He shouldn't have to be doing this; his place was beside Athos and Porthos. The sound of those two under gunfire still echoed in the tremors under his skin and the need to be beside them right now was a harsh tug in his chest that left seething as he turned into the alley.

He saw the slim figure drop down on the other side of the barrier in an ungraceful heap before it scrambled off the briefcase it carried and dashed out across the street beyond. In three strides Aramis crossed the distance to Rochefort and grabbing the man stuck halfway up the wire mesh barrier he hauled him down with a jerk.

The man shook him off with a snarl, locked his hand around the inside of Aramis' elbow and shoved him into the nearest wall, aiming a punch to the side of his head.

Aramis ducked under the fist and grabbing back the arm holding him, he kicked the man in the shin and stepping behind Rochefort he twisted the arm back and up even as he pushed the man chest first into the wall; pinning him there with all his weight behind the arm across the back of Rocheforts' neck.

"What the hell is your problem?" the man in his hold wriggled and scowled.

"It's about 5'8", blond, blue eyed and currently the reason I'm not with my injured friends,"

Rochefort snorted in derision, lips pulling back as he sneered from where his face was pressed against the cold concrete.

"It's not like they're dying," he said.

Aramis leaned closer to the man, cold violence seeping into his voice at the thought of his friend's deaths.

"You better hope they're not," he said, "or my time spent in watching your back would be for nothing,"

He felt the man stiffen, the mocking grin slipped as the blue eyes widened when Aramis increased the pressure on Rochefort's neck and the man clenched his mouth shut at the implicit threat. Aramis smirked and stepped back from him. With the ease of one having to deal with it for a long time he shoved aside the bloodlust that lurked in the corners of his mind, coming to the fore whenever it sniffed danger for the ones he called his own.

Rochefort turned around but remained with his back pressed against the wall, contempt pulling his face in a deep snarl as he spat on the ground near Aramis shoes. Hate filled blue eyes met the brown ones in challenge.

"Why watch my back Aramis? What do you care if I die?"

Aramis' hand curled into a fist at his side…

…He's freezing his butt even through the insulated material of his uniform trousers, and yet the heady smell of crisp snow makes him grin despite of it all.

"We're seniors," Marsac shakes his head, "can you believe that? We are supposed to be the experienced one here. Damn that just makes me feel old."

He looks away from the camp where the trainee snipers are getting ready for their first night here and glances at his friend sitting beside him. Their backs are against the tree and he presses his elbow back against the tree bark, thumping his fist at the perfect point.

Marsac spewing profanities rings out over the clearing amidst Aramis' own laughter as his friend shudders and wriggles to free himself of the snow that had landed on him from the branches above…

…He pulled in a sharp breath and let it go slowly. Twenty men were dead on his watch and that was more than enough to last him a lifetime. Aramis grabbed the collar of the man before him and without a word shoved him ahead of him towards the mouth of the alley.

There will be no more deaths of those he was responsible for, even if that meant he had to protect the likes of Rochefort.

Picking up the long case from where he had set it down Aramis shouldered it, one hand clasping tight onto the strap cutting into his skin. As the police converged onto Mendoza's hotel he followed Rochefort out onto the sidewalk. There was a hospital he needed to be at.

…he wakes up to the sound of the main door crashing open. His clothes are still damp and the rain outside beats relentlessly against the window. His father's pale cold face swims before his eyes, his lips blue and forever stilled, never to smile again.

He wipes at his eyes and sits up at the sound of footsteps beyond his door, frowning in the darkness of his room. The teenager frowns at the screech of the couch being moved and the rattle of drawers in the bureau in his father's room. His fingers tighten around the packet the morgue had given him of his father's belongings. His gaze falls on the crimson card with an embossed 'C' pressed to the clear plastic and knows that it doesn't belong to his father.

There are voices outside now.

His numbed senses urge him to move, prick at him to get out of the danger he just knows he is in. The boy stumbles to his feet and to the window. He is soaked afresh as he steps onto the fire-escape and the cold outside snaps his frozen mind to work.

