A/N: Welcome back for chapter 2. I didn't mention earlier, but I will be posting on Monday and Thursday mornings (eastern time). We're going to start out by bouncing back in time briefly so everyone can see how our boys landed in this position! Thanks SO MUCH for everyone's response to this so far! :)

Since I couldn't thank y'all privately, thanks to my guest reviewers Laureleaf and Jmp ^_^

Chapter 2

Earlier in the night

The tavern was rowdy. Every corner stank of poor decisions and unwashed bodies. People were disgusting. And his mother had said he was an unclean spirit.

Pierre Bocuse sat at a table tucked away in the back of the tavern where he had the best vantage of the entire room. His eyes drifted over the other creatures there, analyzing each as his gaze passed. Most of these would sell their soul for another bottle, for just one more cup. The only thing they were able to feel was desire, greed, fear.

They bored him. Every human in this city was capable of those. Pierre couldn't personally describe such emotions but he knew them to be as common as humanity itself.

In any case, those people weren't what he was here for.

Pierre's gaze slid back to his original targets, watching the three with veiled curiosity.

One sat in the far corner, much as he himself was doing now. The dark haired head bowed low over the bottle. He contributed nothing to the tavern's nightly entertainment, little more than a silent fixture. This was Athos.

One sat at the nearby table where a card game was in high swing. He was as boisterous as Athos was silent, and only growing more so with every drink he took. He laughed easily and won easier, likely cheating. This was Porthos.

One sat across from the first, turned sideways in his chair so he could simultaneously flirt with the woman incessantly cooing at him and keep an eye on both the first two. Despite the quick wit hidden behind a jovial face, he seemed to have not a care in the world. This was Aramis.

Athos. Porthos. Aramis.

Each hard at work forgetting the day in their own chosen ways, the three bore little resemblance to the steely-faced soldiers Pierre had witnessed only a few mornings prior.

It was only chance that Pierre had been so far into the center of Paris to begin with, depositing a gift to the Cardinal. The attack had been a random one, some Parisians who disapproved of the king, without the sense or control to find a better way to express it other than a stone's throw at one of Louis's musketeers.

The one he later learned was called Aramis had fallen from his horse, unconscious from a bleeding gash, very nearly trampled by his own beast. The ensuing riot was instantaneous, the mob almost as fascinating in its swelling emotion as the response of the remaining two musketeers.

They had already been the entire length of the street away from him; the wise move would have been to flee, to escape unharmed while the sharks' attention was on the one already bleeding. Instead, the two had turned and fought their way back INTO the mob. The rioters were hard pressed to get close enough to attack Aramis again with his horse still panicking—only sheer luck spared Aramis himself—and by the time it bolted the other musketeers had already reached him.

They'd stood back to back in front of the fallen soldier, swords bared as the one he'd come to know as Athos fired a pistol into the air.

"Are you so brave against a musketeer who can fight back? Come, try your luck!" he had bellowed; a foolish offer, for if the mob had been smart, they would have all rushed him together and easily overwhelmed the three.

Yet they didn't, all hanging back with nervous looks and fearful eyes.

"You attacked a king's musketeer," he'd continued, now as low and lethal as he had been ferocious. "You may have him if you wish, but first you have to get through me. Is that what you want?"

Looking at him, wielding his blade as someone more comfortable with swordplay than with breathing, and the giant beside him who appeared ready to separate heads from bodies with his bare hands, the mob clearly decided that was not at all what they wanted. Not one of them stepped forward in challenge. Pierre had watched them scatter like roaches before turning his intrigued eye back to the musketeers.

It was all quite fascinating.

Pierre had made inquiries about the three, drawing information from those who knew the soldiers with the mimicked smiles and charm that he'd learned from watching those who got what they wanted. And much had he learned. Pierre had found his next targets.

Across the tavern, the one called Porthos had finally left the card game, stumbling back to join the other two. Pierre got up, winding his way through the bodies to get near enough to hear them.

"-my turn to see to it everyone gets home safely," Aramis was saying with a grin, head barely inclining towards the oblivious Athos. "Go on, Porthos. I expect we'll be here for quite some time, so by all means go enjoy the 'beauty and serenity of Paris after dark'."

The words must have had some other meaning to them for both musketeers laughed, then Porthos bade the other two goodnight. Pierre pulled his hood over his head and walked out ahead of the other man, waiting in the dark until Porthos emerged and headed down the street alone.

.o.O.o.

At least Athos was a quiet drunk, Aramis thought as he lugged his friend away from the tavern towards his apartments close by. Surly and ungrateful, but quiet. Aramis didn't begrudge him these late nights; as much as Athos protected him and Porthos while on duty, Aramis was only too happy to look after him while they were off.

Still, he was looking forward to getting at least a little sleep before muster in the morning, and Aramis tried to pull Athos just a bit quicker down the darkened road.

"Almost there," he grunted, tightening his hold on Athos's arm slung about his shoulder. "Don't suppose you can stumble along any faster?"

Athos grunted unintelligibly, probably something sullen and grumpy, but Aramis paid him no mind.

"Can you help me?" a voice called softly from a side street.

