A/N: Hello, all! This is my first foray into the Musketeers fandom, but I have to say I'm loving it already. Please enjoy this light-hearted bit of complete crack for your Tuesday ^_^

Thanks Aini NuFire for beta reading this, which I rather think is only fair, since my being in this fandom is entirely your fault. ;)

Just Another Day

When Athos was shoved into the small basement prison, he wasn't even surprised to see Porthos, Aramis, and d'Artagnan already there, also captives; really, that said something about the state of their lives.

"Gentlemen," he greeted them with a nod.

"Athos," d'Artagnan replied. "We were starting to think he'd forgotten about you."

"It's just not the same bein' taken prisoner without Athos."

"If you hadn't been brought in soon, I would have told our host to go fetch you before we begin," Aramis assured him.

Athos nodded gravely again at the consideration. When the guard who had brought him in kicked out the backs of his legs, he didn't even flinch; he knew the routine. Patiently waiting for the silent thug to finish lashing his already manacled wrists to the lead bar he was seated against, Athos took the opportunity to give the rest of his comrades a quick once-over. Other than a bruise or two, they seemed alright.

"What do you want with us?" d'Artagnan demanded of the thug who'd brought Athos in.

The poor lad, Athos thought with an audible sigh. He didn't have enough experience with kidnappings as of yet to understand how things worked, but he was learning. This would hopefully prove educational, and at any rate there would be other captivities.

"No use, pup," Porthos advised him. "See this here is what we call the intimidation portion of the kidnappin'. We're meant to be stewin', wonderin' what's about to become of us. He won't answer you."

"Or if he does," Aramis put in, "it'll be some vague threat of non-descript violence or a suggestion to 'just wait and see'. Either way, terribly unhelpful."

"Ah," d'Artagnan nodded as the silent guard finished binding Athos with a harder than necessary jerk of the ropes. "But what does that accomplish?"

"Nothing," Athos grunted. "But they always insist upon it, so we've stopped questioning the matter."

He lurched forward with a growl when his guard clouted him across the back of the head.

"Tough words, musketeer," the man spat out with a sneer. "We'll see how tough ye are when th' Baron is finished with ye. Just wait an' see."

"And there you have it," Aramis exclaimed, beaming to d'Artagnan.

"Ah, yes I see."

"Thank you, you may go now," Athos dismissed the guard in his haughtiest voice now that he had served his role. The musketeer couldn't duck aside in time to avoid the vicious backhand to the face.

"I don't take orders from you!"

Athos spat a glob of blood at the man's feet. "Very well, stay."

"Wh- I'm not staying here!"

"Now look, you can't have it both ways," Porthos grumbled impatiently. "You're either stayin' or you're goin'."

"I'm going!"

"Then go," Athos snapped.

"He doesn't take orders from you," d'Artagnan reminded him.

The guard hissed in fury but stalked away without another word. Athos's eyes followed him towards the cellar door, already fingering the ropes that kept his hands tied behind him. This entire affair was really highly inconvenient.

"I hope this doesn't take too long," grumbled Porthos, shifting from his position on the floor, bound to the wall opposite Athos. "It's nearly suppertime."

"Is it?" Aramis asked with genuine surprise. "I'd no idea it was so late. They couldn't have managed this when Treville hadn't given me a day's leave? What a waste of an evening."

"I'm sure whomever you were planning to see later will wait for you," Athos assured him. Privately, though, he agreed. There were several bottles he was hoping to make the acquaintance of in the near future, which would be difficult if he was tied up in here.

Thankfully, it seemed God was smiling on them that day, for the heavy cellar door was thrust inwards not more than a moment after the guard had departed. The man who strode through didn't quite resemble a dog; but if he had it would not be like a handsome one that ladies of court cooed over but rather like one who had gone rabid and chewed off its own paw to avoid starvation.

"You must be the Baron, then," Athos determined, hoping to get the pleasantries out of the way quickly so they could move on to the reason for the kidnapping in the first place.

"Indeed," the Baron smiled, showing more teeth than was necessary. "And of course there is no need to introduce the famed musketeers-"

"Allow me to do so anyway," Aramis interrupted. "I'm Porthos-"

"You're not," Porthos snapped. "You're d'Artagnan. I'm Porthos."

"You were Porthos last time. Besides, I don't want to be d'Artagnan."

"What's wrong with being d'Artagnan?" d'Artagnan demanded.

Athos sighed.

The Baron glowered, striding from one bound musketeer to the next. "Perhaps, d'Artagnan—yes, I know which is whom—they have more pride than to claim to come from Gascony. A lowly farmer boy, it seems the King is desperate indeed for soldiers these days."

From the look on d'Artagnan's face, Athos could tell the boy hadn't been kidnapped often enough yet to know not to take such remarks to heart. The fierce pride and short temper of the young Gascon would likely lead to as much trouble as Porthos with his cheating at cards or Aramis with his chasing married women.

