Work Text:
The office clock ticked on, the only sound but for two sets of fingers on computer keyboards, the light scratch of pens against paper and, from the administration offices below, the occasional phone ringing. At the desk next to Athos, d'Artagnan stretched as only young people seem to – fingers raised as if to touch the ceiling, mouth wide and gaping like the lion at the beginning of old films – and set his pen down. The office was quiet this time of day, too late for the influx of officers on the day shift, and too early for those hoping to sneak back in for the free leftover cake the Admin team usually brought in to be eaten over the weekend.
Saturdays were always tricky. The follow ups with people who worked 9-5 and didn't want their weekends taken up by such inconvenient things as statements but still wanted their cases to be given the full attention of the entire division made them particularly soul-destroying. The majority of appointments booked would be cancelled (if they even bothered to ring), the majority of crimes would be undetected shoplifting or pickpocketing, and the majority of officers on shift would be bitter and miserable at missing their partner's days off or children's football matches for this.
Athos was always glad when they weren't on shift on Saturdays. Which was what made this Saturday particularly upsetting. He glanced at the clock without thinking, cursing himself for being so foolish. It was half past ten. As if to emphasise the point, the nearby priory bell chimed once. From his own desk, Porthos cursed. Half past fucking ten.
But alas the criminal classes of the world had no respect for shift changeover times, or for sergeants on the wrong side of thirty five and feeling every day of it, and Athos had a statement to draft. Porthos, Aramis, and d'Artagnan all did too, of course, but they being the loathsomely youthful creatures that they were would probably remember the night’s events even after they fell asleep, a feat which Athos – with the help of messieurs Hardy and Gallo – was unlikely to manage. He paused, rubbing at his gritty eyes as the words blurred on the screen in front of him. He really ought to stop drinking. In the day time at least. He was getting too damn old to blame his alcohol habit on too many sherry glassfuls with dinner as a child.
Porthos had finished his statement, the slow (but no doubt more accurate) tapping away of fingers on keys ceased and he heaved himself to his feet and crossed to the printer. God, he looked tired. Athos sighed and returned to his work.
'PC VALLON was able to apprehend the suspect, whom I recognised as Mr -'
Athos flinched, his typing once more stopping abruptly as something hit him in the side of the head then landed on his desk with a soft 'clink'. He stared at it for a moment. The paper-clip lay innocently enough now that it was not being used as a weapon of assault.
“Oi,” Porthos' soft admonition broke through his thoughts. “Pack it in. 'e's workin'.”
Clink. “As am I.” Clink.
Aramis, then. Should have been obvious really; Aramis had form. And if Aramis was the culprit, the 'why' and the 'how' were anybody’s guess really – boredom and a surplus of office supplies? He slid his gaze slowly across to Aramis, one brow raised pointedly. Unaffected as always, Aramis smiled and took aim once more.
Paper-clips, though small, were surprisingly painful things to be shot in the nose with.
“All right, that's it!” Athos surged to his feet, startling Aramis who all but fell out of his chair in his haste to escape his friend's wrath. Safely separated by Porthos, Athos lunged at the younger man but was unable to keep his indulgence hidden. “Coffee!” He ordered, his 'Sergeant La Fere' bark ruined somewhat by the smile he could not suppress. “Now!”
Aramis executed a smart salute and ducked from the room, coffee mugs hanging from four fingers. Porthos shook his head and affectionately called him 'a bloody child' under his breath.
With Aramis safely out of the room and his back to d'Artagnan, Athos raised one hand to rub at his nose. “Ow.”
“Stop complainin' – that's the most life 'e's had in 'im all night. Plus, you'll wake the pup.”
“Wake the-” Athos turned on the spot to d'Artagnan's desk and felt his chest fill with unexpected fondness. “Why hasn’t he gone home if he's that tired?” He asked with some exasperation.