He waits atop the roof for the men to leave, for the car to disappear into the sheets of rain beyond his street. It is only then that he goes back to his ransacked apartment. His father's laptop is missing, so is his own and the CPU of the desktop from his father's study had been taken too. The boy only packs some of his clothes, food and the money that the intruders had surprisingly not touched. He shoves it all in one of the duffle bags around the one family heirloom he cannot part with.

Hefting his backpack and picking up the duffel he walks out of the apartment without a glance back, the door left open behind him…

…he let out a soft breath.

Blinking up he wondered why he was so close to the stadium lights and blinked again. The bright flare morphed into fluorescent lights set in a false ceiling and it took him a second to tune into the subdued rush about him. It was the smell of antiseptic that finally registered and he sat up abruptly, hissing at the pull on the IV in his hand.

"Oh good you're awake," she popped into his view in a manner that was quickly becoming familiar.

"Constance," he smiled, bright and honest.

"So your memory is working then," she grinned.

And then proceeded to burn his retinas with her penlight. He flinched and backed away, only for the light to follow as a small hand grabbed his chin and held his face. He could have sworn he heard the woman chuckle.

"Hold still,"

"You keep saying that," he muttered.

"I wouldn't have to if you weren't this fidgety,"

"I'm not fidgety," he shook his head out of her grasp and clenched his eyes shit at the sudden churning of the world. The young man raised his hand where the IV was stuck.

"Can you get this off me?"

He desperately hoped it wasn't pain medication they were pumping him full of. But the ache in his chest was already blunted and his head felt a bit like a giant glob of wet cotton on his shoulders and he was pretty sure the drab colours about him were not supposed to blur like that and no, everything wasn't drab, the woman before him certainly wasn't. She was beauty personified even with that pale pink uniform that clashed with her red curls. She was the most – he shook his head vehemently.

This was not happening; no he was not going there.

Focus! he ordered his mind.

Constance looked at him again and his grin was automatic.

"We didn't want to give you anything heavy until you came around," she tucked the light away and crossed her arms before her chest before looking down at him, "now can you tell me your name? And if there's any medication you may be allergic to?"

A small smile was playing on her lips and he was mesmerized by that.

No, no! he would have smacked his brain physically if he had been able to just so that he could get his attention on track. His hands clenched into fists and the jab of needle in his skin had him looking down.

"Get me off this please," he reached for the tape at the back of his hand, breath picking pace, "can't have pain-meds, get it off."

He couldn't risk it; he wouldn't risk taking pain medication. He would be blabbering out his thoughts in a matter of minutes, it had been funny when he was a child but now his ramblings could cost him his life if the audience was wrong. His fingers found the edge of the tape and pulled.

"Hey, hey calm down," Constance stayed his hand, "let me help you,"

"Get. It. Out," he growled through his teeth.

The look of surprised hurt as she moved to do what he asked wound him in a way he hadn't expected. She had only been trying to help him and she was the reason he wasn't in the clutches of that mad yellow haired man chasing him. Constance had saved him when she had driven her scooter into his side.

Constance with that fierce spark in her eyes, that breathtaking smile and the amazing determination; The Hound smiled to himself.

He shook his head abruptly and brought his thoughts to a screeching halt.

He mentally cursed the medication already in his bloodstream and rubbing a hand over his mouth he hoped that he had not voiced his thoughts out loud. He ran his hand through his hair, pulling a bit at the strands between his fingers and used the sting against his scalp to force his wandering mind into order. There were things he needed to focus on. There was something he had been carrying.

"My briefcase," he swung his legs down ready to go in search of it, "my briefcase where is it?"

Constance raised a brow and nodded towards the foot of his bed. He grabbed at the handle and pulled close the slightly dented bag. He was distantly aware that he may be looking suspicious but he did not want questions to arise in case the amount of money he was carrying in there came to light. The Hound raised his chin and stared back in defiance at the woman who had her lips pursed into a thin line.

He was being thankless; he knew that and his mind belatedly pointed out that his father had taught him better. The young man let his shoulders drop, his gaze lowered and flicked from the floor to his shoes that he noticed were still on his feet. He looked up when his shirt landed in his lap.

