Welcome! Thank you for taking the time to read my new story. I wanted to do something different than what I usually post so this story is rather lighthearted and fun, with humor and crazy adventures for the boys, while light on the detailed history and medical info. Of course, I can never let the boys off scot-free so they will find themselves caught up in mishaps and misadventures with light h/c along the way!

Each of the four boys are sent on separate (mis)adventures so each chapter focuses on one Musketeer's journey-except for the brief introduction to the story in this first chapter; it will wrap up with all the boys together again at the end.
Enjoy the ride!


ARAMIS:

The spring air was brisk with copious cloud cover preventing the sun from spreading its warmth over the dusty garrison. The ominous sky was grey with an intermittent hint of sunshine as the wind moved the billowing clouds rolling steadily eastward.

The four Musketeers sat at their favorite picnic table nibbling lightly on lunch as they discussed their earlier morning duties. The sound of sparring and occasional laughter wafted from the courtyard as the metallic din of steel on steel echoed between the walls. The distant sound of gunfire drifted on the steady wind from the marksmanship training over at the range.

Athos rested a hand on his cheek as he sat hunched over a map, intently studying the city of Paris and its outlying villages with great interest. Athos swiftly slapped his hand down on the paper, protecting his topic of research from invisible fingers of the wind threatening to steal away the map as a heavy gust tore through the garrison.

"I'm sure your current interest in Parisian cartography is most fascinating, mon ami, but why don't you take it indoors where there is no wind to steal the map out from under you?" Aramis quipped lightly.

"It is only about the hundredth time you've slapped your hand down on that paper to keep it from blowing away," d'Artagnan chuckled as he watched his mentor.

"A gross exaggeration, d'Artagnan," Athos replied dryly as he continued to study the map.

"Gentlemen, I apologize for interrupting your lunch but I have some business to discuss with you," Captain Tréville stated as he approached the table.

Athos was deeply absorbed in his study of the arched Le Pont Neuf over La Riviere de Seine that he remained oblivious to the captain's presence.

Captain Tréville paused then cleared his throat, waiting quite impatiently for his second's attention.

"Oi, think you could pause your studyin' long enough to give the cap'n a moment, eh?" Porthos nudged Athos with his elbow.

"Porthos, dammit, I'm busy," Athos growled, clearly annoyed at the disruption. It took a second nudge to his ribs before the lieutenant finally looked up and noticed the captain glaring at him. "Oh, my apologies, Captain… what were you saying?"

"If I may, Athos?" Tréville questioned with eyebrows raised.

Athos acquiesced to his captain with a slight nod of his head.

"We have been assigned a mission from the king—it is rather unusual in nature—but still needs your careful attention," Tréville stated matter-of-factly. The captain paced slowly in front of the table with his arms behind his back as four pairs of eyes followed his every move. The Musketeers exchanged troubled glances at the captain's uncharacteristic prolonged silence.

"It was brought to my attention that the king has been losing dispatches and parcels to theft, reportedly by a single assailant," Tréville broke his silence at last. "He has lost valuable personal belongings in these robberies; the king believes the crimes are being committed by someone within his own court. His Majesty wants this thief found and brought before him for questioning immediately."

"What does the king want us to do, Captain?" Athos asked.

"The king wants us to find the thief, apprehend him—or her—and bring him back to the palace for questioning… alive. The king wants his personal property returned and, since the thief is the only one who knows where the goods are, His Majesty insists that the bandit is not to be harmed."

"Apprehend a bandit, Captain?" d'Artagnan questioned. "So the king has us going after thieves now?"

"Rubbish," Porthos scowled as he shifted on the bench.

"So the Musketeers are going after bandits for the king, Captain?" Aramis clarified. "How exactly do we fit into the king's plan?"

"You're going to flush the thief out," Captain Tréville paused to watch the reaction of the four men. He opened his mouth to continue but was cut off by four voices talking all at once.

The four Musketeers argued against the plan, each raising their voices louder to be heard over their own raucous as they debated.

"Enough!" yelled the captain over the arguing. Pleased that his sudden outburst received stunned silence, the captain continued his instruction with a shake of his head. "The attacks have been entirely random, so you each will be given a package to be delivered to four different locations—meaning you will be traveling alone."

"Alone?" Aramis repeated. "You can't be serious, Captain. There is a bandit out there attacking couriers and you want us to become living targets so the king can get his personal belongings returned?" The marksman ran a hand through his wind-blown hair as he let out a displeased huff of breath. "Sir, is this the king's plan, by any chance? This has to be the most insane idea I've heard His Majesty come up with yet—and he's had some ridiculous ideas—but this takes the cake."

"Are you quite finished, Aramis?" Athos asked with a slight curl to a corner of his mouth. "Captain, please continue."

