Heads up

by rimz08

AU from just before the end of ep 10, so spoilers for that episode and the whole series. D'Artagnan gets into trouble, the others have to get him out of it. There will be fluff and romance along the way, because that's what I like best! Same story as posted on my AO3 account, but most of it in one go here.

1. Chapter 1

Head down, d'Artagnan walks away from her. He can't believe that he has lost her again. He can't understand why she couldn't see that Bonacieux was manipulating her. Yet at the same time he knows that this is why he loves her; for her truth, her honesty, her pure goodness. If she were a woman who could live with another man's death on her conscience then she wouldn't be his Constance.
As he walks away the enormity of today hits him for the first time. First the adrenalin kept him going, then relief of seeing her alive, whole, and holding her in his arms. Now that this ebbs away, he is left drained, exhausted and in pain. He hasn't given a thought to himself since all this began, hasn't slept since waking in up in the witch's bed and he is sure that the crude stitches in his side are coming loose. He feels a few more bruises and scratches from the fight to save Constance as well. But most of all he just feels weary and lost.
He lets his feet lead him home, they know the way well enough, turning through the small alleyways of Paris that he has come to love. Yet after a few minutes his breathing becomes ragged, the hole in his chest where she should be feels so enormous that he just can't keep going. He holds on to the wall for support. Just a bit further, he thinks to himself, a few more minutes and he'll get back to the garrison, let Aramis look him over, submit to his ministrations and Athos' apologies, maybe even let them fuss a little like the mother hens they are.
For some reason though he can't make his feet go on, his vision is blurry. Maybe a few minutes rest will help, he thinks. So he sits down, leans his head back against the wall and closes his eyes. He'll just close his eyes for a few moments, he promises, and then he must get back.

When he wakes to the sound of voices, darkness is falling. He is cold and disorientated. A group of red guards is coming down the alley towards him. He takes a deep breath before pushing himself painfully to his feet, using the wall for support, and starts walking away from the guards. But they are faster than him.
"Ooh, what have we here? If it isn't the Musketeers' pet puppy, all lost alone," says one.
"I wonder if there's a reward for returning him," taunts another.
"I'm sure there's a purse of coins in it from his Eminence. He's the one who double crossed him," chimes in a third.
D'Artagan turns to look at them, hand on his sword. Under normal circumstances he could take them on, but right now he isn't so sure. He considers running, but he doesn't feel steady enough and knows they will catch him. He shrugs his shoulders, fight it is.
He pushes off the wall and lunges at one of them. He manages to catch his arm right away, slicing through his uniform and drawing blood. As the guard cries out in pain d'Artagnan spins around to face a second opponent, meeting his sword blows. Concentrating on the duel at hand, he isn't prepared for the third man, who, in the ungentlemanly fashion characteristic of the Red Guards, sneaks up behind him and hits him over the head with his pistol.
He collapses on the floor, the pain in his head is excruciating. A face looms over him, sneering, and a foot kicks him in the side, catching the hole the musket ball made and he feels the skin tearing, the rib that got nicked cracking. He curls in on himself in pain.
Heavy hands pull him up by the arms and start dragging him away. He gives in to unconcsiousness before they reach the end of the alley.

All the people have left the house and darkness has fallen, the commotion is over and life has returned to "normal". Constance lies on her side, as far away from him as she can in the space afforded by their bed. Her cheek still throbs from the blow she received and she aches all over.
Her husband reaches over and places a hand on her shoulder. She doesn't move, remains still, frozen. He begins to stroke her arm, moving his hand down towards her back and then trying to reach more intimate parts. She recoils from him, shrugs him off, shuffles closer to the edge of the bed.

"Come my dear," he tells her, "all will be well. Just don't forget, I have friends in high places now."

Fear seizes hold of her. Has she underestimated this man, believing him a fool, when in fact he is a calculating snake?

She gets up and pulls a shawl around her shoulders, shivering in the cold night air. Padding across the wooden floorboards, she opens the door and leaves their bedroom, going to her former lover's bed, where she curls into a ball. If she tries hard enough, she can conjure his smell on the pillow.

"Morning! Rise and shine!" Aramis croons, shaking Porthos awake.
"Would you please not be so chirpy at this time of the morning?" the other man mumbles.
"It's already late. I let you sleep in. You should be thanking me!"
Porthos throws the nearest thing in reaching distance (which happens to be his hat) at his friend's retreating back and slumps back onto the bed.
Aramis goes to Athos next. His reception there is even worse, consisting of grunts and curses. "I'm sure a bear with a sore head is more fun than you after a night of drinking. I'll go and see if d'Artagnan is more fun than the two of you."
When he doesn't find d'Artagnan in his bed he skips back to Porthos merrily.
"I do believe that young love has been rekindled. D'Artagnan did not return last night."
Porthos whistles through his teeth.
"Good thing we didn't wait for the ungrateful beggar then," says Athos, approaching with his hat pulled down over his eyes, an attempt to stop the sun from making his headache even worse.
"Right then, breakfast it is!" declares Aramis, loudly, slapping Athos on the shoulder and eliciting a pained groan.

"Maybe we should go and break up their little party." Aramis muses.
"Only two hours ago you were happy for them," says Porthos.
"Well yes, but he can't ignore a summons from the palace," Aramis pouts. "And at any rate, he shouldn't abandon his friends quite so easily. That's one of the first things a new musketeer must learn."
"It's not funny if he's not here to hear you laughing at him," comments Athos drily. "Come on then, let's go and look for the love birds before we miss our appointment at the Louvre."

They hadn't been certain about how they would find d'Artagnan and Constance Bonacieux, but any thoughts they did have were not to be voiced in polite company and made the inseparables feel rather jealous. What they had not been expecting was an angry Monsieur Bonacieux who would not let them even speak with his wife and informed them that no Musketeers were welcome in his home. The maid told them that Madame Bonacieux was indeed at home, which put paid to any ideas of a romantic tryst elsewhere, and that she had seen their friend and her mistress part company the previous evening in the square.
"Well, that went well," muses Aramis.
"If he's not with her then where is he?" Porthos asks.
"I am not even going to dignify that with an answer." Aramis snorts. He turns to look back at the Bonacieux house and is certain that he sees a movement of the curtains in what used to be d'Artagnan's room. "Did you see that?"
"See what?"
"Nothing, I must be going crazy. Maybe he just got drunk on his own after she went back to her idiot husband? He's probably lying in a gutter somewhere with a splitting headache."
"We need to get to the palace. We'll all have headaches if we don't show up on time, if we have heads at all. What do you say Athos?" Porthos turns to the oldest of them, who is (characteristically) silent, brooding and looking worried.
"Something feels wrong," he tells them, after a few moments of consideration, "but you are right, we can't miss the audience with the king. We'll have to go to the Louvre and get away as soon as we can. This isn't like him at all."

Treville was not best impressed by d'Artagnan's absence from the audience with their royal majesties, but the others covered for him, claiming the bullet wound Athos had given him was bothering him. For a few moments Athos forget about their friend, totally overcome by worrying about the fact that the queen was apparently having Aramis' baby, as if life needed to get more complicated. Yet as soon as he managed to drag Aramis away from his tete-a-tete with her majesty his thoughts were back to d'Artagnan.
"I'm going back to the garrison and the area. Porthos, check out the inns and gutters around the Bonacieux house and Aramis go and keep watch on the house."
" How come I get the job standing around and doing nothing while he gets to check out the taverns?" Aramis complains.
Athos shoots him a "don't mess with me right now, you are not in my good books" look and Aramis drops his head.

Aramis has been standing watching the Bonacieux house for what feels like an eternity when the others join him at his vantage point. No one has entered or left for the whole day apart from the maid. From the looks on the faces of the other two he can see that they have had no joy either. A heavy, tense silence settles over them as they watch the comings and goings in the square.
Aramis, bored and fidgety, leaves the other two to stretch his legs in a neighboring alley. He watches a few boys playing in the street. They appear to be taunting another child, throwing something over his head, keeping it out of his reach. The obvious bullying makes his already foul mood even worse and he steps in to help the child, grabbing the object in mid air with a flourish of which he is secretly quite proud. The children all look at him in and he sees astonishment, fear, respect and then anger all pass over their faces. Most of the boys retreat into the shadows of the alley.
"Oy, that's mine!" says the child who had been taunted.
"A thank you wouldn't go amiss," says his savior, absent mindedly opening in his hand to see what he has grabbed. It is a small round silver object, a time piece, one that he has seen hanging from his friend's belt every day since he first met him. To be absolutely certain he flips it over, seeing the clear C.D. engraved on the back.
He grabs the child by his collar with his free hand. "Where did you get this?"
"It's mine!"
"No, it is not, and you have one more chance before I get really angry. Where did you get this?"
"I…I…found it. In an alley."
"You found it? Just like that?" asks Aramis, his patience running out, he strengthens his grip on the boy's shirt.
"Ow that hurts!" complains the child.
"It'll hurt more in a minute. Wait until you meet my friends." He starts dragging him back to where the others are waiting.
"Okay, okay. There was a drunk guy in the alley. He got in a fight with some Red Guards. I was watching. They took him away and that fell off his belt."
"Show me the alley, now!"
Signalling to Athos to follow them he lets the child lead the way, never releasing his grip on the shirt. As the walk he explains to Athos what he has discovered, showing him the silver object.
"Here. He was here," the kid points at a spot on the ground.
"He was drunk you say?"
"Think so, at least that's what my dad looks like when he's drunk. He was…like…stumbling around. Caught one of the Red Guards with his sword though, before another one hit him over the head."
Athos and Aramis are painstakingly checking the alley for more signs of their friend, seeming to have forgotten about the child.
"Can I…. can I go now?"
"Not before you tell us your name and where we can find you if we need you," Athos tells him.
"Athos, over here!" Aramis calls. Athos runs to the end of the alley where his friend his standing and crouches down. Red stains on the cobblestones. There was a fight here.
"Dammit!" he declares, making to rush off.
"Athos wait!" Aramis catches his arm, "Go to Treville first, don't do anything rash. The Cardinal hates us enough already. We have to play this carefully if the Red Guards really do have him. Otherwise the only thing we'll ever see again is his corpse."
After a few seconds Athos nods in agreement, turns on his heel and runs for the garrison.
"Right, I'll just go and tell Porthos then shall I?" Aramis says into the empty alley.

Leaving Porthos to watch the Bonacieux home, Aramis makes it to the garrison in time to meet Treville and Athos leaving and join them as they cross town and burst unannounced into the Cardinal's palace. Treville is silently fuming, mostly at the cardinal but also at the three of them for lying to him, although why he expects better he cannot tell.
"Where is he?" Athos screams as the man in red and black rises from behind his desk. Red Guards rush into the room, trying to restrain them all, but all three musketeers draw their swords and a stale mate is declared.
"Put your weapons away and please tell me what this is all about," says the cardinal in his most calming, smooth, snake-like voice.
"Where is d'Artagnan?" demands Athos.
Treville puts a hand on his arm. "One of my best men is missing and we have reports of an altercation with Red Guards last night. We would like to know what happened and where he is now."
"I have no idea what you are talking about. To my knowledge my men have been involved in no altercations and I certainly am hiding no musketeers in my palace."
"You liar!" screams out Athos.
"Calm yourself musketeer. You forget whom you are addressing."
"No, I know exactly what you are. A liar and a murderer."
"Return him to us safely, or we will make sure you are disgraced and hanged as a traitor," Athos threatens.
Throughout Aramis has remained silent. The Cardinal fixes his eyes on him now, "I believe that title belongs to someone else here," he says calmly.
He turns to his men. "Do any of you know the whereabouts of a missing musketeer? No, I thought not. Treville, you need to choose your men better. I always said that Gascon was a wild one. Who knows if he hasn't run back off to his farm? Now, if you would please leave, it is time for prayers."
"You won't get away this," spits Treville over his shoulder as the Red Guards push them out. "I will go to the king."
"Please do, I have nothing to hide. It is a shame I can't say the same about your men."
After the musketeers have left, the Cardinal sits at his desk, chin in hand. He is roused from his thoughts by the entrance of the captain of his Red Guards.
"I have no desire to know which of your men did this, why, how or where. It has happened and we must now use it to our advantage. I had planned on enjoying my revenge on that idiot farm boy but I will not be able to savor it. However, it will be just as sweet. Now we must move quickly. Send for Monsieur Bonacieux immediately."
"Your Eminence," says the Red Guard as he bows and leaves.

