D'Artagnan knew it was destined to be one of those days when he strode into the garrison that morning. The first indication was Jean-Paul, a recently commissioned Musketeer who suddenly landed at his feet before he had taken more than three steps forward. D'Artagnan arched a brow at the older man, glanced up, and nodded sympathetically.

"Porthos?" He asked.

Jean-Paul's eyes fluttered open slowly. When he noticed D'Artagnan, he cringed. "'Fraid so," he gulped.

D'Artagnan let out a noise of barely contained exasperation and looked up. "Porthos!" He called, upon catching sight of his friend in the middle of the courtyard. He was spinning, two terrified Musketeers clinging to his back as he swirled nimbly as a dancer. From this angle, they were similar to the ribbons on a May-Pole, swung persistently around their anchor point like limp noodles.

D'Artagnan crossed his arms, one finger tapping at the Pauldron adorning his left shoulder. He had only had it for a few months now, but his sense of awe had yet to wear thin. Evidently, some unsuspecting idiots had challenged Porthos to a wrestling duel while he was in a foul mood. Still, Porthos wasn't usually so… Brutal. He preferred to teach, not to torture, which seemed to be Aramis and Athos's duties respectively.

At his call, Porthos came to an abrupt halt. The two Musketeers on his back went flying in opposite directions, landing with grunts of pain and causing a flare of dust to cloud the air. Porthos's chest was heaving, fists clenched at his sides and eyes aflame with rage. "I'm gonna kill 'im," he growled.

"Who?" D'Artagnan coughed, waving away the dust stinging his lungs and eyes, feeling a bit of panic. He didn't recall having done anything lately to inspire Porthos's rare temper.

"Who else?" Another voice intoned. D'Artagnan turned slightly, surprised. It had been a long time since he had been unaware of Athos's presence, the other man adept at hiding close to the shadows. Nevertheless, D'Artagnan had perfected the art of locating him no matter the circumstance- Porthos and Aramis now looked to him whenever searching for their dear comrade.

D'Artagnan stood, watching the two men warily. Athos's expression was a mask of blandness, as ever, but the way he walked, like a spring coiled to snap, screamed of tightly reined anger. Porthos, also, was still heaving, though he had come to his senses enough to lend a hand to the men he had defeated. "Sorry, lads," the gentle giant apologized, as he hauled Jean-Paul to his feet. "Things went'a little sideways there."

"No worries, Porthos," Jean-Paul replied, cheerful as ever. He slapped at his pants and shirt, sending puffs of dust back into the air. D'Artagnan took a few steps to the side. It was nearly summer, for goodness sakes. Dust in the hot air was not doing anything for D'Artagnan's continued ease of breathing. "It was a good lesson," he said, smacking Porthos on the back.

"Did I do something?" D'Artagnan blurted. Athos gave him a stern glare.

"Did you do something?" he repeated dangerously.

"We ain't mad at you, D'Artagnan," Porthos sighed, sparing him from having to explain the twenty-four hours since they had last seen each other to Athos, who looked extremely displeased. "It's 'Mis. Not even really mad at him…"

Athos harrumphed and speared Porthos with a dour look. "Speak for yourself, mon ami," he growled, stalking back toward the empty table beneath Treveille's office.

So much made sense now. "What'd he do this time?" D'Artagnan asked, plopping down beside Athos. Porthos joined them a moment later, his foot thumping relentlessly against the ground as soon as he sat. He squinted at the gates of the Garrison, as if his diligence would suddenly make Aramis appear.

"He was given an assignment," Athos replied.

"What? When? By Treveille?" D'Artagnan gasped, surprised. The captain rarely- it had only happened two times in the two years he had been at the Garrison- assigned one of them without the others. They were called The Inseperables for a reason.

"Rochefort," Porthos grunted. "The Captain just received word of it 'imself a few hours ago. He left to give Rochefort a piece o' 'is mind. Aramis was sent off yesterday and he didn't tell a soul about it. Don't even know where he is," D'Artagnan felt a thrill of apprehension steal up his spine. Now he was squinting at the gates of the garrison, shading his eyes against the glare of the mid-day sun.

