A/N: I'm REALLY SORRY for the delay in this chapter; things that needed my attention had piled up and I didn't want to write this chapter in a hurry. This is the last one. THANK YOU, THANK YOU everyone who read, follow, favorite and review this story. You have given me so much confidence and I cannot ever thank you enough for that. To everyone who had been with me since the previous story I have no words for your continued support except that I send you virtual Du Vallon hugs.
I will be working on a prequel now but can't promise when I'll be posting it.
Until next time...
For the first time in his life he understood what Treville went through on behalf of their team and the activities of his company in general; and he had no idea how the man faced this on daily bases. Aramis shifted on his feet and forced his eyes back on Senor what's-his-name who was starting to look peeved. Aramis wasn't faring any better either.
He relaxed his stance a little, reminding himself that the police was not the enemy here even if they were keeping him from checking up on his family.
"That's all I know," he ended his story for the fifth time, although it was the first time in English. The policeman clicked off the recording device to match it later for any discrepancies in the account Aramis had provided in Spanish.
"You're Mr. Sebastian's grandson aren't you?" the white haired policeman looked him up and down, "a spitting image of him you are,"
Even as he nodded Aramis blinked at the mention of his mother's father; sometimes it was easy to forget the importance of that side of his family in the face of his father's. He had no memory of his grandfather. His only references were pictures from his mother's childhood that his father had rid of the house with the rest of her belongings after her death and the ones that he had now come across at the farmhouse.
"He was a good man," said the policeman taking his statement, "We were all shocked by the news of his accident,"
The accident that conveniently ended both his grandparents a year after they had married off their only off-spring; Aramis had a feeling that his father would have had something to do with his. His fists clenched at sides and he pulled back from prodding at the wounds only just closing in his mind.
"Ah there you are!" Senor Alvaro hurried across the parking lot.
Aramis found his gaze flicking back to the hospital entrance behind the man and hoped that he was coming with some news. It was only through Senor Alvaro's intervention that the police had waited until they had all reached the hospital in the city and that was when Aramis had found himself surrounded with questions.
The only other uninjured witness to this was M'Lady. But his best friend's not-so-dead-wife had disappeared somewhere as the throng of police and paramedics had descended on the farmhouse minutes after Senor Alvaro had pulled in. He was left alone to explain the attempted kidnapping feigning innocence as to Catharine's motives behind the act. Aramis tried not to dwell on why he was covering for the woman who had murdered Thomas. At least this time around no one had died as far as he knew.
"Any news?" he asked Senor Alvaro.
"Not yet," the man shook his head, "but I suppose you can go wait for them in there?"
The end of the question was directed towards the policeman who nodded his assent. Aramis didn't wait to hear what went on between the two men as he turned around and strode towards the emergency room; the doors hissing open as he approached.
Inside was surprising loud and his headache that had been a steady beat picked up its cadence. The rattling whirl of tiny metal tires, the squeak of shoes on the tiled floor and the sound of incessant chatter crashed into him like a wave. Aramis swayed a little as he came to a stop between the rows of chairs. Someone bumped into him as people hurried past and he swallowed down the abrupt urge to throw up as the sharp smell of antiseptic hit him.
Somewhere a child wailed and Aramis flinched.
Taking a measured breath he pulled back from the pit of fear opening under him. There were things he had to do, people he had to look out for, now was not the time to let go. Pushing back the irrational panic and dread threatening to drown him, he pulled to the front of his mind the reality that his friends were not in imminent danger.
When he moved again he was back in control and Aramis was suddenly glad that he had learned this skill very early in life. A bitter smile curled on his face. There were uses in this world even for poisons.
Following the directions from the helpdesk he moved down the corridor towards the waiting area outside of the ward where his family was being treated. The hard plastic chairs had never looked so inviting and he flopped down in the nearest empty one.
The sharp jolt of pain between his shoulder-blades made him catch his breath and Aramis waited as the throb rolled down his back and out to his fingertips. Leaning forward with his elbows pressed on his knees he drew both hands through his hair and lightly shook out the dust from his curls.
He paused in his ministrations, head still bent and eyes fixed on the spot between his feet,
"Thought you'd be half way out of the country by now," he said but didn't look up.
"Things that I start, I like to see them through."
"Your disappearance act at the farmhouse says otherwise," he glanced sideways at the woman who had come to perch in the chair beside him.
"The crowd wasn't to my taste," M'Lady shrugged a shoulder and crossed her leg one over the other, "you forgot to mention my involvement,"
Straightening back he flashed a feral grin to the woman at his side.
"You're not that memorable," he said.
He wasn't surprised when she didn't look away. A slow smile appeared on M'Lady's face and she cocked her head to the side. There was a challenge in her green cat like eyes that still held his gaze.
"You named Raoul the beneficiary of the Trust you had set up for your child," she said.
His heart still clenched at the mention of his loss but he kept his face blank. Aramis raised a brow in question, not about how she had found this out but what she meant to do with this information. He had not told Athos yet, waiting for the right moment on which his friend could throw a fit and the papers in his face, probably along with a fist.
