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Athos was exhausted. He'd not been home in two weeks since Treville had decided that his skills would be of most use in South America of all places, despite the fact that for all his education, he barely spoke two words of Spanish and even less Portuguese. When he'd questioned the Captain's motive, he'd just shrugged and said that was what Aramis was for. Their sniper-turned-linguist had been both smug and offended at the implication there.

In all it amounted to a fortnight of utter ridiculousness that left Athos questioning why he ever thought it would be a good idea to befriend the loud-mouthed, flirtatious Chilean and wishing that he could just collapse into his own bed. He'd never slept well in hotels, even Before.

As soon as he walked through his front door, he knew something was wrong. The alarm had already been deactivated – he never left without switching it on – and some of the clutter on the side table in the hallway had been moved, just a little. Someone had been here.

'No,' he corrected himself when he felt ice shiver down his spine, 'someone is here.' He had his gun in his hand before the thought had even truly processed and moved sideways so that he was hugging the wall. Aramis and Porthos were still out by the car, gathering the things they'd need for the night (Aramis had informed them that the elevator in his apartment building was broken and he had absolutely no intention of walking up twelve flights of stairs tonight so one of them would just have to deal with him. Porthos' apartment was barely big enough for the man himself, let alone a house guest as sprawling as Aramis so Athos had grudgingly offered him a sofa that had somehow evolved into 'sleepover at Athos' place' without any input from him besides mild disgruntlement.) and they'd be there any moment.

There was no point in trying to stay hidden; whoever was here would have heard him come through the door – he hadn't been trying to be subtle.

"Who's there?" He called out, pleased that he was able to sound even and calm. He could have been commenting on the weather.

There was a vaguely surprised pause and then a voice called out from the living room, "In here."

Keeping his gun up in front of him, Athos moved carefully to the doorway and flicked on the light. There was a man – little more than a boy, actually – sat on his sofa calmly with a laptop perched on his knees and a SIG Pro 2022 beside him on the cushion. He looked thoroughly unbothered by the gun pointing in his direction.

"Who are you and what are you doing here? You law enforcement?" It was a logical leap considering he had entered uninvited and was carrying the standard issue sidearm of Parisian police.

The man laughed a little – it was an unhappy noise – and shook his head. "Not even close, I'm afraid. As for the other questions, my name is d'Artagnan and I'm here to kill you."

As he spoke, Athos became aware that Aramis and Porthos had appeared at his shoulders, hands on their own weapons as they calculated the situation. Unsettled and more than a little confused, Athos frowned at him. "If you're killing me, you might be a little outnumbered."

"That doesn't matter," d'Artagnan replied breezily, glancing up from his laptop only momentarily before freezing. "I wouldn't touch that if I were you," he snapped.

Nonplussed, Athos took a quick glance round and saw Porthos with his hand half extended to an innocuous duffle bag on the floor by their feet – it wasn't his. Porthos glanced at him with a look of intense worry and muttered, "Athos, that thing is beeping."

d'Artagnan scoffed a little. "Of course it's beeping. Bombs tend to."

Athos could feel this situation rapidly spinning away from him and goddamn it, all he'd wanted was to go to sleep. He was too tired for this shit. "You brought a bomb into my house?"

"It's only insurance. You don't try to shoot me and I won't trigger it – happy?" d'Artagnan actually looked a little irritated that he'd been side tracked from whatever it was he was doing on that laptop.

Athos lowered his gun a little, still wary but unwilling to do anything that might break d'Artagnan out of his bizarre calm. "So you came here to kill me. Might I ask why?"

The man sighed and finally looked up properly. "I wasn't being wholly honest. I came here to talk to you and depending on what I learned, leave here peacefully or shoot my way out. Though I must admit, the latter seems more likely."

"Have we met before?"

"No. You met my father once."

"Oh?"

"You killed him."

Well, that made things make a little more sense. Revenge was a much more understandable motive for all of this than a desire for random carnage. "I will admit to having killed people in the past – it's hard not to in my line of work. But the men I kill have never given me any choice," he said honestly. He'd never killed anyone that wasn't trying to kill him, except for one person, and that person sure as hell wasn't this kid's father.

"Don't lie to me," d'Artagnan warned, and he said it so damn calmly, as though this whole thing was happening to someone else, not to him. He laughed mirthlessly for a moment. "His last words were your name. It was harder to find you than I expected. There aren't many Athos' in the world so I figured it would be a short search but you are one well hidden man. It took me longer than it should have done to realise 'Athos' might be a code name."

"There aren't many people who could learn that name," Porthos pointed out, sounding uncertain. "Are you a Musketeer?"

d'Artagnan laughed again, more genuinely this time and shook his head. "God no. Do you get many Musketeers in here, out for revenge? I'm not police, army, secret service, nothing. I'm just good with computers."

"You couldn't have hacked into the Musketeers' database. That thing is impenetrable," Aramis scoffed in disbelief.

"Nothing is impenetrable," d'Artagnan retorted. "But in this case, you are correct. It would have taken too long to get into your system so I found a back door instead. The Red Guards have plenty of data about you three."

"Richelieu," Porthos cursed under his breath. Just one more reason to hate the man, Athos supposed.

"What was your father's name?"

"Alexandre d'Artagnan of Lupiac. You shot him twice in the gut nine days ago."

The voice in Athos' head marvelled, 'You found me with nothing but a name in nine days?' but what he said out loud was "Nine days ago I was in Santiago, Chile, trying to work out if the man we were looking for had been there recently. I was most certainly not shooting anyone, let alone a Gascon I'd never met."

For the first time in this whole bizarre situation, d'Artagnan looked uncertain. He stared at Athos piercingly for a moment and then asked, "What name did you travel under?"

"Athos de Breuil," he answered easily. If proving his innocence meant that d'Artagnan would disarm the bomb sat at their feet then he would do so willingly. Once they were free from its threat, he had every intention of arresting him.

d'Artagnan typed for a moment, eyes flickering from the screen to the three of them and back again, calculating. After a long moment he seemed to sag into the sofa beneath him, looking utterly defeated.

"Well?"

"It would seem that unless you have a twin – and your birth certificate tells me you did not – then you did not kill my father."

"You have my birth certificate?" Athos squeaked in surprise, even as Aramis butted in with, "So you'll disarm your little bomb then?"

D'Artagnan's eyes went from the bag, to their guns, to his own weapon sat beside him. "And if I do that, how exactly am I supposed to get out of here?"

"How did you even get in?" Athos asked belatedly, suddenly realising that it should have been impossible.

"Back door."

"It was locked."

"Locks are easily picked. Even ones as complicated as yours."

"There was an alarm."

"I told you, I'm good with computers. When your alarm goes off, it sends a signal to the local police via the internet, meaning that it has the capability to do so. If something connects to the internet, I can get in."

"Athos," Porthos whined softly, glancing down meaningfully at the bag again. In all his confusion and exhaustion, Athos' body didn't seem to understand that he was in mortal danger here and he wasn't reacting quite like a sane human being should.

He turned back to d'Artagnan. "You came here to find out if I killed your father and kill me if I did. I didn't. Are you planning on killing us anyway?"

d'Artagnan actually looked a little offended by that. "No, of course not. But if I turn that bomb off now, you're going to try and arrest me and I cannot let that happen. You didn't kill my father but someone did and I fully intend to see them dead, even if it means they drag me into the grave too. It's pretty hard to get revenge from inside a prison cell."

"Would your father want you to get yourself killed, avenging him?"

"My father didn't want to die. Shit happens."

"So what are you planning on doing now kid?" Porthos asked, starting to sound truly strained. "If you're not going to detonate the bomb-"

"I didn't say I wouldn't. I just don't want to."

"But if you do detonate it, who's going to get revenge for your father?" Aramis pointed out. "You're hardly protected."

d'Artagnan's eyes dropped to the bag again – he obviously hadn't considered that. "I…" he started, then hesitated. "I guess I didn't actually expect to be leaving here at all."

"Well," Athos started, taking a measured step forwards carefully, "If you're not planning on blowing us all to hell, I think we'd all appreciate it if you would disarm it."

He hesitated for a long moment before he sighed and reached for his pocket. The movement wasn't threatening but the three of them were too wired to see it as anything but an attack and Athos stepped back quickly as their guns rose in unison. d'Artagnan flinched a little then froze.

"That bomb will still go off if you shoot me now so I wouldn't suggest it as a course of action. I'm just reaching for my phone, alright?"

Aramis squinted at him. "How is shooting you going to set it off?"

d'Artagnan rotated his hand carefully so that they could see the inside of his wrist, revealing what looked like an IV line leading to the pocket he had reached for. "It's monitoring my pulse. My heart stops and they're going to be rebuilding your house."

"For some kid looking to get revenge, your plan is pretty brutal," Porthos pointed out as d'Artagnan fished the phone out of his pocket slowly.

"I learned enough in the Red Guard files to know that I shouldn't underestimate you three. I figured it was always better to be prepared and I didn't much care about survival once I was done." He tapped on his phone screen a few times and the bag on the floor suddenly emitted a rapid staccato of high pitched beeps – Athos thought for a heart stopping moment that d'Artagnan had lied and had triggered the bomb anyway but then the room went dead silent, apart from the over-loud sound of their breathing.

d'Artagnan hissed a little as he pulled the wire away from his wrist, revealing the needle that had been inch deep in his flesh. Athos felt his own skin twinge in sympathy. "Well then, officers, are you arresting me?"

Aramis and Porthos both looked at Athos for instruction, deferring to him as their leader in all situations. He thought about it. "You want to go after whoever it was that shot your father?"

"Yes."

"You'll kill him when you find him?"

"Yes."

"Admitting premeditated murder to three secret agents? Great plan," Aramis muttered, clearly feeling a little sore at being so horrendously diverted from his plan to burrow into Athos' sofa for at least 24 hours.

d'Artagnan glared. "I'm not a liar."

"Just someone that can hack my alarm, pick my locks and create a bomb?" Athos replied with a little bitterness himself. He'd really been looking forwards to bed. "And find my birth certificate apparently. Seriously, I don't even know where it is."

"I'm good with computers. Though I'll admit, the lock picking does look a little suspicious."

"Just a little," Aramis replied sullenly.

Porthos frowned a little at him, stung. "I could pick locks before I met you. You never judged me for that, did you?"

"That was different," Aramis defended. "You had no choice."

"Maybe he didn't either. Sure he just tried to kill us all, but we don't know jack shit about him," Porthos reasoned carefully. Athos listened to them bicker for a moment before sighing and rubbing at his eyes.

"This man you're after, he called himself Athos?"

d'Artagnan shrugged a little helplessly, looking a whole lot smaller now that he wasn't holding a bomb over their heads. He looked like a child who had swum out of their depth. "I don't know, I wasn't there. I heard the gun go off and I ran in but by the time I got to him, the attacker was already gone. My father repeated Athos a few times before…" He stopped there, looking away quickly.

Athos sighed again, feeling every hour of his life weighing on his bones. He looked at the thoughtful Porthos and the irritated Aramis and then to d'Artagnan. It might be a stupid decision but then it was already past midnight and the best of worst decisions always happened in the early hours – it might come out alright. He was already down the rabbit hole; he might as well head for Wonderland.

"If someone is killing people under my name, I want to know about it. d'Artagnan? How do you feel about working with the Musketeers?"

---

Twelve months later, and Athos knew with absolute certainty that he had made the right decision that day. d'Artagnan had proved his worth twenty times over and, despite initial hostility, he'd fitted in brilliantly with their team. Treville had been badgering him for years that Team Alpha needed a fourth member (though when he'd met d'Art for the first time, he'd yelled at Athos saying that he'd meant for the fourth person to be 'oh I don't know, an actual agent?') and now, he'd gotten his wish. Of course, d'Artagnan wasn't actually a Musketeer yet, but he was certainly on his way.

Athos also knew that allowing d'Art and Aramis to become friends had been an awful, awful idea. "Please," he begged over the comms, not for the first time, "please, just stop, alright? Can we at least pretend to be professional about this?"

He was immediately replied to with "He started it," in unison. He sighed heavily and focussed on his mark again. "Porthos?"

"I see him. I can't get across the plaza though, there's too many guards."

"d'Art, can you give us a distraction?"

"Did you have anything in mind?" He sounded far too cheerful in the tense atmosphere but that had always been how Aramis and him had dealt with the stress. Athos couldn't really fault him for it.

"Just try and clear some of the men. It's too crowded for Porthos and I to get close."

"One distraction, coming right up." Their usual strategy for such things was to have d'Artagnan nearby, surrounded by his beloved computers, Athos and Porthos on the ground and Aramis perched on a rooftop, rifle in hand, watching over them all. It was a system that worked well for them.

Athos watched as the Russian diplomat and war criminal they were after saluted at the crowd and moved to step off the stage. It would be so much easier if they just had to eliminate him, but Treville had specifically ordered that they bring him in alive for questioning – regardless, he knew that Aramis would be sat somewhere with his finger on the trigger. They all cultivated a special sort of disgust for the kind of man Dagarov was.

"We'll lose him in this crowd Athos," Porthos warned.

"Aramis can keep tabs. d'Artagnan, where the hell is this distraction?"

"Give a guy thirty seconds, won't you? I can only type so fast."

"Less talking, more typing. We're on the clock here."

There was a disgruntled huff, followed a moment later by a burst of rapid fire Russian and then very soft cheer of triumph as every guard in the vicinity suddenly put a hand to their radio to listen to the message. Athos had to smile as he saw a large group of them move away, down towards the far end of the plaza and out of his sight.

"Nice job."

"You speak Russian?" Aramis asked in surprise.

"Конечно, не так ли?"

"You are, of course, aware that none of us know what you just said."

"Yep," d'Artagnan replied happily, popping the 'p.'

"How long do we have?" Athos couldn't let them distract him from the mission. They couldn't screw this one up or Treville would have his head.

"I told them that they had to investigate a disturbance two streets over. Should buy you ten minutes at least."

"Porthos?"

"Moving into position now."

"Aramis?"

"I've got eyes on you both."

"Okay. Let's do this and then get the hell out of here. It's too damn hot for this shit." It was actually a perfectly temperate 27 degrees but Athos was feeling just a little bitter about being sent on a mission so soon after getting off their last one. He'd really been hoping for at least a week of lazing around in the Parisian summer with nothing more to worry about than whatever mischief Aramis and d'Art were causing.

But it wasn't the time to worry about that now. With casual ease, Athos made his way through the thick crowd, making sure that the bodies pressing against him were never able to feel the handgun tucked into his holster and saw out of the corner of his eye Porthos doing the same. He'd almost made it to Dagarov when d'Artagnan spoke up again.

"Err, guys? We might have a problem."

Immersed in the crowd, Athos couldn't talk into his comms piece without looking like a crazy person and drawing attention, so it was Aramis who replied. "What sort of problem?"

"The sort of problem where an APB just went out, warning everyone in the vicinity that four men were here to take Dagarov."

Crazy or not, Athos needed in on this conversation. He ducked towards Porthos and snatched at his arm, leaning close that they looked like they were talking to each other. "How is that possible?" He snapped irritably. "The only people who know we're here are Musketeers."

"And Richelieu," Porthos pointed out.

"He wouldn't betray us outright like this," Athos disagreed.

"Unless he thought that we'd all be killed and unable to implicate him."

"It might be on his system," d'Artagnan pointed out. "I hack in there often enough to know that someone else would be able to if they knew where to look. It's not exactly a complicated encryption."

"I don't think this is the major issue right now," Aramis reminded them. "The guards are trying to get Dagarov out of here. They're heading to a convoy at the top of the plaza. If we're doing this now, we have to do it quickly."

"We'd never make it. He'll be surrounded by guards," Porthos said firmly.

Athos grimaced. "But if we leave him, they'll ferret him away to a secure facility that we can't enter without causing a multitude of diplomatic incidents. Treville would skin us." He thought hard and quickly, aware that their window of opportunity was bleeding away quickly. "Maybe if we could get the crowd to scatter then we could get close enough to hijack one of the vehicles. d'Art, can you give us something to work with?"

"With pleasure."

"Aramis, be ready to start shooting. Only go for clean shots, we can't afford collateral on this one."

"Have you ever known me to miss?"

"Just a reminder. Porthos, you ready?" The big man grinned and nodded, adrenaline burning bright in his eyes. "d'Artagnan?"

"Ready?"

"Do it." There was a momentary delay and then a muffled explosion before smoke started pouring out of shattered windows from a building a few hundred metres away. Athos, like all the civilians around him, stared at it in blank surprise for a moment before he rallied himself and took off after Porthos, their mad dash covered by the swarming, terrified crowd all around them.

"Jesus shit d'Art, what the hell was that?" He yelled hoarsely, coughing a little as the smoke filtered through the plaza.

"The building was empty and registered for demolition anyway. I just gave it a nudge in the right direction."

He could hear Aramis laughing his head off somewhere but he didn't doubt for an instant that the man still had them covered. And then Athos didn't have time to care anymore as he fell onto a guard in front of him, knocking his gun away and driving a fist so hard into his face that he felt his nose break. The man hit the ground so quickly that Athos didn't even have to stop running.

Somewhere off to his left he saw a guard drop the ground with a spray of blood, though he was too far away to hear the rifle shot. Thanks to the absolute calamity about them, they were able to get to the convoy without encountering that many men. Between them they were easily able to secure the main jeep and slip inside, Porthos quickly getting to work hot wiring it – he thanked the stars for Porthos' criminal past – as Athos kept watch.

Dagarov was only a few steps away, being hurriedly pulled towards the vehicle by his body guards. Athos waited until the last moment before springing out the door, jabbing his fist into the throat of one, kneeing a second in the groin and then grabbing Dagarov. A third guard took one of Aramis' rounds to the head when he moved to pull a gun and Athos was able to scramble back into the jeep, pushing his charge in front of him, before anyone else had time to react. As soon as they were in, Porthos was driving, getting them out of there as fast as he could go.

"Package is secure," Athos told the others. "Regroup at site C."

"On my way," Aramis reported dutifully.

There was a long moment as they all waited for d'Artagnan to respond, but there was nothing. "d'Art?" Athos refused to let the worry coiling in his gut take over. Dagarov was screaming at them in Russian but Athos slapped some cuffs on him and forced him into his seat.

"I'm not far from his position," Aramis said. "I can try to get to him."

"Can you see the building he's in?"

"Negative. The angle's wrong. If I get onto the next roof, I might be able to get a better look."

"Go." Athos looked over at Porthos who was concentrating fiercely on the road, his hands white where they gripped the steering wheel.

After a moment Aramis spoke again. "I can see where he was. His laptop's gone but some of his other stuff is still there, as though he left in a hurry."

Before anyone could formulate a response to that, there was a burst of static over the line and then d'Artagnan was back, talking so quickly it was hard to understand him. "Hi, sorry about that, still here. Some of the guards must have worked out that the message I sent them was a ruse and must have tracked the signal back to me, it was stupid, I should have bounced the IP but there wasn't time and-"

"d'Art, shut up," Athos ordered. "What happened?"

"They found me. I only had a few seconds warning so I ran upstairs. I thought that if they saw the desk was empty, they'd just leave but they're looking for me. I couldn't talk before because they were too close."

"Can you get out of there?"

"They left men by the door. I could try and rush them but there's not really any cover worth a damn."

"Don't. Can you get to the roof?"

"That's what I'm trying to do now."

"Aramis is across the street. Get yourselves together and get the hell out of there. If you can get up the main street we can pick you up," he said, nudging at Porthos' shoulder and indicating he make the next turn. For several tense minutes they drove in silence, then d'Art started cursing violently.

"Yeah, the roof's not going to be an option."

"I can take out the ones I can see d'Art," Aramis offered, "but there's too much cover on the roof for me to get them all."

"Don't bother, there's more inside. I'll never get through them all."

"So now what?" Porthos was vibrating with tension and Athos could feel his own heart rate skyrocketing unpleasantly. From Dagarov's smile, Athos could almost believe he knew what was going on.

"Can't go up, can't go down. Any of you know how high you can fall without dying?"

"You're not serious?"

"You have a better plan?" d'Artagnan snapped, sounding far more stressed than his usual carefree demeanour ever was. "Fourth floor isn't so bad right?"

"You'll kill yourself!"

"They'll kill me if I don't move."

"Land on your side," Aramis told him, cutting off Athos' next words. "I've jumped from a few roof tops in my time. You land on your back or your head and your spine will snap like a twig. Land on your front and your ribs will shred your lungs. Word of warning, your arm is almost certainly going to end up broken."

"Well, doesn't that sound- Oh, shit!" d'Artagnan cut off abruptly and there was another rush of static as a loud noise – Athos vaguely recognised the sound of breaking glass – swept through the comms.

"d'Art?" Porthos demanded a moment later, taking a turn too sharply and sending Athos and Dagarov tumbling sideways. In the whirl of movement, Athos caught sight of two army jeeps hot on their heels.

"Porthos, faster," he muttered quietly.

"d'Art, get the hell up," Aramis snapped suddenly. "The ones on the ground are heading your way."

d'Artagnan groaned, long and loud, in response to that and it was the greatest thing Athos had ever heard. "Come on kid, we're almost there."

"Remind me not to do that again. Who thought jumping out a window was a good idea?"

"That would be you kid."

"Past me was a fucking moron."

"Current you is a fucking moron, I'm sure. Turn left, I'm heading down the fire escape above you."

"Start heading North. We'll pick you up but we have to move quickly, okay?"

"Copy that."

Athos reached out and took Porthos' gun, before rolling the window down and siding so that he was sitting on the door with clear sight lines on the jeeps following him. He was nowhere near as good a shot as Aramis, especially from a moving stand at moving targets but that didn't mean he wasn't damn good. The windshields were bulletproof but the tyres were woefully unprotected. He was able to take out one of the jeeps with just three bullets.

Unfortunately that was when the second jeep caught on to what he was doing and a man with an assault rifle popped out the side to return fire. Athos caught a bullet in the arm and ducked back inside his own jeep hurriedly.

"You hit?" Porthos grunted.

"A graze. I'm fine."

He didn't look convinced but he let it go. "Aramis, we're a street away, where are you?"

"We'll be there, just hurry. We've got men just behind us."

"What a coincidence, so do we." Athos took a deep breath and fired out the window again, getting off two shots before he was forced to duck back inside. He couldn't risk blind-firing with the number of civilians on the streets.

Dagarov seemed to be growing more restless again, muttering in agitated Russian before he said, in very scratchy English, "You American?"

Athos laughed just a little and shook his head. "French. Or at least, working for the French," he replied in his own, spotless English. "Fabius and the people at the Quai d'Orsay would like a word."

The information seemed to stun Dagarov back into stillness. Porthos stirred unhappily beside him. "We're almost there. Get ready."

"Porthos, we're here," Aramis told them at almost the same moment.

"Let's do this then." Porthos slammed hard on the breaks, bringing them to a skidding halt directly in front of their teammates. Aramis was supporting a pale d'Artagnan but they rushed towards them without too much trouble. The jeep that had been behind them raced past, going too fast to react quickly enough to brake when they had, but able to release a burst of gunfire along their flank. Athos barely got the bulletproof window back up in time.

As soon as Aramis had bundled d'Artagnan into the back and scrambled in himself, Porthos hit the gas again, spinning the wheel to send them swerving back the way they'd come. Further down the road, the other jeep was doing the same.

"All in one piece?" Aramis asked brightly, apparently undeterred by the fact he was almost in the lap of a man who had been responsible for several brutal massacres.

d'Artagnan swore at him unhappily and Porthos laughed. Athos felt good humour glow in his stomach for the briefest of moments before Porthos obliterated it. "Athos is hit."

He glared at him, his eyebrows screaming 'traitor' with as much venom as he could muster until Aramis climbed over, into his lap, to take a look at him. Despite his natural desire for space, Athos had never quite managed to dissuade Aramis from his tactile disposition and by now he was used to the frequent invasions.

"Show me."

"We have bigger problems right now."

"Athos."

Sighing in defeat, Athos presented his arm for inspection. It honestly wasn't a problem, the bullet had only skimmed him and there was barely any blood. Aramis probed at the graze for a moment then sat back, relieved. "It's a scratch. This is what you were moaning about?"

Unwilling to dignify that with an answer, Athos tilted his hips and deposited Aramis heavily into the foot well in front of him. Unbothered, Aramis just scrambled back over to d'Art, shoving his ass into Athos' face in retribution as he went.

d'Art's face was drawn tight with pain, tan skin pale as he gripped helplessly at his left arm. At least he'd had the sense to land on his less dominant side. "How're you doing, kid?" Aramis very gently pulled the injured limb away from his chest to assess the damage, wincing in sympathy as he felt the give in the ruined bone.

"Athos?"

"Yes d'Artagnan?"

"Don't ever let me just out of a fourth floor window again please."

"I'm not entirely sure I 'let' you do it this time. But if it will make you feel better, I promise that I will stop you from throwing yourself out of buildings whenever I am able."

"Thanks. Aramis?"

"Yes?" He was busying himself by making a sling out of the sash he kept tied around his waist and didn't look up.

"Once my arm's in a cast and I've had some morphine, I'm going to punch you."

"Oh. Might I ask why?"

"You thought it would be a good idea for me to jump out a fucking window."

"You thought it would be a good idea. I merely offered sufficient advice to stop you from killing yourself in the process."

"I'm still going to punch you."

"Alright."

Athos found himself ridiculously glad that Dagarov didn't seem speak any French. His team would always get the mission done, always, but they didn't necessarily ever look like they knew what they were doing. Treville indulged them a little but even he would have been embarrassed by this exchange in front of an international criminal.

"If we could focus gentlemen."

"Don't lump me with them," Porthos replied mildly. "I'm doing my goddamn job." The words were only just out of his mouth when the jeep shuddered around them and they all jerked violently forwards. It would seem that their pursuers had caught up with them. "Son of a bitch."

The little colour that had lingered in d'Art's face had drained away and he blinked owlishly at Athos for a moment. "I think," he slurred eventually, "I'm going to pass out now." He slumped forwards bonelessly.

Aramis cursed a little in Spanish as he caught him, leaning him back in the seat and snapping the seatbelt closed over him, keeping him pinned to the seat.

"How's his arm?" Athos asked, studying d'Artagnan's lax features.

"Very, very broken. I think he busted up some ribs too. I'm impressed he's stayed conscious this whole time."

The jeep behind them rammed them again and Aramis swore colourfully, relieving d'Art of his hand gun and rolling down his own window to fire of a few shots at the windshield to try and distract the driver. The jeep swerved a little but kept on relentlessly, the assault rifle spitting at them and forcing Aramis back into cover.

Athos turned to Porthos. "Get us out of the city and head west. Once we're across the border in Belarus, we can head to a safe house and contact evac."

"You'll never get away with this," Dagarov informed them in English. "I will see you executed for this."

For a moment Athos was vaguely glad that Porthos didn't speak any English because he knew that his friend would never stand threats to his team without responding. The pleasure lasted all of about ten seconds before Aramis leaned across d'Artagnan and punched Dagarov square in the face and knocking him out cold.

"Why did you not do that sooner?"

Athos shrugged, not willing to get upset over scum like that. "Something about punching unarmed men seemed a little… brutal."

"He's not a man. He's a monster."

"What did he say?" Porthos asked, irritated to be left out.

"Idle threats of a man who's going to spend the rest of his life behind bars. Don't worry about it," Athos reassured.

Aramis poked himself out of his window again and fired once, hitting the other gunman square in the face. He fell from the jeep awkwardly, twisting as his legs caught on something until he was dragged under the back wheel. Athos tried to pretend he didn't hear the sickening crunch. The sudden bump at the speeds they were going was too much for the driver to control and the vehicle wrenched itself out of his control and swerving sideways wildly, careening into the side of a building and stilling.

Feeling slightly safer, Athos settled himself down in his seat, slipping his seatbelt on for the first time. Behind them, Aramis was muttering a Spanish prayer, just as he always did after taking lives but Athos and Porthos didn't comment. They left Aramis to his faith, and he never tried to force his views on them.

"This could have gone better."

"I don't know," Porthos comforted. "We've had worse."

"That is true. d'Artagnan hasn't."

"He was going to get badly injured sometime. At least this is something that we can fix."

"Stop talking about me," d'Artagnan muttered sullenly, his thick voice indicating that he hadn't fully woken up yet. Porthos laughed and Athos allowed himself a smile. It could always have gone worse.

---

"d'Artagnan's going to be out of action for how long?" Treville snapped, his voice climbing dangerously high as he stared down his three best men. "What the hell did you do to him?"

"Technically he did it to himself Sir-" Aramis started but Porthos stamped on his foot to shut him up.

"It was the only way out of a hopeless situation Sir," Athos supplied instead. "He was about to be overrun."

Treville still looked irritated but he let it slide, looking instead at the case file on the desk in front of him. "Well, I would have been happier if you'd gotten Dagarov without a HSC through the streets but I suppose you did what you could in the circumstances. We've looked through the files to see who might have given away your presence but everyone with authorised access checks out. Someone must have hacked the system."

"There's not a trace anywhere?" Athos knew that corrupt systems were all over the world but he couldn't believe that he worked for one. The Musketeers were the best of the best, and he couldn't think about them betraying them like this.

"Our technicians are working on it, but so far there's nothing."

"d'Artagnan will be out of hospital in two days. Give him a laptop and ten minutes and I guarantee he'll get you a lead," Athos told him.

Treville raised an eyebrow. "You want me to grant a civilian full access to classified files?"

"I think civilian isn't quite the term. d'Art's been driving to get a commission here for months. Let him prove himself. I'm telling you, there's no one better with a keyboard in front of them."

Porthos and Aramis both spoke up as well, voicing their support of their friend. They weren't just trying to help the kid because they liked him, he truly would make an amazing Musketeer one day if only Treville would give him the chance.

"Alright," the Captain agreed eventually. "But I want you there with him at all times. I'm not giving him access and then just letting him run wild through our system."

Athos thanked him and rose, shuffling away awkwardly. He'd never quite known how to act around the Captain and even after years of service and being able to call him a friend, it was still hard to find his footing. It was due in no small part to the fact that Treville was, in fact, a General and the ex-soldier in Athos trembled at such authority. He still had no idea why he preferred 'Captain' as his title.

When they told d'Artagnan of the news, he'd beamed at them – looking for all the world like a puppy with a treat – and thanked them profusely for their support of him.

"It's not like we said anything that isn't true. You're a menace with that laptop of yours."

d'Artagnan glanced away for a second, his joy flickering at the inadvertent reminder. His own laptop, the one he'd looked after like it was sacred since they'd first met him, hadn't quite survived the jump out the window. He had every intention of trying to fix it as soon as he had both hands available, but for now at least, it wasn't of any use. None of them had had the heart to ask him why this specific laptop was so important – they had a feeling it was something to do with his father, who still went almost utterly unmentioned.

"Well, we all have our talents. Mine is being a nosy little shit," he said after a moment, the smile returning only slightly strained.

"You still haven't told me how you found us. I can't understand how you went from one word to finding three covert agents in nine days. We're supposed to be hard to find," Aramis griped. He was still just a little bitter about that bomb.

"Well, I didn't know that," d'Artagnan mocked gently, smiling. "And you really need to let that go."

"You tried to blow us up!"

"I didn't though, did I? And besides, I didn't even know who you were. I think you're just annoyed I got the jump on you."

"Actually I think he's just annoyed that you got to the sofa before he did," Porthos pointed out. "He really wanted a nap."

"I was tired, okay? So were you as I seem to recall."

"I'd had two weeks of you jabbering on at a hundred miles an hour in Spanish, of course I was fucking tired."

Aramis did his best to look offended, tackling Porthos playfully and jabbing at his kidneys before the other man could twist away. Athos and d'Artagnan shared a look that clearly said 'children.' Eventually, Athos had to pull Aramis off Porthos before the larger man folded him in half and put him down carefully into one of the chairs at d'Art's bedside. "Stay."

"Bossy."

Athos sighed, looking so world weary that d'Artagnan laughed out loud, wincing a little as pain sprung up all down his side. Athos caught the flinch with a frown.

"Are you in pain?"

"Only when I breathe," d'Artagnan admitted easily. "It's not so bad."

Aramis snorted disbelievingly. "What was the final count? A broken arm, some ribs…?"

"Ulna and radius, humerus, collarbone, four ribs broken, two cracked and a few hairline fractures on my pelvis. It could be worse."

"You're a fucking idiot," Porthos admonished.

"At least I didn't get shot," d'Art replied with a lopsided shrug. "It's not like I haven't broken bones before."

"You've never broken anything with us," Athos pointed out, still looking a little tense from realising how badly d'Art had managed to hurt himself. "It's different."

"I swear to god, if you start blaming yourself for my stupidity, I'm going to be punching you straight after Aramis. This is entirely on me. And Dagarov, but I figure he'll get what's coming to him without any help from me."

"I was hoping you'd forgotten about that punching thing," Aramis muttered sullenly, eying him from just out of arm's reach. "It really wasn't my fault."

"No, but you usually deserve a punch for something or other," Porthos reminded him, smiling beatifically. Aramis hissed at him, clutching his chest as though wounded.

"Who did I piss off in a past life to end up with you three?" Athos muttered to himself, his lips twitching when d'Art snorted. The kid would be alright, eventually and that was what mattered; he didn't blame Athos for getting hurt and he didn't seem to regret his actions. They'd be alright.

The next hour or so was spent lounging about in d'Art's private room – being a Musketeer's apprentice had some perks at least – while Aramis flirted with every nurse that came within a ten foot radius and Athos started questioning his life's choices. To Aramis' eternal amusement, d'Art was hopelessly awkward with any member of the opposite gender except for Constance, a member of Sierra team he'd been sweet on since the moment they met. Any time a female nurse or doctor spoke to him directly, he'd blush adorably and mutter the answer towards his own feet. Even Athos had to admit the effect was charming.

After the third time this happened, Aramis was a quivering, giggling lump curled up on his chair, burying his tear-streaked face in his knees and d'Art was looking about himself for ammunition. He'd already thrown the pen and paper on his bedside table and seemed to be genuinely considering the glass of water too.

"Ignore him," Athos instructed him, hoping that he wouldn't be left explaining to the hospital why their room had transformed into a battleground. "He's being an idiot." He swotted half-heartedly at Aramis' curls.

d'Artagnan continued to glare but stopped eyeing the glass thoughtfully, so Athos considered it a victory. Very quietly, he muttered, "Should have blown you up when I had the chance."

Aramis – ever able to hear things that he shouldn't – looked up with fake heartbreak on his face, laughter dying instantly. "How can you say such hurtful things?" He gave d'Art a moment to snicker and then leapt at him, launching himself onto the narrow hospital bed and somehow miraculously not knocking into d'Artagnan's numerous injuries. The younger man squeaked in surprise, trying to squirm out from beneath his friend but he couldn't shift the weight. Defeated, he groaned.

"Athos, please get him off me," he said after it became clear Aramis had no intention of relenting.

"You did provoke him. And regret not blowing up my house," Athos reasoned, a smile curving his lips. "Besides, he looks really quite comfortable." To prove the point, Aramis started pretending to snore, obnoxiously loud in d'Art's ear.

"If I apologise for that, will you get off me?" Not breaking the mime of being asleep, Aramis nodded slowly. "In which case, I most sincerely apologise for ever thinking of killing you three fine gentlemen. I assure you, such a thing will not happen again." There was a long, pointed silence in which Aramis didn't move a muscle and d'Artagnan glared at the ceiling, trying once more to shove the weight off him. "Dude," he whined after a moment, "get off me."

"You didn't sound sincere," Aramis muttered very quietly, then started snoring again.

d'Artagnan just sighed and looked pleadingly at Athos. When that got him nowhere, he turned his puppy eyes on Porthos, who had a history of being unable to resist his wide, honest stare. The big man shifted uneasily under his gaze. "He's doing that thing," he moaned to the others. "You know I hate the thing."

"Be strong Porthos," Aramis told him. He'd had to lift himself slightly to speak and d'Artagnan finally managed to weasel around enough to get his unbroken arm up so that he could elbow him in the ribs. Aramis hissed a little and shifted away, collapsing into the minute space between d'Artagnan and the edge of the bed. "That was mean. Your elbows are sharp."

"And you're heavy. I do quite like breathing thank you very much."

They went back and forth for a few more minutes, Porthos joining in easily. Athos leant back in his chair, one eye on the door – a habit from so many years in the service – and the other on his friends. He'd fought for every inch of this and the reward had been this small, loyal family; he wouldn't change anything about it.

Chapter Text

They knew from the outset that the mission would be stressful - more so than usual, anyway - but when Treville called, they answered.

In truth, it was simple: infiltrate the heavily fortified house of an Arabic diplomat, copy any data he might have on the French government and then escape without giving away their identities. As with most things, if it went south, France and the Musketeers would have to deny any affiliation with them to avoid starting a war. They knew and accepted these as consequences for the type of work that they did but that didn't stop Aramis from griping about how he was risking his life for a country he didn't even come from and who would disown him at a moment's notice.

"I'm really hoping you have a plan," Porthos informed Athos as they gathered around the conference table with blueprints and files scattered around them. "'Cause I can't find shit."

Aramis was scowling at d'Artagnan. "Can't you just hack your way in? That's what you always do."

A little offended by the accusation there, d'Artagnan sniffed haughtily at him and frowned. "Isolated hard drive. They're not complete morons, like someone else I could care to mention."

Athos saw this spiralling out of his control and sighed to himself quietly. d'Artagnan and Aramis had been at each other's throats for the last couple of days with increasing intensity - it had something to do with d'Artagnan accidentally stumbling onto information about Aramis' family, but neither had been inclined to explain exactly what had happened to Athos or Porthos. It was becoming more than a little disruptive. "Grow up, the pair of you," he ordered, short-tempered. "I don't give a damn what's going on between you, and I need you both to focus on the problem at hand. d'Artagnan, is there any way you can get into their system from the outside?"

He took a deep breath, drawing away from his anger and nodded slowly. "Yes, but it would require someone planting a bug. Either way, one of us is going to have to physically get inside."

"Time frame on inserting a bug?"

"Two minutes tops. Plug it in, give it a moment to get into the system to copy everything and then remove it again. No evidence left behind."

"How long will you need to programme it?"

"If I start now I can have something for you by tomorrow night at a guess."

Athos nodded, silently thanking the stars that d'Artagnan had found them. He hated having to deal with the Musketeer technicians - they were all forever enjoying the fact that Athos knew next to nothing about electronics. "Do it. Ask Treville for any resources you need."

d'Artagnan nodded and left, without so much as glancing in Aramis' direction. Porthos eyed their sniper speculatively. "Care to tell us why you're being so down on him?"

Aramis bared his teeth in an unusual display of anger. "No."

"If this is going to affect your performance-" Athos started, then cut himself off when Aramis threw him a look of venomous betrayal.

"I'm fine," he snapped. "Now, do we have a plan or not?"

Deciding it was better to leave well enough alone, Athos let it drop. "According to the blueprints, there's a server room in the basement. One of us needs to get in there to plant the bug. The problem is that to get to the server room, you have to get past a ten foot, double skin, electrified fence, regular armed patrols, no less than five locked doors - two mechanical and three electronic - and we have to do all of this without being seen. The plot has been granted embassy status, so setting foot there without permission is classified as an act of war."

"And they're not about to give us permission, right?" Aramis smiled, his usual excitement bubbling out over the anger still lining his face. "Sounds like fun."

"You're screwed in the head," Porthos muttered with a fond roll of his eyes.

The next two hours were spent pouring over blueprints, occasionally offering suggestions to each other but generally thinking in silence. By the time the clock hit three o'clock, Athos was close to tearing his hair out. "I need coffee for this shit," he announced suddenly into the quiet. "Anyone want anything?"

Porthos requested his usual black, no sugar, and Aramis his usual two sugars and more cream than could possibly be healthy. Athos left shaking his head fondly.

The door to the room besides theirs was open, and he poked his head in to see d'Artagnan typing sullenly at his laptop, his face pulled into unusual lines of distress. "d'Art?"

The kid startled momentarily, apparently unaware that he was no longer alone, but he recovered quickly, offering a bright smile that might have looked genuine to anyone else. As it was, Athos could see the cracks around the edges, and each one cut at him. "Athos. Did you need something?"

Athos made a quick decision, glancing back at the closed door he had just come through and estimating how soundproof it might be. With a sigh, he slipped into the room completely and pulled the door closed behind him just in case.

"Athos?" d'Artagnan sounded a little concerned, picking up on the uncertainty in his leader's shoulders. "What's going on?"

"That was my first question, actually. Care to tell me why you and Aramis have spontaneously developed allergies to each other's presence?"

He could almost see the shutters slam closed behind d'Art's eyes. "I don't know what you mean."

It was a great feat of willpower that Athos contained the growl at the back of his throat. "You're really going to flat out lie to me?"

"If you ask questions I don't want to answer." d'Artagnan started typing again, apparently deciding that the conversation was over. Athos wasn't about to let it go.

"Whatever's going on between you two, it's not going to get better if you just avoid each other. Despite what Treville might say, you are actually both fully functioning adults. Sit down with him and talk about it."

"You don't think I've tried?" d'Artagnan snapped, then bit his lip when he realised what he'd said. There was silence for a long moment before d'Art decided that the damage was already done. "I tried to apologise and he didn't want to hear it. I'm not the one you need to be convincing."

"What happened between the two of you? Aramis isn't one to hold a grudge."

"And yet, here we are. Ask him if you want to know, I think I've pissed him off quite enough already."

"d'Art-" Athos started, but he didn't know how to finish the sentence. It wouldn't mean anything to the kid if Athos told him everything would be alright - he needed to hear this from Aramis himself. "Never mind," he finished lamely, slipped out of the room before d'Artagnan could reply.

There weren't many things in life that Athos truly hated, but watching his friends and brothers suffering was top of the list. Especially when it was over something so completely trivial. Cursing quietly to himself, he started thinking up ways to convince Aramis to open up to them so they could start to actually fix this.

---

"So what you're saying is that you have no plan whatsoever?" d'Artagnan's eyes were darting around the three of them in irritated confusion, the machine he'd spent almost two days working on clutched tightly in one hand. The plastic was starting to creak alarmingly under the force of his grip.

"The place is heavily defended," Athos argued, though he couldn't summon any anger at the accusation in d'Art's tone. The kid had been working through most of the night to finish programming the bug only to be told that the rest of the team were dead in the water when it came to finding an entry point. Combined with the ominous presence of a glaring Aramis, Athos was impressed that d'Art was as calm as he was.

"That's never once stopped you."

"I don't see you coming up with anything," Aramis griped, quietly enough that he thought d'Artagnan wouldn't hear him - going by the angry flush darkening his tanned skin, he'd been wrong.

Athos stepped in before whatever vitriol was pooling in d'Art's stomach could make an appearance. "Aramis, that's not helpful, and you know it. d'Artagnan, do you think there's anything you can find to give us an entrance?"

He took a minute to calm himself, sucking in a hard breath and determinedly not looking at Aramis, before he shrugged a little. "I've already given you the floor plans. There's not much else I can do. If you get hold of one of their key cards I could try to replicate it for you but if they're smart, they'll change their codes too often for it to work. This isn't something I can hack into."

Porthos cursed, the frustration of the last two days welling up. "There's got to be something."

"Maybe breaking in isn't the way," Aramis murmured after a moment, eyes far away. "What if we could gain entrance for legitimate reasons?"

"Like a warrant? You know that Treville could never swing that," Porthos pointed out.
"Not a warrant," Aramis replied, "More like an invitation."

Athos chewed on the inside of his cheek, thinking hard. "It's a diplomatic building, yes? There must be people coming and going all the time for meetings and-"

"Press conferences," d'Artagnan cut in, grabbing the thought and running with it. "The blueprints showed that there's a hall for giving talks in on the ground floor - not too far from the stairs to the server room."

"There'd be no way to keep track of all the journalists for ever conference - if we had fake IDs, we'd get invitations no problem," Porthos concluded with a wide grin, ruffling d'Artagnan's hair fondly. "Why didn't we think of that before?"

"Because you were all too busy trying to be criminals?"

Athos cuffed him around the head gently, letting his lips tug up into a quiet smile. "Do you think you can manage a bit of forgery?"

---

In the end, it took them two weeks to get their opening. Aramis was unsettled about the whole thing, much preferring a mission that allowed him to be on a rooftop with his rifle in his hands than on the ground, unarmed. Athos was the only one carrying a gun - trying to minimise the chance of them being discovered - since he would be the one making the trip to the basement.

d'Artagnan was safely ensconced in a van two streets away, and hating every moment. Here was where he was good, where he was helpful, and yet, sending his friends into the path of danger with nothing but earpieces and fake IDs just seemed to be asking for trouble. His heart was racing too high in his throat and his stomach churned unhappily as he opened up the video feeds.

The three of them had been given glasses with hidden cameras so that d'Artagnan could keep track of them without alerting security by trying to hijack their CCTV, and through the various feeds he could see his team members taking their places.

They got through security without trouble - the carbon fibre gun tucked close to Athos' ribs going unnoticed under his bulky leather jacket. Porthos was asked a series of security questions when his ID raised some flags but he gave perfect answers from the covers d'Artagnan had made them all memorise and he was allowed through without delay. It was only once the three of them were seating themselves in the conference hall that d'Artagnan allowed himself to breathe out.

"Here's where the fun starts," he muttered to himself, hearing Porthos' laugh-turned-cough on the other end as his voice was transmitted.

Through three sets of eyes, d'Artagnan was able to watch as the speaker - a short, nervous man who was shaking so badly his cue cards must have looked blurry - got up to start the introductions. They waited until he was rounding off, gesturing for the first of the diplomats to come to the podium, before Athos started preparing himself.

There was a toilet between the hall and the staircase, though any journalist wishing to use it had to be accompanied by one of the hulking security guards at all times.

"I think the coast is clear Athos," d'Artagnan told him, wishing he could be more certain. All staff in the building were under an obligation to carry radios at all times, and each radio had a tracer in it - apparently you weren't trusted to stay in your boundary even if you worked there. With a little bit of clever programming, d'Artagnan had managed to piggy-back their system but he wasn't entirely sure if he had complete coverage or not. Trying to find out would only mean digging deeper into the system and the last thing he wanted to do was alert anyone to his intentions.

Unable to verbally respond without giving himself away, Athos rose from his seat and headed towards the back of the room, nodding politely at the guard that stepped forwards to accompany him. It wasn't until they were nearing the toilets that Athos made his move, swinging around so quickly that the camera feed blurred. The guard dropped without a sound.

"Nice job," d'Artagnan told him, hearing Porthos' and Aramis' twin sighs of relief. "You've got to move quickly now."

"I do remember the plan, thank you very much," Athos hissed at him, trying to gather the unconscious body in his arms. "He's heavier than he looks."

It took longer than d'Art might have hoped for Athos to hide the body in the toilet and locking the door, making sure to take his keys and radio before he did so. "You've got to speed it up Athos. They'll notice you're gone soon."

Their leader didn't dignify that with a response. d'Art could see him hurrying down corridors he'd memorised without hesitation, only slowing down when the stairs were in front of him, leading down into the gloom. "Do you know if anyone's down there?"

"There's no radio signals, I don't think, but it's underground. There might be too much interference. Proceed with caution?"

Athos huffed a little. "Remind me to ask Treville for a raise. I'm not getting paid enough for this."

d'Artagnan would have laughed if he wasn't pumping with nerves, pulse thrumming under his skin as his friend walked blindly into possible danger. It wasn't until his vision started thinning that he realised he was holding his breath.

Thirty seconds later and a "Looks all clear," had him relaxing again. "Plug it in, like I showed you." Through the cameras he saw a little red light appear on the side of the device, blinking happily. "Okay, wait until it's green then get the hell out of there."

"You have told me this already d'Art," Athos reminded him fondly. With familiar movements he drew his gun and checked the clip, making sure he was ready should someone find him here.

"Well I know how you are with machinery sometimes," he shot back without pause, then turned to a different monitor. "Okay, Porthos, your turn."

The perspective of the video changed, looking away from the diplomats still droning on and towards Porthos' lap where he was fiddling with his microphone. It was the home stretch now - Porthos needed to set off the alarms with the transmitter hidden in his mic and Athos would rejoin them as the journalists were herded from the building. In the confusion, the three of them could slip away unnoticed.

Of course, it was never going to be that simple.

An unfamiliar voice from Athos' transmitter startled d'Artagnan into spinning back towards the monitor, fear flooding him as he saw a guard pointing his gun in the direction of the camera - Athos' head.

"Who the hell are you?" He demanded sharply, voice tilted with an eastern accent.

Athos had his hands up - his gun nowhere to be seen - and was doing his best to slouch where he stood, trying to look non-threatening. "Can you help me?" He asked in perfect Arabic - surprising his three team members thoroughly - "I think I took a wrong turning and I ended up in here."

The guard was reaching for his radio, clearly undecided about what to do. Athos knew he had a window of maybe twenty seconds before there was a bullet in his head. Moving quickly, he drew his gun from where he'd shoved it hastily into the waistband of his trousers and shot, wincing at the explosion of noise. What happened next was a little too fast for him to follow.

Blood spurted from the guard's chest and he froze in blank surprise before his body toppled, finger squeezing down on the trigger as nerves fired in a last ditch attempt at life. Something hard and unforgiving slammed into Athos' unprotected stomach and he jolted backwards with a cry, falling when his feet seemed too heavy for him to move. Someone was shouting, he noted absently, and it took him some time to realise that he could only hear it in one ear - his earpiece.

"Athos!"

Porthos had his finger on the button to start the alarm, meeting Aramis' eyes across the room, worry pouring out of his skin but unable to speak.

"Athos talk to me, please, Athos!"

"Wha-" he tried, gasping a little when his chest refused to expand properly. It felt like something was sitting on his rib cage, crushing the life out of him. Injured, his brain supplied calmly, you're injured. In the corner of his vision, a little green light flickered cheerfully at him. The light was important somehow, but he couldn't have explained why.

"Oh thank god," the voice breathed, and Athos' blurry thoughts finally recognised d'Artagnan. "Porthos, Aramis, you've got to get to him."

"How?" Aramis hissed, pretending to blow his nose to cover the word. Porthos looked like he was about to shake to pieces with the tension, finger rubbing at the button but unwilling to depress it until he was certain it was the right thing to do.

"I don't know!" d'Artagnan cried back, clearly panicking. "There's too many people between you and him - I think he's dying!"

That sounded terribly concerning, Athos had to admit, but he was too tired to formulate much emotion. His side felt too warm when the rest of his body was cold, and his thoughts had turned muggy and indistinct. All he knew was that he needed to get out of there and he needed help to do it.

"I can clear a path," d'Artagnan announced suddenly, his voice different, determined. He sounded like he'd come to a decision but something about it screamed at Athos as bad, if only he could find the words to say so. "I'll draw as many of the guards away as I can - just be ready to get him out of there. I won't be able to contact you again."

Porthos wanted so desperately to protest, because he knew that whatever was going on in the kid's head couldn't be good. There was a resignation in his tone that he'd only ever heard from dying men and the thought chilled him to the bone. Don't let him lose two brothers today, he pleaded. No god could be that cruel.

In his van, cut off from his brothers, d'Artagnan's heart was hurting with the speed of its racing. He would not sit and watch as his leader, mentor, brother died a lonely death. There wasn't the strength in his bones to do that. With steel-willed determination, he threw himself into the driving seat and prayed to whoever - whatever - was listening that he didn't die with Aramis still angry with him.

---

Porthos and Aramis knew exactly when it was time to go - every guard in the room suddenly straightened and headed for the door, except for one who was settled by the podium, ready to protect the diplomats against any potential threat.

They locked eyes and as one made for the door, slipping out so quickly that the remaining guard could do nothing to stop them. Uncaring for who saw them now, they raced side by side down the empty, white corridors, aching with terror. They couldn't lose Athos. They needed him.

Their leader was lying unconscious in a puddle of his own blood, skin waxy pale and fake glasses falling off his face. Porthos froze at the sight but Aramis barrelled ahead, already mentally running over everything he'd ever learned about bullet wounds and blood loss.

"Porthos, take the bug," he ordered eventually, when the big man just continued to stand there. "We didn't come all this way for nothing." He was tugging aside Athos' clothes in a desperate attempt to get to the wound, but his hands were already slick with blood and it was only sheer willpower stopping him trembling.

"We have to get him out of here Aramis," Porthos reminded him as he tugged the flashing hard drive out of the port. He shoved it into his coat pocket, making sure that it wouldn't fall out and then knelt beside his team mate.

"If we move him he could bleed out."

"If we don't move him, he'll spend what's left of his life in jail."

"Porthos," Aramis said, his voice uncharacteristically small, "I don't know what to do."

He looked tired and afraid, curling in on himself in a way that Porthos had never seen in all the years he'd known him. So Porthos did what he did best, and prioritised. "Take this," he said, handing over his outer shirt. "Bind that wound as best you can. I can carry him out of here if you cover us." Aramis was the better shot anyway - it made sense for him to have the gun. The sniper turned to do as he was bid, and Porthos left him for a moment to take the gun of the guard, sparing a moment to look at the face of the dead man. He looked surprised and innocent - someone caught up in something he didn't want to be a part of.

"Okay, that's the best I can do," Aramis announced, snatching up Athos' fallen gun. He rose on shaky legs. "Let's make this quick."

They adopted a shoot-first policy - it might make them sick to their cores to kill men unnecessarily but when Athos was bleeding to death in Porthos' arms, it seemed there was a lot that they could stomach. Thankfully, they only encountered two men before they were pounding towards the exit - a fire escape that let out close to a gate in the fences. Another three men there - one of whom managed to clip Porthos' arm with a lucky shot before Aramis could bring him down - and they were on the street again, racing towards the last place they'd seen the van.

There was nothing there. Whatever d'Artagnan had done, he'd had to move on - leaving them without a vehicle and with the sounds of pursuit not far behind. Cursing vividly in Spanish, Aramis swung towards the nearest parked car and thrust his elbow through the driver side window without flinching. Porthos had taught everyone on the team how to hot wire a car - he'd not been proud of the skill but it had gotten them out of some shitty situations and they were all grateful - so the larger man was able to spend the time settling Athos on the back seat while Aramis got the engine running.

It was a relief when they were moving, knowing that they were getting closer to medical help with every second. Porthos pulled out his phone and hit speed dial and then speaker, praying that Treville would pick up, while Aramis set about trying to break every speed limit he could find.

"What the hell is going on gentlemen?" Treville sounded utterly furious. "We're getting reports of shots fired and it's all I can do to stop the chief of police himself from marching through the doors. d'Artagnan's not answering his radio."

Aramis shot Porthos an uneasy look before his eyes darted back to the road. If d'Art wasn't picking up, it was because he couldn't and it didn't matter how mad Aramis was, he still cared about the kid. They were brothers.

"No word on d'Artagnan. Athos is hit, lost a lot of blood. We're getting him to the hospital now."

"Porthos is hurt too," Aramis informed like the traitor he was.

"It's nothing," he reassured instantly.

There was a telling silence on the other end that spoke of disbelief but Treville didn't comment. "Will Athos make it?"

"Yes," they said in unison. There was no other option.

"Did you get the intel?"

"Yes."

"Can they trace you?"

"Well, Athos was bleeding all over their floor for a while. d'Art's program should have scattered their CCTV files though, so they might not have our faces," Porthos reasoned, frowning.

"Athos' DNA work isn't subject to public knowledge. We've legal protection that should allow us to avoid a warrant to look at our files. Damn it," Treville cursed. He sounded tired. "Let me worry about that. Just help Athos and try to raise d'Artagnan. It's not like him to go off the grid."

"We'll get them safe, Sir," Porthos promised. Treville was still the only human being on the planet who could claim to be given the title by him - a childhood running from all forms of authority had left Porthos with a lifelong bitterness towards his superiors, but their Captain was in a class of his own. The man commanded the respect of all his men and had earned their loyalty a hundred times over. Porthos owed him more than he could ever hope to repay, but he could start by taking care of his second-in-command.

The call ended, Porthos twisted around to check on Athos, sprawled across the middle seat inelegantly. Red was starting to dot through the makeshift bandage but it was certainly far less than before. The placement of the bullet couldn't have been more fortuitous: too low down to bother his lungs, too far to the side to hit his stomach. With medical help, it shouldn't be fatal.

Reassured, he called d'Artagnan's mobile. It kept ringing until the answer phone picked up, d'Art's jaunty voice telling him to leave a message. Frowning, Porthos tried his second mobile - the one paid for under a different name and a separate account - but got the same results. Further calls to his pre-paid phones yielded the same results, much to Porthos' growing fear.

"This isn't like him."

"Maybe he can't get to his phone right now," Aramis offered, desperately clinging to the hope that was keeping him going. "If he's driving he might not want to answer."

"We're in the middle of an op here 'Mis," Porthos pointed out unnecessarily. "If we're calling, he'd be answering. Something's wrong."

"Athos is bleeding on the back seat. There's a lot that's wrong here."

The sharp tone had Porthos turning to properly examine his friend, eyeing the tense shoulders and the way he wasn't allowing his eyes to stray from the road even for a moment. Anxiety was bleeding off him in palpable waves. "They're going to be alright," he reassured with as much conviction as he could muster. "We're always alright."

"And if we're not? What if this time, we don't come out the other side?"

Porthos flinched in surprise. Aramis never got like this, even when he was holding in a team member's organs with nothing but a torn up shirt to help stop the bleeding. The man could take anything life threw at him with a charming smile and witty comeback - he didn't have time for self-pity. "'Mis... You can't think like that. You know what we do and you know the risks. Why is it so important all of a sudden?"

For a moment it looked the sniper was going to respond but then he bit down on his lip sharply, shaking his head. "It doesn't matter. We're here."

With a screech of abused tyres, they skidded to a halt in front of the ER doors, Porthos out his door before they'd even come to a halt so that he could haul Athos' limp body into his arms. Aramis raced to the door and threw himself through it, screaming bloody murder until some put-upon nurses appeared with a gurney.

In a flash, Athos was gone, whisked away through doors they weren't allowed to pass through. Whatever happened now was out of their hands.

Aramis dropped himself into a chair heavily, staring at his blood covered hands as though noticing them for the first time. There was a large part of Porthos that wanted to go to him and comfort him, but he had to focus: priorities. First on his list was d'Artagnan.

A second try didn't raise any more response than the first, the calls remaining unanswered. Cursing softly, Porthos redialled Treville.

"Porthos?"

"Athos is at the hospital. d'Artagnan still isn't answering his phone. Can you set someone in tech to trace his signal?"

"I'll get our best on it. I want him found, Porthos. If they managed to catch him, there's nothing I can do to help him - you know this."

"We all knew the risks Sir. We agreed to this."

"And you'd be willing to stand aside if he went to trial? To prison?"

Porthos couldn't give him the answer he wanted without lying, so he bit down on his tongue and remained silent. Of course he wouldn't watch a brother be condemned for doing his duty - he'd fight tooth and nail to get d'Art back. The Captain knew that.

"You're a good man Porthos," he said eventually, when it became clear no answer was forthcoming. "Any ideas where he would go to ground? If I can give tech a vague idea then they can speed up the search."

"Athos is hurt. He'd come here," he said without hesitation. If Athos was in danger, d'Artagnan would want to be as close as he possibly could, no matter what.

"I'll tell them. Keep me in the loop."

"Yes Sir."

Aramis watched as he hung up. "No word?"

"Not yet. Give him time."

"He would have called."

"Aramis-" he started, then bit his tongue. There was no point in this argument. Until d'Artagnan was back with them, there would be no convincing him that he was safe. "Try and get some rest. It's going to be a long night."

"Let me look at your arm first."

"It'll be fine. Doesn't even need stitches," he argued, but let himself be tugged down for an examination anyway. A quick once over confirmed his diagnosis however, and he got away with a nurse dabbing on some antiseptic and wrapping it. "See, all better," he said as he showed Aramis her handiwork. "Now will you get some sleep?"

"Bossy."

"I try."

---

Porthos was woken several hours later by his phone ringing, startlingly loud in the quiet of Athos' room. His surgery hadn't been lengthy - the bullet had gone straight through and no organs had been damaged. The main problem was blood loss but even that wasn't close to life threatening. Once he'd been settled in a private room - the perks of working for the government - to sleep off his meds, Porthos and Aramis had been allowed in to see him.

Beside him, Aramis jolted upright with a snort, inelegant for the first time in their acquaintance, much to Porthos' amusement. He pulled out his phone with a chuckle before diverting his attention to the caller ID flashing on the screen, then put the phone to his ear so quickly he almost hit himself with it.

"d'Art?"

"Is Athos alive?" There was so much fear in his voice, Porthos could have cried. As it was, he could only gasp his relief.

"He's out of surgery. No complications, should make a full recovery. Where the hell have you been?"

There was quiet on the other end for a moment and Porthos could see d'Art in his mind's eye, struggling to pull himself together after the relief of hearing that Athos would be alright. It must have been weighing on his mind all this time. "I ran into a little trouble. Which hospital are you at?"

"Hôtel-Dieu. Are you hurt?"

"I've been patched up. Don't worry about me. I'll come to you."

"Patched up?" He repeated slowly. "What happened?"

"Don't worry about me," he repeated firmly.

"You make that difficult," Porthos griped. "Get here as soon as you can. Call Treville if you can."

"Will do."

"Is he hurt?" Aramis asked as soon as Porthos had removed the phone from his ear. In hindsight, he should have put it on speaker.

"I think so, but he seems to be mobile. Apparently he's had some medical help."

"That doesn't fill me with confidence."

"Kid'll bounce back from anything. He's tough for a scrawny mutt." To anyone else he might have sounded derogatory, but Aramis could hear the fondness there.

The fear that had been wrapped around Aramis' heart dropped away in a rush - d'Artagnan was alive, he hadn't been captured. He was coming to them. It should make Aramis feel relieved, but it wasn't relief that rushed in to fill the gap his fear left behind. All the anger he'd been cultivating for the last month welled up in his throat, choking him, and his face closed up into an angry grimace before he could stop himself.

Porthos watched him in disbelief. "So that's it? d'Art's alive so he's back on your shit list?"

"It has nothing to do with you Porthos, leave it alone."

"I'm fairly sure that d'Artagnan's well being is something to do with me and you've been crapping all over it every chance you get. Don't even pretend like you don't give a shit about him, 'Mis. You've been falling to pieces the last couple of hours. Suddenly you don't have to worry any more and all that loyalty has packed up and left."

Aramis' face flushed in sudden, vicious anger. "Do not speak to me of d'Artagnan and loyalty."

Porthos blinked. "Sore point?"

"Leave it alone."

"What the hell happened Aramis? Was d'Artagnan disloyal?"

"Yes," Aramis said waspishly, not looking at him.

"Bullshit. That kid loves us all far too much to ever do anything to betray us. You know that as well as I do."

"And yet, here we are. If you're really not going to let this drop, fine. I found d'Artagnan snooping through my files. He seemed particularly interested in any information he could gather about my family." Aramis' relatives had always been a bit of a sore point to the sniper. He had three sisters that he loved dearly, and between them four nieces and nephews who might as well have been his own children for how much he cared about them. He would bleed to keep them safe and it had taken him two years of knowing Porthos to even tell him of their existence.

It made sense, wanting to keep your family safe, Porthos supposed. Most of the Musketeers had their close ones in various witness protection schemes to keep them out of danger. It had never been much of a problem for Athos and Porthos - they had no family between them apart from the regiment. But for Aramis, this was a betrayal, no matter how he looked at it. To Porthos, it seemed to have grown wildly out of proportion.

"So you think he was trying to find out something you didn't want him to? He's curious Aramis. None of us are exactly forthcoming with information about ourselves and he already feels like an outsider. Maybe he just wanted to feel included in something."

"He needs to learn that there are boundaries. Some things aren't meant to be found."

"For the love of god Aramis," Pothos groaned, suddenly feeling caught in the middle of something he didn't want to think about. "Kid made a mistake. He tried to apologise."

"He shouldn't have been looking through my personal files!"

"He was looking through everyone's files, at Treville's request, if you'll recall. There's someone in the system selling us out at every opportunity and it was his job to try and find out who. You can't blame him for doing exactly what was asked of him." Pothos was starting to understand what was going on, and it was becoming clear that his had nothing to do with d'Artagnan knowing about Aramis' family. "Aramis," he said quietly, "Please tell me that this is about him knowing something you think he shouldn't and not that you feel like he didn't trust you."

Their sniper was very quiet for a long moment, glaring at the table in front of him with enough intensity to melt steel. Eventually he muttered out a sullen: "I thought he knew me better than that."

Porthos buried his face in his hands with a sigh. "He does, you idiot," he said eventually. "But Treville told him to check everyone, so he did. He looked at our files too, you know. How would it look later, if there's an inquiry? The three of us can't be above suspicion, or the whole system would fall apart."

Aramis looked torn between holding onto his misplaced anger and acknowledging his fault. Eventually the latter won out and he sagged into his seat. "It's just... You know Team Oscar lost Will on their last mission? There were men there before them, lying in wait. Whoever is betraying us did that, killed him, and we're wasting time looking through our records? It's bullshit. We should be finding the bastards."

"I'm trying my best," said a very quiet, wounded voice from the door and they both spun around to see d'Artagnan hesitating in the entryway. "It's not that easy."

For a moment no one said anything, stunned into silence by the sudden appearance of their missing team member. The left side of d'Artagnan's face was a mess of cuts and dark bruising, with his eye starting to swell closed. His left arm was held in a loose sling, and they could see a flesh-coloured wrist brace peeping out the edges of the cloth. He was a mess.

"What the hell happened to you?" Porthos asked, still too surprised to infuse the words with as much concern as he normally might have done.

d'Artagnan offered a one sided shrug, watching them warily as though he was expecting them to suddenly turn on him. "I was in an accident. Athos?"

Both agents reflexively turned to look at the man still dozing in the bed, taking comfort from the steady beating of the heart monitor. "Should make a full recovery," Aramis said quietly, not turning back to look at d'Artagnan. That was telling - when one of them was injured, Aramis wouldn't rest until he'd had a chance to look over their hurts personally, no matter what the EMTs tried to tell him. That he didn't even seem interested in the patchwork of blue across d'Art's cheek was a worry.

"Thank god."

"Are you alright?" Porthos was alternating between sending worried looks in d'Artagnan's direction and glaring at Aramis. The kid looked like he was about to shatter and Aramis was letting his guilt parade itself as anger.

As ever, d'Artagnan barely seemed to notice his own injuries. "It looks worse than it is. Sprained wrist, few cuts. Nothing that won't heal."

"That's not what I asked."

d'Artagnan opened his mouth as though to say that he was fine - lying through his teeth, of course - but then he stopped himself, seeming to shrink inwards as though he no longer had the energy to keep up the charade. He looked exhausted and heartsick, and Porthos could see the moment he decided that he couldn't give another ounce of his strength to try and bear Aramis' scorn. The image tugged at Porthos' heart painfully.

"I'm going to get some rest. Call me if anything changes?" He nodded at Athos as he spoke but he wouldn't meet Porthos' eyes. Aramis still hadn't turned to look at him.

"'Course."

There was a part of Porthos that knew if d'Artagnan walked out of that room now, something would be broken beyond repair. The only thing holding their bizarre family together was a bone-deep trust, the knowledge that they would die for each other without hesitation, and Aramis' anger had driven a wedge into the heart of that trust. They would end, with their leader in a hospital bed and their youngest heartbroken - it was a goddamn tragedy.

"d'Artagnan." Aramis still hadn't turned away from where he'd fixed his eyes on Athos' pale face but Porthos could see the guilt tearing through his features. Gathering his courage, the sniper forced his body to move so that he could face d'Art, lingering in the doorway uncertainly. Aramis put his arms out in an awkward surrender. "I'm not-" he tried, then stopped. "I'm upset that we haven't found the mole."

The Gascon flinched as though Aramis had slapped him. "You think I'm not?" And just like that, the meek world-weariness bled away to leave fierce, betrayed anger. "You think that I don't know how much it's costing the regiment that I can't find them? I don't have to carry a badge to care about the Musketeers. I know how important it is. I'm trying. I really am, and I'm still not getting anywhere no matter what I do. You don't need to tell me that it's not enough."

So many of their problems, Porthos mused, could be solved if they would just talk about things. Stubborn gits.

"I know you're trying," Aramis pleaded, pain warping his voice into unrecognisability. "I'm not trying to blame you." He stepped forwards but d'Artagnan pulled away just slightly, rejecting the physical contact that was so vital to Aramis - the sniper looked heart broken but held his ground. "d'Artagnan... I'm sorry. My anger was unfair and you didn't deserve it. You certainly didn't deserve my making you think that this was your fault. With all the data you managed to give Treville, we're so much closer to finding the mole than we would have been if it had been left to those assholes in Tech. Please do not let my cynicism ever make you believe you're not good enough."

