Ok, so, i decided to write a collection of some sort, and every chapter will be a one-shot story based on an emotion, starting with the letter 'A' and then following the alphabetical order, if this makes any sense for you. The first one, as you see, is Awkward, and if you will, you can suggest me what's next, I would love for you to help me going on. Sometimes stories will refer to episodes, sometimes not, I will point it out if necessary. Also, there will be a lot of fluff, slice of life, romance, some hurt, some angst… some of this, some of that. I apologize to you for my mistakes, English it's not my mother language even though I love it very much, I'll do my best to write everything correctly but I might slip sometimes.

Disclaimer: unfortunately I don't own the King's Musketeers. Too bad. Really.

The first chapter takes place after 1x02, Sleight of hand.

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Awkward

"All for one and one for all, united we stand divided we fall."
(A. Dumas)

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He really should have said something at some point, between that blasted explosion and Vadim's death, just a few hours ago. The blood dripping on his forehead, staining his hair even now, back to the garrison, was noticeable, maybe even the pallor of his exhausted face, or the way he dragged his feet when he walked, and there was no reason to feel embarrassed for being injured. But… he couldn't ask for help. Even if he felt faint, his head throbbing like a drum, his mouth desert dry, his stomach tossing painfully… he needed to show to the other Musketeers that he was strong, invincible and that Athos' choice – let him handle Vadim alone, undercover – had been a good one.

He was not a boy, anyway. He was a man, whether they liked it or not. He didn't need help, he could perfectly handle a little pain.

Ok. A lot of pain.

So he ignored Aramis' stare when he dismounted a little less gracefully than usual from his horse, landing hard on his feet and straining his already injured legs, and trying to pay no mind to his aching back he had followed is three new friends – or, at least, he hoped that soon they would become such – to the Captain's office, to report on their mission. He had felt his (aching) chest puff out with pride when Treville congratulated with him for his job, maybe someday he would really become a Musketeer, as he hoped, but after a few minutes he found out that he couldn't join the conversation anymore, for his head was throbbing more and more fiercely with every passing second, and the more he stood there, still, with his back straight and his hands clasped behind him, the more he felt… wobble.

Now, D'Artagnan grew up on a farm, and wasn't new to fatigue. He could handle a full 12 hours day of work without batting an eye, and he was the son of a soldier, after all, so fighting, and being hurt, was not that strange. But… this was different. He didn't simply take a few blows… and he was starting to feel just how much the explosion that had hit him with a good amount of force had worn him out.

"… surveillance has been strengthened, but it will be necessary to…"

What is the Captain talking about, again?

"Yes sir"

D'Artagnan looked up at those words, realizing that finally they could leave Captain's Treville office, and merely nodding his head, his lips folded into a grimace that was supposed to be a smile, he followed Aramis, the last one leaving the room, breathing deeply in the fresh air. Maybe that was what he needed to feel better…

Or maybe not.

As soon as he descended the stairs, back in the courtyard… he couldn't help himself. He swayed, hard, so hard that his side slammed into the railing with a loud 'thud', that immediately attracted the attention of the Musketeers.

"What's wrong lad?"

Aramis, being the closer, was the first one to approach him, his arms that immediately shot up to support the young Gascon, and his brow in a frown as soon as he noticed how pale D'Artagnan was. His forehead was covered with a thin veil of sweat by now, and his eyes were suddenly watery, like he couldn't focus on what was surrounding him…

Was D'Artagnan going to faint?

"Notin'" the young man replied, embarrassed, leaning heavily to the banister in hope to regain his balance before the others could question him. Thus the way his vision was clouded and crowded with bright dots, wasn't helping. He hadn't eaten since the day before, and that was the only reason that kept him from being sick, he knew that, but he thought that if he could reach Bonacieux's house and his bed everything would be better. He would feel better, with no fussing from anyone else.

He was so busy trying to recover his balance while keeping a straight face that he didn't even notice the look that passed between his new friends, or the way Athos glared at him, his eyes freezing for a moment before a flash of concern crossed them. Porthos rolled his eyes, moving a few steps to help the young lad as well. "Come on, we need to take a look at those injuries" he said grabbing D'Artagnan's arm to bring him to his feet, frowning and lifting a worried look at his brothers when he all but collapsed on him.

"Whelp, can you stand?" he asked a little more forcefully than necessary, keeping the Gascon upright

"'f course" was the mumbled reply he obtained, Athos that too moved closer to the youngest of the group while Aramis, on his other side, flung D'Artagnan's arm across his shoulders to help him walk.

"Let's bring him to my apartments, I don't think he'll be conscious for long"

"Of… course I… will" slurred D'Artagnan, even if he stumbled when Porthos and Aramis moved him. Why he was so tired? So weak? Just half an hour ago he was able to run, and walk… but now he felt hot… burning… but also so cold…

"He's running a fever" Aramis hissed, as soon as D'Artagnan forehead brushed against his neck, tightening his grip on him.

