Hey everyone, sorry for another delay but this is a long chapter and I have about four more chapters on the go that I've been dividing my limited free time between. I hope you are having a great week! Especially for all you Brits on half-term and have to study for Mock-exams next week, I feel your pain. Anyway, I just finished this and I'd really appreciate some reviews and everything. I hope you're enjoying Season 2 as well, I know I am all caught up in the drama!

Erejima asked for d'Artagnan to run out of money and collapse out of hunger since his farm was destroyed. Of course, in the context of Season 1 Episode 8, d'Artagnan finds out about the farm after LaBarge is arrested and a day before he becomes an official Musketeer (because come on, they treated him like an actual Musketeer almost the whole way through) so this fic won't mention the loss of his farm, but rather the lack of money since d'Artagnan hasn't been receiving any funds, then I don't have to alter the timeline too much.

It was Aramis who noticed first. Head mother-hen of the garrison, experienced soldier and self-proclaimed healer, Aramis had a tendency to keep a close, nosy eye on the welfare and general health of all his fellow Musketeers. His naturally inquisitive nature was adversely discouraged by certain members—Athos counted himself amongst those given his private nature—but others, including Porthos, appreciated the concern given a past that was less than caring and comfortable and it was nice to have someone who genuinely cared looking out for their well-being. Aramis' ability to be somewhat subtle, combined with his inborn charm and faithful loyalty, meant he was revered as a trusted confidant and skilled field medic, with a talent for noticing and dealing with issues that others would miss. Athos had long-past learned Aramis' many expressions and casual nuances in speech and knew when Aramis was approaching him for a less-than-innocent conversation.

So he was surprised, whilst he was sat at their usual bench, cleaning his sword, when Aramis slid gracefully down across from him with a determined look on his face. Athos covered his bewilderment with his practised stoic expression-trying to work out what exactly he'd done to deserve this no doubt painful conversation—and sat back with an exasperated sigh.

"What is it, Aramis?"

Aramis' brow furrowed and he pouted "Can't I just come join my friend for some good company and interesting conversation?"

"You seem to have forgotten I have known you for a number of years, Aramis, and I know how you think." Athos argued back calmly, arms folding over his chest "Besides which, if you wanted conversation, we both know there are better men than me to ask."

"But not better company." Aramis smirked and gave him a little wink.

Athos managed a fond turn of the corner of his mouth "What is bothering you, Aramis?"

Aramis' expression saddened and he looked to the back of the yard the Musketeers-in-training were socialising, d'Artagnan standing on the outskirts of the group, speaking with one of their newest recruits.

"It's d'Artagnan."

Athos raised an eyebrow curiously.

"Have you noticed how thin he's been looking lately?" Aramis glanced nervously over his shoulder again "I mean, thinner than his normal stick-insect self. I just-I know he doesn't like to bother us with things like this but…he's going to make himself sick if he doesn't eat enough."

Athos let his gaze drift over to the lad and he took note of the hollowness of the boy's cheeks, a bagginess to his clothes that suddenly seemed unfitting. D'Artagnan had always appeared unnaturally lean, but now that Athos' attention had been drawn to it, the reality of it was even more startling and the change far more obvious.

"It has been rather stressful lately. D'Artagnan has been training with us for months and seems no closer to a commission. It is a lot to ask of someone so young, especially when he is so far from home with few friends."

"He has us." Aramis protested defensively, narrowing his eyes at Athos before glancing back once again "But still, I think we should talk to him."

"We? You have never asked for my help with sensitive issues before. They are hardly my…area of expertise."

Aramis actually glared at him "He's practically family now. Plus, he worships the ground you walk upon; your opinion and your words mean everything to him."

"He has chosen a rather poor role-model then." Athos answered with a soft exhalation of regret and he let his eyes drop to the knots in the wood before meeting Aramis' eyes again more firmly, ignoring the heartfelt—and slightly annoyed- expression there "Besides, you should not doubt your own worth to d'Artagnan; he thinks very highly of you and Porthos as well."

Aramis grinned proudly at the praise before continuing "Then maybe we should all intervene-triple the effect- and maybe one of us can overcome his greatest defence."