Thank goodness Athos himself had no such vices.

The drinking problems and the trouble with Milady didn't count.

Before d'Artagnan could retort, Aramis had already chuckled and stretched his legs out with an insouciant air. "What of it?" he asked. "My heritage is from Spain."

"Mine from Africa."

"Mine from an estate."

Athos wrinkled his nose in distaste, earning a smile from d'Artagnan.

"Enough!" The Baron stormed towards Athos and gripped him by the doublet, giving him a hard shake. Which was hardly fair, since he was the only one trying to get a move on with things. "I have no time for your games! I want to know about the letter!"

Athos's frown deepened. "What letter?"

Releasing his doublet, the Baron clenched a hand in Athos's hair and yanked his head back, exposing his throat. A short, silver knife edge pressed into the skin. Used to full-sized swords and guns, it was a bit insulting, to be honest.

"You know what letter."

"On the contrary. I haven't the vaguest notion. Perhaps if you could be more specific?"

"Who was it to?" Aramis prompted.

Beside him, Porthos shrugged. "Who was it from?"

"What did it say, exactly?" d'Artagnan questioned, finally starting to get in the spirit of things.

"Was it delivered quite recently, or within the last month?" Athos continued. "Have you any idea how often we're called upon to deliver important documents? If you're going to threaten me for details, I'm going to need more information from you, first."

"The letter, you fool!" the Baron shouted. "Don't play like you don't know which one I'm speaking of!"

Athos closed his eyes and sighed, heavy with impatience. "I haven't got a letter."

"Then who does?" The Baron's knife dug in deeper, twitching just a little to allow a shallow nick in Athos's throat. "One of you is carrying a letter. And you will give it to me, now, or he dies."

Ah, good, they were progressing quickly through the stages, now to the point where their captor would threaten one of them in the hopes of convincing the others to give in. As though none of them could stand a little—or a lot—of pain for the good of their country and their honor.

"We're not givin' you anything," Porthos snapped, at the same time that Aramis cried out,

"Alright! I have a letter. Don't hurt him… you can have it. I can't imagine what use it could possibly be to you, though."

"Aramis," d'Artagnan gasped, looking between him and Athos with wide eyes. "You can't-"

"It's not worth Athos's life," Aramis hissed back. He looked away. "I have the letter. Just let him go."

Athos saw the victory in the Baron's eyes as the knife-blade disappeared from his throat, then their captor stormed towards Aramis instead. The Baron seized the marksman, roughly jerking his doublet open to fish through the inner pockets. Aramis raised an eyebrow at the intrusion but didn't remark.

Soon, the Baron leaned back with a triumphant laugh, unfolding an unsealed piece of paper. "My dearest Camille," he read aloud, "oh my love, your voice is like a siren song, your lips like red slices of apples-"

"Red slices of apples?" Athos repeated in disbelief, turning a dry look in Aramis's direction. "I didn't realize things with you and Camille were so... serious."

"I didn't realize Aramis could write," Portos muttered.

"Aren't sirens the ones who lure men to their deaths?" d'Artagnan pointed out. "Not exactly a compliment, is it?"

"Could have been worse, he could have likened it to a harpy's screech-"

"If all you three are going to do is critique-"

"What is this garbage?" the Baron demanded over top of Aramis's complaints. He clenched the letter in his fist, waving it in Aramis's face.

The marksman huffed. "It was a private correspondence. As I said, I can't imagine what use it would be to you, but if you're so determined to have a letter we carry, you'll have to make do with that one."

"I don't want just any letter!" The Baron ripped the page in two, ignoring the protest from Aramis, and threw the pieces to the ground. "You were given custody of a missive from the Cardinal to a very highly-placed noblewoman-"

"Athos, we don't have time for this," Porthos snapped. His stomach rumbled, not quite like rolling thunder but then again not exactly the purr of a kitten. "I'll be missin' my supper soon."

"And you know how he gets when he hasn't eaten," agreed Aramis. "Listen, Baron, you're thinking of the other fellows. We serve the King. Not the Cardinal."

"Those would be the Red Guard," Athos explained. "You can tell the difference because they'll be in red."

D'Artagnan grinned. "You almost can't blame him for the mistake. If it were important enough, the Cardinal would do well to request His Majesty dispatch us instead. If he wanted it to reach its intended destination successfully, that is."

"Naturally, I'm prepared to overlook this incident, given the proper compensation," Athos informed their captor, arching a brow. Blackmail was distasteful, but this wasn't blackmail because that would have been illegal.

Silence fell over the basement prison as the four musketeers waited expectantly. It wasn't a cozy silence, more the awkward discomfort of that moment in a somber funeral when one realizes the need to relieve oneself has become unbearable but there's no hope of escape anytime soon. Like such a moment, this silence was interminable. Porthos's stomach rumbled again.

