A.N.

This is set after the season one finale but before season two. Enjoy!

D'Artagnan remembers his father told him once a long time ago, when d'Artagnan was still a boy, that there are few things in this world worth dying for. Not for money or power or land, not glory or honor because those are worth very little to the ones you leave behind. He told him that if you must die, then die for something you believe in, die for something greater then you. But then his father died in the mud and the rain for nothing at all, died in his arms and d'Artagnan thought there was nothing left to live for. Then his father dies and where there was a boy filled with hope and light and love now there is just revenge and a devil burning inside his soul that he is afraid will consume him.

He meets Athos though, and Aramis and Porthos and Constance and they tame the demons in him, banish them from his heart. And on the nights when they cannot be banished and again he burns they sit with him and they are not afraid. He meets them and he realizes that his father was wrong. There are some things worth dying for in this world, and some things that are worth living for too.

He clings to this makeshift broken family he's found, clings to his friends to keep him afloat in a sea of loss and grief he sometimes fears he will drown in. They're caught in a strange dance, the four of them, and d'Artagnan doesn't know the rules but every step brings him closer to something and he's reaching out for it with both hands. They're close, Aramis and Porthos and Athos, in a way that can only come from shared tragedy, from trials faced and survived together, from years of time spent in each other's company. They're close in a way that sometimes d'Artagnan feels he cannot touch, cannot understand, they share a bond he cannot hope to compete with and he knows that and it aches a little but they do not turn him away or close him out, never intentionally. They open their arms and draw him into their circle and d'Artagnan feels he's found a home there.

He's still trying to find his place however, find his footing. The other's roles are obvious. Athos is the brains, logical, calculating, calm but also hiding a deep fierce love. Aramis is the spirit, with his grand gestures and romantic notions and his gentle healing hands. Porthos, Porthos is the heart of the group, with his kindness and warmth and passion and undying loyalty. D'Artagnan, however, he doesn't know how he fits yet. Doesn't know what his purpose is among them. He tries his best though, to be what they need of him, whatever that might be.

It's not always perfect. They fight sometimes, and they make mistakes and hurt each other in bloody, intimate ways as only brothers can. And there are times when d'Artagnan cannot help but feel alone, when they have strange silent conversations where no words are spoken but he can feel their weight heavy in the air anyways. But on those days he has Constance, on those days he goes to her and she holds him and in her arms he finds peace. So it's not perfect, but it's enough. And he's not perfect either, in many ways. He's not the best shot, his swordsmanship while good still leaves something to be desired, and still too often he thinks with his heart and not his head. He's not perfect, but he has a lot to give and he's more then willing to give it. He's not perfect, but he wants, wants so bad and so much that it scares him sometimes.

So the days stretch, he gains his commission and loses Constance only to win her back and lose her again, and the world turns and turns. D'Artagnan is young and ambitious and driven and it seems, in these hazy heady days, like it will last forever. And even though they are soldiers and death clings to them like a woman's perfume he thinks it cannot touch them, thinks it will never wrap it's cold fingers around their hearts and still their beating. For all that they hurt and bleed it is never more then that, never more then blood. They are inseparable, unstoppable, in his mind they will live forever as they are now. He doesn't realize how wrong he is, and like all those who believe themselves invincible, eventually, he falls. Eventually, he learns. And life is not a kind teacher.

It all starts when Treville calls them into his office one early autumn morning. There is a letter, to be delivered from the King to a nobleman in Reims, maybe three days ride from Paris.

"It should be a simple mission, nothing of undue importance is contained. Simply some matters of funding for a new battleship in the King's navy. I don't foresee any trouble."

Treville says. That, of course, should have been the first sign. Nothing is ever simple, or easy, not for them and to say that is too invite trouble.

"Recent events have been… difficult. For all of you. This should be a well deserved rest. And if you're a couple of days late back, well, there are always unexpected circumstances. I will not send out the search parties."

And Treville gives them wink, so subtle as to be almost invisible, lips quirking into the hint of a smile. Athos nods, takes the letter from his outstretched hand, tucks it into the lining of his doublet. As they turn to file out the door Treville calls out after them, voice suddenly serious.

"Be careful, out there. Nothing should happen but… be careful."

It's Athos turn to smile, that little half smile of his, just a slight tug at the edges of his mouth. His voice when he replies is quiet, more of a murmur.

"Aren't we always?"

