Archive of Our Own ^beta

It was the quietness that suggested the exact depth and quality of the shit they were in. Normally by now Treville would be ranting and raving and storming about his office, yelling himself hoarse an inch from their unflinching faces and occasionally throwing things at them. On one memorable occasion when they'd lost a chest containing a considerable bribe of gold coins, he'd sliced open the bottom of Porthos' earlobe with a badly - or expertly, depending on your point of view - thrown letter opener.

Today though, Treville was silent, staring at them in a barely controlled fury that was all the more frightening for its coldness. His lips were a thin line, his hands clenched into fists that suggested he was a hair's breadth away from punching someone.

D'Artagnan risked a glance down the line. Next to him, Athos was staring straight ahead at a point somewhere over Treville’s shoulder, as if to make eye contact was to invite his wrath. Beyond him, Aramis stood hat in hand and similarly stony faced, the only sign of unease the fingers fidgeting with the brim. On his right, furthest from D'Artagnan, Porthos might have been etched from stone for all the movement he made, face sombre and frowning.

Treville stepped forward abruptly and D'Artagnan jumped, hastily facing front once more and hoping no-one had noticed.

"I'm waiting," Treville hissed. "I'm waiting, for an explanation. For someone to tell me, there has been a misunderstanding. That the reports I'm hearing are not true. That you have not just managed to fuck up a mission six months in the planning, and not only humiliate yourselves but the regiment. And let me tell you, when you humiliate the regiment, you're humiliating the King, and you're humiliating me. Right now, at this very second, his majesty the King is agreeing to plans the cardinal has been promoting for months, plans I have been resisting most strongly. And do you know why I no longer have the King's ear in this matter? Because you four have ensured that Richelieu is the only one who looks like he knows what the fuck he's doing!"

Finally, he was shouting, working himself up into an apoplectic rage, spittle flying from his lips. Still none of them ventured to speak, or to move.

D’Artagnan’s heart sank to the lowest point it had been since he entered the room. This was his fault. His plan, that had gone spectacularly wrong. He'd convinced the others of its worth, so cocksure of his own cunning and invincibility. It had foundered in spectacular and disastrous fashion, leaving several people injured and one dead. Their own people. Musketeers.

The other three at least had a solid reputation of years' staunch service to stand them in good stead and weigh in their favour. D'Artagnan though, he was only here on sufferance, probation. When Treville discovered it was him that had caused this whole mess, his hopes of becoming a full Musketeer would be over. In fact, given Treville’s current mood he might lose more than that. Could you have someone executed for incompetence? D’Artagnan wasn’t sure, but right now he wouldn’t have bet a single sou against Treville trying.

"What. Have you got. To say for yourselves? I. Am. Waiting." Treville bit the words off viciously.

D’Artagnan mentally crossed himself, bade farewell to his dreams, and opened his mouth to confess all. Then closed it again in sudden unexpected pain as Athos trod heavily on his instep.

"Nothing, sir."

Treville narrowed his eyes and darted forward to stare incredulously at Athos, who had spoken.

"What do you say?"

"Nothing, sir. We have nothing to say, in our defence. The plan failed, we cannot defend it, nor will we try to. That would be futile." Athos was still staring ahead, voice calm and distant.

D'Artagnan winced. The greatest injustice of all was that Athos had been the only one who'd objected. He'd said it was too risky, that there was too much that could go wrong. But D’Artagnan had convinced Aramis and Porthos, and in the end, Athos had gone along with them.

"Whose fool idea was it?" Treville demanded of Athos. "Which one of you peacocks is responsible for this mess?"

"I am." Athos spoke quietly, no emotion. D'Artagnan gaped, and in the corner of his vision even Aramis and Porthos turned to look at Athos in surprise.

"You?" Treville's voice held the surprise the others felt. It was hardly a plan that bore any resemblance to something Athos would have come up with. For a start, any plan of Athos' would have been more likely to come off well, D'Artagnan thought with the rueful clarity of hindsight.

"You expect me to believe this debacle was your idea?" Treville spat.

"No," Athos said, and Treville looked briefly triumphant, until he continued. "I expect you to recognise that I was in command at the time, and therefore any fault lies with me. The origin of the plan is irrelevant. I accept full responsibility, for everything. I will accept any punishment you deem suitable."

Athos might have been accepting a mild rebuke for a dirty uniform, for all the emotion he showed.

Treville looked grim. "Fifty lashes then. Each," he added, hell bent on all four suffering for their actions. But Athos shook his head, as implacable as Treville was determined.

"I say again, it was my responsibility. Therefore I will take all."

"Four times fifty, that's two hundred by anyone's reckoning. Two hundred strokes of the whip, Athos. Are you sure?" Treville barked, by now half-willing him to back down.

"Certain."

Athos met his eyes for the first time in the whole conversation, and it was Treville who was shaken by what he saw in them. Not a noble intention to protect his friends, no inflated sense of his own bravery or importance. Just utter, empty disinterest.

"Then so be it."

"You can't!" Aramis protested, so alarmed as to break the silence. "Two hundred, my God Athos, that could kill you."

"Let me do it," Porthos said grimly. "I can take it better than you can."

D'Artagnan opened his mouth to add his voice to the protests, but Athos rounded on them all with a look of sudden fury.

"You will all be silent!" he shouted, which in itself was enough to make them falter in surprise. When he spoke again, it was with the level tone of before. "You will do me the courtesy of obeying my wishes, in this at least."

Athos looked into Aramis' bewildered and outraged expression and let his eyes flick to D'Artagnan, unseen by anyone else. Aramis closed his mouth abruptly. He'd known Athos for long enough to be adept in reading the man's non-verbal signals, and guessed correctly his concerns. If it became known that the plan had been D’Artagnan’s, likely he would lose his commission. Also, he was young and raw and by no means battle-hardened - even fifty lashes would be far harder on him than the rest of them. So Aramis stepped back, and let Athos have his way.

Porthos grudgingly took his cue from Aramis, sensing something had taken place although unsure as to what. D’Artagnan, for his part, was so overwhelmed by the whole thing that he was standing in a stunned silence, paralyzed by the seeming injustice of it all.

As they were moving outside, Athos caught Aramis' arm.

"Don’t let him watch," he murmured.

Aramis nodded quickly, and then Athos was gone, being hustled down the steps by the guards on duty outside Treville's office, although in truth he was walking slightly ahead of them so they appeared more escort than jailors.

"What - are they doing it now?" D'Artagnan asked in a hoarse voice as they followed. He wasn't sure what he'd expected, but for Athos to be summarily bundled outside and stripped to the waist in the rain wasn't it. A hushed conversation with the duty officer below and a large, well-muscled man with a shaven head emerged from one of the buildings bearing a whip over his arm.

D'Artagnan paled. He'd expected something like a horsewhip, or even a bull-whip - but this was nine knotted tails of hard corded rope, bound in a flail handle and blackened in places with the ghost of old blood.

"A cat?" he said faintly, and Aramis abruptly remembered his promise. He turned to D’Artagnan and took him firmly by the shoulders.

"You want to help him?"

D'Artagnan nodded immediately.

"Good. Here's the key to my apartments. Now I need you to buy bandages, liniment, and sewing thread. And brandy, better get a bottle of brandy."

"For the wounds?" D'Artagnan asked, numbly accepting the pouch of coins Aramis thrust at him.

"For Athos. Now go, hurry. Take everything to my rooms, and when you get there boil up some water. We'll bring him as soon as we can."

D’Artagnan though resisted Aramis' encouraging shove, his eyes flicking back to Athos, standing at a distance against the wall, now shirtless, rain plastering down his hair.

"I should stay," D’Artagnan protested. "I owe him that much."

"You'll serve him better like this," Aramis promised.

"But - will he be all right?" D'Artagnan pleaded.

Aramis and Porthos exchanged a glance.

"He'll be fine," Porthos lied, and Aramis nodded complicitly, pushing D'Artagnan bodily toward the gate. Finally, he went, and from across the courtyard Athos gave them an almost imperceptible nod of thanks.

"He will be fine, right?" Aramis murmured, needing the comforting lie as much as D'Artagnan, the more so from having witnessed such punishments before.

"If he lives," Porthos muttered gloomily. They moved instinctively closer together, drawing comfort from the contact.

D'Artagnan had been right about one thing, they did owe it to Athos to bear witness to his punishment - their punishment - and it was in both their minds that if it looked like endangering his life then they'd step in, regardless of the consequences. Which, given they were surrounded by most of the regiment, slowly gathering around the periphery to watch such an unprecedented act, upon Athos of all people - would probably mean the deaths of all three of them.

On the far side of the courtyard, preparations were complete; Athos was bent across the blacksmith’s anvil, his hands bound before him. Upon seeing this final indignity Porthos would have started forward, were it not for Aramis' hand on his arm.

"He's chosen this. If you step in now he'll only curse you for it."

"I don’t like it," Porthos said through clenched teeth.

"You think I do?" Aramis shook his head tightly. "It should have been all of us."

"I'm still not entirely clear why it wasn't."

"Because Athos cares too little for his own skin, and too much for D'Artagnan's," said Aramis, without malice.

Porthos snorted. "Few licks from the cat would make a man out of him," he said roughly, but Aramis knew he didn’t mean it.

"He'd have lost his position too," Aramis said quietly. "If Treville found out..."

Aramis let the thought trail off, and the assembled group fell silent as the whip was raised for the first stroke.

The sound of the lash descending across Athos' back for the first time made more than one man present wince. By the second, Aramis was pressing his balled fist to his lips in tense distress, and by the tenth a murmur of unease was audible in the crowd each time the whip descended.

Athos himself had yet to make a sound, receiving blow after blow in stoic silence. The man delivering the punishment let the whip rise and fall in a rhythmic pattern that betrayed no bias - he was carrying out a duty, nothing more. He would not go lightly because Athos was a known and respected fellow soldier, neither would he inflict an unnecessarily vicious beating. Each stroke would be as precisely weighted and sited as the last, from beginning to end.

By the twentieth stroke, bloody streaks were visible on Athos' skin, by the fiftieth some members of the gathered crowd had started to drift away, sickened by the spectacle. Porthos and Aramis remained, as did Treville, watching grimly from the balcony above.

To the side of the courtyard remained another grouping of Musketeers, friends of the man who'd died. They would accept Treville's justice, and bear Athos no ill will at the end, but they would still stand witness in memory of their lost comrade.

By the hundredth stroke, Athos' back was a bloody mess and Aramis could bear it no longer, briefly turning his face away and resting his forehead against Porthos' shoulder, hating himself.

Porthos touched him lightly on the arm, without looking away for a second. He was counting, determined that Athos would receive not a single stroke more than his sentence.

"Aramis," he muttered. "Go and fetch a cart."

"What?" Aramis looked up, then flinched as for the first time Athos made an audible noise as the lash came down.

"A cart," Porthos repeated. "He's not going to be able to walk after this, let alone ride."

"I should stay," Aramis protested. Porthos sought Aramis' hand in the folds of his cloak and clasped it firmly.

"The sooner we get him out of here the better," Porthos murmured.

Aramis hesitated, torn between taking sensible action, loyalty to Athos and the feeling that to leave now would be cowardice. "Will you - "

"I'll stay," Porthos confirmed, eyes still fixed on Athos. "I'll watch over him. Go."

Aramis hurried off, gratitude and self-disgust warring in his heart. He rounded up a donkey-cart and was back as soon as he could get there. Athos was slumped limply against the anvil and he clutched Porthos' arm in acute anxiety.

"Is he - ?"

"He's still with us," Porthos reassured him, and then in answer to Aramis' unasked question, added "one hundred and ninety two."

They watched the remaining strokes in silence, and as soon as the final blow fell were moving towards Athos as one. The man who had performed the whipping stepped back and let them approach, having kept as professionally strict a count as Porthos.

The regimental surgeon had been standing by to attend Athos, but at a gesture from Treville hung back. Aramis and Porthos were already crouched beside him, and Treville would allow them this without argument. Indeed, he suspected to intervene at this point would be to court needless trouble, and in any case Aramis was as skilful a battlefield surgeon as any. Athos would be in good hands.

"Athos. Athos, can you hear me?" Aramis took hold of him gently as Porthos cut the ropes binding his hands and Athos slid to the ground. As well as his ruined back, his wrists were raw from the rope and his chest bruised and cut from where he'd been stretched over the anvil.

Athos was still conscious, but only just, his breathing shallow and his gaze unfocussed. Together Porthos and Aramis managed to wrap him in his cloak and transfer him to the back of the cart, the quiet cry of pain he gave at being moved enough to strike miserably at their hearts.

From the back of the cart where he was attending Athos, Aramis looked up at the balcony where Treville still stood, watching them. Unable to think of a single thing to say that wouldn’t get him arrested for mutiny, he simply looked away again as Porthos started to lead the cart out of the barracks.

--

Arriving outside Aramis' lodgings, they were faced with the problem of getting Athos up the stairs. In the end Porthos just picked him up and lifted him over his shoulder, figuring that a short burst of pain was worth the efficiency, and spending longer trying to ease him carefully up to Aramis' apartments would probably cause him more distress.

Aramis threw a coin to a boy loitering in the road and instructed him to return the cart and donkey to Captain Treville, following hastily in Porthos' wake without caring if the order was obeyed.

Upstairs they were met by D’Artagnan who'd worked himself into a near frenzy of worry whilst waiting for them. Mindful of the time they'd treated a wound for Porthos he'd taken it upon himself to clear Aramis' dining table of clutter and Porthos let Athos down gently onto its surface with a grunt.

"My god, is he - ?" D’Artagnan looked at the unmoving figure in sudden fright.

"He's alive," Porthos told him. "He passed out on the stairs."

Together, Aramis and Porthos gingerly peeled the cloak away from him and exposed Athos' wounds. D’Artagnan went pale. However bad it had been in his head, this was a thousand times worse.

"Did you fetch water?" Aramis asked, then nodded in approval as D'Artagnan produced a steaming basin. "Good lad." He set about cleaning Athos' wounds as best he could, reasoning it was best to get as much done whilst Athos was still out cold.

In one place the skin had split so deeply beneath the slice of the knotted lash that D’Artagnan fancied he could see the gleam of bone under the blood. He reached out to steady himself on the back of a chair, abruptly lightheaded. He was not a man to faint at the sight of blood and gore, but the knowledge that this was directly his fault, that Athos had suffered this because of him, was almost more than he could bear.

"This is going to need stitching," Aramis muttered, wondering if the surrounding skin was even whole enough to sew together. He glanced at D'Artagnan's pale face and frowned. "Here, put this salve on the shallower cuts," he instructed.

Grateful for something to do, D’Artagnan obeyed, tending carefully to the least of the wounds. Porthos was applying padding and bandages to the ones still flowing freely, and Aramis had fetched his medical kit and was threading a needle with a steady hand that D'Artagnan envied.

Athos gave a groan and D’Artagnan snatched his hand away in sudden unwarranted embarrassment. Ministering to an unconscious Athos was one thing, having his hands on his bare skin when he was awake gave D’Artagnan a hot flush of something that felt oddly akin to guilt.

"Back with us are you?" Porthos dropped into a seat that meant he could lean forward with his head on a level with Athos'. Athos tried to focus on him and Porthos frowned. "You know where you are? You know who you are?"

Athos coughed. "Porthos," he muttered thickly, and Porthos grinned in delight.

"I knew you were in there! Unless you think you're me, which raises some awkward questions, although if you do there's several gambling debts that could do with paying off."

"Porthos, shut up, you're rambling" Aramis told him kindly. He held up the needle. "I need to do this quickly."

