…It starts with the ringing of his mobile phone. He is preparing the dough for the homemade pizza they'll share at Aramis' return from SAVOY. Porthos accepts the call without thought.

"Du Vallon," he says.

There's a woman on the other end. Her words are lost in the pit of sinking denial that opens under his feet. Until he surfaces at the sight of Athos' eyes, red rimmed, wet and rounded in fear as they step through the sliding door, turning as one into the corridor stretching out before them. The smell of antiseptic clings to his skin as he weaves through the thin crowd; the only sound is the beating of his own heart that freezes as he turns the corner.

The corridor has led him to their shared flat and there is Aramis; sitting with his back against the door, knees drawn up and a knitted baby shoe held gently in his fingers. It's been ages since Porthos had seen him crying. Really, shoulder shaking with the force of it, crying.

He goes down on his knees before him and holds him up by the shoulders. The tears in Aramis' eyes give way to a glazed look that is far more frightening. And Porthos gasps as blood bubbles past his friend's lips.

"No, no no no no no…"

And the world tunnels onto his brother lying limp, his eyes soft, neither in farewell nor in greeting, just hooked viciously onto him until they close. And a high pitched whine fills the air around him…

…he sucked in a breath, letting it out slowly.

The light behind his closed eyelids told him that he had slept longer than he had in months and Porthos rolled over onto his side, not really surprised by the muffled eeep as he squished d'Artagnan. The younger man tried to wriggle and lower the arm across his chest.

Porthos grinned to himself.

" 'Morning," he opened his eyes.

"It will be a really good morning if you let me breathe," d'Artagnan snipped back in a whisper.

Porthos raised a brow at their youngest, who was lying on his back with one hand pressed flat against the back of Aramis' ribs where the man was curled onto his side. Athos had snaked an arm under their brother who was unabashedly using him as a pillow and had rested his hand on the side of Aramis' chest, next to which was now Porthos' hand.

He watched d'Artagnan follow his gaze and their youngest gave a defeated sort of a shake of his head, it seemed they had all sought the comfort of their brother's breathing by finding its proof in the gentle rise and fall of each inhale and exhale.

"I think this is the first time I've slept through the night in ages," d'Artagnan turned his head on the cushion to face him, "my back isn't happy to be sleeping on the floor but I don't feel tired, so that's an improvement,"

"You just needed to cuddle is all," Porthos grinned at him and playful inched closer.

"Stay away Porthos, you're a furnace!" d'Artagnan scrunched his nose and squirmed to put some distance between them.

It jostled the other two and they both stilled. Waited as Aramis burrowed closer into Athos who simply rubbed his hand over the side of his brother's chest and they both slept on. Porthos couldn't help the grin that broke on his face, in moments like these he could almost forget what had driven them into holding onto each other, almost but not entirely. They all had had enough near death encounters to fuel a lifetime of nightmares and then some, yet Porthos wondered how the fear that haunted their subconscious was not one for their own lives but those of their brothers.

From beside him d'Artagnan stretched his arms over his head, knocked his knuckles in the sofa by their head and sat up with a grumble. Shaking out his hands, he looked around the large main hall that was empty save for them and cocked his head at the unmistakable sound of the bustling house staff somewhere deeper in the building.

"No one came down here," he frowned,

"Constance must've warned them off," Porthos poked him in the leg, "she's a smart one."

"She thinks we need help," d'Artagnan glanced down at him before running a hand through his hair, "thinks we need professional help, like a psychologist or something."

Porthos chuckled, he couldn't help it.

"What's so funny?"

"It would take an army of psychologists, preferably one trained in combat and firearms," Porthos pushed up and leaned back against the sofa to sit beside his friend, "Can you imagine Athos baring his soul to a well intentioned stranger? He'll kill 'em with his glare alone."

D'Artagnan pulled his legs close and wrapped his arms around his knees.

"Do you think we'll get over it?" the man sounded too young.

Porthos swung an arm across his shoulders and pulled him against his side; feeling a smile pull at his lips when the younger man came all too willingly.

"We never get over it," Porthos said, "It becomes a part of us eventually, another memory nothing more, nothing less."

"I don't like it,"

"If life ever asks my opinion on the matter I'll pass on your message,"

He pretended the younger man's shove hurt more than it did and grinned when d'Artagnan's stomach rumbled, rather dampening the effect of his glare.

