Apparently all I'm capable of at the minute is stupid, short one shots. But at least I'm writing, I guess?

General googling has led me to believe that coffee wasn't introduced to France until about the 1660s, so that's why it doesn't feature.

These are essentially related drabbles, masquerading as a real story.

Of all the tasks they completed, night shifts at the palace were always the worst. Or more specifically, night shifts alone at the palace were the worst. If two of them managed to get on the same rotation then they could pass the long hours keeping each other awake with stories or jokes, anything that might help the dawn arrive sooner. But more often than not they'd be stuck wandering down golden hallways on their own, doing whatever they could to stave off the boredom and fatigue.

In a drastic reversal of their every day lives, Aramis was actually the one who complained about the tiresome work the least while Athos moaned loudly and often. d'Artagnan had commented once that it was because Aramis spent many nights away from his own bed, surviving without sleep, to which Aramis had glowed with pride and Athos looked to the skies for strength. Porthos for his part didn't mind the work too much, though he'd escape the duty as often as he could. Growing up as he had, he'd learnt to accept sleep as precious.

It was unpleasant work, to say the least. One thing they could be sure on, however, was the support of their friends whenever one of them was suffering.

Aramis strolled into the garrison just as the sun was rising, a faint, tired smile softening his eyes when he saw d'Artagnan and Porthos already sitting at the table. Whenever one of them was working nights, they tried to organise it so that the unlucky party wouldn't be eating breakfast alone.

He dropped onto the bench with all the force of a man unwilling to stand a second longer than he had to. Porthos bumped their shoulders together companionably. "Quiet night?"

"Silent as the grave. I suppose I should be thankful." As he spoke, d'Artagnan pushed a bowl of Serge's attempt at porridge in his direction; he took it with a nod of thanks. His mind felt like it was wrapped in cotton, soft around the edges as he tried to parse the world around him. "Anything happening today?"

"Athos didn't mention any pressing matters to attend to," Porthos reassured him. "If anything exciting starts, we'll be sure to wake you up. We know how you hate to miss things."

Aramis nodded vaguely but they could tell he was barely conscious, head drooping dangerously towards the bowl in front of him. Porthos chuckled kindly, bumping shoulders again to try and stir him.

"Eat the food 'Mis. Then you can sleep."

"You're not my mother," Aramis shot back automatically, ignoring the slur in his words. Regardless, he picked up his spoon dutifully and managed a few more mouthfuls before his blinks started growing longer and longer.

It said a lot for his lack of awareness that when he next looked up, he was surprised to see Athos sitting across from him when before there had been nothing but empty space. He frowned a little. "'Thos?"

"The very same," he replied wryly, smiling. "Good morning."

Aramis huffed at him, trying to eat a little more porridge only to find that his hands were trembling too badly to use the spoon. He abandoned the attempt, yawning widely. "I'm going to bed."

"That looks wise," Porthos said. He jumped to his feet a moment later when Aramis swayed alarmingly, feet uncooperative with fatigue, and pulled his arm over his shoulder. "The things I do for you."

Behind them, d'Artagnan was chuckling softly. "Does he always look like a puppy when he's tired?"

"Generally," Athos replied, giving a rare smile as they watched Porthos haul away a thoroughly malleable Aramis. "He'll be back to normal by lunch, I'm sure."

d'Artagnan, having been raised on a farm, was no stranger to late nights, early mornings and anything in between, but even he struggled with night shifts. It wasn't the lack of sleep - it wasn't comfortable but he could manage it just fine. It was the boredom. He'd realised early on that he'd never have been content living on a farm all his life if it had been anywhere near as dull as this.

Instead of letting the boredom overcome him, he invented games to keep his mind occupied while his body idled, such as finding images in the swirling patterns on the walls and ceilings. He'd always had a fondness for stories.

