A little boy stood on his tiptoes, his small, chubby hands curled around the edge of a cheap, fold-up table. He wobbled a bit as the uneven legs shifted under his weight. A young woman, perched on a plastic stool by the table, gave the boy a fond, exasperated look as depleted cases of old makeup shifted. A tube of lipstick rolled off the tilted surface and onto the worn carpeting.

"Mijo, you need to behave yourself. I can't get ready if you keep bothering me."

The little boy plopped himself back onto the floor and picked up the fallen lipstick, uncapping it and smearing it all over his mouth and chin. He was about four years old, with unruly brown curls and large, soulful eyes set beautifully into a sweet, round face. The young woman looked down at the boy and laughed when she saw the bright red streaks smeared onto the features that would eventually look so much like her own.

"Ah, mi amor, I think you will need more practice with that." She gently plucked the lipstick from her son's fingers and then picked him up and settled him into her lap. She used a tissue to wipe the waxy color from his skin. "Do you want to help your mamá?"

The boy nodded. He grabbed at the item closest to him and handed it to the young woman. "Gracias," she said solemnly with a twinkle in her eyes. "This is exactly what I needed." The child watched as she carefully applied eyeliner with the stubby black pencil he had picked out, hunching over so that she could see herself in the tiny round mirror that was propped up against the wall. He loved to watch his mamá apply makeup to her pretty face. He was held enthralled as she slowly and carefully brushed a thin layer of shadow to her eyelids, delicately coated her long lashes with mascara and as a final touch, painted glossy pigment onto her full lips. When she was done, she looked like herself, but not. The transformation fascinated him.

"Are you going to work, mamá?" he asked as she sprayed a bit of precious fragrance onto her throat. He turned his face and immediately buried his nose into her shoulder, inhaling deeply. He loved the way she smelled, like amber and sandalwood and a hint of spice. It was a warm, rich scent and wholly his mamá. The perfume was one of the very few things that the young woman had carried with her when she had left home many years ago. It was one luxury she still had.

"I do, mijito. You know I have to."

The boy shook his head with an unhappy look. He disliked the nights his mamá worked. She always seemed so sad the next day, no matter how hard she tried to hide it from him. Sometimes she decided to hide herself instead, staying in bed for days and refusing to do anything but sleep. In times like those, he would climb into bed next to her and cuddle by her side, not knowing what else to do.

The young woman set him on the floor and knelt in front of him, careful not to tear her tight, flimsy miniskirt. "You are going to need some new clothes soon," she said as she gently rubbed her thumb across his soft cheek. The child closed his eyes and reveled in her touch. "Just look at you, you're getting so big!" In reality, the little boy was small for his age. He had inherited his mother's lean tendencies along with her looks, and he sometimes went to bed hungry despite his mamá's best efforts. Even so, it was true that he was outgrowing the threadbare garments that she was able to provide for him.

Seeing the forlorn look on her son's face, the young woman picked him up and cradled him against her hip. She peppered his face with soft little kisses and he giggled, his gloominess dispelled. They walked over to the next room and the boy knocked on the door.

"Be good for Louise and Pauline. I don't want to hear that you've been getting into trouble again," she said sternly as they waited.

"Okay," the boy agreed, tightly wrapping his arms around her neck and giving her a mischievous little grin. He was planning to forget the instructions as soon as he left his mamá's sight.

"And remember to say your prayers before you go to bed."

"Okay."

The door opened and a woman with short blonde hair and pale skin and greeted them with a smile.

"Hola, Louise," the young woman said. "I have Aramis for you."

"Ah yes, my little wildcat," Louise said, opening her arms. Aramis leaned forward and eagerly met her embrace. "Pauline has some games she wants to play," Louise said, tapping his nose. "I bet she'd love to show you how."

Aramis squirmed out of Louise's arms as she set him down on the floor. He promptly ran away to find his playmate, already focused on the fun he was sure to have. Aramis' mother watched him go with a proud, desperate look on her face. She knew without a doubt that her beloved son was the best thing that had ever happened to her. She was also certain that she was probably the worst thing that could have happened to him.

"Gracias, Louise. I'll be back tomorrow morning."

The blonde woman gave her a brief hug. "Take care of yourself, Catalina. We'll be waiting for you."

