As Athos' condition improved, he became annoyed with their constant surveillance and empathically shooed his brothers and Constance out of his room. He swore to them he'd only spend a few hours a day on the never-ending paperwork. The remainder of his time would be spent resting, a pledge that was quickly forgotten once he was left to his own devices.

Part of Athos dreaded the idea of sleeping. He was afraid that his vivid nightmare would make an encore appearance. Even now, his heart beat involuntarily increased when the tendrils of that nightmare wound their way into his mind. The whole experience had left him edgy, just like his brothers' had noted in his nightmare. At first, Aramis, d'Artagnan and Porthos had attributed their Captain's moodiness to his recovery and embarrassment for doing something so elementarily stupid as chasing an assailant down a dark alley, alone.

Athos had been coming back from the palace when he saw a man bludgeon, then steal a merchant's purse. Athos had given chase, but unfortunately had lost the culprit in the dark streets of Paris. As he was casting about, trying to pick up the thief's trail, he saw, out of the corner of his eye, a glimpse of red hair that looked disturbingly familiar. Without thought, he started moving in the direction of what appeared to be a ginger-haired feminine form. As if sensing his presence, the individual had ducked down a dark and narrow alley and Athos had stupidly followed.

He had been attacked from behind, as he was scurrying after the elusive feminine figure. A blow to the back of the head with stout piece of wood had driven him to his knees. The ensuing fight had been vicious, both men taking punishing blows from fists and daggers. The narrowness of the alley had rendered their swords useless, and both men had quickly discarded them, relying instead on their main gauche and bare knuckles.

In the end, the Captain of the Musketeers had won, but not before being brutalized and receiving a deep gash in his side. He had only remained conscious long enough to hand off his prisoner before collapsing in the dirt. He had been carried back to the garrison and Aramis had attended him. No one was ever the wiser that the person he was chasing and the person he fought were not one and the same. For reasons he didn't even understand himself, he neglected to enlighten them.

As he recovered, his brothers had teased him, with a purpose, on his stupid actions. However, when it became apparent that this was not going to be tolerated for some reason this time, they had left off. Usually, Athos was tolerant their ribbing, especially when it was well-deserved. However, this time, he had made it quite clear the subject was off-limits.

As he sat alone, at his desk, pretending to do paperwork, his mind wandered back to the night of his attack. Had it really been Catherine that had ducked down that dark alley? And if it had been her, had this attack been deliberate? Not just being in the wrong place at the wrong time? Was there any truth in his nightmare that Catherine was still in Paris seeking revenge against him? This is what was bothering Athos, and what he refused to share with his brothers.

As these disturbing thoughts flowed through his mind, a single knock came on his door, and then it opened, the person not waiting for permission to enter. Athos knew it was one of his brothers for even Minster Treville and Constance, mostly, waited for an affirmative signal before invading his chambers.

Aramis' head poked around the corner of the doorway, followed by the rest of him. "That doesn't look like resting," he chided as he strolled into the room.

"I was napping. In my chair. You interrupted me."

Aramis moved over to stand pointedly next to Athos' bed. "Maybe. But, most likely not."

The marksman meaningfully flicked his eyes from Athos to the bed and back. The swordsman purposely ignored what was being requested, leaning back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest, and staring out the window on the far wall.

Aramis, used to the headstrong ways of his friend, sighed, moved over to one of the chairs near the desk, and flopped into it. "Fine. I'll check your wounds later. What would you like to talk about while we wait out your stubbornness?"

He got no answer, as expected, so Aramis continued to prattle on, even though Athos didn't give any indication he was paying attention. "I know. Why don't you tell me what is going on in the guilt-ridden mind of yours?"

Silence ruled the room as Athos doggedly ignored Aramis' attempts to draw him into a conversation. Finally, Aramis' tone took on a hint of impatience. "Really, Captain. After all these years you don't think I know when you are hiding something from us, from me."

Slowly, Athos dragged his eyes away from the window to the mountain of correspondence threatening to tumble all over his desk. "I hate when you call me that."

The self-satisfied smug that appeared on Aramis' face said it all. "I know. But you'll get used to it, eventually."

Unfolding his arms, Athos waved them at the desk full of documents, as if somehow they were to blame. "There were others Treville could have chosen."

"Treville chose wisely. Everyone knows and believes that. So stop this subterfuge and tell me what is really bothering you, for it is not only the fact that you are Captain of the Musketeers."

