Notes:

Hello! Greeting to my new story! It's my first attempt at a modern day AU.

I hope you enjoy!

Blood Ties

Chapter 1

This, Athos decided as his chin lulled against heavily against chest, was the worst hangover he had ever experienced. The current thump in his head, razorblades in his throat and ache in his core muscles were currently beating out every single morning after the night before he could pull to memory. That included being awoken by an ice bucket to the face, the morning after his military unit had celebrated passing their basic training and he'd fallen asleep against the outside of his barracks. Before that current moment, Athos would have sworn a worse morning would have been impossible.

Last night must have been something truly remarkable, since the whole night was one big blank. His was 36 for Christ's sake. 36 was too old for such behaviour.

A low groan rumbled from deep in his chest, his wavy dark hair plastered to his sweat slick forehead. His hand jerked, wanting to scrub at least the top layer of grim from his face, but all he was met with was sharp pain from his wrists.

What the hell?

Athos wrenched his hand again, growling in frustration as the same pain erupted again. His eyes cracked open, eliciting a curse as the artificial light burned his tired eyes. He tried again, this time squinting down his body.

His hands were tied down tightly to the metal chair Athos was only just realising he was sat in.

"What the…" His hands balled into fists as Athos jerked his arms. The knots didn't budge. The actions were repeated with his legs and, although Athos couldn't see them, he was willing to bet they had received the same treatment.

Athos briefly wondered if this was some elaborate joke curtesy of Aramis in retaliation for some preserved slight he cannot even remember, but the current situation seemed a bit far even for the sharpshooting mad man.

His eyes glanced up and, attempting to minimise the wince from the sharp pain in his retinas, he squinted and began to take stock of the room around him.

Stone floor, concreate walls, two cheap strips of artificial lighting hung over head with a constant buzz and a heavy looking door judging by the substantial sized hinges bracketing it to the wall. There was one key hole, Athos noted, although there could easily be more latches on the other side.

A creak of furniture sent every one of nerve endings into overdrive, hangover be damned. His ears strained, as feet hit the ground somewhere over his right shoulder.

"Who's there?" Athos' voice cracked from his dry throat, resisting the urge to cough.

Footsteps reverberated on the stone floor as Athos stiffened, refusing to crane his neck in an effort to see.

"Yes sir," The French words came from behind him. French, for sure, but the accent wasn't native. Athos couldn't pin it down exactly. He had never been much of a linguist; that was Aramis' department. Eastern European maybe? He couldn't be sure.

"He's awake." A man, tall and lean stepped into Athos' sphere of vision. His was dressed in black jeans and an equally dark snug t-shirt. Athos noted that, although thin, his arms were toned and strong, the short sleeves clinging to well-defined biceps. Underestimating him due to his sheer lack of bulk would be a mistake.

They couldn't all look like the wall of muscle which was Porthos after all.

The man had a phone pressed to his ear, his body angled away which gave Athos the view of his dark hair gathered into a man bun at the back of his head.

"Yes. Sir I understand, should I –"

The man broke off and cursed before stuffing the mobile phone back into his pocket. Hung up on? The man's hand reached up, rubbing over his forehead as he turned to face the room.

It was only then, with his face screwed up in frustration, Athos began to rethink his primary assessment of the figure in front of him. Not a man, he was barely more than a boy. Athos was hardly an expert estimating ages, but his novice effort would place the boy at about 19, 20 at the very most.

"You look like you're having a worse day than me," Athos swallowed in an attempt to moisten his mouth, "And I'm the one tied to the chair."

The boy looked up, his arms crossing with hostility over his chest.

"We aren't supposed to talk."

Athos offered a shrug, or his best attempt with his arms still tied, "No one's here to hear us, Kid."

Fire flashed, just for the moment through the young man's gaze. A hand shot out, finger pointing accusingly at Athos.

"I'm no kid!"

Ahh. Insecurity over his age? Athos filed that piece of information away for later. It was good to know the enemy's pressure points.

"Meant no offence…" Athos swallowed again, shoving down the urge to cough up half a lung, "I hardly want to piss of the guy I'm locked in a room with."

