A/N: Sorry this took me so long folks, but apparently I work best at 1.30 in the morning after procrastinating for ages. This kind of turned into Aramis/d'Artagnan pre-slash, but you can ignore that if you want. Please, enjoy and review :)

Aramis:

Hidden Talent - Good with children

After the night with the rosary, Aramis had gone out of his way to spend more time with d'Artagnan. Porthos and Athos were familiar with him showing his gratitude in this way, but it flustered the Gascon that anyone would want to spend so much of their time with him, when they no doubt had better things to be doing with their time. Aramis had been quite insistent, though, so he had eventually relented and allowed himself to be led along by the nose to whatever new and exciting crevices and nooks of Paris that the other Musketeer prevailed to impress him with.

Now, though, it was Aramis who looked, for want of a better word, shy. He was looking anywhere but at d'Artagnan's face, and it confused the Gascon, until he asked:

"Would you mind coming along with me to church tonight?" Then it made sense. Religion, to Aramis, was something personal, and sacred. D'Artagnan himself had never held much stock in priests - all that Latin gave him hives, why couldn't they just speak plain French? But he knew that this was important to Aramis, so he agreed to go. He knew he'd made the right decision by the way his friend's face lit up for joy.

"You won't regret it, my dear d'Artagnan, I promise you." Aramis assured him, and d'Artagnan bit back a grin at his comrade's excitement. "I'll meet you back here tonight then. Until then, I have, ah... prior engagements." D'Artagnan was used to this now, but he couldn't quite resist the urge to smirk and raise a coy eyebrow. Aramis shoved him playfully.

"Not like that, you arse. Though I can see where one might get that idea, but a cousin of mine has come to Paris and I haven't seen him in years, and if I go to meet him now, then it gets it over with."

"Not exactly close, then?" d'Artagnan guessed, and Aramis snorted.

"Nowhere near. Though someone seems to have neglected to inform him of that." Aramis gave his most dramatic put-upon sigh, clapped d'Artagnan on the back, and took his leave.

D'Artagnan returned to the garrison where Porthos and Athos were having a game of cards. There didn't seem to be any stakes to it, but he settled on the stairs across from them to watch anyway. Porthos looked up, surprised but happy to see him.

"Thought you'd be with Aramis?" He said, raising an eyebrow, and causing Athos to look up, giving the Gascon a small smile when their eyes met.

"There was a cousin he had to meet. Didn't seem to happy about it." Athos frowned, but Porthos nodded.

"He was makin' a right song an' dance about it the other day when he got a letter from a cousin of his mothers asking to meet 'im whilst he was in Paris. Apparently they played together as children and the guy seems to think they're the best of friends."

"Aramis doesn't seem to share his sentiments in the slightest." D'Artagnan complained, "and yet he still agrees to go and meet him?"

"If he didn't I get the feelin' the guy would have looked for him until he found him. Aramis probably wanted to avoid any unpleasantness that might cause." Athos nodded in agreement, and smirked when he saw d'Artagnan pouting.

"Did it cut into whatever date you two had planned?" he teased quietly. D'Artagnan glared at him.

"I hate you so much. So very much. You are never convincing me to drink with you again, ever. Ever."

"We just thought you needed help to forget the whole mess with Constance." Porthos chimed in as he won the next hand. He never bothered cheating when there wasn't anything to lose. It wasn't worth the effort. "And trust me, Aramis is exactly the same. Men, women, doesn't matter to him. So long as you let him spout poetry in your ear whilst you-" Athos kicked him under the table.

"No need to be crude, Porthos. You've gone and terrified the boy already." Porthos pouted, but shrugged when Athos continued to glare at him and kept his mouth shut. "It isn't that he doesn't care, d'Artagnan. I have never in all my years met a more caring person. What Porthos is trying to say is that he has never found the sex of his lovers of any... value isn't the right word, but it doesn't mean he would love you any less. If, of course, it is love you want."

"Can we please not have this conversation here. Or ever. Never having this conversation ever would be a wonderful thing." He left them to their game, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Athos raise his glass in his direction with a knowing smirk curling his lips.

Aramis made it back to the garrison a little earlier than he had expected, which was a pleasant surprise. The reason he had done so, perhaps not so much. Turned out, that cousin of his wanted to know him a little more intimately than he was comfortable with, so he'd turned around and jumped over a wall and looked over his shoulder every five seconds. This was not good in the slightest.

He did not like being the object of a demented cousin's affections in the slightest. Even if he hadn't begun to start feeling something stir in his heart towards d'Artagnan. Ever since that boy had made that crucifix with his own hands - he clutched at it now, where is was nestled against his heart - he had felt a new appreciation for the Gascon, and a multiplied desire for his company. It was too much to hope that he could feel the same way, he supposed, and so he would be happy just spending what time with him that he could, and sharing his faith was an important part of that.

