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Chapter Text

It wasn’t the first time Porthos had heard such language, nor the first time he heard it directed at himself. It never stopped hurting, but at least it had become easier to ignore. For the most part.

Still, hearing it at the garrison, his new home, from a man he had hoped to serve with… Porthos hunched his shoulders defensively, sinking back slightly. He knew he was in no position to defend himself. Not from this.

“What did you say?” Porthos heard the snarl of a voice nearby and whipped around to see who it was. His eyes widened as he saw where the voice came from – another musketeer, one who he knew by reputation.

His name was Aramis. He was well-liked generally, and even those few who disliked his flippancy or called him a dandy still respected him on account of his uncanny aim with a musket and his years of military service. Rumor had it that he had been one of Tréville’s first recruits, straight out of the regular army. That was, of course, one of the many rumors that floated about Aramis. Most of the others had to do with the various mistresses he was reported to keep about Paris.

Porthos had spoken with Aramis casually, had even shared a drink with him a time or two. But nothing that Porthos knew of the man accounted for the absolutely furious look on his face.

“What did you just say to him?” Aramis repeated, advancing a few steps forward, facing off against Porthos’s adversary in the center of the garrison courtyard. The air boiled with the anticipation of conflict, and a few other musketeers abandoned their work to stare.

Gaubert glared from Porthos to Aramis before opening his mouth to speak.

“What’s it to you? Have you taken to defending every mongrel dog that comes your way?”

Aramis ripped off a glove, gripping it tightly as he moved forward. Porthos grabbed him by the elbow and caught his eye quickly, stopping him before he could issue the challenge that had clearly leapt to his lips.

Aramis looked from Porthos to Gaubert and back. Porthos had never seen that fire in Aramis’s eyes before, but he was certain it wouldn’t burn out with a quick duel in the practice yard. Aramis was prepared to deliver a thorough thrashing.

“Leave it,” Porthos growled. Aramis jerked his arm from Porthos’s grasp, eyes flashing back and forth as though Porthos had just put himself into the line of fire. Softening his tone, Porthos added, “please.”

Aramis held his gaze for a long moment and Porthos saw when the fire was finally dimmed, pulled back under control, though not extinguished.

“As you wish, my friend.”

Aramis spun away, stalking off towards the armory with a glare at Gaubert as he passed. Porthos had the vague notion that he was too disgusted with his fellow musketeer to stay in his presence.

He left a tense silence in his wake, and Porthos knew better than to provoke Gaubert further. While Porthos felt his blood boil, he couldn’t afford to make enemies here, not if he hoped to earn his place and eventually, maybe, achieve some semblance of belonging. So he followed Aramis’s lead, excusing himself quickly and making himself scarce. It was, unfortunately, for the best.

He tried to explain as much to Aramis that night, when the man appeared at his side in the tavern, paying for both a round of drinks and a decent meal, which he shared with Porthos. And that was all it took. Aramis’s outrage on his behalf, for no other reason than that he abhorred injustice and refused to sit by while Porthos was unfairly slighted, sealed a friendship. And though he couldn’t understand why Porthos failed to fight back, why he refused to let Aramis defend him, he promised to try to respect Porthos’s wishes and to let him fight his own battles in his own way. That alone made Porthos’s heart warm as he promised to buy the next round of drinks.

It was the first time he felt that he might actually be able to pull this off, might actually someday belong in the musketeers.

And if, a week later, he thrashed Gaubert in a training session with Aramis cheering on from the sidelines… well, that didn’t hurt his cause either.

Chapter Text

One moment it was an innocent training session with a group of raw recruits and they were all laughing. The next, one of those green recruits was hurling insults, claiming that Porthos had broken the rules of combat, that no one of such inferior blood and breeding could wield a sword like that unless he’d been cheating.

He was young and a sore loser, the younger son of some lesser noble family who had been humiliated all day as he was defeated in practice again and again. Athos had seen it coming. The young men who joined the musketeers were invariably hot-blooded, foolish, and lacking in finesse. This one was no different, and if it hadn’t been Porthos who finally pushed him to such childish behavior, it probably would have been someone else.

So Athos had been watching and he had been expecting something like this. What he had failed to anticipate was the hot-blooded seasoned soldier sitting beside him at the table. So he was taken off guard when Aramis shot out of his seat like a pistol had gone off.

“I suggest you curb that lying tongue of yours and learn some civility before I have to teach it to you,” Aramis said, almost snarling in disgust.

Athos felt his surprise show on his face as he raised an eyebrow. Aramis was reckless, yes. Often impetuous, of course. But despite his passionate nature, he was usually tightly controlled, his words measured and deliberate, rarely roused to real anger, and never, in Athos’s memory, had he become this angry this quickly.

The recruit reddened, a combination of embarrassment and indignation.

Porthos had to move quickly to intervene before more words could be exchanged.

“Whoa, there mate,” he said, moving quickly into Aramis’s personal space with one hand placed firmly on his chest. He glanced at the way Aramis’s hand gripped his sword hilt and raised an eyebrow at him. “Not worth coming to blows now, is it?” Aramis opened his mouth to argue, but Porthos stopped him with a fond smile. “I appreciate the thought. But give me a moment, eh? Think I can handle one impertinent whelp without you.”

Aramis grumbled. “If you must.” He retook his seat, still fuming.

Porthos patted him on the shoulder and turned back to the recruit.

“A’right then. Let’s settle this as gentlemanly as we can then. How about a rematch? Athos can provide a ruling in case of dispute.” Athos nodded gravely at this to signal his agreement. “And to make sure all’s fair,” Porthos grinned wickedly, “I’ll fight with just this.” Porthos pulled his parrying dagger from its sheath. “No sword, an’ you can use whatever blades you’d like.” The recruit’s eyes widened. “You won’t get a better offer than that.”

Unable to refuse a fight so clearly rigged in his favor, the recruit agreed.

Athos was sure he would come to regret that decision. Porthos was skilled, of that there was no doubt. But this wasn’t a real battle; this was practice, and despite his anger, Porthos was playing, toying with the young brat to teach him a lesson. It was clear that their green young recruit had no idea what he had agreed to.

When ten minutes later he found himself disarmed and on the ground, panting and wide-eyed, Porthos’s dagger held at his throat, he conceded with a bit more desperation than grace.

Porthos grinned, helping the lad up with one hand and patting him on the back kindly before he sent him on his way to train with the other recruits for a while. Athos couldn’t help but admire his handling of the incident. Porthos had certainly brought the arrogant lad down a few pegs, but he’d also shown himself to be the true gentleman, defending his own honor while still taking pity on a young man who had yet to learn how to maintain his own composure in the midst of personal defeat. It was a skill not easily learned, but Porthos’s example just might have been the lesson he needed. And Athos suspected this story would make its way around the new recruits, winning Porthos a well-deserved reputation.

So when Porthos turned back to his friends, Athos offered his sincere congratulations.

Porthos shrugged. “He’s just a kid. Stupid, mouthy, green as hell… hopefully he’ll know better next time.”

“Still,” Athos said, “that was well handled.”

“Yeah, well, one of us had to keep his head, didn’t he?” Porthos offered a wink to Aramis, who huffed slightly in displeasure.

“I was keeping my head,” he grumbled. “And I would have gladly handed him his.”

Porthos chuckled. “I know you would have,” he said, smiling fondly.

“That’s why we don’t let you train the recruits,” Athos added. “We don’t want you teaching them any bad habits.”

Aramis feigned a hurt expression, muttering something about how he was continuously unappreciated.

Athos grinned, exchanging a quick glance with Porthos. Athos knew better than to indulge Aramis’s complaints. Besides, he had seen the proud grin firmly plastered across Aramis’s face while Porthos wielded his dagger. Aramis practically beamed with satisfaction when the young recruit walked away, eyeing Porthos with a new respect and a healthy dose of fear. Despite his grumbling, no one could be prouder of the way Porthos had handled himself.

