Brothers in Arms

by Aggie2011

A compilation of modern AU stories, some short, some long based on the AU I built in my Whumptober prompts in 2017. Aramis centered with a heavy dose of Porthos, Athos and bromance. Also, features Anne (not as a Queen) and Aramis/Anne throughout. *Modern AU**Brothers in Arms AU*

8. Leave the Pieces When You Go

Well, well, well...look who decided to show up years later with Starbucks. I promised you all last time that this story arc with Louis was about to explode and HERE WE ARE. Brace yourselves. This is unbeta'd but I've re-written a majority of it at least twice, so hopefully I caught the worst mistakes.

---

And it's alright, yeah, I'll be fine
Don't worry 'bout this heart of mine
Just take your love and hit the road
There's nothing you can do or say
You're gonna break my heart anyway
So just leave the pieces when you go

Leave the Pieces by The Wreckers

---

Anne woke slowly, easing to consciousness in a way she could only ever do on weekends when no alarms were set. Blinking into the dim, curtain-dampened light filtering into the bedroom, her eyes fell upon a familiar sight on the pillow next to hers.

Aramis was stretched out on his side, facing her, Esmé curled against his chest between them. His nose was buried in the soft hair on the crown of the pup's head, half of his face hidden behind fur. The dog, for her part, was sleeping as soundly as her owner, paws twitching slightly as she dreamed.

Anne smiled as she imagined waking every morning for the rest of her life to such a sight as this.

The sudden chiming of Aramis's cell phone, charging on his bedside table, made all of them jump. He rolled to his back, snagging the phone from the table before it could ring again and squinting at the screen.

The change that came over him was sudden and dramatic. From one moment to the next, he went from sleep-addled and bleary to alert and moving.

Anne sat up, watching him cross the room to the dresser and dig out a pair of jeans and a clean T-shirt. He vanished into the closet next, emerging with the go-bag he kept at her place, twin to the one in his closet at his apartment with Porthos.

"Not just a briefing then?" she guessed.

He carded his hands up through his hair, settling it into something closer to roguishly tousled and less sleep-mussed. Then he sat on the edge of the bed and reached for his boots.

"Flying out," he replied. "Something we've been waiting on."

"Off to catch a bad guy?" she asked with a grin, wrapping her arm around Esmé when the dog snuggled into her side.

Aramis looked at her, eyes bright with amusement.

"That is what we do best."

"Any idea how long?"

Aramis tied off his second boot and turned on the bed, climbing on hands and knees to kiss her.

"Not sure. I'll let you know as soon as I can. Porthos is picking me up. I'll have someone swing by to get my bike. Esmé okay to stay here?"

She nodded, familiar with the routine.

He paused, remaining poised before her, eyes intense as they studied her.

"What?" She quirked her lips self-consciously.

"I love you." He said it with such resolve, such confidence, as if there were no greater truth in the world than those words.

Anne smiled.

"I love you, too. Be careful."

He winked, nuzzled his face into Esmé's head as he ruffled her ears, and retreated off the bed.

"Always."

---

"The target package came through on that asshole in the Congo. We're flying to Gabon within the hour," Athos said by way of greeting as he walked out to meet them after Porthos parked his truck. Aramis exchanged a feral grin with Porthos as they retrieved their things from the back.

"Congo's nice this time of year," Aramis commented, slinging his duffle over his shoulder and reaching for his rifle case.

"Congo's hot this time of year," Porthos said, slamming the door.

"You say that like it's a bad thing." Aramis grinned.

"Well, we can't all be part reptile."

"We have wheels up in thirty minutes, if you could continue the banter on the move," Athos put in firmly, but there was a smirk on his lips.

"You love our banter," Aramis accused, but they both fell into step with Athos as they headed into The Garrison.

D'Artagnan was waiting near their group of desks, peering at the labels on various coffees in a cardboard container.

"Ready to go hunting, pup?" Porthos greeted brightly as he plucked up the cup with his own name on it.

"Will I ever be rid of that nickname?" the youngest replied with a put-upon sigh that was belied by the grin on his face.

"Unlikely!" Aramis answered cheerfully.

D'Artagnan rolled his eyes but smiled wider as he held out a cup to the sniper.

"Careful, or next time I may dare to add something ridiculous like cream or sugar to yours."

"I would never forgive you."

"Oh, I know."

"Gentlemen!" Treville's voice boomed out from across the main hub, drawing their attention immediately. "Briefing on the plane. Get moving."

They chorused their reply of "Yes, sir" and followed the command.

---

One week later…

---

Anne was looking at the delivery app on her phone, preparing to add a tip, as she opened her door. Aramis had only been gone a week, but ordering food for one had already become somewhat depressing.

"That was fast," she said, "the app said you're still approaching…" She looked up and felt her chest tighten. Brushing up at her leg, Esmé growled lowly.

Louis stood at her door, her ordered dinner in his hands, and her parents standing behind him.

"Be a dear, Anne, and invite us in."

Anne clutched her phone tightly, contemplating slamming the door in their faces. But then, she met her mother's eyes. They were wide, scared even. She'd never seen her mother anything but cool and dispassionate.

Anne found herself stepping back, and Louis led the way inside. He dropped the bag of food on the entry table and looked around with a critically arched brow. Anne knew he was taking in the pair of men's running shoes near the door, the jacket too big for her hung on the coat rack, and the matching water and food bowls on the floor near the fridge. She knew if he went snooping further, he'd find an extra toothbrush in her bathroom, a drawer full of men's clothes, Aramis' favorite shampoo and body wash in the shower, and a dozen other indications that Aramis spent significant time here.

Next to her leg, Esmé growled again, and Anne reached down to soothe her.

"Darling," her mother greeted, voice trembling slightly as she leaned to kiss Anne's cheek.

"What's going on?" Anne asked, looking from her mother to her father. Dread tightened in her gut when he refused to meet her eyes.

"This charade is over, Anne. You're going to return to your proper place." Louis's voice was cold, uncompromising, and brimming with confidence.

"I already told you I wouldn't come back to you, Louis. I'm with Aramis. I love Aramis."

Louis laughed, a condescending, harsh thing.

"Don't be ridiculous. This affair with the soldier is over."

Anne scoffed, shaking her head in disbelief.

"It's not an affair," she said. "I love him. Why can't you just accept that?"

"Anne, dear," her mother started, only to be cut off by her father.

"Louis is right, Anne. You will end this humiliating dalliance with the soldier and return to Louis."

Anne pressed her fingers to her eyes, shaking her head.

What was even happening right now?

"I'm not doing that. I won't do that. What the hell is going on?" She looked at her father, wanting him to meet her eyes, but he kept his gaze pinned on the wall over her shoulder.

"Anne," her mother tried again, "your father made a deal, darling, with Louis. You must do this for us, for our family."

Anne stared at her, waiting for more. When nobody said anything else. Anne backed up a step. Esmé growled again, more loudly this time.

"What are you talking about? What deal?" She shifted her gaze to her father, feeling more with every passing moment that she was the only sane one in the room.

Finally, her father met her gaze. As it had always been, his gaze was stern, but there was something else hidden there that gave her pause. Fear.

"What did you do?" she asked, a tendril of alarm sliding up her back.

"It's as simple as this, Anne," Louis cut in sharply. "Your father made a bad deal, and if he wants to escape the situation with his money, his reputation, and his livelihood, he needs me."

Anne felt something squeeze in her chest, a tightness that wasn't unfamiliar but that she hadn't felt in a long time. Heat pooled in her eyes.

She stared at her father, letting her anger and betrayal shine brightly in her eyes.

He looked away.

"Anne, darling, please. You must do this. We'll lose everything. We'll be ruined. Would you do that to me? To your father? Louis has resources, you'll be cared for." Her mother gripped tightly at Anne's forearm, eyes wide and brimming with desperate tears. "Your entire life, you'll have everything you want."

Not everything, her mind whispered.

She thought of wild dark hair, deep brown eyes, and an easy smile that could warm her heart and make her knees weaken in equal measure.

"I…" She felt her voice catch in her throat, eyes burning as she felt the weight of her mother's pleading gaze.

"You will do this, Anne. You must." Her father's voice was a command, an order expected to be followed.

Anne couldn't breathe. She closed her eyes and saw him as he was the last time they'd been together - speaking his love for her as if it was the only truth that mattered.

The sudden thought of that moment being the last time they were together tore a harsh breath from her as she opened her eyes and looked at Louis.

"I won't do it," she said. She couldn't. Her heart couldn't take it.

"Give us a moment alone," Louis said softly, his voice full of faux understanding. She listened as her parents moved out of the apartment, but not before her mother gave her arm one last desperate squeeze. The door closed softly behind them.

Anne forced herself to breathe. She held on to the image of Aramis in her mind as she turned to face Louis.

"I'll do it, Anne," he said calmly. "I'll ruin them."

Then let them be ruined, came her first thought, but then she realized how he'd phrased that.

"Let them be ruined, you mean," she corrected.

He smiled patiently, and she knew.

"You did this."

"Of course I did, Anne."

He said it like it was simple and obvious. He said it like she should have seen this coming, and she realized, with a wave of nausea, perhaps she should have.

She backed away until she bumped against the wall next to the entry table. Louis prowled closer, hands clasped behind his back and a victorious smirk on his face.

"We will be married before the week is out. You will break the lease on this hovel of an apartment. You will resign from your job. You will become my wife." He stepped closer. "You will never see or speak to him again after this moment unless I give my express permission."

Anne clenched her hand around her phone, holding it tightly against her chest.

"I won't," she whispered fiercely. "You'll have to drag me kicking and screaming."

Louis loomed over her, his expression going cold. Esmé snarled and snapped at him, and Louis lashed out with a foot, kicking haphazardly at her.

"Don't!" Anne pleaded, reaching for the dog's collar and pulling her close as she snarled again, body tense and angry.

"Then put the damn thing away before I loose my patience completely," Louis hissed, eyes flashing.

"Ve a tu cama," (Go to your bed) she whispered to Aramis' dog, petting her head with trembling hands. When Esmé twitched but didn't move, Anne made her voice a little sterner, as she'd heard Aramis do when the pup was being stubborn. "Ve a tu cama, Esmé."

Esmé whined lowly but moved away, head ducked and tail down. Anne followed and closed her into the bedroom. When she turned back, Louis was staring at her with cold eyes.

"If you do not do as I have said, I will do worse than ruin your parents."