The Gascon looked uneasy still, anger carving lines in his marred face, but he nodded slowly. "I'm sorry you thought I didn't trust you. I assure you that it's not the case."

"I never should have let myself believe that it was."

Awkward silence stretched across the room, broken only by the steady beeping of the monitor. Porthos sighed to himself, silently questioning why he befriended such idiots. "You're both morons," he said after a moment.

d'Artagnan smiled hesitantly, still looking unsure. "I think you've said that in the past," he said. "But I'm tired. I'll go..." he pointed vaguely behind him, starting to shuffle backwards to make his escape.

"Wait-" Aramis said, reaching out to grab him and then thinking better of it, aborting the movement in a strange darting motion. "Let me at least check you over?"

"I told you, I'm really alright. I managed to get myself to a hospital and they fixed me up. Really it's mostly just bruising." Despite his protests, he settled himself on the spare chair in the room with some difficulty.

"What did you do to yourself?"

"I, er- I managed to end up in a high speed chase across the city and ended up being rammed off the road. Van took far more damage than I did. The cuts are from the window being knocked in."

"How... How?" Porthos spluttered, more impressed than anything. He'd gone from out-of-sight monitor to involved in a high speed chase without any apparent middle ground. The kid had the worst habit of taking a situation and inexplicably bending it into the worst possible scenario without even trying.

"It cleared the guards out of your way, didn't it?"

Aramis huffed in amusement, gently taking hold of d'Art's injured wrist to test blood flow to his fingers. "You're a menace. Athos is going to be furious at you. And Treville for that matter."

"Aside from some mild property damage, I think I did alright," he defended but he was smiling, so relieved to have Aramis at his side again without having to suffer his glares and sharp comments. For the first time in almost a month, he looked content.

"Property damage?" Said a tired voice, and they all turned to see a bewildered-looking Athos blinking at them. He looked hilariously innocent, still a little worn from the anaesthetic and high on pain killers, with the smallest of frowns gathering on his brow. As one, they moved to gather around his bedside.

"Didn't think you'd wake up so soon," Aramis informed him cheerfully, reaching for the call button as he spoke. Further off, they heard the corresponding beeping at the nurses station. "You've been letting us do all the work while you laze about here."

"Work?" Athos parroted, still too drugged out of his mind to even remember what had happened. Morphine was a strange - and wonderful - thing.

"Don't worry about that," Porthos reassured him. "You just get some rest. The nurse here-" he said, nodding at the woman who had appeared in the doorway, "-is just going to check you over. It's fine, you're safe. Relax."

They backed away from the bed enough for the medical professionals to do their thing, and by the time they were left alone again, Athos had slipped back into sleep.

"He's going to be pissed about this when he wakes up properly," Porthos pointed out. "I've never met a man so unwilling to be in recovery."

"You might end up having to pin him down," Aramis said with a smile - it had happened in the past and no doubt it would happen in the future.

"That'll be something to enjoy."

d'Artagnan watched them quietly, biting back a yawn as exhaustion crept over his muscles, reminding him sharply of his battered body. It might only be bruising, but it still hurt like a bitch.

"Get some rest d'Artagnan. Treville should be here in the morning and you can fill him in then. Explain why you wrecked Musketeer property."

"I had my reasons."

"We know," Porthos said fondly, smiling as he watched the Gascon's eyes drooping. "Sleep."

Safe with his friends, d'Artagnan did just that.

Chapter Text

Athos' first clue that something was wrong was the day he came into the garrison half an hour early, only to find d'Artaganan already half way through his coffee mug with seemingly little intention of slowing down any time soon. The kid looked exhausted, dark bags under half-open eyes with shaking hands that spoke of too much caffeine, and wearing the same shirt and jeans Athos had last seen him in.

For several moments Athos lingered in the doorway, waiting to be noticed. Several minutes passed with no signs of recognition so Athos cleared his throat gently to announce himself, raising his eyebrows in surprise when d'Art flinched violently at the sound. Too much caffeine indeed.

"Athos. I didn't hear you come in." He looked like a child caught doing something he knew he shouldn't, eyes averted with a blush rising on his face.

"I noticed."

There was an awkward moment of silence in which Athos took a certain amount of pleasure from d'Artagnan's discomfort. "You're early," d'Art managed eventually.

"So are you. Or are you late? Have you been home yet?" Despite himself, the worry creeping through his lungs managed to bleed into his tone.

d'Artagnan had the grace to look contrite. "I was going to run home for a shower at least, but I don't really think I'm in the best condition to drive right now."

Athos' eyebrow twitched. "What if I told you that we have a mission? Are you in any shape to be holding a gun?" Maybe accusations were not the right way to approach this situation but Athos' first priority would always be the safety of his team. The others knew that.

"I- um," d'Art started before looking away, not meeting Athos' eyes. He didn't look ashamed exactly, but maybe something approaching guilty? It was discomforting in the extreme. "I spoke to Treville," he admitted eventually, "He's taken me off active rotation for the immediate future by my request."

Of all the things Athos had been expecting him to say, that had not been among them, not even close. For a moment it was all he could do to stare at the kid in shock. d'Artagnan squirmed under his gaze. The silence was stretching painfully by the time Athos was able to regain sufficient control of his faculties to talk. "I'm sorry, I must have misheard you. Can you repeat that?"

d'Artagnan flinched at the restrained anger in his voice. "Athos-"

"You see, what I thought I heard was that one of our brightest recruits had turned in his gun for a desk job." There was something like rage boiling in his gut but it was mostly buried under blank confusion. d'Artagnan made no secret of the fact that he loved his job and what's more, he was good at it - Athos had never seen a fresh recruit with such aptitude for their work - and yet, he'd gone behind Athos' back to request a transfer. Protocol would normally dictate that such rearrangement was mediated upon by the team leader - himself.

"It's only temporary," d'Artagnan told him without meeting his eyes, voice heavy with defeat. "I'll be back on the team as soon as I can."

"Will you at least tell me why you're jumping ship?"

From the tense lines in d'Artagnan's shoulders, Athos knew he was pushing too hard, being too short with him, but his anger was pushing itself to the fore now, and there was nothing he could do. Somehow, this felt like betrayal.

They were both distracted from the conversation when Treville stomped his way through the main entrance, looking like he was inches away from throttling the nearest person. His eyes landed on Athos, and the lieutenant felt himself gulp.

"Athos, my office."

"Sir, I was just-"

"Now."

Athos swallowed down any further protests. "Yes sir."

As he left the room, Athos was fairly sure he could feel d'Artagnan's weighted gaze on the back of his neck and knew that their conversation was far from over. Whatever it was that was distressing the younger man, it was apparently sufficient for him to take a step back for the career he had literally killed for, and that was something that Athos really needed to know about.

"Take a seat," Treville ordered when the office door was closed behind them. Athos did as commanded, watching his superior carefully.

"Is there a problem?"

The Captain looked world weary, seeming to sag inwards as though the weight on his shoulders was crushing him into the floor. He sighed heavily and rubbed at his eyes - he knew that he had no need to appear strong in front of his first lieutenant. "Three days ago I sent Sierra team out on a simple recon mission. No contact - should have been completely routine."

Athos' mind jumped straight from Sierra team, to Constance, to d'Artagnan. If something had happened to her... It wasn't worth picturing. Thrusting away his growing panic with a forceful mental shove, Athos forced himself to focus. "What happened?"

"There was an ambush waiting for their convoy. Took out two of their jeeps before anyone even knew they were under attack."

"Survivors?" His voice was strained but Treville didn't comment.

"Agents Hawthorn and Bonacieux made it out, though Matthias took a bullet in the shoulder. One of their escort is still alive as well I believe, though in a critical condition."

Athos took a moment to allow himself to feel the relief of knowing Constance was alive, before he reminded himself firmly that what had been a four man team was now a duo. "Peterson and Demaison?"

"Demaison was in the first jeep to be hit. I gather Peterson laid down covering fire so that the rest of his team could get away." Treville's face looked older when it was shadowed with the heavy lines of guilt it wore now, the pain of being a leader sharpening with loss.

"They were honourable men," Athos offered, knowing that it was an empty condolence. Honour meant nothing in the face of death and grief.

Treville's eyes sharpened angrily. "There will be a memorial, medals of valour... You know how it goes. It's all a bullshit parade and in the end people that should have lived are still dead, and we continue to sit behind our desks playing god." Athos couldn't refute the claim if he wished to remain honest, so he said nothing, staring his commander down. "Only the dead have honour, and I'll have no part of it. If you had half a brain, you'd be the same."

Athos sniffed a little. "What about me screams honourable?" He asked sardonically. "All I try to do is follow orders and get my men home again."

Treville's lips quirked upwards into a slight smile, sharp edges softening just a little. "I know you do, and I thank you for that. But the fact remains that we've already lost too many Musketeers because someone is leaking information about this garrison to people who want us dead."

"Our ever elusive mole. Has there been any word?"

"That's why I called you in here. Has d'Artagnan spoken to you in the last few hours?"

Athos' brow furrowed, the pieces coming together slowly. "I was speaking to him before you arrived. He told me that you'd taken him off active rotation."

"The truth is that our tech team have been monitoring every piece of data that goes in and out of this garrison. I have Musketeers spying on other Musketeers, just so that I can keep track of my own men's movements. I want this fucker found, Athos, and right now, d'Artagnan is the best men I have for the job."

"So you're taking him off my team so that he can dedicate himself to tracking this leak?"

Treville's eyes narrowed at the sharp edge to Athos' tone. "Are you going to fight me on this?"

For half a second, Athos seriously considered saying that damn right he was, but then he hesitated; Peterson had been a good man, and a friend, and he knew that Aramis was still mourning Will's loss from last month. Knowing he had no choice, Athos sighed, wincing when the still healing wound in his chest pulled. "No. d'Artagnan's fully capable of making these decisions and he's with you on this. It's not my place to interfere. Besides, once that kid's set his mind to something, there's nothing I can say to dissuade him."

Treville's smile grew fonder as he shook his head. "You underestimate his respect for you."

Athos knew exactly how much faith d'Artagnan put in him, and how much he looked up to him, no matter how undeserved such adoration was. Voicing such an opinion however was unwise. Instead, he just replied, "Perhaps."

The Captain's eyes were glinting as though he knew exactly what his lieutenant was thinking, but he just nodded. "As it stands, I don't have anything for your team anyway. Though I should remind you that Aramis and Porthos are both approaching SSEs; you might want to have them going over techniques."

Skill and Strength Examinations were required yearly for every agent working under Treville and usually acted as an opportunity for an agent to show off their abilities - or at least, that was how Aramis and Porthos treated it. Athos sighed wearily. "Delightful."

"Might I remind you that you chose them for your team?"

"At the time I was under the impression I was dealing with fully matured adults," Athos shot back, though his voice was fond. His team might be immature children at times, but they were more his family than any blood relation he cared to name.

Treville's grin was wicked as he made a shooing motion, sending Athos from the office. d'Artagnan was still sitting at the table Athos had left him at, his eyes snapping up as his team leader approached, looking startled. Somehow, he looked even worse than he had ten minutes ago.

"Do we- I mean, is there a mission?"

Athos looked at him for a long moment and made a decision. "Grab your coat. I'm taking you home."

"Athos, no, what-"

"You're going to have a shower, sleep for at least a few hours and then I'll bring you back. I'm complying with Treville's ruling and I'm not going to pressure you to return to the team but-" he continued when d'Artagnan looked like he was about to interrupt with exclamations of gratitude, "-that comes with some conditions. One, you still have to actually sleep."

d'Artagnan looked sheepish but nodded. "I can do that. Sorry."

Athos hid his smirk by gripping the back of d'Art's shirt and pulling him upright, nudging him in the direction of the doors. "Come on."

---

As anticipated, Aramis and Porthos were like a pair of children when they arrived at the gym. The garrison owned a plot of land near the edge of the city where they'd built their training grounds. Most of the plot was taken up by a large building which housed all manner of equipment, an open ground for combat training and a shooting range. Outside was taken up with tracks and sand pits.

On rough days, Aramis was likely to be found in the shooting range, obliterating targets faster than they could be rehung. Porthos tended towards the combat room, beating his frustration out of punching bags or the occasional foolish recruit.

By the time Athos pulled up - having left d'Artagnan fast asleep at his flat - Aramis and Porthos were busying themselves with racing each other around the track. Athos watched with bemusement as Aramis, realising that he was about to lose, threw himself into the air to knock Porthos to the ground with a flying tackle. The bigger man came up swinging, landing a handful of gentle hits to Aramis' kidneys before the sniper could scramble out of reach.

"Children," Athos called, smirking a little when they both smiled innocently at him. "I though you were here to train?"

"Please," Aramis scoffed, "We're going to waltz these exams. We always do."

"That's no reason not to use the free time to work on your hand to hand," Athos commented mildly, restraining his smile, "You were looking a little rusty last time I saw you on the mats."

"Rus- Rusty?" Aramis screeched, outraged. He leapt to his feet and advanced towards him. "I'll show you rusty."

About a minute and a half later they were walking into the building, Aramis cursing bitterly as he rubbed at his shoulder and Athos smiling smugly to himself. Porthos was still wiping his eyes from his laughing fit. Aramis' litany of insults slipped into Spanish and their team leader threw him an I-told-you-so look. "You attacked me," he pointed out. "No one but yourself to blame."

"Yes, well, I forgot that you were you," Aramis snapped back waspishly, though they could tell he wasn't truly angry. He could never hold any anger against them for long anyway. "Most people aren't thirteen stone of solid muscle and dry wit."

Porthos bumped his shoulder into Aramis', knocking the man off balance slightly. "Cheer up," he ordered him, "I'm pretty sure I heard something about new recruits training today. Lots of new bloods to throw about the mats."

"If anything happens to the recruits, Treville will have your heads," Athos warned them. "And mine, come to think of it."

"You're not suggesting we'd do anything to harm the poor dears, are you Athos?" Aramis could con a nun, Athos swore. There was far too much innocence in his eyes when he widened them like that, looking like a child in need of a loving hug and charity.

"Desist," he ordered when Aramis continued to stare at him beatifically. Porthos saved him by dragging the sniper towards the shooting range.

"Come on, you can kick my ass at targets for a bit. Recover a bit of your pride."

Athos let himself be pulled in by the soothing lull of friendly sarcasm, threaded throughout by the utter love shared between them. It didn't matter how many times Aramis hit the mat in sparring, he'd never need to feel ashamed before them - there was no such thing as lost pride in a family like theirs.

Aramis was winning three hundred and ten points to Porthos' one hundred and eighty when Athos' phone buzzed. He tugged it out and blinked at the screen for a minute before he remembered what he was supposed to do. He'd been happy with his ancient Nokia until three months ago it had taken a bullet - some Italian asshole who thought he could bring weapons across the border without permission - and d'Artagnan had been insistent he upgrade to a smart phone. It was the worst decision Athos had ever allowed himself to be talked into.

Speak of the devil and he will appear - the text was from d'Art: "How chivalrous to leave before I wake up. I feel used."

Athos couldn't help but smile. d'Artagnan had taken a long time to feel comfortable enough around them to relax out of the formalities and now here he was, texting Athos random innuendo. It was a far cry from the boy who had tried to kill them. After a moment's consideration, Athos replied: "I only wanted your body."

So maybe d'Artagnan wasn't the only one who had undergone some personal growth. There was only so long Athos could remain around Aramis and Porthos and not have their easy going, carefree nature rubbing off on him. He might still have a long way to go, but Athos was finally starting to let himself live again.

"Wow. Buy me a drink first."

"I did. There's coffee on your counter."

There was a few minutes pause, before his phone buzzed again. "I could be convinced to do this again."

Athos slid the phone back into his pocket with a grin, looking up to see that the other two were both watching him - apparently they had been for some time.

"Anything you want to share?" Aramis asked, his voice heavy with implications.

Athos scoffed. "Mind out of the gutter. It was d'Artagnan."

"Where is the whelp anyway? I would have thought he'd be here, exam or no," Porthos pointed out.

"About that," Athos started, then stopped himself. It seemed like too much to explain here and he could never be sure who was listening. "He's working on something for Treville," he summarised as briefly as he could. "He's not going to be working with us for a little while."

"Wait, what?" Aramis choked.

"I don't want to explain it here," Athos told them firmly, not allowing them room for argument. "I'll tell you later."

The looks on their faces clearly said that they would most definitely be continuing this conversation, but they both let it go without saying anything else. Aramis turned around and emptied his clip into the remaining targets, hitting the bullseye on every one. Porthos unloaded with a muttered 'Show off.' Aramis stuck out his tongue.

"Combat?"

"You're on," Porthos said with a wide smile, wounded pride entirely forgotten at the promise of hand to hand. Athos, shaking his head, lead the way.

---

Much to his irritation, Athos was woken at three in the morning by his phone ringing. Normally, such a thing would have him snapping awake, snatching up his mobile to answer the call because usually it wound be Treville calling him in for work. But Treville, without fail, called his mobile and the ringing was definitely coming from the almost unused land line across the room.

He staggered out of bed with a grumble, groaning a little as his chest ached quietly. "Hello?" He snapped, rather more harshly than the situation perhaps warranted.

"Athos?"

It took him a long moment to place the voice. "Pierre? How did you even get this number? No, wait, sorry. What's wrong?" It wasn't his fault he had his priorities muddled when a Musketeer he barely knew was calling him at three in the fucking morning.

"I don't know if it's anything, I might be wrong, I just thought you might want to know-"

"Pierre, calm down. It's alright. What did you want to tell me?"

"d'Artagnan's still here. At the garrison. It's just, he's been here since this morning and he's looked exhausted all day, and I just thought you might want to try and convince him to get some rest? He looks wrecked."

Athos had to take a minute to cool his anger. It wasn't Pierre's fault that d'Artagnan had taken approximately twelve hours to go back on his word. "I will. Thank you for telling me, it was the right thing to do. How did you get this number anyway?"

"If anything happens to the Captain, he's named you as his replacement," Pierre said as though it were obvious. "This is the number given to contact you should anything happen to him."

It made sense of course, Athos was Treville's second in command. Of course the responsibility would fall to him. Athos had just never thought about it in such a literal sense.

"Okay. Thank you. Get some rest."

"I will Sir. Good night."

It wasn't a good night - it was an awful night because Athos was having to climb into his car at three thirty in the morning to go and pick up a computer tech who was too smart for his own good and yet still didn't know that he needed sleep to remain functioning. Christ Athos needed a holiday.

His fury was tempered somewhat when he finally caught sight of d'Artagnan, slumped exhaustedly in front of his laptop with a dark frown on his face. There was a coffee cup beside his hand and the coffee pot itself sitting in the centre of the table, as though d'Art had given up on getting up every time he wanted a refill.

"What was the one thing you promised me when I agreed to this?" Athos demanded without making his presence known. d'Artagnan jumped a foot in the air, one hand dropping to where his gun would normally sit - it was something of a miracle that he'd had to hand it in when he was taken off rotation.

Recognising the intruder, d'Artagnan slumped back into his chair. "I went home. Tried to get some sleep and couldn't. Not much point in my sitting around at home when I might as well put my insomnia to good use." He sounded jittery, like he'd consumed far too much caffeine to still be maintaining a stable heart rate.

"You don't think the coffee pot might have something to do with your sudden inability to sleep?"

"It's just keeping me level headed, that's all."

Athos wanted to tear his hair out. "d'Artagnan, this is not level headed. This is ridiculous. You've had, what? Three hours of sleep in two days? That's not enough to keep you going and you know that. Burning yourself out isn't going to help anyone."

"I'm fine Athos. You don't need to babysit me." He was starting to sound angry, too hyped up to recognise the concern of a friend.

"Apparently someone has to. Otherwise I wouldn't be being dragged out of bed by calls telling me that you look half dead and need someone to take you home."

"I didn't ask you to come out here," d'Artagnan snarled back. "Go back to bed if it's so fucking important."

"Don't be a child," Athos snapped, temper suddenly flaring and instantly he knew that he'd said precisely the wrong thing. d'Artagnan's back snapped straight, eyes flaring to life amongst shadowed, exhausted features.

"I think you'll find," he said with cold venom, "That I currently answer to Treville, and not to you. So, if you're quite finished, I'd let to get some work done."

Athos jerked back like he'd been slapped. He knew, rationally, that this was the fatigue talking, and that the man in front of him was not the same man he'd been texting earlier in the day. It still hurt like a bitch to be disowned so casually.

d'Artagnan had already turned back to his laptop and was pointedly not looking at Athos, attention focussed solely on the documents he was scrolling through. Chest aching, both physically and emotionally, Athos turned and left without another word. He didn't see the pained look that d'Artagnan shot him over his shoulder, or the way the boy crumpled when he didn't look back.

---

Somehow, Athos didn't see d'Artagnan for another two days. He seemed to have taken himself off into the dark depths of the garrison, if the rumours going around were anything to go by. Worry and guilt were warring for dominance inside Athos, and all his attempts to contact d'Artagnan to rectify the situation were going unanswered.

Aramis and Porthos had been unenthused by Athos' explanation of the kid's exclusion from the team but they'd followed his lead as always. Aramis in particular was desperate to get his hands on whoever it was that was getting their friends killed. Against his better judgement, Athos had refrained from telling the others about d'Art's new and worrying sleeping habits, deciding that involving more people would just be likely to spark the boy's temper. The last thing they needed was another argument.

By the third day with no contact, Athos decided that enough was enough. Sending Aramis and Porthos out to amuse themselves - which was always a terrible idea but he had no choice - he took himself off in the direction of the archives. For someone who loved technology so much, d'Artagnan had an immense love of books, and would take himself off to the library or the archives whenever he wanted peace, as though just being around the old pages made him calmer.

When the archives proved empty apart from Annette - the ancient archivist who was beloved by everyone - Athos turned himself in the direction of the library. d'Artagnan wasn't their either, but Athos stumbled into Matthias - one arm in a sling and face still a little too pale to be healthy.

"Athos," he greeted easily, voice just slightly tense with pain.

"Matthias. How's your shoulder? I heard that it was pretty rough back there."

The man's eyes darkened, his face contorting with momentary hatred. "Hard to complain when I've had to bury two friends this week."

Athos winced a little, realising his mistake. Matthias didn't seem angry with him though, his glare directed into empty space instead. "Of course. How's Constance holding up?"

"How do you think? She's on leave for emotional recovery. So I am, technically, but there wasn't any point in sitting at home feeling sorry for myself when I could be here, doing something. Anything. If it wasn't for this damn shoulder, I'd have been petitioning Treville for a case."

"I know the feeling," Athos admitted, thinking of the hole still knitting together in his chest and wondering if that was why Treville had been evasive when he'd asked after some work.

"I'm sure," Matthias said, the anger leaving his face in an aborted attempt at a smile. "I heard what happened. No lasting damage?"

"Apparently I should be fine eventually. Had a little physiotherapy to make sure all my muscles were in the right place, but I haven't kept it up. Aramis is enough of a mother hen to avoid hospitals at all costs."

This time an actual smile quirked Matthias' lips upwards, and Athos considered it a victory. There was always a worry when a team came back with fewer members than when it left that the survivors wouldn't be able to readjust. Athos had seen it happen before. He had a feeling though, that Matthias was going to be alright - he spared a thought for Constance, and made a mental note to go and check on her before the end of the day.

"Have you seen d'Artagnan recently?" Athos asked, remembering why he was here.

Matthias frowned as he thought back. "He was here earlier. I didn't see him leave - it can't have been more than ten minutes ago though."

Athos nodded his thanks and left, thinking hard. If d'Artagnan wasn't in his usual haunts, it was likely he was hiding from anyone who might come looking for him - meaning Athos. He wasn't prepared to try and process that information right now, so he just shook it out of his head and focussed. If d'Artagnan wasn't looking to be found, then he'd head somewhere that Athos would be unwilling to go; those places were few and far between within the garrison.

Realisation came to him slowly, and Athos had to smile at the boy's ingenuity, even as he cursed him to hell. There was only one place he could think of when d'Artagnan would feel comfortable and yet Athos would fear to tread - the tech department.

It was only two floors down and it took Athos less than a minute to find himself outside the door, hesitating. If d'Artagnan was purposefully avoiding him, was it really wise to pursue him into his chosen sanctuary? But it didn't matter what was wise, he reminded himself as he pushed the door open, not when he was hearing rumours that d'Artagnan hadn't been home for days.

One look at the boy confirmed all his worst suspicions. He looked utterly wrecked, clothes rumpled, hair in disarray, with his ever present coffee mug at his side. His eyes were ringed so deeply that he looked vaguely corpse-like.

"I didn't think you'd find me here," d'Artagnan told him without glancing up. His voice was scratchy from insufficient hydration. If all he'd been sustaining himself on was coffee, Athos was impressed that he could still hold himself upright.

"That's how I knew where you'd be."

"Couldn't take a hint, huh." It wasn't a question.

"Decided not to. Look, I really don't give a shit what you think of me right now d'Artagnan but if you think for one minute that I'm going to sit back and watch you kill yourself over this, you've got another thing coming."

"It's not up to you."

"Actually," Athos told him firmly, determined not to let his temper get in the way again. "It is. You've not been technically transferred out of my team yet and that means it remains up to my discretion as to whether or not you're fit for duty. Don't think I won't bench your ass."

d'Artagnan pushed himself to his feet, staggered a little, then recovered, looking furious. "What would that even achieve? Why is this so fucking important to you?"

"I will not watch a good man kill himself for no good reason."

"No good- Look around you! People are dying!"

"I know! That is not an excuse for you to work yourself to death just to save whatever pride you're putting in this. There are other agents looking into this matter, and you know it. You're literally shaking from exhaustion d'Artagnan," he pointed out, nodding at his trembling hands. d'Art folded them into his pockets to hide them. "You can't expect me to believe that you're getting anything productive done when you're this hyped."

For a moment, d'Artagnan continued to hold himself rigidly, glaring at Athos' left shoulder before he sagged in on himself, slumping back down into his chair. Athos approached warily. "I'm so close," d'Art told him, so quietly that he barely heard him. "I can feel it. I just need a little longer."

"All the more reason to take a break. Come on. Give what you've found to Treville and I'll give you a lift home. It's getting late anyway."

d'Artagnan looked ready to argue again but it was clear his outburst had sapped the last of his strength and he complied without another word, saving everything onto a pendrive he seemed to have procured from nowhere. He teetered on his feet when he rose, and Athos laid a steadying hand on his shoulder, feeling the tremors running through him with some concern.

Treville looked between an obviously exhausted d'Artagnan and Athos for a long minute, silently conveying 'whatever's going on here, fix it,' to his lieutenant. Athos inclined his head in acknowledgement and they were sent away.

It was obviously a struggle for d'Artagnan to stay awake in the car but he managed it, turning the AC on to blast him in the face with frigid air in a vain attempt to revive himself. Athos watched him with one eye while he navigated down the quiet streets. Paris was never silent but it had grown late enough now that the roads were clearer, and they were able to reach their destination in under twenty minutes.

He pulled into the car park and slipped off his belt, fully intent on helping d'Artagnan to his fourth floor flat, but he was stopped by a cool hand on his arm. "It's alright, I can manage," d'Art told him, trying for firm but just appearing weary. He didn't sound for one moment as though he could manage, but Athos instinctively knew that disagreeing with him would lead to another fight and that was the last thing he wanted.

He watched as d'Art slipped out of the car, unbalancing slightly but remaining on his feet, and decided that he'd give him two minutes to get to his flat or he'd follow him in. He sat there, enjoying the slight breeze of the air conditioning against his skin with his eyes fixed on the windows of d'Art's flat, waiting for the lights to come on.

A minute passed and then two, with no change. Anxious again, Athos turned the idling engine off and slipped out of his door, turning to push it shut behind him.

His back was still turned when the explosion hit.

He was close enough to it that he felt the heat brush around his exposed skin, the force knocking him half a step forwards into the car door before he could turn to see what had happened. A part of him already knew. Where d'Artagnan's flat had once been, there was now a smoking, blackened space, gaping open in the side of the building that mercifully seemed stable. Thank god for good engineering.

Athos barely spared the neighbours a thought as he flung himself forwards, towards the main doors where he could already hear smoke alarms blaring and the first stirrings of terrified voices. It was his duty to call it in but all that he cared about in that heart stopping minute was d'Artagnan. There could be a chance - he might have been shielded somehow, or maybe he hadn't reached the flat yet, or something, because Athos could not lose another brother.

It would kill him.

---

When d'Artagnan stirred, he was first aware that his head felt like he'd smashed it into a brick wall. A moment later the memories came back and he realised that he probably had at some point, not that it was any comfort. There was also a shrill ringing in his ears that was doing nothing to help the agonising headache. He supposed he should be thankful he was still alive at all - he was in far too much pain to be dead - but it was hard to summon up gratitude when he could feel every inch of his skin crackling with the promise of pain. A groan slipped out of his lips.

With great care, he was able to bring his arms under control and dragged them upwards to cradle his aching head, lightly skimming over his skull and coming away tacky with blood. So he had hit a wall then. Not really surprising.

He'd been approaching his front door when he heard his alarm going off. That was enough to set his mind on alert, followed rapidly by the sight of his broken lock and the door hanging slightly ajar. It could just be thieves of course - this was Paris and he was hardly living in the nicest neighbourhood in the city - but something in his heart told him that there was more to it than that. He'd taken another half step towards the door then hesitated, remembering Athos was just downstairs, and, knowing him, probably still waiting to see if he got home safely. It would be wise in his current condition to have back up.

It was as he turned to head back towards the stairs - the elevator hadn't worked in all the time d'Artagnan had lived there, much to Aramis' continued chagrin - that there was a blast of noise and heat and light and then he was passing out.

An explosion? That seemed like the most likely option which meant that d'Artagnan really was the luckiest son of a bitch in history, excluding of course the fact that someone had just tried to kill him.

There were alarms going off, he realised beneath the cotton wool plugging his ears, wincing a little as the piercing wail rattled through his pained skull. He wasn't sure that fire alarms would do much good to warn people - there was no way anyone in the building didn't hear that explosion - but it would be enough to summon the authorities. The Musketeers too with any luck.

Athos! He'd forgotten about him. d'Artagnan could feel his thoughts slipping about, some lodged more firmly than others, but all too cloudy to do more than lay there in agonised, stunned confusion. It didn't matter though, Athos would be coming. No matter what tension there might be between them currently, Athos would always have his back and if he was around then d'Artagnan didn't have to worry about keeping himself safe.

An indeterminable amount of time passed before he heard shouting, nearby and distressed, but d'Artagnan didn't think it had been long. There were hands on him then, and it sounded as though someone was trying to talk to him but the voice was muffled and distorted, as though his ears were damaged. He couldn't do more than groan at whoever it was trying to communicate with him. Had he been alone? No, there was someone with him, wasn't there? He groaned again, feeling the thoughts sliding out of his skull. He was just so tired...

---

The relief that had flooded Athos when he'd seen d'Artagnan had dimmed when he took in the bleeding head wound and the burns that peeked through the smouldering gaps in his shirt, but there was a steady pulse at his throat that helped to calm Athos' own racing heart. d'Art groaned when he touched him, meaning he had at least some level of consciousness - a very good sign.

"d'Artagnan! Can you hear me?" He called softly, not wanting to talk too loudly in deference to the pain that must no doubt be crushing his skull. There was another groan and then all the muscles beneath Athos' hands went limp. Thinking his heart was going to fall out of his chest, he reached for his pulse again and only breathed when he felt the steady beat.

He had to get d'Art out of here. The kid needed medical attention, that much was obvious, but if someone was trying to kill him then they couldn't just walk into the nearest hospital. The first safe place he could name was the garrison but Athos was unwilling to bring d'Artagnan there right now. There was a mole in the Musketeers and who was to say that they wouldn't see this as an opportunity to take out the man trying to hunt them down?

If the garrison wasn't possible, then the next best thing was Athos' house. The address in his records was for a tiny flat very near the garrison, though Athos spent almost no time there at all, preferring the much larger house he maintained further away from the centre of the city. It was easily defensible and only a handful of people knew about it - Treville, his team, Constance and his personal doctor.

Mind made up, Athos scooped up d'Artagnan as gently as he could - the boy didn't so much as twitch - and headed for the stairs, moving as quickly as he could while carrying another fully grown man. d'Artagnan might be a bean pole, but he was deceptively heavy, wrapped as he was in lean muscle.

He settled him in the back seat and pulled out his phone, shooting off a text to Aramis and Porthos as quickly as he could that simply read 'My house. Now.' They wouldn't question it, he was sure.

---

Aramis and Porthos arrived together, both looking a little rugged but blinking alert with concern.

"What's going on?" Porthos asked as soon as the door was closed behind them.

Athos gestured them to follow him as he headed for the stairs, hurrying just a litte. "d'Artagnan's in the guest bedroom. He's hurt. There's a gash on the back of his head and a pretty heavy concussion I'd guess, along with burns along his back. On top of that, I'm fairly sure he's not slept or eaten in the last few days."

There was the slightest pause of surprise before Aramis kicked himself into gear. "Does he need stitches?"

"I think so."

"Not the hospital?"

"It would seem that someone's trying to kill him. I'd rather not risk the hospital until I'm sure he'd be safe there." They entered the room where he'd put d'Artagnan and all three of them needed a minute to take in the damage done to their young friend. Athos had removed his shirt, revealing the full extent of the burns lancing across his shoulders, and his hair was matted with blood that was leaking onto the pillow beneath him gruesomely.

"Jesus," Porthos murmured. the word startled Aramis into action, darting forwards and waving an expectant hand towards them.

"Med kit. Now." Athos had already retrieved it from the bathroom and now passed it to the medic, taking comfort from the steadiness of Aramis' hands. "He needs a hospital Athos. If his skull's damaged..."

"Do what you can. I've called Treville - he's trying to sort something out but he doesn't know who he can reach out to. Shit," he breathed, rubbing at his face. "This is such a mess."

"Tell us what happened," Porthos ordered him, steering him into the sofa at the side of the room so that he could drop into it. "Start at the beginning. This have something to do with what the kid's been working on?"

Athos nodded slowly. "I think so. He's been obsessive about this since he left the team. I don't think he's left the garrison in the last few days at all, and I'd be surprised if he was taking breaks to eat. Earlier I caught up with him and, after some persuasion, convinced him to give Treville what he had and go home. He said that he thought he was getting close to something big."

"The mole?"

"I think so. But I told him that he could worry about that later and just to leave it. He was exhausted so I offered him a lift - he could barely keep his eyes open the whole time." Athos paused, feeling a tug of guilt in his belly at the thought of how he'd let a semi-conscious d'Artagnan off on his own.

"You made it to his flat?" Aramis questioned without looking up when the silence stretched a little too long.

"Yes. I waited in the car for him to head up - I was going to leave as soon as I saw the lights come on and then... There was an explosion. His whole flat was just gone."

Both of the others had gone very still, muscles freezing in sheer rage. "Someone planted a bomb in his home?" Porthos confirmed quietly, voice trembling just slightly.

Athos just nodded at him. He could see Aramis setting down his needle for a moment so that he could draw in a steadying breath, burying one hand in the boy's blood-soaked hair as though the physical contact was enough to tether him there. Porthos was much less still in his distress. He snapped to his feet in one jerky movement, his face a thunderstorm as the lamp that had been beside him went flying across the room to smash against the opposite wall. Aramis flinched.

"Porthos," Athos reprimanded gently. Not that it made much difference - he had no attachment to the thing and he could always by another.

"Sorry," the bigger man bit out sharply, flexing his fists to keep himself from breaking anything else, wound much too tightly.

"We'll make them pay for this," Aramis commented almost idly, taking up his needle again to continue patching up their young friend. "You know we will. Save your rage."

"I've got plenty," Porthos muttered, but let himself relax back into the sofa beside Athos.

The silence stretched out, all three of them subconsciously listening out for any signs of awareness in d'Artagnan, waiting for the moment where he would wake up. The concussion meant that they couldn't just leave him to sleep but Athos was also painfully aware that the kid desperately needed the rest - he was in no shape to be recovering from an explosion.

Athos' phone trilled suddenly, the sound excessively loud after so long in silence. He snatched at it, glancing at the screen long enough to see Treville's name before he hit the green symbol.

"Sir."

"How is he?"

There was no question of who he meant. "Aramis is stitching him up now." He pulled the phone away from his mouth to ask the sniper, "Prognosis?"

"He's going to be miserable for a while but nothing seems damaged beyond repair. I need scans to be more certain."

"We could really use a hospital sir," he told Treville, trying not to sound as desperate as he felt. For all they knew, d'Artagnan was slowly slipping away from them because his brain was swelling or any other number of horrific things that could happen with head wounds, and they were just sitting there, watching Aramis knitting his skin back together, helpless.

"There's a clinic, about twenty miles south of the city," the Captain told them. "I know the man who runs it - old friend of mine. You won't be able to stay there but it'll get you access to at least some of the more basic machinery. It's a step up from a first aid kit at the very least."

"Thank you," Athos told him with fervour. It was something. He gestured to Porthos to get d'Artagnan mobile, fishing in his pockets with his free hand for his car keys. "Send me the address?"

"Of course. I'll call you if we find anything."

"Be careful Captain. Whoever did this was willing to kill a Musketeer without even trying to be discreet. I hate to think what they might do if you corner them."

"I know my job Athos. Look after your men and let me take care of mine."

He hung up and moments later the phone buzzed with a new text, listing the name and address of their destination. Porthos had, with Aramis' help, managed to scoop d'Artagnan up without pressing on the burns along his back while supporting his head against too much motion.

"Where are we going?" Aramis asked him as they made their way carefully down the stairs.

"Treville said that he knows a man running a clinic south of the city. He should be able to help us. It's no hospital but it's better than we can do here."

Aramis must have heard the self-recrimination in his voice because he snatched at his shoulder, pulling him around so they were face to face. "Don't you dare pin this on yourself. If you hadn't been there, d'Artagnan might not have made it even this far, so don't for one second think that you're not doing enough. If you even try, I may have to hit you." Porthos was nodding his head in fierce agreement, mouth twisted down at the corners.

It was an argument that Athos was never going to win with these two, so he just shrugged off Aramis' hand and started leading them towards his car again. It shouldn't take them long to reach the clinic, and with any luck, they wouldn't run into any trouble along the way.

---

By the grace of whatever god Aramis had been praying to, they arrived without incident. Years of working as an agent had made Athos very good at driving well over the speed limit without causing accidents at every junction but even he had a few close shaves with the cars they passed.

The doctor who owned the clinic met them at the door - Treville had rang ahead to announce them - and he ushered them in without asking any questions. Athos decided instantly that he liked this man. He was growing old, probably already in his early sixties, with a wrinkled face that looked as though it had smiled often through his life. His eyes tightened unhappily when he saw the state of d'Artagnan.

The kid had woken up on the journey, much to their relief, but he'd been mostly incoherent and had fallen asleep again shortly after, distress curling across his features. Porthos carried him carefully into the clinic and followed the doctor down several corridors and into a room that contained an MRI machine.

Under the doctor's careful instructions, they had d'Artagnan in the machine in just a few moments and had retreated into the observation room to wait.

"My name is Doctor Adams," the man told them with a soft English accent. When Aramis opened his mouth to reply, he held up a hand, stalling him. "Please, do not tell me your names, any of you. You are friends of Treville and I will offer you what shelter I can but I have a family to think of too. The less I know about you, the safer they will be."

"You are very kind," Aramis told him sincerely, grasping Adams' hand in a firm shake. "Thank you."

"If you are working for Treville, it is no doubt I who should be thanking you. From what I have seen of your line of work, you do great good for this country and her people. Consider this my way of showing my gratitude." He looked through the glass into the scanning room where the machine was whirring to life, the occasional heavy metal clanking echoing through the small space. "The scan will take some time. If you know what you're looking at, you can see the measurements here," he said, indicating one of the computer screens. "You're welcome to remain in here for the procedure. I can have some chairs brought in."

"That would be most kind," Aramis said, apparently aware that Porthos still wasn't quite removed enough from his anger for courtesy and Athos was much too caught up in the emotions of the day to remember how to deal with people.

Adams nodded, casting a thoughtful glance around the three of them before leaving with the promise that he would check in every now and again. As he said, some nurses appeared with chairs soon enough and Aramis was able to force them both into them and demand that they rest for a while. It was clear that the sniper was just as exhausted, but he would always put his own health below that of his friends.

Too tired to argue with him about it, Athos just sagged into the uncomfortable plastic and let his mind close in on him, so exhausted that he couldn't even bring himself to worry about the fate of the Gascon in the next room. Within moments, he was asleep.

---

When Porthos poked Athos awake, it was to say that the scan was finished and they'd finally had some good news. d'Artagnan was in bad shape, no doubt, but his brain was unhurt. It would seem that apart from the concussions and the burns - and the temporary hearing loss that accompanied any explosion - he really was alright, which meant he should make a full recovery if given time.

"We can't stay here," Athos reminded them as they all stood blearily in front of the monitor, looking at brain scans that none of them really understood. "It's not safe and it's not fair to put this clinic at risk."

"Where do we go then?" Porthos asked. "We can't go back to the garrison and he can't take him home. Back to your house?"

"There's no reason to assume that my house is any more safe than the garrison at this point. I think that we should act under the assumption that anywhere known about by the Musketeers is no longer a viable option."

"That doesn't give us many options Athos," Aramis pointed out with tired desperation edging his tone.

Athos sighed heavily and rubbed at his eyes in a vain attempt to encourage them that being open was almost as good as being closed. "What do you suggest?"

Really, the only thing they could do was call Treville. He was the one that they always turned to when they were in trouble and couldn't see a way out without help, and he'd never failed to be there for them in all their years of acquaintance.

"I'll make the call," Athos told the others and pointed them in the direction of d'Artagnan. "Go and check on him. Try and wake him up. If you can't, just get him in the car." Once they were gone, he pulled out his phone and took a deep breath. The Captain picked up on the second ring.

"News?"

"He's alright. Skull's in one piece, thank god. Fairly heavy concussion and a couple of burns but nothing that he won't recover from. Anything on your end?"

"Not so far but I think that if I can talk to d'Artagnan about what's in the files he gave me, it might give us the answers we need. Can you get him here?"

"I don't think it's wise to bring him to the garrison Sir," Athos argued immediately. "And even if I could, he's not been all that coherent recently. He almost died last night!"

There was a pause as the Captain thought about it. "You could bring him to my house. I can meet you there. It's not on Musketeer records so there's no way that anyone else should know where it is and d'Artagnan can rest there for as long as he needs. Since Marie died, it's been mostly empty anyway."

Marie was the Captain's late wife - killed after she was kidnapped by men hoping to gain leverage over the leader of the Musketeers. Treville had found her as soon as he could, but it wasn't before they'd shot her in the gut and left her to bleed out slowly. It was just about the cruellest thing they could have done.

Athos gave an understanding hum, wishing that he could say something of comfort but not finding the words. Instead he said softly, "We'll meet you there."

When he hung up, Aramis was approaching hesitantly. "Do we have a plan? Tell me we're not taking him to the garrison."

"Of course not. Treville says that we can use his house for the time being - he might have something but he needs to ask d'Artagnan some questions. Did he wake up?"

Aramis shot a glance over his shoulder to where Porthos was gently pulling the younger man into his arms, trying not to jostle him too badly. "Sort of. He was conscious at the very least, but disorientated. Not exactly unexpected. Once we're in the car I'll try and get him to come all the way around; it's not wise to have let him sleep with a concussion for so long."

"Concussion or not, he's barely slept in the last week," Athos reminded him. "It's not surprising that his body is refusing to come back online so soon."

The sniper grimaced but nodded in agreement as they followed Porthos out of the building, darting ahead to open doors along the way. When Athos headed for the driver's door, he was halted by Aramis' hand on his shoulder. "Nope, that's not happening," he said, snatching the keys out of his hand before he could stop him.

"It's my car."

"I don't care."

"You're supposed to be trying to wake d'Artagnan up."

"I will be. Porthos will be driving. While I defer to your skills in almost every other thing, your driving leaves a little to be desired when you're exhausted and stressed. Sit back, relax. Get some more sleep." Aramis was smiling like a man who knew he'd won, and when Porthos joined them Athos could see that he was severely outmatched.

"Fine," he agreed moodily. Porthos was by far the best driver of the three of them, that was for sure, but Athos wasn't half bad either and it was his damn car. "Don't scratch the paint."

"Have I ever?" Porthos asked with some offence. He was already sliding into the car though and Athos didn't have a chance to respond before the door was closed in his face. Grumbling about pushy Musketeers, Athos scrambled into the front seat instead and turned to see where Aramis was balancing d'Artagnan's head on his lap, a hand on his shoulder while he muttered a steady stream of Spanish.

"You know that he doesn't speak Spanish, right?"

Aramis didn't look up as he replied, "He speaks Italian, French, Russian, and some English and Portuguese. And that's only what we know of. I think that it's high time he learned a half decent language."

d'Artagnan's previously slack face scrunched up a little then, and he struggled to open his eyes to look at them. "I don't like Spanish," he muttered very softly.

Athos had to laugh at the expression on Aramis' face, torn between immense relief and betrayal. Eventually the latter won out, but there was still a fondness in his face that warmed Athos. "I'll have you know that Spanish is far superior to any other language, and I'll not hear another word against it. I will blame your concussion for your current, misguided state."

"You say C's as Th's," d'Art told him calmly, his eyes still not fully open and his body remaining as lax as before. "It's stupid." He was slurring a little bit but it might just be the remnants of the heavy sleep he was trying to wake from.

"I'd watch what you say before Aramis throttles you," Athos warned him with a smile, relief so strong that he would have collapsed if he hadn't been sitting. Beside him, Porthos was beaming out of the windshield, unable to turn around.

"Athos?" d'Artagnan's efforts to open his eyes were renewed, and a moment later he was blinking owlishly at their team leader. "Are you alright?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"Um," d'Art said eloquently, frowning. He looked like a confused puppy. "I thought... I can't remember. What happened?" He reached up a hand to gently cup his skull, apparently noticing for the first time that his head was resting on Aramis' thighs but deciding that he had no great need to change that state.

"What can you remember?"

"I was... going home? Someone was with me, I think, but then they weren't. I was tired. Did I hit my head?"

"Quite badly, in fact," Aramis told him. "You've just been having a brain scan to make sure that everything's still in one piece."

"Is it?"

"Just about."

"Oh. Good."

"Do you remember anything else?" Athos pushed.

"Not really... wait. I was going into my flat but something was wrong. I could hear an alarm... Then there's nothing."

That made a certain amount of sense. It also explained why d'Artagnan hadn't just walked straight into his flat and been killed as intended - that alarm had saved his life. "The alarm was because someone broke into your flat. They... it's gone, d'Artagnan." He tried to announce it as calmly as he could, not knowing how he would respond to finding out his home had been destroyed.

"The flat?"

"Yes. There was an explosion... I don't know if they've been able to recover anything or not."

d'Artagnan was quiet for so long that Athos started to believe he'd fallen asleep again, but then he sighed heavily. "That sucks. Can I stay with one of you for a while?"

Well, that was anticlimactic. "That's it?" Aramis blurted out in surprise.

"What's it?"

"You're not upset? I mean, I'm glad that you're taking this so well but your home was just destroyed."

d'Artagnan turned his head as best he could to look at the marksman, considering. When he spoke, his voice was low. "My home is in Gascony. My flat was just where I've been staying; I had no real attachment to the place. As for my things... I can buy more clothes. Financially it's crappy but I had insurance - though admittedly it might not cover explosive attempts on my life. There's... I only have four things in my life that I couldn't bare to lose and none of them were in that flat."

"You sound like you prepared for this," Athos accused mildly. Knowing d'Artagnan, he probably had. In response, d'Art just smiled before breaking off into a yawn.

Aramis took pity. "We're heading back into the city but it's going to be a while. Get some more rest. We'll wake you when we get there."

d'Artagnan didn't have time to argue before he was drifting off again, lulled by the painlessness of sleep.

---

Treville was there before them, ushering them into a living room that looked as though it hadn't seen guests in several years, with a thin layer of dust coating the furniture and a slightly stale smell pervading the air. The Captain looked around the four of them, taking in d'Artagnan's semi-aware state without comment.

After a moment he turned to Aramis and Porthos. "I'm obligated to say that I'm very disappointed you both missed your SSEs this morning. After pulling some strings, they've been rearranged to next week instead."

They looked at each other and Athos could see they both silently counting the days to work out if it was in fact Friday. "I think these class as extenuating circumstances, Captain," Athos argued on their behalf, though they could see that Treville wasn't really angry with them. Of course they'd forgotten in light of one of their team members almost being murdered.

Treville looked a little uncertain for a moment, then sighed. "I've not told the rest of the garrison what's happened."

Athos was too surprised for a moment to even register his own anger. Eventually he was able to protest, "But they could be at risk!"

"I know that," Treville snapped back. "But they're all at risk for as long as there is a man leaking our information. If that person finds out that d'Artagnan survived the attempt on his life, then he might go underground or worse, try again. We need this resolved as quickly as possible."

It made sense, Athos supposed but that didn't make it any less horrible to bear. "It ain't right," Porthos growled quietly but they could see the defeat in his shoulders.

Throughout the conversation, d'Artagnan had slowly been stirring himself back into proper wakefulness as he tried to get a grip on what it was they were saying. He knew that he had something important to tell them, and that it was vital he told them as soon as he could but it took him several long moments before he could remember the right words. He cleared his throat softly, waiting until he was sure they were listening; he only had the energy to explain this once. With his voice a little tremulous, he informed them, "I know who the mole is."

Chapter Text

The stunned silence reigned until d'Artagnan shifted uncomfortably against the sofa cushions he was propped up with. "I might be wrong, I'm not completely sure but if you've got my data with you I can-"

He looked like he was about to have a panic attack, so Aramis stopped him with a careful hand on his shoulder. "d'Art. Deep breath, calm down. Tell us what you mean."

"I can't be sure until I check over the documents again, but I had an idea. I don't think the mole is a Musketeer at all."

Athos and Treville looked at each other to share a silent conversation. It was clear that Treville was leaning towards the conclusion that d'Artagnan's head wound was scrambling his thoughts, and while there might be some truth to that, Athos was vehement in his faith of d'Artagnan - if the kid told him that the mole wasn't a Musketeer, he'd believe him without question.

"I thought we'd agreed that the only people able to get the information were people already inside the garrison," Porthos pointed out, looking to Aramis for confirmation. The sniper was nodding in agreement.

"Exactly," d'Artagnan said as though his meaning was obvious, his eyes sliding closed for a moment as his head pounded fiercely. He really wouldn't mind some painkillers right about now. Aramis muttered something and stood, returning moments later with a glass of water and two white pills that he held out - d'Artagnan hadn't even realised he'd been speaking aloud.

"These should take the edge off at least," Aramis told him, "But they might also make you drowsy. We can't let you sleep for too long while your concussion is still so recent."

"Thanks." He swallowed them with a small sip of water, looking terribly vulnerable sandwiched between Porthos and Aramis' bulk. Athos' eyes tightened. "Do you have my data with you? I need to show you something."

Treville pulled a pen drive out of his pocket with a flourish and gave it to Athos. "There's a laptop upstairs. Give me a moment." He leaned towards his lieutenant so that he could speak without the others hearing, whispering, "If he's right about this, we could be in serious trouble."

Athos nodded in agreement, his mind already reeling over all the potential problems they were now facing. If it wasn't a Musketeer, then their pool of suspects just became significantly wider and it could mean that they were now dealing with a whole organisation instead of just an individual. As if they didn't have enough to cope with right now.

"How're you feeling kid?" Porthos looked very much like he wanted to help the younger man but had no idea how to, his hands hanging in the air between them awkwardly.

"I've been better," he admitted, then cracked open an eye to smile at them. "I'll be fine, don't worry. I fully intend to make whoever it was who blew up my flat pay for it."

"That's the spirit," Aramis said with a smile, brushing their shoulders together. d'Art seemed to be drawing strength from their presence, and Athos was warmed to see the ease with which his brothers offered and received support without having to verbalise it, knowing what they needed.

Treville reappeared with a battered laptop tucked under one arm, which he very carefully placed in d'Artagnan's lap. Their Captain looked tense, and Athos could sense the rolling unease that was disrupting him - he could feel the same sensation in his own bones. The Musketeers were at risk - someone was trying to kill them - and here they were, sitting in Treville's living room as though they had nowhere better to be.

"Okay," d'Art started, already opening up files from the pen drive as he shook himself properly awake. The first thing he showed them was a list of names. "These are all the Musketeers that have accessed the archives since the first time we were aware there was a mole - our trip to Russia. I went through all of them but nothing raised any flags; as far as I can tell, they were all genuine enquiries with perfectly innocent motives. Oh," he broke off, his eyes catching on a name and a smile curving up his lips. "Except for Ramirez and James in Team Echo. I think they were having some kind of prank war."

"Altering anything in the archives without permission is a punishable offence d'Artagnan," Treville reminded him, and the Gascon made an effort to wipe the smile from his face.

"Yes Sir. They have since both gone back and fixed everything that they changed. There's no damage. But I'm getting off track. My point was, none of the official access records show anything out of the ordinary - the obvious conclusion to that being that someone was able to access the files without going through any of the regular channels."

"A hacker?" Treville had folded himself into an armchair with his elbows resting on his knees, listening intently.

"That's what I thought to start with but to get into the database, you need some serious hardware. I might make disparaging comments about it, but your security protocols are pretty solid."

"You managed to find us in nine days d'Art," Porthos reminded him, "And you didn't even know the Musketeers existed to start with. Who knows how long they've had?"

d'Artagnan blushed just a little, dropping his eyes. "Without wishing to sound too big headed, I'm pretty much the best in the world at this right now. Maybe don't use me as the yardstick on which to judge hackers?"

"Not big headed, huh?" Aramis looked proud.

"Shut up. What I'm trying to say is that it's not going to be someone who isn't able to get access legitimately. They're using the same access they do normally, but somehow they're hiding their electronic trace - which is pretty remarkable really. The coding for such a thing has to be immense." d'Artagnan actually looked impressed and Athos cleared his throat to remind him just who it was they were talking about. "Off topic, sorry. Now, what I've been thinking is the only people with access to the Musketeer database who aren't actually Musketeers are the higher-ups - Louis and his men and Richelieu."

"And you," Porthos reminded him.

"And me," d'Artagnan agreed grimly. "I trust that you all believe me when I say that I'm not the mole?"

"Of course," Athos said, waving away the question. "But what you're saying is that the mole is either the Commissioner or the leader of the Red Guards? I might have my issues with the man, but even I don't think that Richelieu would be capable of something like this."

"Not necessarily. The Red Guards have a very different system to the Musketeers, electronically speaking. Richelieu's files are intermingled with everyone else's - they hide in the system to try and make them hard to find but a hacker with enough time on their hands could ferret them out no problem. The main issue they would face is that the database has been isolated in the last few months - apparently I hacked in there one too many times and they got pissed off."

"Don't tell me," Treville groaned. "At least leave me reasonable deniability for whatever laws you've been breaking."

d'Artagnan quirked a smile though it faded rapidly as he pulled up a vaguely familiar blueprint - it was labelled as Red Guard HQ. "If you want their files, you need to be in this building. I find it hard to believe that someone has been breaking in repeatedly for the last few months and no one noticed."

The implication was heavy in his tone and they all looked at each other with their hearts sinking in their chests. "The mole is a Red Guard," Aramis said into the silence, sounding both defeated and angry. "How did we not see this coming?"

Treville's face was dark with anger, his whole frame tense as he launched himself out of the armchair to pace across the room. "Do you know who?"

"Not yet," d'Artagnan admitted. "But the garrison's system is linked with theirs. If we go there, I should be able to give you a name in less than an hour. I know what I'm looking for now."

Porthos could see lines of guilt starting to creep up into d'Artagnan's shoulder and he pressed himself closer against his side, careful not to jostle him. "You did good kid. Real good." d'Art sagged into him bonelessly as though he was a puppet who'd had his strings cut, exhaustion taking over his features again now that he didn't have to remain alert. Aramis looked him over quickly, assessing.

"d'Artagnan needs time to rest," he pointed out to Treville. "I know that we're on the clock here but he's not going to be of any use to anyone when he's exhausted."

d'Artagnan looked ready to argue so Athos stepped in quickly. "Aramis is right. None of us have had any sleep worth a damn and we all need at least a few hours. Can we stay here?"

"Of course," Treville allowed, seeing the fatigue weighing on his men. They all looked rough around the edges. "There's enough beds upstairs to house you all for as long as you need. There's blankets in the cupboard at the top of the stairs. I'll head back to the garrison and get a strike team ready - when we have a name I want to take this bastard down."

---

It took the combined support of Athos and Aramis to get d'Artagnan up the stairs without falling, Porthos heading up ahead of them to get one of the beds ready for him. It was clear that he was barely clinging on to consciousness, wincing every time the muscles in his back shifted and the burns pulled painfully. It was hard for all of them to watch him in such pain without being able to do anything about it.

Once he was settled and unconscious again, they took stock of themselves. There was a double bed in what had been the master bedroom and then another single room which Aramis pushed Athos towards without allowing him to argue.

"Porthos and I will be fine," he informed him smartly. "We've shared beds before and you need to sleep."

"So do you."

"I can sleep with someone else in the bed. I know you still struggle with that sometimes," Aramis said quietly enough that Porthos wouldn't hear him. "Go. We'll be alright."

Too tired to offer any further protest, Athos trudged off in the direction of the bedroom, kicking off his shoes and dumping his jacket onto a chair before dropping onto the mattress fully clothed. It wasn't like he had a spare change with him anyway, and he was much too tired to worry about his presentability right now.

It was enough to know that his team were safe and resting, and that they were so much closer to ensuring all the Musketeers would be spared the injustice of another betrayal at the hands of a Red Guard, of all people. Athos felt the blazing anger he'd been cultivating since Russia flare up in his gut and he clenched his fists tightly so he didn't lash out at anything. God help him if he got his hands on the mole - he'd tear the man apart.

But he couldn't worry about that now. Now he just needed to catch up on some much needed rest so that when they did find the mole, he wasn't a completely out of control, exhausted lunatic. No matter who it was, Athos knew that it was suicide to go up against anyone without a clear head on his shoulders, a lesson he'd been trying to teach d'Artagnan since their very first meeting.

There was a soft rustling noise from through the wall beside him, followed shortly by a muffled, "Aramis, please remove your hand." There was more scuffling and then a much louder thump.

"Rude," came Aramis' voice from further away, sounding disgruntled. Athos pictured him on the floor, having been shoved off the mattress by an irate Porthos.

"I told you to move," Porthos reasoned. "You should have listened."

Somehow comforted, Athos let himself drift off with a smile on his face.

---

It was a good six hours later when he woke, staggering upright to head for the bathroom, splashing himself with cold water. He'd been tired enough not to dream, which was a blessing at least. Refreshed, he made his way to the room Aramis and Porthos had been sharing and then snorted at the sight before him. Aramis had managed to worm his way back into the bed and had then proceeded to wrap himself around the bigger man as closely as he could, now lying with his head tucked into Porthos' neck and most of his upper body across the man's rib cage. Porthos would not be best pleased when he woke up.

Leaving them to their rest, he headed for d'Artagnan's room only to find the bed empty. He panicked for the briefest of moments before he heard movement beyond the open door to the en-suite.

"d'Art?" He called, stepping forwards hesitantly.

"In here," the boy replied, his voice sounding strangely tight. Once Athos saw him, it was clear why. His tanned skin was terribly pale and his breathing stuttering alarmingly from where he had propped himself against the toilet, his head hanging low on his chest.

"Shit, d'Art," Athos said ineloquently, stumbling forwards to crouch beside him. There was bile in the toilet and on the corner of d'Artagnan's lip - Athos wiped it away carefully with some toilet paper. "Just breathe okay?"

"Sorry," d'Art muttered back.

"Don't be sorry. It's okay, you're okay. Just take deep breaths."

d'Artagnan was trembling, Athos realised with a jolt, his hands shaking so badly that he could barely hold himself upright, and every time he moved his head he winced, the muscles in his back protesting. It almost came as a surprise to realise that d'Artagnan was injured - somehow Athos had only really factored in the concussion when thinking about the kid's state but now he was forcefully reminded of how badly he must be hurting.

"We'll get you some painkillers," Athos told him.

"No," d'Art argued breathlessly. "I'll be alright, just give me a minute. Bad dream."

Athos hummed in sympathy - he was no stranger to nightmares - and rubbed soothing circles into his bare shoulder. d'Artagnan had taken off his shirt to sleep, exposing the amount of damage across his back. No doubt Aramis would want to bandage him up before he allowed him to put on any more clothes.

Speaking of which, all of them could use a fresh shirt at the very least, and d'Artagnan's clothes had all been at his flat. He might be able to get away with borrowing Aramis' clothes for a while, but he was too tall for most of his wardrobe.

After several long moments of bending over the toilet, d'Artagnan was able to struggle to his feet again, leaning on Athos just a little until he found his balance again. "Thanks," he murmured with sincerity.

"Don't mention it. How are you feeling?"

He was half expecting to receive an unconvincing 'I'm fine,' but instead d'Artagnan took a moment to consider it, frowning, before he replied, "The burns feel too tight - every time I move they feel like their about to tear open. And my headache is pretty awful but then, it's nothing I've not had before." Athos knew that well enough. d'Artagnan, like Aramis, had been unfortunate enough to inherit a predilection for migraines and had been forced to call into work sick on more than one occasion, unable to look at the daylight without needing to throw up.

With only slight difficulty, Athos was able to manoeuvre d'Art down the stairs and into the kitchen, settling him as gently as he could on one of the stools at the breakfast counter.

"Alright?"

"Just give me a minute and I will be."

"Sure." d'Art was normally the one to fill the silences when Aramis wasn't around, but bizarrely it was Athos who found himself uncertain in the quiet. Thinking quickly, he settled on the first question that popped into his mind. "Can I ask you something?"

d'Artagnan perked up a little with curiosity. "Shoot."

"Those four things you said you couldn't live without. The things that weren't in your flat. I was wondering what they were." Once the words were out, Athos caught the uncertainty that flashed over d'Art's face, and instantly wanted to kick himself. For all that he seemed like an open book, d'Artagnan hated talking about himself almost as much as Athos did. "You don't have to tell me, forget it, I was just-"

"No, it's alright," d'Artagnan cut him off, offering a weak smile. "You have a right to know. I'm sure you can guess one of them at least anyway."

Still unsure but overrun with curiosity, Athos answered, "Your laptop?"

"Yeah. It was in my locker at the garrison. Should still be there."

"And the other three?"

"You can't guess?"

Athos thought for a long moment, considering everything he'd ever seen d'Artagnan with but he came up blank. Three things, he thought, three things he couldn't bare to lose... The thought came to him quietly and his face instantly broke down into fond softness, heart achingly open. d'Artagnan saw the realisation and smiled more genuinely at him, looking far more wise than a man his age had any right to be. "Us," Athos breathed out.

"Of course. What else?"

Athos wasn't an outwardly emotional man by nature, and he was better at using words as weapons than communication so he sidestepped the awkwardness with a loud mental 'nope' and wrapped a hand around the back of d'Artagnan's neck to pull him into a loose, gentle embrace. The kid seemed to understand because he came without resistance, his breath hitching a little at the pain of the movement.

After several heartbeats, they released each other, d'Artagnan looking pale but content, a peace in his eyes that Athos could only hope would linger. The relief of the moment was somewhat offset when d'Artagnan swayed in his seat, one hand darting out to grab the counter-top to hold himself upright, waving away Athos' silent offer of aid. d'Art took a deep breath and held it, slowly releasing his hold on the top to prove that he could take his own weight.

Once he was sure that the kid wasn't about to pass out and fall over, Athos looked around them in the hopes that there would be something there that was still edible. A quick rummage in the fridge revealed some cheese that looked vaguely passable if you cut off the mould, some milk that was rapidly becoming cheese and half a tube of tomato purée. The cupboards were a little more eventful, offering several varieties of canned soups - not quite what Athos had had in mind for breakfast.

As he searched there was a scuffling upstairs and some banging, accompanied by muffled shouting and laughter - the others must have finally woken up then.

"Well," Athos started, turning back to a daydreaming d'Artagnan, "Food is a little thin on the ground, it would seem."

"Coffee?" d'Art asked hopefully, eyes skimming over the counters.

"No milk or sugar. If you want it black, I'm fairly sure there's some Carrefour own brand in the cupboard."

d'Artagnan pulled a disgusted face. "Don't even think about that."

Athos smiled a little at the kid's apparent return to the land of the living. He was far more animated now than he had been earlier, though it did mean an increase in the pain lining his face. "We'll send one of the others out, don't worry. I don't think I have the strength to deal with an Aramis with caffeine withdrawal."

"Don't look at me," came Porthos' deep voice as he strode into the kitchen, shirtless and dishevelled but looking rested. Somehow, without a top covering his upper body he looked even bigger than normal, the vast expanse of dark skin rippling with muscles Athos could only dream of obtaining. "If I have to spend the night getting mauled by that monster-" he jerked his head towards the stairs, "-Someone else can make the coffee run."

"I vote Aramis," d'Artagnan put in immediately.

"Way to throw a guy under the bus," the sniper muttered sullenly as he appeared in the doorway, as breathtaking as ever despite his tousled hair and crumpled clothing.

"Well Porthos refused and I'm more likely to win against you than Athos," d'Art reasoned, smiling widely at him.

"Why am I even friends with you?"

Athos looked between them with fondness edging his features. Thinking quickly, he made up his mind. "Okay, new plan. Aramis, have a look over d'Artagnan's burns can you? And see if you can find some pain killers - I don't care what he says," he continued when d'Art tried to argue. "Sit on him and force them down his throat if you have to."

"Sure thing," Aramis agreed with a wide smile that said he would be more than happy to. d'Artagnan subsided glumly.

"Porthos, take my car and go pick up some clothes for all of us. Aramis' things should fit d'Artagnan well enough for now - we can worry about buying him more stuff later. I'll find somewhere to get coffee."

Porthos was still grumbling about having to leave the house so soon, but everyone had perked up at the thought of clean clothes - even d'Artagnan who would be living in borrowed garments until they could set aside enough time to go shopping - so he went without argument. Athos managed to make himself presentable enough to walk the streets of Paris without drawing too much attention and headed out, aiming for a square a few streets down. If he recalled correctly, there was a small coffee shop there that wasn't half bad - though ridiculously overpriced. It wasn't like he couldn't afford it.

Twenty minutes later - ten of which had been spent queuing and a further five wasted on arguing with the barrister about how many sugar packets he was entitled to take - he was letting himself back in, expertly balancing the four thermal cups with one hand. Aramis and d'Artagnan had migrated to the living room and the TV was on what looked like a Spanish game show, the volume turned down too low for Athos to catch the words. The Gascon was still without a t-shirt but most of his back was obscured by a patchwork of gauze and tape - Aramis had spent his time wisely it would see.

Despite appearing to be napping when Athos enter, d'Artagnan stirred the instant he smelt coffee, his whole being perking up as his eyes fixed on the cups in Athos' hands. He reached out and made grabby motions until Athos relented and handed him the one labelled DA.

"Charming as ever," Aramis commented with a raised eyebrow, though he was little better, snatching the cup with AR scrawled on the side without a single word of thanks.

"Scavengers, the lot of you," Athos observed with faux irritation. He settled himself down into an armchair and put Porthos' coffee on the table beside him - well out of anyone else's reach - before taking several scolding sips of his own. As he swallowed carefully, he examined the way d'Artagnan seemed to be doing his best to wrap his body around the small cup. "Aren't you cold?" He asked after watching him shift uneasily for a moment.

d'Artagnan's gaze flickered up to him and then away, followed shortly by a non-committal shrug. "I guess. My temperature's been a bit all over the place though."

Aramis instantly went stiff and breathed in sharply through his nose. "Why didn't you say anything?"

"It was like this before the explosion," d'Artagnan defended, as though that made any difference to anything. "I think I'm just coming down with something."

"Not sleeping for several days will do that to you," Athos pointed out. He was aware that he sounded angry but in truth, any anger he'd held against the kid had bled away the instant he saw the flames inside his flat. Sheer panic had a way of making you reorder your priorities.

d'Artagnan looked for a moment as though he wanted to argue but then he subsided, taking a fortifying gulp of his still steaming coffee - seriously, his throat must be a wreck, Athos' mouth twinged in sympathy - and then nodding. "You're right. I just... I got so caught up in it all and then Constance-"

He broke himself off but both the others saw the pain in his eyes. "Constance's team was attacked," Aramis said aloud, not mincing his words. He had a knack for knowing when he should be to the point, and when it was okay to speak with as much flowery language as he could come up with. "Peterson and Demaison didn't come back."

