Many, many thanks to my beta's, Natty, aka Adrenalineshots AO3 (Ophium here ffnet) and my best friend on this planet, and Sue Pokorny, writing phenome and another whom I'm blessed to know and call friend. You all may thank me later for introducing them to the BBC Musketeers show; you have been on the receiving end of many a great fic from their skilled, deft hands as a result. So I'll be expecting many cookies in the mail, just so you know ;)

All kidding aside, these gals kept me rocking along, though I did my dead-level best to stop, to quit and give up. And they would not have it! And now YOU have the result of it. I thank them both sincerely. And if there is anything good to read within this chapter and those to follow, it is due to them and their inspiration, and quite possibly their (loving) nagging. Okay, and perhaps a bit to Santiago Cabrera for such a lovely turn at Aramis. Be still my heart.

If I had to give this story a timeline, I'd say it transpires mid to late season 1.

Brother's Keeper

Chapter 1

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The small village came into view and Porthos sagged in the saddle with relief. He looked to his brother with a smile of triumph.

"See?" the larger man reached out and smacked the marksman across the arm playfully. "What'd I tell you, huh?"

Aramis merely shrugged. "Yes, yes," he sighed, staring at the odd assortment of buildings ahead with mild disdain. "The old traveler was right. It certainly looks like a village." He gave Porthos a defeated smile before waving magnanimously before him. "Lead on."

Porthos chuckled. "Don't forget, you owe me a drink," he said before urging his mount onward, while the marksman hung back.

Content and just a little annoyed at the turn of events, Aramis leaned back in the saddle and glanced at the large moon over head. In the early onset of evening, the moon was not yet fully risen but it's powerful glow even this early lent him to the conclusion there may yet be hope. It would provide a good deal of light in the coming hours, perhaps enough to continue their journey, now, if only he could convince Porthos…

"Hey!" Porthos called, jarring Aramis from his musing. "You going to sit there stargazing all night?"

Offering a chagrined smile, the marksman dug his heels into his mount and quickly caught up with the big man, and together they rode into the center of town, their horse's hooves the only noise in an eerily quiet village. A small boy appeared next to the open doors of a livery and Aramis tipped his hat, adopting a friendly smile. The youth did not return his greeting, his face remaining impassive at best. Unwelcome at worst.

Leather creaked as Porthos stepped from the saddle. "What mission is this again?" He gripped the small of his back and stretched, grimacing at the sound of cracking bones.

"Third, fourth…" Aramis sighed tiredly as he too dismounted. "I'm not sure I know anymore."

In truth, it was their third mission in a fortnight and Aramis suspected Porthos knew as well, but both were loath to give voice to the truth. Thinking on it too much brought to the forefront the numerous aches and pains they wished desperately to forget.

It had been a rough few weeks. With so many of the Musketeer regiment plagued by sickness, it had fallen on the healthier men to cover all the duties for which a full regiment was normally accountable. It was to that end that Porthos and Aramis found themselves leagues from home after yet another mission, their horses' heads hanging low, equally in need of rest.

More than once on their journey, Aramis' thoughts turned toward home for an entirely different reason. Amongst the sick, Athos and d'Artagnan had succumbed to the ailment and the marksman could not shake the visions of their feverish battles from his mind.

They were more than a day past due for their return to the Garrison, and while that in and of itself should have favored Aramis' earlier argument to push through the night and gain Paris sooner, Porthos' dissent proved victorious. An easy victory when their mounts continually stumbled and Aramis himself had nearly fallen asleep in his saddle once or twice.

"God," Porthos grumbled suddenly. "What a sorry place this is."

Lost in thoughts of their friends, Aramis hadn't really given the place more than a cursory glance. Curious now, he stepped away from his horse and turned in a circle, surveying their surroundings more thoroughly.

While not unaccustomed to the occasional overnight in a less than perfect out of the way village, this one appeared more backwater and bedraggled than most. There were only a few buildings and those that dotted the late evening landscape, were rundown in varying degrees of disrepair, including the abysmal hovel that passed as an inn and tavern, otherwise known as their lodgings. Save for the deplorable appearance, it was at least inhabited, if the low light that managed to eke out from the filthy windows was any indicator.

"That, mon frère," Aramis finally added, "is an insult to the countless dreary places we've stayed to this point. Though, not by much."

