Two weeks earlier.
D'Artagnan was not exactly sure what to expect as he arrived at the Musketeers garrison. Treville had simply ordered him to go back to his lodgings, pack his belongings and report at the change of watch. Despite his heavy heart at thoughts of Constance, sufficient to deter him from any further entanglement with his new benefactress, his step had got increasingly lighter as he approached his destination.
He had the King's commission. He was a Musketeer.
It was not the first time he had arrived at the Garrison to find the regiment assembled in the courtyard and Treville addressing his men. Slipping through the ranks he tried to catch Aramis' eye to find out what was going on, but the Musketeer was staring straight ahead, just the hint of a smile on his lips. To his left Porthos was grinning openly, but also refused to look at d'Artagnan. The Gascon started to feel slightly nervous. He belatedly recalled the many wild stories he had heard from his friends and their brethren about their initiations into the ranks of the Musketeers. He sincerely hoped his wouldn't be anything he couldn't handle.
"Do not concern yourself," Athos' voice spoke softly in his ear. "You have already defended the honour of the regiment once today. That is a good enough beginning."
Casting his friend a grateful smile d'Artagnan drew himself up with a little more confidence regarding whatever was to come. If Athos thought he could handle it then he was determined to prove him right. He should probably even try to enjoy it.
"D'Artagnan." Treville summoned him.
After that he would remember only snatches of the evening, Treville making a toast to celebrate his victory over Lebarge, Aramis insisting that he try his blue cloak on for size. Despite the fact that by its nature the garment was cut to fit all manner of men, D'Artagnan good-naturedly obliged him, grinning at the hoots and whistles of the assembled company as he modelled the garment. Porthos, already a little worse for drink advancing, towards him with a melon in one hand and a Musket in the other. He had briefly wondered if his career in the regiment might be over before it began, but, true to form, the melon was the only casualty.
Taking a moment to step back and observe the proceedings, d'Artagnan leant against one of the pillars and took a long swallow of wine. He had come to know a good number of the Musketeers since his arrival in Paris. A conversation over a meal, being matched to spar together, a few missions that had required more manpower than the four of them could alone provide. Also, d'Artagnan's willingness to help out with the day to day tasks required to ensure the regiment ran smoothly, such as exercising the horses, ensured there were few men with whom he did not already have at least a passing acquaintance.
Even so, d'Artagnan had been touched by their sincerity as they had officially welcomed him into their ranks. He had been clapped on the back so many times he knew he would have bruises tomorrow. Several had taken the time to personally congratulate him on his victory and to praise him for his courage in saving Treville. Taking another drink of wine and letting it warm him, he knew he had found a place he could belong. He might be a fatherless orphan, who had lost the only home he had ever known, but he could start to build a new life in Paris with his brothers.
If only Constance had not broken his heart.
Wanting to block out those memories he drained the rest of his wine in a single, determined, swallow and reached for another bottle. Only to have his hand stayed by a firm grip on his wrist.
"I think you've had enough." Athos observed. "If you wish to be fit for duty tomorrow."
"I've not had nearly enough," d'Artagnan met his gaze. "I can still remember things I would rather forget."
Athos' expression softened slightly but he still placed the wine where d'Artagnan would have to go through him to reach it. The Gascon scowled slightly at the man's double standards, but in his heart he was grateful to Athos for saving him from himself. His father would certainly have expected better. Looking forlornly at bottom of his empty goblet d'Artagnan suddenly began to feel every ache and abrasion that he had picked up during his duel.
"I take it things with Madame Bonacieux have not turned out as you wished?" Athos enquired mildly.
"I don't want to talk about it." D'Artagnan looked away.
"As you wish," Athos was not about to press him. Not on this. Not when there were more important matters at hand. "Is your side bothering you?"
D'Artagnan flinched guiltily. He had hoped no one else had noticed that single unguarded moment when he had let Labarge slip through his defences and land a solid blow just under his arm. The leather of his jerkin had protected him from a killing blow. But when he had carefully peeled off his soiled shirt to inspect the sluggishly bleeding wound, the long, shallow graze, had been painfully red and raw. He was torn between shame that Athos had seen his error and feeling touched that his friend had noticed his discomfort.
"You're good at that." d'Artagnan observed, the wine he had drunk making his tongue looser than normal. "Noticing things, seeing everything, it's a bit annoying, but sort of nice."
"Should I thank you?" Athos observed dryly, as close to amused as he would allow himself.
"My brother never noticed anything," d'Artagnon threw his head back, resting it against the post as he closed his eyes against the memory, too lost in pain and alcohol to realise he was revealing his heartfelt desire that he had had a brother more like Athos. "I was always an inconvenience to him. He wanted to spend time with his friends and only tolerated me when father insisted he take me along. We had different mothers and he was much older so he never really cared for me."
"True brothers watch out for each other," Athos felt the truth and the pain of that statement right down to his soul. "So, I ask again. Is your side bothering you?"
"A little." d'Artagnan admitted.
Athos sighed. He was already all too familiar with d'Artagnan's tendency to want to down play his injuries. If the younger man was willing to admit to the least part of discomfort his wound must be quite severe. Or, he considered fondly, perhaps just this once his bruised heart was in need of the comfort provided by the kindness of others. Either way, Athos was taking no chances.
"Aramis." He raised his voice a little over the revels.
