A/N: It became five days instead of the usual four, and for that I'm sorry. But to make up for that, this chapter is quite long. So enjoy. :)
To my reviewers whom I can't answer personally:
Sidjack: No worries, I'm on a roll with this story, not leaving it anytime soon. I'm glad you're liking it so far.
Holly: It's great to see you return, friend. I hope you stay for the rest of the ride too.
Karjul: AUs are not everyone's cup of tea so I'm grateful that you gave this one a chance. Thank you.
Warnings: Brief non-graphic rape of a minor OC, canon typical violence, long chapter.
I've gotten into the habit of leaving these tremendous author notes haven't I? No more talking, promise.
Athos wasn't one to flaunt his money. He was a man of simple tastes, not requiring much to keep him going.
Unless it was d'Artagnan whom the money was to be spent on.
Aramis had discovered this quite early into their acquaintance with the young lad. Where d'Artagnan was concerned, Athos pulled out all the stops. He had almost gone overboard while buying the furniture for the boy's room, only its size stopping him from buying a whole wall unit with nothing but bookshelves when he had learnt that d'Artagnan was an avid reader. Indeed all kinds of books had found their way into the already extensive library upstairs.
Now as Aramis walked away from the helicopter that Athos had rented, knowing they would have to get to and from London quite frequently if the information that Athos had dug up turned out to be true, he thought about whom he was going to meet.
In the years that d'Artagnan and his father hadn't seen Henri, he had wasted away most of his trust fund money on drinks and gambling, drowning in both alcohol and debt. His finances were, Athos had found out, in deplorable state. Several phone calls to some of Henri's ex-business partners revealed that he had taken loans from most of them and then disappeared.
But that wasn't why Aramis was in London. He was here to meet a certain Sophia Gomes. Digging deep, deep into Henri's records, Athos had found out that he had gotten married at twenty two, two years after shifting to London, and the marriage had ended in divorce a quick four months later.
They hadn't found out much about Sophia Gomes: the Gomes family, being from a wealthy background must have gotten their daughter's fiasco of a relationship buried too deep. Though the way Athos was working, turning every stone and sniffing in every nook and cranny, it wouldn't take him long to call in favors and get the files unsealed.
That would however take time. Athos had sent Aramis over to talk to the Gomes family in the meanwhile. See if they would be willing to come forward and speak about Henri's character.
Aramis gave the cab driver the address he had received in a text and it didn't take long for the cabbie to get stuck in London traffic. Aramis sat back, and opened his phone checking for texts from Porthos. His boyfriend was busy tracking down Carl Patrick who seemed to have gone underground ever since Henri's visit at the house.
He sighed and typed a text anyway: reached L. cot in traffc. hows search gng?
It took a minute before his phone pinged, a reply from Porthos bringing a smile to Aramis' face. Slow, asking in bars. Guys a douchebag. Everyone remembers him though no one has seen him recently.
Once again the unbidden thoughts of a lovely breakfast in bed along with slow morning sex they could be having on Valentine's instead of being in two separate countries entered Aramis' mind, but he dismissed them immediately. D'Artagnan was a lot more important than any missed date. And it wasn't like as if Porthos was going anywhere. Aramis smiled, relaxing.
Forty five minutes later Aramis opened his eyes when his brain registered that the cab had stopped. He paid the man and got out, the large red and white mansion in front of him not impressing him in the slightest. Large sprawling houses that were more lie palaces failed to inspire any feelings of intimidation or awe in him. He knew Athos after all. The man owned a lake house that was bigger than this one, and none of them even liked it there.
A brief conversation with the housekeeper who opened the door had Aramis waiting in an old fashioned sitting room with heavy drapes and plush sofas. Aramis frowned. He preferred modern, sparse décor instead of all this pomp. Taking out his phone he read the text from Porthos and frowned: I'm pretending to be homeless, isn't that funny?
He didn't think it was: Sure, immensely so.
There wasn't any reply for quite some time. Then Aramis had to keep away the phone as a tall man entered the room.
He was dressed in a crisp shirt and trousers with a brown sweater pulled over. The wrinkles on his face put him around sixty in Aramis' estimate, and his stylishly peppered hair looked more dyed than aged. He had a stern look about him but Aramis smiled, standing up.
"You must be Mr. Gomes." He held out a hand, "My name is Aramis. I'm a lawyer from the DA's office in Paris."
