Musketeers 1. d'Artagnan

_Hello, my lovelies. You might think "oh no, she's not finished her other story, why is she starting a new one?" Well, unlike Building A Family, I know exactly how many chapters this will have. 4, one for each of the boys and their hidden/surprising talent. This was surprisingly fun and quite emotional (in a good way) to write, so I do hope you enjoy it. As always, reviews, follows and favourites are appreciated and make me smile._

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><p><strong>D'Artagnan: <strong>  
><strong>Hidden Talent - CarpentryWhittling**

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><p>The wood felt about the right size and shape, so he picked it up off the ground once they had stopped for the night to sleep. He wasn't on watch, but he figured Porthos could use the company, and it was just one of those nights where he was too fidgety to sleep. They didn't happen so often now, but it used to be that every time they were on a mission away from Paris, and they either had to stay at an inn, or out in the open, d'Artagnan got little to no sleep. It hadn't taken the others long to notice, though, and once they worked out the problem, they were quick to reassure him that they would not be bothered if he woke up crying out for his father, and that none of them were going to die if he went out to the stables to see to the horses.<p>

It had taken them a while, but eventually he relaxed enough that he could sleep clear through the night. Aramis took great delight in telling him that he purred like a cat when he slept. He always felt better, and admittedly safer, when one of the others was next to him in the bed. Aramis was the most clingy, but he hardly minded that - except when he had to disentangle their limbs just so he could get up to relieve himself, but that had only ever happened once, so he wasn't going to think about that fiasco again.

Now though, they were camped in the woods and snow was starting to fall. Aramis needed someone warm close to him more than d'Artagnan did on this particular night, and if it meant that he could brush up on a long-abandoned skill, then so much the better. Porthos didn't say anything as d'Artagnan sat down next to him with lump of wood and an old whittling knife in hand, he just let d'Artagnan settle into whatever he was doing as he surveyed their surroundings with a watchful eye.

The night wore on peaceably, and d'Artagnan found his mind wandering to Aramis, still sleeping cradled in Athos' arms. D'Artagnan allowed himself a brief moment to wonder how often the man had held Thomas the same way through the night, but shook it from his mind as he set to work at the wood. Porthos watched out of the corner of his eye, and wondered why he'd never seen d'Artagnan doing this before, when it was obvious it was something he'd learned a long time ago.  
>"Who taught you to do that?" he asked by way of conversation, and d'Artagnan, though he was still concentrating on the task at hand, found himself smiling fondly at old memories that the question brought up.<p>

"My grandfather" he replied, absently wiping away some of the shavings from the wood off of his lap. "You might not believe it, but I was a bit of a hellion when I was a child," from Porthos' snort of derision, he could well believe it, "-Don't interrupt." d'Artagnan complained, but the tone was fond.  
>"Anyway, after whatever trouble I'd gotten in had got to father, depending on what it was, we fought. And I'd run to grandfather's cottage - it was just a little ways up from the farm, by the old well. And he'd tell me stories of his soldiering days, whittling at something all the while, and sometimes that was enough to make me feel better. But when it wasn't, he gave me my own block of wood, and told me to make something with it. And said if I thought of someone in particular when I made it, then it should be gifted to them." He smiled, an unexpected warmth of gratitude towards his grandfather radiated in his chest. "I was still quite young when he passed away, nine or ten, perhaps." He grinned even wider now.<p>

"And you know what he used to say? He'd say; lad, your fathers a good, respected man here - but don't go forgetting that any advice he gives you is damned foolish. He'd probably tell ye to go an' march up to every man who so much as brushes your shoulder and demand that they duel you. Listen to an old man, whittle away your troubles instead." He'd done the best impression of the man that he could from those old, dusty memories. It had been so many years since he'd thought anything about the man other than to recall his exasperated sighs or his warm laughter. He looked down at the shape in his hands, surprised at the form it'd taken. Porthos just smiled though, and looked over to their sleeping comrades.

"Reckon you been thinkin' of Aramis, if that's what you made, kid." D'Artagnan rolled his eyes, but turned it around in his hand. Of all things, he'd fashioned a little wooden crucifix. Humming thoughtfully, finished off the piece and started looking around for another piece of wood.  
>"What ya lookin' for?" Porthos asked, eyeing him with amiable curiosity.<br>"More wood." D'Artagnan explained, eyes alighting on what seemed like a suitable piece.  
>"Why?"<br>"Well, I need to make beads if this is going to be a rosary, don't I?"

They fell into amicable silence, and d'Artagnan kept working even when Athos took Porthos' place on watch. Though Athos seemed curious, he did not ask d'Artagnan what he was doing, seeing how intent he was on his work.  
>"Just one of those nights, then?" he asked conversationally, and d'Artagnan gave him something halfway between a shrug and a nod as his answer.<br>"Gave me the time and the occasion for the practice. I'm a little rusty." He kept working, even as he felt Athos' eyes on him. Today, there was nothing sharp in that gaze, he knew, only softness and understanding. "Besides. Aramis is the one who needs company tonight." He let that hang in the air for a while. Athos made no move to contradict him, which he appreciated. Still, the silence had become awkward.