Athos is fuming and desperate for a drink. He thinks he might punch Aramis for making this situation all the more complicated. He can't even trump the cardinal by revealing his treachery for fear of getting his friend, and the queen for that matter, hanged. But he musters all his self control to speak with his captain.
"Sir, we will find d'Artagnan. We don't need to trouble the king with this matter at present."
Treville looks at them both in shock and horror. "I don't even want to know."
"It is probably best," mutters Aramis.
"Find him, then, or I'll hold you two responsible," he orders them before storming off.
Neither speaks to the other most of the way back to Porthos. Not far from their friend's hiding place Aramis stops Athos, touching his arm.
"We can't go on like this. We have to talk."
"You might have cost him his life, Aramis, all for a quick bit of fun!"
"It wasn't a bit of fun," says Aramis, looking down, "I love her."
"Then that's even bloody worse! If he dies because of you…"
"He is not going to die because of me. If he dies it because of the Red Guards, the Cardinal, your evil wife and a lot of other bad things. What I did may not be helping but you are not going to put this on me!" Aramis shouts in return.
Athos looks at his friend and all the anger he had felt seems to dissipate. "I'm sorry old friend," he says softly, "you are right."
"I usually am. Now we have to work together to help d'Artagnan, not against each other."
Athos nods in assent and the tension that has hovered over them for most of the day lifts.
When they reach Porthos they find him bouncing from foot to foot. "Where have you been? Things are getting exciting. A messenger just went into the house and left again, followed by Monsieur Bonacieux."
"Well why didn't you follow him?" Athos demands.
"No need, I've seen him before. He works for the Cardinal," Porthos boasts.
"All ways lead back to that man," mutters Aramis, "but right now I suggest we take the opportunity of her husband's absence to see what Madame Bonacieux has to say."

She is so immersed in her own misery that she doesn't hear her husband approaching in until he is standing in the doorway.

D'Artagnan wakes on a cold, damp floor. It isn't the worst prison he has ever found himself in, he muses, but it could be better. He isn't underground, as the rays of sun coming through a small window tell him, and he isn't chained up. On the down side, his side is bleeding copiously and every breath feels like his chest is burning. He tries to breathe shallowly to stop the pain, even though he knows that this is not a long term solution.

He slowly pushes himself up to a sitting position, hand going to the wound on his side as he moves. He wishes that Milady had done a better job on the wound, or even better that Aramis had done it. Most of all he wishes right now that Athos had stuck to the original plan and shot him in the arm.

He remembers parting with Constance and his meeting with the Red Guards. If they have as little brains as they are famous for, then he is probably at their garrison and the others won't take long to find him. That idea gives him some degree of comfort.

Over the course of the next hours he drifts in and out of sleep. Chills start to shake his body and he longs for a drink. He tries not to move around, not wanting to make the wound bleed more, but is unable to get comfortable on the hard, cold floor. Eventually he leans his head back against the stone wall. He tries not to think of Constance, but the more he tries to put her out of his mind, the more her face appears to him. How had she felt, trapped in a cellar with that maniac, and all because of him. Maybe she is better off without him, he starts to believe.

His thoughts are disturbed when the door finally opens and three Red Guards enter, the same three that brought him here the night before.

"Well look, puppy's awake!" announces one of them.

D'Artagnan tries to rise to his feet, using the wall for support. He nearly succeeds before he is kicked back down by one of them, the one he had injured last night in fact, as the bandage on his arm testifies. That little victory causes him to smile.

"What are you smiling about, runt?" asks the guard, kicking him again for good measure. The kick causes him to roll over onto his side, sending waves of pain through him, and he curls into a ball.

"We got scores to settle with you," says another, kicking his back this time.

"And when we're done, the Cardinal is gonna reward us and hang you!" chimes in the third.

D'Artagnan remains curled up on the floor, closing off his mind to what is going on around him. He hears Athos's voice, telling him to focus, Porthos saying what he will do to the Red Guards when he gets his hands on them and Aramis joking about the inability of the cardinals' men to string a sentence together, let alone follow through with a plan. He has sunk so deep in his thoughts that he doesn't notice straight away that the blows have stopped. After a few seconds without any more kicks he dares to let down his guard and raises his head. He sees a fourth guard has entered the room and is in the process of shouting at the others, rebuking them with a tirade of insults.

He doesn't catch all of what the fourth guard is saying as he comes slowly back to his senses, his ears ringing, but he does understand enough to realize that his captors acted of their own initiative and without the Cardinal's knowledge or permission. It would seem that his eminence is not best impressed. As the Red Guards leave his makeshift cell, heads down, with longing glances at him to finish what they had started, he lowers his head and tries to calm his breathing. Maybe this means that help is on its way.

The maid doesn't want to let them in, although drawing swords and pistols soon helps to change her mind. They crash up the stairs looking for Constance only to find the kitchen and bedroom empty. Athos then turns his attention to the other bedroom, finding its door locked.

"Where's the key?" he growls at the cowering made.

"The master has it. He said not to let anyone see the mistress."

"Guess we'll just have to break it down then," says Porthos with a shrug of his shoulders, "Constance, move away from the door!" he says before kicking it in.

Constance is far from the door, curled up on the floor under the window in her white nightdress. She stares at them with a look of shock, which is quickly replaced by relief. Aramis rushes towards her and crouches in front of her.

"Are you hurt?" he asks.

She shakes her head. Her eyes are red from crying and her throat sore from having nothing to drink since he husband locked her in the room the night before. "Get her a drink of water," Aramis instructs and Porthos rushes to comply. Meanwhile, Aramis helps her to her feet and over to the bed. She sits down on the soft mattress and sips the water, regaining her composure.

"Constance," Aramis says gently, "what happened?"

She swallows hard before beginning to speak. "My husband locked me in here. He's working for the cardinal and he pretended to try to kill himself so I wouldn't leave him but he didn't really and now he's gone to see the cardinal and…." She stops suddenly, looking at the three men in front of her as though something has suddenly dawned on her, "where's d'Artagnan?"

"Ah," says Aramis, "we thought maybe you could help with that one."

"No!" she cries, rising to her feet. "He went back to the garrison. He was going back to the garrison. We parted in the square and I….I….". Aramis helps her sink down to the bed again.

"We can't waste any more time." Athos says grimly.

"And we can't leave her here to the mercy of that husband of hers," Porthos responds.

"Constance, get dressed, you're coming with us," Aramis instructs her, taking charge.

"Treville is going to love this," Athos remarks.

Monsieur Bonacieux feels very happy. He has restored order to his home and now he has an audience with the cardinal. His eminence receives him warmly, asking after his health. His fortunes are certainly improving, he thinks to himself.

"Did you put your household in order, as we discussed?" asks the Cardinal.

"His eminence is too kind to worry about me," replies Bonacieux. "Yes, I took your advice. My wife is safely at home, under lock and key, where she should be."

"Good, good. I am pleased to hear it," the Cardinal smiles. "My guards have something for you, a reward shall we say, for your services. I have some other matters to handle, but my guards will accompany you."

"Of course, your Eminence. Thank you once again," Bonacieux bows deeply, groveling low before this man of the church, before turning to leave. He doesn't see the cardinal's almost imperceptible signal to the guards who lead him out, and follows them, thinking that this must be the luckiest day of his life.

As soon as Bonacieux has left, from a second door another Red Guard ushers into his presence the three responsible for the capture of d'Artagnan. They stand before the cardinal in a line, heads hanging, silent. His eminence rises and paces in front of them for a few minutes. He enjoys their tension, is feeding from their fear.

When he finally speaks, his voice is so low that they have to struggle to hear his words. "I understand that skirmishes with Musketeers are par for the course but this time you have overstepped the mark. I pay your wages so that you will do my bidding, not me yours. Now you will listen to my instructions very carefully and follow them to the letter, else I will have you strung up. Is that clear?"

Three heads nod in unison and listen very carefully to their instructions.

When the door swings open again, d'Artagnan is not sure quite what to expect. He steels himself for another beating, but instead finds himself doused with wine poured from skins. Soaking wet and spluttering, his hands are grabbed and pulled behind his back, while a small vial is raised to his lips. He struggles and attempts to turn his face away, but strong hands hold his head in place and force his lips open, pouring the foul smelling (and tasting) liquid. After a few minutes of struggle he gives in and the liquid starts to take effect, causing him to slump to the ground. The last thing he remembers is the cool stone floor against his face, before he loses consciousness.

D'Artagnan claws his way back to consciousness. He senses a hard, cold floor underneath him. His clothes feel damp and he can smell the rain. His head is throbbing and heavy, like it is filled with lead, so much so that he can't bring himself to open his eyes. He has no idea where he is, or even when it is, and finds that he doesn't really care.

When he finally musters up the energy to open his eyes he finds his vision full of fog. It is dark and foggy outside. But wasn't it summer, he thinks to himself? Fog in summer? Maybe anything is possible in Paris.

After blinking repeatedly the fog clears a little. His side is burning and he can feel that he is losing blood. He puts his hand to the wound and stares at it intently when it comes away red, examining it closely, fixated by the color staining his fingers.

The alley he is in looks familiar, although he cannot remember why or when he has been here before. It takes some minutes before he realizes that another body is lying not five feet away, back turned to him. He thinks he might recognize the clothing, but the fog in his head is making it hard to remember anything. D'Artagnan slowly and painfully inches his way along the floor towards the person and when he is close enough stretches out a hand to shake the man's shoulder. There is no response, so he shakes more forcefully. This too proves fruitless, so d'Artagnan pulls the shoulder towards him. As the man turns towards him his head flops backwards and unseeing eyes stare at him.

That this is bad manages to penetrate through the fog in his head and he recoils, hissing in pain as he does. D'Artagnan is pretty sure he knows the man and almost certain that he needs to get away quickly, but his body is uncooperative. After three attempts he manages to get up onto his knees and then push himself to standing, leaning on the rough brick wall for support. He takes tiny, winding steps away from the dead man, progressing at a snail's pace as the alley sways in front of him.

Having deposited Constance with Treville (who was accordingly unimpressed, asking them what on earth he was supposed to do with a woman in a garrison full of soldiers) they split up: Athos and Porthos to watch the comings and goings of the Red Guards and Cardinal, Aramis to keep a look out for Monsieur Bonacieux's return.

Porthos and Athos have an uneventful afternoon and evening, following three wild goose chases as Red Guards went out on errands and once following the cardinal's carriage to the palace and back. Aramis, after hours of no one entering or leaving the Bonacieux home is beginning to give up hope when he sees a stranger approach the house and knock at the door. Yet at exactly the same moment he is approached by the scruffy young boy he had caught with d'Artagnan's time piece earlier that day.

Torn between going after the strange man or dealing with the boy, Aramis sees something desperate in the lad's face and makes his decision.

"What is it lad?" he asks.

"I think you should come with me…. There's something you should see," he mumbles, turning on his heel and running off.

With a last glance at Constance's home, Aramis follows the boy down the way, turning left, right and left again until they enter a dark, narrow alley. The boy stops abruptly and points to a body on the floor, swallowing heavily. As Aramis approaches he can see that the person is dead, from the way his head hangs limply, and from a distance it is already clear who the person is. He turns to boy and pats his shoulder, "Good lad," he says, but the boy is uninterested, tugging his sleeve and pointing at something further down the alley, a figure stumbling along by the wall.

Aramis can see at once that it is d'Artagnan, wearing only shirt and trousers, no jacket, no poulder, no weapons. He runs after him, the boy hot on his heels. Reaching his friend he grabs his arm, which causes the younger musketeer to wobble and fall backwards. Aramis grabs him, holding him straight. The first thing he notices is the blood, the second the smell of alcohol on d'Artagnan. "You've been drinking?" he asks, incredulous and even a little angry. He grabs d'Artagnan's chin and looks straight into his eyes, then smells his breath. When he sees his friend's enormous pupils that no recognition whatsoever, Aramis realizes that something more serious is wrong. "Heavens above, you've been drugged!" he whispers to himself.