Still, Athos made a mental note to never come between Aramis and those who dared sully Porthos’s honor. It was best not to tempt fate, after all, and Athos had no desire to see Aramis’s anger directed his way.

Chapter Text

Aramis snatched the bottle of wine, barely evading Athos’s slightly clumsy attempt to grab it. He poured himself a glass before relinquishing the bottle back to its owner. Not that Athos needed more. Aramis wondered how many bottles his friend had consumed so far. Then he mentally scolded himself for his negligence. He should have been counting.

Of course, if it were up to Aramis, he wouldn’t even be here tonight. He’d be on the other side of Paris, preferably in a luxurious bed with the lovely baron’s daughter who had been chasing after him these past few weeks. He suspected she was interested in him primarily as a means of angering her father, but still…Aramis wouldn’t mind helping her in that regard, especially as she seemed more than willing to repay him for his trouble. There was something about her fiery nature, her fierce independence, which appealed to Aramis. It was refreshing to encounter a woman who knew exactly what she wanted and exactly how to get it. Especially when what she wanted for the moment was him.

Taking a sip of wine, he grimaced, setting down the glass in disgust.

Instead of more pleasant pursuits, he was playing nursemaid to his comrades, prepared to drag both of them home (forcibly, if need be) after their night of excessive drinking and foolish gambling came to an end.

He spared a glance for Athos, sat silently at his side and staring vacantly into his glass, before his eyes darted back to the rowdy game of cards two tables over. His gaze settled on Porthos, then moved across his opponents, quietly assessing. One of them worried him, a surly member of the Red Guard named Biscarat. Aramis recognized him, knew his type – lying, arrogant, and slippery enough to always pin trouble on someone else… usually the musketeers. They’d had more than their fair share of scuffles lately, Porthos in particular, and it seemed as if the cardinal were merely waiting for an excuse to have them disciplined…or worse. Gambling with the Red Guard was almost asking for trouble.

Aramis had whispered a warning before Porthos shrugged it off and stalked off to join the game. He couldn’t begrudge Porthos his fun – after all, they’d funded many great feasts and gleeful nights from his winnings – and he didn’t doubt Porthos’s skill, either at cards or sleight of hand. Still, that didn’t stop the hum of worry as he watched from a distance.

Aramis set aside his glass. Best not indulge too deeply tonight. It was likely only a matter of time before the inevitable brawl when his presence would be required. God knew they couldn’t count on Athos for things like this – at least, not when he’d drowned himself in this much wine. So it fell to Aramis to watch and prepare for the inevitable fall out. He saw the moment when thing began to turn ugly, and he knew he’d be biting back an “I told you so” before the night was over.

At the card table, Biscarat growled. “Seems like more than just luck to me,” he grumbled, a dark glare leveled at Porthos, the insinuation stopping just short of calling Porthos a cheater. Aramis scowled slightly (as did Porthos), but that was it. It didn’t particularly bother Aramis. Such idle insults were normal, and quite likely true. Aramis hadn’t caught him at it, but he was pretty sure that the third jack Porthos had played in the previous hand hadn’t come from the deck of cards sitting on the table. Although where Porthos had hidden it, even Aramis couldn’t guess.

The cards passed around again, and Aramis gripped his glass tightly in one hand, trying to suppress the restlessness in his fingers. The other players were rapidly running out of money, so it was only a matter of time….

“I guess we know how you bought your way into the musketeers,” Biscarat taunted. “Did you pay for your commission with gambling or outright theft?” Aramis felt his muscles tense, swallowing his indignation at the slanderous words.

Porthos merely growled in response. “If you’re so bloody sure of yourself, why don’t you just play your cards and see who wins, eh?”

He did. And so did Porthos. Aramis didn’t need to look at the cards to know who would win. It was obvious in the smug grin that covered Porthos’s face and the matching fury boiling from Biscarat.

The guard cursed as he threw down his cards.

“Once a thief, always a thief,” he spat.

Porthos’s eyes darkened. “What’d you call me?”

“A thief,” Biscarat repeated. “That’s all you are. The Musketeers’ resident thief, plucked out of the gutter to do their dirty work for them. Probably swindled your way right into the regiment. Only way they’d take on a low-life thug like you.”

The words were like a flash of hot lightening through Aramis’s veins. He was on his feet and in Biscarat’s face before anyone saw him move.

“You lying snake,” he hissed, raising his fist as an arm shot out to block his path.

Aramis barely saw the looks of shock from the other players at the table. His whole body shaking with suppressed anger as he was aware of Porthos at his side, pushing him back.

“Not this time, mate.”

Aramis’s gaze shifted from his target – Biscarat’s face, which he was fully intending to pummel – to the man restraining him.

“Porthos,” Aramis objected, but a single look stopped him.

“No,” Porthos growled. “This one’s mine.”

Aramis let out a rough breath, moving a half step back, reluctantly yielding. Biscarat stood to face them both, and suddenly it was just the three of them, so close that Aramis could smell the wine on the guard’s breath. He saw the arrogance in Biscarat’s eyes and wanted nothing more than to pound that smug grin into the floor, to feel the impact of flesh beneath his fist.

Only Porthos’s glare and a hand landing on his shoulder kept Aramis from attacking the guard outright. The hand pulled and Aramis found it was attached to Athos, who dragged him back a few steps as Porthos moved between them and Biscarat.

“Gentlemen,” Athos said quietly. “Might I suggest we take this outside? There’s a conveniently abandoned ally out back that would be much more suitable.”

Aramis stared, wondering when Athos had dragged himself out of his bottle to come join them. Apparently he’d overestimated the amount of alcohol Athos had consumed. Or underestimated his ability to hold his wine.

“Fine by me,” Biscarat grumbled, gesturing to two of his lackeys to accompany him.

They made their exit quietly. The other card players shrugged and resumed their game with little more than a brief flash of idle curiosity before they determined it was best to ignore the coming confrontation.

And that was how three musketeers and three red guards found themselves standing alone in a back ally.

The captain would not be pleased.

But on some level, Aramis relished it, itching for a chance to put the red guards in their place, to repay the lies and the slander they so readily spread to the cardinal’s waiting ears. It seemed they were always waiting for the chance to harass a musketeer, and Aramis had known, from the moment Porthos chose his gambling partners, that it would end like this.

Athos had yet to release his hold on Aramis’s shoulder, and his fingers squeezed, holding him back so that they stood against the wall to watch and wait. “Patience, my friend,” Athos whispered.

Aramis huffed. “They’ll pin this on Porthos. You know they will. And they’ll make sure it gets back to the cardinal, and the captain will....”

“Peace, Aramis. We’ll handle one matter at a time.”

Biscarat’s friends took up positions on the opposite side of the ally. And then they waited as the combatants drew their swords.

Biscarat made the first move, probably assuming his speed could outmatch Porthos’s brute strength, but he was sadly mistaken.

The fight was short and brutal. In between the clang of steel and swords scraping against one another, neither opponent wasted an opportunity to land a kick or throw an elbow to the face. It wasn’t long before the pommel of Porthos’s sword connected solidly with Biscarat’s jaw, sending him reeling as another blow knocked him down, sword slipping from his grasp.

Biscarat lay on the ground, panting and struggling to regain focus, and Porthos kicked away the guard’s sword before stepping back, ready to call an end to the messy encounter. But the two lackeys, taking this as an opening, both drew their swords and advanced on Porthos, moving to attack in tandem.