"I'll get the doctor,"

"Constance wait," he blurted out before she could leave.

The nurse turned back to him with a pointed glare.

"Thank you," he said, eyes bright with all the gratitude he felt until his gaze dropped again, "and I'm sorry."

She nodded at him before disappearing behind the curtain and he was left wondering if he would ever get to see her again, more than surprised when he realized that he wanted to see her again. With a sigh that hurt his aching ribs he winced back into his shirt and buttoned it close over the bandage covering his chest. Even with the short time given to him he had done all he had set out to do the day Mendoza had contacted him. He had set things into motion that would see Mendoza's ring going down and Athos would go down with him, but relief wasn't forthcoming for The Hound.

The sense of satisfaction that he has assumed would be at the end of his revenge just wasn't there.

His father was still dead, he was still alone and still a criminal. His life hadn't turned around just because he had found a way to hurt the man responsible for Alexander d'Artagnan's death. A part of him knew that no matter what he did he would never be able to get back what he had lost but the rest of him was simply hurting.

Now that the medicine in his blood had lowered the defenses around his mind, pain that he had never really faced leaked out to the surface it had been lurking just below. The young man wiped his suddenly wet eyes and felt the side of his leg where he kept his switchblade.

He knew where Athos worked.

The Hound had now one thing left to do.

The curtain pulled back with a rattle and a swish.

"Porthos?" he asked.

"At the cost of repeating myself for the seventh time he's fine, they're bringing him in from the C.T scan as we speak," Ninon smiled as she stepped closed the curtain behind her and handed a glass of water to Athos, "and for the tenth time it was just a precaution Athos, don't look like that."

"No concussion?"

"None diagnosed so far,"

"The gunshot wound?"

"They took care of it first," Ninon smirked slightly, "he was in the bed right beside yours remember,"

"There's still blood-loss to account for," he said, "and infections."

He wished Aramis was here, as much as he appreciated the woman keeping him updated he could not bring himself to trust her understanding of the situation.

Ninon reached forwards and patted his hand; it took all of his will power to not pull it away. She was smart, a good shot with a rifle and there had been mutual attraction from the moment she had looked him in the eye and smirked. But then she had kissed him at the end-of-the-first-week party for the new recruits and to Athos' horror he had liked that that about her.

But he had liked that about her too, when they had met in class, when she pointedly chose to sit next to him, when she had relentlessly drawn him out from the misery of missing his friends and when she had turned to him in the corridor one day…

… "Athos d'La Fere I'm going to kiss you now," and she proceeds to do just that.

Her green eyes are stars themselves when she leans back.

"Anne," he smiles…

…clenching his hand into a fist he stiffened against the pillow at his back and subtly pushed back against it. His eyes widened at the hand waving before his face. Ninon frowned at him and squeezed his hand in what he assumed was reassurance.

"Are you sure you're not the one with the concussion?" she asked.

His fingers instinctually reached for the bruise at the side of his head and he grimaced when they made contact. He hadn't even been aware that he had hit his head until the doctor had poked at it.

"I'm fine,"

"He has a hard head," came the voice from behind Ninon, "and delicate feet apparently,"

That voice; strong, steady and teasing, was the best medicine he could have hoped for.

"I can still kick you for escaping the nurse charged with your care," Athos felt a smile pull at his lips as Porthos scowled.

The relief at seeing the big man stable on his feet was tinged with worry at seeing him ease down at the edge of the bed where Athos' swollen and bandaged ankle was propped up. He didn't miss the deliberate slowness with which his friend turned his head to face him.

"She wanted to stick me into a wheelchair," Porthos looked somewhere between horrified and disgusted, "on the way back too."

"You're still unbalanced," Ninon pointed out.

"Aren't we all?" he asked.

Ninon rolled her eyes but Porthos' grin was infectious. Even through its brightness Athos was aware of the way his friend's dark eyes scanned him over, searching for injuries and reading every line of his posture just as he had been studying his friend before.