Porthos nodded and looked back into Athos' eyes more seriously. "Aramis needs to sew you up," he said. "You want me to knock you out again?" he offered, not sure if that was a good idea or not. Athos though shook his head minutely.

"Just do it," he rasped, and Porthos nodded to Aramis, taking Athos' hand in his.

D'Artagnan watched with wide eyes as Aramis proceeded to stitch the wound while Athos was awake, the only outward sign of his discomfort the fact his knuckles were white where he was clasping Porthos' hand.

Only as Aramis finished and straightened up did Athos abruptly go limp, and Porthos brushed a hand over his face in tender concern.

"He's out again," he murmured. "Best thing, probably."

Aramis washed his hands in the basin of water and sighed. "Hopefully he'll sleep for a while. We should move him over to the bed while he's unconscious."

D’Artagnan pulled back the covers and Aramis and Porthos carried the insensible Athos to the bed, undressing him down to his underclothes and laying him carefully on his front. They pulled the covers up to his waist, mindful not to touch any of the wounds that hadn't been strapped, and stood looking down at him.

Now the immediate danger and tension had passed, they were at a loss to know what to do, and the earlier feelings of guilt came bubbling back to the surface.

"We should never have let him do this," Aramis said wretchedly. "Why did I listen to him?"

"Because he's a stubborn idiot," Porthos said. "When was the last time you managed to change his mind when it was made up?"

"We should have at least tried," Aramis sighed.

"Why didn't you?" D’Artagnan asked, who'd been oblivious to the exchange between Athos and Aramis and was still confused. The question came out sounding more accusatory than he'd meant it to, and Aramis bridled.

"He did this for you!" Aramis snapped. "So your tender little back would remain unblemished and your impetuous little arse would remain in uniform!"

D’Artagnan was startled, and more than a little indignant at the thought Athos considered him so innocent as to need protecting. "Does he have so little regard for me then?" he wondered.

This was a mistake, as in the next second he found himself pinned against the wall with Aramis' hands around his throat.

"Aramis!" Porthos seized him round the waist and dragged him off, holding him tightly while Aramis struggled to free himself, furious.

"He's lying there half dead from taking a whipping for you and you dare to say he doesn't care for you?" Aramis yelled. "How dare you?"

D’Artagnan swallowed. He hadn't looked at it like that, and was overcome with sudden remorse. "I'm sorry," he stuttered. "Only I never asked him to, and I would gladly have taken his place. It should have been me anyway, it was my plan. My fault. It should be me in that bed, and if I could only trade places with him I would, in a heartbeat."

Aramis calmed down a little, and Porthos relaxed his grip. "I'm going to let you go, alright?" Porthos murmured, and Aramis nodded.

Porthos released him, and Aramis cleared his throat. "Sorry," he said to D'Artagnan, who nodded immediate acceptance of the apology.

"I deserved it," he sighed.

"Don't you start," Porthos grumbled. "One of us with a self-destructive streak is bad enough." He gazed down at the still form of Athos and sighed. "What's done is done. Let's not argue amongst ourselves."

"Agreed." Aramis sighed, and held his hand out to D’Artagnan who shook it gladly.

"I'm sorry," D'Artagnan said again, sinking into a chair gloomily. "For everything."

Porthos shook his head. "We were in it together. We all agreed, even Athos. That makes it everyone's fault, not just yours." Porthos looked over at Aramis. "And he took that beating for all of us, not just D’Artagnan," he reminded him gently.

"I know," Aramis sighed. "Which makes me feel worse, not better," he added with a rueful smile.

"The least we can do for him is not be at each other's throats when he wakes," Porthos said. "If only because Athos having to get out of bed to kick our arses would be a painful experience for everyone."

Aramis gave a subdued laugh, and slowly the atmosphere in the room relaxed as they settled down to keeping quiet watch.

When Athos next opened his eyes, the room was quiet and dark, with just a brace of candles burning. For a second everything seemed tentatively fine, then he made the mistake of moving an inch and burning pain flared across his back.

"Athos?" A hand came to rest gently on his shoulder in response to his quiet groan of agony, and he realised he wasn't alone in the bed. He managed to turn his head to the side, discovering Porthos was sitting up against the headboard next to him, fully dressed, legs stretched out across the covers.

Athos managed a weak smile which Porthos returned, rubbing a thumb across the unbroken skin of his shoulder comfortingly.

"I won't ask how you're feeling," Porthos said in an undertone. "I took sixty lashes once, and could hardly walk - could hardly breathe. I don't know how you did it."

Athos coughed painfully and shook his head. "Do me a favour. If I say I'm doing it again, talk me the fuck out of it," he muttered, and Porthos gave a quiet laugh.

"Is there anything I can do for you?"

Athos shook his head, then reconsidered. "I'd kill for a drink."

Porthos slid off the bed with a chuckle and Athos caught sight of Aramis and D'Artagnan asleep side by side on a straw palliasse across the room.

"What time is it?" he asked as Porthos returned with the brandy bottle and a glass.

"Must be nearly two in the morning," Porthos said, pouring a generous measure.

"Shouldn’t you be asleep as well?" Wincing, Athos propped himself up enough to swallow from the glass that Porthos held to his lips.

"We're taking it in turns," Porthos explained. "So there's always someone with you." He refilled the glass without being asked and helped Athos drink again.

"I'm sorry," Athos sighed, letting himself subside to the mattress again. "For putting you to such trouble."

Porthos snorted. "And we're sorry we were so out of our minds we let you go through with it," he retorted. "Get some sleep," he added more softly. "It's what you need right now."

Athos murmured something inaudible, his eyes closing of their own accord. Porthos watched him quietly for the rest of his shift.

--

It felt like he'd only drifted off for a moment, but when Athos opened his eyes a second time he found it was Aramis sitting next to him.

Seeing that he was awake, Aramis smiled warmly down at him. "How are you doing?"

Athos shifted experimentally and took a sharp breath. "Feels like my back's on fire," he confessed and Aramis frowned.

"Try not to move if you can help it. I'm not sure how well those stitches will last."

Athos was briefly glad the damage was on his back and he didn’t have to see it. Curiosity won out though. "How bad is it?"

Aramis' expression clouded. "Bad. Worst I've seen." He sighed. "It'll scar, I'm afraid."

Athos gave humourless snort. "It's as well there's no-one that will care then."

"I care!" Aramis protested, and Athos looked briefly amused.

"Does this mean you'll throw me out of your bed for being hideously disfigured?" he asked, having recognised by now that it was indeed Aramis' bed he was lying in.

"I didn’t mean it like that," Aramis objected. "You're welcome in my bed any time." Athos raised an eyebrow and Aramis laughed out loud, quickly stifling himself with a guilty look towards the slumbering Porthos and D'Artagnan. "I didn’t mean it like that either," he told Athos, who gave a short laugh, then winced.

"Don't make me laugh, it hurts," he complained. "And talking of pain relief, another hit of that brandy wouldn’t go amiss."

Aramis looked innocent. "Brandy? What brandy would that be then?"

"Porthos had it, if he hasn't drunk it already."

"Not sure you should be drinking in this condition," Aramis said mildly, and Athos slapped a hand at his leg reprovingly.

"Call yourself a friend? You're cruel and unusual."

Aramis grinned and reached down for the brandy, uncorking it and handing the bottle to Athos.

"I take it all back, you're the very best of men," Athos declared. "Porthos only let me have a glass." He took a deep swallow from the bottle, coughed, wiped his mouth and took another.

Noting how badly Athos' hand was shaking, Aramis retrieved the bottle and pushed him gently back down to the bed, knowing it had to hurt like hell every second Athos was trying to sit up.

"Less moving. More sleeping," Aramis told him sternly.

That Athos closed his eyes without protest and settled immediately back into sleep said a lot about how bad he was feeling, and for a moment Aramis fussed with the covers around him, trying to make Athos as comfortable as possible.

Outside a clock struck four in the morning, and Aramis sighed. Drew out the golden crucifix hanging inside his shirt and held it in his fist, lips moving silently as he offered up heartfelt prayers.

--

D'Artagnan pulled a chair up to the bed and sank into it, watching the sleeping Athos from over clasped hands. He somehow didn't like to sit on the bed as the others had, despite there being plenty of room - it felt too much of a liberty, and perhaps too intimate.

Despite everything they'd been through together he still felt sometimes like he was there on sufferance, and deep down was desperately afraid of losing their friendship.

For a moment back there he'd felt he was teetering on a precipice, about to lose everything he'd ever wanted - but then, unlooked for and probably undeserved, Athos had stepped in and with one selfless act of sacrifice restored it all to him.

But at what cost, D'Artagnan thought miserably, eyes tracing the bloody bandages criss-crossing Athos' back. He'd never wanted this, would never have wished such injury on a man he admired so ardently and it cut him to his very soul.

He understood now why Athos had taken the responsibility on himself, and his stunned gratitude was beyond anything he could put into words. But that Athos had taken on the punishment too, that he found hard to comprehend, and consequently felt sick to his stomach with guilt.

D'Artagnan hoped nervously that Athos would remain asleep for the duration of his watch, because he had no idea what he could say to him if he woke.

The last hours of the night slowly ticked away, and the first blush of dawn was visible through the open shutters. D'Artagnan stifled a yawn and looked down to where Athos was murmuring quietly in his sleep. To D’Artagnan's guilty relief he hadn't woken the whole time, but his sleep had been restless and in the growing daylight D'Artagnan could see his hair was sticking damply to his face.

He reached out and lightly brushed Athos' hair back from his cheek with fingers that trembled. Athos' skin felt hot to the touch, and D’Artagnan frowned. Athos was obviously in distress even in sleep, and the shifting of his body was making some of the wounds bleed again.

D'Artagnan rose from his chair and crouched beside the straw mattress that the others were sleeping on. He shook Porthos first, still a little wary of Aramis' temper, but the man slept on despite his efforts. There was a reason Porthos tended to take the first watch, and that was because it could be very difficult to wake him otherwise.

D’Artagnan sighed and moved round to Aramis, who woke immediately at his touch and sat up looking worried.

"It's Athos," D'Artagnan said in a low voice. "I think he's getting worse."

Aramis rolled off the mattress and followed D’Artagnan over to the bed without a word. He looked down at the restless sleeper, placed a hand on Athos' hot forehead and sighed.

"He's running a fever. I was afraid of this."

"Will he be alright?" D’Artagnan folded his arms protectively across himself. "What do we do?"

Aramis shrugged. "Not much we can do. Keep him warm, keep a watch on him. If none of his wounds go bad, and the shock's not too much for his system, he should pull through. He's pretty strong."

D'Artagnan's legs threatened to give out on him and he subsided back into his chair, looking pale.

"Blaming yourself won't help him," Aramis said softly, guessing his thoughts. "And for the record, none of us blame you either. Athos is his own man, and if we're to blame for anything it's that we've never yet convinced him of his own worth."

Aramis sat carefully on the side of the bed, and stroked his fingers lightly over Athos' hand where it lay on the pillow. "All we can do now is wait and pray."

--

For the next three days and nights, Athos drifted in and out of consciousness and delirium. Aramis and Porthos dressed his wounds and kept him clean, with the unselfconscious efficiency of men who'd seen enough battlefield action to simply do what needed to be done.

D'Artagnan, whilst willing to help found himself rendered frozen and hesitant when it came to touching Athos' body, particularly in more personal areas, and was swiftly relegated to fetching and carrying by the others. He knew they thought him green and useless, but wondered how much less they would think of him if they realised his reluctance stemmed not from embarrassment but from the knowledge of how much he wanted to touch Athos.

To lay hands on him, to caress his pains away, to distract him with a soft touch and cool fingers - D’Artagnan fought down the feelings threatening to choke him. To do any of this with Athos unconscious or uncomprehending would make him feel a traitor, and so he watched with a certain amount of envy as Porthos would sit with an arm around Athos to help him take a little broth or water, or Aramis would kiss him soothingly on the cheek as Athos twisted against his pillows in the grip of his fever.

This easy affection wasn't solely reserved for Athos either; D’Artagnan had noticed how it was Porthos' custom, when sharing the bed with Aramis, to sleep with an arm round him. He found himself hoping one night Porthos would mistake him in the dark for Aramis, just for a moment of comforting human contact, but so far it hadn't happened.

He worried they thought him stand-offish or proud. He worried that despite their words they blamed him for Athos' situation. Mostly, he just worried.

On the fourth night, Athos' condition worsened and individual watches were abandoned as they clustered round his bed, too alarmed to sleep, knowing this was the crisis point.

By dawn his fever had finally broken, and in crumpled, sweat-soaked sheets he passed into a natural and peaceful sleep, and they leaned against each other wearily.

"He'll be alright now," Aramis said quietly, and pulled D'Artagnan into an exhausted three-way embrace. Crushed briefly between Aramis and Porthos, D’Artagnan could have wept with relief.

"Why don't you go and fetch us some breakfast?" Porthos suggested, handing him some coins as Aramis pushed the shutters wide to let in the morning sun.

When Athos woke a while later, his gaze was clearer than it had been for days, and finding Aramis and Porthos standing over him, he blinked.

"I hope it's not the last rites," he said dryly.

Aramis laughed, and Porthos came to sit on the bed, taking Athos' hand in his, then supporting him as Athos struggled to a sitting position.

"Easy," warned Porthos. "Don't overdo it."

Athos looked at him. "How long have I been out?" he asked.

"Best part of a week," Aramis told him, and Athos winced.

"My God." He looked at their concerned faces, and smiled contritely. "Sorry for being such a burden."

Porthos squeezed his hand. "It's just good to have you back with us," he muttered.

"You had us worried for a while there," Aramis confessed, sitting down on the bed as well. "Promise me you won’t do something that stupid ever again?"

Athos gave a silent laugh. "You have my word." He frowned. "I don't want to be indelicate, but - I think I have to piss."

Porthos snorted, and hauled the chamberpot out from under the bed.

"You know, you don't have to - " Athos started, then had to steady himself as a wave of dizziness came over him.

"Oh, I think we do," Porthos said, putting an arm round him again and holding Athos against his chest.

Athos sighed. "Fine. It's not like I had any dignity left to lose. And if I haven't been for a week - " he stopped as they exchanged an amused look. "Oh God, tell me I didn’t piss myself?" he muttered.

"No," Aramis assured him with a laugh. "You generally managed to make it known when you needed to go. One of us would hold you up, the other would hold the pot."

Porthos grinned. "You owe us drinks for the rest of eternity."

"I'd say I owe you more than that," Athos smiled.

They helped him to the edge of the bed and supported him while he relieved himself, talking cheerfully all the while of whatever came into their heads as a distraction. When he was done, they helped him back under the covers despite his protests that he should get up.

"What did I say about rushing things?" Porthos asked sternly. Athos conceded the point with good grace, and Porthos put his arm back round him. "How do you feel, really?" he asked.

"Honestly? Weak as a kitten," Athos confessed with a sheepish laugh.

Porthos hugged him, and Aramis smiled. "You'll soon get your claws back," he promised.

Athos looked round the room, knowing that something had been nagging at him as missing and suddenly realising what it was. "No D’Artagnan?"

"We sent him for breakfast," Porthos said. "He'll be back soon. He's been here the whole time. We all have."

"I was that bad?" Athos wondered.

"Always were over-dramatic," Porthos rumbled, wanting to forget as quickly as possible that there'd been moments the night before when they'd started to think he might not pull through.

Aramis sighed. "You must have a guardian angel," was all he said.

