The next thing d'Artagnan was aware of was lying on the comfort of a well stuffed mattress, covered in fresh linen. A feather pillow was placed beneath his head. Draped over him was the light weight of a woollen blanket which smelt faintly of lavender and felt impossibly soft where it brushed against his bare chest.

"So, you're awake then." Aramis spoke.

"I think so."

Blinking slightly d'Artagnan saw an unfamiliar ceiling. Sliding his eyes to the left he realised Aramis was sitting by the bed his brow furrowed, behind him stood Porthos looking unusually grave. Glancing around, d'Artangon took in a metal bed frame, a small desk and a window.

"Where am I?" He managed, as he carefully sat up, mindful of his freshly stitched arm and the bruises marking his torso.

"One of the garrison's guest rooms," Athos spoke up from where he was leaning against the wall on d'Artagnan's right. "We thought we should have this conversation in private."

"I imagine you have questions."

"Not particularly." Porthos surprised him.

"We already know quite a lot," Aramis' tone was not reassuring. "We know you were beaten because we saw the bruises. We know you weren't held against your will because there are no marks on your wrists. We know you fought back because your own knuckles are bruised and swollen. We know that part of the reason you swooned like a girl is that you haven't been eating properly because I can practically count all your ribs and we know that this all started a few days ago because of the colour of the bruises."

"Most likely around the time Garnon returned." Porthos agreed. "Imagine my surprise when I went to the laundry to fetch some clean linen to make up the bed and Marie told me all about trying to scrub the muck out of a cloak I know you've never had on your back."

"Or how I felt when I took off your jacket and found the directions Treville gave you for the rendezvous with the envoy in your pocket and discovered parts of it had been carefully altered." Aramis added.

"What we don't know is why you didn't tell us any of it," Porthos frowned. "We were right here."

"I couldn't." D'Artagnan bit his lip.

"You couldn't?" Porthos voice demanded a mix of pain and dis-belief in his tone. His face twisted with a look of betrayal. "After how I bared my soul to your Gascon pride is too precious to tell us about this?"

"Porthos, no." D'Artagnan desperately tried to think of some way to convince his friend it hadn't been like that. "Garnon had to believe none of you had any part of this or the plan wouldn't work."

"Plan?" Aramis frowned. "What plan?"

D'Artagnan stilled. He hadn't actually meant to admit to that part of things just yet but he had not been able to bear the idea of Porthos thinking he had taken his painful confidences so lightly.

"Porthos deserves justice and Athos' honour demands satisfaction. You yourself said we would always be looking over our shoulders as long as Garnon was a musketeer. I am sorry about your horse though."

"You said there was a plan." Porthos prompted.

"If I can convince Garnon I'm no threat to him he won't be able to resist another chance to humiliate me. He and I spar at the Garrison, just in practice, but we wager him that the loser has to resign his commission. He knows that if have to resign and return to Gascony Athos would lose everything he's invested in me."

"You dolt, Athos doesn't care a sous about the money." Porthos was still irritated.

"He doesn't mean the money." Athos murmured.

"So, when you win Garnon will be required to resign his commission and once he is no longer a musketeer, Athos will be free to settle the matter?" Aramis surmised, then frowned. "What does my horse have to do with it?"

"Garnon won't take the wager unless he thinks he will win. He had to believe that I'm not fit to be a musketeer. I really am sorry."

"So you deliberately lost the contest? " For once words failed Aramis.

"And then you let him beat on you?" Porthos scowled. "And mess up all your stuff. Send you on a wild goose chase around the country?"

"What about the Duke's envoy?" Aramis raised a brow.

"No, there I really did lose my temper."

"Well, at least, you don't need to concern yourself about my horse," Aramis spoke lightly, but with that thread of dangerous underlying his tone which did not bode well for the recipient. "Treville has that matter in hand."

"But otherwise your week is about to get a whole lot worse." Porthos threatened.

"But it's good plan." D'Artagnan insisted in the face of his friend's disapproval. "It'll work, trust me."

"Like you trusted us?" Athos spoke quietly.

"Athos ..."

"I cannot believe you!" Athos exploded. D'Artagnan startled slightly, he had never seen him so openly furious. "Garnon is a vicious, sadist, dangerous, coward. You know he did to Porthos," Athos tugged at his shirt and jacket to show a vicious ragged scar on his chest that clearly went all the way through. "This is what he did to me. Yet you have deliberately put yourself in his way. And he will find a way to cut you down like an overgrown poppy."