Aramis decided then and there that he would like to have Porthos on his side before he broke the news to Athos.
"The money isn't from your father's side of the fortune you inherit," she said as she got to her feet, "you've got some good things going for you if you'd only see."
Aramis frowned; he almost thought that she was giving him advice.
When she turned to regard him again it was not M'Lady and it was not Anne; there was too much sadness in her eyes to be either. In her surprisingly steady eyes that looked down at him with a depth of understanding that was both condemning and absolving.
"We are who we are Aramis," she shrugged, "recognize it, embrace it and mold it to be of use the way you want it to."
A lump rose to his throat and Aramis' eyes turned to the floor again as he rubbed the back of his neck. The abrupt aches cropping all over him were no match for the sudden tightness in his chest. Letting go a slow breath he looked up to the woman again.
"Did you murder Thomas on my father's orders?" Aramis had to ask.
"That is a story for another day," she smirked and turned around, "don't you think so Athos?"
Aramis was on his feet as soon as his friend emerged from the doorway behind M'Lady. Moving past her he grasped his brother by the good shoulder as the man pushed away from the support of the doorjamb he had come to lean against. Athos' face was cleaner now and his left arm was resting in a sling, but the subtle wobble in his step had Aramis standing by his elbow.
"It doesn't change the fact that you did it," Athos' voice dripped venom.
"Neither does the fact that I saved your life," her smug grin was all teeth before she stepped closer and her fingers traced the side of Athos' face, "or the fact that I entrust you with the one I would lay down any life for."
Aramis looked away; he couldn't stand the painful rigidness with which Athos held himself motionless, almost as if he wanted to lean into her touch.
And then she was pulling back.
"Until we meet again," M'Lady wriggled her fingers in farewell before she turned and walked away.
As the swish of her ponytail disappeared around the corner Aramis turned to find his brother going dangerously pale. With an arm around his shoulders he pulled his friend close and helped him to the chair. Athos opened his eyes once he was eased down and regarded his friend's dust creased form.
"You look like a ghost," he said.
"And you look like you've seen one;" Aramis smirked lightly, "so what's the verdict?"
"Nothing new; medicine and rest."
The giggle from behind him cut off any reply that Aramis could form and he turned just in time to catch the bag of uncoordinated limbs that fell against him. D'Artagnan's feet scrabbled against the tiled floor to gather purchase as he looked up at Aramis with a bright grin, one that should have hurt given the swelling on his face. But the dark eyes were a bit hazy and roaming over the ceiling beyond.
"Pretty lights, pretty, pretty…" said the younger man before his eyes slid to his friend's face, "Aramis! I've missed you!"
D'Artagnan pushed away from him before falling forward again in an attempted hug, long arms windmilling at the move and Aramis caught one before his brother could tumble sideways. Wrapping it across his shoulders he caught d'Artagnan by the waist in an effort to keep him steady.
He was rewarded by effectively being captured in a headlock, choking on his friend's arm. Because the second his knees straightened under him, d'Artagnan was using the hand of the arm draped across Aramis' shoulder to poke at the stitched wound on his face.
Aramis pulled away the fingers.
"Let it be, it'll probably scar as it is." He warned.
"Constance says it makes me look rugged,"
"About as rugged as a floppy eared pup wearing an eye-patch,"
"Yeah…HEY!"
His young friend moved out of his hold in an ungainly indignation and backed into Athos who had taken to his feet. Aramis caught the rather wide-eyed look on his brother's face when d'Artagnan thumped into him, turned around and threw his arms around the older man's neck.
"I don't want you to ever go splat off of a hill Athos," d'Artagnan told him.
"Thank you?"
"You should always wear the puffy itchy vest Constance stuck me in,"
Aramis couldn't help but match the grin on Athos' face but he didn't miss the flinch in his friend's eyes every time their young brother jostled his shoulder. Prying d'Artagnan away from Athos he turned to the small group that had followed the younger man out.
"Pain meds?" he asked.
"Pain meds," Porthos nodded.
"He's having an interesting reaction to them and the dose wasn't even that high" Constance replied as she led Raoul to his father who met him halfway, "no lingering affect from the chloroform for us and Porthos here was exceptionally lucky. The doctor's amazed at how the cut was at its most shallow over his spine."
Aramis swallowed hard as he turned to his brother, suddenly needing to see the man alive and upright.
"Told you it was a scratch," Porthos said.
Exhaustion lined his face but his grin was no less bright.
"It was not," Aramis cleared his throat and hefted d'Artagnan straight, "but I'm glad it was where it was,"
"Still, let's avoid taking that chance next time," Athos said as he lifted his hand from his boy's head and reached out to clasp the big man's arm.
Aramis felt rather then saw d'Artagnan roll forward in a clumsy dive, toppling them into each other as he went. His hasty, all encompassing hug had them painfully knocking their heads together especially when the younger man slipped and nearly landed face first on the floor.
"I love you all!" d'Artagnan beamed up at them.
Porthos laughed.
Athos grinned.
And Aramis cursed under his breath as d'Artagnan lost his footing again.