"Say, Athos?"  
>"Hm?"<br>"You wouldn't have any string or twine I could use, do you? I'd like it if I could get this finished before morning."  
>"This being?"<br>"A rosary, for Aramis." Athos' eyebrows shot up in surprise, and d'Artagnan was quick to defend himself, "I know it's not as fancy as the one Her Majesty gifted to him or anything, but when I started whittling I was thinking about him and-" he stopped when he saw Athos raise a hand to calm his rambling.  
>"Peace, d'Artagnan. I was only a little surprised, that's all. I think I have a leather string in my pack- ah! Here it is, will this do?" he asked, handing the younger man the item in question. Turning it over in his hands, he studied it for a long moment before nodding, more to himself than to Athos.<br>"This will do nicely, I think." And he spent what was left of the night fiddling with it all and trying to hold everything in place. Athos was suitably impressed with his skills.

"I know we joke about Aramis being a seamstress, but I think you could have been a jeweler, in another life. You have the skill for it. That, or a carpenter. You're very skilled with that knife of yours." D'Artagnan beamed at the compliment, honestly happy that a man who he so admired appreciated his skills.  
>"Thank you, Athos. My grandfather gave it to me for my eighth birthday. And I used to help my sisters mend their jewellery. We couldn't afford much, so what they had was handed down. Or I was bribed and blackmailed to make something pretty for them. But I don't think that ever could have been me." He turned properly to Athos, even as he was fixing the length of the rosary. "I'm quite happy with life as a Musketeer, and I wouldn't have it any other way." Athos clapped him on the shoulder and squeezed it firmly, and d'Artagnan felt warm inside, glad to have his approval.<br>"Well, that's morning. You go wake Aramis, and give him your gift while you're at it. I'll drag Porthos to make something edible for breakfast." D'Artagnan nodded, grateful for the opportunity to give what he'd made to Aramis without an audience watching on.

He made his way over to where Aramis and Porthos were sleeping. First off, he kicked Porthos in the leg, and the man was up instantly. He'd learned that trick last month on a mission on the coast.  
>"What?"<br>"Athos needs to make use of your culinary abilities, now scram." He made a shooing motion with his hands, and Porthos huffed, pretending to be offended. When he saw what d'Artagnan had in his hands, however, he grinned.

"You finished it?"  
>"Yup." D'Artagnan was looking nervously at the ground, avoiding his eyes. Porthos sighed and punched him gently in the arm.<br>"He'll love it." The larger man assured him, then a shadow crossed his eyes, "You sure you're okay for waking him up?"  
>"Yeah, don't worry, I know what I'm doing now, and I solemnly swear, on my name and my honour, that there will be no repeat of last month's incident." Porthos clapped him on the shoulder indulgently and then swanned off to do whatever it was Athos needed.<p>

Crouching next to Aramis, he placed a hand gently on his shoulder and shook him a little. He groggily blinked his eyes and then rolled over, but at least he wasn't so deeply asleep anymore, so d'Artagnan whispered in his ear  
>"You missed the party at Madame Angel's" And that was all it took for the man to shoot up from where he had been sleeping, momentarily disorientated before his eyes lit on d'Artagnan and he realised what had happened.<p>

"You are the single cruellest boy that Gascony has had the misfortune of spawning" he complained, whilst pouting. And whilst that might have worked on him if Aramis had been a child, the look on a grown man was completely ridiculous. When he looked closely at the Gascon, however, he frowned. "And why, young man, do you look like you haven't slept all night?" Sometimes d'Artagnan hated how much of a mother hen the man insisted on being.  
>"Because he hasn't." Athos and Porthos both helpfully interjected at once. D'Artagnan glared in their direction, because really, that wasn't helping, and the guilty look on Aramis' face had no place being there at all.<p>

"d'Arta-"  
>"No," the Gascon interrupted before Aramis even had time to start his sentence, never mind finish it, "I do not want to hear it. You needed them more, and it gave me an excuse to practice." Aramis blinked, confused, and frowned again.<br>"Practice what?"  
>Instead of answering, d'Artagnan opened his left palm, which he had been holding the rosary it. Clearing his throat awkwardly.<br>"I uh, made it, for you. I know it's not fancy or-" But Aramis, with an awestruck expression in his eyes, had reverently lifted it from the boy's fingers, his hands rolling over it and drinking in each detail. D'Artagnan didn't quite know what to do with himself.  
>"You made this. For me. In one night, all by yourself, because you couldn't sleep?" The words were so very quiet, but were as loud as church bells to d'Artagnan's ears. He nodded dumbly, and Aramis seemed to struggle with words to match his appreciation.<p>

