Hello! This seems to be a fairly small fandom at the moment but I can't stop myself from writing some sweet Musketeer action! I wish more people would watch it, it's so good!

Things may seem a little confusing at first, but please stick with me. This is not a Slash fic, things will become...clearer later.

I hope you enjoy this tale!

The Musketeers belongs to the BBC

Prologue

There was a new boy in the gang. He could hardly have been older than five or six, and yet here he was, out on the street with the rest of them. He was a skinny little runt, half-starved, hair matted to his head. He kept wiping his nose with his sleeve, but the snot seemed to constantly pour from his nostrils. Claude liked him. It was hard not to care for the little runt. Small and smelly though he was, he was one of them now. And they looked after their own. They had to.

Life in Paris was not an easy one, not for the poor anyway. While the nobility strode around in their rich silks, the poor scrabbled around in the dirt trying to make a living. Those who couldn't work became beggars, the lowest of the low. They were spat on, beaten, ignored, treated more like animals than people. Once you were out on the street there was no going back. That was it. Life was over. The only thing you could do was try and survive for as long as possible.

The little troupe of children was lead by the eldest, a thin but wiry character, Thomas. At the age of 23, he'd reached manhood quite sometime ago, but he'd never had the heart to leave his brothers. Most were under the age of ten, and although they were fairly street wise, they were still vulnerable. Thomas could find places for them to sleep at night, abandoned burnt out houses, thickets and the occasional ditch. They listened to Thomas, and looked up to him as a father. He'd organise them, protect them and teach them. Teach them to steal to live.

The group Claude was out with that day were made up of four boys. The eldest, Fabien, was 14, headstrong and a bully. His younger brother Fred trailed after him like a shadow, quiet and thoughtful. He was one of their best pick-pockets, light on his feet and steady handed. Gaspard was the same age as Fred, and was a bit slow-witted. Claude almost resented taking him along with them. And of course there was the new boy. He hadn't uttered a name yet. In fact he hadn't really said anything. They still didn't know if he spoke. So they just called him Mud. Because that's what he was covered in when he arrived.

It was raining that day, a light drizzle. The boys didn't seem to notice, strolling casually down the thin streets of Paris, looking for potential marks. The market place was a good place to start, there would be plenty of people out shopping for their wares. It would be busy too, less easy to get noticed. The five of them lounged against the side of a building, watching. Until Fabien started to get restless.

"Let's just go. Pick a random person for god's sake!" He moaned, hitting his head off of the wall behind him. Claude shook his head in reply.

"No, we do this properly. Mud has to learn, and I'm not letting him get caught on his first try,"

Fabien muttered something under his breath but the older boy ignored him, giving Mud a nudge to get his attention.

"Right little man, you ready?"

He nodded a quiet response.

"When I give the signal, you go ahead, just like we practiced. A quick slice to the money pouch, catch the coins and away. No problem,"

Fabien was still muttering. "Can't see why we can't just corner some rich s-,"

"Look! Musketeers!" Gaspard was pointing to the other side of the square, where sure enough, three blue cloaked gentlemen could be seen walking through the crowds.

Two of them were talking to a younger lad with no cloak, joking and laughing, in high spirits. The third was following behind, a sullen look on his face, looking idly at the stalls on either side. They all wore pistols and swords on their hips, and hats perched on their heads. Claude hushed Gaspard, not wanting to draw unwanted attention. He kept talking with the others animatedly, under his breath.

"Look at those pistols! When I'm older, I'm getting one of those blue cloaks, you just wait and see,"

"Don't be stupid Gaspard, you're a beggar and an idiot, why would they want you?" Fabien scoffed.

"You take that back!"

"No,"

"I'll be a musketeer, and I'll be rich and I won't give you anything," Gaspard spat at Fabien's feet. Mud took a step backwards. But Fabien didn't seem to take any notice. He had a look of dawning comprehension on his face.

"Money. They've got money. Probably a lot of it. That one at the back, we could get him good!"

Claude stood open mouthed for a second, lost for word. Was he seriously...yes he was. What a complete idiot!

"Don't even think about it!" He snapped. "Do you wan't to get yourself killed?"

"Not myself, no. Mud. Think of it as a initiation into the group," He was grinning at mud now. The younger boy was staring wide eyed back at the blue cloaked men.

Claude stood up straight, drawing himself to full height, which wasn't very impressive. Fabien still had a good few inches on him. But he still managed to push him back into the wall behind, jabbing a firm finger into his chest.

