Chapter Text
d'Artagnan's fingers flew over the keys before him, lines of text incomprehensible had any eyes been watching as they filtered forth piecemeal. There were, of course, no eyes watching, for d'Artagnan had tucked himself away tightly into a dark corner of a quiet hall of the Musketeers tower, lovingly referred to as the Garrison since long ago.
Explosive by nature, it had taken more than a strong will for d'Artagnan to step back, to ploy and plot and put together a plan that involved more than throwing himself uselessly at the brick and mortar walls of the building.
For a long time, it was grief that had driven his feet, each day dawning grey and cold– until it had turned to fiery-eyed justice. From there it had taken hours of hard work, mind-numbing amounts of code until his brain's gears refused to turn, until his wrists were sore with overuse, until he'd managed to find a backdoor into the server that would be his holy grail.
d'Artagnan had researched every square inch of his target from top to bottom, back to front. The musketeers themselves he had read about forward to back any piece of information he could find.
Such things were necessary, after all, when one was committed to justice.
The speeding code slowed to a trickle and then to a definitive end and d'artagnan clicked shut the laptop before taking a long, steadying breath. His heart was loud in his ear and his hands were clammy with sweat and nerves that had been steadily mounting since he'd managed to slip inside the night before, conspiring to create a perfect series of events that had culminated in one unlocked door and an opportunistic youth.
d'Artagnan knew there wouldn't be time for dallying or for doubts as he pushed himself to his feet, adjusting the fake laminate employee's ID that hung around his neck as he shoved the laptop into hiding behind the storage boxes in the hall. He wouldn't be needing anymore, although he couldn't help the twinge of regret in leaving it behind.
He made his way back to one of the frequented side halls and over to a series of elevators. The second elevator on the right was his goal– he scanned his ID and it opened immediately, it's fluorescent cavity like the jaws of a beast waiting patiently to snap shut. After this, there was no going back.
But if d'Artagnan were honest with himself, the point of no return had came and gone long ago between the last flutter of breath and the beatings of his brother's heart. It had come and gone painted red in blood and forsaken. He had promised himself this at whatever the cost.
He wasn't sure that he had added correctly, done the maths right, but there wasn't any part of him that could find itself to regret it either way. For him there was no other way, and no peace to be found until this task was completed, no matter how it finished.
d'Artagnan got in the elevator, pressed the button for the fourth floor and took a long, shaky breath as he tried to still his nerves. He wasn't so good with the lead up, all the planning and calculating. It had always been easier to act than it was to find his head and keep his cool. He was fire and no temperance. It came natural.
So far the plan was all written in code. A series of events he'd been building steadily and carefully around the Musketeer Athos's predictable daily schedule.
This elevator would wait patiently only for him and after it arrived on the pre-ordained floor, the power to the building would cut and fall into lockdown, leaving the men trapped on the floor for a solid fifteen minutes before the system would release and reboot itself.
Fifteen minutes to kill the Musketeers Athos– or die trying. He had only the element of surprise on his side, and if that failed him...
did it really matter? d'Artagnan wavered on his sincerity. He'd spent so many nights sleepless that at times he wondered if it was all real. That his mind wasn't playing some trick on him. That maybe he would just wake up one day.
As the floors ticked past, d'Artagnan found his hearing dimming into a dull roar, nerves falling away. An odd combination of feeling rose in his gut as the elevator counted slowly to the fifth floor, it's doors sliding open.
The building's light promptly cut out, only the red glow of emergency lights to see by still highlighting the area. The whites of the walls gleamed bathed under the alien glow, unwelcoming to any intrusive insiders. d'Artagnan had found them off putting to start with, sterile in a way that was uncomfortably familiar, broken by warm woods and accented blues only in sitting areas.
There were no alarms, nothing to guide his direction as he took a left down the hall, but it didn't matter. d'Artagnan had poured over the files for long enough that it all felt familiar to him as he made his way quietly.