It was the moment Aramis had been anticipating. Apparently so had Athos, as they both swiftly intercepted Porthos’s wound-be attackers. Aramis threw himself into the fray, greeted by the familiar rush of adrenalin, the burst of power as swords met. They separated the two remaining guards, Athos clearly able to fight through the wine as he turned and twisted, keeping the guards apart. Aramis maneuvered his own opponent into a corner with a series of quick thrusts and parries, the force of each blow shuddering up his arm. Landing a vicious slash across the guard’s shoulder, Aramis pressed his advantage and disarmed the man with one swift twist of his sword.

When the flurry of action sizzled to an end, three swords lay on the ground and the three musketeers stood back in satisfaction. Aramis could feel the blood still buzzing beneath his skin, a thrill of satisfaction as he breathed deeply to slow his heartbeat.

On the ground, Biscarat wiped the blood from his face and rose shakily, just as they heard voices coming from the nearest street. Biscarat smiled and called out.

Ah, yes. Of course they had friends coming – a large group of rowdy red guards from the sounds of things. So much for their short-lived victory.

“My friends,” Aramis said, “I suspect that’s our cue to make our exit.”

They scooped up their opponents’ swords to confirm their victory and made a hasty retreat, the shouts of the red guards following them until they had dashed around the corner and down several streets.

Later Aramis would claim that they ran through half the streets of Paris before finally losing their pursuers and circling back around to his apartments. As they stumbled through the door, half laughing with relief and exhilaration, Athos groaned.

“What is it?” Aramis asked quickly. “Are you hurt?”

“No, of course not. But you realize we won’t be welcome back there any time soon.”

Porthos shrugged. “Eh, so? We’ll go somewhere else.”

Athos sighed, sounding infinitely put upon. “But I so enjoyed that particular vintage.”

Aramis stared, mouth half open. This happened, and Athos was upset about the wine?

Porthos chuckled warmly, reaching into his pockets to reveal his winnings, and Aramis was momentarily amazed at his forethought in collecting them before the scuffle began.

“I’ll buy you both whatever wine you’d like. We can afford it, wouldn’t you say?”

Aramis’s planned lecture on Porthos’s recklessness was soon forgotten in the face of his friend’s infectious grin… which was just as well, since Athos would be quick to mention the hypocrisy of Aramis lecturing anyone for reckless behavior.

Instead, he clapped Porthos on the shoulder, laughing merrily as he dropped into the nearest chair. Even Athos was grinning.

The next morning found them standing before Captain Tréville as he demanded whether they had truly engaged in an illegal back ally duel with the cardinal’s guards. Porthos shifted uncomfortably, ill at ease with his role as the initiator of this most recent debacle. Before he could give himself away, Aramis piped up.

“Technically, captain, it wasn’t a duel so much as… a spirited debate in which we upheld the honor of our regiment against unscrupulous scoundrels seeking to slander our good names.”

The captain glared. But his speech had the desire effect. The remainder of the lecture was directed at Aramis and Aramis alone. And Tréville never did hear the cause of the fight. As Porthos cast him a grateful glance, Aramis decided that in this case, the captain’s ire was a small price to pay.

Chapter Text

Porthos was tired, cranky, and wet. In a word, he was miserable. Four nights scouring the docks would do that.

And to increase the unfairness of it all, Athos had drawn the easy duty in this investigation, his role consisting mostly of sitting in an inconspicuous tavern corner and keeping his eyes and ears open. It wasn’t that different than his ordinary evening pursuits really.

Porthos could admit, grudgingly, that Athos was best suited for such duty. His uncanny ability to remain inconspicuous, hidden away in a dark corner so he was all but invisible, meant that no one realized he was making a systematic survey of all the local taverns, meticulously observing and taking note of frequent patrons, repeat customers, suspicious activities….

But apparently it was all for naught. Athos’s surveillance had turned up nothing. No leads, no valuable scrap of information, no hint of stolen missives from the king. Which left Porthos and Aramis doomed to continue their investigations for another dank, dreary night. If Porthos had his way, they would all be back at the garrison by now, warm and dry and far less miserable.

Instead, Athos was in yet another bar, monitoring local gossip, while Porthos and Aramis, stripped of all signs of their rank and disguised in plain cloaks, were wet, muddy, and trolling the docks along the river for news of a merchant who might be dealing in more than ordinary goods.

“What are we doing out here, anyway,” Porthos muttered. “It’s been a week. If he had the king’s letters, he’s long gone by now.”

“Hmm, probably,” Aramis agreed.

“So why are we here, then?”

“Because the cardinal is certain our suspect is passing information to the English, and the captain owes him a favor. And they both know the red guards will never be able to catch a spy – not the way they blunder into every situation with all the finesse of a blind drunkard on a lame horse.”

Even his foul mood couldn’t quite stifle his huff of laughter. Aramis seemed not to notice, clapping Porthos on the shoulder as they pushed through a crowd of sailors heading towards the nearest tavern, and made their way towards the next dock. “We’re victims of our own success, my friend, doomed to freeze to death on a fool’s errand because we have the reputation for being excellent at our jobs.”

“Hey, I’ve earned that reputation,” Porthos said.

Aramis chuckled. “I never said otherwise.”

Honestly, at this point, even Aramis’s good cheer was starting to grate on his nerves. All he wanted was to go home. And it didn’t help that Aramis still took the opportunity to make friends wherever they went.

Ah, speaking of….

“Hello, my friend,” Aramis called out. He approached a boy, seated on a stack of crates at the end of the dock. Porthos eyed the unassuming vessel moored to the dock. Hmmm…yeah, that might do.

“Perhaps you could do me a favor,” Aramis said with a smile, flashing a single coin to get the boy’s attention. “I’m looking for a merchant who might be able to transport a shipment for me.” He nodded towards the ship. “You wouldn’t happen to know where this ship’s heading, would you?”

The boy hesitated. “Monsieur Bertrand doesn’t like me discussing his business.”

Aramis nodded amiably. “Perfectly understandable. But I may have business for him myself, and that would make it worth the trouble, I’d say. Don’t you agree?” He slipped the coin to the boy with a mischievous smile. The boy grinned.

Porthos rolled his eyes. Sometimes Aramis’s ability to charm the entire world was downright irritating.

“Monsieur said we leave in the morning for Le Havre, but,” his voice dropped to a whisper, “the crew said something about England after that.”

“England? How exciting!” The boy nodded enthusiastically. “That would coincide with my business perfectly. Is your Monsieur Bertrand nearby, perhaps?”

The boy pointed to a nearby tavern. “He’s been cross all week. Had to make repairs, said it delayed our trip. But he’s celebrating, now that we’re to leave in the morning. Should make him happier to talk business with ya.”

Aramis grinned. It was that wide infectious grin that rarely failed to charm anyone. Porthos hated it. Well, no, Porthos loved it, always finding himself just as charmed as everyone else. But he hated that the friendliness came so easily to his friend. Unless it got him the information they needed. Then he would definitely go back to loving it.

Patting the boy on the shoulder, Aramis wished him a good night and his hand landed on Porthos’s arm, ushering him in the direction of the aforementioned tavern.

“Perhaps, our luck is changing my friend,” he said, grin still in place.

“Hmmm,” Porthos grunted. “Doubtful.”

“Porthos,” Aramis admonished gently, “have some faith.”

But their entrance into the tavern did little to convince Porthos. It was just like every other establishment they had entered in the last week in search of their suspected spy – a busy tavern crowded with drunken sailors, slimy merchants, and dirty Parisians toasting the night away.

With a quick glance between them, Porthos and Aramis set to work. It was a well-oiled routine that looked casual and was anything but. Two drinks in and they had spotted their Monsieur Bertrand drinking with a few of his men, jovial and drunk enough not to think twice when Aramis asked if they might join him. While such forwardness would have earned Porthos a surly insult, perhaps even a fist to the jaw, Aramis’s patented charm did its work and they found themselves sitting to drink with the arrogant Bertrand, his inebriated partner, and the scowling captain of their ragged ship.

