Athos jolted awake, his head snapping up from where it had previously lay limp on his shoulder. He felt like he had been drinking for three days straight. Deciding against getting up anytime soon, he shook his head, which only caused a ringing to start in his ears. What on earth had happened for his head to hurt as it did? With a sigh, he went to rub his eyes in the hope that it would help waken his senses more, only to find that he could not bring his hands around to his front. Trying again, he felt cold, hard metal rub against his wrists. The clanging sound of iron from behind him confirmed his suspicions of being in chains.

Great.

Preparing himself for the worst, he slowly peeled open his eyes.

It was dark. For the first minute or so, he could see nothing except shadows and black shapes. As more time passed, his eyes became accustomed to the lack of light and he began to assess his surroundings.

Either side of him were stone walls. Dust and cobwebs gathered in the corners and the floor was purely concrete and dirt. The faint squeaking a rats and the rhythmic drip-drop of water were the only sounds he could hear. In the distance he caught sight of a slither of light, indicating a door or passage of some kind. That was the only exit he could see at this moment.

Blinking a couple more times, he turned to look to his left. His eyes met the forms of his three unconscious brothers. Porthos was closest to him, his head against his chest and back against the wall. Beside him, was Aramis, in a similar position and lastly lay d'Artagnan, back facing away from them all.

Athos closed his eyes once more, leaning his head against the stone wall behind him.

The four of them had been sent by Treville to deliver a letter written by the King. To whom, they had no idea. What the letter contained, they were not told. All they did know was that a courier was waiting for them in Versailles to deliver the message from there.

Not even a mile out of Paris, they were ambushed. All of them had agreed on taking a back road, hoping to avoid trouble. But it didn't matter what road they took. Trouble always seemed to find them.

Several or so men had leapt from the trees, firing pistols and waving swords. Aramis had fired back first, taking out the nearest of the men whilst Porthos jumped from his horse, tackling two of the bandits to the ground.

It had been going well. They had gained the upper hand and were rapidly beginning to fight the attackers off. That was, until more men had appeared.

Even with their remarkable skills, the four of them had been unable to fend off the hoard of men surrounding them. In the end, Aramis and Porthos had been overpowered and held with daggers to their throats, giving Athos and d'Artagnan no choice but to surrender themselves for their friend's lives.

The four Musketeers were lined up, side by side, on the ground whilst another four of the attackers came to stand above them. In one swift motion, all four of them were knocked unconscious by the butt's of their captor's pistols.

That would explain the headache.

A groan beside Athos brought the man from his thoughts. Porthos' head lolled from right to left on his chest. The man seemed reluctant to wake up. Another groan and his dark eyelashes fluttered.

"Welcome back to the land of the living." Athos said dryly.

Porthos grimaced, his own dark eyes sweeping the vicinity.

"Nothin's ever easy for us, is it?" He moaned, although a small smile played on his face.

Athos had to agree with his friend. Nothing ever was ...

"Keep it down, will you? My head feels like it has been mistaken for the melon Porthos so enjoys shooting from above it." Aramis' grumbles joined their conversation.

Porthos chuckled. "Headache?"

"Mm hm." Mumbled Aramis, squeezing his eyes tight before opening them to the darkness they were confined in.

"Wha' happened?" Porthos asked, frowning as the chains behind his back rattled.

"We were ambushed. I would guess that our hosts have us locked away in one of the abandoned tunnels under Paris." Athos answered.

Aramis raised his eyebrows. "Honestly, they couldn't have had the courtesy to provide us with a hot meal and the presence of women when we awoke, let alone a light. How rude."

"G't a conc'ssion but sassy as ev'r, eh 'Mis?"

Athos looked down the line to see a rather sluggish looking d'Artagnan grinning back at him.

"Well, look who's decided t' join us?" Porthos jeered, giving the Gascon a wink.

"How's the head?" Athos asked, casting his protégé a concerned look.

"No worse th'n yours, I 'spect."

He frowned at d'Artagnan's slurred speech. Athos vaguely recalled something about how head injuries can confuse minds or damage senses for a short period of time. He'd make sure to ask Aramis about it once they escaped.

As though the man in question had read his mind, the medic amongst them spoke up.

"Any way out of here?"

Athos shrugged his shoulders. "Not as far as I know. There is a door at the end of this tunnel, but other than that I can see no other means of escape."

Porthos opened his mouth, about to ask another question, but all was cast aside as the light grew and the door swung open.

Uniformed Soldiers traipsed in. Their movements were practised and, in one, they dispersed to stand at opposite sides of the tunnel. A tall, middle-aged man walked down the centre, four men following behind him. Athos couldn't help but be reminded of Treville, himself and his brothers. But he knew that, other than their formation, they shared no further likeness.

