A/N: I don't say it enough, and I'm horrible at remembering to respond to reviews in any consistent fashion, but I just want to say thank you to everyone who has ever commented/reviewed/favorited this story. It always makes my day to hear that someone has enjoyed this story even half as much as I've been enjoying writing it. So please accept my very sincere thanks.

Eyes closed against the world and leaning into the solid strength that Porthos had always represented for him, Aramis focused on breathing deeply, expanding his lungs slowly until he felt the panic settle down, leaving him drained but steady…at least for the moment.

Still, when Porthos relaxed his grip, leaning back to take a look at him, Aramis wished he didn't regret it quite so much.

"You a'right?"

Aramis nodded, knowing the moment had passed now, and took one step back. "Yeah. Fine."

Porthos looked at him skeptically, but released him, dropping his hands from Aramis's shoulders as he looked him over. Aramis braced himself, determined to keep his legs steady beneath him, even with the loss of support signaled by Porthos's slight retreat.

"I'm still angry with you, ya know?" Porthos said, though his voice was finally calm, even gentle. "I still think you shoula' told us. Or you never should've lied in the first place."

"Yes. I know." And he did. But saying so wasn't a concession. If he had it to do over again, Aramis wasn't sure that he would do any differently. But he understood how Porthos felt about the matter, and in all honestly, Aramis couldn't disagree with him.

"Good." Porthos nodded, as if that settled things. As if Aramis wasn't still a traitor and a failed spy. "Just so we're clear."

Aramis let out a weak chuckle that threatened to turn hysterical again if he didn't keep a tight rein on it. He reached up to run his fingers through his hair, pushing it back out of his eyes, but the motion was clumsy, hindered by his bound hands. He saw the others track the movement, their eyes on the ropes still binding wrists together. He dropped his hands quickly, suddenly self-conscious.

"So," he cleared his throat, "what now?"

There were long looks and a few deep breaths before Athos broke the silence, striding forward to grasp Aramis's hands, seizing the rope that held them fast. Aramis had to resist the urge to pull back.

"Well, first, let's do something about this, shall we?"

Athos raised Aramis's hands for a closer look, noting the frayed rope where Aramis had stretched and torn at his bindings all night long. His efforts hadn't been enough to free himself, not yet anyway, but the evidence of his handiwork was clearly on display as Athos examined both the worn and scraggly rope and the bloody marks left on Aramis's wrists before raising his gaze to look Aramis in the eye, one eyebrow slightly raised.

"Aramis," he said, the tone a familiar mix of mild reproof and exasperation.

He shrugged in reply. "It was worth a try."

Athos scoffed, raising Aramis's bound wrists so the others could clearly see the damage he'd done to the bindings. Then Athos drew his dagger. Aramis tensed, but remained perfectly still as Athos slit through the ropes.

"And what exactly did you hope to accomplish by this?" Athos asked, ignoring Aramis's hiss as he carefully peeled the frayed strands of rope away from Aramis's torn wrists.

"Escape?" Aramis offered, more a question than an answer. He determinedly ignored Athos's answering eye roll.

"To where, might I ask? You were surrounded by musketeers and Spanish prisoners. What made you think that escape was your likeliest solution?"

"An' what made you think that you needed to escape us?" Porthos demanded.

Aramis looked away sheepishly, focusing for a moment on the tingling sensation spreading through his freed hands as he flexed his fingers to aid the circulation and ease the stiffness.

"It seemed like a viable option. Escape, cross the border, regroup with the Spanish forces and maintain my cover…As long as you didn't release the others or ransom them back to Spain, Cordero would be unable to cast doubt on my loyalty, and I could continue my mission…or try to, at any rate."

"And what? Were you going to dislocate your own thumb in the attempt to free yourself?" Athos asked, still holding Aramis's bloody wrists.

Aramis shrugged. "If I had to."

Athos gave him a stern glare before dropping his wrists and walking over to the table to retrieve a flask of water.

"Wait," d'Artagnan broke in. "You were seriously going to risk your life in an escape attempt, knowing we had a full set of guards on duty, just to fulfill this insane mission?"

"I don't know." Aramis blew out a long breath. "Probably? I hadn't actually gotten free yet, so I didn't have to make a final decision."

"You're an idiot," Porthos proclaimed.

"Come now, Porthos. Aramis's foolish and reckless behavior is hardly new."

"Doesn't make him any less of an idiot."