Aramis stopped, looking around the empty roads in surprise, before backing up towards the street they had just passed—not an easy maneuver with a semi-conscious drunk in tow.

"Wait here," he ordered Athos, carefully extricating himself from his friend and leaving him propped against the near wall. He turned down the street, trying to squint into the darkness. "Someone there? Are you alright?"

He hurried forward only a few more steps before the sound of a grunt and a thud behind him had the musketeer whirling around in dismay.

"No, don't move, Aramis," a shadowy figure called out where Athos had just been standing. The swordsman was now a heap on the ground, unmoving, with the clear silhouette of a pistol aimed right at him. "At this range, I can't possibly miss him before you take another step."

Aramis cursed himself for having been so careless, so gullible. His single task had been in getting Athos home safely, and he'd failed. He tensed. "You know my name, but I don't believe I have yours."

"Toss your guns to the side. Then the blades."

"If it's money you're after, I should warn you that my friend there drank everything we brought," Aramis said, reluctantly removing his weapons, dropping them carefully to the side, and kicking them away. Until that pistol wasn't pointed at the defenseless Athos, Aramis didn't dare make a move.

"Down on the ground. Flat on your face."

Aramis's jaw clenched, not thrilled with the way this was progressing, but also not having much say in the matter. Moving slowly, the marksman dropped to his knees then lowered himself down the rest of the way. He kept his eyes latched onto the stranger, watching the shadowy form kneel over Athos and quickly divest him of his weapons as well. He scooped all of them up along with Aramis's, tying them into a bundle that he then slung about his shoulder. The man stood and took a few steps back.

"Pick him up."

Aramis frowned as he climbed back to his feet. "What?"

"You're going to carry him. Or if you prefer, we can leave him here, dead for the vultures to find. Make your choice, but do not take too long… Porthos is waiting for us and my servant has instructions to execute him if I do not return."

The stranger tossed something his way before Aramis could even process how this had all happened so fast when all he'd wanted was to take Athos home and then get some sleep. His reflexes were swift enough to catch the item, and Aramis's breath caught.

Porthos's pauldron. He would never have given it up unless taken by force. Aramis had no choice but to believe that his friend had somehow been taken captive, but how or for what purpose, he didn't know. Nor did he know how this man seemed to know all of them when Aramis was certain he'd never heard the voice before.

"What will it be?" the stranger prompted, pistol pointed at the fallen Athos. "Will you risk your two closest friends to save yourself?"

Aramis clenched his fists. Even if he rushed their captor and was able to best him, he didn't know where Porthos was being held and couldn't guarantee getting the information from this man in time. For now, he would have to play along.

"Alright. Don't shoot," he growled, stepping forward with palms raised. When he reached Athos, Aramis paused and looked up at the stranger again, trying to get a better look at his face. It was too dark on this street.

"Pick him up," the man repeated, taking the pauldron out of Aramis's hand and stepping back one more pace.

There was no use hoping for help; at this time of night no one would be easily roused to reach them before the stranger had killed them both, even assuming the citizens would involve themselves in a clearly dangerous situation. With nothing else to do, Aramis knelt and carefully slid Athos's arm around his shoulder again.

"This was easier when you held your own weight," he muttered to his unconscious friend, struggling to get him upright and then heave the dead weight up over his shoulder. And now there was no question of fighting back, burdened as he was. Whoever this man was, he knew exactly what he was doing.

They started walking down the silent side street, following the stranger's directions. It was even slower going trying to carry Athos than it had been trying to support his stumbling feet, but their captor never gave the slightest hint of impatience or a desire to hurry. He remained silent, just far back enough that even if Aramis tried to lash out, he wouldn't be close enough. Aramis was still fully cognizant of the pistol pointed at his back.

But as they finally approached a large estate in a neighboring district of Paris, the marksman had a new worry: their captor seemed utterly unconcerned that Aramis could later identify exactly which home they had been taken to.

As cunningly as the rest of their capture had been carried out, he doubted this was a simple oversight.

That did not bode well.

By now, Aramis was puffing with the exertion of carrying Athos, stumbling more than his drunken friend had been. He had no strength left to contemplate attack while their captor unlocked the front door and drew it open. Exhausted, Aramis tripped through towards the main hall.

"Aramis!"

He drew up short, seeing Porthos seated with his back against a column, bound and lip split but otherwise not harmed. Another man stood beside him, pressing a pistol against his head.

"Sorry I'm late, our invitations were evidently delayed," Aramis said, wincing as he set Athos down with relief. "How did they get you?"

"I was stupid," Porthos muttered, looking downcast. "'e said Athos was hurt an' you'd sent 'im to find me. I was so worried, didn' stop to wonder 'ow you'd know where I was or why you wouldnta taken 'im home. Knocked me over the head soon's we got here. 'm sorry, Aramis."

"Seems we were both a bit gullible tonight, my friend," Aramis reassured him, moving to the second column where their kidnapper was directing him. He eyed the gun at Porthos's head and held still when he felt his hands pulled around the back and swiftly lashed together.

"Take this one downstairs," the other man said to the servant, nodding to Athos. "But nothing more. The rest will be Aramis's job."

