This one is particularly for SubRosa 7 who wanted to know what happened to Porthos and Maleshka who was missing Athos, also there is a slight nod to the amazing Les Miserables!

D'Artagnan felt tired and sore as he dragged himself out of bed the next morning. Deciding they already smelt of horse he pulled on yesterday's shirt and breeches before heading to the stables to help Jacques as part of the extra duties Treville had assigned. He spent an uncomfortable hour mucking out and filling water buckets whilst trying to ignore the curious looks and occasional jokes at his expense from his fellow musketeers. He was just finishing up as a shadow fell across the door and, to his shame, his heart skipped a beat.

"You my friend have been spending far too much time in the stables," Aramis' voice cheerfully announced, as he entered, carrying several packages, with Porthos on his heels. "You smell like a horse."

"What he means is, we heard what happened with Treville last night," Porthos eyed him something like admiration. "And I thought I liked to live dangerously."

"I was careless," d'Artagnan admitted. "And then I was lucky."

"That was not luck, my friend. I would argue that you made particularly good use of your wits," Aramis approved, with a firm squeeze to his shoulder, before holding his gaze and speaking with quiet sincerity. "Athos will be proud."

D'Artagnan felt the warmth of that all the way to his boots.

"Don't encourage him," Porthos protested. "Things could easily have gone bad. If he gets a whipping it will go harder on Athos than anyone. And I for one could go to my grave without ever putting that look on his face again."

"Athos does have a tendency to take the weight of the world on his shoulders," Aramis made a face. Seeing his friends hurt, when he felt he should have prevented it, was a particular kind of torture to the man. "Given the love we bear him, we try to spare him pain where we can."

"What look?" D'Artagan was curious.

"Long story," Porthos abruptly looked away.

"He wants to tell you. He just needs time to work up to it," Aramis observed quietly, before pointedly changing the subject as he thrust the packages at d'Artagnan. "Ah, I almost forgot. Jeanette sends her compliments."

Unwrapping, the bundles d'Artagnan lifted out the three shirts he had ordered, only to find that they were carefully embellished with touches of lace well beyond his budget. Not to mention there was also a new pair of breeches, cut from the softest leather and a new blue and tan leather doublet that he definitely had not purchased.

"How?" He managed.

"Think of it as a welcome to the regiment. Plus we wanted to make some amends for yesterday," Aramis looked slightly shame faced. Looking at the younger man's stunned expression he worried that the items were not to the Gascon's taste. "We can alter anything you wish?"

"No," d'Artagnan swallowed hard, he felt utterly blessed to have such friends. "They are perfect. Thank you so much."

D'Artagnan could not help smiling as he made his way back upstairs. Stripping off his shirt he had a quick wash in cold water absently drying off his neck and shoulders as he wandered over to the wooden chest provided for his belongings to put away his new clothes and change for morning muster.

Only to step back in dismay at what he saw.

It was true he had not owned a great deal to begin with. But now every single shirt and pair of breeches had been deliberately soiled. Making a face against the stench he dug right to the bottom hoping to find something that might be salvaged but there was nothing. Stepping back, he ran a hand through his hair as he tried to think. Even the soft blue Musketeer cloak that Athos had bought for him was marked and stained.

Athos.

D'Artagnan closed his eyes as he remembered the first time he had been injured seriously enough to need needlework. He didn't remember who they had been fighting or even exactly where they were. What had been seared into his memory was the look on Athos face when he realised he was injured.

"D'Artagnan!"

Athos was staring at him from the far side of the river. He followed his friend's gaze, looking down at his thigh in surprise as he saw the cut in his breeches and dark red blood trickling down his leg. In the heat of the fight he had not even felt it. Now all at once he felt sick and a little light headed.

"S'alright, we got you."

Suddenly Porthos was beside him, taking his arm in a firm grip and steering him over to a small clearing, sitting him up against a tree. Aramis was kneeling in the dirt beside him and Athos was at his shoulder.

