It had taken the better part of an hour for Saunier to tend to the young man's injuries. Luckily, none of what he'd discovered seemed overly serious, but he had no doubt the stranger would be sore once he finally awoke. With his son's help, he'd cleaned and bandaged the few areas where the skin had been broken, and applied a soothing balm to the numerous bruises that colored the young man's torso. He'd been surprised that none of their ministrations had woken their patient, though he'd shown some signs of awareness when they'd gently washed away the dirt from his face and neck.

Now, Saunier kept a vigil next to the bed, partly so the young man wouldn't panic when he awoke, and partly in case the stranger meant them harm. Despite Remi's certainty that they were in no danger, the older man had learned over the years that it was better to be safe than sorry.

He was broken from his thoughts by the first stirrings of awareness from the stranger, as the injured man moaned lowly, his head rolling on the pillow. Saunier watched carefully while keeping his distance, one hand gripping the pistol he'd laid in his lap. The young man inhaled deeply as he woke, the breath hitching in his chest and pulling another groan of pain from him. His compassion overcoming his trepidation, Saunier leaned forward and placed a hand gently on the stranger's chest, trying to ease his transition into awareness. "Easy, you're alright," he soothed. "I know it hurts, but it's nothing that won't heal."

The sound of his voice seemed to startle the man lying in bed, causing his patient's eyes to shoot open only a moment before he tried to move away from Saunier's touch. Surprised at the reaction, the older man flinched and pulled his hand back, eyes wide as he watched the injured man's struggles for several seconds before coming back to himself. Reaching forward once more, but letting his hand hover uncertainly over the young man's form, he said, "You're safe. Please, stop moving, you'll only hurt yourself more."

The words had the desired effect as the stranger's movements stopped, although Saunier reflected later, the fact that the young man was also at the edge of the mattress may have had something to do with it. The injured man lay on his side, propped up on one elbow as he panted for breath; the pain of his many hurts had obviously flared at the quick movements he'd made so soon after waking.

Seeing the panic that remained in his patient's expression, Saunier slowly withdrew his hand and laid it on his thigh, holding the other man's gaze the entire time. It took several long seconds, but finally the stranger's breaths slowed and he blinked, seeming to finally be coming back to himself. Moments later he asked, "Who are you?" His eyes darted around the small room and before Saunier could answer, he added, "Where am I?"

The older man purposefully stayed seated as he calmly replied. "I am Bernard Saunier, and you are in my home. You were found injured and unconscious at the edge of our farm by my son, Remi." He paused then, allowing the other man a short time to process what he'd heard. Seeing only a frown in response, Saunier continued. "Can you tell me your name?"

The stranger's gaze lifted from where it had drifted, the young man still clearly dazed and battling exhaustion. "d'Artagnan," he replied. Moments later he added, "I'm a Musketeer." The statement seemed to spur a memory, and Saunier watched as the injured man lifted a hand to his bare shoulder.

Concerned that his guest might believe his hosts to have taken something from him, Saunier quickly interjected, "You wore nothing but your shirt and doublet when you were found. Remi has cared for your horse and your saddlebags are untouched."

The Musketeer gave a weary, sightless nod as he mumbled a reply, "Was attacked and robbed."

"You were robbed?" Saunier repeated, wanting to confirm the words that had been muttered so quietly as to almost be indistinct.

d'Artagnan gave a shaky nod, the arm that held him up beginning to tremble. "They took my pauldron and my weapons." His eyes shifted again to the shoulder that would normally bear the insignia of his regiment, and Saunier found his gaze drawn there as well.

Drawing a deeper breath, Bernard brought himself back to the present, noting the pallor of his patient's face as well as the sheen of sweat that now covered it. Pitching his voice lowly, he said, "You should probably rest now."

The Musketeer began to shake his head, stopping abruptly before swallowing thickly, as his stomach threatened to rebel. He took several steadying breaths before he opened eyes that he didn't remember closing. "No, I need to complete my mission."

At the young man's statement, Saunier's concern deepened. Sensing the Musketeer's stubbornness, he proposed a compromise. "How about you sleep for an hour or so, and then join us for a meal before you go. Surely, you can spare that much time to refresh yourself before setting out again?" His tone was a mix of hopeful and conciliatory, and he prayed his guest would see the reason in his suggestion.

Whether it was the logic of the idea, or simply the fact that d'Artagnan's body was screaming out for rest, the result was the same; the young man paused to contemplate the offer for a moment before grudgingly giving a dip of his chin in agreement. Saunier couldn't help but smile at having his recommendation accepted. As he rose from his chair, lightly gripping the pistol in his left hand, he asked, "Do you need any help getting settled?"