Something in her chest tightened at the callousness in his voice, the obvious threat woven into the words. She stared at him, fear coiling around her spine. She heard Esmé scratch at the door behind her with a whine.

"The Musketeers may be above working for the highest bidder, but there are those in the Commandos who are not." A breath punched out of her as suddenly as if he'd struck her. "I have a team on my payroll, Anne. All it would take is a phone call, my dear. I could have him dragged into an alleyway and beaten into a coma. I could have him cornered in a bathroom and gang raped. I could have him run off the road on that ridiculous motorcycle, leaving him dead in a ditch."

Ann pressed her hand over her mouth to hold back her rising horror. Moisture pooled in her eyes and overflowed down her cheeks as her mind conjured images of the threats coming to life.

Louis stepped closer, crowding her against the door and leaning down to speak into her ear.

"I could have him tortured for days, weeks, until he was begging for mercy. Do you think I won't, Anne? Do you think I don't have it in me to punish him for taking what is mine?"

Anne couldn't hold it back now, she cried out against her palm. Because, of course, she knew he would do it. She knew him as deeply as anyone could. She knew he had a capacity for cruelty she'd only ever brushed against.

Behind her, Esmé barked and scratched harder at the door.

She shook her head in desperate denial, looking down at the phone clutched in her hand. A picture of Aramis shone up at her. It was him as she loved him the most. His hair was sleep tousled; his face creased with pillow lines. He was looking up at the camera with sleep-bleary eyes and an open, warm smile on his face, Esmé's head tucked under his chin. This was an Aramis nobody else in the world ever got to see, ever got to know. This was Aramis with his guard down and his heart open. This version of Aramis was hers and hers alone.

The thought of Louis destroying him, of doing anything to him because of her, caused a pain so deep that it left her feeling gutted.

"Come with me, right now, or he will suffer for it."

Anne blinked, feeling fresh tears slide down her cheeks as she looked up at Louis and surrendered.

---

5 days later…

---

"I don't like this," Porthos muttered into his comm as they moved slowly and silently through the darkness of the village.

"Too quiet," Aramis agreed from his position covering his back. "Whiskey, Retriever, anything on your side?"

"Not a soul," Athos replied softly. "Something's not right."

"Abort?" Aramis ventured. "Reassess the intel?"

"Let me call in. Everyone hold."

Porthos and Aramis both ducked down behind a half-fallen wall and waited.

"It took us a week and half to finally get the op together and now it might go to shit. What a waste," Porthos muttered under his breath. He glanced at Aramis, but his brother was chewing the inside of his cheek and looking at Porthos intently.

"What?" he whispered in confusion.

"What would you think if I decided to move in with Anne?" Aramis whispered apropos of nothing.

Porthos raised his eyebrows in surprise.

"You think you're ready for that?"

Aramis shifted, eyes scanning the area around them, and shrugged a shoulder.

"I honestly don't know. I stay there as much as at home these days, though, don't I? I can sleep there now most nights so long as I have Esmé."

Porthos nodded, tilting his head in agreement as he, too, continued to watch the area.

"I've lived with you since I was eighteen, though, so I'm not sure I know how not to do that."

Porthos chuckled softly, cutting a fond look at him before returning to his sweep of the area.

"'Mis, you've just said how you stay there as much as you don't these days. And it wouldn't be the first time you lived somewhere else. When you got called up to the commandos years ahead of us, you lived on your own."

"That was before Sav-," Aramis cut himself off sharply and shook his head, clearly trying to banish the thought of that doomed mission. "I like living with you. I don't know what I would have done without you all these years."

"I know, 'Mis. I know." Porthos nudged him sharply to gain a quick moment of eye contact so he'd know he meant what came next. "You are my brother always, and I would gladly live with you as my roommate until the end of time. But if you want to move in with Anne, you absolutely should. I'll miss you like crazy, but I wouldn't be anything but happy for you."

A previously unnoticed tightness in Aramis' shoulders loosened. He opened his mouth to reply, but their comm. crackled to life.

"Abort. Repeat, abort. RV-Alpha."

"Roger that," Porthos whispered into his comm. and they both moved to rise and head back the way they'd come.

A dull thunk on the other side of the wall made Aramis pause. Instinct had him grabbing Porthos by the arm and dragging him bodily away from the wall two breaths before it exploded behind them. Even so, they were both thrown forward, gravel, dirt, and brick raining down on them.

Aramis coughed, ears ringing too loudly for him to hear anything as he tried to get his arms back under him. He felt the roughness of his breathing as he looked up, eyes scanning the area even as he blinked away a red-tinged haze. He saw Porthos on the ground a few feet away, unmoving.

"Outlaw?" He didn't hear his own voice and couldn't be sure how loud he'd spoken.

Porthos didn't move.

Aramis managed one crawling movement in that direction before hands suddenly seized him from behind.

He fought by instinct, still unable to hear over the ringing in his ears. He got his K-Bar in his hand, and somebody in worn cargo pants fell beneath the blade. He yanked himself free of the hands holding him and twisted in the dirt to face his attackers.

He met the butt of a rifle that split the skin of his cheek. It knocked him off balance, but it wasn't enough to knock him out. He was still reeling when a boot slammed into his chest and put him on his back. He didn't hear the boots approaching, but he saw them out of the corner of his eye. He caught the swinging steel-toe and shoved, knocking the man back onto his ass. Aramis rolled away to his hands and knees, clutching his knife defensively.

The ringing in his ears started to subside, and he heard a vaguely muffled string of angry Swahili.

Eight men circled him, another two were moving towards Porthos.

Aramis shifted his stance, calculating a path through the men between him and his brother.

"I wouldn't try it, friend," a deep voice rose from beyond the circle of hostiles surrounding him.

Aramis curled a corner of his mouth up into a smirk and exploded into motion.

He killed four of them with brutal efficiency before a well-placed rifle butt to the ribs sent him stumbling off balance, one elbow dropping to guard against the fiery pain that erupted in his side. A sweeping kick caught him in the back of the ankle, and he went down hard onto his back. He struck out with his bloodied knife, sinking it deep into someone's calf. The answering cry of pain was hardly satisfying when someone finally yelled,

"Enough!"

The crowd of men parted, and Aramis looked over to see a rifle barrel calmly pressed against Porthos' head.

The moment of panic that made him freeze at the sight was all it took for a hard kick to contact his already injured side. Aramis instinctively curled to protect his ribs and only had a moment to process the flash of a black blur before the toe of a boot rushed towards his face, and the world went sharply black.

---

Athos paced at the RV, checking his watch for what felt like the hundredth time.

"That explosion, Athos," d'Artagnan murmured worriedly. "And we can't raise them on the radio."

"We've been told to hold here while they assess the situation by drone," Athos snapped back. He checked his watch again.

"Whiskey," Treville's voice came over their comm.

"Go ahead."

"The drone team confirms that Outlaw and Diablo have been taken captive by Baraka and are being held in the village."

D'Artagnan swore loudly, pacing away and digging his hands into his hair. Athos drew in a measured breath and let it out slowly.

"Permission to retrieve them?"

"We still have intel coming in. My orders are to hold until we know more."

"Sir?" Athos questioned sharply. He knew Treville, and he knew there were precious few scenarios where his CO would leave two of his men in enemy hands.

"The order came from above me, Whiskey. I've been ordered to hold."

Athos frowned, turning over the phrasing in his head.

"Diablo speaks Swahili, maybe he can talk his way out of it."

Athos frowned in earnest now, and d'Artagnan did as well.

Aramis spoke several languages, but Swahili wasn't one of them. Treville knew that. Treville knew they knew that.

He was telling them something, something no one else would be able to understand.

"Hell, Whiskey, it could very well end up like that desert op a few months ago. He talked his way right through that, didn't he?"

Desert Op.

Athos snapped his gaze up to d'Artagnan, whose eyes widened.

Aramis had done precious little talking during that op. What he had done was rescue Porthos from enemy hands despite confusion about their operating orders in the area and demands from the local military base to stand down.

"He is known for his ability to negotiate," Athos replied carefully.

Aramis, while he loved to talk in casual settings, preferred blunt force when it came to the job.

"Indeed. As it is, the orders issued to me may matter little by the end."

"Understood."

Athos signed off the communication and met d'Artagnan's gaze.

"We're going to get them, right?" the younger man asked, eyes fierce and prepared.

Athos nodded sharply.

"Damn right we are."

---

Porthos woke slowly, shaking his head carefully to clear the haze on his mind. He was upright, sitting against a post of some sort. His arms, when he tried to move them, proved to be bound behind him, or perhaps behind the post. He forced himself further upright, groaning through sore muscles as he took stock of himself.

His tac vest was gone, leaving him in his black T-shirt and cargo pants. His boots and socks were also gone, probably on someone else's feet. His head ached in a way that he associated with being knocked unconscious by a blast. And while it was troubling to be able to draw such an easy connection, it at least gave him confidence that he wouldn't have any lasting damage. Aramis had saved him from serious harm by pushing him away from the wall.

Aramis.

Porthos lifted his head quickly, squinting as his vision tilted, and looked for his brother.

There.

He was across the room, secured in the same fashion as Porthos. His legs were sprawled in front of him, his torso canted awkwardly to one side, and his head hung listlessly. His hair hung down, obscuring what little Porthos might have been able to see of his face. He was similarly stripped of his tac-vest and boots.

"Diablo," Porthos hissed, trying to rouse him.

Nothing. Not even a twitch.

Porthos cursed quietly and looked around, searching for something, anything, to aid them. The room was infuriatingly bare, obviously cleared of anything useful before they'd been trussed up in here. He pulled at his bonds, cursing under his breath when he found no give.

With nothing else to do, he focused back on his brother.

"Diablo!" he called a little louder than the first time.

Aramis didn't move.

Concern clawed its way up Porthos' spine as he leaned to try and get a look at Aramis' face. In the quiet of the small room, he could hear a troubling raspy quality to his brother's breathing. His hair was damp and stringy with sweat and dirt, but it had always been too dark to easily see blood in it from a distance.

Porthos hoped it was sweat making his hair look damp.

He was opening his mouth to call out again when the door, one hinge completely broken off, swung open crookedly, and a small group of men walked in. Porthos recognized their target, leading the way - Baraka.

The large man walked straight up to Aramis and crouched next to him. Porthos twitched against his bonds when the man grabbed a fistful of Aramis' hair and pulled his head up as if to check to be sure he was truly unconscious.

Porthos sucked in a sharp breath, his brother's face now clearly visible.

