Notes:

Welcome to the final chapter of Blood Ties! I hope you all enjoy it and it wraps up any unanswered questions!

Blood Ties

Chapter 3

d'Artagnan fell out of the building's back door and into a twilight covered side street. The building, by all accounts, looked like a normal bar. And it was, for the most part. But there had been no planning permission for the basement conversion, no official plans. As far as the city of Paris was concerned, the cells underneath the building didn't exist.

The cell Athos was being beaten half to death in didn't exist.

His stomach flipped and d'Artagnan bent forward, retching up his stomach contents behind a bin. He couldn't do this… Before this Rochefort had had him running drugs, passing messages, acting as a bouncer in The Silver Room or body guard. That had been doable. He might have hated his boss, but he could do that work. This though?

Athos' bloodstained face swam behind his closed eye lids, his limp battered body hanging by his wrists from the ceiling.

d'Artagnan squatted down against the brick wall, his hands sinking themselves into his hair and gripping onto the roots. But what could he do? He couldn't, couldn't get him out. Not with Constance still in that fuckin' brothel. The moment his betrayal was discovered they'd sink a bullet into her head, that or force her to work up front and-

He was going to be sick again…

There was nothing he could do! Athos was being beaten under his feet and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

d'Artagnan was so wrapped up in his thoughts, in his pain, he hadn't heard the two sets of footsteps approaching.

"Ya' see what I see, Aramis?" two hands grabbed the front of d'Artagnan's shirt and hauled him to his feet. The boy was clattered against the hard wall, his head bouncing painfully off the surface. He let out a curse. His eyes opened to a close up view of a bear of a man, eyes burning with fury into his own.

"There's blood on his clothes," A different voice commented, "And I've seen that pretty face somewhere before."

The voice stepped forward, revealing that it belonged to similarly aged man, who was currently looking intently through his phone.

"Ah-ha!" He held it up for d'Artagnan to see. Obviously pulled from some CCTV camera, the screen showed himself opening a car door, Rochefort's blond head appearing as if he was stepping out. The footage could have been pulled from any one of the "business" meetings Rochefort had attended in the last month.

"It's amazing what Treville can dig up," The man (Aramis?) continued, "Our Captain has so many connections, so many favours to cash in."

His eyes glanced to his friend, almost as if d'Artagnan wasn't there, "Would be a foolish man to risk angering our Captain, right Porthos? I wouldn't dare mess with him or anyone he cares about."

"Or me," The bruit of a man, Porthos, agreed, "Especially not his men. He'd break anyone who messed of us in two."

"I…" d'Artagnan tried his best to get a word out, but the pair just carried on, all while still pinning him to the wall.

"Now see our friend is missin'," the man holding d'Artagnan's shirt looked him dead in the eye, "And we know your boss is up to his nasty little neck in it."

"So here's what's going to happen," Aramis' hand disappeared, returning only a moment later holding a sleek, black, hand gun.

d'Artagnan jerked violently, a strangled cry escaping his mouth. His body barely moved an inch in Porthos' iron grip, "Wait, wait- just-"

Aramis levelled the gun at the boy's chest, if he'd heard d'Artagnan's pleas he didn't react to them, "I'm going to count three. If you haven't told us, exactly, where to find your boss by then I'm going to put a bullet whichever limb I feel like. Then we'll start again and keep going until you run outta places to put holes."

The madman smiled brightly, flashing his teeth before running his free hand over his…

Wait, goatee?

d'Artagnan's eyes jerked to the other man in front of him.

"One…"

Dark skinned, curly hair.

"…Two…"

Shit, shit, shit!

"…Three."

"All for one!"

d'Artagnan's eyes scrunched shut, bracing himself for pain, but it didn't come. Instead, the iron grip on his t-shirt loosened.

"What did you just say?"

He cracked his eye open. Both men were staring at him, looks equal parts surprise and trepidation.

"Uhh…" d'Artagnan swallowed, desperately trying to remember how to speak, "All for one. He told me to say it if his friends came looking for him…"

Aramis lowered the gun slowly, finger sliding of the trigger, "Who is 'he'?"

d'Artagnan swallowed, eyes darting between the men in front of him. He could only hope he had made the right decision, hope that Athos hadn't given him the secret sigh for 'arrest this no good fucker and avenge my death'.

"Athos."

Hands released his shirt collar slowly, but the brick of a man who answered to Porthos didn't back out of d'Artagnan's personal space.