Catalina nodded her thanks once more and walked away as the door shut behind her, separating her from her little son. She hated this life, hated what she had to do with her body, but it had given her Aramis. She could only be grateful for that, and she would do whatever she had to if it meant that she could support her beautiful boy.

"Where's Aramis?"

Athos nodded his thanks as Porthos kicked out an empty chair for him and D'Artagnan pushed over a full glass of red wine. The two men were sitting at their usual spot, a small round table tucked away in the back corner of a dimly lit dive bar called The Garrison. Aramis had been tickled by the name of the place when they'd first come across the tiny establishment a few years ago, before D'Artagnan had joined their team. They had come in for a drink only at his insistence, and they'd been coming regularly ever since.

The man in question was conspicuously absent. He'd disappeared after work with a cheerful 'see you later' and that had been that. His chair remained empty and all three men glanced at the open space simultaneously. D'Artagnan shrugged, toying with his mug of beer.

"A new woman, maybe?" he suggested. It wouldn't have been the first time Aramis had failed to show because he'd found other company.

Porthos shook his head. "Nah. He hasn't been himself since Adele left him for another man." The former cop let a wicked smile slide across his face. "Must have been a shock to his ego."

"I'm sure he'll recover," Athos said dryly.

"Yeah, in the arms of another woman, most like," Porthos chuckled amiably. While Aramis wasn't quite as promiscuous as Porthos and Athos liked to tease, the half-Spaniard's romantic relationships with women could best be described as 'fast' and 'commitment-free'. That wasn't to say that they were also free of genuine fondness and affection, however, and Aramis had a knack for picking the right women and for knowing when a relationship had run its course. Porthos had yet to find a scorned lover on Aramis' doorstep, which was a relief considering that it was only a few down from his own. The husbands and boyfriends of some of those women were another matter, though. Porthos had to choke back a laugh as he remembered some of the odd situations that his brother managed to find for himself while trying to flee the wrath of those men. And woman, Porthos reminded himself. The look on Aramis' face had been priceless.

"He might be helping Sylvie," Athos mused, drawing Porthos from his thoughts. "He mentioned a few days ago that there have been a lot of kids coming through the shelter. It seems as if the police are feeling less lenient these days."

"Yeah, sounds about right," Porthos agreed.

"Is that what he's been doing?" D'Artagnan asked. "I was wondering where he's been disappearing to after work."

"Aramis and idleness do not mix well," Athos pointed out, swirling the wine in his glass and lifting it in salute to his brothers before bringing it to his nose and inhaling deeply. "Working with the kids and doing odd jobs at these homes helps to keep him occupied."

"When did he start?" D'Artagnan asked, his head tilting with curiosity. He'd known these men for only a little over a year, and while his friendship with them had quickly settled into a comfortable familiarity, he still jumped at the chance pick up the random fragments of history that lay behind "les inséparables", as they were jokingly referred to at Tréville's firm.

"After he was discharged from the military. He was in rehabilitation and needed something to occupy his time before he was fully cleared to start working again," Porthos replied, his eyes darkening with memory. He banished them as quickly as he could; he saw no need to dwell on those times.

"It brought him some peace, after what happened. He claimed he needed to feel useful, to have some purpose," Athos added.

The dark-skinned man sitting by his side snorted at the thought and glanced at Athos. "We wanted him to just sit back and relax. Let himself rest for a bit before jumping back in."

"It was like talking to a brick wall," Athos said, a droll look on his face. "Unsurprisingly."

Porthos huffed out a laugh. "Remember how many potential new 'hobbies' he went through back then?"

"I'm trying not to," Athos replied. "I may still have paint under my fingernails after helping him scrape it off his floor."

D'Artagnan grinned. "Well, I guess I should be glad he's got something to do. He's looked a bit bored at work the past few weeks."

Porthos grinned. "Of course he has. Aramis hates being stuck behind a desk while we have all the fun. He has to burn that extra energy somewhere."

The young Gascon colored slightly at the memory of the events that had led to Aramis' exclusion from their field work. "He's done with his PT this weekend, right?"

