A/N: Hey, all! Um...yeah, this was developed with BlackBandit111, like...probably it was the first thing developed with BlackBandit, actually. Heads up that this is the first of loads and loads and loads of things. Also heads up that I'm on an italics binge lately, so that might get on your nerves. But it's fun.

So, anyway, this is just the first of a series of oneshots and also the beginning of an upcoming flood of Musketeers fics in general. *Stares into the distance* It's like my Prince of Persia era all over again. More to scheme than can ever be schemed, more to write than can ever be...writ?ten. :P This collection right here? There are currently about twenty-seven planned chapters, but please feel free to send me prompts. I'd love to throw things at the fandom that the fandom specifically wants.

Long author's note is long-ish, but it's over with now, so I hope you enjoy the fic! (I feel like this is the most awkward-voiced note I've ever written)

~Over and Above the Call of Duty~

d'Artagnan wakes in a wonderful mood. Today is an exceptionally rare one. The night was one of uninterrupted sleep. His dreams were all pleasant, of Constance and the bygone days of summer on the farm in Gascony; he woke with maman's laugh still echoing in his ears, just lightly like a forgotten but well-loved song. There are no- well; there is just the slightest throb of recent injuries, but nothing so much as distracting let alone intolerable.

Three such novelties all together? He could sing.

The Garrison's familiar early-morning clamor soon replaces his mother's voice, but d'Artagnan smiles nonetheless, not yet opening eyes but pausing to revel just for a moment in that heavy warmth that lingers in the spaces between wakefulness and sleep.

This does not last long, as waking in an excellent mood and waking with an excellent appetite have always been close companions where the Gascon is concerned. He gets out of bed only a little reluctantly and stretches at length before dressing and straightening the bedding, going about his morning routine in record time as dreams fade and thoughts of breakfast become prominent.

When all is done, d'Artagnan steps outside, wondering cheerfully what today will bring, and is halfway down the stairs when he sees two of his friends staring up into a tree.

He stops with one foot still poised to step.

Treville, he notices in the same moment, is watching Aramis' and Porthos' apparent fascination with the tree and wearing an expression of something…it could either be amusement or great suffering…?

The captain looks d'Artagnan's way and, pursing his lips, gives a slow shake of the head.

d'Artagnan's pace slackens significantly into a concerned trot as his gaze returns to travel up the tree. What in the world…? He misses a step and flails, catching himself. A hurried and incredibly covert look around reveals that nobody noticed that slip. (The musketeers who laugh as they walk past and Gerard who flings him an encouraging gesture are surely amused by something, but he knows not what.) It therefore did not happen. He smooths his unruffled jacket and, spotting Athos (and more importantly, a basket of fresh rolls) at one of the tables, hurries toward him.

Athos doesn't move as d'Artagnan approaches. The man is looking straight at Aramis, whose head is tilted back at such an angle it has to hurt, with the faintest smirk. His demure greeting ("hm. d'Artagnan.", coupled with a nod.) is nothing out of the ordinary, nor is the nonchalant, borderline mechanical manner in which he takes a drink.

d'Artagnan deftly plucks a roll from the basket and gets to the point. "Athos," he says quietly, with an inconspicuous glance toward the other two, and nearly snaps his neck looking away again when Porthos catches his eye, "is…something happening?"

"Aramis would speak with you about that," he says in a tone that betrays nothing.

d'Artagnan's eyes narrow in suspicion before he can help it. He stares intently past the roll (only a little dry and not burned at all), but Athos' face remains unreadable. Aramis, meanwhile, has seen him. The way the sharpshooter claps Porthos' shoulder, grinning, before moving toward d'Artagnan, only increases his steadily building anxiety.

Athos remains a solid rock in this sudden ocean of uncertainty.

"Any advice on the matter?" d'Artagnan attempts an equally straight face, but Athos is ever the master.

"None,"

The captain gives an audible chuckle as Aramis draws near, but instead of staying to watch shakes his head again and disappears into his office with the air of a man taking shelter from a hail of gunfire.

Now truly frowning in utter confusion, d'Artagnan returns his attention to-

"d'Artagnan! Just the brand-new musketeer I wanted to see!"