Hooking his hands under the younger man's arms he pulled his brother up against him. Maneuvering him into a position to provide better support was like wrestling with an overfriendly octopus. Pushing down a pointy elbow, Aramis hooked a foot against d'Artagnan's ankle to settle him upright beside him.
"I've got him," he shook his head towards Porthos who came forward to help; "you don't need to reopen your stitches."
"Are you sure?"
"Porthos!" d'Artagnan made to embrace him.
Aramis turned them all the way round to evade that dive.
"Just stay out of arm's reach," he breathed out.
A relieved smile broke on his face at the sight of Senor Alvaro hurrying down the corridor towards them. The sooner they could get back to farm house the sooner he'd have the peace of mind of having his family safe and tucked up before his eyes.
As the small group buckled into Senor Alvaro's van Aramis felt a shiver trail down his spine that had nothing to do with the air-conditioner being switched on. It was the ebbing adrenalin leaving his hands just a little shaky, his limbs feeling just a bit empty and his mind wandering back to all the possibilities that could have happened. Things could have turned out so differently. He could have easily lost any one of them that afternoon.
If he had been a second too late to reach Porthos, or Athos or Raoul; if the men had decided that they didn't want d'Artagnan and Constance as their witnesses, if M'Lady hadn't turned up to help. Every possibility caught in his breath and Aramis pressed back into the seat to keep from trembling. Clenching his hands into fists he looked out the window to distract him from the sudden quiet of the van.
"I'm hungry," d'Artagnan announced suddenly, "I'm so hungry I could eat a –a –"
"A horse?" Athos offered from where he was re-checking Raoul's seatbelt.
"No!" d'Artagnan sat up, "I would never eat Boots!"
Aramis snickered right along with Porthos and Raoul.
"I respect Boots Athos, just like you told me to," d'Artagnan went on, "we're friends now. I would never eat Boots. You were right; I had to respect 'm,"
"And when did you have this rousing discussion about shoes?" Porthos asked.
Athos glared at him.
"And why was I not invited to join in?" Constance wanted to know.
Athos glared at her.
"My Boots' not like Porthos'," d'Artagnan pointed out, "The same colour but not the same – same – uh –"
"Size?" Aramis turned around in his seat.
"Mine's bigger!" d'Artagnan grinned, "But you have bigger feet Porthos so that's alright. My feet aren't as big as yours,"
As if to prove his point he made to raise his foot in the space not really made for the act and ended up kicking the back of Senor Alvaro's seat in the process, bumping the man against the steering-wheel. Porthos hurried to assure him that he didn't need proof and Aramis grinned.
D'Artagnan floating on pain medication was the best distraction he could ask for.
Never again.
Never again would he go for that long a drive with d'Artagnan on pain medication. The entire ninety-five minutes of the young man's euphoria combined with Raoul's childish enthusiasm and Porthos' and Aramis' devilish encouragement had given him a splitting headache. Athos' ears still rang with the chorus of nursery rhymes that had filled the van.
If he heard even the hum of another jolly tune he would probably break something.
"Your shoulder still troubling you?" Porthos asked from beside him.
They were settling down in the lounge, fed and showered. The farmhouse had been put to right the second the police had allowed the residents back in; for once Porthos had not complained about having the house-staff when they'd been met on their return with the feast Senora Maria had whipped up.
Rubbing his still slightly numbed shoulder joint Athos shook his head.
"It's not my shoulder; your dulcet tones have given me a headache,"
"And now we're about to watch Frozen," Porthos grinned at him.
"Frozen what?"
"You'll see,"
Athos did not like the dimpled grin thrown his way.
The waning evening was still bright enough that they had drawn the curtains in deference to the multiple throbbing heads. Constance and Aramis were setting up the entertainment system while d'Artagnan was sitting on the floor with his back to the sofa, smiling at all and sundry as his head dipped only to jerk up in an effort to stave off sleep.
As the screen lit up to begin Athos turned to the boy melded into his side.
"Are you sure you want to watch this?" he asked quietly.
Raoul nodded.
"We could head up to your room and relax," Athos offered.
"This is good,"
Athos studied his son's profile, the young face calm and eyes bright as they fixed ahead on the action on the screen. He glanced at what had his child enthralled before studying the boy again. There didn't seem to be any lasting fear but Athos was worried.
He knew his son had nightmares often, knew that the boy woke up crying when he did.
"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked not for the first time.
Raoul shook his head in a distracted sort of way.
"Are you sure?"
The boy looked at him then, with a content smile on his face but his eyes held a touch of wisdom far from his age.
"Uncle 'Ramis asked me that once," he said, "the first time I – when I woke up,"
Athos felt his brows reach up to his hairline. Raoul had never explained his preference for comfort during those spells and he had never pushed for it. But now it seemed the boy was offering him a nugget of insight in his own way.
Athos smiled and nodded.
"And he never asked you after that," it was a statement not a question.
He understood and let the boy get back to his entertainment.
And then the singing started.