"You know what you just said, Kid?"

The nickname bristled against d'Artagnan's ego but he bit back a retort, half an eye still on that gun, "No."

"We use that phase in the field, over comms. Means that the line we're talking on is secure, can be trusted," Porthos leaned down to d'Artagnan's height so he could look the boy straight in the face. It was an odd sensation. D'Artagnan was no small man but compared to Porthos he felt positively below average.

"If Athos gave you that phrase means we're to trust you. Is he right? Can we trust you?"

d'Artagnan swallowed awkward, feeling the weight of the two sets of eyes on him, "Yea…"

"Good," Porthos stepped back, hand reaching for his own gun at his belt, "Then take us to him."

Oh no, oh shit… They couldn't go all guns blazing in there! If Rochefort thought it was a raid…

"I can't."

d'Artagnan watched Aramis' eyes darken with rage, "I only just decided not to shoot you, but if you wont cooperate-"

"If you go in there looking like a raid or an ambush Rochefort will panic!" d'Artagnan stepped forward desperately, although froze as Aramis' finger slid back onto the trigger, just in case, "He will initiate wipe down procedure to destroy any evidence of his involvement in trafficking."

"We aren't here to arrest Rochefort," Porthos dismissed the claim with a shake of the head, "He's someone else's slimy little problem. We're here for our friend. Preserving evidence isn't worth-"

"The evidence is people!" d'Artagnan's voice cracked. Constance's face swam into gaze, the other girls who were locked in The Silver Room as well. They'd be getting ready for the night's shift, muttering in groups in their own language while they pulled on their outfits. If the Rochefort called for a wipe down they would never see the guns coming. Not until the shooting started.

"Men and women," d'Artagnan's hand wiped over his forehead, shoving the dark tendrils which has escaped his bun out of his face, "They were brought here with empty promises and forced to work. Trafficked and smuggled into France. Rochefort will order their death if he thinks the police are onto him. He won't leave anyone alive to testify against him…"

Porthos flinched. They didn't have time for this, they needed to get to Athos, but if the kid was telling the truth… Athos would never allow those people to be hurt in his name, "Aramis?"

Where Porthos looked unsure, nervous to make a decision, Aramis's eyes hadn't flinched from the boy in front of him. d'Artagnan felt like he was being stripped under that hard gaze, layers and layers of bravado and bluster pulled back until Aramis could see into his core. See the measure of d'Artagnan as a man.

"I'm not lying," d'Artagnan swallowed, "My fiancée is in there. Please."

Apparently, Aramis must have decided he was telling the truth. He raised his chin, eyes never once leaving d'Artagnan's.

"You know where these people are kept?"

d'Artagnan's head bounced, "Most are girls, kept in The Silver Room. They're kept there 'til work of debts. There's a few men kept in a unit on the outskirts of the city."

Aramis nodded. Finally his eyes snapped away from d'Artagnan, who sagged slightly in relief. Instead he looked at Porthos, who nodded as if they were part of a silent conversation.

"Call Treville. We set two teams. All go in together, shut all three operations down at the same time."

Porthos had already dug in his mobile from his pocket, hitting his boss' speed dial.

"Captain? We need some help."

"Don't you dare sleep, Olivier!" A hand ground into Athos' hair, mingling in the stale sweat and crusted blood on his scalp. His head was tugged up viciously, the last of his water splashed onto his face.

"This isn't over! I'm not done with you!"

Athos felt another round of coughs rack his chest, his ribs were violently jostled, pain shooting through his lungs. His breaths were coming in wheezes, each one a sharpening pain in his sore chest. In an attempt to pacify the man looming above him Athos forced his eyes open. The light was painfully bright.

"There you go, Olivier…"

The hand gripped and tightened in his hair, drawing a tired groan from the man's cracked lips.

"Make you," breathe, wheeze, "feel better, Tommy..?"

"Seeing you like this?" His head was dropped and Athos crumpled to the floor, "Yea. Is pretty nice."

"Feel… Even?"

A foot came down savagely on Athos' elbow and pain burst forth in curdled scream.

"You know what? No, not yet."

The foot smashed into the same arm again and scalding white pain blinded Athos' gaze.

"Let's here you! Let's hear the pain, same as the pain you caused me!"

Thomas ground the broken bone around in Athos' arm under his heel. The pain was like nothing he had experienced as the bones ripped from their tendons and ground together like sand grit. His vision narrowed to a pin prick, the sound of his own cries filling his ears.