The Baron's eyes grew dark. "If you think," he seethed, "that acting the fools will spare you in some way, I can assure you you're quite mistaken. I don't care if I have to torture and kill all four of you. Believe me when I say, you're all expendable. A drunkard, a farmboy, a lothario, and a dark-skinned brute-"

"Be careful," Aramis interrupted coldly. "I don't take kindly to being called a dark-skinned brute."

"Don't be an ass," Porthos growled. "It's obvious he's callin' you the farmboy. Athos is the dark-skinned brute."

"I thought I was the lothario," Athos mused with a mild tilt of his head.

"Nah, d'Artagnan is the lothario. That's why no one wants to be d'Artagnan."

"I want to be d'Artagnan," d'Artagnan muttered under his breath.

Athos sighed.

"Enough!" the Baron shouted. He spun towards Aramis and swiftly knelt, plunging his silver dagger into the musketeer's gut.

The gasp of shock and pain echoed in Athos's ears, boring into his heart. Immediately, the air in the dungeon changed, clouding over in turbulent fury. The swordsman was on his feet in seconds, fists clenched, with Porthos at his side.

"You shouldn't have done that," he murmured, soft and deadly. The time for games was past. The Baron had broken the rules.

The Baron straightened to his feet as well, mouth open in horrified surprise and disbelief. "But… how are you free…?"

"You give yourself too much credit." Athos's eyes narrowed. "We all freed ourselves within five minutes."

"We did?" d'Artagnan hissed, wriggling his still bound arms.

Athos exhaled slowly. His mouth twisted. "Most of us freed ourselves within five minutes."

"Athos, take care of the pup," Porthos snapped, advancing on the Baron, who seemed to have realized he was far outnumbered and outmatched. "I'll take care of him. Aramis?"

Aramis groaned as he leaned away from the wall, reaching in front of him to pull the small knife from his belly. Blood trickled down, glinting red in the scant light of the prison. His shaky hands sought to staunch the flow as the manacles that had held him dropped to the ground.

"That blade was barely a letter opener," he assured them. "It's not deep."

While it would have been the likely answer regardless of the truth—Aramis was given to understating his injuries—this time Athos believed him correct. Really, insulting.

"Lucky for you," Porthos snapped to the Baron, cracking his knuckles. His fist flew, catching their would-be captor in the face. "That's for stabbin' him."

"And for thinking you could honestly hold four musketeers captive," Athos grumbled as he took the knife from Aramis to slice through d'Artagnan's bonds. The manacles proved no more of a challenge, swiftly undone by the pick from Athos's boot that the Baron hadn't bothered to check for. With their youngest free, he hurried back to Aramis. "Porthos, his scarf."

Porthos grabbed the Baron by the throat with one hand, ripping the white scarf away and tossing it back to Athos to use as a bandage. While the swordsman tended to Aramis's wound, Porthos heaved the Baron back into the wall so that he slid to the floor stunned.

"An' that's for callin' me a drunkard," he griped.

"You are a drunkard," Aramis said, hissing in pain as Athos put more pressure on the knife wound. "You're just not as good at it as Athos."

Athos helped Aramis to his feet, kicking the chains over to Porthos to put around the Baron's wrists. "Kidnapping musketeers of the King's guard is an act of treason," he said coldly. Not the way ice was cold, but the way an executioner's blade and blank mask was cold. "Now, you're going to accompany us out of here. If any of your men make the slightest move in our direction, I can promise you you'll be dead before they ever reach you. And then we're going to pay a visit to the chatelet and you can explain to the Cardinal why you thought it so important to steal a letter of his."

Which, incidentally… Athos patted his doublet, assuring himself the sealed note was still in place. Not that he could blame the Cardinal for not trusting the Red Guard to see the task completed, though he did wonder if perhaps Richelieu had expected some sort of sabotage and was more willing to see a musketeer killed over it than one of his own. Or maybe he knew the sabotage would come from the Baron and he'd wanted the nobleman tortured a bit with the musketeers' presence. At any rate, the Baron would have done better to simply search them all first; perhaps the evening would have had a different outcome.

Ah well. At least d'Artagnan had gotten some experience. Getting kidnapped was a necessary skill for the musketeers. They did it all the time.

"Is this what every day is like for you?" d'Artagnan asked, looking between the furious Porthos, a wounded but grinning Aramis, and a thoroughly placid Athos.

The three traded looks.

"Not really."

"Yes, always."

"There's usually more shooting."

Aramis groaned, wistfully eyeing the page the Baron had torn. "I'm going to have to write another one now."

"Take my advice," Athos said, clapping him on the shoulder. "Don't."

"It was awful," d'Artagnan assured him with the same grimace. Not because he could have written anything better, but because he couldn't have written anything worse.

"This is why nobody wants to be d'Artagnan when we're captured."

Athos sighed.