"Take your horse for you, monsieur?"

Aramis blinked in surprise and looked down.

The young stable boy who'd watched them ride into town, stood a short distance away, hand outstretched, and waiting patiently. Covered in what the marksman hoped was only dirt, he could not have been more than twelve years, and smelled strongly of manure. Most notably, in the youth's other hand were the reins of Porthos' mount, its rider already several paces away, staring tiredly at the marksman.

"Come on, then," Porthos canted his head toward the waiting stable attendant. "Give'im your horse and let's be off." Eyes locked on the tavern, he clapped his hands together and rubbed them in eager anticipation. "I'm ready for a meal I didn't have to catch, skin and cook. And a bed that doesn't resemble rocky ground."

Aramis looked again at the lad but made no move to relinquish his mount. In fact, he gripped his reins tighter and found himself incapable of moving. The boy canted his head in question and the Musketeer offered him a pained, apologetic grin.

"Aramis…"

The marksman looked up quickly; Porthos had stopped at the steps to the inn and was now staring at him.

Porthos threw his hands up and out to his sides. "What are you waitn' for?"

Aramis shifted nervously. "You know," he moved determinedly toward his friend, feeling less certain than he sounded. "It's still early. If we pushed on—" he held up a staying hand when Porthos mouth drew to a tight line, "at a slower pace to spare the horses— we could be in Paris by early evening tomorrow."

Porthos' face fell. "Not again…" he sighed and looked down to the ground. His hands planted on his hips, he waited a beat before meeting his friend's gaze. "Aramis, we agreed. First village we came to—"

"Village," Aramis scoffed. "This hardly qualifies." The marksman gestured widely. "And I agreed under duress." He shook a finger at him. "Besides, we're already overdue at the Garrison. Treville will be worried."

"Worried…" Porthos echoed and watched Aramis quietly. The man had the most inscrutable gaze; it was unnerving and it was all Aramis could do to hold it.

"Yes." Aramis nodded, unable to stand the silent stare any longer. "Treville will be worried."

Finally, the darker man rolled his eyes and walked up to his friend, that damnable forthrightness exposing the marksman for the fake he was. "This isn't about Treville so stop pretending."

Aramis looked away. "I don't know what you're talking about," he faltered, still not meeting his friend's gaze. There was one thing he could never do— look Porthos in the eye and lie.

Porthos leaned to the side and caught his friend's eye. "This is about d'Artagnan and Athos." Aramis blinked peevishly at him, and the dark skinned Musketeer had the audacity to chuckle. "You're a mother hen, you know that?"

"I just—" Aramis sighed in frustration and, releasing his horse's' reins, strode away a few steps before he stopped and slapped his hat against his leg. A thick plume of dust billowed into the evening light. "I don't like leaving them in the hands of that so-called healer." His face soured at the word. "He's far too quick with his leeches for my tastes."

"I don't disagree with you there," Porthos nodded thoughtfully. "I miss having them along, too, you know." He shook his head, his gaze distant. "Don't feel right."

While these missions had been relatively easy – delivery of important papers and such – the time spent on the road was enough to wear on even the strongest of men. Normally, with Athos and d'Artagnan accompanying them, the long journeys were bearable. It wasn't as if he was growing tired of Porthos' comforting presence, but Aramis found himself missing Athos' dry wit and d'Artagnan's insatiable curiosity.

"Exactly," Aramis nodded triumphantly.

"However," Porthos continued and Aramis felt hope begin to crumble. "If you recall, they were on the mend when last we left, in fact most of the men were. Probably have a full regiment by the time we return."

Aramis could not argue that. "I suppose…"

"The Captain's used to us being a bit late by now. Our mission is done," he continued, gazing beseechingly at Aramis, damn his hide... "The horses are too, and we aren't in much better shape. We need to rest."

Aramis studied the larger man, noting the circles under his eyes, the uncharacteristic slump in his shoulders, and remembered the sound of his back cracking only moments ago. Not one to take account of his own aches and pains, Aramis could, however, see the truth of his words for Porthos' sake.

"You're probably right," he sighed, giving in reluctantly. "I don't suppose it'll do much good to return too tired to be of any use."

Porthos' smile of relief was infectious. "Exactly," he said, clapping Aramis on the back.

