Thank you all so much for that delightful response – I am so glad you're enjoying the 'snacks'. I loved how loud the comments page suddenly became after the last one - from the "nom nom" to the "gahhh" to the "noo", all sounds articulate and less so were deeply appreciated. ;)

As per request, here's a small piece to tie-up that loose end.. and perhaps, to lay down a couple more. This takes place sometime after S1 Ep.5, after Porthos is tried and cleared, and before Ep.8 where d'Artagnan earns his commission.

III. The two Gascons

"Then?"

"Then... they fought."

That seemed to be all Captain Tréville was going to share about how Athos had earned his commission five years ago. He stood up on stiff legs and turned his back to his eager listener, trying to loosen the knots in his shoulder muscles and remember why he had begun to tell this tale in the first place.

It wasn't even his story to share. Especially not now, not when Athos –

"Surely you're not going to leave it there."

"It's late." He threw a glance over his shoulder to the man slumbering on his bed, softening his voice. "It's a miracle we didn't wake him already."

His comment made the Gascon turn on the low stool and glance anxiously at his mentor, almost frightful as if expecting to meet a half-lidded glare, but Athos was still asleep. Tense lines on his brow betrayed the discomfort as he half-reclined on the pillows, having refused to lie down.

"Well, we didn't," d'Artagnan commented, satisfied. "So? What happened next?"

Placing a deliberate scowl on his face, Tréville wondered why he couldn't bring himself to be genuinely cross with the man. Ever since he'd set foot in the regiment d'Artagnan had been doing a remarkable job of rampantly trampling boundaries of rank, somehow managing to speak with everyone from the stableboy to Tréville himself like his equal - and managing that without the slightest hint of arrogance or presumption. Frankly, that itself was a commendable feat: being cross with d'Artagnan for that would be like being cross with a war horse for wanting to gallop across a field.

Still, the captain glared.

"Considering that Athos is the finest swordsman in the regiment, d'Artagnan, the outcome should not escape your sharp wit."

"Well.. It doesn't, sir," d'Artagnan blinked, "I was hoping more to learn about the process, rather than the outcome."

Nicely turned, Tréville admitted begrudgingly.

"So the king challenged Athos to a duel and Athos won - how did he manage?"

"Why?"

Irritation was on the rise; impatience blossoming for no particular reason. "You don't think Athos can beat Louis in a duel of swords?"

Now that was a difficult question, if Tréville had ever posed one.

d'Artagnan opened his mouth to reply, but quickly thought the better of it; he considered, blinked, and closed his mouth again. Even as he looked on, Tréville felt a flicker of contrition for having even asked the question. It wasn't fair to force the lad to choose between his loyalties to the king and to Athos, both of whom, he suspected, were held in almost equal regard.

He sighed, eyes straying back to Athos's ailing form.

It had been a very long day.

"The king may be capricious at times," he relented at last, leaning heavily back against the desk, "But he is also king. He wouldn't have gone back on his word when he'd given it in front of myself and the queen. They fought... In the end, Athos won the duel by sneaking the point of his rapier into the basket of the king's own. He disarmed Louis so gently... Triumph and humility, d'Artagnan, burrowed in a flick of his wrist. He caught the king's sword as it flew in the air; walked up to him, and went to his knees before a stunned Louis. He lay both swords at the king's feet and did not rise until Louis pulled himself together and commissioned him then and there."

Awe, once again, shone brightly in d'Artagnan's eyes. For a fleeting moment, Tréville seriously worried if he was doing the right thing by providing the lad with even more reasons to worship his mentor - not that he thought that was possible. But it wasn't just awe in d'Artagnan's eyes. Tréville could see the hope, the ambition, the dreams mixed into that glitter like stardust - dreams that defied tempering by possibility. The lad didn't just hope to earn his own commission one day; he dreamed of earning it in the most glorious of ways.

Perhaps, that expanse of d'Artagnan's heart was why he couldn't bring himself to reprimand the lad - to ever try to school him into the boundaries of formality and rank. It wasn't that d'Artagnan was ignorant of them; no, he was raised as a gentleman, conducting himself perfectly well. But he wasn't intimidated by rank or status. That alone, perhaps, showed a courage even more remarkable than barging into the garrison and challenging Athos to a duel.

So why erect invisible walls before this young man at the beginning of his journey, when every other man Tréville knew wished furtively that they could wear them down? d'Artagnan crashed through walls. He'd crashed his way through the garrison and into the regiment; right into the near-sacred brotherhood of Tréville's Inseperables, and unless the captain was badly mistaken, he had also crashed his way into Athos's revered heart.

And perhaps, he thought with sudden insight, that was why Athos was adamant that the boy deserved every chance he could get. Intrinsically, Athos had sensed from the beginning that there was no standing in the way of Charles d'Artagnan. He would crash and force and fly his way through life, and he would soar, because d'Artangnan was pure dare.

All things considered, if only at the very depths of their hearts, it was a thing to be admired, cherished and protected; not suppressed or chastised.

"I bet no one else in the regiment received their commision like Athos did," d'Artagnan mused aloud, pulling the captain out of his thoughts.

"No one else in the regiment had personal acquaintance with the king," he felt the need to remark.

Silence cascaded then, and settled between the three men like a thick, woollen carpet. Muffled voices were heard from the courtyard, the distant tumbling of carriage wheels reaching up to them from the square beyond the gate. The clashing of metal had ceased since the sun had gone down. At this hour, all the men would be in the mass hall; under the warm glow of the candles Serge would be serving up ladles of delicious mutton stew. Cadets on kitchen duty would struggle to keep up the constant stream of giving and taking plates - cups would rattle - cutlery clank - the rumble of conversation would fill the room and tonight... tonight, they would talk of Athos.

A soft huff - something like a self-deprecating snort - made Tréville turn from the window and look inquisitively at the young man.

"I should have guessed," said d'Artagnan softly. "I did wonder about it, but still..."

Tréville waited.

"Porthos's trial was held at court. Even though he's a King's Musketeer, he was tried by the magistrate, but Athos wasn't, was he? When he was falsely accused of murdering those men – including my father - he was taken directly before the king."

His brow creased as he frowned deeply, thinking. "I remember Aramis and Porthos saying that judgement was passed very quickly." He looked up. "Was there a reason for it? Because it doesn't make any sense." He threw a glance at Athos as the idea rapidly continued to form, d'Artagnan holding on to it like a rope with one end disappearing into the dark. "If Athos's family is really that old and important, and Athos knew the king personally, after five years as a Musketeer..." he captured Tréville's gaze, "...why was the king was so quick to condemn Athos to death?"

Good God, the captain inwardly groaned. A curse on that sharp Gascon mind! Was there no end to the questions - or was this revenge for being asked if he thought Athos could beat the king?

Unbidden, Tréville felt his lips curling up. He turned, came to stand beside the desk, and took in his sleeping lieutenant behind the wrought-iron screen, and the curious cadet watching him, vibrant expectation in intelligent dark eyes. He shook his head, slowly exhaling. His weariness after the trials of the day was a living, breathing thing.

"Get some rest, d'Artagnan," he suggested, voice gruff, almost avuncular. "That is a story for a different time."

A/N: I'd never thought this much on d'Artagnan before - I hope I didn't do him injustice. I have no clue why or how Athos came to be indisposed; why he is in the captain's office or where Aramis and Porthos are. Had I mentioned "pointlessness" and "indulgence" in these things?

I have a few more snacks being prepped at the counter, but I must finish up on the last chapter of BtWD first. I hope this didn't disappoint.