(A/N: This one has a different tone to the others and not a lot more plot, but I figured the holidays wouldn't quite go to plan for these guys. Thanks for reading!)

The office was entirely dark except for the Christmas tree. Even the sky was clouded over so that no moonlight touched the windows, and the glass revealed nothing but gloom. Inside, the tiny tree lights flickered on and off in a pattern they'd been dancing for hours, a succession of blue, red, orange and green. They were too small to cast shadows on the ceiling or spread much light over the floor, but they gave the branches of the short tree a soft glow and illuminated a patch of the desk beneath them.

Athos, head in his hands, had been staring at it for the best part of two hours.

His body had a list of complaints, having passed through numb and moved onto painful some time ago. His back was still aching from an unfortunate fight the week before, he was starting to get a headache, hadn't eaten in longer than he was entirely sure about and he really, really needed a drink. It was quarter past one in the morning, which he knew because he'd been counting the time in his head. Aramis was late, and his bloody tree was still lit up.

It was stupid, but he had felt his heart sink as midnight came and went. In some deep and perhaps childish part of himself, he'd let himself believe Aramis would not miss Christmas. Aramis adored the season, from the colourful decorations to the huge amounts of food to playing ridiculous games and curling up on the sofa watching movies together. Athos was well acquainted with his friend's festive traditions, as was Porthos - all stubbornly single and either without or unwilling to see relatives, they'd spent every Christmas together since that first evening when, despite having known each other only a few months, Aramis had collected them together after work on Christmas Eve and announced that they were staying the night and doing Christmas properly.

The memory of that first shared Christmas was almost enough to make him smile, even now, because Porthos and Aramis had argued over the best way to cook a turkey for so long that they'd almost ruined it before Athos took over. Between them they ended up with meat that was rather dry, roast potatoes that could politely be called crisped and Athos wasn't sure the vegetables had still even been vegetables - and yet somehow, eating in front of It's a Wonderful Life wearing a paper cracker hat, Athos had never had a better meal.

Twenty past one, and Athos glared at the tree. Aramis brought it in every year. It was almost a metre high and Athos, in a desperate attempt to assert some kind of control over the situation (it was their workplace, for heaven's sake, not a department store window) had said he wasn't allowed to put it up because they needed the floor space. So Aramis had cleared half of his desk and put the damn thing up there instead, unplugging the coffee machine on the wall behind him in order to power the lights. Athos hadn't been impressed.

Somehow, the daft thing had grown on him over the years, and he'd even suggested, this time, that Aramis set it up on the floor. Aramis had refused with a smug grin, pointing out that it was much more visible on his desk, and he'd hate for anyone to be unable to enjoy it.

It was Athos' fault, really, because he'd started planning things this year. It was exactly how it had been with her - as soon as he'd started believing it, started planning for their life together, that future had vanished. And yet he had, if he could admit it now, genuinely been looking forward to sharing the season and all their mad traditions with d'Artagnan. The extended team had been together for eight months now; it wasn't only d'Artagnan's first Christmas in Paris but also his first without his family, and Athos remembered what that was like - or at least remembered the drunk haze in which he'd ignored it. He, Porthos and Aramis had been discussing plans for a while, organising food and decorations, and informing d'Artagnan in no uncertain terms that he would be joining them.

And then it had happened. Just before they were due to leave on Christmas Eve, Treville had delivered the news: a long-standing operation had come to a head because a suspect had re-entered the country, and he needed Aramis. Aramis, whose fluency in several languages and personable nature allowed him to assume whatever identity was required and go undercover, to meet with one of the suspect's contacts, a guy known as Spencer whose allegiances they'd swayed months ago and lead the hunt for the man who'd gone to ground as soon as he'd arrived.

Objectively, Athos knew it had been the right choice - Aramis was the best for the job. Out of everyone in the department he trusted his own team the most to do what was needed, and of the four of them Aramis had had the necessary skills.

That objectivity was what made Athos hate his job sometimes, hate the command he had been assigned. It was an honour, the thing he was most proud of in his life, but it was also a burden - because his talent for rational thought and being led by strategy not emotions led to things like that, to watching his brother prepare for one of the most dangerous missions he'd ever undertaken, alone.