D'Artagnan was still at his desk, only now he lay slumped across it with arms folded beneath his head, face turned towards them all, quietly and perfectly asleep. Stepping over to the oblivious youngster, Athos knelt down beside him, studying his face worriedly.
“P'raps he's just not used to the night shifts,” Porthos offered with something of a shrug in his voice. “First night's never easy. 'Specially with the cold. I'm still not used to them after all these years.”
“He's working too hard,” Aramis' quiet voice sounded from the kitchen doorway. Porthos crossed and relieved him of two mugs, setting one down on Athos' desk. Aramis re-emerged then – with biscuits – and leant against the door looking suddenly serious. “They always do at the beginning.”
Athos stood with a noise of wordless agreement. He remembered that. The drive to keep pushing oneself, keep taking every extra shift going for fear of appearing lazy or uncommitted. And Porthos was right too, of course; the morning after the first night shift was never a good one. Especially when you were still at work three hours after the shift was supposed to end. He sighed and returned to his own desk, reaching for the coffee as an act of instinct. Aramis appeared at his side with a packet of digestives and Athos took three without even looking.
“Mind your coffee, it's too hot right now. You'll burn yourself”
“Mm.” Already engrossed in his work again, Athos barely glanced his way as Aramis sighed and left him to it.
“And leave one of those for the boy – he needs the calories more than you do.”
Porthos stared at Aramis as he returned to sit on the desk beside him. “Harsh?”
Heedless to his own warning, Aramis gulped down several mouthfuls of burning coffee, shrugging. He smacked his lips. “But true.” He reached out and patted the very slight paunch below the other man's uniform. His tired eyes were nonetheless glittering, teasing. “Few less biscuits for you too, maybe?”
Barrel chested and a little more than half a head taller than Aramis and Athos both, Porthos' natural inclination was to be large. Every year as the nights drew in and winter blues set in, Porthos' uniform would grow just a little snug – and not in a good way – and though he could likely still bench press either of them (or both) and barely break a sweat, it showed. Athos simply had the delicate manners not to mention it. Besides, he could sympathise with his friend's plight; inexplicably plump until the age of seventeen, Athos' stomach still chipped away at his vanity on his low days – a little rounded above his trouser line, even at his thinnest. Meanwhile Aramis – and, it seemed, d'Artagnan – ate and drank whatever he liked, did only what exercise was absolutely necessary and had a stomach like a washboard. Athos chalked it up to youth. He looked forward to Aramis' next birthday when he would hopefully awaken to a pot belly to make any just-thirty-year-old cringe.
Porthos, seemingly impervious to Aramis' teasing and more generous of thought than Athos, winked and took a sip from his mug. He shrugged. “You like me cuddly.”
“I do,” Aramis agreed then seemed to reconsider his reply and chugged his coffee, beating a hasty retreat into the kitchen where he stayed for some time. Porthos watched him go then glanced at Athos who concentrated both his eyes and mind on his statement for Treville. He did not miss, however, the surprised smile that softened the other man's face, nor the glance towards the kitchen.
“You almost done?” Porthos asked, appearing at Athos' shoulder.
“Almost.” Athos passed a weary hand across his face. “Thank you waiting for me.”
“Hey, come on. All for one, right?”
“Mm.”
Aramis re-appeared then, taking out his phone immediately and seating himself beside d'Artagnan's desk with his feet on it. He yawned suddenly, wide and loud. Athos' lips twitched.
“I've almost finished.”
Aramis glanced at him, slightly surprised. “Take your time.”
The sweetness of it all was that he meant it. All of them were either finished with their statements, or not intending to write them up until later, but his friends would stay until Athos was ready to go. He had never asked them to. Aramis seemed to think it a necessity after the eighth time waltzing back in an hour after the shift ended because he had forgotten something, only to find Athos still there, up to his ears in paperwork and lukewarm coffee.
The priory bell was striking eleven when the door at the far end of the office swung inwards and a man entered. He nodded once to Athos and would have hurried past were it not for d'Artagnan. DC Wredden slowed and stood for a moment, staring at the peacefully sleeping young man.