"Yeah," d'Art agreed on an exhale. "She called me, the night she came home. I went to see her; she was so distraught and she just needed someone to talk to I think - god knows she couldn't talk to that useless husband of hers." There was distaste in his voice that very rarely took up residence there. It was in fact, almost solely reserved for one Mr. Bonacieux, and Athos couldn't exactly say that he blamed the kid - the man was an asshole and made no secret of the fact that he hated what his wife did for a living. If he'd had any say, Constance would have left the Musketeers years ago.

"This was the night before you requested the transfer, wasn't it?" Athos asked, remembering.

"I went straight from Constance's house to Treville. I just couldn't stand to see her in so much pain without even trying to do something about it. Honestly, leaving the team was the last thing I wanted to do, but I knew that I would be far more use in the garrison than the field." His eyes were earnest, determined to make them believe that his hesitation had been genuine.

"I think you underestimate your use in the field," Athos pointed out but then smile gently at the boy. "But I can understand where you're coming from. You don't have to justify yourself to us, d'Art; we want to catch this man just as much as you."

"I think what our fearless leader is trying to say," Aramis put in, "Is that you don't need to be apologising for trying to protect your friends. You did well, don't doubt that. Although," he added almost as an afterthought, "You and I are still going to be having a long discussion about how to properly take care of yourself. You'd have thought someone would have explained to you the benefits of regular meals at the very least."

"Hey, I ate."

"Vending machine chocolate and coffee does not constitute an acceptable diet."

"Who made you the boss?" d'Art ducked away then, dodging the hand Aramis shot out to ruffle the kid's hair. Athos watched as their antics descended into a very half hearted wrestling match - both tired and balancing coffees in one hand and trying to avoid the worst of d'Artagnan's injuries. Going by the lack of pain on the Gascon's features, Athos assumed that Aramis had done as he was bid and found some pain killers for him.

Porthos returned a couple of minutes later, when d'Artagnan and Aramis had settled down again so that they were watching the game show with the kind of interest that can only be summoned in the truly bored.

"I thought we agreed that we weren't going to let the children watch the TV," Porthos commented to Athos idly as he retrieved his coffee, dumping a duffel bag in the hallway. Aramis flipped him the bird and continued muttering translations to d'Art.

"Half an hour won't rot their brains too much. Besides, I wanted to drink my coffee in peace."

Porthos snickered and settled himself on the floor beside Athos' legs, leaning back against the base of the chair. The whole orientation of the room was horribly domestic, and Athos realised with a start that the warm feeling curling in his gut was contentment - he was surrounded by his family and was safe (at least for the moment) and that knowledge was enough to put him more at ease than he had felt in years. When Porthos tilted his head so that it was resting on Athos' knee, the feeling grew so strong that he almost chocked on it.

But as with all good things, it had to come to an end sooner or later. Treville was expecting them at the garrison and there was still a madman roaming the world who had tried to kill d'Artagnan only yesterday.

He swallowed the last dregs of his coffee and nudged Porthos' head to rouse him from his dose. "Okay, time to start the day. You manage to get clothes for all of us?" He directed the question at the back of Porthos' head.

"It's all in the bag," he said with an idle wave in the direction of the duffel. "I rummaged in Aramis' stuff for something big enough for d'Art. It won't be elegant but..."

"It's better than just my skin, I suppose," d'Artagnan allowed, but they could tell he was a little put out at the thought. Perhaps it was just the reminder that he had serious amounts of personal shopping to do.

"You can stay with me until you find a new flat, d'Art," Athos offered. "We're not just going to leave you to flounder."

d'Artagnan nodded, a grateful smile playing about his lips, but he still looked downhearted. "It's just going to be a lot of money, that's all. It's something I would rather have gone without."

"I'm sure Athos will buy you anything you need," Aramis told him before Athos had the chance to offer it himself. Few of the Musketeers knew that Athos was descended from a long line of aristocrats, which came with the privilege of inheriting vast amounts of money, but Aramis and Porthos were willing to make full use of the opportunity whenever they could. Knowing the backgrounds that they came from, Athos could hardly blame them.

"Oh," d'Artagnan said, momentarily surprised. "That's not necessary, I can manage-"

"d'Artagnan," Athos cut him off smoothly. "Whilst I would not normally encourage such behaviour, in this instance, you should follow Aramis' lead. If you ever need money, you're more than welcome to some of mine - I have more than enough. Besides, I've bought enough crap for these two over the years that you're entitled."

The Gascon still looked uncertain but he already knew just how wealthy Athos was - when he'd been finding out everything he could about the man before he met him, it had been hard to miss the assortment of prestige bank accounts and bonds - so in the end he nodded slowly. "Thank you."

"Don't mention it. Besides, it's a problem for another day. First things first. Showers."

There were two bathrooms upstairs, so d'Artagnan (being careful of the bandages) and Porthos went first (Aramis had done his very best to get in before Porthos but no matter how fast he was, he couldn't hope to match the bigger man in strength - eventually Athos had been forced to order Aramis downstairs, lest they all be held up by the impromptu wrestling match). As they waited, Athos questioned their sniper about d'Artagnan's condition.

"He's in better shape than you might expect," he was told, "Though that's still miles away from good. At least everything looks as though it should heal cleanly enough. Even so, his back will be scarred for a long while I should imagine."

"He doesn't seem the type to be bothered by that."

"Recently, he hasn't seemed the type to be bothered by anything," Aramis retorted, and there was a warning note in his voice that alerted Athos.

"You think something's going on?"

Aramis shrugged, unsure. "His flat was just obliterated with him almost inside it - whether he considers it home or not, that's a big deal and he's barely even interested. If it were me, I'd be screaming bloody murder."

"He's exhausted as it is," Athos reasoned. "With the amount of sleep he's had, I'm surprised he can form a coherent sentence, let alone build up sufficient anger for this."

"It's more than that Athos, and you know it. He's been off for a while now, even before Sierra team were attacked. I think it started at the hospital."

There were many instances in their lives that could be referred to as 'the hospital' but Athos knew the exact one he was referring to - their most recent visit when Athos was recovering from a bullet wound. "He was fine then. Happy even. Glad to not be at odds with you."

Aramis grimaced a little at the reminder of how he had acted. "I know. But after that, didn't he seem a little... intense to you?"

"Like something was on his mind and he kept having to force it away," Athos agreed. He hadn't even noticed at the time but looking back, it seemed obvious. "Too busy trying not to be distracted."

"Exactly," Aramis said, mouth tilting down. "I think that after today, we all need to have a long sit down with him and explain the benefits of working in a team."

"You're probably right," Athos admitted as he heard one of the showers upstairs shut off, followed shortly by the other. "Another problem that we need to worry about later. Come on. Treville's probably expecting us already."

---

They were all climbing into the car ten minutes later, Athos having recovered his car keys from a reluctant Porthos. It was remarkable the difference a shower and a change of clothes could make. They all seemed somehow stronger, more collected, than they had when they'd crawled out of bed this morning. Even d'Artagnan, injured and wearing trousers that just barely covered his ankles, looked like he was ready to take on the world.

Treville was indeed waiting for them, with some impatience too, though it softened when he saw the slight pallor in d'Artagnan's skin that the kid hadn't been able to shake.

"I have Golf and Mike teams ready and waiting," the Captain told them as he ushered them into a conference room and closed the door. "There's space if you three want in on this." The statement was not directed at d'Artagnan, though the kid's head still perked up.

Athos shot him a look that said 'no way in hell,' and then turned back to Treville. "It would be our pleasure."

The Captain nodded, clearly having expected that answer. "There's tac vests and munitions in the locker room for you. d'Artagnan if the next words out of your mouth are anything to do with you being involved in this op, I will send you home," he added, when the Gascon opened his mouth to argue.

d'Artagnan flushed at being treated like a child, but he didn't have a leg to stand on and he knew it. He technically wasn't even a member of Alpha team at this point, injury or no.

"Good," Treville said when the silence had stretched. "You told me that you could give me a name? Get to it. If you need anything, tell me and we'll make it happen."

"Just my laptop. It shouldn't take long."

Athos didn't particularly want to leave d'Artagnan alone when he had that half pained, half sad look on his face, but there was little choice. There was no way he was sending Aramis and Porthos out into the field with unfamiliar teams when he wasn't there to watch their backs and besides, he wanted to take this bastard down himself.

He ushered the rest of his team towards the locker room as quickly as he could, intent on snagging his equipment and then returning in as little time as he could manage. He was somewhat delayed when Matthias appeared at his elbow, pulling him to a stop.

"I know there's nothing I can say that will convince you to let me go with you," he started, glancing meaningfully at his sling, "So I'll just say this: Make that bastard pay."

Seeing the emotion there, Athos could do little else but nod and promise, "I will."

Thoughts whirring unhappily, he made his way back to where he'd left d'Artagnan with his tac vest hanging off one shoulder and an assault rifle on a strap around his neck. A glance over his shoulder revealed Aramis and Porthos following in his wake, their faces already lined with the concentration needed in an op.

d'Artagnan was frowning furiously at his laptop, fingers almost blurring with the speed of his typing. Athos watched him for a moment with the familiar awe creeping through him as he snapped the Velcro straps on his vest closed, taking comfort from the secure tightness.

"Watching me is not helping," d'Artagnan informed them waspishly, his frown growing more pronounced. "Go prepare somewhere else."

Aramis clutched his chest as though wounded and Porthos chuckled quietly, both trying for levity. "Someone's edgy."

"Someone is trying to do their damn job."

"We're not stopping you," Aramis pointed out. At the murderous expression on d'Artagnan's face, Athos took pity and dragged his team mates further away.

"Let the poor kid work. Better yet, go and see how far along in prep the other teams are. Fill them in on everything we know."

With only mild disgruntlement that was completely for show, the others headed off down the corridor. Once they were out of sight, Athos turned back to d'Artagnan hesitantly.

"I'm not pressuring you, but can you give me a timescale here?"

d'Artagnan sighed and paused in his typing long enough to glare at him. "I don't know. More than a minute, less than an hour. If you want to take over, you're more than welcome to."

His voice was harsh, angry, but Athos knew that it was just impatience and self-deprecation getting in the way - d'Artagnan had spent much too long blaming himself for the continued presence of the mole and as soon as Athos had the man in custody he was going to sit down with the Gascon and remind him what happened to people who let themselves be crushed by things that weren't their fault. He himself was a prime example, and it had taken years of support from his brothers before he even began to understand that. He wasn't going to let the same thing happen to d'Artagnan.

Realising that right now, the most he could do was give him space, Athos put a radio down beside him. "I have to go and check on the other teams. Call me on this if you find anything, okay?"

d'Artagnan nodded without even glancing up, and Athos left with a heavy sigh. They'd all seemed so together that morning and now it felt like everything was coming apart at the seams again. Once the mole had been taken down, Athos was going to petition Treville to give the team at least a week of peace (excluding the SSEs of course - the Captain would skin them if they missed them again).

Aramis and Porthos had gathered teams Golf and Mike in one of the larger conference rooms and were giving them a brief overview of what had happened in the last few days when Athos entered. He lingered in the doorway, taking the time to examine the agents who were all in the process of strapping on vests or checking their weapons. It had been a long while since Alpha team had worked with the agents in Golf and Athos couldn't ever remember working with Mike team in his whole time as a Musketeer.

But if they'd been commissioned, there must be something in them that was special, and Athos had spent far too much of his life trusting Treville's judgement to start doubting him now.

Porthos summed up his little spiel, and turned expectantly to Athos. The lieutenant sighed, intimately aware that every eye in the room had just turned to him. He was a natural leader, and despite his socially awkward tendencies he'd never been much bothered by public speaking - several years as Treville's second in command had destroyed any hesitation whatsoever.

"Okay, you've heard what's happening," he started, loudly enough for his voice to carry to all of them. "I know that the Musketeers have suffered, and I'm sure that you've all lost people who mattered to you. Believe me when I tell you that I am just as furious as you are but we can't allow our emotions to get in the way of our work. This has to be done by the book, understood?"

There was a general murmur of agreement, though several faces were drawn into hard lines of hate. Athos knew that they would all do as they were ordered, but there wasn't a single person in that room who would care if the mole took a stray bullet.

Aramis and Porthos appeared at his elbow, watching him closely. "d'Artagnan?"

"He's working on the name. Now isn't the time to worry about anything else - once this is over we can deal with everything else."

Aramis hummed unhappily. "I don't like this. For the record."

"Me neither," Porthos concurred, frowning at a member of Golf team who was struggling with their vest. "All this fire power for one man? This doesn't seem like overkill to you?"

It did, Athos realised. Normally a single team would be deemed sufficient for something like this, as a maximum. Sending eleven agents into the Red Guard HQ would look like an act of war to anyone who didn't know what was happening, and Athos was suddenly sharply aware that Richelieu would be the type of man to shoot first and ask questions later.

"I have to speak to Treville," he said aloud, the realisation still rattling around his skull.

"We're coming too," Aramis informed him in the kind of voice that didn't leave room for argument. Athos, more comforted by their support than he was willing to admit, didn't say a word to stop them.

The Captain was in his office, leaning heavily on his desk with his head bowed. He glanced up when he heard the door open, eyes flashing with resignation as he took in their questioning expressions.

"Any word from d'Artagnan?"

"Nothing yet," Athos told him.

"Then shouldn't you be getting ready?"

"That's what we want to ask about." He hesitated a little, glancing at the others for support. Porthos bumped his shoulder against him, silently reminding him that they were there, they were on his side. "You've assigned three teams to this. Eleven agents, with d'Artagnan out of action. Against one man."

"One man who has been single handedly responsible for the deaths of seven agents, might I remind you," Treville said sharply, but he sounded more defeated than angry. He wouldn't meet Athos' eyes.

"What's going on sir?" Aramis was always the one to be straight to the point when something was making him uncomfortable, and right now his muscles looked as though they were actually vibrating with the tension running through them.

Treville sighed into his hand as he rubbed at his face, looking horribly weary. He looked as though he was weighing up whether or not he should tell them. "I can't trust Richelieu not to try something," he said eventually.

"What do you mean?" Athos thought that he probably knew, but he needed to hear it aloud.

"If I tell him that one of his men has been betraying him, then I have no guarantee that he'll just hand him over to us. Knowing him, he'd want to make an example of him, and we wouldn't even have a chance of getting close."

"So you're not telling him that we're coming."

"No. But that means that we're walking into that building unannounced and armed - I can only expect the Red Guards to respond aggressively."

Athos sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth, eyes closing in desperation. He knew that Treville was right - if they told Richelieu then he would never turn the mole over to anyone else and if they didn't then they were invading the HQ of a fellow, rival law enforcement agency. There was a high chance they'd all lose their jobs for this.

"You have to tell them," Porthos pointed out when Athos stayed silent for too long. "They could be arrested for this. You can't just order them to walk in there without telling them what they're risking." There was a tight anger in his voice and Aramis automatically put a hand on his arm to steady him. When sufficiently provoked, Porthos had the fiercest temper Athos had ever seen and there were few things he hated more than people having their ability to choose taken from them.

"You think I don't know that?" Treville looked animated for the first time, anger sparking in his eyes. "I know that every time I send agents out there's a chance that they might not come back, and even if they survive, capture is tantamount to a death sentence. My hands are always tied up in red tape. I will not let Richelieu use his connections to stop one of his men from coming to justice, no matter what."

He was looking to Athos for support, but despite agreeing with all his heart, the lieutenant couldn't bring himself to nod. "You're right," he admitted, ignoring Porthos hissed intake of breath. "We have to arrest the mole and we can't let Richelieu get in the way. But I cannot ask the agents in that room to walk into that situation without even telling them what's going on."

"I'm with you," Aramis put in. "Richelieu can hang himself for all I care. But something like this is a choice that everyone has to make for themselves with all the information. Tell them."

"We've lost friends Captain," Athos pointed out. "I doubt any of them will want to pull out."

Treville was quiet for a long time, looking between the three of them with the knowledge that he'd never win an argument against all of them when they were so certain. Eventually, he sighed. "Tell them what you will. I'm putting this op in your hands, Athos."

"Yes sir."

Their journey back to the conference room was undertaken in silence, the air around them thick with anticipation and worry. It was one thing to walk into a situation knowing that they were risking their lives, but another entirely to know that they could very well be arrested for what they were about to do.

Just before they walked into the room, Athos dragged them to a halt. "We're not telling d'Artagnan this, agreed?"

"You want us to lie to him?" Aramis looked vaguely ill at the idea but Porthos caught on much faster, nodding heavily.

"What we're doing is all kinds of illegal. If he doesn't know what we're doing, he can't be held accountable – it's the only way to keep him safe, Aramis."

The marksman's eyes darkened as he realised the truth in his words. "He'll hate us."

"If it keeps him from being arrested and tried as a traitor to the state, I can live with that," Athos said. He clapped a hand to their shoulders, squeezing softly in an act of comfort that was for him as much as it was for them. The last few days had been hard on all of them, and the cracks were starting to show through their hard, practiced exteriors – one way or another, this had to end here.

The agents were waiting for them in the conference room, some more patiently than others, but they all perked up at Athos' reappearance. He looked around at them all and found himself wondering just how many would be willing to walk away from this now and how many were already too invested to care about any potential dangers.

"Some of you might be wondering," he started, hesitant without really knowing why, "Why so many agents are being sent after one man. The truth is that if we warn Richelieu that there is a mole in his operation, then he will never agree to simply hand him over to us and our Captain will not allow this man to get away with everything he has done to this regiment." There was a stirring of support for that statement, disgust flickering across a few a faces at the thought.

Athos left a moment of silence to let the idea sink in before he continued. "However, if we do not tell the Red Guards what we're planning, it means that armed Musketeers will be walking into their HQ without warning. It is unlikely that they will see this as anything other than an act of war." A couple of shouts went up then as the agents voiced their protests. "Neither myself nor Treville," he said, allowing his volume to raise high enough to drown out any interruption, "Are willing to order any of you to accompany my team in this mission. At best, this is likely to lead to our arrests. At worst, the Red Guards will simply open fire. It is not within me to order any of you to risk your lives like this, and I will not do so. Any agent in this room who wishes to have no part in this can leave now without judgement and will not suffer any repercussions for their actions."

Despite what he'd said to Treville, Athos was expecting that at least a handful of people would choose that moment to slip away from the group – they had families to think of, plans and lives that they weren't willing to give up just yet.

No one moved.

The silence stretched as Athos looked around at them all, struggling to comprehend the level of faith these men and women had in him, and their loyalty to the regiment, that they would throw away everything to do this. A woman at the back of the room – Kate, Athos thought her name was – raised her hand in a salute. "All for one!"

In a sudden wave, the agents in front of her pulled up to attention to flash salutes as well. When the response came, Athos joined in: "And one for all."

With their leader still feeling just a little overwhelmed, it was left to Aramis to offer them all a heartfelt 'thank you,' whilst Porthos tugged on Athos' arm to get his attention.

"Nice speech," he commented with a gentle smile. "Treville should get you to make them more often."

"He knows that I'd quit as soon as he tried," Athos reminded him. He might be a natural leader, but he had absolutely no intention of giving up his gun to rally the troops from behind a desk.

Porthos was cut off from replying to that when the radio at Athos' hip buzzed with static before clearing into d'Artagnan's voice. "Athos? I have something you might want to take a look at."

"On our way," he said into the microphone as he gestured for Porthos to retrieve Aramis. Their marksman had a habit of wandering off when they weren't paying attention and this time he seemed to have fallen into conversation with a small, red-haired woman who Athos had seen throwing agents twice her size around on the training mats of the gym – if Aramis was sniffing out a new conquest, he should probably watch himself.

d'Artagnan was where they'd left him, but approximately ten times more furious. He opened the conversation with a bitten out, "First: lying to me? Really?"

Athos blinked in surprise. "What-"

"Don't play dumb or I swear to god, I'll punch you. Just because I'm not going with you on this op, it doesn't give you the right to withhold important information like, oh, I don't know: This is going to get you all arrested?"

"How do you even know about that?" It wasn't worth even pretending not to know at this point – d'Artagnan was good at sniffing out lies when he was talking to someone face to face.

"I work for a government secret agency, remember?"

"Technically, we never lied to you," Aramis put in, utterly unhelpfully. "Just withheld certain truths. It's for your own protection."

"Fuck you," d'Artagnan told him sharply, but he seemed to have cooled himself a little. "Next time, you tell me these things."

"You said you had something for us?" Athos wasn't about to promise the kid something that he wasn't sure he could uphold. If he had to lie to protect one of his brothers, then he would do it without hesitation or remorse.

"A name, as it happens. But the name isn't the interesting part."

"You know who the mole is?"

"Technically? It's a man called Arthur Adelmant."

It wasn't a name that Athos recognised, but then he wasn't on friendly terms with most of the Red Guards anyway. There were sure to be plenty of them that he'd never met. "Then we've got what we need." He turned to leave, aware of Aramis and Porthos falling into step behind him.

"No, wait," d'Artagnan called, looking irritated. "This is important. Just, hold up a minute, okay? Christ. Adelmant's the man finding the information but there's more to it than that. I found his files. He's been in the Red Guards about a year now – nothing special, it would seem but he gets the job done and doesn't cause a fuss."

"Typical going nowhere type of guy," Athos summed up, impatient. "Why should I care?"

"Because that 'going nowhere' guy apparently has sufficient connections to be able to contact about six different terrorist organisations to warn them about what we're doing. Remember how he told Dagarov that we were coming? For a man who's been in the business for twelve months, it's impressive. Unbelievably so, in fact."

"He's not working alone."

"Nope. And I think I can tell you who." Athos raised his eyebrows expectantly when d'Artagnan hesitated. "You won't like it."

"Just tell me."

"Well, I can't be sure exactly. But what I do know is that three days before our trip to Russia, Adelmant paid a visit to the Maison d'arrêt de la Santé, and spent several hours there talking to one of their high security prisoners."

Maison d'arrêt de la Santé was a maximum security prison in Montparnasse and to Athos, it meant only one thing: "Milady."

Porthos swore softly to himself and Aramis looked to the ceiling as though it might offer him advice. "I thought we'd gotten rid of her when we locked her up."

"Well, apparently going to jail hasn't stopped her from wanting the Musketeers destroyed. Whether she's directly involved or not, she's got to be giving Adelmant council at the very least. Since his first visit there, he's returned almost weekly to see her."

"She's in MaxSec though, isn't she?" Porthos pointed out. "You can't speak to her without the conversations being recorded."

Athos could feel the cold fingers of the past creeping up his spine and he shook himself to relieve the sensation. He didn't have time to fall apart now. "This is a problem to face later. Right now there is an Arthur Adelmant who I very much want to meet. Milady isn't going anywhere for the moment."

"I have a picture," d'Artagnan offered, thrusting a sheet of paper towards Athos. A head shot of a middle aged, balding man stared up at him. "I'll do what I can from here to stop Louis ordering your arrests. Try not to get killed."

It was said in a light-hearted tone, but they could all see the true worry curling the lines of his shoulders. There was nothing that they could say that would make this any better, but Aramis pressed a careful hand to d'Artagnan's shoulder in reassurance. "We'll do our best. You've given us the best shot at this."

"Your comforting sucks," d'Art told him, but there was a small smile on his face again so they counted it as a win. "Get out of here."

"We'll be back before you know it," Porthos said as they left, throwing him a jaunty wave that did nothing but make d'Artagnan scowl.

Athos just hoped with all his heart that this wouldn't be the last time they saw each other.

---

The Red Guard's Headquarters was nothing like the under-stated office building that the Musketeers called home. They had a vast, sprawling compound on the north bank of the river that was supposedly full of the latest technology and state of the art equipment – to Athos it just looked like a massive target for all the wrong-doers of the world.

"Adelmant's key card was used ten minutes ago to access the Rochefort building on the south side of the compound. Treville is currently talking to the Commissioner to try and convince him that we're not terrorists but so far, we have to work under the assumption that there's no back up coming. Our main aim is to retrieve the target – alive – and avoid any casualties, including the Red Guards. Guns are restricted to life-or-death situations and prioritise non-lethal shots. Are we clear?"

In the second transport, Aramis and Porthos would be giving the same speech to the remaining agents. They had one shot at this. No room for mistakes.

His earpiece buzzed for a moment and he prodded at it, wincing at the static. "Okay, so good news and bad news."

d'Artagnan had fallen easily into his usual role of behind the scenes tech wizard, and had been running information back and forth between everyone with a level of professionalism you might not expect from an injured, over-tired young man. Athos was more proud than he could say. "Isn't there always. What's going on?"

"Well, the good news is that Treville's convinced Louis that he doesn't need to send in the police – not sure if that will hold up once Richelieu's said his piece but for now at least, you're not under imminent threat of arrest. The bad news is that Richelieu has caught on to what's happening. He's heading your way with a team."

"Armed?"

"I don't know."

Athos spared a moment to sigh heavily. "Could you maybe find out? It's something we could really do with knowing."

"I'm doing my best here, alright? I don't have access to the Red Guard's CCTV right now. I can try and get it, but I thought I was trying to not piss them off."

"Shit."

"I did warn you that it was the bad news."

"Will they get there before us?" Aramis' voice was a little scratchy with static.

"I don't think so but they won't be far behind you. I doubt you'll be able to be in and out before he arrives."

"We'll bear that in mind. Keep in touch."

"Of course."

Kate – which was indeed her name, Athos had discovered – was sat beside him, her eyes darting over the other agents in the vehicle protectively. She was the leader of Golf team and had been dating Demaison from Sierra team for several months before he died. She had made no secret of the fact that she would shoot Adelmant without hesitation should the need arise. Athos had taken about two minutes to decide that he liked her.

"This keeps getting better and better," she said calmly, lips twitching into a sharp smile. Her rage simmered at the surface but she managed to hold it back with a wide smile and quick wit.

"If Richelieu thinks that one team is going to be enough to stop us, then he is woefully underprepared."

"And yet, you're still worried. Come on boss, lighten up. We all chose to be here and we all know the risks. You didn't have to tell us but you did, and everyone knows that. You've earned our loyalty and now, we're going to pay it back. A handful of Red Guards ain't got nothing on us."

"Once this is over, I'll share your optimism." He looked away then as he felt their slowing down, glancing forwards to try and orientate himself. Rochefort building rose up before him looking entirely innocent of the things it housed. "Time to put our game faces on. Porthos, you guys ready?"

"And waiting. Let's do this."

Despite the fact that they had no intention of shooting, it was mutually agreed that they should enter the building with their rifles up, a clear warning to anyone they came across that they were not to be messed with. The first few people they saw ducked into offices almost immediately, watching them as they went by in silence. Some of the ones with handguns on their belts put their hands to them but thankfully, no one seemed willing to fire the first shot.

"Adelmant's card accessed a room on the first floor a few minutes ago. North side of the building." At least with d'Artagnan guiding them, they wouldn't look completely lost.

They'd reached the top of the stairs by the time d'Art spoke again. "Richelieu's just reached the building. Watch your backs."

A series of quick hand signals left Golf team behind to guard the staircase they'd just come up and sent Mike team down the corridor to watch the elevator so that Aramis, Athos and Porthos could find their man. Luck, for once, was on their side, and Rochefort building was actually one of the smaller structures of the compound, meaning that there wasn't a lot of space to search through.

Adelmant was cowering in a small office with the lights off, as though hoping that they wouldn't find him there – Aramis scoffed in disgust as Porthos snapped some cuffs on the man, none to gently by the looks of it. In all honesty, Athos would just be grateful to get the man back to the garrison without one of his own men shooting him – a few bruises really weren't going to be a problem.

"You can't do this," Adelmant protested, "I'm a Red Guard. They won't stand for this!"

"I couldn't give a shit," Porthos snapped back, forcing him towards the door. "You've gotten far too many Musketeers killed for Richelieu to stop us."

Adelmant kept up a litany of pathetic pleas and excuses as they dragged him back down the hallway, reclaiming Mike team as they went. Athos trusted them all to follow their orders, but he still kept himself between the agents and their prisoner, just in case one of them couldn't contain their anger.

It wasn't until they hit the stairs that they encountered trouble. Kate was practically nose to nose with Richelieu, who had five armed Red Guards at his back, all glaring menacingly at them as they approached.

"Is there a problem here?" Athos asked as calmly as he could, instinctively seeking out cover in case bullets started flying.

Kate didn't look away from Richelieu but she stepped back to allow him to move closer. "He wanted to come through boss," she informed him. "Orders were not to let anyone through."

"Yes, they were." He turned back to Richelieu and saw the sparks of hate flying off the man. They'd had plenty of run ins in the past, but for some reason, the Cardinal – as he was known – had hated Athos from the start, despite having no real reason to. Maybe it was simply because he chose to be a Musketeer and not a Red Guard. "Are we going to have a problem?"

"You have no right to arrest this man," Richelieu spat, an angry flush painting his pale skin. "Nor do you have permission to be here. What is the meaning of this intrusion?"

"The Musketeers discovered that this man was selling state secrets. In the interests of not giving him time to get away, we came here immediately with the intention of bringing him in for questioning – there was not time to inform you of our plans or to seek official sanction. If you have a problem with the way we've handled things, I suggest that you take it up with General Treville." Using the Captain's official rank was a fairly childish way of trying to intimidate Richelieu but if it worked, Athos wasn't going to complain.

"If this man has done as you say, then he is Red Guard responsibility and you will hand him over this instant into my custody."

"Until we have questioned him, Adelmant remains an integral part of an ongoing Musketeer investigation. Handing him over would ruin months of work. I am under orders to return him to my garrison."

"I don't care what your orders are. I'm ordering you to stand down."

"And as a Musketeer, I do not have to follow your orders," Athos reminded him, tension starting to creep into his tone. If he couldn't keep himself civil, this could all go wrong very quickly. "There is no way this ends with me handing him over to you."

"You expect me to just let you walk out of here?"

Athos felt every single agent behind him go tense, reacting to the low warning in Richelieu's voice. He was only a few words away from engaging in a firefight with another French law enforcement agency, on French soil. How was this his life? "I think that you don't want this to turn messy any more than I do. And that means that you're going to have to let us go and let us take Adelmant."

"I think you'll find that Red Guards outnumber Musketeers here," Richelieu informed him snidely. "Things turning out messy will end worse for you than for me."

"I wouldn't be so sure," Athos said, refusing to rise to the bait. "If there's an incident here, then people are going to be forced to investigate and that means that sooner or later the world is going to know you had a traitor in your ranks for months, and didn't know a thing. I can't imagine your publicity would benefit from that kind of attention."

The air had gone very still around them, as both teams held their breaths. The conversation was something of a moot point anyway because if this did end in violence, there was no well in hell Athos or Richelieu would be walking away again at the end. They would be the first targets to be taken down. Athos didn't give much of a damn about his own life one way or the other, but Richelieu was a known survivor. This all came down to him.

"What has Adelmant done to the Musketeers that you would risk coming here?"

"He is a traitor to this country. That's enough for us to want to take him down."

"If that was all this was about, you'd be handing him over to me and running off home with your tail between your legs. This is personal and I want to know why."

Athos didn't want to tell him – it was the equivalent of playing his hand – but Richelieu wasn't giving him much of a choice and his men were looking awfully twitchy. "The secrets he was selling were primarily involved in Musketeer operations. We lost several agents due to his actions. Our Captain would like to correct that."

There was a glint in Richelieu's eyes that Athos didn't like one little bit. It was a warning to anyone who knew to look that trouble was on the horizon. His finger slipped closer to the trigger of his rifle.

"I'm sure he would," the Cardinal agreed eventually, that small smile still peeking out at the corner of his lips. He waved a hand almost lazily. "Stand down."

The men behind him immediately lowered their weapons and relaxed into a more natural stance. Athos eyed them with surprised wariness.

"I cannot fault Treville for wanting this man brought to justice, even if he is willing to launch an unauthorised attack on my own men. You're free to leave in peace, with Adelmant."

Behind him, the Musketeers relaxed all at once, but Athos could feel his own heart racing. This had to be a trap of some kind. Richelieu wasn't just going to give up on something like this, was he? He wasn't the type of man.

But it didn't matter. The Red Guards were pulling to the sides to allow the Musketeers through, and Athos could do nothing apart from gesture his men forwards, letting them move past him as he kept his eyes on the Cardinal. Aramis remained in his place at Athos' shoulder, still clutching a handgun tightly.

"Just like that?"

"As you said, Monsieur de la Fere. I wouldn't want for this to get messy." There was absolutely no sincerity in his voice, but there was nothing Athos could do. Feeling like a rabbit caught in a trap, he stepped around the Cardinal.

A hand snapped out to wrap around his bicep with alarming strength and half a second later, Aramis had the muzzle of his handgun pressed to Richelieu's temple, his eyes wild. Somewhere ahead of them, Porthos was watching with crippling uncertainty as he ushered the rest of the Musketeers and Adelmant down the stairs.

"Let him go," Aramis growled.

Richelieu ignored the man entirely, focussing on Athos' eyes with an intensity that felt somehow violating. "A parting message. Do tell your beloved Captain that I will be seeing him soon to discuss this… encounter."

Athos jerked his arm out of Richelieu's grip. "I'll pass that along." As soon as he was free, Aramis dropped his gun again and ushered him towards the stairs as quickly as they could go without running. Porthos had waited for them, and wrapped his hand around one of the straps on Aramis' vest as soon as they were in arm's reach. "What the fuck was that?"

"Nothing we can worry about now," Athos said shortly, hurrying down the stairs. "We have to get out of here, right now."

"Is everyone alright?" d'Artagnan sounded as though he'd been panicking for some time, but he only chose now to involve himself. "I could only hear half the conversation."

"No one's hurt, and we're heading out with Adelmant. About as good as we could expect."

"Well, if it's of any comfort, Louis has promised that he will leave Richelieu and Treville to sort out any hostilities in light of these events. Whatever happens, you're not going to prison."

"Richelieu might try and kill us in our sleep though," Aramis pointed out, only half joking.

"Well, yes."

"For now, can we please just get out of here and sign off on a job well done?" Athos asked as they headed for the vehicles. "I feel as though we've earned the night off."

"If someone could loan me a bed for the night, I'd be grateful."

From the way Aramis' eyes lit up, Athos knew that it was going to be a sleepover-at-Athos' type of night anyway. "Sure thing kid."

Chapter Text

d'Artagnan woke in the early hours of the morning with a pounding head and a strangled scream on his lips. For a long, terrified moment, he didn't know where he was and he was only a moment away from panicking when he finally recognised the ceiling above him.

He sat up, hissing through his teeth as nausea pooled in his stomach. Lurching to his feet, he darted into the ensuite bathroom to throw up the measly contents of his stomach, groaning as he heaved around aching ribs. His skin felt too tight again.

There was movement behind him that would have startled him if he hadn't been expecting it; as it was, he sank into Athos' reassuring hands without complaint.

"Just breathe," he murmured quietly. His hand was rubbing soothing circles between d'Artagnan's shoulder blades. "Your concussion is pretty brutal. You're going to feel sick for a while."

"I know," d'Artagnan gasped out between retches, hating the way all his muscles clenched up until they vibrated with the tension. A thousand images flickered under his eyelids, too many to parse and he had to suck in a deep breath and hold it, trying to ground himself with Athos' contact with limited success.

"Bad dreams?"

It still felt like a weakness to admit it, but right then d'Artagnan didn't much care. He nodded wearily. "I can't remember what. It's just- flashes." He waved a hand in a vague manner.

"Are you going to be sick again?" Athos was very good at making sure he didn't sound judgemental when he asked questions like that, instead presenting a front of pure practicality. d'Artagnan was hopelessly grateful to him for it.

"I don't think so. Not sure I can get up either though."

Athos didn't push it, just helped to settle him back so that he had one shoulder propped against the edge of the bath, keeping the weight off his back, and then sunk down beside him with enviable grace.

A faint frown across his brow, d'Artagnan eventually offered a tired sounding: "Sorry."

"Don't be." Athos waved it away. "I was already awake as it was. Porthos snores loud enough to wake the dead and my walls really aren't that thick."

It had the intended effect, and d'Artagnan's frown gave way to a smile. Slowly though, it slipped again. Athos waited in silence, knowing that d'Art would explain himself at his own pace. "I know what I've said in the past about… borrowing money," he started quietly, "But, just this once-"

"d'Artagnan," Athos cut him off, making sure that his voice was utterly level, "Once upon a time, my ancestors managed to gain the favour of the king and a series of intelligent decisions has led to me being disgustingly rich – I haven't earned anything. In truth, you have just as much right to my money as I do. I've told you in the past that you are welcome to anything I have, in just the same way as the others are, and I meant it. I will not watch you flounder when I can do something about it, especially something as simple as this."

It looked like there were a hundred arguments d'Artagnan wanted to make against that, but in this instance he was out of options. He didn't have the funds to replace everything he'd lost in the explosion. He couldn't spend the rest of his life in Aramis' clothes. "Thank you," he said eventually, real gratitude bleeding through his tone.

"Don't mention it."

The silence stretched comfortably enough for a time, but Athos could feel his joints starting to protest the shape he'd forced them into and he stood. "Do you want some breakfast? The others will be waking up soon I should imagine."

d'Art's smile was quicker this time, but he still had to hold out a hand and accept Athos' help in getting upright. Once he was on his feet he seemed steady enough though, so that was something. It had only been two days since he'd been caught in an explosion, so he couldn't really complain.

Aramis had been very insistent on getting d'Artagnan to a hospital as soon as Adelmant had been handed over to Treville, but he'd dug in his heels and refused. In the end, he'd all but run away from their marksman until Athos declared the whole thing ridiculous and convinced them all to stay at his for the night to let Aramis check d'Artagnan over himself. It was a compromise perhaps weighted in d'Artagnan's favour but Aramis conceded with good grace.

Breakfast was rapidly shortened to coffee, once it became apparent that Athos didn't have a kitchen stocked to feed four hungry Musketeers. d'Art didn't care – he wasn't a morning food kind of person anyway – but Athos sighed loudly as he predicted Aramis' complaining.

"You have enough sugar and milk for him to have at least three cups of coffee," d'Art pointed out, hunching over his own steaming mug contentedly. "That should mellow him out."

Athos shot him an unimpressed look, but there was a quirk at the corner of his mouth that was the equivalent of smiling.

Morning finally came, and two half asleep Musketeers with it. As expected, Aramis was less than thrilled, but the freshly brewed coffee Athos shoved under his nose did a lot to quell his growing ire.

"How're you doing kid?" Porthos asked d'Artagnan quietly while the others were distracted.

d'Art offered him a small smile and shrugged one of his shoulders. "I'm alright. Bit tired."

"If Aramis hears you saying that, he'll lock you in your room, you realise that, right?"

d'Artagnan's smile grew into something stronger, and the light in his eyes seemed to brighten once more. Porthos was warmed to see it. "Let him try."

"Oh?" Aramis had perked up, apparently having been listening in the whole time. d'Artagnan took one look at him and immediately threw himself towards the open kitchen door, just barely setting his mug on the side to avoid sending it crashing to the floor. He was detained somewhat by Porthos snagging the back of his collar and hauling him backwards, somehow without jostling any of his injuries.

"Nope," the big man told him, laughing. "You asked for it."

d'Art squirmed helplessly, but there was no way for him to dislodge the grip Porthos had without lashing out at him, and even if he'd wanted to, there was no way that course of action would end well for him. Resigned, he let himself be manhandled back onto the stool he'd abandoned as Aramis approached.

The marksman looked over his head first, gently examining his stitches in the gash on the back of his head to confirm that nothing had torn. Once satisfied that his work hadn't gone to waste, he forcefully compelled d'Art to divest himself of the borrowed shirt for access to his burns.

"Some of these are going to leave scars," Aramis told him, trying for conversational but landing somewhere in the region of restrained fury.

d'Artagnan huffed, unconcerned. "So be it. Provided it all heals, I don't really care."

Athos watched him with appraising eyes, a small smile tugging up the corner of his mouth despite the worry and anger he could still feel curling at the back of his skull. He sometimes forgot that d'Artagnan is not merely the youth they all think him, but a grown man, with a maturity far beyond his years that had been forged in battle fire and grief.

"I'm sure Constance won't mind," Porthos mumbled quietly into the slightly strained silence that followed, and Aramis was forced to smother his laugh into his shoulder. d'Art scowled at them both.

"She's a-"

"-Married woman," the rest of them completed in unison. It was a well-worn conversation between them and none of them were affected by the glare d'Artagnan aimed at them.

"You're both crazy about each other," Aramis pointed out. "I really don't see why you're so determined to be miserable when you could just be together."

d'Art rolled his eyes, but didn't bother with an answer. It was just easier to accept that they would never agree on the topic and let it go.

Sensing the need for a topic change, Porthos turned to Athos. "Do we have a plan for today then?"

Athos offered them an unconcerned, one shoulder shrug. "Treville said that we could have some time. I rather got the impression that he wanted us out of the way for a while so that he could try and settle things with Richelieu without us getting caught in the middle. If the Red Guards are gunning for anyone right now…"

"It'll be us," Aramis concluded, grimacing momentarily. "Still, that can't be helped. We did what we had to do."

"So, we're off duty?" d'Artagnan asked, somewhat hopeful. As much as he loved his job, he felt that after all of this, he at least deserved a day off.

Athos offered him a genuine smile. "So it would seem. Might I suggest that we spend the time refilling your wardrobe? Unless, of course, you wish to continue wearing Aramis' things."

d'Art picked at the top he was wearing, scowling down at the worn band logo emblazoned across the chest – it wasn't a name he recognised. "I think I could stand to wear something my size."

The conversation wandered then for a while, letting them sip their coffees and relish the feeling of being together and being safe, without the threat of Adelmant hanging over their heads. Athos could see weariness tugging on d'Artagnan but the boy didn't let it faze him, simply leaning more heavily against the counter.

Eventually Porthos straightened from where he was slumped against the wall. "I'm going for a shower."

"Don't use all my hot water," Athos ordered him without weight. The only one who ever taxed his boiler was Aramis – the man was a menace for hour-long showers.

d'Artagnan stretched indulgently, wincing only a little when his back pulled. "Get showered and head out?"

Athos flicked his eyes to Aramis, silently asking him if d'Artagnan was really up for an excursion in his current state. The marksman considered for a moment and then raised his eyebrows in the facial equivalent of a shrug. d'Artagnan scowled at them both.

"I'm sorry, do you want me to leave so that you can have your conversation in private?" His tone was waspish but there wasn't any real heat in the words. He hated being treated like a child but he knew that Athos was only going to worry about him unless he had Aramis' word that he'd be alright.

Aramis offered him an unapologetic smile. "No need. If you say that you're alright to go, I won't try to stop you."

d'Artagnan blinked for a moment in startled surprise, before a wide grin split his face. The grief-like heaviness had bled out of his features at some stage of their conversation and Athos was relieved to see some of his youthful exuberance leaking in to fill the gaps. The boy was owed some happiness.

"Although," Aramis continued, "If you continue to smile stupidly like that, I might start to think that your concussion was worse than I thought."

The smile vanished, replaced by an expression of mock offence before d'Artagnan dove for Aramis, missing him by a hair. The marksman bolted out of the kitchen and Athos could hear him thundering up the stairs, d'Artagnan hot on his heels.

"Utter morons," Athos muttered to himself, grinning like an idiot. Porthos rolled his eyes and followed them, grumbling obscenities under his breath about Aramis getting to the shower before him.

---

Shopping, oddly enough, turned out to be an enlightening experience for all of them.

d'Artagnan had never been open with details from his past, except for the things he'd had to tell them when finding his father's killer, or little scraps of information that he hadn't been able to hide. One thing that they'd all picked up on quickly was that d'Artagnan had not come from a rich family. He ate with the desperation of someone who had known true hunger and he was always careful to guard his wallet in crowded spaces, as though its loss could be the difference between life and death. Porthos could sympathise. Despite that, he had a great aversion to borrowing money – Athos assumed it was his pride getting in the way.

Under the circumstances however, he didn't have much choice.

On completely the other side of the board, Athos had never once in his life had to worry about his bank balance. Even with the vast amount of his fortune he gave away to charities, he still had easily enough to live in comfort for the rest of his life.

d'Artagnan had looked mortified when Aramis had dragged them all in the direction of a designer store, clearly believing it to be well out of their budget. He learned rapidly that this was not the case. All the same, he spent the whole time in the shop trying to curl into himself, as though just breathing in the same air as the other patrons was unworthy of him – Athos could hardly bear the thought. Porthos had been the same, once upon a time, but prolonged exposure to Athos' aristocratic tendencies and Aramis' dogged determination to show him that no man's background should determine his worth had eventually worn down the sharp edges into an easy going acceptance, tainted only occasionally with bitterness. Porthos was a man who knew injustice and was willing to do whatever he could to rectify it.

Several shops and many hundreds of Euros later, d'Artagnan had started looking at the three of them as though this were all some sort of joke, with him as the punchline, as though this was all going to be ripped away from him at any moment with nothing but a callous 'you didn't think this was real, did you?'

Aramis and Porthos were temporarily distracted by a street dancer, so Athos caught d'Artagnan's elbow and pulled him aside. "Are you alright?"

The boy didn't look at him for a moment, apparently trying to decide if he was going to answer or not. Eventually he came to a conclusion and directed his eyes to somewhere in the region of Athos' chin. "I'm never going to be able to pay this back Athos."

He said it as though this were a defeat, clearly believing that it would be the point at which Athos would decide enough was enough and drag them all home again.

"d'Artagnan, this isn't a debt," Athos told him with as much sincerity as he could muster. "I don't want you to repay any of this. It is a gift."

He spluttered for a moment, looking thoroughly horrified before he found his voice again. "A gift? Athos this has cost you hundreds! You can't just give me this!"

"Why not? d'Artagnan, I've told you before, money isn't a problem for me and right now, I have something that you need. I'm your friend, remember? I want to help you."

"This is too much."

"You need clothes. And it's far easier to let Aramis indulge in his little luxuries that to try and convince him that clothes from Carrefour are just as nice as ones from L'Exception. Relax."

d'Artagnan was shaking his head, but he didn't have an argument to offer when Athos decided to be stubborn. "I already owe you too much."

"You owe me nothing. Except perhaps a cup of coffee for giving me a prolonged heart attack over the last few days."

That, thankfully, brought a smile to the boy's face. He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. "I suppose I have been causing something of a disturbance."

"It wasn't entirely your fault," Athos allowed, "Though you did force me to go to the tech department for no good reason…"

"That was your own choice, I'm not taking the blame for that. You could have left me where I was."

"Athos never leaves well enough alone," Aramis announced, appearing at Athos' shoulder. "It's a problem."

"I'm fairly sure that 'problem' is what lead me to introducing you and Porthos."

"And do you not regret that decision?"

"With every waking breath." It was easier to joke like this that to admit to the deep, undying devotion they had to one another. They were brothers, without question and that was not something that Athos could ever regret.

Aramis clapped him on the shoulder smiling widely. "That's the spirit. Now, who wants some lunch? Le Meurice isn't too far from here."

d'Artagnan blanched at the thought; Athos let out an uncharacteristic snort. "Unless you've got a dinner jacket and a comb stashed away in that jumper of yours, you'd be turned away on the door."

"We're shopping. We can buy dinner jackets."

"No, Aramis."

"Why?" He didn't even try not to sound like a petulant child.

"Because I agreed to buy d'Artagnan a new wardrobe, not to fulfil your desire to eat overpriced food in thoroughly pretentious surroundings. We can eat somewhere else."

Aramis sighed as though he was terribly disappointed in all of them but he was smiling just a little and Athos could see the lines in d'Artagnan's shoulders had eased. He let himself relax a little more. Porthos ruffled Aramis' hair in what he apparently thought was a consoling manner – given that it ended in a minor wrestling match, the marksman seemed to disagree.

"You are, without a doubt, the weirdest people I've ever met in my life."

"We are, without a doubt, the best people you've ever met in your life," Aramis corrected, breaking away from Porthos just long enough to shoot him a wide smile.

d'Artagnan's responding smile was a quiet, honest thing. "That too."

Chapter Text

Athos let a week of enforced leave pass before he decided it was time to approach d'Artagnan. The kid had been quieter than normal, as though he was sinking into himself with every breath and just watching it happen was more painful than Athos was willing to bear. So, he rounded up Aramis and Porthos – who was quickly filled in on their previous discussion – and together they cornered d'Artagnan.

Cornered was perhaps too strong a word. Thanks to his complete lack of options, d'Artagnan had essentially moved into Athos' house and so 'cornering him' was more or less walking into the kitchen when he was in there and forcing him to sit at the table with them.

"Should I be worried?" He was keeping his voice as light as he could but they could all see the genuine concern starting to flare at the corners of his eyes. He was worn down to his last nerve – it was well passed time that they had this conversation.

"Not at all," Aramis informed him cheerfully with a smile. "You just have to sit there and listen to us for a bit and then we're going to have an actual conversation with real communication. If at any point you try to run away, Porthos has our permission to sit on you."

"Err," d'Artagnan looked between the three of them uncertainly but they could tell Aramis' levity had reassured him. He didn't look quite so ready to bolt as he had before. "Okay?"

"Excellent. Now then. In case we haven't made it obvious, we're concerned about you."

Athos picked up the thread, unwilling to make Aramis do all the talking. "It's come to our attention that recently you've been… reticent in sharing your thoughts with us. To the point that you avoided all three of us for almost a week."

"And we're not trying to attack or blame you when we say this," Porthos put in, bumping his shoulder lightly into d'Artagnan's. "We're just worried for you and since you didn't seem willing to share this burden…"

"We thought we'd offer our services. You don't have to carry the weight of the world on your shoulders and if there's something getting at you, you can always come to us." Aramis grimaced here but continued on all the same. "I'm aware that my behaviour towards you after Will's death was… utterly appalling and I could never ask you to forgive me for such a betrayal but if it is burdening you, I would ask that we at least try to clear the air. I want to help."

"And while Aramis' advice is almost always unhelpful, in this you can trust him," Athos said, a fond smile curving his lips gently as he looked over at their pouting marksman. "As well as Porthos and I. We've been distressed to see you so discontent."

They fell silent as d'artagnan looked between them in something like bewilderment. "You know, it's really creepy when you guys do that," was all he said for a long minute.

Aramis smiled cheekily but he knew a diversion when he saw it and sidestepped it smoothly. "That's generally the idea. But it's not what we're here to discuss."

d'Artagnan huffed out a breath, shaking his head in a last ditch attempt at denial. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Come on d'Artagnan, we know you better than that. And you know us too. We're not about to let this go when it's something that's affecting you this badly," Athos said. He was trying to keep his voice level so all the emotion in his chest wouldn't bubble over but he was sure the others could hear the sharp note as he spoke. He was quieter when he continued. "After I was shot, something was different with you. I'll give you credit for trying – I barely noticed until Aramis pointed it out to me – but there was definitely something bothering you and I think it was more than an argument with a friend."

"And this was before Sierra team came back from their mission so you can't put this all on Constance asking for your help," Porthos said. He was keeping his shoulder against d'Artagnan's to try and remind him that his friends were there and they wanted to help.

d'Artagnan kept his silence for at least another minute, his eyes fixed on the table between them, but slowly, tentatively, he looked up to catch their eyes in turn. "Okay. You've made you point. And for the record Aramis, there's really nothing to forgive. You were grieving a friend and I was the easiest person in the vicinity for you to blame it all on; I would have done the same thing. I did the same thing, actually."

It was a measure of how good they were at restraining their emotions that they didn't jump on that statement instantly. As it was, they were just about able to hold their silence so that d'Artagnan could continue uninterrupted.

"I could see what the mole was doing to everyone - not just Aramis but the whole garrison. Our friends were dying and every time any of us stepped outside we knew there was a risk but there was nothing we could do about. No leads to follow, no one to question." d'Artagnan was growing agitated at the memory but he could still feel Porthos' warmth at his side and he used it as a grounding point, tethering himself to them. "I think… desperation does strange things to people. I could see people looking to me for answers and when I continued to fail, it just… It started getting to me I guess."

"You know that none of what happened was your fault, don't you?" Athos had a feeling that he knew where this was going, and it wasn't anywhere good.

d'Artagnan's silence was all the answer they really needed, but he expanded when they sucked in pained breaths. "I know that now," he reassured, but that unhappy frown was still sitting on his brow. "I just didn't know it then. I mean logically, I knew that it was all Adelmant's doing and I couldn't be blamed for his actions but it was within my power to find him and I wasn't. I just kept failing and… I didn't exactly deal with that very well."

"I'll say," Porthos muttered, but it wasn't judging.

He offered a vaguely apologetic shrug. "I'm pretty messed up. You know this."

Aramis felt something in his chest go very soft and it was all he could do not to fling himself at d'Artagnan then and there and never let go. "Oh d'Artagnan," he managed, the words catching in his throat. "What has the world done to you?"

"No more than it's done to you. We all have our hangups – at this point I'm surprised we're all still functioning. I should have told you guys about all this before but… I don't know. I guess I was afraid if I asked you about it then you'd tell me it was all my fault and that wasn't something I was willing to face." He wasn't looking any of them in the eye anymore, looking as though he felt ashamed for ever doubting them.

Porthos, never one for words when actions would suffice, wrapped his arm around him and tugged him with enough force that he tumbled half out of his chair and into Porthos' chest where he was caught and held firmly. The tension in him bled out in a rush and he slumped there, managing to wriggle around enough to free his arms to return the embrace.

Watching them, Athos smiled. It wasn't like they could fix a whole lifetime of issues in one conversation but this was hopefully a start in allowing them to help carry some of d'Artagnan's burdens when he couldn't do it himself.

It seemed to take Porthos a good few minutes to remember how to let go of d'Artagnan but in the end he managed it, and the kid righted himself with a gentle huff of laughter. "You don't ever have to be afraid of telling us something like this," Porthos told him on a more serious note. "We're always on your side."

"I know. I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry," Aramis said, looking much more relaxed than he had ten minutes ago. There had been a tension between the four of them that they hadn't even noticed until it had dispersed and now all of them seemed to be breathing more easily than before. "Just try not to let this happen again."

d'Artagnan's smile was a soft, genuine thing and Athos couldn't help but respond to it with his own. Aramis elbowed him in the ribs with a snicker.

"So," d'Artagnan said eventually into the easy silence, "Before you ambushed me, I was actually doing something."

"Oh?"

"Athos, when was the last time you actually went food shopping?"

The question came so unexpectedly that Athos had to blink a few times to even understand what he was being asked. Unsure, he shrugged. "I have no idea."

"I figured. You're pretty much living on canned soup and coffee at this point. I was going to suggest that we did something about that in the near future."

"Are you judging my eating habits?"

"Yes," d'Artagnan replied shamelessly. He was holding back a smile, his eyes alight with mischief and for all that Athos was eternally grateful to see him like that, he couldn't help but think that he was going to be cursing the day he ever met the kid in under 48 hours. He couldn't wait.

---

Treville officially took them off leave the following Monday, though d'Artagnan would be on medical leave for some time yet and their team didn't have an active case. For the most part, it meant relaxed days spent at the training grounds, watching Aramis and Porthos endlessly try and one-up each other and stopping d'Artagnan from giving Aramis an aneurysm by ignoring medical advice. The latter was met with varying success.

Eventually they came to a compromise wherein d'Artagnan was allowed to do some physical activities provided that it was monitored by one of the other three and he spoke up if he was in pain. Needless to say, he hadn't once complained.

Athos winced a little as he watched Aramis meet the mat once again, Porthos crowing with victory as soon as he was sure that Aramis wasn't really hurt. The marksman stayed down this time, cursing loudly and fluently in Spanish, waving his arms around for effect. d'Artagnan, stood beside Athos, had practically doubled over with the force of his laughing, clutching at his ribs as tears leaked from his eyes.

"Laugh it up asshole," Aramis called as he finally picked himself up off the mat. He was moving a little stiffly, his muscles no doubt complaining about everything they had endured over the course of the day but Athos had very limited sympathy. Challenging Porthos in hand to hand was just asking to have your ass handed to you. "Like you could do any better."

d'Artagnan was gasping for breath but his smile was wide and delighted. "I'm not stupid enough to try," he panted out.

"Soon as you're off leave, I'm going to take great pleasure from watching him pummel you."

Porthos snickered. "Why would I waste my time on him when you seem so thrilled to lose against me? Besides, since last year you dropped two points on your SSEs for hand to hand. It's only my duty as a fellow Musketeer to help you out."

"I only dropped two points because you elbowed me in the face! In the face!"

"I thought you could dodge faster than that!"

"Children!" Athos called them to order before they could descend into a sniping match. There was a general, unwritten rule that while on the training mats, it was perfectly acceptable to conclude an argument by taking swings at each other. Of course, Aramis and Porthos would never actually hurt each other but Athos had just spent twenty minutes witnessing the sheer unstoppable force that was Porthos and he had no desire for a repeat performance just then.

"He started it," Aramis muttered a little sullenly. d'Artagnan was still trying to choke back his laughter and failing miserably.

"Since you're clearly still in the mood for a fight," Athos said to Aramis, raising his eyebrows pointedly, "I thought you might like to try against d'Artagnan for a little while."

It was something of a risk – sparring even lightly put a lot of strain on someone's body and d'Artagnan was still a long way from healthy but Athos trusted Aramis to know what he could and couldn't do. If he said it was okay, then it would be.

d'Artagnan's laughter had utterly vanished and he was now looking between the pair of them with something like desperation. The pleading in his eyes would have swayed even the most sincere of heart, and Aramis found himself nodding.

"If anything so much as twinges, you tell me. We'll take it easy." The answering smile was wide and beaming and Aramis chuckled. "Never known someone so eager to lose."

"You wish," d'Artagnan scoffed, pulling off his jumper and easing into an opening stance. The burns on his back still felt too tight when he moved too quickly or in the wrong direction, and Athos frowned a little at how rigidly he held himself. Maybe it was too soon to put him back on the mats, but it was pointless to try and stop him now.

Aramis sunk into a position of his own and waited, letting d'Artagnan take the lead. Risky as this may be, it would at least be a good way of testing how well his muscles were recovering and what would need strengthening again before he was back on duty.

When they'd first met d'Artagnan, he'd been – to put it bluntly – a hot-headed little shit. Time spent training with them had tempered that part of his nature somewhat but he did still have a vaguely endearing tendency to rush into any problem head first with his arms flailing about wildly.

Well, Aramis had to concede as he dodged a neat jab at his abdomen, he wasn't flailing wildly. Each attack was aimed very precisely in fact. d'Art was moving a little slower than normal – which was a blessing because otherwise Aramis would be able to dodge him half so well – but his movements were solid and sure, with enough force behind them to do some damage.

A fist skimmed along his cheekbone and Aramis was suddenly reminded that this probably wasn't the time to be admiring d'Artagnan's form. If he lost this match Porthos would never let him live it down.

"I must admit, I'm impressed," he offered only slightly breathlessly as d'Artagnan spun away before he could put him in a headlock. "Thought you'd be slower."

"Thought you'd be faster," d'Art shot back and it was only on hearing his voice that Aramis realised he was already starting to flag. His face was intense as it always was during training but the words were breezy and faint.

Aramis ducked under a wide haymaker and stepped in close, snatching d'Artagnan's arm to pull it up behind him and hold him there. "Thought you were going to tell me when you needed to stop."

d'Artagnan twisted sharply in the opposite direction to what Aramis was expecting and threw his free elbow towards the general area of his friend's head. Aramis let him go and retreated with a curse. He always underestimated how flexible d'Artagnan was.

"I will," he panted. He was starting to look a little pale and his hands were shaking but he wasn't backing down. "I'm fine."

"Yeah, sure you are," Aramis muttered sarcastically as he pulled away from d'Artagnan to slip around his guard and try to put him in a headlock. This time he succeeded in getting an arm around his throat but d'Artagnan caught on quickly and pulled down and back, escaping before Aramis had a strong enough grip to hold him.

"Slippery little bastard aren't you?"

"I learned from the best."

If d'Artagnan had been hoping that the compliment would be enough to distract Aramis, he was sorely mistaken. The younger man lunged forwards, moving to sidestep the marksman's guard only to feint in the other direction to attack his back. Aramis only saw it coming because he knew d'Artagnan so well but even with the familiarity it was a challenge to react fast enough to rearrange his guard. The fist that was aimed for the small of his back ended up sliding just past his ribs as Aramis twisted and ducked low, surging forwards so that his shoulder caught d'Artagnan in the stomach and flipped him over, his weight inconsequential against the sheer might of Aramis' strength.

Too slow to avoid him, d'Artagnan was hauled over the marksman's shoulder to land on the mats with a thud, his back taking the brunt of the impact with a white hot flash of pain even as all the air was forced out of his lungs in a rush. Aramis was there in an instant, forcing him to roll over onto his side and rubbing soothing circles against his sternum, all the while reminding him to breathe.

"Shit, sorry, my fault," Aramis was saying when d'Artagnan could breathe well enough to pay attention to the words. "I didn't even think-"

"There isn't time to think in sparring 'Mis," Porthos told him from somewhere close behind d'Art. "It's not your fault."

"What Porthos said," d'Artagnan told him, though the words were half gasped and breathless, and he would have been surprised if they understood them. From Porthos' easy chuckle though, they had.

"d'Artagnan, you need to tell me what hurts," Aramis said, forcing his guilt aside for the moment.

d'Artagnan shook his head. "'M fine 'Mis; just winded."

"Did anything on your back tear? You hit the ground pretty hard."

"Don't think so. Doesn't hurt anymore." That wasn't true – it was still stinging like fury – but nothing felt truly damaged so he was content to let them believe he was fine. His breathing was starting to even out a little, his lungs finally understanding that they could expand like normal without excessive pain.

"Maybe sparring was the best of ideas," Aramis announced, tugging up d'Art's shirt to get a good look at the half healed burns on his back; he'd known the kid long enough that 'I'm fine' was definitely not something to be believed. "But the skin hasn't split at least."

"Told you I was fine." d'Artagnan tried to get up then, huffing with amusement when three sets of hands suddenly jumped in to help him. Between them, they managed to get him back on his feet, looking at him like concerned parents might look at a wayward child. "Oh for the love of god. I'm winded not dying."

"Hard to tell sometimes," Porthos said, trying for levity, "What with you wheezing like an old cat."

He made a show of being offended, the easiest way of showing that that he really was alright and they could all calm down now. Aramis laughed after a moment, letting their humour seep into him to erase the tight lines of guilt on his face. Athos was slower, his eyes drinking in the fading pallor of d'Artagnan's skin and trying to forget the way his heart had stuttered when the kid had gone down and not gotten up again.

"Athos," d'Artagnan murmured, drawing in close to bump their shoulders together. "I'm alright. Even Aramis says so."

"Is he the counter on which all things should be judged?"

"Well, maybe just medical things," d'Artganan conceded, smiling at him. He wished he could stop Athos from worrying about them all so much but at the same time, it was one of the things that had drawn him to the man in the first place. When they'd first met, it had been Athos' compassion and genuine desire to help him get his justice that had convinced him to stick around after they'd found his father's killer – he didn't regret it for a moment.

"It is well past lunch time," Aramis announced then, cutting off whatever reply Athos was going to make, "And I'm starving. I'm sure Athos wouldn't mind buying us all some food…?"

His eyebrows were hopeful but Athos' expression was flatly unimpressed. "I've bought you lunch the past three days."

"We were at your house. It's the host's duty to feed his guests."

"Is that why whenever I'm round yours we get take out?" Porthos asked, his eyes glittering.

"Trust me my friend, you do not want me to cook for you."

d'Artagnan shook his head emphatically. "Don't do it Porthos. You have no idea what horrors await you when you arm this man with an oven."

Athos snickered and tousled d'Art's hair carelessly. He yelped and ducked away, hiding behind Porthos' bulk. "Okay, lunch time," Athos allowed, starting towards the showers, "But you can buy your own damn food."

---

Once lunch was out the way, Athos sent the rest of them off towards the garrison to check in with Treville and make their presence known. The Captain always preferred the rest of the Musketeers to seem Alpha Team roaming about, proving that they weren't getting special privileges just because they were the first responders. He himself begged off on the premise of a head ache, saying he was just going to head to his flat to lie down for a little while and he'd see them later.

What he actually did was get in his car and point it in the direction of the Maison d'arrêt de la Santé. He'd vowed to himself never to come here again after Milady's trial was over and for six months he'd held true to that but now he found himself needing to look into her eyes, to see her face when he asked her how she could have betrayed so many good people for no reason.

Even using his badge to fast track their security – and Treville would give him hell for that when the paperwork ended up on his desk – it took him at least an hour to be shown into a windowless room, with a counter running through the middle of it. There was a seat waiting for him and directly opposite, through two inches of glass, sat Milady.

Prison hadn't been kind to her, that much was obvious. Her face was thinner than it had been at the trial and without her makeup, her eyes looked more sunken in with tiny wrinkles fanning from their tips. Her hair hung in limp tendrils about her face without a care – it was obvious she was making no effort to keep it in the same pristine condition she had when she was a free woman.

Athos sunk into his chair as though it were a death sentence. He reached for the phone straight away but she hesitated, watching him warily. He couldn't blame her for not trusting this, he supposed. He had been the one to put her in here after all and half a year without contact would make this visit seem a little out of the blue.

Eventually, she must have decided that whatever he was here to say was more important than her pride, because she picked up the phone.

"Milady," he greeted, gladdened that his voice didn't sound as shaky as he felt.

"Dearest husband."

She was feeling defensive then, and turning her every word into a weapon. This would no doubt be a charming conversation. "I thought you might like to know that your friend Adelmant is in custody," he said bluntly. "He's waiting to be tried for treason."

He'd half been expecting her to flinch, but of course she didn't. She was far too collected for that. And yet – he could have sworn he saw the tension in her shoulders ease just a little. "I'm sure you're very good at your job," she said idly.

"What exactly was he to you? You don't seem overly upset at his loss."

"Loss? A criminal has been captured by the authorities and will receive his just rewards. That is no loss to me."

"Just answer the question Anne." He hadn't meant to use that name – hadn't said it inside even his own head for almost a year – but now that it was out, it was like a wall had been thrown up between them, an impenetrable barrier that neither could cross.

She looked as though she wanted to slam the phone down and demand to leave but she'd never been able to let someone else have the last word. "You would dare to come here and demand answers from me? After everything you've done?"

"Everything I've done?" He hissed back, rising to the bait helplessly. "You killed my brother! You would have killed me too given half the chance!"

She did pull the phone away from her ear then, but it was only so that she could drag in a heavy breath to calm herself. She'd looked away from him, off towards the bare wall as though even the sight of him was causing her pain. Not for the first time, Athos wondered what would have happened if they'd just been honest with each other.

After a few moments in which they both managed to cool their ire, she put the phone back to her ear. "I'm well aware that you won't believe a word I say but you can look at the transcripts if you don't believe me. I was not in league with Adelmant. He came to me looking for answers and I gave him nothing."

Her eyes were wide and honest, wanting to be believed but she'd tricked Athos before. He was well aware that he was no judge of her trustworthiness. "Why would he come back if that were so?"

"To start with he tried to threaten me. Said he could prolong my sentence if I didn't help him. The poor fool didn't even really know who I was."

"To start with?"

"Once threats failed to convince me, he turned to bribery. A deal with the guards he said, to send me gifts, to shorten my sentence. Even to break me out."

"And you didn't take him up on the offer?"

"I'm still here, aren't I? I wasn't fool enough to think he'd ever actually follow through on any of his promises and the fact that you're here proves it. He was a foolish man playing in a game he didn't understand. That much I tried to tell him."

It didn't really matter if she was lying, he supposed. Whether it was the truth or not would be proven as soon as he looked at those transcripts. Though if this was in fact the truth, he was going to have to have a word with someone about how rigorously they read through them – promises to free inmates should definitely have been flagged up.

"What exactly was he asking you for? I assumed he was coming to you for names to contact to sell his secrets but he's been doing that for weeks now. He was finding his names somewhere. If it wasn't here then there was something else he wanted from you."

"Names? No, he never asked about anything like that."

"What then?" Athos knew that he was sounding too eager, too curious. She could use it to hurt him if she felt so inclined but for once she seemed willing to talk without her claws.

"Before you so kindly put me here, I worked for Richelieu."

She paused, as though expecting him to say something so he nodded. "It was his information that led us to you."

"A betrayal I should have seen coming. But my point was that for months I sat in council with him. His secrets were my secrets and vice versa. I doubt there's anyone else in all of France that knows more about that man's life than me."

