not difficult,” Charon passed the gun across, “That’s a Glock 19…”

No… Porthos corrected in his head, Too big… More like a Glock 17.

 Charon continued to chatter about how to fire or change the magazine and Porthos pretended to listen. He turned the weapon over in his hand. It was definitely bigger than a standard handgun, larger than what the Musketeers used during concealed carries. It wasn’t what he was used to, but it would do just fine. Porthos made an effort to look torn.

“Sure these are necessary?” Porthos glanced back to the other man who was picking one for himself, “What’s wrong with knives?”

“What’s that English saying? Never bring a blade to a fire fight? Here,” Charon passed another to Porthos, “Take that for Flea.”

Flea…

“I hadn’t realised Flea was…” Porthos let his voice trail off, only half faking a loss for words, “I mean, do you always use your prostitutes as get away drivers?”

Charon snorted. He motioned for Porthos to back out the door before replacing the padlock.

“Not really but she’s a girl of many skills. ‘Course,” He nudged into Porthos’ shoulder as they walked, “You found that out this afternoon didn’t ya?”

Porthos ignored the jibe, “But why use her for shit like this?”

“She’s good at it. A good driver and more than a handful of braincells. Plus she speaks French – good for business and that.”

“Is she French?”

“Half and half. Duel citizen. Think her dad is from somewhere near the German boarder,” Charon looked back over his shoulder as they ascended the stairs. “Why d’you care? You’re not getting a little crush are you?”

“Fuck off.”

“Touchy.”

“So who’s coming with us, Sam too?”

“He’s gone to get the payment. He’ll meet us there.” Charon slapped him on the shoulder, “You’re all the back-up I need.”

Porthos stuffed the pair of handguns into his back pockets (safety on) and watched Charon dig in stab at his phone.

“Flea, put your clothes back on and get the car. We need to go.”

Aramis pouted from his spot in the back of the van. Athos pointedly ignored him. Let him sulk.

The British weren’t big on fire arms, the best Abenethy could do was a hand gun for each of the Frenchmen. Aramis, who had been a sniper in the Army and was the best shot in the Musketeers, was still smarting at not being trusted with one of the Diemaco C7s which he had spotted in the armoury. Any form of rifles required additional certifications beyond what Abenethy was cleared for, so despite Aramis’ pouts he was denied the weponary.

Lucky he’s so good at what he did… Athos thought ideally as they drove to the deal point, else Treville would have tossed him out for professional misconduct years ago.

d’Artagnan, at least, was acting like a professional. Athos didn’t think he could handle both of them acting like children at the same time.

“I trust you, Turner. Get everyone in position and wait for my signal. Double check everyone’s PPE. Good luck.”

Abenethy stabbed the end call button on the steering wheel and looked back to the road.

“That’s our warehouse,” She pointed out a red sandstone building which looked, thankfully, quiet. They had beaten the other two parties.

“We’ll set up in two sub teams there,” She indicated a neighbouring building, “The top floor should give us a good vantage point, two as a look out and the rest ready to move in on their signal.”

The van drew to a stop, a second stopping close behind.

The group piled out, strapping their bullet-proof vests on as one of the British agents climbed into the driver’s seat to move it out of sight.

Abenethy passed out three balaclavas to the French intruders and they tugged them on without complaint. The other British Agents had likely noticed something as strange about the three extra men who none of them had met, but clearly they knew better than to mention it.

Ghosts… Athos reminded himself. That was what they had to be.

“Aramis, you go with Agent Maclean and find an appropriate look out point.” She dug into her Go bag and handed him an extra ear piece. “Let us know when you’re in position. Maclean, you ready?”

A tall, wiry man stepped out of the throng of 8 agents and nodded at his leader. Athos noted the long pack strapped to his back and, seeing Aramis’ eyes light up, grabbed onto his team members’ arm. He drew Aramis back to his side and bent his head so only he could hear.

“Do. Not.” Athos muttered in French, “Steal. His. Riffle.”

“Spoil sport,” Even through the balaclava, Athos could tell Aramis was grinning. He looked back to d’Artagnan and his team lead. “Keep each other safe. See you on the other side.”

“Right!” Abenethy raised her voice as the pair jogged into the building, “Everyone inside! The drop’s within the hour and we don’t want them spooked!”

‘Say what you want about the English,’ Athos mused as they all jogged towards the building, the point man counting them in before brushing away any footprints, ‘They follow orders well.’ The members of the team seemed well trained and gave their leader far less lip than his team gave him. Maybe, once this was all over, they should swap management strategies.

