Sortie
Athos completed his morning routine – minus the need to shock his system awake via a bucket of icy water – and stepped out into the garrison courtyard just after dawn. Serge had placed bowls of food, covered by towels, on the long table and to Athos' surprise, Aramis was slouched against a post next to the spread of food, a bowl in his hand, his eyes on the livery.
His hat was lying on the table next to his heavier cloak, but his jacket and pauldron looked clean and neat, his weapons were squared away, and while he bore a pensive expression, he seemed clear-eyed and quite himself.
Athos hadn't expected the man to even be conscious for several hours yet. He could count on one hand the times he'd seen Aramis as far gone in drink as he'd been the night before. Rolling his neck in an unconscious gesture of preparation, Athos crossed the courtyard and slung a leg over the bench, near where Aramis stood, the very picture of casual observation.
"Something interesting in the livery?" Athos inquired.
Without looking at him, Aramis replied, "A horse is missing."
Athos frowned, pulling off a hunk of bread and craning his neck to look past his friend, though the entrance to the livery was shadowed.
"You know this how?"
At that Aramis did look at him, an eyebrow raised. "I was checking on our young Gascon friend."
"Surely he didn't sleep in the livery again," Athos exclaimed, instinctively looking toward d'Artagnan's room.
"He did," Aramis replied. "Though, he's not there now. I sent him to clean up before training. He looked a bit…rough."
Athos glowered in the general direction of the livery. "That boy has barely an ounce of self-preservation."
"Ah, so that's what you see in him," Aramis teased, glancing askance at Athos while lounging against the post.
With a pointed frown, Athos chided, "You and Porthos are too easy on him. If he's to continue to keep up with this regiment—"
"Athos," Aramis interrupted, his tone holding enough reproach that Athos swallowed the rest of his rebuke. "You realize what today is, yes?"
Confused, Athos simply tipped his head in question.
"This time next week will be a year since you faced a firing squad," Aramis reminded him, looking away as thought the memory pained him. "Just after d'Artagnan charged into this garrison accusing you of…."
"…murdering his father," Athos completed, slumping a bit against the table in realization.
It had been a year since d'Artagnan's father died. No wonder the lad had been reluctant to leave his personal refuge.
"He needed some latitude," Aramis stated.
Athos glanced up at Aramis, relieved to see that the sleep-deprived bruising seemed to be less beneath his friend's eyes and his color had returned to normal. "You are looking remarkably well for a man who was four bottles in last night."
Aramis hummed a non-committal reply and pushed away from the post, sitting down next to Athos, facing the opposite direction. Something about the set of his friend's jaw and the way his dark eyes slipped and skidded away, resting on nothing, had Athos' senses on alert.
"What?" Athos prompted.
Aramis took a bite from the grains in his bowl, not responding.
"Aramis," Athos stretched out the name. "What did you do?"
"Confession, my friend," Aramis glanced to the side, his dark eyes heavy with secrets, "truly is good for the soul."
Athos frowned. "You…went to confession? At this hour?"
"Not exactly," Aramis hedged, then glanced over his shoulder as the sound of boots against the boardwalk caught their ears.
Athos looked up and saw Porthos pause at the edge of the courtyard, tying a scarf around the crown of his head, keeping the thick rope of his hair bound behind him. His schiavona was conspicuously absent from his weapon's belt, but other than that, he seemed no worse for the wear.
Then, Athos caught the expression darkening his friend's scarred face. And he knew in that instant what had lifted the weight from Aramis' shoulders so thoroughly.
"You told Porthos," he accused, his tone carrying a knife's edge to it.
Aramis gave him a side-long glance. "I take it you think that was not a good idea?"
"Quite a bad one, actually," Athos said, barely keeping his voice from descending into a growl. "At this rate you're going to get us all hanged."
Porthos approached slowly, and Athos found it difficult to meet the man's eyes.
"It was an accident," Aramis whispered.
Athos' jaw tightened, his teeth clenching. "You accidentally confessed to sleeping with the Queen?" This time, he did growl.
"Oi," Porthos snapped as he sat down. "Mind saying it a bit louder? Not sure Treville heard you."
"Athos, listen," Aramis hissed, grabbing his arm in a plea for attention. "You need to understand something."
Athos turned the full force of his terror for his friend's fate into an angry glare that rolled into fury as he spoke in a low, hushed tone. "Understand what? That you are a man and she a woman and you simply couldn't help yourself? Or perhaps that she enticed you? What could you possibly say that would make this – and everything that's come from this – acceptable?"