Realizing that the boy is still beside him, Aramis takes a coin from his purse. "Here lad, want to earn a coin? You're to go to the square outside the Red Guards' garrison and look for two musketeers keeping watch, like I was in the square. Their names are Porthos and Athos. You saw me with them earlier. Find them quickly and tell them to meet me at the garrison." He presses the coin into the boy's hand. "Go, fast!".

Aramis hears voices behind him. He realizes that it will not be long before the body is discovered and that he needs to get d'Artagnan away quickly. He hooks one of his friend's arms over his shoulder and starts leading him towards the end of the alley as fast as he can. When he hears shouts behind him he speeds up, almost carrying the other man along with him, turning out of the alley and ducking into a dark door way. He props d'Artagnan up against the wall and waits until the running footsteps pass. Aramis takes the opportunity to check his friend for injuries. He finds a bloody bump on the back of his head and pulling up his shirt sees a mass of multi-colored bruises, in addition to the bleeding wound. He can feel that d'Artagnan is already feverish and shivering.

"D'Artagnan, can you hear me?" has asks the other Musketeer desperately, "we have to get back to the garrison. Can you help me do that?"

He sees his friend shake his head in what he presumes is an attempt to clear it from fog and then nod slightly. He seems unable to formulate words. Not a good sign, Aramis thinks to himself.

Checking the coast is clear, Aramis takes his friend's weight on him and begins the arduous journey to the garrison.

Treville has had an interesting afternoon trying to keep Constance calm and out of trouble. Had he ever married, he thinks to himself, he would have wanted a slightly more docile wife. Constance was ready to go straight to the cardinal, or the king for that matter, herself, and the expletives she used to describe her husband once she recovered her composure were ones that he thought never to hear in the mouth of a lady. Yet he can understand why his youngest recruit loves this woman, with her strength and the flaming temperament to match her hair. After being convinced to eat something, she has finally fallen into a fitful sleep on a cot in his office. Treville, meanwhile, is waiting impatiently and worriedly for any news, unable to rest. He alternates between pacing, attempting to write reports (finishing only a sentence at a time) and staring out of the window.

So it is that he sees Aramis enter the garrison dragging what looks like a semi-conscious d'Artagnan. He rushes out of his office and down the wooden stairs, without paying any attention to the noise he is making, which rouses Constance. Wordlessly he grabs d'Artagnan's other side and helps Aramis take him into the infirmary, where they place him on a cot.

Constance rushes into the room only seconds later and is at her lover's side in a second. Aramis tries to pull her away but she stands her ground, taking in his condition. His eyes are closed, his breathing shallow. There is so much blood. She kneels down next to the bed, and strokes his cheek, whispers his name like a prayer, but gets no response. She's seen him hurt before, but never like this. A single silent tear trickles down her cheek, as she begs him to answer her.

Treville, taking in d'Artagnan's semi conscious state, looks to Aramis and asks the question on Constance's lips, "Is he drunk?". "No, drugged," Aramis answers, "but someone wanted to make it looks like he's drunk. Look at his pupils," he instructs, raising one of his friend's eyelids.

"Oh Lord," mutters Treville.

"Yes, quite, but we have bigger problems than that I'm afraid," states Aramis, beginning to cut away d'Artagnan's shirt so he can get to the wound. D'Artagnan hisses in pain, the first sign of awareness he has made since they brought him in. "The bullet wound has been re-opened and looks infected. There's at least one broken rib, plus probably a concussion. Oh, and Constance….. there's something else"

Constance turns to look up at him. "What?" she asks, "What can be worse than this?"

"I'm afraid your husband has been murdered. And whoever did it, they are trying to frame d'Artagnan."

Aramis and Constance work together to clean, sew and bandage the wounds. Aramis is amazed by her self control and discipline, his already great respect for her multiplied hundred fold.

D'Artagnan swims in and out of consciousness. He doesn't seem to recognize either Aramis or Constance, but does not fight against their ministrations. Aramis is hopeful that the drug is slowly wearing off and will have no lasting effects.

It is not long before Porthos and Athos come crashing into the room, demanding to know what has happened. Athos takes one look at d'Artagnan's torso and promptly runs outside, the sounds of vomiting heard by all in the room. When he returns his face his ashen and fists clenched.

"'thos," comes a quiet voice from the bed.

They all stop suddenly and turn to d'Artagnan, whose eyes are open and seems to be aware of his surroundings for the first time.

Athos moves to his side swiftly, grasping his friend's outstretched hand.

"'s not your fault," d'Artagnan murmurs, knowing exactly what his friend was thinking, understanding his reaction to seeing the wound he had inflicted. "Red Guards," he mutters, before his eyes close again and his grip slackens.

"Well that's an improvement, I must say," comments Aramis, drily.

"I'm rather offended. You get more of a reaction than me," notes Constance, attempting to lighten the mood.

"Is he drunk?" Athos asks, sniffing around his friend.

"No!" chorus Constance and Aramis together.

"Sorry," continues Aramis, "getting kind of bored of that question. He's been drugged. And the blood loss meant he was weak to begin with. Did you two see nothing?"

"No. We went on a few wild goose chases following guards and once the cardinal's coach."

"Maybe they took him out from another entrance while we were following the cardinal, dammit," adds Porthos.

"It doesn't matter. We have him now," Constance responds.

"Not for long, however," says a voice from the door. They have all been so busy that they did not notice Treville's return. "There are Red Guards outside demanding d'Artagnan's arrest for the murder of Monsieur Bonacieux."

"We're not going to just hand him over!" shouts Athos, taking a step towards Treville. Porthos puts a warning hand on Athos' shoulder

"We don't have much choice, I'm afraid," replies the captain.

"We can sneak him out, hide him somewhere while we prove his innocence," suggests Porthos.

"How? Look at him! He can't travel far in this state, and you'd be seen. We're surrounded. I'm sorry…." Treville looks down, "I don't like this any more than you do. We all know he didn't do it."

"But we can't prove it. And d'Artagnan is known to be impulsive. He has dueled before. It won't be hard for the cardinal to convince a judge that he did this," Aramis shakes his head.

"And they found his pistol at the murder scene," Treville adds.

"Damn! How did I miss that?" Aramis berates himself.

"Because you were worrying about your friend," says Constance, who has remained silent until now. She is quiet, thinking, for a couple of seconds before going on."Give them me instead. I'll tell them I drugged d'Artagnan, took his pistol and killed my husband."

"Never!" chorus three voices, "he would never forgive us!"

"Damn right," says a fourth voice, quiet and strained.

"D'Artagnan!" Constance calls, turning back to him. He is trying to sit up and Aramis supports him, while Constance puts a hand to his cheek and strokes it with her thumb, "I'm so sorry, I am to blame for this. If I hadn't believed him, sent you away, I should have listened to you… I…."

"Shhh. You are not to blame," he takes her hand from his face, and kisses it softly. "The cardinal would never let me get away with tricking him. He is not a man to forgive and forget. I just didn't think it would happen so quickly. I don't think that he meant it to either. He didn't send those guards to take me. They did it of their own accord. And then he had to act quickly, to cover himself. It might have meant he made some mistakes along the way."

"Do you remember seeing Bonacieux, alive or dead? What happened before Aramis found you in the alley?" asks Treville.

D'Artagnan shakes his head and collects his thoughts. Talking is taking a lot of effort, but he doesn't want to show that to the others. "The last thing I remember is the Red Guards dousing me with wine and forcing me to drink something. After that, I don't remember anything before waking up here, now."

"Your coat and weapons are missing. When did you last see them?" asks Athos.

"Not since the guards took them from me last night," he responds. His eyes are starting to drift closed again and they can all see that he is trying to fight against the exhaustion and the effects of the drug.

"I will try to reason with the Red Guards, to buy us a little more time, at least until Aramis has finished taking care of you. But I don't see that we have much choice in the matter. I'm sorry d'Artagnan, we'll have to hand you over to them. I will go to the king and demand an audience. Porthos, Athos, Aramis, you will try to find the guards who did this and get them to talk," says Treville.

"'s'okay captain. I understand…", murmurs d'Artagnan, as Aramis eases him back to lying down.

"See if you can remember anything about them that might help lad," the captain tells him, before leaving.

"…hurt one of 'em….arm…." are his last words before sleep overtakes him and Aramis returns to his stitching, head down so that the others won't see the tears clouding his eyes.

"We won't let them get away with this, little brother," Athos says darkly, "Come on Porthos, let's get started."

As they leave, Porthos stops at Constance's size and puts his hand on her shoulder. She takes his hand in hers and squeezes it, trying to smile at him encouragingly, although the smile doesn't quite reach her eyes.

The Chatelet is every bit as bad as he remembers. He sees a rat scuttle across the floor of the cell and retreats further into the corner. The clean shirt Aramis had given him is already dirty, and some of his bandages bloody from the manhandling the guards gave him on the way. He is also freezing. But most of all he can't stop thinking about the look on Constance's face as he left her, the grief and guilt. He doesn't hold her responsible, whatever she might think, but convincing her of that is going to take some doing. And hearing her offer to give herself up instead of him cut to his very soul. He will never doubt her love for him again, he vows.

His cellmate is not very chatty, luckily, since he is in a brooding mood. No Vadim this time, to entertain him with coin tricks. As day turns to night, with red rays of the sun breaking through the bars of the window, he finally begins to doze off. It feels like only seconds have passed before he is woken by a key in the lock and a pair of hands dragging him into standing position, holding him tight. He feels weak and nauseous, even though there is nothing for him to bring up, he can't remember the last time he ate.

A jailor holds his arms tight behind his back, jostling his ribs, and pushes him out of the cell and down the corridor, into a small room. There he is forced down into a chair and he bows his head, attempting to bring his breathing under control, throwing up bile into the straw at his feet.

"My how the mighty have fallen," says a smooth voice that he recognizes only too well. If he had the energy he would jump up and attack him now, but he just rests his head on his knees, trying to breathe in and out. He would like to projectile vomit some more onto the Cardinal's shoes, but makes do with spitting.

"Still defiant, I see. I wonder what it will take to break you?"

"You will never find out," d'Artagnan retorts, raising his head and looking the man in the eye.

"So sure? And what if I brought in that pretty little madame of yours? Brought her up on a charge of murdering her imbecile husband together with you? Might that work?" the Cardinal asks, crossing his arms.

The threat to Constance rouses in d'Artagnan hidden strengths. He rises from the chair and rushes at the Cardinal. But a jailor is there to pull him back, force him to the foul smelling floor and deliver a rain of blows.

"Well, well. I do believe we have found your breaking point. Trying to attack the king's first minister? It won't look good for you in court, now will it?"

"I didn't lay a finger on you," d'Artagnan spits out.

"No, you didn't whelp, but I am happy to endure a little pain for the sake of the greater good. Martin, if you would…"

To d'Artagnan's horror, the guard takes out a knife and gives it to the cardinal, who proceeds to slice his own cheek, not too hard, but enough to draw blood and probably leave a scar.

The Cardinal bends down, blood dripping from the wound, and takes d'Artagnan's chin in his grasp, holding it painfully tight, and making sure that the younger man cannot look away. "Now listen to me, and listen well, d'Artagnan of Gascony. If you mention my Red Guards, deny the charges or make any remarks that I deem to endanger my position, I will arrest the little adulteress for killing her cuckolded husband. Am I clear?" asks the Cardinal.

D'Artagnan nods once, stiffly. The cardinal releases his grip, nods once to the jailors and exits the room, cape swishing after him, leaving d'Artagnan at the mercy of his men.

"The king has determined that d'Artagnan will be tried by a judge in a court. The cardinal got to him before me, unsurprisingly enough. We have until tomorrow morning to prove his innocence," Treville informs them.

"And how do we do that?" asks Porthos, angrily. "The Cardinal has witnesses, he has d'Artagnan's gun and a motive. We have nothing but a young boy's word."

A day of searching, asking questions, threatening and prying has brought them nothing but exhaustion. Witnesses claim to have seen d'Artagnan and Bonacieux having words at a tavern before things got heated and the innkeeper asked them to leave.

"Dammit!" shouts Athos, banging his fist on Treville's table, "There must be something."

Aramis, leaning against the wall, has been stroking his beard in thought. He now pushes himself up and crosses to his two friends. "I may have an idea," he tells them, "although we are going to need a woman. And no, Constance , before you say anything, it can't be you this time."

