AN: Hello! This is a co-authored fic. The idea came about after having to alternate between writing Avengers and Musketeers fanfiction and idly wondering what would happen if Loki (and Thor) met Aramis (and the others). What followed were some hysterical, sleep-deprived ideas that, somehow, formed this much loved and laboured story.
This is set post-Musketeers and pre-Thor, but there aren't any spoilers of any kind for all you new American readers ;) All we did was make d'Artagnan a Musketeer, and Thor and Loki are still blood brothers.
We're writing in alternate chapters at the moment, and as one of us is American and the other is British, there will probably be some differences in spelling/form. We'll try to get a new chapter up every Sunday and Wednesday evening, but as we are both very busy and important, we make no promises. Please bear with us and please enjoy! - K and L
"Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice."
- Robert Frost, 'Fire and Ice'
CHAPTER ONE
Aramis had been idling in the garrison for too long with nothing to do but spar, and he was finally starting to tire of it.
Of course, part of the reasoning behind that was because Porthos kept insisting they wrestle rather than indulge in some shooting, and neither could ever beat the other at their favourite method.
Besides, Porthos always cheated.
He had only managed about ten steps out of the Musketeers' yard when that same man fell in beside him with nothing more than an innocent look at the streets around them.
"What do you want?" Aramis tried to sound frustrated but couldn't quite keep the smile from his face.
"Nothin'," Porthos replied amicably, brushing his shoulder against his. "Jus' wanted to stretch my legs."
Aramis hummed in response, a pleased noise that made Porthos shoot him a grin, because they both knew that the other was only ever valued company.
Especially when it came to boredom and lonely nights.
Aramis had long become used to the fact that his heart didn't mind who it fell or broke for, whether they were man or woman made no difference to him. He hadn't chosen to be this way, but he had stopped hiding it when doing so had hurt.
Porthos' life in the Court of Miracles had taught him to take comfort from wherever he could, and if that was in the arms of a man, so be it.
It had made life very interesting for the two of them when they had realised that important fact about the other.
Interesting and deliciously exhausting.
He would give his life for Porthos, but so would he for Athos and D'Artagnan too. Just because Aramis shared his bed with the big Musketeer had not changed their friendship in any other way than the occasional sly glance and a warm tussle on the cold ground.
Thankfully, Porthos felt the same way, and it was so utterly relieving to know that their shared moments of bliss were nothing more than two friends – very close friends, mind – finding succour in each other in moments of madness.
Of course, Porthos had been the only man he lay with for quite some time; no one else had come near in attraction or, most importantly, trust.
Trust was important when the explicit thoughts that occasionally ruled his mind were ones that the Church would have him condemned for.
Aramis liked life, it was full of pleasures, and so he kept his secrets close to his chest.
He loved quite blatantly when he chose to, but it had always been with women. He had never had cause to fall head-over-heels for a man, it had just never happened.
He thanked his God for that. His friends knew how reckless he could be when it came to love. He became blind to everything else except securing affections and tumbling them thoroughly – sometimes the love even lasted to the next night.
But never with a man, one that wasn't Porthos anyway, and that was different.
"You up to anything, later?" Porthos asked casually, but the question hinted of harsh cries and heat.
"Why, no, I don't think I am," he replied innocently, savouring the hungry look on the man's face. "Do you need something?"
"I do."
"Well then, I'm sure I can help-" Aramis cut himself off when he heard a ruckus around the corner, and then stumbled when Porthos pushed him down that same side street because the man thought that he had been teasing.
His back met the closest building and then Porthos' hands were running over his body, searching for skin and contact and succour.
"Hush," Aramis urged breathlessly, desperately trying to listen to the nearing sounds over his own suddenly excited panting. It was an instinctual reaction, Porthos tended to be a little rough and it always made Aramis go crazy with lust.
Porthos grumbled against his neck, breath hot and incredibly distracting.
Two men bundled down the opposite end of the small alley and alarmed Porthos into jumping away from him, ever wary of being seen even as he cast him a yearning look. Aramis would have returned it, had his attention not been grabbed by the argument the two strangers were having.
"You are such an oaf, where are we?" the first said derisively, his black hair sleek and long, swept back from a pale face with the sharpest cheekbones that Aramis had ever seen.