They set off for Reims that morning. D'Artagnan for his part is excited. It's the first opportunity they've had in a while to travel beyond the city limits and he itches to get on his horse and ride. He feels restless, something strange boiling in his blood and driving him half mad. There's a kind of nervous energy that's built up in him since things came to a head with Milady and the Cardinal, an anticipation for something he does not understand, and he's glad for the chance to get away from everything for a few days. Away from Constance and the ugly hole she'd torn in his heart. He does not blame her for it, does not resent her, for she would not be the woman he fell in love with if she did not give up her own happiness to save someone so undeserving of her care, but it aches in a way d'Artagnan would rather forget. Aches like the memory of a brand pressed against bare skin, like a wound not yet healed over. So it is with a smile on his face and an enthusiastic disposition that he saddles his horse and packs his saddlebags for the trip. Porthos seems to sense his impatience to leave the walls of Paris, grinning impishly at him from across the stables,

"You seem a little too eager escape the city my friend, leavin' behind some broken hearts?"

Something in d'Artagnan smarts at that, and he looks down at his saddles for a second. Maybe he is, but his own heart is just as broken as the one he seeks to escape. Shaking away the thought of the look in Constance's eyes as she said goodbye, the smile on her face marred with tears. He forces a grin onto his face and looks up and locks away the grief somewhere deep inside of him.

"At least I've had hearts to break, how's your love life been looking lately Porthos?"

Porthos glares mumbling something about respect for your elders under his breath and d'Artagnan laughs, and it's a real one, despite the pain behind it. Aramis voices sounds behind them,

"Now now, play nice. We have a week of travel ahead of us, let's not pick fights already."

D'Artagnan raises an eyebrow at him and smirks impetuously.

"I'm not picking a fight Aramis, just stating a fact. Our Porthos here hasn't been doing well with the ladies lately,"

Turning to his friend he continues, looking positively devilish,

"Losing your touch, Porthos? Perhaps in your old age you have begun to leave your lovers unsatisfied?"

Porthos lets out a low growl and with a swiftness that belays his size makes his way around his horse and before d'Artagnan has time to run he scoops him up like he weighs nothing. Aramis for his part does not engage, simply leans against the door of an empty stall and watches with no small hint of amusement at the scene unfolding before him.

It's at that opportune moment Athos walks into the stable with a sweep of bright blue cloak, and stops short at the scene he finds. D'Artagnan is slung over Porthos' shoulder like a sack of potatoes, older man poised to dump his burden into a pile of hay while Aramis stands by with a wide grin plastered across his face. He just sighs, shaking his head and pinching the bridge of his nose as if to stave off an impending headache.

"I don't want to know."

And when they all stay frozen and unmoving, he says in a long suffering tone,

"Porthos, can you please release d'Artagnan so we can continue with our assignation?"

Sheepishly Porthos lowers d'Artagnan into the hay, dropping him the last few inches. D'Artagnan lands with a muffled thud and after a moment sits up, grin on his face, as he picks stalks of hay out of his hair. Looking up at Porthos he assumes a wounded expression,

"Well that wasn't very kind of you."

Porthos just snickers, and turns back to his horse.

"I do believe you deserved it, my young friend."

Aramis comments, pushing himself off the stall door and walking over to offer d'Artagnan a hand up. He accepts and Aramis pulls him to his feet, giving him a friendly slap on the shoulder.

"Haven't you ever been taught to let sleeping bears lie?"

Athos coughs lightly, watching the exchange with a slightly amused expression.

"Not to interrupt this beautiful scene of brotherly bonding but would it pain you terribly to depart? We are wasting daylight, I'd rather not have to spend the night on the road and the nearest inn is a days ride."

Suitably chastised they gather the last of their supplies and mount up, maneuvering their horses out the gates of the garrison and onto crowded city streets. As they ride further from the center of Paris, farther from Constance and the Cardinal and all the plotting and scheming and exhausting superficiality d'Artagnan has come to expect from this city he feels his heart grow lighter. He loves it here, deeply and fiercely, and it is now the only place he could ever call home but sometimes he misses the simplicity of his farm in Gascony. Misses the days when his biggest concerns were whether or not the turnips were coming in well, or if Henriette from down the road liked him. Misses the feeling of bringing life into the world with his hands instead of ending them. Shaking his head he dispels the thoughts. It does no good to cast his mind back, that place is gone now. Burnt to nothing by a mad, greedy man, and his childhood is nothing more but ashes on the breeze. It is better not to think of it, there are few things of his life before the musketeers that are not painful to remember. Taking a deep breath of chilly autumn air he kicks lightly at his horse, urging it forward towards his friend's mounts. Turning his face east towards Reims he lets the morning sun wash against his face and smiles. This will be good for them, for all of them.