Porthos had been told to expect a crowd, but he could never have expected such a crowd. Hundreds lined the streets as his open-top carriage rolled over the cobbles on the way to the Louvre. The people waved and cheered and Porthos waved back meekly. He couldn't understand how so many people were there for him alone or why they would even care, but he certainly didn't mind the honour. He felt like a king.

By the time he arrived at the palace, Porthos' arm was very tired and his cheeks hurt from the constant smiling, but he still couldn't stop. This was it, he was finally home. Soon he would see his family again and his dear friends.

Porthos was escorted through to the grand throne room- a room he had been in countless times during his years as a Musketeer, but this time was special. He took a moment to tug his uniform into being straighter, though it was more of a wrestle, and he took a deep breath before the doors were opened. He heard the swish of fabric as everyone in the room turned their attention to his entrance. People who he didn't know and who didn't know him lined either side of the room just like the streets outside. He spotted Elodie immediately. He saw her before he even saw the glamorous Queen and the boy-king at her side, almost completely hidden behind his mother. There she was at the front of the room, dressed in a beautiful blue dress to match her eyes. Porthos had missed her, of course he had, but until that moment when those blue eyes met his, he hadn't realised how much.

Stoically, he walked towards the King and Queen Regent, who stood alone on the dais above everyone, though the King hardly matched the height of anyone there.

"General," the Queen began as Porthos was still making his way, "Welcome to Paris."

Porthos bowed before them, flipping his dress cloak behind him and tucking his sword to his side, but he was incredibly aware of how close he was to his wife. He took another deep breath. Just a few more moments and he could embrace her, talk to her face to face. Aramis was there too at the bottom of the dais near the Queen, beaming proudly. He reminded Porthos so much of Treville. He really looked like he belonged.

"Thank you, your majesty."

Then, the small boy spoke up with a rehearsed proclamation,

"Your success in Rocroi has turned the tide of the war for France. Today, it is you who should be thanked."

And after being prompted by the Queen with a small nudge, he put his hands together and clapped. The room erupted into echoed applause. Porthos allowed himself to look to his wife. Elodie was beaming at him, hands thrown together, clapping harder than anyone.

"The victory is not all mine, your majesty," Porthos managed to say when the noise died down, "It is because of our brave French troops, although outnumbered, that we were able to retake the fortress."

"Such humility…" said the Queen with a small smile, emanating warmth, "Still, France thanks you, General du Vallon- representing our men in the north," and she looked to her son, giving him a small nod to prompt him once again. The boy's face showed a subtle confusion, an expression that astonished Porthos with how much it reminded him of the First Minister.

"May further victories be swiftly won," the King finally said, bouncing on his feet a little with excitement at having remembered his line. Then they stepped down and everyone bowed, but they didn't leave right away. Softly, so that only he could hear, the Queen stood close and said,

"It's good to see you, Porthos."

Then the Queen left, leading the King by the hand, and the crowding courtiers shuffled around to follow, most not giving Porthos a second glance. Aramis looked to him apologetically as he followed his queen. Porthos understood; they would reunite properly later.

One man in a splendid hat came out of nowhere and took Porthos' hand as he was walking towards Elodie.

"It's an honour, sir," he said, shaking their joined hands vigorously, and Porthos only smiled and nodded and then the man had nothing else to say and he too shuffled away.

When he turned his attention back to his wife, she was already hastily trotting his way, her fancy satin dress creating quite the noisy ruckus as she moved. Suddenly, the room was empty and it was just them. Elodie leapt at him to wrap her arms around the neck of the man that wasn't even that much taller than her, but Porthos took her up in his arms, her skirts all bunched up under her. And they kissed. Elodie took her husband's face in her hands and pressed her lips down upon his; with a smile that she hadn't gotten to wear for a while. Mischievous and pretty and scrunching her whole face- Porthos would've melted if he had been able to see it.

"I'm here," he whispered to her when they parted.

"That you are," she whispered back, "Thank God you're safe." And she wrapped her arms around him in a hug, burying her face in his tall collar. This was the moment she had been longing for for so long. After receiving his letter after everything that happened with her ex-husband when he returned from the dead a year ago, Elodie had grown even closer to Porthos, despite the distance. For months beforehand, she had avoided writing letters to him, she had been too afraid. Afraid to be open with him, afraid he wouldn't respond, or if he did, his words would be curt. But after that first letter arrived, letters from her husband flooded her home, just as letters from his wife flooded Porthos' tent at his regiment's encampments. The chest in Elodie's bedroom that once contained bed linen and one dead sunflower was now filled with so many letters.

Slowly, Porthos lowered her to the floor. A hand lingered on her face as he gazed at her, and she at him. During those cold, wet nights at the front, he had dreamt of the faces of the people he loved, faces he didn't want to forget a single detail of. It was the thought of his brothers, of Constance and of Treville that kept him going, and Elodie. She had been at the forefront of his mind so many times as he fought for his life in the thick of battle, muddy and bloody; but Porthos' memory had grown fuzzy. He never got a chance to fully memorise his wife's face like he had the others, they just hadn't had enough time together. It was in this moment, as he gazed down at her, that he took in every detail to fill the small gaps in his mind.

