Thank you for the incredibly warm welcome to this story! I hope you enjoy this next chapter and then check out the 2nd chapter of "Almost Family".

Months earlier:

d'Artagnan still wasn't sure how he felt about the odd turn that events had taken since his arrival in Paris. He'd been so certain of himself when he'd challenged Athos to a duel at the Musketeer garrison and, while he acknowledged the man's greater skill, he couldn't move beyond the feeling of annoyance at how easily he'd been dismissed by the man and his friends. Although he knew the men likely hadn't intended the experience to be embarrassing, he'd been irritated at how condescending their dismissal of him had been.

When he'd returned to the Bonacieux residence, he'd been unsettled and disappointed with the outcome of his short adventure, the trip to the garrison producing nothing more than frustration and confusion when Athos had first refused to fight him and then freely given himself up for arrest. In addition to the black cloud that seemed to be hanging over his head, the ache in his ribs had escalated until he'd no longer been able to straighten in deference to his sore side. When Athos' two friends had shown up at the Bonacieux house, d'Artagnan had been prepared to defend himself, his first thought that the men had come to finish what he'd started earlier, but they'd surprisingly come seeking information and ultimately help in clearing the older man's name.

His anger at the man had warred with his need for justice, and after only a moment's indecision, he'd gathered up his belongings and ridden with them to the inn where his father had died. He knew that being back there would be difficult, stirring up painful memories that he wasn't yet prepared to deal with, but when the innkeeper had offered his condolences on his loss, his eyes had blurred with tears.

d'Artagnan had paused then, lingering with the innkeeper, hoping that Aramis and Porthos, who'd remained mounted and several feet away, would believe him to still be in conversation. Truthfully, he needed the time to blink the moisture away, and with a deep, cleansing breath he'd turned to the waiting men, leading them to exhume the body of the man he'd shot.

The revelation that the man he'd killed was not a Musketeer came as a surprise and d'Artagnan conceded to himself that although he was no fan of the men with whom he rode, his need for vengeance was strong and he would accompany the two for as long as their objectives remained the same, namely to discover the true killer's identity. As they mounted once more, d'Artagnan's breathing hitched for a moment as the pain in his side flared, and he caught the concerned look the Spaniard cast in his direction. For some reason, the expression fed his irritation and he nudged his horse forward, taking the lead as they rode along the banks of the frozen lake.

d'Artagnan wasn't sure why these men seemed to aggravate him so. He recalled clearly the sting he'd felt at being bested by their swords and having the chance to seek justice ripped away from him, but he was normally more accepting, able to respect if not like the fact that the Musketeers' skills exceeded his own, and it bothered him now that he'd been unable to come to terms with what had transpired earlier. He gritted his teeth, partly against the throb in his flank and partly in frustration. Since his father's passing, his emotions had been out of control, his good-natured humour apparently having abandoned him as though accompanying his father's soul when it had fled the man's body.

He was distracted from his musings by Aramis, the man having moved closer as d'Artagnan's pace had finally slowed, and he offered the Gascon one of his most charming smiles. "How are you faring?" the man asked, his smile faltering slightly at the look of confusion he received. "I was wondering about your chest," Aramis motioned with a hand. "Madame Bonacieux was wrapping it when we interrupted."

d'Artagnan couldn't help the instinctive glance down to his sore side and missed Aramis' knowing look, now having identified the injury on the boy's left side. "Ribs?" he asked, raising a questioning eyebrow.

The Gascon's expression turned dark as he nodded, "They're fine." Aramis' face seemed to take on a look of amusement as he dipped his head in return, not believing the young man but willing to allow him his stubborn pride, as long as it didn't interfere with their goal.

A low whistle had Aramis pulling up on his reins, the Gascon's head swivelling in puzzlement for a moment before he followed suit and brought his horse to a standstill. The Musketeers had stopped behind him, and he turned his horse back to face them, observing as Porthos pointed out the features of the landscape around them. "This is where I'd plan an ambush," he stated with certainty.

