A/N: This is a long one.

Summary: D'Artagnan and Aramis are kidnapped by slavers, and a desperate escape attempt may prove fatal for one of them.

"A Man's Life"

"What about a new tool box?" d'Artagnan said, surveying the shops on the street. "The one Constance has is pretty old and beat up."

Aramis slung an arm over his shoulder. "D'Artagnan, my young friend, the purpose of an anniversary present is to ensure you have another one the following year."

"But Constance values her tool box," he persisted. "And it's practical. It shows thought—"

"Not the kind of thought you should be going for." Aramis raised his eyes to the sky as though in despair of him. "How did you ever manage to woo that young lady?"

"Hey. Obviously I have some charm."

"But not taste, which is why I'm along for this excursion."

D'Artagnan briefly wondered if he should have asked Athos or Porthos for help shopping for a gift, but no sooner had they delivered their cargo on this border planet had those two run off, Athos to drown himself in wine—a habit that'd been increasing in severity ever since he'd learned his wife was no longer in prison and was gunning for him—and Porthos to his customary vice of local card games. Which left d'Artagnan with Aramis floundering to find Constance just the right present for tomorrow. He'd take her to dinner tonight because they were due to leave early the following morning and would give her the gift once back in space.

They meandered through several shops but nothing was really striking d'Artagnan as the perfect present, and he did want it to be special, despite Aramis's quips that he was failing in the romantic department. After an hour, they stopped in a bar to slake their thirst. D'Artagnan couldn't help but rove his gaze around the sparse afternoon crowd to see if their captain had holed up here, but he hadn't.

"Jewelry is always a winner with women," Aramis said and took a sip of his ale.

"Yeah, but the only thing I could afford would be made of paste, and I don't want to give Constance fake jewelry."

Aramis canted his head in concession.

D'Artagnan sighed morosely. "This whole anniversary thing was easier in the beginning when candies and flowers worked. Every year I feel like I have to try harder."

"Such is the burden of marriage."

"Like you would know," d'Artagnan retorted.

Aramis gave him a rakish grin. "I know enough to stay in the candies and flowers stage of a relationship."

D'Artagnan snorted into his mug. 'Relationship' wasn't how he would characterize Aramis's dalliances. "Just you wait. One day you'll find a woman who will make an honest man out of you."

Aramis tugged at his hat roguishly. "I'm afraid my heart loves too freely for such things."

"Right."

Someone cleared their throat and they looked over to see the bartender sidling closer behind the counter. "Sorry, couldn't help but overhear you've got anniversary problems."

"Not problems," d'Artagnan scowled. His marriage was just fine.

"Woes then," the man said, raising his hands in conciliation. "I know a place, a few streets over. Sells real nice stuff very suitable for lady folk. Just look for a red awning."

Aramis arched a beaming look at d'Artagnan, who shrugged in response. Couldn't hurt to check it out.

They finished their drinks and left the bar, navigating the streets according to the bartender's directions. When they finally spotted the red awning, it was on a narrow street that looked more like a back alleyway. As they drew closer, d'Artagnan threw up his hands.

"I can't buy Constance a gift from a pawn shop."

"Why not?"

"Because it's used goods!"

Aramis shrugged. "One man's discards are another man's treasure. Besides, sometimes when circumstances get rough, people are forced to sell precious possessions in order to scrape by."

D'Artagnan just shook his head at him. "Yes, that definitely screams romance."

"Well, if you—"

Aramis was cut off by someone leaping out from a side alley and jumping him, the force driving Aramis into the wall. D'Artagnan surged forward but three more men charged out, two intercepting him. He took a punch to the face that disoriented him for a moment and hands seized his arms, trying to wrench them behind his back.

Aramis threw an elbow into one of his attacker's gut, but the second was close enough to jab what looked like a little black box against the back of Aramis's neck. The marksman cried out and went rigid for a few suspended moments before the assailant backed up and Aramis crumpled.

