I need to clear out the "scraps" in my fanfiction folder because they are haunting me. This is a tag to S2 Ep.8, "The Prodigal Father".

XIII. These Brothers of Mine

The ride back to the garrison is too heavy, too quiet.

The pauldron is once again back on Porthos's broad shoulder, where it belongs, and Porthos sits tall and proud upon his horse. But there's a crease on his brow, and the look in his eyes is immeasurably sad.

Without a single word spoken aloud, the five men reach the garrison in a solemn procession, and dismount wearily. The captain catches Porthos's eye as Jacques takes the horses away, an unspoken communication passing between them; then Tréville nods, Porthos tilts his chin, and the captain climbs the steps to his office with the weary steps of an old man. One by one, the Inseparables file from the courtyard into the refectory.

It is blessedly cool, invitingly empty, and fittingly quiet.

They sit themselves around a table, and Aramis's hand brushes against Porthos's arm as he passes by to bring the bottles of wine. They sit, and they sip, and ruminate.

Aramis is the first to speak, his voice soft, understanding.

"This has been a hard few days for you."

Porthos nods with an agreeing hmm, idly pushing and pulling the tankard between his hands with calloused fingertips. Much weighs on his breast, his heart is full to the brim; he keeps his eyes fixed on the wine and never raises them. Silence presses down on them again, long and stiff and hard.

Every line spoken afterwards breaks it like snapping branches underfoot.

"They were like us, once," says Porthos, eyes on his cup, "Tréville told me. Not in so many words, but you could tell. Him and de Foix and Belgard." He raises his eyes to Aramis. "The two of 'em, as thick as you an' me."

One blink, two blinks, and Aramis looks down.

(He has a son.)

Porthos's gaze turns slowly towards Athos, then to D'Artagnan before it comes back to rest down on his cup again. D'Artagnan, across from him, vigorously shakes his head.

"None of us would ever do such a thing to one another - kidnap his child, leave him on the streets - Not even to keep a promise."

"Would you not?" Athos counters, one eyebrow mildly-raised.

"I wouldn't make a promise like that and neither would any of you!"

"Neither did Tréville or de Foix," Athos points out to him, "But a promise to help one another? To look out for each other, no matter what?" The ghost of a smile tugs at his lips as he takes another sip from his glass, his eyes on d'Artagnan fond, sad, and indulgent.

"One for all," murmurs Aramis, his finger tracing a burn mark on the wood.

d'Artagnan, bless him, shakes his head stubbornly; taking a swig of his wine, he sits back and crosses his arms. "I'm sorry, Porthos- I don't think I could be so quick to forgive my father if he'd done what Belgard did to you."

"Forgive 'im?" Porthos looks up in surprise, and surprise quickly turns into a dangerous storm he glares at the Gascon, "Nah," he says forcefully, "No. I might 'ave forgiven 'im for my part - God knows I was willin' before I met 'im - but what he did to my mother?" His fingers clench around the tankard as he drops his suddenly brimming gaze, and now d'Artagnan regrets having spoken in the first place; Athos reaches to lay his hand on Porthos's wrist and slowly, gradually, Porthos's knuckles return to their normal colour.

d'Artagnan breathes.

"All for one," Porthos rumbles, composed once again. But there's a hint of bitterness for the first time since the beginning of this whole debacle with Belgard - he looks up and the three men are transfixed by him.

"Promise me somethin'," he demands. "Promise me you'll do righ' by one another, even if it means breakin' our oath. Because some things are far more precious than our honour; some things..." he breaks off, then takes a long breath through his nose, "promise me that you won't let it get in the way."

What is honour when compared to family?

What is it, when compared to brotherhood?

Honour... what a hindrance, what a constraint sometimes!

Athos's hand slides off Porthos's wrist.

Porthos catches it without turning to look, the gesture between them so subtly and smoothly reversed, the ease of it is beautiful. Porthos continues.

"If, God willin', any of you marry an' have a child an' a family of your own I promise you; your gal, your child- they're mine to protect. I'll look after 'em, I'll protect 'em like my own. I know we're not stupid," he shakes his head, heedless of the wetness that is now on his face - "I know none of you would ever ask one another somethin' like Belgard did to the captain. We're not selfish, heartless bastards but - " he's rushing now - "I bet neither Tréville nor de Foix ever expected Belgard to ask 'em for such a thin' either but they did it anyway - "

"Porthos." Aramis seizes Porthos's hand fiercely and grips it, and stares so hard at him that Porthos has to meet his gaze, and Aramis says, as only one brother can make an oath to another, "I promise."

(And if there is hypocrisy in that, giving that promise but denying his brothers to do the same for him because he can't tell them he has a son - he bloody doesn't care.)

"We'll be better," d'Artagnan promises, all Gascon determination as he reaches across the table to lay his hand on Aramis and Porthos's, "We are better, Porthos - we never would."

"No," Athos agrees softly, "we wouldn't."

He places his hand on top of the others' and completes the lock of brotherhood.

One for all.

At that moment, they may be four bodies, but they are but one soul.*

Athos's eyes find Aramis's across the table, - d'Artagnan notices it but doesn't understand it-, but Aramis does, and he ducks his head lest anyone notices the moisture in his eyes.

(Damned if he knows whether what Athos means is a mere reaffirmation of the obvious - that he will protect the Dauphin even if it costs him his life because he is a Musketeer and it is his duty - or whether there is something hidden, far more dangerous, far more intimate and precious in there; he doesn't care - something loosens gloriously in his chest and it's all he can do to not slump forward a bit– the lightness of a burden shared.)

Porthos has drawn them into this moment, and Porthos now releases them.

"Righ' then."

He pushes his chair back to stand and wipes a hand down his face; casting a quick, grateful glance at his friends, he gives them a final nod and takes his leave. An entire life needs to be re-evaluated this evening, to be made sense of under the light of recent revelations. But he won't stay bitter for too long.

When there are three left in the refectory instead of the four, D'Artagnan watches Athos as Athos watches Aramis, who, in turn, avoids both of their eyes. Silence turns nearly strained until he, too, rises, gathers the empty bottle and cups and follows Porthos out.

"Are you going to tell me what's going on between you and Aramis?" d'Artagnan asks as soon as the marksman is out of sight. The non-committal look he receives in lieu of an answer is not a surprise at all. With a shake of his head and a sigh of his own, he, too, stands up.

"Do you want me to keep you company?"

"I am well," Athos returns, grateful for the offer nevertheless. D'Artagnan nods.

"See you tomorrow."

And the Gascon, too, leaves, and Athos is left alone in the refectory, the well-stocked cellar of the garrison at his disposal, and him, perfectly at home in a long day's leftover melancholy.

*"These four men, united by brotherly bonds, were in fact but one soul." - Alexandre Dumas, The Three Musketeers