Sometimes our lives can take drastic turns from one small change; we could be an entirely different person because of one little butterfly wing. What if we had gone right, instead of left; chosen the sea, over the land; and what if we had never found the people who made us whole?

"What are you doing? We have to go back!" Aramis cried, straining to break free of Porthos's grasp, but the arms around his waist were too strong, and he couldn't get away. It hit him that he couldn't do anything even if he made it back to the deck except get himself killed as well, and at last he stopped struggling and allowed Porthos to drag him into his cabin.

"We shouldn't have let that happen," he muttered, leaning against the wall. Porthos was pacing, his footsteps almost enough to drown out the last of the screams.

Almost.

And then it went silent.

Aramis slammed his head back against the wall in helpless frustration with a heavy thud. Porthos growled and grabbed his arm, pulling him away, but Aramis shook him off. "We should have done something!" he said again, willing Porthos to agree.

"There was nothing we coulda done," Porthos argued, not quite meeting his eye.

"We could've done anything! Anything, other than nothing."

"Well, what else were they going to do?" Porthos asked, sounding frustrated now as he resumed pacing. "We're in the middle of the fucking ocean, Aramis. Keeping that many prisoners would be impossible."

"Are you defending them?" Aramis asked incredulously. "That was murder, Porthos!"

"I know, I know, but did you see another solution?" Porthos kicked at the floor as he walked, anger on his face. "I don't like it any more than you, but what other option was there?"
"Would you have done it?" Aramis asked quietly, needing to hear the answer. "If you were the captain, could you have killed those men?" He saw the boy's face in his mind, and prayed for the right answer.

Porthos sat heavily on the bed, rubbing a hand over his face. "God, I hope not," he said softly. Aramis sighed, relieved, even though he'd already known the answer, and moved to sit beside him, their thighs brushing.

"We'd better go find Athos and D'Artagnan," Aramis said at last. They needed to know where their quarry had gone. Porthos nodded and rose.

They made it halfway down the hallway before realizing neither knew where the man had been taken. Aramis's expression must have echoed Porthos's sheepish one, for a moment later they had both cracked reluctant grins before quickly straightening their faces.

"We could check Athos's room?" Aramis asked, his lip twitching despite the seriousness of the situation.

Porthos snorted, a laugh creeping into his voice. "You think he'd let a prisoner near his wine?"

"Maybe the hold?" Aramis suggested.

"They're in the brig," a voice said from behind them, and Aramis fought the urge to jump at the unpleasant nearness of it. Gavillier was striding down the hallway towards them. There was no sign of blood on his shining blade, but Aramis had no doubt it had been there.

"Thanks," Porthos said easily, turning to go, but Gavillier called after them.

"Actually, my friend, I was hoping to join you and your men for this," he said, catching up with them.

"Oh, don't worry yourself." Porthos was trying to keep him away from their business, but Aramis could already tell it wasn't going to work.

He was right. "I like to know what's happening on my own ship." This time the words were layered with command, and Porthos had no choice but to shrug in acceptance.

They made their way through the ship to a deeper level that Aramis had never been to before, dank and dark and with a thin level of water sloshing across the floor.

Good God, was the ship leaking?

He didn't have a chance to ask, not with Gavillier walking far too close behind him. An urge to run the man through with his sword flashed through him, but he swallowed it. Murdering the captain would not be a good idea.

Well, not just yet, at any rate.

He entertained amusing ideas of all manner of 'accidents' that could befall the predatory man as they passed through the rusty iron bars that made up the row of cells in the brig, stopping at the last. Within it, Athos and D'Artagnan were speaking quietly to the Spanish prisoner from the deck.

Or, more accurately, at him.

Athos glanced up at them when they arrived, blue eyes flicking over Gavillier with wary interest before landing on Aramis. "You sent us a prisoner with a very limited grasp of French," he said wryly. "You're going to have to speak to him."

Aramis nodded and stepped forward. "Has he said anything yet?"

"Nothing we could understand, though we caught the name Reynard several times," D'Artagnan informed him.

Aramis turned his attention to the man standing uncomfortably in the center of the room. "Buenos días, amigo," he said with a charming smile. "¿Qué puedes decirme sobre Reynard?"

The man eyed him nervously but responded in rapid Spanish. "Pagó su pasaje en A Coruña. En plena. Guardado para sí mismo. Hace unos días, nos encontramos con un título carabela para las Antillas y él medió paso en ella y nos fuimos."