"He'll do nothing of the sort!"

"Who put you in charge anyway Claude? We don't need no coward telling us what to do! I bet the little mite is too scared to try, just like you!" The spittle was flying from Fabien's mouth into the older boys face. He didn't flinch however, only prodded harder.

"I'm the eldest Fabien! And I do what Thomas tells me! If he says I'm in charge, I'm in charge! Now shut up, and calm down! Leave Mud out of this!"

Fabien laughed. An odd response. What was so funny?

"Looks like Mud's decided to prove himself after all,"

The colour drained from Claude's face. He whipped around, scanning the crowd quickly. There was the young boy, sneaking up towards the straight faced musketeer, small knife in hand, ready to cut the purse hanging from his waist. There was no way this would end well.

"Shit,"

Claude gave Fabien a final shove up against the wall and then darted through the crowd. The market was bust today, and he was bustled about, gaining disapproving looks from many a passer by. People were muttering and cursing at him, he was hardly stealthy. Just as long as he could get to the boy in time.

There. Dead ahead. He had his hands out, about to do the deed. Claude launched himself forward. Grabbing the small boy and pulling him backwards in the nick of time.

"No Mud!" He hissed quietly. "You don't listen to Fabien!"

Mud looked thoroughly ashamed of himself, staring at his feet. He gave Claude's rough sleeve a pull, grabbing his attention further. The older boy bent down the same level as Mud.

"His purse. It's full," He muttered, looking up with eyes that held a hint of excitement. "I bet you could do it Claude!"

Over the course of the next few weeks, Claude would look back on that moment. The moment that seemed to decide his fate. From that point on, everything would change. A family would be lost, a new one gained, secrets would be out, and secrets would be made. All because of the first words that Claude heard uttered by that small, scrawny boy that he seemed so fond of. Yes, it would all come down to trying to make that little boy happy.

Claude took the little knife from the boy, shifting his weight onto the balls of his feet. It felt as if he was walking on air, treading lightly across the dirty street, gaining once more on the Musketeer. There it was, his purse hanging from the man's belt. He lent forwards, knife gripped in his sweaty hand, and took a deep breath. Claude reached forward to cut the purse.

It happened quickly. One moment he was seconds away from his prize, the next, he was pinned against the wall of the building next to him. His arm was twisted up above him in a painfully tight grip. The musketeer toward above him, looming over, blocking out the light. He gasped, winded, and flinched as the grip tightened on his wrist painfully. The knife fell from his hand with a clatter, onto the ground below.

"Did you really think I wouldn't notice your little gang of cut-purses boy? Especially after you sent the little one over first? How old is he? Four? Five?" His voice was deep, well spoken.

"I- I-," Claude stuttered. His eyes were wide, and he was trying extremely hard not to make water in his breeches.

"Do you know the punishment for theft? Branding? And that's all you'd get if you were lucky!"

Claude was well aware of this fact. He'd seen many a boy taken away for punishment, returning with a brand burnt into his skin. Some never came back. And now it was about to happen to him.

"Please sir, we didn't mean no harm-,"

"The boy. He's in your care?"

Claude gulped over the giant lump in his throat and started nodding quickly. "He came to us last week. Hasn't spoken a word until today. We couldn't leave him to starve sir, you've got to understand! We're hungry!"

There was a flicker of emotion on the man's face but it quickly vanished. His jaw was set tightly, eyes cold. It was very imposing.

A chuckle could be heard to the side, and Claude looked around to find the other three men approaching. The youngest looked confused, if not slightly concerned. The other two were still grinning between each other. Movement caught Claude's eye to his right. Mud. He was standing stock still, eyes wide, bottom lip wobbling dangerously. Right in the open, exposed.

"Mud! Run! RUN!" Claude shouted straining against the man's tight grip.

The little boy turned on his heal and pelted through the crowd, kicking dirt and straw up as he went. The musketeer turned his head, watching him leave, momentarily distracted. Claude took his chance. The man was much bigger than he was, tall and muscular. But a swift knee driven up between his legs did the job, and he doubled over, cursing. Claude was out under his arm in a flash, ignoring the shouts of his comrades as he disappeared into the crowd.

Athos straightened up to find the boy had vanished. He jerked forward as a great, big hand gave him a hearty slap on the back.

"Ah, the great Musketeer Athos, bested by a cut-purse!" Porthos chuckled.

"Shut up," Was the reply he received, and then the men continued on their way.