A/N: Merry Christmas! Thank you to everyone who reads and follows the story!

Four

The Gascon Problem

"Damn it to hell, Porthos!"

Athos looked up, momentarily distracted from his practice sword bout with a younger Huntsman. Across the yard, at a table near the mess hall, a young man with a tangled mop of dishwater-blond hair jumped up from the table, slamming his hands down on the rough wood top. Porthos's laughter echoed across the courtyard. Athos could only imagine what the younger Huntsman was losing his head over.

Athos's sparring partner pushed forward, taking advantage of his momentary distraction. Fortunately for Athos, the boy was still largely untrained with the sword – he told far too easily in his movements. He jabbed forward hard; Athos sidestepped him, parrying the lad's blade with just a flick of his wrist. His partner tried to feint left, but his feet were pointing the wrong way for him to actually plan on an attack to the left. It was an easy finish to the fight: He pressed forward, caught his partner off-guard, and it ended with his partner on the ground and the tip of Athos's blade to his throat.

"You fight with great enthusiasm," Athos told him. "But your movements are too telling."

The boy nods, moving to thank Athos, but he was already gone, across the courtyard to the table where the younger Huntsman was glaring Porthos down and Porthos was giving the kid a spectacular shit-eating grin.

"What's going on?" he asked.

"Oh, Cavey here is just a sore loser," Porthos said, shaking his head.

"Your friend here has no personal integrity," Cavey said, cheeks burning bright red. "He's a cheat at cards."

"He's not a cheat!" Aramis defended from down the table, getting to his feet. "He can't help it that you can't play Kings for shit!"

"Accusing a fellow Huntsman of cheating is quite serious, you know that, right?" Athos asked, looking Cavey over slowly, his tone calm despite the fact that Cavey's accusation made him bristle with anger.

"Especially accusing Porthos of cheating," Aramis grumbled under his breath.

Porthos stood, and to Athos's secret delight, Cavey blanched at the sight of Porthos standing, tall and muscled, impressive in his dark doublet and cloak that all the Huntsmen wore. He hooked his thumbs into his belt, right near both his pistol and his sword.

"So, you think I'm cheating," Porthos declared. "And I think you're slandering my good name. What say we settle this by a duel, like gentlemen?"

"Dueling is illegal…" Cavey murmured, looking a little green around the gills.

"Or I could just take the matter to Captain Treville," Athos remarked, watching the younger hunter go ever paler. "I'm sure he'd be interested to hear of this discord…"

"You know, I…I believe I was mistaken," Cavey said, holding up his hands in surrender. "I thought Porthos had the king up his sleeve, but…I believe I was mistaken."

"So are we just going to…forget about this unfortunate encounter?" Aramis asked, raising an eyebrow in that way that suggested Cavey would let the issue die or he might find himself on the receiving end of a nasty surprise from Aramis.

To his benefit, Cavey nodded. "O-Of course!"

"Good lad." Porthos clapped him on the shoulder, nearly making the boy collapse as he left the table. Aramis stood up, joining his two companions. "Well, gents, I think that I'll go see what Serge has cooked up tonight, I'm feeling a bit puckish…"

The trio walked away, Athos finding himself in the middle of his two friends. He glanced to Aramis, who was grinning ear to ear.

"You have a cruel streak in you, you know that, right?"

"I have no idea what you mean."

"That poor boy is going to have nightmares about what you might have done if he hadn't complied."

"Oh, he's young and hot-headed," Aramis said, shaking his head. "A little fear will do him some good."

"Now, as for you," Athos said, turning his attention to Porthos, whose grin faded into something resembling a guilty smile. "Did you cheat?"

"What? I would never," Porthos said, shaking his head.

"Except for that time I caught you cheating at Kings with Dujon from the Red Guard," Athos said, raising an eyebrow. "You really did have the king up your sleeve."

"I swear, Athos, I didn't cheat this time," Porthos said. "I've been working on it."

"He simply can't help himself," Aramis said, shaking his head. "He's a shark at cards."

Athos opened his mouth to respond, but stopped. Distantly, he could hear something – the hooves of a horse against the road leading up to the garrison. He frowned – there were some Huntsmen out on patrols that evening, but the sun had only gone down three hours ago or so. Unless it had been an exceptionally quick mission, no one should have been back that early.

"Athos?"

He turned away, heading back the way they had come, towards the front gates. The closer he got, the better he could hear; only one horse was approaching. It was either the smallest ambush ever, or someone needed their assistance.

"Open the gate!" came a woman's cry from the outside. Athos recognized that voice – and was alarmed by the panic in it.

"Open the gate!"

"Haven't seen you around before."