"I need to get a better look at the wound," Aramis decided. "Either I can cut these off you or if we help you out of them, there's a good chance they can be patched."

D'Artagnan gave his friend a grateful look at the unspoken acknowledgement that his farm did not provide a great income. Patched breeches were better than no breeches at all.

"I'd rather you didn't cut them," He made a face. "But I'm not sure how I am going to .."

"Let us do the work." Aramis spoke kindly.

It was swiftly done. With fingers made only slightly awkward by the situation D'Artagnan undid his laces, Aramis removed his boots, Athos put his hands under his arms and lifted him up slightly as Porthos grasped the cuff of each leg and pulled them off in one almighty heave.

"Ah!"

Despite their speed and care D'Artagnan could not help the hiss of pain that escaped past his clenched jaw at the movement.

"Easy."

Athos' hand shifted to the nape of his neck, in a gesture of such instinctive comfort that D'Artagnan was, for a moment utterly undone.

"This is going to require needlework." Aramis looked past him at Athos. "It's not too bad. But it can't wait."

"I'll get your sewing kit." Porthos rose

"D'Artagnan, you understand I'm going to need to stitch this?"

D'Artagnan felt a surge of panic. He remembered when Aramis had stitched up Porthos. He had barely been able to watch. But he also knew Aramis wouldn't suggest it unless it was absolutely necessary. So he made himself swallow his fear and school his expression to one of acceptance.

"It's alright, I trust you." He gave a brave smile.

"Stitching always looks much worse than it is," Aramis patted his leg gently. "But you will need to keep still. Do you want Athos to punch you? Or shall we just have him hold you?"

D'Artagnan swiftly ducked his head as he felt his face redden. Thanks to his new friends he had not been lonely since his arrival in Paris. But he did yearn for the simple comfort of human contact. Constance seemed out of his reach. The gentle cuffs, pats and punches that were Musketeer for affection were all well and good. But no-one had actually held him since his father's passing.

"Its fine," His pride would not allow him to presume. He could do this. "I'll keep still."

"Athos it is then," Aramis had cheerfully ignored him.

D'Artagnan never felt a single one of Aramis, neat, careful stitches, so focused had he been on the way Athos had simply, wrapped his arms carefully around him, relishing his warmth and strength as he pulled him so tightly against his chest that D'Artagnan could feel the reassuring thump of his beating heart.

Looking back D'Artagnan realised that his need must have been all too apparent to his friends. And Athos had not hesitated to hold him close and murmur the reassurance he had craved in his ear. Part of d'Artagnan was proud of the fact that he could help chip away at the walls built around his friend's heart.

The other part wondered what it cost Athos every time he had to face how much he needed other people in his life.

The spoiling of his possessions might just a prank for the new recruit. Although, it was a particularly cruel one given that the fact he had recently lost everything at the hands of LaBarge was well known. But if it was Garnon's doing Athos would find a way to blame himself.

Given the love we bear him, we try to spare him pain where we can.

Decision made d'Artagnan closed the chest, swiftly dressed in the clothes that Aramis and Porthos had bought him, went downstairs, and said nothing at all about his unpleasant discovery.

They were supposed to be practicing their sword play. But then the skies opened and the rain came down relentlessly. They kept at it for a while longer first to show willing and then for the fun of it, laughing at each other's antics as they strove to see which of them could land the others most times in the mud.

"Are you alright?" Aramis asked with a slight frown, as he offered d'Artagnan a hand up, after he had fallen with a particularly loud yelp.

"I'm fine," d'Artagnan assured him, trying to maintain a little dignity as he adjusted his shirt as it stuck in wet patches to his skin. "You do realise this shirt was new?"

"You don't look fine," Armais didn't let it go. He cast a concerned look at Porthos. "Does he look fine to you?"

"Now you mention it, he is looking a bit peaky," Porthos agreed. "Maybe, he's sickening for something?"

"He is right here and he is perfectly fine," d'Artagnan reminded them.