"Whelp, you 're up for a nice 'n long talk" Porthos sighed shaking his head, that by the look in his eyes, Athos too wasn't pleased with the way the youngster managed to hide the extension of his injuries to them for this long…

By the time they reached Athos's quarters, just a couple of minutes away from the garrison, D'Artagnan was barely conscious, and Porthos made Aramis stop to lift him effortlessly in his arms, carrying him up the stairs, to the Musketeer's bedroom. He then proceeded to strip him of his leather vest, hissing in sympathy when he saw the black and blue patchwork of bruises already forming on… well, everywhere on his young friend's body.

"It's bad, I need to check him over, his ribs might be broken" Aramis declared, his face serious and his voice stern. How could their young friend keep quiet about something like that was beyond him… what did he thought, that they wouldn't care after all they had been through together?

But his hands were still feathers while examining the Gascon, even if he felt angry. Almost all of his chest was bruised, and he didn't want for him to feel any more pain.

Then, with Athos' help, he bandaged him up, moving his attention to his head… there was a large gash just near his hairline, and Aramis cleaned it before stitching it up. Finally he ran his hands slowly on his arms and legs, satisfied when he found just a few scratches there, nothing too serious thank God.

"You're a fool, young one" Porthos huffed, shaking his head again, is gaze firmly on the Gascon.

But D'Artagnan didn't hear him, he was already passed out.

He came to only a few hours later, the sky already dark outside and the room silent around him. For a moment he just fought against his body to lift his eyelids, they were so heavy that they seemed made of stone, but even when he succeeded he only felt confused. Where was he? What had happened? He could see a wooden roof above his head, and a white painted wall, not freshly but in good conditions, and a closed window, with a couple of thick layers of curtains, dark white the first one, deep green the second… but so far nothing seemed familiar…

"How are you, lad?"

He almost jumped when Aramis's question interrupted the silence making him turn his head abruptly. The Musketeer sat on a chair at his right, elbows propped on his knees and his leather jacket unbuttoned enough to show a glimpse his white shirt, and of his broad chest underneath. His eyes were piercing, even if he was looking at him with a warm light in his dark brown irises.

"Where am I?" D'Artagnan slurred, squinting his eyes enough to see past Aramis. There was a room… big, with a table, and a bookcase made with dark wood, and candles were lit here and there, casting a soft yellow glow on the white walls, making everything look almost comfy, even though there wasn't much furniture in the room. Athos e Porthos were playing a game of cards at the table when he woke up, but they stood as soon as Aramis spoke, moving at his sides.

"At my apartments" Athos replied, his winter blue eyes almost intimidating so intensely they were glaring at him.

"And to answer to your second question, you fainted" Porthos added, arching his eyebrows when D'Artagnan tried to push himself into a sitting position. "Don't move, lad, you're injured"

"I'm fine" the youngster retorted, frowning when he felt swoon for his efforts, and his head started to throb viciously again… breathing was painful, and move an inch was almost too much for him, but he was stubborn, and he felt uncomfortable under the scrutiny of the Musketeers.

"Move, and I'll tie you to the bed" Athos deadpanned, unwavering when D'Artagnan flashed him an incredulous look

"Athos never makes empty promises, D'Artagnan, I would stay still if I were you" Aramis grinned, resting his hand on the Gascon's forehead to check his body temperature. It was still high, and he didn't like it.

"I'm fine" D'Artagnan tried again, even if this time he didn't try to move. By the look in Athos' eyes, he didn't want to meet the Musketeer's wrath…

"You are not" Athos replied, crossing his arms on his broad chest. "Why didn't you tell us that you were hurt".

A flash of guilt made D'Artagnan wince. They looked concerned underneath all, would they really have cared?

"I thought I could handle it" he grumbled, lowering his eyes and feeling something… warm spread in his chest. He didn't know why, but their reaction, thus unexpected, was not unwelcome… sure, he didn't like to be rebuked, that's what little boys get when they misbehave, but… since his father died he felt so… alone. As if the world had suddenly blown out of proportion, while he dwarfed, unable to properly stand tall against all the odds. He tried, but he realized at that moment that he felt… lost.

"And maybe you could" Aramis pointed out, barely tilting his lips, his eyes still kind. "But you didn't need to. What we are trying to tell you is that we are friends, and friends take care of each other"

"Understood?" clarified Porthos, and amused grin back on his dark handsome face.

D'Artagnan took a moment to look at them. To really look at them. The way Porthos was waiting for his answer, close enough to the bed as to convey his support, the look in Athos' eyes, still icy but a little more… gentle, Aramis' hand that, who knows when, had slipped on his shoulder. And he couldn't restrain himself… a small, weak smile graced his lips as his head nodded as firmly as he could.

"Understood".

"Good" Athos declared, turning to go back to the table.

But D'Artagnan wasn't done yet. He raised his eyes, and awkwardly parted his lips, his cheeks growing a bit hot for what he was going to say.

"I'm sorry for…".

He left the sentence unfinished, but there was no need to say more. By the way the Musketeers looked at him, he realized that they understood.

And closing his eyes to get some rest, D'Artagnan felt, for the first time in weeks, safe.