AN: As I mentioned before, this has been rehauled with new titles and better flow over on Archive of Our Own (under ComeHitherAshes), but for completeness sake, I'm updating here when I can.

Chapter 9

Too close, too close for comfort, please, not again.
Too close, too close to know just when to say, "When?"

Be firm, be fair, be sure, beware.
On your guard, take care, while there's such temptation.

- Sammy Davis Jr. 'Too Close for Comfort'

Time brought a bitter bite to the wind and a bitter bite to Athos' voice. They kept him in bed for another day – Aramis plied him with wine, it was a battle Athos wasn't trying to win – but by the weekend he was overseeing the practice courts, his new recruits gleefully poking at each other with their épées.

As Captain, he was allowed a broody stand on the side-lines, pointing out errors, calling out patterns. It was tiring, not being able to do anything, and exhausting simply being on his feet.

Not that he had much of a chance in trying to hide his bruises, he couldn't go an hour without someone checking up on him – it was like having a particularly concerned shadow, or a pair of shadows – but that changed when Treville tugged Aramis and Porthos on their attendance in class.

They had some leeway, what with Athos' injury – and Treville knowing just how ornery he was – but when they were so behind that they had to start skipping fencing practice just to catch up on their work, Athos was ready to bite someone's head off.

It took him six minutes to persuade Ninon to help him teach, another sixteen to persuade Aramis and Porthos that she was only stepping in when they weren't there. For some reason, that argument didn't appease them, and only when Athos made a scathing comment about having a moment to breathe did they back down.

He had stared helplessly at the door after he had ordered them out, and didn't know what to do about the ache in his chest, the yawning chasm of loneliness that had opened around his heart, because it shouldn't even be there.

Aramis returned within the hour, a French play clutched between his fingers, eyes hopeful that Athos would help him rehearse – which, naturally, he did, if only to soothe himself with the sound of Aramis' voice.

Porthos followed shortly after with a pack of cards and some beer, and somehow Athos found himself tucked up, with the pair of them at the foot of his bed, arguing softly about bottle versus can as Athos drifted off to sleep.

The ache subsided, but the loneliness got worse.

It was subtle, their affection, designed to slip under his shields, and Athos allowed it under the guise of still being injured.

It was becoming a played out excuse, and he knew it.

Sometime soon, he would have to fall back into his old self, into the son of a la Fére, once again deny their affection, and it would be heralded by his stepping onto the fencing courts, épée in hand.

It would be a bittersweet moment.

D'Artagnan's first article for the newspaper came and went, the boy's pride at seeing it online was nothing compared to his delighted beam when Athos said that his writing hadn't needed any editing.

The boy received a few called out greetings and congratulations as they wandered through campus, and Athos received a gruff commendation from Treville for bringing d'Artagnan into his "inner circle".

Athos wrinkled his nose at that, but he took the praise willingly, needing it to balm his emotional bruises as the physical ones finally started to fade.

D'Artagnan settled into the routine for publishing better than all of them, his articles showed up in Athos' inbox before even Constance's did, and soon enough Athos was passing a few of his extra duties onto the eager boy, who always watched in fascination when Athos sent the final draft to Treville on Sunday night.

Athos didn't deny that it felt nice to be seen as someone worth imitating, and he couldn't hide his smile when Ninon called to say, "Your puppy's gaining a following."

Athos had leaned back in his chair, looking over the well-written article that had appeared in his inbox at the first stroke of Monday. It was d'Artagnan's fourth, marking it a month since the accident, and Athos let his gaze drift to his épée on the desk. "Training, Tuesday?"

A sigh answered him. "Docendo discimus, I know."

Athos snorted in surprise. "By teaching, we learn. Did I tell you that?"

"You're thinking it." She hung up when he laughed, leaving him to tentatively prod the bruise along his side and make a decision born of itchy feet and itchier hands.

His return to the courts was nigh.

His first day with his épée in his palm felt like coming home, felt like victory, felt like adrenaline racing through his muscles – which went some way towards dulling the residual pain. Demonstrations had fallen to Ninon – who consistently complained before every session and then strode upon the courts like an Amazon, schooling recruits and experienced fencers alike.