"True." While Aramis had been distracted by this exchange, Athos had returned with the flask. Aramis's wandering attention jerked back into sharp focus as Athos poured water over his damaged wrists. The string drew a quick gasp from his lips, the shock of it enough to force him backwards, pulling away with a jerk that reminded him how unsteady his legs felt. Athos raised one hand in apology, but reached out for Aramis's wrists again, clearly intent on finishing the job.

"What are you doing?"

"Cleaning away the dirt," Athos said calmly, with a gesture to the smeared blood and grime covering his hands.

"You can't," Aramis protested. "When I rejoin the others, they'll know you helped me."

"What makes you think we're sending you back out there?' Porthos asked.

Aramis stared, dumbstruck. He'd thought they finally understood. He'd explained…told them why he had to do this… "You have to," he insisted.

"Aramis," d'Artagan spoke up, "be reasonable. We can't send you back into the Spanish ranks. And Athos needs to do something about your wrists."

Sure enough, Athos was still standing in front of him expectantly, but when he advanced a step, Aramis retreated again, staggering blindly backwards, an awkward misstep causing one of his knees to buckle. He would have fallen if two hands hadn't caught him about the waist, one landing heavily on his side.

The sharp pressure and resulting stab of pain shooting up his side were a harsh reminder of his wound from the previous battle. Aramis's hissed breath turned to a moan, and he squeezed his eyes shut as he winced and tried to pull away. Even without looking, he could feel Porthos's familiar presence at his side, and then the hands supporting him shifted, the pain easing as he felt Porthos readjust his grip to hold him more gently.

When the pain lessened and he could open his eyes again, Aramis looked down at his side. The brownish stain of dried blood blended in with the dark fabric of his shirt, easy to overlook or to dismiss as mud from when he'd fallen in the battle. But now it was matched by a damp patch clinging to his skin, and a dark red smear on Porthos's palm.

Still holding Aramis up (and Aramis was certain that, without the help, his legs would no longer support him), Porthos extended his hand to show the others. "Blood," he said, before wiping his palm on his own thigh and turning back to Aramis.

"You're injured?" he asked. "Aramis, where is it?"

Aramis shook his head wearily, starting to feel a bit confused. "No, it's…" what was it though? He realized he had no idea how he'd intended to complete that sentence. His thoughts were muddled and it seemed as though the world around him was off-kilter, causing a bout of nausea as he tried to force his vision to remain focused.

"Aramis. Where are you injured?" Porthos repeated, slowly and firmly as if speaking to a child. Aramis thought he should be offended by that tone…if only he could focus long enough to remember why.

"My side," he said. "But I stopped the bleeding last night. It should be fine."

"And now you've ripped the wound back open, you idiot."

Aramis mused that Porthos had called him that a lot recently. He probably deserved it though. So instead of protesting, he allowed himself to be maneuvered into a chair, propped up and ordered to stay still. Someone pushed the flask of water into his hands and urged him to drink, while someone else raised his shirt and began prodding at his side. He thought he should object, but for the moment, the heavenly sensation of water sliding down his throat consumed his full attention.

"How bad is it?" he heard d'Artagnan ask.

"Hmm…not too deep." That came from Porthos, crouched near him, the source of the prodding fingers. "Just caught the edge of a sword, probably."

"Indeed. Let's get some bandages then. D'Artagnan?"

"I've got it."

Aramis heard some shuffling around him, but everything had gone a bit hazy and his eyes had slid shut again, blocking out the world until someone tapped him gently on the cheek.

"No, none of that." He opened his eyes to see Athos staring at him sternly. "Better. Stay awake and keep talking."

The stern command coaxed a weak smile from Aramis. "Afraid I'm going to pass out on you?" The words came out rougher than he'd expected, and Aramis coughed to clear the raspy edge from his voice. "I can assure you, it's not as bad as that. I was just…dizzy for a moment."

"Yeah, of course, you were," d'Artagnan replied, returning with the bandages and handing them to Porthos.

"If that is so, then why don't you explain which of my men landed that hit so that I may commend him for it?"

Aramis couldn't hold back the grin, weak though it may be, at Athos's teasing tone. For a moment, sitting here amongst his friends, taking the brunt of Athos's sarcasm, he almost felt a shred of normalcy returning.

"Give me some more of that water and I just might tell you, though I should warn you, it's not exactly my most thrilling tale."