"I wasn't planning on losing." D'Artagnan scowled.

"No one ever does! Skill with a sword means nothing without judgement. I had thought you could be the greatest of us all. But you have not yet learnt what it truly means to be Musketeer. You are a disappointment to me."

In the silence after Athos had slammed the door so loudly that the whole room shook, the remaining three men looked at one another. D'Artagnan looked away as he felt his eyes stinging. He had been too easily moved to tears of late. He suspected it had much to do with the rawness of his father's passing, but being so at odds with Athos was more than he could bear.

"You go after Athos," Porthos murmured. "We'll follow on in a while when I've knocked some sense into 'im."

"Try not to cause any more injuries," Aramis raised a brow. "In the circumstances, Treville will most likely overlook the brawling. But someone still has to explain to him what has been going on."

Left alone with the kid Porthos felt the last of his anger melt away in the face of his obvious distress. D'Artagnan was utterly silent but he was steadfastly avoiding his gaze and Porthos saw a tell-tale drop as a single tear slid down his face to soak into the bedclothes. With a sigh, Porthos moved to sit with his back against the head of the bed and wrapped an arm around his shoulders as he settled him against his chest.

"There, there," He soothed gruffly. "It ain't the end of the world."

D'Artagnan took a shuddering breath and made a valiant effort to get himself under control.

"I just wanted to make him proud. Now he's never going to forgive me."

"He's already proud of you, you clot. You just have to stop tryin' so hard. And he'll come around when he's calmed down. Trouble with you two is you're too much alike. Need your heads bashing together."

"You really think we're alike?" d'Artaganan asked shyly.

That night at the Bastile he had scoffed at Athos' claim. He had been too raw to too take it seriously, still too angry at Labarge, too embarrassed at the fact that Athos had had to come to his rescue like a child and too ashamed that Athos had been right after all. He had let his heart rule his head and it had achieved nothing except nearly getting him killed. In his fury all he had thought of was Athos' reserve, his coldly analytical mind, and his infuriating logic.

Now he felt ashamed of having such scathing thoughts about a man who was also honourable, brave, kind and possessed of a level of patience d'Artagnan envied.

"Course I do," Porthos declared resolutely. "You're both idiots who are blind to the fact that it ain't a sin to let those who love you carry your burdens for a while."

"Athos doesn't love me."

He spoke without thinking only realising his mistake when Porthos went absolutely still.

"Why would you say that?"

"Forget I said it, I'm just tired. It's been a long week." D'Artagan hastily backtracked.

"Try again." Porthos insisted.

"Look, we're friends, good friends, but he obviously doesn't feel the same way about me and he does you and Aramis. I mean why should he? It's not like we've know each other all that long."

"You do talk a lot of rot," Porthos observed. "Love don't work like that."

"He didn't want to hug me," d'Artagnan protested. "When I got my commission Aramis met me with open arms, you held me so tight I thought I might crack a rib. But even after everything we had been through, Athos just offered me his hand."

"And here I thought those were happy tears."

"They were and I was happy and I thought it was just Athos. That it was just his way. It didn't mean anything. But then you told me how he'd hugged you after Garnon and I started to wonder so I .."

"You asked Aramis." Porthos sighed.

"Yes,"

D'Artagnan had realised as soon as he asked the question that he had touched a nerve.

"Has Athos ever hugged you?"

"I was wondering how long it would take you to ask," Aramis' tone had been light. But then he had put down his wine, avoided his gaze and stayed silent so long that d'Artagan had regretted asking. When it finally came his answer had been devoid of all emotion. "Once, after Savoy."

"C'mon," Porthos reached with his free hand for d'Artagnan's shirt and jacket and thrust them into his hands. "Get dressed. Somewhere out there the man you think doesn't love you is trying to drown himself in the bottom of a bottle because you scared him half to death. So, we're going to start with you apologising to him."

"I don't know what to say to him."

"Athos knows every tavern in Paris. It's probably going to take us a while to find him. You'll have time to come up with something."

Aramis had started, without holding out much hope, at their usual haunts. Then he had moved steadily further and further out from the taverns they were known by name to the seedier parts of town where a man could drink anonymously, which meant that Athos was planning on drinking himself into a serious stupor. Aramis bit back a sigh as he finally spied Athos drinking steadily in a corner.