Speaking of which, that was part of why he was inviting d'Artagnan to accompany him to church tonight. He was sure the children would adore him.

"Have fun, then?" Porthos asked from where both he and Athos had seemed to be waiting for him. He snorted, looking back over his shoulder one last time. If his cousin did show up, he would be more than happy to let Porthos deal with him. After all, he wouldn't even break a sweat.

"Oh yes, wonderful to have a new admirer," he replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm as he dropped down beside them with a heavy sigh. Athos raised his eyebrows and Porthos frowned, but neither of them said a word. The weight of their stares was enough to get him talking. "He was ah, rather... infatuated. Unfortunate, I suppose, seeing as-"

"Your heart is set upon another?" Athos asked with a smirk. Aramis' eyes narrowed and he considered slapping Athos.

"I never can hide anything from you, can I?" He asked, but there was no heat in his voice, only resigned acceptance.

"Have you ever actually tried?" Athos countered, and Aramis rolled his eyes.

"Anyway, where is d'Artagnan?"

"In his room" Porthos replied. "Probably making some silly wooden bauble like he always does when he's bored these days." Of its own accord, Aramis' right hand reached for his rosary, but he managed to stop himself. Not before his two friends had seen the movement. They didn't call him out on it, only smiled knowingly as they watched him head up to find d'Artagnan.

D'Artagnan, as it turned out, was whittling when Aramis found him, and since he didn't want to disturb him, he just waited until he was done - it was fascinating to watch, and to think about those very skilled hands, focused on his craft... well-

"Aramis? Oh. Am I late, or?" He must have moved onto the creaking wood, and he cursed himself for being caught staring. Only, d'Artagnan didn't seem to realise that he had been staring.

"No, no. I'm early. He was even worse than I remembered." D'Artagnan grimaced in sympathy, and put his whittling knife away, blowing the sawdust off a little figure of a farm dog. He must have been thinking about home again.

"That bad, huh?"

"Yes, that bad. But are you ready?"

"Why the hurry?" d'Artagnan asked as Aramis practically dragged him along the hallway. "I thought you said you were early. And why such fuss about church anyway?" Aramis tried not to let him see how that last remark stung, but he must have noticed anyway because the next thing he said was "That wasn't what I meant and you know it, Aramis." Aramis nodded, but didn't answer, just led him out of the garrison and through the streets until they came to a little run down church on the outskirts of town. D'Artagnan gave him a curious look, but in lieu of an answer, he just knocked on the door.

And it was answered by a boy of, if d'Artagnan had to guess, no more than eight years. As soon as he saw Aramis, he ran forward, and Aramis crouched down to pick the boy up in his arms and spun him in the air. D'Artagnan watched in wonder at the ease which he seemed to have with the child, who giggled happily, and wrapped his arms around Aramis' neck when they stopped spinning. D'Artagnan felt almost like he was intruding.

"Do I not get an introduction, then?" he asked, daring to break the momentary quiet. The boy's head shot up at the sound of his voice, and d'Artagnan was hurt that he looked scared, but tried to reassure him. Aramis just shot him a charming smile that, if he was honest, completely disarmed him.

"How rude of me! This, Thomas, is Charles d'Artagnan, a fellow Musketeer, and a very dear friend of mine." He explained. The boys lit up and he looked between them.

"Are you the one that can make stuff out of blocks of wood?"

"Yup, that's me" d'Artagnan agreed, somewhat dumbfounded. He shifted uncomfortably under the boy's careful scrutiny, but eventually the child nodded, and ran back into the church. Aramis was avoiding looking at him, and was whistling an entirely to innocent tune.

"Have you been gossiping about me, Aramis?" he teased, shoving the other man playfully, before a kindly looking old priest came out to greet them, little Thomas trailing behind him.

"He speaks only highly of you and your fellow Musketeers, my son. Come in and meet everyone. They've been pestering him to let them meet you for the past few weeks." The man smiled kindly at him, and though d'Artagnan had never been overly comfortable with churches, or priests, something in the old man's expression set him at ease.

He was not prepared for just how many children there were. There had to be at least twelve of them. They all bombarded Aramis with hugs and questions and d'Artagnan found himself just enjoying watching the other man, who was clearly in his element with these children - these orphans, he told himself. Except for the girl in the corner, who seemed to be avoiding everyone. Aramis seemed to have noticed her as well, because he gradually shook off the other children, encouraging them to bother d'Artagnan, who didn't mind in the slightest, and made his way to ask the priest about the girl.

"She hasn't spoken a word since she was brought here by a kindly lady of the parish, who would have taken her in herself if she didn't fear she wasn't long for this world. Won't even say her name. I only pray that, with God's grace, she will speak to us in time." Aramis nodded, worrying his lip.

"What happened, do you know?"