"If I could get a word in, gentlemen," the captain glared at the four men. "Your job is to lure the thief out so he can be brought back to the palace for questioning. His Majesty demands that," Tréville sighed, "the thief is not to be harmed in any manner."

"Wi'out causin' harm to the thief," Porthos scoffed. "Does the king even care if the thief causes harm to us? No, I'm sure 'at wasn't the king's concern at all," he muttered with clenched fists.

"The king wants us—as we're riding alone with no backup—to lure a thief out of hiding while demanding that we not cause him—or her—bodily harm. What if our life is threatened and we need to defend ourselves?" Aramis griped as he jammed his hat on his head. "I can just hear the king now, 'I'm sorry you're hurt and bleeding to death but, alas, you did bring me my thief without a scratch—well done, Musketeer'!"

"I'll second that," d'Artagnan grumbled.

"How exactly does His Majesty want us to flush them out?" Athos asked, deliberately ignoring the grumbling of his brothers.

"You are to behave as obvious couriers—see that you are noticed," Tréville answered.

"In other words," d'Artagnan said with disgust, "we're being used as bait."

"Bait," Aramis repeated thoughtfully. "Hmm, this mission is beginning to sound more fascinating as we go along. There is an aura of danger I find rather appealing in being used as bait—of course, it depends on whose attention I'm enticing. I hope the thief is an attractive lady of the court…"

"Aramis, really," Athos rolled his eyes. "Now is not the time for your romantic notions."

"I want each of you to report to my office individually for your orders," the captain interrupted the bantering. "I will start with you, Aramis," Tréville motioned with his head to the office.

"Me? Ooh," the Spaniard glanced between his three friends with a look of delight. "Yes sir," Aramis rubbed his hands together then followed the captain upstairs.


Aramis: North

"Well, I haven't seen your handsome face around here before," smiled the pretty blonde barmaid. "Welcome to La Pomme d'Eve, would you like to try our stew and ale?"

"I, um…" Aramis paused as his mind went blank. The Spaniard was caught off guard at the flirty young lady twirling her finger around a strand of blonde hair as she stroked his arm softly. "I... yes, stew and ale is fine, thank you," the medic smiled.

"So, what brings you to Creil?" the barmaid asked. "We don't get very many handsome men like you in our town; perhaps you can stay a while?"

"Actually, I'm just passing through," Aramis said as he took off his grey hat and placed it on the chair beside him. "I must meet with someone in the morning and then be on my way."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear you can't stay long," the young lady ran her fingers softly through the Musketeer's hair. "I'll bet you're a courier," she smiled sweetly. "I mean, why else would you come to Creil? You must be hungry and thirsty… I'll go get your food and ale. By the way, my name is Brigitte," she whispered warmly in his ear.

"Well, I think I'm beginning to like this town," Aramis rubbed his beard absently as he looked around the café. He noticed the tables were half-filled with a dozen or more people, some nursing a drink while others were engaged in private conversation over dinner.

Aramis observed the clientele closely but couldn't pinpoint any potential roadside bandits who might have followed him; they all seemed like ordinary friendly folk. He was later startled from his observations as Brigitte returned to the table with his food and drink. "Forgive me, I didn't mean to startle you," she batted her eyes.

"Brigitte, how many guests come in here to eat dinner, typically?" Aramis asked in a whisper. "Is it normally this crowded?" he carefully watched a group of diners being seated at a nearby table.

"Well, it depends," she replied as she looked around the room. "Sometimes it is very busy in here during the week; we get a lot travelers going south to Paris."

"Yes, well, thank you." Aramis smiled at the enticing aroma wafting toward his nose, causing his stomach to growl in response.

"I will let you eat," Brigitte laughed. "I'll be back to check on you in a little while."

After Aramis had finished his dinner and the table was cleared, Brigitte sat beside the Musketeer and the two were soon engaged in happy conversation for some time. Seductively, she covered his hand with hers then leaned to whisper in his ear, "would you like dessert?"

"No, thank you," he replied. "I really should turn in; I have a busy day tomorrow."

"Perfect," Brigitte smiled as she took Aramis by the hand to lead him upstairs. "We just happen to have one room left—allow me to show you the way."


Aramis felt content as he stared at the ceiling, absently stroking his fingers through the long blonde hair fanning across his chest. The young barmaid smiled as she rested her head over the Spaniard's heart, listening to his steady heartbeat.

"Your heart is finally slowing down after our," she paused, "delightful exertion." Brigitte giggled as she pressed her ear once again to his chest to listen.

"Well, I was unexpectedly very active just moments ago. . ."

