AN: This is actually a prequel to a prompt I was given, because I'm mad for backstory but mostly because something struck me about shipping OT3. Having talked to WizzKiz about wolves and hierarchy (due to her Avengers fanfic Chaotic Howling, which features a shape-shifting OFC), I started wondering how Porthos and Athos dealt with the power-changes in and out of the bedroom. Thing is, in my headcanon, the boys aren't wolves, they're cats.

Command and Conkers

"Tale as old as time,
True as it can be.
Barely even friends,
Then somebody bends,
Unexpectedly."

- 'Beauty and the Beast'

Of course, love was never that easy.

Every day that Athos awoke to Aramis humming and Porthos snoring reminded him that this was right, that the three of them were meant to happen. No matter whether the sun shone or the heavens opened, Athos could find intoxicating joy in simply being with them.

That sort of contentment was sorely sought after; he had lived for too long with his own happiness on the backburner, with it mired in his own misery. Only with them were his smiles real, his laughs genuine, his happiness true.

It lasted until they clipped the last of their gear on and headed for the outside world.

There was something about stepping out of their front doors that changed something intrinsic about the three of them. It was the thin line that delineated lovers and Musketeers; the dark cloud on their sunny horizon was that they all saw it differently.

Athos saw that line like a wall that shouldn't be scaled, and he was firmly on the Musketeers side of it. Every waking moment was swathed in powder blue, his shoulder gratifyingly heavy with fleur-de-lis embossed leather.

If he stood on his tiptoes, he could see Porthos scowling on the other side of the wall.

For Porthos, Musketeer business started only when they left Treville's office with a commission in their hands, and their relationship was the bedrock for everything else. Porthos drew his strength from what they did behind closed doors, and he wanted to do it out of them, too.

Naturally, Aramis straddled both sides of the wall.

Oh, it was easy for Aramis, he managed to entwine a routine patrol with a sly wink, or boring guard-duty with whispered words that managed to heat their blood to uncomfortable levels.

It was diverting, it was fun, but Aramis knew when to stop, and Athos knew when to drag them off for an impromptu debriefing when their work was done.

Porthos didn't want to stop, he wanted the debriefing right then, and that was the problem.

When Athos rolled out of bed in the morning, trying to dress with Aramis pawing at his clothes and Porthos watching from the bed, he was their lover. When Athos put his hat over his freshly-dunked curls and stood before Treville, he was not.

His love turned into protection, formed by the duty that he always felt in his heart. They looked to him for guidance when the bullets flew, they followed him because of his cool head and cooler commands, and that was how he loved them.

Porthos, however, could not get his head around the fact that the Athos who had, only a few hours ago, slept in his arms, was now the Athos who murmured an order and expected it followed.

It hadn't been a problem until the three of them had been staking out an alleyway and Porthos' flirting had almost distracted them from watching their mark. It wasn't Aramis' subtle playing, the one that alleviated the boredom, this was disrupting, dangerous.

Porthos hadn't listened when Athos had ordered him to stop.

Aramis had frozen, half pinned against the wall by Porthos' crowding, but Porthos had continued, had ignored him.

That night had ended in their first argument, Porthos yelling and Athos hissing, Aramis trying to balance both ends of the seesaw, Treville furious because they had alerted their mark.

Athos had lost count how many times something similar had happened, how many times Porthos had tried to shift the power dynamic and Athos had yanked it under control again.

It wouldn't be long before Porthos deliberately undermined him in front of d'Artagnan, and Athos wasn't sure if they could handle that.

The day had started out so well.

The four of them came to a stop, chests heaving from the run that had started by the Palace and ended somewhere outside the city walls. "We will stand a better chance of finding them if we split up," Athos murmured, forcibly not letting his eyes find Porthos' as they wanted to.

He had refused to force his authority down Porthos' throat until the time called for it.

It was time.

Aramis and d'Artagnan both made noises of agreement, but Athos felt Porthos' lack of one like a whiplash across his spine. When he met Porthos' gaze, Athos did it with a straight back and a disinterested expression, he couldn't have eked leader any more than if he had held the figurative whip that Porthos seemed determined to wrest off of him.

"Nah, we stick together." Porthos was matter-of-fact, but Athos read the challenge in his dark eyes just as easily as he read the sudden discomfort on d'Artagnan's face.