"Ninon could you find Flea and tell her I'm fine?" Porthos turned to the woman, "and please don't let her come back here, she'll probably break my legs just to make sure I learn to stay in the wheelchair when asked to,"

"I can give it a try," she told him as she made to step out of the curtained area but stopped to look back at them one more time, "I'm glad you two are alright," she said.

Athos wondered how Rochefort was handling this newcomer in his team, he had already hated that Flea and Charon were friends with Porthos. It seemed his cousin couldn't catch a break where his teams' likes and dislikes were concerned.

A tap on his hand had Athos looking down.

Porthos tapped the back of his hand again, the hand that had fisted into the bed-sheet with enough force to turn his knuckles white.

"She's gone now," Porthos said.

Athos looked up at his friend as something warm unfurled in his chest and he smiled even as he shook his head. Not really surprised that his brother had noticed his discomfort and acted according to those same protective instincts that had made him cover Athos with his body to keep him safe from gunfire.

He slowly unclenched his fist as his heart clenched for a completely different reason this time around. His eyes went to the thick bandage on his friend's arm and try as he might no words came to his mind. Instead he found himself looking to his friend's face again.

Porthos tapped his own ear and looked Athos right in the eyes.

"This could have been worse if not for you," he said before he tapped the wound on his arm, "and this could have been someplace else if you hadn't done what you did."

"Not the same," Athos said and raised his hand to stop him before he could refute, "but if our places had been reversed in that situation, I wouldn't have given it a second thought."

Because that was simply the way they were.

"No regrets," Porthos grinned.

"Team two is coming in, I've sent Laurent back with them," he spoke into the phone as he jogged through the parking lot of the hospital.

"You were supposed to directly come to the office,"

"I can't Captain," and Aramis was not going to apologize for that, if the man expected him to follow on that order then he mused the Captain didn't know him at all.

The silence on the other end was foreboding.

Aramis stopped at the reception of the emergency ward.

"I'll be coming back with my team," he said plainly before a smirk curled at the edge of his lips, "don't think either of them would be in any condition to drive a car,"

Taking the excuse for a way to acquiescence as it was, the man on the other end of the line accepted.

"I'll see you in my office," with that the Captain cut the call.

Aramis wasted no time to spare it a thought, his eyes set on the doctor standing in the middle of the waiting area who was looking like a particularly irritated stork. Weaving through crowd of ailing and sniffling Aramis made it over to the man just as Doctor Lemay's eyes alighted on him.

"Aramis, did you see a young man outside? Dark eyes, dark hair – longish, would have been moving slowly and probably hunched forwards a bit."

"There may have been flying white elephants in tutus out there and I'd have missed them,"

Lemay arched a brow as he gave one last look around and shrugged in defeat. He turned his attention back to the man beside him.

"Those two are fine in case you wanted to recheck on the giant flight inclined mammals in our parking lot," he said as he stepped back into the emergency room, "a little banged up but not in any imminent danger of keeling over."

Aramis fell in stride with him as they made their way past the rows of beds, some of them closed off behind blue curtains.

"There was a flash bomb," he said.

"Neither of them is concussed, but a hit to the vestibular system has left Porthos a bit off balanced,"

"Prognosis?"

"It's temporary, a few hours maybe,"

"Athos' ankle?"

"Typical inversion sprain, grade II," Lemay pulled back the curtain from around one of the beds; "he'll need to rest it properly since he's having trouble putting weight on it."

"And how would you know for sure when you wouldn't let me stand," Athos groused as he lifted the ice pack off his ankle.

"That's because you're waiting for him to let you stand unlike some of us," Porthos gave him a smug grin.

"I'll get your discharge papers," Lemay shook his head and left them to it.

Relief clogged his throat at the sight of the two men and Aramis felt his lungs loosen up at the proof before his eyes for all that he had heard and hoped. His brothers were indeed relatively well and coherent and it left him holding onto the back of the plastic chair before him.

Those few moments of silence between the bang and Athos' voice through the mobile phone finally eased off their hold over his heart.

"You hit your head," his eyes fixed to the side of Athos' face, a hint of accusation in his tone.