"Someone's hungry,"

"I am going for breakfast and to look for Constance," d'Artagnan got to his feet, "and not in that order."

"Leave some food for the rest of us," Porthos told him.

He watched the younger man turn right at the arched entrance of the lounge and the sound of his rapid ascend on the stairs soon followed. Porthos stretched his arms out, trying to pull out the kinks in his spine before he rubbed the back of his neck, feeling lighter and strangely aged all of a sudden.

"He's a good kid,"

"And you give good advice," Athos' voice floated up to him.

"Thought you were playing possum,"

"How else was I supposed to get to know about the lethal optical powers you had bestowed on me?"

Porthos drew up his knees and rested a hand on Aramis' shoulder; he couldn't keep the sadness from his smile as he caught Athos' gaze.

"d'Art has a point though, professional help may be the way to go," he said.

"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it," Athos told him.

He shifted his hand from Aramis' side and into his hair, scratching his scalp as he tried to jostle him awake. His efforts were rewarded by the man groaning and pressing his face deeper into Athos' shoulder. Porthos caught the exasperated eye roll from Athos and winked at him. He leaned back against the sofa and let the full force of the bright sunlight fall on Aramis' face.

"Kill the sun Athos," Aramis groaned and half crawled on top of the man.

"I shall endeavor to do so if you would release me from pillow duty,"

"You're good at pillow duty," Aramis said.

"It's a gift,"

The dryness in Athos' voice was softened by the fact that he hadn't pushed off the man, he was actually holding on to him. Porthos chuckled when Aramis sat up with another groan, clutching at his lose curls that were dipping over his face.

"My head is stuffed with lead," he declared.

"Lemme shed some light on it," Porthos shifted again to let the stream of sunshine from the gable window fall onto his brother.

He laughed when Aramis cursed under his breath, blindly reached for the cushion d'Artagnan had been using as a pillow and smacked Porthos in the face with it. The accuracy of his hit not affected by the fact that he had tucked his face in the side of Athos' neck as the man sat up on his other side.

Porthos laughed until he had tears in his eyes; and they were not from the excursion.

It was the sight of Aramis seeking comfort in his brother, invading his personal space without thought, like the boundaries just didn't exist for him. They never had existed between them, not until Aramis had drawn the lines he had been hesitating to cross. As Porthos locked eyes with Athos he saw the wet shine there as well.

Aramis was finally coming out from wherever he had retreated.

"You're crying?" Aramis asked quietly as he pulled back a little.

"Nah, his face is leaking," Porthos shook his head.

"So is yours," Athos countered.

Aramis looked from one man to the other; eyes slightly swollen with the blood vessels stark red against the whites peered at their faces. With a twinge of guilt Porthos shifted to cast him in the shade and the pinched corners of Aramis' eyes eased instantly.

"I'm –"

"If you say sorry I will smack you so hard –"

"I'm not sure I can join in," Aramis flashed him a grin and rubbed at his eyes, "my tear ducts are all dried up."

"Then stop grating on them," Athos pulled his hand away.

Aramis nodded and dug his hands in his hair instead. Porthos watched him sit away from the support of the sofa at his back and made sure that direct sunlight didn't reach him again.

"You could go to your room and sleep in," he offered.

"Don't want to," Aramis shook his head, "but I've been thinking all day yesterday. If you all want to, we could – we could go back home."

That was an unexpected development. Porthos frowned at this sudden change; he could tell by the way his friend deliberately kept his posture loose that he was bracing himself for the answer. Aramis was ready to go back but not happy about it.

"And what will you do when we get back?" he asked.

A shrug was all the answer he got.

"You'll try to go back to your life," Athos prompted.

"I don't think I can," Aramis said, "I'm not even sure if I know who I am anymore,"

"You're Aramis," Porthos said.

"I was, I had been Aramis, someone that I kept telling myself who had nothing to do with Senior," Aramis stopped kneading his temple with his fingers and clutched at his hair instead, "But then I was always Rene inside and I accepted that when I had to face Senior but now – I thought I was Rene the Fourth, ruthless like my father but I wasn't able to kill the man."

"He is your father after all," Athos said, "that's as close as it gets,"

"Didn't stop him from trying to kill me,"

"He always wrecked havoc around you 'Mis," Porthos had to point out, "he hurt you, but didn't try to murder you."