Athos took a measured breath, determined to not let this get out of his control. "It makes more sense to split up-"

"I don't care," Porthos interrupted, not noticing the way Aramis looked to the skies, "If one 'f us gets caught then we're knackered."

"I don't particularly care for your tone, Porthos," Athos replied, completely unable to help the ice that slicked his voice, furious that Porthos was doing this now. "We split up."

Porthos' chin rose ever-so-slightly, stubborn anger written in every solid line of muscle. Athos simply raised an eyebrow, clearly expecting that his instructions be followed.

"That," he murmured, "is an order, Musketeer."

Porthos twitched, and if he had been an animal, his hackles would have risen as he growled.

D'Artagnan looked between them both, shifting from foot-to-foot in a clear attempt to get away from the brewing tension. Finally, Aramis stepped in the middle of their stand-off, soothing gaze meeting Porthos first.

Athos was both pleased and frustrated by that.

"How should we split, Athos, in pairs?"

Aramis was offering them both a way out without losing face, without forcing one of them to back down to the other. Athos felt the urge to bare his teeth like Porthos did when he was furious, the way he was restraining himself from doing right now.

"Yes, naturally in pairs," he murmured, and without taking his eyes from Porthos', added, "Aramis, with me."

Porthos' lip twitched, the precursor to a snarl, but then d'Artagnan was there to drag him forcibly by the arm, and Porthos obeyed if only because he didn't want to hurt the boy.

Athos kept his braced stance until the pair disappeared into the trees, and only then did he notice Aramis tapping his foot and staring at him strangely. "Yes?"

"Are you quite finished?"

Athos let his shoulders rise and fall in the smallest of shrugs. "Yes."

They were alone now, and Aramis visibly relaxed when Athos lifted a hand to brush along Aramis' arm briefly, needing that bit of comfort after staring Porthos down.

Athos inclined his head towards the forest, and only when Aramis smiled and started off ahead of him did Athos allow himself to frown. The power dynamic had shifted very drastically, and he wasn't sure what to do about it.

He felt the control slipping from his fingers, and Porthos with it.

"We need to talk."

Athos very nearly fluffed his footing as he planned to step out of the treeline and into the sunlight. He looked over his shoulder to see Aramis with his arms crossed and a frown puckering his brow.

They should be on their way back to Paris; Porthos had sent d'Artagnan with word that they had found their mark. The boy had breathlessly detailed the chase and then scampered off to find Porthos again, leaving Athos to sigh heartily as he realised that at some point there would need to be words.

Except that it seemed Aramis insisted on having his say, first.

"What an ominous thing to say," he murmured, but dutifully turned tail and walked up to Aramis, reaching out with one hand to cup his neck.

They were alone, the job was done, it was harmless.

He had expected Aramis to relax under his touch as he had earlier, but instead, Aramis stared at his hand in something akin to thoughtful consideration. "You are a mystery, Athos de la Fére."

His breath caught, an old fear skittering along his bones. "You said that to me when we first met." When he had settled into command like it was a second skin, when he had found his purposes in life, when Porthos had trusted him to lead.

That lack of trust hurt far more than he would ever let on.

"And you're as much a mystery now as you were then," Aramis said matter-of-factly, and pushed his cheek into Athos' palm when he would have pulled away, when the fear felt too familiar.

Athos frowned but stroked a thumb across Aramis' cheek. "I'm not as open as Porthos, no, but who is?"

Aramis' smile was small. "There isn't one in a million men as open as Porthos, but you are just as unique, mon cher, come." Athos let himself be dragged along when Aramis brought him deeper into the forests, easily obeying the push on his shoulders when Aramis wanted them to sit at the base of a tree.

He moved a few horse-chestnuts out of the way and tugged Aramis down with him, letting Aramis wriggle until they sat side-by-side with their backs against the bark.

He could let his guard down now because his status didn't change in Aramis' eyes, Aramis was happy to follow him in and out of the bedroom, to trust and be trusted, and Athos liked watching Aramis' spine go from straight to arching at his quiet words.

It was Porthos who had trouble relinquishing control when fleur-de-lis' graced their shoulders.

Athos sighed, feeling the lightness of the morning flee from the snapping jaws of responsibility. "I can't let this pass, Aramis, I can't have Porthos openly disobeying me."