The middle-aged man stood three or so feet away from Porthos and Aramis. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword, a sign commonly associated with trying to intimidate your enemy.

Aramis didn't seem to care.

"Good evening gentlemen," He chimed. "How are we all this evening?"

Porthos grinned at his friend's nerve, winking at the man standing in front of them.

The man in question, who Athos had deduced as the Captain or leader of their group of captors, walked forwards towards Aramis.

"Well, look what we have here!"

The accent was Spanish. His voice was a whisper, yet it seemed to cut through the air like a dagger.

"An entertainer is in our midst."

Athos mentally cursed himself for not realising the uniforms of the Guards was of Spanish design. Their red and gold leather a clear give away.

"I have to say," The Spaniard continued. "I'm most impressed with your optimism, Musketeer."

Aramis smiled charmingly. "Well, what can I say? The ladies-"

He was cut off by a harsh slap around the face, sending him toppling sideways in the direction of Porthos.

"Oi!" Porthos snarled, leaning toward the Spaniard, but the chains stopping him from moving any further.

The man seemed unperturbed. "You speak when spoken to, Musketeer." He sneered, walking back to his original place and falling in line between the four other Spanish Guards.

"My name is Ambrosio Batres of the Spanish Guard. I believe you hold some information I wish to have."

Athos raised his eyebrows. The letter? Never the less, the Musketeers remained silent.

Batres had begun to pace up and down, from Athos to d'Artagnan, surveying each of them in turn. On his third 'inspection', he paused at d'Artagnan. Athos' eyes rested on his protégé, noticing the way he seemed to be swaying slightly and the fact his eyes were unfocused. He seemed to have a more serious concussion than the rest of them, which didn't bode well in their current predicament.

Ambrosio smirked. "I'm surprised to see one so young a Musketeer." He jeered, looking around at the other Spaniards. "He looks still a child. I'm astounded he can even wield a sword, let alone protect his king."

Now they'd done it. Athos sent a silent prayer, hoping that the Gascon would keep his mouth shut. But somehow, that didn't seem likely. The boy had a tendency to retaliate when mocked of his youth and the added irrational mind from a head injury only made matters worse.

"Th'n we have somethin' in common, monsieur." D'Artagnan smiled, his voice holding a dangerous level of mischief. "I'm surprised you h've not yet retired – c'nsidering your obvious age ..."

If he had not been restrained by chains, Athos was sure he would currently be strangling his protégé. Looking to his side, he rolled his eyes, seeing the small but not unsurprising looks of amusement on Porthos and Aramis' faces. So immature...

Batres lunged forward, with a speed that contradicted d'Artagnan's previous tease of his age. The Spaniard's face was centimetres from the Gascon's.

"Watch your mouth, boy." Batres warned, spit flying in onto the Musketeer's olive skin.

Athos held his breath-

"Watch your back! People at your stage 'n life need t' be more cautious."

-and let out a long internal groan.

Batres smiled. But it wasn't genuine - far from it. His lips curled evilly, eyes dark and dangerous. All wishes to strangle his protégé were swept from Athos' mind, replaced by a sudden strong urge to leap in front of him and protect him from whatever was about to happen.

Batres' leg swung towards a defenceless d'Artagnan, kicking him in the stomach. The Gascon doubled over wheezing and coughing. The force of the attack had winded him.

Porthos roared, his legs kicking wildly whilst Aramis attempted to reach their little brother, his chains clanging in objection.

Athos merely sat and stared at the Spaniard. As though, if he glared hard enough, the man would simply drop dead. Needless to say, no such miracle occurred.

Batres, however, had stood idly while d'Artagnan curled in on himself. His eyes scoured greedily over each of the Musketeers, almost as if intrigued by their different reactions. His facial expression changed as his eyes suddenly seemed to gleam with satisfaction. Looking over his shoulder, he inclined his head in the Gascon's direction.

"That one." He said simply. Two of the four Spanish guards behind him walked forwards whilst a third followed behind them. The pair of Spaniards hoisted d'Artagnan to his knees, supporting him under his arms as the boy still struggled to catch his breath. The third guard came to stand in front of him, his hands behind his back and face neutral.

Batres waited patiently before talking once more. "Here's how this is going to work." He began to pace back and forth. "I am going to ask you a question. If you answer truthfully, the boy may be spared some pain. If not ..." He paused dramatically, looking at each of them in turn with cruel smile. "Well, let us just say he might be a little worse for wear."