Constance opens and closes her mouth without emitting a sound and fixes him with a stare. Athos raises and eyebrow and Treville thinks that he really doesn't want to know what "other time" Aramis is talking about.

It's as a result of Aramis' plan that Porthos finds himself wasting valuable time naked in Flea's arms at the Court of Miracles. Although he would never normally associate Flea and naked with wasting time, today, when his youngest brother's life is at stake, he does.

Flea, being Flea, knows that he wants something, and in turn wants to draw out the process of extorting him. But he doesn't have time for these games, not today.

As she draws circles on his chest, her head resting on his shoulder, he spells out what he needs her to do.

"He means a lot to you, this man, doesn't he?" she asks, raising her head a little to look at him.

"More than he knows, or I'd ever like him to know for that matter. He holds us together, keeps us sane, the stupid dolt. Without him, we….I…."

"Would you come back here?"

"Flea, I…."

"I'm only teasing," she laughs, "I know you too well. You will never come back, and if I don't do this I'll have lost you forever." She gets up from the bed and starts to dress. It's a shame, Porthos reflects, to cover her beauty, but again, now isn't the time to worry about that.

"Come on then, show me this tavern where the Red Guards like to drink…" she says, fixing her hair.

Flea is radiant and the Red Guards can't take their eyes off of her. She moves among them, Porthos watching from the window of the tavern, careful not to be seen, knocking into them, teasing, joking and flirting. He quiets any feelings of jealousy by recalling why they are doing this.

The clue d'Artagnan had given them wasn't particularly useful, since a cut to the arm isn't an obvious injury, like a limp or a black eye. Yet Flea manages to find the guard in question, by bashing into him and noticing when he winces and his hand goes instinctively to his injury. She engages the guard in a long, deep conversation, and hints that she would very much like to leave with him. Once outside, Porthos is able to grab the man, a hand over his mouth to silence him, and drag him away.

Of course, Treville is completely unaware of what happens next, of how they find out from this guard exactly what happened, of how they convince him to send a servant to bring d'Artagnan's possessions from the place where he and his friends had hidden them, but he is very pleased to have the guard brought to him, a little worse for wear, with a full confession on his lips. By the time this is accomplished, the first rays of the sun are shining on the streets of Paris. Treville and Athos take the guard to the palace, to make his confession before the king.

The courtroom is hot and crowded. D'Artagnan, standing before the judge, thinks he might be sick again, or keel over. Staying upright is taking a lot of concentration. Every bit of him is hurting from the beating the jailors gave him and his head is throbbing terribly. He sees Constance in the crowd, with Aramis and Porthos, but he can't see Athos. Maybe Athos has finally given up on him, he thinks.

Constance's eyes are red and wet with tears. He wants to tell Aramis and Porthos to take her away, to take care of her for him. He would like to get the chance to explain to her why he is doing this, but knows that he won't. Not only due to the judicial process. He is far too scared of her reaction to what he is about to do.

But the only thing he can think about is keeping her safe. So when the judge asks questions, he states, as clearly as his swollen lips and tongue will let him, that he murdered Jacques Bonacieux. The Cardinal, who has also deigned to attend, smiles smugly. Constance looks like she is ready to smack someone, and Porthos and Aramis look at him in momentary disbelief, until their eyes settle on the Cardinal and understanding crosses their faces. He hopes his eyes express his apology, because he can't put it into words.

The Cardinal then steps forward to the judge and whispers in his ear. He watches their short exchange and sees the cardinal point to his face. The judge shakes his head and looks at d'Artagnan with disgust.

"It has been brought to my attention that when His Eminence the Cardinal visited the accused, with whom he has some personal connection, to offer him solace, the accused took a knife from one of his jailors and attacked the cardinal.

"D'Artagnan of Lupiac, Gascony, you have brought disrespect upon the regiment of The King's Musketeers. You have wounded the king's most favored advisor and killed a man in cold blood. We must send a message to all your comrades in arms that such behavior is unacceptable. For this reason I sentence to you a public lashing, after which you will be hung. The sentence is to be carried out immediately."

D'Artagnan hangs his head in despair. He understands now the Cardinal's game. He has not only achieved d'Artagnan's death, but is sending a message to Treville and all the musketeers. D'Artagnan is merely a pawn in the Cardinal's game.

He is dimly aware of Constance shouting, of Aramis and Porthos holding on to her, trying to comfort her. He wants to smile at them, to reassure them, but he can't quite find the strength to do so. Every part of him screams that he isn't ready to die. He wants to marry Constance, to raise children with her, to serve alongside his brothers and make sure they don't get themselves in too much trouble, to grow old with them. None of that will happen now.

Constance is frightened by how serene d'Artagnan looks throughout the proceedings. His eyes are bright and feverish, but he is composed and gives no hint of fear or anger. At first she is incensed at him for admitting to the crime she knows he did not commit. But Aramis whispers in her ear, and she understands the meaning of the cardinal's presence, so unusual in a common court room. She is horrified by the judge's punishment and only the strong hands of the two men beside her keep her from running to the cardinal and stabbing him through the heart on the spot with Aramis' sword.

Those same hands support her as they follow the crowd out of the courtroom. They guide her away from the masses following their friend to his fate, but she shakes her head at them and forces them to stop.

"I won't leave him now," she says, "bloody idiot he is, I want to be there for him. I want to be the last thing he sees. I want him know how much I love him."

She can see that this declaration has the other two in a quandary. They know that d'Artagnan wouldn't want her there, but they also know that she is right. Aramis folds her into a warm embrace and Porthos strokes her back, before linking their arms through hers and turning around to follow the voyeuristic crowds.

The king is not an early riser, and is not pleased to be confronted by Treville before breakfast. The queen, however, so grateful to her husband's musketeers, and certain of d'Artagnan's innocence, uses her delicate condition to their advantage. Treville plays down the role of the cardinal, blaming the whole affair on a group of rogue Red Guards. The blabbering guard who is brought before the king is paralyzed with fear of his punishment, until prodded in the back with Athos' dagger, at which point he tells all. The king, now angered by the treatment of one of his favorites, does not delay in writing a pardon and sending for the cardinal, who he will see directly, after breakfast, of course.

Constance is determined not to look away and d'Artagnan seems to have reached a similar decision. They are staring each other out. He has never been able to stand up to her, to resist her wishes, he would do anything to make her happy. But now, this time, he is not willing to submit. As he stands on the platform, waiting for the lashes, something passes between the two of them, an understanding. His eyes flick to those of his two friends and he nods at them, almost imperceptibly. Knowing his intentions they turn their attention to Constance even more forcefully, reinforcing their grips on her arms.

"Constance," Aramis says gently, "we need to leave."

"I already told you, I am not budging." She replies, indignant.

"He doesn't want you to see him like this," Porthos pleads.

And Constance knows they are right, she saw it in his eyes. She turns away from Porthos and looks at him again. He nods at her and the corners of his mouth turn up, just slightly. Tears falling freely, she buries her head in Aramis' chest and lets herself be led away.

Still in the square, just leaving the crowd, they hear the first lash fall and the two men pick up their pace as Constance shudders between them. With each lash that falls the two feel their stomach dropping just a little more. But after the fifth they suddenly hear the sound of hooves and shouting. Almost at the edge of the square, the three turn around to see Treville and Athos riding into the crowd, waving a piece of paper and screaming at the top of their lungs. Aramis would like to collapse with relief, but is unable to do so since Constance chooses this moment to do something which she will forever deny – she faints away into his arms.

Later, he won't remember what happened but rather sensations and impressions. He feels the touch of Athos' glove, feather light, hears Treville's voice, arms hold him up gently, the soft material of a cloak is wrapped round him, the smells of Athos' particular scent invades his nostrils. He feels pain, but it is softened by a sensation of security, of safety. And then it is replaced by welcome blackness.

He fades in and out of consciousness lying on his side on a bed in the garrison. He hears snippets of conversation, which sound distant and unconnected to him.

"It's better he sleeps through this part," he hears Aramis saying, and he wants to tell them he is awake, but can't quite get his lips to work. So he reaches out his hand and grabs the nearest person's wrist, having no idea who he is clutching at.

"Then you'd better give him something to make him sleep, because he's awake," comments Athos, crouching down beside him and looking into his eyes, letting d'Artagnan keep a hold of his arm.

"I can't do that, he has a head wound as it is. He might never wake up," Aramis retorts. He comes round into d'Artagnan's view. "I'm sorry," he says, more softly now, putting a hand on the younger man's head, "this is going to hurt but I have to patch up your back." D'Artagnan nods slightly, enough to see that he is lucid and has understood. But then he grips onto Athos even tighter and draws him closer, so he can whisper to him. It comes out only a tiny sound, a prayer, but Athos knows what he wants.

"She's not here. Treville has taken her to his home to rest. We will bring her later."

At this, d'Artagnan visibly relaxes, although he still doesn't let go of his hold on Athos.

Porthos chooses this moment to enter with flasks of alcohol to clean the wounds. "Tell me he's still out of it," he says, hopefully, his face dropping when the other two shake their heads.

"Well, you could just punch him, like you do to me!" he suggests.

"Very helpful. Thank you. If you have nothing better to do than make idiotic suggestions, then at least help hold him still," replies Aramis, shaking his head. Athos, looking at d'Artagnan's face sees him smile just ever so slightly at Porthos' self-deprecating joke.

Aramis looks at the others, and silently mouths a countdown, before pouring the alcohol over d'Artagnan's back. The young man doesn't cry out, but whimpers, biting down on his lip so hard he draws blood, and Athos thinks that his hand may not hold a sword for a few days. But eventually he succumbs to the darkness again, going limp in their hands.

When he wakes again, he is on his back, propped up on a mass of soft pillows in a near sitting position. His entire torso is swathed in bandages, binding his ribs, the bullet wound and the mess of his back. He feels clean for the first time in days, freshly laundered sheets against the skin of arms and legs, in some places rubbing painfully on bruises and scrapes. His head is throbbing and fuzzy and his throat parched. But he can feel that his hair has been washed and his entire body cleansed from the dirt and grime that had caked it.

Gentle hands bring a cup of water to his lips and let him sip, for which he is grateful. He cracks open his eyes and has to blink repeatedly before the world comes into focus. He sees Constance, sitting by his bedside, holding the cup of water. Aramis is asleep on his back on another cot across the room, snoring gently, his hat over his head. Porthos is slumped on the floor next to his friend, head back against the side of the cot, mouth wide open, and Athos is in a chair, asleep with his head on the table, using his arm as a pillow.

Constance raises a finger to her lips and rolls her eyes in the direction of the others.

"They've had a long night," she whispers. It's then he realizes that it is night time. A candle burns on the table, dripping wax slowly onto the metal holder. Another stands on a stool beside the bed. He realizes that a long time has passed and that his friends have worn themselves out caring for him.

"Oh no you don't," Constance whispers harshly, reading his mind, "don't even think about it. No guilt. You want to pay us back, you just damn well get better. You hear me?"

She offers him another sip of water, and then sets down the glass and strokes his cheek. She rises from her chair and sits on the edge of the bed, wanting to get closer to him, but is careful not to jostle him as she does so.

"We all have so much guilt and sorrow and what ifs to think about, that maybe we should all just wipe the slate clean. I know we can't forget this in a second, but we all need to stop blaming ourselves, or do you want me thinking that this is my fault?" she asks.

When he finally finds his voice, it is raspy and weak and he hates how it sounds, "That's emotional blackmail," he tells her.

She smiles and leans in to kiss his cheek. "Oh yes, it is, and you'd better get used to it, because I wield it well. Now sleep my love," she tells him, stroking his hair. And d'Artagnan can't deny her, because he could never deny her anything, and also because his eyes are closing of their own accord. Yet he falls asleep thinking about this amazing woman that he loves, this combination of spark and gentleness, flame and silk,.

Constance keeps watch over all of them as they sleep, contemplating this group, this band of brothers, this….family. Athos, gruffly hiding his love, Aramis, wearing his heart on his sleeve, a little too much, and Porthos, with the biggest heart of them all, bound together by their friendship, their history and their love for d'Artagnan. When morning arrives, she is pleased to tell Aramis about the, albeit pretty much one sided conversation, in the middle of the night. And while he seems pleased, he is concerned at d'Artagnan's rising temperature. When they want to roll him over onto his side to change and redress all the wounds, she takes his head in her lap and cards her fingers through his hair, trying to calm his shudders of pain and his shivering from the fever. She wipes a cool cloth over his forehead and neck repeatedly, until she finds her eyes drifting shut, and Porthos guides her over to the cot, promising to take her place while she rests, because she'll be no use to anyone dead on her feet.