Athos looked from one to the other, and smiled. "It sounds like I have three."

At that moment the door opened to admit D’Artagnan, who, seeing at first only that Porthos and Aramis were huddled at Athos' bed, was seized with a cold fear.

"Athos?" he cried, dropping the provisions he'd brought carelessly on the table and dashing across the room.

"He's fine, lad," Porthos told him, amused. "He's fine."

Finding Athos not only awake but sitting up and lucid, D’Artagnan threw himself to the floor, seized Athos' hand in both of his and buried his face in the bedclothes.

Porthos eyed him in astonishment. "What I said about you being over-dramatic? I take it all back," he muttered.

"I'm sorry," D’Artagnan said, voice muffled by the bedspread. "I'm so sorry."

Athos laid his free hand on D’Artagnan’s head. "But what are you sorry for?" he asked in bemusement. "Look, come on, get up, no man should be on his knees for me."

Aramis snorted with laughter. "Well."

"Don't knock it till you've tried it," Porthos added, and Athos shook his head, amused.

"You're both impossible. D'Artagnan, stop that, come here." He pulled the young man to the level of the bed, and put an arm round him. D'Artagnan clutched at him in remorse and Aramis made a move to pull him back, worried that he must be causing Athos pain where he was touching him, but Athos shook his head.

"What is it?" Athos asked quietly. "What's wrong D’Artagnan?"

"Everything," D’Artagnan said miserably. "All of this, it's all my fault."

Athos looked over D’Artagnan’s shoulder and Porthos and Aramis shook their heads.

"We told him it wasn’t," Porthos sighed.

"But he's not known you long enough to know you can be a bloody idiot," Aramis added, and Athos gave him a look.

"Enough of this," Athos told D'Artagnan. "I made my choice, and I would make it again."

"You bloody won’t," Porthos muttered, but Athos ignored him.

"What's a few strokes of the lash against a man's future?" Athos continued, taking no notice of the incredulous echo of 'A few?!' from Aramis. "It was within my gift to give, and so I gave it. I require neither your gratitude nor your guilt."

D'Artagnan lifted his head to look Athos in the eye, and nodded shakily. "Then I'm yours," he pledged. "From this day forward, I am your man."

Athos patted him on the shoulder. "We are each other's," he corrected quietly. "All of us."

"That's assuming we have positions to go back to," Aramis said gloomily. "We've all been here for days without leave of absence."

"Treville knows where we are," Porthos snapped. "He's not sent so much as an enquiry after Athos' recovery."

Athos laid a calming hand on Porthos' leg. "If he doesn't see you, then he doesn't oblige himself to order you back to your posts," he pointed out, and Porthos subsided a little.

"Hadn't thought of that," he admitted.

D'Artagnan reluctantly slid back off the bed out of Athos' embrace. "So who's hungry?" he asked, and was gratified to see the mood of all three lift immediately at the prospect of a meal.

"I could use a little something," Aramis conceded.

"I'm starving," Porthos nodded eagerly. None of them had eaten the night before, being too pre-occupied with Athos.

As they got up to fetch the food, Aramis bent to kiss Athos on the cheek.

"What was that for?" Athos asked in surprise.

"Not being dead," Aramis said simply.

Before Athos could reply, Porthos had promptly kissed him on the other cheek and he suppressed a laugh. Looking up at D'Artagnan, he gave him a smile.

"Don't worry, it's not compulsory."

D'Artagnan smiled back. "Who's worried?" he asked, and before he could lose his nerve had leaned over and pressed a light kiss to Athos' forehead.

Turning hurriedly away to join the others at the table, half-shocked at his own audacity, D'Artagnan missed the look of fond amusement that Athos gave him. Aramis caught it though, and nodded to himself approvingly. Anything that made Athos smile was okay by him.

--

Although the tension of the previous few days had dissipated, and despite Athos' protestations to the contrary, the others insisted on maintaining their vigil the next night in case he should take a turn for the worse.

When D'Artagnan's shift came round in the early hours and he sleepily took up his accustomed position in the chair by Athos' bed, he realised with a start that Athos was awake, and watching him quietly.

D'Artagnan smiled at him, feeling himself blush. "Sorry, did we wake you?" He'd exchanged a few words with Aramis as they'd swapped over, but he'd thought they'd been reasonably quiet.

Athos shook his head. "I think it was just Aramis getting off the bed. Not a problem." He regarded D'Artagnan for a few moments, weighing up whether or not to continue.

"You never join me up here?" he said finally, barest hint of a question in his voice.

"I wouldn’t like to presume." D’Artagnan felt the blush spreading, and was grateful for the dim candlelight.

"Then, if I extended an invitation?" Athos murmured.

D'Artagnan ducked his head and couldn’t help glancing over to the other mattress. Aramis appeared to be asleep already, with a soldier's ability to snatch sleep at a moment’s notice. Besides, he and Porthos were both facing the other way, and D'Artagnan looked back to find Athos was still patiently watching him.

Steeling himself to accept something he desperately wanted anyway, D'Artagnan eased himself onto the bed. He settled there cautiously, sitting up at first, then lying full length, his head on the pillows next to Athos. He stifled a yawn.

"I've never had a chance to tell you I was sorry," he murmured, the intimate arrangement inviting confession. "If it hadn't been for my stupid plan, none of this would have happened."

Athos, who'd formed the impression D'Artagnan had done little but apologise, patted him on the hand. "Then know you are forgiven, for whatever transgressions you feel you've committed," he said softly.

D'Artagnan blushed so hard at that, that Athos was momentarily convinced he was going to pass out from an imbalance of the blood and wondered whatever he could be worrying about now.

Underneath his flushed cheeks the boy looked more shattered than Athos felt, and it tugged at his sympathy. "When you've got a bit more experience under your belt, you'll realise what a large percentage of plans end up in near disaster," he smiled. "It won’t always be yours that don't work out. God knows the three of us have been through enough scrapes in the last few years. And we're still here," he added.

After a moment's hesitation, Athos reached out and stroked a hand comfortingly over D’Artagnan’s hair. After an initial twitch of surprise, D’Artagnan gave him a look of such astonished devotion that Athos had to suppress a laugh.

Athos shifted closer, settling an arm around his shoulders and keeping up the soothing motion of his hand until D'Artagnan's eyes fluttered closed. He blinked them open again with a force of will, but in seconds, despite his good intentions, D’Artagnan was asleep.

--

The morning sun was pouring through the window, dust motes sparkling in the shaft of light when Porthos came over, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. To his astonishment, he found D’Artagnan fast asleep and tucked into the crook of Athos' arm, while Athos himself was awake and propped up on his pillows.

"Are you telling me the little bastard fell asleep on his watch?" Porthos cried indignantly, reaching out to shake D’Artagnan roughly awake.

Athos pushed his hand away. "Leave him be," he said peaceably. "He's alright."

"But - "

Athos fixed him with a look. "Someone to remain awake at all times, that was the instruction, correct?"

"Yes!"

"Well then. I was awake, so technically there's not a problem, is there?" Athos asked him reasonably.

Porthos gave a resigned laugh. "We can hardly expect you to keep watch on yourself," he protested.

"Who better?" Athos smiled. "Besides, if I'd needed anything I could have woken him up easily enough."

"I suppose." Porthos reached out and jabbed D’Artagnan in the side with a hard finger, ignoring Athos' reproving look.

D’Artagnan sat up with a jerk and looked alarmed. "Oh no. Did I fall asleep? I'm so sorry!"

Athos snorted. "For God's sake don’t start that again."

D’Artagnan paled. "Don’t tell Aramis? Please?"

Porthos shrugged and Athos looked surprised. "Alright?"

"Thank you." D’Artagnan looked ashamed, and Porthos clapped him on the back.

"Breakfast's on you then, I'd say? And while you're at it you can take the laundry out to be done."

D’Artagnan bridled at that. "Do I look like a washerwoman?"

Porthos appeared to give this serious thought and D’Artagnan rolled his eyes and slid off the bed.

"Fine. Fine. It's not like it's anyone else's turn or anything." He picked up the basket of sheets they'd stripped from the bed the previous day, settling Athos into clean linen after his fever had passed.

When he'd gone, Athos looked at Porthos curiously. "Since when has Aramis been the scary one?"

Porthos grinned. "Since he pinned D’Artagnan up against the wall for suggesting you didn’t care about him."

Athos winced. "And this is why I can't leave you all alone for a minute."

"It was a momentary fit. We managed not to kill each other, even being confined here together for days," Porthos laughed. "You should be proud of us."

"I always am," Athos said quietly.

Once Aramis had woken, and he and Porthos had washed and dressed, they returned to Athos' bedside bearing a basin of water and an armful of towels.

"Your turn," Porthos told him cheerfully, and Athos gave a mock groan.

"I can wash myself, I'm sore, not crippled."

"You can't see to your back yourself," retorted Aramis. "Not unless you've become double-jointed overnight."

"Now that I'd like to witness." Porthos waggled his eyebrows and Athos snorted.

"Then I suppose I have no choice but to surrender."

They lifted his nightshirt off carefully, wincing more than Athos did when it stuck to his back where he'd bled.

"How's it healing?" Athos asked, not entirely sure he wanted to know. His skin felt unpleasantly tight where it was knitting, and still red raw in other places. Any sudden movement would send a jolt of pain through him that left him nauseous and dizzy, but he'd kept that fact to himself, deciding they were worried enough as it was.

"Slow but sure," was Aramis' verdict, cleaning the broken and scabbing stripes left by the lash as gently as possible, before dabbing fresh salve onto them.

Porthos, watching Athos' face and noticing him pale slightly, took hold of his hand. Athos squeezed his fingers gratefully, using Porthos' firm grip to brace himself against the fresh pain. All three of them would willingly have died before displaying any such hint of weakness in front of anyone else, but between themselves there was an unspoken trust. They'd seen each other at their lowest and worst, and loved each other regardless.

"All done." Aramis finished reapplying the bandages to the worse of the lesions and wiped his hands. Porthos in turn dipped a flannel into the water and reached for Athos' arm.

Athos evaded him with a slight laugh. "You are joking?"

Porthos though, regarded him seriously. "Let us do this?" he murmured. "What you did for us - it was such a huge thing - let us give something back? Please?"

The quiet plea was finally enough to change Athos' mind, and he gave in with slight smile. "Very well. If it means that much?"

"It does," was all Porthos said.

Athos submitted to their ministrations with tolerant affection. Besides, the water was warm and their hands were gentle and it was nice to feel clean again with no effort on his part.

Between them, Aramis and Porthos worked their way from his shoulders down his arms and chest to his stomach. Athos settled carefully back against the pillows, assuming they would stop there, but Aramis drew the covers down to his ankles, ignoring his brief yelp of protest.

Porthos dipped the flannel back in the water, wringing it out enough that it wouldn't drip on the sheets, then stroked slowly down Athos' thigh. He glanced up once to see if Athos objected, but found he was being watched with an amused patience that made him smile.

"Feel nice?" Porthos murmured.

"You make an excellent nurse," Athos agreed, and Porthos laughed, dipping into the basin again. This time he let his flannel-wrapped hand dip between Athos' legs, apparently intent on being as thorough as possible. Athos let his legs fall open slightly, affording him better access.

Porthos, without daring to look up at him again, drew the warm flannel a little higher, until he was covering Athos' groin.

A breathy laugh of surprise was the only sound Athos gave, and Porthos grew bolder, lifting Athos' soft cock to wash around and underneath. His hand lingered, stroking gently until he felt Athos starting to react to his touch.

Athos shifted a little. "I think I'm probably about as clean as I'm going to get by now," he said lightly.

"Well, you can never be too clean down there," murmured Aramis philosophically, speaking for the first time in several minutes. They both looked up at him and found his eyes fixed with fascination on Porthos' hand.

"Tell me to stop, and I will," Porthos breathed, continuing to stroke Athos through the medium of the flannel.

Athos looked at him in surprise. The implication - that if Athos said nothing he was entirely happy to continue what he was doing - was an unexpected one.

"Porthos - " It came out hoarse, and Athos swallowed. "Whatever you think you owe me, you can hardly believe this is the kind of price I would expect."

"And what if it's offered freely?" Porthos asked, still in an undertone, and still without looking up. If Athos brought this to a stop, it would be easier to pretend nothing had happened if they hadn't actually made eye contact.

Athos looked at Aramis, who at least met his gaze. He shrugged slightly, as if to say it was entirely up to Athos how to proceed. The fact he didn't look more shocked made Athos frown with curiosity.

"You, uh, do this a lot?" he asked Porthos dryly. Part of his mind was conscious of the fact that he probably should have told Porthos to stop by now. With a twinge of guilt, he kept his silence a moment longer.

Porthos did glance up then, although at Aramis. He smirked briefly and looked away again.

"Not - often, no," he said with quiet emphasis. Suggesting that it had happened at least once, and leaving no doubt as to whom the recipient had been.

Aramis cleared his throat. "It was - only the one time."

"Twice," Porthos corrected him without looking up.

"No it wasn- oh." Aramis coughed discreetly into his hand, a slight blush warming his cheeks.

Athos stared at him enquiringly until Aramis sighed. "The second time was - well. The, er. Other way round," he confessed.

Athos just nodded understanding, albeit with an expression of considerable amusement.

"We're not - " Aramis faltered. "I mean, it's not what you probably think." He broke off with a breathy laugh, at a loss to put into words the circumstances that had brought it about.

"We just - both needed it," Porthos put in quietly. "When it happened. It helped." He finally looked up at Athos, stilling the motion of his hand but not moving it away. "Let me help?"

By now Athos was more than half-hard under the concealing modesty of the flannel, and the weight of Porthos' hand resting on top was doing nothing to discourage his growing arousal. It had been a long time since anyone had touched him like this and he was embarrassed at how quickly he was getting hard. Porthos let his fingers rub against him speculatively, and Athos cracked.

"Alright." He was briefly worried it had sounded ungracious, but he was having difficulty forming whole sentences right now. Porthos grinned at him anyway, and Aramis let out a shaky breath of anticipation.

Porthos discarded the flannel and wrapped his bare hand around Athos' stiffening cock. He caressed him slowly, long, smooth gestures that made Athos breathe harder and press forgetfully back into the pillows. He gave a sharper gasp as his back twinged and Aramis gave Porthos a warning look.

"Careful."

"Sorry." Porthos gave Athos apologetic eyes, but Athos shook his head.

"Really not a problem," he assured him, voice rather strained. Porthos gave him a flash of teeth then bent over his task, intent on making Athos feel as good as possible.

He had a large hand and a firm grip and Athos stifled a groan as Porthos stroked him a little harder. His gaze flicked to Aramis, briefly concerned that Aramis had had no say in this, and might be said to have a prior claim on Porthos' attentions.

Aramis though, was watching proceedings with an eager and encouraging stare. Feeling Athos' eyes on him, he slid his hand into that of his friend, and smiled.

"Takes your mind off things, doesn't it?" Aramis murmured.

"You can say that again," Athos said faintly. He found himself pushing into Porthos' touch, the slip-tug of his hand making Athos' breath hitch and his hips jerk forward of their own accord. He'd never have pictured himself giving up control as easily at this, but Porthos was making him unravel.

He gripped Aramis' hand tighter, feeling him return the pressure with a reassuring immediacy.

Porthos listened to Athos' laboured breathing and judged he was close. The feeling of him thick and hard in his hand was intoxicating, the skin sliding under his fingers, and Porthos was half erect himself just from the touch. He twisted his hand, slippery now from more than the bathing water, feeling his own cock pressing insistently against the studs of his breeches.