D'Artagnan's face lit with relief when he saw him kitted up, and Athos wondered how strange it must have been for the boy to not see him at the helm.

Stranger still without his two shadows at his flanks.

Aramis and Porthos were happy to take his commands when it came to fencing, but in regards to his health they acted as if he were fragile china. Ninon, however, encouraged him to test his limits, saying that the sooner he was better, the sooner she could spend her mornings sleeping in.

So, naturally, Ninon was who challenged him first.

His legs wobbled for a moment, but she called him comte and grinned when he growled. It was a friendly bout, but he would never tire of having his own moves used against him. Ninon bade him be quicker, smarter, and he needed that, needed that distraction when his mind was still lingering on waking up with Aramis curled against his side and Porthos sprawled over his feet.

Athos had held his breath when Aramis' eyelids had fluttered, but Aramis simply smiled upon seeing him, sleepily brushing their noses together before crawling off for a shower.

Athos had run, scrambling for the courts with heat in his veins that had only cooled when he drew his épée.

He had regained his crown, and nobody was happier about that, than Ninon.

She hung up her helmet with a grateful sigh and rested a palm over his heart, scowling when he implied that she would be joining the team. "I won't miss your first meet, Athos, but I'll be cheering from the stands. Ad finem."

He covered her hand with his, his smile crooked. "To the end. I would expect nothing less."

D'Artagnan gave her a mock salute when she waved at him, and Athos echoed the boy's sigh when Ninon left. It was nice to hear someone other than himself spout Ninon's praises, but d'Artagnan's idolatry was met with strange silences whenever they gathered in Athos' rooms for dinner.

Constance, Athos might have understood – boyfriend or no, no one liked to be overshadowed – but Aramis and Porthos confused him. His instincts told him that they were worried about being replaced in the fencing society, but that was absurd, even if having them so close was painfully blissful, he could no more lose them than he could lose his hands.

Porthos his left, Aramis his right, that's the way it always was.

That's the way it was when he woke up after a bad night, that's the way it was when they returned to the courts, and that's the way it was when they stood before Treville's desk a week later. Them, either side of him, where they were meant to be.

Treville looked him dead in the eye. "There's word from the Guards."

"Bugger," Porthos muttered, and Aramis pinched the bridge of his nose.

Athos simply took a deep breath. "When?"

Treville glanced at what looked like a piece of aged parchment on his desk, and rolled his eyes. "The first Sunday of November."

Aramis flinched. "So soon? Athos is still bruised-"

Athos held up a hand and met Treville's steely gaze with his own. "Tell Richelieu we'll be ready."

Treville screwed the parchment up and gave him a satisfied nod, ignoring the uncomfortable shuffling either side of him. They would be ready, Athos would make sure of it.

He would not be bested by anything; not an injury, not the Guards, and not by the betraying warmth that jumped along his veins when he was, for the last time, tucked into bed.

He was king again, with all the responsibility that brought with it.

Challenge day dawned sunny, at odds to Athos' heartless wake up calls. He threw water at Porthos, tempted Aramis with scrambled eggs, and told d'Artagnan there was an ice cream truck outside.

At eight in the morning.

The boy's disappointed face, dressed only in a blanket clutched around his thin shoulders, was enough to give Athos his first smile of the day.

He poked and prodded them all the way to the courts, sprinkling praise in with his punishments, whipping them into shape before the Guards arrived.

And merde, did they arrive.

It took a maximum of eight minutes before the two colleges were straining at their leashes, and once Treville and Richelieu had interceded, a further three before the two coaches were also at each other's throats.

They led by example, pretending not to hate each other, épées practically screaming to be drawn, and if Athos wasn't more concerned with d'Artagnan's footwork, he would have been the first on the side-lines to call for a fight.

Not that he condoned rivalries, of course.

Athos was summoned in one jerky hand-motion, standing at Treville's flank as he and Richelieu spat at each other like territorial cats.

"La Fére," Richelieu said dispassionately, attention calculating as he looked for weaknesses, "I see you're up and about."

Unfortunately, hung in the air, so Athos simply tilted his head to the side, allowing Treville to answer grumpily, "The Musketeers are made of sterner stuff."

