Hello, my lovelies. You might think "oh no, she's not finished her other story, why is she starting a new one?" Well, unlike Building A Family, I know exactly how many chapters this will have. 4, one for each of the boys and their hidden/surprising talent. This was surprisingly fun and quite emotional (in a good way) to write, so I do hope you enjoy it. As always, reviews, follows and favourites are appreciated and make me smile.

D'Artagnan:
Hidden Talent - Carpentry/Whittling

The wood felt about the right size and shape, so he picked it up off the ground once they had stopped for the night to sleep. He wasn't on watch, but he figured Porthos could use the company, and it was just one of those nights where he was too fidgety to sleep. They didn't happen so often now, but it used to be that every time they were on a mission away from Paris, and they either had to stay at an inn, or out in the open, d'Artagnan got little to no sleep. It hadn't taken the others long to notice, though, and once they worked out the problem, they were quick to reassure him that they would not be bothered if he woke up crying out for his father, and that none of them were going to die if he went out to the stables to see to the horses.

It had taken them a while, but eventually he relaxed enough that he could sleep clear through the night. Aramis took great delight in telling him that he purred like a cat when he slept. He always felt better, and admittedly safer, when one of the others was next to him in the bed. Aramis was the most clingy, but he hardly minded that - except when he had to disentangle their limbs just so he could get up to relieve himself, but that had only ever happened once, so he wasn't going to think about that fiasco again.

Now though, they were camped in the woods and snow was starting to fall. Aramis needed someone warm close to him more than d'Artagnan did on this particular night, and if it meant that he could brush up on a long-abandoned skill, then so much the better. Porthos didn't say anything as d'Artagnan sat down next to him with lump of wood and an old whittling knife in hand, he just let d'Artagnan settle into whatever he was doing as he surveyed their surroundings with a watchful eye.

The night wore on peaceably, and d'Artagnan found his mind wandering to Aramis, still sleeping cradled in Athos' arms. D'Artagnan allowed himself a brief moment to wonder how often the man had held Thomas the same way through the night, but shook it from his mind as he set to work at the wood. Porthos watched out of the corner of his eye, and wondered why he'd never seen d'Artagnan doing this before, when it was obvious it was something he'd learned a long time ago.
"Who taught you to do that?" he asked by way of conversation, and d'Artagnan, though he was still concentrating on the task at hand, found himself smiling fondly at old memories that the question brought up.

"My grandfather" he replied, absently wiping away some of the shavings from the wood off of his lap. "You might not believe it, but I was a bit of a hellion when I was a child," from Porthos' snort of derision, he could well believe it, "-Don't interrupt." d'Artagnan complained, but the tone was fond.
"Anyway, after whatever trouble I'd gotten in had got to father, depending on what it was, we fought. And I'd run to grandfather's cottage - it was just a little ways up from the farm, by the old well. And he'd tell me stories of his soldiering days, whittling at something all the while, and sometimes that was enough to make me feel better. But when it wasn't, he gave me my own block of wood, and told me to make something with it. And said if I thought of someone in particular when I made it, then it should be gifted to them." He smiled, an unexpected warmth of gratitude towards his grandfather radiated in his chest. "I was still quite young when he passed away, nine or ten, perhaps." He grinned even wider now.

"And you know what he used to say? He'd say; lad, your fathers a good, respected man here - but don't go forgetting that any advice he gives you is damned foolish. He'd probably tell ye to go an' march up to every man who so much as brushes your shoulder and demand that they duel you. Listen to an old man, whittle away your troubles instead." He'd done the best impression of the man that he could from those old, dusty memories. It had been so many years since he'd thought anything about the man other than to recall his exasperated sighs or his warm laughter. He looked down at the shape in his hands, surprised at the form it'd taken. Porthos just smiled though, and looked over to their sleeping comrades.

"Reckon you been thinkin' of Aramis, if that's what you made, kid." D'Artagnan rolled his eyes, but turned it around in his hand. Of all things, he'd fashioned a little wooden crucifix. Humming thoughtfully, finished off the piece and started looking around for another piece of wood.
"What ya lookin' for?" Porthos asked, eyeing him with amiable curiosity.
"More wood." D'Artagnan explained, eyes alighting on what seemed like a suitable piece.
"Why?"
"Well, I need to make beads if this is going to be a rosary, don't I?"

They fell into amicable silence, and d'Artagnan kept working even when Athos took Porthos' place on watch. Though Athos seemed curious, he did not ask d'Artagnan what he was doing, seeing how intent he was on his work.
"Just one of those nights, then?" he asked conversationally, and d'Artagnan gave him something halfway between a shrug and a nod as his answer.
"Gave me the time and the occasion for the practice. I'm a little rusty." He kept working, even as he felt Athos' eyes on him. Today, there was nothing sharp in that gaze, he knew, only softness and understanding. "Besides. Aramis is the one who needs company tonight." He let that hang in the air for a while. Athos made no move to contradict him, which he appreciated. Still, the silence had become awkward.

