Disclaimer: If I owned it I would probably have known that they've started filming S2 way back when as opposed to just now! (And on that note *SQUEE!*) The title is from the Robert Frost poem "Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening".

Debbie – To answer your question on d'Art's age in "The Greatest of Them All": I'd say probably mid-to-late twenties. In my mind he's been one of the gang for about seven or eight years.

Miles To Go Before I Sleep

But I have promises to keep and miles to go before I sleep; and miles to go before I sleep. – Robert Frost

The moon shone brightly over Paris, its soft light illuminating the now empty training yard. The garrison was silent as all within slept soundly, secure in the knowledge that they were safe among their brothers – all except one. Athos sat at the window of his room looking out over the yard with unseeing eyes. The soldier in him knew that he should rest, that tomorrow would require him to be at his best, but his mind was far too restless, images of the past clashing with his fears (along with the hope that he refused to give voice to) for the future. He held back a sigh as he continued to stare fruitlessly into the night that seemed determined not to end. Finally, desperate for any occupation, he decided to attempt to organize his thoughts and to order each event that had led to this moment.

Anne

Athos felt his throat close and his eyes moisten as the thought of his wife caused his heart to clench with sorrow and grief and anger and, yes, God help him, love. He'd been such a fool and apparently still was; she'd taken so much from him and was likely plotting to take more, but it seemed even that knowledge could not slay the part of him that still loved her, that still wished a life with her. He bit back a scream of frustration, combing his hand through his hair and rubbing it over his face several times until it finally came to settle on the small piece around his neck. He held back a bitter laugh as he grasped the pendant in his fist – it could not have weighed more than an ounce, but it had served as both collar and millstone to him these past five years: leashing him to his past and a constant weight on his heart and soul. Turning away from the window he looked down, rubbing the pendant between his thumb and forefinger for a second before snapping it open. Taking a breath, he sealed himself for the memories that were sure to come. Exhaling, he opened his eyes and was surprised when it was not the face of his wife that sprang to his mind as the small blue flower came into his line of sight.

"That flower is the signature of a woman who works for the cardinal."

He remembered the feelings that had coursed through him when he'd caught sight of that flower pressed into the box – his blood seemingly running hot and cold all at once. Looking back, it was really quite amazing that he'd managed such a level declaration. He snorted, though, as the memories of what came next flooded his mind: a chain of confessions and revelations that could only ever have happened to the four of them with the very unique brand of luck that seemed determined to haunt them.

"I thought you said your wife was dead," stated Aramis, his tone careful, but unable to keep a note of suspicion from his voice.

"Perhaps we should start from the beginning," suggested Porthos gently, determined to keep the tension from rising. Athos shot him a grateful look. For all that his exuberant mannerisms and boisterous personality might suggest otherwise, he was a true rock – a steady, even counterpoint to the fire and ice that could sometimes consume him and Aramis. Even still, the thought of revealing the truth, of unmasking his foolishness, his weakness caused Athos' throat to close. His eyes dropped, no longer able to meet the gaze of his brothers.

"Athos, my brother." Aramis' voice drew Athos from his reverie and when he looked he was startled to find the man kneeling in front of him. "There is no power in this world that could change the depth of our love for you. Our only wish is to understand and to help you carry whatever burdens your heart." He squeezed Athos' neck, pulling the man's head down until their foreheads touched, willing the man to believe that he would never stand alone. Taking a breath, Athos allowed himself to indulge in the warm hand on his neck for another moment before beginning the tale of his misspent youth.

"She WHAT?!" exclaimed Porthos, as Athos spoke of his wife's reveal at La Fère, "I'll kill her, I'll kill her myself," he growled. Athos allowed himself a fond look at his brother before turning back to the room. It was only then he noticed that Aramis had gone white as a sheet.

"You could've of…," trailed Aramis unable to finish the thought. Abruptly he stood taking a couple of steps before nearly collapsing against the far wall. He inhaled sharply as he felt a hand on his shoulder and another press into his cheek. Locking eyes with his brother, he covered the hand on his face with his own, pressing it even harder as if to reassure himself that Athos was truly there. He relaxed for but a moment before a thought crossed his mind and he turned a sickly shade of green. "I almost let you burn."

"Wha…," began Athos, unable to comprehend where the thought could have come from.

"I almost stopped him…d'Artagnan… if I had, if he hadn't…," stuttered Aramis, his breath becoming ragged.

"It would not have been your fault," whispered Athos fiercely, one hand gripped tightly behind his brother's neck, "Never."

