Technically AU since the showing of season two but set after season 1. If you think this story is going to be a cute one about Athos and a cat I'm afraid you are mistaken. It starts off cute (or at least I hope it dose) but then it takes a right turn and gets a bit weird. I don't want to spoil it but let's just say that something supernatural will happen.

I tried to find a cat that was a native breed in France. I didn't get any further than Wikipedia. The cat is a Birman, whose origins are unknown but was first documented in France in 1919, so let's just imagine they were brought to France by traders before then and could be found during the time of the Musketeers.

I'm going to try and update this every Saturday as it is mostly finished.

The first time Athos saw the cat he thought he was hallucinating. He had just drunk several bottles of strong wine and was staggering across his empty room when he spotted a pale shape with glowing blue eyes staring at him from beside the dresser. It looked like a cat, but it couldn't be as his window and door had been shut since the early hours of the (by now yesterday) morning and there certainly wasn't any wildlife in there when he left, locking the door behind him on his way to the garrison. He shrugged and tried to ignore the staring eyes; he had hallucinated before in his drunken state, but never any animals.

Making it to the bed, he rid himself of his weapons, and his leather jacket and boots. Slumping sideways so he was lying down he blinked lazily at the cat, who didn't move from its spot.

He swore that as he descended into a hazy drunken sleep, the cat seemed to tilt its head, tail twitching, and regard him with a curious gaze.

The cat was gone the next morning.

The second time Athos saw the cat, it was waiting for him at the top of the stairs, sitting by the door to his room. It was a few days since that drunken night and he had all but forgotten about his strange visitor. He was sober this time, just back from a duty at the palace, so that cat had to be real.

It still hadn't moved by the time he reached the top of the stairs, so he gave it a careful pat on the head before unlocking his door. By the time he had walked through the door and was about to shut it, the cat had disappeared. He hadn't heard it move or felt it brush past him so he gave the room a look over to make sure it hadn't followed him in before shutting the door. He was confused at where it had gone, but soon gave it no further thought.

Over the next few weeks the cat started to appear with increasing frequency, until it was waiting for him somewhere on the stairs every day. Sometimes it was even waiting in his room, though he had to unlock the door to get in and his window was shut. Despite him not feeding it, it seemed to like his company, rubbing its cheeks on Athos' ankles until he reached down and gave it a pat on the head and curling up next to him during those drunken nights where he couldn't even bear drinking in the same room as other people. He wondered where it lived; it obviously wasn't a stray as it didn't look like it was underfed and its fur long was too silky and clean to have lived on the streets. He'd asked his landlord and his wife about any stray cats in the area that liked hanging around the house, but they hadn't seen any, especially not with the fur he described and his landlady actively shooed away any strays that came close. In fact the pattern in the fur wasn't one he recognised; he figured that it was a new breed that had been brought to Paris by traders returning from the east. The cat's body was a creamy colour, darkening to brown on its face, ears, tail and legs, but the paws were a bright white, as if it had walked though a tray of whitewash. Its eyes were a stunning blue.

But it was company that didn't demand him to maintain his stoic musketeer mask and didn't mind his vices so he allowed it to stay.

It was during one those drunken nights, tucked into a corner of the room atop his bed with only a bottle of wine and a four legged furball to keep him company that he discovered he was not the only one of the two that bore scars. Running his fingers through the long silky fur he felt a strange rough lump on the underlying skin, just between ribs next to the heart. Releasing the bottle clutched in his other hand he found another matching lump on the opposite side of the ribcage, that under closer inspection from alcohol glazed eyes revealed to be scars that had long healed. The cat mewled at him, seemingly ashamed at its defect. Athos gave the cat a drunken hug, careful to not be sloppy with his movements and hurt the one thing that seemed to be able to fight it's way though his drunken and depressed haze – he had noticed that on bad nights like this, when he had feline company he woke up to less empty wine bottles than he had done previously.

He looked at the cat in his arms.

"It that why you keep spending your time round here? Does your real owner hurt you?" The cat just blinked at him. "If you are going to be sticking round here I'm going to have to give you a name." He couldn't keep calling it 'Cat' and he was a tom cat too, not an 'it'.