The boy just shrugged. He pushed of the wall and strode out of sight. A glint caught Athos' gaze as he turned and he realised with stomach churning clarity that the boy had a knife strapped to his belt. Athos committed the weapon and its location to memory. At least it wasn't a gun, though that seemed like a small comfort.

The boy returned only a moment later with a bottle of water. He cracked the seal and gulped down a few mouthfuls. Suddenly Athos' mouth felt, if possible, even drier. He watched the kid wipe a drip from the side of his mouth and swallowed.

"Fancy sharing?"

The kid's eyes narrowed, his eyes flicking from Athos to the water bottle in his hand. After, apparently deciding allowing water was no great threat, he held out the bottle.

Athos' arched an eyebrow. He splayed his tied hands, as if to make a point, "That might be difficult…"

The boy seemed realise the problem only a second later and frowned, indecisive again.

"Look, I just need a drink. Not gonna try anything," Athos promised, "Scouts honour…"

Not that he had ever been a scout.

With a sigh the boy stepped forward, his hand unscrewing the cap of the plastic bottle, "Tilt your head back…"

Athos obeyed and, finally, he felt the water hit his throat. The angle was awkward, and the water was lukewarm, but in that moment Athos did not care in the slightest. He swallowed obediently, gulping down the water until the kid pulled the container back. Athos licked his lips, moistening the cracked skin, and offered an appreciative nod.

"Thanks."

"Don't mention it."

The boy retreated back to the wall. He crouched down on his heels and set the bottle down beside him. His tanned forearms rested easily on his knees, dark eyes still fixed on Athos.

"You don't want to be called Kid," Athos mused. He rolled his shoulders in an attempt to loosen his stiff muscles, "So what should I call you?"

The boy did not even need to open his mouth for Athos to realise it wasn't going to be that simple. The boy shook his head, and Athos watched shutters come down behind his eyes. He wasn't going to willingly offer any personal information, so Athos too

The boy was young, with a temper Athos was willing to bet could flare far worse than it had at the name kid. So desperate to be taken seriously, perhaps to prove himself to whoever was on the other side of the phone? Someone who thought little enough of him to hang up midsentence.

It wasn't much of an analysis to go on, but it was a start.

"Do I at least get to know what I am doing here?"

The boy looked up at that, for a second Athos felt hopeful, then? A shrug.

"Orders is orders. I don't questions, I just do as I'm told."

"You don't seem stupid, Kid," Athos watched the boy's shoulders tense at name, but didn't say anything as Athos continued, "Can't imagine you'd be content to just blindly follow orders."

"Like you have any idea," The boy's hands gripped into fists, but, after a heartbeat, he released the tension.

"Well I could if you tell me?"

"Just- just don't. We're not supposed to talk so just-"

The kid's words were cut off as metallic clang resounded throughout the room. The door, just as heavy as Athos had guessed, swung open.

"Charles?" A voice drawled through the open door. The boy, Charles he supposed, stood, his hands lacing themselves behind his back. Athos' eyes roamed the boy as his eyes hardened, noting the momentary flash of anger behind them.

Anger at a superior? Why would the kid be desperate to prove himself to someone he disliked?

"I thought I made it clear you were not to speak to our guest."

Polished shoes clicked forward, demanding the attention of all in the room. Athos' eyes slid to the well-dressed figure who appeared. The black suit and red shirt were tailor made, Athos was sure, and the shirt was unbuttoned just enough to reveal a "v" of pale skin. It reminded Athos of the way Aramis dressed on their rare nights off duty, clothes which cost an obscene amount worn in such a way it illicit thoughts of the body without clothing. What was missing though was the easy wide smile Aramis wore as part of the outfit. This man's cold blue eyes and slightly up-turned lip suggested a bad smell in the room, a bug on his designer shoe. His glare settled on Charles, who seemed intent to keep his gaze straight ahead.

"If this is how you treat your guests," Athos' rolled his neck, attempting to take the focus away from the young lad. His eyes fixed on the newcomer, "I'd hate to be your prisoner."

