A/N: So I was alerted recently to the fact that the formatting on this had issues. Not sure when this happened, because it was find when I uploaded it - I checked - not sure what happened. Unfortunately, I've been away for a while because I've been pretty unwell, and then I started at uni, so I haven't been checking my messages. But anyway, here's the re-upload.

It was completely, utterly, freezing cold. As he hunched, soaking wet in the saddle, Aramis had to admit he was surprised that it hadn't started snowing yet. He was glad it hadn't though, because that would imply that it would get even colder than it was now. He was also glad that he had good balance, since even with his gloves his fingers had long enough become so numbed by the cold that he couldn't keep a good grip on the reins. Next to him, Porthos looked just as miserable as he felt, water dripping off the brim of his hat and slowly starting to soak through his cloak. Athos rode a little way ahead of them, his posture in the saddle suggesting just how deeply annoyed he was by the state of the weather.

Aramis noted something else about his friend's posture; a slight lean, as if he were only holding the reins with one hand. He knew what it meant immediately, and signalled to Porthos, nodding in Athos' direction.

"I know." Porthos replied, a concerned expression crossing his face.

"Do you think he'll let us…" Aramis started to ask.

"Not here." Porthos replied, shaking his head. Water flew in every direction from the brim of his hat. "You know how he gets."

Aramis nodded, "All stoic." He half-grumbled, his tone implying that he thought Athos was being more than a little stupid about it all.

Porthos nodded in agreement, "Come on," he added, "We're nearly there."

Sure enough, a light was becoming visible, and as they approached, the sign announcing the Wren Inn came into view. Aramis nudged his horse with his heels, and caught up to Athos, who was indeed only using one hand on the reins, his left arm held close to his body.

The three of them stopped in front of the inn and swung down from their horses as one, leading them around to the stable. It wasn't really that late at night, but the stableboy was asleep. Porthos nudged him with a boot until the young man awoke with a start, babbling apologies as he took their horses.

Having removed their saddlebags and ensured that their horses would receive proper care, the three entered the inn, glad to be out of the cold and the rain.

The taproom was warm, and the three sat by the fire, eating the stew that the innkeeper's daughter – a very pretty young woman with grey eyes and long blonde hair – had brought to them. Despite the warmth, food and wine, Athos still had a sour expression on his face, and kept his arm close to his body. To anyone looking their way, it would simply seem that he was displeased, perhaps in regard to the food or the wine. Porthos and Aramis exchanged glances, knowing what had to be done. But also knowing how it had to be done. If they just offered Athos their help, he would growl at them and refuse, causing himself more pain the following day. But if they sprung their assistance on him, as they had before, he was far more likely to acquiesce.

The meal finished, they collected their cloaks and hats from where they had left them to dry by the fire. The innkeeper's daughter – who Aramis discovered was named Elise – showed them to their rooms.

"You can't help yourself, can you?" Porthos asked Aramis, grinning, 'You just have to flirt with everything in skirts."

"I never claimed self-control." Aramis retorted, used to the familiar teasing.

"Don't you dare." He added, barely glancing over at Athos, who had sprawled across one of the beds and was doing his level best to fall asleep.

"What?" Athos replied crossly, sitting up and running a hand through his hair.

Aramis ignored his friend's annoyance – normally a dangerous course of action with Athos – in favour of kicking off his boots and climbing up onto the bed, seating himself cross legged behind Athos. Porthos also removed his boots and knelt in front of him, reaching for the lacings of Athos' shirt. Athos swatted his hand away, glaring fiercely. Porthos ignored him and went right back to what he was doing.

"What are you doing?" Athos asked crossly, trying to glare over his own shoulder at Aramis.

"Did you think we wouldn't notice?" Aramis countered. He laid a gentle hand on Athos' left shoulder, and felt the flinch he had been expecting.

"Let us take care of you." Porthos said, gently unlacing Athos' shirt and helping him tug it over his head.

Aramis winced in sympathy when he saw Athos' shoulder. The scar there was as familiar to him as many of his own, perhaps more so even, as he hadn't sewn all of his own wounds. He could remember sewing this one though. How Athos had sat perfectly still the way he always did, the whole time. The wound was less than a year old, and the scar was normally pink against his lighter skin. In the cold, it had darkened to almost purple, and when Aramis laid a hand on Athos' shoulder once more, he could feel the tension and stiffness brought on by riding all day in the rain. From experience, he knew exactly how much newer scars could ache in the cold, especially if the muscle around them was tight.

"Sorry," he said softly, "This will probably hurt."

Athos made a non-committal noise in return, and Aramis glanced forward to see that Porthos had pulled out his cards and the two were playing. Aramis thought for a moment to caution Porthos against taking any of Athos' money, but then remembered that there was no way Porthos would try something that stupid.

Once he was sure that Athos was distracted – and he had rubbed his hands together to warm them – Aramis set to, his long-fingered hands working as gently as he could to massage out the knots in the muscle. He worked carefully, trying not to cause undue pain until Athos turned a little towards him and muttered,

"I won't break." In a voice suggesting that Aramis should stop treating him like he was fragile, and would be damaged by his ministrations. Aramis returned to his task, pressing harder and working at the knotted muscles more aggressively.

It took close to an hour before Aramis was satisfied. Athos sat perfectly still the entire time, just like he had when Aramis stitched the wound in the first place.

"You're done." Aramis finally stated, sliding off the bed and wincing as the blood flowed back into his lower legs and feet. His right foot was asleep and he knew Athos wasn't about to thank him, but it was worth it to see his friend pull his shirt back on without a trace of pain on his face.

The next morning as they were saddling their horses, Athos put a hand on Aramis' upper arm to catch his attention.

"Thank-you." He said quietly, before swinging easily up into the saddle.

Aramis ducked his head and smiled silently.