Richelieu raised an eyebrow. "Is that why I keep seeing Louis fluttering around Anne?" Treville growled something about lovesick fools under his breath, and Richelieu's smile was filled with petty victory. "But I didn't come here to tell you that your pet is bothering my prefect, no."

Athos resisted the urge to snarl in Louis' defence – he didn't even like him that much, but his college's honour was at stake, here – and stared impassively at the man who seemed to make it his job to piss Treville off. "No?"

"No, I came for a, ah, friendly challenge." Richelieu's geniality was so forced it was almost diamond bright.

"Friendly," Treville quoted back, dubiously eyeing the many Guards sizing up the Musketeers, who were making no efforts to hide their distaste.

"Indeed," Richelieu murmured, feigning ignorance of the tension around them. "In fact, we won't even keep score." Athos and Treville were perfect mirrors of disbelief. Richelieu's smile was saccharine sweet and dripped poison. "I swear."

Athos shared one glance with Treville, and was dismissed with an expression that warned him to keep his guard up.

Athos nodded, and as he walked away, just about caught Treville's sly, "Scared?"

Richelieu's laugh would haunt his nightmares, he was sure of it.

Almost immediately, his warning signals went off, and he instinctively looked for Aramis and Porthos, whether to keep them safe or have them keep him safe, he wasn't sure.

They were where he left them, but everything looked wrong. Porthos was standing between Aramis and d'Artagnan, a quelling grip on each of their shoulders as the bristling pair glared at the stranger in front of them.

The stranger that stood far too close to Constance's side.

Athos scowled, didn't he have enough to deal with today without Constance's boyfriend riling everyone up? He almost paused when he saw the épée at the stranger's hip, but it was only when he spoke that Athos' confidence flickered.

"Ah, you must be the great Athos I've been hearing about." Cold eyes taunted him, but it was the French accent that had Athos bumping his shoulder with Aramis', seeking the feeling of now. "Constance has told me so much about you."

Athos could have choked, somewhere between fear and loathing, somewhere between the past and the present, somewhere where his past could all so easily wreck his present. "I don't believe I've had the pleasure," he gritted out, grimacing when his accent strengthened at the presence of another.

"Jacques Bonacieux," he held out a hand that gripped Athos' far too harshly and lingered far too long.

"I can't say that I know the name," he replied, refusing to be threatened, not when his best friends stood at his back.

Bonacieux's smile turned malicious. "Yes, well, we can't all be famous, can we, Athos?"

Athos placed the accent at about the same time he was tempted to let d'Artagnan loose so he could maul the overbearing jackass. "I'm surprised news even reaches Toulouse, it's so very… backwards, there."

That earned him a sneer, but only to cover the nervous flicker of an eyelid as Constance stared in shock at his rudeness. Athos considered the battle won, Bonacieux did not, but Athos was spared both an outraged reply and Constance's affront by Treville clearing his throat.

Richelieu interjected, and the talking went on like that for a minute, both interrupting the other, until the general feel was 'test each other out for weaknesses but be subtle about it'.

Friendly, right.

Athos was drawn away once or twice, which kept him safe from Constance even as she glared at him from across the room.

He considered apologising, he really did, until he made a circuit past them and heard Bonacieux criticising Constance for wanting to wield an épée.

He arrived just in time to slip in front of a frothing d'Artagnan, and trusted an angry-eyed Porthos to keep a swearing-in-Spanish Aramis under control.

"Take mine, Constance," he offered easily, nodding when she smiled gratefully at him, but they both froze when Bonacieux put a hand out to stop them and scoffed.

"She doesn't have the muscle, most women don't."

Athos' gaze cut to Constance, and he almost reeled when she simply flushed and withdrew her hand.

An enraged squawk was Aramis, a scathing mumble was d'Artagnan, and Athos barely lifted his palm to quiet them, his own voice dangerously calm, "Are you implying that women can't fence, or that they shouldn't?"

Bonacieux shrugged. "Both."

Constance's jaw was so tight that Athos could see the bone against her skin, but still she remained silent, and they stared at her in confused horror.

Bonacieux looked between them all and laughed patronisingly, "Wait, don't tell me you have women on your team?"

"Not for lack of trying," Athos replied dryly.

"Why?" Bonacieux asked in genuine amazement. "They would never be as good, épée is a man's weapon."