Athos pushed the flask back into his hands, urging him to drink slowly. Aramis did, suppressing another wince as Porthos poked his wound harder than seemed strictly necessary. He tensed in response, but that had the unfortunately effect of reminding him that the pain in his side was not the only ache he must contend with. His back and shoulders had grown stiff, protesting the treatment they had received when Bernard tied him to the tree, and Aramis felt the ache shooting up the abused muscles of his shoulder and into his neck.

"So…your story?" d'Artagnan asked.

"Hmmm?" Aramis stared back for a moment, forcing his eyes to meet d'Artagnan's as he tried to make sense of the question.

"Your wound? You were going to tell us how you received it?"

"Oh. That." He looked away. "Took a glancing blow in the fight. Sword swipe. One of your musketeers caught me off guard," he said, this last addressed to Athos.

"That's it?" d'Artagnan asked.

Aramis gave a one-shouldered shrug. "I told you it wasn't much of a story. Ow." He winced again, leaning away from Porthos and shooting him his best glare, though he feared it looked more pitiful than intimidating at the moment.

"Sorry. Just cleaning the wound a bit before I bandage it." He gave Aramis a half-grin before returning to his work. Aramis noted the alcohol-soaked cloth he was using to wipe away the mixture of blood, sweat, and dirt clinging to the seeping edges of the wound. He wondered where Porthos had gotten the supplies, why he hadn't noticed when he'd begun. Then he realized that the others had been talking to him to keep him distracted, rather than out of any sincere interest in his story.

But before Aramis could call them out for it, the tent flap was pushed aside and daylight streamed in, forcing Aramis to close his eyes and turn his head away as the light sliced across his vision.

"Captain?" he heard a voice say.

"Yes, Marcoux? What is it?"

Aramis opened his eyes slightly and saw that the musketeer had entered, letting the flap close behind him. But instead of speaking, he stood staring at the sight before him. Aramis couldn't fathom what was so interesting until he realized how this must look…with Porthos caring for a Spanish prisoner who sat unrestrained, while the captain of the regiment looked on impassively.

"Has something happened?" Athos pressed.

"Uh, no, sir. Sorry." Marcoux shook himself and straightened, his gaze darting to Athos and staying there. "Our prisoners are restless, but there's been no new information. Although, one of them has been asking after Renato."

Aramis saw the confused looks pass between the other musketeers. "Who's Renato?" d'Artagnan asked.

Marcoux frowned, looking around the room. "Uh…him" he pointed. "The second officer. That's what they called him."

Athos and d'Artagnan turned in near perfect unison to look at Aramis. He glanced to the side and saw Porthos giving him a similar look.

"Renato, is it now?" Athos asked.

"Lying about that too, eh?" Porthos added.

Aramis flushed. "Not…exactly. It's a Spanish variant of my Christian name. It seemed prudent at the time."

Athos nodded in acceptance, but Aramis could see d'Artagnan thinking, like gears turning in his mind as he tried to puzzle out what Renato might translate to in French. Normally the scrutiny would have make Aramis uncomfortable, but out of his many secrets, his Christian name no longer seemed like a secret worth hiding.

"What was it you needed, Marcoux?" Athos asked, re-taking control of the conversation. Aramis was grateful to have the attention shift away from him, though he flinched as Porthos applied pressure to his wound.

"Easy. Almost done," Porthos whispered.

"I came to inquire about your plans for the prisoners this evening. Given their restlessness, and Cordero's…uh…condition…" Marcoux cast a glance to Aramis, as if wondering if he should say more.

Athos dismissed the concern with a wave of a hand. "He's still saying nothing, I take it?" Marcoux nodded. "Then leave the lieutenant as he is until sundown. Then return him to the others."

"Are you certain, captain? What if the lieutenant's presence strengthens the resolve of his men?"

Athos seemed to consider this before turning to Aramis. "Renato?" he asked with a hint of sarcasm as his lips formed the name.

Aramis scowled slightly. "They're almost as afraid of Cordero as they are of you. If you let him near the others, he'll probably spend all his time threatening to skin them alive if they talk."

Athos nodded. "We can use that to our advantage."

"Athos, they don't know anything. They're young and naïve, and just following orders. Only Cordero has the information you need."

"Are you sure about that?" Porthos asked, tying off the bandages and checking his work before standing and taking a step back. "If they know anything that might be useful…"

"They don't," Aramis insisted.