"Maybe Rochefort sent him away without time to…"

"We saw him yesterday morning, remember?" Athos interrupted. "At breakfast. He was acting strangely?" D'Artagnan nodded, his mind flashing back to their brief but telling breakfast. Aramis had excused himself early from breakfast, and D'Artagnan had not seen him the rest of the day. He had not thought it overly odd.

When they did not have missions to accomplish, the Musketeers often kept themselves busy patrolling the Louvre or performing chores around the Garrison. He had assumed Aramis had done one of the two, or else returned to the bed of one of his mistresses in the city. It would not be the first time the marksman suddenly vanished, only to later reappear and regale them with side-splitting stories of his small misadventures in the city.

"He was quiet at breakfast. He didn't even greet everyone," D'Artagnan recalled, scowling. "You think he knew then that he had a mission?"

"Aramis does one of two things when he's upset," Athos piped in. "He shuts up or he vanishes without word. He did both yesterday." D'Artagnan felt a hard pit form in his gut. His fingers tapped a relentless beat on the table, now feeling restless anxiety flow through his veins.

"Why didn't he let the Captain know where he was going?"

"D'Artagnan," Porthos snapped, sending him an irritable glance. "We don't know. That's what has us so strung up. Rochefort could have easily sent him to… to Jamaica, and we'd have had no word. I swear if he's sent Aramis into danger…" Porthos's fist slammed against the table. Athos hushed him without word, meeting Porthos's gaze with his own turbulent eyes.

"He should have told us," Athos snarled, shoving himself from the table with barely concealed frustration. "He keeps secrets too readily, and he'll stupidly jump to conclusions or into peril without the slightest thought to anyone else!" D'Artagnan reached over to squeeze his mentor's arm.

"It's alright, Athos," he reassured him, a bit startled by Athos's inclination toward anger these days. It seemed as if he and Aramis were skating on thin ice around each other, an unspoken argument lying dormant but unresolved between them. D'Artagnan glanced at Porthos, and knew he was not the only one who had noticed the friction.

"Treveille will be back any moment now," Porthos murmured, returning to the task at hand. "Then we'll know where he is, we can go get 'im and knock some sense into his thick 'ead," D'Artagnan nodded.

"Exactly," he agreed as Athos sank into his original seat, fuming but calm. "Maybe it was an easy assignment," D'Artagnan tried, though he knew the odds of his own suggestion were unlikely. Besides, the hard ball of anxiety in his stomach told him otherwise. Aramis was gone, somewhere in the wide world, without them. It was a terrifying thought.

"He would have told us if it were easy," Athos pointed out.

"Look!" Porthos sprang to his feet. D'Artagnan peered around him, heart jumping to his throat, and quickly surged to his feet when he saw Captain Treveille's horse reenter the compound. The Captain dismounted with a sigh, handing the reigns of his horse to the nearest person before catching their eyes.

"Come with me," he commanded gruffly. D'Artagnan was already heading toward the stairs, following Athos and Porthos who were both scaling them two steps at a time. They scrambled into Treveille's office before the older man had even entered, standing around his desk impatiently.

"Is he safe?" Porthos blurted the second their captain walked into the room, softly closing the door behind him.

Treveille arched his eyebrows at them, silently pacing round to his desk. He sat down heavily before speaking. "He's safe," he said. D'Artagnan exhaled a shuddering breath, relieved.

Athos stepped forward from where he had been leaning against the furthest wall, as menacing and tense as a gargoyle. "Then where is he?" He demanded.

"I don't know," the stricken look on Porthos's face would have been comical had it belonged to any other circumstance. D'Artagnan quickly stepped aside as Porthos stormed to stand directly before Treveille, eyes wide with sudden fear.

"Then how do you know he's safe?!" His elder squeaked. D'Artagnan set a hand on Porthos's shoulder but did not pull him away. He instead studied Treveille's expression intently, searching for any signs of misdirection. He did not believe the captain would outright lie- not when it concerned the lives of one of his own- but he was known to keep secrets same as Aramis, if he thought it right.