Assuming she doesn’t change her mind about arresting us.

He nudged d’Artagnan, who’d settled himself at the corner window, one eye on the entrance to the industrial estate.

“You okay?”

“Hmm?”

Athos tugged his balaclava down and to reveal his scruffy beard and repeated the question.

“Right… yea…” d’Artagnan’s eyes trailed back to the road, “Just a bit on edge I guess… Been a while since I’ve done this.”

Of course, Athos hadn’t thought about that. The last raid they had both attended? Well they had been on different sides. A prickle worked its way down Athos’ spine. It shouldn’t be surprising that the young man was nervous.

“Once we start it will be like riding a bike. Muscle memory,” Athos placed a hand on d’Artagnan’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze, “It’s the waiting that’s killer. Gives you too much thinking time.”

“Thinking time is right…” d’Artagnan’s drummed his fingers against the windowsill, “All this pent up energy is making me jumpy. Wish we had contact with Porthos to get a timescale.”

“They’ll be driving by now, we’d –“

“Too much danger, I know. I know… Not saying we should. Just wish we could.”

“We just have to trust him. He’ll come back to us…” Athos leant back against the wall. He fiddled with the ear piece, waiting to hear Aramis’ voice when a vehicle was sighted.

The knot in his stomach was back. Porthos wasn’t surprised, he always felt the same way before an op began. Normally he would ignore it, safe in the knowledge his team was by his side. This time he felt more alone than ever. Of course there would be Brits getting into position to raid the positions, but he’d feel a lot safer if Athos was heading up the operation.

‘Common,’ He pinched the bridge of his nose, ‘Home stretch… Get the guns and go home.’

He could do this. He had to do this.

Flea guided the car through the streets carefully, obeying the speed limit to fly under the radar. She was back in her clothes from earlier, the dark makeup the only reminder of how she had dressed in the brothel. Porthos diverted his gaze, determined not to notice the elegant curve of her neck or the slight pout of concentration as she drove.

It wouldn’t matter anyway. This time tomorrow he would be back in France. He would speak to Abernethy, would do what he could for her, but that was the extent of what was possible. If she was lucky the police would look on her as a victim, if not she would be looking at serious prison time.

What a mess…

They turned off the A-road onto a single track of tarmac which lead away from the city. Up ahead were a maze of imposing red brick buildings with large commercial roller doors. Large, high windows sat above the goods doors with only a few panes missing.

“Do the Court own one of these?”

“Nah,” Charon’s foot jiggled up and down in anticipation as they drew closer. “They do. Imports, exports, deals. I guess it makes sense to have somewhere away from the rest of their operation to deal with outsiders. After today, maybe we should look into one…”

The van drew to a stop between two of the towering buildings. Charon tapped out a message, which was followed quickly by a returning beep.

“They’re inside. You two ready?”

Porthos leant forward and passed the second gun to Flea.

“Guess so.”

They piled out the car and Porthos made a show of cracking his back while he took in his surroundings. Were the English here yet? If they were then they were good at being inconspicuous. The world around the warehouses was silent. What if they had beaten the team of agents here? If that was the case then he was alone. No support, no back up. Worst case scenario wouldn’t even cover it…

“Porthos, you ready?”

With one last scan he turned back from the surroundings and faked a nervous smile.

“Born ready.”

“Right, we’re to go in the side door. Follow!”

Flea fell in behind Charon, leaving Porthos to bring up the rear. He glanced up at the large windows as he stalked towards into the shadow of the large building.

Why did he have a bad feeling about this?

“We’ve got eyes on him.” Aramis muttered into his mic. He hadn’t managed to relieve the Agent Maclean – or James because calling people by their last names reminded Aramis too much of the army – of his rifle but did borrow an extra scope to get a closer look at things.

“Three altogether. Vincente, Porthos and a blond female. They’re heading into position now. James is watching the sellers, aren’t you Jamesy?”

“Aramis…”

He heard the warning from his team leader slightly tinny in his ear piece but he didn’t take much notice. Athos knew as well as anyone that Aramis dealt with nerves in strange ways. This was just one of them.

“Um… I have a positive sighting on sellers, Ma’am.” Maclean agreed, looking sideways at his perky comrade. “Three men. Possible positive sighting on cargo too. I can’t be sure of the markings from here but first observations suggests it could be the military crate.”

“We’ve lost visual down here,” Abenethy confirmed, “Men, you are our eyes. The moment we have confirmation on the weapons we move in.”