D'Artagnan struggled to break free, but then he felt a pair of prongs get rammed into his neck, followed by a jolt of electricity coursing through his limbs and lighting every nerve ending on fire before everything crashed into blackness.

o.0.o

D'Artagnan woke to a stiff ache in his neck that flared with each lurch and jostle of the surface beneath him. He tried to roll away from it, but his limbs were weighted. It took him a moment to realize the heaviness on his wrists felt like iron shackles and his eyes shot open. He immediately squeezed them shut against the blinding light and moaned.

"D'Artagnan? Are you with me?"

"Aramis?" He pried his eyelids open again slowly. Blurry shapes gradually coalesced into a small compartment with latticed sides and a canvas covering. Based on the bumpy motion, he was gonna guess they were in the back of a wagon.

With effort, he pushed himself upright, wincing as every single aching muscle twinged in protest. He reached a manacled hand up to touch the back of his neck and hissed at the raw and swollen skin that felt like a burn.

"Taser," Aramis said.

D'Artagnan looked over to where Aramis sat across from him, hands similarly shackled with a lengthy slack of chain between the cuffs. His hat and weapons belt were gone. Aramis turned his head and lifted some of his unruly curls to reveal a burn patch with two holes in the center on his own neck. D'Artagnan remembered the attack in the alley now.

"What's going on?" he grunted.

Aramis leaned back. "I don't know. We've been traveling for less than an hour—that I've been aware of." His lips thinned. "But I haven't heard any sounds to suggest we're still in the city."

D'Artagnan's pulse gave a flutter at that. Who were these men and what did they want?

The wagon suddenly lurched to a stop and they both straightened in apprehension as movement could be heard outside. The back flap was flipped up and a door in the wooden frame unlatched and opened.

"Out," one of the men commanded.

D'Artagnan and Aramis exchanged a glance, but they gained nothing by refusing and so scooted forward. As soon as they were within reach, hands grabbed them roughly and hauled them out the rest of the way.

They were definitely outside the city; in fact, a quick glance in every direction revealed nothing but arid terrain with rocky dips and rises. Off to the side, eight more men were congregated on the ground, also shackled. With d'Artagnan's and Aramis's arrival, however, the group of kidnappers went over and directed them to stand. Then they were all lined up two by two and one long chain slipped through the links in their shackles.

"Get moving," someone barked, and by the way he carried himself, d'Artagnan guessed he was the leader of this little band.

"To where exactly?" Aramis demanded. "What is it you want?"

The leader strode over and backhanded him across the face so hard his head snapped to the side.

D'Artagnan gritted his teeth against a flare of fury.

"Attitude will not be tolerated," the leader declared loudly as though speaking to all of them. "Neither will the weak."

"Please," another prisoner blurted. "I have a family, children."

The lead kidnapper's eyes narrowed, and he slowly stalked around the line toward the one who'd spoken up. Once in front of him, he pulled out a gun and pointed it in the trembling man's face. "Say goodbye to your old lives, gentlemen. You're destined for the mud pits on Higgins' Moon."

D'Artagnan's eyes widened as he realized these men were slavers. He shot an alarmed look at Aramis, who gazed back at him grimly.

"You can either embrace your new life," the leader continued. "Or get shot right here and now. I don't carry dead weight. Either way, you're never seeing your family again."

The man cowered away and the leader lowered his weapon.

"Move out."

They had no choice but to start the march, their group being herded like chained chattel down a slope into a ravine where they were out of sight should any aircraft do a flyover.

D'Artagnan worried how they were going to get out of this. Slavery was illegal, but out here on the Rim it wasn't unheard of where there was less of an Alliance presence to maintain law and order. And the expanse of the verse that was the border planets was so vast that once someone was spirited away to another location to be enslaved, it'd be impossible to find them again.

D'Artagnan rubbed at his wrist where the shackles chafed. His comm device had been taken, as well as Aramis's, so there was no way they could send a distress call to the Luciole. D'Artagnan's stomach only twisted further the longer they trudged over the rocky terrain.

They finally arrived at a camp set in a small valley between some hills where a couple dozen more men sat on the ground, shackled and chained to posts in the ground. All were young and strong looking. The group of ten recent arrivals were unhooked from the long chain and shoved over to various vacant spots where their chains were then attached to hooks on the posts and locked in place. D'Artagnan and Aramis were pushed to the ground at the base of a rock scarp together.

