After all the Athos pain, I felt a bit cheated that Aramis was just fine after all he'd been through at Grimaud's hands. Knocked out, strung up, pistol going off right by his ear… I thought for sure we were finally going to get some Aramis h/c… but no. Remedy needed.

Episode 8 – Prisoner of War

The Price of Peace

D'Artagnan slumped onto the bench opposite Porthos with a grunt of a hello. He grabbed a piece of bread from the tray in the center of the wood table and began to maliciously tear it into shreds.

Porthos watched, amused, as he finished the last of his porridge, wondering what could have the Gascon so irritable this early in the morning.

"Rough night?" he asked cautiously. Since they'd returned from the front, it wasn't unusual for any of them to have nightmares; he'd had quite a few himself, and being buried under a pile of rubble thanks to Grimaud's ambush hadn't helped. But so far, he had been able to keep them from affecting his interactions with the others. Perhaps the whelp wasn't as good at hiding his unrest.

"No," came the petulant reply.

Porthos frowned and placed his spoon in the bowl, shifting it to one side as he leaned forward, ducking his head in an attempt to catch his friend's eye.

"What's wrong?"

D'Artgnan took a deep breath, then squeezed his eyes shut and tossed what was left of the bread to the chickens scuttling around the table. He blew out the air through his nose and rested his face in his hands.

"Constance didn't come to bed last night."

Porthos snorted a laugh. "She's a busy woman, your Constance," he soothed. "Runnin' a garrison isn't easy. Besides, she probably spent the night tendin' to Sylvie. You know Athos isn't much good in situations like that." It was true. While the Captain had been understandably worried of the woman he had taken up with recently, there was little he could do to ease her pain outside of staying near and keeping her comfortable.

D'Artagnan rubbed his hands over his face then dropped them to lean against the tabletop, a sheepish grin on his lips. "I know. You're probably right. It's just I seem to sleep better –" His words cut off abruptly and his eyes widened as something across the courtyard caught his attention.

Porthos twisted in his seat in time to see the woman in question quietly close the door of the room they used as a washroom, a small bundle of white cloth tucked up against her bosom. She hustled to a door a few paces down the hall and knocked once before opening it and disappearing inside.

"That's Aramis' room," d'Artangan said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion.

Porthos turned back to see anger simmering in the younger man's eyes.

"That doesn't mean anythin', D'Artagnan." They'd seen little of the marksman since they'd rescued him from Grimaud's clutches. He'd been with them when they'd protected the Queen in the streets of Paris, but he'd disappeared soon after that and Porthos had been too angry with his reckless friend to wonder where he'd gone.

The Gascon's eyes narrowed. "My wife is visiting another man's room after staying out all night and you're telling me it doesn't mean anything?"

Porthos raised a hand. "I'm just saying you shouldn't jump to conclusions is all. It's Aramis –"

"Exactly."

Before Porthos could respond, the Gascon was up and storming toward the closed door his wife had just slipped through.

"Shit," Porthos muttered, pushing himself up from the table and hurrying after his incensed friend. He had barely caught up when d'Artagnan reached the door, kicked it in without hesitation and stomped inside. Porthos paused in the doorway, his brows rising at the tableau in front of him.

Aramis sat perched on the edge of his bed, Constance kneeling before him, smoothing his freshly laundered shirt against his chest. They bothj flinched at the sudden intrusion, eyes wide as d'Artagnan blew into the room like a thunderstorm. Pushing Constance back, the Gascon grabbed a startled Aramis by the pristine shirtfront and hauled him from the bed, shoving him back against the wall. He held him there, pressing his face close to the marksman's.

"That," he spat, "is my wife."

Aramis latched onto d'Artagnan's wrists, but did not try to pull his clenched fists off. Brows raised in surprise, he remained calm, his thin smile conciliatory.

"As we are all well aware."

Porthos rolled his eyes at the flippant response before stepping forward.

"Let him go, d'Artagnan."

"d'Artagnan!"

Constance's sharp voice overlapped his and they both grabbed hold of the angry young man, forcing him to step back and release his captive.

Without the younger man's support, Aramis slid down the wall, hissing in pain as one leg folded beneath him.

"What do you think you're doing?" Constance pushed her husband back into Porthos' grip and dropped once again to her knees, guiding Aramis the rest of the way to the floor, brushing a lock of hair from his face. She turned back to glare over her shoulder. "Can't you see he's hurt?" she fired. "What kind of friends are you?"