It kept him going until he was relieved with the dawn, replacement Musketeers offering understanding smiles and nods of greeting. He thanked God that the garrison was not far from the palace - he didn't think he could have made it any further than he did, and even then it was a stretch.

Aramis, the only one there to greet him, laughed aloud when their youngest arrived, taking in the weary tread of a man already half asleep and just waiting for his body to catch up. Still, he rose to his feet to help d'Artagnan onto the bench and fetched him fresh water to try and revive him enough to consume something.

"You look a mess."

"So do you," d'Artagnan replied without hesitation, eyeing his friend with as much curiosity as his exhausted being could muster. It was the truth; Aramis' hair was in wild disarray about his face, skin a little pale around too-dark eyes. "You've not been home, have you?"

Aramis grinned widely. "Neither have you, so you cannot judge."

"I was involved in the King's work."

"And I was involved in the most sacred of God's work," Aramis replied easily. He wasn't one to shy away from talk of sex and he truly saw love-making as a divine act. Why else would God have given them the ability to feel such immense joy, if not to share it with others?

d'Artagnan groaned, not willing to enter a theological debate when his head was growing ever-nearer the table top. He knew that he should probably eat something but there would surely be food later and he was just so tired...

He startled awake as a cold wetness splashed over his head and he spluttered upright to see Aramis holding an empty goblet with an unrepentant grin on his face. "No falling asleep in the courtyard. It's in the rules. Go on, get to bed."

d'Artagnan felt that his bed was too far away but Aramis was already reaching for another glass so he jolted himself to his feet quickly, almost landing himself in the mud for his troubles. He staggered away, promising himself that he'd get Aramis back once he could walk straight.

It only made sense, Athos thought, that it would be his shift interrupted by an assassin. The man had been stopped, of course, and would no doubt be spending the rest of his miserable life in the Bastille, but that still left Athos with bruised ribs and an awful attitude. Why couldn't Paris just take care of itself for a few days?

As soon as he walked under the archway of the garrison, Aramis was at his shoulder, taking his arm gently and tugging him towards the tables where a concerned d'Artagnan and Porthos were waiting for them.

Porthos greeted him with a quiet, "We heard what happened."

"Then you will have heard," he said with only a mild slur, "That I am unhurt."

"No," Aramis disagreed gently even while he was tugging at the straps keeping Athos' weapons in place so that he could get to his shirt. "We heard that you bravely defended the king and queen, and were pushed down some stairs for your trouble. You don't look to be in enough pain for anything to be broken, but you're not about to lie to me and tell me you're alright. What hurts?"

Aware that he'd never get any peace until he gave in - and he desperately wanted to sleep - Athos sighed and shrugged. "My ribs took a knock but other than that, I truly am okay."

Seeing the tension in the others, d'Artagnan changed the subject hurriedly. "So who was he? It's not every day someone decides to kill the king."

"In our line of work, it pretty much is," Porthos pointed out with a smile, grateful to d'Artagnan's efforts.

The lad conceded the point with a tilt of his head but still looked at Athos questioningly, curious as to what had happened. He was always eager for stories of adventure and excitement. "He wasn't terribly forthcoming with information, but from the little he did tell us, he would appear to be an ex-soldier who fought against Spain. He seemed to believe that the treaty we currently have with King Phillipe is an offence to the people who lost their lives in the wars." He paused, and then without thinking it through, added, "He might be right."

Aramis hissed through his teeth sharply and his fingers still for a moment where they were unbuttoning Athos' jacket. "Well, thank you very much," he said, affronted. "You realise of course, that if we throw away our treaty with Spain, I would no doubt be forced from the regiment?"

Athos winced. "Forgive me," he pleaded quietly. "I did not mean it like that."

It was clear that Aramis was still angry but he continued his work in silence, accepting that Athos was tired and in pain, and probably wasn't thinking too clearly. Porthos was frowning at the pair of them. "Treville doesn't give a damn that your mother was Spanish," he said firmly. "If a war starts, he's not going to force you anywhere."

