D'Artagnan awoke with a pained hiss. Something rough was brushing against his tender backside in a slow, rhythmic motion that felt like a rasp upon his exposed flesh. After a moment he realised the cause: Aramis was asleep beside him, their bodies pressed together in a nearly intimate way that had him flushing scarlet and fighting the urge to push the man away. A purely reactionary response, of course; if it wasn't for the roughness of the man's trousers the embrace would have been nothing but a further balm to soothe his injuries – he was not so proud to admit to himself that such a thing brought him comfort.

Aramis took another deep breath, his body moving to scrape once more against d'Artagnan's skin. There was no way of extricating himself without waking Aramis, and from what he could see of the man's face, he was in sore need of rest.

Damn that silly Spaniard! Why had he not undressed before sleeping if he had planned to stay? He even still wore his boots – d'Artagnan's bedsheets were likely currently suffering under the accumulated day's filth of the Parisian streets. Of all the times not to be precious about his ridiculous fashion...

D'Artagnan sat upright with a yelp. The move startled Aramis, who bolted up into a defensive crouch, hands ready to ward off would-be attackers. He gazed about himself dazedly, but seeing them alone, focused upon his brother.

"What is it, mon frère? A night terror?"

D'Artagnan shook his head jerkily, mind reaching out to grasp at the tendrils of his epiphany before it escaped him completely.

"Charles..."

"—SHH!"

"Very well," Aramis huffed, settling back down with poor grace, "wake me should the garrison catch fire."

"At least remove your boots!"

"Ah! It speaks!"

D'Artagnan huffed in annoyance. "Aramis, hush, please."

Detecting the sincerity in the boy's voice, and eager still to prove to him that he had their respect, Aramis quietened. He watched d'Artagnan in silence, almost seeing the cogs turn in his brother's mind.

"The Boulevard Poissonnière, does it have a tailor?" the boy finally asked.

"Not that I know of."

"And the Rue Saint-Martin?"

"None of any decent repute."

D'Artagnan looked disappointed but pressed on.

"What about Rue Montmarte?"

"Are you joking?" Aramis scoffed.

"No?"

Aramis shook his head at his young brother's naiveite. "Bisset of Le Paon is one of the most sought after tailors in Paris for the lower gentry. He does excellent work and, dare I say, at only mildly extortionate prices. Not work for the king, of course, but any man of good standing would cut off his right arm to attend Bisset, and be lucky to be seen within a year."

"His style, is it Spanish?"

Aramis wrinkled his nose. "No man worth his coin would dare be seen in anything but Parisian style these days."

"So why is d'Melliuor?"

"He—" Aramis paused. "You know, that is a very good point."

"And if the package was for a tailors, why is the address missing from the front? Why lock it on the safe?"

"I have never seen d'Melliuor in anything but the latest Parisian fashion," Aramis mused. He brightened, eyes sparkling in the dark of the room. "Petit Gascon, I believe you may have found a clue after all. But why Rue Montmarte?"

"There's a patrol there tonight," d'Artagnan said, ignoring how he had come by this information. "It's not one of our usual routes."

"I wonder who is on duty…" Aramis mused. "No matter, we shall discover it soon enough. I—What of the time?!"

Having had the same thought, d'Artagnan sprang to his feet. From his window, craning as far as he was able, he could just make out the garrison clock. "Near midnight," he said with a tinge of panic. "The man on patrol will be close to the Montmarteby now."

"Worry not," Aramis said, standing and donning his hat with a flourish. "Porthos and I shall make it in time."

"What about me?" d'Artagnan demanded.

Aramis had expected the appeal and silently thanked the boy for taking a belligerent rather than pleading tone; it was far easier to harden his heart against a frown than tears.

"I shall not argue with you over this," he said, forcing harshness into his voice. "You have done more than enough, Charles, and are still recovering."

"For God's sake, Aramis, it was a caning not a mortal wound!"

Aramis grabbed d'Artagnan's upper arm and landed a powerful swat on his backside. The boy yelped, near levitating as he leapt away from the blow. He gave Aramis a mortified glare, pained tears glistening in the light of the moon through the garrison window.

"That was for blasphemy," Aramis said, twitching a small smile before returning to his serious mien. "I will not allow you to enter a dangerous situation when you are not your best, not if any of us can avoid it," he said, ignoring the look of betrayal. "If you make a false move thanks to your injuries and we lose you, then I shall be undone." He laid a hand upon the boy's shoulder, gripping tightly so that he could not be shaken off. "We would all be completely undone, mon frère," he repeated with sincerity. "…Please, trust that Porthos and I can handle this; as I trust that you can stay here, patiently, until our return."

D'Artagnan hung his head, fighting to control his emotions. When he raised it once more, Aramis was proud to see that his frown was gone, replaced by grim, yet sincere eyes.

"I trust you, brother."

Transferring his hand to the young man's nape, Aramis gave it a fond squeeze before stepping away and turning for the door.

"Aramis…" d'Artagnan took a deep breath as the man looked back to him, forming a true and earnest smile. "…Be safe."

"Always," Aramis promised, then slipped out into the night.