I watched Phantom of the Opera and the last scene between Christine, Raoul and the Phantom gave me this idea. Yes, I stole it technically. That's kind of what fanfiction is.

But anyway. This has almost no plot. Or much of anything. I've not written in a while and I'm trying to find my stride again - it's been a tough couple of weeks.

Athos was doing his best to hold d'Artagnan's eyes in a desperate attempt to keep him grounded, but he could tell that the boy was gradually slipping away from him. His own wrists were already torn red from where he'd thrown himself against his bindings, shrieking in rage at the confinement and mistreatment - not that their captors took the slightest notice. They couldn't give a damn what he thought of them, only that he would give them the information they were asking for. Of course, Athos would never betray his country, no matter what was being threatened but even if he would have been willing, he didn't even know about any plans to start a war with Spain.

Across from him, d'Artagnan was bound to a grate in the wall, the ropes cutting in where they curved around him and leaving raw wounds that had started to bleed through his ragged shirt. Another rope, tied into a crude noose was pulled taut around his neck, keeping his head up firmly.

"You're only prolonging your brother's suffering," said the Spaniard who had been tormenting them, sounding thoroughly unconcerned by the thought. "You will tell me what you know eventually."

"I don't know anything," Athos told him honestly, even though he knew that it would never be believed and then winced as the Spaniard yanked harshly on the other end of the rope around d'Artagnan's neck. He made a soft, strangled sound, too breathless to give anything more. "Stop!" Athos beseeched.

"I don't believe you!"

"It's still the truth," Athos told him, trying desperately not to sound like he was begging. Aramis and Porthos should be there soon - d'Artagnan just had to hold out a little bit longer and they could all walk away from this.

"Your country is full of liars and cheats," the man said with no small amount of hatred, "And you will tell me what you know! France is going to attack Spain and you will tell me when!" He threw his weight against the rope and d'Artagnan could do nothing but twitch, his airway completely closed for a moment before the Spaniard relented and he was able to drag in a series of short, aching gasps.

"d'Artagnan," Athos called, fear clenching around his chest. It had been hours now. Hours and hours of watching him struggling to breathe, unable to relax even the slightest amount without pulling the noose taut and Athos could feel his own soul weakening just watching his suffering.

The Gascon didn't have the breath to reply but he was able to squint one eye open to meet Athos gaze, hazy with pain and semi-consciousness but undoubtedly still alive. There was blood on the corner of his lips from where the inside of his throat had torn at the abuse.

"Does it hurt you to watch him suffer?" The Spaniard was smiling as he watched the exchange of glances between them.

"I'm not going to tell you anything," Athos told him yet again. For a while he had tried to just ignore him, refusing to reply at all, but that course of action ended worse for d'Artagnan than just a flat denial - the Spaniard, whoever he was, was clearly a proud man and didn't take kindly to being neglected.

Seemingly weary, he tugged on the rope again. d'Artagnan choked painfully, more blood dribbling down his chin to spot the front of his shirt. "You think that someone is coming to save you? No one knows where you are. No one will come. You will die in this room."

"I assure you, I'm not leaving this Earth until I know that you will be waiting for me in hell," Athos ground out, his voice low and deadly as his anger burst outwards. He knew that antagonising the man would only end with d'Artagnan in more pain and that was something that Athos couldn't risk just to placate his rage, so he'd bitten back his sharp tongue. After so long watching his brother dying before his eyes, he was much too raw to contain himself any longer.

d'Artagnan whimpered lowly and the rope went slack for a moment so that he could breathe, if only shallowly. The Spaniard was careful not to deprive him of oxygen for too long, ensuring that this would be a long, drawn out process.

"You cannot threaten me," he told him haughtily, looking down his nose at where Athos was bound. He tightened the rope again for a heartbeat to prove his point, eliciting another choked sound.

So intent was he on the pain he was causing, he almost missed the click of a pistol mechanism, too loud in the quiet room. d'Artagnan didn't have the leverage or the space to turn towards the door, but Athos could see the arrival clearly, and a warm rush of relief flooded his chest, tempered slightly by the greyish tinge to the Gascon's skin.

