Main title taken from "The Boot Theory" by Richard Siken. All the chapter titles will be taken from "25 lives" by Tongari.
Pronouns: Porthos, Aramis and Treville use he/him, Milady, Constance and Anne use she/her, Athos uses they/them, and D'Artagnan uses faer/faers.

Warnings will be added chapter by chapter.

Chapter warnings: Violence, angst, (off-screen, implied) character death.

O N E

… I prefer the ones in which you kill me

Aramis is a ghost. Swift, silent, unseen. The ship's roaring engine sends small but constant vibrations through the floors and walls, and the air is too hot to be comfortable to breathe. Mid-summer, below deck, on a goddamn cargo ship. And, apparently, he's lost. Just his luck. Aramis rolls his eyes – orientation has, sadly, never been his strength – and stops, looking at the turn-off in front of him.

"How are there so many corridors? This is supposed to be a ship, not a maze."

D'Artagnan's voice is soft and amused, sounding through the earpiece directly into his skull: 'Is this you asking for directions, oh great master thief?'

"If you would be so kind, mi ángel."

D'Artagnan chuckles, and Aramis hears the clapping of faer keyboard. He smiles to himself, asking lowly: "Are we alone…?"

'No, as you very well know, we're all listening. So please cut it out and leave it for after we finish this mission.' It's Athos' voice, small and serious and absolutely done already.

'I want to know where this goes." Porthos, the smile brightly in even his voice.

Milady snorts. 'Competition makes for an interesting reunion, I bet.'

"This is purely platonic. I cannot believe you dare suggest otherwise," Aramis gasps in mock-offence. "Doubting young d'Artagnan's intentions like this…!" Porthos laughter is a low rumble, Milady clicks twice with her tongue, and Athos doesn't reply.

'Young d'Artagnan has your directions. If you want them," d'Artagnan says. 'You have to keep-'

Stop! The shot is sudden and rips through the earpiece like a bullet. It's instinct that Aramis presses himself against the next wall, ducking, while a buzzing sound fills his head and his heart fills with dread. Rustling, hard breathing, steps, voices.

'Athos…?', d'Artagnan asks in rush, clearly not thinking, clearly not thinking, because they are not supposed to use their real names during missions.

'I'm down. They'll get me.' Athos talks softly, but the clipped way they say every word is proof that they are in pain. Somewhere distant, Porthos growls. 'Listen, sweetheart, switch frequency with Ghost now. Alpha, get rid of your pieces. They will search for you. Prioritize the mission. No rescue attempts until it's done, you hear me?'

'Copy,' Milady says and sounds grim.

'Copy', Porthos echoes.

'I- Copy,' d'Artagnan whispers.

"We'll come get you soon," Aramis says, and hears Athos moan in pain. The angry voices are loud now. Suddenly, there's crunching. Then Athos' earpiece is dead. "Did they just…?"

'They fucking bit it in two.' Porthos' anger is almost tangible. 'I don't care what they said. We'll get them out. Now. You two focus on finishing this, so we can fucking leave.'

Milady's voice cuts in, calm and sober: 'Don't worry, I have him under control. We'll find them and get them off this ship. We'll get in touch with you once we're out safely. Reunion point is still at the Captain's. Take care, ok?'

'Love you.' Porthos says it so quietly that Aramis almost doesn't hear it.

"You too. Please be safe, my loves." Small beeping sounds of disconnection follow his goodbye. D'Artagnan's breath fills Aramis' ear. "Hey, are you still with me, ángel?" He doesn't get a reply. "Can you switch frequency? For me…?" For a heartbeat he gets the awful feeling that d'Artagnan just left – but then he hears something, like a decrease in tune that needs a moment to regain its full potential until it's back, and he knows that fae is still there. "Thank you. Thank you, ángel. Now, listen, yes? I know it's bad. But I promise we'll make it out. I promise you."

D'Artagnan stays stilent.

"Remember when we were trapped on the rooftop of this skyscraper in Berlin? We thought it'd be over. But you got us out. You, d'Artagnan. All we had to do was trust you and… jump. Tú éras nuestro ángel guardian. You still are. And, frankly, I don't know how to do this without you." D'Artagnan shakes faer head, Aramis knows it because there's rustling and shifting on the other side of the line, and he adds softly: "Please help me."

'Left. Go left. There should be stairs down at the far end of the corridor.'