Hands appear on his shoulders and Aramis' face looms too close for this to be just a friendly 'good morning' sort of thing.

It all makes sense now.

"Can whatever it is wait?" the roll nearly collides with Aramis' smiling face as it's waved past, "until after-"

Aramis steps back, the picture of amiability and hands spread wide. "I don't know what you mean."

"That is portable," Athos puts in helpfully.

And here d'Artagnan had been laboring under the delusion Athos was occasionally on his side.

"You'd say that about a bowl of porridge if you wanted me on an errand," d'Artagnan points an accusing finger for effect.

Athos leans back in his chair, one leg crossed languidly over the other. "And so bowls of porridge tend to be, when you can lift them."

"A chore some days, granted," Aramis nods, and d'Artagnan raises the bread in a brief salute of agreement, "But as I was saying to you-"

The man has a gift for filling those eyes of his with such sincerity that d'Artagnan nearly caves.

But he's done a lot of growing up recently and it isn't going to happen.

"I will run your errands," d'Artagnan concedes, even bows a little, "after breakfast.

Aramis straightens out a tad haughtily, crossing his arms. "How exactly do you know I'm going to ask you to do something?"

"Mn," the last of the roll disappears and d'Artagnan readily explains, "first of all you were smiling," ("a man's allowed to smile at his friends, isn't he?") "Second, you said 'new'."

"So?" Athos and Aramis speak in unison, now staring in a way that makes his smug, "I know your game" smirk drop like a stone.

d'Artagnan's shoulders slump. "Well, only that's always followed by 'newest does this or that' and then 'congratulations, d'Artagnan; that would be you'. It actually borders on abuse."

"It's good to know we're fulfilling our duty."

Aramis closes his eyes and all but purrs his assent. "Confirmation is always so encouraging," he places a hand over his heart, "I am touched, d'Artagnan."

"I hate you both, just so you know." d'Artagnan sighs more wearily than he truly feels; there was a time he had begun to think there was some hidden note of malice in his friends' way of giving him the odd jobs and tasks, but time has taught him different and now he'd be more concerned if they weren't occasionally good-naturedly tyrannical.

Aramis rubs his gloved hands eagerly together, ducking his head. "Now, perhaps if we could return to that…the other matter? If you're quite finished,"

"Alright," d'Artagnan says, standing and now genuinely curious as to what Aramis wants, "What is it?"

Aramis smirks. "I," he proclaims dramatically, "Was telling the truth. I simply wish to recount to you the most extraordinary thing, and perhaps ascertain your opinion."

d'Artagnan raises an eyebrow as Aramis leans toward him, all seriousness and a tone of earnest conspiracy.

"The strangest thing has occurred."

Several seconds pass with Aramis staring expectantly at d'Artagnan, waiting for a reaction. He gets a shrug, a "well…?" and now both eyebrows are raised.

Aramis gives a very long sigh and throws an arm around his young friend's shoulders. "We really must work on that, anyway-"

"Our theatrical friend discovered this morning that his hat had gone missing."

Aramis spins around and fixes Athos with such a venomous, withering glare d'Artagnan half expects a pile of ashes to replace the man where he sits at any moment.

Athos shrugs and takes another pull from his drink. "I was merely sparing d'Artagnan the duller portion of the narrative," he waves the medic on, "skip to the other part."

Ignoring him, Aramis turns pointedly back to d'Artagnan. "Would you rather cut to the cha-"

"Yes."

Aramis rolls his eyes. "You lack all capacity for stimulating dialogue, d'Artagnan, I tell you-"

"I'll tell him the end, if you like."

"Ugh, fine. Needless to say, I spent this morning's earliest hours in search of the disappeared article- I still can't imagine how it vanished-"

d'Artagnan frowns this time in thought. "Perhaps you can think of when rather than how?" he's all business now, knowing full well how much Aramis loves that hat. "Can you remember when you last had it?"

Aramis squirms, laughing in a quick, coughing kind of way and running a hand through his already-messy hair. "I, well…not really, no, I can't."