Athos scowled. His heart was beating so fast that he was surprised the others could not hear it pound against his chest. Blood pumped in his ears and adrenaline coursed its way through his veins. With every passing moment, he was coming up with new ways to enjoy this man's death. Glancing to his side and seeing the look's on all three of his brother's faces, he was certain they had their own methods in mind as well.

Seemingly happy with the continued quiet from the Musketeers, Batres clapped his hands together, gleefully rocking back and forth on his heels.

"Shall we begin?" He chimed, showing all his teeth in a wide smile.

"You're sick!" Porthos spat, but Batres took no notice.

"Question one." The Spaniard said, the smile slipping from his face. "Where is the letter?"

Athos couldn't say he was taken aback. There was clearly an underlying purpose to all this and the letter was the most plausible explanation for their kidnapping. The ambush happening as they were delivering such an important message - concerning something that even they did not know about - was no coincidence.

"What letter?" Aramis asked, looking curious.

Catching on quickly, Athos raised his eyebrows, hoping that he looked mildly confused and slightly annoyed (the latter of which wasn't too hard ...)

Batres walked closer to the Musketeer. "The letter from the King being delivered to a courier in Versailles."

Athos thanked Aramis for having the fore-sight to suggest hiding the letter as soon as they had left the Garrison. The Medic had pointed out that a message of such high priority had best stay hidden, in case unwanted trouble came their way. How right he had been.

The King's cream parchment lay safely tucked away in the leather of Athos' uniform. A secret pocket had been placed for such a need in each Musketeer's jacket, should such an occasion as this arise. Another thing Athos was thankful for. He just hoped they had no intention of searching them for the letter.

"We've got no idea what you're talkin' about." Porthos snarled, shaking his head innocently.

Batres wasn't buying it. "Really? The courier in Versailles seemed very easy to squeeze the information out of."

Athos swallowed, gathering himself before he spoke. "We know nothing of this letter. You cannot expect us to give you information about something we never knew existed until moments ago."

Batres glared at him for a while, their eyes locking into cold, hard stares. It stayed this way until the Spaniard looked away from the Musketeer and instead towards the guard in front of d'Artagnan.

"Start off mildly. We don't want him passing out too soon."

The Musketeers barely had time to register what was about to happen when a series of punches were thrown at d'Artagnan's body. A fist collided with his jaw, then his stomach, then his nose. Porthos began to wrestle with the iron around his wrists, so much so that Athos was expecting the burly Musketeer to break his own bones if he was not careful. But both Aramis and Athos made no move to stop him, neither man able to do anything but wince in sympathy at the array of bruises forming over the Gascon's body.

The assault ended after ten or more punches had came into contact with d'Artagnan's now sagging body. The Guard pulled back, revealing the hunched form of d'Artagnan, breathing heavily and his head bowed. No doubt his body lacked the energy to hold it high. Instead, it hung on his shoulders, his long, dark hair obscuring his face.

"So," Batres' voice made Athos start. He hadn't noticed Porthos had fallen silent. Looking at his friend, he saw his eyes closed and his back leaning against the stone wall behind him. It wasn't like Porthos to look so ... defeated.

"Let us try again." The Spaniard made no attempt to hide his enjoyment at the events taking place. The man was a maniac. A maniac who found joy in torture and interrogation. "The letter. Where is it?"

Athos slowly looked to his side to find his protégé staring back at him. His face was smeared with blood and a purple bruise was forming from his cheek-bone down to his jaw. But it wasn't the injuries that drew the majority of his attention.

He was smiling. The boy was bloody smiling.

He'd caught Aramis' attention as well and, looking at them both, gave a minute shake of the head. It was a fleeting gesture, barely noticeable if you hadn't been fixed on the boy. But d'Artagnan's message reached them loud and clear.

'Don't tell them anything.'

He sent another small grin in their direction before allowing his head to drop back down to face to floor. Athos blinked. D'Artagnan was being tortured for information but he was still sending gestures to reassure his brothers and insist they do not give away what the enemy wants for his sake. The Gascon never ceased to amaze him.

Aramis turned to look at Athos, determination shining in his eyes. With a small twitch of the lips of their own, they turned in unison to face their captors.

Aramis spoke. "We know nothing of this letter or where it may be. I suggest you check your sources more thoroughly, monsieur." He finished bitterly and rattling his chains for good measure.

Sighing, Batres bowed his head. "I can play this game, Musketeer. But the question is ... can your friend?"

Once again, d'Artagnan was set upon by the Spanish guard, this time getting kicked in the stomach, chest and – rather unmercifully – in the groin. To finish off the beating, the Guard thumped the Gascon hard to the side of the face, sending the boy flying to the ground and colliding with the stone floor, his head smashing into the concrete with a sickening crack. D'Artagnan's face went blank.