"I wasn't aware of it,"

The touch of apology in his explanation was not what gave Aramis a pause; it was the lingering shadows in his friend's eyes. Wisps of that haunted man who had tried his best to drown in alcohol years ago seemed to have found a way about Athos' visage now.

Aramis knew that look had something to with her and he knew that these days only one person brought those memories to the surface. Although he would tease Athos mercilessly over it and he was sure the woman wasn't aware of the problems she had been causing but it still didn't abate the misery he felt for his friend.

"What did Ninon do now?" he asked.

Athos eyes rounded in surprise but Porthos only smiled slightly.

"She tried to assure him," said the big man.

Guilt raised his head at that, he should have been there to assure his friend, of all the people Aramis knew the best how worried Athos could get for their safety and he was one of the two people in the world who knew how to settle that for him.

He let go of the edge of the chair's backrest and ran a hand through his hair.

"I'm fine," Athos said.

It was the silent plea between the words asking to let it go and Aramis turned to Porthos with a frown.

"And you got shot," he accused mockingly, but the worry coming to the surface was honest, "five minutes into an assignment and you've earned yourself a gunshot wound,"

"Scratched,"

"Grazed," Athos corrected.

"How's that different?" Porthos demanded.

Aramis nudged the chair with the heel of his boot and sat down in it. Looking from one injured man to the other he swiped a hand down to his face and clasped the back of his neck to nip the twinge there.

"How did this happen?" he wanted to know.

It was a recon mission for crying out loud; only with their luck would they go in for inconspicuous information gathering in a small neglected hotel and come out of it wounded with half the city's police force converging on their mark.

"Porthos here saw the flash bomb and tackled me,"

"Athos returned fire until you stepped in,"

"Enlightening," Aramis smirked, "I'm sure The Captain would love to hear this succinct report,"

Athos and Porthos shared a look before turning to him; there was no way to miss the honest puzzlement in their faces. Aramis sat straighter, he had assumed they were being deliberately obtuse but the furrow between Porthos' eyebrows and the pinched corner's of Athos' eyes told him that his brother were genuinely struggling to form an explanation.

"We never got a chance to lay our eyes on Mendoza, let alone to find anything about Cornet." Athos said.

"They just dropped the flash bomb down the stairs as we were about to go up," Porthos nodded.

That made no sense at all, unless Mendoza knew about them. Aramis didn't like where this was going but the unspoken theory was clearly reflected in his friends' faces. Somehow Mendoza knew and that left a gnawing feeling in Aramis' gut. They all started a bit when Lemay cleared his throat pointedly before he handed a wad of papers to Aramis.

"You two are free to go," he said.

"And that means Lemay wouldn't give chase," Aramis grinned, "he has taken to tracking down wayward patients personally you know."

"I was looking for him as a favor to a friend, something that apparently friends do for each other."

It warmed him to hear the man quip back, the first time Aramis had met him George Lemay had been a nervous mess. With a grin Aramis pushed to his feet and threw an arm across the narrow shoulders of the doctor.

"You making friends, patients running away and bombs dropped willy-nilly down stairwells; what is the world coming to?"

"And don't forget the flying white elephants in tutus," Lemay added dryly.

He clasped his hands around the warm mug of coffee and glanced out the large window he was sitting next to. Beyond the inverted red letters painted on the glass and across the road was the building where he knew Athos worked. The main door set above the stairs was right in his view and his switch blade was now a burning weight in his pocket.

He would see Athos, coming in or going out, either way today he would see the man face to face no matter how many hours he had to wait out. Because he would kill the man, take from him irreversibly what he had taken from his father. Today Alexander d'Artagnan's son would have his revenge.

He wrapped his hands tighter around the mug in an effort to stop their trembling. The tips of his fingers had pressed white only for the shaking to shift up his arms. The young man pressed his elbows onto the table top and stared out the window, not wanting to miss his chance.

He jiggled his knee.

Took a sip of his coffee.

Jiggled his knee again and bumped into the briefcase propped by his feet.