"He might not be able to threaten you," Aramis said calmly into the silence that followed, "But I sure can. I suggest you let go of that rope before I decide you would look better without a head."

The Spaniard turned to face him slowly, making his movements as unthreatening as possible but he didn't relinquish his grip on the rope. He rattled off a string of Spanish that sounded awfully similar to something Aramis said whenever he was pissed off - Athos had always assumed it was a curse of some kind.

"Well, that's not a very polite thing to say to guests," Aramis retorted lightly, but the grip on his pistol was firm and his eyes flicked between d'Artagnan and Athos rapidly. He said something else then as well, in his quiet, I'm-going-to-shoot-you-in-a-moment voice and the Spaniard's eyes widened as he recognised his mother tongue.

At that point, Athos tuned out of the conversation - his Spanish was hardly brilliant, despite Aramis' best attempts at teaching him, and right then he was more concerned with the way d'Artagnan's breaths were growing slower and more shallow. Even when the Spaniard wasn't pulling on the rope, it lay tightly across the boy's throat, never pulled slack enough for him to draw an uninhibited breath.

"Aramis," he cut in. The marksman's eyes flickered to him for a brief moment and then back to the Spaniard, not wanting to have him out of sight for too long. "You need to help d'Artagnan."

The Gascon didn't twitch at the sound of his name, hanging limply where he was tied as his consciousness finally faded completely. His head had fallen forwards as his neck refused to hold it up any longer, and with the way his weight was resting, Athos would have been surprised if he could breathe at all. Aramis needed to help him now.

"Let go of the rope Señor and I won't have to kill you."

The Spaniard's eyes had caught d'Artagnan's defeated slump and he was grinning smugly as though he had won, his whole expression one of snide satisfaction. Aramis looked at it for exactly two seconds before his finger convulsed on the trigger and the expression was lost in an explosion of blood. There wasn't enough strength left in Athos to care that they wouldn't be able to find out who had sent the man and why.

Aramis didn't wait long enough for the body to hit the floor before he was moving to d'Artagnan's side and flinging the noose away with venom. He was calling his name, hoping to rouse him, but the Gascon remained stubbornly unconscious as he was lowered carefully to the floor, Aramis' head pressing to his chest to listen for a heartbeat. Athos held his breath.

"He's alive," Aramis announced after what felt like a lifetime. "He's going to feel awful for a while no doubt, but he's still breathing. Christo, that was too close."

"Where's Porthos?" Athos asked, unable to lift his eyes from d'Artagnan's face.

"Outside, watching my back. We didn't want anyone sneaking up behind us while we mounted a daring rescue," Aramis told him as he moved towards him, drawing a dagger to cut through his bonds.

"What took you so long?"

"You and d'Artagnan vanished in broad daylight without a trace. Finding you wasn't exactly easy."

Athos raised an eyebrow at him, but Aramis knew he wasn't really angry. It was their way of asking each other if everyone was okay and reassuring themselves that they were safe again.

"Will d'Artagnan be alright?"

Aramis' eyes turned sombre but he nodded slowly. "I think so. His neck is a mess and I highly doubt that he'll be able to talk for at least a week but he's still breathing which means there's nothing obstructing his throat. It's the best we could hope for, I suppose."

"The best would have been for him to not be hurt at all," Athos pointed out as he scooped d'Artagnan into his arms - the boy was much too light. Aramis had made to do it himself but he backed out after a pointed look, apparently understanding that Athos needed to be able to feel him living and breathing, something so reassuring after hours of uncertainty.

"Of course," Aramis agreed amiably. He nudged at the Spaniard's body with his toe before sighing and crouching down beside him to turn out his pockets, revealing a rolled up parchment that he skimmed through quickly. "An assignment to investigate possible anti-Spanish feelings within France without causing a diplomatic incident. Kidnapping two of the King's Musketeers probably wasn't the wisest idea."

"He wasn't a wise man," Athos pointed out, shifting a little as weariness dragged on him. "Let Treville worry about that. For now, I just want to get back to Paris."

Aramis grinned, his shoulders relaxing a little as he took in the sight of his brothers, battered but alive. "Lead the way."

Wow, this is awful. Urghh.