This story is a gift-fic for my good friend btamamura. Merry Christmas, my friend! I hope you enjoy it!
Reference is made to her story, Like Boys In the Snow.
My OC Beaumont returns in this. For anybody who may not know, he's gay, and reference is made lightly to his feelings for Albert (which are mostly affectionate, not sexual). I make no apologies if that offends you.
"Friends," Albert was saying with a smile, "for this year's gift exchange, I had something a little different in mind."
It was two weeks before Christmas. The Musketeers, including their newest and youngest comrade Robert Beaumont, were meeting in Albert's workshop to plan for their upcoming Christmas party. It had been Albert's suggestion that they invite not only all their friends, but the city's more destitute population as well. Captain de Treville had been absolutely delighted with Albert's generosity, and pronounced him in charge of all festivities.
The others looked at him curiously. "Oh? What did you have in mind, Albert?" Aramis questioned, pausing in the middle of reviewing the guest list.
"Yes, you've definitely got our attention," D'Artagnan chimed in.
"Well, I was thinking that we let chance decide whom we shall give a gift to."
That left them scratching their heads. "Come again?" said Porthos.
"Simple. We'll all write our names on slips of paper. Each of us draws a random slip, and whosever name is selected, that is who we will give a gift to. There's an even number of us too, so that makes it easier."
There was a ripple of intrigued murmurs. "Now there's a thought! Well, why not?" Aramis rhymed.
"Good, old Albert. Leave it to him to keep things interesting!" said Athos.
Porthos asked, "But what if we pull our own name?"
"You put it back and draw again. Ah, but there's just one thing," Albert added. "The gift has to be entirely hand-made, not purchased from a shop."
Beaumont smiled. "Well, that sounds like fun!"
"Yes… fun…" D'Artagnan's enthusiasm became slightly forced.
Albert seemed to know what his best friend was thinking. "Please do have fun, everybody. If you have any self-doubt, remember that this isn't a contest of skills, but a chance to put your whole heart and imagination into your present. Remember, it's the thought that counts."
Easy for you to say, Albert, D'Artagnan thought.
"The only other rule," Albert continued, "is absolutely no telling anybody else who you are making your gift for, nor what you have planned."
"Fair enough," Beaumont agreed.
"Enough talk! Let's get to the draw!" Porthos exclaimed.
Albert laughed. "That's the spirit, Porthos."
Everybody wrote their name down on a piece of paper, folded it, and tossed it into Albert's waiting hat. The petite blond closed his eyes and thrust his hand in, mixing them good and proper. After a couple of seconds, he removed his hand and announced that it was time. "In an orderly fashion, if you please, gentlemen. No peeking."
Each man came forward, closed their eyes, and drew a name. Then they unraveled the paper to reveal the lucky Musketeer.
After Albert's turn, he glanced around him, smiling at the clear excitement in the air; he could see the wheels already turning in everybody's heads.
He noticed a flash of disappointment cross Beaumont's features. Poor Beaumont was probably hoping to get me. It was no secret among them that the auburn-haired youth had strong feelings for Albert. But then Beaumont brightened, undoubtedly experiencing a surge of inspiration of his own.
Albert beheld the name he had randomly selected. All right, then! Let's see, now what shall I make for him?
D'Artagnan, on the other hand, was feeling miserable. For he drew the one name he had been dreading. Despite Albert's words, he knew he had to come up with the perfect present. It would be bad enough if it were anybody else, but this… this needs to be special. I can't just throw together anything, and call it a gift.
D'Artagnan worked for nearly twenty-four hours, but it was finally ready. He put the brush down and stepped back to examine his masterpiece, never minding the fact that he was covered in yellow, blue, and red. He stared at the painting for a long, long time.
"Well, I daresay it's not bad for my first- I mean, it's a decent enough likeness of him, considering- erm, maybe it will look better once it dries?"
At last, D'Artagnan cried, "Oh, who am I kidding? It's an amateurish mess! A five-year-old could have done better!" He snatched up the portrait and broke it over his knee, before slumping to the floor with a choked sigh.