He passed doors slowly, listening intently until he heard the muffled sound of voices behind one of them. While three more doors followed afterwards, d'Artagnan knew that all three opened into the same padded gym area that offered areas for sparring and boxing, the other rooms on the floor making up the varying other equipment available.
He couldn't make out the words as they spoke asides from their tone– a placid concern and wondering. Over all of it was the sound of his own heartbeat pounding in his ears. He didn't have much time before the occupants inside decided to investigate the situation outside of the room.
d'Artagnan noted with some detachment that his hand upon the door knob trembled. Choosing to ignore it, his right hand dipped to his side, quietly gripping his gun from it's holster and flicked off the safety.
He shouldered the door in, gun raised to the first target he set his eyes on– a man with short curling hair, a mustache and brown eyes. The look on his face flashed through a few variations of emotions but settled on a churlish surprise, hands rising in a show of surrender.
Aramis, a voice in the back of d'Artagnan's head supplied. Not who he was looking for but a good sign nonetheless. The two seemed often joined at the hip.
Aramis opened his mouth as though to speak but d'Artagnan cut him off before he'd had a chance, keeping his tone even despite the way his eyes flickered about the room.
"I'm looking for the musketeer Athos."
There was only a moments pause as Aramis seemed to process this request.
"And who is it, if I may inquire, that is asking?"
The floor seemed to fall away when he turned his gaze. Athos himself stood off to the right side of the room, nearly hidden in shadow nearby the benches that lined the wall. It was only his answer, a drawling calm, that had alerted d'Artagnan in any way to his presence.
His eyes flickered back to Aramis, but before he could answer, he registered with a jolt what he was seeing. At some point, Aramis had shifted to draw his own weapon in near silence while d'Artagnan had turned his attentions away. It was a wonder where the man had produced it from, not having spotted it at all on his way in. And so quickly at that.
But he only had a moment before the shot went off and he was flinging himself to the side, a resulting consequence surely of the gun he had re-aimed to train on Athos.
An impact hit his arm followed by a numbing warmth, but there was no time at all to examine the situation before there was a demanding shout coming from above him.
"Porthos!"
And then his gun arm was caught in a large grip and wrenched back until the weapon slid from his loosened fingers with a gasp.
d'Artagnan grit his teeth and as the man leaned over him from behind, he swung an elbow back to catch him across the side of his face before twisting and turning fully to stomp a boot to his gut hard enough to propel the man to the floor.
He didn't hesitate to swing back around but hadn't made it more than 3 steps when Aramis raised his free hand to motion his stillness, gun still trained on him.
"Ah ah ah. I wouldn't if I were you." There was an air of amusement around the man that seemed deadly– d'Artagnan hesitated in confusion just long enough for Aramis to read it on him, to offer him a new recourse while he had his attention.
"While this has all been highly entertaining, I think we need a little more information."
d'Artagnan, however, had all the information he needed. A calm fury settled itself over his shoulders as he spared a look behind him at the man now standing at a further distance away, d'Artagnan's gun safely in his grasp.
He weighed the moment, but not for long before he dashed forward, catching the startled surprise that flew over Aramis's features before he was ramming into him, shoulder-first.
For some odd reason the gun didn't go off this time, but d'Artagnan spent no time on the thought before he was pivoting towards Athos, who seemed to have been expecting him.
His first punch was blocked, but d'Artagnan registered the appraisal that flitted across Athos's features as he was forced to take a step back before d'Artagnan's next.
They traded blows, punch for punch, and what finesse d'Artagnan lacked in his form he made up for in undeniable fury. Sweat was sliding down the back of his neck, beading at his forehead and sticking his shirt to his back; it felt as though he were fighting a mountain, the way Athos predicted his every move without faltering.
A glance to his side showed him Aramis and the other man standing resolutely back from the action which caught d'Artagnan's attention.
Athos suddenly swept his feet from him and he went down with a heavy thud. Before he could get back up, a booted foot stepped squarely across his chest and pinned him to the mat.