The Spaniard tilted his head in agreement and the two dismounted, edging over a small rise to find a barren patch of ground, covered in equal measure by snow and the bodies of several men, all of whom had been stripped of their uniforms and left on the frozen ground as carrion for the birds and other scavengers. d'Artagnan moved forward slowly, taking in the scene with wide eyes, having never experienced anything of the sort. Several feet to his left, Aramis had knelt beside one of the men, his hand holding onto something that hung round his chest, lips moving wordlessly with practiced ease.

Porthos moved from one body to the next, confirming the identity of their missing Musketeers and then coming back to stand next to the Gascon as Aramis moved to another fallen comrade. "What is he doing?" d'Artagnan asked, curiosity mixing with impatience at his need to be on the move once more.

Porthos gave him a sideways glance as he answered, voice quiet as if not wanting to disturb the morbid silence that surround them. "Last rites," he stated, "Aramis finds death a very serious business."

The reply had d'Artagnan's head jerking to look at the larger man in surprise, hissing as he tried to keep his voice low as well, "But they're already dead and we don't have time for this."

Porthos' eyes narrowed at the vehemence in the young man's tone, "Won't take but a few minutes."

"But, Athos," the Gascon began, only to be interrupted.

"Athos would understand. Wouldn't you want someone to say a prayer over you, help ease your soul's journey to heaven?"

d'Artagnan's mouth snapped closed as his thoughts turned again to his father, the man lying limply in his arms as the rain poured down, the tears running down his face mixing with the water that seemed to flow over and around them, turning the world to mud. He'd sat there until the innkeeper had forced him to move, his body barely even shivering any more after having been out in the cold rain for so long. There had been no one to say a prayer and no friends with whom to share his sorrow, the trip back to Gascony too long to undertake with his father's body so he'd been buried in the nearby village cemetery, just another cross among the others. The innkeeper had been kind enough to join him and d'Artagnan had spoken a few words of a Gascon prayer he remembered from his mother; then he'd mounted his horse and set his sights on Paris, driven by the need for revenge as his grief nearly blinded him.

"Let's go," a hand landed on his arm, jarring him from his thoughts, and d'Artagnan berated himself silently for his lack of attention. With a short nod, he headed back to this horse, only to be stopped before he'd mounted by Porthos' discovery of Spanish gold.

When Porthos had shared his earlier experience of seeing similar coins in the hands of a Red Guard, they moved to pull themselves onto the horses once more, d'Artagnan's actions hitching for a second at the pull on his sore side. Before he could try again to mount, Aramis' hand was on his shoulder, startling him for the second time in as many minutes and the Gascon inwardly cursed his poor focus that allowed these men to continuously sneak up on him.

"Your side," Aramis stated pointedly, ignoring the look of irritation on the young man's face.

"It's fine," he gritted out, barely able to keep a civil tongue at the man's pestering.

"It's not fine, and you've been favoring it since we started riding. Let me at least bind your ribs for you to ease the pain," Aramis offered, watching the boy closely to gauge his reaction.

d'Artagnan dropped his head for a moment, breathing deeply despite the ache in his side as he tried to push aside his frustration at the man's ongoing interference. Raising his head, he met the Spaniard's gaze evenly and replied, "That's really not necessary…"

"Of course it's necessary," Aramis interrupted, determined to get his way even if he had to bully the young man into complying. "Don't you know how dangerous it is to ride with cracked or broken ribs?" He didn't even pause to hear a response, the question obviously rhetorical. "You could easily have one of them puncture a lung and then there'd be no saving you, bringing the d'Artagnan line to an unceremonious end, your father's death still unavenged."

Aramis inwardly cringed at his words, especially when he saw the flinch of the young man's face, but he was intentionally being crass in order to get his own way, knowing exactly what buttons to push that would have the stubborn Gascon agreeing.

"Fine," d'Artagnan ground out. He dropped his hands from where he still held his reins and saddle horn, stepping back from the animal to allow Aramis the space he needed.