Porthos gave him a sidelong look, quietly assessing. "Are you tryin' to protect them?"

"No," Aramis denied, then stopped, considering. "All right. Perhaps I am. But they're little more than boys…and I'm sick of Cordero treating them like dogs. Besides, the only one who knows more than I do is Cordero. So no matter what you do, you're stuck with the same problem."

"Um, captain?"

Everyone turned to look at Marcoux, who was staring at Aramis with an obvious question written on his face.

"Marcoux, you will tell no one what we have spoken of or what you have seen here. Understood?"

"Yes, captain." He answered, the questions still written all over his face.

"Do you trust me?" Athos asked.

"Absolutely."

"Good. Because there's more going on here than you know."

"I'd gathered as much, sir."

"What exactly have you gathered?"

Marcoux fidgeted. "Nothing I will share or speak aloud. Not unless you say so first, captain."

Aramis couldn't resist a sly grin. "Trained them well, have you, Athos? I see leadership suits you well, but then, I could have told you as much." Athos merely glared at the smugness of the compliment, but Aramis ignored it.

"He's helping us," Porthos said, pointing at Aramis.

"Porthos," Athos scolded. Porthos shrugged as if to ask what the harm was in admitting it.

"I'm only helping so long as I'm in here," Aramis insisted. "Once you send me back out there, I'll go straight back to insulting you and refusing to cooperate."

"I would think you'd had enough of resisting by now, all things considered," Marcoux commented dryly.

"What is that supposed to mean?" Porthos asked roughly.

"It doesn't matter," d'Artagnan said, cutting him off before he could press Marcoux for an answer. "There will be no need for resistance since we're not sending Aramis back. That's settled, isn't it?"

"That's not your decision to make!" Aramis could feel his frustration driving his heart rate up, his head pounding in time with his pulse. "I don't take orders from you…from any of you." He cast a quick glance around the group. "I still have a mission to complete, and if you stand in my way, you might as well throw me in prison yourself. Not to mention that without my help, you'll find yourself with another Spanish raid and another group of dead musketeers, likely within the week."

"But you said it yourself – you don't know anything to help us prevent another attack," D'Artagnan pointed out.

"And if that ain't enough, just look at yourself!" Porthos waved a hand in Aramis's direction. Aramis tried to follow the gesture, but the effort of tracking Porthos's movement made him feel dizzy. "You're in no fit state to do anything right now."

Aramis growled. "I didn't ask for you to…"

"Gentlemen, that's enough." Athos's voice cut through the mounting tension, silencing them all and leaving Aramis with only the sound of his racing heartbeat and the sight of his angry friends. He absently noted that Marcoux was watching the proceedings discreetly with a look of sheepish interest.

Athos straightened and turned to Marcoux first. "Select a courier and prepare him to ride for Paris at first light. I will have a message to be delivered directly to Minister Tréville as soon as possible. Be sure to plan the courier's route accordingly and arrange for him to obtain fresh horses as necessary."

"Yes, captain." Marcoux quickly left to follow his orders.

"D'Artagnan, would you mind fetching something to eat?" Athos asked.

"Of course," d'Artagnan said.

"Now," Athos turned around. "Aramis, come here." The words were clearly an order, but he didn't wait for Aramis to comply, gently pulling him to his feet and guiding him over to the table. Porthos grabbed the chair and moved it to the table's edge, allowing Athos to maneuver Aramis into his new position seated at the table. Porthos stood to the side and watched as Athos took the only other chair and sat beside Aramis, pulling his hands so that they rested on the table in front of them. Then Athos soaked a cloth and returned to the task that Aramis had interrupted before, carefully washing the torn and inflamed skin on his wrists.

Aramis had to let out a sigh, almost too tired to care about the sting as Athos worked.

"Have you slept at all?" Athos asked, his tone deceptively casual.

"A little."

"Truly?" Athos pressed.

"No," Aramis said, shaking his head. "Not really."

"Dammit, Aramis," Porthos muttered. "You gotta stop being so stubborn and let us help you."

In spite of himself, Aramis felt his heart warm at the mixture of exasperation and clear affection in his friend's tone. "I thought you were too angry with me for lying to want to help me?"

"I am angry at you," Porthos said. "But if you think that's enough to make me stop trying to help you, then being with the Spanish all this time has made you stupid."