Despite the fact that the other Musketeer was presently fully engaged in proving to an appreciative audience that, notwithstanding the wine he had consumed, he could still walk along a plank someone had set up several feet from the ground, he immediately halted and pivoted on one leg like a ballerina, so he could see what Athos wanted. Abstractly, d'Artagnan wondered if he would ever be able to command such loyalty and obedience in others with a single word.
"A moment, if you please?" Athos inclined his head towards d'Artagnan.
Understanding instantly flashed across Aramis face before he schooled it into politeness so as not to attract attention from those around him. Putting a hand on the wood he vaulted lightly down to the ground and crossed the courtyard in quick, economic steps. From a corner Porthos immediately noted his movement and paused in his telling of some outrageous tale to meet Athos' gaze. Their commander inclined his head slightly. When he realised his fault d'Artagnan would need his friends around him. Porthos instantly cut short his tale and trotted over.
"Am I to take it Lebarge inflicted a little more damage than our young friend here was willing to admit?" Aramis enquired.
"So it would seem."
"That ain't good," Porthos frowned. "What's the plan?"
"You take care of the boy. I will divert Trevillle," Athos decided. "It would not do for d'Artagnan to begin his career as a Musketeer with a punishment. But make sure he understands the error of his ways."
He strode off without a backwards glance.
"Punishment?" d'Artagnan suddenly felt stone cold sober. "What did I do?"
"You remember the part after the fight, when Treville asked if you were injured?" Aramis asked kindly, as he took the young Gascon by the arm and hurried him into an adjacent room away from prying eyes. "And you told him you were fine? It's the duty of a Musketeer to report any infirmity so that his inability to fight cannot put any of his brothers at risk."
"Treville don't look kindly on anyone breaking that rule," Porthos said bluntly, keeping watch by the door. "It would mean a whipping for you for the omission and each of us for keeping it from him."
"I was trying to save his feelings," d'Artagnan protested, feeling hot and cold by turns that he might be considered to have committed such a fault and led his friends into trouble besides. He sank bonelessly into a chair. "I didn't want him to feel badly that I had been injured saving his life."
"We understand that and so does Athos," Aramis soothed. "Ah, I see from the way you are moving it's your side that most troubles you. Can you take your jacket off? Never mind let me take care of it."
He gave a long, low, whistle as he finally saw the damage.
"You, my friend, have had a lucky escape. I can dress this without the need for needlework. As long as you are careful Treville need not know. But you would do well to curb that Gascon pride. You are part of the regiment now and that means you have a duty to obey the rules, such as they are, whether you like it or not."
"Treville will turn a blind eye to a lot of things." Porthos observed. "And he won't punish a man for an honest mistake, but there are some lines you don't cross. Not if you like breathing."
"And you didn't think I needed to know these rules before?" d'Artagnan tried not to flinch as Aramis cleaned the wound and covered it with a bandage.
"You weren't a Musketeer before." Aramis pointed out.
"Uh oh," Porthos suddenly straightened up at something he had seen. "You may want to hurry things along a bit."
"Treville?" Aramis assumed.
"Worse," Porthos said flatly. "Garnon's back."
"And just when things were going so well," Aramis sighed, as he helped d'Artagnan back into his shirt. "Where's Athos?"
"Treville's office," Porthos supplied. "We still have time."
"Time for what?" d'Artagnan wanted to know. "Who's Garnon? What's going on?"
"Trouble." Porthos said darkly.
"How can I help?"
"By taking yourself upstairs to get some rest so we have one less thing to worry about tonight," Aramis patted his shoulder. "If I were Athos I would make it an order. But as things stand it is truly the best service you can do for us."
"But I want to help." D'Artagnan insisted.
"If Garnon discovers Athos sponsored his acceptance into the regiment, he's gonna take an interest in him and not in a good way." Porthos shot a worried look at Aramis.
"Wait," d'Artagnan demanded. This was the first he had heard of any such thing. "What do you mean Athos sponsored my acceptance into the regiment?"
"Oh, well done," Aramis rolled his eyes at Porthos.
"I thought he might have figured it out by now," Porthos turned around. "Treville ain't in the habit of letting just any man attend upon the King simply because they have a fancy to become a Musketeer."
"That was a rather obvious clue." Aramis shrugged.
"So, when exactly did this happen?" d'Artagnan asked a little testily.
"After that business with the merchant Bonaire, Athos went to Treville to discuss your future. It was clear that you had a taste for soldiering and something of a talent for it," Porthos admitted.
"But you were also young and far too impetuous for your own good," Aramis put in. "Athos offered to sponsor your training with a view to earning a commission in the Musketeers. Why do you think no one ever questioned your presence?"
"I never thought about it," d'Artagnan said honestly. "Wait. Did everyone know about this except for me?"
"Not everyone," Aramis attempted to comfort. "I'm almost certain no one bothered to mention it to Jacques the stable boy."
"It ain't easy to become a Musketeer," Porthos shrugged. "Most of us have been soldiers before."
"The only other way would be a period of service in the King's Guard," Aramis agreed. "But to secure such a position you would need a father, a brother, or an uncle, who could provide a recommendation to the King, which you, my friend, don't have."
"Plus that lot wouldn't watch your back like we would," Porthos put in. "Every man for themselves they are. Athos didn't want that for you. Nearly took ten years off his life, when he thought Vadim had killed you."
"Is that so?" A new voice asked from the doorway. "How very touching, it seems I may have misjudged Athos. He is not just a coward but a sentiment fool as well."
"Garnon," Porthos hissed, his face twisted with hate. "You never did know when you wasn't wanted."