"Porthos doesn't deal with change well, mon cher, he doesn't understand why things have to change."

"Why?" Athos asked exasperatedly. "How can they not? We are Musketeers, Aramis, we have a duty to the crown." He dragged his hand through his hair until Aramis tugged it out and linked their fingers together. The little act of comfort made him soften and add, "And to each other. I cannot protect you both if Porthos doesn't listen to me."

He had spent the first few weeks of their relationship jumping at every shadow, convinced that they would be discovered, that the next time they were together would be at the gallows. It was a nightmare that still plagued him from time to time, and he would not let it happen just because Porthos found the necessity of change difficult.

"I think that is Porthos' problem," Aramis admitted, but it wasn't said nervously, it was sympathetic, his light brown eyes warm and tender. "His protection is borne of the heart, not the head, and it means you end up differing."

Athos thunked backwards against the bark and felt helpless exhaustion whisper behind his eyelids. "Out here, my place is different, I can.. I can bend when we're together, but I refuse to do so when we step outside." He sat up to look Aramis in the eye, needing to know that he understood. "It doesn't change how I feel."

Aramis tilted his head in awkward consideration. "It is hard to believe that you love us when you draw back."

Athos blinked in shock, a little unsure as to whether it was that blatant declaration or because they could even think-

His brain raced past its normal overclocking speed and found a culprit. "Is this because I won't sleep with you when we're on the road?"

Aramis' nod was a little sheepish. "I know you don't want d'Artagnan to know but-"

"Good Lord, Aramis," Athos sighed, the back of his head finding the bark again, "If d'Artagnan doesn't know about us by now then he's not the quick study I know him to be – and do not tell him I said that, his head is big enough, lately."

Aramis gave him a smile but it was confused. "Then why…?"

"Because I don't want to be stumbled upon by a religious man who might take umbrage at Porthos' arm on my thigh and yours on my chest," he explained dryly, alarm still thread through his tone at how Aramis had misjudged him.

Aramis frowned and then it cleared into a laugh. "Athos, have you ever considered that the last time we were sneaked upon was three years ago, and that only because you had gone on the search for more wine?"

Athos felt a smile curve his lips at the memory. "I came back to find you aiming blindly at the doorway and Porthos growling something about mauling anyone who disturbed his beauty sleep."

"You see?" Aramis stroked his fingers for emphasis. "Together, we're impassable. You don't need to worry about things like that, we won't be… found out."

Athos shook his head, the anxiety that always clung at his thoughts still weighing him down. "It was a maid, that time, what if it had been someone intent on hurting you?"

Aramis rose onto his knees, bringing his face closer until they were separated by a mere inch. "Then you will stop them, mon cher, that is why you're the leader, is it not?" Aramis feathered a kiss over his lips, and it seemed to pierce the wall of worry.

"You.. are not opposed to my commands?"

"Athos," Aramis murmured, and it took a moment for Athos to realise that it was a little sly, "I quite like your commands, and if Porthos wasn't so confused by them, he would, too."

Athos coughed a surprised laugh. "I don't think Porthos holds me in quite the same regard, mon coeur."

Aramis hummed in consideration, and continued doing so as he stole another kiss. "All the more for me, then."

Athos scoffed lightly, enjoying the taste of Aramis' lips. "You're the one that toes the line, I don't need to tell you what to do." Aramis' smile grew wicked, and Athos arched an eyebrow. "Do not even think about it."

"What?" Aramis asked innocently, and trailed the hand that wasn't still linked along Athos' leg.

He held Aramis' lip between his teeth, pleased when he heard Aramis' breath hitch and felt the wave of stillness that overcame the slender length of Musketeer. He sucked the hurt, swallowing Aramis' breathy moan, and in one smooth motion pulled him onto his lap.

Aramis flowed like water, his smile delighted and mischievous.

Athos let his hands settle on sinful hips and eyed Aramis' hat, his smirk satisfied when Aramis drew it off and the sunshine covered his hair instead.

"Why can't Porthos accept my command as well as you do, hm?" he idly asked the gorgeous man.

Aramis basked in the dappled light, his fingers dipping past Athos' shirt to touch the skin underneath. "I like it when you raise your eyebrow at me," he whispered confidentially.

Athos obliged and received a stunning smile for his effort. As his thumbs made small circles on Aramis' waist, he said reluctantly, "We should get back."