Aramis plied them with drinks, smiles, and cryptic hints of a valuable cargo that would make him a pretty profit if only he could find a merchant willing to transport said cargo to an English port.

Half an hour later, he seemed ready to seal the deal.

“It’s a dangerous trip to England, you understand,” Bertrand said, but Porthos saw his interest was piqued. Aramis had flashed just enough coin, interspersed with subtle hints, to convince the merchant that he was both able and willing to pay handsomely. “The shipping charge will cost you a pretty penny.”

Aramis grinned. “If you can ensure that my cargo is safely delivered into the hands of my associate in London, you won’t have to worry one bit about your shipping charges.”

Bertrand grinned. “Three crates, you said?” Aramis nodded. “We leave at daybreak. Make sure that your man there,” he nodded to Porthos, who’d sat as silent guard throughout the exchange, “has delivered the cargo by then. Oh, and keep him away from the others down by the docks. We’ve had some shady characters down there, Spanish folk, rumor has it, looking for some escaped cargo. Wouldn’t want your man mixing with the wrong crowd. He’s just the sort they’d like.”

Porthos caught the implication and felt himself bristle, resisting the urge to say something. Or better yet, punch the man. He knew what the Spanish were likely trading in. And Porthos didn’t appreciate being compared to cargo.

While he reined in his ire, he almost missed the sharp breath as Aramis stiffened.

“And what makes you say that?” Aramis asked lightly, but with a dangerous edge concealed beneath the false smile.

“Oh, I’m sure you know how to handle your man, monsieur, but you know how it is. You can train ‘em, but you can’t change their nature. They’ll go back to their own kind, given half the chance. Perhaps the Spanish have it right after all, treating their slaves like they deserve…keeps them in their place.”

Porthos landed a hand on Aramis’s leg just as the man tensed. He could feel the corded muscles of Aramis’s thigh, tense and ready to propel him out of his seat and across the table in an instant, his entire body rigid. Porthos squeezed tightly, hoping it was enough to convey his message. Don’t, he thought. Aramis, just don’t. He could almost feel Aramis’s blood boiling beneath his skin.

The tension didn’t bleed away and Porthos began to worry. It was good in a way; focusing on Aramis kept him from seeing the man who sat across from them…the man who spoke of Porthos as if he was an ill-bred dog in need of a leash.

He shifted slightly, pressing his heel down onto the toe of Aramis’s boot, keeping a firm grip on his leg. He saw the minutest breath released from his friend’s lips before a hand landed onto his, offering a reassuring bit of warmth.

“I assure you, Monsieur Bertrand, I am quite capable of looking after my own affairs,” Aramis paused, “and the affairs of my associates.” The dangerous edge was more pronounced, the charm bleeding away to a look that Porthos hoped Bertrand would interpret only as an indignant warning, not as righteous fury on Porthos’s behalf. “You just look after my cargo and we will have no cause for quarrel.”

Bertrand paused a moment, his gaze assessing Aramis carefully, before he tipped his head in acknowledgement. “Of course, monsieur. As I said, we leave at dawn, so be ready by then. I will, of course, require full payment before our departure.”

Aramis grinned, but it was twisted with menace – a subtle shift that was glaringly obvious to anyone who knew him. “You shall have your payment in full, as is fair in this sort of business.”

Aramis stood and they shook hands on the deal. Porthos followed him without saying a word, carefully keeping his eyes lowered, never meeting Bertrand’s gaze.

They were out the door and halfway to the tavern to collect Athos before Aramis stopped, his breathing labored and his gaze furious.

“Aramis, don’t…”

“We should go back there and give him what he truly deserves,” Aramis growled.

“He didn’t do anything wrong. Not that we can prove, anyway.”

“Nothing wrong? Did you hear him? He said…he thought…” Aramis gestured wildly, as if searching for words.

“He thought I was your property, and he didn’t want me running off to join a band of ex-slaves escaped from the Spanish galleys.”

Aramis just gaped, fists clenched at his sides. “And how are you not furious about this? That he thinks he has the right to judge you…to judge them…as if they were nothing but—” Aramis’s voice choked off.

“Nothing but worthless chattel that escaped a pen?” Porthos supplied. Aramis’s eyes turned soft with sorrow at that, the anger dimmed only be his sadness. “An’ to answer your question, I am furious. But we have a mission. We can’t blow our cover over one low-life scumbag, and if you hadn’t listened to me and gotten out of there, his men probably would have shot us both as soon as you fired your pistol. So, yeah, I’m furious. But there’s nothing to be done about it now. And it’s not like I haven’t heard worse before.”

Aramis stared in disbelief, the anger and sorrow still swirling in his eyes, a dark mixture so powerful that Porthos could feel it leaking into the air between them. Finally, Aramis nodded wearily.

“Fine. Then let’s get Athos and give that piece of filth his payment.”

Porthos nodded and started to walk away, but a hand on his arm stopped him, drawing his attention back to Aramis.

“I’m sorry, my friend,” Aramis said, softer now. “I hate it. I hate that you have to deal with this. I hate that men can be so cruel and unfeeling to one another. And I hate that I can’t protect you from it. I know you’re right, and you’re a wiser man than I am. But I still hate it.” Aramis gripped his shoulder tightly, a quick squeeze that conveyed the sincerity of his support, and then started off toward the tavern to find Athos, already re-focused on finishing this mission as swiftly as possible.

Porthos took a deep breath, rubbing one hand over his face, feeling impossibly weary and wrung out. The force of Aramis’s words echoed in his head, and Porthos loved him for it.

Just before dawn, they returned with Athos. And reinforcements. Not that the additional musketeers were necessary. With the way Aramis was still simmering, he could probably take on most of Bertrand’s crew single-handedly.

They waited out of sight, Athos and Aramis hidden nearby, with six others waiting around the corner of a nearby ally, out of sight but within earshot. Porthos waited on the dock near a stack of crates, the promised “shipment” Aramis had bartered to send.

The dawn light was just beginning to shimmer along the river when Bertrand appeared, trailing his two associated behind him.

“Your boss sent you, then?” Bertrand looked over Porthos was a sneer. “Well, get it on board then. I don’t have all day.”

“I don’t think that’s gonna happen,” Porthos said.

A sword – attached to Athos’s steady hand – appeared at Bertrand’s throat as Aramis leveled both of his pistols at Bertrand’s men.

“On second thought, monsieur,” Aramis said, voice low and dangerous, “I shall have to withdraw from our little business venture.”

“You here to rob me then? I’d advise you against it.”

“We are not here to rob you,” Athos said. “We’re here to search your vessel.” The remaining musketeers stepped forward, restraining the crew and beginning their search. “And then we plan to arrest you.”

Bertrand looked them over again, noticing the uniforms their companions wore. He swore.

Aramis stepped forward, pistol held close to Bertrand’s head as Athos searched him. He produced a folded parcel filled with papers, concealed within the merchant’s doublet. He glanced through it and then nodded. “We have what we need here.”

Aramis holstered his pistols and then grabbed Bertrand roughly, twisting his arms behind his back. He pushed him forward, towards Porthos. “Would you like to do the honors?”

Porthos saw the glint in Aramis’s eyes. With a grin, he nodded. Bertrand looked puzzled, but only for a second before Porthos’s fist connected solidly with his jaw. The crack of knuckles hitting bone gave Porthos a rush of satisfaction that ended in a grin. Only Aramis’s grip kept Bertrand from hitting the deck.

“Satisfied?” Aramis asked.

“Yeah. Yeah, that did it.”

Aramis nodded. “Good.” He released the man, who stumbled slightly.

A short distance away, Athos was already overseeing the others as they restrained the few members of the crew, preparing to take them to the châtelet. Just as Porthos was about to turn and assist them, he saw Aramis draw back his arm. The blow came from nowhere, knocking Bertrand clean to the ground, leaving him panting and clearly disoriented from the second punch in under a minute.