Porthos twitched and it gave Aramis enough give to jerk from under his hand and lock eyes with Athos, silently yelling, why the fuck are you letting this go?

Athos sighed and glanced at the ceiling, it isn't my place to interfere.

Aramis glared at him and mouthed, if you don't, then I will.

Athos raised a hand in a placating gesture and returned his attention to Bonacieux, who was trying to give d'Artagnan pointers that he really didn't need. Athos' ire rose higher at the implication that he couldn't teach, and stepped in between them, blocking Bonacieux's view of a furious d'Artagnan.

"Tell me, my friend," he asked idly, and hated using the term, "Would you be opposed to a little match against a friend of ours?"

"I suppose," Bonacieux replied wearily, as if he had exhausted himself by doing nothing except disparage women everywhere. "Who is he?"

"She, actually," Athos clarified, and took dark delight in Bonacieux's shock.

"You can't be serious?"

"I don't joke about fencing, Bonacieux, you would do well to learn that," he said icily, and smiled to lessen the intensity.

The way the others were looking at him said that perhaps it had made him more threatening.

"Une minute, s'il vous plait," he murmured, and gave Aramis a warning glance to not get into trouble whilst he was gone. He threw one at d'Artagnan and Porthos for good measure before disappearing on the hunt for his golden goose.

He hadn't seen her yet, but he knew she was there, as always, to the end.

Ninon was in the stands, blonde hair artfully upswept so that small curls popped becomingly around her cheeks. He placed his hand on her forearm to draw her attention, and couldn't help but smile when she turned.

"I have a favour to ask of you, ma cherie," he said swiftly, and took a surprised step back when Ninon's friends all eyed him carefully. "Ah, if you aren't busy?"

Ninon laughed and hooked an arm with his, leading him away from the surprised and interested looks. "You're going to lose your foreboding charm if you aren't careful."

"I always called you that," he muttered in confusion, refusing to dignify foreboding charm with anything other than bewilderment.

"Yes, to me, when we were young; here you are Athos, editor of the paper, captain of the fencing team, and brooding bad boy."

"I am not a bad boy," he insisted in surprise, and scowled when she laughed. "Imp."

"That's better," she said fondly, prompting him to smile. "Now, a favour?"

He cleared his mind and surreptitiously walked them at a safe distance. "You see tall, pale, and ridiculous, over there, the one that d'Artagnan's trying to kill with his mind? That's Constance's boyfriend."

Ninon frowned. "What? The one that's been staring at Aramis?" She cut herself off to stare at him for a moment before raising her eyebrows and continuing, "Never mind, go on."

He would have asked what she meant but time was of the essence, even Porthos had placed a commanding hand on d'Artagnan's shoulder by now. "I need you to spar with him for me."

"No."

He had known that she would deny immediately, so he nodded sombrely and patted her forearm where it rested over his. "Fair enough, I apologise for interfering."

"Wait," she called as he tried to walk off, "Why me?"

"He doesn't think that women can fence."

Ninon's golden brows drew together instantaneously and her fingers tightened almost painfully on his arm. "Give me your épée," she growled, fire flaring to life in her eyes as he had known that it would.

"Gladly," he murmured, and handed it over without preamble. She snatched his helmet from his hip and stalked to the changing room.

If Athos returned to the group with a saunter in his step, it was apparently noticed, because Aramis, Porthos, and Bonacieux watched him approach, three pairs of eyes dark and intense.

It was only when Ninon returned that those three pairs of eyes widened in astonishment, gaze fixated on Athos' signature weapon in her nimble hands.

"Ninon de Larroque," she said, voice sharp and anger glorious.

Bonacieux scoffed once he had gotten over his shock. "Your captain bids you challenge me?"

Her teeth bared, gaze disparaging as she took Bonacieux in with one glance. "Athos is not my captain, he's my friend."

"You're not on the team?" Bonacieux's eyes boggled and Constance looked at Ninon with something akin to worry.

"I don't need to be to teach you a lesson in manners," she said primly, and pirouetted on one heel to stalk to a free court.

Athos folded his arms with a less-than-gentlemanly smirk. "I'm going to enjoy this."