The memory of gunshots was loud in his ears and a part of him wondered if this was the right, if he was not just reacting to stress, adrenalin and the medication in his blood. Drawing a hand through his hair he wiped his shaky fingers down his face.

He couldn't back out now.

He will do this or he would spend the rest of his life regretting the moment of reckless abandon that was offered to him by his current state.

He saw a car stop at the edge of the ramp that led to the basement of the building on the other side of the road. He straightened when the driver got out first, followed by the man in the back who helped out the one in the front passenger seat.

The big man shifted away from the car and The Hound shot to his feet at the sight.

It was Athos who the larger man was helping out of the car.

Throwing likely more than twenty times the money he owed onto the table, the young man grabbed his briefcase and headed out. Crossing the road, with the switch blade in one hand he came up behind Athos on the side walk. His larger friend was a few steps ahead of him and taking the chance The Hound placed the edge of his blade against the side of the man's neck.

His enemy stilled.

"You are Athos? Olivier d'Athos d'La Fere?" asked The Hound.

"Yes…"

His world faded out save for the man before him.

And the young man stepped back but not too far, with his blade still touching the man's throat he let Athos turn around slowly. The younger one wanted to see his face, he wanted to look in the eyes of the man he hated, wanted to see his fear and pain as he stood over the man as his executioner.

And then with his hands raised by his side the man turned his blue gaze onto him.

"I'm Charles d'Artagnan of Lupiac from Gascony" the declaration came out soft against the sudden lump in his throat.

He was suddenly more present, identifying himself making the pain of his experiences just a bit more sharp, it made his anger cut a bit too deep. How long had it been since he had mentioned his name he wondered but dared not let his mind stray from the man before him.

He wanted this man to know, to see the child he had orphaned, to force him to put a face to the life he had destroyed.

The edge of his blade pressed Athos under the chin, forcing his face up a bit. The man looked defiant in the face of it all, his blue eyes calm as they bore into him.

D'Artagnan sucked in a breath through gritted teeth and swallowed hard.

"You killed my father," he blinked to clear the stinging in his eyes and steadied his hand, "prepare to die."

The blue eyes finally left his gaze and wondered over his face, roving over his features.

"I didn't know your father," Athos said.

"You deny that you murdered Alexander d'Artagnan?" it wrangled past his clenched jaw as he used all his will power to not just jab the blade in the man's neck.

"I've never heard of the man," Athos said, "I usually remember the name of the people I kill."

He could not believe the nerve of this man.

"LIAR!" it rode out on the rage burning in his gut and d'Artagnan lunged at Athos.

He found himself down the stairs and beside Aramis, the deceptive calm of his brother not hiding the hyper vigilance Porthos knew his brother was sharing with him at the moment. In a reflex ingrained into their very being, they had moved towards each other and Athos at the first sign of trouble.

The three of them against the world;

Always.

But Athos had asked them to stay out of it.

With a single glance he had assured them that he had got this and Porthos had to clench his fists by his sides to keep put when that mad kid lunged at his friend; blade slashing a hairsbreadth away from Athos' neck as the older man leaned back.

It left him wobbling slightly with his sprained ankle hovering above ground. But Athos caught the fist heading for his face and using his enemy's momentum to steady himself he trapped the arm against his side.

With is other hand he locked onto the wrist of hand swiping at him with the blade.

A twist of his grip and the switchblade fell even as the younger man hissed against the pain.

Athos still held the kid trapped in his hold until he stopped wriggling to free himself.

The wild dark eyes glared at him and Porthos was reminded of a cornered snake.

"I'm not the man you're looking for," Athos said.

"Liar,"

"Think what you wish but I have nothing to do with your father's murder,"

And being the noble idiot that his friend is he shoved the kid away and free. As d'Artagnan went staggering back and Athos risked touching the sidewalk with his toes, Porthos groaned internally.

"He should've knocked him out," he muttered to Aramis at his side.

"But this is more fun," Aramis flashed him a grin.

But their eyes never strayed from their friend where he was glaring down at the young man who looked coiled for an attack from where he was half crouched.

"You're a murderer and a liar," d'Artagnan snarled and pounced.