"It wouldn't necessarily be up to Treville," Aramis replied without looking up. "There are plenty of nobles with the ear of the king who want me gone already."

"But if you were decommissioned, the regiment would lose its four greatest Musketeers," Athos said with a surety that was touching. "We would never let you stand alone, and Treville could never bear to lose all of us."

Aramis huffed fondly, but there was a gentle curve to his mouth that implied contentment. Without replying, he slipped off Athos' jacket without asking permission and tugged up his shirt so that he could look at the damage underneath. He whistled lowly. "Exactly how many stairs did you fall down?"

"I wasn't counting them."

"I'm honestly impressed that you didn't break anything. Some of these must be cracked for sure," he informed them, gently feeling along the bones beneath the thick band of muscle. Athos hissed quietly. He was always less stoic when he was exhausted and right now he was falling asleep at the table. "Give me a moment to wrap them and then get yourself to bed. You're dead on your feet."

Aramis disappeared off to find some bandages, but Athos was so tired at this point that he barely even noticed. What he did notice, was that the warm weight at his side that had been propping him up was no longer there, and this lead to an inevitable keel towards the tabletop. A warm hand wrapped itself around the back of his neck to stop the decline.

"Easy there," Porthos laughed. "Giving yourself a black eye isn't going to help anyone."

"Is he even still awake?" d'Artagnan asked.

There was a shuffle of movement beside Athos that made him think Porthos had shrugged. "Just about. He'll manage to stay conscious until he reaches a bed and then he'll be out a few hours. When properly motivated, this one sleeps like the dead."

"Speaking from experience?"

"Of all the undesirable duties Athos has to deal with, he hates night shifts the most. He likes his sleep, when he can get it."

Athos wanted to be irritated that he was being discussed so casually when he was still right there, but expressing the emotion required more energy than he felt capable of, so he simply listened in silence until Aramis reappeared with white cloth in his hands. His ministrations hurt - which he vocalised in a series of incomprehensible grunts - but Aramis' hands were quick and sure, and it was only the work of a moment.

"That should hold you together. If you start having any trouble breathing, tell me immediately. You hear me?"

"Trouble breathing, come to you," he parroted back, though his words had turned to mush with fatigue. Aramis seemed to understand anyway.

"Right then. Let's get you to bed."

Porthos used the hand still holding Athos up to pull an arm over his shoulder, while Aramis took the other side. Between them, they were able to take most of Athos' weight without issue and it left d'Artagnan to precede them and open the doors in their way. None of them were willing to take Athos all the way back to his apartments, but there were beds available in the garrison for those too tired to make it home; all four of them were intimately acquainted with them.

It was with great care that they laid Athos on the bed, mindful of his injuries. No doubt he'd be in pain for some time. Still, if the king was truly grateful - as he usually was - there might be some form of reward heading in Athos' direction. It might just make up for it.

"What did I tell you?" Porthos pointed out happily. "Dead to the world."

"I can't understand Athos sometimes," d'Artagnan griped good naturedly, eyes on the now unconscious man.

"A word to the wise d'Artagan," Aramis said, clapping him on the shoulder, "Don't even try."

Porthos was used to nights without sleep. Growing up on the streets meant that you found rest where you could and went without where you couldn't. He knew that he could not sleep for three days before he really started suffering but that by the middle of the second day, he wouldn't be able to shoot straight.

So when he walked into the garrison one morning to find only Athos, he was awake enough still to think that it was a little strange. In all their acquaintance, Porthos had never known Athos to be late unless something waylaid him – usually something armed with a sword or pistol – but he was rarely the first one to the garrison in the mornings. Unless, he corrected himself, he had been unable to sleep.

It was rare, thanks to the wonders of wine, but there were some nights where Athos was too plagued by nightmares of a past now come to light to sleep. Those nights normally ended with Porthos dragging him down into one bar or another, and proceeding to buy him as many drinks as he could afford.

