A/N: This story is inspired by the story idea that L J Groundwater shared:

"I'd love to know why Aramis trusts d'Artagnan so much with his secrets (e.g. Marsac) and why d'Artagnan seems to love him so fiercely (the hugs are amazing). I think perhaps they shared something very personal to d'Artagnan, and maybe that equally endeared him to Aramis. I love their relationship (as even my own stories show). Thoughts?"

Thank you L J Groundwater for this wonderful idea, I had loved writing this out, in fact it had written itself. Thank you.

And Thank you Deana for starting the Forum for story ideas.

This is slightly spoiler-ish of season 3.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything recognizable in this story.

The door closes.

The chill of the night is like a slap to his face, sharper for the abrupt loss of the warmth that had reached him across the threshold a blink ago.

Stepping back he stares up at the window and yells for her, like a man flung over the side of a ship he calls her to answer. It is wrong, it is insane and it is not who he is. Aramis is the unperturbed recklessness, the brash nonchalance, he is the precarious balance, the dance on the edge of the blade and right now he is slipping.

"Adele! Adele!"

His breath mists before his face.

The window remains closed.

His eyes burn and he closes them against the too familiar stab of abandonment.

The dead in the snow greet him from the back of his eyelids – the smell of trees in frozen winter, black crows alight on white and their calls echo over scattered bodies – twenty dead – no not twenty, not there today, it was Cornet – Cornet and his men dead in the snow.

Aramis pulls in a breath and opens his eyes.

Lets his head drop in remembrance of lost friends, from then, from now. Letting go a slow breath he straightens, places his hat back on his head and tips it just so. The angle is rakish and charming and enough to veil the shadows in his eyes that will roam there tonight.

It is in their company that he makes it back to the tavern he had left his friends. A glance around tells him that they have left for the night and Aramis isn't sure that he is entirely disappointed about that. Taking a bottle and forgoing the cup he winks at the barmaid and perches on the stool at his side. Watches her in hopes of the life affirming warmth that he craves and an escape from the solitude that always beckons closer the ghosts he lives with.

Decides he will not step into the trouble he can feel brewing behind him to his left and slowly consumes more than half of the wine in the bottle. Thumb swiping over the one bump the glassblower had missed in the bottle and smiles at the barmaid as she glides past him, dainty fingers grazing his pauldron as she goes.

"Take that back or prepare to meet your death!"

Aramis chokes on the wine, coughs hard to expel it from the wrong way it had taken down his throat and hastily wipes his sleeve over his mouth. That voice he knows.

Insults fly in the air, furniture screeching against the floor amidst the sound of shuffling feet and growling men while the barkeep hurries over to sooth the matter. Aramis hands the barmaid his due and a few more coins.

"To go towards the damage," he says.

Draining the bottle he places it lightly back on the counter. Movements slow and deliberate as the argument grows loud behind him, violence brewing like the wine of highest quality, promising intoxicated oblivion and a harsh relief.

Aramis smirks.

There is a sound of knuckles meeting flesh and the roar that is quickly becoming familiar, before the clash of metal cuts the air. Placing his hat on his head Aramis steps over the man that lands before his feet, sidesteps the two rolling away to crash in the table beyond and grabbing the man about to break a chair on d'Artagnan, he knocks him out with a punch to his face. Grins as he dodges the man running at him and ducking under the random fist swinging to his head he hits the nearest face and kicks the toppled chair into the charging figure before he spots d'Artagnan.

Eyes alight with rage and face set in a snarl, the lad has locked blades and is straining against the Red Guard twice the size of Porthos.

Aramis grasps the empty bottle rolling on the table and smashes against the Red Guard's head even as he grabs d'Artagnan by the collar of his doublet and pulls him away from the wild swing arching his way. His young friend rewards him with a fist to the gut for that before the blazing eyes widen in recognition.

Aramis laughs at the bewilderment focused his way.

"There they are," the barkeep has brought in more Red Guards.

One glance behind him and Aramis shoves his hat onto d'Artagnan's head, pushing it low. Ignoring the younger man's protests he drags him into the crowd, smacks a hand over his mouth and melts into the shadows with his squirming charge. The clink of metal, the swish of red and the glint of candle light over silver reigns the tavern as the new arrivals break the melee.

Aramis glances at the door and finds it blocked by the Red Guards.

He could walk up there and talk his way out, at worst he will have to spend a night in the stocks and about two weeks of the Captain breathing down his neck. But he isn't sure if the Captain would make the same effort to save the man currently trying to slip his hold; Aramis does not dwell on why he doesn't want to risk d'Artagnan suffering.