Two nights previously…

How the brawl started, nobody was quite certain. Something about a would-be-murderer who'd managed to fail at murdering the wrong person, and that fellow in turn hadn't caught a good look at his attacker, had attempted a quick vengeance but had shot at the wrong person, and overall things had spiraled right there in front of the Garrison and out next to the tavern until the musketeers found themselves involved (as did everybody in the vicinity) and all was in upheaval.

Athos and d'Artagnan, having been on their way in when the mess had started, were right in the middle of it all and were battling in an inspiring manner, posed back to back and getting off truly impressive one-liners over the din.

Aramis and Porthos, drawn with about half the rest of the regiment by the noise, were not to be outdone. They didn't know what was going on, but if the other two were involved, it had to apply to them as well. They exchanged a rueful glance and feral grin between them.

"Another quiet night, I see," Porthos sighed, drawing his sword.

"The epitome of peace and tranquility," Aramis replied, drawing his.

"Ready?" Porthos asked, and Aramis was.

"As always,"

Porthos gave a fierce cry that frightened those fighting close by, as was his way, and flung his bandanna aggressively away as he charged into the fray. (The bandanna, Aramis noticed with some interest, hit in the face a man who afterward sauntered away having decided this fight was not actually his.)

Aramis' hat was off his head as he stalked more quietly into the boiling crowd, flung straight into a gale that sent it spinning out of sight and mind-

"-mis? Ara-? Aramis?"

"It was storming, wasn't it?" he mutters, stroking his mustache, "mm, and raining…"

"Aramis!"

"Hm, what?" he snaps to attention at the (perhaps unintended) sharpness of d'Artagnan's voice, pulling him from some reverie far away.

d'Artagnan sees no sign of concussion or alcohol and decides this is just another aspect of this particular friendship he'll have to deal with. "Your hat?" he prompts, "The last time you had it…?"

"Oh, right," Aramis shrugs and returns a hand to d'Artagnan's shoulder, gently leading him along, "can't recall, but I did find it, and you'll never guess where."

As Aramis has stood him directly in front of the tree that Porthos is now casually leaning against (the man grins toothily and waggles his fingers in greeting) d'Artagnan struggles for all of not at all before reaching a conclusion that he skips phrasing as a guess.

"How the hell did it get all the way up there?" he queries eloquently, craning back to look. The poor bedraggled feather is just visible at a frankly dizzying height.

Aramis looks at Porthos.

Two days previously…

It was storming, actually, and hard at that. This was part of why the nearly-murdered man took such great offense at nearly being murdered, and part of why the near murderer had thought this a good night for, well, murdering. The wind was howling loud enough hardly anyone could hear their own thoughts, let alone the sound of someone dying involuntarily. One gust of wind caught up the flung hat, and it was whipped mercilessly about, snatched more than once over the heads of the crowd, before flying with no small degree of violence into the uppermost branches of a tree.

For the rest of the storm's duration, it made a valiant effort to free the excellent hat, but it was held fast in those branches and would not be moved, although the feather did suffer cruelly.

Aramis, of course, knew none of this, because by the time the fight ended he was tired and d'Artagnan was half passed out in Athos' arms, coughing more than was acceptable. (He did not have anything, but had, according to Athos, taken a boot to the throat as the battle wound to a close)

Once d'Artagnan was tenderly persuaded to leave off his endeavors of departing for brighter lands then and there (chiefly done by Porthos giving his back a vigorous pounding until d'Artagnan had got enough breath to yowl at him to stop.) the rest of the evening was spent taking measures to not catch anything.

By morning, they were helping put the battle's aftermath in order (the logic was that musketeers, having helped make the mess, ought to be the ones to clean it up even if they were wind-battered and sneezing.) and after that the day proceeded quite as normal.

All this while, the hat was in the tree, which Aramis only figured out the next day, very early, before d'Artagnan came downstairs to breakfast.

"Again," Aramis says with a shrug, "No idea."

"The important thing," Porthos says solemnly, "Is what to do about it."

d'Artagnan doesn't take his eyes off it for a moment. "Unless you know anyone who can climb really well," he says apologetically, "I don't think there's anything to be done."

Aramis grins and so does Porthos.