"Stay down," the musketeer hissed at him. "You're going to answer a few questions for us."
d'Artagnan, breathing hard, collected himself for all of one moment as though he were perhaps mulling over the thought before he wrapped his arms around Athos's leg and wrenched with all of his strength.
Athos fell to the ground heavily but before d'Artagnan could get up completely, on his knees now, a pair of arms gripped him from under his armpits and locked their hands behind his head, immobilizing him entirely.
He hadn't noticed either of the other two moving until it was too late.
"Alrigh' alrigh' already. Enough of that." A new voice spoke just behind d'Artagnan's ear as he was pulled back and away from Athos, missing the exchange of a quirked eyebrow from Aramis to Athos and glower from Athos to Aramis as he was tugged away.
d'Artagnan fought briefly for control, but he was held immobile as though by god herself and eventually gave it up for a glower he trained on Athos. Athos himself was sucking in a couple breaths, a hand reaching up to touch his own cheek with a wince that fell away to what d'Artagnan was starting to assume was his natural expression; a scowl.
d'Artagnan took a breath, mounting for another attempt at breaking free, but as though sensing what he was thinking, his captor gave him another shake.
"Knock it off."
"You killed my brother." That seemed to knock everyone for a loop, d'Artagnan included. He hadn't meant to say it– or if he had, he hadn't intended to say it like this. Clasped securely and doing just about the opposite of meting out justice.
Athos raised a brow at him from where he stood, crossing his arms over his chest.
"You are mistaken."
"Agent d'Artagnan. Don't tell me you don't know his name."
Athos exchanged an inscrutable look with someone d'Artagnan could not turn to see– likely Aramis– before returning his attention.
"I do know the name. But I repeat; you are mistaken."
d'Artagnan felt some of his resolve wavering, the conviction of the absolute releasing it's grip. And with it came the memory of Athos's musketeer file.
A drunkard bastard who sat atop a pile of misdemeanors and who seemed keen to fight. But a man loyal to his job and his teammates and firmly believing in justice– a man who had rescued his teammates several times over no matter the cost.
If d'Artagnan had been honest with himself, a piece of him hadn't been so sure of the man as a target. But he'd always been one to lead with his heart, his emotions getting the best of him– and the information around the investigation on Athos himself had led d'Artagnan to drawing his own conclusions.
Finally walking into d'Artagnan's view, Aramis cleared his throat. In his hands were two clips, one from d'Artagnan's gun undoubtedly, but the guns themselves seemed to be nowhere in sight.
"For what it's worth, Athos is the most fair minded and honest individual I know." d'Artagnan didn't think he was imagining the pull of discomfort at Athos's lips, but it was gone in an instant.
d'Artagnan swallowed, could feel himself sagging some in the grip behind him. His arm had started to pulse oddly and uncomfortably, his fingertips feeling numb, but he pushed the sensation away.
Sensing the fight had all but gusted out of him, d'Artagnan felt the arms around him loosening ever so slightly from vicelike– though not enough for him to consider his own release.
"He said your name." d'Artagnan's voice was nearly a whisper in it's confusion, but he bristled at the pitying eyes Aramis turned towards Athos as they carried out a silent conversation d'Artagnan wasn't able to follow.
"We don't know why that is," Aramis finally returned to the conversation at present. "But if it is justice you wish to have, killing Athos will not gain you it."
d'Artagnan's gaze passed back and forth between the men, looking for answers he was quickly realizing they did not possess. His head was starting to feel a bit fuzzy, cottony, the area between his back and the man behind slicked with an inordinate amount of sweat.
"I see." He said finally, although he wasn't sure exactly what he was seeing. His thoughts weren't coming as clearly so it took him a while to wrap his head around his predicament fully. "Then what will you do with me?" Again that silent conversation, but before it was finished d'Artagnan cut into it with a demand.
"I must know my brother's killer. If you are going to arrest me, promise me you will find him justice in my stead."