"I do not know, brother, but it is Midgard," the other replied. This one was built bigger, along the same lines as Porthos, broad and tall; but where Porthos was dark, this one was light, blonde and radiant.
They were dressed in such finely wrought armour that Aramis had to stop himself from rushing forward and examining it, even as the first one swirled his green cloak angrily and stilled when he noticed that they were there.
"This is all your fault," he muttered to the other, who advanced towards them, beaming.
Porthos immediately reached for his rapier and the broad stranger halted a few feet away, saying, "I mean no harm. My name is Thor, and this is my brother, Loki."
Loki heaved a sigh that sounded so incredibly world-weary that it made Aramis hide a smile. As the slender man joined his brother, a tense line stiffened his shoulders and he looked at the sky as if it had betrayed him somehow.
Evidently, he was an angel.
The haughty cast to his face only made him appear more attractive, a cold sort of beauty that Aramis wanted to warm. He amended that perhaps he was a fallen angel, instead.
Immediately, he was caught up in the mental images of helping him fly.
Porthos' voice faintly broke through his fascination, "I'm Porthos, and this is-"
"Aramis," he interrupted huskily, and swept his hat from his head in a graceful bow that finally managed to make Loki look at him.
Bewitching, startling, almost godly green eyes stared into his. Amusement began to flicker there, lighting the icy, emerald depths like fireflies in a dark forest.
Aramis had fallen.
His fingers itched to trace the thin, cruel, captivating line of Loki's lips, to drag through the silky black length of his hair, to see if his skin was quite that captivating pale shade all over the lean body so temptingly hidden under supple leather.
"Thor," Loki murmured to his side, his gaze still locked with Aramis', "There is something different here, they're wearing armour."
Thor frowned at them both. "And cloaks," he added with a glance at his own luxuriant one, red to Loki's green.
Aramis could finally break the emerald-eyed regard to look at Porthos with concern, but his friend was staring at him with a lecherous grin on his face and it said 'you sucker'.
Was he really that obvious?
Loki fought to restrain his bemused pleasure, but it was proving so very difficult.
As he had wondered how Thor had managed to completely mess up what was supposed to be an easy trip, he had taken note of the high points of colour on the two strangers' cheeks. The dark, broad man had seemed a little flustered, but the tan, gallant one had-
Well, he had looked at him.
There was such an intense look in this Aramis' brown eyes that it made wonderful fire burn away all of the contempt he had planned to bestow on his idiot brother.
It was hard to be angry with anything when you were being looked at as if you tasted delicious.
Thankfully, before he could show the man how pleasantly surprised he was, his arrogance came to him like a lover's embrace. It helped put the disdainful tilt to his lips that he wanted, for they had business to attend to that couldn't revolve around dashing swordsmen.
Although, it seemed that his particular brand of play would not be looked down upon as it was on Asgard.
Loki found that he couldn't look away from brown eyes that seared into his and flicked to his mouth and back again – what Aramis saw evidently did not deter him, for the man took a deep, almost savouring breath that made Loki's own catch.
Aramis slowly straightened from his remarkably elegant bow and placed what appeared to be a hat with a feather in it onto his dark brown curls.
Loki wasn't sure what he was more interested in, the ridiculous hat or the smooth way its owner moved.
"You boys wouldn't be lost, now, would you?" the other, Porthos, asked with what sounded like a low tease.
Thor blinked in astonishment at the man and Loki rather had to agree, was everyone as openly amorous in this area of Midgard?
To Loki's amusement, Thor stammered, "Er, yes, actually. Where are we?"
"Rue Plumet, you're near the Musketeers' garrison if that's any help to you," Porthos offered in what was probably a helpful manner to anyone who had understood the names given.
But he and Thor had no references to rely on, no idea where they were. The two Midgardians shared a laughing look that allowed Loki to get his bearings; brown eyes could be quite distracting when they burned so agreeably.
The ground gave way underneath his foot and he looked down in mild disgust. They were on muddy floor or a dirt path, and around them were barrels and crates. It was actually quite bizarre now that he noticed it; it almost looked like a dirtier version of Asgard-
He leaned away from Thor and looked onto the street beyond, his mouth dropping slightly at what he saw. Wooden carts that were pulled by animals creaked by, and there was not a spark of electricity to be seen.