As he sat in the dark now, Athos could not help but wonder if it would have been better had he perished in the fire. Perhaps if he had then his brothers would not be in the danger that they were now, a danger due solely to Anne's hatred of him. A small voice in his head whispered otherwise, but his heart screamed differently and it seemed tonight that it would rule his head.

"So the flower is her symbol. But how do you know that she's working for the Cardinal?" inquired Aramis.

"Because she told me," answered Athos flatly. "I was out one night," he continued, before any of his brothers could recover from the shock, "and she approached me – warning me to leave her alone."

"Why would she do that?" asked Porthos.

"You remember Ni-the Comtesse de Larorque's trial," began Athos.

"That woman who testified against Ninon – it was her, wasn't it? the realization dawning on Aramis.

"Yes, and I could think of only one reason she would have done what she had and after the trial Ninon confirmed my suspicions. After that I began to attempt learn more of her: of her time in Paris and to track her movements, I suppose it was only a matter of time before she heard of it."

"Athos, you know you should've come to us, right?" said Porthos in an exasperated tone. He sighed as his brother's only response was to shrug before dropping his gaze once more.

"Well, under normal circumstances I would've said that she was quite beautiful," began Aramis, in an exaggeratedly flippant tone that belied the steel that flashed in his eyes. He was, however, glad for the familiar look that his remark caused Athos to shoot at him. "So I'm glad to have been there – now I'll know whose bed to avoid." And whose neck to wring, his mind added as it silently inventoried every hellish nightmare, every solitary binge, every flash of pain and self-loathing that that woman had inflicted on his brother.

"I don't suppose you'd care to share," interjected d'Artagnan. "I wasn't there, remember?"

"Dark hair, green eyes…beautiful," listed Aramis, his lips twisting into a snarl at his last word.

"Apologies, but that's not really all that helpful, I mean…," trailed d'Artagnan suddenly paling. "Dark hair, green eyes," he repeated, almost as if in a trance. "Tall?" The young man's eyes flickered over to Athos, who nodded slowly, a pit forming in his stomach. "And her symbol – that blue flower: a forget-me-not?" Again Athos nodded and, at that, the rest of the colour drained from d'Artagnan's face. Abruptly he stood, one hand over his mouth as if he were about to be ill. Shaking his head, he attempted to back away, only to stumble over the chair behind him. He started at the strong hands that kept him from falling and tried to struggle out of the grip.

"Woah, lad," rumbled Porthos, tightening his grip, "it's just me." He flashed a look at Athos as the boy's breathing grew ragged. In an instant, he had one hand on d'Artagnan's arm, just below Porthos' and one on the back of his neck.

"Calm, breathe," he instructed, taking deep breaths of his own, willing d'Artagnan to follow his example. "You know her." He continued once the boy's breathing had slowed. It was not a question.

D'Artagnan closed his eyes, turning his head away unable to look at the man who he'd so deeply betrayed. "My first night in Paris I spent the night with a woman – dark hair, green eyes…the most beautiful I'd ever seen," he repeated bitterly, recalling his words to Aramis. "She had these marks on her neck. She claimed the man she loved tried to kill her. I offered to kill him for her." D'Artagnan gasped these last words as the sobs began to rack his body. He tried to pull back as he felt Athos close in, desperate to put distance between him and brother he'd betrayed. Porthos' solid presence, however, prevented him from doing so and as he felt Athos' forehead on his own he could not help but press into the comforting touch.

"It's alright," whispered Athos.

"But–"

"You did nothing wrong," he continued firmly, preventing d'Artagnan from objecting. Pulling back, he put a hand under d'Artagnan's chin and waited for the boy to open his eyes. "You could not have known," he stated, their eyes locking.

"I would never…"

"I know," affirmed Athos, giving his arm a reassuring squeeze. Closing his eyes, d'Artagnan leaned in once more unspeakable grateful for the man before him and the underserved forgiveness he offered. They remained there for a few more moments before d'Artagnan straightened himself with a shuddering breath, slowly releasing himself from Porthos' support.

"There's more," d'Artagnan said after finally gathering himself. "She's been…courting me." Athos' eyes widened in alarm. "She's the one who shot the guards that cornered me during the mission with Vadim and afterwards she left a bouquet of those flowers for me. It was her who paid my entrance fee for the contest against the Red Guards." D'Artagnan's face twisted in disgust at the thought. That he had taken money from her, money that he'd used to earn his commission, blood money. His fingers twitched as he suddenly felt the urge to rip off the uniform that now seemed so unworthily won. He inhaled sharply as he felt a hand squeeze his arm.