"30 seconds," Porthos eyes flicked back from his watch, eyeing d'Artagnan. The men had their guns in hand, d'Artagnan only his knife. Aramis had eyed him warily when he'd drawn it, but as Porthos had pointed out they couldn't leave him completely unarmed.

"Aramis to the office, take out the guards. You and I down the stairs to basement. 3154 on key pad. Last door at the end of the corridor, pad lock 611."

Porthos had repeated those instructions twice and d'Artagnan was willing to bet it was as much for him as it was Aramis or himself.

"10 seconds, ready?"

d'Artagnan nodded but Aramis leant forward, his lips only centimetres away from the lads ear.

"Betray us and I'll shoot you myself."

The promise, not a threat but a promise, sent a shudder down d'Artagnan's spine, but he nodded, "understood."

"Aand… Go!"

The three of them exploded through the door.

"How does it feel?" Thomas crouched down next to his brother's battered body, "How does it feel when you brother causes you such pain? Feel hurt?"

Thomas shoved against Athos' shoulder, rolling him onto his back. His arm flopped lifelessly at his side. Athos was vaguely aware he couldn't feel his fingers. The new position on his back laboured his breathing even more. His ribs stabbed against his insides with every breath in, every inhale a strain on his tired broken body.

Thighs settled on either side of his broken body as Thomas squatted over him – face so close to his older brother.

"Years I thought about this, about seeing you like this…" A finger trailed gently down his cheek and along his swollen eye socket, "See Olivier? I didn't want you letters or phone calls or visits… I didn't want your sorrys. I wanted this… I wanted to get even."

Athos' eyes squinted up. It took his brain a few moment to recognise the dark, round, object looming above him. It was only the click of the safety being removed which slotted his memory into place.

His eyes blinked, staring up into barrel of a gun.

"Killin' me wont' help…" Athos mumbled, the coopery taste of blood sliding between his teeth and over his tongue, "You th'nk it will… But you're wron'."

Thomas growled. His eyes darkened, blackened to the point Athos knew there was no return. His brother wasn't thinking anymore. He was drunk on adrenaline, on his own revenge plot.

"I'll let you know if it helps!"

The cool barrel of the gun was pressed into the soft underside of Athos' jaw. His gaze didn't falter from Thomas' crazed eyes.

"I love you, Tommy…"

Athos sucked one final breath through his teeth. His time had run out.

The bang of a door reverberated around room. Athos tensed, waiting for the gun shot, but instead…

"Ge' off my friend or I will paint the wall with your brain."

A breath caught in his throat. That wasn't fair, it wasn't fair. How cruel could his brain be? To tease him with visions of friends before death? Was it not enough that his life was to come to an end in some underground prison? Must he be taunted with hallucinations of his friends as well? He could just slip away… Flee from the painful visions of his friends into the grey unknown..?

The weight disappeared from his pelvis, along with the pressure of the gun barrel. His eyes slipped shut, losing focus as two strong hands cupped his face.

"No! No you stupid, grumpy, old man don't you dare!"

With the doors opened fleeting sounds of sirens danced mockingly into the room as the hands began to tap his face insistently.

"Please- Athos common' for me? Don't go to sleep," A pause and then, "Shit, where the HELL are the paramedics?"

Why was everyone desperate for him to stay awake? Darkness narrowed along Athos' unfocused gaze, his mouth slackening as the voice above him howled.

"Don't you dare, Athos please – please…"

But the blackness was inviting. He was tired.

"Shit, shit, shit… In here! He's going into shock! Help!"

The blackness welcomed him.

d'Artagnan's cell was fourteen feet by twelve. There were 378 tiles on the ceiling. He'd counted, twice. He'd paced every inch of the tiny room, sat on every square of the tiny single cot bed. He'd banged his fists the grey iron door for what felt like hours on end but no one had come. Food was just posted through the mail slot at ground level.

They hadn't even told him! Images of Athos' body, suddenly so small and still, plagued his consciousness every moment he closed his eyes. It felt like those last images of the man were seared into his eyelids. A man he'd been too weak to save…

d'Artagnan curled himself into the corner of his uncomfortable bed, knees drawn up to his chest, forehead pressed against his knee cap. The last time he'd seen Athos played again in his mind as if on sick sadistic loop.