Treveille barely spared him a glance. "Rochefort wouldn't tell me anything but that, Porthos! I don't know where he was sent. I barely know what he's doing…"

Athos appeared on Porthos's right side with a speed that belied the silence of his approach. "What's he doing?"

Treveille started rummaging in his drawers, mumbling curses as he did so. D'Artagnan could not recall ever having seen the normally stoic man so… Uneasy. "Apparently, Rochefort needed a Spanish speaker to help interrogate a Spanish spy," Treveille informed them, his voice pinched with anger. D'Artagnan nodded.

"Logical," he contemplated. "A little too logical for Rochefort. He could have found another translator. Why Aramis? And why didn't Aramis tell anyone where he was going?" D'Artagnan set a hand instinctively on the pommel of his sword, bouncing on his toes. Something… Uncomfortable was slithering up his spine, wrapping itself around his throat. It was the same bad feeling he had possessed when Athos had gone missing suddenly a scant few weeks earlier.

"There has to be more to it than that," Athos insisted, arms crossed.

Treveille, if possible, looked more troubled than they did. Finally, he located what he had been looking for in his drawers. He pulled out a piece of paper, rolled and bound tightly by string. He smoothed it out on his desk, patting the corners down impatiently. D'Artagnan glanced down, instantly recognized a map of France.

His stomach clenched. The country looked larger like this, with all the cities and towns marked with dots and stars. Aramis could be anywhere. "Athos, that's all I could get out of him. The Spanish prisoner isn't being held at the Bastillle, or in Paris. Somewhere south of here… You can't go now!" he cried when the three of them instantly moved to open the door and head out.

"Why not?" D'Artagnan demanded, flabbergasted.

Treveille sighed. "Apparently, this Spanish spy was able to get and send quite a bit of information over the past few months, from Rochefort's rise and my fall to the circumstances of Emilie's disgrace. The King could be in danger," D'Artagnan resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

"Aramis could be in danger," he pointed out. Also, the King can kiss my ass, he wanted to add, but knew his words would not be welcomed in here. Though the sentiment was mutual, he was sure.

"At least let me go, Captain," Porthos suggested hopefully. "I can look up prisons in the south," he gestured to the map. "Work my way around…" Treveille held up a hand.

"Nothing would make me happier than to do that, Porthos, but it could take you weeks to search the Southern regions of France. That's precious time we don't have. Rochefort swore to me that Aramis would return in two days' time, unharmed. Meanwhile, I need every man here, watching out for anything suspicious," He sighed, ran a hand over his aching forehead.

"What does he think he's doin, anyway?" Porthos snapped, arms crossed angrily over his chest. "Orderin around Musketeers? What right does he have to tell any of us what to…"

"He's the King's Minister, Porthos," Treveille interrupted crossly. "He can do whatever the Hell he wants. As much as we don't like it, I'm afraid we must trust his word on this one," the room descended into silence. Porthos was fairly vibrating with rage while Athos was eerily still, brows furrowed. D'Artagnan rocked on his heels, trying not to let his urge to run out that door overcome him. He had never been told he couldn't go after one of his friends before. It was a new experience, and an unwelcome one also.

"And if Aramis doesn't return in two days?" Athos asked, quietly, breaking the tense silence. D'Artagnan half turned, about to beg Athos not to say things like that, but Porthos laid a stilling hand on his shoulder. His eyes bore into Treveille, demanding answer.

Treveille pushed himself to a standing position grimly. "Then we tear this countryside apart looking for him," he promised.

Three days Later:

"Wait, how long has he been gone?" Constance asked again, blinking furiously as if that would undo the past ten minutes.

"Three days," D'Artagnan growled, somehow managing to be heard over the sounds of the tavern. It was unusually full in Le Spot Solitaire. Constance glanced around as a meaty hand squeezed her arm as he walked past. She moved away in disgust, scooting closer to Porthos. He was too full of ire to notice.

"We should be tearing the countryside apart by now!" Porthos hissed.