Suddenly, a loud banging on the door startled the couple, causing them both to jump. "Brigitte, I know you're in there, dammit!"

"What the hell?" Aramis sat up quickly.

"Oh God, it's Jean-Pierre!"

"Who is Jean-Pierre?"

"Jean-Pierre is my husband!" Brigitte jumped out of bed and began dressing. "Get dressed, quickly!"

The Spaniard paled as he jumped from the bed in search of his clothes. "You didn't tell me you had a husband!" Aramis hissed frantically as he pulled on his braies before clumsily stepping into his pants and nearly falling flat on his face.

"Brigitte, damn you," the man pounded both fists angrily on the door. "Do you have another man in there? I'm going to kill him, I swear!"

"Mon Dieu, where are my boots?" Aramis threw his shirt on as he searched frantically for his boots.

"I have them," Brigitte called from the opposite side of the room, "your things are over here!"

Aramis rushed across the room to finish dressing, quickly tugging on his boots as Brigitte tossed him his doublet and weapons belt.

"Go out the window, hurry!"

"How far down is it?"

"I don't know; I've never had to jump out the window before." Brigitte pushed Aramis toward the open window as her husband kicked on the door. "Go please, just jump down now. . . quickly!"

"Brigitte, I'm coming in!" Jean-Pierre kicked the door open, sending splinters flying through the air. "Where is he? I'm going to string him up," he yelled as she lay casually underneath the sheets.

Aramis clung to the ledge for dear life as he looked below him for a reasonably soft place to land. He guessed that he had approximately twenty feet to fall but couldn't see the ground or where to land since it was too dark.

Having no other choice, Aramis dropped but instantly felt his ankle twist then crack as he landed on the hard, uneven dirt road. "Ah, dammit!" he fell forward to his knees with a scream. "Mother of God," Aramis cursed through clenched teeth at the searing pain throbbing from his ankle.

"So much for soft landings," Aramis muttered as he rigidly rose to his one good foot. Using the wall as support, the marksman hopped around the corner of the building when Jean-Pierre jutted his head out the side window with the hope of catching the wily lover sneaking away.

"Where are you, you bastard?" the man screamed. "I know you're out here, you snake!"

The Spaniard flattened himself against the stone wall but continued to gingerly hobble away from the enraged spouse. Just as Aramis thought he was in the clear, angry threats from the husband began anew as Jean-Pierre discovered the injured Musketeer limping away below. "Stop, damn you!"

"Bloody hell!" Aramis yelped, momentarily forgetting about the pain in his ankle as he ran for his life away from the building. He continued hobbling down the dark street to around the next corner where he stopped to catch his breath.

"I will kill you!" the man yelled into the dark after the fleeing Musketeer.

"Not today, thank you," Aramis muttered to himself. The Musketeer clung to the corner for support then perked when he noticed the livery stable just across the road. "Mon Dieu, when will I ever learn?" he hissed as he leaned against the wall. The Musketeer gasped as his ankle throbbed with agonizing intensity, sending jolts of pain shooting up his leg.

"Damn, damn. . . damn!" he straightened, sucking in pained breaths through his clenched teeth. He wiped away the sweat beading on his brow with the back of his hand then ran the same hand over his glistening face. "Aramis, what have you gotten yourself into?" The Spaniard could feel the rivulets of sweat streaming down his back, tickling his skin as it dripped underneath his braies.

The medic pushed away from the wall with a grunt of pain then slowly hobbled toward the barn, trying to keep his weight off the ankle as much as possible. By the time Aramis reached his destination he was thoroughly exhausted and soaked through with sweat but he had no time to rest.

"Where in the. . . the hell is my saddle?" he asked aloud as he panted for breath. Aramis wrapped his arm around a wooden beam then pulled himself close, hugging the beam as a means of keeping his body upright.

"Do you need help, Monsieur?" Luc, the young stable boy asked as he approached the Musketeer. The boy held a lantern in his hand; the bright fire cast long shadows across the dark barn.

"Bloody hell!" Aramis visibly jumped at the voice behind him, startled at the unexpected appearance of the boy.

"My apologies, Monsieur, I did not mean to startle you," Luc frowned.

"It's alright, son." Aramis leaned over at the waist still clinging to the wooden beam for support. "I. . . I need my horse saddled quickly; I'm in a hurry and I must be on my way. My horse, Bella, is there in the corner stall," he pointed.

"Oui, Monsieur!" the boy smiled as he collected the saddle and tack then prepared the Musketeer's horse for travel. Luc gathered the reins and led the horse to where the Musketeer stood waiting by the wooden beam.

"Thank you, my boy." Aramis stood to full height, smiling gratefully as the boy handed him the reins. "I appreciate you being a Good Samaritan when I needed one," the medic dropped several coins into the lad's open hand.