"Thank you, ángel," Aramis says, pretending not to notice the way d'Artagnan's voice is off, pretending that everything is well, that they will be okay. Swiftly he follows the corridor. The heat is getting thicker, heavier, like he's getting closer to the engines. Sweat droplets build on his skin as he reaches the stairs. There's a door, and it's locked. And secured with a numeric code. Of course it's secured. Frowning at the keypad, he asks: "Want to bet I'm faster than you?" He expects a small laugh – it's their thing, they always compete who can break into wired systems faster -, something, anything but the choked hitch of d'Artagnan's breath.

'Aramis- don't do it. Don't go in there.'

"I'll be quick, in and out, I promise."

'I have a bad feeling about this. And it's not because of… what happened earlier. Something is wrong. Please believe me.'

"We need to finish this."

'Please. Trust me.'

"I do, but you have to trust me too, ok? I can handle it." And Aramis is so sure of himself, so caught up in wanting to finish this mission to make Athos' sacrifice worthwhile, that he ignores d'Artagnan's desperate protest and tries out number combinations. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. The heat creeps up his back, and anxiety builds up in his chest. He wonders if the system is linked to a guard's computer, that there's silent alarm since he typed in the false combination for the first time, that they will get him, like they got Athos, that he will fail, as the door suddenly clicks open.

"I'm in." It's more an exhale than an actual voiced sentence. "We'll be home soon now."

'Go back, I fucking beg you, Aramis.'

He opens the door in one fluid movement. "I can't. I'm so close. We're so close. Just trust me-" He has no time to say anything more, not even to scream, to breathe, to brace himself, as the bullet hits him and he hits the floor. The air gets forced out of his lungs just as the blood forces itself out of the wound. He feels it wet and hot, yet painless. What…?

'Aramis!'

Feeling dizzy, he lets his fingertips feel over the wound – just to find a bolt sticking out of it. That was why it's been so silent. He's triggered a mechanism. He almost laughs, thinking of the hilarity of a bolt hitting him under deck of a ship, but then reality hits him. Harder than the bolt. He can't breathe.

'Aramis, what happened? Aramis, talk to me!'

"I'm sorry." Now the pain burns into his rib cage with overwhelming severity. He can watch the pool of blood go bigger with every second, every heartbeat, and realizes that it must have destroyed a blood vessel. Because it shouldn't bleed so damn much with the bolt still in his body. "Fuck. I'm sorry, ángel. I'm so sorry. I fucked up."

'Get out of there. Please. Just- please leave.'

"Can't." Black and white dots start dancing in front of his eyes. Maybe the bolt's poisoned, because he's losing the ability to move his limbs. It all goes so fast. All he can do is feel and see how he bleeds out. On the floor. To the relentless roaring of the engines. Alone.

He won't see them again.

He sobs helplessly. "I'm sorry."

'Aramis, are you hurt? Talk to me, please, talk to me.'

"It was a trap."

'Are you okay?' D'Artagnan's self control sounds strained, like fae tries not to scream.

"I'm bleeding. Can't get up. I don't think- I won't make it."

'Stop. Don't say another word, unless you say it to me face.'

"It's my own fault. I should've…"

'Stay with me, Aramis. Focus. The others will check in with me soon and then they will find you and get you out. Do you hear me? Just hold on for a few minutes.'

"I'm scared."

'I know. Me too. But I'm here with you, ok? I won't leave.'

Aramis swallows hard. There's a bitter taste in his mouth. He should be grateful that he's not spitting or coughing blood, but his hands and feet are numb, and he doesn't know why. His body just shrills in panic. "I'm dying. I'm dying, d'Artagnan."

'You're not.'

"I'm sorry."

'If you say that one more time…' Faer voice cracks.

"Okay… I won't… thank you, ángel. For everything."

Now, d'Artagnan laughs, distraught, and says with a shaking voice: 'That's even worse.'

Aramis wants to nod, smile, but he can't bring himself to it. He feels heavy. Too heavy. There are faint footsteps approaching. They are distant, but they are. Someone will find him. Dead or alive, it doesn't matter. "You have to log out. They mustn't trace this back to you."

'I'm not. I'm not doing this. I'm not leaving you to die.'

"Please… they can't know… please, ángel."

'Aramis. Aramis.'

He's losing consciousness, softly, like someone lowers a blanket over his mind that blacks him out, but he can make out people. Figures. Coming near him, talking in hushed voices. Two of them. Closing his eyes, he prays that they will end his life fast. He prays that they won't find d'Artaganan. That the others can escape.

It's mercy that he's numb now.

'Aramis!'

Sorry, ángel…