a/n: Set in the "Charl(i)es' Angels!" Universe. Gender bender: Fem!Porthos, Fem!Aramis, Fem!Athos. A one-shot, can stand on its own.

Summary: d'Artagnan and the Inseparables have a little hair-bonding.

the M~U~S~K~E~T~E~E~R~S - S~R~E~E~T~E~K~S~U~M eht

Charl(i)es' Angels!
One-Shot: Tresses

d'Artagnan's skull throbbed from the inside out, his scalp sore and tight. He reached up with a groan and swiped at the non-existent bangs from his eyes. His eyes snapped open and he bolted upright—nearly toppling over the side of the bed in light-headedness.

"Easy!" Porthos' brogue scolded softly and steadied him.

"What 'appened?" he croaked through cottonmouth.

"You passed out. Over-work, exhaustion, Aramis said. Took a nose dive right off your horse." She lightly smacked her palm in re-enactment. "Gave us quite a scare."

But d'Artagnan started to shake his head, stopping instantly when nausea lodged in his throat and he wavered where he sat. "Ah. I meant my hair, Porthos."

She raised a brow from the chair she sat in at his bedside at the unexpected question—and then realized his worry. "Donae worry," she clapped him lightly on the shoulder and smiled. "The mane's still there. Just 'ad a bit o' fun while you were out—I got bored." He gave her an open-mouthed look and she shrugged. "Aramis said you'd been fine after some rest and a good meal."

Eyes lightly widened, he reached up with trepidation and ran his fingers along his head, feeling the spines from the three braids along his skull. One on either side and another down the center.

"You braided my hair like a girl?" he demanded, incredulous. "While I was out and unable to defend myself?"

Porthos scoffed and rolled her eyes at his such a male-reaction. "'Ere, take a look for yourself." And she stood and went over to the table to retrieve the small looking glass.

He took it from her with a sour expression and glowered as he held the glass up and his reflection came into focus—and his gaze suddenly softened.

He remembered when he was little and in refusing to have his hair sheared—his mother would plait his hair in a similar manner to keep him from looking like a wild-child. He protested, saying that it made him look like her little girl instead. But she'd shaken her head and stroked hair and told him it made him her little warrior.

He hadn't been so pout-y after that... and then she died of fever and it was just him and Alexandre. He'd left the braids in after that, refusing to let anyone touch them for so long—unwashed and tangled—that he'd gotten lice. Alexandre had finally put his foot down, and kicking and screaming, had sheared d'Artagnan's hair down to the roots. And his mother's touch was gone from him forever. That day, he'd cried in his father's arms anew.

Unbidden, tears sprang into his eyes.

"d'Artagnan!" Porthos gasped—and misinterpreted. "I'll take them out right now." She sat un the edge of the bed and reached for him. She'd expected him to pout and glower and grumble at the most, embarrassed; but not this.

"No!" he jerked from her reach and twisted to face her. "No. It's not that." He sniffled and looked embarrassed. "When I was a kid my mother..." he swallowed the lump. "My mother used to do almost the same thing to my hair, is all."

She nodded and smiled softly at the own memory she had. She used to fall asleep in her mother's lap to the woman braiding her frizz. "My ma used to do the same thing—she taught me 'ow." She pulled her own long braid through her palm from behind her neck.

d'Artagnan set the glass aside and gave her a smile. "Thank you, Porthos."

"Mmm."

They sat in companionable silence then, each remembering a mother they had lost too young. Feeling the bond only mother-and-child could but bonding as brother-and-sister themselves.

Both looked over as the door carefully opened and Aramis came in, carrying a four plates of food precariously balanced in her arms. "You're up." She paused in the doorway to grin at the pair sitting on the bed, before she set the plates on the small table on the other side of the room.

Athos came in after, with four cups and a bottle of wine tucked under her arm.

Aramis looked at them, her brown eyes sparking with amusement. "Did the two of you decide to have a slumber party while we were away, hmm?"

d'Artagnan turned and stuck his tongue out at her. "You're just jealous. Porthos would never touch that bird's nest you call hair with a ten foot pole!"

"Is that right?" Aramis' brow twitched as stalked towards the bed, her arms outstretched.

"Aramis," Porthos loomed behind the Gascon and gave the woman a most wicked grin that caused her pause. "Mess that an' next time you're asleep, you won't like what you find when you wake up."

The Spaniard dropped her arms. "That's not fair, you ganging up against me!"

There was a quiet chuckle from where Athos sat at the small table, pouring out the wine. They all looked at her. "Ah." She shook her head. "I believe discounted someone?" And then she did the most feminine hair flip in Paris, with the most haughty look that would put any Comtesse to shame.

There was a single beat of silence, and then the room filled with roaring laughter. Porthos and d'Artagnan were laughing so hard, they had to hold onto each other, least they fall off the bed and onto the floor. Aramis fell down onto them, unable to hold herself up, the laughter stealing her breath.

They were laughing so hard that the bed shook and creaked.

Athos watched, a smile on her lips, almost hoping that the bed would collapse beneath the trio.

"Finish yet?" she deadpanned after several minutes, sitting back in her chair and drinking her wine.

Unfortunately, the bed didn't collapse beneath their combined weight, but finally, their howling laughter had died to gasping and laughter-hiccups. They were in such a tangled pile that it was hard to tell whose limbs belonged to whom. How they managed to stay on the narrow bed was a complete mystery.

Even after all that, d'Artagnan's and Porthos' braids were intact, not a hair out of place—but Aramis' was another story.

"You really ought to do something about that, Aramis." Athos noted wryly.

Aramis struggled onto an elbow to glare at her. "Come over here, Comtesse and I'll do something about yours."

"Do that, and it's not Porthos you need to be afraid of." She said.

"Really?" Aramis groaned, flopping back. "Why are you all ganging up against me?"

Porthos chuckled and reached over d'Artagnan's knee and ruffled the woman's hair, knotting it further. "It's 'ard to look away from a disaster, sister."

"They call it a brush for a reason." d'Artagnan snickered, and Aramis smacked him in to the stomach, knocking his recovered breath out, but there was fondness in the gesture.

d'Artagnan had lost his mother and his father, but he'd found a family here in Paris, he'd found three big sisters that braided his hair, behaved like mother hens, and encouraged him.

It was nice to remember, but it was better to live.

the M~U~S~K~E~T~E~E~R~S - S~R~E~E~T~E~K~S~U~M eht

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