“Keep walking,” Aramis singsonged softly, not looking up from his phone.
Wredden stood his ground. “He's asleep,” he said, not troubling to keep his voice down.
“Wessex's finest,” Porthos muttered to Athos with a grin. Wredden scowled at them both.
“He is,” Aramis agreed, pocketing his mobile and dropping his legs to the floor. He leant forwards. “And if you wake him, I will inform DCI Richelieu that it was you who scratched his car the other day.”
The things Aramis knew about their colleagues never failed to amaze Athos. And, while he was generally opposed to blackmail – it was, after all, fairly frowned upon – he couldn't help but cheer inwardly as Wredden took a step back. Aramis in a temper could be cruel, but Richelieu? He must have had a really rough night, was all Athos could think.
“He's only been here five minutes, and he's sleeping on duty. La Fere, aren't you going to do anything?”
Porthos stood. “His shift finished three hours ago. Keep. Walking.”
Wredden deflated, no doubt disappointed at having no grounds to report d'Artagnan to their higher ups. He looked appealingly at Athos.
“You heard them,” Athos said, unmoved. “If d'Artagnan chooses to spend his off-duty hours sleeping at his desk then it's no business of yours, DC Wredden.” Ordinarily Athos tried to abstain from pulling rank on anyone, but Wredden's outright disdain for his rank – his constant error-seeking in the uniformed officers, not just Athos and his friends – grated on him.
Reluctantly Wredden retreated, hands raised in surrender. He was no fool, could easily have been a sergeant or higher by now if he had stayed in uniform, and clearly three 'Musketeers' standing ready to defend their rookie was a risk he was unwilling to take.
“Tosser,” Aramis said emphatically under his breath as the door to CID swung shut behind Wredden. “Thinks he's the bloody PCC now. I mean seriously, God damn him.”
“And,” Athos began with one final flourish as he saved and printed, “the idiot who gave him a job in CID in the first place.”
He stood and retrieved his statement from the printer, scrawling his signature across the tops of the pages hurriedly. Donning coat and scarf, Athos held out a hand in a 'gimmee' gesture towards the others. Porthos roused d'Artagnan, who sat up with a snatch of air and a piece of paper stuck to his cheek, and handed the younger man's report over too.
Placing them in Treville's office, they headed towards the door. At last.
“So,” Aramis began conversationally, “which one of you lucky bastards wants to give me a lift to the train station? My car's off the road.”
Athos scoffed. “I will not.”
“Why not?”
“Get your car fixed. Like I told you. Six weeks ago when it first made that noise.”
Aramis had the good grace to look vaguely embarrassed. “I'm going to.”
“When?”
Aramis turned appealingly to Porthos, shimmied up a little. “Take me?”
Porthos blushed – actually honest to god, blushed – and shook his head. Athos did too, though without the blush. Even for Aramis that was laying it on a bit thick.
“Can't.” Porthos guided a stumbling d'Artagnan through the door with one hand on his collar. “Gotta make sure this one doesn't fall in the road.”
“You're not cycling?” Athos asked the youngest, aggrieved. “You can hardly stand up!”
D'Artagnan rubbed his eyes, for all the world looking like the boy they kept calling him, then scowled. “I'll be fine.”
“You are not cycling,” Athos said again, an order this time.
“I'm gonna take 'im,” Porthos soothed, amusement in his voice. “Don't worry.” He turned to d'Artagnan. “Come on, Pup, if you're good I’ll let you stick your head out the window.”
For a moment it seemed d'Artagnan would argue, but exhaustion overcame his pride and he shrugged – a little huffily, Athos thought. “Okay. Fine. Whatever.”
They left the two of them trying to squeeze d'Artagnan's road bike into the back of Porthos' people-mover and, as Aramis slid into the passenger seat beside him, Athos side-eyed him but said nothing as he started the engine and set off.