The leader shouted at one of his men. "Get on the radio and report a full load. Tell Vincent to be here tomorrow afternoon with the ship to pick up the cargo."

D'Artagnan tensed and exchanged a look with Aramis. They had to escape before they were put on that vessel, or their brothers would have no chance of ever finding them after that.

Aramis shuffled back to lean against the rock. "I still have my set of lock picks in my boot," he whispered. "Apparently these men need a lesson in searching their prisoners."

D'Artagnan roved his gaze around the camp. Though they weren't under strict guard, men were constantly walking back and forth between the lines of captives, shrewd eyes sweeping over them with each pass.

"We'll have to wait for the cover of night," d'Artagnan said tautly.

"Yes," Aramis agreed.

With no other choice, they settled in for an anxious wait.

o.0.o

Porthos grinned happily as he patted his pocket with his winnings and strolled down the street. The lights began to flicker on as the sun receded, morphing the bustling city streets into darker alleys and passageways. He glanced over his shoulder to make sure no sore losers had followed him from the pub. He hadn't cheated—much. Just a sleight of hand here and there to up the stakes. And it'd paid off.

Mood buoyant, he headed into the bar Athos had retreated to earlier that afternoon. The captain was deep in his cups as expected and in no shape to make his way home in the dark. Porthos strode over and clamped a hand around the man's upper arm.

"Come on, that's enough fer tonight."

Athos tried to shrug out of his grip but only succeeded in swaying in his seat. "'M fin'," he slurred.

"Uh-huh." Porthos hauled him out of the chair and tossed a few coins from his winnings onto the table to pay for the empty wine bottles. Then he gently manhandled his friend out of the bar and back toward the Luciole.

Athos barely kept his feet the entire way, and once they reached the ship, Porthos resigned himself to slinging the drunk man over his shoulder. Athos was too sloshed to realize the indignity of it all.

Constance emerged from one of the corridors as Porthos grunted his way up to the catwalk. She was decked out in a nice dress and shawl but her face was pinched.

Porthos frowned. "Weren't you goin' on a dinner date with d'Artagnan tonight?"

"Yes," she said stiffly. "He's an hour late."

Porthos grimaced. The lad was in trouble now. "Did you try raising him on the comms?"

"Him and Aramis," she replied, mouth turning down further at the sight of Athos dangling across Porthos's back. "They were out together this afternoon. Neither of them are responding."

Porthos stiffened as unease prickled down his spine. And it wasn't from Athos's weight.

"Try again," he suggested. "I'm gonna get Athos to bed."

Constance nodded and walked away.

Instead of going through the hassle of getting Athos down the hatch and ladder to his own bed, Porthos simply deposited him in one of the guest rooms to sleep it off. He then headed up to the bridge where Constance was sitting at the comms station looking as though she didn't know whether to be cross or worried.

"Still nothing," she said.

Porthos walked over and clacked a few keys, pulling up the beacons from their wrist bands. They were stationary, and Porthos pulled up a map of the city to find out where.

"I'll go check it out," he said.

Constance stood up. "Maybe I should go with you."

"Nah," he said, trying to be nonchalant about it. "You should stay in case they come back. I bet Aramis got distracted by a pretty girl and d'Artagnan didn't want to leave him alone."

Constance leveled an unconvinced look at him, and Porthos swallowed against his own anxiety because he also knew it was a lame excuse. He just didn't want to jump to any conclusions yet.

He dropped off his coin in his bunk—no sense carrying a bunch and asking to be robbed while he was looking for his wayward brothers—and strapped his schiavona to his belt before making his way back out into the darkening streets.

There wasn't much on the street Porthos had narrowed down the beacons' location to: no bars or brothels, not even homes where Aramis might have accompanied a woman to. Porthos huffed as he paced up and down the street, seeing nothing. Pausing for a moment, he lifted his arm to tap his own wrist band. A beep sounded from a few feet away and he turned toward it. He took a few steps and tapped the flashlight on his wrist band on. His heart plummeted into his stomach at the sight of two identical wrist bands lying on the ground.