The Musketeer still laid near the edge of the bed, but clearly his trust in his host had been stretched to its limits as he gave a soft but firm reply, "No."

The older man gave a tilt of his head in understanding and withdrew from the room, closing the door gently behind him as if sensing that the other man needed to be alone. As soon as the door shut, d'Artagnan's arm gave out and he let out a soft grunt as his aching body impacted with the mattress beneath him. He shifted awkwardly toward the centre of the bed, breathing heavily by the time he'd finished, and his eyes slipped closed. For a moment, he fought against the pull of sleep, recognizing the need to assess his situation and plan his next move, but his body refused to cooperate. Within seconds, he was asleep, his dreams filled with the looks of disappointment on his brothers' faces.

Athos paused for a moment before pushing the door open to his rooms. His mind was a mix of conflicting thoughts and emotions, and he desperately craved a drink to settle the maelstrom that was madly spinning in his brain. He let his head tip forward as he leaned against the door, the solidity of the wood bracing him as he sagged against it, his eyes closed in a vain attempt to relax. When had things become so complicated, he wondered to himself, feeling the dual tensions of duty and friendship threatening to tear him apart.

It was true that he'd treated d'Artagnan badly, and had been unable to stop himself from once again blaming the young man for Aramis' poor condition. When Serge had announced the Gascon's mistake, he'd felt his anger and resentment toward the young man swell until he could no longer stand to be in the same room with the other man. As the hours had dragged on, his feelings had hardened his resolve to distance himself from the Gascon, unable to bear the consequences of the young man's next mistake.

Despite the fact that he'd become incredibly fond of d'Artagnan in the time since he'd joined their ranks, he now found himself feeling forced to choose between the young man and his two other stalwart friends. It was a choice he never could have imagined making, and he was strangely surprised to find that his loyalty swung to Aramis and Porthos, leaving the Gascon as the odd man out. Although the decision to distance himself from d'Artagnan had seemed to come relatively easily, he could not delude himself into believing that he was completely at peace with it.

There was a part of his heart that still ached for the young man's presence, and it was this need that had blossomed when he'd heard about the potential threat against his protégé. In that moment, the magnitude of d'Artagnan's mistake had diminished, and the protectiveness he felt for his friend had surged anew. If asked, Athos knew he would be hard-pressed to explain his vacillating emotions, and could only state that any penalties levied against the young man should only be applied by the Captain or himself. Even as the thought solidified, he shook his head at his foolishness, recognizing that he had no more right than Aramis or Porthos to judge d'Artagnan's actions, yet despite that realization, he could not seem to dissuade himself of the belief.

Drawing a deep, shuddering breath, he let the hand that rested against the warm wood squeeze into a fist, relishing the ability to channel some of his frustration into a physical manifestation. Had his friends not waited behind the door, he would have pounded against the barrier to vent some of the strong emotions currently tangling his thoughts. Instead, he lifted his fist and brought it to his bowed head, pressing it firmly against his temple as he fought for control of himself. Several long seconds passed before he felt some of his steely restraint reassert itself. Unfurling his fingers, he allowed his arm to drop to his side as he opened his eyes and lifted his head.

The closed door remained in front of him and he took a last steadying breath, wondering fleetingly if Porthos would notice if he poured himself a drink. Attempting to dismiss the desire, he grasped the doorknob and turned, pushing the door inwards so he could enter. He was pleased to find Aramis sitting up in bed, despite being propped up by what looked like every pillow he owned. The marksman was still pale and obviously in pain if the fine lines around his eyes were anything to go by.

Sitting at Aramis' side, Porthos grinned as he greeted the older man. "Athos, look who's finally decided to join us."

Athos gave a smile as he nodded, the sight of their recovering friend loosening another of the coils that had been constricting his chest since the prior evening. "It's good to see you up, Aramis." Turning his attention to Porthos as he nonchalantly opened a bottle of wine, he asked, "How is our patient?" As he waited for an answer, he poured a very full glass, taking a deep swallow before returning to stand at the side of the bed.

Porthos' eyebrow rose at the action, but he wisely refrained from commenting, satisfied that at least Athos hadn't brought the bottle with him. "Better, but still weak and sore. Managed a half cup of broth," he explained, casting a look over the ill man before returning his gaze to Aramis. Noting the green cast to the marksman's skin, he said, "We're relatively certain it'll stay down."