Porthos growled, shouting words he wouldn't dare utter in the presence of his majesty and the court - Aramis also joining in this time, flailing wildly and cursing every man in the room.

But it was when d'Artagnan's eyes rolled into the back of his head that Athos lost it. The lid that had been bottling his emotions disappeared, and pure and utter rage filled every inch of his body.

"WE SAID WE DON'T KNOW, DAMMIT!" He yelled, overpowering both Aramis and Porthos' shouts. "Now for god's sake have some humanity and LEAVE HIM BE!"

Spit flew from between his gritted teeth and he suddenly became aware that he was kicking forwards to charge at the men standing so casually before him. Gradually, the adrenaline began to wear off and he sunk to his knees, his mattered hair sticking to his sweaty forehead.

Batres said nothing. Just stood there letting them wallow in silence. After what seemed like an age, he turned on his heel, the Guards following suit, and walked to the door at the far end of the tunnel.

"I will be back tomorrow." He shot over his shoulder. "Do not expect things to change anytime soon."

He strolled through the door, the last Spaniard closing it with a resounding clang and they were plunged into darkness once more.

Moments after Batres and his men had left, Athos' head snapped upwards.

Aramis and Porthos mirrored his action and all three turned to the crumpled silhouette of their little brother.

"d'Artagnan?" Aramis called, trying to reach for the Gascon but unable to manipulate the chains for him to do so.

There was no response. Athos tried again.

"d'Artagnan, open your eyes."

Again - nothing.

"Is 'e breathin'?" Porthos asked.

Athos froze. From the lack of light, there was little he could see, d'Artagnan being a mere dark shape on the other side of the room. He waited for Aramis' answer, holding his breath.

"Yes."

Athos closed his eyes in relief whilst, next to him, Porthos huffed a nervous laugh.

"But it's laboured. I'd say he has some damage to his ribs, possibly causing the difficulty he seems to be having, but nothing fatal." Aramis paused, sucking in a sharp breath. "His head, however, may be more of a concern."

Athos groaned. Why couldn't things ever be simple for them?

"With his concussion from earlier in the evening coupled with the way his head collided with the ground, I'd hazard a guess that he will be unconscious for quite some time. Without being able to assess his head properly, I cannot determine whether there will be any lasting damage or if there is a wound that needs treating ..."

He trailed off, mumbling more to himself than the others under his breath leaving Porthos and Athos to stare at d'Artagnan with wide eyes.

Athos didn't know how he felt. Pride at the courage his protégé possessed. Hate at Batres and his men. Guilt at what d'Artagnan had been put through and not him instead. He knew it was irrational, that there was no way he could of known Batres would pick d'Artagnan or that they would even be in this situation in the first place, but somehow he couldn't help but believe he'd let the boy down.

There had been an unspoken promise, a vow if you'd like, between the three older Musketeers. When d'Artagnan had finally been formally commissioned into the Musketeers regiment, each of them had promised to each other and themselves that they would look out for the boy. D'Artagnan was still so young and naive, often fighting with his heart on his sleeve rather than using his head. But that is what made d'Artagnan ... d'Artagnan!

He was their best friend and their little brother. Nothing and no one would ever prevent them from trying to keep him safe.

Only this time they had failed.

"Stop it." Porthos mumbled and Athos turned to see the Musketeer looking squarely at him.

"Stop what?" He asked, but had a feeling he knew the answer.

"You're blamin' yourself. It ain't your fault, and it ain't mine either. Nor 'Mis', nor d'Artagnan's. We didn't know this'd happen, and there was nothin' we could do that would've stopped it except givin' those sick Spaniards what they wanted and in turn betrayin' the King. Even then, d'Artagnan could've been hurt." Porthos closed his eyes for a second and Athos knew he was blocking out images of previous events." You saw the joy in Batres' eyes. A man like that thinks this is entertainment. He could've chosen anyone of us, jus' the lad don't know when t' shut 'is mouth."

Porthos chuckled and even Athos' mouth twitched. The Musketeer began to talk about something d'Artagnan had told him about the time when he was in the cell with Vadim, but Athos wasn't concentrating.

Instead, he watched Aramis' eyes scour every inch of d'Artagnan. The medic's gaze lasted longer on his chest and head, but other than that, he didn't seem too concerned.

"We cannot continue to lie." Athos blurted out. Porthos and Aramis turned to face him. "I cannot continue to lie."

Aramis frowned. He turned his whole body to face the other two Musketeers. "So what do you suggest, Athos? Hm? We hand over the letter freely and wait patiently for our deaths? We betray our King and put his life and the future of France in danger? We neglect our duty as Musketeers?"