"… In here! He's going into shock! Help!"

At Porthos' desperate shout two men in EMT uniforms shoved passed him. d'Artagnan had stumbled backward, allowed himself to be pushed back as Thomas de La Fere had been dragged past him in handcuffs. His gaze just stared passed him, eyes focused on the man on the floor as the back-up team seemed to arrive to help.

He can't be dead… He can't be dead…

"Arrest him." Two strong hands grabbed his shoulders as he was hauled back. He was spun as he hands were wrenched behind his back and cuffed, coming face to face with a thunderous glare which made him want to shrivel.

"Where to you want him Captain? With the others?" A voice he didn't recognise asked from over his shoulder.

The stranger's eyes narrowed, "No. Back to our holding cells. I'll deal with him personally."

d'Artagnan felt a shove in his back before he realised, fully, what was going on. They were taking him away! Away from the man who he'd tried to save. Away from 'the others', whoever they were..

"Wait-wait, please!" His heard lunged round, trying to find Porthos in the group around Athos. His back was to the action, Athos' hand in a vice-grip, "Tell them I helped you- tell them!"

But he was dragged from the room. The, well d'Artagnan wasn't sure who was marching him, the man had bundled him into the back of a van and from there to his holding cell.

That had must have been around two days ago.

Two days of nothing. No one had spoken to him, no one had entered his cell. Nothing. He supposed Athos was dead, that his friends were just biding their time before they exacted their revenge. Maybe that was why the Captain had requested he be housed separately, so they could arrange and 'accident' should their friend not pull through. Maybe they'd even make it look like a suicide… But then why go to that much trouble?

He was an illegal immigrant. No passport, no drivers license, hell even no birth certificate… No one to miss him. Rochefort wouldn't care. Constance would, but she was probably half way back to Ukraine by now... They could make him disappear and no one would be there to miss him. Why make his death look like an accident or suicide when they could just take his cut up body and throw it in the Seine?

Would they make him suffer? d'Artagnan wouldn't blame them. He got their friend killed, he'd delayed the rescue for his own selfish reasons. What if they'd gotten there 10 minutes earlier? Or 5? Or 1? Would it have made a difference?

Oh how d'Artagnan hated the 'what if' game. What if he and Constance had never come to France? What if they'd stayed in Ukraine or Russia? Or what if they'd come here legally, got themselves passports and visas and made it without Rochefort's 'help'?

He'd never know… That was the most frustrating part. d'Artagnan was perfectly aware of just how successfully he had fucked up his life. All the 'what if's just proved that.

The iron of the heavy cell door creaked and d'Artagnan's head shot up. At first he thought it was just the slot for food but then the whole door swung out. The boy scrambled off the bed, his back pressed up against the cold wall. His hands, unsure of what else to do, balled themselves into fists as a man walked through the door.

In an expensive, pressed navy suit, crisp white shirt and dress shoes, it took d'Artagnan a moment to recognise Athos. His hair was neatly combed and his beard had been trimmed. Of course there were still bruises on his face, a shadow of dark skin under his eye and along his jaw. His right arm wasn't in his suit jacket, instead wrapped tightly in a sling close to his chest.

Battered, yes, but alive… He was alive!

d'Artagnan waited for the man to speak, to shout, anything, but he just stepped to the side to allow another man through.

The man with the glare. The man who'd been called Captain.

The man's eyebrow arched as he gave d'Artagnan the once over. The intense glare sent a shiver down the boys spine, an odd suspicion he was being weighed, measured.

"You're sure?" The Captain asked without taking his eyes from the young man.

Athos nodded. He stood in his at ease position, feet shoulder width apart and good arm behind his back. He looked as if he didn't even notice his own cast.

"Without hesitation."

"Well then," The Captain nodded, "I suggest you both follow me." He turned and swept from the room, expecting the pair to follow.

Athos inclined his head to the open door, "After you."

d'Artagnan swallowed. He didn't know what he was walking into, perhaps they'd allowed Athos choose the punishment for his crime. Anything could be waiting out there. But, he realised, it wasn't like he had a choice.

His feet felt like led as he exited his cell and followed the Captain into a room opposite. It was an interview room, bare and cold with a table and two chairs. The older man took one and nodded to the other, indicating d'Artagnan should follow suit. Athos took up a place behind the Captain. If he was in pain, he certainly wasn't showing it.

"Do you know who I am, Charles?"