"What're you staring at?" Elodie asked him amusedly, her hand on top of his on her cheek. Porthos chuffed and couldn't help but smile as he said simply,

"You," and he placed a gentle kiss on her forehead.

At least for the coming weeks or months or however long they had together, Porthos wouldn't have to worry about remembering Elodie's face anymore. He need only look up.

Porthos looked up,

"Marie-Cessette?" he said, asking so many things with the utterance of his daughter's name.

"She's great! She's big."

Elodie did notice Porthos' pang of sadness, and she smiled wider to combat it, but it barely lasted a second. He always knew he'd not be there to watch her grow, but it still hurt to think about how much he was missing. It was difficult, trying to imagine what the tiny baby he remembered looked like now at nearly two years old.

"She's with Constance, of course," Elodie continued, "I'm so excited. Let's go home right now."

Home.

"Let's go home."

The fancy carriage from the palace was once again out on the streets of Paris. As Porthos awkwardly waved and smiled at the people who for some reason were still there to see him, Elodie just watched him from her side of the carriage. Porthos still may not have understood why people were so desperate to catch a glimpse of him, but Elodie certainly did. He was a war hero, worthy of such adoration and so much more.

"Are you ready?" Elodie asked him as they drove over the Pont Rouge, the crowd now gone. The garrison was just around the corner. Porthos was about to see it for the first time. When he left, it had been in ashes. "We are the garrison," Athos had said, and Porthos had carried that sentiment with him when he went back to the war. But still, like everything he loved about Paris, Porthos had missed the place.

"More than ready," he answered confidently, looking back at Elodie.

The carriage rolled to a stop outside. Elodie was the first to get up. She wasn't sure if Porthos wanted to take it slow or rush in and see the place, see his friends, either way, she was there to head through the always open doors with him. Porthos stood up too and he stepped down from the carriage silently. He put out a hand to help Elodie down too and when she was, he offered her his arm. She took it gladly and before she knew it, they were moving forward. When they walked through the arch, it opened up into a space so familiar to Porthos. Under-boot, that same crusty mud and straw. In the air, that same smell of horses and leather and gunpowder. But before his eyes, the wood was light and new, and the structure of the main building was different somehow. It seemed that a lot of money had been put into the reconstruction; thanks to the Queen, Porthos presumed. Before it was destroyed, the garrison seemed as though it had stood in the city forever. Now it was rebuilt anew, but the same spirit remained. "We are the garrison."

The stairs to the Captain's office were back, and Porthos looked forward to jogging up and down them again. Nothing exciting happens on the days you walk up the stairs to the Captain's office.

Porthos smiled as he took it all in, and Elodie watched him, glad to see he approved.

"This is amazing," he said, flashing Elodie his toothy grin.

"See those three windows there?" Elodie said, pointing at what used to be the armoury, or perhaps it still was, "I put those in."

And without missing a beat, Porthos said,

"I'm impressed."

Elodie smiled so brightly at her husband and he gave her a knowing smile in return. It warmed her heart to know he remembered such things about the day they met.

Lorenzo and Brujon were at the table outside, a table Porthos could've sworn was longer than the old one. They noticed the uniformed man next to Madame du Vallon and quickly quieted their conversation. Brujon swung his legs over the bench and nodded and smiled at the General before rushing up the stairs.

"He's here!" he called, "He's here!"

Before the young musketeer even got to the door, it swung open and d'Artagnan stepped out onto the balcony and leaned over the railing to see his friend, his smile widening. Porthos started towards the stairs and so did d'Artagnan. They met on the landing and embraced, a tight hug accented with manly pats on the back.

"Welcome back," said the Captain. Elodie's heart warmed as she watched this reunion unfold. Porthos glanced back at his wife and held her gaze for a moment as he said softly,

"Thank you for keeping them safe."

"Of course," d'Artagnan replied seriously, and they embraced again, hearty laughter following. Then emerging from the Captain's rooms at the top of the stairs came Constance, and at the end of her hand was a little girl with messy blonde hair, who toddled out onto the balcony with her aunt. Upon seeing her, Porthos let out a happy breathy sigh. He climbed the remaining stairs but after that, he wasn't sure what to do. Constance crouched down and said something in Marie's ear. The little girl shrieked happily and ran over to a shocked Porthos, who dropped to his knees just in time to catch her in a hug that almost bowled him over.

"Hey there," he cooed sweetly, tears prickling his eyes as he held this tiny child, his child. Porthos lifted her up, expecting to be awkward in the way he held her, he was without practice after all- but she sat comfortably in his arms as she continued to hug him around the neck. She wasn't letting go.

Elodie had made her way to the top of the stairs,

"She knows who you are," she said matter-of-factly, standing at her husband's side, a hand on his shoulder as she gazed at her daughter, "I knew she would, but I didn't expect her to be so brave."

She stroked the curls that flicked upwards on the girl's head.

"Marie!" Elodie gasped, "Who is this?"

"Papa!"

It was the first time he had been called that. That simple two-syllable moniker. Porthos shook his head in disbelief before placing a kiss on Marie's head and on Elodie's, who was near tears herself. Musketeer, General, son of a Marquis, none of these titles made Porthos feel as honoured as he did when Marie-Cessette called him papa.