"Now, here's something he can really use!" D'Artagnan said happily as he hammered the final nail into place. "Never was there a sturdier spice rack!" Nearly every finger was covered in bandages, and it would surely take until after Christmas for the bruises to heal, but it was worth it.
D'Artagnan proudly rapped his knuckles against the collection of mismatched, uneven boards and bent nails. It promptly collapsed.
"Seems I spoke too soon…"
The sound of cursing quickly filled the mansion.
"Ow, ow, ow." D'Artagnan had long since lost count of the amount of times he pricked his index finger with the needle. Naturally, he had never tried knitting in his life, but he figured it couldn't be that hard. Anybody could do it, right?
As the drops of blood continued to leak right through the bandage and onto the table (thankfully, he managed to avoid staining the fabric), he realized that the scarf he was attempting to make- royal-blue to match his uniform- was looking less than stellar. He had started out with twenty stitches, and knit it back and forth for several inches, never noticing until it was too late that there were holes in some places and that the scarf was getting inexplicably wider than he intended.
He knew he was in trouble when he stared losing his stitches. By the time he gave up, he was down to only nine of them.
"Well. Thank heavens I didn't decide to knit him an entire sweater." D'Artagnan didn't know whether to laugh or cry.
D'Artagnan had to admit, as he stared at the smoking husk that was his third attempt at a triple-layer cranberry torte, that this really took the cake now.
The first one refused to rise at all. The second one started to rise beautifully, but had fallen at what seemed like the last minute… and with it, his last ounce of hope. Well, at least he was the proud owner of some burns for his troubles.
He removed apron and hat, tossed them aside, and dejectedly left the kitchen just as Cook was entering to check up on him. "Monsieur D'Artagnan, just what in the world have you been doing in there? All that crashing, banging, and exploding! It sounded like you were waging war instead of baking! And such language belongs in a tavern, not in my kitchen!" the plump, older woman exclaimed. "And look at you- why, you're positively covered in batter and yolk!"
"As you said, I was waging war," the Musketeer muttered, making his way down the corridor, head low.
Cook stared after him for several seconds until he was out-of-sight. Her lips were pursed, and she gave a sigh of exasperation. "I told him I was more than willing to help him! Hmph. 'Stubborn as a Gascon' ought to be a common idiom."
As the scent of the charred remains alerted her, she dove inside. One look at the disaster, and she started to shriek. "My kitchen!"
"What else is there to do?" D'Artagnan asked himself sadly, lying in his top bunk. All around him in the dark, the snores of his comrades sounded. "The party's tomorrow night. I'll be the only one without a gift to exchange! Some friend I turned out to be."
A pale shaft of moonlight swam in through the frosted window, highlighting his face. He sighed. "This is what I was afraid of. I am literally incapable of making something worthy of a friend like him. If only I had a way to truly say how much-"
He frowned and sat bolt upright. "Wait a minute," he slowly began. "Maybe I've been looking at this all wrong. Even though my gift is hand-made, I still haven't been letting it come entirely from the heart, have I? Who says the perfect present has to be tangible?" He lit up in a wide grin, and hastily scrambled down from his bed. I know just what to do!
D'Artagnan relocated to a separate room, where he worked and worked until well past cock-crow. Once he started, the floodgates to his imagination could not be contained.
The Treville mansion had never looked merrier. All the sights, sounds, and scents of the season warmly welcomed all who entered.
"Bless you, Monsieur de Parmagnan," a widow was tearfully saying to Albert, once the festivities were well underway. "It's a Christmas miracle. You've given our children so much hope and happiness. I know my late Alexandre would feel the same."
Albert beamed. "It's an honor and a pleasure, mademoiselle. And my friends the Musketeers pitched in to make this a night we hope you will all remember; they deserve much of the credit."
Porthos was clearly enjoying his role as Father Christmas almost as much as the children. Decked out in flowing crimson robes of satin, a great beard of white, and a wreath-like crown of spruce and holly, he jovially greeted all the enthralled boys and girls who sat on his lap with smiles, hugs, and gifts. One little girl with a particularly worn dress and pair of shoes told him, her sparkling eyes as pure as an angel, "I love you, Santa" before planting a kiss on his cheek. And the gentle giant couldn't help but tear up himself.