"Let me help you, Monsieur." Luc was strong for his age and easily helped push the Musketeer into his saddle until he was safely seated.

"Thank you," the Musketeer gritted through clenched teeth. He leaned forward to breathe through the wave of pain emanating once again from his ankle, torturing his body.

"Are you alright, Monsieur?" the boy asked with concern.

"Yes, son, I'll be alright," he let out a long breath. "I just hurt my ankle after… taking a fall."

"You really shouldn't be riding anywhere," the boy shook his head. "You should get your ankle looked at by a physician so he can take care of you, Monsieur."

"I will when I get home, I promise." Aramis smiled as he gathered the reins in his hands.

"Are you a Musketeer?" the boy asked. Luc's eyes lit up as he circled around the horse and noticed the pauldron on the medic's right shoulder. "Are you going back to Paris?"

"Yes, I am a Musketeer," Aramis scrubbed a hand over his face. "You must not tell anyone you saw me tonight; but most importantly, you must not tell anyone where I am going. Do you understand?"

"Oui, Monsieur!" the boy nodded emphatically.

"Here, this is for you," Aramis handed the boy his main gauche. "It's a gift for looking after me so kindly," he smiled. "That's a Musketeer's dagger… it's yours now. You be sure to take good care of it, son."

"Oui, Monsieur, I promise I will!" Luc turned it over and over in his hand with awe. "Merci beaucoup!"

"Goodbye… and thank you." Aramis softly kicked his horse to begin his journey south toward Paris.

"Au revoir, Musketeer!" the boy called after Aramis as he disappeared into the darkness.

"I think I've seen enough of Creil to last me a lifetime," Aramis later grumbled. The medic looked over his shoulder at the village he left behind and let out a sigh of relief, but then gasped as he suddenly remembered the package. He tapped his hands frantically over his doublet, checking the pockets, checking every square inch of the outer garment.

"Oh damn," he paled as he discovered the package was missing. "The captain is going to flay me alive!" Sheer dread washed over Aramis at the realization that Brigitte must have searched his pockets and stole the package when he wasn't looking.

"How in the hell. . .?" Aramis frowned as he racked his brain, trying to think of when Brigitte might have taken it. "You must be kidding," he remembered the angry husband suddenly appearing at the door. "Was all of that a ploy just to get the package?"

"Mon Dieu, I'm probably the only Musketeer to get swindled by a husband and wife bandit team!" he huffed. "How will I ever explain this to the captain? I'm going to be on stable duty for the rest of my career," he moaned.


Musketeer Garrison:

Exhausted, Aramis finally arrived at the garrison and carefully slid down from his horse with the assistance of a few nearby Musketeers. He stiffly grabbed the shoulders of the men as he hopped to the captain who stood waiting with his hands planted firmly on his hips. The marksman buried the dread rising from his belly with a long moan as pain shot from his ankle.

"You don't look so well, Aramis." Captain Tréville stepped forward to greet the medic. "Are you alright, what happened?"

"I hurt my ankle in a little… accident," Aramis answered cryptically. "I think it might be broken."

"Well then, report to the infirmary immediately and get that ankle tended to," the captain frowned. "What of the package, did you deliver it safely?"

"I, um…" Aramis scrubbed a hand over his pale face. "Well, you see…" he stammered.

"What happened to the package, Aramis?"

"Well, sir, you…" he sighed with resignation. "You really don't want to know."

"Oh yes, I do want to know," Tréville countered. "You forget that I have to report to the king—he most definitely wants to know. I expect a full report on my desk after you are finished in the infirmary."

"God help me," Aramis moaned. "Just kill me now and get me out of my misery,"

"What was that, Aramis?" Tréville asked, crossing his arms sternly.

"Nothing… nothing, sir," the medic forced a smile. "I'm going to get this ankle looked at now, thank you." Aramis gratefully accepted the aid of his fellow Musketeers as they led him to the infirmary. "I'll be fortunate if stable duty is all I get as punishment."

"His Majesty and his ridiculous ideas," Captain Tréville frowned as he watched the medic hobble away to the infirmary.

"I can only imagine the troublesome dilemmas my boys will get caught up in because of this absurd plan," Tréville sighed as he climbed the stairs to the office. "God help me if the plan fails but yet His Majesty exacts blame on the men."

The captain paused at his office door as he stared at the garrison archway, "which one of the boys is next?"

TBC


A/N:

La Pomme d'Eve, translates as Eve's Apple, is a real pub in modern-day Paris. In this story I picked actual pubs in Paris with really cool names that would fit perfectly into each of the scenarios in the chapters.

Cool Fact: La Pomme d'Eve is the only South African pub in the city of Paris.