And so it is that the next time he wakes, delirious with fever, it is Porthos, not Constance, he sees and he panics, believing her dead, by Milady's hand, or the cardinal's, and thrashes and fights them until she is woken by the noise and at his side in a moment. Their attempts to get him to drink fail, as anything he ingests is vomited back up seconds later, as his stomach cramps painfully and his fever continues to rise. Aramis gives him a sleeping draught, but that too is brought back up.

He drifts somewhere between reality and nightmare, calling out for his father, for Athos, for all of them. He apologizes again and again, for his father's death, for which he still blames himself, for sleeping with Athos' wife, even though he didn't know at the time, for a litany of sins for which no one else holds him responsible.

Aramis is beginning to despair. He holds the queen's rosary tight in one hand, using the other to crush herbs in a pestle and mortar, murmuring Latin prayers incessantly. Athos, who had stepped outside to clear his head and bring them all some food, returns to a scene of panic and tension. Hearing Aramis' prayers he believes the worst, which is confirmed by one look at the young man whom he has come to love. He knees at the bedside, takes one of d'Artagnan's hands in his own, and joins Aramis' mutterings, not with Latin prayers, but those of his own, to a deity he doesn't believe exists, to give him another chance to watch over a little brother. He awkwardly raises his other hand to stroke the matted hair away from d'Artagnan's face, and lets his fingers linger. D'Artagnan seems to respond to the touch, the first sign of recognition that they have seen in what feels like an eternity, leaning into it slightly, and Aramis' head jolts to his friend in surprise. He nods to Athos, urging him to continue, since it seems to be helping to calm their patient, and as strange as it feels, Athos does it, because at this point he would do anything if it means d'Artagnan won't die, if he won't lose another brother.

The day wears on and afternoon turns into early evening. D'Artagnan's fever remains dangerously high, his heart beating too fast, his breathing increasingly labored. Silence settles over the room with the growing darkness, like a burial shroud, punctured only by the occasional whimpers of the patient.

Porthos clears his throat loudly, making all of them jump.

"Maybe…." He begins, but doesn't go on, shaking his head.

"What?" asks Athos sharply.

"I was thinking that…maybe we should…well…we could call a physician…no offence to Aramis or anything….," says Porthos sheepily.

"All they'd suggest is bleeding, and that's just plain barbaric, you know it," snorts Aramis.

"Yes…but…," Porthos doesn't really know what he wants to say, just that doing nothing is killing him, "couldn't hurt, could it?"

"Well yes, as a matter of fact, it could," Aramis replies tartly.

"If we're going to lose him anyway, we should know we tried everything," Constance sniffs, reminding them of her presence.

"Athos?" Aramis asks.

"Just do it," Athos answers.

They'll never know if it is the "barbaric" bleeding about which Aramis complains at length, even to the physician's face, d'Artagnan's stubbornness and will to live, or a miracle from on high, but hours later, having been bled three times, the fever begins to drop and d'Artagnan settles into a calmer sleep, his breathing evening out and his heart rate slowing down.

They've been sitting around in silence watching him for what seems like hours, one sleeping at a time, fearing that if they closed their eyes his chest would cease to rise and fall.

So now, exhausted, red eyed, nerves frayed, they are all waiting for some sign of life. Athos is so tired that he doesn't know whether he really sees d'Artagnan's hand move, or his eyes are playing tricks on him, but soon after, d'Artagnan finally moans and moves his head.

They are all around the bed in seconds. "That's it, take it slowly," Aramis encourages him, "just open your eyes for me."

And slowly, oh so slowly, d'Artagnan's brown eyes open. At first they are unfocused but after blinking a few times he manages to look at them properly, moving his eyes from one serious face to another.

"Did someone die?" he rasps out, frightened by the expressions on their faces.

And with that one question the tension in the room evaporates. Porthos bursts into booming laughter, Aramis chuckles and Athos rolls his eyes. Tears fall down Constance's cheeks, but even she can't stop herself from giggling.

"What? I'm that funny?" he asks, his voice coming out no more than a croak.

"You're an idiot!" says Constance, "You nearly died. We were sure we had lost you."

Aramis, returning to himself, brings water to d'Artagnan's parched lips. "Slowly, little sips," he instructs, "you've vomited enough to last a life time."

Aramis' comment brings to his attention the disgusting taste in his mouth and he gratefully sips at the water, enjoying the cool feeling as it dribbles down his throat, longing for more when it is taken away.

He finds that he can't keep his eyes open any longer.

"Hurts," he mutters, "so tired."

"It's alright, drink this," Aramis instructs him, giving him a draught which helps him fall into a painless sleep.

As he drifts off, he feels Constance's hand wiping his brow with a cool cloth and Athos' on his shoulder.

"It's a good sign," Aramis tells the others, "The physician believes him out of danger. Although it must be bad if he admits to being in pain."

"Or he's turning over a new leaf and from now on will be honest with us?" suggests Porthos.

Athos simply rolls his eyes.

"I think we should all try and rest properly now. You especially, Aramis. I will sleep here. You and Porthos should go to your rooms," Athos suggests.

"That sounds like a good idea," says Porthos, taking in the state of Aramis, who is pale and worn from exertion and worry, "Come on, I'll walk you home," he tells his friend, grabbing Aramis' jacket and weapons and throwing them at him meaningfully.

"Should there be any change you'll send for me?" Aramis asks, a rhetorical question if ever there was one, which Athos does not answer.

Once they are gone, he turns to Constance.

"You need to rest too. You should go home," he tells her.

She is silent for a moment, and then looks up at him with bright eyes. "Home? Where is my home? My husband is murdered, the man I love nearly died. I should be wearing black and arranging a funeral, when all I want is to rejoice that d'Artagnan is still with us. If I go home… I'll be reminded of both of them, and of the terrible person I have become."

"Constance," Athos says gently, approaching her and kneeling at her side, "you are one of the best people I know. We all make mistakes, but you are following your heart. That can only lead you in the right direction," he wishes Aramis had not left and were here to handle this. He feels completely out of his depth.

"I never loved him you know. I hoped that I would grow to, one day, but it didn't come. And I thought that we'd have a child together, and that would bind us to one another, and it didn't come. I am sad that he is gone, but I can't help but feel that he brought this on himself a little, with his greed," tears are flowing down her cheeks now.

"Come, you need to sleep. There's no need for you to go home. I know that Treville's wife enjoyed your company immensely. I'll speak with the captain and arrange for you to stay with them until you feel up to going home."

Constance nods in reply, turning her attention to d'Artagnan as Athos heads for the door, to speak with the captain.

When d'Artagnan next wakes, he first feels the pain enveloping him with every breath he takes and lets out a gasp. Controlling his breathing he opens his eyes to see Athos asleep on the other cot. He looks down to his arm and doesn't understand why it's bandaged and hurts so much, doesn't remember being injured there.

His throat is dry and scratchy and he wants to drink. But he doesn't want to wake Athos.

This is the first time he has woken up and felt some sense of lucidity and he tries to reach through the pain and hang on to it. Looking at Athos, he remembers snippets of the past day, of his feverish murmurings, of showing such weakness in front of them. He understands what they have done for him and doesn't know how he can begin to repay them.

A hollow feeling begins to form in his stomach. Will his friends still be that when they have seen him like this, after he has put them through such a difficult time? Guilt and doubts swarm around his head, fed by the pain and remnants of the fever. He has brought nothing but trouble, he thinks to himself, since he left Gascony. His father's death, his fault. Sleeping with Athos' wife and everything else that led to this, because of him. The cardinal will not be satisfied, he has not had his revenge, and while d'Artagnan lives all of them will be in danger. Maybe it is time for him to go home.

The dryness in his throat is overwhelming, so he lifts his left arm, not understanding why it is so heavy and uncooperative, trying to get to the pitcher next to the bed. After three attempts he succeeds only in knocking it to the floor, causing the vessel to shatter and Athos to wake with a start.

And then Athos is at his side, concerned.

"I'm sorry for waking you," d'Artagnan says, hating how weak and raspy his voice sounds, "I just wanted to drink."

"That is exactly why I am here," says Athos, looking at the broken pitcher. He leaves the room and returns a few moments later with a new one, pouring some water into a cup, which he brings to d'Artagnan's lips.

D'Artagnan tries to grab it from him. "I can do that, I'm not completely useless," he says and tries to angle it so he can drink, but his hand shakes so much that the water spills.

"Ah, the Gascon pride is back, no lasting damage then," Athos comments, drily, before helping him to drink.

Thirst quenched, d'Artagnan closes his eyes and pretends to fall back to sleep.

"How do you feel?" Athos asks.

"Hmm," d'Artagnan murmurs, not wanting to talk, "sleepy."

But he hears Athos begin to snore long before he drifts up, the pain and worry keeping him awake.

Aramis lays out the ground rules. He is not to move too much, is not to try and get up, is to ask for help with everything and be as patient as possible. His body is exhausted and needs to rest. He's also lost blood from the bleeding and will need to rebuild his strength. D'Artagnan is unimpressed, to say the least.

Constance ushers the others out of the room. Her motives are not completely altruistic. She wants some time alone with d'Artagnan, although she is also concerned to give the others a break. Once they are gone, she takes the bowl of clear broth and sits next to him.

"Here," she says, "you need to try and eat something. Just a few spoonfuls."

He doesn't want to be spoon fed like a baby, another reminder of the burden he has become, but he gives in, especially after the mess he made earlier with the water.

After three spoonfuls his stomach rebels. Seeing the look on his face, Constance brings a bowl to him, into which he proceeds to vomit. She strokes his hair and gives him water to rinse his mouth. He lets his head roll back, mortified.

Constance sushes him as one would a baby. "It's going to be alright. We just need to give it time."

"How much time?" he asks angrily.

"Does it matter?" she retorts, "The main thing is you are alive, here with us."

Of course it does, he thinks to himself, how long will your patience hold out? How long before you see me for the burden I really am? And how long before I make you miserable or bring more misfortune to your door?

He needs to get out of here, away from all of them.

"You don't need to babysit me, you know, you can go home. I am just fine," he tells her, coldly.

"Fine?" she can't contain herself, "Fine? You really are an idiot," she shakes her head, "I want to be here, I want to help."

"Well maybe I don't want your help," he is being spiteful now, but he wants her to leave.

"D'Artagnan, why would you say that?" she asks, incredulous.

"You feel you have to help me, like you had to help him, well you don't. I don't need your help. I just want to be alone."

And with that he closes his eyes and turns his head away.

He doesn't see the tears pouring down her cheeks, the shake in her hand as she collects her shawl and wraps it around herself.

"I knew you blamed me. And you are right, of course. I should have followed my heart days ago, maybe even months ago, but I was scared. I was given to Bonacieux in the eyes of God and it was my duty to stay by his side. I was confused and I couldn't bear the thought of living with his death on my conscience. We never could have been happy like that. But to think I am here now because of some misguided sense of guilt? No. Never. I love you d'Artagnan of Lupiac in Gascony and I will till the day I die. Maybe one day you'll be able to forgive me for all that's happened."

And with that, Constance leaves the room, collapsing in a crying heap outside the door.

He knows the truth of her words, hears the sincerity in her voice, and it hurts him. But he knows what he has to do. He needs to get away from these people to whom he has brought bad luck. If not for him, she would never have questioned her life, would never have looked for anything else, he convinces himself. And perhaps with time, she will find something better, she will be truly happy again, not cursed.

It takes him an age to work his way out of bed and into clothes. The trousers are relatively simple, the shirt complicated and excruciating. Getting his boots on is also a fight. But finally he is dressed. Standing up he has to lean against the wall as the room spins. He edges his way slowly towards the door, and opens it, stepping out into the corridor. He manages to stagger to the staircase, but looking down, everything begins to spin again and he is forced to sit down abruptly, before he falls. The pain from the movement is overwhelming and he blacks out against the wall.

When the others return to check on d'Artagnan, they are shocked to find Constance gone and the man himself, fully clothed, collapsed at the top of the stairs.