He didn't really mind the people who actually had the voice for it but d'Artagnan was going on about snowmen in a warble that bordered on wailing and Athos was sure Porthos was intentionally off-key. He cringed slightly at a particularly harsh pitch and stopped just short of rolling his eyes when Porthos winked at him.
It was then that he noticed it.
Constance had joined her fiancé on the floor but Aramis was nowhere in sight.
The second it registered he found Porthos' eyes meet his own.
"I'll go," he said before the big man could offer.
Going up the stairs he had half a mind to check Aramis' room first but instincts directed him towards the bathroom at the end of the hallway. The door opened abruptly just as he was about to knock on it and he reached out with his good hand when Aramis swayed at the threshold.
" 'thos?" the man blinked, "what're you doing here?" his confused eyes sharpened instantly, "Is everything alright? Porthos? D'Art? Raoul? Constance? Are they –?"
"Fine, they're all fine," Athos squeezed the trembling shoulder.
Aramis nodded, turned around back into the bathroom and bent over the toilet to throw up again. But he only brought up bile. A soft moan escaped him as he wound an arm around his ribcage and leaned against the other hand pressed against the wall.
"How many times?" Athos asked.
" 's fine," Aramis shook his head and clenched his eyes shut, "I think I ate too much,"
Athos helped him ease down to his knees as his brother continued to dry heave. His hand shifted from Aramis' shoulder to the back of his neck and the clammy skin under his palm gave him a pause. The muscles under his hand were pulled taut, fine tremors going through them as his friend's back twitched with an effort to bring up something from the long empty stomach.
"I don't think you ate enough," Athos muttered.
Aramis replied to that with a hacking cough that sounded like it was tearing into his throat.
Athos winced.
As he backed out of the room to call Porthos he was surprised by the speed with which Aramis' hand latched onto his wrist. His brother didn't look up, didn't even glance in his direction from where his head was bent over the toilet.
"Stay," Aramis rasped.
"You don't have to tell me to," he said, but his heart was amazingly lighter for his brother to have voiced it and Athos turned his hand to grip back, "I'm only stepping out to call Porthos. He shouldn't miss this."
Aramis slumped fully onto his rear and leaned back against the wall, head tipping up a bit.
"Let's make it a party then," his lips twitched up even though his eyes were closed.
Athos couldn't help the touch of relief that curled up the corner of his lips despite the condition his friend was in. The pasty hue to his skin and the dark smudges around his eyes spoke loud of the exhaustion that the soft trembling was hinting to; yet he had asked Athos to stay.
They were not the only ones reaching out to him anymore; Aramis was reaching out to them as well.
With smooth light steps Athos crossed the corridor, going only halfway to find Porthos making his way up the stairs.
"Should've seen it coming," muttered the big man.
"I think we caught it in time," Athos shrugged a shoulder.
When they found their friend he was again hunched over the toilet and his shivers had taken on a violent edge. As he pinched the bridge of his nose and leaned back Athos slid down beside him. And snaking his good arm around his brother's back he tucked Aramis close.
The younger man blinked open his eyes at the sound of the water running and grinned at Porthos as the big man turned to him with a wet cloth.
"I had expected worst," Aramis told him as he took the offered cloth and wiped his face, "Expected it sooner,"
"Trust you to stave off shock by sheer stubbornness," Porthos rolled his eyes.
"Not shock per say, more of a fear I guess," his voice was almost a murmur.
Aramis pressed close into Athos' side, letting the side of his head rest against the man's shoulder. Porthos' eyes lit up, a dimple appearing at the end of his slow smile as he leaned back against the sink behind him. Athos took the still damp cloth and pressed it to the back of his friend's neck, pulling him closer as he did.
Aramis hissed and jerked straight.
"What?" Athos stilled.
"Ow," Aramis said, "ow, ow, ow move your hand Athos."
He immediately pulled it away, raising it in the air as Aramis' own hand hovered over the spot at the side of his chest where Athos had gripped him. Sharing a surprised look with Porthos he hooked an arm under his friend who was trying to curl onto his side. The big man strode forward and pulled Aramis to his feet in one fluid motion, only to close the lid of the toilet and lower him on it.
Aramis let out a low groan, bending forwards.
Athos crouched before him and placing a hand on his shoulder pushed him straighter.
"Porthos?" he said.
"I got it," the big man perched on the edge of the bath tub and hefted up his friend's shirt.
The low whistle he blew out at what he saw was not encouraging.
"That should have been seen to at the hospital,"
"Huh?" Aramis looked at his friend by his side before craning his neck to see what the damage was, "huh," he nodded.
"Eloquent as always," said Athos.
Seeing as his friend was not about to keel over he let him go and turned to inspect the injury. It was spread out over his lower ribs, the deep red and purple stretching out to his side in all its grotesque glory. Athos' fingers hovered over the skin that was giving off low heat.
"How did you not notice it when you showered?" Porthos asked.
"Wasn't paying attention,"
"Clearly," Athos tried to keep the snap from his voice but by the look his friends gave him he could tell he had not succeeded.