"The puppy eyes?"

"What can I say? The boy is blessed." Aramis shrugged simply an amused smirk on his face "I doubt even the Cardinal could defy those big brown eyes."

Athos scoffed, looking over to see d'Artagnan had been joined by Porthos, both grinning and laughing whilst the recruit stared up at Porthos in childlike awe, eyes as wide as plates and a gormless look upon his face. It wasn't an unusual reaction from the newly appointed Musketeers as they had—unfortunately in Athos' opinion- acquired a reputation through their years of service and as such many recruits sought the three out for some kind of favour or to proclaim how honoured they were to fight alongside the three 'Inseparables'. Aramis revelled in the attention until it became tedious or otherwise irritating, Porthos tended to blush awkwardly, cough and try and move swiftly onwards whilst Athos would politely nod and stare intently at the poor nuisance until they ran away with their tail between their legs. It was probably part of the reason that Athos had accepted d'Artagnan so easily; since the young Gascon respected the regiment for its prowess rather than the successes of specific soldiers since he had lived out of reach of the gossip of Paris and Aramis' exaggerated and self-indulgent storytelling.

Porthos clapped d'Artagnan on the shoulder amicably and Athos frowned at the way the boy teetered slightly dangerously forward, before they were both moving into the middle of the yard, likely for some hand-to-hand practice. Athos didn't miss the shadow that appeared under the recruit's eyes, slight confusion morphing to something resembling mild jealousy and Athos had time to consider the rest of the recruits darkened expression and narrowed eyes before Porthos was lunging for d'Artagnan.

Despite Porthos' size, he was surprisingly agile and Athos remembered the wonder he had felt when he had first seen the large Musketeer free running across the rooftops of their ancient city with the ease of cat. The memory was cemented when Aramis had attempted to follow, took three steps, wobbled precariously, righted himself with a grin and a thumbs up before Porthos had appeared behind him so Aramis had startled and promptly toppled off the rooftop landing fortunately in a large wooden cart laden with straw and other surprises fresh from the stables and on its way to the Seine. The story had since been countlessly retold by Porthos, much to Aramis' chagrin who continued to claim Porthos purposefully sabotaged him and that he took a 'swanlike dive aimed for the soft clean straw' despite the fact they were all privy to the constant moaning about the smell of his jacket for at least three weeks after.

The fight was quick and calculated. Porthos had speed, enough to challenge d'Artagnan despite his lighter, leaner physique and with Porthos' strength and experience d'Artagnan was forced to use brains rather than brawn. It was impressive to watch, especially since the Gascon was a quick study and had come on leaps and bounds in his training with all three of his mentors and the younger man was managing to fend off Porthos' stronger locks with clever dodges and feints. Finally, Porthos pulled a gambit of his own and suddenly d'Artagnan was being lifted off the ground far quicker and higher than normal so that Porthos went stumbling backwards and the Gascon was flying over his shoulder. They both hit the ground hard and Aramis and Athos leapt to their feet simultaneously, everyone in the yard staring at the two Musketeers on the ground.

Almost immediately Porthos was rolling off his back and over to d'Artagnan, expression alarmed as he hurried to touch the boy's shoulder gently.

"Dammit! D'Artagnan? Talk to me! Are ya okay?"

Aramis was second to the Gascon's side as they rushed across the courtyard, falling to his knees and leaning over the boy, fingers rushing under his chin. But a second later, d'Artagnan's hand was weakly batting it away as he groaned loudly and slowly levered himself up on one elbow, trembling frighteningly violently and Aramis was grabbing his bicep as Porthos positioned himself behind the Gascon lest he fall back again.

"D'Artagnan, tell me what hurts." Aramis said calmly to him and the young man groaned, head coming up, hair shading his eyes and he looked incredibly pale and sick.

Athos ignored the way his grip tightened protectively on his arm.

"I-I'm fine." D'Artagnan gasped painfully, curling in over himself "Just-just winded myself a bit."

Porthos winced, eyes dark with guilt "I'm sorry, d'Art. I just-I wasn't expecting ya to be…I mean I got the weight distribution wrong. Yer lighter than I thought ya'd be."