"We aren't going to arrest you," Aramis replied quickly as Athos passed him a look of flashing disagreement, something Aramis astutely ignored.
At last, Athos nodded at the man who held him from behind and suddenly d'Artagnan was released from his hold. Shockingly, he found his body didn't seem to want to obey his directions, legs shaking below him before they gave out.
"What the–" There was a loud proclamation from behind him, followed by a swear. "Lad's bleeding all over the place. Didn't tell me ya hit him, Aramis."
The world was soft around the edges from d'Artagnan's spot on the floor and he thought cooly that he hadn't known either. The lessening of the excitement gave way to a new sort of pounding in his head and dryness in his mouth. He swallowed heavily a few times, tried to concentrate on the moment.
"I didn't realize I had." Concern creased Aramis's tone and suddenly a hand came down on his shoulder, startling d'Artagnan bad enough that it momentarily sharpened the environment around him.
d'Artagnan blinked up owlishly at the man in surprise.
"Where are you hurt? Is it your shoulder?" He received only a longer pause in reply to his question, words processing slow like syrup before d'Artagnan looked questioningly down to his own shoulder and Aramis made a noise of frustration in his throat. He reached for the zipper of d'Artagnan's jacket.
d'Artagnan startled immediately back and away, wobbly legs forced under him to stand.
"Don't be difficult," Aramis rankled, moving towards him again. Again, d'Artagnan stepped back, hands raised as though to ward him off, or in surrender. He wasn't actually sure of the thought process behind most of his actions at the moment.
"I just tried to kill you."
"Technically, you tried to kill Athos. And yourself now apparently."
d'Artagnan lifted a hand to his shoulder only to find it wet, the dark red of his blood blending into the black cotton of his clothes. He really had been hit– and as though his thoughts and his environment were one, the lights in the building came back on.
d'Artagnan hissed as he was both blinded and suddenly very aware of a growing pain in his shoulder, replacing the numbness that had taken up residence there moments before.
"– medical help." He realized that Aramis had been speaking to him too late and missed almost all of what he'd said. He waved a hand absently in response to the man.
"If you're letting me free, I need to go." It didn't feel like he had spoken at all, the words forming on numbed lips and coming from some place outside of his body. As he turned to go, the large man behind him stepped into his path. Briefly, panic spike through him, but the man raised his hands in assurance.
"Look, you can go off an' get patched up somewhere else, but here's the best place to find what you're lookin' for. An' I don' think you're gonna get a better offer 'an us." The man reached out a hand and touched d'Artagnan gently on his uninjured arm. It helped some to get his thoughts in order and tidied away, made him feel less like he might just float off.
His arm was really starting to burn and tingle, a jolt of pain that radiated outwards that began like a headache and grew with each heart beat.
"Why?" He couldn't imagine the reasoning behind their actions. Allowing him to go free– offering to help him. He wasn't able to articulate all the moving pieces and it was the only word that seemed to summarize his thoughts, wits having drained away with the blood loss and his articulation with the exhaustion.
Aramis spoke up as he crossed into d'Artagnan's wavering vision.
"Because he was a good man."
d'Artagnan clenched his jaw at the sudden and fierce raw emotion that rose in him like a dark wave. He missed his brother more than words alone could quantify. It was like a wound had opened in his chest, a chasm far too deep to ever be filled.
It was a love that had nearly buried him. Could this group see the smoke signals he was sending up? Did they find him pitiable? It hurt too much to think, the thoughts clambering over one another for attention as they drowned in the murkiness of his mind.
"'sides, it's what we do." Porthos spoke up, a grin spreading across his face. d'Artagnan felt helpless but to return it, weaker and pained, but honest enough all the same.
d'Artagnan nodded, swallowed.
"Then I'll choose to trust you." d'Artagnan's knees finally gave out and his vision swam to black before he could register the ground quickly approaching. In some distant part of him, d'Artagnan found, he felt warm.