Aramis gathered up the reins of his horse and walked the animal back over to where the boy waited. He looked down at the lad, his face serious even as he tucked one hand into the pocket beneath his doublet. "I'm afraid I must know the name of the person to whom I'm entrusting my horse. Because, you see," he bent down and held up a coin, watching as the child's eyes widened. "I make it a point to never leave him in the care of strangers."

The boy gave a quick nod. "Indeed, sir. My name's Sébastien. My uncle," he pointed at the Inn. "He runs the place and I take care of the horses."

Aramis looked to the tavern. "I see," then back to the youth, a slow smile cutting across his face. "Well then, Sébastien," he placed the coin in the boy's outstretched hand then the reins over the top of it. "See that they get extra grain and if you have a mind, tell mine a story. He'll steady all the more for the sound of a kind voice."

"I..." The youth looked hesitantly at the animal then to the coin in his hand."I don't know any stories."

Aramis closed the boy's hand over the coin, reassuring him the money would remain. "Then polite conversation is acceptable, yes?"

"I can do that," Sébastien offered, tucking the coin in his pocket. Without further comment, he turned to lead their mounts away.

Aramis watched them go until they disappeared into the livery. Once again, something he could not name seemed off.

"Come on then," Porthos rumbled insouciantly and dropped an arm heavily across Aramis' shoulder. "Lets get inside," he said guiding his friend across the courtyard and toward the Inn. "I am starved!"

Aramis chuckled, studying his companion with a sidelong glance; while looking no less tired, he at least appeared far less heavy hearted, and that alone was enough to lift the marksman's spirits. "Is that ever not the case?" he asked as they came to the stairs that led to the front door of the tavern.

"A big man has a big appetite."

They groaned in unison as they climbed, enthusiasm tempered by sore, achy muscles.

When they reached the top step, Aramis sighed. "I suppose a warm meal would be nice. And a hot bath perhaps."

Porthos grumbled in agreement. "A meal and a bed," he nodded, looking up. "See there," he pointed at a sign above the door, "they have proper rooms, not just a cot of straw in the back. I bet you that there's even proper beds too!"

Aramis looked up and shrugged under the weight of Porthos' arm. "And proper bed lice, most likely."

It was Porthos' turn to look sour. "You do know how to spoil a good mood," he murmured. "Doesn't matter. I'm so tired I don't care if I have to sleep in the stable with the horses. Either way, on the morrow, we'll be back on the road with rested mounts. Probably reach Paris before nightfall."

Aramis nodded, content with his fellow Musketeers assessment of their continued journey. He inclined his head, allowing Porthos to take the lead and followed as the big man pulled open the door. The dank odor of cheap spirits, sweat and dust immediately assaulted their senses, a pungent reminder of human contact after so many days surrounded by nothing but trees and birds.

The door closed behind them and the Musketeers stopped to survey the interior, noting with feigned nonchalance the several pairs of eyes affording them the same scrutiny. Some glanced with passing interest, others still with something Aramis could not quite put his finger on, but it was slightly less than welcoming.

Regardless, the ambiance was warm and inviting, a fire crackling in a stone hearth in one corner of the room kept the cold at bay, and the smell of stale alcohol hung in the air like an old friend. There were few patrons in the great room, an intense game of cards in one corner and in the other— oh. A pretty brunette was bent over cleaning a table.

Pretty indeed. That changed things considerably, especially when she met Aramis' gaze.

Even in the dim light, her beauty was in evidence. Undeniably pretty, though a bit on the thin side, her eyes were kind and friendly. She smiled at Aramis and the Musketeer returned the favor. Yes, luck might well be with him after all, at least for tonight.

"Seriously?"

Aramis reared back and blinked at Porthos, the picture of innocence. "What?"

Porthos huffed. "We only just got here and already you've got…" he looked around the dimly lit room, "the only female within view in your sights."

Aramis smiled and clapped Porthos on the shoulder. "Lady Luck smiles upon me this night."

"She would be a she, wouldn't she…," Porthos grumbled. But it wasn't long before he too spied something that caught his eye; a card game in the opposite corner of the room. "But then," he said with more levity, "she might be smiling at me as well."

Aramis noted the game of chance and chuckled. "Well, my friend," he began as they moved into the room, both with completely different targets in mind. "You take your lady, and I'll take mine."