Porthos pounded a fist against the table, catching their attention and causing Aramis to jump.
"Not. Here."
Without waiting to see if they would follow, Porthos stood, moving past them and heading to the livery. Aramis stood, grabbed his hat, and followed. Athos sighed, staring at the table for a moment before glancing up to see the garrison slowly waking around him. Musketeers filtered into the courtyard, several making their way toward the breakfast table.
He did not yet see d'Artagnan, and for that he was relieved. The longer he could protect their young friend from this truth, the safer he'd be. As it was, the three of them were treading a very thin line between honor and the hangman's noose.
Grabbing Aramis' cloak from the table, he stood and stormed toward the livery where his friends were waiting. As he entered the darkened building, he saw Jacques hurrying out toward the breakfast table. The stable boy was typically the only occupant in the livery – save for the times d'Artagnan used it as his alternate quarters – and Athos knew they would be alone.
He headed back toward the tack area, noticing as he passed the stalls that Aramis had been correct about the missing horse. It was a gelding that Treville typically preferred to ride when they accompanied the King on a hunt. He mused that he hadn't heard of the King summoning Treville, but ignored that concern in the face of the bigger one.
"Tell me," he hissed the moment he saw Porthos and Aramis lurking in the back of the livery, "how you find yourself accidentally confessing something like that to your friend, when knowing it could get him killed."
He tossed Aramis' cloak at him and glared, his worry dangerously close to the surface.
"I said her name," Aramis sighed, catching the cloak one-handed and flinging it over his shoulder.
"You said—"
"I was drunk," Aramis snapped. "I was saying the first thing that came to my head…."
Athos glanced at Porthos who simply tipped his chin down in agreement.
"I referred to Anne. Porthos thought I meant your…Milady. He began to rant—"
"Weren't a rant," Porthos muttered. "More like arbitrary…well, threats or…. I was confused."
Aramis nodded at his friend. "He was rather vocally confused," he allowed. "And in my haste to assure him that I had not been misleading you…I accidently told him about the Queen."
"The other Anne," Porthos interjected, earning him an arched eyebrow from Athos.
"Aramis," Athos shook his head, feeling suddenly quite tired. "You must be able to stand up to scrutiny!"
"It's not scrutiny!" Aramis argued, stepping forward, toe-to-toe with Athos. "It's Porthos!"
He said the name in such a way Athos heard an entire paragraph of meaning. They were more than simply friends and soldiers, the three of them. They were brothers, bonded and inseparable, regardless of circumstance.
Athos looked past Aramis' heated, pleading gaze, and met Porthos' eyes. The larger man said nothing, but simply lifted his chin, his expression softening into a knowing acceptance. He'd taken on Aramis' secret willingly. It was clear that being in the dark would have been more of a burden than knowing. Nodding slowly, Athos dropped a heavy hand on Aramis' shoulder.
"I just…I fear for you, my friend," Athos said quietly. "This…dalliance…cannot continue. It will lead to your death one day."
"This didn't just happen," Aramis said, moving out from beneath Athos' hand and turning away from both of them to face the stalls. "You don't understand."
Athos exchanged a look with Porthos, quickly determining that they were both in uncharted territory with this one.
"Then perhaps you can help us."
"I knew one of the nuns," Aramis said quietly. "When I was young. d'Artagnan's age. We were to be married; she was going to have a child. But, the baby was lost and her father…removed her from my presence."
Athos felt something inside him shift. He'd noticed that Aramis had certainly not been himself at the abbey, but he'd had no idea how his friend had been affected by their presence there.
"Who?" Athos asked, his voice dry.
"Isabelle."
For a moment, Athos was unable to remember any of the nuns save the feisty Mother Superior who'd helpful re-loaded muskets and harquebuses during the firefight. Then, he suddenly recalled the cellar and Aramis leaning over the body of the murdered nun, seemingly offering her last rites. And he remembered Aramis' suspiciously wet eyes and the way his hand had trembled as he'd placed his hat back on his head as if nothing were wrong.
"Oh, my friend." His genuine empathy bled through his words.
"The Queen discovered what had…who Isabelle had been. I could not hide my pain from her," Aramis looked at Athos, then slid his gaze to Porthos, pleading for both of them to understand. "She was…," he looked down. "She was kind. And lonely. And for a moment…she wasn't a queen and I wasn't a Musketeer. We were simply two people who…needed each other."
Athos nodded, finding that he did, in fact, understand.
"And the truth of it is," Aramis looked up slightly, keeping his chin ducked as though afraid to say the next words. "I love her."
