I only wish I owned rights to Dumas' and BBC's The Musketeers. I don't though so damn my lack of luck.

I'll try to make weekly updates but I'm not sure I'll make a weekly appearance all the time.

It's finals week. No promises will be made.

Returning to Paris had been uneventful to say the least. D'Art had remained quiet throughout the ride when he wasn't whispering to Porthos. The young man had found himself practically out of his mind as he ran through the last journey.

Two years away from Paris had left him out of the loops he'd set up within the town. His connection with Radha and Charlotte was a saving grace with their willingness to bring him back into the tangled webs the three of them had made over the years. The girls were loved by him as sisters – though he and Radha may have been more than that a few times. No one in Paris remained driven snow pure when they hit a specific age and with Aramis as an elder brother figure, it should have been expected d'Art would have let something go sooner or later. Also, life in the Court was a questionable affair on the best of days.

Something else nipped at the edges of his mind though. That something – someone if he was being honest with himself – only made things harder as they continued home. His mind was whirling from dealing with Bonnaire, digging up old memories of Porthos screaming himself awake as the sun set. As much as he had enjoyed being one of the few people who knew about those sleepless nights, those very nights once kept him up with worry over how Porthos would do away from those he trusted. That worry was the reason he had started following Porthos around Paris.

If he was to continue being honest with himself, that worry was from fearing he'd never see another person he loved like a brother. Oliver d'Athos was the first brother he'd ever had and d'Art missed him past all things. The loss of his home hurt little when the thought of Athos arriving the coming spring only to find the farm gone and everyone dead.

Having Porthos as another brother had eased the pain of loss a bit though it brought new stripes of it. Porthos' fears of slavers, fears for his friends, and over protective qualities around those he cared for had led d'Art to worry Porthos would die young from something stupid. Porthos' joining the Musketeers had been a revelation to d'Art. The young man had known it would be a dangerous job but it would also come with something Porthos longed for; a family that didn't need to cheat its way through living.

Aramis was a good addition to their ragtag family, bringing his own baggage of pain and sorrow that d'Art had yet to hold to his chest as dearly as he held Porthos' secrets as well as Athos'. He knew a few things about Aramis. Only the things that had been near enough to the surface that Aramis had to purge them from his stomach to find strength again.

Their time in the little alcove together had been the only safe place left for him at one point. The streets were dangerous as a person without a 'true' family. Even with a makeshift one, it was dangerous. Having brothers – of any sort – in a military regiment was a protective measure to take but d'Art was no stranger to the dangers of weaponry held in the wrong hands. Learning to handle weapons with his brothers' advisements was something he had missed while he'd been gone from Paris.

Aramis had dragged him away from the group – and his thoughts – as soon as they'd arrived at the garrison, calling for Athos and Porthos to speak with Tréville while he tended to d'Art's burn.

D'Art didn't pay much attention to the exchange, his mind still settled on what had happened between him and Athos lately. Between the revelation of who d'Art reminded Athos of and the recent finding that Athos had a wife who was supposed to be dead, d'Art had to wonder about just what he'd managed to miss. While it had been years since he'd seen Athos in person, he hadn't forgotten what the man had looked like. A few things had changed, like that cut on Athos' lip and Athos' lost smile, but many things had remained the same. He was still loyal to a fault for those he loved and was as unwilling to open up about his life as ever.

But it stung that d'Art wasn't remembered as anything past what he looked like when he was a child. For d'Art, it was like his entire existence had disappeared to Athos. He'd put it to words with Charlotte and Radha, thinking if he got it off his chest in that safe haven, things would get easier. They hadn't though. In fact, after the fire and learning about Athos' wife, d'Art had found himself holding a secret he wanted no part in because he knew what had happened five years ago.

He'd caught up with Porthos and Aramis as well, after all.

Athos had returned to the regiment changed, according to Porthos. There was an edge to his very being, according to Aramis. They had known Athos while he'd been in the Regiment while d'Art had been learning to protect himself and others. They would have known if a change had occurred in Athos when he'd returned to their sides.

Yet, they only knew of a woman who died. That was all Athos had shared with them. He hadn't spoken of a boy in Gascony disappearing from a farm that was now nothing but ash and debris. Aramis knew there was someone special in Gascony but also knew Athos hadn't spoken of Gascony since his return. Porthos remembered hearsay on it when he'd joined up but he, like Aramis, had no name. Tréville was in the same boat as Aramis and Porthos.

D'Art hissed as Aramis laid some rather foul smelling salve onto the healing burn on d'Art's upper chest. It wasn't the sting of the salve that caused the reaction though. It was something that d'Art hadn't realized was gnawing at him in silence until just then.