A few moments later Athos gave a shuddering groan and came all over his stomach. Porthos worked him through it, only letting go when Athos was weak-limbed and spent.

Aramis reached for the cloth, fastidiously cleaning Athos up without a word.

Porthos sat back with a certain air of proud satisfaction - giving Athos an uninterrupted view across the room. He froze. Picking up on his sudden tension, Porthos and Aramis followed the line of his gaze.

Standing in the open doorway, clutching a pile of folded linen as if his life depended on it, staring at them in disbelief, was D’Artagnan.

"How long have you been standing there?" Porthos demanded indignantly.

"Quite a while judging by the state of him," Aramis remarked before he could stop himself. Three pairs of eyes automatically slid to D’Artagnan’s crotch and his obvious erection. With a strangled noise of distress he belatedly tried to cover himself with the linen, then abandoned it to the floor together with the basket from his arm, turned and fled.

There was a moment of silence.

"Well one of you go after him!" Athos exclaimed in exasperation.

Aramis got hurriedly to his feet and followed D'Artagnan with considerable haste. Reaching the street below he at first thought he'd lost him, then caught sight of a hurrying figure some way distant. He dashed after him, finally drawing near enough to grab D'Artagnan by the arm and swing him round.

"I'm - so sorry. Please, forgive me," D'Artagnan pleaded, distraught, upon recognising Aramis.

Aramis released him, words stalling on the tip of his tongue. He'd been prepared for disgust, censure, confusion, perhaps violent anger.

"It's not you who needs to apologise. You weren't meant to see that. I'm sorry D'Artagnan, what must you think of us."

D'Artagnan shook his head miserably. "I never meant to intrude."

Aramis gave an awkward laugh. "Teach us to lock the door in future!"

"No." D’Artagnan shook his head. "I meant - intrude on the three of you. I can only imagine how I must have been in the way. And you never said!" He backed away looking stricken. "I won't - I won't force my company on you any further, please, forgive me."

Aramis frowned. "D’Artagnan, what nonsense are you talking?"

It suddenly dawned on him that it must have looked to D’Artagnan that the reason they kept packing him off to fetch things was to give them time alone together. Did D'Artagnan imagine that every time he'd been sent out for something, that Porthos and he had immediately hopped into Athos' bed?

He flushed, appalled that they could have served D’Artagnan so badly. They'd treated him as a lackey, partly because he was the youngest but mainly because he'd never really complained.

"I'm sorry, D'Artagnan," Aramis said sincerely. "But please believe me when I say that this is not something that's been between us this whole time. A recent development, and an unexpected one. And you're not intruding, not in the least."

"Then you're not -?" D'Artagnan gave a choked laugh.

"What?"

He shook his head. "If I had the liberty of touching him as freely as you and Porthos can, I'd never stop." D’Artagnan coloured, realising he'd said entirely too much and hoping Aramis hadn't noticed.

Aramis though, rarely missed anything.

"Do you - have feelings for him?" Aramis asked quietly. "For Athos?"

Discovered, D’Artagnan looked proudly defiant. "I would die for him," he declared.

Aramis chuckled. "Well, no-one's demanding that of you. In any case, so would we all. That hardly - " he broke off, considering his own statement. "Oh."

D’Artagnan was watching him cautiously. Aramis patted him on the shoulder, and gave a short laugh. "Well. How would you feel about sharing?"

"I hardly imagine Athos would be interested in me." Not when he's got you and Porthos, he added mentally.

"You might be surprised." Aramis considered the lengths to which Athos had gone to protect D'Artagnan and nodded to himself, sure he was right. "Why don’t we find out?"

D’Artagnan looked half-terrified. "I can’t tell him!"

"Why not?" Aramis looked solemn for a moment. "Athos doesn’t love himself half as well as he should. So the more other people who love him the better, if you ask me. Would you deny him that knowledge?"

"I - suppose - not?" D'Artagnan said warily, feeling like he was inching into some kind of trap.

"Excellent. That's settled then." Aramis beamed at him, and offered his arm.

--

"Fucked that up, didn't I?" Porthos sighed. He'd helped Athos into a clean nightshirt and settled him back under the covers.

Athos patted his hand reassuringly. "He'll get over it. Never let it be said Paris isn't educational."

Porthos laughed, relaxing a little and sitting heavily on the covers he'd spent the last few minutes straightening.

"Thank you," Athos told him quietly after a pause. "For - what you did."

"My pleasure." Porthos gave a sheepish laugh. "Really."

Athos leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. He didn't pull back very far, and Porthos looked at him consideringly. He closed the gap again, this time kissing Athos lightly on the mouth. It was a brief brush of lips, but neither man moved away. Porthos could feel Athos' breath against his mouth, the tickle of eyelashes against his cheek.

He kissed him again, and this time the pressure of his mouth was more insistent. He wasn't surprised when Athos kissed back, but he was pleased, and deepened the kiss with a gentle enthusiasm.

They were still kissing when the door banged behind them and Aramis' laugh rang out across the room.

"Dear God will no-one ever close this door? A show for half of Paris, why not?"

Porthos snorted. "Only the part of it that chooses to trespass up the stairs. Besides, your rooms are notorious enough that the easily scandalised already give them a wide berth."

He got up to meet them, and Aramis slid an arm about his waist. "Should we leave again?" he murmured discreetly.

"Not in the slightest," Porthos smiled, and, the moment seeming to call for it, he kissed Aramis on the mouth.

D'Artagnan, who all this time had been standing between them all with his mouth falling slowly wider and wider, hardly knew where to look as the kiss showed no signs of stopping. Athos took pity on him, and beckoned him over.

"You must think you've entered a madhouse," he said apologetically.

D’Artagnan shook his head. "I wouldn't be anywhere else for all the world," he said, laughing.

"Then I'm very glad you're here," Athos told him sincerely, and he took hold of D'Artagnan's hand and raised it to his lips.

Conscious both of Aramis' earlier words and his own pounding heart, D'Artagnan was screwing up the courage to respond to Athos' genteel press of lips with something a little more demonstrative when a rapping on the door made them all jump.

D'Artagnan leaped off the bed again like he'd been scalded and even Aramis and Porthos stepped back from each other, exchanging puzzled glances. In almost a week of living out of Aramis' rooms, not one person had come calling on them.

Aramis smoothed his moustache, the only outward sign of unease, and stepped forward to open the door. Upon seeing who stood outside, he instinctively straightened his back and shoulders.

"Captain Treville."

He held the door open wider, allowing Treville to enter. Porthos and D'Artagnan nodded stiffly without speaking, unsure of the purpose of his visit. They'd all been absent from their duties for days without any official permission, and the penalties for that could be harsh.

Treville returned their nods with an equal brusqueness, but said nothing as he crossed the room to stand in front of the bed, where Athos was managing to give the impression of someone sitting up at parade ground attention.

For a moment they stared inscrutably at each other, each wondering what the other was thinking.

"I'm not here to apologise," Treville said shortly.

Athos inclined his head. "I wouldn't expect you to," he said calmly.

Treville nodded, allowing his rigid posture to ease a little. "It's good to see you looking so well," he murmured.

The last he'd seen of his lieutenant, Athos had been a barely conscious bloody mess, being borne off by his friends. Treville had assumed that he would have heard if things had gone badly for the musketeer, but had also sensed any enquiry would be met with justifiable anger by the others. It was he, after all, who had ordered the flogging carried out.

"I've been well looked after," Athos told him, with a slight smile, thinking privately it was just as well Treville hadn't arrived half an hour earlier. He wondered what his captain's reaction would be if he knew that Athos' current glow of contentment was largely down to the fact he'd recently experienced an orgasm at the hands of one of his closest friends.

Treville nodded. "I knew you would be." He turned to the others, and drawing a sheaf of papers from his coat, handed them to Porthos, who was nearest.

"Official leave of absence for the three of you," he declared in answer to Porthos' wary look of enquiry. "Backdated, and running to the end of the week. I expect to see you all back on parade first thing Monday morning, is that clear?"

"Yes sir," Porthos nodded, and Aramis and D’Artagnan echoed his words.

"I'm not sure I'll be capable of making parade by Monday," Athos said mildly.

Treville snorted. "You take as long as you need." He hesitated. "You will be coming back, I suppose?"

Athos nodded. "It never crossed my mind to do otherwise. As soon as I am fit, you may be sure I will resume my duties sir."

"Good." Treville nodded, and held out his hand. Athos shook it without hesitation.

When Treville had gone, there was a palpable sense of relief. Everyone had been slightly uneasy about what the overall outcome of events would be, and the longer they'd left it the more awkward it had felt. To know they could resume their duties without further reprisals was a weight lifted.

Athos, who'd been the only one not particularly nervous for the future, albeit through virtue of having been unconscious for most of the time, pushed back the covers and lowered his legs over the edge.

Porthos was immediately by his side, glaring at him. "What are you doing? You're in no fit state to be getting out of bed."

"I have to get up at some point," Athos said. "I just thought I might as well start out by seeing if I can get up." He steadied himself on the edge of the mattress, and then levered himself to his feet, straightening up and putting his whole weight on the floor.

The pain hit him a second later, as hard as a physical blow. White hot agony flashed up and down his spine and for a sickening second the world was spinning and he thought he was going to faint.

"Athos!" Porthos caught him an instant before he crumpled, lowering him to the bed in alarmed concern.

White as a sheet, Athos leaned against his chest, too weak and dizzy to even protest. Porthos held him carefully in his arms, not knowing what else to do.

For a moment it was all Athos could do to breathe, but gradually the pain ebbed away again, and he managed to sit up.

Three worried faces were staring at him in shock, and he waved them back with an embarrassed laugh. "Sorry. Didn't mean to give you a scare."

"Does it still hurt that badly?" D'Artagnan drew up a stool to the foot of the bed, watching him with anxious eyes.

"I'm fine. Really." Athos swallowed a few times, wishing the room would stop swaying.

"You going to throw up?" Porthos asked, with a practical eye for the side-effects of pain.

"Hopefully not." Athos was ashamed to notice his hands were shaking, and buried them in the counterpane.

Aramis pulled the covers back round him properly. "Maybe you'd do well not to rush things, hmmn? You've been off your feet for days, it's going to take a while before you're fighting fit again."

"Maybe I spoke too soon when I said I wasn’t a cripple," Athos muttered, with a bitter smile.

Porthos frowned. "You’re going to be fine. Don’t be impatient. We'd know by now if the damage was - well - anything more permanent. You can move everything all right, can't you?"

Athos nodded.

"Well then." Porthos was still half-glaring at him, wanting to make Athos feel better and not knowing how, and on top of everything horribly afraid that what he'd instigated earlier he'd perhaps done when Athos was in pain and hiding it. Guilt and worry made him angry, and the reproving look Aramis was giving him wasn’t helping matters.

It was Athos who reached out and calmed him with a touch, guessing in part what Porthos was thinking. He laid a hand on Porthos' clenched fist, and when Porthos felt the tremor in his fingers, the fight went out of him in a breath.

"Athos." It came out as a whisper, and he folded Athos' hand between both of his.

"I'm okay," Athos lied. "Or, I will be. Aramis is right, I just tried too much too soon."

Aramis sighed. "We need to eat," he decided, realising with all the events of the morning they'd never yet got round to breakfast. "Make us all feel better." He fetched over the basket of provisions D’Artagnan had brought back, and shared out a good plateful to everyone.

He was right, the food did help them recover their spirits, and the mood gradually lifted.

When they were clearing away, Porthos took Aramis by the arm and lead him a discreet distance away. "What are we going to do? We're due back at our posts in a couple of days, we can't leave him alone if he can't even stand up by himself!"

Aramis nodded. "I know. I was thinking the same. We'll have to speak to Treville. He only said we had to go back, not that we had to all go together. If he assigns us different shifts one of us can always be here. And D’Artagnan has fewer responsibilities anyway, he can be here when we can't."

"I can hear you you know," Athos drawled from the bed, sighing. "As far as I know I'm not actually dying, you're not obliged to speak in hushed tones around me."

D'Artagnan flicked at him with a napkin, and Athos looked up at him in surprise. D’Artagnan smiled. "Stop it."

"Stop what?" Athos protested, but he smiled back, secretly pleased that D’Artagnan seemed to have recovered some of his old confidence.

"Being a difficult patient," D'Artagnan told him, pouring Athos out a goblet of watered wine and handing it to him. "Or your next bed bath's going to come from someone unpleasant," he added with a smirk, and Athos nearly choked.

"Then, if I behave myself, will you do it?" Athos asked before he could stop himself.

D’Artagnan pursed his lips in an effort not to laugh, a blush rising in his cheeks.

"We'll see," he said tartly, and walked off before he could entirely give himself away.

--

When the night drew in once again, Athos protested that he really didn't need someone to sit up with him all night any more. While the others were reluctantly willing to concede, it did raise a question as to sleeping arrangements.

"Well there's plenty of room in here with me," Athos pointed out. "In fact, it should probably be me down on the mattress, this is your bed after all, Aramis."

Aramis tutted at him. "You stay where you are. And I'm perfectly happy on the floor. D'Artagnan, why don't you share with Athos?" he added slyly.

D'Artagnan blushed, and glanced at Athos, who gave a light shrug. "I'm happy enough to share with any of you," he said. "I'm in your debt as it is." He smiled. "You should probably start charging me rent."

When they turned in for the night, D'Artagnan climbed in with Athos somewhat nervously. To be actually under the covers with him felt a hundred times more intimate than sitting on the top, and D'Artagnan settled down with his back to him, worried it seemed rude but utterly unable to decide what to do with his face if he was to lie looking at him.

Porthos was the last one up, and went round dousing the candles and lamps before joining Aramis on the mattress. As the last light was extinguished and darkness fell, D'Artagnan relaxed a little. He gradually became aware of Athos' quiet breathing behind him, the occasional rustle of the sheet as he moved, the warmth of his body.

D'Artagnan gave a quiet sigh of contentment. He risked stretching out a little, then jumped as his toes brushed Athos' ankle.

"Sorry," he breathed, pulling away hastily.

"That's alright," Athos whispered back, and it sounded like he was smiling. "I mean, I'm assuming it was only your foot."

D'Artagnan snorted into the pillow before he could stop himself, and bit his lip to stop himself laughing.

"If it was anything else at that length I'd have made my fortune by now," he whispered back when he'd got himself under control, and was gratified to provoke a huff of silent laughter from Athos.

The exchange had dissolved any lingering awkwardness D'Artagnan felt, and he shifted back from his position at the very edge of the bed, towards Athos. Immediately, he felt a hand at his waist, and was about to move away again apologising, when Athos curled an arm over his side and settled comfortably against him.

Taken by surprise, for a moment D'Artagnan didn't dare move. Then it occurred to him that if Athos noticed he was tense he might think D’Artagnan was displeased with this development and move away again, so he forced himself to relax once more.

To have the warm, comforting weight of Athos against his back, to know he was trusted enough for Athos to sleep with him thus, to have, on top of this, Athos' arm around him, was everything D'Artagnan felt he'd ever wanted. He let his own hand come rest lightly on top of Athos', and, happier then he'd been for weeks, gave himself up to sleep.

--

The next morning, Athos announced his intention to try standing up again. He patiently waited for all the objections to wind themselves to a close, then calmly repeated himself.

Seeing he was determined, the three ranged themselves around him with varying expressions of disapproval and an equal readiness to catch him if he fell.

Steeling himself, Athos carefully levered himself to a standing position. This time he took it more slowly, and knowing what to expect, wasn't floored by the burst of pain. Breathing deeply, he waved away the concerned and hovering hands, and took a hesitating step forwards.