"Say, Athos?"
"Hm?"
"You wouldn't have any string or twine I could use, do you? I'd like it if I could get this finished before morning."
"This being?"
"A rosary, for Aramis." Athos' eyebrows shot up in surprise, and d'Artagnan was quick to defend himself, "I know it's not as fancy as the one Her Majesty gifted to him or anything, but when I started whittling I was thinking about him and-" he stopped when he saw Athos raise a hand to calm his rambling.
"Peace, d'Artagnan. I was only a little surprised, that's all. I think I have a leather string in my pack- ah! Here it is, will this do?" he asked, handing the younger man the item in question. Turning it over in his hands, he studied it for a long moment before nodding, more to himself than to Athos.
"This will do nicely, I think." And he spent what was left of the night fiddling with it all and trying to hold everything in place. Athos was suitably impressed with his skills.

"I know we joke about Aramis being a seamstress, but I think you could have been a jeweler, in another life. You have the skill for it. That, or a carpenter. You're very skilled with that knife of yours." D'Artagnan beamed at the compliment, honestly happy that a man who he so admired appreciated his skills.
"Thank you, Athos. My grandfather gave it to me for my eighth birthday. And I used to help my sisters mend their jewellery. We couldn't afford much, so what they had was handed down. Or I was bribed and blackmailed to make something pretty for them. But I don't think that ever could have been me." He turned properly to Athos, even as he was fixing the length of the rosary. "I'm quite happy with life as a Musketeer, and I wouldn't have it any other way." Athos clapped him on the shoulder and squeezed it firmly, and d'Artagnan felt warm inside, glad to have his approval.
"Well, that's morning. You go wake Aramis, and give him your gift while you're at it. I'll drag Porthos to make something edible for breakfast." D'Artagnan nodded, grateful for the opportunity to give what he'd made to Aramis without an audience watching on.

He made his way over to where Aramis and Porthos were sleeping. First off, he kicked Porthos in the leg, and the man was up instantly. He'd learned that trick last month on a mission on the coast.
"What?"
"Athos needs to make use of your culinary abilities, now scram." He made a shooing motion with his hands, and Porthos huffed, pretending to be offended. When he saw what d'Artagnan had in his hands, however, he grinned.

"You finished it?"
"Yup." D'Artagnan was looking nervously at the ground, avoiding his eyes. Porthos sighed and punched him gently in the arm.
"He'll love it." The larger man assured him, then a shadow crossed his eyes, "You sure you're okay for waking him up?"
"Yeah, don't worry, I know what I'm doing now, and I solemnly swear, on my name and my honour, that there will be no repeat of last month's incident." Porthos clapped him on the shoulder indulgently and then swanned off to do whatever it was Athos needed.

Crouching next to Aramis, he placed a hand gently on his shoulder and shook him a little. He groggily blinked his eyes and then rolled over, but at least he wasn't so deeply asleep anymore, so d'Artagnan whispered in his ear
"You missed the party at Madame Angel's" And that was all it took for the man to shoot up from where he had been sleeping, momentarily disorientated before his eyes lit on d'Artagnan and he realised what had happened.

"You are the single cruellest boy that Gascony has had the misfortune of spawning" he complained, whilst pouting. And whilst that might have worked on him if Aramis had been a child, the look on a grown man was completely ridiculous. When he looked closely at the Gascon, however, he frowned. "And why, young man, do you look like you haven't slept all night?" Sometimes d'Artagnan hated how much of a mother hen the man insisted on being.
"Because he hasn't." Athos and Porthos both helpfully interjected at once. D'Artagnan glared in their direction, because really, that wasn't helping, and the guilty look on Aramis' face had no place being there at all.

"d'Arta-"
"No," the Gascon interrupted before Aramis even had time to start his sentence, never mind finish it, "I do not want to hear it. You needed them more, and it gave me an excuse to practice." Aramis blinked, confused, and frowned again.
"Practice what?"
Instead of answering, d'Artagnan opened his left palm, which he had been holding the rosary it. Clearing his throat awkwardly.
"I uh, made it, for you. I know it's not fancy or-" But Aramis, with an awestruck expression in his eyes, had reverently lifted it from the boy's fingers, his hands rolling over it and drinking in each detail. D'Artagnan didn't quite know what to do with himself.
"You made this. For me. In one night, all by yourself, because you couldn't sleep?" The words were so very quiet, but were as loud as church bells to d'Artagnan's ears. He nodded dumbly, and Aramis seemed to struggle with words to match his appreciation.

"Well, Athos gave me the leather chord, but other than that, yes?" he rubbed his arm out of equal parts nerves and embarrassment. Aramis looked on the verge of tears and he didn't know if he could deal with that when he could literally fall over from exhaustion any minute now.
"Thank you." Aramis' voice was choked and raw and full of emotion. "I will treasure it, always." He lifted it over his head, and at the length it was, the cross sat right over his heart. D'Artagnan was sure that some poet or another (maybe even Aramis himself) might find that symbolic. But d'Artagnan was no poet, so he said this instead:

"May it keep you safe, and remind you that even if you're lost in the cold and the darkness, you're not alone. You will never be alone." Aramis drew him into a tight embrace that he was quick to return and slow to give up.
If both of their eyes shone with tears as they made their way to breakfast, the others were wise enough not to mention it.

They did, however, have a quiet chuckle when later, d'Artagnan nearly fell off his horse at a canter because he'd momentarily fallen asleep.