Athos shook his head. "No! But d'Artagnan-"

"Do you honestly think d'Artagnan would wish for us to become traitors in his name?" Aramis butted in. "He is strong and stubborn, Athos. More than we give him credit for and we cannot simply-"

Aramis froze, his chestnut eyes widening.

"What?" Porthos mumbled. "Haven't seen a spider, 'ave ya?"

But Aramis continued to stare past them both. It stayed that way for what seemed like an age before a broad smile crossed his face.

"What?" Porthos asked again, this time impatiently. "Tell us, 'Mis."

Aramis brought his hands around to his front, rubbing them smugly. Chain free!

"How-?" Porthos began but Aramis was already crawling towards him.

"There is a fault in the design." Aramis stated clearly, grabbing the chains behind Porthos' back and fiddling with the shackles. "Batres obviously had them made on short notice. The chains themselves are well made, but the shackles? They have been formed in a hurry, hastily finished with bolts!"

"Bolts?" Athos repeated, disbelievingly. Even he wouldn't be so careless as to finish shackles with bolts.

"Unscrew the bolts near your wrists."

Porthos' chains slid from his wrists and, without any hesitation, Aramis was moving towards Athos. But the older Musketeer pulled him short.

"d'Artagnan." He said, simply. The sharp-shooter looked as if he mentally slapped himself and nodded, turning in the opposite direction and hastily making for the Gascon.

Porthos, instead, helped Athos with his chains, twisting the screw until it became loose and fell to the ground, allowing the Musketeer to slip his shackles off his wrists.

"Athos." Aramis called as he gently eased off the chains around d'Artagnan's hands.

Athos shuffled forwards and fell to his knees beside his protégés head. The boy was certainly a sight for sore eyes. With his normally olive-skin sweaty and pale along with his jaw-line and cheek-bones scattered with bruises, he looked weak and pitiful, young and ill.

Oh, how d'Artagnan would love you to say that to his face ...

"Cradle his head and check it over." Aramis ordered. Athos, being second in command behind Treville, naturally led the men - less so when it came to his three friends, but he still held a slightly higher authority above them. When it came to needing the healing hands of Aramis, however, the medic never hesitated to take over the situation, often demanding whoever was around him to collect tools or help with his patient.

But when one of the four was thrown into the equation ... they all struggled to keep a level head.

Athos carefully lifted d'Artagnan's head to rest on his legs. As he brushed the dark hair from the boy's forehead, something sticky began to coat his fingers. Narrowing his eyes to look through the darkness, he picked up the familiar smear of red across his palm.

"Aramis." He mumbled, his throat closing and not allowing him to say more than a pathetic whimper of a name.

Aramis snapped his head to face Athos - Porthos doing the same. The medic drew close, reaching out his hands and ghosting over the Gascon's face.

"Blood." He muttered, confirming Athos' suspicions. A few feet away, Porthos shifted himself so he was rubbing the calf of their little brother.

"Aramis?" Still, Athos couldn't manage to say more than one word.

The medic didn't reply instantly, instead feeling around d'Artagnan's head for himself.

"He's OK." He sighed, drawing back and busying himself with d'Artagnan's jacket.

Athos closed his eyes for a second, letting relief wash over him.

"It's just from a small laceration on his forehead, but nothing major. He's going to have a seriously bad headache when he wakes, and he'll probably be disorientated for a few days, but other than that he should be relatively OK."

Porthos rocked back on his heels, puffing out his cheeks. "Know's how to give you a scare, don't he?"

"Indeed." Athos agreed, allowing his signature frown to reclaim his features.

Aramis sat back, crossed legged next to d'Artagnan's torso, cautiously examining his chest and stomach. Athos continued to hold his protégés head, cradling it in his lap.

"How d'we get out?" Porthos asked.

Aramis shrugged, replacing the clothing covering d'Artagnan's torso. "I would say the door is the most obvious choice, but, you know, we could always resort to kicking through the walls and singing them a song. You never know, it might work."

Athos felt d'Artagnan stir in his hold. Looking down, he saw a small smile plastered on the Gascon's face.

"d'Artagnan?" Aramis called, wide eyed and scrambling closer to the boy. "Can you open your eyes for me?"

A small shake of the head followed by a grimace put an end to that idea anytime soon.

"OK. Can you tell me what hurts instead?" Aramis persisted, ignoring the scowl sent his way from Athos.

D'Artagnan was still for quite some time. After a while, Athos believed the boy had slipped back into unconsciousness, but he was proven wrong when the Gascon opened his mouth.

"'vryth'n'."

Aramis smiled and rolled his eyes. "Well, that narrows it down." He joked, earning him another tiny grin. "Anything in particular?"