Silent and anxious, his three friends watched as he took a second step, and then another. Athos was clearly in pain, but mastering himself and controlling it. He managed six steps in all, almost to the arm chair, before having to concede defeat and reach out for assistance before his legs gave way.

Porthos took immediate careful hold of him and lowered Athos down into the chair grinning at him proudly. "You did it!"

"Don’t think I'll be winning any races any time soon," Athos sighed, swallowing down the waves of dizziness that moving still brought on.

"You proved you can do it. That's the main thing."

Athos glanced back at the bed, that might as well have been six leagues away as steps. "Not sure I can get back again," he confessed.

"Then I'll carry you," Porthos said simply. Aramis slipped an arm round D'Artagnan's shoulders and they exchanged quick smiles. However small the victory, it was a significant improvement, and everyone felt a distinct flush of relief. Perhaps things would be alright after all.

Over the next couple of days, Athos made small but steady improvements. The others were encouraging of every tiny increase in his ability and stamina, sensing how intensely frustrated he was with himself and the body that refused to obey him as it once did. They suffered his increasingly snappish moods and occasional quarrels, for the most part with a patient resignation.

In an attempt to help return the life and movement to Athos' bed-weakened and whip-torn body, Aramis had begun to massage him, morning and night. Far from being the sensual, soothing experience that D'Artagnan had pictured when Aramis first suggested it, it was a deeply painful process; the careful manipulation of still-healing skin and seized joints left Athos wracked with anything from tormenting pins and needles to agonising cramps.

During these sessions Athos wouldn't allow so much as a sound of protest to escape him, but afterwards he would shake bodily from the pain.

Spurning all attempts at and offers of physical comfort, Athos chose to numb his suffering instead with wine and brandy and sleeping draughts, despite the fact they made him feel increasingly woolly-headed and distant. The detachment he experienced came almost as a relief, both from the aches of his body, and from having to deal with the constant attention and concern of the others.

When the designated time came, Aramis, Porthos and D'Artagnan were obliged to take up their official duties again, Treville raising no argument when Porthos requested they be assigned separate shifts. It had been a long time since Aramis and Porthos had worked without either the other or Athos at their side, and the days dragged past. They were thankful for those assignments where D’Artagnan was sent to join them, and all three were more than once reprimanded for not paying attention. It was hard to concentrate, when half their minds were with Athos.

The nights were still spent together in Aramis' rooms, regrouping daily as if for a council of war, and where Porthos and D'Artagnan bore dogged, loyal witness to Athos' ongoing treatments.

D'Artagnan in particular found them hard to watch, and had been unable to bring himself to assist on the few occasions Aramis had asked for a second pair of hands.

Tonight, he was watching with flinching eyes and a hand unconsciously held to his own mouth as Aramis worked Athos once again through the exercises he'd devised. Athos was, as always, gritting his teeth in stoic endurance, but the trembling of the hand that gripped the cup Aramis held to his lips afterwards betrayed the pain, as did the eagerness with which he drank the bitter mixture to bring on the heavy sleep that would leave him senseless until morning.

"How can you?" D'Artagnan blurted.

Aramis turned to him in startled surprise. He'd settled Athos back against the pillows and been washing the massage oils from his hands when D’Artagnan’s outburst came out of nowhere.

"D'Artagnan?"

"How can you hurt him like that?" There was something close to the shine of tears in his eyes as D'Artagnan shook his head vigorously, unable to expand on his accusation. "I need some air." He hurried out, leaving Aramis looking at the closed door with a shaken expression.

"He didn't mean it like that." Porthos came over and put a reassuring arm around Aramis, guessing the way he'd taken D'Artagnan's words. "He just meant he couldn't do it himself. He knows it needs to be done," he murmured.

Aramis let himself be folded into Porthos' arms, for a self-indulgent moment drawing comfort from his strength before reluctantly pulling back. "What if I'm making it worse?" he whispered, suddenly stricken by self-doubt.

Porthos frowned at him. "You're not. Athos can already move a lot better than he did. You know what you're doing."

"Glad one of us has got faith in me," Aramis muttered, a little bitterly.

Porthos snorted. "You think Athos would go through all that if he didn’t trust you as well?" He sighed. "Why don’t you teach me how to do it? Then we could both treat him. Take some of the pressure off. It can't be easy for you."

Aramis looked at him in something like wonder, and didn't resist when Porthos pulled him back into his arms. When Porthos kissed him a moment later it was like a catch had been sprung and suddenly Aramis was kissing him back with a fierceness that surprised them both. Porthos wrapped his arms around Aramis' waist and bore him down to the mattress, half on top of him and mouth still locked to his.

Aramis threw a look towards the bed where Athos lay, but Porthos gently turned his face back and kissed him again.

"He's asleep," Porthos promised. "And even if he wasn't, he wouldn’t begrudge us."

He straddled Aramis where he lay and started a slow, deliberate rolling action of his hips that had Aramis gasping and clutching at him.

They pushed against each other increasingly desperately, each driven on by the other's blatant need.

"Porthos."

Aramis' breath was shaking, his layers of clothing adding to the friction as Porthos moved on top of him. From the heaviness in his groin and tightness in his chest Aramis could feel his climax building, and gave himself up to Porthos with a cry of sheer exultant abandon as he finally spilled over the edge.

Catching his breath, Aramis lay in Porthos' arms, half-laughing.

"Well. I've not come in my clothes for a good many years," he murmured.

"I'll take that as a compliment," Porthos grinned. Aramis kissed him.

"I should return the favour," he offered, having realised that Porthos was still hard.

A noise in the passage outside made them freeze in surprise, and Porthos just had time to pull the blanket over them both before D'Artagnan walked back in.

He glanced down at the two huddled figures, apparently already asleep and sighed, putting out most of the candles and preparing for bed himself.

Under the blanket, Aramis and Porthos lay twined together, trying not to laugh. Warm and happy, they eventually fell asleep in the same position, still fully clothed, heads resting together on the same pillow.

D'Artagnan climbed carefully into the bed next to Athos, wary of disturbing him despite knowing he'd be unlikely to wake if the very house collapsed around them. Athos' drugged breathing was heavy and slow, and D'Artagnan crept close enough to feel the warmth from his body without actually touching him. It was a long time before he slept.

--

D'Artagnan woke the next morning with a mild sense of panic, finding something heavy constricting his chest and arm. He'd been having a confused dream of running frantically down a passage that was getting narrower and narrower without being able to turn back, and for a heart-thumping moment thought he was trapped.

Then the fog of sleep cleared and he realised with a different kind of alarm that it was Athos who was pinning him down. He'd apparently rolled over in his sleep in search of warmth and ended up draped firmly over D'Artagnan. Athos even had an arm thrown over his stomach, his face buried somewhere in D’Artagnan’s shoulder and was snoring quietly.

D'Artagnan wondered what to do. He couldn't move without waking Athos, and he dreaded what the man's reaction would be to finding himself at such unexpectedly close quarters. It was hardly D'Artagnan's fault, but he managed to feel guilty nonetheless.

A movement in the room beyond made him crane his head up to find Aramis walking past. He sent him a pleading look, forgetting for a second that he'd come back the night before intending to render Aramis an apology for his thoughtless words. He remembered them now, and D'Artagnan's heart sank at the thought he might have upset him.

Aramis though, took in his position, caught his eye and merely smirked unhelpfully at him. He gave D'Artagnan a wink and moved on to open the shutters.

D'Artagnan stifled a laugh. He felt suddenly lighter, to know his fears had been unfounded. They'd all been so wound up these last couple of weeks, the smallest things seemed to loom out of all proportion.

Beside him, Athos stirred and raised his head, blinking blearily and obviously confused to find himself in the kind of position that could only be described as snuggled against D'Artagnan.

D'Artagnan raised an eyebrow and gave a sort of helpless one shouldered shrug.

Athos frowned at him and snorted, shifting back into his own space but saying nothing. D'Artagnan relaxed, relief flooding through him. He slipped quickly out of the bed and went to see to his ablutions.

Everyone milled about in a mumbling kind of early morning fug, getting in each other's way and generally overfilling a set of rooms that was after all only meant to be inhabited by one man. After watching them sleepily for a while, Athos sat up and asked for some water.

"To drink?" Aramis queried, reaching for the pitcher.

"To wash." Athos felt like his head was full of sawdust, and his mouth was thick and gluey.

Aramis brought him a basin and table, and Athos sluiced himself vigorously, splashing cold water into his face and rinsing his mouth. He looked up, water dripping from his hair and beard and D'Artagnan handed him a towel before he could open his mouth.

"Thank you." Athos acknowledged him with an amused smile, and D'Artagnan grinned back. Athos was rarely in this good a mood this early in the day, if at all. He hoped it meant he was feeling a little better.

Athos was examining his face with his hands and frowning. "I need a shave," he grumbled. "It feels like I'm hiding in a bush."

"We can do that," Aramis agreed. "I'll fetch a razor."

Athos frowned. "I can do it myself," he objected. "I'm not entirely incapable."

"With those hands?" Porthos put in quietly.

Athos looked at him, and raised a hand flat in front of his face. It was noticeably shaking, and he snatched it into a fist frustratedly.

"Let me do it," Porthos offered. "You'll end up slicing your own throat."

"Fine," Athos sighed.

He sat perfectly still as Porthos shaved him carefully, clearing the growth of days from his cheeks and throat, and trimming his beard to an elegance Athos rarely bothered with himself.

Porthos kept his attention rigidly on what he was doing, minutely conscious that Athos' eyes were fixed on his face. That Athos would trust him like this, with a blade to his exposed throat, made him prouder than any number of military accolades and he was determined not to so much as nick the skin.

The feel of Athos' pulse under his fingers, the calm rise and fall of his chest, the rare chance to let his fingers explore Athos' face, all made him want to finish the job by leaning in and kissing him as thoroughly as he'd kissed Aramis the night before. Instead, he simply wiped Athos' face with a towel and scrutinised his handiwork. "Guess that'll do."

D’Artagnan brought a mirror, holding it up before him with two hands.

Athos studied Porthos' work and gave him a smile. "Thank you. I look almost human." Athos let his eyes linger on his reflection. The eyes were red and the skin pale, and he sighed. Although the mirror had given him another thought.

"Can I see my back?" he asked.

D'Artagnan looked round. "Is there another glass?"

Aramis gestured. "On the wall."

Athos levered himself off the bed, waving away Porthos' immediate offer of assistance. Porthos hovered nearby just in case, as Athos walked across to the looking glass on the wall. He hesitated, then stripped off his nightshirt and turned so that his back was to the larger glass, gesturing for D'Artagnan to bring across the second one.

D'Artagnan held up the mirror obligingly and Athos studied with an increasingly shaken expression the reflection of his back. To the others, who'd seen him gradually heal from a destroyed and bloody pulp to his current condition, it was a significant improvement. To Athos, who hadn't witnessed any of this, at least visually, it was a sobering sight.

"Well," he said finally. "It's not like I was ever going to win any prizes for beauty." He was aiming for levity, but his expression finally filtered through to them and realisation dawned.

D’Artagnan snatched away the mirror as if he could erase what Athos had seen.

Athos gave them a rather shaky smile. "It's fine." He pulled the nightshirt back on stiffly, as if wanting to hide the state of his body from them.

"It's not fine." Porthos sighed. "We're stupid, the lot of us. We should have thought." He put his arms round Athos, and Aramis came up the other side and did the same.

"I'm not a child," Athos protested.

"It's still healing," Aramis said softly, ignoring him. "It won't always look that bad."

Athos nodded. He'd never been a vain man, but he was human enough to be secretly grateful for his friends' embrace, and despite his words, didn't immediately push them away.

D'Artagnan came up as well, and gently put his arms around Athos from behind, wary of hurting him but wanting to demonstrate that it was Athos' scarred back he wanted to hold against him. He pressed a kiss to the nape of Athos' neck and rested his chin on his shoulder.

Athos turned his head to look at him, and smiled slightly, tilting his head to rest briefly against D'Artagnan's.

"Thank you," he murmured. "All of you. I'm being ridiculous, I'm sorry."

Aramis shook his head. "What you endured - I can't even imagine how you must feel."

"I try to avoid feeling anything," Athos said wryly, disentangling himself gently from their combined embrace. "I find it's generally best."

Ignoring the combination of tuts and sympathetic murmurs of protest this provoked, he returned to the bed and started dressing. The sight of his injuries had, despite or perhaps because of his moment of vulnerability, made him all the more determined to hasten his recovery.

"Are you sure you should be getting up?" Aramis chided.

"Can't stay in bed for the rest of my life," Athos said. "The more exercise I do, the stronger I'll get."

"That or you'll pass out," Porthos muttered disapprovingly. "Aramis and I are both on royal parade duty this morning, try not to collapse on the pup while we're gone."

D'Artagnan slapped him round the back of the head and Porthos grabbed him in a headlock without looking round.

Aramis prudently moved a flagon of wine out of the way of D'Artagnan's flailing arms with an indulgent sigh and glanced at Athos. "Sometimes I think you're the one keeping an eye on them," Aramis murmured. He knew Athos hated the idea they were still having to care for him, and constantly did his best to make him feel better about it.

The struggling couple tripped on a rug and crashed to the floor with a yell. Aramis and Athos looked at each other.

"I'll do my best to make a full recovery while at least part of your furniture remains intact," Athos promised with a smile.

--

"You're not ready." Aramis was standing with his arms folded, glaring at Athos, who was looking back at him with the kind of calmly implacable stare that told Aramis he'd already lost the argument.

"I have to go back at some point." Athos continued putting on his Musketeer's uniform, working through the various buckles with fingers that were slower than usual, but still sure.

"Porthos, tell him."

"Short of locking him up, I don't see you're going to stop him. As long as we're there, what's the worst that could happen?" Porthos shrugged.

D'Artagnan flinched. "You had to say that, didn't you?"

"Gentlemen." Athos straightened up and managed to avoid wincing. "I'm going back, and that's an end of it." He took his sword from Porthos and sheathed it carefully. His hands barely shook any more and he'd stopped having the dizzy spells. Well, mostly.

What he was finding, was that just standing there in the stiff leather was a comfort in itself, a sense memory that he found more reassuring than he'd expected. This uniform was in a large sense who he was, who he thought of himself as. He hadn't realised how much being without it for so long had affected him.

"I need to stop feeling like an invalid," he said quietly, seeing that Aramis was still prepared to argue. "I need to feel a man again."

Porthos grinned. "Well, D'Artagnan volunteers for that one."

The laughter that followed effectively banished any further objections, and so it was that half an hour later the four of them walked side by side into the Musketeers' headquarters.

A murmuring of reaction started working its way through the men already gathered in the courtyard as Athos was recognised. The commotion made its way up to Treville's office, and he appeared on the stairs, staring down at them.

The four made their way across as he came down, and Athos stepped forward to meet him. A hush fell over the watching men, everyone wondering how it would go.

Treville nodded slowly, looking him over. "Good to see you back. I didn't expect you so soon." He held out his hand and Athos shook it without hesitation. Something close to a sigh of relief came from the surrounding spectators, as everyone relaxed.

"I was getting bored," Athos said with a slight smile. "And you can only spend so many days playing cards against Porthos before you run out of money."

Treville gave a gruff laugh, then looked interrogatively at Aramis and Porthos. "Is he ready to be here?" he asked, ignoring Athos' indignant look.

Aramis nodded cautiously. "Although we would ask that you let us stay together."