Bonacieux snarled at him as he shoved his mask over his head and shoulder-checked him as he passed. Constance hurried after him, completely ignoring d'Artagnan's call and shrugging off Aramis' hand.

"You've done it now," Porthos murmured, palm dragging over his face.

Athos let his shoulders rise and fall as Porthos stood at his left. "What happened?"

Aramis appeared at his other side, glare fixed on Bonacieux's back as the pair stretched. "He approached me, complimented my footwork, I didn't even know who he was."

Porthos shifted from foot to foot. "Saw 'im from across the room, thought he was threatenin' Aramis."

Athos looked up in surprise. "Why?"

Porthos' brow furrowed slightly. "Dunno, just set my hackles up, he was standin' too close."

"He was being sickeningly nice to me, actually," Aramis groused, as if frustrated Bonacieux had given such a good impression at the beginning. "Then Constance appeared, she seemed surprised to see him."

D'Artagnan stepped up next to Aramis, brow furrowed. "I thought that, but why not tell her he was part of their fencing society?"

"I bought a £50 bottle of wine the other day," Athos supplied, and when he received three bored looks, he added, "I knew you wouldn't be interested so I didn't tell you."

Porthos weighed his head to the side. "Fair point."

"But it's not that she's not interested, she's clearly interested, she wanted to try an épée."

Athos conceded to d'Artagnan's point, even if it was made a little bitterly.

Aramis looked up suddenly. "How much?"

Porthos snorted when Athos smirked and jerked his head behind them. "You can have some later. Come, I'm simply dying to see this."

They followed him in silence, Porthos frowning when he saw Ninon stand up against Bonacieux. "She's got guts, I'll give 'er that."

D'Artagnan's attention finally shifted from Constance as he remarked smugly, "Ninon? She'll whip him into the dust!"

Athos shared a smile with the boy, just barely noticing the almighty scowl that was brewing on Aramis' forehead. "Don't worry," he assured him, wishing he could rest a palm on his shoulder as Porthos would have done, "She won't lose."

Aramis wiped the expression into neutrality. "You're so sure?"

"Of course, look at her, she's quicker even than I, that twist of her wrist will win her this point. She's wonderful." He flashed a smile. "I trained her, after all."

Aramis had taken his praise as an excuse to walk behind him and stand at Porthos' side, his scowl returning when he muttered, "Why don't you marry her if you like her so much?"

"I almost did," he confided with a distracted laugh.

There was a deafening silence and he dragged his eyes from Ninon's fantastic form to see Aramis staring open-mouthed at him and Porthos frowning.

"What did you just say?" Aramis asked in a whisper.

"Is that so strange?" he asked in amused confusion. "Our parents were friends, we liked each other."

"Why didn't you?" Porthos asked, and there was an intensity behind it that he didn't understand.

He shrugged and turned back to Ninon, his eyes following the graceful line of her arm as he lied through his teeth, "I went back to Paris."

Aramis leaned into Porthos, and Porthos ever so slightly brushed Athos' arm. Athos closed his eyes for one breath.

It was so much more complicated than that.

On a scale of 1 to 10, where 1 is making pinkie promises to make-friends-make-friends-never-ever-break-friends, and 10 is calling curses on your enemy's descendants for the next 13 generations, Treville and Richelieu were markedly high.

In actuality, the only thing that was stopping them from launching at each other over the high bar table, was exactly that.

The high bar table, the one laden with glasses, empty versions of the ones clutched in their hands, Treville sniping Richelieu on his dress sense (honestly, Armand, it's practically a top hat and tails), and Richelieu sniffing haughtily as he loudly recounted the day's bouts (what was it, five my way? I thought we weren't counting. Weren't you?).

Athos briefly considered separating them, like a parent would do to his children, but only a fool would step between those sets of teeth. Instead, he focused on propping Aramis up, who, upon entering the bar for some friendly drinks (there was that word again), had downed five shots and promptly claimed Athos as a leaning post.

It was making Porthos laugh, at least.

"I'm just saying, he seemed shifty," d'Artagnan said for what must have been the hundredth time.

Athos sighed, obliging Aramis by taking a sip of his offered drink, something sickly sweet and garnished with an umbrella. "For all his faults, he's done nothing we can actively call him out on."