"Her father was murdered, I was told, God rest his soul." Aramis crossed himself and muttered a quick prayer for the man. He then looked from d'Artagnan to the girl and seemed to make a decision.

"I'll talk to her, Father, or at least I'll try, but if that doesn't work, d'Artagnan's father was murdered before he came to Paris - perhaps he could lend her an understanding ear." The old man smiled and thanked Aramis quietly, though he chuckled when he looked at where d'Artagnan was being swarmed by the children as they all begged him to make them toys like he had made Aramis' necklace.

"First of all," he tried to explain, "it's not a necklace, it's a rosary, and second of all, I have lots of little toys left in my room, and if someone had explained to me why we were coming here, instead of keeping it all hush-hush, then I'd have two for each of you right now." And suddenly he was their favourite person, and he answered all of their questions about how he made the toys, and he even started to tell the story about his grandfather.

Seeing that everything was in hand, Aramis made his way over to the quiet girl in the corner. She sat with her arms around her knees, holding herself because there was no one left to hold her. She didn't look up when Aramis sat down next to her, just shuffled further away.

"Do you see that young man over there, petite?" he asked, indicating vaguely towards d'Artagnan. The girl nodded, but didn't say anything. "Just over a year ago now, his father was killed by a very bad man, who was pretending to be one of our friends." He paused, waiting to see if she would react to the story. She scowled and muttered something under her breath.

"I didn't quite catch that, petite. Speak up a little, if you can." He admonished gently. She turned this time and glared at him. It was eye contact, which he was counting as a win.

"If his papa's dead, why is he happy?" she complained.

"Because he accepted and made his peace with it." Aramis told her, perhaps more sharply than he had intended, but he had been there through d'Artagnan mourning, and there were definitely nights where it wasn't easy, and it had been Aramis who he had come to seeking comfort, and he had quoted encouraging phrases from his Bible until the Gascon had calmed or cried himself to sleep. He had never told the others about it, but there had been one night, apparently, that he had gotten drunk with Athos, and had become very morose, so much so that Athos, though it was perhaps hypocritical of him, had worried what he might do in that state. So no, he was not going to have this little girl belittle his grief just because d'Artagnan had overcome it. She flinched at his tone of voice and he sighed, rubbing his face with his hand tiredly.

"Listen to me, I know that it's hard, and that you wish he was here with you to make everything all better, and kiss you goodnight. But he can't be. And wishing isn't going to bring him back. It's only going to make it harder when you do eventually face reality." He watched her lip wobble and before he knew what he was doing, he had her wrapped tightly in his arms, and she was sobbing. He was relieved, mostly, because it sounded like she needed to let this out. He swept her up into his lap and kept up a litany of soothing nonsense whilst she cried. He was absurdly grateful for d'Artagnan, because he proved to be a miracle worker with the other children, and they seemed to have found him a block of wood and were avidly watching him work his magic, so all eyes were off, which he felt- oh, he didn't know her name. He felt her relax against his shoulder, exhausted, when she had finally finished crying.

"All out of tears, petite?" Aramis asked gently, and she sniffed, nodding. "Alright now- do you have a name to go with that pretty face, little angel, or do I have three guesses?" That earned him a broken little giggle, another victory.

"Is- Isabel, my name is Isabel, Monsieur Aramis."

"Isabel-" he almost choked up at even the name, and the thoughts and memories attached to it. "Ma belle, do you think you'll be alright now?" he asked. She nodded a little shakily, and he wiped her tears away gently. "Now, if you need anything, you just ask the good Father, alright. And if you see the bad man who hurt your father, you tell the Father and he will send someone to tell me and d'Artagnan, alright?" She nodded again, and he set her down and managed to stand himself up.

"Monsieur Aramis?" She asked timidly, still rubbing her eyes.

"Yes, petite?" he answered, brushing her hair gently out of her eyes and tucking it behind her ear.

"The bad man who hurted Monsieur d'Artagnan's papa - did you make them go away?" Aramis had to smile.

"D'Artagnan did that all by himself. We just helped. And oh, look, there's Thomas, and he seems to have a present for you." Right enough, the boy, who Aramis had become something like an uncle to, from all these visits, held out in his hand a simple little wooden angel.

"Monsieur d'Artagnan asked me to give you it" he informed them, and tucked it gently into Isabel's hands.

Aramis looked up and his eyes met with d'Artagnan's. If he didn't know better, he would say that the younger man was blushing. But that couldn't be, could it?

That aside, it was time for the children to go to bed, so he and d'Artagnan bade their farewells, and the Father thanked them for their time, and Thomas hugged them extra tight, and Isabel decided that she would kiss each of them on the cheek. She even smiled as she waved them goodbye.

The walk back to the garrison was quiet, and the cool night air was welcome to d'Artagnan's burning cheeks. There might be a time when he would tell Aramis how the man made him feel, but that day wasn't today.