“We’re on it,” Aramis tracked the three through his scope and watched Vincente shake hands with one of the sellers, “Looks like any moment now –“

“Wait!” d’Artagnan’s voice cut across his friend, “There’s another vehicle approaching, can you see if  - why are they stopping?”

“I was surprised when you called,” The impeccably dressed man - who had introduced himself as ‘Malik’ – shook Charon’s hand. “Rumours had it that you were on an extended holiday curtesy of Her Majesty.”

“Can’t believe everything you hear…” Charon stepped back and jerked his head towards Porthos, “We fancied a bit of an early check out. Didn’t we Porthos?”

He grunted a response, watching Malik as his focus slid to Flea. There was a tilt to his gaze which Porthos didn’t like, the edges of a leer.

“Pretty thing you have. Is that..?”

“Oh no,” Charon shook his head. He glanced down at his watch, as if considering. “She’s excellent, but I’ve made other arrangements. Should be here –“ The opening of the side door drew everyone’s attention.

“Right on time.”

“What’s going on?” Flea whispered to Porthos as a few sets of shuffling footsteps filled the echoy space.

“Beats me… He said Sam was going to get the payment. I thought he was going to get a briefcase full of money or –“

Three girls were shoved into the vast space, closely followed by Sam, one of the artillery rifles from the brothel at his side.

Fuck.

The girls were dressed similarly to how Flea had been back in Porthos’ room. Skirts, heels, heavy dark make-up which had was smudged and tear stained. One looked about Flee’s age, perhaps early to mid twenties but the others was significantly younger, with slender hips and chests of girls midway through puberty at the most.

Porthos’ stomach lurched sickenly as Flea stiffened at his side.

“Charon. What. The. Fuck.”

“They are beautiful,” Malik summoned one of his men forward to give them the once over. The smallest cringed back against the other two, who clawed protectively at her shoulders.

“Not users are they?”

“Would I try to scam you with anything else than the very best?” Charon refused to look at Flea, who was staring daggers at his back. “They won’t let you down. To be honest I’m sad to part with them but of course what you are offering is rather exciting too.”

Malik’s man took hold of each of the girl’s faces in turn, checking their eyes and teeth, before looking at their arms for track marks.

“Look clean, boss.”

“Excellent!”

“You’ve seen my payment,” Charon either was ignoring Flea’s barely concealed fury or didn’t notice, “Do I get to see the shipment?”

“Of course,” Malik stepped back, hand stretched out to open the wooden crate.                                         

“Don’t you DARE!”

Flea’s Glock went from her back pocket to her hand in seconds, the barrel pointed straight at Malik’s chest.

“Stop!”

“Gun!” Aramis spat into his mic, his own hand weapon drawn within a heartbeat. There was no way he could shoot accurately at this distance, but it didn’t mean he wouldn’t try if it meant Porthos’ safety.

“Fuck! Who?”

“The blond who arrived with Porthos. She looks pissed.”

“Do we move in?” Athos’ voice sounded strained to the point of breaking, “Aramis?”

“No! Hold position. There are too many civilians, don’t want them caught in the cross fire.” Aramis stared down his sight, attempting to line his handgun up to it, “Porthos’ doing something. Give him a minute.”

“What are you doing, Flea?” There was a razor edge of Charon’s voice, glaring between the girl and Malik.

“We don’t trade in underagers anymore.” Flea spat. “You said we were out of it once we got the dirt on Davidson.”

Porthos stood, frozen to the spot. Flea was about to blow this whole operation. She had to let the raid move in and the girls would be swept up into protective custody.

That was if they were there.

They had to be there.

Dear God let them be there….

“This is business Flea.” Every hand inched towards their own weapons as Charon spoke. Flea could see that too.

“Anyone pulls a weapon I’ll shoot him!” She glanced at Porthos, a wild determination sparkling in her eyes. “What happened to your morals, Copper? What happened to dealing in drugs not people?”

Charon narrowed his eyes at his old friend.

“What’s she talking about?”

How the hell had this gone wrong so fast? Porthos was stuck between a rock and a hard place. If the English were here they’d probably be holding off on storming the place because of the girls. If that was the case, then siding with Flea and getting them out would give the raid the window they need. If there weren’t there? Siding with Flea would get them both a bullet in the brain.

Fuck.

Please be here… Porthos sent up a silent prayer and stepped up next to Flea, pointing his own handgun at Charon.