Something clicked together in Athos' head. "It was those secrets Adelmant wanted. Information about Richelieu."

"I had assumed that he wanted to raise himself in the Red Guard ranks. If you're here, it must have been more than that."

Of course she would have no idea about the deaths of the Musketeers – it wasn't like she was allowed to watch the news in her cell and even if she was, it wasn't something that was disclosed to the general population. If she hadn't been working with Adelmant…

"The man was killing Musketeers," he admitted quietly, not looking at her. "I thought you were the one giving him the means to do so."

"The wonderful loyalty of the Musketeers," she said just as quietly, her voice only very slightly scornful. For the most part, she just sounded sad. "I wonder if there is anything that you care about more than them."

"Perhaps there was once."

He couldn't even be sure that she'd heard him – she didn't reply – but he was more than willing for the words to pass into oblivion. He hadn't meant to say them.

Instead, he cleared his throat and met her eyes once more, ignoring how soft they seemed now that they weren't spitting fire at him. "Thank you for telling me. Despite everything, I want to prove you innocent of this particular crime."

"Why?" It was so obvious that she wanted to snatch the word back, wishing there was some way she could unsay it.

Athos' heart ached. "Because… Because I think that it would be something you could never come back from. And that… It is not what I wish for you." The words were not enough, would never be enough but it was all he had in his soul to give and every atom in his body felt like it was pulling in a different direction. Had she always made him feel like this?

He put the phone down before she had a chance to formulate a reply – quite possibly to mock him for his helpless display of emotion – and rose to leave. A sharp movement at the corner of his eye stopped him, and he turned back to look at her. She'd risen to her feet – shorter than he remembered without her heels – so quickly that the guard at the back of the room had stepped forwards in case she needed restraining. But she wasn't doing anything violent.

Her hands were cuffed together, which made the action slightly awkward, but she'd placed one of her palms flat against the glass between them, fingers spread out wide. It was the same hand that still bore their wedding ring. She was looking at him with wide, solemn eyes and for the first time in a long time, she looked like the woman he'd married.

Feeling utterly wrung out, he nodded slowly to her; she inclined her own head in response.

Leaving that room was by no means the hardest thing he'd ever had to do but he still felt as though he was leaving behind a piece of himself. Whatever his past with Milady might be, it wasn't over yet.

He requested copies of the transcripts instead of staying to read them – he had a feeling he'd need a strong drink around whether or not she'd been telling the truth and that would be much easier to procure at home.

The carpark was a surprise. His car was right where he'd left it but now d'Artagnan was perched on the bonnet with Aramis and Porthos leaning on the driver-side door of the latter's Land Rover. They looked up as he approached, the transcripts tucked under his arm.

"You're not a particularly good liar," Aramis offered him as an explanation.

"Not to us at least," Porthos allowed, a curious tilt to his eyebrows. It was the sort of expression that was asking if he was alright without actually asking if he was alright.

Athos offered a vague half-smile in answer. "You're all the worst mother hens I've ever met in my life."

d'Artagnan slid off the bonnet to stand beside him. "Are you alright though? I know that seeing her is… difficult."

He thought about lying, then decided against. "I'm still not really sure where she and I stand. I think today was important somehow, but I don't really know what it means. The main part is that she didn't betray us to Adelmant." There was a general disbelieving silence. "At least, that's what she said. These-" he waved the transcripts about, "-should be proof. It seems Adelmant wasn't solely intent on taking down the Musketeers."

"Who then? The Red Guards?" d'Artagnan was trying to take the transcripts off him, but Athos tucked them back under his arm firmly.

"So it would seem. Get off me," he ordered when he didn't desist. "You can look at them when we get back to the garrison."

"Are we heading there now?"

"If there are no objections?"

Aramis raised a very polite hand and then pointed at d'Art. "You're taking that one with you. There is not enough space in Porthos' cab for three people and I refuse to spend another car journey with him in my lap."

d'Art flushed red with outrage but Athos was forcing down laughter and it was obvious d'Artagnan was willing to be the butt of the joke if it kept his mentor happy.

With a fond smile, Athos pushed d'Art in the direction of his passenger-side door and slid into the driving seat, letting Porthos pull out first so that he could follow them back. His history with Milady might not be over but no matter what happened, this was his family.

Chapter Text

Despite himself, Athos found himself relieved when the transcripts proved the truth of Milady's words. He'd filled Treville in on what he'd found out – the information had been enough that he was only mildly pissed off that Athos had flashed his badge about – and then he and the rest of his team had been sent on their way. In an uncharacteristic flash of charity, Aramis had invited them all over to his place for dinner – take away, obviously – under the insistence that Athos' much larger house wouldn't do because it didn't have a Wii.

Porthos had been thrilled at the chance of 'whooping their asses into next week' with some boxing game and d'Art had just seemed happy at the thought of food, so Athos had been left with little choice but to cave to their whims. The idea didn't distress him as much as it once might.

Dinner had been somewhat uneventful – excluding that one minor incident involving Aramis, one of Porthos' boxes of egg-fried rice and 6 foot 2 inches of pissed off secret agent – but it had been nice in its own way. Domestic.

Aramis had been adamant in keeping all forms of alcohol away from d'Artagnan, and somehow that had translated into no one touching a drop all evening but more and more these days, Athos really didn't miss it. Sure he still liked his wine but that was more of a taste-thing than it was a I-want-to-be-drunk-thing.

So it was that a depressingly sober Athos found himself forced to listen to two of his team mates belting out ABBA at the top of their lungs because of course Aramis had endless versions of Singstar tucked away in a cupboard. d'Artagnan was a giggling wreck on the floor and he hadn't been coherent in some time. If he didn't surface soon, Athos was mildly worried that the boy might actually suffocate. He certainly seemed to be having trouble breathing.

The song moaned its way through the final chords as Aramis flung himself elegantly down onto the sofa beside Athos.

"You can have a go you know," he pointed out without hope of success. Athos raised an eyebrow at him. "Fine. Grump." There wasn't any judgement in his tone though, and it was obvious he was more than content with Athos' silent presence and the acceptance was warming in a way he couldn't explain.

"I should probably head home. I'm exhausted," he said after a few minutes of content quiet. He poked the still quivering d'Artagnan with his foot. "You coming back with me or are you keeping Aramis company for the night?"

The Gascon managed to sober himself enough to speak, his eyes glowing. "Are you kidding me? That couch is the worst."

Aramis put a hand to his heart, wounded. "I'll have you know that this is my favourite couch."

"You've never had to sleep on the damn thing," d'Artagnan shot back, glaring at the offending furniture balefully. "I couldn't stand up straight for a week and half."

"Well if you hadn't pissed off Constance then you could have stayed with her."

"And put up with her husband? No thank-" he cut himself off, his face going blank with first surprise and then alarm. "Oh god, Constance!"

Athos felt the familiar, hated feeling of his heart lurching its way into his throat. "What about Constance?"

"I haven't called her! She must have got back to Paris by now. I've not spoken to her since before my flat blew up, oh my god she's going to murder me," he wailed, desperately patting down his pockets for a phone that he suddenly remembered he didn't have. It had been in the flat with everything else and he hadn't yet found the time or the funds to buy himself a new one.

A hundred things flew through Athos' head in a single beat of his heart. First and foremost was 'idiot.' This was shortly followed by a select few swear words and curses, and a final, drawn out mental 'urghhh.' He felt little need to remain eloquent inside his own head.

A quick glance at his watch confirmed that it wasn't too late yet to make a house call so he nudged d'Artagnan with his foot again then hauled himself to his feet. "Come on. We can stop at hers before heading back and you can explain why you've been ignoring her for almost a fortnight."

"She's been away," d'Artagnan explained in a rush as he snatched up his jacket and struggled to get it on without pulling at his back. Porthos wordlessly stepped in to help. "When Treville granted her emotional leave, she left to go stay with her mother for a while, get away from everything for a bit. I didn't want to disturb her and then with everything going on…"

"I'm sure she'll understand," Aramis encouraged, seeing them to the door. He clapped a hand to Athos' shoulder before they left as a gesture of friendship before shooing them out, claiming that he needed to beat Porthos at Singstar at least once that evening.

d'Artagnan seemed to have calmed himself down outwardly, but his fingers were twitching in a way that Athos knew meant he was nervous as hell. He bumped their shoulders together as he passed, trying to remind him that the world wasn't ending. "She'll forgive you, you know that right? Not that there's really anything to forgive."

"Athos, I promised that I would tell her if anything important happened. I'm pretty sure catching the man that killed half her team classes as important."

That was something of a bind, Athos agreed silently. But what was done was done and there was no point in d'Artagnan working himself up into a state just because he'd had too much going on in his life to worry about anyone not in the immediate vicinity. "All you have to do is tell her what's happened, let her slap you and then everything will be fine, I promise you. She adores you d'Artagnan. She doesn't want to see anything bad happen to you."

Athos had left his car a short walk from Aramis' apartment building - there was a distinct lack of space on his road – and the night air was sharp in his lungs as they made their way towards it. Despite the fact that d'Artagnan's car had been pretty much the only thing he had to survive the attempt on his life, he'd been pretty content to let Athos ferry him around in his own vehicle. They went to all the same places at the moment anyway.

The chill seemed to have soothed d'Artagnan somewhat, and when he scrambled through the passenger door, he looked less panicked. "Thank you for this."

"I'm not doing anything," Athos answered, genuinely bewildered. He wasn't going to leave d'Artagnan stranded at Aramis' flat without a lift and it wasn't like Constance's house was far out of their way.

But d'Artagnan was shaking his head, gnawing on his lip in that thoughtful way of his. "Not this, exactly. Just… looking out for me. Giving me somewhere to stay. I know that you don't have to."

Athos let out a slow breath through his nose, staring determinedly out of the windscreen without looking at him. "You don't have to thank me. I hope you don't think me capable of throwing a friend out on the street for no good reason."

"Of course I don't. I'm just grateful, I guess."

This wasn't the first time they'd had a conversation in this vein, and Athos felt obliged to point that out. He snuck a quick glance at d'Art. "I've already told you that I'm not expecting anything in return for what you deem 'hospitality.' Frankly, I'm fairly sure I couldn't pay anyone else to live with me. You saw my kitchen cupboards."

"You'd had a lot of things to worry about. You eat out half the time anyway."

"Many would consider that a case in point. But we digress. My point is that you're welcome to stay with me for as long as you need. And you don't have to think I'm waiting for gratitude at every possible opportunity." There was silence then for a moment, but d'Artagnan still looked a little uncertain. It was a look that he seemed to wear a lot lately and it always seemed to get under Athos' skin. He sucked in a sharp breath and took a leap of faith. "You know, Porthos lived with me for a while too."

It was a story that Porthos didn't particularly like sharing but in this one instance, Athos hoped he could be forgiven. If it meant that d'Artagnan would stop feeling guilty for merely existing, then it was worth it. Judging by the way the Gascon's head came up, it was certainly enough to interest him.

"Oh?"

"When we first met he was in a position not too unlike yourself. No funds, nowhere to stay… In real trouble, is my point."

d'Artagnan's brow crumpled for a moment. "Would he mind you telling me this? The last time I learned something one of you didn't want me to know, you almost died."

Athos's lips tugged at the reminder and the genuine concern hidden there. "If he minded, I wouldn't tell you. I just want you to understand that you don't have to feel you owe me anything just because I'm offering you somewhere to stay." He pulled in a long breath, wondering where to start. "He joined the Musketeers straight out of the army. A dishonourable discharge – which is a whole other story – but Treville saw something in him that was worth the risk.

"When he first came to the garrison he was… Confrontational, to say the least. Aramis and Treville were the only exceptions."

"What about you?"

He shuddered a little at the memory. "I hadn't been with the Musketeers that long either. We neither of us were much interested in socialising and it was obvious from the very start that we had startlingly different lives. No common ground to meet on."

"You get along well now," d'Artagnan pointed out with some surprise.

"Yes well. We worked for that, believe me. But my point was that one day Aramis approaches me, asking about somewhere to stay. I might not have wanted company but Aramis was one of the few Musketeers that didn't walk on eggshells around me so I offered him free use of my house. It wasn't until Porthos showed up on my doorstep that I realised I'd been duped."

d'Artagnan snorted inelegantly. "That must have been a lovely surprise."

"I think it was softened somewhat by the fact that Porthos was just as surprised as I was. Aramis hadn't told him either. We both got back to work the next day expecting to be able to corner him, only to find out that the little shit had requested leave, and wouldn't be back in Paris for another week."

"I'm not really seeing how this story can possibly end in the three of you becoming friends."

"Neither did I at the time. But in that week there was an unspoken agreement that Porthos could stay with me – I realised that if I threw him out then I would be making him genuinely homeless and even if I didn't like him all that much, I wouldn't consider myself cruel."

"You used the time to get to know each other?"

"In a way. Porthos could hardly not notice that for all the furniture in my house, I didn't have a single family photo, or anything that could really be considered personal. He asked me about it eventually. We… talked."

There was a beat of loaded silence, then, "You punched him, didn't you?"

Athos smiled for real that time. "In the face. Just the once though – he didn't let me close enough to do it again. And considering he broke my wrist, I think we called it even."

"I'm sure Treville was thrilled."

"So thrilled in fact that he lumped us together for our punishment. There wasn't much he could do, considering that Porthos with a black eye is too intimidating to be unleashed on the public and I couldn't use my left hand, but he made it work. I did more paperwork in that week than I've done in all the years since combined. Porthos and I spent most of the time repairing bridges."

"You realise that this story is just confirming how ridiculous your friends are, right? You met Porthos and punched him in the face. You met me when I was trying to kill you. Knowing Aramis, that meeting was just as weird."

"You might have a point."

"So when Aramis got back from his leave, did you end up getting your own back?"

"Of course. Only by that point, Porthos and I knew we were far better working as a team than alone, so we naturally paired up for revenge. Aramis was… surprised to say the least. After that, things just sort of settled. I didn't ask Porthos to move out and he didn't leave, not until he'd saved enough pay to rent his own place – he stayed with me for almost a year in the end."

d'Artagnan stayed silent for a few moments after that. When he spoke, his voice was soft. "You're a very good man, Athos."

"For not turning you out on the street with nothing to your name?"

"For caring about people you don't even know."

"You realise that you risk your life on an almost daily basis for people you've never even met? If we're tallying personality traits, you don't exactly come off badly."

"That's not what I mean," d'Artagnan defended, staring straight out the windshield with a faraway look in his eyes. "Doing what we do is something completely different. You opened up your home to someone you didn't really like, when you were only just managing to get back on your feet after being betrayed by someone you trusted completely. That takes more courage than I think you realise. And when you met me? I had just threatened you with not only your life, but the lives of your friends and what was your response? To help me. To track down the man that had killed my father and bring him to justice. And after that, when you should have been arresting me, you offered me a job."

Athos had never really thought about it like that. Said all in one go, it just made it sound like he was someone who made really poor life decisions – he supposed that was true enough. But those decisions had led him to where he was now, and that was not unimportant. "You had potential. It's my duty to the regiment to recruit anyone who can strengthen the team."

"You're sure it had nothing to do with pissing Aramis off? He really didn't like me to start with."

It wasn't exactly untrue, but Athos didn't want to agree with him. He was saved from having to by arriving outside Constance's house, and seeing a flicker of light at the window as someone peered out to look at them.

"Prepare yourself," Athos warned him, smirking just a little. "I think we're about to be ambushed."

d'Artagnan sucked in a hard, pained breath, and steeled himself with obvious effort. That nervous twitch was back at his fingertips. Athos chuckled.

"She's not actually going to kill you."

"Not what I'm worried about."

Athos laughed again and pushed at d'Artagnan's shoulder. "Come on. Before it looks like we're hiding."

"We are hiding," d'Art pointed out with no small amount of desperation, but he unclicked his seatbelt and started climbing out of the car anyway.

Shaking his head, Athos followed suit. He was halfway out of the car when a red-haired blur whipped past him and the still night air was shattered with a sharp slap of sound.

Athos turned his head to see an enraged Constance facing off against a cowering, red-cheeked d'Artagnan and greeted blandly, "Hello Constance."

She spared a moment to snap her head around to level her glare at him instead. "Don't even start with me Athos. I'll get to you in a minute." Her gaze whipped back to d'Artagnan, hair flying about wildly and Athos decided quickly that silence was the better part of valour.

"Constance, please-" d'Art tried, but Constance wasn't having any of it.

"Shut up," she commanded fiercely. "I leave Paris for two weeks – two weeks – with the promise that if anything happens you will call me. I get back this morning to find that a mole in the Red Guards has been arrested, you've been taken of active duty and, oh yeah, that explosion I saw on the news was your flat!"

It was in moments like this that Athos understood what Aramis meant when he talked about 'beautiful violence.' Furious as she was, Constance looked like some kind of avenging angel, all gold and fire and rage. It was utterly stunning.

Although, judging by d'Artagnan's terrified face, he wasn't seeing this in quite the same way. He had his hands out in an obvious gesture of surrender. "Please," he said again, "I know that I screwed up, I'm sorry -"

"You could have been dead for all I knew-"

"There was so much going on and I just-"

"Don't even try that, you've had a week-"

Athos was getting the distinct impression they weren't going to be finished any time soon. He leaned against his car door with a sigh. One of these days they would have to realise how in love they were with each other, and how much less worthy Bonacieux was of both Constance's affections and hand – not that Athos really had any room to throw stones. Glass houses and all that.

"I didn't want to worry you!" d'Artagnan burst in eventually, sounding drawn and defeated. He was clearly expecting another slap. "You left so that you could have some time to recover and I knew that if I told you what was happening, you'd have come straight back."

"You're damn right I would've. It was my decision to make d'Artagnan, not yours."

d'Artagnan clearly didn't know how to respond to that but he was saved from having to by Constance's front door opening. Her husband eyed them all warily.

"What's going on here?"

There was a distinct note of hostility in his voice and anger shot up Athos' spine so quickly even he was surprised by the intensity of it. Constance looked from her husband to d'Artagnan's heart-broken expression and visibly came to a decision. "Nothing. They were just leaving."

d'Artagnan's face crumpled further, if such a thing was even possible. "Constance, please-"

"Just leave d'Artagnan. I don't want another argument tonight."

Athos flicked a glance at the silhouetted figure of Bonacieux, still standing in the doorway like a bad omen. Despite the poor lighting Athos could tell how tense the man was. "Come on d'Artagnan," he called softly, drawing his attention away from Constance. "Let's go before there's trouble." He shot a meaningful look towards the house and opened his car door again, waiting until d'Artagnan had done the same before climbing in.

d'Artagnan dropped into his seat like a limp weight, his whole body loose with pain. In deference to the semi-aware blurriness in his eyes, Athos waited until they were a few streets away before trying to engage him in conversation. "She's just been worried about you, that's all. You'll see her at work tomorrow and you'll get the chance to talk to her without her husband hovering in the background. Starting a fight tonight wouldn't have helped anyone."

"Please just- Don't," d'Artagnan asked heavily.

The car remained silent the rest of the way home.

---

The next morning was something of an experience. Athos had sent a quick text to Porthos to explain what he'd told d'Artagnan the night before, and also to warn him off mentioning Constance. No need to upset d'Art any further.

The kid had been quiet since the night before, offering only clipped, one-word responses when asked a direct question. By the time they reached lunch, the rest of them had decided enough was enough – they needed to say something.

Only, just when they were about to try and broach the subject, Constance appeared in the doorway. d'Artagnan went utterly rigid, while the other three stared at her in surprise.

"Hi. Um, can I speak to d'Artagnan for a moment?"

Without uttering a word, the other three stood up and left the room, each sending a consoling glance at their friend. d'Artagnan watched them retreating with a small amount of annoyance – he knew he was just projecting his negative emotions but he couldn't really help that.

"Hello d'Artagnan," Constance greeted lowly, apparently as uncomfortable as he was. He darted a glance in her direction and found her staring fixedly at the floor by his feet.

"Constance. I'm sorry for breaking my promise." He'd tried to say it last night but she hadn't really been in the right state of mind to hear it and he truly meant it. In all honesty, he'd just had too much else in his mind to worry about anything that wasn't immediately in front of him.

"I'm still annoyed that you didn't tell me, but I understand d'Artagnan. I'm sorry too. I shouldn't have lost my temper like that." She didn't sound angry anymore, just… sad.

"You had every right to."

"I didn't. I was the one that asked you to get involved with the investigation into the mole. Everything that happened to you – it wouldn't have if I hadn't interfered."

That wasn't something that had ever crossed d'Art's mind. "No," he protested instantly. He was on his feet before he realised it, reaching out to comfort her. "Constance, I was already involved. None of this is your fault, you know that don't you? And besides, I'm fine. Nothing that can't be fixed."

"You could have died."

"And I didn't. Constance, we work for the government, remember? Dying is pretty much a professional guarantee."

She glared at him for that, but if it meant that the guilty sadness faded from her eyes then it was worth it. "That's not funny."

He rubbed her shoulders comfortingly, smiling slightly. "It's a little funny."

"You're not half the comedian you think you are," Constance reminded him, her lips curving into the smile he had missed so much for the last few weeks. He'd half feared that he wouldn't get to see it again.

He huffed out a laugh and it wasn't until her answering chuckle brushed against his skin that he realised how close they were standing, their bodies almost flush together, gravitating to one another like planets and stars. She must have realised it in the same instant he did, because her laughing cut off abruptly, her eyes wide with surprise as they stared up into his. His fingers curled around her shoulders from where his hands were still resting.

For an indeterminate amount of time, neither of them moved, breathing the same air as they stared at each other.

d'Artagnan didn't know which one of them moved first, but in the next moment they were kissing, arms coming up to pull themselves as close as possible. Constance's whole body was pressing into his, smooth flesh and taught muscles and oh god this was better than anything d'Art could have ever imagined. Her lips were soft and gave way to his direction, but her body was firm and determined, backing him up until he was pinned between her and the wall. One of her hands slipped under the edge of his shirt and dragged up his chest, fingers playing over the muscles there.

In turn, his hands ran over her back, pressing firm fingers into her spine to draw her close. When she pulled back a little to suck in a heated breath, he tilted his head and turned his attention to her neck, sucking and biting in a wild desperation to taste-

She pulled at his hair to bring his head back up so she could kiss him again, until he wasn't sure where he ended and she began. At that moment in time, he didn't much care.

It could have been seconds, minutes or years, and d'Artagnan wouldn't have known. He could have stayed there forever and it wouldn't have been a disappointment.

The end only came when the door that Porthos had closed behind himself swung open again and Aramis' head peaked round at them. "Sorry, d'Artagnan, I-" He caught sight of them just as they leapt apart in surprised, both half aware that their lips must look kiss-bitten and their skin flushed with more than usual warmth. Very slowly, Aramis raised an eyebrow. "You know what?" He said after the most awkward silence d'Artagnan had ever experienced. "It doesn't matter. As you were." He pulled his head back and the door snapped closed again.

d'Artagnan's silent litany of 'shit, shit, shit' was broken with the smooth sound of Constance's laughter. "He's never going to let us live that down, is he?"

"Probably not," d'Artagnan agreed, letting his worry fall away behind a smile. "Too late now."

"Let him talk," Constance announced easily. She stepped back into his space smoothly, her hands coming up to play around the collar of his shirt. "Unless," she said, unease suddenly flashing in her eyes, "You don't want-"

She made to pull her hands away and step back. He caught her before she could and pulled her close once more, relishing the feel of having her in his arms. "You have no idea how much I want this Constance."

She smiled brightly. "Well then," she said, before setting her lips against his once more.

---

Aramis scurried down the corridor, not bothering to try and contain his smile. Porthos and Athos watched him approach as though he'd gone crazy. "Porthos, you owe me twenty euros," he greeted them, still smiling widely.

"What?" Porthos asked in confusion, before understanding suddenly smoothed over his face. "You're shitting me."

"Nope. Saw it with my own eyes."

"Pervert."

Athos thought it was probably time to interject. "Am I to understand that the two of them finally got their heads on straight?"

"Something like that," Aramis agreed, his smile turning sly. "Do we have a policy for sex in the garrison?"

Athos whacked the back of his head lightly. "Don't even think about it. It's their business. And for future reference, Treville would skin you alive if you even entertained the idea."

Aramis looked more put out than Athos thought was really warranted but he wasn't going to judge. He rolled his eyes instead. "Come on then. I don't think d'Artagnan is going to be joining us for lunch after all and we have stuff to do later. I want to eat before resigning myself to endless paperwork."

"Sounds like a plan," Porthos agreed, slinging an arm around Aramis' shoulder. "And apparently, lunch is on me today."

Chapter Text

"So," Aramis said with loaded implication when d'Artagnan dropped into the seat across from him.

The Gascon's eyes immediately narrowed. "Not a word, Aramis."

The marksman made a show of zipping his lips closed, but his eyes were sparkling with a kind of mischief that always meant Athos' day was about to get more complicated. There was approximately ten seconds of frozen silence before Aramis put in slyly, "You know, there's a rule against having sex in the garrison."

d'Art snatched the nearest object to him – an eraser – and launched it with as much force as he could at his friend. Aramis almost fell off his chair avoiding it.

"Children," Athos called, barely restraining a smile, "Settle down."

"He started it," d'Artagnan muttered, his ears glowing red with his embarrassment. He looked like a young child caught doing something he shouldn't be – it was ridiculously endearing.

"That may be so," Athos agreed, ignoring Aramis' indignant splutter, "But you shouldn't rise to it. It only encourages him."

"I'm not a dog in training," Aramis said, affronted.

"I do question it sometimes," he muttered back but his eyes were kind. "Regardless, we have work to do." He tossed the manila folder he was clutching onto the table between them all, a few pages spilling out as he did so.

Porthos grabbed the one that fell closest to him to inspect it. "We're going to China?"

"Sadly, no. This looks like it's going to be home-ground work but there is a possibility of us heading out if something goes wrong. Foxtrot team has boots of the ground in Beijing – we're to liaise with them for anything we need."

"So what's the job?" Aramis had swiped the folder of the table to poke through its contents.

"A Chinese business man was in Leon three days ago to discuss a trading agreement with one of France's export companies. Arrived on time, went to his meetings, got on a plane home yesterday afternoon."

"Where do we come into this?"

"The plane landed one businessman short. There's evidence of him getting on the plane but so far as anyone can tell, he wasn't on the plane when it arrived in Beijing." Athos retrieved the folder from Aramis and pulled out a photograph of the man in question, holding it up for them all to see.

d'Artagnan raised his hand. "Before we get started, I have a question: I'm not complaining but should I be here? I'm not actually on active duty."

Athos was vaguely impressed that d'Artagnan not only remembered that fact but was willing to point it out – he knew that the Gascon would never allow himself to be left behind when the others were working if he had any say in it whatsoever.

"I've spoken with Treville. You are being reinstated on light duty against medical advice."

"So I sit in the garrison on a laptop while you three do all the heavy lifting?" He sounded both glad and mildly offended.

"More or less."

Porthos tried to ruffle d'Art's hair in what Athos imagined was supposed to be a supportive gesture; he ducked out the way of the grasping hand with the reflex of someone well used to it. Athos rolled his eyes at their antics, but the gesture was fond. It was long past time that they were allowed the opportunity to have light hearted moments.

"Is that going to be a problem?" He asked, when no response from d'Art was forthcoming.

He shrugged. "I shouldn't think so. I'm pretty sure Treville would skin me if I went against his orders at this point anyway."

"Treville would have to get in line. But we digress. Porthos, I want you to head over to the hotel our Mr Heoi was staying at and take a look around his room. He might have left something behind indicating his whereabouts." He dug the relevant paperwork out of the file and passed it to him. "Aramis, you and I are meeting the liaison Heoi was in contact with. Thanks to the ever annoying red tape, the company are being evasive when asked about what kind of business interactions the two were discussing and there's as yet no warrant that allows us to force them to explain. If we fail in getting the information out of them willingly then I want d'Artagnan ready to take it regardless. Can you do that?"

d'Artagnan shrugged, unconcerned. "Publically held company. Piece of cake."

"Wonderful. Until then, I want you in contact with the three of us at all times. Treville can set you up with a link to Foxtrot and you need to keep us in the loop with any information they pass along. We need to get this done quickly. If Heoi is still alive and being held captive then every second counts. If he's not…"

"Then his family deserves to know," Aramis finished quietly, looking at one of the pieces of paper that had slipped out of the folder. It was a picture of their target, along with a slender, short Chinese woman and a young girl, presumably their daughter. d'Artagnan's heart instantly went out to them both, and he made a silent promise that they would get to the bottom of this no matter what.

"We know what we're doing. Let's go."

---

The biggest problem with having d'Artagnan stuck at the garrison was that it more or less reduced them to a three man team. Not to say that d'Art wasn't pulling his weight – his skills would be vital should Aramis and Athos fail – but it did mean that it left Porthos on his own.

Porthos was a damn good Musketeer. He was really fucking good in a fight and he knew how to get to the bottom of a mystery. However, it was always nice when chasing a fleeing suspect to have a teammate at your back that you knew you could trust. Especially when said suspect was an asshole who had taken the first turn into a heavy residential estate to use the unsuspecting crowd as a moving bullet shield.

Porthos dove after him with everything he had, tuning out the continuous background noise of d'Artagnan's tinny voice trying to raise the local constabulary so that he wouldn't be completely on his own if this turned out bad.

The man had been in the hotel room when Porthos had arrived, hiding himself in the ensuite so that he had enough surprised to streak past the startled Musketeer when he made a break for it. He'd shown himself either fearless or desperate with the way he had flung himself down the stairs, risking so much more than a broken bone or two, and then proven himself the monumental asshole that he was by plunging into the crowd.

Porthos cursed the fucker to hell and back as he took a hard right turn, trainers slipping on the warn down pavement. He was gaining on his mark bit by bit, but he could really do with ending this as soon as possible. There was no telling if the man had friends to move in the hotel room in his absence, or if he had a planned escape route nearby that would leave Porthos eating his dust. Either way, he wanted this done.

Without someone else to circle around, he either had to continue a straight pursuit and let this drag on, or circle around himself and run the risk of losing the suspect all together.

Fuck it. He was bored of this shit already.

He took a sharp left then an immediate right, praying that the man he was chasing would be predictable and do what Porthos was willing him to. The risk paid off.

The man darted in front of the alley opening just as Porthos reached it, and the Musketeer flung himself into a flying tackle before he let himself think about it. They came down together in a tangle of limbs, something cracking against the pavement with enough force to break – the lack of instant pain reassured Porthos that it wasn't anything belonging to him.

He twisted, finding footing against something solid so that he could push himself up and pin down the man squirming beside him. There were cuffs tucked into his back pocket but it was clear that he wasn't going to need them immediately – the man's face was screwed up in pain and he was clutching at his very obviously broken arm.

Breathing heavily, Porthos sat back a little, keeping his weight on the man just in case he thought trying to get away again would achieve anything other than more pain. He poked at his radio.

"d'Artagnan? Suspect is down. You managed to raise the cops yet?"

"Just about. What's your position? I can get a police car to you to take him off your hands."

Porthos cast about for a road sign and relayed it. "An ambulance might be more fitting though. His arm's going to need someone to look at it."

"What has Athos told you about not breaking potential leads?"

"Bite me asshole." d'Artagnan snickered, but Porthos could hear an approaching siren so he might just forgive him. "I'll turn this guy over and then head back to the hotel. He can keep for questioning for now and I'm worried someone else might try and interfere with the room."

"I've been in contact with the hotel. They were already under instruction not to let anyone up to Heoi's room but they admitted to not doing much to enforce that. Hopefully they'll be more vigilant now."

"We can only hope. Any word from the others?"

"The company seems to be giving them the usual run around. Athos is pissed. Looks like I might have to earn my paycheque after all."

"'Bout damn time."

"If you don't want my help…" Porthos could tell he was grinning, and he allowed the lightness to seep into him as well, the tension leaking out of his shoulders just a little. "I'll pass on your success to them. We should be getting a data packet from Foxtrot in a few hours so that might give us something as well."

"Good. The cops are here now so I'll let you get on. Keep me in the loop."

"Ditto." The radio buzzed with static for a moment before it shut off. Porthos shook his head with a fondness he would deny under questioning and hauled the suspect to his feet – more gently than he perhaps might have wished – and pulled out his badge.

This might take some time.

---

d'Artagnan's assessment of Athos' mood had been a gross understatement. Athos wasn't one for the intricacies of company politics at the best of time and right now, he was positively fuming. From Aramis' supressed grin, the marksman would have been filming the whole thing had he not been aware that he would earn himself a punch in the face if his fingers so much as twitched towards his phone.

"I am aware that you have to protect the interests of this company and your stockholders," Athos said for the hundredth time, no longer even trying to keep his tone civil, "But this is a legal investigation and a man's life might hinge on the speed of our work. I can assure you that any information you give us will not be passed on to a third party. We're not trying to damage your revenue."

"I understand that Monsieur but I do not have the-"

"-Authority. You've already told me that. So get me someone that does."

The young intern they'd been dealing with went scurrying away, evidently terrified. Athos felt the stirrings of guilt in his chest – it wasn't the poor kid's fault that the company he was working for was manned entirely by selfish dicks determined to ruin Athos' day – but he shrugged the feeling away, ignoring Aramis' raised eyebrows.

"This might go more smoothly if you didn't terrify everyone we spoke with," the marksman pointed out.

Athos scowled at him. "We don't have time to deal with bureaucracy right now."

"I know we don't. But these aren't people you can intimidate into doing what we want them to so we've got to try something else. Whatever happens, I'm sure d'Artagnan has us covered."

"We don't have a warrant. I have no doubt that d'Artagnan can get the information but if we forcibly take it then we're liable to being arrested ourselves."

"And we might just save an innocent man by doing so. I'm pretty sure that's a risk we'd all take if it comes down to it. And don't rule Treville out of this yet – he'll get us that warrant if it kills him."

Athos could feel Aramis' logic loosening the muscles in his back through sheer reflex, and he offered the marksman a rueful smile. "When did you become so reasonable?"

Aramis grin was liquid gold. "I always was smarter than you. About time you realised it."

The petrified intern returned then, sparing Aramis the indignity of being cuffed around the head. "My manager is heading down now," he squeaked. "He should be able to advise you."

Aramis slipped in, so that Athos wasn't able to scare him anymore. "Thank you for all your help. Would you mind if we waited here for him?"

He actually looked more scared, as though this sudden about face was some sort of trap waiting to spring shut. After a second of wary silence, the intern offered a false, broken attempt at a smile. "Of course. He should be along in a few moments."

"Thank you for all your help," Aramis said, still smiling politely. The intern all but ran for the door.

Athos looked very much like he wanted to make a sarcastic comment, but he was interrupted by their radios chirping simultaneously.

"d'Artagnan. What have you got for us?"

"Porthos' suspect has been seen to by some paramedics and is languishing in the garrison holding cells. He'll be available for questioning once you three are finished."

"I'm certain I don't have to tell you that you're not allowed near him while on light duty?"

There was a telling silence, then a petulant, "Treville's taken away my passcard and he won't tell me the access codes. I couldn't get to him if I tried."

"You've never once come across a system you couldn't hack."

"You forget that I helped design this system. I taught it how to defeat all the tricks I know. As much as I hate to admit it, it's better than I am."

Athos couldn't help but smile. d'Artagnan actually sounded vaguely ashamed. "It'll do you good to learn a little humility. Is Porthos at the hotel room now?"

"Yeah. So far he's not found anything but it's possible that the suspect removed evidence before he got there. He's going to keep looking then call in the forensics team. Have you two found anything?"

"A whole lot of nothing."

"Athos is trying for the record on how many people he can scare in one day," Aramis put in unhelpfully. Athos glared at him.

"Is that plan getting you anywhere?"

Both Aramis and d'Artagnan were laughing, and Athos heaved a put upon sigh. "You're both idiots. Can we please keep this professional?"

"Sure thing boss," d'Art agreed, but they could still hear the grin he was no doubt wearing.

Athos and Aramis both looked up at the sound of approaching footsteps, taking in the sight of yet another businessman in a tailored pinstripe suit with an apologetic smile, as though that could erase the self-satisfied glow in his eyes. Athos' irritation reached a new peak.

"d'Artagnan we have to go. Call back if anything comes up."

"Sure. Good luck."

They were no doubt going to need it, especially since the first word out of the new man's mouth were: "I believe that you gentlemen don't have a warrant."

Athos growled.

---

Despite being absolutely exhausting for everyone involved, the day was more productive than they might have hoped for. Porthos hadn't found any real leads at the hotel but the forensics team had picked up multiple sets of fingerprints that they were looking into – of course, in a room that'd been home to so many people there was no guarantee that they weren't all entirely innocent.

Aramis and Athos had eventually got somewhere, even if it did take most of the day and endless threats of lawsuits to rain down on their heads. They'd argued and persuaded their way into being given the transcripts of every meeting Heoi had attended and Aramis had been given the job of shifting through every dull moment of them – a task he had taken to with as much displeasure as he could possibly summon.

The real interest however came from their suspect. Athos and Porthos had taken it upon themselves to interview the man, and had been pleasantly surprised when he was brilliantly forthcoming with any information they asked for. It made a nice change.

Their suspect – now identified as a Harold Entrin – was nothing more complex than a British gun-for-hire. He'd been approached a few days ago by an as yet unidentified man in his mid-forties who had offered him more money than he normally saw in a year to fly to France and take care of a spot of house cleaning. He'd been sent to three different hotels and two high end apartments to dispose of anything referencing a Chinese trading company called Reon – Entrin had no idea why or who's room's he'd been clearing but he was being paid far too much to ask questions.

This new information had led to both an arrest for impeding an official investigation and to d'Artagnan sorting through a vast network of programs and documents, most of which were in a language he didn't speak.

Aramis was sat at the far end of the table, grumbling to quietly to himself, despite the fact that he had been joined by Porthos to speed things up. Athos was sat nearer d'Artagnan, slowly making his way through a pile of paperwork he'd been ignoring for too long.

"This is impossible," d'Artagnan proclaimed after almost an hour of tugging at his hair.

Athos looked up in mild interest. "Trouble?"

"With the stuff Foxtrot sent over I've been able to get into the lower security Reon files but I can't get any higher without either access to one of their security cards or a hell of a lot more processing power. Since neither are about to become available to me, I'm trying to see if there's any weakness in the programming of the file storage but to do that I need to be able to see the actual files – if I mess with something I'm not supposed to, I could crash the whole system."

"So look at the files," Athos said, as though it were the simplest thing in the world. d'Art had the strong urge to flip him the bird.

"I'm sorry but can you read Mandarin? Because I can't and shockingly, a public Chinese company fucking loves them some Mandarin."

d'Artagnan was aware that he was being overly aggressive but he was tired and even with Porthos refilling his coffee mug every twenty minutes – and seriously, someone buy that man a present because he was a god damn gift – he could still feel each blink becoming more and more difficult.

Athos raised an unimpressed eyebrow. "If you need a translator then we can ask for one. I'm pretty sure Sarah down in the Comm department speaks Mandarin."

"That would probably be best," d'Art agreed, swallowing down any emotion that wasn't fatigue. It wasn't fair to snap at his teammates when they'd had just as long a day as he had.

Aramis seemed to catch the motion with his something's-wrong-with-someone-nearby sixth sense and shook his head. "I'm pretty sure that Sarah went home several hours ago. It's already-" he glanced at his watch, "-11:55. As time sensitive as this is, we'll probably be better getting some rest and looking at this with fresh eyes in the morning."

That was his usual code way of telling Athos that if he didn't let them go home, there'd be hell to pay. Thankfully, their team leader usually listened to the advice being sent his way.

"While I'm fairly sure you just want to get out of looking at those transcripts, you might be right. We could all use some sleep."

d'Artagnan looked very much like he was going to try and protest but all three of them sent a warning glance in his direction and he snapped his mouth shut, turning instead to focus on pulling out of the system he was in and shutting his laptop down.

Porthos and Aramis stayed with them until they hit the car park, before trailing off to their own vehicles with sleepy farewells. Silently, d'Artagnan tagged along with Athos.

It wasn't until they were both in the car that Athos spoke. "While I understand not wanting to talk about something, you do realise that Aramis isn't going to keep silent about you and Constance forever, don't you? He's going to start demanding answers soon."

d'Artagnan sighed. He hadn't realised that he'd be having this conversation with Athos first, of all people. "There's nothing really to tell."

"That's not the way he described it."

"How did he describe it?"

"You want me to go into detail? Because he did."

He didn't know whether to curse or laugh. It was so very Aramis. "Well, if you must know, there's not a 'me and Constance' as yet. We both want to… try. Be a couple. But Constance is married. Her relationship with her husband has been getting worse and worse, sure, but he was her high school sweetheart and they've been together for years now. She thinks – and I support her – that before anything happens between the two of us then she needs to make it clear to him where they stand and explain what it means for them."

"An honourable sentiment. What does it mean for them?"

"I think Constance hopes that the best thing would be for an amicable divorce. She doesn't want to lose contact with him or have to go through any kind of legal debate – a part of her still loves him. She's just not in love with him anymore."

Athos was watching him out of the corner of his eyes, his expression thoughtful. "You sound as though you feel guilty."

"I-" d'Artagnan started, then stopped. He tried again, faltered, then sighed. "I love Constance." That was irrefutable fact, the one thing he could focus on and know that it was what mattered. "And she wants to be with me. I've not asked her to do any of this, and I never would if it wasn't what she wanted but even then… I'm aware that I'm the home-wreaker here. Constance's husband's a jackass but I never wanted to hurt him like this."

Athos let out the sigh that had been building in his chest throughout the conversation. Trust d'Artagnan to have a good enough heart to feel guilty for trying to follow it. "It's a crappy situation. It always has been. But you love her and even an idiot could see just how much she loves you back. And if her husband loves her – which is pretty much the only thing we've never doubted about him – then he will see that he has to let her go to make her happy."

"That's not going to make him hate me any less. This will hurt him, and that's going to hurt Constance. I don't think there's anything else we can do but this whole thing… It just sucks."

"Falling in love usually does," Athos pointed out. It was impressive that he'd come far enough to make light of the shitstorm that had been his marriage. "But that doesn't mean it isn't worth it. Just focus on Constance. She'll be too busy worrying about her husband to worry about herself and so that's your job. I'm aware that Constance has absolutely no need of your protection but she's going to need some support and I trust that you'll be there for her."

d'Artagnan blinked at him. "I'm sorry, but are you giving me the talk?"

Athos shrugged. "I wasn't trying to but now that you mention it… If you ever break Constance's heart then the whole garrison will be coming after your ass, let alone me."

"Good?" d'Artagnan continued frowning in confusion for a moment before letting the expression drop with an amused huff. "You know me well enough to know that it's not going to be a problem. Just tell me – and I'm trusting you to be honest here – do you think I'm doing the right thing?"

"Is this what you want? To be with Constance, I mean."

"With all my heart."

"And it's what she wants?"

"Yes."

"Then yes. That's really all it comes down to in the end, d'Artagnan. Worry about the people you love and everything else will just… fall into place."

The car was silent for a long moment, before d'Artagnan murmured, "Thank you."

"Of course."

---

Sarah was, as it turned out, fluent in both Mandarin and Tibetan. With her help, d'Artagnan was able to storm through the files so much faster than he had the previous day, and by lunch time he had a viable coding to get him into the higher levels of the system.

The problems now came in the forms of permissions. The Chinese government were spiky at best, and when it came to the safety of their own, they were downright unhelpful. Foxtrot team were doing their best to organise some sort of agreement between the local law enforcement and the garrison but it was slow going and it was clear that Treville was wishing he could just ignore the potential diplomatic incident and give d'Artagnan the go ahead.

Unfortunately, the Captain was far too honourable for that.

"This is taking too long," Porthos griped, standing up from his chair with a restlessness they only felt when they were tied up in red tape.

"If Heoi is still alive then we're losing precious seconds waiting for people half a world away to make a decision." Aramis had been ill-tempered all day, but it was obviously not his teammates causing the disruption. None of them blamed him for it.

"Did we get anything from the other places Entrin gave us?"

Athos shook his head. "Bravo and Romeo teams are looking into it right now but so far nothing. The owners of the rooms are all unaccounted for but none of them have been declared missing by family or friends."

"Doesn't necessarily mean they're not missing," d'Artagnan pointed out glumly.

"No. They'll call us if they find anything."

"Is someone looking around the airport Heoi was flying from? Someone might have seen something."

Again, Athos could do nothing but shake his head, his expression grim. "Whiskey team have been camped out there since Heoi went missing but so far they've found nothing untoward. Charles de Gaulle is a busy place."

d'Artagnan rose, suddenly incapable of staying still. "I need some air. I'll be back in five."

No one tried to stop him as he left, and he was grateful for it. Porthos watched him go with sad eyes. "He's finding this one tough."

"He's got a lot on his mind," Athos said, unwilling to reveal the conversation he'd shared with him the night before. Some things were meant to be private.

"It's more than that," Aramis pointed out. "Somewhere in China there's a young girl missing her father – I think that's something he can relate to. He's never good on cases where there are kids involved. Especially long, drawn out ones."

The marksman wasn't wrong. They all had their weaknesses and children was definitely d'Artagnan's – none of them blamed him for it and this case was rubbing all of them the wrong way.

d'Artagnan was just returning when Athos phone rang. Treville's name flashed on the screen and he answered, hitting speakerphone automatically.

"Captain?"

"I need you to get over to Hotel-Dieu. A woman by the name of Niota Reeka was just admitted there."

The four of them exchanged surprised glances. "The same Niota Reeka that owned one of the apartments Entrin gave us?"

"The very same."

"She's injured?"

"Nothing life threatening, apparently, but she's shaken up. It looks like most of the damage has been caused by being forcibly restrained – wrist abrasions, bruises, that sort of thing. She's only willing to speak to law enforcement and since this is our case, the PNs have turned it over to us."

"We'll get over there right away."

"Call me back as soon as you learn anything. Also, d'Artagnan, you have permission to go just this once. If anything even slightly dangerous comes up, I'm expecting you to haul ass back to the garrison, understood?"

"Yes sir."

Athos smiled at the complete lack of sincerity. "I'll make sure of it sir," he reassured before ending the call, completely ignoring the Gascon's betrayed expression. "Come on. Porthos can drive."

---

Niota Reeka was more than a little shaken up but managing it well. Considering that she had been held against her will for almost a week and a half now, she was impressively composed to the point that Aramis was tempted to declare true love on the spot.

In a faltering voice she'd been able to explain in detail how men had snatched her on her way to the shops, and taken her to places unknown to be held. She didn't know who it was that had taken her, but she was certain that it had something to do with Reon – the company she'd been investigating in the hopes of finally catching the break that would launch her journalism career.

Perhaps more importantly, she was able to give them the address of the place she'd eventually managed to escape from, along with the assurance that there were at least two more people being held at the warehouse.

It was, finally, just what they needed.

Teams were assembled and a stealth infiltration planned in record time. Athos, true to his word, had sent d'Artagnan back to the garrison when the first available lift presented itself. He'd still been of use – digging up the city planning files of the warehouse so that the teams had a floor plan to work with. Niota's testimony had revealed that there was a basement the plans didn't account for - and this was of course, exactly where they had to look.

The execution was flawless. All targets were taken down with non-lethal force and no captives were further harmed. That was perhaps why it was so disappointing to find that one of the remaining four missing persons had already perished, apparently from the head trauma he'd suffered at the hands of his captors. Athos would happily see them all in hell for what they'd done.

The brighter side was that Heoi, another man and a second female captive were all alive and mostly unhurt. They had similar injuries to Reeka but nothing that shouldn't heal in time – excluding the trauma of what they'd been through.

Medical teams that had been on standby swept in to help the injured, and in less than half an hour, Athos and the others were heading back to the garrison to see Treville.

d'Artagnan was waiting for them when they arrived. "Nice work," he greeted.

"Not so bad yourself."

The Gascon shrugged. "Treville's waiting for us in his office."

"You say that like it's a bad thing," Aramis said as they all headed for the stairs. "Did he look angry?"

"Not really? He always looks a little bit angry."

The marksman chuckled, but didn't reply as they entered their Captain's office, all silently hoping that he wasn't truly upset about anything.

He wasn't. He merely wanted to check that they were all alright, receive their verbal reports and remind them that a formal report had to be submitted in less than a week.

"You did well on this one. It's always sad to lose someone, but you did everything you could. Because of you three people are alive and free when they weren't this morning."

"I think that Niota Reeka had a little something to do with it sir," Porthos pointed out. "We wouldn't have got very far without her help."

"A fact I will point out to the Commissioner when I see him. It won't fix what was done to her but I'm certain that the state can acknowledge her courage and heroic action."

"I'm sure that the three people she saved would agree with that," Athos said, letting a gentle smile soften his features. "She was very brave."

Treville nodded, evidently very impressed by this woman he'd never met. If the rest of them didn't know better, they'd think he was considering recruiting her. "You're free to go," he said instead. "The rest of the day is yours. You look like you could all do with some rest."

"Of course sir," Athos said. "Thank you."

As was almost always the case, their post mission crash took place in Athos' living room, stretched out in various positions of relaxation in front of a terrible movie with wine and takeout. It was soothing in a way that nothing else was.

Aramis was busying himself trying not to cry with laughter at the terrible story unfolding on the screen, while Porthos was only making it worse by trying to repeat parts of the dialogue with a serious face. d'Artagnan had long since given up and was howling from the floor beside the sofa. Athos looked at the three of them, feeling warm and safe and loved, and let himself smile.

Chapter Text

Amsterdam, The Netherlands. 52.3° N, 4.9° E.

Amsterdam Centraal was a very impressive station. The building was huge, and the incredibly ornate façade bled seamlessly into the modern station hall at the back without the slightest blemish. It was truly beautiful.

At least, that's what Aramis had thought when he'd first arrived in the city. Now, belly crawling his way across a narrow roof strut with a rifle on his back, he was starting to revise his opinion somewhat. Porthos, the git, was loving every minute from his cosy spot on the bench somewhere far below him.

"I'm not afraid of heights Athos," Aramis reminded him, "But you've got to admit this is taking the piss."

"Amsterdam is the city of lovers," Porthos pointed out with an obvious smile because he was a colossal dick. "I thought you'd be loving it."

"Paris is the city of lovers, which, incidentally, was where I was minding my own business before I was dragged out here."

"I'm not sure you could argue I dragged you anywhere," Athos said mildly, finally rising to the bait and joining the conversation. "You seemed perfectly content to accept my intervention into your affairs at the time."

"Yes well. Monsieur Cavard returned sooner than anticipated. It could not have been avoided."

Porthos huffed out a laugh. "Whatever you say. Can you see anything yet?"

Aramis could, in fact, see everything. It was potentially problematic. "There's about two thousand people down there," he informed them, pulling his face away from the scope to see the wider view. "I haven't got a chance of finding anyone in this crowd."

"We know what direction he's coming from."

"Athos, the Victoria hotel is right next to possibly the busiest stretch of road in the whole city. I can sit here all damn day but I won't see him, I promise you."

Their mission was a simple pick up. They'd gone through all the right channels in advance so they actually had an official warrant to arrest the son of a bitch legally – within the Netherlands. Frustratingly, their target – Vedemann – had gotten wind of his imminent downfall, and was making a last ditch attempt to get out of the country and into Germany which had eventually led to Aramis on his belly on top of a train station.

Despite his position, he didn't have kill commands. He wasn't authorised to shoot unless one of the Musketeers was in mortal peril and even then he was theoretically supposed to go for non-lethal takedowns. Right now, he was just their eyes in the sky.

d'Artagnan was still under medical restriction and had been left in Paris. Despite their initial concerns about his reaction to it, he'd taken the news well and hadn't seemed troubled by it – it was only a short mission after all, and he'd said something about needing to talk some things out with Constance. Their whole situation was unusual but then Aramis could exactly judge given his own romantic encounters.

"Can you get a line of sight on the hotel?"

Aramis shifted his rifle carefully, searching. "Yes," he said after a moment, "But it's not a clear line. I can't be certain that he won't get by me."

"It's close enough. Porthos and I should be able to spot him if he comes in the main entrance."

"If he doesn't?"

"Treville will have our heads I imagine. That tends to be how things work out, isn't it?"

"Usually," Aramis agreed glumly. He wasn't looking forwards to getting chewed out by the captain – the man had a way of making you feel like you were a disappointment to your own mother and Aramis certainly wasn't a fan. Though it was fun to watch it happen to someone who deserved it.

The doors of the hotel opened but the woman who emerged hadn't been in any of the files they'd had on Vedemann so he didn't consider it important. He passed the message along to the others regardless, but their assessment was much the same.

"You know," Aramis said when the conversation dwindled, "It's really fucking hot up here."

"Really?" Porthos replied, unconcerned. "It's quite cool down here."

"Sitting in the shade with a nice breeze off the water you mean? Yes, I can imagine it is."

"Is it going to be a problem?" Athos asked, ever the professional. Aramis hummed, considering. He was sweating, and his head was starting to ache with the promise of a migraine, but for now his hands were steady and he was confident he could move at speed if he needed to.

"Not yet. It might be soon. There's no shade up here that has a sight line."

"Tell me if it gets too much. There's still time to grab Vedemann before he crosses the border and there's no sense you getting heat stroke on the off chance you might see him."

"I'll keep you informed. You seen anything suspicious?"

"There's a group of backpackers milling around me," Porthos reported. "Can't see much more. Got a line of sight on the canal taxi stop though. No luck so far."

"The taxi ranks here are no use either," Athos said, clearly annoyed. "If we don't spot him in the next hour then I suggest we rethink."

"I still say we raid the hotel," Aramis offered unhelpfully. "Give the residents something to gawk at besides their own bank accounts."

"Vedemann would see us a mile away and go to ground. We'd never get him. And I resent the implication that all rich people are boring."

"I wasn't talking about you and you know it," Aramis said, smiling despite himself. "You, for one, would never stay in such an excessively lavish hotel."

"The word you're looking for is ostentatious," Porthos put in. He was never someone to suffer under the idea that money made you entitled and that certainty was accompanied by more than a little bitterness – none of them blamed him.

"Perhaps so."

"Gentlemen. We're moving off topic."

Aramis grinned, scope still against his eye. "I've already given you a perfectly valid-" He cut himself off instantly, his whole body stilling as it focussed on a single point 200 meters away.

"Aramis?" Porthos' voice was tight with sudden stress.

"I see Vedemann," he reported a heartbeat later, shifting the rifle to follow their target's meandering path towards the station. "He's coming our way. It doesn't look like he knows we're here."

"Well that sucks for him," Porthos said fiercely.

Athos hissed through his teeth. "We need to do this cleanly Porthos. I know this man is the worst kind of scum but we have to play nicely in someone else's sandbox."

"You don't have to patronise me," Porthos snapped back. They all knew that it wasn't Athos he was really mad at. "A clean arrest – I know the drill."

"I know you do. I just like to remind you now and again."

"He's across the road from the station now," Aramis told them. "I'm about to lose sight of him – the angle's all wrong. Tell me one of you has him."

"I'm getting there," Athos said. At almost the same moment, Aramis saw him appear further down the street.

"I see you. Head to your left and look for a man in a green top. Porthos, where are you?"

"Across the road from Vedemann. If he makes a break for the trains then I've got him."

"I've got eyes on the target," Athos said. He was just reaching the crowd Vedemann had hidden in, a hand reaching into his back pocket for his cuffs.

The moment Athos' hand fixed on Vedemann's arm, the fight clearly went out of him. He put up a token protest but by the time Porthos reached them, Athos was already clicking the cuffs into place without the slightest trouble.

Aramis pulled up his rifle, carefully raising himself first onto all fours, then back onto his knees. He smiled even though no one was there to see it.

"Not a bad day's work," he said to no one in particular.

Something strange happened then, and he'd never quite be able to work out exactly what. He could still see Vedemann and the others, though far less clearly without his scope, and something had clearly changed in the ten seconds he hadn't been watching. Athos looked like he was standing too close to Vedemann, wrapping an arm around his chest to prop him up. Porthos was shouting something that Aramis couldn't hear and he looked like he was searching the rooftop for something.

Aramis slapped at his radio. The first thing he head was Porthos bellowing for people to get down, get under cover and Aramis' heart rate skyrocketed. Was someone shooting? "What the shit is happening?"

"Shooter on the roof," Athos informed him, sounding furious. "Vedemann's down."

Aramis was already moving, rifle slung over his shoulder as he desperately tried to scramble his way back onto solid ground. He could see someone else moving out the corner of his eye, and he made towards them in as direct a line as he could manage. A heartbeat later, the figure, also weighed down by the bulk of a rifle, disappeared behind the edge of one of the decorative tower sections of the roof.

"In pursuit," Aramis said into his radio even as he threw himself from one section of roof to another, heedless of the vast drop beneath him.

"Be careful," Athos snapped, then followed with a vaguely uncaring, "Vedemann's dead."

"Off the record, good riddance," Porthos said with real venom, and Aramis was inclined to agree with him.

The marksman was catching up to their shooter now, enough so that he could identify him as male and older than Aramis but still agile and fearless enough to throw himself across the rooftop like it was nothing more dangerous than the track. He was heading for the lake on the far side, away from the others.

There was a handgun tucked into the holster strapped around Aramis' ribs – he hadn't thought he'd need it on a mission this simple but it was always a comfort to have it with him, especially when he was required to be separated from the rest of the team. Besides, when shit like this started happening, it paid to be paranoid. He yanked it out, struggling for a moment not to upset the precarious balance of his rifle where it lay between his shoulder blades.

He finally had a clear line on the shooter, the lake glistening far below to his right. He brought the gun up in front of him as he slid to a stop.

"Freeze!" The shooter skidded to a stop without turning, head ducked low. The hairs on Aramis' neck rose with a suddenness that startled him, so he was unprepared when the shooter spun on his heel and opened fire with a previously concealed handgun.

The shot barely touched him, tearing the smallest of gashes across the top of his shoulder in a burning hot line of pain. It was nothing really – a minor inconvenience. He took an instinctive step back from the shock of the impact, his returning fire going wide with the motion and –

– stepped straight into thin air.

He had enough time to say "Fuck," with as much eloquence as a falling man can muster before he hit the water. His first thought was that the lake was refreshingly cool against over-warm skin, but that was quickly stamped out by the intense fire in his shoulder.

He kicked for the surface, breaking it with a gasp. He determinedly didn't think about the innumerable pathogens that were no doubt invading his blood stream via the open wound, or the way the salt made it feel as though his whole arm was on fire.

Swearing and cursing, he kicked towards the station. This side of it was a wide open, modern space for the tracks that lead right to the edge of the lake, allowing him to scramble back onto solid ground with the help of a very convenient ladder. The people at the station gaped at the dripping wet, bleeding man as though he'd just clawed his way out of hell at their feet but not one of them made to approach him.

Still cussing quietly to himself in Spanish, he poked at his radio, unsurprised when it gave a sad little hiss of static and refused to cooperate. Athos and Porthos needed to know what had happened and both his phone and his radio were waterlogged.

The fastest way to the exit was directly across the tracks. The active and highly dangerous tracks. He lunged towards them without letting himself think about it. Behind him there were several cries of horror, and one man reached out a hand to stop his suicidal charge but the Musketeer was too quick for any of them and he was off the platform before anyone could put hands on him.

Getting back onto the next platform with only one functional shoulder was a little tricky but he managed a sort of lopsided vault without breaking stride.

He wasn't counting how many platforms there were, but by the time he reached the far side of the hall, his working arm was aching from doing all the work and he was starting to breathe more forcefully. He'd been lucky; he'd only had to dart in front of one moving train, and it was already sufficiently slowed that he'd danced out of its way before it reached him.

The ticket gates were open so he blasted straight through without slowing, heading to where he'd last seen his friends. Athos was still there, crouching over Vedemann's body and looking torn in two with worry. Porthos was nowhere in sight.

As soon as Aramis skidded into sight, Athos visibly sagged with relief – until he actually looked at him and took in the water dripping from him and the blood that had started staining a gory pattern down his shirt. Concern started to creep back into the corners around his eyes.

"What happened?"

"Fell in the lake. Phone and radio are both out. Porthos?"

Athos ignored the question in favour of spluttering stupidly for a moment. "You fell-" He cut himself off sharply, hand hovering beside his own radio. "Okay," he said after a long minute of silence, eyes distant, "Bring him down. Aramis is here too." There was a brief pause for the response, then Athos' eyes focussed back on the marksman. "Porthos got our shooter as he was coming down the stairs. What happened to your shoulder? And if you tell me you fell off the damn roof, I swear to God Aramis…"

"… I didn't mean to?"

Athos' head dropped into his hands. "Jesus. Do you need a hospital?"

"Not really. I might need their antibiotics. The lake wasn't exactly hygienic."

"No shit. You can call yourself a damn ambulance, you absolute lunatic."

"You always say the nicest things," Aramis replied easily, holding out a hand for Athos to slap his phone into. They'd need a clean-up squad to shift Vedemann's body too but – thankfully – it wasn't Aramis' job to worry about that.

Porthos was just appearing with their shooter when Aramis got off the phone, and they automatically scanned each other for injuries. Porthos frowned at his shoulder.

"What happened?"

"I went for a swim with a little help from your tag along. He say anything?" He nodded his head at the unresisting man Porthos was holding onto, scanning the face of the man who had shot him. There wasn't any malice there, just acceptance.

"He's ex-army and Vedemann killed his daughter. This was just settling a score." The silent man flinched at Vedemann's name but didn't say a word to try and defend himself, staring instead at the corpse Athos was still kneeling besides. "Can't say I blame him."

Aramis grimaced. It was no secret that none of them would mourn Vedemann's passing but it potentially wasn't wise to admit that in front of countless witnesses under the circumstances. Their lack of awareness had gotten the man killed.

Porthos shrugged when he saw what he was thinking. "I'm no liar."

"I'm not asking for lies," Athos said, not without sympathy, "But perhaps a little discretion? The man died on our watch."

Porthos nodded slowly. "I can do that."

Athos' phone, still in Aramis' hand, chose that moment to start ringing. d'Art's face popped up on the caller ID so the marksman answered it.

He was immediately assaulted by d'Artagnan's worried voice. "Aramis isn't answering his phone and a call's gone out for an ambulance and the cops," he said in one breath. "What's happening?"

Aramis waited for a beat just to check that he was finished before asking, "Are you spying on us?"

"Aramis! I- No."

"Oh my god," he said, laughing, "You are, aren't you? I'm touched."

"Shut up," d'Art ordered, obviously embarrassed. "Are you alright? What happened to your phone?"

"It took a dunk in the lake," Aramis told him, neatly avoiding the first question with practiced ease. "Think tech can do something about that?"

d'Art knew that he was deliberately being provocative but he rose to it nonetheless. "Amateurs. I can fix it up, I'm sure."

"I never had any doubt. Now stop spying on us. Treville would thrash you if he knew how you were using garrison resources and the grown-ups have work to do here." He hung up on d'Artagnan's protestations with a laugh.

Athos raised an eyebrow at him, the tiniest amount of mirth in his eyes. Aramis just laughed harder.

---

Paris, France. 48.9° N, 2.4° E.

"There are too many pigeons in this city," Aramis griped, flicking a stick idly at one nearby. It hopped easily out of the way. Porthos jabbed him with his outstretched foot in rebuke.

They were all in Paris for once, and currently in various positions of repose around a fountain somewhere in Les Halles. Athos had dragged them out there under some pretence or other but they all knew that the square in which they sat must mean something to him and that he wanted to share it with them without admitting what 'it' was. None of them even thought about calling him on it.

The fountain was truly impressive, a tall square tower of yellow stone that overflowed to pour water down six steps on each of the four sides into a large, circular pool that, in the midsummer heat, Aramis wanted nothing more than to lie in. The tower was intricately carved, with two female water bearers on each side and several latin inscriptions that the marksman couldn't be bothered to translate right then. The heat had turned all their brains to mush.

Athos appeared to most of the world to be napping, propped up by the stone bench that ran around the edge of the square. Nonetheless, he opened an eye to peer at Aramis. "I swear to God if I catch you trying to shoot the local wildlife again…"

Aramis raised his hands in surrender. "I learnt my lesson, don't worry."

d'Artagnan, slumped besides Porthos, frowned quizzically. "You were trying to shoot pigeons?"

"Not just pigeons," he defended, as though it helped. He shrugged. "I was bored."

"And you solved that by trying to shoot pigeons?"

"Yes. You must agree that we have something of a vermin problem in Paris?" To emphasise his point, the pigeon sitting near Athos found a tiny morsel of food in the cracks of the concrete and simultaneously caught the attention of his fellows. Athos was lost for a moment in the flurry of grey feathers, reappearing shortly looking ruffled and unimpressed. There was a feather in his hair.

d'Artagnan laughed aloud, then dodged the stick-turned-projectile thrown his way. He looked back at Aramis with a grin on his lips. "I suppose you might have a point."

"Unfortunately my efforts were in vain," Aramis bemoaned, looking truly distressed. "Athos has extracted a promise that I will not try again."

"He threatened to tell Treville," Porthos stage whispered. "That shut him up right quick."

d'Artagnan's grin was sharp. It was no secret between them that the surest way to achieve Aramis' compliance was to threaten him with the Captain's intervention. They all had a healthy fear and respect for the man.

Aramis pouted at them all for a moment but when that garnered absolutely no sympathy, he turned his attention back to the fountain. "d'Art, out of the two of us, which do you think could climb to the top quickest?"

"No," Athos ordered instantly, coming properly awake, but d'Artagnan seemed to be genuinely considering.

"Top of the steps or onto the roof?"

"The roof."

"You," d'Art admitted after another thoughtful pause. "I could beat you up the steps but you're a better climber than I am, especially on something as sheer as that."

"You could use the carvings as handholds. What do you think Porthos?"

The larger man glanced at the fountain for a few seconds, then shrugged. "d'Artagnan's right. I also think that if you don't think of something else to entertain yourself, Athos might implode."

It was true that their leader was looking ever so slightly murderous and this was supposed to be a relaxing day for all of them, so Aramis let it drop. He watched with idle fascination as a discarded chip some pigeons had been fighting over was stolen by an intrepid sparrow less than half their size.

"You're too quiet," Athos said suddenly into their silence, his eyes on Aramis.

The marksman blinked innocently. "I thought you wanted me to drop it?"

"When you're quiet you're either sleeping or plotting something harmful to my blood pressure. I find it unsettling."

"I am the picture of innocence," he refuted without heat. Porthos choked on a laugh.

Athos didn't get the chance to reply to that when his phone chimed with Treville's ringtone. He rose to answer it, moving away in the barest attempt at privacy; Aramis dropped his chin to his chest with a deep sigh.

"Looks like the holiday's over."

Porthos grimaced back at him, keeping one eye on Athos who had dropped any attempt at relaxation and had instead drawn himself into a serious, tight stance. A few moments later he hung up the phone and turned back to them, unsurprised to find their eyes on him.

"Gentlemen. Our services are required."

---

Nice, France. 43.7° N, 7.3° E.

Their trip to the Cote d'Azur had been fruitful, and two men who deserved prison were now heading in exactly that direction. They should all have been happy.

And yet.

Ever since they had arrived at the airport, d'Artagnan had been quiet and withdrawn, clearly working over something in his mind. He was evidently building up to telling them something important, so they didn't try to press him for an explanation despite their curiosity and concern, even when he announced his desire to walk up Castle Hill.

Porthos had spent a fair amount of his misspent youth selling all manner of things illegally on the steps of the Sacre Coeur, so he was no stranger to impressive views, but even he was taken aback when he first saw the sunset rays dancing across the water of the bay. Aramis couldn't help the soft "Oh," of amazement that escaped him.

For his part, d'Artagnan was staring out across the bay with such fierce pain in his eyes that none of them knew the first thing to say. He saved them from working it out, sighing heavily.

"Over there," he started, pointing at the spit of land beyond the airport, "There's a town called Antibes."

He fell silent for a moment then, apparently unsure so Athos offered a quiet, "I've heard of it."

d'Artagnan nodded slowly. "My mother's parents had a flat there. She spent all her holidays there as a child – it was more a home to her than Ravenna ever was. When my grandparents died the flat passed to her and she took me there when I was little."

d'Artagnan had never really spoken of his family beyond his father – by unspoken agreement they'd never asked. He obviously had some heritage that wasn't French but it didn't matter to them where he came from and they'd made sure he knew it. Besides, of the four of them, Athos was the only one who had pure French lineage. Aramis didn't have any.

"I remember when I was very young, my father asked her to sell it because we were struggling. I'd never heard them fight like they did then – I'm not sure I ever did after, either. It was unthinkable to my mother. My father never brought it up again."

"What happened to it?"