“You missed the turn.” Aramis sat up and followed said turn with his eyes as Athos sailed past it.
Athos frowned. “No, I didn’t. I'm taking you home.”
They were back on shift in barely seven hours. By the time Aramis had waited for a train, then walked from the station to his house it would be less than five. Hardly even worth it.
“Athos, you don't have to-” Aramis broke off, his fists clenched in his lap. “Thanks.”
“You're welcome,” Athos said calmly. He wondered why Aramis had not asked him to do so in the first place – he was never normally shy about asking favours.
“My car's not broken,” Aramis confessed quietly, as they crawled along the road through the Saturday morning shoppers a few minutes later. “I just can't drive it right now.”
“No?”
Aramis exhaled, his jaw a harsh line as he gazed out the window. He shook his head shortly. “I had a friend over for the night. Then in the morning...” He hesitated a beat then withdrew his phone from his pocket and leaned towards Athos.
Athos glanced at the unmoving traffic way up ahead, then at the small screen being thrust his way. Then did a double take. Felt his chest constrict painfully.
It was nothing he hadn't seen before – the scratched paintwork, smashed windows, upended rubbish bins, even the crudely painted slurs adorning the bonnet were familiar sights – but to see them set against Aramis' meticulously cared for little garden, his precious car sat sadly in the middle of it all was...
“Who the fuck did that?” Athos' grip on the steering wheel turned white.
Aramis shrugged.
“I think this one is my favourite,” he said tightly, with a painful smile. Zooming in, he turned the screen back to Athos to reveal a slightly blurred picture of the front door, 'This Paki takes it up the backy' scrawled cruelly across it. “Don't you think that's clever? They made it rhyme.”
His control failed him on the last word and Athos watched as the younger man's face crumpled before being hidden behind one hand. Before Athos had the chance to speak – though god knew what he was going to say anyway – Aramis went on.
“And I'm not ashamed of who I am, Athos, I'm not! I refuse to be!” He emerged from behind his hands, his face damp and shoulders heaving. “It's just that's my fucking home, and my fucking car that I have to drive to where I work and to my- my parents'! God, my neighbours have seen it, Athos! Alan next door, and Camille and her kids, and Iris over the road had to open her fucking net curtains yesterday to that. Because of me!”
Fury roiled within Athos, a sick, empty feeling in the pit of his stomach. Not because of Aramis, he thought. But because some sad-act with nothing better to do decided to take offence. “Have you reported it?” He asked, very quietly.
Aramis stared. “Of course I haven't fucking reported it! What's wrong with you?”
“You need to report it – no, Aramis, listen to me!” He turned in his seat, for once grateful for the inadequacies of the town centre road system. He took hold of Aramis' hands, still locked in a death-grip around his phone, and squeezed. “You need to report this. You know you do.”
Aramis shook his head vigorously, trying to pull away.
“Did you clean it up?” Athos kept his voice deliberately calm, his additional victim-handling courses Aramis had forced him into attending becoming ironically useful.
Aramis nodded. Athos felt frustration and disappointment dig at him – Aramis knew better than that.
“All of it? Where's the car?”
The younger man sniffed, withdrew one hand from Athos and used it to wipe his nose. “I put the rubbish back in the bin, and- and Alan let me put the car in his garage.” His voice was dull. “I think he just thought it should be hidden – Camille's trying to sell her house, you know? Doesn't exactly scream curb appeal.”
“What about the door? The glass?”
“We covered the door. The glass is still there. Christ, Athos, they were all so nice about it. And all I can think about is I’m just so- so- God.”
Humiliated, Athos finished for him in his head. Angry. Hurt.
The traffic was moving up ahead so Athos reluctantly turned back to it. “Why didn't you tell me? Us?” Clearly Porthos had had no clue as to what had happened or else it would certainly not be Athos driving Aramis home. “We could have come round yesterday, taken a look at the scene or called it in, helped clear up-”
“Athos! Just- argh!” Aramis broke off with a noise of wordless annoyance, and hurled his phone down into the foot well.