"Well, Athos gave me the leather chord, but other than that, yes?" he rubbed his arm out of equal parts nerves and embarrassment. Aramis looked on the verge of tears and he didn't know if he could deal with that when he could literally fall over from exhaustion any minute now.  
>"Thank you." Aramis' voice was choked and raw and full of emotion. "I will treasure it, always." He lifted it over his head, and at the length it was, the cross sat right over his heart. D'Artagnan was sure that some poet or another (maybe even Aramis himself) might find that symbolic. But d'Artagnan was no poet, so he said this instead:<p>

"May it keep you safe, and remind you that even if you're lost in the cold and the darkness, you're not alone. You will never be alone." Aramis drew him into a tight embrace that he was quick to return and slow to give up.  
>If both of their eyes shone with tears as they made their way to breakfast, the others were wise enough not to mention it.<p>

They did, however, have a quiet chuckle when later, d'Artagnan nearly fell off his horse at a canter because he'd momentarily fallen asleep.


	2. Aramis

_A/N: Sorry this took me so long folks, but apparently I work best at 1.30 in the morning after procrastinating for ages. This kind of turned into Aramis/d'Artagnan pre-slash, but you can ignore that if you want. Please, enjoy and review :)_

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><p><strong>Aramis:<strong>

**Hidden Talent - Good with children**

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><p>After the night with the rosary, Aramis had gone out of his way to spend more time with d'Artagnan. Porthos and Athos were familiar with him showing his gratitude in this way, but it flustered the Gascon that anyone would want to spend so much of their time with him, when they no doubt had better things to be doing with their time. Aramis had been quite insistent, though, so he had eventually relented and allowed himself to be led along by the nose to whatever new and exciting crevices and nooks of Paris that the other Musketeer prevailed to impress him with.<p>

Now, though, it was Aramis who looked, for want of a better word, shy. He was looking anywhere but at d'Artagnan's face, and it confused the Gascon, until he asked:

"Would you mind coming along with me to church tonight?" Then it made sense. Religion, to Aramis, was something personal, and sacred. D'Artagnan himself had never held much stock in priests - all that Latin gave him hives, why couldn't they just speak plain French? But he knew that this was important to Aramis, so he agreed to go. He knew he'd made the right decision by the way his friend's face lit up for joy.

"You won't regret it, my dear d'Artagnan, I promise you." Aramis assured him, and d'Artagnan bit back a grin at his comrade's excitement. "I'll meet you back here tonight then. Until then, I have, ah... prior engagements." D'Artagnan was used to this now, but he couldn't quite resist the urge to smirk and raise a coy eyebrow. Aramis shoved him playfully.

"Not like that, you arse. Though I can see where one might get that idea, but a cousin of mine has come to Paris and I haven't seen him in years, and if I go to meet him now, then it gets it over with."

"Not exactly close, then?" d'Artagnan guessed, and Aramis snorted.

"Nowhere near. Though someone seems to have neglected to inform him of that." Aramis gave his most dramatic put-upon sigh, clapped d'Artagnan on the back, and took his leave.

D'Artagnan returned to the garrison where Porthos and Athos were having a game of cards. There didn't seem to be any stakes to it, but he settled on the stairs across from them to watch anyway. Porthos looked up, surprised but happy to see him.

"Thought you'd be with Aramis?" He said, raising an eyebrow, and causing Athos to look up, giving the Gascon a small smile when their eyes met.

"There was a cousin he had to meet. Didn't seem to happy about it." Athos frowned, but Porthos nodded.

"He was makin' a right song an' dance about it the other day when he got a letter from a cousin of his mothers asking to meet 'im whilst he was in Paris. Apparently they played together as children and the guy seems to think they're the best of friends."

"Aramis doesn't seem to share his sentiments in the slightest." D'Artagnan complained, "and yet he still agrees to go and meet him?"

"If he didn't I get the feelin' the guy would have looked for him until he found him. Aramis probably wanted to avoid any unpleasantness that might cause." Athos nodded in agreement, and smirked when he saw d'Artagnan pouting.

"Did it cut into whatever date you two had planned?" he teased quietly. D'Artagnan glared at him.

"I hate you so much. So very much. You are never convincing me to drink with you again, ever. Ever."

"We just thought you needed help to forget the whole mess with Constance." Porthos chimed in as he won the next hand. He never bothered cheating when there wasn't anything to lose. It wasn't worth the effort. "And trust me, Aramis is exactly the same. Men, women, doesn't matter to him. So long as you let him spout poetry in your ear whilst you-" Athos kicked him under the table.

"No need to be crude, Porthos. You've gone and terrified the boy already." Porthos pouted, but shrugged when Athos continued to glare at him and kept his mouth shut. "It isn't that he doesn't _care_, d'Artagnan. I have never in all my years met a more caring person. What Porthos is trying to say is that he has never found the sex of his lovers of any... value isn't the right word, but it doesn't mean he would love you any less. If, of course, it is love you want."

"Can we please not have this conversation here. Or ever. Never having this conversation ever would be a wonderful thing." He left them to their game, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Athos raise his glass in his direction with a knowing smirk curling his lips.