The Gascon's brow furrowed, suddenly looking alarmingly like Athos. His face contorted as if he was trying to focus on something.

Slowly, he peeled his eyes open, blinking rapidly, the frown on his face increasing.

"d'Artagnan?" Porthos urged.

D'Artagnan's eyes flicked everywhere in the vicinity, resting longer on the questioning face of Athos looming above him. He settled on staring at Aramis, in the end, and his face began to relax.

"Head." D'Artagnan grumbled groggily, letting his eyes slip closed again. "'n ches'."

Aramis nodded. "Do you feel able to walk?"

D'Artagnan frowned, rubbing his wrists then slowly shaking his head.

"It's OK." The medic reassured. "Porthos, would you care to do the honours, my friend?"

"My pleasure." The burly Musketeer inclined his head and got to his feet, rubbing his beefy hands together.

"Wha'?" d'Artagnan began to protest as he reopened his eyes and began pushing himself up onto his elbows. Athos waited for the inevitable, and, soon enough, d'Artagnan groaned in pain and collapsed back into his lap.

"d'Artagnan," Aramis sighed, getting to his feet. "Would you please, for once, not be so stubborn and let us help you?"

Silence seethed through the air. Athos continued to keep the boy pinned down to where he lay, not letting him further injure himself. It took a fair amount of awkwardness, pointed glares and impatient sighing for the stubborn Gascon to finally give in.

"If 'ny of you bring th's up in the fut're, I will not hes'tate to person'lly impale you." D'Artagnan grumbled.

Athos quirked a small smile. "You wouldn't be able to land a blow."

The Gascon looked up at him with unfocused eyes. They shone with a deeper sense of youth than he had ever realised. In their line of work, it was easy to forget about the boy still being so young.

Porthos bent forward, scooping his muscled arms underneath d'Artagnan's skinny body and lifting him effortlessly off of Athos' lap. A grimace crossed d'Artagnan's face as he was cradled in Porthos' arms, but he refrained from making any noise of discomfort. Instead, he gritted his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut.

Athos grabbed Aramis' outstretched hand and pulled himself to his feet.

"So." Aramis clapped his hands together, rubbing them eagerly. "What's the plan?"

Porthos raised an eyebrow. "We don' have a plan?"

D'Artagnan chuckled. "Wh'n do we ev'r h've a plan that ends up goin' the way we wanted it to?"

Porthos chuckled. "Lad's got a point."

"Hey! We are Musketeers. We'll improvise." Aramis chimed cheerfully, starting to lead the way to the door.

"And if improvising doesn't work?" Athos muttered.

Aramis turned, mocking a pout. "Then we'll have to be the Captains problem."

Athos sighed. He caught d'Artagnan's half-lidded eyes and rolled his own.

They walked further down the tunnel, Porthos readjusting d'Artagnan in his arms a few times and letting the boy rest his head gingerly on his shoulder. Once they reached their door to escape, Aramis froze, his hand still resting on the handle.

"All for one."

Porthos laughed. "Really? We're doin' that now?"

Slowly, Aramis pulled on the handle and the door swung open, allowing a river of light to flow into the gloomy tunnel. Blinking rapidly to adjust to the sudden surge of light, Aramis walked forwards, making his way down the fire-lit corridor ahead - Porthos following and Athos bringing up the rear.

As they walked, voices could be heard in the distance. The voices were relatively loud and making no effort to whisper. It was easy to pick up their Spanish accent and, for Athos and Aramis, was a good opportunity to finally gain some source of defence.

They slowed their pace, nearing a sharp corner and stopped by its side. The Spaniards were just round the bend, and the fact that they were still deep in conversation meant the Musketeers had not yet been discovered.

Athos held up a hand, signalling to wait.

"Stay here." He whispered to Porthos. The burly Musketeer still carried d'Artagnan and the Gascon himself was now more lucid, looking around and occasionally fidgeting with unease.

"We'll be back before you know it." Aramis added, his own voice barely audible.

D'Artagnan opened his mouth to speak but one look from his mentor silenced him and he sunk back into the arms of Porthos.

Athos came up beside Aramis. In one swift movement, they rounded the corner and wrapped their arms around the unprepared Spanish guards, placing their palms to cover the Spaniards' mouths.

The guards struggled, kicking and crying out, but their movements subsided and their shouts were muffled as the oxygen supply was cut off by arms around their necks.

Both guards fell limp in unison, dropping to the ground with a small thud. Bowing down, Athos grabbed the weapons from his man's uniform.

Daggers, rapier, pistol, bullets, powder ...

Looking over, he saw Aramis collecting identical tools.