Treville assented, and they joined the rest of the assembled men to receive their orders for the day. As it transpired there was little enough going on that when the four of them received the lightest of duties even Athos couldn't argue they were being unduly favoured, and they spent most of the day hanging around the barracks.

It was only as they were leaving that the first sign of trouble raised its head. In the street outside, a company of Red Guards was loitering in the entrance to a warehouse yard, and by the way they came to attention as the four friends exited the archway it was obvious they'd been lying in wait.

"Well look who it is," called one of them. "Treville's lapdog, back from its whipping."

Porthos would have rounded on him, but Athos grabbed his arm. "Let it go."

They kept walking, D'Artagnan realising with an uneasy prickling down his spine that the men were following them.

"Ready for another spanking?" came the shouted taunt. "We're ready to oblige you, we know all about the Musketeers' perverted tastes!"

This time it was Aramis who spun round, but Athos placed a pacifying hand on his chest. "I don't need you to fight my battles," he murmured. "And childish insults are hardly worthy of a response."

"We heard you were a fighter!" came the next challenge. "Obviously we heard wrong. Or maybe they broke your spirit?"

The sound of D'Artagnan drawing his sword made Athos sigh, and he reached behind him to grasp the back of D'Artagnan's tunic.

"I said no," Athos told him firmly, and D'Artagnan sheathed his sword again, clearly seething.

"You can't ask me to let them get away with talking to you like that!" he hissed.

The guard swaggered up to stand in the middle of the road, legs apart and hands tucked into his belt. "You always let your friends do your fighting for you?" he sneered at Athos. "Coward."

There was a dangerous silence and Athos noticed that a number of Musketeers had spilled out of the gateway behind them and were muttering dangerously and glaring in the direction of the Red Guards. To impugn the honour of one was to insult all, and if he didn’t take charge there was going to be carnage.

Athos sighed, and drew his own sword.

"Athos!" It was Aramis' turn to grab him. "You can't!"

"I have to."

"Let one of us do it," Porthos demanded. "It doesn’t have to be you."

Athos gave him a tight smile. "Yes. It does. If I don’t put him down, every lowlife in Paris will be queuing up to skewer me. Apparently I'm called upon to prove myself."

"What happened to 'let it go'?" D'Artagnan asked angrily. "You're not ready for this Athos, what if you - " he broke off as a look of fury flashed though Athos' eyes.

When he spoke though, Athos' voice was as calm as ever. "Apparently it's not just to them I need to prove myself," he said, and D'Artagnan flushed, mortified.

Aramis put a hand on his shoulder. "Try not to get yourself killed," he murmured. "Having just spent three weeks of my life patching you up, it'd really piss me off."

Athos bowed his head, hiding a smile. "I'll do my best."

He turned to face his tormentor, saluting him ironically with his sword. "Shall we then?"

The man almost took a step backward, clearly having expected Athos to back down. Recovering himself, he grinned nastily and advanced, deciding that regardless of his reputation, Athos was clearly still injured and an easy mark.

The watching crowd fell silent, and the only sound was the 'tink' of sword tips clashing speculatively as they circled each other for a moment, each taking the other's measure.

There was a stiffness to Athos' movements that wasn't lost on his opponent, who all at once make a slashing lunge. Over-confident and sloppy, Athos read the move easily and deflected the blow, but it wasn't the cleanest parry and Aramis and Porthos winced in unison.

As the fight went on, gaining in ferocity, Athos was clearly tiring, his sword arm drooping between lunges almost as far as to drop his guard completely.

"He's going to get hurt," D'Artagnan muttered fretfully.

"Nah." Porthos put an arm round his shoulders, without taking his eyes off Athos for a second. "He's faking." He frowned as Athos only just avoided losing an eye by a matter of inches. "I hope."

In fact, Athos was operating on almost pure adrenaline; for the moment the pain was blotted out by the rush of combat and the movements came instinctively. While he knew he was slower than he should be, he was deliberately giving the impression he was worse still, sensing that a quick win would be his only chance. He didn't yet have the stamina for a drawn out affair, could feel his muscles protesting already.

Fortunately, his opponent was too cocky to consider Athos might be gulling him, and continued to force the pace, scenting blood.

The end came suddenly. Athos let himself be driven back, appearing to drop his guard and concentration, and as soon as the man stepped inside his reach he drove his sword hard into the man's side through the gap in his breastplate.

Staggering backwards and clutching himself, the man toppled backwards into the dirt. Athos stepped up and held his sword point, dripping blood, to the man's throat; defeated, he threw his own sword away from him in a gesture of submission.

Athos nodded, stepping backwards and cleaning his sword off. "Get him out of my sight," he snapped, and the fallen man's comrades hastened to drag him away. It was likely the wound was not a mortal one, assuming one of their number had a talent approaching that of Aramis.

With the fight over and the adrenaline draining from his system, Athos had to blink black spots away from the edge of his vision. It took him three attempts to re-sheath his sword, and he hoped he wasn’t about to pass out in the roadway. It would be embarrassing.

Abruptly, Aramis and Porthos were on either side of him, taking an arm each in a manner that would seem merely congratulatory to the remaining onlookers, but with a grip that was entirely capable of holding him up if necessary.

"You alright?" Aramis murmured.

Athos nodded. "Although I could do with a drink."

Aramis shook his head, but they steered him in the direction of the nearest tavern without argument.

Settled in a booth, D'Artagnan had just fetched wine to the table when the door banged open again to admit Captain Treville. He stalked over to their table and glared at them, although waved D'Artagnan back to his chair when he respectfully leapt to his feet.

"A rumour seems to have reached me," Treville declared. "One of my Musketeers duelling in the street with one of the Cardinal's guards. Wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"

"Good thing it didn’t reach him any sooner," Aramis muttered under his breath. He suspected, as did they all, that Treville had kept out of the way precisely long enough not to witness anything incriminating.

"No sir?" Athos said innocently. "As you can imagine, I'm hardly in a position to be picking fights."

"Hmmph." Treville studied them all intently, fixing his gaze back on Athos. "Pity. Would be one in the eye for the Cardinal, if one of his best was defeated by a man just off his sick bed," he said speculatively. "Assuming the Musketeer in question won, anyway."

"Of course he won!" Porthos declared, then cleared his throat. "Hypothetically."

Athos smiled. "That would, as you say, be rather galling for the Cardinal. What a shame he'll never get to hear of it."

"On account of it not happening," Aramis added.

"We did hear one of the guards managed to stab himself accidentally with his own dagger," D'Artagnan said with a guileless smile. "If that helps."

Treville snorted. "Why I keep you four around I will never know."

"Entertainment value?" Aramis suggested.

When Treville had gone they relaxed, all of them feeling abruptly as weak as Athos.

"Promise me you won't do that to us again?" Aramis sighed. "At least until you're fully fit."

Athos smiled, and said nothing. He was watching D'Artagnan, who was clearly working up the courage to say something to him.

"I'm sorry I doubted you," D'Artagnan blurted. "It wasn't that I thought you couldn't do it, just that - that - " he bit his lip. "I didn't want you to get hurt," he admitted in a whisper, waiting for them to laugh at him.

Instead, Aramis clapped him on the back, and when he risked a look up, Athos was smiling at him.

Porthos raised his glass. "To us," he proposed. "And especially to Athos, who's a sneaky bastard of a swordsman, and could teach us all a thing or two."

"Only two?" Athos murmured, but he drank heartily with the rest, and if he was leaning against Porthos' side more heavily than he might usually have needed to, neither of them mentioned it.

--

To everyone's relief the second day following Athos' return to duty passed uneventfully, but when it came time to return home, he was nowhere to be found.

"Well where the devil's he gone?" Aramis wondered, having looked everywhere he could think of in the garrison, even sticking his head into Treville's office and being shouted at for his pains.

Porthos shrugged. "Maybe he went home already. Maybe he wasn't feeling so good."

Aramis frowned. "Surely he'd have said?"

"This is Athos we're talking about, yes?" D'Artagnan put in with a smirk that hid his rising unease.

They returned to Aramis' apartments together, taking in the couple of taverns en route just in case Athos had decided the call of the vintner was more enticing than bothering to tell his friends where he was going.

When they finally arrived back, having sampled at least a couple of bottles on the way for form's sake, they found the rooms still shut up and empty.

"What's he up to?" D'Artagnan complained, sitting on the bed that he'd come to associate with Athos' presence and trying not to worry.

"Maybe Porthos was right," Aramis sighed.

Porthos looked surprised. "I was? What did I say?"

"That maybe he went home."

"But he's not here," D'Artagnan protested, then stopped. "Oh."

Aramis sat next to him and patted his leg commiseratingly. "Maybe he thought that now he's up and about again he should - I don't know. Stop being a burden on us."

"He's not!" D'Artagnan objected hotly, and Aramis held up a pacifying hand.

"I didn't say he was! But it seems to be what he insists on thinking. I don't know, maybe he just wanted a night in his own bed."

D'Artagnan shifted uncomfortably, suddenly reminded that this was in fact Aramis' bed he was sitting on, had been sleeping in, while its owner had slept on a straw mattress on the floor for the last three weeks. He jumped to his feet awkwardly.

"Sorry. I wasn't thinking. We should probably give you your space back."

"No - D'Artagnan - I didn't mean - " Aramis stretched out a hand but it was too late, the young man had fled from the room, full of mumbled apologies.

Aramis groaned. "Fuck."

Porthos sat down in the space D'Artagnan had vacated and Aramis leaned against him defeatedly.

"I didn't mean to drive him away. Either of them."

"I know." Porthos kissed him on the temple. "But maybe they're right. We've been living on top of each other for so long, maybe some time apart wouldn't hurt."

Aramis gave him sad eyes. "Don't tell me you're leaving too?"

"There are things I need to do. I've barely been home in all this time. Life has to return to normal at some point."

"I suppose." Aramis sighed. "I've rather liked having everyone here, if I'm honest."

"As far as I'm aware, nobody's said they're not coming back." Porthos smiled, and kissed Aramis again on the cheek, making him laugh. He turned towards him, and let Porthos kiss him a third time, this time on the mouth. The third kiss lingered, and when Porthos finally took his leave, Aramis was smiling again.

After he'd gone, Aramis got up and pulled his coat back on. They'd all been assuming that Athos had gone home, but it was a nagging worry that something else might have happened to him, and Aramis knew he wouldn't be able to rest until he'd checked.

Darkness had fallen, but the night was dry and clear, and Aramis walked the distance to Athos' lodgings without incident. Mounting the stairs, he found the outer door unlocked and pushed it open cautiously.

"Athos?"

Aramis walked through the gloomy entry passage, into Athos' chamber. The room was unlit, and he thought for a moment empty, until the moon came out from behind a cloud and he suddenly made out that what he'd taken for a heap of blankets was in fact a man.

"Athos!" Aramis hurried to the bed in sudden alarm. As he knelt down his foot caught something that rolled away across the floor with a hollow sound, and he saw it was an empty wine bottle. He sighed. "Oh, Athos."

Aramis satisfied himself that Athos was in fact breathing then kindled the lamp, discovering in the better light that there were at least two more bottles lying under the bed. He loosened Athos' shirt and made him more comfortable, before drawing up a chair to the bed and studying him ruefully.

Disturbed by the movement, Athos finally stirred and blinked up at him. "Aramis?"

"Why?" Aramis asked, bleakly.

Athos frowned, and tried to sit up. After a moment Aramis gave in and helped him.

"Can't a man have any time to himself?" Athos muttered defensively.

"To drink himself to death?" Aramis snapped. "Tell me again why we bothered nursing you through weeks of fever and injury? If you're that determined to kill yourself we should have left you in the fucking courtyard to die in the rain." He broke off, voice choked, and hating himself for the words that had come unbidden to his lips.

Athos though, just reached out and grasped his shoulder a little unsteadily. "I'm sorry," he sighed. "Once I start - I can't always stop."

He'd come here initially in search of a moment's peace. Solitary by nature, the weeks of enforced company had at times been jarring and aggravating, and Athos had known that his own moods had been frequently foul. He'd felt he was sparing them for a while, and had also expected the silence of his own rooms to be soothing.

Instead, he'd been surprised to find the emptiness suddenly felt achingly lonely. He'd taken refuge in the wine, not expecting for a moment that anyone would bother to come looking for him.

None of which he felt inclined to confess to Aramis.

"I just needed some space," Athos said instead. "To get my head together. There were things I needed to think about." That, at least, was true. The conflicted feelings he was experiencing right now had been responsible for at least one of the bottles.

"And have you?" Aramis took his hand, sighing. It hurt him to know that however well he could mend Athos' body, there were deeper wounds inside him that no amount of thread could stitch together.

"Not really." Athos squeezed Aramis' fingers apologetically. "Look on the bright side," he said, attempting to raise the mood. "At least you get to have your bed back. Or is D'Artagnan still in it?"

Aramis shook his head. "Everyone seems to have followed your example."

"I hope not." Athos smiled. "There'll be no wine left in the city at this rate."

Aramis laughed. "I just meant they've all gone home." He looked away, sighing. "It all feels very empty." He felt a twinge of guilt, wondering how much of his impulse to come here had been concern for Athos, and how much from his own desire for company. Athos had as good as told him he'd come here to be alone, yet here Aramis was, still forcing his company on him.

"I should go." Aramis made to rise, but Athos held onto his hand.

"Are you alright?" he asked quietly. "We all seem to lean on you an awful lot. When was the last time any of us returned the favour?"

Aramis shook his head. "I'm fine. Really. Just - don't leave my bed empty for too long, eh?" He bent over the bed and kissed Athos softly on the lips.

--

Opening his eyes the next morning, Athos wasn't entirely taken aback to find Porthos standing over the bed looking down at him.

He groaned, shading his eyes from the morning sun, and struggling into a sitting position. "Don't tell me. Aramis sent you."

Porthos looked surprised. "Aramis? No. Just thought I'd drop in on my way to the garrison. As I was passing." He refrained from saying it had been to check Athos was okay, or in case he needed help to get to work. The fact that Athos was perfectly aware his rooms weren't on Porthos' route to the musketeers' headquarters made that obvious enough.

Athos was dragging himself to his feet, and Porthos frowned at him, pushing one of the empty bottles still littering the floor with the toe of his boot. "Rough night?"

"You could say that." Athos stretched, and grunted. "Still, at least I don't have to worry about getting dressed."

"Efficient. I like it." Porthos grinned at him, and offered his arm. "Coming?"

When they arrived, it was to find Aramis and D'Artagnan already in residence, stripped to the waist and fencing in the courtyard with a speed and energy that made the hungover Athos feel mildly queasy.

He took a seat on a bench where he could comfortably watch them from, and Porthos settled next to him, having first fetched a basket of bread and fruit and sternly instructed Athos to eat something.

"So," Porthos murmured, when they'd been watching for a few minutes, and both swordsmen had increased tenfold the number of elaborate flourishes they were delivering now they had an appreciative audience.

"So?" Athos echoed, noncommittally.

"You want to talk about it?"

"Not as a rule, no," Athos said automatically, then frowned and looked at him. "Talk about what?" he asked, as it occurred to him that those memories that normally sank him into brooding despair had been oddly absent from his thoughts lately.

"Whatever it is that's bothering you," Porthos said. He was used to Athos' moods, and sensed that there was something new on his mind. "Must have been something that made you drink yourself unconscious last night. And you only do that when you can't cope."

"Thought you said you hadn't seen Aramis," Athos muttered, avoiding the subject. "How do you know I drank myself unconscious?"

"Counted the bottles." Porthos gave him a look. "Answer the question."