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><p>Aramis made it back to the garrison a little earlier than he had expected, which was a pleasant surprise. The reason he had done so, perhaps not so much. Turned out, that cousin of his wanted to know him a little more <em>intimately<em> than he was comfortable with, so he'd turned around and jumped over a wall and looked over his shoulder every five seconds. This was not good in the slightest.

He did not like being the object of a demented cousin's affections in the slightest. Even if he hadn't begun to start feeling something stir in his heart towards d'Artagnan. Ever since that boy had made that crucifix with his own hands - he clutched at it now, where is was nestled against his heart - he had felt a new appreciation for the Gascon, and a multiplied desire for his company. It was too much to hope that he could feel the same way, he supposed, and so he would be happy just spending what time with him that he could, and sharing his faith was an important part of that.

Speaking of which, that was part of why he was inviting d'Artagnan to accompany him to church tonight. He was sure the children would adore him.

"Have fun, then?" Porthos asked from where both he and Athos had seemed to be waiting for him. He snorted, looking back over his shoulder one last time. If his cousin did show up, he would be more than happy to let Porthos deal with him. After all, he wouldn't even break a sweat.

"Oh yes, wonderful to have a new admirer," he replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm as he dropped down beside them with a heavy sigh. Athos raised his eyebrows and Porthos frowned, but neither of them said a word. The weight of their stares was enough to get him talking. "He was ah, rather... infatuated. Unfortunate, I suppose, seeing as-"

"Your heart is set upon another?" Athos asked with a smirk. Aramis' eyes narrowed and he considered slapping Athos.

"I never can hide anything from you, can I?" He asked, but there was no heat in his voice, only resigned acceptance.

"Have you ever actually tried?" Athos countered, and Aramis rolled his eyes.

"Anyway, where is d'Artagnan?"

"In his room" Porthos replied. "Probably making some silly wooden bauble like he always does when he's bored these days." Of its own accord, Aramis' right hand reached for his rosary, but he managed to stop himself. Not before his two friends had seen the movement. They didn't call him out on it, only smiled knowingly as they watched him head up to find d'Artagnan.

D'Artagnan, as it turned out, _was_ whittling when Aramis found him, and since he didn't want to disturb him, he just waited until he was done - it was fascinating to watch, and to think about those very skilled hands, focused on his craft... well-

"Aramis? Oh. Am I late, or?" He must have moved onto the creaking wood, and he cursed himself for being caught staring. Only, d'Artagnan didn't seem to realise that he _had_ been staring.

"No, no. I'm early. He was even worse than I remembered." D'Artagnan grimaced in sympathy, and put his whittling knife away, blowing the sawdust off a little figure of a farm dog. He must have been thinking about home again.

"That bad, huh?"

"Yes, that bad. But are you ready?"

"Why the hurry?" d'Artagnan asked as Aramis practically dragged him along the hallway. "I thought you said you were early. And why such fuss about church anyway?" Aramis tried not to let him see how that last remark stung, but he must have noticed anyway because the next thing he said was "That wasn't what I meant and you know it, Aramis." Aramis nodded, but didn't answer, just led him out of the garrison and through the streets until they came to a little run down church on the outskirts of town. D'Artagnan gave him a curious look, but in lieu of an answer, he just knocked on the door.

And it was answered by a boy of, if d'Artagnan had to guess, no more than eight years. As soon as he saw Aramis, he ran forward, and Aramis crouched down to pick the boy up in his arms and spun him in the air. D'Artagnan watched in wonder at the ease which he seemed to have with the child, who giggled happily, and wrapped his arms around Aramis' neck when they stopped spinning. D'Artagnan felt almost like he was intruding.

"Do I not get an introduction, then?" he asked, daring to break the momentary quiet. The boy's head shot up at the sound of his voice, and d'Artagnan was hurt that he looked scared, but tried to reassure him. Aramis just shot him a charming smile that, if he was honest, completely disarmed him.

"How rude of me! This, Thomas, is Charles d'Artagnan, a fellow Musketeer, and a very dear friend of mine." He explained. The boys lit up and he looked between them.

"Are you the one that can make stuff out of blocks of wood?"

"Yup, that's me" d'Artagnan agreed, somewhat dumbfounded. He shifted uncomfortably under the boy's careful scrutiny, but eventually the child nodded, and ran back into the church. Aramis was avoiding looking at him, and was whistling an entirely to innocent tune.

"Have you been gossiping about me, Aramis?" he teased, shoving the other man playfully, before a kindly looking old priest came out to greet them, little Thomas trailing behind him.

"He speaks only highly of you and your fellow Musketeers, my son. Come in and meet everyone. They've been pestering him to let them meet you for the past few weeks." The man smiled kindly at him, and though d'Artagnan had never been overly comfortable with churches, or priests, something in the old man's expression set him at ease.