Blood was everywhere. There was an angry, bruised cut on his cheekbone; his nose was swollen with blood dried beneath it, and one eye looked puffy and unlikely to open properly even if Aramis were awake. Most troubling was the bloody cut high on his temple, still wet and weeping.

No one had even looked at Porthos yet, and he pulled at his bonds, feeling the thin rope bruise and chafe his wrists.

Baraka sighed deeply, let Aramis' head drop back down limply, and stood, motioning toward the unconscious man.

"Wake him."

A young boy at the back of the group scurried forward. He flung the liquid contents of a bucket into Aramis's face and then retreated with stumbling, panicked steps.

Aramis flailed to waking, sputtering and straining against the bonds that held his arms behind the post. His bare feet dug into the dirt as he tried to find leverage.

"Easy!" Porthos called across the small room. He watched his voice register, and Aramis stilled, face downturned as he worked to control his startled breathing.

The men, including the leader, all kept their distance, whispering in rapid Swahili as they watched Aramis like he was likely to start maiming them should they come closer. Porthos ignored them in favor of leaning to try to catch his brother's attention.

"You with me, Diablo?" he asked worriedly.

Aramis cleared his throat.

"Yeah," he replied, voice ragged. He rolled his head back, letting it thump against the post behind him. Porthos winced at seeing the damage done to him a second time.

"What the hell happened? Is that all from the blast?"

"I resisted our hosts' invitation. They took offense."

He watched Aramis blink slowly, his face paling rapidly. Without further warning, Aramis twisted, vomiting violently into the dirt next to his hip.

The whispered Swahili paused as if seeing Aramis do something as human as puking reinvigorated their courage. Baraka stepped closer to Aramis, crouching next to him and taking a fistful of his hair to pull his head back around as he tried to catch his breath.

"Who are you?" the man asked in accented, but clear, English.

Aramis held the captor's gaze and remained silent.

"Were you sent to kill me?"

Porthos swallowed around his dry throat. Strictly speaking, they'd been sent to take him into custody and only to kill him if they had no other choice.

The man held Aramis' gaze, both silent as they weighed and measured each other.

"These pants…" The target suddenly broke his gaze away, plucking at Aramis' black cargos with his fingers. "Like mine, you see, only newer." Baraka motioned at his own worn and torn cargo pants. "I think we are the same size as we were with boots." The man made a point of showing his boots to Aramis, knowing that the marksman would recognize them as his own. "I think I would like new pants."

Porthos pulled against his restraints as two of the other men knelt to hold Aramis still as the target calmly reached to unclasp his belt.

"Hey!" Porthos snapped, but a sharp look from Aramis had him falling silent.

Their captor meant to humiliate him, but Aramis was not so easily cowed. Porthos knew that, but watching his brother be antagonized had never been and would never be something he could take quietly.

Once the belt was loose, the target took hold of the fabric at Aramis' hips and yanked. The two men holding Aramis steady were the only reason he didn't get pulled awkwardly forward by the motion. A moment later, Aramis was left in his boxers and T-shirt, and Baraka tossed the pants over his shoulder and stood. The two men holding Aramis backed away with an oddly cautious look in their eyes that had Porthos wondering what sort of damage Aramis had managed before they captured him.

"Sorry about the blood splatter," Aramis offered conversationally, tilting his chin towards the pants, a dangerous smirk curling the corner of his mouth. "It seems my clothes were collateral damage when your men surrounded me eight to one, and I killed half of them."

His comment earned him a swift kick to the thigh from the man nearest him. Aramis jerked his leg away, but instead of any indication of pain, his smirk only grew bolder.

"Which of you was it that I knocked on his ass?" Aramis made a show of looking at each of them. "Steel-toed boots…it was you," he zeroed in on one of the men with a mocking grin. The man took a step forward, face flushed with embarrassment, but the leader held him back.

"You're trying to show me I have not affected you," Baraka commented knowingly. He leaned closer, gaze fixed unwaveringly on Aramis's as he added in a low tone, "We will see if you remain as steady in the hours to come."

Baraka straightened and shifted his attention to Porthos. Porthos swallowed the change but drew himself up as much as he could, lifting his chin defiantly.

"Big man, hmm?" Baraka greeted, walking over and crouching next to Porthos. He looked back at where Aramis was watching them with murderous intensity. "Most probably think you the biggest threat, yes?" the man went on conversationally, though his gaze remained on Aramis.

Porthos didn't answer, just met Aramis's gaze and held it steadily.

"But your friend there..." The target made a sound of awe as he waved a hand in the sniper's direction. "He killed four of my men in under fifteen seconds. Six of them in all, loyal men."

Porthos drew in a slow breath, trying not to show any outward reaction.

He knew Aramis to be a lethal warrior, and never more so than when he was cornered or defending someone. He didn't doubt the man's words. He'd seen such displays of ferocity himself many times over the years.

"I think that you would give them a good contest, of course, a strong man like you. But him…" Baraka shook his head as if in awe, "he has the shetani in him, I think." (devil)

Porthos didn't speak Swahili, but the term didn't sound like an endearment.

"My men are angry. They grieve their lost comrades. And as your friend has shown, we have been too lax in our training. My men? They want revenge. And I? I want good training for them. A solution to both is your shetani."

Porthos felt something in his chest seize at the implication of the words. Across from him, Aramis went as still as stone, realizing the same thing Porthos had.

"Rest now and say whatever words you would to each other. The hours to come will be your last."

Then the man simply stood and walked out, the rest of the men following quickly.

When the door shut behind them, Porthos let out the breath he'd been holding. He looked across the small room and watched Aramis close his eyes, drawing in a measured breath and letting it out slowly.

"You good?" he asked cautiously.

"I did that entire mission in Rio in nothing but board shorts. This isn't so different."

Porthos arched a brow, ignoring the bravado.

"You good?" he asked again, more quietly.

Aramis sighed and finally met his gaze.

"He's trying to get in my head. I won't let him." And that was all that would be said about that. "All that at the end…did it sound like what I thought it sounded like?"

Porthos sighed.

"If it sounded to you like he's going to let his men kill you, then yes. That's what it sounded like."

"More than just an execution, though…he talked of training."

"Maybe he means to let them make a sport of it," Porthos theorized, but the thought made him feel sick.

"It would be their mistake to do anything less than put a bullet between my eyes."

"Don't talk like that," Porthos snapped. He couldn't grasp how Aramis was so nonchalant about whatever impending violence was headed their way. But then, he had never understood how Aramis managed to be nonchalant about a lot of things.

Aramis twitched a shoulder dismissively and pulled at his bonds, though a thick swallow indicated he was still nauseous.

Porthos sighed and eyed him more closely.

"How's the head?"

"Fine."

Porthos gave him a stern look, and Aramis held it only for a moment before melting back against the post behind him as if the effort to remain upright had become too taxing.

"I'm not even really upright, and I'm dizzy," Aramis admitted quietly. "And there's a pounding behind my eyes that doesn't seem to be fading."

"What did they hit you with?"

"I don't really remember, a rifle, a boot, does it matter?"

Porthos fought down a wave of stifling worry. Head wounds and Aramis did not mix well. Since Savoy, any knock on his head, no matter how slight, often left him reeling for hours. The worse hits, he felt for days or weeks.

"I'll be okay," Aramis said again, voice steady.

Porthos had to trust his word on it, there was little else he could do for now.

"Now would be a good time for you to produce one of the weapons you tend to hide on your person," Porthos teased only half seriously, grasping for a lighter feeling than the foreboding weighing him down.

"Well, I had a knife hidden in the waistband of my pants," Aramis replied with a scowl. "I hope it stabs him in the ass."

Porthos laughed despite the situation.

"What about you?" Aramis prompted. "I know you've got a paperclip or two squirreled away, but I don't know what use those would be against rope."

"I had a knife…in my boot."

Aramis sighed dramatically.

"Well, maybe it stabbed someone in the foot."

"I didn't secure it very well if it did."

"You take the fun out of everything."

Porthos huffed out another laugh. The banter was familiar and comforting. He looked across the room, meeting Aramis' eyes with a fondness he didn't try to hide.

"They'll come for us, you know," he found himself assuring as he watched Aramis shift restlessly, clearly less comfortable with the entire situation than he wanted to appear.

He didn't specify who was coming. He didn't need to.

Aramis' mouth ticked up in a slight grin.

"Before or after we've done all the work to escape ourselves?"

Porthos laughed again, and Aramis' grin widened.

There was little they could do after that but wait.

---

Athos lay next to d'Artagnan along a rooftop, both with binoculars pressed to their eyes as they watched the activity in the small camp. It was hours into daylight now, and it would be too dangerous for them to risk a move before nightfall, which was still hours away. But waiting and watching when he knew his brothers were being held somewhere in one of the buildings went against every instinct he had.

"There," d'Artagnan whispered. "Coming out of that small hut at 2 o'clock."

Athos shifted and together they watched Baraka exit the small building, a pair of black cargos over his shoulder.

"They're in there," Athos realized.

"Why would they take their pants?" d'Artagnan asked, his tone nervous.

"Likely a mind-game, trying to get into their heads. It won't work. Aramis and Porthos are too well trained for that."

"He only has one pair of pants on his shoulder. What if they're not both in there?"

Athos sighed. It was a logical question. One for which he had no answer.

"We'll wait and watch. Hopefully, we'll get confirmation by nightfall."

Two hours passed at a crawl.

The target finally strode back into view, wearing the black cargo pants. He and a small entourage walked into the small hut. They waited in tense silence, watching the door.

Suddenly, the door burst open, and a familiar figure came tumbling out in a heap. Aramis, clothed in nothing but his black boxers and t-shirt, rolled to his feet with only a little less grace than they were used to, fingers trailing the dirt as he stumbled a little to find his balance. The target came striding out a moment later. He reached forward to wrap his hand around Aramis' jaw. They watched Aramis latch onto the man's wrist even as he was yanked near so Baraka could say something close to his ear.

Baraka just held him there, speaking quietly, his grip tight enough that Athos was sure Aramis would have finger-shaped bruises on his jaw when this was all over.

"Why isn't he fighting him?" d'Artagnan demanded.

"Because they have Porthos too," Athos reminded. He nudged d'Artagnan to look back at the original hut. Porthos was being escorted out by six guards. A sharp command from the leader and somebody kicked the back of Porthos' knee and he dropped down to the dirt. The man directly behind him raised a rifle, the barrel pointed directly at the back of Porthos head. He was too far away, Athos knew, for Porthos to risk a move. He had no way of knowing exactly where the man was. The tight tension binding up his brother's shoulders indicated he had come to the same conclusion.