“I don’t deal in people, Charon. You should have told me what the price of these guns were.”

“What the fuck –“ Charon made to step forward, although, looking back to the gun, thought better of it. “Porthos what the fuck –“

“Flea,” Porthos cut across Charon. For the love of God, don’t let me be wrong. “Get the girls out of here.”

The look Charon gave him was fire, pure rage which engulfed all other emotion.

“I’ll kill you for this.”

Flea hadn’t moved yet.

“Flea, now!”

This time she moved. Porthos didn’t turn around but could hear the shuffling and muttered words.

‘Come on…’ Porthos could feel a bead of sweat drip down his forehead. ‘Tell me I haven’t gambled wrong.’

“The civilians are out of the way!” Aramis shouted the moment the three women, plus the blond, were out of the crossfire. He kept the sight focused on Porthos, who still had his own firearm focused on Vincente.

“Go now!”

The bang of the door being forced open was immediate.

“ARMED POLICE! ON THE FLOOR!”

Thank. Fuck.

Porthos dropped his gun and raised his hands. While he hoped the English knew he was one of them, he didn’t want to add any confusion.

“ARMED POLICE! ON THE FLOOR, ON THE FLOOR!”

Porthos made a move to drop to his knees –

“You ruined EVERYTHING! YOU –“

Bang!

The sound of the gunshot sent Porthos scrambling stomach first onto the floor. With his hands on his head, he glanced back. His old friend clutched his shoulder, his firearm dropped next to him. Cold realisation crashed over Porthos, realising just how close he had come to ending this mission with a bullet in him. At such as close range? Charon wouldn’t have missed.

His arms were wrenched from his head to behind his back and a balaclavaed figure snapped cuffs round his wrists. Porthos allowed himself to be tugged to his feet, not resisting as he was marched towards the door. Flea was being cuffed by another agent, while the terrified girls were being spoken to and herded out of the room. As he passed, Porthos purposefully avoided Flea’s eyes. The cool air hit him like a freight train, adrenaline which he’d been running on ebbed away leaving only the shaky relief. It was over.

“All for one…”

Porthos jerked to a stop and tried to wheel round to catch sight of who was walking him.

“Keep walking, Idiot,” The unmistakable Russian accented French of d’Artagnan was such a welcome noise. Porthos felt him kick gently at the back of his legs to get him moving. “Get into the other building and I can take these off…”

“Did you just –“ James gaped at Aramis, who smugly stood up and holstered his weapon. “You shot him on the first try from – How did you do that?!”

Truth be told, Aramis didn’t know how he’d done it. He’d seen Charon’s weapon come up in slow motion, seen it aim at Porthos’ back and just… Well, reacted. One bullet fired. One bullet to the shoulder was all he’d needed. Aramis didn’t want to think about what might have happened if he had missed.

“Didn’t I say I was a good shot?”

Chapter Text

Until all the prisoners had been removed from the scene Porthos was stuck in the neighbouring warehouse. He watched with d’Artagnan (who was now without his balaclava) from the window but was careful to keep to the shadows. Sam was brought out first, then Flea. Porthos clenched his jaw when he saw her tear stained face, eyes downcast as she was placed in the back of a police van. Malik and his crew only caused minimal disruption, but Charon came out spitting and swearing, blood soaking his right shoulder. Two agents had to keep a hold of him to force him in the van.

“How you feeling?” d’Artagnan asked from his spot behind Porthos.

How did he feel? Relieved. Raw. Exhausted. Shaken. Unsatisfied. With a sigh he let his head fall against the cool peeling plaster.

“Tired…” Porthos settled with eventually.

Footsteps thudded down against the fire escape and, a moment later, Porthos felt a comforting hand on his back. He didn’t move.

“Well done, Mate. You did it…”

Aramis’ kind words soothed the frayed edges of his emotions.

“So I did… Was it you who shot Charon?”

“Technically no,” The hand slid up until an arm was slung around his shoulders, “Since we aren’t allowed to be here. Couldn’t have been me, could it?”

Sneaky little shit…

“Well pass on my thanks to whoever did.”

Snort.

“Can do.”

By the time he finally looked up, Abenethy stood in front of the door, talking to another figure in a balaclava.

“That Athos?”

“Got it in one,” Aramis nodded, “He’s probably asking Abenethy how she gets her team to listen to her… It’s an art form really.”

It was supposed to be a joke but Porthos didn’t feel like laughing. Unfinished business gnawed and growled in his gut.