It was too bad for them because he was still staring at the deep, almost black spots in the bruising that marked the points where knuckles had made contact. He tried not to imagine what it said about their history that he could actually read a bruise. Rubbing at the twinge in his hurt shoulder he glared at Aramis who had the decency to look sheepish.
" 's not so bad," he said.
"Try again,"
"I didn't notice," Aramis' jaw clenched, "I wasn't hiding it."
If he had been hiding it he wouldn't have brought it to light at all, Athos knew that. It still didn't ease the clenching in his stomach that his friend may have not noticed some other much more serious hurt.
"That's the only injury, I got punched by that giant and that's all," Aramis hurried to add as if he had read his mind, "wouldn't even had hurt that much but my back's sore so that exacerbated it."
Athos wasn't convinced.
"I swear there's nothing else," Aramis raised a hand before looking at it closely.
He grinned suddenly and waved it at Athos.
"Except for this," he said, "rope burn,"
Athos grasped the hand extended towards him and wondered how he had missed the prominent red line going all the way round the hand; it was particularly raw over the wrist. He hadn't even touched it when Aramis yelped in surprise.
"Not broken," Porthos said as he lowered the hem of his friend's shirt.
"A little warning next time," Aramis groused.
"Better there not be a next time," Athos turned the hand in his clasp to the light.
He was surprised when it turned and the long fingers curled around his own wrist. He looked down to find his friend staring at him
"There'll always be a next time," there was a hint of finality in that tone.
Aramis looked from him to Porthos, grasping the big man's arm.
An almost apologetic smile curled on his face although his gaze was steady like a flame in the pitch-black of absolute stillness. Strong, confident, trusting in whatever it was that kept it alight in the face of storms.
"I handed in my resignation when I left London but I hope Treville would take me back when we return," said Aramis, "I don't like seeing you in danger and it's harder to face that now than it had ever been before. I came too close to losing you both – I thought," he shook his head, "I believed that I had lost you both."
His eyes dropped to study some spot on the floor but Athos dared not breathe, neither did Porthos. They simply stared and waited; afraid that the spell, truce, epiphany or whatever else this was it would break if either of them so much as blinked.
Athos could see his friend visibly pull himself back from wherever his mind had wandered to and yet he stood still like the statues lining the corridors of his parents' house.
"But I would be able to cope better with that fear if I can watch your back," Aramis looked from one man to the other, "today when I saw you in danger all that fear, that uncertainty, it all just blanked out against the need to keep you safe. I won't ask you to give up the lives you've built and the danger that comes with it, but I would follow you anywhere to keep you safe in my sight."
This was it.
He was basing it all on them.
He was going to knowingly build his future on their brotherhood.
That was what he believed to be the strongest foundation.
Athos felt Porthos' large hand gripping his arm, the ripple of fine shivers clear in his fingers. And the two of them quietly exhaled in sync at the weight of surrender laid with such trust at their feet.
Something thick and cloying rose to the back of his throat and Athos swallowed audibly. He was sure Porthos' fingers would leave bruises on his arm but he hadn't the heart to break contact from him, not when he needed his brother just as desperately. Needed to remind himself that through all that life had thrown at them they were still there, still together, a bit frayed at the edges but bound tight each other.
Porthos cleared his throat before he spoke.
"And if Treville decides he's gotten tired of your face?" his tone was light, his voice not so much.
It was still probably tangled in the emotions lodged in his throat Athos mused.
Aramis smiled and it had that cocky slant they hadn't seen in half a year, that familiar devil-may-care gleam flashed in his eyes.
"I don't actually need a job money-wise," he said, "I could still shadow you on my own time."
"And follow us around totting a sniper rifle without any legal justification to back it up?"
"Worked for Marsac," Aramis shrugged.
Porthos cuffed him upside the head none too gently.
"Not funny," he growled.
"Wasn't joking," Aramis smirked.
Athos still could not find his voice; it was pinned down by the rock that seemed to have stuck in his throat. He breathed deeply, ears popping with the release of strain and that was when he heard it; muffled slightly by the distance but still clear enough was d'Artagnan howling about letting go. And somewhere in there were Constance and Raoul's voices mingling to add to the horrible din.
It stirred the cloud gathered in Athos' chest and it was bubbling past his lips in helpless chuckles the next second. Athos laughed till he was red in the face, it was insanity he knew that and it shifted to the other two like every other disease they had shared in their childhood.
Together in that bathroom the three of them laughed, at the shadows of their past and in the face of their future. They laughed until their lungs hurt and their faces were wet. And they only laughed harder.
He woke up with a snort.
Blinking in the dim light he raised his hand to rub at his eyes but stopped abruptly.
The side of his face felt like a melon.
An exceptionally ripe, hurting melon.
Letting his hand drop back over his chest d'Artagnan stared at the ceiling. He was in the lounge, his back sore from having sprawled on the floor but at least there was a cushion under his head. This was turning into a trend he mused as he shifted his eyes to the side and came face to face with a furry black nose.
"Whoa what the –!" he scrambled up and away, kicking at the sudden fuzzy invader.