Procuring a cup on his way over Aramis did not wait to be invited before sitting down next to Athos and helping himself to his wine.

"I'm not in the mood for company," Athos glared at him.

"When has that ever stopped me?" Aramis settled back so that their shoulders and arms were touching. If he would allow it physical contact was one of the few things that could halt Athos' spiral into despair. He took it as a promising sign that his friend neither moved away nor punched him. Both of which had happened in the past. "We've missed you these past few days, young d'Artagnan most of all."

He felt Athos tense and wisely changed tack.

"How was Rouen?"

"Uneventful," Athos took a long drink. "My sword stayed in its scabbard and I haven't had to shoot anyone in days. I was bored beyond belief."

Aramis huffed out a small laugh at the wry comment. Athos might seem like the solitary type but he and Porthos had come to recognise how much their friend relied on their good humour to keep his darkness at bay. Things were always better when they were together.

"You were a little harsh with the boy." Aramis tried again.

"Would you rather have him dead?" Athos downed his wine in one.

"Of course not, none of us would," Aramis gave the other man an understanding glance. "But it will do no good to drive him away."

That got Athos' attention as he had known it must. His friend had grown to care deeply for the younger man. He would swear that Athos had seemed just a little lighter and smiled just a more frequently since d'Artagnan had joined their ranks.

"Treville had already said his piece today. Quite loudly I might add," Aramis winced at the memory. "Words, like reckless, idiot, a disgrace to the regiment, were banded about."

He saw Athos' hand tighten just fractionally on his cup. Aramis knew he would understand exactly how hard it would have been for the young Gascon, who was so eager to please, to face such censure, especially when it was true.

And rather than supporting his friend Athos had only added to that burden.

"How is he?" Athos managed.

"Crying on Porthos' shoulder when I left," Aramis was matter of fact.

Athos dropped his head back against the wall, closing his eyes in pain. He only wanted what was best for the boy but d'Artagnan was proud and stubborn and had an independence of spirit that was not easily quelled.

And his inability to follow orders has already saved your life more than once.

"I know why you said what you did, my friend," Aramis spoke gently. "But the boy has not long lost his father. You have rightly taken him under your wing and he has thrived. Your affection and approval means the world to him. So, it is far too late now for you to try to barricade your heart. And he will never understand or forgive if you try."

"And if he dies?" Athos challenged. "What am I supposed to do then?"

"You could try having just a little faith." Aramis held his thumb and forefinger just a fraction apart. "In his ability to make you proud, in Porthos and I and our determination to keep him safe, and in yourself, my friend for being a better man than you will ever allow."

He paused.

"And if you think about it, although I would not condone his methods, having come this far, his plan does have something to recommend it."

"Then why did he not come to us?"

"Ah," Aramis looked a little shame faced. "It seems that might have something to do with Porthos and I. We told him what Garnon did to Porthos and how hard you took it. It seems d'Artagnan took our words to heart. He did not want you to feel responsible for a choice he made willingly for all our sakes."

"The boy thought he was protecting me?"

"What can I say?" Aramis nudged him. "If you will insist on being a man of honour and integrity, with such a good heart, you can hardly complain when your friends choose to look past your moods and drinking."

"Should I be flattered?" Athos asked dryly, but his eyes were soft.

"Look over there," Aramis directed his gaze. "If that's not love my friend, I don't know what is."

Two familiar figures were threading their way through the crowds. Porthos had his hand curled in the collar of d'Artagan's jacket as he towed him forward. As they came closer Athos saw that the boy's eyes were red rimmed and his shoulders slumped with a level of despondency Athos had only seen once, when the boy had learnt LaBarge had burned down his family farm and he had lost everything he previously held dear.

Too late indeed

"Go on, you clot," Porthos' voice carried clearly, as he gave d'Artagnan a little shove forward. "Everything will be alright."

Athos watched with quiet pride as d'Artagnan visibly gathered his courage and came to stand at the edge of the table. Raising his head he looked Athos in the eye.

"I'm sorry, I know I was wrong and I'm sorry. I never meant to disappoint you. I just want to make you proud."

"Actually," Athos looked sideways at Aramis and allowed his lips to quirk into a small smile. "It has been pointed out to me that your plan had its merits. It seems you may have brains after all."

"So," Aramis sat back in his chair to survey his friends. "Who's going to be the one to break the news to Treville about the plan?"

All four looked at each other for a second. Then three voices spoke.

"Athos."