Charles… d'Artagnan supressed a flinch and shook his head.

"My name is Jean Treville, but most around here call me Captain. I run an organisation called The Musketeers."

"Like… The police?" d'Artagnan guessed but the man, Treville, shook his head.

"I suppose, in a way perhaps. Many of my men I found in the police, others the army, air-force, a range of places. I collect men - and women of course - from the top of their field who possess very specific skill sets. We do work for the government, but directly for the Prime Minister and his council, outside the police and other law enforcement agencies. Our aim is to protect the values of France and all of its inhabitants from a variety of different threats. When we do our jobs correctly, no one needs to know of our existence."

d'Artagnan's eyes flickered from Treville's face up to Athos, but he was looking firmly straight ahead. Athos was part of this? Why hadn't he said? If he had all these skills why hadn't he killed Charles back in that celler and walked out of that cell?

"Do you understand, Charles?"

The boy nodded, his eyes sliding back to the man in front of him.

"Yes, Sir. But I don't understand why you are telling me this…"

"A fair question," Treville admitted. He reached into a bag under the table and pulled out a piece of paper. He slid it across to d'Artagnan, who frowned down at the sheet.

"Do you read French, Charles?"

D'Artagnan shook his head, "A bit… Not so much."

"This is a contract. I'll paraphrase, but can have a copy drawn up in… Ukrainian?"

"Russian," d'Artagnan corrected. Part of the reason he had been so desperate to leave Ukraine, with anti-Russian feeling on the rise, he couldn't guarantee Constance's safety.

"Russian then. But the essence is simple. This contract is for an apprenticeship, to study directly under one high ranking Musketeer for a period of one year. If, at the end of that time you meet the required level, you will be offered a full commission into the Musketeers' ranks."

d'Artagnan blinked, his eyes fixed on the contract in front of him. A breath caught in his throat. He must have misheard, misunderstood… Or this was a joke, some cruel prank before the real revenge began.

"What?"

Treville slid the contract away from d'Artagnan, forcing his gaze back up to his own, "You will be our first 'apprentice' of sorts, I admit it is not how things here are usually done, however I have been assured your character is one worthy of our brotherhood, if your skills need time to catch up."

d'Artagnan's head spun, attempting to take in all the information at once.

"Assured? But who - ?"

But Treville held up a hand, silencing the boy. Once he obeyed the Captain continued.

"There are three conditions within the contract. First you are to assist in the prosecution of Marc Rochefort and Thomas de La Fère. You are to cooperate fully with our lawyers, which may include testifying at trial."

d'Artagnan nodded, in a daze.

"Second, you are to cut off all times with the Guard. If you are found to be with communicating with anyone from your old life, so much as a poke on Facebook, you will be in breach of the contract and steps will have to be taken accordingly."

Constance… All contact. The rest of them? d'Artagnan wouldn't offer them a second thought… But Constance…

Treville didn't wait for an agreement. He just carried on.

"Third…"He reached again into the bag by the table and withdrew a slim blue book. He tossed it in front of the boy. d'Artagnan looked from the man to the book, slightly warily, and picked it up. Gold lettering picked out words on the front cover. Most of it didn't mean much to the boy, but one word stood out.

Passeport.

d'Artagnan, with shaking fingers, flicked the little book open to the photo page and there he was, staring back at him.

"d'Artagnan de Lupiac…" d'Artagnan read, finger tracing the words to make sure his mind wasn't playing tricks on him, "French Citizen."

"All Musketeers are French citizens," Treville leaned forward, elbows resting on the table and his fingers together, "I'm afraid, in order to sign the contract, you need to accept French citizenship."

There was a lump in the boy's throat the size of his fist. French citizen. He'd lived ever since he came to France in fear of his illegal status and now there it was. A passport.

A French citizen.

But…

It took a great deal of effort to release the passport from his hands, as if it would be snatched away at any moment, but it wasn't so simple. d'Artagnan swallowed, his eyes glancing up nervously at the Captain. He didn't seem impatient for a decision, in fact he seemed passive, content to give the boy all the time you needed.

"I… Sir this is more than I could ever hope for but, my fiancée, she was in The Silver Room during the –"

"Aah," Treville arched an eyebrow, "There's always a girl."

He tossed another blue book onto the table, the familiar gold lettering glinting in the overhanging light.

"Is," d'Artagnan chocked out, "Is that…"

A smirk slid onto the Captain's face, "Should check it, shouldn't you?"