Invaders, his mind supplied as his eyes took in the sight of four stuffed toys that had until very recently been surrounding his head. Heart still going at a hundred miles per minute he glared at Rauol who had hopped down from the sofa.
"Uncle Charles are you okay?" the boy looked from him to his toys.
Swallowing to wet his suddenly dry throat he nodded at the boy and forced his breathing to calm down.
"What – what were they doing by my head?" he prided in the fact that his voice wasn't as shaky as he felt.
Raoul carefully collected each of his toy animals and set them gently on the sofa.
"You're hurt and you fell asleep," the boy smiled, "I told them to keep watch over you."
Feeling suddenly guilty d'Artagnan smiled at the child despite the pain it caused to his swollen face. He reached out and tugged him in a thank you hug before looking around the quiet hall. The bundle in his lap wriggled and got to his feet.
"They're in the kitchen," Raoul said.
"Where else would they be," he only refrained from rolling his eyes out of the fear of the pain it would cause him.
He followed the boy across the foyer, sniffing the sweet smell he had come to associate with comfort in too short a time span. He stopped in the kitchen doorway even as Raoul ran in. The boy was immediately picked up by Porthos who deposited him on his shoulders despite the slightly stiff way the big man moved between the stove and the island.
"d'Art! Still planning to go shoe shopping?" Porthos grinned.
He groaned and let his head drop to his chest as he trudged to sit beside Athos.
"Gentlemen leave him be," Athos spoke from beside him, "he's already suffering from an acute lack of boots,"
D'Artagnan glared at him.
"I hate you," he said.
"Here have a cupcake or a cookie," Aramis grinned from where he sat cross-legged on the island top, "Porthos has been baking and I helped,"
"Yeah, he helped himself to anything sweet and edible," Porthos said as he reached up to tweak at Raoul's ear.
The boy unsuccessfully tried to dodge his hand and settled with his chin in the man's curls. D'Artagnan winked at him as he dug into the cupcake thrust in his hand. The feast from the evening seemed to have disappeared and his stomach rumbled in appreciation of the food offered.
Aramis dusted the crumbs from his own face before he pulled close a bowl from near his knee.
"I can't believe that one isn't in favor of anything sweet," he looked pointedly at the child on his friend's shoulders.
Athos gave him a withering look as if there was no question that the boy would be more sensible than the man. Aramis shrugged and breaking off a piece of cupcake he wiped the cookie dough from the bowl he had pulled close. To d'Artagnan's horror the man actually ate the resulting glob.
"That is disgusting," it made him queasy even more than the pain from the stitches in his face.
"Porthos said I could lick the spoon,"
"And that is somehow a license for him to stick his face in every utensil used to make cookies," Athos said.
"I didn't stick my face in every utensil," Aramis tipped the bowl he had been wiping clean in d'Artagnan's direction with an all too earnest face, "it was only this one," he said.
D'Artagnan was torn between laughing and assuring his friend that he believed him. It didn't help when Athos took a sip of juice from the glass in his hand and fixed a dry glare onto his friend.
"If you get food poisoning from this I'm dumping you in the bathroom and locking the door after," he said.
D'Artagnan laughed.
Chocked on a piece of cupcake and coughed until he wheezed.
Porthos helpfully handed him a glass of juice.
"I won't," Aramis patted his stomach, "I can digest anything,"
"I distinctly remember you not being able to digest anything that one time,"
"It was the stomach bug you gave us," Porthos confiscated the bowl of cookie dough.
Aramis made a grab for it but Athos swatted his hands away, not really looking at his indignant friend as he arched a brow in Porthos' direction.
"You took that bug from me," he said.
"We were only providing well intentioned company," said the big man.
"I was spewing out food; I didn't want the company,"
"Aww Athos, but you needed it," Aramis grinned.
Athos looke from Porthos to Aramis, his lips twitched into a fond smile he couldn't quite seem to keep in check.
"Masochistic idiots," he said.
"Athos!" Porthos covered the young ears above his head; his eyes were bright with humour even as he pointedly rolled them up as if there was a need to be reminded of the boy grinning in his hair.
"My apologies," Athos tipped his head, "it seems I'm suffering from bad company,"
"Careful my friend, I have a sticky ladle and I'm not afraid to use it," Aramis wriggled the makeshift weapon at him.
"Touch me with that and I'll break your fingers,"
"It's not fair if you tempt me Athos,"
Porthos plucked the wooden ladle from his friend's grasp before it could cause any damage and tilting it to the light he looked at it closely.
"I said you could lick the spoon but I see teeth marks on it;" he looked to the man on the kitchen island, "do we need to get you chew toys?"
"Nah I'll share with the pup." Aramis shrugged.
"At least our boots will be safe," Athos nodded, "d'Art will never eat boots,"
D'Artagnan let go a long suffering groan even as a smile threatened to break on his face.
As much as it annoyed him that they would apparently not let slide his medicine induced ramblings to his surprise that he liked it. He had always known that pain medications never sat well with him and with the life he had lived he had been afraid of that weakness. But now he knew that in those moments when he had little defense his friends would watch out for him. And the teasing after that was simply like coming back home.