The distraction worked, and whatever trouble the man had been about to reign down on the kid's head was momentarily forgotten.

Those blue eyes slid and focused on Athos.

"Your reputation precedes you, sir. We saw it fit to take no chances."

"Oh?" Athos feigned surprise, "And what kind of reputation is that?"

But he didn't reply. Instead the man dug into his suit jacket's inside pocket. Athos felt his body tense but all he was met with was a slim silver camera. He snapped a few photos, the flash making Athos' still fragile head spin.

"Take those to Richelieu," Athos blinked violently to remove the leftover flashes, his vision clearing just in time to see the camera be passed to Charles.

The younger man nodded, the small item stuffed deep into his pocket, "Yes, Rochefort."

He stepped away from the wall, toward the open door, when Rochefort fixed him with another glare. Clearly the man wasn't to be so easily distracted.

"And Charles?" The man's voice was a drawl, almost as if he was bored, "I'm docking your week's wages. Perhaps then you'll learn to follow orders."

"A week?" Charles spun in the doorway, anger suddenly burning all over his face, "For what?"

"Two weeks," Rochefort flicked his hand as if bored with the whole conversation, "I suggest you leave, now. Unless you wish me to make a phone call and have Connie put on the rotation for tonight? Maybe she can make some of the money in The Silver Room tonight? Since you're so intent on loosing it."

Athos didn't know who this Connie was and The Silver Room sounded only vaguely familiar, but at the mention of her name Charles whole body stiffened. It took a moment but, eventually, he seemed to shove his anger back down into the pit of his stomach. He swallowed, smoothing out his features, although Athos could still see the fury in his eyes.

"No… Sir."

The tone Charles offered the last word in would have at best resulted at a slap round the back of the head from Treville and, at worst, a month's worth of early morning endurance training if Athos has offered it to a superior officer. Rochefort didn't seem to be bothered though, or if it did he didn't see it as worth mentioning. He turned from Charles, firmly indicating the conversation was over.

"Then go, now."

For a moment Athos thought the boy might actually keep arguing, but then he turned and stalked from the room.

Athos' gaze followed the boy until he disappeared from view. That left just him. Well him and…

Rochefort turned, that cold gaze now focused solely on Athos. He stared back, his face a calm mask even as his insides churned. Charles may have been, young and impulsive but he had been easy to read. Charles wouldn't, Athos was almost positive, have hurt him. The man in front of him though? The man was an anomaly. The clothes he owned suggested a high standard of living and their everyday use suggested the man wanted everyone to know it. He had seemed indifferent as he'd stripped the younger man of his pay but Athos wondered if the man had got some kind of kick out of it all the same.

"If its money you're after you grabbed the wrong guy," Athos didn't let his eyes falter as he spoke, "I have a 2007 Toyota, a phone which still has a button keypad and a lap top which isn't wifi compatible. You can take you like if you feel it would help?"

"And a sense of humour too," Rochefort's hand rubbed over his chin, "I wasn't told of a sense of humour! Of all your skills, Olivier, I find that the most impressive."

The name fell heavily in the air between them, his breath suddenly feeling as if it had been knocked from Athos stomach.

What?

Blood thundered against his eardrums at the name he knew he hadn't misheard. He hadn't heard that name in years, seen it in longer. Not on his bank cards or wage slips, not even his passport.

The name Olivier de La Fère had been wiped of the face of his world.

It was rare that words failed him, Athos was always quick with a line or a comeback but, in that moment, his mind was a blank page. Carefully he sucked a breath in threw his teeth.

Settle, Athos scolded himself, remembering Treville's words he'd offered so many years ago, centre yourself and settle.

"Who," His voice was calm, dangerously calm. The calm before the storm, "Are those photos being sent to?"

Rochefort's eyes danced, victorious in his success of rattling his captive to his very core. He stepped towards the door and Athos panicked. He jerked his arms violently against the unmoving bonds, desperate to get to the man and shake the answers from him.

"Get comfortable, Olivier."