A sudden memory that he hadn't remembered in years provided him with the perfect name.

"Dumas, I'll call you Dumas. It's was the name of a hero in the stories that my mother told me and my brother when I was a child. I think it suits you."

The cat seemed to meow an affirmative and started purring, Athos' fingers giving him a scratch in his favourite place, in the spot between the back of his ears and the base of his neck.

"As I've just named you I probably feed you as well. I'll get you something from the market when I come home tomorrow and I'm sure Madam Bonacieux will know what I should give you. Food is the least I can give you for staying with me when I'm like this."

This particular bad patch was caused by coming across a wedding party outside a church, all members happy and cheering, reminding Athos of his own joyous day years ago, before his wife ruined everything. It didn't help that the bride had dark flowing locks just like Anne.

He didn't know exactly why (or even when, only that he was drunk at the time) he had started to pour out his problems and frustrations out onto Dumas, but it seemed to make his heart less heavy to tell someone that wouldn't judge or walk away at his words.

He moved the half full bottle of wine that he had temporarily propped up against his pillow onto the floor and shifted down until he was lying down. Dumas stayed cradled against his chest.

He talked to the cat about his troubles for over an hour until he finally felt calm enough for sleep. Dumas seemed to sense that moment as he meowed quietly and scrambled off his chest to rub his head against Athos cheek. Athos smiled sleepily back at him and sunk his fingers into the warm soft fur.

He fell asleep, cat pressed against his side, purring, and wondered if he would be there in the morning or he would do one of his mysterious disappearing acts despite all exits out of the room being blocked.

Porthos cornered him one morning in the garrison, about a month or so after Dumas had first appeared, whilst Aramis made d'Artagnan go over musket drills by the targets.

"Are you alright?" He asked, concern creasing the skin between his eyes. "You've been drinking in your room more than usual. I've noticed that you are spending less time in the taverns, but at this point I don't know if that is a good thing or not."

"I'm fine, Porthos," Athos replied. "I've just been needing some time alone at the moment. And don't forget Aramis has been complaining about dragging me home, I bet he's pleased for the rest and the time to sleep with more women."

Porthos hummed and didn't seem satisfied by his answer, but after searching his eyes for a moment he seemed to decide to let the matter drop.

"You let us know if you need us, right? Don' want you feeling down when we can do something about it." Athos nodded his agreement at his friend. Satisfied, for the moment anyway, Porthos left him to go distract d'Artagnan from the relentless (if essential) monotony of the rapid reloading and firing of his pistols.

Athos didn't know exactly why he wanted to keep knowledge of Dumas away from his three friends, perhaps because they might lose the comforting closeness that had surrounded them by introducing them to him. And he was just a little bit worried that the feline might decide that one of the others (Aramis especially, his charming abilities also somehow extended to animals) made a better owner than he did (not that he actually owned the cat anyway) and would leave him bereft of the comfort he had become surprisingly accustomed to in such a short time. And whilst he knew that they wouldn't make fun of him for it (apart from their usual good natured ribbing), Musketeers didn't have 'pets', they just had their horses and some of the more well off had a hunting dog.

So far he had been lucky, the few times he had had to have been helped back to his rooms by Porthos, Aramis or d'Artagnan, Dumas was nowhere to be found, though he did appear after his friends had left. Perhaps the cat was shy; Dumas had watched him for a few days before he was bold enough to get close enough for a stroke.

He had to tell his friends at some point, but every time he had tried so far the words just hadn't come out of his mouth. For once this was a good secret, nothing like the awful, shameful secret of his past and the existence of his wife, so why couldn't he say it?

He sighed silently at himself and tried to banish the thought from his mind. Perhaps if he stopped thinking and worrying about the problem he might be able to bring it up in casual conversation next time it came onto the subject of animals. Or Dumas takes it into his own hands (or paws) and shows himself the next time his friends are in his rooms.

He notices Aramis looking at him strangely from across the courtyard and realises that he is standing and staring at nothing. He plasters a small smirk on his face and goes to tease d'Artagnan about his reloading times (he is improving, but a little gentle teasing won't hurt, especially if he happens to mention a certain time when Porthos broke his ramming rod reloading his pistol with a little too much enthusiasm, right in front of the Captain).