“I need to speak to him.”

What needed said wasn’t for d’Artagnan or Aramis, so Porthos chose his moment carefully. He’d assumed he would need to wait until they were back at base, but when Athos offered to drive the Guard’s van back for processing, Porthos jumped to accompany him. Aramis must have sensed something was up, because he dragged d’Artagnan off to ride with some of the English agents. Apparently James MacLean wanted some shooting tips.

For a while the pair drove in silence, Athos focusing on staying on the correct side of the rode and Porthos formulating exactly what he wanted to say. Where to start… And how could to not sound insane…? He and Athos had known each other for years, but even this could be beyond his limit.

Just say something!

Porthos glanced at his team leader, before snapping his eyes back to the window. He watched the world blur by outside for a few moments.

“Remember when your brother kidnapped you?”

Athos, if he was surprised by the line of questioning, didn’t show it. “Something like that is hard to forget.”

“What made you realise you wanted to recruit d’Artagnan?”

Silence, interrupted only by the quiet drum of Athos’ fingers against the steering wheel, filled the van as Athos considered the question.

“He…” Athos broke off as he carefully considered his words, “It’s hard to articulate.”

Didn’t Porthos understand that… 

“It was a gut feeling, but more than that.” Athos pulled the van up to a red traffic light and glanced at his friend, “I guess I had to ask myself whether I would want him on my team. If, pinned down in the field, would I trust him lay down fire for me to escape. Or if I was shot, would I trust him to carry me out of there… I thought about experiences where I’ve had to lean on you or Aramis. I had to decide whether I could have trusted him in the same way.”

The light turned green and Athos reluctantly turned back to the road. The pair sat in silence was the van pulled off. Porthos could see there was more to say, so waited patiently for Athos to formulate his thoughts.

 “When I realised I could, I knew I had to at least speak to Treville and try…”

“Huh…”

There were hundreds of moments to choose from, moments where he’d had to trust a Musketeer with his life. Beyond his own team, Porthos knew he could count on every member of the elite band. Relationships, egos, annoyances aside. They all had each other’s back no matter what.

Could he trust Flea like that?

“So…” Athos shot a sideways glance to his friend, “Who are you wanting to recruit?”

Porthos couldn’t be surprised that Athos had figured him out so easily.

“There’s a girl. She was at the raid, the blonde. I know it sounds crazy but I think she could be good…”

“We are not a recruitment service, regardless of what you men seem to think.”

Porthos, unsure of what else to do, stayed silence. Athos sat next to him, the pair of them staring at the plasma screen which they had borrowed at MI6 headquarters. Treville, looking far older than Porthos remembered, loomed down at him from the screen. He rubbed his fingers along his brow bone looking, more than ever, like an exasperated headmaster.

“I realise that, Sir.”

“It’s not how things are done, Porthos.”

“She is French,” Athos chimed in. He hadn’t yet given his view either way, but would always support a teammate in need, “That’s something.”

Treville acted as though his second in command hadn’t spoken. “She’s a criminal. According to what you’ve said she’s facing serious jail time.”

“She was willing to take on a room filled with men, armed with guns, to protect those girls,” Porthos leant forward, hands pressing hard against the table. “She was the one to blow the whistle on the underage trafficking. We need that moral compass.”

“Porthos…”

“I understand why we have recruitment rules, Captain, really I do. But the Musketeers recruit the same type of people time and time again. We get the same strengths, but the same weaknesses too. I think that she has what it takes. With the proper training she could fill a skill set we have been missing. Look what we got with d’Artagnan.”

“d’Artagnan was a one-time exception.”

“But why?” Porthos looked to Athos, hoping for some reassurance, “It worked. The apprentice experiment worked. d’Artagnan is the strongest, most loyal Musketeer we have. If we’d listened to the rules we wouldn’t have him. I think Flea could be just as good.”

Treville’s eyes closed his for a moment and sighed. It seemed like he was at least considering it, which gave Porthos a glimmer of hope.

“What do you think, Athos?”

“I haven’t spoken to her…” Athos pushed himself back in his chair and look up at his Captain. “But I witnessed the interaction during the raid. She was willing to take on five fully armed men to protect the vulnerable. It…” He glanced at Porthos. “Was impressive.”

“And there was me hoping that you were going to call this whole idea ridiculous…”

“I wouldn’t dare lie to you, Sir.”

“Just this once I’d be okay with it…”

Athos, against his better judgement, felt himself smiling. “There is a place Unit 7… They need a fourth.”