The target shoved Aramis back by the hold on his jaw, and with a gesture nearly a dozen men surround him. The leader stepped back; arms crossed casually over his chest.

Athos focused his binoculars on Aramis, wincing at the bloody mess his face already was. But even so, his brother's gaze was shifting around, tracking all the men circling him expertly as he moved into a fighting stance.

"What are they doing?" d'Artagnan whispered, voice tight.

"Making an example," Athos whispered back, his chest tightening.

"Can he fight that many at once?"

Athos didn't answer. In a normal situation and in top form, Aramis could fight a dozen men and more than likely emerge the victor, though not without taking heavy damage. Athos had a sickening feeling that Aramis wouldn't be allowed his normal level of skill, not with that gun on Porthos, and he was already clearly not at full health due to whatever violence had come before.

He also doubted the leader had lined up ten of his men for the slaughter. Undoubtably, Aramis wasn't allowed to kill anyone. Athos expected he wouldn't even be allowed to truly fight back at all.

"Get ready to move," Athos hissed.

"But you said…"

Athos turned to him, gripping the shoulder of his vest tightly. D'Artagnan was still young, hadn't seen as much of the world's darkness as Athos. He wouldn't understand what was about to unfold.

"If we don't get down there right now, we'll be too late. They will beat him to death and then execute Porthos. We need to move."

D'Artagnan didn't argue further as he scrambled after him to climb off the roof.

---

Porthos hated everything in the entire world at this moment.

He trembled with anger from his place kneeling on the ground, watching ten men circle his best friend and prepare to attack. Baraka's instructions to Aramis before he'd cut his bindings and dragged him to the door still rang in Porthos's ears.

"If you kill anyone, we kill your friend. If you strike out at all, we kill your friend. You will defend yourself and nothing more. You will be a moving target, and that is all."

They meant to beat Aramis to death slowly. He'd killed too many of their men, too easily and too quickly. But even remanded to defensive fighting only, Aramis would be a force to be reckoned with. His body was coiling now, preparing to move as the men circled.

Porthos drew in a sharp breath at the first attack.

Aramis blocked the high kick easily, shoving hard at the attacker's chest and sending him tumbling back. Before the man had even hit the dirt, another was in his place.

Then, it was a flurry of arms and legs, grunts and shouts.

Porthos twitched and flinched at every blow his brother couldn't block in time. He gritted his teeth at every offensive opening Aramis didn't take. He nearly leapt to his feet, consequences be damned, when one of them managed to kick Aramis' feet out from under him and put him on his back. Another leapt onto his torso and wrapped choking hands around his neck.

Porthos watched Aramis' bare feet kick at the dirt, digging in to search for leverage so he could try and throw the attacker.

Then, from a distance, he heard a familiar voice shout,

"SUNSHINE!"

Porthos slammed his eyes closed and tucked his head down.

The flashbang vibrated the air when it went off, and a moment later, the hiss of a smoke grenade followed. Porthos made himself as small as possible as he heard the bodies around him start to thud to the ground in time with the sound of a gun discharge.

"On your left," d'Artagnan warned as he slid to his knees next to Porthos.

He opened his eyes and uncurled, twisting to expose his bound hands. D'Artagnan already had a knife in hand, and then he was free.

"Where's Athos?"

"Getting 'Mis. Come on, we need to move." D'Artagnan hauled him to his feet and pulled him away from the scuffle Porthos could only barely make out through the thickening smoke.

"Wait!"

"Athos has him!" d'Artagnan snapped. "We need to go!"

Porthos ground out a frustrated sound and let himself be pulled away. Running across uneven, gravel-ridden terrain in bare feet was not pleasant, but he didn't allow his pace to slow as he followed d'Artagnan through the winding paths until they hit the surrounding forest.

There was gunfire behind them, but d'Artagnan kept them moving.

They didn't slow until they got to the RV. There, d'Artagnan strode over to their waiting packs and dug out a water canteen. He thrust it into Porthos's hand and then turned his gaze back the way they'd come. They stood together and waited.

---

Athos wondered sometimes if one day the world at large would stop underestimating Aramis de la Cruz. He had learned that lesson years ago. Porthos had never made the mistake in the first place. But without fail, their enemies made it every time.

Athos rounded the corner after the flashbang faded in time to see Aramis take advantage of the distraction to reach up, grab chin and crown and sharply break the neck of the man trying to choke him. He threw the body into the legs of another next to him and scrambled up, snapping another neck within seconds. Athos lifted his gun, trying to track a target, but Aramis was moving too quickly and Athos feared him darting into the line of fire.

He spotted a man on the edge, backing away from the conflict surrounding Aramis and raising a handgun. Athos took him with a headshot and swung his attention back to Aramis at the sound of sporadic gunfire.

Aramis was in a ball in the dirt, head covered by his arms. Athos quickly tracked the shooter and took him out. As soon as the gunfire stopped and before Athos could truly worry, Aramis exploded upward, leaping towards another gunman and stripping the gun from the his hands. He slammed the butt into the man's nose and spun the gun delivering a precise headshot as the man stumbled back. Then Aramis turned, firing four quick shots. Four men dropped in the shadows of the smoke.

Aramis spun then, to something Athos couldn't see. His brother prowled forward a single step but no further.

Athos shifted to the left, coming up on Aramis' flank, trying to see what he was looking at. All at once, Aramis darted to the right and two shots fired. Aramis was up and diving forward before Athos could see if he'd been hit. Athos ran forward, kicking away Aramis' abandoned rifle.

As he moved through the smoke, a vicious struggle in the dirt became clear as Aramis and Baraka grappled viciously.

Within moments, it was over. Aramis was hard to rivel in hand-to-hand, unless it was Porthos he faced. He manipulated Baraka into a chokehold and wrapped his long legs around from behind to keep the other man trapped against him. With one hand, the target tried to pry at Aramis' bicep, but Athos knew from experience that once locked in, little could be done to break Aramis' position.

He saw the flash of the small blade too late to do anything about it. But Baraka only managed a glancing strike to Aramis' rib area before the marksman tensed and twisted. The cracking of the target's neck was audible.

Athos leaned to haul the limp body off his brother and then extended his hand to Aramis.

"Outlaw?" Aramis demanded breathlessly as Athos hauled him to his feet.

"Retriever has him. Let's go."

Gunfire kicked up the dirt at their feet, and Athos grabbed a handful of Aramis' T-shirt to shove him towards cover, acutely aware that his brother was severely underdressed for a firefight. He wasn't expecting the marksman to stumble and nearly end up sprawled in the dirt. Aramis was usually irritatingly graceful, even amidst chaos. A moment later, Aramis heaved a mouthful of bile into the dirt and nearly faceplanted into it.

Athos grabbed a handful of his shirt again and dragged Aramis behind a building and pressed him against the wall.

It was only then that he finally saw the source of the blood that had painted the side of Aramis' face red.

"Hey, you with me?" he demanded, eyes wide as he leaned to meet Aramis' unfocused gaze.

"Somewhat dizzy," Aramis reported honestly, followed by a thick swallow. "Too much adrenaline on top of it."

Athos took in the shaking hands and rapid, shallow rise and fall of his chest. Aramis squeezed his eyes closed briefly and swallowed again, clearly trying to fight down another wave of nausea. Athos pushed out a sharp breath and peeked around the edge of the building. They were running out of time.

But then, Aramis, even concussed and nauseated, was better to have at his back than almost anyone else in the world.

"Can you run?" he asked, pulling a gun from his vest and pressing it into Aramis' hand. Some of the trembling faded as the other man tightened his fingers around the weapon.

"Athos, please." The tone was sarcastic and teasing, and the eyeroll was expected. But Athos curled his fingers around his friend's shoulder and heard what he hadn't said. Aramis would always do, and had always done, whatever he needed to, no matter the cost, no matter the pain.

Aramis met his gaze, face pale and swelling in places, breaths still coming in and leaving too quickly. But in his eyes, Athos found the same hard-won trust that had been there for years.

Athos breathed a curse and leaned forward, pressing their foreheads together and willing whatever strength he could into his friend.

"Take hold of my shoulder strap. Stick to my back. Follow my steps."

He guided Aramis's hand to his shoulder, waiting until he felt fingers curl around the strap.

"I've got you."

"I know," Aramis assured, giving Athos a firm nod to show he was ready.

Athos lifted his rifle and led the way, hoping that the body of their leader would slow down any pursuit.

---

Porthos swore he hadn't been taking full breaths until he drew in the one after seeing Athos run into the small clearing, Aramis a step behind. Aramis released the grip he had on Athos' vest and stumbled to the side, landing hard on his knees and retching up nothing but bile. Porthos went to his side, wrapping his hands around his brother's bicep and back to prevent him from collapsing into the mess.

Athos was hissing tensely into his comm while d'Artagnan watched the trees with feral focus.

Porthos pulled Aramis up and bodily hauled him further into the clearing. He guided him to the packs and carefully helped him sit against a tree. Then, he uncapped a canteen and wrapped Aramis' hand around it.

"Drink and breathe, brother."

Aramis didn't reply, but he followed the directive with closed eyes and a tense jaw. The water hadn't been in his stomach more than a few moments before he was twisting and violently coughing it back up into the dirt.

"Easy," Porthos soothed, brushing sweaty hair back from Aramis' brow with his hand. Aramis, breathing hard and eyes squeezed closed, leaned into the touch, seeking comfort in a way that told Porthos more about how he felt than words ever would.

Porthos helped him lean back against the tree, but kept a grounding palm curled around the side of his neck as he ran an assessing look over the rest of him. He spotted a bloody tear near the rib area and what Porthos guessed was a bullet crease along one bicep.

Porthos gently pulled up the hem of the black t-shirt, hissing at the cut across his ribs.

"Shallow," Aramis informed him without deigning to open his eyes.

Porthos doused the wound in antiseptic and applied a pressure bandage from the pack anyway, then repeated the process with the bullet wound. Other than a few hissed curses, Aramis remained typically stoic throughout the process. Porthos turned his attention to the skin over Aramis' side, where it was already turning a sickly shade of purple and blue.

"Broken?" Porthos asked, carefully feeling along the ridges of his brother's rib cage.

Aramis shook his head sharply.

"A crack or two, maybe, but no risk of anything poking around."