"Nothing. My mother had no other family when she died, so it passed in its entirety to my father. His will listed me as his sole beneficiary. They're holding the keys for me until I come to claim them."

He was fairly certain he knew the answer, but Aramis still felt compelled to ask, "Why haven't you?"

d'Artagnan shrugged as though it didn't matter but then almost instantly dropped the façade. "I only ever went there with my mother. It meant so much to her that in my head it's always been her space. After she died… Neither me nor my father could quite bring ourselves to return."

"And now?" Athos' eyes were very soft, understanding his hesitancy perfectly.

"I want to see the old town again," he admitted. "You can walk along the walls and look out over the sea… I almost fell over the edge once, fooling around with a friend. My mother was furious."

"I get the impression you could be a very trying child to sensible parents," Athos said, but there was no malice in his voice and the comment was fond.

"No doubt," d'Art agreed easily, shrugging in a vaguely self-deprecating manner.

"d'Artagnan," Aramis started carefully, wary of spooking him, "If you want to go to Antibes, you need only ask."

The silence stretched for so long that Aramis was worried he'd said completely the wrong thing but as he opened his mouth to apologise, d'Artagnan nodded.

"I think I'd like that. Not to the flat," he clarified quickly. "Not yet, but… It'd be nice to see it all again."

Athos clapped a hand to his shoulder to steer him away from the spectacular view – in the direction of the elevators this time, not the stairs, Aramis noticed – and engaged him in a conversation about the finer areas of the Riviera.

Porthos gave a fond huff and pulled at Aramis' collar until he was able to drag himself away from the glorious sight. Treville surely wouldn't mind if they were a day late in returning to Paris.

---

Florence, Italy. 43.8° N, 11.3° E.

Florence was perhaps the only thing on Earth that Athos had ever agreed with his parents about – for entirely different reasons maybe, but agreed nonetheless.

His parents had adored the history the city shared with the Medici family, and the example of a French family in disgrace clawing their way back to the top with nothing more than their fingernails and the unshakable belief that they were better. Athos' old-money family could think of nothing more worthy.

Personally, Athos thought of the whole affair somewhat more harshly. However, what he could admit was that Florence was an amazing city. From the utterly breath taking sight of the Chapel of Princes to the awe-inspiring Duomo to the understated grandeur of the Santa Maria Novella in front of which he now stood, every inch of this city was saturated in history and glory.

d'Artagnan was some way off, chatting animatedly with an Italian boy about his own age, endlessly happy to be surrounded by his mother's tongue once more. Aramis had taken himself off to light a candle at some church or other, which left Porthos and Athos hiding in the shade, sweating excessively.

"It's gone eight," Porthos pointed out unnecessarily. "Why is it not less than thirty degrees?"

"If Treville will send us to Italy in the middle of summer," Athos said with a shrug, "We have to put up with it."

"We're being punished, aren't we?"

"No doubt."

"We know what for?"

Athos shrugged again. "I'm not aware I've done anything wrong recently. You?"

"Nothing unusual."

"Aramis?"

"Who the fuck knows? I thought he'd been pretty quiet recently but I'm not his sitter."

Athos frowned at the uncharacteristic shortness in his voice, brows pulling together. "Are the two of you fighting?" He asked mildly.

Porthos' shoulders were tense. "Leave it alone Athos."

Athos raised his hands in surrender, but they both knew he couldn't just let it go. "Porthos," was all he said, a quiet reproach.

The larger man sighed and let his shoulders sag in a sudden slump. "It's nothing really. Just a little difference of opinion about who Aramis should spend his time with."

Athos' heart instantly dropped into his boots. "He's not been to see Adele again, has he?"

Porthos nodded, clearly still angry about it. "He said it was just once and he was careful about it. I told him that it was too much of a risk but he came out with the usual bullshit about true love – Richelieu already hates us. He doesn't need another reason."

"I agree with the sentiment," Athos allowed, "But I also think we need to be aware of Adele's wishes. If she loves him…"

Porthos scoffed. "She's the niece of one of the most powerful bastards in Paris. It's not going to work like that for her and you know it."

Athos wanted to disagree, even if it was the truth but d'Artagnan chose that moment to return to them, grinning widely. The expression faltered just slightly when he took in their tense, drawn up shoulders. "Something wrong?"

Athos made a quick decision and forced himself to relax. "Nothing to concern yourself with."

d'Artagnan's face instantly darkened into a scowl. "Lying to me? Nice." But, whatever the reason, he didn't push for the truth, lapsing into annoyed silence instead.

Porthos shared a confused look with Athos, but followed d'Art's example and didn't mention it aloud. He turned his attention to the Italian boy instead, who was just disappearing at the far end of the square.

"You looked like you were making friends," he said.

With visible effort, d'Artagnan shook off his annoyance to take up the conversation thread. "It's nice to speak Italian again. And he was happy to help – I think he thought we were spies or something."

"Aren't we?" d'Artagnan raised his shoulder in a fair-point kind of way. "What did he tell you?"

"Pretty much what we'd expected. There's been no noticeable increase in crime and any gang activity is almost entirely absent."

"So we're wasting our time," Athos surmised dryly. It was much too hot for Treville to be giving them the run around.

"Could be underground," Porthos reasoned fairly. "I'm sure a lot of things go without notice of the general populous in a city like this."

"Then we're still wasting our time. None of us have the connections to do an in depth investigation here. November team are usually the ones to speak to about Italy."

"We could get a request for local police records," d'Art suggested. "It might give us some ideas at least."

Athos considered, but then shook his head. There was no point in digging when there was so small a chance of finding anything useful. "No, I'm calling this one. There's nothing for us to do here."

d'Artagnan looked vaguely heartbroken to be leaving Italy again so soon, but he nodded in acceptance without argument. Porthos bumped shoulders with him in silent consolation.

"Now we just have to find Aramis," d'Art said with a glum smile. "In a city full of churches. This should be fun."

---

Rome, Italy. 41.9° N, 12.5° E.

The gardens outside Santa Maria Degli Angeli were an unexpected patch of greenery in such a large, bustling city, but not an unwelcome one. Reclining on one of the stone benches, Athos felt he could get used to the view.

Treville had sent them to Rome from Florence, apparently still sure that Italy was the place for them to be. Athos was starting to think that it must be something more than a banal punishment.

That being said, he wasn't sure what possible significance a break in at a small-profit museum could have. But they were soldiers at the end of the day and they went where they were sent, no matter how much Aramis bitched about it.

"With all that praying you do," Porthos said to him eventually, with just a hint of viciousness, "I would have thought that you'd love it here."

Aramis looked genuinely wounded by the comment, hurt flickering openly in his eyes before he was able to hide it. No matter how much they were fighting, none of them ever questioned Aramis' faith.

Almost as annoyed as Porthos about Aramis' lack of self-control, Athos' only intervention was a mumbled reproach of "Porthos."

Aramis' brows drew together, anger covering his hurt. "You know very well that my faith and Catholicism as a whole are very different things. I'd ask that you respectfully leave religion out of your argument with me."

Athos remained seated on the bench but his whole body had gone tense, only realising now when it was far too late just how wounded Aramis felt in the whole situation. Porthos sat rigidly beside him, apparently having come to the same conclusion. There was far too much emotion charging the air for this to be resolved right that moment, Athos knew, so he thought quickly.

"Aramis, why don't you go see how d'Artagnan's doing?" It was weighted as an order and the marksman didn't try to argue, turning on his heel and storming away without half of his usual poise.

Porthos opened his mouth to speak once he was gone, then snapped it shut and sighed. Eventually he managed a meek, "I'll sort this."

Athos nodded. "I hadn't really thought about his position on the matter, I admit. He truly does feel something for Adele and even if it isn't true love, it's much more than you can say for most of his companions."

"He can't love her Athos," Porthos reminded him, desperation in his tone.

The statement struck exactly the wrong chord in Athos, and his eyes flashed dangerously before he got himself back under control. "Love doesn't work like that," was all he said.

Porthos flinched, then pushed himself to standing to put some distance between them like a barrier. "Shit Athos, I didn't mean… Shit. I'm saying all the wrong things today, aren't I?"

Athos softened under his genuine remorse. "You were not unprovoked."

Porthos shook his head. "Doesn't excuse me. I'll talk to him."

"I know you will."

Eventually Porthos felt settled in himself enough to sit down beside Athos once more and they rested like that, listening to the patter of water in the fountain. It was strangely relaxing.

Their rest was interrupted some time later by the reappearance of d'Artagnan and Aramis.

"What'd they say?"

"Owner seemed more shaken up than anything," d'Art informed them dutifully. It really paid to have an Italian speaker on the team. "He said that they didn't damage anything of real value – if anything they seemed to target items and displays that could easily be replaced or were replications of the true antiques."

"A warning?" Porthos suggested.

"They didn't leave anything behind to indicate further intentions," d'Artagnan said. "It's still possible of course, but if it were a warning, you'd think they'd make it more obvious."

Athos hummed in agreement. "You said that the manager was shaken up? Do you think he was trying to appear that way to hide a lie?"

d'Artagnan looked uncertain. "I considered that. If he did have anything to do with it, he wasn't the actual vandal – he looked like he was nearly eighty and it would have taken considerable strength to shift some of the broken vases."

"Could have hired help," Aramis pointed out.

"It's possible but I'm inclined to think not. His distress really did seem genuine. I could run his financials to check."

"So we have completely unconfirmed reports of an increase in black market crime in Florence and a break in with slightly bizarre details," Athos surmised. "Is anyone seeing a connection I'm not?" The question was met with three shaking heads. "Perfect."

"The manager said he had CCTV of the museum but the police took all his footage when they came to investigate," d'Artagnan said thoughtfully. "Might be worth a look."

"You're probably right," Athos agreed. "Thank you for volunteering yourself for that job." d'Artagnan immediately protested, Aramis laughing good naturedly at his misfortune. Athos let a sharp smile slide onto his face. "And Aramis will be joining you."

As expected, that brought a whole new round of protestation, but it was entirely ignored. Athos focused instead on the fountain in front of him until the others realised that he wasn't listening and crowded onto the bench beside him in defeat.

"It's nice here," d'Artagnan said after a moment of quiet contemplation.

"Peaceful," Aramis agreed. His eyes were fixed on a stray cat that had wandered into the garden and was making a beeline for the fish residing in the basin of the fountain. "You know," he added with suspicious innocence, "There's a cat city not far from here.**"

Athos and Porthos both smiled knowingly as d'Artagnan chuckled. "For a cold blooded sniper, you have a very strange taste in pets."

Aramis instantly ducked his head, the tips of his ears turning pink. "I like cats," he said meekly.

The conversation moved then to discussing the pros and cons of cats vs. dogs, with d'Artagnan providing the dog-lover side of the argument against Aramis and Athos' united cat front. Porthos declared the three of them ridiculous and went to look at the fish instead.

In time, they made their way out of the complex, with the general intention of going to retrieve the video files from the police. Athos had declared that they should also speak to anyone who had recently left a job at the museum, requiring the need for d'Artagnan's linguistic capabilities. If that also meant that Aramis and Porthos would be forced together, Athos wasn't going to complain. He was a smart man, after all.

He still wasn't entirely convinced that there was a case here, but for now he was content to go where Treville told him. His brothers were company enough to make it bearable.

---

Venice, Italy. 45.4° N, 12.3° E.

It had required some long overdue strokes of luck, but they'd managed to track their art vandal/black market dealer to Venice. That was about where the good news ended, at least in Athos' opinion.

The easiest way of arresting their man was to lure him away from his people and take him in quietly – a feat in itself. That was made somewhat more complicated when they needed to make their move as soon as possible and it just so happened to be the middle of the Carnevale di Venezia.

Treville was probably back in Paris, laughing himself into an early grave. He'd even stretched so far as to send their ever-graceful consultant Ninon de Larroque to them to 'help them blend in with the festivities.' Treville was an asshole, is what Athos is really getting at.

It was made a hundred times more awkward by the knowing looks Aramis kept shooting at him and if they weren't on a case, Athos would have happily strangled the smug little shit at the first opportunity. Ninon, saint that she was, handled the whole affair with so much grace that you could almost believe she couldn't feel the charged air between them.

It was a poorly kept secret among Alpha team that Athos and Ninon had almost been together a year ago, and that both still looked at each other and saw a future they could almost long to have. Aramis didn't understand why that wasn't enough and Athos didn't have the heart to tell him that it was because neither of them could quite let go of their pasts, or their independence. One day perhaps, but not yet.

With all of the what-ifs and maybes floating about, it was little wonder that Athos couldn't wait for this whole thing to be over. Especially when Ninon walked into the ballroom in a floating gown of golden silk, a white marbled mask balanced daintily on her nose. Her curls were twisted up into an exquisite knot on the back of her head with just a few strands left loose to frame her face with a casual sort of elegance. She was, in a word, glorious.

"My god," d'Artagnan murmured softly over the comms, and Athos realised suddenly that he wasn't the only one staring at the newcomer, gobsmacked. A significant part of the crowd had turned to watch her descend the steps, including their target. Athos tried very hard not to feel proud when she attached herself to his arm.

"Quite the entrance," he said, hoping to cover his obvious surprise. Aramis snorted into his champagne on the other side of the room.

"I like to make an impression," she admitted easily, a tiny smile on her carefully painted lips. "And I could say the same to you. I could get used to seeing you in Carnevale costume."

Athos had looked in a mirror earlier in the evening – he knew exactly how ridiculous the bright, puffy clothes made him look. He frowned just a little. "I thought you too gracious a partner to mock a man for doing his job."

Her hand on his arm was warm when she squeezed it. "I would never mock a man such as you Athos. We are both far too honest for such things."

d'Artagnan, stood near the stairs in the uniform of the ushers, looked like he was about to burst with glee. Athos manfully restrained the urge to flip him the bird.

"As utterly precious as this is," Porthos interrupted, "You two either need to make out or start mingling because people are starting to take notice."

Athos let Ninon proceed to drag him around the room to talk to people, falling into the habit of his upbringing whereby he listened enough to speak when spoken to but insufficiently so that he couldn't look around the room for distractions.

The ball was being held in one of the larger rooms of the Doge's palace. The walls and ceilings were an intricate blend of fine paintings, dark wood carvings and burnt gold accents. It was the kind of décor that would look gloomy in any other instance, but lit up by festival lights and joyous music, it was almost alive with brilliance.

The music shifted suddenly and people streamed to the sides of the room to clear a space for dancing. Ninon's hand became a vice on his arm.

"Tell me you know how to dance," she hissed at him.

Athos's heart thumped heavily for two beats, then heightened into a sharp staccato as his heart dropped away. "Ninon…"

"No, you idiot," she said harshly, "This isn't some whim. We're new to this crowd so we're almost guests of honour. To not dance would be seen as an offence against their hospitality and since we don't want to attract too much of the wrong attention…"

Athos couldn't believe she hadn't mentioned this until now. He heaved a sigh and nodded. "Yes, I know how to dance." He ignored the surprised sounds from his teammates in favour of stepping away from Ninon so that he could bow and formally offer his hand for everyone to see. "Would you do me the honour of giving me this dance?"

Ninon's eyes flashed with surprised pleasure and Athos felt something warm bubble in his chest. She took his hand.

Dancing, not that he would admit it, was something that Athos had always enjoyed. The rhythm and physicality of it were not unlike fighting, only with more care taken for aesthetics. It was probably because of this that Athos found he hadn't forgotten a single step of the waltz he lead Ninon through, and that with each moment he had her in his arms his heart rose higher.

He was well aware that the team was no doubt watching them with the greatest disbelief and they'd never let this go, but in that dance he didn't care.

The music twirled and soared with them, before drawing sadly to a close, the final notes being drowned out by the applause of the crowd. With no small amount of regret, Athos and Ninon drew apart to clap their fellow dancers too.

"You always were full of surprises," Ninon said quietly, her eyes sparkling. Athos sincerely hoped that his mask hid most of the warm flush spreading across his features.

"I'm actually in pain with how adorable this is," Aramis broke in, completely shattering the aura of calm hanging over Athos. The rest of the world poured back into his awareness with a suddenness that almost hurt.

"Bite me Aramis," he snapped back. His eyes automatically scanned the crowd for their target. "How are we looking?"

"He's heading your way," d'Art informed him cheerfully. "Look left."

d'Artagnan's statement was not entirely accurate. The target was in fact moving towards them but it was obvious with a single glance that his attention was focused solely on Ninon.

"My dear lady," he cried as soon as he was within earshot, "You dance like an angel!"

She smiled obligingly at him and offered her hand for him to press a kiss to. He did so with great enthusiasm.

"I had a good partner," she said demurely, gesturing to Athos. "My husband, Olivier de Breuil."

The man barely even glanced in Athos' direction but his face did fall just a little at the word 'husband.' "Might I know the name of my great lady?"

Ninon's whole body tensed just slightly at the use of the possessive term, and Athos felt his anger rise at the idea that anyone should lay claim to her in such a way, much less this snivelling criminal. "Allow me to introduce my wife Ninon," he spoke up, letting a little venom slip into his tone. The role of jealous husband was easily filled and rarely questioned.

"Adrienne Ducal," he replied after the briefest pause, evidently weighing Athos up. "You are a very lucky man Signor."

The contempt in his voice instantly had Athos changing tact, affecting a disinterested air instead. "So I've been told." If he could make Ducal believe Ninon to be an oppressed wife, he might see tonight as his one chance to 'free' her. With that kind of ground, Ninon would have no trouble convincing him to take some air with her while conveniently leaving his bodyguards behind.

As predicted, Ducal instantly looked offended on Ninon's behalf. "If you feel so, perhaps you would allow me to take the next dance in your place."

No acting was required to produce the look of distaste he gave at the suggestion. Ninon's hand was on his arm in an instant, placating. "Just one dance my dear," she assured with weary ease, as though this was the kind of thing she had to say to him every day. "You could go and have a drink while you wait. We won't be long."

Athos heaved the put upon sigh of the worst kind of husband and stepped away from them both. "If you must," he told her, then was gone.

"Nice job," Aramis told him as he was walking away. Then almost as an afterthought he added, "I didn't know you could dance."

"As I'm certain you're going to force this conversation sooner or later," Athos said with no real annoyance, "Perhaps it could at least wait until after we've arrested Ducal."

"Sure thing boss. Ninon's doing great."

She was. She and Ducal were spinning around the room in a dance that Athos vaguely recognised – he knew it sufficiently well to know that Ducal was wildly out of time and it was only Ninon's skill that prevented them from colliding with the other dancers. Ducal looked utterly enchanted.

"She'd be a Musketeer if only Treville could convince her."

"She's not interested?" d'Artagnan asked in surprise. Of all of them, he knew her the least.

"Can you blame her?" The life of a Musketeer wasn't exactly desirable, especially to someone as reliant on their creature comforts as Ninon.

Athos did as had been suggested and made his way to the bar, ordering a drink he had no intention of consuming. A man alone at a ball looked less out of place with a drink in his hand; besides, Porthos was one of the lackeys on serving duty.

He put Athos' drink down in front of him with a smile. "Must be thirsty after all that dancing," he said with that grin of his that was as infuriating as it was charming.

Athos scowled at him, hoping that his glare wasn't dulled too much by his mask. It was hard to take a man in costume seriously, after all. "I thought we were going to leave that alone."

"We have a few minutes before Ninon's finished. Just thought you might want to talk since you came all the way over here to see me." Porthos was doing a bad job of pretending to be wounded. Athos scowled again.

"My parents ensured that I learned all the skills of a gentleman. That included learning to dance."

"It's more than that," Porthos insisted, as always too observant. "If it was something you did because your parents made you then you wouldn't have remembered it all this time."

"What do you want me to say?"

"Nothing you don't want to," Porthos assured, then shrugged. "You don't have to be worried about us judging you for something like this."

Athos had learned the hard way that was true. If these three men could still bear to be his friends after learning everything about Milady, then they would surely not care about anything as insignificant as this. Trust was not the issue.

There was a divide in his past between Olivier and Athos. Dancing had always belonged very much to the former and trying to make it a piece of Athos too felt too much like bringing together the two halves of his whole. He was getting there, slowly, but he just wasn't ready to be Olivier again yet.

"I know," he said at length. "It's just not a conversation I can have right now."

Porthos positively beamed at his honesty. "That's fine," he reassured. "We don't want to know anything you don't want us to."

"Guys," d'Artagnan interrupted softly, "Ninon's finished."

Athos turned to watch out the corner of his eye as she tugged an unresisting Ducal towards the door, turning to smile invitingly at him every few steps like a succubus luring her prey. Something in Athos' stomach turned to lead at the sight.

"You know the plan," Athos said with all the confidence he could summon. "If anything happens to Ninon, Treville will never forgive us." He didn't need to say what such a thing would do to him – they already knew.

"We've got her back Athos," Aramis reminded him gently. "She knows what she's doing."

As he spoke, Athos saw the marksman slip away from his post and through the exit that d'Artagnan had just used. Satisfied, Athos turned back to a smirking Porthos.

"Show time," he said. In response, Athos picked up his untouched drink and hurled the glass to the floor, sending shards skittering across the floor with a deceptively pretty sound. The commotion was sufficient that all the patrons in the vicinity had looked around in time to see Porthos dodge the sloppy punch that Athos threw his way.

Athos started shouting, hurling slurred insults at an unaffected Porthos, who simply came around to his side of the bar to restrain him. One of the security guards approached to offer his help but Porthos waved him off calmly, hauling Athos towards the doors with enviable ease. As soon as the two of them were out of sight of the hall, Athos was released.

He tugged his shirt straight as he asked, "How are we doing?"

"Ducal is in our custody and Ninon's unhurt. You two clear?"

"Heading to the rendezvous now."

There was a brief pause before Aramis put in smugly, "I told you everything was going to be okay." Athos didn't even try to pretend he wasn't smiling.

---

Bled, Slovenia (Ljubljana). 46.4° N, 14.1° E.

For the first time in what Aramis insisted was years, they were on holiday. A genuine, honest to god, Treville-approved holiday. The Captain had given them his word that they wouldn't hear from him for at least two weeks and that they were free to do whatever they pleased during that time.

That, apparently, consisted of Aramis digging out his old hiking tent and dragging them all to the Ass end of Nowhere, Slovenia with absolutely no kind of explanation beyond 'It's an adventure.' Still, Athos didn't really want to complain when the series of events had led to him spending a week hiking through stunningly beautiful mountains with no one but his best friends for company.

And Slovenia truly was utterly incredible. They'd taken their time about their meandering path towards Ljubljana and it had been well worth it to see the beautiful country opening up before them in majestic glory. None of the wonder was lost even when various shenanigans broke out amongst the group (though d'Artagnan hurling himself off that cliff had taken years of Athos' life, no matter how much the idiot swore he knew the water at the bottom was deep enough to catch him).

It was pretty much the most fun Athos had ever had, is the point.

Day nine, Aramis informed them, had them arriving at a small town called Bled. What he hadn't really prepared them for was just how breath-taking the view was going to be when they cleared the final ridge to see the valley sprawled out before them just as the sun was setting.

Red light shattered off the lake with unearthly brilliance while the mountains surrounding it appeared aflame in the dancing breeze. The castle, perched precariously on the very top of a peak, glittered invitingly to anyone who was willing to climb to its lofty towers.

"My god," d'Art murmured, full of awe.

Athos nodded mutely in agreement. He'd been to a great many beautiful places in his life but this was something truly unique.

Aramis was grinning smugly beside them like a proud cat. "I told you it would be a good idea for us to come here," he said.

Porthos looped an arm around his neck with familiar ease to pull him into his side. "We never doubted you for a moment."

The marksman scoffed, unconvinced. "Sure," he replied with obvious disbelief. He shifted awkwardly where he was tucked against Porthos' bulk, his pack feeling far heavier than it had done that morning – it was a good twenty kilos and they'd been crossing mountains since dawn. "Time to make camp?"

Athos smiled softly. "I wouldn't mind waking up to that view," was all he said, but it seemed to be the deciding vote because d'Art and Porthos both let their bags drop to the floor in a single, synchronised movement then instantly dissolving into a light hearted argument about whose turn it was to do what.

Athos took one last look at the breath-taking view, letting its calm beauty seep into his soul for just another moment, before letting his own bag slide off his shoulders and entering the companionship of his brothers once more.

---

Budapest, Hungary. 47.5° N, 19.1° E.

Hunting for information in a country where none of them spoke the language had seemed like a futile endeavour from the start. Not that Athos didn't like Budapest, but his complete lack of understanding of Hungarian did make things just a little more difficult.

It wasn't made any easier by the fact that they'd split up to cover more ground; Aramis had taken St. Stephen's Basilica, claiming that religion was a cornerstone for any new acquaintance regardless of language, Porthos had taken Castle Hill without comment and d'Artagnan, claiming that he was the 'youthful, good-looking one,' had opted to take the Szechenyi baths. This left Athos strolling around Margaret Island, trying to eavesdrop on anyone who happened to be speaking in a language he understood. Plenty were speaking English which was something of a relief, but nothing he heard was anything of consequence. His scratchy German sadly wasn't good enough for him to catch anything meaningful despite the frequency he heard it and almost no one was speaking French.

Worn out and annoyed, Athos dropped himself into one of the seats surrounding the fountain. The sun was disappearing behind Castle Hill by then, with the gathering dusk just another sign of a wasted day. He could only assume that his lack of progress was mirrored in the work his friends had accomplished. It was perhaps a selfish comfort.

As if on cue, his phone buzzed in his pocket and he glanced at the caller ID before answering. "d'Artagnan. How were the baths?"

When he replied, d'Artagnan's voice sounded more than a little put upon. "This was a terrible idea. Whose idea was this?"

"Budapest? Treville's. The baths? Yours."

"Forgive me if I choose to just blame the Captain. I have just spent an entire day fending off women at least forty years my senior and I still haven't learned anything of value."

Athos let himself laugh for a moment at his friend's expense, his spirits buoying for the first time that day. "Probably shouldn't mention that one to Aramis. I don't think he'd ever let it go."

"If you tell him I'll make sure all the tech in your house only works for me," d'Art threatened immediately, well aware of the impending peril should the marksman learn of this information.

"I wouldn't dream of it. Besides, I don't know how to work half the tech in my house anyway – it's why I keep you around."

"And here I thought it was my stellar good looks and witty charm."

"We all have our delusions."

d'Artagnan let a moment pass in miffed silence before he returned his mind to the job at hand. "Have you learned anything?"

"My German could use some work. Apart from that, absolutely nothing."

"Marvellous. Well, I've been sitting in water for way too long now so I'm bailing."

"Understandable. Come to the island. I'll call the others to come here too and we can rethink things for a while."

"Sure thing. Give me half an hour."

"Take your time," he said before hanging up and sending the others a quick text to meet him. They both replied swiftly with affirmatives, and Athos slipped the phone back into his pocket.

He leaned back in his chair, flapping ineffectually at the small flies investigating his head. Other people were settling themselves down in the seats around him, watching the fountain spark gold in the dying light of the evening. It was a nice spot he noted with some surprise. It was far enough removed from the bustle of the city that it could be considered quiet but not so far as to be a hassle to reach after a long day at work. If Athos lived there, he might have learned to love it.

Porthos arrived first, looking tired but unruffled as he settled himself in the nearest chair with no more than a simple word of greeting. Aramis found them a few minutes later wreathed in the kind of calm he only ever attained from churches. Neither of them made a comment as he too settled himself in a chair to watch the fountain.

Now that it was well and truly on its way to becoming night, lights had been switched on in the water so that each jet shone out against the darkness in an ever changing blur of colours. Even to Porthos, who was no fan of supposedly worthless frivolity, found the sight intoxicating enough to keep him in his seat despite the growing chill.

d'Artagnan arrived ten minutes later, having had to cross most of Pest to reach them. His hair was still damp from the water and despite the quick blast of a shower, he still smelt faintly of chlorine but he was unconcerned by it and, seeing no free chairs left nearby, settled himself on the ground between Athos and Aramis without complaint. Aramis reached out lazily to tug lightly on a damp lock of hair in a wordless greeting. d'Artagnan offered him a tired smile in response.

The music began without warning just as Athos' watch reached eight o'clock. Half dozing against the arm of Athos' chair, d'Artagnan startled awake with an indelicate snort that had Aramis and Porthos chuckling quietly to themselves. The Gascon looked about himself with such childlike bewilderment that even Athos was forced to let out a quiet huff of laughter.

"It's just a show," he reassured him easily, putting a comforting hand on the back of his neck without even thinking about it. "You can go back to sleep."

"Not sleeping," d'Art slurred indistinctly, but he settled back into his previous position with no further prompting. Athos was fairly sure that Porthos was filming them.

The fountain had become very impressive, with different jets dancing in the themed lights in perfect time to the wide collection of music emitting cheerfully from the speakers. None of them had any real desire to leave before it was over.

During a lull in between songs, Athos pulled out his phone again to send a brief text to Treville.

'Perhaps this mission is better suited to a team with a Hungarian speaker.'

The answer, as always, was prompt. 'Is that an official withdrawal of your services?'

'Does it need to be?' A new song started up in the background; Athos vaguely recognised the opening notes to Time to Say Goodbye.

'No. I happen to have something more suitable for you anyway. I'll send November team to take over from you there.'

'Want us back in Paris for debrief?'

'I'll send new mission files with November. Head straight there.'

Athos frowned at that, more confused than concerned. Teams almost never went straight from one mission to another unless something desperately important was happening. It wasn't something he could enquire about via unencrypted texts however, so he was left to wonder.

'Of course,' he replied after considering it. Treville would no doubt understand the pause but he was equally powerless to explain. Athos tucked his phone back into his pocket just as the song reached its climax, water lit with white and gold lights dancing in the air. His hand was still on d'Artagnan's neck he realised, without much desire to remove it – he was genuinely asleep now, and Athos had no reason to wake him just yet after all.

The song closed with a final flourish of water and the air went quiet, interrupted only by the soft splashing of the fountain. Most of the people gathered started to make their weary way to their feet and back towards the bridge off the island. Athos looked back at Aramis and Porthos, inclining his head towards d'Artagnan with a gentle smile.

"Fast asleep." He kept his voice down so as not to wake him.

Aramis grinned. "Lightweight. You talked to the Captain?"

"He has some more work for us. November team's coming over to take our places here and debrief us."

"We're not going back to Paris?" Porthos looked just as shocked by the revelation as Athos had been.

He nodded slowly, face twisting up into a grimace. "We'll know what's going on soon enough, I suppose."

Aramis scowled, hating to be kept in the dark no matter the reason for it. "That's not a great comfort. We normally have at least some time to prepare."

"We're going to Krakow," said a new voice, and they all turned to stare at d'Artagnan in surprise. He blinked blearily back at them, still barely awake.

Athos shook off his surprise first to frown at him. "What?"

"Krakow. Poland? It's where Treville's going to send us."

"Why?" Aramis asked at the same moment as Athos inquired, "How do you know this?"

d'Art looked between them for a moment, still too asleep to process everything with his usual speed. After a short pause, he turned to Athos. "There was a file in the database that was attached to the Alpha team folders but it wasn't anything I recognised, despite a recent date stamp. I only looked to see if someone had saved it in the wrong place – I swear I wasn't snooping." He turned back to Aramis and shrugged. "Major weapons deal is supposed to be happening but no one's sure of anything. MI5 and CIA are both trying to muscle in on it but the original intel was French, so it's the Musketeer's sandpit. Treville needs people there so that if everything does go wrong he can show that everything possible was done to prevent it. If nothing happens…" He shrugged again.

The three of them stared first at d'Artagnan, then at each other with something close to bewilderment. Porthos was the quickest to recover himself. "d'Art," he said slowly, "How much do you know that you probably shouldn't?"

d'Artagnan's smile was a weary, slightly smug thing. "Lots."

"Glad he's on our side," Aramis muttered.

Athos nodded, then caught himself, decided it was probably better to pretend he'd never heard any of that, and rose abruptly to his feet. "Come on. Dinner, then bed – I'm hungry and this one-" he nodded at d'Art, "-needs his beauty sleep."

There was a general murmur of agreement to the plan (and half-hearted protests from d'Artagnan), so they headed back towards the bridge.

When they got there, Athos was forced to pull up short at the view that spread out before them. With parliament, the castle and Matthias church all lit up against the blackness, the panorama was so unexpectedly delightful that his breath actually caught in his throat. Below them the river gurgled ever onwards.

"You know something?" Aramis said beside him, "I'm starting to like Budapest."

---

Krakow, Poland. 50.1° N, 19.9° E.

There was, in fact, a major weapons deal happening in Krakow between an old, almost extinct former Yugoslavian sect and a new organisation from Finland that was trying to start roots in Poland to expand their influence towards Eastern Europe. Previously they'd been small crime types – extortion, blackmail etc. – but clearly they'd revaluated and set their sights higher by reaching out to the only people willing to help them.

Intel had been sketchy throughout, and if it hadn't been for Porthos managing to worm his way into the ranks of hired muscle for the Yugoslavs, they'd never have known for certain that it was happening at all. This did mean however that when the time came for the Musketeers to make their move, Porthos was directly in the line of fire.

Aramis, flat on his belly on a rooftop half a block away, was not comfortable with the situation. That is to say, he was utterly fuming and assuming they all survived, he was damn well going to kill Porthos with his bare hands for being such an idiot. If this got him killed… Aramis was never going to be able to forgive him for it. Or Athos for that matter, seeing as it was his damn idea in the first place.

"In position," he murmured into his radio.

"Do you have eyes on the weapons?" Athos sounded as tense as he was. Good.

"Affirmative. And on Porthos."

There was a noticeable sense of relief. "Keep me informed. My eye-line isn't good."

Athos was on the ground to provide backup for Porthos if the need arose, but it also meant that he had to keep his distance to avoid arousing suspicion. They couldn't do anything that might threaten Porthos' cover.

d'Artagnan was, arguably, the biggest risk. He'd been waging some form of cyber warfare against both parties for several days and passing their secrets onto Treville for safekeeping. To try and keep himself – and the Musketeers – safe, he'd taken to moving around different parts of the city so they couldn't track him down as easily and he'd done his best not to tell them where he was in case the message was intercepted and compromised them both. It was the reasonable thing to do and yet all three of them had a worried churning in their gut that usually screamed danger – they'd not heard from him in two days.

"Another van is pulling up," Aramis informed Athos as he watched the unmarked vehicle approach. Through the windshield he vaguely recognised the driver as one of their Finnish suspects. "Looks like the one we want."

The van pulled to a stop several meters away from where the Yugoslavs had made their stand, two men jumping out from the front cab and another sliding open the side door from within. Aramis' heart fell out of his chest.

"Athos they have d'Artagnan!"

The hacker had his hands tied behind his back tightly enough that even from so far away, Aramis could see that blood had spilled over his fingers. There were bruises on his face and when they dragged him out of the van he noticeably curled over what Aramis suspected were broken ribs.

The Finns pulled him from the van with no small amount of violence and flung him in the direction of their business partners with such venom that he ended up spilled on the concrete, unable to catch himself with bound hands before his shoulder hit the floor. Thankfully he was with it enough to hold his head high and clear.

"What's his condition?" Athos sounded as though he was in pain.

"Bruised and bound. Nothing serious I don't think."

"They'll kill him," Athos said with certainty. Even as he spoke, Aramis watched one of the Finns start speaking, gesturing every so often to where d'Artagnan hadn't tried to rise. It was clear that he was being offered up as some kind of payment to the Yugoslavs – after all the trouble he'd been causing them it was no doubt an attractive chance for some revenge. What had been a weapons deal now looked more like an execution.

Far below, Porthos was thinking the exact same thing. It had taken everything he had to remain outwardly impassive as he watched his friend being thrown to the floor but he knew that if he faltered now, they were both dead. What was truly worrying was that d'Artagnan had made no attempt to get back on his feet, instead remaining curled on his side as though in pain. He'd fallen badly, but no so much so that it would do anything more than bruise. The bastards must have worked him over properly already – it certainly explained the bruises on his face.

"You offer him as payment?" One of the Yugoslav dealers asked, eyeing d'Artagnan with noticeable interest.

"No, my friend," replied the apparent leader of the Finns in much clearer English – the only common language between the two groups and thankfully one that Aramis and Athos had spent months giving Porthos a basic understanding of. "He is a gift. A gesture of goodwill to start our relationship. We have the money you asked for right here." He waved a hand at the two briefcases one of his companions held.

There were three Finns that Porthos could see and four Yugoslavs – seven enemies in total. Porthos had enough of the element of surprise to take down at least two before they worked him out and Aramis could probably manage the same. Athos would need a few seconds to reach them – he could probably take one before the initial burst was over which left two unaccounted for and d'Artagnan entirely unprotected.

But it didn't matter, he realised, as one of the Yugoslavs moved forwards to pull d'Artagnan awkwardly onto his knees and put a gun to the back of his skull. At the touch of the metal, d'Artagnan went completely still, barely breathing with his eyes fixed steadily on the concrete before him. He could have been a man at prayer to someone who didn't know any better.

The world went still and Porthos' heart stopped dead.

The man holding the gun collapsed with a burst of blood half a second before they heard the distant bark of a rifle. Porthos started moving so quickly that he barely had time to see d'Artagnan throw himself flat to the floor before he had a gun in his hand and was opening fire on his fellow guards.

d'Artagnan, his heart still pounding behind his abused ribs, had dived away from the nearest Finn, who had reacted instantly by lunging for him. He avoided the initial grab with his hands bound as they were, he couldn't scramble away before the Finn made a second attempt, one immovable hand on his arm while the other brought the butt of his pistol down hard on the side of d'Artagnan's head. He felt the skin over his temple split under the force to spill blood down his face even as his thoughts shattered into an incomprehensible spider web.

Porthos' estimates hadn't been far off – he took two, Athos one and Aramis, ever one to exceed expectations, managed an impressive three. The whole event had happened in less than then seconds. The remaining man, a Finn, however had caused something of a problem – he'd grabbed d'Artagnan and managed to position himself in such a way that not one of them had a clear shot. He must have worked out Aramis' position in the blink of an eye – smart.

d'Artagnan was clearly out of it, only on his feet because the Finn was holding him there to use as a shield.

Porthos levelled his gun in their direction. "Let him go and you don't have to die," he called in rough English, silently thanking his team again for the effort they'd made to teach him.

"You think I trust you?" The Finn had his gun tucked up behind d'Art's right arm, the barrel pressed firmly into his ribs.

"I think," said Athos, drawing level with Porthos, "That you know you don't have a choice. You're outnumbered and you've got nowhere to run to. Let him go and surrender yourself peacefully."

"Fuck you," the Finn spat, driving his gun more forcefully into d'Art's side. He grunted softly, face twisting as he tried to rouse himself despite the blood painting its way down his cheek. Athos silently willed him not to do anything stupid.

"Almost in position," Aramis said in his ear. Athos wasn't going to ask how he'd got from one rooftop to the next in half a minute – his blood pressure no doubt couldn't handle the answer.

"I'm giving you one last chance," Athos told the Finn in a deadly voice. "Let him go."

Some of this seemed to filter through to d'Artagnan, who made one more attempt to rally himself into coherency as he blinked at Athos. "They'll kill you," he told the Finn, slurring very slightly, "If you don't let me go. They'll shoot you if you kill me – probably a slow death. The only way you live is if you let me go and surrender yourself. Do you want to live?"

The effort of this was apparently all d'Artagnan could summon, and he flopped bonelessly into his captor. Oddly, this seemed to be what finally got through to the man; he caught d'Artagnan and flicked his gun away in the same movement, calling out to Athos as he did so.

"I want to live. I surrender."

Athos left Porthos with his gun up – just in case – so that he could approach. "Put him down. Gently." He'd put cuffs in his back pocket on the off chance that this mission went to shit – he couldn't really say that he was surprised. The way things usually went, Athos assumed that there was a deity out there that had it out for them, but he was learning to predict the unpredictable. If it could go wrong, it almost always would.

The Finn managed to lay d'Artagnan down with the same care any of them would, evidently aware that hurting him any further would end in a swift death. When he straightened again, he offered his wrists for the cuffs.

Porthos was already at d'Artagnan's side, trying to rouse him by tapping his cheek gently. "Come on," he murmured. "If you've gotten yourself a concussion, Aramis will kill you."

d'Artagnan didn't stir apart from frowning softly, so Porthos abandoned the attempt and rolled him over part way instead to get at his bound hands. There was a knife on his belt that he tugged free to very carefully saw through the ropes – they'd been tied so tightly the cord had cut straight into the flesh to shred d'Art's wrists. The moment Porthos touched them, d'Artagnan gasped himself awake.

"Easy," Porthos soothed, working steadily at the ropes without aggravating the wounds as best he could. d'Artagnan bit his lip and didn't make a sound.

After what felt like a lifetime, the rope snapped open. Porthos was forced to pull it from the abrasions – eliciting a hissed out curse into the concrete – that had fresh warm blood spilling out over d'Artagnan's hands.

"It's done," Porthos told him, helping him to roll onto his back. He looked ever so slightly grey.

Some distance away, Athos was on the phone, one hand on the shoulder of the now-unresisting Finn. Aramis was rushing towards him and d'Artagnan from the other end of the street.

"Is he alright?" He called, as soon as he was within range. He skidded to a halt beside them and practically dove to d'Artagnan's side.

"He was a bit out of it for a while there," Porthos informed dutifully even as Aramis began his own examination.

"Head wound, probably concussion. Abrasions on both wrists," Aramis rattled off. His fingers passed lightly over d'Artagnan's chest and even in his half-conscious state it was enough to draw a groan of protest from him. Without pausing, Aramis undid his shirt to reveal the black and blue mess that was their friend's chest. There wasn't an inch of skin that didn't look painful.

"They beat him," Aramis announced unnecessarily, his voice black with barely controlled fury. If he hadn't had a patient under his fingertips n that moment he would have been unable to restrain himself from marching over to their prisoner and paying back every single blow he'd inflicted. But. d'Artagnan needed his help now. Revenge had to come later.

"We'll make them all pay for this," Porthos said with determination. "We have a prisoner. We can track all the bastards down and make them regret what they've done."

d'Artagnan stirred when the tension grew thick around him, the tenseness of his brothers bleeding into him too. "'Mis? 'Thos?"

"Yeah," Aramis said, instantly forcing away his anger to focus on him. "It's us. How do you feel?"

"Like someone bashed my head in."

"That's because someone did," Aramis informed him. "Do you feel sick at all? Like you need to throw up?"

d'Artagnan went to shake his head, thought better of it, and instead said, "No." He thought for a moment, then added, "Stomach feels weird though."

"I can imagine it might. You're in quite a state." In the distance he heard the noise of sirens, the back-up and ambulance that Athos would have called for. "Help's on its way. You won't hurt so much once they get here, I promise."

Even as out of it as he was, d'Artagnan found the strength to smile. "Liar. They poke and prod more than you do."

Aramis laughed at that, and Porthos let the humour light him up too, nodding to Athos when he looked over at them with a frown. 'He's okay,' Porthos told him silently.

'Thank god,' Athos' expression replied. They'd perfected silent communication to a whole new level over the years, and it never failed them.

'We're all okay,' Porthos reinforced, forcing himself to acknowledge it at the same time. They were all alright – d'Artagnan was a mess, but it was nothing that wouldn't heal with time – and they'd stopped an international weapons deal with no friendly casualties. By anyone's standards, that was a good day.

Porthos thought it over and over, breathed it in with each heartbeat and finally let it seep into him. Contented, he smiled.

---

Prague, Czech Republic. 50.1° N, 14.4° E.

Aramis had spent a lovely day in the Czech capital, and he was distinctly glad he'd come. The last time he'd been here he'd been posted in the tower in the old town square and despite the glorious view, he'd seen very little except what was down the other end of his rifle scope – a human trafficker, he thought it might have been.

As such, he'd spent the day seeing as much as he possibly could; he'd visited a whole variety of churches, basilicas and cathedrals, the synagogues of the Jewish quarter, the cramped but vast armoury in the golden lane. In simple terms, he'd actually managed to spend a day in a foreign cty doing tourist things. It somehow felt like a giant 'fuck you' to his job but for once, he was sort of okay with that. The anniversary of Savoy usually had that effect on him.

It was why when he returned to his hostel – a smart but out-of-the-way place called Sir Toby's that he was already fond of – he didn't expect the first words out of his own mouth to be, "I'm in trouble, aren't I?"

Athos glared stonily at him from where he was sat on Aramis' bed, still looking a little ruffled from the flight he must have taken to get there. Leaning on the wall behind him, Porthos nodded while not looking particularly sorry.

"Yep."

Aramis looked at them both for a long moment, stubbornly refusing to feel guilty. "How did you even find me?"

"Hi," said a dry, instantly familiar voice behind him. "I'm d'Artagnan, a world class hacker who's been able to get into airport security feeds since he was ten years old."

Aramis turned slowly to offer his friend a sarcastic smile, trying to let acidic wit cover the fact that all he wanted to do was bolt for the door. "Pleasure," he replied sharply. "Now, if you'd all be so kind as to get the hell out, I'll be getting on with my day." He gestured towards the door with a sweeping hand but none of them moved.

"Why are you here Aramis?" Athos asked calmly, but they could all hear the undercurrent of emotions hiding behind the façade.

"I could ask you the same thing."

Athos didn't look amused. "Try again."

Aramis stood his ground for almost a minute before he faltered under the combined stares of his three closest friends. "I wanted to get away," he admitted.

"From us?" God damn it, Porthos sounded hurt and this was exactly what Aramis had wanted to avoid by taking himself off without a word.

He sighed heavily. "From everything. As I'm sure d'Artagnan discovered, I booked a return flight for Monday morning."

"I have never tried to pretend," Athos said slowly, weighing up his words, "That I have any idea what Savoy was like, what it's still like to have to live with the memories." Despite himself, Aramis flinched but Athos didn't let it stop him from saying what needed to be said. "All I have ever asked, all we have ever asked, is that you let us try to help you bear the burden of it, or at the very least tell us when you're struggling. Jumping onto the first flight out of Paris without a word to any of us tends to make me think that you want to shut us out. Did you really think that would work?"

"I thought," Aramis hissed, recovering a little of his resolution, "That you would respect my obvious desire to be alone. I didn't count on you following me when you were so clearly not welcome."

d'Artagnan, out the corner of his eye, flinched badly at the venom in that statement. Athos and Porthos, far more used to Aramis' ways of pushing people away, didn't so much as blink.

"You already know that running away from us doesn't work. You can run from the Musketeers, from Treville, but you've never been able to shake us off." Athos was immovable, made of stone.

"Not for lack of trying," Aramis muttered scornfully.

"If you were trying so hard, you could have used an alias to book a flight," d'Art said evenly.

They were right, of course. Deep down, Aramis knew that they'd come after him to drag him home again like they always did – a part of him had been waiting for it.

All the strength left him in a rush, and he sagged where he stood. "I wasn't trying to run from you," he admitted wearily. "I just couldn't bear the thought of business as usual when all I could think about was dead men."

"It's been worse since- Since Marsac died, hasn't it?" Porthos hesitated only for a moment. They couldn't let this wound continue to fester and putrefy.

Aramis nodded meekly. "The dreams are back. I was managing but then the anniversary was right in my face…" He shook his head, grateful when d'Artagnan stepped forwards to put a hand on his shoulder. He leaned into the support offered.

Athos' eyes, which had been so hard with anger just moments ago had softened into quiet sympathy. At length he broke the silence. "Treville will not be calling us until Tuesday. We can spend the time until then however we see fit, provided – and I quote – we cause no diplomatic incidents large enough to reach his desk."

Aramis started in surprise. "What did you have to do to swing that?"

Their leader shrugged as though it was nothing. "A little extra paperwork. Nothing that I regret if it helps you."

It shouldn't have really meant anything, but it actually meant everything. Athos hated paperwork like no one else and yet he'd signed himself up for extra just to buy his friend some time off. Aramis wanted to cry. He settled for hauling a slightly disgruntled Athos to his feet and dragging him into a fierce hug.

"Thank you."

"Of course," Athos replied, as though it really was that simple. Aramis held him tighter.

"So does this mean we get to explore Prague?" d'Art asked hesitantly in the background. "Because I really want to go see the astronomical clock."

Aramis pulled away from Athos, laughing a little. "Sure thing. You should see the castle too."

Athos hid his smug smile behind a blank expression. If there was anyone in the world that could pull through Savoy and come out whole, it was Aramis. With a little help from his friends, of course.

---

Berlin, Germany. 52.5° N, 13.4° E.

Porthos loved Berlin. Generally he wasn't a fan of the overly fancy architecture or the soaring spires of cathedrals that cities like Paris prided themselves on – it was all too over the top for him – but Berlin had a completely different feel to it. The dramatic buildings were still there of course but instead of being a point of old pride, they acted as a reminder.

So many of the landmarks had felt the violence of the war seven decades ago that it was nearly impossible to tell what was truly old and what was clever reconstruction. The result was an overwhelming impression of a city that had clawed its way out of the ashes of the past to rebuild itself anew. Porthos could relate.

The whole effect was even more impressive from the tower of Berliner Dom where he was perched, watching Aramis' back. On their last assignment, one of the men they were hunting had managed to get the drop on the marksman by sneaking up behind him as he lined up a shot. Since Porthos wasn't required on the ground for this mission, he thought he'd stop it from happening a second time.

"Were you never afraid of heights as a child?" He asked at length.

Aramis, busy sighting down his rifle, chuckled softly. "Not to start with. When I was eleven my sister dared me to race her to the top of the apple tree in our neighbour's garden. Like an idiot I accepted. Ended up breaking my arm when one of the branches failed to take my weight – that put me off heights for a while."

"I can imagine," Porthos said with a snort. "Which sister?"

"Elena."

"Always knew I liked her."

Aramis laughed easily. "You love all my sisters. I'd be worried if I didn't know that every one of them could kick your ass if you tried anything."

Porthos maintained an offended silence for all of twenty seconds. "What stopped you being afraid?"

Aramis hummed, thinking. Eventually he shrugged. "A range of things. Natural curiosity for one, and a childish determination to not be afraid of anything. But I think it was mostly Elena, somewhat ironically."

"Oh?"

"Elena was the closest to me in age. We were best friends who spent every waking moment trying to one-up each other. A few years later she challenged me to a rematch in the apple tree and I couldn't refuse without admitting defeat."

"It was that simple?"

Aramis shot him a sardonic look over his shoulder. "I was a very bull-headed child, Porthos."

"You're a very bull-headed adult," he agreed, grinning. The marksman flicked a stone at him but put his eye back to the scope.

"What about you?" He asked after a companionable silence. "You ever had problems with heights?"

"No. When I was small, I used to love climbing the towers of Notre Dame to look out over the city. It was as if I could get away from it all for a while."

"And exactly where did young Porthos get the money to climb the towers? Last I checked, it wasn't cheap." They both knew exactly how Porthos had got the money, but there was no judgement in Aramis' voice and it was taken in the light-hearted manner it was intended.

"Well, there were always these smart-mouthed Chileans strutting about that made a great mark," he replied, mocking in kind.

Aramis huffed, but he was smiling. It was a great comfort to have his best friend at his back – usually he was stuck on rooftops alone, forced to watch as his team risked their lives below. This was almost as though they were passing the time at the range in Paris.

"I'm sure my countrymen would have been honoured to offer you the chance to see the city."

Porthos let himself smile, remembering how it had felt to see the city stretching out beneath him like the conquered civilisation of a child, and returned his eyes to the foreign city that he now stood above. The feeling was different now, and it wasn't wholly due to the unfamiliar skyline.

"Berlin is very different," Aramis commented suddenly, oddly similar to Porthos' own silent musings. "Stronger somehow."

"It's had to rebuild itself before."

"Yes, but so has Paris," Aramis pointed out. "France was a ruin after the war too. It's not just the destruction… Berlin went through hell, from the first war all the way through to the fall of the wall and the city remembers, even if a lot of people don't anymore."

Porthos couldn't help but agree, even as he felt compelled to point out, "A lot of people wouldn't view it with quite the same sympathy."

"A lot of people are idiots," Aramis replied instantly, an angry steel in his voice. "What happened during the war was horrific but you can't blame the entire country for it. A few maniacs do not corrupt the whole batch. Besides, many atrocities happened after the war and that was when the East was under Soviet control. Germany was a victim as much as anywhere else in some respects."

"You don't have to sell me, 'Mis. I'm with you."

Aramis let out a weary sigh and shot an apologetic smile over his shoulder. "I know. Sorry. It just pisses me off sometimes."

Porthos patted his shoulder in understanding. He was perched on the balustrade beside Aramis, who had his rifle balanced on the corner of the wall to give himself the widest scope possible.

Mostly curious and trying to get a reaction, Porthos hooked his foot around one of the details in the stonework, tested that it was sturdy, then let his upper body lean back over the vast drop below them. Instantly, gravity snatched greedily at him but he held fast, the muscles in his stomach shaking a little under the strain.

Aramis flicked an unconcerned eye over him. "If you fall, Athos would have to fill out paperwork and he'd never forgive you for it."

Porthos' grin was quick and sharp. "Nice to know you care," he said, reluctantly pulling himself upright again. Aramis snickered.

Neither of them felt compelled to acknowledge that the 'little extra paperwork' Athos had used to buy them a short holiday in Prague was the reason he wasn't on this mission with them. He had, unsurprisingly been downplaying the cost to himself – he'd agreed to take over the regular paperwork of teams Beta through to Golf, as well as the usual things he had to file for Alpha team, and, perhaps worst of all, he'd been put in charge of typing up the audio-transcripts of all of Treville's meetings – as he had no less than six a day, that was quite the work load in and of itself. Aramis had been heartbroken when he'd found out but the Captain had refused to let him take Athos' place, muttering something about 'self-sacrificing fools.'

Porthos snapped him out of his musings. "You ever been to Berlin before?"

"Once, when I was sixteen. Family holiday – my last, I think."

"That's a long way to come with five kids," Porthos said, sympathising with his parents.

Aramis grinned. "We were all mostly grown up by then. I'm the youngest, remember? Besides, my father's a history nut and he wanted to visit a load of European sites. Berlin was one of several stops."

"Sounds nice."

"It was. I've always liked travelling."

"Fortunate, given what we do."

"One of the reasons I chose this job."

Porthos raised his eyebrows, surprised. "Really?"

"The company's not half bad either."

Porthos threw back his head and laughed. "Not so bad yourself."

Aramis' grin was wicked. "I'm glad we do what we do. I mean sure, it sucks approximately all the time but… you know?"

"Yeah. I know 'Mis. Me too."

They didn't need any more words to explain it, and they let them trail off into the cool air. The silence that fell wasn't empty.

Chapter Text

Once upon a time, Athos had never really liked having days off. He was the type of person that usually had so little going on in his life, that work was really the only kind of entertainment he afforded himself. That was, of course, until he met Aramis and Porthos. They had brightened up his day to day life considerably, and when d'Artagnan eventually stumbled into their mix he had made the whole jumble that much more enjoyable.

Nowadays, he had learnt to treasure his days off with his friends, even though they were so rarely afforded to him and today was no exception. d'Artagnan had woken him up as usual with his ridiculous need to get up with the dawn every day no matter what he might be doing, banging around in the kitchen at ten to five, and Athos had grudgingly dragged himself to the shower to get himself ready. Porthos had arrived a few hours later holding onto his coffee like a lifeline, and he didn't even greet Athos as he walked into the living room unannounced. Athos' upbringing had taught him to be offended by such a lack of manners but he'd known Porthos long enough to realise there wasn't any malice there, and besides, he'd told the entirety of the team that they were welcome to use his house as their own years ago.

d'Artagnan had arrived back from his morning run at the same time as Aramis appeared at the door, and the two wandered in chatting amiably, before d'Artagnan broke off to go and have a shower. Athos shook his head at him as he passed – who went for a run at six in the morning on a Sunday?

Now down to the dregs of his coffee, Porthos was starting to resemble a human being and he was awake enough to greet Aramis with a bleary smile. Athos had tucked himself into an armchair and curled himself around his own coffee mug, watching the goings on in silence with half-open eyes.

"You've not got a Christmas tree," d'Artagnan remarked, when he eventually returned, towelling off his damp hair.

Athos blinked at him stupidly and took a fortifying gulp of coffee. "Is that a problem?"

d'Artagnan didn't answer for a moment, too preoccupied with trying to shift Aramis' uncooperative legs so that he had somewhere to sit. "It's Christmas soon," he pointed out eventually.

"What's your point?"

"You need a Christmas tree at Christmas."

Athos did not have enough coffee to try and have this conversation, he decided rapidly. It wasn't even seven a.m. yet, for crying out loud. "Why, exactly, might that be? We're probably going to be working Christmas anyway. We were last year."

d'Artagnan instantly grimaced at the reminder; they'd been at the end of a drugs bust, and he'd ended up in a fistfight with a man twice his size who had done his best to suffocate him in snow. He'd been ill for weeks afterwards. "That's not the point. It doesn't feel Christmas-y without a tree."

"I'm sure we can get a tree if you're that bothered about it," Aramis piped up, watching the conversation bounce over his head with interest. "Athos wouldn't mind, right?"

Sensing he was going to be outnumbered soon enough, Athos tried to make a stand. "What's the point of putting the time and effort into a tree that we're not even going to be around to see? We spend almost no time here."

"It's the principle of the thing. There's a tree at the garrison," d'Artagnan said stubbornly.

Athos wasn't sure he could be bothered to maintain this argument, but there was a small part of him that refused to indulge in such needless frivolity. "Then look at that one. We spend more time there and there's more people to celebrate. I'm not buying a Christmas tree."

"I could buy a Christmas tree and you'd have to let me put it up," d'Artagnan said, but it was an empty threat – they all knew that he didn't have enough money to buy himself a new outfit, let alone a proper Christmas tree. Athos wasn't quite enough of a dick to point that out though.

"I would be under no such compulsion. Your 'puppy dog eyes,' as Aramis is so fond of calling them, stopped working on me years ago." It was a total lie, but none of them cared.

"You know," Porthos cut in before d'Artagnan could further his argument, "I always wanted a proper Christmas tree growing up."

Well, that decided it then, didn't it? Athos sighed and looked up at the ceiling in despair as though he could see the god that was determined to screw him over at every possible opportunity. When enough of a pointed silence had gone passed, he looked back at d'Artagnan. "I am certain that you copied my credit cards ages ago. Do as you wish."

d'Artagnan frowned, whilst simultaneously looking smug. "I only copied them to see if I could remember how. I've never used them, I swear."

"I believe you," he said, mostly because it was what d'Artagnan wanted to hear. It mattered very little to Athos whether d'Artagnan had used them or not and whatever he had bought, it would barely be a blip in Athos' account.

Aramis was looking pensive. "'To see if you could remember how?' As in, it was something you'd done in the past?" He hummed thoughtfully when d'Artagnan's expression dropped into one of almost-believable innocence. "You know, you never actually told us just what you did before you came to work with us."

"You don't have skills like yours without training," Porthos agreed as though it didn't matter in the slightest to him. It probably didn't – he didn't have any room to judge when it came to shady backgrounds.

This time, d'Artagnan let a genuine frown break through the façade before letting it fall back behind the bland mask. "I was never trained, as it happens. I learned myself."

Aramis whistled appreciatively. "That must have taken some doing. Wonder what could possibly have compelled you to do it…"

They'd never pushed to know about d'Artagnan's background, and he'd always seemed grateful for that so they'd left it alone and pretended that they weren't curious. Still, it was about time for this story to come out – there were next to no secrets between them anymore. That being said, Athos was half a second away from calling the pair of them off when d'Artagnan let out a long sigh, and shrugged.

"I was a curious child. I had no need to learn any of it but I was sure that if I tried, I could. Turns out I was right."

"But how did you learn? You can't just figure that stuff out, surely?"

"Not to start with. I read books, mostly, or online guides. After a while, it became more intuitive, as I learned how a system operated, or how codes ran together. It took maybe a year before I was exploring on my own."

"That's a pretty steep learning curve."

"Computers always just made sense to me. Not sure how else to describe it."

"The first time my father put an air rifle in my hands I knew exactly what to do," Aramis said thoughtfully. "I just knew that if I lined up the sights just so, I'd be able to hit the centre of the target. People are just good at things I guess."

"Lockpicking," Porthos announced, his eyes far away. "I just had a feel for it, somehow. No one could pick a lock faster than me."

"Fencing," Athos added quietly, looking vaguely embarrassed even as he said it. "Went through five different tutors before my parents found someone that could keep up with me. Strangely enough it was the best thing they ever did for me."

There was something important there, d'Artagnan was sure. "Who was it?"

"Treville. We still fence, whenever he has a day off."

"So, never, then?"

Athos' grin was wry. "Pretty much." There was a brief lull as they all digested that information, before Aramis turned back to d'Artagnan, apparently not willing to let the attempt at distraction pass.

"Curiosity is a fairly small reason to become the best hacker in the world. It's not like you just accidentally become as good as you are."

Normally, praise would make d'Artagnan glow with pride but oddly, he'd never been bashful about his ability with computers. It was just something he could do in his eyes, nothing special. "It started as curiosity. I don't know how long that was all it was. After I while, I realised… Well, I realised that I was really fucking good at it, okay? I was a kid. I liked being good at something."

"But this wasn't something you could brag about to your friends, surely?"

"I didn't need to brag. It was enough for me to know that I could do it. There wasn't anything malicious about it," he grimaced then, remembering something unpleasant. "Well, there was, but that was later and is a whole different story. And, arguably, finding you three wasn't done with the best of intentions."

Even now, he still felt guilty about it. It was one of the reasons they had tried so hard to never hold it against him – if they did then there was a very real chance they could lose him to his own self-doubt. Aramis grinned, intrigued. "What story is this then? Something juicy?"

d'Artagnan rubbed at his eyes, evidently wishing he hadn't brought it up. "Nothing I'm going to share with you. I'd really rather that you weren't compelled to arrest me before lunchtime."

"Were you ever arrested?" Porthos asked, curious.

The look on d'Artagnan's face was answer enough, but he spoke up nonetheless. "Once. It was early on, and I was stupid about it. I poked at someone who wouldn't stand to be poked at, and I paid for it."

"Why'd you do it if it was such a risk?"

"The skills that I have, impressive though they may be… They don't exactly fit with many legal lines of work. I'm well aware how lucky I am to be able to work for the Musketeers from the right side of the line. That guy was… a bully, I guess. Heh, guess I was wrong. Three counts of malicious intent, not two. Does it help if I say he really deserved it?"

Athos let a smile peak out at the corner of his mouth. "It makes all the difference in the world."

"Did you ever…" Aramis hesitated, trying to think how to word his question without sounding accusatory. "You said that you copied Athos' credit cards but never used them. Had you done that before? To someone else?"

They half expected d'Artagnan's face to twist up in either guilt or offence, so they were all surprised when he actually looked rather sheepish. "Once, when I was still living at home. We were low on money and my parents been cutting down on meals to try and make up for the lack. I just thought if I could copy a card I could buy some food for my family, and some rich guy I didn't know would only have to wonder where fifty euros had gone out of his bank account. It seemed harmless, and I really wanted to know if I could do it. I managed to copy the card without a problem – the man didn't know a thing about it. I went to the nearest supermarket and grabbed everything I'd always wanted but could never afford until I had a trolley overflowing with more food than I'd ever seen in my life. I would have got away absolutely scot-free and no one would have been any the wiser but I got to the checkout and I just… I couldn't do it. Don't know why. I'd told myself a hundred times that it was the right thing to do and that everyone would understand but I just couldn't bring myself to swipe the damn card. Ended up running out of the shop and snapping the card in half at the first opportunity. An overblown sense of morality I guess."

His eyes had been distant throughout his retelling, a soft, fond smile on his face, as though he was remembering happier times, instead of a childhood of going without. For a moment, Athos felt unbearably sad.

"You're a better man than most d'Artagnan," Porthos said eventually. "Or more stupid, I'm not sure."

d'Artagnan laughed easily, breaking out of his reverie. "Probably the latter. When I told my father about what I'd done he couldn't decide whether to be proud or angry with me. It was rather enjoyable to watch."

"What did he decide on?"

"He boxed my ears but then gave me a hug. I'm not really sure."

Aramis laughed joyfully. "You told your father about this? About the fact that you had broken the law?"

"He knew everything about what I could do. Not sure he ever really approved of it but he knew me well enough to know that I wasn't planning world domination or anything like that. I think he accepted that I could break a few laws here and there and still not do anyone any harm. To be quite honest, I think he was glad that I'd found such a quiet, unobtrusive way of rebelling."

"Oh my god," Aramis said, "That's what it is, isn't it? You became a world class hacker as a form of rebellion. Oh my god, this is precious."

"Says the man who picked up a sniper rifle. Who are you to judge?" d'Artagnan's ears were pink, but he was smiling still, at ease now that he'd realised they weren't about to turn on him for what he'd revealed. He still carried that fear with him, Athos realised sadly, and the only way they'd ever be free of it was when he'd told them everything and they were still standing there beside him. There was a long road to go between here and there.

Aramis was still giggling to himself gleefully, dodging d'Artagnan's best attempts at poking him off the sofa while Porthos surreptitiously filmed them on his phone. Athos let out a long sigh. His Sundays certainly had changed in the last few years, and he'd never stop being grateful for it.

Chapter Text

It was always a nice surprise when Athos glanced at his ringing phone and Ninon's flawless face smiled back at him. The less nice part was when he answered and was immediately greeted by a terrified voice declaring: "Athos I need your help."

The genuine fear in her voice killed any instinct Athos might have had to make a joke, getting straight to business. "What's happened?"

"It's Richelieu's meddling, I'm certain, but I've got no proof, and I can't do anything-"

"Ninon," he called softly. "I need you to tell me what's going on so that I can help. Start from the beginning. What's Richelieu done?"

He heard her take a steadying breath, the tremble in her inhale enough to tell him just how badly she was shaken up. Ninon never lost her composure, not ever. This was bad.

"Alright. I don't know what he's done, not exactly but he… I… I've been arrested Athos." The words fell into empty silence as something hollowed out in Athos' gut, too surprised to even feel much of anything beyond a mental 'oh.' When he didn't say anything for too long a pause, Ninon chuckled uncertainly, sounding on the verge of tears. "You- You're my one phone call. I just- I didn't know what else to do. I've got lawyers but…"

Forcing himself back into gear, Athos did his best to reassure her. "No, you did the right thing. We'll get this sorted out, I promise you, alright?"

"Be careful Athos," she said quietly, sad in a way he didn't understand. "A gentleman should never make promises that he knows he can't keep."

"You know me Ninon. Do you think that I would lie to you?"

"I think you'd lie to a woman doing her best not to cry."

Athos let out an amused huff because it was what she needed from him. "Then it's a good thing that a woman like you knows better than to cry at something fixable. Now, I need details. What are they charging you with? Who arrested you?"

"Red guards stormed my house and loaded me into a police van. I never thought to ask where they were taking me, I- I was terrified, Athos." That last part was said so quietly that he wasn't sure if he was supposed to have heard her or not, and his heart shattered as her words did. "They said something about charging me with kidnapping but I'd never even heard the name before! A girl I think it was… Fleur maybe? I don't know. Whoever it is, I had nothing to do with it, I swear."

"I believe you," he said instantly, waving Aramis over with an imperious hand. He was silently grateful that he was already at the office – they could get through this much quicker. With his free left hand he scribbled down the name Fleur and 'missing persons?' and shoved the post-it towards Aramis, ignoring his questioning frown as he focussed back on Ninon. "I've got Aramis finding out what he can about Fleur. Why do you think that Richelieu is involved?"

"What isn't that man involved with in this city?" She asked bitterly. "Red guards busting down my door seemed like a good indication, as well as the fact that he's been after my blood for weeks. He's never forgiven me for my mother sinking his political campaign decades ago and I've been helping to organise protests against his garrison. The Red Guards shouldn't be allowed to exist anymore."

"You don't have to convince me, don't worry. I didn't know you'd been campaigning." He wasn't offended that she hadn't told him, but it was normally the kind of thing they would talk about during their infrequent dinners.

"I haven't been. Not personally. But I've been putting concerned parties in touch with each other, and that's enough to put me on Richelieu's radar. He's been waiting for a chance to get his revenge and somehow he's using this Fleur person to do it."

A desk over, Aramis started waving at him to get his attention. Athos crossed over as fast as he could. "Ninon, I think we've got something on Fleur." He had a quick scan over the report Aramis had managed to dig up, and frowned. "A girl called Fleur Baudin went missing about three weeks ago from a school not far from your house. Ring any bells?"

"That's the name they said, I'm certain of it. Why would I have anything to do with it? A lot of people live near where I do and I would have had no cause to come into contact with her, would I?"