"What're you doing up so early?" He asked as he approached, snagging a bowl of porridge on the way. If he ate quickly, he could have a nap and be back up to scratch by mid-morning.

Athos looked at him with some amusement. "Neither of our comrades could quite bring themselves to make it, so I came in their stead. Would you rather I left?"

"Not at all," he waved him off. "What are the others doing?"

"Aramis spent the night with a Madame Cousland, or so I hear. Her husband is away on business in London. d'Artagnan is recovering from the large quantity of wine he drank last night."

"And what would d'Artagnan have been doing drinking himself into a hangover?"

Athos raised his hands in a gesture of innocence. "It is nothing to do with me. I didn't drink last night." It said so much for how far he had come, that he could say something like that. Porthos glowed with silent pride.

"Is there anything for us to be worrying about?"

"Nothing new, I don't think. I believe he saw Madame Bonacieux with her husband yesterday evening."

"Ah."

"Indeed." Porthos ate some more porridge in silence, nodding in thanks when Athos produced a glass of water for him from seemingly nowhere. The elder Musketeer frowned at him. "You seem far more awake than I feel is fair."

"Would you rather be trying to carry me back to my room, all on your own?"

A small smile curved Athos' lips. "That would imply I'm too much of a gentleman to leave you to sleep right there. I assure you, that isn't the case."

"You wound me."

"Eat your breakfast."

Porthos laughed easily, enjoying the warm companionship beside him. Athos was still haunted by demons – would be until the day he died – but for the first time in almost six years, he was starting to allow himself to recover, and he was letting Porthos be a part of that. He was honoured.

A short while later, Aramis stumbled into the garrison, hair in disarray and a wide smile on his face. Porthos raised an eyebrow at him. "You could at least pretend that you weren't just committing adultery."

"The act of love is no crime," he replied, dropping onto the bench across from him, still beaming.

"I'm not sure Monsieur Cousland would see it the same way."

"What he doesn't know cannot hurt him. And besides, he spends far too much of his time away on business to be surprised by any… misdemeanours on his wife's part. It would seem that he prefers to allow it to happen in silence. But enough of my exploits. Quiet night?"

"Silent, in fact. Thought about committing treason myself, just for something to do."

"I wouldn't let Treville hear you saying that," Athos warned without any real weight.

Porthos looked like he was going to reply but he broke off with a jaw cracking yawn.

"Get some rest," Aramis ordered him sternly. "We'll wake you up in a couple of hours, I promise. Try not to punch me this time." The last time Aramis had been in charge of waking Porthos up, he'd tumbled out of a nightmare and come up swinging. Aramis swore that he didn't blame Porthos for it but that didn't stop him feeling guilty as hell.

"I am sorry about that," he said, for the hundredth time.

"I know you are. Bed."

Porthos grumbled quietly under his breath, but struggled to his feet and wandered off in the direction of the dorms without further complaint. Athos watched him go with a gentle look in his eyes. "The energy of that man is truly something to behold. He's not slept in over a day and he's still able to worry about you two idiots before himself."

"There's no one quite like Porthos," Aramis agreed. "His kindness of heart is awe-inspiring."

They were interrupted by a quiet thump beside them to announce d'Artagnan's arrival. His face was pale and he was squinting in the thin morning light. "Pothos?" Was all he said.

"Gone to sleep. Perhaps something you should do too?"

d'Artagnan shook his head slowly, trying to blink himself into alertness. "I'm fine. Was there any trouble at the palace?"

"None. Stop worrying."

Apparently reassured, d'Artagnan dropped his head onto his folded arms and fell silent. Smiling, Aramis ruffled his hair affectionately and laughed when muffled grumbling escaped d'Artagnan's little cave. "Come on," he said, "I know the perfect cure to a hangover."

Which is no doubt, more alcohol. I'm not sure this even counts as an ending. It's so terrible.