Porthos scooped them up and quickly searched the alley for bodies, thinking maybe Aramis and d'Artagnan had been mugged. But there was no sign of anything.

The alley was behind a pawn shop, pretty much the only thing that didn't look vacant on this street. And it was still open. Porthos strode inside, intending to ask the proprietor if he'd seen or heard anything…but he pulled up short when he spotted Aramis's ornate pistols in a glass case with price tags attached to them. A few feet away on a coat rack was a familiar hat with blue and golden feathers. Porthos whipped his gaze around until he spotted two swords also on display.

A wiry man with spectacles came out from the back. "Evenin'," he greeted. "See anythin' in particular you're interested in?"

Porthos stormed over and reached across the counter to grab a fistful of the man's shirt, yanking him halfway across the glass top. "Where did you get those pistols?" he snarled.

"Wh-wh-," the man stuttered.

Porthos hauled him all the way over the counter and dragged him to the display case. "Those pistols. Where did you get them?"

"So-someone traded them in!" he bleated.

"Who? When?" Porthos gave him a rough shake.

"This afternoon."

Porthos spun the man around and slammed him against the wall. "Name. Now."

"Le-Lemaitre!"

"Where can I find 'im?"

"I don't know!"

Porthos growled and clenched his fists tighter, cinching the fabric tight against the man's throat.

"I swear! He comes in regularly once a month but I don't know where he lives or anythin'."

"Once a month sellin' items he stole off of people?" Porthos glowered.

The shop owner flinched. "He has a brother!" he blurted. "Bruno Lemaitre. Owns a bar not far from here."

Porthos narrowed his eyes menacingly to gauge the man's truthfulness. He was quivering like a foal, so Porthos finally shoved him away hard. He snatched his brothers' swords off the rack, retrieved Aramis's hat, and then went over and smashed the glass of the display case, plucking out the pistols. A nearby scarf wasn't stolen, but Porthos grabbed it anyway to wrap up the items and then tucked the bundle under his arm as he finally stormed out in search of this bar.

The place was busy when he entered, the nightly crowd well under way. Porthos had to weave through the bustling throng to reach the counter where he waved down the bartender.

"You Bruno Lemaitre?" he said harshly.

The man arched a brow at him. "Who wants ta know?"

"I'm lookin' for yer brother."

Bruno snorted. "He ain't here."

Porthos leaned over the counter, expression dark with barely restrained fury, and the only reason he didn't give this guy the same treatment as the pawn shop owner was there were too many patrons who might come to his defense.

"Yer brother attacked mine," he growled. "So tell me where I can find 'im before I decide to embrace the whole 'eye fer an eye' creed."

Bruno narrowed his eyes, not appearing as fazed as the shop owner had been. He finally shook his head and let out a sound of derision. "Look, I don' know where he is. We're estranged. My brother is a good-fer-nothin' piece of scum who's in the slaving business."

Porthos's blood ran cold. "Slavery?" he repeated numbly.

Bruno shrugged one eyebrow. "I take it your brother is missin'? Look, I'm sorry about that, but I have nothin' to do with it. I run an honest business." He spread his arms to encompass the bar. "And I wish I could help ya, but my brother doesn't share his illicit dealin's with me."

Porthos leaned back, his mind swiftly succumbing to shock. After a prolonged moment, he nodded to the bartender and turned to leave. His feet navigated the streets of their own accord while he wrestled with how to tell Constance that her husband was missing, likely kidnapped by slavers.

And Porthos had no idea how to find them and get them back.

o.0.o

As soon as the sun had gone down, d'Artagnan shifted to partially shield Aramis from sight as the marksman pulled out his lock picks and set to work on the chains leashing them to the posts. D'Artagnan kept a watch on the guards and a few times had to elbow Aramis into stopping as one of them passed by. It slowed their progress and d'Artagnan tried not to shiver as the temperature steadily dropped.

His gaze flitted over the other huddled prisoners. "What about these other people?" he whispered to Aramis.

Aramis didn't look up from his concentration. "Even if we could get a weapon from one of the guards, we're still outnumbered," he replied quietly. "The best way we can help them is to escape and alert the authorities."