Aramis could only respond with a weak grin at that, sure that if he tried to express his gratitude, his voice would betray him.

D'Artagnan returned with a plate of food, bread and cheese and some dried meat, which he set on the table. Porthos immediately pushed it toward Aramis. "Eat something," he commanded. Aramis decided it was best to obey, picking up a bit of bread with his right hand while Athos continued to clean the left, before he eventually had to switch hands. He hadn't even eaten half of the food by the time Athos finished cleaning his wrists, completing his work by tying a thin strip of brown cloth around each of Aramis's wrists to cover the lacerations and rope burns. Seeing the makeshift bandages, Aramis began to protest, but Athos refused to allow it.

"We'll cover the bandages with rope when we re-bind your wrists. No one will know the difference."

Aramis nodded his acceptance. It would, at least, be less painful than leaving the wounds exposed to new abrasions.

"So, we're doing this then?" Porthos asked, the distaste obvious in his voice. "We're really tying him back up and keeping him like a prisoner?"

Athos sighed. "For now. He's right about one thing: we don't have the authority to decide when Aramis's mission is over. Only Tréville can do that. So we may have to play this game a bit longer…until our courier reaches Paris and Tréville sends new orders."

"I don't like this," Porthos said.

"Nor do I. But if Aramis insists on continuing his mission," Athos glanced to the side where Aramis nodded to confirm his intentions, "then we have no cause to prevent him without orders from Tréville."

"Even if it's insane?" d'Artagnan asked.

"It's not, though," Aramis insisted. "I've been doing this for over two years. I can do this. And after all I've done…I cannot just give up now."

"An' how exactly do you expect to complete your mission as our prisoner?" Porthos asked.

"Well," Aramis said, "you could let me escape so I could rejoin the army. No one need ever know."

"But the group you're with…" d'Artagnan began, "they might not be ransomed back to the Spanish for months yet. If we let you return now, on your own, wouldn't it look suspicious? That only you escaped?"

Athos nodded. "And you said yourself that Cordero never fully trusted you. If he is suspicious of you already, as you believe, then it may not be safe to continue with your mission, not if there's even a chance that Cordero shared his distrust with others before your capture."

Aramis let out a shuddering breath. "But I can't just go back to Paris. You have no idea what will happen if I return from this mission as a failure."

"Neither do you," d'Artagnan said. "You've been undercover for how long? Surely you've done your duty by now. Perhaps you're wrong and the king won't be angry. How long can he really expect you to remain a spy in the Spanish army?"

Aramis shrugged. "Indefinitely?"

"Well, I think indefinitely might just have ended," Porthos said.

"No," Aramis said, shaking his head. "Tréville was getting pressure to provide better intelligence from our spy network. I could tell from his orders."

"It is true that we are in desperate need of reliable information on Spanish troop movements," Athos confirmed. "The uncertain number of Spanish troops on French soil has caused us a great deal of difficulty in creating effective long-term battle strategies."

"I got the impression that," Aramis swallowed, "that the king was dissatisfied. Tréville said significant intelligence was required, and he insisted that finding the Spanish informant was my highest priority."

"So that's what we do then," d'Artagnan said. Aramis turned to look at him, as did the others, but out of the corner of his eye, he saw Athos's expression shift, looking suddenly intrigued.

"Go on," he said.

"If we find whoever has been supplying the Spanish with information and helping them to sneak into our territory, then Aramis will have what he needs to satisfy the king." D'Artagnan turned to look at Aramis. "If you return to Paris with vital information, the king will have to acknowledge that your mission was a success."

"Even with my cover no longer secure?"

"Well," Porthos said with a shrug, "he had to know you couldn't remain in Spain forever. I'd say he should be lucky you've managed this long."

Aramis shook his head wearily, bringing one hand up to rub his temple, hoping to ease the ache of exhaustion. "I don't see how I can accomplish that, not as things stand now."

"We," Porthos said. Aramis lowered his hand to look up at him questioningly. "How we will accomplish it. It's not just about you anymore. We're in this together, aren't we?"

"Indeed," Athos said firmly. Aramis looked from the promise in Athos's steady gaze to the friendly support of d'Artagnan and the determination in the set of Porthos's shoulders. He turned back to Athos.

"We will find a way, Aramis," he said. "I promise you that."

Aramis could only nod, overcome by the sincerity of that promise "Okay," he said softly, nodding his acceptance. "Okay."