Athos whistled, signifying to Porthos that the coast was clear. The Musketeer came round the corner; only d'Artagnan stumbled along beside him, one arm slung over Porthos' broad shoulders.

"What?" Porthos whispered at the looks his friends were giving him. "The stubborn whelp insisted."

Rolling his eyes, Athos walked towards them both, handing Porthos a dagger and d'Artagnan a pistol.

"Are you OK?" He asked the Gascon, blue eyes wide.

D'Artagnan nodded. "'m fine. Jus' want t' get out of here."

Aramis came up alongside Athos, placing a hand on the young man's forehead.

"Tell us if you feel unable to walk." The medic ordered, his usual light tone gone, and replaced by one more serious and mature. "Porthos will carry you if not. And d'Artagnan?" The boy looked up with round, blurry eyes. "There is no shame in accepting help."

The Gascon smiled cheekily. "You're all becoming 's bad 's Const'nce."

Purposely missing the swipe aimed at d'Artagnan's ear, Aramis pivoted and led the way once again down the hall, the formation of before falling into place.

"Where is ev'ryone?" d'Artagnan whispered, looking behind him at Athos.

"Dunno. Batres is probably busy with somethin', like planning tomorrow's events." Porthos said.

D'Artagnan shivered and closed his eyes. Without anyone noticing, Athos moved closer to him.

"Do we even know where we're goin'?" Porthos asked, placing a hand on d'Artagnan's chest as he stumbled.

Aramis shrugged. "I'm relying mainly on instinct ..."

"Oh joy." Porthos rolled his eyes. "We're currently tryin' to escape from a tunnel somewhere under Paris whilst watchin' out for Spanish guards who seem like they wanna torture us partly for information, partly for fun. One of us is unable to walk on his own, we're lacking in a plan and weapons but thank god we've got Aramis' instinct to fall back on!"

"Sh!" Athos hushed.

"What? You're not sidin' wi-"

"Sh!" Athos snapped again. Porthos got the message and fell silent.

Aramis pulled to a halt, looking back over his shoulder.

Athos met his gaze, flicking his head to his right.

More voices.

Spanish.

Three?

No. Four.

At least four guards were around the next corner.

Athos walked forwards, grabbed d'Artagnan's other arm and threw it over his own shoulder. Along with Porthos, the three scurried in the opposite direction, into a dead end.

Carefully, they lowered the Gascon to the ground, against the stone tunnel wall. Aramis crept behind them, his back facing his friends as he kept an eye on the corner which hid them from view while Athos crouched before his protégé and brushed the sweaty hair from his still pale face.

"Stay here. Don't move and don't do anything stupid." He said sincerely, giving the young Musketeer his best 'Do as I say, or else' glare.

Porthos handed d'Artagnan a pistol and went to stand watch with Aramis. Athos stood up straight.

"Wha' are you waiting for?" d'Artagnan said after Athos continued to stare at him. "Go show 'em your moody side before I fall 'sleep."

The words, though slurred, still held a good sense of humour – something Athos took as a good sign.

"Stay here." He repeated. With a last, 'Don't you even think about it' look, he straightened his legs and clapped his hand on Aramis' shoulder.

"Ladies." He bowed his head in mock respect.

Aramis turned to look his way. "Six of them. Two for each. We can't risk any of them running to tell Batres that we've escaped."

Porthos nodded. "Aye. And I'd hazard a guess that they might be a bit miffed t' see us out an' about."

"Oh, very. It's such a breach of their privacy." Athos added.

"I do hate to upset our hosts." Aramis sighed.

"But I think Treville might be missin' us."

"And we don't want him in a bad mood for training, now. Do we?"

"Treville? Bad mood? Never in a million years ..."

"So we really ought t' be makin' our leave."

"Gentlemen. After you."

Athos waved a hand to the corner and Aramis and Porthos careened round the stone, barrelling straight into the unsuspecting bundle of Spaniards.

Porthos boomed his mighty laugh, swinging his pistol to collide with a guard's head.

Athos lunged forwards, aiming a particularly powerful strike to one of the two guard's sides he was fighting. The silver of his blade flashed through the air, moving in an elegant blur of motion, swishing and slicing, left right and centre.

From behind him, the snarky voice of Aramis could be heard taunting his own pair of duellers. The sharpshooter always had a way of pushing his luck. A quality he shared with d'Artagnan.

Athos blocked a jab to his chest, spinning and catching the Spaniards leg with his rapier, causing the man to cry out in pain and fall to the floor. His face remained neutral as he speared the guard's chest, impaling him with a sword stolen from his comrade. Not the most honourable of deaths, Athos concluded, now advancing towards his final opponent.