D'Artagnan pursed his mouth. He knew Aramis was right, but it didn't make his stomach curdle any less.

He finally heard a soft clink and looked over as Aramis disengaged their chains from the post.

"We should go now," Aramis whispered. "I can pick the shackles once we're safely away."

D'Artagnan nodded. They gathered up their chains so the links wouldn't rattle as they crept along the rock face, trying to keep to the shadows until they could climb out of the valley. The guards were between passes right now, so they should have enough of an opening—

"Hey, wait," someone hissed. "Help me."

D'Artagnan went rigid and spun around to face one of the captives who was leaning forward earnestly. "We'll be back with the police to help everyone," he promised quickly.

The man's eyes widened. "No, don't leave me here!" At his raised voice, alerted shouts went up among the guards.

Aramis grabbed d'Artagnan's arms and yanked. "Run!"

They scrambled up the incline as the alarm was sounded. A gunshot cracked the air and d'Artagnan stumbled as fire tore through his side. He almost went crashing to his knees, but Aramis grasped his arm and hauled him along, both of them struggling to keep their feet over the rocky terrain with nothing but a quarter moon for scant light to see by.

D'Artagnan pressed a hand to his burning side and felt a warm wetness. When he pulled it away, his fingers glistened darkly. "Ar-Aramis."

Aramis glanced over his shoulder and pulled up short. Hands roughly seized d'Artagnan's wrists. "You were hit? Where?"

"S-side."

Beams of flashlights bobbed erratically in the distance.

Aramis swore under his breath. "Come on, just a little further."

D'Artagnan didn't know where "just a little further" was supposed to get them, but he forced himself to follow.

A few moments later they tumbled into a gully and Aramis nudged d'Artagnan into sitting down and leaning back against the declivity.

"Let me see," he said, though he didn't actually wait for permission before tugging d'Artagnan's shirt up and palpating his stomach.

D'Artagnan arched at the unexpected flare in his side and was unable to hold back a cry. He knew he had to keep quiet, that he could give their position away, so he clamped his jaw shut and swallowed his next sob.

"The bullet didn't penetrate," Aramis reported. "It grazed you, but deeply. There's a lot of blood."

He sat back on his haunches and started unwinding his sash from his waist, which he then wrapped around d'Artagnan's and knotted it. D'Artagnan choked on another pained cry at the applied pressure. A hand reached out to squeeze his shoulder.

"I know it hurts, but we have to keep moving," Aramis said regretfully.

D'Artagnan managed a nod and groaned as Aramis hauled him to his feet again. He sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth and took one lumbering step after the other, keeping to the gully to stay out of sight of their pursuers.

o.0.o

Athos sat at the kitchen table, aching head in his hands, as Porthos set a cup of strong coffee in front of him. It was 4am and Porthos had just finished explaining what had happened the previous evening while Athos had been too drunk to even be aware. His crew had needed him and he hadn't been there, passed out in the guest room because he'd drank himself into numb oblivion. He knew he shouldn't let his ex-wife get to him like that, but damn it, he'd loved her. Maybe still did on some level. And that twisted him up inside as much as his hatred over her betrayal did.

"It's not yer fault," Porthos spoke up.

Athos lifted his head to squint at the blurry figure standing next to him.

Porthos huffed. "I know that look. But there wasn't anythin' you could've done." His expression darkened morosely and he looked away. "There still isn't. We don't know where to look."

Athos dropped his gaze back to the brown brew in front of him. Maybe that was true, but it didn't change the fact that he was supposed to have been there. Perhaps he could have thought of some avenue to pursue if his mind hadn't been muddled by wine.

Constance's footsteps echoed more loudly than usual as she entered the mess. "I went through the comms system link to their wrist bands, down to the code, just to see if I could retrace their steps," she reported but quickly deflated. "I know that doesn't help us find where they are now."

Porthos held his hand out and she passed him the data pad she was carrying. His expression was grim as he scanned the results, but then he made a sound like a half growl.

Athos straightened. "What is it?"

"This says they were in the bar that belongs to the brother of the reported slaver. I questioned 'im and he said he didn't know anythin', but this can't be coincidence."