That made Aramis freeze and he turned to meet Athos' gaze worriedly, with a less smug and more alarmed expression than was usual, but Athos shook his head to signal the medic to let it go, at least for the moment. The company around them had lost interest, the older Musketeers shooing away the newer recruits, knowing the drama was over and the three best Musketeers had it well in hand. Athos was quietly grateful and managed to send a couple of his comrades nods of appreciation when he caught their eyes.

"Why don't we take this somewhere private, gentlemen?" Athos murmured quietly, seeing Treville come to the balcony, keen eyes focussing on the four crouched in various positions in the dirt "Porthos, carry d'Artagnan to my room, Aramis can treat him there."

"I'm not a child. I can walk on my own." d'Artagnan snarled back, tone insolent with obvious pain and frustration as he pulled sharply away from Athos' grip and clambered hastily to his feet.

The Gascon managed, by some feat of determination and stubbornness, to stand –albeit shakily—and Aramis was up like a shot to stop him, fortunately smart enough to keep his anxious hands far away lest he receive an elbow to the face.

Porthos ground his teeth as d'Artagnan winced and took a few moments to right himself "This is ridiculous!"

D'Artagnan tensed at the comment and Athos pursed his lips, well aware of what Porthos' words would mean to the boy and the knock to his confidence would have painful consequences. His point was only proven as d'Artagnan took a cautious step forward and Athos shocked himself when he stepped alongside his friend, turned slightly toward him in a loose stance, a reassuring presence at his shoulder but neither crowding nor blocking him.

"Let us help you." The older Musketeer pleaded in a soft whisper "You're hurt, there is no shame in it."

D'Artagnan shook his head stiffly "I have to prove myself if I ever want to be a Musketeer. Leave me alone, Athos, I can do this."

It almost physically pained Athos to hear the words, to follow the action, but he let his head drop in submission and took a small step back. Aramis made a squeak of protest, mouth open in disbelief, but was silenced from saying anything further by Porthos' hand on his shoulder and a gruff grunt of dissuasion. D'Artagnan breathed deeply for a few moments before continuing, trying to cover his frailty with a forced lightness to his step and Aramis and Porthos' expressions were pinched as they fought to stand still.

D'Artagnan managed two more steps before he staggered, his knees buckling and he tilted sideways, Athos straining himself to prevent the Gascon's head striking the cobbles. Treville came thundering across the landing and down the stairs as Athos struggled to hold d'Artagnan's weight evenly, though the frailty and hollowness frightened him no end.

"Help me." He managed to grunt as Porthos rushed up behind him to scoop d'Artagnan into his arms, Aramis ten steps ahead as they all hurried for their leader's rooms, away from the hushed voices of their fellow Musketeers.

As they rushed to their rooms, Treville appeared at Athos' shoulder and he stopped to give his superior the courtesy he deserved "Is everything alright?"

"No." Athos replied honestly, his gaze trained on his brother's backs as they disappeared through his doorway "But we will make sure it will be, sir."

"Carry on then."

Dismissed by his Captain, Athos walked calmly to Aramis' rooms, the door left ajar in their haste to care for their brother. He pushed it quietly open, watching as Aramis finished retrieving something from one drawer, slamming it shut loudly as he turned and fell back toward the bed where Porthos was leant protectively over d'Artagnan. Knowing that his actions were limited, Athos sighed resignedly, working hard to lock away the burning worry and fear in his chest and closed the door to the rooms, settling back against it.

Aramis lifted the boy's shirt and Athos was drawn closer by the choked sound that Porthos made, turning away from the unconscious Gascon to scrub a hand tiredly down his face. It was not often that Porthos was affected by physical abnormalities or injuries, having grown up where conditions were harsh and the company was rough, so Athos was drawn both by fearful desire and by curiosity.

D'Artagnan's skin was pulled taunt over his ribs; the lines of bone, muscle and sinew evident through the papery texture of his skin and Athos struggled to breathe past the lump in his throat. Bruises were starting to appear across his torso, fresh and mottled, but there were the lasting yellow and green remains of some across his shoulder.

"What is this?" he whispered hoarsely and Aramis sat back, darkness in his wet eyes and Athos thought he could see the medic's hands shaking.