Athos nodded, taking a long, appreciative sip from his glass. Serge's small bar offered only three different wines on the menu, but he'd taken to collecting small reserves of interesting vintages just for his three - now four - regulars. The old veteran had surprisingly excellent taste. "Yes, and not a moment too soon. I think Tréville is in danger of losing his mind if he has to put up with Aramis' attempts at being helpful any longer."

The two other men laughed, remembering the look of meek shame on the former soldier's face and the impressive shade of red on Tréville's when they had returned from their assignment earlier in the day. Aramis refused to tell them what had happened, and their boss was too professional to say anything, much to their disappointment.

"Speaking of new women and Aramis' bum knee, how is Constance?" Porthos asked, reaching over and slapping D'Artagnan on the back.

"She's great," D'Artagnan replied, a pleased smile lighting his face. "Constance has tomorrow off so we're planning on doing something. Maybe a movie."

Athos smiled in return. It was satisfying to see the young Gascon relishing a moment of uninhibited happiness. That sort of joy had seemed to elude him since his father's murder a little over a year ago. Athos had not even realized that a grey cloud had been hovering over D'Artagnan until the younger man had met the pretty medical intern. While he certainly hadn't been unhappy, it wasn't until D'Artagnan's affection for Constance had dissipated said cloud that Athos recognized how muted the young man had been. As D'Artagnan detailed their potential plans for the next day, Serge came limping up to their table, an open bottle of red in hand. He gestured to Athos and Porthos' glasses. "A top off for you fellows?"

"Please." Athos pushed his empty goblet towards the old man. "This one was particularly good."

Serge gave him a wink and showed him the label. "You can thank Aramis for it. He picked it out."

Twin looks of confusion decorated Athos and Porthos' faces. "I'm sorry?"

"Since you boys started coming in here, he asked me to stock up on some nicer bottles. He brings some of them in for me," Serge explained with a shrug. "Said Athos here had - oh, how did he put it? - 'a taste for wines that would bankrupt small nations', if I remember right. Not that these are quite that fancy, mind you."

"Yes, well...thank you. I appreciate it."

D'Artagnan snickered at Athos' mildly mortified expression.

"Ah, he didn't mean anything by it. Just wanted to make sure you had something extra good to look forward to when you came in." The veteran leaned against the table, resting his bad hip. "Where is my boy, anyway? Will he be joining you?"

"Probably not, Serge. I think he might be helping Sylvie tonight," Porthos informed him.

The old man nodded in approval. "Tell him to stop by soon. I've some new whiskey for him to try."

The three men nodded their thanks as the proprietor shuffled away again. Serge's obvious fondness for their friend was one of the reasons they kept coming back to The Garrison during their free time. Although the two men had seen active duty in different eras, the bond that came from the shared experience of serving in the same regiment had ensured that the two of them became fast friends.

They stayed for another hour or so, comfortable and content with the present company and wishing their fourth had been there to join them. Eventually, the three men finished up their drinks and headed back to their building. Porthos bid Athos and D'Artagnan a goodnight, and before he went to his own flat he stopped to knock on Aramis' door.

"'Mis? You in there?"

Porthos stood in front of the door for a beat longer, listening carefully for any sign that Aramis would be coming to answer him. When there was none, he turned away and checked his watch. It was later than Aramis usually stayed at the shelter.

Maybe there is a new woman after all, Porthos thought to himself as he made for his own home. Guess we'll find out soon enough.

The whistling sound of falling mortar rounds followed Mariam from sleep into her waking hours. The shriek lived in her ear, never leaving her alone. It was a sound that made her cringe with fear, with grief and with anger. Such terrible anger. Even with thousands of kilometers traveled and almost six months of time between now and then, the anger would still catch her off-guard, sneaking up on her when she least expected it. Sometimes it would be the smell of a fried pastry, at others, it would be the sound of a little girl giggling. She looked down at the small body that was curled up next to hers for warmth. Rami, her younger brother, was the only thing that kept her from flying to pieces. He was the only family Mariam had left.

Mariam had been away when it had happened. She was supposed to get Rami and then come straight home from school to help mama with some chores, but she had dallied with her friends instead. They'd gone to grab a soda at a bodega near their school and had spent their time giggling over some gossip. When she'd finally gone to pick up little Rami, she found him sitting on the steps to his school, pouting over his loneliness. A bribe of two candy bars had convinced Rami that he shouldn't tell mama she'd been late. After Mariam received his promise, she grabbed his hand, playfully swinging it back and forth. Rami was a sweet, obedient boy and her favorite sibling, no matter that baba said she should not have favorites.