Aramis scowled at his friend's comment, but didn't make any move to refute it. Instead, Athos watched as the reclining man swallowed thickly and wondered if Porthos' claim had been overly optimistic. As if sensing the older man's concern, the marksman held a hand to his chest, as if willing the meagre meal he'd consumed to stay down. "I can speak for myself, you know," Aramis croaked, and Athos frowned at the hoarse quality of their friend's voice.

Porthos immediately moved to pick up the cup of water he'd placed on the small bedside table, handing it to Aramis so he could soothe his raw throat. The marksman looked as if he wanted to refuse, but with a minor eye roll, he took the proffered water and drank. After a couple of small sips, he handed the cup back to Porthos, uttering a soft, "Thank you." To everyone's relief, his voice sounded much better than before, although it was still weaker than normal.

Athos still held his glass of wine, and took the opportunity to throw it back, returning to the table to put his cup down while also snagging a chair. He placed the latter item a few feet from Porthos and sat down. Aramis looked between the two men, noting immediately the absence of their fourth. "Where's d'Artagnan?" He watched as his friends traded knowing looks. With a hint of panic, he asked, "He's not sick too, is he?"

"No, he's fine," Porthos assured, throwing another glance at Athos that begged the other man to interject.

When neither man said anything further, Aramis crossed his arms over his chest, wincing slightly at the pressure on his still tender stomach. "What aren't you telling me?"

Again, a round of silent communication passed between the other two, and Aramis' expression darkened in annoyance. Sensing the marksman's waning patience, Porthos offered, "Athos knows more than I do." Turning his most innocent expression on the older man, he prompted, "Athos?"

With a pained look, the former Comte relented, mirroring the ill man's posture as he crossed his arms before speaking. "d'Artagnan is away on a mission."

Porthos' eyebrow rose, but Aramis only looked surprised. "Really, with whom?" It was well-known that the four worked best together, and it was rare for them to be deployed without at least one of their group.

Athos refrained from fidgeting uncomfortably as he replied, "By himself." Before the marksman could say anything more, he rushed on. "Nearly a third of the regiment was affected by the same illness that affected you. As it is, Treville has had to rely on the Red Guard to take up the slack, and we are stretched thin until more men are able to resume their duties." This time it was Aramis' eyebrow that lifted in disbelief, recognizing instinctively that his friend was attempting to deceive him.

Porthos was a good liar, having honed his skills first in the streets of the Court of Miracles. Later, he'd continued to perfect the art in Paris' many taverns, supplementing his income at the card tables. Aramis was also gifted at deception, knowing exactly the right things to say and do in order to influence those around him. Mostly, he employed his skills on the beautiful women of the nobility, his sweet words gaining him access to more bedchambers than he cared to admit. But Athos…

Athos was an honest man. Growing up as a future Comte had relieved him of the need to be anything other than completely, bluntly truthful. Not that Athos was ever unkind, but he never saw the value of bending the facts; of offering a white lie where it might spare someone's feelings or garner influence. No, Athos was a terrible liar, and it was just one more way in which he and d'Artagnan were so similar.

While Athos sat waiting to see if his explanation would be accepted, Porthos had raised a hand to scrub over his face, already painfully aware that their ruse would not work. Letting his arm drop to his lap, the larger man caught Athos' eye as he said, "Just tell him already."

The former Comte looked back to Aramis, and the expression he found there convinced him of the wisdom of Porthos' words. With a soft sigh, he began his explanation again, this time describing d'Artagnan's mistake and the consequences, and ending with the information he'd garnered from Garon. It was at that point that Porthos interjected. "We've got to go after him and make sure he's alright."

Athos wearily shook his head. "No, Treville has ordered us to remain here unless d'Artagnan sends a request for help. There are too many duties and not enough men to attend to them. The Captain believes it will be at least a week before he can spare us."

The news fell heavily and the room descended into silence until Aramis finally said, "I'm tired. I'd like to sleep now." Athos watched as the marksman closed his eyes, wishing that he had the same luxury of escaping the reality of their situation, even if only for a short while.

True to his word, Saunier had prepared enough food for their evening meal so that their guest would be able to join them. While it was strange to have a soldier in their home, a part of him hoped that the young man would change his mind about leaving later that night. Of course, the fact that the Musketeer wouldn't be able to get far before darkness fell, didn't hurt any either, and was part of the reason he'd suggested d'Artagnan rest until dinner and then have a proper meal before setting out. Saunier's lips twitched mildly in amusement as he realized he'd used a similar ploy on his guest as he might employ against his son.