Athos chugged down the rest of his coffee, the acidic liquid sloshing unhappily in his already caustic stomach. "I agree. Let's question him again."

All three of them headed out, making their way swiftly through the dark and empty streets at this time of morning. It was after closing time of most nocturnal establishments, and they found the bar in question empty and the owner cleaning up.

"We're closed," he said as they barged in. His eyes widened as Porthos bore down on him like an angry bear.

"I don't think you were completely honest wit' me yesterday," he growled.

"I don't know what you're talkin' about," the man started to protest, but Porthos lashed out and grabbed a fistful of his shirt.

"The men your brother kidnapped were in this bar shortly before they went missin'. That's no coincidence."

"It's a big city—"

"And people go missing all the time," Athos interrupted impatiently. "But if we were to contact the authorities, would they find a pattern of missing people last seen in this immediate vicinity?"

"You can't prove nothin'."

Porthos shoved the man back against the bar counter, eyes turning wild and dangerous. "Bad things jus' happen, right?" He strode around the counter.

The barkeep turned and Athos drew his sword, pointing the tip at the man's throat to discourage any movements.

Porthos surveyed the rows of alcohol on the shelves. "Accidents happen," he mused, reaching out one finger and tipping a bottle over so it smashed on the floor.

"Hey!"

Athos pressed his blade more firmly into the barkeep's throat.

"Earthquakes maybe," Porthos went on, singling out another very expensive vintage and nudging it to a shattering end.

Athos lamented the loss but quashed his regret; wine was what had gotten him into trouble.

"Stop!" the bar owner cried. "You can't do this!"

Porthos whirled toward him. "How much money do you make helpin' your brother steal men's lives? What is it, one man equals the same as a bottle?" He picked up another and let it dangle precariously from a lax grip.

"Alright!" the man exclaimed. "I'll tell you. Sebastian has a camp out in the wilderness a few leagues east of the city."

Porthos's eyes darkened and he let the bottle fall. Before the barkeep could shout in protest, Athos moved forward and cold-cocked him in the head with the pommel of his sword.

"Let's go," he said. "Constance, looks like you're taking the helm again."

She gave a staunch nod and they exited the bar, urgency hastening their pace.

o.0.o

Dawn broke across the sky in smeared swirls of pale blue and pink. Aramis's shoulders slumped as he turned in a slow circle, surveying nothing but arid landscape as far as the eye could see. They should have reached the city by now if they'd been going in the right direction. That's what came of blundering through the wilderness in the dark. And now he had no idea where they were or which direction they needed to be going in.

His stomach tightened as he glanced at d'Artagnan. The lad's pallor was pasty and ashen, the sash around his waist soaked a dark wine color. Aramis had nothing out here with which to treat the wound and he was forced to watch his brother continue to fade while Aramis pushed him on relentlessly.

D'Artagnan hadn't seemed to notice that Aramis had stopped and lumbered past him, only for his knees to buckle and he collapsed on the ground with a moan. Aramis dropped down next to him, his own exhaustion pulling at his limbs already weighted with the heavy chains. He grabbed d'Artagnan's shoulders.

"D'Artagnan, stay awake."

Heavy-lidded eyes slowly tracked upward. "Aramis. I-I'm not…gonna make it."

"Yes, you are," he replied fiercely.

"You keep going," d'Artagnan mumbled. "Tell Constance…" His breath hitched and his eyes grew watery. "Tell her I love her."

"Tell her yourself," Aramis barked, grabbing his arm and yanking hard to pull him upright.

D'Artagnan groaned and tried to curl in on his injured side. "Aramis…just go. You can get help. I'll wait here."

"We are going together or not at all." He would forgive the boy for suggesting otherwise since he was suffering from blood loss. But Aramis would never leave a wounded brother to die alone in the wilderness.

He sighed and let d'Artagnan slump back down. "We can both take a rest though."

While d'Artagnan closed his eyes, Aramis got out the lock picks and at least tried to get their shackles off, since that was impeding their movement. He did d'Artagnan's first, then his own, letting the heavy chains fall to the ground with a clatter. He wasn't sure how much time it had actually taken him, but he spotted a cloud of dust rising in the distance. Their pursuers likely had some kind of all-terrain vehicles and would catch up quickly.