Porthos tensed as the Captain to held up a hand for silence. The discussion was over. Treville’s decision, once it was made, wouldn’t be swayed. He had said his piece, Athos had even supported him, but the choice wasn’t theirs.

“Interview her.” Treville looked straight at Athos. “I can’t get there, but Athos I trust you. If you think she could be one of us I’ll make some calls.” He paused and turned his gaze to Porthos. “Don’t make me regret this.”

Flea looked younger than Porthos remembered, face scrubbed of makeup and hair tucked behind her ears. The grey uniform of processed inmates seemed to swamp her, hands on almost covered by the cuffs of the sweatshirt. Her skin seemed to have a slight green tint, but Porthos assumed that was from the one-way glass between them.

Porthos glanced at his team leader.  Athos studied the woman in front of them, a thumb rubbing slowly across the edge of his folder.

“Are you sure I can’t come –“

“No.” Athos’ tone left no room for argument. “If I think she’s genuine then… Maybe… But I want to assess her, see how honest she’ll be with me. I can’t do it with you in the room. You’re too close to this as it is.”

Porthos crossed his arms over his chest and watched as Flea brought her hand to her mouth, worrying at her thumbnail.

“I will be fair.” Athos touched his shoulder. “But I can’t do that with you there. I’m sorry.”

“S’okay…” It made sense, of course it did. Porthos was just annoyed about being kept at arms length. He knew he should be happy at being allowed to watch, so tried to focus on that.

Porthos hadn’t realised Athos had left the room until he heard the door click shut. A moment later he appeared through the one-way mirror.

Flea jerked at the intrusion, glancing up at the slightly scruffy man in a suit.

“Good evening. Can I sit down?”

When Flea shrugged Athos sat down across from her and placed the brown folder between them. He flicked the cover open, revealing a mug shot which was a few years old and a list of information.

“Felicity Sara Kermol.” Athos read, “Age twenty-four. Duel English and French Citizen. First arrest at nineteen, accessory to theft. Second nine months ago in a brothel raid. No charges filed…”

Athos glanced up and caught the younger girl’s eye. He clasped his hands together on the table.

“Tell me about what happened today.”

Pause. Blink.

“Are you police?”

“No.” Athos leaned forward and tapped the audio recorder to indicate it was off. “Technically I’m not even here.”

“So, who are you?”

“Right now, I don’t exist.” Athos laced his fingers together on the desk. “Tell me about what happened today.”

Flea fidgeted, looking from Athos down to her twisting hands.

“Why are you asking if you know?”

Common, Flea… Porthos rubbed a thumb against the edge of the windowsill. You can do this.

Athos inclined his head to indicate it was a fair question. “Perhaps I should be more direct. I saw what happened today. You pulled a gun on your employer. Why?”

For a moment, anger flashed across Flea’s gaze.

Yes, Flea! Porthos urged, Show him the passion.

“Charon’s not my employer. He’s my jailer.”

“Your jailer then. From what I understand of the situation, you have been working with him for over a year. You have made him money, but you’ve gone on jobs with him before. This wasn’t the first time he’s given you a gun. You seem smart, if you were going to make your escape you wouldn’t do it in a room full of armed men. So why then? Why today?”

The silence stretched between the pair, so tight Porthos thought he may crack. Athos waited, blinking impassivly as the younger woman seemed to wrestle with herself.

Eventually, when Flea looked away again, Athos stood up and turned to go.

No!

“Good luck to you, Felicity. Thank you for your time.”

Athos turned to go and it was all Porthos could do to keep himself from hammering on the glass. He knew Flea was built for more than this life. She was brave and strong and selfless and – She didn’t know what was slipping away from her!

“He was selling them!” Flea’s chair scraped back as she flew to her feet, spitting the words towards Athos’ back. “He was selling a child! She was so young and I – I couldn’t –“

She swallowed and paused as Athos turned back to look at her. She squeezed her jaw open and shut to control her emotions.

Athos waved his hand, indicating the now empty chairs. Flea flopped back down into hers, followed a moment by Athos.

“I…” Flea seemed to be choosing her words carefully, “Shit happens and I owe Charon money. I am not ashamed of how I’ve had to make that money back.”

She raised her chin as if to prove her point.

“I get up and can look myself in the mirror. It is what it is. But if I, if I had let that happen…”

Her eyes suddenly darted away from Athos who, for the first time in the conversation, supplied the words.

“You wouldn’t be able to anymore…”

Flea nodded her head in agreement, taking a moment to check her emotions.