"Why?" Athos objected. Porthos didn't normally press him to divulge his inner demons, and it seemed entirely unfair he should start while Athos was feeling this rough.

Porthos sighed. "If it's something that's none of my business, then fine. Just - if it is my business - if it could be - I'm just saying let me help. Talk to me."

Athos studied him, a little shaken that Porthos should discern his thoughts so well. But then, perhaps what had been preoccupying him had been on everyone else's mind as well. It did, after all, affect all of them.

"Is it me?" Porthos prompted quietly, when Athos didn't speak. "Is it what happened? Is it bothering you?" He'd been very aware that after the intimate moment they'd shared, while he'd have been entirely happy to become as tactile with Athos as he was with Aramis, that there'd been a slight air of reserve about Athos that had consistently stopped him from taking that extra step.

To his relief, Athos looked startled and shook his head immediately. "No. Porthos, no, it's not that, don't think that."

Porthos relaxed a little. "Okay. But I'm nearly right, aren't I? It's something like that. Something to do with us."

Athos sighed, staring down at his hands. "I suppose I'm just afraid where it will end. What it's leading to."

"What do you mean?"

"We all seem to be - drawing so close to each other. Physically."

"So? A kiss, a touch, what's wrong with that? Never hurt anyone."

Athos sighed with more than a little exasperation. "It's more than that though. Isn't it. The way things are going - " he bit off his words and looked angry. When he continued it was in a much lower tone, mindful they weren't alone in the courtyard. "Just suppose we ignore every shred of propriety and follow this madness to its conclusion. Where does that take us? All four into the same bed?"

Porthos shrugged. "If you're asking me, it doesn't sound that bad."

Athos sighed. "And when we're all up on a charge of corrupting D’Artagnan? What then? That's a sentence more than flogging."

Porthos snorted. "He could probably corrupt the three of us without even trying."

"That's not the point and you know it."

"What are you really afraid of Athos? That we'll be discovered, shamed? You've risked far more without being so timid."

Athos raised an eyebrow, but refused to rise to the deliberate goading. Instead he considered the question.

"Perhaps - I'm afraid of getting used to it," he admitted. "I spent so long reliant only on myself. You - all - gave me a reason to live again. To finally accept I didn't have to be alone." He sighed. "The thought that you might give me a reason to love again - it terrifies me."

"Because it ended badly before?"

Athos nodded.

"It's not the same. Whatever happened before - this is different."

"I know that." Athos smiled at him, but there was sadness to it. "I just have difficulty believing it."

They watched the two combatants in silence for a while, and Porthos also watched Athos out the corner of his, eye, noting by his expressions and muttered advice that he was clearly taking D'Artagnan's part in it.

"You like him, don't you?"

"As you like Aramis?" Athos murmured pointedly, having observed exactly the same partiality in his companion.

Porthos grinned at him, unabashed. "Oh, I love Aramis," he said matter of factly. He nudged Athos and smiled. "And you. And probably D'Artagnan come to that," he added, watching the pair of swords flashing in the morning sun. "And he certainly loves you."

Athos shook his head slightly, although it was more in bemusement at the world than any denial.

"What of Aramis?"

Porthos laughed. "You know Aramis. He loves everyone."

"I suppose that just leaves me then," Athos said quietly.

Porthos leaned over and for a moment rested a hand on his shoulder. "You can tell me you don't love us," he murmured. "But I won't believe you for a minute." He patted him with a firmness that made Athos wince, and then got up from the bench, drawing his sword and wading into the middle of the Aramis-D'Artagnan fencing match.

"Two of us then!" he bellowed. "Come on boy."

"I'm not a boy!" D'Artagnan yelled indignantly, swiping away Porthos' sword and leaping over a low cut from Aramis.

"Not!" Porthos grinned. "We'll fetch you some skirts, see how well you fight then!"

Athos remained seated, watching them all, and finally allowing himself to smile.

--

They ate that evening at Porthos' lodgings; as they'd all been living almost exclusively off Aramis for weeks, he'd insisted. It made it easier, too, for Athos to accept the invitation as there was no suggestion that it was any more than a communal meal - although Porthos' big canopied bed half obscured by a curtain drew more than one person's speculative glance during the evening.

It wasn't until they were settled by the fire afterwards that there was any hint of anything more than companionable conversation. Porthos had been watching Athos on and off all night, and finally made up his mind, settling his arm around Aramis, who was next to him.

Aramis looked a little surprised but leaned into him comfortably enough. Porthos turned to him, and as if it was the most natural thing in the world, kissed him on the lips.

Aramis made a muffled noise of surprise, but Porthos refused to relinquish his mouth, and after a second, there being no sounds of objection from the rest of the room, he gave a mental shrug and went with it.

Porthos kissed him thoroughly, and when they broke off Aramis was wearing a slightly dazed smile.

"Did I miss something?" he murmured.

Athos rolled his eyes. "I believe Porthos was attempting to make a point. Rather clumsily, it has to be said, but a point nonetheless."

"Clumsy am I? I'll show you clumsy." Porthos got up and extended a hand to Athos, who reached out his own automatically. Porthos seized it and pulled him into a standing position, whereupon he promptly kissed Athos hard on the mouth.

Athos didn't resist, allowing Porthos to kiss him as deeply as he had Aramis, but initially standing there passively. Porthos though, wasn't to be beaten so easily and put everything he had into it, pulling Athos against his body and kissing him so passionately that Athos weakened, starting to respond and kissing him back, slipping his arms around Porthos' neck and holding onto him just as fiercely.

When they broke off, Athos looked shaken.

"You bastard," he breathed, still clutching Porthos for support.

Porthos grinned in triumph. "What's wrong? Did I make you feel something?"

Athos gave a ghost of a smile. "And there was me thinking it was just the pommel of your sword."

For once, Porthos wasn't to be distracted by Athos' levity, and held his gaze. "That's not what I meant, and you know it."

Athos almost flinched, and for the first time Porthos wondered if he'd been wrong to push so hard for this. He'd been so determined to get under Athos' hard exterior, he'd spared little thought for what might lie underneath.

"You think I don't feel?" Athos whispered bitterly. "You're wrong. I feel too much. I have to fight, every minute, if I'm not to let it overwhelm me. And you would have me shatter."

"Athos." Porthos gathered him back into his arms, ridden with a combination of guilt and aching love for him. He was prepared for Athos to push him away, but this time it was Athos who kissed him, with a desperation he'd never seen or imagined.

Aramis and D’Artagnan had watched this in silence, and now Aramis got to his feet as the younger man made a sudden move towards the door.

"Where do you think you're going?" he murmured, reaching out an arm to stop him.

D'Artagnan met his eyes, and there was pain in his expression.

"It's not me he wants, is it?"

Aramis shook his head frowning slightly. "Have you never wanted more than one person at a time?"

D'Artagnan looked so shocked, Aramis almost laughed. "That's hardly - "

"What? Acceptable? You think any of this is? May as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb."

D'Artagnan glanced back at where Porthos and Athos were still locked in an increasingly erotic clinch, and swallowed. "But - you don't want me. Do you?"

"Whatever gave you that idea?" Aramis drew him in, and kissed him softly on the mouth, giving D'Artagnan time to pull away if he wanted to. On the contrary, he kissed back with a startled eagerness, and when they broke off his cheeks were flushed.

"I - I didn’t know you liked me like that," he stuttered. "I wasn't even sure you liked me."

Aramis gave him a chiding look. "Then clearly you haven't been paying attention. Only eyes for Athos, perhaps?"

D'Artagnan shook his head. "No. That's not true." He had desired all of them, and the impression he'd once entertained that they might already all three have been lovers had only strengthened their appeal. But while he'd held out hope that Athos might return his affection, he'd never imagined that Aramis and Porthos might have been considering him in the same light.

"Good." Aramis kissed him again, and this time they didn't stop so quickly.

A few feet away, Porthos noticed what was going on and nudged Athos, who looked round. "Well. It appears you've got what you wanted," he murmured.

"Perhaps we all have." Porthos put an arm round him and watched them. "Doesn't it make you proud?" he laughed.

"Not sure about proud," Athos murmured, smiling slightly. "Hard, possibly."

Porthos gave a loud snort, and Aramis and D'Artagnan finally looked up, blushing to discover they had an audience.

Porthos grinned at them. "So. How do we feel about all four in the same bed then?"

Aramis laughed, feeling like he'd lost the ability to be shocked by events at this point. "Why not."

"You're serious?" D'Artagnan stared between them both with wide eyes and gave an incredulous smile.

Porthos grinned. "Actually it was Athos' idea."

"It was not!" Athos objected hotly, and Porthos gave him innocent eyes.

"Your words, exactly, I believe. Which suggests to me you'd been at the very least thinking about it."

Athos glared at him, but there was little heat in it other than embarrassment.

Porthos leaned in and murmured in his ear, in a low seductive tone still perfectly audible to the others. "Go on. Tell me you wouldn’t like it. Three of us to hold you, surround you, possess you. Tell me that wouldn't feel good."

Athos took a rather shuddering breath. "D'Artagnan?" he prompted. "I hold out little fear or hope for the morality of these two, or their immortal souls for that matter, but is this something you want? That you would freely welcome?"

In answer, D'Artagnan crossed the floor and took Athos' face between his hands, kissing him with all the pent up feelings he'd been wallowing in for what felt like months.

Athos took D'Artagnan into his arms, responding willingly to his fervent kisses. Younger and less disciplined than Porthos, D'Artagnan was already erect, his cock a hard length obvious through his loose trousers.

Despite the intensity of the embrace, after a while D'Artagnan became conscious that Porthos was standing there watching them and had a sudden moment of guilt. It had been Porthos he'd first seen sharing an intimate moment with Athos, and Porthos that he had just this minute displaced in his arms.

He looked up at him doubtfully; despite the fact it had been Porthos who suggested they all sleep together, D'Artagnan was still worried he was somehow pushing in where he wasn't wanted.

Porthos misread his hesitation and stepped back a pace. "It doesn't have to be all combinations, if I'm not to your taste," he offered, meaning to be reassuring.

D'Artagnan's eyes widened. "I didn't - Porthos, no." He flung himself out of Athos' arms and into Porthos', making him laugh. He heaved D'Artagnan up off the floor and kissed him.

When he'd put D'Artagnan down again, Porthos grinned at Aramis. "So. You and Athos - you're the only ones who haven't kissed yet," he said pointedly.

"Actually, we have," Athos admitted with a quiet smile. "Briefly."

Aramis confirmed this with a nod, and Porthos punched him on the arm. "Didn't tell me," he accused with a grin.

"I wasn't aware I was required to give you an inventory of everyone I've kissed."

"Just as well, or we'd be here all night," Athos murmured.

Porthos roared with laughter, mostly at the indignant look on Aramis' face.

"So. Are we doing this then?" Aramis asked with dignity.

"Yes," declared Porthos before anyone else could answer, and took Aramis by one hand and D'Artagnan by the other and started dragging them towards the bed. Athos followed without needing to be prompted, smiling at the way they both managed to somehow object loudly to the manhandling without putting up any form of resistance.

The objections stopped as soon as all four were settled on the bed, pulling off boots and discarding various items of clothing. D'Artagnan, keen to show his willingness to participate before anyone could change their minds, carried on stripping off his clothes until he was down to his long underwear, and would have wriggled out of that too had Aramis not placed a hand on his wrist.

"Take it slower," Aramis smiled. "Half the pleasure's in the anticipation."

"Half!" Porthos echoed. "In that case one of us has been doing it wrong. And I'm not entirely convinced it was me."

Everyone laughed, including D'Artagnan, who turned his attention instead to helping the others divest themselves of their own shirts and breeches. Aramis was right, it was a huge turn on to slowly expose their planes of hidden skin, to let fingers ripple down a set of buttons, to delve into folds of cloth and draw out the eager hardness concealed within.

"Looks like Athos has got his priorities right," Porthos observed with a laugh, when they were nearly all but naked. The others looked, and found Athos bare from the waist down, but still wearing his shirt.

D'Artagnan moved to slide it from his shoulders, but Athos gripped the linen and resisted.

"Perhaps I should keep this on," he murmured.

"Are you cold?" Porthos frowned in concern. "I can bank up the fire?"

Athos shook his head. "No, I'm not cold. Really. I'm fine."

"Then what's wrong?"

"I just - " Athos hesitated. It was Aramis who caught on first, and placed a reassuring hand over his.

"We've all got scars, Athos," he said. "Well, except D'Artagnan, but he'll probably have at least a couple of mental ones by the end of the night."

Athos smiled, but still kept his fingers twisted in the material of his shirt. "Not on quite such a horrible scale," he murmured.

"Are you worried we'll hurt you?" D'Artagnan asked anxiously, laying a hand on Athos' shoulder. "We'll be careful."

There was such tender concern on D'Artagnan's face that Athos had to look away. "It was more for your own comfort," he admitted. "I hardly imagine it's pleasant to look upon."

Aramis sighed. "You're an idiot."

"I was just trying to spare you," Athos muttered, unwilling to admit exactly how ridiculously self-conscious he was feeling about exposing his ruined back.

"At least it's not your face," Porthos said quietly.

Athos looked up ready with a cutting reply, then suddenly realised what Porthos was saying.

He raised a hand that was somehow shaking more than it had for days, and traced the line of the long scar cutting across Porthos' brow and cheek.

"I wasn't - I didn't mean - " Athos was stricken that Porthos might have taken his words to apply to anyone but himself. "I don't even see it," he frowned, shaking his head slightly as he realised it was true.

Porthos smiled. "I know," he said, more gently than Athos felt he deserved. "That was kind of my point."

Aramis took up the thread of Porthos' example. "The more you let us see of you, the less remarkable it will seem. Besides, you forget, we've seen it much worse. And yet for some unfathomable reason we all still want to fuck and be fucked by you."

Porthos cocked an eyebrow. "That was - pithy."

Aramis inclined his head. "Poetic, I felt."

"Beautiful," D'Artagnan grinned.

Athos laughed in surrender, and let them draw the shirt over his head. D'Artagnan immediately pressed a kiss between his shoulderblades, then, when Athos didn't object, continued with a string of them down the length of his spine.

The skin was marked and ridged where it had healed, and D'Artagnan was overcome with the need to kiss every inch of it. Every scar, every pitted blemish was a blow Athos had taken for him, for them, and D'Artagnan would offer worship accordingly.

When he didn't stop, but rather continued a slow and intent mapping of Athos' back with his lips, Aramis smiled. "D'Artagnan seems to have found a new favourite thing," he observed.

"Shh, I'm counting," D'Artagnan told him between kisses, so many now that even Athos was starting to laugh.

"Do you have a quota then?" Porthos ribbed him, one arm around Aramis and one palming his own rising cock.

"Two hundred," D'Artagnan replied without looking up.

"And once again, D'Artagnan shows he is the best of us," Aramis murmured as they took in the significance of the number. But D'Artagnan just laughed, head still buried somewhere behind Athos.

"All men are remarkably equal with their clothes off," he called, never once letting up from his self-imposed target of kisses.

Porthos leaned round to take a conspicuous look at him and sniffed. "Speak for yourself," he grinned, before sliding both arms round Aramis' waist and groping him from behind with a shameless enjoyment. While they'd shared a number of moments, they'd never done anything like this, never, in fact, been utterly naked together, and Porthos was determined to take full advantage of the opportunity to appreciate his body.

Aramis, in turn, leaned forward to capture Athos' mouth in what became an increasingly heated kiss as Porthos continued to fondle him playfully.