For the first time since he had known these men he couldn't find it in himself to protest that he was not a puppy. Instead he huffed and glared at the three of them.
"I was under the influence," he said.
"Speaking of that, when's your next dose?" Porthos asked entirely too innocently.
"I'm not taking any more," he said, "not unless I'm able to lock myself in my room."
"You used to be fun d'Art," Aramis sighed in mock heartbreak.
Catching the cookie the man threw at him d'Artagnan popped it in his mouth and looked about the kitchen.
"Where's Constance?" he asked.
"She went to check on Senora Rosa and the children since Senor Alvaro went back to the city." Athos told him.
He couldn't help the way his eyes trailed to the door at his brother's words. The fear of losing the woman he loved was still fresh under his skin and her absence was only adding to it. If he closed his eyes he could still see the men grabbing Constance, his hand curled into a fist on the counter top just thinking about it.
"And what are you waiting for?" Athos asked him.
He looked to the man beside him and didn't miss the fond spark in the blue eyes fixed on him. Athos quirked a brow and tilted his head a bit towards the door. D'Artagnan grinned and hopped to his feet, catching his brother in a surprise hug.
"I'm glad I found you," he whispered and drew away before Athos could so much as raise his arms.
He left the kitchen with the sound of his brothers' teasing echoing out to him. Shaking his head he stepped into the foyer and found Constance coming in. D'Artagnan bounded up to her, grabbed her around the waist and ambushed her with a kiss.
When they broke apart Constance was smiling up at him and there was mischievous twinkle in her eyes as she held his gaze.
"I could get used to such a welcome," she said.
He surprised her with another kiss and when he pulled back it was only far enough to rest his forehead against hers.
"I'd rather there's no need for a welcome," he smirked, "we could just always stay together."
Constance grinned at him.
"Senora Rosa wanted to know when we were getting married," she said, her eyes not leaving his, "I told her soon."
"Tonight?" he asked, "tomorrow?"
Constance withdrew a hand from the back of his neck and smacked him on the shoulder.
"This week?" he asked.
"Is there a reason why you're in such a hurry?" Constance cocked her head to the side.
He laughed softly and pressed a kiss to her forehead.
"I want to be able to introduce you as Mrs. D'Artagnan,"
For years his life had had only one purpose. He had done everything, planned every step in order to find his father's murderer and bring him to justice. Deep in his heart he had always imagined that there was nothing beyond him for that; that he would lead his life in the long pursuit and perish somewhere along the way.
But he hadn't counted on the help that had come his way in the form of Athos and his friends. And now with that put to rest there was life rolling out before his feet, a life that he was eager to share with the woman in his arms.
"Oh is that all?"
"And I've decided I want seven," he said.
"Seven what?" Constance frowned slightly.
"Seven kids," he told her in an excited hurry, "I want seven of them, running about the house and filling it up."
His childhood had been quiet and he had never felt the aching need for siblings until he had met the three friends who seemed to have known each other all their lives. He felt lucky to have been accepted in their circle but wanted his children to have that right from the start.
And he didn't want to be the only d'Artagnan anymore.
"Did you just take your pain meds?" Constance asked seriously.
He shook his head and pulled her close.
Once upon a time he had believed that he had lost everything that he possibly could and even his own life hadn't mattered in the scheme of things, when the only driving force had been his purpose. D'Artagnan held Constance close as his mind wandered back to the despair he had felt at his father's death, it rose in a wave and washed away the lingering anger in his heart that he hadn't even realized was there.
He blinked to clear the wet burning in his eyes as he suddenly understood where Aramis had been coming from during his suicidal last stand before his father and it humbled him to see that he was the purpose compelling his friend on.
He looked down when Constance pushed away from him.
"Are you alright?" she asked.
He smiled.
"Never been better," he said.
The farmhouse was quiet.
He had been staring at the ceiling for a while now.
With a defeated shake of his head Porthos swung his legs over the edge of the bed and switched on the lamp on his bedside table. The wound on his back was a dull ache but it pulled when he sat forward as he rubbed a hand over his face and through his tight curls. The need that had woken him up in the first place pushed him to his feet and out of his room.
Closing the door behind him he turned around and stilled. An exasperated smile curled on his face at the sight of Athos standing in the corridor.
His friend seemed to be in corundum as he hesitated in front of the door to Aramis' room. Rolling his eyes Porthos joined his friend and pushed open the door. The room was thrown into darkness and for a second Porthos wondered if his friend was asleep.
As his eyes adjusted to the darkness he noticed that the bed was empty. He turned to Athos when the man nudged him in the shoulder and followed his friend's gaze to the figure sitting on the floor at the end of the bed.
He was wearing Porthos' own threadbare black shirt and the olive pajama pants dotted with black cats that Athos had bought for him as a part of a dare several years back. Porthos sighed quietly; he had had a feeling it was going to be one of those nights, the two of them were seeking each other's company after all.
As they went over to their friend Aramis turned to them, wiping hastily at his face. He didn't succeed in clearing the evidence of tear tracks that glistened on his face in the pale moonlight filtering in from the window. Yet he smiled when they took flopped down on either side of him.
