It had been ten days since D'Artagnan's rescue, since Athos' close brush with death, and since the musketeers had begun planning their best way of getting to grips with Marchal and his dreadful business once and for all. Every day Treville, Aramis and Porthos sat in the captain's office: making plan after plan, coming up with new strategies, throwing out old ideas that were going nowhere. They were working in circles.

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Every day D'Artagnan had spent at Athos' side: helping him when he needed to get up and move; reading to him or talking to him when he was bored, or when he was extremely grumpy (which was often); but most of all keeping him away from the garrison until he was in a fit state to actually be of use. Of course Athos had wanted to get back to work immediately, but D'Artagnan kept having to reassure him that nothing would be done without him, that Porthos and Aramis were perfectly capable of making plans with the captain. That he couldn't lead any of them anywhere if he died of exhaustion.

He didn't take any of it lightly. In the end D'Artagnan had taken to taking the musketeer's boots with him when he left to fetch something, or when he reported to the barracks to get involved in the latest stage of the plans.

Four days ago, he had taken Athos outside for the first time, with the purpose of getting him some fresh, and shutting him up about being stuck inside for so long. D'Artagnan hoped that it would also prove to the stubborn man that he was not quite fully recovered, which proved to be the case when after an hour Athos needed the support of an arm from his companion to make the journey home.

Today he was insistent that he was going to try again.

"I'm really not sure you are as ready for this as you think you are." D'Artagnan handed him his boots reluctantly, standing back and watching as he pulled them on from his place sitting on the edge of the bed.

"I'm perfectly fine D'Artagnan. I am going to the barracks today, even if I have to go barefoot." He raised an eyebrow at the young man, who was eyeing him with concern as he finished getting ready. The boy grinned cheekily at him at the mention of the frequently-hidden footwear, delighted with himself that he had found a way of making Athos obey his wishes.

"Fine. But the minute you start to feel tired we come back here, alright?" D'Artagnan folded his arms stubbornly against the look of derision that was sent his way. He was aware who he was speaking to, and that he was ordering him around, but he was speaking to him as a friend, a close friend, and as of late, his nurse. "I'm serious Athos! You weigh a ton, no way am I carrying you back here. I'll just leave you where you fall."

"Good. I'd rather be where I can be useful than be stuck in here any longer." Athos was suddenly aware that he sounded like a petulant child, but he was indeed fed up with being reined in, being stuck in his house and being of no use. He needed to be at work; when he had nothing to do he brooded, and that never ended well. Although he had to admit, he hadn't being doing much of that since being stuck here. Perhaps the fact that D'Artagnan had been aware of his past since the fire was why the boy had stuck around and kept him distracted. The thought filled him with a curious sense of disappointment.

"It hasn't been that bad, has it?" D'Artagnan asked the question quietly, with a touch of trepidation to his voice. Athos got the feeling that this time they had spent in this room over the past couple of weeks had been important to man in front of him. Stiffly, he pulled himself to his feet and clasped D'Artagnan's shoulders, ignoring the look of worry that etched across the boy's face as he winced at the movement.

"You've kept me sane, you've kept me sober. I thank you for it, truly." He gave the boy the warm smile that seemed only to be kept for him.

D'Artagnan beamed back at him, delighted. A smile that lit up his whole face, that spread a warmth through Athos as he saw the genuine happiness that accompanied it.

"But I must do something. I need to know what is happening, and I need to be part of the plans."

"I know," D'Artagnan sighed. "But just tell me when it gets difficult, alright?"

"I will. We know all too well what happens when difficulties are kept to ourselves, don't we?"

A blush crept over D'Artagnan's face as he remembered the dressing down he had received from Athos when he told him about the situation with his mother. He had been angry at the sharing of worry, angry at D'Artagnan's mother for making him feel bad, but mostly he had seemed hurt that D'Artagnan hadn't felt he could talk to him. He hid it well, but the young soldier could see it behind his eyes as he had blazed his fury at him. Now he nodded his acknowledgement.

"Let's go."

"Did you tell Aramis and Porthos you were hoping to come back today?"

"No. I still wasn't sure if I was going to be given permission to put my boots on today, so I thought it best not to." The dry humour in Athos' voice made D'Artagnan smile once more as they slowly made their way down the stairs from the rooms, and out into the street.

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As the two men left Athos' lodgings and headed towards the garrison a few streets away, Aramis and Porthos were sitting glumly at their usual table in the yard, pondering the latest plan to get to Marchal.

"What do you think?" Porthos was the first to speak.

"I don't like it."

"Neither do I. But it might work."

"And it might be a huge disaster." Aramis picked up the jug on wine on the table in front of them and poured them both some. It was barely lunch time, but today there was a need. He sighed. "I just don't know whether we have any other options at this point."

Both musketeers had been working tirelessly for the last week and a half, interrogating Marchal's men from the docks, questioning people in the streets and bars. They had followed a lead to a family whose daughter had gone missing some time ago, but the family had moved on and no neighbours had anything of use to tell them. They were getting nowhere fast, and they needed this dealt with before anyone else was taken and experienced a worse fate that D'Artagnan. Before Athos got himself too involved and got himself hurt again, one way or another.

"We need to speak to him about it." Porthos accepted his wine and drank deeply.

Aramis snorted. "Which one?"

"I say we go with the easiest one first."

"Why isn't Treville doing this exactly?" Aramis was indignant.

"Because he thinks it will have more impact if we suggest it."

Aramis shook his head. "No. It's because he doesn't want to be the one who gets punched."

"Aramis! Porthos!" They heard D'Artagnan calling them and turned towards the gate to see him waving at them as he walked through, smiling. A satisfied-looking Athos was at his side.

"Shit." Porthos spoke quietly to Aramis, before both men rose from the table to greet their friend and welcome him back with a handshake. Athos gripped both their hands tightly, letting them know how glad he was to be back with them, how grateful he still was for all they had done, no matter how many times he had thanked them in person when they visited.

The four of them walked back to the table but had barely sat down before Athos was ready to get down to business.

"So what's happening? Do we have a plan?"

Aramis and Porthos looked at each other, each willing the other to be the one to speak. Porthos lost the telepathic battle.

"Well, as a matter of fact there has been suggestion of some sort of, um, plan."

"Which is?" Athos heard the hesitation in the big musketeer's voice and was instantly concerned.

"We were just discussing it as a matter of fact, discussing whether it has merit or not, weren't we Aramis?"

"Indeed we were. You should know that while we consider it as one of very few options we have left, neither of us are happy about it." Aramis looked both D'Artagnan and Athos in the eye as he spoke, making sure he knew he was sincere.

"No." Athos spoke quietly, but he suddenly gripped onto the table, his knuckles instantly going white.

"It's our only option at the moment." Porthos shrugged apologetically, his voice sad.

"Athos? What is it?" D'Artagnan was alarmed at the sudden grey pallor of the musketeer's face.

Athos ignored him. "No! We find another way. Not again." He glared at the two men across the table from him, not wanting to look at the oblivious man who sat by his side.

"Porthos? I don't understand. What's going on Aramis?" D'Artagnan was beginning to panic a little. Neither of the men in question answered him, both just looked at him with a mixture of guilt and sadness on their faces. He turned to Athos, touching him lightly on the shoulder. "Athos? What's wrong?"

Athos' head dropped to his chest, his grip on the table not weakening as he took deep, even breaths. Eventually, he lifted his head, turning to look at the confused and concerned face that was peering at him. He turned away, glaring once more across the table before the answer came out as a growl.

"They want you to try and get yourself taken again."