"Who are the PHOTOS for?" Athos lunged in the seat, glaring as the man stepped from the room and swung the firmly shut on Athos' shouts.

The number of people who knew his birth name could be counted on one hand, Athos decided after he had calmed himself down. Treville knew, as did the lawyer who had drawn up his will. That seemed like everyone. Even Porthos and Aramis weren't party to that information. Not that they minded. Aramis was open about his life before the Musketeers. Porthos less so, but parts of his story had bled out organically over the years. They both had accepted that, while Athos was more than willing to listen to their stories, he never offered his own. That was just how he was, which had led to Aramis to affectionately nicknaming him "grumpy cat."

The three of them stuck in a dank house on a stake out in the east of Prague. Aramis sat at the window (his watch), binoculars in one hand and prized rifle resting on his knees. Porthos sat (but not settled) against a wall. His knee, pulled half way up to his chest, constantly jiggling in an attempt to rid himself of excess energy. Athos had curled on the mattress which was serving as a bed, book open on his knees. Aramis had seemed to take the attempt at quiet time as a personal offense and made it his mission to desperate to distract him.

"What must Treville have been thinking, sticking me with you two?" Aramis had dodged the piece of food flung good naturedly at him by Porthos, his eyes never left the target's front door as he did so, "I need banter, companionship! Between Mr ADHD and Grumpy Cat over there I'll have cabin fever before the arms dealers even show up."

Oh how Athos' hands had twitched during that particular night, ready to strangle Aramis if he refused to stop talking. Suddenly, the nickname didn't seem so bad.

But he was distracting himself. Who else was there to know the name Olivier? His mind was sliding into fond memories on purpose. He was ignoring someone, on purpose. He was raking through memories, thinking about Treville and some lawyer in some office and his two idiot friends when the most likely culprit danced, tantalisingly close, through his mind.

But that wasn't part of his memory Athos wished to dwell on. The memory came from a part of his life which was stained with alcohol and prescription pills and bad decisions.

Not him… It couldn't have been him.

He and his brother hadn't spoken in over a decade.

The clank of the door being opened brought Athos back to reality. His head shot up and back stiffened just as Charles backed his way into the room. The door was shut behind him, although Athos couldn't decide if it was locked. Charles turned and two separate observations drew Athos' senses. The first, the steam rising from the bowel in his hand made his mouth water, the smells awakening his apparent ravenous hunger. The second, the dark bruised skin surrounding the boy's left eye pulled a frown onto Athos' features. The black eye shone, swelling causing his eye to sit at half-mast. Whoever had offered the punch knew how to offer some power behind it, Athos had seen similar enough times, been on the receiving end of a fair. The injury would hurt.

"That's quite the shiner…" Athos commented, "You alright?"

The boy shrugged his shoulders and held up the spoon, indicating Athos should open his mouth.

But the man hesitated. He was tied to a chair in God only knows where, had is photograph taken and sent off to whoever was financing this whole thing. If they intended to move him, wouldn't the simplest way be to drug his food.

"What's in it?"

Charles rolled his eyes, "I'm not about to poison you." He filled the spoon, tilted it slightly so Athos could see it was filled, and tasted the liquid himself. The boy dropped the spoon back into the bowl and offered the smallest of smirks, "Scouts honour."

Athos' eyebrow shot up as his words were quoted back to him.

"Now, you hungry or not?"

Athos relented, his stomach wouldn't allow anything else at this rate, and nodded, "Please."

Charles stepped forward carefully and began spooning the warm vegetable soup into Athos' open mouth. It was good, Athos mused, thought wasn't sure whether that was just the hunger talking.

He ate in silence, gratefully accepting what was offered until Charles scraped the bottom of the bowl with a spoon and sat back. Athos nodded gratefully, swallowing the last of the soup.

"Thanks."

"It's fine…" Charles settled himself against the wall, bowl sat next to him. His eyes closed for a second, fingers touching gingerly around the tender skin.

"I hope that wasn't 'cause you were caught talking to me," Athos watched as the fingers stilled, the boy's eyes sliding open with a sigh, "Wasn't my intention to piss of old shiny shoes."