Mr. Gomes' eyebrows shot up. "And what possible business could a lawyer from Paris have with us?"
Aramis sat down again when the man did too. "It's about your daughter Sophia."
The man's expression, became even harder and he visibly tensed. "What about my daughter?'
"A few years ago your daughter was in a relationship with a man named Henri Phillips…"
The man shot up, his fists clenching, his face going a deep red with anger. "We do not speak of that name in this house. Please leave, you are not welcome here."
"Sir please, hear me out," Aramis pleaded.
Mr. Gomes regarded him coolly. "I am sorry, but I cannot allow some lawyer to dig up a very painful past for my daughter for his own benefit."
Aramis shook his head, "This man Henri has a nephew, a young boy of fifteen, whom he is a legal guardian to. Two years ago, the nephew ran away from home when Henri along with some friends tried to assault him sexually. The boy has been living with us for a few months now and he is a good, smart kid who does not deserve any of this. But the uncle is back now and he wants to take us to court over his custodial rights."
The old man shrugged, impassive. "While that story is indeed very sad, it neither concerns me nor my daughter. We have no relationship to that man nor his family. I've heard enough -"
Aramis looked at the man giving him his most earnest expression. He marveled at the fact that he did not even have to fake it. Where d'Artagnan was concerned, the intensity was a hundred person sincere. "You're a father. Tell me, would you let your daughter go back to a man she has successfully escaped?"
The man's face, which had been an inexpressive mask throughout, cracked at that. He frowned, "My daughter regrets ever getting into a relationship with that vermin. He was an abusive alcoholic and we got her away as soon as we found out." He folded his legs in front of him. "No child deserves to be given into the care of that monster. That is why I've kept my daughter's records buried so deeply." He took a deep breath, "he doesn't know of this, but their short marriage left my daughter with a son. My grandson, Elijah, is nine years of age. He does not know anything of his father, and Sophia would like to keep it that way."
Aramis stared at the man in surprise. Henri had a son that he was unaware about? He had left his pregnant wife? Aramis felt for the mother and child but he couldn't help but think this did wonders to their case. A father who didn't even know he had a son, would make a poor guardian to someone else's.
"Sir, I am terribly sorry for your daughter's misfortune but this can help us in the case. Would you be willing to go on record with this information?" he asked, hoping that Gomes would agree.
"You will not talk to my daughter or my grandson. I will not have them dragged into this." Gomes said, his voice brokering no argument. Aramis' face fell, at his refusal. "But you can have my statement against the man. If that helps then I am glad, but I am not willing to put Sophia through memories she would rather leave behind." Mr. Gomes said.
Aramis breathed a sigh of relief. "I understand completely sir. And if you have to appear in court?"
Mr. Gomes nodded. "I would do all I can on my behalf."
Aramis looked at him, deeply grateful. "Sir, trust me when I tell you my two friends and I cannot thank you enough. We have come to care for young d'Artagnan as if he were family and even the thought of leaving him with Henri is enough to sicken me."
Mr. Gomes smiled and Aramis found that his stern expression dissolved to reveal a kinder, much softer face. "If that is all that motivates you, you do not have to thank me. I understand a father's concern for their child's well-being all too well."
Aramis nodded and switched on the recorder.
An hour later he was walking out of the house to the waiting car. Mr. Gomes had told his driver to drop him off at the helicopter. He needed to get back immediately and tell the others of the good news. Gomes' statement had the potential to completely turn the tables in their favor. No judge in their right mind would discard the statement of the head of a respectable family to be false, and the statement itself was damning.
He took out his phone to send Porthos a text, to find one waiting already: i thnk i have a lead
It was received fifty five minutes ago. Aramis frowned but did not reply. Porthos was probably in the middle of some pub or something, following someone. He got into the waiting car and watched the streets go by.
It wasn't until the helicopter had landed and he had gotten down and was walking to his car, that his phone rang. The familiar photo of Porthos sleeping with his mouth open flashed on the screen and Aramis picked up immediately.
"Ara… Aramis, I think I need help…" The voice broke off.
Aramis' hands trembled and he ran to his car.
XXX
The only thing on record about Carl Patrick was that he owned a record shop in a rundown district of Paris. The bubblegum chewing girl at the rec shop had told him that Carl was an ass, he hadn't been to work for four days and that he was an ass. Porthos had asked her where he could find him, she had told him to look anywhere from the bar down the corner to the Louvre Museum.