"Come on, d'Artagnan," Aramis urged, hauling him upright again. "We need to keep moving."

The boy groaned at the jostling movement and Aramis slung one of his arms over his own shoulder, then picked up their lumbering pace.

o.0.o

Constance detected the slavers' camp on the sensors and set the ship down behind the hill adjacent to the valley. After shutting down the engine, she loaded herself up with a shotgun and pistol, unwilling to stay behind, and went with Athos and Porthos to infiltrate the camp.

They crested the rise of the hill, keeping low to the ground, and peered into the valley. Athos pulled out some binoculars and scanned the area.

"I count at least a couple dozen prisoners," he said. "But no sign of Aramis and d'Artagnan."

Constance's heart fluttered. "Were we wrong about who took them? Or…are we too late?"

"We ain't wrong," Porthos rumbled.

"If a ship had come to take them, there wouldn't be this many men left," Athos added. He paused. "I count only four guards. Rather small number for an operation like this."

"Where do you think the others are?" Porthos asked.

Athos lowered the binoculars. "Let's ask."

He took the lead and they all snuck around to a gradual slope to enter the valley. Once at the bottom, they waited in some concealed bushes until one of the guards made a pass. Porthos reached out and grabbed a fistful of his shirt, yanking him into the shrubbery and slamming his back against a boulder.

"Where's Sebastian?" he growled.

The man's eyes widened and he opened his mouth as though to yell. Athos pointed a pistol at his head.

"Answer the question. Quietly."

His throat bobbed. "Not here."

"Two of our friends were taken," Porthos snarled. "Where are they?"

Constance hastily pulled out a small pad and showed the man a holo photo of d'Artagnan and Aramis.

The man swallowed again. "Yeah, they escaped last night. Sebastian took some men to go after them."

Constance felt a swell of relief, but it was quickly tempered because if they weren't here they were still in danger.

"Which direction and how many men?" Athos asked.

The guy pointed across the valley. "Eight."

Athos lowered his pistol and nodded. Porthos seemed to take that as his cue to punch the guy so hard that his head cracked against the rock and he crumpled. Then they marched out from concealment, presenting themselves to the remaining three guards with guns raised.

"Lower your weapons and surrender," Athos declared.

The slavers froze, evidently taken off guard. After a brief moment of hesitation, one went for his gun. A pistol shot cracked the air before Constance could think to react, and out of the corner of her eye she saw a trail of smoke wafting from the barrel of Athos's gun.

"Anyone else want to try it?" he asked mildly.

The last two raised their hands in the air. Constance kept her shotgun aimed at the ready to cover Athos and Porthos as they relieved the men of their weapons and searched them. Porthos came up with a set of keys, which he tossed to the nearest chained captive. Once the man had freed himself, Porthos and Athos secured the slavers in the shackles.

"Take care of the others," Athos instructed the freed man. With a nod to Porthos and Constance, they turned their attention to tracking down their missing crew mates.

o.0.o

Aramis grunted as d'Artagnan suddenly went limp in his arms, his dead weight nearly dragging them both to the ground.

"No, no, no, come on, d'Artagnan," Aramis pleaded, adjusting his grip and reaching over to tap the lad's cheek. He got no response. D'Artagnan was ghostly white, as though more of his blood was now occupying Aramis's sash than it was his body. And the slavers were closing in on them.

Aramis jerked his head up as the sound of ATVs drew closer. He whipped his gaze around and spotted a small cleft in a boulder. It wasn't much, but hopefully he could hide d'Artagnan there. He dragged his friend's limp body over and pushed him underneath as much as he could. Then he lurched to his feet and staggered in the opposite direction, trying to lead the slavers away.

They were upon him in moments, the ATVs circling around and kicking up more dust. When one of the men dismounted and came at him, he tried to throw a punch, but lack of food and water left him off his game and he was swiftly knocked to the ground instead.

The lead slaver walked over and pointed a gun at him. "Where's the other one?"

Aramis gritted his teeth. "Dead. One of you shot him."