Athos kept scanning the file then swore aloud sharply. Beside him Aramis twitched. "Her mother is Therese Delacroix. That's a name even I remember."

There was silence for almost a full minute and Athos was starting to worry that the call had disconnected, before Ninon cursed softly on an exhale. "Fleur Delacroix? Oh my god, I met her!"

It wasn't a surprise, even if it was bad news. The Delacroix family were ancient money, almost as old as the la Feres, and equally as full of it as his parents had been. Athos had met Therese once, and she hadn't taken more than two minutes to recite her family line all the way back to the famous Eugène Delacroix, and then began bemoaning the fact that no one fully appreciated her 'cousin's' work, as though she had personally known the man. Needless to say, Athos had avoided her ever since. He'd never actually been introduced to Fleur, his parents considering her too many years younger than him to be suitable as a potential match. Given that she was half his age, he was very grateful for their 'consideration.'

"That's not unexpected," he reassured her gently. As he did so, he scribbled another note for Aramis that read 'Gather the others. Trouble.' The marksman didn't wait around to ask questions, scrambling away without a word.

"She was nice," Ninon reminisced quietly. "The polar opposite of her mother. She went missing?"

"Three weeks ago. She vanished at some point in the middle of the school day and no one's been able to work out who the last person to see her was. When was the last time you saw her?"

Ninon sucked in a hard breath. "You're not suggesting-"

"Of course I'm not," he cut in easily. "But I need to know so that I can work out what your prosecutors are thinking. You've told me you've had nothing to do with it and I believe you, don't worry. Besides, you're not wrong when you say that Richelieu has every reason to want you to go down for this and he's enough of a bastard to do it."

"Thank you Athos. For believing me." Her voice was very small, and a smart man might have heard the slight catch there. Athos was not a smart man, not when it came to her.

"Of course."

"I hadn't seen Fleur in months. I think I've only ever seen her twice – at parties I don't remember. One was hosted by Therese, I think, but I couldn't be certain. I have to attend so many of them and they're all exactly the same."

"I remember that well enough."

"You have no idea how smart you were to get out when you were young. They won't let me leave now. Well," she corrected sadly, "They probably won't have anything to do with me now. Such fair-weather friends I have."

"The Musketeers will stand with you. That's not nothing."

"No," she agreed. "It isn't. Thank you." She hummed suddenly, alarmed. "Athos, they're telling me that I have to go."

"Don't fight them. They won't let you back to a phone if you do. I'll come and see you as soon as I can, alright? It'll be okay, I promise."

"Please help me," she whispered, then was gone. It was, frankly, terrifying to hear a woman as untouchable as Ninon brought so low with so little warning, and Athos had to take a fortifying breath of his own before pushing up from the desk. He could see his teammates lingering in the entrance way of the main room he was in, and he headed in their direction with a weary sigh.

"Treville's office," he ordered when he was in earshot. "He needs to know and I refuse to explain this twice."

Three sets of eyebrows rose at that – involving Treville meant that this was bad. Despite their evident hesitation, they all followed him without complaint.

For once, Treville wasn't tied up in a meeting, so he could hear them out without making them wait, no matter how annoyed he appeared to be at the sudden interruption. The annoyance quickly faded as Athos explained what he'd been told, replaced with deep-rooted concern.

"You're certain that she's innocent?" He asked eventually, when Athos had told them everything.

"She says she is, and she's never once given the Musketeers reason not to trust her. If she tells me she's innocent, then I believe her."

Treville raised a quelling hand at the note of iron in Athos' voice. "You don't have to convince me, but you're the one who spoke to her. Just making sure I've got everything straight."

Athos didn't apologise, but he at least had the grace to look contrite. Across the room d'Artagnan was frowning to himself, deep in thought. "If Richelieu did have something to do with it he'd have to be communicating with someone in the police force, and probably some judges as well. He's not stupid enough to meet with them face to face which means he's got to be talking to them electronically, either phone calls or emails…"

His implication was clear, and while he had absolutely no problem with delving into Richelieu's personal files, it wasn't exactly proper procedure. He looked at Treville, deferring to him. Their Captain was frowning, his mind clearly running down the same track as Athos' and finding no more answers than he had. "You could get in and out without anyone noticing, right?"

d'Artagnan actually looked slightly offended. "I am actually good at my job," he muttered, aware that they would all hear him anyway. "I could get absolutely everything and no one would be any the wiser, I promise."

Still looking displeased, Treville nodded. "Do it. Tell me if you find anything. In the meantime, I want to know what happened to this girl – Athos, you said you know the mother?"

"'Know' is a very strong word Sir," Athos protested, but he knew that it would be of no use.

"I'll take what I can get," Treville said, smiling slyly as though he knew exactly what Athos was thinking. "Take Aramis with you and ask around. Find out what was going on in this girl's life before she disappeared – any new acquaintances, any upset at home or at school."

Athos didn't say anything, but he was fairly sure that if Fleur's life had been anything like his own then there would almost always have been upset at home, especially if Ninon's assessment of the girl had been correct. He wouldn't be surprised if they found out that she had run away.

"Porthos, head on down to the Red Guard offices. We need to officially request their investigation files, unfortunately."

"Sir," Athos protested instantly, "For starters, they'll never give us anything we ask for, especially not this and either way, you can't send a Musketeer in there alone. Not after everything that's happened recently."

Treville's eyes flashed in warning, the only outward sign that Athos was dangerously close to crossing a line. He felt silent in an instant. "I had no intention of sending Porthos alone. He's going to be taking the available half of Bravo team with him, who you'll find in the main office. And as for them not handing over the reports we want, well, it's a good thing we have a hacker on hand, isn't it?"

Athos' smile was one part approval, two parts apology. From Treville's slight tilt of his head, his message was understood and accepted.

"Do you want me to focus on getting Ninon's files or on getting into Richelieu's files first?" d'Artagnan was already planning how he would approach each problem, Athos could tell. He had this mischievous, focused glint in his eye that usually meant trouble for someone somewhere.

"Focus on Richelieu. There is a chance that the Red Guards will give us the files willingly, and I'd like to give them that chance if we can."

They all nodded their agreement, and headed out at Treville's wave of dismissal. Porthos instantly headed off down the corridor to scrounge up some support from Bravo team, while d'Artagnan lingered long enough to tip an imaginary hat in farewell, his eyes lingering worriedly on Athos for a moment, before scampering off down the corridor with the energy only afforded to youths.

Aramis, mercifully, left off until they were in the car park. "So, Ninon, huh?"

Aware that this had been coming, Athos couldn't bring himself to do anything more than sigh in frustration. "Must we really have this conversation?"

"That exact response is the reason that we should. Sharing is caring Athos." Aramis' smug grin was only a cover for genuine concern, and that was the only reason Athos didn't just punch him right then and there.

"There is absolutely nothing to talk about. My friend – Our friend – is in trouble and we're going to do what we can to help her. Incidentally we get to piss off Richelieu, and god knows we don't do that often enough already."

"And your desire to do this has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that you've slept with her?"

Aramis said it with such a casualness, that Athos barely even noticed what he'd said until his reply was out of his mouth. "We always agreed that our relationship wouldn't get in the way of work."

It was the loaded silence following his words that clued him in to just what he'd said, and instantly his jaw snapped closed in furious censure. Goddamn Aramis.

The marksman didn't say another word for a good five minutes, letting Athos guide them through the daily traffic without interference. Eventually he hummed softly. "So, you did sleep with her. I had always wondered."

Annoyed at himself as much as Aramis, Athos' glare was cold. "Who I sleep with is none of your damn business. This has nothing to do with any of that."

Aramis raised an unimpressed eyebrow. "Of course it doesn't. That's why you're crushing the steering wheel, yeah? Look, I have absolutely no room to judge-"

"Which is why you should shut the hell up."

"-But it's not like I would judge anyway. Athos, you're not a goddamn monk. Newsflash, it's 2015 and it's perfectly acceptable for two people who like each other to sleep together. They don't even have to be in a relationship. Welcome to the new age."

"I'm married," Athos hissed, then instantly regretted saying a thing. Aramis' expression had gone blank with surprise.

"Is that what this is all about? Jesus. Look, I don't pretend to know what you feel for Milady, even after everything and I'm not going to diminish your feelings by trying to, but what the two of you have is not a marriage. And even if it was, a person can be in love with two people, Athos. Love is never a sin, no matter what you've been taught to believe."

Athos sighed heavily, wishing he could be anywhere else. "Ninon and I discussed it ages ago," he admitted eventually. "We were both attracted to each other and we knew it but we weren't willing to be stupid about it. We've both learned our lessons in that regard. In the end we realised that our attraction wasn't enough – it wasn't what either of us wanted and so we broke it off. Agreed to be friends, never looked back."

"Except you slept with her."

"How do you know that wasn't before then?"

Aramis smiled his knowing smile that made Athos want to punch him repeatedly. "Because, my friend, I know you. You wouldn't have slept with her until you had made sure you were all on the same page – hence those conversations. And if you concluded those by parting ways…"

There was no getting away from it, Athos realised. "It was after Venice," he admitted almost silently. "A mistake, on both our parts but… I don't know. We couldn't help ourselves, I guess. In the morning we both said that we'd made a mistake and promised to forget about it and move on. Until right this minute, I'd kept my promise."

Aramis let the silence fill the vehicle once again before another thought occurred to him. "d'Artagnan's been living with you since before Venice. How did he not notice you'd spent the night away from home?" The lack of an answer was all the conformation Aramis needed. "The little shit knows about this, doesn't he? That's why he looked so concerned before we left. He never said a word, the git."

"I made him promise not to say anything. He was only doing what I'd asked of him."

"I'm still annoyed," Aramis said, but it was clear that he didn't really mean it. He couldn't blame d'Artagnan for Athos' emotional constipation, after all. "Are you going to be okay with all of this?" He asked after another contemplative pause. "I don't just mean Ninon, as if that wasn't bad enough, but everything else. The people we're going to talk to… I'm guessing that you know them from Before, yeah?"

"My parents got on well with the Delacroix family. I think they liked to argue over who was richer. That 'friendship' quickly fell apart after the scandal that I caused, and it was only partially my fault. The woman we're going to see – Fleur's mother – is truly awful. Whatever you do, don't let her start talking about genealogy lines, or we'll never get to leave."

"Your childhood makes me want to cry tears of blood," Aramis remarked.

"You're not the only one," Athos agreed, smiling. He wasn't okay with this, and he wasn't convinced he'd be able to cope with it either, but he had his friends to prop him up and besides, Ninon was counting on them.

---

Therese Delacroix was everything that Athos had remembered, but amplified a hundred times. It was obvious within moments of meeting the woman that her primary concern was not her missing child, but the negative press such a situation might bring to her family name.

On arrival, a housemaid had ushered them through the door with great haste as soon as they'd presented their badges, and had shown them through to a back room where Therese had sprawled herself over a priceless chaise lounge, wafting herself slowly with a delicate-looking fan. Athos had to resist the urge to duck his head into a bow and announce himself as he had been taught to do – he had a feeling that he was going to be fighting back similar urges the whole time he was forced to be under the Delacroix roof.

The woman was old, getting into her sixties at the very least, but still maintaining her sharp features and long, silver hair that was pulled back into a fierce bun. The hairstyle was tight enough that Athos could see it stretching the skin of her face grotesquely. Sharp green eyes watched them enter.

"Madame Delacroix, two gentlemen here to see you from the Musketeers," the housemaid announced to the room at large, despite there only being one occupant. "Monsieurs Aramis d'Herblay and Athos de Breuille."

Apparently unconcerned about haste, Therese slowly pulled herself upright and waved them forwards imperiously. As soon as Athos' face was hit with the glare of the light, Therese's face scrunched up in concentration before unfolding into fury.

"This is no de Breuille you stupid girl," she screeched at the petrified maid. "Look at his nose! He's a la Fere and you know that I will not have vermin like him in my house! Think of the scandal! You're lucky that I don't have you thrashed-"

"Madame," Athos cut in, wishing that he could step in and slap the stupid woman off her goddamn high horse. Aramis was damn near vibrating at his side. "The girl is not at fault. I introduced myself as de Breuille and she had no reason to distrust me. I assure you that I did not come here to tarnish your good name, but rather to save it."

Therese still looked furious, but her attention had been successfully diverted from the poor maid, who took the opportunity to scurry from the room with tears in her eyes. Aramis watched her go with palpable sadness. "Well, we will suffer no pretence under my roof, la Fere. You will state your full name now or you will leave my house."

For all that Athos hated his family, he still bristled at the way she drawled out his name, as though it wasn't worth the breath required to speak it. He kept the dislike from his face with great effort. "Of course Madame. I was born Olivier d'Athos de la Fere, but as I told your maid, I go by a different name these days."

"No wonder. I know your name la Fere, and now that I know it I recognise your face. Never in generations has anyone brought such shame upon their family as you did on yours."

Aramis looked ready to lunge for the woman's throat and Athos wasn't entirely sure he'd stop him if he tried, so he decided it was best to push this conversation in another direction. "I am sure you are right Madame, but we did not come here to discuss my family. Rather, we came here to discuss yours."

Therese instantly looked wary. "What about my family?"

"Your daughter, Madame. She is missing, is she not?"

For a split second, Therese genuinely looked as though she was struggling to remember, but then recognition dawned and she waved her hand in acknowledgement. "I was told that they've arrested someone for that already."

Aramis apparently couldn't restrain himself any longer, blurting out, "Don't you even care?"

Without any attempt at subtlety, Athos stamped down on his foot. "What my partner here means to say, is that your daughter has not yet been returned to you. It is our job to rectify that situation, but we have reason to believe that the person arrested is not responsible for your daughter's disappearance. We were hoping that we could get to the truth."

"I have already had to endure policemen sniffing around my house, and my family. Why should I let anyone else do the same?"

"Because we want to get you your daughter back, Madame," Aramis forced out through gritted teeth, "And to do that we need information. We are not the police – the Musketeers are a specialised unit and we have a far greater chance of finding Fleur. Would you please be willing to answer our questions, so that we can get out of your hair?"

Athos was actually impressed at how well Aramis was holding himself together. He'd had years of training when he was a child at letting the insults fly over his head and not taking a single word to heart, but Aramis had grown up in an environment where words were everything, and every one of them meant something. Taking this kind of abuse must be hitting him hard.

Therese sighed heavily, letting them know just how much of an imposition this was for her, but acquiesced with a nod. "Ask your questions."

"Had Fleur been acting strangely before her disappearance? Become withdrawn or distant?"

Therese waved an uncaring hand. "I wouldn't know about that. One of the maids, Freya, she always looked after Fleur. I only saw her for dinner in the evenings."

Athos and Aramis shared a long, loaded look as Aramis pulled out a notepad to scribble down notes. Athos hummed in acknowledgement. "How did she seem at dinner the night before she disappeared?"

"As she always did. I do not allow children to talk at the dinner table so she was always silent and that night was no different. It was a night like any other."

"Had Fleur mentioned meeting any new friends to you recently?"

"Talk with Freya. She would know."

Athos mentally ran through his list of questions and scrubbed almost ninety percent of them out – they could only be answered by someone that had actually spoken to the person in question and clearly Therese was a woman who subscribed to the 'seen and not heard' method of raising children.

"Do you know of any reason why someone would wish to take your daughter? Someone that might hold a grudge against your family for instance?"

Therese laughed, as though there was anything remotely funny in the situation. "Plenty, dear boy. So many that I could not name them. No one has asked us for money, so it must be someone hoping that they can smear my family name. I can assure you that will not be allowed to happen."

'Oh, good,' Athos thought viciously, barely keeping himself from saying it out loud. He'd met very few people he despised more than Therese Delacroix, and given that he made a living hunting down criminals, it was truly quite a feat.

Aramis nudged at his foot, and he glanced over to meet his gaze. 'We're wasting our time,' his expression clearly read, and Athos felt himself inclined to agree.

"Thank you for your help Madame, that's all. Might I trouble you to know the whereabouts of your maid Freya? We would like to speak to her."

"She doesn't finish work until five," Therese informed them smartly, her eyebrows drawing together. "After that, she may do as she wishes."

"The life of your daughter may depend on finding her sooner rather than later," Aramis announced, not willing to avoid that awful truth for another moment. "While we sit around waiting for five o'clock to pass us by, Fleur might be out there somewhere in the world, dying. Taking five minutes of your maid's time will not be the end of your world, but it might just be the end of Fleur's, so I suggest you tell us where Freya is."

From the stunned expression on Therese's face, it was clear that she wasn't used to being spoken to in such a manner, and Athos took a vindictive amount of pleasure from watching her scramble for composure. "If the gentleman insists," she said eventually, still sounding shell-shocked. "She will probably be in the kitchen at this hour. Ask the other staff."

They both took that as their invitation to leave and headed for the door, glad to leave that harpy of a woman behind them. Almost immediately they ran into another servant, this time a boy who looked no older than nineteen. He managed to point them in the direction of Fleur's room, informing them quickly that Freya had taken to spending some time there every day to make sure it was ready for whenever the Mademoiselle came home, before hurrying off down the corridor. Clearly the staff were not permitted to linger while on duty.

As the boy had said, there was a woman in her mid-fifties dusting the shelves in what could only be a young girl's bedroom with a sadness on her face that you would expect in a mourning parent. Whatever Therese hadn't been for the girl, evidently Freya had.

"Excuse me, might we interrupt you for a moment?" Athos asked hesitantly.

Broken out of what was clearly a deep reverie, Freya jumped. "Ah, apologies Monsieurs, I did not hear you come in. What might I do for you?"

"We've been sent here from the Musketeers. We're looking into Fleur's disappearance and we were told that you were the person to talk to about what she'd been up to."

At the mention of Fleur's name, the woman looked unspeakably sad before she was able to control herself. "I looked after her most of the time, yes, but I don't know what help I'll be to you. As I told the other policemen, Fleur hadn't been acting unusual at all."

"Not a thing? No new friends, activities? Maybe some new habits?"

Freya frowned, thinking. "I can't think of anything," she said distantly. "She hadn't mentioned anything specifically and she seemed as bubbly as always… Wait, there was one thing, stupid really. Habits, you said? For the last few weeks, she'd started plaiting up her hair before bed, so that it was wavy in the morning. She said that she was to be a respectable woman, and all respectable women had to look the part or no one would take them seriously. It's probably nothing, but it stuck in my head. Fleur had never really cared about looks until then."

Something in Athos' very core had gone stone cold, and he couldn't even bring himself to reassure the woman that no detail was too small when it came to an investigation, leaving a slightly baffled Aramis to take care of all of that instead. He couldn't breathe, couldn't think, was just frozen. Aramis, growing increasingly worried by the sudden freeze, took control and gave their thanks to Freya before steering him for the nearest exit.

He managed to get him onto the pavement and halfway down the street before tugging him to a stop and trying to snap him out of it.

"Athos, you're scaring the shit out of me, okay? What the hell is happened? Was it something Freya said? Shit."

It was the beginnings of genuine panic in Aramis' voice that eventually got Athos' brain back into working order, booting up like an old computer until it was wheezing steadily once more. He blinked, then shook his head to clear it. "I'm okay, I'm back."

Aramis swore aloud, and threw himself into a hug. "Don't ever do that again you fucking lunatic. What was that?"

"I just- It doesn't matter. What Freya said, about respectable women having to look the part – I've heard that said before." He was marching back towards the car before Aramis had time to ask, leaving the marksman to trail after him in confusion."

"By who? What does it mean?"

Athos paused long enough to look over his shoulder, feeling the icy cold grip at his heart once more and hold it fiercely. Aramis knew exactly what he was going to say before he even opened his mouth.

"What it means, is that Ninon has been lying to us."

---

Aramis had the car keys out of Athos' hands before he had a chance to even unlock the doors, tucking them behind himself so that the only way Athos could get them back was by going through him. His team leader glared at him sharply, well aware of what he was trying to do.

"Aramis-"

"No, listen. You're pissed off right now and you have every right to be. I'm not going to try and get in the way of that. But I will protest if you try to drive a vehicle with me in it when you look as though you might consider driving it straight into the nearest building, okay? I'm driving."

Athos looked like he really wanted to protest, but arguing would waste time and he wanted to be moving. "Fine," he said sharply, twisting away to head for the passenger side door. "We're going to see Ninon."

There were a hundred reasons that was a bad idea, but Aramis wasn't willing to fight Athos on this, not when he was in that black, angry mood that shut them all out. He slid into the driver's seat in silence.

As a fitting mirror of the mood inside the car, the heavens had chosen that day as the day to open their doors and submerge Paris under a deluge fiercer than Aramis had seen in years. Driving was difficult when you couldn't see more than a few metres ahead of you, and Aramis was glad all over again that he hadn't let Athos drive. They'd have never made it to where they were going.

The silence in the car was strange. Aramis had never been someone to suffer in silence, and whenever he was uncertain or uncomfortable, he would cover it up by becoming the loudest, brightest person in any given room. Athos was his polar opposite in that regard.

They'd gone about a mile before Aramis couldn't stand it anymore. "Did you grow up around people like that?"

Athos maintained his silence for a full minute before he gave in with a sigh. "More or less. My parents were like that. Thomas wasn't. And we had household staff that looked after us from day to day who acted like actual human beings."

"You have no idea how amazing it is that you turned out a normal person," Aramis admitted with a flicker of a smile.

The returning smile was bleak and empty. "I hunt down criminals for a living. We are none of us normal."

"Normal is relative. You don't treat people like interchangeable cattle for starters. How did you manage to be around people like that and not try to strangle anyone? I'd have been throwing punches in there if we hadn't needed her help."

"You forget that I was born into that environment. I thought that was what normal people acted like, and I was the odd one out. It wasn't until I was 18 and I made my own life that I started to understand the rest of the world wasn't like my parents. You have no idea how relieved I was when I found that out."

"You left home at 18?" This was actually a story that Aramis knew, but he was aware that Athos was clinging to the last of his calm with his fingernails, and talking seemed to be helping him to keep his grip.

"I went to university – in England, so that my parents couldn't visit me. It wasn't until I was already there that I'd also left Thomas behind as well. Not sure he ever really forgave me for that."

They were straying into dangerous territory here, so Aramis steered them further away. "England, huh? Which university?"

Athos, unexpectedly, went pink with embarrassment. "Cambridge," he admitted eventually, his voice small.

Despite himself, Aramis spluttered. That was something he hadn't known. "You went to one of the best universities in the world?"

"The only way my parents would have let me go to university was if I went to somewhere prestigious. I applied to Cambridge to satisfy them and when they gave me an offer… It seemed petty to refuse. I had a sports scholarship – from the fencing."

Aramis whistled appreciatively. "That's pretty impressive. What did you study?"

"I did a joint honours. English Literature and Physics – a slightly strange combination by anyone's standards but I didn't want to choose between them."

"And I'm certain you got Firsts in everything anyway, didn't you?" He let Athos see the pride in his face before he turned back to the road.

Athos blush was enough of an answer, and Aramis let him avoid the question. He would never cease to be surprised at just how amazing Athos really was, and how much he hadn't told them simply because he didn't like anyone to think he was bragging. He knew he'd had a privileged childhood, and that was good, but he used it as an excuse for all the good things he'd managed to do in his life so that when he looked back, he didn't see that he'd really achieved anything. It was both heart-breaking and awe inspiring.

There was still a long way to go before they got to the prison, so Aramis kept the conversation going with casual ease. "Did you have any tutors that you didn't like?"

---

There were about a mile away from the prison when Athos finally clammed up, his flow of university anecdotes running dry to be replaced with cold, worried silence. Aramis, watching him from the corner of his eye, felt something solid settle in his gut heavily.

"Athos, you don't have to be the one to do this, yeah? I can go and talk to her if you want. No one is going to blame you if you want to take a step back from this."

"No," Athos said firmly. "This isn't about the investigation, or Fleur, or any of that. This is about me looking her in the eyes and asking her why she lied to me."

"There could be any number of reasons for it," Aramis reasoned. "Just because Fleur had picked up that phrase, it doesn't even mean that she'd got it from Ninon. And if she had it might just have been something she overheard at a party. There's no reason to jump to conclusions here."

Athos shook his head. "There was something in the way she was speaking on the phone. I didn't want to acknowledge it before, and she buried it under everything else but she was keeping something from me the whole time. I don't think she was involved in Fleur's disappearance, I believe that much. But this is something I need to ask her about, face to face."

Aramis pulled into the carpark and flicked the engine off. "If you're certain, then alright. Do you want me to come?"

The suggestion was considered, then turned down. "Best not. Call the others and fill them in on what we know. See if any of them found out anything more useful."

Aramis watched him dart off into the rain with sad eyes, making sure he made it to the door before he pulled out his phone. He guessed that Porthos was probably still tied up in bureaucratic bullshit at the Red Guard garrison, so he dialled d'Artagnan's number first.

He picked up on the second ring. "What can I do for you? Learn anything interesting?"

"Interesting and awful. Ninon lied to Athos."

There was a brief, loaded pause before d'Artagnan let out a heartfelt, "Shit."

"Yeah. He's visiting her now."

"Wait, wait, you're letting him go and see her alone? Are you crazy? Aramis you know what this will do to him-"

Feeling slightly vicious at the insinuation that he didn't know what he was doing, he cut in sharply. "d'Artagnan calm down. It's not like they slept together, or anything."

It shut d'Artagnan right up for several seconds before Aramis heard him clear his throat uneasily. "He, uh. He told you, didn't he?"

"Whatever could you mean?" He kept speaking before d'Artagnan had a chance to reply. "Could you possibly mean how you've been keeping secrets from your friends? How even when it became pertinent information you continued to not tell us something vitally important? What about-"

"Aramis, I gave him my word," d'Artagnan broke in, sounding as though he was in pain. Aramis almost instantly felt bad – he was taking an easy dig at d'Art simply because he was frustrated and it certainly wasn't fair of him to blame the hacker for trying to do right by his friend.

He sighed heavily. "I know. He told me that too. Said that I wasn't allowed to blame you for doing as he had asked."

"Do you blame me?"

"No, I guess. I'm just- This whole thing sucks, you know? Therese Delacroix is a woman I would happily never meet again in my life."

"That bad?"

"I'm not sure she'd even really noticed that her daughter is missing. The only thing she was genuinely bothered about was how much of her staff's time we were going to take up asking questions."

"Christ."

"Yeah. The sum total of it is that rich people are terrible, and Fleur had picked up a phrase that Ninon is fond of using. Athos is, theoretically, going to get the true story of their acquaintance out of Ninon now. What have you dug up?"

d'Artagnan let out an irritated hum. "Richelieu isn't stupid. Or at least, he has someone in charge of his electronic security who knows what they're doing. Every firewall I manage to navigate, another one is suddenly in my way. It wouldn't be a problem if I could just smash through them but I think someone would probably notice if I started tearing their system to shreds."

"Probably. Still think you can do it?"

"Please. You're talking to the best hacker in the world, remember? I'll get there, it'll just take some time."

"Any word on how Porthos is doing?"

"The Red Guards didn't attack on sight, which is better than I thought it might be, but they're being awkward buggers by the sounds of it. They're leading them round enough loops of jurisdiction that even a lawyer would get dizzy, but Porthos seems to have a handle on it. It's our right to request the files. If they outright refuse, then we could theoretically sue them."

"Maybe that's what Richelieu's counting on. That would take too long to help Ninon and it's not like the Red Guards don't have the money to pay us off."

"Probably. Too bad they didn't count on me."

Aramis chuckled. "No one ever does. Keep us in the loop."

"I will. You too."

He hung up the call and tossed his phone onto the dashboard, rubbing at his face tiredly. They were supposed to be having a quiet week, a small Christmas gift from Treville that for once they could afford – evidently it wasn't meant to be. He leant his head back against the headrest, and fixed his eyes on the doors Athos had disappeared though, hoping that this wouldn't be enough to damage their team leader permanently.

---

Athos breezed through security in a daze – his badge meant that he was allowed to carry a handgun with him wherever he went so the whole process was fairly redundant – and he was almost surprised when he ended up in a private meeting room, a chair waiting for him in front of a panel of inch-thick glass. Ninon wasn't yet there, so he was free to take a few minutes to try and centre himself.

This wasn't something he had any idea how to deal with; when was he going to stop being taken in by pretty faces and pretty lies? He could remember his initial hesitation when Ninon had called him, the tremble in her voice that wasn't fear, but he had wilfully ignored it, refusing to believe that he could possibly have been entranced by two different women in his life. Was he really so gullible? Evidently so, or he wouldn't be here.

The door on the other side of the glass was swung open and Ninon was marched in, her slender hands held in place by handcuffs that had rubbed the skin of her pale wrists red. Her eyes fixed on him like a lifeline.

She wasn't wearing any make up – highly unusual for her – and her hair was in disarray around her face as though she'd slept on it and not tidied it up come morning. She was so beautiful it was painful.

She was tugged into the chair on her side of the room and her cuffs released so that she could reach for the phone beside her. At Athos' glare, her guards retreated to the corridor and shut the door firmly behind them.

"Athos," she whispered into the phone as soon as he'd picked it up. She was making her eyes wide and innocent, trying to make herself look like the scared little girl she had never been. It was a shame he couldn't believe it.

"You lied to me," he said without beating around the bush. He wasn't about to give her the chance to talk him in circles any more. She reeled back as though he'd struck her, her beautiful face twisted up into a horrified mask. Athos did his best not to feel a thing. "You told me that you barely knew Fleur."

"What-" She bit back whatever she was about to say, trying to collect herself. "I don't."

"According to her maid, she'd started worrying about the way she looked. Apparently she said that as a respectable woman, she had to look the part – sounds familiar, doesn't it?"

Ninon's face shut down into pained understanding, realising that she'd been caught out. Athos wanted to feel glad about her defeat, but he just didn't have the heart to feel any pleasure about her suffering. His expression softened. "Ninon, I want to help you. Really, I do. But you need to tell me the truth, right now, or there's nothing I can do."

"Do you think I did it? Do you think that I took that girl from her family?" Her voice was small, but not accusatory. Just curious.

"No. But having been forcefully reminded of what Therese is like, I'm not sure that I'd blame you if you had."

It was a peace offering, and no one was more surprised than Athos that he was the one offering it. Ninon took it gladly. "I know what you mean. It was because of how Therese was with her that I got to know Fleur. You're right, I didn't tell you the full truth before – I knew Fleur quite well. Although, I didn't know the name Baudin. I only ever knew her as a Delacroix. I met her at a party of her mother's about a year ago, and we got talking. I think she was hoping that I would be the mother to her that she desperately wanted – she had a maid who she loved dearly, but I think she was hoping for someone more… glamourous. Children never realise what they have, I suppose."

"So you took her under your wing?"

"In a manner of speaking. She just wanted someone to look up to who didn't treat her as though she wasn't even there. She liked to listen to me read."

"When was the last time you saw her?"

"At least a month ago. It didn't… We didn't part well." Her mouth twisted unhappily.

"What happened?"

"Fleur had been talking for a while about leaving home, going to live with her father. Her parents are still married – people like us don't suffer the indignity of divorce, as you know – but he spends most of the year in Saudi Arabia as a business man. He and Fleur are very close but Therese would never allow her husband the pleasure of having custody of their daughter. She would rather make everyone miserable to make a point."

"That sounds about right," Athos said sadly. It was exactly the kind of thing he had come to expect of people like the la Feres and the Delacroix. "What happened between you and Fleur?"

"I told her that she shouldn't give up on her mother. I tried to convince her that she would be safer staying at home, and she didn't take kindly to what she saw as my meddling in her affairs. She stormed out and I haven't seen her since."

"Do you think she might have run away from home?"

"She would have wanted to, I'm sure. But Fleur wasn't worldly wise in the slightest – her mother had made certain of that. If she had run away then she wouldn't have got further than the end of the road."

"Could she have gotten lost?"

Ninon shook her head. "She was sheltered and naïve, but fiercely intelligent. She wouldn't have wandered far enough to be unable to remember the way home."

Athos used his free hand to rub at his face. "Did Fleur mention anything to you that might have something to do with her disappearance? Maybe she met someone new that she told you about?"

"No, there was nothing. I promise Athos. I lied to you before because I knew how it would look if I told you the truth, but I'm not lying now. I should have told you the truth from the start."

"Yes, you should have," he agreed readily. There was no point in denying it to make her feel better. "You used our relationship to manipulate me when you needn't have done. Do you really think so little of me that I wouldn't have heard you out?"

Ninon looked close to tears again, and this time at least it seemed genuine. "No, that's not- Athos, I didn't keep the truth from you because I didn't trust you. I am terrified, Athos. I just… panicked."

Athos looked down at his lap, completely unsure of how to deal with that. Instead, he picked up a different thread of conversation. "You think that Richelieu was involved in this somehow. Did he know Fleur at all?"

"I doubt it… But now that I think about it, Richelieu's political career may have received funding from the Delacroix family – I can't be sure. It was years ago. I'm sure him and Therese would have got along swimmingly."

"I'll have someone look into it. People like them tend to stick together when it's convenient for them. If that is the case though, I wonder what made Richelieu turn on them."

"Could be anything. Therese is quick to offend and wouldn't ever apologise."

Athos nodded knowingly. "Is there anything else you can think of that might help us get to the bottom of this?"

Ninon frowned, thinking hard. She looked tired, he realised, as he watched her. There were bags under her eyes and the tremble in her limbs, while only slight, was enough that he could see it where she gripped the phone like a lifeline. "No, I can't think of anything," she said eventually, sounding defeated. "I swear to you. I won't lie to you again."

She looked sincere enough for Athos to believe her. "Okay. I'll keep digging and see what I can find. Are you okay?"

She blinked in surprise, then let a self-deprecating smile escape her. "I'm in prison Athos."

"I've been arrested before. I know what it's like." She obviously wanted to ask him about that so he kept talking before she got the chance. "I just need to know that you're alright."

"I…" She glanced about the bare room she was in, then down at the plain blue overalls they'd given her. "I'm okay. But I need to get out of here Athos. I don't… Please help me," she said. Athos didn't know if she was aware she was repeating her earlier sentiments from the phone call, but he doubted it. Now that he could see her face when she said it, he realised just how deep her pleading went. Ninon was terrified and had decided that Athos was her only chance.

"I'll do my best. Even if you weren't involved, I don't want any harm to come to Fleur and the only way of ensuring that is to find her. We'll get this sorted out."

"I believe you," she said weakly. The door behind her opened, a guard poking his head in to see if they were finished. Athos waved him in.

"I'll come and see you again tomorrow, alright? Hang in there."

Ninon didn't look up from where she'd fixed her eyes on the floor, hand apparently unwilling to unclench itself from the phone. "Thank you."

Aware that if he didn't move now then he'd never leave, Athos forced his feet to march him to the door and back through security. He didn't look back.

---

"So, Richelieu isn't involved in anything directly," d'Artagnan announced, clearly irritated. "He's smart, which is a pain in my ass. From what I've been able to piece together – which, incidentally, was hard as shit and I definitely deserve a raise – he's managed this through an assortment of his lieutenants and face to face conversations that he was able to disguise as genuine meetings. It helps that Richelieu and Therese Delacroix are old friends. No one thought twice when they met up for dinner."

Aramis raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Richelieu has friends?"

"You met Therese," Athos reminded him. "Snakes tend to band together." The marksman tilted his head in a 'fair point' sort of gesture.

"What I was able to find out that could be of importance, is that there has long been some contention between Richelieu, Therese and Henri Baudin – Therese's husband. Therese and Baudin are separated, and have been for years. He spends most of his time out in the Middle East working and only ever comes back to Paris to see his daughter on the holidays."

"Has he been back in Paris recently?"

"No, he hasn't. But, his right hand man and best friend – Pepin Allistaire has been here six times in the last year or so."

Athos frowned. "Is that usual?"

"Not in the slightest. Now, the only reason this came up at all was that Allistaire is an important name in business, apparently, so when he met up with Richelieu in January, some people took notice. There was a minor press release saying that the Red Guards were inquiring about a new supply line for various things – nothing to make a fuss over. The whole event vanished into obscurity."

This was looking like a solid lead, to anyone who knew where to look. "So you're thinking that Baudin had Richelieu kidnap his own daughter so that he could take custody of her?"

d'Artagnan was nodding, looking vaguely proud at everything he'd managed to uncover. "It makes sense given what we know. If it wasn't for Richelieu trying to set Ninon up to take the fall, I'd be half convinced to just let them get away with it."

"Can't say that I disagree," Aramis muttered, frowning. "But why would Richelieu turn on Therese?"

"Finding that took a wider search than I'd initially tried, which is why this took so long to piece together. It wasn't until Ninon mentioned the Delacroix family funding Richelieu for me to think about checking out their finances. Therese can be as high and mighty as she wants but the brutal truth is that she is flat broke. Her parents poured most of their fortune into projects that never paid off, Richelieu's political career being a prime example. All of Therese's current wealth is all thanks to Baudin's salary."

Athos had retained enough of his parents' upbringing to be entirely unable to cut off the vicious laugh that bubble out of him at that. In an attempt to not seem completely heartless, he had the grace to try and disguise it as a cough, even if Porthos' knowing look meant he had been entirely unsuccessful.

Perhaps wisely, d'Artagnan chose to ignore him. "It turns out that Baudin donates a significant amount of money to the Red Guards every year. He's their largest individual benefactor. I'd guess that if Baudin threatened to cut off that funding, Richelieu would do pretty much anything asked of him."

"So Baudin blackmailed Richelieu into it and, as per usual, he found a way to work it to his advantage." As he spoke, Athos took in the passport photo of Baudin d'Artagnan had managed to get. He was younger than his wife, but life had aged him unfairly so that he looked several years older. Despite the obvious weathering, his face was a kind one, if a little unremarkable – not the kind of man you would expect to have the guts to blackmail one of the most powerful men in France. "Baudin's brave, if not particularly smart."

Porthos looked over all the information spread out over the table like a king surveying his kingdom. "Right then. Where's Baudin?"

"There's the snag," d'Artagnan said with a grimace, looking annoyed at himself. "I don't know. I can't find evidence of him leaving Saudi Arabia but he hasn't been at work all of this week, despite the fact he hadn't booked leave. I've not managed to get access to his personal accounts yet."

"Maybe Richelieu decided that he didn't want to be blackmailed? He might have gone back on their deal," Aramis suggested.

Athos was already shaking his head. "He wouldn't risk his funding. There's got to be something else going on. Baudin's friend, Allistaire. Where's he?"

"Still in Paris," d'Artagnan said, pointing at the laptop sat open beside him. "I'm tracking his cards. As soon as he tries to buy anything, we'll have a location."

Aramis grinned at their hacker. "Thought of everything, haven't you?"

"Why does everyone seem surprised when I'm good at my job?" d'Artagnan bemoaned, but he was smiling despite his words.

"Someone should probably go and see Richelieu, shouldn't they?" Porthos said after a few minutes of companionable silence.

Athos sighed, and let his head thunk down onto the table with heartfelt frustration. "I'll talk to Treville," he said, without lifting his head. "He'll probably insist on being the one to deal with Richelieu directly."

"He's been antsy about letting us get close since that whole mess with Adelmant. I think if he had his way then we'd never see Richelieu again," Aramis said.

Porthos huffed. "I wish that were possible."

"Not at Treville's expense," Athos said quietly. He was well aware of Treville's self-sacrificing tendencies, but this was one sword that he shouldn't have to throw himself on. "I'll go with him."

It was clear that his team wanted to disagree with that, but they were cut off by d'Artagnan's laptop pinging loudly. He poked at it curiously. "I have a location on Allistaire, not far from here," he announced after a moment. "Who's doing what?"

Athos thought quickly. "Since Porthos couldn't get the files out of the Red Guards, you're up. Think you can get working on that now?"

"No problem."

"Okay then. You two," he said to Aramis and Porthos, "Head off and pick up Allistaire. We're not arresting him officially, just bringing him in for questioning at this point. Make him feel safe – he might tell us the truth that way. In the meantime I'll go and… try to explain this shit to the Captain."

---

Allistaire was understandably distraught when two gun-carrying, heavily muscled men appeared out of nowhere and requested that he kindly follow them. To the man's credit, he held it together while they escorted him back to the Garrison and got him set up in a private interview room, settling themselves down opposite him.

He looked between them warily. "What's going on?"

"Please don't be alarmed Monsieur. We just want to ask you some questions." They'd learnt years ago that interviews tended to go best when Aramis asked questions politely and Porthos sat in intimidating silence.

"About what?"

"You are probably aware that Henri Baudin's daughter, Fleur, recently went missing, are you not?"

"Of course I am," he said sharply. "Henri has been beside himself. What's that got to do with me?"

"Please Monsieur, we're not accusing you of anything. We just wanted to know if you had any pertinent information you might be able to share with us. We now have reason to believe that Fleur's disappearance is somehow linked to Baudin."

It was the wrong thing to say – Allistaire's face shut down. "Henri loves his daughter. He wouldn't have anything to do with her disappearance."

"We're not saying that he did. Baudin runs a major international company – he's a valuable man. If someone wanted to exploit him, then surely his daughter would be the easiest way of doing so."

"I don't know what you're trying to imply-"

"I'm not implying anything Monsieur," Aramis said calmly, refusing to react to the growing anger in Allistaire's voice. "But it can reasonably be assumed that someone in your position would be perfectly positioned to help someone wanting to gain control over Monsieur Baudin-"

"No!"

"And given the amount of time you have been spending in Paris lately Monsieur," Aramis continued in the same, level tone, not letting Allistaire talk over him, "I am forced to think that perhaps your involvement in this matter is not merely a series of conveniences."

"No!" Allistaire shrieked, so agitated that he had forced himself to his feet. Porthos tensed in response and the man backed off quickly, looking surprised at his own anger. "It wasn't like that- I didn't- I'm not-"

Still steady and calm, Aramis gestured at Allistaire's vacated seat. "Perhaps you would like to tell us exactly what happened Monsieur."

The man paced back and forth a few times, trying to get himself to calm down but he gradually made his way back to the table and resumed his seat. He kept his eyes on Porthos warily. "I don't…"

"Just start at the beginning Monsieur. Take as long as you need."

Allistaire sucked in a long breath and nodded slowly. "Okay. Okay, I can do that. It was months ago, when it all started. Henri got a call from his daughter, like he usually did at the weekends, but for some reason this one got to him more than all the rest. He hated that his cow of a wife had custody of Fleur, especially when he knew how Therese treated the poor girl."

"Why didn't he take her to court?"

"He didn't want to put Fleur through that. But this phone call changed things. Fleur was desperately unhappy at home, and Henri couldn't bear it any longer. He told Therese that she was either going to let him take custody of Fleur, or he was going to drag her through the courts and divorce her. He knew that Therese would never allow that to happen."

"So what went wrong?"

"Therese had more of backbone than Henri had thought. She started making all these threats against him, saying that she'd never let him take Fleur without making sure that she completely destroyed his company first. She might have been surviving on his money, but she had the connections to make her threats a reality."

Aramis hummed, trying to figure out if Allistaire was telling the truth. He certainly appeared to be, but people could be deceptive. "So Henri came up with a different plan."

"Yes. He knew that if he came to Paris then someone might pick up on it later, so I was to act as the mediator between him and his contacts here."

"Why did you agree to get involved? You must have known what you were doing was illegal."

"I've known Fleur since she was a baby. She might as well be my own daughter – it hurt me to see her so upset with how her mother treated her. I was willing to do anything to get her out of that place."

"Do you know who you were meeting with?"

"I could point him out if I saw him, but he was careful never to use his name. Baudin said that it would protect me if anyone found out what he was doing."

Porthos and Aramis shared a look – that sounded like something Richelieu would do to protect himself. "Do you know where Fleur is now? Or Baudin?"

"I don't. I promise. I was told that everything had been arranged and when I saw the news story about Fleur's disappearance, I figured that everything had gone to plan. Baudin was supposed to come to Paris to meet with her but he's dropped off the grid. He isn't answering his phone, and I don't know how to contact him. I'm worried."

"When did you last hear from him?"

"The day after Fleur went missing. I wasn't expecting to hear from him for a few days, whilst he got everything set up, but after about a week I started thinking something had gone wrong. I didn't know what to do."

He wasn't certain, of course, but Aramis felt inclined to believe Allistaire's account of events. It fit with all the details they already had, and the man seemed sincere enough in his retelling of it to be convincing.

"Alright Monsieur. I want to keep you here for a little while, so that we can take your official statement, but it's nothing to worry about. Thank you very much for your cooperation." He and Porthos rose to leave in unison.

"Wait! Am I… In trouble?"

Aramis smiled at him, letting a flash of teeth show. "That's not up to me, I'm afraid. Good afternoon."

---

Treville was about as amused by events as Athos had expected him to be. His enthusiasm didn't grow when Aramis and Porthos turned up to deliver their report from Allistaire. All roads pointed to Richelieu's door, but they were under no illusions that they'd manage to make any of their accusations stick long enough to convict him of anything, and even trying to do so would make them targets for his wrath. They'd poked at that particular bear too often already in the last year.

"What do we do, Sir? We can't in good conscience let Ninon take the fall for this when she had nothing to do with it, and we still have no idea where Fleur is."

"But if we go marching up to Richelieu's door, it's as likely to backfire on us as it is on him," Treville cautioned. "We can't assume that having the truth on our side is going to do us much good when we're going toe to toe with someone like Richelieu."

"The longer we debate over this, the easier it will be for him to sweep all the evidence under the rug, not to mention making Fleur and her father disappear for good."

"He won't hurt Baudin without risking his funding," the Captain reminded them. "And he can't hurt Fleur for the same reason."

"But then where are they both? Baudin's funding can only continue for as long as he keeps his job and he's not been going to work for the past week. His best friend doesn't know where he is."

They were interrupted by the arrival of d'Artagnan, who waved a pack of freshly printed sheets at them. "Ninon's report. Nothing on it matches up with anything we've learned so I'm inclined to believe it's entirely made up. It would never stand up in an honest trial."

"Richelieu wouldn't need it to. This is enough to completely destroy Ninon's social standing, and her connections are her power. Without them, she wouldn't be anywhere near as great a threat to him." Athos frowned as the thought occurred to him. Even if they got all this sorted out, it wasn't something Ninon would escape from unscathed.

"Which would strengthen Richelieu, but it still doesn't explain why Baudin's missing," Porthos reminded them. "There's got to be something we're missing here."

"I might be able to help with that," d'Artagnan put in. "While I was waiting for the file to come through, I did some more digging. It turns out that one of Therese's new household staff recently left employment from the Red Guard. His reasons for leaving were listed as 'unreported.' I have no proof of anything, of course, but I'm thinking that Therese might have found a way to weasel into Baudin's deal with Richelieu and offered better terms."

Athos grimaced. "It certainly sounds like something she would do. But what could she offer Richelieu that would be worth more to him than Baudin's money?"

"Maybe Ninon," d'Art suggested. "There's enough in this report that's true for someone not looking for lies to miss them completely. Burying the falsehood under truth has worked in the past."

"So," Aramis said, frowning. "What the hell do we do? Even if we could go up against Richelieu, I feel compelled to remind you that a lot of our evidence was obtained illegally. Hacking is useful, but still, technically, against the law."

They'd known that from the start, but it was still painful to be reminded that at the end of the day they had nothing. Silence fell over them, tense and unfriendly.

In the end, it was Treville that snapped them out of it. "I need to talk with Richelieu, and it's best I do this alone. No arguments," he said, when he saw all four of them start to protest. "This is an order. You are all to wait here until I return. If I'm not back in… two hours, Athos is in charge and I want you all to avenge me. Are we clear?" He was smiling, and it brought them some comfort but the mood was still tense as the Captain headed for the door.

"Now what the hell do we do?" Porthos asked as he watched the door swing shut.

Athos, feeling terrible right down to his core, shrugged. "We wait, I guess."

"Waiting sucks," d'Art griped sullenly. Athos wasn't inclined to disagree.

---

Treville was back in an hour and half, as it happened. He looked pale and drawn, as though he'd just been in battle – though to be fair, facing off with Richelieu was its own kind of warfare – and he took his seat a little more heavily than he usually did. He didn't comment on the fact that not one of them had moved since he left.

"So," Athos said, when the silence stretched, "What happened?"

The Captain sighed heavily, and put his head in his hands. "Ninon will be released. Fleur and Baudin – who were being held under 'quarantine' until Richelieu picked a side – are both free to go and my understanding is that they'll both be heading to Saudi Arabia by the end of the week. Therese will be… discouraged from trying to stop them."

There was a pause, as the four of them looked at each other in confusion. "This is… good news?" Aramis asked hesitantly, aware of how downtrodden Treville appeared.

"In a way. We've got the outcome we hoped for, and I'm glad of it. But…"

"This is going to hurt the Musketeers, isn't it?" Athos could see it in the defeated slope of Treville's shoulders, and he wondered just how much they had sacrificed to get their justice.

"Yes. Richelieu must have worked out that we could only know as much as we did by getting into his files, or by having a mole in his organisation. He seemed fairly sure that it couldn't be the latter and so…"

"He knows it was me, doesn't he?" d'Artagnan said quietly, already knowing the answer. "He's suspected me for a while. He's not stupid enough not to have worked it out by now."

Treville managed to pick his head up from his hands at that, forcing himself to meet the Gascon's gaze. "I promise you d'Artagnan, whatever happens, the Musketeers have your back. I will not let Richelieu hurt you for doing exactly what we asked of you."

"Thank you, Sir."

"It's late," Aramis said, when the room had gone still once more. "We could all use some rest. Why don't we call it a day?"

There was a subdued, general agreement, so they all filed out of the office sedately, aware that it felt like they were marching to their doom. d'Artagnan especially seemed withdrawn, not that any of them blamed him.

A silent conversation in the car park lead to them all piling into Athos' car, and heading for his house – none of them were willing to be separated quite yet and there was plenty of space for all of them to spend the night. Sometimes, it felt good not to be going home alone.

---

What none of them were expecting, was a ruffled, tired looking Ninon appearing on their doorstep the next morning, a thick winter coat wrapped around herself like a safety blanket. As soon as she clapped eyes on Athos, she threw herself into his arms.

Surprised, if not displeased, he held her tightly as she gripped at his shoulders, burying her face into the side of his neck and murmuring a thousand words of thanks. Her eyelashes tickled. To Athos' undying relief, the rest of the team seemed to realise that this moment was not meant for them, and made themselves scarce (though he was fairly certain that Aramis had his ear pressed to the door in the next room).

"You don't need to thank me," Athos said eventually, when it became clear that Ninon wasn't going to stop on her own. "It's my job."

"It was more than that, and you know it. Thank you," she said again, then pulled back to look him in the eyes. "You had no reason to help me after everything I did, but you did anyway. I will never stop being grateful for that."

"What happens to you now?" Athos asked, wishing to divert them from an endless series of gratitude that he didn't want. "Life as usual?"

"Unlikely," Ninon scoffed, her face sliding out of its grateful glow to crumple instead into a fierce anger, her eyes catching the light dangerously. "Being innocent won't matter a jot to half the people I know. The Larroque name will not recover from this; you know that."

"Yes, I do," Athos said, trying to sound apologetic about it and not quite managing it. She knew of his distaste for upper class politics. "So what are you going to do?"

"What any self-respecting person should do when they've been slighted. I'm going to go to goddamn war against that pious bastard."

That was certainly unexpected. Athos blinked in surprise, and kept his expression purposefully blank, concealing the sudden rush of emotions that had taken root. "How, exactly, are you planning on doing that?"

Her smile was sly – she'd been waiting for the question. "Treville has been trying to recruit me for years, has he not? Well, you can finally sign me up. If being a Musketeer will give me the opportunity to ruin Richelieu's day, then sign me the fuck up."

It was always so unexpected to hear her swear, that Athos couldn't help but laugh aloud, a delighted little sound that he could almost have been embarrassed by if it hadn't made Ninon's face light up with pleasure. "You're certain? You want to join the Musketeers?"

Her expression was triumphant, the kind of look a conquering queen might wear as she accepted her crown. The image was always one that had fit with Ninon. "I've never been more sure of anything in my life. Richelieu is going to learn exactly what it is to have Ninon de Larroque's displeasure."

Chapter Text

Aramis was not best pleased at Athos' decision, that much was clear, but he bit his tongue and let it happen without argument. It helped that Porthos seemed to be on Athos' side – when two of them agreed on something, the third person generally had no choice but to cave to their wishes, though it was usually Athos who ended up losing.

d'Artagnan hadn't moved from where he was sat, now glancing between them uncertainly as though waiting for a trap to spring shut on him. "So, what happens now?"

He was clearly trying to sound confident, but he was woefully under prepared to try and con three people such as themselves. Athos sighed. "Now, you hand over any other weapons you might be carrying."

Looking tense, d'Artagnan tilted his head at the gun still sat beside him. "That's the sum total."

"Of course it is. Aramis?"

Smiling slyly, the marksman stepped forwards and waved d'Artagnan to his feet impatiently, ignoring the way the kid looked like he wanted to try and make a break for it. Without asking permission, Aramis snatched at his arms to spread them, patting lightly down each arm as he went, searching with practiced precision. When his hands passed over d'Artagnan's ribs he flinched ever so slightly, drawing a thoughtful glance before the marksman moved on.

The search brought to light no less than two combat knives, five throwing knives and what appeared to be a miniaturised, home-made flamethrower tucked into his pocket. Aramis withdrew each one with a tut of disapproval, d'Artagnan's face twisting slightly with each new discovery.

Athos looked over the pile of weaponry with something like awe. "Were you planning on taking on a small army when you walked in here?"

"I learned enough about you three to realise that's essentially exactly what I was doing. Are we done?"

Porthos hummed out a curious sound, then smiled slightly. "No one is getting through Athos' locks with some bent bobby pins. Where's your lockpick?"

There was a long moment of silence, as d'Artagnan just stared at the big man, before he toed off one of his boots in irritation and tugged out a small roll of dark fabric, slapping it into Aramis' waiting palm with a soft jingle of metal. Tugging his boot back on with more force than was really necessary, d'Artagnan grimaced at Athos. "Anything else? I'm clean. I can start taking off my clothes if you still don't believe me."

Athos scoffed a little. "You have given me exactly zero reasons to trust you even an inch."

"Actually," Aramis put in, "I wouldn't mind if you could divest yourself of your shirt for just a moment."

Hissing in a breath of surprise and offence, d'Artagnan took a rapid step away from Aramis. "Uh, no. I wasn't serious."

"Well, I was," Aramis said easily. "Since we're going to be working together, I'd like to know if there's anything that might compromise your ability to keep up. Like, say, broken ribs? At a guess."

Athos looked between them, taking in d'Artagnan's defensive stance and wondering just why things couldn't ever go to plan. "Do as he says d'Artagnan."

Looking more and more like he was going to flee at any second, d'Artagnan shook his head firmly and set his jaw. He raised his hands in something like surrender. "I'm fine. I've got no more weapons and I've no intention of doing anything to harm the three of you. Is that not enough?"

"Look, I'm not going to hurt you," Aramis huffed, looking annoyed that this was apparently such a problem. "Just let me look at your side and we can get on with the business of finding the man who killed your dad. Isn't that what you want?"

It was clear that d'Artagnan resented the utterly transparent attempt to manipulate him, but he was also very aware that he was outnumbered. Baring his teeth slightly in frustration, he tugged his shirt over his head and tossed it onto the sofa he'd vacated.

All three of them were taken by surprise at the impressive bruising marring the boy's side, the purples and blacks painting a vivid picture all the way from his left armpit to his hip and branching out over his chest in spider webs of ink. It looked painful as hell, and Athos could hardly believe that a civilian was wandering around with an injury such as that without the slightest visible indication. He couldn't decide if it was impressive or stupid.

"What happened to you?" Aramis was staring at the bruising like it was something he'd never seen before.

Apparently self-conscious, d'Artagnan shrugged. "I got in a fight. The guy pushed me down the stairs and I landed badly."

"Why do I get the feeling you attract trouble?" Athos asked without expecting an answer. It was the style of his whole life to have a wrench thrown into the works on any given day and there was absolutely no reason that today should be any exception to that. He'd assumed that the bomb in his living room would be the curveball, but evidently he'd been wrong.

"Hey, I didn't start that fight. It wasn't my fault."

Aramis' doctoring instincts had taken over his surprise, and he was carefully feeling his way along the injury to check d'Artagnan's ribs, ignoring the winces of pain his ministrations brought about. "We're not judging you," he reassured idly. "For this at least. I'm not forgetting that bomb in a hurry."

d'Artagnan hissed lightly through his teeth and glanced at the duffle bag still lying conspicuously in the middle of the floor. "Yeah. About that. Sorry, I guess."

The marksman snorted. "You sound really sincere there. It's not like you almost blew up three innocent men – and yourself, I might add. No biggie, right?"

Annoyed all over again, d'Artagnan pulled away with a jolt and snatched up his abandoned shirt. "Look, I appreciate the help, but I really don't need-"

"d'Artagnan," Athos called in his obey-me-or-suffer voice. "Calm down. We're not arresting you for…" He glanced about, trying to think of the words and failing, "Everything, but that comes with the condition that you work with us on this. I know that you want justice for your father and that's admirable, but charging around without a plan isn't going to get any of us anywhere. Work with us. You'll get what you want, I promise you."

For a long moment it looked like d'Artagnan was about to completely lose it again, but then all the fight drained out of him in a single, drawn out huff. He fixed his eyes on the duffle bag and nodded slowly. "You're right. And I am sorry," he said with a glance at Aramis. "I promise I'm not usually so… aggressive. It's been a rough couple of days."

Athos was instantly reminded that he was looking at a very young man who had just lost a father he clearly loved dearly, and who had literally died in his arms. No wonder he was all over the place. "Just how old are you?"

"What's that got to do with anything?" d'Artagnan was frowning again, though it wasn't defensive.

"I'm curious. Indulge me."

"Twenty one," he said at length, still unsure of why it mattered. Aramis' eyebrows rose to his hairline and Porthos whistled out a surprised breath.

"Twenty one," Athos repeated with some incredulity. "You're shitting me."

d'Artagnan shrugged, unfazed. "Is that a problem?"

Athos looked between his two friends with a silent 'is he serious?' expression. They both shrugged helplessly back. "No?" He said eventually. "Not really. I just imagined that a person who knows how to build a bomb and hack into a high security law enforcement database would be just a little bit older."

"If it's any consolation, I only learned how to build a bomb the other day. That wasn't something I'd ever done before. The hacking is… a little more suspect I suppose."

"Just a little," Aramis agreed with only a hint of venom.

They were all too tired for this Athos realised, suddenly remembering his own fatigue. It was like a black weight in his mind, tugging slowly at his thoughts. "We could all use some rest," he announced to the room at large. "We'll take you to see Treville in the morning but right now we all need to get some sleep. We were half way across the world this morning."

d'Artagnan frowned lightly at him. "What happens to me until then?"

Athos eyed him for a moment, then raised a subtle eyebrow at Aramis. The kid was still frowning at Athos when the handcuff snapped closed around his right wrist, but he caught on quickly. Without stopping to think about it he dropped his shirt and twisted around, bringing his fist sharply into the inside of Aramis' elbow and forcing him to withdraw with a hiss.

Loose handcuff swinging wildly from his wrist, d'Artagnan launched himself for the kitchen door – the only available escape with Athos and Porthos still covering the door to the hall. Porthos was too quick for him though, and had an arm around his waist before he could make it past the frame, hauling him off his feet to slam him bodily into the wall with only mild consideration for not bashing his face in as he did so. Like a cornered animal, d'Artagnan thrashed against the hold but he was never going to be a match for Porthos' strength and he didn't earn an inch.

Athos watched as he slowly came to that realisation, and his panicked struggling cooled down until he was resting his forehead against the wall, panting heavily. Porthos didn't release him. Still standing by the sofa, Aramis was rubbing at his arm with a furious expression on his face as he glared at the Gascon.

"So much for working together," he griped angrily.

Even trapped as he was, d'Artagnan still managed to raise his head to throw a disbelieving look over his shoulder. "How am I supposed to react when you try to handcuff me?"

"Perhaps trying to jump you wasn't the best idea," Athos allowed, "But surely you see the necessity. We can't trust you not to run off but I'm not willing to spare one of us to watch you. Either you let us handcuff you to something, or I'll make some calls and you can spend the night in a cell. Your choice."

Neither option apparently held much appeal, because d'Artagnan dropped his head back to the wall in disgust. "Where the hell do you think I'm going to run off to? But fine, I guess. Handcuff me to something."

Athos' living room still had some ancient radiators installed along one wall, and they provided ample lengths of sturdy piping to cuff d'Artagnan to without forcing him to adopt a hugely uncomfortable position. He was still scowling about it the whole time.

"Cheer up," Aramis remarked with a measured amount of dislike in his voice. "You get to keep me company." He'd settled himself on the sofa that d'Artagnan had been using, shifting the laptop and gun to the floor with care. From the way the kid had tensed up when he'd touched the computer, it was clear that he wasn't keen on other people messing with his stuff.

"Delightful," came the unenthusiastic response.

"Get some rest, if you can," Athos told him, ignoring Aramis. "In the morning we'll take you to meet our Captain. He needs to give you the green light before we work with you."

"So what you're really saying is that everything you've told me so far is complete crap?"

Athos ignored the accusative tone. "Treville is a good man with a clear idea of right and wrong. He'll want to help you as much as I do."

d'Artagnan broke eye contact, looking down at where his hand was restrained. He looked, in a word, miserable. But, there was nothing to be done about that now and Athos was too tired to even try to make him feel better. Instead, he looked over his shoulder at Aramis and raised an eyebrow.

"I'll keep an eye on him," the marksman confirmed readily. "Don't worry."

"Make sure you get some sleep though," he reminded him firmly. "Looks like we've got a new case."

"Remind me to take a holiday after this one's done, yeah? I could really use some time off without anyone trying to kill us."

"Wouldn't that be nice," Athos agreed, rising and heading for the door. Porthos had already gone upstairs, wanting a shower to wash the plane off him. He'd never been a big fan of travelling. Athos looked between the two men and wondered yet again how his evening could possibly have gone so awry while at the same time not even surprised that something like this had happened. He really needed to sort his life out.

---

The morning came all too soon, and with it, more surprises. The first one was to find d'Artagnan sprawled inelegantly over the armchair beside a still dozing Aramis, on the other side of the room to where his handcuffs were still fastened around the pipe. He glanced up when Athos entered, then shrugged at his confusion.

"Your floor was uncomfortable and I wanted this," he said, pointing a finger at the laptop balanced across his knees. "Figured I might as well get some work done since I couldn't sleep."

"But…" Athos said, frowning. "How…?"

d'Artagnan glanced at the handcuffs, then back to Athos' face and grinned ever so slightly. "You didn't think I'd stay there, did you?"

"I'm starting to realise that I shouldn't assume anything about you. Though I am surprised that you didn't take off when you had the chance." As he spoke he wandered over to Aramis and poked him in the shoulder, rousing him instantly into semi-awareness. The marksman glanced over to where d'Artagnan should have been, took note of his absence, then sat bolt upright with a start, eyes casting about wildly until he saw him.

"You're going to be a pain in the ass the whole time, aren't you?" He asked sourly.

"It's a gift," d'Artagnan deadpanned. He held Aramis' gaze for a moment longer before looking back at Athos and letting the hardened exterior drop for a moment. "I've found something you need to see. You're not going to like it."

Athos let out a long sigh, then settled himself on the arm of the chair d'Artagnan had commandeered to see the screen. "That seems to be a running theme right about now. What is it?"

d'Artagnan started typing, fingers moving so fast over the keyboard that Athos didn't even try and keep up, letting his eyes glaze over as the windows on screen shifted around until what looked like a preliminary police report was in front of them. "I found this early this morning. According to the report, a man and a woman were found shot dead in their car in Lille at around midnight with all their valuables untouched."

"Not a robbery gone wrong then," Athos said.

"It would seem not. There was, as it happens, a single witness – the man who was driving the car. He was apparently pulled from the vehicle by force and pinned to the ground while the other two were killed."

"This is starting to sound like an execution," Aramis pointed out, his face pinched with displeasure. "Is there any obvious motive?"

"If there is, the report doesn't mention it. It's not really necessary – they know who did it." Both Athos and Aramis pulled back in surprise, still a little too asleep to piece together the obvious dots appearing before their very eyes. Grim faced, d'Artagnan ploughed on. "The witness statement says that the leader of the attack openly introduced himself. He said his name was Athos and he was doing the Lord's work."

Too surprised to even be upset, Athos blinked stupidly at the screen. "So now I'm a religious fanatic. Great."

"It actually gets worse," d'Artagnan admitted, pulling up another window. "Twenty minutes later a store clerk had two men come into his shop to buy some beer. He reported the incident to the police because he thought that one of the men had a concealed weapon and he hadn't wanted to confront them himself, but in his statement he clearly recalled that one of the men had called been called Athos, and he had referred to his friend as Porthos. Put the two witnesses together and you have Lille police issuing a warrant for the arrest of a man going by the name of Athos."

"What about Porthos?" Aramis asked, scowling at the laptop as though it was all its fault.

"Wanted for questioning in relation to the aforementioned crimes. They seem to have decided that Athos is the ringleader so he's the focus."

"Three people," Athos murmured to himself, his eyes eternities away. "That's three people dead in my name."

Instantly Aramis was on his feet and by Athos' side, a hand on his shoulder and his face firm with determination. "Don't you dare Athos. You even try to take the blame for this and I might actually have to hit you. Porthos will as well. You're not doing this."

d'Artagnan dropped his eyes to his laptop screen and seemed to be doing his best to pretend like he wasn't there, the only offer of privacy he could give them without actually leaving the room. The tense line of his mouth spoke of guilt.

Athos watched the change with interest, once again reminded of how ridiculously young the man beside him was. It didn't matter that his chest was filled with the burning weight of guilt for the three dead souls, not right now. Right now all he needed to worry about was helping d'Artagnan find the man who killed his father so that he might find the peace he was so desperately lacking.

He looked back at Aramis and smiled softly. "You're right," he said easily, hoping that the marksman wouldn't pick up on the false tone in his voice. He did, of course, but thankfully let it pass. "Go and wake up Porthos, can you? We really need to bring Treville up to speed."

"Sure. Keep an eye on this one, will you? He's a sneaky little bastard."

"Hey," d'Artagnan protested mildly, but he looked almost as proud as he did offended. The marksman swept out of the room with a grin.

Athos looked back at the police reports still up on the screen. "Did you break into the police database?"

The Gascon grimaced and looked away quickly. "A little. For the record if you try and arrest me for it I will deny everything and I promise you no one will be able to prove a thing."

That actually drew a huff of amusement from the Musketeer. "I believe you. But maybe while you're working with us you don't break the law unnecessarily? Musketeers can request whatever police files we want without having to give a reason. They're legally obligated to help us in whatever way they can."

"Sounds useful."

"It is."

"I think I still prefer my way."

"Your way is likely to get you arrested. I'm somewhat impressed that it hasn't done already, to be honest."

"If you trust nothing else about me, trust me when I tell you that I am exceptionally good at this. I'm not stupid – I don't mess around with things that are likely to blow up in my face." He grimaced a little then, and glanced back at the bag that was still sitting there innocently. "Or at least, I didn't until a few days ago. I usually have more finesse."

"Don't worry about that anymore. Aramis might sound like he's blaming you but in truth he's got more empathy than the rest of us put together. He'll warm to you, I'm sure."

"That's not going to matter though, is it? I believe you when you say you'll let me work with you on this, and I'm grateful for that. But you and I both know that you're not going to let me walk away once all this is done. You'll either arrest me or…"

"Or?"

"Or one way or another I end up seeing my father again. There's no way out of this in which I walk free."

Athos wasn't really surprised to learn what he thought, but he was still slightly offended at the implication that he'd put him down. "We're not killers. Not intentionally, anyway. And for whatever it's worth, I give you my word that we will not let any harm come to you if we can avoid it."

He breathed out a disbelieving laugh. "Thanks," he said, mistrust evident in his voice.

Thankfully, Athos was saved from trying to reply to that by Aramis reappearing with a weary looking Porthos trailing behind him. The big man looked from d'Artagnan, to the handcuffs and back again before letting out a genuine laugh.

"Second lockpick? Smart."

For the first time that morning, d'Artagnan's smile was an honest thing, his eyes bright. He fished about with his tongue for a moment, then a small bar of metal appeared gripped between his front teeth. After a second, he pushed it back to wherever it had come from. "Smarter than I look."

"Kid's prepared," Porthos said with no small amount of admiration. "A guy like that could go far doing what we do."

"Or by breaking the law," Aramis muttered.