"Por favor senor, por favor!" The Spaniard pleaded, backing away. He turned to run but tripped over the corpse of the man Athos had just spectacularly impaled.

He felt more than heard the familiar presence of the two Musketeers come up behind him. Both clearly finished with the dealing of the other four.

"I shall tell you anything! Anything you want to know!" The guard begged, scrambling further back but stopped as his back hit the stone wall.

"Coward." Athos heard Porthos mumble. And it was true. This man had not been touched. He had given in on a fight and immediately surrendered himself to the opposition, betraying his country and comrades. D'Artagnan however ...

"d'Artagnan." Athos shot over his shoulder.

Both Aramis and Porthos disappeared around the corner, heading for their little brother, leaving Athos to deal with his excuse for an opponent.

"You are so easily willing to betray your country, just so you may save your own skin." Athos murmured. "Why should I let you live?" He narrowed his eyes. The tip of his blade rested on the Spaniards shoulder.

"Because senor ... because I can get you and your Musketeer friends out without any trouble."

The stolen rapier pushed harder into the man's skin, edging up near his neck.

"If you're lying and leading us into a trap," Athos moved his head closer to the guard's, the sword slicing faintly across the man's neck, so that his lips were centimetres away from the Spaniards ear. "I'll know."

The guard gulped, shaking and stumbling away from Athos. Smirking, the Musketeer grabbed the man's uniform and swung him in front of him.

"Let's go get your new friends shall we?" He said dryly, pushing the Spaniard in the direction of the dead end.

Knowing better than to refuse, the guard shuffled along the pathway and turned the corner to where Porthos and Aramis stood, holding up a rather ashen-faced d'Artagnan.

"'e don' feel too good." Porthos grumbled when d'Artagnan swayed to his right.

Aramis steadied the young man by wrapping an arm around his waist. "I'd say it was the concussion. He's being moved around too much for my liking and I can't determine the extent of his head injury. We-"

He was interrupted as d'Artagnan doubled over, spewing the contents of his stomach at their feet.

The Spaniard backed away but Athos roughly pulled him back to stand beside him.

Porthos grimaced, shuffling his boots away from the line of fire but still supporting the majority of the boy's weight. Aramis, however, had begun to rub circles on d'Artagnan's back, whispering soothing words to his bowed head. After what seemed like an age, d'Artagnan had expelled any and all food he had in him, finally sagging into Porthos' chest.

Athos took a step closer to his protégé.

"Time to make a move, I believe."

Porthos grabbed d'Artagnan's arm, once again slinging it over his shoulders.

"Up you come, whelp."

A whimper came from behind the curtain of hair obscuring the Gascon's face. Counting to three, Porthos hauled the slim form of their little brother into his arms, cradling him against his chest.

Aramis eased d'Artagnan's head to lay on Porthos' bicep. Then, after wiping his face clean of sweat with his own sleeve, he side-stepped to stand next to the Spaniard.

Athos shoved the guard in the direction they had come from.

"Lead the way." He snarled.

The man sobbed pathetically but started to walk out of the tunnels, leading them around twists and turns, stopping every now and again to listen for sounds.

D'Artagnan had slipped into unconsciousness after a few minutes. Each time the guard halted, Aramis took the opportunity to examine his patient, checking him over briefly until they were ushered by Athos to 'keep moving'.

Finally, after weaving their way round countless stone walls, an archway appeared. Long, steep, uneven steps led up into loud, bustling streets of Paris.

Athos breathed a sigh of relief, beginning to walk up the stairs.

"Senor!" The guard shouted from behind him. He stopped and turned to look. "Where do I go?"

The Musketeer shrugged moodily. "I suggest you start running before I change my mind about letting you live."

The Spaniard swallowed, then bowed his head. "Gracias Senor. I will not forget your mercy." And with that, he sprinted through the street, heading for the city walls.

Athos looked at Aramis, who had both eyebrows raised.

"What?" He grumbled, starting to walk up the stairs again. "I can be gracious if I so wish."

Aramis chuckled behind him. "You and I both know that none of us do gracious."

A/N:
GUYS! I HAVE THE PLAGUE! Well, maybe not the plague, but a pretty bad cold! Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this 'little' one-shot. Please please PLEASE leave prompts/requests for more. I had so much fun writing this that I literally can't wait to get started on the next. With over 20,000 words including 3 drafts, 2 brainstorm sheets and notes, it took it's time. I'm not kidding when I say I was literally writing this on holiday. Yep. Commitment. But still, it was pretty good fun. If you'd be so kind as to go drop me a small review, I'd love you forever. Until the next one-shot - Ellie x