Without further comment, they parted; Porthos strode confidently toward the table in the right corner of the room, while Aramis sauntered up to the bar. "Two ales," he ordered and turned to watch Porthos take the offer to join the game before catching the eye of the young woman he'd spied earlier. She was cleaning a table in the opposite corner but lifted her face to smile demurely at him. "And whatever the young lady drinks."

A loud thunk from the bar and Aramis turned to see three ale's awaiting him. He promptly reached for them when a hand came down on his, stopping him. Aramis glanced from the hand to its owner- the man behind the bar.

The barkeep leaned in. "You and your friend," he said with a smile that didn't reach his eyes, "you'd be wise to mount and ride on from here."

Aramis felt the hair on the back of his neck stir but he schooled his face to remain passive. "And why would we do that, hmm?" He offered a disarming grin. "We only just arrived at your lovely establishment." He waved at the room, the action giving him a chance to view the occupants at the card table. "Now," he leaned in, lowering his voice. "Why would we heed your suggestion?"

The barkeep opened his mouth to say more when his gaze suddenly shifted up and behind Aramis. The man's features instantly shuttered, countenance going from cautious to closed off in the span of a heartbeat. He stepped away from the bar and turned his back on the Musketeer, either no longer in a talking mood, or someone behind them had warned the man off.

Aramis fumbled for his coin bag, using this moment to scout the room's occupants more closely. Gaze moving lazily from the girl to the card table, he realized one of the players at the table, a big man, equal in size to Porthos, with shockingly red hair, was glaring coldly in his direction, though not at him. When the marksman nodded, Red sneered and dropped his gaze back to his cards.

Filing the oddity away for the moment, Aramis fished out a coin and placed it on the bar. "That should be enough for the drinks," he drawled easily, looking at the barman, "and two rooms for the night, if you have them."

The barkeeper's face fell, eyes shifting again to the table where Porthos now sat dealing from a deck of cards, then back again. He nodded curtly before gathering up the coin and turning away.

Aramis bowed slightly, then gathered up the tankards and moved to give Porthos his drink. "What a thoroughly wonderful man," he murmured sarcastically, weaving his way to where Porthos sat. Surely God would not see fit to test them after such a long month. Just one night. Was that too much to ask? Still, Aramis knew life was rarely fair, and stored the moment away as cause to remain vigil.

Cards dealt, the game was once more in full swing by the time he reached the table. With Porthos' back to him, Aramis reached over his friend's shoulder and placed a drink before him. "Do try not to lose too badly, mon ami." Porthos did not lose, Aramis knew that. It was a message; stay alert. The dark skinned Musketeer stiffened a little, the movement imperceptible to the others. "I prefer not to be the sole financier of the remainder of our journey to Paris."

Porthos chuckled. "What is it your book says, 'ye of little faith'?"

"Oh I've plenty of faith, my friend." He glanced over his shoulder; the girl was waiting by the corner table and he nodded in her direction, a slow smile belying the undercurrent of tension he felt in the room. "In fact," he straightened and adjusted the remaining drinks in his hands. "I think I shall test it right now."

Soon, their night was alight with equal parts warm and willing flesh wriggling in Aramis' lap, and Porthos' bawdy laughter as his eyes glinted behind a fresh hand of cards, and a rather large mound of cash in his keep. He was already up fifteen livre and judging by the way this lot played, would soon be up more.

While their night had, thus far, passed without incident, the bar-keep's constant gazes at the card game in the opposite corner, continued to prove worrisome. But then, as the young girl sitting casually on his lap, wiggled against his groin and other parts of him took notice, well, Aramis considered dismissing the man as just naturally edgy and retiring to his room, with company.

"Your friend should be careful," she murmured, her gaze, not for the first time, straying across the room and the card game participants. Also not for the first time, the red haired man seated across from Porthos, glared angrily back.

"Ah," Aramis breathed and placed another soft kiss on Colette's neck before stealing a glance in the same direction. "Now you sound like the barkeep."

"Renard?" She glanced sharply at the man behind the counter before relaxing beneath his lips. "He is a good man."

"Yes, but I have no interest in him," Aramis teased, sliding his hands suggestively along her hips. "I rather prefer your company."

Colette sighed beneath his attentions. "And I prefer to know the more about a man I'm to keep… company with on such a cold and lonely evening."