Jumping in before d'Artagnan could make the retort he so obviously wanted to, Athos cut them all off sharply. "Alright, that's enough. We need to talk to the Captain and fill him in on everything. I'll drive. Aramis, you get Porthos up to speed on what d'Artagnan's found, okay?"

"Sure."

"Right then. Time for you to see the Garrison d'Artagnan."

---

To say Treville was unhappy was an understatement. Within a minute and a half of the meeting starting, Aramis, Porthos and d'Artagnan had all been banished from the room so that Treville and Athos could have their shouting match in private – though 'private' was a strong word when they were shouting so loudly the agents working down the corridor could hear every word.

Unexpectedly, arriving at the Garrison had knocked the wind out of d'Artagnan's sails, and with each second spent there he seemed to be growing smaller and smaller. His hands fiddled idly with the edge of the laptop he had refused to relinquish when asked, and he kept his eyes moving at all times, taking in everything. Even Aramis, who was still feeling more than a little bitter about the bomb situation, was watching him with mounting concern.

Porthos, ever unable to watch people suffer if he could help it, settled himself beside him and bumped their shoulders together. "Treville's just letting off steam. He'll agree with Athos soon enough, I promise."

"You'll have to forgive me if I don't quite believe that yet," d'Artagnan replied, sounding genuinely apologetic. "I'm aware that this isn't exactly… protocol."

"We really don't have protocol for something like this," Porthos said, adamant in his attempt to cheer d'Artagnan up. "Besides, all Musketeer teams are supposed to be four man units. Treville's been getting on at us for months to pick a fourth member and I'm sure he'll appreciate the irony of getting his wish, even if only for a few days."

"Your Captain is never going to go for this. I tried to kill three of his men."

"And then you chose not to as soon as you realised you had the wrong man. That takes a certain amount of character. Besides, for whatever reason Athos has put himself in your corner and that's not nothing. Once he's decided to support a cause, he'll fight tooth and nail for it and you're no exception. This'll turn out alright."

Aramis watched the exchange in silence, determined to learn absolutely everything he could about d'Artagnan in as short a time as he could manage. The kid had already got the drop on them twice now, and he wasn't about to let it happen again.

There was another burst of shouting that drew the slightest of flinches from d'Artagnan before the room went deathly silent. The three of them looked at each other in surprise before Treville's door swung open slowly and Athos poked his head out wearily.

"d'Artagnan, if you could join us?" It wasn't really much of a question, but they could all tell that the kid desperately wanted to refuse. The effort it took for him to get to his feet was visible.

"Sure," he said with as much confidence he could muster.

Treville's office was not an intimidating space. It was well lit by the large window that took up most of the back wall and the wallpaper was a neutral cream colour that managed to avoid looking like the sour milk so many of its relatives resembled. The desk was an old, ornate block of wood that might have been imposing if it wasn't so well used. The top was continually a disaster of papers and files that frequently spilled out onto the other furniture in the room, and what wood was still visible was scuffed and dented from decades of continual abuse. The drawers of the three filing cabinets tucked into the corner never quite shut, overflowing as they were with files.

In direct counterpoint to the welcoming softness of the room, its inhabitant looked like a thundercloud about to erupt. Treville was not a young man, but instead of settling into the gentle role of an old man with grace, the Captain had chosen instead to wear his years like armour, with each line on his face a story that everyone was too afraid to ask about. Athos knew that his hardened exterior was just a front for the good man underneath but d'Artagnan didn't have a clue, and the Captain could look downright menacing when he wanted to.

The Gascon gulped audibly and shuffled into the room.

"So, you're d'Artagnan."

It wasn't a question, but there was an expectant silence following the words so he muttered out a near silent, "Yes sir."

"You're the man who I should be charging with attempted murder of three government agents and possession of a deadly weapon? Among other things."

Athos had to bite back a smile. He already knew that Treville was going to end up siding with him, but he wasn't above making d'Artagnan sweat a little first.

"Yes sir."

"Do you have any reason why I shouldn't arrest you?"

"No sir."

"At any point in this conversation are you going to say anything other than 'yes sir' or 'no sir'?"

d'Artagnan sucked in a hard breath and dug deep for his courage. "That depends on how close I think you are to arresting me. Sir."

There was enough honest in the statement that it drew a genuine huff of laughter out of Treville, much to everyone's surprise. d'Artagnan looked slightly as though he'd been slapped.

"Good answer. Now, Athos tells me that you're not bad with computers." His eyes dropped meaningfully to the laptop d'Artagnan was still clinging to like a lifeline. When he didn't answer immediately, Treville sighed. "At this point I should state that nothing you say will go further than this room, so you have no need to worry on that count."

Looking slightly reassured, d'Artagnan nodded slowly. "I'm good at finding information."

"Evidently so. What have you managed to find out about the man claiming to be Athos?"

Slightly thrown off by the non-sequitur, d'Artagnan had to think for a moment. "Honestly? Not a lot. Up until last night, I was just trying to find out who Athos might be and that lead me here. I didn't start looking in another direction until a few hours ago."

"And in those few hours you found two police reports that directly pertained to this investigation."

"Um, yeah, I guess."

Treville and Athos shared a long glance that mostly consisted of the sentiment 'is this guy for real,' before the Captain focussed back on d'Artagnan. "That's an impressive rate of turnover."

"The name Athos isn't common. It makes it easier to find when it does appear, and I figured police reports would be the best place to start. Honestly, finding what I did was more fluke than anything."

"Perhaps so, but that's the kind of fluke we can use." He paused there, teetering on the edge of the decision Athos knew he was going to make five minutes ago. After a stressful few moments had slipped by in silence, he sighed and shot Athos a look that distinctly said 'I really don't like you at times.' "Well, d'Artagnan, it would appear that for now you are of more use to the Musketeers as an asset than a prisoner. Until such a time as we capture the man calling himself Athos, you may consider yourself a consultant."

Obviously stunned by the announcement, d'Artagnan could do little more than stammer out, "Thank you, sir."

Treville smiled grimly. "You'll need to fill in some forms – nothing you need to be concerned about. I'll have someone bring them to you. Athos, I want you to stick to him like glue, you understand? I'll trust him to work with us just this once but I'm not about to let him do whatever he pleases."

"Of course, sir," Athos said smartly. He was feeling just a little bit smug that to all intents and purposes, he'd won the argument.

"d'Artagnan, you're not to go anywhere without Athos, you understand me? If I hear that you've put a single toe out of line, I assure you I will have you arrested without the slightest hesitation."

"Understood."

"It better had be." He turned back to Athos. "I'll meet with the commissioner and have him cancel the warrants for you and Porthos, but be aware that some people might be a little mistrustful of you until we've had this all straightened out."

"It's nothing we can't handle, I'm sure."

"No doubt. Have Aramis and Porthos head for Lille. I want to know what this witness has to say without a middle man. d'Artagnan here is going to do some digging to find out whatever he can about this man."

Athos nodded easily. d'Artagnan for his part looked torn between relief and abject terror, clearly uncertain about just what he'd signed up for. Well, if he was as smart as Athos thought he was, he'd catch on quick.

"We'll see it done. I have something of a personal interest in bringing this man to justice," Athos said, then instantly regretted it when d'Artagnan flinched. He'd almost forgotten. Treville had seen the movement too, and frowned slightly as he waved the pair of them towards the door, concern peering out from behind his mask for anyone who knew to look.

Aramis and Porthos were waiting patiently for them outside, and both looked up questioningly as the appeared.

"d'Artagnan will be working with us for the immediate future," he announced to them both, trying not to look smug again. "I'm going to be looking after him. The two of you are heading to Lille as soon as possible to interview the witness the reports mentioned. We want to know absolutely everything he heard or saw, alright?"

Aramis grinned. "Have a little faith. Porthos is good at getting people talking."

"This man is a witness," Athos reminded him unnecessarily. He knew that Aramis was only joking, but from the way d'Artagnan was looking between the three of them, he hadn't caught the light tone. "Go easy on him."

"This man is blaming you for two murders," Porthos pointed out.

"Easy mistake to make these days," d'Artagnan muttered to himself, apparently not expecting them to hear him. His ears went pink when all three of them turned to stare at him.

After an awkward silence, Athos shrugged. "You two should head off. It'll take you a few hours of travelling so you'd best be on your way. I'll call ahead to let them know you're coming."

Aramis and Porthos clapped him on the shoulder as they passed, as unsettled as he was about leaving him behind. Four man teams would commonly split into two pairs when working a case, but as a trio they tended to stick together wherever they could, especially if they were leaving Paris. To send them two of them off without him felt wrong somehow.

d'Artagnan waited until they'd disappeared out the door before he turned to Athos and hefted his laptop up. "Where should I set up, then?"

---

Four hours later, and Athos was torn between marvelling at how damn good d'Artagnan was at this and tearing his hair about at how damn good d'Artagnan was at this. Athos could barely navigate Google on a good day, and here was this twenty one year old sort-of-criminal worming his way past all manner of firmware without so much as blinking.

"You're staring at me again," d'Artagnan murmured quietly, not taking his eyes from the screen.

"It is literally my job to keep an eye on you."

"You're between me and the only door in the room. Where exactly do you propose I'll go?"

Athos glanced around idly. "That window isn't locked."

"We're on the fifth floor."

It was a fair point, but Athos had been stuck in that room for four whole hours and he felt like being awkward. "As Aramis said, you've proven yourself to be a slippery bastard already. Who knows what you're planning?"

"I assure you I have no intention of jumping out of this window, or any other. If I'd wanted to run, don't you think I would've taken the chance this morning?"

"Perhaps you really wanted to meet Treville."

"Yeah, because that meeting was a bundle of laughs. Is he always so…"

"Stern?" Athos suggested lightly. His lips twitched in the smallest attempt at a smile. "Only to people who've been threatening his men. And whenever Aramis has done something ridiculous." He paused, considering, then added, "Honestly, it's a pretty common look."

d'Artagnan actually laughed at that, pausing in his typing as he shot Athos an amused glance. "Why do I get the feeling that your team aren't half so 'cool' as you seem to appear?"

"You think we're cool?"

"You do have the whole secret agent thing going for you," d'Artagnan said without the slightest hint of embarrassment, turning back to his laptop. "I can understand a certain appeal."

Athos snickered softy. "I'll keep that in mind. Have you found anything of use?"

d'Artagnan let his amusement fade until he looked completely sober again, his eyes tightening with the ever present sadness. "Not much. Whoever this person is, they're smart. I've looked through all the nearby traffic footage to the incident in Lille but we don't ever see a face, for either of them. It's the same for the CCTV in the shop."

"Didn't they buy something while they were there?"

"Yeah, but they paid cash." He spun the laptop around to show Athos a very grainy photo that showed two blurry figures in what had to be the shop. "This is the best shot we have of them. I've been trying to clear the image up but the camera is just too old to be of any use."

"What about the witnesses? Haven't either of them provided a description?"

"The witness to the murder said that he never saw anyone's face – they wore balaclavas the whole time and he had his head forced down anyway. Lille police are trying to get a sketch artist to the shop owner but somewhere along the line someone's taking their time about it."

Athos frowned – that wasn't normal protocol. "Any obvious reason for the delay?"

d'Artagnan shrugged helplessly. "It would appear to be a combination of all the relevant people being on leave. At a guess, I'd say it's just bad luck."

"We seem to be having a lot of that. Anything else?"

"I've been trying to narrow the search by considering all the factors available. We know that this guy is male, early thirties and has at least one accomplice of a similar age. Ten days ago he was in Lupiac and by last night he'd made his way to Lille – that's around 960 kilometers of travel in which I refuse to believe no one saw him."

"He could look like anyone. There's not necessarily any reason someone would pick him out of a crowd."

"Perhaps not, but with precision hits like this, I'm willing to guess that he has prior. I've got a facial recognition program running to compare any faces on the CCTV at Lille station with anyone on Interpol's watch list. Hopefully that will turn up something."

There was a moment of silence while Athos tried to digest all that information. After he thought he'd got a handle on it, he calmly asked, "How do you have access to either of those things?"

d'Artagnan shrugged. "Most of the Interpol list is public anyway, and the entries on it that aren't don't have particularly good protection. CCTV is always easy. The government is pretty slack about stopping people from watching the system – it's trying to alter the data that's difficult."

"How legal is any of that?"

"Not very. Feel free to arrest me later."

Athos sighed slowly. "Perhaps it's best I don't know the details of what you're up to. While that scan's running what are you going to do?"

"I'm planning on doing some digging into the victims. The purpose of this whole thing would appear to be dragging your name through the mud – looking into that isn't going to get us anywhere. I assume you have people lining up at your door for revenge."

"Well, you're the only one who ever actually made it to the door, but I take your point."

d'Artagnan took a moment to look smug before settling again. "But, that being said, if you're going to go on a murder spree in someone else's name, why not cross off some names you've got a grudge against?"

"So you think the three victims are secondary targets?"

"It seems plausible, at the very least. I don't really have any other ideas at this point so I might as well look into it."

Athos had to consider his next words very carefully, hesitant about offending. "Do you have any reason to think someone would want your father dead?"

The effect was instant, but thankfully it wasn't anger that rose to d'Artagnan's face. Instead he looked utterly consumed by a melancholy that Athos was all too familiar with and his heart ached for this heartbroken soul. He would almost have taken the words back if he could.

"These days, no. He was well liked by… pretty much everyone. He'd lived in Lupiac for years and he personally knew almost everyone that lived or worked there. But years ago – long before I was born – he worked as a police officer here in Paris. When I was little he told me stories about cases he'd worked, people he'd helped put away…"

"And you think one of these people might be coming out of the woodwork now for revenge? All of that happened over two decades ago. That's a long time to hold a grudge."

d'Artagnan grimaced. "I know that. But like I said, the main purpose of this exercise appears to be making your week difficult. Maybe it's just a matter of opportunity."

At the end of the day, it wasn't like they had that much else to go on. "It's worth looking into certainly."

"Then stop staring at me. It's incredibly off-putting."

That was understandable, Athos supposed. He inclined his head with as much grace as he could managed, and dropped his eyes to read the file Treville had sent over. He had a feeling he'd be here for a while.

---

Porthos and Aramis returned to Paris late that evening, tired and stressed but satisfied that they'd learned things of value. Perhaps the most important thing they'd uncovered was the police sketch that they'd eventually managed to get out of the reticent shopkeeper.

"I can see the resemblance," Athos admitted when they pushed the drawing under his nose. "But distinct enough that I'm sure Treville will be able to get the commissioner to back down. Good work."

Across the table from him, d'Artagnan appeared to have forgotten that anyone else was even in the room, reaching out in silence to take the sketch. He stared at it for over a minute, his eyes fixed on the page as though he was physically incapable of looking away. No one had the heart to try to rouse him.

"This is the man who killed my father?" He said eventually, his voice completely torn through with grief. Any hint of the strength he'd been relying on this whole time was gone, and its absence was painful to hear. With a sudden jolt that shattered the stillness of the room, he forced the sketch away from him and pushed himself to his feet. "I need some air."

He was already at the door before Athos realised he was supposed to be escorting him wherever he went. For a heartbeat, he considered rising to join him, to chaperone him as he had promised Treville he would, but then he hesitated. The boy had lost his father less than a fortnight ago and he'd just seen the face of the man who had killed him for the first time, without being able to act upon that information – if it were Athos, right now he would want some space. d'Artagnan disappeared without resistance.

Once he was well out of earshot, Aramis raised his eyebrows at Athos. "Aren't you supposed to go with him?"

"He's spent all day cooped up in here and he's had something of a rough week. We can give him ten minutes outside," Athos replied easily.

Porthos let the silence hang in the air for a moment before sighing heavily and dropping into the chair d'Artagnan had vacated with the kind of fatigue they only ever showed around each other. "He's not the only one that could use a break. Two missions without pause isn't as fun as it sounds."

"You're not wrong," Aramis agreed, leaning against the wall like it was all that was keeping him upright. "Once this is all straightened out, I vote we petition Treville for a week's leave."

Athos nodded in wholehearted agreement. "I doubt he could deny the request. We were due for some time off months ago when that smuggling case came up."

"Oh yeah," Porthos chipped in, "That was a weird one."

Aramis' eyes turned distant as he recalled the ridiculous series of events that had led to the detainment and arrest of four smugglers and – in a new record of weirdness for the Musketeers – two very confused cows. "Sometimes you really have to wonder if the criminals are even trying anymore."

"Speaking of criminals," Athos put in, hoping to direct them back towards work, "What else did you find on your trip?"

"Well, we have a second sketch," Porthos said, producing the image from seemingly nowhere and pushing it towards Athos. "This is me, apparently. Lille police are keeping their eye out for him but he's not a primary focus. It's likely he'd be able to get out of the city without anyone being any the wiser."

The sketch did bear some resemblance to Porthos, but there were enough differences that they couldn't be mistaken for one another. "Anything else? No indication of where these men might be heading?"

"Neither of the witnesses had any suggestions on that front," Aramis informed him. "It turns out that the driver of the car was actually the victims' chauffer. We'd hoped he might be able to provide some insight into why his employers would be targeted but no joy. He'd only been working for them for a month or so and he wasn't completely filled in on what they did."

"Could he be involved somehow? The timing is a little suspicious."

"We thought so too but the background checks came up clean. If he is involved, there's no evidence linking him to it."

"Could be nothing," Athos admitted. "Or he could just be clever. Either way, it's of no use to us."

"We looked around the crime scene," Porthos said, his voice tense. "And we visited the morgue. Both victims had a single gunshot wound to the head, and there were only two shots fired in total."

"A neat hit then."

"Disturbingly neat," Aramis agreed. "If there were any other evidence to back it up, I'd think this was a professional hit. The forensics team didn't find a single fingerprint within a ten yard radius of the car that didn't belong there."

"Footprints?"

"The whole area was tarmac. There's nothing."

Athos frowned at the wall, annoyed even if he wasn't surprised. Whoever they were up against clearly knew what they were doing and with the right knowledge, evidence was easy to hide. "So we don't have any physical evidence to follow. That's nothing new. We just have to approach it differently – figure out who would go after these three people and what their connection to us is. If they're imitating both myself and Porthos, it stands to reason that this is an attack on all Musketeers, not just me."

"But you're definitely the focus," Aramis reasoned. "Perhaps it's something this team did specifically."

"If that's the case, then your doppelganger is likely to appear sometime in the near future," Porthos said.

"Let's hope not," Athos put in sharply. "Every time these people surface, innocent people turn up dead. It's safe to assume that the longer we wait on this, the higher the body count is going to be. We had one kill ten days ago and another two yesterday – it would suggest that whoever these people are, they're not going to sit around waiting to get noticed."

"But they're not killing indiscriminately," Aramis reminded them. "If they were then it wouldn't have taken nine days between incidents. There's got to be a pattern somewhere, or a link between the victims, something these people are following."

"d'Artagnan was thinking the same thing earlier. He started looking into the victims, trying to establish that link."

"Looking into his father's life like that… It can't be easy," Porthos said softly. Of all of them, he seemed to be the one who had connected with d'Artagnan most quickly, sympathising with him almost instantly. Athos was glad that the kid had someone fighting his corner.

"Speaking of our delightful guest," Aramis said slowly, a frown appearing on his features, "Shouldn't he be back by now?"

Athos glanced at the clock and calculated quickly. "He's probably downstairs," he said, determined not to panic. "I'll go and fetch him."

He was out the door before either of the others had a chance to stop him. Worry was clawing at the back of his mind and no matter how much he tried to tell himself that he'd find d'Artagnan just outside the Garrison, he couldn't quite bring himself to believe it.

He hit street level at a flat out run, barging through the main doors without pause and casting about desperately for any sign of d'Artagnan.

There was no one there.

---

"I gave you specific orders Athos," Treville snapped, his face a mixture of fury and concern. "You knew damn well that the kid was a flight risk and you let him go off on his own! I thought you knew better than to do something so monumentally stupid."

"Sir, if I may?" Aramis sounded very small, but he was standing firm despite his obvious reticence. Treville waved a hand in permission. "I'm not suggesting that we sit around waiting, but I believe d'Artagnan intends to return."

Treville's eyes narrowed dangerously. "And what, exactly, makes you think that?"

"Well," he said, swallowing audibly, "He left his laptop behind."

"His laptop?" It was evident that if things didn't start making more sense soon then Treville was going to start screaming, so Porthos jumped in, seeing the point Aramis was trying to make.

"He's barely put the thing down since we met him. He was annoyed when Aramis so much as touched it. For whatever reason that laptop is important to him, and he wouldn't leave it behind willingly."

Athos squinted at a spot on the wall for a moment, thinking hard. "If he's taken off, it's likely because he found something he wanted to investigate without us tagging along. Whatever it is that he found will surely still be on his laptop, and since we have that..."

"We can find him," Treville finished, pushing aside his anger temporarily. "Good. I'll call someone from tech up to have a look at it. Dismissed." He called Athos back just as he reached the door, his face darkening once more, if only for a second. "Don't think I'll forget about this. You and I need to have a long talk about reasonable allowances."

Athos gulped, well aware just how much trouble he was in. "Of course sir."

---

d'Artagnan slipped through the doorway as quietly as he could. From the outside the flat looked as though it had been abandoned for weeks, but he wasn't stupid enough to count on it when he was dealing with people as dangerous as this.

Several weeks' worth of letters were strewn across the welcome mat with obvious footprints outlined in mud over the top layer; someone had been there recently. Wary, d'Artagnan stooped and poked at the mud, relieved to find it crumbly beneath his hand – not fresh then. The rest of the grimy hallway looked untouched, though to be fair it would have been hard to notice signs of life in a space so catastrophically grim.

There was rubbish all over the floor, and every available surface was covered in cardboard boxes that were steadily rotting into nothingness. One of them had split to pour what looked like ancient newspapers across the far end of the hallway and even from several yards away d'Artagnan could see the tell-tale rough edges that spoke of hungry rats.

Swallowing back nausea, d'Artagnan pressed on. He couldn't hear movement, but he took care nonetheless, and entered what seemed to be the living room without making a sound. Like the hallway he'd just left, the room he now found himself was edging towards a biohazard zone but that wasn't what caught his attention. Off to his right there was another doorway and from beyond it a smell was wafting, distinct and awful. The air was thick with the cloying odour, and even though it was not something he had ever smelled before, d'Artagnan knew in an instant exactly what it was.

Horror overrode his sense of caution and he forgot all about his plan to keep quiet as he staggered his way to the kitchen doorway and took in the scene in front of him.

The body was lying spread eagled on the floor as though he'd been thrown there by a disinterested by-stander. It could have been comical if it wasn't for the pool of blood that had spread out over the linoleum floor from the gaping mess that had previously been the man's neck. As if the wound wasn't evidence enough, from the blood that had splattered over the dated counters it was obvious that it hadn't been a painless end. If d'Artagnan had to hazard a guess, he'd have said that a dog had torn out his throat.

That thought existed for half a second before d'Artagnan was lurching away from the doorway, gagging against the smell that flooded his lungs. Nausea balled so high in his gut that it sent him to his knees, too distraught to even care about the carpet that was more mould than fabric as he retched helplessly. He wasn't sure if it was a blessing or a curse that his stomach was already empty.

Still mostly out of it, he almost didn't the near silent tread of someone approaching, a shadow looming in the corner of his eye. There was a sudden explosion of movement beside him and in an act that most definitely saved his life, his hindbrain kicked into gear with a vengeance. Instinct sent adrenaline coursing through every muscle and forced him off his knees to stagger backwards against a wall, protecting his flank.

The knife of his would-be attacker thudded harmlessly into the floor.

"Well, well, well," the man crowed with a sharp smile, yanking the blade free once more. "What do we have here?"

Terrified but determined not to show it, d'Artagnan set his jaw and squared his shoulders. "Who the hell are you?"

The man's grin grew wider, revealing yellowed and chipped teeth. "I'm the man who's going to gut you, boy."

d'Artagnan sucked in a deep breath and bared his teeth. "Good luck with that."

Dispensing with words, the man lunged towards d'Artagnan with the knife outstretched like he could spear him to the wall. Expecting the move, d'Artagnan twisted neatly out the way of the blade and brought his elbow down sharply on the guy's wrist with enough force that the knife was sent skittering away across the floor.

Yelling in pain and anger, his attacker pressed forwards once more, one fist coming up to try and catch d'Artagnan's jaw even as his other hand threw a vicious sucker punch into his gut. On pure instinct d'Artagnan manged to duck the first blow but his unprotected stomach didn't fare so well. The punch knocked the wind right out of him and he folded helplessly over the fist as his lungs spasmed, his knees going weak beneath him.

Pressing his advantage, the man threw an uppercut that smashed into d'Artagnan's jaw and sent him flying to the ground with a painful thud, his head cracking back sufficiently hard to blank out his vision for a few seconds. By the time he'd regained his senses, the man had crouched over him, fitting his hands around his throat like it was the most natural thing in the world.

d'Artagnan grabbed at his hands, nails scrabbling about wildly in the hopes of loosening their chokehold but he didn't stand a chance and he knew it. Abandoning the attempt with one of his hands, he cast about instead for the fallen knife, hoping that it was somewhere within arm's reach. So intent on killing him was the man that he didn't even seem to notice.

His vision had narrowed down to nothing more than a few spots of sickly light, panic clawing high in his throat as he gaped, breathless. There was a voice in the back of his head screaming 'I'm going to die I'm going to die I'm going to die,' and he was terrified that would be the last thought in his head.

Everything was falling away, the world rushing through his head in a furious stream as he tried for one last breath…

His fingers brushed something metallic. Renewed adrenaline twitched at his fingertips and with the very last strength he had in him, he snatched at it, thrusting upwards to jam it hilt deep into the man's ribs. Still running on nothing more than pure desperation he pulled the blade back and struck again and again and again, too many emotions vying for his attention to even understand what he was doing.

With the first blow, the vice on his neck went slack, hands falling away as the body slumped forwards with a last, gurgled breath. The weight landing on him put a halt to d'Artagnan's mad attack. He lay utterly still for a moment, panting hard as blood pumped thick and warm over his hand and onto his stomach, before he exploded back into action. With a cry of horror he shoved the body up just enough that he could drag himself out from under the dead weight and crawled over to the wall, pressing his back up against it as though it could support him as he gasped and sobbed.

He'd never killed anyone before and for all his big words about wanting to kill his father's murderer, that had never actually translated into striking the killing blow and feeling the life drain out of a person under his own hands. He felt sick. The blood covering his shirt was starting to clot into thick, slimy tendrils and he had to force his eyes away from the sight, the nausea returning now that he wasn't fighting for his life.

Distantly he was aware that he was shaking, but he felt too removed from his body to give it much thought. A piece of his mind – the innocent part that his parents had nurtured so carefully – had crumbled to dust the instant he felt that man's hands go limp against his skin, and without it he felt unbalanced.

So it was that when the Musketeers arrived twenty minutes later, they found d'Artagnan curled in on himself in the corner of the living room, trembling.

Aramis was the first to recover from his shock, glancing momentarily over the very obviously dead man before crossing over to d'Artagnan and crouching down in front of him. He made no attempt to touch him, evidently aware of just how on edge he was.

"Was he your first kill?" He asked quietly, no trace of judgement in his tone. In the quiet of the room there was no way that the other two couldn't hear them, but Aramis had a way of making it seem as though everything that passed between them was private.

Slowly, d'Artagnan's muscles started to unclench. "Yes," he replied, surprised when his voice sounded as wrecked as he felt.

Aramis' eyes narrowed instantly. "You're hurt," he said, not making it a question.

"It's nothing. The blood isn't mine." He tried to sound more natural, but if anything it was worse.

"That doesn't mean you're not hurt. Tell me what happened?"

Sucking in as deep a breath as he could without wanting to scream, d'Artagnan tried to remember the order of events. It had been a confusing half hour. "I came in but there was no one here. I was going to have a look around but then I found…" He waved a vague hand in the direction of the kitchen doorway as words failed him, the image of the torn out throat swimming unbidden before his eyes once more. He squeezed them shut, then instantly opened them again when it only made things worse.

Confused, Porthos crossed over to the door and glanced in. "Jesus," he said when he saw the horror within, his face twisted unpleasantly. In answer to the questioning glances from his comrades, he shook his head.

His face soft with sympathy, Aramis looked back at d'Artagnan and offered him an encouraging smile. "Then what happened?"

"That guy snuck up on me. I was… freaking out, honestly. I didn't hear him come in. We fought and then, well." He couldn't bring himself to look at the body, fixing his eyes instead on Aramis' collar.

"Where are you hurt?"

It took him a few minutes to think about it, trying to catalogue which aches and pains were real and which were imagined. His stomach ached quietly with the dull pounding of deep bruising and he thought that somewhere along the way one of his molars had been knocked loose, but the biggest concern was his neck. The skin felt raw and tight, as though phantom hands were still resting there, waiting to snap shut once more.

"There's nothing more than bruising," he said eventually. "You can't do anything about it."

"Let me see," Aramis insisted.

Huffing lightly in only-slightly-genuine irritation, d'Artangan tipped his head back to let the Musketeer see his neck. The man hissed in a breath and made an aborted motion towards him.

"He choked you?"

"He managed to get me on the ground. I was passing out and then I found the knife… I didn't want to kill him." He would have been embarrassed about how small those words sounded if he could muster the energy for the emotion.

"People like us never do. It didn't make it any less necessary. It was you or him, you understand me?"

d'Artagnan didn't have the words to answer, so he just nodded mutely.

Aramis frowned again, then looked back over to Athos who was still lingering in the doorway to the hall, his eyes fixed on the growing pool of blood around the dead man. "Athos. I left my bag in your car. There's a spare shirt in there that should fit d'Artagnan."

The Musketeer turned and left without a word, his eyes far away. d'Artagnan barely noticed his passing.

A thought occurred to him then, only now that his mind was starting to put itself back into order and he frowned at Aramis. "How did you find me?"

"The address for this place was on your laptop. One of our techs found it was the last thing you looked at before you took off."

"Oh," he said quietly. He was intimately aware that he was on the brink of arrest and he wouldn't be surprised if these three argued to be the ones to throw him into the cell – it was deserved at this point. "I didn't mean to run," he offered after a moment of uncomfortable silence.

"How do you run accidentally?" Porthos put in, rather more harshly than he meant to if d'Artagnan's flinch was anything to go by. Aramis shot him an annoyed look.

"I really did just want some air," he said, aware that his voice was barely audible. "But then I got outside and I was alone… I didn't think it through. It was spur of the moment, I swear."

Aramis' face didn't give anything away but d'Artagnan didn't really mind if they believed him or not. It was the truth but it was hardly going to be enough for them to just forget that he had betrayed their trust, fragile as it was. He just felt that it needed saying.

The next few minutes passed in an uncomfortable silence before Athos reappeared with a worn t-shirt clutched tightly in one fist, his other hand pressing his phone to his ear. He looked vaguely irritated as he tossed the top to Aramis and from the venomous look he shot d'Artagnan, it wasn't hard to guess why.

"He's pissed at me, isn't he?" d'Artagnan asked when Athos had disappeared back out the door.

"He isn't without reason," Aramis pointed out lightly. He tugged at the edge of d'Artagnan's shirt until he relented and removed the offending article. It wasn't until he'd got the damned thing over his head that he realised his chest and stomach would be as battered as the rest of him, with particularly spectacular bruising appearing just under his ribs, a remnant of the punch that had dropped him.

d'Artagnan glared balefully at the marks as though his look alone could make them disappear. Beside him, Aramis froze and hissed through his teeth in surprise. "You know," he said amiably after a moment, steel hidden underneath his cheery tone, "I really don't like people hiding injuries from me."

"I'm not trying to hide anything," d'Artagnan said honestly, aware that he wouldn't be believed. He highly doubted these men would ever believe anything he ever said again, and he knew it was all his fault. "I hadn't thought."

He must have looked worse than he thought, because after a few seconds of weighing him up in silence, Aramis' eyes softened slightly in understanding. "You're right, as it happens. There's not a lot I can do for bruises. If you're in pain we can swing by the hospital-"

"-No!" He snapped instantly, while simultaneously wishing he'd kept his mouth shut. Biting back on his kneejerk reflex, he added more softly, "No, that's fine thank you. It doesn't really hurt."

The conversation was – somewhat thankfully – cut off there by Athos' reappearance. He glanced over d'Artagnan's battered form for a moment but didn't comment, focussing instead on Porthos. "When Treville asks, you were the one that stabbed him," he said, nodding at the corpse. "It's a lot less paper work and we can avoid the court case."

Porthos shrugged easily. "Sure. I can do that."

"It was self-defence," d'Artagnan argued very quietly, feeling more than a little judged. "I wasn't trying to kill him."

Athos breathed out heavily, clearly still furious but aware that d'Artagnan couldn't bear his anger right now. "I know that," he said eventually. "But you'd still have to appear at court and have it be ruled as self-defence. If a Musketeer kills someone while working a case, it's simply a matter of reporting it and letting someone higher up the food chain worry about the legality. Trust me, it's easier this way."

That made a certain amount of sense, and it didn't sound as though he was blaming him so d'Artagnan subsided. He tugged the shirt out of Aramis' grip and pulled it gingerly over his head, careful that it didn't tighten on his neck at any point. He was under the impression that the skin on his neck was going to be aching for some time.

"Isn't that better?" Aramis asked brightly, before reaching out and snapping one end of some handcuffs closed around d'Artagnan's left wrist. The other end he fixed around his own, binding the pair of them together.

Somehow startled, d'Artagnan could do nothing for several seconds but stare at it in mute surprise. Then, gently, he tugged at his hand. Aramis didn't move an inch.

"Oh," he said, very quietly. It wasn't like he hadn't known they were going to arrest him after all this was over anyway, and he'd proven himself an unreliable hostage with his disappearing act. It was utterly ridiculous to have hoped that they might still let him work on the case. He had absolutely no right to feel disappointed. None.

Somehow, that didn't help.

Desperation welled thick and fierce in his gut but he pushed it away with a brutal mental shove, determined that at the very least he would not show these men what this meant to him. Instead he dragged his eyes away from the cuff and settled them in the region of Athos' chest. Eye contact was not an option.

"So, what now?" He asked, surprised that his voice was steady.

"Now," Athos said, "We drag you back to the Garrison and let Treville yell at you for as long as he feels is necessary. Then, you tell us how you found this place and what connection it has to everything that has happened."

Thrown for a loop, d'Artagnan glanced quickly at them all in darting flashes. "You mean- You're not arresting me?"

"Do we look like we're arresting you?"

He looked at the metal band around his wrist. "Um, kind of?"

"Our arrests are generally more brutal," Aramis admitted conspiratorially. "They rarely want to come quietly, you see. This," he shook the chain slightly, "Is just a precaution should the urge to flee take control again."

"But," Athos added, his voice as hard as stone, "Should you withhold information from us again, or in any way try to escape, I will lock you up myself. I promise you that."

---

It turned out that 'as long as Treville felt was necessary' was actually something close to an hour. The one consolation was that, since Aramis was attached to him, he'd had to sit through the whole lecture too.

With his ears ringing and utterly convinced that trying to run away again would be very bad for his health, d'Artagnan found himself back in front of his laptop which he was relieved to have returned to him, unharmed. He felt a thrill of nerves arching up his spine as the others gathered around to hear what he had to say, but he buried it under the false surety he'd been using to get him through the last ten days.

"So, here's what I found. The apartment belongs to a man called Frederick Berand – he's been in and out of prisons all his life, no real plans for the future. Your usual dead-beat criminal."

"What makes him important?" Athos appeared to have put aside his anger long enough to be brutally professional about the whole thing. d'Artagnan wasn't sure if it was better or worse than the open glaring.

"In 1985 my father arrested him for possession of class A drugs with the intent to sell. He was eventually convicted and served time for it on a reduced sentence. As soon as he was given the chance, he rolled on everyone else he knew of in the operation and made a deal."

"Must have made him some friends," Aramis said.

"Friends and enemies as it turns out. Everyone in his circle that didn't get sent down started hunting him the minute he was out of jail but the cops he'd worked with helped him. They gave him a protective detail and got him off the grid long enough to set him up in Paris under a new name In return, he'd offer them information once in a while."

"The cops who helped him… Your father?"

"Hard to say," d'Artagnan said, ignoring the way his voice shook. "If it was, it wasn't something he ever told me but he never really spoke about this part of his work. However, I'd imagine he wasn't involved. He retired from the force a few years later so whatever contact they did have would only have been short lived."

"What's his link to the other victims?"

"Before his retirement five years ago, Mr Statten – the second victim – was a lawyer. I'm inclined to believe his wife was killed simply because she was there – she hadn't worked since her youth and doesn't appear to have been involved in anything more sinister than her local knitting club. Whatever link there is, it has to be through the husband."

"A lawyer? He'd have been in contact with his fair share of criminals. Plenty of time to make some enemies."

"Exactly. Now, in 1999 Statten worked as the prosecutor in a fairly high profile case involving a man called Jean Berand."

"A relation to Frederick?"

"His son."

"Convicting a man's son is enough to start a grudge," Athos admitted. "What happened to Jean?"

"He was convicted of murder in the first degree, grand theft auto, breaking and entering, possession of a deadly weapon… You name it, he did it. He was sentenced to life in prison without parole. The sentence is widely considered to be thanks to the strength of the prosecution team."

"Okay, so we have a man with motive for both murders. Your father arrested him and Statten convicted his son. What's the connection to me?"

"I have absolutely no idea. I'd need to look through your files to find that out and I didn't want to waste time trying to get into your database to search. Berand comes from a whole family of criminals, it's possible you crossed paths with a relative at some point."

"Where does this leave us?" Aramis asked.

"That depends. Do you know who the dead man at the flat was yet?"

"The one you – I – killed," Porthos said, correcting himself quickly, "Was me, ironically. He matches the description we have of the man in Lille using my name, but we don't have a real name yet. We're still waiting on a positive ID for the other man. He wasn't Berand?"

"No." He pulled up a mugshot of Berand to show them. "It's not him."

"You're sure?"

"I'm pretty sure that man's face is going to be burned into my retinas forever more. He's not Berand."

There was a momentary pause in which the Musketeers shot troubled looks at each other over d'Artagnan's head. It was one thing for them to have to deal with gruesome murders but he was still little more than a kid. "So who was he then?" Aramis asked once the silence had grown beyond awkward.

"I was sort of hoping you guys could find that out," d'Artagnan said. "Don't you have… I don't know. Records, or something?"

"I was under the impression you were using our records," Athos muttered. He didn't press the matter though, instead pulling out his ancient mobile and poking at it as though it had personally wronged him. He stepped away as he put it to his ear, but didn't bother leaving the room entirely. "Hey Jackie," he said after a moment's pause. "I know you've not had long, but any chance of an ID on our John Doe?"

There were a good few seconds of what sounded like shouting from the other end of the phone.

"I'm well aware of that, Jack," Athos said once the shouting had died down. "But this is more than a little important."

The shouting didn't start up again, so it would seem that Athos' sincerity had gotten through. d'Artagnan kept his eyes down, almost afraid to look at Athos when he was so viscerally aware that the man was so upset with him. They all were – Treville had made that amply clear – but somehow it was Athos' disdain that stung the most. He was the one who had chosen to trust d'Artagnan, after all.

"You're a life saver Jackie," Athos said after another brief pause. The conversation continued for a few more seconds as they said their goodbyes before he hung up and turned back to them. d'Artagnan still didn't look up. "Pathology got a lucky hit off the guy's prints – he's listed under the name Daniel Zamberan."

"He was in the system?" Aramis asked.

"He served jail time." This revelation, surprisingly, came from d'Artagnan, who's hands were flashing over his keyboard once more, his movements only slightly dampened by the cuff they had refused to remove.

"You know him?" d'Artagnan didn't know if Athos was trying to sound so accusing, but he bristled slightly nonetheless.

"Hardly. His name came up in my earlier searches… Ah! Here we go." He pulled up a mugshot that, with some imagination, could be a younger version of the dead man they had found. "The man had a grand total of one jail spell for a DUI that spiralled into a manslaughter charge. He was at a party one night, eventually decided to get behind the wheel and managed to run over a UPMC student. He stopped to help her but she died of wounds sustained a few days later and he went down for it."

"Serves the bastard right," Porthos muttered quietly. None of them tried to disagree.

"What's the connection?" Athos pressed, wanting to keep them on topic. They had to be getting close to something.

"For a grand total of five weeks, Zamberan was the cellmate of one Frederick Berand. Reports tended to indicate that the two of them got on well at the time – I thought it might be something before, but there's no record of Zamberan once he was released. He just dropped off the map, criminally speaking. I figured he'd got himself out."

"Maybe he did. Berand could have dragged him back in," Aramis suggested. "Doing a friend a favour and all that."

"Then how does Zamberan end up dead in Berand's flat? Why go to the trouble of involving him only to kill him? There's got to be something else."

Athos hummed quietly, considering. "Those reports that say Berand and Zamberan were close… Do they mention anyone else? Someone they were both close to?"

d'Artagnan fell silent for a moment, the only noise the soft tapping of his keys as he searched for the relevant report. "Um… No, not specifically," he said after skimming over it once more. "No, wait, hang on. It's not on the same report but there was an incident file around the same time… Yes!" He pulled up a document that looked as though it should have been redacted. Athos didn't want to ask how he'd got the full version. "Some of the prison officers thought that someone was managing to get information in and out of the prison – there was a series of incidents that didn't quite add up and somehow Berand was involved. By extension, Zamberan came under suspicion too."

"Was anything proven?"

"No. One day the whole operation just went dark and no one could work out what had happened. Even the people on the inside who were thought to be involved didn't know what was going on. It was assumed that whoever was on the outside had either quit or been taken off the board by something. Either way it was case closed. No one looked into any further."

Athos huffed in annoyance. "This isn't exactly helpful."

"That depends," d'Artagnan argued. "What were the three of you doing in April 2001?"

Aramis caught on quickly, realising what he was getting at. "You think we were involved in the operation going down. It would certainly link Berand and Zamberan to you Athos, through whoever the outside man was."

"I don't remember investigating anything to do with prison corruption," Athos pointed out, shrugging at the others. "Do you?"

"Worth a look, at least," Porthos agreed. "Can you look at our records on there?" He asked d'Artagnan, nodding at the laptop.

"I thought we'd agreed I wouldn't try and break into the Musketeer files. I'm willing to give it a shot but since you three actually have access…"

Aramis looked pointedly down at the handcuff that still bound him to d'Artagnan, then turned his smug gaze on his friends. "Well, I'm a little tied down and since this one-" he nodded at d'Artagnan, "-isn't allowed in the archives, I think I'll have to pass."

"Bagsy not me," Porthos said instantly, smiling widely at Athos.

Athos looked between the pair of them for a minute, then sighed heavily. "I work with children," he bemoaned quietly, but turned to leave nonetheless. It wasn't even that far to the archives – they were only one floor down and if you were really feeling that lazy, there was a lift. They dodged bullets for a living for pity's sake.

The trio he left behind were suffering a slightly awkward interlude from work, having nothing to do but wait for Athos to return. Porthos was starting to regret not offering to be the one to go.

Aramis, of course, refused to let the awkward silence reach him and grinned broadly at d'Artagnan. "You know, I can't help but notice," he started, that spark of mischief bright in his eyes, "That you seemed to have calmed down quite a bit since yesterday."

Someone not trained in the art of seeing everything might have missed the minute flinch d'Artagnan gave at that, but neither of them were stupid. They exchanged a quick glance over his head in concern.

"Yeah," Porthos agreed flippantly, watching d'Artagnan's every move. "What happened to the cocksure kid who broke into Athos' house? Even Aramis can't have worn you down that quickly."

They let the silence drag until d'Artagnan curled into himself very slightly, his eyes fixed on the cuff around his wrist. "I'm tired, that's all."

Aramis jumped on the statement in seconds. "Well, you didn't exactly sleep much last night. And I'm willing to wager that's become a fairly normal state for you over the last few days, hasn't it?"

d'Artagnan didn't answer.

"And it's not like you've been eating a lot either, since we met you at least. Is that something you want to talk about?"

Still nothing.

"Or how about the way you flinch when any of us so much as talks? Or moves? You know, I really think-"

"What?" d'Artagnan snapped suddenly, his thread of restraint frayed beyond its limit. "What do you want me to say? I'm not sleeping. I'm not eating. The thought of doing either makes me feel physically sick." The words poured out of him, gut wrenching and raw. "And the flinching? I'm sure that has nothing to do with the fact my father just died. Or maybe that now I've involved myself in this I probably have a giant fucking target painted on my back. Or maybe, just maybe, it's because all I want to do is find the man that murdered my father and yet I'm stuck here, literally chained to someone who will try and stop me from killing the bastard. So tell me Aramis, because I really want to know, what exactly is it that you think right now?"

d'Artagnan was physically shaking, visibly alive with adrenaline and the others could do nothing but stare at him in shock. It wasn't such a surprise that someone in his position needed a break down – he deserved one after everything that had happened – but the vitriolic hate in his voice hadn't been something that either of them had expected. Worse, that it was not directed at Aramis at all, but inwards. Blaming himself.

Of course, that had to be the moment that Athos reappeared, glancing between them uncertainly as soon as he felt the tension in the room. "What's going on?" He asked tentatively.

"Nothing," d'Artagnan said after a pause, once it became clear that the others were going to let him deal with this as he saw fit. Well, denial had always worked in the past. "What did you find?"

Athos, Aramis and Porthos held a brief, silent conversation. They couldn't press d'Artagnan any further without being total assholes but it was clear he needed to talk about it, if only so that he could vent the toxin out of him. It was a problem for later, Athos decided.

"In 2001, we got word of a Red Guard double dealing under the table. The information was given to Richelieu and the perpetrator was routed out and arrested – all standard procedure. The important part is that it just so happens the original intel of his transgressions came from our team."

"I remember that," Porthos put in then. "He was selling secrets, wasn't he?"

"Apparently ones that he'd picked up in prison, if our theory is anything to go by," Athos agreed.

"Do you have a name?" d'Artagnan asked, trying to bite back the annoyance in his tone. He wasn't really angry with them he knew.

"Gaudet. Phillip Gaudet."

---

It was almost frightening how quickly d'Artagnan could take a name and turn it into every dirty little secret Gaudet had never wanted anyone else to know. Athos really should have expected it after bearing witness to the fruition of that very skill just a few days ago, but it was a different thing entirely to see all that information trawling across a screen before his eyes.

"Can you get a recent location? Anywhere to look?"

"Give me two minutes, Christ," d'Artagnan muttered, tugging irritably at the handcuffs when they restricted his lighting fast movements. Aramis obligingly shifted his hand closer.

"Forgive me, I thought you were good at this," Athos snarked back without even thinking, in the same way he would have done if he was talking to Aramis or Porthos. Even he pulled up short at that, sharing the confused glance his friends shot him.

"I can give you his most recent address if you want but it was registered the day he was arrested and it's since been sold off by the state. I'm going to assume that he's not living there right now."

"Credit cards?"

"Nada. Don't know how he's managing his money right now – which, by the way, he should have a lot of – because he's smart enough to keep it out of his name. When he was arrested he was charged with embezzlement and theft but the money he took never turned up. I'm going to guess an offshore account under a fake name."

Porthos hummed. "Embezzlement and theft. Likely treason too, if what we found was any indication. Why is he not still behind bars?"

That was enough to darken d'Artagnan's expression. "That's a good damn question. His release forms are all redacted and I can't work out who I need to hack into to get the full files. I'd guess the Red Guards to be honest, but I could be wrong."

"You're probably not," Athos said grimly. If something involving Richelieu looked fishy then you could be damn sure the man had his hand in it. "Don't worry about that now. We just need to find him."

"This isn't exactly simple. It's like looking for a needle in a haystack when that needle is actively trying to hide from you."

"This coming from the kid who hunted down a government agent in less than a fortnight."

d'Artagnan apparently didn't feel that was worthy of comment, because he just kept typing. The screen flashed through a multitude of windows so quickly that Athos didn't even try to follow what he was doing, the lines of text utterly meaningless to him. Idly, he wondered what his week would have been like if d'Artagnan hadn't shown up in his living room with a gun at his side and a bomb between them – probably quieter, certainly. But this would have swung around to him sooner or later anyway, he supposed. Having someone like d'Artagnan on their side, if only for now, felt like a win.

Time continued to grind achingly past, each minute feeling like a waste, somehow. Now that they had a direction, Athos wanted to move, to bring this bastard down. If only they knew what direction to run in.

"I think I have something," d'Artagnan announced at length. "Could be nothing, but someone just used his log in for one of his financial accounts."

"I thought you said you couldn't find any money."

"I couldn't find significant money. He has a few bank accounts here and there with small earnings in – nothing to get excited about. But someone just used his internet username and password to gain access to his account with Banque Populaire. It's the largest account he has… €15,000 give or take."

"What's he doing?" Porthos asked at the same time as Athos asked, "Can you find him?"

"Not a clue what he's doing. As for finding him, I'm trying to get the IP from his log in… Give me a few seconds. Banks are tricky."

Aramis chuffed softly with laughter. "That's a comfort."

"Not really from our point of view," d'Artangan pointed out. "Ahh, now we're getting somewhere. He's in Paris, for one."

"Where?"

"Um – yes! 14th arrondissement. I have an address." d'Artagnan practically glowed with pleasure, obviously proud. Porthos ruffled his hair in an oddly fond gesture.

"Good job, kid," Aramis said sincerely, any trace of bitterness or anger completely cleared from his tone. d'Artagnan's face nearly split open with his smile.

---

The building they pulled up in front of didn't look like much, but they knew better than to trust appearances.

"You're certain this is the place?" Athos asked d'Artagnan sceptically.

"This is where the log in came from. Whether it was Gaudet doing the logging in is another matter entirely. Worth a look, right?"

Athos met his eyes in the rear-view mirror steadily for a moment then nodded. His gaze shifted to Aramis, sat beside him to accommodate the ever-present handcuffs. "Let's go then," he said pointedly.

Aramis had taken the hint before d'Artagnan had time to even parse what he'd said and, unable to do anything to stop him, d'Artagnan watched as Aramis neatly released himself and snapped the cuff instead around d'Artagnan's door handle. He stared at it in muted horror and shock.

"You cannot be serious." He tugged against the restraint just to reaffirm that he wasn't dreaming.

Aramis smiled brightly. "Suck it up kid. We don't know what we're walking into here and that definitely means no newbies invited. If everything's safe, I'll come back and get you in a few minutes. Deal? Deal."

With that, he scrambled out of the car and slammed the door shut before d'Artagnan could protest. Athos and Porthos had already magically disappeared.

"Way to fucking go," d'Artagnan muttered to himself, furious. He yanked at the handcuff hard enough that the metal bit sharply into the skin of his wrist but he didn't care. It wasn't like this wasn't something he deserved after the shit he'd pulled, but he'd still kind of hoped that they'd let him be involved. If the man that killed his father was in there, didn't he have a right to go with them?

Still scowling and grumbling under his breath, he fished for the lockpick he'd tucked into his belt. If they didn't learn from their mistakes, that was their damn problem. He got the cuffs off in record time, tossing them to the far end of the seats to put distance between them now that he was finally rid of their confines, but then he ran into another problem – Athos had locked the doors. He tried the handle again just to be sure, throwing his weight against it in futility.

"God damn," he griped quietly, contorting himself between the front seats so that he could slide into the driver's seat. Already suspecting it wouldn't work, he poked at the unlock button on the dashboard. Unsurprisingly, nothing happened. "Figures."

With a sigh, he let himself slide down the chair until he was curled in the foot-well, giving him access to the panel underneath the steering wheel. It took him a minute or so to claw the plastic covering off with his fingernails but he was determined to get himself out of there and this was the easiest way to do it.

d'Artagnan didn't know a huge amount about cars – he was pretty sure he could hotwire one in a pinch but for the most part he was content to rely on a mechanic to sort out any problems he encountered. That being said, he'd always been a curious child and at some point his brain had run through all of the ways he could get out of a car if he was trapped, and that conundrum had led him to the discovery of a wire running under the steering wheel that controlled the electronic locks of the driver side doors. It was a simple matter to tug the right wire free.

The lock audibly clicked open and d'Artagnan let out a satisfied sigh. As an afterthought, he leaned over and opened the glove box to see if there was anything of use – a small handgun glinted back at him. The Musketeers would do well not to underestimate him again.

---

It was fortunate that the building consisted of a single house instead of separate apartments, Aramis thought to himself as he and Athos approached the front door. If they'd had to check multiple homes there would have been more than enough time for someone to slip out quietly, and they'd have lost any chance they had at getting to Gaudet. As it was, Porthos had been able to slip around to the back which left them at the front – no one was getting out without them knowing about it.

Athos knocked on the door heavily. There was a moment of tense silence, then the muffled sound of something being knocked over, presumably by someone moving in a hurry.

"That's promising," Aramis said cheerily.

"Phillip Gaudet?" Athos shouted, ignoring his companion. "Open up!" He banged on the door again. "Gaudet?"

When no response was forth coming, Aramis heaved a sigh and tugged out his hand gun. "The old fashioned way then?"

Athos mimicked his actions. "So it would seem."

It actually took a considerable amount of strength to kick down a locked door, no matter what TV would try and have them believe, but thankfully strength was something that none of them were lacking. The frame around the lock splintered and gave way, the door swinging open to crash loudly against the wall as Athos and Aramis streamed through, weapons raised.

Clearing a house was something they'd done a thousand times – they didn't have to talk to know where the other one was moving to. Their efficiency meant that they'd checked every room on the ground floor within thirty seconds and come up with nothing, regrouping at the foot of the stairs with their guns pointing towards the darkened landing.

"You first?" Aramis asked casually.

Athos shrugged, unbothered, and put his foot on the first step just as there was a smash of shattered glass and a short yelp from beyond the still open front door. Aramis and Athos looked at each other for a moment in surprise, then turned as one for the door.

They needn't have hurried. The front 'garden' – such as it was – was now covered in a thousand glints of broken glass from one of the upper windows and Aramis saw the tell-tale red smudge of blood on the ground. The man – who they could now see was indeed Gaudet – was upright, just about, and frozen solid a few feet from the gate, hands held away from his sides ever so slightly in a gesture of surrender. Standing before him, gun raised and looking like he was a breath away from totally losing it, was d'Artagnan.

Athos recovered first, thankfully. Aramis' brain was stuck somewhere between a mental 'huh' and 'does this kid ever do what he's told?'

"d'Artagnan, I need you to listen to me, okay?"

"He killed my father," he replied instantly, his voice completely dead of all inflection or emotion. His eyes were wild in his immobile face.

"I know that," Athos said softly, taking half a step forwards then rocking back again when d'Artagnan went tense. "But no matter how much he deserves it, you shoot him and it's still murder. You know that. You'd be shooting an unarmed man."

"My father was unarmed. It didn't stop him."

"You're better than him," Athos argued. He barely knew the kid and yet he knew that for an absolute fact; for one thing, he hadn't shot Gaudet on sight. "Your father wouldn't want you to do this and you know it. We'd have to arrest you. Please d'Artagnan, don't make me do that."

"You're going to anyway. What does it matter? What life do I have to look forward to after this? I wantto kill him, Athos, I want-" He cut himself off sharply, but Athos saw the expression on his face before he could hide it – he recognised it in himself.

It had been clear for some time that as hate-filled and aggressive as d'Artagnan was at that moment, he was, at the core, a good person. Athos knew that because he'd seen the way the kid had looked after taking a life without malice, after learning a little more of the horrors in the world and no person that looked as he had could be anything other than genuine. And so when someone with a heart like d'Artagnan's was wounded and wanted to hurt, wanted to kill, it would tear them up inside until they were nothing more than a hollow shell. It was exactly what had happened to Athos.

He would not let it happen to d'Artagnan.

"You want to kill him," Athos said simply. Someone needed to acknowledge that aloud and perhaps hearing it would help d'Artagnan accept the truth of it. "But you're not a killer, not really. You've got the guts for it, certainly, but you're too good of a person to think that ending lives is a better alternative to saving them. You've killed a man before – did that bring you satisfaction?"

"That was different," d'Artagnan said, the words twisting in misery as he fought with himself. His whole body was visibly trembling with emotion but the gun was rock steady. Between them, Gaudet didn't so much as breathe.

"I know it was. But killing is killing d'Artagnan. It never feels any different."

"What the hell would you know about it?"

Athos saw his opening, and knew just what it would cost him to use it. Gaudet's life wasn't worth it, not for an instant, but d'Artagnan's certainly was. It wouldn't just be one person dying here today if this went wrong, he just knew it. "Quite a lot, as it happens. My brother was murdered, years ago. The woman who was my wife killed him."

That was enough of a revelation that d'Artagnan's tear-filled eyes were torn away from Gaudet's face for just an instant to look at Athos. The sheer emotion in that gaze was almost enough to floor him.

"Didn't you want to kill her?"

"With all my heart." The words were fervent with their honesty, and Athos heard Aramis shift uncomfortably at his shoulder. Presumably Porthos was watching them from somewhere but he hadn't heard him approach. Across from him, d'Artagnan looked like he was about to shake to pieces, the first tears escaping his eyes to streak down his cheeks.

"Did you?"

"No. I had friends who stopped me, who showed me reason. They helped me down from that ledge you're on now; please, let me help you as they did. I swear, Gaudet's not going to be hurting anyone ever again – he will see justice. I will make sure of it."

"He was arrested before and yet he was free to kill my father. Justice didn't keep him off the streets."

"And your answer is any better? I know that you think you want to kill him, but I swear if you do that then you'll regret it for the rest of your life."

d'Artagnan's eyes closed momentarily before he forced them open again, clinging on to his sanity with his fingernails. "I don't know what to do," he admitted, his voice small.

Testing the waters, Athos took a slow step forwards. This time, d'Artagnan barely even seemed to notice the movement, apparently trusting him to approach just a little. "You do, d'Artagnan, even if you don't want to accept it. I know that you're hurting and I know how angry you feel – I remember what that's like. But death doesn't make that go away like some magic cure. The only way to help is to give yourself time to heal."

They stayed locked like that for what must have been at least a minute before d'Artagnan finally – finally – shifted his eyes from Gaudet to Athos and fixed them there, pleading. "Help me?"

Athos' stillness shattered in an instant to put him next to d'Artagnan, one hand coming up to tug the gun – one of his, he now noticed – out of unresisting fingers even as the other came up to rest against the back of the kid's neck, pulling him close. Unashamed, d'Artagnan buried his face into Athos' shoulder and clung to him.

Behind him, Athos could hear Aramis clicking handcuffs around Gaudet's wrists. "Phillip Gaudet, I'm arresting you on suspicion of the murders of Alexandre d'Artagnan, Ivan Statten and Rene Statten. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something that you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Understand?"

Gaudet muttered something that sounded distinctly unfriendly even from where Athos was standing.

Unfazed, Aramis just repeated, "Understand?"

"Yes," Gaudet snapped after another muttered curse, his eyes hate-filled as he was pulled past d'Artagnan and Athos towards the car.

"Marvellous," Aramis said, pushing him down the footpath with more force than was strictly necessary.

Aware that Porthos was keeping his distance to give them some space, Athos tried to nudge d'Artagnan's head up so that he could look at him properly. "d'Artagnan? Are you alright?"

Unable to speak, d'Artagnan just shook his head helplessly.

"I know how difficult this is," Athos said, trying to sound calming, "But it's going to be alright, I promise. We've got Gaudet. He's been arrested because of you. I swear to you he will see justice done, for the Stattens and for your father."

d'Artagnan looked very much like he wanted to refute that somehow, but he didn't have the strength. Instead, he frowned. "What happened with your wife… What did you decide to do, in the end?" d'Artagnan's voice was almost silent, as though afraid to hear the answer.

Athos wished he could reassure him, tell him that he made the right decision and everything was sunshine and rainbows, but the world had never worked like that and lies wouldn't help anyone. "My friends stopped me from killing her – and I'm endlessly grateful for that – but I had to decide who's side to be on, who to believe. I chose wrong. I let my hate guide me and I've spent every minute since then trying to atone for what I did. Please, d'Artagnan, don't make my misakes."

For a long moment Athos half feared that he wouldn't get through, that d'Artagnan would make a wild grab for his gun and go after Gaudet again but then all the fight poured out of him and he sagged where he stood. "Too many people have died over this," he said quietly. "Adding to the body count isn't going to do anyone any good."

Athos couldn't have been more proud of the kid. The strength in that admission was so beyond anything he had dared expect from someone who could barely be classed as an adult that he found himself in awe. "You're an exceptional person d'Artagnan," he told him honestly. "Don't you ever forget that."

---

Treville politely left them a few hours between handing over Gaudet and having to make their reports, perhaps in deference to the obviously exhausted Gascon who seemed at something of a loss now it was all over. Without anyone telling him otherwise, he seemed content to more or less hang off Athos' shoulder in silence.

So it was that he ended up in the debriefing room with them, sat in companionable silence without trying to make eye contact with anyone. It was like he was running on autopilot, awaiting directions.

"You've done well," Treville told them all sincerely, once they'd explained everything that had happened – or some version of it anyway. They'd said that d'Artagnan had been the one to stop Gaudet, but they'd conveniently left out the fact that Athos had been forced to talk him down from shooting the bastard.

"Thank you Sir."

"There's more work to be done, of course," he continued easily. "We still have no location on Berand and no clear motive for Zamberan's murder but I'll let a follow-up team take over if no one has any objections?"

There was a general shaking of heads. It was no secret that they were all beyond exhausted and they could all use some downtime.

Treville nodded knowingly. "Well then, there's only one last thing."

It took a good minute or so for d'Artagnan to realise everyone in the room was staring at him. He blinked in confusion. "Sir?"

"My men have had good things to say about you, d'Artagnan, and I've long since learned to trust their judgement. They've seen something in you that they – we – believe would be a valuable asset to the Musketeers."

It was clear that only some of the words were getting through to d'Artagnan when he was in such an addled state, but that seemed to strike something awake in him. He blinked, his eyes sharpening. "Sir?"

Treville was smiling the smile of a man who knew he'd already won. "It is, of course, up to you. But, should you wish to, I believe that the Musketeers would be happy to offer you the chance to join our ranks as a recruit. There would be training, obviously, but I'm assured it would be nothing you can't handle. So, d'Artagnan. Would you like to be a Musketeer?"

And just like that, d'Artagnan's future looked that much brighter.

Chapter Text

d'Artagnan let his head drop to the desk with an audible thump, feeling only mildly regretful when the impact rattled through his skull. Across the table from him, Porthos snorted.

"That bad?" He asked mildly.

Aramis, sat next to him and now patting him consolingly on the shoulder, didn't even question his reaction. "It's always that bad Porthos. You know that."

"So he's got a psych eval. Big deal. I had six of them my first year here."

"That's because you were fresh out of the army and perpetually looked like you'd just killed a man," Aramis retorted, then quickly added, "No offence, my friend."

"You're not wrong," Athos muttered from the corner. He was busy skimming over a file he hadn't yet deigned to share with the rest of them and didn't seem overly interested in joining the conversation, but he was keeping tabs on them nonetheless. He was used to being forced to act as a mediator when their conversations got out of hand.

Porthos let himself look offended for all of ten seconds before he snatched up the rubber band Athos had abandoned and flicked it at Aramis' face. The marksman fell out of his chair to avoid it.

"Children," Athos cautioned lightly.

"Why do I need an evaluation?" d'Artagnan questioned the table top like it had personally wronged him. "I've been working well, I've not done anything wrong-"

"You got blown up in your own home," Athos continued for him, so quietly d'Artagnan almost didn't hear it.

"Is that what this is about?" The Gascon, if anything, looked more incensed. "But I was fine! I took some time off, I healed up and I was back at work without a hitch. It's not like I had some kind of mental break in all that time."

"Maybe that's the problem," Aramis said, having settled himself back into his chair gracefully. "Maybe someone in HR was waiting for you to have some kind of psychotic episode and now they're wondering what's wrong with your brain."

"Good luck working that out," Porthos muttered very softly, at the same time as d'Artagnan protested, "Hey!"

"I'm just saying it's possible," Aramis said.

d'Artagnan looked about ready to start shouting, so Athos took that as his cue to stop pretending to be distracted by the file. "d'Artagnan, calm down. No one is waiting for you to have a psychotic break. We know you're doing fine. But Treville is legally obligated to maintain the mental welfare of his employees and to someone who doesn't know you, it might be considered odd that you were targeted by an assassin without subsequently being offered psychiatric support. It's just ticking a box in some bureaucrat's file, that's all."

"Then offer me the support," d'Artagnan snapped back without heat. "That implies I'm allowed to tell them where to shove it."

At that, Athos had to smile a little. He could tell that d'Artagnan was going to back down now, but he wasn't above being a little petulant so the others would know how annoyed he was. "I'm sure we would all enjoy watching you have that conversation with Treville, but I will not have it for you. Feel free to lodge your own complaint if you wish."

Aramis nearly choked. "Good luck with that. Can I watch?"

"I'll bring the popcorn," Porthos said.

Unamused, d'Artagnan returned to frowning glumly at the table. The room lapsed into comfortable silence for a few minutes, before d'Artagnan broke it with, "How far do you think it is from that window to the ground?"

Porthos did some quick mental maths and smirked. "Enough."

That was apparently what d'Artagnan needed to drag a huff of laughter out of him. "Thank fuck. It's as good a backup plan as any I suppose."

"There will be no jumping out of windows," Athos said instantly.

"I seem to recall a young man with a broken arm telling me to never let him jump out of a window ever again," Aramis added with a sly smile, "Though I'm sure you know what's best."

d'Artagnan ignored him and turned pleading eyes on Athos, as though he had any hopes of winning this conversation. "You don't understand Athos," he pleaded, "They'll ask all these questions and-"

"That is, more or less, their job d'Artagnan."

"-They just sit and stare at you until you say something and then they scribble it all down on their little pads-"

"Taking notes is an advisable practice when offering counselling services."

"-And they'll want me to talk about all these things that have no relevance-"

"Imagine having to actually talk to a psychiatrist. Scandalous."

"-And I can't stand it, Athos," d'Artagnan finished lamely, running out of gusto.

Athos could almost pity the truly miserable look he shot him, but he knew better than to trust in d'Artagnan's 'puppy dog eyes.' "If you're looking for sympathy, you're really looking in the wrong place. It's an hour of you time and then you'll be free of it for another few years at least. Unless you get blown up again. Then, well, you're fucked."

"It says a lot that this is the most annoying thing about having someone blow up my house with me inside it."

Aramis patted his shoulder again. "It says that you're about as insane as we are. Perhaps this evaluation is for the best."

"Fuck off."

Porthos chuckled softly. "I promise it's not going to be that bad. Coral knows what Musketeers can be like and she knows how to be delicate when she needs to be. She's not going to press on anything that's going to hurt."

"Ah, Coral," Aramis hummed peacefully, "A woman after my own heart."

"Ironic, considering she wouldn't go near you with a barge pole," Porthos shot back instantly.

Aramis clapped his hands to his heart, wounded. "How can you say such hurtful things? Coral and I share a special connection that the likes of you would never understand."

Porthos just shook his head at d'Artagnan, who snorted softly. "Aramis, is there anyone in the Garrison that you haven't flirted with? Just out of curiosity, of course."

"I'm certain that there are some beautiful specimens down in the computer department who have yet eluded me. And of course there is our dear newly-arrived Ninon," he said slyly.

The tips of Athos' ears went very pink, and he tried his very hardest to look engrossed in the report in front of him. The others just barely stifled their laughter.

"Yes, of course," d'Artagnan agreed when he'd managed to get himself under control. "Which, on that note, I meant to tell you. Cassidy down in Tech asked me for your number. I said I'd ask if you were cool with it."

"Cassidy? Is she the brunette?"

"Blonde. Works in encryption. About this tall?" He gestured vaguely in the air.

Aramis continued to frown for a moment before understanding lightened his eyes. "Wait, the one who was at that progress meeting on Tuesday?"

"Yeah."

"By all means my friend," Aramis agreed whole-heartedly. With the looks they'd occasionally shared in long and boring meetings, it was probably long past time that they got properly acquainted.

"So Aramis is going to be busy this weekend," Porthos said idly, "What's everyone else planning to do?"

"Busy," Athos said shortly, not looking up. In fact, he was quite determinedly staring down at the report as though begging them not to ask. As usual, they obliged him; besides, with d'Artagnan staying in his house, there was little that he did that they wouldn't know about sooner or later.

"I've not got plans. Want to do something?"

"Sure. I was thinking of heading into the country – getting some air, you know?"

"You know I'm always up for that," d'Artagnan agreed readily. Even after all this time in Paris, he still wasn't truly adjusted to the city and frequently found himself longing for the peaceful quiet of the countryside.