Bernard and Remi sat down to eat once their food was ready, the older man making the conscious decision to let the Musketeer sleep. He imagined that the young man would likely be upset at not having been woken, but Saunier believed he could justify his decision well enough by pointing out that to their guest that he would have woken on his own, had his body not so desperately needed the rest. As such, it was more than an hour after they'd cleared their dinner dishes that d'Artagnan made an appearance.

Bernard was sitting at the kitchen table waiting for the young man to show, carefully repairing some stitching on one of their horse's bridles. The Musketeer was moving slowly and breathing heavily, pausing at the archway into the room and leaning against it as if spent. Saunier's concern spiked immediately at the bruising that had deepened within an otherwise pallid face, and he noted the stiff way in which the young man held himself, one arm tucked firmly against his battered ribs.

Keeping his thoughts to himself, Saunier affixed a genial expression onto his face, rising and moving over to the fire where he'd kept food warming for his guest. "Good evening," he said as he ladled stew into a bowl. "Please, have a seat." He motioned towards the table with his head as he finished filling the dish. He worked slowly, hearing the Musketeer's slow, shuffling gait behind him, waiting until a low grunt sounded when d'Artagnan lowered himself into a chair. Saunier stood up then, snagging a chunk of bread and turning back to his guest to place both items before him.

Retaking his seat, Bernard took up the bridle he'd been repairing as he encouraged the young man to eat. "Please, enjoy," he said, intentionally looking down at the tack in his hands.

d'Artagnan sat hunched over the table, trying to find a position that was kinder to his sore flank. He picked the spoon up in one hand, stirring the hearty stew as his studied his host. He vaguely remembered their earlier conversation, and was still wary despite the man's assurances. He was not normally so distrustful, but the earlier beating was a grim reminder that he needed to be more careful. Seeing nothing of immediate concern, he scooped up a small spoonful and took his first bite, eyes widening in appreciation at the flavour. Chewing, he swallowed and said, "It's good. Thank you."

Saunier looked up, a genuine smile on his face as he replied, "It was my wife's recipe and one of my son's favorites." He dipped his eyes as he spoke, his expression growing more sombre as he said, "She was taken from us almost three years ago. I am only glad that I learned the recipe before she left us."

The stricken look in the older man's eyes was so reminiscent of the one he'd often seen in his own father's face that d'Artagnan almost choked on a bite, coughing softly to dislodge the errant piece of food. He let his spoon drop back into the bowl as each expulsion of air pushed against his damaged ribs. For several seconds he braced himself with one arm on the table while the other steadied his side. Moments later, his throat was clear, and he lifted a shaky hand to his eyes to wipe away the moisture that had gathered there with the pain of his coughing. Lifting his head, he met his host's concerned face and croaked out, "'M fine." Clearing his throat, he repeated, "I'm fine."

Saunier nodded slowly, disbelief clear in his expression. Feeling the need to explain himself to his host, d'Artagnan explained, "I lost my mother when I was a boy. We, my father and I, would always cook her favorite meal on her birthday."

The older man's eyes lost some of their sorrow, and his features tightened at their shared loss. Saunier looked down at the bridle in his hands as he said, "I hope that I can convince you to stay the night with us." Without meeting the Musketeer's gaze, he knew that the other man was already stiffening at the suggestion. "The sun is already setting and it will be dark soon. Surely there is nothing to be gained from a night spent sleeping under the stars?" With his last comment, he'd raised his eyes to his injured guest, hoping that young man would see his sincere concern.

d'Artagnan spooned another bite into his mouth as he considered his reply. It was true that he wanted nothing more than to resume his journey, but Saunier was correct that there would be no choice but to stop for the night regardless. He would gain nothing by camping outside rather than accepting the other man's gracious offer. As if sensing his hesitation, Bernard added, "My son, Remi, was hoping to have a few minutes to meet the man he found and brought home – now that you are awake." There was a hint of amusement in Bernard's tone, but there was nothing malicious about it.

Sensing his host's sincere desire to help, and remembering his own awe of soldiers and their stories, d'Artagnan found himself nodding. "Alright, I'll stay the night; thank you."

It was clear by Saunier's expression that he was pleased, but he offered nothing more than a slight nod, motioning once more to the half-eaten bowl of stew. "You'll want to finish your dinner before Remi returns from doing his chores. I'm fairly certain he'll be plying you with questions for as long as you're willing to indulge him." Bertrand's eyes shone with a father's pride and d'Artagnan found himself agreeing again, focusing on his meal while the older man returned to his repairs.

A/N: Thanks, as always, to AZGirl for helping me smooth out this story's rough edges. Hope this chapter was worth the wait and thanks for reading!