Author's note: The boys have switched Abilities. Some people have the same Abilities as they do in (Fight); some are different. This is a fairly quick look at what might happen, but I hope you'll enjoy it.

(will not) Change Me

"I'm looking for Athos!"

Athos looked up, sorting through the rush of feelings. "You've found him."

"Prepare to fight, one of us dies here."

Athos frowned, pulling off his jerkin and passing it to Aramis. "The boy's grieving and furious," he murmured. "You may need to step in." Aramis nodded, drifting towards Porthos to pass on the warning, and Athos stepped out into the yard. "Can I ask why?" he asked politely.

"You murdered my father."

The wash of grief prompted him to lock his mind down. "You're mistaken. I'm not the man you're looking for."

"Murderer!" the boy spat, charging at him.

He was skilled, and he wouldn't back down. Athos could have stopped him, but not without hurting him; he was glad when the others stepped in, though it took Madame Bonacieux to finally make the boy stop. Seeing that he'd given up – at least for now – Athos carefully lowered his walls enough to get a sense of him.

Grief, pain, guilt. And under that, honour and bravery and a determination to do right. Athos started to speak and then paused, glancing towards the gate. Treville, coming fast and worried about something.

"I am not the man you're looking for," he told the boy, making it as sincere as possible.

Doubt coloured the answer. "Then why did my father name you before he died?"

"I don't know." He turned as Treville came in; two Red Guards waited at the gate.

"Athos, I'm sorry. These men have come to arrest you. You're to appear before the King immediately, charged with robbery and murder." He glanced at Aramis and Porthos, both with hands on hilts. "I promised them there'd be no trouble."

Athos nodded, knowing without looking the other two were withdrawing, and followed the Red Guards.

Athos could sense them coming. They were almost there. Looking to save him.

"Shoot, damn you!"

"Hold your fire!" Aramis called from the top of the stairs. Brandishing a paper at the head guard, he came down the stairs to join Athos. "Such a hurry to die," he said softly.

"Thought I'd shaken you two off," Athos muttered as Porthos joined them.

"There are easier ways," Porthos said chidingly.

The guard grudgingly unlocked his manacles. Athos sighed as the stress on his walls fell away; Porthos gripped his arm, watching until he nodded.

The boy was waiting uncertainly at the base of the stairs. Athos glanced at Aramis, who murmured "He helped us save you." Athos nodded, studying the boy; the fierce anger had faded, grief was growing in its' place, but there was happiness there as well. He was glad Athos had been saved.

Athos nodded as he passed him. Astonishment and pride welled up; Athos had to look away, steadying himself against the railing as he climbed the stairs.

The boy followed behind him.

Alcohol made it harder to keep his walls up, but it also made everything he sensed melt together so that he couldn't pick anything particular out.

"This isn't a solution, you know," Porthos murmured, supporting him back towards his rooms.

"It looks like one if you don't examine it too closely," Athos answered.

Porthos scowled, letting him drop onto the bed. "Wrists," he ordered. Athos held them out meekly, watching Porthos run gentle fingers over the abrasions left behind by the manacles. Under his touch the red, inflamed skin healed, returning to normal.

"Thank you," Athos murmured.

"I'm not doing anything about the hangover."

"You never do," he agreed, lying back. "Are you staying?"

"Not tonight." He sat on the edge of the bed. "You get anything from Aramis?"

"Nothing unusual." He propped himself on one elbow, watching Porthos. "Was there something?"

"Not sure, but we found Cornet and his guys dead in the snow, in the woods."

"Ah." Athos lay back again, both hands pressed to his forehead. "Do you want me to come?"

"He went to Adele's. He might not even be home tonight, and if he is I'll be waiting. Maybe tomorrow you should see what you can see, though."

"I will," Athos agreed.

Porthos stood, heading for the door. "Good night, Athos."

"Good night, Porthos."

d'Artagnan watched until he was absolutely sure Vadim was dead. The others waited patiently, but Aramis was there when he pushed to his feet. "Are you hurt, d'Artagnan?"

"Bumps and bruises," he said as calmly as he could. "Nothing serious."

"There's blood in your hair."

"Just a scratch. It's already closed."

"May I?" Aramis was already reaching for his head.

d'Artagnan caught his wrist; Aramis backed off and d'Artagnan let go. "I'd like to clean up first." A rest, he just needed long enough for the worst of the injuries to fade before they saw them. "I'll meet you at the garrison, you can look to your heart's content."

