Summary: "I failed in my duty as a Musketeer. But worse, I failed in my duty as your friend."

Events after Season 2 and beyond.

Author's Notes: This takes place after Season 2. So, so many spoilers.

I own very little and absolutely nothing related to The Musketeers.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

"Are we just going to let him go?"

"No. He's letting us go."

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Aramis didn't know what to say when Porthos appeared in his tiny cell at the monastery.

He'd seemed excited, but when he'd seen Aramis in robes, something had changed. He was serious and grim. It made Aramis nervous.

He thought he'd left them behind. Let them go.

He should have known it had been too easy when Porthos just stood aside.

Porthos tossed his hat onto the bed and took deep breath.

"Why didn't you tell me? 'Bout you and the Queen."

"Did you honestly come all this way to have this discussion?"

"If I did?" Porthos stuck out his jaw.

"As I said, I wanted to protect her reputation..."

"From me?" interrupted Porthos. "What did the Queen, or better yet, what did you have to fear from me?"

Aramis opened his mouth and then closed it again. Before he could decide what to say, Porthos spoke again.

"What are you doin' here?"

"I told you," answered Aramis.

"Try again."

Porthos looked at him.

Waiting.

Aramis sighed and scratched at his bare face.

"I made a vow. A vow to God that if I survived, I would forsake all earthly temptations and would give over my life to Him. I must honor that vow. I want to find peace."

Porthos tensed and shifted, angry in the flash of a moment.

"You not tired of lyin' to me yet? Hmm?"

"I am not lying," said Aramis carefully. "I would not lie about something like this."

"You are!" bellowed Porthos, his voice filling the tiny cell. "Treville kept the truth from me for years. You lied to me for months. All I have had from men I trusted, men I respected, was lies! Peace? Rubbish, you're punishing yourself."

His voice rang through the room, pounding at Aramis. It echoed and faded and all Aramis could hear was his thundering heart and Porthos' shaky breath.

"If this," said Porthos, painfully quiet, "if this is the last time we talk, you could at least give me the fucking truth."

"You say you want the truth, but you don't know the things I've done..."

"Oh, you're right. I don't. Because you won't tell me. I'm here, Aramis. I'm here and I'm listening and this is your chance."

Aramis jerked, as if something had broken inside him.

"You want all of it?" he spat. "You want all of the blood and darkness and utter foolishness? How many people were hurt? Because of the choices I made? Adele Bassette is dead, murdered by the Cardinal. As a message to me. For taking what I had no right to. I killed her just as surely as I had pulled the trigger myself."

Now that he had begun, Aramis found he couldn't stop. The confession rolled out of him, louder and louder, a wave of sorrow and disgust so fast he hardly had time to consider what he was saying.

"And Marguerite is dead, from her own hand, but because I used her to get close to the Dauphin. And then I left her. I left her ruined, fallen, friendless, and desperate and I didn't even care, I didn't even care! She was nothing, nothing but a means to be near my son.

"Lemay is dead. Constance nearly so. Anne too, she was so close...You warned me. You told me, set my sights lower. I didn't listen. Not to you or Athos or Treville. I heeded none of the good counsel of my friends.

"You had to set out on a suicide mission to Spain...If Athos and d'Artagnan hadn't come after you, you would have been dead in a borderland countryside and we never would have known what happened.

"All of you put your lives in danger. Because of me. To fix what I had destroyed. Because I didn't think. And even if I had, I don't know if I would have done differently.

"I'm a monster, Porthos. I use and I take. Everything I touch dies."

Porthos would throttle him now. Aramis looked up, braced.

Porthos was frowning, but it was concern and compassion Aramis found, not the revulsion he expected.

The big man stepped forward and Aramis held up a hand.

"No."

Porthos frowned harder and took another step. Aramis backed away.

"No. No, I don't deserve kindness, I don't."

Porthos moved closer.

"I was distracted that day, that day in the market with Balthazar and Tariq," he blurted. "There was a baby crying and all I thought of was the Dauphin."

Porthos stopped then, listening.

"The Dauphin. Not the mission, not my role, not even you. I didn't take the shot, I waited too long and then the angle was gone. Innocent people died. And you were hurt."

Porthos tilted his head, a small movement. Aramis saw the scene playing out in his mind, putting together how it had all fallen apart. Porthos focused on Aramis again, unreadable.

Until he wasn't.

His dark eyes had gone soft and sad. Almost pleading.

Porthos stepped forward again.

Aramis tried to move away, but a wall was suddenly at this back.

"You great oaf, you don't have the sense to stay away from me!"

He couldn't stop speaking, the words tumbling over each other, too fast.

"You were shot! They beat you and dragged you away. Tariq died and Samara was made an orphan! It was my fault, Porthos. Mine! Your blood was in the street."

Aramis let his head fall back and hit the wall, suddenly weary.

