A/N: We've reached the end, people! I want to thank all of you for joining me on this (really rather ridiculous) ride. I'm blown away by the response this story has received, and I'm beyond thrilled that you've enjoyed it.

Until next time!

~Epilogue~

The course is covered in freshly fallen snow, the sun peeking out from between mountain tops, and the thermostat showing a temperature of just over 20 F. There's a slight breeze in the air: refreshing, not enough to disturb them.

It's a lot like that day, almost eight months ago.

Aramis looks down the piste appraisingly.

"So, this is it," he says. His tone is flippant, but the trepidation is clear in his eyes.

Porthos puts a hand on his shoulder and squeezes. "We've got all day, 'Mis. Take your time."

Aramis nods absently, eyes never leaving the slope.

For a moment, they just stand there in silence, breathing.

It's the downhiller who eventually breaks it.

"This is ridiculous," he mutters, voice layered in equal amounts annoyance and self-deprecation. "I have done this for years. It isn't the first time I've been injured. This is no different."

"It is," Athos disagrees calmly.

His composed exterior aside though, he is silently soaring with pride: a steady, pulsating fire originating from somewhere within his very core. It's hard to fully comprehend, that they are all standing here.

Aramis sighs, the sound more than a little frustrated.

"It shouldn't be."

Athos clears his throat delicately, because even though what Porthos says is true, that they are in no rush, he recognizes that the longer they drag this out, the harder it will be.

"Of course, we could always go with you-," he says, and that, at least, gets a reaction.

Aramis swivels his head around and stares at him, wide-eyed.

"Are you insane? You'd probably end up in a mountain crack somewhere with your necks broken. Absolutely not!"

"Thank you for the vote of confidence," Athos drawls, although he's fighting the urge to smirk.

"Can't be that hard," Porthos says casually, quickly catching on. He looks down the slope as if seriously considering it. "'S all just speed. No technique."

Aramis jerks back, affronted.

"Just speed?" he splutters. "No technique? Do you have any idea how long I had to train indoors before taking on a piste this size – without the immediate risk of killing myself?"

"Sure… But that doesn't prove anythin'."

Aramis snorts.

"And how, pray tell, do you figure that?"

"'Cause that was you." Porthos grins shamelessly, dimples showing."I'm sure I'd be a natural."

Aramis scoffs, but there's amusement in his eyes as he gives Porthos a friendly shove.

"Sometimes, I wonder why I put up with you."

Porthos shrugs, still grinning. "Must be 'cause of my charmin' personality."

"Now that I sincerely doubt."

Aramis looks down the piste again, chews on his lip.

Something in his eyes harden.

"You should go," he eventually says. "I'll meet you at the end of the slope."

Athos and Porthos exchange a look.

"Are you sure?" Athos asks, the previous levity forgotten. Despite his conviction that there is little to gain from dragging out the process, he would rather stay put and get frostbite than leave Aramis before he is ready.

But the downhiller nods in determination. "I'm sure." He draws a deep breath, exhaling slowly. "I need to do this on my own."

"I would ask you to refrain from any of your usual theatrics," Athos says, one eyebrow raised although his voice lacks any of its usual sarcasm, "but I assume that won't be necessary?"

Aramis gives a rueful smirk.

"No. No need to worry on that account."

Athos' lips twitch in sympathy – despite the grievance it frequently causes him, an Aramis with no mischievous intent will never be considered normal, and, therefore, not in any way desirable – and gives Aramis' shoulder a reassuring squeeze, before he turns and starts moving towards the lift without another word.

Porthos joins him soon after, expression grim and lips pressed into a thin line, eyes loud in their disquiet.

Once down, they waste no time getting to the end of the piste.

Athos exhales deeply, tastes the fresh mountain air on his tongue, follows the chill all the way down into his lungs.

Cold spreads out to his fingertips.

While they have frequented numerous ski courses since Aramis turned well enough to move about unaided – and with mostly positive results – none of them have been true downhill courses.

It all comes down to this one.

Shaking off his discomfort a bit more sternly, Athos looks up the slope, willing himself to focus.

Some things are different, this time around.

They can't see him, for starters, making his way down to them. There is no big screen showing his progress: the way he moves over the dips, in the turns, during a jump. No way for them to get a read on him, his body language, his state of mind. They are completely blind.

Athos isn't sure whether that's better or worse.

"He'll be alright," Porthos mumbles next to him, eyes glued to the slope, words like a prayer. "He'll be alright."

The big man is tense as a statue, as if the mere act of breathing could thaw the tentative hope surrounding them like freshly fallen snow. Athos can't really blame him, his own insides having knotted themselves together like a bundle of last year's Christmas light trail. But despite their unease, Aramis needs this.

He might be physically whole.

His mental state is another matter entirely.

The course shouldn't take more than two minutes to complete, but Athos is certain that Porthos will agree with him that it's been close to two hours before they finally spot Aramis at the beginning of the final stretch.

Porthos releases a relieved breath next to him, but Athos can't allow himself to relax. Not yet.

Aramis moves like this is what he was born to do, movements fluid, body like an extension of the course itself, and while he might not be up to his usual speed, might not move as confidently as he did eight months ago, he certainly isn't holding back, either.

It's almost anticlimactic when he finally breaches the finish line, and promptly flops down on his stomach. White powder chasing him like a nebulous cape.

Rumbling laughter joins the sound of harsh breathing as Porthos makes his way over, crouching.

"You alright?" he asks, face split into a huge grin as he works to remove the helmet from the heaving form of their third.

Aramis rolls over onto his back, blinks up at them, dark curls plastered to his flushed face and grin matching Porthos' in its intensity, and a sound, delirious and giddy and slightly hysterical escapes his lips, and then he's full out laughing.

It chases away the last unease, dissolves the last shreds of lingering tension and, finally, Athos relaxes.

After weeks, months of hardship, frustration, of uncertainty, finally.

Finally.

Something settles back into place.

A/N: Everything seems to have worked out in the end! Did you honestly expect anything else? ;)

Now, here's the thing: I sort of have a vague idea for a sequel. Or, more like an intermediate, about some of the things that happened during those eight months between chapter 7 and the epilogue. This brings me to the two questions I need to ask you: 1) Is this something that would interest you? and 2) Is there anything in particular you'd like to see happen? It can be as unspecific as, "I'd like someone to say this one phrase at one time or other." Obviously, I can't promise I'll include all of your suggestions, or that they will come out the way you meant them to, but prompts/ideas would be greatly appreciated!

Even so... I should inform you that this sequel/intermediate, *if* it gets written, is months away, not days or weeks. So a healthy amount of patience needs to be exercised (but at least I leave you with some modicum of hope; that's gotta account for something, no?)

Thank you all again for your support!