The sun had gone down nearly an hour earlier, but it had taken the better part of the hour following it for young Charles d'Artagnan to decide that stopping for the night would be prudent. It was a decision that had not come with some level of frustration, however – he had been riding for the better part of three weeks from Gascony, and had finally made it to Paris. He wanted to complete his task immediately, to return home – hopefully, with a regiment of the King's Huntsmen at his back. However, he knew the King would not start seeing petitioners at all until morning.

He had been at a back table by himself, trying not to sulk too much, when she had joined him. She was a beautiful woman – probably a few years his senior but with an ageless sort of look to her, and green eyes that captivated him. She had offered him a charming, closed-mouth smile, before asking if she might join him, as she couldn't find a seat elsewhere, and, well, he looked so lonely…

"I'm not from Paris," he answered. "I'm from Lupiac, in Gascony."

"Gascony?" She looked surprised. "You've come a long way."

"I'm here to petition the King," he announced, feeling a bit more open to conversation after his third cup of wine – as it would happen, his companion was as generous as she was beautiful. "We have a werewolf problem."

"Werewolves? How dreadful!" His companion pressed a few fingers to her lips, astonished. "What are you going to do?"

"Petition the King for help from his Huntsmen," d'Artagnan answered, draining his wine glass, which was refilled almost instantly. "Hopefully, he'll be willing to spare a few of them long enough to keep these beasts from destroying the Gascon farms. Including my family's."

"Do you have a place to stay, while you're here?" she asked, offering him another indulgent smile.

"Oh, I was probably going to stay here…" he said, shrugging and looking around at the inn. It was small, and a little grungy, but it was a roof over his head and a bowl of somewhat-edible food.

"Oh, no, no, that won't do," his companion said, shaking her head. "No, my dear boy. You can stay with me for the evening."

"I couldn't possibly," he said, shaking his head, trying not to let the ideas now running through his head show on his face – she'd be shocked if he knew the kind of things he was thinking of. The smile on her face, however, showed that she had some wicked intentions of her own.

"I insist."

And so, ten minutes and little arguing later, she was dragging him out the door and he was following, his brain shutting down a bit as a certain other body part commenced thinking for him. Feeling a bit feisty, his companion broke away, darting off down an alley with a giggle. The wine having long since gone to his head, d'Artagnan gave chase, chuckling; he got lost a time or two, but then he would see a flash of his lady's crimson skirts, or hear her giggle, and he'd be off in the right direction again. He didn't even realize he was chasing her through the darkest alleys of the city until he had lost her completely.

"My lady?" he called, turning in a tight circle, trying to spot her. "My lady?"

Something slammed into him from behind, sending him stumbling into the side of a building. He just barely avoided falling by grabbing the siding, turning to face who – or what – had accosted him.

He wished he hadn't.

He was face-to-face – or, rather, face-to-chest – with a massive, snarling, seething ball of fur and teeth and claws. The very kind of beast that had been terrorizing Gascony for weeks.

"W-Werewolf!"

He tried to run, to get back to a main road – or at least a more populated one- but the werewolf was faster, sinking its claws into his side. He yelled in pain, doubling over; the werewolf then flung him aside like an old toy. Apparently, going for the kill was not the beast's immediate intent. It wanted to play first.

He tried to get back up despite the pain in his side, reaching for his sword. But no sooner has he drawn it than the werewolf knocks it from his hands, before clawing him from his shoulder, across his collarbones and upper chest. The claws make ribbons of both his shirt and flesh alike, and the pain draws a scream from his lips. To add insult to injury, the werewolf kicked him in the chest. Ribs bruised under the pressure, and all the breath left d'Artagnan in a whoosh. The fight had left him for the moment, and all he could do was whimper pathetically.

The beast leaned over him, as if it intends to finish what it started. Weakly, d'Artagnan reached for his pistol, his last hope of saving himself. The werewolf stomped on his hand, pinning it to the ground. A bone in his wrist broke, and the sickening white-hot pain was enough to bring tears to his eyes.

If Death was coming for him, his only hope was that it would be quick.

As quickly as the werewolf had come, however, he was gone, leaving behind his mangy scent and a heavily bleeding and confused d'Artagnan.

A moment later, as the Gascon boy was losing consciousness, someone else appeared – a woman, dressed in the modest clothing of a merchant's wife, with the face of an angel. She hurried over, dropping to her knees next to d'Artagnan.

"Oh, God…oh, God, no…" She shook him hard. "Please! Please don't die, stay with me…"

Blackness was creeping in to the edges of his vision. The woman grabbed him and hauled him up, though it took a few tries and left him wheezing and in tears from the pain it sent through his battered body.