He was not prepared for just how many children there were. There had to be at least twelve of them. They all bombarded Aramis with hugs and questions and d'Artagnan found himself just enjoying watching the other man, who was clearly in his element with these children - these orphans, he told himself. Except for the girl in the corner, who seemed to be avoiding everyone. Aramis seemed to have noticed her as well, because he gradually shook off the other children, encouraging them to bother d'Artagnan, who didn't mind in the slightest, and made his way to ask the priest about the girl.

"She hasn't spoken a word since she was brought here by a kindly lady of the parish, who would have taken her in herself if she didn't fear she wasn't long for this world. Won't even say her name. I only pray that, with God's grace, she will speak to us in time." Aramis nodded, worrying his lip.

"What happened, do you know?"

"Her father was murdered, I was told, God rest his soul." Aramis crossed himself and muttered a quick prayer for the man. He then looked from d'Artagnan to the girl and seemed to make a decision.

"I'll talk to her, Father, or at least I'll try, but if that doesn't work, d'Artagnan's father was murdered before he came to Paris - perhaps he could lend her an understanding ear." The old man smiled and thanked Aramis quietly, though he chuckled when he looked at where d'Artagnan was being swarmed by the children as they all begged him to make them toys like he had made Aramis' necklace.

"First of all," he tried to explain, "it's not a necklace, it's a rosary, and second of all, I have lots of little toys left in my room, and if _someone_ had explained to me why we were coming here, instead of keeping it all hush-hush, then I'd have two for each of you right now." And suddenly he was their favourite person, and he answered all of their questions about how he made the toys, and he even started to tell the story about his grandfather.

Seeing that everything was in hand, Aramis made his way over to the quiet girl in the corner. She sat with her arms around her knees, holding herself because there was no one left to hold her. She didn't look up when Aramis sat down next to her, just shuffled further away.

"Do you see that young man over there, petite?" he asked, indicating vaguely towards d'Artagnan. The girl nodded, but didn't say anything. "Just over a year ago now, his father was killed by a very bad man, who was pretending to be one of our friends." He paused, waiting to see if she would react to the story. She scowled and muttered something under her breath.

"I didn't quite catch that, petite. Speak up a little, if you can." He admonished gently. She turned this time and glared at him. It was eye contact, which he was counting as a win.

"If his papa's dead, why is he happy?" she complained.

"Because he accepted and made his peace with it." Aramis told her, perhaps more sharply than he had intended, but he had been there through d'Artagnan mourning, and there were definitely nights where it wasn't easy, and it had been Aramis who he had come to seeking comfort, and he had quoted encouraging phrases from his Bible until the Gascon had calmed or cried himself to sleep. He had never told the others about it, but there had been one night, apparently, that he had gotten drunk with Athos, and had become very morose, so much so that Athos, though it was perhaps hypocritical of him, had worried what he might do in that state. So no, he was not going to have this little girl belittle his grief just because d'Artagnan had overcome it. She flinched at his tone of voice and he sighed, rubbing his face with his hand tiredly.

"Listen to me, I know that it's hard, and that you wish he was here with you to make everything all better, and kiss you goodnight. But he can't be. And wishing isn't going to bring him back. It's only going to make it harder when you do eventually face reality." He watched her lip wobble and before he knew what he was doing, he had her wrapped tightly in his arms, and she was sobbing. He was relieved, mostly, because it sounded like she needed to let this out. He swept her up into his lap and kept up a litany of soothing nonsense whilst she cried. He was absurdly grateful for d'Artagnan, because he proved to be a miracle worker with the other children, and they seemed to have found him a block of wood and were avidly watching him work his magic, so all eyes were off, which he felt- oh, he didn't know her name. He felt her relax against his shoulder, exhausted, when she had finally finished crying.

"All out of tears, petite?" Aramis asked gently, and she sniffed, nodding. "Alright now- do you have a name to go with that pretty face, little angel, or do I have three guesses?" That earned him a broken little giggle, another victory.

"Is- Isabel, my name is Isabel, Monsieur Aramis."

"Isabel-" he almost choked up at even the name, and the thoughts and memories attached to it. "Ma belle, do you think you'll be alright now?" he asked. She nodded a little shakily, and he wiped her tears away gently. "Now, if you need anything, you just ask the good Father, alright. And if you see the bad man who hurt your father, you tell the Father and he will send someone to tell me and d'Artagnan, alright?" She nodded again, and he set her down and managed to stand himself up.

"Monsieur Aramis?" She asked timidly, still rubbing her eyes.

"Yes, petite?" he answered, brushing her hair gently out of her eyes and tucking it behind her ear.

"The bad man who hurted Monsieur d'Artagnan's papa - did you make them go away?" Aramis had to smile.

"D'Artagnan did that all by himself. We just helped. And oh, look, there's Thomas, and he seems to have a present for you." Right enough, the boy, who Aramis had become something like an uncle to, from all these visits, held out in his hand a simple little wooden angel.

"Monsieur d'Artagnan asked me to give you it" he informed them, and tucked it gently into Isabel's hands.

Aramis looked up and his eyes met with d'Artagnan's. If he didn't know better, he would say that the younger man was blushing. But that couldn't be, could it?