"I failed in my duty as a Musketeer. But worse, I failed in my duty as your friend."

Porthos was so close.

"And you should hate me!"

Aramis tried to push him away, but Porthos was strong and determined.

Immoveable.

He caught Aramis' wrist and pulled him forward, into his arms.

Aramis stood there, stiff and panting.

"Why don't you hate me?!"

"Because you're my brother," Porthos said brokenly.

Aramis choked back a sob.

There was no one else to see.

No one to force them apart.

No mission, no danger, no time line.

Slowly, slowly, Aramis relaxed.

He pressed his face to Porthos' throat and just breathed.

The scents of leather and gunpowder and horse and Porthos filled him.

It had only been a few days and he was shocked by how much he missed them.

Porthos was warm and solid and strong.

Steadfast.

If there was nothing else Aramis felt sure of, that he knew he could rely on, he knew he could rely on Porthos.

Even when he should run, when he should abandon Aramis to his fate, he did not.

Would not.

Could not.

Aramis could try for what remained of his life to find the words to express his gratitude and it would still be inadequate.

He felt exhausted, but he finally looped his arms around Porthos back. It might have been minutes, it might have been an hour. He turned his face into Porthos' high collar, but didn't pull away.

"I'm not sayin' you're blameless," said Porthos finally. "You made a right mess of a lot of things. But all of this ain't your fault. Rochefort plotted and lied and twisted it up."

"But he would not have had such an easy time of it, if not for the truths he uncovered," said Aramis. He forced himself to step back and look Porthos in the eye. "I have been a soldier all my adult life. I have made choices, protected people, and I have killed. All to serve France. I'm still killing. People are still dying, but not for the right reasons. I can't trust myself."

Porthos growled low in his throat, but it was more frustration than anger.

"Maybe this is me punishing myself," he continued. "Maybe I just need some time. But I promised God. And despite the odds, we lived. I lived. And I need to honor the vow. Or at least try."

The big Musketeer stared at him. Aramis watched the battle play out, the back and forth across Porthos' face. He wasn't sure if he was disappointed or relieved when Porthos finally nodded.

"Alright," sighed Porthos. "At least here, maybe you'll be safe."

"Safe?" frowned Aramis. "Safe from what?"

Porthos was suddenly interested in the floor and shifting.

"France has declared war on Spain."

"That's why you came," said Aramis slowly with realization. "You want me to come with you."

"Yeah," Porthos breathed. And then he shook his head and looked up at Aramis. "But don't."

"What?"

"You're not wrong, Aramis. You made bad choices. If you want to stay here forever 'cause you're tired of soldiering, then do it. If you want to stay here until you get your head on straight, you are welcome back whenever that is. If you come back to the Musketeers, it has to be because you want to. Not because you think we need you."

"Do you?" asked Aramis, before he could stop himself. "Need me?"

Porthos' smile was small and sad.

"Always."

Aramis' heart squeezed painfully.

The big man sniffed and cleared his throat. "You aren't a monster. Just a man who made mistakes. And you ain't hopeless. But just so you don't forget..." Porthos reached up and slipped his necklace over his head. He carefully settled it around Aramis' neck, patting the charms.

"Your St. Jude medal," murmured Aramis softly. He looked up at Porthos with a grin. "Thought you said I wasn't hopeless?"

Porthos' hand was still covering the necklace against Aramis' chest, warm and steady.

"All things are possible with God. Isn't that what you're always sayin'?" Aramis let his hand cover Porthos' and squeeze.

"So I am."

Porthos studied him a moment before he slipped his hand out of Aramis' and turned to pick up his hat.

"I best be going." He suddenly smiled wickedly. "Don't want to keep the Captain waitin'."

"Treville?"

"Athos."

Aramis blinked.

Opened his mouth.

Shut it.

And blinked again.

"I...did not see that coming."

Porthos' laughter rolled through the room, unfettered and bright.

"Neither did Athos. I think he's still expectin' it to be a bad dream." He settled his hat on his head. "Personally, I don't think Treville could have chosen better."

Aramis looked at his friend, his very best friend, arrayed for war and so alive and vibrant.

All at once, he desperately wished he was accompanying him.

How many years had it been since they'd been apart? That they'd fought a campaign without the other? Who would watch over Porthos? Guard his back when he was reckless and unarmed? Who would make sure Athos ate? Or d'Artagnan slept?

The smallest flutter of panic stirred in his stomach.

"To war. How am I supposed to just let you go?"

Porthos reached out and palmed his cheek. It was rougher than a caress, but softer than a slap, filled with affection and understanding. And then it was gone.

"You already did."

Porthos ducked through the small door.

He didn't look back.

Aramis didn't move.

The medal of St. Jude was a reassuring weight at his heart.

A/N:

I have a lot of feelings about Season 2.

If you want to discuss feelings, or anything else, I'm on tumblr!