Instead he slides closer to the far corner, eases open the window as the din starts to recede and with a heave and a shove he tosses d'Artagnan out. Slips out after him and hauling up the groaning heap he makes for the end of the street.

Stumbling, staggering and cursing vehemently.

It is only when they've rounded the corner that Aramis stops, plucks his hat off d'Artagnan's head just as the other man doubles over to vomit. Dropping his swords to curl an arm around his middle d'Artagnan throws out his other hand to grasp at a wall for support; and Aramis finds himself reaching for it. After all they're right in the middle of the street, too far from any wall to provide such service.

The grip is surprisingly firm around his hand even as the younger man winces and straightens.

"Did you eat anything before you drank the tavern dry?" Aramis asks.

Dark eyes fix him with a baleful glare before d'Artagnan groans, bends and throws up again.

"I'll take that as a no then," Aramis says and smirks, "if you got any of that on my shoes you'll be cleaning them too just so we are clear."

D'Artagnan coughs, spits out more wine and groans loudly.

"I hate you," he says.

"However will I live with myself," Aramis rolls his eyes before a grin breaks on his face and he pats d'Artagnan on the back, "C'mon now, you don't want to keep in what wants to get out, let it through."

D'Artagnan obliges.

And nearly crumples with a cry of pain.

Aramis catches him before the younger one can land in the regurgitated wine. It leaves him with an arm full of a shivering Gascon as Aramis adjusts his hold to steer clear of the injured ribs that had reminded the younger man so viciously of their presence. Securing an arm around d'Artagnan's waist Aramis drags the quivering man away from the mess and towards the pile of crates he had spied.

Depositing the weight in his hold onto one of the wooden containers Aramis straightens and reaches out in quiet alarm when the younger man sways. Grips the narrow shoulder as d'Artagnan wipes his arm over his mouth and coughs. It reminds him of the little ones from when he was young, huddled together under a shared blanket in the room directly below the roof.

Aramis shakes his head, dislodges the feel of cool floorboards under small bare feet, the muted glow of the fog on the glass panes of the window and the tune of a lullaby in the enemy language that he had hummed to tear puffed faces.

"Athos passed out," d'Artagnan says, "Porthos took him home,"

And Aramis knows he will likely stay until morning to make sure that Athos keeps breathing through the night.

"And you decided to stay back because…?"

"Because I wanted to," snaps the younger man.

His eyes narrow in belligerence as he surges to his feet and jabs Aramis in the chest with a finger. Glares at him and attempts to stand taller, one hand curling into a fist by his side as he sways where he stands.

"What's it to you?" he demands, raises his chin as his eyes harden, "I'm a grown man and I can do whatever I want."

"Not if it means you get yourself killed,"

"And you care?"

"Yes I do,"

D'Artagnan blinks.

Blinks again; three times in quick succession even as he rolls back onto his heels and staggers a little. Shuffles where he stands as he finds his balance, his mouth opening and closing until it settles into a frown, dark eyes peering in confusion at Aramis.

"Why?" he asks.

"Because you helped us save Athos," it's the simplest explanation he can come up with.

"It helped me get to father's murderer," d'Artagnan shrugs, "you don't owe me anything,"

Aramis rolls his eyes, it's the fair and honorable ones that always find it difficult to accept help; he knows two other fools of the same sort. He watches d'Artagnan groan again as the younger man clutches at his head even as he cradles his bruised ribs with an arm, attempting to curl into himself now that the pain makes itself known. Aramis gently pushes him back and down to perch on the crates behind him. Holding onto his arm to keep the younger man steady Aramis crouches before him.

"And what do you plan to do now?" He asks.

"I don't know,"

It's muffled and distinctly wet and the dark head does not rise.

And Aramis remembers the sixteen year old who had arrived in Paris in search of his mother and had taken the life of the man he had witnessed murdering her. A boy from the dark alleys of this city who had been saved once only to return for answers that had left him with more questions, a young lad brought up to become a priest but took up a sword and hadn't looked back since.

His clasp tightens on the arm in his hold and his eyes meet the younger man's who looks up at him.

"I want to go back but I can't, it's not – not home anymore," d'Artagnan says; a painfully confused desperation in his gaze, "it is home I know but he won't be there and I can't – not so soon,"

A wandering soul; like him, like Athos, like Porthos. With a home at his back that he cannot return to, but hopes to, one day. One day when the shadows don't linger at the threshold, when the cold hearth can blaze again with fond memories and the foundations had found their strength again.