She was half-leading, half-dragging him through the alleys, back towards the streets. Blackness. When he came back around, she was talking frantically to a merchant, who finally gave in and helped haul d'Artagnan into his horse-drawn cart. He was fading, fast. The woman smoothed his hair from his face, and before he lost consciousness completely, he heard her murmur one last thing.

"Please…don't let it have been Jacques…"

Athos could smell the blood before the gates were open all the way.

He hung back slightly, silently thankful it was dark. That it was harder to see the visceral reaction the smell of the blood brought out in him – especially since he was behind Aramis and Porthos.

The gates creaked open all the way, and in rode Constance Bonacieux. She was well-known among the garrison – many of them had been patched up by her at least once in some capacity, including Porthos and Aramis. Despite how late it was, she was still wearing her day dress, which was now smeared with blood and muck. The horse she rode wasn't hers – the Bonacieuxs had sold their horse a few months ago as Constance's husband had tried to expand his cloth business a little more. Attached to the horse's harness was a cart, and in the cart…oh, God. The boy couldn't have been any more than eighteen or nineteen, tanned and lean from a lifetime of hard outdoor work. Though his clothes were bloodied and in tatters, Athos could tell they were simple, the clothes of a farm boy. And the blood…

"Dios Mio," Aramis breathed, rushing forward as Constance stopped the horse. "What happened to him?"

Athos only needed to take a look at the boy's injuries – and a good smell of him – to piece together what had happened to the poor boy. "Werewolf."

"I found him in an alley, not too far from my home," Constance said, climbing into the cart alongside Aramis to help him move the boy. "I didn't get a very clear look at what attacked him, but it was definitely a werewolf, I could tell."

"Did he give you his name?" Aramis looked to Porthos and Athos with wide eyes, already having flipped from "soldier" to "medic". "Help me move him!"

Porthos hurried over to help. Athos lingered back, eyes closed, trying not to breathe in too deeply. His hands were already shaking from the smell of the blood…

"Athos!"

There was no ignoring Aramis. Eyes snapping open, he hurried over to help them lift the battered, bloodied boy from the cart. The closer he got, the more overwhelming was the smell of blood; his hands were shaking, and his gums ached in his mouth. Aramis cast him a look as he helped lift the boy from the cart

"Are you all right?" Aramis asked.

"Fine," he grunted, not looking directly at his friend – he knew he'd be as good as dead if he did.

The answer did not satisfy Aramis, but fortunately, the boy came back around and ensnared his attention as they carried him across the garrison's courtyard, shooing the gathering crowd out of their way as they moved. The boy glanced up at them with glassy brown eyes, then buckled violently, as though trying to escape their hold – which only made carrying him harder.

"Easy, easy," Aramis cooed, trying to soothe him. "We're not going to hurt you. Easy. We want to help."

They got him into the tiny room that served as an infirmary, laying him on one of the narrow beds. He tried to get back up, but Porthos held him down, making him cry out in a pitiful mixture of fear and pain. Constance hurried out, saying something about getting fresh water to clean his wounds with. The air stank of sweat and blood, underplayed with the peculiar tang of werewolf pheromones, though Athos was sure he was probably the only one who could smell them, at least clearly.

Aramis knelt next to the boy, taking advantage of the fact that he was currently conscious. "Do you know where you are?"

"Paris…" the boy groaned.

"Yes. Yes, good," Aramis said. "You're at the Huntsmen's garrison."

"H-Huntsmen…werewolves…" He tried to sit up, and succeeded in aggravating one of his wounds into bleeding afresh again. Athos's entire body shuddered as the scent of fresh blood filled the air, and he brought a hand to his mouth, biting down on his index finger to stifle the groan that almost escaped him. Aramis gently coaxed him back to the bed, grabbing a piece of linen that Porthos offered him and pressing it to the lad's wound.

"Shh. Shh, we'll get to that later," Aramis told him. Constance hurried back in with a bucket of water, immediately started to soak linen strips in it to help Aramis. "Can you tell me your name?"

"D'Artagnan…"

"D'Artagnan. Good." He set to work on the scratches across d'Artagnan's chest, gently dabbing away the blood. Constance, meanwhile, took his swollen wrist in her hands, only to gasp.

"Aramis…"

"What is it?" Aramis looked, finding what had surprised Constance – four gaping punctures in d'Artagnan's side. He swore in Spanish, grabbing for a knife that Porthos supplied him and using it to slice open the bloodied shirt that clung to the boy's skin. "He's been bitten…"

"No."

It was the first thing Athos had said since they arrived in the infirmary, but it got everyone's attention immediately. Aramis stood, eyeing him curiously; Constance stayed kneeling next to d'Artagnan, dabbing at his brow with a damp washcloth to soothe his fevered skin. Porthos, who had been doing his best to be close enough to be helpful without being in the way, appeared thoroughly confused.