By the toasty, crackling fireplace, where the yule log was nestled and the stockings displayed, Aramis entertained a large group with lovely stories and poems. He couldn't help but think to himself, Seeing the joy in the children's eyes, the way that the old folks cry… it makes me wish it were Christmas every day.
Along with toys and treats for all the children, the Musketeers and their friends had distributed to one-and-all medicines, new clothing, and warm blankets.
Soon it was time for the feast. Some of the younger ones were overcome by the sight, exclaiming that they didn't know so much food even existed. There was stuffed goose, thick hams, mounds of mashed potatoes with rivers of gravy, corn-on-the-cob, greens of every variety, rolls, roast chestnuts, puddings, oranges, and spiced sugar cakes. There was more than enough for everyone. After all the guests were seated, and Grace was said, one fellow led a heartfelt toast to the Musketeers.
As for the Musketeers, they couldn't be happier to witness everybody's stomachs and spirits properly full for the first time in who-knew-how-long.
After dinner, the guests relaxed with glasses of eggnog and other light refreshments. There was much chatting, singing, music, and even dancing. The Duke of Buckingham and the Queen found themselves under the mistletoe at one point; after an awkward moment between them, the Queen smiled and granted her long-time admirer a simple kiss on the cheek. And the favorite of King Charles the First positively froze in shock, before breaking out in a deep blush while grinning like a giddy fool. Even if it was a simple kiss of friendship, his Christmas had clearly been made!
At half-past six, the Musketeers came together for their personal gift-exchange. Included among them was a beautiful pheasant pie for Porthos (from Beaumont), a collection of poems for Beaumont (from Aramis), a hand-carved back scratcher for Athos (from Porthos), and a pair of woolly socks for Aramis (from Athos).
Albert handed D'Artagnan his gift. "Merry Christmas, my friend!"
So, he got my name… D'Artagnan gently unwrapped the parcel. His jaw dropped as he held up a snow-globe. Inside was an intricate model of the de Treville courtyard, including the mansion and Albert's workshop, atop a blanket of snow. A jolly snowman stood as the centerpiece. But most remarkable of all were the tiny figures on either side of the snowman… D'Artagnan and Albert. It was as perfect as a picture, like looking into a mirror of the past. Chiseled into the sparkling base were the words Do You Want To Build a Snowman?
Nostalgia flooded D'Artagnan, even if it was only last year that him and Albert had played in the snow together. Just the two of them, reliving the innocence of childhood.
"I'll never forget that day," D'Artagnan murmured with a smile. He let a few tears freely flow, to Albert's astonishment. "This is absolutely amazing, dear Albert. Thank you." Sniffling, he gave the globe a gentle shake, and watched more crystals of white drift down. "I'll treasure it for the rest of my life."
Albert smiled in return. "I'd hoped this would remind you of that."
D'Artagnan remained lost in tranquil thought as he gazed into the miniature world for several minutes more. But then he remembered that he still had his gift to give. Carefully placing his snow-globe- far more valuable to him than a million medals- onto the small table beside them, he let out a long whistle that got the attention of every person in the place.
"If I could have everyone's attention, please," D'Artagnan announced, "I would be delighted if you would all join me outside in honoring somebody very special!"
What on Earth? Albert thought, intrigued and confused.
The entire congregation regrouped in the courtyard, where Albert noticed a large bandstand. Where did that come from? The other five Musketeers, plus all their friends- including the Queen herself- gathered atop in three lines. Positioned beside them on the ground were musicians with their instruments at the ready. What is D'Artagnan up to?
D'Artagnan turned to Albert with a grin. "Ok, so I may have cheated a little- I let the others in on it. But I think you'll understand in a minute."
He directed his attention back to the gathered entertainment, and raised a baton. "Right, all together now! A-one, two, three!"
A chorus of trumpets sounded off. Then, what Albert heard next, he could never have expected:
With clever inventions you know his intention's
To help whenever he can
If you want something sorted, like enemies thwarted
Then Albert is your man
His name is Albert, Albert
He's Albert the Fifth Musketeer!