Aramis kissed one exposed shoulder. "That sounds promising. Lets see," he propped his chin on that same shoulder, "you already know my name, my preference in wine and women… and come morning, my friend and I will be gone. There. That's four things you know about me. Anything more seems superfluous, don't you think?"

"Oh, no, not to me. Your sword, for instance." She glanced at his weapons belt where it lay on the table. Reaching out one dainty hand, she fingered the length of the scabbard, moving it enticingly up the leather to trace the intricate metal scrolling of the palm guard. "I don't think I've seen one so ornate before. Makes a girl think you're some kind of prince or something."

Aramis chuckled and gently removed her hand from the weapon, disguising the curiosity he felt at the odd turn in their conversation by bringing the hand to his mouth and placing a soft kiss to her palm. "I assure you, I am no prince. But I do know how to make a woman feel like a queen."

Colette giggled, the hand she'd been resting on his shoulder now moving sensually around the outside of his ear. Aramis shivered in response. "I like the sounds of that. Bet you say that to every woman you meet."

"I do," Aramis turned and looked at her with a sincerity that stole Colette's breath. "I believe every woman should be made to feel like royalty," he tucked a stray strand of hair back behind her ear. "Women are thought of as inferior and that I simply cannot abide. God created man and woman and he does not do inferior."

"But the priests justify it, saying God made women second. After man."

Aramis smiled and she felt her heart lift. "To be her protector, not her better."

"Her protector" she scoffed. "Truly not all men see women through the eyes of your God."

There it was. The sound of pain; of a woman abused. He carefully placed his hands gently on either side of her face and turned her to look at him. "And the man who has taught you this lesson, he is here?" Probably unintentionally, her eyes slid over to where the card game continued. "Is he in that card game? You keep looking over there."

"Just worried about your friend is all." She pulled back and he let her go easily. "And you," she added, her gaze sincere if for only a moment before shuttering. "See, I've grown quite fond of your handsome face. It'd be a shame to see it ruined."

"Ruined?" Aramis brow furrowed and he leaned back to study the men surrounding Porthos. "By those four?" He placed a hand over his heart and feigned injury. "Your faith in me is astounding."

"All men are born cocky, are they not?" she purred and reached a hand inside his shirt, fingers dancing enticingly over his flesh, fluttering over heated skin, brushing against an old musket ball scar. "Or… You a good fighter or something?"

Aramis eyes closed. God that felt good. "Or something," he said swallowing a groan.

"Mmm," she hummed, dipping lower. "So firm. Bet you're firm all over."

Aramis could not help but smile. She was really quite bad at this. "I'm firm where it counts," he purred, gazing at her through half-lidded eyes. Two could play at this game.

"You've the muscle of a man used to fending for himself. And your friend… is he a fighter too?"

The marksman grimaced. "My dear," he took her hand, holding it still, "has no one ever told you not to discuss another when attempting to woo a man? It's bad form. A mood killer."

She actually blushed, removing her hand slowly from within his shirt. "I just thought," she glanced at his pistol where it sat next to his sword belt. "All those weapons, the fancy uniform. You and your friend must be soldiers of some sort."

"Why," he asked, grabbing the hand that moments ago had been rubbing delicious circles on his skin and caressed the top of it with his thumb. "Are you in need of defending?" It was said with an air of coy but also with as much sincerity as he could manage. "If those men over there-"

"Hasn't anyone ever told you that discussing others while attempting to woo a girl was in bad form?"

Aramis smiled. "Touché." She was getting the hang of this, whatever this was. "Still, I am quite certain my friend and I can lend assistance if you should require it, without damaging my handsome face too much."

Colette threaded her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck and pulled him forward until their foreheads were pressed together. "It's not those four who worry me," she whispered, her words ringing true for the first time since she sat on his lap. "It's the other forty besides you should worry about."

"Forty?" Aramis pulled back studying the girl for any exaggeration or untruth. This night was taking on a decidedly different tone. "That is a lot of men, although I do not see them here."

"They remain unseen until their master wishes them otherwise," she said into his ear. "And by then, it is too late, trust me."

"Their master…" Aramis whispered back, his words little more than a soft wind against the skin of her neck. "And yours?"

The tavern girl jerked back, real fear making her eyes wide and teary.