Despite spending countless sleepless nights deep in contemplation, she still didn't understand what she had done, what her family had done, to deserve such wrath. The unfairness of it was shocking. Her parents, her brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles, cousins - they were all peaceful, loving people. They had all been wiped away in an instant when a shell had hit their home. Her entire family was gone in an eyeblink, buried under tons of stone rubble.

With no one to turn to and with soldiers flooding their small village, Mariam had taken Rami and fled. The idea of leaving their home was terrifying, but the soldiers did not care who they killed. Mariam refused to see her baby brother heartlessly cut down simply for walking down the street. They had joined the wave of people pushed out of their homes by senseless violence, perpetrated by those who were supposed to protect them.

Mariam didn't know where she should go. All she knew was that she wanted to get as far away as possible until it was safe to go back. One fleeing family had adopted the two orphans, and despite her sorrow and despair, Mariam had never been so grateful for the kindness of strangers. They had stayed together through the perilous journey into Europe, crossing into Turkey by foot and then into Greece by sea. Mariam and Rami had gotten into a rickety boat that hardly looked worthy to float in a small pond, let alone a large, treacherous body of water like the Mediterranean. The family had taken a different boat. The men that steered their craft stared at her with a look in their eyes that frightened and disgusted Mariam, so she pushed herself behind the dense cluster of passengers, clutching Rami tightly and praying to Allah for hours. She had never felt so vulnerable, or so alone.

The strange, threatening men were the least of Mariam's problems. A storm tried to destroy their vessel, tossing it up on waves that were so high that Mariam had to swallow back her fear of heights. They were completely at the mercy of the water, being spun to and fro while nearly drowning in the spray of rain and sea that constantly spat in their faces. It felt like an eternity before the storm slowly moved on, and Mariam sobbed with relief when they finally limped ashore, soaked, cold and hungry. They had made it. The other boat carrying the family that had cared for them had not.

When they finally reached France after two harrowing months of travel, she'd had enough. This would be as far as they would go. She remembered learning about France in school, and had hoped that this strange, foreign country with its elegant-sounding language and oddly bland food could be their home, at least for now. The reality of the situation was far from her dreams, but at least they were safe here, even on the streets. The migrant camps at Calais had been filthy and dangerous, but once she and Rami had relocated to Paris, Mariam felt like she could finally breathe. At worst, they would be verbally harassed by the police, but it felt almost polite after the violence of their home country and the riskiness of their journey. Someone had told Mariam about a shelter that might accept them, so they would visit tomorrow and see if this shelter could be their final stop. She put her arm around Rami as he slept, making sure he knew he was loved and that someone was looking out for him.

One day, Mariam prayed to have something like a family again, to surround herself with people she could depend on so that she could go back to being a child. But for now, the peace and quiet would do.

tbc

Hello! I come bearing new fic. This is about 80% written (or maybe less, depending on how I decide to end things) and just needs to be edited, so I anticipate being able to update pretty regularly. I'll admit that the first several chapters are going to be pretty slow (like this one), but I promise that it does pick up and there will be some action later. Hopefully it won't be too boring! I realized in writing this that developing plot is definitely not my strength, so if you see any holes that are large enough to fit a truck, I apologize and I'd appreciate it if you kindly ignored it. :D Also, the only Spanish I know I learned from Google, so if any of it is wrong, please feel free to correct me.

This story is set a couple of months or so after "Like Gravity", but you do not need to read that to understand this as I'll likely mention any relevant points again here. This will be pretty heavily focused on Aramis, but Athos, Porthos and D'Artagnan will obviously be present and involved since Aramis without his brothers isn't really Aramis at all. :) Other characters from the show will pop up as well, but it doesn't follow any particular story line from the series. And despite some of those characters, there will be no romance here, just platonic and familial relationships.

Finally (sorry for the long A/N, won't do this again I promise), this is unbetaed so all mistakes are mine mine mine. And as a disclaimer, this is not written for profit, just for fun. Any recognizable characters belong to Dumas and BBC.

Thanks for reading!