Porthos nodded in relieved acceptance. He curled a hand around Aramis' jaw, the touch miles different than the similar one their target had gripped him with in the village.

Aramis flinched anyway. Porthos pretended not to notice.

"Let me see your eyes."

Aramis obediently blinked his eyes open, squinting at Porthos.

"No use checking. I can reasonably assure you I've got a concussion."

Porthos sighed deeply and felt his shoulders tightening as the tension from the last few hours dug in. His mind spun with 'what ifs' and imagined scenarios. He dropped his head, letting his chin bump against his chest, and closed his eyes, trying to quiet his brain.

Aramis' hand, knuckles split and swollen, reached up to curl around Porthos' forearm.

"I'm okay," he assured softly.

"I couldn't get to you," Porthos confessed. "I would have killed them all to get to you, 'Mis, but I couldn't."

"I can take care of myself."

"Aramis," Porthos drew back and met his gaze, letting his panic and fear shine in his gaze. He'd thought for a moment there he was going to be forced to watch Aramis die from twenty feet away without being able to do anything about it. Aramis, as he often did, understood immediately, and his expression softened.

"I can take the hits, Porthos," he reminded lowly. It was a truth Porthos knew too well, one he hated, no matter how many times it had saved them. "I could have kept taking them for as long as I needed to. Athos was coming. We both knew that."

"Doesn't make it easier to watch, 'Mis. It never has."

The corner of Aramis' mouth quirked wearily.

"I know, hermano. But that doesn't change the truth of it. I can take the hits, and because of that, when the flashbang gave me an opening, I could take that. I was the one who walked away, not them."

Porthos sighed heavily and willed himself to let the words be a comfort. He bent forward, pressing their foreheads together.

"Just make sure it's always you walkin' away, huh?"

Before Aramis could respond, Athos approached, shoving his radio back onto its strap on his vest. Porthos sat back, raising an eyebrow expectantly.

"Evac is inbound. We need to move as soon as we can," Athos said. "We need to get two clicks east of here. How much time do you need?" he asked, eyeing Aramis as he picked up his pack and swung it onto his back.

Aramis gripped Porthos' arm more firmly for a breath and then drew back.

"I'm good to go."

Athos continued to stare at him skeptically, and Porthos couldn't help but do the same. Their brother looked like an absolute mess. Shoeless and still in nothing but boxers and a T-shirt, his naturally tanned skin was concerningly pale. The collar of his shirt was torn and gave a spectacular view of the angry reddish purple marks circling his throat. He was faintly trembling, and the bloody mess his face had become made Porthos want to punch something.

"I'm good to go," Aramis insisted again, more firmly, holding Athos' gaze.

Porthos wanted to point out that Aramis hadn't yet been able to keep down even water. But Aramis's own words rang out in his head, reminding him it would do no good to protest.

I can take the hits, Porthos. I could have kept taking them for as long as I needed to.

Aramis would keep moving forward until he didn't have to anymore. All Porthos could do was remain at his side and be there if he stumbled.

"I'll stick to him," Porthos promised, squeezing Aramis' forearm in both comfort and warning not to refuse his support. Aramis rolled his eyes as subtly as a concussed man could, and the effort left him looking ready to throw up once again.

Athos rolled his own eyes at the whole display and huffed.

"See that you do. We move in two minutes."

Porthos stood, pulling Aramis up with him.

---

The return to base was somewhat of a whirlwind. Treville met them at the heli-pad with a pair of sweatpants in hand that he'd tossed up to Aramis before he ever stepped off the chopper. From there, he escorted Aramis and Porthos to medical while Athos was sent to fill out their report and d'Artagnan to deal with their gear.

There was little to be done for Porthos' bumps and bruises but a mild painkiller and ice packs. He ended up with a mild concussion from the blast, but had always tolerated such things more easily than most. Even so, he'd been remanded to concussion protocol for 24 hours to be safe. His feet, like Aramis's, were torn to hell, and the bandages they wrapped around them had made it only slightly less painful to walk. Then, though released back to his quarters, he'd remained at medical with Treville while Aramis was looked over and treated.

The wound on the sniper's side had proven extensive enough to require eight stitches, the bullet crease on his arm another six, and the cut on his temple an additional four. X-ray indicated three cracked ribs, but only severe bruising beyond that. Two butterfly bandages on his cheekbone, a bottle of painkillers, and a handful of ready-to-use icepacks later, they'd allowed Aramis to go back to their temporary barracks to rest with strict instructions to Treville that he was under concussion protocol for the next 48 hours.

His concussion, unlike Porthos' own, was not minor. And he, unlike Porthos, tolerated such things far worse than most.

Upon arrival at their barracks, Porthos collapsed on his cot and watched Aramis slowly lower himself to his own, Treville hovering at his side.

Aramis went still for a moment after sitting, looking too pale and a little green for a moment. But then he swallowed and drew in a slow, deep breath through his nose. They'd put him on an IV in the infirmary to rapidly rehydrate him, but all attempts to eat and drink so far had yielded nothing but heaving that was quite clearly hell on his cracked ribs. The adrenaline crash had left him shaky, and it worse shape than he'd been during the worst of the violence.

"Good?" Treville murmured, hands hovering without touching as if to be prepared for Aramis to suddenly pitch forward.

Aramis nodded slightly and eased himself down to horizontal.

Treville said something too quietly for Porthos to hear and then squeezed Aramis' shoulder before moving away from his cot.

"We're grounded until he's off concussion protocol. But then we'll be on a flight home. You boys rest up. I'll be back later with food."

In the quiet that followed Treville's exit, Porthos just breathed, silently willing the tension of the last day to seep out of his bones. D'Artagnan, who had been hovering near the door, sat heavily onto the edge of his cot, scrubbing his hands up into his hair and then just holding his head in his hands with elbows braced on his knees. Athos, who had been sitting at the small table in their quarters but had stood when the three of them had come in, now moved to Aramis' side, picking up the small wastebasket against the wall on his way.

He knelt next to the sniper's cot and put the trash can next to it.

"Think you can sleep?" Athos asked softly, a knowing in his voice that had Porthos' eyes stinging. It would be just like Aramis' PTSD to flare up after something like this and steal any chance of real rest. The bunks were too narrow to double up comfortably, and Esmé wasn't here to offer her warmth at his side.

"I don' thin' I'm gonna get much choice in th' matter…" Aramis replied in a slurred murmur. Even as lowly as he spoke, the gravely, strained quality of his voice reminded them all that he'd had hands around his throat only hours ago.

"Don't fight it," Athos soothed. "I've got the watch."

Porthos watched Athos rest a careful hand across Aramis' forearm, curling his fingers around the bruised skin gently.

"Wake me if it…if I…" Aramis mumbled, fingers twitching at his sides as if searching for something.

"You know I will," Athos promised even as he pulled his sidearm from his hip holster, cleared the clip, and emptied the chamber. He pressed the now harmless weapon into Aramis's twitching hand and curled his own hand over the other's fingers. "I've got you, brother. Sleep."

It was a testament to his state that Aramis either didn't notice the gun was empty or didn't care. He went still, muscles relaxing slowly onto the thin mattress. For several quiet moments, their leader didn't move. Porthos and D'Artagnan watched silently from their cots as they all waited for Aramis to fall asleep.

Finally, Athos' shoulders wilted, and with one last careful squeeze of his hand, he stood. He stared down at their sniper for an extra moment before turning to Porthos.

"He's out. You need to rest, too. I'll wake you when Treville is back with food."

Porthos didn't bother protesting. He just stretched out on his cot and, with one last glance at where Aramis lay, allowed unconsciousness to pull him under.

---

Athos breathed out a sigh of relief when Porthos's body went lax, succumbing to sleep as well. Two down.

"What now?" d'Artagnan asked in a weary whisper from his cot, his gaze looking years older than his age.

"Now, we let them rest. You should do the same. I'll keep first watch."

D'Artagnan chewed his lip a little, glancing over at where Aramis lay.

"He's asleep. He wouldn't know if you slept too."

Athos smiled slightly at the warmth in the boy's tone. He knew it was out of concern for Athos, not dismissal of Aramis, that d'Artagnan spoke.

"I gave him my word," he reminded gently. "It may seem pointless or unnecessary, but there were times when that promise was all I could give him, when it was the only way he could let himself rest. I would never give it falsely now."

D'Artagnan was quiet for a moment as he took off his boots.

"Will you ever tell me about it? The Savoy Op?" he asked eventually, looking up at Athos through his lashes.

"Even if I knew the whole story, it isn't mine to share. He's only ever told three people what happened that night in its entirety. Once for the official report to Treville, and twice for his mandated therapy. I do know that it's a dark tale, d'Artagnan. We may be the ones better off, for not knowing."

The boy nodded vaguely, eyes resting once again on Aramis' unconscious form.

"How does he do it? Keep going like he does?"

Athos sighed deeply and let himself sink into the chair he'd previously occupied at the table. It was not the younger soldier's first time seeing Aramis go beyond what he should be able, but Athos knew that such an experience never lost its novelty.

"Aramis has a unique ability to compartmentalize pain. He's unlike anyone I've ever known in that regard."

"If only we could all be like that." D'Artagnan grinned a little, huffing a chuckle. "We'd be unstoppable."

Athos shook his head.

"It's not a skill to emulate," he said seriously. "It comes at great cost and was hard learned, of that I'm quite certain." Athos couldn't help but look at Aramis himself now. "He pushes himself beyond what his body is able, and every time he pays a price for it. He would say it was useful as with today," Athos mused further, clenching his jaw at the memory of Aramis stubbornly trekking through the trees as they moved to the RV, stopping and random intervals to heave up bile and each time looking paler than the last, "but what he never seems to realize is that he didn't have to."

D'Artagnan glanced at him, brow quirked in question, and Athos sighed, scrubbing a hand across his jaw and then letting it drop to the tabletop. Then he divulged the truth that in all their years together, he'd never been able to make Aramis understand,

"If he hadn't been able to walk, I would have carried him."

---

Porthos awoke to afternoon light filtering into their quarters. He blinked blearily, scrubbing at his eyes to rid them of grit as he heaved himself upright.

He'd roused briefly during the night to shove some food from the commissary down and watch Treville perform a concussion check on a groggy and irritable Aramis. Then he'd promptly passed back out on his bunk.

He checked his watch and was startled to realize he'd been asleep for almost 15 hours. He'd slept through the rest of the night and well through the next day. He was sore like he'd been hit by a truck, but his mind felt alert and less fuzzy than it had been before.