He had to brace his other leg when Aramis pushed against his hip to glare, his expression matching d'Artagnan's in its affront. "He's a bastard!" they chorused, nodding firmly at each other.

Athos rolled his eyes. "You must admit that you're both biased."

"And you aren't? She's your friend, too," d'Artagnan said with a pout.

"Of course, but I.. I can't judge her on her actions, she's strong enough to leave him were she truly unhappy." D'Artagnan wasn't pleased, so Athos voiced a niggling concern. "For a moment, I thought he recognised me from my time in France – suffice to say that would have been nigh-on life-ruining. But aside from that, I won't deny that he seemed a little, ah…"

"Camp?" Porthos supplied.

Athos winced. "Not the word I would have used, but it was something that Ninon said – or, perhaps, didn't say."

Aramis made an angry noise for some reason, and Porthos leaned forward to chuck his chin. "He was starin' at you pretty intently, that what Ninon noticed?"

Athos hummed an agreement, his mouth inching upwards when Aramis looked up in something torn between horror and delight. Suddenly, he pushed himself away, not meeting their calls with anything other than, "I'll be right back!"

There was an absence along his side now, for even though it was nigh on painful, he silently gloried in it, using Aramis' level of alcohol intake as an excuse to hold him close.

Without him, with only his whispering desires, he hated himself.

"How much d'you wanna bet that Aramis is gonna pull tonight?" Porthos asked suddenly, closing the gap Aramis had left until they stood as a triangle.

Athos' eyes betrayed him, he glanced at Porthos and away again, refusing to hold his gaze when he knew his cheeks had flushed. Aramis was never not dressed to impress, but he only had about two buttons done up on his shirt, fencing jacket bared to show a sinful amount of tan chest.

"How could he not?" he answered quietly, taking a fortifying gulp of his beer.

D'Artagnan groaned tiredly. "I just want a quiet night, no drama."

Athos raised an eyebrow. "You, who have spent the entire day waiting for Bonacieux to slip up?"

"No, I mean, it's just…" D'Artagnan slumped. "It's as you said, we can't do anything."

Porthos grinned at Athos over the boy's head, laying an encouraging palm on his shoulder. "Everythin' works out in the end. Sometimes you gotta do somethin', and sometimes you just wait."

Athos scoffed, but raised his glass in a salute when Porthos scowled good-naturedly at him. Things did not always work out, no matter what was done, but perhaps the poor boy needed some hope right now.

Athos knew better than most that love, of all things, did not always work out.

Aramis slammed against his side, hauled back at the very last moment by Porthos grabbing the back of his jacket. It hung off his arms, his shirt completely undone and his curls even more messy than usual.

It was only when Athos steadied himself, one hand linked with Aramis' to keep from falling, that he noticed Aramis' grin. The grin, and the dark mark on his neck.

Aramis looked over his shoulder, and even d'Artagnan stepped back when he saw Porthos stiffen as he locked onto what was definitely a suck mark. "Where the fuck did you get that?"

"No need to be jealous, dear," Aramis joked slyly, "And it was from a mutual friend of ours. Or, should I say, a mutual friend of ours and Constance."

D'Artagnan choked on his drink, spraying it everywhere, mostly over Aramis. "Bonacieux is gay?"

Athos jabbed him in the ribs just as Porthos kicked him in the shin and muttered, "Keep your voice down."

"Why?" D'Artagnan asked petulantly, trying to rub both bruises at once. "It's not like it's a big deal."

Aramis over-dramatically wiped liquid from his hands and replied quietly, "It is when you have a girlfriend who thinks you're straight."

"And if you don't want anyone to know," he added quietly, and Aramis and Porthos looked at each other briefly.

D'Artagnan, for once, noticed it and then met his eye strangely as he muttered, "Shouldn't go around sucking guys' necks then."

Aramis' eyebrows raised as Porthos coughed a sheepish laugh, "Well. From the mouths of babes."

Athos couldn't have been more uncomfortable – and more terrified – as he was right then, so he changed the focus of attention onto something far more interesting. "Did he just lunge for you?"

Aramis' shot him daggers when Porthos frowned and said, "Actually, that's a good point."

"No, of course not-"

"So you encouraged him?" Athos asked idly, earning another glare when Porthos' frown deepened.