That aside, it was time for the children to go to bed, so he and d'Artagnan bade their farewells, and the Father thanked them for their time, and Thomas hugged them extra tight, and Isabel decided that she would kiss each of them on the cheek. She even smiled as she waved them goodbye.

The walk back to the garrison was quiet, and the cool night air was welcome to d'Artagnan's burning cheeks. There might be a time when he would tell Aramis how the man made him feel, but that day wasn't today.


	3. Athos

_A/N: Okay well this took a while and I'm sorry about that, but it's done now, and only one chapter to go! (and then I'll finally have finished at least one of my multichapter Musketeers fics!) hope you enjoy! Porthos chapter should be done soon._

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><p><strong>Athos:<strong>

**Hidden Talent - Ballroom Dancing**

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><p>Early in the day, the four of them had been called into Treville's office and charged by the captain to undertake a mission of the utmost personal importance to the king. They would attend a party, as a noble with one or two servants, and deliver a letter to a Comtesse who was also a royal spy, detailing the parameters of her next mission. The letter had to be exchanged on the floor of the ballroom, with everyone watching, and no one seeing.<p>

They all found the idea of it quite exciting, but it posed the problem of – who would play the minor nobleman?

Porthos and d'Artagnan would be too likely to slip into slang and be found out and likely killed, Aramis would likely attempt to sleep with the spy, which would anger her husband (potentially enough for him to shoot Aramis, God knows Athos had been tempted enough times himself). So that left only Athos, who could easily fall once again into the skin of a count – provided he didn't have to marry anyone, which he deemed unlikely in such circumstances.

Predictably, Aramis still volunteered for the role, when they were sorting out amongst themselves what the exact plan was after the captain had dismissed them.

"No, Aramis. The last thing we want is for an important asset to the kingdom to be compromised because someone couldn't keep their breeches tied." Athos disapproved, and Aramis pouted, but bowed to Athos' judgement. D'Artagnan wrapped a protective arm around him though and glared at Athos.

"I swear to God, if the next words out of your mouth are "he's not like that anymore", I will slap you, d'Artagnan" But the Gascon just snorted dismissively.

"He's honestly not – at least if I'm not there to join in-"

"Stop, please stop talking, I do not need to know about what the two of you do in your own time."

D'Artagnan, crude farm boy that he was, refused even to have the grace to be abashed. There was something quite refreshing about that, in a way, but this was really not the time for that nonsense.

"You started it" d'Artagnan reminded him, and Athos just grumbled whilst Porthos' chuckles reverberated through the room.

The mission went better than any of the others (save d'Artagnan, but he had an annoying habit of believing Athos could do anything) had expected. The Gascon had been disguised as a servant, so he was there to witness the event (which Aramis made him tell every little detail of), and he mostly just expressed that Athos danced with women the way he danced with a sword, dangerously beautifully and absolutely precisely. The Comtesse herself was blushing as the erstwhile Comte danced, and no one even noticed the exchanging of the letter, too enraptured had they been by the dancers before them. Even the Comtesse's husband had praised his skills, and Athos assured him that one dance had been quite enough for him, and he was more than happy to return to him his wife, as charming a partner as she had been.

He had regrouped with the others as they left and shed their disguises for their cloaks and pauldrons, relaxing into the familiar second skin of their uniforms. And all the way back to the garrison to report to the Captain, he had to endure their enthusiastic and loud appreciation for his elegant dancing skills.

He really was not at all sure why it had surprised any of them. It honestly made no sense for the men he called his brothers not to realise that he had been taught how to do this from a very young age, and that by now it was almost second-nature to him now to slip into that persona when he stepped onto the ballroom floor.

If he had known it was going to stymie all of them this much then he wouldn't even have mentioned it. Aramis was the most thoroughly bemused by his talent on the floor of the ballroom, second only to Porthos, who just stood and gaped (that might have been for another reason entirely, when he thought about it later, retrospectively). Out of the three of them, only d'Artagnan seemed unsurprised.

"I did say I was raised to be a gentleman, didn't I? Not as noble as a Comte, mind you, but dancing is a must if one is any sort of gentleman." He agreed now as they sat discussing the day's events. "And Athos has been a proper noble since birth. He could probably waltz before he could walk, since he didn't have to do things like help out on a farm or get dirt under his fingernails." He teased, and Athos resisted the urge to roll his eyes. The young Gascon never seemed able to resist a jibe at his nobility, not missing the chance to needle at every opportunity. He had the distinct feeling that Thomas would have adored this boy, had they ever been given the chance to meet.

" That is what we paid the servants for." He replied with casual ease, "getting their hands dirty so that we didn't have to."

"Such is the way with nobles, I've always found." Aramis agreed breezily. D'Artagnan nudged him gently and they share a grin. Athos didn't think he was ever going to get over how sickeningly sweet they were together.