"Se ha ido?" Aramis asked sharply. The man nodded, and he sighed, turning back to the others.

"Reynard is gone. A caravel met them a few days back and he was able to barter passage on it. Still heading for the Antilles, according to our friend here."

Porthos cursed, making the prisoner jump, but Athos spoke calmly. "Then we shall simply have to continue as we have until we catch up."

The man was regarding them curiously, and suddenly he spoke up. "Musketeers," he said, very clearly. "Reynard was afraid of Musketeers." Then his French failed him and he continued in Spanish, "¿Cuáles son los mosqueteros que hacen en un barco pirata francés?"

Aramis frowned at the use of the word 'pirate ship,' but before he could make inquiries Gavillier had stepped forward threateningly.

"What's he mean, Musketeers?" he asked, looking at Porthos. "You said you were hunting down a traitor!"

Porthos hesitated, glancing to Athos for confirmation. "We are," Athos said smoothly, apparently deciding the lie had run its course. "A traitor to the crown."

Gavillier glared at Porthos, ignoring Athos completely. "Why did you lie to me?" he asked, and Aramis could detect a dangerous edge to his tone. His shoulders had gone up, and for a moment he thought Gavillier might attack. Why was the man so threatened by Musketeers?

Porthos shifted, shrugging in an unconcerned manner. "Well, I wasn't going to tell you in front of the whole crew, was I?" he asked reasonably. "And after that it just never came up."

"You should have told me," Gavillier said belligerently. Aramis felt his hand shift for the hilt of his sword at the open aggression in the captain's voice, but Porthos didn't seem to notice.

"It doesn't change anything," Porthos argued. "We still need to get to the Antilles, right? Is there a problem?"

Gavillier glared for a moment longer before a smile crawled across his face. It was the most disingenuous expression Aramis had ever seen. "Of course not," he said, his voice oily. "You've gone up in the world, old friend."

Porthos chuckled. "That I have."

Gavillier nodded toward the prisoner. "Are you done with him then?" Without waiting for an answer, he stepped forward and plunged a dagger into the prisoner's stomach.

The man didn't even have time to cry out before he fell to the ground, dead.

Athos had to grab D'Artagnan to keep him back. Aramis felt sick to his stomach with disgust at the brutality, but he couldn't say that he hadn't honestly expected it.

"I'll send someone down to clean this up," Gavillier said casually, wiping the bloodied blade clean on the dead man's shirt. "I hope you'll join me for dinner tonight, Porthos." Then he turned and walked out.

"Well, that was… unexpected," Athos said quietly. He sounded faintly shocked. D'Artagnan was livid with rage beside him.

Aramis stared at the body, remembering the glint of rage in Gavillier's eyes when he heard that they were Musketeers. It was time someone said something.

"I think we need to keep an eye on the captain. He's brutal, and he wasn't happy to learn he was hosting Musketeers." D'Artagnan stilled at the words and Athos looked up, considering. But Porthos shook his head.

"We don't have to worry about him. That's just how it is out here. It just caught him by surprise."

Aramis sighed in frustration. "Porthos, look around you! He just had a dozen men killed in cold blood, another right in front of us! He is not a good man."

"We talked about this," Porthos insisted. "There's nothing else that coulda been done."

"Regardless," Aramis pressed on, unwilling to give up so easily. He knew Gavillier was dangerous, and he needed Porthos to see that. "He sees us all as a threat now."

Porthos scoffed. "He's a privateer, licensed by the King. He's got no reason to dislike Musketeers."

"Unless he's involved in something he shouldn't be," Athos said quietly.

"I know he was your friend, Porthos, but that was years ago," Aramis added. "A lot can change."

"He's given us no reason to mistrust him," Porthos said stubbornly. The set of his shoulders told Aramis that he could argue until he was blue in the face and never change his lover's mind. Loyalty was everything to Porthos, and even Charon's betrayal hadn't taught him to be suspicious of his friends. It just wasn't in him.

Athos met Aramis's eyes and he saw the same realization there. Aramis sighed.

"Perhaps you're right," he said at last, relenting. "But let's just be careful, shall we?" A murmur of agreement came from Athos and D'Artagnan, and finally Porthos nodded as well.

"Alright. But you'll see, he's a good man. I'd trust him with my life."

I wouldn't trust him with yours, Aramis thought as they left the dark brig. But he knew Porthos would never be convinced. All he could do was hope he was wrong and brace for the coming storm.