A glance around showed Aramis curled towards the wall on his cot, Athos wedged in behind him, half hanging off the edge of the bunk in what looked a distinctly uncomfortable way to sleep. But the leader was dead to the world, mouth slack, one boot braced on the ground, and a chair under his shoulder to keep him from tumbling down altogether.

"He kept having nightmares."

Porthos snapped his gaze away from his brothers to regard d'Artagnan, who sat playing solitaire at the small table.

"He didn't ever really settle until Athos squeezed into the bunk with him."

D'Artagnan flipped a card off the top of his deck and frowned at it, flipping another.

"He eat anything?" Porthos asked, grunting as he levered himself off his cot and stretched. He groaned as various joints popped and shifted.

"Treville got him to try once, but he only kept it down a few minutes. Nobody had the heart to force the issue again because of his ribs. Treville said he hopes the nausea will have settled soon and he can try again."

"How long since his last check?"

"A couple of hours. Treville should be back any minute."

Porthos nodded and headed to the single bathroom connected to their shared quarters. By the time he came back, Treville was ducking into the room with a tray full of food, followed closely by an unfamiliar soldier carrying another. They put the trays on the table, and the soldier quickly left again. Treville, however, moved to Athos and Aramis.

A light touch to Athos' shoulder roused him immediately.

"Go eat something and get some shut-eye in your own bunk."

Athos nodded and let Treville haul him out of bed. Porthos hovered over Treville's shoulder as their CO sat on the edge of the cot. Without Athos and the warmth his presence provided, Aramis was already stirring. He uncurled a little and peered one bleary half-opened eye over his shoulder at Treville.

"No," the sniper grumbled sourly, rolling back towards the wall.

Instead of looking annoyed, Treville only smiled slightly, eyes amused and voice fond.

"You are a child."

Aramis muttered something too low for Porthos to hear, but Treville chuckled softly.

"I'll make you a deal. I'll stop waking you every two hours if you sit up and try to eat something."

Aramis scowled at him over his shoulder, bearing a remarkable resemblance to the grumpy child Treville had just accused him of being.

"Why must you torture me?" Though his voice still sounded wrecked, and the bruises on his neck now stood out darkly against his skin, Porthos was relieved to hear no hint of slur in the words.

"Because it's my life's great joy. Come on. Up you get." But despite Treville's commanding words, his hands were gentle, and he was slow in his movements as he helped Aramis sit up. Once he was upright, leaning back against the wall next to his cot, Treville left his supporting hands in place until Aramis gave him a nod.

Over the next half hour, they all ate. Aramis, to everyone's relief, kept down what he managed to eat, though that was barely half what the rest of them put away. It was an improvement, though. Treville left them, then, and soon d'Artagnan left for a run to get out of the cramped room. Athos sacked out on his cot, turned towards the wall, and fell asleep within moments.

Porthos dropped himself onto Aramis' cot next to him and sighed.

"Now, how are you really feeling?" Porthos asked seriously, because Aramis would always act as if everything was fine when an audience was around.

"Like shit."

Porthos snorted a laugh at the candid response, and next to him, Aramis smiled wearily.

"Better than I was when we stepped off that helo," Aramis went on more seriously, resting his head back against the wall. "Close call, this one."

Porthos rested his head back as well, closing his eyes against the memory of watching Aramis get taken to the ground, of hands locking around his throat.

"Too close."

"Eh, been closer."

Porthos snorted and rolled his head to the side so he could regard his brother.

"When, exactly?" he challenged, though several other missions came to mind immediately. The Savoy Op came to mind. But Porthos intended to keep the lighthearted banter for as long as possible.

"Malaysia," Aramis replied succinctly, a grin curving his lips as he tilted his head to look back at Porthos.

Porthos smothered a laugh, unwilling to disturb Athos.

"That was an entirely different kind of close call," he pointed out.

Aramis grinned more broadly and let his eyes fall closed again. For a moment, they just sat together in silence, both basking in the lifelong familiarity of each other's presence.

"So…moving in with Anne?" Porthos prodded after a few minutes.

Aramis smiled and tilted his head to regard him once more.

"Might be good. Very grown up of me, if I do say so."

"Practically adult."

"Maybe though…" Aramis stopped himself and looked away, seeming to argue with himself internally before looking back. "Maybe don't give my room away just yet?"

Porthos leaned to knock their shoulders together gently, wary of both their numerous bruises.

"'Mis, you will always have a room in any home I have, okay? Always. As it's always been."

It was an old promise, one from their childhood, one given the day Porthos aged out of the foster care system that Aramis was trapped in for two additional years.

Aramis allowed their shoulders to press more firmly together, but otherwise didn't reply.

---

The night and the next day passed with similar calm. The more hours that passed, the more Aramis's concussion symptoms settled until the only indication of his lingering headache or dizziness was the way he shied away from light, clearly tried not to move around too quickly, and hadn't tried looking at any screens.

D'Artagnan, Porthos, and Athos sat at the small table in their quarters, empty trays shoved to the side as Athos tried to teach the younger the finer points of poker. Aramis had begged off, gesturing vaguely at his head before pulling out a half-falling-apart sketchbook. He'd been fiddling around with a pencil ever since, pausing every few minutes to regard what he'd sketched and then continuing.

Treville pushed open the door and strode in, brow creased in frustration. His gaze went first to Aramis, and then to Athos, their de facto leader.

"New orders."

They all stared at him in silent shock.

"My team isn't fit," Athos finally said, voice slow and measured as he watched Treville closely.

"I made the condition of your team clear to my superiors. They've reviewed the medical report and have deemed them fit enough for the mission requirements."

Porthos frowned, glancing over at Aramis. Never mind that his brother, a bouncing ball of energy most of the time, had slept more than anything over the last two days, Aramis' medical file detailed the precautions to be taken when he sustained a head injury.

"And what are those requirements?" Athos asked sharply. "Porthos has bruises over half of his body, and Aramis has cracked ribs, both a knife and bullet wound, and a concussion. I didn't think I needed to remind you of the caution with which we treat such things."

Porthos glanced at Aramis again to gauge if he took offense at Athos' candor. The marksman was looking at Treville, though, a crease between his brow as he studied their CO.

"What's the mission?" he asked warily, eyes sharp despite whatever headache still lingered.

"Protection detail."

They were all silent again, in a different sort of shock.

"Who would want a Commando unit for something as simple as protection?" d"Artagnan wondered.

"A politician," Athos muttered. "Who else?"

Treville sighed deeply.

"Your team was specifically requested. I argued to pass it off to Rochefort and his team, but they're tied up back home with some sort of paperwork issue."

"Nobody wants Rochefort responsible for their safety anyway," Aramis added mostly under his breath. Porthos grinned.

"Where?" Athos asked, clearly resigned to the whole thing.

"London, tomorrow."

"We'll spend half a day in travel from Gabon," d'Artagnan pointed out skeptically, completely rationally in Porthos' opinion. "Rochefort's team is literally across the channel."

"What's the circumstance?" Athos asked, arms crossed over his chest as he frowned at their CO.

"A meeting of sorts, and a rally."

"Bloody hell," Porthos muttered, looking at Aramis to see if he'd drawn the same connection he had. The marksman looked back at him with a sharp glance, and a corner of his mouth downturned.

"We're being assigned to protect the very people that would farm us out as mercenaries," Athos stated the realization for the room.

Treville didn't correct the assumption.

"You can't be serious," d'Artagnan stated what they were all thinking.

Porthos saw Aramis slowly set aside his sketch book and push himself up to fully sitting, eyes first on Athos, then shifting quickly back to Treville.

"Who's the protectee?" Aramis asked, though the intensity of his gaze suggested he had suspicions already.

Treville held the marksman's gaze for a long moment before finally answering,

"Louis Bourbon."

---

15 hours later…

---

"We'll be under protection as soon as we touch down, my dear. So please, don't be worried about your safety. I know it's a bit out of the ordinary for a spouse to accompany one such as myself on a trip such as this, but who can expect us to be separated barely a week into our marriage? The change was so last-minute, though, that I didn't have the chance to warn them. So, they'll have to adapt to your presence, no doubt. However, I've ensured the very best security, and we should be done with this all in a few days. A few meetings, a small speech at a rally, and we'll be back on the plane headed home."

Anne stared out the window of the private jet, tuning out Louis as their plane circled the runway and prepared to land in London. She anxiously twisted the wedding band on her finger, the only outward sign she allowed of her internal anxiety.

The wedding had been private, only their parents and a priest in attendance. Her entire life had been packed up and sold away. Even her phone was confiscated, and a new one with only approved contacts given in its place.

She had no way to contact Aramis, even if she dared. He would try to call her when he was preparing to head home. What would he think when the number came back disconnected? He'd come home to an empty apartment and no explanation for her vanishing from his life. Esmé, at least, had been put at a pet boarding house for now, with instructions left via note at Aramis' work on how to collect her. It was the only mercy she'd been able to plead from Louis. Given his way, Louis might have just turned the poor pup out to the street.

Aramis, with his deeply ingrained insecurities and anxieties, would have all his worst fears about their relationship realized with no warning. She doubted he would ever let himself love again, after this. Not after she'd so carefully and lovingly worked past the damage done by what happened with Isabelle and Adelle all those years ago.

No one would ever know again what it was to be loved by Aramis de la Cruz. And worse, he would never again allow himself to be truly loved.

That thought hurt her heart so deeply that she had to blink away tears.

She barely noticed as the plane touched down.

Louis' sudden hand on her arm made her flinch. He merely tightened his grip in response, a pleasant, but false, smile curling his lips.

"My dear, I ensured we had the best protection. I thought it only fitting that I pull some strings and enlist a commando unit to see to our safety."

Anne felt suddenly like the air was too thin to breathe.

"No matter my feelings for certain members, there is only one team that can be considered the best." He nodded at something out the window, and despite the feeling of being unable to breathe, Anne looked.

There, with bruises and cuts that hadn't been there when he left, stood Aramis, a rifle held loosely and comfortably in his hands as he chatted with Porthos. Heat pressed at her eyes as she watched him chuckle at something Porthos said.

"How could you be so cruel?" she whispered.

"I'm not foolish enough to think he would give you up without a fight, Anne," he hissed lowly in her ear. "Nor you, him. So, better a clean break, I thought. Here is what will happen. We will disembark this plane, and you will play the part of my loving wife. I will permit you one conversation with him. Your one chance to convince him to let you go without a fuss. If you fail, I will employ other methods to ensure he causes no problems. Have I been completely clear, dear?"