He glanced at his phone, there was a text from Aramis telling him he had reached London. A slight pang went through Porthos' chest. The two men had always worked best when they were together, anticipating each others needs and making up for the others weaknesses. They had been a legend on the battlefield, a force to reckon with. Them and Athos' sharp edged battle plans were what had made their unit the most desirable one for the most deadly missions.
He shook himself out of those thoughts. He may not like working like this but d'Artagnan needed their help and he had never been known to back down from helping out family. He quickly typed in a reply hitting send and then burying the phone in a carefully sewn pocket in his coat. It would not do to lose it in some mugging.
Porthos had decided to start with the bar. It was a dingy place with a few seedy looking men scattered around and a chubby scantily clad woman at the bar, wiping the counter. He sat on a stool and ordered a whiskey.
It tasted like ass. He downed it in one go and ordered another.
He had dressed down for the excursion, forgoing his suit for a tattered pair of jeans with an old faded shirt and a large coat shabby coat thrown over. He did not look out of place among the bar's occupants.
"Drowning your sorrows, love?" the barkeeper asked smiling at him sweetly. Beneath the too heavy makeup, she was actually not bad looking.
Porthos smiled back at her, "No, I'm trying to look for someone actually?"
"Girl ran away with your heart?"
Porthos chuckled. "A man actually, told me his name was Carl. Carl Patrick I think, you know him?"
The woman frowned. "Love, you would be better off without him in your life. He isn't the kind of guy a nice boy like you should be thinking about."
Porthos looked at her, interested. He tried to flutter his eyelashes at her and blush. He didn't even know if he could blush. He thought about what Aramis had told him was going to happen on their first chance to get away as soon as the Henri problem settled down. Sure enough he felt his cheeks heat up. "What can I say, I have a type." He did, it was called Aramis.
The woman got busy with pouring out the drinks for another trucker who had taken a seat down the bar. Porthos took the time to discreetly check his phone which had vibrated during his conversation with her. There was a message from Aramis asking about his search, he typed in a quick reply and kept the pone back.
"He isn't a nice man. Drinks here often, and starts fights. I would throw him out but then I need the customers," the woman said. "Last I saw him he was leaving with a young boy. Don't know where he went then."
Porthos nodded and stood up, leaving a good tip with the payment for the drinks. The woman looked at it surprised and was about to call him back to tell him he'd left too much money, but a shake of his head and a quick smile made her pick it up and keep it away. Porthos left the bar, walking down the street.
It was one of those streets where all the splendor and glamor of Paris did not reach. The houses were broken down shacks, the people skeletal frames dressed in rags. Porthos' heavy built and foreboding manner of carrying himself kept the thieves and other unsavory types away, though he could feel the hair on the back of his neck standing. He was being watched, that much was evident.
Porthos had learned quite early on to find humor even in the darkest pits of hell that life had taken him. Even in Afghanistan, no situation was dire enough for Porthos to get completely serious and stop quipping one liners. His CO before Athos, had not really understood his witty snarky remarks in the heat of battle, while being pelted with bullets from all sides. In Athos' team, he was the one who usually kept spirits high when they were fucked three ways to Sunday. There, his ability to crack a smile had been appreciated, even looked up upon. Aramis had told him that the men used to say about him that if the grim reaper himself came to Porthos wielding his scythe, Porthos would tell him off for his drab sense of fashion.
Irony was an old pal of Porthos'.
He couldn't resist sending a quick text to Aramis, ': 'I'm pretending to be homeless, isn't that funny.'
He wasn't sure if Aramis would get it, the man had the habit of getting oddly subdued whenever Porthos tried to make light of all the years he had spent without a roof over his head. Porthos had learned to laugh about it, his lover hadn't. Porthos didn't think he ever will.
Sure enough he got a reply back, heavy with sarcasm. 'Sure, immensely so.' Porthos sighed, and kept the phone back.
He walked over to where several young boys were huddled together, none of them much older than d'Artagnan. They had a fire going in one of the empty bins and were trying to get some heat into their bodies. Porthos joined them, standing quietly for a long moment before speaking.
"Any of you seen a man round here; short, bald with a thick mustache. Has a loud voice and likes to throw his weight around?"