"There's always something to be done," the one says, and, "you look like you can climb," says the other.

d'Artagnan glances between them without the slightest glimmer of comprehension for almost a full minute, "I…don't…" then it hits him, "I knew there was a job."

Aramis startles, eyes wide in horror. "You're not thinking of-?"

"Don't try to tell me you weren't planning all along for me to-"

He's interrupted by Aramis' vehement, "Not at all, d'Artagnan, you'd kill yourself!"

Porthos does his best to drive d'Artagnan into the ground under the force of his hand on the boy's head. "You don't think 'e can do it?"

"Kill himself? Porthos, please…ironically enough, I'd bet my life-"

"I am still here," d'Artagnan protests a tad sulkily, looking up at the problem once again. The lowest branches are rather high, but he is rather tall, and there seem to be plenty of places to grab on the way up…he realizes he's making his way around the tree, assessing the path, and makes himself stop, peering studiously at the medic. "You can't mean to say you don't think I can make it up this tree and back down again with your hat, right?"

Aramis' shoulders lift in a lazy shrug at the same time his voice lowers. "Oh, I've no doubt of your courage, d'Artagnan, but it is very high up, and I wouldn't ask you to-"

Porthos nods pointedly at their friend, jostling d'Artagnan's arm. "Wha's that they say about lit'le faith?"

d'Artagnan draws himself up to full height, never taking his eyes off Aramis. "Oh ye of," he grins his most self-assured grin, "I will get your hat, Aramis, and be back without a scratch on me or it."

Porthos laughs and slaps d'Artagnan's back, nearly sending him sprawling. "Tha's our lunatic," he cheers, "prove the hen here wrong, yeah?"

Aramis continues to weakly caution him against this mission, but the now-determined Gascon refuses to be dissuaded.

It occurs to d'Artagnan about halfway up that he has just been played by two men who know the best way to convince someone to do something is by suggesting that person can't. Oh well. It's a change from direct orders of "You're the youngest, you do it," with 'youngest' and 'newest' lately interchangeable.

He looks down, blessed with a lack of terror with regard to heights (he'd have died of fright a long time ago if he did have that problem) and sees Aramis and Porthos watching him, both grinning fierce encouragement. Athos, meanwhile, is still at the table, in fact leaned back with his boots on it, and is tracking his progress from just far enough away d'Artagnan can't make out the man's expression.

No matter. He'll soon have the hat, and then they'll have to be impressed even if they did trick him.

Far below, Aramis leans briefly against the other man without looking away from their rapidly-ascending protege. "I told you he'd do it."

"Yeah," Porthos admits, and after a few quiet moments, "You, uh, fancy a wager?"

Aramis chances a sly kind of sideways glance. "What sort of wager?"

"Five minutes," says Porthos, straight-faced.

Aramis doesn't even try to hold back a sneer. "You're on, my friend," he replies as they exchange a firm handshake, "and I will say ten minutes, to your 'little faith'."

"You're both wrong," Athos' calm voice breaks in. The man approaches slowly, fishing out a purse of coins and tossing it over. "He's going to fall within the next two-"

Porthos grimaces. "Ooh, harsh, that, but," he adds more coins, "Prob'ly true."

"I wasn't finished," Athos continues, "he'll fall, but will still retrieve the hat."

A moment of intense contemplation takes place before Aramis increases the wager. "No, no," his voice is tight with excitement, "What if he falls, gets my hat stuck worse in the process-"

"-an' then, if 'e doesn' scamper straight back up, get the hat, but get 'imself stuck instead, I'll be eatin' that hat for dinner."

"I'll match that wager."

Athos, without looking at them, adds, "Double if a storm hits within moments of him getting stuck."

Faced with two equally skeptical and dumbfounded expressions, Athos regards them coolly. "In all the time we've known him," he says, "is it really so difficult to believe?"

Another moment of silence passes, then,

"Done,"
_

d'Artagnan makes his way back up the tree with a flushed face and a good deal of dark mutterings.

"Well, you still don't have a scratch on you," Aramis had said, helping the leaf-strewn and startled boy to his feet, "so you weren't wrong,"

"You alright…?" Porthos had asked, voice somewhere between amused and concerned as he swatted away some twigs.