"What the…..," begins Aramis, although the rest of the sentence is cut off by Athos' swearing.

"Help me getting back to bed," Aramis instructs Porthos, and carefully they raise him up and take him back into his room.

"You bloody idiot," murmurs Porthos, as they undress him and check for damage, "what were you thinking?"

Semi conscious, d'Artagnan mutters, "I've been called that a lot lately."

"What are you talking about?" asks Porthos.

"I'm an idiot," he murmurs, "I'm just a burden. Better off without me," he says as his eyes drift closed again.

Athos shakes his head in despair. "We didn't work so hard to save you just so you can go and ruin it all!" The anger is evident in his voice.

D'Artagnan opens his eyes again, fighting to keep them that way, "You shouldn't have…"

"Stop this now!" screams out Athos, his rage flaring.

Porthos puts a hand on his shoulder. "None of us sees you as a burden. You are our brother. Would you not do the same for us?"

D'Artagnan seems confused by this question, his head trying to get around the logic. Of course he would, which means that…

Athos seems to have calmed, watching the younger man's reactions. As Aramis continues to check his wounds, Athos sits down beside him and takes d'Artagnan's hand in his own.

"Do not make me lose another brother," he tells him, and it's as close to pleading as d'Artagnan has ever seen Athos get.

The sun is streaming in from the window. Aramis is sitting on a chair, leaning back with his feet propped up on the bed, boots and all, reading a book. He knows that d'Artagnan is awake, but wants to let him make the first move, and that's why he's been staring intently at the same page for about five minutes now.

"Is it a good book?" he finally asks.

"Love poems, not bad actually," Aramis replies, closing the book and turning to his friend.

"Maybe I should borrow it. I'm going to need something to help me get back into Constance's good books after last night," muses d'Artagnan.

"Yes, I rather thought you might," mutters Aramis in return.

"The others?' d'Artagnan questions.

"Guard duty might do them and you some good," he answers.

D'Artagnan nods. "Can we write last night off as temporary insanity?" he asks after a few moments.

"We can, if that's what you want, or we can talk about it, which might be better all round."

The younger man falls silent again.

"Would you like to tell me honestly how you are feeling? Let's start with physically," Aramis knows the right buttons to push, he's attuned to the others. He is hoping that without Athos and Porthos here, d'Artagnan might open up a little.

"Umm…" he begins.

"Bear in mind that fine is not an acceptable answer. You need to start telling us what is going on. If not, we can't help," Aramis encourages.

"My legs don't hurt," d'Artagnan finally offers.

"Well, it's a start," mutters Aramis, shaking his head.

Over the next hour Aramis encourages d'Artagnan to eat small pieces of bread and a few spoonfuls of soup. The younger man, suitably ashamed after the events of the night before, submits himself as a willing patient. Afterwards, Aramis turns him onto his right side, the less damaged one, and removes the bandages from his back, allowing the wounds to air for a while.

"I know this might hurt your ribs, but it's important. If the wounds are covered all the time they won't heal. We'll do it when there's no one else around." D'Artagnan is grateful for his act of consideration.

Lying on his side, head on the pillows, he faces Aramis and can't escape the other man's piercing stare. D'Artagnan feels like it reaches into the depths of his soul.

"Hurts to breathe," he begins, "and not just physically, although that too. Everywhere I go, I bring bad luck. I got my father killed, I got all of you into this mess. The cardinal won't stop now, ever. And Constance… I love her but I never wanted Bonaceiux dead and now every time I close my eyes all I can see is him dead in that alley, staring at me, accusing. I brought his death."

Aramis lets out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. He had hoped his young friend wouldn't remember that particular part of his ordeal after the drugs he had been fed wore off. Tears are pouring down d'Artagnan's cheeks now and he seems unable to stop the words from spilling out of his mouth.

"I don't want to be a burden to you all. And that's all I have been since I came to Paris. Following you around, worming my way in where I wasn't welcome, trying to find some new meaning. Destroying Constance's life. She was happy before I came, now look at her, a widow in her mid twenties. She doesn't deserve this…"

Aramis puts a hand on d'Artagnan's shoulder and moves him thumb in circles, trying to calm him. The sobs have made him wheeze terribly and when the Gascon can no longer catch his breath, Aramis helps him to sit up straight and offers him water. He sits down on the bed next to him, face to face, and puts his hands on each of d'Artagnan's shoulders.

"You are not a burden, and certainly not unwelcome. If we hadn't wanted you around, you would have known about it. Do you know how many musketeers have joined us around a table drinking and only to have slunk off by the end of the night? As much as you chose us, we chose you.

"You are our brother in all but blood. And the other things are so much more important than that. An annoying, rash, stupid little brother, admittedly, but we love you all the same. I think that if you left us now, we wouldn't be able to look at each other anymore. You make us better, d'Artagnan, your innocence, your sense of honor and your farm boy charm."

D'Artagnan's sobs have started to calm, his breathing under control. But he doesn't speak, letting Aramis go on instead.

"After Savoy, I closed myself off. I didn't want to get close to anyone, fearing loss all over again. But life doesn't work that way, it sends us surprises. When Porthos joined the regiment he just wouldn't leave me alone. He saw something in me, something good, that he wanted to draw out. And I opened up to him. I learned to trust and to love all over again. I'm not saying it was easy, but it's possible."

D'Artagnan is shocked by the other man's honesty. Aramis never mentions Savoy voluntarily, and he knows so little of the times before he met them.

"And as for bringing us trouble, we are quite capable of finding that on our own, if you hadn't noticed! In fact, we pride ourselves on it."

D'Artagnan can't help but smile now, and Aramis helps him to settle down onto his side once again.

"You can't blame yourself for everything, you have to let go at some point. For a long time, I hated myself for surviving Savoy, when no one else did. I know that Athos has hated himself for his brother's death, and then for what happened with his darling wife. It won't happen overnight, but time does help. Things happen, sometimes good things, sometimes bad things. It's not always your fault. It just is."

"You're a wise man, has anyone ever told you that?" d'Artagnan asks.

"Frequently, but thank you for the compliment," says Aramis, with his most dashing smile, "it is well received."

"I need to apologize to Athos and Porthos," d'Artagnan tells him, "and Constance."

"That can wait until later, rest now. You need it."

"I will try to be a good patient. I can't promise that I won't gripe and complain, but I'll do as I'm told," d'Artagnan adds.

"I expect no more," Aramis replies with a smile, "besides, you should see Athos ill in bed. He's simply awful!"

D'Artagnan chuckles and closes his eyes. After a few minutes, he opens them again. "Aramis," he asks, "would you…umm…would you read to me? The poems?"

Aramis picks up the book without hesitation, a twinkle in his eye. "It would be my pleasure. I can improve my recital skills for the ladies, and we can further your romantic education at the same time. A wonderful plan!"

And d'Artagnan drifts off to sleep to the sound of Aramis' reading love poems.

Apologizing to Porthos is relatively easy. He claps d'Artagnan on the shoulder and smiles, asking him not to scare them again. They quickly fall back into their easy, teasing camaraderie.

Athos is more difficult and d'Artagnan can see how much he has hurt the man he looks up to so much. He also isn't easy to talk to like Aramis. But d'Artagnan feels that he understands their friendship, their brotherhood, better now and believes the air to be well and truly cleared air when Athos informs him that after he is better, he will be buying him wine for a month.

Talking to Constance presents a totally different challenge. The others leave them alone, although d'Artagnan suspects that they are hiding outside the door, trying to listen in.

As soon as they have gone, he is ready to tell her how sorry he is and pour out his heart to her but she beats him to it with a slap to the face. He hadn't been expecting it to be easy, but he didn't think she would resort to violence quite so quickly. He raises his hand to his cheek, which stings sharply.

"I deserved that," he tells her.

"Glad you understand," she replies.

"Do you feel better now?"

"A little, although it isn't quite so satisfying a victory when you are incapacitated," she muses. He sees a smile playing at the corners of her mouth, not quite coming to fruition, but the ghost of it is certainly there. He remains silent, contemplating her, not wanting to say the wrong thing.

"When I married Jacques, I was a village girl desperate for the excitement of Paris. I thought I would be happy here, would be glad to get away from my family and my brothers. I would be a woman, not just a little sister and daughter any more. But once the initial shine wore off, I was lonely, and so bored. Until I met you."

"You met Athos first," he points out.

"Well, yes, but he was very drunk at the time and not particularly good company," she recalls, "although he did dispatch some pesky pickpockets very agilely even after all that wine.

"The point is," she goes on, "that I wanted to love Jacques, I really did. And I wanted him to love me. But I couldn't. And whether he did or not I'll never know, but it never felt like he did. And when I fell in love with you, I knew it was wrong, but how can something so wrong feel so right?" she shakes her head.

He dares to take her hand in his, and she doesn't resist.

"I was so lost when I came to Paris, in so many ways," he tells her, "but you put everything back together again. After my father I…I thought I'd never feel part of a family again, but with you, with them," he inclines his head towards the door, "I do. But I'm scared," he admits.

"Of what?"

"Of the future, of losing you, of putting you all in danger," he closes his eyes and rests his head back on the pillows.

Constance raises her hand to his cheek and caresses the red mark left by her slap.

"It's dangerous going to the market in Paris, would you like us to stay inside all the time?" she asks.

He smiles at that. "I don't know where we go from here," he admits. "All I want is to marry you and live happily ever after. But I'm scared that he'll never stop being there in between us."

"There's no such thing!" she laughs. "And I want to marry you too, thank you for asking so nicely! Let's just go one step at a time. We're both rash and hotheaded. This will be a new challenge for both of us."

"I like challenges," he comments.

"I know. So another one: let us help you over the next few weeks."

"That one I like less," he begins, and he can see that she is going to protest, and raises his finger to her lips, "but I promise to try my best. I hate feeling to useless and like I'm a burden on you all."

"That's what family is for," Constance responds, "and like it or not, I think we're stuck with those idiots!" she adds, very loudly.

"Oi!" Porthos calls from outside the door, only to be elbowed in the ribs by Aramis.

"One more minute!" Constance shouts to them, before leaning in to kiss d'Artatgnan on the lips.

As night falls the four of them sit around his bed, eating and passing round wine, all of them, including Constance, drinking straight out of the bottle. The pit in D'Artagnan's stomach has lessened, although not completely disappeared. He knows that the road ahead will be long, but at least there is a road. And as he begins to drift into sleep he feels cocooned within the safety of this makeshift, far from perfect family. And he wouldn't have it any other way.

However his eyes snap open when he hears Porthos teasing Constance, "….and then she swooned like a real proper lady!"

Constance blushes deep crimson and brings her hands to her face.

"I am never going to live that one down, am I?" she asks fearfully.

"Oh no, we have many hours of fun ahead of us with that one," says Aramis, gleefully.

D'Artagnan reaches for her hand sleepily, "Next time, just make sure I'm the one to catch you," he slurs.

"Such a romantic," cries Aramis, clasping his hands to his heart, and d'Artagnan falls into a dreamless sleep to the sound of their laughter.

"I think someone needs to go back to bed," Athos comments, looking pointedly at d'Artagnan, who is swaying worryingly to the side on the bench

"Not yet," his friend whines, "A bit longer."

After two days in bed trying his best not to move, when every time he did the wounds on his back opened and started weeping again, Aramis has finally determined them to be healing and allowed him outside. D'Artagnan is happy with his new found freedom, breathing in the fresh air, even if it is only that of the garrison courtyard filled with the refreshing smell of horse manure. He isn't willing to relinquish it quite so easily.

He is frustrated and humiliated that after walking down to the courtyard and eating lunch with the others, he is absolutely exhausted.

"Won't do you any good falling asleep here. You'll just get a crick on your neck," Porthos laughs good naturedly.

Athos downs the rest of his wine and gets up from the table. "Come on, off we go," he says, stretching out a hand to d'Artagnan. The younger man accepts it gingerly. "Ready?" Athos asks, "Gently."

"I know, I know," d'Artagnan grumbles.

Aramis also rises to follow them, but Athos shoots him a look. Aramis inclines his head in recognition and sits back down at the table. "Do you know, I actually think things might be getting back to normal," he says, shaking his head, and letting Athos assume responsibility for his protégé.