None of the boys answered, no one even looked at him. He nodded. "If you can tell me where to find him, I have a matter to settle with him. It'll probably take him away from these areas."
He turned around and continued walking down the street knowing that he would be followed. He turned into a quiet dark alley and waited. A minute later a scrawny dirty kid, around eighteen years old appeared from behind the overflowing dumpsters. He stood with his shoulders hunched and his eyes darting around warily.
"You a cop?"
Porthos shook his head, "No, I'm not."
The young man nodded, "What do you want from Carl?"
"I have something to discuss with him."
"He ain't the type for discussions, if you get my meaning."
"Do you know where I can find him?" Porthos asked, pointedly looking bored at the insinuation.
The man nodded. "He has a flat in the area. I can take you to him but…"
Porthos raised his eyebrows at the panicked look on the young man's face. "You can just tell me where to go. You don't have to come with me."
"It ain't that." The young man shook his head. He looked hesitant for a second before squaring his shoulders. "My little brother is with him. Stue fancies the ass for some reason, says he has promised to take him off the streets."
Porthos drew in a slow breath and nodded. "I have a little brother whom he tried to hurt too. That's why I need to find him."
A small smile came upon the kid's face then. "Then what are you waiting for?"
Porthos had taken the time to quickly text his boyfriend about the possible lead, before hurrying after the man.
They entered a decrepit building, four storeys high, with the paint crumbling off the walls and the doors painted an ugly red. The man gestured for Porthos to go inside. "This is where I leave. If that bugger gets you, my neck's not gonna be next."
Porthos nodded thanking him gruffly, though fully aware that the man could possibly have led him to a trap. He cracked his knuckles and walked in. He had brought a gun and a couple of knives, but he didn't think he would need either of those things. Items in his hands just slowed him down. it was his hands themselves that were his main defense. In Afghanistan when Aramis would settle on some high eagle's nest and pick off the rebels one by one through the lens of his sniper, Porthos would stride in, right into the thick of everything, mostly armed with nothing but his fists.
He wasn't the best close combat specialist in all of France's army for nothing.
He went inside, walking up the stairs which looked ready to fall down any minute and reached the fourth floor. A door was open, he could make out a couple of men sprawled out on couches a thick haze of smoke surrounding them. They were completely out of it and none of them matched Carl's description.
He pushed open another door barely hanging on its hinges. A topless woman was getting back into her jeans and she startled when she saw him. He quickly moved out, seeing no sign of any short fat man.
That left one door and Porthos took a deep breath before pushing it open. Whoever the building had belonged to had given up on locks a long time ago, he must have had too many of them broken to care anymore. The door swung open with a creak and Porthos stepped in.
It was a small room with a dirty mattress on the floor on top of which was a young boy, around fifteen years of age, was bent over and being pounded into relentlessly by a grotesque looking man. He was clutching the kid's hips to hold him in place and his head was thrown back.
Porthos' blood boiled as he took in the pained expression on the kid's face and he strode forwards, grabbing the man by the shoulder and pulled him away from the kid. Carl went flying backwards, having been taken by surprise.
He spluttered furiously, his large ugly cock leaking in a vulgar manner. "What the fuck?"
Porthos glanced at the boy who had gone limp on the mattress too tired and hurt to move. All too easily his mind replaced the quivering naked form with d'Artagnan, terrified and alone, at the mercy of this sick bastard. A cold rage settled over him as he turned towards the man who had gotten to his feet and was looking at him enraged.
"You and I need to have a little talk," he said, his calm voice not betraying any of his anger.
"I'll tell you what you need to have!" the man spat out, striding towards Porthos. "You need to have my dick buried so deep inside your ass that you…"
He was cut off when Porthos punched him in the face. The man stumbled back but to Porthos' surprise, stayed on his feet. "Why you motherfucking piece of shit!" he charged at Porthos, tackling him to the ground, but Porthos rolled over, pinning the man down under him instead. He punched him in the stomach once, knocking the breath out of him.
"How does that feel asshole?" he growled, grabbing his swinging arms and pushing his knee into his chest until he felt the man give in and stop struggling, trying only to breathe through the pressure on his chest.
Porthos relented after a while and Carl gasped loudly, drawing in a huge breathe. He glared at Porthos who smirked. "What do you want?" he rasped out.