D'Artagnan wipes his nose on his sleeve.

"He's buried at the village where we stopped," he says, "I should have taken him home, should have – shouldn't have left him there – should have –" he shakes his head and turns to look down the empty street before them, "we were supposed to come to Paris together,"

His voice breaks, hands clenching into fists where they rest in his lap as he grits his teeth to stem the flow of tears that had taken to roll down his face hot and fast. Aramis has no words to offer, doubts if he well get them past the lump blocking his throat even if he found what to say. Instead he reaches up to grasp the younger man by the back of his neck and gives it a squeeze. Never expected d'Artagnan to drop to his knees and embrace him, long arms wrapping in a fierce hold.

Aramis takes the abrupt force that collides with him and holds on as the lad shakes with the force of his tears, takes the weight as it sags against him after a while.

Waits until d'Artagnan pushes away from him, sniffling and moaning slightly.

"M'head hurts," he says.

Aramis chuckles and gets to his feet. Grabs the younger man by the arm and hauls him up as well. The bell tolls midnight in the distance; the gong echoes over the city, reverberating in the cold night.

"Let's get you to your rooms," he says.

D'Artagnan swats at his hands when Aramis reaches for him and lurches backwards with a growl.

"What rooms?" he asks.

Sways where he stands and slaps at the hands that reach for him again, stumbles into the pile of crates and topples a few with a spectacular clatter in the relative silence. Yips and tries to shake off the remnants of the crate he had stepped in.

Catching him before he can fall onto his side by his efforts to escape, Aramis looks to the inky sky for patience.

"The ones you secured at the Bonacieux household," he says.

That brings a smile to d'Artagnan's face.

"Constance saved my life you know," he grins.

And Aramis takes the opportunity to secure his grip on the younger man. Maneuvers himself d'Artagnan's arm and hooks his own arm around his waist, guides him out of the broken wood his foot is still stuck in. Pulls him closer when the younger man attempts to turn; the Gascon's free arm arching in a wave a he nearly drags Aramis with him, before he settles to craning his neck in order to look around the empty street they are in.

"I should bring her flowers," he says.

Looking around as if expecting a vendor to pop into his view.

"I thought you didn't need to be rescued by a woman," Aramis says.

And nudges him to move along.

"No, no Constance can save me," d'Artagnan proclaims loudly.

Shakes his head and shuffles his feet to walk, the effort that becomes more of a hindrance than help to Aramis' endeavors and they are forced to a stop. The younger man doesn't seem to mind though and turns to Aramis with a solemn face.

"She's brave and beautiful and strong and smart," he raises his free hand as if taking an oath, "she figured out what I intended to do, said she had three brothers and knew the look that I had in my eyes."

Aramis arcs a brow, because of course she does. How many times had she witnessed the angry blaze in Porthos' eyes, the grim determination in Athos' gaze, or the look in his own eyes before he embarked on a less than thought through plan? It takes him a second to realize that d'Artagnan is staring at him. He smirks at the slow realization that comes to the inebriated man.

"Oh," d'Artagnan says, "oh she meant you three,"

Aramis chuckles and sets them in motion again.

"Athos, Porthos, Aramis," d'Artagnan recites, "Athos, Porthos, Aramis,"

It's a singsong tune that he keeps muttering and declaring by turns as they make their way down the street. Aramis lets him ramble and wonders how Constance would react when they'll appear at her doorstep like this. She's a remarkable woman, so he has no doubt she'll be livid at the sight. And he has a feeling it will be his face that will be left stinging for the night in result.

He could take the lad to Athos' rooms and dump him on their other drunk. Porthos will be there too and they can spend the remaining night playing cards while the other two dry off.

"Athos, Porthos, Aramis," d'Artagnan swings his head up to look at him, "Aramissssssss," he hisses at him.

Aramis grits his teeth, squashes the temptation to drop him right there and be done with it.

"Why are you not a Thos?" d'Artagnan asks.

Pulling along the rapidly wilting younger man Aramis shrugs.

"That's not an honour bestowed on just anyone," he says.

And nearly stops short at his own words. Maybe he's a bit drunk too he decides. But d'Artagnan chews on the problem, brows furrowing.

"But I will dub you a Thos," he announces, "I'll dub you Arathos!"

Aramis nearly losses his footing as the other man tips sideways in his enthusiastic renaming.