He might not know a lot about the Midgardians' planet, but he knew that they evolved extraordinarily quickly.
They did not go backwards.
"What is the date," he asked faintly, and felt Thor stiffen besides him.
Porthos rolled his eyes and a frown creased Aramis forehead – they clearly thought that they were drunk.
Thor had begun wildly looking about him, finding the same flaws in the scenery that he had. "The date, what is the date," Thor asked forcefully, a note of anxiety in his voice.
It must have appealed to Aramis because as he watched them carefully, he replied, "The first day of November, the sixteenth winter of King Louis XIII's reign."
"King?" Thor's voice was hoarse, for there had been no kings when they had last been here, no wood or cloaks or men that flirted with their eyes.
"What year is it," he grit out, and saw Porthos' expression turn from concern to wariness. Now he thought that they were insane.
Aramis, however, deigned to relieve them from their anguish and if Loki hadn't been so uneasy he would have been grateful. "1626."
Thor inhaled sharply and whispered, "By Urd's waters."
"Tis not possible," he answered the unspoken question, but Thor's breath seemed to tear from his chest as he whirled to him, his blue eyes uncertain and confused.
"Loki, this isn't right, this isn't right."
"Shut up, Thor," he hissed to hide his own distress. "Call the Bifrost."
Thor settled at the order, as he always did whenever he was flailing and it was Loki's job to be the strong one. They both looked up at the sky but the sun had Loki shielding from the glare and glancing away.
The two frowns that Loki saw made him remember that they weren't alone. It didn't matter now, the pair would see them disappear and they would be nothing more than a mysterious tale to tell around a Midgardian fire.
A small, slumbering part of Loki found that a little more unfortunate than a son of Odin's should.
He had expected to see a twist of disdain on Aramis' face, senseless as they probably looked. But Aramis had only questions, not judgements, and- was that, pity, in his warm eyes?
Midgardians were so weak.
"Heimdall," Thor cried to the skies, "Open the Bifrost!"
Deafening silence answered and Loki stared at Thor with uncertainty flooding his system. Thor's heavy palm fell upon his shoulder, normally he would have shrugged it off but he couldn't quite do it this time. The weight failed to reassure him; in fact, it started fear squirming in his stomach.
"Again," he urged desperately, and they looked upwards once more.
"Heimdall!" Thor's voice was pathetically quiet as he repeated, "Heimdall?"
Nothing happened, Thor had called and nothing happened. Heimdall hadn't answered and now they were- they were stuck on Midgard?
Shock overcame him like a wave of nausea. He suddenly felt disconnected from everything, as if his entire world had disappeared. In a way, it had, for Asgard was no longer within a call's reach, and only his foolish brother was there to anchor him.
Aramis took a tentative step towards them with a significant amount of concern written across his handsome features, but Porthos looked at them as if they were mad and said slowly, "Ohhhh-kay, we're gonna go."
"Porthos, we can't leave them."
"Yeah, we can, let's go."
"Porthos," Aramis scolded, and Loki's shock diminished a little as the bigger man sagged in amusing acceptance of the smaller. Satisfied, Aramis returned his attention to them, his expression soft and sympathising. "You can come with us if you have nowhere to go."
"No-!" he started quickly, needing time to plan their next move, but Thor latched onto friendliness in that infuriating way that he had, as if he were a hound starved of love.
"Yes, thank you, we're very grateful."
Porthos sighed heavily, but Aramis glanced at Loki's sudden grimace and something like a smile tugged at the man's sensual lips, as if he knew that Loki wasn't grateful, and that he didn't want to follow the pair anywhere.
His very way of life was being threatened, he couldn't restrain the almighty scowl that had formed on his brow, and yet despite all of that, he had the peculiar feeling of being pursued.
Pursued by a mere mortal who watched him with hunger just barely hidden under concern.
AN: And so ends chapter one, the beginning of a journey that has basically consumed us. No, that's a lie, it's totally consumed us. We hope you enjoyed it! Please review, let us know if you like where it's going/have any questions/want to say hello. All feedback is much loved and appreciated! - K
If you enjoy more standard Musketeers fare, check this profile for more great authors! - K and L