His hands shook as he fumbled to find the photograph page. It took him far longer than it should, but he finally made it to the information. There she was. Constance wasn't smiling, but it was her. Wild dark red hair and bright eyes.

"Constance de Lupiac." d'Artagnan read from the page, the same surname dripping of his tongue.

"We had to marry you, apologies," Treville didn't look sorry, "Marriage licences can be tricky things, of course there is nothing to stop you having a ceremony…"

d'Artagnan's eyes were still glued to Constance's photo. How long had it been since he'd seen her? 2 weeks? Felt like 2 months, hell 2 years.

"Where is she? Can I see her?"

"Soon," Treville nodded, "She was taken to the detention centre with the other women we found in The Silver Room. They're all being held there until citizenship and country of origin can be determined."

d'Artagnan felt his head nodding, barely aware as the Captain began packing up the papers round him. Gently he eased Constance's new passport from his grasp.

"I cannot in good conscience have you sign a contract you cannot read."

Finally, d'Artagnan looked up. Trevielle met his gaze, "So until I translate that into Russian, we will have a verbal agreement. Are you interested in the apprenticeship? Are my terms agreeable?"

And there it was. The offer. This wasn't a joke, wasn't a farce. A new life on a silver platter and he had to do was…

"Yes," d'Artagnan's mouth felt dry. He swallowed and tried again, "Yes they are."

"Excellent," Treville stood, brushing his hands down his suit trousers, "In which case I will leave you in the capable hands of your mentor. I believe you've met…"

He turned, a hand settling on Athos' good arm. The man offered a smile at his commander, who returned a smaller version.

"Once or twice. Thank you, Captain."

Treville turned back, nodded once more to d'Artagnan, and slipped from the room. The door clicked shut behind him.

The silence was, all of a sudden, defining. d'Artagnan's eyes found Athos, still standing in position. There was so much to ask, so much to say, but when the boy opened his mouth nothing came out. He wanted apologise, and thank him, and ask a hundred questions all at once. Where to start? d'Artagnan ran a hand through his hair.

"I…"

"We should start with your reading," Athos stepped forward and sat in the newly vacated seat, clearly planning to get down to business, "Then there will be rifflery and hand to hand combat, the basics. I may have Aramis and Porthos put you through your paces until this blasted thing comes off. Perhaps-"

"Why?"

Athos frowned. His hand reached up to shift his cast, carefully shifting it to a more comfortably position, "Well I can hardly throw you around on the mats right now."

"That's not what I-"

"You meant, I know…" Athos sighed, leaning back in his chair as he watched the young man in front of him, "I assume you worked out who was behind my abduction?"

d'Artagnan swallowed and nodded, "I… I heard most of what was said. Rochefort had me guarding the door… La Fère was you brother?"

Athos nodded, "My younger brother, only 14 months between us. We lost our father during our teenage years, our mother suffered a break down and never truly recovered. Instead of being there for him like I should have I decided to do my very best to raise my life to the ground. Thomas got caught up in the hurricane and ended up paying the price. It was an accident, I sent him to do a job for me. He got caught with my drugs and got 7 years for it."

Athos paused, his good hand running along his trimmed beard. d'Artagnan could see the creases in the older man's face, the pain in his eyes. After everything that happened, after how close he'd come to death, he was still plagued with guilt.

"After his trial I hit rock bottom. Thomas wouldn't return my calls, my letters, wouldn't attend my visits. My so called friends had abandoned me, realising I no longer had any drugs for them. I was alone, so I turned to the only thing that had comforted me in the past, alcohol and pills."

An uncomfortable feeling crept up the boy's spine. It seemed impossible, that the strong, stoic man on the other side of the table could bend so far…

"I almost died. I would have if it wasn't for the Captain."

d'Artagnan frowned, "Treville?"

Athos nodded, "The man served with my father. Came round to the family home and found me past out in the basement surrounded by wine bottles and an empty canister of pills. He shoved his fingers down my throat until I threw up the contents of my stomach. Without the Captain I'd be nothing but a grave stone. He packed a bag for me that night and moved me into his spare room, cared for me through a detox and then slapped me round the head for being so bloody reckless."

The man chuckled at the memory. d'Artagnan wasn't so sure he'd be laughing, roles reversed.