"This," Aramis said softly, tone holding something harder and more furious that wanted to be free, as he wrung his hands almost nervously "Is what happens when a soldier doesn't eat more than a few bowls of stew for at least three weeks. It's a wonder he managed to stay on his feet for this long."

Porthos turned round shockingly quickly, red from rage and voice bellowing "He's one of us! Not-not some helpless kid on the streets!"

"Quiet, Porthos. Calm yourself." Aramis placated gently but firmly, eerily calm when Porthos angrily kicked the bedside table angrily and Athos hunched pitifully silent where he stood at the end of the bed.

"How-" Athos struggled to articulate a meaningful sentence, emotions in a whirlwind and he cursed his weakness, swallowing tightly "How did he get…like this?"

Aramis sighed "The injuries are relatively superficial. This older bruising is a common training injury but his malnutrition has slowed the healing process significantly. That and he has no extra tissues to absorb the shocks to his body."

"No wonder he-" Porthos huffed in frustration and Athos was suspicious of the thickness in his voice "I can't believe I dropped him…"

"It's not your fault, Porthos-"

"Give off, 'Mis!"

Aramis nodded his head at Porthos' glare and Athos ran his fingers through his hair, nails digging into his scalp "What do we do now?"

"Fortunately, I think we can fix this with lots of bed-rest and a large amount of food and drink." Aramis managed a strained smile, probably meant to reassure both his companions in their shaken state, but the shadows under his eyelids gave away a deeper, lasting fear.

"This isn't your fault either, Aramis." Athos inspirited, glancing over at the wearied and fuming Porthos leant against the window, staring out into the courtyard.

"But if I had just said something sooner then-"

"There is no point dwelling on what ifs." Athos placed his hand supportively on Aramis' shoulder, the younger man raising his ducked head to meet his eyes "We're here for him now. You were only doing what you thought was right."

"Leaving him to suffer in silence?"

Athos tilted his head disapprovingly "Waiting for the opportune moment, when you knew you were able convince a stubborn Gascon to share something he wanted to keep hidden. You cannot be blamed for the pain of others, Aramis. You noticed d'Artagnan's…condition before I did and had already come up with a plan to intervene. Without you, I might never have noticed."

Aramis remained quiet, but there was a little more light in his eyes and the lines on his forehead had eased, Porthos had turned to look at them both with a softer, fonder expression; the anger dissipating to emotional exhaustion as he glanced over the unconscious d'Artagnan, lying still amongst the white sheets, skin unnaturally snowy for the tanned skin of the men of Gascony.

There was a quiet groan, and d'Artagnan's fingers tightened in the sheets, eyes squinting at the light as he returned to a less than blissful consciousness. Porthos pushed away from the wall to crouch beside the young boy, blinking dazedly at the ceiling.

"Quiet, lad. You're alright. It's just us." He mumbled sympathically, voice low and calming and d'Artagnan relaxed into the bed as Porthos stroked a hand soothingly across his forehead.

Aramis meanwhile had settled back in his place to smile warmly down at the boy as Athos stopped at the foot of the bed, arms crossed over his chest as he watched over them protectively. The large Musketeer's smile morphed into a frown as he placed his hand more firmly against d'Artagnan's forehead and turned to Aramis with a worried expression.

"He's got a fever, 'Mis."

"Don't worry, it's just a side effect. He's probably been running a low fever for a few days. Isn't that right, d'Art? Why didn't you tell us you weren't feeling well?"

D'Artagnan, now apparently coherent enough to understand what was going on, blushed appropriately and looked away in shame "M'sorry."

Aramis chuckled "Not exactly an answer but I'll take it. I'm just going to prepare a salve for the bruising. Just keep talking to my two lovely assistants."

"I'm not your nurse." Athos told Aramis dryly as Aramis got to his feet and headed to a chest on the other side of the room, the medic winking cheekily at him as he passed "I'm not, Aramis."

"Keep telling yourself that, 'Thos. But I will get you in a dress and apron; I've already got Porthos to-"

"Oi!" Porthos interrupted in mock outrage and d'Artagnan snorted weakly, making all three of them grin partly in a relief.