"Like I said, we need to talk. About your friend Henri."
The man smiled at him, his fat mustache glistening with sweat and spit. "Henri. No idea who you are talking about."
Porthos rolled his eyes. He swung a hand back and punched the man. Hard. Carl's eyes rolled back and he went limp.
He pulled out his phone and saw that Aramis had left him a couple of texts telling him that his part of the mission had been successful and he was heading back. Porthos sighed in relief and dialed his number, his boyfriend picking up immediately.
The connection was very bad, and Porthos could barely make out the urgent 'what happened?'
"Aramis…" Porthos frowned at the static. "Aramis, I need your help," Porthos managed to say before the call was abruptly cut off. He stared at his phone in disgust. He texted Aramis his address, hoping it went through before looking for something to tie up the man at his feet.
He found a broken lamp and pulled out the wire using it to secure Carl's hands behind him, frowning in disgust at his limpid cock. Once he was satisfied that the repulsive asshole wouldn't be going anywhere, he walked out, going outside. The boy needed a familiar face right now. Porthos went to get his brother.
XXX
Aramis had tried to get Porthos' location from his GPS, but that was taking too much time. He had a vague idea where he would be though, having been there when Athos had given Porthos the address of the record shop that Carl Patrick worked at, and he drove furiously. He was barely paying any attention to how many red lights he ran, how many rules he broke and how many honks followed in his wake as he pressed at the accelerator relentlessly, weaving around cars, overtaking some and honking at others to get out of the way. There was only one thought in his mind as he gripped the wheel tightly with both hands.
He needed to get to Porthos.
It was a mere ten minutes later that he had entered the rundown area the shop was located in and he slowed down, glancing around. His sleek black Mercedes was extremely out of place in the neighborhood and he could make out shabbily dressed people huddling together on street corners, staring. He did not pay them any attention, realizing however that his phone was blinking with a text. He looked at the message from Porthos, it was an address. A building number along with a description. Surely if Porthos was well enough to text, he was alight? Bur Aramis' anxiety would not be quelled until he saw his boyfriend for himself.
He peered out of the windows, all the buildings looking the same to him. Getting frustrated and losing all semblance of the little patience he had been holding on to, he pressed down on his horn. Hard.
The sound reverberated throughout the area, and Aramis saw several people start in surprise. An angry yell sounded but Aramis paid it no heed.
There.
A young boy, no more than eighteen at most was waving his hand, gesturing for him to come closer. Aramis drove over, reading the barely visible number on the building and seeing that it matched the one Porthos had given him. He rolled down the window, and the boy leaned over to say something. Aramis did not wait to listen, getting out of the car hurriedly instead, having caught sight of Porthos coming out of the building.
Aramis gave the man a quick once over, there was some bruising on his face but other than that, he looked perfectly fine. Aramis let out a sigh of relief as the tension dissipated. Then he noticed the fat, naked, bound and unconscious man that he was dragging.
He hurried over and opened the trunk of his car, helping Porthos dump the man in and shut it. He grabbed the taller man by the lapels of the huge coat he was wearing and pulled him into a deep kiss, pouring out all the anxiety he had felt on being separated from the man and then thinking that he was hurt. Porthos let him ravish his mouth for a few minutes before he pulled back.
"Everything okay?" he asked, snaking one arm around Aramis' waist.
Aramis nodded, resting his head on Porthos' chest for a moment, listening to his heartbeat. He closed his eyes. "Yes." He looked up and glared at his boyfriend a minute later, pulling back a little to give him a light punch. "I thought you were hurt!"
Porthos looked surprised before realization dawned. "Oh," he said. He shook his head, grinning apologetically. "No, the phone crapped out. No signal." He looked at Aramis, pouting. "Though I am hurt you think I can't handle a pathetic bugger like him."
Aramis grinned. "Yea, about that. What's up with the birthday suit?"
Porthos' face grew grim. "I found him going at a fifteen year old kid. That guy's brother. I told him you'll check him out but he refused, insisting he was fine." Aramis had tensed at the mention of the young boy. A whole new wave of hatred swept through him directed at the man in the trunk and he smiled, a sadistic gleeful smile.
"Then let's give him the complete protocol, shall we?"
Porthos smiled in return. "Oh, yes."
"Oy fellows!" A loud brash voice caught both Aramis' and Porthos' attention. "You lovebirds lost?"