"Such is the way with their wives, you mean? Or were they quite happy to dirty their hands with the likes of you?" He teased, and Athos marvelled at the casual allusion to Aramis' past in which he detected not one hint of jealousy, just genuine curiosity, seeing as he was fishing for information. D'Artagnan, it seemed, had learned many lessons in subtlety since he and Aramis had taken to spending more time together.

"Oh no, not always the wives, my dear boy." Athos watched the two of them and couldn't help but share a glance with Porthos at how easily their friends seemed to fit together, and he must have imagined that Porthos' smile was a little wistful because really - who would want him - a broken drunkard whose issues had issues?Let alone Porthos, who was light and love and joy and happiness, and brightened up a room just by being in it. No, there couldn't be anything in that look - it was impossible.

"I reckon I'd like to learn to dance, if it please his Lordship?" Porthos teased him, and he looked up to see that his friend was completely serious.

"Then I would consider it my duty to instruct you in the noble art of the dance, my good sir. And, incidentally, my pleasure." Athos replied with a smirk.

D'Artagnan and Aramis shared a look between themselves, a small, knowing thing, and watched with great amusement as their friends attempted to dance without letting each other know that they really wanted to touch each other in those places, and be that close together, for entirely different reasons than to step in time to music in a fancy ballroom.

D'Artagnan suddenly had a thought and leant over to whisper in Aramis' ear, causing the older Musketeer to snort with laughter, distracting the other two from where they had been pointedly staring at their feet to make sure no one stepped on anybody's toes (to avoid embarrassment that would be caused by staring longingly into each other's eyes).

"Something to share, Aramis?" Athos asked, his glare clearly needing work because the other man just grinned (but then it never worked on Aramis or he wouldn't have slept with the queen. And to think, that had been after he started whatever he had with d'Artagnan.)

"Oh no, our young d'Artagnan merely commented on how well you would look in a dress." he replied, and when he saw the embarrassed fury on both of his friend's faces, he knew it was time for he and d'Artagnan to run. They laughed merrily as they did so, leaving their friends to stumble over their words and feet and feelings in peace.


	4. Porthos

A/N: Look at this, guys! I totally _can_ finish fics that are longer than a one-shot! In any case, apologies for the wait, and I hope you enjoy this chapter! I hope everyone's as excited as me for season two! 3

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><p><strong>Porthos:<strong>

**Hidden Talent - Cooking**

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><p>Porthos learned very early to cook for himself. It hadn't been like he was given much a choice, to be honest, and even before his mother had died, for those last few months when she was so very ill, he had made her what broths and soups as he could, until eventually she lost her appetite and refused to eat, instead languishing until she died, slowly and painfully, though whether it was the illness or the starvation that killed her in the end was anyone's guess. Porthos left then, and he fended for himself the only way he could in the Court of Miracles as an orphan – he stole.<p>

And when he met Flea – he met her long before Charon, crashed into her actually, and he still had the scar over his eye to prove that she hadn't been best pleased with him for doing so – he had cooked for her too, and though they hadn't cared much other than having their bellies full and keeping warm, the nights when they had enough to make his stews were the nights that their faces lit up with smiles because not only were they not hungry, they had something _good_ to eat.

And now, as part of the Musketeers, Porthos had plenty of opportunity to practice his skills as a cook, with how much they ended up on missions that had them out in the wilds at night. Of course, mostly it was just making sure the fish or rabbit or whatever they had didn't burn, but this time was different.

Aramis was injured, and d'Artagnan was busy tending to him – poor lad looked like he hadn't slept the past three days since the skirmish which had injured Aramis. Porthos knew he wasn't eating right either, and even if Athos had been willing to overlook it on account of the boy's anxiety over Aramis, Porthos was not. He knew first hand just what effect not eating properly could have on a body.

So he sent Athos out to find supplies, but in the meantime he could gut the rabbit and cut it into chunks and put it into some boiling water in a pot that the innkeeper's wife had kindly loaned him, seeing as he'd bartered his cooking services in exchange for the week's lodging. There were no others here at the moment so he could take the time to cook for his own friends – but d'Artagnan in particular.

"That smells good, Porthos" d'Artagnan came down the stairs, looking haggard and worn, but smiling for his friend anyway.

"I was beginnin' to think I'd 'av to come up there an' drag you down to eat somethin', whelp."

D'Artagnan looked at him sheepishly and Porthos' heart dropped. He hadn't come to get food for himself, he'd come to get it for Aramis. He took a deep breath to keep from outright shouting at his young friend, but it was a near thing.

"Sit, for God's sake." Porthos instructed, in his best imitation of a disapproving Athos.

"Aramis would say you shouldn't take the Lord's name in vain." D'Artagnan replied, almost by rote. Porthos was too annoyed to smile at it though.

"_Aramis_ would be furious if you are in anything less than perfect health when he wakes up. Sit your arse down and eat a bowl of broth or I swear I will shove it down your throat."

The young Gascon looked suitably chastised, and Porthos ladled some of the soup into d'Artagnan's bowl, and then sat down next to him to make sure he didn't make an escape attempt.