Running a hand through his messy locks, Athos rose, moved to a chair near Aramis, sat, and stretched his legs out in front of him. He was sans his boots and his big toe poked out a hole in his left sock. Apparently, the Comte had gotten no better over the years at darning his own hose.

"I need you, all of you, to be careful." Athos' voice held an edge of anxiety that the marksman noted.

"Aren't we always?" he replied, lightly, "Well, I suppose not, but why now more than before?"

Aramis could practically hear Athos internally fighting with himself on whether to impart the real information. "Athos." Aramis' tone spoke love, nonjudgement, and years of understanding his wayward brother.

Dropping his head to his chest, and closing his eyes, Athos finally murmured, "Catherine. I thought I saw Catherine the night I was attacked. I was chasing her down that alley."

Aramis straightened a little in his chair at this new information. So this is what Athos had been hiding from them. His stupidity of going down that dark alley alone now made more sense to the marksman. However, Aramis sensed there was something else Athos was still withholding. Damn the man. Would he never trust them? And why was Catherine's presence so disturbing?

"Well, you don't exactly know where she went after your last meeting. It is not inconceivable that she is still in Paris."

Aramis absentmindedly stroked his mustache trying to determine how to best draw the truth from Athos. Finally, he decided to be blunt and simply demand it. "But there is more you are not saying, Athos. Do you think she was deliberately trying to lure you into a trap? That she was seeking revenge?"

Aramis watched as an uncontrollable shudder ran through Athos' frame at the mention of the word revenge. His mining had hit some important fact. "Mon ami, what is it?"

Before Athos could reply, a knock came on the door and whatever information he might have been about to reveal was replaced with a gruff, "Come."

A lanky young cadet entered his Captain's chambers clutching a letter in his trembling hand. "This came. For you. From the palace."

Athos rose, pattered across the floor in his torn hose, took the missive, unfolded it, and scanned it. "Thank you, Paul. You can go."

With a nervous bob of his head, the cadet all but fled from the room, practically slamming the door behind him.

"Do I scare them that much?" Athos idly questioned as he moved towards Aramis to hand him the letter.

"No more or less than Treville scared us," Aramis replied as he accepted the parchment and read it. A frown creased his forehand when he finished. "Why would Minister Treville wish to meet only with you, and outside of the city?"

Athos gave a small shrug as he moved across his quarters in search of his boots. When he didn't spot them, he whirled to face his friend. "Where are my boots? Did you take them in the hopes of keeping me confined?"

"While we have employed that strategy in the past when you have been particularly pig-headed, this time they are simply in your closet. However," Aramis added as Athos changed his trajectory to head for the wardrobe, "you are still injured. Porthos, d'Artagnan, or I shall go and see what the Minister requires."

"It is addressed to me. It does not mention anyone else," Athos pointed out as he flung open the door to the closet and began to root in it.

"True, but Minister Treville doesn't know of your injuries. If he did, he wouldn't expect you to come."

Athos, with his missing footwear in hand, headed to the nearest chair to pull them on. "That's a lie. He is well aware of my mishap. You told him the minute I was hurt. I, too, know when you are lying, Aramis."

"Can't blame me for trying. May I at least check the wounds to see what state they are in, before you aggravate them by riding," Aramis pleaded, moving towards the musketeer who was now searching for his doublet.

"There is no time, if I am to meet Treville where and when the letter states."

Athos had found his black leather jacket and was struggling to slip it on. Aramis moved to his side and aided him, then handed him his weapon's belt and rapier.

"This feels wrong, Athos," Aramis stated with concern as he watched his best friend adjust his weaponry.

Athos stopped his preparations for a moment to place his hands on Aramis' shoulders. "I agree. This is peculiar."

Aramis made one last plea to dissuade the man. "Do you have to go?"

"Yes. But, I'll be on my guard."

Athos dropped his hands to his sides and after giving his weapons' belt a last adjustment, he started to head for the door.

"We all will be on our guard," Aramis declared after the retreating man. "You're not going alone."

Stopping, Athos glanced over at his friend. The smile that graced his weary face was a genuine one that made Aramis feel privileged, for the ex-Comte didn't offer real smiles lightly.

"I had no illusions that I would ever be going on my own. For if I were that stupid, to think my brothers would not be sneaking right behind me…, he shrugged, "well then Treville did make a poor choice in me as his replacement."

Moving to the door, he opened it and gestured for Aramis to proceed him. "Go tell the others. We leave...together...as soon as the horses are ready."