Porthos looked around with narrowed eyes. A tall somewhat muscular man with a curling black tattoo covering one side of his face was cracking his knuckles, walking towards them slowly, his posture intended to intimidate. Aramis nudged Porthos and the latter looked around to see that there were similarly built men, around seven of them, approaching from the streets.
"Lovely ride you have there, boys," Tattoo Boy spoke up. "Wouldn't mind having a go at it myself."
Porthos and Aramis looked at each other, sharing amused grins."Something funny, you filthy pédale?
Aramis nodded, still smiling. "You boys want your necks intact, walk away."
Porthos chuckled and one of the heftier men growled showing dirty teeth. "Vir, let's teach these faggots a lesson."
Aramis and Porthos broke apart, each standing in a well-practiced back to back pose. The men hesitated for a second before charging at the duo. Porthos ducked the first man's fist, jamming his elbow into his stomach and sending him sprawling on the ground. Aramis was busy demonstrating a few moves he had made up himself, borrowing from the various forms of martial arts he knew. If Porthos was the more brutal one of the two, Aramis made up what he lacked in sheer strength with an agility and grace that the other man couldn't help but envy. In close combat Aramis moved with a precision and flow that Porthos usually teased him about. Porthos was of the opinion that his boyfriend wouldn't look out of place fighting with a sparkling thin rapier, wearing a ridiculously large hat and managing a sweeping impractical cloak. Or in a ballet hall.
The street thugs had nothing on the fierce, trained special forces soldiers, and it was a matter of seconds spent shattering bones, kicking out knee caps, breaking ribs and in the case of one of Porthos' assailants, who had come at the man with a knife, stabbing in the thigh; and the two men were standing, back to back, panting slightly with several men lying around groaning and moaning. Aramis and Porthos turned to each other, assessing the others condition. Aramis had a cut lip which was bleeding slightly, one of the men had almost gotten him on the face and he had been wearing a ring. Porthos hadn't manage to dodge out of the way of a poorly aimed kick and he was rubbing at his side. Aramis raised an eyebrow in question and Porthos straightened to show him that he was okay.
Aramis smiled, "What was I saying before we were so rudely interrupted?"
"You were talking about how we shouldn't deprive our guest of the complete protocol." Porthos grinned.
"Call in Athos?"
Porthos grimaced at the question and shook his head. Athos was a right pleasure to be around right now. Ever since he had left for work in the morning, having seen d'Artagnan off to Treville's he had been barking and yelling at anyone not working diligently. Treville was staying home with the teenager and the office with its sparse crew of lawyers on a Saturday was completely under Athos' control. He had pulled several lawyers from their own cases, getting them digging into Henri's background and had started making calls left and right, pulling in every favor he was owed by anyone ranging from the CEO of one of the biggest multinational company of France to a janitor who frequented a strip club that Henri had been spotted at.
Having seen him in this mode before, Porthos and Aramis had known well enough to stay out of his way. Porthos had jumped at the chance of working the streets to find the friend and Aramis had gone as far as London to escape Athos' righteous wrath.
"Let's not bring him in just yet," Porthos suggested. "We need Carl alive, not beaten to death."
Carl woke up to find himself on his knees in some dark place, gagged and bound with two men with matching grim expressions on their face, staring down at him.
He was still naked.
Aramis and Porthos glared down at him and both of them smiled. The man at their feet whimpered.
"Time to tell us all you know about your friend Henri," Aramis said, his shirt sleeves rolled back and his muscles flexing under the thin fabric.
Porthos nodded. "I bet he's going to say, 'I've got no idea who you're talking about."
Carl looked between the two, his face betraying his fear. Aramis smiled. "Then we'll have to hurt him."
"At which point he'll suddenly remember he used to be best pals with him."
Carl shook his head trying to mumble through the gag.
Porthos glanced at Aramis, "Why wait?" Aramis lifted his shoulders in an eloquent shrug. "Let's just hurt him now."
Carl looked positively terrified by now. He shook his head frantically trying his best to speak through the gag. Aramis looked at him with an eyebrow raised and leaned down causing him to flinch. "When I remove this gag, the only words I want to hear are you confessing to all yours and your friend's extracurricular activities. Is that clear?"