Athos looked on mildly, the barest hint of a grin on his face. Porthos actually chuckled as he looked to Aramis, seeing the firm grin he now wore.

“Feel better, now?” Porthos asked.

“Much.” Aramis whistled merrily, leaving Athos and Porthos to collect Bertrand as he went to join the others in securing the crew. Athos gripped Porthos by the shoulder in a brief show of support and then hauled Bertrand away. Porthos could only shake his head, chuckling quietly as he watched his friends, unspeakably grateful for their quiet and constant support.

Then he returned to the task at hand, assisting the others as they made short work of clearing away the filth. Once they’d settled matters and reported to the captain, Porthos had a feeling that there would be a warm fire and some good wine waiting for him back at the garrison, and he was sure that Athos and Aramis would be more than willing to share them with him.

Chapter Text

They all hated parade duty, especially for things like this. It was little more than an excuse for the king to preen before his courtiers and show off his musketeers in the process. Officially they were on guard duty, but no one needed a full detail of musketeers for a garden party. Really they were on display, little more than decorations to emphasize Louis’s power and importance to the members of the French court.

But what the king demanded, the king received. So here they were, guarding a summer banquet spread out in a sheltered garden behind the Louvre, with courtiers dinning and flitting about, all vying for the attention of the king and queen who presided at the center of an elaborately set table. And for this affair, the king apparently required a dozen musketeers, stationed in groups of three around the perimeter of the garden.

It was absurd, really. A waste of time and manpower, as Athos had called it. After all, it wasn’t like the palace didn’t have guards on duty at all times. The addition of nine musketeers to guard a party in one of the most secure areas in all of Paris seemed excessive. But then, the king was nothing if not excessive.

Regardless, Porthos knew better than to complain. They lived to serve, after all. And besides, no one said they couldn’t have a bit of fun while they were at it.

And that thought had prompted their little game. At the moment, that game consisted of trying to force a reaction out of Athos without drawing attention to themselves. They’d been at it off and on all morning, with no success, despite the persistence of both Porthos and Aramis.

They’d started simply, just with little things really.

Porthos fidgeted restlessly, drumming his fingers against his sword hilt and shifting from one foot to another. Aramis hummed a jaunty tune under his breath. But this got no reaction from their stoic friend, not even the expected glare at their inability to stand still and remain quiet.

So they upped the ante.

They spent a good half an hour whispering dirty jokes back and forth, always keeping their voices low and only muttering when Tréville and the king were looking away. That kept them entertained for a while, each trying to outdo the other, but Porthos had the upper hand when it came to dirty jokes (an advantage of growing up in the Court of Miracles) and Aramis nearly choked on a laugh, barely disguising it as a mild cough. Yet still not even a twitch of Athos’s lips.

Porthos took a risk to kick a small rock, sending it bouncing across the grounds and startling a nearby pigeon. The bird’s frantic fluttering caught the attention of the king and the captain, but no one looked their way. Athos didn’t even clear his throat.

At some point, Aramis had covertly plucked a feather from his comrade’s hat, using his position beside Athos to disguise his movement as he ran the feather along Athos’s wrist. But this produced not even a twitch, though even Porthos, standing to Aramis’s left, could feel the harsh disapproval in the stiffness of Athos’s posture.

Their antics had not gone entirely unnoticed. While the three of them stood to one side of the king’s banquet table, three other musketeers were stationed across from them. And of those three, Cornet at least had realized that the inseparables were up to something. He’d cocked his head ever so slightly, a motion so subtle it was only perceptible to another soldier who saw the tiny break in formation. Aramis cast him a covert grin in response, and Cornet rolled his eyes, but Porthos could tell he was stifling a grin of his own.

It was amazing the things that boredom could do to a man.

“Must you both behave like ill-mannered children,” Athos muttered.

Porthos suppressed a grin of victory, although he wondered if it was their persistence or the tedium that had finally caused Athos to crack.

“Of course, we must, Athos. How else can we compensate for your excess of stoicism and solemnity?” Aramis replied.

“You could try behaving as a well-trained soldier for once. I know it is taxing, but you’re a passable actor when you want to be.”

Aramis let out a huff of barely suppressed laughter.

“Porthos, did he just insult me?” Aramis did his best to sound indignant.

“I believe he did.” Porthos kept back a grin, but his amusement was clear in his voice.

“Quiet, both of you.” Where before Athos had sounded exasperated, his low voice now took on a sharp edge.

Porthos lifted his eyes to see why and realized that the king had turned his attention towards them. One of his courtiers (some snooty lord whose actual name and title Porthos could never remember) stood at the king’s side, staring directly at them.

Athos delivered a swift and subtle kick to Aramis’s boot. It had the desired effect, as he straightened to full attention, the picture perfect soldier – if you could ignore the brief glare he shot in Athos’s direction.

“They are the finest guards in all of France.” King Louis’s voice wafted over to them from where he stood surveying his musketeers. “Don’t you agree, my dear marquis?”

The nobleman at his side hesitated somewhat, seeming to take more time than was necessary to consider such a simple question.

“They do appear quite fine,” he said drolly, “from a distance at any rate.”

“Perhaps you would like a closer inspection?” Louis suggested.

Aramis tensed at the suggestion, and Porthos could almost see Athos grinding his teeth. Something about noblemen seemed to set him on edge, though Porthos was never quite sure why.

The king himself appeared slightly peeved, though that was hardly surprising. He always did respond best to insipid flattery, and this marquis seemed unwilling to oblige. Apparently Cardinal Richelieu noticed it as well, flashing a slight frown before he stepped in.

“I’m sure that won’t be necessary,” Richelieu said. “The marquis can clearly see the fine service of the king’s guards, and I am sure that there are more diverting entertainments if he were to turn his attention elsewhere.” Richelieu gestured back to the banquet table, where the queen and her ladies sat watching.

“No, not at all. I think His Majesty has a most excellent idea. If his musketeers are all that he says, then they should bear further inspection.”

Now Porthos was just as tense as Aramis and Athos. It wasn’t the idea of an inspection, per se. They were all capable and skilled soldiers, and there was no fear that their skills would be found wanting. But it was the way the marquis spoke, as if they were little more than fine horses to be inspected before a sale.

Louis led the marquis in a circle, stopping before each set of musketeers to examine them in detail. They saw the marquis nod and hum, though he did not say a word. Porthos caught a flash of annoyance on Cornet’s face once they had passed, and he couldn’t blame the man.

When His Majesty the king and his dear courtier came to a halt before them, all three musketeers offered a graceful bow before straightening to perfect attention, stock still and eyes straight forward.

The marquis seemed to regard them for an absurdly long moment, tutting thoughtfully before he finally spoke.

“They are quite competent, I am sure, Your Majesty, and worthy of the favor you bestow upon them.” Louis seemed to preen under this praise, but it was short lived. “For my part, I prefer a bit more…uniformity in my personal guards.” His gaze flicked over the three of them before settling squarely on Porthos. It made his skin crawl and Porthos had to work to keep his expression completely neutral, features frozen as if he was unaware of the scrutiny…or what was meant by it. “Perhaps a bit too exotic for my tastes,” the marquis continued. “But I suppose a bit of savagery is valuable in that sort of man. After all, it is their skill that counts in the end. And they can’t all be of the fashionable set, now can they?”

Porthos bristled. Beside him, he felt Aramis go rigid.

“I could arrange a demonstration of their skill, if you’d like,” Captain Tréville’s voice broke into the discussion. A quick look showed that he was not pleased, though the captain was skilled enough at diplomacy to keep a calm exterior. The king, Porthos noted, also wore a peevish expression.