"He's a suspected killer," Athos had said - completely pointlessly, because they'd all been familiar with the case for over six months and they knew what the man was thought to have done, what a threat he posed. "He'll be looking for us just as we are for him. If he gets the slightest hint that you are law enforcement - even if he thinks you're French-"

"I know, Athos," Aramis said in a voice that was clearly supposed to calm him down, but even as he said it he was carefully tucking the new phone into his pocket and Athos' thoughts were swimming with everything that could go wrong.

He surged to his feet with a violence that made d'Artagnan start and Porthos tear his eyes away from Aramis to direct his concern at their leader. "It has to be complete cover, damn it! Everything you do must make you appear to be English - not just your words but everything down to which way you look first when you cross the street. If he suspects anything, he'll kill you, and we'll never find him."

As if Athos cared about that any more - even then when he had the three of them together in the safety of the office, even before anything had gone wrong, he would have demanded the whole thing be called off because they were his brothers and he had to protect them because that was the only thing that made his life mean anything. But he was their leader and he could not afford the luxury of emotional judgement.

Aramis had looked at him and just known, Athos had seen it in his eyes, in the softness of his smile. There was no more time for delays but if Athos clasped his hand more fiercely than usual Aramis made no mention of it. He'd hugged d'Artagnan, clapping the boy on the shoulder and giving him a reassuring smile; d'Artagnan looked comforted and Athos felt that he would have given anything to buy into Aramis' confidence. Porthos had walked him to the lift, postponing the moment of goodbye, and Treville had met him there to share a last private word on the way out.

And then it was just the three of them, silent and alone in the middle of a crowded office, with Aramis' Christmas tree.

They'd all spent the next twenty four hours in the office, having switched onto the Christmas Day shift without hesitation. It was remarkably easy to stay there, as Athos had discovered some years ago. It had showers, a canteen, the Garrison for a rest (not that Athos could have slept for the world), and coffee obtained from a different floor because by silent agreement none of them would unplug the tree lights. Technically there had been work they were meant to do, but Athos still wasn't sure what it had been and Treville hadn't tried to mobilise them. There was nothing to do but wait for a call, to let them know they were needed or that it was all OK.

Christmas Day passed in a haze altogether different from and yet somehow similar to those years before the Musketeers, as Athos tried to reassure himself that it was alright. Yes, Aramis had missed his check in, but he wasn't technically late until Christmas Day was over. And it wasn't like the operation would be wrapped up in a single day, it could only be expected to take time, Aramis could only do so much...

Athos was dimly aware that outside the building were homes and families celebrating Christmas; opening presents, cooking lunch, pulling crackers, probably arguing and dealing with troublesome relatives. None of it felt real. It all belonged to the same world as the turkey in his fridge and the box of tinsel and baubles in his living room, a world that was suspended in time while he waited to find out if he would get his family back. He felt angry at everything - at Treville for taking this away from them, at the suspect's timing, at Aramis for accepting the job, at every family who'd spent the day watching television and playing stupid games when he'd been here waiting instead of listening to Aramis and Porthos inventing their own terrible cracker jokes and forcing d'Artagnan to try brussel sprouts.

He was at last starting to lose track of the time; he looked down from the tree, blinking the lights out of his eyes, and checked his phone. Nearly two am. He'd finally managed to persuade the others to go home sometime before midnight. Admittedly, he'd been vaguely surprised that it had worked, but he was willing (more than willing) to bet his commission that they weren't asleep. Neither of them had tried to contact him but he knew they'd be waiting. Athos toyed with the phone for a moment before replacing it. No good getting their hopes up just to say he hadn't heard anything.

Athos drifted. Dream mixed with conscious thought and his thoughts were full of darkness; he woke sharply to music that he was, for one bleak and horribly empty moment, sure was a funeral march. Awareness came in a surge and the realisation that Aramis wasn't dead (not dead, not dead, had to be alive) was a moment of painfully strong emotions, relief and terror twisting in his stomach like an angry snake. It was his ringtone, the obnoxiously chirpy tune d'Artagnan had managed to lock his phone onto. The display blinked to tell him that it was three am. He answered it with shaking hands, but his voice was always calm.

"This is Athos."

"Thank God. This would've been a shit time to get a wrong number."