Aramis arched a brow and Porthos felt something sink in his stomach.

"He pointed his weapon in my face and pulled the trigger," he said, "he was out of bullets by then,"

Porthos felt the bile rise to his throat and he had to look away. He had no idea what felt worse, the fact that Aramis spoke so lightly of his father intending to murder him or that he didn't seemed fazed by the fact that he had escaped with his life only through dumb luck.

"I will kill that bastard,"

The profanity itself was a rarity coming from Athos but it was the chilled fury in his voice that had Porthos looking his way. His friend looked ready to carry out his threat and Porthos agreed wholeheartedly to help him.

"Really you two, he had done worst." Aramis shook his head, "that was a crime he didn't succeed in,"

"That's one crime I would like to see him hanged for," Athos said.

"No you won't, we're not letting him in our lives again," Aramis shook his head, "it has to stop."

Porthos grit his teeth to keep from voicing the denial for that, it was time to put that to rest and he forced the anger under his skin to simmer down. Instead he looked to the man sitting between them who had gone back to pressing his fingers against his forehead.

"You know you're our brother right?" Porthos said, "no matter what else,"

Aramis nodded; the smile on his face was real and bright like honey caught in the sunshine.

"And the rest will fall in place around that," Athos added.

Porthos grinned at his best friends.

"It's like Mum used to say, life's a patchwork darlin'–"

"– you gotta stitch one piece at a time." Athos and Aramis finished in union.

And Porthos grinned wider when the latter leaned into him. From across them, Athos was grinning too and Aramis frowned up at the big man before zeroing in on Athos.

"Alright what?" Aramis demanded, "First you're crying together now you're grinning over my head, what am I missing?"

Porthos snaked an arm around his brother and pulled him closer, who didn't seem to notice let alone protest against the gesture. It was Athos who rolled his eyes and explained the matter.

"You haven't been this tactile ever since you came back,"

"Guess the solitary confinements squashed it out of me," Aramis shrugged.

It was the way he went rigid that Porthos knew his brother hadn't wanted to let that slip out. The big man was glad that his friend was facing Athos and not him; he wouldn't have been able to keep the horror from his face. As it was, it took every ounce of self control to not push for further information, this was Aramis relaxed enough to let his guard down, if they moved too fast he just might shut them out again.

"Don't look like that Athos, it was for my safety," Aramis reached out and grasped his friend's hand.

It had Porthos look to his brother across from them and found him alarmingly pale. He had a feeling Athos was trying hard to not to throw up if the pursed lips were to go by.

"Senior had some friends in there; this was before he began selling them out to the authorities," Aramis held on to him, "its fine Athos, they were doing it to keep me safe."

"And you didn't tell us," Porthos didn't want to sound accusing.

Aramis sat up in hurry to look at him; the brown eyes turned to him in mute apology and for the life of him Porthos could not stand against that look, never had been able to before. His rising anger deflated like air out of a punctured balloon and he simply threw an arm across his brother's shoulder melding him into his side.

" 's not fair, you're a grown man for goodness's sake!" he said.

"What?" Aramis sounded honestly confused.

"Nothing,"

"Porthos are we good?" Aramis asked and hurried on to explain, "I wanted to talk about it after the first time it happened but I had assumed that –"

"We've moved on and were happy with our lives and not really worried about what happened to you in there?" Athos finished.

Aramis hung his head.

"We were miserable," Athos moved to sit on Aramis' other side, "and it seems we made a mistake not letting you catch a glimpse of it."

"I made the same mistake," Aramis admitted but didn't look up, "Wish I had talked to you at the time. Some days were just really bad."

The soft edge of defeat in that tone spoke magnitudes of the damage the isolation had done. Porthos didn't want to imagine his brother trapped alone for twenty three hours a day, the thought of it churned in his stomach and his fingers tangled in his friend's shirt.

"My thoughts are never a good company," Aramis shrugged.

"Then you share them with us," Athos put an arm around his waist and pressed into his side.

"And we'll make sure that they're not the only company you've got," Porthos said.

The helmet was a foreign weight on his head, its straps scratching along the side of his face and the lock under his chin making him feel decidedly trapped. Beads of sweat pressed out from his hairline and trickled down his face, down his collar and drenched his shirt until it clung to him in the most uncomfortable way. The smell of dry earth scratched at the back of his throat as he squirmed in the saddle; this was not the day to be swaddled in a body protector and an air vest.