Upstairs in his room, d'Artagnan sits down on the bed. His shirt is chafing at the wounds on his back, and he wants nothing other than to be rid of it, but he can't for the life of him figure out how to remove it alone. Aramis had helped him dress, and even with his tender touch and ministrations it had hurt. Athos watches him, not saying a word. After a few minutes of silence, d'Artagnan looks up at his friend.

"Could you…" he begins.

"Certainly, all you have to do is ask."

"Anyone would think you are enjoying this," the Gascon says tartly.

"No, just checking the extent of your stupidity," Athos murmurs, gently easing him out of the shirt. D'Artagnan is surprised at how soft Athos' touch is, how he manages to maneuver the garment off him without causing more pain.

Once free from the shirt, apart from the bandages wrapping his ribs, his upper body is uncovered, leaving the healing scars on his back open to the air. He breathes a sigh of relief, although it catches in his throat when he notices Athos looking at them.

"You have nothing to be ashamed of, you know" Aramis comments, watching as the lad looks down at the floor, avoiding his gaze, "We all have scars."

"Not all quite so humiliating," the younger man mutters.

"May I?" Athos asks, indicating the salve for the wounds and beginning to apply it after his friend ascents. "Here, now drink this."

D'Artagnan sniffs and wrinkles his nose at the pungent smell.

"Has Aramis been boiling up old boots again?" he asks, but he drinks all the same, knowing that the herbal tincture helps with the pain (and makes him sleep soundly, Athos hopes).

"Will you be alright while we are gone?" Athos asks quietly. "Promise not to get into any bother? No more escape attempts?"

"Seeing as I can barely get across the room I think we can rule out that option." He says, hotly. Then his voice softens. "Athos..."

"What?" the older man asks.

"Can you stay for a few minutes. I don't want you to be late to the funeral, she needs you there, just…."

" I will send the others on ahead and sit with you for a while. Is that acceptable?"

"Thank you."

Athos doesn't leave until he is sure that d'Artagnan is asleep. He knows how torn his young friend is by wanting to attend the funeral of Constance's husband and wishing to avoid it all costs. He doesn't think that seeing the man's coffin in the ground would do any good for the lad's emotional state, and is glad that he remains physically incapable of leaving the garrison.

He is pleased that, albeit ungracefully and petulantly, d'Artagnan is letting them help him. In particular, Athos is trying, in his own way to strengthen the bond between the two of them, which his wife had tried so hard to sever. He may not have been able to save Thomas, but he is well on the way to saving this brother.

Despite the medicine, d'Artagnan sleeps fitfully sleep, dreaming of death and open graves. The unseeing eyes of corpses stare at him and startle him awake, a scream on his lips.

Although once awake, he is not sure that the nightmare is over. His mouth is suddenly dry, his stomach churning, at the sight of the Cardinal sitting serenely by his bed, hands folded in his lap.

"How did you get in here?" he grinds out.

"Oh, you have no idea how easy it is to fool an entire garrison of musketeers with the mention of a little plot to kill the king. And I knew that your friends are otherwise engaged," replies the silky voice, waving a hand carelessly in the air.

"Then get out before they come back!" he spits at him.

"We have a little unfinished business to discuss first. This shouldn't take long. I wouldn't want to impede your recovery."

D'Artagnan's eyes are roaming over the room, looking for anything he can use as a weapon. He doesn't want to move, to take the risk of showing his weakness to this man, but if he must defend himself he'll need something with which to do it. Unfortunately the best he can come up with is a bronze candlestick, not too far out of his reach.

"Come, come d'Artagnan," says the Cardinal smoothly, as if reading his mind, "there's no need for that. I merely wanted to propose an arrangement between the two of us. You know, you never did receive the full punishment the judge ordained for the attack on me," he continues, pointing to the healing scar on his cheek. "I think that it would be quite within my rights to demand that you did."

After a short pause, he continues, "Indeed, should you accept you punishment and then decide to resign your commission and return to Gascony to follow the simple life of a farmer, take your whore along with you, if you so chose, I will say nothing to the king which may cause him to hang one or more of your friends for treason."

D'Artagnan tries not to let his lack of understanding show through, but doesn't do a good job of it in his sleepy state. However, the cardinal reads his expression as an attempt at denial.

"Really, you think I don't know? I have eyes and ears everywhere."

"You are not the God you claim to represent."

"Harsh words young Gascon, impetuous as ever, which is what got you into this state. Perhaps you should try to think more coolly for a change." The Cardinal strokes his chin in thought. "Of course, not only your friends will hang, but the queen too. Think of that." The cardinal clicks his tongue in disgust. "The queen, pregnant by another man. What could be worse?"

D'Artagnan looks at him in stony silence.

"Think about my offer, d'Artagnan. It won't be on the table for long. And then it will be too late for your brothers," the cardinal tells him, before leaving.

When the others return, d'Artagnan is withdrawn. He shrugs off their attempts at conversation and help. Athos cannot understand what has happened between his departure and return to bring about such a change in the lad and doesn't believe him when he claims it is pain. He refuses dinner and pretends to be asleep so that they will leave him in peace.

The next morning, he remains silent, even while he lets Athos help him dress. Downstairs in the yard, he picks tiny pieces of bread from his baguette and throws them to the birds. The others exchange concerned looks.

"Perhaps it is the thought of the funeral? Or worries about Constance?" suggests Porthos while he spars with Athos, casting a worried glance towards their young friend on the bench, "Or he's still angry that he can't do much?"

"No, this is something else, and whatever it is, I have a feeling it is bad."

Their match is interrupted by Treville's return to the garrison. He approaches d'Artagnan, and Porthos and Athos stop their sparring to join them.

"The king has been requesting d'Artagnan's presence for some days now. I have put it off as much as I can, but you know how he can be. I'm sorry d'Artagnan, you must go to the palace."

The younger man looks at Treville, almost relieved, like he had been expecting this.

"It's fine," he replies. "Just give me a few minutes to put on my uniform."

"What does his majesty want of him?" asks Athos.

"You know he has had a special interest in him since giving him his commission. His majesty would like to hear d'Artagnan's side of things, I presume."

"We will come too," says Aramis.

"There is no need," d'Artagnan counters.

"They don't call us inseparables for nothing, lad. It's because we're inseparable! Now we're coming whether you like it or not." Porthos chuckles.

Putting on his brown leather jacket, insignia and weapons, he feels whole again, presentable to the world, wrapped in a disguise that hides the nervous energy boiling up inside him and threatening to consume him. But the sadness that this may be the last time he wears this uniform and strides along with his friends threatens to overwhelm him.

They walk to the Louvre rather than ride, and by the time they arrive he is winded and beads of sweat are forming on his forehead.

He wants to beg the others to turn around and leave, doesn't want them to witness what he thinks is going to happen, because he is sure that the cardinal has a hand in this. But he knows his entreaties will only make them more curious, more determined, so he lets them flank his steps.

Sure enough, the Cardinal is present, along with the Queen, and Treville.

He bows to the king, who beckons him forward, rising from his throne.

"D'Artagnan, the things I have been hearing! Truly, I must hear your side of the story! And from what Treville tells me, you nearly died. How terribly…well," he tries to curb his excitement, suddenly aware, following a sharp glare from his wife, that perhaps his tone is a little too chirpy, "how terrible."

D'Artagnan looks at the floor, "Your majesty," he begins, "really there is not much to tell. It was a misunderstanding. And as you see, I am quite well."

The king claps his hands together, "So modest and brave. I knew I had chosen well with you."

The queen now addresses him, "Although in truth d'Artagnan, you are a little pale. Your majesty," she turns to her husband, "I do believe that we should let the young man leave. It is less than a week since his ordeal."

D'Artagnan has been watching the queen carefully out of the corner of his eye. As she finishes her words he sees her gaze linger on Aramis, to his right, just a second too long. He doesn't want to turn his head and see if his friend returns the stare, but doesn't need to in order to understand what the cardinal had meant. It explains a lot, he realizes, with sudden insight, as to why things had been so strained between Athos and Aramis after they returned from the convent.

He also understands that the queen is trying to end the audience. As, apparently, does Aramis, who edges closer to him, laying a protective hand on his shoulder.

"Thank you, your majesty, you are too kind." He tells her, bowing his head.

"Of course. The queen's wisdom is only improved by recent happy developments," says the king joyously.

Any hope of ending the audience there is dashed however, when the cardinal coughs.

"Majesty, there was the little matter we discussed," he comments silkily.

The king seems annoyed and waves his hand, "Why cardinal, surely that can wait for another time."

"Majesty, we would not wish to set a bad precedent, would we? It is a very slippery slope."

"Fine, fine," says the king, huffing, "d'Artagnan, the cardinal has brought it to my attention that you did not receive the full punishment for your attack on his person. While you were found innocent of murder, this does not excuse your actions towards him. The cardinal demands that the punishment be fulfilled. What have you to say on the matter?"

D'Artagnan feels Aramis' hand on his shoulder tense and senses the anger rippling among his friends. For a second the world sways and he thinks he is going to be sick, but after a steadying breath he is able to regain his balance.

Before he can speak, however, Treville has stepped forward. "Majesty this is preposterous. The cardinal seeks to disgrace the musketeers publicly and d'Artagnan in particular."

"Not so, Treville. It will be quite sufficient for the punishment to be a private affair, witnessed by myself and the Red Guards alone. There need be no publicity." The Cardinal smiles, as though offering them a warm, sweet drink, not a flogging.

"Your majesty," d'Artagnan speaks up, "I am afraid I have little memory of my time at the Chatelet. I was fevered and still under the influence of the drug I had been given. If I attacked the cardinal, I am certain that it was done under the influence of these factors, in a frenzied attempt to escape. Yet I understand that so doing was unforgivable and accept my punishment. I also willingly resign my commission, having disgraced my regiment." He looks to the floor, not wanting to meet the gaze of Treville, his friends, or worse the cardinal.

"You did no such thing!" exclaims Treville. "Majesty, d'Artagnan is one of my best men, as you yourself know. He was instrumental in saving the life of the queen," he looks pointedly at the Cardinal.

"And I lost four of my best men because of him! My person and my guards demand justice!" The Cardinal declares.

"You lost four of your men through their own stupidity. They kidnapped and beat an innocent man, trying to frame him for murder. Your Guards require discipline and instruction!" Treville throws back at him.

The king actually seems to be enjoying the fight, but nevertheless steps in between the two men. "Gentlemen, please, enough."

"Sir, if I may speak," Athos steps forward. The king waves his hand in assent. "I know that in punishments such as these, another may take the place of the accused. I therefore offer myself willingly in d'Artagnan's stead."

D'Artagnan wants to scream at him, but is held back by Aramis, who tightens his grip on the younger man's shoulder.

"As do I. Heavens, we could divide it two ways."

"No three!" chimes in Porthos.

"Or four," adds Treville.

The king throws back his head and laughs. "Why how true it is then, "One for all and all for one"! Truly, your loyalty and bravery never cease to amaze me. And that is why I put my life in your hands. No, no one of you will be flogged. How could I upon seeing such demonstrations of love and brotherhood? Nor will I accept your resignation, d'Artagnan. When I commissioned you I knew you had the heart of a musketeer, and you have only proven me right."

D'Artagnan thinks for a second that he might just faint from relief, then the cardinal speaks again.

"But your majesty," he wheedles, changing tactic, "the Red Guards will never let such a slight to my person be forgotten. And as you know, relations between the two regiments are so strained, this may push things over the edge. We would not want fighting to break out on the streets, hurting innocents and leaving ourselves undefended?"

"Really, then we must settle this in another way. Like the last time then. D'Artagnan will fight your best man. And he'll probably win. Do you want to lose another soldier Armand?" The king's use of his first name indicates to the cardinal that he is losing this argument swiftly and he nods his agreement.

"Very well, a challenge it is!" the king declares, clapping his hands.

"Your majesty, we only had one a few months ago…." Treville begins, but is cut off by the king.

"Enough, I'm bored of this fighting, children. It shall be settled by a sword fight. I have decided. At the earliest possibility. Now, I believe that the queen should rest and our young friend here should prepare himself." And with that the audience is over.

Outside the palace, d'Artagnan empties the contents of his stomach. He shrugs off the soothing hand on his shoulder, even though he is shaking like a leaf. When he collects himself and turns to his friends, his eyes are flashing with anger.