"The child," Porthos said after a moment of silence. "It's yours."
Aramis looked down once more, his nod barely perceptible.
"We never speak of this," Athos said quietly. "Not to anyone. Especially not to d'Artagnan."
Porthos and Aramis nodded in unison. Athos reached out again and gripped Aramis' shoulder, waiting until Aramis looked up at him.
"Your brothers have your back, Aramis," Athos assured him.
Porthos stepped up, mimicking Athos' stance.
"We will stand by you," he said, solemnly.
Aramis' mouth pulled up in a half smile and he nodded, eyes filling with a look of profound sadness. "d'Artagnan will know we are keeping something from him," he predicted. "He'll feel it."
"It's for his own protection," Athos said, dropping his arm. "He's still too…."
"Naïve."
"Innocent."
Athos looked from Porthos to Aramis as they filled in words. "Young. As much as it pains me to say it, life needs to rough him up a bit more before he can absorb such a truth."
The men nodded, albeit reluctantly, just as they heard the Gascon's voice calling to them from the courtyard.
"Athos!"
Turning as one they headed to the large, opened door of the livery. d'Artagnan was approaching them, his face pinched with worry. Athos had a brief moment to notice that even after a rough night of little sleep, d'Artagnan still looked achingly young, lacking the lines of age and worry he'd seen in his own reflection after similar experiences. Perhaps it was that he didn't seem able to yet grow a full beard.
"Here," Athos called.
d'Artagnan paused when he saw them emerging from the livery. "What are you doing in there?" he asked, genuinely confused.
"One of the horses is missing," Aramis called out, smoothly providing a plausible reason. "I noticed it when I chased you out of here earlier."
d'Artagnan's face paled slightly and he looked away, a curse ghosting his lips.
"What is it?" Athos asked, at once concerned.
"You need to come to the courtyard," d'Artagnan told them. "And then…we need to talk."
He turned and headed back to the center of the garrison, not waiting to see if they would follow. Exchanging a confused glance with the other two men, Athos made his way forward, hearing Porthos and Aramis flank him. To his surprise, the entire Musketeer regiment was assembled, some fully dressed with their weapons and pauldrons in place, others having just rolled from their bunks bleary-eyed with shirts untucked.
Senses on alert, Athos looked up toward Treville's office and found, to his surprise, one of the other four Lieutenants, René Belloq, standing where their Captain would stand to hand out orders. Frowning, he looked at Porthos and Aramis who seemed equally as puzzled, then over at d'Artagnan. The young man was hanging back, beneath the overhang, arms crossed over his chest, hands tucked beneath them, eyes on the ground as if deep in thought, though Athos could see tension practically emanating from his body in waves.
The lad knew something.
"Musketeers!" Belloq called, quieting the murmuring crowd. "I am here to inform you that Captain Treville has been called away and has left me in charge of the distribution of orders until his return."
The men in the courtyard shifted and stirred at this news, murmuring undulating beneath the creak of leather and clink of metal, sword tips not yet sheathed banging against each other as the company turned to one another. Athos and his friends remained still, silent. Treville had never been simply called away before. Not without informing them first.
"He left initial instructions for each of you," Belloq continued and Athos caught the eye-roll that Porthos slid their way, "and then we will, as always, await the pleasure of the King."
"This should be good," Porthos grumbled quietly.
Belloq was a decent soldier and had been a Musketeer before Athos had joined the regiment, but he was rather proud of his noble heritage and had a tendency to publicly shame those – such as Porthos – who had not been of the aristocracy prior to receiving their commission. He'd nearly had a stroke when Treville had chosen d'Artagnan to fight in the contest that had earned the young man his commission.
Aramis placed a reassuring hand on Porthos' shoulder and they awaited their orders. Belloq named the men individually or in groups, instructing them to either train new recruits, accompany His Majesty on a hunt, stand guard at Notre Dame where one of the royal cousins was being christened, or deliver missives on behalf of the Cardinal.
"Athos, Porthos, and Aramis," Belloq called, finally. "Report up to my office."
With that, he turned and retreated into the office, leaving the Musketeers to follow his instructions.
Porthos scowled. "His office," he muttered. "Treville's gone a day and he's already redecorating."
"He didn't mention d'Artagnan," Aramis noticed, looking over at their young friend who was doing his best to become a shadow.
"'at's 'cause he 'ates the lad," Porthos huffed.
"He does not hate him," Aramis corrected, turning to face d'Artagnan along with the other two. "He simply has no respect for raw talent."