Porthos had no idea how he had come to be included in her indictment, but he wisely kept silent in the wake of her wrath. He felt d'Artagnan tense, confusion overtaking his anger. He twisted back to glance at Porthos, but the big man could only shrug his shoulders, no more aware of what was going on than he was. It was obvious Aramis was in pain, but the cause was a mystery to him for the moment.

"Aramis?"

Porthos gaze shifted to the man sitting up against the wall and took a moment to study his old friend. There were fine lines of pain in the corners of Aramis' eyes though he still smiled – which was now more of a grimace – as Constance's hands hovered over him. Aramis grabbed one of them and squeezed it briefly.

"I'm all right," he assured her. "No harm done."

"You're sure?" she persisted. "Your leg?"

"Is still sore, but no worse than before."

She called back without bothering to turn. "Help me get him back to the bed."

Pushing d'Artagnan aside, Porthos approached and reached for Aramis' arm, only to be met by a grunt of pain and a slap on his hand from Constance. "Not that way, you brute!" She shifted to place an arm around Aramis' back nodding for Porthos to follow suit on the other side. Slowly they maneuvered the wounded man from the floor and helped him limp back to the edge of the bed.

Once he was settled, Constance turned to her husband who managed to look chagrined in the face of her fury.

"I saw… I thought…" he sputtered, but was quickly cut off.

"I know exactly what you thought." She fisted her hands on her hips and glared. "I'll deal with you later. Go."

"Constance…" d'Artagnan tilted his head, his voice pleading, but Constance was immovable.

"Go." She pointed toward the door, her tone broking no argument, and with a huff of embarrassment or defeat – Porthos couldn't tell which – d'Artagnan sulked out the door.

With a sigh, Constance turned back to the bed, ignoring the twin expressions of shock on the remaining two Musketeers' faces. She dropped back to her knees in front of Aramis, her anger apparent as she fussed over his outstretched leg.

"Constance," Aramis called, trying to catch the woman's attention. Constance continued to mutter under her breath, the words 'how dare he' and 'stupid fool' the only two clear utterances Porthos could discern. He exchanged a wide-eyed look with the marksman and took a step back, holding up a hand, clearly indicating he was staying out of the proceedings for the moment.

Chuckling, Aramis cleared his throat and called to her again, finally gaining her notice as he placed a hand on the ones fluttering against his leg. "Constance," he began once she looked up. "It's fine. As I said, there was no harm done."

"Just because you're fine doesn't make it all right."

Aramis dipped his head in agreement. "D'Artagnan was only responding as any man would. He –"

"He's an idiot," she said, hotly. The fire in her tone had mostly burned itself out and she suddenly sat back against her heels, her shoulders sagging. "I can't believe he would actually think I would – that you would –"

"He was only trying to protect what was his."

"I am not his property," she chided, her eyes flashing at the marksman.

"No," Aramis acquiesced quickly. "But he still feels he must protect you."

"From you?" Constance managed a laugh. She waved a hand at the Musketeer's ruffled countenance. "You're hardly a threat at the moment."

"I don't think he was concerned for your physical safety as much as your virtue." Aramis grinned. "After all, I did have quite the reputation once."

Constance snorted a laugh. "That was a long time ago, Aramis. Anyone who knows you can see you're not that man anymore."

"And d'Artagnan will come to that conclusion, also. It's not easy to quell his Gascon temper, though he has made many strides in doing so."

Constance nodded. "I know. It's just," she huffed another sigh. "He was gone a long time. I'm not used to having to explain myself to anyone."

"Perhaps you can tell him that?" Aramis encouraged. "The two of you are far too good for each other to let a little misunderstanding such as this come between you."

Constance smiled. "You're right." She shifted her gaze to Porthos who managed to not jump at the sudden attention.

"You think you could possibly find the time to sit with him for a bit while I go set my husband straight?"

The pointed tone and look of reproach she sent his way reminded him he probably had some apologizing to do himself. He nodded meekly in response.

"Good."

Aramis offered her an arm as leverage, but she gently batted it aside, giving him an exasperated roll of her eyes. He chuckled.

"Try not to make him grovel too much."

As soon as she was out the door, Porthos turned back to his friend and leaned against the wall. He raised his brows pointedly, crossing his arms on his chest as he waited for an explanation.

"Constance was… concerned about my well being when we returned." Aramis admitted. He slid back on the cot, shifting to pull his leg up and relaxed back against the pillows pushed against the wall.

"You were fine," Porthos frowned. He forced himself to think back over the last day or so, trying to recall when Aramis could've been hurt. "At least you seemed fine after we got those chains off you."

Aramis took a deep breath and seemed to sink back further into the pillows supporting him. "I was."