"Are you quite sure?" Aramis' expression took on a mischievous look. "Because if you were feeling under the weather, which today is too foul for either man or beast, we would be obliged to fortify you with good, wine, wholesome victuals and sufficient repose until you were fully restored to health."

Together they rounded up a platter of bread and meat and a couple of bottles of wine and then retreated to a quiet corner to talk and clean their weapons so that they would at least appear to be busy if anyone passed too near. At first they spoke of nothing much, or rather d'Artagnan and Athos conversed. Porthos was unusually silent.

"He won't judge. You know that." Aramis said at last.

"It's just .. it ain't an easy thing to talk about."

"Is this about Garnon?" d'Artagnan paid attention.

After a moment of silent communication Porthos nodded his assent and Aramis sighed as he prepared to ease his friend's burden by beginning the tale.

"Athos and I were away with Treville guarding the King at the time. Garnon would never have dared such a thing if any of us had been closer to hand. He had recently lost few men to injury so Porthos and some others had been assigned to his command. Somehow he discovered that Porthos was born and raised in the Court of Miracles." Aramis paused. "It offended his noble sensibilities."

"He treated me like scum," Porthos spoke up. "It started off with little things. He would spit in my food when no-one was looking. Keep me on guard duty until my bladder was fit to burst. Have me watching the horses instead of the things I was trained to do."

Porthos paused, as if gathering his strength.

"One day he left me guarding an empty camp. One of the village kids fell underneath a cart. He was in agony but no one could lift it off him. I went and lent a hand. Garnon said I had deserted my post. It didn't help matters all that much when I punched him."

"He had you whipped?" d'Artagnan swallowed hard.

"He meant to. He had me tied to a tree and left me there overnight so I could think about what was coming to me."

"Thank the good Lord one of the other men sent word and we returned in time to put a halt to the proceedings," Aramis added. "Treville is a soldier to his bones but he saw the honour in what Porthos had done. Imagine how we felt when we realised we had arrived too late to stop Garnon giving Porthos a little souvenir."

D'Artagnan knew from the unaccustomed look of malevolence in Aramis' eyes that this was going to be bad.

"He used his signet ring to burn his family crest into my arm. Said it was to teach me my place. When Athos saw the brand ..," Porthos swallowed hard against the tears that threatened at the memory of the look on his friend's face. "He cut the ropes binding me to the tree and then pulled me against his chest, wrapping his arms around me like he would never let me go."

A rueful grin broke through his anguish at that memory

"It was like a proper hug."

"Athos?" D'Artagnan blinked. "Athos hugged you?"

The man showed his affection in many ways but such unguarded demonstrativeness was not his way even with his friends. D'Artagnan could only imagine the maelstrom of emotions that had led to such an uncharacteristic action.

"First chance I got I cut the brand out," Porthos stripped off his large gauntlet to show the ragged round scar somewhat larger than a coin. "None of us could bear it and Athos still gets this funny look in his eyes whenever he catches sight of the scar."

"As long as Garnon remains a musketeer, Athos will never know peace," Aramis spoke bitterly. "And we will all forever be looking over our shoulders."

"D'Artagnan!" Treville's voice echoed across the Garrison. "My office now."

"What did you do now little D'Artagnan?" Aramis asked a hint of concern under the mocking.

"Nothing," D'Artagnan's expression twisted. "I hope."

"It's a simple errand," Treville eyed him as he stood to attention in front of his desk. "Take the letters. Deliver then to no one but the Duke of Bourbon's envoy. The monks will give you hospitality overnight. You return in the morning."

"Yes sir." D'Artagnan nodded fervently. "I won't let you down."

"And d'Artagnan?" Treville eyed the wet, bedraggled, mud covered, figure in front of him. "Mademoiselle du Bois delivered several more packages for you this morning. I trust this means you can at least try to look like a King's musketeer?"

AN – For those wondering what happened between Garnon and D'Artagnan I beg your patience. All will be revealed in time!