Despite himself, Athos flinched. They fell into uncomfortable silence then, both silently fuming.
“Don't tell the others,” Aramis murmured a few minutes later, curled up in his seat and looking impossibly vulnerable. He was calmer though.
Athos looked at him, helpless. “Aramis...”
“They'll only get cross and want to help.”
“That's rather my point,” Athos said exasperatedly.
“Please.”
“All right.” Athos sighed, then, softening, put one comforting hand on Aramis' knee. “All right.”
It was almost half past twelve by the time Athos pulled into the drive and switched off the ignition. Aramis had fallen into a restless sleep not long after they had started moving again but now sat dozing, his breathe turning the window white where his face was smushed against it. With a sigh, Athos tilted his head back and closed his eyes for a moment, then rallied and turned to wake his friend.
“Aramis.” He shook one shoulder, letting his thumb graze across the bare skin above the hoodie. Aramis frowned and shifted towards him, blinking dazedly in the harsh winter sunlight. “Come inside,” Athos told him gently.
The frown deepened as Aramis became more aware – realised that they were at Athos' home and not his. To Athos' surprise he did not protest, only sighed and nodded as he sat up. “'kay.”
With Aramis and a mug of tea safely dispatched to the guest bedroom, Athos sank gratefully down onto his settee. He knew he ought to go to bed himself but with Aramis' distress still fresh in his mind could not quite bring himself to go yet. He flicked the television on then proceeded to completely ignore it.
He was furious. Headache inducingly, mind-chillingly, furious. And no amount of sleep, or trashy daytime TV, or even the bottle of red he had gotten out was going to soothe it. Against his better judgement he took out Aramis' abandoned mobile and puzzled over the pin for a moment (Aramis' collar number, as it turned out). It opened to the same sickening set of photos and Athos took some time flicking through them properly. Each new one was as bad as the first – the fact that someone had taken the time to carve some of the slurs deep into the body of the car rather than daub them on the paintwork was particularly unsettling – and it seemed no element of Aramis' life had gone unremarked upon.
Many of them were slightly blurred despite the auto-focus and Athos wondered over that for a moment. Then he didn't. The image of Aramis – his friend, his brother who had devoted his life to protecting others – meekly seeing off a date then taking pictures of the graffiti with hands that shook too much for the camera to compensate for was one he conjured all too easily.
The mobile buzzed in his hand and Porthos' name appeared briefly. Without thinking, Athos opened the message.
The downsides of owning a puppy... Athos give you the car lecture all the way? ;) x
Then a photograph of d'Artagnan, fast asleep and drooling on Porthos' shoulder. Then, as Athos was considering fashioning a response -
Seriously – get your car fixed. You're gonna give him a stroke. x
Then -
Do you need a lift in later? x
That one at least Athos could answer and, he reasoned, probably should. The last thing Aramis would want was Porthos turning up on his doorstep with the vandalism still there.
Athos driving. Going to sleep now.
He had just returned to looking at 'the crime scene' when it buzzed again.
Me too. Sleeeeeep. x (No kiss from you??)
Athos sniffed, amused. It went against every fibre of his being, but he did respond –
x.
A buzz from the table behind him signalled that he too was being contacted, and he rose to retrieve his own phone. Two messages. Both from Porthos. The first was the same as Aramis' 'puppy' text – sans the lecture comment – but the second was more serious.
Aramis seem okay to you? It read. V v weird all night. Won't talk to me???
Athos sighed, conflicted. On the one hand, he would dearly like to share Aramis' problem with Porthos – if only to get someone else's opinion – on the other, it was Aramis' problem to share. Not his. All the same, he had half constructed a response – complete with pictures from Aramis' phone – before he stopped. Thought better of it.
Bad day. He wrote instead – technically true. Might talk later. A.
He would talk to Aramis again, then to Porthos. But first he would go to bed, he decided.