Porthos nodded happily, then distracted himself by attempting to steal the file off a protective Athos. It was only then that d'Artagnan realised what the larger man had been trying to do – by making plans with him for the weekend, he'd given him something to look forwards to beyond the dreaded evaluation. Porthos could be a sneaky bastard when he wanted to, and d'Artagnan was never going to stop being grateful for it.

d'Artagnan's slow mental thought train was broken off suddenly by his phone buzzing harshly against the table – an alarm reminding him of the very thing he'd been dreading. Only semi-joking, he asked, "Do you reckon the window's locked?"

"d'Artagnan, go," Athos ordered. "It will be completely fine."

"Easy for you to say," he muttered petulantly, but he pushed himself up nonetheless.

"I promise you. Besides, if I'm wrong, there's a window in Coral's office too and it's usually open. Your backup plan will still be an option," he said with the hint of a smile.

It was somehow easier for d'Artagnan to leave them with Athos' expression fixed in his mind. They'd still be there when he got back no doubt and he could bare an hour of torment knowing that. Who knew? Maybe it wouldn't actually be that bad.

---

It definitely was that bad but d'Artagnan felt better once it was over, so he'd consider it a success – not that he was ever going to let the others know that.

---

The others already knew, of course. They'd been subjected to Coral's voodoo powers themselves, after all.

Chapter Text

Athos was entirely unsurprised to find d'Artagnan in his kitchen at four in the morning, though the bizarre herbal concoction he was working on – Athos thought it was probably a sort of tea but he couldn't be sure – was admittedly unusual. He would have inquired about it, but d'Artagnan had that sharp look in his eyes that practically screamed 'don't ask, don't ask, don't ask,' to anyone who knew to look for it. Each of them had their own silent tells when it came to things like this, and surviving through the kind of shit they did had made them all masters in reading them.

d'Artagnan nodded in subdued greeting. "I didn't mean to wake you," he said lowly, apology in his voice.

"You didn't," Athos replied at the same volume, physically aware of the quiet cocooning them in safety. "I was already awake."

"Dreams?"

"The usual. Same for you?"

d'Artagnan nodded slightly. It was well worn ground between them, and there was no point trying to rehash it all. He tipped his odorous mug in Athos' direction with a raise of his eyebrows. "Want one? I know it smells awful but it's really not that bad."

It would have been a tempting offer if Athos hadn't been a victim of d'Artagnan's creations before. Oddly, d'Art knew a lot about cooking and seemed to have a general idea of what foods to mix together to get the right flavours and yet whenever he actually set his hands to doing it, what came out at the other end was truly something. Aramis had long since banned him from cooking dinner.

He smiled gently and shook his head. "I'm good, thanks."

d'Artagnan shrugged, unbothered, and took a gulp of the liquid. "You look like hell," he said eventually, when the silence had fallen carefully back into the spaces between them.

"You're not looking so great yourself." He took in the way d'Art was squinting slightly, the tight line of his eyebrows and the way he seemed to be doing his best not to move his head. "Headache?"

The pained grimace he got in response was enough of an answer really. "I was hoping the tea might help. It used to, when I was younger, but it doesn't seem to be doing much tonight. More to worry about now than then, I guess."

"That's definitely true." He was vaguely aware that he was lowering his voice without consciously telling himself to, so used to dealing with migraine-suffering team mates that it was practically second nature. "I'll send a message to Treville once it's not four am."

d'Artagnan waved a shaking hand in dismissal. "You don't need to do that. I'll be okay."

"I am not letting someone suffering a photosensitive migraine stare at a computer screen all day, and we both know it's not like you're going to be any good on the mats until it stops feeling like your teeth are going to fall out. So I'm going to send a message to Treville, and you are going to spend the day resting up in a darkened room, okay?"

"If I say yes will you stop using long sentences?"

That was slightly troubling, but not unheard of. Migraines were known to scramble a person's thoughts, and the pain understandably messed with their ability to concentrate but normally it wasn't enough for Aramis and d'Artagnan to struggle with it. They were both trained at compartmentalising pain, after all.

"Sure. Do you want me to get you anything? I think we still have some Sumatriptan lying about somewhere."

"It was in the upstairs bathroom," d'Artagnan said. "I've already taken some but I'm pretty sure I was too late. The aura had already come and gone."

Athos winced sympathetically. "Do you think you can sleep?"

"It's looking pretty doubtful. Every time I close my eyes it feels like I'm falling."

It had happened before – hundreds of times – but it never stopped being difficult to see a team mate in pain while knowing that there was absolutely nothing he could do to help them. Aramis had a couple of lines of defence in the form of different pain killers but d'Artagnan wasn't quite as lucky – sumatriptan was pretty much his one-stop solution. When it failed, there was nothing they could do.

"Athos, whatever you're thinking stop it. It's making my head hurt just watching you."

He scoffed lightly because that was what d'Artagnan needed to hear. "Most people are capable of actual thought, you know. We're not all as one-track-minded as you and Aramis are."

"Shame, really." He laughed softly then cut himself off with a wince, taking another fortifying gulp of tea.

"What is even in that stuff? It smells absolutely terrible."

"I don't even really know to be honest," d'Artagnan said thoughtfully. "It's just a load of herbs all steamed together. I might have lied before when I said it didn't taste that bad – it's kind of like drinking grass."

"Delightful."

He shrugged one shoulder. "It's familiar, I guess. Makes me feel better even though it's almost certainly just a placebo."

"When I was ill, my brother always used to make me carrot soup," Athos told him softly in the voice he reserved for talking about something important to him. "To this day it makes me feel better when I'm having a rough time."

d'Artagnan's smile was a frail, gentle thing. "I'll have to remember that."

"You're very much mistaken if you think Aramis is ever going to let you near the stove again when he's around. He's still not forgiven you for that stir fry in January."

"He'll mellow eventually. I figure by next year he'll have forgotten all about it."

"Good luck with that," Athos said. Sometimes all he could do for d'Artagnan when he was like this was distract him from the pain – it was a small price to pay.

"To be fair, that stir fry was not really my fault."

"Granted the limited ingredients didn't help matters," Athos allowed. "But that doesn't excuse the fact that you managed to make the rice go blue."

"I still don't understand how I did that."

"d'Art, there's not a force on this Earth that understands how you did that."

He laughed. "You might have a point. Constance is always telling me that I shouldn't waste my time trying to cook – it always ends up awful no matter what I do."

Athos considered questioning that for a moment, before deciding that if nothing else, it would be a good distraction. "How are the two of you right now? You're both pretty quiet about what's going on between you."

"We're… It's kind of complicated."

"I've got time – if you want to talk about it. I'm not trying to pressure you into telling me anything."

d'Artagnan raised an eyebrow. "I never thought you were. Athos, you don't have to worry about thinking you're pressuring me – I know you well enough that I can tell you to back off when I need to. If you really want to know, then fine."

"I have to admit, I'm curious."

"Well then. Currently, everything is kind of a mess. We've agreed that it's not fair to her husband to be together before they've settled everything between them and that's fine – we've stuck to that. The problem is that now Constance is trying to navigate a divorce that works out well for both parties which is almost always impossible. What's not helping matters is that Bonacieux won't stand for me getting involved."

"I can understand that. I know it can't be easy for you but this isn't exactly easy for him either. If he thinks that by shutting you out of the equations will make him feel better about the whole thing then honestly, I'd let him."

d'Artagnan sighed quietly. "I would if it was just that, but Constance is really struggling with this. She knows that this is what she wants to do – I've made certain of that and I'm not pushing her to do anything – but this is hard for her. I want to be there to support her but whenever I get close, Bonacieux starts throwing a hissy fit."

There wasn't a solution to that, Athos knew. It was a shitty situation for all involved and until it was resolved, they were all going to be miserable. "That's rough," he said simply.

"Yeah. I told Constance to call on you guys if she needed help. Bonacieux might be a bit more forgiving if you show up at the door."

"I wouldn't bet on that. But you're right, of course; Constance knows that we're here should she need us."

Silence stretched between them as d'Artagnan drained the last of his tea with a mild grimace, looking like he couldn't decide if he was glad it was finished or if he wanted more. He set the mug down with an unsettled huff.

"You should try and get some more sleep," Athos tried.

"It won't work. But you should definitely get some rest. Don't feel that you need to stay up on my account."

Athos shrugged lightly. "Honestly, I was glad of the distraction myself."

"Do you want to talk about it?" There was always a 50:50 chance with Athos about whether he was willing to divulge the shit going on in his brain at any given time. He had got better at sharing over the last few years without a doubt, but given how private he had been before d'Artagnan came along, that wasn't saying all that much.

Athos shrugged lightly. "Nothing specific really. Same old shit. Ever since everything that happened between the Musketeers and Richelieu, I feel like we've been waiting for the other shoe to drop. The longer things go, the more it gets my back up."

"I sympathise completely," d'Artagnan said. It hadn't been forgotten that Richelieu seemed to have set his sights on their youngest member – it was constantly in the back of their minds. "We'll deal with whatever happens Athos. I know that doesn't help right now but…"

"But if we ever want to get some sleep, we have to pretend to believe it," Athos finished with the vague shadow of a smile.

"That sounds about right."

d'Artagnan looked pale in the watery light and even from across the room, Athos could see the way his hands were shaking as he worried the edge of his t-shirt. He'd let his jaw fall loose to try and stop his teeth from touching each other. He looked terribly fragile for someone who spent his life chasing after madmen and criminals.

"I should probably try to get some more sleep," Athos said eventually, loathe to leave d'Artagnan when he was like this but knowing that there was nothing he could do either way. d'Artagnan had never enjoyed letting them see him when he was hurting and his migraines were no different – he'd probably be glad to be alone again.

"You really should. I'll be down here if you need me."

"Sure thing. Take it easy, okay? If I see one hint of you using a computer, I will feed the damn thing to you."

d'Artagnan's laugh was light despite his pain. "Noted. I'm more or less planning to just sit here."

"Good man." Athos patted him lightly on the shoulder as he passed, the only reassurance he could offer before he trudged back upstairs. His bedroom felt cold when he reached it, but the covers were still warm from where he had left them and he settled himself down easily – he'd slept in much worse conditions a hundred times before. Rain pattered lightly at the window.

The house fell quiet.

Chapter Text

1 – Shaky hands, 2 – Explosion, 10 – Unconscious, 17 – “Stay with me”

They could have survived the first explosion, Aramis thought with brutal, crystal clarity. It hadn’t been a great experience, sure, but they’d all been more-or-less standing when the building had finally stopped its awful shaking and none of their injuries had seemed that severe. In their line of work, that was basically the best outcome they could possibly have hoped for.

Of course, then came the second explosion.

And the third.

Aramis wasn’t entirely clear on what had happened next, on account of the world disappearing in a flash of white light, but when he’d been back in the driving seat of his own mind he’d been able to piece most of it together. It would seem that the concrete ceiling above them hadn’t been quite as stable as he’d been led to believe; hit with successive explosions, it hadn’t stood a chance. Without any time to react and their only protection the clothes on their back, the four Musketeers caught in the collapse could do little more than close their eyes and pray.

It had worked to a certain extent. Aramis was alive. From shouting and the little radio signal he’d been able to scavenge buried in the depths of a crumbling office block, he knew that d’Artagnan and Athos were both alive and relatively well – Athos was trapped like Aramis was, but was unhurt, and d’Artagnan was free to move with only a concussion to worry about. It wasn’t perfect, by a long stretch, but for three people who had just had a building dropped on their heads, it was very hard to complain about such minor hurts.

Which left Porthos. The same Porthos who was currently cradled in the forgiving curve of Aramis’ lap. The same Porthos who had gone down when the building had and hadn’t come back up. The very same Porthos that Aramis couldn’t bear to lose.

The instant that Aramis had realised he wasn’t alone in his tiny makeshift cave was probably going to be remembered as one of the worst moments of his life. In a single heartbeat he’d taken in the sight of his brother, half buried under rubble and with a face covered with blood, and known that if Porthos wasn’t making it out of there then neither was he. This man was his brother in every way that mattered, had seen Aramis through the worst and still went to the mat for him time and time again with nary a complaint – Aramis was not leaving him behind. Not ever.

A gut-wrenching few minutes later, and Aramis had established that Porthos was still breathing – thank God – and that the blood was mostly from what looked like a broken nose. There was also at least three ribs cracked, if not broken, and his shoulder was out of joint, but he was alive. He had a chance of making it out of here.

All they had to do was hold it together until d’Artagnan could get help to them.

“Stay with me Porthos,” he murmured into the darkness, well aware that the man couldn’t hear him. Every now and again the rubble would shift with an agonising groan, but otherwise the silence in their little bubble was crushing. “I can’t do this without you.”

Unsurprisingly, there was no answer, but Porthos’ breath continued to brush gently against Aramis’ collarbone and that was everything.

“Stay with me,” he whispered again. He ducked his head down to press a kiss into Porthos’ hair as though by sheer will power alone he could breathe life into him. It was a blasphemous thought – only the Lord himself had the power to determine who lived and died and to suggest otherwise was a sin, but for perhaps the first time in his life, Aramis couldn’t quite bring himself to care. He needed Porthos and that was simply a fact of his existence. If the Lord had made him that way, then what else was he to do?

His hands were shaking again, he realised, rattling against where they were wrapped around his brother. Stress, perhaps. Maybe shock, given how battered and bruised his body felt. Now that he really thought about it, in his panic to help Porthos, he’d never turned his attention to his own injuries, even though he was distantly aware that he wasn’t faring too well. He was awake and somewhat mobile, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t bleeding internally. Maybe Aramis really was going to die in that pit after all – with his brother beside him, there were worse ways to go out.

‘Porthos would be furious with you for even thinking that,’ a voice in his mind chided. ‘He needs you too.’

“Stay with me.”

His voice was almost gone, carried only on the softest of exhales. It was cold, even with the furnace that was Porthos pressed against him, and he could feel the desire for sleep drawing closer, lulling him deeper. Rationally, he knew he was in trouble and that he really needed to let the others know their situation was deteriorating, but he couldn’t move. Moving meant disturbing Porthos and that wasn’t an option.

“I’m sorry Porthos,” he murmured. “We should never have come here. It was clearly a trap. We should have known better. I’m sorry.”

“No’ your faul’.”

There was an instant of stillness while Aramis’ clouded brain struggled to catch up with the voice that he had definitely just heard coming from the vicinity of his shoulder, then a bolt of lightning raced up his spine. It was only fear for Porthos’ injuries that stopped him from physically jolting upright – instead he had to make do with twisting his neck as far as he could to look at Porthos’ face.

A single dark eye blinked up at him. “’Lo.”

“Porthos?”

The eye blinked again, apparently unwilling to expend the effort it took to talk to elaborate on the fact that he was, indeed, Porthos. Viciously, Aramis yanked his mind back into focus. There was medical training in there somewhere, and he needed it right now more than relief.

“Are you okay? What hurts?”

“Face. Side. ‘S fine though.” No doubt concussed as he was, Porthos’ words were mushy and indistinct, but enough of the meaning was carried over to be worthwhile.

“It is very much not fine,” Aramis snapped, unable to help himself.

Porthos blinked again, letting that pass without further comment before asking quietly, “You hur’?”

The marksman sighed heavily, feeling a thousand years old as relief and fondness washed over him in waves. “No, Porthos, I’m not hurt. I’m doing much better than you as it happens.”

“Good.” That, apparently, was all Porthos needed to hear. He twitched his head down, laying it more comfortably in the curve of Aramis’ shoulders and let his eyes close again.

“Porthos? Porthos, stay with me.”

“I am,” he replied after a few seconds. “Still here, ‘Mis.”

“Good. Don’t go anywhere.”

“Won’."

Aramis forced himself to breathe. They weren’t safe, not at all, but if Porthos was awake and talking then at the very least Aramis wasn’t alone down there and that was a lifeline. d'Artagnan had reached out for help what felt like hours ago – it wouldn’t be long until someone somewhere came up with a plan to get them out, surely. Aramis could hold it together for just a little bit longer. There had never been anything that the pair of them couldn’t face when they were stood side by side and a little collapsed building wasn’t going to be the first.

Against Porthos’ shoulders, his hands finally stopped shaking. “I’ve got you.”

---

3 – Delirium, 21 – Laced Drink, 22 – Hallucination

It was foolish, really. d'Artagnan had known the drink had been spiked, because he’d seen his mark spike it when he’d thought he hadn’t been watching. For someone who had managed to cause enough trouble to draw the attention of the Musketeers, Scott Kennedy certainly didn’t seem all that imposing – right up until he’d tipped his head in just the right way and suddenly d’Artagnan was surrounded on both sides by two distinctly unfriendly looking bodyguards.

“What’s all this?” He asked mildly, swirling his drink in his glass as he tried to think of an excuse not to swallow it. He’d been acting far more drunk than he truly was for some time now, and as much as adrenaline had started burning through his veins, giving up the illusion now could be a fatal mistake.

Kennedy grinned, expression suddenly sharp and victorious. “Just some friends of mine! Thought it’d be a good idea to introduce you now, since you’re interested in investing in RedTech. Best to get to know who you’ll be getting into bed with.”

“Ah, of course,” he said, overly loudly with a wide, stupid grin. Silently, he was wishing that any of his teammates had known enough about RedTech’s new range of computer hardware to be able to play the plant for this assignment – undercover work was not his strength and he knew it. Fortunately, Athos, standing on the other side of the club, knew it too. He wasn’t about to let anything too dramatic happen if he could help it. “I look forward to working with you, my friends!”

The two men nodded in unison, their eyes still fixed meanly on d’Artagnan’s face. Kennedy’s enthusiasm stepped in to make up for their coldness, raising his own glass high. “To my new friend, Pierre Dahl,” he toasted, “May our partnership be long and prosperous.”

Trying to think fast under the haze that the few drinks he’d consumed had placed on his mind, d’Artagnan put out his hand to pick up his glass again, purposefully misjudging the distance and nearly sending the drink flying. As it was, the bodyguard to his right snapped out his own hand so quickly d’Artagnan flinched and righted the glass before it could spill. He barely restrained a curse – of course they couldn’t just let him buy some time by knocking the blasted thing over. Of course.

Out of options, he snatched the tainted drink off the table, clinked it against Kennedy’s, and, with what he hoped was a meaningful glance in Athos’ vague direction, downed it. He couldn’t help the grimace that escaped him when he tasted the sharp metallic tang of the drug on his tongue, but he covered it up with a pointed laugh. “What is this stuff? Tastes god-awful.”

Across the table, Kennedy grinned like a shark and finished his own glass. “Ah, I don’t know, it’s not so bad once you get used to it.”

Determined to get the information he needed while he was still in control of himself, d’Artagnan forced the conversation forwards with a few pointed questions about RedTech’s latest acquisitions and what the company had planned. He needed to be cautious – pushing too hard would raise flags – but he’d spent enough time building up his cover that the questions wouldn’t be unreasonable after he’d had a few drinks to loosen his tongue.

And he really was on a timer – in just a few minutes, d’Artagnan could feel the drug starting to worm its way into his system, a heat in the pit of his stomach spreading outwards slowly but surely and latching into his muscles. The music around them, until now loud and thumping, had started to grow softer, more muted as his senses dipped – whatever it was Kennedy had put in his drink, it was potent. He tried to blink rapidly to bring himself round, but only really succeeded in establishing that it was now much harder to keep his eyes open than it had been only moments ago.

“Are you alright?” Kennedy asked with faux concern, his expression not shifting from smug self-satisfaction. “You don’t look well, my friend.”

“I-” d’Art tried, then cut himself off. His voice was twisted and distant and he suddenly longed to be as far away from this man as he possibly could be. He’d already gotten most of the information they needed – if he could get away from the table without the bodyguards laying into him then this could all be over. “I think I need some air,” he managed carefully, trying to rock up onto his feet.

With a quick gesture from Kennedy, the man on d’Artagnan’s left steadied him when he half lurched into the table, the world spinning around him. “That can definitely be arranged,” Kennedy agreed lightly, rising himself. “Anything for my new partner.”

It was becoming increasingly difficult to concentrate on what was happening to him, d’Artagnan realised with distant horror. He was only vaguely aware of his feet moving as the bodyguards shuffled him none-too-gently towards the nearest exit, gripping hard at his upper arms to keep him upright when his body refused to obey his commands. He knew that he should be afraid – and he was, somewhere deep down, but none of that panic was making its way to the surface; instead, he went placidly where he was led and did little more than blink at his changing surroundings.

It wasn’t until a door came into view between the heaving mass of bodies filling the club that d’Artagnan truly faltered, the tiny part of his mind still aware of what was happening breaking through the haze and screaming at him to stop, to think. He needed to get away, needed to get their hands off him, needed air. He shoved away from the bodyguards, nearly falling in his attempt to regain some distance when his legs turned to jelly and refused to cooperate. It was only through sheer force of will that he didn’t fall boneless to the floor.

“Hey, now my friend,” Kennedy was saying, suddenly standing in front of d’Artagnan with his hands up in a meek attempt at surrender. Knowing him, it was more likely that he’d adopted the stance because it put his arms in the right position to grab at d’Artagnan should he try to run. “What’s all this? I thought you wanted some air?”

‘Not with you,’ he tried to say, but the words got tangled somewhere in his throat and all he managed was a sharp shake of his head and a string of incomprehensible syllables.

Kennedy’s hands were on his shoulders then, though he didn’t think he’d seen them move. There had been others with them, hadn’t there? He tried to turn his head to look, but it did nothing more than overbalance him, the flickering neon lights stabbing at his eyes as he blinked rapidly to wipe away the afterimages.

“Woah, there, steady!” Kennedy was holding him up though d’Artagnan couldn’t feel his hands on him, awareness starting to slide back into the depths of his mind as everything swirled inside his skull. The room around him felt like liquid, pressing against him with its presence but utterly ungraspable when he reached for it.

Everything felt too close and too far away all at once. He knew that he needed to get out of there, though he wasn’t entirely certain why that might be beyond simply discomfort. There was a door in front of him – he hadn’t wanted to go through it, had he? Why not? Maybe the air would be easier to breathe through there.

He took a halting step forwards, then rocked back again, disorientated. He couldn’t leave. There was something he had to do, or maybe someone he had to meet? He turned, trying to see–

“Pierre! Is that you?” The voice was familiar, though d’Artagnan couldn’t see whoever it was that had spoken in the swirling haze that was his vision. It took him a few heartbeats to even realise that the question was directed at him – his name wasn’t Pierre, was it? He was fairly sure that he’d recognise his own name, although as soon as he tried to put his mind to figuring it out, he nearly spilled onto the floor. Hands grabbed at him, hauling him upright but not hurting – a friend? “Hey, woah, what’s going on with you?”

“I fear our friend has had a little bit too much to drink,” Kennedy was saying, though it sounded like he was a thousand miles away. “I was just taking him outside for a bit of fresh air.”

Without really meaning to, d’Artagnan felt himself tipping towards the stranger who had spoken. He was tired and everything was too loud and, for whatever reason, the voice felt safe. It was so easy to just turn himself over to them and let them worry about all the things he couldn’t deal with right then.

The stranger caught him with a soft huff of surprise, arms automatically coming up to curve around d’Artagnan’s ribs to cradle him there like a wayward child. “Pierre?”

His lungs felt drowned and heavy, but he forced his throat to cooperate just long enough to murmur, “Help,” softly into the stranger’s collarbone.

It was all he could do. He let the world spin away in a rush.

---

The next thing he was aware of was someone sticking their fingers down his throat. He retched, choking, then had to suffer through the indignity of revisiting everything he’d ever eaten in his entire life. He wanted to be concerned, or wary, or even scared, but all he had the capacity for was mild disgust at the awful taste staining the back of his mouth. Someone was still holding him – he could feel where their body was pressed against his to stop him from falling into his own vomit – but he couldn’t spare the brainpower to worry about that. Instead, he just concentrated on trying not to choke to death.

“d’Artagnan?” It was the same voice as the one he’d heard in the club, the one that meant safety. “Are you with me? I need to know what he gave you. Do you hear me?”

That was a little unfair, he thought distantly. He could hardly answer questions like that when he was puking his guts up, could he? Except, no – he wasn’t. With a slow blink, his world twisted away, then righted itself, finding him sitting hunched over on damp concrete with a wall at his back. Had he sat down? Maybe the man with the voice had moved him without him realising it. That couldn’t be normal, could it?

He blinked again in an attempt to peer through the gloom and found himself face to face with Athos, his gaze steady and intense where it met his own. He looked pale but alert, and he was talking again if his mouth movements were anything to go by, not that d’Artagnan could hear a thing. His attention had instead settled on the familiar figure sat just behind Athos, quietly singing an old hymn that he could just remember from his childhood.

Even after all this time with who knows what drugs flooding his system, he still couldn’t fail to recognise his mother.

Gods, it had been years since he’d seen her – longer since he’d heard her sing. Now that he could once again, he never wanted her to stop. She wasn’t looking at him, which was a pity; instead her gaze was pointed further down the alley to where his father was chatting amiably with a faceless man whose name d’Artagnan had long since forgotten. He wanted to draw their attention, wanted to be able to look at them and speak to them and have them speak back, but he couldn’t find the words. Speaking would interrupt the song, and he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

He resigned himself to just watching, letting the melody seep into his bones even while the silent figure of Athos became increasingly frantic beside him. Whatever it was that was distressing him so, d’Artagnan was sure he could handle it on his own. He’d never really needed d’Artagnan’s help with anything that wasn’t technological in nature and this time was sure to be no different – he would understand that d’Artagnan simply wanted to spend some time with his family.

He didn’t know how long they stayed like that, trapped in that warm little bubble of home tucked away in a damp alley behind a club, but it didn’t feel like enough when the song started coming to a close. He knew it was ending because he’d heard the tune a thousand times before and the notes of it were carved into his ribs, but it was more than that – a building sense of finality lurking in the pit of his stomach that was threatening to overwhelm him. The song was all they would have, he knew, and he wouldn’t be able to see any more than this. How he wished they could have just one more moment–

But no. The song ended, his mother’s voice fading into a gentle hum before dipping into silence. His father’s conversation trailed off as the ghosts took to their feet and started walking away down the alley; d’Artagnan’s eyes tracked them until they rounded the corner out of sight, and when he looked back, his mother had likewise moved on.

There were tears on his face. Athos was still crouched beside him, visibly panicked and still talking to him as his hands came up to cradle d’Artagnan’s face. When their eyes met, Athos visibly breathed out in relief. “d’Art, are you with me? Can you hear me?”

He tried to say yes, choked on the word, and nodded instead.

Athos’ chin hit his chest as he let his head hang forward. “Oh thank god. I thought we’d lost you.”

He swallowed fiercely, tasting the bitter salt of tears in his mouth. “I’m here,” he managed, though the words sounded faint even to his own ears. “I think I need help.”

“Help is on the way. We’ll see you safe, don’t you worry.”

“I’m not worried,” he replied lowly, feeling unconsciousness starting to drag him back under now the adrenaline of throwing up had worn away. “You’re here.”

---

4 – Human shield, 5 – Gunpoint, 6 – Dragged away

Athos ducked back behind the warehouse crates with a curse, flinching as a bullet sank into the wood where his head had been just a moment ago. Their intel might have suggested that the gang was nothing more than a few low-grade gun smugglers, but their aim and coordination was good enough that Athos was starting to suspect they’d been had. Not that there was anything they could do about it right that second, of course, but he made a mental note to let Treville know of his displeasure once they were done here.

“Cameron is making a break out the back entrance,” d’Artagnan reported over the radio. “I’m going after him.”

Despite the adrenaline rushing through his veins, Athos managed a long suffering sigh. “Porthos, go with him and make sure he doesn’t get himself killed.”

“On it.”

“Aramis, are you in position?” As he spoke, he darted out of cover to move further down the aisle, slipping behind another pallet of wooden crates just as Kramer opened fire again, the bullets coming within inches of him before pattering harmlessly into the wall.

“Settling in now,” the marksman reported from the walkway above him. “Cutting it a little close there, Athos.”

“Do you have eyes on the target?”

“Negative. He’s tucked himself behind that bank of forklifts and I don’t have a good angle. I can move but it would mean leaving you without cover.”

That wasn’t a desirable solution to any problem, even though Athos tended to think he’d probably manage for the few minutes it would take. He was likely in far more danger if he kept trying to move up when Kramer had dug himself in so well. “Do it. I’ll keep him distracted.”

There was an audible hesitation for the briefest of moments, then the sound of movement somewhere above his head. Aramis might hate to leave Athos undefended even for just a moment, but they’d worked together far too long for the marksman to question his orders in the middle of an active situation; outside of a firefight Athos welcomed the opinions of his teammates, but in battle his word was law. There wasn’t time to argue when bullets were flying.

True to his word, Athos took that moment to peek out of cover and take a few shots in Kramer’s general direction. He was too well embedded in cover to have any real hope of landing a decent shot, but the proximity might be enough to startle him into running – though from the return fire a few seconds later, that wasn’t going to be the case.

“Give it up, Kramer,” he shouted without any real hope of surrender. “You don’t have to do this!”

“Go to hell asshole!” Came the reply, backed up with the sharp retort of his handgun. The wood directly in front of Athos’ face splintered, and he twitched backwards further into cover.

“Cameron is in custody and we’re turning him over to uniforms now,” Porthos reported into the sudden silence. “Despite his best efforts, d’Artagnan didn’t manage to get himself killed though his pride’s taken a bit of a dent.”

There was a telling silence where d’Artagnan’s snappy retort would normally be and Athos fought down a smile. Porthos wouldn’t be joking around if anyone was truly injured and with Cameron caught, their day had just become much easier.

“Good work,” he told them. “Circle back round when you can – I want to try to bring Kramer in alive but he seems determined to get himself shot. If he’s surrounded, he might see things a bit differently.”

“Will do.”

Satisfied, Athos took another two shots in Kramer’s general direction then retreated to reload, the empty magazine clattering harshly on the concrete floor. A quick glance upward found no Aramis in sight, but he could distantly hear him shuffling along the narrow walkway somewhere on his right.

“Cameron is already in custody,” he yelled to Kramer. “It’s over! If you surrender now and give yourself up, I promise you’ll get a fair trial.” There was a beat of silence with no reply, but there weren’t any more gunshots either. It was a kind of progress.

“I have a clean shot,” Aramis announced softly. “Ready on your order.”

“Hold,” Athos said instantly. They had official permission to take the shot if necessary, but he was still clinging to the hope that they might be able to talk him down. With Cameron being brought in alive, they’d likely already be able to get to the information they needed about the smuggling ring, but keeping Kramer alive would be less paperwork if nothing else. “We’re not after you, Kramer, we want your supplier. We know you’re not the mastermind behind all this. Don’t die for someone who would never do the same for you!”

Something strange happened then. Athos couldn’t entirely pinpoint what it was that brushed against the edge of his senses, but he had a sudden falling feeling in the pit of his stomach that usually meant danger, which was almost immediately followed by a sudden awareness of a presence behind him. That was about as far as he managed to get before there was a hand on his shoulder dragging him backwards, into someone’s chest, and the cold muzzle of a gun was jammed harshly into his temple.

“Don’t be so sure about what I would or would not do for the men under my command, polizia scum,” a voice hissed in his ear.

Well, that was just perfect really, wasn’t it? With exaggerated slowness, Athos put up both hands where they could be seen but didn’t drop his gun. He took a shuddering breath and forced his panic down into a little box inside his mind; his mic was still open so Aramis would hear him. All he had to do was buy a little time and try not to get shot in the meantime – he could do that.  “You’re the man in charge then?”

“Top marks,” the man drawled, his breath brushing against the back of Athos’ neck where they were bodily pressed together. “Now drop the weapon, and come with me. Don’t even think about calling in your friends.”

The arm around his throat tensed just enough to be a threat, pulling him steadily backwards. Unwilling but without any better options immediately presenting themselves, Athos flicked the safety on his pistol and let it drop to the ground with a thud, allowing himself be led. Kramer was mysteriously silent somewhere ahead of them, but Athos hadn’t heard the sound of Aramis’ rifle so it was likely he was still alive. Maybe d’Artagnan and Porthos had managed to corner him after all.

“Abducting an officer of the law at gunpoint in the middle of the day might not be the best strategy,” Athos said breathlessly as he was yanked back another step. It was enough to realise he was being pulled towards one of the side doors of the warehouse, and that the man had very carefully angled them so that Athos was likely between him and Aramis – not stupid then. That could be a problem.

“Kramer has surrendered,” Aramis suddenly said very quietly over the radio tucked into Athos’ ear, his voice razor sharp in a way it only was when someone he loved was in danger. “We’re moving in on you Athos. Keep him talking.”

“Taking me won’t help you,” Athos told his captor as calmly as possible. “We have your men. It might take a while, but sooner or later one of them is going to roll on you and killing a Musketeer is only going to add to your problems. Let me go and we can do this quietly.”

“You think I believe that shit?” The man asked with a huff of laughter. “You get me and you’ll bury me for the rest of my life.”

“Why come here then? We were after your men, not you. I don’t even know who you are.”

They were getting alarmingly close to the door. Being outside would give the rest of the Musketeers better sightlines and – hopefully – a clean shot, but it also introduced far more variables than Athos was strictly comfortable with. If there was a car waiting, there was a good chance he’d be whisked away before the others even had time to get outside and that was a nightmare none of them wanted to face. Buying time, he let himself stumble a little, lurching them both sideways before the man pulled them upright with a snap.

“Get up,” he hissed sharply. “You even think about trying any of that, I’ll blow your damn head off.”

“Athos, I have a shot but it’s not clean. He’s keeping you in my line of sight and I don’t have time to reposition before you get outside.”

“d’Art and I are coming up on the door,” Porthos reported, sounded equally as tense as Aramis had. Athos suddenly felt guilty about being stupid enough to get himself in this position and putting them all through this – he should have done a better job of watching his back.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Athos said instead of trying to answer his team, thinking quickly. “Why did you come here?”

“I don’t answer to you.”

Another few steps. Only a handful more left to go.

“Sure, but you’ve got a gun to my head so humour me. If you’re going to shoot me, I’d at least like to know why.”

“Do as I say and I won’t shoot you.”

“Well, that is comforting, but all the same I’d like to know.”

“Athos,” Aramis warned, his voice tight. Athos could almost feel the pressure of the marksman’s scope hovering over his chest, raising the hairs on the back of his neck-

-and, like a sudden drop of rain, a thought occurred to him. “You know,” he said amiably to the man behind him, trying to pick out Aramis in the shadows above them without success and praying he would understand, “I think you and I are very alike.”

“Oh?”

“I think you came here to help your men, just as I would do for mine. As they would do for me. That’s what a family does, right? You look after each other. I understand that. I respect that. But there is something that separates us – something very, very important.”

There was only one more step before they would be out the door and beyond Aramis’ scope. “And what would that be?”

Athos grinned, fierce and sharp, and looked dead at where he knew Aramis would be. “I’m wearing a bulletproof vest.”

Several things happened at once that Athos’ brain couldn’t quite parse. He was aware of a crushing weight slamming into his chest so heavily that it sent them both sprawling, Athos landing awkwardly half on top of his captor as they fell. There was a clatter as the handgun that had been tucked neatly against his head went flying off into the shadows of the warehouse, before that sound was drowned out by the echo of the second booming report from Aramis’ rifle. From just off to his left came sudden shouts as d’Artagnan and Porthos arrived on the scene-

But anything else was lost as his body loudly registered the fact that bulletproof vest or no, it had just taken the brunt of a heavy calibre round from a modified sniper rifle and it was deeply, deeply unhappy about it. He gasped helplessly, flopping over onto his side as though that would do anything to take the crippling pressure off his lungs and winced as he realised that the floor around him was slick with blood. He was fairly certain that it wasn’t his – largely because the body he was still more or less lying on hadn’t so much as twitched since they’d fallen – but with so many nerve endings firing their displeasure, it was hard to be sure.

“Athos? Athos, c’mon, breathe with me, okay?”

There were large, warm hands fluttering over his ribs, tearing open the Velcro holding his vest in place, but he was only really able to register the instant relief having the thing off brought. It didn’t lessen the pain any, but it still felt good to be free of its confines.

“I’m getting to you as fast as I can,” Aramis’ voice came from somewhere, “Just get his vest off and listen for any problems with his breathing. Has he coughed up anything?”

“No, nothing,” d’Artagnan replied from somewhere nearby. Porthos was still muttering soothing nothings to Athos as though telling him to breathe would do anything to help ease the ache spreading across his ribcage. God, he hated being shot. Even with the vest it was always a horrible experience and this was a hundred times worse purely because he knew he wouldn’t be able to bitch about it later without making Aramis feel awful.

“Broken ribs?”

“Porthos?”

“Can’t feel anything moving but I don’t want to press too hard before he’s breathing right. That’s it, Athos, deep breaths. Steady.”

What he wanted to say to that was something along the lines of, ‘you fucking try to take deep breaths when you’ve just been shot’, but instead all he could manage was a gasped out, “Fuck off.”

Porthos laughed loudly, delighted despite the dire circumstances – Athos could feel a dead man’s blood soaking into his hair for starters – and carefully cupped his cheek with one warm hand. “Gladly, provided you keep breathing long enough to tell me to. Christ Athos, don’t do that to me again.”

“Or me,” Aramis agreed, though this time Athos could hear his voice in stereo as he came rushing up close enough to no longer need the radio. “Honestly Athos, shooting you? That was really the best plan you could come up with?”

He could feel the marksman’s hands running over his chest already, trying to establish the damage he had done. “Worked, didn’t it?” He tried to smile, though he was fairly certain the expression must look punch drunk and stupid considering how little control he really had over his face when both of his lungs were crying.

“Yes,” Aramis agreed after a moment of pointed silence. “It worked. You did a great job and you’ll probably get a medal. Now shut up and let me work out if I’ve broken anything or not.”

Still smiling, Athos let his head tip back against the floor despite the blood and forced himself to breathe more normally. It still hurt like nothing else, but it was getting a bit easier now that he was more in control of himself and the vest had been pulled away. Cracked ribs, maybe, but nothing felt broken under the bone deep ache of heavy bruising. He could tell the others as much but in that moment, he thought he’d rather just let them work it out for themselves. He’d done his bit. “Whatever you say.”

Chapter Text

Aramis peered at the target through his binoculars and hummed quietly to himself. “Not quite centre, but you’re getting close,” he announced after a moment’s consideration. “You’re normally a better shot than this.”

Lying beside him, stretched out with a .50 calibre sniper rifle perched lightly in his hands, d’Artagnan huffed. “I’m sure it has nothing to do with the fact that I’m freezing my balls off here,” he muttered sullenly. The cold snap had caught everyone off-guard, but d’Artagnan still wasn’t appreciating the fact that Aramis had dragged him out of the house at the crack of dawn before giving him time to snag his jacket. Now, lying face down on the frozen ground when the temperature was verging into the negative digits, he was feeling just a little bit bitter. 

Aramis, wrapped up in a thick winter coat like the absolute asshole that he was, snickered. “Consider it endurance training. You’ve got an evaluation coming up, haven’t you?”

“Is that what this is all about? I thought something had to be up. I had Athos badgering me yesterday about the minutiae of warrant law and I’m supposed to be meeting Porthos at the training grounds later, ostensibly for sparring.”

“Ostensibly?”

“You and I both know that he’s just going to use it as an opportunity to haul me around the mats for an hour. Honestly, I think the man’s a sadist.” As he spoke, he chambered another round and settled himself down for another shot. 

Aramis laughed again, this time loud and bright as his breath misted in the air. “Of course, I have no idea what you mean. I just thought that we should take advantage of the wonderful weather to work on your long distance shooting.”

With the winter sky clear and bright above them, d’Artagnan couldn’t really argue with that logic. He still knew it was bullshit though. “Sure,” he said simply, before taking the shot. The target was too far away to see clearly without assistance, but it looked like a clean hit through the scope. Beside him, Aramis whistled appreciatively. 

“That’s more like it. A few more like that and you might actually start to give me a run for my money.”

d’Artagnan huffed a soft laugh. He was a good shot and he knew it, but there was no one on this Earth that could go head to head with Aramis when the man had a rifle in his hands. “I’ll be sure to let the others know that we no longer have need of your services.”

“Lies and slander,” came the reply. Because of his position, d’Artagnan couldn’t see Aramis’ face unless he craned his head around, but he was sure that if he could, the man would have thrown a hand over his eyes in mock horror and despair. As it was, he just quietly went about reloading. 

After two more shots that were more or less central, he took the effort to peer round at his friend. “How long are you planning on making me do this? I’m going to run out of bullets soon.”

That much was true, but they both knew that it wouldn’t be much effort to wander the hundred yards or so back to the centre to collect more ammunition. The Musketeer shooting facilities were always well stocked and Serge, the man running the place, always kept spare rounds back for Aramis’ preferred rifle. In truth, he was asking because he was starting to get genuinely freezing, fingers cramping where they had stayed curled around the weapon; a bit of cold was nothing really, but to reach this point simply in service of training that they could do at any time was pushing it. 

Aramis seemed to realise it too, because when he looked back at d’Artagnan, his eyes darted away to scan him up and down, taking in the full body shivers wracking his frame before nodding decisively. “I suppose that will do for now. You’re getting better, but you still have much to learn, young Padawan.”

“I regret ever befriending you,” he replied immediately as he levered himself back upright. Despite the cold, Aramis’ responding laugh warmed him from the inside out. 

---

After the hassle of handing the rifle back in – as he still wasn’t technically a Musketeer, it was always a nightmare for d’Artagnan to check weapons in and out. He wasn’t even technically allowed to use the gun range unless he was accompanied at all times by a sworn in officer – it was almost time to meet Porthos anyway, so Aramis offered to drive him up to the training grounds himself. d'Artagnan had a sneaking suspicion that he was only offering so he had a solid excuse to watch him get his ass handed to him by Porthos, but he agreed placidly all the same. Aramis’ car had better central heating than his own, anyway. 

Even so, he was still only just regaining feeling in his fingertips when they pulled up. On the other side of the car park, Athos and Porthos were leaning against Porthos’ jeep and were deep in conversation from the looks of things. d’Artagnan felt something like suspicion settle in his gut and he turned narrow eyes on a suddenly very innocent looking Aramis. 

“Are you still going to tell me that you three aren’t all in this together?”

“In what together?” Aramis asked blankly, as though d’Artagnan couldn’t very obviously see through him. When d’Artagnan did nothing but strengthen his glare, the marksman raised his hands in surrender. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. You came here to meet Porthos – maybe he was just hanging out with Athos when it came time to come here.”

“Yeah, that seems likely.”

“It’s not unlikely .”

d’Artagnan huffed, shaking his head. “You three are such mother hens, you know that? Are you really so sure that I’m going to fail this evaluation without your help?”

Aramis shot him a dirty look, with just enough fondness mixed in that d’Artagnan knew he wasn’t serious. “That’s not what this is about and you know it. Now, stop stalling, and let Porthos beat you up, okay?”

“Well, you make a compelling argument…” 

With a bright smile that was just a little bit devious, Aramis shoved at his shoulder to get him moving before scrambling out of the car and wandering over to the others with a called greeting. Sighing to himself and wondering just how he had managed to make friends like these, d’Artagnan followed.

Fortunately, while Aramis apparently hadn’t wanted to wait for him to dig out a coat, he’d snagged d’Art’s gym bag on the way out the door, so at least he had more suitable clothes to change into. He knew from experience that sparring in jeans was just a bad time for everyone. As he pulled the bag out the boot, Athos sidled up to him as though his very presence there wasn’t suspicious in the extreme. 

“How was the shooting range?” He asked once he was in range. 

“Cold,” d’Artagnan responded honestly. “Are we going to pretend that you just happened to be stopping by the training grounds on your Saturday off?”

Athos snorted indelicately. “Hell no. I’m here to watch Porthos kick your ass. Call it payback for last week.”

d’Artagnan tilted his head in consideration, then hummed. “Honestly, that’s fair. Although I maintain that I didn’t mean for you to end up as his sparring partner. Something came up that I couldn’t get out of.”

“d’Artagnan, I live with you. I know that you spent all of that hour sitting on the sofa laughing yourself sick.”

“…I wasn’t actually laughing.”

Athos chuckled and clapped a hand to his shoulder. “Maybe so. All the same, I’m going to enjoy this immensely.”

“At least one of us will be.”

“Cheer up,” Porthos called as he joined them, his own gym bag slung carelessly over one shoulder. Up close, d’Artagnan was reminded of just how unbelievably large his friend was and once more questioned his life choices. Even though Porthos would obviously never hurt him maliciously, it didn’t mean that sparring with him was anything other than a nightmare; Musketeers risked their lives on a near daily basis and so it was mutually agreed that for the best training, sparring was a no holds barred kind of situation. Against an opponent like Porthos, the thought was mildly horrifying.

“Cheer up? You’re going to crush me.”

“Better me than someone trying to kill you. At least this way you’ll learn.”

That was a fair point, in all honesty, but d’Artagnan didn’t have to like it. “I’m not sure you and I have the same definition of ‘learning.’”

---

For all his joking around, facing off against Porthos with nothing between them but the worn sparring mats was a genuinely frightening experience. In the interests of avoiding any psychological blocks – such as the fact he had absolutely zero desire to hurt his friend – it was general practice to do what you could to forget the identity of whoever it was you were up against. Unfortunately, d’Artagnan had never met anyone with the same kind of intimidating physical presence as Porthos; no matter what he did, he was viscerally aware that any punch or kick he threw would be aiming at a man he loved and respected. 

Regardless, when a man of Porthos’ size charged at you, you got out the damn way. 

He darted left with a quick sidestep, ducking under the arm that came up to snatch at him, and rolled himself back upright to put himself behind Porthos. On an untrained opponent, that would have given him an opening; on Porthos, it was little more than buying time. With an agility that belied his large frame, the man spun on his heel and threw his weight once more in d’Artagnan’s direction, his right fist swinging round in a haymaker that would have knocked him out if it connected. 

As it was, d’Artagnan tried to duck the blow before he was forced to stumble backwards to avoid the sharp left jab Porthos had covered with the much more obvious right-handed punch. On the back foot, he could do little more than retreat as Porthos advanced, ducking and dodging everything he possibly could and blocking a single blow that had enough force to rattle the bones in his arm. 

Distantly, he was aware of Athos and Aramis shouting from the side lines, but he couldn’t have said what it was they were yelling. Encouragement, maybe? Knowing Athos, it was more likely that it was critiques about his form, but he couldn’t spare the brainpower necessary to actually listen to any of their comments. His entire focus was taken up by the mountain of the man in front of him. 

After about another minute or so of his defensive strategy, d’Artagnan came to the conclusion that if he was ever going to get out of there, he needed to go on the offensive. The problem was that as soon as he moved to do just that, he managed to misjudge the reach of one of Porthos’ grabs. Before he knew what had happened, his back was pressed firmly against a broad, muscled chest, and a thick arm had wormed its way around his neck. 

He had a split second to consider his sudden, much less desirable position, before that arm tightened sharply, cutting off his air supply in one neat motion. His training slammed into him in a rush, with Athos’ voice screaming at him in his head, ‘Do not panic!’ Easier said than done, but he allowed himself only a heartbeat to fully accept the fact that he could no longer breathe before he forced his body to do something about it. 

He wriggled, twisting just enough to firmly connect both of his feet with the floor before he kicked himself upwards, throwing his head back into what he hoped was Porthos’ face. By the feel of things, he mostly caught his chin as the man realised what he was trying to do and turned away from it, but it was still a forceful enough blow that he reeled backwards. Unfortunately, trained special agent as he was, a single blow to the chin wasn’t enough for Porthos to loosen his grip any and, now wise to what d’Artagnan was trying to do, he used his vastly superior strength and height to lift him off the ground altogether. Robbed of his leverage, d’Artagnan snatched at the arm around his neck and tried to kick backwards but with his entire weight dangling and his air supply rapidly dwindling, it was a weak attempt and he knew it. One of his feet did connect with what he thought was a knee and Porthos hissed in pain, but it wasn’t enough. 

Out of moves and rapidly suffocating, d’Artagnan knew that he had to yield. The instant he tapped Porthos’ elbow, the man let him go, spilling him onto the training mats where he coughed and gasped, his lungs burning with the need for oxygen. Porthos crouched down beside him, rubbing at his shoulder gently. 

“Should have tapped out sooner, you idiot. I’m not trying to actually kill you.”

d'Artagnan waved a vague hand that was both an acknowledgement of the implied apology and a reassurance that he was fine. With a last, gasping rasp, he pushed himself back onto his heels and tried to get himself upright. Porthos fastened a hand around his arm and helped haul him to his feet, steadying him when he staggered a little at the sudden rush of blood to his head. 

“Congratulations,” Athos called from the sidelines, where both he and Aramis were still looking on without concern. “You lasted a whole two and a half minutes, but now you’re dead.”

“Ha,” d’Art shot back with deadpan humour, momentarily resisting the urge to flip them the bird before deciding ‘fuck it’ and doing it anyway. Aramis snorted. “If you can do so much better, why don’t you come up here and prove it?”

“And miss the chance to watch him choke you again? Not a chance.”

Turning his nose up with faux irritation, d’Artagnan turned back to a highly amused Porthos. “Okay, lay it on me. What did I do wrong?”

The larger man shrugged easily. “Besides missing that grab? Not a lot to be honest. Getting your feet on the floor was a good move – would have worked if I didn’t know you as well as I do and if I wasn’t trained to deal with that sort of thing. Your reaction time to the chokehold was impressive.”

“I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or a subtle reminder of how many times you’ve managed to catch me in a choke.”

“Could be both,” Porthos admitted with a smirk before settling back into a more teacher-like manner. “Your biggest problem was misjudging that grab, ‘specially since you’ve sparred with me so much. You should know what I can and can’t reach.”

d'Artagnan ducked his head, even though he’d learned long ago that he really needn’t be embarrassed about mistakes he made on the mats. The whole point of sparring was that it gave them the chance to make mistakes and learn from them, rather than messing up in the field and not living long enough to improve. “Yeah, I know. Wasn’t watching your footwork closely enough.”

“You have a habit of that,” Porthos agreed. “You remember to keep track of it at the start, but your attention shifts as time goes on. Too much of your focus is up here,” he said, gesturing vaguely at his own torso.

“I’m working on it,” d’Artagnan defended mildly, but he knew Porthos was right. The whole point of this exercise was to ‘work on it.’

“I know. You’re doing better, we just need to get you doing it as a learned response, rather than something you have to actively concentrate on.”

d’Artagnan sighed. “I’m not going to enjoy this, am I?”

Porthos’ grin was sharp as he resumed a fighting stance and ushered d’Art back into his. “Nope. Keep your eyes on my feet.”

That was all the warning d’Artagnan got before his friend lunged for him again, darting to his left at the last minute to try to get around his guard. There was very little time to think after that, his world narrowing down to the man in front of him and a slightly-too-forceful awareness of where Porthos was putting his feet. It was a balancing act, trying to keep all the possible ways Porthos could hurt him in his sight at all times, while ensuring that no part of his own body was ever in the man’s path, while also trying to maintain a distant awareness of where the edge of the mat was in relation to himself. For a multitude of reasons, the Musketeers didn’t have a barrier around the edge of the sparring mats, but stepping off them in the middle of a fight was an instant forfeit.

Remarkably, he actually did quite well. Porthos did manage to fix a firm hand around his wrist at one stage, but d’Artagnan was able to twist in the hold just enough to aim a punch directly at the man’s throat. Unable to block it in the tight space, Porthos had been forced to retreat and sacrifice his grip in the process.

Still, for all his tricks and wiles, Porthos had the advantage of size, stamina, and training – the chances of d’Artagnan actually winning the match had been basically nil to begin with. The best he’d ever been able to do was battle it down to a draw of sorts, but today wasn’t going to be one of those days and he knew it. At the very least, he made Porthos fight for it.

So it was that when he finally hit the mat with a solid thump, grunting sharply when a painful proportion of Porthos’ considerable mass landed on top of him, they were both panting harshly at the exertion. His right hand was twisted up sharply behind him somewhere, though the pain starting to shoot through his wrist was making it a little difficult to determine exactly where, but he was free to tap the floor sharply with his left. Porthos rolled off him immediately, but made no effort to get to his feet.

“Well, that was an improvement,” he said lightly after a moment of catching his breath. Beyond him, there was a smattering of applause from Aramis and Athos, who were no doubt settling whatever bets they’d made on how long d’Artagnan would last. “Good job squirt.”

Still slumped where Porthos had left him and with little desire to move beyond wiggling his right arm into a more natural position, d’Artagnan could only muster up a vaguely annoyed frown. “What do I have to do to get you to not call me that,” he asked, though he didn’t bother to put the inflection of a question in his tone. They’d had this conversation before and nothing was about to change.

“Put on another 20 pounds of muscle and we’ll talk.”

Briefly distracted by the mental image of what he would look like if someone of his stature managed to pack on that much more body weight, d’Artagnan completely missed Athos’ approach until the man squatted down in front of him.

“You still alive?”

“No. Go away.”

Behind him somewhere, he heard Aramis chuckle. Even Athos cracked a warm grin. “That’s a shame. I was thinking you might be up for some lunch if you’re fed up with getting your ass handed to you.”

Admittedly, lunch did sound divine right about now, but standing up still felt like it might be beyond him. Then the rest of what Athos had said caught up with him and he flopped onto his back with a petulant scowl. “I don’t think that counted as ‘getting my ass handed to me.’”

“Oh? I must have been watching someone else then,” Athos said lightly, though any potential sting was mitigated by his warm smile and the hand he stuck out to help d’Artagnan to his feet. “You did well, d’Artagnan.”

Shaking himself a little now that he was back upright, d’Artagnan took stock of the room around himself and distantly noted the general absence of other Musketeers; when mealtimes came around, the gym always turned into a bit of a ghost town. “So, lunch then?”

Aramis clapped him on the shoulder – eliciting a small sting that had d’Artagnan briefly wondering when he might have wrenched it – and started ushering him in the direction of the changing rooms. “If you play your cards right, you might even get a free meal out of Athos,” he whispered conspiratorially.

“I heard that,” Athos said.

Letting the last of the adrenaline drain out of his system with a sigh, d’Artagnan allowed himself a quick laugh. “Honestly I’ll settle for getting to eat my meal without being quizzed on legal practice.”

Ahead of him, Athos huffed in faux annoyance. “Someone has to keep you sharp. Get changed and we’ll head out. My treat,” he added with an eye roll when Aramis shot some truly shameless puppy eyes in his direction, raising a cheer from the marksman and chuckles from Porthos and d’Artagnan.

“Won’t say no to that,” Porthos said with a warm smile before yanking off his shirt, throwing it over Aramis’ head before he could duck out the way, and marching in the direction of the showers without further comment. Stifling another laugh, d’Artagnan followed him.

---

Lunch, unsurprisingly, did come with a whole new grilling on different classes of fraud and what punishments were associated with each, but it wasn’t so bad. d'Artagnan still got a free meal out of the deal, and was able to enjoy himself by giving absurdly wrong answers to the questions just to watch Porthos and Aramis snigger while Athos bemoaned the lot of them. It felt just like family meals had once upon a time, and d’Artagnan wouldn’t have traded it for anything.

“So, are you guys still worried that I’m going to fail this evaluation, or have I proven myself worthy?” He asked when the last of the plates had been all but licked clean and the four of them were slumped in their chairs, satisfied.

The other three shared a look that was clearly supposed to be critical, but mostly landed in the region of fond. After just long enough for the pause to be an intentional move to bait him, Athos grinned. “I think you’re going to be okay.”

Warmed by the implied praise but unwilling to show it, d’Artagnan snorted indelicately. “Gee, thanks.”

“Can’t give you too much of an ego,” Aramis put in with a smile of his own.

“Bad for the health,” Porthos agreed.

d'Artagnan flicked his eyes between the three of them for a moment, then let himself laugh warmly. “As always, I shall take your lessons to heart. Between the three of you, I’m sure you can make a Musketeer of me yet.”

He said it lightly to assure them that he wasn’t genuinely griping at his continued Apprentice status, but Athos’ eye roll still caught him off guard. “You were a Musketeer years ago d’Artagnan, we just need to convince the Commissioner of it.”

A quick glance around at Aramis and Porthos revealed warm smiles and gentle head tilts of agreement that was so easily given, d’Artagnan needed to take a moment to swallow back the emotion that wanted to spill out. His lack of commission had been something of a sore point for some time, but knowing that these men still thought of him as their brother regardless was everything to him. “Well then,” he said as lightly as he could when it felt like his heart was about to squeeze between his ribs and flee across the cafe, “I guess I’ll just have to ace this evaluation then, won’t I?”

---

For all his bravado, d’Artagnan did still find himself having to beat back his nerves when he dismounted from the bus that had delivered him and a handful of other recruits to what was seemingly absolutely nowhere. Most assessments he had to undergo took place at the training centre and largely cycled through individual tests like hand-to-hand or target practice, but this time it seemed Treville wanted to see what they were capable of in a less controlled, less predictable environment. It made rational sense – active missions were absolutely nothing like standard training after all – but d’Art was still hesitant with so much uncertainty hanging over him. 

It was only made worse when he knew that the rest of Alpha Team had had a significant hand in designing the training simulation awaiting him and had all collectively refused to breathe a word about it when he’d pestered for information.

Last off the bus was Dechant, leader of Team Echo and their moderator for the day, clutching a clipboard and shooting them all piercing looks in turn. d'Artagnan didn’t know the man well, but he’d heard good things from the rest of Dechant’s team and anyone who could successfully corral Ramirez and James into doing anything productive for an extended period of time was someone well worth listening to.

“Recruits,” he called, instantly winning everyone’s attention. “Welcome to Saint-Mesmes. Before we begin, there’s some housekeeping to get through. Three miles that way,” he waved a hand, “is the village of Vineuil. On the off-chance that anything does go wrong today and you need to seek assistance, that’s the closest place to get it. The rest of my team is holding there and will be happy to help in the event of an emergency.”

He paused a moment to make sure they’d all taken that in, before continuing. “Now, measures have been taken to ensure that this area is clear of any civilians, but this is public land and we cannot be certain. There will not be any live ammunition in play at any point, but please do be aware that if you see someone you don’t recognise from the garrison, then they’re likely not involved and should be avoided where possible. Understand?”

There was a general murmuring of agreement from the six recruits. d'Artagnan knew each of the group by sight if nothing else and got on with them well enough, although he wasn’t overly close to any of them. Even the youngest amongst the group had a good five years on d’Artagnan and while none of them had ever tried to belittle him for his own vastly inferior age and experience, he always felt just a little bit cowed in their presence. Fortunately, as they were all in roughly the same level of training, this wasn’t the first time they’d been grouped together and he was well used to the almost overwhelming urge to prove that he deserved the place he had here.

“Good,” Dechant said, smiling at them all with a hint of something amused in his expression. “With all of that out of the way, let’s begin. First up, I need you in two teams: Faivre, Deschamps, and Han, you’re Red Team; Lance, Antaya, and d’Artagnan, you’re Blue Team. Each of you is going to be given a bag with your equipment that you can use in whatever way you see fit – the idea of this exercise is to think on your toes so I’m going to let you go through your inventory yourselves. The only thing I will draw your attention to is that you have each been given a radio. In the event of a medical emergency, raise an SOS on 462 megahertz and we will get to you as soon as we can.”

d'Artagnan spared a moment to wonder at the fact that there was a strong enough risk of medical emergencies despite the lack of live ammunition that they’d been given specific instructions for it, but then pushed the thought away. It wasn’t helpful and it was just going to take up brain space.

Dechant took a step back towards the idling bus and tugged open the cargo hold, revealing six backpacks, each of which had either a red or blue tag attached. He beckoned loosely at them. “You are now free to collect your equipment. Once you’ve done that, Red Team, you’re going to walk in that direction-” he pointed across the field in front of them, “-until you reach the red flag. Blue Team, your marker is that way.” He gestured in the exact opposite direction. “Once you reach your flags, you’re going to have fifteen minutes to read the instructions waiting for you there before we begin. When you hear the air horn, you’re on your own.”

He paused, looking around at them all with a raised eyebrow, welcoming any questions they may have. When silence continued to reign, he chuckled lightly. “Alright then. Have at it. Good luck Agents.”

---

Fifteen or so hours later saw a very weary but ultimately satisfied d’Artagnan stumbling his way off the bus and up to Athos’ front door. The day had been long and brutal, but his team had worked well together and it had been a real thrill to be able to put some of his hard won skills into action in an environment that wasn’t likely to get him killed if anything happened to go wrong. He’d even had a good time working with agents that weren’t his immediate team members – of course, he would rather die than be switched to a different team, but it was still nice to get a glimpse into how the other recruits handled themselves and what he could learn from them. Plus, he just knew he had Aramis to thank for the surprise addition of ‘snipers’ they’d had to deal with as the evening drew in – he’d spent close to an hour ducking and weaving between almost non-existent cover to avoid the red dot sights and his knees had certainly not appreciated the amount of crawling he’d been reduced to – and he fully intended to let the marksman know of his displeasure.

After he’d had a shower. And slept for a solid 12 hours.

Of course, as he should have expected, that plan was immediately waylaid the moment he stepped through the door and was greeted by a chorus of shouts from the living room. Despite his exhaustion, he couldn’t help but smile as he locked the door behind him and went to prop himself up in the doorway down the hall.

“Miss me?” He greeted his team with that same tired, desperately fond smile. Aramis and Porthos were scattered across the sofa, with Athos reclining luxuriously in the armchair across from them, the coffee table in the middle hidden under a mound of Chinese takeaway that was still steaming gently.

“You’re late,” Aramis informed him promptly. “If you’d gotten here five minutes ago you could have had first pick of the food.” As if to prove his point, he didn’t look up from plate of food carefully balanced on his lap, but d’Artagnan could see the smile he was trying to hide under his hair.

It was already pushing 10pm – the fact that they’d not only stayed over at Athos’ to greet him on his return but had waited to get food just so that he could eat dinner with them was almost unbearably kind. With fatigue pulling at every limb, he couldn’t do anything to stop the blinding smile that split his face. “Give me five minutes,” he said, instead of trying to put words to the glowing warmth in his chest. “I need a shower before I get sweat all over Athos’ upholstery.”

“You needn’t worry,” Athos put in mildly, but he waved a hand in vague acceptance regardless. They all knew how divine a shower could be after a long day of hard work.

Still unable to suppress his grin, d’Art flipped them all a salute and headed for the bathroom with far more energy than he’d had on arrival. He felt even better ten minutes later when he returned, damp hair slowly seeping water into the loose t-shirt he’d slipped into and skin glowing warm from his frankly inhumane abuse of Athos’ boiler.

“I hope you saved me something good,” he said as he dropped limply into the second armchair, ostensibly to the room at large but with his eyes fixed on Aramis to make sure he knew who it was really aimed at.

The marksman smiled, unrepentant. “Shouldn’t have taken your time.”

d'Artagnan flashed him his middle finger, ignored the snort that earned him, and went about filling up a plate from the various dishes on the table. It didn’t escape his notice that someone had been thoughtful enough to order his favourite dishes and ensure that they’d been left almost entirely untouched just for him, but if he thought about it too closely he was almost sure he’d end up saying or doing something hopelessly sappy, so he saved face by starting up conversation.

“Did I miss anything exciting today?”

“Nothing important,” Athos said, something smug and amused in his voice.

d'Artagnan immediately felt suspicion crawl up his spine and he shot the man a narrow-eyed look. Unconcerned, Athos kept picking at his own food. On the sofa, Aramis and Porthos had both also become suddenly very interested in their plates and d’Artagnan felt himself sigh even as a laugh built low in his throat. “Oh go on, spit it out. Which group were you?”

Porthos broke first, a grin breaking through his control. “First wave of raids after you bunkered down in the farmhouse,” he announced proudly. “Aramis was the one that climbed through the back window. Athos and I were up front with Hawthorn from Sierra.”

After the madness of the day, it took d’Artagnan a second to fully remember the farmhouse they’d requisitioned for shelter and then almost immediately had to defend from a gang of ‘attackers’ in balaclavas before they were able to retreat into the relative safety of the fields. It had caught them all off guard in a way it shouldn’t have done, but they’d rallied to the challenge in admirable time and they’d gotten away without losing any of their equipment or compromising the ‘intelligence’ they had been tasked with protecting. A success, mostly.

d'Artagnan rubbed at his eyes, but he was laughing. “I should have known. I’d figured Treville wouldn’t have put you against my team but I still should have recognised you.” Something else occurred to him then, and he couldn’t help but snort. “Wait, you were the one at the back window Aramis?”

The tips of the marksman’s ears flushed red and he ducked his head down sharply. “Lucille Antaya is a very capable agent,” he said stiffly, glaring at them when all three of them chuckled.

“Did you decide that before or after she backhanded you through that window?”

Aramis huffed grumpily, but they could tell it was staged. Lucille had only been with the Musketeers for 12 months and she had already built up a fearsome reputation for being whippet-quick on the sparring mats; d’Artagnan was distantly pleased to know that the skills carried over into the field without faltering.

“So,” he said, diverting his attention to the room at large if only to help Aramis stop blushing, “If you were there then I’m guessing you kept tabs. How did we do?”

“We weren’t there the whole day,” Athos revealed. “We had to be back in Paris by three.”

“Missed the snipers then,” d’Artagnan put in, sending a glare in Aramis’ direction that was summarily ignored. “Pity.”

“Quite. As for feedback, you know we can’t tell you anything until Treville completes his evaluation. Rules, I’m afraid.” Athos said it in an apologetic tone of voice, but a quick glance at his face revealed he wasn’t in the slightest bit sorry, smug git that he was. d'Artagnan rolled his eyes.

“Rude,” was all he said. He let the matter slide without pressing though, content to inhale his own body weight in Chinese food now that his body had suddenly recognised how starving it was. They’d had some rations to eat at around lunch time, but that had been a good ten hours ago and he’d burned off a lot of calories in the time since. “What was happening at three you had to be back for?” He asked a short while later, during a momentary pause in shovelling food into his mouth so he could breathe.

“Treville wanted me in on meeting with the Commissioner,” Athos said, waving a hand dismissively when d’Artagnan’s head snapped up to look at him. “Nothing exciting. Typical budget talks. Treville just brought me along to show me off, I think.”

“He had to go in full uniform,” Aramis announced with a wicked grin. “Cloak and everything. Looked pretty as a picture.”

“Damn right I did. If the Captain’s going to force me to dress up like an action figure, I’d better look good doing it.”

d'Artagnan snorted. “Did your valiant suffering pay off?”

“Well, Treville seemed happy enough when we were done. I’m going to be honest, most of it was way over my head.”

“By which you mean you were fully capable of understanding all of it, you just didn’t listen because you don’t give a shit,” Porthos translated with a laugh.

“Correct.”

The conversation continued while they steadily worked their way through the frankly absurd amount of food they’d ordered, gently ribbing each other and filling the air with laughter. It was something they had always tried to carve out for themselves, a little space that was just family and warmth, and they could escape from all the horrors that made up their usual daily lives, and d’Artagnan adored it fiercely. But, as much as he might have wanted to stay there forever, he was also utterly exhausted.

Somewhere between loading up his second plate of food and Aramis complaining they should have bought another serving of rice, he felt his mind starting to grow thick and heavy, pieces of the conversation slipping away from him as weariness swept over him. It wasn’t until he felt something knock gently against his shin and he startled awake with a snort that he realised he’d gone from sleepy to actually asleep .

Athos chuckled, retracting his foot from where he’d nudged him. “Tired?”

“Perhaps a bit,” he admitted quietly, stretching out languidly and ignoring the soft looks they were all shooting him. “Been a long day.”

“That it has. You’ve done well today – go and get some rest. We’re due in at nine tomorrow, no excuses.”

“God, don’t remind me of that right now,” he groaned, but he did carefully lever himself up onto his feet, distantly noting that someone had relieved him of his plate of food while he was out of it. “Night all.”

There was a chorus of replies, and a mild cry of annoyance from Aramis as d’Artagnan shot out a hand to ruffle his hair as he passed, then quiet as he made his way upstairs and collapsed onto his bed. With the kind of forethought reserved only for the deeply lazy, he’d been smart enough to put on clothes he was willing to sleep in after his shower and he felt no need whatsoever to make the effort of getting undressed now. Exhausted, well-fed, and happy, he slept.

---

When d’Artagnan was called into the Captain’s office the next day to be informed smartly that he’d passed the evaluation with some of the best marks any candidate had ever seen, he couldn’t help the smug smile that slipped onto his face and refused to budge for the rest of the day. Athos, feeling just a tad smug himself for having the bright idea of recruiting the boy, had sighed, tugged him into a one armed hug, and declared that he’d known he’d had it in him all along.