Athos' heart stuttered and he sank back into the chair like melting snow, the sound of that voice relaxing muscles he hadn't realised were tense. The relief was so powerful he thought he might be about to break the habit of a lifetime and start crying; his very soul seemed to be knitting itself back together. His brother was there, alive, just at the other end of the phone, and Athos gripped it as though he could draw Aramis through. Not that his concern went away - because there was exhaustion in Aramis' voice that seemed to go bone deep and he knew his brother hadn't rested at all. But he kept it all out of his voice because the mission wasn't done until he came home.

"About time," he said, as though he wasn't silently screaming at Aramis to come back. "If the turkey's gone out of date, I'm blaming you."

The huff of laughter he got in response was like a balm over the fear of the last day. "I'm sorry I robbed you of the chance to show how much better you are at cooking than the rest of us. Maybe next Christmas. If we all quit our jobs."

None of them would ever entertain the idea seriously - this was who they were, it was in their blood, however much they spilt.

"What's happening?" Athos demanded, unable to wait any longer. "Did you meet Spencer? Do you know where to start looking?"

There was the sound of a car door slamming, and wind interfered with the phone for a moment. "Hang on," Aramis said, and then more distantly Athos could hear him speaking quickly to someone else.

His heart raced. Aramis was speaking to him in French on the phone, and to the person he was with - he clearly wasn't alone but he also wasn't maintaining his cover. Yet he was free to speak to Athos and he sounded as relaxed as could be expected. Could it mean-

"You still there?"

"Of course I am! What's going on?"

"We've got him," Aramis said simply, as though this was a run of the mill accomplishment, not worth mentioning at the start of the conversation. "He'd already set up a meet with Spencer so I went along, but he wouldn't say where - just gave us directions, so I couldn't send anyone ahead. He bought the cover, though he wasn't happy I was there... And I made a call first chance I got, backup came in, and we got him."

There were more holes in this story than the doilies Athos' mother used to collect. He was being given a grossly glossed over version of what had happened, he knew - Aramis' story didn't account for the time he'd been gone or how they'd caught the guy, which definitely meant something had gone completely wrong and Aramis didn't want to own up to it. Athos breathed slowly, then asked the question perfectly calmly.

"Aramis, where are you?"

Silence stretched as though Aramis was seriously considering not answering the question, but that silence let in enough of the background noise that Athos realised the truth anyway. "At the hospital."

"Are you going to explain why?"

"I'm fine, Athos, really. It's just a scratch."

"Aramis."

"My cover was perfect, alright? Spencer just turned out to be more of an ass and a lot less loyal than I thought-"

"Alright," Athos said, beginning to grasp what had happened and realising that he didn't have the energy to deal with it at all. "Have you spoken to Treville?"

"No. I called you first."

The straightforward loyalty, simple and unquestioning, brought back that strange lump in Athos' throat and when he talked this time his voice was not so even and sounded strange, as though he had a cold.

"Good. Right. I'll call Treville. I will be at the hospital in half an hour and if you're not sitting quietly and letting the doctors do whatever they need to, you're going to be on desk duty so long you forget how to stand up. Understood?"

"Understood, Athos," Aramis said, and his voice was wonderfully warm. "I missed you too."

By seven in the morning, Athos was pulling up outside his flat with Aramis in the passenger seat. They'd not spoken much on the drive from the hospital. The knife wound on his arm really had turned out to be minor, for once, and it had been treated and bandaged without trouble. Aramis hadn't offered any details of what had happened and Athos hadn't pressed. The story would emerge eventually and he could wait until his friend was ready to process what had happened. For now, Athos had his family together, and he really didn't care about anything else.

Aramis looked as ready to pass out as Athos felt, but clambered out of the car with a contented smile, looking up at the block of flats as though he'd been away for months. They passed Porthos' car on the way to the door, and Aramis laughed softly.

"They're here?"

"I texted them before I called Treville."

"Of course."

They took the lift because neither of them were fit for the stairs at the moment, and the quiet classical music felt out of place somehow. Athos unlocked the door, looking forward to rest - which was why Aramis was with him, because it would be some time before rest was possible if Athos didn't have concrete proof that his brother was alive.

