Summary: "The regiment is my home. You are my family, all that I have in this world. It does not matter to me why you were spared, only that you were."

Author's Notes: Related to Episode 1x4, "The Good Soldier". I am so obsessed with this show.

I own very little and absolutely nothing related to The Musketeers.

As Aramis stepped into the arcade and out of the downpour, a large form emerged from the shadows. He would know that figure anywhere.

"I am sorry for your friend." Aramis smiled softly at Porthos, knowing what it cost him to say it. The tall musketeer had no love for Marsac. It was more than the label of coward and deserter. Porthos felt that Marsac had failed Aramis somehow. He never said as much, but Aramis knew.

"He was my friend," agreed Aramis softly. "And I killed him."

"He gave you no choice."

"There is always a choice."

"No. There isn't," said Porthos gruffly. "Not always. Even if there is, it doesn't mean it's any easier." Aramis watched the falling rain and said nothing. It had been raining for days.

He was cold.

"You are my family. All that I have in this world." The sound of Porthos' voice startled him. For a moment, he was five years in the past, to the first time Porthos had uttered those words.

***3M3M3M3M***

It was cold. Marsac was gone, his uniform pauldron discarded.

There was shouting and movement, sharp and yet muffled.

It didn't matter. Time was nothing.

He was cold.

There was a murmur, soft and deep and it was warm. Warmer than anything else he could recall.

All he could remember was cold.

He dreamt of a blue woods, draped in snow and drenched in red.

When the murmur coalesced into words and held him like an anchor, Aramis opened his eyes. He knew that voice.

"...and that new recruit? The good swordsman? Drinks like a fish, but he isn't merry about it. He's doin' it all wrong, if you ask me." Aramis was in a bed, beneath a roof he didn't recognize.

"Porthos." The curly head shot up, dark eyes finding his instantly.

"Aramis?" Porthos' cheeks shone and it took Aramis a moment to realize why. He reached with a weak hand to wipe away the tears.

"What troubles you?" The big man let out a choked laugh.

"I found you in a god-forsaken forest in Savoy, nearly frozen, mostly dead and you ask what troubles me."

Savoy.

Marsac.

Dead musketeers.

Cold.

"No, Aramis, stop it." He focused on Porthos' face. He looked exhausted, more tired than he could ever remember seeing his friend. "It has been days. You were here, but not. You fell into some place in your mind, away from me."

"They're all dead. Slaughtered in their sleep. Why not me?" whispered Aramis. "Why do I yet live when so many do not?"

"I don't know and I don't care," snapped Porthos. He growled, shoving his fingers through his short curls before he visibly calmed himself and looked at Aramis.

"I am an orphan. My mother died when I was five. You know where I come from. I have no one else." He took Aramis' hand in his. "The regiment is my home. You are my family, all that I have in this world. It does not matter to me why you were spared, only that you were. And I am not alone."

"Never," breathed Aramis, surprising himself. He squeezed Porthos' hand fiercely.

"We will get their justice, I promise it. Do not cast your mind back to that place." Porthos was often affectionate, but rarely soft. And yet there was something near pleading in his voice as he peered into Aramis' face.

"I am here, Porthos." He released his friend's hand to reach up and smooth a thumb over Porthos' cheek, real and alive. "I am here with you."

And Aramis realized he was warm.

***3M3M3M3M***

"You are my family. All that I have in this world."

Aramis turned from the rain and strode to Porthos, putting his hands on his shoulders, squeezing firmly. Strong, solid Porthos, anchor of his hope. Aramis searched his dark eyes, seeing the questions Porthos had. The worry that some vital part of Aramis was trapped in that frigid forest, five years dead.

"I am with you, Porthos."

Porthos' eyes filled before he blinked and playfully shook Aramis, hooking a warm arm around his shoulders, ushering him away from the burial ground.

"O'course you are, Aramis. As always."