Athos sidestepped and catching his arm twisted it back and up, eliciting a chocked cry from the younger man before he shoved him away again. But d'Artagnan simply swung back around with right hook that Athos ducked under and delivered a hit to the younger man's face.

Porthos winced when the boy landed on his hands and knees, hard.

"Enough," Athos said.

It took a huge amount of his will power to not to sway where he stood.

The sprained ankle had knocked him off his usually sure footed stance and the sheer anger behind this young man's attack was threatening to smash him down onto the pavement. He had tried to not harm the deranged boy and hoped that he would stay down this time.

But much to Athos' surprise the damned kid scrambled back to his feet again, this time with the blade in his grasp.

With an enraged cry d'Artagnan lunged forwards.

Athos leaned back slightly, recognized his mistake a second too late and felt his foot slipping out from under him.

As the world tipped up before him he saw the ferocious hatred in those dark eyes and the gleam of sunlight d'Artagnan's blade.

He knew it would drive home into his gut this time around.

Or he would hit the pavement with his head.

But something solid met his back, abruptly breaking his fall.

Athos blinked up at Porthos grinning at him, his view shifting as his brother propped him back onto his good foot. Wincing slightly Athos stared at Aramis' back who had stepped before him, effectively stopping d'Artagnan's attack.

As Porthos shifted onto his side he heard d'Artagnan curse. The younger man was struggling to get his wrist free from Aramis but his restrainer only rolled his eyes.

"He said enough," Aramis said.

"Get out of my way you clown," d'Artagnan snapped.

"And what are you going to do about it my floppy haired loon?"

"I'll fight you then," d'Artagnan's jaw was set, "I'll fight you both,"

"Three," Porthos corrected.

Athos saw the fear flitting across the gaze that shifted to Porthos before the young man set his shoulders straight with a decisive nod.

"I'll fight all three of you,"

Porthos smirked.

Aramis grinned.

And Athos felt something almost like pride stir in him just before the boy twisted out of Aramis' hold and swung at Porthos. It took three seconds for the big man to lock both of d'Artagnan's arms behind his back. It was the half scream that followed as the boy went limp in Porthos' hold that pretty much gave Athos a heart attack.

"What the bloody hell?" Porthos shifted his feet to accommodate for the sudden dead weight.

Aramis helped him ease the boy down onto the sidewalk and Athos looked up to realize for the first time that there were other people around. Hobbling over to his friends he stared down at the narrow brown face that was eerily slack and felt a twang in his heart at the sight.

"Is he dead?" Porthos asked.

"No, passed out from the pain most likely," Aramis replied, "he'd been favoring his left side ever since this started"

"He had?" Porthos frowned.

"And his breathing had been erratic," Aramis checked the boy's pulse rate.

Porthos glanced up at Athos and they both shrugged in unison, neither of them having noticed any such thing. But when Aramis lifted the boy's shirt it was to expose the bandages underneath.

"Like I thought, he had hurt his ribs," Aramis said.

Porthos whistled softly, the surprise in his eyes tempered with respect as he looked up from the prone boy to his friend.

"That's Charles d'Artagnan," Athos shook his head and surprised even himself at the almost fondness in his tone.

"Help me with this Porthos," Aramis manhandled the insensate young man to his feet before turning around and crouching down before him.

Without a word Porthos helped their friend arrange d'Artagnan onto his back and Athos didn't miss the touch of warmth in Aramis' eyes as he adjusted his hands under the younger man's knees as he pushed to stand up. Athos retrieved the briefcase d'Artagnan had been carrying and leaned onto Porthos as they followed Aramis into the building; their young attacker secure on Aramis' back.

Okay, I had been terrified of touching the "d'Artagnan meeting the Inseparables" scene for the fear of ruining it. It's such an iconic and awesome moment and absolute perfection on screen. But this chapter finally happened and after much reworking and procrastinating and more reworking I finally made it through :)

Thank you everyone who read, favorite and follow this story. Those of you who leave me reviews you're my lampposts on this journey I often lose my way on. Thank you to the dear guest reviewers, Debbie, Clara and Ruth.

TBC