"No, that's not right," d'Artagnan goes on, not bothered by Aramis' cursing, "and you can't be Athos so Misthos? Mathos? Rathos?"

"Only if you get to be Dathos," Aramis offers, "or Cathos?"

D'Artagnan pulls to halt abruptly, digs his heels in the dirt and pulls back to straighten. There is a hard conviction in his gaze as he shakes his head and a somber pain in his voice when he speaks.

"No I'm d'Artagnan," he says, "I can't be anyone else because I'm the only one that's left."

And that nearly knocks the wind out of Aramis' lungs.

He knows exactly what it's like to be the last one left.

Aramis inhales a breath when his chest starts to feel tight and forces a smile onto his face. Gently nudges the other man to move again, turning onto the route to take him to his own rooms outside of the garrison. He had only brought four people there ever since he had acquired the lodgings, and out of those four one was either dead or would be as soon as he sets his foot in this city.

Aramis stops and looks at d'Artagnan.

"This morning with Dujon, why did you not stop me when I was about to shoot him?" he asks.

"You're a Musketeer," d'Artagnan says like it's the obvious explanation, "you wouldn't go about murdering people,"

"You believed Athos did it,"

"I hadn't met you three then," and his face is aflush that has nothing to do with the alcohol he had consumed, "when I did I saw what my father had always said about the Musketeers, that they are honorable men."

And this, this ability to see and hope for good in people unfurls something in Aramis' chest. He had not expected it after what d'Artagnan had witnessed just a day ago. It's a fragile thing this optimism.

"C'mon then," he says and pulls d'Artagnan along, "let's get out of this cold."

It's a slow going, the younger man losing control over his feet as with each passing step. In the end Aramis has to prop d'Artagnan up against the wall so that he can unlock the door to his rooms before he practically drags the man over to the bed. Dumps him there and goes to light the candle and lock the door after him. When he returns it's to the sight of the younger man bent over and clutching his foot. It takes him a second to realize that d'Artagnan has been trying to divest himself of that particular article of his clothing but is apparently at loss over its mechanism.

"They were fine this morning," d'Artagnan looks up at him.

"I'm sure they still are," Aramis says.

"The straps are stuck," he says through gritted teeth.

D'Artagnan grabs the toe of his boot and yanks, hard; and lands on the floor with an even harder thump. Aramis finds the dark eyes open wide to look to him in a dazed sort of shock and resigns himself to the fate before him. Moves to push the younger man back onto the bed, ignores him sprawling onto his back across it where he lies staring at the roof while Aramis gets the boots off his feet.

"I have my revenge," d'Artagnan says, "I should be happy,"

"It's not as satisfactory as it seems is it?" Aramis says.

Sets the boots aside and gets to his feet to pull d'Artagnan back into a sitting position. The younger man is compliant, infuriatingly so because it makes his work that much harder. But Aramis is as stubborn as they come and feels an unhealthy dose of pride when he manages to grapple d'Artagnan out of the doublet he is wearing.

Not strength but technique my friend, he tells the Porthos in his head and they both agree it's none of the two but simply practice; so Aramis thanks the Athos in his mind for the experience he had given them.

"So what do I have now?" d'Artagnan asks the floor between his feet.

Aramis does not like how young he looks, finds himself squeezing his shoulder in reassurance before he tips the Gascon to lie down. Helps him adjust against the wall at the head of the bed to help the bruised ribs d'Artagnan had acquired.

"You have Athos' respect," Aramis says as he lifts the shirt to check the injury, "and Porthos' loyalty. That my friend is quite an achievement."

He gets to his feet and taking the candle with him searches for the bandages he keeps in the bureau by the wall. Taking out a particularly large piece of linen he soaks it in the bucket he keeps on the windowsill for Athos, in case the three of them spend a night at his place. Wringing out the moisture he returns to the bed and places the folded cool cloth over the worst of the swelling. D'Artagnan hisses and shifts away, scowls at him when Aramis does not let him escape the cold. But relief becomes evident on his face and Aramis smiles as the younger man nods into sleep before jerking himself awake.

"And wh' ab't you?" he asks.

It's like pushing back a pup that keeps nuzzling the palm of your hand.

Aramis smirks as he gets to his feet again, gives in to the urge to ruffle the mop of dark hair on d'Artagnan's head.

"You have my bed, my pillow and my blanket," he says, "what more could you want?"

He wakes up with a shiver.

There is a damp cloth at his side and it's cold.