“I know that my Red Guards are always ready for a bit of friendly competition, should the occasion warrant such a display. It could be arranged in short order,” Cardinal Richelieu added. Tréville case him a look of surprise that was quickly hidden.

“No, I thank you gentleman, but that should not be necessary,” the marquis replied. “I’ve seen all I wish to for today.”

He turned his back on the musketeers, making his way back towards the banquet table and the other courtiers. The king followed with a slight sulk while Richelieu appeared to distract them with a suggestion that they should organize a hunt for the following day, which was sure to restore the king’s spirits.

Porthos heard a low rumble on his right and realized not a second too soon that Aramis was seething. He reached out to grasp his arm as unobtrusively as possible, feeling the tension of corded muscles beneath his palm. He cast a glance across Aramis to see that, on his other side, Athos had reached out as well. Aramis was held fast between them, his foot poised to step forward even as his friends held him back.

“Whoa there, mate.” Porthos murmured. Aramis shook off his hand, but Porthos merely snagged Aramis by the collar, effectively pinning him in place. “Let’s not do anythin’ hasty, now.”

“Let me go.” The words came out as a low hiss, accompanied by a boiling glare that Porthos knew wasn’t meant for him.

“No, I don’t think I will.”

Aramis glared. “You heard that sniveling, powdered buffoon.”

“Yeah. And you’re not doin’ anything about it.”

“But… he…” Aramis spluttered.

“Leave it, Aramis,” Porthos said, voice low and firm.

“He has no right…”

“No. Just don’t.”

Aramis sighed as if unjustly put upon, but he made no further moves to chase down the cause of his wrath. Porthos released his hold as Aramis settled down beside him, as if resigned to suffer this great indignity in silence.

“Come on, Aramis. You really think I care what some prissy courtier has to say?”

“He’s an ignorant fool who has no right to even imply the slightest disparagement upon your honor.” Aramis’s heated reply was almost enough to make Porthos go a bit soft, warming something deep inside him.

“True,” Athos said dryly, “but you said it yourself: he’s an ignorant fool. Like so many members of the court. Best to pay him no mind.”

Aramis glowered, jaw clenched tightly. Athos and Porthos exchanged a look before Porthos spoke again, his voice soft. “An’ he’s not worth you getting thrown in the châtalet over something that isn’t gonna matter in a week’s time.”

Aramis didn’t move, gaze still focused in the distance. “He may not be worth it,” Aramis spoke softly. “But you are. Worth that and so much more.”

Porthos felt his breath stutter in his chest. He had to take a few moments to just breathe as he took in Aramis’s words. He barely fought back the moisture that threatened to gather in his eyes.

No one spoke then. It seemed there was nothing left to be said.

When the king’s garden party finally wound to a close and they were blessedly dismissed, they retired to their favorite tavern where they soon hatched a drinking game that involved devising increasingly inventive insults for annoying courtiers. By the night’s end, Porthos found himself laughing so hard that tears streamed down his face as Athos and Aramis traded quips and barbs in a test of wit that ended when Aramis conceded that he was either too drunk or too dim-witted to continue. This led Athos to regale them with the tale of comte he’d once encountered who was as dumb as a broom and had attempted to marry his horse. But when they’d drunk and laughed away the tension of the day, it wasn’t the jokes that stuck in Porthos’s head. It wasn’t even the marquis’s subtle insults. It was Aramis’s words that played in his mind, over and over, reminding him that somehow he’d found himself among companions who would go to any lengths necessary to defend him…companions who found him worthy of such loyalty.

“I propose a toast,” Porthos said solemnly. Aramis and Athos turned to him expectantly, surprise (albeit slightly drunken surprise) on their faces at Porthos’s suddenly serious turn. Porthos raised his glass. “To brotherhood…and always knowing your brothers will have your back.”

Athos smiled, but Aramis looked thoughtful for a moment, before raising his own glass. “All for one,” he said softly.

The phrase hung in the air for a moment. I like it, Porthos thought. He looked to Athos, who nodded. “All for one,” they both echoed.

“And one for all,” Aramis said, smiling broadly as they reached out to complete the toast, three glasses clinking together in a chorus.

What Porthos had done to earn such loyalty, he really couldn’t say. But it was there nonetheless.

Chapter Text

Athos should have known that this would not end well. It was becoming clear that he should have just stayed in his rooms all day with a nice bottle of wine. Or three. He would certainly need them after the disaster this mission was rapidly becoming.

It was supposed to be a simple escort mission. They were to retrieve a young vicomte who’d been tossed into the châtalet for an unpleasant night and then return him to his father’s estate.

They’d laughed, initially, when they’d learned of the job. Their wayward vicomte had been on a visit to Paris and, as young men were wont to do, had used the excursion as an excuse to make trouble. According to the magistrate, that trouble involved several brothels, a bar fight, swindling a merchant, and threatening an innkeeper who refused to provide him with what he considered “proper” lodging. But it was the drunken attempt to climb atop a statue of King Henri IV that finally landed him in the châtalet for the night.

But in spite of this humorous string of events, their amusement did not survive long once they arrived at the châtalet to retrieve the now infamous vicomte de Gramont.

“It’s about time someone came to let me out of here. This place reeks. And it’s infested with…with filthy criminals!”

The prison warden had brought Gramont to the front gates, where he stood flanked by two guards. The warden looked to Athos, appearing weary and exasperated. Athos nodded to him as he accepted custody of the young reprobate, and the warden returned the gesture with a tight smile and a wave, as if wishing the musketeers luck, before he and his men returned to their duties, apparently grateful to be rid of their irate charge.

“Well, monsieur vicomte, it is a prison,” Aramis said lightly. Athos shot him a glare. Aramis, as usual, seemed immune to the warning.

D’Artagnan stepped smoothly forward, all courtesy and good manners. “Sir, we’ve been sent to escort you home.”

“Escort me home?” Gramont exclaimed. “How dare you. You presume to make my decisions for me?”

“Not us,” Porthos said. “Your father. He arranged your release and demanded that you return immediately.”

Gramont turned to survey Porthos, eyes raking over him as he sneered down his nose. “And why should I believe this utter nonsense. You’re nothing but a common soldier. Not much better than these low-life thugs and brawlers I’ve been forced to associate with.” He jerked his head back to the châtalet’s closed doors.

Porthos stiffened slightly, but made no move. “That’s a funny way to put it, considering brawling is just one of the many charges that were brought against you.”

“You should be thankful your father intervened so quickly,” Aramis added.

“Luck has nothing to do with it,” Gramont snapped. “It’s breeding and nobility. I’m above this riff-raff. The magistrates can’t touch me, and they were fools to think otherwise.”

“Be that as it may, we do have orders to escort you back to your father’s estate.” Athos stepped forward and produced a letter, handing it Gramont. “This was sent from your father’s lawyer in Paris at your fathers command. You will see that the seal is unbroken and it is genuine.”

Gramont snatched the letter, tearing it open hurriedly to read its contents. Athos exchanged irritated glances with the others. He could see the three of them already chaffing against their mission. Athos now understood why this simple escort mission required three musketeers and a musketeer-in-training…it would take all four of them to keep each other from punching the smug bastard.

“This,” Gramont sputtered in outrage, “this is absurd! I have done nothing wrong, and my father can’t force me to…” He waved a hand wildly, as if it could somehow encapsulate the injustice of his situation. “Those magistrates must have spun horrid lies. It is the only explanation for my father’s unfair treatment of me. When he hears the truth of what has happened, he will have those magistrates punished for what they’ve done.”

Porthos shifted from one foot to the other, tilting his head back and looking upward as if asking God for strength. Aramis shot him an amused half-grin.

“We are only soldiers, monsieur,” Athos said. “We can only tell you our orders and assure you that we will do our best to convey you safely and swiftly to your father, where you may address the matter with him.”