The man nodded, his eyes wide and Porthos smirked and took out a large knife. He advanced towards the man, who started squirming, trying to get free. Porthos grabbed him by the hair and cut off the cloth tied around his mouth. The man's shoulders sagged in relief.
"Now, talk," Porthos said and Aramis took out a recorder.
XXX
D'Artagnan was walking down the alley, laughing as his father recounted some humorous story from his days in the army. Suddenly there was a man, his face covered with a mask, his eyes wild. A loud noise echoed and his father fell.
D'Artagnan screamed through the rain and fell to his knees besides his father, seeing Athos lying in a pool of his own blood, face deathly pale, eyes wide and staring. D'Artagnan shook his head, weeping, sobs racking through his body. He looked up at the laughing man. Henri had an evil sneer on his face, his gun pointed at d'Artagnan.
D'Artagnan closed his eyes as there was another loud noise.
"D'Artagnan, wake up!"
D'Artagnan shot upright, looking around the unfamiliar room wildly. He had tears pouring down his cheeks and… and, where was he?
A face became clear to his sleep addled brain. "It's okay. It's okay. It was just a bad dream."
Involuntarily, d'Artagnan shuddered, the image of Athos' pale dead eyes staring at him flashing through his mind. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
Treville studied the young boy carefully. He obviously looked like he was trying very hard to calm himself. After several seconds of deep breathing d'Artagnan opened his eyes and looked at the DA, blushing.
"I'm sorry for disturbing you."
Treville brushed off the apology with a dismissive wave of his hand, getting up from the bed and rubbing his neck to work the kink that had settled with bending like that. "You don't have to apologize, it's okay. Are you going back to sleep?"
The boy had retired to the room Treville had given him, wanting to take a nap after being emotionally and physically tired out from the events of the day. It was near evening that Treville had heard loud frantic sounds coming from the study, sobs and whimpers following. Treville had wasted no time in entering the unlocked room and shaking the boy awake, though not before he had heard a frantic and desperate 'Athos!' wrench free from his lips.
It had been heart breaking.
D'Artagnan shook his head. "No, no I don't think so."
Treville nodded. "Come outside then, when you are ready."
He left the room offering the young boy some privacy. He had kept twiddling with a pendant around his neck and the watch on his wrist absent mindedly. Treville sighed. He needed the kid to stop looking like a kicked puppy, so sad and forlorn. Pulling out his phone he dialed a number.
D'Artagnan was sitting in front of the TV flickering through channels when the doorbell rang. "Get the door, it's probably the pizza guy!" Treville called out from the kitchen. D'Artagnan got up and opened the door.
On the porch stood three very tired but very satisfied lawyers.
D'Artagnan stepped back silently as Porthos walked in first, ruffling d'Artagnan's hair and kicking off his boots. Aramis followed his boyfriend quietly giving the boy a quick hug before taking off a filthy coat. Athos was last. D'Artagnan breathed a sigh of relief as he examined the older man as he came in, took off his shoes and put down his briefcase.
He looked tired and weary, but not injured or hurt in any way. D'Artagnan felt a weight he hadn't known he had been carrying since the nightmare, lift. He stepped forward and almost fell at the older man, who automatically brought his arms around him, giving him a tight hug. He pulled back a moment later, looking at d'Artagnan intently. "Everything okay?"
D'Artagnan nodded. Now, yes everything was okay.
Treville came out of the kitchen, grinning at the sight before him. Aramis and Porthos had settled on the couch, Porthos trying to get the TV remote out from under himself without getting up and Athos was being helped out of his coat by a content d'Artagnan.
"Right boys, I've ordered enough pizza for everyone," Treville smirked when Aramis and Porthos looked towards the dining table eagerly, "Then after dinner, I want everyone's reports on the case." This time there was a collective groan from all three men but they nodded.
The bell rang and Treville went to get the food, all of them settling down in their boss's house. He wasn't really one to socialize and have his men over to his place unless it was only for a few minutes to collect or deliver something important. But this once, Treville thought, he could make an exception. The satisfaction on d'Artagnan's face as he protested when Athos piled his plate with three large pizza slices, outshone the knowledge that his bathroom was on Aramis' list of places to have sex in.
He tried and succeeded into not thinking about that.
Until next morning.
See nice long chapter. Now be a dear and reward me by reviewing. I love it when you guys do that. Also it makes me write faster. So it really is a win-win situation.