At his side, Constance didn't seem to mind the layers she wore and when she turned to regard him with a smile d'Artagnan almost ignored how much he itched to tear off the knee and elbow protectors she had forced him into.

"I knew Athos' lessons would pay off," she said, "You're a natural."

But apparently not natural enough for her to trust his equestrian skills without the plethora of protective gear.

"I'm naturally melting," d'Artagnan almost pouted, "you'll have to carry me back in a container or leave me back as a puddle,"

"You were the one who wanted to go for a ride,"

"I thought it would be romantic, but this is just –"

"A puddle in the making?" she quirked a brow.

"Can I just take off the vest?"

"No,"

A disgruntled groan escaped from him as he hung his head back and stared up at the bleached blue sky that gleamed like a particularly shiny glass marble. His horse kept up its loitering pace beside Constance' as they moved through neat rows of olive trees, far from the farmhouse and close to the hillside.

A feeling like a spider crawling on his neck had him sitting up straighter in the saddle and d'Artagnan pulled his horse to a stop. He cocked his head to the side, trying to pinpoint the vague sound that had reached out to him.

"What's wrong?" Constance asked.

"Didn't you hear that?" he could have sworn he had heard it again, a rustle of loose earth slipping down.

The rugged isolation of the area suddenly felt dangerous and for some reason d'Artagnan wished they hadn't come out there. He was sure that none of his friends were planning to come out for a ride and Senor Alvaro was visiting the city with his family, but d'Artagnan could not ignore the sense that they were no longer alone.

He was about to suggest that they head back when the men poured out from the hillside, surrounding them in seconds. D'Artagnan pulled his horse this way and that but the dark eyes and yellow grins circled him. There were ten armed men, who looped them in until their horses were pressed close together.

One of them said something in Spanish too fast for d'Artagnan to even guess the meaning.

"No I was told there were four men, but I didn't expect to meet one this far out," said the man on his other side as he shook his head, "so much for going in quietly,"

"What do you want?" d'Artagnan demanded from him.

"Nothing you can help with," the man replied.

"Then we should be on our way," Constance nudged her horse to move but the men wouldn't let her pass.

No matter how much he wanted Constance to break out of the ring and ride off d'Artagnan knew it would be a foolish move. He could not take on all of these men, one of them was bound to shoot after her and he could not take that risk.

"She didn't tell me there was a woman here," one of the men turned to the one d'Artagnan had talked to, "did you know Renard?"

" 'Course I didn't," Renard snapped at him, his eyes focused on Constance, "Will it be a problem for you lot?"

As an answer the other man grasped Constance's foot in the stirrup and pointed his weapon at her face.

"Come on down Senora," he leered and tugged on her ankle.

Anger sparked in his chest and burned out any sense of danger as d'Artagnan swung a leg over the saddle, taking a flying leap off the horse. He managed to bring down three of the nearest men, pinning them with his fall while the air vest saved him from any damaged ribs. He scrambled off of them and head-butted the fourth, not even registering the hollow impact that resounded down his spine before he swung around to punch the next face nearing him even as a hand locked onto his other wrist.

Hands grabbed at him, pulled at his wrists and twisted his arms behind his back. He heard Constance's pleading him to stop and the red haze of rage dispersed, only to be replaced by pain as a kick to the back of his legs made them buckle. His knees hit the ground with a teeth jarring impact.

"d'Art –!" Constance voice was cut off by a rag that was clamped onto her mouth.

"Let her go! Constance! Constance!" d'Artagnan struggled to get to his feet even as he saw his fiancé slump in the man's grip. Her limbs limp and her head dropping to her chest.

"NO! Constance!"

"She can't hear you," Renard stepped before him, "out like a light that one,"

With an animalistic growl d'Artagnan lunged for the man, he saw the glint of the metal a second too late as the butt of the gun came flying for his face. Pain exploded on the side of his face, rang up to his skull and down his neck. He landed on his hands and knees, frowning at the red drops raining on the ground before him as his watery vision threatened to black out.

The ringing in his ears gave way to muffled sounds.

"What should we do with 'em?" someone asked.