"Tell me," Athos ordered, causing d'Artagnan to lift his face as if startled, a plea for understanding in his eyes. "What do you know of this?"
"I meant to tell you last night," d'Artagnan began, his voice quiet but urgent. "That's why I came to find you at the Grey Wolf, but then Aramis—"
"Yes, yes, we've covered my indiscretion and lack of tolerance when it comes to wine quite thoroughly, thank you," Aramis waved him off. "What happened to drive you out into the rain?"
Swallowing hard, d'Artagnan looked quickly around the yard, clearly not wanting to be overheard. Athos grabbed the young man's arm, collecting him roughly and herding him into the nearest available open room, which just so happened to be the weapon's store room. Aramis and Porthos filed in, closing the door behind them.
"Perhaps not the best choice for a confrontation," Aramis muttered, glancing at the swords, muskets, harquebuses, and daggers neatly stacked around them.
"Speak," Athos said, releasing d'Artagnan's arm.
The young Musketeer began to pace in a tight back-and-forth pattern as he spoke, telling them about the Cardinal's carriage, the words he'd heard exchanged, and how Treville had appeared just before he'd ordered him away.
"I knew he was going to leave – and that it would be to yield to the Cardinal's wishes – and I came to get you, but…," he stopped, shoving his hands into his dark hair and pushing it from his face. He wasn't looking at any of them as the words continued to flow. "I got distracted and then when I'd remembered it was so late and you all had retired and all I could think about was that damn night at the inn and how my father…."
He bit off the rest of whatever he was going to say, stopped his restless pacing and turned to face them.
"I am sorry," he said, squaring his shoulders, genuine contrition on his face. "I allowed an event that happened a year ago cloud my judgment and keep me from my duty." His eyes shifted to meet Athos' as if suddenly becoming aware that none of the other men in the room had said a word during his entire tirade. "I let you down."
As one, Aramis and Porthos sighed, both relaxing their stance and hooking their thumbs into their weapon's belt.
"Do you want to flog him, or shall I?" Porthos asked, tipping his head toward Aramis.
Aramis lifted a shoulder. "You take this one, I take the next one?"
"Seems fair."
They took a step forward and d'Artagnan instinctively backed up, surprise and not a little bit of fear in his eyes. It took until Porthos' wide, all-encompassing grin lit his face that d'Artagnan's shoulders relaxed and he brought his chin up.
"You're having fun with me."
"Of course, you idiot," Porthos said, hooking an arm around d'Artagnan's neck and bringing him closer to them.
Aramis cleared his throat and nodded toward Athos, who, rather unknowingly, had maintained a completely impassive expression during the entire exchange, his mind whirring through the possibilities of Treville's departure. Porthos and d'Artagnan straightened up, tugging their jackets in place and fixing their expressions into ones more appropriate for the situation.
"What do you know of Villers-Cotterêts?" Aramis asked.
Frowning Athos shook his head and moved slowly around the small room, his fingers idly stroking the weapons as he did so. "Treville spoke of it once," he said. "A long time ago—" he glanced at Aramis, "just after Savoy."
Aramis frowned, but said nothing.
"I didn't understand what he was referring to," Athos confessed. "I thought it was the loss of the men that had him rattled, but then he dismissed it – and me – and I never thought of it again. Until now."
"What did he say?" d'Artagnan pressed.
"That soldiers are rarely offered a choice and it was incumbent upon their leaders to be men of honor."
Aramis frowned. "What could he have meant by that?"
"The Cardinal said that he had to choose between the men of Villers-Cotterêts or us."
Athos regarded the young man before him thoughtfully. "He wouldn't have just left."
"And he wouldn't have left Belloq in charge without good reason," Aramis inserted, glancing meaningfully at Porthos. "If he had time to prepare, he would have turned the regiment over to Athos. Or Arnaud, at the very least."
"He wanted you free from duty to the garrison," Porthos guessed.
"I believe that may be the case," Athos returned.
"What do you want to do?" d'Artagnan asked.
Athos lifted one of the daggers and turned it over in his hand before sliding it neatly into the sheath at his back. "I believe we've been called up to Belloq's office. Let's find out what the man wants."
They discovered the man in question sitting behind Treville's desk, eagerly reading through whatever paperwork the Captain had left out. Athos had to clear his throat to grab the older Musketeer's attention and when he looked up, his eyes landed first on d'Artagnan.
"I don't believe I requested your presence," he snapped.
"You seem to have left me out of the order distribution all together," d'Artagnan pointed out.