"I lived there for 6 months in all, before Treville suggested I get a fresh start. He helped me change my name, and wrote me a reference for when I applied to the army. I served for 12 years in all before I was offered a commission in the Musketeers. Now I'm here."

As the story came to an end d'Artagnan felt himself nod. He opened his mouth but Athos carried on.

"The only reason I'm here today, not dead in the ground, is because that man didn't give up on me and gave me a chance…"

His eyes fixed the young man with a look, cool blue eyes taking in the youth's face. d'Artagnan exhaled a long breath. It all fell into place.

"The same chance you're going to give me…"

Athos nodded.

"I couldn't save Thomas when we were kids and he wouldn't let me save him as adults. But I can save you, d'Artagnan. If you're willing to accept help."

Help… Help was for the weak, that's what d'Artagnan had been told. The last time he'd accepted an offer which seemed too good to be true he had ended up in debt to Rochefort, working for a man he loathed in order to keep the woman he loved safe.

But this was different. This was a new chance.

d'Artagnan swallowed, his throat suddenly feeling thick and fuzzy, "Thank you, Athos."

"Is my pleasure," The man got to his feet, and indicated that d'Artagnan should do the same, "That doesn't mean I won't work you hard. One year to get your skills to the standard of the Musketeers won't be easy. I need your commitment. You'll hate me at points, might even wish you'd told me where I could stick that contract. But you are more than capable of this d'Artagnan. I have every faith in you."

Athos led the pair out into the hall way and up a nearby stair case. It was amazing, d'Artagnan relented, that the man in front of his didn't show any pain. He had witnessed those beatings. His ribs, his arm... Any normal man would still be on bed rest.

But clearly, Athos was no normal man.

They stopped in front of a door and Athos shot a glance over his shoulder, "Ready?"

d'Artagnan straightened his back and took in a deep breath, "yea."

"Well then," The door swung open and Athos strode through. The large room was a hive of activity, men and women milling around everywhere. Some in clothes which wouldn't look out of place in an office, suits and ties and shirts and high heels. But some wore black combats and heavy boots with guns strapped about their shoulders and hips. Around the edge of the room were a dozen doors, each with a roman numeral etched into the wood. Athos led them through the mill of people quickly, nodding politely to people who offered their welcome backs and get well soons, to the door etched with the number 2. He slid it open easily, revealing a ruckus amount of laughter inside.

"You're lyin', Aramis. No chance. That's your bullshit face!"

"You wound me. All these years you still don't trust me?"

"Wit' my life? Yea? But your stories? Nah."

Athos stepped into the room and cleared his throat. d'Artagnan followed nervously, the smaller room coming into view. It was a good space, a window over looking the street two stories below. Four desks were positioned around the room, all facing inwards so the occupants could see each other. Two of the chairs were filled; Aramis and Porthos looked up. A smile split Aramis' tanned face as he stood, darting round the edge of the desks and bundled Athos into a hug. The man made a few disgruntled noises but didn't seem to protest too much.

"Grumpy Cat, welcome back!" Aramis' eyes caught d'Artagnan's over Athos' shoulder. The smile didn't fade exactly, but an eyebrow definitely arched as he drew back, "Picking up strays, Athos?"

"Got himself a pet," Porthos snorted, kicking up his legs onto the edge of his desk.

"Grumpy Cat got himself a pup!"

Athos used his good hand to draw d'Artagnan to his side, "You get used to the nicknames, don't bother fighting them," he murmured close to his ear before he addressed the room.

"Gentlemen, I believe you met d'Artagnan while I was otherwise engaged?"

"Something like that," Porthos muttered, eyes sliding between his friend's face and the newcomer, "Aramis pointed a gun at him… that's a kind of meeting, righ'?"

Athos shook his head, sure he would be filled in on that story later, "Well in that case I suppose I should do proper introductions. d'Artagnan meet Aramis Herblay and Porthos du Vallon, two of the most loyal men you will ever have the good fortune of serving beside. They, along with myself and now you, make up unit two of our organisation."

If the news of d'Artagnan's arrival was a surprise the pair didn't show it. Porthos nodded and Aramis offered a wave. d'Artagnan supposed there were far worse reactions. Athos placed a hand on the small of his back. A gentle, subtle gesture of I'm right here, beside you.

"Welcome, d'Artagnan, to the Musketeers."

Notes:

Well I hope you enjoyed the little fic! Please let me know what you think!

I might write more from this AU, maybe some one shots - would any of your be interested in reading them?