"Again, you've done nothing wrong," repeated Athos firmly, as if divining his thoughts. "You are my brother and I trust you with my life. And I am and forever will be proud and honoured to serve at your side."

"Mmmm." A groan stirred Athos from his thoughts, his eyes flicked down towards the direction of the noise. D'Artagnan had long since fallen asleep and was now on his back, head now resting on Athos' thigh. For a moment he feared that the boy might wake, but the moment soon passed with d'Artagnan shifting onto his side, turning to face Athos, snuggling his head into Athos' hip. Athos felt a small smile spread over his face at the action as his mind began to turn to lighter thoughts: memories of d'Artagnan and his initial hesitancy over sharing a bed – how, at the beginning, he'd always kept to the edge. A week of survival training where fires were forbidden and the warmth of one's brothers was all that was available had quickly cured that. As he looked down, Athos had to resist the urge to card his fingers through the boy's hair, as a fierce, protective fire filled his heart. He swallowed as his mind turned towards tomorrow and what he would have to do.

Athos sat down, wiping a hand over his face as Aramis filled his glass. It'd been near three months and they were still no closer to proving the Cardinal's or Milady's (as they had come to call her) involvement in the assassination attempt. And his heart only grew heavier as d'Artagnan entered the tavern, a dark look on his face.

"Again," scowled Athos.

"Just another bouquet, but it means she'll make contact again and I'm running out of excuses. She may start to get suspicious," sighed d'Artagnan, slumping into the empty seat. He nodded gratefully as Aramis passed him a full glass. Taking the cup he swirled the dark liquid a few times before slamming it down on the table. "I just…I don't understand her interest. What could she possibly gain from it?"

"Maybe she thinks she can use you to get close to Athos," suggested Porthos.

"Perhaps," said d'Artagnan, "but she's already shown that she's more than capable of doing that herself."

"But she can't kill him herself, though," countered Aramis, "not at least without bringing the entire regiment down on her head."

"So what then?" scowled d'Artagnan, "I mean, my being there when she tries would hardly be helpful to her cause."

"Well, it's possible she thinks that, maybe, if you loved her…really loved her, you might fulfill your first promise to her," stated Aramis.

"Then she's delusional." D'Artagnan snorted at the suggestion, but could not keep from flicking his eyes in Athos' direction, and he felt his chest loosen at Athos' nod of confidence. Sighing, he picked up the glass in front of him, taking one last glance at its contents before downing it in one. Silence fell over the four and d'Artagnan began drumming his fingers on the table. Then, suddenly, and idea sparked. "And if I were to help her, what do you think she might give me?"

They'd spent the night and the next few fleshing out the plan and even Athos had to admit that it was passable, but the number of variables were still far too high for Athos' liking and it would be d'Artagnan who would bear the brunt of the risks. And included in these would be a wound by Athos' own hand. His stomach turned at the though. 'It's only a shot to the arm.' The boy's words echoed in his mind and he could not help snorting at the remark. The number of variables in that alone was almost enough to make Athos call the whole thing off: he could hit a nerve or an artery or wound could become infected. In truth, Athos was still unsure if he would be able to pull the trigger.

"For the queen and for France."

Again the d'Artagnan's voice echoed in his head and Athos had to once again keep from laughing a bitter laugh. Yes, for king and country he would put a shot in the boy was as near a son to him as he was a brother. For them, he would allow d'Artagnan to throw himself into the arms of the woman who'd slit his brother's throat without a second thought and into the sights of the second most powerful man in France. It was his duty, and as before it would always come before the desires of his heart.

"Athos?" The sleepy murmur caused Athos to freeze and as he looked down his eyes locked with a pair of familiar half-lidded dark ones. "What time…"

"Late," whispered Athos soothingly, rubbing one hand along his arm quickly recovering from the shock. "I just needed to prepare myself. Sleep, I'll join you when I'm ready." He sighed inwardly with relief as d'Artagnan followed his instruction, even if it was a testament to how trying these months had been for him all.

Turning back towards the open window, Athos' eyes drifted up to the moon still high in the night sky, half of him longing for the night to be over and the other willing it to never end. A stab of guilt struck him as he felt d'Artagnan shift against him: at the incredibly loose truth of his words – for there would be no sleep for him tonight nor, likely, for many more nights. Sighing, he attempted to prepare himself for what the morning would bring, for what he must do. And as he did he pushed aside the voice in his head that whispered hope: that, perhaps, after all this that he would finally be able to rest, to truly sleep.