A tear slid silently down her cheek as she nodded.

"I suggest you break his heart, that would be most expedient and effective, would it not?"

Anne didn't respond.

"Go to the restroom and clean your face. It wouldn't do for you to step off the plane looking like that."

Anne rose obediently and made her way to the small bathroom as the plane taxied. She spent longer than was strictly necessary within the tiny room, staring at her reflection in the mirror. A sudden rap on the door startled her.

"Come now, darling. We must keep to the schedule."

Anne drew in one more deep breath and let it out as she opened the door. Louis narrowed his eyes as he inspected her cleaned and dried face and then nodded.

"I suppose that will have to do."

When he strode toward the exit, she had little else to do but follow, though her pace was slower.

She collected her purse and, for a moment, just stood there and gripped the back of the seat next to her, forcing herself to breathe as she listened to Louis greet Aramis and his unit.

"How wonderful of you to agree to act as my security for this trip. I do hope you know I appreciate it."

It was Porthos who responded.

"We aren't in the habit of disagreeing with official orders."

"Quite right," Louis agreed with a chuckle. "Well, I know this is a bit out of the ordinary, but I travel with precious cargo, you see. I needed to ensure the absolute safety of my new bride."

"Our briefing only mentioned you," Athos said, voice sharp.

"Newlyweds, you see. I'm sure you can understand our reluctance to be apart. It's only been a week."

"What? Did you get conned by a hooker in Vegas or something?" Aramis taunted with an undercurrent of hostility. She heard Porthos chuckle in response.

"Actually, De la Cruz, I think you'll find yourself quite familiar with my wife. Come now, darling, stop hiding yourself away."

Anne forced herself to step out of the shadow of the plane's interior onto the steps.

"What the fuck?" Porthos blurted, eyes widening.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Athos' head snap around to look at Aramis, expression painted in shock. D'Artagnan's mouth was gaping open as he shifted his stare between her and Louis.

Aramis stared at her, gaze searching. Outwardly, he appeared perfectly composed, and she saw Louis frown petulantly, obviously hoping for a bigger reaction.

But Louis didn't know where to look.

She saw the tightness around his eyes, the ticking muscle at the base of his jaw. She saw the paleness of his knuckles as he gripped his weapon so tightly that the skin blanched.

Painfully aware of Louis watching her, Anne looked away first.

"I'm tired, Louis. You promised we could rest when we arrived."

"Yes, of course, my dear." Louis extended a hand to her, and after forcing herself to keep breathing, she took it and allowed him to lead her down the steps.

Aramis hadn't stopped watching her. She could feel the weight of his gaze as she followed Louis toward where the bags were being unloaded.

She heard the murmur of voices from the team behind them, but she couldn't tell what was being said. Then, as the last of the bags came off the plane, d'Artagnan appeared next to her.

She met his eyes briefly, only to blink in shock, somehow startled by the fury in them.

"D'Artagnan and I will escort you to your hotel," Athos informed crisply, expression stern as he motioned to the waiting car. "You will have a rotating guard for the duration of your stay, save for the rally. My entire team will be in attendance for that."

It was then that Anne realized Porthos and Aramis were gone; a glance around showed their backs retreating in the opposite direction that Athos gestured now. As she watched, Porthos was taking Aramis' rifle out of his hands and dropping a comforting palm onto the back of his neck.

Neither of them looked back.

---

Porthos hustled Aramis into the nearest hangar of the private airport and quickly set their rifles aside as his brother paced away, digging his hands up into his hair.

"What the fuck. What the fuck. What the FUCK!" Aramis spun to face him, eyes wild and chest heaving. "That – that – she – fuck I can't-" Aramis hand grasped at the collar of his tack vest, pulling as if he couldn't get in air.

Porthos strode forward and wrapped both hands around Aramis' jaw and the sides of his neck, forcing him to meet his eyes.

"Breathe. Right now. Nothing else matters until you breathe. With me. In…" Porthos exaggerated his own breathing, slow and deep, holding Aramis still as he tried to copy him. Once the threat of hyperventilation was no longer so immediate, Porthos shifted his hands to Aramis's shoulders.

"It's only been two weeks," Aramis said, clearing his throat when his voice caught, still recovering from the near strangulation. "What the hell could have changed so much in two weeks?"

"I don't know, brother. I don't know. But I know that Anne loves you."

"Does she? Because she married Louis fucking Bourbon! Fuck!" He shoved out of Porthos' calming grip and spun away, fisting his hands in his hair again.

"She does. You know she does. There's more going on here. When you stop spiraling, you'll see that too."

Aramis, twitching in agitation, kicked out suddenly at a stack of crates, toppling the entire lot with a loud crash. He didn't seem any steadier for the bout of mild destruction. Porthos held himself back from rushing forward again. The more agitated Aramis became, the more dangerous his reactions would be. With frayed emotions and stress triggers already in play, anything could set off his PTSD. The sniper kicked at the nearest crate again, shoving it hard across the floor into another stack that wobbled dangerously at the impact.

"It wasn't a lie, 'Mis. It wasn't all a lie, I promise you," Porthos swore firmly. He knew how his brother's mind worked. He knew the damage Isabelle and Adelle had done. Aramis's first thought in moments like these would always be that he had been deemed unworthy – that he hadn't been enough. But Porthos knew Anne, after the near year she had been dating his best friend. He knew, better than he knew most anything, that she loved Aramis, truly and deeply.

There was more at play here. There had to be.

Aramis braced one hand on his hip and the other against his damaged ribs. Kicking the crates wouldn't have done them any favors.

"Then why?" he asked miserably, stubbornly refusing to turn around and let Porthos witness whatever was going on with his expression.

"I don't know, brother. I don't know."

---

Anne spent the rest of the afternoon sequestered in their hotel room – a beautiful two-bedroom suite with a large bathroom and a kitchenette. D'Artagnan stayed outside the door while Athos accompanied Louis to the first meeting of the trip.

After a couple of hours working up the courage, she opened the door and looked at the youngest member of The Musketeers. He slid a glance her way, but otherwise remained aloof in his guard pose at the door.

"D'Artagnan…"

"Strictly speaking, I'm not supposed to talk to you while I'm on duty."

Anne chewed the inside of her lip.

"It's not what it looks like."

He looked at her properly then, an eyebrow arched doubtfully.

"You didn't wait until he was out of the country to secretly marry your ex-fiancé and then spring it on him without any warning?"

Anne sighed, rubbing a finger between her brows in frustration. It was, of course, exactly what it looked like. It just hadn't been a situation of her making.

"Because if that's not how it is, please explain it to me."

She shrugged helplessly.

"I can't."

D'Artagnan shook his head, clearly disappointed.

"D'Artagnan…"

"You should go back inside, ma'am. I need to stay focused on ensuring your security."

Acknowledging the dismissal with a shaky nod, she retreated, closing the door. She found she didn't have the strength to move away from it, though, and instead just sunk down to sit against it. She wrapped her arms around her knees and tried to figure out what she was supposed to do.

The truth would only insight Aramis and the others to rash action. And if Louis really had the connections he claimed with another team, it would put Aramis in grave danger.

But then, if Louis did have that connection, Aramis and his team needed to know. They needed to know that not all the commandos could be trusted. Their lives might depend on that knowledge one day.

But how to tell him that without giving him reason to fight for her? It felt impossible.

Break his heart.

That had been Louis' suggestion.

But she could no sooner do that than force the sun to set before its time. She didn't have it in her to hurt him like that, not of her own free will.

She had no further clarity when the murmur of voices outside the door had her sitting up straighter. She heard d'Artagnan bid farewell to someone, and then the sound of retreating footsteps. Anne stood slowly, drawing a deep breath. She jumped when a light knock came at the door.

She pulled it open, and Porthos looked back at her with a troubled frown.

"Porthos," she greeted, her voice catching slightly as he studied her.

"Can I come in?" he asked calmly.

She nodded, stepping aside so that he could move across the threshold. She let the door shut behind him. She stood near the door as he turned to face her, expression stern but eyes swirling with confusion.

"What the actual fuck, Anne?"

"I know how it looks," she tried.

But Porthos just shook his head.

"I really don't think you do."

"How is he?" she pleaded.

Porthos' brow drew together skeptically.

"How the hell do you think he is? He just got bloody blindsided."

"I didn't mean for him to find out like this."

"How did you mean for it to happen then? Did you figure he would get the idea when he came home to changed locks?"

"I moved out of my apartment."

Porthos's eyes widened.

"You were going to let him come home to an empty apartment?"

"It wasn't supposed to be this way," she insisted.

"Anne," Porthos stepped closer, eyes pleading, "what the hell is going on? I thought you were happy with him. I know you loved him."

"I…"

She caught herself, stopped herself from insisting that she did, she does. Because they both knew the truth of it, insisting on it now would do no one any good. She felt hot tears welling in her eyes.

"I need to talk to him."

"Hell no, not until I know you won't make it worse."

"Please, Porthos."

Porthos stared at her, clearly willing her to just tell the truth. But she couldn't. She didn't even know what she would say when she saw Aramis. But she just knew she had to see him. Even if it was for the last time.

"I trusted you," he stated lowly, jaw tight.

She flinched, remembering a conversation from months ago.

"He's the most important person in the world to me." Porthos had told her, a warning and a plea all rolled into one.

"You can trust me with him, Porthos," she had promised.

She had known then the weight of her promise. She had known what it meant to Porthos. And now, as she stood in front of him and broke it, that weight felt crushing.

"I never meant for this to happen." That, at least, was the truth.

"What will you even say to him, Anne? If this is how it has to be, why not just let him go? Let him have a clean break?"

Because she couldn't let whatever that was on the tarmac be the last time they ever spoke to each other.

"What about what happened when I got off that plane was clean? I need to talk to him, Porthos. And he needs to talk to me. You know that. It's the only way either of us can move forward."

He looked away, hands hooked in the collar of his tac vest. He shook his head slowly and finally looked back at her.

"If he wants to see you, I'll arrange it. But hear this, Mrs. Bourbon," he spat the name like an insult, and perhaps it was one, "no matter what excuse you make to him, no matter if he forgives you for it one day. I will never forgive you."

With that, he brushed past her to go back out into the hall. The click as the door swung shut behind him was deafening.

---

Athos came to retrieve her later that night. Louis was out with some of the men he'd come to meet with and wasn't expected back for several hours. D'Artagnan was shadowing him.