Charles' eyes cracked open and Athos could have sworn he saw a flash of amusement across his face. His cocked his head at the nickname. Athos just shrugged.

"No," the boy shook his head eventually, "Not you. Me and my big mouth is all…"

"Sounds familiar," Athos cracked his jaw, remember the punishment laps and extra details during his training for his smart mouth, "Hope the line was worth it."

Charles snorted, "Suggested that Rochefort enjoyed tying you up a little too much."

Athos, to his shock as much as the kid in front of him, let out a chuckle. Charles looked up, eyebrows raised in surprise. How many people would laugh while they were tied to a chair?

"He doesn't seem like the sort to appreciate sarcasm," Athos mused, "You didn't lose any more money did you?"

Charles shook his head, "just punched me instead."

Athos watched the boy, something in his voice suggested he was almost grateful for the corporal punishment instead of docked wages. Odd…

"Is that… Better then?" Athos knew he had to tread carefully. Charles had shut down his questioning once, Athos couldn't afford it to happen again, "You'd rather he punch you than take your wages?"

But Charles nodded, eyes focused on his fingers rather than the man he spoke to.

"Got a debt to work off. Rather get hit than lose my pay."

Ah. There had been clues surrounding the man. Athos began to slip them together in his mind. His accent for one; his French was perfect but there was no way it was his mother tongue. Then there was the anger Athos had witnessed towards his superior. No respect, just a glare, as if the idea of Rochefort made his skin crawl. Still though, he followed orders as if he had no choice. Now a debt…

Athos had seen of this before, trafficking humans was, after all, big business. Hopeless people, desperate people promised new lives in counties like England or France. Gangs would smuggle them across boarders into the new country, only to present them with a bill on the other side they had no hope of paying. It was a source of free labour, exploited labour. The people would have no choice but to work for the gang, that or risk deportation if they were discovered by the authorities without a visa. Of course that was if they didn't receive a bullet between the eyes for being trouble.

Charles was stuck, Athos could see that. He was a kid, promised a new life in a city paved with gold and instead had found himself stuck in a hell from which he couldn't escape.

Athos nodded, not that Charles could see it. His eyes were still focused on his fingers, a nail running up and down a seam of his jeans.

"Where did they find you Charles? What did they promise you?"

The boy shrugged, "A life, work. Said 'cause I spoke French I'd get a good job, we'd get a flat. Make a new life away from Ukraine. Never look back."

Something shifted uncomfortably in the pit of Athos' stomach. Charles was bitter, his words were flat, but one word stood out amongst the rest.

We'd…

"The girl who Rochefort threatened earlier…" Athos was fishing, but Charles nodded.

"My fiancée, Constance. They have her working behind the scenes at The Silver Room, mending shit, sewing and stuff. Rochefort says as long as I pull my weight here he'll keep her in the back. But if I mess up…" Charles swallowed around a lump in his throat. He ducked his head, intent on hiding his face from Athos but the hunched shoulder and anxious hand running through his hair spoke volumes. He was terrified.

The Silver Room… It tickled something, far back in the roots of his memory, as if he'd been only half listening. His shared office slide into his memory, his friends both at their desks.

"It's my birthday," Aramis had pouted as Athos had tried oh so hard to concentrate on the report he was supposed to be writing, "What's wrong with going to look at some beautiful women and having a drink?"

"Not goin' to a strip joint, Aramis," Porthos seemed to be reading his friend's mind, meaning Athos could stay out of the argument, "It's seedy."

"The Silver Room is a good place! A Gentlemen's club! High class – honest."

"S'not what I heard. Not so much Gentlemen's club as barely concealed brothel."

Aramis spun in his chair, seemingly unconcerned, "Porthos you shouldn't listen to rumours. They're started by competitors, it's all one big game."

"Pick somewhere else, Aramis… I'm vetoing."

A strip joint at best, a brothel at worst… Athos swallowed. No wonder the threat Rochefort had placed on Charles had worked so effectively. It wasn't just his life on the line, his safety or freedom. It was hers too.