"She did say she wanted witnesses," Renard walked closer to d'Artagnan.

The younger man felt the boot at his back that came down on him with enough force to make his wobbly arms collapse under the pressure. His sore face pressed into the dirt and d'Artagnan blinked to get back his bearings.

Panic thrummed in his heart as his arms were stretched above his head and he felt the ropes curling around wrists and ankles.

"Guess these two will have to do," Renard stepped away from him, "We'll just have to finish off the rest of them,"

It sent a shudder through him that had nothing to do with the nauseating pain throbbing in his face. His bleary eyes tracked the men as they deposited Constance onto the ground and moved ahead; their receding footsteps echoing against the ground and reverberating in d'Artagnan skull where it was pressed into the dirt.

He waited until he was sure that they were not turning back.

Until they were sure he was no longer a threat.

D'Artagnan blew out a breath; dust swirled up before his eyes and he squinted against the golden flecks. The heat slithered around him and coiled in his belly as he pressed his forehead against the ground swallowing thickly.

With a groan he pressed his bound hands against the ground and forced himself up onto his knees. After taking a moment to get his bearings, d'Artagnan dragged himself closer where Constance lay.

Relieved tears sprung to his eyes to find her unconscious but unharmed. He tucked an auburn curl behind her ear and frowned at the streak of dirt his fingers left in their wake.

Bound hands unclasped first the helmet, then the air vest and then the body protector, forcing a sigh from the man. Tossing them aside d'Artagnan looked around, hoping to find their horses. They needed to get back to the farmhouse before the men who had attacked them. He had to get back and warn his brothers.

He had enjoyed it up until a point. It was refreshing to watch Aramis tease Porthos as the man set to baking. Athos had enjoyed it up until eggs had started flying. When the first edible projectile had hit Aramis square in the chest with a spectacular crack and splatter Athos had exited the kitchen, taking his progeny as he went.

Raoul was laughing his head off.

"That was fun, can we do it?"

"I thought you wanted to show me your swimming expertise," Athos redirected.

The boy skipped a little as he nodded up at him, the bag at his back carrying his stuffed toys bounced in time with his step.

"Uncle Charles says I could be a pro,"

"Well if Uncle Charles says so it has be true,"

"You think I can be a pro?" Raoul's eyes widened.

There it was, the insecurity peeking out from behind the innocence. Athos had read the documents M'Lady had left him, the fact that his son had been through two orphanages and three set of parents in the short span of little over five years and still managed to maintain some semblance of a happy little boy never seized to surprise him.

He had known another hurt but happy little boy when he was young, so it was not a surprise for him to see Raoul feel a pull towards Aramis.

Athos picked up his son and settled him on his hip so that they were at eye-level.

"I know you can be a pro at anything you set your mind to," he told him.

Raoul cocked his head to the side; the green-blue eyes studied his face soberly before a wide grin broke out on the boy's face.

"Anything," he asked.

"Anything," Athos nodded.

His son beamed at him and threw his small arms around Athos' neck to hug him tight. He erupted in a high pitched giggle right by Athos' ear and that was all the warning the man had before Aramis came to a stop beside them.

Covered in flour and eggs and looking like a manic baker's ghost.

Grinning and coughing out puffs of flour the man bent to catch his breath as Porthos appeared in the kitchen doorway,

"Get back here and clean this mess!" said the big man.

"Querido hermano mío you know I can't, you'll be tempted to bake me if I did," Aramis straightened and plucked at the front of his sticky shirt, unperturbed by the clumps of flour that chipped off and fell to the floor.

"I'm tempted to cook you alright," Porthos growled as he stomped over.

Aramis squeaked and stepped behind Athos only for the big man to grab him by the waist and haul him over his shoulder.

"Put me down! Porthos I swear –!"

"You made a mess you'll clean it up,"

"After I get to clean myself,"

"Nah, you'll clean up here while I take a shower," Porthos' voice echoed out.

"Hey Porthos?"

"What?"

The crunchy smack was heard all the way out of the kitchen. It was Aramis' laughter that followed, pouring out of the open kitchen door to where Athos stood, the laughter that greeted him like a cool breeze in the heat of summer.

Athos couldn't stop the fond smile from curling up on his face, he had missed that sound.

"They'll be alright?" Raoul asked.