“I’d have never forgiven myself if I let that happen.”

The confession was small, but honest. Porthos breathed out a sigh. That was all he could hope for, honesty. Athos would do it what he thought best, but he needed honesty to do that.

Flea drew a foot up onto the lip of her chair and wrapped an arm protectively around it.

“It was the right thing to do.”

Athos nodded. Porthos watched his leader rub a hand over his jaw, considering the woman in front of him.

Common, Athos… Give her a chance…

“I have an opportunity to discuss with you, Felicity. I realise this will raise some questions, but I ask that you wait until I am complete…”

If Porthos hadn’t been so tense, what followed over the next ten minutes would have been funny. Watching Flea go to speak, only to think better of it or be silenced by Athos, made for bizarre viewing. The Musketeer himself managed to keep his face straight at he spoke, right up until he finally came to the end of his monologue.

“This,” Flea began when Athos finally indicated he was finished, “Can’t be real.”

Athos raised an eyebrow, “You are not the first person to have that reaction, I assure you, however I am completely guanine.”

“But what if I went straight to the press? If this was real you wouldn’t right telling me.”

“And what would you say to them?” Athos asked, “What proof would you have? I said at the beginning, I’m technically not here. You have no proof, no recording, I won’t be on a single CCTV camera in this building, I’ve not even signed in at the front desk. We wouldn’t stop you, but what would be the point? Who would listen?”

“But why even would you? I’m not – I’m just –“ Flea, it seemed, was at information saturation, “Why me?”

“You would not be our first apprentice, but it is not something which we offer lightly. There has only been one before you, although that did go rather well.”

“But why me?”

“To be honest,” Athos sounded so reasonable, as if the discussion was quite mundane, “It wasn’t actually me who suggested you.”

That pulled Flea up short. She clearly hadn’t even considered who it could have been,

“Then who?”

Athos looked pointedly into the two-way mirror.

“Maybe there is someone else who should explain that.”

That was his cue. Athos was tapping him in.

Here goes nothing.

He stood and opened the adjoining door into the interview room.

Athos didn’t even turn to look at him but Flea, on the correct side of the table, openly stared. Porthos fidgeted.

“Hi Flea.”

Flea blinked. Her mouth opened, then closed, then –

“What. The. Fuck.”

Chapter Text

-1 month later-

Grunt.

Squeak.

Thump.

“Uh fuck...”

Flea, for a moment, stayed where she was. Everything hurt. How could everything hurt? This was day three, what would she feel like after a year?

“Come on, Flea. Get up. Again.”

Her eyes fluttered closed, maybe if she didn’t look at her new team leader he would stop talking.

“On your feet, let’s go.”

Mat was comfy. Mat was friend. Stay on mat.

“Up, up!” She felt a toe nudge her shoulder.

“You aren’t supposed to kill your teammates, Clemount.”

Flea froze.

“Enemies won’t go easy on her, Porthos. I can’t either.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be at some team lead meeting? Athos left 10 minutes ago.”

“What time is it – ah fuck… Flea I’ll find you later. Keep it up.”

Flea’s eyes stayed closed as footsteps hurried away. One set of footsteps. And that meant…

“If Clemount doesn’t loosen up, he’ll end up having a heart attack.”

He was still there then.

Unsure of what else to do, Flea finally forced herself into a sitting position. Her muscles screamed in protest as shifted. She looked up, eyes coming face to face with a man she’d last seen in some tiny cell on the other side of the English Channel.

Porthos smiled carefully at her, “Hey Flea.”

And just like that, Flea was transported back to the moment her life had tilted on its axis.

“You lied to me.”

Athos, after finishing the briefing, had left to go grease the wheels with Abenethy. That left Porthos and Flea staring at each other over the interrogation table. The space between them suddenly seemed so big, too big. Perhaps Porthos should deny the lies or quantify them. He should try to explain how he ‘had to’ or ‘didn’t have a choice’. But that, somehow, would be cheapening who Flea was. Flea, who had been stepped on and lied to and coerced all her life. Porthos, whether his reasons made it justified or not, did not like being part of that group.

“I’m sorry for that.”

“Guess that explains why you wouldn’t fuck me.”

Porthos blew out a breath. “I don’t sleep with people undercover. Consent gets murky when people don’t know who you are.”

“Oh how noble. How much of what I know about you is even true?”

“Well…” Porthos thought back over their conversations. “My real name is Porthos du Vallon. I was a police officer in Paris. I really did know Charon as kids and I did grow up in foster care.”