Dinner that night was a tense affair. Try as he might, Porthos couldn't fully disguise the fact that he had been shocked by Gavillier's brutality, and he knew the other officers at the table could see it written on his face.

Despite what he'd told Aramis, he hadn't thought his old friend was capable of such callousness. He was being forced to reevaluate much of what he had taken for granted, and he didn't like the picture that was being painted.

His arm stung where Aramis had stitched it, but it was dulled by the amount of alcohol he'd already consumed. All he wanted was to get back to his cabin and see about sneaking Aramis in. He didn't want to be alone tonight, and if he knew Aramis, he didn't either.

But first to get through this dinner.

He ate methodically, barely able to taste the food, though he knew it was unusually fine for a meal so late in a voyage. The crew certainly wasn't eating this well. He hoped Aramis had eaten something.

"Porthos, my friend, you've barely touched your dinner," Gavillier said, interrupting a story the bosun was telling to cast a concerned look in his direction. "Is everything all right?" A flicker of something dark in his eyes told Porthos he hadn't fooled him with his forced nonchalance.

"Everything's fine," he said carefully, making a show of enjoying the fish on his plate. Gavillier nodded, apparently satisfied, and returned his attention to the bosun.

Porthos swallowed heavily, the food sitting like lead in his stomach. He had no appetite at all. He couldn't stop hearing his own words in his head, backed by the screams of murdered men.

God, I hope not.

Part of him had hoped Aramis would call him on his evasion, but he hadn't seemed to notice. Or perhaps he hadn't wanted to. But Porthos had known what he was saying, and he knew that he hadn't said no, not really.

How could he, when he didn't know himself?

He groped for his grog and took a long draught, trying to wash away the feeling that he was tainted somehow by his own weakness. He wanted to believe he wouldn't have killed those men, but he just couldn't, because he wasn't sure, and it terrified him.

He found himself praying the dinner would end quickly, so he could go to Aramis and see that faith in his eyes, that proof that he was a man of honor and not a scoundrel. Maybe Aramis's faith would be strong enough to restore his own.

He glanced up and found Gavillier watching him again, a faint smile playing about his lips. Suddenly he rose to his feet, arms thrown wide at the rest of his guests.

"My friends, I am truly sorry, but I must cut our evening short. There is something of grave importance that I must discuss with Porthos here." One hand dropped to Porthos's shoulder, and he felt as if he had been claimed. It made the hairs on the back of his neck rise uneasily.

The officers filed out without complaint, either too used to Gavillier's ways or too cowed to dare speak up.

After today, Porthos was no longer sure it wasn't the second one.

"What was it you wanted to talk to me about?" he asked tiredly, setting his knife and fork down and reaching for his bottle once more. He hoped this wasn't going to take too long, or he could abandon his hopes of seeing Aramis tonight.

"We make a good team, Porthos, do we not?" Gavillier asked, idly leaning his chair back to prop his feet upon the table. "We work so well together."

"Yeah, I suppose we do," Porthos said warily. He sensed a trap, but he couldn't tell where it was coming from. What was the captain playing at?

"Just like old times again, eh, my friend?" Gavillier lifted his bottle in a toast, and Porthos drank obediently, hoping to speed things along. "You and I, sailing the seas together, taking prizes and cutting throats."

Porthos frowned. "I don't do much throat cuttin' anymore," he muttered, beginning to feel distinctly uncomfortable. "Not outside what I'm ordered to do, anyway."

Gavillier was running a finger pensively around the rim of his glass. "It sounds a terrible bore, to have to follow orders all the time. Where's your freedom? Don't you miss the seas?"

"It's not too bad," Porthos shrugged. "Parade's ain't fun, but the life is excitin'."

"More exciting than this?" Gavillier swept his arms out and gestured to the luxurious cabin. "Admit it, friend, you've thought of returning. I would love to have you by my side once more. You and I, taking on the Spanish merchant fleet!"

"I've got a life now," Porthos told him firmly. He thought of the missions that got his blood pounding, the long nights carousing in the tavern, Aramis's lips against his own. "I'm happy."

Gavillier's eyes narrowed ever so slightly before he smiled again. "Ah, but of course. The glorious life of a King's Musketeer. But tell me, is anything you do now as exhilarating as the time we took that little Spanish galleon off the coast of the New World? Ah, remember the fight they put up! And the gold, oh, those were the days."