"Of course," Athos assured him, "now let's go see you swim all the way around the pool,"

They kept to the shade of the building as they made their way to the guest house. Senor Alvaro usually left the garden gate of the swimming pool unlocked so Athos was sure that there would be no problem in going for a swim even with the man out with his family for a visit to the city. In fact Athos was glad of the privacy, as much as Senora Rosa doted upon Raoul and the four friends in general, he had never felt comfortable around her.

When they arrived at the wooden gate Athos reached over it and unlatched the small hook on the other side. He ushered in his son and glanced back over his shoulder, there was something off in the air about them and the tactician in him was on the edge.

"I'll get my floaties," Raoul dashed off towards the shower area set on the other side.

Athos watched him go and not for the first time wondered how Senior could have hurt Aramis like that, how a father could hurt his son like the man did, how a father could ever try to murder his boy. Drawing a hand through his hair Athos tamped down on the desire to hit something, preferably the smug face of Rene d'Herblay the Third.

He was locked up in his own thoughts so deeply that he felt the presence behind him at the last second. Athos ducked aside instinctively, the gun-swipe aimed for his head went untouched as he punched the man in the knee and across the face even as he dropped from the first hit.

A muffled cry cut him to his heart.

It made him forget about the next intruder who grabbed the back of his collar and pressed the muzzle of his gun against his back.

"Don't move,"

"Dad!" Raoul struggled against the man carrying him.

"Unhand him," Athos growled.

"Actually, we're here for the runt," said the man.

Athos grit his teeth and stepped back into the man holding him hostage, grabbing his wrist firm and outwards with one hand while smacking the elbow of the other in the side of his head. The man's grip loosened on the weapon and Athos caught it before it could hit the ground.

"You really wanna take that chance?" the man holding Raoul asked as he tucked a rag in his pocket.

Athos had the weapon trained on him, his mind going a mile a minute while his heart stuttered at the sight of his boy limp in the man's grip. Behind him the men he had knocked out were groaning back to their feet.

"What do you want from him?"

"I'm just the delivery man," the other one shrugged.

"He's the father Renard, maybe we could get extra," one of the men behind Athos perked up.

"You're really the runt's father?" Renard asked.

"What is it you?"

"You could come with," the man grinned, "quietly that is. Don't want to raise too much noise here."

Athos didn't even think.

"If I do you won't harm my son?"

"Like I said I'm the delivery man," Renard shrugged, "if the runt is fetching such a good price I'm hoping she'd pay better for the father."

Her, it was a woman who had sent these men after his boy, Athos latched onto that information.

"And who is your employer?" he asked.

"Can't spill those beans," Renard hefted the boy on his shoulder, "are you coming?"

Athos didn't see that he had a choice in the matter. If he could not save his son from these men then he was going with them one way or another. His jaw clenched as the man behind him reached for the weapon in his hand but Athos gave it up without protest.

He followed Renard out to the stables, hoping against hope that someone would see them from the farmhouse. Athos couldn't understand how his captor planned to keep the abduction quiet if he was going to use the horses but he didn't question the soundness of the plan as they stepped into the stables.

The stable boy was unconscious among the piles of hay and one of Renard's men waited for them.

"The others are in position?" he asked.

"They'll be done with before joining you,"

"No more witnesses," Renard pointed out, "kill the other two,"

Fear dropped like a boulder in his stomach and Athos shook his head silently. He looked up at Renard as the man swung in the saddle and placed Raoul before him.

"You have us, why kill the others," Athos prided himself to have kept his voice from wavering.

"One man as a witness the rest dead as a message, that's the orders," Renard shrugged as he turned around his horse to the man who had met them in the stables, "You all join the others, I'm taking these two with me."

Athos looked out the stables door at the farmhouse; he had to trust his brothers to take care of this. As the other three men backed out into the glaring sunlight beyond, Athos had to bite his lip to keep from warning his unawares friend. They could handle this he told himself, they had to be able to handle this because any other scenario was unacceptable.

He mounted his horse and looked to the man who had his son.

"Lead the way," he said.

Thank you everyone who read, favorite and follow this story. The lovely people who leave me your thoughts, they are cherished and adored. Thank you and Thank you especially the guests who leave me reviews, your words mean a lot.

Debbie: I can understand your pain in the matter and I hope you get to watch it on youtube instead of waiting for the dvd release.