"By yesterday." D'Artagnan corrected.

"The day he left, dammit!"

"Keep your voices down," Athos interrupted the tirade, sending them a cold glance. "Do you want all of France to hear you?"

"If Aramis hears too, why not?"

"If he's even still in France…"

"Alright," Constance said, patting Porthos's arm reassuringly. "Everyone just calm down. I know you're worried, but perhaps Aramis was only delayed. My worry is that Rochefort won't tell you where he is," she said.

"That's why we came to you," Athos agreed, giving another passer by a harsh glare when he smiled flirtatiously at Constance. D'Artagnan's foot suddenly jutted from beneath the table, sending the man flying head first to the ground. Constance rolled her eyes. And now she missed Aramis, too.

He usually helped her to dissuade the more flirtatious types with more finesse. Meaning that they played verbal games with the drunken sots until they stumbled away embarrassed and confused by the witty interplay. "The Queen has more influence over Rochefort than we do. Perhaps she can get the truth out of him," she nodded thoughtfully. "And if all else fails, we'll scour the countryside together," she added cheerfully.

"Now that's more like it," Porthos sighed, leaning back into his seat tiredly. Constance studied the three men from the corner of her eye, noting the bags of sleeplessness they were all sporting. Her heart melted. She had never been envious of the bond the four men shared for more than one reason. It was as if none could function if they weren't assured of the immediate safety of the others.

"You all should get some rest," she told them gently, reaching out to pluck some lint from D'Artagnan's hair. She did the same to Porthos until he swatted at her hands playfully. She smiled in relief when the large man ducked his head, hiding the grin she had managed to force out of him. "Aramis won't be pleased when he returns to find you all have run yourself ragged."

"Then he shouldn't have left at all," Athos growled, merciless. Constance arched her brows at him. D'Artagnan had told her about the tenseness between him and Aramis as of late. She wondered when he would finally just come out and admit whatever it was, though Constance had a bad feeling she already knew.

"He'll come home," she promised again. "Has Treveille not spoken with the King about it?" The three brothers exchanged a glance that spoke volumes.

"Treveille isn't the King's favorite servant at the moment," D'Artagnan told her. "Nor are we," Constance nodded, thinking that if possible, he looked even cuter while sporting the lost puppy dog look.

"Well, if its any consolation, I don't think the King likes anyone at the moment," she agreed. "I doesn't matter though, one of us will prevail. And who knows? Maybe Aramis is riding back this moment, smiling and whistling badly as usual," D'Artagnan's eyes lit up a smidge, and Constance counted her work partially finished.

"I thought Aramis drove you crazy with his whistling," D'Artagnan teased. Constance kicked him under the table. "Ow!"

"He does," she agreed while Porthos laughed and Athos's mouth quirked at the corners. "You all drive me crazy, though. Which is why you're my favorites. Now, off with you!" She stood, waving them to their feet. The three men obeyed like petulant children. "Stop sulking in corners like vagabonds and be King's guards, for goodness sakes! I'll send word when the Queen has told me what she knows," she said.

Athos sighed and nabbed his hat, setting it upon his head with a flourish. "We are in your debt, Constance," he told her. Porthos squished her to his side in a one-armed hug, kissing her on the forehead chastely.

"Wish we could make you a Musketeer," he rumbled. Constance smiled, sadly. D'Artagnan took her right hand, bending over to lay a kiss on her knuckle.

"She's a Musketeer in all but Pauldron, Porthos," he chided his friend. A tingle of pleasure shot through her arm from where he had kissed her, making her blush. "You know that."

Porthos chuckled and pressed himself past their table and toward the door. Athos squeezed her shoulder silently as he passed and D'Artagnan gave her another gentlemanly smile before following.

Constance watched them go and did not let her smile drop until they were far out of sight. Though she had been reassuring for them, she could deny the shiver of apprehension that was making her neck hairs raise. There was something about this circumstance- something about Aramis's disappearance- that made her nervous.

The Queen will find out, she told herself, already collecting the stray edges of her dress and stepping into the sunlight. We'll bring him home.