"You shouldn't go back in anger, Athos," Aramis chided gently, making alarmingly quick work of Athos' buttons.

Athos let his eyes lid as he heaved a sigh filled with faux-weariness. "No, perhaps you are right." He pushed Aramis' shirt up to expose the golden skin underneath. "Arch for me, Musketeer."

Athos caught a pleased gleam of a leopard's smile in the sunshine.

Athos was definitely not angry anymore.

They both paused outside the archway to the garrison, Aramis straightening Athos' jacket and Athos quickly swapping their hats. When they were presentable, they strode into the courtyard like men on a mission.

No one would have thought that they had been up to anything mischievous, no one would have even considered them doing anything other than lawful Musketeer work.

No one, that is, except Porthos.

His glower could have melted the silver from his hastily done-up buttons – and now Athos was wondering if he should have let Aramis do them up. "Where've you been?"

Aramis' swift duck of his head deferred to Athos, as he always did when they were in trouble, so Athos shrugged. "We were waylaid."

D'Artagnan frowned, his concern obvious. "Are you okay?"

"Yes, fine, thank you," Athos murmured, restraining the urge to run a hand through his hair or rub a thumb along the faint mark under his collar.

He shot a glance at Aramis, effectively halting his incredibly obvious raised arm from doing something ridiculous like removing his hat. Aramis' curls were mussed six ways from Sunday, and Athos didn't particularly want to rub anything in Porthos' very angry face.

Well, he did, but he didn't want to have some knuckles tapping his jaw any time soon.

D'Artagnan was taking his cues from Athos, and as he was relaxed, the boy was relaxed too. "Treville wants to see us."

"Wonderful, and are we to be thrown to the wolves?" It was a question that could have been about two things. It could have been seen as how angry Treville was, or it could be taken as whether Porthos would join them or not.

Porthos had almost side-tracked their mission today, but then Aramis and he had disappeared for a telling amount of time when there was work to be done.

Work that Porthos could easily handle by himself, of course, but still.

Still that wall loomed between them.

"He's pissed, but we'll manage." Porthos jerked his head up at Treville's office, telling him to go first, to walk in front of him, to expose his back, to be told.

Athos paused at the base of the stairs, wondering whether he was meant to read something in the difference between Porthos' words and his actions.

Normally, after a command like that, he would have murmured, "After you," threading a demand in with the unfailing politeness. However, he only had to take one look at the tight line of Porthos' shoulders to know that he was struggling.

With the memory of Aramis' kiss still on his lips, and the worried look d'Artagnan was starting to give him, Athos could relent, he could bend, just this once.

For all of their sakes.

And so he simply nodded, taking command by leading and having them follow him, their fanning out around him when they stood before Treville, them backing him up and he shielding them.

Porthos bit his tongue and kept quiet when they shared the blame for taking so long, no one mentioning the argument that had taken place outside the city walls or their dallying on the way back.

Athos let Porthos out of the room first, inclining his head when Porthos grumbled a thank you and seemed to relax a little. They both realised that neither would go for the other, and there was only silence when Aramis carefully drew a conker from his pocket.

Athos produced two more, and the three battered-yet-perfect seeds now sat amongst their pistols on the dresser. He caught Porthos staring at them at one point, and found himself dragged into an impromptu hug before Porthos stomped off to the other room.

It was a patchy solution, not quite right, the wound still seething under Aramis' careful attention, his healing skills not suited for this. They both existed in some sort of limbo, neither quite sure of the other, both wary of talking too loudly or insisting too much.

They didn't argue that night and it was Porthos who bent next, a muttered apology over Aramis' sleeping form curled up between them.

It went some way towards breaking down the wall, and Athos was already reaching for Porthos' hand when they met midway, their fingers linking over Aramis' chest.

Neither of them were ones for declarations of love, they left that to Aramis, but perhaps, in time, things would settle and they would understand each other. This was new, after all, and love was never easy.

"Sleep, Musketeer."

Athos caught an irritated glint of a tiger's eyes in the darkness.

AN: Writing a prequel solely for the purpose of explaining a dynamic is new for me, especially one so awash in angst. Please let me know if you liked it, or want to discuss it with me! You can catch me here, on my AO3, or at my Tumblr.

Subscribe for the next chapter, where Athos bends and explores the power that it brings. Also, fluff!