Porthos' arm descended on his shoulders from behind. "You're coming to the garrison, lad. You're still a wanted man."

"Treville's working on it," Aramis assured him. "But the garrison's the safest place for you right now."

Porthos squeezed his shoulder, letting go. "You can clean up there. Don't blame you, wanting to get the stink of that place off you."

Aramis sighed. "Don't wash your hair," he ordered. "You might wash dirt into the wound."

"I promise," d'Artagnan agreed, relieved. He could make that work.

Aramis glanced at Athos, who hadn't spoken yet. "Athos?"

"Mmm." Athos studied d'Artagnan intently. d'Artagnan lowered his gaze. He hated that look; it felt like Athos was looking into his soul.

"I'm sorry we asked this of you," Athos said abruptly. "It was too much, and it turns out the king was never in danger anyway."

"I'm glad I could help," d'Artagnan said honestly.

Athos nodded. "Come on. Back to the garrison."

They arranged to have the bath set up in an empty barracks room and left d'Artagnan alone to clean up. He washed and then allowed himself to doze on the bed; Aramis would put it down to the heat and relaxation, he hoped.

He woke up to Porthos' hand on his arm, though. Porthos was frowning, but he smiled when he realised d'Artagnan was awake. "Brought you something to eat. Aramis is on his way. How're you feeling?"

d'Artagnan ran a quick mental check. Not fully healed, but enough, he thought. "Better. Thank you." Porthos raised an eyebrow. "For agreeing I could clean up."

Porthos shrugged. "Glad you're feeling better. Sit up, Aramis'll go easier on you if he thinks you're eating."

d'Artagnan obeyed. He flinched a little when Porthos offered him mutton stew. Porthos didn't ask, though, just took a couple of mouthfuls and offered it again. d'Artagnan accepted it with muffled thanks and was steadily working through it when Aramis arrived.

"You look better," he said cheerfully, dropping a bag onto the end of the bed. "Rather more colour in your cheeks. How do you feel?"

"Better." d'Artagnan started to set the bowl aside.

"No, keep eating. Tell me where you're hurt."

"He can't do both, Aramis," Porthos pointed out. "He's obviously not badly hurt. Let him eat first."

Aramis shrugged, sitting back. "Treville hasn't returned yet, but he's expected any time."

d'Artagnan nodded, pushing the bowl aside. "I'm done, thank you, Porthos."

"Good," Aramis said lightly. "Tell me where you're hurt."

"I hit my head." He couldn't get out of that one, Aramis had seen the blood. "It bled a lot but it closed up pretty fast. He tied me up for a while." He held out his wrists.

Aramis studied them carefully. "These are from today. You were lucky. The Chatelet guards aren't usually so considerate." d'Artagnan smiled tightly and Aramis said briskly "I'll wash them, but there's no danger. Lean forward, please."

d'Artagnan obeyed, feeling gentle fingers comb through his hair. "Ow," he said obligingly when Aramis hit the right spot.

"You seem to have been lucky here as well. Lean forward a moment. Porthos, pass me that."

Water trickled through d'Artagnan's hair. Aramis' fingers followed, cleaning out blood and dirt. Porthos pressed gently against d'Artagnan's shoulder, urging him to lean further forward so the water dripped onto the floor.

"How close were you to the explosion?" Aramis asked, making one last pass.

"It knocked me off my feet," d'Artagnan admitted. "But it didn't hurt me." It had at the time – badly – but as the most serious injury, it had healed first.

"Tunic up, please."

d'Artagnan obliged, sitting patiently while Aramis tested ribs and spine and looked for bruising. "Lucky all around, aren't you," he murmured.

"I might not say 'lucky'," d'Artagnan muttered.

Aramis smiled faintly, sitting back. "No. Get some rest. By tomorrow this will all be sorted out."

d'Artagnan followed Porthos' push to lie back down. "I wonder if I still have lodgings," he murmured.

"Why wouldn't you?" Porthos asked.

"Bonacieux doesn't like me much."

"We'll take care of that," Aramis promised. "Get some rest."

d'Artagnan was tired, now, the fight and the tension of the last few days, the heat and healing and the care he'd received all working together to drain his energy. He was aware, mostly, of Aramis carefully washing his wrists, drying them off and leaving them bare.

Porthos was talking, something about ribs and changed. d'Artagnan couldn't bring himself to focus on it, drifting into sleep.