Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The three inseperables were tired of walking, normally they'd be found in the usual tavern laughing, playing cards, and leaving after a brawl with the red guards. But for the time being they were looking for their fourth member, who had been summoned into the king's court for a private meeting, after the events of the King's and d'Artagnan's recent kidnapping and following escape. Having not been sighted since and the king less than stellar mood the three were concerned for d'Artagnan's wellbeing.

After hours of tramping through the muddy streets and searching every tavern and side street they were ready to give up. They were confident that d'Artagnan would return in his own time. And besides the constant drivel of the night’s rain had begun to soak through their battered leather boots, the three comrades elected to head back to the garrison.

d'Artagnan sat on the garrison bench mulling over the day's events (musketeer code for having a well-deserved pity party). Despite his best efforts a small tear slipped out of his eye and splattered onto the ground, like just another raindrop on the muddy ground. A sick power play that's all it was, a cruel joke designed specifically to humiliate the youngest musketeer, more specifically the king's champion, who had fallen from the king’s grace like Icarus from the sky.

His aching back stung as the scabs on his back tore open every time he inhaled. Rochefort the king’s new favourite had done a number on him to punish d’Artagnan for his unwillingness to play executioner earlier in the day. He refused to tell Aramis despite knowing the medic would scold him for allowing the wounds to go untreated
He didn't want to bother the others with his problems, he was not a pathetic little boy anymore, and besides, they had their own more important issues; such as protecting the king and France. d’Artagnan’s trivial matters of a wounded back and pride were hardly important in comparison to the troubles of a nation.

Everything had been so much simpler back on his farm in Gascony, back there his biggest concern was the stuck-up bully François who whilst cruel had always been upfront in his distain making him predictable and easy to manage. Being lost in childhood memories he allowed his mind to wonder, barely noticed the three new arrivals until a strong hand clapped him on the back, startling him out of his daze.

The combination of force and the fact he was caught unawares meant that d'Artagnan shot off the table where he was perched and landed awkwardly between the bench and the floor, in a sort of half folded position. To make matters worse a choked cry escaped his lips. It really added salt to the wound and cemented his undignified appearance.

Inelegantly crunched on the floor, he stared at the others, eyes wide, waiting for them to either laugh or walk off and never mention this ever again (preferably the later). Despite not wanting his brothers’ ridicule he also did want their pity. He was no whelp to be coddled and could sort himself out as soon as he got up and calmed his breathing. Hours seemingly passed, but in reality, was less than a minute before Porthos offered him a hand, d'Artagnan half expected him to snatch the hand away at the last minute, the hand remained in the air.

d'Artagnan grasped the hand and hauled himself him, trying to salvage what little was left of his dignity, he all but sprinted towards the garrison gates. He wasn't quick enough. Before he could move more than three steps Aramis sidestepped in front of him blocking his escape route with a firm embrace. This time the young Gascon did yelp as the pressure tore off what little scabs remained on his back. Aramis also yelped as a liquid that was decidedly not rain bled through d’Artagnan’s shirt and coated his hand.

“d’Artagnan, what is the meaning of this first you skulk off and we don’t see you for an age, and when we do see you, you’re bleeding, explain yourself,” the medic scorned.
“I did not mean for you to see me like this, if you need me, I can go clean up and report back. Or I can just leave.” d’Artagnan deflated as he spoke, he knew the game was up, were only so many indignities he could suffer in front of his friends before pride bled away for resigned embarrassment.

The unusual formality sounded strange coming out of d’Artagnan’s mouth and strange still going into the inseperables’ ears, “d’Artagnan what has happened to you? Don’t lie I’ll know, was it the red guards?” Athos inquired his tone sounding eerily similar to Treville. At this d’Artagnan subconsciously straitened, causing Aramis to glare at the offending Athos.

“Right then whelp, let’s get you inside you’ve got some explaining to do and I’d rather not do it in a pond,” Porthos said a failed attempt to lighten the mood. But non the less the four of them walked indoors with d’Artagnan awkwardly following along.

Once inside and stripped of their pauldrons and capes three pairs of eyes rounded on a certain figure who was standing in the doorway, hair dripping onto his face. “d’Artagnan take of your shirt and sit down, Aramis needs to clean your wounds before they get infected,” Athos’s tone was stern but not unkind as the boy followed the instructions.

d’Artagnan, decidedly would not make eye contact with anyone but the floor as he reluctantly removed his shirt and sat down in front of Aramis bracing himself for something.
“Porthos fetch me a clean cloth, honey, and some bandages. They’ll need to be cleaned sooner rather than later” Aramis asked completely ignoring the way his patient’s shoulders tensed, or his breathing subconsciously hitched every time Aramis wiped down a particularly nasty gash.

Once any immediate risks of infection were nullified the three elder men sat in front of their youngest and began the questioning.

Chapter Text

“So, are you going to tell us why you’re bleeding or, are we expected to guess? And go around quizzing tavern patrons about who flogged our newest brother in a brawl,” Athos stated his voice steady enough to hide his increasingly growing concern.