"The rest of what?" Aramis snapped, suddenly suspicious. He glowered as the servant grabbed the unconscious swordsman by the feet and simply dragged him across the floor so that his head lolled to the side. "Hey! Be careful with him!" Going down stairs like that was not going to be pleasant.

"He'll live," their captor said, coming to stand before the bound musketeer.

"What do you want from us?"

"You three intrigue me, Aramis. We must have a game."

Aramis and Porthos traded an incredulous look. "A game," Aramis repeated. "Well, if it's cards you want to play, Porthos probably has an entire deck stashed somewhere-"

"That is not the sort of game I mean. Listen carefully, Aramis, because Athos will wake soon. When he does, you will need to be ready. You have a choice to make. Either you will play along and participate in the game…" Their captor turned away from him to direct the pistol at Porthos instead. "Or I will kill both of your friends."

"And what exactly does participating in your game entail?"

The servant returned, empty-handed now, and nodded to their captor. He then took up his place again by Porthos's side, retrieving a cloth and tying it around the musketeer's mouth. Porthos tried to duck away, but was soon gagged as Aramis's blood boiled.

"The first rule of the game," the man explained, "is that Athos must not know about me, or Jean here. As far as he is to know, you and he are the only ones here. If you break this rule, if you alert him to my presence in any way, you forfeit the game."

There was no question what that meant. Aramis had a bad feeling he knew where this was heading.

"Now then," the man said. "I'm going to cut you loose once you understand your task ahead. You and I will go down to the cellar together, while my servant remains here with Porthos. You will go to Athos as he begins to rouse. And then this is what you're going to do…"

.o.O.o.

The next morning

D'Artagnan was too tired to notice the newborn colors painting the sky as the sun finally began to rise. The bounce in his step couldn't be stopped, though, still riding the wave of delight to have his commission. Even if it did mean receiving the assignments no one else wanted, like the occasional night patrol. D'Artagnan didn't complain; he was lowest in the hierarchy, it was only fair.

Besides, he would still have time to see his friends for a while before finally being allowed to collapse into bed for some needed sleep.

D'Artagnan saw that the courtyard of the barracks was empty, no one yet sitting around the row of tables to break their fast. He tutted, remembering Porthos's promise that he would be up at dawn to eat with d'Artagnan and hear about the night duty. It was with a fond look, though, that d'Artagnan turned towards the stairs leading up to the barracks' rooms that housed the soldiers.

Porthos had said dawn, after all, surely he wouldn't mind a rude awakening to remind him of that promise.

D'Artagnan banged on Porthos's door with his gloved fist, then leaned against the doorway with a smile.

"Porthos," he called. "The sun is up, but you don't seem to be."

The newest musketeer waited for the groggy reply, but heard nothing. He shook his head again, smile widening. Doubtless, Porthos had been up late into the night with the other two at the tavern, finding or starting fights and cheating at cards. Then either he or Aramis would have seen Athos home, caring for their friend when he wasn't up to the task of caring for himself. If Aramis did not have that duty, he would likely be in some woman's bed right now.

D'Artagnan didn't judge any of the three for their respective vices; if anything, the predictability and steadfastness underlying each was a comfort.

But it did mean that he often ate alone for breakfast, which was why he planned to hold Porthos to his promise today.

Again, d'Artagnan banged on the door. "Porthos," he called again. "Don't think I won't drag you out of there myself!" As though he would have been physically capable of it, that was. When there was still no response, d'Artagnan shrugged. "Alright, you asked for it."

He pushed the door open, then stopped in surprise to see the neatly made bed. Strange, either Porthos was already awake and about somewhere, or he hadn't slept in his bed last night. D'Artagnan backed out and shut the door with a frown. He would have seen Porthos walking about, surely, were he already downstairs.

And while it was possible that Porthos was the one in a woman's bedchambers this morning, d'Artagnan was hard pressed to believe that his friend would have broken his promise for such a thing. It wasn't that d'Artagnan would be hurt to eat on his own… it was that Porthos had said he would be there.

And when Porthos specifically said he would be somewhere, nothing kept him from it.

Aramis hadn't emerged from the room next door to gripe at him to keep the noise down, so d'Artagnan knocked on that door next and then pushed it open without even waiting for an answer.

Also empty. Bed also made. Aramis hadn't come home the night before, either.

D'Artagnan knew the small knot of worry in his stomach was ridiculous, as there was no reason to believe something had happened to the two. But they were rather given to finding trouble. Or causing it. Closing the door again, d'Artagnan headed back down to the courtyard to take one more look around the training area, the stables, the kitchen.

No sign of any of his three friends, and by then the sun was fully visible on the horizon and other musketeers were starting to make their way down to have a bite to eat before muster. Treville had already emerged from his upper room, standing in his customary space against the railing where he could enjoy the morning air and survey the garrison.

No longer tired, d'Artagnan turned for the stairs. All logic said he was worrying needlessly. And yet his instincts said something was wrong—had to be wrong, for Porthos to have forgotten his word. D'Artagnan hoped he was mistaken…

…but he couldn't shake the feeling that somewhere, trouble was brewing.