Aramis shared a quick glance with Porthos, the latter ducking his head away quickly to hide the grin that now split his face at his friend's satisfaction. What Aramis had said was true, but it was also likely that the young man's injury wasn't all that severe if he'd managed to stay in the saddle this long. Still, the medic's protective nature would not allow anyone to be in pain if it could be avoided and so, welcome or not, d'Artagnan would be on the receiving end of Aramis' care.

The Spaniard led d'Artagnan several steps away to a large boulder, pushing him to sit down while the Gascon impatiently rolled his eyes. "Take off your doublet and shirt," Aramis ordered, already turning to retrieve supplies from his saddlebag. The Gascon huffed but did as he'd been asked, shivering as the cool air touched his bare skin.

"Is this really necessary?" he asked with barely masked exasperation as Aramis crouched down beside him and began pressing against the impressive bruising on his side. The medic gave him a withering look but didn't reply, continuing to focus on the bones beneath his fingers.

When he'd finished, he breathed out a sigh of relief, "Cracked but not broken."

"So all this fuss is for nothing," d'Artagnan huffed.

Aramis looked up at him sharply, hands stilling where they'd been preparing the linen that would bind the boy's ribs. "Injury is nothing to be trifled with and cracked ribs can easily become broken with enough jostling. By rights you should be tucked up in bed for a few days instead of galloping around the countryside with us. However, since we have need of your assistance, the least I can do is ensure you don't die as a result." Picking up the bandage again he said, "Hold still and breath normally, or this will be too loose."

d'Artagnan's face flushed at the rebuke he'd received, a quick glance at Porthos confirming that he would get little sympathy from the other Musketeer who looked like he was struggling to keep a smile off his face. He sat rigidly, allowing the medic to wrap the linen tightly around his chest, the whole while staring stonily at a point past the medic's shoulder, fuming at how he'd been spoken to. It was not like these men had any authority over him and the last person in the world who had the right to discipline him like a wayward child had departed this mortal plane just days prior. The thought that he would never again hear his father's words, whether they were spoken in anger or happiness, made his breath catch, and Aramis' hands paused, his face filled with compassion as he asked, "Am I hurting you?"

The Gascon shook his head but refused to meet the man's eyes, angry at the moisture that was welling up again. As if sensing the young man's distress, the medic finished and laid a hand gently on one shoulder, squeezing it for a moment before he spoke. "All done. Let me know if this becomes too uncomfortable." He stayed in front of the boy for several seconds, waiting for the Gascon to finally look at him and, after receiving a short nod, he released his grip and stood, moving to stand next to Porthos' horse while the young man dressed.

"He's havin' a hard time of things," Porthos said lowly, not wanting his words to go any further than his friend's ears.

Aramis hummed in reply, "His father's death is fresh and he's had little opportunity to mourn. It makes him easy to anger and quick to act."

Porthos nodded slowly, understanding the medic's words, "Then we'll just need to keep an eye on him so his hot head doesn't get him into any trouble that his body can't get him out of."

Aramis patted the neck of Porthos' horse and moved back to his own, trusting that d'Artagnan would have had sufficient time to dress and was ready to depart. He mounted almost in concert with the young man and they followed Porthos on the road back to Paris.

d'Artagnan intentionally positioned himself at the back of their group, unwilling to admit that his ribs felt much better now that they were supported, his breaths coming easier and with far less pain. He wondered at the men's reasons for tending to his injury. Surely they should be focused on clearing Athos' name, not wasting valuable time worrying about the minor inconvenience of his sore flank. Still, Aramis had tended him with care and concern, his touch practiced and gentle, not wanting to intentionally cause additional pain. Even more confusing was that Porthos seemed to agree with his friend's desire to wrap d'Artagnan's ribs, when earlier, the two Musketeers had made it clear that they would stalwartly stand at Athos' side against anyone who threatened him.

It was a paradox that made d'Artagnan's head hurt, and he longed for the moment when he could remove himself from the Musketeers' company rather than continue to struggle with their odd behaviour. But, for that to happen, they needed clear the older man's name and their best lead was currently somewhere in Paris. Digging his heels into his horse's flanks, he urged the animal to move faster, closing the gap between himself and Aramis with a renewed determination to see his father's killer pay for his crime.