"You idiots! Why did you do that? Do you have any idea what you've done?"

"Well, we are so sorry for trying to save your ungrateful skin!" retorts Porthos angrily, "what on earth is wrong with you lad? We were trying to help!"

But before he has even finished speaking, d'Artagnan has left them, running off as fast as his legs will carry him. The others exchange worried looks, but it's Athos who goes after him.

The Gascon hasn't gotten far when the pain in his ribs becomes unbearable, causing him to stop and bend over, trying to catch his breath. Athos waits patiently until he has, before approaching, although d'Artagnan has already sensed his presence.

"Do you have any idea what it feels like to be flogged?" he asks the older man, "how could you offer yourselves for me? I could never live with myself, knowing I had been the cause of that."

"Well luckily enough you won't have to, will you? The ploy worked," Athos remarks drily.

"But it wasn't a ploy. You meant every word of it."

"Yes I did. And I would do it in a heartbeat for any of you," Athos tells him, approaching.

"That's what worries me," d'Artagnan admits. "How can I ever live up to a love like that?"

"Ha! By doing the same for us, as you are doing now. You are hiding something. You have been brooding since yesterday. Something happened and I know it was to do with the cardinal. You expected the call from the king, you were almost waiting for it, and you gave in without argument to the demand. Why?"

"I… the cardinal threatened me. He won't stop until he disgraces the musketeers, and he has chosen me as his pawn. If I don't give in, if I win this fight…."

"Then what? What will happen?" Athos insists, although he suspects that he knows.

The look in d'Artagnan's eyes tells him everything.

"There isn't much chance of you winning at the moment anyway, you can barely stand up. Come on, let's get you home. We need to talk to the others, and you need something to eat and drink. If we outsmarted Anne, we can figure this one out too. There's nothing we can't do if we stick together. You hear me? "

And with that the two make their way slowly back to the garrison.

At the garrison, Constance is waiting, sitting on the wooden bench, worrying at the buttons of her black dress. When she sees Athos and d'Artagnan approaching, she springs up, rushing towards them.

D'Artagnan is taken aback seeing her in black. It looks…so wrong.

She stands in front of them, and neither one seems to want to speak first, and then they both do, starting to babble at the same time so that whatever they wanted to say is lost in total incoherence.

Athos decides to take charge.

"It has been rather a taxing day," he says, "I do believe our young friend here is in need of some food and a good long sleep."

Constance blushes and looks down. "Of course," she says. And then pointing at the basket on the table behind her, "I baked some bread, and brought some other things. I'll just leave them and go," she mutters shyly, turning to leave.

D'Artagnan puts a hand on her arm. "Don't go," he tells her quietly, "we haven't spoken in days. Stay a while."

"You look white as a sheet," she comments, "you need to sit down and rest. I really should…"

Athos saves them from awkwardness again.

"Constance, perhaps I could leave d'Artagnan in your capable hands. I need to find Aramis and Porthos."

She nods, swallowing down her nerves at being left alone with him. But before she has time for second thoughts Athos has swept out of the garrison with great purpose.

She looks back at d'Artagnan, only to see him swaying worryingly. This brings her back to reality.

"Right then, come on, upstairs with you," and one arm supporting him, the other picking up the basket effortlessly as she passes the table, she escorts him up the wooden stairs to his room.

D'Artagnan sits down heavily on the wooden chair and starts to remove his jacket. When he winces in pain at the movements it requires, he finds Constance there, helping him. She throws the jacket away and takes in a hiss of breath. "There's blood on your shirt," she tells him and then starts to ease him out of his shirt. He shakes his head and tries to resist. She just makes a tutting noise in reply. "Nothing I haven't seen before, come on now, let me help you, you're in pain."

She doesn't have to do this, and they both know it, but she wants to, she is seeking to re-establish some kind of intimacy with him. She eases the shirt over his head, fingers feather light, and then looks at the scars on his back.

"Some of the cuts have opened a little," she comments, running her fingers over his shoulders. He shivers at her touch.

"There's ointment on the dresser," he stammers, longing for her to stop touching him, but once she does, longing for her to return. And then she is back, tips spreading the soothing ointment over the scars on his back and the feeling of her skin on his makes his stomach burn.

"Where were you?" she asks, "I was…well I was worried."

"At the palace. The king required an audience," he tells her flatly.

"What's wrong? What happened?" she is worried by his tone. When he shakes his head in dismissal she lays a hand heavily on one shoulder.

"If we can't be honest with each other, I might as well leave now," she says. He puts one hand over hers, keeping her in place, not letting her leave, and leans in to her touch.

"I'm sorry. I just didn't want to worry you. The cardinal…let's just say he's not quite finished with me yet," he informs her.

Finished with his back, she moves around to his front, and again he misses the feeling of her closeness, until she places a hand on the front of his chest, trailing her fingers downwards towards the bandages around his ribs. He shudders at the sensation, and she draws her hand away, scared that she has caused him pain. He reaches out at once and grabs her hand, bringing it back and holding it in place.

"Don't stop," he begs, pulling her towards him, opening his legs so that she is standing in between them, hanging on to her for dear life, grounding himself in her. He encircles her waist with his arms, and she cards her fingers through his hair, before sinking down to her knees so she is level with him. He cups her cheek, strokes the soft skin. "Whatever he does, we'll face it together, you hear me? Together." And then she's moving in closer to him, and he tips her chin upwards so they can kiss. And her hands are in his hair and his are on her back and he's lost in the perfection of this moment, a bright spot in a world of fear and grey.

Until the door creaks open, extremely loudly.

Constance jumps up, quickly straightening her clothes, and the sudden movement causes him to cry out in pain.

"Sorry," mutters Porthos, trying to ever his eyes, "didn't realize you were in the middle of something."

Aramis' head is trying to get around Porthos to see what is going on. "What did I miss?" he calls out.

"Absolutely nothing," announces Constance in her most frightening, school ma'am, I will brook no arguments, voice. "I was just saying that you should probably take a look at d'Artagnan's back."

"I'm fine," the man in question calls out weakly, grabbing his shirt and holding it on his lap, trying to hide the telling signs of their encounter. Constance looks down at him, a naughty smile playing on her lips, before turning to the others.

"So is anyone going to tell me what is going on?" she asks, glaring at them.

Both Porthos and Aramis gulp at the expression on her face, and d'Artagnan, from behind her, can only shrug his shoulders, as if to say that it's not his fault, he can't control her. He's just glad her anger is directed at them, not him.

"Well… the cardinal….." Aramis begins.

"Umm… you see… it's just…" stutters Porthos.

"Oh honestly," drawls a voice behind them. "Constance, the cardinal is scheming again. But do not worry, I have a plan."

"Well, I suppose everything is under control then," she says, drawing herself up to her full height. "Should you need anything you know where I am."

"Of course," Athos inclines his head to her.

"Yes, should we need someone to dress up as a wanton woman, we'll be sure to call," remarks Aramis, earning himself a not so playful slap on the cheek.

"I'll be off then," Constance informs them, still glaring. She understands that she isn't going to get much out of them at this point. But she also knows that these three will protect her lover with their lives. "There's a lot to be done. I'm going home, to try and put things in order in the house, with the business. Try and stay out of too much trouble!" She turns to d'Artagnan. He takes her hand in his and rises, giving her a cheeky grin, pulling her closer to him, "We'll finish this later," he whispers in her ear. She leans into him even more, kissing him softly, seductively, until a cough from behind startles her. "Just to give you something to think about," she tells him, before turning on her heel and flouncing out.

"Make sure you look after him!" she calls over her shoulder.

"What a woman," says Aramis, almost to himself, shaking his head. "Why can't they make more like that…"

"As if you have problems finding yourself women," remarks Athos grimly. "I brought wine. I presume that if we are going to have this conversation, we are going to need a lot of it," he says, nodding to d'Artagnan. Aramis doesn't like his tone at all.

"Porthos, if you don't stop pacing you are going to wear a hole in those bloody floorboards!" exclaims Athos in frustration.

Porthos turns on him, an angry expression on his face. "Really! You kept this a secret from me! All this time!"

"The fewer people who knew, the fewer in danger. It was for your own good!" Athos replies.

"My own good! Seeing you two hang would not do me much good!" Porthos growls.

"Keep your voice down," says d'Artagnan tiredly. He's flagging, the day having taken its toll on him, and they are getting nowhere. Porthos is angry, Aramis is withdrawn and dejected, arms crossed over his chest, staring at the floor, and Athos is trying to be reasonable. D'Artagnan is not sure which of the three's behavior is scaring him most.

Porthos looks at his friend's pale, drawn face and tries to pull himself together, if not for any other reason than the sacrifice d'Artagnan was apparently willing to make for all of them.

"Doesn't matter now, anyway. What's done is done. Question is, how we get out of this mess," he comments resignedly.

"I could run away to Spain?" offers Aramis.

"Don't be ridiculous," spits Athos, "and besides, that wouldn't help the other party involved, the one he's really after."

"And who would patch us up when we get hurt?" adds d'Artagnan.

"You are not bloody well going anywhere," Porthos rounds on him, angrily. "You may be a total imbecile when it comes to women, and completely lacking in self control, but you are our imbecile, and we will get through this together."

"Yes, together. D'Artagnan, did you hear that?" asks Athos. "No more trying to singlehandedly to save the world."

The young man looks down at his hands as if they are the most fascinating thing in the world. Together. He's been hearing that a lot lately.

"Well if you three had just let me go through with it, we wouldn't be in this mess."

"I can't believe you'd do that for me," Aramis says quietly, still looking at the floor.

"Wouldn't you do it for me?" d'Artagnan asks him. And Aramis looks up at him for the first time.

"It's irrelevant. And it wouldn't have helped. The cardinal is not a man of his word. He would have let this go until the next time he wants to get rid of the musketeers, or the queen," says Athos, shaking his head, "not forever. You would have sacrificed yourself for nothing."

"You told Constance you have a plan. Were you lying to her?" asks Porthos.

"Oh no, I have a plan," answers Athos, "it's just that none of you are going to like it."

"Really? Because right now, any plan sounds better than no plan," says Porthos grimly.

"No way!" shouts d'Artagnan, just as Porthos screams out the same thing, using rather more colorful words. Aramis shakes his head quietly.

"I can't let you do that. This is my fault, I need to get us out of this mess. You do not need to put your neck on the line for me Athos," Aramis tells him.

"You have one hour to come up with a better plan, or we go with this one." Athos informs them all, before refilling his wine cup and drinking deepluy.

"You could get yourself killed!" d'Artagnan protests.

"It's a risk I'm willing to take," replies Athos, "as were you a few hours ago. Don't be a hypocrite."

One hour later

"No more ideas?" asks Athos, smirking at them.

"This isn't an auction house," comments Aramis.

"At least take them with you," d'Artagnan pleads.

"And leave you here alone? I think not." Athos answers.

"So take one of them!" the younger man implores, "You need someone watching your back!"

"Fine," mutters Athos.

A knock startles them all and they fall silent. Treville opens the door and enters the room. He too looks grim.

"The king has called the challenge for the day after tomorrow. I have tried to delay it, but the cardinal is insisting. I'm…" he seems lost for words, "I'm sorry d'Artagnan."

"It's not your fault, captain," d'Artagnan tries to muster his best smile "at least he can't use Lebarge this time round."

Treville pats his shoulder, lost for words.

"Sir," Athos rouses him from his reverie. "I have personal matters that will take me away from Paris immediately. I apologize, but they are matters of extreme urgency. I must leave forthwith."

"This is hardly the time for you to leave the capital, Athos. I believe our young friend here needs your support and training. What matters can possibly be so pressing?"

"No sir, I understand. Besides, I think what I most want to do right now is sleep, not train."

"Will you be going alone?" Treville asks. It is rare for the inseparables to separate willingly.

"No sir, I will be accompanying him," states Porthos, moving forwards.

"And I will be remaining here to care for d'Artagnan," Aramis informs them.

Treville bristles. He can tell that they are keeping secrets from him, and he doesn't like it, but he is also quite sure that he doesn't want to know what is really going on. In fact, he feels a headache beginning to throb in his temples.

"Fine," he waves his hand, "just get back as soon as you can!"

"Of course sir," Athos bows his head slightly.

"Have no doubt," Porthos agrees, looking meaningfully at the others.