Tag to S1Ep.1 – set right after Athos is saved from execution.

Happy to feel the words flow again.

VII. The Nick of Time

It is three steps after reaching the top of the stairs and four steps after the chains on his wrists are taken off that Athos visibly falters.

"Hey." Porthos is so close to him Athos feels his breath on his neck; the low rumble is meant for his ears alone. "You alrigh'?"

Athos has no breath to answer, no breath to lie. He forces a nod instead, unable to raise his head to look at his friend and reassure him. His heart is yet to settle, his breath still coming in quick, short gasps. If anything, it's getting worse: his legs are rapidly turning to water; with a shuddering sigh he leans his back against the wall and bends over, hands on his knees, a sharp tremor rushing to take hold of his limbs.

"Athos?"

Aramis's voice is all controlled concern. He crouches beside him, looking up, trying to glimpse his face, but Athos can't spare attention to him as bile rushes up his throat in unexpected speed and his mouth turns sour; he shoves Aramis out of the way, hurls himself aside and vomits.

There are murmurs he can't understand.

A cackle of laughter that stops abruptly in a clank of metal, and there's an image of Porthos's knuckles somewhere at the back of his mind, a scowl on his friend's face over a cowering guard.

When he can straighten himself again, swiping a shaking hand across his mouth, he finds that Porthos has ushered the boy away – D'Artagnan, was it?- and it's only Aramis remaining with him. That is, not counting the guards at the Chatelet's main gate who are openly watching the convicted Musketeer who's just been saved in the nick of time; the disgruntled would-be executioners putting away their unfired muskets with a crude, offensive clatter behind them, down in that pit, or the shouts and jeers of disappointed inmates pushing their faces and hands against the bars of the sparsely-scattered windows, hurling insults at the Musketeers and the Red Guard alike. It should have been a deafening uproar, but oddly, it is not. It washes over Athos like a wave instead – an ugly, grainy, eroding wave, but temporary and ineffectual all the same.

"Better?" Aramis asks.

A sudden spike of gratitude lances a boil in Athos's heart. It spills nothing but warmth into his chest as he gives Aramis a nod. But he makes no move to push away from the wall, as it's the only thing that's keeping him up on his feet.

"Come," Aramis prompts gently, his expression hard in contrast, like Athos's own despite the softness of his voice, because they are Musketeers inside the Chatelet and there are appearances to keep. But it doesn't change the fact that Aramis is his friend and that Aramis will always act when he sees Athos in need; now he circles a hand around Athos's elbow, discreet but firm, after Athos has rinsed his mouth with water from Aramis's flask, and says, with graceful levity of heart, "The universe owes you a solid meal and a good night's sleep. Let us see to that."

That makes Athos huff out a chuckle as he extracts his arm from Aramis's grip, though not without shooting him a grateful, apologetic glance. He must walk out of this place on his own, his back straight, his head held high; his honour, still intact thanks to these men. The latter, truthfully, has never really been his concern. Even if he were dead, he knew that Porthos and Aramis would have cleared his name. That his soul is condemned beyond redemption is an entirely different matter; Olivier de la Fére is his own to take to his damned grave, but Athos of the King's Musketeers will not stand for his name to be dragged through the mud. He's glad to be alive, if only to see that the stain is washed away.

"I am sorry we couldn't get to you earlier," Aramis offers quietly, genuinely regretful as they walk side by side towards the main gate. Athos catches a vague reflection of his bedraggled state in Aramis's appraising gaze, all the signs of his difficult, sleepless night, and responds by raising an eyebrow while taking his weapons back from an unfriendly guard.

"Not to worry," he says, "Your timing in general could use some work. My expectation was set accordingly."

"Now, isn't it lovely that you know us so well."

"I do," Athos reiterates. God knows he does. His faith in their ability to save him in time has faltered only between the five steps down into the pit and the wall that they chained him to - and no one can fault him for that. He turns and glances at his friends, these two men that would go to the end of the world for him, and adds, with grave sincerity, "And I am grateful for it."

Porthos's grin broadens. Aramis's eyes are practically shimmering with warmth. As for the boy... Athos is too tired to pass judgement just yet. But both Aramis and Porthos seem taken with him, a sure sign that he's acquitted himself impressively well, and for now, that's enough for Athos. He puts his hat on, breathes in deeply as a semblance of balance finally returns, and looks to his friends.

"Come. I assume the Captain is expecting a report. And then," he glances at Aramis, shoulders drooping a bit, "I wouldn't say no to that meal you mentioned I might be owed."

"Now that is a request I can easily arrange," Aramis declares as he sneaks his arm around Athos's shoulders.

"The wine's on me," Porthos grunts as his hand settles on the back of Athos's neck, and Athos thinks with a smile, no, he was wrong - now his balance is restored.

The three men stride out of the gate in a display of that camaraderie they are known for - the Inseperables. The fact that a fourth, an observant young lad, walks alongside them, apart yet included, no hesitancy in his step and a curious glint in his eye, is merely the first step of something remarkable.