Thanks to CreepingMuse and latbfan, women of unerring taste and literary vision who remind me when I'm battling bratty little plot bunnies that it's the characters that matter.

Chapter 4: Such a harmless delight

Aramis didn't deliver the letter that morning. He was too busy, he told himself. And to ensure it, he mended the worn fabric of two linen shirts, cleaned his musket, sharpened his sword, volunteered for three separate cross-town errands, brushed his horse more thoroughly than he had in a year, then polished every nook and expanse of his saddle until it gleamed.

Meanwhile, his mind returned relentlessly to that morning's scene, remembering d'Artagnan silently mouthing his love letter, full of a kiss Aramis had devised for him.

There was just no time for delivery before they were summoned to the parade ground after dusk, and not a moment to spare afterward. Aramis finally had to admit he had no intention of delivering the letter when, at day's end, he slipped it into a drawer inside his cabinet.

Tomorrow he would set to work on a few lines about Constance's pale breasts and cool fingers, her sweet smile perhaps. But this letter, this kiss, was his.

The fantasy was all he could hope for in any case, at least right now. D'Artagnan pined for Constance with such intensity that there was no room for any other thought. And so Aramis resolved to hide his love away with the letter. What use was his longing to anyone, including himself? Although self-denial didn't come naturally to him, Aramis would turn away errant lust, reinterpret swells of admiration, and remain d'Artagnan's stalwart friend.

All for one, after all.

Besides, were Aramis to confess his affection, there was no guarantee it would even be tolerated, let alone welcomed. D'Artagnan was painfully inexperienced in romance; who could say what his heart was made of? If Aramis was lucky, the urge to reenact his letter in every detail and then some might fade to nothing for lack of attention.

But he knew himself better than that.

Days turned to weeks as d'Artagnan waited for Constance to respond. To distract himself, he dedicated himself to becoming a better musketeer.

Athos took him under his wing – an arrangement he originally volunteered for, he confided to Aramis, because he worried the impulsive new recruit would bolt for the Bonacieux residence and get himself killed if left unattended. But d'Artagnan was motivated and eager, and Athos was a patient, exacting mentor. At their daily swordsmanship practice, Athos honed d'Artagnan's focus and fostered a new inner calm.

Athos never hesitated to use assignments for the captain or the king as field education, and d'Artagnan related the stories over wine or ale in the evenings.

"The twitchy rat would not relent. He kept repeating 'I didn't do it, I didn't do it.' And then Athos says to me, right in front of him: 'All right, we know he did it, but how are you going to get him to admit it?' And then we debate whether we should threaten him, hurt him a little, poke holes in his story…"

Porthos, whose hand-to-hand lessons with d'Artagnan were progressing well enough, piped in. "Tell me you gave him a taste of your left hook."

Athos, quietly proud, shook his head.

D'Artagnan was bursting to continue. "I just looked at him. Gave him the Athos glare, you know the one, and the man practically shat himself. Not only did he admit to stealing everything in the vault, he told us where he hid it all and who helped him. Just like that."

Athos held his glass up, toasting d'Artagnan. "He's a natural."

Aramis beamed. It made him fall in love with soldiering all the more, to see d'Artagnan so excitedly recount his progress. More than that, it was an excuse to revel in the charming way d'Artagnan's sudden smile overtook his entire face. It was an indulgence, he knew, to gaze long and lovingly at d'Artagnan this way. But Aramis had to allow himself something, and this was such a harmless delight.

As marksmanship was Aramis' undisputed province, it was expected that he'd give d'Artagnan the benefit of his experience. And he did, once. They rode out for a full day of practice in the Bois de Boulogne: deer and ducks were plentiful there, as were bandits who, Aramis reasoned, would make doubly practical targets.

But it was the first they had been alone together for any stretch since Aramis' epiphany. Aramis was a distracted mess the entire time. He battled pangs of longing when d'Artagnan squared his wide shoulders for a shot. When d'Artagnan's aim wavered, his low, sizzling groan at the loss nearly turned Aramis inside out. D'Artagnan, for his part, spent more time peering with puzzled consternation at his tutor than aiming for their quarry.

Aramis indefinitely postponed the rest of their practice sessions, arguing that d'Artagnan's efforts were occupied elsewhere, which they were, and that he was very busy himself. Which he was: stifling the flutter in his lungs, hiding the dumb grin that threatened at the very sight of d'Artagnan.

Meanwhile, Aramis wrote lines for Constance every morning without fail. Here a sonnet, next a faint impression, an illustration of yearning. It was an interval of almost prayerful dedication in which he pondered the notion of d'Artagnan in love, d'Artagnan adored, d'Artagnan overcome by desire. D'Artagnan himself rarely read them, signing them quickly before trotting off after Athos or Porthos. It didn't matter; for Aramis, true calm only ever descended during the pink dawn hour when he put pen to paper.

Late one afternoon, not quite a month after Aramis first wrote to Constance, a short woman with plump, rolling hips and possibly the most abundant bosom Aramis had ever seen marched boisterously into the garrison courtyard.

"Where is d'Artagnan?!" she howled.

Athos intercepted her with steadying calm. "Madame, may I be of service?"

She reared back. "Are you d'Artagnan?"

"My name is Athos; I am the -"

"Then get out of my way!" the woman interrupted, shoving him to the side. "D'Artagnan!"