Athos knocked on the door to her hotel room, and she opened it warily.

"Come with me," he said simply.

Anne followed him down the hall, through a 'staff only' door, and down a narrow staircase. They wound through some dimly lit hallways until they came upon a door labeled Storage Room D.

"He's in there?" she asked.

Athos nodded, and she waited for him to say more. But he remained stoic and silent as he watched her with a distrust in his gaze that he'd never directed at her before.

Somehow, his silence stung just as badly as Porthos' words.

Biting her lip and straining to hold back her emotions, Anne moved toward the door, going over in her head what she was going to say. She knocked lightly, and the door swung open, revealing Porthos. He looked tired and sad and angry all at once, but didn't try to stop her as she moved past him into the room. He stared at her for a long moment and then left, closing the door firmly behind him.

And then there he was, her Aramis, arms crossed over his chest as he stood as far from the door as possible in the small space.

For several moments, they just stared at each other.

He looked exhausted and beat up. His nose was purple across the bridge and puffy. One eye was swollen nearly shut underneath a swirl of blues and blacks. Small butterfly bandages held a cut on his cheek closed, and a crisp white bandage hid damage high on his temple. His knuckles were split and bruised. There was the edge of a bandage peaking out below the edge of his black t-shirt sleeve, and dark finger-shaped marks circled his throat.

He'd clearly been in a nasty fight.

"I'm sorry," she began softly.

"Did he threaten you?" Aramis asked simply.

"No," she answered honestly.

"Did he blackmail you?"

"Aramis…"

"Did he hold a ransom over you? Take you hostage? Trick you in some way?"

"Please stop."

"If none of those are the explanation, then please enlighten me as to what the fuck is going on."

She drew in a deep breath and let it out as a sigh as she stared at him.

"He loves me," she said eventually. That was true, she supposed, in its own twisted way.

But Aramis shook his head sharply.

"Fuck that. I loved you, and I know you loved me. So, what happened?"

"You were gone, again, and he was just…he was there when I needed someone."

Aramis stared at her, eyes wide with disbelief.

"Bullshit."

"I didn't mean for it to happen, Aramis. We just sort of found our way back to each other."

His head cocked to the side, eyes narrowing.

"You're lying. Why are you lying?"

"I'm not."

"The hell you're not. I know you." He uncrossed his arms and took a step closer. "What aren't you telling me?"

"Nothing. Stop, please. Just listen to me."

"I'll listen when you start telling me the truth."

"The truth is I don't want you anymore," she announced sharply. She watched the hurt flicker across his face before he frowned. "While you've been gone, I've gotten a taste of what my old life was like. I got a chance to reconnect with my parents and with Louis, and I realized I've just been kidding myself. I was never meant to be part of a world like yours. I was never meant to be with someone like you. I'm meant for more."

His head jerked back as if he'd been struck. But just as quickly as the hurt rolled across his expression, anger took its place.

"You're still lying, Anne," he said softly. "Why?"

"I'm not lying," she insisted.

"You are," he countered firmly, but then shook his head, scowling deeply. "You told me that he used to hurt you. Now you expect me to believe that you've just fallen back in love. No."

"Aramis, please…"

"I promised you that you'd never have to go back to him, Anne. And I know it brought you comfort when I said it. So, stop lying. Stop trying to make this seem like some loving reunion. Tell me the truth!"

"Please, Aramis. I can't. Please," she begged, feeling hot tears well in her eyes.

He paused, studying her again, gaze calculating. Finally, he took measured steps closer until he was standing right in front of her. She could reach out and touch him if she had the courage.

"Whatever he did to force you into this, I'll figure it out," he promised in a tone that invited no argument. "I won't believe for a moment that you chose this willingly. But if you won't let me help you. If you insist on going down this path, I don't know how to stop you."

She looked him directly in the eye.

"I don't want you to stop me."

And that, finally, gave him pause, because for all the lies she'd told, this was the truth. If he tried to stop her, Louis would make good on his threat, and that, above all, she did not want.

"I don't understand," he whispered, anger gone from his voice and leaving nothing but pain in its wake.

"We were a fantasy, Aramis," she said. And this was the truth too; meeting him, falling in love with him had been the most beautiful, wonderful fairy tale of all. She should have known her life would never allow such perfection to exist.

He stared at her, dark eyes guarded in a way they hadn't been in months.

"I won't stop until I find the truth," he vowed lowly.

Anne shook her head frantically, instinctively reaching to curl her hands into his t-shirt.

"Don't go digging, Aramis. Please, just let me go."

He gently curled his bruised and beaten hands over her pale, thin ones and leaned in until their noses touched.

"No."

Anne felt the tears that had been threatening finally fall.

"Tell me why you're so afraid," he whispered, leaning closer still so that the words brushed across her lips. "Please, Anne, tell me what he did."

And Anne didn't have the strength anymore to keep fighting.

"He said he would kill you," she confessed, sobbing out a breath and collapsing forward into his chest. He staggered a step back under her weight, suggesting further injury she wasn't aware of, but just as quickly, he recovered and wrapped his arms around her.

"He's welcome to fucking have a go, Anne. But he'd find himself outclassed, I assure you."

"No," she shook her head, drawing back to meet his gaze. "He says he has a commando unit on his payroll. He said you wouldn't see it coming. He said…he said he would have them do such awful things, Aramis. And I couldn't…I couldn't risk it being true."

He held her gaze, and she could see in his eyes that he was thinking through possibilities and scenarios.

"Did he say who?" Aramis asked, a gentle hand rubbing up and down her spine soothingly.

She shook her head. Aramis nodded slightly, a hand coming up to brush errant hairs out of her face and then lingering as he stared into her eyes.

"Has he hurt you?" he asked softly.

Anne shook her head again. Louis was very obviously in the honeymoon phase, where he was convinced of their irrefutable happiness. His true nature would come out, she knew, if she ever gave him reason to lose that delusion.

Aramis sighed in relief, apparently reading the truth in her face. He dropped his forehead forward to rest against hers.

"He can't know I told you," she whispered. "If you put up any sort of fight, he'll carry out his threats, and I can't let anything happen to you because of him. I couldn't bear it."

He nodded against her forehead.

"We'll have to be careful. Put on a good show for him. What did he tell you to do?"

"Break your heart."

Aramis hummed slightly.

"I'll speak to the others. We'll find out who he's turned. Once we remove that threat, you can leave him."

"What if you can't find out who it is? What if you can't prove it?"

Aramis pulled back and looked her directly in the eye.

"Then I'll kill him myself, Anne, and put an end to it that way. You're not staying with him. Not forever. If I could get you away from him right now, I would."

She shook her head.

"He can't know I told you," she repeated frantically.

"I know," he soothed, using both hands now to frame her face. "I trust you, Anne. If you believe his threat is real, I believe it too. If it were just me, maybe things would be different…But I can't let him hurt my team if they get in the way. So, we'll do it your way for now. We'll play our parts and let him go on believing that he's won."

He held her face more securely and looked her in the eye.

"But he hasn't won, Anne. You've not let him win, and you only need to keep that strength going, understand?"

"I understand," she whispered.

"I love you," he stated very deliberately. "And I will find a way to get you away from him."

"Safely."

"Safely," he assured.

"I love you, too," she whispered. "And I'm so sorry I hurt you."

Aramis shook his head.

"You were in an impossible situation."

"Porthos hates me now."

"He won't when I explain. None of them will."

"Please, please, be careful. He can't know you're looking into him."

"I'm always careful," he replied with a weak imitation of his usual cheeky grin.

She lightly touched the ring of bruising around his neck.

"That's not as reassuring as you might hope," she rejoined, but then, because she couldn't hold herself back anymore, she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his. He responded immediately, pulling her closer and deepening the kiss.

She pressed a hand against his side, and he twitched, sucking in a sharp breath and pulling away.

"What happened to you?" she asked, curling her fingers into her hand to keep from reaching out again.

"Nothing, love. Just a warlord with a grudge."

"You should be resting."

"I will, I promise. But first…"

He pulled her back in for another kiss. When they broke apart, he rested his forehead against hers again.

"If he hurts you, even once, leave. Don't think about consequences, don't think about me. If he hurts you, you need to leave. Please. That's all I ask of you in this, Anne."

Anne felt fresh tears dampen her cheeks as she gently stroked the side of his face.

"Promise me," he pleaded.

"I promise," she lied. She wouldn't endanger him, no matter what it cost her.

"You're lying again," he murmured.

"I'm sorry. But what would you do if you were in my place?"

He didn't answer because they both knew the truth of it.

"You should get back before Bourbon does."

Aramis pulled away and lightly brushed a tear off her cheek with his thumb.

"We can't meet again," he pointed out.

"I know."

"We must behave now as if you've done what he asked."

"I know," she repeated.

"No matter what comes next, know that I love you."

Anne leaned in to kiss him one last time.

"I love you, too," she whispered against his lips and then retreated, moving to the door before she could find another reason to linger.

Aramis turned away as she opened the door. Porthos and Athos stood together a ways down the hall, waiting. They looked at her as she walked out of the room.

"Please take me back to my room," she asked of Athos. Then, braving a look at Porthos, she whispered, "He needs you."

Porthos strode towards the storage room without further prompting, and Anne looked back at Athos. He was watching her with a calculating sort of look that had her looking away.

"Please take me back," she asked again.

Athos nodded and motioned for her to follow him. All too soon, her hotel room door came into sight, and Athos scanned them in, moving quickly to ensure the room was empty before returning to the door.

"I'll be outside until Porthos comes to relieve me," he told her succinctly.

"Athos, wait."

He paused with his hand on the door handle and looked at her. She wanted to come clean, to explain everything right now so he would stop looking at her like she'd broken one of his best friends. But then a suddenly paranoid thought that Louis might have some sort of listening device in the room stopped her.

"I'm sorry," she said instead.

Athos gazed at her with an unreadable look for a long moment.

"So am I."

Then he left the room, the door quietly closing behind him.

Anne moved to the bathroom and quickly stripped and stepped into the shower. She cried then, for herself and Aramis, until she heard Louis return in the main room. Then she started showering in earnest, buying herself as much time in the bathroom as she could manage before she had to join him in their room.

Before turning off the shower, she paused, closing her eyes.

She fought back fresh tears as she imagined spending every evening for the rest of her life just like this.

---

Next time, things get worse before they get better! As a teacher, I have summer coming up so hopefully that means more writing time!