Belloq stood. "I don't believe that is the proper way to address a Captain."
Athos felt d'Artagnan bristle and allowed him to step forward unchecked. Part of his plan depended upon Belloq being off-balance and Athos had yet to meet anyone who could toss someone off-balance as quickly as their young friend from Gascony.
"As you are merely a Lieutenant and not my Captain, I feel pretty comfortable with how I'm addressing you," d'Artagnan returned, now standing squarely in front of the desk, his thumbs hooked casually in his weapon's belt.
Belloq glanced past the lad to regard Athos. "You allow such insolence?"
"d'Artagnan is his own man," Athos replied mildly. "It is not on me to allow it."
"And here I thought that clever little plan you cooked up with Treville was simply an act," Belloq muttered, a wry smile twisting his thin lips beneath his heavy mustache. "Perhaps there's more to your perceived animosity than you'd like to let on."
This surprised Athos; the idea that men in the garrison might think there was any animosity between the four of them after their ruse hadn't entered his head until now. Perhaps there was a way they could use it to their advantage. As long as d'Artagnan trusted him, that is.
"If you're going to give the boy orders, by all means," Athos said tiredly. "It would be a relief to not have him tagging along after us."
d'Artagnan hid the flinch well, but Athos still saw it shudder quickly across the young man's shoulders. He felt the same dark knot that had eaten away at him from the moment Treville proposed a way to trap the Cardinal begin to return. He forced himself to take a slow, steadying breath and sent a silent burst of gratitude to Porthos and Aramis for not outwardly reacting.
Bellow smirked once more. "I cannot blame you there," he said in a conspirator's tone. "More and more of these commoners are being allowed to weaken the backbone of our regiment. It makes one weary."
"Look," d'Artagnan snapped. "Are you going to put me to work or not? I can just as easily—"
"Yes, fine, insolent boy," Belloq grumbled. "Go assist Arnaud training the new recruits. You're decent enough with a sword."
d'Artagnan bounced his head once and half-turned to leave, unable to resist a parting shot. "Hope you didn't hurt yourself admitting that, Belloq."
Athos saw Porthos roll his lips against his teeth in an effort to swallow his smile.
"Go," Belloq grumbled. "And keep out of trouble; it would be a shame to also be required to dole out punishment in Treville's stead."
As d'Artagnan left, Athos caught his eye briefly, conveying with a look that getting into trouble was exactly what he wanted him to do. When the door had shut behind d'Artagnan, Athos turned his attention back to Belloq, waiting while the man expounded for several more minutes about the weakening of the regiment due to allowing men in on skill rather than blood lines. Athos didn't miss the supportive – albeit restraining – hand Aramis laid on Porthos' arm.
"Now, as for you three," Belloq sighed, sitting back behind Treville's desk. "The Captain left instructions that you were to take this letter to the Cardinal, and then do exactly what he instructs. He cautioned that you may be called away from the garrison for several days as a result."
Athos took the letter from Belloq's grasp and nodded. Before he was able to say anything else, however, an outcry was heard from the courtyard, drawing Belloq to the window. As the man opened the shutters, Athos peered out and saw that d'Artagnan was in the process of fighting off both Arnaud and Mathieu, his jacket gone, his white shirt covered in mud at the shoulder.
"Damn that boy!" Belloq muttered. "What is he thinking?"
"It's often hard to say," Aramis replied, speaking for the first time. "Would you like us to contain him?"
"No!" Belloq turned to face them. "I will need to set an example if he is to respect my authority."
Belloq pushed past them and headed for the door. Athos shot a look to Aramis and Porthos to follow. The last thing he wanted was for an over-eager Belloq to punish d'Artagnan for his role in their plan.
The moment the other men had left the room, Athos sprang into action. He remembered seeing the name Villers-Cotterêts in one of the ledgers Treville kept filed in the armoire behind him. It took several minutes longer than he liked, but soon he had the ledger out and the pages located.
Villers-Cotterêts was in Picardy and just so happened to be the birthplace of one Jean-Armand du Peyer, Comte de Treville. Athos drew his head back in surprise, knowing he needed more information. Placing the book on the desk, he ignored the shouting outside the window as he read on, his eyes widening as he absorbed the account of an uprising turned massacre that would have taken place when Treville was roughly d'Artagnan's age. He continued to read until he heard footsteps pounding close and hurriedly closed the book, barely returning it to the armoire just as someone burst through the door.
He exhaled when he saw that it was Porthos.
"You better get down 'ere," was all Porthos said.