"Where'm I?"d'Artagnan asked tiredly, wincing as he shifted in bed "M' memory's a bit…fuzzy."

Another guilty look flashed over Porthos' face but he covered it by pushing the sick boy to lie still "We were training and you…fell. We carried you to 'Mis' room since he has all the supplies."

"Please tell me Treville didn't see?"

"Unfortunately, the Captain was present for the second half on the drama."

"The second half…?"

Athos caught a quick whiff of potent herbs as Aramis passed, carrying an open pot of salve he recognised from the numerous missions where Aramis' medical expertise was required to fix their companions. As the Spaniad seated himself on a small stool beside the bed, he passed over a wet cloth in a small bowl to Porthos and the large Musketeer took it from him, wringing the fabric before gently placing it against d'Artagnan's forehead making the injured young man sigh in relief. Rubbing his hands together to warm them, Aramis carefully dipped his fingers into the concoction before gently applying it to the discoloured skin, apologising quietly when the pressure made d'Artagnan wince or flinch away.

Knowing that no one was going to bring the matter up, Athos took a deep steeling breath "D'Artagnan, I believe we deserve some answers."

Aramis froze for half a second before continuing his ministrations, eyes attentive to the injury, uncomfortable with asking questions now the boy was awake. Porthos tensed, exhaling harder as he dipped the cloth back in the bowl and placed it back against his head.

D'Artagnan looked reticently down at his prominent ribs "Since I came to Paris, I've been relying on the profits of my father's-my farm back home, sent to me by family friends."

Aramis leant back to listen but Porthos kept close to the boy's side, silently supporting him as he carefully carded his fingers through the boy's limp hair.

"A few weeks ago, I stopped getting money." d'Artagnan swallowed painfully, eyes downcast and Aramis placed his hand on top of the Gascon's "None of my letters have been replied to and there's no sign that I will receive any. I reached an agreement with Constance and her husband about the rent…though tensions are higher than ever now and I've been saving what little money I make to stay here in Paris."

"You've been unable to buy food for yourself?"

D'Artagnan nodded and Aramis' eyes looked so sad, face painfully empathetic "Why didn't you say anything to us?"

"You've done so much for me." d'Artagnan replied slightly more energetically, meeting all of their gazes and obviously recognising the sympathy and hurt in their expressions "I couldn't ask for more."

"D'Art, you really think I'm the type of person who'd rather gamble money away and watch my friend starve?" Porthos demanded, tone harsh but actions still gentle.

"No, of course not, Porthos. I just…" he trailed off weakly, apparently not able to articulate his feelings.

Athos sighed heavily again "We're not…angry at you, d'Artagnan. But you're one of us. You know my past, buying you dinner wouldn't drain me of all my funds. We're just hurt that you felt the need to keep this from us."

"But I'm not a Musketeer!" d'Artagnan protested and Aramis' fingers tightened around his hnd.

"Perhaps the King has not commissioned you yet, but you are a Musketeer in all but name. We are proud to call you our brother and one day soon, your opportunity will be granted and you too will wear our pauldron on your shoulder."

"Thank you." d'Artagnan's eyes glistened and a tear slipped down his cheek and he brushed it quickly away with the sheet "Thank you all, for everything."

Porthos grinned, eyes dark and warm "All for one and one for all, lad, and don't you forget it."

"Your gratitude is appreciated but unnecessary." Athos replied more diplomatically, corners of his lips twisting upward, burying his fond and relieved feelings back into his little box labelled 'Do not Open'.

Aramis smiled and glanced between them before turning on d'Artagnan "Right you. Rest. Athos'll get you some soup and Porthos will keep mopping your brow like the sop he is. Come on now; doctor's orders!"

Athos patted d'Artagnan's ankle before turning to the door "I'll inform Treville that d'Artagnan wil need some time to recover."

"But I hate bed rest!"

"No arguing, young man. You're going to stay right here and follow our orders or Porthos here is allowed to sit on you."

Athos chuckled as he left the room, listening to the cries of "No! Don't let him sit on me! Please, Aramis!" and closing the door quietly behind him.

D'Artagnan was going to be just fine soon enough.

Now where to find soup…