Gramont grudgingly agreed, and they soon found themselves riding south out of Paris. It would take them several hours to reach the Comte de Gramont’s estate, and it quickly became apparent that those hours would be pure torture. They stopped at midday to rest the horses, resulting in a great deal of complaining from the young vicomte, who insisted that he was faint with hunger, yet refused to touch the dry rations they had stowed in their saddle bags, proclaiming them to be inedible. If there was a possible complaint to be made, the vicomte made it, and his general air of self-satisfied superiority reminded Athos all too strongly of the noblemen he’d known in his old life. He had no doubt this young man was only copying the behavior he’d seen from his father and other respected noblemen. The tone of pompous condescension set Athos’s teeth on edge.

But if this trip was teeth-grindingly irritating for Athos, it must be ten times worse for Porthos, who quickly became the main target of the vicomte’s abuse. He commanded Porthos to help him mount and dismount his horse, to fix the reins when they became tangled…any task he deemed beneath him, he would snap his fingers and point to Porthos.

Snap, snap. “You there. Come and assist me.”

And so the afternoon went.

“How long must we put up with this?” d’Artagnan asked, riding alongside Athos and leaning in to speak softly.

“Unfortunately, he comes from an influential noble family. Which means there is little we can do but complete this assignment as quickly as possible and wash our hands of him.”

“But he’s insufferable.” D’Artagnan sank slightly in his saddle.

“I cannot disagree.”

A glance backwards saw Aramis riding at the vicomte’s side as Porthos took up the rear. After their midday rest, they’d tried to keep Porthos away from Gramont as much as possible, but it had done little good. Porthos was silent and sullen, glancing occasionally to the side of the road as if keeping an eye out for bandits, though Athos suspected he was merely attempting to distract himself. Aramis, in contrast, responded politely and succinctly to Gramont’s questions or comments. He held himself at near attention, back straight and his eyes always on the road ahead. He was the picture of cool, detached professionalism, and Athos couldn’t decide if that was a good sign or not. Knowing Aramis, probably not.

Athos’s only goal was to maintain this shaky equilibrium just long enough to reach the Gramont estate.

Of course, that plan may have been overly optimistic on his part, and was neatly shattered when the vicomte called a halt, jerking on his reins and swearing at his horse.

“What’s the problem?” Aramis asked.

Gramont dismounted, giving a harsh jerk on the horse’s reins out of pure spite. D’Artagnan was instantly at his side, taking the reins from him and soothing the irritated animal.

“It’s this dumb creature you’ve given me. It must be half-lame. It can’t even maintain an even gait, and it’s tried to throw me twice now!”

Aramis and Porthos exchanged glances. Everyone dismounted and Porthos helped d’Artagnan examine the poor horse, while Athos and Aramis looked on.

“I don’t see anything wrong with her,” d’Artagnan said.

“Well, look again!”

Porthos let out a huff of breath, straightening and turning to face the victome. “Look, the horse ain’t lame, a’right. So your problem has got to be something else.”

“Are you calling me a liar?”

“I’m just sayin’, the horse is fine. Maybe you’re just not used to riding for long distances.”

Gramont bristled. “As if someone of your background would know the first thing about true horsemanship.”

Aramis drew in a sharp breath and Athos sent him a warning glare, shaking his head. Aramis bit his lip and shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other.

“If you will not do anything about the horse, then I demand yours,” he pointed to Porthos’s stallion. “I’ll ride it instead, and you can walk.”

Athos stepped in quickly. “Monsiuer, I think that…”

“Look, are you sure you’re not just stalling here?” Porthos cut in, voice strained. “Not looking forward to facing your father after you’ve made a fool of yourself all over Paris, is that it?”

The words were a mistake. They all felt the quick shift in Gramont’s posture, and Porthos winced slightly, realizing he’d just overstepped, even if it did seem his assessment was likely correct.

“How dare you speak to me in such a fashion! You question me as if you were my equal when you’re little more than an over-dressed stable boy with ambitions beyond his station.”

Aramis took a step, fists clenched tightly, every line of his body rigid with anger. Porthos’s hand shot out to grasp his arm, halting him in his tracks. Gramont failed to notice the quick exchange, continuing his diatribe without so much as taking a breath.

“I’d think the musketeers would ensure their lackeys knew some manners. But then, what can be expected from your kind. I should have you whipped for your insolence. Perhaps that would teach you how to behave before your betters.” The vicomte glared at Porthos, lip curling in an ugly sneer. “I’ve owned dogs with better breeding than you.”

A flash of brown leather and a growl were the only warning before Aramis had shoved past Porthos, fists clenched and arm raised. He struck the vicomte so hard he spun and hit the ground with a thump. Aramis pressed his advantage, reaching down to twist his fingers in Gramont’s doublet and haul him back up, his feet dragging on the ground as Aramis punched him again.

“You sniveling little…” Aramis broke off. Gramont twisted away and Aramis kicked him in the shin, sending him back to the ground in a heap. Aramis surged forward, and Gramont cowered beneath him, arms raised to protect his face.

Shaking off the moment of stunned surprise, Athos and d’Artagnan both lunged, seizing Aramis and forcibly dragging him off the vicomte. Aramis fought them, twisting and jerking as his fist flailed, narrowly missing Athos’s face as he ducked quickly to avoid the blow.

“Enough,” Athos snapped. Aramis stilled, panting in anger as he sagged slightly, still held tight between his two friends. Gramont eyed him cautiously.

“If you speak against Porthos again,” Aramis said, voice low, almost snarling, “if you so much as utter one condescending word, if I even find a sneer in your voice, I’ll make sure that black eye becomes a matching set. And I won’t stop there.”

Gramont was shaking, one hand held to his cheek as he stared, wide-eyed in fright more than indignation.

Athos pushed Aramis away roughly, gesturing to Porthos and d’Artagnan. “Take him away.” Then he met Aramis’s gaze, pointing a finger at his chest. “And not another word from you.” The heat in Aramis’s eyes showed no sign of repentance, but he allowed himself to be led away, Porthos taking him by the arm to calm him.

Athos turned back to the vicomte, reaching down a hand to help him up. “I am deeply sorry for my comrade’s behavior. I assure you that he will not behave so in the future, and he will be punished for his actions. Now let me help you.” He hauled the man to his feet, steadying him, offering him a drink and a clean handkerchief that he pressed to the cut on his cheek. Gramont seemed too shocked to speak, meekly allowing Athos to maneuver him. Athos could only hope his docility would last until he was safely delivered to his father. But he shuddered to think what would happen when the comte learned of his son’s treatment. He cast his gaze back at Aramis. He could see the man still shaking with suppressed rage as Porthos spoke to him softly.

Athos sighed. This could not end well, he knew. And he didn’t know if they would be able to protect Aramis this time.

Instead, they tried their best to pretend that all was well as they prepared to resume their journey. D’Artagnan swiftly transferred his scabbard and pistols to Gramont’s horse before switching horses with him. Then, once they had all re-mounted, they set off at a brisk pace in hopes of quickly covering the remaining distance to the Gramont estate. Athos and d’Artagnan alternated riding at the vicomte’s side, a solicitous attempt to assure him of his safety, as Aramis and Porthos took up the rear, following at a notable distance.

Their ride was considerably quieter this time, the tension thick as no one dared to say a word.

It was late in the afternoon, with Athos in the lead, when d’Artagnan briefly abandoned their charge to join Athos at the front of their party.

“What do you think he will do,” d’Artagnan asked softly, when the vicomte was just out of earshot. Athos knew that the he d’Artagnan asked about was not the young man riding quietly behind him.

Athos sighed. “Have him imprisoned, perhaps. He might convince a local constable to hold him for as much as six months. More likely he’ll have him flogged, probably somewhere public as an example to his tenants of the consequences for attacking a nobleman’s son.”

D’Artagnan grimaced. “What can we do?”