Athos was close on his heels as they exited the office and hurried down to the courtyard. He was surprised to find d'Artagnan, disarmed, being held tightly between two other Musketeers, Grisier and Bauer, neither of whom looked happy about their role. Aramis stood in front of d'Artagnan, his back to the young man, a hand out to Belloq in a silent plea to stop.
Belloq stood, a whip in his hand, pointing to a center post in the training yard.
"Belloq!" Athos bellowed. "What is happening here?"
"An example must be made!" Belloq replied, his tone clipped and brittle. "He will respect this regiment or be mustered out."
"I've done nothing wrong!" d'Artagnan shouted.
Athos shot him a stern look, then turned to Belloq. "What are you accusing him of? As his fellow Musketeers, we have the right to know what sort of behavior we should avoid in the future."
"He challenged a fellow Musketeer to a duel," Belloq stated. "You know as well as I do that dueling is illegal."
"With the Red Guards," Porthos pointed out.
Belloq ignored him.
"He was training," Aramis argued, his voice calm, tone soothing. "We have taught him to prepare as though he must survive any situation."
Belloq pulled his chin up. "Then you shall be the one to dole out his punishment."
Aramis dropped his hand and straightened his stance. "No."
The men standing around Belloq took a step back, as did Grisier and Bauer, releasing d'Artagnan's arms. Athos took a breath, meeting d'Artagnan's eyes for a brief second before turning to Belloq, who appeared to be quite close to exploding.
"Treville left you in charge for a reason," Athos said calmly. "If you feel one of your men has acted erroneously, simply ensure the punishment fit the crime and the men will follow your lead. d'Artagnan does not deserve to be whipped for aggressive training."
Belloq looked at Athos for a moment, then seemed to deflate. "He will be chained to the training post for twenty-four hours. No one will offer him food or water unless I say."
Athos lifted his chin as though in acceptance and watched as Belloq signaled to Grisier to ensure his orders were followed. Grisier took d'Artagnan's arm and led him to the center post midst the training area, looped a chain through one of the metal eyelets that were fixed mid-level and were intended for use with securing musket targets, and wrapped the chain securely around d'Artagnan's joined wrists. At that height, if d'Artagnan sat, his arms would be above his head.
As he left, Athos observed, Grisier dropped a comforting hand on d'Artagnan's shoulder, earning a nod of understanding from the young man. Activity slowly resumed, and Athos approached the post, his eyes downcast.
"I am sorry about this," he said sincerely.
"I can manage it," d'Artagnan replied, his chin up, eyes level.
"We have a letter to deliver to the Cardinal," Athos informed him. "We are supposed to follow whatever instructions the Cardinal gives us. Meaning, we could be away from the garrison for quite a while."
At that, a sliver of uncertainty cut through d'Artagnan's expression like quicksilver, but to his credit, he said nothing. Simply started resolutely back at Athos.
"If that is the case," Athos glanced back at Aramis and Porthos, knowing that they would agree with him, "we may need to break you out of here rather quickly."
d'Artagnan's grin would forever be a light in his heart, Athos knew.
The young man visibly relaxed, his dark eyes taking all three of them in, and he nodded. Then lifted his chin a moment to draw their attention. As Athos watched, d'Artagnan craned his neck to the folds of shirt at his shoulder, moving his lips in the material like a horse reaching for grain. Before Athos could ask him just what the hell he was up to, he saw a small key appear and watched as d'Artagnan tucked it into the inside of his cheek with another grin.
"You're a right wonder, you are," Porthos chuckled.
"Grisier?" Aramis guessed.
d'Artagnan nodded. "He owed me after that incident with the Red Guard over on Rue Morse."
"Every man in this company owes you," Porthos declared. "They just got no idea they do."
"Stay out of trouble," Athos ordered, leaning closer. "And this time, I mean it." On impulse, he rested his hand on the back of d'Artagnan's neck, pulling the young man's forehead close to his. "We'll be back for you," he said softly.
d'Artagnan nodded, straightening silently and meeting the eyes of each of the others. Athos turned from his young friend and noted that the Musketeers still in the garrison were looking their way. Sensing Aramis and Porthos flanking him, and creating an effective human wall between d'Artagnan and the rest of the garrison, Athos let his eyes roam the men and then rested his hand on the hilt of his sword. Slowly, the men nodded their acceptance and turned back to what they'd been working on, the message clear: d'Artagnan was one of them. He belonged; he was their brother.
And if anyone wanted to challenge that, they would have to contend with his protectors.