"But?" Porthos prompted after a moment of silence.

"But… once I returned, I guess the rush wore off and my muscles began to stiffen and…" he shrugged. "Constance noticed I was having difficulty moving with my usual grace. You were all at the palace and as much as I wished to follow…" He shrugged, not needing to explain why his presence at an audience with the King was unwise.

He shifted on the bed, wincing as he bent his knee to get leverage.

"Your knee?"

Aramis rubbed his leg just above the joint in question. "Kicked by one of Grimaud's men. Nothing serious, just badly bruised. Though it did swell some making if difficult to walk."

Porthos nodded. "So Constance made you stay here. That explains why she was so adamant about us not seeking you out when we returned with Sylvie."

Aramis face clouded with concern. "How is she? Athos?"

"They're both resting. Constance did a good job patching her up. And Sylvie is one tough lady, she'll be all right."

Aramis nodded, relieved. "Good. I'm sure Athos is beside himself with worry."

Porthos simply grunted in agreement.

"What about you?" he ran a knowing eyes over his friend. "Anything other than your leg you want to fess up about?"

Aramis' shrug brought another wince of pain, which he tried but failed to hide from his friend's calculating gaze.

"Shoulder?" Porthos assumed.

"Being strung up on a beam for the better part of a day has its repercussions." Aramis closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall. "Strained and sore muscles. It will pass."

"I'm sorry."

Aramis opened his eyes, frowning at this friend. "You have nothing to be sorry for, Porthos. It was my own stupidity that resulted in my capture."

"True," the bigger man agreed. "You should've told us. You should've told me."

Aramis took a deep breath and slowly let it out through pursed lips. "And what would you have said if I had?"

"That you're an idiot."

Aramis grinned. "So you see why I neglected to inform you of my plans." His attempt at levity fell flat and the smile dropped from his lips. "I was acting on orders from the Queen," he explained. "I wanted to tell you what we were doing. I urged her to tell the King, but she did not feel the time right. I'm sorry, Porthos. I knew you would believe me thinking with my heart instead of my head."

"I would've thought you thinking with a completely different part of your anatomy to be honest."

The laugh broke free before Aramis could stop it. "Also, a valid concern, but ultimately just as wrong."

Porthos smiled sadly. "She's goin' to be the death of you."

Aramis sighed. "If it can put an end to this war, it would almost be worth it."

Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

Constance entered their room, finding d'Artagnan sitting on the edge of the bed, forearms balanced on his thighs, head bowed in thought. She knew he was aware of her presence, and quietly moved across the room and dropped down beside him.

"I'm sorry." Her husband's voice was barely a whisper, but she didn't miss the thread of shame weaving through it.

She smiled, leaning closer to push at his shoulder with her own. "You should be." Her tone was just as soft, subdued, taking the sting out of the reprimand.

"I know," d'Artagnan dipped his head further. "But when you didn't come to bed last night and I saw you going into Aramis' room… well, my mind just… I thought…"

"Do you actually think I would betray you like that?" She asked, saving him from his fumbling apology. "That Aramis would?"

d'Artagnan sat up and turned to her, taking her hand in both of his. "No. I don't. And I have no excuse for my actions." He looked up into her eyes and she could see the emotion swimming in their dark depths. "I can't change what happened, I can only make sure it never happens again. I love you, Constance. With all my heart. I couldn't do any of this without you."

"Of course not," she smiled. "And I love you, too. You have to trust that. No matter what."

He dipped his head. "I do. And I promise I will never doubt you again."

She leaned forward and kissed him lightly on the lips. "See that you don't." She arched her brows, her smile coy. "Besides, Aramis is hardly my type. He's much too pretty. I prefer to be the pretty one."

D'Artagnan snorted a laugh. "Then I will strive to be as homely as possible from now on."

"Agreed." She kissed him again, giggling as he pulled her closer, deepening the kiss.

"Do you think Aramis will forgive me?" he asked when they came up for air.

"You're thinking about Aramis right now?" she asked, amused. "Perhaps I should be the one who's jealous."

D'Artagnan chuckled, dipping forward to nuzzle his nose beneath her ear. "Aramis is hardly my type," he quipped. "Not nearly pretty enough."

Constance laughed. "Good answer. I may make a proper husband of you yet."

He pulled her closer and pressed her back onto the mattress, his lips flickering over her neck, her cheek, and her body responded, overcoming the weariness of the long night. The sun was barely up, and there was so much to do, but she was quite content where she was, knowing that whatever they faced out there, they would face it together. Later.

fin