"I remember that one of 'em almost took your head clean off," Porthos smirked, settling back as the memory washed over him. "An' we got stinkin' drunk next time we hit port and burned through our winnings in three days."

Gavillier laughed. "Ah, how young and foolish we were. Thank heavens I've learned to be a better hand with my funds."

"I seem to recall you used to spend a lot of time out at the brothels," Porthos chuckled. "They'd kick you out once your pockets were empty."

"Ah, those women knew what a man wanted," Gavillier sighed nostalgically. "You can't deny me my little diversions, Porthos. Diversions come and go, but friends stay forever."

There was an implication in his words that Porthos didn't like. "Yeah, friends do."

"Porthos, Porthos, come back to the sea. I know what Musketeers make, and it's not much. You could be a rich man. Together we could rule a whole armada, and be pirate lords, enthroned at Tortuga!" Gavillier's voice was like honey, dripping with the promise of all the things they'd used to talk about, all the dreams Porthos had before Treville had found him visiting the Court.

He didn't respond right away, because the truth was he did miss it, the smell of the sea and the salty breeze on his skin and standing in the tops with the world stretched out before him.

Gavillier took his silence as encouragement. "Leave behind your life or servitude. Embrace freedom, once again!"

"I can't," he said at last, and his voice sounded small and weak. He hated it, as he hated that he couldn't deny how badly part of him wanted to accept. "I have a family, now, and friends back on shore. I can't leave my brothers."

Gavillier's face hardened in an instant, a sneer curling his lips. His handsome face looked vicious, and cold, and nothing like the young man Porthos had known so long ago. "You can't leave them, or you can't leave Aramis?" The way he said Aramis's name stoked a fire within him, burning away the haze the grog had left in his mind.

"What's he got to do with anything?" Porthos's tone had gone low and threatening, and he knew he was giving too much away, but he wouldn't stand to hear anyone talk of Aramis in that tone.

"He's holding you back," Gavillier told him, his voice low and dangerous. "You would give up all that I can offer, all the freedom of the sea, for him? I know how it is between you, Porthos. Is he really worth all that? There are plenty of others who'd happily share your bed."

Porthos was on his feet before he realized what he was doing. "Don't ever talk about 'im like that again," he growled, the tension he'd felt between them since he first boarded the ship solidifying. "He's mine."

Gavillier's eyebrows rose fractionally as he stood, lifting his hands in a placating gesture. "Peace, my friend. I do not wish to fight. I had not realized how… important… he was to you. Accept my apologies."

Porthos met eyes shining with sincerity and nodded a brusque acceptance, knowing the trust between them had been shattered. It didn't matter. They would maintain a façade of amity until they reached port.

"I gotta go," he muttered, managing not to snarl his goodnight at Gavillier as he left. He stalked onto the deck, ready to storm into the crew quarters and drag Aramis to his cabin in front of everyone so no one would dare think such things again, but something caught his eye and he paused.

A small figure was huddled at the other end of the deck, face lifted to gaze at the stars.

Aramis.

Porthos walked over, feeling his anger draining the closer he got, wiped away just by his lover's presence. Aramis startled when he drew near, relaxing when he recognized him.

"What're you doing out here?" Porthos asked softly, pressing his shoulder against Aramis's. The smaller man was wearing his leather jacket, but he still felt chilled to the touch, so Porthos wrapped an arm around his waist and pulled him close, no longer caring who saw.

"I'm on watch," Aramis shrugged, snuggling happily against Porthos's side. "Is something wrong?"

Porthos sighed, tightening his grip. He meant to confide his suspicions about Gavillier, admit that Aramis might have been right, but instead he blurted out, "Am I a good man?"

Aramis glanced up at him, starlight reflecting in his dark eyes. "Yes," he said without hesitation. "Mon cher, you are the best of men."

He felt helpless and powerful all at once in the face of Aramis's belief. "I hope you're right," he muttered, ducking his head to press his cheek against Aramis's hair.

"Even if I am wrong," Aramis said seriously, turning in his arms to face him. "It wouldn't matter to me." He leaned in and kissed him soundly, and Porthos surrendered to the comfort he offered, giving all he could in return.

"Why?" he asked when they broke apart, marveling at the ease with which Aramis could heal his fractured soul.

Aramis pulled back, whispering his next words breathlessly against his lips.

"Because you are mine."

Wohoo, no cliffhanger for a change! Next chapter finally gets into what I like to think of as the mid-story climax, which will take place over the next few chapters. Let me know if you're still enjoying it ;)