He's there at the double whenever there's trouble
With wood, and string, and stuff
The things that he makes have just what it takes
Whenever the going gets rough
His name is Albert, Albert
He's Albert the Fifth Musketeer!
He's sharp, he's cool, he's nobody's fool
He's Albert the Fifth Musketeer!
You're dazed with confusion, don't know what to do
It seems the end is nigh
Albert will be there to do more than his share
He's such a practical guy
His name is Albert, Albert
He's Albert the Fifth Musketeer!
If you've been dropped in it, he's there in a minute
That's faithful Albert's way
He's got no pretentions, just lots of inventions
That always save the day
Hooray! For Albert, Albert
He's Albert the Fifth Musketeer!
He's sharp, he's cool, he rides on a mule
He's Albert the Fifth Musketeer!
During the musical intervention before the third verse (which also contained harmonious whistling), D'Artagnan had snuck a peek at his smaller friend, and chuckled at how clearly shocked and moved he was. His eyes were wide, he was beaming brightly, and a few tears slipped down his crimson cheeks.
When the song ended, everybody broke out into thunderous applause and cheers that might have been heard as far as the Louvre. Including D'Artagnan. There were several shouts of "God bless the Fifth Musketeer!" and "Good, old Albert!"
Albert dabbed at his overflowing eyes with a clean hanky. He approached his 'big brother.' "D'Artagnan… my dear, dear friend…"
D'Artagnan smiled. "I meant every word."
"I can't believe you wrote that for me! I don't know what to say! That was- I mean- oh, D'Artagnan, thank you! Thank you so much!" And he was in D'Artagnan's arms with a sob.
"Well, I couldn't have done it alone." He grinned at the others. "Well done, everybody!"
Aramis laughed good-naturedly. "Look at you, D'Artagnan, being all modest! It's a Christmas miracle!"
Beaumont pumped a fist in the air. "Well, friends, I think a group hug is in order."
And that's just what they did.
In the entrance of the courtyard, somebody cleared their throat. Everybody looked up to see the Cardinal's Guard's timidly standing there.
"We, uh, heard the song," one said, looking like a fish out of water, as did all the rest, "but we decided to wait until it was over before- erm-"
D'Artagnan immediately bristled like a cat, and he became red with fury. "An entire squad of Cardinal's Guards! You dare come to disturb our peace and merry-making? On behalf of all these good people whom His Eminence oppresses, we'll not stand for it! To me, Musketeers!"
But before they could draw and charge, Albert stepped in. "Stop, friends! It's all right!" he assured them. "I invited them."
"You what?" the Musketeers cried, looking beyond confused.
"I invited them," repeated Albert. "I apologize; in all the preparations, I'd completely forgotten to inform you!"
"But why, Albert?" D'Artagnan asked.
Albert simply answered, "Because it is Christmas. A time when even the most bitter of enemies ought to put aside their differences, n'est-ce pa?" He gestured to the brightest star in the sky. "The true reason for this season is for everybody, and there is nothing greater that unites us all."
D'Artagnan let that sink in for a moment, then nodded. He approached the uncertain Guards, and found himself saying genuinely, "Come in, gentlemen. You are welcome here. There is plenty of food and drink."
"As a gesture of peace," one of the Guards spoke up, "we voluntarily decided to leave behind our swords."
D'Artagnan was floored.
Next to the giant tree, which was decorated with sparkling tinsel and over a hundred lit candles, Her Majesty played the harpsichord and sang. As they all gathered around and sang along to one carol after another, everybody agreed that it was the best Christmas ever.
Outside, Milady secretly observed them through the window. The words of the Fifth Musketeer's cordial invitation still rang in her ears.
As did her harsh, ungracious response.
Oddly enough, the little man had seemed disappointed, even quite sad. With a resigned sigh, he told her, Very well, Milady. I cannot force you. But you are welcome should you change your mind, and if I may say so, I hope you do.
Maybe he hadn't been making fun of her. Maybe this wasn't a trap, or some trick to humiliate her.
But she just couldn't go through with it.
Her face fell, and she turned away with a snarl. Nobody would see her cry.