“And the stuff about the bribes and the drugs?”

“Fabrications,” Porthos conceded. “We had to create reasons for me to be in the prison.”

“I take it you were after the guns?”

“The English wanted them off the streets and asked for my help because of our history. I’m sorry I had to lie to you.”

“So what?” Flea drew a leg up to her chest, a protective barrier between her and the man she had considered letting in. “You set this up because you felt bad? Felt sorry for me?”

“If you really thought that, you should have never accepted Athos’ offer.” Porthos leaned himself back against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. “First of all, I have no power to ‘set’ things up. The Musketeers take the best. I asked Athos and our Captain to consider you because I think you could be.”

“You don’t even know me.”

“I saw you in action. I saw the way you reacted when you saw those kids walk into the deal. You didn’t know a raid was coming, you didn’t even know for sure that I was going to back you up.” It was like Athos had said, it was a gut feeling but more. It was hard to articulate exactly what made a good Musketeer, but Porthos knew it when he saw at. He saw it in her. “You are lacking plenty of skills, but they can be taught, what we can’t teach is moral character. We can’t teach bravery. You have that.”

Awkwardness thickened the air. Porthos suddenly wished Athos hadn’t left.

“You don’t have to trust me, Flea. You don’t even have to like me. If you aren’t interested in the offer, then fine. But don’t throw this opportunity as some weird fuck you to me.”

Flea dropped her gaze to the table and went back to worry at her lip.

“I’ll leave you do think about your options,” Porthos pulled open the door and glanced back at the woman in the chair. “Think on it. Don’t trust me if you can’t but do yourself a favour and trust your gut.”

After that he let himself out of the room and left Flea alone with her thoughts.

That had been the last she’d seen of him. Flea supposed Porthos had left long before the legal red tape had been cut through for her own release. After her agreement it had taken best part of a month for Clemount to show up and escort her to Paris. There she had met the Musketeer’s Captain (a man with the most intense stare she’d ever encountered) and the rest had been a whirlwind. Despite being tempted, Flea hadn’t asked about the frustrating undercover agent. Hadn’t thought about him. Hadn’t dwelt on him. Hadn’t had her heart jump at every deep voice or baritone laugh.

She hadn’t.

Oh who was she kidding… Perhaps she could say Porthos didn’t cross her mind but that was because hadn’t left it.

Was there a nervous edge to Porthos’ smile? Flea thought so. A curve of someone not quite knowing how an interaction was about to go.

“Are you… Comfy down there?”

Porthos reached out a hand. Flea blinked, realising just how tall Porthos looked from her spot on the mat. Despite the scream of her muscles she reached up and clasped on. Porthos tugged her up and onto her feet in one smooth motion. Their hands stayed linked together just a little too long.

The cough from aside caused her hand to jerk back as if scalded. Flea looked past the broad shoulders of Porthos to the back wall. Two men stood to the side, watching the pair with badly concealed interest. One was older, dressed in a sharp charcoal suit and plum tie. His facial hair was sculped with precision that might have looked formed a frivolous look had the eyes not been sharply considering. The other was perhaps her age, although his facial scar could be throwing off her prediction. His gaze was just as contemplative, although perhaps less intense.

Flea looked back to Porthos questioningly, hands crossed over her body as a force field.

“Who are –“

“We’re going for lunch.” Porthos nodded his head at the two men. The elder raised a hand in greeting, while the younger inclined his head. “While the Unit leads are away, kids will play and all that.”

“Thought you might like to meet another apprentice,” The man with the scar spoke up from his spot. His French was tinted subtlety with an accent which Flea couldn’t place, “Give you a lay of the land and such.”

Oh.

Flea’s eyes flicked from the two men back to Porthos. He wore that look again, unsure of which direction the conversation would take.

The next choice was hers. Flea knew that. Two choices, one requiring something which she was so rarely able to give.

When had she last trusted so easily or quickly? Blind trust like that had led her being shackled to Charon and the guard. That mistake had been hers, to trust when it hadn’t been deserved. That mistake had almost broken her life irrevocably. Flea had promised herself a long time ago that she’d never make that mistake again.

And yet…

“Okay,” Flea hopped off the mat and shrugged her hoodie over her sports bra, “Who’s buying?”

Mr Charcoal chuckled and pushed open the double doors, holding it open for Flea and the others. ”I knew I’d like you, Miss Flea.”

Maybe this could work after all…