"No. Well…" Aramis trailed off awkwardly before throwing his hands in the air. "Oh, come on, I had to find out. Didn't think he'd go straight for my neck but, hey, everyone does."

Athos winced. Of all the provoking things to say...

There was a low rumbling noise that most definitely came from an angry-looking Porthos, and Athos realised that perhaps he had erred slightly. Even d'Artagnan was picking up on the bad vibes and gave him a 'do something!' look.

Athos sighed and leaned forward to hook an arm around Aramis' shoulders, saying dryly, "You could turn anyone, Aramis; I don't think that's much to go on."

Porthos had settled slightly now that Aramis was safely back in their collective grasp, and they all took a small sigh of relief.

That could have gotten ugly.

Naturally, it had to, because Bonacieux then took that exact moment to wander past and gods-all-be if his gaze didn't stick to Aramis' ass way longer than was appropriate.

Aramis, who couldn't see his new admirer, could tell what was happening from their reactions, and judging by the way Porthos' fist crushed his empty can, shit was about to go down.

There was a soft sigh, and then Aramis fell limp against him, prompting him to brace one foot as Aramis' arms came around his waist loosely. He tried to look down but Aramis had rested his head in the crook of his neck and was giving limpet eyes at Porthos.

He matched d'Artagnan's 'what the fuck' look and tried to corral the overwhelming burst of desire that surged whenever Aramis was practically flush against him.

It had the strangest effect on Porthos, whose eyes were suddenly glued to them, and something like a smile played about lips that had just been heavily downturned.

Whatever Aramis was doing, was working.

"I want to go home," Aramis breathed, distractingly close to his ear, and Athos nodded once, looking up to catch eyes with Porthos and jerked his head at the door.

It was a matter of minutes for Porthos to discard a fresh drink, pluck d'Artagnan's from his complaining grip, and forge a path to the taxi rank outside.

Never let it be said that they didn't do everything Aramis wanted.

Which wasn't a helpful thought when Aramis curled up on the back seat between him and Porthos, curls tickling his collarbone as Porthos' arm rested just behind his head.

They fell into The Garrison and Athos swore when he caught sight of the time, knowing Treville wouldn't allow drinking as an excuse to not send the newspaper's draft that night.

He unlocked his door, booted up his laptop, and ignored the hubbub behind them of d'Artagnan trying to untangle his jacket from Porthos' hand when the boy commented on the mark still blaring on Aramis' neck.

"Leave him alone, Porthos," Athos warned distractedly, "Go to bed."

Porthos paused, Aramis whined, but then they were gone, and d'Artagnan sank into the chair next to him, as he usually did on a Sunday night.

Athos hands whirred over the keyboard, stopping only to yawn and say, "We'll need water if we're to be up tomorrow." He held out a hand when d'Artagnan swayed to his feet. "I'll get it, stay put."

He caught a gleam of d'Artagnan's eyes before they darted away, and then he nodded quickly.

He was only out of the room for about three minutes, passing both Aramis and Porthos' locked doors, but he couldn't even summon a scowl when he saw d'Artagnan hovering guiltily over his computer. "What have you done?"

D'Artagnan jerked at his voice, expression pitiful. "I think I sent the draft."

Athos felt his irritation as if it were behind a wall, one that wouldn't let him be angry at the boy he already considered family. Instead, Athos took a relieved breath and waved him out. "That's fine, it was done."

D'Artagnan paused at the door, taking the second glass of water with a quiet, "Goodnight, Athos."

Athos felt a tired smile twitch his cheeks. "Goodnight d'Artagnan."

D'Artagnan peeked over his shoulder as Athos watched him go, some sort of obligation to ensure the boy returned to his room safely, and then he closed his door against the world with a sigh.

Alone for the first time in a month, he regarded his bed as if it were an empty nest, but he was drunk enough that he ignored the loneliness still swirling around his heart and simply fell into bed, still fully dressed.

His laptop's light blinked at him from across the room, and he couldn't help but feel he had missed something important.

His hand clutched for fingers that weren't there, and he wondered if it was that as sleep took its time in coming.

AN: Oh, Athos, darling, I am sorry for doing this to you, but needs must...