D'Artagnan made a show of eating to start with, but Porthos knows it was not nearly enough. The lad's eyes were full of ghosts, and it was then that Porthos realised that he hadn't been sleeping either.

"Damn, kid – why didn't you tell us you were having nightmares? We could have helped." he asked, reaching out a hand to grasp his friend's shoulder gently. D'Artagnan lifted his hand to squeeze Porthos', grateful of the support.

"Because it doesn't matter – not while..." he trailed off and his gaze wandered to the door to the room where Aramis still lay sleeping. Porthos stayed quiet, just waiting, and letting d'Artagnan find the words that he needed. "I was the one who stitched him up, Porthos. His blood was very literally on my hands, and every time I doze off, I dream that it was too late, that there was nothing I could do and... I don't know what I would do without him Porthos. Without you or Athos either, to be honest."

"But it's different with Aramis." Porthos replied softly, knowing that if it had been Athos who was hurt, that he would have been a mess too. So he waited for d'Artagnan to gather himself together enough to nod before continuing.

"Look, I don't care if you throw half of it up the next time you fall asleep, you're better having food in you than not. Finish that bowl and then take one up to Aramis." He nudged d'Artagnan's bowl closer to him and waited expectantly.

D'Artagnan looked at him for such a long time that Porthos felt a little uncomfortable, before he turned back to the soup and picked up his spoon. Painstakingly slowly, he took a mouthful, and then another, until finally there was only a little left. D'Artagnan looked up at him guiltily and Porthos just smiled and patted his shoulder, taking the bowl from him and setting it aside to be washed.

"It's okay if you can't eat it all. I just don't want you wasting away to nothing. If nothing else, Aramis will give me an earful. You made the effort and that's what counts." d'Artagnan nodded, and Porthos served another bowl, this time for Aramis.

As he watched d'Artagnan hurry up the stairs, he felt the weight in his chest lift a little. He had seen so many people die because they couldn't even muster up the energy to swallow food because they had gone for so long without it that they just curled up in corners and wasted away, waiting to die. He felt himself settle now that d'Artagnan was safe from that for now. He just hoped that Aramis woke soon, because not even he could keep d'Artagnan eating if this went on much longer.

Aramis did in fact wake later that night, around the same time as Athos returned with extra medicines and supplies for their return journey to Paris.

Porthos and Athos both went up to check on their friends, and were pleasantly surprised to see their injured sharpshooter looking aware and clear headed. D'Artagnan on the other hand was in the chair by the bed, head resting on the bed, hands clasped as if in prayer, but well and truly asleep. He looked so young without a frown and worry clouding his eyes – quite frankly, as far as Porthos was concerned, he looked adorable.

"Ah, there you are. I would have called for you, but I didn't want to wake him." Aramis told them apologetically. Athos smiled.

"No, he needs the rest. He has been quite the diligant nurse." he replied, Aramis looked up at them both and then to d'Artagnan.

"Has he eaten at all?" he asked, sounding very anxious. Porthos suddenly got the sinking feeling this had happened before, but nodded.

"I'd never let him starve, even by his own volition, you idiot. He's too useful for that." he admonishes, and Aramis smiles gratefully in reply.

"Thank you, Porthos." he paused, before grinning. "Though there are not many who can hold out against the deliciousness of your broths. You could be a palace chef with talent like that." Porthos snorted at that, his eyes sparkling with mirth.

"Me, a palace chef? You must be out of your mind on herbs, you moron. I'd get bored and poison the Cardinal's dessert inside of a week."

The three of them laughed, and in doing so, Aramis shifted enough that he woke d'Artagnan, who shot up, wide eyed and confused.

"Wha-" he blinked and took in the sight of everyone around him, his face splitting into a wide grin at seeing Aramis. "You're awake!"

Porthos lived to see such joy as that on the faces of his friends. He and Athos watched with warm smiles at the antics of their friends, who seemed so focused on each other's presence that the two of them said nothing, simply shared a glance which showed their mutual relief of things finally returning to some semblance of normal. Porthos brought up the last of the stew, which they all shared, d'Artagnan especially hungrily, and he was warmed by the compliments they gave him, but found that it was their smiles and their full bellies that he was happiest about, because you lived longer if you ate right, and Porthos planned to keep his friends with him for as long as he possibly could. He might have lost Charon and he might not have Flea – but these three men? They are his and he is theirs – All for one, and one for all – and as long as he lives, he will strive for them to remain so. Athos met his eyes again, and Porthos was almost certain that the former Comte had read his thoughts. They share a smile and silently agree to watch over their friends until morning, because that is what the two of them do best, where d'Artagnan and Aramis laugh and dance with words, they fare better with silent companionship and only speaking when they need to. Each of them has their strengths and their talents, but they fit together as well as puzzle pieces, made all the more vibrant for their different skills.

This was the family that Porthos had always wanted, and he was going to fight damn hard to keep them, and he'd keep them fed, when he needed to.


End file.

Musketeers, Friendship