"So then," Porthos said, when D'Artagnan had achieved his total and wriggled round to insinuate himself amongst the welcoming confusion of limbs the others had managed to tangle themselves up in. "How are we going to do this? Aramis? What are you up for?"

"At the moment I appear to be up for the three of you," Aramis murmured, unable to resist the obvious joke.

Porthos grinned. "All three of us eh? Might be bit of a stretch," he leered, and Aramis laughed.

"Not entirely what I meant." He looked away for a second, then back at them. "Although - perhaps with one of you - I'd be willing to try it."

Porthos swallowed. "With me?" he asked hopefully, and Aramis nodded, making him smile. "Excellent. Then Athos can have D'Artagnan."

D'Artagnan gave a quiet snort at this, but as it was exactly what he'd been hoping for he said nothing, praying that Athos would agree.

Athos gave him an amused smile. "D'Artagnan? They're making very free with your favours here, would you like a say in the matter?"

"I would be honoured, to have you use me in any way you desire," D'Artagnan said honestly. This merited an appreciative raise of the eyebrows from Aramis, a kiss from Athos, and a derisive snort from Porthos.

D'Artagnan made a face at him, too happy with the way things had fallen to be self-conscious about his declaration, which had come entirely from his heart, or at least that part of it currently under the influence of his groin.

Aramis looked consideringly at Porthos, and more specifically the size of the erection he was nursing, and pursed his lips. "Do you have anything we could use to, ah - you know?" he asked, making a vague and yet obscenely descriptive hand gesture. "Some oil, or salve, or something of the kind?"

Porthos caught on and nodded vigorously. "Bound to be something. Come and have a look." They both slid off the bed and went to investigate Porthos' parlour shelves.

Athos looked down at D'Artagnan, lying sprawled in his arms, and smiled. "Are you sure you want to do this?" he murmured, now the others were out of earshot. "I'm quite willing to try it the other way about, if you'd prefer."

D'Artagnan shook his head immediately, sitting up. "I want to," he assured him, smiling. "Besides, you're still healing, you should be careful not to strain anything."

Athos snorted indignantly. "I'll strain you if you're not careful. I'm fine, and I'll thank you to remember it." D'Artagnan ducked his head contritely, but he was grinning underneath the concealing fall of his hair, and Athos knew it.

Across the room Aramis and Porthos were loudly debating the relative possibilities of olive oil versus goose grease and D'Artagnan looked back up at Athos, a little wide-eyed. "They're very - matter of fact, aren't they?" he said awkwardly.

Athos gave a breathy laugh. "Soldiers have ever been practical men," he murmured. "And you'll likely thank them for it presently." D'Artagnan blushed to the roots of his hair but couldn’t prevent a smile spreading across his face as he realised that Athos was talking about fucking him.

They were rejoined by the others, bearing, somewhat to D'Artagnan's relief, a small flask of oil. He fidgeted, trying not to look nervous, whilst plucking up the courage to ask a question.

"I'm not saying I mind if it does," D'Artagnan said hesitantly. "But I guess I'd like to have some idea what to expect. So, um - will it hurt?" He blushed furiously as he asked the question, braced for them to laugh at him.

Aramis though, took his hand and squeezed it. "It shouldn't," he said reassuringly. "As long as we take our time and don't rush things." He eyed Porthos warningly. "No going at it like a mad bull."

"Hey!" Porthos objected. "I can be delicate." He grinned. "Ish."

Aramis rolled his eyes. "Well. Perhaps I should at least confess it won't necessarily be the first time that I've - had something up there," he admitted. Then, to the looks of surprise he received, waved a hand self-consciously. "Not like this I don't mean, not with a man. But - there was a certain lady of my acquaintance once. She had a number of - items, she liked to use. Creatively."

"On you?" Porthos grinned.

"Once or twice," Aramis breathed, having gone almost as red as D'Artagnan. There was a moment of silence, as everyone contemplated the mental image.

"Don't suppose you kept any, did you?" Porthos asked finally, in a speculative tone.

"Fortunately not," Aramis murmured, and Porthos smirked.

"Shame."

"Perhaps you'd like to lead the way in setting an example though?" Athos suggested with a wicked smile.

"Perhaps you'd like to lend a hand?" Aramis countered smoothly. "And when I say hand..."

He took Athos' hand in his and turned it upwards, before pouring a little of the oil into his cupped palm.

Athos held his gaze, and gave a slight nod. Aramis leaned slowly back into Porthos' arms, spreading his legs deliberately wide and never taking his eyes from Athos.

Porthos reached around and wrapped a hand around his cock, palming Aramis lightly, his own fingers already slick from testing the bottle's contents. Athos settled between Aramis' legs, pressing kisses to his inner thighs, working his way unhurriedly closer to his objective. Between the feeling of Athos' beard between his legs and Porthos' fingers around his dick, by the time the first finger stroked across his hole Aramis was almost ready to beg.

D'Artagnan hardly knew where to look, so eager was he not to miss anything. He wanted to watch Athos, in the interests of finding out what was likely to happen to him in the near future, he wanted to watch Porthos because the sight of his hand sliding so beautifully on Aramis' cock was making him so fucking hard, and he also just wanted to stare at everyone's faces because they all looked so gorgeously intent.

For the moment he was entirely content just to watch, but Aramis beckoned him closer in case he was feeling left out. "Kiss me?" Aramis murmured, and D'Artagnan obliged, lying down beside him and melting into his kiss with a sigh of pleasure. He let his hand creep teasingly over Aramis' chest, Porthos' arm brushing his fingers as he kept Aramis in a state of straining arousal.

Judging Aramis ready, Athos finally worked an oiled finger inside him. Other than jerking slightly Aramis didn't object, or even leave off kissing D'Artagnan, and Athos smiled, pushing his finger further in, feeling Aramis' legs trembling where they were braced on the sheet, his body clenching involuntarily around the invading digit.

"D'Artagnan," Athos called quietly, then beckoned him down with a movement of his head. "More oil," he requested, and D’Artagnan poured a little over his fingers, staying to watch with bated breath as Athos slowly proceeded to fuck Aramis open, adding a second then a third finger, stretching him gently.

"Do Porthos," Athos instructed finally and D'Artagnan complied. He dripped oil onto his own hand and circled Porthos' cock, stroking him until he was wet and slippery. D'Artagnan's own cock was throbbing unbearably, and he gritted his teeth. At this rate he wasn't going to last until Athos took him, he was going to embarrass himself just from touching everybody else.

Athos moved over and Porthos took his place. With Aramis now braced against Athos, Porthos lifted his legs with assistance from D'Artagnan, and drew their bodies together. Despite his earlier teasing, he pushed into Aramis with infinite care, alert for any protest or sign Aramis was in discomfort.

Aramis though just moaned his approval and immediately tried to drive himself deeper onto Porthos' cock.

Porthos laughed. "Someone's eager."

"Well bloody hurry up then," Aramis panted. "You're driving me crazy here, the lot of you."

Porthos obliged, thrusting further inside him, albeit still slowly. Aramis gave a full body shudder, groaning from deep in his throat and grabbing at Athos' hand for support. D'Artagnan was still taking the weight of one of his legs and Aramis finally nodded he could let go, wrapping his legs around Porthos' waist instead and locking the two of them together.

He closed his eyes, overwhelmed for a second by the sensation of having Porthos entirely inside him. The toys his earlier lover had employed had felt good, but they'd had nothing on this. They'd been unyielding, and whilst Porthos was hard too, he was also warm and soft and Aramis could feel the pulse of his blood as Porthos moved inside him.

Once Porthos got into a rhythm, Athos leaned over and took Aramis' bouncing cock into his own hand, stroking him in time with Porthos' thrusts. Aramis moaned with incoherent pleasure until his cries were muffled by D'Artagnan's lips on his mouth. All the while, Porthos was taking him so completely, so big and hot and hard inside him, and Aramis finally fell apart, coming undone with a helpless shudder of ecstasy.

The feeling of Aramis climaxing around him was enough to finish Porthos, and he came while Aramis was still riding his orgasm, spilling into his body with a satisfied groan of completion. He pulled out carefully, and leaned over Aramis so he could kiss him. Aramis wrapped his arms around Porthos' neck, breathing hard and resting his head on Porthos’ shoulder as he recovered.

Athos and D'Artagnan joined in, surrounding Aramis to hold him and kiss him, patiently willing to delay their own gratification, not begrudging Aramis his moment to enjoy the afterglow and take in what they'd just done.

Finally though, Athos pulled D'Artagnan into a hard kiss that he was entirely ready for. Watching was all very well, D'Artagnan thought, but he was more than keen for some participation, his cock feeling heavy and swollen, his stomach wet with his own pre-come.

Athos though, had given a slight groan as he changed position, and it sounded enough like discomfort more than arousal that everyone looked at him.

"What?"

"Are you alright?" Aramis asked.

"Of course I am." Athos shook his head, smiling slightly. "Does this look like the groin of a man who's not enjoying himself to you?"

"Not what I asked," Aramis said. "Are you in pain?"

"No."

"Would you tell us if you were?" Porthos asked suspiciously.

Athos hesitated. "No," he finally conceded. "Look, if you think for a minute I'm going to stop," he protested, but Porthos shut him up with a kiss.

"Nobody's telling you to stop," Porthos said. "We're asking how we can make you more comfortable."

Athos stared at him defiantly for a moment, then gave in with a sigh. "I'm just aching a bit, that's all. I suppose it's all the bending."

"So how's best for you?" Porthos persisted. "Lying down? Sitting up?"

"Sitting up, I think." Athos reluctantly let them help him move back until he was propped against the bedhead, supported by all the pillows they could find. He had to admit it was more comfortable, his back had been gradually cramping while he'd been crouched in front of Aramis, and then leaning over him. But this did present a problem.

"How am I supposed to - " he waved a hand at D'Artagnan who quirked an amused eyebrow at Athos' reluctance to put it into words.

Aramis and Porthos exchanged a look. Despite whatever pain he'd been in, Athos was still as stiff as a board, his cock sticking up with an air of hopeful anticipation.

"I think with our assistance, D'Artagnan could manage it, don't you?" Aramis smirked. Porthos nodded, apparently gravely but with lips that refused to stay serious.

"If he's willing."

"Yes," said D'Artagnan immediately and automatically. "What am I doing?" he added.

"I think they're suggesting they might - lift you on, as it were" Athos said delicately.

"Oh. Right." D'Artagnan swallowed. "Okay."

"Sure?" Porthos put a reassuring hand on his shoulder that promptly made its way down his back to settle on D'Artagnan's arse.

"We'd make sure you were ready," Aramis promised. "We won't let it hurt."

"I said yes," D’Artagnan smiled.

"Without knowing what you were saying yes to," Athos pointed out.

"Since when's that stopped me?"

D’Artagnan crawled forwards until his knees were either side of Athos' legs, their erections sliding together. They kissed each other, both by now impatient for some form of release.

This time it was Porthos who took up the bottle of oil.

When he felt hands come to rest on his buttocks D'Artagnan tensed, but Athos was still kissing him, and Porthos caressed him soothingly until he relaxed again.

D’Artagnan had been braced for the oil to feel cold and slimy, but to his pleasant surprise it held an appealing silky warmth. Porthos' fingers were gentle and sure, spending a good while playing with him first, fondling his balls and teasing his hole with the tips of his fingers.

When Porthos finally breached him D'Artagnan gasped aloud then laughed at himself, embarrassed. He held himself still, straddling Athos' legs on his hands and knees as Porthos' blunt finger thrust gently in and out, Aramis attending with more oil and stroking his back affectionately.

Rocking under Porthos' ministrations, D'Artagnan tried to direct his body to rub against Athos' cock. Athos reached between them and took D’Artagnan into his hand, taking the oil from Aramis and then using both hands to work them at the same time, slick and hard.

Aramis and Porthos were by now making a combined assault on his arse, and D'Artagnan had the distinct impression that there were fingers belonging to both of them twisting inside him.

"Please," he choked. "I need - I'm going to come if I don't - Christ."

Hands on his arms supported him, and he moved forward over Athos' lap while Aramis and Porthos lowered him carefully.

Eyes wide and holding his breath, D'Artagnan sank down onto Athos’ cock as he held it steady. It was way bigger than the fingers had felt, and there was a brief sting of pain as he was stretched wider than he'd ever been, but then Athos was fully inside him and he sighed his approval.

D’Artagnan sank forward and Athos wrapped his arms around him, letting him get used to the sensation of being filled. Athos was fighting not to come on the spot; the tight heat around him after such prolonged anticipation was testing his control to its limits, and that D'Artagnan should be so eager and open to this, wanted him so badly - Athos held him tighter with an unforeseen rush of love for him.

When D’Artagnan had mastered himself, he leaned back and draped an arm over Aramis and Porthos' shoulders, using them for extra leverage to lift himself up and sink back onto Athos' cock. It felt incredible and he did it over and over until his thigh muscles were aching and his breathing had gone ragged. Athos was jerking him off as D'Artagnan bounced, and looking thoroughly smugly debauched about it.

Athos came first, spurting up into D’Artagnan’s body without warning in an obscenely wet, warm rush. D’Artagnan dropped one last time, hitting the exactly right spot to make him come violently all over Athos' chest.

D’Artagnan was grateful for Porthos and Aramis then, as they lifted him off gently and settled him beside Athos. His limbs refused to work as they should and he felt rather dazed, but Athos pulled him close and kissed him thoroughly until he felt better.

When everyone had recovered a little, Porthos fetched across a basin of water that let them all wash away the traces of oil and worse before they settled down to sleep.

The bed was a snug fit for four of them despite its capacious size, but they managed to all squeeze in together. There was no question of anyone leaving, or of them splitting into pairs to sleep apart. Not tonight.

The four of them curled together in sleepy satisfaction, arms around each other as well as they could manage and taking care to settle Athos first in the most comfortable position, ignoring his growled objections that they weren't to treat him like an invalid.

The fire burned low, and the candles one by one guttered out as they talked far into the night, sleepy murmurings on inconsequential matters, quiet laughter. No-one felt the need for grandiose declarations, they were beyond that, had already demonstrated how much they cared, how far they trusted, how deeply they loved each other.

Every touch, every action that had lead to this moment had been an echo of heartfelt words that could remain unsaid. What they were doing was wrong in the eyes of the world, sinful, shameful, inexcusable. But they were well used to keeping secrets for each other.

"You know, you missed your target the second time," Porthos observed into the depths of D'Artagnan's hair, as they all lay on the cusp of sleep.

"What target?" D'Artagnan mumbled, unsure if Porthos was talking to him or Athos. He was lying pressed gently along Athos' back, an arm draped over him that left his hand nestled against Aramis' chest on the other side.

"I was counting." Porthos sounded suspiciously like he was grinning. "Two hundred strokes, wasn't it? You only managed ninety eight."

Athos started laughing, an unprecedented enough reaction that everyone else started laughing too. "You think you could do better?" Athos enquired. "Aramis, how many did he manage?"

Aramis snickered. "I wasn't counting, but I doubt it was more than D'Artagnan."

"Bloody was," Porthos muttered.

"Then," Athos said with a smirk, "there's clearly only one way to resolve this. D'Artagnan and Porthos must attend to each other, the one to hold out the longest being the winner."

"A duel of swords, if you like," Aramis grinned. "Can I place a wager?"

"And who do you see coming first?" Athos asked politely, ignoring the furious thrashing and giggling going on behind him as D'Artagnan and Porthos appeared to have started trying to tickle each other to death.

"Me," declared Aramis happily. "Watching."

--