"Easy…" he reassured. It was the only answer that Aramis required to know whose mouth was behind her odd questioning. "You don't know me but you may trust me as well, mademoiselle. Tell me of the master of this wretched place."

Colette licked her lips, a nervous gesture rather than seductive. Her eyes flickered towards the game table once more. "Fancy white shirt, the one wearing too much lace."

Aramis studied him a moment. He did indeed appear to be prosperous. "I presume he is a man of means to have so many at his disposal. Is he a trader, a merchant perhaps?"

Colette shrugged. "He is a man not to be trifled with and his thugs are an extension of his cruelty." A deep shiver ran through her body and she shook it off. With that shiver, so went her newfound honesty. "They do not matter," she feigned indifference and turned in his arms, staring down at him softly. "We can do more enjoyable things, I think." One small hand pushed aside his hair and she began trailing kisses around his ear. "No?" she whispered.

"But why...oh," his eyes rolled and he lost focus when her hands once more dove beneath the fabric of his shirt. God, she really, really needed to keep still… before he changed his mind and left Porthos to fend for himself. "Colette, you make this conversation exceedingly difficult."

"And you'd rather talk, I suppose," she cooed and began a rather delightful wiggling, pressing hard against his groin. Aramis choked back a groan. "You sure about that?"

"Chéri…" he sighed, knowing this would go nowhere, despite his desires.

Aramis sighed. It was one thing to enjoy the company of a willing woman, whether such company involved the exchange of coin or not. It was another entirely when he was made aware that the woman was, perhaps, not as willingly a participant as she was trying to convince him. And Colette was trying very, very, hard.

And just as quickly her mood changed when once more when she heard one of the men at the card game call for more drinks. The voice did not belong to Porthos. Aramis turned to see the red haired man motion to the barkeeper before looking again at Colette.

Placing a hand beneath her chin he tilted her head up, her eyes to meet his. "Who is that man, Colette? Why does he frighten you so, ma petit?"

In truth, she was terrified, evidenced in how the question alone left her body tense, her back rigid. Torn between pressing for truth and offering comfort, he drew her in gently, protectively, hoping to instill a sense of safety to loosen her tongue. She went willingly but stole a look in the direction of the players across the room.

"His name is Geroux," she said tremulously.

Aramis turned her in his arms, shielding her from their gaze. "And he has hurt you?"

"Only when he lets him." She sniffed, a tear sliding out from beneath the lashes of her closed lids and trailed down her cheek, another soon following.

"Who?"

"The fancy one. He owns this town."

"Well," Aramis smiled disarmingly in an attempt to allay her fears, "considering there isn't but half a town to own, that's not saying much."

Having long ago sized up those surrounding Porthos at the table, he knew trouble when he saw it—and while trouble did not bother him, if this man indeed had what amounted to a small army and was well connected… "And the owner of the town, does he have a name?"

Colette wiped at her tears and sat up. "He is the Marquis d'Évreux."

Aramis eyes widened. "A Marquis' no less. Interesting." He cast a disparaging glance at the card table. "Not one favored by the king, I would say, to choose a tavern over court."

Colette's brow furrowed, taking in his words. Her searched him slowly, traveling over the weapons on the table, his duvet then stopping on the pauldron next to his sword. "The King... you… you work for him, don't you?"

It was the naked terror in her voice that gave Aramis pause. It was one thing for her to fear for her life and those she held dear and doing whatever was needed to keep them safe; it was quite another for her to show that kind of emotion for a complete stranger, to react so strongly to any possible association with the King.

It made sense now. Isolated from the King's knowledge, the Marquis saw to his own sick desires, felt himself ruler in his own right, keeping those who would see folly in it at bay with a small army of men loyal only to him. One such as he would indeed kill any who sought to take word to the palace of such treasonous self-appointed reign.

This was a dangerous situation and Aramis was beginning to feel more than a little exposed. If the king knew of a member of court who behaved in such a way...

"If we were to withdraw," he began with great difficulty because it galled him to no end to shrink from a fight. But if she was right and there were indeed forty men, they would never make it back to Paris to warn the king. "Would you be safe?"

Colette did not answer. Instead she gazed at him curiously. "A soldier," she eyed the pauldron, one of her fingers tracking the indentation slowly. "You're a Musketeer," she whispered anxiously.

"YOU CHEAT!"

TBC...