"I'm fine," d'Artagnan had replied, ignoring the throbbing in his everywhere and searching out a new path up, "I'm fine-"He stared blankly at Athos, who had casually plucked a leaf from his hair, "I'm fine."

"You're not really goin' back up?" Porthos had asked, in a tone suggesting he was beginning a joke, and d'Artagnan had barely paused to say yes before clambering up again.

At least it didn't take long to get back to the height he'd fallen from, he thinks ruefully. Not a scratch, indeed, more like several of them and a patchwork of bruises.

Aramis, d'Artagnan decides, will owe him after this. All this trouble for a hat, the least the man can do is buy him a nice dinner.

He makes good time, up and up and up. It's another skill he brought with him from Gascony, climbing. If most childhood days were spent running all over, chasing anything that moved and being chased by Maman and occasionally papa as well, the rest of them were spent frightening both nearly to death by climbing everything, and d'Artagnan can't help smirking at the memory of learning that no, he cannot fly. (Uncle Bertrand, he recalls, had never looked so alarmed or relieved to have a five-year-old land on top of him. Papa, meanwhile, had just looked entertained. All involved had agreed to not mention the incident to Maman.)

d'Artagnan realizes the problem the closer he gets to reaching the hat. It is very high up. He can see the entire Garrison laid out below not much bigger than one of the model houses Father Gaubert used to carve for the little girls in Lupiac each Christmas. The branches are beginning to thin, although…he grips one tight and an experimental push-and-pull reveals it might not be too thin…if the hat had wound up in the very top, it would be a lost cause certainly, but here the branches are just thick enough to take his weight. Maybe.

The limb d'Artagnan hoists himself toward becomes a wobbly perch, and he's forced to hold one branch and reach for the hat with his free hand. He might not be afraid of heights, but this lurching, teetering motion could unsettle the strongest constitution, and he really should've climbed just a little bit higher. Sweat dots his face as he reaches further still, fingers brushing the hat's brim. If he can just get a little further...his foot slips.

d'Artagnan careens forward, hand catching the hat and everything else very nearly falling into open air if not for the quite frankly amazing feat of twisting he pulls off, instead falling forward against the sturdy trunk with a racing heart and bloodless face but otherwise unharmed.

Aramis will owe him two dinners.

When he's swallowed several times and calmed most of the shaking, he slowly lowers into a less dangerous position, waving the poor hat (the feather really is pitiful) for his friends to see.

Aramis cheers, along with Porthos, who shouts something that sounds like "Knew ya could do it!"

For his part, d'Artagnan smirks and, with a flick of the wrist, tosses the hat clear so it tumbles down until Aramis plucks it from the air. "You'll get yourself killed," he mumbles, "like you've never done this before..." he's still shaking his head with a smile on his face as he begins the journey do-

The branch cracks.

Due to present terror for his life, d'Artagnan misses the sudden flurry of activity that takes place below as his Inseparables huddle, passing words and coins back and forth between them, though at some point he does hear musings on the availability of Lemay.

Later, walking to the tavern, he's distracted from the surprisingly lighthearted conversation (Aramis is so glad to have his hat back where it belongs, and has agreed to finance four dinners) by a repeating sound. Nobody else reacts to it, but it pecks at his curiosity until he can no longer refrain from asking.

The clinking comes to a stop as his friends do the same, two of them looking at him with raised eyebrows and Aramis just flashing his friendliest smile and patting him on the back.

"One day, d'Artagnan," he says, "we'll teach you about gambling."

You guys know pretty well I am going to go back and edit this later because that ending is. the. worst. But I've been trying to get over this nasty writer's block that's always like "Yeah write this chapter way to go get this done yay!" and then halfway in it goes "NOPE THAT'S WHERE IT ENDS SORRY WRITE A CHAPTER OF *insert project* INSTEAD" So.

Eyh, up next on the agenda is a special surprise wrapped up in ten or eleven chapters. I don't know, I'm excited about it. We'll see how it goes! Then I'm finally going to get back to A-Z, which...yeah, there's also a surprise where that's concerned. (Translation of all this: *whispers* please love meeeeeeeee)