Porthos and d'Artagnan had told him they would be in his apartment, but he still didn't expect what he found there. The walls and furniture had been strung around with an obscene amount of tinsel, confetti was sprinkled on all the flat surfaces and baubles had been hung with impressive creativity off of every available object. It looked, Athos felt, like a Christmas shop had thrown up over his apartment. And then he realised that they must have been back to the office after he left, because Aramis' Christmas tree was sitting on his coffee table, bright lights and all. He wasn't sure whether he loved or hated the sight of it.

He stood aside to let Aramis pass, and the smile on his friend's tired face seemed brighter than all the little bulbs combined. As Aramis turned, absorbing the decorations, Athos realised that his stomach was rumbling - in response to the smells coming from his kitchen.

He closed the door mechanically, not believing what his senses were telling him, but there was barely a second to think about it before Porthos had flung himself out of the kitchen and practically pounced on Aramis. The hug Porthos gave him looked fierce enough to crack his ribs but Aramis returned it, and Athos looked away so that he wouldn't have to pretend not to see the way they were clinging to each other like anchors.

D'Artagnan followed within seconds and Aramis managed to detach himself to embrace the young man - a gentler hug, but no less sincere.

Athos liked these moments. They could pretend all they wanted with words, act as though things didn't matter, but it was the unspoken between them that never lied. If he were a different man, Athos would throw himself into the middle of it all, give and accept that unspoken bond, but somehow even that was difficult for him. To leave behind the objectivity of work, to draw a distinction between the times they were his team and the times they were his brothers. That line was so blurred he wasn't sure it existed at all.

So he gave them their moment, then spoke instead. "You haven't?" he said, looking at Porthos and d'Artagnan, and realising belatedly that the latter was wearing an apron.

"Yes, we have," d'Artagnan said cheerfully, and laughed as understanding dawned on Aramis' face. "Started when we got your message."

"We'd already done the decorations," Porthos said, a hand resting easily on Aramis' shoulder. "Much easier without the pair of them, actually," he added, directing the words at d'Artagnan. "Athos always wants it colour co-ordinated, and Aramis just wants to throw glitter everywhere."

Athos contemplated making a remark about the tinsel explosion they've concocted but then he looked, really looked, at the three of them. There were dark shadows under all of their eyes, and he knew what lurked behind them. Fear for Aramis' safety for d'Artagnan and Porthos, and more besides - grief in d'Artagnan for this first holiday as an orphan, and the hardness in Porthos of too long left alone. And Aramis - if anyone needed this, it was him, and Athos found that he wanted nothing more than for that look of wonder to stay on his face forever, to chase away the shadows in his soul.

So he just smiled, giving his apartment over to this belated Christmas, and felt his spirits lift uncontrollably as Aramis gave a delighted laugh and proclaimed it all to be perfect.

They ate Christmas dinner at eight in the morning, an impressive spread of turkey, potatoes and all the trimmings that would probably have fed twice as many people. Porthos' roast potatoes had been honed to a fine art over the years, and it turned out that a slightly bashful d'Artagnan was responsible for the turkey, which was cooked far better than the other three had ever managed. It was the first real meal any of them had had for at least two days and they ate it as enthusiastically as it deserved, complete with several bottles of wine on the basis that anything was permissible at Christmas.

Afterwards, thoroughly bursting at the seams and feeling as though they might never move again, the four of them crashed out on the sofas around the fire, while a festive movie none of them were really watching played on the television. Tomorrow - or rather, later today - there would be time for everything else: games of charades or monopoly that Athos would pretend not to want to play; crackers and stupid jokes and Porthos introducing d'Artagnan to his vast leftover sandwiches; Aramis and Porthos bickering over which films to watch; them all following Aramis to church if he wanted to go. There was time for it all, time with them, and that was all Athos could have wanted.

The future was there, safe, so for now he could simply lie there, surrounded by his brothers. Time and time again they have proved what they meant to each other and the understanding between them was now effortless, which is why Athos wasn't even surprised when Aramis shuffled closer on the sofa and wrapped his good arm around Athos' shoulders without saying a word. It was a moment worth everything else - worth the wait, worth the fear, worth the phone call with Treville in which he politely informed his boss that Aramis' report could wait until the new year. The silent, one-armed hug was all he needed to now that now, at last, he did not have to be a leader. He was just another brother, glad beyond all measure that his family was safe.

Athos rested his head on Aramis' shoulder, and slept.