“Wasn’t a tavern brawl,” d’Artagnan’s voice was flat.
“But it was a flogging then,” Aramis chipped in, “Who in their right mind would do that to a musketeer surely, they must know the consequences of this,” Aramis’s voice was rising now not quite a full shout but steadily increasing.

“The kings don’t get consequences,” d'Artagnan hadn’t meant to say that “And besides you’ve fixed it now so what’s with all the concern.” It was a weak attempt at a cover-up and an even weaker attempt at changing the subject. However, in their het upstate, his first sentence may have slipped part Aramis and Athos, but not Porthos. “What do you mean kings don’t get consequences?” at this all eyes fixed onto Porthos even d’Artagnan lifted his eyes from the floor. “You mean to say the king saw fit to take a flogger to your back and leave it untreated,” it was phrased as a question but the was d’Artagnan’s eyes flicked to the door and his shoulders tensed, confirmed everything the inseperables needed to know.

“Technically it was Rochefort who did it, but it was at the king’s will, and he stayed to watch,” at this admission, the energy visibly drained out of d’Artagnan. He began to bite down hard on the inside of his cheeks something the others had noticed he did to stop tears from falling.
“And what reason would the king have to flog a musketeer? Especially one who saved his life no less than a senight ago,” Athos pressed as much has it hurt him to see their youngest in pain he needed to press on while d’Artagnan was still emotional enough to answer honestly.

“To teach me that my obedience should be to my king and not my principles,” d’Artagnan replied his voice breaking slightly “he promised to take away my commission should I ever disobey a direct order again or humiliate him with my disobedience in public.” d’Artagnan had swallowed down his tears and his voice coming out unnaturally devoid of its usual emotion.

The air seemed to leave the room as all four men remained in various stages of shock and resignation following their youngest's confession.

“Is this about your refusal to behead that slaver after you rescued the king from being sold” Porthos broke the silence, but the lack of a reply meant it hung heavy in the air and did nothing to relieve the tension that filled the room.

“Yes,” d’Artagnan all but whispered.

“He was wrong for what he did then, he was wrong what he did earlier, and I suspect that he will be wrong for a great many things he will do.” In contrast to d’Artagnan, Aramis had a great deal of emotions, particularly negative ones, and primarily about the king.

“Aramis lower your voice when you talk like that. I’m sure I don’t need to remind you that what you saying is treason.” Athos admonished causing the medic to forget his own personal grievances with the king and focus back on d’Artagnan, whose eyes were wide in response to Aramis’ outburst.

“Whilst I do not entirely agree with Aramis’ words I whole-heartedly agree to his sentiment. Your punishment was unjust and underserved the fact it took him nearly a week to decide if you should be punished further shows that he had to be persuaded to dole out ‘justice.’ And I think we all know who has his ear.” Athos’ analytical approach was oddly comforting to d’Artagnan who was pleased that his brothers didn’t share the king’s sentiment in his shortcomings as a musketeer.

“Rochefort. That little weasel we should have let those villagers lynch him when we found him,” Porthos’ voice was a low growl as he spoke.

“It’s fine, honestly, he’s not even technically wrong I did disobey a direct order in public.” d’Artagnan’s attempt to quell the others’ anger were unsuccessful. If anything, it only riled up Aramis even more.

“The technicalities are insignificant d’Artagnan it is the principle that matters. And it’s the principle that was wrong.” Aramis’ tirade was cut off as Porthos moved from his position at the back of the room and crouched down in front of d’Artagnan.

Raising, d’Artagnan’s chin slightly so that they met each other's eyes, “d’Artagnan I want you to listen carefully. What happened to you was wrong and should not have happened despite you disobeying an order a musketeer has the right to medical care after they have received corporal punishment. Even if the punishment was just the way you received it was not. Do you understand that Pup?” Porthos’ voice was warm, and he spoke as if he was trying to calm a spooked colt, something that d'Artagnan bore a startling resemblance to.

“I understand,” d’Artagnan replied before lurching forward into Porthos, who caught him and pulled him into a tight embrace. Porthos gently stoked the young man’s hair in what he knew to be a soothing manner.
Athos was suddenly reminded of just how young their youngest was. He must have scarcely been considered a man when he arrived in Paris and that was assuming he hadn’t lied about his age. A crime Athos suspected he was guilty of.

Aramis came and sat behind d’Artagnan quietly humming a tune to sooth the boy. The scene was strangely familiar reminding Athos of his own childhood of a nurse singing to him and his brother during a storm. Normally the domesticity would frighten Athos but for some reason with these three, it didn’t.

“Ok, now Pup are you all right to get up my knees are starting to cramp.” The spell was broken with Prothos' complaint and the four of them were brought back to reality.

“It’s because you’re getting old,” d’Artagnan replied it was good to hear some of his usual attitude even though they found it marginally irritating.

“Well in that case respect your elders.” Aramis huffed slapping d’Artagnan good-naturedly on the back of the head.