He awoke, some five hours later, still laid out on the sofa but the curtains were open, the television off, and the coffee table clear of the last few days debris. From upstairs the shower shut off and he could hear Aramis' quiet footsteps along the landing back to the guest bedroom.
“Aramis?”
No response.
Right, then. Athos stood, regretting immediately his day spent on the sofa, and made his way to the kitchen. Eggs, he decided. Eggs, toast, and tea were required. Night rotas were always weird. Not enough time to start eating breakfast cereal in the evening, but to eat a proper dinner beforehand made him sluggish through the shift. Treville really ought to give some consideration to his sergeant's advancing age before planning the rotas – Athos was too old to be pulling the graveyard shifts more than once.
Aramis emerged as Athos was putting the toast in, freshly showered and looking a bit more like himself now that he had managed to sleep a little.
“Morning,” he said, his voice gravelly. “Can I do anything?”
“Set the table?” Athos handed him cutlery and mugs, which Aramis took with a smile.
“Eating at the table. Fancy.” Task complete, Aramis settled at the kitchen table.
“Teapot,” Athos said, placing it on the table as well. “Even fancier. Are you sure you can bear it?”
“Cambridge snob.”
Athos paused behind him, placed both hands on his friend's shoulders. “Oxford drop-out.”
“Yes!” Aramis cried abruptly, straightening. “They left that one out, didn't they? The one thing I am actually bloody ashamed of and they don't give a toss!”
“Those uneducated wankers,” Athos agreed, delighted at Aramis' outrage. They sat down to eat then, both of them quiet. After a while Athos glanced up, found Aramis watching him with his chin on one hand.
“I am going to report it,” he informed Athos. “It's not going to do any good but-” he stabbed at piece of toast “- I'm a hypocrite if I don't.”
“Fine.”
“Fine?”
“Good."
"Good?"
Athos huffed. "Yes, good. I'm glad.” Proud. Athos was proud of him. He only hoped Aramis could see that.
Aramis smiled gratefully and pushed his plate aside. “Of course...I'm probably going to need a new car now.”
“Oh, thank God!” Athos exclaimed in only half-feigned relief, downing his knife and fork. “At last!”
“Don't be cruel! I've had that car since I joined the force,” Aramis protested, but he laughed as he did so.
“That was fifteen years ago – people get less for murder!”
“I loved that car.” And all of a sudden he was sad again. “And that house,” he added.
Athos reached across and placed one hand atop his. “You don't have to move.” The look Aramis fired him then said that yes, yes, he did. “All right,” Athos surrendered, going back to his food.
“Eggs are weird,” Aramis decided aloud a few moments later.
“Oh?”
The younger man gestured at his plate. “Was that breakfast? Was it dinner? I mean, who can even tell?”
When Athos returned from the shower some half an hour later, Aramis was curled on the sofa watching some American sitcom and clutching his phone to his chest.
“Ready to go?” Athos perched on the arm beside him.
“Did you text Porthos from my phone?”
Athos hesitated. “Yes,” he admitted. “Is that okay?”
Aramis nodded, then turned to look at him. “You've never sent me kisses.”
“And I never shall. Besides, you've never asked.”
Later that night – or the following morning, depending on how one looked at it – Athos' phone buzzed in his chest pocket and he withdrew it to find two texts from Porthos again, one sent about ten minutes after the first.
WTAF? WHY DDN'T YOU TEL ME?
Then -
Sorry I yelled. I get it. Pup still awake?
Athos smiled, aware of d'Artagnan perched atop a bin beside him, bleary-eyed but looking at him curiously.
For now. Okay? A.
A few moments pause, then -
Gonna see Captain in AM. Mis coming home with me.
Enjoy. You take houses, I'll take cars? A.
Deal.
“Everything okay?” D'Artagnan asked as Athos placed the phone back in his pocket.
“Hm? Yes, fine.”
Athos sat for a moment, thinking, then withdrew his phone again. Found 'Aramis' in his contacts.
xx A.