The man narrowed his eyes as though trying to discern his veracity, but the blood transfer on his clothes was obvious.

"Fine then. You've proven not worth the trouble."

He shifted his aim to Aramis's head, and Aramis forced himself not to flinch in the face of his death, and d'Artagnan's too.

But the sound that abruptly filled his ears wasn't that of a gunshot, but of whirring engines. He shot his gaze up as the Luciole came sweeping down from the sky to hover overhead, cargo bay doors open. Anchored in harnesses on the platform, Athos and Porthos leaned out and started shooting. Men yelled as they went flying off their vehicles from the impact of bullets. Some took cover behind the ATVs and returned fire.

Aramis leaped to his feet and tackled the nearest slaver, delivering a punch that instantly knocked the man out. He then snatched up a gun and started shooting as well until the barrage of weapons fire petered out and nothing but the Luciole's engines roaring in his ears remained. The slavers were all dead.

Aramis scrambled back to where he'd stashed d'Artagnan as the Luciole set down. He'd barely pulled d'Artagnan out into his arms before hands were reaching to help.

"Aramis?" Athos prompted.

"Get him to the infirmary," he urged. "He's lost a lot of blood. Probably needs a transfusion. You're a match."

Athos's grip on his shoulder halted his ramble. "Okay. We've got him."

Porthos entered his field of vision, brows raised in question as he reached to take d'Artagnan from him. Aramis nodded and forced himself to take a breath. He couldn't fall apart right now; d'Artagnan still needed him.

He pushed himself to his feet with Athos keeping a grip on him and stumbled after Porthos and d'Artagnan.

"We made it, d'Artagnan," Aramis said. You can't give up now.

o.0.o

D'Artagnan woke feeling groggy and oddly floaty. Was the internal gravity off? Constance should check on that.

Constance…d'Artagnan remembered wanting nothing more than to see her one last time, to touch her face and kiss her and tell her he loved her. But he'd been dying…stranded in the middle of nowhere and bleeding out. So why was there now an annoying beeping above his head?

He pried his eyelids open and blinked blearily at a set of white walls.

"D'Artagnan?"

He shifted his gaze to the side to find Constance sitting in a chair, her hand folded over one of his. He frowned as more awareness seeped in. "Is this heaven?" he croaked. "Because I didn't think heaven came with wires and leads in very uncomfortable places." He winced as he flexed his hand with the IV port in it and felt the catheter he didn't want to think about.

Constance shook her head as she let out a watery half laugh. "You're not dead. Though I've half a mind to kill you for scaring me like that."

His brow pinched. "I'm sorry."

She shook her head again and leaned forward to gently kiss his forehead. "I'm just glad you're okay. It was close." Her lips thinned as a haunted expression filled her eyes.

D'Artagnan turned his hand over so he could squeeze hers. "I tried really hard to make it back to you."

"And you did."

D'Artagnan took a moment to simply drink his wife in and then roved his gaze around the infirmary. "Where's Aramis?"

"Sleeping. It's been a rough thirty-six hours."

That long?

Constance stood and went to the intercom. "Captain, he's awake."

She came back to take her seat, and a few moments later Athos and Porthos came in, Porthos beaming at him and Athos's smile more subdued but no less present.

"Welcome back," Athos said.

D'Artagnan smiled in return, but then frowned in confusion. "How'd you find us?"

Porthos smirked. "The way we always do."

D'Artagnan huffed a laugh at that, only to grimace and grunt as it pulled his stomach muscles.

"You still need rest," Athos said.

"What about…the slavers' camp?" he asked, drowsiness taking hold more quickly than he expected.

"Cleared out and the men returned home."

"Mm. Good."

He drifted into a lulled doze, not hearing when Athos and Porthos left. But just as he was about to nod off completely, he jerked awake again.

"I missed our anniversary! I'm sorry, Constance. I don't even have a gift for you."

She leaned close, eyes soft and warm. "The only gift I need is you."

D'Artagnan was pretty sure that wouldn't apply to next year, unless he had another near-death experience—which, hopefully not. But in the meantime, he fell back into a contented sleep with the sensation of Constance's fingers carding through his hair.