Neither of them said a word as they sat staring at nothing at all, leaning back against the bed with their shoulders pressed together.
Some nights in their lives had waned like that.
Some nights there had been liquor to grease the time to move along.
Porthos mused it must have taken root in their years together in boarding, so that when the calm of their lives was disturbed too much they would seek the familiar presence of the other two. Like leaves riding ripples on the surface of water, they'd spin until joint with the others.
It was hours later when Aramis wiped his face again and dropped his head back over the bed. But then he sat up abruptly.
"I've got something to show you," he stood up, "I can't believe I haven't shown you this."
Porthos shared a smile with Athos as their friend rummaged in the drawer of his bedside table. He picked up something dark that was bigger than his hand and hurried over to them.
"I found it in one of the boxes in her room," he said.
In his hand was an old camcorder, even in the dim light of the moon Porthos could tell that the hard plastic surface was chipped and cracked. So was the lens at the end of it. But Aramis was holding it like it was the most precious prize he had ever come across.
"Does it work?" Athos asked quietly.
Aramis nodded.
"The cassette was still in there," he said.
Pulling open the small screen he switched it to play with an ease that told them their friend had done it often.
On the small screen appeared a child who seemed to be around a year old and looked like he carried half his weight in his hair. But it was the grin on the child's face that Porthos would recognize anywhere.
"That's it hijo mio, come to mama," came a woman's voice.
The small boy let go of the table he had been clutching and took a wobbly step.
"Come to mama mi bendicion desde Aramits,"
"What's going on here?"
"Rene you have to –"
The screen shook violently, catching the carpet and the ceiling in a blur.
"I told you not to –"
And the video broke off into a blue screen.
Porthos didn't move as he looked at his friend from the corner of his eye. By the grin he could see on his brother's face he knew that the anger coiling in his gut would be misplaced. He was quietly thankful when Athos cleared his throat.
"That was –"
"Great isn't it," Aramis turned to him, "I mean I have seen pictures of her but this –" he clutched the camcorder in both hands, "this holds a part of her."
Aramis looked from Athos to Porthos.
"It just proves that she was real," his eyes dropped to the object in his hand, "I won't know what she looked like if I hadn't seen her pictures. The only clear memory I have of her is her voice and this proves that my memory is real. That I knew her."
"There's no doubt that you did," Athos said.
But they knew that when they had met their friend his mother was already dead and the boy had been no more than five years old. Any memory of the woman that his mind would've been able to retain would have been blocked out by the trauma.
His anger dissipating, Porthos threw an arm across Aramis' shoulders and pulled him close.
"Did I hear her call you Aramis?" he asked.
"Mi bendicion desde Aramits," his brother repeated, "My blessing from Aramits; I think she must have called me that often to have it stuck in my mind."
"She gave you the name then," Athos' arm came over Porthos, "suits you better then Rene,"
Aramis grinned and leaned into them, shivering slightly. Porthos shared a look with Athos over the man between them and knew he wasn't the only one who had found his balance again. They were right were they were supposed to be, at each other's side.
He rolled his eyes even as a smile pulled at his face.
"We're in Spain in the middle of summer and you're cold," Porthos shook his head, "unbelievable."
Aramis pressed closer to him.
"And you're warm," he said, "Always warm like those blankets they wrap babies in."
Athos snorted.
"What're you amused about?" Porthos smirked, "You're the pillow in this ensemble."
Nine days later…
"I guess this is goodbye for now," Aramis drew a hand through his hair and looked down, "I promise I'll visit more; probably not as much as I visit Mrs. Du Vallon but even Athos visits her more often than he does his mother and his parents are alive."
The sunset had been beautiful, especially from the hill top; but now the darkness was falling faster than he had anticipated. Aramis looked up at the clear sky before his gaze fell on the flowers he had brought. The first time he had visited her hadn't even considered bringing her anything, just clambered up to her in search of relief for his pain.
But Senor Alvaro had told him that sunflowers were her favorite. He believed the man knew what he was talking about since he had shared his childhood with his mother on this very farm.
"Senor Alvaro said you'd come up to this spot to think," he looked over the expanse of olive trees and the red roofed building beyond, "distance is great at making everything smaller isn't it?"
His eyes drifted to the small group a little way off waiting for him on the dirt trail. They were studiously not looking his way as they teased d'Artagnan about his newfound love for a horse.
Aramis' smile grew.
"But some things can't be diminished," he shook his head, "So you don't need to worry about me. I'll find my way and I don't have to do it alone; never had to."
He bent to place the flowers by the headstone and said a little prayer for the mother he loved despite the short time he had had with her. When he turned back, the others they had already mounted the horses. The thinly veiled concern in their eyes warmed his heart and Aramis knew it would be alright. He may still have ways to go in defining who he was but he would always know who he was to these people.
He was their brother and that was enough.
Enough to spark his ashes and help him rise again.
"The most dangerous word in any human tongue is the word for brother. It's inflammatory." –Tennessee Williams
END.