"Sorry d'Art," Aramis said with a soft smile that hinted at bashfulness that the Spaniard only just pulled off. "I tried to warn you it'd sting."

Aramis wiped a thumb over d'Art's wet cheek, the hand cupping the young man's face. D'Art registered the soft brush of callouses on his face, the concerned expression on Aramis' face, but he couldn't register when he'd started crying.

"d'Art?" Aramis asked when his silence stretched a little too long. "What is it? What hurts?"

"It stung," he mumbled.

"Right," Aramis said, his expression giving away his lack of belief in the statement. "Sorry."

"There," Aramis said with a smile. "You're patched up." He pulled d'Art's chain and trinket up from the bench where they'd placed it to let Aramis have a clean shot at the injury. "And that pretty thing is back where it belongs."

Aramis held the trinket in his palm for a moment, eyes fixed on the sigil on the casing. D'Art waited as he stared at the sigil, a hand swiping the tears edging around his eyes.

"I've seen this sigil," Aramis murmured as he tucked the trinket under d'Art's shirt.

"It's Athos' family crest," d'Art murmured. Aramis stared at him.

"How'd you get this?" d'Art smiled at his friend.

"From Athos."

"W-when?!" Aramis stammered.

"I was three," d'Art admitted.

"…Athos hasn't recognized you," Aramis murmured as he began to piece the last few months together. D'Art shook his head. Aramis sighed, a hand coming through is dark hair.

"Alright then," he sighed as he wrapped d'Art up in his arms. "I'm sorry."

The boy nodded against Aramis' chest, his movements causing the leathers to squeak. He wished so badly to tell Aramis about what Athos was hiding but his promise was holding him back. He wanted to say so much of what happened while he'd been gone, where the scar on his neck from, to show the sigil on his trinket.

But he didn't. All he could do was weep at the knowledge that Athos did not remember him the way he remembered Athos while he was alone.

Athos had decided to treat Porthos to a drink that night. It was his way of apologizing about how he'd handled the situation with Bonnaire. He hadn't handled Porthos' injury well thanks to his inability to face his fear of his own home. He also wanted a bit of time alone with someone who knew about d'Art's history. Athos couldn't get himself to go up to d'Art personally after being under that intense stare. While Porthos drank, Athos began asking him about d'Art's history.

"Why so interested?" Porthos asked around his mug.

"He's nearly been killed because he's helped us," Athos stated. "And there was that incident with Therron only a few weeks ago. It's only right of me to ask about him isn't it?"

"Well, if you're going to worry over this like that," Porthos chuckled. "He's got a history much like mine. It's just…cleaner."

"How so?"

"I'm not going to incriminate myself to a friend," Porthos laughed before he took a long swig from his mug. "Like most kids, d'Art started up on keeping his ears to the ground and picking up any and all information he can to survive."

"He's obviously stayed with it," Athos murmured as he sipped at his wine.

"He's one of the best I've seen," Porthos chuckled. "The kids go in groups. Safety concerns and all that."

"Radha and Charlotte?"

"Yes. Radha's rather good at getting evidence while Charlotte can distract," Porthos explained. "Though…well, you've seen those girls."

"They're both distracting," Athos admitted.

"d'Art can double as the brawn when it's needed but that's a rare thing," Porthos said, his hand waving about as he tried to assure Athos that d'Art was rarely in danger. Athos was beginning to wonder how transparent his affections were getting to be. He wasn't making himself a difficult target on his liking of young d'Art apparently. The boy was impressive, though a bit raw about the edges.

"d'Art's got a good head on his shoulders, as you've seen, and he's good at keeping an eye out for those he cares for," Porthos stated. "Well, I'm sure you've seen that yourself, considering the soot you two had your clothes."

Athos choked on his wine at the statement. He'd missed the possible evidence he and d'Art had brought along from his burned down manor. Yet, here was Porthos noticing it and laughing it off because he knew Athos had probably been drunk. He didn't ask about where the soot had come from though there was a glint in Porthos' eyes as the mention of soot that Athos had a feeling was a remembrance of the burn on d'Art's skin.

"Look," Porthos whispered. "I can't tell you everything you want to know but what I can, I will."

"Has he lived his entire life in Paris?" Athos asked.

"No," Porthos said with a shake of his head. "I've known him since he was six."

Athos raised a brow in interest. "Do you know where he's from before?"

"Not a clue."

"So…he could be from Gascony for all you know?"

"For all I know, he's from the Colonies," Porthos said. "Though, really Athos, why are you so interested?"

"Something d'Art said…Never mind. It's nothing."

"You sure?"

"Yes."

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