“Beg,” Athos said simply “I may be able to convince him to allow Captain Tréville to handle it. But he will want assurances that his son’s assault will be punished appropriately.” There was nothing to say to that. Athos left d’Artagnan to take the lead as he dropped back to escort the silent vicomte the remainder of the way.

He knew well how noblemen reacted to a slight from those they saw as beneath them. He tried to think how his father would have reacted if a commoner had dared to strike him or any member of their family. Athos did not think the results would have been pretty. That Aramis was a common soldier, with no money or title or family to hide behind… Athos frowned. It was times like this he was ashamed of his past life, ashamed to be connected to a system that had so little to do with true nobility.

No one spoke again until they pulled up at the gates of the estate. They were greeted by a servant who quickly summoned the groom and stable boys to see to the horses while the servant contacted a valet to bring the comte himself. The servants all stared at the bruises that had formed along their young master’s face, though no one dared to mention it.

For their part, the musketeers all stood around the courtyard, somewhat awkwardly. Athos glared at Aramis, who met his eyes for only a moment before dropping his gaze. Well, that was something; at least Aramis seemed to understand the severity of what he’d done.

The vicomte was speaking softly with the servant when the valet returned, announcing the illustrious Comte de Gramont, who ignored everyone and stalked down the steps of his estate to meet his son. Everyone else, including the servants, hung back.

The comte spoke to his son at a distance, taking him aside for a moment of privacy. At Athos’s side, d’Artagnan strained to hear their conversation, but at this distance it was a futile effort. They could only watch and wait. Gramont muttered something and his father scowled, his anger evident. He dismissed his son, watching him scurry off to the house and disappear inside before he turned his stony expression to the musketeers, who all stood dutifully at attention in the courtyard.

He approached slowly, but it was impossible not to notice the authority with which he carried himself, the air of absolutely belief in his own right to be obeyed in all things. Watching him approach felt uncomfortably like watching a predator stalking its prey and trying to decide how long to play with it before going in for the kill.

The musketeers all bowed at this approach. “Monsieur le comte,” Athos greeted him politely.

“I thank you for returning my son to me, monsieur,” he replied stiffly, addressing Athos. “I can see, based on recent events, that it would not be safe to allow him to return to Paris unattended.”

Athos nodded in acknowledgement.

“Obviously I cannot overlook my son’s current condition, which is so clearly inappropriate for a man of his station.”

Athos nodded. “I understand your concern, monsieur. I am afraid I must offer my humblest apologies for your son’s treatment. His wounds were the result of a lapse in judgment, and my comrades and I will, of course, pay any restitution that is required.”

The Comte de Gramont frowned. “I’m sorry, monsieur, but I do not understand your meaning.”

Athos frowned, now equally confused. “His bruises, the black eye…”

“I assumed they were the payment for his foolish behavior, courtesy of an angry gambler, or a humiliated husband, perhaps. You understand I do not yet have the full details of my son’s carousing.” His scowl deepened.

Athos took a deep breath. He may not know the truth now, but his son would certainly tell him in short order. They couldn’t hide Aramis’s involvement, as tempting as it might be to try, without placing them all in more danger. Perhaps an admission now would help them gain leniency. “I am afraid that is not the case, monsieur le comte. There was an… altercation on the road, earlier today in fact. I am sure your son will not hesitate to tell you that his bruises came from one of my comrades.”

The comte raised his eyebrows, visibly surprised. His eyes passed over them quickly, assessing. “He was struck by a musketeer? By one of your men?” His voice colored with something darker—shock or anger, or indignation perhaps. Something in the tone reminded Athos of his father’s voice, the sharp snap of command, tinged with irritation. As a child, he’d learned to cringe from that tone, though he did not do so now.

Athos heard someone shift behind him, and Porthos drew in a breath, preparing to speak. In a flash of clarity, Athos realized that Porthos intended to take the fall for Aramis, but before he could do so, Aramis himself stepped forward.

“Yes, monsieur le comte. I am responsible. I struck your son. And I will accept whatever punishment you deem appropriate.”

The comte looked him over, assessing him coldly. Then he turned back to Athos. “And this man is under your command.”

Athos nodded. “He is.”

“But I acted alone,” Aramis spoke quickly. “My comrades are not to blame. The fault is mine and mine alone.”

The comte raised his chin, looking down his nose at Aramis. “You will accept punishment for your actions?” Aramis nodded. “But I notice that you do not apologize for them.” Aramis said nothing, standing straight and keeping his gaze level.

The comte stood back, looking over each of them in turn before his eyes came to rest on Aramis. Athos could see his friend struggle not to shift under the scrutiny. But Aramis was a soldier, and he knew as well as any of them how to take discipline stoically.

Finally the comte broke his stern glower with a half-hearted shrug. It wasn’t light-hearted. If anything, Athos would call it exasperated.

“Consider it forgiven, monsieur, even though you are not sorry for it.”

Aramis frowned. “Pardon?”

At his confusion, the comte looked him over again, then offered him a bitter grin. “I will not presume to speculate how ill-mannered my son must have been to provoke the anger of such disciplined soldiers as yourselves. The Lord knows I want to throttle the imbecile most days. He’s too old for me to take him over my knee, but perhaps a thrashing from a genuine soldier will succeed where normal punishments fail. Whatever the case, I know my son, and I am sure that your actions were well-deserved and well-earned.”

He clapped a hand on Aramis’s shoulder in a strangely companionable manner and then turned to glance at his valet. “See to it that these men have whatever provisions they may require for their return journey.” The valet nodded mutely. “Gentlemen,” the comte said, addressing them once again. “If you will excuse me, I have business to attend to. The inn at the village serves a most excellent stew, and they will be more than capable of tending to your horses. I suggest you retire there for the evening, and I wish you a pleasant journey back to Paris.”

Athos thanked him politely, more out of habit ingrained through good breeding than through conscious thought, and watched as he returned to the house. When he had disappeared, Athos turned to his companions. All three of them stood, stock still, facing forward, with nearly identical expressions of confusion.

“What just happened?” d’Artagnan asked.

“The world’s gone crazy, I think,” Porthos said.

“He just pardoned Aramis?” d’Artagnan looked back and forth between them. “Without even hearing the whole story?”

“I’ve never seen behavior like that. Not from a nobleman.” Porthos shook his head, then looked to Aramis. “You have the devil’s luck, my friend.”

Aramis looked confused, almost overwhelmed.

“No,” Athos said. “Not the devil’s luck.”

“What then?”

“You know what they say: God has special protection for drunkards and lovers.” He gave a wry grin.

Porthos laughed heartily, throwing an arm around both Athos and Aramis. “True enough! It’s the only way to explain how the two of you have survived so long.” He laughed again, turning to Aramis. “And ‘lover’s luck’ sounds better anyway. It’s either that or providence smiling on you for all those prayers you’ve stored up over the years.” He gave Aramis a firm slap on the back and urged his stunned friend forward. “Come on, then. You heard the gracious comte. We’d best get to the inn and drink a toast to generous providence.”

D’Artagnan nodded. “I agree. The Comte de Gramont seems amiable enough, but let’s not test our good fortune by overstaying our welcome.”

“Indeed.” Even Athos couldn’t quite keep back a grin.

But Aramis still stood, unmoving, mouth gaping slightly in confusion.

“Aramis?” Athos prompted.

“I…I don’t think I understand.”

“Come on then,” Porthos said lightly, “an’ we’ll explain it to you over dinner and good wine.”

“And while we try to explain, we can get you drunk,” d’Artagnan added.

His three friends all turned to look at him with near identical expressions and raised eyebrows.

“What?” D’Artagnan asked, shrugging sheepishly. “If God protects lovers and drunkards…well, with the kind of trouble Aramis seems to find himself in, he can use all the extra protection he can get.”