D'Artagnan squints against the early morning light that fuses in as a pasty glow from the closed window. His gaze slips from the foggy glass as he presses a hand to his side over the cool cloth and shifts to straighten against the pillow at his back. His head hurts and his eyes water as he looks about him. The room he does not recognize but its warm, the embers still aglow in the fireplace at the far corner.

As the events from the past day and specifically the last night settle into his mind he looks to the man at his bedside.

Aramis is in uniform, has his booted feet crossed at the ankles where they are propped onto the edge of the bed and the chair he is in is tipped back on its hind legs. His hat is set on his face and his breathing deep and even.

"Thought you'd sleep till noon,"

And d'Artagnan clenches his teeth shut to keep in the gasp. He should have known the man was awake; the cloth was damp after all. Berating himself for getting startled this easily he schools his face free of any remnants of surprise when the other man lifts the hat off his face to regard him.

"And how are you feeling this morning?" he asks too cheerfully; and too loudly.

D'Artagnan flinches and clutches at his head.

"That good huh?"

Aramis brings his chair on all fours with a loud clack and scoots it back with a teeth shuddering screech. He laughs when d'Artagnan curses him and goes to open the window. Cool air rushes in and d'Artagnan curses him some more. Tries to grab the thudding ache in his head until the other man plunks a half full bucket of water on the floor.

"Go on," Aramis says, makes a shooing motion with his hand, "dunk your head in,"

"What?"

"Works for Athos," Aramis shrugs.

D'Artagnan stares from the bucket to the man, the brown eyes are alight with mirth but there is warmth there as well; had been there last night too. Eyeing the man looking much too delighted at the prospect of this d'Artagnan eases out of the bed and down onto his knees. Grabs the edge of the bucket, sucks in a breath and plunges his head in.

The sharp chill cuts into his mind and trails gooseflesh onto his skin. He pulls back sputtering, gasps as a towel drops on his head as soon as he straightens. He is still shivering when Aramis hauls him back up onto the bed.

"Now that you are properly awake how about breakfast at the garrison?"

Stopping in his vigorous efforts to dry his hair d'Artagnan looks at the man who had taken a mop to the floor.

"I feel like you've already decided that for me," he says.

"It makes sense," Aramis shrugs, "we will meet Athos and Porthos there and after breakfast we can ask the Captain to take you up as a recruit."

Aramis stops the work to meet his eyes.

"If that is what you wish," he says.

Excitement and apprehension churn in his guts and d'Artagnan bites his lip from jumping at accepting the offer. He has a farm that is awaiting his return but he knows that he had been far too restless in that life. And this, the life of a sword will not be easy because those who lived by the sword died by at it, sometimes too soon.

He is pulled from his thoughts when Aramis straddles the chair and comes to sit before him.

"Or I could volunteer the three of us to be the part of the Musketeers being sent out to check the areas where these fake Musketeers had shown up," he says, "the inn where you father died is on the list, maybe you would like to accompany us?"

A salty lump rises up to his throat and blocks his words, his eyes burn and d'Artagnan drops them to stare at his lap. He had not expected Aramis to pay attention to his drunken confessions, hadn't dreamed of the man offering him a chance of a new beginning, had especially not imagined this attempt for closure the man is giving him. Because yes, d'Artagnan would like to visit his father's grave even fresh as it is, would like to pay respect to the man properly, one that is not marred with the hate of revenge.

"You will come with me?" he asks.

Hates how his voice shakes and winces at his weakness to face this grief alone.

"If that is what you want,"

He nods.

Once.

And feels relieved when Aramis stands up without further questions, lets him wipe his eyes and gather his wits back together in silence. D'Artagnan spies his boots and pulls them on, snags his doublet and is just shrugging it on when Aramis grabs his arm and pulls him along. They step out together into the streets of Paris. The air is stirring with the stalls just being set up, the doors and windows are being thrown open as people wake up to greet the new day. D'Artagnan pulls in a breath and stops Aramis with a hand on his shoulder.

The pauldron under his fingers is hard yet flexible and d'Artagnan knows in that second that he would want this honor on his shoulder too, feels a swell of pride at the thought that this man and the two other he respects would vouch for him.

"Alright?" Aramis asks.

Is looking at him with a mixture of concern and confusion.

"Yes," d'Artagnan smiles.

Pulls the man into a sudden embrace and lets him go with a laugh.

"Yes, everything is alright,"

"In everyone's life, at some time, our inner fire goes out. It is then burst into flame by an encounter with another human being. We should all be thankful for those people who rekindle the inner spirit."
– Albert Schweitzer

END