All of a sudden Athos' stomach began to churn. He hadn't planned on outright manipulating the boy, truthfully he hadn't thought that far ahead, but he had begun to build trust, a relationship. Now anything Athos may have attempted now seemed impossible. Rochefort had already shown his willingness to manipulate the boy through this mystery girl. It wasn't that the boy couldn't be trusted, but Rochefort controlled his pressure point. Controlled him.

Love made even the most steadfast men sway under pressure.

Athos swallowed, stretching his wrists under the unmoving bonds. This had just got more complicated.

Charles' phone had buzzed not long after, drawing him from the room. Athos was left alone with his thoughts, which was no bad thing. A few words had been dropped, hints had been accidently left and Athos intended to comb over the conversations to find all of them.

If Aramis had wished to go to The Silver Room for his birthday, it was more than likely it was in Paris, which likely meant he was still in Paris.

Good…

The night before was still somewhat blurry, Athos wasn't sure whether the details would ever return, but he had enough for form a skeleton of a memory.

The trio had returned from an assignment, two significantly higher on life than the third.

"Drinks!"Aramis' arm slid itself easily around Athos' shoulders, "Tonight we celebrate."

Athos picked the arm by the sleeve, as if would bite at the slightest movement, and returned it to his owner.

"Treville wants us for a debrief tonight. We're going to the office." Athos turned towards his car, but two strong, brown hands found his shoulders and spun him firmly back to the group.

"We've been slavin' for weeks Athos, chasing good-for-nothin' drug lords and on our first night off you want to do paperwork?" Porthos pushed him firmly in the opposite direction of his car, towards the metro, "Nuh-uh, no chance. Bar."

"Treville expects-" Athos continued to protest, but his feet did begin to walk of their own accord once Porthos released his shoulders.

Aramis slapped his shoulder as he strode past. The man was never happier than when he got his own way.

"Treville will be fine. Seeing us tomorrow instead of tonight won't kill him."

So Athos had lost the fight and they'd found a bar, stolen a table and drunk through three rounds before Aramis' phone had buzzed. When he'd returned to the table, he had a look of wide eyed innocence Athos had learned never to trust.

"Was Anne, she's alone for the night…" Aramis spread his hands in a 'what can I do' motion which sent Athos' eyes rolling. Anne Royaline, Aramis' on again, off again mistress, was married to France's deputy prime minister – a fact Athos did his best to pretend didn't exist.

"Office, tomorrow, 9am," Athos relented, "Go make terrible decisions."

Aramis grinned and, despite Athos' disgusted protests, smacked a wet kiss on his friend's temple.

"I shall! Goodnight my beautiful Grumpy Cat!"

He darted away before Athos could get his hands on him, said his goodbyes to Porthos at the bar and disappeared into the night.

He and Porthos drank on merrily until Athos returned from the toilet to see a blonde (who looked barely old enough to be in the bar) wrapped round his friend.

"It's fine," He waved his friend's apologies away, "Go have fun. I'll see you tomorrow, 9am sharp."

And just like that he was alone. With the tab settled he'd stumbled from the bar. The metro was closed, there were cabs but Athos had decided to walk…

But then the fuzziness began.

Athos sighed. His head rolled all the way round, every knot in his neck popping. There were flashes after leaving the bar… Footsteps behind him, fear as his hand had fumbled at his waist, only to realise his gun was still in his car. Strong hands grabbing at him, pain erupting in his temple and…

Athos cursed. He loathed those memory gaps. He had enough of those from his teenage years when wine had been reached for, far more often than any other beverage. Of course he'd drank last night, but not enough to black out. If he had to guess his memory loss had something to do with the pain he'd felt in his temple. And if that was the case it likely wouldn't ever become clearer.

Not that it mattered now. Athos knew, likely, where he was. He had a firm idea of what he was here for and, most importantly, we was now well past the 9am office deadline. He would be missed.

Now he just needed a plan.

Notes:

I hope you enjoyed it! I'd love to head what you thought! Leave some love (or hate - I can take it!) ^^