"No?" Aramis asked.

"He hasn't been bitten," Athos elaborated – though he didn't lower his hand from in front of his mouth and hoped Aramis couldn't see the bleeding marks on his finger from where he'd bitten down on it.

Aramis and Constance gave him doubtful looks. He stepped forward, getting as close to d'Artagnan as he dared. Despite the musk of werewolf pheromones, the smell of the boy's blood was clean and untainted. He cleared his throat, then, in a moment of daring, knelt in front of d'Artagnan, pointing to the wound.

"The marking isn't consistent to a werewolf bite," he explained, determinedly not meeting Aramis's gaze and keeping his attention on the wound. "Four punctures in a row? Unless this is a werewolf with the strangest dental arrangement I've even seen, that's no bite. It's far too clean, too, werewolves tear into the flesh when they bite, usually leave a larger wound – more blood flow to the wound, which means – "

"A faster venom absorption rate," Aramis concluded, nodding.

"Not to mention his wound's still bleeding," Constance said, nudging Athos aside to look at the punctures. She glanced up at him, and he looked away quickly – hopefully, it was quickly enough. She studied the wounds, running her fingers along them, which made d'Artagnan cry out in pain. After a moment, she looked back up. "The wounds are claw punctures, I think. If he'd been bitten, he wouldn't still be bleeding."

"So we've got puncture to the sides, slashes to the chest…looks like a broken wrist and possible bruising, maybe internal injury and bleeding," Aramis concluded with a sigh and a look that could be described as grim. He rinsed his hands in a basin with some of the water Constance had brought in, drying them on a towel.

"Will he survive?" Porthos asked.

"It's touch and go," Aramis said. "But he's young, and strong…if Constance and I can get the bleeding stopped quickly and his wounds tended to, then he should make a full recovery."

Athos nodded, standing up, still avoiding everyone's gaze, lips pressed together as he headed for the door. His hands were still shaking slightly.

"Where are you going?" Aramis asked.

"Reporting the incident to Treville," he said, throwing open the door, thankful that, despite the rather dramatic entrance, there was no crowd. "Provided I haven't been beaten to it."

Before anyone could say anything else, he swept out the door, pulling it closed behind him. He headed in the direction of Treville's office, hoping the cold evening air would clear his head.

By the time Athos came back, d'Artagnan had been patched up and was sleeping, his long, lanky frame almost too big for the tiny bed that he lay on. Constance was perched on the edge of the bed, smoothing her fingers through his long, sweat-tangled black hair, her expression concerned, even a tiny bit sad. Aramis was sitting nearby, seemingly dozing, but when Athos came in, his head snapped back up, awake.

"Where were you?" he asked.

Athos shrugged. "Reported the attack to Treville. He sent me to try to find the scene."

"Any luck?"

He shook his head. He'd rode the streets of Paris, sticking to the tavern district, trying to sniff out the blood and the werewolf pheromones, but it had been too long, the scent of the werewolf had faded too much, and there was too much blood in the air – from what, God only knew. Aramis sighed.

"Well, I suppose it was worth a shot."

"Where's Porthos?" Athos asked, realizing the big man was missing.

"Went to try to go beg some food off of Serge. For d'Artagnan, when he awakes."

Athos looked to the slumbering patient. "How is he?"

"His condition is stable," Aramis said, looking to the boy as well. "He'll need a few days to get back on his feet. The claw marks across his chest are shallow, but the punctures in his side are an inch or so deep. Not to mention the broken wrist, and I found some signs of internal injury, he's got bruising on his chest." He shook his head. "The poor boy's been through Hell. But I think he'll heal well."

"Good," Athos said.

Aramis approached him, leaning in to speak after making sure Constance was occupied with d'Artagnan. "Is everything alright?"

"Of course. Everything's fine." Athos gave him a look. "Why wouldn't everything be fine?"

"Earlier, you seemed…off. Not like yourself."

"Things are fine," Athos said, hoping Aramis would read the note of finality in his voice and not pressure him anymore. "Don't worry."

Aramis's face fell slightly, and Athos couldn't help but feel a little bad. Aramis only wanted to help him, and it seemed an unkindness to push him away. But at the same time, letting Aramis dig too deep would ultimately prove fatal, Athos knew that. However, his friend quickly adopted a neutral expression again, nodding.

"Alright. If you're sure."

"I am."

Fortunately, Porthos came back in then, with a food-laden tray for d'Artagnan, and Athos used the moment to slip out, heading, again, for Treville's office, hands clenched tightly to stop them from shaking – again.

There had been too much temptation shoved into his face. He needed something to kill the hunger that had started gnawing at him the moment he'd smelled d'Artagnan's blood. And he needed it now, before someone got hurt.