Aramis knew without doubt that the woman came to deliver Constance's refusal. The stab of rejection was too sharp not to feel it himself: her decision was made, the mission had failed, and all he could do now was ache for d'Artagnan while the terrible scene unfolded.

D'Artagnan jogged to meet the woman. "That's me," he said, his eyes positively sparkling with naïve hope.

"Here," she said, shoving a bundle of papers into d'Artagnan's open hands. "Take these back."

D'Artagnan shifted, curling toward her with worry. "Why, has something happened? Has Constance been harmed?"

"Not that it's any of your business," the woman carped, "but she's fine. Aside from being annoyed by you every single day."

Aramis cringed. "Annoyed?" d'Artagnan asked.

"She says to leave her alone." She poked her thick finger at his chest. "You hear? Leave. Her. Alone." Then, with an angry sniff, she turned and marched back out of the courtyard.

D'Artagnan watched her go. Then, vague as a sleepwalker, he braced the bundle of Aramis' letters under his arm and opened Constance's note. Minutes ticked by. Athos and Aramis waited silently for him.

Then, with a sharp breath, d'Artagnan looked up to find them both. D'Artagnan met Aramis' concern with a blank stare. "Read this," he said, holding the note out to him.

D'Artagnan,

Please understand, I have to deny you. I have no choice.

We shared a beautiful dream, but you can't sleep forever. Let this be an end, for both our sakes.

C.

(And stop sending letters! I want no part in whatever game you mean to play. I can plainly see you didn't write them, and I've begun to doubt they're meant for me at all.)

"It's over," d'Artagnan said.

Wildly rude though it was, unfounded hope nudged at Aramis. But he had plenty of recent practice pushing unhelpful thoughts aside.

"It appears to be," Aramis agreed, gently.

"I never thought, all this time," d'Artagnan told them. "Let this be an end, she says."

"It was always a possibility. You made a valiant attempt."

At that, resolve ignited behind d'Artagnan's eyes. "No, I'm going over there. Right now."

But Athos grabbed his arm. "Absolutely not."

"I can't let this stand," he insisted.

"You, who she has now twice turned away, would barge into the home she shares with her husband," Athos said, a mentor even in this. "Would that sway her, do you think?"

D'Artagnan glared over Athos' shoulder, vibrating with impatience, until an idea sparked. "She didn't reject me. She rejected Aramis."

"No," Aramis countered. Athos took a deep, frustrated breath.

But d'Artagnan persisted, attempting to reason it out. "Something's been different. The letters, it has to be. This whole scheme, you did it all on purpose. Did you want to win her for yourself? Or just make a fool of me?"

Had Aramis paused to consider it the accusation might have stung, but he was too indignant to do anything but argue. "That's ridiculous. You begged me, on your knees, to write to her for you. And I agreed, like a fool, only because you were so desperate."

D'Artagnan refused to listen. "Congratulations. You did it." He stepped back once, then again. "You've ruined my life."

"D'Artagnan," Aramis began, but he stalked away. Athos shot Aramis a quieting look before following after him.

The man didn't know what he was talking about. Aramis had spent weeks conjuring images, turns of phrase, entire stories to fill Constance with longing for d'Artagnan. He had risen before the sun only to preserve their promise. He wanted nothing more than for Constance and d'Artagnan to be happy.

Well. Perhaps slightly more.

But had he sabotaged their love? No. Of course not! He hadn't.

Porthos, back from assignment, found Aramis in the grimy tavern he reserved for rare bouts of wallowing.

"So loverboy is single now," Porthos marveled, pulling up a chair.

Aramis lifted his glass. "The cruel bonds of matrimony."

"And you're the culprit, I hear."

"The very same."

"He'll be back," Porthos assured him without missing a beat.

"With another round of unfounded accusations? Perfect."

"With some perspective, I'd guess."

"I should never have gotten involved. It was an impossible task from the start. She was already lost, letters or no."

"Athos will get that through d'Artagnan's thick skill. You'll see: tomorrow he'll apologize and you two can kiss and make up."

At that Aramis canted his head, pretending calm, and took a long look at his old friend. What was he to make of Porthos' wording? A figure of speech, or something more? How could Porthos know? He couldn't.

"You'd have to be blind not to see it," Porthos said with half a smile.

"See what?" Aramis asked as evenly as he could over his now pounding pulse.

"First Athos, now d'Artagnan. You know," Porthos continued conversationally, lifting Aramis' glass right out of his fingers, "I'm starting to get jealous."

Aramis opened his mouth to respond, but that was as far as he got.

Porthos winked. "All in good time, yeah?"

"What do you…?" Bewildered, Aramis let the sentence hang open, like his lips.

"Eventually. Obviously not now. Not while you're drooling for the Gascon. I mean, I'm not crazy enough to fall for someone who's spoken for."

There it was then, out in the open. But that was Porthos, gloriously indelicate.

Finally, Aramis wheezed a breathless laugh. "That makes one of us," he admitted, laughing a little more, trying out a tired grin. "Porthos, I'm an idiot fool."

"Yeah, you are."

They both laughed, louder this time. It helped more than Aramis would have believed.

"See? You'll be back to yourself in no time." Porthos folded both arms on the table, leaning in with a soft, warm voice. "You know he'd be a fool to turn you down."

Aramis mirrored his best Porthos wink. "Brazen flirt."